in our own words

INWORDS OUR OWN

a collection of stories, poetry, and art created by survivors of sexual violence

Volume 2: April 2012

a project by:

END THE SILENCE CAMPAIGN

identity
one of the hardest parts is reclaiming an identity that at once seemed stable, but now feels forever changed. Can you ever return to the person you were before? Or can the path to creating a new identity turn you into a better, stronger person?

Lost? Divided? Broken? Di erent? After surviving sexual violence,

These stories, poems, and art explore the concept of identity.

Each survivor takes us on a di erent path of selfdiscovery that emerged after sexual abuse, rape, or sexual violence. No two journeys are identical, but they all share a spirit of strength and hope.

contents
p.8
The Underside of Stars . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
by Emily Monroe, Founder of End the Silence Campaign What It Took by Laura Tattoo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Rebirth of Cinders by Sheri E. Brooks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Fight by Krista Wilbur . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Pretty, Broken Angel by Wendye Savage . . . . 11

No Way Out . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
by Kathryn Rose

p.16

Staring Down My Fears by Ashley McIntyre . . . . . . . . . . . 17 The Poisoned Oak by Jarrod Noftsger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

Who Am I? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
by RobbyBess Dear F*ck Up by Holly Bollinger . . . . . . . . . 22

p.21

Catching Free by Rhonda Begos . . . . . . . . 23 Premature Closure by Ashley N. Tabor . . . . . . 24

Untitled by Andrea Barkley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 Untitled by Meghan C. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Identity Change after Rape by Kelly Gorman . . . . . . . . . . 26 Untitled by Kathy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27

. . .
Alters and Characters . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
by Mike Finding my Identity by Dawn Helmrich . . . . . . . . 30 Running by Merideth McCallick Erickson . . . . . . . . 30 Little Girl by Amanda . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

p.22
33

No Crying Shame by Cerese Depardieu . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 Helpless by Kelly Hayes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Smile So Your Pain Doesnt Show by Erin . . . . . . 34 My Soul He Took by Becca Lynn . . . . . . . . . . . 34 Injustice by Mare Martell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35

p.32

Untitled by Kesha Booker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35

Silent Thrivers by ME Hart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 Saying Goodbye to a Ghost by RobbyBess . . . . . . . . . . . 36 Kaleidoscope by Krista Wilbur . . . . . . . . . 37 The Vampire by Ursula Greenwood . . . . . . 37

What I Will Be . . . . . . . . . . . 38
by Miranda Nedegaard

p.38

About End the Silence Campaign . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40

The Underside of

by: Emily Monroe, Founder of End the Silence Campaign

STARS

A still life of memories, it is like a dream that I am still trying to wake up from.

Thi eny knew about duality, about the death-black underside of stars, about what it meant to live in a forgotten country like Guyana. It was in this country of dueling identities - where every man owns a machete and bodies drop, unmentioned by newspapers, into rivers that a few hours later glow orange with the slow exhale of sunset that my life paused. >>

oure lucky, Miss, Thi eny said. For you they call it rape. For us they call it love.

hi eny was one of my thirteen-year old students who waited at the stelling while the boat pulled me away from what was supposed to be my home of two years. Six months into my volunteer teaching job in a village in Guyana, I was raped, threatened, and stalked by my neighbors nephew. After being persuaded to report the crime to the police, I endured his familys threats on my life for a week until my rapist was released on bail and sharing the same dirt roads with me, and I made the decision to return home. A still life of memories, it is like a dream that Im still trying to wake up from. It comes blinking, patches of light sneaking through clumps of leaves. The heavy heat of New Years night, the speed of the pick-up truck ripping down the dirt road, that sparkle of gold pressed over a rotted tooth. It all happened so fast doesnt everything? without the luxury of time for cool retrospective judgment. The scream drowned in my mouth, almost like it knew it would disappear in all that neighborless darkness anyway. That night, I learned the look in a mans eye when he will kill you if thats what it takes. The moment you realize just how disposable you are, you can never go back to feeling truly safe. He was only arrested for four counts of rape because, as the detective dictated, I didnt say no the last time. That seed of doubt written in black pen on the o cial police document that still sits in a stack of dusty notebooks in Detective Alexanders desk infected the next year of my life. Naively, I hoped against all hope that when I stepped o the airplane, everything would be better. I felt lucky that I had a home to go to, a place to escape to. I didnt know that the nightmare was only beginning. 365 days. Thats how long it would take to be absolutely sure that I didnt have HIV. The rumors that my rapist was HIV positive pounded through my brain, and so I crowded my days with two jobs, writing, television. I was afraid to self-medicate; even one beer let my mind have too much freedom. 365 days passed without love, sex, dreamless sleep, meaningful human connection. And then, some relief the test results: negative. I vacillated between wanting to rip my rapists skin o and feeling sorry for him. This sorry-feeling made me feel sick, like if he wasnt one-dimensional and evil, then maybe it was my fault. It took me a year to realize that I only felt sorry because I was human. For storytelling purposes, Id like to say that receiving those test results catapulted me into the healing process. But it wasnt a linear path. My healing process a combination of therapy, writing, bad decisions, nightmares, more therapy, and of course, regular life didnt have a beginning, and I realize now, will never have a complete end. One memory calms, then a stranger triggers another memory, then present life just o ers more challenges to overcome. My rape is not an event that I can focus on and then forcefully cleanse; it is an event forever entwined in my life and its aftermath has changed me into the person I am today. I started End the Silence campaign because I was frustrated by the lack of survivor-centered resources out there. Resources focused on how to prevent rape, how to report rape, and how to nd a therapist near you. This seemed to be the formula for getting better. I was angry; it was too late to read the preventive measures, I did report my rape but did not enjoy any sort of empowerment because I was mocked by the police and then charges were dropped when I left the country, and I didnt have the money for a therapist (the free support clinic near me was so busy that they didnt

return my phone calls). It seemed to me there was something missing; where were the voices of survivors like me who just needed to know that there was someone out there feeling the same thing? Mass media television, movies, news, even books show rape as an isolated, disastrous event that triggers a spiraling downfall into drugs, depression, and of course, crying alone in a corner with too much black eyeliner on. The negative stigma attached to rape survivors an initial pity and then subsequent discomfort keeps us quiet. In our culture, where politically correctness prevails, rape survivors have not made it into the list of protected parties. Sexist and derogatory slurs pass through the lips of men and women, and many of us just keep our mouths shut because we dont want to be that person. (Margot, my best friend and co-creator of End the Silence, is di erent. She will interrupt any conversation or spoil any bad joke to inform someone of the e ect of even casual remarks. I truly admire her for this.) The media misrepresentation, the painful memories, and the feelings of guilt and shame that many survivors battle with keep us quiet, which perpetuates the stereotype that most men and women are safe from rape except for an unlucky few.

