The Last Post

Textual Fury is now an Archive. Below is the last post written here.

 

Something I have noticed about abuse is, when you speak out about it invariably people will defend the stalker, rapist, or abuser. They do not know this person, and they may know the victim but there is something ingrained into the world that has trained us that anyone speaking up about abuse is lying. Its fascinating to me, on several levels. In part this fascination exists because it shows how widespread and systemic abuse is. This is perhaps where some people will think this is me talking rape culture, but rape culture is actually only a facet of the problem.

One of the first steps an abuser takes is gaining power over their victim, by making certain their victim feels fear. This is done by threats, sometimes violence, and it encompasses all you love. It can be a threat against your mother, father, siblings, pets, or other people you care for. The abuser can even be one of those people threatening themself. “I’ll kill myself if you go.” Especially with a parent this creates the false burden of responsibility on the victim. This act also includes the beginnings of erasure and silence. To protect yourself you must not talk about the abuse, because they will hurt you and whomever they threatened.

Sometimes this is true. Sometimes getting help, breaking those rules is costly. The most dangerous time to be abused is when you leave and when you get help. This is widely known for people who are leaving abusive spouses but what is less widely discussed is for children with abusive parents. The only acceptable victims in society are women being beaten, but never raped.

Why does acceptability matter? If its okay for me to admit I was beatenĀ  by my husband but it isn’t okay for my step father to admit that he was beaten by many of his wives there is no room for him to ask for help. If it is only acceptable for children to be abused in certain forms, then there is no help for some of the most dangerous types of abuse. We do accept that sexual abuse occurs in this society but we deny at the same time the rights for aide to those victims and even children as young as I was when I took on an adult abuser and got him arrested, endured a trial, all of four or five? They have to prove that they weren’t ‘asking for it.’

There is no need to forgive or redeem your abuser. Often when breaking the rule of silence, which perpetuates even now that I am no longer being abused, people will ask me why I don’t just forgive my abusers. That isn’t my job. Forgiveness isn’t something you can just hand out on plates like cookies. Forgiveness is an act that one can only do for themself. I forgive myself, and sometimes struggle even after, for my mistakes. I made the mistake of emulating my abusers for a time in my teens, and I had to learn that this while not being okay doesn’t make ME a bad person. The line between the abuser and victim can be thin, and many victims become abusers to protect themselves. I did. I also learned another way, and it was far from easy. In doing so I learned why my abusers used Christianity as a cover. The easy get out of hell free card of saying “Well God I fucked up again, oops sorry.”

This is not how all Christians use the forgiveness they feel of their deity and in fact I learned the truth, for me, of Forgiveness from my friends who are very religious. It was in my quest to understand how they can believe in something that my experiences showed me the worst side of that they showed me how forgiveness works. I accept what I did wrong, I strive to change how I react, enact, and choose so that I do not repeat that mistake. I accept that I am still a person worthy of life? That is part of forgiveness. That relief when you realize you have survived can be forgiveness too.

You do not have to forgive anyone else. Its strange, counter to many of the vapid platitudes and cliche statements society throws out but many of those are things that enable abuse. “Everything happens for a reason.” “God wanted to put you on this path.” “God has a plan, this was just part of it.” “Forgive and Forget.”

Forgive and Forget to me is a most dangerous sentiment. If you forget your abuser’s actions you let them repeat them. Having a brain injury and spending years without knowing what happened? I became aware of how dangerous forgetting is. It isn’t inherently permission when it is not your choice but willfully ignoring the patterns that abuse takes can get you killed. Forgiving your abuser and looking away as they hurt others or yourself is not in fact healthy. All my life I was told to forgive and forget, up until my mother was hurt by a violent exhusband. Then? She was suddenly okay with not forgetting but still was hell bent on the world forgiving.

When other people require you to explain your abuse, they aren’t necessarily doing this to hurt you. Some people live without abuse. I cannot imagine that. I struggle to imagine happy family time. I get a bit of a headache trying really but I know it exists. My friends have often proven this to me, books have, it is just not something I have experienced first hand. Sometimes it is a case of the opposite extreme, where someone has little to no experience with abuse so they cannot fathom how your mother wanting to know how you are and ignoring your requests, which to them are odd, to be left alone is bad. They don’t know how stalking is bad, because the media has few examples of it not being a victim over reaction. They cannot know the fear that curls around you and pierces you because their experiences have none of that.

I admit fully I am jealous of these people. I admit that I am also happy for them. Its a strange combination and again it is another moment where the standards we are taught do not inherently line up. There are healthy forms of jealousy. I can be jealous of the small child who I see laughing and hugging their parents because I never had that, but my jealousy does not make me want to destroy it, I want more of it for them. Jealousy is only toxic when you let it be a reason to hurt others.

This blog has always been about breaking silence. That is why I am not deleting it. I have come to a decision that I put off for a while, trying less drastic things than wiping out my internet identity, my real life one too. I feel a strange peace with this now, which I did not feel before, but it is time. Textual Fury will remain as an archive, but I am not going to let myself feel that fear. I have begun the process of deleting my facebook, while retaining contact with the people who matter most to me. I have already destroyed my old email. This is the hardest one of all. I cannot say I will ever stop writing, but my growing silences over the years are related directly to stalking, abuse, and crappy health in that order. I am a survivor and so are many of you. So I am trusting myself. I am trusting that this is the right decision.

Deleting this blog would be part of the trend of silence. Instead I will write the rest of my novel, I will write another one, and another one. My silence cannot be bought. I am going to only get louder. I am grateful to you all for supporting me for the last few years, to the people who find this blog and find out they are not alone? I am happy for you too. I leave this blog up as a symbol of rebellion, a ringing bell, and because I love everyone in this world, and I want the best for them. It just cannot be at the cost of my own safety. This action doesn’t make me give up freedoms, by letting go I am gaining them and a sense of security. It is rarely both, and it is not easy.

