Responding to “When Pregnancy Is Outlawed, Only Outlaws Will Be Pregnant” by Tiloma Jayasinghe
This week, I plan to expound upon abortion. A friend of mine just found out that she needs one. She feels that she can't tell anyone, because of the stigma involved. She ended up having to tell her boss, and was surprised by how supportive and helpful her boss ended up being. Actually, I'm surprised she told me.
I find that I'm more sympathetic to women who don't want children after having children than I was before I had children. Pregnancy sucks. Chosen pregnancy sucks, because people have rather exacting expectations of pregnant women.
(page 266) “Women are expected to suddenly become paragons of virtue and self-denial during their pregnancies, forgoing sushi, caffeine, nicotine, unpasteurized cheese, tuna, alcohol, cleaning the cat’s litter box, etc. Other members of society feel quite free to censure a woman who breaks any of these taboos.”
I still remember, and resent, the woman who argued with me about the soda I chose to drink. How dare I have caffeine? Didn't I know it wasn't safe? Actually, it's quite safe, and it's MY choice to make. It's my body, my baby, and my choice. I didn't ask for her permission, and she had no right to censure me.
(page 267) “Pregnant women are also affected by the war on abortion. If the fetus is granted rights of personhood, then a woman’s right to choose not to become a mother, for health or personal reasons, will be eliminated; she and the doctor who performs abortions could be charged with murder. When fetal rights are elevated over the right of a woman to choose when she wants to become a mother, to determine the spacing of her children, and to make a private decision about what happens to her body, then she loses her ability to control her own body and her choices are supplanted by those of the state—the state can pretty much tell a woman that she will be forced to carry her pregnancy to term.”
If the state has control over women's bodies because they are pregnant, then pregnant women are denied the liberty that everyone else has.
My experiences in the labor and delivery rooms have left me convinced that most women have at least one unnecessary intervention or something forced upon her, be it electronic fetal monitoring (still not proven safer than non-continuous non-electronic monitoring), rupturing of membranes, or overly-aggressive nurses, or something.
I was pressured into an induction that I wasn't ready for and didn't particularly want. Considering that my baby was born perfectly healthy, I think that over-testing was the true problem. I had to have weekly non-stress tests because the baby's heartbeat did not appear to be normal. My theory is that the baby was asleep for all of them, and that the heartbeat was reflective of that. There was one non-stress test that we had to schedule at a different time, and that heartbeat fit the normal parameters perfectly. The nurse administering the non-stress tests remarked that it was like a whole different baby.
I suppose that I could have refused, but it's difficult to take such a stand. Some doctors even take pregnant women to court to force them to undergo procedures, like Cesarean sections, because it's "in the best interest of the child." But doctors aren't always right, and it's not always in the best interest of the child. But it definitely puts women in their place, now doesn't it?
I have also been prescribed bed rest while pregnant, which I was unable to follow. I did not have the child care necessary to allow me to stay in bed. I had to care for a toddler and was not eligible for disability, having been a stay-at-home mom. Had my inability to follow bed rest resulted in miscarriage, could that have been considered murder if unborn babies had personhood? Was I, by caring for the baby I had already borne, in fact committing child abuse on the one I was carrying by not following orders? It was a risk I had to take. I really didn't have another viable choice.
(page 269) “He could not see that the idea of someone else’s paternalistically taking away her choice to have sex, or to forgo birth control, or to become a mother, renders her not mentally sound, less than human.”
In the essay, this refers to a lawyer who cuts deals for women that include agreeing not to have children. Parole can be contingent on regular pregnancy tests, and becoming pregnant can result in parole being revoked. Women can go to jail simply because they're pregnant. That's a scary thought.
(page 270) “Anytime you try to limit the procreative rights of a class of people because its progeny are considered doomed, or a burden, or generally unwanted, it results in a slow genocide of the poor.”
My own mother thinks that all girls should be fit with something like an IUD or hormonal implants to prevent pregnancy until they can be licensed to have kids. If I had waited until I was ready or could afford to have children, I may still not be a mother. I'm not sure I would ever have felt truly ready. Even now, I sometimes feel inadequate as a mother.
(page 270) “It is really about controlling who reproduces, prohibiting women from having sex, and starting with the easy targets—the vulnerable and the marginalized.”
