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Thursday, August 25, 2016

Try, Try AGAIN!


Well here I go again. I am going to try one more time to break through the writers block that has prevented me from writing regularly here on SSS.

Needless to say I have changed a great deal since I created this Blog back in 2009 to document the daily life of a person (me) who was living a life of daily recovery from addiction/alcoholism. My life has changed and I am now a BTK Amputee of my right leg. 

I will still try and document the daily joys and yea...trials and tribulations of recovery from a life threatening injury plus illness that is now well into it's 4th year.

So welcome to my nightmare folks...hold on, it can be a hell of a ride!

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

Naked & Leg-Less

Painting by CORNO

 A Naked & Leg-Less F-ing Blogger, that's what I am....I'm not sure why I just admitted that to the world except one: it's the truth and two: the reason I am sitting here legless and naked is I am frustrated. Why am I frustrated...well a full year and 9 months after my right leg amputation we just cannot get my prosthetic squared away. I had to rip the leg off before I could get to the shower because it was tearing into the skin on my stump.

Trust me having a leg too short or long, causing major discomfort or nearly falling off (happened again just this afternoon while I was doing yard work) can make one miserable no matter how much you try and stay positive...

This whole 3.5 year leg ordeal has nearly killed me a couple of times, frustrated the hell out of me, caused me a lot of pain and devastated us financially...that is the simple truth. Yet one must find a way to press on. Long ago I decided that I was going to find a way to release the negative crap about this and move forward. Yea I admit, my nature is to question, to figure out the reason why. This one stumps me. I'll never know why my life took this fork to the underworld but screw it...I refuse to let it destroy me.

Painting by Corno  http://cornostudio.com/

Thursday, June 9, 2016

I Can't Add A Thing....

