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.
Showing posts with label self-respect. Show all posts
Showing posts with label self-respect. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Meditations Towards Happiness
I've begun to read Succulent Wild Woman: Dancing With Your Wonder-Full Self! by Sark. It's actually a bit fluffy for me, but I need a pick-me-up. I've been mired in depression for weeks, and I've lost my perkiness.
(page 14) "It isn't easy for any of us to transcend the past, or pain we might have suffered. Yet, there are gifts in those pains, and we can choose to let light into the dark places. We are not alone!"
The whole point of this blog and of seeking therapy was to shine light into the dark places of my memory, the dark unexposed parts of my soul. And it's harder than I thought it would be. The pains feel almost fresh, and some of them have been ripening for a long time.
(page 10) "My own journey is full of fear, pain, love, shame, wonder, ecstasy, luck, daring, and marvelous imperfections."
I took a journey through my psyche and found a series of me trapped in an MC Escher drawing, climbing a ring of stairs only to find myself once again on the bottom. How can I go up and up but never get anywhere? So I took drastic action in my mind, and bent and tore that picture open. At first there was only a void in the opening created by ripping the picture, but then it filled with a flight of butterflies. I don't know what the butterflies hide, but I'm not scared to find out anymore.
(page 11) "I invite you to travel along with me as I share my stumblings, astonishments, and discoveries as a woman."
I invited a handful of friends to travel with me through this. I hope we all survive the journey, because it's already proven to be a painful one for me. While I try to spare everyone the full force of my anger, the rage that this journey has revealed in me, I have been unable to fully shield everyone. I have already hurt feelings while trying to just keep myself together. I'm sure I'll hurt more. The journey isn't going to be comfortable all of the time, that's just the way healing is. Sometimes the wounds have to be reopened, cleaned, and then scored so that the edges can bleed together and reknit. And that means pain.
(page 13) "I guess I look bright and untroubled, and I smile a lot, which is sometimes a mask to hide shyness, fear, or pain."
I learned to mask myself with a smile a long, long time ago. I was not allowed to show my pain as a child. After all, I was a white, middle-class girl from a respectable family, and dammit if I was unhappy then I should just count my blessings and stop feeling sorry for myself. After all, what would the neighbors think?
And the whole time I was living with the person who molested me, whom my parents refused to believe did so. I was forced to eat dinner sitting right next to him, which was actually probably better than across from him, having to look at him while I ate. I could instead imagine an invisible forcefield between us, so he couldn't pollute my space. I would push his chair as far away from mine as possible, and do my best never to have him in my field of vision, though I couldn't stop smelling him. Ick.
Even now I hide behind a smile most of the time, and it can be shocking for people when they realize that my smiles sometimes have tone, and not happy ones at that. I can be aggressively perky when I'm annoyed or angry, my smile more a baring of teeth and my enthusiasm little more than a snarl. My smiles can be anxious or scared or panicked while I do my best to keep myself calm and in control.
(page 13) "I do not know more than you do. My investigations have shown that we frequently think others know IT but we don't know IT.
"What is IT?"
I don't know what IT is, but I'm looking to be a more content, more calm, more connected person. In some ways, I'm looking to be more Zen about things. I'm looking to be a healed, healthy, whole person whose mind doesn't have chasms. I'm looking to stop being numb all the time. I want love, peace, and happiness. I don't know how to be happy on a regular basis.
According to Sark, I'm looking to be a more succulent woman.
(page 5) "Succulent: Ripe. Juicy. Whole. Round. Exuberant. Wild. Rich. Wide. Deep. Firm. Rare. Female."
I'm not sure what it all means yet.
(page 14) "It isn't easy for any of us to transcend the past, or pain we might have suffered. Yet, there are gifts in those pains, and we can choose to let light into the dark places. We are not alone!"
The whole point of this blog and of seeking therapy was to shine light into the dark places of my memory, the dark unexposed parts of my soul. And it's harder than I thought it would be. The pains feel almost fresh, and some of them have been ripening for a long time.
(page 10) "My own journey is full of fear, pain, love, shame, wonder, ecstasy, luck, daring, and marvelous imperfections."
I took a journey through my psyche and found a series of me trapped in an MC Escher drawing, climbing a ring of stairs only to find myself once again on the bottom. How can I go up and up but never get anywhere? So I took drastic action in my mind, and bent and tore that picture open. At first there was only a void in the opening created by ripping the picture, but then it filled with a flight of butterflies. I don't know what the butterflies hide, but I'm not scared to find out anymore.
(page 11) "I invite you to travel along with me as I share my stumblings, astonishments, and discoveries as a woman."
I invited a handful of friends to travel with me through this. I hope we all survive the journey, because it's already proven to be a painful one for me. While I try to spare everyone the full force of my anger, the rage that this journey has revealed in me, I have been unable to fully shield everyone. I have already hurt feelings while trying to just keep myself together. I'm sure I'll hurt more. The journey isn't going to be comfortable all of the time, that's just the way healing is. Sometimes the wounds have to be reopened, cleaned, and then scored so that the edges can bleed together and reknit. And that means pain.
(page 13) "I guess I look bright and untroubled, and I smile a lot, which is sometimes a mask to hide shyness, fear, or pain."
I learned to mask myself with a smile a long, long time ago. I was not allowed to show my pain as a child. After all, I was a white, middle-class girl from a respectable family, and dammit if I was unhappy then I should just count my blessings and stop feeling sorry for myself. After all, what would the neighbors think?
And the whole time I was living with the person who molested me, whom my parents refused to believe did so. I was forced to eat dinner sitting right next to him, which was actually probably better than across from him, having to look at him while I ate. I could instead imagine an invisible forcefield between us, so he couldn't pollute my space. I would push his chair as far away from mine as possible, and do my best never to have him in my field of vision, though I couldn't stop smelling him. Ick.
Even now I hide behind a smile most of the time, and it can be shocking for people when they realize that my smiles sometimes have tone, and not happy ones at that. I can be aggressively perky when I'm annoyed or angry, my smile more a baring of teeth and my enthusiasm little more than a snarl. My smiles can be anxious or scared or panicked while I do my best to keep myself calm and in control.
