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.
Showing posts with label douchebaggery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label douchebaggery. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Rape Culture and Me
I have wondered frequently enough over the years why I didn't fight harder when MZ raped me, when JRS raped me, when JD emotionally abused me. What was wrong with me?
But after all these years, I've finally realized that there was nothing wrong with me. There's something wrong with our world.
Today I added a post from a blog to my links section, Rape Culture 101. It's a description of rape culture.
I'm also responding to Another Post About Rape #3.
"The way men and women interact on a daily basis is the way they interact when rape occurs. The social dynamics we see at play between men and women are the same social dynamics that cause men to feel rape is okay, and women to feel they have no right to object. And if you accept those social interactions as normal and appropriate in your day to day life, there is absolutely no reason you should be shocked that rape occurs without screaming, without fighting, without bruising, without provocation, and without prosecution. Behavior exists on a continuum. Rape doesn’t inhabit its own little corner of the world, where everything is suddenly all different now. The behavior you accept today is the behavior that becomes rape tomorrow. And you very well might accept it then, too."
Growing up, I was a Good Girl. I tried so hard to be a perfect daughter, the smart and athletic and involved girl. I was respectful. I didn't talk back. I didn't get into fights. I didn't embarrass my family by my bad behavior. I didn't curse. I didn't sneak out at night (no, actually, I lied about volunteering an extra hour or so at a car wash...). I didn't smoke. I didn't drink. I never did drugs. I behaved.
And I most certainly did not talk about things that would bring shame to my family. I didn't talk about the incestuous molestation I endured. I didn't talk about the depression that was slowly choking the life out of me. I was GOOD!
When I was 17, I set my sights on JD, who was a decade older than me. He worked at the mall, and I saw him there often. He was charming. I ended up at the mall on my 18th birthday, legal at last, and pursued him. We flirted lots, ended up having sex, and he taught me a few things. The sex was good. His behavior wasn't. He broke up with me whenever I offended him, and told me I was a foolish child who didn't know what she was doing. So I tried to learn how to act to please him, because that's what I did. Pleased others.
A BAD GIRL I befriended saw what was happening, saw how I was being taken advantage of, heard the abuse and control, knew how it could end, and rescued me. She started a verbal altercation in the mall and he snapped. He scared the shit out of me. I never went back.
And it could have so easily back-fired, had she been wrong. I would never have spoken to her again.
I ended up taking a creative writing class with his ex-girlfriend. He'd hit her before she got out. That could have been me.
But a bad girl rescued me.
JRS took advantage of my lack of fight at that time too, as I was reeling from the realization that my "boyfriend" was an abusive creep.
And then there was MZ. He flirted with me, always showing a protective face. He wanted to protect me from the world. He would come around and make sure the boys hitting on me in the boy-friendly shop where I worked in the mall were behaving themselves. He even told a guy that was having trouble respecting my decision not to meet him after work that I wasn't interested.
And so I thought I owed him the appreciation of going out on a date with him. He repaid me by raping me. But I was a good girl and I owed him my appreciation for his protecting me. Maybe he just couldn't control himself or something, because I led him on? What was wrong with me that he didn't understand that I said no?
What was wrong with me?
Really, the only thing wrong with me besides crippling depression was that I didn't know how to protect myself when there wasn't a threat of violence.
I was taught to be a good (and passive) girl.
But after all these years, I've finally realized that there was nothing wrong with me. There's something wrong with our world.
Today I added a post from a blog to my links section, Rape Culture 101. It's a description of rape culture.
I'm also responding to Another Post About Rape #3.
"The way men and women interact on a daily basis is the way they interact when rape occurs. The social dynamics we see at play between men and women are the same social dynamics that cause men to feel rape is okay, and women to feel they have no right to object. And if you accept those social interactions as normal and appropriate in your day to day life, there is absolutely no reason you should be shocked that rape occurs without screaming, without fighting, without bruising, without provocation, and without prosecution. Behavior exists on a continuum. Rape doesn’t inhabit its own little corner of the world, where everything is suddenly all different now. The behavior you accept today is the behavior that becomes rape tomorrow. And you very well might accept it then, too."
Growing up, I was a Good Girl. I tried so hard to be a perfect daughter, the smart and athletic and involved girl. I was respectful. I didn't talk back. I didn't get into fights. I didn't embarrass my family by my bad behavior. I didn't curse. I didn't sneak out at night (no, actually, I lied about volunteering an extra hour or so at a car wash...). I didn't smoke. I didn't drink. I never did drugs. I behaved.
And I most certainly did not talk about things that would bring shame to my family. I didn't talk about the incestuous molestation I endured. I didn't talk about the depression that was slowly choking the life out of me. I was GOOD!
When I was 17, I set my sights on JD, who was a decade older than me. He worked at the mall, and I saw him there often. He was charming. I ended up at the mall on my 18th birthday, legal at last, and pursued him. We flirted lots, ended up having sex, and he taught me a few things. The sex was good. His behavior wasn't. He broke up with me whenever I offended him, and told me I was a foolish child who didn't know what she was doing. So I tried to learn how to act to please him, because that's what I did. Pleased others.
A BAD GIRL I befriended saw what was happening, saw how I was being taken advantage of, heard the abuse and control, knew how it could end, and rescued me. She started a verbal altercation in the mall and he snapped. He scared the shit out of me. I never went back.
And it could have so easily back-fired, had she been wrong. I would never have spoken to her again.
I ended up taking a creative writing class with his ex-girlfriend. He'd hit her before she got out. That could have been me.
But a bad girl rescued me.
JRS took advantage of my lack of fight at that time too, as I was reeling from the realization that my "boyfriend" was an abusive creep.
And then there was MZ. He flirted with me, always showing a protective face. He wanted to protect me from the world. He would come around and make sure the boys hitting on me in the boy-friendly shop where I worked in the mall were behaving themselves. He even told a guy that was having trouble respecting my decision not to meet him after work that I wasn't interested.
And so I thought I owed him the appreciation of going out on a date with him. He repaid me by raping me. But I was a good girl and I owed him my appreciation for his protecting me. Maybe he just couldn't control himself or something, because I led him on? What was wrong with me that he didn't understand that I said no?
What was wrong with me?
Really, the only thing wrong with me besides crippling depression was that I didn't know how to protect myself when there wasn't a threat of violence.
I was taught to be a good (and passive) girl.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Reconnecting
I'm back to blogging, hopefully on a near-daily basis. I need the creative urge, which has been sorely lacking this past month as all the negatives overwhelmed me.
Today I'm responding to a post from kateharding.net about approaching women.
"Human connection, love, romance: there is nothing wrong with these yearnings."
It is human to want connection, love, and sometimes romance. But even when I desire love and/or romance, I don't want that with just anyone. It has to be with someone of MY choosing. Sometimes I may want a conversation with a person who doesn't trigger my creep alarm, but that doesn't mean that I want physical closeness. And even if I want physical closeness, that doesn't always mean that I want sex.
And sometimes I just want to be left alone.
"Those women do not want to be approached, no matter how nice you are or how much you’d like to date them. Okay? That’s their right. Don’t get pissy about it."
