eleven

                         january 26,2006

My Rape

     ****DISCLAIMER*****

This post is mainly for my own empowerment and the thousands of
thousands of rape survivors in the world and on mypsace. I stress
that I do not want anyone's sympathy, condolences, or pity. My
intention is to evoke thought, discussion, sensitivity and possibly
the chance to reach someone else in need of healing.

********************************************************

January 29, 2006 marks the 2 year anniversary of the day I was
drugged and gang raped.

730 days to live with this truth and the rest of my life to recover.
Some days it feels like ancient history and others like yesterday.

0 is the number of memories I have regarding my rape.

I can only assume that at least 2 men raped me.

0 is the number of emergency room visits I made.

0 is the number of police reports I have filed.

I possess 1 photo of one of the men who raped me.

I possess 1 photo of myself minutes before I was raped and my life
forever altered.

4 is the number of therapists, specialty trauma psychologists,
psychiatrists, and rape counselors I have seen in the last 2 years.

Since January 29, 2004...

92 days straight were spent in a non-stop panic attack.

For 6 months, my body attacked itself reliving the memories my mind
still does not compute.

100 days passed until I cried for the first time.

500 nights were spent alone or with my mother because I was terrified
to go out at night.

550 days were spent in complete depression and isolation.

Endless hours have been spent trying to fill in the blanks of my rape.

Practically 365 days passed until I could admit with confidence and
certainty that I was raped.

13 is the number of monthly support groups I have attended.

Only 2 women including myself attended the December meeting.

July 10, 2005 is the day I went from rape victim to rape survivor.

If we have become friends after July 10, just think of the strong
possibility that our friendship may never have occured because of the
trust I had lost in people.

These men stole my reaction, a part of my soul, my safety, and most
of all a year and a half of my life.

1 in every 6 women have been sexually assaulted. Every 2 1/2 minutes
a woman gets raped. 60f all rapes go unreported. So many women and
even men get raped but so few seek the help needed to heal. The act
of rape is brutal enough, but the aftermath is suffering you wouldn't
wish on your worst enemy. What I described is only a snippet of the
physical and mental pain. Recovery is a process that never ends.

There is such a stigma attached to being raped. One day it's the
front page story on the paper and the next day the survivor is never
thought of again. Many survivors are so ashamed and blame themselves
for the attack.They can feel judged by family and friends after
admitting the truth.Couple that with lack of support and people who
just won't accept that one was raped. It's a miracle anyone would
come forward to seek help let alone press charges.

It is a sad fact that survivors are not seeking help which can
drastically alter the attitiudes of society to think that rape is
"not a big deal". Fewer survivors coming forward decreases the
financial support available to rape crisis centers which makes the
few available sources for help struggle to stay afloat. In New York
City alone, several rape crisis centers have lost funding due to lack
of participants. In fact, there is only one free monthly support
group in available in this great city. This does not mean that rapes
are decreasing. It really means there is a great fear among women to
come forward and get help. The challenge for rape trauma therapists
is to get these women the help they need and deserve.

I choose to "out" myself as a rape survivor because rape is a big
deal. Recovery and healing from rape needs much more attention.
Whether one has bruises or not, memories or not, if you were sexaully
attacked by a stranger or a loved one, or even a public figure. It is
rape. It is a crime. and it is a big fucking deal that should not be
minimized. Survivors deserve to heal. In a world of symbolic yellow
bracelets, red ribbons, pink ribbons, etc., I wonder where are all
the ribbons and celebrities to bring attention to such a violent
crime and its aftermath on its victims? I am a small voice, but I
cannot be quiet any longer.

Support and free services are out there.

www.rainn.org

1-800-656-HOPE (National Sex Abuse Hotline)

St. Vincent's Rape Crisis Program

www.nycagainstrape.com or 212-604-8068

february 27, 2006

The Snowboard Princess

I was invited to go snowboarding this past weekend. I've never
done it before, but I'm always up for a challenge. Sometimes I
fancy myself as agile and athletic. I figured that years of
pilates and months of yoga must be good for something. If all you
need is balance and core stability then I'm in like flynn. I had
such visions of excellence but had to settle for mediocrity.

First I layered then I layered some more. I had about 5 pairs of
pants, an equal number of shirts, a coat, scarf, my awesome fleece
hat, a headband, and of course bandana (i'm gangsta afterall).
It's a wonder I could move.

My first challenge was to decide whihc board would be appropriate
either "righty" or "lefty". Seems so simple, but I couldn't
decide. One of the examples given to determine the proper board
was which foot would you use to slide into second base. I've never
slid into second base or any base in my life. How the hell should
I know! I was going for the right board until someone older and
taller intimidated me into to use the left board. I scampered off
to my lesson.

Our "lesson" was taught by some 17 year old twit named Erick.
(Because he was such a twerp, I assume his name is spelled in a
similarly obnoxious manner.) Our group started off with 7 people
and quickly dwindled to five and eventually 4. Erick's instruction
mostly consisted of "only practice will help you. It doesn't
matter what I tell you" and the real gem of "yeah...you don't want
to do that or you could kill yourself." Should you ask Erick how
to improve your "J-turn" or "heel" something, he would merely
shrug and relply that you got it. This instruction landed me
promptly into a fence. So much for core stability.

