Count Your Blessings


I cannot lie. This has been a difficult year in many ways.

For starters, I quit anesthetising and got stone-cold sober. And that was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done in my life, because once I stopped numbing, all those emotions I had tried so hard to escape for so many years came flooding in like a tsunami. Maybe it’s different for everyone, but that’s how it was for me. I had a lot of feelings about a lot of things and, suddenly, no way to avoid them. I had to stop running away from my demons and start to face them. I’m still working on that.

Then, I lost my closest friend of twenty-five years to cancer. My heart is still broken, and, to be frank, I’m not sure the wound will ever fully heal. But that’s okay. Glennon Doyle says, “Grief is love’s souvenir. It is our proof that we once loved. Grief is the receipt we wave in the air that says to the world: Look! Love was once mine. I love well. Here is my proof that I paid the price.”

Well, I paid that price, and I’d pay it again and again given the choice. Because, as difficult as it was to say goodbye to Cameron, I wouldn’t trade one second of the time we had together for anything. The grief I carry is my souvenir of the love we shared.

There were other things, too, of course. Other ways I found this year to be really tough. But I’m not here to talk about all the things that went wrong or caused me countless sleepless nights. In fact, just the opposite.

I’m writing because, despite all the pain and heartache, fear and frustration, there is still much I’ve got to be grateful for. And so, without further ado, here is my list of blessings for 2017:

  1. Sobriety.
  2. Life.
  3. Love given and received.
  4. Four healthy, happy, well-adjusted children, who love and accept me as I am: eldest, my firstborn son, a gentle giant, who is respectful, smart as a whip, and kind to everyone; middle son, who reminds me so much of me at his age, and always has some interesting tidbit to share; youngest son, who is honest and authentic, funny as hell, and always up for trying new things; and my daughter, a little spitfire, who is deeply sensitive, intuitive, and wise beyond her years.
  5. Shelter, food, clean water, electricity… all those things taken for granted that not everybody has.
  6. My mom and dad and family and friends-like-family.
  7. Alaska, Story, and George, my goofy pets.
  8. The opportunity to thank my beloved, Cameron, for a lifetime of true friendship before he passed away from leukaemia in the spring (God, I miss you, kindred).
  9. Every moment Cam and I spent together. And there have been many.
  10. Visiting with old friends at Cameron’s memorial/Celebration of Life.
  11. All the new friends I’ve made this year through my recovery program, who inspire, encourage, and uplift me on a regular basis, and help me to stay sober.
  12. Online friends who, although we’ve yet to meet in person, always have kind words, gentle wisdom, humour, love, and support to offer when I need it most.
  13. Writing (has saved me more times than I can count).
  14. Sunset walks at the beach.
  15. Counting stars on clear nights.
  16. Morning runs under blue skies.
  17. Spring rain, bright summer sunshine, fiery autumn leaves, and the snow of winter’s wonderland.
  18. A few good laughs.
  19. Other sexual abuse survivors, who share their stories and work hard to shine a bright light in the darkest of all dark places, which makes me feel less alone. Every single #metoo matters.
  20. Solitude—because being alone is balm for the soul.
  21. Companionship—because being together is soul food.
  22. Flashes of inspiration.
  23. Poetry.
  24. Hot baths: essential oils, flower petals, and crystals.
  25. Cleansing tears.
  26. Naps.
  27. Difficult people who challenge me (even though I don’t always feel grateful at the time).
  28. Great books.
  29. Being alone without being lonely.
  30. Perspectacles (perspective).
  31. Change and transformation because, while it’s often uncomfortable, there are always blessings.
  32. My cousin’s safety while in the Dominican Republic during Hurricane Irma.
  33. Renewed faith and a deeper connection to Spirit, the Soul of the Universe, God.
  34. The gifts of acceptance/surrender.
  35. A family trip gifted by my parents.
  36. Synchronicity (meaningful coincidences).
  37. Serendipity (making fortunate discoveries by accident).
  38. One extraordinary essay written by my dear friend, Laura Parrot Perry, which ended up being the catalyst for a major transformation in my life.
  39. A set of gorgeous collages by Canadian writer, Diane Schoemperlen, that found their way to me.
  40. Courage in the face of the Unknown.
  41. Wisdom gleaned in hindsight.
  42. Divine intervention.
  43. Lessons in radical self-care.
  44. Progress (not perfection).
  45. Time alone at the end of this year to reflect and write a Gratitude List.

