The news used to erupt at every mention of sexual assault. Now? It’s background noise, a dull ache in a world choked with violence against women. I stand in that wreckage, a twice-broken survivor in a country where rape is a national anthem.
They ask why I’m single, these clueless fools who can’t see the barbed wire fences I’ve built around my heart. My past is a warzone, a mosaic of escapes and near misses, of fear carved into my bones. But I’m older now, scarred and sharp-tongued. My bite is a viper’s, and I won’t be silenced by their “don’t be a victim” bullshit. I am a victim, yes, and I own the storm of my healing, every ugly, beautiful step. This is not my burden to bear alone, and I refuse to apologize for my rage, my tears, and my messy path back to myself.
The aftermath? A maelstrom of shame and doubt. “Was it SA? We were dating,” I whispered, questioning my own reality. The echo of that trauma still haunts me. I was naive once, blinded by the myth of inherent good and returned kindness. Now, I see the cracks in their facades, the rot beneath the smiles.
They say women over forty are fury personified, ticking time bombs of rage. Hell yes, sisters! We’re tired. We’ve shouldered the weight of their sins for too long, our empathy tanks running on fumes. Wanda Sykes (Hail to the Queen), once joked about our younger selves, overflowing with estrogen, the hormone of apologies and undeserved guilt. But as that hormone dwindles, we don’t become apathetic and tired, we’re just turning into men. Ouch!
Fifty looms on the horizon, and I wonder if vulnerability is still possible. We, the scarred warriors, fight battles men will never understand, battles etched on our souls in a language beyond words.
But the lessons learned? Forgiveness. Self-love. Fierce, unyielding self-love. This is my battle cry to the younger generation: Love yourselves like hell, protect yourselves like fortresses, and know that life may be a rigged game, but you hold the power to reclaim your own damn respect. Take it. Age brings not just wrinkles, but scars, both beautiful and brutal. Let us, the scarred ones, be your guides.