Not Sure What I Think of This…
I have a love/hate (actually, make that hate/hate) relationship with Postsecret, the website where people send in secret confessions on the backs of postcards. Besides being in vogue with the emo confessional generation, the site features content that can be upsetting and highly triggering alongside “secrets” that seem a bit silly.
Yet somehow, I can’t stop looking every week. This “secret” didn’t stand out to me, but a posted response most definitely did.
The Response?
—–Email Message—–
This secret was so comforting. Getting raped has made me obsessed with porn. Phew, it’s not just me!
I couldn’t decide whether or not this response was genuine or sarcastic. I’m going to go with genuine… but I can’t really see a parallel. Rape is often compared to being robbed, which can be problematic.
Rape doesn’t “steal” anything of value. What’s gone is your sense of safety, trust, and commonality with other humans (who don’t validate your experience as real). But you’re not “dirty” or “defiled” – your soul was not abducted. You still live and breathe as a whole person. You don’t have to “get over it”, you have to work through it.
It may feel that way, as what happened was a serious violation of your boundaries, trust, and rights. But you’re not “less than”. The rapist decided their own needs are much more important than yours… but that didn’t take anything from you.
To actually address the response (and the “secret”), it’s normal to want to relive that which has harmed you. If you’ve been the victim, it’s natural to want a second chance in a situation you had no control over. The “but I can win this time” mentality is very strong. It’s also normal to be fascinated by, or “obsessed” with an aspect of what harmed you.
Anyway… I don’t know how to respond. Thus this post is more rambly than usual. That is all.
On My Perceived Stupidity, Or Why You Can Define My Experience For Me
One thing still gets me. I’m a smart cookie. I can form sentences and do math. I’m capable of reasoning. My professors thought I was worthy (or they were simply incredibly generous, benevolent, and dishonest in their assessments of my abilities).
No matter. I’ve experienced The Incest, The Workplace Harassment, and Other Innumerable Daily Indignities. Therefore, feel free to write me off as a bumbling dolt who has not anticipated or attempted all of your helpful suggestions! You’re being helpful! I should be happy to have people like you around!
Yeah. Especially when you ask me, “Why did you wait so long to say something about The Harassment?”
Because I knew you’d ask stupid questions like this.
*cough*Not-to-mention-the-inevitable-victim-blaming-and-unfair-sexualization-via-voyeuristic-inqueries-into-my-past-and-other-things-that-have-nothing-to-do-with-this-situation-and-allegations-that-I-just-want-”attention”-or-am-just-crazy-and-not-to-be-listened-to-because-IT-DIDN’T-ACTUALLY-HAPPEN-YOU-LIAR*cough*
YOU HAVE NO “PROOF”! Yeah. I don’t. I knew that when this happened in front of all my co-workers and they stood by and did nothing. If they wouldn’t stick up for me then, they won’t now, that’s for damn sure. No matter how much they share my hatred for my boss (for very different reasons, he’s an all around schmuck).
I keep careful watch over the world, constantly testing the waters for how people like YOU will react to my disclosure. I was not born yesterday, and I’ve taken careful notes. Whether or not I get justice, closure, and any kind of satisfaction is dependent upon YOU, the person who is in control of the situation. And yes, I anticipated you saying, “Well, since you waited so long, there’s nothing I can do.”
So why was I stupid enough to bring it up anyway? Yes, I feared the worst, but hoped it might be different this time. You know, a “Say it aint so” kind of mentality. So call me naive for even trying – but don’t assume this is my first brush with assholes who couldn’t give a shit about the right thing.
I also brought it up because the irony became too much for me to take. I couldn’t handle him being a pervert towards me and then talking about what he’d do to someone who molested his hypothetical, nonexistent daughter in the same thought. That’s an example of the universe laughing at you, right there.
If you ask these kinds of questions, you clearly have never been in my shoes, and never will be. You’re a man. A man who has never been subject to unwanted sexual attention from your bosses, teachers, family members… A man who has never wanted to just be left alone to go to school, go to work, live at home without looming danger. A man who has never affixed a target to his chest just by waking and walking out the door. Good for you. Your privilege is showing, you dumb bastard.
