The last words of Bill Zeller

I have the urge to declare my sanity and justify my actions, but I assume I'll never be able to convince anyone that this was the right decision. Maybe it's true that anyone who does this is insane by definition, but I can at least explain my reasoning. I considered not writing any of this because of how personal it is, but I like tying up loose ends and don't want people to wonder why I did this. Since I've never spoken to anyone about what happened to me, people would likely draw the wrong conclusions.

My first memories as a child are of being raped, repeatedly. This has affected every aspect of my life. This darkness, which is the only way I can describe it, has followed me like a fog, but at times intensified and overwhelmed me, usually triggered by a distinct situation. In kindergarten I couldn't use the bathroom and would stand petrified whenever I needed to, which started a trend of awkward and unexplained social behavior. The damage that was done to my body still prevents me from using the bathroom normally, but now it's less of a physical impediment than a daily reminder of what was done to me.

This darkness followed me as I grew up. I remember spending hours playing with legos, having my world consist of me and a box of cold, plastic blocks. Just waiting for everything to end. It's the same thing I do now, but instead of legos it's surfing the web or reading or listening to a baseball game. Most of my life has been spent feeling dead inside, waiting for my body to catch up.
At times growing up I would feel inconsolable rage, but I never connected this to what happened until puberty. I was able to keep the darkness at bay for a few hours at a time by doing things that required intense concentration, but it would always come back. Programming appealed to me for this reason. I was never particularly fond of computers or mathematically inclined, but the temporary peace it would provide was like a drug. But the darkness always returned and built up something like a tolerance, because programming has become less and less of a refuge.

The darkness is with me nearly every time I wake up. I feel like a grime is covering me. I feel like I'm trapped in a contimated body that no amount of washing will clean. Whenever I think about what happened I feel manic and itchy and can't concentrate on anything else. It manifests itself in hours of eating or staying up for days at a time or sleeping for sixteen hours straight or week long programming binges or constantly going to the gym. I'm exhausted from feeling like this every hour of every day.

Three to four nights a week I have nightmares about what happened. It makes me avoid sleep and constantly tired, because sleeping with what feels like hours of nightmares is not restful. I wake up sweaty and furious. I'm reminded every morning of what was done to me and the control it has over my life.

I've never been able to stop thinking about what happened to me and this hampered my social interactions. I would be angry and lost in thought and then be interrupted by someone saying "Hi" or making small talk, unable to understand why I seemed cold and distant. I walked around, viewing the outside world from a distant portal behind my eyes, unable to perform normal human niceties. I wondered what it would be like to take to other people without what happened constantly on my mind, and I wondered if other people had similar experiences that they were better able to mask.
Alcohol was also something that let me escape the darkness. It would always find me later, though, and it was always angry that I managed to escape and it made me pay. Many of the irresponsible things I did were the result of the darkness. Obviously I'm responsible for every decision and action, including this one, but there are reasons why things happen the way they do.

Alcohol and other drugs provided a way to ignore the realities of my situation. It was easy to spend the night drinking and forget that I had no future to look forward to. I never liked what alcohol did to me, but it was better than facing my existence honestly. I haven't touched alcohol or any other drug in over seven months (and no drugs or alcohol will be involved when I do this) and this has forced me to evaluate my life in an honest and clear way. There's no future here. The darkness will always be with me.

I used to think if I solved some problem or achieved some goal, maybe he would leave. It was comforting to identify tangible issues as the source of my problems instead of something that I'll never be able to change. I thought that if I got into to a good college, or a good grad school, or lost weight, or went to the gym nearly every day for a year, or created programs that millions of people used, or spent a summer or California or New York or published papers that I was proud of, then maybe I would feel some peace and not be constantly haunted and unhappy. But nothing I did made a dent in how depressed I was on a daily basis and nothing was in any way fulfilling. I'm not sure why I ever thought that would change anything.

I didn't realize how deep a hold he had on me and my life until my first relationship. I stupidly assumed that no matter how the darkness affected me personally, my romantic relationships would somehow be separated and protected. Growing up I viewed my future relationships as a possible escape from this thing that haunts me every day, but I began to realize how entangled it was with every aspect of my life and how it is never going to release me. Instead of being an escape, relationships and romantic contact with other people only intensified everything about him that I couldn't stand. I will never be able to have a relationship in which he is not the focus, affecting every aspect of my romantic interactions.

