Somat-ick

It's funny how we carry trauma in our bodies. You might think you've worked through something, but damned if some body-centered trigger won't take me right back to the original apex experience. A couple days ago I received a massage and I had the therapist work a problematic muscle in my abdomen. Normally I don't let anyone touch my abdomen as I loath being touched in that area, but it was necessary that day. As expected it was an exercise in tolerating repulsion, and not losing my shit. 

Whenever anyone touches my flank I always think, "I know why horses lose their shit when the have a bucking strap in their flank. But then having deep sustained pressure in my abdomen...fuck. 

So many layers of ick in there. Ancient ick, slightly less ancient ick, moderately ancient ick. Awakening trauma ick during this particular massage because I'd never had such deep intense, pressure in my guts; pressure so strong that at times I couldn't draw breath...and I was taken back to a time of being crushed and trapped...unable to breath. Knowing I was fucked. Wondering how did I get here, how do I get out of this, how do I survive this?

Obviously I survived, but there is still a fractured bit of me, hiding in the depths, unaware that we did indeed survive. So then, how to bring all of those pieces together? How to create a place that is safe for all of the splinters to come together to talk, and support one another? I don't know that I'll find that place until I can let go of the need to judge myself, and the parts who experienced and endured. 

Consent

I've been thinking about this for a few weeks now. The fucked up messages we get, and don't get about sex and consent. Like many others, my parents never gave me a "sex talk", what I knew I learned from the misinformation shared by friends, and older siblings, and there was definitely no discussion of "consent" in there. Over the last few weeks I've been exploring where I got my messages about the differences between sex, and rape. Consent, versus assault. You know, the fun things you think about when you're awake in the middle of the night.

I remember the first time I heard the word "rape". It was on the nightly news and I asked my mom what it meant. She stiffened up, and told me through tight lips "it's when a man beats a woman really bad and kills her or nearly kills her." I didn't understand why mom had gotten upset with me for asking what that word meant, but her reaction told me that I'd done something wrong by asking. I don't remember when I learned the actual definition of rape, but the original definition stayed with me. FYI: Webster's current definition:

https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/rape  

Definition of rape

 (Entry 1 of 4)

1: unlawful sexual activity and usually sexual intercourse carried out forcibly or under threat of injury against a person's will or with a person who is beneath a certain age or incapable of valid consent because of mental illness, mental deficiency, intoxication, unconsciousness, or deception— compare SEXUAL ASSAULT, STATUTORY RAPE

When I was in junior high my best friend started getting "romance" novels out of the library, and she would read the "sex" scenes (you'll see why i'm using "" in a second. They all read the same, "X, the young beautiful virgin resisted Y's aggressive, manly advances. He covered her protests with his wet, rugged mouth. Then he thrust his manhood into her, she cried out in pain. And as he plowed her furrows she submitted to his plow, and hungered for his seed. (And magically fell in love with him, even though he forced himself on her {ie: raped her})." How many people have read this trash and think this is what normal sex is? No consent, just a man forcing his magical penis into the protesting virgin, who then is transformed into a WOMAN, a woman in love and obsessed with her rapists penis.

Now lets dollop that on top of the messages like, "good girls don't want sex", "no means yes", "sexually active men are 'studs' and sexually active women are 'sluts'. No wonder we're all so fucked when it comes to sex, consent, and rape. If someone is date raped, or the victim of statutory rape and has read a romance novel she's bound to think that is "normal" sex, even though she walks away from that experience feeling as though she has been violated.

Why as women do we beat ourselves up with accusations of not fighting hard enough? Why do we blame ourselves for not stopping it? Well take a look at social media...any rape case discussed is done through through the lens of the male...well she shouldn't have done xyz. Yet we never hear how the male should have done xyz. We were touched as a nation (as a world) when we read Chanel Miller's Victim Impact Statement, and enraged when we found out about the slap on the wrist that Brock Turner received, and yet what has been the long term change? We see women of color in prison for killing their perpetrators when they have been child-victims of sex trafficking. Again and again we see judges bemoan the uncertain futures of rapists if they are given to harsh a sentence, but when do we ask about the life-long consequences to the survivors of these vile people (and lets include in the vile people not only the perps, but the police who dismiss/minimize/accuse victims of "getting confused, the judges who hand out light sentences, the rape apologists, the law makers who refuse to focus on the lives of the victims rather than the lives of the perps)? (Here is Chanel reading the statement in full: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qK28Powy4ZQ "If you are are confused about consent...it a girl is so drunk she falls down, don't mount her...".

