incest sucks
this is about me. it's pretty serious stuff and involves material relating to incest, abuse, and sexuality. some of it is rough. just thought i'd give you the heads up.
i sat down last night to write an entry and this is what came out. i don't know what to say about it. i'm not entirely sure why i am choosing livejournal as a medium, but i am.
Hm, well i guess i think i'll start from back there. I had a great childhood. Lots of siblings. Lots of love. Always plenty to eat and all that white working class families provide. At some point between ten and twelve or so i began to be abused by an older sibling. Thing is, i didn't know what abuse was, i didn't know what sex was, i didn't even know that during hetero sex the penis went into the vagina. Up until i was getting used by the person who abused me i prayed to god to not get an errection during sex. Sex was two people laying on top of one another, so an erection would clearly get in the way of sex. Oh, and i thought it was called a Pagina for many years. We kept wondering why penis was in my father's encyclopedias but pagina wasn't.
With no real knowledge of sex i was suddenly having it. Well, that's not true, it was a very gradual process. When youth are sexually abused in non-forceful ways there is generally what's called the grooming stage. This is where the youth is set up for what's to come. Porno, buying gifts, whatever the perp does, it's to ease the kid to the point where they violate acceptable boundaries. I knew something was wrong, that siblings did not do such things, but i didn't understand that i was being used. I didn't realize a 17-19 year old had no business using a 10-12 year old. But more importantly, i felt like it was something i was a part of. I felt like an actor. I was involved in a sexual relationship. I did much of the initiating throughout the whole thing. I liked the attention. I liked the physical sensations. I liked knowing things my peers only dreamed and lied about.
As it turns out, abuse messes people up. Who woulda thunk. For a long time i believed it was my fault. After having sex i felt like i was a bad person. I felt like i was weak and sinful. I wished god would stop it or give me strength to stop. I tried punishing myself. I used pain in an attempt to not forget the shitty feelings i knew i'd not think about the next time i wanted the pleasure, the attention, the safety of sex. I burnt myself and hit things and poked myself. I wasn't what i'd consider a cutter, i was simply never that serious. But shit it hurt. I forget that a lot. I forget what abuse felt like. How can i forget that? How does that “detail” get left out? It's not like forgetting to pick up milk. I didn't experience incest as abuse. I wasn't aware of the concept. Isn't that fucked up? It took me a long time to understand what exactly happened all those years. Six years of that. Six of the most important developing years where spent being used by someone who was supposed to care for me. Six. One day woulda been enough to fuck my cookies up. I built my understanding of sex, women, relationships, self worth, secrecy, honesty, and so much more on my experiences in the adult world of exploitation and abuse.
Four years after the abuse was ended, after my family found out, after the offender was removed from the house, after having to take a paternity test for my abuser's baby, after ugly comments and reactions from people i love, after talking with police and the grand jury, after years of therapy and a getaway trip to south america i had real sex for the first time. I was terrified. I didn't know what i was feeling, it was so confusing and painful. Not to mention i didn't know what to do. Somewhere along the way i'd learned the word vagina; but all my knowledge was still based on being used for someone else's idea of pleasure. It took awhile. The thing is, i was in love. Love. lovelovelovelove. I was growing with someone. I was respected. I was wanted. She called me beautiful. me beautiful. I still hadn't healed, but i was scabbed over. I was beginning to understand sexuality in a healthy way.
