tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60759457110165967352023-12-12T08:35:45.282-08:00Blue Jean DreamsI just have a lot of feelings.BlueJeanDreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10112892239847594855noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-82246170900844705132019-06-27T16:18:00.001-07:002019-06-27T18:02:08.842-07:00Dear Men<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Before I start, a disclaimer: For the purposes of this posting, "Men" shall refer generally to cisgendered men who are attracted to women. "Women" or "we," on the other hand, will refer not only femme-identified people, but all people who present or are perceived femme regardless of sex or gender identity. This is not meant to be exclusionary, but rather is because I need to be understood by idiots.<br />
<br />
Dear Men,<br />
<br />
You are not "a nice guy."<br />
I know you aren't<br />
because of how hard you're trying<br />
to convince everyone around you<br />
that you are.<br />
The louder you scream "not all men,"<br />
the easier<br />
it is<br />
to identify<br />
that you ARE DEFINITELY<br />
one of THOSE men.<br />
The PROBLEM men.<br />
<br />
Dear Men,<br />
<br />
If your response to a woman saying<br />
"This is why we are afraid"<br />
while posting an article<br />
about A MAN<br />
SHOOTING AN INFANT<br />
because he was rejected by a mother<br />
is not with disgust<br />
and grief<br />
and remorse<br />
and heartfelt sympathy,<br />
but is instead with<br />
SELF RIGHTEOUS DEFENSIVENESS<br />
because "NOT ALL MEN" are like that,<br />
because "I AM A NICE GUY,"<br />
then YOU<br />
ARE PART<br />
OF THE PROBLEM<br />
<br />
Dear Men,<br />
<br />
You are not<br />
"a nice guy."<br />
When nice guys are told about boundaries,<br />
they respect them.<br />
They don't condescendingly try<br />
to convince us<br />
that they're nice enough<br />
that boundaries need not apply<br />
to THEM.<br />
They don't demand<br />
that we calmly<br />
and rationally<br />
explain our trauma<br />
to THEIR satisfaction<br />
before they accept<br />
that our reasons<br />
for wanting our boundaries respected<br />
are good enough<br />
for them.<br />
<br />
DEAR MEN,<br />
<br />
WHEN WE SAY<br />
THAT WE ARE AFRAID<br />
WE DO NOT WANT YOU<br />
TO MANSPLAIN TO US<br />
WHY WE SHOULD NOT BE.<br />
WE WANT YOU TO BACK THE FUCK OFF.<br />
After years of being harassed<br />
and violated,<br />
and watching our friends<br />
and sisters<br />
and strangers<br />
and people just like us<br />
and people who are nothing like us but it doesn't matter because there is nothing about who they are or what they were doing that could possibly have made what happened reasonable<br />
being harassed<br />
and violated<br />
and murdered in the streets<br />
because they didn't respond<br />
the way MEN WANTED THEM TO<br />
we are,<br />
as a collective,<br />
traumatized. <br />
<br />
Dear Men,<br />
<br />
I should not have to have instructions<br />
written on my body<br />
in order to remind you<br />
that it belongs to me,<br />
and yet<br />
my Amazon wishlist is full of clothes that say<br />
"Don't Fucking Touch Me"<br />
and "Don't Tell Me To Smile"<br />
and "I DO NOT CONSENT"<br />
so that in case I need to prove in court<br />
that MY CLOTHES DID NOT SAY THAT I WANTED YOU TO TOUCH ME<br />
my clothes will,<br />
in fact,<br />
VERY CLEARLY SAY NOT TO.<br />
<br />
Dear Men,<br />
<br />
We just want<br />
to exist<br />
in public<br />
in peace.<br />
We just want you<br />
to not force yourselves<br />
into our space<br />
when you haven't been invited.<br />
We just want<br />
to not have to be afraid<br />
that you will hurt us<br />
or kill us.<br />
But I guess<br />
that you're SO FUCKING NICE<br />
that that's just too much to ask of you.</div>
BlueJeanDreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10112892239847594855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-29610028077664067112017-05-08T09:59:00.001-07:002017-05-08T09:59:30.681-07:00Love Is (Not) Our ResistanceOkay, kids. We have some things to discuss.<br />
<br /><br />
The status quo is unacceptable. We have a room full of rich fucking white men deciding the fates of everyone who ISN'T a rich fucking white man. A bunch of entitled pricks who everyone says think they know better what we need than we do.<br />
<br /><br />
But here's the thing: They KNOW that what they're doing is harmful. Let's stop pretending their intentions are altruistic. Let's stop pretending this is about anything more than power and money. It isn't that they think they know better than we (and our doctors) do--It's that they legitimately don't give a shit about what we need. What they want is FAR more important than what we need. What they want is to have all of the money and all of the power, and for women and PoC and poor people and queers to literally serve them or die. (We queers are in the "or die" category, except for the hot women, who need to have the queerness raped out of them.)<br />
<br /><br />
Some of you have no idea that this is the case. You have the privilege of perspective--You can give them the benefit of the doubt because right now, this isn't really impacting you. To be honest, I have that privilege, and I work very hard to overcome it. Just because my life is currently protected by my straight-white-girl appearance doesn't mean anything. Tens of thousands of people are at risk every day. Do you understand that? People who can't hide behind a façade of what's "Normal" to these narrow-minded fuckers are risking their lives every day just by EXISTING. Think about that for a second.<br />
<br /><br />
Every time a young black man leaves his house, he wonders if today he'll be the face on the news. If white people everywhere will dig through his past trying to find a reason why his murder was justified.<br />
<br /><br />
Every time a gender-nonconforming individual leaves the house, they wonder if they'll be beaten and hospitalized or killed. They wonder if they'll be the victim of a hate crime.<br />
<br /><br />
God forbid a person be black AND visibly queer. That's just "Asking" for disaster. (Yes, the quotes are intended to denote sarcasm. Being oneself is never, EVER the same as consenting to have one's safety violated.)<br />
<br /><br />
And no one is listening to us. Because they don't care. Seriously. All those rich white fuckers who have more vacation than they do workdays? All those guys up there who HAVE their socialized healthcare? They. Don't. Care. About. Us.<br />
<br /><br />
So we protest. We shout. We make ourselves heard. And we are criticized. "You should find a peaceful way to protest," entitled white people say. It actually means "You should do this in a way and a place that doesn't impact me at ALL, but that I can still post about on facebook and pat myself on the back for being SUCH A GOOD ALLY." They don't want us to be peaceful. They want us to be invisible and silent. The huddled masses on whose backs the rich build their empires.<br />
<br /><br />
Listen.<br />
<br /><br />
That won't work.<br />
<br /><br />
That won't ever work.<br />
<br /><br />
I respect pacifists. I really do. They have a code of ethics and they stick to it regardless. That's rad. You do your own thing, Pacifists. You make the signs. You write the letters. You hold hands and form circles between the violent and the oppressed. And seriously, that's amazing. Your courage and commitment should NEVER be underestimated.<br />
<br /><br />
But the rest of us? Seriously, guys. It's time to fuck this status quo up. Punch some fucking Nazis. Be loud. Block traffic. Shut down corporate offices. We will neither serve wealth and power to the rich and powerful. Neither will we silently accept their smug superiority as they slowly make laws that will result in our deaths.<br />
<br /><br />
We are allowed to hate our oppressors. We SHOULD hate our oppressors. Unfortunately, we can't love them into submission. We could do that if they didn't know that they were oppressing us (Although it is NOT the duty of the oppressed to educate the oppressors.) If they were just stupid and myopic.<br />
<br /><br />
But they know. They're doing it on purpose. Because what they want is more important than OUR LIVES.<br />
<br /><br />
It's time to get angry.BlueJeanDreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10112892239847594855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-47424432793817895212017-05-07T14:18:00.000-07:002017-05-07T14:18:21.654-07:00Punch Up (Or: Why It Doesn't Fucking Matter What You Meant.)It's really not that difficult a concept. Some things shouldn't be joked about. It isn't because I'm One Of Those Feminists with no sense of humor, it's because joking about things normalizes them. And honestly, that's dangerous.<br />
<br />
So let's try to dumb it down a little.<br />
<br />
Don't make fun of people who can be hurt by it.<br />
<br />
Now I'm not talking about 45 getting his feelings hurt about a television comedian making rude comments about his mouth's relationship with Putin's hairy manhood. He'll make poop-tweets about how he's being treated unfairly, and try to violate the First Amendment by censoring said comedian, but at the end of the day, he's still shitting on a golden throne that shoots warm water up his oddly pale arse so he doesn't have to worry about cleaning himself. On his private jet. Which he's taking to his golf resort. On the taxpayers' dime.<br />
<br />
Make fun of the politicians. Make fun of the 1%. Make fun of the people who have socialized university educations, or the people who have socialized healthcare and a goddamn dreamboat Prime Minister. Make fun of the white people. Make fun of your boss. Make fun of the people who, at the end of the day, don't actually give a shit. Their life won't be impacted, they're safe in their situations. They'll still have their education, and healthcare, and dreamboat politicians. They have more power, you can't actually hurt them.<br />
<br />
(Sidebar: That's what privilege is. It doesn't mean you have it easy. It doesn't mean you didn't work for stuff. It means that society has given you power that can't be taken away. It's your whiteness; your maleness; your straightness; your rockstar healthcare; your amazing fucking Prime Minister. Yes, I have a crush on Justin Trudeau. Fight me.)<br />
<br />
Now here's the hard part: Don't make fun of the people who CAN be hurt by it.<br />
<br />
Again, I'm not talking about whitegirl college students who don't understand why their hair-mats (that they think are "dreadlocks" but really aren't) are cultural appropriation. I'm not talking about dudes who cry when feminists call them out on their shitty behavior.<br />
<br />
I'm talking about the people who can -actually- be hurt. I'm talking about perpetuating stereotypes. I'm talking about hate crimes. I'm talking about people who are literally afraid every single day. I'm talking about the fear that People of Color feel when they encounter a cop. I'm talking about the women who clutch their keys between their knuckles as they walk from their car to their door, because they're afraid of getting assaulted. I'm talking about the LGBTQIA+ community, who are CONSTANT victims of hate-crimes and being murdered just because they don't look...SOMETHING...enough.<br />
<br />
I don't hate Jeff Dunham because he isn't funny. (Though that's sure part of it.) I hate him because he's a shitbag racist who makes money perpetuating racist bullshit at people who feel totally comfortable laughing at racism because they're secure enough in their privilege to never have to worry about it.<br />