(page 13) "I do not know more than you do. My investigations have shown that we frequently think others know IT but we don't know IT.
"What is IT?"
I don't know what IT is, but I'm looking to be a more content, more calm, more connected person. In some ways, I'm looking to be more Zen about things. I'm looking to be a healed, healthy, whole person whose mind doesn't have chasms. I'm looking to stop being numb all the time. I want love, peace, and happiness. I don't know how to be happy on a regular basis.
According to Sark, I'm looking to be a more succulent woman.
(page 5) "Succulent: Ripe. Juicy. Whole. Round. Exuberant. Wild. Rich. Wide. Deep. Firm. Rare. Female."
I'm not sure what it all means yet.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Sex Ed
Responding to "Real Sex Education" by Cara Kulwicki.
My recent illness has resulted in some discomfort for me, in that my immune system was not capable of handling sex, which I did not realize at the time. Now I'm struggling with bacterial vaginitis and a yeast infection, neither of which are fun at all. Sigh. I was thinking about when I first learned about yeast infections and bacterial vaginitis in an academic setting, and it wasn't until a college level human sexuality course that sexually influenced, but not transmitted, problems were covered. In high school, we learned about the STDs, but not more mundane infections.
I really don't remember much about what I learned in high school. It was a fairly short unit. I do know that we covered condoms, and I assume other birth control methods. My state did not accept abstinence-only funds.
(page 305) "Real sex education requires, in addition to teaching about protection, teaching sex as a normal and healthy part of life that is varied in terms of both preferred partners an preferred acts. Real sex education teaches that sex is more than heterosexual intercourse and should be consensual and pleasurable for all participants."
It was in college that the answer for "Why do kids have sex?" was posed in class, and the first respondent said "Because it feels good." That actually stopped what was supposed to be a lengthier discussion, as everyone just nodded and realized that no matter what other rationalization there may be, that was the most compelling reason to have sex. Because it feels good. There doesn't need to be another reason. It feels good.
At least, it should. If it doesn't, then something is wrong.
(page 307) "...Once you remove pleasure from sex, it has no purpose. Non-heterosexual sex cannot result in procreation, so what's the point? This is the only thing that religious fundamentalists and abstinence-only educators are right about--when arguing that sex is not or should not be about pleasure, gay and lesbian sex does indeed seem rather odd and even wrong.
"This thinking positions sex for pleasure as a waste of time, rather than as an activity that is itself often productive and important to those of all sexual orientations. Such limited education is invalidating to huge number of people, an erasure of their sexual desires and experiences. And the most-affected people are those who are no straight men."
Procreation is not the reason I have sex. I have children, but they are more a side-effect of sex rather than the intent. Which is not to say that I never intended to have children, just that no matter how much I may have wanted to conceive at the time, I did not have sex simply to conceive. No matter how much I may have wanted to conceive, I only had sex when I wanted to, because I wanted sex.
Gay and lesbian sex is not strange or abhorrent, it is about pleasure, and sometimes about love and intimacy. When sex is only about procreation, it seems bizarre that infertile or elderly people would indulge. It seems bizarre that I would use contraception, let alone get an IUD, with that logic. Sex is much more than procreation or even the potential to procreate.
(page 308) "Knowing that sex is normal, healthy, and not uniform also encourages people to learn what is most enjoyable for them, and how to establish sexual boundaries....Once women, who are most likely to be taught otherwise, know that they are supposed to enjoy sex and might not enjoy certain kinds of sex, they also generally learn to start asking for what they want and feeling more confident in expressing what they don't."
Establishing boundaries takes confidence and practice. I have boundaries, especially about touching. I have boundaries that are not concrete, but that change with my physical reality for the moment. What may feel good one day may not feel good the next. For the next week, my boundary is absolutely no vaginal sex while my body recovers. Might I have other sex? It's possible, but not definite.
Understanding that boundaries lead to a healthier relationship to both yourself and others is important. Understanding that boundaries may be fluid, but that no means no and only yes means yes, makes exploring and discovering boundaries easier on everyone involved.
(page 309) "Many men (and women!) don't understand what rape is. That doesn't mean that men who rape fail to understand when the woman has not fully and enthusiastically consented or when they're committing an act that is wrong--they simply fail or refuse to recognize that what they're doing actually falls under that scary word no one wants applied to them."
It's not a good feeling to realize that your advances were unwanted, though enough people in the world do in fact consent without wanting the sex, for myriad of reasons, including wanting to not reject their beloved. There is a difference between consenting despite not being enthused and not consenting.
(page 309) "The goal is that enthusiastic consent models will help to change the thinking from 'sex when someone says no and fights back is wrong' to 'sex when someone doesn't openly and enthusiastically want it is wrong.'"
So what about sex where one partner consents (without coercion) despite not really wanting it? I guess that all depends on why. Is the less-than-enthusiastic sex a gift? Is it some kind of sacrifice or payment? Is it a promise for better, more enthusiastic sex later? Is it a hope for more initiation from a partner who rarely initiates? Is it love? Is it comfort? Is it a struggle for conception?
Relationships are built on compromise and compassion, and sometimes sex can be a compassionate (rather than passionate) act.
But this whole exploration of non-enthusiastic but otherwise definite consent is dependent upon a lack of coercion and abuse.
(page 309) "...We do have a responsibility, particularly to young women, to give them the tools they need to recognize abuse."
And one of the tools to recognize abuse is to recognize the difference between consent freely given and coercion.
My recent illness has resulted in some discomfort for me, in that my immune system was not capable of handling sex, which I did not realize at the time. Now I'm struggling with bacterial vaginitis and a yeast infection, neither of which are fun at all. Sigh. I was thinking about when I first learned about yeast infections and bacterial vaginitis in an academic setting, and it wasn't until a college level human sexuality course that sexually influenced, but not transmitted, problems were covered. In high school, we learned about the STDs, but not more mundane infections.