You also take me for an idiot when you think that acting as though The Incest never happened at family gatherings erases what happened. Your pathetic attempt to maintain some kind of relationship with me outside of you putting your dirty hands all over me and threatening me into silence is just fucking insulting. I know what you did. I was there, dumbass. Don’t think this changes anything – it just makes it very poignant, how “normal” this all is.
“What’s my schedule for today, as a molesting son of a bitch? Hmmmm, have breakfast, watch some TV, play on the computer, get a boner, decide to molest my sister, drag her into my room, tell her it’s her fault, call her a whore, wash hands, watch some TV, do homework, have dinner, watch a movie with my parents, make some small talk about school, feed the fish… then go to sleep.”
Imagine that. You insult me by behaving it can ever be like it was before. It will never be the same. The day you started consuming me with your eyes, your hands, your penis… you destroyed your relationship with your sister. Sucks for you. If you didn’t threaten me to stay quiet, shame me into being complacent, were not my brother… you’d have to actually answer for what you did. I was very merciful, because you made me choose between justice and holding my family together.
You got some comfy digs, being immune to justice, action, and retribution because of your station. I hope your throne in Hell has the same amount of cushions, you fucking jerkoff.
I seriously need to write a guide: “What to do when you’re in trouble and nobody around you gives a shit: A primer on irony”. Shit happens, those out to protect you can’t be bothered, and you need somewhere to turn, and snappy answers for those fucking stupid questions.
I’m not an idiot, you just never opened your eyes. Yes, you’re somehow making that MY problem. Fuck you.
New Years Revelations
So, I’ve been having lots of revelations lately, and they pop up when I’m doing the most random things. My mind is doing lots of work subconsciously, it seems.
On New Years Day, I woke up and my first thought was, “Holy shit! I’m in bed!” Profoundly mundane thoughts are my favorite, so it’s an appropriate way to start the new year.
Somewhere between sitting up in bed and realizing my hair was still matted with vomit from the festivities of the night before – it hit me.
I hate That Look (TM).
The look men give me. When they “want” me. When their eyes express lust and longing, and I’m the object of their lascivious desire. When they have the biological “need” to expose me, make me vulnerable, peel my clothes away. The “need” to invade my body, put their body parts inside my body cavities, explore my orifices…
He used to look at me that way. HE did. My brother. When he wanted me. Wanted me to fulfill his desires, needs, and fantasies, fuck the consequences, fuck what I wanted… fuck my protests… they meant nothing. I was no longer human, but a thing. A thing to be manipulated, posed, exposed, humiliated.
And thus, he did what he wanted.
He’d give me that look as he was touching my small body. He gave me that look as he gazed at me when he’d masturbate. How my body must have fascinated him. It was just so gosh darn alluring, he had to see it, use it, consume it, touch it… but the gaze. Those eyes, half amused, half longing, will be etched into my memory forever.
There’s nothing that strikes fear into my heart like That Look. I don’t know if I can ever get to a point in time where I can endure That Look. That Look always led to abuse. It was the sick foreplay, the warning sign, the red flag, the beacon of doom, the expression that precluded his disgusting acts… like a flare shooting into the midnight sky.
I cannot endure That Look. I get overcome with uncontrollable terror.
My boyfriends have given me That Look. Instead of exciting me sexually, my only thoughts were, “RUN! RUN! RUN! RUN AWAY! RUN AWAY! RUNAWAYRUNAWAYRUNAWAYRUNAWAY!!!!!! YOU’RE NOT SAFE HE’SGOINGTOHURTYOU!!!! HELP! NO SAFETY WHO WILL HEAR YOU SCREAM?!”
In the middle of love making, they’d give me That Look, and I’d become petrified with terror, afraid to move. If I moved, the cobra would strike. And I’d be dead. Play dead, don’t move, and you’ll live.
I’ve always known this, because I’ve always HATED That Look, but my tongue finally grew back, and I can say why.