Some people would say that my friend who needs an abortion is wrong. That she had sex and now needs to pay the piper. That she got pregnant, and to not carry to term is murder. That if she wasn't willing to have a baby, then she shouldn't have had sex to begin with.
I've been luck enough not to need an abortion. The one time that I would have (I hope) chosen to have an abortion, to not tie myself to the man who raped me repeatedly by the bond of blood, nature took care of the problem for me. I did not feel remorse. I felt relief. I was shaken by my close-call, but I was thrilled not to have to deal with the problem.
My friend is in a much better relationship than I had been in. She recently changed birth control methods, and statistically there is a much, much greater chance of getting pregnant when you change birth control. But having sex should not ever be contingent upon wanting to have a baby. I currently do not want to have a baby, and I have sex. Sex is about pleasure, about connecting with another person intimately, about passion, and sometimes about love. Sometimes it results in conception, but that should not be followed by forced birth.
(page 271) “Sexuality is a form of power, so if women own their sexuality and their ability to be sexual creatures, then they are empowered in ways that society does not want them to be. Punishing women for certain outcomes of sexuality (pregnancy and giving birth) is in effect punishing them for having sex.”
In some ways, I don't own my sexuality. I am not public about enjoying multiple partners at once because I fear the consequences. I fear being named slut. I fear that if I ever experience sexual violence again, that I will be told it's my fault. I fear that my children will be shunned or ridiculed.
(page 271) “Women are just as human as everyone else, and simply because women become pregnant or have the capacity to become pregnant does not mean that we lose our humanity or our right to fundamental human rights, which include the right to say yes, I want to have sex, without fear, without punishment, without judgment.”
I have nothing but sympathy for my friend. She is making a difficult decision, and she already recognizes that some people will see her in a negative light should they find out.
Showing posts with label shame. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shame. Show all posts
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Truth, Consent, and Betrayal
Today I'm not responding to anyone else's work, instead I'm working on understanding pieces of the non-monogamous relationship I've been part of.
Not every aspect of our relationship was fully consensual. My husband and I agreed that unless we were in an otherwise exclusive relationship, a barrier method was necessary in order ensure that sex was as safe as possible. After all, not everyone who has an STD knows it, and it would be terrible to pass along an STD to the other.
My husband kept to that agreement. I didn't.
Early on, my lover asked that we forgo condoms, and despite my husband's protests to the both of us, I agreed. I could try to justify myself, but really I betrayed his trust and our agreement, and that is that.
There have been some pretty dire consequences to that decision. I switched birth control a couple of times, settled on the pill because I knew my husband and I would be trying for a baby soon, and, after several abrupt schedule changes/holidays, was unable to be as consistent as necessary to prevent pregnancy. I got pregnant at roughly the time my lover left town for an extended time, a couple of weeks before my husband and I planned trying.
I was pregnant, and paternity was in question. That was NOT supposed to happen. I felt like a whore.
Because of the uncertainty and because I had drank heavily the first few weeks of pregnancy, before we officially started trying, my husband and I discussed abortion. We quickly rejected that option.
The uncertainty took a toll on our relationship, and the baby's birth did not answer the paternity question with absolute certainty. The baby was slightly overdue, which we kind of expected, and was darker than previous babies. Of course the person the baby most resembles is me. Blood type was no help either, as my husband and my lover share the same one.
Eventually, because the uncertainty continued taking a toll on our relationship, we got a paternity test. It was unable to exclude my husband as the father, which in DNA test parameters meant that unless my lover shared the same genetic markers as my husband, then my husband was indeed the father.
A couple of years later, a routine PAP smear came back irregular, revealing that at some point in my life I contracted HPV. I felt incredibly dirty.
Because HPV can take years to result in an abnormal PAP and can be passed without symptoms, I will never know for certain when I contracted it, or from whom.
A simple apology is not enough in cases like these.
I fully accepted the blame for my part in betraying my husband. My lover and I did not have his consent for forgoing condoms.
My counselor has revealed that I have a pattern of taking on too much responsibility, and that I should trust others to take on their share too. So now the question remains: how much responsibility for this betrayal has my lover taken? I'm not the only one who did wrong.
