Apparently those of us that decided to put up photos of our guns with a lit candle upset a good many people. I have been reading about it on and off for the last few days over on Weer'd World. Then I read an open letter by Sarah on Cranky Chicks with Guns.
I guess I could always put my two cents in.
Once upon a time I was a young girl, and a victim of a violent crime. Not many in my life know about this. Because I survived it and no longer consider myself a victim. I was, yes. And I don't bring it up, and talk about it in conversations. It was 20 years ago, and now I have no qualms about pulling a gun out on a man that just walks into my house, because he knows Husband is away. I don't know what that man's intentions were, but I am guessing that it was more than just to take a house tour. I had young children in the house as well. He heard my dogs, and saw my rifle, he ran. And I was safe.
But about 20 years ago (I was 14 he was twice my age) it was a different story. Candles lit in honor of my victimage is not appreciated. Candle light vigils have their place, just not in mine.
I thought I was in a safe place, I thought him sweet and kind. He lit candles to be romantic and we talked. He wasn't a stranger.
The lit candles in the room didn't save me from his savage beating when I didn't want to give him head. The lit candles didn't rescue me when I screamed for help as he used his knife to cut and shred my clothing. The candles didn't comfort me when I gave up fighting and merely cried through the pain. The candles flickered and died as the scene repeated itself.
I loathe this story. I hate remembering it. Even so I will not cower and play victim.