And now, That Look feels like it’s following me, the way Mona Lisa follows you across the room with her eyes. I can’t shake it. I’m blinded by fear. I hate this. Help.
Bravo! Beautifully Spoken!
This Post made me all kinds of happy! (via feministing community)
It got me thinking about the various responses I’ve gotten to my incest disclosure. I was crying by the time I wrote the first few sentences. It’s in the comments section, but I’ll repost it here. It bears repeating.
————————————————————————————-
Thank you. I write this with tears in my eyes, I couldn’t have put it better.
I stayed silent FOREVER because I’ve endured incest (the dreaded I-word). It was my older brother who did this. So guess what some people told me?
“So it wasn’t as bad as if it was your father (or uncle/cousin/someone else).”
Thanks… but HOW THE FUCK IS THAT SUPPOSED TO HELP ME?! It minimizes my pain, thanks, jerk.
“So, it was an incestuous RELATIONSHIP”.
WTF?! Him touching me when I was tied up at 10 is not the same as him buying me dinner and flowers first. I wouldn’t like the latter either, thanks, because I NEVER WANTED TO BE SEXUAL WITH HIM!
“When I found out what family member it was, I didn’t throw THAT back in your face!” (During an argument with a friend, which caused me to become suicidal, depressed, and have full blown PTSD… the works.)
“Well, I don’t know how bad it really was…” (When I’m being vague because I’m feeling too vulnerable).
Wait wait wait… so there’s a scale? It’s not just fucked up? You’re implying that you’re only going to allow me to get a certain amount of your compassion, depending upon the details. Fuck you.
“You LET this get to you!” (My boyfriend at the time, who couldn’t deal with my PTSD any longer).
Right, so I just LET him abuse me, too, then? Is that what you’re saying? I know you’re probably just frustrated that my pain isn’t going anywhere, that it seems like it’s here to stay. But you telling me how I “let” this consume me because I’m not better in a week, or a month… coming from someone who tried to liken my abuse to being deprived of video games? There are no words.
“I’m afraid you’re either going to become really promiscuous or shut down towards men forever”. (My mother, after I was forced to disclose, and after she found out I was being sexual with my boyfriend at the time.)
So, no matter what, I can never have a healthy sexual life. Thanks. You give me hope for the future. Now, my choices have an extra layer of shame. I really needed that.
Funny thing is, she didn’t express her anger at my brother, just her disapproval of my sexual choices. That I made. Without being forced or coerced for the first time in my life. She told me she “wished I didn’t have sex.”
“So… it was sexual.” (My friend when I sat there crying, unable to tell her what kind of abuse it was.)
Nothing wrong with this… she gave me a hug.
“You have a strange mark on your soul… I didn’t want to say anything… it’s the mark I’ve only seen on someone who has been raped.” (From the spiritual pagan boy I was fucking at the time.)
Great! There’s a “mark” on my soul! You want to dig up my experiences and rub my nose in it, throw it right in my face, and make a judgement about my “soul” when I DIDN’T FEEL COMFORTABLE ENOUGH TO DISCLOSE?! You unbelievable JERK!
I hadn’t planned on telling him, didn’t think he could handle it, and it was a casual fling. I wanted to have fun! I didn’t want this to become a fucking therapy session!
“Should I stop?” (my boyfriend when I start crying during sex because I’m reminded).
Wait, should you even ASK? Why do you want to keep having sex with someone who’s crying? Maybe you have a fetish for that, but that’s another can of worms.
I only started saying, “Yes” to this question when I was in a relationship with a guy who wouldn’t guilt me about not “satisfying him” or “caring” because of my pesky traumatic memories. God, how could I be so selfish?!
“God. what is her PROBLEM?” (Some girl in highschool when we watched the accused and Jodi Foster was showing signs of trauma.)
Don’t talk about it. Don’t get angry. Don’t cut your hair. Don’t be one of “those” survivors, people won’t approve of this behavior. (This was right after I was forced to disclose to my family.)
“You’re really strong.” (My first therapist, who had no experience with this kind of thing.)
So… I can be weak if I act differently? Great, you’re scrutinizing me.
