Or so you’d think.

THE PERSONHOOD QUIZ is a list of characteristics that you think define you, and you get to tick off which ones were “caused” by the abuse/molestation/rape/sexual assault/sexual exploitation.

QUESTION 1: WHICH OF THE FOLLOWING WAS DIRECTLY CAUSED BY THE ABUSE?! THIS IS IMPORTANT, PEOPLE!!! IT HAS SERIOUS MEANINGS FOR WHO I AM!!!11

-I identify as differently gendered

-I identify as feminist

-I avoid men (and others) who blatantly disrespect me

-I prefer ambiguously gendered people as friends and lovers

-I pick my nose

-I make weird faces in the mirror when no one is watching

-I choose metal as my (musical) drug of choice

-I curse a lot

-I identify as a general pain in the ass

-I have sex (and “lost” my “virginity” at 16)

-I studied Anthropology

-I do strange dances in the privacy of my room

-I hate rape jokes

-I like to write

-I eat a lot of sweets, fart a lot, fantasize about having a threesome with 2 men, masturbate, watch porn, drink, love bullshitting with people, scowl, value my mind over my body, like to look at myself and think about how beautiful I am, fuck men, don’t like receiving oral sex, snort when I laugh, hate spicy food…

So how about you start sifting out which of these were caused by the abuse. Almost all of them I recall before the abuse started (except for most things dealing with porn or sex as something other than a concept. I still thought sex was icky at the time the abuse started).

Oh, and I didn’t start drinking until I was around 20, but that was CLEARLY caused by the abuse!

If I was a trans person, I’d be denied the surgery I need because CLEARLY the abuse caused me to identify as trans! If someone administered the surgery, it would do more harm than good!

I remember glimmers of my sexuality before the abuse. It was very speculative, but I was never given a chance to experience it for myself and figure out what I really liked. Someone elses’ needs and sexuality were imposed on me first. That would be an interesting excercise, mapping my sexuality.

But at the end of the day, I have to do a simple Dear Abby Test: if I engage in these activities or thoughts, will it do more harm than good? Will it upset me? Will it cause me physical pleasure? Will it remind me of the abuse in a way that feels unsafe, uncontrolled, and triggering? Will it do all these things simultaneously? Try sorting it all out now, fuckers!

I’m a hedonist, so most things that feel good (physically, emotionally, what have you) are good in my book.

My point is: besides my sexuality (which is really only MY business in the first place), why the fuck do you care what was “caused” by the abuse? Are you clinging to some semblance of a different me that existed before the abuse, and can somehow be summoned? Guess what, that me was 10 years old. You CANNOT deny my experience that way.

Yes, it would be interesting to ask, “what would I have been like sans abuse?” but ultimately, that’s not a useful question. It longs for something that can never be. What happened happened. I’ve accepted it, and now I’m trying to own it and figure out where to go from here. I have grown while he abused me, don’t forget that. To deny my experience is to infantalize me, and invalidate all the work and growing I did during and in spite of the abuse. I have integrated this experience and blended it into my everyday life (because it was part of my everyday life). Pathological or not, it does no good to attempt to erase one part of my life.

So accept me for who I am. If you start taking out your precision scalpel to separate out which aspects of my existence are least upsetting to you, I’m just going to tip my hat to you, say good day, and keep walking.

Yes. We tend to have that in common, and think those experiences are negative things (now that’s an epic understatment).

However, there are nuances to each experience. I stand behind rape survivors 100%. I respect and bear witness to their experiences. I cry with them, scream with them, hold their hands, and wish them somewhere soft to land.

As I age, the differences start to stand out to me a little, though.

I was asked to be around the perpetrator and “act normal”. He was my family. In order to keep his secret, I had to spend a lot of time around him and pretend everything was ok.

This continued after I disclosed. There was constant negotiation about when and how I should be around him, and never with my comfort and mental health in mind. In a perfect world, I’d never have to see him again and he’d stay the fuck out of my way. In incest world – with that painful and embarrassing blemish on family history – denial is often a strong force to contend with.

A common question I get when I disclose is, “Oh jeez, you don’t have to see him ever, do you?” Yes. I go to family reunions knowing he’ll be there, knowing my parents wouldn’t ask him to stay home. People are bewildered that my folks ask me to be with him. (No, I won’t deprive myself of pleasurable experiences in a place where I had fond memories because of him. That would be letting him win.)

