The Girl Without a Head

As I was sitting and watching the news last night, a story came on about a 19-year-old girl from Bethany, OK.  She was murdered by her pimps who had forced her into a prostitution.  She was beheaded, cut into two pieces, and had her limbs dismembered.  Her torturous killing was taped and the pimps forced the other sex slaves to watch it, so they would know to never step out of line.

Anger overcame me, that and a wave of sickness.  I had to go to the bathroom...I locked myself in there just so I could breathe.  Hatred became me.  Such a strong, fierce hatred.  I could see myself crushing these mens' balls, then cutting them off and feeding their own crushed testicles to them.  After that I would cut off all their fingers and toes, and then I would cut out their wretched hearts with a dull, rusty blade, that is if they had any.  I'm still angry.  My own situation was bad enough.  When I saw the man who raped me a year or two ago at BWW's, it was everything I could do not to pull out my pocket knife and lash into him.  I had to call my parents...I remember, I was screaming.  You can't even verbalize the anger...there's no way to say how it feels to hate someone so much that you would take life in prison just to see them die, and not just die, but a die terrible death.  A quick death would be too good for them.

I remembered the feeling yesterday.  It was strong as the times when my assailant would come and hug me at school, because he thought the drugs he put in my drink had wiped my memory of that night. Yeah, right asshole.  I woke up right in the middle of it.  He told me that I had gotten drunk and he was taking care of me.  Only I hadn't drank any alcohol.  Idiot.  And even if I had, I wouldn't have blacked out 30 minutes later from drinking, thanks.

That poor girl.  All those poor girls.  No one deserves that...except rapists and murders.  I know Jesus loves them, but I don't.  God forgive me, but that's something that I will try to learn, and it will take all my life to forgive men like these.  I can't imagine how her family feels.  How would you feel if you knew your daughter died, not only before her time, but in gruesome torture?   My blood boils at the thought.

Dreams

Do you ever have the feeling that your life is a dream?  I still try to remember mine.  I look at pictures, stare at images of myself to see if it was all real.  Pictures of Breck and I when we were so young.  Who would have thought?  He's now my husband for almost a year!

Time is flying by me, so quick and fleeting.  I guess that can be something to be grateful for.  Seasons of pain won't last forever.  Seasons of restlessness will come to an end soon.

The more I write, the more I realize there are so many women like me.  Girls who have had the same things happen.  How many of us are there?  There are so many silent sufferers.  We're all afraid to speak up and say what people have done to us.

I'm not afraid anymore.  The more I speak out, the more I see that there's so much that needs to be changed about our society.

It is little wonder that rape is one of the least-reported crimes. Perhaps it is the only crime in which the victim becomes the accused and, in reality, it is she who must prove her good reputation, her mental soundness, and her impeccable propriety.--Freda Adler

I'm going to continue to speak out.  Who cares what people think and say?  There are so many girls that I want to reach out to.  You aren't alone.  Those nightmares you have, the nauseousness and tears that come at the smell of his cologne, it does eventually go away.  You won't always be afraid.  You won't always be hurting.  It does get better.

I promise.

I Opened Up a River

I unstopped the dam, I've pulled the plug.  Complete avoidance of writing and my more sensible emotions has failed.  I just remembered how much I love writing, regardless of who is listening.  I love words and the flowing healing that comes from them, no matter how difficult it is to write them.  Writing is therapeutic, indeed.  I know that I'm breaking all the rules of writing.  I know I write so sloppily and passively.  I can hear Dr. Clark's grumble if he read my blogs, not because of the content, but because I write so lazily.  Passive...oh, yes, I write what's on my mind, and it's such terrible writing.  That's why I decided to do journalism and not creative writing.  Creative writing requires a lot of thought about placing words perfectly in nicely flowing sentences.  If a piece contains grammatical errors or passive voice, it must be planned.

When I write, I'm not good at planning or structuring.  Things just come out of my head and onto the paper.  They are raw thoughts.  In a structured environment, like journalism, it was easier for me to write because journalism is formulaic writing.  The inverted pyramid, short concise sentences that get to the point in an active voice--all those things came fairly easy.  I miss writing about the facts.  I miss interviewing people about their jobs and lives.  The haunting hunt of the story looms above my head.  What can I say?  I was born to be a journalist.  Asking questions was firmly ingrained in my soul from the beginning.  Just ask my mother.  She could tell you of how annoying I was.  I always wondered "Why?" and "How?"  

You can take the girl out of the newsroom, but you can't take the newsroom out of her.  I'm laughing to myself even as I say this.  It is my destiny.  I will find my way back someday.

Of course, my main interest in writing is how women are treated and abused.  I've always told my husband that I feel called to undercover reporting in Europe or even here in the brothels.  I want to capture the life of women that are ensnared by the sex trade or abuse.  It's important to raise awareness about sex slavery.  The more we know about it, the easier we can stop it.  This is my true passion.  I feel a deep sense of empathy for mistreated women.  My heart bleeds with each story I read.  

Besides my interest in helping women, I love hearing people's stories in general.  Stories from the great generation are my favorite.  World War II stories, with or without happy endings, remind me of how dark the world can get, but also that a generation has the power to rise up and meet the evils of the day with strength and perseverance.  My generation needs this strength now.  I foresee a more difficult time for us in the future.  What are we going to do with the given times and circumstances?  I hope we rise, but sometimes I feel like we're lost.  Just like those after World War I.  We're partying and drinking to get away from the misery in our own lives.  We're trying to forget about evil, instead of confronting it.  It makes me sad.  Time will tell which generation we'll be, either the Lost or the Great Generation.