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.
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.
https://twitter.com/AP/status/1041051591514701830
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.
One.
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.
One.
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?
#Enough
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?
#Enough
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