Flash

While reading, my eyes hurt so I turned my attention to the mamakat and baby kitty mock fighting and wrestling as cats do, boxing each others faces with their long, hind feet.  That’s what they do.  They box and cat-scratch, not like the cat-scratch fever people used to talk about.  
My eyes divert to flash on the floor.  It’s upside down, white side up but I can remember the image.  Flash they call it.  Various images of tattoos that resemble the artwork of an old tattoo artist of WWII.  Sailors and various military personnel would get sparrows and arrows symbolizing what regiment they fought with.

Other tattoos were not so artistic.  Numeric tattoos.  I remember as a child in the 70’s seeing them on the arms of the old.  I remember seeing my first numbered arm.  I “knew” it was bad.  I “knew” from their wrinkled faces that it wasn’t their choice to have them placed there.  After 30 years of wear, they weren’t clearly defined.  They looked “rubbed” in.  Or rubbed out.  There was no tattoo removal back then.  No colored ink.  No flash.  No choice.  They didn’t even get to choose their number.   It was assigned.  No. 473-B269 was set to die.  The ones I saw as a child were rescued or escaped.  Later in the 80’s I would see the same style on the Vietnamese.  By this time I knew.

I looked back at the white side of the flash I had kept for fifteen years on a corkboard…or haphazardly kept on the floor.  I contemplate where on my body it would look best.  Maybe on the back of one of my calves.  Maybe on my left rib, closest to my heart.  It had to mean something.  It was a commitment.  I don’t even remember what words were on the banners.  “Love Kills Slowly”, or “family First”, or “Death or Glory”, as if there is EVER any glory in death.

Shit, we’re all just here killing each other off for religion or oil or political gain.  Maybe there’s too many peiple on the planet.  We’ve lost the sanctity and appreciation for life.   At least the genocide has drifted from our shores to another, and from that shore to another continent all together.

At least my flash will have color.  It will be vibrant for the first five years and then fade with the Texas sun.  I’ll do my best to preserve it and be glad it’s not a number. 

Why I Am Afraid As An American Woman

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Today, it’s Wednesday. It’s an ordinary day, not unlike all the other ordinary days. Tuesdays are particularly ordinary, except that we live in extraordinary times. So, ordinary is leaning toward frightening, maybe even catastrophic. We’re not the kind of extraordinary like, “today, not one poor person went hungry.” Or, “Every child was safe from abuse.” Or better yet, “Today everyone was granted liberty with no stipulation or recourse.” Today is the kind of extraordinary like new words being made up and used by mainstream followers…like “covfefe.” Absurdity is now the new norm.

No… our extraordinary leads to curious minds wanting to know, “what else are we about to be astounded by today?” I’m actually not being dramatic when I use the word ‘astounded.’ I mean, every day seems to bring about Lewis Carrol’s, Alice’s poised declaration with every new soundbite, “curiouser and curiouser.” Our political dynamics are polarizing. Our nation is being ripped apart by the right and the left who refuse to adhere to the abusive patriarchal guys in the right-wing dominated government who aim to strip rights and dignity away from anyone not white, Christian or male. Then, as if that’s not insulting enough to our dignity and intelligence, we have their women who are “in support” and go along with it, either out of religious conviction, or they enjoy the fruits of their political husband’s labors. Needless to say, I live in fear every day. Panic is like an oil leak. It’s slow at first. No one knows about it unless some lame fake news reporter decides to expound on the dangers or that it’s even happening at all.

I don’t live in fear every day as if one day there will be a need that I will not be able to meet, although I am clear that economic fragility can lead to empty shelves in the grocery store. I am a white woman who will never not have my needs met, driven, and by my own accord, I will meet them myself. I’m clear that I’m advantaged because of where I fell in the natural lottery. I am a part of a privileged class and yet, I fear for myself and all other humans as my privileges are slowly being revoked simply because I have… well… I have a{whispers at table} vagina. I’m clear that that is such a vulgar word to those who practice supreme prudence… or supreme judgment of others. “HOLD THE PHONE…we got a bleeder!” But, I’m the gal who’s gonna call it like I see it. I say the things you don’t like to hear in vulgar and course manners because I’m angry and afraid. I also feel justified in employing such vulgarity because we are living in vulgar times. White washed speeches on the steps of capitals and in school libraries somehow try to nullify the direct impact dangerous decisions have on the vulnerable and the weak.

