I Am Refusing To Die, Death I Challenge You To A Duel

Given the Choice Between Myself and My Stalker, I Choose Myself

These images are from my house. They represent my bedroom door and a chair on my deck. All three were wrecked by the same person, just so that whoever did this, could let me know I wasn’t safe, and that he could get to me any time he wants to.

The Police think I’m making it up, my friends support me, but they don’t really know how to help me, and while my mom and family members are worried about my mental health, they aren’t overly worried about my physical safety.

Here are some Stats from the Office For The Status of Women

  • Nearly 2 million Canadians experienced stalking in the five years preceding the 2014 General Social Survey (GSS) on Canadians’ Safety (Victimization): about 8% of women and 5% of men aged 15 and older.
  • • Most stalking victims were women (62%) and most stalkers were male (74%). After controlling for many other factors, being female resulted in 85% greater odds of being a victim of stalking.
  • • Almost half (48%) of stalking victims were between 15 and 34 years of age and 31% were females between the ages of 15 and 34.
  • • Nearly 4 out of 10 (39%) victims reported the stalking to police and 21% said that charges were laid.
  • • The most commonly reported stalking or harassing behaviour (39% of victims or about 720,000 Canadians) is threats or intimidation against someone else in the victim’s life, such as the victim’s child or another family member.
  • • Most frequently, someone the victim knew was responsible for the stalking. Half of all victims (49%) identified their stalker as someone that they knew who was not a current or former intimate partner.
  • • There was a particularly high incidence of stalking indicated for both women and men with a learning disability. Overall, 21% of people with a condition that makes it hard for them to learn (learning disability) had been the victim of stalking, compared to 6% without such a condition.
  • • Stalking was especially common for women with a learning disability (25%) but also prevalent among male counterparts (16%). Even after controlling for a multitude of factors, people who reported a learning disability had double the odds of being a victim of stalking.
  • • Aside from police, most victims of stalking (84%) spoke to someone about what they had experienced, including ° Family (67%) ° Friends or neighbours (61%) ° Coworkers (20%) ° Counsellors or psychologists (11%)
  • • Speaking to doctors, nurses, lawyers, spiritual advisors and others was less common. Intimate Partner Stalking
  • • Three‑quarters (74%) of intimate partner stalking victims were women. One in fifty Canadian women aged 15 and older experienced intimate partner stalking in the previous five years.
  • • Experiencing physical violence from a stalker was more common when the stalker was an intimate partner. Grabbing or physical attacks was reported by one‑third (33%) of those stalked by an intimate partner, versus by a stranger (12%1) or someone else the victim knew (16%).

This Is My Story or Parts of It

I was about fifteen in British Columbia when I started being habitually raped. Before that, it had happened — the sexual molestation — but it didn’t get truly violent until a group of men and young boys broke into my North Delta bedroom.

I had a balcony door back then, so it was easy to pop the door out of its track, the warning was that if I ever tried to lock the door, I would get much worse than I was going to get in that moment, and what I got was bad.

The brutality of the violence killed my soul, literally. I had a moment when at fifteen I felt my soul leave my body like it just gave up. My body kept fighting, but I no longer felt the pain, at one point I yawned, I fucking yawned, while I was being raped, because he had hurt me so badly that I could no longer feel pain. All I felt was nothing.

It didn’t matter how many times they punched me, or my private parts, it didn’t matter how many times fists entered places they shouldn’t have, I didn’t feel it. I was bored, and I told him so.

Promises of forgetting were made, threats of further violence if I spoke out, and to prove it, I continued to be raped wherever I went.

A friend of mine and her cousin had come in from out of town during that summer, and they had stayed with me for a while, she met an older man and moved with him. He raped me. She didn’t much care, because he told her we were having an affair. His downstairs room-mates raped me.

I was called a slut, a whore, trash, and told I was too easy and not classy enough to date or be around.

I couldn’t tell anyone what was really happening, because I was terrified that my little brother, or my mother, would be hurt. I was lied to, by men who knew that I would be too afraid to confirm the truth, they pretended to be something they weren’t, and the thing they pretended to be was so terrifying, that it was enough to keep my mouth shut for years.

Many of the people who knew what was happening to me, were either directly involved, or knew about it but were too chicken shit to stand up for me. Many adults in my life knew what was happening and made it very clear that while they weren’t going to help me, they expected a footnote in the herstory of my life should the story ever come out.

I was raped on the front lawn of our North Delta house once, by a man I didn’t know, who claimed to know me and scared me just enough to say nothing about the encounter. When it was over, fists and mouth full of dirt I crawled into the house where the downstairs neighbour said quietly “I thought you wanted it” I was sixteen. I did not in fact, want it.

The rapes finally ended years ago when I was gang-raped again, by several of the same grown men who raped me when I was a child, and some of the victims turned into abusers through years of trauma, PTSD, rape, and beatings that culminated in most of my old friends becoming drug dealers to feed a gang of pedophiles pretending to be Hell’s Angels. Literally, including fake patches, they used on black leather vests to make us believe they were legit.

