Not That Bad

I have learned to live with my trauma.

Don’t be angry. If you’re angry, explain why calmly. If I were you, I wouldn’t wear that. I’d rather be dead than be raped. (I’d rather be dead than be you?) Don’t talk about rape. Do you have proof? Don’t get defensive. Avoid your triggers. Don’t eat at restaurants with steak knives. Are you eating? You look thin. You look fat. No one’s going to want to go home with you. Don’t let people you don’t know into your home. Who do you really know anyway? Don’t walk alone at night. Don’t not walk alone at night. This is your life. This is your life. This is your life.

Not everyone gets sex when they want it. Not everyone gets love when they want it. This is true for men and women. A relationship is not your reward for being a nice guy, no matter what the movies tell you.

You very much want them to “deal with” rape culture the way one “deals with” a cockroach problem.

And then, in a broadcast email, the university finally stated outright what we’d been covertly hearing all semester: Don’t walk alone at night.

I read that statement and I thought, This is the wrong message. This is a misdirected, victim-blaming message.

I read that and I thought, What bullshit.

But I also read that and thought, I don’t.

And in a quiet, complicated place within me—where logic gets bullied by fear, and fear masquerades as protection—thinking those words, I don’t, made me feel safe.

What would Kurt have had to do for me to feel justified in raping him?

I’ll save her, somehow, from what’s going to happen to us next, even though, sweet girl, I know it’s not your fault. None of this was ever your fault. Do you hear me?
Not. Your. Fault.

One hundred thousand? This is an emergency.

And we still don’t deserve to be raped. Not ever.

they can exploit the vulnerable.