She’s known in local newspapers as 23-year-old “Emily Doe” — a pseudonym to protect her privacy amid an emotional court battle in which former Stanford University varsity swimmerBrock Allen Turner was found guilty for her sexual assault.
Prosecutors said that in January 2015, witnesses saw Turner sexually assaulting an unconscious woman behind a dumpster on campus.
The case came to a close Thursday when the judge sentenced Turner to six months in county jail and then probation, and ordered him to register as a sex offender over three sexual assault convictions: assault with the intent to commit rape, sexual penetration with a foreign object of an intoxicated person and sexual penetration with a foreign object of an unconscious person,according to Palo Alto Online.
judge in the case said he understood the “devastation” the victim suffered, but he feared imprisonment would have a “severe” impact on Turner.
Then the victim stood in the packed courtroom in Palo Alto and delivered what Santa Clara County District Attorney Jeff Rosen called “the most eloquent, powerful and compelling piece of victim advocacy that I’ve seen in my 20 years as a prosecutor,” according to Palo Alto Online.
“You took away my worth, my privacy, my energy, my time, my intimacy, my confidence, my own voice, until today,” she read in court from her victim impact statement, according to the Santa Clara County District Attorney’s Office. “The damage is done, no one can undo it. And now we both have a choice. We can let this destroy us, I can remain angry and hurt and you can be in denial, or we can face it head on, I accept the pain, you accept the punishment, and we move on.”
The 12-page letter, which was published by Palo Alto Online and BuzzFeed News, has been released by Santa Clara County.
Your honor,
If it is all right, for the majority of this statement I would like to address the defendant directly.
You don’t know me, but you’ve been inside me, and that’s why we’re here today.
On January 17th, 2015, it was a quiet Saturday night at home. My dad made some dinner and I sat at the table with my younger sister who was visiting for the weekend. I was working full time and it was approaching my bed time. I planned to stay at home by myself, watch some TV and read, while she went to a party with her friends. Then, I decided it was my only night with her, I had nothing better to do, so why not, there’s a dumb party ten minutes from my house, I would go, dance weird like a fool, and embarrass my younger sister. On the way there, I joked that undergrad guys would have braces. My sister teased me for wearing a beige cardigan to a frat party like a librarian. I called myself “big mama”, because I knew I’d be the oldest one there. I made silly faces, let my guard down, and drank liquor too fast not factoring in that my tolerance had significantly lowered since college.
The next thing I remember I was in a gurney in a hallway. I had dried blood and bandages on the backs of my hands and elbow. I thought maybe I had fallen and was in an admin office on campus. I was very calm and wondering where my sister was. A deputy explained I had been assaulted. I still remained calm, assured he was speaking to the wrong person. I knew no one at this party. When I was finally allowed to use the restroom, I pulled down the hospital pants they had given me, went to pull down my underwear, and felt nothing. I still remember the feeling of my hands touching my skin and grabbing nothing. I looked down and there was nothing. The thin piece of fabric, the only thing between my vagina and anything else, was missing and everything inside me was silenced. I still don’t have words for that feeling. In order to keep breathing, I thought maybe the policemen used scissors to cut them off for evidence.
Then, I felt pine needles scratching the back of my neck and started pulling them out my hair. I thought maybe, the pine needles had fallen from a tree onto my head. My brain was talking my gut into not collapsing. Because my gut was saying, help me, help me.
I shuffled from room to room with a blanket wrapped around me, pine needles trailing behind me, I left a little pile in every room I sat in. I was asked to sign papers that said “Rape Victim” and I thought something has really happened. My clothes were confiscated and I stood naked while the nurses held a ruler to various abrasions on my body and photographed them. The three of us worked to comb the pine needles out of my hair, six hands to fill one paper bag. To calm me down, they said it’s just the flora and fauna, flora and fauna. I had multiple swabs inserted into my vagina and anus, needles for shots, pills, had a nikon pointed right into my spread legs. I had long, pointed beaks inside me and had my vagina smeared with cold, blue paint to check for abrasions.
After a few hours of this, they let me shower. I stood there examining my body beneath the stream of water and decided, I don’t want my body anymore. I was terrified of it, I didn’t know what had been in it, if it had been contaminated, who had touched it. I wanted to take off my body like a jacket and leave it at the hospital with everything else.
On that morning, all that I was told was that I had been found behind a dumpster, potentially penetrated by a stranger, and that I should get retested for HIV because results don’t always show up immediately. But for now, I should go home and get back to my normal life. Imagine stepping back into the world with only that information. They gave me huge hugs, and then I walked out of the hospital into the parking lot wearing the new sweatshirt and sweatpants they provided me, as they had only allowed me to keep my necklace and shoes.
My sister picked me up, face wet from tears and contorted in anguish. Instinctively and immediately, I wanted to take away her pain. I smiled at her, I told her to look at me, I’m right here, I’m okay, everything’s okay, I’m right here. My hair is washed and clean, they gave me the strangest shampoo, calm down, and look at me. Look at these funny new sweatpants and sweatshirt, I look like a P.E. teacher, let’s go home, let’s eat something. She did not know that beneath my sweats, I had scratches and bandages on my skin, my vagina was sore and had become a strange, dark color from all the prodding, my underwear was missing, and I felt too empty to continue to speak. That I was also afraid, that I was also devastated. That day we drove home and for hours my sister held me.
My boyfriend did not know what happened, but called that day and said, “I was really worried about you last night, you scared me, did you make it home okay?” I was horrified. That’s when I learned I had called him that night in my blackout, left an incomprehensible voicemail, that we had also spoken on the phone, but I was slurring so heavily he was scared for me, that he repeatedly told me to go find my sister. Again, he asked me, “What happened last night? Did you make it home okay?” I said yes, and hung up to cry.
I was not ready to tell my boyfriend or parents that actually, I may have been raped behind a dumpster, but I don’t know by who or when or how. If I told them, I would see the fear on their faces, and mine would multiply by tenfold, so instead I pretended the whole thing wasn’t real.
I tried to push it out of my mind, but it was so heavy I didn’t talk, I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep, I didn’t interact with anyone. After work, I would drive to a secluded place to scream. I didn’t talk, I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep, I didn’t interact with anyone, and I became isolated from the ones I loved most. For one week after the incident, I didn’t get any calls or updates about that night or what happened to me. The only symbol that proved that it hadn’t just been a bad dream, was the sweatshirt from the hospital in my drawer.
One day, I was at work, scrolling through the news on my phone, and came across an article. In it, I read and learned for the first time about how I was found unconscious, with my hair disheveled, long necklace wrapped around my neck, bra pulled out of my dress, dress pulled off over my shoulders and pulled up above my waist, that I was butt naked all the way down to my boots, legs spread apart, and had been penetrated by a foreign object by someone I did not recognize. This was how I learned what happened to me, sitting at my desk reading the news at work. I learned what happened to me the same time everyone else in the world learned what happened to me. That’s when the pine needles in my hair made sense, they didn’t fall from a tree. He had taken off my underwear, his fingers had been inside of me. I don’t even know this person. I still don’t know this person. When I read about me like this, I said, this can’t be me.
This can’t be me. I could not digest or accept any of this information. I could not imagine my family having to read about this online. I kept reading. In the next paragraph, I read something that I will never forgive; I read that according to him, I liked it. I liked it. Again, I do not have words for these feelings.
At the bottom of the article, after I learned about the graphic details of my own sexual assault, the article listed his swimming times. She was found breathing, unresponsive with her underwear six inches away from her bare stomach curled in fetal position. By the way, he’s really good at swimming. Throw in my mile time if that’s what we’re doing. I’m good at cooking, put that in there, I think the end is where you list your extra-curriculars to cancel out all the sickening things that’ve happened.
The night the news came out I sat my parents down and told them that I had been assaulted, to not look at the news because it’s upsetting, just know that I’m okay, I’m right here, and I’m okay. But halfway through telling them, my mom had to hold me because I could no longer stand up. I was not okay.
