An uncomfortable truth...

Sexual assault.

Five syllables that have the capability to make a person cringe in awkward discomfort.

The act, I assure you, is infinitely more uncomfortable.

This isn't easy to write.  It's squirmy and weird, and will probably be just as squirmy and weird to read.  Still kicking around the possibility that I won't publish it.  It's scary...

It shouldn't be scary.  I did nothing wrong.  But such is the nature of sexually motivated crimes, that the victim can sometimes feel partially, or even entirely responsible.
I  am not responsible.  Partially, or otherwise.
The attacker is responsible.  The bystanders are responsible.  The victim is never to blame.  I am not to blame.

The ripple effect from this type of crime is infinite.  In an effort to understand some of my odd and frankly, unflattering behavior, I have often wondered if it isn't the result of this particular series of events in my past...the result of a combination of gross neglect at the hands of my mother, and the complete objectification, devotion, and sexual affection of my abuser...
There is the fear that, while I refuse any ownership in the crimes against me, it may have left an undeniable footprint in the path to the person I am today.
There is an inherent, and oftentimes subconscious need to be pleasing and accommodating.  A need to behave in a manner that is sexually welcoming, to the point of completely ignoring someone's inappropriate behavior, thinly-veiled manipulation, or  complete lack of respect for my personal boundaries.   There is a fear that I have subconsciously connected the dots, to reveal that the path to love and acceptance is sexual accommodation, at the cost of my own personal boundaries.

A dear friend revealed to me that since the day she was attacked, she doesn't feel particularly "allowed" to say no.  That submitting to sexuality against her better judgement or desire, is somehow less frightening than saying no, and risking the anger or hurt-feelings of the other party.  Allowing a person to objectify, manhandle, and otherwise misuse her person, is less personally offensive than the potential backlash of the other party.
Heartbreaking.  The feeling of loss of ownership over one's own personal boundaries.

Equally unnerving is the intense sense of inadequacy and neglect, when the immediate requirement of my sexuality is not apparent.  When there is the slightest sense that he might "have a headache", a wave of loneliness and fright wash over me, as does the violent sensation of being absolutely neglected, and useless.
Because, after all, this is why I'm here, right?

No.
Rationally, no.
However, because of this...thing, this crime rooted somewhere in my past a hundred years ago, there is a constant struggle to place the rational above what feels real.  There is a constant inner argument between the two sides, forever trying to determine my role in every single relationship from then until now.

This said, I am not a victim.  This cliche is true.  I'm not a victim, I'm a survivor.  I hold no ownership in what happened.  The man who attacked me holds the responsibility, along with the adults around me, who looked the other way.  I am blameless.  This is true of any survivor of sexual assault.  Regardless of their manner of dress, their decision to allow some level of sexual contact, regardless of their level of intoxication, their prior sexual history...

I still hold every right over my own sexuality, whether I choose to display it overtly, whether I choose to keep it solely for myself, or whether I fall somewhere in the middle.  I still hold every right over the power of "no."  I still hold every right over my body, and it holds immeasurable value, whether or not I behave to accommodate.  This is the reality.  I know this.

My hope for myself, and for my fellow survivors of these heinous acts,  is that, while we may continue to struggle on some level with the ripple effect, we will more often be able to place the rational above what feels real.

#FatGirlStripperNames

If you visit Twitter this afternoon, along with "GotAids" and "ChelseaClinton", you'll find "FatGirlStripperNames" as a trending topic.
Basically it means that enough people are talking about a specific thing for it to become a popular subject on the website.  Apparently, the Fat Police are in full force on Twitter this afternoon, and have all come together to apply stereotypes, ridicule, and downright nasty names to fat women, who choose exotic dancing as their livelihood.

Because fat people have no feelings.  Because it's ok to make fun of fat people.  Because a fat person deserves our ridicule.  Especially those who dare to express their sexuality and confidence in a way that is normally only acceptable for "normal" people.

Because a body shape that drifts too far away from the accepted norm, deserves to be dehumanized and devalued.

Because "fat" is an ugly, bad bad word.

I've said it before, and I'll continue saying it.  Anyone who ridicules another person has their own issues to attend to.  It's not anyone's responsibility to look a certain way in order to please anyone else.  A fat person is entitled to their fat.   They are entitled to be fat in public places.  They are entitled to be fat in revealing clothing.  Even a step further, they are entitled to be fat sexually.

Being fat doesn't always mean a person's ass is super-glued to the couch, while they mainline gravy, and snort powdered doughnuts.  Sometimes it means "regardless of a healthy level of physical activity, and healthy food, my body is meant to be a fat one."
And sometimes, being fat means "I don't like exercise.  And I like spoonfuls of sugar and syrup on my  foot-high stack of pancakes."
Sometimes, being fat means a mixture of both scenarios.
Either way, the fat person in question has the right, as anyone else does, to either scenario.

