Saturday, July 25, 2009

Aunty Christ went on her first call

It’s a true statement, that headline there. (They seldom are.) Aunty did indeed get a call last night, very late—possibly more descriptively termed very early this morning—from dispatch, telling me to get on up to the hospital where there was, waiting for me, one bona fide rape victim. I can’t tell you about the experience, sadly. Sadly! I mean, who doesn’t want to hear a story about a rape victim? To go in the entirely opposite direction, I do know who does want to hear a story about a rape victim, and that is: All you fucking assholes who find this blog by googling “Aunty rape fukking boys” and “aunty rape piss stories”.

To all of you who did find this blog in such a manner? Shame. Shame on you. Go eat a bag of dicks and die, you vile, disgusting meatsack.

(To the two or three of my readers who didn’t come here looking for aunty rape porn: Not you. I’m sorry you had to hear that.)

Now, you ask, what the fuck were you doing, Aunty? Ah, good question. I have signed myself up to be a volunteer advocate for the D.A.’s office. Whenever a person is raped, and goes to the hospital, and has made the very tough decision to press charges against his or her attacker, a volunteer—maybe me—is called to meet that person at the hospital, provide information about what’s going to happen, and so forth.

Anyway, I wish I could write something about the experience that wouldn’t be depressing as hell, but I can’t. And I wish I could write something about the experience that would help me process it, but I can’t. At least not here—for reasons of confidentiality. And, realistically, probably not at all. It’s just not possible. How does one process something like that? Something that shows people to be subhuman—forcefully taking from those who have the very least (the homeless, the mentally disabled, the poor, the very old, the very young), or shrugging their shoulders and refusing to offer help where they might. I feel like both these inclinations suggest very scary things about humanity, and yet they’re hardly new.

But mostly I just wanted to get that off my chest. The thing about eating that bag of dicks. Please do it, rape googlers. I mean it.


I hope you feel bad now about being a disgusting rape googler. You've made me, and this puppy, very sad.

6 comments:

Salty Miss Jill said...

May the gods bless you for doing this. Be forewarned that it doesn't get any easier with experience. At least it hasn't for me. I've been doing this type of work for over a year now. Maybe we can talk more...
The women are fortunate to have you on thier side. I know you're amazing at what you do.
xoSMJ

Aunty Christ said...

Really, Salty? Really?? That's awesome. Yes, I'd like to share experiences sometime. Let me know.

And thanks for your nice words. I don't feel I deserve them yet, but it's inspiring to try to live up to them.

David Rochester said...

I can't even imagine what it must be like to try to counsel or give any kind of guidance to a rape victim. It really is an amazing thing to volunteer to do.

And yes, whoever is using those search terms to find your blog should have a red-hot poker stuck where it will do them the most good, in the manner of the ill-fated Mortimer.

Aunty Christ said...

Thanks, David. I think it's going to be a very good experience for me. Hopefully it'll be good for some of the people I work with too.

I like the red-hot poker idea...

Eve said...

This is grueling work and, as Salty said, doesn't get easier. Trying to relieve suffering for any trauma isn't easy. And doesn't get easlier. And in fact can and probably will wear you down eventually, so I hope you're kind to yourself as you can be while living regularly with the fact that others have less fortunate experiences (there's the guilt).

About not being able to write about your experiences. I understand this. I have to think a long time about how to write about an issue that almost inevitably involves people I actually know or have known in real life. We have these confidentiality agreements, and even if we didn't, who would want to expose someone by blogging about them? And yet we have these experiences that change us, too, even by observing them or trying to help in the aftermath of them. We too need to communicate about that, to help ourselves.

Sometimes one doesn't know whether one should write at all. And if one does write, what to write. How to write it without violating some boundary. I understand that. I continue to think we can learn by trying, but it takes a certain amount of cleverness and bargaining with oneself.

Aunty Christ said...

"And in fact can and probably will wear you down eventually."

Man oh man. Bless all those in the helping professions, then. One of the things I noticed in training for this volunteer work was that all of the people who did this job as their 40-hour-a-week career--though they were all very different in many ways--all had a particular something in common. Now, mind you, I wasn't with them in a traumatic situation, but even in an office setting, they exuded a calm professionalism and (this is hard to describe) a limited warmth. I got the feeling that their patients would receive that warmth, but they might also see that these women all had boundaries; they were prepared to give so much, and no more. And it wasn't because they didn't care. It was just a practical solution to fit the nature of their job.

I kind of don't want to end up with these brittle edges, these practical walls that limit how much I care, but I don't see any other solution, really. I think it'll just happen, if I keep doing this.

Well, anyway, lots to think about re. the writing aspect of processing. I can see that it would be helpful to get my feelings out on paper (or screen--man I'm old), but maybe a private journal would be better for now, if I can get my thoughts together to manage even that.