Relationships always started out fine and I'd be able to ignore him for a few weeks. But as we got closer emotionally the darkness would return and every night it'd be me, her and the darkness in a black and gruesome threesome. He would surround me and penetrate me and the more we did the more intense it became. It made me hate being touched, because as long as we were separated I could view her like an outsider viewing something good and kind and untainted. Once we touched, the darkness would envelope her too and take her over and the evil inside me would surround her. I always felt like I was infecting anyone I was with.

Relationships didn't work. No one I dated was the right match, and I thought that maybe if I found the right person it would overwhelm him. Part of me knew that finding the right person wouldn't help, so I became interested in girls who obviously had no interest in me. For a while I thought I was gay. I convinced myself that it wasn't the darkness at all, but rather my orientation, because this would give me control over why things didn't feel "right". The fact that the darkness affected sexual matters most intensely made this idea make some sense and I convinced myself of this for a number of years, starting in college after my first relationship ended. I told people I was gay (at Trinity, not at Princeton), even though I wasn't attracted to men and kept finding myself interested in girls. Because if being gay wasn't the answer, then what was? People thought I was avoiding my orientation, but I was actually avoiding the truth, which is that while I'm straight, I will never be content with anyone. I know now that the darkness will never leave.

Last spring I met someone who was unlike anyone else I'd ever met. Someone who showed me just how well two people could get along and how much I could care about another human being. Someone I know I could be with and love for the rest of my life, if I weren't so fucked up. Amazingly, she liked me. She liked the shell of the man the darkness had left behind. But it didn't matter because I couldn't be alone with her. It was never just the two of us, it was always the three of us: her, me and the darkness. The closer we got, the more intensely I'd feel the darkness, like some evil mirror of my emotions. All the closeness we had and I loved was complemented by agony that I couldn't stand, from him. I realized that I would never be able to give her, or anyone, all of me or only me. She could never have me without the darkness and evil inside me. I could never have just her, without the darkness being a part of all of our interactions. I will never be able to be at peace or content or in a healthy relationship. I realized the futility of the romantic part of my life. If I had never met her, I would have realized this as soon as I met someone else who I meshed similarly well with. It's likely that things wouldn't have worked out with her and we would have broken up (with our relationship ending, like the majority of relationships do) even if I didn't have this problem, since we only dated for a short time. But I will face exactly the same problems with the darkness with anyone else. Despite my hopes, love and compatability is not enough. Nothing is enough. There's no way I can fix this or even push the darkness down far enough to make a relationship or any type of intimacy feasible.

So I watched as things fell apart between us. I had put an explicit time limit on our relationship, since I knew it couldn't last because of the darkness and didn't want to hold her back, and this caused a variety of problems. She was put in an unnatural situation that she never should have been a part of. It must have been very hard for her, not knowing what was actually going on with me, but this is not something I've ever been able to talk about with anyone. Losing her was very hard for me as well. Not because of her (I got over our relationship relatively quickly), but because of the realization that I would never have another relationship and because it signified the last true, exclusive personal connection I could ever have. This wasn't apparent to other people, because I could never talk about the real reasons for my sadness. I was very sad in the summer and fall, but it was not because of her, it was because I will never escape the darkness with anyone. She was so loving and kind to me and gave me everything I could have asked for under the circumstances. I'll never forget how much happiness she brought me in those briefs moments when I could ignore the darkness. I had originally planned to kill myself last winter but never got around to it. (Parts of this letter were written over a year ago, other parts days before doing this.) It was wrong of me to involve myself in her life if this were a possibility and I should have just left her alone, even though we only dated for a few months and things ended a long time ago. She's just one more person in a long list of people I've hurt.
I could spend pages talking about the other relationships I've had that were ruined because of my problems and my confusion related to the darkness. I've hurt so many great people because of who I am and my inability to experience what needs to be experienced. All I can say is that I tried to be honest with people about what I thought was true.

I've spent my life hurting people. Today will be the last time.

I've told different people a lot of things, but I've never told anyone about what happened to me, ever, for obvious reasons. It took me a while to realize that no matter how close you are to someone or how much they claim to love you, people simply cannot keep secrets. I learned this a few years ago when I thought I was gay and told people. The more harmful the secret, the juicier the gossip and the more likely you are to be betrayed. People don't care about their word or what they've promised, they just do whatever the fuck they want and justify it later. It feels incredibly lonely to realize you can never share something with someone and have it be between just the two of you. I don't blame anyone in particular, I guess it's just how people are. Even if I felt like this is something I could have shared, I have no interest in being part of a friendship or relationship where the other person views me as the damaged and contaminated person that I am. So even if I were able to trust someone, I probably would not have told them about what happened to me. At this point I simply don't care who knows.
I feel an evil inside me. An evil that makes me want to end life. I need to stop this. I need to make sure I don't kill someone, which is not something that can be easily undone. I don't know if this is related to what happened to me or something different. I recognize the irony of killing myself to prevent myself from killing someone else, but this decision should indicate what I'm capable of.
So I've realized I will never escape the darkness or misery associated with it and I have a responsibility to stop myself from physically harming others.