Our entire system needs to change, not just the legal system, but the system of how we teach children and teens about consent (just consent, not even sexual consent), and as children reach the age where they will start engaging in sexual activity teach all genders and orientations about consent in the context of sex. And in these conversations we have to recognize the influence of privilege and power. We recognize this when a 40 year old has sex with a 12 year old, mainly because there is a law that says you can't do it (and yet there will be plenty who say, well, she is so mature, she looks 18 etc)...but it's not just about age, it's about the privilege and power of social class, race, and gender. It's also about teaching youngsters, especially women about personal autonomy (I think folks are catching on that you shouldn't make your kid hug and kiss uncle Bill if they are uncomfortable doing so). And lets think a little more on the fact that girls are raised to be nice; we aren't aloud to disappoint anyone, are cause conflict, and saying "no" is not the way a "nice" girl operates, right? A girl who sets boundaries is being rude, and boy who sets boundaries is confident...what??? 

Let's teach girls that they can be respectful of other people AND have boundaries. Let's teach boys delayed gratification, and respect of other people's boundaries. Let's do that by setting examples through our own behavior. Let's do it through calling out rape apologists. Let's do it through attending training on consent, and encouraging our HR offices to offer these trainings. Let's learn to ask for a consent in a way that asks what the other person wants instead of what we want, ie: instead of asking if I can hug you, asking if you want a hug. And let's learn to talk about consent, and difficulty, painful, and ugly as it may be. Let's make consent a comfortable topic by talking about it, and normalizing it.

For more on long-term impact of sexual assault, and the hell dealing with the legal system as a survivor of sexual assault.

Healing, Hypocrisy, Accountability, LGBT, Religion, and the Kitchen Sink

As I lie awake this morning my mind flitted around a few random spots before landing on this little memory cluster. The semester after my dad died I landed a work study positions which got me out of a shitty security guard job (that came with a lot of its own unexpected...drama). I had hoped to wind up in the art department, but the university's only need was in the nursing department. I knew students from the nursing department who told me that everyone in the department was really nice...except for Sister D; she was kinda scary. So, wouldn't you know it; I became Sister D's work study.

I wouldn't say she was mean, she just wasn't warm. She wasn't cruel by any means, but she was definitely sharp bordering on harsh. She had high expectations, and I never felt like I was doing enough, or doing good enough. I can remember sitting in her office typing tests up for her, my back to her, soaking in a cold sweat because I might do something wrong. 

And then one day she asked me some benign question about how I was doing. "Not great", I replied. And I could see her judgement (or perhaps I imagined it) because in ND you don't get personal (at least not back then) about not doing great, but that day I just didn't have it in me to pretend. 

"Whats not so great in your life?" she asked, I'm sure expecting something like, "oh, I'm not ready for my comp 101 mid term" or "Bobby didn't take me to the lake with him and the boys" or some stupid shit. Instead I had to embarrassingly admit, "My dad died back and September. I know I should be over it, but I'm not." And, I truly believed I should have been over it. I should have been over it the second his coffin was in the ground. But I wasn't. Nor was I over the mudslide, shit show that followed his death.

And to my utter surprise, the prickly exterior of Sister D melted away; she wrapped me in a hug (something I was very not accustomed to), and in a tone of bewilderment instructed me in no uncertain terms that no, I should not "be over" the loss of my parent. And the tears I had been holding back since December when I had almost taken my life burst the dam. And from that day on, instead of Robo-Sister, I got the kind and compassionate side of Sister D. By the next semester I was re-assigned to the art department, but whenever I  had a chance I would stop in to say "hi" to Sister D.

*    *    *

Three years later I "came out". In a big way. It was 95, it was rural ND, and I decided it was high-time my University had an LGBT Student Organization. And, no, I didn't do it because I was "proud", I was actually quite ashamed, not just for being gay, pretty muchly I was ashamed for existing, for having a body...just the usual. No, it was pride, it was hearing that a young man who was very active in the gay community on the other side of the state had committed suicide. And it was thinking about the suicides I was aware of in my home-state and realizing how many of those young people were members of the LGBT community. 

So I threw myself into activism. I didn't want to lose another one of my LGBT kinsfolk to suicide, or pickle themselves in booze to harden themselves against shame. I spoke to classes, I talked to the library about updating their LGBT section (which, bless them, they were totally excited to do!), and I established our campus LGBT and Friends Group. And in doing so, I found purpose, and I stepped a little out of my shame bubble.

*    *    *

I corralled the above paragraphs to keep the "good" times separate from the shitty times. When I came out I lost a lot of my "Christian" friends (not so much my fellow students, but my "adult" friends, as I thought of them) when I came out. Some I expected, some I didn't. I was apprehensive, yet hopeful that Sister D wouldn't be one of them, and I avoided her, because I didn't want to lose her, or have the healing she had provided me tainted. But the day eventually came when I ran into her. As feared, the prickly armor had returned, and I was informed that as long as I wasn't a "practicing" homosexual, I was kinda-sorta okay. 

