“Do not cover domestic violence with makeup, condemn the aggressor!”

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Moroccan state TV is being bombarded by activists after airing a tutorial showing women how to cover up bruises from domestic abuse. According to the Huffington Post, “Sabahiyat,” a show that airs on the state’s Channel 2M, aired a segment on Nov. 23 couple of days before the International for Elimination of Violence Against Women.

Domestic Violence affects millions of women and children all over the World and the truth cannot be long hidden. We need to be respected and we must speak up.

Change.org is taking action and it is a great opportunity for all of us to stand up for women  rights. “Do not cover domestic violence with makeup, condemn the aggressor!”

Click here to sign the petition

If you need help in United States – call the National Domestic Violence Hotline 1-800-799-7233

Click here to read the complete article at Huffington Post

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“Equality is better for everyone”

Sandi Toksvig talks about Women’s  Equality on TED Talk. The Broadcast personality and politician encourages women to get involved into political leadership.

“Equality is better for everyone.”

Come on people, let’s activate! Let’s change the world! I know we can do it, and it wants doing!”

Find the link below for the complete talk.

Sandi Toksvig

 

 

Only One Can Win — MakeItUltra™

Dear Readers,

I follow MakeItUltra and I believe this post is going to help us to manage our thoughts. We should learn how to redirect our mind from negative to positive thoughts. A positive mindset will help us to engage in prosperous activities and support our healing process.

Inspire for a better life.

Written by Guest Contributor: Monica Bains Founder of: MO(B)TIVATION Our mind is the sole controller of our thoughts, behaviors, actions and feelings. We are capable of changing the outlook of our lives by having a positive mindset…if only it were that easy. We all go through hardships and challenges throughout our lives and even hit rock […]

via Only One Can Win — MakeItUltra™

Speak up: Prevent Sexual Assault Cycle

by Vanessa Daniela

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I know it is painful to write about our traumas, let alone seeing our deepest, more raw, and highly embarrassing feelings in print. If, we do not talk about the pain and humiliation we feel, we will never be heard. Worse yet, violence is going to keep happening over and over again to other women and girls unless we say, “Stop!” through any media possible.

I would like to tell you a story that I heard on November 3rd on the #Guyswefucked podcast. If you never listen to it, please do not judge by the name. The hostesses, Corinne Fisher and Krystyna Hutchinson, are always telling funny stories, but also discussing relevant subjects such as sexism, racism, and women’s rights.

I will summarize the letter that one of the hostesses narrated: A girl asked for help with a tough situation that she has been in for far too long. When she was a freshman in college, she became an EMT on the College Rescue Squad. What she thought was the best decision she had made, because she loved to help people and she was very willing to help anyone regardless of the situation. The Squad worked very closely with the police and dealt with women and girls who were raped or had gone thru vulnerable situations related to their gender.

After one year working at the Rescue, the Rescue captain started flirting with her. She considered him only as a coworker and did not want to give him any chance to think otherwise because she thought that was not appropriate. She felt they were on honest terms until she found out that she had been taken off from the Squad list as an EMT eligible to enter in an advanced class to gain her certification. She was so mad after this discovery that she was determined to work even harder toward her goal. She came to work, even during her time off, to help people.

The Captain was always on her shift, even when he was not working. In the beginning, she thought that was annoying, but then she thought again. Perhaps that situation would be good because he could see how much effort she was putting in. She hoped he would sign her off to take the advanced class. After a month of this pattern of behaviors, she was glad to be training with on the duty crew. However, one night when the duty crew got a call, they left by themselves – without her.

Since she thought the training was done, she started to pack up the equipment. However, the Captain told her she was not finished. He said that he wanted to expand her knowledge and see her work even harder before leaving; he told her that would start with the heart monitor. He told her to lie on the stretcher and take the role of a patient. She was hesitant, immediately a sick feeling come over her.

She asked him if they could use the dummy as the heart patient, but he said, “No. Then he explained that it was in the training closet. And, as this was going to be a quick training, he did not want to get it out.

She accepted the role of the patient with the reassurance that he said it would be a fast training exercise. He started putting the electrons on her, but as she was wearing a sports bra; it was hard for him to put them on. When he told her to take off the sports bra, she refused. Then, he told her to lie down. He got his trauma shears and started cutting her other clothes off. She tried to fall back and push him away, but she was too weak against his strength. She screamed and asked him to stop! However, he did not listen to her. At that point, she mentally blacked out. She only remembered the heart monitor beeping really fast because her heart was pounding so rapidly. When she became conscious and looked down, her clothes were all cut. He said that the training was over.

