Dear Mr. Turner, A letter of response

Dear Mr. Turner,

I have read the letter that you wrote the judge pleading that your son’s punishment for rape is too harsh.  After all, he’s not a violent person, he has a great smile, and he likes steak.

First, I am very sorry that your son’s life has been forever changed by his actions.  Let me repeat, his actions.  All actions have a consequence sir, both good and bad, and when you break the law you have to face the music.  I’m sorry he is struggling with anxiety and doesn’t like his favorite foods any longer.  I’m sorry that his choice to rape an unconscious woman for his “20 minutes of action” has caused him stress, and has caused you to throw a fit like a pompous little baby.

Let me ask you a question?  Where is your concern for the victim in this case?  

Does he barely consume food except to exist because his punishment is too harsh, or do you think that he is ashamed of his actions?  Are you ashamed of his actions?  Should we pat him on the back for what he’s done, or should we finally draw a line in the sand and say rape is rape.  Would you be writing the same note if a man raped your unconscious son?  After all, it’s just 20 minutes of action.  What if it was your wife?

Yes, his life is forever changed, as it should be.  He should have been given boundaries and values from day 1 and been taught that he’s not worth more than anyone else, and to treat humans with the same respect and dignity he would want to be treated with. 

Where did he learn that it was okay to take what he wanted from another person without thinking about the effects on them sir?

Let me tell you what changes for a sexual assault victim:

Embarrassment is the first thing that grips you, and it grips your heart tight.  Fear of having to say that you weren’t strong enough or smart enough to fend off an attack isn’t far behind.  Fear of retaliation, fear of being made a fool in the court room by being asked what you were wearing, how much you had to drink, or the famous, “Are you sure you didn’t at least nod your head a little?”

Next comes mental illness.  Mental illness affects every aspect of your entire life.  Anxiety and depression take over you like a bird in an oil spill.  Why?  Because the one thing you were supposed to choose who you shared with has been taken. 

Have you ever been forced into something that you couldn’t stop, sir?

Fear of disease or pregnancy intertwine with the aching pit in your stomach that never goes away because you know that YOU will be left with the consequences of what to do if rape has created another human.  YOU will have to face the hard choices and live with the aftermath of them.  You either terminate and deal with the stigma of abortion, give the child up because you aren’t sure you can handle it, or you bring a life into this world unprepared, unplanned, and painfully real.

What would you choose, sir?

Then there’s picking gravel out of your back as the blood runs down your body turning the shower water a disgusting shade of pinkish red while your face aches from the cut in your lip.  Under the hottest possible water, you try to scrub off the smell of his breath that will never go away and will haunt your dreams for the rest of your life, and the deepest sadness overcomes you as you drop to the ground and sob until you realize the water is ice cold.

You feel so stupid. 

His laugh.  His hands.  His words.  His grunts.  The smell.  The pushing.  The pain.  The mess. Being alone.  Being unsafe.  Those will.never.go.away.  Forever there will be triggers that take you right back to that moment you realized there was no amount of fighting that would change what was going to happen.  That moment when you realized that fighting back would only make things more bloody because we live in such a rape culture that we were never taught to fight back and fight back dirty. 

Hate.  Hating your rapist, hating yourself, hating everyone around you for not understanding, and the cold vulnerability of the emergency room as a doctor with no victim specific language tries his best to take a rape kit without scaring you or making you feel worse than you already do.

Pitty.  Pathetic pitty from everyone who finds out.  Hearing, “I’m sorry.” Over and over again because nobody knows what else to say when they realize what happened.

Loss of the relationship you were in because they aren’t equipped to help you navigate through the chasm of trauma.  The people you love drift away because you’re too ashamed to continue, or you push them away because you can’t handle the burden you place on them.

PTSD from rape lasts forever.  You try anything to get rid of the memories, but they will always remain.  Every time you look at your forever changed face and that scar on your lip.  Even though it healed pretty well, it’s always there, along with the scars in your back constantly reminding you of the scars on your soul.

Then comes the worthlessness.  How can anyone want me after that?  I’m damaged.  Labels like soiled, dirty, disgusting, worthless, and whore swirl around you.  The uncontrollable crying never stops, so you quit going places because you’re tired of coming up with excuses. 

