One of these days. . . .

[kiya]

I was debating making this a friends-only space, just because, . . . because.

But part of what's made me want to write it is because I used to be utterly, utterly unable to talk about it, and there are people out there who are still in that sort of place, and there are people who don't know about the place I was at all.

So there's something to saying it where it can be seen. Maybe a bit of catharsis or something, or consciousness-raising, or . . . I don't know.

But this is going to be long, and it may have material distressing to the more sensitive viewers, so I'm going to put in this nice little

There are times I wonder if I'd have been better off if I'd been able to talk about it sooner. Or at all. If going to a doctor and getting a diagnosis and maybe talking it out would have made it better. There are times I suspect I suffer or have suffered from some variety of PTSD or something like unto PTSD, and wonder if getting told that that's what it is would make me feel better. I looked up the symptoms once, you see, because I was curious, and as far as I could tell, I had all of them but one: I never dreamed of him.

Generally I don't worry about that overmuch; the flashbacks, which were the worst of it, I haven't had in a while now. Though I still startle quite badly, with full-bore fight and flight, and have no idea how to deal with that. And I wonder if some of that damage is tangled up in the space where some of my sexual responses aren't where I wish they were.

I don't think I've ever put the whole story down anywhere. I don't know if I'll be able to do it now. There's still something about the whole thing that my brain skitters away from wildly; it's impossible to look at it clearly or with a peaceful serenity.

It's only been ten years.

I have this problem with being slow to work out how I feel about things when I haven't thought them through before. I'm very resistant to change; I'm very unsettled by things being out of place. It would not surprise me if this is something that has only gotten worse as a result of the problems it got me into in the first place.

I hit puberty fairly late, I think; hell, it's arguable that one of my breasts is still in Tanner stage four, and I'm twenty-four. My parents didn't give me any of The Talk talks; I got books instead. Pretty detailed about the physical changes, clear and consistent, with generally a single chapter on the emotional stuff. I tended to reread the chapters on the emotional stuff most often.

I remember being a fairly experimental kid back then. I suspect this of being one of the things that I lost down the wrong Trouser of Time. Or had transformed into something else. I don't know; I really don't know. I think the only thing that can actually get me angry is that not knowing what it is that I've lost, or if I lost something, or if I gained something.

At the age of fourteen, I acquired a boyfriend by the simple expedient of being blindsided. I had a tremendous crush on a friend of mine; he was going to be at a concert of student bands held at my school, and I sorta decided to go hang out with him. (Through a somewhat more roundabout thought process; he was also going out with someone at the time.) He happened to have brought a friend.

The friend and I wound up spending most of the concert together. I'm afraid I don't remember anything about the music, because I was busy processing things. He seems to have put an arm around me. I wonder what that means. I wonder what I feel about it. I wonder whether I like it. I wonder if I want him to keep doing it. Or a little later, He seems to have kissed me. I wonder . . . . Slow to process, remember? Bad with changes.

I think it's pretty easy to see how the situation, over the coming time period, got a bit out of hand. It takes me a while to process stuff. And there wasn't the space to do the processing; by the time I'd worked out how I felt about the arm-thing it felt rather ridiculous to start complaining about it, ridiculous and unreasonable. I didn't know how to deal with it, and being an inexperienced but curious and somewhat whimsical kid isn't necessarily a good situation to be in when dealing with someone a good bit older who knows exactly what he wants. The years from fourteen to seventeen are much, much bigger than the ones from twenty-three to twenty-six. (It, uh, stunned me immensely when I realized that brooksmoses is more or less exactly as much older than I am as that first boyfriend was. What a difference a decade makes.)

It got to be that he started dropping hints about places he wanted to go. Which gave me a serious case of whatamisupposedtosayitis. I knew I didn't love him; I didn't know how I felt about him at all, to be honest, since I'd never had a chance to figure that out, and I'd not had enough time to figure out how to say, "Back off, damnit!" So what does one say to someone who tries out an "I love you"? I sort of grunted, generally. I liked it better when he quoted Monty Python at me; a cold day sitting on the Mall watching the seagulls fly backwards to the declaration of, "AlllllllllbaTROSS!" was about my speed.

It was probably a mistake to accept the invitation to go over to his place to watch a movie. I think I knew it at the time, at least that there was some sort of risk involved, especially given the directions he had been hinting at. I think I sort of hoped that refusing to acknowledge that realm would help; I'm not sure why I thought that, given that he did not overmuch have a history of checking for consent. I just packed up a tape of A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum and caught the Metro into Bethesda.

