#MeToo Archives - Award-Winning Writer and Graphic Designer

Ashley Judd Reads Inspiring Letter at Time’s Up Event

dorriolds — Sun, 29 Apr 2018 14:17:36 +0000

Ashley Judd read her amazing letter at Tribeca Film Festival & TIME’S UP inaugural event — a fundraiser for Time’s Up Legal Defense Fund. The nonprofit is only four months old and has already raised $22 Million.

Ashley Judd’s Powerful Letter

We can heal. That has been my experience. We may not, admittedly, know how to, or even from what we need to heal. It may be the event itself, or vivid or dull memories of it, and it is entirely plausible that we don’t even remember the event. There is a police record of a time I was sexually assaulted in high school. I was wearing a green and gold cheerleader uniform, my mother tells me. It was in a local store, and I have no memory of that crime. We may not even think we need to heal, that maybe we’ve just had some crappy relationships. Whatever trauma looks like in our lives, feelings can be healed.

Healing is our birthright. It was not our birthright to be sexually harassed or assaulted or raped based on social constructs of gender, biology, sex, identity, orientation, ethnicity, race, ability, or any intersection thereof. It is our birthright to know in our bones that it wasn’t our fault. We humans hurt each other, and sometimes we hurt ourselves, but we can make decisions and take actions that free us.

She Makes An Excellent Point Here

Everyone’s freedom may look a little different. For some it is calling the police, or reporting to HR, or contacting the legal defense fund. Often choices include healthy, cathartic processing with a safe, wise friend or a trauma-informed specialist. The particular freedom I’m describing does have one universal quality: It’s an inside job. It is peace of mind. Yes, we can have peace of mind, even as survivors of violent sexual assault.

It does take work, and it does take time. It requires transformation, and we are worth it. This meta-transformation is a powerful journey from being a disempowered victim who was aggressed upon to the wound just becoming an integrated part of the whole that we are. Trauma lives in the cells of our bodies and it affects the neuroanatomical pathways of our brain; it is completely natural for being a victim to be a part of our bodies. It is, I am here to tell you, impermanent.

Trauma and the Brain

There’s no universal timeframe for this trajectory of healing, and everyone’s work looks a little different. For some, talking about it drives the trauma deeper into the brainstem, and for others, divulging every nuance and detail is liberating.

Professional modalities have helped hundreds of thousands of us get relief from impossible burdens. Inpatient treatment, workshops, and retreats have brought us together and set us free. Experiential work and meditation are necessary. Breathing is free, and it intercepts PTSD. Meditation is clinically proven to ameliorate the trauma that lies triggered and wired in our brains, waiting for life to trip us up. Exercise is still the best pill around.

Twelve-step programs and other resources are so helpful because many of us, in our efforts to self-soothe, to find peace where there has been turmoil, turn to alcohol or give it a cookie, take it shopping, seek out relationships. And those behaviors can become out of hand or even compulsive. Eventually, though, what happened to us becomes externalized, and we may hold it in our hands and look at it objectively. The facts remain the facts, but by God, we change. Resilience kicks in.

No, Life Is Not Fair but…

This is not fair. Let’s be plain. It isn’t right or fair that 1 out of 4 girls or 1 out of 6 boys will be sexually assaulted, by conservative estimates, at the age of 18, amongst other catastrophic statistics. But—and this is everything, my friends—when we become aware of our pain, and have some education about it, we become responsible for addressing our pain in effective and healthy ways.

What happened to us will always have been wrong, sexist, and criminal, yet we are fundamentally and ultimately responsible, respondable to our own lives. This may sound harsh, but it means we have autonomy, we are powerful, and we have agency. The final stage is that what happened to us merely becomes a story we tell that may be of service to another human being. Perhaps placed in God’s hands, or some other benevolent, compassionate higher power’s hands, this story makes life so worthwhile and meaningful now. With it, we can help others avert death and misery.

