When I started this blog my main goal was to speak on issues that I am passionate about with the intention of helping as many people as I can. I truly believe that is my purpose in life. For the past few weeks my stomach has been in knots, and anger I have not felt in a while has resurfaced. This uneasy feeling brought me back to a place that I don’t like very much.
Brock Turner, Derrick Rose and Nate Parker all have the same things in common; A young woman who is the alleged victim of a sexual assault, and men trying to prove their innocence. One was found guilty, One was acquitted and the other is fighting for his freedom. What is alarming to me is the narrative that comes with sexual assault cases. Somehow the victim is always at fault in the public eye. What was she wearing? Was she drunk? How many sexual partners? Did she say no? I spent hours on social media reading the responses each time the stories were trending. People made jokes, some questioned the women’s motive while others alluded to her part in her own rape. I am infuriated. I am infuriated by the fact that with each new case it becomes more evident that society finds assaults on dogs more heinous than the assault on women. I felt helpless. These new cases made me reexamine my role in society.
I have been somewhat of a recluse by design, but for years the people closest to me have been privy to some information that in many ways changed my life. Beginning at the age of seven years old, I was molested by an individual who I trusted with my innocence. It happened multiple times. Then at nine years old I was again molested by an older family member. Again, it happened multiple times. Somewhere in my undeveloped mind I accepted this to be the norm. I continued to live my life. I hid from my parents the hell I was living in, but with each day that passed I sank deeper into a place of darkness. I tried alcohol before my breasts were fully developed. I smoked, ran away from home (to my best friend’s house), dated the community drug dealer and searched for anything that could fill that hole. I didn’t understand what had happened. I carried with me the smell of the castile soap and sweat mixture from my first molester, and the sweat and camphor mix from my second molester. Every time I got to a place where I felt good, I would get a whiff that felt so real that I would cower in fear. I was living in my own personal hell. Continue reading