Category: opinions

Therapy

Not everyone is healed by medicine,  not everyone is healed by therapy.  Don’t get me wrong,  it can do a great deal.  Still it is alot like an addiction,  being mentally ill. Unless you are ready to heal,  all therapy will do is give you someone else to depend on. Someone else to expect judgement from.  This is often more detrimental to self esteem than helpful.  I have been seeing a therapist since I was nine years old.  For me it was just something that I had to do.  I have had some good ones,  ones who could make me see them as human.  I’ve had a few who abused my trust.  To tell the truth,  I have done more towards healing when I was not seeing one.  I used to dissociate.  For the ignorant among my readers,  the term Dissociate is technical jargon for saying that I was multiple personalities.  Twenty years ago I was a true mess.  Nearly twelve personalities that we knew of.  I was never sure where I would wake up,  and how much time would have passed.  One of my personalities was cutting. As stated,  I was not in a good place.  When I was in control,  I was having nightly nightmares. I was terrified of being put in a hospital. Mostly because I figured I  would not be let free. I am extremely claustrophobic. When I was little,  I was molested. I finally got the courage and told him that if he came near me again I would scream.  Well I guess he believed me… But he did decide to put one last scare to keep me from talking.  He locked me in the trunk of his car and told me I would die there.  I am not sure how long I was in there.  But I was there long enough to scare me.  I was nine.  It took me four years to gain enough courage to speak.  He said that I would never be believed.  Damn him for being right.  I was told that I was insane.  I showed all the symptoms of a abused child.  So much so that I was put in therapy.  I was put on medicine… But I speak up… And I am insane.  Fine.  I am fourty one.  I am finally one,  not many.  And I am insane.  He raped me at five.  He raped me until I was strong enough to say no. Then he raped my mind for the majority of my life. And if I had been believed he wouldn’t have been able to rape the girls after me.  He wouldn’t have been free. He is in jail,  but I check on occasion.  I am fourty one and I am scared of a small man who ruined my life.  I am not sure I will ever not be. Ask my family… I am a depressing poet who has always been crazy.  Oh wait,  many of them (not all)  will not even Acknowledge that I write. I embarass them. After all,  I was telling the truth.  I don’t lie,  because thanks to the dissociation,  I often have a hard time remembering things.  So why lie if I will only be caught. I am not crazy.  I need no therapist to hear me.  I am whole.  I have good coping mechanisms. And I will not hide who I have become for anyone!

Speak your own truth.  No matter what anyone else thinks of it.

Rape culture

So I am not an easily triggered person,  usually.  However,  here lately social media has been testing the limits. Several times I have opened Facebook and found articles about children dying because they were raped.  Then there are the articles about rapists getting nearly no punishment for what they have done. So then I take to Twitter,  which is usually a little bit more light-hearted. Until the presidential election.  Then there started a new hashtag. #WhyWomenDontReport. Well,  that is a huge can of worms. It caused me to discuss this with Joe.

He said that most of the women who he knows,  or has known have been either raped or molested.  Then as we were talking about it,  he considered.  Of the twenty women who he was intimate with,  he said he was unable to say for sure on four.  The rest were survivors.  That is not even a random statistic.  That is women who he was with.

I was floored by that.  So I posted on Facebook. (So there is a thing on Twitter… #whyIdidntreport
I DID REPORT! At least the first time. I was told that I was a liar. Not all rapes go unreported, some people speak and go unheard. I didn’t speak of the second time because I knew I wouldn’t be believed.) I had several of my friends express similar situations. Think on this,  according to Google,  one in three women are raped in their lifetime. Yes men are also raped,  but I am not speaking of them,  not yet anyway.  So 1/3 of all women.  We as a people need to address this… That is a huge issue.

Add to the issue the ignorance of Trump’s “locker room talk” and the treatment of the victims by those who have the power to change things.  Is it any wonder that sexual assault is the least reported crime?  We make it hard for the scared to overcome the fear instilled by violence to step into a safe place…  And I for one am tired of that.  I was raped at fourteen and molested as a small child.  I am not a statistic.  I am  not a victim.  I am not allowing Rape culture to break me. I speak my truth,  and invite you to do the same.

