Never roam around the internet without a stash of chocolates. You might just come across a soap box with someone standing on top of it talking from a place of ignorance. This morning, I came across these words in response to the current dialogue about suicide:
Dying is the easy way out.
It’s not the first time I’ve come across the idea that dying is easy. Such a sentence is often spoken by those who has never gone through the dying process, which I can assure you is usually hell. Be that as it may, it bothers me more that victim blamers inhabit the planet doling out judgement to people who have physiological illnesses. And make no mistake, depression is a physiological illness. Saying ‘suicide is cowardice’ is like saying someone who died from epilepsy took the easy way out.
Brock Allen Turner, the former Stanford swimmer who was discovered raping an unconscious woman behind a dumpster on campus in January of last year, will be sentenced to six months in county jail and probation. Prosecutors had recommended that Turner receive a sentence of six years, but judge Aaron Persky determined that Turner’s age — 20 — and lack of criminal history warranted him a much shorter sentence. And because jail would have a “severe impact on him.”
On Wednesday morning, two cops were seen arriving at the family’s suburban Cincinnati townhouse to pick up the boy’s mother Michelle Gregg, who was taken to a police station for one and a half hours of questioning. Later that day, the entire family loaded into their Toyota Minivan, which displays a ‘disabled’ tag, for an afternoon outing. A major public backlash has called for 32-year-old Gregg and Isaiah’s dad Deonne Dickerson, 36, to be charged with negligence in the wake of the ape’s death.
I don’t know her name, but that’s okay, I don’t really want to know it. I don’t have any right to know it. I want to protect her privacy, as she has already been through quite enough.
But I know YOUR name. Your name is Brock Allen Turner.
Brock Allen Turner.
Oh, and LOOK! Here’s a picture of you:
There you are, Brock Allen Turner.
Yes, I know your name, and I know what you did to her. I know that you were convicted unanimously by a jury of your peers. I know that I don’t give one single flying fuck about all that your oh-so-bright future was supposed to hold. I know that you damaged somebody else’s future, took a little piece of her away, a piece of her that you can never give back and she can never replace. It will always be permanently gone.
I know that the judge sentenced you to six months in jail. I know that this joke of a sentence is yet another in a long line of obscene and infuriating re-victimization of this brave young woman. I know–we all know–that justice has not been done here.
But I am going to do something to you that might be worse than jail, Brock Allen Turner. Actually, we all are. All of us who are enraged at what you did, at the fact that to this day you continue to deny wrongdoing aside from getting too drunk, that you continue to feign ignorance as to the egregiousness of your actions. All of us who are enraged by the fact that the not-very-honorable Judge Aaron Persky was so clearly more concerned with your life than with your victim’s, together, we are going to put you in a new kind of jail.
We are going to splatter your name and face across social media so that everyone knows who you are and what you look like. So that everyone knows what you’ve done. So that women know that they’d better not get drunk in your presence…or even…be in your presence at all.
Stay away from Brock, ladies. He’ll violate you in your sleep. He’s not a good guy, this one.
Let us gather, as a community, on behalf of this woman for whom justice was not served, with our torches and pitchforks, ready to put Brock in his place. Because the justice system failed not only her, but all of us. And goddammit, if the justice system is not going to protect us, I guess we are just going to have to fucking protect ourselves.
Notoriety. That’s your jail, Brock.
Everyone reading this? Share it. Share it for the picture and the name.
Let this be a lesson, an example to those who would dare touch another without clear consent. To those who would dare drag someone’s limp body behind a dumpster to strip it, sully it, abuse it, invade it. And then fucking deny the whole thing.
We’ve got our torches and pitchforks ready. We know who you are. And we are watching you. Remembering your face. Remembering your name. Putting up invisible walls around you, boxing you in, shutting you out. Shunning you.
So, Brock, how does it feel to be violated? You were sort of unawares while I did it to you…almost like being passed out drunk, in a way.
Narcissists are masters at playing mind games. They play to win and take no prisoners. They are poor losers and if they don’t win they will often react in a fit of rage and stomp away like a little child. The only way for the other person to win is to not play.
Here are eight games that are lots of fun for one of the players: the narcissist who initiates them. And like the overgrown babies they are, if you refuse to play or appear to be winning their game, they will pout, whine or throw a tantrum until you concede or let them win. This is a humorous yet serious look at the many games narcissists like to play, from the website The Narcissistic Life. Don’t play these games. Let them sulk and whine all by their widdle selves. Take the ball and go home.
Narcissists are masters at playing mind games. They play to win and take no prisoners. They are poor losers and if they don’t win they will often react in a fit of rage and stomp away like a little child. The only way for the other person to win…
I started writing this blog in 2011 on another site that is now closing. So here I am complete with the past and heading into a future I am happy to share with you. I suspect like everyone else when they start to blog, they believe that it will just be a few lines every now and then, the truth for me, has turned out to be something else completely. I write daily, so this is a full and detailed account of living with chronic illness. The symptoms and what they do to me, not just physically, but emotionally. The impact on everyday life, not just for me but my husband, and of course, on our marriage. I am now in my 50’s, but I was just 21 when my story really began, although it took nearly another 20 years for the doctors to work it out.