The recent commentary on what constitutes "real" rape make me sick. The survivor stories that people are sharing have been powerful, disgustingly numerous, and hard to read. There are so many stories. There are so many people who have been hurt.

At the same time, those stories make me wonder- why do we live in a world where rape victims are pressed to prove their credentials? I don't mean any offense to anyone sharing their story. I mean offense to anyone who thinks they have the right to demand that a victim of sexual assault be violated in the way THEY deem worthy, bad enough, life-altering enough to matter. And so I wonder, how many people sharing these stories are feeling like they have to prove their assaults mattered? Hell, I've been challenged on my claims by a therapist I was seeing, a mental health professional whom I trusted, and I stuttered through my proof like I owed it to him.

I don't know if I've spent another week in recent memory living this close to my assaults. But when I hear ignorant, powerful men telling the world, again, that some stories don't matter, that some victims don't count, you can bet I'm angry. You can count on the fact that all of those stories are told in one voice, growing louder by the minute. While it's horrifying how many people can tell the same story, each and every one of them, and all the people who can't or won't or don't, are real. And we don't have to prove it to anyone.

That used to be the center console of my poor wee car. And my window. *siiiiiiiiiigh* Someone completely destroyed my car to steal a $150 stereo. The CD player didn't even work.

Please note that this has absolutely nothing to do with yesterday's car fun, where a woman in a Mercedes SUV couldn't be bothered to put her seatbelt on BEFORE she started driving, and rear-ended me. (I am fine. WAS fine.)

Fuck this week. It's so, SO fired.

December 2015



RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Oct. 23rd, 2017 07:04 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios