I didn’t sleep much last night. I couldn’t stop thinking. On many levels. I went to Plough because I didn’t want to stay home and in my head. I had an interesting conversation at Au Coq last night with a fellow who told me I spend too much time in my head and I need to be more “present in the moment.” I understand where he was coming from, but it felt so much like “just get over it” that I couldn’t accept it on face value.
I had friends tell me that they understood yesterday and I believe that in the main they did. I was told that they had trouble getting over what happened to them, that the event was something they couldn’t forget. In no way shape or form do I mean to denigrate that. Abuse, sexual violence in any form is just plain awful and wrong and horrible no matter how much or how little of it occurs. I realized that almost no one really knows what happened to me. I told Noah pretty much the whole story, but he is the only person who has ever asked. Tom doesn’t know and doesn’t want to. Anna doesn’t know and doesn’t want to. Miss Jenny knows big chunks, but not everything. Last night I was thinking about my stance on “No secrets” and I realized I’m not terribly honest because I’m not as up front as I pretend. I’m very private about my abuse. I argued with a woman in her journal yesterday because she doesn’t feel that people should “come out” about what happened to them that there should be no shame and it isn’t a big deal. It is a big deal to talk about abuse. There is shame. I don’t know how to just get over it or talk about it or… But I want to.
Several years ago I was at a women’s discussion group and I made a comment about how happy I was at that stage in my life, and I knew how horrible life could get and that made me even more appreciative of my happiness. The leader of the group stopped me and said, “With all due respect honey, you have no idea how bad life can be. I was raped by my step-father when I was 16 and you have no idea how bad that can be.” I bit my tongue off not responding. I almost said, “Wow! Someone waited until you were 16! And there was no actual blood in common! That’s pretty cool.”
My mom tells stories about catching me with neighbor kids when I was three or four. They were several years older and she caught them touching me. They were several years older. That is the earliest stuff I know about and I wonder if they are the ones who taught me to give blow jobs (to both genders) because I remember initiating sexual contact when I was four and five with other kids. I don’t remember the first kids though.
I remember Michael though. He was a neighbor and I was obsessed with him. I wrote about him. MichaelI was told that the story wasn’t believable because nothing like that could happen to someone so young. I couldn’t believe someone said that. It wasn’t believable?! The frame isn’t real but the story is. That was the first thing that happened to me that I remember.
Not long after we moved back to California my whole life pretty much went to hell in a hand-basket. I hate LA more than I hate Texas and it is pretty hard for me to deal with going there. We lived in Whittier for 18 months. I talk about having had a bright red “V” painted on my forehead and I am talking about this period mostly. I moved there in 1989 in early December. I was 8. Early on in living there I made a friend. He was in high school and I wanted him as an older brother type of figure, my brothers didn’t want me and I needed something. He is the one who sodomized me. If memory serves he was overly well endowed and I was very small still. The damage from it didn’t heal for a long time. A few months later I pissed off the wrong people at school. Some bitch told her older brother to come after me for some reason. He and seven of his buddies found me one day on the way home from school. They chased me for a while. It was like a pack of wolves winding an animal. They pushed me toward a small shed somewhere. They shoved a bandana in my mouth and took turns holding me down and raping me. I’ve had people recently in my life make noise about pushing me towards group sex because they think I would enjoy it. I don’t think I could enjoy a “gang-bang” because I’ve already been there, done that.
My father molested me while we were living in Whittier. My brother began his campaign trying to talk me into sex. My father would have raped me if I hadn’t pushed away in the middle and ran to the bathroom to throw up. Him spiking my drink earlier in the night saved me. How ironic.
I was date raped twice as a teenager. The second time was when I was 18, after I left Stephen and right before I found the scene. I think I decided then that I just wasn’t going to say “No” anymore so that no one could rape me again.
I’m not sure I have managed to say no when I didn’t want something since. So much happened. So much happened when I was so young. I don’t know how to get over feeling hurt by it. I want to get over it.
Please don’t tell me, “I don’t know what to say.” Please don’t be harsh in telling me what I should do to “get over it.” I can’t take it right now. This is the first time I’ve really shared most of this with many people. I’m tired of feeling ashamed of it though.
No harsh words here, hon. I have had some similar experiences (though nothing that I would consider as bad) and I *know* that they are hard to get past. If you ever want an ear, a shoulder, or anything from someone who has been there, I would be glad to offer mine. And if I can share my story and help you in some way, I would be happy to offer that as well.