“Put this on the shelf for a while… this is not something you’d want to bring up at a floor meeting.” (Same therapist, with a smug look on his face.)
So, I’m having flashbacks, I’m spacing out all the time, I can hardly get through my days or sleep without nightmares… and I should “put it on the shelf.” Yeah, ok.
And… I had a lot of trouble telling ANYONE, and you’re mocking my internalized shame. Yeah, you’re a cool guy. (I never saw him again after he couldn’t refer me to someone competent.)
“You’re too sensitive.” (After talking about how I hate rape jokes and sexual harassment at work.)
No words.
“I don’t understand why you’re so upset.” (After I disclosed the “mild” sexual harassment from a boss who’s old enough to be my grandfather.)
You wouldn’t ever understand why I’m so upset. Good for you, I’m glad you won’t have to have this understanding, wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But I still fail to see how saying this helps me.
“This isn’t a suffering contest! Breaking up with my boyfriend really sucked!” (From a girl who silenced me when I tried to tell her… dismissing my pain as “drama between friends”).
Ummmm, no words. I understand there’s nothing positive from your experience and you feel how you feel, but I will not show you compassion if you scoff at my pain.
“Rape is the murder of the soul!” (during a discussion on rape).
Sorry! My soul is murdered! It’s dead! I should leave now, because I have nothing to contribute! Bye! Thanks for nothing!
….
There’s more. The rape jokes. The incest jokes. The “you deserved it message” that rears its pesky head. The “only rednecks and the scum of the earth experience incest” idea around. The “you’re broken forever and wont ever heal” sentiment.
But, I have gotten some wonderful receptions too, from my true friends. People who would listen if I called crying at 5am. People who would hold me. People who care. They have been invaluable.
Thank you. Thank you again. Did I mention thank you for this post? No, don’t think I did it enough! 
Rock on! You’re an awesome person for posting this, you have a strong voice, and when someone gives you a shitty reception, it says nothing about you. It might be a mistake from an otherwise cool person, or an outright attack.
\m/ I raise my drink to you!
Trivializing Rape
Political pundits have caught onto the latest frat boy trend: trivializing rape by comparing it to other, unrelated things. Notably, they compare it to an experience they don’t like very much.
When people talk about being “raped” when they pay high prices for consumer goods, I wonder what’s so wrong with the expression “ripped off”.
When people speak of being “raped” because a bureaucracy lost their information or some similar misfortune, I fail to see how or why “raped” replaced “screwed”.
The “you paid too much for your christmas gifts” discount commercials are nauseating enough, but I’m still waiting them to roll out the “don’t get raped on Christmas!” ads on TV, complete with carolers and Santa Dance squad to entertain you. It would at least confirm that I’m in bizarro world, so I wouldn’t feel so insane.
Whatever happens in your life, do we REALLY have to be so dramatic as to describe it in terms of rape and murder? I’m really sorry you suffer, but I don’t like having my experiences thrown around to make a point. If it’s not a rape (or a “rape-rape“), what would motivate you to describe it as such?
I was under the impression that men liked to distance themselves from women’s experiences, saying it’s “all in your head” or “you’re too sensitive” when you break the silence about your shitty, socially unvalidated reality (ie, a rape, sexual harassment, catcalls, and all kinds of shit they may never face). Now, when they feel like being dramatic, they can co-opt women’s language, trying it on for size and casting it off when they feel it’s out of style.
A friend of mind recently said he was being raped by an exam. I tried really hard to contain the nuclear explosion in my head – and instead went with: “Douchebags talk that way, and you’re not a douchebag, you’re a really nice guy. Why would you want to talk like a douchebag?”
Anyway, I found this at Sociological Images and I thought it was spot on:
Words Cannot Describe How Awesome This Comic Is
Lisa at Sociological Images puts it best: we’re “comfortable being flippant about pain that disproportionately affects women, but not pain that affects men.”
Metal, It’s Fitting, No?
The Soundtrack to my life involves growling vocals, distorted guitars, and drums driving me onward. It has been this way for around a decade. I guess the “phase” is longer than you expected. Oh well.
