When I sit down to begin these
essays, I never know what I’m going to write about. I do know, however, which
topics I’m not going to write about. The top item on that list is
politics.
Since y’all know I have an
opinion about almost everything, you can surmise I also have a political
opinion. It’s not my place, however, to share that with you. First, although I
can argue that it does matter to Canada, and Canadians, what the American
government does, since our two countries are so intertwined, I believe it is
rude for me to say yea or nay with regard to either of your candidates for
President.
I also, for the most part,
don’t talk about religion. I believe a person’s faith is a personal thing, and
that everyone has free will and the right to choose their own beliefs. Now here,
at least, however, you may have gathered from some of my comments, and
references over the past several years, that I’m a Christian. I’m pleased to
have you know that—that’s me. I’ll also tell you I have never thumped a Bible in
my life.
Since you know my faith, it’s
time for me to confess to you that when I do sit down to write these essays, I
take a few moments to pray, to meditate and yes, to await instructions. This
past week and a half, especially, I’ve needed that prayer and meditation because
something had been eating at me for several days—since Friday October 8th, in fact. Something had been on my
mind, day and night, interfering with my ability to focus, and with my desire to
“get on with it.” So this week my pre-essay crafting time was especially
poignant for me. So I sat down, quieted my mind, opened my heart, and
waited.
Instructions were received, so
I knew what I had to write—but this one is going to be difficult.
I need to further preface this
essay by telling you I’m not writing this for sympathy. At this point in my
life’s journey, I don’t need the sympathy of other people; I have my
faith. In truth, I’d really rather not write this essay at all. But I have been
convicted by the Spirit to give my testimony. When that happens—and this isn’t
the first time it has—I really have no choice but to do what I’m told to
do.
My father died when I was eight
and a half years old. I cannot, to this day, adequately convey to you the degree
to which that singular event rocked my world. I do recall that only a few short
months later, my mother “threw her back out” and had to, for several days, lay
flat on the sofa in the living room, and needed help to get up.
I recall tearfully asking my
big brother if Mommy was going to die, too.
I tell you all this, to let you
know a little about the emotional state I was in beginning from the time I was
eight and a half, onward. There was no such thing as counseling for kids in
those days—at least there wasn’t for me. I felt alone, abandoned, insecure, the
youngest of three. My brother was eighteen and a half, and my sister was
fourteen and a half when our daddy died. My mother worked full time as a nurse,
and had to work shifts—either days (seven to three) or afternoons (three to
eleven).
I didn’t know at the time that
my sister “ran wild”. I’d had no idea she’d been doing so even before my father
passed. All I knew was my daddy had died, and life just wasn’t the
same.
The first time I was raped I
was nine years old. My mother was on the afternoon shift, my brother was out
with his friends, and my sister, nearly sixteen years old at the time, received
two male callers—one she took upstairs with her, and one she left downstairs
with me.
These were grown men, not teen
aged boys, and this was something that occurred several times for the next year
or so.
I won’t give you any details,
except this one: when my rapist was finished, he told me, “don’t you tell
anyone. If you tell your mom, she won’t believe you. She will hate you, and send
you away. They will lock you up.” That also became the threat, in subsequent
times, with subsequent attackers, beforehand.
I guess you could say I was
raped, and terrorized repeatedly.
That terrorizing is something
that I believe all sexual abuse victims know very well—that most women, even
those who haven’t been abused feel the echoes of in their souls—and something
not even the most sympathetic, enlightened and well-meaning male will ever fully
comprehend. In those days they called rape “a fate worse than death.”
That terrorizing—by others, and
by tradition—is the reason why most women do not report sexual abuse. Situation
normal in our society is still to blame the woman, the victim, or to simply not
believe her.
It took me years to get help;
if you need help, please, contact a mental health professional in your area,
someone with whom you can feel comfortable enough with to get that help. I know
how hard it is to reach out, but please, be brave and do so. And to comfort you,
let me tell you what else I know, without a doubt, and without
equivocation.
Only the most moronic of morons
would ever suggest that a woman or women would open herself/themselves up
to such scrutiny as she/they do when stepping forward and giving an account of
sexual abuse, for the purpose of, and I think I have this quote right, “I’d
don’t know, maybe because they want to become famous or something”.
And only the most ignorant and
narcissistic misogynist would judge the validity of a sexual abuse clam by
referencing whether or not the woman was “pretty enough” to violate.
Because we know better, all of
us, we really do.
Sexual abuse, and rape, these
are not at all about sex. It’s violence and it’s about power, control, and ego.
And it’s a way for truly inadequate, pathetic, maladjusted and
yes, evil men to make themselves feel powerful.
Love,
Morgan
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