The night after it happened, he said he didn’t know my name, said he wouldn’t be able to identify my face in a lineup, didn’t mention any dialogue between us, no words, only dancing and kissing. Dancing is a cute term; was it snapping fingers and twirling dancing, or just bodies grinding up against each other in a crowded room? I wonder if kissing was just faces sloppily pressed up against each other? When the detective asked if he had planned on taking me back to his dorm, he said no. When the detective asked how we ended up behind the dumpster, he said he didn’t know. He admitted to kissing other girls at that party, one of whom was my own sister who pushed him away. He admitted to wanting to hook up with someone. I was the wounded antelope of the herd, completely alone and vulnerable, physically unable to fend for myself, and he chose me. Sometimes I think, if I hadn’t gone, then this never would’ve happened. But then I realized, it would have happened, just to somebody else. You were about to enter four years of access to drunk girls and parties, and if this is the foot you started off on, then it is right you did not continue.
The night after it happened, he said he thought I liked it because I rubbed his back. A back rub. Never mentioned me voicing consent, never mentioned us speaking, a back rub.
One more time, in public news, I learned that my [buttocks] and vagina were completely exposed outside, my breasts had been groped, fingers had been jabbed inside me along with pine needles and debris, my bare skin and head had been rubbing against the ground behind a dumpster, while an erect freshman was humping my half naked, unconscious body. But I don’t remember, so how do I prove I didn’t like it.
I thought there’s no way this is going to trial; there were witnesses, there was dirt in my body, he ran but was caught. He’s going to settle, formally apologize, and we will both move on. Instead, I was told he hired a powerful attorney, expert witnesses, private investigators who were going to try and find details about my personal life to use against me, find loopholes in my story to invalidate me and my sister, in order to show that this sexual assault was in fact a misunderstanding. That he was going to go to any length to convince the world he had simply been confused.
I was not only told that I was assaulted, I was told that because I couldn’t remember, I technically could not prove it was unwanted. And that distorted me, damaged me, almost broke me. It is the saddest type of confusion to be told I was assaulted and nearly raped, blatantly out in the open, but we don’t know if it counts as assault yet. I had to fight for an entire year to make it clear that there was something wrong with this situation.
When I was told to be prepared in case we didn’t win, I said, I can’t prepare for that. He was guilty the minute I woke up. No one can talk me out of the hurt he caused me. Worst of all, I was warned, because he now knows you don’t remember, he is going to get to write the script. He can say whatever he wants and no one can contest it. I had no power, I had no voice, I was defenseless. My memory loss would be used against me. My testimony was weak, was incomplete, and I was made to believe that perhaps, I am not enough to win this. That’s so damaging. His attorney constantly reminded the jury, the only one we can believe is Brock, because she doesn’t remember. That helplessness was traumatizing.
Instead of taking time to heal, I was taking time to recall the night in excruciating detail, in order to prepare for the attorney’s questions that would be invasive, aggressive, and designed to steer me off course, to contradict myself, my sister, phrased in ways to manipulate my answers. Instead of his attorney saying, Did you notice any abrasions? He said, You didn’t notice any abrasions, right? This was a game of strategy, as if I could be tricked out of my own worth. The sexual assault had been so clear, but instead, here I was at the trial, answering question like:
How old are you? How much do you weigh? What did you eat that day? Well what did you have for dinner? Who made dinner? Did you drink with dinner? No, not even water? When did you drink? How much did you drink? What container did you drink out of? Who gave you the drink? How much do you usually drink? Who dropped you off at this party? At what time? But where exactly? What were you wearing? Why were you going to this party? What’d you do when you got there? Are you sure you did that? But what time did you do that? What does this text mean? Who were you texting? When did you urinate? Where did you urinate? With whom did you urinate outside? Was your phone on silent when your sister called? Do you remember silencing it? Really because on page 53 I’d like to point out that you said it was set to ring. Did you drink in college? You said you were a party animal? How many times did you black out? Did you party at frats? Are you serious with your boyfriend? Are you sexually active with him? When did you start dating? Would you ever cheat? Do you have a history of cheating? What do you mean when you said you wanted to reward him? Do you remember what time you woke up? Were you wearing your cardigan? What color was your cardigan? Do you remember any more from that night? No? Okay, we’ll let Brock fill it in.
I was pummeled with narrowed, pointed questions that dissected my personal life, love life, past life, family life, inane questions, accumulating trivial details to try and find an excuse for this guy who didn’t even take the time to ask me for my name, who had me naked a handful of minutes after seeing me. After a physical assault, I was assaulted with questions designed to attack me, to say see, her facts don’t line up, she’s out of her mind, she’s practically an alcoholic, she probably wanted to hook up, he’s like an athlete right, they were both drunk, whatever, the hospital stuff she remembers is after the fact, why take it into account, Brock has a lot at stake so he’s having a really hard time right now.
And then it came time for him to testify. This is where I became revictimized. I want to remind you, the night after it happened he said he never planned to take me back to his dorm. He said he didn’t know why we were behind a dumpster. He got up to leave because he wasn’t feeling well when he was suddenly chased and attacked. Then he learned I could not remember.
So one year later, as predicted, a new dialogue emerged. Brock had a strange new story, almost sounded like a poorly written young adult novel with kissing and dancing and hand holding and lovingly tumbling onto the ground, and most importantly in this new story, there was suddenly consent. One year after the incident, he remembered, oh yeah, by the way she actually said yes, to everything, so.
He said he had asked if I wanted to dance. Apparently I said yes. He’d asked if I wanted to go to his dorm, I said yes. Then he asked if he could finger me and I said yes. Most guys don’t ask, Can I finger you? Usually there’s a natural progression of things, unfolding consensually, not a Q and A. But apparently I granted full permission. He’s in the clear.
Even in this story, there’s barely any dialogue; I only said a total of three words before he had me half naked on the ground. I have never been penetrated after three words. He didn’t claim to hear me speak one full sentence that night, so in the news when it says we “met”, I’m not sure I would go so far as to say that. Future reference, if you are confused about whether a girl can consent, see if she can speak an entire sentence. You couldn’t even do that. Just one coherent string of words. If she can’t do that, then no. Don’t touch her, just no. Not maybe, just no. Where was the confusion? This is common sense, human decency.
According to him, the only reason we were on the ground was because I fell down. Note; if a girl falls help her get back up. If she is too drunk to even walk and falls, do not mount her, hump her, take off her underwear, and insert your hand inside her vagina. If a girl falls help her up. If she is wearing a cardigan over her dress don’t take it off so that you can touch her breasts. Maybe she is cold, maybe that’s why she wore the cardigan. If her bare [buttocks] and legs are rubbing the pinecones and needles, while the weight of you pushes into her, get off her.
Next in the story, two people approached you. You ran because you said you felt scared. I argue that you were scared because you’d be caught, not because you were scared of two terrifying Swedish grad students. The idea that you thought you were being attacked out of the blue was ludicrous. That it had nothing to do with you being on top my unconscious body. You were caught red handed, with no explanation. When they tackled you why didn’t say, “Stop! Everything’s okay, go ask her, she’s right over there, she’ll tell you.” I mean you had just asked for my consent, right? I was awake, right? When the policeman arrived and interviewed the evil Swede who tackled you, he was crying so hard he couldn’t speak because of what he’d seen. Also, if you really did think they were dangerous, you just abandoned a half-naked girl to run and save yourself. No matter which way you frame it, it doesn’t make sense.
Your attorney has repeatedly pointed out, well we don’t know exactly when she became unconscious. And you’re right, maybe I was still fluttering my eyes and wasn’t completely limp yet, fine. His guilt did not depend on him knowing the exact second that I became unconscious, that is never what this was about. I was slurring, too drunk to consent way before I was on the ground. I should have never been touched in the first place. Brock stated, “At no time did I see that she was not responding. If at any time I thought she was not responding, I would have stopped immediately.” Here’s the thing; if your plan was to stop only when I was literally unresponsive, then you still do not understand. You didn’t even stop when I was unconscious anyway! Someone else stopped you. Two guys on bikes noticed I wasn’t moving in the dark and had to tackle you. How did you not notice while on top of me?
You said, you would have stopped and gotten help. You say that, but I want you to explain how you would’ve helped me, step by step, walk me through this. I want to know, if those evil Swedes had not found me, how the night would have played out. I am asking you; Would you have pulled my underwear back on over my boots? Untangled the necklace wrapped around my neck? Closed my legs, covered me? Tucked my bra back into my dress? Would you have helped me pick the needles from my hair? Asked if the abrasions on my neck and bottom hurt? Would you then go find a friend and say, Will you help me get her somewhere warm and soft? I don’t sleep when I think about the way it could have gone if the Swedes had never come. What would have happened to me? That’s what you’ll never have a good answer for, that’s what you can’t explain even after a year.
