Just some things I read about acquaintance rape that I wanted to record:
From this Book called I Never Called It Rape by Robin Warshaw.

Most women who are raped are raped by men they know.

Rave: unwanted Sexual penetration perpetrated by force, threat of harm, or mental or physical inability to give consent (including intoxication).

Women prepared for the possibility of acquaintance rap are better able to avoid it altogether, or to get out of a predicament before it becomes rape, or to fight back.

One in four female respondents had had an experience that met the legal definition of rape or attempted rape.

Said why they did not report it: "I did not want to embarrass him or myself."

Date rape is more common then left handedness or heart attacks or alcoholism.

3 to 10 rapes committed for every one rape reported.

You have been raped when you are forced to have sex against your will, whether you fight back or not.
I wonder what the word forced means? how is this word defined?

It is rape whether a rapist uses a weapon or his fists, verbal threats, drugs or alcohol, physical isolation, your own diminished physical or mental state, or simply the weight of his own body to overcome you.
In looking up the word overcome it is defined as if in a fight, to get the better of, to conquer or defeat, prevail over, overpower or overwhelm. So I have to ask to that to overcome is to have to be in a fight or to be fighting against, so to further conclude: does the woman have to be fighting for it to be a rape"

Men don't physically need to have sex after becoming aroused any more than women do. Moreover, men are still able to control themselves even after becoming sexually excited.

Rape is violence, not seduction or some sort of misguided sexual adventure, the aggressor makes a decision to force his victim to submit to what he or she wants.
I believe there is no way to stop a man who has already decided to rape. Remember it is his choice and actions not yours to rape.

Rape is an exercise in the imbalance of power that exists between most men and women in a relationship that has forged the social order from ancient times on - says Warshaw.

1 in 12 men surveyed committed acts that met the legal definitions of rape or attempted rape.

Crimes occur because the perpetrator decides to commit them.

Only 27% of women whose sexual assault met the legal definition of rape thought of themselves as rape victims.
For her to acknowledge her experience as rape would be to recognize the extent to which her trust was violated and her ability to control her own life destroyed.

Using violence to deal with a personal conflict. Violence is socially not biologically programmed.

"Good girls" don't have sex..... then what do they have?
Woman is taught to protect her sexuality because it represents her "market value". Sex is understood to be the medium of exchange women use to secure protection for men... said Warshaw in accordance to her theory about rape and social order.

Why women said will not report the rape.
...Don't want to get man they know in trouble....
...were embarrassed about the details....
...felt would be blamed....
...social status of the man....

Evidence to use in rape trial:

• violence
• forceful isolation
• restrain
• verbal abuse
• man's disregard of any negative reaction byt the woman

"She is supposed to be nice regardless of her feelings." is what women are taught to behave.

Women interviewed for book said before rape they desregarded ther own feelings telling them somehting was wrong with the guy, the place, the situation.

• 83% tried to reason or plead with the attacker
• 77% turned cold in hopes of repelling him
• 70% physically struggled
• 11% screamed for help
• 11% tried running away

Women raped had a mean average of 2.02 episodes, men said done behavior to same women a mean of 2.24 times.

Date the man after the rape: to legitimize what happened, women may feel tied to the man because of their ""shared guilty secret".

41% of the raped women said they expect to be raped again.

Effects of rape:

• reflecting feelings of diminished self-worth
• heightened fear and anxiety
• depressed sxpectations for the future

84% of men who committed rape said that what they did was definitely not rape.

have no words to prove they had been hurt

Worshaw believes that to protect young people from acquaintance rape, parents must do nothing less than promote a new ideal of sex - built on the concept of both people participating equally, freely, and with respect fro each other.

I have been doing this group therapy the past month and things have come up that I never thought I would have to experience again. Most of the time the group meetings are good. I feel like I am encouraging the other women more then I am getting personal help. I don't know what to talk about sometimes so it is good that the other participants bring up topics. I still do not feel comfortable telling them my story of the actual incident; I do not think I will and I do not think I need to give that much disclosure.
I have discovered through this past month that to really receive what I most desire, that is to open my self up to love, it is going to be difficult. I have so many cacoons around me. Some of these cacoons I have created because of my abuse others were created by being human and living a life. I find that as I am breaking down the cacoons I choose to break out of I am finding a more sincere, beautiful person inside. Someone I have not known my whole life time. It is not like I am ever going to get the me I was back but I am formed into something more beautiful and wonderful then I could imagine to be.

Always Picked Last

I just got back from a Halloween dance with my church tonight. It was held at a barn a few miles away from my house. The music was awesome. I came with three new friends of mine. We all looked cute.