<br />
When I say "Punch Up," I mean "Make fun of the people who have the power." <br />
<br />
That doesn't mean you can't enjoy some self-deprecating or off-color humor in the right company. In this case, "the right company" means people you ABSOLUTELY KNOW WITH ABSOLUTE CERTAINTY know that that behavior is not. okay. Like...if a gay man wants to call himself the F-Word, he can do that. If he's hanging out with a bunch of really close friends who he's told can use that word to refer to him, then they can do that. That DOES NOT mean they can call anyone else that word. It DOES NOT mean that he can call anyone he wants that word. It means that if they all have a clear understanding that this is acceptable among themselves, then that's where it's acceptable.<br />
<br />
Included in this concept is "Punching Across." Which means that, for example, two black people can call themselves the N-Word. That's something that's generally understood, but some white people REALLY DON'T UNDERSTAND why "if they can use it, why can't I?"<br /><br />The answer to that is: Because in this situation, you have the power. In our society, white people have more power than black people. If you use that word, it's "Punching Down." You're bringing a gun to a knife fight--You have an unfair advantage. If you bring a gun to a knife-fight and use it, you're an asshole. If you bring a gun to a gun-fight, that's fair. If you bring a knife to a gun-fight, you're challenging the status-quo-loving Power with whatever you have. And that's badass.<br />
<br />
(Keep in mind that this is all strictly metaphorical. Please don't get into gunfights or fights of any sort.)<br />
<br />
In order to understand this, you have to accept that making fun of shit that legit impacts people in a negative way (racist stereotypes, rape, domestic violence, drug addiction, etc.) you are normalizing these harmful behaviors, and whether you believe it or not, you are ENCOURAGING the people who do the harm. And in that way, yes. You are doing harm.<br />
<br />
So it doesn't fucking matter what you meant. It isn't just a joke. You're being an asshole and trying to make it okay to be an asshole.<br />
<br />
So...don't be an asshole, man. Punch up, okay?<br />
<br />BlueJeanDreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10112892239847594855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-59792170383704624582016-02-04T07:30:00.000-08:002016-02-04T07:30:11.150-08:00Rape Culture: I do not think it means what you think it meansI'd like to say a few things about rape culture. Mainly what it is, what it isn't, and why your knee-jerk reaction isn't necessary.<br><br>
Rape culture exists. And we pretty much all contribute to it. Yes, even I do.<br><br>
Rape Culture is <i>an environment in which rape is prevalent and in which sexual violence against women is normalized and excused in the media and popular culture.</i><br><br>
Rape Culture is NOT <i>a bunch of dudes standing around drugging drinks and talking about how they can't wait until a chick gets raped.</i> Those dudes exist, but that is NOT what rape culture is.<br><br>
When I say "you contribute to rape culture," it does NOT mean that you're okay with rape. It doesn't mean that you like it, that you think it's not a huge problem, that you wouldn't do everything in your power to stop it if you get the opportunity.<br><br>
It means that you contribute to a ubiquitous and pervasive society that frequently reduces women to sex objects.<br><br>
My frequent use of the word "Bitches" is contributing to rape culture.<br><br>
My previous (I'm working on getting better!) tendency toward rape jokes has contributed toward rape culture.<br><br>
My immediate judgment of a woman based on her appearance and clothing is both contributing to and a result of rape culture.<br><br>
When you post memes on facebook that say or imply that a woman who rejects a man deserves to have bad things happen to her, you're contributing to rape culture.<br><br>
When you post a picture of a woman's body that she did not grant you permission to post, you are contributing to rape culture.<br><br>
When you reduce a woman--any woman, any girl, any age, whether you know her or not--to what you perceive as her sexual characteristics, you are contributing to rape culture.<br><br>
When you forget that every woman, everywhere, is <i>actually an entire person,</i> you are contributing to rape culture.<br><br>
It doesn't make you a rapist. It doesn't mean you encourage rape. But you should be aware that when you do these things, you are contributing to rape culture. Honestly, it's pretty common, and even fairly normal. It doesn't make you a bad person. I swear, it doesn't. It isn't even an insult.<br><br>
It is, however, something you should be aware of. And maybe try to tone down.BlueJeanDreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10112892239847594855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-65454813350874348772013-10-31T17:03:00.000-07:002013-10-31T17:03:21.478-07:00For my friend, and anyone who needs it.One of my friends has a hard time with today.<br><br>
Ten years ago, he lost his wife to untreated mental illness.<br><br>
Today, he told me how brave I am. How much he appreciates that I'm getting help. How I'm his hero.<br><br>
He reminded me of why I'm doing what I'm doing. Because depression doesn't just hurt me. It can hurt everyone around me. It hurts everyone who loves me. It isn't just about me. And if you're going through it, it isn't just about you.<br><br>
So for my friend, I'm going to talk about how goddamned hard it is to ask for help. Because "asking for help" sounds so easy. But it's not, and I'm not going to bullshit about that. It's hard. But god, it's important. You can't expect to fix everything yourself. You just can't. It's too much pressure, and you don't always have the right equipment. It's like trying to hang a picture with a bulldozer, or build a bridge with a shovel. It just don't work, and you're going to end up more frustrated and hurt than you were before.<br><br>
It started two weeks ago. Not the depression, that's been going on for years. The decision started two weeks ago. It was a Friday afternoon. I was trying to make some plans to go shopping the following morning in Austin. I was excited about it, and that felt great. I posted to facebook to see if anyone wanted to go shopping with me.<br><br>
And I waited.<br><br>
And I waited.<br><br>
And I waited.<br><br>
On the drive up to Austin (Where my boyfriend lives, and where I live on weekends, for those who didn't know) I suddenly realized that no one had responded to me.<br><br>
No one wanted to go shopping with me.<br><br>
I remember so clearly the feeling of deflating. Like a balloon that hadn't been popped, just punctured so the air rushed out. Instead of a balloon, it became a shriveled piece of nothing. That's how I felt.<br><br>
I started to cry. Not the kind of cry that happens with tears, but the kind of cry that is too big to fit out your eyes. It's silent and crushing. I was crushed. I remembered living in Nebraska, and how there was always someone who would go shopping with me, there. Or have dinner with me. Or come hang out and watch a movie. Or do -anything.- I had people from all over the country saying that they would, except they're X00(0) miles away. I had a few responses from people here, but they were all negative. People were busy.<br><br>
And I started having really dark thoughts about being in Texas. Why had I left my friends behind? Were any of my friends here actually my friends? Or did they just play along because they're friends with my boyfriend? Do I actually have any friends, or am I completely alone in this state? Why the hell doesn't anyone want to go shopping with me? I started worrying that my boyfriend would ask one of his friends to just go with me because it would make me feel better. And that they would. Not because they wanted to spend time with me, but because he asked him to. Man, how awful would that have been? How pathetic am I, that I can't even get people to hang out with me? In order for someone to spend time with me, it has to be a favor to someone else. God, it's only shopping. How pathetic am I, that it's bothering me this much?<br><br>
These thoughts essentially swirled around in my brain for an hour or so, and by the time I arrived in Austin, I was miserable. I was angry. I was so, so lonely. I felt like there was a lead blanket draping over my shoulders--Like the kind they put on you at the dentist when you get x-rays. And it just kept getting heavier. It wanted me to collapse beneath its weight. To just fall to the ground and lay there, pressing slowly into the concrete until I was a part of the landscape.<br><br>
Then I got to Austin, and I was not a pleasant person. I tried really hard to be, but I just couldn't do it. We got in a fight. I lay on the bed, curled up on my side, and I stared at wrinkles in the blankets. My boyfriend sat at his computer in stoic silence. He had no idea what was going on in my head. He was upset. I'd been a bitch. He silently stood and started getting ready for work. He threw his clothing as he changed, and I cringed every time. I thought at any moment that he was going to start screaming, even though that isn't what he does. I thought he was going to leave without saying a word. That was worse. Say something. Say something. Say something. Dear god, please say something. Say anything. I can't bear this silence. Please say something. Oh god what if he leaves?<br><br>
While I lay there, more horrible thoughts swirled around my head, and joined the existing ones. Eventually, they coalesced into one stream: I was mostly empty space, anyway. Why did any of it matter? Why did I matter? What difference did I make to the world? I don't matter. I'm made of matter, but that matter is mostly empty space. Space between molecules, between atoms. I'd be worth more if they took me apart, bit by bit, and put me in the Hadron Collider. They could learn so much. Then I'd be worth something. I'd be gone, but I'd be worth something.<br><br>
I started to cry, again. The same kind of silent, invisible tears. They tickled my eyes, and the back of my nose, but they never came out. They stayed there.<br><br>
When he was ready to go, I looked up. It almost hurt to look at him. Then he beckoned to me, and opened his arms.<br><br>
I fell against him and fell apart. I tried so hard to hold it together. Tried to wait until he left so he wouldn't have to worry. I'm being stupid. This is stupid. It wasn't that big of a fight, anyway. Why can't I stop crying?<br><br>
I don't even remember what I said. I don't even remember what I said. What I remember is the concern in his eyes. The way he held me. When I sat down and stared at anything but his face. I couldn't bear it. Everything hurt. Everything in my life hurt at that moment. I remember staring at the carpet and saying, quietly, brokenly, "I...think I need help."<br><br>
He was quite late to work that night. He stayed with me until I had calmed down enough. He couldn't miss work, it's just not an option. He left, and I sent him a text and said "I think I'll call L. She'll know what to do."<br><br>
So I did. And god, she did. She somehow said exactly the right things to help me relax, to laugh and smile a little bit. She gave me excellent advice, comforted me, reassured me, and then gave me more excellent advice. Then she adroitly changed the subject until we were laughing again. And she knows exactly how important that phone call was, and exactly how much I needed it.
