My fault? When I tripped over because I didn’t tie up my shoelaces, that was my fault. When my favourite plant died because I forgot to water him, that was my fault. When I lost a friend because I kept putting off contacting them, that was my fault.
When you locked me in your room, when you tried to finger me under the tables in our science class, when you told everyone we had sex, when you made fun of my body and called me a whore, when you tricked me, when you groomed me, when you made fun of me for going to the police, was that my fault? You say yes, I say fuck you.
Those parts of me I’ll never have back, you stole that. There was no us, and there certainly was no me. You haunt me, when I see you my legs don’t work, and I want to run towards you, to embrace you, then thrust my knife into your back. Because that is what you did to me.
I see you laugh at me; I see you jeer. Whore, slut, skank, did you ever really know my name? Did you know what my favourite colour was? Did you know what show I loved the most? Did you even want me? Or did you want my body? You salivate, dripping drool like a dog with a gaping maw, you ate me, then spat me out when I resisted. You didn’t want me when I fought back.
You’re a monster, a lying cheating beast who prays on those who are smaller. You saw a rabbit, ripe, fresh and full of hopes, and you snapped its neck. For so long that rabbit lay there dormant, its neck hanging like a loose rope. I loved you once, at least I thought I did, I was 12 when you started attacking me. You said you love me, then proceeded to treat me like a toy.
You won, you won finally, I broke. 2 times I stood on a ledge, 2 times I choked myself with a rope. I turned, naïve, thinking maybe you’d see what you did. You were laughing. Mouthing “jump”. So, I tried, and 3 angels held me down, took me to the hospital and tried to fix what they could. They mended my physical wounds and tried to fix my brain. They had to remove the TV remote chord, I tried to die again.
I haven’t seen you since, and that brings me great joy. Every time I hear your name, see you active online, I laugh. I’m not fixed, not yet. I don’t think I ever will be. There’s no way to fix what you’ve broken, but that doesn’t mean that it will always bring me down. One day I know I’ll be able to stop the flashbacks, look past the trauma and know it wasn’t my fault. Until then I just must play it day by day. One day you’ll be scared of me, like how I am with you. And on that day, I will have won.
Ford paid tribute to Miller for Time magazine’s 100 Next, a list of 100 rising stars published Wednesday.
Chanel Miller embodied courage long before writing her powerfully moving book, “Know My Name,” Ford wrote. She recounted how in 2016, Miller, then anonymous, confronted her assailant, Brock Turner, in court with a victim-impact statement that immediately went viral.
Earlier this year, Miller revealed her identity in her memoir “Know My Name,” seeking to reclaim her narrative and tell her full story.
If you spoke up, I see you and I thank you for coming forward. If you waited years to report, your story is just as valid. If you couldn’t report, I understand why.
I’m so sorry that this country doesn’t take your trauma seriously. It’s okay to step away from the 24/7 news cycle.
I will work for the rest of my life to make things better.
Yesterday, a white woman — a woman with a PhD, a “credible” and “deferential” and “calm” and “articulate” woman testified about the sexual abuse she experienced at the hands of a monster named Brett Kavanaugh — and Kavanaugh will still be confirmed to the Supreme Court.
To the 53% of white women who voted for Donald Trump because they thought his administration would protect them:
You were wrong.
You will always be objects to be used and abused by the good old boys’ club.
