Now, Before You Start Yelling...

Hear me out. I wanted to share with you the testimony I read on Monday to the Senate Hearing Committe who would decide whether or not to pass SB 60, a bill that would require hospitals to inform rape victims in the ER about emergency contraception, onto the Senate floor.

But first, let me disclaimer away...

-I have an appointment tomorrow and the doctor said he would actually like to see how my body handles a bit of activity since, at the last appointment, things were looking good.

-I only spoke for four minutes. Not much standing at all.

-I think the stress of NOT speaking out would have been more detrimental than anything else.

I think that's all. Onto my testimony...

I am here today in the hopes that my story might encourage you to vote yes on SB 60. When I was a twenty-year-old college student, an acquaintance offered to give me a ride to the grocery store upon hearing my car was broken down. At the end of that evening, I was a survivor of rape. A few weeks later, eleven years ago on Valentine’s Day, my college housemates bought me a pregnancy test and encouraged me to take it in the hopes that I’d stop worrying about something as unlikely as a pregnancy resulting from the attack.

I remember taking that test as though it happened just yesterday. My three roommates anxiously gathered in the common area. Me, leaning against the sink in the bathroom, hands trembling, reading the pregnancy test instructions. The second pink line showing up immediately. Running out of the bathroom, past my roommates, slamming my bedroom door and collapsing on my bed. Sobbing into my pillow. Hearing the shuffle of my roommates in the bathroom, whispering confirmation of what my reaction had already told them was true.

I remember thinking why me? Why would I be one of the unlucky few? So many of the statistics I’d heard, in all of my Pro-Life upbringing, proclaimed that getting pregnant as a result of rape was extremely rare. As in, a 1% chance. And I’d clung to that statistic, trying desperately to ignore the queasiness and exhaustion of early pregnancy. Surely I’d be one of the 99%.

I can never fully convey the horror of that day. I felt violated. Not once. But twice. First by a friend of a friend. And then, by my own body. My body, which, according to my rudimentary understanding at the time of what my Pro-Life compatriots had always told me, was supposed to release chemicals after the rape that would reject a pregnancy.

Now I know that those statistics and the talk of one’s body rejecting a pregnancy after rape are not true. For the simple reason that, as many times as I have shared my story, which is many in the past few years, at least one woman has pulled me aside and told me that, she too, became pregnant as a result of rape. It happens more than we know.

I can only imagine what life would have been, and would be like now, for me if I had not become pregnant. I’ve since learned that, while emergency contraception wasn’t widely available at the time, doctors were able to prescribe a number of birth control pills with a similar effect to Emergency Contraception. If I had only known, I might not have become pregnant at all. I might have been able to celebrate Valentine’s Day at a restaurant having dinner with my incredibly supportive boyfriend. Instead, I spent the evening contemplating just how and when I would tell my Mom and Dad.

In the end, with the support of my parents, family, and friends, I terminated the pregnancy. The experience left me with a greater understanding of what it is like to face an unwanted pregnancy, no matter the circumstances. I now support Choice and the rights of women to make decisions regarding their own medical care when it comes to their reproductive lives.

It would be my dream that no woman would have to endure the trauma of being raped. More so, I dream that a survivor of rape would never have to face a pregnancy resulting from the attack. Those dreams are unlikely to ever be realized. However, providing rape victims with information about Emergency Contraception is one step in the right direction. I can only hope that all of you here will understand the importance of providing rape victims with all of the relevant information regarding their care. And that includes information about Emergency Contraception and the possibility of preventing pregnancy.

I am now 25 weeks pregnant. My husband and I are expecting our first child. It has been a struggle to get here. We suffered three miscarriages last year. With each loss, I struggled with the question of why. Why would my body maintain a pregnancy after rape while failing to keep those I’d made together with a loving man? A nice man. A man who would never, in a million years, dream of harming me. I will never know. Had I been able to prevent the pregnancy eleven years ago, I would never wonder about that one aspect of an already heart wrenching situation.

Life as a survivor of rape is difficult enough. The overwhelming sense of not being in control of my body and my fate is a feeling I’ve shared and discussed with other survivors. Withholding pertinent medical information from someone on the threshold of a struggle to regain control is unspeakable. Please put control back in the hands of those to whom it belongs. The rape victim.


And...drumroll please...the bill was passed on UNANIMOUSLY by all eleven committee members. Which was a complete surprise. I feel like I made a difference, somehow.

I've Submitted My Letter to the Editor

On Friday, June 30th, Planned Parenthood clinics across the state will be giving out free Emergency Contraception (EC) as they did on July 1st of last year. This is in response to Governor Owens vetoing House Bill 1212 – Colorado's Prescriptive Authority Bill. This bill would have enabled Colorado pharmacists to prescribe and dispense EC to women without a doctor’s prescription.

I urge my fellow Summit County residents to participate in this event. Some of you may think you have no need for Emergency Contraception. When I heard about the event last year, I thought it was a great idea, but didn’t think I’d actually participate. I’m married and planning a family. Why would I need Emergency Contraception?

The truth is I should know better. As some of you may remember from a previous article in the Summit Daily, I am all too familiar with the scenario EC could prevent. Ten years ago, I was a twenty-year-old college student. My car was broken down, and I accepted a ride from a friend of a friend to the grocery store. At the end of that evening, I was a survivor of rape. A month later, I discovered I was pregnant. Ultimately, I terminated the pregnancy. Had I had access to Emergency Contraception, I might not have become pregnant at all.

I encourage you to remember that emergencies happen to us, and people we love, without the benefit of foresight. Though young women are at higher risk of being victimized, rapists don’t necessarily discriminate based on age and marital status. You can bet that I’m going to make the effort to get to a Planned Parenthood on the 30th. We just never know when and how an unwanted pregnancy might occur. I know I didn’t.

I Don't Know Everything, But I Know How Not to Be a Dick...

Because sometimes I think it's important to let yourself be defended...It helps negate the "One Girl Versus the World" Feeling...And you guys, at least those of you I know about, aren't on vacation. So, I don't mind making you work.

Your assignment today is to respond to this comment which can be found on this post:

For someone with no guilt, you sure threw into a tirade about how not guilty you feel really quick. I didn't think you felt guilty, but now I'm starting to wonder.

I am sorry for your losses. Because I recognize that what you lost were human beings with worth. You just lost something that you wanted. You call them 'pregnancies' and not babies. You aborted one 'pregnancy' and lost others. I know you didn't lose or abort 'pregnancies', but babies. That's just a euphemism.

I am not sorry for the focus of your "pity party post". The "Why me? I had to go through the trouble of killing my first kid and now that I want kids, I can't have any." How sad and selfish is that? You only want kids on your terms. It's all about you. Maybe you'll have some empathy for the infertile couples that would have gratefully adopted your baby that you instead aborted.

Maybe your killing your first baby has nothing to do with you losing the subsequent ones, but I don't pity you.

I am sorry for your losses. I wish your children would have lived. ALL of them.

--
Posted by Anonymous to The Adventures of Zube Girl at 4/06/2006 02:29:12 PM

And don't you worry, I haven't lost my edge or anything. I'm simply about to embark on a vacation nap with the man I WANT to have children with and presently have NO interest in confronting ANONYMOUS dipshits.