Food?  Forget food.  Or maybe don’t, maybe eat so much that you gain a ton of weight so no one will ever see you as attractive again.  Oh God, what have you done?  Throw that up.  And you do.

Sleep?  Forget sleep.  Forget anything that makes you feel like you might not have control, and there is nothing like a little sleep paralysis to take away your control.

When you feel like there is no one left, you just want it to end.  You spend days just staring into nothing while it eats away at your heart.

Years of therapy just prove to you that you’re not ever going to be okay, and you believe it.  Because of this belief,  you continue to find yourself in sticky situations and the spiral goes nowhere but down into a series of bad choices and dangerous situations.  You begin over time to believe that it is your lot in life to be surrounded by people who hurt you.

All of this combined is called shame.  Shame and guilt stop you in your tracks.  They stop you from living.  They keep you sitting in your adversity.  

I know, first hand because this is me.  My scars are both visible and invisible.  I am reminded every day when I look in the mirror and every night when the lights go off.

So no, Mr. Turner, when your son decided to stick part of his body into an unconscious girl, he has to live with the consequences, and as far as I’m concerned, rapists get off way too easy because what they steal from their victims is far worse than a little jail time and having to register as a sex offender. 

I hope that your son sees how big his mistake was, and I hope he uses this as an opportunity to create awareness and help end the rape culture we currently have to survive in every day. 

Fortunately for me, I have healed.  Not completely, because my soul will never be the same, but I know I’ll be okay.  The career I have chosen as a Damsel in Defense Pro gives voices back to the people they’ve been stolen from and teaches women to fight.

Your son is lucky though.  He’s lucky he didn’t try to attack one of my students.  He would call for the police to take him away on his own had it been one of the Sisters of the Phoenix.

Maybe you should take a census of your own stock Mr. Turner.  Had it been my son, he would have begged for jail, because I don’t raise my children with so much self-entitlement that they can hurt another person.  I raise them with a warrior mindset to fight for themselves and those around them, and to stand up against people like your son.

Have a nice day Mr. Turner.  I know none of this matters to you, but to a Phoenix, it matters a lot.  If you're not sure what a Phoenix is, you should look it up.  We rise from the ashes of our old lives every day, and it is our mission to shine light into the darkness until rape becomes a thing of the past.  You can help us end this victim blaming rape culture, or you can put your face against us.  The choice is yours.  Good day, sir.

Sincerely,

Sunshine O’Connor

Independent Damsel in Defense Pro

yourdamseliva.com

Wonder Woman Wednesday-Rape gets the spotlight at Amherst College

On May 25, 2001, Angie Epifano was held down and raped by an acquaintance on the campus of Amherst College.  Amherst blamed her, shamed her, took away her privilege to study abroad, and even had her sent to a psych ward.  This experience destroyed Angie.  They would not let her report him, and she eventually left the college without graduating while her rapist graduated with honors. 

“Eventually I reached a dangerously low point, and, in my despondency, began going to the campus’ sexual assault counselor. In short I was told: No you can’t change dorms, there are too many students right now. Pressing charges would be useless, he’s about to graduate, there’s not much we can do. Are you SURE it was rape? It might have just been a bad hookup…You should forgive and forget.” Angie tells in her sorrow filled shocking recount of her experience with Amherst. 

“I was continuously told that I had to forgive him, that I was crazy for being scared on campus, and that there was nothing that could be done. They told me: We can report your rape as a statistic, you know for records, but I don’t recommend that you go through a disciplinary hearing. It would be you, a faculty adviser of your choice, him, and a faculty adviser of his choice in a room where you would be trying to prove that he raped you. You have no physical evidence, it wouldn't get you very far to do this,” she continues.

According to the “statistics” gathered by the sexual assault counseling center, Amherst has been home to several serial rapists, or men who have raped more than 5 women.  The rapists always graduate, and the victims are left holding the shattered pieces of their lives while the Dean tells them it’s their fault.

Amherst is just one of hundreds of colleges with a sexual assault reporting problem.

Students at Amherst have begun to put the pressure on administrators over how the school treats victims of rape by creating a photo series where survivors held up large cards with the responses from administrators, friends, peers, counselors, and others. 