I hope that wherever today, the last day of 2017, finds you, you find a little time to reflect on the abundance in your own life and what you are most thankful for.

HAPPY NEW YEAR 2018, friends!

All Good Things,






Love Makes the World Go ‘Round

love makes the world

Twelve years ago, this month, I moved into a shelter for abused women and children.

Pregnant and scared, already the single mom of a three-year-old boy, it was hands down one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Making the decision to leave behind our home, the city we lived in, friends and family, and pretty much all our belongings was extremely difficult, but it was also necessary. I wanted my children (and myself) to live a life free of violence and I knew that wasn’t possible if we stayed.

I owe a debt of gratitude to Father Mike, my Poppa’s priest, for helping us to escape what was a very, very bad situation. I couldn’t have done it without him. I feel blessed to have had the opportunity to tell him as much, and to thank him from the bottom of my heart, at Poppa’s funeral a few years ago.

I have not considered myself Catholic (or religious) in many years, despite my upbringing and love for my creator, but I will never forget the kindness I received that early December morning when I turned up with my son at Father Mike’s office, significantly underweight, broke and broken down, belly full of fear and guilt and shame. After making sure my boy was happily occupied with some paper and a pack of crayons, Father Mike sat across from me silently, and listened intently as I poured out the whole awful story.

When I had finished, he gazed into my eyes with a depth of compassion I was convinced at the time I didn’t deserve, and spoke words I never thought I’d hear from the mouth of a holy man:

“You have to get the fuck outta dodge.”

As I contemplated what he’d said, Father Mike excused himself for a moment. When he returned, he handed me an envelope with two hundred dollars or so inside. Then he told me to book the train tickets I needed, and return to his office the next day, so he could give me enough money to cover the fare.

Three days later, as streetlights illuminated the falling snow that shimmered like diamonds in the sky, my young son and I stood on the doorstep of Maison D’ Amitié in Ottawa.

I rang the bell.

Once inside, we were ushered into the small but cozy office at the back of the home to complete some paperwork. Finally, we were led to the room that would be ours for the foreseeable future, where I was given a Welcome basket containing a pair of slippers, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and a few other basic necessities. After the on-call counsellor had explained that I could come to speak with her at any time, she left us alone, closing the door softly behind her. I sat on the bed and looked over at my son, who looked back up at me with absolute trust, and for the first time in a long time, I smiled. He toddled over to me for a hug. I buried my face in his blonde curls and sighed.

We were safe.

It wasn’t easy. Many nights, after I’d tucked my little one into bed, I went back downstairs to talk (and cry) with one of the on-call counsellors. Or I’d sit in the tiny Smoking Room with some of the other moms and chain-smoke, one after the other, as we shared our war stories and tried to figure out what the hell came next. We had chores to do every day and took turns cooking dinner. Some nights, we had group meetings, where we could air any grievances or make requests. Occasionally, we played games.

Every Wednesday evening, after the kids were settled down for the night, we would gather in the main room for Donations. Big, black garbage bags would be brought in from the garage, opened and dumped on the floor, and we would rustle through them for the items we required as we started our new lives: blankets, bedding, pots and pans, cooking utensils, second-hand clothing and toys, for example.

The holidays were tough that year. It was hard to be away from the familiar, and I was traumatised, drowning in fear (of the future), shame, and guilt. Luckily, we were able to spend Christmas Eve at my parent’s house, so my son was surrounded by people who loved and cherished him on Christmas morning.

I spent the next several weeks running around, going to appointments and getting things organised and, by Valentine’s Day, we had moved into our new, government subsidised townhouse.

A dozen years have passed since those days. A lot has changed. But I have never forgotten the kindness shown to my son and I, nor the generosity of spirit of the women who worked tirelessly to keep that shelter running smoothly on a tight budget, who navigated conflicts between various residents, and who provided wise, gentle, honest counsel for those of us who felt so afraid, so lost and alone, so ashamed.

This morning, as I loaded up the car of one of the shelter workers with bags of donations for the women who are currently in the same position I was in all those years ago, I felt incredibly blessed to finally be able to express my most sincere gratitude, and to pay forward the love I received when I needed it most.

