How to respond to your rapist’s “friend request” on Facebook.

 My two month long writer’s block has felt like years. I’ve been avoiding writing mostly because I am afraid of
what I tell me. I am stuck in time. It’s like my flux capacitor needs more plutonium, I have been unable to get it up to 88 mph and out of the year
2001, a year that changed the course of millions of lives, and was a year that officially
marked the end of my innocence. Human sexuality is delicate and complex,
especially when raped of identity.
 When I was a girl I didn’t
understand why I was supposed to be pretty in pink, why my mother made me wear stupid
fluffy dresses, and why my mom would buy me Barbie crap, my little ponies,
poopy real doll creatures and so on. When I was a girl I didn’t understand why when
I turned eighteen I didn’t have to sign up for the draft or why women weren’t allowed to fight on the front lines like men. Well my dad gave me a frank answer to that question when I was eleven, “It’s too
much for male soldiers to see a female soldier get brutalized, men end up putting themselves and others in danger when they see a women in danger, it’s just how men are built, women get raped
and tortured.” So many things out of a father’s control, he also made it abundantly clear that all
men were after one thing and are well, pigs. I understand where he was coming from , and that I was his little girl. Though he may be sexist and extreme
to some, history has not proved him that far off. He allowed my brother to do so many
things that he never allowed me, all on the account that I’d end up raped somehow. I love him for being overprotective, and well slightly right.
 Summer of 2001, after surviving senior year of high school and attempting to leave all its trappings behind me, I was about
to start my first semester at Diablo Valley College with no major intended. I
still had no desire to find a boyfriend or romantic entanglement, but I was
interested in dating. First date, I picked him up and we went bowling in
Fairfield. I remember exactly what I was wearing; my dad’s old work shirt, torn
blue jeans, and hot pink velcro shoes. I remember his cocky walk and thought he
was dumb for wearing a sweater in the middle of summer. He was like Stiffler
and Captian James T. Kirk combined and smelled just the same, it made me puke a
little in my mouth. I had no intention going on another lame date, let alone
ever see him again, especially after he forced himself inside me as we sat in my car in front of his house. I said no, he
said, “come on you know you want…” and before he could finish his
sentence, my pants were half way down my thighs and he slipped his perverted hard rapist dick inside me with one plunge practically ripping my jeans in half, I tightened my legs and pushed him out
my car door. “Date rape” is what they called it in my mom’s day, “your word against his.” It also happened to technically, given the one thrust of penile penetration, be the second time I ever had sex, so I
shook it off, figured nothing would come of me victimizing myself, could have been worse. I just pretended it never happened, went to Kaiser and got a pap,
everything was all good. I had seen first hand what rape and sexual abuse does to women and I wasn’t going to allow that damage to happen to me, not now or ever.
 One of the reasons I went to Diablo Valley College was at my Grandpa’s request. He asked if I would be interested being
monetarily compensated for helping him care for my Grandma when I was done with
school every day, so I quit my job at Hollywood Video, spent my days in Contra
Costa County and my nights in Vallejo. Luckily I was so busy with school and
watching my Grandma’s last days on earth that I would most days forget to eat
let alone remember everything that had been leading up to the Fall of
2001. Around that time I met a local boy I was smitten with through a friend
that I had been working with on a Vallejo after school project called The Yak
House. It was a great non-profit program right in the heart of downtown Vallejo
on Georgia St. The Yak House was a city funded project that provided an
afterschool hangout and they threw shows with live local music every Friday. By
the time I came on board to volunteer, the city of Vallejo had already whacked
the program when they sold the building and is now Chinese food restaurant.
They handed the program over to Greater Vallejo Recreational District (G.V.R.D.)
a total separate entity from the city. Long story short, we were given a few
hours a week at the Community Center on Amador St with major restrictions on
what, when, who and how loud we were allowed to be and the whole project
fizzled after about two months. I was confused and in pain, in pain for the
youth of my city that always seemed to get the short end, in pain watching my