Lee, a senior at Amherst said to the Huffington Post, “We wanted to show that Angie was not alone in her mistreatment and abuse by college administrators, but the administration’s actions don’t exist in a vacuum—they exist in a larger culture in which too often, victims are silenced and perpetrators excused.  We have to think about how we, as friends or peers of survivors, contribute to a culture of silence through our insensitive and thoughtless words.”

The photo series sent shockwaves across college campuses raising awareness for the way victims of sexual assault on campus are handled.  42% of women in college who are raped tell no one about the assault, and 95% of sexual assault victims never report the attacks to the authorities because they are stopped dead in their tracks at the administration level.

“Photos are visual and engaging, and they can be a powerful tool for documenting social injustice,” Lee continued, “I think partly what made this project so powerful was that it was specific to Amherst College—the survivors involved are our friends and peers, people we know, and the quotations are also from members of our community.”

The survivors in the series hope to change how the problem is handled at Amherst, particularly by Amherst College President Biddy Martin.

See the complete photo collection here.

An online magazine called It Happens Here has also been created by Amherst students as a way to bring attention to the issue.  

Since, Biddy has been very quick to institute a number of immediate changes.  Other colleges have taken notice and have started their own processes to make change. 

The week’s Wonder Woman Wednesday showcase goes to the brave survivors of college campus rape.  Alone, you may be only one, but together you can raise your voices to the sky and create change so that women who follow behind you can attend a stronger, safer experience. 

You can find Angie’s complete story here. 

If you or someone you know has been sexually assaulted, don’t let anyone tell you not to report it.  The National Sexual Assault Hotline has people on duty right now who can help you through the process, just call 1.800.656.HOPE.

If you are ready to share your story and help us in #fightingback against abuse towards women, email sunshine@yourdamseldiva.com.  

CeeLo Green claims having sex with someone who is unconscious isn't rape

Jamilah King reported  Tuesday that CeeLo Green decided to add insult to injury Sunday when tweeted about about his rape case. 

The singer pled no contest to supplying a woman with ecstacy; the victim claims that she doesn’t remember anything about her date with the singer except going out to dinner and then waking up naked in his bed. 

His lawyer insisted that the two had consensual sex, and rape charges weren’t filed due to lack of evidence. 

Sunday night, the singer tried and failed to make his case with the public. His tweets:

If someone is passed out they’re not even WITH you consciously! so WITH Implies consent”.

“When someone brakes on a home there is broken glass where is your plausible proof that anyone was raped.”

He later apologized to his followers: “I sincerely apologize for my comments being taken so far out of context … I’d never condone the harm of any women.”

But the damage was done. The singer has since deleted his account.

This is exactly the rape culture victim-blaming bologna that we as women have to put up with every single day.  Guess what CeeLo, if you were as awesome as you claim to be, you wouldn't have to drug a girl to have sex with you.

I claim #boycottceelogreen

We don't care if your posts were taken out of context.  You clearly showed your true character.  I hope the next girl you try to take advantage of knows how to fight.

Wonder Woman Wednesday-Travel terror

Today’s Wonder Woman Wednesday is a tale of travel horror that comes with many warnings. 

“I was pretty thrilled when I landed in Jamaica last May. The sun was warm, I looked good in a bikini, and here I was on my first-ever trip with a significant other.

Adding to the excitement, this was my boyfriend's first time out of the country. Within a few hours, we'd be eating rice and peas in a villa overlooking the Caribbean Ocean.

 My boyfriend and I in Grand Cayman, where we went after leaving Jamaica. This is when I started showing signs of PTSD.

 The reality wasn't so picture-perfect. The town didn't seem to have any tourist presence, now or ever. On our drive from Kingston's airport, a young mother selling fruit advised us to be careful as we traveled ahead.

 But here we were, feeling informed with our guidebooks in hand, stubbornly optimistic for our beach vacation and myself, anyway, overly adventurous from a lifetime of travel "off the beaten path."

Jamaican view

 The villa had a view, but it also had bugs, a layer of grime and an unsettling vibe. I wondered aloud if we shouldn't find a different place to stay. With our non-refundable deposit already paid, we decided to wait until tomorrow's daylight to make any decisions.

