Lubrication

Last night I had a dream that has me contemplative today. I dreamt that I demanded of a man that his ass was mine, and he agreed. He was scared, and I promised to use my smallest strap-on, but he knew that I wouldn't hurt him. I woke up rather aroused.

Anal penetration is a scary thought to many people. I've only done it to one man, my husband, and I rather enjoy it. I enjoy giving manual and oral stimulation as foreplay, but not so much as an alternative to PIV sex. Then again, it's rare for me to be satisfied by only receiving manual or oral stimulation as well.

I can understand the fear. My first experiences of receiving anal penetration were extremely pleasurable. I will admit that my first time was not a time of full consent, as I was not asked, and lacked the imagination to dream that it was going to happen. Romance novels really don't detail anal sex. It's taboo, and that's where I learned much of what I knew about sex before having it. Truthfully, had I known his intentions, I would have been too squeamish and icked out to consent, and I would not have learned about how good it can feel.

I'm glad I had a pleasurable initiation to anal sex, because JRS and MZ would have completely ruined it for me. They taught me that anal sex hurts. Ramming in through tight muscles only causes pain and injuries. Rather than pleasure, the repeated thrusting causes irritation. It sucks.

Happily, my husband knows how to ease his way in, to ensure that there is adequate foreplay and lubrication to make sure that it only feels good. I used to tense up some, and now I don't. Talking through the initial penetration helps greatly. Anal penetration requires control, gentleness, and slowness.

Unlike that produced by vaginal sex, the anus does not produce its own lubrication. I've noticed throughout my life that fear, irritation, and discomfort can all cause me to produce lubrication. Wetness does not necessarily correlate with desire. Some guys tell themselves that because a woman was wet, that she must have wanted it, no matter how much she otherwise resisted. That idea is completely false. The vagina lubricates itself to prevent injury. Wet does not mean willing.

For example, I notice that my vagina lubricates itself during routine gynecological examinations, which are awkward and uncomfortable. I get no joy from them. I am not turned on by them. They are disconnected from sex. And yet I am wet because of them. It's protection, not desire.

The anus is injured through unwanted penetration (and clumsiness as well), and does not have a built in protective device. In my experience, anal rape is much more physically painful than vaginal rape. Emotionally, not so much.

And so I understand the fear of anal penetration, willing and unwilling. Done wrongly, it hurts like hell. Done wrongly, it can hurt for days.

And, having given anal penetration, I understand the joy of giving. When I'm doing it right, my husband is incapable of speech, can only moan and whimper his pleasure. It gives me a sense of power over him. And I understand that he feels a sense of power over me when I moan and whimper under him, but that power is mutual, because he also receives pleasure from being inside me.

And I'm a little sad that no one else has ever trusted me enough to try it with me.

Children

Today the children have been difficult, refusing to abide by normal boundaries, testing limits, and then suddenly clinging close, needing affection. My patience is at its limit, and it's not even noon. I'm not sure what to do at this point. Sometimes children can be incredibly frustrating.

Somehow, I am supposed to cope, be able to cope, with only a nuclear family. It's too much to ask. I need more. But our culture says that needing more makes you a failure as a mother, a wife, and a woman.

I need more. If things were different, then I wouldn't feel that I have no one to call on for support, though I'm in a better enough place that I'm capable of reaching out today.

The last couple of weeks, my husband and I have admitted to and apologized for mistakes the both of us have made over the past few years. Of course, some mistakes are easier to rectify than others. Some mistakes are easier to admit than others. But confession is supposed to be good for your soul, right?

Writing isn't working so well for me today. I keep getting interrupted in the middle of sentences, and I am spending more time trying to remember which thought I wanted to continue than actually continuing anything. My husband and I are still struggling and still working on it.

Waking Up

Today I'm focusing on another Sark quote:

(page 19) “Choosing Succulence is a deliberate act of personal revolution. It means waking up! Embracing your true self, studying your patterns, and letting out your most alive self. We all have one!”

I've been struggling greatly lately, as depression has a hold over me. I think part of my struggle with depression at this point is realizing and recognizing that there are pieces of me that I don't particularly like.

I've recognized that I make excuses for the thoughtlessness of those I care about while condemning people I don't care about for the same mistakes. And when I recognize this trait in other people, it irritates the hell out of me.

I'm not even sure how to awaken and display my most alive self. Right now I have to remember daily that this too shall pass, that I will not be depressed forever, and that I will learn to be happy again.

I was on an anti-depressant, but I had to go off of it because it made the depression worse. It also caused my body to break out in acne, which seems like an insult to me. Now my skin has betrayed me? My skin is something I usually take pride in, but the acne itches and I don't like it. It seems to be going away now, but it's not very quick to leave.

I want my near-flawless skin back. I want to be content with all my pieces, even the ones that aren't very nice. I don't want to have to remind myself daily that things will get better, because I want things to be better now.

Guess I need to learn patience or else make my own miracle.

A Question of Choice

Responding to “When Pregnancy Is Outlawed, Only Outlaws Will Be Pregnant” by Tiloma Jayasinghe

This week, I plan to expound upon abortion. A friend of mine just found out that she needs one. She feels that she can't tell anyone, because of the stigma involved. She ended up having to tell her boss, and was surprised by how supportive and helpful her boss ended up being. Actually, I'm surprised she told me.

I find that I'm more sympathetic to women who don't want children after having children than I was before I had children. Pregnancy sucks. Chosen pregnancy sucks, because people have rather exacting expectations of pregnant women.

(page 266) “Women are expected to suddenly become paragons of virtue and self-denial during their pregnancies, forgoing sushi, caffeine, nicotine, unpasteurized cheese, tuna, alcohol, cleaning the cat’s litter box, etc. Other members of society feel quite free to censure a woman who breaks any of these taboos.”

I still remember, and resent, the woman who argued with me about the soda I chose to drink. How dare I have caffeine? Didn't I know it wasn't safe? Actually, it's quite safe, and it's MY choice to make. It's my body, my baby, and my choice. I didn't ask for her permission, and she had no right to censure me.

(page 267) “Pregnant women are also affected by the war on abortion. If the fetus is granted rights of personhood, then a woman’s right to choose not to become a mother, for health or personal reasons, will be eliminated; she and the doctor who performs abortions could be charged with murder. When fetal rights are elevated over the right of a woman to choose when she wants to become a mother, to determine the spacing of her children, and to make a private decision about what happens to her body, then she loses her ability to control her own body and her choices are supplanted by those of the state—the state can pretty much tell a woman that she will be forced to carry her pregnancy to term.”

If the state has control over women's bodies because they are pregnant, then pregnant women are denied the liberty that everyone else has.

My experiences in the labor and delivery rooms have left me convinced that most women have at least one unnecessary intervention or something forced upon her, be it electronic fetal monitoring (still not proven safer than non-continuous non-electronic monitoring), rupturing of membranes, or overly-aggressive nurses, or something.

I was pressured into an induction that I wasn't ready for and didn't particularly want. Considering that my baby was born perfectly healthy, I think that over-testing was the true problem. I had to have weekly non-stress tests because the baby's heartbeat did not appear to be normal. My theory is that the baby was asleep for all of them, and that the heartbeat was reflective of that. There was one non-stress test that we had to schedule at a different time, and that heartbeat fit the normal parameters perfectly. The nurse administering the non-stress tests remarked that it was like a whole different baby.

I suppose that I could have refused, but it's difficult to take such a stand. Some doctors even take pregnant women to court to force them to undergo procedures, like Cesarean sections, because it's "in the best interest of the child." But doctors aren't always right, and it's not always in the best interest of the child. But it definitely puts women in their place, now doesn't it?

I have also been prescribed bed rest while pregnant, which I was unable to follow. I did not have the child care necessary to allow me to stay in bed. I had to care for a toddler and was not eligible for disability, having been a stay-at-home mom. Had my inability to follow bed rest resulted in miscarriage, could that have been considered murder if unborn babies had personhood? Was I, by caring for the baby I had already borne, in fact committing child abuse on the one I was carrying by not following orders? It was a risk I had to take. I really didn't have another viable choice.

(page 269) “He could not see that the idea of someone else’s paternalistically taking away her choice to have sex, or to forgo birth control, or to become a mother, renders her not mentally sound, less than human.”

In the essay, this refers to a lawyer who cuts deals for women that include agreeing not to have children. Parole can be contingent on regular pregnancy tests, and becoming pregnant can result in parole being revoked. Women can go to jail simply because they're pregnant. That's a scary thought.

(page 270) “Anytime you try to limit the procreative rights of a class of people because its progeny are considered doomed, or a burden, or generally unwanted, it results in a slow genocide of the poor.”

My own mother thinks that all girls should be fit with something like an IUD or hormonal implants to prevent pregnancy until they can be licensed to have kids. If I had waited until I was ready or could afford to have children, I may still not be a mother. I'm not sure I would ever have felt truly ready. Even now, I sometimes feel inadequate as a mother.

(page 270) “It is really about controlling who reproduces, prohibiting women from having sex, and starting with the easy targets—the vulnerable and the marginalized.”

Some people would say that my friend who needs an abortion is wrong. That she had sex and now needs to pay the piper. That she got pregnant, and to not carry to term is murder. That if she wasn't willing to have a baby, then she shouldn't have had sex to begin with.

I've been luck enough not to need an abortion. The one time that I would have (I hope) chosen to have an abortion, to not tie myself to the man who raped me repeatedly by the bond of blood, nature took care of the problem for me. I did not feel remorse. I felt relief. I was shaken by my close-call, but I was thrilled not to have to deal with the problem.

My friend is in a much better relationship than I had been in. She recently changed birth control methods, and statistically there is a much, much greater chance of getting pregnant when you change birth control. But having sex should not ever be contingent upon wanting to have a baby. I currently do not want to have a baby, and I have sex. Sex is about pleasure, about connecting with another person intimately, about passion, and sometimes about love. Sometimes it results in conception, but that should not be followed by forced birth.

(page 271) “Sexuality is a form of power, so if women own their sexuality and their ability to be sexual creatures, then they are empowered in ways that society does not want them to be. Punishing women for certain outcomes of sexuality (pregnancy and giving birth) is in effect punishing them for having sex.”