It took a week for her to get the nerve to go the campus police, but they did not help her. They just made offensive jokes. She went to different police departments; nobody would believe her. After that, she took a month off from the College Rescue Squad, but the captain always would try to talk with her in class. She tried to go back to the Rescue Squad. However, she would have a panic attack every time due to recalling her traumatic experience in that space. She lost friends and she was labeled as “a drama queen.” So, she decided to transfer schools and rescue squads. EMT teams are like a community as it is a hard job woven with trust in each other; no one would give her a recommendation because of the effects of trust being ripped away by her captain. She was finally able to transfer as an EMS to a town that was close by.

After a year of trying to recover from her traumatic experience, going to therapy, and moving to a new location, she was able to move inside the new organization. She got the job she wanted. Soon, the captain from the College Rescue Squad got a job as ED tech in the hospital where she reported. He was off College Rescue Squad since he had graduated from college; the other squad was all just college students. His new job in the hospital was basically to assist the nurses. Now, her job was to bring patients and transfer their care to him, which made her sick to her stomach. Even though, she knew they were in good hands in their relationship to his medical skills, her haunting memories of his violation of her trust on a personal level would not rest in her mind.

However, she continued to do her job. One night she got a call to rescue a seventeen-year-old female who was raped at gunpoint. She and her team got there and it appeared like any other rape call: (1) careful not to mess up a crime scene, (2) make sure that the patient was medically stable, and (3) try to get the story right from the victim. Protocol demands that EMT’s advocate for the victims they rescue even after they drop them off in the hospital. Sometimes EMT’s testify in court, if necessary. EMT’s document everything they find to have accurate written records. This procedure is so important because usually EMT’s are the first people to contact with victims after an assault.

All rape calls hit an empathetic emotional hot nerve for her. She was always ready to help those victims with a higher level of compassion than other EMT’s. She promised every girl that each of them would safe in the hospital. However, this one night, when her team arrived at the hospital and entered a room, former “Captain” shows up. He introduces himself to the victim and asks to take her vitals. She lost her ability to remain calm inside; she did not know what to do. She watched her rapist touch this new, young, recently traumatize rape victim in less than one hour from the time that her assault had happened. The pain that she felt at the moment was worse than what she had felt during the time when she was being raped. Her drive to protect this younger victim overcome her ability to remain either emotional calm or physically detached.

She told the hospital staff that the young girl victim should have a female staff member take her vital signs. Luckily, the former “Captain” was escorted from the room. She watched this scene and heard her inner voice saying, “It kills me to know that he is there treating people who went thru the same trauma I did and then they are in a vulnerable situation again in the hospital when he is present!”

She went to the police, friends, and organizations to explain the situation. She spoke the truth, but she was not heard. None of the people she reached out to listened to her. They did not listen, or take any action; they only made sure that the victim was okay. However, they did nothing to her abuser; he was still in the same hospital with that new victim. She is still trying very hard to get him fired from that position. She does not know what to do anymore to protect other women from harm except to speak out again, and again.

We hope that this girl victim finds the help she needs as well as all the newer victims of rape. Speak up, immediately, and later too; our voice will be heard here in print forever.

For the complete story please find the link to the podcast

Guys We Fucked

Episode from November 3rd, 2016

https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/how-would-you-wear-brakes/id885960517?i=1000377487344&mt=2

The Forgiveness Workbook created by The Butterfly Project

Dear Readers,

As we all know, forgiving somebody who has hurt us is very hard, but I encourage you to try all the tools that are available to heal your heart and mind. I came across the workbook, Forgiveness, created by The Butterfly project and decided to share with you this guide that might make the healing process manageable.

The Butterfly Project is an organization, located in Houston, Texas, that provides help to women that is going or went thru an abusive relationship.

To learn more about The Butterfly Project:

http://www.thebutterfly-project.co

To download the Forgiveness Workbook complete copy:

http://shoutout.wix.com/so/dLWyy0vh?cid=f4e6bbb8-1b3a-4e31-b03d-e737130a1fbc&region=92f66245-36cc-43ec-9e1f-e937e168b3b2#/main

“Remember, the road won’t be easy, but at the end, it will be worth it.”