 When I woke up a couple hours into a restless sleep, I could still hear music playing from the beach below. I sat up slowly, letting the sleep fall away before grabbing my glasses.

Machete similar to the one used in the attack

 I stumbled naked into the narrow bathroom. When I turned to sit, there stood before me a a tall, thin man, his face illuminated by the near-full moon. This man, who I later learned is named Yuan, stood a foot away from me, smiling from behind the large machete he held samurai-style.

 He was the same man who had come by earlier on the pretense of selling fruit. He had seen me in my underwear, and, it seems, gone back to his home next door, armed himself, and waited in the bushes outside our villa until the lights went out.

Cassidy and her boyfriend

 There was only a beat before I screamed and Yuan swung that machete at me. While the machete hit me repeatedly on my left, his hand grabbed at the bare breast on my right side.

 I don't remember well what happened then. There's no visual memory anymore, only the memory of that scream, mine eventually joined by his, this man who had been seconds away from slitting my boyfriend's throat a few minutes before.

 When this man sliced through the mosquito netting around our bed, next to where my boyfriend was sleeping, he presumably hoped to kill my boyfriend before coming after me. This man did not expect me to wake up, and I imagine he didn't expect a fight if I did.

But I did fight, blocking that sword from ever hitting my throat or chest, where he was aiming, and finally pushing him out of the bathroom so that he could not lock me in, as I believe he planned to do.

 Once out of the bathroom, my boyfriend jumped up and grabbed a kitchen knife. With my fists flying relentlessly and my boyfriend approaching, Yuan turned and ran out the back door.

Cassidy and her boyfriend

 My boyfriend and I locked ourselves in the bathroom, where the toilet had come out of the floor and the walls were covered with blood. In that small bathroom we waited three hours, thanking god for a working cell phone and switching lines between an incompetent police operator, a useless representative from the American Embassy, my surprisingly composed mother, and one very helpful police detective.

It was that detective who would eventually find us, my boyfriend standing at the busted-in window, watching for signs of our attacker, and myself, holding my own machete, which I'd found in the bathroom after our first few minutes locked inside. I stood next to this detective, still naked and dripping blood, and surveyed the scene of a death I saved myself from.

 The terror of that night ended, but its horror haunted me for months to come. Within a couple weeks, I  developed debilitating tendinitis in both wrists. It was so painful that many nights I couldn't brush my teeth. I suffered a full four-months of the worst cramps I've ever experienced, and almost daily bleeding. (I had an IUD put in a week before the attack and I believe the PTSD compounded its side-effects).

The area they were to vacation in 

Even sleep was exhausting. I spent long, restless hours dreaming of horrible things, trapped in terrifying scenes that often felt like reality even after I woke up.

 I took to compulsively writing “Higher power give me peace” and “This is not my life” in my journal.

 By the end of the summer, I was suicidal. I scoped out the edge of bridges, fantasized about buying a gun and spent one long night eating through a bottle of painkillers. In November, I realized that I needed intensive help.  I checked myself into a psychiatric hospital, and began the difficult work of healing.

 Remembering that night, there lingers a haunting fear of the dangers that might still lie ahead. Yet that memory also brings pride. I am proud that I fought back.

 Certainly no woman can make a wrong choice when being attacked. She does what she can to survive. But it often seems that the only stories we hear are of women as victims. Even as children, we knew Little Red Riding Hood only escaped the wolf because the gallant woodsman came and saved her.

 When we returned home from Jamaica, almost everyone who heard the story commended my boyfriend for saving me. I still get angry about it.

 I refuse to lose my story to the power of a social narrative that says women are always victims. I saved myself from the big bad wolf. I am a victim, yes, but I am also my own hero.”

Her attacker, who is called Yuan, has not been brought to justice due to Jamaica’s complicated legal system. 