The negative stigma attached to rape survivors - an initial pity and then subsequent discomfort - keeps us quiet.
The truth is, survivors are everywhere. And there are a lot of us. As a sister, friend, co-worker, acquaintance, and through End the Silence, I have listened to hundreds of accounts of rape, sexual abuse, and violence. At times, the volume and weight of these stories makes me feel trapped in a world I simply cant understand, where people experience a lifetime of unimaginable violence that they dont deserve. But then other times I am amazed and inspired by the amount of pain that people can endure. Yes, survivors share struggles that they may battle for the rest of their lives. But at the end of the day, we are normal people with ups and downs, changed by rape but not de ned by it. In 2009, two and a half years after I was raped, I went back to Guyana. Maybe I was searching for closure, maybe some reason to explain why my life had turned upside down. Needless to say, I didnt nd it. What I found instead was context for my memories those same un nished gravel roads, the throb of heat that makes even your ngertips sweat, the open arms of a community that didnt forget about me. I found understanding from women who said simply, Im sorry you had to go through that. They didnt judge or blame me because they knew rst-hand the violence that some men can in ict. When life delivers things we cant understand, we make excuses. Sometimes men get too full with love, sometimes sts tell stories of a simple thirst for skin, and sometimes he just didnt know what he was doing. It was my decision to go out that night, I should have known it was coming. You could ll a river with stories like that, and in Guyana, like the rest of the world, we did. In Guyana, like many other places, women and men cannot tell stories of rape because they will be alienated from the community or killed. So I tell my story for myself and for the millions of other men and women and children out there who are whispering their stories silently in their minds, waiting for the opportunity to speak. ><

What It Took by: Laura Tattoo

written for Amy, Teresa, Shell and Margaret on Feb 21, 1999, my forty-second birthday and one year after our women's sexual healing group What it took was a ag at half-mast What it took was a houseful of clues What it took was the courage to listen What it took was a bottomless blues The door to my attic has come unlatched Its trunks are lled with outgrown clothes The glass gurine smashes to the oor Its fragments glisten like precious jewels All that I am I have been And what I've seen made movies I watch the parting shots and give credit where credit is due: Some to me, some to you I celebrate my life again remember friends and innocents and wash the demons from my eyes and raise the ag to its full height and y, my dear ones overhead

...What it took was the courage to listen What it took was a bottomless blues...
Rebirth of Cinders by: Sheri E. Brooks
A pile of ashes on the oor The beauty retired forevermore Pointless to sift, nothing to explore The grey heap has no core Nothing left of her to save Pain is the prison; forever the slave To this unconsecrated grave The wind will take her remains away No prayers to chant, no words spoken No stir of life, no hope of invoking What is left of what was broken The powder hill a mere token A pile of ashes on the oor The cinder residing in its core Will rise and burn once more Her gold and crimson glory restored She has been in cinders before I hibernate I incubate I lie in wait The ash pile is not my fate Phoenix

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Fight by: Krista Wilbur

Sometimes you cant, not when there is a weight like a he av ya nc ho r holding you in a deep, wet place, navy blue and churning; even when the engine is running. When youre running and its all in s l o w motion, when youre trapped in a cartoon version of your real life and even when you shout until your throat burns the blue bright red no one can hear you and the only place your voice echoes is in your mind, when you are bleeding and lost in shadow. When youre lost in a shadow that hovers by day and by night, when the only thing that remains are your scars, odd-numbered lines that ll your dreams and even-numbered stripes, like a zebra streaked pallid and crimson, that are tucked, hidden away. When you are hidden away and people look for you but theres nothing special about you anymore except for maybe the one thing that isnt so special. When the world goes on, its colors and sounds sharp and bright and you only know dull. When you lost who you would have become,

when you will never know her. When it began and when its happening, no matter what anyone says, how hard they imagine, no matter: sometimes, its for the better that you didnt. Sometimes, the only time you can is when its over. When youre crumpled, an aluminum can under a heel, trash treasured and picked up and unfolded, creased and pinched and molded into something something that resembles something like the original. Sometimes, its the only time you can.

...but theres nothing special about you anymore except for maybe the one thing that isnt so special.
Pretty, Broken Angel by: Wendye Savage
He's mistreated her and told her lies The pretty broken angel cries: She's lost the sparkle in her eyes With each passing day, her spirit dies: He can pin her down with pain, oh how he tries But little does he realize: Someone's praying, tears will dry And the broken one, one day shall rise.

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No Way Out
rst job after college was in a drab, dreary law o ce in

My

by: Kathryn Rose

Chicago. Every morning I joined the suburbanite commuters trudging to the train station. My mood stretched out blue and lifeless. There was no zip in my zest, no snap in my vigor. During my lunch hour, I escaped the ennui by traveling, mentally, to worlds that were not my own. But my outbound tickets in books and magazines did not satiate my wanderlust. I wanted to experience the raucous, strange, and

magni cent worlds vibrantly depicted by William Faulkner and Kate Chopin, Flannery OConnor and Tennessee Williams. I decided to escape the Midwest doldrums and move to New Orleans, a city lauded for its eternal party, quirk and charm.

After a few weeks living in Mid-City, a neighborhood removed from the bacchanalia of the French Quarter, New Orleans transcended the Bourbon Street clich. The cartoon commodity >

of robust brass bands bee-bopping on the street corner, cheap bourbon freely owing from the faucets, and gumbo and voodoo emanating from the sewers was replaced with a more realistic, much grimmer portrait. New Orleans wasnt a fantasy land. It was a real place with sinister things coursing underneath the crashing good times. Violence plagued the city. For instance, being mugged in New Orleans did not make you special, it was just another natural occurrence with the regularity of cyclonic late-summer surges. So, when I was attacked and raped one block from my house, I wasnt lled with shock, or even horror. It happened. Like the gale winds and ooding eventually get everyone, it was simply my turn. Immediately after the rape, I internalized all the negative stereotypes that society imposes on a rape survivor: I was lthy, damaged goods. Ruined. I got what I was looking for. It was my fault. I had no control over the label rape victim and I didnt want to be viewed as weak and helpless. Too ashamed to tell my family and friends, I lied. I constructed a story that made me brave: I outwitted him! I got away! I escaped. Of course, I didnt escape the attack, or the pernicious aftermath. Paralyzed by fear, I could no longer walk down the street without my sts clenched, inching when anyone came close to me. I needed to escape the city, the painful memory, and the traumatic e ects common to so many survivors of rape. I moved back to Chicago. Changing location brought temporary relief, but the memory burned and my silence persisted. I emerged a new person who believes that life is a struggle for survival. I refrained from even the