Though it was over two years ago I still feel uneasy about myself and being in crowds. I still feel different. When all the girls I was with got taken off to dance by some guy, one by one, leaving me standing there in a crowd of dancing people all alone, I was for certain, stamped on my forehead was "invisible"; don't talk to her, don't touch her, don't even look at her. I felt like I will never be cute again, like no matter what dress I put on, or how much make-up I am wearing, or how beautifully my hair is done, it does not cover the sign. It does not cover what happened, in my heart and on my face.

It is as though nothing I can do will cover what I am now - a rape victim. I am someone who has overcome something so horrible but I cant tell anyone about it. I feel as though I will always be a victim, always broken, always scared, always invisible.

I don't know what this feeling is; I am no little girl anymore, I have no innocence, I am not able to be loved. I don't know if I am just a body or just an image of someone who once was floating around, trying to be noticed, trying to be normal again but can never, not matter what I try, or what I say.

I feel like I am always alone. Not only do I get picked last but I don't get picked at all. No one will ever want someone who is damaged is what I can't stop playing over in my head as I watched everyone else dance.

You're Beautiful

The first time she heard the original line without the radio edits of James Blunt's You're Beautiful, was when she was lying on top of a dark blue comforter covering too small bed, barely big enough for one grown person let alone two. The room was small, just able to fit a dresser, a computer desk, and a closet full of woman's clothing and shoes. The furniture was arranged so that the desk and dresser could fit under the bed providing room enough to sit on the blue comforter and not hit your head on the ceiling. The dark night light was changing as the rising sun commenced the new life for the woman struggling to grasp meaning of what just happened.

"This moment reminds me of a song played over and over again on the radio," she says to the man. "You're beautiful, you're beautiful, it's true...and I just don't know what to do..." she continues her thoughts out loud, "I will always be with you," not expecting him to understand or respond. Possibly her heart hoped he wasn't listening.

"You could see by my face that I was fucking high," he responded.

It was then she knew what it was. What it all meant. Why the song was replaying over in her head. The song was her reword of what had just been done. At that moment he had confessed. There was no other thought in his mind; he wanted to screw her. No one could have stopped him.

Not wanting to sound naive or broken, "Yea, that's how it is," she replied and moved away from him. All was quiet. The sun finished its course and the dark blue comforter discolored into a red blanket that she would never sleep on again.

Telling Your Story

When I was asked by the detective on my case to write down a statement about what happened the night of Janurary 29, 2006. To this day I have started over many times, worked at it, rewrote and created this blog, but I have never written what happened. I have wrote poems, I have drawn pictures, I have told close friends and family members, but I have not written it down. It is as though I have no words to describe what happened. The woman in the link, Geneva Overholser, the editor of The Register un Iowa, and was looking over press coverage of a rape. She felt that by withholding the names of victims the press did more than protect their privacy; it also compounded their stigma. She urged victims of rape to speak out and identify themselves.

''As long as rape is deemed unspeakable - and is therefore not fully and honestly spoken of - the public outrage will be muted as well,'' she wrote.

A woman reading Overholser's statement decided to speak out and do just what Overholser asked, her name was Nancy Ziegenmeyer.

Before her attack, Ziegenmeyer said, she gave little thought to rape. By going public, she said, she hoped to draw attention to the issue and perhaps to prevent others' being raped. ''I come from a small Midwestern town, and this only happened in places like Los Angeles or Dallas or New York or Chicago,'' she said. ''I was from Iowa. I had never given it a thought. But now I'm going to do my damnedest to keep it from happening to another woman.''

The series that Zregenmeyer worked on detailed not just the rape itself, but her subsequent experiences with the hospital, the police and prosecutors, the accused, and the criminal justice system.

It examined topics like her frustration with the courts, how she told her three young children of her ordeal and even how it affected her sexual relationship with her husband. ''When we made love, he was very careful,'' she told The Register. ''He held me. If I cringed, he always asked - he still asks - was he doing something that reminded me of the attack.''

The series was not somuch attacked then uniformly praised, not just in in urban areas like Des Moines, Cedar Rapids, and Davenport, but in towns and villages throughout the state.

''As awful a story as it was, it shows us it is more than just a story; a real person was raped,'' one reader, Peggy Blazek of Des Moines, wrote in one of more than 40 letters on the series printed in the newspaper. ''Nancy's willingness to tell us what happened and The Register's agreeing to print it are important events.''

Another reader, James E. Smith of Sioux Center, declared, ''The disgusting and degrading details of Nancy Ziegenmeyer's rape have no place in a family newspaper the caliber of The Register.'' But he added, ''Unfortunately, we have to face such violent crimes at a very personal level before we are aroused to action and commitment.

