Who are you, great mountain?

Five months ago God led me to a new church. It’s been an amazing transition. The church runs a school and Bible College. The Bible College (IBC) has an anointed and dynamic choir. The choir sings a song called ‘Never Lost/Champion’ and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head for days. It’s on repeat when I drive, do housework, and work on my Bible study notes. One line follows after me constantly:

“Who are you, great mountain? That you should not bow low?”

When I ran away to Denver last December, I was still so numb I couldn’t yet cry. It wasn’t until I made my way into the mountains and sat at the top of a ridge that I was able to finally let the tears falls. I saw the Denver basin below me and the mountains surrounding me and I felt so… I felt so… Well, I felt. Finally I felt something other than deep, numbing pain.

There was release in staring at those mountains. There was a reconnection to my Creator and Sovereign. I saw those mountains and could imagine their roots snaking tendrils to the core of the earth. And I thought about Mark 11:23, “For verily I say unto you, That whosoever shall say unto this mountain, Be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; and shall not doubt in his heart, but shall believe that those things which he saith shall come to pass; he shall have whatsoever he saith.” And I stared at those mountains so big my brain could not grasp their full size.

And now, I have a rhetorical question belting out in my head every day: “Who are you, great mountain? That you should not bow low?” And I think about the mountain the assault created in my mind, my heart, and my soul. That question has been the answer to the questions I’ve been internally asking God.

This new question has meant a perspective shift. Yes, it’s a great mountain, but in the shadow of The Living God, the mountain cannot maintain the audacity to stand.

“Who are you, great mountain? That you should not bow low? Jesus defeated the darkness. He has never lost a battle. And He never will.”

So now I ask, “Who are you, great trauma? That you should not bow low? Jesus defeated the darkness. He has never lost a battle. And He never will.”

Sitting at the Table with Myself

Confession: I’m not comfortable sitting alone with myself.

In small ways, I’ve tried to push at this internal struggle, but ultimately failed until 2018, when I had to take myself to lunch, alone (my sweet friend came down ill toward the end of our adventure and was resting in our room), in Florence, Italy, barely knowing the language. What a “throw myself in the deep end” way of doing things. But that’s kinda how I do things.

After what happened in September 2020 (I still cringe and recoil at calling it was it was), I sought help in dealing with all the things that come with trauma and assault. And I’m finding small pieces of peace and healing. One of the things I’ve taken out and examined is this intense uncomfortableness I have with sitting alone in public spaces – be it the library, park, restaurant, or some other setting. Doing this turns my cheeks and neck hot. I get weirdly shaky and fumble with my purse, phone, lip balm – whatever I’m carrying or holding. I stumble through ordering a coffee or lunch, even at places where I have no issues when with friends. I fidget with EVERYTHING in sight. I even struggle with hearing what people are saying to me (more so than usual).

I’ve not been comfortable with me. I’ve not been comfortable with what’s in my head, my view of who I am verses how my family and friends view me, or what value I hold in life (others’ or my own). And sitting alone, just existing with no distraction against all the thoughts and ideas, which bombard my mind on any given day, has caused some ridiculously intense anxiety attacks.

Let me just say: I’ve had an amazing counselor. I know others who have struggled to connect with the right therapist for them, but I’m so thankful the first one I met with was the right one for me. She has encouraged and challenged me. She’s asked hard questions and helped me shift my perspectives. She has not be easy on me, but she has been God-given and been able to meet me where I’m at to guide me to becoming more whole.

I still have SO MUCH work to do, but one thing I’m doing better at is sitting alone with myself. A couple weeks ago I actually took myself to lunch as a reward – a REWARD – for doing something irrelevant to this story. Last year (pandemic aside), sitting alone at lunch would have been the epitome of punishment and isolation. Now I can sit alone, listening to an audiobook – so I can PUT THE PHONE DOWN – and just breathe. Breathe through the stress, breathe through the obligations, breathe through the jumbled thoughts until they make a little sense, and breathe through all the lies playing on repeat in my head until they quiet down and I can take a bite of my sandwich or sip my coffee with a little more peace than when I sat down. I’m finally finding calm in these moments where I used to see only chaos and rejection.