In some ways, I don't own my sexuality. I am not public about enjoying multiple partners at once because I fear the consequences. I fear being named slut. I fear that if I ever experience sexual violence again, that I will be told it's my fault. I fear that my children will be shunned or ridiculed.

(page 271) “Women are just as human as everyone else, and simply because women become pregnant or have the capacity to become pregnant does not mean that we lose our humanity or our right to fundamental human rights, which include the right to say yes, I want to have sex, without fear, without punishment, without judgment.”

I have nothing but sympathy for my friend. She is making a difficult decision, and she already recognizes that some people will see her in a negative light should they find out.

Puzzled

Today a Sark quote:

(page 17) “I am not always a positive person….Being ‘positive’ is a choice. I am flooded with the same doubts, terrors, insecurities, rages, incessant worries, and critical inner voices as everyone else—maybe more!”

I choose to be positive today, but first I have to figure out how to get out of my way. Hopefully it won't take long. Realistically, it'll probably take all day.

I'm struggling.

I thought I'd start the day building a puzzle, but making sense of the pieces spread out on my dining room table is too overwhelming right now.

So I answered email, and found myself overwhelmed at the task I gave myself, of revealing that a friend's actions (more accurately, lack thereof) were rather hurtful. It took me over half an hour to write approximately 6 sentences.

Maybe now that confronting unpleasantness has been taken care of, I'll be able to face the challenge of a jigsaw puzzle.

For now, I'm listening to music and doing my best to put my emotions into words.

I have decided to open an account on one of the web pages I visit and invite strangers to read my words. The thought is nearly overwhelming, as I worry that I'll be dismissed as self-indulgent. And then I realize, I have often not shared for similar reasons. I talk myself out of sharing all the time.

Last night at work, I dealt with a racist prank caller. The manager was ineffective in dealing with the jerk, and wanted to have a Black person answer the phone and deal with the bigot who claimed to be allergic to African Americans. So I took charge.

I answered the second phone call. I told the person that they were not to call again or that I would call the police, then politely but firmly got off the phone. That wasn't enough. They called back, so I told the person that they were incredibly offensive, to dunk their head in a toilet, and that I was going to call the police as soon as I got off the phone. I hung up as they scrambled, demanding that I not hang up.

I didn't call the police. We don't have caller ID, so it would have been pointless, but the bigot stopped calling after that.

I have trouble reconciling the thought that the target of someone's racist drivel should take care of the problem. I was plenty effective enough at getting the phone calls to stop, white girl that I am. Why add to my Black coworker's experience with racism, if I can step in and say enough is enough myself?

There is plenty of misery to go around, and I don't need to add to anyone else's misery by not taking care of a problem myself.

Now I'm going to work on a giant jigsaw puzzle and hope I'm no longer overwhelmed.

Truth, Consent, and Betrayal

Today I'm not responding to anyone else's work, instead I'm working on understanding pieces of the non-monogamous relationship I've been part of.

Not every aspect of our relationship was fully consensual. My husband and I agreed that unless we were in an otherwise exclusive relationship, a barrier method was necessary in order ensure that sex was as safe as possible. After all, not everyone who has an STD knows it, and it would be terrible to pass along an STD to the other.

My husband kept to that agreement. I didn't.

Early on, my lover asked that we forgo condoms, and despite my husband's protests to the both of us, I agreed. I could try to justify myself, but really I betrayed his trust and our agreement, and that is that.

There have been some pretty dire consequences to that decision. I switched birth control a couple of times, settled on the pill because I knew my husband and I would be trying for a baby soon, and, after several abrupt schedule changes/holidays, was unable to be as consistent as necessary to prevent pregnancy. I got pregnant at roughly the time my lover left town for an extended time, a couple of weeks before my husband and I planned trying.

I was pregnant, and paternity was in question. That was NOT supposed to happen. I felt like a whore.

Because of the uncertainty and because I had drank heavily the first few weeks of pregnancy, before we officially started trying, my husband and I discussed abortion. We quickly rejected that option.

The uncertainty took a toll on our relationship, and the baby's birth did not answer the paternity question with absolute certainty. The baby was slightly overdue, which we kind of expected, and was darker than previous babies. Of course the person the baby most resembles is me. Blood type was no help either, as my husband and my lover share the same one.

Eventually, because the uncertainty continued taking a toll on our relationship, we got a paternity test. It was unable to exclude my husband as the father, which in DNA test parameters meant that unless my lover shared the same genetic markers as my husband, then my husband was indeed the father.

A couple of years later, a routine PAP smear came back irregular, revealing that at some point in my life I contracted HPV. I felt incredibly dirty.

Because HPV can take years to result in an abnormal PAP and can be passed without symptoms, I will never know for certain when I contracted it, or from whom.

A simple apology is not enough in cases like these.

I fully accepted the blame for my part in betraying my husband. My lover and I did not have his consent for forgoing condoms.

My counselor has revealed that I have a pattern of taking on too much responsibility, and that I should trust others to take on their share too. So now the question remains: how much responsibility for this betrayal has my lover taken? I'm not the only one who did wrong.

Misery

Responding to “The Buried Yes” by Minnie Bruce Pratt.

If this is disjointed, filled with strange or abrupt transitions, so be it. I don't care about that.

(page 409) “Now she and I dance one dance, no spark with her except the thrill of asking for that dance by choice, not by default.”

Today I'm dancing with myself. I keep having images of child-me curled up in a corner. Most of the time, I see child-me backstage, and I proceed to have her leap and bound, nearly flying, in the spotlight. It's how I manage to replace my mask, no matter what's bothering me.

But last night, when I didn't have to deal with anyone else, when I didn't need my mask, mommy-me hugged child-me close, murmuring that everything is going to be all right. Everything is going to be fine. Lean on me and rest; I'll carry you while you're tired.

It's been a long time since I went dancing with anyone else, and I kind of miss it. But right now, I don't have the defenses. When I've gone dancing, I've danced for myself. I'm usually the one who asks, the one wades out onto the floor alone, not caring for anything but the music. Do I look good? Do I look stupid? I don't care. The point is the music, feeling it, letting it flow through me. I ask both people I truly want to dance with and random standers-by. Next time around, I need to give myself permission to ask women too.

(page 409) “I don’t know how to articulate what I can see, an enticing vista, what it might be like to talk among ourselves without always having to answer the men, or reassure them.”

The last time I started having an interesting conversation with another woman in a taxi-cab, the male cab driver felt completely free to butt in. It offended me to the point that I doubt I'll use that cab company again. It completely derailed the conversation.

Right now, I'm spending so much time maintaining the masks I need to wear to function in this world, that I don't have the energy to reassure anyone else. I can respond as reassuring mommy to my children, but that's about it.

My vision last night was of free falling into a cloudbank. At first I didn't have a parachute, but then I had a bright pink one. I knew it'd deploy before I got hurt. I knew that it would lift me high once again, that I wouldn't crash land. I can't see rock bottom, but I have faith that I'll land safely.

I'm not sure how I got in the sky. I guess it really doesn't matter. Maybe I followed the butterflies. Maybe I jumped out of the tower. I don't know.

(page 411) “Later a NOW member reprimands me: it’s unnecessary to push lesbians on the audience. A year before she had been upset when she learned I was a lesbian; she was offended that I had not trusted her enough to tell her. She’d said abruptly, ‘Being afraid to tell me is your problem, not mine.’”

I've been debating coming out to those less close to me as depressed, but haven't yet. My husband openly worries about me. It's not helpful. I'm big enough, strong enough, stubborn enough to hold on to myself. I can't deal with the worries of others right now. I have to function with all my worries, while mothering my children and fulfilling work responsibilities.

At the same time, I understand where the worry comes from. Will I be strong enough if I have suicidal ideations or urges? Will I, like my mother's brother whom I never met, take my own life, not thinking of my children in the next room? But I am a MOTHER, and I overcame many many urges to drive off bridges or cut myself while growing up. I learned the trick of holding on just another second, just another minute, just another hour, just another day.

I don't want to see that worry on anyone else's face. I will get through this, because I'm too damned stubborn not to.

I've realized that people who think that they're easy to talk to or who think that anyone's fear of talking about certain subjects is completely unjustified are delusional. Communication takes community. Communication takes trust. Rather than be offended that the trust isn't there, what would be helpful is to question the bigger picture. Why would someone hesitate to trust, just in general? Is there a pattern of failed trusts? Have you, intentionally or not, betrayed a trust already?

The woman in the quote above, claiming that the lack of trust was not her problem, was not worthy of trust.

(page 411) “I say, ‘We don’t know you; we don’t want to talk to you.’ Put barbed wire up between me and the intrusive hand that fondles, that rips, that pats and then slaps. Wrap my body in barbed wire when I go out in public, unwind it at night to be with my lover, both of us drinking to numb the pain that tracks across our arms, our breasts, our thighs. When we fight, sometimes she mocks me. ‘You are so queer.’ I wonder what kind of woman I would be past these boundaries. Maybe someone naked in a silk robe. The contours of my body shift as fluid as the fabric, skin flexible as silk. How much of a man would I be, how much of a woman? Who would I lie naked with, slipping off the robe of my skin?”

I wear air. I wear aloofness. I wear broken glass. I wear the promise of not putting up with it.

I don't want to be approached or talked to most of the time, especially when I'm in the midst of my customer service job.

And when I'm out enjoying myself, it doesn't necessarily mean I want to talk to random people, especially men. It's my choice if I respond to you, and I may very well not.

But when I do want to be approached, I wear velvet. But it's not always the same velvet. Sometimes it's thick and heavy, reinforced with bone. Sometimes its clingy and warm. Sometimes it wraps around you and pulls you closer. Sometimes it pushes you away.

Telling My Stories

Responding to “A Year of Living Dangerously: 1968” by Dana Densmore

(page 79) “My faith was in finding a way of telling the truth so accurately, in ways so consonant with people’s own experiences, that the person herself had to acknowledge it: something in her soul would turn with gladness to what was its own.”

