TW/CN: Mentions of abuse, childhood abuse, gaslighting, rape, sexual assault

I’ve been contemplating things like why I am not working and researching and writing, even though I know I could at least research and write (the working part is often more doubtful, depending on type of job and how my body is feeling at any given time).

And, due to recent events with a now-not metamour, I’ve been thinking about belief, and why people believing me is so important.

This is different from believing in me. My partners believe in me. They believe I can do whatever I want to do, and that’s a wonderful thing.

But I specifically mean people believing me when I say things–like, “I need XYZ” or “Please give me some time” or “I am an honest and direct person.” I don’t lie. I don’t think I would make a very good liar–I would trip over myself, because I have been gaslit so often that I have difficulty believing myself. It is much easier on me if I tell things straight from the beginning. And if I get details confused, I do my best to own up to that and recognize that my fragmented brain has reflected things at weird angles.

The ex-metamour didn’t believe me–not about anything I had to say about myself over a period of almost two months. Hence, my reflecting now.

That lack of belief cut deeply–right to the quick of how I was abused as a child. My parents didn’t allow me to be a person, not a real, whole person, as a child. Everything about me was confined to narrow parameters that they made up and changed while my eyes were closed, and if I bumped into those parameters, everything went to chaos and terribleness. So it was with the ex-metamour. And the core of that? The core is lack of belief. It is very easy to unmake a person if one chooses not to believe anything said person says. That was my childhood. My parents didn’t believe I’d broken my arm; that I had mono; that I had pneumonia; that I’d torn my knee–all physical, easily proven ailments. I almost died from both the mono and the pneumonia–the former when I was in 8th grade, the latter when I was 4 years old. I have lived in the United States my entire life, and at both those points in my life–and for both the broken arm and the torn knee–I had decent health care under a not-as-bad-as-now economic system. I suffered with the torn knee for days before being seen by a doctor, all while being yelled at and told how I was making it up to ruin the family vacation; the broken arm? So many people stopped by our house that never randomly stopped by and made offers to watch other children in the house, to take me to the doctor, to drive (even though my mom could drive). Mom made me wait until after my step-dad came home, and by then, it didn’t even hurt anymore. Shock, I guess.

Anyway, the point isn’t about the injuries and etc. The point is that even with easily provable, physical ailments–and things that were pretty easy fixes under the then-existing medical and economic systems–I wasn’t believed. So anything non-physical? Anything I couldn’t ‘prove’? That definitely wouldn’t be believed. It is no wonder I didn’t ever tell anyone when I was sexually assaulted and later when I was raped.

And now, later in my life, I find myself at this place where I know I am a fantastic researcher and writer. I know I can do these things. But then, saying that–writing it–gives me anxiety. Because I feel like someone will come along to tell me I’m full of it, that I’m bragging, that I’m making it up. Impostor syndrome (not uncommon, I know). And it’s pretty easy to see where it comes from, given the lack of belief. And I also find myself not researching and writing unless I am in a setting where I am surrounded by people who believe me. I am motivated and I do well when I am in an academic setting–seminary, undergrad. And then, once I’m out, I stop. I don’t have a community of support out here, and I don’t know how to find one.

And also, it is a little terrifying. Because, sure, I could try to do it all alone, by myself, without that community of support. But I don’t know if I’m strong enough to withstand the voices in my head–the brain weasels–let alone anyone else who might be an abusive jerk. And by that, I don’t mean people who have valid criticisms of my work–that’s how academia works, by critiquing and building upon work. But people who seek to tear down? I don’t know. Without a community to tell me whether what I’m doing is valid or helpful?

Plus, without that community, what’s the point? I don’t particularly want to shout into a void.

Anyway–I think I’m supposed to be writing and researching. I think I know the things I want to research and write about, even. But I lack the funding to get into another academic setting–especially with 45 and etc taking down students–and I lack a support community, and I don’t know how to find one outside of a formal academic setting, and I don’t even know if such a thing exists.


TW/CN: Abuse/IPV/manipulation

I’m letting the title stand as my trigger warning here because I’m going to be writing about some things that have happened over the past month and years. I was in an abusive relationship. It didn’t get physically abusive, but toward the end I was afraid that it might. I need to write about it. It might come out disjointed. I’ll probably talk about my remaining partners’ experiences and feelings as I know them, too. Mostly, I just want anyone who reads this to know and have really fair warning that I’m going to be talking about this experience–for my own health and sanity if nothing else. And I’m a little afraid that said partner will actually come read this and say things or .. I don’t know. I have fears I don’t want to give expression to, I guess.


Continue reading

Anger and Stories


This image lives on my desktop. It’s not my background, but it lives as an icon, a thumbnail reminder to myself.

And yet, I rarely obey it.

I’m afraid. I am afraid.

I am afraid of my anger. I’m afraid of all the anger inside me that will come pouring out when I open up about all the ugly, unbeautiful parts of my life. I’ve opened up about some of them, but there are more.

I am afraid of others’ reactions–not necessarily those of strangers, though there’s a certain fear of not being believed. I’m more afraid of those I love–what would they say?

And I know, I know: if they wanted me to say nice things about them, they should have treated me better.

But what about forgiveness?

But forgiveness shouldn’t be compulsory, either. And some things cannot be forgiven at all, and some things cannot be forgiven without being worked through. And some things just aren’t forgiveable things, even if I am angry about them, or hurt about/by them. It’s complicated.

I want to be compassionate. I want to be loving. I want to be a good person.

I know that good, loving, compassionate people also get angry.

And yet, there’s so much messaging that says the opposite–that love and anger don’t go together, that compassion and anger don’t mix, that being a good person and being an angry person aren’t the same thing.

I don’t want to be an angry person. I am an angry person. I hate being so angry all the time. I am so sad that I am so angry. I am so angry that I am so sad. And I am so so tired.

I wish I could just let go of the anger. I tried. I tried to just…put it aside. I tried. But that ended up just building walls inside me, walls I didn’t even realize I was erecting until almost too late, until I almost took my life because I cut myself off so far from everyone and everything around me.

I have to deal with all of these things, but dealing with them means being angry, and I really, really don’t want to be angry.

TW/CN: Rape, Sexual Assault, Cis White Men Getting Away With It

There have been three or four high-profile cases in the news lately of young, cishet, white men getting away with raping women. Some of the victims have been vocal, speaking against the judge and system and man and family. Some have been ‘compassionate’ (I’ll get to that), talking about how a ‘mistake’ shouldn’t define a person’s life. Some haven’t really been able to defend themselves or speak for themselves. Some have been quiet.

I was quiet. For a long, long time, I was quiet. I still am, in most ways. Most of the people who knew me then don’t know. Most of the people who knew us then–me and him–still don’t know. And I don’t use his name when I do talk about it. I use veiled references. I hint. I don’t give exact dates, I don’t give details. I know that people on my friends list are also on his friends list, and they don’t know, and I don’t want to go through he-said/she-said drama and bullshit. He’s a my-age cishet white male. I never turned him in. There’s no evidence. And at the time, I don’t even know if there would’ve been bruising or tearing. I know a hymen is no indicator of anything (they’re so varied naturally), but mine had torn at a young age to a bouncy horse incident. Whether it grew back..? I don’t know. Anyway.

We were dating. Boyfriend and girlfriend. In love, or so we said. I thought so. I found out later that he mostly wanted sex with virgins. He grew tired of me when I was no longer virginal enough for his tastes. Of course…that was his fault. And of course, virginity is a ridiculous societal construct meant to hold women down…but that was the point, right?


I didn’t speak, for years. I didn’t even call it rape, for years. I lied to myself. I lied to everyone, because who would believe me? I knew my parents wouldn’t. They always assumed I was having sex, doing drugs, drinking underage, smoking, partying. What a laugh. I got straight A’s, never did find out where to buy drugs or alcohol. I still awkwardly call it alcohol. I still have only had champagne at weddings and wine at the Table, and a little mead at my own wedding. Two swallows, enough to know the fire of it and that I wanted no more. I never even snuck out. I was too terrified to try.

And, because of my Purity Promise, I thought I had to marry him. I thought that the first person to stick their penis in me–with or without my consent–claimed me.

Even if I felt my soul die the instant it happened.

Even if I liked women, too.

I lied. To myself, to my parents, to my grandparents, to my friends, to him. And when he kept using my body, over and over, and telling me I was too stiff, too unemotional, too uninterested, I tried to force my body to respond.

Because that’s how it had to be, right?

Years later, when I finally began to hesitantly call it rape, I realized he probably didn’t. And, at the time, I thought, “Okay, there are two sides to this story. To me, this was rape. To him, it was sex.”

But that’s not how this works.

It has taken me almost half my life since then to realize that.

Rape is rape is rape is rape.

And I say that even though I know consensual non-consent is a Thing. Because that is different. See how ‘consensual’ is included there? Trust is a Thing there. Conversation, knowledge, consent. It can still go too far, it is a dangerous Thing, but consent is built in.


We had talked. He knew I wanted to wait for marriage. He decided–apparently–that he didn’t. And just like that, suddenly, I had no choice. I was trapped, and there was no escape.

I put it off, thinking about it, dealing with it emotionally, for years. I couldn’t make a scene, you see. Every tiny emotion I showed was so -dramatic- in my family.