As painful as losing her was, the catch this morning as I lie awake was this: as a homosexual, in her eyes, my sins are unforgivable. Yet, there is a man who a few months after my father's death committed acts against me that killed a part of me, that left me irreparably damaged, stole a "part" of me that the church holds in such high regard; and yet for him, the act of asking her Jesus for forgiveness and saying a few Hail Mary's would grant him forgiveness. 

What an amazing magic act of misogyny Christianity has performed...they have convinced us that a man who commits irreparable harm to women and children (and yes, sometimes men) are redeemable or at least forgivable (even when they continue to commit these heinous acts with no remorse or accountability {how many child-molester priests have just been moved from church to church?}), yet someone who simply loves and cherishes someone of the same sex, or doesn't conform to gender norms, or is aware that their assigned sex does not match their internal experience is doomed to eternal damnation no matter how good of a person they are.

We've come a long way in the last 25 years, and yet my Trans-kindred continue to get murdered in the streets, without mainstream America batting an eyelash. The murders walk free, and still too many "Christians" will justify the actions of these terrorists, and many of the rest will believe in redemption for them, and yet the LGBT community will remain sub-human, undeserving of their god's love or forgiveness. And still we see rapists and molesters walk free with little or no punishment in the rare instances where the cases are prosecuted, and even rarer when a guilty verdict is given. On any given day I will scroll through social media ans see one of my friends post something about how our country is lost because we don't pray enough, or we've moved away from christian values. I'll take mainstream christian values seriously when i see every child molester priest in jail (and every one who was complicit in their crimes), and every church open, accepting, and loving of (not "tolerating") the LGBT community. (And yes, there are good Christians and I know a good fair few, however just like there is not room for #notallwhitepeople, there is no room for #notallchristians...we all have to work ACTIVELY at change rather than turning away and soothing ourselves that it's just a few renegades...in both that is not the case.)

Fortunately for me, I left christianity behind shortly after I started "practicing" homosexuality so I don't carry the burden of "sin". I identified as Pagan, but never really found solid grounding until about 10 years ago when I started practicing Core Shamanism. Now I'm on a path where I know that Godx have my back, and will give me the strength to work to make the world a better place for those who suffer, for those who are vulnerable. My path involves actively working toward inclusion, and examining my own biases (especially as a wypipo), and yes, I fall on my face regularly, but I work to be better, and do better. I know that redemption isn't a passive process of saying "oopsie, sorry" and it's all made better; no it is about action, right action, accountability, and amends. 

I advise you, Loddfafnir, that you take this counsel-

you'll profit from it, if you learn it,

you'll get good from it, if you take it-

wherever you see evil call it evil,

and give no peace to your enemies...

never rejoice in evil,

but let yourself be pleased with good. 

    Havamal: A New Translation, Ben Waggoner, lines 127-8

https://www.lulu.com/shop/ben-waggoner/h%C3%A1vam%C3%A1l-a-new-translation/paperback/product-23280764.html

Dad, Poverty, and Value

In exploring Poverty Mind related to some other stuff I'll save for another day I found some insights into my relationship with my dad, specifically why it is that I have a better...relationship? with  my dad. First off, a little background into my journey into becoming a grandmaster at poverty mind. Growing up my mother told me regularly, "we don't have enough money for (fill in the blank)" on a regular basis, whether it was asking for a toothbrush, having to drive to the school for a required performance, some bananas, going to the doctor because I might have a broken ankle, going to the dentist before my tooth abscessed. And here was the confusing part for me; there was always enough money for dad's alcohol, and mom's cigarettes.There was enough money for mom to cover the house in plants. There was enough money for mom to spend weeks in the hospital because she "just couldn't take it anymore", yet when my dad's fingers were nearly cut off she complained about him getting stitches. Dad was in town every week to "get parts" (buy booze/go to the bar), yet we couldn't drive into town for a school function I was required to be at. And just to be clear, we never went without at Christmas time, there were plenty of presents under the tree, I always got new clothes at the beginning of the school year, so we although we had some degree of poverty, it was a moving target as to just how much money we didn't have. The message I got was; there isn't enough money for what I wanted/needed.

Around the time I was 15 my mom left my dad, and I came with her. She started having a relationship with another man, and when we were living out of state she would drive to neighboring towns to get him another Harley tee-shirt, or send him a leather vest or jacket...but again things like materials I was required to have for class we didn't have the money for, she couldn't drive me to school if I missed the bus, I skipped lunch because I constantly heard how much money we didn't have.

