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14 October 2016 @ 10:29 pm
don't you don't you wish you never never met her  
to anybody wondering how i am negotiating this news cycle of a presidential candidate finally getting multi-media outed as the living embodiment of unchecked male entitlement, including an accusation of his raping a thirteen year old girl on, in fact, the twenty-eighth anniversary of my being raped as a thirteen year old girl: not very well, in fact. not very well at all.

because: i am in a place where it would be a luxury for it to simply be the horrifying story that puts me down under blankets in the dark with the shakes and the looping flashbacks and the fear and the self-loathing, but that is not the society that we live in.

no, the society that we live in also needs to repeatedly and explicitly remind me that, whatever your gender, coming forward with an accusation has never been about how brave and strong a survivor is (because, all told? i think my record demonstrates a fair amount of bravery and strength) but what kind of resources that survivor has at hir disposal:

who is going to believe you completely, who is going to believe you by degree, who is not going to believe you at all, who is going to claim belief and then disappear the moment believing you becomes even mildly inconvenient; who is going to keep inviting you and your assailant to the same parties, who is going to stop acknowledging you as a family member, who is going to ignore you, talk over you, say you wanted it, say you didn't try hard enough to make it stop, write you off, write you out of the will, laugh in your face, laugh at you behind your back, ruin your reputation, ruin your career, ruin your chances of getting out of a situation that is clearly putting your life in danger; tell you you're being a bitch a bad sport an attention whore a spaz a homewrecker an ingrate a loser a liar a liar a liar a liar again and who would rape you anyway? who would ever even rape this stinky waste, yelled my mullet-headed middle school assailant as he pulled his hand out of my pants and shoved me down the last few stairs as his three buddies, who i feel compelled to remind the reader were, also, accountable human beings, growing boys, boys will be boys, boys being boys who stood there laughing their willfully clueless asses off at my apparently hilarious predicament, because, indeed, who would ever rape me? and i write over my long-forgotten thirteen-year-old thoughts with: you're fucking kidding me. it hadn't been two days. not two days since i ripped down every poster of a male pop star from my bedroom walls. not two days since i trashed thirty pages of the suddenly moronic story i'd been writing about teenagers falling in love. not two days since i took every cassette in my possession with a male voice singing over male-provided instrumentation and shoved them in the back of my closet, dedicating myself with renewed vigor to the bangles and the art of noise. but it was just my imagination, right? you can't hate all apples everywhere because of one apple gone bad. i was overreacting. to locker room talk. boys being boys. a literal pussy grab, folks, right here in the middle school stairwell, but you're right, it could've been worse. it had been, not two days earlier. what am i complaining about? i was exaggerating. i was being a bad sport. again.

again, i ask: who is going to believe you? who is going to believe you without ever giving you the validation of their belief, just the punishment of it? who is going to rename you with your rape? who is going to decide what you've been through somehow makes you statistically more capable of visiting that variety of horrific misery upon another human being and treat you accordingly? who is going to inform you that your not coming forward sooner makes you complicit in the further crimes of your assailant? who is going to comfort themselves by informing you of all the ways in which they were protected from assault, how they had an awesome support system, too bad for you, right? who is going to freak the fuck out, become inconsolable, need comfort outside of your ability to provide with regard to your pain? because: in this society? leveling an accusation of rape has destroyed many more victims than it has perpetrators, especially when there are disproportionate amounts of power and money involved. and there always always are. especially for someone with my variables. and there are quite a lot of us, in fact.

and, okay, so maybe not the predominant male response? not all men, right, but a measurable response to the inconvenience of trump's accusers: let's revoke the 19th amendment and get all these pesky women with their pesky little they-should-be-so-lucky rape problems out of the way of their execution (.) of a "great america." reminding me, yet again, that i am, as i ever have been, at the mercy of a gender that has gotten away with shamefully negating my humanity every fucking time: and not one apology, not one acknowledgement, not one attempt at meaningful amends from any of my assailants or their witnesses. instead, i get labeled: high maintenance. freak. loser. damaged goods. a stinky waste: shoved down the stairs and dumped into the garbage accordingly.

so that's where i am.

how about you?

all the comments screened for the security of anyone commenting with sensitive information. i will only unscreen such comments if you say it's okay.
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selva oscuraanonymousblack on October 15th, 2016 02:18 pm (UTC)
yeah, so: aspects of this piece go back to a rant that is currently way too out of control to post anywhere about how sick i am of having to haul out my stories: or, rather, having the stories haul out themselves during a news cycle like this. add to this my recently figuring out that apparently i’ve been selected by my ancestral line to work on some related issues and oh, well, actually? that explains a lot. but it’s also a good deal to process, and me with the palpitations and upcoming cancerversy appt with the STILL unresolved blood stuff pounding in my ears. it really is a marvel that i haven’t come to loathe october.

i’m sorry about your family. that sucks. ♥
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selva oscuraanonymousblack on October 18th, 2016 03:57 pm (UTC)
holy holy do i miss you. pretty much i want to marry you, also. just thought i’d get that out there. everything you say here. holy, holy. everything you say.

and now the same never-weren’t-assholes who withdrew their support (kinda) from trump over their (unsurprisingly) brief THAT’S SOMEBODY’S MOM/DAUGHTER/SISTER/WIFE/COWORKER HE’S TALKING ABOUT THERE!!!!! indignation are openly stating their intention to continue to block supreme court nominations if clinton is elected, presumably to protect our goberment from gittin’ too much dang girl all over it. first dude who explains to me about how our electing a woman president has now solved rape culture might not want to do so whilst standing on a balcony. in the meantime? i am starting a gofundme to costume clinton as queen elsa for the inauguration and also redress the oval office in fucking pumpkin spice and RAINBOW FARTING UNICORNS. stage two involves some new monuments for the mall based on vulva casts from specially selected citizens, but don’t worry, none of them will be taller than the washington monument, wouldn’t want to anyone to feel threatened, now, would we.
translucentflowerfalls on October 19th, 2016 07:15 pm (UTC)
We definitely need more yonic (vulvar? clitoral? vaginal?) monuments in washington.
selva oscura: kitsune-tsukianonymousblack on October 19th, 2016 08:13 pm (UTC)
i'm also thinking more confrontational positioning, such as, THE NEW ENTRYWAY FOR THE CAPITOL. give our nation's legislators a little somethin' to think about on their way in to work, you know?
modifier on October 20th, 2016 02:41 pm (UTC)
I'm feeling this. so. hard. Yoni Pentagon for the win!
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selva oscuraanonymousblack on October 20th, 2016 03:25 pm (UTC)
i’m thinking chelsea could pull off anna but that might be a little weird. would give “the gloves are off” an entirely different context, though. BETTER WATCH OUT.

i’m sorry about the can’t-even. i’m sorry and i extremely identify. forcing myself to be human is a weekly, if not daily, fight. THEN i get a call this morning informing me that my insurance will no longer cover me having my diagnosis anniversary sonogram done at the endocrinologist’s office. so now i have to go to the radiology clinic in one city for my sonogram, the endless waiting room lab in another city for my bloodwork, and still have to pay four dollars to park at the hospital in another fucking city so i can go into my doctor’s office and… talk to my doctor, who has not the results for either of these two matters and will probably need me to come back to her office if anything in them is unusual. jeez, it’s a good thing i’m so very confident about the highway worthiness of those three ORIGINAL TIRES on my FOURTEEN YEAR OLD CHEVY. oh, wait. but, yeah, health stuff, also known as the pit of despair.

you could write to me if it would help. or we could establish a text connection. i’ve been told i’m very good with the emoji.