Pumpkin Pie (Trigger Warning)

a cat with silver fur, black stripes, has wide eyes and is being fed a bite of pumpkin pie

Not how thanksgiving looks inside my head

Pumpkin pie, soft, creamy, and since mine is crustless just a wad of soothing and cold chewiness. The scent trickles into my mouth to tease at me, and is the only Thanksgiving day food I can eat without becoming ill. Mashed potatoes are also fine but must be different than the recipes from my family dinners. No gravy, cheese, and almost always something in the food. Turkey, I can barely type the word. I can barely say the word. I will not eat it. I have been forced to by people using that vulnerability against me and I react to it with a mental allergic response. It is not somatic but the PTSD triggers hard and fast.

This is what I expect of Thanksgiving.

Yesterday I remembered something that has given me a sense of relief. Today as I continue to process the revelations I am left staring down the barrel of gender identity issues. I have had gender identity challenges my entire life. They base in my being autistic and as many other autistic women face challenges of being accused of decidedly unfeminine behavior so have I. There is a root with in the numerous and enduring sexual abuse that has dominated my life and was the end all be all of my childhood. From being prostituted to ministers and the supposed holiest people I know at the age of three and raped by my father to the rape at gun point by a high school boy who didn’t seem to understand this was why I stabbed him with a fork at school when he put his hand on my shoulder. I once tried to cut off my breasts to become a boy, and I have never really appreciated my femininity.I am aware there is more to this, including the fact that I am intersexed physically. I have testicles AND ovaries. Maybe if my mother had eaten, I would have been a male child. Maybe not. I do not consider myself to be of one gender in a sense but I am either feeling male or female.

I have spent years keeping this a secret, and in public I might still. Yet I am thinking this doesn’t matter. My carer knows. My best friend knows. My sister of choice knows. I know. To me this is who matters. I dress according to the way I feel, and even my male side is prone to wearing dark red lipstick. It feels sexy. I have fought and clawed my way through life trying to exist, and I have been told repeatedly that girls just don’t fight back. It is a fiction in a bad life time movie that women can ever do damage, we are eternal victims.

It wasn’t JUST the media that sent me this message. Nor was it subtle. It is my nature to fight back when I am in danger. I have very good survival skills. I am fully capable of killing you if you try to kill me. I won’t murder you but I won’t let you murder me. This has been unequivocally a part of who I am and I have wondered if when I was raped for the entirety of Thanksgiving weekend, so Wednesday night on through a Sunday night, when I was beaten and when the fragmented memories didn’t match the normal abuse patterns… did I even try to fight back?

Therapists told me no. If I had tried to fight back then he would have killed me. Except he thought he did and I have very real memories of meeting Osiris the god of the dead in Egyptian Mythology and having him put me back in my body and ordering me to live. I have marks on my chest that match where his hands were. My father wanted me to be dead, and did not try CPR. He thought I was dead. I don’t know about pulse checking and I am very aware that this could be a response to the very serious trauma to my brain from being bludgeoned with a gun, but I was left for dead.

My mother, who a child loves and believes on pretty much anything until Mother proves to be a person. No matter the health of relationship good or bad, Mothers do happen to be humans and thus the teenager occurs. Yes, my mother spent my entire life telling me that we don’t fight back in my family. The men are the abusers and the women in my family are there to be hit. She has said less of this to my baby sister but the message still is there. Women don’t fight back.

I have had mental hospital doctors torture me over my fighting back, I fought them and yet I was not allowed to have fought back against my father when I was alone. My agency was denied as children don’t fight back unless they are penis bearers. My father made it clear that if we fought back we would die but there are other memories of me fighting back. My siblings sometimes declared their hatred of me because my morals got us into a world of literal hurt. Then again they also wanted me to lie and I am still very bad at that.

When I was somewhere between 11-13 and was raped by someone else and I did fight back the police told me they wouldn’t let the boy press charges. I took a bit of rebar to his head, his father’s car, his house and let his dog go (never came back). I was willing to kill him for what he did to me and yet again, the police told me that women just aren’t allowed.

The media does this too. In movies it is extremely rare for a woman to fight back unless she was already a victim with years of self defense, hiding in terror and her abuser finds her and then she either kills him, takes him back and tricks him, or is rescued by the new romance in her life. Not just life time folks but block buster films. It is never with in the intial attack that a woman fights back. In horror movies, the attacks come in waves and it is finally after a breaking point, or the loss of all of the human shields that the female fights back and often still dies. Running away is good, as happens in horror movies with the cliched fall so the bad man can still get you. This is an acceptable reaction and is something I approve of, just don’t trip.

It is the female who is unfeminine in movies that is the villain. Either a caricature of a woman with sexual appetites such as Famke Jansen’s role in a James Bond movie or a woman who is something ugly, othered or is somehow defective. These are our female villains. Any villainous who is beautiful tends to not be acting under her own charms or supposedly it is more scary for a waifish beauty to be bad. Again, by being beautiful she is supposed to subvert the norms of who is acceptable with in a violent situation.

Women become their traumas. This is the other message I have struggled with my entire life. I was reduced not to a bad childhood but this single moment in a trauma filled life. None of my traumas are my identity even if they chipped some of the facets of my personality or left scars on me that changed the outcome of my personal growth to this point. The good moments in my life had just as much impact and I am the result of everything I have thought, read, heard, and learned. Every person I met, every person I did not meet. Every bit of media I have heard. It is not my trauma that makes me who I am. The Brave One, the entire premise of the film, which I linked above for my example, is that the woman is just her trauma.

This is a perception that removes the humanity from She Who Fights Back. You are no longer human but you are Rape. You are not actually a Woman, therefore it’s okay once more for you to be violent. There must be something wrong with you if you are a woman who fights back, this is the pervasive message I have been living with. There have been years I nearly killed myself over the simple fact that I did not fight back. I could not live with the idea that I did not, even as a small child, try to get away.