If I'm not receptive to being approached, and you take it personally, I will forever more consider you a jerk that I don't want to know. Because you're acting like a jerk. I don't care if you're hot, if you volunteer for a feminist organization, or whatever makes you believe that you're all that. When you get mad because I don't want company, then you've blown it.
"Because a man who ignores a woman’s NO in a non-sexual setting is more likely to ignore NO in a sexual setting, as well."
When I say no, it should be respected. I should not have to apologize for saying no, and if you feel that I should, then you are marking yourself as threatening. You are revealing yourself as someone I cannot trust to respect my boundaries or me.
In relationships, there is always some give and take, and depending upon the levels of trust and commitment, we can discuss or negotiate boundaries. But that is in an established relationship built upon shared trust, reciprocity, and respect.
Only through time and effort can you demonstrate that you are someone who will never rape me, which is my requirement for sharing my body. If I don't trust that you will never rape me, then I will not engage with you sexually.
"Don’t rape. Nor should you commit these similar but less severe offenses: don’t assault. Don’t grope. Don’t constrain. Don’t brandish. Don’t expose yourself. Don’t threaten with physical violence. Don’t threaten with sexual violence.
"Shouldn’t this go without saying? Of course it should. Sadly, that’s not the world I live in. You may be beginning to realize that it’s not the world you live in, either"
Because sadly, too many people do not recognize that we live in a culture that condones rape. So now it's time for a re-posting of the "Don't Rape" list that pops up from time to time around the Web.
A reminder, both men and women can rape, and both men and women can be victims of a rapist. This is written about not raping women, but it applies to everyone.
A lot has been said about how to prevent rape.
Women should learn self-defense.
Women should lock themselves in their houses after dark.
Women shouldn’t have long hair and women shouldn’t wear short skirts.
Women shouldn’t leave drinks unattended.
Fuck, they shouldn’t dare to get drunk at all.
Instead of that bullshit, how about:
If a woman is drunk, don’t rape her.
If a woman is walking alone at night, don’t rape her.
If a women is drugged and unconscious, don’t rape her.
If a woman is wearing a short skirt, don’t rape her.
If a woman is jogging in a park at5 am , don’t rape her.
If a woman looks like your ex-girlfriend you’re still hung up on, don’t rape her.
If a woman is asleep in her bed, don’t rape her.
If a woman is asleep in your bed, don’t rape her.
If a woman is doing her laundry, don’t rape her.
If a woman is in a coma, don’t rape her.
If a woman changes her mind in the middle of or about a particular activity, don’t rape her.
If a woman has repeatedly refused a certain activity, don’t rape her.
If a woman is not yet a woman, but a child, don’t rape her.
If your girlfriend or wife is not in the mood, don’t rape her.
If your step-daughter is watching TV, don’t rape her.
If you break into a house and find a woman there, don’t rape her.
If your friend thinks it’s okay to rape someone, tell him it’s not, and that he’s not your friend.
If your “friend” tells you he raped someone, report him to the police.
If your frat-brother or another guy at the party tells you there’s an unconscious woman upstairs and it’s your turn, don’t rape her, call the police and tell the guy he’s a rapist.
Tell your sons, god-sons, nephews, grandsons, sons of friends it’s not okay to rape someone.
Don’t tell your women friends how to be safe and avoid rape.
Don’t imply that she could have avoided it if she’d only done/not done x.
Don’t imply that it’s in any way her fault.
Don’t let silence imply agreement when someone tells you he “got some” with the drunk girl.
Don’t perpetuate a culture that tells you that you have no control over or responsibility for your actions. You can, too, help yourself.
If you agree, re-post it. It’s that important.
Today I'm responding to a post from kateharding.net about approaching women.
"Human connection, love, romance: there is nothing wrong with these yearnings."
It is human to want connection, love, and sometimes romance. But even when I desire love and/or romance, I don't want that with just anyone. It has to be with someone of MY choosing. Sometimes I may want a conversation with a person who doesn't trigger my creep alarm, but that doesn't mean that I want physical closeness. And even if I want physical closeness, that doesn't always mean that I want sex.
And sometimes I just want to be left alone.
"Those women do not want to be approached, no matter how nice you are or how much you’d like to date them. Okay? That’s their right. Don’t get pissy about it."
If I'm not receptive to being approached, and you take it personally, I will forever more consider you a jerk that I don't want to know. Because you're acting like a jerk. I don't care if you're hot, if you volunteer for a feminist organization, or whatever makes you believe that you're all that. When you get mad because I don't want company, then you've blown it.
"Because a man who ignores a woman’s NO in a non-sexual setting is more likely to ignore NO in a sexual setting, as well."
When I say no, it should be respected. I should not have to apologize for saying no, and if you feel that I should, then you are marking yourself as threatening. You are revealing yourself as someone I cannot trust to respect my boundaries or me.
In relationships, there is always some give and take, and depending upon the levels of trust and commitment, we can discuss or negotiate boundaries. But that is in an established relationship built upon shared trust, reciprocity, and respect.
Only through time and effort can you demonstrate that you are someone who will never rape me, which is my requirement for sharing my body. If I don't trust that you will never rape me, then I will not engage with you sexually.
"Don’t rape. Nor should you commit these similar but less severe offenses: don’t assault. Don’t grope. Don’t constrain. Don’t brandish. Don’t expose yourself. Don’t threaten with physical violence. Don’t threaten with sexual violence.
"Shouldn’t this go without saying? Of course it should. Sadly, that’s not the world I live in. You may be beginning to realize that it’s not the world you live in, either"
Because sadly, too many people do not recognize that we live in a culture that condones rape. So now it's time for a re-posting of the "Don't Rape" list that pops up from time to time around the Web.
A reminder, both men and women can rape, and both men and women can be victims of a rapist. This is written about not raping women, but it applies to everyone.
A lot has been said about how to prevent rape.
Women should learn self-defense.
Women should lock themselves in their houses after dark.
Women shouldn’t have long hair and women shouldn’t wear short skirts.
Women shouldn’t leave drinks unattended.
Fuck, they shouldn’t dare to get drunk at all.
Instead of that bullshit, how about:
If a woman is drunk, don’t rape her.
If a woman is walking alone at night, don’t rape her.
If a women is drugged and unconscious, don’t rape her.
If a woman is wearing a short skirt, don’t rape her.
If a woman is jogging in a park at
If a woman looks like your ex-girlfriend you’re still hung up on, don’t rape her.
If a woman is asleep in her bed, don’t rape her.
If a woman is asleep in your bed, don’t rape her.
If a woman is doing her laundry, don’t rape her.
If a woman is in a coma, don’t rape her.
If a woman changes her mind in the middle of or about a particular activity, don’t rape her.
If a woman has repeatedly refused a certain activity, don’t rape her.
If a woman is not yet a woman, but a child, don’t rape her.
If your girlfriend or wife is not in the mood, don’t rape her.
If your step-daughter is watching TV, don’t rape her.
If you break into a house and find a woman there, don’t rape her.
If your friend thinks it’s okay to rape someone, tell him it’s not, and that he’s not your friend.