In any case, I fear that one day soon, myself, sisters, and the men who bravely supported us; proud that we worked so hard for ours and our daughters’ personal liberties; God-given and Man pardoned, will have our rights ripped away, through heinous laws and brute Christian values. If you’d like to know what I mean by heinous, please research “abortion okay if permitted by rapist.” I’m clear that if I was a more poor woman of color or a part of some disenfranchised group that would or would have been not only a stark reality but a pre-existing condition. The vagina thing though. That pretty much sums it up for all of us as we have political leaders relying on religious text to sway the believers or non-believers to their side. {“And men…they’ll bring you breakfast in bed on Sunday morning.”} Won’t THAT just be grand? Yes. Our political climate is like the feeble but last power grab of the white man, whose greatest fear is that he will be a minority in America and he will be forced to concede some of his power with women. “What? You mean I can’t grab her by the pussy and get away with it?” “Oh… wait…yes I can because I have money and I’m talking gibberish to monkeys.” Seems a good deal of my countrymen, both male and female have turned into rPozac eating sheep whose herd mentality is beyond staggering. To date, I have never been more ashamed. I have never feared more to stay.

Clearly, we are sinners and it’s up to those who Jesus talks to personally, the extreme right to set us straight and to set us on the righteous path that God intended. See…white men are still under the impression that God, whoever THAT is…has deemed them dominant over us all. Women. Blacks. Latinos. And, heaven forbid you are a transgender individual or a gay black, Muslim woman. You are the lowest of the low. That’s okay, state-sponsored conversion therapy will fix you right up. Seems the conservative Christian doesn’t want the individual to thrive or to question their authority, which has been handed down by God Himself, whoever that is. They are the all knowing, closest to God, whoever that is, and we should all cower below them, thank them for the privilege of being subservient to them as they know what is best for us, our elders and our children. But, if you are poor, please don’t ask for food or medicine. Clearly, any handouts will empty out your soul.

My anxiety is through the roof what, with all the political attacks on liberal media. Conservatives don’t like him because he’s not cruel enough. Moderates hate him because he is too cruel. And, well, the left? We’ll be the first to go if there was ever a social media round-up of all transgressors and aggressors of the newly North Korean style propaganda that is churning out of the White House like sludge out of a clogged pipe. Otherwise known as shit, but how vulgar do we need to get? I debate myself daily on getting off social media, but I feel a responsibility to stay informed. At what cost though? Prozac? Valium? No. I will not consent to volunteer to be a zombie. I need to be fully awake as well as infusing some modicum of sense. I need to be present to moderate between insanity and reality.

One thing I do know though. Today is a Wednesday. It’s an ordinary day in extraordinary times. So far, no nuclear detonations have taken place, so there’s that. So far, the left hasn’t been rounded up for re-education camps. Things aren’t that bad. I’m sure the Republicans were holding on with bated breath for Obama to round up the rights. That’s what my country has become. It was North v. South. It was black v. white. It was pro-life v. pro-choice. Now it’s Pro-extreme right v. Pro-extreme left. We are a cancerous nation currently, making ourselves vulnerable to whatever boogiemen we’ve been fighting beyond our borders. We are stock-piling guns on both sides. There is anti-immigrant, anti-Muslim, anti-Mexican, anti-woman sentiment everywhere and people wonder why anxiety is through the roof. Even male college students are under attack for buying into the feminist slash Marxist regime. They are called women for supporting our rights. I guess education is a bad thing too. The only thing I ever had a problem with was the skinny jeans and the lack of interpersonal skills of the young people who will vote during the next election. I hope Pokemon-Go dashes behind the rigged election machines and lands on the button for moderate officials who seek to restore national sanity.

I’m A Special Snowflake. Screw You.

Yesterday I marched with about 4 million other men, women and children, both young and old, black, white, latino, muslim, Christian, agnostic, athiest, Buddhist and otherwise. There was no economic divide. There was no divide between those who “believed” in abortion and those who didn’t because all that mattered was that people had freedom of “choice.” Shit…there are so many battles on the field right now that even protesters

from the Standing Rock camp were there.

