only the jodi

A search for simplicity, sobriety, compassion, & the right man. Or at least not another wrong man.
June 27th, 2010

feeding the beast within


All my life –seriously, all my life, and that is considerable at this point, all my life I’ve felt like I was fighting dragons.

Picture me in a medieval princess gown, with a broad sword, fighting off dragons as they come at me from every side. Vicious, horrible things that would make grown men run and cry like little girls. Breathing fire and stank like raw sewage. Ready to incinerate me, roast me, toast me, eat me whole or tear flesh from bone if I take even one second to let my guard down and rest. I’m scared, my back is to a tree and that’s the best I can do, find a shady place to fight and something to lean on.

All I’ve ever wanted — seriously, all I’ve ever wanted is for someone to take up that sword and protect me from the dragons. Just for a little while. Just long enough for a nap. That’s not asking much, is it? I’m so tired, I think to myself. I’m weak and tired & this sword is so heavy. I cannot keep my arms up, not even one more second. Can’t you take it from me, take care of me, protect me, just for a moment? Just for one fucking moment? Then I’ll take the sword back, seriously, because I know your heart is not really in it. I mean, after all, they’re my dragons, not yours.

Today, for the first time, it occurred to me, it might be in my best interest to stop leaving food and fresh milk out for the dragons. Perhaps, I should stop offering them a warm dry corner of my mind to sleep in. Maybe I should stop treating them as if they were my pets. They are, after all, vicious beasts.

The beast inside looks at me, smiles and says “You knew what I was when you picked me up.”

March 3rd, 2010

thirty years later…

I had to take a little time off from the “other” blog, from writing in general. I’d written about the rape. Again. It’s hard. I was going to say You don’t know what you take from us when you rape us. But, I’d be speaking to people who either don’t care – those who rape on uncontrollable instinct, who feel entitled; or to those who do care – those who rape with the intent of breaking our soul – pimps, mercenaries, warriors.

The rape I wrote about was almost thirty years ago. I think I should be over it already. But, apparently, I’m not.

It was not my first. I was in a blackout the first time and only put the pieces together afterwards. It probably wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been drunk enough to black out. But I was. It did. And I don’t remember the details. Blackouts are a mixed blessing that way.

And truthfully, the blackout is only the first time I can bear to think about. What came before are scattered puzzle pieces, each belonging to a different puzzle picture.

The rape I wrote about wasn’t even the last time I was attacked. Statistics show that once a person is raped, molested, assaulted, the chance of it happening again, rises. Here are some statistics.

Every 2 minutes, someone in the U.S. is sexually assaulted.

  • 1 in 3 American women will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime.
  • 1 in 4 college women have either been raped or suffered attempted rape.
  • 1 in 7 women will be raped by her husband.
  • 1 in 12 males students surveyed had committed acts that met the legal definition of rape. 84% said what they’d done was definitely not rape.
  • Only 16% of rapes are reported to the police.
  • Only 6% of rapists will spend a day in jail.

FAIL: The United States has the world’s highest rape rate of the countries that publish such statistics. It’s 4 times higher than Germany, 13 times higher than England, and 20 times higher than Japan.

Survivors of sexual assault are:

Stop it, okay? Just fucking stop it.

Statistics from: RAINN.org and Coalition Educating About Sexual Endangerment (CEASE)

February 12th, 2010

and some day, never comes…

Some days I’m all Kumbaya

Some days I’m all Fight Club

Some days I’m all I can’t hear you

Some days I’m all Go Away

Some days I’m just holding my breath, and swimming as fast as I can.