Truth and Error

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My head against my bed, again.

Every night, for three months. Every night the monsters came.

"Die, you little bitch. Die!" one of them said.

"Nothing -- you are nothing," whispered another.

"bad girl. bad girl. you like it. bad girl. you chose us, filthy gross bad girl, just like us.

filthy wrong. let us eat you. you're not worth nothin' anyway." The voices of all 26 men my father let into our house to rape me.

"broken glass" and "chewed up gum"

NOT TRUE!

"we're still inside you. we'll never go," says Dad.

NOT TRUE.

"never be free, every night, bad girl. You like it! I hear you liking it."

YOU HAVE TAKEN MY BODY -- YOU HAVE NOT TAKEN ME.

I STILL CHOOSE.

My father used me as a prostitute. Age 8, age 11. Three months each time. I was a prostitute in my own bed, in my own house. Usually in the middle of the night.

"you want it." A huge cockroach, rolling over, his horrid stomach covered with a hundred squirming, rancid worms. "you like it."

No, I don't. I DEMAND RESPECT.

I DEMAND A CHOICE.

There is silence for a moment.

"have you really ever chosen? your husband --"

You stay away from Tim! Sex is choice, and respect, and love. Rape is violence, and force and ... Why do you rape? Is it because it feels good? Pure hunger? Why do you do it? Anger?

Why make yourself vulnerable? When you rape me, you're stripping yourself naked! What's more vulnerable than that? And then you enact violence with that same vulnerability?

Are you taking what you see as power? You're no longer the victim? You get to be the rapist now? What need are you trying to fill?

the monster hisses, backing away

Lonely, worthless, filthy. Not belonging. Angry, scared. Terrified. POWERLESS. You feel powerless.

Well, I am not powerless. I am a lion.

It's story time, cockroach.

Once upon a time, in a zoo in Argentina, there were lions so tame, you could walk right up to them and pet them. No snarls, no bites, just sad submission. (Story taken from Kathy Kipp Clayton, "You Are Royalty," August 2016 Ensign, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.)

Sister Clayton explained how these powerful beasts were tamed.

I asked the trainers how they had convinced those giant beasts to not eat us. They called my attention to several little dogs that likewise inhabited the pens. When the lions were small, those yappy dogs chased the lions mercilessly and nipped at their heels. The lion cubs became accustomed to cowering in the corner, afraid of the dogs.

When the lions grew, they continued to cower in fear. With the flick of a paw, they could easily have sent those dogs flying, but the lions didn’t see themselves as they really were.

I am a lion.

The men who raped me, my father included, were not all-powerful monsters. They were little dogs. Small, yappy dogs.

I thought I had the whole answer. Yes, it was enough to make the cockroach nightmares hiss and back away. But huge cockroaches or yappy dogs, the nightmares were still breaking into my bedroom at night. And I couldn't seem to lift my paw to swat them away.

A few days later ...

I asked my therapist, why do people rape?

She replied it's not about desire. It's all about power. Only a few of the abused become abusers.

What makes the difference?

Well, as little boys, they look at the man attacking them, and they say, he's powerful. They say, I want to be like that. Much as boys who are physically abused might later defend beating their own children. It's good for them. My dad beat me, and I turned out fine. These boys looked at rape the same way. Rape is power. I'm going to get that power.

But I still don't understand, I say. Why would someone choose that power? It's so obviously wrong.

Because these are children who were never allowed to be vulnerable. You said your father's mother wasn't around. They had no one there to see them, to make them feel real. You're able to talk about your feelings. Your dad probably didn't know how. That part of him never developed. So, to survive the horrors happening to him in the abuse, he killed off the sad, child part of him. He became a cold object, seeking power over all the other objects around him.

They're not just monsters.

Do you understand what a difference that makes?

I used to think these men were all-powerful! Do you see? I can be free from the nightmares that still claw at my door and break into my bedroom.

They're not monsters.

They're hurt little boys.

I'm a mom. I know how to deal with hurt little boys.