#Yesallwomen

It's not the fame he envisioned for himself, little Elliot Rodger, would-be destroyer of worlds and women. He went out and killed 6 people, injured 13 others, but not before he made a youtube video about his intentions. I watched it, astonished at the boy; not just at his sense of entitlement and painful narcissism, but at his sense of performance. For all the intensity of his feelings, he was playing a part, with his strange little giggles and his finger pointing at the camera. This wasn't just pain, it was fame. The irony is that the women are forgetting him again, ignoring him again, talking about themselves again, talking about other men again. He is quickly becoming some guy who shot people because he couldn't get laid, not exactly the testament of the eternal Alpha Male. The success of the yesallwomen hashtag is leaving Elliot on the sidelines. They aren't thinking about him, they're thinking about the whole thing, the ridiculous and endless war upon women, the stuff we face every day. And it makes me remember my early impressions and ideas about sexual violence.

I remember Dad saying that if a guy tried to rape me, I just had to tell him I was on my period, and the attacker would leave me alone. It was as though once a month I turned into a magical walking skunk with the power to melt my enemies by squirting fetid ass-juice at them. My safety lay in being able to disgust a man. It was less comforting than Dad intended.

Another time the police came to visit students at our halls of residence. Their advice was straightforward. If someone decided to rape us, we should let them; 'Better raped than dead,' was their advice on the subject. But this came with a corollary, told to us that very same night, after the police had left, by one of our number with two brothers in the Met. According to her, her brothers always knew when someone came into the station having been 'really' raped because the victim would be beaten to hell and back, covered in blood and sperm and bruises. 'No man would want to to fuck her,' was the sagacious judgement of these officers of the law. Disgust again, this time not as a shield but a validator in the eyes of men whose first decision on seeing a female rape victim would be to check her attractiveness and use it as a barometer of deceit/exaggeration.

So here was the problem. If a rapist attacked, it was best to let him have his way in order to survive. But unless he nearly killed his victim, she would not be believed. What was the choice? Do you face death/ultraviolence or the sneer of a society built around hating you? When the time came for me, as for so many women, to face a would-be rapist, I fought and I was very lucky to survive, let alone get out unmolested. Many people, police officers, barristers, counsellors, have asked me why I grabbed the knife as it came towards me and there are many raw, different reasons, but one main one is this: I don't want to live in a world where I have to face death before people believe me.

And that really is all.

A statue

That's how I feel right now, and I have no idea why.

Sometimes time just slips away from me. There are a couple of things I have done today, and I have a lot to do tomorrow. I could do these things now, but I feel slow and strange and a little ill.

I don't know if it is about Elliot Rodger and all that stuff; no,it isn't. It's this creaking feeling I have, just tired and strained. Maybe it's too much rain. Tomorrow I have a booking to make and logistical stuff to carry out, it is nothing much. But it overwhelms me. I am putting it off and I know it. But OK, I write it here to seal the deal. Tomorrow morning I deal with it.

Sometimes, everything seems to take forever. I am not even unhappy. Honestly, perhaps I just need sunshine.

[Edited to add] Wanted sunshine, got sunshine...last year there was a bright yellow rose in the front garden, lopped down by those idiots from Thames Water. Today, I noticed that she is back, bright gold and very sweet scented in the rain. It made me smile.