Many readers wrote directly to Ziegenmeyer or Schorer to tell their own long-suppressed secrets. One letter to Ziegenmeyer came from a 26-year-old Des Moines woman who said she had been raped eleven years earlier and, she said, had yet to find a boyfriend. Previously, the woman said, she had told only one person of her ordeal.

''I am in awe of your strength and courage,'' the woman wrote. ''I hope that you are the first link in the chain of recovery. I think I never really believed that other people like me existed. Rape victims never have a name or face. You are helping me to find mine.''

Ziegenmeyer thought that people would be outraged about her coming forward with such and intimate detailed crime and was surprised by the positive reaction.

''Most people believe that rape only happens to someone else and didn't really realize that a victim is an actual person,'' she said. ''Jane made me a very ordinary, everyday wife, mother and person, and the public said, 'This person could very well have been me.' They had a face and a name to go with the faceless and nameless stories.

Overholser said the publication of the series was attributable in part to what she called called the ''Nixon in China syndrome,'' the ability of those appearing to have the greatest stake in the status quo to effect change. Ziegenmeyer's story, she noted, not only was reported and written by a woman but also was published in a newspaper edited by a woman.

If anything, she said, it was the men, both on the paper and in its readership, who proved the most skittish. ''Since the great majority of men are not inclined to rape, they are less inclined to think about it, and may be more discomfitted when brought face to face with it,'' she said.

Overholser, who was a member of the editorial board of The New York Times, where her column was reprinted on the Op-Ed page, became the chief news executive of The Register late in 1988. She said The Register would continue to leave rape victims unidentified, but was considering asking them if they are willing to be identified. What she called the ''overwhelmingly positive'' reaction to the series suggested, she said, was how dramatically attitudes towards rape have changed. ''Americans are ready to look at this crime, not in a way that judges the victim. Indeed, if they're looking at her, they're judging her as a hero.''

Ziegenmeyer expressed concerns about the way her story was published, the truth was diulted and toned down. Overholser said, ''You can easily strip the story of its power if your squeamishness overcomes you.'' At the same time, she added, she was convinced that the most detailed account was also the least offensive, and also the most true, as she explained in a column that accompanied the first part of the series.

''I concluded that were I to meet Ziegenmeyer's courage with my timidity, shy away from offending readers, and render her story more palatable, I would be compounding the injustice,'' she wrote.

I, like the women above, found the exact detail of what happenes during a rape is extremely difficult to publish. What words are appropriate to use when are name is to be kept hidden? What obscenities can be described and shared to the general public? The words to describe the experience, the fear, the anger, the betrayal, the pain, and especially the truth are not taught to anyone. I do not believe there are the right words in the English language and perhaps any language to describe the scene.

If I could I would shout it out loud. My voice would be so loud, time would stop, people would stop what they were doing and listen, free from biases and misunderstandings - and the right words will comeout and finally I will say the right words for everyone to understand and to get it off my chest - I was raped.

My case is over and it happened without my statement. I do not ever have to write in detail what happed, but I hope someday I can and I wont be afraid of the words as they come to life on the page.



Ziegenmyer is on the left and Overholser is on the Right

The article I got my information from, mostly cut and paste, is A Name, A Face and A Rape: Iowa Victim Tells Her Story, written by David Margolick, Special to the New York Time, March 25, 1990