<br><br>
And I made a decision to call the mental health clinic and make an appointment.<br><br>
I don't remember if I did it on monday or tuesday. I found the number and stared at it a while. Waited for the right moment. Waited until I was alone. I was shaking.<br><br>
I picked up the phone. I pushed a button. Was that the right one? I hung up.<br><br>
I picked up the phone. I started to dial. I can't do this. I hung up.<br><br>
I picked up the phone. I started to dial. What am I going to say? I have no idea! I hung up.<br><br>
I made a decision.<br><br>
I'm going to have a cup of tea.<br><br>
I went to the kitchen, and I made myself a cup of tea. I went back to my desk and wrapped my freezing hands around the scalding cup. I couldn't hold it for more than a second. I stared at the teacup. The phone. The phone number on my screen. The desk. My heart pounded in my chest. My eyes were stinging. What was I going to say?<br><br>
It doesn't matter what I say. They're probably used to that. I'm sure nobody knows what to say when they call.<br><br>
I sipped my tea slowly.<br><br>
I can just tell them I need an appointment. I'm sure they'll know what questions to ask.<br><br>
My tea was getting cool. I picked up the phone and glanced at the number on the screen.<br><br>
I hung up.<br><br>
I took a deep breath. I dialed the number. It rang.<br><br>
And I didn't hang up. I clutched the phone, knuckles turning white. I didn't hang again.<br><br>
A cheerful, female voice answered.<br><br>
"I...need to make an appointment."<br><br>
She asked some questions about my doctor that I didn't know the answers to. She asked what I needed to be seen for.<br><br>
My body went cold. I had been dreading this. God, I'm at work. Don't make me say it. Don't make me say it out loud. Why are you doing this to me?<br><br>
"...Depression?" It was just more than a whisper.<br><br>
She asked me some more questions that I wasn't sure how to answer, but I did my best.<br><br>
My appointment, she told me, was on Thursday at ten o'clock.<br><br>
Thursday. This week. Oh god, that's days away.<br><br>
The next few days are a blur of pretending to work, somehow actually working, sweaty palms, and anxiety. God, I want a cigarette. I don't smoke anymore.<br><br>
Thursday came. I went into work at seven thirty. My heart was pounding. Today. Today. Today. Today. Today. Today. Today.<br><br>
I couldn't keep my eyes off that clock. Just get it over with. I can't stand it. I can't take this anymore. I CAN'T TAKE THIS ANYMORE. Texting anyone who knows, and can respond. Killing time. Trying to distract myself.<br><br>
I get into my car. I haven't ever been to the clinic before, and I haven't been near it. But I Have directions, and I've looked at a map. I manage to get there without much trouble. I park, and sit in the car for a second. The sun feels warm on my skin. I feel cold. I feel tight.<br><br>
I get out of the car. The clinic is a long, squat building. I climb the stairs. This is like a long, slow heart attack. I stop and read the sign on the door. Always read the signs.<br><br>
I walk in.<br><br>
Oh god, everybody is judging me. I swear they are. What problems could she have? What, did she get dumped? Did her cat die? Did her daddy not love her enough? She can't have been through anything as bad as what I have. What is she DOING here?<br><br>
I'm sure no-one even noticed me, aside from the vague realization that someone had come in. But to me, the quiet shuffle and buzz of the room was deafening. All around me there was judgment, there were accusations. My heart pounded and I felt like my face wasn't quite attached to my head anymore.<br><br>
I went and stood in the middle of the room, waiting for a receptionist to be free. God, just leave me alone.<br><br>
One waved me over. A solid, middle-aged black woman who managed to look kind and frustrated at the same time. I handed her my card, and said quietly into the speech-opening in the glass, "I have a ten o'clock appointment." Everyone in this room has an appointment. Why is it so hard to say it out loud? What is wrong with me? Is it really so bad? Do I really need to be here? Maybe those silent judgments were right. Maybe I don't belong here. Maybe I'm not bad enough. I don't know. I'm here.<br><br>
She directs me to an alcove with a computer and directs me to fill out a survey that will help identify my symptoms, and then sign the privacy form. When I bring it back, she'll let the "provider" know that I'm here.<br><br>
I do. I'm as honest as I know how to be. I don't know how to answer the questions, sometimes. They're too vague, or poorly worded. I have no idea how to answer this. I'll have to explain to the doctor.<br><br>
I finish. I go give the receptionist the paper. All around me, I swear I can hear the thoughts of other people. I swear they're staring at me. Judging me, still, for taking up their time.<br><br>
I sit down. I stare intently at my phone, blocking out the room and its harsh fluorescent lights and nonexistent judgmental stares.<br><br>
I lose track of everything, and for a moment it's like bliss. Then someone says my name, and reality crashes back over me. It's a white-haired black lady, older than the receptionist. She has a very kind voice. She introduces herself and asks me to come to her office.<br><br>
I sit in the chair in the warm little room. She sits near me, at a ninety degree angle. As it there were a coffee table there. She asks me questions. I answer them as honestly as I can, telling her that sometimes I don't know how to answer so I'll do my best.<br><br>
She looks at me at one point, face taught with concern. She sounds surprised, and sad.<br><br>
"My god. How do you function?"<br><br>
It's one of the most vindicating moments of my life.<br><br>
After about an hour, she tells me that I have depression and PTSD related to sexual trauma. She says she wants to refer me to a counselor who specializes in sexual assault, and a psychiatrist for further evaluation.<br><br>
And my heart starts beating again.BlueJeanDreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10112892239847594855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-30475750314683301832013-10-31T11:17:00.000-07:002013-10-31T11:17:28.115-07:00The Me In The MirrorI had a thought last night that was so terrifying that I could only feel it for a few minutes before everything went numb.<br><br>
I was thinking really hard about my symptoms, and trying to determine when they really started. I think I decided it was 2008, the year I was last raped, and the year that my brain broke so badly that I don't remember most of that summer. It's largely an unfocused blur. There are bits here and there that I recognise, but can't identify in detail.<br><br>
That was almost six years ago. I was 23.<br><br>
Now for those of you who are around 30, like I am, stop a moment and think about who you were at 23. I bet you were a very different person, because...well, that's what your 20s are for. Generally that's when we start turning into the person we're going to be for the rest of our lives. When we become adults for real, instead of for legal.<br><br>
For me, it's when I think I broke. And if I've been broken since then, I have to wonder...<br><br>
Will I recognise myself when I'm done healing? Will I be the same person, or will I be different? Will I like the same things? The same music? Will the same things make me laugh? Make me cry? Make me angry? Dear lord, what if I'm a republican?<br><br>
(Okay. That last bit was an attempt at humor.)<br><br>
Will I still be the person my friends love?<br><br>
...Will I still be the person who loves them?<br><br>
Will I recognise the woman I see in the mirror?<br><br>
It's a terrifying thought, realizing that all this time I thought I was so self-aware, and I may not know anything about myself.<br><br>
I'm pretty numb today, still.<br><br>
Processing...BlueJeanDreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10112892239847594855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-40133741645022765632013-10-30T14:14:00.000-07:002013-10-30T14:27:05.235-07:00How To Actually Help [me minimize my awkwardness at normal questions]I know, I've been neglectful again. Like Silent Bob, I only speak when I feel it's truly important. I hope that this means that you take my words a little more seriously, when I do speak.<br><br>
Recently, I've fallen into the deepest, most crippling depression I've ever experienced. At least that I'm aware of. (There WAS that one summer that I don't remember. But who knows what I was like then?) I mean it's bad. When I say "crippling," I mean that it's hard to function in the most basic ways--Feeding myself, bathing myself, getting out of bed. You know. Socializing and working tax me more than I knew was possible. I've recently started suffering "crashes" after extended periods of being in a good mood. After the happy activity ends, I feel myself start to deflate. If the crash is bad enough, it results in me curled up somewhere in my underwear (How did that happen? I don't even remember getting undressed!) crying for literally no reason.<br><br>
Imagine if you got a hangover from eating a nutritionally balanced, healthy, delicious meal. That's what it feels like. Do something healthy and be punished by your body. What?<br><br>
Anyway, so I finally, FINALLY went to get a psychological evaluation. Turns out I have depression (Imagine my surprise!) and also PTSD. (Okay, that one actually surprised me a little.)<br><br>
PTSD? Isn't that for people who get blown up or watch their friends die or are in other super violent situations? (Yes, I knew better, I'm citing stereotype.)<br><br>
Well, it's also for people who have suffered more quietly traumatic experiences. Abusive relationships that take months or years to realize, and more to admit, were abusive. Someone whose name you'll never know dropping something into your drink and taking advantage of you when you can't think.<br><br>
It's for people like me. And, maybe, for people like you. Weird.<br><br>
So, I did a thing. I posted on my facebook about it. Because I figure, these people are on my facebook because they care about me. And because I care about them. And there's really no good reason to keep them in the dark when the simple truth is, support of our friends is what gets us through these dark times.<br><br>
And the flood of support that flowed in was overwhelming, moving, and beautiful. You never know how many people really care about you until they're all moved to display it at once. And frankly, it's wonderful.<br><br>
Most of the support came in the form of "I know that there isn't much I can do, but I'm here and I love you." There was also "I've been in a similar situation and I understand. If you need to talk, or if you need advice, or someone to lean on, I'm here." Lots of hugs and loves and warm, wonderful things.<br><br>
And a handful of friends who went white-hot with rage. There were (mostly rhetorical, I hope) threats toward those who have hurt me; offers of violence toward them should I desire it; people who got passionately angry on my behalf, because the thought of my being hurt is so horrible to them; and more horrible still is my being hurt enough to give me legitimate mental disorders.<br><br>
But there's a bit of a problem. See, when you show me this rage, it makes me feel awkward. On one hand, it's powerfully touching that you care THAT MUCH ABOUT ME. On the other hand...What do I do with this? Do I thank you for your rage? Do I tell you that I don't want these things? That it's too late for legal persuit, and that vengeance doesn't equate justice? That I just want to move on with my life, and don't want more issues to come of this? I don't know. Will that seem ungrateful? Am I supposed to comfort you? I want to, but I really lack the capacity at that moment. Should I tell you it's okay? Well, it isn't. None of this is. And I just don't know what to do.<br><br>
There's another perfectly well-intended thing that happens that confuses the shit out of me. Questions like "Are you okay?" and "how are you doing?" This is so innocent, people just genuinely wanting to know how I'm doing. It's warm, it's well-intended, it's well excuted, there's nothing about it that should make me feel awkward. But it's so much more complicated than that. No, I'm not okay. I'm in the midst of the deepest depression of my life and I'm dealing with PTSD. We've covered this. I first have to resist the initial impulse to say "Doing alright/fine/whatever generic response I've been giving." Then I have to find a response that isn't awkward or rude.<br><br>