As I get to this bit I realize that no, I'm not going to be able to say anything really about what happened. I can say that the flashbacks come from here, that the images would come to me involuntarily whenever I saw a man aroused; this can be really hard on a heterosexual woman's sex life. I can say that if he had pushed a little harder, a little longer, my ability to resist would probably have shattered, and it would have gone past assault into rape, and I don't know where the futures that went down that road go. I can remember winding my arms tightly around my belly, to keep the hands from going lower, I can remember being trapped by the weight of someone significantly older and stronger than I, and most of all I can remember the incredulity of the only verbalisable thought that I had, that I could have for some time around there: "But I haven't even started my _periods_ yet!" I can say I spent the years between fourteen and sixteen essentially neuter, and in a very deep dissociative state; I can't honestly say that I really remember them very well.

I saw him years later, in a bookstore. I bailed and hid, which says a lot about it, I think, given bookstores. Eventually I told Kevin some about it -- I haven't told him everything; I don't think I've told anyone everything. He wanted to go thump the guy, but he tends to have that response to people who have hurt me. It wreaks merry hell with me starting up new relationships, too, which is one of the reasons that I'm really glad not to have to worry about that sort of stuff anymore. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad in the future, given some of the stuff Brooks and I worked through when we got to that point in our relationship, but . . . .

I didn't tell anyone it had happened. Some of that was dissociation, some of that was that I was just curled up around the pain and couldn't deal with it at all. A lot of that was feeling that I couldn't trust anyone with that sort of thing -- sexual harassment I'd experienced in the past was dealt with with a nod, an amiable smile, and, "You know, boys will be boys." And I had the sense that I'd be dear-deared to death, be put in the box of "girl who was assaulted", and never get let out again. By the time I got sane again, got to be me again outside of that two-year discontinuity, I wanted to go and live and see what sort of life I could have, not be perpetually carrying around that particular spectre in everything I had to do. I didn't want him to be tried for it; he was young and stupid, I was young and stupid. I can't say, "No harm, no foul", but I think the magnitude of the effects of having a go at hanging the sign labelled "attempted rapist" on him and "assault victim" on me was . . . not productive.

Damnit, I want a little perspective. I lost some, back then, and the world around me has been pretty good at trying to take it away from me, because of all of the damn weirdness that comes of having had something like that happen.

Ten years, now. One of these days. . . .

What do I get out of this?
I always try, I always miss
One of these days you'll go back to your home
You'll never notice that you are alone
One of these days when you sit by yourself
You'll realize you can't shout without someone else.

In the end you will submit
It's got to hurt a little bit. . . .

One of these days. . . .

Comments

[autumnesquirrel.livejournal.com]

Note: Chunk 1

(Please forgive me if this deals more pain than healing. I had thoughts that wanted sharing)

I’ve been meaning to respond to this on for a while, but the first time I read it I didn’t have a journal yet, and I wasn’t going to post anonymously to this, or all things, damn it. And then I didn’t look for a while because things got busy and I forgot. But I went looking for the post a few days ago, and tonight the response is bubbling up inside me. It’s past my bedtime, but I have things I want to say. I expect you have responses emailed to you. Let me know if you read this. If you have anything to say, that is.

I have seen statistics once or twice of the percentage of women who are sexually assaulted in their lifetime. Something like one in three. The first time I heard that it surprised me. Some many women raped? But I’m beginning to understand now that rape is only part of the statistic. There are plenty of other ways to cause the same sort of harm. I expect the percentages around sexual harassment are closer to 100. The same sort of damage can be done. You don’t ever even need to be touched.

I’m startled sitting where I am how I’ve turned out sexually. A year or so ago I would have projected a much longer haul to be in the place I’m in now. We’ll see what the future holds. Who knows, perhaps the next relationship will be harder. Who knows what will happen when I start looking for something long term instead of some, to use the phrase that came to mind, sexual healing. I expected the first time going anywhere past kissing to be something of a panicking experience. Kissing is hard enough. But I was completely in control, and that seems to have made all the difference. Next time I think I’ll try spreading things out over more than a night or two though. We were moving a bit faster than is optimal for building a long-term relationship I think.

In Seventh Grade my class moved out of the elementary school and into the high school. We were in out own section of the school, but we got on the buses first, with all the high school, and road them a little ways to the elementary school before heading home. A few older boys (thinking back now it seems to be that they were perhaps freshmen, but I really couldn’t tell at the time) amused themselves by harassing/flirting with the girls from my grade who were now on the bus with them. One of them was the brother of one of the girls in my class. The other was his friend. Most of the girls squealed and giggled, but when they got around to trying it with me one day I just froze up. It seems this just egged them on. The friend sat with me that day, and then for days after the brother and the friend made comments, a seat or two behind me, about the friend being my boyfriend and the things he wanted to do, or had done, to me. Dry-clean me with his tongue. At this point in my life it made me ill to hear people swearing. I was not equipped to deal. I kept it to myself though. At that point I knew how much of a no man’s land the bus was, and I was sure that neither was it bad enough for someone to do something about, nor small enough for me to somehow put a stop to it. Then he sat with me again. And he put his arm around me. At this point I told my mom. And Mom, being not very well versed on this matters, told me that if it happened again that I should go to my guidance counselor. And he sat with me again. And I went to my guidance counselor. And she sent me to the high school counselor; and older man who scared me whittles. And he spoke to the boys and told them to stop. And for the rest of the year they teased me about sexual harassment instead. No one followed up with them, or me, and that was that.