I really don't remember much about what I learned in high school. It was a fairly short unit. I do know that we covered condoms, and I assume other birth control methods. My state did not accept abstinence-only funds.
(page 305) "Real sex education requires, in addition to teaching about protection, teaching sex as a normal and healthy part of life that is varied in terms of both preferred partners an preferred acts. Real sex education teaches that sex is more than heterosexual intercourse and should be consensual and pleasurable for all participants."
It was in college that the answer for "Why do kids have sex?" was posed in class, and the first respondent said "Because it feels good." That actually stopped what was supposed to be a lengthier discussion, as everyone just nodded and realized that no matter what other rationalization there may be, that was the most compelling reason to have sex. Because it feels good. There doesn't need to be another reason. It feels good.
At least, it should. If it doesn't, then something is wrong.
(page 307) "...Once you remove pleasure from sex, it has no purpose. Non-heterosexual sex cannot result in procreation, so what's the point? This is the only thing that religious fundamentalists and abstinence-only educators are right about--when arguing that sex is not or should not be about pleasure, gay and lesbian sex does indeed seem rather odd and even wrong.
"This thinking positions sex for pleasure as a waste of time, rather than as an activity that is itself often productive and important to those of all sexual orientations. Such limited education is invalidating to huge number of people, an erasure of their sexual desires and experiences. And the most-affected people are those who are no straight men."
Procreation is not the reason I have sex. I have children, but they are more a side-effect of sex rather than the intent. Which is not to say that I never intended to have children, just that no matter how much I may have wanted to conceive at the time, I did not have sex simply to conceive. No matter how much I may have wanted to conceive, I only had sex when I wanted to, because I wanted sex.
Gay and lesbian sex is not strange or abhorrent, it is about pleasure, and sometimes about love and intimacy. When sex is only about procreation, it seems bizarre that infertile or elderly people would indulge. It seems bizarre that I would use contraception, let alone get an IUD, with that logic. Sex is much more than procreation or even the potential to procreate.
(page 308) "Knowing that sex is normal, healthy, and not uniform also encourages people to learn what is most enjoyable for them, and how to establish sexual boundaries....Once women, who are most likely to be taught otherwise, know that they are supposed to enjoy sex and might not enjoy certain kinds of sex, they also generally learn to start asking for what they want and feeling more confident in expressing what they don't."
Establishing boundaries takes confidence and practice. I have boundaries, especially about touching. I have boundaries that are not concrete, but that change with my physical reality for the moment. What may feel good one day may not feel good the next. For the next week, my boundary is absolutely no vaginal sex while my body recovers. Might I have other sex? It's possible, but not definite.
Understanding that boundaries lead to a healthier relationship to both yourself and others is important. Understanding that boundaries may be fluid, but that no means no and only yes means yes, makes exploring and discovering boundaries easier on everyone involved.
(page 309) "Many men (and women!) don't understand what rape is. That doesn't mean that men who rape fail to understand when the woman has not fully and enthusiastically consented or when they're committing an act that is wrong--they simply fail or refuse to recognize that what they're doing actually falls under that scary word no one wants applied to them."
It's not a good feeling to realize that your advances were unwanted, though enough people in the world do in fact consent without wanting the sex, for myriad of reasons, including wanting to not reject their beloved. There is a difference between consenting despite not being enthused and not consenting.
(page 309) "The goal is that enthusiastic consent models will help to change the thinking from 'sex when someone says no and fights back is wrong' to 'sex when someone doesn't openly and enthusiastically want it is wrong.'"
So what about sex where one partner consents (without coercion) despite not really wanting it? I guess that all depends on why. Is the less-than-enthusiastic sex a gift? Is it some kind of sacrifice or payment? Is it a promise for better, more enthusiastic sex later? Is it a hope for more initiation from a partner who rarely initiates? Is it love? Is it comfort? Is it a struggle for conception?
Relationships are built on compromise and compassion, and sometimes sex can be a compassionate (rather than passionate) act.
But this whole exploration of non-enthusiastic but otherwise definite consent is dependent upon a lack of coercion and abuse.
(page 309) "...We do have a responsibility, particularly to young women, to give them the tools they need to recognize abuse."
And one of the tools to recognize abuse is to recognize the difference between consent freely given and coercion.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Looking Good
Responding to "How Do You Fuck a Fat Woman" by Kate Harding
(page 68) "...Women's first--if not only--job is to be attractive to men. Never mind straight women who have other priorities or queer women who don't want men. If you were born with a vagina, your primary obligation from the onset of adolescence and well into adulthood will be to make yourself pretty for heterosexual men's pleasure. Not even just the ones you'd actually want to have a conversation with, let alone sex with--all of them."
Once upon a time I gave a damn about being attractive. And then I had a baby and decided that it was much more important to sleep. I used to have a cosmetics and hair routine, would only wear clothes that fit well to show off my body, and worried when I looked less than perfect.
Back then, I used to read fashion magazines, even knew the names of the most famous ones. Now I don't. I got tired of the same articles on the proper way to remove leg hair, and articles that actually intrigued me were few and far between.
Now I don't put as much effort into being attractive. I try to find haircuts that will look good with the absolute least effort, own only lip gloss, and would actually benefit from a wardrobe update. Most of my clothes are fairly old. But now I refuse to wear clothes that are uncomfortable. I don't need the distraction. I have better things to do than to readjust my undergarments or shirts over and over throughout the day. I really don't care if men-at-large find me attractive. Unless I'm trying to look good in the hopes of attracting compliments, the only people I care find me attractive are the ones I'm already physical with.
Up until recently at work, there was a guy who made comments about the attractiveness of various female co-workers. It was obvious to everyone but him and the higher up men who simply couldn't wrap their heads around the absolute inappropriateness of this practice, that he was indulged in sexual harassment. Many of the women he harassed were in fact teenage girls. I was never an object of his harassment. I would not have let him get away with it. I was not at all intimidated.