You Are Not Alone

You are not alone, I believe you, and it wasn’t your fault, by now are our internal paradigm. We learn how to trust people who are trustworthy and have discernment about those who are not. We can artfully set and maintain healthy boundaries.

We use our voices, we weather retaliation and act up anyway. We cease taking people, places, and things so personally, and what was that rage Tarana [Burke] spoke about becomes our strength, our energy, and our motivation. What was depression becomes expression, and self-pity and helplessness are transformed into dignity, integrity, and courage. We celebrate and enjoy our sexuality. We prosecute and forgive at the same time.

There will still be the hard days. The facts do remain the facts, but we know our preciousness and our fierceness. Healing, damn it, is our birthright.

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After Surviving Rape, I Had an Abortion at Age 14

dorriolds — Sat, 25 Mar 2017 22:49:40 +0000

Written for Woman’s Day

If I’d waited one more week it would’ve been illegal to perform the procedure.

Lloyd and I were in love the night his condom ripped. “Oh no!” he yelped, his eyes wide with panic.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I can’t get pregnant from one little tear.” At the time, I really believed it.

I was 14 and grateful to have a boyfriend. Lloyd was two years older and that made me feel so grown up. He seemed to have endless time to hang out. He’d dropped out of high school. Lloyd smoked lots of pot and showed me how to sink a basketball into a hoop. He sang love songs in falsetto and everything was better than the year before I met him.

At 13, I’d been gang-raped by classmates. Massive hands had covered my mouth, knees dug into my hip bones. I was pinned on the grass field of a local cemetery. The weight of the boys stilled me from thrashing. Finally, it was over. I pulled my jeans and panties up from my left ankle. After that I ran in a circle, around and around, picking up speed. I heard one of them say, “This chick is nuts. Let’s go.”

After that night, I didn’t stand still enough to feel anything. I kept secrets from my parents because I couldn’t bear the shame—they’d been right to say, “Stay away from those kids.” The humiliation of rape stayed inside. I bounced from one junior-high clique to another until I ran right into Lloyd’s arms.

The night our rubber ripped, we’d made love in the woods. Soon after that I began putting on weight. My breasts were filling out like my older sister’s and I thought, ‘I’m a woman now.’ One morning after a hot cup of cocoa, I felt queasy and ran to the bathroom. When I threw up, I figured it was the flu.

A week later, my mother and I went shopping for bathing suits. Each one I’d picked to try on was too tight. My mother was staring at me. “Are you pregnant?” she whispered.

I rolled my eyes at her and gave her a scowl. “Of course not!”

But it got me to thinking, so the next day at school, I told a girlfriend everything. She said, “It sounds like you are. There’s a clinic where you can get tested.”

When I told Lloyd, he teared up. “We’ll get married!” he said.

I began thinking about a cute baby girl. We’d dress her in pink dresses with lace, matching bonnets, and socks. I imagined her face — her father’s mix of Native American and Black, and my Russian Jewish heritage meant her skin would be the color of cocoa and her hair shiny black.

“Would Lloyd stay when we fought over diapers? Would he stay through fights over money? Would he spend the little we had on beer and pot?”

It only took a few days to realize we couldn’t afford the pretty outfits I imagined. I’d been babysitting for a year. Babies need cribs, toys, diapers, and food. My tiny income and meager allowance weren’t nearly enough. Lloyd lived with his aunt in the ghetto section of town. His mother was a chronic gambler and consistently absent from his life. He didn’t know his father.

That same week, my suspicious mother, tipped off by my expanding waistline, scheduled a doctor’s visit for me under the pretense of an annual physical. She had always made appointments for me, so I didn’t think twice when she said, “Tuesday is your checkup.” But unbeknownst to me, she’d requested a blood test to find out if I was pregnant.