Inspire for a better life.

 

“Everyone is entitled to all the rights and freedoms…”

Hey Everyone,

I am sorry for not posting anything last week, however,  I was frustrated by the election results. Everyone has your own opinion and we should respect the right of democracy. In addition, each of us must do our part by speaking up for our beliefs and for those that are being discriminated.

According to Universal Declaration of Human Rights, “Everyone is entitled to all the rights and freedoms set forth in this Declaration, without distinction of any kind”. The article two from the UDHR clear explains that everyone should NOT be discriminated, does not matter their ethnicity, color, and beliefs.

Unfortunately, a lot of people cannot think beyond their own needs and we cannot judge them for that, but we can call them out for ignoring human rights, being aggressive towards others and avoiding to be open minded about our equality. Standing up for an unique race, “Homo Sapiens”, might helps us to learn that working together will make our life more peaceful. Our ethnicity and beliefs enrich our unique race and by understanding this concept we will make the World a better place.

Since our project focus on women equality, I would like to end my post by quoting Hillary Clinton. “To all the little girls watching…never doubt that you are valuable and powerful & deserving of every chance & opportunity in the world.”

Ps. Do not judged. I know that she made mistakes, but remember, everyone make mistakes and nobody is perfect. That being said, be respectful to each other and our World will be better a place.

Off To A Bad Start: Being Born A Female

By Dr. Jacqueline

I am so profoundly grateful that traumatic scars are not visible from the outside. Had they been, I would have lived my life looking like Cher’s son in “Mask.” Instead, I was beaten and emotionally abused entirely because of my gender. I was raped and impregnated entirely because of my gender. My first child was legally taken from me entirely because of his gender, ‘Had you given birth to a girl, we would have given her up for adoption,” my mother smirked as she told me just hours after my son was born.

In January of 1962, I was almost 15 years of age, but by today’s standards, what I knew about my body, reproduction, or sex in general was about that of today’s toddlers. There was no Internet in 1962, no sex education classes, no older or young siblings in my home, no long term friendships in my transient military lifestyle (I’d experienced 23 moves by age eight), and no access to books to answer any questions about how my body functioned. Not once had my mother said, “I love you,” read me a story, or said a kind word to me. She was totally absorbed in staying a numb as possible with alcohol and prescription drugs while finding fault with anything I did or said. Yet, she talked a lot in public to strangers, “I wanted six tall sons, and all I got was Jackie,” was her mantra.

She beat me many times a month. Also, she kept detailed lists of what she considered to be my transgressions to make sure each one was converted into another physical beating as soon as my father returned home. She bragged to others about her adeptness with making sure I was never “a spoiled only child.” Not a single teacher, military staff, or military medical personnel ever questioned my body having bruises in various states of healing.

My father was usually away (as long as a year) following military orders. I learned later that he applied for as many T.D.Y’s (temporary active duty) as possible. He did anything to be away from my overbearing, always complaining, alcoholic mother. He told me that she was a total embarrassment to him and kept him from ever making permanent officer status; he was a Warrant Officer when he served in WWII.

My parents knew each other only 28 days before their wedding: August 6, 1940. My Roman Catholic Polish father was 5’ 8” tall then; my Lutheran Scottish heritage mother was 6’ 1.” His parents disowned the couple. The “why” reply they each gave in to years of questions from friends about their initial attraction was: “We both dreamed of having six tall sons.”

My mother was, as usual, in bed that early January morning when Bill Fulford (18), a Navy dependent, came over to get me to walk to school. I was wearing a large circle skirt, down to the top of my Bobby Socks, over at least one 100-yard stiffly starched petticoat. I did not refuse when Bill wanted to hold me gently and lovingly on our couch, “To neck” he said. But somehow, though all that nylon, he ejaculated on my underwear. I was too ignorant to know what on earth that wetness was that I asked him about as we walked to school. “It’s nothing,” he replied.

But, soon I found out that it was not – “nothing;” I was pregnant.

Before and since January 1962, my body was knocked down, kicked, and beaten with hands, sticks, wooden paddles, rulers, metal fly-swatters (with the fabric gone, so the rusty wire cut me) and more. However, after that date, each beating ended with military issue steel toed black leather boots with zippers to hold in extra insulation and weight was driven into my body lying sprawled out on the floor. Today, my hips, back, and legs hurt all the time; my spine is horribly twisted and my knees fail me. I think you now know why.

