Shit on our Souls: A Womanifesto (by Jelly)
took a walk today. It was 5 am. I put on my boy jeans, a baggy shirt, a sweatshirt, and a beanie. I did not carry a bag. In my left hand was my cell phone. I clicked dial on my roommate’s number, then quickly ended the call so she would by my last call. That way, if I could not dial 911, all I would have to do is press “send” twice and yell at her to call for me. In my right hand, I held pepper spray at the ready; open and facing outward, my thumb on the trigger. I walked with purpose. Back straight, head held high. No, I wasn’t braving some treacherous back alleys in some ghetto. I just wanted to walk to the gas station for coffee, and because I am a woman, I was in danger. I’ve walked prepared like this hundreds of times. It’s how I was raised and how I’ve learned to adapt to these dangerous times. But really, it’s not just these dangerous times. It’s been like this for hundreds, thousands of years. A lot of people may think I am being paranoid. Mostly the men I suppose. But any girl knows that this is just what you have to do. While I walked this morning, I reflected. Why do I have to go through all this trouble just for coffee? If any of the men living in my house wanted coffee at 5 am they wouldn’t even have to think twice. They would just put on their jacket and go. None of them have probably even owned pepper spray. It doesn’t seem fair that I, as a woman, have to live in fear because it’s dark outside. I saw a car stop at a stop sign. They just sat there for a really long time. And I stopped. Like a deer in headlights. Then they started to go. I ran. I ran like fucking hell through a parking lot and through some bushes and to the intersection. Because you know, those stories that your mother tells you growing up, the things she tells you to be aware of, the reasons she gives you for not going out after dark, for always having someone with you (preferably a man), are not just tales to scare children. They are real. That shit really happens. I feel lucky that it’s never happened to me. But that’s not a good thing to feel lucky about. I don’t want to feel lucky that I haven’t been raped for walking down the street. But I know girls that have. It destroys lives. But it doesn’t even stop there. More often than not, it’s not a random guy who pops out of an alley. It’s a friend, a boyfriend, a family member… How do you prepare for that? How do you protect yourself from that? In a way, those kinds are almost worse…but no rape is worse than another. Either way if hurts. It fucking hurts. Inga Muscio put it very well in her book “Cunt”. It feels as though someone took a shit right on your soul. And you will spend the rest of your life trying to clean it off in whatever way you see fit. Some of us never get clean. Some of us just give up. Some of us kill ourselves; the ultimate clean...ridding our souls of the body that was tainted by the ugly act of hate…
I got the tattoo on my arm for Abby not just because she was my best friend. I got it in her honor. Abby died with every reason in the world to live. She was only 16 years old with more experience on her plate, and more ambition and fucking balls than most 40 year old women. Like her mother said at the campout where we spread her ashes “That girl did more things, than I could have ever dreamed of doing.” She was beautiful, smart, talented…and so goddamn young.
Abby was depressed for a while. Long before any incident. But from what I could tell, she was managing it. She was happy. I saw it. And then someone decided to shit on her soul.
Abby and I had been doing a little bit of drinking. Not too much. Maybe a few beers worth each. We were going to go back to my house in Renton that night but lost track of time and before we knew it, the busses weren’t running. We had been avoiding going to her boyfriend’s house in Capitol Hill where we had spent so much of our time the last month or so, because it was so crowded. One of his roommates had his girlfriend and kid visiting from out of town and it was just too much so we left them alone and gave them space. But tonight we had nowhere to go. So we walked over to his apartment building. No one answered when we yelled up so we did what we had done at least 20 times. We pulled the abandoned couch in the alley up to the window in the hall downstairs and Abby climbed in the window, and ran to the door to let me in. We walked up the three flights of stairs to his apartment and knocked. We could hear a bunch of people inside but no one was answering. Finally after banging and yelling her boyfriend Mime came to the door. We told him we were sorry for bothering him but we were stranded and could we crash on the floor or even the bathroom or something. He wouldn’t let us in. Wouldn’t even listen. We were confused. He had always been so warm-hearted and giving. He had opened his home to us many times before when we could have easily gone home. But now, here he was, not even wanting to talk to us. He told Abby he didn’t want to see her anymore. Broke up with her on the spot. She told him she was in love with him. He didn’t care. Abby, being only fifteen at the time, this to my knowledge