As an adult, I can see how easily I was tricked and fooled, but as an adult, I can also see that these grown men took advantage of us kids, and our fears, and put us in so much pain that we had no choice but to believe the lie, in order to survive.

I got out and away from them, I told my story, but the abuse didn’t stop after the last gang rape. I’m not putting a date, because there are too many holes in my memory and I don’t remember the precise year that it happened.

I tell you all of this because what happened to me, and what you see in those pictures, is a reminder of what I’ve been dealing with since I was a child, even before I moved to British Columbia.

The first time I was raped I was three or four years old, in my bedroom by my sixteen-year-old babysitter's boyfriend, who beat her and threatened to kill me if she didn’t let him do whatever he wanted to me. I ran and tried to hold the door shut, but obviously, he was much stronger.

He was charged and arrested, and we moved, but the trauma of that event never once left me, not for one day. I have always known that happened, and I have always known that I was going to be in danger, for whatever reason, because the world hated me. That’s what I thought at least.

Someone deliberately did that to the chair you see in the top picture, just this past week. Someone is sending me a small and seemingly insignificant message, “I can get to you.” Yeah, so? What’s your point?

I’m not afraid. I’m actually laughing at this point. I’ve been getting raped since I was in diapers, you don’t scare me. I’ve died, I’ve lived, I’ve fought, and I’ve inspired other people around the world. My job here is done. Anything I get from this moment forward is a bonus, so you don’t scare me.

You annoy me because now I have to do the heavy lifting and get rid of the broken chair and replace it with one of the others, and I’m super lazy so that’s going to be a lot of work for me, which you know because you’ve been in my house.

You’re so fucking pathetic. I remember one day when M.R. told me to go downstairs so that the boys in the house could rape me in North Delta, (not my house MR’s house), I told “Angel” he had a small dick, he didn’t like that very much, but he also didn’t rape me because he was too embarrassed to show me, we were about 12 or 13 at the time.

Yours is definitely smaller. Angel had no problem looking me in the eye when he had a problem with me, and he had absolutely no problem backing the fuck down when I told him to get out of my face, and if you are who I think you are, you know who Angel is and you know where he comes from, so you don’t scare me.

You’re another pathetic little bitch with an itty bitty dick who thinks he’s tough because he can bend the arm of a deck chair. I can do that too, douchbag.

God, you’re such a pussy. You can’t face me so you’re trying to intimidate me. You know I don’t go anywhere, because I’m an isolationist, you know I have no friends because I’ve talked repeatedly about how I cut everyone out of my life, so what exactly are you looking for?

I’m right here asshole. So come at me. I’ve been burned, branded, broken, beaten, raped, tortured, and gang-raped more times than I can count. I have seen the worst thing that men can do to women and children. I have walked with Devils and Demons, I’ve flown with Angels and I am not afraid of you.

I will say that it’s oddly flattering that you seem to think these tactics are getting my attention, but in reality, all they are doing is giving me a vehicle to remind people why women deserve to be protected, so that when you come and try to kill me, and I know you will, because you can’t stand something as fanfuckingtastic as me existing without sucking your dick, other people can say “bitch told you so.”

There is a twisted sense of irony in all this because I know what I’m capable of, and I know what I’ve done to protect myself. I know what I’m risking by trying to antagonize you and I know full well that you’re too smart to take the bait right? Which is precisely why you’re reading this right now.

Because I don’t matter. I matter so little to you that you like to sneak in my room and stare at me as I sleep before or after breaking my bedroom door because I dared to close it in my own fucking home.

You think you’re tough by coming into my home and spreading trash on my life, but the truth of the matter is that you’re a fucking child and you need to just stop.

This situation is going to end with one of us dead or in jail, and I can promise you neither will be me.

Sending all my love,

Devon J Hall

--

--

--

I want Brown girls around the world to know that their voice matters. I want them to know that they can effect change, that they can build communities, and soar to hieghts they never imgined with the power of their own voice. I want them to stand up and be LOUD, unapolegetically.

Recommended from Medium

Whack A Woke Weekday — The Professor and The Penguin

Homeless Youth of Canada: How did this Happen?

12 Beautiful Photos Of Women, And The Powerful Reasons They March

What i Shoulda Did

Dave Chappelle, Larry Elder, Winsome Sears, and Kyle Rittenhouse Are All White Supremacists

How To Use Discrimination In Your Favour

On Ending Minority Rule

How Does The Canadian Government Keep So Many Secrets?

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store
Devon J Hall

Devon J Hall

I Am The Loud Mouth Brown Girl, from Surrey BC. Author, Author & Artist, Dancer, Singer, Cannabis Educator, and Advocate. I am All this and more.

More from Medium

Your Children’s Children’s Children…Deserve Better Than What They Are Getting

I’m Not Gone Cry

Instilling Cultural Pride in Our Children

The Downside of a Strong Black Woman