Being fat doesn't mean "unhealthy."  Because, as much as the Fat Police would like to believe otherwise, fat is not an indicator of health.  It just isn't.  No amount of ridicule will make it so.
Even if fat were a sign of gross internal sickness, fat shame and fat ridicule is still unjustified.

No one, regardless of whether they're 800 pounds or 80, deserves to be defined by their shape or size.  No one.   No one has the right to decide the "right" shape or size of my body.  No one has the right to make assumptions about my health or happiness, based solely upon the plumpness of my back side.

Being fat does not cost non-fat people more money, regardless of media hype.
Being fat does not insulate a person from normal, human emotions.
Being fat does not, in any way, affect a non-fat person in a way that causes damage or discomfort.  If it does, it's the problem of the non-fat person, and means they should take the stick out of their asses, and grow up already.

If I choose to cover myself from head to toe in frumpy burlap, or if I choose to dance a strip-tease on my dining room table, it's my right.  Whether I'm fat or thin, it's my right.

It certainly doesn't warrant anyone nicknaming me "Quarter Pound-her" or "Notorious KFC".   Ultimately, those names have nothing to do with the fat person, and everything to do with the insecure dickhead who assigns them.

My fat is not your problem.  Even if I'm scantily clad in public, my fat is not your problem.  I promise.  Really, really.

If all else fails, and reasoning is lost on such people, use the damn swivel on your neck, and look away.  Preferably into a book, because your ass could use some learnin'.

I am not this

Most of the time, I am above it.
Greater than.
Moved beyond.

Most of the time I am free from it, far removed, and lifted up by my triumph over the past.

Most of the time...

And then, without warning, it becomes all I know.  It becomes all I am.  It defines me.
I am this.
This is why I'm here.  This is what I am for.

Less than a person.  Less than an object, even.  Less than.

The ripple effect is endless.  And violent.

The insomnia will pass.  I'll be silly and squirrely again.  And I'll know better.  I'll be free from it, far removed, and lifted up by my triumph over the past.

I'm not eight years old.  And I'm not helpless.  And I'm loved by someone who will choose to protect me.  And I am more than this.  It does not define me.  

Toothbrush, hairbrush, underpants...shit.

Packing for a road trip when you're a relatively sane person is, in itself, a nerve-wracking task.
"Three pairs of underwear?  I'll take four, just for good measure.  Now, which shoes.  Do I want sensible, or sophisticated?  I guess I'll take both.  Oh, better not forget the shampoo.  I'll bring these convenient, and adorable travel-size bottles.  And the same with the toothpaste..."

Packing for a road trip when you're a person who...a person like me, is a new level of weird.
"Toothbrush, hairbrush, underpants...shit.  Do I have enough clean underwear to pack for this adventure?  Do I own enough underwear to pack for this adventure?  Ok, pack this relatively non-skanky pair of underpants, along with a note that says "buy new underpants."  That way it will look more like a shopping spree, than a weirdo who only owns four pairs of underpants.
Oooh kaaaay, toothpaste.  Oh, yeah, I don't use toothpaste.  How the hell do I pack a salt-shaker full of baking soda without it spilling all over the place?  I guess I could just wedge it in there, and keep my bag upright.  Deodorant...shit.  This looks like a big tub of cocaine, with a kabuki brush in it.  Oh well...no one will have to actually watch me put it on.  I'll just hide it under the "toothpaste" powder.
Pajamas.  Fuck me, I don't own pajamas, either?  I can't share a room with other people, and sleep in the nude.  What if we have to share a bed?  Goddammit.  Add "buy pajamas" to the underwear list.
Shampoo.  This looks like a solidified bar of shit.  How the fuck do I explain rubbing a solidified bar of shit on my hair, let alone having a solidified bar of shit in my make up bag?  I'll just hide it in this brown paper bag.  Ok, conditioner.  Well goddammit again!  Do I mix up an empty jar with vinegar and coffee, and pretend it's an energy drink, or do I just skip the conditioner?
Fuck me, I just want to get this over with, and get to the fun stuff...*sigh*
Ok, skip the vinegar stuff, and I'll just pack this solid conditioner...that vaguely resembles baby turds.
All of my hair products resemble poop.  I can't pack this crap, and not expect to have a forty minute lecture on why my hair products resemble poop.  Or cocaine...
"Buy shampoo/conditioner/toothpaste/deodorant"
This trip is costing me a goddamn fortune, and I haven't even started...
Alright, feminine hygiene thing-a-majigs...
FUUUUUUCK..."