most modest delights: to entertain anything fun and frivolous was to court disaster. I became increasingly unhappy. I was ashamed, embarrassed, polluted. I felt sexually perverse. Did surviving the rape imply consent? Was I asking for it? An insidious interior monologue dominated my thoughts, while I carried on with my daily tasks as if nothing ever happened. I wanted to prove to myself that I was resilient, that I was a superhuman, endowed with mental gifts and coping strategies that made it possible to get on with my life after a sexual assault. But I was not immune to the lifealtering symptoms of trauma and I struggled to comprehend the depth of my feelings and the e ect they were having on my life and behavior.

So when I was attacked and raped one block from my house, I wasnt lled with shock, or even horror. It happened... It was simply my turn.
What I needed to do was disown the pernicious internal dialogue, to call out and smash the negative voices, to bury them, to walk away from them. But, instead of confronting those voices, I listened to them. On repeat. It was too much. I needed to escape the verbal battering. I began manipulating my diet, and by extension, my body. Restricting my caloric intake became a nifty strategy to numb the negative feelings, alleviate anxiety, and dissociate from the intrusive memories. I thought the eating disorder was keeping me safe. I thrived on the physical crisis. The special adrenaline of >

13

< restriction wrangled my nerves, providing a jangly feeling that kept me on my toes, always on high alert. I would inch in a second, ready to make my escape. The eating disorder was also a way to wear my inner misery on the outside. I lost so much weight, my reproductive gure disappeared. Perfect! I was no longer a target. My body was alien, lifeless; it bent over with the strain of my past and my private e orts to expunge it. This was my way to regain the power and control I lost during the sexual attack, but instead the eating disorder stripped me of all my power and removed every ounce of strength and iota of energy I had. I couldnt bear the silence any longer. Three years after the attack, I realized the only real option was confrontation to break the silence, legitimize my status as a victim, and assert that escape is just a socially-reinforced denial that perpetuates poor coping mechanisms for women. Bottling up what happened, remaining in isolation, made it impossible to break through the shame and guilt. I realized there will be no real recovery unless I spoke openly of what happened. I had to integrate the assault into my life story: It is part of who I am. If you accept me, you accept it. I view my past as my partner for better or worse. Sometimes it is an impediment and sometimes it is an aide. I'd like to view it as an edge - I have an inner strength that has helped me overcome lesser crises. My history can also serve as a well of experience, giving me a view of the world few others have, allowing me to see the ineluctable depth of crisis and the power of fate. I can be of use to women, encouraging them to value their presence, to recognize the impact of culture and victimization. I can empower women to feel comfortable with their power. Being useful in the world is one way to heal and give me a back a place in the world. It is my way of returning. ><

I had to integrate the assault into my life story: It is part of who I am. If you accept me, you accept it.

Staring Down My Fears by: Ashley McIntyre

A victim is vulnerable, A powerless presence mocked by an event. A victim is haunted, Hauling memories that perpetuate the hurt. A victim is distracted, Daunting depression de ning What she does, Who she becomes. I am not a victim. I am a survivor, Stopping the su ering, Staring down my fears, Showing my strength. I am a survivor, Taking back control, Treasuring happiness, Throwing away the torture. I am a survivor, Because in choosing to Survive, I will never again be his victim.

The Poisoned Oak by: Jarrod Noftsger

Its roots run deep it is resolved to stand The oak will not be moved Though storms have raged, the branches are strong And yet The gardeners poison continues to seep

Untitled (Self Portrait) by: Kelly Tobias Photograph

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Who
I

Am

Story by:

I?

RobbyBess

Physically I became a woman, but emotionally and to some extent mentally I never did. There were 3 parts of me a scared child, an angry teenager and a confused adult woman. On some level I knew these divisions actually existed, but it would be years before I understood why. I was sexually and verbally abused by my father beginning at age 10. The sexual abuse ended ve months before my 18th birthday. The last time he tried to touch me I grabbed a butcher knife and pushed him away. I told him I would stab him through the heart if he ever touched me again. The verbal abuse continued until my 21st birthday when he had a heart attack and almost died. To this day I can recall vividly the details of what he did to me, I never tried to make myself believe it never happed nor did I believe I was to blame for what happened to me. Instead I believed I was the victim of a violent senseless

was born a female so by nature I would become a woman, but this process of maturing was complicated due to sexual abuse.

crime, but I survived. As far as I was concerned it was case closed and there was nothing left to talk about. It was over and I had won. When he thought he was dying he tried talking to me because he wanted to say he was sorry, but I refused to listen and simply blew him o . I was not ready to forgive him and didnt want to talk about it at all. It would be another 13 years before the subject came up again. One evening he brought it up again. This time he told me he was sorry for what he had done to me and for the pain he had caused me. He justi ed what he did by saying he was trying to keep me from being a lesbian. Once again I blew him o and refused to talk about it. He was dead the next morning. At 18 I was just beginning to discover who I was and to develop my own identity. I became obsessed with power and protection. I swore to myself no one would ever hurt me again. I trusted no one but, my best friend and felt a deeply rooted need to protect myself and others at all costs. Even my

hobbies and my dreams were built around power and protection. I was Don Quixote chasing his dragons. Soon my very existence became a self imposed prison. Around the time my abuse ended I also started going deaf and the fact that I was gay actually began to sink in slowly. Who was I at this point and what was my identity? One identity I took for myself was protector not only of me, but others as well. However I also was three people all rolled into one. I was a scared abused little girl that needed protected, I was a teenager lled with rage who had to protect the abused little girl no matter what and I was becoming a very confused adult woman. Which of these identities actually guided my thought processes at any given time depended on the situation. At some point I also decided I no longer wanted to be seen as or present myself as a woman. I wanted to be a person with no sexual identity. I wanted no one man or woman to take notice of me. I simply wanted to fade into the background because this was the only way the adult I had become could keep the child and teenager inside me safe. At home I dressed in blue jeans and t-shirts. At work I dressed more feminine, but my clothes were always baggy and loose tting. When I was 30 after years of inner turmoil I gave up my emotions. I was a Star Trek fan and decided to live my life like my favorite character Mr. Spock. Half Human and half Vulcan Spock suppressed his emotions and lived purely by logic. By this time my inner rage and confusion were so great I could only keep my sanity by divorcing myself from all my emotions. I had no idea who I was or what was happening to me, but I knew logic would save me and for a while it did. I no longer agonized over every decision I made nor did I argue with myself about if I would be safe and unharmed. Logic allowed me to keep my sanity and sur

