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.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
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.
(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.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
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.
(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.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, November 2, 2009
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.
(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.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
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.
(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.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, October 26, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
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.
(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.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
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.
(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.
Monday, October 19, 2009
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.
"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.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
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.
(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.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
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.
(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.
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