Outside blind

Okay,  I believe it is time that I explain my truth,  and set myself free.  I have survived many abusive situations.  I really was a broken soul. Then I met an angry redhead. He is my anchor.  He allowed me to heal.  When I met him,  I was dissociating.  I was on more medications than a person should ever take and I flinched whenever anyone looked at me cross.  I was hiding who I was,  mostly because I had seen that it would be unwelcome.  No one believed me when I spoke of what I had been through.  So when I met him,  I was more than a hot mess. I was having nightmares nightly and I was terrified of everything.  I had at our rough count at least fifteen distinct personalities.  Twenty years later, I no longer dissociate. I Will likely have nightmares for the rest of my life,  but I have them less now.  I now wake up to arms who hold me as I cry the tears of fear.  I have someone who has encouraged me to be myself,  no matter what anyone else thinks. We heal each other.

That sounds amazing right?  Well the problem is most people see him and because he is grouchy and anti-social,  They think that he is not good to me. I have watched him walk away from people who he loved because of how they treated me.  I have watched him protect me when I was trapped in my own mind. I have had to stand between him and the outside,  because of people misunderstanding. I will always stand up for him,  he is why I have found the strength to heal a shattered soul. So many people have told me that I can do better……but What they fail to understand is that I don’t want to.  We fight,  we play,  we love,  and we have healed.  Unless you are part of it,  there is so much that you Can not see,  so please don’t judge my life based on the first impression that you have of him or me.

 

Sensitive body topics

Okay,  this is not an easy thing for me to write.  I am a firm believer in teaching children about their bodies and teaching consent. What that means is teaching a child that their bodies belong only to them. No forcing the child to give unwanted hugs,  no ignoring discomfort with affection. Teach girls about what is natural for their bodies. Oh I realize that eventually most have to explain the whole puberty thing.  But if you make no topic taboo,  then if there is something wrong,  your child is not afraid to speak up.

There are several reasons why this is a tough topic , and why it is such an important one.  I was molested.  He convinced me that no one would believe me.  My mom was so uncomfortable with some topics that she couldn’t discuss them… Puberty was not a easy time (I was given a pamphlet and told to go to my room to read it.) So when I finally worked up the courage to speak,  well he was right.  I was not believed.  So when I had my own daughter,  I swore I would do things differently.  I don’t allow anyone to force affection.  We don’t have secrets.  If she has a question about anything,  I try to answer it. So at twelve years old,  I had tried to run away from home three times.  She feels safe. I was sexually active at twelve and pregnant at thirteen.  She has said that she is not ready for a boyfriend and really is not wanting to have sex anytime soon. She is a smart and sensitive girl who is learning how to be sarcastic and funny,  not as a defense mechanism like I did….but because she enjoys laughing. I have been told that I should be less open with her because people were uncomfortable with how honest I am with my twelve year old.  I let her ask questions and I refuse to lie.  I will not apologize for my doing what I felt was right for any of my children. Even if I fail at all else I do in life,  I have a smart funny happy girl.

Fear does not mean weakness

Some one I care very deeply for was upset because she couldn’t face someone who had abused her.  Well I got to thinking about that.  Fear is a healthy reaction to danger.  If you have ever survived any form of abuse,  you understand that.  I am a survivor.  I have been raped,  molested,  beaten.  I have been in abusive relationships.  I am not now,  because I found my way out of that darkness. I don’t think I could be brave enough to face those who abused me.  When I tried to stand up,  and tell someone…. Well I was not believed.  I was told I was lying.  Even though I showed the signs of the abuse.  So when I was raped by a group of five at thirteen,  Fear kept me silent.  Fear turned into the backbone I needed to become who I am. So I would not be a victim again.  However,  even as strong as I have become,  I doubt that I could face my molester or the five who raped me.  And if I did,  I doubt that I would have anything to say.  The piece of me that was stolen is gone.  I am not that girl anymore.  Nor do I want to be.  So I will keep my fear,  as it strengthens me.  It allows me to realize that there are really monsters out there.  It allows me a chance to know that I won’t break,  for life has tried.  Be proud of what you are,  and do not hide your truth.  For that is what made you.

