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Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Me and My Rape Kit

When I was raped, I didn't get a rape kit. They didn't have them back in the day. My friends took me to the hospital because I was in shock and kept thinking that the blood pouring out of me was my period, even though gigantic tampons wouldn't stem the flow. That's because I was peeing bright red blood, not menstruating. But I was a little dazed and confused. Forgive me.

Instead of a rape kit, I got a nasty little fucking twerp of a dickhead man doctor who came into the hospital examining room with my test results and said to me with condescension and disgust, "Whoever you had sex with was filthy." Like it was my responsibility to make sure that my rapist had bathed recently.

But honestly, I was too busy trying to cover myself after my "date" stripped me naked and brute forced me to sit outside on the sidewalk of a busy street. As day two dawned after a night where he hoovered cocaine while he continuously fucked me and beat me (he never did come), he finally fell asleep with the threat that if I moved on his jiggling water bed and woke him up, he would kill me. I honestly didn't have time to ask him if he had washed his peepee or not. And I figured it was in my best interest that I not move, so I didn't pee for two days either. Staying alive seemed more important at the time, than peeing. So it was also my fault that I got that nasty bladder infection. Those 900,000 bacteria in my urine that the nice doctor told me was way more, disgustingly more, my-faultiness more, than the 9000 which would indicate that I was sick.

Like millions of women before and after me, I didn't report my rape. Why would I bother? I was underage, and I had been drinking, used a fake ID that I manufactured with my keen artistic ability, and it was date rape. In the eyes of that doctor, that supposed nurturer of the sick, in the eyes of the courts, in the eyes of whomever the rapist would hire as his defense attorney, of most men, of most Republicans, of all fundamentalist krishtians, of way too many ignorant and cowed women, and my mother, it was all my fault. I deserved what I got.

And in Sarah Palin's eyes of krishtian righteousness, I should have paid for my own rape kit. I probably should have paid for it even though I didn't get one. I mean, it's only right.

Fuck Sarah Palin. She "fired police chief Irl Stambaugh and replaced him with Charlie Fannon, who with Palin's knowledge, slashed the budget for the exams and began charging the city's victims of sexual assault. The city budget documents demonstrate Palin read and signed off on the new budget."

The rape kits cost anywhere from $500-$1200. So, if you were poor or a college student, too fucking bad for you. That's called being raped twice. The third rape would be reporting it and the fourth rape would be the trial.

I have never told my rape story in a public forum until the terrifying and impossible rise to Republican stardom of the likes of Sarah Palin. But I think now is the time that all men and women who have suffered from sexual assault (1in 6 women, 17.7 million American women, 3% of American men — or 1 in 33), all men and women in general if they have any fucking sense, and all men and women who care about their wives and husbands, girlfriends and boyfriends and children, should rise up and metaphorically (yes, I was reluctant, but I had to add that qualifying adjective) crucify Sarah Palin.

Maybe then she can feel closer to GeeZuss.

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