My happiness seems to be spiraling away from me, out of my hands, out of my reach. I never wore happiness comfortably to begin with; I have more experience with depression. When I started writing, I had faith in my ability to cope with my memories and the emotions I had kept at arm's length so long. Instead, I feel that I am losing or have lost everything.

I started taking a drug to help with depression, moodiness, and anorexia, but it didn't work. My inner journey has indeed helped me gain my bearings in controlling my response to the decay of my world, but I never had control over the interlocking relationships that made up my world to begin with.

This weekend I resolved to let go of the conflicts of others, for all attempts at building a bridge of understanding have either backfired or been undermined. I can only tell my own stories, not those of others.

I have lost so much, and I am convinced that I am not done losing.

And I've begun to wonder what I should put my faith in.

Frustration

Today, I am sprinkling some of Sark's thoughts among mine.

Today, as I have been for some time now, I am frustrated. The men in my life are not getting along, and I have been doing what I can to hold things together. It's not in my power.

(page 53) “Explore healing options. If you feel unloved, look to yourself for love. Whatever the issues are, ultimately self-love and acceptance are the answers.
“We all have tiny, mis-shapen parts of ourselves that we hide away and don’t love. Turn towards those parts and cradle them.”

Perhaps it is passive-aggressive that I write this. Perhaps it is cruel. Perhaps the fallout will be harsh.

(page 90) “Nobody tells us as little girls that we may fall in love and have moments of hating our beloved, or have ridiculous arguments at 2 am over something neither person understands.
“My friend John calls it, ‘the nuance of annoyance.’ After you’ve been with someone for awhile, all the tiny and large things they do that annoy you, come forward.
“We are not taught something I call ‘intimate negotiations.’ It involves adjustment, compromise, integrity, truthtelling, options, willingness, and heart-full listening.”

But I am at the end of my rope, and my only option now is to let go. I can't keep holding on. It's not helping anyone that I am, least of all me.

What does letting go mean? Like most other meaningful questions of late: I don't know.

My counselor tells me that the only true thing we can control in this world, and even that only in degrees sometimes, is how we respond. The way we feel, to a degree, is a choice. My choice not to be numb, to seek help in navigating my memories and feelings, has led to depression. I have chosen to fight, and the fight is mostly in fancy.

This week I started out unable to visualize, to seeing that I was washed away at sea, to finding a boat, and then oars. And now I'm in the stuff of dreams: an emotional forest. I have seen both images of Shrek, where Fiona takes on bandits, and Snow White, where when she's calm, all the forest is her friend, but when she's scared, the forest is instead her enemy.

And I don't want the forest to be my enemy, so I'm watching closely.

(page 83) “Creative exploration will always result in mistakes, and if we fear those, we risk paralysis and a numb ‘good girl’ mentality.”

I let go of my rope, and I continue to explore. Where that will lead me, I don't know. I did realize that I wasn't dangling from the rope, poised to fall. Instead, I am deeper in my emotional landscape than the rope allowed.

I'll figure it out eventually.

In the Forest

Today I'm exploring Starhawk's The Spiral Dance.

(page 32) “All began in love; all seeks to return to love. Love is the law, the teacher of wisdom, and the great revealer of mysteries.”

Today I am once again journeying through my emotional landscape. It's quite big, and I'm beginning to think Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself" could also be an appropriate frame.

Today I am walking through the forest. I started out on a tiny beach, out of the rough seas at last. I think I'm on a peninsula, that this will eventually lead back to my castle, but I'm not completely sure.

All I know is that I'm scared to traverse the forest. When I chose to explore my forest today, my stomach tightened into a knot, and I knew suddenly that my nightmares form there. And then I thought that that was silly, because I usually enjoy my nightmares. My nightmares rarely scare me.

But I'm scared of the forest. I realized that I should take as many of me as I could. The first ones forwards were wearing white and yellow. Yellow? Is yellow fear or jealousy? I'm not sure yet. And then royal blue, deep emerald green, fuchsia, royal purple, and black and gray stepped forward.

We've been walking, and it reminds me of the forest Fiona and Shrek wandered, but I also know that the forests of Snow White will be there too. And with so many mes, I'm not afraid anymore. Mint green and pale pink have also shown up, and now orange.

(page 24) “The image of the Goddess inspires women to see ourselves as divine, our bodies as sacred, the changing phases of our lives as holy, our aggression as healthy, our anger as purifying, and our power to nurture and create, but also to limit and destroy when necessary, as the very source that sustains all life—we can move beyond narrow, constricting roles and become whole.”

I'm worried, not about the forest, but about facing it alone. I'm glad I have me for company.

And I'm not sure exactly what the forest signifies. I've realized that it is a sacred place, that it can turn into a maze, that it can be nurturing but also destructive. That I could become lost in the shadows and the brush, and the close-growing trees. And so many varieties of trees there are!

I like my forest, but I haven't yet learned its secrets.

On a Rowboat

Responding to: “An Old Enemy in a New Outfit: How Date Rape Became Gray Rape and Why it Matters” by Lisa Jervis.

Today is a better day than yesterday, and so I'm tackling a memory I've not wanted to tackle. But in the rough seas of my emotions, today I remembered to imagine a rowboat, and then I realized I needed oars, and the Room of Requirement in my soul provided them. Some people would believe that I have called out to a higher power, but whose metaphor is it? I've caught a glimpse of land, and I just have to make my way there. Yesterday it was all I could do to tread water, and all I saw was darkness.

(page 163) [Gray rape is] “…a disgusting, destructive, victim blaming cultural construct that encourages women to hate ourselves, doubt ourselves, blame ourselves, take responsibility for other people’s criminal behavior, fear our own desires, and distrust our own instincts.”

Once upon a time in my late teens/early twenties, I read an essay that described the trauma of another teen girl who had frozen up and not resisted the advances of some boy. She appealed to an older woman, asking for understanding that the girl had been raped, that the memories were crushing her, and the older woman said "you raped yourself."

(page 166) “This is how the language of ‘gray rape’ accelerates the victim-blaming cycle. The very concept the phrase relies on—that a supposed gray area of communication or intoxications means that you cannot trust your own memories, instincts, or experiences—is designed to exploit the stigma and fear that fuel the guilt, shame, and denial.”

And while I was reeling, trying to understand what had happened between me and JRS, I started wondering if I too had raped myself. Could it all have been some huge, almost cultural, misunderstanding? Was it only rape in my own mind, and I the perpetrator? And, because of that essay and the comments of a few others, that's what I chalked it up to: my failing.

(page 164) “…everything about so-called gray rape seems awfully familiar: The experience is confusing, makes victims feel guilty and ashamed, and leaves them thinking they could and should have done something differently to prevent the attack.”

Part of my misunderstanding is that I had enjoyed kissing and fondling with JRS before he bulldozed me into sex--sex I wasn't ready for, sex I didn't want.

(page 169) “But here’s the thing: flirting and hook-ups do not cause rape. Rapists and the culture that creates them—with its mixed messages and double standards—cause rape.”

It took more than a year to come to terms with my experience and to move past it. I buried the experience, never quite satisfied with it. I had an easier time recognizing what MZ did as rape. After all, I said no over and over and over with him. He just didn't listen.

(page 164) “…any therapist, sexual assault counselor, rape survivor, or close friend or family member of a rape survivor knows that feelings of guilt, shame, self-blame, and denial are common almost to the point of inevitability, no matter what the circumstances of the crime.”

But I didn't resist with JRS. How could it be rape? At least, that's what I thought at the time.

(page 165) “When the culture teaches you that lack of consent is measured only in active, physical resistance, when your actions are questioned if your date refuses to respect ‘no,’ you’re going to have a hard time calling rape by its real name.”

I've unburied those memories, and I am ashamed that I blamed myself. I betrayed myself in framing JRS as a colossal misunderstanding. It was JRS who refused to pull his head out of his ass and recognize that something was horribly wrong--that I was not willing, that I was not cooperating, that I was just enduring, that I was frozen, that his attention was not welcome.

(page 166) “Despite gray rape proponents’ eagerness to use their phenomenon to shift responsibility from rapists to victims, the fact remains that the reluctance in question is a symptom of the very social disease—sexism, misogyny, men’s entitlement to women’s bodies, and the idea that sexual interaction involves women’s guarding the gates to the land of the sexual goodies as men try to cajole, manipulate, and force their way in—that enables rape in the first place.”

JRS raped me. I did not rape myself.

And I've filed that essay into the "WTF? Lies people say to enable rapists" drawer in my head.

Guilt

Today I feel like concentrating on another Osho Zen Tarot card: Guilt.

Guilt: “We all long to be better people—more loving, more aware, more true to ourselves. But when we punish ourselves for our failures by feeling guilty, we can get locked into a cycle of despair and hopelessness that robs us of all clarity about ourselves and the situations we encounter.”

I have a tendency towards guilt. Guilt can be a blight for joy.

I enjoy sex, but when I feel guilt about sex, it feels less wholesome. Sex is not healing when it has guilt in the mix. When I'm immersed in guilt, I want sex less.

I want sex that feels like my soul is flying, a butterfly. I want sex that makes me forget my name, forget anything but skin on skin, heat, passion. I want sex that makes me feel glorious, powerful, radiant. And guilt will block it all.

Whenever I worry that my marriage or my lover's marriage has hit a rough patch, whenever I worry whether I'm paying enough or not enough or too much attention to one person and not enough or too much to another, then I feel guilty.

Right now, I am wrapped up in guilt, not just over my sex life, but as to whether I'm a good enough parent, whether I'm providing enough or doing enough for my family, whether I'm selfish--that word such a trap for good girls like me.

Part of me wants to be quite matter-of-fact and open about the depression I'm mired in, another part thinks that it'll be too much hassle, another part thinks I shouldn't make people uncomfortable by being open.

And yet I'm not willing to tiptoe through life so as not make others uncomfortable. If my depression is too much for the masses, then the masses give themselves only false comfort.

I guess I need to figure out what I can and what I cannot live with. And also what I can and cannot live without.

I'm tired of feeling guilty. And I'm working to find a new way.

Daily Routines

Responding to "What Feminism Means to Me" by Vivian Gornick.