Almost two years of a loving and nurturing relationship gave me a safe space to begin to heal. Fucking'a healing hurts. It was a slow and really messy process. It began with me being able to understand that i was abused and that it wasn't my fault. That i wasn't protected. That i didn't deserve to be treated that way. That i was used and never considered as a whole person. I read a lot during that early stage. Mike Lew wrote this amazing book called Victims No Longer on male incest victims. That book helped me so much. I had no idea there were so many people like me. So many people went through similar, and often far more violent and traumatizing experiences. For the first time i understood myself as a survivor. I survived something. I did what it took to make it out of that situation. me. I did that. I didn't know how. No one taught me how to hide pain and compartmentalize my emotions. No one was there to tell me i would turn out okay or that i was strong. But jesus was i strong. I was so fucking strong. That was a turning point. From there i started therapy again, only this time on my own terms. Not my parents forcing me or the court order. Not that intimidating woman from children's services. I was able to talk and think and work with someone else at my own pace. There were many days of crying with my partner. So many days i couldn't articulate the pain. So many nights of needing to be held and held and held. She gave me strength. She let me know how well i was doing, how brave i was, how fucking strong i was. Looking back the growth during those six months or so was amazing. Shitty and beautiful. Joyous and dark. So full of love and support.
From there things only got better. I was able to express myself more openly, i began to repair relationships with my brothers and non-abusing sister and my parents. It's been a slow process. Things still come up. But there is so much more there now. I was able to do a little art and a little writing on incest, that was helpful as well. And now i'm here, in new york doing work with boys who went through their own fucked up experiences. They're where i was at sixteen. Hurt and confused and so angry. Of course it's hard work, though not as hard as people tend to make it out to be. Cause it's worth it. I feel like i'm contributing to something. I'm trying to be here for others as they work their way through this shit. I don't always do my best. I get depressed and angry and caught up in some bullshit.
But i'm here. They know i'm here, and slowly they come to me with greater frequency. That is an amazing feeling. I love being here. Even when i don't have anything to say or teach, i'm here. Jesus christ i wish i had someone back then. I wish someone sat there on the stoop and listened. I wish. Will i save these boys from their past, will i take their troubles away, will i give them crazy insight that'll help them, will i talk with them about their pain and what happened to them and share how i see their situation? No. i don't do most of that. Some of it i'd love to do, some days i wished we were talking about more than sports and high school drama. But they also just need people who care. People who will be around. People who can pick up on when things aren't going so well or they're being triggered. People who have some understanding of the sort of pain that they are in. And that's what i can offer right now. I'm here.
Hm, that's not where i thought this entry was going. I guess that's a part of being live. Like on tv.
i sat down last night to write an entry and this is what came out. i don't know what to say about it. i'm not entirely sure why i am choosing livejournal as a medium, but i am.
Hm, well i guess i think i'll start from back there. I had a great childhood. Lots of siblings. Lots of love. Always plenty to eat and all that white working class families provide. At some point between ten and twelve or so i began to be abused by an older sibling. Thing is, i didn't know what abuse was, i didn't know what sex was, i didn't even know that during hetero sex the penis went into the vagina. Up until i was getting used by the person who abused me i prayed to god to not get an errection during sex. Sex was two people laying on top of one another, so an erection would clearly get in the way of sex. Oh, and i thought it was called a Pagina for many years. We kept wondering why penis was in my father's encyclopedias but pagina wasn't.
With no real knowledge of sex i was suddenly having it. Well, that's not true, it was a very gradual process. When youth are sexually abused in non-forceful ways there is generally what's called the grooming stage. This is where the youth is set up for what's to come. Porno, buying gifts, whatever the perp does, it's to ease the kid to the point where they violate acceptable boundaries. I knew something was wrong, that siblings did not do such things, but i didn't understand that i was being used. I didn't realize a 17-19 year old had no business using a 10-12 year old. But more importantly, i felt like it was something i was a part of. I felt like an actor. I was involved in a sexual relationship. I did much of the initiating throughout the whole thing. I liked the attention. I liked the physical sensations. I liked knowing things my peers only dreamed and lied about.