By May 1962, I was in Trenton, New Jersey, in a nunnery. To this day, I have a dear friend, “My Big Sister” from those months of being hidden away. As I gave birth before the age of 16, I lost legal rights to my perfect baby boy. All I was able to offer him was his first name. My parents pretended they adopted him. I came home to even more hatred being expressed toward my gender: “A son would never have caused us this grief!” they yelled at me. I felt so dirty.

So, I married a man whose parents were kind to me; I ignored the fact that he was so much like my mother. He was also an alcoholic and physically violent, but that was my normal. He needed to have a child to avoid the draft; I was proven to be fertile and willing to work outside the home. As soon as my gorgeous daughter was born, and appeared to be going to live (she three holes in her heart, and had suffered a heart attack at four-and-a-half months of age), he left us to be with the lady whom he had been in love with for years.

Soon, I was a divorcee, a mother, and “Just a waitress” at just barely 19 of age. My parents had disowned me, my beloved maternal grandparents were dead, and I had never had contact with any other relatives. So, I married a certified brilliant, but mentally twisted, father of two who said he loved the idea of a blended family. Again, I ignored the fact that he was an alcoholic and physically violent toward me, as once again that was my normal.

My oldest son was 5 when his daughter (then 6), his son (then 4) and my daughter (then 3), became a family. For nearly seven years, I worked three jobs help him to be awarded a Ph.D. at the University of Illinois without any debt and to pay child support for his daughter and son. He beat me even outdoors in front of the neighbors, and yet, no one ever stopped him – even the police I called.

The day he graduated he announced at the dinner table, “From now on you will all call me Sir!” When I laughed, he slapped me so hard my body went through the doorway into the living room. A few weeks later, I found him having sex with our foster daughter – she was 17. Later I learned that he was also having sex with my oldest son at the same time. Although we divorced in 1974, it was not until his death in February of 2015 that his bullying of me ceased. His last revenge for not staying married to him was to instill in my oldest son the same disrespectful attitude toward women that Donald Trump’s video released in October 2016 displayed.

It was a long hard road to learn to love myself; it took nearly half a century. I did many things to assure myself that I was loveable. The first was entering college late in life, and the last was getting my doctorate in 2010; that was 43 years after I swore that I would earn a Ph.D.

Today, I focus on empowering those who are ESL or Special Education students, especially girls. I have over 20 years of marriage to my best friend. I have been an ordained minister and the manager of a non-profit since 1986. And, last but very far from least, I have a daughter whom I love, respect, and could not imagine being more perfect. She too has spent her adult empowering girls and women.

A Spiritual Decathlon Through Self Awareness

by Kristina

Ten years is a long time to let someone have power over your heart, mind, body and soul.

It is an adequate amount of time to rummage through memories of what is and even mourn the losses of what could have been.

It is a long time to carry the weight of loss, shame, guilt, and self hate.

It is a long time to always frame every man you meet next to him, the pimp, the trafficker.

He told me I was nothing.

Feeling like chattel, as he prodded and peered into my self.

Stealing my sense of security and esteem.

Allowing myself to accept my descent into the enveloping tomb like feeling of no return.

For ten years, I let him him tell me I was nothing every time I gave up on my goals, my dreams, the things that made me feel alive.

Each year, giving him a little more of me.

Feeding his ego, his reputation, his power…

While I slowly became a reduction of my former self.

For ten years, I allowed someone who no longer had access to my mind or my body, completely ravage my soul.

His nonchalant and matter of fact demeanor, I will never forget.

His ability to cruise right through every ocean of me that was forbidden and sacred.

Sending wave after wave of destruction through my life, for ten years.

And for ten years, I let him.

He is locked up, still.

However, I gave him all the access he needed to ruin me.

I gave up.

I let him invite me to places and spaces where I would be his muse; embodying the nothing he aspired me to be.

Placing arbitrary values on myself, for ten years.

Ten years, I sit today.

In awe and look back at what I have given up, and what I have.

How one can adapt and survive.

The beauty that is resilience.

The love that is forgiveness, of others, and very importantly, of the self.

A lot of pain can pile up in ten years if you don’t/can’t/won’t take the time to sort it.

If you numb out, give up, scapegoat, and self blame.

Ten years can be a revolution of the self.

Ten years is the advent of my own conscious awareness to reclaim my self,

Declaring, go forth and be great.