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November 20, 2017

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PRETTY GIRLS WITH PRETTY FEET

November 21, 2017

There is, it would seem, a great sickness in the world. 

 

One’s nationality and creed does not seem to matter, nor does it depend on one’s chosen profession. Ethnicity, gender, and age play no part in increasing or decreasing one’s chances of catching it.

 

The illness is, unfortunately, all around us at any given moment, creeping slowly beneath the surface of our society like a great unfurling cloud. 

 

I speak, of course, of the tumultuous unveiling of that horrible predilection that has plagued humanity from the dawn of our first steps from the swamp and onto solid ground: sexual misconduct. Such a clinical term for the robbing of one’s inner peace and the oft overlooked nightmare that will haunt the survivor for decades.

 

Those close to me know two things: I am slow to anger and I do not abide liars.

 

I detest liars. With every fiber of my being. I find them deplorable, untrustworthy, and undeserving of my attention in every regard.

 

To lie to belie one’s own cowardice. 

 

So when I see an article depicting a young woman raped by a man in a place of authority, a man older than she, a man that knew she was not of age, and a woman with zero knowledge of the situation defending the man, I become disquieted. I see three sides to this story: her’s, his, and the truth. No where within the story is there room for a fourth. Until the truth reveals itself, as truth always does, there should be no third party, no second guessing, no doubt that something untoward was both possible and even likely. For a self-proclaimed feminist to state handily that her writer is not guilty when she was not inside the room wherein this poor soul may or may not have been assaulted at the tender age of 17 is abominable and cruel.

 

If the man proves to be innocent, we have witnessed a horrible lie. If he proves guilty like so many these past few weeks, we have witnessed a horrible truth. The facts will reveal themselves, but it is important to note that statistically, women are raped by men. Often. Much more often than is reported. And statistically, women are not believed. Not by policemen, not by doctors, not by mobs of idiots claiming they are witches. Women are not statistically believed. We are statically beaten, stalked, raped, and lied to. But we are not typically believed or taken seriously. 

 

And so the disease that taunts the women of the world continues to press us into the mattress of life; another freedom fighter bites the dust.

 

I will say this, though. For every #metoo, there is a warrior, a stunning creature hidden in her thoughts, waiting for the right moment to take back her power and strike out against a sickness that tried to steal her glory. And she is not to be taken likely, for as we are repressed, so we rise up. As we are held down, we push up against the cold, hard glass that has kept us silent for so very long. And when we do finally succeed in breaking that doomed barrier, the light of a thousand flames will seem dim in comparison to the flames that will consume this dark disease. They will rip through the drawn curtains of truth and blaze upon the earth until naught but the scorched remains of culpability are left lingering on the soil.

 

Do not disregard a woman that has survived. Do not doubt women. Exalt them, for they will lift you up without hesitation. Love them, for they will soothe the aches within your torturous heart until your body feels whole once more. And believe them. When we believe women, when we truly trust them, the cure for our unbalanced world will be at hand. Get your torches ready, friends. 

 

 

 

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