Today my rapist is to be married. Today the world comes crashing down. Today he wins. Today he beats me.

Marriage is something I’ve always wanted. I want that sort of love. I want to wake up next to someone and Love without worrying if they think I’m overly attached. I want to love someone with everything I have and I want to be loved in return.

But somehow, somehow, my rapist is the one who is getting married first. Somehow he gets to be happy while I’m suffering and having flashbacks. He changed my life and I wasn’t even a wrinkle in his.



2 days until he is married. I cannot handle it. I want to puke. I want to cry. I want to hit something. 

I want to tell the world. 

But if I do he will see me as vindictive. I will be the crazy ex. He will think I’m trying to ruin the wedding. 

I kind of do want to ruin it. Why should he get marriage while I get depression and panic attacks?  While I get abusive relationships? Why? While I get sexually assaulted he gets happiness and no punishment. 

I hate my rapist today. 


I Love You for Your Screw You

Alright everybody, hold up, it’s bragging time.

Who am I bragging about? This fantastic girl named Liv. Liv is a wonderful person I met at college… not through friends or any of that, but through…dare I say it.. Yik Yak.

She and I became instant friends even though honestly? She had no reason to like me. She had heard horrible things about me. She didn’t know me. She didn’t have to meet with me that night. But she did… she heard me… she listened to me… she believed me.

She has been the one to push me to advocate for myself. To be stronger. To be better.

The reason I’m really posting this is because her ability to never stop making me feel wonderful and loved is incredible. Recently she got a blog and posted a blurb called “Screw You” which called out the nasty people in her life (not by name, just by action) and proved just how strong she is. It went like this:


To the person who told me I smile too big–Screw you. My smile might be big but at least it’s genuine.

To the person who made me insecure about my body–Screw you.  I hate my body, but you don’t have to tell me more about why I should hate it.

It went on like this – continually showing exactly how strong she is and giving a big fuck you to those who tried to bring her down.

But the end, I bawled.

To the person that sexually assaulted/harassed, and emotionally and mentally abused one of the best friends I’ve ever had–Screw you.  You’ll get yours eventually.

Against all odds we became friends and she believed me. She has been the strongest advocate for me, even against myself. But to see that she believed me and supported me in writing… broke me in the most beautiful way.

So thanks, I love you for your screw you. I love you for being loyal, ridiculous, crazy, adventerous, strong, willful, intelligent, but most of all for just being you, no matter what.



All houses matter

When people say that ‪#‎blacklivesmatter‬ they aren’t saying that all lives don’t matter. They’re simply pointing out that there is a significant issue that light needs to be shed upon.

If your first reaction to someone saying “black lives matter” is to say “well all lives matter” you’re clearly missing the point. Instead you’re taking away from people’s voices which are pointing out the injustice people face, and instead making it about yourself.

To me its very similar to when feminists are talking about the injustices carried out by men and people say “well not ALL men.” Instead of looking at the issue people are talking about you’re turning it around on yourself and devaluing the movement.

It frustrates me because to me I see this as selfish. When a kid falls down and gets hurt they get comforting words and help from others right? Well I see the people who are crying “not ALL men” or “ALL lives matter” as the jealous child standing in the background wondering why they didn’t get the attention.


The Truth We Don’t Want to Admit

“It’s who we are, Doesn’t matter if we’ve gone too far, Doesn’t matter if it’s all okay.”

Those are lyrics from one of my favorite songs. I think it speaks volumes. See I was reading this book, actually several books but I’m just gonna reference the one. One of the sections of the book says this, “But I think he knew in the end it wouldn’t be the lucky ones left standing. It would be the hardcore. The ones who tell Lady Luck to go screw herself. The ones with hearts of stone. The ones who could let a hundred die so one might live. The ones who see the wisdom in torching a village in order to save it.” Now let me explain a little about the. It’s set in a post-apocalyptic world, so not everything in this text is relevant to things today. But I think one thing in there is very relevant. The part where it says, The ones who could let a hundred die so one might live. I think nowadays people are always focused on appearing good, so good in fact that they lie to make themselves look that way. I find that ironic. Anyway, the truth about humanity is that while we can be good, we can also be bad. We live in a grey area kind of world. Now to get to the reason I started this post. I was talking to a friend the other day and we got on the subject of what we would do to protect those we love. She said that, though she loved them, one person is never more important than a thousand. I said that to me, that one person is more important than a million. We’ve always differed in this way. But it made me think. How many people would sacrifice a million people to say just one, the one they loved more than those million people. I think a lot more people than you’d think. Because it’s human nature. It’s human nature to want to save that one person, simply because you love them and you don’t want to lose them. It’s selfish and maybe it’s wrong, but it’s the truth.  And I think that people need to stop pretending that they don’t feel this way. Let me give an example, think of that one person, that one person you love more than anything or anyone. Okay, now imagine that someone comes and takes that person. You’re frantic right? They’re gone and you have to find them! Now say that the person who took them away from you comes for you. That person takes you to a warehouse where the one you love is standing beside someone you don’t even know, a complete stranger. You’re confused right? Now say that the person who took them tells you to make a choice. You can save the stranger, the one that’s crying for someone they love to find them and save them, or you can save the one you love. What would you choose? My bet’s on the one you love. While you were thinking about that you probably weren’t even thinking about the stranger, whoever that might be, or the people that would miss them. Because that’s all they are to you, a stranger. They don’t mean anything to you, at least not like the one you love. So in the end there was no competition, right? You would always choose the one you love. That’s the truth we don’t want to admit.

~ Emerald

My daughter, Caitlyn Jenner, and Laverne Cox


As the mother of a young transgender child, my response to Caitlyn Jenner’s headline-grabbing announcement is a visceral one. Yes, I’m kind of put off by the hype. No, I’m not a big fan of celebrity culture or reality television. But when I look at the cover of Vanity Fair, and read the news articles that respectfully use Jenner’s new name and female pronouns, I’m overwhelmed by this new state of affairs, and by a world that might just be ready to accept my daughter. And that knocks me off my feet with awe and gratitude.

I called my friend Alice, a member of our support group whose trans daughter is a few years older than mine. “Did you see it?” I said. She knew what I was talking about.

“Of course,” she said. I could hear her shaking her head over the phone, as overcome as I was…

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Sarah Ditum


I learned to make lace when I was small, solemnly winding my bobbins with white thread then working over the pillow with deepest concentration – twisting and crossing the splints of wood, carefully weighted with scavenged beads, never learning so well that my hands could work without stumbling, but working all the same. I made my first few pieces, slack-tensioned and a little sloppy. My older female relatives and family friends inspected them indulgently but unimpressed. They were Bedfordshire women who had learned the needle arts at school, women who had been educated for domesticity, women who could not believe that I would leave school at 16 unable to knit, sew or make pastry. “I could make this,” my grandma would say, plucking the unhappy hems of my Topshop jumpers. “Didn’t they teach you anything?”

Their lives didn’t stop at what their education had fitted them for, though, because this…

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