There is much more than I can put in a simple comment, so I am not going to try, however, the above offer is open, and it doesn’t have an expiration date.
*BIG Hugs*.
I argued with a woman in her journal yesterday because she doesn’t feel that people should “come out” about what happened to them that there should be no shame and it isn’t a big deal. It is a big deal to talk about abuse. There is shame. I don’t know how to just get over it or talk about it or… But I want to.
There shouldn’t be shame, but there is. I was sexually abused by my father from, by his admission, the age of 3 to about the age of 12 when my mom found out. I also went through the ‘scarlet V’ stage and can count at least three others who took advantage of me after my father was gone. It took many years of therapy and many years of living inside my head before I got past the shame. I was not at fault in what happened to me, but you wouldn’t have been able to convince me of that before I was 26 or so.
In reflection, the process I went through was much like the five stages of grief, although acceptance is the wrong word for the last stage.
You have friends, some of whom with experience in what you’ve been through, who you can look to for comfort and support. Look to them when you need to, and never, ever feel ashamed that you might have to ask for help. Some people might tell you that we should all be able to handle things ourselves. I disagree. We’re social animals and there are times when we need each other and we need help.
*hugs*
Feel free to call or whatever if you need someone to listen.
and never, ever feel ashamed that you might have to ask for help
Can I just repeat this because it needed to be said?
I have nothing helpful to add; Unseelie said it all.
Huggs Dear Lady.
There just aren’t words that will make it go away like I want to.
For you, for me, for soooo many like us. It’s small consolation, I know…But do know that there are people who understand, people who have had similiar experiences. What you have gone through is real. It’s horrific. It’s shameful, but not shame that you should have to carry. Shame that society acts like it’s unusual. It’s shameful that there wasn’t help. It’s shameful in my case, that my family looked the other way for years. I think I hate them more then I hate my abusers, for not noticing.
It’s the responsibiilty of society to start doing something about it. Even if that means listening without judgement and helping you heal.
*much love and support coming your way doll*
you have no idea how bad that can be.
ugh. that’s about the worst place this all can go – devil’s poker – “my pain hurts worse than your pain”. We all need to own our own trials and our own pain and the point of being “out” about isn’t to say “I’m strongest because I survived worse things than you did”. That was fucking rude of that bitch. geez.
It’s amazing how people can simultaneously be oblivious in both directions — waving their own victimhood around to try to legitimize their views, while having no sympathy for, or belief in, the possibility that others might have suffered as well. It’s childish, in a very literal sense — it’s not surprising when little kids fail to recognize that others’ lives are just as important as their own; when adults are like that, it’s pathetic.
simple message
hugs.
{hugs}
*hugs*
Thank you for sharing this. I can’t say for certain what I think you need to do to “get over it”, but talking about it has to be one of the steps.
I’m glad you’ve decided to try to not feel ashamed anymore. Because none of this is your fault.
Ok, I’m a shut up now. But if you ever need an ear, let me know…
Congratulations on speaking about it. That can be a difficult thing to do, and it’s brave of you to face up to it — and to the bullshit you were handed about it later.
I see “No pity. No shame. No silence.” statement as an affirmation and statement of intent rather than a description of where we are as a society now.
(hug)
Oh, my goodness – the things you had to endure! And from the people in your life who were supposed to be caring for you. I just don’t know how these people can be so unaware or uncaring of the damage that they are inflicting.
Congrats for being at a point where you can talk about it, and we are here to listen any time you want to talk about it more.
Hugs, if they are welcomed.
Thank you for sharing that with me. And, if you’ll accept them, *hugs*.
*hugs* from me.
I feel bad. I’d been meaning to ask you about this shit, and hadn’t got around to it. A munch didn’t seem to be an appropriate place, and IM just doesn’t have enough bandwidth. OK, I care, and I’m interested, and some time I want to talk to you about this and probably hug you without trying to hurt you at all.
No shame. No silence.
An idea from a book (After Silence, Nancy Venable Raine): is that the shame comes from the perception that rape is a sexual act. It is not – it is an act of violence. Fundamentally different.
Since it involves the sex organs, people take it to about sex, and therefore a personal thing, a bedroom thing, that should not be talked about in polite company.
If there were less shame and silence, maybe people would get a more realistic idea of what goes on.