Regardless, the guy was in his 30s, was a walking cliche of maintenance men in body type and ill-fitting clothes, did not take pride in his appearance, but still felt completely entitled to judge the women, mostly girls, I work with as to their attractiveness. No one was trying to be attractive for him; they were all doing their best to avoid him. I called him out for his comments on multiple occasions, and he would give me a clueless look, stammering that he was just giving out a compliment. I would just repeat that he wasn't allowed to do that.
(page 72) "Of all the maddening side effects of our narrow cultural beauty standard, I think the worst might be the way it warps our understanding of attraction. The reality is, attraction is unpredictable and subjective--even people who are widely believed to meet the standard do not actually magically become more objectively attractive."
There are a few ways in which I do not and never will meet the cultural beauty standard. Not only do I not have fake breasts, my natural ones are not large. I am not blond. My teeth aren't perfect. I wear glasses. I am quite slender, which actually intimidates some women who see me as competition. Most of them have far more generous breasts than I have, so their focus on my thinness confuses me.
Really, it is far more important to be comfortable in the body you currently inhabit, and to wear comfortable clothes. Once I stopped thinking of looking good as a competition and worrying who was prettier than me, it was easier for me to relate to and empathize with other women. I can look good for me, should I choose to, and that does not in any way have to effect any one else.
(page 68) "...Women's first--if not only--job is to be attractive to men. Never mind straight women who have other priorities or queer women who don't want men. If you were born with a vagina, your primary obligation from the onset of adolescence and well into adulthood will be to make yourself pretty for heterosexual men's pleasure. Not even just the ones you'd actually want to have a conversation with, let alone sex with--all of them."
Once upon a time I gave a damn about being attractive. And then I had a baby and decided that it was much more important to sleep. I used to have a cosmetics and hair routine, would only wear clothes that fit well to show off my body, and worried when I looked less than perfect.
Back then, I used to read fashion magazines, even knew the names of the most famous ones. Now I don't. I got tired of the same articles on the proper way to remove leg hair, and articles that actually intrigued me were few and far between.
Now I don't put as much effort into being attractive. I try to find haircuts that will look good with the absolute least effort, own only lip gloss, and would actually benefit from a wardrobe update. Most of my clothes are fairly old. But now I refuse to wear clothes that are uncomfortable. I don't need the distraction. I have better things to do than to readjust my undergarments or shirts over and over throughout the day. I really don't care if men-at-large find me attractive. Unless I'm trying to look good in the hopes of attracting compliments, the only people I care find me attractive are the ones I'm already physical with.
Up until recently at work, there was a guy who made comments about the attractiveness of various female co-workers. It was obvious to everyone but him and the higher up men who simply couldn't wrap their heads around the absolute inappropriateness of this practice, that he was indulged in sexual harassment. Many of the women he harassed were in fact teenage girls. I was never an object of his harassment. I would not have let him get away with it. I was not at all intimidated.
Regardless, the guy was in his 30s, was a walking cliche of maintenance men in body type and ill-fitting clothes, did not take pride in his appearance, but still felt completely entitled to judge the women, mostly girls, I work with as to their attractiveness. No one was trying to be attractive for him; they were all doing their best to avoid him. I called him out for his comments on multiple occasions, and he would give me a clueless look, stammering that he was just giving out a compliment. I would just repeat that he wasn't allowed to do that.
(page 72) "Of all the maddening side effects of our narrow cultural beauty standard, I think the worst might be the way it warps our understanding of attraction. The reality is, attraction is unpredictable and subjective--even people who are widely believed to meet the standard do not actually magically become more objectively attractive."
There are a few ways in which I do not and never will meet the cultural beauty standard. Not only do I not have fake breasts, my natural ones are not large. I am not blond. My teeth aren't perfect. I wear glasses. I am quite slender, which actually intimidates some women who see me as competition. Most of them have far more generous breasts than I have, so their focus on my thinness confuses me.
Really, it is far more important to be comfortable in the body you currently inhabit, and to wear comfortable clothes. Once I stopped thinking of looking good as a competition and worrying who was prettier than me, it was easier for me to relate to and empathize with other women. I can look good for me, should I choose to, and that does not in any way have to effect any one else.
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.
Friday, September 4, 2009
More Than Appearances
Responding to "A Woman's Worth" by Javacia N. Harris.
(page 64) "I'm not advocating that women ignore or hide their bodies. A woman's feeling good about her body and learning to enjoy it can only help her in the journey toward a healthy and satisfying sexual life."
The magazines regularly edit models and celebrities to depict bodies impossible to achieve in nature. Teeth are whiter than the most bleached ones out there. Absolutely no fly away hairs. Blemishes are nonexistent, and skin tone is magnificently even. I guess we're all supposed to be plastic mannequins, both thoroughly anorexic but somehow curvy, and then we'll all be perfect and happy.
Is it any wonder that even the highest paid, most fabulous supermodel may be completely insecure about her looks? No one can ever measure up.
Like many, if not most, American women, I often feel unpretty. I have stretch marks, mommy breasts, and a slighted rounded belly. I'm also practically anorexic. I shock people when I admit my weight, because they always forget to take my height and "childbearing" hips into account. Yet I fear I'm fat. I constantly get carded, yet I fear I may look old.
The impossibility of American beauty "standards" (perhaps fantasy is a better word) makes me want to hide beneath overly-large t-shirts and jeans. I feel ugly far more often than I'd like to admit.
(page 64) "My focus shifted from what my body looked like to what it could do, and I finally felt fabulous."
It's not always easy to focus on what my body can do, especially once I derail myself by spotting my flaws. But once I get started, I can accomplish many things with my body. My hands produce art. My arms hold and comfort my children. My feet can walk forever and not give up.
And while I may not always like the way my body looks, I love the way that it feels. My hair is soft. My nails are strong. My skin is soft, smooth, and velvety. My joints are very flexible, allowing me to move in surprising ways.
I'm not so hung up on my body that I can't enjoy myself in the light while I'm nude. The occasional acne or ingrown hair (aka blemishes) sometimes make me long for the dark, but that's fairly rare.