[autumnesquirrel.livejournal.com]

Note: Chunk 2

Except that it wasn’t that. I knew that I hadn’t dealt with it well and that I didn’t have a clue how to take care of myself in a similar situation, and I set about to fix things. A trip to a "real" counselor at my new school did not good at all. Writing about the experience, and learning to talk back did. By the time I had left high school I felt I’d moved on. Never mind the new set of scars I brought with me. At some point in there I met and started dating my first boyfriend. I expect I will always have problems when I’m not in control of the physical stuff for the first part of the relationship. He thought he was easing me into things, but I tell you now he was pressuring me to move much faster than I would have chosen on my own. As soon as I allowed one thing he moved us on to something more until I sank my heals in at kissing. And sank my heals in. And learned to kiss even though I hated it, and feared it, and just wanted things to go away. And he went of to college and called to break it off and I went on with my life with more little red flags around kissing and what came next than I knew what to do with. The next boyfriend was two short an affair to fix the problem. This boyfriend had aided in my seeing the way out. I still find kissing to be amazingly sacred property. I’ve wanted to kiss at least one of my friends for years and have yet to get to the point where I can ask for permission. I still don’t feel safe.

I’m not looking for sympathy, or help, I feel like I’m healing things pretty well on my own. My little red flags and areas I freeze up in don’t mess with my life. Darker and Truss broke me out of the fences around nice men and hugs. I’m back to trusting my gut instinct in that area. Even if it does tell me that Zoner is one of the safest people I can possibly find. The meter is measuring only so many things. He’s not unsafe if you don’t get him angry.

[autumnesquirrel.livejournal.com]

Note: Chunk 3

I did want to put the next few musings in (a rather long-winded) context. I have two things I feel that need to say.

The first in that not having been raped does not make anyone any less entitled to their injury. It does not make the injury any less. The complete picture not only includes the action and the moment, but the subsequent dealing with, immediate help and healing, the emotional context, the way the mind processes incidents and action and new information. The injury is tired up in emotions, preexisting circumstances, experience in dealing, and sense of self. It is tied up in expectations of ones self, in knowledge of others expectation for you, in self-power and religious beliefs. It is tied up in our image and knowledge of sexuality. In the exact phase of development we are in. In the things we have seen and learned about and heard about and read about. In the movies we have seen, the books we have read. It is tied up in subsequent interactions, and the reaction of people we tell. One by one. Each new context lays it’s own lines and ties itself in in its own way. Each new interaction can harm or heal or both or neither. The damage is out own and no one else’s. It can not be measured against the damage done to any other psyche. There is not scale to place one scar in one person against a scar in another. The injury is such that it is buried and tied in to some many other responses and reaction, tied up in so much personal context, that there is no way to equate us one to another. Damage has been done. This is a wrong. That is enough.

The second thing that I have to say is that I fear for the boys as well. Our culture teaches such a messed up form of communication and interaction between the sexes that I see no way out of the 100 percent harassed prediction for the near future. Just as there is that 100 percent for women there is a 100 percent for men. I expect that every man finds himself dealing with the effect of harassment on a woman he cares about at some point in his life. I expect that every man finds himself at some point doing harm in place of the kindness he was meaning to show unwittingly when he hits old wounds. I expect many men harass without knowing they are doing it, and wonder why the women around them act the way they do. I do not excuse my boyfriend for his pressure or my bus mate for his forwardness, but I do not put the blame on them fully. I fear for them as well as me. I am not in a place to see what scares the pain they dealt me might have dealt back onto them again. I fear I’ve hurt my ex boyfriend deeply sending him away from me, years latter when he tried to kindle the friendship we had again, in fear and pain. I believe I’d run from him if I saw him again tomorrow. I see in him now, looking back and projecting forward, the capability and probability of a batterer. What harm must be done to a boy to make him wield such terrible power of anther human to see himself as a man?

The men I know and are friends with give me hope that there is a way out. I expect if I ever give birth to a boy I shall beg of them and introduction to their parents. The person I am now, and many of the women I know, give me hope for possible daughters. I pray to any god who might listen that I can give my children a sense of self and of others that will protect them both from harm taken and harm given. I’ll take what hope I can. May what I’ve said bring meaning somewhere. Perhaps I will post this as it’s own post on my new journal. I will think on that and keep this just in case.