The day before the abortion, I sat in math class so it appeared my hands were in my lap but really I held them to my belly. Through my fingers, I explained why I couldn’t have her. She’d wince with shame about her ninth-grade dropout mom. I couldn’t be sure she’d have a father. Would Lloyd stay when we fought over diapers? Would he stay through fights over money? Would he spend the little we had on beer and pot? Such serious thoughts for a 14-year-old but I’m glad I was smart enough to have them.

When I asked Lloyd to come with me to the clinic, he shook his head “no” and wept. He promised he would pay his half of the money. For my portion, I used what I had saved from my clothing allowance. I would have to forfeit the new shirt and pants I’d planned to buy from the boutique I always passed on my walk to junior high school.

After I found out where to go, I took a 30-minute taxi from my home in Port Washington, Long Island, to Hempstead, Long Island, to the Bill Baird Clinic. Everything there looked sterilized — white or metallic — even the receptionist’s coffee cup at the front desk looked shiny and new. Pleasant, smiling people led me around. I was given a thin, sleeveless, cloth robe, slippers, and a locker to put my stuff in. I took off my jeans, Keds sneakers, and orange T-shirt with an ironed-on Stevie Wonder. There were tiny cracks on Stevie Wonder’s dreadlocks from putting him in the dryer by accident.

“I tried to block out the image of the baby’s face while I lay on a freezing cold table with my legs spread wide.”

The doctor said I was three months pregnant and if I’d waited one more week it would’ve been illegal to perform the abortion. Hearing that made me feel dizzy and sick. The nurse told me to lie down on the table and put my feet in the stirrups. She gave me a Valium. I felt numb but noticed goose bumps on my arms. I tried to block out the image of the baby’s face while I lay on a freezing cold table with my legs spread wide. The doctor said, “Don’t worry, this won’t hurt.”

Won’t hurt?

It still hurts.

But even as the vacuum sucked out my insides and I imagined my baby screaming, I knew I was doing the right thing. My belly held only the fertilized egg; a fetus that might or might not become a little girl. If I’d let my pregnancy last full-term, I would never have been able to give her up. And even if she was pried from my arms and handed over for adoption, she would never know why her real mother hadn’t loved her enough to keep her. My life and her life would’ve been ruined. I would’ve had to drop out of school to care for her when I was only a child myself.

Our family physician called soon after with the results of the covert pregnancy test. I told her I’d already had the abortion and begged her not to tell my parents, but because I was only 14, she said she could lose her license if she didn’t. My mother was furious when she got off the phone and berated me for lying to her. My father yelled, “Which one of them was it?” My mother slapped him and defended me, “She only has one boyfriend!”

I had never even witnessed an argument between my parents and it felt like my world was exploding. Already so guilt-ridden, terrified, and depressed, I ran to my room. My relationship with my parents worsened after that, and wouldn’t begin to mend until more than a decade later. As the incident became a distant memory, we learned how to forgive each other.

As much as I hated having an abortion, I felt then — and still feel — it was the right choice for me. What if the law had said that wasn’t my decision to make? The terror of telling my parents, my desperation, and strong will, would have sent me fleeing to find another way to abort. A back alley? A wire hanger? I might’ve died. Thank goodness, I had a choice.

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Rape, Trauma, PTSD and Bill Cosby

dorriolds — Thu, 29 Oct 2015 19:04:40 +0000

This essay was written for The Fix • The Bill Cosby scandal has triggered memories. Before my rape, I had voluntarily drunk rum and smoked a few hits of pot. Afterward, I was afraid people wouldn’t believe anything I said because I was high.

Asking, “Why am I an addict?” is a waste of time. I am because I am. The only pertinent question is: What am I going to do about it? Addiction thrives on secrets. Keeping secrets raises a wall between the addict and the rest of the world. It is a protection against the judgment of society. That’s where addicts and rape victims have something in common. Not telling becomes its own survival system. Shame keeps the wall up; the solution is to take it down and let others in.