Ok, lesson over, and it's time to hit the bunny hill. You must
take the chair lift to get to the top. This nerve wrecking process
requires timing, agility, and a certain comfortability with
heights. By the end of the day I finally mastered getting off the
chair lift with the grace of any winter olympic champion....move
over flying tomato!

I am poised upon the hill and ready for my descent. If I don't
overthink, I will excel. Down I go and hard is how I fall. Over
and over and over again. The snow is so packed; it's like falling
on concrete. No matter how many times I flounder and crash into a
fence, I still find the strength to get up and try again. Mostly
it's because I like the chair lift.

My last and final run. I study the slope and become one with the
mountain. The hill slopes to the left which makes maneuvering
difficult. Not to mention the other novices who are content to lay
in harm's way without a care in the world. It's an obstacle course
down there, but I'm ready.

I take off and seem to be able to stay on the board for a decent
amount of time. I fall in order to avoid wiping out a small army
of children. I quickly get back up because I determined to finish
like a champ. I'm off again . I'm up and flying by everyone. I'm
doing great for a change and the adrenaline is pumping.

Alas, something is amiss! What? I have no idea.

I wish I could explain, but it happened so fast that all I
remember is hitting the snow face first with my nose leading the
way. You know it was bad because all I could hear was gasps and
all I could see were winces on the nearby faces. All I could hope
for is that I still had my teeth and that my nose wasn't bleeding.
They weren't. I was relieved. I unstrapped my board and took the
walk of shame down the bunny slope. I soon discover that I cut
open my chin. There's blood and my lips do not regain feeling for
about 4 hours. I'll survive.

Yesterday I was immobile. Every inch of my body screamed out in
pain. I popped percocets to no relief. I can't cross my legs. I'd
totally try it again though. Oh and at 11:06 am on Monday, my
snowboard pants that I ordered finally arrive.

april 3, 2006

Om Shantih Shantih Shantihi

I spent this past weekend at Kripalu, the yoga and health institute in Lenox,
MA. I partook in a Traditional Ashtanga Yoga Workshop. If you don't know what
Ashtanga is, believe me when I tell you it kicks your ass and impairs you for
up to a week. I contorted my body into poses I never thought possible. Neither
which can be described as remotely sensual and they are unlikey to win me any
bonus points with future paramours. Six hours of yoga a day with a master
Indian guru was the fun part. Everything else scared me. A lot.

Upon arriving, I was sent to my dorm room which was so awkward and quiet that
you could actually hear the mice gossiping "What's wrong with these people?".
For 72 hours no one spoke to me. It was as if I took a vow of silence at a
monastery. The welcome orientation mentioned silent morning dining and silent
time after 9pm, but the dorm was silent all the time. I was afraid of the
karmic retribution should I turn while I slept or even to turn a page in my
book.

While not in downward dog, there was plenty of time to get in touch with my
inner self. Considering the lack of conversation I did not have much of a
choice. It was kind of obvious that I was a square peg in a round hole. Books
by authors like Deepak Chopra, Henry David Thoreau, and Swami Kripalu
engrossed many a reader in every resting area available then there was me with
my GQ magazine.

The quiet humiliation was everywhere. Saturday afternoon I attended a
drum/dance circle. I enjoy a good drum circle especially if some pot is
involved. This was no drum circle.

This was more like tribal dancing Jane Fonda style sans legwarmers. A quartet
of drummers had great beats going but the instructor forced our movements. She
chirpily instructed us to "spread our energy around the room to others" and to
"dance with intention". She dedicated our dancing to world peace while I
simply hoped for a quick and painless death.

Basically, this was follow the leader/dancercise for adults. In theory it
should be healing and fun, but it felt contrived and silly. After shouting
"Shiva" about 10x while alternating from foot to foot, I decided to quit and
eat instead.

You are allowed to speak for lunch and dinner, but I think "the others" felt
my unspirited vibe and stayed as far away as possible. The meals were strictly
vegetarian, vegan, and macrobiotic. At breakfast they served soup.

This is wrong. This goes against everything I stand for because soup for
breakfast is just not done. I was repulsed yet fascinated by how many people
ladeled up miso, kale vegetable soup to go along with their eggs.

Don't even get me started about the macrobiotics. For the love of god people!
There's more to life than brown rice and dark leafy greens. Not a lot of
smiles at the macrobiotic table if you get my drift.

Saturday is dessert night. I have never tasted a more delicious raspberry oat
bar. After vegetables, vegetables, and more vegetables it was absolute heaven!
By the way, just say no to organic coffee.

Did you know that peanut butter makes Europeans nauseus while Americans cannot
stomach something called "vegedite"? The word escapes me but it ends in "ite"
and is made of pure yeast.