Not every aspect of our relationship was fully consensual. My husband and I agreed that unless we were in an otherwise exclusive relationship, a barrier method was necessary in order ensure that sex was as safe as possible. After all, not everyone who has an STD knows it, and it would be terrible to pass along an STD to the other.
My husband kept to that agreement. I didn't.
Early on, my lover asked that we forgo condoms, and despite my husband's protests to the both of us, I agreed. I could try to justify myself, but really I betrayed his trust and our agreement, and that is that.
There have been some pretty dire consequences to that decision. I switched birth control a couple of times, settled on the pill because I knew my husband and I would be trying for a baby soon, and, after several abrupt schedule changes/holidays, was unable to be as consistent as necessary to prevent pregnancy. I got pregnant at roughly the time my lover left town for an extended time, a couple of weeks before my husband and I planned trying.
I was pregnant, and paternity was in question. That was NOT supposed to happen. I felt like a whore.
Because of the uncertainty and because I had drank heavily the first few weeks of pregnancy, before we officially started trying, my husband and I discussed abortion. We quickly rejected that option.
The uncertainty took a toll on our relationship, and the baby's birth did not answer the paternity question with absolute certainty. The baby was slightly overdue, which we kind of expected, and was darker than previous babies. Of course the person the baby most resembles is me. Blood type was no help either, as my husband and my lover share the same one.
Eventually, because the uncertainty continued taking a toll on our relationship, we got a paternity test. It was unable to exclude my husband as the father, which in DNA test parameters meant that unless my lover shared the same genetic markers as my husband, then my husband was indeed the father.
A couple of years later, a routine PAP smear came back irregular, revealing that at some point in my life I contracted HPV. I felt incredibly dirty.
Because HPV can take years to result in an abnormal PAP and can be passed without symptoms, I will never know for certain when I contracted it, or from whom.
A simple apology is not enough in cases like these.
I fully accepted the blame for my part in betraying my husband. My lover and I did not have his consent for forgoing condoms.
My counselor has revealed that I have a pattern of taking on too much responsibility, and that I should trust others to take on their share too. So now the question remains: how much responsibility for this betrayal has my lover taken? I'm not the only one who did wrong.
Tuesday, 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.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Rape Culture and Me
I have wondered frequently enough over the years why I didn't fight harder when MZ raped me, when JRS raped me, when JD emotionally abused me. What was wrong with me?
But after all these years, I've finally realized that there was nothing wrong with me. There's something wrong with our world.
Today I added a post from a blog to my links section, Rape Culture 101. It's a description of rape culture.
I'm also responding to Another Post About Rape #3.
"The way men and women interact on a daily basis is the way they interact when rape occurs. The social dynamics we see at play between men and women are the same social dynamics that cause men to feel rape is okay, and women to feel they have no right to object. And if you accept those social interactions as normal and appropriate in your day to day life, there is absolutely no reason you should be shocked that rape occurs without screaming, without fighting, without bruising, without provocation, and without prosecution. Behavior exists on a continuum. Rape doesn’t inhabit its own little corner of the world, where everything is suddenly all different now. The behavior you accept today is the behavior that becomes rape tomorrow. And you very well might accept it then, too."
Growing up, I was a Good Girl. I tried so hard to be a perfect daughter, the smart and athletic and involved girl. I was respectful. I didn't talk back. I didn't get into fights. I didn't embarrass my family by my bad behavior. I didn't curse. I didn't sneak out at night (no, actually, I lied about volunteering an extra hour or so at a car wash...). I didn't smoke. I didn't drink. I never did drugs. I behaved.
And I most certainly did not talk about things that would bring shame to my family. I didn't talk about the incestuous molestation I endured. I didn't talk about the depression that was slowly choking the life out of me. I was GOOD!
When I was 17, I set my sights on JD, who was a decade older than me. He worked at the mall, and I saw him there often. He was charming. I ended up at the mall on my 18th birthday, legal at last, and pursued him. We flirted lots, ended up having sex, and he taught me a few things. The sex was good. His behavior wasn't. He broke up with me whenever I offended him, and told me I was a foolish child who didn't know what she was doing. So I tried to learn how to act to please him, because that's what I did. Pleased others.
A BAD GIRL I befriended saw what was happening, saw how I was being taken advantage of, heard the abuse and control, knew how it could end, and rescued me. She started a verbal altercation in the mall and he snapped. He scared the shit out of me. I never went back.
