Per our Society, Rape is just something that Happens.

Rape Happens. But it shouldn't. 

Yesterday, a friend posted a clip from CNN, about the judge who had the audacity to ask a young girl why she "didn't just keep her knees shut" to avoid getting raped while at a party. A few weeks back, Brock Turner was released with less than a slap on the wrist because he made poor decisions for "20 minutes of fun", after raping a young woman at a party. Another story today came through, about the 17 year old boy who raped a TODDLER, while recording it live for some perv watching over the internet, who was given a lesser sentence and basically probation instead of prison. A college student (football player) at a school here in NC was just accused of rape this week as well... and I KNOW he DID it... because two months ago, that asshole also raped one of my best friends. 

Sadly, the thing that most people hear and pay attention to is the part about how the girls were at the parties. Where was the toddlers parents? Boys will be boys, right? They have so many hormones raging that sometimes, they just can't think clearly... they don't MEAN to hurt her... they just got excited and got a little out of hand. Let me clarify for you in case you're one of the low life's that follow this train of thought... you're ignorant and disgusting. 

I mentor and counsel and console and love on so many girls, women, and children who have been through this, quite regularly. I'm not a therapist. I have never been to school. I don't always have the words or the answers, and it always takes time and is ALWAYS a different conversation with each person. I'm nothing fancy, but unfortunately, I'm *Seasoned*. I'm not proud of this, or bragging in any way... because the only reason I can help them through it is because I helped myself through it as well... I spoke to my friend (the one who was raped most recently) a few days ago. As we were discussing her situation, the anger and outrage that we both felt about all the times that a rape victim is shunned, and we started talking about the why's behind it. She asked me, why I haven't told my story. (Cause I don't, I never have, which to her point, seems totally unfair when I say that out loud since she's in the process of calling me constantly so I can pull all of that right out of her.) She said that it's because of my experience that I've helped her, and maybe I could do that on a bigger scale. I thought about that all night last night, and I prayed about it from Charlotte to Greensboro and then back again today. I'm constantly praying to be used as a vessel, to motivate and inspire and speak truth and life and all those things that God does that makes me feel fuzzy inside... and yet here I am holding back. I always feel like I'm not doing enough. She's right. I hate it, but she's right. 

When I was younger, I went to the fair with one set of my parents. I was walking around aimlessly looking for any of my friends (that's a thing here when the fair is in town) and somehow, I caught the eye of a boy. 17, super cute, funny, and he just happened to be the son of the guy who owned the entire fair. We skipped all the lines. He kept telling me how pretty I was, all night. We played all the games. He held my hand and introduced me to all of the carnies that traveled with him. It was like my own personal tour guide, showing me all the tents and trailers and behind the scenes attractions... ever been to the fair or a festival and thought, no way can we get through everything before we leave!? Yeah, it was the complete opposite of that. In my mind I thought the whole night would casually end with him walking me to the front, maybe a hug, and that be the end of that forever. I was so stupid. We were having so much fun, and it didn't even occur to me that I was following this random guy I didn't know throughout the fairgrounds in dark places where I wasn't familiar. The last field ruined  my life as I knew it. I'll spare you the details, mostly because I honestly don't won't to relive it, but my virginity was stolen and no matter how much I fought or yelled or begged, he did what he wanted to without any care or sympathy and then vanished back in to that same darkness I had just followed him through. I laid there crying. I used to get so mad at myself when I would remember the crying part... why didn't I get the hell up? Why didn't I fight harder? Why didn't I run and find someone? Tell ANYBODY!? Oh, wait. I kept my mouth closed because I was ashamed. And humiliated. I shouldn't have been there. I knew better. My own actions lead to this moment and life would never, ever, be the same. 

I could hear my name being called over the loud speakers. My parents were looking for me. The fair had been closed for an hour, and it was time to go. I walked back, dirty from the ground I had just fought on. Everyone watching me, all those stupid carnies looking at me... like they knew... like they had possibly known ahead of time and this was just the newest one on his list. Humiliation. Shame. Disgust. I reached the top of the fairgrounds, and although anyone could tell I was roughed up and crying, my asshole alcoholic ex-stepdad didn't ask if I was ok. He didn't ask where I was. He didn't ask me anything. I didn't say a word, but ironically, he called me a whore the entire way back to the car. He just knew I must have been out doing something inappropriate. I cried all the way home in silence in the back of the truck. I showered as soon as we got home and because I took so long, I got yelled out about raising the water bill. I cried some more. And some more. Two weeks later, I was still crying. I wasn't eating. I wasn't sleeping. And that same asshole alcoholic ex-stepdad beat me up, said if something had happened to me I must have deserved it, I'm the one that put myself in that position. I hated him, and even though I knew logically that nothing that ever came out of his mouth held any truth or merit, these words resonated and served as a confirmation to my own insecurities and shame. That's the night I was kicked out of my house. I wish... my gosh, how I wish I could say it ends there and I found some sweet home to take me in and begin my recovery. 