My dear friends, you have no idea how complicated this simplest of human interactions has become for me. "How are you?" is this huge, crazy question that looms. I have to find an answer that is honest, reassuring, simple, and doesn't seem to scream "attention whore." Which means I can't answer "I've just been curled up on the floor crying." or "I'm awesome!" or "fine." or "Depressed." What on earth does that leave me with? The non-answer, "That's...complicated."<br><br>
Now I'm not going to just say "stop that!" and end there. Because...honestly? DON'T stop. Letting me know that you're around, that you care, and that you're willing to talk to me about the fact that you care means SO MUCH MORE TO ME than any sort of awkwardness that it gives me. It means the world when people reach out to me. It really, really does. So please. Don't take this as a criticism, don't think I don't appreciate the concern and care. Just take it as what it is: Me expressing how I react to things and, in a minute, offering a few things that you could do instead.<br><br>
Let's face it. This shit gets awkward. There's not enough press, there aren't a lot of articles about "How to (actually) deal with your friend with depression," there aren't many "dos" and "donts" or "really, this is the right thing to say." Largely, that's because every person ever is different. No, really. Each one of us. So there IS no right to say, universally. So I'm going to give you a few things you can say to me instead, starting with my favourite one:<br><br>
"How is that going?"<br><br>
This is the best quesetion someone asked me. How is that PTSD/Depression going? Man, what a great question that was. Now how am I doing, now am I okay. How is that going? You can alter this in a lot of ways. Or you can specify. But it's acknowledging the things we already know, and elaborating by asking for more details of my established state of being. It's also kind of light-hearted, and I imagine people asking it with a smile and a twinkle in their eye. Because this isn't a sudden, huge, dramatic thing that happened. This is a thing that's been going on for, literally, years. I'm the same person I was a week ago, I just have some new words to describe why I sometimes fall down on my floor crying, or can't bother to feed myself or bathe, and some things to maybe help me not do those things anymore.<br><br>
"How is today/the day?"<br><br>
This is another question I can get behind. It's not inquiring about my overall state of being. It's acknowledging that things are constantly changing, that my mood can be anywhere, and also silently acknowledging that overall, my state of being is not good. There are bad days, worse days, and days that are actually okay.<br><br>
"I saw your facebook/whatever and wanted to check in, just to let you know I care."<br><br>
What a great thing to say. There's no awkward pretense, no small-talk, just genuine sentiment. This equates to "Hey. I'm paying attention because you're important to me, but I know that there isn't really anything I can do and I don't know where to start. So. I care." in my book.<br><br>
I'd like to repeat something that I posted above, because it deserves emphasis:<br><br>
This isn't a sudden, huge, dramatic thing that happened SUDDENLY LAST THURSDAY. This is a thing that's been going on for, literally, years. I'm exactly the same person I was a week ago, I just have some new words to describe why I sometimes fall down on my floor crying, or can't bother to feed myself or bathe, and some things to maybe help me not do those things anymore.<br><br>
The only real problem is that now I can't shrug it off. I have to deal with the fact that I'm not okay. I'm the same not-okay person I was a week ago. And I need to be honest with myself and with you all about that. The awkward isn't coming from you, it's all me. It's all me trying to find the right balance of honesty and...well, tact. I feel a little drama-queen about all this, because it feels like I'm drawing a lot of attention to myself. I don't want to be that person who uses their issues to get attention, and I really don't want to APPEAR to be that person when I'm really just trying to get better. I don't want to alienate people, or make them feel like they're doing it wrong.<br><br>
I'm going to re-emphasize that. THERE IS NO DOING IT WRONG. You CANNOT try to help me the wrong way. You CANNOT express that you care for me the wrong way. THERE IS NO WRONG WAY. If you care about me, and you're telling me that, YOU ARE DOING IT RIGHT. The above are just tips on minimalizing the awkward that happens when I have no idea what to do.<br><br>
Is there something you can do? I have no idea. Am I okay? No. Really not. And, I guess, I haven't been for a very long time. Is admitting it making it better? No, and in some ways it's made it worse. But I'm working on it. And if you want to help, then this is how.<br><br>
I've spent three hours writing this. Adding. Subtracting. Changing. Re-wording. Wondering who this is going to piss off.<br><br>
At the end of the day, we're all just trying to help each other. So however you do it, you're doing it right. I hope you think the same of me.BlueJeanDreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10112892239847594855noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-60267421941427995652013-10-21T11:48:00.001-07:002013-10-21T11:48:09.339-07:00My story is up in the Huffington Post...Well, part of my story, anyway.<br />
<br />
Please head to <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lea-grover/i-was-raped-and-abandoned-in-the-snow_b_4103516.html">http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lea-grover/i-was-raped-and-abandoned-in-the-snow_b_4103516.html</a> and read it.<br />
<br />
And if you're so inclined, tweet about #Justice4Daisy.<br />
<br />
<3 p=""></3>Becoming Supermommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04590343072778694123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-11658793851894600672013-08-01T11:34:00.000-07:002013-08-01T11:34:39.786-07:00An Open Letter to Sir Patrick StewartDear Sir Patrick,<br><br>
I am one of the millions of people in this world who feel we know you intimately, yet who you have never met.<br><br>
I grew up knowing who you are. You are not aware, but you helped to shape my life in incredible ways. You helped me know from a young age that there is nothing wrong with liking exactly what I like. You helped me grow up strong, and unashamed of the things I love. You helped me grow up a proud geek, who would never chill her passions because of the cruelty of children.<br><br>
Since I was a young girl, I have known who you are. I have loved your characters on everything I've seen. You inspired me to read Shakespeare. You taught me of nobility, and courage, and loyalty. As characters.<br><br>
It was with these values that I grew up. And as I have gotten older, I have learned many things about you.<br><br>
My purpose, however, is not that. I just want you to know the role you have played in my life.<br><br>
The true purpose of this letter, Sir Patrick, is to thank you. Not to thank you for the things you helped me learn. Not to thank you for the values you helped me live with. No, those are good things that can be taught by any well-written, well-portrayed character.<br><br>
I want to thank you for not letting me down. I want to thank you for being as brave, and loyal, and honest as my favourite characters. I want to thank you for being a man worthy of my childhood idolization, which has carried through into my adult years.<br><br>
I would like to thank you for your voice; for standing up proudly and publically against the things you feel are evil, and in support of the things you feel could help. I would like to thank you for hugging a woman, who I will never know, at a convention, and helping her know the terrible things she lived through were NOT her fault. Because when you spoke to that woman, when you hugged her, you were also speaking to me. You were also hugging me. You were touching with thousands of other women (and men!) just like me, who have lived far too long feeling the shame of other peoples' crimes.<br><br>
I would like to thank you for teaching me that some of the fictional heroes I grew up loving are real. For teaching me that real people can be weighed against those heroes, and not fall frightfully short.<br><br>
I would like to thank you, Sir Patrick, for helping me to keep my faith in humanity. I know that sounds extreme, but every time I hear about you standing beside me, fighting the fight against domestic violence; fighting against misogyny; fighting against inequality; against fear; against shame; and against stigmatizing victims, I feel that surge of hope. That surge of gratitude. That surge of comfort that comes with knowing that I do not stand alone. That I am not alone. Your openness and honesty about your life helps us stay honest about ours, which helps us all stand together. Together, we are invincible. Together, we can change the world. Every life you touch in your fight touches each and every one of us when we read about it, or see it.<br><br>
You were one of my heroes as a little girl. Thank you so much for being one of my heroes as an adult.<br><br>
With love, gratitude, and above all respect,<br>
One Woman, and Everyone
BlueJeanDreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10112892239847594855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-33834050659750108912013-07-24T07:26:00.000-07:002013-07-24T07:26:13.607-07:00A new ideaAs some of you know, I'm in the military. Recently, the DOD and the USAF have been seriously cracking down on the rising trend in sexual assaults. Largely because it's disgusting. <br />
<br />
One of the things they've done is start a blog, which they sent out to everyone in an email so that we can all put forth our input. <br />
<br />
Here's what I wrote: <br />
<br />
"I am a normal woman. I am a Staff Sergeant in the USAF. I have been sexually assaulted three times in my life--Once by a fellow service member whose name I do not know, and never found out. I feel very passionately about the issue of sexual assault not only in the military, but in the world. The stigma carried along with the label "Victim" is crushing. The shame inherent in confessing that someone has committed against you the most personal crime I know is beyond compare, if you have never experienced it. <br />
<br />
In order to fight sexual assault, we need to do more than educate. We need to do more than train. We need to come forward. We need to remove the stigma, we need to erase the shame. We need to encourage those men and women who have had their choice, their dignity, and their personal power taken from them to take it back. <br />
<br />
This will never be accomplished through training, briefings, and CBTs. We need to share our courage, to share our strength. By coming forward and saying "This happened to me," we are taking back the power that was taken from us, and creating the opportunity to share that courage. If one person can stand up and say "This happened to me," they may give one other person the courage to stand with them. If we stand together with dignity and strength, we can kill our own shame. <br />
<br />
I think that the SAPR program needs to put out a call for Victim Volunteers. Men and women who have been victimized who would be willing to stand in front of a room of hundreds or thousands of people and say "This happened to me." To show our community how hard it is, how painful it is, and more importantly--that we're not alone. The more people stand up and talk about it--From a real, personal, nonhypothetical perspective--the more people will come forward, and the more real fear will be instilled into perpetrators of this heinous crime. <br />
<br />
Sexual assault is arguably the most underreported crime extant. If we remove the stigma from the victims, we have the chance to dramatically increase reporting. This will enable us to properly deal with perpetrators and prevent them moving onto other victims. With that threat hanging over the heads of would-be criminals, we could decrease the incidents of this crime. Any decrease would be an improvment, but we should not rest until it is as hard to imagine as murder, in our community. <br />
<br />
