I Hereby give permission for anyone (including members of the press) to share, copy, post and paste the following blog post anywhere and everywhere in hopes that it helps 1 person from going through the things I have been through. – Devon J Hall aka SynDolly
Tonight I learned for certain that you do not support victims of sexual assault, nee Rape.
I learned that Judges, in open court said things like;
“Why didn’t she close her knees?”
“Inebriation equals consent”
“Young lady you should consider your behavior instead of crying rape after the fact.”
Lynn Beyak recently defended the Aboriginal School System.
I am shocked, and disgusted and not for the first time to be ashamed to be Canadian.
In the schools alone, six thousand children died – were murdered, because of the abuse they suffered.
Every day in Canada boys and girls, are taken from their families because of sexual abuse, nee rape. They are kidnapped, beaten, abused, their lives destroyed. Early Childhood sexual abuse leads to life altering decisions such as drug addiction, homelessness and death.
I can state a million facts that are easily found but instead I’d like in detail for the first time ever, to tell you my story. I have considered putting this into a book and perhaps I might one day but instead I choose to post it here, for the entire world to see because I now realize that it is time I join the voices of the abused.
My life ended when I was in grade four. To this day I cannot remember how old I was when I was in grade four. My friend Kate from twenty-five years ago could tell you because she knew me then…I however have quite a few memory gaps from years prior to this particular event.
I was with my mother and my brother at the home of a friend. My mother tired and wanting to go home decided to leave her children in the care of this friend “K”. “K” decided to leave us with her trusted friend “B” and walk my mother the 1 block home so that they could talk in private I suppose. In the thirty minutes “K” and my mother were gone, this man who was trusted by “K” came into the bedroom and slid his hands down my pants and molested me. When he realized I was awake, he continued to touch me, sliding his hand away from my front and down my back molesting me anally.
When I realized what was happening I told him to stop – scared, alone and afraid I waited until “K” returned certain I would tell her. However as she woke me up and led me to the living room to sleep on the couch with my younger brother, I saw him standing there, his deep blue eyes and terrifying masses of muscles too afraid to speak. So instead I waited until they returned to the bedroom. I could hear this man having sex with my mother’s friend, and I chose that moment – at three thirty in the morning to walk home.
The next day I was yelled at repeatedly by my mother and “K” for scaring them, for my irresponsibility while he stood there smirking enjoying every moment of it, knowing I was too afraid, too terrified to say anything while he was there. By the time he was no longer in sight the fear was ingrained. I did not tell anyone until I was sixteen years old. Sadly that was the first time – however it was not the last.
I have been raped and sexually abused by nearly every sexual partner I’ve ever been with. I’ve been kidnapped, had a knife held to my neck, been held out a window and over the ledge of a balcony. I have been stalked, harassed emotionally and physically. I have never once seen any one of my abusers brought to justice because I learned as a child to keep my mouth shut. I learned as a adult…no one was listening. Certainly not the men.
I am turning 34 years old on April 10th and I am for the first time, in great detail writing about the things that were done to me.
I admit that for several years I did drink and I smoked pot – only because it made it easier. When friends would ask my boyfriend “J” why I always had bruises he would say it was because I liked rough sex. The one time that I tried to publically deny this he laughed it off, paid for my friends and I to get drunk, bought us pot.
When the night was winding down and we were heading home he was unusually kind, gentle even, a man I didn’t know existed. That same night he fractured my foot and told me it was my fault because I wouldn’t let him open the door. When he shoved me down the stairs, it was my fault because I slipped…Right?! He would always ask me.
When he held me over the roof top of my apartment building he was of course, only kidding. When I was unknowingly pregnant and he raped and beat and drugged me into a miscarriage – it was only when I miscarried I realized what happened – it was my fault. I shouldn’t drink so much. Later when I confronted him about it, he laughed. In front of a group of people from Narcotics Anonymous, he laughed at me. They of course decided I must “trying to start drama.”
I did not enjoy these things. I did not enjoy being beaten into submission – I was trained at an early age by the men and women who should have protected me and did not. By the teachers who did nothing when boys at St. James Jr High Elementary school would beat me up, it was always my fault.
I learned at an early age that the boys in my class were allowed to hit girls and that there is nothing and no one who will help me.
Three years ago when I finally decided to report an abuser to the police the RCMP officer told me and I quote “you should stay home until he calms down, that way you don’t have to worry about seeing him in public.” When I told him it did not matter because the man knew where I lived the RCMP officer said that was too bad for me.
When I tried to show him pictures that I’d found on my phone during the interview process he told me the bruises could have been caused by anything.
I am not the only woman in Canada who suffers like this – If you look at half the men and women living on the strip in Surrey BC they can tell you about being handcuffed to walls in basements and beaten and raped for days on end. They will tell you about being given drugs in order to get them to behave, only to have the abuse continue.
I implore anyone and everyone who reads this not to reach out to just your government officials, but to your daughters, your sons, your family members, ask them if there is anything they need – not want – need to tell you. Open the lines of communication. If they tell you stories that are similar or scarier than mine I ask that you demand justice. Maybe…just maybe if someone had asked me the question “Where you abused, Have you ever been abused” maybe I’d have been a better student. Maybe I’d have become a lawyer like I wanted to be. Maybe I’d have made something of my life, instead of being…whatever it is I am today.
A Washed up
writer blogger. Maybe that’s not all I am – maybe there is still hope I’ll do something amazing with my life, but I gotta say when I look back on my life, it sure as fuck does not feel like it. It feels like I failed because I was failed.
I did not speak up when I should have. Instead I allowed myself to be beaten and raped and silenced because I was too afraid to stand up for myself.
My life ended when I was I grade four, and I am only just now getting it back. Only now at the age of thirty-four am I able to begin to unravel the damage that was done to me by pedophiles protected by the very same people…that were supposed to protect me.
Mothers and Fathers I implore you to talk to your children, to your daughters. Make sure that they know they can tell you anything.
To the victims, to those who have not yet spoken up…You are in no way shape or form alone. I know it seems that way, I know you feel dirty and ashamed, alone and scared of what might happen if you tell.
I promise you this – not telling is far worse. Keeping that pain in, holding it to you gives your attacker a power they haven’t earned and do not deserve. The only way to take it away from them is to scream as loud as you can. To fight with all you have.
And I know that someone, at least one of you out there will read this and say you aren’t strong enough. You are. I didn’t used to think I was…I didn’t used to think that I mattered that my life mattered but you do. You matter to me. I love you. I genuinely love you and I want to know you I want to know who you are and to see you but that can ONLY happen if you raise your voice.
You will never, so long as I am alive, and long after I am gone…you will NEVER Walk Alone.
To those with the power to help those of us who are Victims, and Survivors………What the fuck are you waiting for?!
With all my love,
Devon J Hall