Cassidy's journaling after the incident

The obvious warning is know where you’re going.  Research where you’re staying.  Listen to the words of warning from locals, especially women.  Sleep with the doors and windows of y our villa locked.  Have something to defend yourself nearby, whether a large stick, a stun gun or a pepper spray, depending on the laws of the area you’re traveling to.  Travel with a buddy.  Have a check in person stateside who also has phone numbers to contacts with the U.S. Embassy and local police where you’re staying.  Check in at specific times and any time you might be off your itinerary.  If you’ll be off the beaten path, carry a satellite phone and GPS beacon.  Listen to intuition.  Something told her they shouldn’t stay.  Don’t wait on that feeling, act immediately.  

Intuition is one of the most important things we can use to save our lives.  There is a story of a woman who waited in the car while the driver, who left the car running, ran over to the ATM.  Suddenly she felt this overwhelming sense of fear and rushed to lock the doors, but it was too late.  What sparked her intuition?  A small bit of denim jeans moving too close and too fast to the car in the side view mirror that only her subconscious mind (the part in charge of the hair standing on the back of your neck) saw. 

Cassidy has acquired a large stuffed animal
collection since beginning to heal
from the attack.

Even with safety measures in place and staying at the most expensive and fancy resort in the world, things can happen.  This attack didn’t happen because they stayed in a seedy villa or didn’t have a weapon.  It happened because an attacker, who is always looking for an opportunity, was watching at the right moment.

Today’s Wonder Woman Wednesday goes to Veronica Cassidy, who in the blink of an eye chose to fight off her attacker, who wielded a machete while she was naked and defenseless.  Not only because she refused to be a victim and broke into action, but because she got help, rebuilt herself, and was born a survivor brave enough to tell her story so that others may gain knowledge from it.

“Remembering that night, there lingers a haunting fear of the dangers that might still lie ahead. Yet that memory also brings pride. I am proud that I fought back,” Cassidy said.

The U.S. Embassy says reports of violent crime and sexual assault against tourists is frequent in Jamaica and advises travelers to stay away from several areas on the island.  Always contact the U.S. Embassy to find out if there are travel restrictions or warnings in the area of travel before booking a trip.  Research the area thoroughly before travel.

Do you of someone you know have a story to tell?  If so, email sunshine@yourdamseldiva.com and you may be considered for a Wonder Woman Wednesday feature.  Wonder Woman Wednesday stories are of survival to help show victims that there is a light at the end of the darkness, that there is solace in healing, and that even the worst situations can be used for good.  

Wonder Woman Wednesday-faceless strength

Every time I teach women common sense self defense, one of the things I say most often is to fight back.  Fight back.  It’s better to die fighting at location A than to die on their terms with their plan in location B.  Fight back.  You are the only one responsible for your safety, so f.i.g.h.t.b.a.c.k.

I would like to introduce you to a young woman.  We do not have her name, just her story.

At 4 feet 8 inches tall and 80 pounds dripping wet, this 15-year-old is perfect for a quick nab and grab.  She entered the elevator in her building completely carefree.  Curtis Tucker followed her onto that elevator. 

Prosecutor Melissa Mourges explained the event:

 A grainy surveillance video shows the elevator stop at the girls floor, and then you could see her legs flailing as he threw her to the elevator floor which climbed to the top floor.  Tucker then dragged her out of the elevator and into the stairwell where the girl gave him all of the property she had, which included a student Metrocard and a one dollar bill.

Angered, Tucker punched her in the face because she wouldn’t stop screaming and choked her repeatedly, causing her to lose consciousness, but the girl kept fighting.  That’s what Curtis Tucker thought, but he got more than he bargained for.

Our young hero fought so fiercely that they tumbled down three flights of fire stairs.  Once at the bottom, Tucker pulled her pants down and tried to rape her, but she fought past him and ran to her apartment.

When she pounded on the door, her brother didn’t even recognize her at first.  She suffered a broken nose, black eyes, cuts and bruises to her entire body, and permanent disfigurement in the form of a torn lip that didn’t heal properly and is noticeable to this day.

At the crime scene, forensics analysts gathered clots of blood and clumps of hair as well as the Metrocard, a blood stain, and Tucker’s eyeglasses, which were used to piece together his DNA.

This terrible crime was unsolved for years until Tucker was picked up for an attack on a disabled 74-year-old in the same building.  He had to give a DNA sample, which led them to the attack on the teen years before.