And it could have so easily back-fired, had she been wrong. I would never have spoken to her again.
I ended up taking a creative writing class with his ex-girlfriend. He'd hit her before she got out. That could have been me.
But a bad girl rescued me.
JRS took advantage of my lack of fight at that time too, as I was reeling from the realization that my "boyfriend" was an abusive creep.
And then there was MZ. He flirted with me, always showing a protective face. He wanted to protect me from the world. He would come around and make sure the boys hitting on me in the boy-friendly shop where I worked in the mall were behaving themselves. He even told a guy that was having trouble respecting my decision not to meet him after work that I wasn't interested.
And so I thought I owed him the appreciation of going out on a date with him. He repaid me by raping me. But I was a good girl and I owed him my appreciation for his protecting me. Maybe he just couldn't control himself or something, because I led him on? What was wrong with me that he didn't understand that I said no?
What was wrong with me?
Really, the only thing wrong with me besides crippling depression was that I didn't know how to protect myself when there wasn't a threat of violence.
I was taught to be a good (and passive) girl.
But after all these years, I've finally realized that there was nothing wrong with me. There's something wrong with our world.
Today I added a post from a blog to my links section, Rape Culture 101. It's a description of rape culture.
I'm also responding to Another Post About Rape #3.
"The way men and women interact on a daily basis is the way they interact when rape occurs. The social dynamics we see at play between men and women are the same social dynamics that cause men to feel rape is okay, and women to feel they have no right to object. And if you accept those social interactions as normal and appropriate in your day to day life, there is absolutely no reason you should be shocked that rape occurs without screaming, without fighting, without bruising, without provocation, and without prosecution. Behavior exists on a continuum. Rape doesn’t inhabit its own little corner of the world, where everything is suddenly all different now. The behavior you accept today is the behavior that becomes rape tomorrow. And you very well might accept it then, too."
Growing up, I was a Good Girl. I tried so hard to be a perfect daughter, the smart and athletic and involved girl. I was respectful. I didn't talk back. I didn't get into fights. I didn't embarrass my family by my bad behavior. I didn't curse. I didn't sneak out at night (no, actually, I lied about volunteering an extra hour or so at a car wash...). I didn't smoke. I didn't drink. I never did drugs. I behaved.
And I most certainly did not talk about things that would bring shame to my family. I didn't talk about the incestuous molestation I endured. I didn't talk about the depression that was slowly choking the life out of me. I was GOOD!
When I was 17, I set my sights on JD, who was a decade older than me. He worked at the mall, and I saw him there often. He was charming. I ended up at the mall on my 18th birthday, legal at last, and pursued him. We flirted lots, ended up having sex, and he taught me a few things. The sex was good. His behavior wasn't. He broke up with me whenever I offended him, and told me I was a foolish child who didn't know what she was doing. So I tried to learn how to act to please him, because that's what I did. Pleased others.
A BAD GIRL I befriended saw what was happening, saw how I was being taken advantage of, heard the abuse and control, knew how it could end, and rescued me. She started a verbal altercation in the mall and he snapped. He scared the shit out of me. I never went back.
And it could have so easily back-fired, had she been wrong. I would never have spoken to her again.
I ended up taking a creative writing class with his ex-girlfriend. He'd hit her before she got out. That could have been me.
But a bad girl rescued me.
JRS took advantage of my lack of fight at that time too, as I was reeling from the realization that my "boyfriend" was an abusive creep.
And then there was MZ. He flirted with me, always showing a protective face. He wanted to protect me from the world. He would come around and make sure the boys hitting on me in the boy-friendly shop where I worked in the mall were behaving themselves. He even told a guy that was having trouble respecting my decision not to meet him after work that I wasn't interested.
And so I thought I owed him the appreciation of going out on a date with him. He repaid me by raping me. But I was a good girl and I owed him my appreciation for his protecting me. Maybe he just couldn't control himself or something, because I led him on? What was wrong with me that he didn't understand that I said no?
What was wrong with me?
Really, the only thing wrong with me besides crippling depression was that I didn't know how to protect myself when there wasn't a threat of violence.
I was taught to be a good (and passive) girl.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Closet Case
Responding to: Ask Professor Foxy: How Do I Tell My Parents About My Poly Relationship?