I'm just a broken, miserable shell of a human being. Being molested has defined me as a person and shaped me as a human being and it has made me the monster I am and there's nothing I can do to escape it. I don't know any other existence. I don't know what life feels like where I'm apart from any of this. I actively despise the person I am. I just feel fundamentally broken, almost non-human. I feel like an animal that woke up one day in a human body, trying to make sense of a foreign world, living among creatures it doesn't understand and can't connect with.

I have accepted that the darkness will never allow me to be in a relationship. I will never go to sleep with someone in my arms, feeling the comfort of their hands around me. I will never know what uncontimated intimacy is like. I will never have an exclusive bond with someone, someone who can be the recipient of all the love I have to give. I will never have children, and I wanted to be a father so badly. I think I would have made a good dad. And even if I had fought through the darkness and married and had children all while being unable to feel intimacy, I could have never done that if suicide were a possibility. I did try to minimize pain, although I know that this decision will hurt many of you. If this hurts you, I hope that you can at least forget about me quickly.

There's no point in identifying who molested me, so I'm just going to leave it at that. I doubt the word of a dead guy with no evidence about something that happened over twenty years ago would have much sway.

You may wonder why I didn't just talk to a professional about this. I've seen a number of doctors since I was a teenager to talk about other issues and I'm positive that another doctor would not have helped. I was never given one piece of actionable advice, ever. More than a few spent a large part of the session reading their notes to remember who I was. And I have no interest in talking about being raped as a child, both because I know it wouldn't help and because I have no confidence it would remain secret. I know the legal and practical limits of doctor/patient confidentiality, growing up in a house where we'd hear stories about the various mental illnesses of famous people, stories that were passed down through generations. All it takes is one doctor who thinks my story is interesting enough to share or a doctor who thinks it's her right or responsibility to contact the authorities and have me identify the molestor (justifying her decision by telling herself that someone else might be in danger). All it takes is a single doctor who violates my trust, just like the "friends" who I told I was gay did, and everything would be made public and I'd be forced to live in a world where people would know how fucked up I am. And yes, I realize this indicates that I have severe trust issues, but they're based on a large number of experiences with people who have shown a profound disrepect for their word and the privacy of others.

People say suicide is selfish. I think it's selfish to ask people to continue living painful and miserable lives, just so you possibly won't feel sad for a week or two. Suicide may be a permanent solution to a temporary problem, but it's also a permanent solution to a ~23 year-old problem that grows more intense and overwhelming every day.

Some people are just dealt bad hands in this life. I know many people have it worse than I do, and maybe I'm just not a strong person, but I really did try to deal with this. I've tried to deal with this every day for the last 23 years and I just can't fucking take it anymore.
I often wonder what life must be like for other people. People who can feel the love from others and give it back unadulterated, people who can experience sex as an intimate and joyous experience, people who can experience the colors and happenings of this world without constant misery. I wonder who I'd be if things had been different or if I were a stronger person. It sounds pretty great.
I'm prepared for death. I'm prepared for the pain and I am ready to no longer exist. Thanks to the strictness of New Jersey gun laws this will probably be much more painful than it needs to be, but what can you do. My only fear at this point is messing something up and surviving.
—-

I'd also like to address my family, if you can call them that. I despise everything they stand for and I truly hate them, in a non-emotional, dispassionate and what I believe is a healthy way. The world will be a better place when they're dead—one with less hatred and intolerance.

If you're unfamiliar with the situation, my parents are fundamentalist Christians who kicked me out of their house and cut me off financially when I was 19 because I refused to attend seven hours of church a week.

They live in a black and white reality they've constructed for themselves. They partition the world into good and evil and survive by hating everything they fear or misunderstand and calling it love. They don't understand that good and decent people exist all around us, "saved" or not, and that evil and cruel people occupy a large percentage of their church. They take advantage of people looking for hope by teaching them to practice the same hatred they practice.
A random example:

"I am personally convinced that if a Muslim truly believes and obeys the Koran, he will be a terrorist." - George Zeller, August 24, 2010.

If you choose to follow a religion where, for example, devout Catholics who are trying to be good people are all going to Hell but child molestors go to Heaven (as long as they were "saved" at some point), that's your choice, but it's fucked up. Maybe a God who operates by those rules does exist. If so, fuck Him.

