For the last two days, I’ve seen and heard the gamut of ridiculousness surrounding Donald Trump’s latest gaffe, if indeed, it can be called that. Despite my own personal rules not to read the comments sections, I have. I’ve read everything. I’ve read the condemnation. I’ve read the support. I’ve managed to process the support. I’ve managed to process the condemnation.

At the end of the day, I had to ask myself “why?” Why is this man’s comments, nearly a decade ago, important?

Then it brought me back to 1999. I was 11 years old. I was a latch key kid. My parents worked their asses off to provide for my sister and I. Sometimes, we were home until 6 or 7 PM without any parental supervision. That day, I was playing outside.

I don’t remember exactly what I was doing. I think I may have been playing in the yard or in our treehouse. Back then, I really liked to use dad’s old left over spray paint cans and “remodel” my treehouse. You’d think I’d be more into remodeling and painting today, but that’s extremely far from the truth.

Our neighbor, Jeremy, asked me to come over to his house. He was kind of a mean kid. A bully of sorts. He had always been rather nice to me, for whatever reason. He treated my sister like shit — even went so far as to hit her and leave a massive mark on her back once. He was a certifiable dick, but he relied on me for burned copies of the latest Ludacris and Limp Bizkit CDs.

So, unassumingly, I went over. Pretty cautious, but I went over. We went into his room and started watching something on TV. Still can’t remember what it was. I remember being a little frightened and just kind of sitting there with head low, kind of like a dog that had just been disciplined.

I was nervous. It started getting weird. He kept grabbing himself and I wasn’t really understanding what was going on. At 11, I could kind of figure it out, but seriously, it’s not on the mind of an 11 year old.

Calculating moves, he carefully pulled a pocket knife out of his pocket. He retracted the blade and asked me if I wanted to touch it. Reluctantly, I said yes. I didn’t know what this crazy son of a bitch was going to do, but I followed suit trying to adapt or fear I would’ve had some kind of weird beating coming to me.

Ten seconds later, that blade was around my neck. He told me not to yell and not to say anything or he would slit my throat. I was scared as could be. He then took his hands and shoved them down my pants and proceeded to finger me.

He pulled his pants off and shoved his dick down my throat. I was choking and I couldn’t breathe. I was terrified. I felt sick. I threw up on the floor. Wrong move.

He inserted into me after ripping off my clothes. I bled. A lot. I was crying. He slapped me multiple times. There was nothing I could do. Everything hurt.

I bawled. It was about 5:00 PM. My sister was at her friend Shea’s. I ran home. I was so violated and scared I had no idea what to do.

This happened about twenty more times until it was finally discovered.

This is why Donald Trump’s comments are so much more important than just whether or not he used the word “pussy”. It’s because people, like me, who were brutally raped by aggravated people, who have typically had no voice, finally have one.

On November 8th, I implore you to dig into your conscience and understand why I cannot vote for Donald Trump. The willful condoning of sexual violence and unwanted advances is so utterly uncomfortable for me, that I have now viewed lifelong friends as people who simply do not care about sexual violence.

It is not fun. It is not easy. It is not cool. It is not locker room banter. It hurts. Deeply. It hurts. It still hurts. It will always hurt, no matter how much I have forgiven, I was still violated.

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