I, for one, would answer a call to talk about my experiences in front of as many people as would hear me. I would love the opportunity to stand up and say "You are not alone!" So many times I sat, humiliated and uncomfortable, through SARC briefings. I tried not to cry. Hoped with everything I was that no-one would notice, that no one would know that I was "a victim." I secretly also hoped that even just once, someone would say "If this has happened to you, feel free to stand up. Show everyone that this is real." I hoped that if they did, I would have the courage to stand up. But no one ever gave me the opportunity. <br />
<br />
This crime is real. It is prevalent. It is everywhere. <br />
<br />
And it is up to us to stop it." <br />
<br />
And I plan on making this happen. Before I leave the military (hopefully in 2017) I will make the Victim Volunteer unit a reality. Because I simply refuse to live in a world in which victimso of sexual assault are more stigmatized than the perpetrators. Because that's bullshit.BlueJeanDreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10112892239847594855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-76854218927924562762013-06-26T11:37:00.000-07:002013-06-26T11:37:02.582-07:00Three Hundred and Thirty Seven DaysI've been dwelling.<br />
<br />
I wrote this on November 10th, 2005.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<h1 class="b-singlepost-title" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.2; margin: 0.5em 0px; padding: 0px;">
Three Hundred and Thirty Seven Days</h1>
<article class="b-singlepost-body" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin: 0.7em 0px 1.3em; position: relative;">I am picturing him. He's standing in the dawn light by the foot of my bd. His feet are shoulder width apart, his arms hang loosely by his side, and he has his eyes closed. He's crying, telling me that he's sorry. That I'm right and he's wrong. He's saying that he's broken and ruined, and that's why we need to be together- so I can teach him to love. So I can teach him to treat people right. I tell him we'll talk about it in the morning, and to go to sleep.<br /><br />I am picturing him. He's laying next to me in the bed and I keep telling him to stop touching me. He won't. I tell him to leave and he turns, he calls me a self righteous hypocrite, he calls me a liar, tells me that I'm cruel and that I'm hurting him on purpose. I'm tired, and I tell him to leave. HE begins to cry again. I tell him to let go and sleep. He attacks. I tell him to hold on and leave. He breaks down. I sit up, and I say something final, "Pick one truth." He climbs back into bed. "I picked one," he says. "What?" "I love you." "Fine. Now let's sleep." He begins to touch me again, and I tell him to get the fuck out.<br /><br />I am picturing him. He's pacing around the room. He's yelling, calling me a tease, calling me a hypocrite, calling me a slut. He wont' leave. I slap him in the face, and he hits me back. As I crawl to the bed he follows. Tells me we're no good for each other because we're both so fucked up. I tell him to go to sleep. He starts touching me again, and I let him.<br /><br />I don't even make him wear a condom.<br /><br />I am picturing him. He's cut his hair in the week since. He's following me, I think. He starts writing, calling. For months he won't leave me alone. I still don't cry rape. Not until I can't take it anymore. Not until I find out what he's done to me. I'm broken now, you see. Re-broken. Broken again. After three hundred and thirty seven days, I am still broken. I have fractures in the shape of his face. Cracks in my shell that will never heal.<br /><br />I leak his name.</article><br />
<i><a href="http://fantasticbanana.livejournal.com/90539.html">...originally posted here.</a></i>Becoming Supermommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04590343072778694123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-18965868412383553562013-01-02T07:21:00.001-08:002013-01-02T07:32:49.698-08:00Entitlement And The MediaDear Readers, you're in for a special treat today. A balls-out rant about something that I am sick of.<br><br>
You see, there is a TV in my office. And on that TV, we often play movies. It keeps the customers from remembering that they're waiting in line. And I've noticed this trend.<br><br>
There are all these movies about dorky, awkward, unattractive men who get these smokin' hot babes because the guys are <i>just so nice.</i><br><br>
They aren't attractive. They aren't charming. They aren't charismatic, or driven, or accomplished. Sometimes, they aren't even intelligent.<br><br>
But they're <i>such good guys</i> that they get this smokin hot babe. He's like a 4, and she's like a 9.<br><br>
There are a couple of movies about dorky awkward girls getting smokin' hot guys, but the girls have to get ridiculous makeovers and shove their tits in the guy's face before he notices what a smart, driven, fun person she is.<br><br>
Are you seeing the discrepancy?<br><br>
Women need to earn men. Usually by being hot. Women are sex objects.<br><br>
Men don't need to earn women. Men just get them. If they have one good trait, they deserve a sex object.<br><br>
There is this ridiculous idea that the media perpetuates that men are -entitled- to women. You see it everywhere. Cartoons. Sitcoms. Movies.<br><br>
You know where else we see it? "Nice Guys."<br><br>
Oh yes, we all know them. The so-called "Nice Guys" who aren't particularly attractive, or driven, or smart. Some of them in their mid-twenties still live with their mothers. They aren't assertive, they never let the girl they like know that they like her. They never actually -do- anything to earn the women they desire. (Who is usually way out of their league, let's be honest.)<br><br>
And then they gripe and complain about how those girls only date "assholes," and how "nice guys finish last," and about how these girls are "turning them into assholes."
<br><br>
Listen, buddy. If you want to get a girl, be the kind of guy she wants. Don't sit around crying to your blog or your other shower-phobic friends about how "nice guys finish last."<br><br>
You are not -entitled- to any woman. ANY woman. You are not entitled to your gorgeous and amazing best friend. You are not entitled to a chick who looks like the celebrity of your choice. You are not entitled to a rich girl, or a fun girl, or a smart girl.<br><br>
So stop your bitching, move out of your mom's basement, go to the goddamn gym, get a decent job, get some gel for your hair, read some books, and become the kind of guy a woman wants.<br><br>
What was that? I should stop being so superficial?<br><br>
Who's that girl you're pining over? Is she a quiet, overweight, mousey little thing who never speaks her mind or does anything to make her stand out?<br><br>
What do you mean she's a 5'9 leggy artist/actress/singer/biologist/archaeologist/doctor with the most amazing curls, who stands up for what she believes in and actively strives for what she wants?<br><br>
Yeah. We're the superficial ones. We should throw away all of our standards and date you because <i>you're so fucking nice.</i><br><br>
Get over yourselves, "Nice Guys." Be the kind of guy we want to date, or stop whining about how we don't want to date you.<br><br>
No human being is ever entitled to another human being. Seriously.BlueJeanDreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10112892239847594855noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-26077440139598961862012-09-06T12:25:00.005-07:002012-09-06T12:25:59.105-07:00Sexually Liberated Uterine TendenciesA trigger warning would be pretty redundant, wouldn't it?<br />
<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="480" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/KtzqvqzBdUQ" width="853"></iframe>Becoming Supermommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04590343072778694123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-8878719306991371192012-02-22T06:25:00.001-08:002012-02-22T06:25:59.649-08:00It only counts if...<div><p>Alright, World. I know we had a talk last week, but you keep throwing things out there that are pissing me off, so we need to sit down and have another chat again.</p>
<p>What are you doing? This is the twenty-first century. In another three hundred-some years, we're supposed to be in Star Trek: The Next Generation. Why the hell are we still clinging to so many archaic concepts?</p>
<p>I'm speaking, today, about these patronizing, insulting terms that you are using to define rape as your own narrow view of it. Terms like "Forcible rape" that's been brought up by -the people who work for my government- that implies that it's only rape if she screams and winds up with bruises or broken bones or bloodshed. And, most recently, the disgusting term "Fully raped" came up.</p>
<p>Seriously? What is "Fully Raped?" Is there such a thing as "Mostly raped," "kind of raped," or "raped a little?" That's like someone saying that they're "a little bit pregnant." It just doesn't work that way.</p>
<p>Now, dear readers, this was not something that someone said to me. It was something someone said to a friend of mine--Someone near and dear to that friend, who had also been attacked. Her attack was a little more Hollywood, but you'd think that even so she'd understand. For her to say something so terrible, so insulting, so patronizing, breaks my heart. That's the kind of phrase that is designed to make the victim feel that kind of self-blame. There is -nothing- there that can help someone feel understood, loved, supported, and victimized. It belittles the whole experience, and has the potential to set someone back several steps in the healing process--back to feeling guilty, feeling like it's their fault, feeling like they can't talk to someone because no one would believe them. After all, they weren't -fully- raped, only a little. What's the big deal, really?</p>
<p>You know what, World? That's bullshit. Every victim, or every survivor, or everyone who has just experienced sexual violence, deserves to feel justified in their feelings, to feel like they deserve to feel that way, that they were attacked or abused and that it was WRONG. No one should ever be faced with a "What's the big deal?" attitude, and this is exactly what terms like "Forcible rape" or "fully raped" are. You're overreacting. It's not that big a deal. What's the problem? Just get over it. I dismiss your feelings, your hurt, and you. Instead, I give you shame, guilt, and disgust. Because you weren't assaulted at knifepoint, at gunpoint, by a large stranger in a dark ally, because your clothes weren't torn from your body while you screamed and cried out, helpless and battered. Because no one would make a movie scene out of your assault, it doesn't count.</p>
<p>World, I am -livid- at you. How can you allow these things to continue? How is it that in the modern world, we're still fighting over these very basic concepts? We disavowed slavery, indentured servitude, human trafficking, and all other laws or traditions that allowed a human person to be treated as property. We now have laws that prevent a human person being treated as property. So why is it that so many people still feel like a person's body is, if you'll forgive the pun, up for grabs whenever someone wants it? Why is it that a person's body is something treated like a right? Like someone can -ever- have a -right- to another person's body? Whether they were in a relationship, whether they were already sleeping together, whether they've consented to their assailant or a hundred other people in the past, no one has a right to another person's body. If a person does not want sexual contact, and another person forces it on them, that is a gross violation. There is no such thing as being "fully raped," or "forcibly raped." It's all awful, it's all terrible, it's all disgusting and hurtful and leaves scars that linger for years, or for the rest of a person's life.</p>
<p>If you think of rape as something that exists in degrees--Kind of, a little bit, fully, forcibly--then please. Think about the people you're hurting by dismissing their experience as something that doesn't count. And then, promptly go perform anatomically improbable acts with yourself.</p>
</div>BlueJeanDreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10112892239847594855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-82377866072904677852012-02-17T08:49:00.001-08:002012-02-17T08:49:52.780-08:00The GOPs rape of American Women<div><p>"Back in my day, they used Bayer aspirin for contraceptives. The gals put it between their knees and it wasn't that costly."</p>