As it turns out, abuse messes people up. Who woulda thunk. For a long time i believed it was my fault. After having sex i felt like i was a bad person. I felt like i was weak and sinful. I wished god would stop it or give me strength to stop. I tried punishing myself. I used pain in an attempt to not forget the shitty feelings i knew i'd not think about the next time i wanted the pleasure, the attention, the safety of sex. I burnt myself and hit things and poked myself. I wasn't what i'd consider a cutter, i was simply never that serious. But shit it hurt. I forget that a lot. I forget what abuse felt like. How can i forget that? How does that “detail” get left out? It's not like forgetting to pick up milk. I didn't experience incest as abuse. I wasn't aware of the concept. Isn't that fucked up? It took me a long time to understand what exactly happened all those years. Six years of that. Six of the most important developing years where spent being used by someone who was supposed to care for me. Six. One day woulda been enough to fuck my cookies up. I built my understanding of sex, women, relationships, self worth, secrecy, honesty, and so much more on my experiences in the adult world of exploitation and abuse.
Four years after the abuse was ended, after my family found out, after the offender was removed from the house, after having to take a paternity test for my abuser's baby, after ugly comments and reactions from people i love, after talking with police and the grand jury, after years of therapy and a getaway trip to south america i had real sex for the first time. I was terrified. I didn't know what i was feeling, it was so confusing and painful. Not to mention i didn't know what to do. Somewhere along the way i'd learned the word vagina; but all my knowledge was still based on being used for someone else's idea of pleasure. It took awhile. The thing is, i was in love. Love. lovelovelovelove. I was growing with someone. I was respected. I was wanted. She called me beautiful. me beautiful. I still hadn't healed, but i was scabbed over. I was beginning to understand sexuality in a healthy way.
Almost two years of a loving and nurturing relationship gave me a safe space to begin to heal. Fucking'a healing hurts. It was a slow and really messy process. It began with me being able to understand that i was abused and that it wasn't my fault. That i wasn't protected. That i didn't deserve to be treated that way. That i was used and never considered as a whole person. I read a lot during that early stage. Mike Lew wrote this amazing book called Victims No Longer on male incest victims. That book helped me so much. I had no idea there were so many people like me. So many people went through similar, and often far more violent and traumatizing experiences. For the first time i understood myself as a survivor. I survived something. I did what it took to make it out of that situation. me. I did that. I didn't know how. No one taught me how to hide pain and compartmentalize my emotions. No one was there to tell me i would turn out okay or that i was strong. But jesus was i strong. I was so fucking strong. That was a turning point. From there i started therapy again, only this time on my own terms. Not my parents forcing me or the court order. Not that intimidating woman from children's services. I was able to talk and think and work with someone else at my own pace. There were many days of crying with my partner. So many days i couldn't articulate the pain. So many nights of needing to be held and held and held. She gave me strength. She let me know how well i was doing, how brave i was, how fucking strong i was. Looking back the growth during those six months or so was amazing. Shitty and beautiful. Joyous and dark. So full of love and support.
From there things only got better. I was able to express myself more openly, i began to repair relationships with my brothers and non-abusing sister and my parents. It's been a slow process. Things still come up. But there is so much more there now. I was able to do a little art and a little writing on incest, that was helpful as well. And now i'm here, in new york doing work with boys who went through their own fucked up experiences. They're where i was at sixteen. Hurt and confused and so angry. Of course it's hard work, though not as hard as people tend to make it out to be. Cause it's worth it. I feel like i'm contributing to something. I'm trying to be here for others as they work their way through this shit. I don't always do my best. I get depressed and angry and caught up in some bullshit.
But i'm here. They know i'm here, and slowly they come to me with greater frequency. That is an amazing feeling. I love being here. Even when i don't have anything to say or teach, i'm here. Jesus christ i wish i had someone back then. I wish someone sat there on the stoop and listened. I wish. Will i save these boys from their past, will i take their troubles away, will i give them crazy insight that'll help them, will i talk with them about their pain and what happened to them and share how i see their situation? No. i don't do most of that. Some of it i'd love to do, some days i wished we were talking about more than sports and high school drama. But they also just need people who care. People who will be around. People who can pick up on when things aren't going so well or they're being triggered. People who have some understanding of the sort of pain that they are in. And that's what i can offer right now. I'm here.
Hm, that's not where i thought this entry was going. I guess that's a part of being live. Like on tv.