Sometimes, in life, we are Givers. Other times, we are Receivers. I believe that it is an honour, a true blessing, a gift, to be on either end. Give when you have something to give and be open to receive when there is something you need. This is the circle of life. Love makes the world go ‘round.


Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, everyone!

All good things.

Much love,




Death is Not the End

butterfly chrysalis

Death is not the end, it’s another beginning.

Grief is for the living, not the dead. I know

love survives all things, every transition. And death is but a doorway

to rebirth. The soul recognises what the human mind forgets.

I’ll never forget

the light of laughter in your soulful eyes, or the way

you said my name with such love, or the time

you told me that you were so proud

I had begun to follow my dreams. It seems

impossible to imagine a world without you. We carry

white lilies to your graveside, and poems, grasped in trembling hands.

Prayers are performed, dirges are read, songs are sung, but

not one is as precious as you are. Not a single one.

I know, grief is for the living, not the dead.

Death is not the end, it’s another beginning.



A friend and I recently joked about how discouraging it would be if Facebook had an online timer located at the top right-hand corner of the screen to keep track of how many minutes we spend scrolling through our newsfeeds every day.

It’s a frightening thought.

I think it’s fair to say that more than a few of us would be quite surprised to discover how much time we truly spend in Faceworld.

Even when I try to limit myself, I still manage to log a few hours daily: eleven minutes here, another seven there until, before I know it, I’ve accumulated an hour and a half online. If I don’t restrict my use, I can easily log another couple of hours on top of that, at the very least.

It’s too much.

I almost forget what I used to do with my free time, in the olden days, before social media.

God knows, over the past decade, my life in the real world has only gotten bigger, louder, crazier, more chaotic, laborious, time-consuming, demanding, and taxing on absolutely every single level imaginable, so how I manage to find any time to do anything other than what’s right in front of me is a mystery. It’s next to impossible to manage two existences at once.

But I do it.

And I’m not alone.

Many of us straddle these two worlds, occupy two separate lives, to some degree or another.

On a daily basis, we navigate a virtual reality that operates in symbiosis with our own, and coexist in a strange sort of superposition—here, in the real world, and online, in Faceworld, at the exact same time. When we focus our attention on one reality, the other collapses, in a manner of speaking. For me, on a personal level, it boils down to this:

The more I interact with one world, the less I connect to the other.

I spent last summer, in its entirety, in the real world. Outside in the garden. Barefoot in the sunshine, knee-deep in earth with the plants and worms, listening to the song of birds overhead, I gulped down the peace and quiet like cool water from a freshwater spring, and experienced a few golden moments of divine grace, impossible to articulate, but striking in its ability to make everything impossibly clear.

I gave nary a thought to Faceworld, to be honest, for months on end, so consumed by the real world I was. But now, in the dead of winter, those days are oh-so-far-away, and I feel compelled to check repeatedly on the state of both worlds, because it’s such a mind-blowing mess. America’s future lies in the hands of a madman. Folks are scared, confused, and angry, no doubt, but mostly, overwhelmed, since it’s no easy feat to protect and keep loved ones safe, healthy, and whole, in times such as these.

I’m distracted, unable to concentrate, fidgety.

I want to help, but I’m no help to anyone when I’m like this, all wound up, jacked up, and on edge. I’m confused, angry, scared, and the only thing I know for sure is that, if I listen carefully, I can hear my body, mind, and spirit tell me it’s time to unplug, get grounded again, and recharge.

Unplug to recharge.

I need to get some writing done, spend some time in the real world doing some real-life things, and take a break from the drama of Faceworld. To be honest, I’ve only got the energy for one world these days, so I’ve got to limit my time on social media and focus my attention where it really counts.

If I’ve got any gifts to offer, they’re useless, unless I actually intend to use them.

And I most certainly do.

So, for the foreseeable future, I will be abstaining from Facebook all day-every day until the SUPER HAPPY FUNTIME HOUR, which will be nightly from 8:00-9:00 p.m.

Maybe I’ll see you there!

Stay fierce.



(Facebook photo courtesy of


Spin Doctors

Question: What is the main difference between Happy Holly and Depressed Darla?

Answer: Happy Holly is a master in the art of self-deception.


Depressed people do not necessarily possess an overabundance of negative thoughts.

In fact, current research in social psychology suggests that depressed people tend to hold considerably more realistic perspectives than normal, non-depressed folks, particularly when it comes to the self. Did you know that?