Confession: I’m not comfortable sitting alone with myself, but it’s getting easier and I’m learning to appreciate the company.

Rolling Stone Writes Rape Allegation Like Soft-Core Porn

To say Rolling Stone Magazine made a mistake is giving them too much credit. November 19, 2014 a rambling story of brutal rape was published under the banner of Truth (you can Google the story for yourself if you feel so inclined; I’ll not be posting a link to that drivel to help their hits counter). Stats and figures and other cases of rape were intermingled with the main story about “Jackie”- a naive college student who allegedly endured near-unspeakable horrors. Except, apparently the burden of fact-checking one woman’s heinous allegations was beyond the pay-grade of Sabrina Rubin Erdely or her editors. Fact-checking shouldn’t be above anyone’s pay-grade. Is Rolling Stone hurting for cash to the point they are stooping to write soft-core porn, Penthouse-worthy opening paragraphs?

I’ll say this just once: Rape is evil beyond words. Those who rape are the lowest of humans- if they can be called that. Those who endure it are scarred for life and only the strongest and those with an incredible support system and faith seem to make it out of the barely surviving stage into thriving and living.

Although this shouldn’t need saying, in this post-feminist society, it sadly does: All men are not evil. All men are not out to rape, oppress, and/or beat women. All men are not dogs. All men are not slaves to their neanderthal hormones. All men are not the same. Also, all women are not trustworthy. All women do not tell the truth. All women are not virtuous. All women are not the same.

Two weeks into the Fall of the 2001 semester at Ball State University, I was sexually assaulted on campus. A new friend I’d met in my Psychology lecture encouraged me to meet more people- get out there. I was quiet and awkward and unsure of everything thing around me. I took his advice and met up with another freshman for dinner one night. We went back to his dorm room to play cards. His roommate was gone, but came back briefly only to speak in quick, hushed tones then leave. At some time in the evening he closed the door and brought out a Mt. Dew bottle with alcohol in it. I got up to leave. He blocked the door and said I could leave if I’d have a drink with him. I drank fast so I could get back to my dorm. The alcohol hit hard. He said I could lay on his bed until I felt better. I asked him to take me back to my dorm. He wouldn’t. I laid down trying to catch myself as the world spun and drifted in and out of my consciousness. I remember him crawling into his bed with me. I remember things I don’t want to remember. I remember him touching me and manipulating parts of my body to touch him. I remember trying to move but everything feeling like I was submerged in mud and going in slow motion.

In the morning he said he had a good time and we should do it again. I went back to my room, called my friend, and waited. My friend rushed to campus to pick me up and whisk me to the fraternity he was pledging- the last place I wanted be. But I trusted him, so my friend drove me to the house. The brothers there had been given the heads up what was happening and when I walked in, they were amazing, kind, compassionate, and genuine. The ZBT guys did everything they could to help me. After getting advice from one of the brothers who was studying law, my friend drove me to the hospital for one of the most humiliating experiences a woman can go through- a rape kit. The doctor’s attitude was cold, the nurse was verbally abusive when I refuse the morning after pill, and everything was so sterile and impersonal.

After we left the hospital, my friend took me to campus police where I had to recount the entire ordeal- as much as I could remember- to a camera then write it all out on paper. I didn’t leave the station until 2-3 in the morning. While I was there, the police told me they had brought in the guy who assaulted me and were taking his statement. At some point my friend talked to my parents for me. I couldn’t face them. The guy confessed to everything. Campus police told me he gave more details than I could, except he claimed it was consensual. I still balk at that. I didn’t consent to anything. When I was conscious I insisted on leaving, but he wouldn’t let me.

My roommate called me a liar. She told a couple of her friends on our floor and they called me a liar. They asked how I could ruin a poor guy’s reputation like that just for attention. Campus police eventually called me to tell me the prosecutor wouldn’t take my case because there was no physical evidence from the rape kit proving I was assaulted- never mind his TAPED confession. He wasn’t disciplined by the university and continued to move freely around campus. I almost dropped out of my English class because it was held in the basement of his dorm building and I broke down crying every time I walked up to the doors. My friend and his fraternity are the only reason I made it through that year alive.