Their church was always more important than the members of their family and they happily sacrificed whatever necessary in order to satisfy their contrived beliefs about who they should be.
I grew up in a house where love was proxied through a God I could never believe in. A house where the love of music with any sort of a beat was literally beaten out of me. A house full of hatred and intolerance, run by two people who were experts at appearing kind and warm when others were around. Parents who tell an eight year old that his grandmother is going to Hell because she's Catholic. Parents who claim not to be racist but then talk about the horrors of miscegenation. I could list hundreds of other examples, but it's tiring.

Since being kicked out, I've interacted with them in relatively normal ways. I talk to them on the phone like nothing happened. I'm not sure why. Maybe because I like pretending I have a family. Maybe I like having people I can talk to about what's been going on in my life. Whatever the reason, it's not real and it feels like a sham. I should have never allowed this reconnection to happen.
I wrote the above a while ago, and I do feel like that much of the time. At other times, though, I feel less hateful. I know my parents honestly believe the crap they believe in. I know that my mom, at least, loved me very much and tried her best. One reason I put this off for so long is because I know how much pain it will cause her. She has been sad since she found out I wasn't "saved", since she believes I'm going to Hell, which is not a sadness for which I am responsible. That was never going to change, and presumably she believes the state of my physical body is much less important than the state of my soul. Still, I cannot intellectually justify this decision, knowing how much it will hurt her. Maybe my ability to take my own life, knowing how much pain it will cause, shows that I am a monster who doesn't deserve to live. All I know is that I can't deal with this pain any longer and I'm am truly sorry I couldn't wait until my family and everyone I knew died so this could be done without hurting anyone. For years I've wished that I'd be hit by a bus or die while saving a baby from drowning so my death might be more acceptable, but I was never so lucky.
—-
To those of you who have shown me love, thank you for putting up with all my shittiness and moodiness and arbitrariness. I was never the person I wanted to be. Maybe without the darkness I would have been a better person, maybe not. I did try to be a good person, but I realize I never got very far.

I'm sorry for the pain this causes. I really do wish I had another option. I hope this letter explains why I needed to do this. If you can't understand this decision, I hope you can at least forgive me.

Bill Zeller

Please save this letter and repost it if gets deleted. I don't want people to wonder why I did this. I disseminated it more widely than I might have otherwise because I'm worried that my family might try to restrict access to it. I don't mind if this letter is made public. In fact, I'd prefer it be made public to people being unable to read it and drawing their own conclusions.

Feel free to republish this letter, but only if it is reproduced in its entirety.

The real problem with Scott Walker's "Crime" ad that no one is talking about

(Warning-This post involves child abuse resulting in deaths. Multiple. It was hard to write and may be hard to read)

Originally posted at Daily Kos

If you have been following the events in Wisconsin, you have probably seen this attack ad released by Friends of Scott Walker



"This 2-year-old spent six days in intensive care after being severely beaten," says the Walker ad's narrator. "But Tom Barrett’s police department didn’t consider it a violent crime." The ad then shows crime statistics and asserts "violent crime is up" in Milwaukee. The controversial ad-which has been criticized by the criminologist who was quoted as "misleading"- took center stage at last weeks debate, in one of the most emotionally charged moments of the night:

"He's running a commercial right now that shows a dead baby," Barrett said during the debate. "It shows a picture of a dead baby. This is Willie Horton stuff. That baby died."  

"You're running a commercial attacking my integrity, claiming that I had something to do with this, and you know that's false," added Barrett, his voice rising. "You tell me whether you think I had anything to do with that."  

Walker began to respond, saying, "No, I'm asking you --" Before he could finish, Barrett cut him off. 

"I'll tell you right now, I had nothing to do with that," Barrett said. "You should be ashamed of that commercial, Scott Walker."

Like many who watched the debate, I was confused by Tom Barret's statement. The ad states that the child spent 2 weeks in the ICU, but doesn't mention a death. I hoped that he had misspoken. Sadly, he did not.

According to the report by the Journal Sentinel cited by the ad, the child they are referring to is 2 year old Karmari Curtis

MILWAUKEE -- An arrest has been made in the death of a 2-year-old boy brought to the hospital on Saturday April 2nd. The man in custody is the mother's boyfriend, and police said it's not the first time the suspect is accused of abusing the child.  

Officers went to an apartment building near 22nd Street and Wisconsin Avenue on Saturday, after the 26-year-old man living there took his girlfriend's 2-year-old son to the hospital.Police said the toddler was pronounced dead at 6:27 p.m. The boyfriend was arrested shortly after.  