<p>You're right, Foster Friess. I am an ignorant slut who should learn to keep her legs together--If only I were smart enough to figure that out, I totally wouldn't need birth control. I wouldn't need it to fight my sometimes-debilitating menstrual symptoms. I wouldn't need it to regulate my periods. I wouldn't be murdering all of the helpless babies that live their sad lives in my ovaries, just waiting for their chance to come out into the real world. That's all you want, right? For me to not murder those helpless, tiny, fully-formed and sentient human beings that live inside of my ovaries. I understand how reasonable your request is now. While I'm at it, would you like me to make you a sandwich and clean your house?</p>
<p>I try to avoid profanity in my blog, but seriously--fuck you. Fuck you and your whole party for outright stating that women are unqualified to make our own decisions about our sexual and reproductive health and rights. Fuck you for trying to force your religion into the most private and personal places in my body, like a terrifying metaphysical rape. NO MAN, WOMAN, GOVERNMENT, OR LAW HAS THE RIGHT TO MY BODY. That includes telling me what to do with my own health or wellness, and it includes telling me whether or not I should have sex, and it includes telling me wether or not I should have to conceive, bear, or birth a child.</p>
<p>These are NOT your decisions to make. If you attempt to make them for me, for every woman in this country, than you are personally committing, and condoning, the rape of an entire country by forcing your way into our bodies without our consent. Forcing us to bear children born of terror and violence, of twisted disgusting desire, of a sick need for power over another human being.</p>
<p>Oh, wait. That last one? THAT'S YOU, GOP. You are worse than any rapist I've ever heard of--Your desire isn't just to have power over one woman, or women in general. You must have power over EVERY WOMAN IN AMERICA. The power to force us to your will, to violate our bodies and our minds, to make us do your twisted bidding through the blood, sweat, and tears that we have shed to get to the point where we are no longer subserviant to men.</p>
<p>Well, guess what, GOP? We will not submit. We will not sit down quietly while you tell us that you know best, and if we'd just keep our legs and mouths closed we'd see how right you are, that someday we'll thank you for showing us how very wrong we were.</p>
<p>You are wrong. You are so. very. wrong. I will not sit quietly. I will not allow you to rape my body, my mind, or my rights--You'll have to use violence against me, to commit what you callously and ignorantly term as "forcible rape." If you want my rights, if you want my body, you will have to deal with the fact that I will scream, I will fight and call out and rally the people against you and your sick cause. And you will not defeat me, and you will not defeat us. We will never submit.</p>
</div>BlueJeanDreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10112892239847594855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-46031456211778085172012-02-15T10:11:00.000-08:002012-02-15T10:32:40.177-08:00"They Removed Your Consent."Some many years ago, I was invited to a birthday party in a nearby city. The birthday of a good friend of mine. So I hopped on a bus and took the hour-and-a-half trip into the city and attended said party. The plan was for me to stay the night, since these things run late and I didn't have a car with me. No big deal, I did this often.<br /><br />Except that they had neglected to mention one -very- important fact.<br /><br />Most of the rest of the attendees were friends of theirs from the local Fetish Scene. Which wasn't a big deal, really. Those people are often really fun to hang out with. Until a certain point in the evening when they decide that it's a good idea to start tying each other up and beating each other, et cetera.<br /><br />Now this probably wouldn't have been a big deal if I had known about it. I could have been prepared, or made other arrangements for where to stay that night, or simply not gone if that was my choice. However, I didn't have such warning. I was just there, and had no idea what was going to happen.<br /><br />The result, you see, was me winding up wildly uncomfortable in a way that would affect me for many years. Perhaps, even, a little traumatized. This is -not- the way a person should be exposed to these things.<br /><br />I didn't start to really think about it until just recently. I had no reason to. The Fetish Scene in any place is easy enough to avoid. One needs simply not take part and one can effectively ignore its existence. But since my lover enjoys these things, and many of his friends also partake, it has been harder and harder for me to avoid.<br /><br />I've explained the reasons for my not wanting to be around it, and everyone--EVERYONE--has been very kind and understanding, and more than willing to not expose me to anything that would make me uncomfortable while making themselves readily available if I had questions. But it wasn't until a few days ago that I really figured out -why- I was -so uncomfortable.-<br /><br />I was explaining it to a friend, telling the story as I do. And, casually flipping the bacon, she gave me the phrase that would make it all all into place. "Well, they removed your consent." Wow.<br /><br />I hadn't ever thought of it that way, but it makes an awful lot of sense. Anyone in The Scene will tell you that consent is the most important thing. Remove that, and it's definitely a violation. I did not participate in any way, but it was a very small apartment and I couldn't exactly get away. I hid in the one other room and stayed there until everything died down, listening and feeling uncomfortable and vulnerable, not really getting it. I told myself, and my friends, that it wasn't a big deal, but for it to still bother me years later, it clearly was. At least after a fashion.<br /><br />How does one deal with such a violation? With this particular type of non-consensual sex exposure? Part of me is defensive, closed-off, and undesiring of ever having to deal with it again. I just want to ignore it and hope it goes away. Another part of me is angry and self-righteous, wanting the chance to make my own decision, to take back the consent that was taken from me. This is what came of the realization that I hadn't been able to do that--The decision was forced on me, both to be exposed and to be uncomfortable with the whole thing.<br /><br />There's one thing I know about myself, and that's that I -hate- having my consent removed from -any- decision. When a choice is taken from me, one of my responses is to take it back--To actively make that choice. The difference is, this time it doesn't necessarily involve making mistakes like it has in the past. (For example, the way of taking back the choice to have sex tends to end in desperate promiscuity, which I don't necessarily regret, but don't like.) I can willingly make the decision to become educated, to talk to these friends, to expose myself slowly and perhaps work through the discomfort so I can get to the point where I can make a decision.<br /><br />But whatever that is, it will be mine, and not that of a group of strangers or thoughtless friends.BlueJeanDreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10112892239847594855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-18054437066837432562012-02-08T07:16:00.001-08:002012-02-08T07:16:30.259-08:00Struggling with sexuality.<div><p>It's a little difficult to explain some things to people. Those who get it know without the words, but most people never even think about some things. Some feelings. Some states of being. It isn't that they're careless or thoughtless or cold, it's just that they have no reason to think about these things.</p>
<p>I'm talking here, of course, about the psychological repercussions of abuse.</p>
<p>There is one thing that I specifically wish to address here. Several things have brought this to the forefront of my mind over the last few days--One of which was a post by BecomingSuperMommy about the oversexualization of young girls.</p>
<p>Women are generally raised to think that our sexuality--sometimes less controversially referred to as "beauty"--is the most important weapon we have to fight for a good life. We use it to get ahead at work, we use it to secure a financial future through a husband, we use it to secure our husbands, we base our confidence and worth on it. Even media that romanticises intelligence, drive, and creativity in women does it through -beautiful- women. A woman who reads is amazing, but only if she's got perfect hair, a professional make-up-artist, and a figure that belongs in underwear catalogues, which is dressed to advantage in expensive, tailored clothes designed to look like they came from a thrift store.</p>
<p>Some of us manage to break through this mindset that we are only as worthwhile as our sexuality makes us. Some of us never do. Most of us wind up struggling with it on a daily basis.</p>
<p>It's difficult for any woman. Any or every normal, every-day woman will struggle with seeing herself as a sexual object. If she doesn't dress nicely to work, if she doesn't do her hair and makeup, she'll generally be seen as less professional, less able to do her job. If she dresses too nicely, if she does her hair and makeup too well, she'll be seen as the woman who is using her looks rather than her skillset to progress professionally. It's a delicate line for any woman to walk, and it wreaks havoc with self-esteem and self-worth.</p>
<p>Now imagine this everyday woman who struggles with the balance--Between being confident in herself as a sexual object, as a beautiful woman, and in being confident that she is worth more than that by a lot.</p>
<p>Then imagine her as a victim of sexual abuse or sexual assault. Put her in a position where she made to feel like she is worth nothing as a human being. All of the worth that she has is in her existence as a sex object. Her intellect does not matter. Her drive does not matter. Her relationships to not matter. The only thing that matters is her sex.</p>
<p>In a prolonged sexual abuse relationship, a woman is made to feel that sex is her currency and her weapon. If she does not provide sex, she is doing something horribly wrong. She is not living up to her end of the bargain. She is expected and required to provide this service, and if she does not, she is not worth the trouble.</p>
<p>In the instance of sexual assault, then a woman is nothing but a sex object. She has no choice, she has no mind, no thought, no desire of her own that matters. Nothing of her mind or heart or will matters. The things she wants are simply not important, because she is a sex object, created to be used. That's it.</p>
<p>This compounds on the struggles that any woman goes through on a daily basis. Sometimes she simply can't shake the idea that if she is not appropriately sexual, or sexually satisfying, that she is no longer a worthwhile woman.</p>
<p>As a victim of both sexual assault and sexual abuse, these are daily struggles for me. Powerful forces tearing at me from all sides. My inner feminist, boldly proclaiming that I am intelligent, driven, kind, funny, and awesome. My vanity demanding that my face and hair and body be shown to their advantage as often as possible. My Ethical Slut, who unabashedly flaunts my sexuality, because there is no shame in being a sexual creature--which is different from being a sexual object. My desperate insecurity begging for validation, to be reminded that my feminist is right, that I am more than my sexuality. And last, the part of me--a part that I can't even find an appropriate name for--that still feels like a sex object. Perhaps the victim in me, who finds validation through sex because...well, what else is a woman good for, according to men?</p>
<p>That last part, I am aware, is -wildly- unfair to a vast, vast majority of men. Not the least of whom is my own lover, who has never, ever made me feel like I was only worth my sexuality. I would apologise for the unfairness, Men, but I refuse to accept responsbility for the way I have been treated by those among you who are incapable of seeing the true value of another human.</p>