Rape and sexual assault are real. Those who make false allegations for attention hurt REAL victims. They hurt the progress made in creating a safe space to speak up and speak out, and to get help. Rolling Stone’s and Sabrina Rubin Erdely’s lack of Journalism 101 skills set back rape victims. Their cavalier attitude to facts and fact-checking is disgusting. They were a joke when they put one of the Boston Bombers on their cover like a millionaire playboy. With this rag of a story and their shell of an apology, they’ve downgraded their credibility to below The National Enquirer.

Reminders

First, I’m being as anonymous with the people involved as possible to protect myself and them. With that in mind, there are several details and some background story that is missing from this post. I apologize if this muddles some things for you, reader.

I’ve written about my encounters with rape, sexual assault, and molestation. I’ve talked about them on air a few times. And life marches on. And my faith and relationship with God has taught me how to heal. I know it’s strange, but most days I forget I’m a survivor. Most days are just days and my history doesn’t get in the way. I don’t shy from my past and I don’t let it control me. But some days the memories of those acts march right up to me and slap me hard in the face. So hard tears well up in my eyes as if the reminder became corporeal at the instant of contact then dissolved back into the ether, leaving me stunned.

Today of those moments came. I don’t know what provoked me to look but I did. One of my Facebook friends knows the man who raped me when I was 15. I knew several years ago they were friends with him on Facebook and occasionally spoke to him. This person knows what he did and chooses to still be friends with him. That is their business. I’m not here to regulate their life or anyone else’s. This person and I have had a rocky relationship through the years and have recently come to amicable terms and we are back on Facebook together (it sounds like more drama than it’s worth and some days it is, but whatever. It is what it is). At work this person came to mind and, for some stupid-brain reason, it came to me to see if they were still friends with the guy. At that point I could have ignored the thought and kept working, but I didn’t. My fault. They are still in contact with him.

This person- who is supposed to love and care about me- is remaining friends with my rapist. I cannot control this person’s life or friends. I don’t want to. That’s not my style. But it hurts to know they don’t care enough to at least pretend around me they’re not friends. Strangely, though, I’m more upset that I’m upset about it. I feel like I should be past this. It’s been 16 years and I’m not a naive teenager anymore. I have a voice. I have a future. I have a life. And this piece- this in-the-grand-scheme-of-things-tiny piece- of my life has a way of grabbing hold of me and shaking my core. It still effects me. It may not happen often. I may go months without issue, but sometimes…

Sometimes a reminder comes up and slaps me. Hard.

Surviving Rape

There’s something about surviving rape that, if a person can heal- or at least begin to heal- makes them stronger. I’ll never say being raped is a good thing. I’ll never say that because it’s not true. I will say I am stronger for learning how to forgive and embrace life as precious.

When I was 15 I had my first real boyfriend. He was 18. I was a little overweight, painfully shy, awkward, and severely depressed. Life had already been a never-ending string of torture and abuse for me and I desperately wanted to to be loved by someone who’s affections I didn’t have to share with anyone else. To this end, I gave up my virginity to him thinking it would mean I would always have him and always be loved. I wasn’t ready and knew it before the deed even started. My parents didn’t really approve of me dating him because of his age but I begged and pleaded and somehow convinced them it would be ok and I was old enough to have such a mature boyfriend.

One summer day we were taking a drive around the back roads, winding past the corn fields, looking for a place to park. By this time he knew I would give “it” up to him any time he wanted. This day I didn’t want to. This day I just wanted to kiss him. This day I told him, “No.” This day he didn’t take, “No.” for an answer. He wasn’t violent. He wasn’t angry. He didn’t threaten me. He just took it like he owned what was mine. I kept saying I didn’t want to- that this time I just didn’t feel like it- but he ignored every word I said and kept going. I stopped talking, turned my head to the side and waited. When he was done he told me he loved me and took me home. I broke up with him and let that be the end of it.

At 15 I couldn’t legally carry a firearm. Gun control is a moot point in this case. But, I think about how many women are old enough to legally purchase and carry a firearm but can’t because of the chipping away at our Constitutional rights by out of touch politicians. Politicians, who in their regal seats of power dictating from a secure place down to the rest of us, are playing with the lives of every American citizen. We become, first, victims of politicians then of criminals.