Mourges told Manhattan Supreme Court Justice Renee White that the girl was too traumatized to appear for sentencing stating, “She never felt safe again in her building, in her elevator, in her home. She was escorted by family every time she left her apartment for years after this happened.  Every time she looks in the mirror, she sees a reminder of what this defendant did.” Mourges explained.

Tucker was sentenced to 15 years, a sentence he will begin when he completes his sentence for a robbery in 2014.

Because this nameless young woman suffered an attempted rape and signs of that attack remain on her body, her bravery to fight back saved her life.   Because of that, Wonder Woman Wednesday goes to this nameless young woman who could be any one of us or any one of our children.  May she find hope through her survival and use it to lead others out of the darkness.  May we spread awareness so high and low that attackers are afraid that all women will fight back.  May this young woman give you cause to do hard things to push back the darkness. 

If you or someone you know has a story to tell, please email sunshine@yourdamseldiva and it may be a Wonder Woman Wednesday feature.

Beyond the gasp-the death of shame

When I look at the blessings in my life, there is one thing that seems to ring true about all of them:  They came from something hard.

This weekend was one of the biggest blessings I have ever encountered, and it was born from the hardest thing I have ever done.  You see, my life isn't all sunshine and rainbows.  Most of it has been Sunshine and survival.  Shame has been my arch nemesis.

Let me introduce you to Shame.  Shame is the meanest kid on the playground.  He’s the worst boss you've ever had, and trust me, some of you know I've had a pretty terrible boss.  Shame leads you down the wrong paths, laughs at you in your darkest moments, and tells you that if you tell on it, it will take you down.  Shame keeps us from growing, stops our brains from developing, and can leave us trembling in fear.  Shame is Satan’s right hand.

I have met Shame several times in my life.  As a matter of fact, Shame has stared me down in the stillness of the night after enduring something terrible and whispered into my ear enough times that it was all my fault that I believed it for a long time because I hung on every word Shame said to me.  Shame was my comfort blanket, my best friend, and the justification I had for stupid choices.

 

About a year ago, my church women’s group asked me to testify.  I was terrified.  No, terrified would be like finding out I was going on a dream vacation compared to how I felt.  There’s not a word that describes the horror.  For the first time, I had to put on paper all of the things I’d been hiding in this big invisible box on my back.  I cried and agonized over it for a month before I finally got it all out, and even then, there were things I left out because Shame held a gun to my head and told me that my sisters would never want to talk to me again if they knew….fill in the blank. 

I got it all down on paper, and I read it for time, because I had 45 minutes to speak….and I had to stop at three hours and wondered how in the heck I would cram it all in.  I cut out everything I possibly could and somehow got it to 50 minutes, and I went with it. 

That testimony was a train wreck.  I held the paper to my face and just read and cried, and one of my Christian sisters named Jean funneled clean tissue and held a garbage bag for my dirty ones.  I must have dropped 25 pounds of my DNA into that garbage bag.  When it was over, I wanted to run.  I was naked.  I was exposed.   I was sure everyone would just stare at me and leave.

Instead, women stopped me in the halls for weeks and thanked me for freeing them.  They called me things like brave and strong, courageous and inspiring.  I didn't feel those words.  I felt naked and alone, exposed and undone.  Shame still peeked at me from dark corners and called to me in my dreams.  One thing I didn't feel though was the weight from the box that I no longer packed around on my shoulders. 

After some weeks went by, I started to walk a little taller.  I began to realize that God chose me to be the person in this body in this life because he knew I would run with it.  He knew I would set a bonfire in the darkness and lead my people to freedom.  He knew I would wage war on Shame and stalk it like a lion stalks her prey.  He knew I would form an army of survivors who would light up the dark places so Shame had nowhere to hide.

A few months ago, I was asked to share a snippet of my story.  I did, because a snippet was much better than the whole thing, and when people read it, I can’t see them.  Perfect. 

Again, the messages of hope, light, and courage inspired me, but I still couldn't use those words for myself.

Then, a little more than a month ago, one of the Co-founders of Damsel in Defense, Mindy Lin, asked if I would speak at our national convention….but I could say no.

