I believe in the soul.
I believe in the random signs that guide the way. I believe in guardian angels. I believe that an untrained mind is more dangerous than an arch enemy. I believe OJ did it and that there should be congressional term limits. I believe in fiber, floss, fate and the fantastical notion that one day there may be peace on earth.
And I believe her.
Because I am her. My story may not as horrible as hers, but most likely equal to stories average women tell. Every school. Every job. Every. Damn. Job. I have a story to tell. And most importantly, I have a stories that were told to very few people because I knew I wouldn’t be believed, OR I’d be told that it was, in some way, my fault (ya know, like my skirt was too short, or my blouse showed cleavage, or I was just standing there minding my own business)
I used to think that it was just me. I have learned through the years that is not the case. It’s not just me. There are millions like me.
And yet....as a society...we still don’t believe. Wow. Whenever she tells her story (think of any woman’s name high likelihood you’ll have chosen correctly). If you can’t think of one (really?) use mine.
So I will add to my list of beliefs - I believe that one day when she tells her story, we will believe her. Hmmmm.... correct that - I believe that one day, her story will be, ‘he tried, and I kicked his a$$’ and when she tells her story...
....she will be believed.
Full disclosure - I did channel my inner Crash Davis for the opening of this post.