And so I live with the knowledge that every time I show emotion about this, or about any rape, I might be seen as ‘dramatic.’ I hear it in that Emily Gilmore voice, “Everything’s so *dramatic* with you, Lorelai.” I am keenly aware of how my family takes this any time I talk about it.

I have told my mom and my dad now. It was…it was traumatic and relieving, telling them. Terrifying. I had panic attacks and nightmares, but they both accepted me and my story. I don’t know that they would have all those years ago, but they did now. Half a lifetime later. I’m glad.

But I’m also still aware of how my mom is still with my step-dad, and how my step-dad said, multiple times, that women were to wear skirts so men could have “easier access” to them.

I wore pants. Not even shorts. Jeans, always.

I finally bought a pair of shorts I like this year. For the first time in…I think since I was a little girl, I wore a dress without pantyhose and shorts underneath, too.

I am very aware that whenever a rapist gets away with it–and they are always cishet white men, almost invariably young–that all of this is going on in the back of my mind. My stomach is tightening. This all comes to the forefront, washing over me.

I want to tell my story, but how can I? How can I, when I lied for so long? How can I, when I know that my family is watching? How can I, when I know that so many people are mutual friends even now? How can I, when I am battered with the idea that women are supposed to be compassionate, even to their perpetrators? How can I, when talking about it in the company of mutual friends–like on my Facebook feed–feels like I am somehow hurting him?


These are some of the things that keep me up at night, that make me think I am a terrible person. Reason #3383 Why I Am A Terrible Person, on repeat as a litany through my mind: I lied. I lied in a big way, and I lied to myself, and I can’t trust myself, and so how could anyone else trust me? I lied to cope, to deal with my circumstances, but it hardly seems to matter when honesty is such a big part of my foundation.

And that’s part of why I want to tell, too: confessionally. I want to cleanse myself of the lie, to let it go. But who deserves such a burden? And how many times must I unburden myself? How long before I will be able to get out of bed with ease, and for more than a day or two at a time?


Will this ever get easier, seeing these stories? Will we ever learn to treat victims/survivors of rape better? Will we ever stop telling victims/survivors that they must be ‘compassionate’ to their perpetrators? Will we ever start treating cishet white male perpetrators of rape the same way we treat cishet black male perpetrators of rape? Will the day ever come that we teach consent to everyone, candidly, from birth on up?


I don’t know, but now, I am exhausted.


The Town of Angry Bees

For me, there’s a town full of angry bees.

Sometimes the bees are dormant, as if covered in snow. The buzz is there, but buried under feet of cold crystals. It can be ignored, talked over…for a while. But there will be a price to pay if I wait too long, because snow does eventually melt.

Other times, the bees are very active. Sometimes they’ve been swatted at by others, made angrier, ready to sting with no provocation. Sometimes they’re just…there…being angry bees…and it’s wise not to go near.

Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference, especially if I’ve been away or out of contact for a long time.

I’ve discovered that there are bigger bees and smaller bees; bees whose stings I notice immediately and those whose stings take a long time to show.

I thought some of this swelling was protective, and to a certain extent, it was–but it turns out it never needed to be there if the stinging hadn’t taken place.

I almost never want to go to this town of angry bees, but I keep getting pulled back. Responsibilities. Guilt. That one bright spot amid all the bees.

The bright spot plans to get out.

After that…I think that town will always be filled with angry bees for me.

Liebster Award ♥

The lovely Michelle (& Moose!) of The Lonely Tribalist (please check them out–they have some fascinating reads, like this piece on white colonialism!) nominated me for a Liebster Award. Thank you! ♥♥♥

Liebster Award: Discover New Blogs

The way it works:

  • Link back to the person who nominated you.
  • Answer the questions the nominator gives.
  • Nominate up to 11 other bloggers with fewer than 200 followers
  • Create 11 questions for your nominees.
  • Notify all nominees via social media/blogs.

The questions from Michelle (& Moose!):