Too much on my mind to write fiction, so here is a dish of truth.

Identity is not something that is set in stone.  Even though society seems to see it that way. As a  child of the eighties,  the mere idea of gender fluidity was absurd.  You were either a boy,  or a  girl. And the closest to fluidity was being a tomboy or a nancyboy. Either way,  you were bullied.  And the “no bully” thing wasn’t going on then.  Now mind you,  I am not complaining.  It was just how life was.  I am pleased to see the progress.  For me,  the idea of creating who I am now,  well it is part of what I want in life.  For others it is definitely more painful.

I am “one of the guys” most of the time.  The first person who told me that,  Scared me.  As being one of the guys meant that I was flawed,  somehow less female. Still in truth,  it is how I am.  I am happy working with my hands,  no make-up,  simple hair and pants.  Once in a blue moon,  I will get girly.  Dress up in flowing skirts and soft boots.  I love science and nature,  and not just the flowers.  I have helped to do landscaping.  I have spent time in the pit at the track.  I spent summers working on farms.  Oh what is that?  Girls can do that too?  Well yeah… But I was seen as masculine because of it. I was the center for my high school football team (at one of them.)  And could out bench the football team (at another).  So does that make me a guy?  No not really.  I think that is the problem.  Identity tends to be based on stupid things.

For me,  Identity should be less about male/female and more about what you make of yourself.  I am not male.  I am not female… I fall somewhere in between.  I am a poet. I am a mother.  I am a writer.  I am an artist.  I am human.  I am a gamer.  I am…….

Life, Death, and suicide.

Many of my friends suffer depression,  and I am not untouched by it. Although when asked if I have ever been suicidal,  well only once. When I was given medicine for the depression as a teen, the medicine made me want death.  For me,  i see it different usually.  I have heard other survivors say it,  and truth is really so much more than the words say. I don’t want to die, however on my darkest days,  I do wish I had never been born. Days where the pain feels more than I am able to bear, when the nightmares are stronger than the dreams. Those are the days where I have to recount all i have done. Those are the days when my blessings must be noted. And those are the days when kindness is most needed,  and when I am at my least kind.

Just a thought

I generally try not to rant, or be opinionated here. However, some opinions just eat at you,  until they are released. I have been in a big truck a few times,  as a passenger. I have seen how truly amazing this country is.  I have also seen the worst in people. I will only speak of one issue right now.  Parking. Big trucks can be up to seventy feet in length. And are limited to how long the can be operated by law.

That being said,  I can’t tell you how common it is to see a pickup truck in a big truck spot in rest areas or travel plazas. The frequency is astonishing. Add to that the fact that there are more trucks on the road than possible parking spots and you have a very frustrating situation for our nation’s drivers.

 

No voice 

Power stolen,Silence woven.

No voice left 

To the soul broken. 

Humanity removed, 

Difference exposed. 
Protesting the darkness 

For sake of grasping the light,

Only to find the soul

Just too weary to fight.
A voice stolen completely away 

Left by society silent today. 

For though I speak clearly, 

There is no one to hear me.

Aesthetic ideals 

Each person views aesthetic beauty differently. As a writer I tend to struggle with the concept. Physical beauty has a different description depending on the narrator. So describing a character with a flair in many ways requires a narrator who is fleshed out and real in the writer’s mind. The narrator’s voice will also affect the character’s beauty. For example, if the narrator speaks of a woman “Her mouse colored hair hung limply over dull eyes of chocolate brown.. ” most will see her as unattractive.  However,  if the narrator instead says “Her lovely mouse brown hair sheilded her large chocolate eyes,  which were dulled with pain.” we feel an attraction to the character. 

So when writing one must keep the voice of the story in mind. We writers often see our characters as children,  and thusly love them all. My issue is that i am inclined towards gorgeous villains. I usually like to believe that most great villains have a backstory that explains why they are. The readers often do not get to read the villain’s story. Perhaps that’s why we judge beauty so harshly….because we see only part of the tale.