being her first real love, burst into tears and ran down the stairs. I called to her to wait for me at the bottom. She agreed. I begged Mime to at least give us some blankets. He reluctantly gave me a big coat he had. I ran downstairs, but Abby was gone. I spent the next hour maybe two hours at least wandering up and down the street looking for her. I’m surprised nothing bad happened to me. I was crying and so scared. I almost called the police. I was so worried…Finally, near the apartments, I saw her. She ran to me, crying. She latched on to me and hugged her. I asked her what happened. She told me that she had run outside and she was walking around and a Mexican guy had grabbed her and pulled her into an alley and raped her. I was amazed that she was alive. I tried to get her to walk so we could find somewhere to go but she just collapsed to the ground. She hugged her knees tight to her chest and rocked back and forth whispering “I don’t care.” over and over again. I tried to talk to her, to reason with her. I tried to hug her. Tried to move her. It was three in the morning by then and I didn’t feel safe. We needed to find somewhere to sleep. But she wouldn’t listen. Every time I got too close, she swatted me away. Finally I walked about ten feet away to the steps to the back door of the apartments and sat down. A few minutes later she came up to me crying and apologized. I told her she had nothing to be sorry for and I hugged her. We climbed back into the apartments and knocked on the downstairs neighbor to Mime. We had been at his apartment earlier that evening and he had always been nice to us. Surely he would let us sleep there at least until the busses were running. He let us in but he had to leave for work in half an hour. We ended up sleeping in the hallway of the apartments trying to keep warm with just the coat wrapped over the two of us. We made it maybe two hours before people started waking up and we got scared and left. Went to the store next to the building. Abby wanted to steal some food. She had done this a number of times before but today of all days they finally noticed. Luckily they didn’t call the police, they just kicked us out.
Finally it was 7 am and we walked down the street to the youth center where they were serving breakfast. After breakfast I had GED school. Abby wasn’t supposed to stay because she wasn’t enrolled but as soon as they told her that she burst into tears. She said she couldn’t leave me. She couldn’t be alone. They let her stay. I wanted to tell someone but I felt like it wasn’t my business and Abby made me swear not to say anything. Looking back, I really wish I would have. But it might not have made much difference. It still would have hurt her just as much. But who knows. She really needed to talk to someone and I really wasn’t good enough for that. But I tried. She always avoided it.
The next few months were horrible. We jumped around Seattle staying in different squats, staying with different people every other night. Abby and I always together was our only constant. We became like sisters. Then I went to Portland. I shouldn’t have left her. She needed me. But I did. I left. I was gone for two weeks. When I came back things were a little different. Nothing big, just a little. Her Dad moved to Auburn and eventually Abby went back home and lived with him. We still hung out every once in a while but those times became less and less often until we hardly talked at all. She came over for her 16th birthday. Me and our friend Jake baked her a pink cake with gummy bears. She seemed so happy. But we went on a walk late that night to meet up with some friends and she was telling me about how she tried to kill herself. She had taken some pills but guessed she didn’t take enough because she woke up. She had told her Dad and he was taking her to therapy. I wasn’t sure how to react. She said “Jelly, you made me crazy”. Implying that it was all my fault. I didn’t know how to feel about that either. I had blamed myself. I still do. I could have been a much better friend than I was. Abby’s rape affected me deeply. Not as much as her, of course. But deeply still. It is a night that will stick with me for the rest of my life. It has affected the way I think, the way I act, the way I feel. I felt her pain way at the very deep of my soul. It was a personal stab in my heart. She was family. My sister of womanhood, my sister of friendship, my partner in crime. A few weeks later she showed up at my door unannounced. I was irritated with her. I don’t know why. But I was really rude and she left in the morning looking very sad. That was in early November. I didn’t talk to her for a few months. In January, she sent me a message on MySpace. It said “why do you think I blame you for what happened?” and I told her about what she had said. She replied “I was joking. I don’t blame you. It wasn’t your fault.” I told her it was okay. That we were okay. “I’m sorry I annoy you.” was her reply. I never replied. I never told her that she didn’t annoy me. I didn’t ask her to hang out. I didn’t see the signs that something was horribly wrong. I just ignored it. I was selfish. I was not a good friend.