Your turn. Even, and I know you're out there, Pro-Life folks who read me and understand me. I've never, ever, ever, ever insulted you. EVER! I've been careful to insult only the most assholey people. And there are assholey people everywhere. Among the Pro-Choice camp, too, I'm sure. So, can we build a bridge or something that makes us both appear a little more human? Please? Thanks.

Wherein I Can't Shut My Pie-Hole

Oh my GOD! How could I have been so STUPID as to overlook the OBVIOUS? I'm ashamed of myself, really. You see, even after having three miscarriages, it never ONCE occurred to me to explore the possibility that having surgery on my cooch ten years ago, namely an abortion, might affect the current shortcomings of my uterus. I mean, one would think that I, having proclaimed time and again how fucking smart I am and all, would have at least looked into it. Fortunately, for my sake, the Know-It-All Fairy descended upon this blog of mine and thwomped me upside the noggin with her/his Thirty-Year-Old-Studies-Decree-That-the-Miscarriages-Are-YOUR-Fault! Wand. Well, DAMN! Does that mean that if I hadn't ever HAD an abortion, I wouldn't be having these problems? Hmmm...

Pfbt. Whatever. Before any Pro-Lifers out there go parlaying for an all out victorious conversion of the Zube Girl, it's not gonna happen. I've been there, done that. I WAS Pro-Life. I argued until I was red in the face that having a BAYBEE would be HEEEEEALING for a rape survivor. Then I got raped. And found myself pregnant. And I wasn't really finding that healing crap to be very true for myself so I opted to have an abortion. Exercising my right to choose kind of made me think that maybe it wasn't my place to go around denying others that right. So don't go convincing yourself I'm on the edge of conversion or anything.

Without further ado, here is what the Know-It-All Fairy, cloaked in anonymity because I imagine that Fairy's of ALL sorts must protect themselves from crazy-ass magic wand seeking stalkers, had to say:

Anonymous commented on this post:

I'm sorry for your losses. This might explain more...

Women who had one induced abortion had a 17.5% miscarriage rate in subsequent pregnancies, as compared to a 7.5% rate in a non-aborted group. Richardson & Dickson, "Effects of Legal Termination on Subsequent Pregnancy," British Med. Jour., vol. 1, 1976, pp. 1303-4

Women who had delivered their first pregnancy had (in the second pregnancy) the "best reproductive performance." Those who had a spontaneous miscarriage on the first had "the highest frequency of an early loss." Those with induced abortion on their first had "the highest frequency of late spontaneous abortion and premature delivery." Koller & Eikham, "Late Sequelae of Induced Abortion in Primagravida" Acta OB-GYN Scand, 56 (1977) p. 311.

(Bolding mine)

First off, I find it difficult to believe that you are sorry for my losses. Given that the thirty year old research you've quoted can be found on every Pro-Life website from here to kingdom come, I get the impression that you're anti-abortion. And that's fine. Good for you. I'll fight ya tooth and nail if your goal is to outlaw abortion, but I support your right to feel how you feel about it. Though it seems like, rather than feeling any sort of sympathy for my losses, you're rubbing them in my face and you could say that I don't fancy that so much. Let's not keep up with the facade that you've got any sympathy for me, allrighty?

I do find it interesting that these studies are so damn old. Really. So old that they took place not long after the legalization of abortion in Britain and the US. Which, at least to me, means that the subjects involved in the studies just might have had illegal abortions. And illegal abortions are often not done properly and CAN lead to damage to the reproductive organs. Just for fun, here is a link to a site where the findings of those studies are disputed.

To make you feel a little better about my current state of affairs, after my second miscarriage, one of the first questions I asked my doctor was whether or not he believed my previous abortion could have anything to do with it. He said, "Absolutely not. There is a possibility that ONE miscarriage might be the result of the embryo trying to implant in scar tissue, but if you had a legal first-trimester abortion with no complications and follow-up care, scar tissue would be minimal, and the odds of an embryo attempting to implant in that same exact spot are very, very slim. In fact, it's promising that you have carried a pregnancy further in the past. At least we know that you can." Are ya all warm and fuzzy now? Good.

Lastly, what in the HELL were you thinking making a comment like that on such an emotional post? I mean, come on! Fortunately, I'm far too self-assured to let it bother me, but I have to believe you were trying to induce guilt where none existed. What if I weren't so comfy-cozy with the choice I made? What kind of FUCKED UP ASSHOLE would you be telling an obviously grieving woman that she was responsible for the loss of her pregnancies? A CUNT-LIKE ASSHOLE, comes to mind. And not only because CUNT is one of my most favorite words, either.

And, you know what else kills me? How some Pro-Life people will go around lamenting the badness of abortion, and how they want better for women and blah blah blah and they give hugs and love and support with reckless abandon to women who regret and feel guilty and pray to God for forgiveness for their abortions and any women that create memorial websites in honor of their aborted BAYBEES get coddled and forgiven and paraded about as a reason that abortion is bad because JUST LOOK AT HOW GUILTY AND HORRIBLE THEY ALL FEEL! But show them a woman who is comfortable with the choice she made and doesn't feel guilty, a woman like me, and these same Pro-Lifers POUNCE at the opportunity to create guilt where none exists! I've seen it and experienced it a million times and I have to ask: If abortion is SO HORRIBLE because it makes some women feel guilty, well then, what does that say about you? Huh?

All Aboard!

This post is brought to you by a wickedly introspective passenger aboard the Why Me? train. She decided to hop aboard mostly for shits and giggles, and partly for old time's sake.

I HATE the Why Me? Train mostly. I avoid it. At least in recent years. I rode that bitch straight through from the tender age of 21 (WAHOO!) to the ripe young age of 25 (WHOA! Where the fuck did time go?), and while I was certainly navigating my way through life in some form, the view from the window was so blurry, flying by me at lightning speed, that I feel like I missed out on a lot of awesome scenery. The "Oh my GOD, it's New York City/the Rocky Mountains/a slew of TUMBLEWEEDS crossing the road!," so to speak, of my early twenties. The good shit. The stuff that happens while you're curled in a ball in the same pajamas you've been wearing for three days, in the same body that hasn't been showered in more, reading your way to SELF-HELP Land! I lost precious years, I feel like, and I don't want it to happen again.

I got off that train when it landed in a town called He Throws Hoagies at My Head!, which is a suburb of a highly populated city called My Boyfriend Is an Asshole!, and moved to Colorado. I vowed to travel the rest of my life differently, never boarding that fucking train again. I negotiated my own path, propelled only by my own two feet.

Recently, I got to thinking, what the hell is wrong with riding that train once in a while? Like, a month or a day or even an hour or so. Not long term, but for a little bit? Really? Why shouldn't I? I've earned it, I think. Hiking my happy ass over all sorts of terrain for five years has taken its toll. Especially when I'm standing at the bottom of a cliff, wondering how I'll ever manage to climb up it. My fucking legs are tired and I'm parched. Putting one foot in front of the other has gotten me this far, but now I'm watching my feet, making sure I don't fall, and that, well, is not conducive to rock-climbing, which requires looking up. I'm not ready to look up. Not yet.