To sit under oath and inform all of us, that yes I wanted it, yes I permitted it, and that you are the true victim attacked by guys for reasons unknown to you is sick, is demented, is selfish, is stupid. It shows that you were willing to go to any length, to discredit me, invalidate me, and explain why it was okay to hurt me. You tried unyieldingly to save yourself, your reputation, at my expense.
My family had to see pictures of my head strapped to a gurney full of pine needles, of my body in the dirt with my eyes closed, dress hiked up, limbs limp in the dark. And then even after that, my family had to listen to your attorney say, the pictures were after the fact, we can dismiss them. To say, yes her nurse confirmed there was redness and abrasions inside her, but that’s what happens when you finger someone, and he’s already admitted to that. To listen to him use my own sister against me. To listen him attempt to paint of a picture of me, the seductive party animal, as if somehow that would make it so that I had this coming for me. To listen to him say I sounded drunk on the phone because I’m silly and that’s my goofy way of speaking. To point out that in the voicemail, I said I would reward my boyfriend and we all know what I was thinking. I assure you my rewards program is non-transferable, especially to any nameless man that approaches me.
The point is, this is everything my family and I endured during the trial. This is everything I had to sit through silently, taking it, while he shaped the evening. It is enough to be suffering. It is another thing to have someone ruthlessly working to diminish the gravity and validity of this suffering. But in the end, his unsupported statements and his attorney’s twisted logic fooled no one. The truth won, the truth spoke for itself.
You are guilty. Twelve jurors convicted you guilty of three felony counts beyond reasonable doubt, that’s twelve votes per count, thirty-six yeses confirming guilt, that’s one hundred percent, unanimous guilt. And I thought finally it is over, finally he will own up to what he did, truly apologize, we will both move on and get better. Then I read your statement.
If you are hoping that one of my organs will implode from anger and I will die, I’m almost there. You are very close. Assault is not an accident. This is not a story of another drunk college hookup with poor decision making. Somehow, you still don’t get it. Somehow, you still sound confused.
I will now take this opportunity to read portions of the defendant’s statement and respond to them.
You said, Being drunk I just couldn’t make the best decisions and neither could she. 
Alcohol is not an excuse. Is it a factor? Yes. But alcohol was not the one who stripped me, fingered me, had my head dragging against the ground, with me almost fully naked. Having too much to drink was an amateur mistake that I admit to, but it is not criminal. Everyone in this room has had a night where they have regretted drinking too much, or knows someone close to them who has had a night where they have regretted drinking too much. Regretting drinking is not the same as regretting sexual assault. We were both drunk, the difference is I did not take off your pants and underwear, touch you inappropriately, and run away. That’s the difference.
You said, If I wanted to get to know her, I should have asked for her number, rather than asking her to go back to my room.
I’m not mad because you didn’t ask for my number. Even if you did know me, I would not want [to] be in this situation. My own boyfriend knows me, but if he asked to finger me behind a dumpster, I would slap him. No girl wants to be in this situation. Nobody. I don’t care if you know their phone number or not.
You said, I stupidly thought it was okay for me to do what everyone around me was doing, which was drinking. I was wrong.
Again, you were not wrong for drinking. Everyone around you was not sexually assaulting me. You were wrong for doing what nobody else was doing, which was pushing your erect [penis] in your pants against my naked, defenseless body concealed in a dark area, where partygoers could no longer see or protect me, and own my sister could not find me. Sipping fireball is not your crime. Peeling off and discarding my underwear like a candy wrapper to insert your finger into my body, is where you went wrong. Why am I still explaining this.
You said, During the trial I didn’t want to victimize her at all. That was just my attorney and his way of approaching the case.
Your attorney is not your scapegoat, he represents you. Did your attorney say some incredulously infuriating, degrading things? Absolutely. He said you had an erection, because it was cold. I have no words.
You said, you are in the process of establishing a program for high school and college students in which you speak about your experience to “speak out against the college campus drinking culture and the sexual promiscuity that goes along with that.”
Speak out against campus drinking culture. That’s what we’re speaking out against? You think that’s what I’ve spent the past year fighting for? Not awareness about campus sexual assault, or rape, or learning to recognize consent. Campus drinking culture. Down with Jack Daniels. Down with Skyy Vodka. If you want talk to high school kids about drinking go to an AA meeting. You realize, having a drinking problem is different than drinking and then forcefully trying to have sex with someone? Show men how to respect women, not how to drink less.
Drinking culture and the sexual promiscuity that goes along with that. Goes along with that, like a side effect, like fries on the side of your order. Where does promiscuity even come into play? I don’t see headlines that read, Brock Turner, Guilty of drinking too much and the sexual promiscuity that goes along with that. Campus [Sexual] Assault. There’s your first powerpoint slide.
I have done enough explaining. You do not get to shrug your shoulders and be confused anymore. You do not get to pretend that there were no red flags. You do not get to not know why you ran. You have been convicted of violating me with malicious intent, and all you can admit to is consuming alcohol. Do not talk about the sad way your life was upturned because alcohol made you do bad things. Figure out how to take responsibility for your own conduct.
Lastly you said, I want to show people that one night of drinking can ruin a life.
Ruin a life, one life, yours, you forgot about mine. Let me rephrase for you, I want to show people that one night of drinking can ruin two lives. You and me. You are the cause, I am the effect. You have dragged me through this hell with you, dipped me back into that night again and again. You knocked down both our towers, I collapsed at the same time you did. Your damage was concrete; stripped of titles, degrees, enrollment. My damage was internal, unseen, I carry it with me. You took away my worth, my privacy, my energy, my time, my safety, my intimacy, my confidence, my own voice, until today.
See one thing we have in common is that we were both unable to get up in the morning. I am no stranger to suffering. You made me a victim. In newspapers my name was “unconscious intoxicated woman”, ten syllables, and nothing more than that. For a while, I believed that that was all I was. I had to force myself to relearn my real name, my identity. To relearn that this is not all that I am. That I am not just a drunk victim at a frat party found behind a dumpster, while you are the All-American swimmer at a top university, innocent until proven guilty, with so much at stake. I am a human being who has been irreversibly hurt, who waited a year to figure out if I was worth something.
My independence, natural joy, gentleness, and steady lifestyle I had been enjoying became distorted beyond recognition. I became closed off, angry, self-deprecating, tired, irritable, empty. The isolation at times was unbearable. You cannot give me back the life I had before that night either. While you worry about your shattered reputation, I refrigerated spoons every night so when I woke up, and my eyes were puffy from crying, I would hold the spoons to my eyes to lessen the swelling so that I could see. I showed up an hour late to work every morning, excused myself to cry in the stairwells, I can tell you all the best places in that building to cry where no one can hear you, the pain became so bad that I had to tell my boss I was leaving, I needed time because continuing day to day was not possible. I used my savings to go as far away as I could possibly be.
I can’t sleep alone at night without having a light on, like a five year old, because I have nightmares of being touched where I cannot wake up, I did this thing where I waited until the sun came up and I felt safe enough to sleep. For three months, I went to bed at six o’clock in the morning.
I used to pride myself on my independence, now I am afraid to go on walks in the evening, to attend social events with drinking among friends where I should be comfortable being. I have become a little barnacle always needing to be at someone’s side, to have my boyfriend standing next to me, sleeping beside me, protecting me. It is embarrassing how feeble I feel, how timidly I move through life, always guarded, ready to defend myself, ready to be angry.
You have no idea how hard I have worked to rebuild parts of me that are still weak. It took me eight months to even talk about what happened. I could no longer connect with friends, with everyone around me. I would scream at my boyfriend, my own family whenever they brought this up. You never let me forget what happened to me. At the of end of the hearing, the trial, I was too tired to speak. I would leave drained, silent. I would go home turn off my phone and for days I would not speak. You bought me a ticket to a planet where I lived by myself. Every time a new article [would] come out, I lived with the paranoia that my entire hometown would find out and know me as the girl who got assaulted. I didn’t want anyone’s pity and am still learning to accept victim as part of my identity. You made my own hometown an uncomfortable place to be.