If your “friend” tells you he raped someone, report him to the police.
If your frat-brother or another guy at the party tells you there’s an unconscious woman upstairs and it’s your turn, don’t rape her, call the police and tell the guy he’s a rapist.
Tell your sons, god-sons, nephews, grandsons, sons of friends it’s not okay to rape someone.
Don’t tell your women friends how to be safe and avoid rape.
Don’t imply that she could have avoided it if she’d only done/not done x.
Don’t imply that it’s in any way her fault.
Don’t let silence imply agreement when someone tells you he “got some” with the drunk girl.
Don’t perpetuate a culture that tells you that you have no control over or responsibility for your actions. You can, too, help yourself.
If you agree, re-post it. It’s that important.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Love Isn't Enough
A reflection on "Killing Misogyny: A Personal Story of Love, Violence, and Strategies for Survival" by Cristina Meztli TzinTzun.
The cultural narrative that we have is that love is powerful enough to heal all wounds, that if sacrifice and sacrifice, that our love is powerful to overcome anything, but like the concept of a single soul that completely complements your own, it's not a concept based in reality. Love is a catalyst. Love can be a stepping stone to healing, but you have to WANT to heal, and the love that can truly heal is self love.
Perhaps I should out myself as a non-romantic.
Love takes work. It takes effort and communication and compromise on the part of everyone in the relationship, or it will wither and die. It will warp into hate. It will become an unhealthy trap. Love is not easy.
(page 259) "I felt that if [he] could love me above all the other womyn he had abused, that would prove how unique and loved I truly was. I wanted my love for [him] to be my most sacrificial gift: I wanted it to be strong enough to heal us both."
This is a common theme in romance novels, that the heroine's love is so powerful and healing that it cures all that ails the broken hero. Love is hopeful and understanding.
But that is a fairy tale. Love should be a building block to a healthy relationship, not a sacrifice. If one partner is sacrificing and sacrificing while the other gains, then that is not a healthy relationship. That is a one-way street.
Once upon a time I wanted to find a lover to rescue me from my family, but it only led to more abuse. Until I decided to leave and make my own way, no one could rescue me.
(page 262) "...I have torn down my own image as strong and perfect to help in redefining strength as vulnerability and honesty. I have broken my silence and faced accountability."
I am in the process of being vulnerable and honest. So far, I have discovered a deep well of anger living and seething inside me. The past two weeks, I've cried more times than I remember crying all my life, as I work to remember the past and reflect on the present. It's not easy. As much as I celebrate the good parts of my life and sexuality, I am still healing. I still have a great amount of work to do before I become comfortable talking in real life about everything.
I don't like feeling vulnerable, but I recognize that it's something I need to feel before I become truly strong.
(page 260) "I will have to forgive myself for my mistakes and overcome the shame and embarrassment that come with knowing that the men who have most influenced me and whom I have let "love" me have been the most abusive, violent, sick, and selfish men I have ever known."
My first attempts at relationships were with sick and selfish men. Until I recognized that I had deplorable taste in men, that I allowed myself to be controlled and taken advantage of, and found the strength to respect myself, I was unable to find love. All I found was abuse.
I find myself wishing I had stayed the girl who was not willing to sacrifice myself for love. I gave up the strong, brash, brave person I was. I became weak and pliable. I was so afraid that I would never find love, that I mistook weak and violent men as heroes-in-the-rough. I don't know why I was so desperate. They were horrible people who I never wish to encounter again.
(page 260) "I want to challenge the shame and guilt our society creates out of myths about sexually transmitted diseases, sex, beauty, and love."
I hope to raise questions about sex and beauty and love. I want to help weave a narrative that love is not a gift, but a commitment between two (or more) people who want to truly help each other learn to be better people--it is not a sacrifice, and it cannot heal by itself. Sex is more than just a physical act, and beauty is so not depicted in magazines or TV or movies.
As for STDS, I recently discovered that I have an incurable one. I have HPV. I had to have a fairly common procedure, cryotherapy, to remove precancerous lesions from my cervix. Because HPV doesn't always cause symptoms, in fact the most high risk ones tend not to appear as warts, and can take years to develop into cancer, I have no way of knowing when I became infected. It could have been when I was 6 or 7 and my mother's brother violated me orally. It could have been when I lost my virginity. It could have been when MZ raped me. It could have been unknowingly passed on to me by one of the people I love now. I don't know, and I probably never will.
When I first found out, I felt terribly dirty and that no one who didn't already love me would ever want me. It disgusted me. I couldn't believe it. How could this happen to me?
While HPV means that I'll have to be more careful with any future partners I may eventually have, I am overcoming my shame. About 80% of adults are infected. It's typically passed along unwittingly, though there are definitely some people out there who know but just don't care that they're passing it on. I have a common, chronic disease that I have to continue to observe to make sure that it doesn't become dangerous and life-threatening. It doesn't define me.
Healing is a process, and while I have made many strides, I am now working on my most intimate wounds. It's not easy, and my anger is still at an overwhelming stage. I am doing my best to keep it from becoming a destructive force, but it's not easy. Healing isn't easy. It's hard work, and love is a catalyst, not a cure.
The cultural narrative that we have is that love is powerful enough to heal all wounds, that if sacrifice and sacrifice, that our love is powerful to overcome anything, but like the concept of a single soul that completely complements your own, it's not a concept based in reality. Love is a catalyst. Love can be a stepping stone to healing, but you have to WANT to heal, and the love that can truly heal is self love.
Perhaps I should out myself as a non-romantic.
Love takes work. It takes effort and communication and compromise on the part of everyone in the relationship, or it will wither and die. It will warp into hate. It will become an unhealthy trap. Love is not easy.
(page 259) "I felt that if [he] could love me above all the other womyn he had abused, that would prove how unique and loved I truly was. I wanted my love for [him] to be my most sacrificial gift: I wanted it to be strong enough to heal us both."
This is a common theme in romance novels, that the heroine's love is so powerful and healing that it cures all that ails the broken hero. Love is hopeful and understanding.
But that is a fairy tale. Love should be a building block to a healthy relationship, not a sacrifice. If one partner is sacrificing and sacrificing while the other gains, then that is not a healthy relationship. That is a one-way street.
Once upon a time I wanted to find a lover to rescue me from my family, but it only led to more abuse. Until I decided to leave and make my own way, no one could rescue me.
(page 262) "...I have torn down my own image as strong and perfect to help in redefining strength as vulnerability and honesty. I have broken my silence and faced accountability."
I am in the process of being vulnerable and honest. So far, I have discovered a deep well of anger living and seething inside me. The past two weeks, I've cried more times than I remember crying all my life, as I work to remember the past and reflect on the present. It's not easy. As much as I celebrate the good parts of my life and sexuality, I am still healing. I still have a great amount of work to do before I become comfortable talking in real life about everything.
I don't like feeling vulnerable, but I recognize that it's something I need to feel before I become truly strong.
(page 260) "I will have to forgive myself for my mistakes and overcome the shame and embarrassment that come with knowing that the men who have most influenced me and whom I have let "love" me have been the most abusive, violent, sick, and selfish men I have ever known."