I'm very much in the closet about having any kind of extramarital relationships. A big part of this is because I need consent to rip down the closet doors.
We live in a culture that does not value non-monogamous relationships. The most widespread example of polyamory in the US is the fundamentalist Mormon off-shoot of polygamy, which pairs young and undereducated women with older men.
I completely understand wanting privacy. I want a modicum of privacy myself. That is why I am anonymous. The slut-shaming for women who "stray" outside their marriages can be heinous. I don't want to be called a slut or a whore or cheating bitch by anyone. I absolutely believe that I would be named a whore by at least my mother if I came out as married with lovers.
Then there is my husband. He and my parents never really got along anyway, and to be open that I'm happy for him when he enjoys someone else's company would just have them brand him as a cheating bastard, while I've been brainwashed somehow to think this is acceptable.
I also have to consider how it would affect my loved ones. How would they feel if someone revealed "I think your spouse and best friend are having an affair?" out of the blue. I don't want to put either my husband or my best friend in the position of suddenly having to defend their marriage/friendship.
At the same time, I'd like to be free to show my affections. I also don't want my husband to have to hide his affection for others, should he wish to show them. I know I have the air of obliviousness that would allow me to simply say "They're good friends" and change the subject if I'm not willing to explore the subject of polyamory at the time or with that particular person.
Regardless, I am currently in the closet, and unless and until all those who will be affected by my openness give permission to be dragged out with me, I will remain there.
I'm very much in the closet about having any kind of extramarital relationships. A big part of this is because I need consent to rip down the closet doors.
We live in a culture that does not value non-monogamous relationships. The most widespread example of polyamory in the US is the fundamentalist Mormon off-shoot of polygamy, which pairs young and undereducated women with older men.
I completely understand wanting privacy. I want a modicum of privacy myself. That is why I am anonymous. The slut-shaming for women who "stray" outside their marriages can be heinous. I don't want to be called a slut or a whore or cheating bitch by anyone. I absolutely believe that I would be named a whore by at least my mother if I came out as married with lovers.
Then there is my husband. He and my parents never really got along anyway, and to be open that I'm happy for him when he enjoys someone else's company would just have them brand him as a cheating bastard, while I've been brainwashed somehow to think this is acceptable.
I also have to consider how it would affect my loved ones. How would they feel if someone revealed "I think your spouse and best friend are having an affair?" out of the blue. I don't want to put either my husband or my best friend in the position of suddenly having to defend their marriage/friendship.
At the same time, I'd like to be free to show my affections. I also don't want my husband to have to hide his affection for others, should he wish to show them. I know I have the air of obliviousness that would allow me to simply say "They're good friends" and change the subject if I'm not willing to explore the subject of polyamory at the time or with that particular person.
Regardless, I am currently in the closet, and unless and until all those who will be affected by my openness give permission to be dragged out with me, I will remain there.
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.
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.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Telling Our Stories
A reflection on "The Not-Rape Epidemic" by Latoya Peterson
(page 211) "No one escaped [not-rape] --all my friends had some kind of experience with it during their teen years."
When I was in junior college taking a creative writing class, I wrote a rape story. A male classmate scoffed, because just too many chicks wrote rape stories and he was tired of hearing them. They were "cliche."
Talk about privilege.
(page 216) "This is how the not-rape epidemic spreads--through fear and silence. Women of all backgrounds are affected by these kinds of acts, regardless of race, ethnicity, or social class. So many of us carry the scars of the past with us in our daily lives. Most of us have pushed these stories to the back of our minds trying to have some semblance of a normal life that includes romantic and sexual relationships. However, waiting just behind the tongues are story after story of the horrors other women experience and hide deep within the self, behind a protective wall of silence.
"When I first began discussing my not-rape and all of the baggage that comes with it, I expected to be blamed or to not be believed.
"I never expected that each woman I told would respond with her own story in kind."
Want to hear fewer rape stories? Work with men and advocate against rape and not-rape. Let men know that such practices as asking for sex multiple times an hour until at the end of the night she says yes just to make him shut the fuck up.
Silence quietly condones rape and not-rape. Silence allows it to continue. We need more rape and not-rape stories to circulate. The more we talk about it, in mixed company as well, the more awareness and less victim-shame there will be.