Apparently, happy and healthy, so-called “normal” people are basically skilled spin doctors, who organically distort their own thinking processes, in order to uphold a positive self-image. I find this fact fascinating!

Happy Holly, and others like her, regularly employ little tricks to help maintain a reasonably high level of self-esteem. Depressed Darla, on the other hand, struggles with self-deception. It appears to be quite difficult for a sad, depressed person to manufacture the positive illusions required for happiness.

Makes sense when you think about it.

According to social psychologists, Shelley Taylor and Jonathon Brown (1988), there are three positive illusions that happy folks typically share: 1) they overestimate their better qualities and underestimate the less favourable ones; 2) they overestimate their ability to control events and influence outcomes; and 3) they are unrealistically optimistic about the future.

Essentially, Happy Holly is so damned happy, because she’s able to fully embrace the good and reject the bad in herself, she has a strong sense of agency accompanied by a firm belief in her ability to exert control over life experiences and, as strange as it may sound, she feels like she’s got a better shot than most at living the Good Life, as she defines it. Not because she’s narcissistic, or terribly arrogant, but because she thinks she’s a slight cut above the rest. She has to, frankly, because Happy Holly’s happiness depends almost entirely upon her ability to lie to, and deceive, herself about herself.

The key to happiness, it seems, lies within our ability to fool ourselves.

My advice then, should you find yourself down in the dumps, is to track down a pair of rose-coloured glasses and turn them inward. Don’t be afraid to see yourself as the magnificent creature you truly are. Downplay your flaws, highlight your best features, overlook—heck, outright deny, at least in the privacy of your own mind—any failures, but claim every last success. Live the poem, Invictus by William Ernest Henley, and affirm to your incredibly resilient self on a daily basis: I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul. Believe the entire universe conspires to assist you in manifesting your desires. And, above all else, hold yourself in the highest of high esteem, even if you must deceive yourself to do so. Be your own spin doctor.

Put a positive spin on YOU.

It may feel a bit weird at first.

If so, remind yourself loudly and often, “This is what normal people do. This is what normal people do. This is what normal people do. This is what normal people do….”

Soon enough, you’ll be smiling, too.


On the Death of a Marriage


Ash Heart

The death of a marriage is a slow, bumpy ride down a dark, lonely road in the middle of hell, full of unexpected twists and turns, sudden detours, unforeseen potholes, rickety old bridges, extreme weather conditions, and all sorts of other things beyond our control. No guideposts or streetlamps light the way. Accidents happen. Roadkill happens. Innocent people get hurt. Sometimes, we take the high road, other times, we go low. Either way, every day, we try to move forward, forward, forward.

Don’t look back.

It is a minefield, full of hidden explosives, ready to blow at the slightest provocation.

A wasteland: barren, uninhabitable, grey.

(I’ve done my best to navigate)


The death of a marriage is a festering wound; raw, puss-filled and infected, nerves dangerously exposed.

It is a phantom limb, severed flesh remembered on a cellular level, a painful ghost of what used to be.

A charley horse: uncontrollable, intense, spastic.

A broken heart fighting to survive.

(I’ve done all I can to heal)


Nobody gets through completely unscathed; the death of a marriage changes us.

But while it is the end of a story, to be certain, it is not the end of the whole story.

It is, in fact, the germination stage of another.

(I’ve planted so many seeds).


It’s over.

We bury the dead, because ritual matters and, honestly, decaying matter just stinks. We gather with loved ones to reminisce and remember, and we mourn, we grieve. We may even scream at the heavenly stars over the injustice of it all until our vocal chords give out…

But then, one day, it hurts a little less. No tears fall, and we laugh—we actually laugh out loud—at something funny a friend says. Finally, some pressure gets released, a small pebble tumbles out of the pile we’ve been carrying on our backs and, miraculously, a massive weight is lifted.

Bit by bit, stone by stone, we can breathe again.

(I can breathe again).


It isn’t easy to let go.

We often hold on hardest to the things or people we most need to set free, forgetting that we can’t be open to receive what we truly need if our hands are clenched in fists of fear, desperately clinging to something we don’t. No, letting go is not easy, but it is often necessary. Even when it’s scary. Probably most especially then.

The death of a marriage has altered my vision of the future.

The life I move toward isn’t the one I’d imagined, but it’s the one I have been called to.

I must answer.





All Good Things


Christmas is just around the corner, folks.

