Since I was a little girl I would consider myself a feminist. It didn’t take me reading Betty Friedan to know something was up. Even in what most people would consider a balanced relationship, it didn’t take long to notice something I didn’t agree with in my parents’ relationship. It would just take my Dad being mad for me to notice. He could yell and threaten, sometimes silently, and my Mom would shut down.
I reveled in my feminism, in my being part of a solution to what I saw as the greatest injustice in society. After all, women are every race, size, IQ and sexual orientation.
That was all until I was raped.
It took days for me to even label what happened to me was rape. I was hesitant to own the label —…
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