Just a person

Am I the only woman on the face of the planet who thinks running ‘women only’ blogs or competitions ‘in support of female whatevers’ is detrimental to equality? Do we not declare that yes, we are unequal and we need extra help in order to compete in the real world by participating in these things?

By the Goddess, judge me on my work, not on my sex!

What a sad situation. I participate in these things to try and get my work read and noticed. I hope for the best. Yet I grit my teeth as I submit (truly, in every sense of the word) to this male-dominated ‘we are victims’ ideology.

Many a time I’ve submitted as a male, or as an unknown quantity (always the best) by using my initials only. Fallback is to assume I’m a man: again, I view that as a compliment. They don’t see me as a female writer, oh, please! Read my pitiful work and give me a nod because I’m a woman and I need it. No. Straight up addressed to “Mister”.

And what the FUCK is chick lit? Puh-leaze! Another male dominated term used to belittle anything with women or women’s issues as the focus. Suck it up, guys: as women, we’re expected to read and admire many pieces of literature with men as main characters (even the current Harry Potter series chose a boy to focus on, NOT a girl). Tit for tat. Deal.

But, no! Never has there been a more whining minority than that of men. Oh, we can’t read that; it’s for girls. Chick lit. Discount.

I can’t fucking write that. I can’t even fucking deal with the idea of a ‘chick lit’ category.

Managed to take care of all those traditionally female jobs in the household: dishes, laundry, hoovering, dusting, shopping. I do these things despite the stereotype, despite everything in me thinking good Goddess, I’m supporting all the bullshit chauvinists spout because I can’t wrap my head around the idea that keeping your personal space clean is a women’s only thing. It’s not. It’s a health thing. But let’s face it: if you live with anyone else, it’s also a support issue. Helping out people around you by keeping things clean, making their lives easier – that’s just caring and common decency, right? Or am I really fucked in the head?

What’s so difficult about being decent people?

What’s there to belittle or discount?

Do you see me? I’m a person. Can you hear me? I’m human. What’s it matter what set of sexual organs chance saw fit to equip me with?

All this bullshit makes me sick. Makes me wish I was sexless. No sex organs whatsoever. Not male, not female, not stuck somewhere in-between.

Just a person.

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Everything a-kilter

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Four weeks. It’s a departure from the two week recurring theme in my life, tho I could go on about four weeks simply being a double whammy of my two week running gag. That’s how long I’m supposed to use this new nasal spray and put up with poor hearing: four weeks. To give my doc her props, she did tell me I should notice an improvement every week and if I don’t I need to see her again. Though I wonder if I can properly judge this problem objectively; what’s an improvement? More whistling that obscures people’s speech? It is sound coming in, which is a step up from the dead nothingness I began with. The tubes in my ears are almost completely closed off; the doc said she could see the openings and they were very, very small.

Still can’t tell if I have ringing in my right ear because the left is too loud.

The weather has turned from petulant spring to an overflow of early summer joy. Where once rain dappled every nook and corner, sunlight is drenching the ground, teasing the early flowers up from the earth. Buds swell and burst on the trees in one afternoon.

It makes me want to go, go, go, but I still have to be careful with this dizziness.

More than that, this continued ill health makes me feel like everything’s on hold. Exercise, outdoor activity, language lessons, writing – I even feel I can blame the slow progress (or non progress, since there’s still no e-mail) of the theatre group on my ill health, tho I know that’s silly.

Ugh.

Put on my pair of fat jeans today. Simultaneously glad they looked so good on me and upset I’ve put enough weight back on that they’re not hanging off me. I just can’t win with my weight issues.

Had an exciting thought regarding the script I finished. Part of me feels the story already addresses sexual identity because I chose to make the character most like me a male and not a female, but that’s one of my hidden things that only those closest to me understands. The play doesn’t scream sexual identity. But it could. The characters were built around my own family, who tend to play out stereotypical sexual behavior. But what if I blurred the line? What if the ‘male’ characters were played by women, and the ‘female’ characters played by men? What if the names of all the characters were non-sexual: Francis, Chris, Alex, Charlie, Bobby, Sean? What then?

Then I tip the world on its head. Seems appropriate. The world’s a bit off balance for me right now; let my work reflect that.

Everything a-kilter.

Disembodied Voice

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING POST DISCUSSES CHILDHOOD [SEXUAL] ABUSE AND SEXUAL IDENTITY IN A GRAPHIC MANNER. IT ALSO CONTAINS A LINK TO A DISTURBING VIDEO.

I was not going to post this morning. Give myself a day off; why not? Nothing really happened yesterday.

Then I watched the documentary Child of Rage. And it got me thinking.

I lay no claim to the kind of early sexual abuse documented in the film. But once again it made me think, and think hard to see if maybe…maybe there was.

Because there’s something at the back of my brain.

Something that scares me, and always has.

And it has to do with my mother.

I do not think my mother sexually abused me. I do think my brain misinterpreted some of what happened. What I’m going to talk about next is extremely personal and extremely embarrassing. I do not want to disable the comments on this, because I do think I need some balance. Maybe even answers. But I beg you to think very carefully before saying anything below.

Early memories. While I have a very clear memory of a specific incident, my gut tells me this happened repeatedly to me. Two years old, maybe younger. I was in diapers. The skin on my butt developed sores, little pimples that were hard and painful. What I remember is laying on my back with my legs over my head. That was the position my mother put me in when she wanted to lance these things. She didn’t do it with a blade; she did it like you’d pop a pimple, by squeezing it between her fingernails. It was horribly painful. I cried hard, begged her to stop. She kept telling me it was for my own good, that she knew she was hurting me but she had to do it.

While there’s nothing overtly sexual about that memory, I remember feeling sexual. My vagina was wide open and exposed. I was extremely vulnerable.

Without the penetration, it felt like a rape. The pain, the begging for it to stop with no effect.

I remember my dad looking on, his face extremely worried. He may have even suggested my mother stop, but she would have brushed him off.

And I wonder if this incident, if the repeating nature of that ritual, was the source of my early nightmares.

I wonder if that sharp, remembered feeling of a sexual nature was the source of my early masturbation. Daily masturbation. Public masturbation.

And I wonder at the position my mother put me in. Was my diaper being changed and that’s why I was on my back with my legs in the air? Why didn’t she flip me on my stomach to get to my butt?

Why that vulnerability?

I have no answers to put into my mother’s dead mouth. I have never felt like really talking about this before, other than in passing.

It might be my first memory.

While I’ve lived my life as a heterosexual, my fantasies while masturbating remain about women. Women who rape me, hurt me.

It’s always made me wonder.

And it’s always felt shameful. And sick.

I’ve experimented with women, but none that I was actually attracted to. It was clinical and unexciting. I wasn’t aroused by the experience.

But is that because I didn’t allow myself to be with someone I was attracted to? There was one woman, long ago. We were friends. I told her, she was cool and said it was okay, and that was that. Nothing happened.

We lost touch. Probably because of me. I don’t really remember.

This is nothing I want to be discussing at 8 a.m. It’s really nothing I want to talk about, full stop. But seeing as this blog has to date been my best source of therapy…I figured I’d take a chance and lay it out.

I’m just a disembodied voice out here, after all.