And, blessedly, only days later, we’ll celebrate the start of a brand-spanking-new year. Sweet baby Jesus, it’s about time!

I don’t think I’ve ever met a year that hit quite as hard as this one.

I’ll be glad to see the back of it, that’s for sure, and I don’t think I’m alone there. Amiright?

But even so, as hard and painful as 2016 has been—on far too many levels to ever count—I still feel a deep need to take a minute and gratefully acknowledge that somehow, in the midst of all the craziness and turmoil, a little bit of sheer joy and pure awesomeness still managed to find its way to me over the past 12 months. I got my ass kicked, for sure, over and over, but I also saw my fair share of victories, too…


Last January, I started to sporadically record good things that happened to me on tiny slips of paper and save them in a small clay mug I purchased in Hawes, Yorkshire, a dozen years ago. It’s been an interesting exercise. I have to admit, a lot slid under the radar, honestly, as I do have a tendency to start strong on a project, then get all caught up in life and forget about whatever it was I’d originally planned to do. Still, it was fun to go back and take a look at what made me stop and take notice.

It’s easy to see all the brokenness in the world these days.

Harder to find the beauty.

And so, today, in no particular order and for no reason other than to remind myself that I did experience at least a few fairly great moments in the midst of all the madness and chaos, I present to you…

50+1 Things I’m Thankful for This Year (2016):

  1. My new iPhone
  2. Our Christmas tree came down nice and easy… in February
  3. Glennon Doyle Melton (Author, Love Warrior) invited me to be her guest at a huge Momastery event in New York City (unfortunately, my flight was cancelled due to snow, but still!!!)
  4. Aspen Matis (Author, Girl in the Woods) agreed to meet for coffee and great conversation in N.Y.C. (damn that stupid snowstorm, grrrrr)
  5. A gorgeous gibbous moon one winter evening
  6. I took a trip downtown and caught all lights, busses, and transfers—no waiting!
  7. Successful red-tape negotiation and fast-moving lines in government buildings
  8. Eldest son’s reconnection with his long-time best friend
  9. Sexy new boots and warm winter coat
  10. The day my passport and tickets to New York arrived (and my birth certificate with my mom’s handwriting on it…)!
  11. On a bad day, my cousin-sister sent a precious message offering help, if needed
  12. Cast removed from youngest son’s busted finger
  13. Youngest son took his first trip to Florida (and returned home safely)
  14. Elizabeth Gilbert (Author, Big Magic) liked my Tweet!
  15. Found a gentle and kind new dentist
  16. Really good conversation with my mom
  17. Decision to take the summer (and subsequent academic year) off
  18. I turned 40! So did a few of my closest friends
  19. The cardinal and his mate who sat on the wire by my balcony and sang to me
  20. A strong mark on a difficult assignment
  21. One of my besties, my angel, gave birth to her third child: a bouncin’ baby boy!
  22. Unexpected message full of light and love from a poetess friend living in Seoul
  23. After tragic losses, two beloved friends gave birth to healthy Rainbow Babies
  24. A Facebook post from my friend, Jessica: You’re my Favorite Badass. She wrote, “This week, my favorite badass warrior superhero is Arwen Faulkner, who got knocked down again last year but got up again not only still alive, but wiser, more beautiful, and more loving than before (and who knew that was even possible)?”
  25. Windfall! Small bank refund
  26. Cousin-sister ordered us tickets to see Lauryn Hill in Montreal (couldn’t make it in the end, due to logistics, but oh man, what a gift!)
  27. Quit cigarettes!!!
  28. A productive Saturday
  29. Wrote a powerful short story (The Black Forty-Seven)
  30. Apparently I had a REALLY good lasagna and Caesar salad one night… worth mentioning…?
  31. Good conversation with a great friend left me feeling recharged
  32. A delicious heat wave to warm the bones
  33. Chickadees fed from the palm of my hand!
  34. An elderly neighbour from down the street stopped me to say that I’m doing really great, he’s not the only one who can tell—and he’s happy for me. So sweet!
  35. Angela’s suggestion to start a faerie garden that led to a summer full of fun
  36. Found a lucky toonie ($2) on a walk
  37. My kindred’s remission from leukaemia (however brief)
  38. Visit from a Mourning Dove (my dad’s spirit)
  39. A birthday gift trip from my mom
  40. A family member of Bronwen Wallace’s (1945-1989), poet/writer/activist and subject of my first book, sent me a pair of her earrings to wear for inspiration
  41. Cheryl Strayed (Author, Wild) liked my comment about “gobsmacked” on Facebook
  42. Almost got accepted into the Summer Research Internship Program at Carleton (Dean sent an email to congratulate me on my topic and say how close it was)
  43. My freshly painted apartment
  44. Daughter’s toothless grin
  45. A kind gesture from a loved one to help take some of the pressure off
  46. Co-created the #FacesOfPTSD campaign with four other incredible survivors
  47. Singer-songwriter, Jewel, tweeted in support of the #FacesOfPTSD campaign
  48. Received an advance reading copy of LOVE WARRIOR by Glennon Doyle Melton
  49. An early snowfall that sent Trigger Season packing
  50. Nothing like a new housecoat…


