RAPE–ACTIVISM

Today I broke down. All the stored energy from holding the pain in, from smiling and being a lady and from pretending it doesn’t still hurt that he raped me turned to tears. I wept for all the crazy jilted falsely-accusing lovers out there being told by the people that claim to care about them that they aren’t worthy to be held. I bawled for all the wonderful little girls who would never have their innocence heard because of the men who stole them–stole their very selves. My entire body heaved while tears ran down my cheeks because I remembered what I had learned in those moments–thandokuhle, no-one is in your corner. No-one knows or cares to know. So even when someone REALLY wants to love, I can’t see it. It’s safer to assume myself to be wrong.

I’m tired. Being kind is too much work. Being decent has no rewards. My smiles hurt. It should be easier when you accept your plight but it’s not. And I can’t. This can’t be happening to everyone I know.

Today I broke down because I’m simply too tired. I’ve been clawing for life for too long. And it hasn’t come. And I’m 5 minutes to giving up.

But how can I? Every moment that I use in keeping quiet, another girl is violated. Every time I take a break, many women/girls are raped. How does that not weigh on my conscience? How do I not have blood on my hands when I knew it would happen (as it does) and I kept silent–and then it happened? I may have the luxury of taking a break but that woman who has just been raped doesn’t. She will always have-just-been-raped. She can’t be un-raped for a few moments in her life a day. She doesn’t get breaks from the torment. I don’t know why, then, I deserve one as an activist.

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