Left to right: Bethany Hughes, Mindy Lin
Co-Founders of Damsel in Defense

Let me tell you a little something about the Co-founders of Damsel in Defense.  Mindy and Bethany are brave, strong, courageous, beautiful, amazing, inspiring leaders.  They have done hard things.  They have gone to the Philippines to one of the worst red light districts in the world and have seen and done hard things.  They are so strong and inspiring that thousands of women have joined their mission, including me.  I could not be the one to tell them no, that I wasn't going to do hard things!  I had to say yes!

Again, I had to reframe my story to fit in a 5-7 minute time frame, and I couldn't get it to go under 9 minutes and 44 seconds.  I sent it off to Mindy and the response I got back shocked me.  She was so torn up, so moved, and her world was so rocked that I could take all the time I needed.  So I let the nearly ten minute testimony cool.  Shame was using every method of communication to try and convince me to change my mind, but I knew Mindy wouldn't have asked me if it wasn't relevant to the mission.  I leaned into God and He whispered in my ear that I am stronger than I think I am.  For the first time, I started to believe Him.

Then the weekend came.  I was in Boise, soaking in everything Damsel in Defense, falling more and more in love with the company, building relationships with amazing strong warriors, and Shame was peeking at me from every doorway, every corner, and every shadow.  I tried and tried to ignore him, but it was getting harder and harder.  Then testimony time came.

I watched three brave women take the stage and pour out their souls all over that crowd.  They were brave.  They were strong.  They were beautiful.  I felt like a toad.  I felt like I would get up there and croak out all of this ugliness, then we would all stand in line and jump off a cliff because we couldn't take hearing that much filth, darkness, and pain. 

My team, the Red Hots from left to right: Amber,
Sunshine(me) , Karin , Judi, and Kyla

My team rallied around me and told me I was brave, and strong, and beautiful, and courageous, and that I was about to change lives.  I didn't believe them.  I thought I was the weird kid in the corner.

Then my name was called, and I made my way up to that stage and said my first word into the microphone, proving that the moment was real. 

The first half of my testimony is hard.  It’s gut wrenchingly terribly hard, but every time I testify, there is this moment in my 12^th year of age that there is a gasp.  It is a gasp so deep that I literally feel the air being sucked from my lungs into everyone else’s.  In that gasp, I try to decide whether or not I can escape.  It may only be a three second moment of silence before I go on, but in those three seconds, I have come up with 25 routes of escape, envisioned myself throwing the microphone and running away, and come to a realization that if I stop now, there will be a mass suicide.  I cannot leave anyone holding that much pain inside of their lungs. I have to go on.  And I do, because I come to a realization that beyond the gasp is where the beauty in the breakdown of my life begins.  The story of Shame then becomes the story of me.  The story of an overcomer.  The story of a survivor.

After I was done, there was a moment while I waited for Mindy to come take that pesky microphone from me, and we hugged and I felt it….I felt the death of Shame. 

Over the next few hours, dozens of women were freed.  Shame was nowhere to be found.  Women broke into groups and shared their stories, some for the first time ever.  Many hugs, tears, and words were shared, bonds were formed, and warriors put down their heavy boxes and picked up their weapons.  We came to this conference afraid, shameful, terrified of ourselves, but knowing there was something larger.  We left strong, bold, brave warriors ready to lead others out of the darkness and into the light. 

We aren't just people who sell stun guns and pepper sprays.  We are bringers of the light, pushers of the darkness, and carriers of faith.

I know I'm going to be asked to share again again.  I know my work is not done.  I'm a little more comfortable in my own skin now, and I clearly understand my mission. 

If you’re ready to share your story of survival, you’re not alone.  We can help.  You can contact me directly at sunshine@yourdamseldiva.com.  Together we can make a difference.

Enduring the scars of your past

It's why Damsel in Defense made perfect senses to me

“Some days are better than others.  Some days you just can’t figure out.” –Meredith Brooks

Every day when you look in the mirror, you should see something different than you did the day before.  I’m not talking about crow’s feet or laugh lines; I’m talking about you as a whole being.   How can I say that with complete faith?  Endurance.  We all start everything we do at the beginning.  We started walking by taking one step forward, then falling on our rear ends.  We started using a cup without a lid by picking it up and spilling it.  Everything we have ever done began at the beginning, and we get better because we’re constantly building endurance.