I remember when I first began to wonder why I didn’t fight back, it was after I was told by a therapist I would be lying if I claimed I had. I sat there quietly for the rest of our session, I was in a mental hospital at the time. The first time. I watched her face and I wondered if she had ever been hurt too, and if she had fought back. She had long plastic nails that she was tapping on her clipboard. I felt like she was angry at me, and my more experienced interpretation of her expression still reads anger. She went from someone I could talk with to a cold wall of rage when I asked about trying to get away or maybe hitting him back. This was just a few months after and I still had pain in my shoulders that radiated from the underside of the joint, and my hands were still swollen. In fact my hands have never fully recovered from the kick of the gun and my shoulder dislocations started then. We had fired guns before as a family, that wasn’t my first time but I never liked it because of the pain and the loudness.

Even as I am writing this I am playing in my mind the moment I picked up the gun. There was no hesitation. Something again that movies show. Women always hesitate with weapons. Men sometimes do, but they have the option of not. I pointed it at him. I remember his face. His eyes betrayed his shock, surprise, and then anger. I pulled the trigger. He didn’t get to mock me first, he didn’t get any lines out like the cliche, “You won’t do it.” He had lunged for me and I fired the gun until the bullets ran out. I have another new fragment but it is like a single frame of video. I see him in it with a police officer, but everything is hazy, I am just aware he is convincing them that nothing is wrong. This is new too, but I had never expected if the police came that they would rescue me. I learned that well before 1992. I just realized it couldn’t be 93, because my brother wasn’t born until AFTER this incident, I was off by a year.

So I have been fighting this for longer than I thought. I have found the most painful idea in my life was that I would just let him hurt me. This is of course not what happened, and no victim EVER lets their abuser hurt them. Even if you cannot or do not fight back, you did not give him permission. My personal battle was learning this. Fighting back is pivotal in my mind as something important. Even if you don’t win, you must try.

I know as an adult fighting back entails more than shooting or stabbing someone. It can be the moment you open the door and smell someone’s pumpkin pie and think “I am free”. Even if that is not true that little moment can give you a hint of the truth for years. The shifted association of foods during Thanksgiving from being all disgusting and triggering based on being raped, force-fed and torn apart with food as the supposed reason I deserved to be raped and beaten even pumpkin pie has confused me. Why was that pie safe? I still can’t eat my mother’s version of mashed potatoes. My father didn’t like green beans so those were safe until the allergies happened but the pie has been as much of a mystery to me as my wondering who I used to be.

I was not reborn in that moment after all, the idea was just a way of coping with the blatant lies I was told about who I was allowed to be. It is amazing to me how many people, in the name of supposed survival, reject the idea that women can be strong at all ages. This has effected my writing, my game play and what I could do. This is not trivial in any way shape or form. The core of who I was did not break, and that is important. My spirit never broke, and who I am is essentially the same on the base level as who I was before. This means perhaps I did not really lose my innocence but instead it was hidden away, so I could survive.

I do not cry much but I am crying now. How can I not cry for I know there are other little girls, women, people in between the male and female who wonder if they fought back. Who are told every day that this is an impossibility. Children do not have the knowledge yet to think critically about if people are lying, this is a skill we learn as we grow. A facet of being nuerodiverse in this world, and everyone fits in there somewhere, is that people learn these skills at different rates. The ability to critically assess a situation or the media is something that must be taught or it must be learned. Not everyone is capable of this and children have to learn from somewhere.

I am left questioning the validity of mental health for women, children, and anyone with chronic pain or PTSD. How can so many therapists male and female believe that women just don’t think of fighting back? Making self defense a taboo or something that is only allowed after a violation is incredibly dangerous. This is a part of the forbidden dialogue of rape itself. We are warned to not talk about rape as survivors. Victims may be unable to do so and a part of this is, even at the age of eight it was hinted that I deserved to be raped. Was eight year old me just so sexy she deserved it? That’s what I have been told. I also came forward with in the statute of limitations and because my father raped me I was told that my case just wasn’t worth the District Attourney’s time. They beleived me. They just didn’t care because I was a little girl. I have never forgotten being told I am not enough of a person, that wasn’t the first time but that was the moment I lost faith in the world itself and knew I stand alone.

Except I do not stand alone. Of all the lies that came out of this worst trauma it was the lie that I was somehow the worst female in the world, worst at femininity, worst at self defense, worst at being loved and that I was alone and no one else would know what it was to want to die, to suffer, or to fear. I was defective. I do not want to kill myself today, and this is the first thanksgiving in a very long time.

I am afraid for the children of this world. The messages that are being taught, the things that even adult women fetishize such as Twilight with its codependant pedophilic necrophiliac abusive manipulative beastiality domestic violence women stay in the kitchen marry for sex and all the other crap that Twilight is REALLY about underneath the sparkling vampires… these messages are the normal for our children not the exception.

Off Switch (Trigger Warning)

I am rolling through a house, looking up a flight of stairs when a friend of mine is shoved through the wall, I had not seen them in the hall but the wiring of the house has entered them, turning them into a macabre marionette. I feel the loss as I wake, and it takes me two hours to get back to sleep. Sprite and Sylvani shared the bed last night, something they only do when worried over me. Vani likes to sleep in the window so he can see everything, Sprite sleeps at my feet unless I need her.

I woke up ever hour with an adrenaline kick last night that cost me more energy than sleeping was worth but I was too tired to stay awake. I can barely keep my eyes open now though I will push myself today. I do not want to shut down. I spent October being quiet on my blog because I was having fun, and a part of that was the headlong rush to have as much fun as I can before I spend a month trying to function.

The pervasive sense of dread started early this year, though there was a trigger and an actual reason to be fearful I kept going and doing. This meant I had too much fun, or just enough, on Halloween and made it through the third where I can talk, I can look at people and I can go out. It’s more frightening today and yet I am fighting with the off switch in my brain. If I let it shut off from the annual PTSDathon I miss things. I miss people, I miss being able to go and enjoy the last warmth in the air while it starts to get that crispness that I associate with apples. I miss so much.