My first attempts at relationships were with sick and selfish men. Until I recognized that I had deplorable taste in men, that I allowed myself to be controlled and taken advantage of, and found the strength to respect myself, I was unable to find love. All I found was abuse.
I find myself wishing I had stayed the girl who was not willing to sacrifice myself for love. I gave up the strong, brash, brave person I was. I became weak and pliable. I was so afraid that I would never find love, that I mistook weak and violent men as heroes-in-the-rough. I don't know why I was so desperate. They were horrible people who I never wish to encounter again.
(page 260) "I want to challenge the shame and guilt our society creates out of myths about sexually transmitted diseases, sex, beauty, and love."
I hope to raise questions about sex and beauty and love. I want to help weave a narrative that love is not a gift, but a commitment between two (or more) people who want to truly help each other learn to be better people--it is not a sacrifice, and it cannot heal by itself. Sex is more than just a physical act, and beauty is so not depicted in magazines or TV or movies.
As for STDS, I recently discovered that I have an incurable one. I have HPV. I had to have a fairly common procedure, cryotherapy, to remove precancerous lesions from my cervix. Because HPV doesn't always cause symptoms, in fact the most high risk ones tend not to appear as warts, and can take years to develop into cancer, I have no way of knowing when I became infected. It could have been when I was 6 or 7 and my mother's brother violated me orally. It could have been when I lost my virginity. It could have been when MZ raped me. It could have been unknowingly passed on to me by one of the people I love now. I don't know, and I probably never will.
When I first found out, I felt terribly dirty and that no one who didn't already love me would ever want me. It disgusted me. I couldn't believe it. How could this happen to me?
While HPV means that I'll have to be more careful with any future partners I may eventually have, I am overcoming my shame. About 80% of adults are infected. It's typically passed along unwittingly, though there are definitely some people out there who know but just don't care that they're passing it on. I have a common, chronic disease that I have to continue to observe to make sure that it doesn't become dangerous and life-threatening. It doesn't define me.
Healing is a process, and while I have made many strides, I am now working on my most intimate wounds. It's not easy, and my anger is still at an overwhelming stage. I am doing my best to keep it from becoming a destructive force, but it's not easy. Healing isn't easy. It's hard work, and love is a catalyst, not a cure.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
The Trouble with "No Means No" and Recognizing Douchebags
Using the word "douchebag" to describe those men who see women as sexual objects only, who seek to score, who seem to think that women aren't quite human, and so forth, is a recent development for me. I'm not generally vulgar in my terminology, reserving vulgarities for extreme emotion only, yet douche bag can definitely be considered vulgar. The douche bag is an utterly useless invention sold to women to "clean" their vaginae of foul odors associated with sex. Its use is actually far more harmful, leading to yeast and bacterial infections, dryness, and irritation. Vaginae self-clean. I don't think there really is another term that more accurately captures certain people I describe, how worthless they truly are, and how much contempt I have for them.
For this post, I am reflecting on three works. The first is "Who're You Calling a Whore?: A Conversation with Three Sex Workers on Sexuality, Empowerment, and the Industry" by Susan Lopez, Mariko Passion, and Saundra. The second is "On the Supposed Inability of Men to Understand Refusals" by Lauren O. The third is "Speak Up, I Can't Hear You" by Deborah Cameron.
(From "Who're You Calling a Whore?" page 274) "...I did not choose to be looked at sexually by the luring eyes of men and boys since my teens, I did not choose to learn the rules of the date rape game the hard way, and I did not create the conditions in the sexist and patriarchal world that I was born into. This world created me. This inequality was never a choice, and for me, too many times it was a hard lesson."
Obviously, I've had plenty of run-ins with douchebags. JRS was one. MZ was one. But they have not managed to poison my view of all of the male sex. There are men, there are douche bags, and there are boys still learning/deciding who they are. I have hope that douchebags can reform, but it would take a complete paradigm shift in their outlooks, as well as social censure for that to happen. (And, yes, women can be douchebags too.)
I was better at dealing with douchebags in junior high, between episodes of depression. One guy grabbed me, and when he refused to let me go, I clawed his arm off of me, leaving bloody trails from my fingernails. I stood up for myself, and he got the message loud and clear.
Unfortunately, this and my embrace of being nerdcore, made me invisible to boys in high school. And the few I later learned had been interested were much too scared to actually talk to me. Of course, I was too scared to talk to some of the guys I was interested in as well. High school sucks that way. Once I got out of high school, it was suddenly open season on me. I attracted far more attention than I ever had before, and I didn't know what to do with it. I was struggling with depression, learning to be semi-independent, and clueless about guys. Surely none of the guys I knew would be douchebags. Ah, how naive I was.
I still have run-ins with douchebags. I have to deal with customers where I work, and sometimes young men try to pick up on me. Usually my aloofness is enough to dissuade them, but sometimes it's not. For those, saying that I'm married or a snide "dude, I'm 30" is enough to dissuade them, but sometimes even that's not enough. I feel dirty even talking to the ones who "mishear" my telling them that I'm married as me looking for an affair. I'm working, not looking to score.
One of my male coworkers tends to be a nice young man, respectful and studious. He, like most nice people, has a tendency to try to couch and soften his NOs, which demonstrates consideration. Unfortunately, he knows too many douchebags, including his ex-girlfriend, who is stalking him. It doesn't matter how many times he tells her no nicely, until he fiercely stands up for himself, she won't hear it. Hopefully she isn't truly dangerous, as breaking up with stalkers can trigger violence. Stalkers aren't stable. They are scary and emotionally volatile.
It's hard to be direct with a no when you're scared of violence. I look fragile. I'm tall but almost a waif. If I were to take on a man, I'd most likely lose. Escape is my best option, not fighting. In the face of anger, I tend to swallow my own anger and hide my fear so that I can quietly walk away. I may even promise to return with goodies or to talk at another time. That's how I ended things with MZ. He was distracted by life, and I "gave him the space he needed to deal." I promised that after a couple of months, that we'd get back together. I lied. I shamelessly, confidently lied. Lied. Lied. Lied. I even assured him that I loved him. I hated him. I wanted him gone. I wanted him to leave me alone.
When I got home, I told my parents that I no longer wanted to talk to him, but not why (like they'd believe me anyway, and besides premarital sex was wrong, so they'd just call me a whore). Or rather, not the true reason. I asked them to run interference because he called me a bitch, and then did my best not to be home, just in case.
And that is the trouble with the slogan "No Means No." Douchebags refuse to hear the no, especially when it isn't a direct, loud, hostile NO!!! (which then makes you a bitch and why do you have to be that way, they ought to slap you for that, bitch.) You try to "let someone down easy" and they just keep on going, even if you pretend to be ill. You say no and they hear "a few more seconds of foreplay and it's an all clear." They just don't listen. They don't want to hear no, and deafen themselves to anything else. They warp "no means no" to include "and nothing else counts."