Of late, I've been trying to be content with what I have, with my family, with my home, with my friends, with my husband. I've been searching for meaning in my daily routines, as depression pours down on me.

Sadly, I think my mother's brother's death was the last straw that led me back on the path of major depression.

Happily, I am ready to deconstruct and heal myself from the inside out.

(page 372) "It remains one of life's great mysteries--in politics as well as in love--readiness: that moment when the elements are sufficiently fused to galvanize inner change. If you are one who responds to the moment you can never really explain, you can only describe what it felt like."

There are many fronts on which I am looking for peace. I am looking for peace within me, to accept who I am (who I've always been, but buried because others may not like me), to accept the partnership and relationship between me and my husband, to not overwhelm my children with my persnickety demands, to have friendships that aren't dependent upon my being happy.

And I know somehow that happiness can't be more than a side effect of my inner journey: to make it the point is like making orgasm the point of sex, dooming yourself to failure.

My journey has to be about reintegrating the rainbow of mes wandering around inside my inner landscape and learning how to navigate my world.

(page 375) "I understood that I would have to face alone the very thing my politics had been preparing me for all along. I saw what visionary feminists had seen for two hundred years: the power over one's own life comes only through the steady command of one's own thought."

My happiness can't come from without. It has to come from within. I have to chase away the doubts, the resentments, the loneliness, the fear, all the emotions that could block me from happiness, and I have to do that constantly (or, more accurate, recognize the negative emotion, study where it's coming from, and find a way to calm it). No one else can do it for me, it's as ridiculous as asking someone to go to the bathroom for you.

(page 376) "The daily effort became a kind of connection for me. The sense of connection was strengthening. Strength began to make me feel independent. Independence allowed me to think. When I thought, I was less alone. I had myself for company. I had myself, period. I felt the power of renewed wisdom."

Earlier this school year, I felt lonely on the mornings when it was just me and the baby. Lately, as I've stated before, I've taken a Zen approach to some of the daily chores, especially laundry, and doing the chores, blogging, and thinking have all helped me overcome the despair I might find when lonely. My contentment with being alone in turn makes it easier to spend time with others. I no longer depend on them to stop my loneliness. Because I don't expect them to rescue me from myself, I can appreciate others more for who they are.

(page 376) "...life is an endlessness of 'remembering' what I already knew."

I have already overcome depression, because my depression came in cycles throughout my life. I know I will heal. I know I will overcome this again. I just need to remember how. I'm on my way.

There is another thing I know, that makes this depression different. I have not had the suicide ideation and urges that came with my previous depressions. I am not plotting the death of anyone close to me either. I knew (somewhere, somehow) that I didn't have to go down that path. I remembered not to take it.

On Self-Respect

Responding to "A Year of Living Dangerously: 1968" by Dana Densmore.

I've been exploring the reaches of my mind and emotions, rethinking limits, and doing my best to love and respect myself. Unless I'm able to love and respect myself, I won't be able to love and respect anyone else.

(page 83) "As I saw then, and still do, the thing we want as women is full humanity, not male privileges and female privileges. And it has always seemed to me... that full humanity is about deciding what one wants for oneself out of life, and then working to make one's choices a reality. Until we are fully self-respecting, how can we really demand respect from others?... But no one, male or female, will be likely to truly respect anyone who does not respect herself. Hence I thought we must learn to respect ourselves by giving up passivity, by resisting the stunting and crushing of our wills and aspirations, by taking action and taking risks, by rejecting excuses about the barriers to women, substituting a determination to know down, climb over, or slip around any obstacles.... living dangerously."

And I am indeed living dangerously at the moment. As I struggle to keep myself afloat amid the chaos of depression, as I struggle with reconciling and rethinking and reopening old wounds and hurts, as I struggle to be at peace with who I am rather than the idealized version of me that I wish to be, I find myself unable or perhaps unwilling to reach out to anyone else. So I risk losing relationships that are important to me, because I am rebuilding myself.

Sometimes it may seem like I don't care. It's far more complicated than that. I can't really explain myself at all on this point, just trust that I do care, whether I show it or not.

And as I progress through renewing myself, I have an obligation to stop unhealthy patterns that I unconsciously repeat with my children. My children rely on me to model how to interact with the world, and I need to remember that.

I'm not done responding to Dana Densmore's essay. This is just the beginning. This is just one piece. There is so much more to explore, but I'm not ready yet.

But I'm sure she'd appreciate that I have begun.

Depression and Me

Responding to "Mental Illness: The Stigma of Silence" by Glenn Close.

I didn't originally plan to talk about mental illness in this blog, but to not do so is to silence a piece of me. I have struggled with depression off and on for the vast majority of my life. My mother was the first to tell me that depression runs in my family, that her mother suffered, that her brother committed suicide, that her sister had trouble participating in life. And yet, when she discovered that I too struggle from it, her first response was to silence me: what would people think? Oh, the stigma.

I really don't care what people think. I came out to my friends and a couple professors as depressed, and while a few stated that they thought differently of me because of that, they didn't stop being my friend.

"What mental health needs is more sunlight, more candor, more unashamed conversation about illnesses that affect not only individuals, but their families as well. Our society ought to understand that many people with mental illness, given the right treatment, can be full participants in our society."

When I have difficulty functioning, I rely more on my husband and children to pick up the slack. I have sought treatment to stabilize my moods, which clears my thinking (it gets foggy, and I have difficulty thinking things through), and gives me the energy to survive.

This is a process. I don't know how I managed to convince myself that I could explore the reaches of my psyche without once again unleashing depression, how I could possibly talk about the experiences of my life without discussing depression.

Depression is part of me. But it doesn't have to define me. I don't have to let it hinder me.

Turning Rainbows Into Tie-Dye

Today I'm wandering my psyche and quoting Sark.

(page 54) “Sometimes we are stuck in a maze of our own making and could use a helping hand.”

Last night I was at work when depression caught up with me. Nothing and Everything flooded me in a deluge of emotion like bricks, and I was miserable. I haven't felt that down in over a decade, right before my last suicide attempt. It was awful.

I'm still not sure what exactly triggered it. I thought that when I went home I'd either wake up my husband and cry, or that I'd call a suicide hotline.

(page 36) “Women’s hearts are big enough to bear the pain, peer into the dark, and do the work.
“We are led into darkness anyway by events of life: death, loss, and pain. We cannot pretend that we don’t live with the darkness, or smile it away or think somehow we will escape.
“There is no need to escape!”

Somehow last night I was able to turn in all around all by myself. I grabbed back the reins of my mood, remembering my counselor responding to my description of my emotional landscape, that I was able to save myself. So I did.

I started wondering what color my misery was. I wondered if it was blue. And I wondered what color my anger was, and I got angry. I dug myself out of the wet bricks with anger. And I let anger fuel me into purpose. I did my job with purpose, focusing on getting everything done that I needed done.

After a storm, there is often a rainbow, if you look away from the sun. I looked for the rainbow, and then I used that to make tie-dye banners to decorate the castle of my soul.

I also stayed up even later than I intended, talking about what happened with my husband, who loves me enough to talk about Everything and Nothing even though he had to get up in a couple of hours.

I am in a more peaceful place today, but very tired.

Intersections

Today I am reflecting on portions of "Coming of Age: Civil Rights and Feminism" by Barbara Emerson in The Feminist Memoir Project: Voice From Women's Liberation (edited by Rachel Blau DuPlessis and Ann Snitow).

(page 69) [Anita Snow:] "The radical feminists that I knew and worked with in the seventies were all professed antiracists, and as I said, many of us were inspired by experiences in the Civil Rights Movement. So if you would have said to us back then, this women's movement you are building is a white movement, we would have been very defensive about that."
[Barbara Emerson:] "What is wrong with it being a white movement, if by that we mean that it was addressing the needs of white women? Now, what would be wrong would be for white women's movements to deny that women of color have different needs, and to deny sisterhood thats necessary for all of us to address the problems of women."

This blog is about my experiences, my thoughts, and my desires. It comes from my experiences and privilege as a White woman in the USA.

I've come to the realization that I am uncomfortable taking from and commenting on essays by people of color (POC on many blogs), because I feel that I am somehow minimizing the difficulties that women of color especially have that I am not subject to. But I don't want to shy away from anyone who has something to teach me.

I realized as a teen that I am racist. I'm no longer a teen. I'm not naive and privileged enough to claim that I'm not racist.

I grew up hearing racist slurs against Hispanics, Blacks, East Indians, and Asians (I separate the two from recognition of cultural differences). I don't repeat the slurs, and I've refused to teach them to my children.

Despite the racism inherent in my upbringing, I value my friendships with Hispanic, Black, East Indian, and Asian people. I learned about many different cultures and religions growing up, and feel that that knowledge is a gift. When 9/11 happened and Arab American and Muslims in particular were demonized, it was shocking to me. How could anyone be that ignorant to be scared of someone because of the color of their skin or their religion?

But here I am, admitting that I am racist. My attempts at educating other Whites about racism are born from educating myself. My intolerance of racism in others stems from not tolerating the racist thoughts that occasionally cross my mind.

I consider myself a womanist ally, as I cannot and will not steal the label womanist for myself. Womanism grew from the racism inherent in mainstream feminism.

As I explore essays and writings by women of color, I hope that I am able to overcome my privilege and not say stupidly racist things. I will be taking from the writings that which speaks to me, applies also to my life, or things that maybe I've never thought of before and that I wish to mull over. I hope I'm not offensive in my responses, but acknowledge the possibility that I may end up being unintentionally offensive anyway.

If I do end up being offensively racist, please let me know. I recognize I'll never be done learning.

What Is Normal?

Responding to the song "What Do You Hear In These Sounds?" by Dar Williams.

"I had this wall and what I knew of the free world
Was that I could see their fireworks
And I could hear their radio
And I thought that if we met, I would only start confessing
And they’d know that I was scared
They would know that I was guessing
But the wall came down and there they stood before me
With their stumbling and their mumbling
And their calling out just like me..."

This is my confession: I am scared and guessing and trying to keep my head afloat in a storm of emotions that I don't know how to handle beyond pretending they're not there.

I worry that I'm not good enough and never will be.