On February 9th, 2009 Abby hung herself in her closet. Our friend Jellyfish sent our other friend Felicia a message on MySpace saying that Abby was dead. I didn’t believe her. I couldn’t believe her. It had to be some sick joke. I called everyone I knew trying to see if anyone had heard from Abby recently. I tried her cell phone. Straight to voicemail. I still couldn’t believe it. But the next morning her mom called me. It was true. My best friend who I had ignored was now dead. She died because she couldn’t clean that shit off her soul and no one seemed to want to help. Abby was one of the most loved girls I know but she couldn’t see it. I really hope that somehow she knows now. And I hope that the pain is gone and she’s finally happy.
So because one man thought that it would be a great idea to grab an innocent 15 year old girl off the street and force himself upon her, a beautiful girl is dead and hundreds of lives are changed forever. Her parents live with the memories of her childhood and the grief of what could have been. Her friends are changed by the experience of knowing one of the fallen. Not a day goes by that she doesn’t cross my mind. I think of all the things I’ve done since then. How much she would have loved to be there beside me. Every birthday I think of how unfair it is that I get to grow up and she doesn’t. I moved out on my own and all I can think of is how we had always talked about living together. Why did it have to be her? She didn’t do anything wrong. All she ever did was love. She loved with all her god dam heart.
No one should ever have to go through that.
No one.
But it happens.
Every. Fucking. Day.
In all kinds of situations.
Rapists come in all shapes and colors.
I thought I was safe avoiding alleyways and dark places.
The buddy system.
Pepper spray.
Ha.
No one knows this story.
Some people have guesses.
A few people know the gist.
But I’ve never told anyone exactly what happened.
I think it’s about time that I do.
This isn’t an event in my life that I like to relive. This is an incident that I have worked hard the last year and a half to block out. It comes to my mind still almost every day but I spare myself the gory details.
But the message in my mind, in my heart, in my soul, is clear.
I was raped. I was betrayed. I was lied to. I was destroyed.
Abby and I’s stories coincide. We had built our lives around each others.
Shortly after Abby’s rape when we were staying all over Seattle with random people we met our next constant. His name was Joe but he went by Insomnia. I don’t know what I was thinking. Red flags went up in my intuition all over the damn place. Dirty. Homeless. Tweaker. Unstable. Sleeping around. Throwing shit onto the freeway. But oh, I thought he was so rad. We started staying with him at his squats, but he wouldn’t settle down. Didn’t want to be dating anyone. I put up with it. I tried hard. He fucked me over again and again but I stuck around. I helped him out. He was fucked up and needed a bed and shower. I took him home. He got me on the drug wagon for a while then I helped us get clean. Easy for me after only a month. Hard for him after three, four years. He told me he loved me. He finally let us date. We went to Portland together. Almost ran away to fucking California. He lived with me. I gave him my heart. I let go of my friends, I ignored what they said. I knew he was bad but I didn’t care. Oh what a poor lost puppy he was. He needed me. Pfft.
He gets under my skin. I’m in his control. Deep down I realize what’s going on but I keep coming back for more. He cheats on me, I let it go. He lies to me, I let it go. Finally my intelligent side breaks through and I dump him. I tell him no more. But then he beats those puppy dog eyes and pleads. He needs me, he says. He has nowhere to go. If I leave him he’ll go back to the dope. Makes me feel guilty. Don’t abandon me, he says. A lot of people like me, he says. And I can make them not like you.
So I let him stay. Were not dating but he’s sleeping in my bed. I don’t want him there but here he is. And he pleads, and he apologizes, and he guilt trips. I try to tell him no more. The smart me tries to break through. And he yells. And he threatens. And he makes me feel like shit. Like I need him. I don’t even know how he does it. He pressures me to fuck him. I don’t want to. It hurts. He wants me to touch him. I don’t want to. He wants me to flash him. I don’t want to. And then I get beat down. And I give in. “I’m the only one who will love you.” “You owe me.” Blah. Blah. Bullshit.
He tells me his sob story. He was abused. He can’t help these things. I feel sorry for him.
He wants to do a rape play. Wants to pretend he’s raping me. I don’t fucking want that. No. That’s the line. No.
Pressure, pressure, pressure.
Finally, I give in. I don’t know why. When I look back, I see that person saying okay and it’s like it’s not real. I would look in the mirror and that wasn’t me. Who the hell is this girl and what is she doing? Why am I letting myself be controlled? I’ve watched my friends go through this. I’m always the reasonable one. I’m the one yelling at them to smarten up and get the fuck out that situation. And here I am. The fucking victim.
I make a safe word. If I say this word you fucking stop.
He agrees.
We drink first cause I don’t want to do this.