I prefer "Yes Means Yes" and the standard of enthusiastic consent. Will it help against douchebags? Probably not. But it will help those who are truly learning about interpersonal relationships, and who actually do want to learn. It will help those who have been told no-means-no and don't know what to do when they haven't heard no, but their date isn't all that interested, and they're supposed to be men (or girls who don't understand that a guy's hard-on isn't consent).
For this post, I am reflecting on three works. The first is "Who're You Calling a Whore?: A Conversation with Three Sex Workers on Sexuality, Empowerment, and the Industry" by Susan Lopez, Mariko Passion, and Saundra. The second is "On the Supposed Inability of Men to Understand Refusals" by Lauren O. The third is "Speak Up, I Can't Hear You" by Deborah Cameron.
(From "Who're You Calling a Whore?" page 274) "...I did not choose to be looked at sexually by the luring eyes of men and boys since my teens, I did not choose to learn the rules of the date rape game the hard way, and I did not create the conditions in the sexist and patriarchal world that I was born into. This world created me. This inequality was never a choice, and for me, too many times it was a hard lesson."
Obviously, I've had plenty of run-ins with douchebags. JRS was one. MZ was one. But they have not managed to poison my view of all of the male sex. There are men, there are douche bags, and there are boys still learning/deciding who they are. I have hope that douchebags can reform, but it would take a complete paradigm shift in their outlooks, as well as social censure for that to happen. (And, yes, women can be douchebags too.)
I was better at dealing with douchebags in junior high, between episodes of depression. One guy grabbed me, and when he refused to let me go, I clawed his arm off of me, leaving bloody trails from my fingernails. I stood up for myself, and he got the message loud and clear.
Unfortunately, this and my embrace of being nerdcore, made me invisible to boys in high school. And the few I later learned had been interested were much too scared to actually talk to me. Of course, I was too scared to talk to some of the guys I was interested in as well. High school sucks that way. Once I got out of high school, it was suddenly open season on me. I attracted far more attention than I ever had before, and I didn't know what to do with it. I was struggling with depression, learning to be semi-independent, and clueless about guys. Surely none of the guys I knew would be douchebags. Ah, how naive I was.
I still have run-ins with douchebags. I have to deal with customers where I work, and sometimes young men try to pick up on me. Usually my aloofness is enough to dissuade them, but sometimes it's not. For those, saying that I'm married or a snide "dude, I'm 30" is enough to dissuade them, but sometimes even that's not enough. I feel dirty even talking to the ones who "mishear" my telling them that I'm married as me looking for an affair. I'm working, not looking to score.
One of my male coworkers tends to be a nice young man, respectful and studious. He, like most nice people, has a tendency to try to couch and soften his NOs, which demonstrates consideration. Unfortunately, he knows too many douchebags, including his ex-girlfriend, who is stalking him. It doesn't matter how many times he tells her no nicely, until he fiercely stands up for himself, she won't hear it. Hopefully she isn't truly dangerous, as breaking up with stalkers can trigger violence. Stalkers aren't stable. They are scary and emotionally volatile.
It's hard to be direct with a no when you're scared of violence. I look fragile. I'm tall but almost a waif. If I were to take on a man, I'd most likely lose. Escape is my best option, not fighting. In the face of anger, I tend to swallow my own anger and hide my fear so that I can quietly walk away. I may even promise to return with goodies or to talk at another time. That's how I ended things with MZ. He was distracted by life, and I "gave him the space he needed to deal." I promised that after a couple of months, that we'd get back together. I lied. I shamelessly, confidently lied. Lied. Lied. Lied. I even assured him that I loved him. I hated him. I wanted him gone. I wanted him to leave me alone.
When I got home, I told my parents that I no longer wanted to talk to him, but not why (like they'd believe me anyway, and besides premarital sex was wrong, so they'd just call me a whore). Or rather, not the true reason. I asked them to run interference because he called me a bitch, and then did my best not to be home, just in case.
And that is the trouble with the slogan "No Means No." Douchebags refuse to hear the no, especially when it isn't a direct, loud, hostile NO!!! (which then makes you a bitch and why do you have to be that way, they ought to slap you for that, bitch.) You try to "let someone down easy" and they just keep on going, even if you pretend to be ill. You say no and they hear "a few more seconds of foreplay and it's an all clear." They just don't listen. They don't want to hear no, and deafen themselves to anything else. They warp "no means no" to include "and nothing else counts."
I prefer "Yes Means Yes" and the standard of enthusiastic consent. Will it help against douchebags? Probably not. But it will help those who are truly learning about interpersonal relationships, and who actually do want to learn. It will help those who have been told no-means-no and don't know what to do when they haven't heard no, but their date isn't all that interested, and they're supposed to be men (or girls who don't understand that a guy's hard-on isn't consent).
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
What Counts
Responding to: "The Process-Oriented Virgin" by Hanne Blank.
Reading this essay led me to reflect upon my "number" and change it.
Even in the ancient world, when it was obvious that women were property and bargaining chips, women from cities that had been invaded, resulting in mass rape, were still considered virgins and marriageable.
(page 289) "What happened to you sexually was not necessarily what you were as a person."
Most people seem to agree that rape, especially in children or by strangers, is an assault and not sex. It doesn't count, especially when the victim has no other sexualized experience.
(page 290) "This didn't just broaden the spectrum of what might be understood to constitute virginity, as a (at least potentially) contextual quality. It also placed, at least in some cases, the determination of whether someone was or wasn't a virgin in a place where it almost never rested otherwise: namely, in the virgin's own hands."
So why should it count for those of us who are sexually active, married or not?
I was a full participant in "losing" my virginity. My motive was more curiosity than anything. There was a guy I knew, attractive enough, very flirtatious, an outsider like me. I gave him my number. He called, asked me when I'd come over. We were both clear that I'd be coming over for sex. I didn't have any illusions that we'd start dating. I got directions, lied to my parents about plans, and one Saturday we got together.
I'd read enough romance novels to understand that there might be some discomfort, but that if I was excited enough it would be enjoyable anyway. All in all, I had a very positive experience. Wish I could say the same about the rest of my experiences.
(page 294) "As an assertion of unconscious, psychological truth, the statement that a given woman's virginity ends when the individual says it does, for the reasons that she says it does, is unassailable. It destroys the historical relationship between authority figures and virginity by cutting out outsiders--anyone from priests to parents to virginity testers--out of of the picture entirely, divesting them of any voice in regard to what virginity is and what it might or might not be worth."
I think post-virginal sex should also be defined by ones experiencing it.
I've revised my number--or, more accurately, I now have two numbers. One is the number of people I've had sex with; the other number is relevant only for medical inquiries. I've shed some experiences, recognizing them for the garbage they are.
(page 293) "The sex that counts for these young women is sex in which they are involved and invested."
JRS does not count. I wasn't involved. I was a masturbatory aid, nothing more that day. That was not sex. It was "not-rape," though with the "surprise" anal sex, I've begun to shift it into the rape or sexual assault category.
MZ does not count. MZ was my "boyfriend" for far too long--a few months. He raped me six times and coerced me into sex about weekly. Over and over I'd tell him no. It was like hitting pause on a busted remote where the moment you lift your finger, it continues playing anyway. I found out he'd gotten me pregnant when nature too care of that problem for me before I'd realized I had a problem at all. I stupidly told him even though we'd broken up, thinking it was The-Right-Thing-To-Do. He raped me again. That entire "relationship" doesn't count.