I can trace my drug use back to the trauma I sustained at the age of 13. As the Bill Cosby stories unfold in the media, they’ve brought my own rape to the fore. In Andrea Constand’s 2005 civil suit against Cosby for drugging and raping her, she had 13 witnesses willing to testify that Cosby had committed similar acts of depravity to them; 13 was a “lucky” number for Constand. She and the 13 women that stood by her were part of the solution; they had the courage to fight. Thirteen was an unlucky number for me—that’s how old I was when I was raped and that’s how many years I waited to tell.

At age 26, I woke up out of a blackout in a Florida drug rehab. My counselor told me, “Healing begins when you tell someone your most shameful secrets.” She asked me to write down something negative that happened while I was high. My pen wanted to wriggle out of my fingers but I forced it to write two words: Gang rape.

This Cosby scandal has triggered memories. Five junior high school boys — my classmates — overpowered me. Laughing, they pinned me down and took turns entering my mouth and vagina with penises, hands, tongues. They hurt and humiliated me. At the time, I confided in one friend about my attack but when she remained friends with the boys who’d violated me, I felt betrayed. I was already horrified that another “friend” was one of the rapists.

I know only too well why women don’t tell about rape — especially when they are under the influence of drugs. Giving a woman sedatives that render her unconscious, serves two purposes: power over the woman’s limp body and guaranteeing unreliability as a witness.

Before my rape, I had voluntarily drunk rum and smoked a few hits of pot. Afterward, I was afraid people wouldn’t believe anything I said because I was high. But there were other reasons I didn’t tell. I was petrified I’d be labeled a rat and bullied or ostracized for it. Here again, the secret survives by telling the victim that it is protection against further trauma.

In the Cosby case, many of the 45 women who have come forward to report sexual assaults waited decades before going public. Last November, Cosby’s attorney Martin Singer released a statement:

“The new, never-before-heard claims from women who have come forward in the past two weeks with unsubstantiated, fantastical stories about things they say occurred 30, 40 or even 50 years ago have escalated past the point of absurdity…. It is completely illogical that so many people would have said nothing, done nothing and made no reports to law enforcement or asserted civil claims if they thought they had been assaulted over a span of so many years.”

Well, Mr. Singer, it took me 38 years to tell my story publicly. I had felt shame about being raped, ashamed I couldn’t stop them; stupid, because my parents warned me these were the wrong people to hang out with. Worst of all, I felt like it was all my fault because I’d worn a sexy shirt hoping a boy would notice me.

There was no Law & Order: SVU yet. I had no idea what a rape victim was supposed to do. All I knew was that I was petrified to tell my parents because my mother had forbidden me to wear that sexy shirt. She’d even gone to the trouble of hiding it from me because she said it was “age inappropriate.” I was the one who snooped around in the attic until I found it.

I was afraid of talking to the police about my vagina. Remember how horrifying a pimple could be at that age? Imagine having to disclose something like that? My father was an Army Captain in World War II and I’d heard so many stories filled with wartime machismo. I was afraid if I told him, he’d go find the boys and kill them and go to jail. So I kept my mouth shut.

When I made my rape public, I experienced a new freedom. I received mostly supportive reactions but there were a few who blamed me for not disclosing the rape sooner to protect other women. I was 13, for Pete’s sake. I can only imagine the criticism the Cosby accusers have been forced to endure.

I, like so many other rape victims, turned into a raging alcoholic and drug addict from that night on. I thought I could pretend it never happened if I blocked it from my mind. Not a tactic I recommend.

Since Bill Cosby rape accusers didn’t report the rapes sooner, he is protected by the statute of limitations. It seems time to change laws that protect the perpetrators more than the victims.

Big massive hands over my mouth, boys kneeling on my arms and legs, knees digging into me. It hurt. When they finally got off of me, I was shaking and began running in a circle screaming, “NOOO!” The moon looked so big and round in the September night sky and I asked it, “Why?”

