The Stanford Rapist

If you haven't heard by now, The Stanford Rapist is infamously known in the US. In January 2015, he raped a young woman. This March he was found guilty of three different accounts of sexual assault. He faced a maximum of 14 years in prison. A judge, however, gave him 6 months in county jail with probation as he-the judge-feared a harsher sentence would have a severe impact on Brock Turner, the rapist. His father wrote a letter to the judge, detailing his son's accolades and, basically, how wonderful he thinks he is.

I haven't wanted to write about this. I haven't even wanted to read about it. I am not ashamed to admit that I gloss over anything that has a headline that includes rape or rapist or sexual assault. Is it because I like to deny the horrors of society? Is it because I can't face the truth? Is it because I think that the victims are crying "rape" just to get out of being called a slut? Nope. It's simply because if I have to read about a rape it just brings me back to the day I was raped and I can't face that easily.

The cats. That's what I remember. I remember the cats on my bedspread. My parents had bought me the bedspread and sheets when I was in 7th grade. I desperately wanted a kitten so instead of buying me a cat they got me bedding with pink and purple cats on it. Those cats are what I remember most clearly about my rape. Isn't that strange? Once meant to be comforting and cute, that comforter is what first comes to mind when I recall my rape.

It's strange that I remember those cats because I wasn't raped in my own bed. I was raped at his house, in his bed. So why do I remember the cats?

On March 27, my ex-boyfriend was in town. I was 19 years old and thought that this ex was the moon and stars in my world. We had broken up months before and I had tried to get over him, all while realizing he was drunk 99% of our relationship, sleeping with numerous women, and was basically mind controlling me. Regardless, he was in town and I wanted to see him. We were at a friend's house, day drinking (it was a Saturday). By the time nighttime rolled around, he was drunk (or drunker) and I was more than a little intoxicated. We started fooling around when I realized that I was not going to get back together with him. I told him no, we couldn't do this, that he was bad for me, that I was over him. He took it well (I'm sure he had someone else lined up to take over when I left). I had to get out of the house. But the problem was I was drunk, couldn't drive the five miles to my house and too embarrassed to call my parents for a ride plus it was nearing midnight. I made, what would turn out to be, the wrong call. I text a guy I had been flirting with, asking if I could come over to escape the drama of the current house I was at. He only lived a block away, I felt that I could drive that block.So that's what I did.

I don't remember driving over there or going into his house. I remember him pouring me a drink but I don't know what it was. I remember Scooby Doo was on tv, funny how the little things stick with you when something traumatic happens but how big things, like how my clothes came off or how he put himself inside of me, escapes my memory.

I remember the pain. I remember trying to shove him off but feeling as if I couldn't even move my arms. Honestly, I don't know if I feebly shoved him or if I only thought about shoving him, I was so drunk (and possibly drugged). The next thing I remember was waking up, him telling me to leave. Confused, I drove home, unsure of what had happened.

When I got home, I immediately went to my bedroom and sat down, on the cat bedspread. I'm not sure how long I sat there, could have been five minutes or could have been two hours. I just sat there, trying to piece together what had happened, tracing those cats on the bedspread. I traced the pink one, the lavender one, the slightly blue one. Over and over I traced those cats. At some point, my then best friend came over. Apparently, I had called her. She came over, listened to me sputter out my story. I know I didn't look at her, already ashamed of myself. I looked at the cats, I traced the cats, I did that over and over again while I told her what had happened. Quickly, she told me to report it, to tell my mom. She didn't judge, just took control while I remained catatonic.

I called my mom but it was eventually my brother's girlfriend that took me to the ER. My parents would later join us. I had a rape kit done and a detective came in to talk with me. I was given a Plan B pill along with a huge shot to hopefully prevent any STD he might have given me.

What happened next? Well, somehow I was convinced not to press charges. Why? Because like almost all rape cases, it would be a he said/she said case. The case would not be about the rape but rather my behavior (not his, mine) and my character would come into question, again mine, not his. Could I handle that? No, absolutely not. I was already ashamed of myself and my behavior, convinced that no one would believe me. No, I would not and could not press charges.

The detective, bless his heart, went and had a nice little chat with my rapist, warning him to stay away from me and where I lived. The problem was we both went to the same college, a TINY college where it was impossible for me to avoid him. A guy, a GREAT guy, who I had been seeing off and on since I was 18, comforted me (literally just held me in his arms) for the two months following. He also went with a few of his friends to, um, sternly talk with my rapist, warning him away from me. None of the warnings worked, or they did but our town was too small to successfully avoid one another. The day he came into the restaurant where I was a waitress, I went into such a severe panic attack I had to leave. I never filed for a restraining order, the next semester I went to a college 10 hours away and became panicked any time anyone was too close to me physically. I drowned myself in beer, gin and vodka. I slept around more than an average college sophomore, convincing myself that if I put little respect into the act of sex, if I belittled it, then I could easily minimize what had happened to me. Raped? Psh, that's nothing! Sex is nothing! Having someone violate me in the most intimate way possible meant nothing because sex meant nothing. At least, that's what I tried to convince myself.

I later found out that my rapist left town with a message from the Chief of Police to never return (I wasn't his only victim, I was not his first, either). Years later, he would apply for a job in that town only to once again be unwelcomed by the Chief. I have never seen him again, not since that day at the restaurant. I have jumped at numerous shadows, seen him in numerous strangers.