Right before my 17th birthday I went to live with my father, in part because i didn't want to finish my senior year at yet another new school, and in part because I didn't want to live under the same roof as mom's Harley man, who was also an alcoholic and a creeper. My dad didn't have a lot of money, things were tight, but as was pointed out to me; we shared in the poverty. We had a shared experience. And he shared with me equally, or perhaps I even got a little more, hell he had the for site to put a Christmas gift on layaway for me, something he knew I really wanted. He wasn't giving away what little we had to someone else, he wasn't piling things on his plate before giving me the scraps. And in that time, especially my senior year I subsisted on very little. I owned 2 pairs of pants, 5 shirts, and very limited groceries which we supplemented with hunting. Even though I may have had less, I FELT valued, I WAS valued by my father enough for him to share in the poverty, and that kids is why in spite of everything that came with his alcoholism, I have been able to find peace with my father's shade. 

And it's not just money related things that showed me that my father valued me, it is also that when I was with my dad he valued me for just being his daughter, and not because I was a care-giver. And during those years he showed me my value by spending time with me, teaching me things, being interested in my accomplishments and interests, and, yes, by sharing in the poverty (you know, parental things). 

Generational Trauma: Chapter 2. Who will feed the baby

A couple of years ago someone sent me a message on Ancestry regarding some newspaper articles she had found during her own genealogy searches. She happens to be the author of the poem included in the article below from the August 7th, 1913 edition of the Ward County Herald (p. 9). 

Where do I start? Well, if you've been around for most of this ride, you know that my grandmother was the person in my life who saved me. I never doubted I was loved and valued by her, not because of anything I could offer her, just because that is what grandmothers (and hopefully for most people, parents as well). My grandmother had told me once that her parents had given up her and her siblings because they were too poor, eventually I believe they all found one another, and I believe she was fairly close to her sister Helen, but I had only seen her twice in my life, the second time being at my grandmother's funeral (which as a side note was held on April 1st, and in the years since I had seen her last she had grown to look EXACTLY like my grandmother, so imagine how fucked up of an April Fools moment I was having). 

Anyway, I had never had reason to question this story, and have spent many an hour on Ancestry trying to find potential cousins, and trying to find out more information about her parents and where they came from. Then enter the good Ancestry.com Samaritan who sent me dates from the many newspaper articles regarding my great grandfather murdering my great grandmother in a drunken fit. In a nut shell, he was a drunk, he ran off any man that he felt might steal his wife, and that weekend he came home from Minot and showed Annie (my grandmother) and one of the boys 3 bullets and explained the bullets were for them and their mother, and then he pulled out a bottle of poison and reported that that was from him. The next morning after he hit Great Grandma Katie in the face with a calf leg (yes, a calf leg), she hid outside in a barrel, and long story short, he shot her (in one of the articles he reportedly told a neighbor that he didn't regret shooting her, but that he did regret ruining a perfectly good barrel.

Understandably, grandma never told me that version. I don't know if my father knew the truth or not, if he did he never said anything to me. What I find interesting is that my father inherited my GGF John's affliction. Not only was he an alcoholic, but he was fiercely jealous regarding his wife, and like his grandfather (as mentioned in one of the articles) would guard the property with his gun lest some man come along to take HIS woman. When I told my mother of these articles she reminded me of the time (which I don't remember) dad was out in the pickup with one of his guns "guarding" the house, and she hid in the bathtub with the door locked with me. 

I hear a lot of people talk about how we need to return to the "good ol' days", as if there was a time when women and children were safe, and people lived some fantasy Little House on the Prairie wholesome life. But there were no "good ol' days". And lest you think this was just one little blip, while looking through the ND newspapers of the day I found 2 other instances of husbands shooting at their wives (one because she didn't play cards well enough). And back in 1913 we white people still bemoaned the need for "loving kindness", but nothing changed. The newspapers reported that it was well known that John was abusive to his wife and children, but no one did shit about it. Seventy years later there were a lot of people gossiping about what was or might have been happening in my life but not a single adult stepped forward or tried to intervene. 

I have no children of my own to pass my dysfunctions or generational trauma down to, and I'm quite good with that. Hopefully my cousins whoever and wherever they are have found ways to interrupt the cycle. And I hope that with this life I have been given I can be the person to step up for those who have no voice. Not with meaningless platitudes, and tired memes, but with actions that bring about change, that bring safety, healing, empowerment, and/or protection as needed to those in need.  

• Who will feed and heal the babies that are held in concentration camps at our borders?
• Who will feed the babies left fatherless or motherless by the violence against our Black brothers and sisters, our Native brothers and sisters, our Trans brothers and sisters, our Jewish and Muslim brothers and sisters?
• Who will feed the babies whose parents who work minimum wage jobs but can't afford food, rent, and medication while our government givens more tax cuts to billionaires at the expense of assistance programs for those who live in poverty?
• Who will feed the babies of those we have lost to Covid-19?
• Who will feed the babies of those who are losing the battle addiction?
• Who will feed the babies of those unjustly incarcerated because of the color of their skin?

#BLM