There were signs, chants, drum circles, strollers, banners and pink hat wearing, freedom-loving humans who were all marching for different things but the same reason. It was the largest march in U.S. history because this is the first time in U.S. history where our way of life is “blatently” being threatened. Other American-way-of-life loving humans on EVERY continent joined us in our efforts, showing support against the Orange man and solidarity with our passion for freedom. The whole world protested the Authoritarian rise of the U.S. Oligarchy. To you…we salute you. Thank you! The world watched in disbelief of our commitment but not as much as they watched in HORROR as the Orange man actually won the U.S. election.

WOMEN made this happen. WOMEN made this movement possible. And…the best part? D.C.P.D. reported not ONE arrest. The anarchist’s ironically found no need to interfere with the movement by destroying property or hurting ONE person in the march, unlike the day of the inauguration where the black robed thugs broke plate glass windows and wreaked havoc on the streets. Perhaps our movement didn’t need that kind of negative attention and they knew it. So…to the anarchists…thank you for not interfering. Thank you for not being violent when there was no need for it.

And then…something interesting happened. A backlash of sorts. Not from rich, white men. We, as women and as protesters expected that. No. The backlash came from women. Women of all colors and ages. Women were the ones attacking us on social media calling us “special snowflakes.”

“We already ‘have’ voices.” “We already ‘have’ choice.” We’re just making trouble for the God-fearing women who want to serve their men as God intended. Let me just say that if that’s how you CHOOSE to live…that’s GREAT! It’s great because it was your choice to serve your husband honorably.

Some women however…choose to serve their wives honorably…with pride. Sometimes there are two men who want to marry and raise a family. Those same God-fearing women don’t want others to have the choice and THAT’S why we march. We march so women will be heard and respected…by all people…not just by men.

“I already make a lot of money. So what if it’s seventy-seven cents on a man’s dollar?”
“If you followed God’s will and married a man you wouldn’t need a full dollar!” I shit you not! I couldn’t make stuff like that up!

We marched so latino families would not have to live in fear of deportation. We marched because we wanted Muslim immigrants to feel included in the effort of making this country better…without a registry. Papers please.

Papers if you are an immigrant seeking asylum from Syria. Papers if you are from Ethiopia or Somalia or Iran or Iraq. Papers please if you are different or a transgender needing to use a restroom…ANY restroom. Papers please if you are as unattractive in his eyes as Rosie O’Donell or as beautiful as Miss Universe who spoke no English while being harassed and barged into by the Orange man.

I love what Ashley Judd said in her rant on stage. I love what Madonna contributed; what Meryl contributed.

And yet…just when I think, “okay…this deep level of conservatism is a blip on the radar, a little hiccup in our move toward progress, a huge surge of raw hatred from the far right swells and lives of women get threatened all over again.

Racial slurs. “Loud mouth niggers.” “Sand niggers.” “Uptight sex deprived trouble-makers.” “Baby killers.” “Sinners.” “Heathens.” “Sluts.” “Whores of Babylon.” “Libtards.” “Special snowflakes”…as if…if you comment on our periods we’ll just break down in sobs. There are slurs describing us as privileged (which…compared to Saudi women, to Korean women, to African women…we are). Somehow…we’re making good, wholesome, God-fearing women look bad. We’re “robbing” you of your femininity.

I always secretly believed in the spiritual superiority of the sixth sense of women but I had no idea we had the power to ROB you of your femininity. I mean, I don’t wear pink but I’m glad you do and I’m even glad if your ol’ man digs you in pink. I’m a scarlett gal myself. Pffft…big dicks look better dressed in red lipstick anyway. Pink is for pussies. (Insert wry smile right…there. Yeah…that’s it baby…just a little to the right.)

Speaking of pussies.

Just because you’re a delicate flower living in the desert of prickly cacti like women like me…doesn’t mean grabbing your pussie is A) okay and B) legal or C) makes you more feminine. Having anyone grab you doesn’t “add” to your femininity.

“You should just get over it.” “He’s your President.” “Deal with it.” “Get back to work.”

To be fair…the March was on a Saturday. So, what did a the moms do because they had no work and had the kids? They brought the kids with them. These moms who either had c-sections or vaginal births or MAYBE even adopted their babies…showed the children what Democracy looked like and invited them into the process. They were not Ex-clusive but rather…the opposite.