vive. I was able to live my life day to day never thinking or caring about the future. I never cared about who I was either. My identity became whatever someone else needed me to be. I was daughter, sister, granddaughter, Aunt, God-Mother, niece, cousin, Aunt, co-worker and boss. I lived in my self imposed prison surrounded by my assorted collections of things that made me feel safe and powerful. Yes, logic allowed me to keep my sanity, but what I failed to understand was all those emotions I suppressed didnt simply vanish. The confusion and rage were still there and grew with each passing year.

I was a shattered little girl who grew up as best she could into a fractured adult.
After my Dads death it began to sink in that even though I had ended my abuse and pushed it to the back of my mind the after math of it had infected every part of my life and my identity. I could not deal with my hearing loss because dealing with it felt as though I was being abused all over again. Im Aunt to three beautiful nephews, but I was afraid to touch them or to be alone with them when they were young. I was terri ed I would turn into a perverted monster just like my father so I had to protect them from me. I was also plagued with guilt because I had always been Daddys little girl. I wanted to hate him because of what he did to me,

19

but I couldnt because I loved my Dad so I divided him in two. My father was the perverted monster that stole my childhood and my Dad was the loving but, awed man that created so many wonderful childhood memories for me. Finally I decided I was tired of being angry all the time, but not understanding why. So I decided to try counseling one more time. I was hoping the third time would be the charm. Now after seven years of therapy things are nally starting to make sense. I came to realize that I had forgiven my father long ago for his crime, but I had never understood the nature of sexual abuse beyond the physical aspect of it. Slowly I began to understand how deeply the abuse a ected me. Now Ive made peace with my deafness, Ive let go of my anger and Ive let go of the scared ten year old little girl inside of me. I gave up my precious logic, began the process of reacquainting myself with my emotions and slowly I began to feel human again. Ive dropped my protector identity and all the other identities I would assume are now merely pieces of who I am, but not how I identify myself. This has been a di cult process, but I took the rst step when I was able to trust my therapist enough to let go of my deep dark secret. Ive learned to trust again and Ive started to feel like the woman I am. Now Im lled with wonder, curiosity and the thrill of discovery, but there are butter ies in the pit of my stomach too. I feel like a newly awakened Rip Van Winkle. Very slowly Ive started to discover my lesbian identity, but growing up emotionally at middle age is di cult and confusing to say the least. I think deep down my inner teenager will still a part of me at least for now because she represents the sexual side of me. At this point in my journey I dont know if the part of my

identity that is a fully realized sexual being will ever emerge. Sex and my feelings about it remains the one unasked and unanswered question in my journey. This process of self discovery has forced me to reevaluate my life and throw away all the pieces that no longer t. The things I surrounded myself with to feel powerful and protect me I no longer need. Ive learned Im powerful in my own right and always have been, but now I feel empty inside because so much of who I am remains to be discovered. This is a confusing time and an exhilarating time, but for the rst time in a very long time I feel connected to my life instead of being on the outside looking in. The old me lived day to day with no thought about the future. I never had a death wish, but I never cared if I lived or died either because my life never mattered to me. Ive wasted so much of my adult life and so now I try to live each day fully and stay in the moment as best I can, but I look forward to tomorrow too. My life was built around an anger that I couldnt understand nor give a voice to. I was a shattered little girl who grew up as best she could into a fractured adult. So who am I? What is my Identity? I am a woman who is deaf. I am also a lesbian, but perhaps the most important thing I am is a SURVIVOR! Barry Manilow sings I made it through the rain..I kept myself respected by the others who got rained on tooI made it through and I feel like I have done just that. Woman, lesbian, SURVIVOR and deaf are the main components of my identity, These four will always be who I am; yet my journey is far from over. Who knows what remains to be discovered? ><

Lost and Searching: A Quest for Self by: Caitlyn Semanie 21

Dear f*ck up, thanks for f*cking things up by: Holly Bollinger
Peeling o faith itching and scratching at my skin thinking of the places where i'v been faces staind inside my eyes And I can't help but picture you above me. My dreams tell more than my words I can't ght the re-percussions of choosing wrong over right But will I still have the re-percussions of choosing life, over you? Memories of a headboard sing to me a sad song and while I sing along I wonder do you ever think of the lyrics you wrote? This song you made for me, the one you sang so sweetly and so violently it plays out as my life in the making.

And I still catch you peeling o my faith in humanity and I still catch myself scratching at the scars you left upon my esh.

Untitled by: Maranatha/Marc Strawderman Drawing

Catching Free by: Rhonda Begos

There is a team That I always seemed to become a Part of The one that everyone feels They can beat The one that everyone feels Has no real chance at winning I carry the tools And travel toward the goal Travel toward home Travel toward the inzone But somewhere in the air There is a lot that gets thrown And instead of me catching a gift I possess something I dont own Its not mine For me to keep And then I nd Im catching debris It took forever it seemed For me to let go For me to nd another place To play And like ants, when the insecticide starts to spray You nd the ones running, that never wanted to stay And then like a child, alone to watch a butter y grow You nd the ones around you, who love the one they know

...and I still catch you peeling o my faith in humanity...

For this moment, when its time to compete You have a moment to tell yourself that youre complete And then you hear from others how far youve come And then you nd that your purpose, de ned as fruitless by some Is not even close to being done And so you run down the path And travel toward the goal Travel toward home Travel toward the inzone And you catch in the air what you now can see The life youve always owned The person youve always been And the world as it truly is And all the debris Turns to confetti As you continue to defeat All that once consumed you And then you nd yourself Catching free And then you nd yourself Catching free

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Premature Closure by: Ashley N. Tabor

I was raped back in the summer of '03 and you know what? I never told a soul, and you know why? It was a woman. How do you crawl out of fear and shame not just from the act but the fact that you're di erent? You don't. There isn't a single person out there to believe you to listen to your story. And mom and dad don't know the whole story rst of all, it's not right to be that way second, that's not what rape is... Rape is a wolf in sheep's clothing and when they say 'rape is rape' what they really mean is 'rape is rape when it's convenient to me.' I'm supposedly protected by the law from the mouth of a man laying waste to my unblemished feminity but some woman can give me a st, bleeding, crying, and that's not what they really meant by their standards. My own tortured dreams of my demoness, I loved I trusted, they haunt me like the sounds of every woman's mute voice who knows what it's like to submit to hands that might as well be a mans.