Someday, you can pay me back for my ambulance ride and therapy. But you cannot give me back my sleepless nights. The way I have broken down sobbing uncontrollably if I’m watching a movie and a woman is harmed, to say it lightly, this experience has expanded my empathy for other victims. I have lost weight from stress, when people would comment I told them I’ve been running a lot lately. There are times I did not want to be touched. I have to relearn that I am not fragile, I am capable, I am wholesome, not just livid and weak.
I want to say this. All the crying, the hurting you have imposed on me, I can take it. But when I see my younger sister hurting, when she is unable to keep up in school, when she is deprived of joy, when she is not sleeping, when she is crying so hard on the phone she is barely breathing, telling me over and over she is sorry for leaving me alone that night, sorry sorry sorry, when she feels more guilt than you, then I do not forgive you. That night I had called her to try and find her, but you found me first. Your attorney’s closing statement began, “My sister said she was fine and who knows her better than her sister.” You tried to use my own sister against me. Your points of attack were so weak, so low, it was almost embarrassing. You do not touch her.
If you think I was spared, came out unscathed, that today I ride off into sunset, while you suffer the greatest blow, you are mistaken. Nobody wins. We have all been devastated, we have all been trying to find some meaning in all of this suffering.
You should have never done this to me. Secondly, you should have never made me fight so long to tell you, you should have never done this to me. But here we are. The damage is done, no one can undo it. And now we both have a choice. We can let this destroy us, I can remain angry and hurt and you can be in denial, or we can face it head on, I accept the pain, you accept the punishment, and we move on.
Your life is not over, you have decades of years ahead to rewrite your story. The world is huge, it is so much bigger than Palo Alto and Stanford, and you will make a space for yourself in it where you can be useful and happy. Right now your name is tainted, so I challenge you to make a new name for yourself, to do something so good for the world, it blows everyone away. You have a brain and a voice and a heart. Use them wisely. You possess immense love from your family. That alone can pull you out of anything. Mine has held me up through all of this. Yours will hold you and you will go on.
I believe, that one day, you will understand all of this better. I hope you will become a better more honest person who can properly use this story to prevent another story like this from ever happening again. I fully support your journey to healing, to rebuilding your life, because that is the only way you’ll begin to help others.
Now to address the sentencing. When I read the probation officer’s report, I was in disbelief, consumed by anger which eventually quieted down to profound sadness. My statements have been slimmed down to distortion and taken out of context. I fought hard during this trial and will not have the outcome minimized by a probation officer who attempted to evaluate my current state and my wishes in a fifteen minute conversation, the majority of which was spent answering questions I had about the legal system. The context is also important. Brock had yet to issue a statement, and I had not read his remarks.
My life has been on hold for over a year, a year of anger, anguish and uncertainty, until a jury of my peers rendered a judgment that validated the injustices I had endured. Had Brock admitted guilt and remorse and offered to settle early on, I would have considered a lighter sentence, respecting his honesty, grateful to be able to move our lives forward. Instead he took the risk of going to trial, added insult to injury and forced me to relive the hurt as details about my personal life and sexual assault were brutally dissected before the public. He pushed me and my family through a year of inexplicable, unnecessary suffering, and should face the consequences of challenging his crime, of putting my pain into question, of making us wait so long for justice.
I told the probation officer I do not want Brock to rot away in prison. I did not say he does not deserve to be behind bars. The probation officer’s recommendation of a year or less in county jail is a soft time-out, a mockery of the seriousness of his assaults, and of the consequences of the pain I have been forced to endure. I also told the probation officer that what I truly wanted was for Brock to get it, to understand and admit to his wrongdoing.
Unfortunately, after reading the defendant’s statement, I am severely disappointed and feel that he has failed to exhibit sincere remorse or responsibility for his conduct. I fully respected his right to a trial, but even after twelve jurors unanimously convicted him guilty of three felonies, all he has admitted to doing is ingesting alcohol. Someone who cannot take full accountability for his actions does not deserve a mitigating sentence. It is deeply offensive that he would try and dilute rape with a suggestion of promiscuity. By definition rape is the absence of promiscuity, rape is the absence of consent, and it perturbs me deeply that he can’t even see that distinction.
The probation officer factored in that the defendant is youthful and has no prior convictions. In my opinion, he is old enough to know what he did was wrong. When you are eighteen in this country you can go to war. When you are nineteen, you are old enough to pay the consequences for attempting to rape someone. He is young, but he is old enough to know better.
As this is a first offense I can see where leniency would beckon. On the other hand, as a society, we cannot forgive everyone’s first sexual assault or digital rape. It doesn’t make sense. The seriousness of rape has to be communicated clearly, we should not create a culture that suggests we learn that rape is wrong through trial and error. The consequences of sexual assault needs to be severe enough that people feel enough fear to exercise good judgment even if they are drunk, severe enough to be preventative. The fact that Brock was a star athlete at a prestigious university should not be seen as an entitlement to leniency, but as an opportunity to send a strong cultural message that sexual assault is against the law regardless of social class.
The probation officer weighed the fact that he has surrendered a hard earned swimming scholarship. If I had been sexually assaulted by an un-athletic guy from a community college, what would his sentence be? If a first time offender from an underprivileged background was accused of three felonies and displayed no accountability for his actions other than drinking, what would his sentence be? How fast he swims does not lessen the impact of what happened to me.
The Probation Officer has stated that this case, when compared to other crimes of similar nature, may be considered less serious due to the defendant’s level of intoxication. It felt serious. That’s all I’m going to say.
He is a lifetime sex registrant. That doesn’t expire. Just like what he did to me doesn’t expire, doesn’t just go away after a set number of years. It stays with me, it’s part of my identity, it has forever changed the way I carry myself, the way I live the rest of my life.
A year has gone by and he has had lots of time on his hands. Has he been seeing a psychologist? What has he done in this past year to show he’s been progressing? If he says he wants to implement programs, what has he done to show for it?
Throughout incarceration I hope he is provided with appropriate therapy and resources to rebuild his life. I request that he educates himself about the issue of campus sexual assault. I hope he accepts proper punishment and pushes himself to reenter society as a better person.
To conclude, I want to say thank you. To everyone from the intern who made me oatmeal when I woke up at the hospital that morning, to the deputy who waited beside me, to the nurses who calmed me, to the detective who listened to me and never judged me, to my advocates who stood unwaveringly beside me, to my therapist who taught me to find courage in vulnerability, to my boss for being kind and understanding, to my incredible parents who teach me how to turn pain into strength, to my friends who remind me how to be happy, to my boyfriend who is patient and loving, to my unconquerable sister who is the other half of my heart, to Alaleh, my idol, who fought tirelessly and never doubted me. Thank you to everyone involved in the trial for their time and attention. Thank you to girls across the nation that wrote cards to my DA to give to me, so many strangers who cared for me.
Most importantly, thank you to the two men who saved me, who I have yet to meet. I sleep with two bicycles that I drew taped above my bed to remind myself there are heroes in this story. That we are looking out for one another. To have known all of these people, to have felt their protection and love, is something I will never forget.
And finally, to girls everywhere, I am with you. On nights when you feel alone, I am with you. When people doubt you or dismiss you, I am with you. I fought everyday for you. So never stop fighting, I believe you. Lighthouses don’t go running all over an island looking for boats to save; they just stand there shining. Although I can’t save every boat, I hope that by speaking today, you absorbed a small amount of light, a small knowing that you can’t be silenced, a small satisfaction that justice was served, a small assurance that we are getting somewhere, and a big, big knowing that you are important, unquestionably, you are untouchable, you are beautiful, you are to be valued, respected, undeniably, every minute of every day, you are powerful and nobody can take that away from you. To girls everywhere, I am with you. Thank you.