Special snowflake? Your great-grandmothers fought for your right to vote…which you likely took advantage of and never once thought about as you were voting someone in who would restrict the liberties and securities of “others.”

Your grandmothers burned bras and your moms worked for a lesser income…for a long time, until with enough fights, wages for us increased making some of us the breadwinners of our families. You did not call them special snowflakes. You called them pioneers. You called them your heroes. You call us spoiled that we should make so much “noise!”. I will turn that mirror around and insist that there is still work to do…people to protect, ideas to be fought for and that the ones on the streets doing so are NOT the ones spoiled…with age…or privilege.

You call feminists the real misognists. You say we’re trying to make men out of you. Like I said…pink is for pussies. I dig red. I marched for your freedom to wear pink. I marched so muslim women could continue wearing their head dress without discrimination. I marched so two moms could live together and honor each other. I marched so that if God forbid you needed to choose an alternative family planning method…you could. I marched to open the clinics again so women could receive birth control and women’s health services…you know…cancer screenings and STD exams.

All you said in response was, “well…if you just kept your legs closed.” But…”men will be men.” I’m trying to see how WE as special snowflakes are the misogynists.

I marched so those who needed healthcare could continue to receive it. I marched for a more compassionate society and how did conservatice American women respond? With hatred and vitriol. A backlash I thought had been muffled somewhat by the smidgeon of hope that had been manifested through previous marches.

Did I drink the cool aid of the big D? Naw. There is corruption, media manipulation and spin doctors on both sides. But we just got sent back sixty years. It’s cool to have the 1950’s household…if you choose…but not if you are forced into it by lack of opportunity or financially squeezed into it.

I’m a special snowflake. Fuck you. And…you’re welcome. Lucky for you we were all out there…marching for your right to hate us and spit on us for it.

*I’m also aware that we weren’t carrying guns to the frontlines. I’m clear that men and women make more fervent sacrifices on a daily basis. We also weren’t suffering in the way Standing Rock protesters did. THOSE protesters are the TRUE HEROES in the face of suffering and adversity for their cause…which, not so ironically ALSO benefits all of us.

But…Let There Be No Mistake… I Loved You.

I want to see cherry blossoms in Tokyo and the paper houses of the world. I want to see global marvels that rival the greatest adventurer’s memory banks. I want to see it all. I want to taste new foods and see new faces. I want to meditate in a jungle with children and see flowers that have blinking eyes and walk away from the Empire which was my home. I need to abandon the protection I’ve grown so used to and look people in the eye. Kind people. Dangerous people. Colorful and curious people. I want to photograph everything I see in case you never get to. I want to snuggle with an elephant and be surrounded by wolves. I want to listen to strange birds and wonder at strange creatures, majestic and tiny, each as nature would have them be.

I want to go mad. I want to break the chains that bind. I need to take the blinders off and scream my insanity until like an evil presence, it expels itself from my body and I am limp on the ground with exhaustion. I want to let go and let loose all the places I’ve been and all the people I was. The disingenuous one. The dishonest one. The fearful and rageful one. I want to forget and remember everything all at once, maybe even grow a little homesick and grateful too. I want to burn that old brown ranch house down and stay in a straw hut. I want to rub mud all over my body and I want to cleanse myself with a good cry. In one sweeping moment it feels like every sunset is in my head at once. I blink through every soft rain. Every roll of thunder across the planet rumbles in my spirit as I roam and wander with purpose. I want to see the beauty in all things, even things not beautiful. I need to see the world for what it is, not what the news tells me it is. Maybe work in an olive field and crush grapes with my feet; see the pillars of history; the monuments a testament to the decline of Man himself.

It’s almost like I want to see it before it or I go away. My last ditch effort to show my Maker I loved it all. A student on a field trip to a boring museum in the second grade goes back and finds the hidden mysteries in the basement as a thoughtful, curious adult. In the attic unattended. Ghosts whisper where the treasures are and the unwrapped pieces that could have been seen all along had someone just taken off the tan protective paper are right there in the dark abandoned corner. I want to have visions and remove the cobwebs. I want to be fully awake and be horrified and see the glory all at once. Like every moment leading up to that moment brought me to exactly wherever it is that I’ll stand.

