Epiphanies in (Parentheses)

I am reading a book by Joyce Carol Oates called The Faith of a Writer for my MFA program. It is mostly a guide for new or young writers, but she does include some personal revelations mixed in as examples of the advice that she gives. There was this one passage in parentheses that was so strong and unexpected it punctured me in the belly and literally took my breath away:

     To write is to invade another's space, if only to memorialize it; to write is to invite angry censure from those who don't write, or who don't write in quite the way you do, for whom you may seem a threat. Art by its nature is a transgressive act, and artists must accept being punished for it. The more original and unsettling their art, the more devastating the punishment. If writing involves punishment, at least for some of us, the act of running even in adulthood can evoke painful memories of having been, long ago, as children, chased by tormentors. (Is there any adult who hasn't such memories? Are there any adult women who have not been, in one way or another, sexually molested or threatened?)

I have often weighed the costs of telling the true, raw story of my life so far. What punishment in the form of shame and ridicule would I walk in to if people knew what I really did and had been done to me? Lately, I have noticed that the costs decrease in value as I grow older and begin to feel comfortable in my own skin. It is nice to know who you are, and still like yourself.

However, the most eye-opening thought that she presents was the one she quickly mentioned in passing, as if a thoughtless side note that was not meant to spark a big debate, but that is exactly what has happened ever since I read that line. Are there, indeed, any women who have gone through this life unscathed and pure from sexual control/politics/perversions? This is totally hypothetical, as I do not wish for people to spill their guts to a blog.

Regardless of your personal answer, the fact that this question can even be proposed and not immediately seen as insanity makes me extremely sad for the condition in which we must survive during our lifetime. Not all of our wounds are visible on the outside, but for there to be a "condition" of sexual vicitimization makes me horrified as a woman, not for myself, but for the fleeting innocence found in today's children. It makes me scared for them.

There are really no conclusive findings to finish off this post, just a sober feeling inside as I stop typing.