Friday, May 13, 2016

Seething...


Some days life just moves along and it is what it is...interesting or exciting, fun maybe intense, sometimes stressful... etc. And after nearly 54 of life and living, often on the very edge of flaming out, I have learned that things rarely stay the same. Suffer through a bad stretch...no worries...the sun will rise and tomorrow is another day. So I have always acted accordingly....and mostly don't stress the small stuff. When one of life's major crisis's comes along I always seem to go auto pilot and do what I have to do. If there is a suddenly a tragedy or major crisis...I seem to just be at my best. 

I am not bragging...trust me it is probably that I have a great deal of experience dealing with such events: Losing my 3 closest friends and my very first "real"love (and girlfriend Debbie) in the very same auto accident. Compounding the shock and heartbreak was the fact that I had committed to going with them and backed out at the last minute with a lie....a made up excuse because I felt like I shouldn't go. Did that feeling save my life...perhaps, except I was abstaining from drugs and alcohol at the time and I was not the type to let a drunk person drive when I was sober. So I've always felt like my decision to back out and accompanying lie killed them and the innocent WWII veteran that also died when they crossed the center line of two lane Hard Rd (in Columbus, Ohio) and all four died. I carried that guilt around for decades....until I sought therapy for being sexually assaulted at the age of 12 and the story came out one day while talking to my therapist, who was treating me for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

So I have been through a lot and usually manage to stay positive, creative, thoughtful, active and a lover of life....except that now I am struggling to do so. The last three years of surgeries (31 full blown operations), hospital stays (over 70 days), life threatening Infections that seemingly were immune to treatment, my normal terminal pain (a result of a severe auto accident at age 17) and finally the amputation in December 2014 of my right leg below the knee have taken away everything but the last shred of....HOPE.