Rape of the Books within my own family and home

Sexual Assault is about power and one enforcing power over you. It is not about love or done in the best interest of the victim. It is an act of aggression and control. When I am in a situation when someone is trying to over power me, may it be a date or with someone who wants something from me regardless of who I am what I have done and what I know, I feel like I am back on that bed, in my room, fighting to get my control back.
Today my Aunts and Uncle came to my home in Logan promising to only look at the information I have been using to fill in the gaps of my family history records. Any normal loving family would love to have their aunt or uncle over to show them the work you have done and receive praise and possibly encouragement in return. This is not my story.
They came, she looked. I asked her what she had done with the other 6 or so books, she said nothing. I asked her if she had a PAF file, she said her daughter did. I explained to her how I need the hard copy to upload it to the computer so I can be easily accessed by anyone. I showed them how to access the information online and to download it and share it with anyone as I continue to update the information each week. I showed her the tools I was using and how I was doing it. I proved what my two years worth of experiences had taught me. I taught them how with examples and demonstrations.
She showed me a paper that my grandma signed all the Family History work and books, including stories and pictures to my Aunt. My Aunt, in my own home, told me she was taking all of the books and going to do the work. I said no. She said she was the older one here. I frankly said this is my home and she may leave. I was pressured. It was two against one. I was cornered in my room. The books behind me the Aunts in front of me.
I felt cornered, betrayed, and disrespected. I was confused at how selfish an Aunt a family member could be. I did not understand this expression of love - I understood it as bulling and forcing power and aggression on me. I buckled - not my cryng, I saw no way out - She walked off, out of my home with the books, not saying one word about the work I was doing or the effort and research I have done.
I could not stop it from happening to me all over again. She pushed and harassed and I gave in.
I am confused why I must fight with my aunts. I am hurt. I feel robbed and cheated and small. If I cant be treated well by my own family, who can I count on?
What is this incident going to make our family get togethers like? I dont know if I can believe what she says to me or even if she cares about me. I have to live with this forever.
If it were possible to talk to her and she listen I would say that I felt abused, lied to and disrespected. I feel that you dont care what work has been done to unite our family only that your name is on it. I feel that if you are the older and wiser one that you say you are you would have been humble enough to work with me and to listen to me and be willing to share all that she had. I would tell her that it was very disrespectful to come into my home and treat me in such a way and I would inform her that she will not be welcomed back into my home if she was to continue to treat me like I was a lower class then her and did not deserve her decency and respect. I would express my disappointment that she was not a good example to me and she used her power over me.
I will continue on. Unlike her I can still do research and keep trying to fulfill my family line. This is a hobby I like to do and I have for far too long already let her make it be unpleasant.
I do not know if it is worth it but I did get her to write :

I will return the family hy information when I return to Utah. Dec 1 signed Sue O. 11/23/07 and Sarah Merrill signed as a witness

.
Is there no way to stop loved ones to enforce power over me?

Sexual Assault About Power

"All sexual assault is an act of aggression, regardless of gender or age of the victim or assailant. Neither sexual desire nor sexual deprivation is the primary motivating force behind sexual assault. It is not about sexual gratification, but rather a sexual aggressor using somebody else as a means of expressing their own power and control."

Callie Marie Rennison
Rape and Sexual Assault: Reporting to Police and Medical Attention
Bureau of Justice Statistics
Us Department of Justice

A Survivors Thoughts: This is what I was wearing

A Survivors Thoughts: This is what I was wearing

Losing Myself Every Morning

Warmth of the blankets keeps me in as the alarming music blares, awaking me from my forceful dreams. A mixture of lost adventure and terrified adrenaline circles in my head as I realize I am moist from sweat. I hear the music that reminds me of the “have-tos” of the day. Turn it off and it will all go away. My eyes close, my breathing softens. Minutes later the snooze is not long enough. If I leave the blankets I might die. The safe, unconscious person, who finally could relax and be me, will be no more when I roll out of that bed. I can’t give it up, I won’t; and the blankets fly over my head as I make the music stop again. All is silence.
The music goes again. I feel as though I was in a fight, exhausted with myself. More tired than the first hint of the forced start of the day. I push snooze again. I can hide for a little longer.
The music goes on again; eventually I roll out of bed and the self I liked before the first alarm is gone and not coming back. I quickly rush to make up for time and become the me I am during the day.

This is what I was wearing

Silent voice speaking
out in reciprocity with others.
A majority seen as a minority;
So many and I was one.
A silent voice speaking
with identity hid
"This is what I was wearing"
Date Rape Survivor
January 29, 2006.

"What e'er flames upon the night, Man's own Resinous heart had fed."


Disappear where fear knows not blood and tear
Squeezed out tidal emotion.
Slice, silent, sever, all relation.
Fade away in darkness' covering -
Achieve. Juicy, sticky, sweet confectioning;
Death can be consumed here.

Heroes make good battles

.

Here is a little something I have been working on the past two days, I have been toying with the ideas for a while -

Standing there braced on the shelf obscured through the shiny glass of the small window, her features poised and sequestered from the other fancied dolls waiting to be taken by a winsome lover.

In her permanence she stands on a dusty shelf reserved for repossessed rag dolls, braced between the wall and her sedate demure. For a moment she was beautifully adequate as a True Loves Knot fluttering in the heated nights of summer. Her reverential sentiments reflect innocence and boldness in the still silence as her memories replay like echoes in the distance. “Don’t go breaking my heart; I couldn’t if I tried… Don’t go breaking my, don’t go breaking my, don’t go breaking my heart…” A translucent tear rolls from her glass eye and down her painted cheek, leavening a moist prickling feeling that her porcelain hands find unable to wipe away.

