Because of You

A few months back I posed about "rape culture" with several examples of why I feel we live inside one. Notably at the time a rapist received a very short sentence and the judge and his dad spoke of him glowingly.

The survivor, on the other hand, felt destroyed.

Today someone on my Facebook timeline suggested we live in an abuse culture because people disparage and or make fun of college kids for asking for "safe spaces." They suggest that kids don't get safe spaces in childhood. Is it any wonder they practically demand them when they get old enough to voice an opinion.

My first thought was, PLEASE NO! DON'T LET THIS BE TRUE! Then I cried. Then I opened this blog window and started to find a song to put as a title. The first thing that came up was a PLAYLIST of abuse songs.

FFS, there's a whole LIST of abuse songs. For fucking fucks sake! I live in an abuse culture and I write a blog abut abuse and I didn't realize it until today.

I'm going to throw up the caution tape here. Don't read if you are easily triggered by stories of abuse responses.

I felt pain because of the abuse I survived as a child. As I grew up I didn't want to suffer in silence so I tended to overshare with anyone.

Though I still do this, I'm still smarting from some of the SHIT people told me. So much of this makes me sad, but just as much made me ANGRY. There's a new word term that I've adopted.. Sangry. It has a little S for the sad part and the whole word angry.

Here's what happened. I told a male friend during an online conversation that I'd seen a statistic that about 1 in 4 girls get molested as children. He doubted that was true. Even though I said I thought it was higher because most of my girlfriends reported something happening to them. Then he suggested it must be "part of life."

My shock freaked me out. I was in the very early stages of my recovery and very sensitive about it all. I did have enough presence of mind to end my association with that guy.

Another time another online conversation with a male somehow the topic of rape came up and a guy started talking about how he'd love to be raped. To say I lost my shit would be an understatement. Again, I never spoke to that person again.

As a child, one of my teachers ignored me when another kid hurt me. She even abused me herself. Many times my pains were ignored as "growing pains."

JUMP HERE

I don't want to live in an abuse culture anymore than I wanted to live in a rape culture! I don't want to live in a world that has to have places that "stand out" for their care of kids.

Many people have experienced some trouble in their past. Some people use that as an excuse to end discussion. John Bradshaw says that all the birds can be flying in the wrong direction. That doesn't make the direction "right."

Several organizations now work to help children and adults adapt to flying the wrong direction. Usually they start with accepting the reality that people were harmed, intentional or not.

None of us can change the status quo until we understand the debth of the problem.

It's well past time we #endabuseculturenow

Kind comments welcome.

I Am, I said.

I am, I said, to no one there. And no one heard, no, not even the chair. I am, I cried. I am, said I. And I have lost and I can't even say way. Leaving me lonely still. - Neil Diamond.

I started crying when I put the song on to play, because it's so me. I realized several months ago that I want cards to print up. "Professional Victim." That's kind of been a running joke inside my head. I do thrive, all the time and I'm proud of myself for that. Though I talk about a lot of tough things that people don't always want to hear.

Sometimes I don't want to say them. Opening myself up to the memory of the pain, hurts like lemon juice on a paper cut. After a while, a callous forms and I can examine a painful incident as a historian examines the elements of a tragic event.

I am fat, I said. If you know me in person you probably know this. I know this, though, I see myself as big or chunky or curvy until I see a photograph. Then I think, oh, well, there's the elephant in the room.. And it's me.

I view myself as a walking, hulking scar. Millions of unshed tears and unexpressed microscopic balls of anger. They line my butt, belly and arms. It shows the evidence of beating, rape and cruelty. It is me.

I cried and I cry still. I have emotional damage. Why bother denying it? I fear leaving the house sometimes. Challenging that takes more effort than I even realize.

Because I have albinism and am I already "different," I find it a little easier to be whatever else I am when I go out in public. Fat, emotionally damaged and legally blind.

I choose to be present in public places. I use a magnifying glass to read menus, to do stuff on my phone or to look at labels. So, too, have I begun to BE my emotional self more in public.

I claim my right to space. I claim my right to go sit in the car rather than face a crowd. I claim my right to say something weird in reaction to something I don't know how to handle. I claim my right to not poop in a public bathroom because it triggers too much anxiety.

I am acceptable and loveable because of these things. I am a part. I am, I cried.

You are too.

Kind comments welcome.

The Rainbow Connection

Someday we'll find it. The rainbow connection, the lovers, the dreamers and me. It amazes me how one little story can create so much emotion in me.

I have a lovely trans friend who posts all kinds of things on Facebook and she posted this poignant, disturbing story about a trans guy on a subway wishing to be invisible. I know that place well. Standing out for trans or with a visible diverseability both have hazards that people who can pass for normal may not realize exist.

My confidence belies a past that started in grade school. My white hair and poor eyesight lead to cruel children and judgmental teachers giving me grief. Certainly not all, but the ones who were bad, or even indifferent, made an already troubled childhood fraught with confusion.

One kid constantly kicked me during recess. When I told the teacher, she didn't care. Eventually she isolated me within her classroom, making me sit on the other side of the room alone. Banished to Siberia.

A few years later, another kid started throwing things at me. I happened to catch a basketball before it hit my face and I threw it back. The teacher only saw MY action and I got in trouble.

Later in high school, some guys started running along side my bicycle and taunting me. I pedaled faster and tried to ignore the "my friend really likes you, he wants to go out with you," but the humiliation left a mark on my soul. Undatable, unfuckable, worthless messages rang in my head.

My own mother called me ugly. She thought she was teasing and never got how deeply she stabbed into my soul. So I learned to put up my shields and try and brave the storms.

A memory of riding in the car with my oldest sister sparked a desire to be "just like everyone else." We drove past this house painted up with rainbow stripes and blue skies with puffy clouds. My sister said something about how gross that house was. This broke my little heart as I loved that whimsical display of joy.

I realized then, that it's safer to not stand out. Beauty doesn't save you from bullies.

I want to live in a world where rainbow houses and rainbow people are beloved. I want to find it, the rainbow connection. I want to find them, the lovers and the dreamers. I want to be part of them.

Kind comments welcome.