I still think about being raped as a wee lass and suspect I always will, but how I think about it continually changes.

Healing is an individual process that doesn’t follow a set of standard rules or guidelines. Wrong and right don’t exist when we seek to find dissolution from pain that causes suffering from past judgments while simultaneously living in the presence of our conviction.

These are my thoughts only.

I no longer think in anger about those who raped me, where or how it happened.
I no longer think about whether someone could have protected me to prevent them from occurring.
I no longer think about whether I could have protected myself.

I think sometimes we’ve all been raped and that our shame finds burial beneath the logistics of unproven criminal intent.

I think about those raped of their nature, hearts, innocence, beauty, and most of all, their truth.
I think about semen sealed rape kits and boys who don’t know what sperm is.
I think about family and friends that have pushed us into showers. To cleanse our thoughts and erase the scent of our freedom.

I think about due process and the fines I owe for my overdue library books.
I think about reading them our rights and then expressing love because unlike them; we choose not to discriminate.
I think about being chained to evil and how running wild and free in nakedness is our absolution.
I think about how all pain, when embraced in the arms of compassion, becomes peace.

I think the rapist endures more imposing suffering for committing crimes of indignity against themselves.
I believe this because we don’t need to endure their suffering as they must face both theirs and ours.
I think about shame because it has been the most difficult to heal.

Sometimes adults raped in childhood don’t find as much shame in the acts of rape so much as they find shame in the false belief of inferiority that comes with not feeling worthy enough to have been protected from harm in the first place.

Feelings of unworthiness can often be traced to childhood where it’s unfortunately common to find our innocence buried beneath another’s anger. We must work not to succumb to soil dug beneath the gravestone of another’s death.

I think that seeking to find the child in the adult “high above the chimney top” before their burial can provide the opportunity to cover them in love until the adult climbs out of the grave to find life in our embrace.

Somewhere over the rainbow, our dreams come true