A collective moment in consciousness where none of us are alone…least of all you, least of all me. Least of all the ones who ran into the darkness for fear of what they might see because the light was too painful to open our eyes in. See in themselves. See in others. See love for what it is, not for what we thought it was supposed to be or look like. I want to see the galaxy in strangers eyes and meet naked shamen roaming the Earth with water sticks. I want to see what love is despite what “I” thought it was or meant or what it was supposed to be. But let there be no mistake…I loved you.

I want to be awakened. I want to be challenged and walk the tightrope of life and limb, risking it all, following only the omens which tell me which direction to take next. Go to him. Walk away. And, I want to share it with you. I want you to know that since you let go, you let me go too. You let me refocus my energies to expand my horizons and my experiences.

I have no idea if any of it will transpire, but I feel closer to it already. I see the stars in everyday things. I hear passages when the breeze blows through the trees. I feel the truth nip at me with the winter chill…and I prepare. I prepare for the journey, opening all that is possible, welcoming all who will be a part of it. The good and the bad. I am called. I never thought I would be. Billions aren’t. Billions can’t. I am gifted to even aspire. And…if I only get to see HALF of what is out there, or just within a blink of the universe’s eye then I can say I did my best to see and experience as much as possible and revel in the glory that is out there for each of us but only a few of us conspire to take action on. I want to see all the various hues. I want to see rose colored air and mist rising out of the ground and under ocean lakes as stars shoot across the sky faster than I can make a wish.

They say one should write every day.
This was all I could come up with today.
*Unedited because I don’t actually care.
I know where my head was when I wrote it.
I could recite it. And if you heard it,
I could take you there too.

I don’t need a masterpiece.
I AM the masterpiece.

The American Female Psyche as of November 9th, 2016

This letter, http://www.cracked.com/blog/a-letter-to-my-wife-day-after-election/ from a husband to his wife the day after elections about sums up the sentiment of every woman yesterday who couldn’t help but to cry at home…and in various offices around the country as they were attempting to do their jobs despite having the U.S. actually stamp the idea into our consciousness, and the consciousness of every woman on the planet that our sanctity, our lives, our freedoms, our safety and our dignity do not matter in the least, and that, the opposite is not only possible, (which we already know when we walk to our cars in an empty parking lot at night) but accepted and celebrated. Our sexuality is “up for grabs.” We were reassured that this behavior; this thought process; this base level of instinctual entitlement to the “right” to demean and belittle women is not only inherent but now a part of a system our mothers worked so diligently to change…using the process to change the process. I also read a piece that a friend shared with me about the brick though the plate glass window of elite society, but for this piece, and for the million of women who sobbed yesterday, pulled it together when they picked the kids up from school and then had to go back to the restroom to sob again before making afternoon snacks, I hope this piece I forward offers some sense of a reprieve.

What America did November 8th was wrong. Conversely, what America did November 8th was right and it makes me so angry I was willing to throw every relationship out the window, sure I could never trust any man who voted for him with my security. Like, somehow, they were secretly admiring a man who “got away with it” and “they would get away with it if they could.”
Yesterday was a huge reckoning of defeat of women. But, it was a huge victory for the voiceless. The one’s who needed a renegade. The one’s who were always picked on until that day the bully found you worth while to sneak off and smoke cigarettes with. And, how, not only were you glad to not get your ass kicked in the back of the wood shed but you felt vindicated by the acceptance of that bully with strength enough to make or break you.

Women lost. All women lost. But, maybe it’s time for the women who lost to listen to the families who are hurting. Those families have women too. And maybe they are suffering a double whammy. Being a woman…AND being poor with no way to feed their babies in an area that is largely ignored because it isn’t a sexy cause. This country has lot’s o’ ‘splainin’ t’ do and maybe this is good time to look inside ourselves and recognize that WE did this. Not just white women. Not just rich people. Not just city dwellers or country folk. We ALL put him in, either as a big fuck you to the elite or as a consequence for embellishing reality television living. Each of us voted for him with our irreverent ambivalence, apathy and lack of concern for each other.

Maybe instead of doing a volunteer vacation to South America, digging ditches for water in a village that needs it, we can go to Alabama or Mississippi and fix their schools and homes. Oh wait, it’s not as lavish to look at rusted out FEMA trailers, is it? Maybe instead of saving elephants in Africa or paying to feed a child in the Philippines, we should be sponsoring a poor child living in the Appalachians.