One more experience doesn't meet the involved and invested requirement. It doesn't count either. There really wasn't anything bad about it; it just doesn't measure up. I didn't seek it. I didn't NOT want it. I just went along with it. Not good enough. Not sex.
The mischievous part of me wonders how the douches I excised would react if I told them that they don't count, but that would make this retaliatory, rather than being true to myself. I don't care to encounter any of them again, so I won't be seeking them out. I'd prefer to focus on the enthusiastic sex that does matter, that does count, that fills me with joy.
Reading this essay led me to reflect upon my "number" and change it.
Even in the ancient world, when it was obvious that women were property and bargaining chips, women from cities that had been invaded, resulting in mass rape, were still considered virgins and marriageable.
(page 289) "What happened to you sexually was not necessarily what you were as a person."
Most people seem to agree that rape, especially in children or by strangers, is an assault and not sex. It doesn't count, especially when the victim has no other sexualized experience.
(page 290) "This didn't just broaden the spectrum of what might be understood to constitute virginity, as a (at least potentially) contextual quality. It also placed, at least in some cases, the determination of whether someone was or wasn't a virgin in a place where it almost never rested otherwise: namely, in the virgin's own hands."
So why should it count for those of us who are sexually active, married or not?
I was a full participant in "losing" my virginity. My motive was more curiosity than anything. There was a guy I knew, attractive enough, very flirtatious, an outsider like me. I gave him my number. He called, asked me when I'd come over. We were both clear that I'd be coming over for sex. I didn't have any illusions that we'd start dating. I got directions, lied to my parents about plans, and one Saturday we got together.
I'd read enough romance novels to understand that there might be some discomfort, but that if I was excited enough it would be enjoyable anyway. All in all, I had a very positive experience. Wish I could say the same about the rest of my experiences.
(page 294) "As an assertion of unconscious, psychological truth, the statement that a given woman's virginity ends when the individual says it does, for the reasons that she says it does, is unassailable. It destroys the historical relationship between authority figures and virginity by cutting out outsiders--anyone from priests to parents to virginity testers--out of of the picture entirely, divesting them of any voice in regard to what virginity is and what it might or might not be worth."
I think post-virginal sex should also be defined by ones experiencing it.
I've revised my number--or, more accurately, I now have two numbers. One is the number of people I've had sex with; the other number is relevant only for medical inquiries. I've shed some experiences, recognizing them for the garbage they are.
(page 293) "The sex that counts for these young women is sex in which they are involved and invested."
JRS does not count. I wasn't involved. I was a masturbatory aid, nothing more that day. That was not sex. It was "not-rape," though with the "surprise" anal sex, I've begun to shift it into the rape or sexual assault category.
MZ does not count. MZ was my "boyfriend" for far too long--a few months. He raped me six times and coerced me into sex about weekly. Over and over I'd tell him no. It was like hitting pause on a busted remote where the moment you lift your finger, it continues playing anyway. I found out he'd gotten me pregnant when nature too care of that problem for me before I'd realized I had a problem at all. I stupidly told him even though we'd broken up, thinking it was The-Right-Thing-To-Do. He raped me again. That entire "relationship" doesn't count.
One more experience doesn't meet the involved and invested requirement. It doesn't count either. There really wasn't anything bad about it; it just doesn't measure up. I didn't seek it. I didn't NOT want it. I just went along with it. Not good enough. Not sex.
The mischievous part of me wonders how the douches I excised would react if I told them that they don't count, but that would make this retaliatory, rather than being true to myself. I don't care to encounter any of them again, so I won't be seeking them out. I'd prefer to focus on the enthusiastic sex that does matter, that does count, that fills me with joy.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Jumping at Shadows
Responding to "In Defense of Going Wild or: How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love Pleasure (and How You Can Too)" by Jaclyn Friedman.
(page 314) "I hereby declare my right to be wild and still maintain my bodily autonomy."
I know a couple of women who drink beyond the blacking out point on a regular basis. I am scared for them. Don't they know that it only takes one creep to abuse them in their vulnerable state? I hope for their safety, but know it's just a matter of time before they get hurt (or hurt again). I find myself struggling not to slut-shame one of them, but I have to make a conscious effort not to.
(page 315) "Sure, there are plenty of ways drinking and/or sexing can be bad for you--any pleasure can be manipulated or abused for any number of reasons. But there's nothing inherently wrong with either, and when you force women to choose safety over pleasure in ways men never have to (and when you shame them for choosing 'wrong'), you teach women that their pleasure is not as important as men's."
All my life I've been hearing about the dangers of daring to be female in public after dark. It's sad really. Walking after dark in a quiet area is so very peaceful. I enjoy the night sky on clear or partly cloudy nights.
Recently, my best friend and I went out to a bar, no men attached. With loving concern, my husband cautioned me to be careful and not drink too much. After all, there are predators in every town. Turns out that in the early hours of morning that very day, a woman took a short-cut home, and someone attacked her, raping her.
I was relatively safe in a low-key bar, walking on well-lit streets to find one of the plentiful taxis. The extent of misconduct I experienced was a single inappropriate comment, by the cab driver of course.
The night life doesn't scare me. Even as a foolish teen I took precautions. I had extremely sharp pencils in my purse. I drove myself instead of trusting some guy to see me home safely (strangely, this upset my parents--that I'd insist on driving myself. Weren't men chivalrous enough to pick me up? Was I ashamed of them?) While I occasionally found myself the lone girl at an athletes' party, once anyone seemed more than tipsy or I got a bad feeling, I left. No harm done.
No, being female at night in public left me unscathed.
It was my "boyfriend" who told me to "put out or get out"--in my own car. The "surprise" anal sex happened in the afternoon--at work.
(page 316) "If we want to raise awareness about the links between drinking and rape, we should start by getting the word out to men (who are, after all, the overwhelming majority of rapists) that alcohol is likely to impair their ability to respond appropriately if a sexual partner says no."
Yes, the nightlife can be dangerous--especially when men have been drinking. The cases of questionable sex or date rape that men I know have told me about involved their drinking alcohol in all but one case.
When I go out to enjoy myself, I don't want to jump at shadows or contain my joy. I want to be free to celebrate. It's up to everyone to exercise the restraint to be sure of their welcome, no matter how tipsy or drunk or wasted their object of desire is.
(page 319) "If we spent even a fraction of the time we use to teach girls to fear for their bodies teaching them to use their bodies for their own protection instead, there'd by a hell of a lot less for any of us to worry about. Because the most practical way to reduce the risk of rape for all women is to create a culture in which the rapist has to worry that he'll get hurt."
A distant cousin of mine one tackled me and threatened to rape me. I didn't know how to get him off me, except by threatening to bite him. I knew I couldn't take him in a fight, but it worked. I'm not sure how serious he was, even to this day, but a simple display of my backbone stopped him. So in addition to teaching our sons that only yes means yes and that alcohol may hinder their ability to recognize that a yes shouldn't count, we need to teach our daughters to hear and use their voices. This world could be a better place.