Happy Villain responded to an e-mail I'd sent her proclaiming how okay I was. It reeked of optimism and, well, lies. I'm not okay. Not completely, anyway. She responded, "While I'm glad you consider yourself "fine," I also want you to know that I think it fucking sucks. You're sad, and that's awful, because you don't deserve this," and I want to say to her, "THANK YOU!" Really. From the bottom of my heart. Thank you. Thank you for saying what the battered and bruised cheerleader curled up all fetal-style in the darkest corner of my brain is whimpering through tears. THIS FUCKING SUCKS AND I DON'T DESERVE IT!

I REALLY DON'T FUCKING DESERVE IT!

WHY ME? WHY THE FUCK ME?

Why do I have to be one of the 1% (*cough* that statistic is bullshit *cough* because rape is not just some dude jumping out of the bushes *cough*) of women who get pregnant as a result of rape?

Why do I have to be the one whose body managed to maintain that pregnancy for eight weeks?

Why did it take an abortion to make that pregnancy end?

Only to have the pregnancies of an awesome and loving man fall out? Three times?

Why does life have to fuck with me? I've STRUGGLED and SOUL-SEARCHED to be carefree, happy, and relatively well-adjusted. It's been hard work.

Why do I have to do it yet again?

Why do I have to be the vase of flowers on the dinner table of a shitty amateur magician? One who doesn't quite have the tablecloth trick down yet? And is fond of Jack Daniels?

Why? WHY, WHY, WHY?

No one knows the answer. Not me. Not you. Not the deities. But can I question it? Can I pound my fist in the air and scream it? Can I? Please? Is it okay to wonder WHY ME? I'm sure it is. It has to be. Because otherwise I'm going to stow away on that godforsaken Why Me? train for much longer than if I'd just bought myself a damn ticket with an expiration date.

And then, in the midst of my Pity Party, complete with thready at the feet pajama bottoms that get stuck under the swively computer chair and countless hours of watching shitty-ass actors on Lifetime, My Belle calls and says, "Hoot and I talked and if Project - Make a Baby isn't going to happen in your uterus, it can happen in one of ours."

And she wasn't inferring that we'd find some crazy ass uterine swap thing that has yet to be discovered by scientists. She meant that Zube Boy's and my offspring, if my uterus simply isn't having it, has permission to live in one of their respective uteruses (uteri???) for nine months.

And I'm like, "Why me? Why am I SO fucking lucky? How could this be?"

And she said, "We want this for you. As much as you do. Wouldn't you do it for us?"

"Yes. I would. In a fucking heartbeat, I would."

So, while unluck runs amok, so does good stuff. And sometimes when you're unlucky, you find out just how lucky you really are. Only, you would never have known how awesome it is to hold the clean end of the stick if it weren't for the shitty end. At least I know where to hold on. At least I know now that there is a clean end. At least I've learned that flinging the shit while holding the clean end can be a little redeeming. Heh. Especially when it's aimed at asshats. Cockroaches in your hotel room MY ASS! Did you KNOW you dumb twit that cockroaches don't happen to LIVE at 9,600 feet! Take your lying refund-wanting ass elsewhere. And next time don't take a vacation you can't afford, eh.

Anyway. At least asking, "Why me?" isn't all bad.

Fuck the Bright Side

That crazy ass sillhouette chick up there? The one I daydream about hanging out with over frothy adult beverages? I still wager that she makes a kick ass margarita. Well, I stared at her for a bit wondering if her girlie parts worked properly. After deciding that they did, I stabbed her repeatedly in the cooch with my little cursor arrow. It was cathartic. And she didn't even get mad at me because she's got my fucking back like that.

The weird thing about this whole Miscarriage Mess I'm experiencing these days is that some folks want to look at the bright side of it. And, well, I don't. Not yet. Forgive me if I can't seem to find solace in the fact that at least it's happening early or that now I know I can get pregnant. Well, actually, I have to laugh a little at my fertility. I guess Zube Boy CAN glance my way and I'm pregnant. Three times in seven months. It's just that the little buggers fall out. So, laughable maybe, because not much escapes my scathing humor. But, comforting? No. Not in the least.

This 'looking on the bright side of things' got me thinking about rape. When people say to me something to the effect of, "Well at least blah blah blah...It could be worse," it makes me want to say, "Would you say to a rape survivor, 'Well, at least you didn't get pregnant?' or, 'Well, at least you weren't kidnapped and raped repeatedly?' or, ad nauseum?" No. At least, you shouldn't say those things. Rape is fucking horrible no matter how you spin it. So is this miscarriage business.

I'm not saying that people don't say all the wrong things to rape survivors. They do. I know. The moral of the story is this: People don't like to see other people sad and they try sometimes to look on the bright side of things in the hopes that the person hurting will feel better. Which, well, their intentions are good, but you know what they say about good intentions and the road to hell and all. What people don't seem to realize is that sad is just one step on the journey towards healing. And if that step is taken away, or if the journeying person skips it because they feel undeserving of sadness? The journey will be incomplete. And I've been there, done that. The journey CAN eventually be completed. It's just much tougher when you have to go back to square one years after you thought you were on the verge of HEALED.

I was talking to Hoot the other day and I was explaining this to her. She said, and I've never felt prouder, "One of the millions of things I've learned from you is never to judge someone's sad experiences. Whatever is their most sad thing at the time is their most sad thing at the time. Just let them be sad about it." Aw.

And it's true. I remember approximately ten Februarys ago, sitting in my dorm room contemplating whether I wanted a future of custody battles with a rapist or one without the child of a rapist in it. I heard a knock at my door, and yelled, "Come in!" It was a girl from down the hall that I knew fairly well, but not well enough to tell her what was on my mind at the time. She started tearfully explaining how she was caught in a Love Triangle and didn't know which guy to choose. At first, I wanted to be kind of pissed because I had bigger and badder things on my mind. And then I was like, "What the hell good would it do to get pissed and spout of something like, 'Oh yeah, you don't even KNOW what indecision is!' That'd only make her feel guilty and why should she have? She was crying and stressed, and, well, that IS a pretty big decision." I don't know. I guess you could say I learned an important lesson that day.

What I'm trying to say, more to myself than to anyone else, and in a rather disorganized fashion, if you ask me, is that THIS is my most sad thing right now. And I'm NOT going to think about how much worse it could be. I don't need to. Because it's bad enough and if I think about it in terms of me being lucky, that'll only serve the purpose of making me feel guilty for feeling bad. And I shouldn't feel guilty about that. I know better now.

I felt guilty for feeling bad ten years ago. I thought I should be over it. Recovered. I was lucky. I was alive. I was young. I was cute and in college and had my whole damn life ahead of me. So, I pretended I was all good. I rocked my combat boots and baby barrettes and laughed and smiled and played along. Only underneath, I wasn't all good. And pretending to be all good fueled by guilt only put off the REAL healing about five years or so. Too damn long.

So, with three miscarriages under my belt, I'm going to mourn that for as long as feels right. Until I say enough with the mourning; I'm done. Until I want to look on the bright side. Because I will. When I'm ready. And not a day sooner.

PS- You guys rock. That is all.