In any event, when people assault you and feel entitled to your body, a reasonable response is anger. I’m angry, yes. I have been for as long as I could remember. The anger is the candle lighting my way. Now my heart screams for justice in the form of revenge.
I tend to turn to the Death Metal genre when I’m feeling a bit of wrath coming on. The following is one of my favorite anthems. I like the historical images invoked as well as the idea of rising from the dead to take out your vengeance and wrath on the living who have done you wrong.
“For the Stabwounds in Our Backs” by Amon Amarth, off the album “Vs. The World” (2003).
You think you’re safe. Well, live your lie
There’s no way you’ll escape
The day that all things living die
The day we rise again
Then Fenris’ father will summon us
And we will rise from the death
One million warriors with foaming mouths
To challenge life itself
A horrid ship of dead men’s nails
Will bring our ranks ashore
The eastern wind will fill our sails
And your son will hold the oar
You think you’re safe. Well, live your lie
There’s no way you’ll escape
The day that all things living die
The day we rise again
Our rusty swords will never rest
So send the best you’ve got
Into our grinning jaws of death
We’ll make their suffering short
So sit there on your golden throne
Soon we will arise
Time for vengeance is coming soon
The time for all to die!
Adding to the Fuck-it List
The Fuck-It List is an alternative to the “Bucket List”, in which I tally all the things I don’t want to experience (or experience again) before I die. I’ll have time to see if this pans out, since I may live until some ripe old age, or I could die unexpectedly. So it goes.
Adding to the list:
4. Be romantically involved with anybody who takes religion seriously. I’ve had one Catholic and one Pagan make pronouncements on the condition of my “soul”, my mind, and what kind of person I am, all backed by some religious code that I don’t subscribe to. I’m secular, and my moral code is not codified in religion. When these sorts of discussions inevitably happen, it usually about the person making these judgments, not me. “Well, you’re (this set of lacking qualities) because you’re not religious.” It’s very self congratulatory. I’m pretty tired of being a model of “what not to be”, especially coming from a guy who just fucked me.
The message is quite clear. “Fuck her, but don’t be her. Her use is limited to her warm, squishy holes.” I have been dissected and made into a set of parts often enough, and this is not something I ever want from a guy who seeks to be intimate with me, ESPECIALLY not one who ever thinks he wants to put his dick in me.
Ok, anyone who knows me well enough knows that this past year has been rough. While I’ve had to deal with a lot of BS in my life, someone turned up the intensity and said, “These amps go to 11″. So, I’m going to make something completely and totally clear, because not everyone gets it:
You may not walk up to me and blatantly disrespect me. For any reason. I don’t take kindly to it. If you feel like fucking with me, fine, just don’t expect me to be nice to you in the future, or consider me among your friends. If you dish it out, be prepared to take it. If you derive some sick entertainment from seeing me upset, you’re not my friend. Don’t piss on my wedding cake, because I’ll make sure you get a nice, heaping mouthful of it, and ask how it tastes. Why aren’t you smiling? I don’t understand!
Also take note: showing your “interest” in an inappropriate way is not a compliment. Compliments don’t make me feel like shit. For that to be a compliment, you’d have to take it as a law that the only thing I (or any woman) have to offer this world is how pleasing I am to your eye. I have plenty of other things to offer that don’t involve your perverted imagination. To say I should be “flattered” is to assume that your attention is the only thing I could ever hope or wish for, and to valorize that over my talents, thoughts, creativity, and any other quality I find meaningful. You want to “compliment” me? Take a minute to find out who I am. I don’t exist for your gaze (which should be evident by the lack of time spent on my appearance).
People have given me lots of reasons to become a misanthropic shut-in. Saying “don’t be so sensitive” is not helpful. I’ll keep that in mind before confiding in you next time. If you don’t think I should be pissed, well then you’ve stated your position. This got old a long time ago, so I’ll just go back to pretending to be ok, for your sake, at least.
If you have engaged in these behaviors, you’re pretty fucking lame.