(page 314) "I hereby declare my right to be wild and still maintain my bodily autonomy."
I know a couple of women who drink beyond the blacking out point on a regular basis. I am scared for them. Don't they know that it only takes one creep to abuse them in their vulnerable state? I hope for their safety, but know it's just a matter of time before they get hurt (or hurt again). I find myself struggling not to slut-shame one of them, but I have to make a conscious effort not to.
(page 315) "Sure, there are plenty of ways drinking and/or sexing can be bad for you--any pleasure can be manipulated or abused for any number of reasons. But there's nothing inherently wrong with either, and when you force women to choose safety over pleasure in ways men never have to (and when you shame them for choosing 'wrong'), you teach women that their pleasure is not as important as men's."
All my life I've been hearing about the dangers of daring to be female in public after dark. It's sad really. Walking after dark in a quiet area is so very peaceful. I enjoy the night sky on clear or partly cloudy nights.
Recently, my best friend and I went out to a bar, no men attached. With loving concern, my husband cautioned me to be careful and not drink too much. After all, there are predators in every town. Turns out that in the early hours of morning that very day, a woman took a short-cut home, and someone attacked her, raping her.
I was relatively safe in a low-key bar, walking on well-lit streets to find one of the plentiful taxis. The extent of misconduct I experienced was a single inappropriate comment, by the cab driver of course.
The night life doesn't scare me. Even as a foolish teen I took precautions. I had extremely sharp pencils in my purse. I drove myself instead of trusting some guy to see me home safely (strangely, this upset my parents--that I'd insist on driving myself. Weren't men chivalrous enough to pick me up? Was I ashamed of them?) While I occasionally found myself the lone girl at an athletes' party, once anyone seemed more than tipsy or I got a bad feeling, I left. No harm done.
No, being female at night in public left me unscathed.
It was my "boyfriend" who told me to "put out or get out"--in my own car. The "surprise" anal sex happened in the afternoon--at work.
(page 316) "If we want to raise awareness about the links between drinking and rape, we should start by getting the word out to men (who are, after all, the overwhelming majority of rapists) that alcohol is likely to impair their ability to respond appropriately if a sexual partner says no."
Yes, the nightlife can be dangerous--especially when men have been drinking. The cases of questionable sex or date rape that men I know have told me about involved their drinking alcohol in all but one case.
When I go out to enjoy myself, I don't want to jump at shadows or contain my joy. I want to be free to celebrate. It's up to everyone to exercise the restraint to be sure of their welcome, no matter how tipsy or drunk or wasted their object of desire is.
(page 319) "If we spent even a fraction of the time we use to teach girls to fear for their bodies teaching them to use their bodies for their own protection instead, there'd by a hell of a lot less for any of us to worry about. Because the most practical way to reduce the risk of rape for all women is to create a culture in which the rapist has to worry that he'll get hurt."
A distant cousin of mine one tackled me and threatened to rape me. I didn't know how to get him off me, except by threatening to bite him. I knew I couldn't take him in a fight, but it worked. I'm not sure how serious he was, even to this day, but a simple display of my backbone stopped him. So in addition to teaching our sons that only yes means yes and that alcohol may hinder their ability to recognize that a yes shouldn't count, we need to teach our daughters to hear and use their voices. This world could be a better place.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Darkness
This post is another detour from Yes Means Yes, before I get into some heavy posts. Reflecting on readings from Dreaming the Dark by Starhawk.
(page XIV) "When we tell of the turning dark, the velvet dark, Hecate's birthgiving dark, the shadow listens to that also. And what we name feeds into the open imaginations that are listening. So their concept of what is narrowly called death can change.
"The dark: all that we are afraid of, all that we don't want to see--fear, anger, sex, grief, death, the unknown.
"The turning dark: change.
"The velvet dark: skin soft in the night, the stroke of flesh on flesh, touch, joy, mortality.
"Hecate's birth-giving dark: seeds are planted underground, the womb is dark, and life forms itself anew in hidden places."
This blog is about exploring the dark places: the scary, taboo, secretive places of my memories, my culture, and my life. It's about shining a light into the darkness, seeing what's there, and either bringing something into the light or leaving it in the dark.
Darkness has been associated with negativity for much too long. Sometimes darkness is nurturing, restful, protective, healthy, necessary.
My husband and I have different strategies for moving about the house in the middle of the night. Unless I need to read something (like a prescription label), I keep the lights off. Sudden light pains and blinds me. The bathroom has enough ambient light and I touch the back of the toilet to make sure the seat isn't up. I travel the stairs by feel. He turns on the light. I guess it's not as jarring for him. I go slower and more carefully, but that's all the changes I make.
The darkness I'm exploring with this blog is by far velvet darkness: that of carnality. The "dark side" I indulge is that of rough sex and non-monogamy. I strive for healthy non-monogamy in that I am honest and open to my partners about my partnerships. Because I am married, my consent is contingent upon my husband's consent. If he doesn't grant me the consent to be with another, then that would be cheating, which is wrong.
The downside to an open marriage is our culture's slut shaming. Because I don't conform to a narrow vision of sexual morality, those who do have a narrow view would say that I asked for it if anything untoward would happen to me again. Hell, I "deserved" it the first time for not waiting until marriage!
Happily, we live in a pluralistic society, and not everyone subscribes to a sex-negative perspective, which I find much "darker" ethically. My interest in in negotiating my sexuality in ways that respect me, my husband, my lovers, and my lovers' spouses.
Whether I adhere to mainstream expectations, I am not nothing/a slut/(insert insult here) because I enjoy sex. I am more than my sexuality.
(page 10) "The world itself is the content of the world, its true value, its heart, and its soul."
I recently had a spiritual discussion where I revealed that I don't believe in heaven and hell, that they are both states found in daily life. Sexually, heaven is orgasmic enthusiastic sex while hell is coercive sex, sexual assault, sexual abuse, and rape. Concepts of the afterlife require faith, and I'm not looking for spiritual debate. I'm not trying to proselytize, and I'd appreciate being given the same respect.
A girl in northern California was kidnapped at age 11, held captive, and raped repeatedly for almost two decades, forced to bear two children. That is hell. The man who kidnapped her is the devil. His wife, who did nothing to stop this, is the devil. All the people who failed to notice the compound (parole officers, etc) have sinned. Hell is of this world.
One form of faith is (page 11) "...choosing to take this living world, the people and the creatures on it, as the ultimate meaning and purpose of life, to see the world, the earth, and our own lives as sacred."
Sex is sacred. When sex is free from coercion, guilt, emotional blackmail, cheating, lies , and violence, when sex is freely shared and enthusiastically engaged in, sex is sacred, wholesome, wondrous, beautiful. The joy I get from sex fills me, refreshes me, makes life good. Everything I enjoy adds to life, bringing me heaven in this world: companionship, exploration, love, children, good food, cooking, trees, so many things. Seeing life and sex as sacred makes coercive, non-consensual facsimiles of sex even more horrific, the blasphemy that it truly is.
