When I first saw the news, I felt both saddened and suspicious. The news report said that Daisy committed suicide by gunshot and although suicide by gunshot is the most effective means of suicide, 82% according to Harvard, women don’t usually shoot themselves.Their preferred methods are overdosing or cutting, and Daisy had overdosed in the past. In addition, a stalker had been hounding her and I wondered if the police had hit on suicide as an easy solution instead of investigating further. It could have been murder. Maybe I’m wrong, but I see the police as a little lazy when raped women are the victims of foul play. But she did shoot herself, apparently while on Facetime with her boyfriend. Poor guy! Her mother said Daisy had recently learned that she couldn’t have children and that this was the motivation for her suicide.

Daisy was raped and left on her front lawn by boys she trusted. I had a similar experience, but I was left on a cement porch. For me it wasn’t a cold day, but the day Daisy was raped, it was freezing cold and her wet hair was frozen to the ground. Her t-shirt wasn’t enough coverage from the elements. Who would do something like that?

Her abductors were the sons of prominent people in the town and when the townspeople turned out to protect the boys, all hell broke loose for Daisy’s family. They were shamed on social media and shunned. Eventually their house was burned down and they were forced to move.

There’s a fairly famous documentary, Audrie and Daisy, available on Netflix. In the film, both girls, both Audrie Pott and Daisy Coleman, are raped and both girls attempt suicide. Audrie is successful but Daisy is rescued. It is not Daisy’s only attempt. When I first heard about Daisy’s suicide, the first thing I said was, Damn, that’s two. I don’t know how many suicides are preceded by rape. I doubt if such statistics are available and if they are available, they aren’t accurate but I bet the rate is high.

I took another route. I just simply denied it happened. Just think a minute how hard that was when everyone in town knew it happened. I was the crazy girl. But that’s okay. I got through. I lived. I never committed suicide. I’m so sorry Daisy did.

Here’s my poem in remembrance of Daisy. It’s in remembrance of my mother too. She may have committed suicide at age 50, only two weeks after I left home. What happened that night? She said once she had been raped when she was young.

Just wanna say, folks, this is no joke. It’s not 20 minutes of action.

Again

Say Uncle, my father said.

Mom was tied to a tree in the woods. She wouldn’t say uncle.

She was stubborn, my father said.

After a long while, she said Uncle.

You can’t change the world, my father said.

I can try, I said.

You’re just like your mother, he said.

Mom banged pots and pans in the kitchen.

She screamed at the top of her lungs.

That’s how she knew,

She was alive.

Mom yelled. You work and slave your whole life and what do you get?

Nothing. You get nothing.

My father read the paper.

He didn’t hear her.

Mom cried for days. She put notes in neighbor’s mailboxes.

To say goodbye. She was a diabetic.

She went into shock.

Sugar brought her back.

I got the notes back.

I said, Don’t die. I need you.

She didn’t die.

My friends raped me,

I shamed the family name.

I was out of control.

My father felt bad.

He hit me with his fists.

I was smashed. I left.

My mother cried for days

I couldn’t say,

Don’t die. I need you.

Don’t die.

Show him.

Stay alive.