(page 217) "Not-rape comes in many forms--it is often known by other names. What happened to me is called sexual assault. It is not the same same as rape, but it is damaging and painful. My friends experience statutory rape, molestation, and coercion."
My first sexualized experience happened around the age of six, when my mother's brother began to molest me. My memories of it are scattered, snippets of this and that. I think I remember my mother spotting it once (on my sister, not me), telling her brother that she'd better not have seen what she thought she saw, but somehow convincing herself that it didn't happen.
An aside: at least two people I spoke to about my experience thought that because he was retarded--with perhaps the mental facilities of an 8 year old--that I should think of this as "playing doctor" between kids. However, when it was happening, I looked up to my uncle and did not comprehend his differences from other adults. If anything, this thoughtway has added to my confusion and difficulty in moving on. Like I should be ashamed for thinking it was molestation at all.
The molestation culminated in a single incidence of oral sexualization. It completely disturbed me. I did not like it. It felt Wrong. It gave me the voice to say never again.
Eventually I worked up the courage to tell my mother. I was nine. She went on warpath, furiously confronting him, and like any child confronted by a raging parent, when asked if he did that, he stammered no.
That was enough for my mother. She whirled back to me and called me a liar. This was something the neighbor girls and I made up, because we hated her poor, stupid brother. If I ever spoke of it again, I'd wish I hadn't.
(page 212) "My friends and I confided in one another, swapping stories, sharing our pain, while keeping it all hidden from the adults in our lives. After all, who could we tell? This wasn't rape--it didn't fit the definitions. This was not-rape. We should have known better. We were the ones who would take the blame. We would be punished and no one wanted that. So these actions went on, aided by a cloak of silence."
I buried that memory until I read a magazine while in high school about victims of sexual abuse. My stomach dropped, a chill down my spine, and I had a name for what happened to me.
And then the shame came. Why had I allowed this to happen to me? It ended so easily the moment I said stop. Why hadn't I said stop sooner? If escape was so simple, why had I not even tried? Worse, on a purely physical level, the touching had felt goo. We are wired that way. Had I WANTED it to happen? I wanted desperately to talk about it with someone, but is was ABUSE, so I couldn't, because it would be reported and would destroy my family. Didn't the shame belong to me, and me alone?
(page 217) "Internalized shame is what I experienced, that heavy feeling that was it was my fault for allowing the sexual assault to happen. So many of us are conditioned to believe that these actions are our own fault, that if we had made a better choice, if we had been smarter, then we wouldn't be in that situation."
Is it any wonder that I spent years wrestling with suicidal thoughts? Is it any wonder that I spent years plotting the murder of my entire family, which I'd hide by burning down my home?
The consequences remain even as I am an adult. I've had flashbacks during tender oral sex, tongue stroking me. Oral sex, especially spontaneous oral sex, got me flinching. It took me years to get up the nerve to express why I'd gone from loving to dreading oral sex.
I've nearly overcome this. I've requested my lovers ask/warn me before diving in. Even better, rougher, more frantic, enthusiastic, angular oral sex has allowed me to enjoy, and even love, oral sex again. Back to front gentle tongue strokes still give me problems from time to time, and my confidence in requesting a different approach sometimes wavers.
By the way, my mother's brother--he died. I learned about it on Facebook. That's how close I am to my family, and the sexual abuse is one of the biggest reasons why. I was never offered help, and when I was finally unable to continue coping with living with them, revealing my depression and suicidal thoughts led to my mother shaming me again. What would my neighbots and family think? I was weak. I needed to be silent (and go on medication).
And sometimes I still wish my family dead. But I forgive myself for that. I'm still working on forgiving myself for letting it happen.
(page 211) "No one escaped [not-rape] --all my friends had some kind of experience with it during their teen years."
When I was in junior college taking a creative writing class, I wrote a rape story. A male classmate scoffed, because just too many chicks wrote rape stories and he was tired of hearing them. They were "cliche."
Talk about privilege.
(page 216) "This is how the not-rape epidemic spreads--through fear and silence. Women of all backgrounds are affected by these kinds of acts, regardless of race, ethnicity, or social class. So many of us carry the scars of the past with us in our daily lives. Most of us have pushed these stories to the back of our minds trying to have some semblance of a normal life that includes romantic and sexual relationships. However, waiting just behind the tongues are story after story of the horrors other women experience and hide deep within the self, behind a protective wall of silence.