Second Thoughts

Never in a million years did I think when I started this silly online journal last March that it would be what it is today. It's just, well, bigger than I imagined it would be. A search for my maiden name turns me up on the first page of Google. The links and comments here are getting numerous, and I try to keep up with them and reciprocate blog visits but it's tough because the Marital Ass Spread I've been rocking these days does well enough on its own, without the encouragement of spending hours on end in front of the computer. I'd like to thank those of you who visit, and I'm sorry about sucking with the whole reciprocity thing. I try. I really do.

And while I'm thankful that y'all give me props and read my musings and link to me, there's a little voice in the back of my head, chirping, "Maybe this has gotten a little out of hand." I try to tell that voice to shut up, but it doesn't seem to be the negative voice that tells me I suck every once in a while. The mean voice that NEEDS to be told to shut up. It's a kind and caring voice that maybe has a point.

The thing is, this blog of mine has led to some awesome serendipitous encounters. I've been found by incredible people from my past, and I couldn't be happier about that. When I started The Adventures of Zube Girl, I opted not to be all incognito about my identity. In the back of my mind, I wanted to enable people who knew me when I was all screwed up to be able to find me now and know that, while I'm still kind of screwed up, it's not all bad like before.

Back in September, I received an e-mail from Dave. Dave, who had the grand misfortune of being my boyfriend back when I was raped. Dave, who told me he would support me no matter what I decided to do with the resulting pregnancy. Dave, who didn't drop me like a fucking hot potato even though I was pregnant by another guy. Dave, who bought me flowers and stayed with me the night after the abortion while I was cramping and bleeding and crying. Dave, who is seriously? One of the most beautiful people I've ever met.

After finding my blog, he sent me an e-mail saying, among other things, "Looking back now I have to tell you that you were so strong in the face of such a bad circumstance. I wish I could have done more for you." And my gut reaction was OH MY GOD, NO! I wasn't strong. I mean, I didn't kill myself. I guess that showed some strength. But, I chose instead to obsess over the thought of killing myself. How I would do it, and how awesome it would be to fade into a deep forever sleep with an empty pill bottle in my hand and my family and friends standing around me saying, "It's okay. Go to sleep. We know that life is just too hard for you." I actually used to daydream about it while I was supposed to be painting window trim at my summer job.

I wasn't strong. I sucked. At least a little bit back then. And on top of all that, I had the audacity to blow Dave off. See, he cared about me, and I didn't want to deal with that. Getting wasted and feeling sorry for yourself takes up a lot of time and energy, ya know? And the more people who care, well, the more explaining you have to do. So I stopped calling Dave. And we had been dating for a while. Long enough to warrant a break-up explanation. But with the explaining thing? I wasn't having it. I just stopped calling. That was pretty shitty, if you ask me.

When he e-mailed me in September, I asked him if I could write a post on my blog about his wonderfulness and he said yes. After being totally cool and humble about it. That was his way. And I REALLY wanted to thank him. But I couldn't do it. I tried maybe a million and one times to write about it, but I just couldn't find the words. I mean, how do you say THANK YOU for being Not-an-Asshole when I wanted to believe that ALL men were assholes? How do you say THANK YOU for being the kindest 20-year-old guy EVER and holding me when I cried about an abortion we didn't decide I'd have together? Because it wasn't your fault I was pregnant? How do you say THANK YOU for not getting mad that I accepted a ride to the grocery store with another guy I only kind of knew through a friend? How do you say THANK YOU for believing me when other people thought I was making it up to hide an indiscretion? How do you say THANK YOU for writing me ten years after the fact and telling me I was STRONG when really, YOU were strong for me, and I pushed you away because of it?

There are just no words. Except THANK YOU, DAVE. Thank you, especially, for finding me again and giving me the opportunity to tell you how wonderful you were, and how you got me through some of the roughest months of my life, and how I will be forever grateful to you for that.

And then there is Kenyatta. He e-mailed me after being forwarded this post by someone random. Kenyatta and I met back in college when we were both RA's. Kenyatta was there for me when I was depressed even *before* the rape. Ever since I was a kid, I've been a little sad. It's weird. Actually, after the rape, my whole outlook changed. Sort of. My brain went, "Oh shit! Things can be AWFUL! Hmmm...I'm not gonna dwell on the small stuff anymore." Being raped sort of made me a happier person. In the long, long run, anyway. Like now. Ten years later. How fucked up is that?

I've always had friends like Kenyatta who've been there to build me up. And that makes me feel bad in a way. Because what have I done for them? I just don't see myself putting as much into friendships as I get out of them. But still, they're there for me. Why? Because they're amazing and I'm fucking lucky.

Some of you may recall that I dated a guy I call AssFace. He threw a television set at me once and that led me to kicking him out. It was the final straw. And Kenyatta was there. Even though I hadn't talked to him in a while. Just so you know, AssFaces don't really like when their girlfriends have friends. Especially friends of the male persuasion. So I pushed Kenyatta away because I was hell-bent on self destructing or something like it. Thankfully, I realized what a dumb-ass victim I was being and rid myself of AssFace. And I called Kenyatta. And he cruised down from NYC to make sure I was safe. Because he fucking rocks like that.

I don't know how to thank him either. Words would be a good start, I guess. And I'm so full of them sometimes. When it's not so important. Yet when words are crucial, I fail to find the right ones.

All I've got is THANK YOU KENYATTA. You are more awesome than you know.

Now, happy as I am that these people have been reintroduced to my life, I'm a little nervous. There are people I don't really want to find me. Or, okay, maybe just one person. The guy that raped me.

It seems a stretch that he'd find me given that I doubt he even remembers my name, but mere months ago I'd have thought it a stretch for someone I didn't know to forward a blog entry of my dog dressed in a scarf and hat to a good friend from college I hadn't talked to in years. I'm beginning to have second thoughts about being so openly Zube. I don't want to miss out on people like Dave and Kenyatta, but the randomness of life is freaking me out a little.

Let's pretend for a minute that the guy who raped me, in a moment of clarity, remembered my name and Google searched me. Imagine I didn't have a blog. He'd find a few articles where I'm mentioned for some of the work I've done with Planned Parenthood. That I don't mind so much. So what if he can find me being strong? Big whoop, right?

But I have a blog. And if you search my name, it is easily found. And if a link to my blog is forwarded to you, my name is very easily remembered. What if he found my blog? Do I really want him to know that in moments of weakness I Google search his sorry ass to play some sort of power-trippy self-torture game with myself? Do I want him to know that I remember the exact day we last saw each other ten years ago?

Would it make me a wuss to begin anew and anon? I don't know. I don't really want to, but I guess you could say I'm considering it. Would I rather call The Adventures of a Gnome Exterminator or The Adventures of a Stick Figure Arteest my home? Would it be worth it? I do draw a mean stick figure and I kick some righteous gnome ass, but, I'm Zube. And I'm kind of stuck on that. I don't know that I'd want to be anything else. But I also don't know that I'd want to be Zube who was fucked up forever-and-ever-amen because someone who once invaded her body, then invaded her mind. Because she thought she was invincible...

Some More Stuff...