I worry that I'm not normal, that I'm scary-strange, that there's something wrong with me.

And I wonder if my worries are normal, then does that mean that what's wrong is in fact something about the culture/society that I live in?

I've finally noticed that I am depressed, and that I am not the only one in pain. I don't know if what works for me will work for anyone else. I'm not even sure what works for me.

After years of false starts and struggling with the decision, I am in counseling with a therapist that I feel I can trust.

And in talking about my problems, I can see that I'm not the only one with them.

I've also realized that I'm not going down this path searching for happiness. I'm aiming to stop being miserable. I'm sure I'll realize that I'm happy somewhere along the way.

Zen Minded

Responding to “An Immodest Proposal” by Heather Corinna.

(page 183) “This is a world where women still frequently are not asked for consent, are often raped or coerced, still engage in sex with partners out of feelings of duty or obligation, usually have our sexuality depicted in grossly inaccurate ways by men and other women alike, and independent female sexual desire and earnest sexual enjoyment are not only disbelieved, in some circles, but are even ‘scientifically’ contested.”

According to some scientists, the orgasms I have should come from clitoral stimulation rather than penetration, while other scientists would say that penetrative orgasms are the only true orgasms out there. Happily, enough real science has been done to recognize that there are trends, rather than absolutes, for what brings women to orgasm. Truth is, I'm not particularly fond of clitoral stimulation, though it generally feels better when I'm already rather aroused. If I'm not aroused enough, it's just an irritation.

The attitude that women get pleasure through a set script of movements while women who have a different route to pleasure (like enjoying threesomes) are aberrant is one of the reasons I remain anonymous. I don't want to be labeled a slut.

I'm contemplating expectations and their impact on my life right now. Some of my happiest moments have been when I've felt I've failed completely and it no longer mattered what anyone else's expectations may be. I relaxed and allowed myself to pursue my own desires. I don't have sex out of duty or obligation, because it isn't worthwhile. Have I ever had sex because it seemed expected? Yes. I'm an absolute failure at pretending to enjoy it.

(page 185) “In Zen Buddhism, we aim for beginner’s mind, a way of thinking in which we approach all we can with the freshest eyes and few preconceived notions. The unknown can make us fearful, but the opportunity to have an unknown, to be able to approach something completely anew, is a gift.”

I've recently decided to attempt a more Zen approach to life, though I worry that it will keep me complacent, accepting too much. I'm trying to be more content with whatever I'm doing, staying in the now. I also worry that it will make me dissatisfied, unable to stay content in the moment and wanting more to be an activist for things that I might be able to change. I'm not sure yet, but I think it's just nerves about trying something new.

Truthfully, I could be getting a Taoist and a Zen approach confused, as I have formal training in neither.

I've mostly succeeded in Zen laundry this week. The process of laundry is an unending chore, and I can't escape it. I could refuse to do it, but not having clean clothes to wear is just frustrating. Relying on others to do laundry for me hasn't worked, so I needed to step up and do it myself. I can't change it, so I've got to adapt to it.

Now my laundry frustration is once again solely the mismanagement of putting clean clothes away by my children. I hope I can continue in my acceptance of laundry, rather than getting involved in whatever else I may want to do at that moment, which just leads to resentment.

I suppose that I'm trying to be more conscious of what I can and cannot change, and refusing to expend energy fighting that which simply is not going to change, that I do not have the power to change. For example, I can't change anyone else. I can lead by example, changing myself. I can attempt to persuade others through the power of my words, building a bridge of commonality and hopefully getting them to question their own assumptions. But ultimately all I have power over is me.

All In the Head

Responding to Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by JK Rowling

(page 723) “’Tell me one last thing,’ said Harry. ‘Is this real? Or has this been happening inside my head?’
“Dumbledore beamed at him, and his voice sounded loud and strong in Harry’s ears even though the bright mist was descending again, obscuring his figure.
“’Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?”

Right now I'm on medication for depression because of all the hurt I feel and have felt for much of my life. I'm in counseling because I am reliving and rehashing bad memories. Perhaps not too surprisingly, as I go through this journey or process, I'm having a difficult time keeping my relationships in positive places.

As I try to re-imagine my psyche into a healthier, less pain-filled place, I have a some wonderful imagery, often borrowed from pop culture. One of the images that recur in my head is that of Raven on Teen Titans, the episode where Beast Boy and Cyborg get lost in her head and meet a rainbow of Ravens. I too have a rainbow of Anons walking about in my head. I'm not sure what color I am manifesting at the moment.

Healing the emotions is hard work. My meditation/thought of the week is to not worry about good or bad, and to focus on being. And I'm also supposed to buy myself some clay to create with.

In the meantime, I'm still on my laundry from a Zen approach project. It never ends.

Rape Culture and Me

I have wondered frequently enough over the years why I didn't fight harder when MZ raped me, when JRS raped me, when JD emotionally abused me. What was wrong with me?

But after all these years, I've finally realized that there was nothing wrong with me. There's something wrong with our world.

Today I added a post from a blog to my links section, Rape Culture 101. It's a description of rape culture.

I'm also responding to Another Post About Rape #3.

"The way men and women interact on a daily basis is the way they interact when rape occurs. The social dynamics we see at play between men and women are the same social dynamics that cause men to feel rape is okay, and women to feel they have no right to object. And if you accept those social interactions as normal and appropriate in your day to day life, there is absolutely no reason you should be shocked that rape occurs without screaming, without fighting, without bruising, without provocation, and without prosecution. Behavior exists on a continuum. Rape doesn’t inhabit its own little corner of the world, where everything is suddenly all different now. The behavior you accept today is the behavior that becomes rape tomorrow. And you very well might accept it then, too."

Growing up, I was a Good Girl. I tried so hard to be a perfect daughter, the smart and athletic and involved girl. I was respectful. I didn't talk back. I didn't get into fights. I didn't embarrass my family by my bad behavior. I didn't curse. I didn't sneak out at night (no, actually, I lied about volunteering an extra hour or so at a car wash...). I didn't smoke. I didn't drink. I never did drugs. I behaved.

And I most certainly did not talk about things that would bring shame to my family. I didn't talk about the incestuous molestation I endured. I didn't talk about the depression that was slowly choking the life out of me. I was GOOD!

When I was 17, I set my sights on JD, who was a decade older than me. He worked at the mall, and I saw him there often. He was charming. I ended up at the mall on my 18th birthday, legal at last, and pursued him. We flirted lots, ended up having sex, and he taught me a few things. The sex was good. His behavior wasn't. He broke up with me whenever I offended him, and told me I was a foolish child who didn't know what she was doing. So I tried to learn how to act to please him, because that's what I did. Pleased others.

A BAD GIRL I befriended saw what was happening, saw how I was being taken advantage of, heard the abuse and control, knew how it could end, and rescued me. She started a verbal altercation in the mall and he snapped. He scared the shit out of me. I never went back.

And it could have so easily back-fired, had she been wrong. I would never have spoken to her again.

I ended up taking a creative writing class with his ex-girlfriend. He'd hit her before she got out. That could have been me.

But a bad girl rescued me.

JRS took advantage of my lack of fight at that time too, as I was reeling from the realization that my "boyfriend" was an abusive creep.

And then there was MZ. He flirted with me, always showing a protective face. He wanted to protect me from the world. He would come around and make sure the boys hitting on me in the boy-friendly shop where I worked in the mall were behaving themselves. He even told a guy that was having trouble respecting my decision not to meet him after work that I wasn't interested.

And so I thought I owed him the appreciation of going out on a date with him. He repaid me by raping me. But I was a good girl and I owed him my appreciation for his protecting me. Maybe he just couldn't control himself or something, because I led him on? What was wrong with me that he didn't understand that I said no?

What was wrong with me?

Really, the only thing wrong with me besides crippling depression was that I didn't know how to protect myself when there wasn't a threat of violence.

I was taught to be a good (and passive) girl.

Conflicts

I have been dealing with mood issues since starting this journey down memory lane. The rage it has uncovered surprised me, and I started having depression symptoms as well. I started fighting with pretty much everyone, and when I've tried not to fight, I've dissociated instead. I'm in counseling and have now started on an anti-depressant. I know this takes time, and that I just need a little patience. Healing isn't always easy.

I've also recognized that when I'm angry, I don't always take well to conflict or disagreements, and I tend to be much more defensive.

Because I don't want my anger to permanently affect my relationships with those I love, I am doing my best to figure out a constructive way to deal with it without just shutting off. This post about a community web site's posting rules for disagreements has helped me understand my own thoughts about disagreements with those I love and care about.

"maybe the staying and struggling seem so impossible because we havent agreed upon how we will talk to each other. how we will argue. how we will make decisions."

My husband and I have different approaches to arguing. He wants to deal with the hurt immediately so it doesn't boil over in him. I want a cool down period so that I won't boil over in the heat of the moment. Three days is about what it usually takes for me, and then I'm ready to talk about things rationally. It's difficult to reconcile those time frames.

But my avoidance of talking while angry leads to uncertainty and tension in my relationships with my best friend and my lover, which then just extends the hurt feelings that I was trying to avoid anyway because I didn't want to lash out while angry.

And then there's the question of whether to talk or to write. My thoughts seem easier to manage in writing, as I tend to blank on words or combine two words into one when I try to speak while angry, but when I write, I can't always tell if the reader will understand what I'm trying to say. I can, and often do, edit my written words. It's difficult to do that when speaking. This may actually be the easiest challenge to overcome. I can always write it down and then read it out loud, which I never think to do.

I think I should bring this up to my counselor, and see if she has any suggestions.

The pit of rage I discovered surprised me. Now I need to learn to deal with it.

Meditations Towards Happiness

I've begun to read Succulent Wild Woman: Dancing With Your Wonder-Full Self! by Sark. It's actually a bit fluffy for me, but I need a pick-me-up. I've been mired in depression for weeks, and I've lost my perkiness.

(page 14) "It isn't easy for any of us to transcend the past, or pain we might have suffered. Yet, there are gifts in those pains, and we can choose to let light into the dark places. We are not alone!"