My rapist got away with half-veiled threats. What did I get away with? Cats. I got the cats and the trauma that fueled my alcoholism for years. I've come across a lot of difficult things in my short 30 years---addiction, abusive relationships, failure on numerous levels, childbirth, being a single parent, severe depression and PTSD (thanks to the rape)---but nothing, nothing, is more difficult than trying to forgive someone who never apologized.

My ex boyfriend, the one I fled from the night, never found out what happened to me after I left him. Honestly, it didn't concern him. He wasn't the one who raped me after all. He did, however, make amends to me (he was busy climbing his 12 steps) for how he treated me during our relationship. That forgiveness came easy, probably because I understood alcoholism better than any one sober person.

The rapist, though? I don't know how to forgive him. I know it will bring me peace and it will benefit me more than him. For all I know he doesn't think he did anything wrong, like Brock Turner or Brock Turner's father. I still cannot find it in myself to forgive him. Or to stop fearing him.

I don't know how the trial would have played out if I had pressed charges but I know that if he had been found guilty and let off with a 6 month county jail and probation sentence, I would have either drunk myself to death or ended up institutionalized. I would have looked at the judge and thought, "Oh, apparently ungranted access to my vagina is only worth 6 months and probation." A sentence that light would have devalued me, devalued my rights's as a human being, I would have felt worthless and rightly so.

Women are out there fighting for equal pay, the right to our own bodies, the right to been seen equal to men. It's hard to believe that while a woman can now be a CEO or hold any position a man can but only be paid a fraction of what a man makes. It is hard to believe that while a woman can now be the DNC nominee for president, entry into her vagina only costs 6 months in a county jail.

I don't know what will happen to the young woman Brock Turner raped. I hope she gets help. I hope she goes to therapy and learns to heal. I hope she can one day find it in her heart to forgive him, his father, and that judge.

But what I really hope is that society wakes up. I hope that women and men everywhere become outraged at the sentencing. I hope that women and men everywhere see how lightly Brock Turner got off and become angry on behalf of women everywhere. I hope that something, anything, good comes from this. Because if not? If society just says, "Hey, he's white and privileged, she was drunk, that's what happens." then women everywhere become victims.

Stand up. Be heard. Fight for your right to your body because the right to enter your vagina, to become part of you, to have someone join with you, that shouldn't cost anything, let alone a mere 6 months in county jail. It should be invaluable, priceless. Why? Because you are invaluable. You are priceless. Never forget that and never forget that no matter your age, your race, your social status, or sexual preference, no one has the right to assault you no matter if you're drunk, sober, sexually active, or, what society calls, a tease. It is your body. It is your right. No one else's.

The Problem with Sobriety

I love being sober. I wake up feeling great, I always know what I did the night before and I am never hungover. It's fantastic. Except for one thing.

You know what ruins sobriety? Drunk people.

When you are drunk, you love drunk people. Hell, when you're drunk you love EVERYONE (or hate everyone, it really depends on what type of drunk you are). When you are sober...you have NO tolerance for drunk people.

Drunk people are, to put it simply, the worst. I cannot stand drunk people. Perhaps it's my penance for being drunk so often around others that now I am forced to deal with drunk people while being sober. I'm sure some of you can relate, whether you've been pregnant and forced to be sober or the DD, if you've been around drunk people and haven't been drinking, you can empathize with me.

Why are drunks the worst? For one, they are loud. Obnoxious. They have zero filter and while they are busy being 110% brutally honest with you, you are trying desperately to cling to social decorum and biting your tongue because while they can seemingly get away with saying whatever (due to the booze) you can't. It's the definition of unfair.

I've been told that my intolerance to drunk people is ridiculous. After all, almost everyone gets drunk. My question is why? I understand why college kids do, its the social norm, you're experimenting, you're partying, it's peer pressure. But why do 30 year olds need to get drunk? Why does anyone over the age of 25? I'm not talking about getting tipsy, I'm talking about drunk. Why are you not capable of pacing yourself accordingly? Why do you need to drink two bottles of wine at a party? Why do you feel the need to drink so many beers you vomit? How is that fun? How is having a hangover (at any age) fun?

I'm an alcoholic, I drank to the point of blacking out every time I drank. Because I"m an alcoholic. I have no control over my drinking. But for those of you who aren't alcoholics, why drink that much? Even on occasion? Why get so drunk that you feel sick that night or the next day? What is the point?

Drunk people are annoying beyond measure. I have met one person who is pleasant drunk...a friend of my husband who has an unnatural talent of being able to drink 12 whiskeys and act the exact same way as when he hadn't had anything to drink. Now him drunk, I don't mind. Everyone else in the universe, yes I have a problem with.

Drunk people are annoying because they are either crying over their problems, talking within a centimeter of your face, talking too loudly, repeatedly asking you the same question, offended by everything you say, talking about you literally behind your back...it's the worst. Perhaps the reason I have zero tolerance for drunk people is because, well, they suck. Maybe I am being ridiculous but I don't think it's unreasonable to expect people to act their age. I find it incredibly juvenile and immature when people get drunk. It is obviously not their first time drinking and it's obviously not their first time drinking THAT MUCH, do why are you doing it? To have an excuse to act a fool? To have an excuse to say whatever the heck you want? To have an excuse to act however you want?

Drunk people baffle me, infuriate me, and I cannot stand them. Thank God I am no longer one of them.