This is not limited anymore NO! No isn't enough and that's all I ever hear. What do you say to a 19 year old girl trying to be a woman? What do you say when everyone else screams fold? I still don't know what to say how to say it where to go who to go to; when's it right? when's it wrong? I was raped back in the summer of '03 and it might not be convenient for you but I'll say it anyway: all I can think is every 5 minutes a woman is raped by whom, we don't know since lately it seems like a one way street to false conclusion at the Red Carpet Inn.

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Untitled by: Andrea Barkley

Age of ve, Golden hair, Innocent smile, Whole life ahead. Where are you? Where did you go? Why did you have to die? Age of six, Golden hair, Broken smile, What will become of me?

25
Untitled by: Meghan C.
Standing so innocent Pinned so violently Unable to move, think, speak Attempting to tell him to stop But the words are trapped inside I uttered out stop But he couldnt hear Vicious movements left me with pain All I could see was black Powerless Immobilized Weak Trapped Constant ashbacks haunt me Dreams turned to nightmares Scared to silence for too long Finally I broke down and needed help But when I needed it the most No one could help Disconnected Confused Lost I have learned to deal I wanted to die All I really need is to be saved My untreated pain takes control Did he think of the pain he was going to in ict? Did he know what would happen to me? All he thought about was the pleasure and control he had in that moment I am physically, mentally, and emotionally drained Why me?

I never told a soul, and you know why? It was a woman.

Untitled by: Maranatha/Marc Strawderman Drawing

26

Identity Change after rape

My Mom kept a journal. She described me as her red-haired daughter with a face full of freckles and big blue eyes. She wrote about how she picked me up from college for the holidays and how excited I was to tell her about all the new things I had learned in school. I guess that journal entry about me was before the rape. Before a bunch of guys gave me a drink with a drug in it and raped me all night long. Innocence gone, I learned what depression was. What fear was. I fear so intense that at times I am still in its grips. An identity change-yes. A change that was forced upon me. After the rape, I straightened my wavy hair. I wore alot of makeup as if to change the way I looked. I covered my body with big clothes. I missed parties and stayed home. I dropped the classes I was taking in case I decided to go to medical school. I never developed true intimacy with a man. I was too afraid that a man's touch would hurt me. Over the years I told my boyfriends that I loved them but I never felt it. I couldn't enjoy sex.

by: Kelly Gorman

About 4 years ago I found a wonderful therapist, a sexual assault group, and a great psychiatrist. I am better now! My hair is wavy again. Many days I don't wear makeup. I really don't need it. The clothes I shop for don't hide my gure. I guess I am "me" again. The nightmares will never end. I know that. But there is medicine available to prevent them from occuring. I will have to take a pill before my shower but I shower.

Innocence gone, I learned what depression was. What fear was.

I want to meet a man and I am not afraid. I am curious. My therapist told me I looked like a Botticelli angel. I looked at the Botticelli angels on the computer. There was an angel with red wavy hair and blue eyes. She did look like me some. I think I am the girl Mom described in her journal so long ago before I was raped. I have come a long way and now I like what I have become. Just "me" before. ><

27

Untitled
Strange as this may sound, morphing best describes how I recognized the younger me. I could morph into a fad with little more than a blouse or a new pair of boots: hippie in the 70s, urban cowgirl in the 80s, homemade cooking in the 90s. Jumping into a new me seemed like the natural thing to do. Until, that is, I got a blast from the past. Flash one minute I had no idea I was a raped person, the next minute I remembered. How could I have forgotten? What else had I forgotten? Could I be an ax murderer? Quick morph into a anything is better than an almost murdered raped person. I probably would have morphed, but I soon discovered I had a humongous problem. I had lost the ability to navigate (literally) as well as other lower skills during the ashback. I could no longer nd my way around the block. Time for change! Time to do some deep soul searching! Time to do some critical thinking! How did I end up here? How did I lose me? Who am I? Why was I morphing? I grew up the poster child to become sexually abused. I was shy, zero self esteem, introverted, and socially awkward. Oh and chubby. I was so uncomfortable with me that I ran. By that I mean I lied, avoided, ignored, and whatever else it took to rid

by: Kathy

myself of all of the shame, guilt, and baggage. I apparently didnt have the tools or knowhow to chip away the ugly, so I would mentally start over with what I perceived as a new block of wood. No wonder the truth got lost. What is identity anyway? Am I a raped person, a mother, a wife? Who am I? How could I be these multiple people and still be me? Could I ever live in reality and like myself? How do you clean up guilt and shame? Yes I used the word guilt in the same paragraph as rape. Guilt is a feeling, not scienti c evidence. Well since lying, avoiding, and ignoring got me in this mess, it seemed logical that doing the opposite would get me back on track. Honestly is where I began. Oh great, it led me back to the source of the problem. This is where change could begin. This is where better tools were needed for better results. Where am I now? First, identity has to do with character, not clothing or fads. I am a person who strives to love God, self, and others no matter what role life throws at me. Striving to love lets everything else fall into place. Perseverance is a re ection of who we are, not who we were. ><

I come from a crazy abusive rural place where male survivors dont exist.

Story by: Mike

Alters and Characters

the closest town around because they didn't recognize my last name...but enough of this. Right, straight to the heart of the thing. I moved to said town when I was ve years old. My mom had decided to shack up with this biker redneck lth guy who pretended to run a business. He had a son six years my senior and a daughter twelve years my senior. >>

y story... I guess I'll just be up front about it. I've been silent for far too long.