The whole point of this blog and of seeking therapy was to shine light into the dark places of my memory, the dark unexposed parts of my soul. And it's harder than I thought it would be. The pains feel almost fresh, and some of them have been ripening for a long time.

(page 10) "My own journey is full of fear, pain, love, shame, wonder, ecstasy, luck, daring, and marvelous imperfections."

I took a journey through my psyche and found a series of me trapped in an MC Escher drawing, climbing a ring of stairs only to find myself once again on the bottom. How can I go up and up but never get anywhere? So I took drastic action in my mind, and bent and tore that picture open. At first there was only a void in the opening created by ripping the picture, but then it filled with a flight of butterflies. I don't know what the butterflies hide, but I'm not scared to find out anymore.

(page 11) "I invite you to travel along with me as I share my stumblings, astonishments, and discoveries as a woman."

I invited a handful of friends to travel with me through this. I hope we all survive the journey, because it's already proven to be a painful one for me. While I try to spare everyone the full force of my anger, the rage that this journey has revealed in me, I have been unable to fully shield everyone. I have already hurt feelings while trying to just keep myself together. I'm sure I'll hurt more. The journey isn't going to be comfortable all of the time, that's just the way healing is. Sometimes the wounds have to be reopened, cleaned, and then scored so that the edges can bleed together and reknit. And that means pain.

(page 13) "I guess I look bright and untroubled, and I smile a lot, which is sometimes a mask to hide shyness, fear, or pain."

I learned to mask myself with a smile a long, long time ago. I was not allowed to show my pain as a child. After all, I was a white, middle-class girl from a respectable family, and dammit if I was unhappy then I should just count my blessings and stop feeling sorry for myself. After all, what would the neighbors think?

And the whole time I was living with the person who molested me, whom my parents refused to believe did so. I was forced to eat dinner sitting right next to him, which was actually probably better than across from him, having to look at him while I ate. I could instead imagine an invisible forcefield between us, so he couldn't pollute my space. I would push his chair as far away from mine as possible, and do my best never to have him in my field of vision, though I couldn't stop smelling him. Ick.

Even now I hide behind a smile most of the time, and it can be shocking for people when they realize that my smiles sometimes have tone, and not happy ones at that. I can be aggressively perky when I'm annoyed or angry, my smile more a baring of teeth and my enthusiasm little more than a snarl. My smiles can be anxious or scared or panicked while I do my best to keep myself calm and in control.

(page 13) "I do not know more than you do. My investigations have shown that we frequently think others know IT but we don't know IT.
"What is IT?"

I don't know what IT is, but I'm looking to be a more content, more calm, more connected person. In some ways, I'm looking to be more Zen about things. I'm looking to be a healed, healthy, whole person whose mind doesn't have chasms. I'm looking to stop being numb all the time. I want love, peace, and happiness. I don't know how to be happy on a regular basis.

According to Sark, I'm looking to be a more succulent woman.

(page 5) "Succulent: Ripe. Juicy. Whole. Round. Exuberant. Wild. Rich. Wide. Deep. Firm. Rare. Female."

I'm not sure what it all means yet.

Reconnecting

I'm back to blogging, hopefully on a near-daily basis. I need the creative urge, which has been sorely lacking this past month as all the negatives overwhelmed me.

Today I'm responding to a post from kateharding.net about approaching women.

"Human connection, love, romance: there is nothing wrong with these yearnings."

It is human to want connection, love, and sometimes romance. But even when I desire love and/or romance, I don't want that with just anyone. It has to be with someone of MY choosing. Sometimes I may want a conversation with a person who doesn't trigger my creep alarm, but that doesn't mean that I want physical closeness. And even if I want physical closeness, that doesn't always mean that I want sex.

And sometimes I just want to be left alone.

"Those women do not want to be approached, no matter how nice you are or how much you’d like to date them. Okay? That’s their right. Don’t get pissy about it."

If I'm not receptive to being approached, and you take it personally, I will forever more consider you a jerk that I don't want to know. Because you're acting like a jerk. I don't care if you're hot, if you volunteer for a feminist organization, or whatever makes you believe that you're all that. When you get mad because I don't want company, then you've blown it.

"Because a man who ignores a woman’s NO in a non-sexual setting is more likely to ignore NO in a sexual setting, as well."

When I say no, it should be respected. I should not have to apologize for saying no, and if you feel that I should, then you are marking yourself as threatening. You are revealing yourself as someone I cannot trust to respect my boundaries or me.

In relationships, there is always some give and take, and depending upon the levels of trust and commitment, we can discuss or negotiate boundaries. But that is in an established relationship built upon shared trust, reciprocity, and respect.

Only through time and effort can you demonstrate that you are someone who will never rape me, which is my requirement for sharing my body. If I don't trust that you will never rape me, then I will not engage with you sexually.

"Don’t rape. Nor should you commit these similar but less severe offenses: don’t assault. Don’t grope. Don’t constrain. Don’t brandish. Don’t expose yourself. Don’t threaten with physical violence. Don’t threaten with sexual violence.
"Shouldn’t this go without saying? Of course it should. Sadly, that’s not the world I live in. You may be beginning to realize that it’s not the world you live in, either"

Because sadly, too many people do not recognize that we live in a culture that condones rape. So now it's time for a re-posting of the "Don't Rape" list that pops up from time to time around the Web.

A reminder, both men and women can rape, and both men and women can be victims of a rapist. This is written about not raping women, but it applies to everyone.

A lot has been said about how to prevent rape.

Women should learn self-defense.
Women should lock themselves in their houses after dark.
Women shouldn’t have long hair and women shouldn’t wear short skirts.
Women shouldn’t leave drinks unattended.
Fuck, they shouldn’t dare to get drunk at all.

Instead of that bullshit, how about:

If a woman is drunk, don’t rape her.
If a woman is walking alone at night, don’t rape her.
If a women is drugged and unconscious, don’t rape her.
If a woman is wearing a short skirt, don’t rape her.
If a woman is jogging in a park at 5 am, don’t rape her.
If a woman looks like your ex-girlfriend you’re still hung up on, don’t rape her.
If a woman is asleep in her bed, don’t rape her.
If a woman is asleep in your bed, don’t rape her.
If a woman is doing her laundry, don’t rape her.
If a woman is in a coma, don’t rape her.
If a woman changes her mind in the middle of or about a particular activity, don’t rape her.
If a woman has repeatedly refused a certain activity, don’t rape her.
If a woman is not yet a woman, but a child, don’t rape her.
If your girlfriend or wife is not in the mood, don’t rape her.
If your step-daughter is watching TV, don’t rape her.
If you break into a house and find a woman there, don’t rape her.
If your friend thinks it’s okay to rape someone, tell him it’s not, and that he’s not your friend.
If your “friend” tells you he raped someone, report him to the police.
If your frat-brother or another guy at the party tells you there’s an unconscious woman upstairs and it’s your turn, don’t rape her, call the police and tell the guy he’s a rapist.
Tell your sons, god-sons, nephews, grandsons, sons of friends it’s not okay to rape someone.
Don’t tell your women friends how to be safe and avoid rape.
Don’t imply that she could have avoided it if she’d only done/not done x.
Don’t imply that it’s in any way her fault.
Don’t let silence imply agreement when someone tells you he “got some” with the drunk girl.
Don’t perpetuate a culture that tells you that you have no control over or responsibility for your actions. You can, too, help yourself.

If you agree, re-post it. It’s that important.

Fantasy

Responding to "The Fantasy of Acceptable 'Non-Consent': Why the Female Sexual Submissive Scares Us (and Why She Shouldn't)" by Stacey May Fowles.

Last night I found myself unable to sleep because of a rather vivid sexual fantasy I couldn't stop thinking about. The kind of fantasy I had is considered a rape fantasy by the mainstream lexicon. It came complete with a safe word.

My fantasy involved my partner(s) trespassing boundaries that I normally hold as unbreakable, and doing so in a forceful manner. I may even ask for my fantasy to become true someday. Who knows? The vulnerability and trust required are enormous.

I even recognize that my fantasy may have more to do about destroying certain memories, but that's less important than the pleasure I hope to receive.

I would say that my fantasy is tiptoeing into the world of BDSM.

(page 121) "For BDSM to exist safely, it has to be founded on a constant proclamation of enthusiastic consent, which mainstream sexuality has systematically dismantled."

Something I've just recognized, more by accident than anything, is that I'm not sure MZ would consider himself a rapist. And yet, I clearly and repeatedly told him no. There is a cultural narrative that no is just a yes in disguise so the girl can think she's not a whore, and that men just need to keep going unless the girl puts up a fight. Never mind that she might be scared you'll just rape her more violently.

And here I am fantasizing about something that looks like rape from the outside, but because I'll be the one requesting the activities, it's not. I'll be asking for a mild degree of violence, for some of my normal needs to be ignored, and for me to be restrained and to submit to activities that could be considered degrading.

But I have full and utmost confidence that nothing will happen without enthusiastic consent.

(page 120) "...by it's very nature BDSM is constantly about consent. Of course, it's language and rules differ significantly from vanilla sex scenes, but the very existence of a safe word is the ultimate in preventing violation--it suggests that at any moment, regardless of expectations of interpretations on the part of either party, the act can and will end."

Ultimately, I would be in control the entire time, able to stop everything with a single utterance.

When I was raped, I had no control. I had no agency. I was violated. My humanity was rendered moot. I didn't matter.

Should this fantasy come to fruition, I will matter. I will have the power. I will have control and agency, despite appearances to the contrary.

And, in all honesty, I don't care if the rest of the world finds it acceptable. I do.

Sex Ed

Responding to "Real Sex Education" by Cara Kulwicki.

My recent illness has resulted in some discomfort for me, in that my immune system was not capable of handling sex, which I did not realize at the time. Now I'm struggling with bacterial vaginitis and a yeast infection, neither of which are fun at all. Sigh. I was thinking about when I first learned about yeast infections and bacterial vaginitis in an academic setting, and it wasn't until a college level human sexuality course that sexually influenced, but not transmitted, problems were covered. In high school, we learned about the STDs, but not more mundane infections.

I really don't remember much about what I learned in high school. It was a fairly short unit. I do know that we covered condoms, and I assume other birth control methods. My state did not accept abstinence-only funds.