I may, or may not be about to embark on the most humiliating road trip ever, with two women who may, or may not be physically repulsed to sit next to me, once they see the crazy shit in my bag...

"There's a guy peeing in the kitchen sink..."

This weekend was one of those weekends that I'd just like to erase from history.  It never happened.  Everything is perfect, my family is a happy little nucleus within this great big cell of a house, and we are all safe and loved well.
The opposite of that never happened.  Not even for a second.  Erase.  Undo.

By now it's probably no secret that I am a woman completely dominated by her emotions, and the emotions of others.  Naturally, therefore, I spent the bulk of my shitty weekend frazzled and trying to pretend I hadn't just been bawling like a newborn calf.

At the gas station, a man and his daughter got out of his truck.  He was holding several bags, and she carried a purple stuffed unicorn.  The pair approached the car parked directly ahead of them, and when the trunk opened, they put the girls belongings inside...

(Oh, I know what this is.  So familiar.  Except our "exchange" point wasn't a gas station.  It was a downtown Shoney's.  When there still was a Shoney's.  And my mother never stayed in the car...)

Dad and Daughter embraced.   I looked away from them, partly to give them the respectful privacy I felt they deserved, and partly due to my uncontrollable waterworks.  Whether it was the result of their awkward goodbye, or the remarkably shitty series of events earlier in the weekend, I do not know.   They separated.  Dad realizes Daughter has forgotten a few items in the backseat.  They meet again, embrace again.  People stare.
With the exchange complete, Dad and Daughter depart in separate vehicles, and I imagine the exchange between Mother and Daughter.

"How was your weekend with your dad?"
"Fine."
"Did you do anything special?"
"No."
"Well, you're chatty."
"I'm just tired..."  (fake sleep.  Think over the oddities and foreign happenings of the weekend.  Sigh of relief that the next visit will be months away...)

But maybe that was more my mother's and my own exchange, than this mother and daughter.

The whole situation made me achingly sad.  For the little girl.  For her dad.  For my Dad.  And for my own feelings, or lack thereof, of which situations like this make me aware.

I wish I hadn't seen it.
And I never want to have to ask my own kids, "how was your weekend with your dad".

Embarrassing, and all over the place...

I don't know where this will go.  I'm a little embarrassed to even write it all out.
Be kind.

When our son was 7 or 8, he decided that he was too big to live upstairs with us, and insisted upon moving into the spare room in the basement.  Number one, it was huge, and number two, there was a substantial lack of pink carpeting on the floor...neither of which were true of his upstairs room.
So, we packed him up, we shipped him out, er, down, and all was well.

His upstairs room, sunny, happy, and inviting, (even if it was somewhat pink) lent itself perfectly to my quirk, and my sometimes incredible desire for solitude.
I moved in.

I collected silliness anywhere I could find it, in the form of ribbons, beads, tassels, and just general quirkery.  I hung them, tied them, pasted them, and threw them anywhere there was a space in my new sanctuary.  My favorite painted chair moved in, and I began sitting in the corner for hours, reading, writing, scribbling on things that were never meant to be scribbled.
I refused to dust it.  I refused to vacuum it.  This was my space and it did not ask to be clean and tidy. It asked to be filled to capacity with silliness and clutter.  And so, I obliged.
It was the greatest room in our whole house.

And then, our son realized that the basement wasn't very friendly.  It was dark.  No windows in his room meant that not even the moonlight could comfort him at night.  He began to see things that scared him.  For weeks, he was sure he kept seeing a dead dog lying at the bottom of the stairs.  He heard things that were certainly evil, and out to harm him.  He was afraid.
After sitting with him one night for an hour, in the dark, and explaining away every shadow, every creak, and making precisely no progress, he decided that he could no longer live in this dungeon of horrors, and asked to move back to his old room.

And we moved him.

All of my lovely things shifted from the bright and happy room upstairs, to the dark, loneliness of the basement room.  There was no light.  There was no breeze.  There was no ugly pink carpet, and there was no quirk whatsoever.  Just four white walls, and a concrete floor.  I was sad.
It became a playroom for the kids.  It became a workout room for everyone.  It became a catch-all for anything in our house that did not have a proper home.  It became less and less "my" space, every day.  Eventually, I stopped trying to make it into something it refused to be, and I stopped visiting. 

And, in the grand tradition of teenagers, our son changed his mind, once again, decided that he was too big to live upstairs with us, and insisted upon moving back into the basement room.
We protested, for a minute, and then we gave in.

