Grandfather had left the house to mom when he died. She would never say it but to be honest, she could think of nothing crueler. He was the only good thing in her life and now he was gone and she had to live each and every day in the same house that was once her safe place without her safe person. That safe place held cherished memories only to be presumably ruined in the days to come by her mother’s love affair with drugs and alcohol.  

She chose her room and began decorating, making her statement, and adjusting to her new normal. Her room had a door that led out to the black tar garage roof which, at just thirteen was the ideal place to bake in the sun. After all, being tan was critical to being cool so at least she was grateful for this. That door would also come in handy later for sneaking out at night.

It wasn’t hard to decorate when you didn’t have much. Things came and went in her life. As the need would arise for more cash mom would pawn anything she could and when there was money to spare she would (sometimes) replace it with some thrift shop junk. However, some things still held enough importance and emotional value that no matter what her mother would hold onto them. Jewelry, nick knacks, old records, and some art work were tokens of hope for her. Her hope was one of these items would yank her mother from the depths of her desire for the next fix and slam the door on addiction. It didn’t work this way and she knew it but a girl could dream.

Her brother was still small enough to not fully comprehend the dysfunction in which he lived in. His room was right next to hers and in it hung bright red, blue, and yellow fabric balloons on the wall. His crib bedding matched the wall hanging making it all cheerily flow. Her heart felt a rush of terrifying and delightful awareness each time she looked at his sweet little chubby cheeked face. She was smart enough to know how to care for his basic needs when their mother couldn’t but she was in a constant fight to keep her own head above water. How was she going to ensure he would be okay? She had to shake the thought when it dared enter. There wasn’t any time for that or any reason she supposed.  Keep moving she told herself, just keep moving.

She walked through the door filled with anticipation. Today would be her best birthday ever, she just knew it. Not like the years before, no it would be different this year.  There really would be a cake, there really would be gifts. This year her mom would be sober enough to remember. She just knew it!
With that anticipation she entered the living room. It was dark, the blinds still drawn, the only light coming from a forgotten cigarette dying out in an ashtray. Not this year. Not again! Her mom lay passed out on the couch unable to be jostled awake.
As quickly as the tears fell they were wiped away. That wasn't going to solve one thing. Pity didn't fix a lick of spit. Move on she told herself, there will be better days and you will see to it. 
That young survivor marched into the kitchen and proceeded to make her own birthday cake and while it baked she wrapped her own gifts from her own toy box. Indeed a party would be had and it would look so unique and fabulous. Permanent markers were used for decorating the walls with misspelled words of joy and affirmation.
When the timer rang and the smell of the cake filled her kitchen she felt a peace wash over her. There was beauty to be found in even the darkest and ugliest of places and moments.
Pulling the blinds allowing daylight to pierce through her mothers stupor and awaken her, she invited her to her party.  Heaviness and guilt came in the form of tears from her mother. Wiping her mothers tears she presented her with a piece of fresh, delectable, straight form the box cake. Her mother began to sing happy birthday filling the room with her deep raspy tune bringing forth a resurgence of tears for both mom and daughter. This time, however there was no wiping them away, they simply let them silently flow holding one another.
From the closet her mother pulled a bright, carefully wrapped box. She remembered!

Rape. It is an ugly word that stirs a kaleidoscope of emotional responsiveness in all people.

First come the scripture peppered kind words with promises of prayers, then the horror and deep sadness expressed, soon followed by the distancing, doubt, victim blaming, and quiet threat laced notes. 

Rape. Victim. 

If you are one of them, you had better toughen up and get some thick skin. What?!

Not only has the victim just experienced one of the greatest traumas but they need to prepare themselves for the upcoming putrid truth about to smack them in the face. No one wants to talk about rape - so they stuff their feelings. No one wants to shed light on the victim shaming  - so they keep silent. No one wants to be any part of the perpetrators story - so they loudly blame the victim and passively threaten. 

I am not one to stuff my feelings, keep silent, nor take threats lightly.  

Rape. It is an ugly word that stirs a kaleidoscope of emotional responsiveness in all people.  

In all parts of the world this is a common crime, some more than others but in no place is it unseen. I find it mind boggling that no matter the cultural difference the same blame and shame exists. Things (just a few) commonly said are:

Is she/he telling the truth? She/he might be lying.

    Doubting the victim re-victimizes!

She/he is ruining the rapists life and future.

    Really?! I'm pretty sure that the rapist already did a good job of that              themselves.

She/he didn't say no. 

   What if that victim was a child, terrified and frozen, threatened? 

Ignorance and tolerance is despicable. No justifiable excuse can be given to rapists and their supporters/apologists.