I come from a crazy abusive rural place where male survivors don't exist, only men can abuse women, and child abuse is just discipline. Everyone knows everyone else, family is everything, and outsiders, (especially city people - unless you're taking a city girl home to marry and turn into a proper country girl), are not welcome. I almost got kicked out of

They both had di erent mothers. My mom eventually married him two years after he drugged her and got her pregnant. My little sister, (six years my junior, how weird is that?) only exists because BikerFilth threatened my mom up and down with things he would do if she got an abortion. And she couldn't drive and was stuck there, so yeah. So when my sister was two they got married and we were all a happy little family. Everyone had the same daddy. Except me. I told him I didn't want him to adopt me. The physical abuse was a constant, as we were intolerantly evil since we were children and had to be taught how to not-be-so. (BikerFilth was - and still is - a crazy radical Christian. The bad kind of Christian. Original sin and all that). My mom never married my dad, and I wouldn't let BikerFilth adopt me. So I guess I was the most evil or something, I don't know. The sexual abuse came later, I think. My sense of time around all this is screwy... To my memory, BikerFilth never did anything. It was his sociopath son who did it. I don't know how long it went on, though TrueSon says three years. He started doing it when I was six, I think. He was vile. Not only was he sexually abusing me when he came over for his visitation with DaddyFilth, but he used to torture me too. He'd shoot my toys, tie me up to trees and spray me with the hose, tie me up in sacks and just throw me around... he was vile. Now the identity part. My name is Mike. I am a male survivor of childhood sexual abuse. I was also abused sexually by my ex girlfriend and my birth father, many years later. I have Dissociative Identity Disorder. My alter's name is...I'll go with L. He's been my alter for many years, and is completely split from me. From what I've learned of him over the years, he is very tough, has a learning disability, likes his hair long and likes bland foods, though his age still remains a mystery.

Recently, another identity has come to my attention. Fully developed like he's been there forever is a little boy. LittleOne, since I can't bring myself to call him our name. My theory of his origin is that he is me, frozen at the age when things happened, and locked away in the back of my head and forgotten about until I was well enough to deal with him. I hate to say this, but I hate him. I simply cannot stand him, and I feel guilty over how I treat him. It's no di erent than how everyone treated me... Weird alters aside, I also have a cast of original characters in my head. I guess everything happened when I was still forming my identity as a child, so now, instead of just feeling like this or that, all the di erent parts of me have an identity. It's just how my mind works. A character is made for the various parts of me. These characters have been around a long while with no additions, so I guess between all of us, we make me as a whole. And the characters are di erent from the Alters, in that the characters can be controlled and don't completely take over my mind. L and LittleOne are di erent in that, with L, I'm completely gone, And with LittleOne, he just takes over while I'm kind of in the back ground. LittleOne is always there, constantly present in my mind. I'm having a hard time dealing with him. His existence has been made present to me for only almost a month. Yes, my name is Mike. I am a male survivor of childhood sexual abuse, and abuse in general. My mind works as a whole through multiple identities, each one di erent from the other and some more sentient than others. It is how I work because of what's happened to me. I exist. WE exist. I'm done being silent just because I'm a guy. I am not broken either. ><

29

Finding my Identity by: Dawn Helmrich

Every day for months I could not look I would walk by the mirror and stare at the ground Nothing felt right about who I was Shadows Dripped across the oor Shapes of me that werent really me Who was this stranger This unidenti able being that sifted slowly through life Once a smiling, laughing, loving youthful soul Now someone that I could not identify Someone with a heavy load upon her back How would I ever reclaim who I was before I could not, there was no before There was only now and I was in it But not really in it The hours and days continued and I was still present Physically present, emotionally dead How would I ever get to know this new person that lived inside my body This person that carried a burden so thick with hurt and pain When would I have a chance to be me again? It did not happen in one day It did not happen in one year It is still happening I slowly started to get familiar with the shadows that lay across the oor Seeing them everyday, watching them drift and sway as I walked Instead of dreading them I began to embrace them I could not hide from them I could not get away from them They were di erent than the shadows I once knew They were wiser, stronger, harder than the youthful laughing soul I once knew

They were still loving, but in a di erent way, cautious, deliberate They still harbored pain and hurt But they started to become my identity The guilt of who I was began to fade into the blackness where it came from The eyes that looked at the ground began to rise There it was There I was In that mirror A di erent person than before A thoughtful, meaningful, loving, caring person A beautiful person A survivor

Running by: Merideth McCallick Erickson

I am running from the fear I am running from the pain I am running from the shame I am running from the nightmares I am running from the memories I am running from the abuse I am running from the self doubt I am running from the guilt I am running from the past I am running toward recovery I am running toward healing I am running toward self esteem I am running toward self worth I am running toward my dreams I am running toward happiness I am running and I am no longer afraid I am running for me I am running toward a happy and healthy future I am running because I love to feel the sunshine on my face and the wind in my hair I am running and I am at peace I am running and I love myself again

30

Little Girl by: Amanda

There is a little girl so lost and scared She hides deep inside of me A little girl who doesnt know What she was meant to be A little girl so afraid to try 'Cause she has failed so many times A little girl who is afraid She might burn in Hell A little girl who is hurting And cries herself to sleep at night A little girl who tries so hard But can do nothing right A little girl who craves your love But hides from you instead A little girl who can not ght The things inside her head A little girl whose world turned upside down So many times before A little girl who is just waiting To watch you walk out that door A little girl whose anger is real Her words cut like a knife A little girl who struggles And has given up on life A little girl whose heart is so broken You can see it in her eyes A little girl who is torn apart The truth with all her lies A little girl who knows what is right But so often does what is wrong A little girl who doesnt know Just where in this world she belongs

A little girl who lashes out And trusts no one on this earth A little girl who often wonders Just how much she is worth A little girl who cries outloud From the pain deep in her soul A little girl who holds her heart in pieces Just wishing it were whole A little girl who is tired And just wants to give up A little girl who just wants to know How to love and be loved

No Crying Shame by: Cerese Depardieu

Shame, you wouldnt listen Shame, you didnt care Shame, you had the power that I couldnt spare Shame, you didnt believe me Shame, you were afraid Shame, I was a child Look how adults behave Shame, I felt like dying Shame, I felt alone Shame, I had a song that could not be sung Shame, he preyed upon me And you turned a blind eye ShamerepeatedlyI died Shame, I was a victim but treated like a perp Shamed me so, I disguised my hurt Shame yourself and leave it I dont need it anymore Shame yourself for the inception of the survivor you bore