Endurance isn’t only specific to muscles or fine motor skills.  Endurance also accounts for getting better at our jobs, our marriages, our lives, and reversing our deficits. 

Tonight, as I was looking in the mirror, I turned and saw a scar.  It’s a familiar scar, and the pain that radiated from it when it was an open would has long gone.  Most of the time, I think the pain from how it got there is gone too, but then I’ll see it’s creation in bits and pieces flashing back like the reflection of passing lights in fragments of broken glass.  Bits and pieces like cars whizzing by on the freeway.  Not long ago, I would look at that scar and the emotions of its creation would pour out of it like hot white light as if it was still an open wound.  Not long before that, those emotions would grip my heart and cripple me, creating debilitating fear, hate, and shame.  Not long before that, I couldn’t even turn my shoulder in that direction when looking in the mirror because I couldn’t stand the thought that it even existed, so I kept it covered at all costs.  

The reason I can look at it now and not let it take over my life is because I built endurance to tolerate it.  Whether I like it or not, it’s here and it will never go away.  It is part of me and I am part of it.  I built endurance through counselling, my support system, and my church family.  I let God touch it with his healing hands and trusted that He would release the negativity from it.  I learned how to live with it and turn it into motivation to help others.  I stumbled at first, and I fell a lot, but every time I fell I got back up and started again.  Every time I got back up, I got a little farther before I fell again.  Now I see it, and the person wearing it as a warrior.  I see it as the mark of a champion fighting for other women who are still trapped in that terrible raw pain after an attack.  I see it as a reminder that no matter how wonderful the world is, there is also ugliness, and unless you learn to recognize that ugliness, you won’t see it for what it is when it looks you in the eye just before it pounces.

The night I got the scar in question was just like any other night.  It was a cool fall evening during my 16^th year.  My boyfriend had to work after the football game, so I decided to go to a party with a friend.  There was drinking involved, and a very dark train tunnel that we should have never been walking around in.  A man in his early 20’s was there, and he kept being near me, striking up conversations and saying things that made me feel like I wasn’t brave enough, or trusting enough, or hard core enough, and I felt like I wanted to prove him wrong.  Some sort of Spidey sense went off in the back of my brain like fireworks, but I was intoxicated, and didn’t have enough courage to ask my friend to take me home and seem like a total dork.  About an hour later, I was off looking for a suitable bathroom spot, when something slammed against me.  It happened so fast.  I didn’t see it coming.  I hit the ground with a thud, knocking the wind out of me.   A rock dug into my shoulder while I gasped for air.  The pain was immense, and I was trying to scream, but a large hand that smelled like whiskey and tasted like salt and dirt covered my mouth.  The harder I fought, the harder he held tight, and I found myself struggling to breathe.  I tasted blood from the split in my lip.  That rock dug in deeper and deeper, and although the immediate horror was over in a matter of minutes, the lasting scars from that gravel hill are with me forever, never ceasing to remind me of that one dark pinpoint in my lifeline.

It wasn’t the last, and definitely not the first time I had fallen prey to a predator, and it wasn’t even the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, but it’s the only one that left a visible mark for me to see when I look in the mirror every day.

Now that scar is a visible reminder of what’s out there.  It’s motivation for me to push forward all the time so I don’t end up there ever again.  It’s why Damsel in Defense made such perfect sense to me and why I became an Independent Pro.  I can use the drive from that scar to teach women how to stay safe, so hopefully they will never have to face down a permanent reminder of what happened to them.  It’s a very big part of why I stand up in front of strangers in living rooms all over spreading the Damsel in Defense mission to educate, equip, and empower women.  It’s a reminder of how hard I have worked to build up enough endurance so that I can completely reframe the events in my life.

Some days are better than others, and some days you just can’t figure out, but when you pull yourself out of a bad day and start again, you will build the endurance you need to get through another and endure the scars of your past.

If you’re ready to join a team and make a difference, let’s talk about what that looks like for you.  If you’re ready to host a self-defense presentation in your home, I can make that happen.  For more information, email sunshine@yourdamseldiva.com.