This pen is my outlet
as I place it to the paper
White and folded
Energy flows, and fumbles

It’s not always easy
to crate lines, and shapes
and circles that describe,
explain, and relates

Sometimes my pen is a fork
Jammed in the tight slots
Along the wall
nothing comes out

Only a snap of sparkling light
and the sizzling of shaking
stimulating, soreness
making my heart soar

My eyes swell with tears
that are dry from the heat
inside my lungs, full
of words that wont withdraw

My pen creates pictures
of how I am, which a camera
cant sake into focus
no one reads my pictures

Noone sees my face
I hold it in for no one to see
If I’d cry they’d ask
So I write

One day the most important
Thing to write will come out
as for now I get snapping, soaring, soreness
Until my dam is too full to not let loose

I dont think it's complete but it is what came out as I put my finger tips to the keys

As I put up armor and arm my self from the world
The arms of someone special
Are around me when I need them most
In prayer and blessing I am reminded of the saving power
The arm of the lord is my strength and my comfort
While the arm of one mans down fall is my burden
But it is lifted as I am carried away in my dreams at night
As I describe in letter the incident
As I run next door for support that is not seen
The most reliable arms are around me
And I didn’t know it till I searched for love and found it.

I’m so tired

I was asked to push the invader out
STOP
NO
GET AWAY FROM ME
DON’T HURT ME
My wall is closing in
As I let it do so
And I fight for the little space I have
Can I lean against my field for support
Or will it keep me out to.
How long to I have to hold them out

I hide from this transparent shadow
What was it like before
Before I was afraid
Of what my face shows
Of the words I said
Before I find out what anything means to me

My dreams are gone
Pointed to the past with no thought of the future
Each effort is for each day.
I know what will happen next because I made it that way.
WORK
CLASS
LUNCH
WORK
CLASS
DINNER
WORK
CLASS
Not wanting to go to sleep
And then struggling to get up again

At the fork of Hate and Love. Some can call it: Road Rage

I don’t like being mad at him, but it’s energetic! When I ponder the purpose of my anger it feels wrong; we should forgive and forget? How can I hate someone I love? Concomitantly, when I don’t think about it, it’s nice to be angry. It gives me the fuel to move forward. It burns inside me, keeping me from sulking in the middle of the road while the rest of my life passes by. Because of this frustration I take new directions I would not have taken before. The pausing points in my life are like yield signs, road blocks, or traffic which give me time to look behind me and see the blazing trail I have traveled and find myself further away from him and how we were connected, allowing the hope that was inflamed fade a little. I have more things to hope for, more experiences and emotions to fill my tank with. All that is left is a shadow or a whisper of him. Certain foods I eat, sappy songs I hear, a shirt I put on, pulls him forward in full view, yet each day it is not as strong as the time before. His smile fades, his jokes aren’t as funny, the burn dwindles just a bit; the candle of hope gets smaller and smaller. No matter how far away I am from him I am always connected to him. There are these dormant boxes inside of me that represent all the things that have become me. Sometimes the lids of these boxes loosen and the perfume of the past brings to my body emotions of joy and pain, regret and gallantness. For him there is a similar box which is full of him. It is a box I carry with me everywhere, but this box is special, there is no pretty bow that holds it shut, but impounded with a faulty lid that does not fit tight, which allows him to quickly sneak out when I least want him to. He sneaks out of the box while I’m waiting in line to play volleyball, while I brush my teeth, while I converse with friends, during lonely walks home, and often at the time when decisions should be made. I can never let go, I can never forget the love I felt. I can let the hurt and anger burn inside, allowing me to keep on plowing forward. Maybe, as the distance of time gets me further from the connected path we once shared of our lives, the yield signs wont effect me so much, and the box will have a tighter lid. The burn inside my heart will not hurt as much, because I have replaced it with other boxes that I will pile on the lid of his box, closing it tight, and maybe, as I approach green lights in my life I’ll stop being angry and a new, less painful, candle of hope will start to be my light and my direction.

If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure that it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.

- Earnest Hemingway in A Farewell to Arms -

by - STACYANN
The very act that I desire to comfort me
Terrifies me

To get close
To be hugged
To have my hair stroked away from my face

Every act of closeness is thought over twice.

It should be easy to hug someone
But it’s not

To get my body to move is like my mind
learning to drive a forklift
which struggles to pick up a 2 ton
Scarred Elephant

I am that Elephant. . .
I don’t know who I am
Some days I’m a Dove
Flying away,
getting out of the darkness
searching for faith to return back with.
Other times I am a Bear
surged with anger
and a strong desire to lay in the coldness and stillness of hibernation
Now I am a kitten Meowing,
pleading silently for its source of comfort
I rub against the lovesome legs of giants
who weren’t there -
to comfort me - kindly and soothingly