This has little to do with Brett Kavanaugh, and a lot to do with a blind, violent, all-consuming hatred towards anything and everything related to President Donald J. Trump.
Before these allegations even surfaced, opponents of the President were scouring for reasons to stop Kavanaugh. Their earliest attacks on him were based on his “fratty” name, his college drinking, and his…wait for it…charity work. People that hate Trump without rhyme or reason can’t see anyone associated with him as people — let alone without bias. The minute the President nominated Brett Kavanaugh to become the next Supreme Court justice of the United States, they had their minds made up about him. And as soon as they were given even the slightest opportunity to rationalize their blind hatred they ran with it without so much as a shred of evidence.
You can’t claim to care about social justice and embrace the “feelings first, facts later” mentality that has led to the wrongful imprisonments and even murders of so many. “Believing women” has ruined and even ended countless lives — especially black lives. But as someone that was sexually assaulted almost a decade ago and that didn’t tell anyone about it, the way I’ve heard my own friends and acquaintances talk about Christine Ford is disgusting in every sense of the word.
“She was a huge partier.”
“She was at Dewey beach all the time.”
“Why wouldn’t she file a police report if it actually happened?”
“Why wouldn’t she tell someone?”
“My friend was assaulted years ago and she remembers every detail.”
I can only speak for myself but when I was assaulted almost a decade ago before I’d even had my first kiss, the last thing on my mind was making my life more complicated or confusing than it already was. I wanted to go home, and I wanted to forget it happened. I didn’t want to hurt people that cared about me.
I didn’t tell anyone because my parents knew him and his parents. I didn’t tell anyone because 4 showers later and I still felt disgusting. I didn’t tell anyone because I thought it would change my life in a worse way than what had happened to me in the first place.
And there’s a lot I remember about that night, but there’s a lot I don’t. There were a lot of other people in the room, but I don’t remember who and everyone else was asleep. I remember looking at the clock and it being 4 something in the morning. I know I was wearing a jacket with a silver sipper and I think it was my beige one with black and gold words printed all over it. I know I was wearing a bra that snapped in the front. I know we all watched “Watchmen” that night. I think we were at a Marriott.
As the accuser, the burden of proof is on Christine Ford. But if I had to corroborate something that I’ve been trying to forget for almost a decade, I don’t know if I could. And I know I’m not lying.
I’m not one to pull this card, but unless you’ve been sexually assaulted you should probably refrain from trying to tell victims how they are and aren’t allowed to react. Because until you’re in that situation yourself, with your body and your life on the line you have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.
My gut tells me that Brett Kavanaugh is innocent. I think he’s a good man that’s been put through hell and then some for something he didn’t do. But I don’t know what happened, and neither do you. Sexual assault isn’t a game, and nothing would make me happier than if both the Left and Right stopped treating it like one or “believing victims” when it was politically expedient.