This is the age of information.
Anything you ever needed to know can be accessed by the click of a button, swipe of a finger, spoken prompt into a speaker-equipped search engine. We’ve all seen at least one of those articles; the Articles of Rape, I’ll call it. It details one of three things: A Personal Story of surviving rape and how the victim got the help they needed, An Open Letter to a rapist and how their misdeed won’t change the victim’s will to survive though it may test them, or a Critique on the Media, Society and All the Above about how simply wording, presentation of fact or determination of what is newsworthy or noteworthy about a rape enough to be published is harmful and needs to be changed.
I’ve read them all. My mother was raped, my friends had been raped, and if 1 of every 4 women have been raped, I probably have a few rapist friends in the bunch. I know the statistics. How you’re more likely to be raped by someone you know. How a large portion of rapes go unreported. How surviving a rape can cause immense amounts of mental pressure which can spark a mental disability. How if you live in the city, your chances of being raped are disproportionately increased. I had a vested interest. And so I read whatever article came my way, re-posted a few and absorbed the information in case another person close to me was effected; I could be their beacon of hope and provide helpful information. By reading the articles, I thought I could make a person’s transition into…whatever, easier.
Maybe with this information, they won’t be a victim anymore.
Whatever I thought would help I made an effort to learn. I was this generation’s perfect social rights consumer. That is, until I became a statistic myself.