Over the next two weeks, friends would sneak me in to their houses and let me crash in their closets. In KM, everyone pretty much knows EVERYONE else... I was friends with a lot of older kids, and like any small town news travels, so lots of my "friends" knew I had been kicked out again. It had been two weeks, and I hadn't breathed a word about what had happened. I did not have a real relationship with God, so I had zero peace and was basically just ending up from one night to the other in one sketchy place or another... I could have told parents of a lot of my friends I went to school with, and they'd have taken me in, but again... so much shame. Being without a home was MY FAULT, because I made poor life choices. This all happened because of me. One night, I was house sitting/crashing on a friend's couch while her and her friends went to the beach for the weekend. That night, a mutual "friend" of ours had gotten drunk at the club, knocked on her door to crash since it was closer, and instead found me. He came in. He looked around. I guess at some point he realized we were alone. He did that thing that some guys do when the vibe gets creepy. I went back to the couch to go to sleep, figuring he would get the hint and find a couch or a bed of his own. A few hours later, I woke up with him on top of me. He tied me up. There was a knife. A lot of blood. A lot of tears. A lot of pain. I think he thought he killed me. I passed out, I woke up, and he was gone. When my friend came back on Sunday, she found me... still tied up, bleeding all over... all cried out. I had laid there in my literal blood sweat and tears for so long that I went through the weepy phase, and hurtled right in to PISSED THE F OFF. The first time, I was weak. I was terrified. I didn't even know his last name. I had kept quiet. F that. I knew exactly who this was. I had no choice but to seek medical attention, and the police came. I told them everything I could remember. I told them his name. I laid there, again, humiliated as they performed their stupid rape kit and tested me for STDs. It was like being raped for a third time all over again, but this time I had open wounds in everywhere and by a bunch of people hurting me but swearing they were going to make it all better. I cant breathe again now, just like I couldn't breathe then. 

These "experiences", "moments", "situations".... whatever you call it... it changes who you are as a person. You either let no one touch you, because if they do, it might hurt... or you let everyone touch you, because it you say no it will definitely hurt. I used to get so uncomfortable when anyone would compliment me in any way. You never know if there is a sketchy motive behind it, WHY do you feel the need to tell me I'm pretty? What does that mean to you? I remained homeless for a long time. I turned really mean. I got in a lot of fights. I wouldn't let anyone "help" me, anymore. That didn't work out so well the last time. It took about a year after that before I finally started staying under a roof with other people again. When I did, I finally had a chance to go back to school. I wore sweatpants every day. My hair was almost always up in a tacky bun. I was the only one of the "cool kids" that didn't wear make-up. I avoided attention and pretended to like the one boy that called me his girlfriend so I wouldn't have to deal with other guys. The flirting. The interaction. He dating. The being alone. No. I wouldn't put myself in that position again. 

I'm 32 now, and all of that happened to me over half my lifetime ago, and some days are still really hard. I had to re-learn my own worth, my value, that not only am I more than just a pretty face, it's OK for me to HAVE a pretty face. My skin tone or hair color or body doesn't make me a victim, it makes me ME. I can look back at all the people who I've spoken to, who claim that I've helped them in some way to work through their own stories and helped them find closure... when someone introduces a friend to me and says "I think she could really get a lot out of hanging out with you for a while" or "you two should talk"... it makes the beauty and the value of my own story *so.much.clearer.* I do now have a relationship with God, and if the sum of my experiences were the puzzle pieces he put together for me to be used NOW (as prayed for and requested), well, then THAT is something worthy of accepting. 

So back to the beginning... why does rape happen? It happens because people don't come forward. Victims stay quiet because of the overwhelming shame. They're ashamed because when they see other victims come forward, they also see those victims being doubted and treated as suspects and having their entire lives and choices interrogated and ripped apart, as if the rape itself wasn't violation enough. It happens because we have built a society where once, a rapist was given a severe penalty and thrown into prison to become someone's BITCH, to catering to the entitlement era, "they can't help it." We make them feel like as long as they show a little remorse, it's acceptable. I advocate now for those that have come to me or been lead to me and dropped in my lap, and I will advocate and fight for you too if you  have ever been abused in any way. It is NOT your fault. You're allowed to go to a party. You're allowed to go out with our friends. You're allowed wear pretty dresses and make-up. You're allowed to have a boyfriend. You're allowed to want to be wanted, without fear of being taken by someone you don't want back. It should not always be on the girl to keep the boy in check. It happens because we remove responsibility from the rapist and place it unfairly on the victim. Let's grow them up to be better people. Teach your boys that hurting a woman in ANY way will never fly at home, and he'll carry that out in to the world. 

Rape Happens. But it shouldn't. The first step is to support the victim and not the rapist. My hope is that this helps in some way, because Lord knows I did NOT want to share it. My hope is that my story is enough. Enough to give the victims hope and courage to come forward. Enough to make society think, open their eyes, and do better. 

(I haven't spell checked or grammar checked. Screw that noise. I need a beer. I might make those changes later, but for now, you get the raw version.)