I still find it near impossible to trust anyone who voted for him. This election clearly triggered a lot of PTSD in me and countless women who reached beyond victim status and worked to thrive…regardless of male entitlement to our pussies; PTSD around the many bad men in my life “who got away with it.” I felt RAPED and VIOLATED all over again, but instead of keeping it a dirty little secret hidden in the bottom of a liquor bottle, it was plastered all over FOX and CNN while the world looked on in horror and disbelief. I felt a deep sense of betrayal and for me, the division widened. Us versus them for me yesterday wasn’t blue versus red or Republican versus Democrat. My mind processed it as PERPETRATOR versus SILENT VICTIM with no voice or recourse. No healing other than a nation collectively evolving into a society where sexual assault is illegal, morally wrong and dreadfully harmful to the psyche.

Yesterday I learned that the psyche of women on a global scale comes second to the anger of hungry, silenced, unsexy disenfranchised people. What I learned was the hierarchy of needs is food first, voice second, security third, not the other way around. What a humbling notion when one has spent their whole life healing from experiences with sexual rape, assault, harassment and bullying. I wanted equality for all. Everyone else just wanted a job to support their families. Rather audacious and entitled of me.

Politics and the Grooming Of A Victim

I have sat on this piece for some time now. I have debated whether or not it would do any good. What I summarized was that it would be good for me; cathartic by it’s own right, I write down the words that have been simmering in my head for weeks. I apologize in advance if it triggers anyone else, but hope it also brings about a sense of strength for you, the reader. I’m not trying to put in your face an unfortunate circumstance that happened long ago. I aim only to make sense of it all in my own head. Perhaps my day of reckoning still is not over and it’s on my own time and in my own way that I get to process what my truth really is and what it means to me.

It started when I was five really. I’m not sure how long he waited after my parents walked out the door. His name was Jimmy. He was the local high school football quarterback. I’m not even sure why my parents picked him to be my babysitter. Probably because in my neighborhood, comprised largely of Air Force families, there was a registry of all the teenagers who were eligible babysitters and his name was on it. Also, because he was available. I remember my parents complaining that every time he came over to babysit, he would eat them out of house and home. Growing boy and all that. That was their only complaint.

I remember wearing footed pajamas. Innocuous enough I suppose. I remember the crazy clown picture that my mother innocently put up on my wall as a child. A comforting thought for any terrified small child I imagine where a painted man loomed over my bed watching me. To this day, I consider clowns mental fodder for horrible nightmares. Jimmy sat at the edge of my bed. He directed me to stand in front of him. I distinctly remember him remaining silent for a moment. I have to believe he was testing his own boundaries and mine when he sat there contemplating the challenge ahead before he ordered me to take off my jammies. I remember being scared and not being able to actually “talk.” My fear gripped my throat. I did however try to protest when I told him I didn’t need to change my jammies because my mother had just done so after bath time and before he got there. He said he had to make sure.

I remember unzipping them and his reaching over to touch the outside of my panties. Over the years, I remember feeling his tongue against mine. I was six or seven. I thought it was gross and I remember him chuckling that someday I would like it. He told me he liked it and asked if I wanted to please him. I felt obligated to say yes. I remember feeling his penis and pre cum rub up against my vagina. I was eight. I remember being locked away in my room for my whole life up until that point and that it was nice having a human share some space with me without violence. I remember being in the hospital as a child at eight or nine with a urinary tract infection. I nearly died three times in a row from a fever of one hundred and six. My parents apparently weren’t too worried about any aspect of my health, let alone a spiking fever which nearly took my life.

I remember waking up at the ripe old age of forty when a trigger sent me back into the memory of being mounted on my father, who I also have to believe was in a drunken stupor. That’s okay. Jimmy had well prepared me. My parents had well prepared me. The dentist who raped me as a child had well prepared me. The neighborhood bullies and my violent parents had already prepared me. They had all taught me that silence was golden. They all taught me my place in the world. Locked in a room until someone wanted in to take what they wanted, until they were done with me. And then? They would walk out of that room only to lock the door behind them. Except, i was still in that room. Alone. Gratified that someone found me worth something to sneak in for. I remember the dread that I’d be alone again for an undetermined amount of time as they snuck out. I would endure this for seven years. I remember feeling fulfilled that someone found me worthy of their time. Grossed out that my sheets were messy. I was left to stay in them alone.