Monday, no one was at the boyfriend's apartment, where police said the abuse happened, but a neighbor told 12 News there was nothing suspicious Saturday night. "I didn't hear anything," said Rosie Ballard, neighbor. "I was in bed when the police came." Police said it was the same victim, and Benson ruptured the toddler's liver at the same apartment while the child was in his care Oct. 25. 12 News also obtained the no-contact order filed against Benson. His trial was set for this May. 

Neighbors said the toddler and his mother did not live at the apartment but would visit frequently. Neighbors didn't see anything unusual when they came this weekend. "Friday night, I maybe heard a little noise, but when I hear bumping or knocking something I pay no attention to it because sometimes it happens," said Ballard. 

Police have not said what the child's injuries are as officers continue to investigate, and the department has put a non-disclosure on the medical examiner's report. An autopsy was to be performed today. 

The Department of Children and Families released a statement from Arlene Happach, the director of the Bureau of Milwaukee Child Welfare. It reads, "This child's death is a tragedy, and our deepest sympathy is with his family and others who loved him. We are investigating the role of the bureau in this case."

So why did the Walker campaign leave out the fact that Karmari was murdered? Granted, it could have been to avoid admitting that they were ghoulish enough to use a deceased child as a political prop-but using a battered one isn't really that much better. And such a horrific murder would certainly play right in to the narrative of a crime-ridden Milwaukee under Tom Barrett.

But perhaps there is another reason why Scott Walkers campaign didn't mention it-Perhaps because it would lead to the fact that, at the time of Karmari's death, he was known to the Bureau of Milwaukee Child Welfare (BMCW)-a state-run agency that Scott Walker was ultimately responsible for overseeing. And perhaps more importantly, the fact that the BMCW was one of the first government agencies subjected to the privatization treatment that Scott Walker is now trying to inflict on the rest of Wisconsin's governmental functions, with disastrous consequences.

George Tierny of Greenville South Carolina-Golf Caddy, Insufferable Woman-hating Fuckwit, help make him famous!

From normboyd40 at Daily Kos

A bullying,ignorant misogynist name George Tierney, a golf caddy living in Greenville, South Carolina, has been reduced to begging and threatening to get removed from Google. It seems Mr. Tierney, who calls himself a former golf professional, (Player? Caddy? pro-shop clerk?) decided to do the Limbaugh by attacking Sandra Fluke (fixed spelling) as a "dick sucker" and a "cunt" on his Twitter page. Now he finds that the whole damn world can read what he wrote and he is threatening legal action to get everything covered up. I suppose it's getting real hard to get a date there in Greenville, or maybe his mommy read the page and was displeased. In any event, this diary has no purpose but to call attention to the T-Blogg story and make Mr. Tierney famous. Who knows? Maybe he'll sue Daily Kos too.

http://tbogg.firedoglake.com/2012/05/20/internet-man-does-not-want-to-be-on-the-google-anymore/?fwcc=1&fwcl=1&fwl

Here are the Tweets in question:

More than happy to do my part! Words have consequences, jackass.

Mitt Romney's "Mothers Day" Ad reveals the height of republican hypocrisy

Mothers Day-a time when we all stop to honor the women in our lives for all of the hard work and sacrifices they make raising our future generations.

Or, if you are Mitt Romney, a perfect opportunity to exploit your wife's health problems and make her into a mommy martyr to pander for donations:

Ann Romney raised 5 boys. She successfully battled breast cancer and multiple sclerosis. But what does White House insider Hilary Rosen say about Ann Romney? "Guess what, his wife has actually never worked a day in her life." And Bill Maher, who gave $1 million supporting Obama, attacks: "Ann Romney has never gotten her ass out of the house." Happy Mother's Day from Barack Obama's Team!

Interesting attack, considering the source. More below the fold.

Books That Changed My Life-"Trauma & Recovery" by Judith Herman, M.D.

(Originally posted on Daily Kos)

I will open this with both a warning, and a bit of an apology-As the title of the book suggests, Judith Herman writes about Trauma. I am a survivor of sexual abuse. The importance of this book simply cannot be discussed without also touching upon some of my experiences with that. I realize this can be an uncomfortable topic, and is not really typical for this series-however, when I was approached about doing an installment for this I couldn’t think of any book that has changed my life more than this one. I also think this book (and hopefully-my review of it too!) is an important read both for trauma survivors and non-survivors alike. For survivors, there are simply no words to explain how much this book helps-it's truly a life-changing read. And non-survivors will come away with a richer understanding and greater empathy for those who have lived through experiences that seem completely foreign and unimaginable. This book forges a robust connection between public and private lives, and does it in a way that can be understood even by those with no background in trauma psychology. Indeed, this is what I found most powerful about Herman's book-it made me feel like I could reconnect with the outside world again.