"When I first began discussing my not-rape and all of the baggage that comes with it, I expected to be blamed or to not be believed.
"I never expected that each woman I told would respond with her own story in kind."
Want to hear fewer rape stories? Work with men and advocate against rape and not-rape. Let men know that such practices as asking for sex multiple times an hour until at the end of the night she says yes just to make him shut the fuck up.
Silence quietly condones rape and not-rape. Silence allows it to continue. We need more rape and not-rape stories to circulate. The more we talk about it, in mixed company as well, the more awareness and less victim-shame there will be.
(page 217) "Not-rape comes in many forms--it is often known by other names. What happened to me is called sexual assault. It is not the same same as rape, but it is damaging and painful. My friends experience statutory rape, molestation, and coercion."
My first sexualized experience happened around the age of six, when my mother's brother began to molest me. My memories of it are scattered, snippets of this and that. I think I remember my mother spotting it once (on my sister, not me), telling her brother that she'd better not have seen what she thought she saw, but somehow convincing herself that it didn't happen.
An aside: at least two people I spoke to about my experience thought that because he was retarded--with perhaps the mental facilities of an 8 year old--that I should think of this as "playing doctor" between kids. However, when it was happening, I looked up to my uncle and did not comprehend his differences from other adults. If anything, this thoughtway has added to my confusion and difficulty in moving on. Like I should be ashamed for thinking it was molestation at all.
The molestation culminated in a single incidence of oral sexualization. It completely disturbed me. I did not like it. It felt Wrong. It gave me the voice to say never again.
Eventually I worked up the courage to tell my mother. I was nine. She went on warpath, furiously confronting him, and like any child confronted by a raging parent, when asked if he did that, he stammered no.
That was enough for my mother. She whirled back to me and called me a liar. This was something the neighbor girls and I made up, because we hated her poor, stupid brother. If I ever spoke of it again, I'd wish I hadn't.
(page 212) "My friends and I confided in one another, swapping stories, sharing our pain, while keeping it all hidden from the adults in our lives. After all, who could we tell? This wasn't rape--it didn't fit the definitions. This was not-rape. We should have known better. We were the ones who would take the blame. We would be punished and no one wanted that. So these actions went on, aided by a cloak of silence."
I buried that memory until I read a magazine while in high school about victims of sexual abuse. My stomach dropped, a chill down my spine, and I had a name for what happened to me.
And then the shame came. Why had I allowed this to happen to me? It ended so easily the moment I said stop. Why hadn't I said stop sooner? If escape was so simple, why had I not even tried? Worse, on a purely physical level, the touching had felt goo. We are wired that way. Had I WANTED it to happen? I wanted desperately to talk about it with someone, but is was ABUSE, so I couldn't, because it would be reported and would destroy my family. Didn't the shame belong to me, and me alone?
(page 217) "Internalized shame is what I experienced, that heavy feeling that was it was my fault for allowing the sexual assault to happen. So many of us are conditioned to believe that these actions are our own fault, that if we had made a better choice, if we had been smarter, then we wouldn't be in that situation."
Is it any wonder that I spent years wrestling with suicidal thoughts? Is it any wonder that I spent years plotting the murder of my entire family, which I'd hide by burning down my home?
The consequences remain even as I am an adult. I've had flashbacks during tender oral sex, tongue stroking me. Oral sex, especially spontaneous oral sex, got me flinching. It took me years to get up the nerve to express why I'd gone from loving to dreading oral sex.
I've nearly overcome this. I've requested my lovers ask/warn me before diving in. Even better, rougher, more frantic, enthusiastic, angular oral sex has allowed me to enjoy, and even love, oral sex again. Back to front gentle tongue strokes still give me problems from time to time, and my confidence in requesting a different approach sometimes wavers.
By the way, my mother's brother--he died. I learned about it on Facebook. That's how close I am to my family, and the sexual abuse is one of the biggest reasons why. I was never offered help, and when I was finally unable to continue coping with living with them, revealing my depression and suicidal thoughts led to my mother shaming me again. What would my neighbots and family think? I was weak. I needed to be silent (and go on medication).
And sometimes I still wish my family dead. But I forgive myself for that. I'm still working on forgiving myself for letting it happen.
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