72 Degrees with Thundershowers

It is rare for me to wake up in the morning and be stopped dead in my tracks by something. I usually go through the motions on a sort of autopilot: I wake up, clean up whatever messes the pets have made, go to the bathroom, make coffee, load the dishwasher, and get down to business at the computer. That is pretty much standard operating procedure around these parts and there is little to no variation unless I have to go somewhere or do something.

I have a feed reader that links me to the blogs that usually interest me. I go through each morning and cherry pick the stories I want to read or anything that seems to be slightly important. The stories pop up in several tabs and windows and I am usually done in less than half an hour. Today I woke up at 9. It is now quarter after twelve as I write this and I still have 15 tabs that have gone unread and chores that don't look like they are getting done any time soon.

I have been glued to my chair in awe and admiration for what I believe is the finest piece of journalism I have ever read. I am admittedly biased based on the subject matter, but I believe in my heart of hearts that every word I speak is true.

This past Sunday in the Cleveland Ohio Plains Dealer, they published a story called Beyond Rape: A Survivor's Jorney. The story was so long and complex, it had an entire special section in the newspaper devoted to it. The entire section was written and prepared (save for the editor-in-chief's introduction) by The Plains Dealer's former Arts and Entertainment reporter and critic Joanna Connors, but this is not a story of the film and theatre that she reviewed over the years and that I would normally gravitate towards in my other blog. This is a brutally unflinching look at rape and the recovery process.

I think the reason why it struck me so hard, other than it being well written, researched, and more powerful than any book I have read recently, is because I am going through something very similar to what Joanna has been through. This past weekend was the first time I admitted to someone I love that as a child I was sexually assaulted. It was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do in my life and I am still shaking over it and doubting myself for having done it.

I have alluded to it in previous entries, but I had dare not speak its name. I tiptoed around it in hopes that my saying something yet remaining ambiguous, I would find some comfort, solace, and piece of mind. It was on the tip of my tongue ever since I told my therapist. I wanted to shout it out to anyone who might care, but to this day I still live in fear of what others will think of me as I replay the memories of that afternoon in a dirty basement when I was seven years old and constantly remind myself of the unspeakable acts committed by a friend of the family whose face my mind has blanked out but my memory has narrowed down to two suspects. My father was the only man who knew who did it. After the incident it was never talked about, but I know it angered him. Now my father is dead and all I am left with are fractured memories of what happened coupled with severe pain and anguish that I have relived every day of my life without ever confronting it head on.

I beg and implore each and every one of you to read this story, even if you have read nothing I have ever written and never will again. This is an important story and an important topic that no one seems to cover anymore. Given the alarming rate at which women are raped people should be more outraged. This story will stand as a testament to people like Connors and myself that survival is harder than it looks for victims of sexual assault and how the crime doesn't just affect the victim, but everyone the victim knows and loves.

After reading the piece, I emailed the Plains Dealer and thanked them for all they have done. I encourage everyone who reads this to do the same.