genderviolence asked: I run a tumblr about gender violence and related issues. With your permission, I would like to post about your site. Your story and strength is incredible and inspiring.
You may post about my site, as long as it’s respectful (which I’m sure it will be).
I haven’t been around much lately but needed a breather and am going to change that.
[Trigger warning: this post is about the aftermath of sexual violence and makes references to self-harm]
I am not who I was before. I was Sunday morning pancakes, happy poem writing underneath the pine boughs in our yard. I was walks to the park with new friends, best story telling, campfire starting smokey s’more maker. I was arms tucked around my grandmother’s neck, nudging my brother while stirring cake batter, all A’s report card extracurricular club president times three. I was reclaiming, rejoicing, loud voiced and using it for the first time, scars from middle school fading soft pink into my skin, laughter, laughter, always laughter at the cruel shadows of my past. I was healing, almost healed.
One night and I was broken. I am quiet, quiet all day, punching a wall, punching my arms, quiet tears. I am razor blade in hand, soft words to myself, talking and talking until I convince my hand to let go. I am the pulse beneath my skin I want to free but can’t. I am sweaty in bed after nightmares, blanket creases on my cheeks, wake up screaming, roommate rushing to my side. I am curled into myself, knees to chest hands on elbows, shallow breaths too fast, up against the brick wall of the gym, strangers passing by, my hand over my mouth, scared scared scared. I can tell I’m invisible when they don’t stop. I’m invisible, transparent, thin paper that lets light come through. I tear easily.
I will knit the yarns of my past into my ribcage. I will weave myself new skin. I will be new scars newly broken fading pink. I will see the old soft white beneath the new. I will be new campfires new pancakes newly wrapped up in my grandmother’s arms. I will learn to breathe deep and slow. I will reclaim, rejoice, loud voiced and using it. I will remember myself and let her exist.
tenderhooligan asked: Hey there. I have just come across your blog and read some of your posts. Your blog is very powerful and I am very moved by your posts. I also want to tell you how sorry I am about what happened to you, and how much I admire you for choosing to survive. Keep well.
I’ve been gone for a little while but am trying to get back to it. This helped.
[Trigger warning: this post discusses sexual imagery and the aftermath of sexual violence]
I post naked pictures of myself online. I’m not talking tasteful nudes, either. Thighs spread, fingers wet, cunt gaping, face offscreen. I cover identifiable objects in the background, the drawing on the wall, Aunt Heather’s pillow cases, the bowl I painted this summer sitting on my desk. Men send me messages, tell me how they’d like to fill me, show me pictures of their cocks, ask my panty size. I message back and make them think I’m moaning, but if I met them in the streets, at a cafe, in the dairy section of the grocery, I’d cover my neckline, zip up my coat, tilt my head down and wish my hair was brown or grey. I post pictures to show them what they’re not allowed to touch. I post pictures to show them I’m broken. They tell me they want to cum on my face, or eat me until I scream, or tie me up and tease me, then shove it in deep. I say Mmm, Yeah, I’d like that, but they know I’d never let them.
[Trigger warning: this post vaguely discusses emotionally abusive relationships.]
So… I’m writing a paper for my therapeutic writing class where we have to explore a memory with as much sensory detail as possible.
I’m writing about a really fucked up friendship/sexual relationship I had with this girl in middle school, and it’s way harder than I thought it would be. There are so many things she said to me or ways she acted around my body that I’d totally blocked out. It’s wigging me. I also am feeling like I have to justify the fact that the relationship was fucked up in this paper… like I’m afraid the person I peer review with will read it as if I’m making mistakes. It’s making me feel like a victim. I can’t wait until this paper is over (and I can finish the other 7-15 page paper that’s due tomorrow).
I dreamed last night that I was measuring myself and every part of me measured 1 inch no matter what I did.
This week is not going well. I’m not good at drama. I hate drama. And when drama manifests itself, especially in the space where I live, I get uneasy and anxious, which is just a breeding ground for negative thoughts. And stomach aches.
Fortunately, I have the privilege of the option to go home next weekend. Pros? Getting the fuck out of dodge, a Halloween party with my awesome family, probable lack of drama, possible friend time, my cat, general self-care. Cons? $200 that should be used for groceries, 8 hours on a train twice, missing 2 classes.
I’m leaning toward home. I really need it.
[Trigger warning: this post discusses the aftermath of sexual violence]
I have a hard time watching the leaves change color and not thinking of you. Sometimes I am so caught by the world. I step outside and forget to breathe, only know how to say, “Beautiful.” But then you’re there, at the back of my tongue.
I want one day where I don’t think of you. One day without remembering the faces of my rapists. One day where I lay out a blanket under the maple tree out back and think of nothing but the colors, my mind taking me only where I decide to go.
I want this control. I want to say “No” to my thoughts and have them switch directions. I want to refuse to think of you every again, except when I decide. I want to remember I’m more powerful than all three of you combined.
epicleicaness asked: Can I say I think you're a hero for surviving?
I hear the term "rape victim" being used a lot around. I consider any woman who is alive and living to be a rape SURVIVOR, not a victim. I think it should be a term of empowerment.
I'm sick of all the views that go around, about how rape is the woman's fault, how she should be ashamed because she triggered it, there is a shit load of misogynistic views related to the whole act of sexual violence. I live in a part of the world where women are viewed as sex objects by a lot of people. There are a lot of expats here that come from Third World countries (India and Pakistan and Afghanistan) and they have even worst views on women. In some of those countries, a woman will get raped by her family as punishment for shaming the family name. I've heard countless stories where a lot of things similar happened.
I want to say that you are a hero. I do not know what you are going through, and I might never know, but I am standing here in solidarity with you.
26 year old male.
Thank you for your solidarity.
Male allies are really important to me. There are a lot of men in my life and I love it when they feel safe and feel the safety of women and others is important.
I’m sure there are men working against rape in India, Pakistan, and Afghanistan too. I’m sorry they’re not the men you’ve met from these areas.
not for me the dogma of the period
preaching order and a sure conclusion
and no not for me the prissy
formality or tight-lipped fence
of the colon and as for the semi-
colon call it what it is
a period slumming
with the commas
a poser at the bar
feigning liberation with one hand
tightening the leash with the other
oh give me the headlong run-on
fragment dangling its feet
over the edge give me the sly
comma with its come-hither
wave teasing all the characters
on either side give me ellipses
not just a gang of periods
a trail of possibilities
or give me the sweet interrupting dash
the running leaping joining dash all the voices
gleeing out over one another
oh if I must
punctuate give me the YIPPEE
of the exclamation point
give me give me the curling
cupping curve mounting the period
with voluptuous uncertainty
is speaking to me now