  1. Will you go to the prom with me? Check Yes[✔] or No[]
  2. Last thing that made you laugh? A post on feminist_tinder
  3. What would you do if you were Supreme Ruler of the World for a week? Monday would be Education Reform Day, wherein I would eliminate student debt, make schooling free, and make sure all children (of all genders) have equal access to schooling. Tuesday would be Food Reform Day, wherein I would institute policies that subsidize locally-grown crops, de-subsidize mega-farms, and redistribute food wealth more evenly across the globe–both by eliminating food deserts, by helping struggling local farmers across the globe, and by eliminating slavery in food. Wednesday would be Water Purity Day, wherein I would insure every locality has continuing access to potable water, and that water is a free resource for all. Thursday would be Medically Accurate Sexual Health Education Day, wherein I would institute mandatory medically accurate and inclusive sexual health education from kindergarten on up in all schools. Friday would be Racial Integration Day, wherein I would institute mandatory racially inclusive history lessons in all schools–no more letting national pride rule the history books! Saturday would be Active Listening Day, wherein I would institute mandatory lessons on various sensitivities (emotional, cultural, mental health, religious, etc.) and how we address one another about them. Sunday would be Party Day, wherein I would likely hide in a closet with a book while everyone else ate cake, or perhaps I might bake the cake if I had enough energy left over.
  4. Where do babies come from? Preferably other people. Or unicorns.
  5. What’s your deepest, darkest secret? This question always trips me up, because I know I have secrets, but I come up blank when I see it! I guess my secrets are afraid of the question? Or maybe I either have really good personal boundaries or really poor ones, and this is my brain’s way of protecting myself? I probably have really poor ones. But also, I tend to be an open book–ask me things, and I answer. The trouble is that people usually don’t know to ask, and so some things never get asked. And that sounded more ominous than I meant it!
  6. Do you ever sing when you’re by yourself? If so, what was the last song you sang? All the time, and usually made-up things. So I’ll take my wife’s name and make up some kind of nonsense rhyming scheme around it. Or my cat’s, or my boyfriend’s, or lover’s…. There’s a theme there. Well, I don’t know what my cat has to do with it. >.>
  7. Last good book/movie/TV show you enjoyed? I’m always in the middle of several books. Right now I’m reading Ta-Nehisi Coates’s Between The World And Me, Rebecca Solnit’s Men Explain Things To Me, Roxane Gay’s Bad Feminist, and Malo Hopkinson & Uppinder Mehan’s So Long Been Dreaming sci fi shorts collection–all amazing so far. I also just finished Jenny Lawson’s (TheBloggess) second memoir Furiously Happy; Felicia Day’s You’re Never Weird On the Internet (almost); Deirdre Riordan Hall’s Sugar; and Lindsay Buroker’s Emperor’s Edge books–all also very amazing books. For TV & movies, I’m a Netflixer; I’ve been enjoying Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries, Scrotal Recall (so, so much better than the name sounds), Grace & Frankie, Leverage, Call the Midwife, and Dear White People:
  8. Here’s $20. What will you do with it? Awesome! Let’s put it in the pot for pizza for the polycule!
  9. Quick: There’s a hungry-looking zombie standing in your front yard. What do you do? Yell out my last “I love yous” to my loved ones, because I’m slow; I’m about to be zombie-food. Also, this gives them warning to implement their various zombie-survival plans and decide whether they’re keeping me as a pet or double-tapping. They may have some confusion amongst themselves on this point. They’ll need the warning.
  10. If you could master any talent/skill by the end of the week, what would it be? Anything? Hmm. You know what? I might want to be able to run really fast. Then maybe I won’t become zombie food…..
  11. Last awkward moment? I was espousing my love of an advice website to a friend, and she then told me about her very poor experience with that website several years ago. Awkward!

Okay, this is the part where I’m supposed to come up with 11 questions, and then nominate some fabulous bloggers, too!

Let’s see….

My Questions:

  1. What does ‘home’ mean to you?
  2. What time of day do you prefer?
  3. How did we get so many languages?
  4. What, if anything, do you collect?
  5. What do you think about double rainbows?
  6. Where do you see stardust in yourself?
  7. What do you like for dessert?
  8. Do you know the muffin man?
  9. You wake up with no responsibilities, no aches/pains, and no plans for the day. What do you do?
  10. Are you a crafty sort?
  11. What is your music?

My Nominees, in no particular order:

Whew! Okay, I think I made it through, and now it’s your turn–if you’d like to play along! Also, I’m really bad at knowing who has how many followers, so I apologize if I broke the rules. ♥ And I highly recommend anyone who wants, to just join in! Take my questions and run with them, create your own, etc. Thank you all for writing such wonderful things, stimulating my mind, and giving me solidarity/something to thing about/room to grow.

What I Wish I Could Un-Know

CW: Abuse

The sun brightens most of the rooms of my family’s house. Mom sits at the table, working on a paper for her college course–an emotional piece, designed to sway people.

I’m in the long, skinny bathroom next to her, doing laundry: bend, dig out one of my abusive step-dad’s work shirts, shake it out, turn and hang it; fish out a sock for the sock box; fold one of my siblings’ shirts and toss on their pile of clean clothes.

The TV patters in the background. Kids shout. Mom finishes her draft.

“Can I read it to you?”


She’s written about my step-dad. About how he was abused as a boy. She’s persuasive. I don’t know how those details could fail to make anyone’s eyes fill with tears.

My heart breaks.

I hate her for that, a little bit.

“How was it?”