Fox News Flip Flops, Calls off War on Marriage

Well, that didn't take long!

Yesterday's headline:

 



Todays Headline:
 

Once again, the republican party shows us that they love starting wars-but when it comes to actually fighting them, they are a bunch of chickenhawks.

(From the comments at Daily Kos) Third Version:

Well, Duh!

The Junior Jewfish was a bit perplexed this afternoon when mom started randomly jumping up and down, screaming and hollering in the middle of making her a sandwich.

"What are you so happy about?" she asked.

 I sat her down and told her "President Obama just said that a man should be able to marry a man, and a woman should be able to marry a woman if they love each other, just like everyone else"

 She gave me her most withering 5-year old look and said

 "Well, duh!"

Two simple words-but as far as I'm concerned they say it all:

 1. My kindergartener is smarter than 2 out of 3 North Carolinians

 2. Our hope for the future is not found in the pundits who are greeting the news of Obama's endorsement of marriage equality by calling it "groundbreaking" and "historic"-but in a generation of kids who will grow up knowing the only reasonable response to such an endorsement is...

One of those days...

The Oppressor's Language Sometimes Sounds Beautiful: Let us move on.

I will not say again I sat on his lap. 
No. He had me on his lap. 
You were not raped; he raped you.
Memory moves as it can, 
freedom is yours to place the verb.
and yes, the oppressor's language 
sometimes sounds beautiful, 
always dies hard. 
Let us move on. — Margaret Randall

 The journey that began on January 22nd, 2012 started as personal outcry. The diary I wrote on that day was an impulsive act of defiance against a culture of denial and ignorance about the reality of Child Sexual Abuse. It was also an act of public testimony to a private trauma. I never envisioned it would become anything more than that. Ultimately it did-not because of me, but because of the hundreds of people who responded and said “it happened to me too”. Or their mothers, their sisters, their brothers and their friends. The testimony of survivors, as well as those from the grave. Ghosts of the past emerged. Keep talking, they said. Don’t stop.


 So over the past months, that's what I've been doing. Not just me, but several other people who have become involved. We have been working, day and night, on creating something from the ashes of tragedy-working on it long before we even knew what it would look like, continuing to work without the benefit of knowing what it will become-yet knowing somehow that it is absolutely necessary. That it is worth the sleepless nights, the triggers, the setbacks-it's necessary. It's not a choice-it's a calling. It's an obligation. You may have seen examples of some of the work we have been doing-In the diary Introducing TREE Climbers, I spoke about the journey we have taken so far, and what our vision was. I talked about my lost friend "Rosa", a girl who was abused in ways that defy the imagination, but still held her head high. Who still could smile and see the capacity for good, and wrote poems so beautiful that they made me cry even though she was considered illiterate and borderline mentally retarded.

 I also said I was going to be rolling out a 5 part series on the history of child sexual abuse as a political issue. At the time, I had all but finished this series-and my plan was to put out one installment every few days. To build interest, momentum, and ultimately transform TREE Climbers into what we have envisioned- not just a support group, not simply a non-profit, but the beginning of a social movement to end the sexual abuse and exploitation of children.

 But I only published Part 1-and then I stopped. And I haven't been able to bring myself to post the rest of it. People keep asking me why, so I'll do my best to explain.

I'm afraid. It's that simple, really. I've poured my heart and soul into this series for months. And more importantly, I'm not telling my own story here-I'm telling the story of others. People who have all been forgotten by history. And I'm afraid that I'm not going to do them justice. And more than anything I'm afraid that people won't care. Because I'm talking about events long past, involving something that you cannot even see.

And as history has shown us-being forced to see what has been kept hidden is often the only true catalyst for social change. For the civil rights movement, it was the murder of Emmitt Till. Emmitt Till was not the first boy to be given a death sentence for the crime of looking at a white woman. Nearly 3,500 African Americans were lynched in the United States between 1882 and 1968. Many of these victims, like Emmitt Till, were children. When Emmitt Till was kidnapped, tortured, shot in the head at point blank range and then thrown into the Tallahatchie River with a cotton fan tied around his neck, he could have easily become another sad statistic. But his mother, Mamie Till Bradley, refused to let her son’s death go unnoticed. And more importantly, she refused to hide the truth about what was done to him. She held a public memorial service, and took the unprecedented step of showing his body in an open casket, in the same condition she found him. When asked why, her answer was simple: “I wanted the world to see what they did to my baby."