I wanted to know why this had happened and why it happened to me? It felt like a punishment from the universe so I became convinced it was my fault. Before that awful night, I had dabbled in drugs and alcohol, but after the rape I became a daily user. My reaction to the trauma of being overpowered by a “friend” and the others was to take enough drugs and alcohol to blank out the memory. Like a child sticking fingers in my ears and singing, “La, la, la, I can’t hear you,” I would erase the rape. That faulty thinking fueled a path of self-annihilation.

The memory was unbearable. It could pop up suddenly and make me flee from a room full of people. I’d lost trust in others and could not tolerate closeness or intimacy. I chose prospective boyfriends based on how unlikely it would be to sustain a relationship with them, thus keeping me alone with my wall up. PTSD not only devastated my life but snowballed exponentially by effecting the lives of people close to me.

Bill Cosby admitted in 2005 that he secured Quaaludes with the intent of giving them to young women he wanted to have sex with, and that he gave the sedative to at least one woman and “other people,” according to documents obtained July 1 by The Associated Press.

I ache for the women Cosby slipped powerful sedatives to. The one and only time I took a Quaalude it knocked me out. My friends and I took ’ludes before a Led Zeppelin concert at Madison Square Garden. I felt dizzy and shaky. I went to the bathroom to put water on my face, but once there my legs turned to jello. I leaned against the bathroom wall and slid down. I must’ve passed out because the next thing I remember the two-hour concert was over and somebody was asking me if I was alright and helping me to my feet.

Remember that Oscar-worthy performance by Leo DiCaprio playing “Jordan Belfort” wasted on Quaaludes in The Wolf of Wall Street? Thank you, Marty Scorsese, that illustrates the loss of motor skills perfectly.

Attorneys for women suing Cosby seized on his testimony as powerful corroboration of what they have been saying all along: that he drugged and raped women. When the APwent to court to compel the release of the deposition from Constand’s civil suit, Cosby’s lawyers objected to the release of the material, arguing it would embarrass him. Embarrass him?! This guy has run over the lives of numerous women and now he’s worried about being embarrassed? The irony is that the deposition was unsealed because Cosby had made himself a moral icon of family values.

Sexual abuse victims are three times more likely to suffer depression, six times more likely to suffer PTSD, 13 times more likely to abuse alcohol and 26 times more likely to abuse drugs than those who haven’t been violated. And they have higher rates of thinking about, attempting, and successfully, committing suicide.

Yay for all the women who tell. As the old adage goes, “You’re only as sick as your secrets.”

Dorri Olds is an award-winning writer whose work has appeared in book anthologies and numerous publications including The New York Times. She last wrote about Bob Zappa for The Fix.

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Feminism is Evil and Rape Is Enjoyable

dorriolds — Fri, 11 Jul 2014 18:20:26 +0000

Feminism is the scourge of society, at least according to some twisted sisters out there. The latest personal affront to us binders of women came in the form of “tips” as presented by Sylvia Ann Hewlett, author of “Executive Presence: The Missing Link Between Merit and Success” and “Princeton Mom” Susan Patton, author of “Marry Smart.” I’m referring to a segment on FOX-TV’s “Fox and Friends.” You know, FOX, the TV station known for its high regard for women.
Author Hewlett places little importance on a woman’s mind. It’s all about wearing the right clothes. “Well-cut jeans with a colorful top,” said Hewlett with her frozen over-Botoxed eyebrows. When co-host Steve Doocy pointed out that jeans are not necessarily proper work attire, Hewlett shot back, “Here’s the thing, Steve, you need to fit in with flair.” That’s when co-host Brian Kilmeade chirped, “That’s a woman using her
That’s when I threw up in my mouth.
In her book Hewlett wrote, “I realized I didn’t need to be brilliant in interviews, I merely needed to not stick out like a sore thumb.” Ahem, aside from using an exhausted cliché, the message to women is “Don’t worry your pretty little head about being smart, just wear the right clothing.” And notice the blank stare on Barbie-doll co-host, Elizabeth Hasselback throughout much of this discussion. When she did speak up it was to say, “We women are too good at getting the facts right. We aren’t as good [as men] at faking it till you make it.” Did she really say that? Oy vey, yes. Shoot me now.

