That I Am Here, Contributing A Verse

Screenshots: An arthritic author's saving...thing. Never could I retype this piece so you will be seeing it in its thesis form. In pictures. From online. Whatever. I'm tired. It's been a long life.

I'm not really grumpy. Actually, I'm smiling and feeling the happiest I have in a long time. In fact, despite a nasty seizure fit, yesterday was purely perfect. (Thank you, My Michael.) Not flawless, mind you. Just perfect.

Then there's this sexual assault horribleness tidal wave crashing over everyone, everywhere, and suddenly I'm your Jewish grandmother with the "Oy vey!" smacks to the head every hour. I'm such a putz. Ah, but a putz with chutzpah! Here's how to order:

1) Be me, which encompasses being a putz.
F) Tell me any female of any age asks for or deserves sexual assault, whether by way of wardrobe or "casting couch" or any other damn thing. Might I mention (I might! I will!), the casting couch is not an institution we should just shrug off and accept because "That's the way it's always been and actresses know to expect it." Or another I've been encountering, "Probably every woman has been sexually harassed. I have. But that's life and these women need to get over it." Because historically, if it was happening in the past, it's legit behavior for today, too. It's been happening since forever, so yeah, it's wrong but it's fine.
THREEVE) Say it to my face after hearing just one of my stories or any story from anyone you love who's been sexually assaulted. Say it to my face after I give you the gory fucking details. Say it to my fucking face.

And... Chutzpah!

So. This memoir essay deal I'm about to post is not about the abuse; rather, what goes on in the mind of a child who only months before had been molested and nearly literally ripped in half by a relative. There are some names in here of people from elementary school--people even I wasn't always kind to or didn't stand up for enough; a few times, when pushed too far by my own bullies, I bullied those who needed a friend more than anyone. Those memories stick to and jut out of my brain like thorns. I'm glad they're there, constant reminders of how cruel I could be, maybe still can be, and how just a little cruelty can go a long life. Anyway, one of those girls is now a dear friend of mine who I think of nearly every day (even though I don't call, yes, I think of you all the time, lady) and who is, unequivocally, one of the strongest women I know. In fact, she's got a little Wonder Woman to her name.

I love you, sweetheart woman.

Now, to enter the mind of a just-turned 8-year-old who had already been molested by a total of 3 people. It's violent. It's unkind. It's unfair to many--most of all, me.

It's the truth.