No, I Didn’t Die

No, I Didn’t Die October 11, 2016


(image via pixabay)

Today we’ve heard from the wonderful Leticia Adams over at Through Broken Roses,  very gracefully handling the ridiculous line of questioning a pro-life activist put to her on Twitter.

A pro-life activist defending Donald Trump asked her, with total seriousness, “but did you die?” He was attempting to illustrate that rape is a less serious sin than abortion, because it leaves the victim still breathing. She wrote a lovely essay explaining the ways in which she did; everyone needs to go check it out.

I can’t top her answer. But as a rape survivor myself, I want to respond as well. And just a warning to my fellow survivors, I’m going to be graphic. If they don’t object to Trump’s lewd language, I think I can get away with some clinical detail.

No, I didn’t die.

It hurt to go to the bathroom for nine months. I had some kind of nasty infection because she didn’t wash her hands first, and it made it sting like fire every time I urinated for nine months. But I couldn’t get treatment for the infection because I was too afraid to admit what happened. My pro-choice friends from out of state said that if I could get to a Planned Parenthood, they would treat my infection without asking what happened, but I couldn’t get to a Planned Parenthood because I knew that none of my pro-life friends in town would give me a ride to such a place. So I waited until it went away, and it took nine months. But I didn’t die.

That was about how long it took to be able to sleep for more than two hours at a time, as well;  I would sleep for two hours, stay awake for five hours, then back to sleep for two again, and so on like clockwork throughout a twenty-four hour period. And every time I woke up, I had a flashback. And every time my husband touched me, I had a flashback. And every time I lay down on my right side, I had a flashback. I had flashbacks if I didn’t go to bed in jeans and a heavy blanket, even in the summer when the heat made me sick. I had flashbacks every time somebody said the word “protection,” because that was one of the words her accomplice said with a big grin on her face, just after it happened. I wanted to pray to Saint Michael, but I couldn’t say the standard Saint Michael prayer, because it had that infernal, hateful word in it and would trigger a flashback, so I laid in bed on my left side, clutching his icon and saying nothing. But I didn’t die.

Breastfeeding my daughter was agony beyond description. But I didn’t die.

My husband couldn’t touch me for months, but I didn’t die.

I had prayed, “Dear God, don’t let me get raped.”

Then I prayed, “Dear God, why do I keep thinking this was rape? It wasn’t, was it?”

Then I prayed, “Dear God, let me forget I was raped.”

And all along I prayed, “Dear God, let me die.”

But I didn’t die.

No, I didn’t die. Does that answer your question?


I am completely against abortion. I never want a woman or child to suffer that horror. But I have something to say to everyone who splits hairs in this way– to everyone out there who is right now trying to defend a man who bragged about “Grabbing pussy,” which is rape, because “abortion is worse.” Not to all pro-life people, just to that kind. Do you know why everyone hates you so much? It’s not because you’re doing Christ’s work. It’s because you’ve taken one evil and made it your idol. You look away from the whole of the law to focus on one particular, admittedly heinous, violation of one commandment. You look away from your sister’s whole self to obsess over her womb, and then you can’t see her tears when you ask, “But did you die?” Where your treasure is, there will your heart be. Where your gaze remains focused, there is your idol. Your idol is abortion.

You’re defending someone who joked about “grabbing pussy” because you won’t take your eyes off of your idol.

It takes a special kind of person to make opposition to killing a baby look oafish, and you’ve done it.

You’ve done it.



God’s name is blasphemed among the gentiles because of you.

No, I didn’t die. I survived. And if you think you’re scoring pro-life points by asking a rape survivor if she died, to prove her violation wasn’t as bad, then your soul is dead.

If anyone is interested in picking up the pieces of the pro-life movement and actually helping people, I’m right with you, but we need to back away from the pathetic joke it’s become.





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