At seventeen I was raped after prom. It was no big deal. He was a popular wealthy playboy who suffered no consequence. Who would believe me anyway? At twenty-seven I found myself in an abusive long-term relationship with a violent sociopath that never took no for an answer and was sure that if I just got pregnant that I would never leave. He didn’t take no for an answer long enough for that plan to manifest and I have raised a son alone. It is only in the latter half of my life that I have found any type of recourse and healing. I’m clear, not only that their part in my life was wrong, but also the part that I played in my life. I am no victim today but I see the timeline for what it is.

The recent highlights of entitlement and debauchery hit a certain trigger with me. Young girls being mentioned as dateable in ten years and a “fine piece of ass” bother me a great deal. Oh sure, I have my obnoxious protestations on social media, but it’s hurting a particular part of me. It’s leaving me silent in areas of my life where the training has been successful. I was trained to remain silent. I internalized everything, believing they’d think I was a liar. I lived my life doubting the facts, doubting the believability and validity of my own story. Believing that if I told anyone anything, I’d no longer have intervals of midnight visits to break up the monotony of in-home imprisonment. I’d rather be groomed and used than alone. I welcomed the company after a time because those were the only humans coming in. To be nice to me. To touch me without violence.

By the time I was fourteen, they dynamic changed. While still living with tremendous day to day violence, my mother insisted that she watch me change from my day clothes to my night clothes after an evening of torture. I finally, in a moment of weakness, admitted where the shame had come from in shedding my clothes as I was absolutely unable to comply with her wishes. I told her about Jimmy. And Brian. And all the others before the ripe old age of childhood. She didn’t appear necessarily moved or shocked, but she did report my words to my father, who was dating an eighteen-year-old at the time. He liked her “knockers.”

My babysitter Jimmy was his eighteen-year-old girlfriend’s cousin. They dealt cocaine together. When driving up to the house, I would watch Jimmy leave before I got there. I, at one point, protested enough to make my father uncomfortable and his reply to me was, “What do you want me to do…beat him up (as he threatened to punch me in the face)?” For all the women and children I’d seen my father beat, it would have been a good start. My response was…”no.” I felt great shame for having had it reported and to have the complaint negated just proved what I’d been conditioned to believe. I felt great shame that I didn’t insist more that my father do the right thing. That a young man’s wish was more important than my safety…or security. Needless to say I have a few trust issues. Meh. That’s on me, not on anyone else.

But, that’s what we have today. We have entitlement and men of power refuting her accusations of abuse. Of harassment. Of vile abuse of power. Of belittling, of gaslighting. The power grid is not set up for girls and women to come forward and tell the truth and to have any justice for inequities.

So, you wanna grab a piece of me? Go ahead. Do you want to place your vile hands on my most precious parts? Go for it. You wouldn’t be the first. But, today, I KNOW it is wrong to do that. Today, I have taught my own child that it is wrong. That whatever is in his pants is HIS business and if anyone ever tries to get it in, to just tell them, “that’s none of your business.” I liken it to a cheap shot in a drunken dive bar fight. The infraction doesn’t really mean anything. It’s a power grab and it’s not ABOUT me. It’s about the aggressor, except the vulnerable are left with the side effects. It is a sick social commentary on the inherent lack of internal power males really walk around with. A soul sickness where there is always a yin and always a yang. Vaginas… that which hold so much power and life render us completely at the whim of anyone who needs a kick or a distraction or power.

There was an outing of sorts recently where a person in a position of power was exposed for passive brutality against women and little girls and the female population in general. One-half of the country feigned complete disgust. But, that isn’t the whole truth. The truth is the revelations are ugly and it will cost an entire party a flurry of votes…MAYBE. Apparently, many women came out and described their accounts of sexual abuse and assault. I am not that brave. I write it here where there is a fraction of a fringe population who I know and of that, only a fraction of those people are interested in any words.

I put this together to tell my own story. Get it down on paper. I wanted to validate my own experience without the permission of people who brought me up to not think or see or speak. I need to give my history a voice and I need to remember.