(page 305) "Real sex education requires, in addition to teaching about protection, teaching sex as a normal and healthy part of life that is varied in terms of both preferred partners an preferred acts. Real sex education teaches that sex is more than heterosexual intercourse and should be consensual and pleasurable for all participants."

It was in college that the answer for "Why do kids have sex?" was posed in class, and the first respondent said "Because it feels good." That actually stopped what was supposed to be a lengthier discussion, as everyone just nodded and realized that no matter what other rationalization there may be, that was the most compelling reason to have sex. Because it feels good. There doesn't need to be another reason. It feels good.

At least, it should. If it doesn't, then something is wrong.

(page 307) "...Once you remove pleasure from sex, it has no purpose. Non-heterosexual sex cannot result in procreation, so what's the point? This is the only thing that religious fundamentalists and abstinence-only educators are right about--when arguing that sex is not or should not be about pleasure, gay and lesbian sex does indeed seem rather odd and even wrong.
"This thinking positions sex for pleasure as a waste of time, rather than as an activity that is itself often productive and important to those of all sexual orientations. Such limited education is invalidating to huge number of people, an erasure of their sexual desires and experiences. And the most-affected people are those who are no straight men."

Procreation is not the reason I have sex. I have children, but they are more a side-effect of sex rather than the intent. Which is not to say that I never intended to have children, just that no matter how much I may have wanted to conceive at the time, I did not have sex simply to conceive. No matter how much I may have wanted to conceive, I only had sex when I wanted to, because I wanted sex.

Gay and lesbian sex is not strange or abhorrent, it is about pleasure, and sometimes about love and intimacy. When sex is only about procreation, it seems bizarre that infertile or elderly people would indulge. It seems bizarre that I would use contraception, let alone get an IUD, with that logic. Sex is much more than procreation or even the potential to procreate.

(page 308) "Knowing that sex is normal, healthy, and not uniform also encourages people to learn what is most enjoyable for them, and how to establish sexual boundaries....Once women, who are most likely to be taught otherwise, know that they are supposed to enjoy sex and might not enjoy certain kinds of sex, they also generally learn to start asking for what they want and feeling more confident in expressing what they don't."

Establishing boundaries takes confidence and practice. I have boundaries, especially about touching. I have boundaries that are not concrete, but that change with my physical reality for the moment. What may feel good one day may not feel good the next. For the next week, my boundary is absolutely no vaginal sex while my body recovers. Might I have other sex? It's possible, but not definite.

Understanding that boundaries lead to a healthier relationship to both yourself and others is important. Understanding that boundaries may be fluid, but that no means no and only yes means yes, makes exploring and discovering boundaries easier on everyone involved.

(page 309) "Many men (and women!) don't understand what rape is. That doesn't mean that men who rape fail to understand when the woman has not fully and enthusiastically consented or when they're committing an act that is wrong--they simply fail or refuse to recognize that what they're doing actually falls under that scary word no one wants applied to them."

It's not a good feeling to realize that your advances were unwanted, though enough people in the world do in fact consent without wanting the sex, for myriad of reasons, including wanting to not reject their beloved. There is a difference between consenting despite not being enthused and not consenting.

(page 309) "The goal is that enthusiastic consent models will help to change the thinking from 'sex when someone says no and fights back is wrong' to 'sex when someone doesn't openly and enthusiastically want it is wrong.'"

So what about sex where one partner consents (without coercion) despite not really wanting it? I guess that all depends on why. Is the less-than-enthusiastic sex a gift? Is it some kind of sacrifice or payment? Is it a promise for better, more enthusiastic sex later? Is it a hope for more initiation from a partner who rarely initiates? Is it love? Is it comfort? Is it a struggle for conception?

Relationships are built on compromise and compassion, and sometimes sex can be a compassionate (rather than passionate) act.

But this whole exploration of non-enthusiastic but otherwise definite consent is dependent upon a lack of coercion and abuse.

(page 309) "...We do have a responsibility, particularly to young women, to give them the tools they need to recognize abuse."

And one of the tools to recognize abuse is to recognize the difference between consent freely given and coercion.

The Truth Is

I've had a difficult last couple of weeks. Between an out-of-commission car, being ill, having late shifts when my husband has early shifts, and school being in session, I have struggled to do anything more than drive, work and sleep. Blogging has been too much effort.

Today I'm responding to Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone by JK Rowling.

(page 298) "'The Truth.' Dumbledore sighed. 'It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution. However, I shall answer your questions unless I have a very good reason not to, in which case I beg you'll forgive me. I shall not, of course, lie.'"

The truth is a beautiful and terrible thing. Sometimes the truth is liberating. Sometimes it's harmful.

I have long told my friends that they can ask me anything, but it's always been up to me whether I answer. Sometimes I don't.

Truth can be a weapon. When I spoke out and encouraged others to speak out about the inappropriate actions of a coworker, the truth was indeed a weapon. A righteous weapon, but still a weapon. That coworker is now a former coworker.

The truth is that I have much to say, but my thoughts aren't as coherent as they normally are. Rather than jumping immediately back into blogging, I'm easing back.

I will do my best not to be offended by questions, but I have learned over the last couple of weeks that my temper has become more volatile since embarking on my mission of healing my past, as I have discovered a vault of anger that I have trouble keeping shut off. I of course will continue to choose whether I answer anything.

Looking Good

Responding to "How Do You Fuck a Fat Woman" by Kate Harding

(page 68) "...Women's first--if not only--job is to be attractive to men. Never mind straight women who have other priorities or queer women who don't want men. If you were born with a vagina, your primary obligation from the onset of adolescence and well into adulthood will be to make yourself pretty for heterosexual men's pleasure. Not even just the ones you'd actually want to have a conversation with, let alone sex with--all of them."

Once upon a time I gave a damn about being attractive. And then I had a baby and decided that it was much more important to sleep. I used to have a cosmetics and hair routine, would only wear clothes that fit well to show off my body, and worried when I looked less than perfect.

Back then, I used to read fashion magazines, even knew the names of the most famous ones. Now I don't. I got tired of the same articles on the proper way to remove leg hair, and articles that actually intrigued me were few and far between.

Now I don't put as much effort into being attractive. I try to find haircuts that will look good with the absolute least effort, own only lip gloss, and would actually benefit from a wardrobe update. Most of my clothes are fairly old. But now I refuse to wear clothes that are uncomfortable. I don't need the distraction. I have better things to do than to readjust my undergarments or shirts over and over throughout the day. I really don't care if men-at-large find me attractive. Unless I'm trying to look good in the hopes of attracting compliments, the only people I care find me attractive are the ones I'm already physical with.

Up until recently at work, there was a guy who made comments about the attractiveness of various female co-workers. It was obvious to everyone but him and the higher up men who simply couldn't wrap their heads around the absolute inappropriateness of this practice, that he was indulged in sexual harassment. Many of the women he harassed were in fact teenage girls. I was never an object of his harassment. I would not have let him get away with it. I was not at all intimidated.

Regardless, the guy was in his 30s, was a walking cliche of maintenance men in body type and ill-fitting clothes, did not take pride in his appearance, but still felt completely entitled to judge the women, mostly girls, I work with as to their attractiveness. No one was trying to be attractive for him; they were all doing their best to avoid him. I called him out for his comments on multiple occasions, and he would give me a clueless look, stammering that he was just giving out a compliment. I would just repeat that he wasn't allowed to do that.

(page 72) "Of all the maddening side effects of our narrow cultural beauty standard, I think the worst might be the way it warps our understanding of attraction. The reality is, attraction is unpredictable and subjective--even people who are widely believed to meet the standard do not actually magically become more objectively attractive."

There are a few ways in which I do not and never will meet the cultural beauty standard. Not only do I not have fake breasts, my natural ones are not large. I am not blond. My teeth aren't perfect. I wear glasses. I am quite slender, which actually intimidates some women who see me as competition. Most of them have far more generous breasts than I have, so their focus on my thinness confuses me.

Really, it is far more important to be comfortable in the body you currently inhabit, and to wear comfortable clothes. Once I stopped thinking of looking good as a competition and worrying who was prettier than me, it was easier for me to relate to and empathize with other women. I can look good for me, should I choose to, and that does not in any way have to effect any one else.

Love Isn't Enough

A reflection on "Killing Misogyny: A Personal Story of Love, Violence, and Strategies for Survival" by Cristina Meztli TzinTzun.

The cultural narrative that we have is that love is powerful enough to heal all wounds, that if sacrifice and sacrifice, that our love is powerful to overcome anything, but like the concept of a single soul that completely complements your own, it's not a concept based in reality. Love is a catalyst. Love can be a stepping stone to healing, but you have to WANT to heal, and the love that can truly heal is self love.

Perhaps I should out myself as a non-romantic.

Love takes work. It takes effort and communication and compromise on the part of everyone in the relationship, or it will wither and die. It will warp into hate. It will become an unhealthy trap. Love is not easy.

(page 259) "I felt that if [he] could love me above all the other womyn he had abused, that would prove how unique and loved I truly was. I wanted my love for [him] to be my most sacrificial gift: I wanted it to be strong enough to heal us both."

This is a common theme in romance novels, that the heroine's love is so powerful and healing that it cures all that ails the broken hero. Love is hopeful and understanding.

But that is a fairy tale. Love should be a building block to a healthy relationship, not a sacrifice. If one partner is sacrificing and sacrificing while the other gains, then that is not a healthy relationship. That is a one-way street.

Once upon a time I wanted to find a lover to rescue me from my family, but it only led to more abuse. Until I decided to leave and make my own way, no one could rescue me.

(page 262) "...I have torn down my own image as strong and perfect to help in redefining strength as vulnerability and honesty. I have broken my silence and faced accountability."

I am in the process of being vulnerable and honest. So far, I have discovered a deep well of anger living and seething inside me. The past two weeks, I've cried more times than I remember crying all my life, as I work to remember the past and reflect on the present. It's not easy. As much as I celebrate the good parts of my life and sexuality, I am still healing. I still have a great amount of work to do before I become comfortable talking in real life about everything.