I have never made it this far into November without the off switch being flipped. It’s never with my consent now. I am not sure it ever was but I had no choice for so long. Turn off, stay off, and let the pain be over there. Be distant from it just to survive. I needed a reminder of this yesterday as I am in the mode of taking this one day at a time. There is no other way to survive November.

A catalogue of my current PTSD symptoms would be as follows: Physical sensations based on memories not reality IE I feel my father’s hands in places that no father’s hands belong, Nightmares that actually scare me, a bit of a fog in my head making it hard to follow the passage of time, a pervasive sense of dread as if the world will end, the razor’s edge of panic in my chest, the urge to run as far as I can, and something that I have more trouble with at this time of year is my temper. I am on edge, I am wanting to push everyone away and hide.

The mental image of myself when I touch on the fear isn’t me now either, it’s the small child I used to be. It’s the bed in the house where I was five hiding with my dog. It’s the past. There is not much I can do right now. I am wearing the birdskull necklace M gave me, because I have found it very comforting, I am wearing my batman shirt, and Sprite is hovering. I am going out without her today. She isn’t quite recovered and I think I can do this. This is the last day this month I am likely to be able to go out.

The off switch is something I have to hold up into the on position. It’s the weight of the world, I am a failing atlas as my grip slips. I must remind myself, I once could never lift it. I wasn’t strong enough at first. I spent a decade in the dark before I found it. Then I spent years learning how to keep the switch up. It only grows heavy for a month now. By December 9th I will be fine. Maybe sooner. Maybe I will not shut down at all.

I don’t know. I just know I made it further than last year. I also have more mental resources than last year. I am not fighting with a bad carer, I am not fresh off of abuse, I am not starved and though I am still physically weak I am not as weak as I was. I am never going to be as strong physically as I want but I am strong mentally. I know the nightmares will be robbing me of my sleep, but I also know that I can count on my caregiver, my service animal, my caseworker, and even my apartment manager. I can call on my friends if I need to, though right now I couldn’t let them in the door so we shall see if that happens.

I am fighting. Knowing I am fighting has restored a bit of my strength. Even as Sprite creeps up onto me and tells me to go rest, I know I can’t. I lay down right now and I am not getting up.

This month holds suicidal thoughts, depression, and a whole lot of pain. I will not give in. I am planning to write specific chapters of the PTSD book this month based on what I am doing in the moment. The things I cannot write without being up against the mental wall. When I can’t hold the switch up anymore or when the burden eases, I will also say so here. I am okay. It may not be the okay I want but I am safe. I am loved. I may want for things but I want for no needs. This is a first in my life. I have always needed the basic necessities and they have been just out of reach. Sometimes I could nearly grasp them but I am fantastic compared to any year before.

I will relive being raped countless times this month, I will relive the worst parenting ever, and I will know it is not my fault. There is no sense of guilt in me for the first time. I am just very sad. I mourn for the child I was and I wish I could save her. In some ways she has always been someone else to me. Perhaps the light switch will stay on once I can own the essence of her identity. Though this is a part of PTSD. I am separate from what came before the most traumatic moment in my life. It broke me and I rebuilt myself. In fact that was what my father wanted. He wanted to break his willful child. He made me more willful. He set up the biggest victories in my life by trying make me submissive.

If he had tried other ways I would not be me. Can I fathom living any other way? No. So I must work for it so that the way I live is 12 months a year not 11 or less. It’s my damned year. I am going to take it back.

James Bond (Trigger Warning and Destruction of Fantasy Warning)

James Bond, the fantasy of many men. The ideal that men are told they must be. He is deemed sexy, he drives fast cars, and shoots people without remorse. The super spy, agent 007. James Bond is every ideal according to the media and is a role model for elegance for many men. James Bond is a rapist. James Bond is a Misogynist. James Bond is not the type of person anyone should model their sex appeal after. James Bond’s franchise shows more violence against women while dehumanizing them than many others, while making this seem like a good thing. The female characters that Bond has sex with are reduced beyond a name but to property. The Bond Girl. A Bond Girl.

It started out as a pleasurable afternoon activity, a reward for my hard work. I turned on Doctor No, and though I was aware the film would be disablist, racist, and generally ridiculous I was prepared for that and Sean Connery’s stereotypical white man in the movies good looks. I was not prepared for the growing disconcertion that would happen as I proceeded through my Bond movie Marathon. Bond is a rapist, he commits sexual assault and his female coworkers should file complaints daily. This never happens of course. MoneyPenny instead becomes entranced with him, wanting to be a Bond Girl herself but of course she’s just not good enough for Bond. Little does she know this saves her from what I have deemed his Death STD.

I became unable to like Bond by the end of From Russia With Love. You see, I was prepared for the sexism, I was prepared for the violence and the racism as I said. I was not prepared for a scene which I had forgotten was present. James Bond doesn’t take no for an answer, in fact this is a part of his trademark. He ‘seduces’ women who are unwilling. As the female fights and pushes him away, as she says no he continues to force himself on her. Bond’s body pins Tatiana Romanova down. She said no, he kisses her and she stops fighting him. That was when I stopped the movie and had to deal with the fact that James Bond is a rapist. I couldn’t just turn my brain off, instead my brain kicked into hyperdrive cataloging everything wrong with Bond.

I could list them here and run out of energy to type. Instead I will skip over the fact that every single Bond Villain up to Quantum of Solace has a disability, disfigurement, or blatantly uses a wheelchair. I could in fact point out that although the Bond films have more people of color acting in them than many other films, all the roles they have are of villains. Such as guy who blows up, guy who gets shot by Bond, etc etc. I could even talk about the objectification of violence but instead I am stuck on the dehumanisation of women, the constant sexual assault, and the frequent rapes that are made worse with the very bad puns.

