Charlotte

I will be writing the Introduction and designing that page along with..

On this page I hope to compile an assortment of photos, almost in a photo montage with poetry and inspiring quotes that somewhat follow the timeline and story of Alice Sebold. They will include "I'll never forget" by Amy Louise Kerswell and "Missoula Rape Poem" by Marge Piercy.

//Charlotte, This is a great idea (as I told you in class) and also a great start to your page. I'm really interested to see how these different "voices" express different emotions/views about their experiences and how writing might be seen as an act of empowerment for these victims. I don't know if you were planning on adding this to this page or creating another, but I'm equally interested in hearing your "take" on this collection...what are you learning about sexual assault victims and their need to "speak?" Are you noticing common themes, expressions, ideas...I can't wait to see what you do next! ~Erinn//

-Amy Louise Kerswell
 * I'll never forget**

I never forget what happened I'll never forget what they did. They used rape and abuse To have power over me.

I'll always remember Will I ever forget. I long to break free And take back my life. The rape and abuse Has held me back for to long.

One day I will reclaim What was taken from me

-Marge Piercy
 * Missoula Rape Poem**

There is no difference between being raped and being pushed down a flight of cement steps except that the wounds also bleed inside.

There is no difference between being raped and being run over by a truck except that afterwards men ask you if you enjoyed it.

There is no difference between being raped and losing a hand in a mowing machine except the doctors don't want to get involved, the police wear a knowing smirk, and in small towns you become a veteran whore.

There is no difference between being raped and being bitten by a rattlesnake except that people ask if your skirt was short and why you were out anyway.

There is no difference between being raped and going head first through a windshield except that afterwards you are not afraid of cars but of half the human race.

Fear of rape is a cold wind blowing all of the time on a woman's hunched back Never to stroll alone a sand road through pine woods; Never to climb a trail across a bald mountain without that aluminum in the mouth when I see a man climbing towards me.

Never to open the door to a knock without that razor just grazing the throat. The fear of the dark side of the hedges, the back seat of the car, the empty house rattling keys like a snake's warning. The fear of the smiling man in whose pocket is a knife. The fear of the serious man in whose fist is locked hatred.

Letter to a Rapist By Jennifer Littleton

Hello Brian,

It's been a while since we've talked, hasn't it? I'm not sure you even remember me.

I met you at Mardi Gras last February on a cold New Orleans night. I thought you were so nice and clean-cut, the typical college student looking for a good time. You told me you were a senior, and you wanted to go to law school. Was that true? I guess I will never know.

I'll admit, I was attracted to you when we met. You sauntered up, wearing khakis and a Polo shirt, and asked me for a light. I obliged, and we began an animated conversation. We walked through the crowds, enjoying each other's company. You didn't seem interested in the chaos surrounding us, and I was impressed.

I remember when you first kissed me. It was a nice kiss, something you would expect from a guy at the end of a first date. Your lips were soft and gentle, and you blanketed me with the impression of shyness and honesty.

Do you remember my friend taking a picture of us right after we kissed? We were on Bourbon Street, and she surprised us by snapping a shot. In the picture, you are standing behind me, a wide grin on your face. You're eyes are that perfect combination of green and hazel, and your hair is tousled, almost unruly. I'll be honest, you're a good-looking guy. But when I look at that picture now, no matter how gorgeous you may be, I shake with loathing and fear.

You're pretty clever, aren't you? At about 2 a.m. I decided to go back to the hotel. None of my friends were ready to leave, so it seemed thoughtful, Mr. Chivalrous, to offer to walk me back. I should have taken my chances getting mugged instead of trusting you.

When we got back to the hotel, you asked if you could use the toilet in the room because the one in the lobby was broken. Perhaps I was naive to think you didn't want anything more than that.

Do you remember what happened next? You told me you had finally gotten me alone. You took off the khakis and pulled off your shirt with a quick tug. I saw how big you were and began to shake. You're proud of those muscles, aren't you, Brian? I can picture you spending hours at the gym, looking at yourself in the mirror and flexing those strong biceps.

You ordered me to take off my clothes. I was drunk and scared you were going to hurt me if I disobeyed. But, as it turned out, you hurt me anyway, didn't you? You pinched my nipples so hard it brought tears to my eyes. I told you to stop because it was painful, but you just smiled. You pushed me onto the bed and slowly climbed on top of me.

You were so deliberate, Brian, taking your time, as if you thought it was something I was enjoying right along with you. Did you think I enjoyed having my chest bruised? As you were thrusting yourself in and out of me, didn't you notice I was crying and begging you to stop? Did you really think it turned me on when you called me a 'whore'?

The truth is, I couldn't have been more repulsed. I was disgusted with you for the person you had suddenly become. After what seemed an eternity, I decided I had to do something. My body screamed in pain, and I could feel myself beginning to bleed. I was drenched in your sweat, the salt stinging my torn skin.

Do you remember when I quietly asked if I could get us some water? You stopped and allowed me to get up. It's pretty ironic that you trusted me to leave the bedroom. Had you not noticed my tears and my cries?