For the Vietnam Anti-War movement, it was the Mei Lei massacre. Hundreds of thousands of innocent Vietnam civilians, many of them children, had been slaughtered before the horrors of Mei Lei came to light. Returning veterans, in an act that was also unprecedented, joined the anti-war movement. They turned in the medals they were awareded for bravery and valor and gave public testimony of the atrocities of war, including their own war crimes. Despite the attempts of the Johnson and Nixon administrations to downplay the casualties and the human toll, with the advent of photojournalism the cruel and devastating reality of warfare was, for the first time in history, undeniable. And never was it more evident than when the photographs from Mei Lei were finally
published.
 

 These are horrible images. Many decades later, they are still difficult to look at. But they served a purpose-they forced the public to confront atrocity, and the anger and outrage these images inspired became the catalyst for both the peace movement and the civil rights movement to reach their tipping point. By forcing the public to confront that which has been hidden, images serve as living testimonies for those who cannot speak for themselves. But what do you do when the atrocity is one that you cannot see? The sexual abuse of children is devastating and prevalent. But it is also very well hidden. The crime itself almost always takes place in isolation. There are often few, if any, physical signs of abuse. And unlike Emmitt Till, or the Mei Lei massacre, there are no images. The only photo documentation of child sexual abuse is child pornography, and to show it publicly would be a grotesque form of re-victimization. And even professionals who have to view child pornography as part of the investigative process often report being disturbed by seeing children giggling and smiling as they are being abused. Sexual offenders turn abuse into a game, and go to great lengths to get their victims to see it the same way. They point to the involuntary physical responses to stimulation as proof that their victims are enjoying the experience, and then use this as a way to keep them silent. This is especially effective with male victims, who are often afraid of being seen as gay. As Judith Herman writes in “Trauma & Recovery”:

“Participation in forbidden sexual activity […] confirms the abused child’s sense of badness. Any gratification that the child is able to glean from the exploitative situation becomes proof in her mind that she instigated and bears full responsibility for the abuse. If she ever experienced sexual pleasure, enjoyed the abuser’s special attention, bargained for favors, or used the sexual relationship to gain privileges, these sins are adduced as evidence of her innate wickedness. The child entrapped in this kind of horror develops the belief that she is somehow responsible for the crimes of her abusers. Simply by virtue of her existence on earth, she believes that she has driven the most powerful people in her world to do terrible things. Surely, then, her nature must be thoroughly evil. The language of the self becomes a language of abomination. Survivors routinely describe themselves as outside the com-pact of ordinary human relations, as supernatural creatures or nonhuman life forms. They think of themselves as witches, vampires, whores, dogs, rats, or snakes. Some use the imagery of excrement or filth to describe their inner sense of self. In the words of an incest survivor: “I am filled with black slime. If I open my mouth it will pour out. I think of myself as the sewer silt that a snake would breed upon” […}The profound sense of inner badness becomes the core around which the abused child’s identity is formed, and it persists into adult life"

And this is the gravest injury that many abused children are left with. Physical wounds heal over time. That sense of “inner badness”, the feelings of being “contaminated” and “different” remain persistent and pernicious. Depression, feelings of worthlessness, self-injury, and despair can continue into adulthood. Ultimately, they can become lethal. Below the fold is my attempt to help you see those hidden injuries-and maybe help those of you who still don't get it to finally understand what we are fighting against.

Jerry Sandusky Was Running An Overnight Football Camp For Kids On Penn State Campus in 2009

Oops, my bad...this actually isn't "breaking" news at all. It was reported by the website Deadspin on November 6th, 2011 and for whatever reason it never got picked up. I just happened to run across this story in the process of researching something else-even my friends who live in PA and have been following this story closely had no idea.

But yes, it appears that after learning that Jerry Sandusky was raping children in their locker rooms, Penn State officials did what any reasonable institution would do-they asked Jerry to hand over his keys and please kindly take his forcible sodomy to a more discreet location. Like, say, their satellite campus in Erie PA:

According to the organizations now defunct website:

The goal of the camp is to learn as much about the game of football while having an enjoyable experience. Jerry Sandusky's personal experience and his excellent staff will cater to each individual camper helping them to reach their personal potential. With a variety of individual drills for every position team drills, and games, the participants will be able to build a solid fundamental background for which they can carry the rest of their lives. They will walk away with many of the ideas and concepts Jerry Sandusky has used during his brilliant career. A career that included two national championships and 28 bowl appearances! Lessons on life discipline, teamwork, trust, and loyalty will be stressed in motivational speeches by great guest speakers and selected video presentations. Regular camp instructors will include members of Jerry's family, other college and high school coaches, and former Penn State players.