The female characters in the films defined as Bond Girls for the purpose of this ramble will be defined as such: Bond has shown interest in them, he has had sex (consensual or no) or flirted with them, and they are given a name that makes absolutely no sense and is often some sort of sex joke. These females come in sets of three in most movies, he only marries one, and they all end up dead with the notable exceptions being the female lead in Quantum of Solace. They must also be rescued repeatedly, even M once the role was given to Dame Judi Dench is not saved from this humiliation, they must scream and flail a lot, and every single one of them says “Oh James!” during sex. In fact most of them look exactly alike, they are all “beautiful” by society’s standards. This is a loose definition in some areas and yet there is absolutely no deviation even in the newest and supposedly renovated Bond Films.

By naming the female characters things such as Octopussy the characters are dehumanised, they are reduced to sex. James Bond furthers this by treating every woman that he deems attractive, and that is most women, as if they are there just for his penis to enter. There is no concept of lesbians and if there ever is in a bond film it will be Lesbians for HIS pleasure. Most Bond girls are blonde, though there are a few redheads and the newer films have more dark haired females, all have large breasts except Halle Berry who was misbilled as the first female of color to be in a bond film. This erased Grace Jones’ tenure as the “scary black villainess”. In fact the lack of a signular identity for the characters reduces them to Bond’s property. They exist only for Bond, at his pleasure and discression. Every Bondgirl is attacked, beaten, and most are murdered because they belong to Bond and destroying his property is a good way to get him to react. He almost always “avenges” them but it would be far better for him to just stop having sex all together so that his female companions don’t die. My friend M and I discussed this and he pointed out that this makes it less emotional when he moves on. The woman didn’t die, she died. This means he has a free pass at the next female paragon of his sexual pleasures.

In the 22 Bond Films that exist at the time of this writing over half of the Bond Girls say no. Not in the “playing hard to get” fashion either. The majority of his sexual encounters are non consentual. The other half change their minds once they see how manly he is. Though if a man acted like Bond in person, even his white male privilege would be placed into jeopardy as at least in my local social sphere a person who drives that many sports cars, plays with guns as much as he does, and tries to act so overtly macho is deemed to have impotence issues. This played through my mind often, and helped ease what became an excercise in torture.

It took me exactly 1 week to the hour to watch all of the Bond Movies, though this became my day job. I admit fully that several times I had personal revelations about the forumula for Bond. As a child I wanted to be Bond, not the Bond Girl. This still stands, though I wouldn’t rape anyone. I was disciplined for this and I firmly associate Bond with the assignation of gendered behaviors that is so present in Western Society. I suspect other colonized societies carry this burden too but I can only speak from my sphere of existence. By wanting to drive the fast car, shoot bad guys and get the girl I was being unprofessional. Four year olds aren’t supposed to want this, that was what my mother said. My father corrected her, violently, and pointed out that Boys can want this. Being in a female body, I was forbidden to want the girl, the car, or the “fun”. I realize as an adult that the culture of violence we live in disguises being nearly killed constantly as fun. We pay great deals of money to endure mindless torments in the US. We pay to watch people beat and kill defenseless and rather stupid women.

Back to the Bond Girl Formulae I wrote above. We can expand his Bond Girl related deaths by deeming every female in the bond films a Bond Girl. This means that the charactes that I can recollect surviving right now aside from the final Bond Girl (he usually has two or three women he “loves” during each movie, one to betray him, one to die (sometimes combined) and one to survive to fuck another day) would be MoneyPenny, who is oddly credited as Miss MoneyPenny in the early films as if this will somehow explain why Bond does not desire her, via her being too good for him. The second would be M as Judi Dench.

MoneyPenny is thankfully not brutalized violently, beaten, shot, stabbed, poisoned, suffocated by being painted in gold, dipped in oil, strangulated, dies saving bond, or as a casualty of a drive by style violent thing but is constantly objectified and teased by Bond. The one woman that would consent easily to his sexual requests is rejected, this adds to his predatory nature. MoneyPenny is also one of the few female characters that is shown to have a brain in her head. From the beginning she often could procure information that others with in the agency struggled with. There is no MoneyPenny currently, in the Daniel Craig series. She is now a computer at best, though perhaps she will be made into his equal, a spy of equal power. Of course not. No she will likely be lobodimised or was recast as a male and I didn’t notice. Bond still treats her as if she is a child, another crime against the women, even through the end females are infantalized. We need the big strong men to tell us how to think and act.

The Early Twenties Bondgirl sex doll pattern was advertised as being broken when Die Another Day was being released. I remember the trailers, the supposed controversy over Halle Berry being a bond girl. There were racist pigs who decided she was too black, despite her being on the paler end of the dark skin spectrum. She was billed as the first strong female counter part to bond. A CIA Agent who could take care of herself. Except, this was a lie. She ends up tied up, drowned, and then for some reason having sex on a pile of diamonds. I suspect they chose diamonds because that has to be the least comfortable way to have sex ever. The only deviation in the usual bond system aside from her skin color was her flirting with Bond. This meant twice as many really bad puns while bad guys died, but just as when M was locked in a cage, Bond had to save the girl. Over and over again.

This is the Bond formulae. Bond is a training ground for violent rapists, normalizing the fact that we are just meat. Roger Moore’s era had the least intelligent Bond Girls. One accidentally saved the world by bending over in a bikini. Another was too stupid to realize people were shooting at her. Intelligence is not something a Bond Girl has, though the Daniel Craig films did improve on this slightly.

There is one other thing that I am compelled to note. James Bond is actually a horrible spy. He sucks at his job. The idea of spying is to NOT get caught. In each and every bond film his cover is blown, followed by things blowing up and women dying. He usually figures out that people know James Bond is James Bond when he finds one of his victims dead. The Death STD he carries is in his own lack of wit. He may be able to make innuendo but a real spy would do their utmost to not use their real name, to obfuscate their origins, and they would try to blend in. A real spy aims to be average. This is of course unless the Russian Spy ring that was recently caught is used as an example. They seem to have gone to the James Bond School of Spying. The man kills all his contacts, ruins most of his equipment, and causes so many international incidents. It is a wonder that the British people embrace this male supremicist pig rapist as a wonderful thing.