I need to remember that this is more commonplace than we think. I need to remember that this is happening in homes all over the planet. Not only in my nation but others as well. Are we going to subscribe to a level of brutality? We are doing so currently every time we celebrate this kind of tragedy with apathy and compare it yet to still greater evils. Are we going to shadow the next generation of abused children and tell them, “it’s just locker room talk? It’s just locker room antics.” “Well, she just looked so darn cute in her jammies that I couldn’t help myself?” Really? The answer is sadly yes. Yes we are subscribing to it. Some of us are saying, “I’d rather have THIS brand of evil over the OTHER brand of evil.

I cannot subscribe to sweeping poor behavior under the rug. I have experienced first hand exactly what ramifications come from silencing the small voices of the innocent and I will not hold back and remain silent while those in power justify and excuse their inability to control themselves; their righteous indignation that well, “I’m a man, therefore….”

I get nature. I really do. I understand that power stems all the way back to the biggest, meanest caveman conquering his neighbor’s village, stealing all the women, killing all the children and procreating with his own seed to strengthen the clan, building vast empires by stealing women and dominating the landscape. Nations were built from expanding villages.

It seems to me that a strong need for an evolutionary push of the race is needed right about now, not only in my country but around the world. We are no less grotesque than we were ten thousand years ago and it’s frightening. We clawed our way out of the earth for this?

Let me be clear on one more thing, lest any reader think this is a misandrist piece. Women who defend abusers, allowing them free to continue abusive behavior are no better. Just because she’s wearing a power suit and in a stoic courtroom, doesn’t mean it’s any less evil.

The upbringing I had, I’m well aware is one that not everyone had, so not everyone would have the natural recoil that I experience now through this last year of political debauchery.
There is no easy answer. There is no system in place that will change things overnight. I suppose a good start is a chorus of experiences streaming from keyboards across the country that helps us understand each other and perhaps persuade each other of the others’ thought processes. This is mine. I cannot abide by the business as usual politics or lack of social reform. I’m adult enough to see that the greater good is at stake here. Our mission as adults is to protect the weak and innocent from a world of ogres and predators. Not to just protect our girls and women, but everyone who will be touched by the decisions we make. Our sons and brothers who are also being groomed to believe that this only happens in other countries…to other people and that harassment, abuse and downright bullying of the weaker sex is okay.

And I Sit…

I wrote a morning letter to the only one who can break me on the regular.  Who, as it turns out is not as sweet or true as I had hoped for him to be.  I had to make sure the words were inspiring and not angry or remorseful. Not at all sad that of all the time I spent teaching him the right path to take that he still walked to the beat of an offbeat drummer.  

He is not allowed out. He is told when to eat. He is told when to sleep. He isn’t allowed to write me a letter with a pen. He looks out peepholes and his voice echoes off concrete and steel. His age still ends with ‘teen’.  There is bulletproof glass…three panes thick. The benches are hard and cold. The loneliness and despair have kicked in, but he busies himself with wild visions of himself being a “successful” businessman in dealings that society frowns upon.  A modern day Jesse James romanticized until the warden shouts, “light’s OUT!”

Our conversations and letters are monitored. We are only allowed to skype. He shares with me the demons he sees in his sleep and how the voices shout at him when he’s least suspecting a surprise.  He asks me if he’s going to die this way.  I remind him that he is the master of his own destiny or ruler of his own demise. I remind him that I love him. And I reminisce back to a time when he loved me and wanted to spend time with me. When he wanted me to play pokemon and pet his baby kitty.

That time is over. His big round beautiful eyes have become slanted with experience and hardship; hard earned bouts of delirium and I sit.  I sit and I mourn the loss of freedom for such a brilliant soul on a downward spiral of debauchery and an institutionalized life.

I sit and I pray to the saints to watch over and enter into his no longer tender heart.  I pray the demons leave his mind and leave him be to find peace and happiness; perhaps change his perspective on what success means.

I don’t send the many letters I’ve written before. I sit and view as my eyes well with tears, and my heart breaks the little cartoons he’s ripped out of the paper and inserted into my incoming letter in a feeble attempt to make me smile.

His baby kitty is an ol’ gal now. I can hear her purr. She’s an overeater. There is nothing to talk about because nothing good is happening to him right now. I’m in a holding pattern too.  And…I sit. And, choking back the tears, I write terribly here, a befuddled stream of consciousness so I can return to my letter with hopes to inspire.

And…I sit.