  1. It’s almost over: I survived!


Here’s hoping 2017 is full of new beginnings and an abundance of joy.


I wish you all good things,





We Are One


I do not believe in separation.
Let’s be clear:

I am you. You are me.
We are one.

What I love in you, I love in me.
What I hate in you, I hate in me.

God is not outside of us.
Somewhere, up there, above, casting judgement.

God is me. God is you.
We are God.

Duality is an illusion.
Separation is a myth.

Survivor’s Guilt



I think about her every so often.

I’ll be sitting on the bus heading to an appointment across town, or at home, chopping veggies for dinner, and suddenly, there she is—or, at least, a reasonable facsimile. We’ve never met, so I have no clue what she really looks like, how old she is, where she lives, what kind of car she drives, if any, or what she does for a living, but I have no doubt she’s out there somewhere.

Sometimes, I wonder if she wonders about me, too.

If so, does she blame me, because I didn’t protect her?

Barely seventeen years old and struggling to survive my own trauma, I wasn’t strong enough to save anyone else, but even so, after more than two decades (twenty-three years to be precise), it still haunts me at times, the idea that she exists, the knowing-in-my-bones of it, and the guilt, the shame, because I let it happen, not only to me, but to her, and any others who followed and suffered through my silence…

I let my rapist walk away scot-free.

Free to do it again.

I refused to report the rape to the police. Didn’t tell my mom. Instead, I just tried to put it behind me, move on, forget about it. It was 1993, after all, and the term “date rape” was not in widespread use. Most people still tended to believe that a rape between people who knew one another was basically a misunderstanding, not “real” rape, which was assumed to be committed by a stranger, and since my rapist was known to me, intimately, the very notion of filing a report and potentially testifying against him, a former lover, in a courtroom stuffed with stern, judgy people made me want to die.

I couldn’t.

It took years before I was able to own what happened to me.


I couldn’t possibly have said it aloud in front of a judge and jury, God, my mother, and anybody else who happened to be present—the word and the whole ugly story and everything that came before—only to be disbelieved or, even worse, blamed. No way. I didn’t have that kind of courage or conviction.

Although contemporary statistics have proven beyond all doubt that the perpetrator is known to the victim in a vast majority of rape and sexual assault cases, we still inhabit a world where only a Perfect Victim is entitled to justice, and even then, doesn’t always get it. If I had told someone way back when, filed a report and testified, the boy who raped me might have gotten away with it anyhow. It’s probable.

We had a history and I was an imperfect victim.

Still, I feel guilty about her sometimes. I don’t know her name, but I know her pain, as sure as I know my own. Did she survive? Does she feel guilty as well, knowing, as I do, there must be others like us? I mean, if a boy rapes a girl and gets away with it, who does he grow to become, in all likelihood?

A man who rapes women.

According to Google, survivor’s guilt occurs when a person perceives themselves to have done wrong by surviving a traumatic event when others did not. Most often associated with accidents or natural disasters, I think it also applies in certain circumstances to victims of unreported rape who, in addition to the weight of their own pain, carry the added burden of responsibility toward potential future victims.

How ridiculous is that?!

A rapist walks free and we, the raped, hold ourselves accountable for future rapes by this rapist??? No.

No, no, no, no, no!

A rapist is the only one responsible for rape.

The boy who raped me is the only human being on this entire planet accountable for his actions.

But even so, every now and again, I think of her. I’ll be walking through the woods on a golden afternoon, or in the office, putting sentences together for an essay, and suddenly, there she is…