(page 64) "I have fun when I dance because I am enjoying my body, not putting it on display for someone else's pleasure."
Whenever I do stop worrying about how I look, relax, and have fun, I seem to draw attention from the male gaze. Supposedly, it's quite complimentary (according to men, at least), but I got over being told I'm cute a long time ago, about the same time I got over catcalls and guys honking and yelling when I happened to be out and about walking. Now it's just obnoxious. I'm more than eye-candy, and I prefer to be complimented on my accomplishments, not my face and body. Beauty fades and standards (fantasies) change.
My body is amazing, and that's what I need to remember. I'm not a mannequin. I'm not plastic. I'm flesh and blood, and I love it.
(page 64) "I'm not advocating that women ignore or hide their bodies. A woman's feeling good about her body and learning to enjoy it can only help her in the journey toward a healthy and satisfying sexual life."
The magazines regularly edit models and celebrities to depict bodies impossible to achieve in nature. Teeth are whiter than the most bleached ones out there. Absolutely no fly away hairs. Blemishes are nonexistent, and skin tone is magnificently even. I guess we're all supposed to be plastic mannequins, both thoroughly anorexic but somehow curvy, and then we'll all be perfect and happy.
Is it any wonder that even the highest paid, most fabulous supermodel may be completely insecure about her looks? No one can ever measure up.
Like many, if not most, American women, I often feel unpretty. I have stretch marks, mommy breasts, and a slighted rounded belly. I'm also practically anorexic. I shock people when I admit my weight, because they always forget to take my height and "childbearing" hips into account. Yet I fear I'm fat. I constantly get carded, yet I fear I may look old.
The impossibility of American beauty "standards" (perhaps fantasy is a better word) makes me want to hide beneath overly-large t-shirts and jeans. I feel ugly far more often than I'd like to admit.
(page 64) "My focus shifted from what my body looked like to what it could do, and I finally felt fabulous."
It's not always easy to focus on what my body can do, especially once I derail myself by spotting my flaws. But once I get started, I can accomplish many things with my body. My hands produce art. My arms hold and comfort my children. My feet can walk forever and not give up.
And while I may not always like the way my body looks, I love the way that it feels. My hair is soft. My nails are strong. My skin is soft, smooth, and velvety. My joints are very flexible, allowing me to move in surprising ways.
I'm not so hung up on my body that I can't enjoy myself in the light while I'm nude. The occasional acne or ingrown hair (aka blemishes) sometimes make me long for the dark, but that's fairly rare.
(page 64) "I have fun when I dance because I am enjoying my body, not putting it on display for someone else's pleasure."
Whenever I do stop worrying about how I look, relax, and have fun, I seem to draw attention from the male gaze. Supposedly, it's quite complimentary (according to men, at least), but I got over being told I'm cute a long time ago, about the same time I got over catcalls and guys honking and yelling when I happened to be out and about walking. Now it's just obnoxious. I'm more than eye-candy, and I prefer to be complimented on my accomplishments, not my face and body. Beauty fades and standards (fantasies) change.
My body is amazing, and that's what I need to remember. I'm not a mannequin. I'm not plastic. I'm flesh and blood, and I love it.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Burning Rage
Responding to "Shame Is the First Betrayer" by Toni Amato.
Today I am filled with Rage. I've been filled with Rage for a few days now. I believe that I've finally admitted to myself that the guilt and shame that I've felt for most of my life is not mine to feel. It belongs to those who willed themselves blind, most especially my mother.
Over and Over again I heard my mother profess how trained she was to recognize symptoms of abuse in children, how well she was trained in uplifting self esteem and strengthening the confidence of the kids she dealt with on a professional basis.
But what about me? What about your daughter? Did you not see the multitude of symptoms? Did you not recognize the so very typical behavioral patterns? How fucking blind did you have to be? You even SAW it. I remember your statement. You SAW it!
Over and Over again, when I would cry myself to sleep, I was told to stop feeling sorry for myself. Over and Over, when I detailed the actions of the bullies who preyed on me, I was told to ignore-it-and-it-will-go-away. I want to punch people who say ignore-it-and-it-will-go-away, they are fucking delusional. Bullies don't go just go away. Over and Over again, I would complain about my brother's song of Anon-is-retarded, of how he would call me fat and stupid daily, and nothingNOTHINGnothing would happen. Over and Over and Over and Over.
(page 225) "The willing assault and violation of another person's most intimate self is an act devoid of love and devoid of compassion. To survive such a terrible thing is to know in our skin the effect of cultural shame and hatred, and for LGBTIQQA folks especially, that violence has yet to be fully named and fully confronted. Without naming, there is no healing, without healing the shame will continue to burn."
But the shame isn't mine. I owned it for most of my life, but it shouldn't have belonged to me. The shame shouldn't have been laid upon my shoulders. It was not my burden to carry, and I don't want to carry it anymore. It was never my responsibility to save my family from the horror of its secrets. I was just a kid.
And the shame crippled me. If my own mother would name me liar instead of dealing with abuse, was it any wonder that I fell prey to more abusers? That I had trouble escaping them? That I froze? That I was powerless?
The shame isn't mine.
But this anger sure is.
Today I am filled with Rage. I've been filled with Rage for a few days now. I believe that I've finally admitted to myself that the guilt and shame that I've felt for most of my life is not mine to feel. It belongs to those who willed themselves blind, most especially my mother.
Over and Over again I heard my mother profess how trained she was to recognize symptoms of abuse in children, how well she was trained in uplifting self esteem and strengthening the confidence of the kids she dealt with on a professional basis.
But what about me? What about your daughter? Did you not see the multitude of symptoms? Did you not recognize the so very typical behavioral patterns? How fucking blind did you have to be? You even SAW it. I remember your statement. You SAW it!