<p>But these are the perspectives that I own. Each of them is a different voice, a different perspectve, a different response. All of them meld seamlessly into my personality, showing themselves in moments that most people can never discern. They are all a part of me, and will never go away. Like most women, I will always have that insecurity. And like a shockingly and disturbingly high percentage of women, somewhere inside me will always be a terrified victim, who will always feel that she can't possibly be worth more than a sex object, because of the trauma involved in being treated that way.</p>
<p>Somewhere, hovering around me, is a vague sense of failure because so much of my identity does revolve around sex--Mostly around having to deliberately think of myself as "not-just-a-sex-object." However, that Feminist voice is telling me that I wouldn't have to work so hard at NOT being a sex object if society as a whole were not focusing so hard on making me feel that way.</p>
<p>This is not a failing on my part. This is not a failing on the part of women. This is not a failing on the part of men. This is a failing on the part of society that still focuses so hard on female sexuality. Being sexy is fine and good, but eventually we, as a society, will have to get the hell over it and stop making it a requirement for being worthwhile.</p>
</div>BlueJeanDreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10112892239847594855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-58645135126939616282011-07-10T08:24:00.000-07:002011-07-10T08:40:40.753-07:00On FriendshipIt's that time of year again. The time for my newsfeed to be inundated with pictures and statuses about one of the guys who raped me.<br /><br />When you get into a relationship, friends will often say "If he hurts you, I'll kill him" or something similar. Now I'll generally tell them that it's not their place, but I appreciate the fierce moment of loyalty.<br /><br />Generally, it's been true. Guys who've hurt me, cheated on me, broken my heart, have been a subject of some ridicule on the part of my friends. And I'll usually tell them that it's okay, that they don't know everything that went down. That I appreciate and love their loyalty, but it's not the time.<br /><br />Then I tell them that someone raped me. Someone they know and are friends with committed an act of sexual violence towards me, took something from me that I had to fight against myself to get back, hurt me in ways that can never really be healed. And these people who said "If he hurts you, I'll kill him," said "Oh. Well it's cool if we still hang out, right?"<br /><br />And I said yes, because I'm not about to tell anyone who they can and can't be friends with based on my personal feelings.<br /><br />I'm not angry with any of them, really. But it drives me crazy. It -hurts me- that they'd be that way. Not only that they'd hang out with him, but they'd make such a big public deal of it that I can't avoid it.<br /><br />I don't want people to get revenge. I don't want people to hate him, or try to hurt him, or destroy his business, or anything like that. I just want them to take my side. To say "You very badly hurt one of my friends, I don't want to be friends with you anymore because I'll hurt her if I continue, and she's more important to me than you are."<br /><br />Yup, that's right. I want to be more important to the friends and family who've known me for ten years or more. More important than the guy they've known for less time than me, who's been less to them personally than I have, who makes cool things that they want to be seen with.<br /><br />Maybe that's unfair, too, but I'm only human.BlueJeanDreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10112892239847594855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-27301678692969328122011-06-07T09:59:00.000-07:002011-06-07T09:59:25.363-07:00The Chicago SlutWalkRather than copy the entirety of the post over here, I'd like to share a passage or two and leave you with a link.<br />
<br />
<br />
<blockquote>We teach our girls <i>how not to get raped</i>. That's where our focus is. Universities hand out guides to college life telling female students not accept strange beverages from strangers, to travel in packs, to avoid binge drinking, to dress conservatively. We teach them that the weight of <i>not getting raped</i> is on them.<br />
We don't put that sort of energy into teaching anybody <i>not to rape people</i>.</blockquote><br />
<blockquote>I can also promise you this, both of the men who assaulted me genuinely don't believe they did anything wrong. The fact that they wanted to have sex with me was just more important to them than any opinion I might have had in the matter.</blockquote><br />
<br />
<a href="http://becomingsupermommy.blogspot.com/2011/06/it-wasnt-my-fault.html">Becoming SuperMommy: "It Wasn't My Fault"</a><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Pg0vVsZ98ZU/Te5Ytf7KzZI/AAAAAAAAC1k/96dcPmXLlQQ/s1600/IMG_1532.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Pg0vVsZ98ZU/Te5Ytf7KzZI/AAAAAAAAC1k/96dcPmXLlQQ/s320/IMG_1532.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A scene from the Chicago SlutWalk</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Becoming Supermommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04590343072778694123noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-81893492358005594112011-03-05T15:42:00.000-08:002011-03-05T15:43:29.063-08:00Making Mistakes.I've been long-distance "seeing" a new guy for a few months. One who I met years ago, but have recently developed a thing with. Today, I discussed with him mistakes that I've made in the past.<br /><br />Everyone makes mistakes. It's human nature. And inevitably, the worst mistakes we make are the ones we make when we're the most vulnerable. This is particularly harsh, because we tend to swing towards one extreme or the other and blame ourselves entirely or shirk all blame. <br /><br />I'm slowly coming to terms with the mistakes I've made over the years. Accepting my part of the blame, and forgiving myself for it. In most cases I was at best very unhappy with my situation, and at worst very vulnerable and at some points a little insane.<br /><br />I've always been really good at making bad decisions. I've spent a lot of my life in a subtle self-destructive mindset. I don't know if I'm trying to punish myself or escape from myself, but it doesn't much matter.<br /><br />I go through times in my life when all I crave is human contact. Sometimes a hug is the most important thing that I could want. Sometimes I get desperate for the comfort of human contact, and those are the times when I make the mistakes that I truly abhor. Sometimes, I even know it at the time, but I don't care.<br /><br />I've been working on this post very slowly for a week. Part of that, I think, is because I don't want to actually post it. But I do. I keep wondering if I should go into some detail, but I think it's better if I don't. If I keep it vague, I could be talking about anything. Maybe I used to drink heavily. Maybe I used to do drugs. Maybe I used to have promiscuous sex. The mistakes I made are not the point.<br /><br />The point is that we all make mistakes. In most cases, the mistakes we make are a perfectly normal psychological reaction to some sort of stress or trauma. The mistakes we make do not define us. They do not make us one type of person or another. The mistakes we make teach us what we should watch out for in ourselves during times of stress or trauma. They teach us how to better adapt, how to better move on, how to forgive ourselves by not making the same mistakes again.<br /><br />I'm not saying we won't make other mistakes. But if we don't make the same mistakes over and over again, then we're learning, and that's forward movement. And really, that can be the most important thing.BlueJeanDreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10112892239847594855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-1614801262272726852011-01-26T11:13:00.000-08:002011-01-26T11:13:22.425-08:00Actions and Reactions<a href="http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/us_va_sex_offenders_castration;_ylt=AtXiXIxGJtt5U1wr7tU42vGs0NUE;_ylu=X3oDMTQzMnE1N2phBGFzc2V0A2FwLzIwMTEwMTI2L3VzX3ZhX3NleF9vZmZlbmRlcnNfY2FzdHJhdGlvbgRjY29kZQNtb3N0cG9wdWxhcgRjcG9zAzEwBHBvcwM3BHB0A2hvbWVfY29rZQRzZWMDeW5faGVhZGx">Senator Emmett Hanger (R-VA) is introducing legislation that would fund research into the effects of castration on sex offenders.</a> We spend a lot of money keeping sex offenders from becoming recidivists, and it would be a hell of a lot cheaper to just <i>snip snip</i> and hey! No more raping for YOU!<br />
<br />
Now, I have definitely thought about this. I have definitely thought about how this might SOLVE a problem. I've also decided that it is absolutely a bad idea.<br />
<br />
As anyone who has a dog who's been fixed knows, this doesn't stop behavior. Or desire. I can't tell you how many thousands of hours my old family dog spent humping his own very special pillow.<br />
<br />
So how WOULD it effect the behavior of violet sex offenders to suddenly have no sexual outlet?<br />
<br />
I'm no psychiatrist, but I have a lot of experience watching what happens when you tell somebody they can't do something they want to do. It gets worse.<br />
<br />
I have horrific visions of a future where sex offenders are turned into homicidal maniacs by removing their primary outlet for their emotions- instead of giving them the opportunity to learn to cope with their own physical and emotional needs, we cut them off (...) from the only outlet they understand. We leave them trapped with their demons.<br />
<br />
Frankly, I think the best solution is longer jail time. Keep them in there longer than, say, the three year standard. Keep the violent criminals in jail, don't let them out and make them more unhinged and dangerous.Becoming Supermommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04590343072778694123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-69799355291040706702010-10-21T16:16:00.001-07:002010-10-21T16:47:44.376-07:00Not gone, yet.I know I disappeared. I felt the need to lay low for a while so that some things could blow over. I couldn't abandon this project--That would be too much like giving up, you know. Sinking myself back into old habits for the comfort of it, going back to quietly living my life, burying my pain and sorrow in blissful normality, troubled only occasionally by my sordid past.<div><br /></div><div>But, my darlings, the easy way out is usually not the best one. So I have returned to you. I've lost some friends, I've gained some friends, some friendships have strengthened, others have faded. It doesn't matter, anymore. If this is truly my path in life, then I must walk it with my head high and my shoulders back and see it through till the very end--Wherever that may be.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now I do need to get my bearings back, somewhat. So instead of something deep and profound, I will explain the title of this blog that I've left in the dust for two months.</div><div><br /></div><div>Blue Jean Dreams. It seems a strange title for a blog about dealing with rape, but it makes sense to me. Blue jeans are everywhere. They're comforting, strong, and normal. Oh, sure. You can jazz them up with patches or studs or strategically-placed holes or fades or washes, but when you get down to it they're jeans. They're what we pull on after a long day at work. They're what we wear to have a quiet sunday afternoon in the garden. We all have a favourite pair, a pair that is old, worn, probably has holes in the knees and wherever else. A pair that is their comforting old stand-by. When you want to make yourself a cup of hot cocoa and cry because that's just what you need to do, you'll throw on that pair of jeans.</div><div><br /></div><div>For me, the perfect symbol for what I want my life to be is blue jeans. Comforting, strong, normal. Sometimes jazzed up, sometimes relaxed and comfortable. Ready for anything. I dream about being that blue-jean personality. To me, it's the goal. To get past my own hangups, to the point where I can live my life like anyone else without worrying.</div><div><br /></div><div>So there's that explanation. Now hopefully I'll be back soon with something worth reading. :)</div><div><br /></div><div>-K</div>BlueJeanDreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10112892239847594855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-63687768363302799082010-07-21T20:56:00.000-07:002010-07-21T20:57:28.081-07:00The Vague, Subtle Reality.