Today, after a positively crappy morning, I decided that I was taking my room back.  Anything belonging to our son that was left upstairs, got piled into the living room, (he will hate me when he gets home from school) and I began slowly replacing all of my silly treasures to their rightful home.  The room brightened instantly.

Gathering stacks of books, piles of candles, wads of beads, I moved back in, somewhat, and arranged everything to my liking.

And then, the book.

Originally a "count your blessings" book, it had been repurposed some time ago, and turned into a nasty, nasty thing.  I had masking-taped the pages together that had already been used, and on the remaining pages, I had pasted pictures of violently skinny women.  Women who were either sickly thin, or who had been airbrushed to appear so.  Rib cages.  Jutting hip bones.  Sunken flesh surrounding sharp collar bones.  Lots, and lots, and lots of bones.
There were also three purposely unflattering photographs of another woman...
Standing, in her underpants, exposed beneath the harsh lighting.
She stood, posing for the camera, a frown on of obvious disgust on her face.
A fat woman.
A woman with a distinct lack of self worth, posing first forward, then sideways, then facing away from the camera.  Posing in such a way that the viewer could fully take in every angle of fatness she had to offer.  Her soft belly.  Her large breasts.  Her wide bottom.  A woman ensuring that there was nothing whatsoever about her that was appealing, or encouraging.

I was twenty nine when I posed for those pictures.
I printed them, quickly, and then deleted any evidence that they ever existed.
I pasted them in my book, and surrounded them with captions like "you're still fat...keep walking," and "you're HUGE!"  The photographs were the first page, in my new, horrible piece of exercise equipment.  My "inspiration" book.
Filled with pictures of my fatness, and pictures of willowy, bony, beautiful models, I would stare at it, as I ran on my treadmill, until I was exhausted.

I lost a few pounds in the beginning.  I ran or walked for a specific number of calories every day.  I also limited myself to one meal per day (because I couldn't handle being anorexic even for a minute.  I'm a broad who lives for her oral fixation).
The weight started to come off, and I felt as if I'd won some sort of prize.  My ass was shrinking, and I was on my way to pointy hip bones in no time.

And I hated myself.
I hated my fat.
I hated my lack of hip bones.
I hated every inch of my flesh, regardless of the thirty-pound weight loss.
I hated me.

That goddamn book.  It was the paper proof of what I had always felt inside.
"You are no good unless you fit a certain standard.  You are less if you're fat.  You are less valuable if you don't look like these bony women.  You are sub par."

That goddamn book.

I gained all the weight back.  And of course, felt even lower about myself.
The day our family joined a local gym, the disdain for my person was evident upon my face in my membership photo.  I looked like all those ugly statements I'd constantly told myself.  I looked sub par.

I stopped looking inside that awful book, and eventually shoved it into the back of our bookshelf to be forgotten.  I dropped fifty pounds at the gym, and started to feel better.  The nagging voice that had constantly impugned my self worth, gradually faded into the background, and I learned how silly it was to base my value on the size of my ass.  My fabulous ass.

And then, I gained the weight back.
And my ass is still fabulous.  And I hate that goddamn book more than ever.  I hate that I have allowed it to continue to exist in my home.  I hate what it says about me.  I hate that I spent so many years believing it.

I can't stand to get rid of it, however.  It's currently buried in my new room, with Shel Silverstein piled on top of it for good measure.
I know I'll look at it again, from time to time.

But only because, I know it can't hurt me anymore. 
                                                                           

Why don'cha do right...

"I'm not bad.  I'm just drawn that way."  

Jessica Rabbit.

Oh, I love me some Jessica Rabbit.  Tall, thin, ample-breasted.  Fiery red hair that begs to be noticed.  Her melodic voice practically oozing out from her full, brightly painted mouth.  Those hips...like two meaty shelves.  The absolute epitome of feminine seduction.  That is, if we're making allowances for the fact that she's a cartoon...

Everyone is convinced that this dame is as easy as they come.  Well, just look at her.  She's spilling out of her dress, she can't seem to converse with a man without dripping with sexuality, and, well, for fucksake, she's a *red* head.  What more does one need, in order to cast her off as some kind of insatiable, sex-crazed trollop?  Pin the red "A" to her dress already, so we can move on to Betty Boop.   

And then, it turned out that this assumed tramp was nothing less than cross-eyed silly over her big, goofy Roger.  She didn't want any of the others, no matter how she might have come across in the beginning.  She loved her man, er, her rabbit with all her big, bosomy heart.   At the end of the day, after all the sexual intensity, all the winking, all the hip-wiggling, come-hither looks...even after writhing around onstage, and pressing her gigantic rack into that detective's face, all she wanted was Roger.

So, chew on that a bit.  Think before you judge, before you assume.

Now, get outta here.  Give me some money, too.