I Am Everything

Why do people think that rape is something that you can just forget, like it never happened? It’s a violation. It’s a reminder that your body is not your own. Your body belongs to society. You have no choices; no say in who touches you, who penetrates your very soul. You are not a person, you are a piece of meat to be consumed, a toy to be played with.

When I was 17 years old, I was raped by a man (who shall remain nameless, since he’s not important) who went to the same church that my family went to. He was someone that we had recently seen at a church potluck. His wife brought homemade cookies. I still clearly remember everything that happened, but I’ll spare you all the nitty gritty details. All you need to know is that his excuse was that I shouldn’t be wearing such a “provocative outfit.” Keep in mind that a 17 year old girl living in Texas isn’t going to wear long clothing in the middle of summer. I wasn’t wearing anything particularly provocative. It was a graphic t-shirt and a pair of shorts; not even short shorts. They came down to mid-thigh. And the t-shirt? Just a teeny bit of cleavage, but that’s hardly my fault. I grew into my breasts by the time I was 12. People like him are the reason I refuse to go to any church unless absolutely necessary. He’s the reason I don’t believe there’s a “loving god” out there who’s supposed to be looking out for me. Maybe there is a god. But he’s not there for me. People like my rapist are the reason girls (and guys) everywhere are uncomfortable with men (and women) in a lot of situations.

Please keep in mind that when I say men, I’m not saying it’s all men. It’s a specific group of men who choose to behave like swamp mud. I know it’s not all men. I’m married to a wonderful man who I love a lot and trust with my life. I’ve noticed that men seem to think that they own us. I am not a piece of property. I’m a person and I deserve to be treated as such. I never told anyone about it; or at least anyone who could do something about it, and when I did finally tell someone, it was last year. Five years after the actual incident. Because I was ashamed. I somehow felt like it was my fault. Girls like me are everywhere, and I feel like half the time, we know that people aren’t going to believe us. The first person I told was my mother, when she asked me why I kept refusing to go to church with her. And her first reaction was to be upset that I’d had sex before I was married.

Who cares if you cry yourself to sleep every night? Who cares if you slit your wrists or take all those pills? Who cares if you don’t want to be in the same room as them ever again? Who cares how messed up you are now? You don’t matter. You’re just a slut. That’s exactly how I felt about the whole issue. No one cares enough to keep caring for more than a week or two. People are enraged when they hear about the violation of someone’s very being, but then something else happens and the news grabs hold of that and suddenly victims are forgotten, erased. But we’re still here. We’re still crying for help, and for justice.

But that’s not the only thing we are. We aren’t just victims of an unspeakable crime. We are mothers, sisters, daughters. We are chefs, judges, teachers; CEOs, detectives, film directors. But once it happens, that’s all people can see. People forget that we are people. They only see that someone has violated us, and somehow, all of our accomplishments disappear and we are forgotten.