-When I found out I was pregnant, the Bad Time, I kid you not, nearly EVERY friend I had who was Pro-Life urged me to have an abortion. They said, "Oh my God, I never knew until it happened to you, that I would feel this way. You HAVE to have an abortion." This surprised the SHIT out of me. But, what surprised me even more was that EVERY person I knew who was Pro-Choice, the people I was SURE would try to convince me to have an abortion said, "Well, what do YOU want to do?" Including my Dad. We all know what I decided in the end, but seriously, isn't the odd? I mean, given the awful circumstances of my pregnancy, I'd have thought that the Pro-Choice people would be the ones who'd be all "GET AN ABORTION!" But, it turned out the opposite.

-When I spoke at that rally for Emergency Contraception, there were some women there with signs that said, "CUNT WARRIORS!" I was pretty pissed. I mean, come on PEOPLE! We're trying to PASS A LAW here! Now, I'm the first person to think, in many other situations, that those signs are pretty fucking funny. The word 'cunt' scares people, so it rather amuses me. But, there's a time and a place. And the time and place is Not. At. An. Important. Political. Rally. Sorry if that makes me a wuss, but why alienate people, you know? Anyway...

-"Shit! She's looking! Meeting adjourned. Act natural..."


-Zube Boy and I are having a creativity contest with our magnet words we got from a friend for Christmas. My sentence is on the left. His is on the right. I think he's winning.


-I give him two weeks. Maybe three. Tops. After that? He's history.


Edited to Add: The photo in this post might clarify what the little green guy is.

Wanna See My Buns?

Well here they are, you freakin' perverts...


They're kind of blurry, but you get the idea. And I was SCRATCHING the TIP of the inside of my nose. NOT picking it. Jeebus. Don't you people have husbands with trick cameras, too?!

You know, Zack is SO going to freak out when our Roomba gets delivered.


Could scaring the piss out of your pooch with a vacuum cleaner be considered cruelty to animals?

Going to work when the moon is out fucking sucks...


And it's often a bit chillier at that hour, too.

I was digging the view from my desk today.


Fortunately, I wasn't DIGGING through a foot of ice while standing on a roof today. Though the view may have been better from up there. Arguably.

Sometimes I like to tell myself that the summertime is not SO far away and soon we'll be camping and four-wheeling and shit...



...then I go outside and realize that we can't even SEE one of the four-wheelers OR the pop-up camper and the only four-wheeler we can see is, uh, on top of a flatbed trailer. Then, camping and shit seems MUCH further away.

I haven't talked much about the snow because I figger you all get sick of hearing about it, but FOR REAL! WITH THE SNOW! It's insane. And I love it. So, so pretty.

Keep it real gals and guys. Oh yeah. One more thing. Tomorrow is the ten year anniversary. I wonder if I'll cry? I haven't yet. And I'm not so much feeling it either. But, that's usually the way it is. It sort of side-swipes me like a hefty bag of rocks out of nowhere in the middle of the afternoon. Oh well. I'm always up for a good healthy cry. Especially one that celebrates how far I've come.

Peace out, punks!

I Hope You Don't Mind If I Piss You Off

A few posts back I wrote about how there are so many women out there who are the strength behind my voice. They're the reason I won't shut up about having been sexually assaulted; because as long as we're cloaked in silence about it, nothing will ever fucking change. That inspired some of you to share with me. Again. And I can't tell you how honored I am that you'd do that. Seriously.

I'd like to say right now that if there is ANYONE out there who just wants to FUCKING TELL IT, I'm all ears (and eyes). Nothing feels better than getting that shit out. Believe me, I know. I'm nearly on the verge of okay because I've told it over and over and over again. It helps. It really, really does. So, please. Don't be scared. I won't breath a word of it, unless you're cool with that. Which leads me to..

One writer, whom we'll call "Fabulous Gal," or FG for short, e-mailed me her story. It so touched me that I asked her if I could post it. With her permission, here it is...

I know I commented before, after I read your 'my story' page. But after reading what you wrote today, I felt alot better about sharing my story. I hope you don't mind; i've never written about it on my blog and frankly, I don't know if I ever could. But I think it would feel better to get it out here, because you're right - carrying it alone is an absolutely humongous bundle of shit.

I was raped 5 years ago, next week. I had gone to a nightclub with my girlfriends, and some random guy offered to buy me a drink. He had laced it with rohypnol. Within 45 minutes I was a walking, talking blank. The lights were on, but no one was home.

He wound up carrying me out of the club a couple hours later, thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He dug my wallet out of my purse and drove me to my apartment and raped me in my own bed. Many hours later I woke to find vomit from one end of my apartment to the other.My bathtub was filled with puke. It's utterly amazing that I didn't choke on my vomit and die in my sleep.

I went to the ER the next morning, where a rape kit was done by our local sexual assault crisis agency. The rape kit thing will haunt me for the rest of my life - all I could think of when I layed on that table having pubic hairs pulled out, fingernails scraped, and then the removal of what was on the inside- was that this is what they do to dead women in a morgue. But I was alive and there.

Photographs were taken of the bruises all over my body - there was one on my back the size of a grapefruit. They held a ruler up to it before snapping the photos- to show how large it was. 7 inches.

The guy apparently dragged me up the carpeted stairs to my bedroom because the entire front of my legs, top to bottom, were covered with rugburn. The end result - the investigation was botched and my assailant got away. The rape kit was sent to a pathology lab out of state only to be declared lost, a month later. Oh, and the photos mysteriously 'didn't come out' and then the negatives were allegedly destroyed. The police department said oops.. sans apology.. and dropped the case; citing that without any forensic evidence/proof I was drugged, I had no case.

I was too fucking scared to go back to my apartment so I stayed with an ex who took care of me for weeks while I remained in a catatonic state.. unable to tend to my kids. I don't know what snapped me out of it, but I eventually did and found the apartment where I am now.. isolated, yet safe.

I hadn't given much thought to all of this in a few years.. until I started reading your blog. It's hard to. It's hard enough to wake up and breathe every day and raise kids alone and survive college. I've barely been allowed to feel anything, or get through this in my own head.

My friends always said, that scumbag must have been 'hooked up', and indeed.. I just recently learned that he was.

Three nights ago I was watching the news and I saw a man - an investigator for a local police department - giving a press conference. His face scared me out of my skin - he looked exactly like the man that raped me. His name flashed at the bottom of the screen... Same last name. It had to be his brother. Or cousin, who the fuck knows. But this area is small, it was not a common last name - and I just KNOW. They've got to be related.

Now I'm feeling more rattled, more pissed off, more fucked over than I did years ago. I wish there was something I could do to prove this happened to me. Just for the sake of my own sanity - and just for others to know so they could protect themselves.

FG

Would y'all do me a favor and drown this girl in some love? Please? What a fucking courageous person. She deserves nothing less than all the props in the world, especially right now. Those anniversaries are fucking hard. For real.

To have done the right thing only to get doubly fucked over in the end...there are no words.

Thank you. You all rock with the props thing. Pass 'em on.

Didn't mean to get you all pissed off on a holiday, but nothing'll change if we don't get all angry and shit,no matter what day of the year it is.

I hope you have a wonderful New Year. May the World be a better place this year because of people like FG and you.

