| Photo copyright Ajijaakwe, 2014; all rights reserved. |
After the last few days, I'm starting feel as burned and broken — as dead — as those limbs.
This happened when the Sandusky story broke, and apparently, it's something we need to work through again and again and again. And then again.
Someday maybe I'll feel more up to writing about my own experiences.
For now, I've spent the last several days haunted and taunted by the images of my own past. Not even the basic sexism and discrimination, oh, no. This is a whole other depth. Reliving — refeeling — the touches and pinches and gropes and bites and things shoved into places where they're not welcome and not wanted. Memories as tactile physical sensations.
And the blame, always the blame. It must be your fault. You had no business being out at night. Why are you wearing that skirt? Well, you must have done something to lead him on. You're a tease. You're a bitch. You're a slut. You're a whore. You asked for it.
Day in, day out. Every day, world without end, forever and ever, amen.
So you'll understand if I'm really not interested in tolerating hijacks and derailments. For me, for any of my sisters.
Because it's not about you.
This time, for fucking ONCE, it's about US.
#YesALLWomen.