Those medical issues led directly to financial ruin and ultimately all of this has moved me from a realistic yet positive leaning, a believer in God (or call it a Higher Power in the earlier days) to a realist who sees and thinks and feels intensely about the never ending darkness his life has now entered. 

As a teenager and young man I never trusted anyone, having been terribly hurt by certain experiences. But as I endured and learned and persevered....I continued to live... because I would not give in to the Darkness. I then slowly began to trust, to forgive and ultimately to truly love people for the very first time in my life. It was an epiphany and it changed me forever...I was so grateful for that change too because I had seen so many people struggle and give up...to addictions, to suicide, Insanity or they just went away in their minds...lost in fear, hate, mistrust or anger. I knew I didn't want to experience that again and felt free from those feelings for the first time in my life.

But now....I find myself drifting back...I talk it out, I'll share my feelings,I am honest and try to work through difficult times but I only find myself NUMB. But these last four years have been one long, un-ending NIGHTMARE. The physical pain is unbearable and treatments now are no longer effective. Even when I have done the right thing...tragedy prevails.

I am feeling my soul slip away...at first in tiny increments but now I go numb and realize later that I am shutting down emotionally, psychologically, spiritually as my physical body is beaten down by illness, injury and the subsequent treatment for those injuries/illnesses. I am beginning to stop caring.

Then a couple weeks ago a friend I have know since first grade or so takes his own life and that stark truth devastates me.I am one of those strange souls who can accept and understand his own suicide but never will "get" the suicide of others. I was very ill at the time and did not learn of it until several days later. My first thought was what if he tried to reach me, to talk, to vent...anything and I was unavailable because of my health. I would never been able to forgive myself. Turns out he did not try to reach ANYONE but his passing added another brick to my emotional tomb.

When I feel down...hard, unforgivable and lost I tend to find music that expresses these things. I lose myself in it and have often come out the other side feeling better for it. Here are two songs the I am lost in right now.




I

I Know people don't like to hear hard truths sometimes...it is easier to navigate life putting on a happy face. Sorry....not my style and quite frankly, finding a method to express this chaos inside is often the very thing that saves me. I am hoping for that result once again because the nightmares have returned and now I actually seem to be living them. Life has a hard, brutal side to it...and right now within me....it is winning.


Thursday, February 18, 2016

Setting The Record Straight


Today I noticed as I was going through Facebook that there was a post, critical of President Obama' funeral attending practices circulating around. Of course these days, that in itself is nothing unusual. One of the reasons it criticized Obama was  because he had attended the funeral of Senator Daniel Inouye and that this was bad because the Senator was a Democrat and worse...A Liberal. Plus the President had the gall to actually shed tears over the death of this Liberal Monster, truly a super bad person!

This kind of stuff makes me sick because it is blatantly ignoring the truth about this great American and others but it distorts history as well. In our country today we must stop judging people solely because of their political leanings. In doing so, more often then not we let our emotional hysteria distort and even obscure the TRUTH. Certainly this is true in this particular instance.

Senator Inouye served his country honorably as a US Senator from Hawaii for nearly 50 years. Yes he was a Democrat but did you know that as a young man he won the Congressional Medal of Honor, the Bronze Star and other decorations for Valor in WWII as a Captain in the 442nd Regimental Combat Team. The 442nd RCT is one of the most highly decorated units in US Army HISTORY! One of this man's closest life-long friends was fellow Combat Veteran and US Senator Bob Dole...a Republican who served honorably and even ran for President.
Daniel Inouye Official Photo 2009.jpg
The Unit itself is truly remarkable as were many of the brave young men who filled it's ranks. Like Sen. Inouye, members were 2nd generation Americans of Japanese decent...a group that was extremely unpopular following in the wake of the attack on Pearl Harbor in December 1941. Many had family members who were detained in relocation camps, often for the duration of the war. Given the opportunity to enlist, the future Senator volunteered into the 442nd and saw service in the European Theater until he was seriously wounded late in the war. The Unit was not initially trusted to fight the Japanese for fear they might find it difficult to kill members of their own race. In truth more loyal and dedicated men would be hard to find ANYWHERE. These were some real BAD-ASS Soldiers, as good as we had in combat in any Theater...European or Pacific.

Young Inyouye and his unit first saw action in Italy and then later was transferred to The Vosges Mountain region of Southern France where in April of 1945 he  was terribly wounded in action and was later awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for his actions in that fight. His wounds resulted in the amputation of his right arm. So he served the rest of his life as a disabled Veteran as well.

My point in stating all this (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daniel_Inouye) is to remind us all that we cannot define a person because of the political party they belong to. It certainly does not define the type of human being they are and certainly does NOT in this man's case. He happens to be someone that I have always admired for his character and determination....RIP Captain Inouye.

Tuesday, February 16, 2016

Seeing In The DARK

 Blonde sur Fond DorĂ© by CORNO
I have discovered that long illnesses/recovery periods can actually have a kind of half-assed fringe-benefit in that they can give even a very busy, tight-scheduled person a forced moment of pause...some time too think, to feel....perhaps reflect. I'll admit at this stage of the game I have had WAY more reflection/thinking time then I could ever truly use. I know that this time has allowed me to see what I really appreciate in life and how I could perhaps take better advantage of certain opportunity and yes even adversity. I do see adversity...Yea PROBLEMS as potential opportunities to do life better then before. At least learn from my mistakes....

I never remember a point in my life when I did not have a passionate love affair with art...particularly painting...on canvas, paper wood or really anything. Oils, acrylic, watercolor even forms of mixed media. I tend to lean toward Impressionist works, modern painting along the lines of Matisse, Picasso and my new favorite Canadian artist Corno (Joanne Corneau). I also enjoy the work of an artist I went to High School with Cathy Frick whose paintings of Poppies particularly enchant me. 