If he was not my family, my family might rally to protect me against this foreign threat. But no, since he’s family, they expect me to spend time around the man who molested me for 5 years. If he was not my brother, they might threaten harm against him if he ventured close to me. But no. There is no justice, just aching wounds and expectations.

In some anecdotes I hear about rape, a victim’s family (ideally) would protect her from “that asshole who hurt our daughter”. Instead, it’s “but who is going to sleep in which room for the family reunion?” It’s like it never happened.

Oh GAWD, that would be awkward! To acknowledge that this asshole in our midst was touching our daughter. That would make US seriously uncomfortable! Let’s hope she doesn’t start crying again and ruin our picnic or afternoon hike. Jeez, she’s so ill-adjusted! Why can’t she contain herself?

So, unlike a rape by some “appropriate” dating partner (except that whole pesky rapist flaw), this is embedded into my life in complicated ways. That’s why I renounce my family. They don’t really care how much it hurts, just that it all looks as normal as possible. Denial.

ADDING TO THE FUCK-IT LIST: I’m no longer spending any holidays around the man who molested me! He can go fuck himself. And so can my family if they insist I do.

I am no longer participating in this sick farce. I will not sit at the dinner table and smile after what he did. You’ve asked me to for long enough so you wouldn’t have to think about what he did. Well think about it, and think about why asking me to be around him is wrong, and kind of sick.

I spent all my holidays alone this year, and I have never been happier! To think, when people ask what my plans are for the holidays and I say, “I’m spending them alone”, these ignorant fools PITY me! They must think I’m sad and lonely. But, I’m free! I no longer have to sit in agonizing silence as this child toucher chews his food, farts, and breathes at the same table. I have taken the strangle hold off my neck and raised my middle fingers high! It’s about fucking time!

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.”

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).

Silently we bide our time
Soon we’ll pay you back
For all the wrongs you’ve done our kind
For the stabwounds in our backs

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 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.

To say this, with perfect conviction, and then backtrack completely into denial-land, is such bullshit and hypocrisy.

The guys who make the rape jokes are the same ones who don’t want to hear a story of a real rape. They want to have their cake and eat it, too. They tell us to can it, yet rub our noses in it with these jokes.

Well, which is it? Should we continue to be silent and help your conspiracy of enabling rapists, or should we tell it like it is? Is rape an untouchable topic, or is it within the realm of imagination?

The purpose of rape jokes is to reify rape in the realm of the unthinkable, the unimaginable, the unspeakable. Ironically, the way to this end is by “speaking” about it. By bringing it up in casual conversation, completely out of any meaningful context. These jokes are meant to put this highly polarizing and uncomfortable topic back into the realm of lepruchauns and unicorns. By laughing at it without any real, nuanced understanding of what you’re laughing about, you’re making it absurd, and stripping it of the real, lived experience.

Well, rape is not absurd in that sense. It happens to real people. Someone you care about was probably subjected to a sexual assault, and now has to wade through the pool of bullshit you’re spewing forth into the world. By contributing to the pile, you’re making that person run the gauntlet. Someone you care about has run into an asshole like you, and that asshole rubbed their nose in it, making sure they remembered just how horrible it was. One. More. Time. For good measure, you know? They didn’t realize the first time, nor did they spend a lot of time integrating the trauma into a shitty reality. No, they need a little reminder. It’s good for them.

It’s cruel. Make those jokes, and you’re saying that survivors don’t exist. After all, these are things we have under our control, and there’s no rape problem! That’s why it’s so absurd, get it?! It’s also why the United States is not “post racial”, and we’re not ready to make the kind of race jokes that are in hipster vogue currently. Racists are not some primordial, outdated, antiquated thing to mock for being so gosh darned old fashioned! Racists are still alive and well, and so is systematic racism.

Well, the rapists are alive and well too. And they’re still raping.

So no, we’re not in a “post-rape” world, where you can make your nostalgic jokes about the “good old days of yore”. It doesn’t work that way. If you make these jokes with this knowledge, you’re a cruel asshole. Or you simply lack any kind of grey matter in your skull.

Either way, find something better to waste your energy on instead of basking in the misery of others, some of which you claim to care about. I will wonder whether you’re human, and have not devolved to some bizarre sub-class.

As I sit here, grinding my teeth and shaking with anger, I wonder if I’m already in hell. They were right when they said, “Rape is the murder of the soul” because he murdered my soul, and now I’m in hell. Fitting. It depresses me so, because it’s true.

I have not had enough to drink. Where’s my painkiller? Or better yet, a shotgun? There’s very little keeping me from murdering someone.