grandma’s body slowly give out, I was in pain for my mother who refused to talk
to her mother and seemed to loath me rather than love me cause she saw me as a
reflection of herself. But really I was in immense pain due to a root canal
that had become an abscessed infection that had been growing for years, pain so
strong I could barely walk a step without it sending shooting vibrations of
white lightning intense pain shooting out my eyeballs. Everything hurt.
 One morning that September I
decide I was going to skip my first class to sleep in, I turned on the T.V. and
immediately knew something was wrong. I woke up my mom and said she better come
take a look at this. She came downstairs and we both sat and watched live as
the second plane hit the Twin Towers. Everything was slow motion after that.
Not long after my grandmother died. I felt nothing, I felt like I was the only
one I knew with feelings and I had none. Eventually I had to drop all my classes that semester because days I was unable to think, eat, or sleep. After finally discovering the cause to all my physical pain I had to wait a couple months more because we didn’t have dental insurance at that time and I had to see a specialist for surgery. Most intense pain of my life for months.
A month or so later I was at a new
friend’s house hanging with that local boy I had been smitten with and a few of
his friends, we were all sitting on the bed and I was going through a photo
album. I turn the page to find­­­­ two familiar eyes peering at me, I ask
“Is that guy’s name Kevin Barlow?” The guy I was smitten with says,
“oh, I know how you know Kevin Barlow, Jesus! Can I ever find a girl he
hasn’t touched?!” I was frozen, I wanted to cry, but then I was pissed and
confused, I didn’t know what to say sitting in the middle of that bed with all
eyes on me. It had rained that night and we took a drive down First Street in
Benicia, he ignored me the whole time. We got out of the SUV that took us all
down to the pier, he walked away from me and I finally just started to cry. I
whispered to him through my tears, “you know, he kinda raped me this
summer right before I met you.” The boy I was smitten with was to soon be
my first boyfriend, and a total asshole I mentioned in “A-hole in One”. 
A month later I was hired right at the front door of Rasputin Music in
Vallejo. Everyone wanted to work there! I was so damn excited, working at an
actual record store in my own hometown. I got permission to create a
community board strung up with Christmas lights for people to put 411 up and I made a local band calendar every
month with local shows I found on www.powerslave.com and www.foopee.com. I loved that job, I loved the
people I got to interact all day and all the kids from high school hardly
recognizing me in the skin I was finally getting somewhat comfortable in. And I
was looking good, I didn’t know it at the time, but the store manager thought so too.
He was middle aged non-descript, creepy, greasy, overweight white male with a slight under
bite with wicked cotton mouth that could cause white foamy crust on the sides of his mouth. He loved Jesus and supposedly his African American wife who he lived with
in the Oakland Hills. He sexually harassed me as much as he could get away with.
I was so young and naive; it took me a couple of months to realize what was
going on. He would tell me I needed to stop being so sexy, and say creepstar things like, “look at you trying to look so innocent with the sparkles you put around your eyes, but  I see the look in your eyes.” He would stare at my ass while I would stock the used CDs  and always let me know if he could see my thong. It was so obvious to some of my other co-workers that they would always make
sure I was never left alone with him. That next summer I eventually wanted to
press charges against him after he fired me but my mother told me it was my
word against his and I shouldn’t bother.
 My story is my own and I can finally
face the facts, ­­there is no such thing as “date rape”, its rape. If
you feel that you are being sexually harassed, you probably are, and it’s not your fault! My dad didn’t know about any of these events until this year, for some reason my mother kept it from
him, most likely to keep him out of prison for manslaughter. There are laws to
protect you in such a case, but only if you stand up for yourself, no one will
ever do that for you, you must stand for yourself!

4 thoughts on “How to respond to your rapist’s “friend request” on Facebook.”

    1. "Participate in creating", I really enjoy the sound of that Maya! Was so great seeing you the other week! You look fantastic, healing looks great on you! Thank you for reading!

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