Dear FG,

You are nothing short of amazing. Your kids are lucky to have a Mom like you. And that fucker'll rot in hell. Don't you worry about that. Karma's a bitch.

Love,

Zube

Huh? What? Nyquil? And Shit That's Important...To Me Anyway

-This morning I went to work and not three minutes after arriving, my boss said, "Oh my God! What are you doing here? Go home. You're painful to look at!" Surprisingly, I couldn't have been happier to hear her say that. It's days like this that make me want to dry hump my couch. Or just lay on it. And watch Montel. Yeah. I'm all sick and shit. Still. Nyquil is the best thing ever.

-I was interviewed by Brian, a super nice journalist from Glamour magazine, back in October while I was vacationing in Jersey. He was writing an article about women's reproductive health and wanted to talk to someone who would have benefited from the availability of Emergency Contraception to prevent a pregnancy after rape. Before I agreed to an interview, I called Zube Boy to see if he'd be all cool with that. He said, "Of course, I've always wanted to be married to a Glamour Girl." I said, "Yeah, um, honey, it's not like they're going to do a photo shoot or anything. At the most, I'll get in, like, one quote." His response: "I know, but do it anyway. If it'll help other people, it'll help you, and that's all I care about." Have I ever mentioned how much he rocks with the support thing? Well, he does.

The article is supposed to be in the February issue. I'm kind of nervous because shortly after going public as a rape survivor, I learned that you never know exactly which quotes are going to be pulled from a twenty five minute conversation. I fret that they'll publish one thing I said, out of context, and it'll make me sound stupid. I don't know why I'm so worried about it. I mean, it's not like I'm being interviewed by Focus on the Family or some other crazy ass religous group who'd take great pleasure in contorting my words. Regardless, I won't really feel comfortable until I read the article. Anyone know when the February edition might come out? I'm not exactly an avid reader of Glamour, but I can't wait to get my hands on this issue.

-The ten year anniversary of the night I was raped is coming up on January 21st. TEN FUCKING YEARS! And here I am, still writing about it. Sometimes, on a really insecure day, I wonder if people who read my blog are thinking, "Goddamn, when will she fucking get over it already?"

Thing is, not that I'm over it, or ever will be, but I'm okay with it. I share because I want others to know that they can, and likely should, share, too. That's the only way to get it out. It's the reason I feel pretty damn okay most of the time. Every time I tell it, it's like I'm throwing a little piece of the shittiness away. People give me props for being strong, and while I appreciate that, I'd like to extend the accolades to folks who are going it alone. That's a bundle of shit to carry all by yourself. I know because I did it for awhile.

To anyone who has ever commented on my blog or e-mailed me to share your story, THANK YOU. My voice is emboldened by yours. I could never, ever do this all by myself. I hope you don't have to either.

-I love comedians who can't help but laugh at themselves. Not the ones who laugh just to emphasize the fact that what they're saying is supposed to be funny. The ones that are so fucking funny they can't help it and start giggling in the middle of their act.

-Zube Boy had a hard time getting out of bed this morning. I wanted to help him so I farted. Really loud. He got to work early. After calling me fucking disgusting, of course.

Well, Would You Look at That...

I have a soapbox under me feet. While I'm up here...

I'm sure some of my readers are Pro-Life, and I REALLY don't intend to alienate you guys, but I'm going to warn you that I'm about to throw a wee bit of a tantrum. Understand that it's simply emotions bubbling over that I usually keep in check because I'm ALWAYS composed in debate. However, this is my playroom and I kind of feel like throwing my toys around for a minute. I'm fucking tired of being diplomatic. I know it's essential, and I know it gets me further than being a raving lunatic, but that doesn't make it any less tiresome.

You all are probably aware that I'm an advocate of choice. I have that big ass ugly button in my sidebar which says so. I wish I could find a more visually appealing one, but the sentiment is more important to me than having a pretty blog. Although, if any of you can recommend a source for buttons that don't blink and express those two of my most sacred beliefs, I'd love you forever. Not that I don't already, but who couldn't use some more Zube love? I'm full of it.

Anyway, choice is something I am PASSIONATE about. So passionate that I actually cried when Bush was reelected because I worry that under his administration the clock is slowly being turned back on Roe v. Wade, while we're all distracted by the War on Terror. My Republican husband didn't even laugh at my crying ass. He hugged me because he understands this passion. There's very little that we don't poke fun at one another for, and this is one of those things.

The reason I'm so passionate about it is that if I hadn't had access to a legal and safe abortion, I, without a doubt, would not be living in Colorado married to the Pro-Choice Republican guy I'm wildly in love with. Who knows where the fuck I'd be, but I'm so happy with where I am, that I've got nothing but love for all of the women and men who were fighting for my right to choose even while I was Pro-Life and fighting to deny myself that right. How's that for irony? "I think it would be healing for a survivor of rape to give birth to the resulting child," ranks way up there on the list of Dumbest Shit I've Ever Said.

Through my perusal of Pro-Life websites yesterday, I came across several points I'd like to address. The following aren't direct quotes; they're merely points I've seen expressed over and over again. I'm not linking because I have no desire to start a pissing match with anyone. The following is my lil' ole' opinion, peppered with lots of cussing because I'm cranky today. Maturity be damned.

"I had an abortion, and now I regret it. Abortion should be illegal because every-fucking-body else who had one must regret it, too."

There are so many websites where women can go and get hugs and get prayed for and all that happy horseshit because they made a decision they regret. And that's all well and good. I think it's important to support people who've made difficult decisions in a pinch and aren't all okay with it. Unfortunately, though, that's the fucking nature of making a BIG DECISION there's no going back on. I'm sorry you regret having an abortion. That sucks. It really does. But it doesn't mean the right should be taken away from EVERYONE. We can't go around protecting people from making a decision they might regret. Seriously.

I am at peace with what I decided, but I'm not going to turn around and say that every woman who finds herself pregnant in the least ideal situation should have an abortion. See? And I know some women who, though it's nearly impossible to tell anyone, regret not having had an abortion. They're not going around saying pregnant teenagers shouldn't be allowed to have kids. They had their kid and they love it like crazy, but they still wonder where they'd be if they hadn't. They made a decision and they're living with it. Me, too. So are you. And how each of us feels about the decision we've made should not influence the legality of others to make their own.

Now, if you were forced/coerced into having an abortion, that's WRONG and that's not what choice means to me. CHOICE means you have a fucking CHOICE in the matter and THAT is what I stand for. That's why the whole Pro-Abortion label pisses me right off. Let's just say that if I have a daughter and she comes to me at the age of sixteen and tells me she's pregnant, I give her FULL LICENSE to make a decision she can live with. I mean, ideally she wouldn't be in that predicament because she'll have come to me before she had sex and we'd have gone to the doctor and gotten her on birth control, but BIRTH CONTROL does not come with any GUARANTEES. Contraception fails, people.

But, if she wants to have a baby? Fine. If she wants an abortion? Fine. I will love her and support her NO MATTER WHAT. And, if abortion is illegal and that's what she wants? I'll fly her ass to some other country. I'm not really too worried about my future daughters not having access to abortion. It's the poor people who might want one and can't afford to travel to Canada that I'm most worried about.