I have no answers to why James Bond is so popular, except that if you can watch a movie without thought and go “ooh pretty explosions” it may be alright. The contrived plots of this spy franchise however should offend almost everyone alive, unless they are so innundated with White Male is Right thinking that the idea that anyone should just shoot Bond to put England and the rest of us out of our misery is bad. The idealism of Bond goes so far as the fact that I have heard and seen via the internet people of color that lament their genetics as they prevent them from being like bond.

We need a female spy of color who doesn’t rape people, kicks as much butt and doesn’t blow her cover. Of course, the media doesn’t want people to realise that Bond Girl is synonymous with Dead Barbie, or James Bond is synonymous with bad spy. They want everyone to ignore that this normalization of violence effects each of us. The ambiguity of the sexual assaults, as some are very hard to spot, and the acceptance of his rapes as being sexy and beautiful adds to the dangers women face. I know this because I have been raped in the name of Bond. I have been told that to be a good girl you must submit to any man that deems you penis worthy. Not just by my father but by most of the white men I have dated. This phenomenon is well documented with many franchises and I am sure I am not the only person to go “Oh my god Bond raped her!” I just think more people need to.

I am going to find some brain bleach to try and get the 22 films out of my head. I must wash it off! WASH IT OFF!

I Have Rotten Lemons, Want Lemonade? (Trigger Warning)

I regret opening my email after my nap. I have spent the last two hours in a frenetic search to verify facts and details. I have foregone my evening blog read because I was introduced to the existence of Sharron Angle. Before I continue in my writing of this article I want to state explicitly that every link I give on this page will have something triggering on the other side.

The first thing I saw was the subject line, “Angle tells incest survivors “If you have lemons make lemonade.” I clicked the subject already confounded, but I had to know who this person was and what the lemons are. Lemons are fetuses. The Lemonade is teenage pregnancy without abortion even if your father or brother raped you. Let me be upfront, the things I read after this shocked me even further.

It seems that this woman has counseled incest survivors, she was a teacher at one point and is an elected official. This woman is now running to be Nevada’s senator. Her idea of counseling children seems to be convincing them it’s a great idea to risk their lives, when they do not want to, and that it is God’s plan to have them raped.

Sharron Angle is a white woman with red hair, she is wearing a blue shirt and is put before a blue background. She is thin.

Just like I was told. It is clear to me at this point that this, my second actual attempt at writing this, will still contain the personal. This woman wants little girls to forgive their fathers, to love them, and accept them. She has helped one girl get adopted away from her rapist father but of course the rest of us who no one listened to? Well we have to suffer it out. This woman also thinks the ObamaCare plan is a bad idea, that ERs should be able to turn people away if they are uninsured, and with her antiabortion status being so far to the extreme that I suspect some of her conservative counterparts raise a brow I think she just wants the underprivileged to up and die.

Of course if you HAVE medical care, are not disabled, are white, have not been raped by your father, and have not forcibly had an unwanted pregnancy you are going to be fine with these policies. Actually that isn’t true, many people do use their brains and know better. Though with her being elected I am struggling with that idea right now. Angle aka the Queen of Poovlidge USA wants to remove Medicare. She seems to think Social Security is Welfare, and I am surmising this part, I would expect she also thinks all of us with disabilities have families who can take care of us. If not well who cares right? We’re just people who get mentioned so that she can make her antiabortion policy seem less about her need to control everyone else and more about how much she loves people, especially us poor wittle ickle broken folks.

My body is responding to my PTSD right now. I can’t shake it off. I am queasy and I feel my father raping me again and again. I feel his fingers tearing open my vaginal walls. I feel his penis doing the same. I feel pain. The thing is, I feel that pain whenever I have vaginal sex or most stimulation. I feel reduced to a hole for my father and his friends to fuck again. I feel inconsequential. This woman’s idea that you can make lemonade by having an unwanted child at great risk has shaken me and made me feel two again.

I get that the girls in question are no longer two, but, having survived abuse I also know that the odds are against the rape that caused the pregnancy being the only one. In fact, rape is likely far from the only abuse they suffered. This woman has managed to dehumanize people with her words, bringing more than just the rape victim down.

I had to look into her to see who this Senator is. Be sure and read Senator with as much venom in the tone as possible, that is how it is written but there is no way I can show how snarly I feel in the text. Senator Angle. Should sound like the way Lex Luthor says Superman.

In attempting to read what used to be her personal website I find it inaccessible
. This woman that states she loves everyone regardless of ability has summarily cut off people with vision issues from accessing her site. She loves us disabled folk sooo much. My magnifier couldn’t help me much with the site either, the text is tiny on my screen even with the control + function and the magnifier that stretches across the top of my screen enabling my ability to compensate for my poor vision with most sites.

Her new site, made safer for her political aspirations is just as wonky, but readable. Even what is left up says quite a lot about this woman. Still there isn’t enough there so I keep looking, i go to news sites, I go to wikipedia, and I read.

This woman has a spokesperson that seems to constantly contradict what she says, as if by using the old “No I really meant…” will fix it all. She doesn’t want pot, alcohol, or drugs. Which is fine except we already tried prohibition. She thinks God has a plan for everything. She doesn’t believe in the educational system, despite being a teacher.

She also supports Bush, which influences me away from her yet a lot of people do. I feel shaken, as I stare at the words before me. All I can think of is lemons… my lemons are rotten. Is that God’s plan? Does your god converse with my pantheon? What ever happened to the separation of Church and State? I get it, everywhere has their issues yet using God to excuse your bad behavior, your lying in stating you value all life when legally mandating all pregnancies even at the cost of the mother’s life be carried out? Come on Sharron…

Lets talk woman to woman here. You don’t really like poor people. You don’t really think the disabled have any value. In fact you secretly think that these girls must have done something to deserve being raped. Why else would it be God’s plan right? Just between us girls now. You have never had to fight for every meal, you have never had to look at the money you have each month and wish you had enough for a pair of pants at walmart off their clearance rack, you have never been raped. I wasn’t sure I should state this definitively but my instincts and common sense tell me that if you had been raped especially by your father you wouldn’t call it lemons.

