There’s no way to shy away from claims that have come out in the media. Janice Dickinson, yes the crazy, self-titled “first supermodel” is alleging that Bill Cosby sexually assaulted her. I am not going to go into details about the actual claims, because that’s not part of the big picture.
I’m truly sickened by the amount of backlash that has emerged from these allegations, not because I believe one way or another, but because we’re too busy making fun of Dickinson — she had too much plastic surgery, she’s crazy, she’s a drug addict so she doesn’t remember anything anyway, she is just interested in money and fame. These are all comments that have been posted throughout social media, including Buzzfeed, Facebook and Twitter.
Here’s the problem — who gives a fuck?! We are so busy poking and prodding at someone who is sometimes a train wreck, and forgetting the point: sexual assault. There are no excuses to why someone “should” be raped or assaulted. Nor is there any justified reason that Dickinson was “asking for it” or “just in it for the money and fame.”
This is why so many cases of sexual assault go unreported. Let’s be real here — everyone is so busy judging the woman, rather than focusing on the topic and what should be blown out of the water. Why not use this as a way to educate the public, stop victim blaming.
I don’t care if she was drunk or high out of her mind, half naked, or out of her mind. Sexual assault is serious and we are so consumed by making fun of the woman — despite whether the allegations are true. I’m not saying Cosby has done anything — I’m not saying he hasn’t. What I’m saying is why the hell is everyone so busy finding ways to excuse these claims, rather than really delving into what the claims are?
Celebrities are no different than us earth people. We’re all fucked up in some way; but that has nothing to do with anything that could or has happened to us. Back off the woman, and start talking about what really matters!
Facebook comments were retrieved from the public Buzzfeed Facebook Page.
Eating. Drinking. Smoking. Snorting. Weighing. Hurting. Burning. Cutting. Starving.
Purging. Praying. Stripping. Weighing. Binging. Dying.
These are words are verbs, actions. These words are not who I am, but things I have done. These things don’t make up a person or even describe a person. They are things that people DO. Why? For myself it is how I survived in the world starting in my very late teen years. These things were my way of living, dying, punishing, forgetting, numbing, functioning and coping. These are my sanctuary, my safety and at the same time, a double-edged sword that was jabbing away at my soul, my spirit and my life. (Read full story)
Look at this little girl, the silly smile on her face
see her tiny dimples, and sunglasses perfectly in place
She’s only a young toddler, the entire world before of her
But if you knew the road ahead, your heart would become heavier
Do you see this little girl, innocent and small?
Her parents love all of her as they watch her learn to crawl.
She’s only a few years old, but has an old soul
Always laughing and playing, her future still untold
You focus on her smile and the light in her eyes
It’s hard to believe years down the road a darkness will rise
You couldn’t see the shadow, even if you wanted to
Inside this little girl, a disease began to grow
She will be bullied and taunted, pushed and shoved
Her heart will shrink and she’ll feel unloved
Her once loud laughter will shrink down to silence
Her bright smile will fade, and she’ll meet quiet violence
People won’t hear her, so she’ll turn inward with her pain
What used to beam sunshine, only storms inside and rains
Her hope will begin to dwindle as she slowly slips away
But it’s only going to get darker, from glitter to gray
She will find her way to fit in after yearning to be wanted
She takes her first sip of alcohol, takes sobriety for granted
Turning into the life of the party, she’s the center of all the jokes
She just wants to be loved, but people prod and poke
She’ll give up on trust and love by the time she’s nineteen
When a man twice as old as her gets on his knees
Her voice is gone, she can’t make a sound as she sits paralyzed
She turns to stone, gives him his way, and inside breaks and cries
By now she’s lost her faith in God and turns to worship booze
Now an alcoholic, she’s lost her ability to choose
Not long from now, it won’t be enough as she rolls a dollar bill
She’ll snort away her problems, as heroin moves in for the kill
Nothing takes away her despair, her stomach full of guilt
She throws up her food, her shame, the life she could have built
When puking isn’t enough, and starvation is the only way
She turns her brokenness inward, stops eating and fades away
Once a healthy baby girl, she is dying inside and hopeless
No matter how much weight is lost, all she see’s is ugliness
She screams and yells, but no one else can hear
So she runs to the blade and she slices and tears
This little girl, now 21, is hollowed out and empty
This shell of a woman, no where to go, steps on the stage for money
Do you see this dancing girl, a friendless and pained daughter
There’s no way out she’s become her own slaughter
Now rewind time, back inside the playpen, look at the girl there
You wouldn’t know by looking, but you can see me if you stare.
You see, I am this little girl, now grown up and fighting to live
While I can’t protect her, I can try to help her forgive
Nothing could have prepared her for the broken road ahead
But she needs you here, she needs you now, because she’s not yet dead
Listen to the little girl, and when she asks hold her hand
Because I am her, all grown up, and still need help to stand
So next week, I go back for another round of treatment. Eating disorders suck, and it’s been two years exactly since my last venture out to Remuda Ranch. Now; I go somewhere else. So many emotions and feelings, and so much struggle, I just gotta hold out until Monday morning so I get my call re-confirming my admission Tuesday morning. So overwhelmed.
Sometimes I want to take my hand, shove it down my throat, into the heart that barely beats in captivity. I want to grab and squeeze the disease that imprisons me, barely breathing after it has sucked out my life. This is despair. Fear. Agony.
I want to rip the life from the flesh-eating disease that possesses my body. I want to fight, but then I can’t breathe and I’m tired. Please, just make it stop. I want to squeeze the life out of the disease that starves me. It’s like I’m buried alive inside of this body, screaming to get out but no one can hear because the dirt fills my mouth. Because this demon waits until I am out of breath. And when you ask, it whispers: “I’m fine.”