Included in the brochure for the sleepover camp is this legal disclaimer:

"It is understood that Penn State Behrend, the directors, or anyone connected with the college will not assume any responsibility for accident (medical or dental) or any other expenses incurred as a result of accidents. The college is not responsible for lost equipment."

And apparently, not responsible for lost childhoods either.

It is worth noting that Deadspin, which describes itself as "Sports News without Access, Favor, or Discretion" PSU hired it's elite Public Relations team to handle media coverage, among other things.

It is safe to say that the Public Relations campaign worked-something that PSU president Rodney Erickson seemed positively giddy about mere days after Jerry Sandusky was charged with multiple counts of child rape-he triumphantly stated "We are taking control of our narrative"

He might not have control over that narrative for much longer, though.

Indeed, as the Sandusky trial gears up we are learning more and more about the other players in this horrific saga. In March,Federal Authorities began their own investigation into Penn State Cover-ups, bribes, fraud, misuse of government funds appear to be the focus of their investigation.

At the center of all of this is the often overlapping interests of Penn State and Second Mile, Jerry Sandusky's charity, and their ties to the big name donors and politicians who sat on their respective boards. At the top of this sordid totem pole is Governor Tom Corbett who was both acting Attorney General AND receiving generous campaign donations from both institutions and their alumni while his office was conducting the Sandusky investigation. Something doesn't smell right there, to put it mildly.

But priorities, people. Priorities.As Roxine diaried about earlier, PSU has just elected 2 new members to their board of trustees, and they know that some things just take precedence over figuring out how a serial pedophile was able to use their campuses as his personal playground for over 2 decades and maybe, ya know, doing something about it:

"I don't think we can get the alumni behind any of the other issues until we get the Paterno issue resolved," [newly elected board member Anthony Lubrano] said after today's meeting. "That's really the elephant in the room."

[SNIP]

"Let's just admit that we made a mistake, apologize, and then we can move on," Lubrano said. "Because if the alumni are happy they're going to give and they're going to help us bridge the obvious budget gaps we're going to have because the state is going to cut appropriations."

Yes, must make the alum happy so they start opening up those wallets again! That's what's it's all about, isn't it.

That apology he speaks of, by the way, is not for the victims.

It's for Joe Paterno.

Meet Jane Doe: An "Infamous" Rape Victim Reclaims Her Dignity

[Massive Trigger Warning for this entire post] I first "met" Jane Doe about 8 years ago. I was lying on the couch with my boyfriend at the time, watching TV. One of those hour-long primetime crime specials was on. I love these shows normally- murder mysteries fascinate me. But this one was different. This was not about a murder, it was about a rape.

Or was it? That was left up to the viewer to decide.

My knee-jerk reaction was to change the channel. It hits too close to home, and I hadn't told my boyfriend what happened to me. But then, it occurs to me that to change the channel would provoke questions-and may even be seen as a form of admission. I also wanted to gauge his reaction-to see if it was safe to finally tell him the truth.

 As the program went on I could sense him getting restless. He started shaking his head and muttering under his breath. Angry, I presumed. Men get angry when they hear about rape. It was, I thought, a good sign. And then he said, out loud, the two words that rocked me to my core:  

Stupid Bitch.

"What did you say?" I asked, incredulous.

That bitch, he said, is stupid as hell. And then he continued- She knew what she was in for when she went to that house What kind of hoe goes to a house with a bunch of dudes? Listen to that, she fucked them the night before! She got fucked up and let them run a train on her, and now she wants to cry rape.

I don't remember too well what happened next- other than it ended in me throwing the remote in a straight shot at his head and running out of the room in tears.

To Those Who Have Gone Home Tired

After the streets fall silent
After the bruises and the tear-gassed eyes are healed
After the concensus has returned
After the memories of Kent and My Lai and Hiroshima
lose their power
and their connections with each other
and the sweaters labeled Made in Taiwan
After the last American dies in Canada
and the last Korean in prison
and the last Indian at Pine Ridge
After the last whale is emptied from the sea
and the last leopard emptied from its skin
and the last drop of blood refined by Exxon
After the last iron door clangs shut
behind the last conscience
and the last loaf of bread is hammered into bullets
and the bullets
scattered among the hungry

What answers will you find
What armor will protect you
when your children ask you

Why?

Copyright © 1977 by W. D. Ehrhart
Rootless, Samisdat, 1977