Child sexual abuse: On rigor mortis

Yesterday, I was drowning, crashing waves of sorrow, of helplessness. Robbed of my voice, my vocal chords seemingly frozen. Rigor mortis.

Death has set in, before its time.

The pretense of continuing this life: staring at the Starbucks-driven roomful of self-minted entrepreneurs, happy young things. Their polite conversation punctuated by laughter. In my corner, I am a shadow, type-type-type typing on my netbook, plugged into my iPod, plugged into another world of my own. Little to connect me with the others, save perhaps our age.

Why this artifice, Padmé, this constant looking-over-my-shoulder? Has Death come a-knockin'? Too soon, I hear you say?

The fatigue from thousands of questions about child sexual abuse that greet me everyday: "Tell us about your work, Padmé. This is amazing work that you are doing."

How is it amazing when for me, it is as vital as breathing? One does not talk about breathing. It is a necessary bodily function.

Come, come, Padmé, get up. Your work is not yet done.

Come quickly, before it is time.

Read part 14 here.

Read part 13 here.

Read part 12 here.

Read part 11 here.

Read part ten here.

Read part nine here.

Read part eight here.

Read part seven here.

Read part six here.

Read part five here.

Read part four here.

Read part three here.

Read part two here.

Read part one here.