I do not sit here crying every day because I was raped, I am still living, but that does not erase the consequences. A baby would not have made my life better, even if it was adopted. Adoption isn’t a magic bullet, and the physical consequences of rape? Well those can be made worse IF the teen lives. Their bodies are still growing and aren’t ready for children. Then again you also think that a marraige is between only a man and a woman and that people only have two genders when there is plenty of evidence to the contrary.

I want to rail. I want to call you names, but I suspect that you will dig your own political hole. I wish that this sort of depravity you display was isolated only to one political party, and though your own republicans will call you an extremist they still vote for you.The Democrats will gasp in horror but they won’t do anything to definitely stop your ridiculous policies.

Sharron Angle for Senate, because dehumanization is a political win!

This message is brought to you by my indignation, PSTD, and lemonade! It is paid for my the tears of women and children being raped by their fathers everywhere.

What Defines New Mexico? (Trigger Warning)

This post is going to make the New Mexico Tourism Board cry. As Nymph runs off after startling me because she jumped up into my lap and I laugh, my brain still turns and mulls over what created me as I am. As a person born in New Mexico, a person that has never left this dusty state except to go over the border into Mexico for a mile (it all looked the same, I got lost and it doesn’t count if I don’t know I left the country on purpose) I have a perspective on New Mexico that can be broken down as follows..

1. Education
2. Poverty
3 Religion
4. Healthcare

These four things combine to make New Mexico an unpleasant place to live. I hear so often how nice it is to visit my state, how beautiful it is, and how neat it is that all of the natives sell their homemade crafts at the various squares for thousands of dollars. That’s the tourism factor. New Mexico has great places to visit, places I enjoy. I love so much of the history and lore here. I revel in reading about Billy the Kid, in knowing that I have been in places that this young man had.

New Mexico has yet to stop being the wild west. The same mentality that created the gun fighter out of the ex soldier (That would be the James Gang lead by Jesse and his brother) on through the modern gangster there is an element of hopelessness in this state. It may have been here before the Civil War, but New Mexico is not a place that is nice to live.

When you are a tourist it is easy to avoid the areas where people actually live and work outside of the glossy tourist shops. It is easy to see the big expansive sky, the glorious mountains, and even our gun fighter reenactments that happen every weekend in Old Town. It is easy to be sucked up by the dust and the wind, to feel for a moment you are somewhere else. Tourists are guided to specific areas JUST for this effect. Every city and place does this so that their dirty laundry is not aired.

New Mexico is not accessible for wheelchair users. When you visit in a chair you will find that downtown has great curbcuts and… that is it. A small section of the sidewalk is accessible, if you leave the Tourist Safe Zone you will be stuck. Even there you will be treated like garbage by the mindless peons of this state. They are educated to hate you, tourist, regardless of disability or no.

New Mexico has a long history of religious intolerance. This started back when Cortez rode through and spread disease looking for Eldorado. When you come and look at our history reveling in the ruins of churches, you are reveling in the murders of people. With that conquest came racism. The people of this state who claim they are Mexican are actually descendants of the first European rape marriages of the native daughters. This was done not out of love, no one married out of love before the Victorian period, but out of power. If you take their wives and daughters, you exterminate them. The devout Catholics could be practicing a variety of earth based religions, but most of their culture was beaten away or burned away. The chiefs and medicine men were killed over and over again. The image we have of the indigenous people also known as Indians, Native Americans, or first nations, this image is a construct by the first conquerors. This image is what tourists come to see.

Through the school system that we have currently, the children are taught to worship the conqueror. Those that can read will read books that talk about how impressive it was that these men brought horses, guns, and that yes a few of the First Nations died because of disease but Cortez didn’t really mean it, so that makes it okay. It was just an accident. The germs may have been accidental but pretending to be a deity was not. That was a conscious choice. Turning on the people that embraced these European WHITE men because of their difference? That was an act of hatred.

When you come to New Mexico as a tourist and are frustrated with your potentially not white counter clerk’s inability to count out your change properly or their not really smiling or enjoying their menial labour? You are feeding off of a centuries old hate crime. New Mexicans of color (Hispanics, Blacks, First Nations, etc) are given a poorer education. There are schools for the white children such as Saint Prius where if you can pay for the education or are smart enough you get in. in the Cities the education is better, but with a state that is made up of rural regions most of the people who come to the city as adults are not well educated or are from out of state taking advantage of the economic opportunity presented to them by the lack of local applicants that are qualified to do this job.

In the rural areas, especially Estancia (The worst school district in a state that is chronically the worst in the nation educationally) the teachers are often not certified. I haven’t checked since I escaped that school, but since a lot of the same teachers are there as when I went? You can BET that the teachers are either not caring, not qualified, or are the exception to the rule. There are a few of them and these people can make a difference in the education of a few students, but the majority in that area never learn to read, the focus is just on sports (though despite Brian Urlacker who is from Albuquerque not Estancia, this has never quite worked out for any of them). No one who leaves this small town returns. I did for a few months and that was under the guise of visiting and I got out again. The town is stagnant. The people never change. A few may come from outside, like my mother, but their children enter a society that is backwards. Anyone who was not born there is not accepted.

The culture here socially is also one of teen pregnancy. Abstinence only education as well as the idea that a penis will give you Aids (Not a lie but not a truth in how it is taught) lead many young women to being mothers. In Estancia every single girl in my graduating class was pregnant when I was 17 except for myself. Every single student is encouraged by the social culture to be sexually active. In a state wide experience as I have lived all over, I can tell you that girls are encouraged to become housewives and mothers. I suspect some of this is a national occurrence (This is according to an annual survey, the details of which have not changed enough to matter int he last few years. If anything the rate has increased). The system is set up so that it is almost impossible to become independent from these systems. With Welfare you are to hungry and tired from trying to work with your parents to learn. Every family dependent on Welfare that I know of is actually working to escape the need for assistance but with the set up that if you earn you lose the needed income so you can keep earning and eat, therefore it becomes a matter of starve or get off of welfare.