I don't think the reason there are so many sites like this is that the majority of women regret having an abortion. I believe it's more or less because women who don't regret aborting don't feel the need to publicize it to the world. It's a private decision, and one they're thankful to have been able to make, but also one that people would condemn them for and who the fuck wants to deal with that?

I do because I don't really give a rat's ass what anyone other than my husband and my family think of me. I had an abortion and my whole town knows it. I don't regret it, and I'm sure I'm not the only one.

"Abortion should be illegal, except in cases of rape and incest."

That's simply not possible, and I'll tell you why.

The asshole that raped me didn't have the common decency to give me a black eye or SOMETHING, ANYTHING that would have made me a credible plaintiff. I knew him through a friend. He offered to give me a ride to the store because my car was broken down. I accepted. I, though I felt squicky about it and should have spoken up but, being young and naive, followed him into his house so he could retrieve some unknown thing. Which, come to find out, was in between my legs. And that was that. He didn't rough me up. He didn't have to because I was sufficiently frightened by the inability to breathe. A pillow over your face doesn't leave much in the way of bruising. I acquiesced because I wanted him to ease up on the suffocation. I wanted to get out alive. And I did. Thank fucking goddess.

If I'd have fought and pissed him off, I might've gotten injured, making me more believable. I might've also bought myself a one way ticket to a backyard burial. Who the fuck knows, for sure? If you ask me today if I really think he was capable of murder, I'd say probably not. But when you're deprived of oxygen and gasping for air, you'll think some crazy shit.

Does that suck? Is it unfair? Yeah. It sucks all hell and then some, but would I be willing to have innocent people put in prison for rape just so that I, or any other woman could simply say, "I was raped," and have it believed? No. Of course not. It's a sad fact of life that people lie about shit. That's why we have a judicial system. Innocent until proven guilty, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

All of that to say that I didn't prosecute. If abortions were only legal for survivors of rape, how would I have proven that that is indeed what happened? And, even if I HAD decided to prosecute, do you know how fucking long things take to even GET to trial, much less be given a verdict? I'd have given birth by the time that happened. Actually, I probably would have been forced to carry the pregnancy to term anyway because my word against his surely wouldn't have held up.

So, that argument? Stupid and impossible.

"The abortion industry is full of money hungry assholes."

Hmm...Let's see. When I had an abortion, it was $450. I opted for the general anesthesia. Otherwise it would have been $300. Friends who've had kids have told me THAT costs anywhere from $3,000 to $5,000 if you have a fairly uneventful birth. It's exponentially higher if you have an emergency C-section or something outside the average push, push, why hello there little newborn event. I don't hear anyone calling OB's money grubbing assholes.

And, the cost of birth aside, I'm assuming that having a kid for THE REST OF YOUR EARTHBOUND LIFE costs a bit more than $500 bucks. I mean, come on.

I prefer that a doctor who is going to OPERATE on my UTERUS be, you know, compensated monetarily for that. I don't mind throwing in a little extra dough for the fact that they very likely risk their fucking lives to provide health services they believe in because they CARE about women.

I find it hard to believe that the lady who held my hand and told me not to cry because those rosary bead throwing, "Murderer" screaming fuckers just didn't understand, was doing it because she wanted the portion of the $450 that went to her paycheck. She was going to get it whether she held my hand or not. And okay, maybe she didn't say 'fuckers' but anyway...







Whew. I feel much better having gotten that off my chest. If you've read this entire thing, you deserve a fucking medal and all the Zube love I've got in my reserve. It's hard to fight for and believe in something and yet ALWAYS, ALWAYS, ALWAYS keep your cool. I try. I really, really do, but every once in a while people don't fight fair with me and I want to retaliate. I'd rather do that here than there. Because here, I'm attacking an argument and not a person. There, erm, not so much.

All in a Day

I feel the need to say something to Wednesday. You are such a cute day. It's really sweet how predictable you are showing up at the same time every week. I think I may be falling in love with you. Wait. No. I AM in love with you. Hump Day. Who doesn't fucking love Hump Day?

This morning while I was putting on my underwear, it broke. Heh. It must have been reading my blog.

I feel a little like Linda Blair after the whole head spinning bit. My neck is KILLING ME.

Would y'all mind sending a little love to a good friend of mine? I mean, I always miss happy hour with good friends, but I'm sad to say that after two months she is once again able to go to happy hour with me, and I'm so sad for her because I know how she feels. Yes, some things are better than beer. Better even than reasonably priced beer.

I hereby banish the synapses that prompted me to wonder why a bad man's zygote had to be removed from inside of me and the zygote of one of most wonderful men I've ever met just fell out. I decree that thoughts such as those are now required to check into some of the brain cells I killed back in college.

It's a rainy day, which is kind of cool. I'm all over moisture in October that's not in the form of fluffy, white snow. I only wish that I could've hung out at home in my pj's and watched all four of the Sopranos Season One DVDs instead of working.

I'm actually in a good mood today, so I don't get what's with the morose posting. I am officially the bouncer here at My Brain, and rowdy mean thoughts sometimes need a little roughing up and kicking out. There ya go.

Sometimes I Talk to Myself...Just Not Out Loud...

No dude. Come on. Don’t Google him. It always bums you out.

Yeah, I know. But it’s like I…I don’t know…

Why do that to yourself?

Well, I kind of want to make sure he’s not successful.

You checked a couple of years ago, and he wasn’t. Can’t we just keep on thinking that?

But, it’s a little bit like a power trip, too. You know? I can look him up and see what he’s up to anytime I want, and he probably doesn’t even remember my name.

Fine. Go ahead.

Okay…Here goes…

Huh. Same shit. The band’s still not together.

Wait a minute. What’s this?

Woah. He changed his name and joined a new band.

Fuck.

Well, they haven’t done anything in a year and a half.

Yeah, but still. Hmm…New search.

Naturally.

What have we here?

Their website hasn’t been updated in a while.

Yeah. Hey, check this out.

Dumb bitch.

I can’t believe she’s bragging on a message board that she made out with him. Like he’s some kind of big star or something.

Wouldn’t it be funny if we responded.

Heh.

“Like, oh my god, you made out with him, but he raped me. Does that make me more special? *winks*”

Dude.

What?

That wouldn’t be funny at all.

I know.

Besides, she doesn’t know.

You’re right.

Can we stop this now?

Yeah. I’m kind of upset. I just hate seeing his picture.

I told you.

It’s like I can’t help it though.

You’ve been thinking about this shit kind of a lot lately. You okay?

I don’t know. It’s just been on my mind.

It might be getting’ around that time again.

Mmm-hmmm.

You knew last time when you left counseling that you’d probably end up going back after a few years.

Ew!

What!?

Katie Holmes is fucking pregnant.

Pfffbt.

*ring-ring*

“Blah Blah Management, this is Zube Girl…”

Where Are Your Ghosts?

"I follow him up the steps to his building, climbing over the ghost of me from last night, up to his apartment on the top floor."

The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing by Melissa Bank

I just finished reading this book, and the above excerpt got me thinking. Jane is referring to the drunken ghost of herself sitting on the stoop of Andrew's apartment complex, wondering if she should ring the doorbell and explain all the ways she fucked up their happily ever after. Instead, she waits until tomorrow, and finds herself, Andrew in arm, climbing up the stairs, stepping over last night's Jane.