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">When we think of rape, we think of the scenes in movies that are designed to shock us. Brief, violent encounters. Women screaming. Clothes ripping.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We think of all of the "Self Defense" classes that are given for women; What to do if some huge, burly guy tries to grab us in a bar or dark alley.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We think of domestic abuse; drunken, angry husbands and sobbing wives.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We don't think of the literally millions of women who blame themselves for being raped because it doesn't fit into what the world says it should.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We don't think of the women who got too drunk at a party and woke up the next day having no idea what happened, or woke up to someone doing things to them that they had no idea were happening until then.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We don't think of the women who are in relationships with narcissistic men who never stop to think that maybe she doesn't want it. Who never realize that they don't have a right to her body just because she's given it before.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We don't think of the many, many ways in which a woman can be subtly raped. The ways that leave her feeling confused and dirty, that leave her having no idea if anyone would believe her if she used "The R Word" or if they'd just wave their hands and tell her that she "asked for it."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The ways that leave her calling her lover saying that she "cheated."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In some cases, this is called "being taken advantage of." It's not usually considered rape by the general populace.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Well. That's male chauvinist bullshit. Not necessarily men thinking that, but people with a blind bias towards the male perspective. Women have it, too. If a woman dresses provocatively, if a woman drinks, if a woman finds herself alone in a man's apartment, in his car, in a park, if a woman freely takes lovers as she pleases. Men and women alike will say "she was asking for it" about this type of women.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So let me make this perfectly clear:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">No one EVER has a right to your body. It doesn't matter where you are or what you're doing. If doesn't matter how many lovers you have, or have had. It doesn't matter what you're wearing. Nothing gives anyone the right to your body. No one has any claim. Not strangers, not friends, not family, not spouses. Being drunk doesn't make it okay. I don't care if you're a prostitute! No one has a right to your body.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><a href="http://legal-dictionary.thefreedictionary.com/rape"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">http://legal-dictionary.thefreedictionary.com/rape</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> defines Rape as "</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">forcible sexual relations with a person against that person's will."</span></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It also says the following, and I want you all to read this carefully.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Lack of consent is a necessary element in every rape. But this qualifier does not mean that a person may make sexual contact with a minor or incapacitated person who actually consented. Lack of consent may result from either forcible compulsion by the perpetrator or an incapacity to consent on the part of the victim."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Lack. Of. Consent.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">This isn't the turn of the twentieth century, anymore. No one is property. It's no longer only considered rape if a woman screams and cries. It counts if she doesn't want it and she doesn't say yes.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">This doesn't mean that she has to say "no" specifically. Against her will means that if she doesn't want it, it's rape.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Now that doesn't make the perpetrator a "rapist" per se. I believe that there is such a thing as </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">accidental</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> rape. I'm not saying that that's acceptable or any more mentally damaging than violent rape, but it is MUCH more confusing.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">However I do not believe that all who commit this grey act of rape are evil people. I do not believe that one of my rapists is evil. He's not a malicious man, he didn't mean to hurt me.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But that doesn't mean that he didn't. It doesn't make it okay. It doesn't make me feel any better.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The point I'm trying to reach is as follows: Rape is not black and white. It's not cinnematic. It's not dramatic. It's not the violent, clear-cut thing that the world would have us believe. Rape can be very, very grey. It can leave the victim confused and disgusted, uncertain whether the word they want to use is appropriate or if they'll be "The girl who cried 'rape."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I'm going to go past the legal definitions here, and offer my own perspective as a victim.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">If you feel raped, you probably were. It may not hold up in a court of law in all cases, but it IS the first step in getting the emotional and mental support and help that you need.</span></span></div>BlueJeanDreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10112892239847594855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-74461038728380898082010-07-13T15:16:00.000-07:002010-07-13T17:19:43.983-07:00Unnecessary Repercussions.Last night I received a phone call from my father.<div><br /></div><div>Now I first want to say that I have the best father in the world. Truly and completely amazing. Fun, loving, laid back, patient, kind, wise. Especially wise. He's lived a lot of life, and has seen a lot go down, and has a pretty good idea of how to deal with a lot of things.</div><div><br /></div><div>My father deals with one of my rapists on a fairly regular basis. He didn't know until just a few days ago that this man had raped me, however. In fact, a goodly number of my friends deal with this man on a regular basis. Have been friends with him for years, having no idea what happened.</div><div><br /></div><div>Well, not even a week ago a lot of them found out. This man, whom I will refer to as X, also found out. Now he had never considered himself a rapist, and he was surprised to learn that I consider myself to be raped by him. I wasn't surprised that he thought that way--He is not an evil man, just a thoughtless narcissist. (As our own L so succinctly put it.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway. One of the reasons why I never told anyone about this is because X runs a business in an area where a lot of my friends and family spend a good amount of time, which is why they deal with him fairly often. And when X heard about what happened, he of course was worried about it costing him his business. He went to talk to my father (Who, being patient and wise, listened.) to recount his version of the story. He then expressed his concern for the future state of his business, and was quoted by my father as having said, "Do I need to sue her to get her to stop?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Wait.</div><div><br /></div><div>WHAT?!</div><div><br /></div><div>I mentioned his name exactly once. Only his first name. Not his middle name, not his last name, not his age, nor description, nor did I mention anything about his business or even how I knew him. Just his first name and what he did to me, in a friends-locked blog entry on facebook.</div><div><br /></div><div>And now he's talking about suing me.</div><div><br /></div><div>This, my friends, is my fear come true.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now. I don't think it would really hold up in a court of law. And either way, the statute of limitations for sexual assault in the applicable state is 7 years, and it's only been four. So if he DOES decide to sue me, I will defend myself with a counter-suit. I may not win, but he probably won't either.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, while I'm not truly academically worried about that right now, it is a thing that I should never have to deal with. Unfortunately I may have to deal with it.</div><div><br /></div><div>And this leads me into the other part of this topic that I wanted to discuss--The responses of friends and loved ones.</div><div><br /></div><div>After finding out that a friend or loved one has been assaulted, often one of the reactions is a strong, violent desire to revenge or retroactively protect the abused party.</div><div><br /></div><div>Listen. Anyone out there who has this desire, listen. It doesn't work that way.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll say that again.</div><div><br /></div><div>It doesn't work that way.</div><div><br /></div><div>You can't change something that happened. You can't protect someone from something that's already happened. You can't defend them. Unless you're superman, and run backwards around the planet in a rage until you go back in time. Then maybe you can. But then we're all subject to paradox and alternate timelines and GREAT SCOTT! Who knows WHERE it could lead us?</div><div><br /></div><div>Mixing metaphors. Sorry.</div><div><br /></div><div>The point is, what's done is done. You can't change that by lashing out. If you try to hurt the person who hurt your friend, child, sibling, lover, whatever, you'll only hurt yourself and your loved one. If you REALLY want to hurt the person, try to convince the victim to press charges. The further it gets from the time of assault, the more difficult this is, of course. But that's the only way to do it that will help.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anything else, any other form of lashing out, will only hurt the situation and make your side less plausible if you do decide to press charges.</div><div><br /></div><div>If any of my friends are reading this, then don't go bother X. I don't want any drama. This is in no way about him at all. It's about me. About my moving on. Causing him problems will only cause me more problems. Going public does not make it public business. It makes it my business which I have chosen to divulge for reasons of my own choosing.</div>BlueJeanDreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10112892239847594855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6075945711016596735.post-16411726300722723542010-07-12T22:13:00.000-07:002010-07-12T22:14:27.294-07:00Family History<span style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><u>Family History</u><br />
<br />
She was 12<br />
in her uncles house<br />
and in those days<br />
what was done was done<br />
and was nobody's business<br />
in a man's house.<br />
She grew up and she raised daughters<br />
and never told them<br />
that in those days<br />
what was done had been done<br />
and it's done now<br />
and he died and it was done.<br />
But she never told them,<br />
not directly,<br />
and that was the lesson.<br />
So when the daughter was 14<br />
what was done was done<br />
and it was not the same<br />
but it was the same<br />
and it was nobody's business.<br />
And she never told her mother,<br />
not directly,<br />
because that was the lesson.<br />
And she grew up.<br />
And had daughters. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica; font-size: x-small;">My eternal thanks to K, for her courage, for her love, and for her strength, without which I could not have had the courage to reopen old wounds and begin to truly heal. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica; font-size: x-small;">...you can call me L. </span>Becoming Supermommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04590343072778694123noreply@blogger.com1