I don't like feeling vulnerable, but I recognize that it's something I need to feel before I become truly strong.

(page 260) "I will have to forgive myself for my mistakes and overcome the shame and embarrassment that come with knowing that the men who have most influenced me and whom I have let "love" me have been the most abusive, violent, sick, and selfish men I have ever known."

My first attempts at relationships were with sick and selfish men. Until I recognized that I had deplorable taste in men, that I allowed myself to be controlled and taken advantage of, and found the strength to respect myself, I was unable to find love. All I found was abuse.

I find myself wishing I had stayed the girl who was not willing to sacrifice myself for love. I gave up the strong, brash, brave person I was. I became weak and pliable. I was so afraid that I would never find love, that I mistook weak and violent men as heroes-in-the-rough. I don't know why I was so desperate. They were horrible people who I never wish to encounter again.

(page 260) "I want to challenge the shame and guilt our society creates out of myths about sexually transmitted diseases, sex, beauty, and love."

I hope to raise questions about sex and beauty and love. I want to help weave a narrative that love is not a gift, but a commitment between two (or more) people who want to truly help each other learn to be better people--it is not a sacrifice, and it cannot heal by itself. Sex is more than just a physical act, and beauty is so not depicted in magazines or TV or movies.

As for STDS, I recently discovered that I have an incurable one. I have HPV. I had to have a fairly common procedure, cryotherapy, to remove precancerous lesions from my cervix. Because HPV doesn't always cause symptoms, in fact the most high risk ones tend not to appear as warts, and can take years to develop into cancer, I have no way of knowing when I became infected. It could have been when I was 6 or 7 and my mother's brother violated me orally. It could have been when I lost my virginity. It could have been when MZ raped me. It could have been unknowingly passed on to me by one of the people I love now. I don't know, and I probably never will.

When I first found out, I felt terribly dirty and that no one who didn't already love me would ever want me. It disgusted me. I couldn't believe it. How could this happen to me?

While HPV means that I'll have to be more careful with any future partners I may eventually have, I am overcoming my shame. About 80% of adults are infected. It's typically passed along unwittingly, though there are definitely some people out there who know but just don't care that they're passing it on. I have a common, chronic disease that I have to continue to observe to make sure that it doesn't become dangerous and life-threatening. It doesn't define me.

Healing is a process, and while I have made many strides, I am now working on my most intimate wounds. It's not easy, and my anger is still at an overwhelming stage. I am doing my best to keep it from becoming a destructive force, but it's not easy. Healing isn't easy. It's hard work, and love is a catalyst, not a cure.

Talking About Sex

Responding to: "Beyond Yes Or No: Consent as Sexual Process" by Rachel Kramer Bussel.

I have difficulty talking about sex, except in clinical terms. I have trouble initiating. I have trouble asking for what I want. I believe it's a reflection of the internalized virgin-whore dichotomy, and that if I ask for what I want, then I'm admitting I'm a slut. I'm trying to get past this, though many many years of habit are hard to break.

(page 43) "The issue of 'consent' encompasses the ways we ask for sex, and the ways we don't.... Without our speaking up and demanding that our lovers do, too, we don't ever truly know what they are thinking, which impedes us from having the sex we could be having."

I must confess, I like it rough most of the time. This is actually a fairly recent revelation for me, at least the degree of roughness that I like. I feel more emotionally safe when the sex is rough, knowing that it shouldn't trigger any trauma or flashbacks. The rapes and abuse were not physically rough. But my lovers like more of a variety and want to be tender with me. Great sex is a process, as if I focus only on what I want, then I'm doing a disservice to my lovers, while if I focus only on what my lovers want, then I'm doing a disservice to me. But we can also decide to focus on one partner for a day, or for an hour, and fulfill unmet needs graciously and lovingly; which is definitely worthwhile.

(page 46) "And if you have been sharing, or trying to share, what you want and aren't being listened to? That's a problem. Recognize that and make it a priority."

Communication is integral to great sex, but it's also integral to having a good relationship. Period. Communication isn't always easy. If one partner is afraid to be truthful, then there is something wrong. Of course, truth can be a weapon wielded bluntly and with force for maximum pain, and truth can be gentle, easier to hear, easier to listen to, easier to act on. I try, but sometimes fail, to be gentle with the truth.

(page 46) "There is a lot more that goes on during sex than simply yes and no, and in the silences, unspoken doubts, fears, mistrust, and confusion can arise."

I feel that this is especially the case when there are multiple partners at the same time. It can be difficult to give more than one partner enough attention, and it can be lonely to be ignored. Speaking up is a necessity, though it may be strange at first to ask who wants to go first or who wants to indulge which desire when.

And even when it's only one partner, saying that something isn't quite working can be intimidating. If this stroke isn't working, am I going to hurt my partner's feelings because it's incredible for him? Talking is a risk, but it's a risk that's absolutely important to take.

(page 47) "Getting more comfortable talking about sex in and out of the heat of the moment means there'll be fewer of those awkward silences and less chances of one person thinking they had the best sex in the world while the other wishes it never happened."

I'm still working on it, but I do believe that I'm getting there--asking for what I want honestly and directly. Of course, it's easier to ask for what you want when you KNOW what you want, and I've started exploring that too.

The Trouble with "No Means No" and Recognizing Douchebags

Using the word "douchebag" to describe those men who see women as sexual objects only, who seek to score, who seem to think that women aren't quite human, and so forth, is a recent development for me. I'm not generally vulgar in my terminology, reserving vulgarities for extreme emotion only, yet douche bag can definitely be considered vulgar. The douche bag is an utterly useless invention sold to women to "clean" their vaginae of foul odors associated with sex. Its use is actually far more harmful, leading to yeast and bacterial infections, dryness, and irritation. Vaginae self-clean. I don't think there really is another term that more accurately captures certain people I describe, how worthless they truly are, and how much contempt I have for them.

For this post, I am reflecting on three works. The first is "Who're You Calling a Whore?: A Conversation with Three Sex Workers on Sexuality, Empowerment, and the Industry" by Susan Lopez, Mariko Passion, and Saundra. The second is "On the Supposed Inability of Men to Understand Refusals" by Lauren O. The third is "Speak Up, I Can't Hear You" by Deborah Cameron.

(From "Who're You Calling a Whore?" page 274) "...I did not choose to be looked at sexually by the luring eyes of men and boys since my teens, I did not choose to learn the rules of the date rape game the hard way, and I did not create the conditions in the sexist and patriarchal world that I was born into. This world created me. This inequality was never a choice, and for me, too many times it was a hard lesson."

Obviously, I've had plenty of run-ins with douchebags. JRS was one. MZ was one. But they have not managed to poison my view of all of the male sex. There are men, there are douche bags, and there are boys still learning/deciding who they are. I have hope that douchebags can reform, but it would take a complete paradigm shift in their outlooks, as well as social censure for that to happen. (And, yes, women can be douchebags too.)

I was better at dealing with douchebags in junior high, between episodes of depression. One guy grabbed me, and when he refused to let me go, I clawed his arm off of me, leaving bloody trails from my fingernails. I stood up for myself, and he got the message loud and clear.

Unfortunately, this and my embrace of being nerdcore, made me invisible to boys in high school. And the few I later learned had been interested were much too scared to actually talk to me. Of course, I was too scared to talk to some of the guys I was interested in as well. High school sucks that way. Once I got out of high school, it was suddenly open season on me. I attracted far more attention than I ever had before, and I didn't know what to do with it. I was struggling with depression, learning to be semi-independent, and clueless about guys. Surely none of the guys I knew would be douchebags. Ah, how naive I was.

I still have run-ins with douchebags. I have to deal with customers where I work, and sometimes young men try to pick up on me. Usually my aloofness is enough to dissuade them, but sometimes it's not. For those, saying that I'm married or a snide "dude, I'm 30" is enough to dissuade them, but sometimes even that's not enough. I feel dirty even talking to the ones who "mishear" my telling them that I'm married as me looking for an affair. I'm working, not looking to score.

One of my male coworkers tends to be a nice young man, respectful and studious. He, like most nice people, has a tendency to try to couch and soften his NOs, which demonstrates consideration. Unfortunately, he knows too many douchebags, including his ex-girlfriend, who is stalking him. It doesn't matter how many times he tells her no nicely, until he fiercely stands up for himself, she won't hear it. Hopefully she isn't truly dangerous, as breaking up with stalkers can trigger violence. Stalkers aren't stable. They are scary and emotionally volatile.

It's hard to be direct with a no when you're scared of violence. I look fragile. I'm tall but almost a waif. If I were to take on a man, I'd most likely lose. Escape is my best option, not fighting. In the face of anger, I tend to swallow my own anger and hide my fear so that I can quietly walk away. I may even promise to return with goodies or to talk at another time. That's how I ended things with MZ. He was distracted by life, and I "gave him the space he needed to deal." I promised that after a couple of months, that we'd get back together. I lied. I shamelessly, confidently lied. Lied. Lied. Lied. I even assured him that I loved him. I hated him. I wanted him gone. I wanted him to leave me alone.

When I got home, I told my parents that I no longer wanted to talk to him, but not why (like they'd believe me anyway, and besides premarital sex was wrong, so they'd just call me a whore). Or rather, not the true reason. I asked them to run interference because he called me a bitch, and then did my best not to be home, just in case.

And that is the trouble with the slogan "No Means No." Douchebags refuse to hear the no, especially when it isn't a direct, loud, hostile NO!!! (which then makes you a bitch and why do you have to be that way, they ought to slap you for that, bitch.) You try to "let someone down easy" and they just keep on going, even if you pretend to be ill. You say no and they hear "a few more seconds of foreplay and it's an all clear." They just don't listen. They don't want to hear no, and deafen themselves to anything else. They warp "no means no" to include "and nothing else counts."

I prefer "Yes Means Yes" and the standard of enthusiastic consent. Will it help against douchebags? Probably not. But it will help those who are truly learning about interpersonal relationships, and who actually do want to learn. It will help those who have been told no-means-no and don't know what to do when they haven't heard no, but their date isn't all that interested, and they're supposed to be men (or girls who don't understand that a guy's hard-on isn't consent).