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Sep 16, 2018 3 tweets 1 min read Twitter logo Read on Twitter
Every single time there's a horrifying story about a Border Patrol agent, I feel it: about midline, just below my xiphoid process, I feel a fullness; literal pain.

Always, half of me hopes it's him—the man who raped me. He grew up to be a Marine. A cop. A US Border Patrol agent.
If it's him, the first half thinks, maybe whomever else he's hurt will have justice. Maybe it'll finally end.

It'll never end.

Every time a story like this breaks, the other half of me hopes I was wrong. I'm not.

My story wasn't enough. I came forward too late.

Just me.

When I came forward, I was treated with respect—and belief. Validation.

It still wasn't enough to heal me. And now there's a scar—about midline, just below my xiphoid process.

This Border Patrol agent is not my rapist. He's theirs. They're dead.

How many will it take?


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More from @AshleySWeitz

Sep 18, 2018
It's important to note the very personal, very impactful and damaging nature of internalizing the message: "I don't believe you."

Let me say this "out loud," because I needed it said to me:

Just because someone else says it didn't happen doesn't mean it didn't happen.
I was 12 when I was raped.

You know what I was most afraid of? I was most afraid of getting in trouble for having let someone into the house while my family was away. I was most afraid of having to explain that I only invited him in to help him with math homework.

I was 12.
Nevermind I'd been brutally raped at knifepoint; I couldn't tell anyone. What if they demanded to know why I let him inside? What if they asked if I liked him? If I led him on?

Had I? I wondered.

I cleaned up, I showered 10 times, I cried for weeks. Then, I survived.

I was 12.
Read 9 tweets
Sep 17, 2018
Here's the story of how my trauma put a literal hole in my abdomen.

I'm typing as I go; please forgive typos and/or wonky syntax. And try to forgive me if halfway through it I delete and/or disappear. This story, this experience are still pretty raw.
Also, let me go ahead & disclaim:

I am no one. I am an authority on nothing.

I don't have a license to practice anything but driving.

Please never construe anything I ever say as medical, legal, or other advice.

I'm telling a story.

I wouldn't listen to me if I were you.
Let's start with #ACEs.

Y'all familiar w/the Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACE) Study? Published in 1998 & the basis for hundreds more pubs, which point to childhood trauma's impact across lifespan: the higher your "dose" of childhood trauma, the worse later outcomes tend to be
Read 99 tweets
Sep 15, 2018
Today in Salt Lake City I protested for the 70th time in 70 days.

I cried most of the 2.5 hours I stood.

It was healing.

It was cleansing.

It was so deeply—so very bone-and-soul-deep, deeply—painful.

And infuriating.

And terrifying.

Tonight, I grieved.

Today, in list after list of people who vouch for Brett Kavanaugh's honor, I heard loudly & clearly from my own US Senator:

A woman's voice does not, cannot, will not matter.

A man in power—a man with a lot to lose—can and will swiftly silence women who dare speak truth.
Sexual assault is, by definition, nonconsensual.

Survivorship, too, is inherently nonconsensual.

Survival means making room for all emotions, all stages—fear, shame, fury, empowerment, posttraumatic growth—to co-exist.

You survive or you don't—but you don't get to choose.
Read 9 tweets

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