31

Alcohol & Incest by: Anne Peters Collage

ilence. Safety. Outside of the reality realm. You may call it dissociation but I see it as a plan of action. A way to protect myself. My sanity. I needed a place to to hide during those dark times. I hate to recall those 11 years with my brother. It was like the plague. You don't want it to continue on because you're not only bloody on the outside but you're withering away on the inside as well. Then again, if you only had one more day of life to hold on to, one more day of hope, one more day of strength, maybe it would all change and go away. As the years go on and the sexual abuse becomes encrypted into my mechanical mind and body, I nd myself lost in the midst of hell. There is no way this is world is trusting, safe, or even worth living in. The people in it can't even recognize my su ering and crying out for help. Isn't it obvious, I thought. I gave them all the signs. Cuts on my arms, isolating myself, placing my diary opened "conveniently" where my mom could read about my suicidal thoughts and rage. What's wrong with this picture? When it came right down to it thought, I couldn't do it. I couldn't kill myself. I was too scared. I had too many things I still wanted out of life. Now the abuse may have ended when I was 16 but that doesn't mean my torment did. The mental shame, struggle, and confusion I think can be most devastating. It continued with self-mutilation, head banging, which led to hitting myself, and then to popping pills and nally alcohol when all of those things weren't enough anymore. My life is perfect. Everyone wants

Helpless

by: Kelly Hayes

to have it though. I have a 4.0 GPA. I make good money and have a good job. I have a good education and am continuing that education. I am still single, have no children. Who wouldn't want my life? My life is perfect. My life is perfect. MY LIFE IS PERFECT! Somewhere along the way people forget people have souls and that we encompass these bodies. However, if we do not nurture our souls, our bodies will deteriorate. Well, I didn't quite realize this when everyone was telling me my life was so perfect even though to me it was falling apart. Because to me, those things are a small fraction of my happiness. My parents, my self-awareness, self-realization, and con dence within myself is what make up my soul. Unfortunately, my parents felt as though they had to choose and parted ways with me so again I felt abandoned as I did emotionally as a child by them. Who the fuck am I already??? I am this being that no one wants to be around! Well, the sun will rise and it will fall. Some days when it rises, I feel the warmth of my Dad's smile and the depth of my soul. Some days I'll see my brother's face and get scared or get full of rage. Every so often when the sun falls, I'll think of how far I've come and I am simply elated and empowered by my strength. Other days when it falls, I am sad for my brother as I think he is sad and needs help. But on everyday the sun rises and falls, I know now if I am silent, it is because I CHOOSE to be, not because I have to protect myself but because I am the one in control now!

33

Smile so your Pain Doesnt Show

by: Erin

Scars that burn deep Deeper than you realize Pain that lays dormant on your soul, your heart Put a smile on your face girl, Stand tall and dont ever let it show Keep it in check Let them think that you havent changed Dont let the scars show Keep them hidden in the deepest parts of your soul Always wear the sunny side of your heart on your sleeve The scars, the pain, the nightmares, selfdoubts The ugliness of it all, the RAPE No one wants to hear about it They say I am here for you They mean well But none of them can truly handle the complexity of it all: My feelings, the facts, the scary truth Will these deep scars ever turn into wounds that will heal?

My Soul He Took by: Becca Lynn

Looking back on all my years The one thing I want to fade Is what shines the brightest The rst time I looked in the mirror I realized what was lost It wasnt my life or my heart But my soul that he took So many questions when no one Knew just what to say The look of sadness all around Without a sense of sanity Too sane to be crazy but Instead aware of my distress Lost alive but feeling dead Or not caring what comes next Without a soul to guide me I wandered through silent nights Where only my nightmares lled my room Breathing seemed just as hard As pretending I felt anything but numb Somehow I found my way through The endless sea of pain And reached the shore of solitude It was there I learned how to remember My way back to the life I left behind The road home was long and full of wrong turns But eventually I saw the faces of those who still cared, My son. My sisters. And now my loving husband. The years have passed but the memories are vivid.

Put a smile on your face girl, Stand tall and dont ever let it show.

34

35
Injustice by: Mare Martell
Strapped down by hands, much stronger than her own He says, "I'll be back." She mumbles and groans. She tries to reach out, ends up walking alone There is an injustice done to sisters and daughters There is an injustice done to mothers and wives There is an injustice done by father, son, and unholy host There is an injustice it will cost her life Run through the system if she tells at all She'll be run through the system if she makes that call But if she didn't speak no, she'll take the fall. It'll make her truly wish that she'd never made the call at all. There is an injustice done to sisters and daughters There is an injustice done to mothers and wives There is an injustice done by father, son, and unholy host There is an injustice it will cost her life Now he's the big hero 'cause he don't get a thing He's out there walking free as a bird while she rots inside waiting for the pain to end waiting for the no rewind wishing she could scream again There is an injustice done to sisters and daughters There is an injustice done to mothers and wives There is an injustice done by father, son, and unholy host There is an injustice it will cost her life

No one to go to, No one to tell

Untitled by: Kesha Booker
In the dark of night Stolen from me, in front of my eyes Crying out but not a word is heard! Silent screams ll my head, As my virgin blood lls this bed A friend you claimed to be Why then would you steal this from me? Not my body, not my mind but my identity! Wandering for years In a desert of my tears Running and hiding from all of my fears. Torn and tattered, abused and used No one to go to, no one to tell Living and walking in a personal hell Faith in God, faith in my Lord Is the only reason I have another day Another day to stand and say You have not won, I am the one! Take back your life, take back your pride Take back your IDENTITY!

Silent Thrivers by: ME Hart

There is a tribe of silent thrivers that many people dont know They carry wounds that cut into the depths of their very souls They have survived unspeakable horrors many would not believe Especially if they saw the absolutely normal and successful lives they lead They hold a human potential we should all have have access to A resilience that heals the worst humans can live through Childhood rape, attempted soul murder and deep psychological abuse Words, that for most people would have no use Those in the silent tribe would wish for that too That healing from these traumas was something they did not have to do But having taken that courageous journey to create and nd amazing lives They wonder why society holds them in a shame so deep, that they still have to hide Humanity is in great need of the healing wisdom

that this tribe of silent thrivers must quietly hold Yes, there is a silent tribe that the world would do well to come to know How they survived, how they live now how they grew to thrive This exceptionally large, enigmatic unique and all to human tribe Whose identities they still feel they must hide

Saying Goodbye to a Ghost by: RobbyBess

At night I lay in bed listening to the silence all around me. Silence broken by the sound of an over head fan or a car passing by the open window. My body is no longer taunt and fearful. I no longer lay there alert; afraid to close my eyes and sleep. I no longer wait for the oor to creak or your silhouette to block my doorway, before you creep into my room. Im relaxed and unafraid. Ive learned to trust again. Im no longer a frightened little girl, but I carry her and the scars youve caused close to my heart. Ive said goodbye to a ghost, but memories of my Dad will always stay with me. Ive said goodbye to a ghost, but my journey is far from over. Ive found a place of peace by saying goodbye to a ghost.