Over and Over again, when I would cry myself to sleep, I was told to stop feeling sorry for myself. Over and Over, when I detailed the actions of the bullies who preyed on me, I was told to ignore-it-and-it-will-go-away. I want to punch people who say ignore-it-and-it-will-go-away, they are fucking delusional. Bullies don't go just go away. Over and Over again, I would complain about my brother's song of Anon-is-retarded, of how he would call me fat and stupid daily, and nothingNOTHINGnothing would happen. Over and Over and Over and Over.
(page 225) "The willing assault and violation of another person's most intimate self is an act devoid of love and devoid of compassion. To survive such a terrible thing is to know in our skin the effect of cultural shame and hatred, and for LGBTIQQA folks especially, that violence has yet to be fully named and fully confronted. Without naming, there is no healing, without healing the shame will continue to burn."
But the shame isn't mine. I owned it for most of my life, but it shouldn't have belonged to me. The shame shouldn't have been laid upon my shoulders. It was not my burden to carry, and I don't want to carry it anymore. It was never my responsibility to save my family from the horror of its secrets. I was just a kid.
And the shame crippled me. If my own mother would name me liar instead of dealing with abuse, was it any wonder that I fell prey to more abusers? That I had trouble escaping them? That I froze? That I was powerless?
The shame isn't mine.
But this anger sure is.
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.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Beyond Victimhood
Responding to: "What It Feels Like When It Finally Comes: Surviving Incest in Real Life" by Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha
(page 97) "What was in all the zines and seven inch vinyl records was this: if we all said out loud how common the secret catastrophe was that all of us knew girls who'd been raped or fucked with, the 'every single person I know is a fucking survivor' feeling--what would it mean? If all the rage and memory and experience of what we'd lived through came screaming out, wouldn't the world split open? What would the world do with the reality that maybe more than one out of four girls and one out of six boys were sexually abused before we could vote? That the world was built on incest?"
There continues to be a stigma attached to victims of sexual abuse and assault. Victims are broken, never to be whole again. Victims are mine fields, always ready to explode or cry or react badly. Victims are basketcases. Being a victim is the entirety of your identity. Wrong. So very, very wrong.
Far too many of us have been victims, and there is a wide spectrum of responses. It's often easier to just be quiet. I was honest on a medical questionnaire, and the bumbling jerk of a nurse flipped out. He interrogated me, because if I was going to flip out on a doctor exam, he needed to know, and I better not do that. Because I desperately needed to see the doctor, I didn't complain. I should have.
I understand that hearing or reading stories of abuse, assault, rape, etc can be an uncomfortable experience. What do you do? What do you say? How do you act around this person after this revelation? Do you offer a hug? Do you say sorry? What do you do? What is proper?
I have quite a bit of distance from my experiences at this point. If I do tell you what happened, and I'm growing more casual in my sharing, I don't want you to treat me differently than you did in the past. Incest doesn't define me. Rape doesn't define me. I'm not a walking ball of insecurities threatened by every man I see. I never have been, not even when the experiences were new.
(page 99) "I came bit by bit back into my body through words that tell me stories that sound like mine, of how racism, violence, and abuse are all wound together; about how denial of childhood sexual abuse and denial of systemic oppression feel the same."
Victims have been othered, are seen as lesser. I fear being branded a victim, because I pass for normal. Aloof perhaps, but normal.
But what is normal? As I hear more stories from more people, I start to wonder if getting hurt is what's truly normal in this world. If this victim brand is naught but a tool to keep us silent, to keep us complicit. All of us, not just women. Who wants to be a victim? If we just pretend it's not happening, of course it will go away. Only, it hasn't. Nor will it.
(page 101) "Every time I have just the kind of sex I always wanted, every time I grow more into the fierce, fearless femme I have always wanted to be, I heal not like a cliche but like I can see new cells being made, the purple and magenta color of the outside of the skin cells, the bone being reknit."
My lovers want to please me, want to hear me moan and sigh and whimper with pleasure. My ecstasy makes them feel powerful. The power of pleasure is filling, lasting, awe-inspiring. It's divine. It's healing.
The more pleasure I receive, the more pleasure I want to give. I like the power of coaxing moans and sighs and whimpers from my lovers. It's good for my soul. The mere anticipation of great sex is enough to thoroughly silence the bad memories. The more great sex I have, the less power my bad experiences have. I think about them less and less.
Some men think they can own a piece of a woman through subjecting them to violence and abuse. That they will mark her forever. Brand her forever. Wrong. Want a place in my soul? Bring me screaming into orgasm.
I am currently working through my bad experiences, but the men who hurt me are not my true focus. I am. I am working to understand that it wasn't my fault. I am working to forgive myself. My mother's brother, JRS, JD, MZ, and anyone else who has hurt me are nothing to me.
(page 102) "A lot of people are waiting to be asked, silently screaming in their heads 'Ask me, go on ask me, can't you fucking see what's going on?'"
No one asks. They don't want to know.
I've started asking, but worry I'm just reopening wounds. It's hard to ask. Goodness, victim stigma as silencing mechanism really does work.
I think I'll just tell my stories and invite everyone else to also tell theirs.
Maybe someday I'll learn to ask.
(page 97) "What was in all the zines and seven inch vinyl records was this: if we all said out loud how common the secret catastrophe was that all of us knew girls who'd been raped or fucked with, the 'every single person I know is a fucking survivor' feeling--what would it mean? If all the rage and memory and experience of what we'd lived through came screaming out, wouldn't the world split open? What would the world do with the reality that maybe more than one out of four girls and one out of six boys were sexually abused before we could vote? That the world was built on incest?"
There continues to be a stigma attached to victims of sexual abuse and assault. Victims are broken, never to be whole again. Victims are mine fields, always ready to explode or cry or react badly. Victims are basketcases. Being a victim is the entirety of your identity. Wrong. So very, very wrong.
Far too many of us have been victims, and there is a wide spectrum of responses. It's often easier to just be quiet. I was honest on a medical questionnaire, and the bumbling jerk of a nurse flipped out. He interrogated me, because if I was going to flip out on a doctor exam, he needed to know, and I better not do that. Because I desperately needed to see the doctor, I didn't complain. I should have.
