Posted in crime, mind control, police | 11 Comments »
I have for long years been influenced, impacted and affected by the suffering of people who are and who have been the victims of violence — be it at the hands of states, spouses, parents or random monsters on the street.
I have done my best, in those years, to understand and to relate to what happens to them. I have cried with them, cried for them, and cried for the awful horror that is our common, human milieu.
I have cried and felt, especially, for those women — far too many — whom I have met, who have told me their stories of rape, spousal abuse, imprisonment at the hands of “lovers”, ongoing exploitation and debasement. And I have tried to relate. I have related to the level where, as above, I have cried not only for them, but for all of them who suffer these horrors — especially when, for whatever reasons, they feel they must remain silent.
And then, without being raped specifically, I’ve become a victim, too.
I haven’t been in a physical confrontation, prior to seven weeks ago, since the playground days of the mid-1980s. Those, always, I lost in short order. Some sand to the face, a punch in the belly, or, later, a deft evasion on my part, and the confrontation dissolved rather quickly.
I found myself, though, seven weeks ago, facing a monster far greater than any playground bully. I ultimately have no idea whatsoever what a woman trapped by her circumstances into either remaining silent about rape or deciding to tolerate daily abuse undergoes.
I do, however, map some of my own feelings in reaction to those I have come to known from those of my friends who have been there. The correspondences are not always perfect. I did not have to face the situation that Miroslav Pašek would continue living in my home, continue to pretend to be my protector or lover, or continue to play a part in my life.
Even so, I ran. I ran from Pašek’s territory. I ran from his hunting grounds.
I have never really understood before recently what it is to be a victim. I’m not entirely sure that I understand now, especially to the depth that the victims of rape and domestic violence I have known have been.
If I have gotten even the slightest taste, however, by means of what I have experienced, then I know that their reality is, in fact, far worse than I ever imagined.
This realization, along with my own emotions, makes me want to sleep all day, and shut out the world.
And, yet, I cannot.