Ghosts of me are all over New Jersey. That's kind of why I opted to move 2,000 miles away. I couldn't stand to see the hazy visions of me anymore. Everywhere I went there was the 'Fucked Up' Zube Girl of years past. The shadow; traipsing along I-95 in her genie costume on Halloween blubbering to herself about what the result of the HIV test she'd taken that morning would be and why in the hell did that asshole have to rape her anyway...or puking in the bathroom at McGuin's wondering if she'll go to hell like the priest said that one time in church about women who had abortions.

Sometimes, in fact many times, she is not alone. Zube Girl is accompanied by the most beautiful friends imaginable. Friends who cared enough to be human ponytail holders as she hurled up the Medori Sours she loved so much. Probably because those drinks were such a happy color, and happy was an emotion she sought with the ferocity of an addict pursuing her next high. These friends would whisper to another that someone should go get the car started because she needed to get home.

They'd mouth as though they were in the presence of a child "She's upset about the rape." And keys would fly out of pockets left and right. She was going home. Or I was. Because she was me. And I was her. Together, we were the fucked up girl. The girl who was raped.

When my ghost isn't surrounded by loving friends, she is alone. Those are the worst of the visions that haunt me. I had a brass set of sad balls that convinced me to walk home whenever I felt undeserving of friends. And I felt that way often. And I probably didn't deserve them. I'd suck the happiness right out of them, however unintentionally. Then I'd feel guilty as all hell about it. I wasn't good for them; for their happiness. Ergo, they weren't good for me. You know, guilt and such.

Afraid that if I announced I wanted to leave, someone might protest, or care, I'd silently slide out the back door of a party, and put one foot in front of another. Five miles...twenty six miles. No distance scared me. Usually because I was under the influence of copious amounts of alcohol, and felt as though the strength of my sorrow could carry me anywhere.

Even now, as I prepare to embark on another trip to Jersey, I'm thinking about where I'll see her. Most certainly I'll see her on I-95 because you can't really go a damn place without getting on that highway, especially if you want to buy some cute new clothes at Quakerbridge Mall. Which I do. So I'll have to pass her.

It's always bittersweet to see my ghost because I love her now. I didn't then. And I know that that's why she was so fond of fucking up and of getting fucked up. Because I hated her, and I was all she had.

Maybe someday I'll get close enough to give her a hug and thank her for getting me through those years. I'll tell her that she needn't feel bad that she was imperfect about it. Because here I am, years later, quite okay. Thanks to her.

Until then, I'll just love her for who she was. Who I am. However imperfect.

Why I Speak Up...

I’ve had something on my mind lately, and I've been remiss to post it because, well, I don’t know really. Sometimes I feel like folks come here to get a good laugh, and when I throw in a serious post I worry that I'll fuck up the ambiance or whatever the hell I’ve got going on here.

Thing is, my twisted sense of humor arose as a coping mechanism. If I hadn’t been able to say, “Ah, fuck it. I’ll stick around and see what else could possibly go wrong,” I might’ve ingested that bottle of pills oh so many years ago. But I didn’t. Okay, so it also had a little to do with envisioning my family at my funeral and realizing it would tear them apart, but I digress...

I’ve been active with Planned Parenthood lately, in particular supporting the cause of mandating hospitals to inform rape victims of the availability of Emergency Contraception. I’ve spoken at a rally, a press conference that was aired on the news, and to a few reporters here and there about my experience of being raped, impregnated by the rapist, and having an abortion ten years ago. I think it is incredibly important to share my story for several reasons, but here are just a couple.

Firstly, I want any other woman who might be in the throes of a similar experience to know that they are going to be okay. Really, really, really. That’s most important to me. Maybe a little crazy, but okay. I'm a little crazy and a little okay, and it's cool. It's cool, too, to cry a lot or a little. Just do what feels right. That's about all you can do. You are not alone, though it may feel that way.

Which leads me to...

Secondly, rape survivors are left largely on their own to deal with the repercussions of their assault. It’s fucking sad and shouldn't be that way. I remember spending much of my energy worrying what people would think of me if I told them. It’s not like breaking your leg. When you break your leg, you ring up your family, friends, and work and say, “Hey, I broke my fucking leg,” and people send you flowers and cards and you get days or weeks off of work.

When you're raped, at least in my experience, it doesn't go down like that. Especially if it's not 'Stranger Jumping Out of the Bushes' rape. I went to class the next day, and work after that. Everyone thought it best if I carried on as usual. So I did, wanting to make them feel better. I proved that I could still tie my shoes, and take notes about algorithms. Truthfully, though, it would’ve been nice if I could have taken some time to recuperate from a broken spirit. Just because you can't see it or slap a cast on it, doesn't mean it can't be broken or injured, ya know?

Rape is something many survivors suffer in silence because it involves sex, which people feel icky talking about it. But, people need to talk about it to make the stigma go away, and since I feel pretty damn okay most days, I do. I’ve got to honor my funny bone by giving appropriate recognition to just where it came from. Being tough as nails, and knowing that each time I laugh, it proves that the mother fucker who raped me couldn’t take that away. Not forever, anyway.

I have noticed that my serious posts go largely uncommented on. And you know what? That’s okay. Seriously you guys. One of the hardest parts about going public for me has been the response from other women who’ve told me how brave I am and relayed their stories. I usually say, “First of all, I’m no braver than you and second of all, it happened to me, and I still don’t know what to say to you except that it sucks and I’m sorry.” I feel like if I'm standing up in front of 200 people telling my story, I should know the perfect response, but I don't.

I'm only human. As are you all. Well, except for the one or two aliens that might read this, which makes me hope that I'm not a case study for earthling normalcy. If so, we're all fucked. But, to the humans, it's okay to be human, and not know what to say.

So, it's off my chest now. Thank you. I feel better. Hopefully, you are no worse for the wear, which would be the best case scenario for both of us.

Public Service Announcement!

I've stopped checking myself out in the mirror long enough to learn that Colorado's Planned Parenthood chapters will be giving out FREE Emergency Contraception on July 1st. Actually, I'll be speaking at a press conference about it on Wednesday, and should be writing that instead of writing in my blog, but, feh. I'm having trouble writing stuff I'm going to read out loud, and finding it easier to write stuff that's just gonna be read online by other people. Know what I mean?

Anyway, this is Planned Parenthood's response to Governor Bill Owen's vetoing of HB 1042, which would have required hospitals to provide pertinent medical information about emergency contraception to rape victims. Women who were, you know, raped. And maybe want to prevent a pregnancy as a result of that. You could say that this is near and dear to my heart.

In other news, I've added a '100 Things About Me' link under 'First and Foremost' if you're a crazy ass stalker and want to check it out.

I'm an Activist...

of sorts...Okay, so I can't always be funny and witty (let's just pretend for a minute that I really am funny and/or witty, please. Thanks!), as will be evidenced by my blog post today. At least 5% of the time, I've got to get serious.

Without further ado, this article about me appeared in the local paper today. It's a shame my ten minutes of fame be attributed to a sucky experience, but maybe it'll do some good.