(page 35) "...our choices bring about consequences, and--we cannot escape responsibility for the consequences, not because they are imposed by some external authority, but because they are inherent in the choices themselves."
A long time ago, I dated a man who chose not to listen when I said no. That choice makes him a rapist.
I have healed greatly over the years, but pieces of me are still hurting. In order to fully heal, I have to reopen old wounds and risk hurting again. Not healing is also a choice, but not healing will mean that I'll continue to hurt for the rest of my life, that I'll have a frozen voice, that I'll find myself paralyzed with fear. I have instead chosen to speak.
(page XIV) "When we tell of the turning dark, the velvet dark, Hecate's birthgiving dark, the shadow listens to that also. And what we name feeds into the open imaginations that are listening. So their concept of what is narrowly called death can change.
"The dark: all that we are afraid of, all that we don't want to see--fear, anger, sex, grief, death, the unknown.
"The turning dark: change.
"The velvet dark: skin soft in the night, the stroke of flesh on flesh, touch, joy, mortality.
"Hecate's birth-giving dark: seeds are planted underground, the womb is dark, and life forms itself anew in hidden places."
This blog is about exploring the dark places: the scary, taboo, secretive places of my memories, my culture, and my life. It's about shining a light into the darkness, seeing what's there, and either bringing something into the light or leaving it in the dark.
Darkness has been associated with negativity for much too long. Sometimes darkness is nurturing, restful, protective, healthy, necessary.
My husband and I have different strategies for moving about the house in the middle of the night. Unless I need to read something (like a prescription label), I keep the lights off. Sudden light pains and blinds me. The bathroom has enough ambient light and I touch the back of the toilet to make sure the seat isn't up. I travel the stairs by feel. He turns on the light. I guess it's not as jarring for him. I go slower and more carefully, but that's all the changes I make.
The darkness I'm exploring with this blog is by far velvet darkness: that of carnality. The "dark side" I indulge is that of rough sex and non-monogamy. I strive for healthy non-monogamy in that I am honest and open to my partners about my partnerships. Because I am married, my consent is contingent upon my husband's consent. If he doesn't grant me the consent to be with another, then that would be cheating, which is wrong.
The downside to an open marriage is our culture's slut shaming. Because I don't conform to a narrow vision of sexual morality, those who do have a narrow view would say that I asked for it if anything untoward would happen to me again. Hell, I "deserved" it the first time for not waiting until marriage!
Happily, we live in a pluralistic society, and not everyone subscribes to a sex-negative perspective, which I find much "darker" ethically. My interest in in negotiating my sexuality in ways that respect me, my husband, my lovers, and my lovers' spouses.
Whether I adhere to mainstream expectations, I am not nothing/a slut/(insert insult here) because I enjoy sex. I am more than my sexuality.
(page 10) "The world itself is the content of the world, its true value, its heart, and its soul."
I recently had a spiritual discussion where I revealed that I don't believe in heaven and hell, that they are both states found in daily life. Sexually, heaven is orgasmic enthusiastic sex while hell is coercive sex, sexual assault, sexual abuse, and rape. Concepts of the afterlife require faith, and I'm not looking for spiritual debate. I'm not trying to proselytize, and I'd appreciate being given the same respect.
A girl in northern California was kidnapped at age 11, held captive, and raped repeatedly for almost two decades, forced to bear two children. That is hell. The man who kidnapped her is the devil. His wife, who did nothing to stop this, is the devil. All the people who failed to notice the compound (parole officers, etc) have sinned. Hell is of this world.
One form of faith is (page 11) "...choosing to take this living world, the people and the creatures on it, as the ultimate meaning and purpose of life, to see the world, the earth, and our own lives as sacred."
Sex is sacred. When sex is free from coercion, guilt, emotional blackmail, cheating, lies , and violence, when sex is freely shared and enthusiastically engaged in, sex is sacred, wholesome, wondrous, beautiful. The joy I get from sex fills me, refreshes me, makes life good. Everything I enjoy adds to life, bringing me heaven in this world: companionship, exploration, love, children, good food, cooking, trees, so many things. Seeing life and sex as sacred makes coercive, non-consensual facsimiles of sex even more horrific, the blasphemy that it truly is.
(page 35) "...our choices bring about consequences, and--we cannot escape responsibility for the consequences, not because they are imposed by some external authority, but because they are inherent in the choices themselves."
A long time ago, I dated a man who chose not to listen when I said no. That choice makes him a rapist.
I have healed greatly over the years, but pieces of me are still hurting. In order to fully heal, I have to reopen old wounds and risk hurting again. Not healing is also a choice, but not healing will mean that I'll continue to hurt for the rest of my life, that I'll have a frozen voice, that I'll find myself paralyzed with fear. I have instead chosen to speak.
So-Called Compromise
The quote for this post comes from The Osho Zen Tarot. Unless otherwise specified, and until I finish responding to Yes Means Yes, all of the essays I quote from are found within that book.
Compromise: "It is one thing to meet another halfway, to understand a point of view different from our own and work towards a harmony of the opposing forces. It is quite another to 'cave in' and betray our own truth."
Despite the fact that I of yet have no comments, I have decided to require my approval before they post. I don't need any readers I may eventually have encounter trolling. I want this to be an accountable place. I want sincere questions and insights.
I drew this card in multiple readings over the years. I enjoy Tarot and the thoughtways some of the cards have sent me on.
I'm still discovering my voice. It fades sometimes. I get heartsick reliving the past. I choke myself off, my words paralyzed within me.
I can't allow myself to remain silent. Silence is complicity.
Another thought: to be true to me, I am responding to works in the order I'm ready to talk about them. This blog is my journey, and it is not linear.
To relate this card to sex: if one partner whines, begs, pleads, hounds the other for sex, then giving in is caving. It is not true consent. It is settling. It is a betrayal of the self. It is not love. It is not pleasure. It is not sex. It is "not-rape." I hope the caving partner learns to leave. I hope the whining partner shuts the fuck up, because the whining partner is not a good partner at all.
Compromise: "It is one thing to meet another halfway, to understand a point of view different from our own and work towards a harmony of the opposing forces. It is quite another to 'cave in' and betray our own truth."
Despite the fact that I of yet have no comments, I have decided to require my approval before they post. I don't need any readers I may eventually have encounter trolling. I want this to be an accountable place. I want sincere questions and insights.
I drew this card in multiple readings over the years. I enjoy Tarot and the thoughtways some of the cards have sent me on.
I'm still discovering my voice. It fades sometimes. I get heartsick reliving the past. I choke myself off, my words paralyzed within me.
I can't allow myself to remain silent. Silence is complicity.
Another thought: to be true to me, I am responding to works in the order I'm ready to talk about them. This blog is my journey, and it is not linear.
To relate this card to sex: if one partner whines, begs, pleads, hounds the other for sex, then giving in is caving. It is not true consent. It is settling. It is a betrayal of the self. It is not love. It is not pleasure. It is not sex. It is "not-rape." I hope the caving partner learns to leave. I hope the whining partner shuts the fuck up, because the whining partner is not a good partner at all.
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