He gets into it. I try to enjoy it but I can’t. I’m crying. I just want it to be over. It starts to hurt and I say the word. He doesn’t stop. I scream. I hit. I swear. I beg. He is stronger than me. And he won’t listen. It’s pathetic.
Finally, it’s over.
He sees I’m crying and actually tries to apologize. Tries to make me feel sorry for him. He didn’t realize what he was doing, he says. He’s sorry.
I was in pain physically for months and months. Doctors couldn’t figure out why. I was fine. But it hurt.
Emotionally, I am still in pain.
This event has affected every relationship henceforth and how I perceive sexual relationships between a man and a woman.
It has burned a deep mark into my being that I don’t think will ever heal.
I said nothing for months. Who would believe me? And even if they did, what could I do? It was a rape play. I put myself in that situation. It was my fault. What did I expect?
And I remained silent. I actually let the fucker still stay at my house. In my bed. I let him control me more. And it just got worse. I never saw anyone. I felt like a piece of meat. Worthless and only there for his fucking amusement and pleasure. I finally worked up the courage to end it. To kick him out. I wasn’t going to take it anymore. I told him to get out. He threatened to kill himself. Threw a big fit. I almost had to call the cops. Finally he calmed down. I called my friend over and she talked to him. I had him call one of his friends and made him stay there for a few days. Then he started staying with my best friend Patrick. I didn’t see him for a while and it was nice. My ex who I had dated on and off for the last few years came back into town from Portland and we talked about getting back together. Things were going to be okay. But Insomnia came back. Refused to leave. Threatened to kill himself. Again. We yelled and we screamed and I finally I confronted him. I said it out loud. “You raped me.” We discussed the night. He didn’t deny it. He cried. Tried to make me feel sorry for him. Again. And still he tried to break me down. Got jealous about my ex, Matt and told me it better work out because “only me and matt could ever love you. So you better choose. Otherwise you’ll be alone forever.” And he told me I better not go to Seattle because he was going to tell everyone he knew what a fucked up lying bitch I was and if I ever showed my face I would be lucky if I only got jumped.
I was still afraid to tell anyone.
I talked to him a few days later. He said he was still staying with Patrick and that he had told him that I was “calling rape”, implying that it wasn’t true. That I just wanted attention. He told me that Patrick thought I was lying. To this day, I don’t know If that is true or not. I haven’t had the courage to ask. I haven’t told anyone about what happened in fear that they will think I am lying and want attention.
Fuck that. That is what he wanted. To make me feel like shit and carry this burden. Well, silence is deadly. If I keep silent than this event, this “man” will control me forever.
No.
I’m letting this out.
And I’m letting this go.
Maybe it doesn’t count as rape because it was a rape play thing gone wrong.
Maybe no one will believe me.
Oh well.
I’m not going to be silent anymore.
I’m not going to let this haunt me anymore.
All I can think about is what if Abby had said something?
Maybe she would be alive today.
I will never know for sure why exactly Abby committed suicide.
As far as I know, she didn’t leave a note, and if she did, I never read it.
But I knew Abby.
And I’m sure it was a combination of many things.
But I know, way deep in the bottom of my heart, and my gut that if Abby hadn’t gotten raped, she would be alive today. And I would have my best friend right here by my side as my partner in crime, rather than just a memory in my head and a tattoo on my arm.
I’m tired of the silence. Fuck silence.
I want everyone to know.
A beautiful, wonderful, amazing, loving, talented, intelligent, woman is dead.
Any many of the rest of us are damaged.
Too many.
These are just two stories in a collection of the millions untold.
And it’s not fair.
It’s not fair that I don’t feel safe walking down the street at night.
It’s not fair that I was betrayed by someone I thought that I loved.
It’s not fair that Abby is dead.
And it’s not fair that so many others are suffering around the world too.
It makes me so angry that I want to just scream at the top of my lungs in the restaurant I’m writing this from.
But it is the reality of the world we live in.
And we adapt and we grow and we change.
I’m not the same girl I was a year and a half ago.
Do you think I’ll ever put myself in that situation again? Fuck no.
Hell, I’m not the same girl I was last month, or yesterday, or a few hours ago before I started writing this.
This is my confession.
My feelings.
My heart.
This is my womanifesto.
Thank you for listening.
R.I.P. Abby “Random” Jones
October 19th, 1992- February 9th, 2009
You are loved, and you are missed.
Forever, and always.
- Jelly
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