I understand that hearing or reading stories of abuse, assault, rape, etc can be an uncomfortable experience. What do you do? What do you say? How do you act around this person after this revelation? Do you offer a hug? Do you say sorry? What do you do? What is proper?
I have quite a bit of distance from my experiences at this point. If I do tell you what happened, and I'm growing more casual in my sharing, I don't want you to treat me differently than you did in the past. Incest doesn't define me. Rape doesn't define me. I'm not a walking ball of insecurities threatened by every man I see. I never have been, not even when the experiences were new.
(page 99) "I came bit by bit back into my body through words that tell me stories that sound like mine, of how racism, violence, and abuse are all wound together; about how denial of childhood sexual abuse and denial of systemic oppression feel the same."
Victims have been othered, are seen as lesser. I fear being branded a victim, because I pass for normal. Aloof perhaps, but normal.
But what is normal? As I hear more stories from more people, I start to wonder if getting hurt is what's truly normal in this world. If this victim brand is naught but a tool to keep us silent, to keep us complicit. All of us, not just women. Who wants to be a victim? If we just pretend it's not happening, of course it will go away. Only, it hasn't. Nor will it.
(page 101) "Every time I have just the kind of sex I always wanted, every time I grow more into the fierce, fearless femme I have always wanted to be, I heal not like a cliche but like I can see new cells being made, the purple and magenta color of the outside of the skin cells, the bone being reknit."
My lovers want to please me, want to hear me moan and sigh and whimper with pleasure. My ecstasy makes them feel powerful. The power of pleasure is filling, lasting, awe-inspiring. It's divine. It's healing.
The more pleasure I receive, the more pleasure I want to give. I like the power of coaxing moans and sighs and whimpers from my lovers. It's good for my soul. The mere anticipation of great sex is enough to thoroughly silence the bad memories. The more great sex I have, the less power my bad experiences have. I think about them less and less.
Some men think they can own a piece of a woman through subjecting them to violence and abuse. That they will mark her forever. Brand her forever. Wrong. Want a place in my soul? Bring me screaming into orgasm.
I am currently working through my bad experiences, but the men who hurt me are not my true focus. I am. I am working to understand that it wasn't my fault. I am working to forgive myself. My mother's brother, JRS, JD, MZ, and anyone else who has hurt me are nothing to me.
(page 102) "A lot of people are waiting to be asked, silently screaming in their heads 'Ask me, go on ask me, can't you fucking see what's going on?'"
No one asks. They don't want to know.
I've started asking, but worry I'm just reopening wounds. It's hard to ask. Goodness, victim stigma as silencing mechanism really does work.
I think I'll just tell my stories and invite everyone else to also tell theirs.
Maybe someday I'll learn to ask.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
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.
Friday, August 28, 2009
No, You DON'T Get to Touch Me
Responding to "Reclaiming Touch: Rape Culture, Explicit Verbal Consent, and Body Sovereignty" by Hazel/Cedar Troust
I was planning on responding to a different piece before I reflected on this one, but I was reminded last night once again why the assumption that it's OK to touch someone without asking is erroneous. Last night a co-worker decided to try to startle me by talking right behind me, and when I told him that it would have been successful, and would have been cause for a rather sharp reaction from me had he touched me instead, he looked puzzled. I reach out & touch people on the back all the time to make sure they don't run into me, he said. I encouraged him to warn me verbally. This isn't the first coworker to consider touching my back (shudder) without asking, and sadly I doubt he'll be the last.
(page 171) "...rape culture works by restricting a person's control of hir body, limiting hir sense of ownership of it, and granting others a sense of entitlement to it. "
I didn't realize just how invasive and demeaning casual touching can be until I was pregnant. Complete strangers feel totally comfortable grabbing a woman's pregnant belly without even asking. Don't. Don't do that. It's not your body, it's not just an unattached floating belly, and you need to respect pregnant women enough to ask.
Before becoming pregnant, I was relatively invisible. Sure, people would approach me and hit on me, and occasionally I'd get cat calls when walking by myself, but it was no where near as intrusive or constant as when I was pregnant. I miss that relative invisibility, though now I can relive it when I go somewhere people don't instantly recognize me and leave the kids at home.
Truthfully, I've never been the touchy-feely type, and some touches can panic me. A coworker asked why once, and for simplicity's sake, I told her I'd been attacked (true, but unrelated). My mother mentioned on several occasions while I was growing up that even as a baby I really didn't like cuddling much, so I was probably just born wired this way. Really, if I haven't given someone permission to touch me, even if that permission is stated only within the confines of my mind, I don't want to be touched.
When people touch me, especially "superiors," without making sure it's OK, then they deny me agency. It's difficult to diplomatically explain that I don't welcome being touched, and that no one is entitled to touch me without my consent, when inside I'm cringing. I flinch. No one is entitled to touch me (or anyone else). Not even doctors. I am not public property.
(page 173) "Practicing explicit verbal consent, I was able to decide first and then accept touch--or say no, which was much easier, because I was no longer breaking off contact and rejecting, but simply not beginning, that activity. I found that there was tons of touch that I accepted rather than wanted, even from people I really wanted to touch me--and to my surprise, I found the people I touched regularly were the same."
I rarely practice explicit verbal consent, though I've started asking to touch my friends, like asking if they'd like a hug when they're upset. It's a bit liberating, because asking permission is much more productive than standing there wondering if my crying friend wants physical comfort (a hug) or really doesn't want to be touched in that moment. Standing there is awkward, and I try not to assume permission to touch except with those I'm most intimate (and who regularly welcome my touch).
I've also realized that I do assume touch is OK, especially with my husband. I like to rest my legs on him or lean against him when we're sitting together because it makes me feel closer to him. I rarely think to ask permission, and it tends to make him feel like furniture, which is the opposite of closeness. When I remember, I move away and ask permission. It's not frequent enough yet.
