#ididnotreport

"Sister, Sister what have they done to you? Sister, Sister where will you go? Sister, Sister come to the temple. Sister, Sister Artemis knows."

-Written by the Lady Yeshe Rabbit

 I feel moved to comment on the Twitter phenomenon of yesterday, at least in my feed. The hash tag "#ididnotreport". This happening, now, is exactly why I started this blog. This is meant to be safe space for these stories. This is a virtual temple. Tell Artemis your troubles.  I cannot fix it, I cannot end your suffering or your change your circumstance. I can function as a messenger, carrying your words to the Goddess and to the larger world, in a safe, anonymous way. I am a priestess, and this is how the Goddess has asked me to serve. The goal of feminism, the way I hope this movement is pointed, is starkly contrasted with the current direction of U.S. political discourse.  Watching yesterday's stream of intensity as other people shared their stories reminded me that I too had a story.  That I, too, had been silenced. Had experienced a lack of support, had been afraid to come forward.

I did not report.  I told friends, and they were visibly uncomfortable. Some wondered aloud "if it was so bad, why didn't you leave him sooner?" I was a 19 year old college freshman/sophomore with a shaved head and a need to prove myself.  I needed to not trouble my parents with my psychosis, because I had already broken my mother's heart reminding her of what happened when I was 6.  I did not report that either. This one was not on her watch. I did not report because I couldn't admit to myself I had screwed up.

 My best friend was a boy I am still close with, and when I told him, he decided to save the guy.  He took him to a catholic retreat, and they bonded over Christian mysticism, alchemy and hermeticism.  After that, my friend worked to continue their friendship, and I had to ask if he would be at the party before I could feel safe.  Even after I changed my schedule, I ran into him all over campus, and now he was a regular at the lunch table. My friend repeatedly told me, "it's not that he's a bad person," and talked about how his faith taught about forgiveness. I did not report because I wasn't believed.

I already had a reputation. I was respected by professors, but among friends I was thought of as wild or even easy. (I am a little of both, but that's my judgment to make. I will not apologize for being an enthusiastic lover of sex, flirting, and romance. These qualities are found charming in men.) Who would be my witnesses? I had finally settled down with one person, we had a ring, we enjoyed sex together often. No one else believed it was wrong. On any given night or morning, I should have had the right to say no, and I didn't. I would face emotional manipulation until I gave in. It was easy, my psychiatrist would report to my boyfriend all the time.  I was taking medication to control my suicidal tendencies. I had hallucinations. I went from wild and easy to perfectly tractable, controllable. I did not report because it's a long story.

My life is good now. I am quite sane, quite happily partnered and joyful most of the time. But I remember what really happened, and I remember that I felt very much alone. It is my hope that you'll read this with a steady eye and a compassionate heart. I am trying to lead by example in creating a safe container for scary truths. It is my hope that reading this will tell you that you are not alone, life can be better, and there are things you can do to feel better, get safe, be happy.

Now you know a bit about me, where I come from, and why I'm here. So, what is the project?

Tell me anything that could prove useful to another woman. Tell me your tragedies, yes, but also your victories.  Tell me how you got help.  Give me phone numbers for agencies that were good to you.  Tell me which bus lines are safe and which ones are trouble in your town. Tell me about what you are doing to help yourself, your families, your communities be safer.   I will witness for you.  I will pray for you at Artemis's altar.  I will publish your information, if I choose and if you allow it. I will keep all identifying information confidential, but also give credit if requested. This is meant to be a collaborative blog, so submit stories, full articles, helpful tips and resources. I am sole editor, and will use and edit these submission as I see fit, although I will not embellish or heavily edit your voice or your content. Don't come here for flaming or trolling; the comments on this blog will be moderated and tightly controlled. I welcome submissions, questions and comments to walkingwithartemis@gmail.com.

Bloodroot Honey Priestess Tribe

My body bleeds.  Pretty regularly. In a mostly predictable pattern.  I
am a cisgendered woman, in what I would call the "mother" phase of
life.

Last month, when the Amazon Priestess Tribe began the Mother of theNew Time project, my blood came a week early.  I woke that next
morning with stains in the bed and a joyful heart.  I was ready to
anoint my stone with my magical life essence! I was pleased that my
body saw fit to take part in the energy my mind was so ready to
embrace.  Once my prayers were said, I went on about my day, leaving
the stone on the altar on a high shelf in my bathroom.

The next morning, I discovered something disturbingly real.  Ants eat blood.

The altar, the stone, the wall leading from the exhaust fan in my
bathroom, were all covered in ants.  Hungry, swarming ants, devouring
the blood I had left so seductively near the fan; inadvertently
broadcasting pheromones like an apple pie on a window sill.

Here was the truth of it: life is messy, gross, and real.  My gorgeous
son is proof enough that life is beautiful and fun and joyful.  But
watching that miraculous substance - the same substance that took one
act of lovemaking and created a whole other being - eaten by ants (the
bane of an apartment dweller's existance) was so shocking, I was moved
to tears.  Life is gross.

Women are, right this minute, being targeted because they are women.
In the United States, the conversation has turned back to equating
birth control with promiscuity and prostitution.  And there is still
no equal pay for equal work. There are places on this planet where
women must remain covered at all times, and places where traditional
coverings are being denied them. And, on a whole other level, in
several parts of the world, more than I wish to think about, rape is
used as a systematic weapon of war.  I believe that the best way for
me to be safe, and therefore follow the genetic and ethical imperative
to be able to take care of my child, is to take care of my own needs.
I need to be safe, in my neighborhood and in my community.  Everyone
deserves this safety.  Everyone.

It is through the sisterhood of the Amazon Priestess Tribe that I have
known safety.  I can see myself reflected in their eyes, these women
who look up to me, and look into me.  These women are made braver by
my presence, and I by theirs.  When I know myself to be one of them, I
know that I am not alone.  Any true need I may have, they will find a
way to meet it.  And I endeavor to show that I hold that same line for
them; while we may not all be best of friends, we are always
advocating for each other, and for all women to have the life of their
choosing.

And so, as the Amazon Priestess Tribe sets down the archetype of the
sacrificial warrior, I go with them into a New Time.  A new reality.
Of Blood, of Root, and of Honey.  The blood that has performed
miracles, both beautiful and grotesque. The root that connects me to
my mother and to her troubled family, the root that I use to make
spells that change my life and the lives of others. And the honey that
sweetens this life, that brings us back into our glorious selves when
nothing else can.  The honey that represents the work of hundreds of
sisters, bound by instinct and communicating only through movement.  I
take this new name with more pride than regret, more hope than fear. I
am joyful.