People get too in touch with their feelings here. I have no problem with the
occasional hug , but I draw the line at hugging for doors opening or wearing
new socks. Simply walk through the hallways and you encounter many people
clutched in tearful embraces.

The pinnacle of strangeness occured while I was in the sauna. I entered the
heated wooden closet as two women emerged. It was an Asian woman in her early
40's and an older wiser woman possibly over 55. They were engaged in an
intense conversation while completely naked directly in my view from the
sauna. I sat in the sweltering heat relieving my tense muscles while
eavesdropping on their conversation. The Asian woman babbled about
relationships and finally now finding her first boyfriend ever. First
boyfriend ever! she repeated as if we did not completely understand her the
first time. The older woman comforted her with the sage spiritual wisdom that
only an older maternal woman could provide. While behind the closed sauna
door, I just contemplated why I thought coming to this place was a good idea.

The problem with eavesdropping is that you find out way too much information.
Also, when people say that no one looks at anyone in the sauna/spa/ locker
room, they are completely lying. There's only so much older woman naked flesh
I can take in one sitting.

I fled to the jacuzzi and floated around until my skin became raisiny. When I
felt that I may pass out from extreme heat and dehydration, I decided that
8:30 is late enough to call it a night. After all, silent time begins in a
half hour. I return to the locker room to find the naked Asian woman sobbing
hysterically in the arms of the now toweled wise older woman. It must have
been some conversation. I change and run as fast as I can to my Xanax.

Sunday arrives and I have never been so happy to see a train station. Who
cares if it is next to the juvenile detention center and multiple bondsmen?
The weekend at Kripalu is over and I can go home.

However, Amtrak wants me to stay in Massachusetts. The attendant informs me
that my train is delayed 4 hours and I will miss all my connecting trains. The
clever man figures out there is a bus I can take and everything else falls
into place. I think I may lay off the spirituality for a while.

april 18, 2006
Dance Party 635

More fodder for the "I can't make this shit up" file. My boss, Mrs.
X, is president of our little toothpaste company and is quite the
upper east side socialite diva. This afternoon, she prances to my
desk and declares she just had the most brilliant notion.

It's after lunch and she's suffering from the post-lunch slump. She
smiles her wide smile and says "How about we put on some music and
dance for five minutes?". I smile politely and return to my pudding.
Mrs. X declares this is a serious endeavor. I chalk it up to another
one of her whims like me being the "office watchdog" and go about
the usual procrastination.

Vanessa leaves for a walk to enjoy the spring weather. Iris breezes
by my desk to also report about the dance party idea. Instead of the
horrifed reaction I anticipated, she gleefully noted that she
downloaded some freestyle music for Mrs. X. If you didn't already
know, Iris informs me that freestyle is "upbeat" and "fast". It's
also incredibly dated and wrong but that's just me. Meanwhile, Mrs.
X is impatiently waiting for Vanessa to return, so we can all dance
collectively and happily.

Obliviously, Vanessa returns, and I inform her of the very real
possibility that we are going to dance.

For Real? For real.

Fo Fizzle.

The men are not allowed to participate.Mrs. X exiled them to the
reception area to thank their lucky stars and giggle non-stop at our
pending humiliation. The three of us walked like the men on the
green mile dumbfounded. We're going to dance! With our boss! During
office hours! Purposely!

Oy!

This is not about teambuliding, office morale, trustfalls, or
whatever the feel good corporate speak is these days. It is simply
that Mrs. X wants to burn off a few extra calories and Joel isn't
exactly a song and dance man.

Mrs. X lock the office door to prevent "peeking" and escaping, but I
keep that last thought to myself. Iris cues up the bad 80's KTU
music. Vanessa and I begin to move stiffly from side to side. I
cover my face with my hands to hide the many shades of red my face
has turned. I have never felt such complete and utter humiliation.
Mrs. X and Iris deny our embarrassment. Together they snap fingers
and twirl like it's back in the day at Studio 54. They continue to
get jiggy with it through several more songs. This is like some
really bad acid trip.

Finally, Mrs. X grants permission for us to return to work (i.e.
myspace). She goes to escort us out and unlock the door. It won't
budge. She twists and forcibly jerks but the door won't open. I
figure that my delicate hands and softer touch would unhinge the
lock, but I succeed in still keeping us trapped within the
increasingly smaller four walls.

We buzz for the marketing genius to stop playing games and let us
out. He merely laughs and slips a snack underneath the door in case
we get hungry. Mrs. X calls the building manager while Iris takes a
few half-hearted stabs at the door with a letter opener. Nothing.

If my mother was here, all she would need is a credit card and 2
minutes. The building manager walks through the terrace door his arm
filled with various tools that should save the day. He begins to
stick screwdrivers in the lock. If the door was a person, this would
resemble a very primitive version of operation. He bangs the
screwdrivers with a hammer much like a piano tuner would with a
Steinway. One final tap, and we're free.

Free at last! However, the 5 minute dancing is now the new daily
office ritual. Wednesday I pick the music.