Sometimes, usually when I'm fatigued, touch--normal, caress-y type touch--just plain feels bad. It's overwhelming and sets off a flight-or-fight response in me. I've stopped being embarrassed about that, which makes it easier for me to request firm touches at that time. I've called them massage touches, trying to allude to the firmness/pressure I need, but I keep getting told a variation of "I don't know that many massages," so I need a different term.
Until I was confident enough and direct enough to explain my physiology, it seemed that my rejection was about my partner, rather than about the touch. This wasn't useful, and led to hurt feelings. As I've become more and more practiced in asking for firmer touches, my touch panic has been greatly mitigated, allowing me to enjoy sex where previously I'd flee or flinch or resist without explanation.
The assumption that it's OK to touch unless told not to and that assumption that it's OK to have sex with someone unless told not to are on the same continuum of belief. Do not assume consent.
(from the notes section, page 330) "Rape is not always a deliberate attempt to harm, but it's never an 'accident.' Though perpetrators may be unaware that what they're doing is rape, non-consensual, or hurtful, if they took their victims' feelings and body sovereignty seriously, they would take more care to do only things that were wanted. Rape is defined by its effect on the survivor, no by what's going through the perpetrator's mind at the time of the assault, but the latter is relevant in analyzing how to stop rape."
Not much to add to this excellent insight beyond that I've said in previous posts. The same feeling of entitlement that allows people to touch without asking, the assumption that your touch is welcome can be hazardous and cause great harm. If you ever have to wonder if your touch is welcome--that you're not sure should be answer enough. I respect people too much to believe that the thought of sex turns anyone into slavering idiots incapable of stopping.
I was planning on responding to a different piece before I reflected on this one, but I was reminded last night once again why the assumption that it's OK to touch someone without asking is erroneous. Last night a co-worker decided to try to startle me by talking right behind me, and when I told him that it would have been successful, and would have been cause for a rather sharp reaction from me had he touched me instead, he looked puzzled. I reach out & touch people on the back all the time to make sure they don't run into me, he said. I encouraged him to warn me verbally. This isn't the first coworker to consider touching my back (shudder) without asking, and sadly I doubt he'll be the last.
(page 171) "...rape culture works by restricting a person's control of hir body, limiting hir sense of ownership of it, and granting others a sense of entitlement to it. "
I didn't realize just how invasive and demeaning casual touching can be until I was pregnant. Complete strangers feel totally comfortable grabbing a woman's pregnant belly without even asking. Don't. Don't do that. It's not your body, it's not just an unattached floating belly, and you need to respect pregnant women enough to ask.
Before becoming pregnant, I was relatively invisible. Sure, people would approach me and hit on me, and occasionally I'd get cat calls when walking by myself, but it was no where near as intrusive or constant as when I was pregnant. I miss that relative invisibility, though now I can relive it when I go somewhere people don't instantly recognize me and leave the kids at home.
Truthfully, I've never been the touchy-feely type, and some touches can panic me. A coworker asked why once, and for simplicity's sake, I told her I'd been attacked (true, but unrelated). My mother mentioned on several occasions while I was growing up that even as a baby I really didn't like cuddling much, so I was probably just born wired this way. Really, if I haven't given someone permission to touch me, even if that permission is stated only within the confines of my mind, I don't want to be touched.
When people touch me, especially "superiors," without making sure it's OK, then they deny me agency. It's difficult to diplomatically explain that I don't welcome being touched, and that no one is entitled to touch me without my consent, when inside I'm cringing. I flinch. No one is entitled to touch me (or anyone else). Not even doctors. I am not public property.
(page 173) "Practicing explicit verbal consent, I was able to decide first and then accept touch--or say no, which was much easier, because I was no longer breaking off contact and rejecting, but simply not beginning, that activity. I found that there was tons of touch that I accepted rather than wanted, even from people I really wanted to touch me--and to my surprise, I found the people I touched regularly were the same."
I rarely practice explicit verbal consent, though I've started asking to touch my friends, like asking if they'd like a hug when they're upset. It's a bit liberating, because asking permission is much more productive than standing there wondering if my crying friend wants physical comfort (a hug) or really doesn't want to be touched in that moment. Standing there is awkward, and I try not to assume permission to touch except with those I'm most intimate (and who regularly welcome my touch).
I've also realized that I do assume touch is OK, especially with my husband. I like to rest my legs on him or lean against him when we're sitting together because it makes me feel closer to him. I rarely think to ask permission, and it tends to make him feel like furniture, which is the opposite of closeness. When I remember, I move away and ask permission. It's not frequent enough yet.
Sometimes, usually when I'm fatigued, touch--normal, caress-y type touch--just plain feels bad. It's overwhelming and sets off a flight-or-fight response in me. I've stopped being embarrassed about that, which makes it easier for me to request firm touches at that time. I've called them massage touches, trying to allude to the firmness/pressure I need, but I keep getting told a variation of "I don't know that many massages," so I need a different term.
Until I was confident enough and direct enough to explain my physiology, it seemed that my rejection was about my partner, rather than about the touch. This wasn't useful, and led to hurt feelings. As I've become more and more practiced in asking for firmer touches, my touch panic has been greatly mitigated, allowing me to enjoy sex where previously I'd flee or flinch or resist without explanation.
The assumption that it's OK to touch unless told not to and that assumption that it's OK to have sex with someone unless told not to are on the same continuum of belief. Do not assume consent.
(from the notes section, page 330) "Rape is not always a deliberate attempt to harm, but it's never an 'accident.' Though perpetrators may be unaware that what they're doing is rape, non-consensual, or hurtful, if they took their victims' feelings and body sovereignty seriously, they would take more care to do only things that were wanted. Rape is defined by its effect on the survivor, no by what's going through the perpetrator's mind at the time of the assault, but the latter is relevant in analyzing how to stop rape."
Not much to add to this excellent insight beyond that I've said in previous posts. The same feeling of entitlement that allows people to touch without asking, the assumption that your touch is welcome can be hazardous and cause great harm. If you ever have to wonder if your touch is welcome--that you're not sure should be answer enough. I respect people too much to believe that the thought of sex turns anyone into slavering idiots incapable of stopping.
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