Wake-Up Call

Do you know how hard women fought — and are still fighting — to be respected for our brains and not our perky breasts? How many times have we heard about Hillary Rodham Clinton’s hair or what she’s wearing while the clothes worn by male politicians aren’t critiqued. And Rodham Clinton is referred to as a bitch whenever she says anything passionately. Sadly, the world is so used to this pervasive belittling of women that we barely notice it.
Now, don’t even get me started on “Princeton Mom” Patton. I’m embarrassed that she and I are the same gender. According to her, feminism is an “overcorrection,” a trip to the dark side. Her book promotes spending 75 percent of our time in college looking for a husband. Patton says that once you hit 30, chances are you’ll end up an ol’ spinster aunt talking to her cats.

Duct Tape

Ladies, isn’t it bad enough we have to put up with Tea Party men and Hobby Lobby and anti-abortionists and ignorance? Women, if you’re not pro-women, keep your fat trap shut. Let me remind you of some important stats. As for focusing 75 percent of your time in college, keep in mind that not only is Patton divorced, but so are 50 percent of those who married. And, as for Patton’s advice to run like Edith Bunker to Archie with a drink and hubby’s slippers, keep this in mind: Women make up 47 percent of the U.S. work force. The average full time working woman makes $669 as compared to men’s $824. We also do more of the housework and much more of the childcare. Check this out from
ThinkProgress.org

“The breakdown of what fathers do during the hours spent with their children is also telling, as they tend to spend more time on pleasurable activities. Mothers spend about two and a half times more hours tending to physical needs and about two times more on managerial and educational activities. But fathers spend nearly the same amount of time playing with their kids, perhaps the most enjoyable part of being with a child.

When it comes to housework, the tasks break down along traditional gender roles. Fathers spend more time doing repairs and maintenance — think lawn mowing and tinkering with cars — while mothers do more cooking and cleaning.”
In closing, I leave you with…

A Smattering of Disgusting Quotes About Women by Women

“Who hijacked the term: ‘feminist’? A cackle of rads who want 2 crucify other women w/whom they disagree on a singular issue; it’s ironic (& passé)” — Sarah Palin tweet
“The Lord says, ‘Be submissive wives; you are to be submissive to your husbands.’” — Rep. Michele Bachmann (R-IA)
“In the emergency room they have what’s called rape kits where a woman can get cleaned out.” —Rep. Jodie Laubenberg (R-TX)
Life begins “from the first day of the last menstrual period of the pregnant woman.” —Gov. Jan Brewer (R-AZ).

A Smattering of Disgusting Quotes About Women by Men

“The facts show that people who are raped —who are truly raped—the juices don’t flow, the body functions don’t work and they don’t get pregnant. Medical authorities agree that this is a rarity, if ever.” —Rep. Henry Aldridge (R-NC)
“As long as it’s inevitable, you might as well lie back and enjoy it.” —Clayton Williams (R-TX) on rape.
“These Planned Parenthood women, the Code Pink women, and all of these women have been neutering American men and bringing us to the point of this incredible weakness. We are not going to have our men become subservient.” — Rep. Allen West (R-FL).
“Consensual sex can turn into rape in an awful hurry. All of a sudden a young lady gets pregnant and the parents are madder than a wet hen and she’s not going to say, ‘Oh yeah, I was part of the program.’”— Rep. Roger Rivard (R-WI)
“I would hope that when a woman goes into a physician with a rape issue, that that physician will indeed ask her about perhaps her marriage, was this pregnancy caused by normal relations in a marriage, or was it truly caused by rape.” Sen. Chuck Winder (R-ID).

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