Honestly I don't know how I would have survived these past three years of hospitals, surgery, rehab and extended periods of time in bed without my love of art and reading. I spent hour after hour enjoying both for days on end. I'll cop to watching much more television then before but I also enjoyed these other pursuits. 
Blonde on Black by CORNO
My world took on a different hue, I began to see things for other perspectives and to start challenging things I took for granted for years. It is like injury inverted the entire world and I began to see and feel things from the inside-out or from the down-side....up. 

It is one way I can justify what initially felt like a terrible loss of time....Planet living time....the search for TRUTH Time. To me, there is little more criminal then wasting time on the planet. I truly believe we exist for a reason...not just to take up space or suck air.
 Anyway...I want to take time now that I have launched a bit back into posting here on SSS again to share my Vision, the angle in which I perceive things and persevere. Here is to seeing in the Dark and feeling without Touching...

Website of artist CORNO: http://cornostudio.com/

Sunday, February 14, 2016

Today's Reality



I knew back in the late Autumn of 2014, before my right leg amputation that there were going to be many adjustments that I would have to make and things I would have to adapt to once I became an amputee. But even I'll admit that I still was not even close to being prepared for the reality of it all. That's OK, life is like that...rarely can we anticipate all potential situations when dealing with the potential of adversity.

Here is southern Michigan this week it has been terribly cold with below zero wind chills. I never even considered what extreme cold weather would feel like in the stump of an amputated leg with it's battered and severed nerve endings. Needless to say for the first time in my life I am truly considering the implications of moving permanently to a warm weather climate, at least until Kimmi retires. Then perhaps we could split time. She has always embrassed the idea of living in warm weather...I was the reluctant one. But now I am given to re-considering that stance. 

I cannot even begin to describe the extreme, electrical shock type pain one feels in frigid air, even with the limb bundled up warmly. I never expected this...I knew of Phantom pain, which in my case has gotten much more severe lately and leading to my latest surgical procedure. Unfortunately it remains almost debilitating at this stage. Honestly there are few things as odd as feeling terrible pain or tingling in a foot that no longer exists. But it truly feels like it is there and it really, really hurts.

This week we should start the process of getting fit for a new prosthesis, more permanent and sophisticated and hopefully it feels more natural and trustworthy. We shall most certainly have more on that later, until then....


Thursday, February 11, 2016

An Amputee and How Golf saved Him From HIMSELF


I realize that it does sound like a bit of a stretch to say that Golf somehow "SAVED" a person from anything...yet in my particular case it is more true then not.

Technically I am a RBK Amputee....as in I had a Right leg, Below the Knee amputation. I lost my leg a year and a half ago as a result of a badly broken ankle in an accident at home that subsequently became badly infected and eventually the only real choice was to amputate the leg 6 inches below my right knee.

This medical nightmare has now gone on for more then 3 years and in certain ways continues today. I had my 31st related surgery 2 weeks ago to clean up some scar tissue and remove several Neuromas (tumors that form at the end of the severed nerves in the stump) and spent a couple more nights in the hospital.

Simply stated this has been by far the most traumatic and difficult experience in my 53 years of living and I would be less then honest if I didn't admit that it pushed me to the very brink of my endurance: physically, emotionally, psychologically and spiritually.

I went months without being able to walk without crutches, walkers or wheel-chairs. I was not what I would consider a super active, always moving kind of guy but I was definately active. I really started to miss my freedom of movement.

Not only were there physical limitations related to the surgeries but the infections nearly killed me. I was a very sick man for nearly two years and I often wondered if I may not have been better off dead. Seriously....when you have nothing but time on your hands and the pain is nearly un-endurable plus you are so sick with fever and weakness it's natural to wonder why am I fighting this.

Naturally I searched for reasons to keep moving on and one of those became my desire, my determination to golf again.

I had started golfing again at the age of 50 after not playing for 25 years or so. I live on an island on an inland lake in Southern Michigan that has a nice little 9 hole course right in the middle. 
I had hurt my back and had several surgeries in the early 1990's and thought that I would never play again but I met a local golf teacher and he helped me scratch together a game that I could live with.

Just when it started to be fun and a daily ritual to go out at dawn every morning in our own cart and play 9 holes...I got hurt. It truly looked like I would never again play the game I learned to love a second time around.

But then I started to wonder why I couldn't play. Lots of folks play sports with prosthetics. And so the motivation, the obsession began to take over. There were many sleepless nights, tormented with pain and a rather bleak looking outlook o life when I rescued myself from the abyss with thoughts of the smell of freshly mowed greens, dew on my golf shoes and the luxury of having the entire course to myself while I golfed through sunrise after sunrise.

Though I didn't get my prosthesis until late June of 2015, I managed to get into the groove of playing fairly quickly though I couldn't play more then a few holes at a time. I am a member at this course and help out sometimes so I have the flexibility to play when I can.

The only limitations right now are financial because let's face it...golf is expensive and when you play often (as in every day) it runs equipment down rather quickly. Plus I still need to re-build my game...basically from scratch and lessons this time around are just not in the cards...I cannot afford them. 

Though I am finally getting on top of the infections and am able to walk/function pretty well on my artificial leg, all swing movement/stance has been completely thrown into disorder and I need help to learn to swing properly and most importantly, safely. After three years of hospitals, surgeries and countless treatments of every imaginable kind, my wife and I are flat busted due to huge medical expenses...especially early in my illness. We are slowly surviving but there isn't really money in the budget for golf equipment, lessons or a membership. 

But my wife Kim is my biggest fan and pushes me to play golf every day even when I don't feel up to it which is often. She more then anyone, myself included was first to see the value of playing as often as I was able.  

I am so grateful to the game that gave me the motivation to get up in the morning and get back on my feet and go outside...it has worked magic on my attitude and greatly improved my physical condition.  Now as I recover from another surgery I still find myself chomping at the bit to get back out there and play. A I did this past Christmas and New Years Days.

So let's get this snow out of the way and maybe I'll be fortunate to get to play again soon...