36

Kaleidoscope by: Krista Wilbur

I know what death is: a cold brick wall, iron-colored, rust, painted with blood, the smooth skin of young hips its brush, shorts stained at the hem of the waist the canvas damp with cries, cherry-colored, where the seam of two legs meets. Feet lanced opened in even, angular, criss-crossed lines, blood clinging to the arch, shiny like the setting sun on a lake in early fall: glassy and still. Its orange and gold, fading to a black night. Death is: a green dumpster, cool and soothing to the touch, a Hefty bag lled with black and white and red all over, and some gray for good measure. Brown-lined bare feet, pencil lines like pennies, twisting over and under and around. Purple rings like bangles on my wrists, just as loud, banging and shooting sparks, black and yellowing gems pressed into my burning skin. And its a fading rainbow. Ive seen death and birth stand together, holding hands, like lovers. The shape of the world changing, rounding out,

touching sheets di erently, clean laundry holding promise. Lined paper lled, bound, packaged nearly and with order, with rhythm, handed o to someone, making sense of a senseless world. My world, broadened with new voices, with new hands and eyes, skin touching mine, tracing shadows and lines, the heat and beat of someone elses heart, resting above mine, keeping time, keeping remembrance of death but watching the horizon for delivery.

The Vampire by: Ursula Greenwood

The vampire in the middle of the night; Stole a future in that pale moonlight; A legacy of tears & unimaginable fears, Broken dreams & innocent things; A sad heart of a baby girl; in a grown woman, unsure in the world; The pain & betrayal is here to stay; No matter what, it wont go away; On the outside looking in; nowhere to turn; nowhere to t in Smiling on the outside; dying within; hiding the pain with a charming grin; No one can tell the unimaginable hell; hidden so long; hidden so well; Each day is lived with a hollow smile; an empty laugh; but all the while; Alone inside; a struggle to survive; a tormented life.

37

What I Will Be
No society or lifestyle can truly call me otherwise. My body is beautiful in its own way. My gure is full, my hair long and soft. The colors are natural streaks of blonde and brown. I am designed to hold and carress with softer skin and curves. My

by: Miranda Nedegaard

eyes are bright with curious blues and pondering green. Sometimes I color my face with makeup for fun, and other times I am without any outside color. I look around me and see other women. I see the di erent women with their own di erent pieces of beauty. It can be easy >

I am a beautiful woman.

to be envious, but no one woman can hold every beautiful thing. There would be too many eyes, too many hairs, too many kinds of skin and too many gures, all beautiful. All too unique to t one body, and all the same because we are women. We are the fruit that grows from the trees. Each has her own branch to grow from, each a di erent perspective of the world. Each have their own shape and we all di er in avor, yet none is better than the other. For each one that grows there is someone who prefers their taste or grasp.

I see the di erent women with their own di erent pieces of beauty. It can be easy to be envious, but no one woman can hold every beautiful thing.
I hung from my branch, ripe with my own taste and form, and someone came along. They saw me, and they smiled. Their smile was cruel. They picked me from my branch and tossed me to the ground. My body was violated.

My body felt dirty and bruised from what he had done. The curiosity in my blue eyes turned to rain and fell, and the hope I carried inside rode in its ark as my heart ooded with grief. I hid my body under unappealing clothes, and ate too much to make my curves unattractive and my hair thin and unhealthy. I lay as fruit does on the ground when it has been tossed away for sport. Yet my grief did not last long. As time passed by, I saw many fruits like me laying upon the ground. And good always happened to them in some strange way. Some burrowed into the ground and became their own trees, helping bear good fruit for the next generation. Others became food for the deer, and others still gave their avor to the bees. Some fallen ones were found and carried into kitchens, to help make good treats for the families that came together. And there were still those hanging from the branches. Each woman in my life holds their place in this world, and all bear good things. If one were missing, this piece of art cannot be complete. I wait to see what will happen to me. The ood in my heart dries a little more with every day passing. Though I do not see the world as I did from my branch, my world has become a little more hopeful. ><

compiled by End the Silence Campaign. The stories, poetry, and art are original and remain the artistic property of the writers and artists. It is unlawful to reprint any of the works contained in this journal without permission of the author. Thank you to everyone who submitted work.

In Our Own Words is designed and

ABOUT

END THE SILENCE CAMPAIGN

www.endthesilencecampaign.org

MISSION

&

End the Silence is a campaign dedicated to ending the silence surrounding sexual violence through the collective power of the human voice. Through stories, poetry, and visual art, End the Silence strives to open communication and end the stigmas surrounding rape, sexual assault, and sexual abuse. End the Silence Campaign originated as an online space for survivors to share their stories in early 2009. In the fall of 2009, End the Silence o ered its rst free writing workshops to survivors of sexual violence in Pittsburgh, PA. Discover Your Voice, a creative writing and empowerment workshop, helped survivors explore writing and self-expression in a safe, supportive environment. In Our Own Words - Two is the second collection of stories, poetry, and art produced by End the Silence Campaign centered on the theme of identity. The rst edition was published in 2011. This project aims to promote awareness about sexual violence, encourage open and honest communication between victims and their loved ones, and support survivors in their quest to rediscover their voices through the healing power of poetry, art, and storytelling.

VISION

THE TEAM
Emily Monroe, Founder and Director
Emily is a writer, artist, and activist dedicated to increasing awareness about rape, sexual abuse, and sexual assault. A graduate of the University of Pittsburgh, Emilys professional experience includes teaching, non-pro t development, and educational and literacy program management. Her experiences working with women and girls in Guyana and her own personal journey inspired her to create End the Silence Campaign in early 2009. Currently, Emily teaches primary school in Honduras.

Margot Martin, Outreach Coordinator

Margot is a strong and compassionate activist dedicated to opening communication about sexual violence. A graduate of the University of Pittsburgh, Margot brings her expertise in communication and her powerful personal story to End the Silence Campaign. Margot has experience in marketing, business, public relations, and development. Currently, Margot works in marketing and development for a women's reproductive rights nonpro t.

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End the Silence Campaign is always seeking stories, poetry, and art for the website. Submit original work by visiting www.endthesilence campaign.org. Stories, poetry, and art will be considered for website publication and inclusion in upcoming collections.

Copyright 2012 End the Silence Campaign www.endthesilencecampaign.org