I closed the bedroom door behind me. I walked into the kitchen and, as if on automatic pilot, called the front desk. The operator sounded far away as I tried to explain that I needed a cop sent to the hotel room. She must have noticed the fear in my voice, because she wanted me to stay on the line.

But I think I hung up, because I don't remember talking long. I walked back to the bedroom and found you still sprawled on the bed.

I remember looking at your face and feeling so ashamed for trusting you. You told me to get back on the bed, and I shook my head no. You started to get up with a menacing look on your face, but the bang at the front door stopped you.

I walked past you, barely missing your arm as you tried to stop me. The cop at the door ordered me to step aside so he could get in, but I told him no. For some reason, I felt the need to kick you out myself. I told the officer to wait at the doorway. You were sitting up and looking at me with a confused expression on your face. By then you probably realized I had called the cops, and you were thinking an arrest was about to be made. But I didn't want you arrested. I just wanted you out of my life. I suppose that's why you became nice again. I ordered you to leave, and you had the nerve to ask me why. There were so many things I wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come out. I just kept crying.

I still can't believe what you said when you left. "No matter what, I know you enjoyed it." There was such contempt in your voice that, for a moment, I thought you were going to hit me. But you just sauntered out, as if nothing had happened, and left me feeling completely destroyed.

I returned to Gainesville the next day and immediately got tested for STD's, pregnancy and AIDS. I was sure you had given me something, since you didn't have the decency to use a condom. But physically I was clean.

I may never understand why, but for some reason, I feel responsible for what happened, as if I could have stopped it somehow or seen it coming. Perhaps if I hadn't kissed you, none of this would have happened.

You repulse me, Brian, and I struggle everyday to remember that you're the one with the problems, not me. I have a hard time dating guys now because it's difficult for me to trust men. I guess I have to believe that your kind is few and far between, and that most men aren't rapists.

You're probably wondering why I wrote this letter. Originally, it was an attempt to tell you how horrible I thought you were. But I'm tired of being angry. I'm trying to forgive you and put this behind me, so I guess this was catharsis. But for some reason, I don't feel any better.

—The girl from Mardi Gras

Write a Letter to Your Rapist You can’t read about me in music reviews. You can’t find my bio on the internet, unless you know me by The Conflicted Redhead. And you don’t. Not Yet.

After you and your buddy raped me on my mother’s bedroom floor, my life spiraled out of control. I was scared to go to school. I was afraid of what people knew. More importantly, I was afraid of what I didn’t know.

You guys really did a number on me. I tidied up the mess by disassociating myself from who I used to be. Acid helped me escape. I was thirteen and dropping LSD most weekends. This put the nail in the coffin of the naive and hopeful girl I was before you raped me.

I changed schools in 11th grade. I became an awesome student. I didn’t have to worry about my secret. I didn’t have to stay on top of what people knew or didn’t know about me. I was finally free of the ghosts. Or so I thought.

After high school, I attended Auburn. When my boyfriend cheated on me, I spiraled out of control. I thought I was going crazy. Normal girls didn’t act like this. What the hell was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I cope with a stupid guy cheating on me? I didn’t know it then, but feeling powerless was and still can be a huge trigger.

I didn’t have this insight at the time. So I coped by partying and skipping classes. I eventually had to move back home. I graduated a few years later from UAB. Things were back on track for me. Sure I hit a few bumps in the road, but I was always able to pick myself up.

In 2003 I had a productive, normal life. I had a career in public relations, a job I loved and a boyfriend who was kind and stable. We started making plans for an April wedding. Then I spiraled out of control.

I was in a bad situation at work with two new supervisors. Both men. Both complete jerks. One of them came into my office, shut the door and told me he couldn’t believe administration had allowed and trusted me to perform my current duties. I immediately went to HR, where I was not protected. I resigned because I saw no other option. I couldn’t leave myself exposed. I had to protect myself from these two men. These two men. These fucking two men. The irony of it all.

The pain I had dulled for so long exploded in my face. It was more intense than ever. This time I couldn’t pick myself up. I couldn’t make things neat and tidy. There would be no April wedding. There would be no new job. There would be no life as I knew it.

I attempted suicide twice, my way of asking for help. I checked into an inpatient program where I received three months of intensive therapy for the crack in my foundation. I wanted to come out of therapy completely repaired. But I didn’t.

Two years later, I’m still struggling with depression. Some days I feel like I have completely disappointed my family. I have lost my independence, my career, my friends, my hobbies, my confidence and time to depression.

The things I lost are important to me. But what I found is just as important. I found a peace of mind. I finally understand me. My behaviors. My actions. My reactions. My feelings. My rage.

I feel good today, like I’m about to blossom. I will live in the moment today, not worrying about tomorrow. I know if tomorrow is a bad day, I will survive to see the next day. I will be okay.

I hesitated to write this letter. I didn’t know how much of my life I wanted to share or how honest I wanted to be. But this letter isn’t really for you guys. It’s entirely for me. I have no more secrets that can hurt me. I am free.