No one chooses poverty. No one chooses hunger. The image of the Welfare Queen of New Mexico interchanges one stereotype for another, and yet the one exception I know of to this rule is not a person of color but is a white person that feels entitled to not work. Parents with children struggle to better their education but this takes resources that we do not have. Each year education is cut, and each year it is the children who lose out. There are several remedial colleges in the area that help you learn the basics from elementary on through High school so you can get a degree, but this costs money and time. Not everyone has the time or money and many people here cannot qualify for federal aide because they do not have the knowledge to fill out the application.

This sends the locals flooding back to their churches. This state is stunted in many ways, and is so dependent on guidance from privileged white men or men who have fallen into the line of the Patriarchy and this leads to actions such as murder based on appearance, ability, sexuality and gender. This leads to people who may be declared a witch to actually be burned at the stake. Religion is used to prevent thought. When I was excommunicated from the Church, it was for asking questions to try and understand what I am being fed. This action is against the church and without education to encourage thought more people will not question. Questioning also takes energy and is a luxury in this state as if you are worked to the bone and exhausted there is no time to think. Church becomes a solace then, a place where you can dream of a heaven taht may or may not exist, where you can barter your soul on the chance that if you are a good enough person and suffer enough now you will not suffer when you are dead but oh you could be wrong.

This culture of underpaid labour is not at all threatened by immigration, when the children here are not educated enough to know their own legal rights when it comes to working. This means that there is a higher incidence of sexual harassment, dangerous working conditions, and those that speak up are more likely to be fired because they have no resources with which to fight back. In this culture that you visit and say is so wonderful, the people who are selling mass produced silverwork at a high price are doing this because this is all that is expected of them, and for many this is all they can do. Some do make their own jewelry but most of the merchants buy those works at a pittance of what you pay. There are some sellers that are reputable and will price their works fairly, but they often are told by you white tourists that this piece of jewelry must not be as good as the same one that costs YOU more at another store, you reveling in your privilege and showing your own lack of thought.

In New Mexico in these tourist areas people are often run down, because the worker there is not seen as a person but merely a prop to bring in your money to our state. People die because you choose to run them down out of the claim of being so tired from walking all over our cities on through you just not giving a damn. Yes sometimes it is a local driver that has mowed down a pedestrian but it is such a common occurrence that many people don’t notice anymore. The closer I am to a tourist spot the more likely I am to be killed.

With the movie industry coming to New Mexico there is another form of financial gain and another element of tourism. Our open spaces are now inundated constantly with the cameras. I fall prey at times to the excitement but now I am noticing that a large number of smart young people are choosing to try to get discovered instead of working or furthering their education. Hollywood is a shining element of fools gold showing a way out, that is another form of a trap. Such a low number of people actually become famous or rich, that this is creating another strain on the resources of the state. In order to not starve prospective actors and actresses turn to food stamps and state assistance or unemployment between gigs as extras. I consider periodically trying out for a space myself but it is always a choice between their privilege or my dignity. So I choose my dignity.

With so much hunger and often governmentally enforced squalor (Looking at you Denish and Richardson) where the funding is sent away from the programs that need it most and into cronies pockets the healthcare system is irrevocably broken. I am lucky enough that my insurance which often refuses me basic needs like medication forcing me into the hospital is here. Most New Mexicans will not recieve medical insurance until after the Obamacare plan has been enacted at it’s fullest. Then it is a matter of this plan being enforced, as enforcement is something you rarely see here unless it is law enforcement using their power to oppress a minority. The hospital connected to our University is never empty, the emergency room is always so full of the crushed and downtrodden humanity that people bleed to death in the emergency room before they are given care. People are dying there needlessly as there are only so many hands and many of them are simply students trying to learn the trade of medicine.

Between the countless malpractices, of which I am a victim, and misdiagnosis you will find mothers with screaming and sick children, people with a simple cold, and people that are dubbed homeless, pushed into a warm space by the lack of appropriate and accessible shelters. Between the dying are those who truly need a primary physician but they can get medical care in the ER and they cannot do so with a regular doctor because the fees are so high. If someone has the state’s Molina insurance they are forced into this system, and they may wait months before seeing a doctor. It is better to spend 48 hours in the ER than a month without care.

There are other hospitals, which I personally use but they often face the same problem. The overflow of emergency into their wards and those who want to try and avoid the crush of humanity at University of New Mexico Hospital enter these halls, it is the same. Long wait times, mass suffering, and the dying who would not be dying if they could just see a doctor on a regular basis. I am told there is no need for socialized medicine by you and those who can afford to travel, which denotes immediate privilege. I am told as you go to the nicest ER if something occurs on your trip that things surely are not this bad but this is my version of a happy tail for New Mexico.

The people are suffering, they are oppressed, and pushed down. The children do not know the benefits of education and are taught often with physical violence that questioning anything is wrong. It creates a mindless hive that is then sold to the consumer as an authentic culture. The authentic culture of the people here has been murdered long ago. Each time you come and consume us, you add into this even more. I know no one will stop coming after this, and yet there are things in this state beyond the borders of your safe tourism friendly areas that are fantastic and interesting. There are people here that are taught beliefs and educationally things that you see as archaic. You could explore the world of living anachronisms.

The people can be wonderful, sweet, charming, and amazing. The conversations you can have with some of the children and elders in my state about it’s history may disenchant you a bit, but isn’t this better than a ghost story that was manufactured for your fifty dollars? Wouldn’t it be better to hear about why the James Gang and Billy the Kid were seen as heroes from the descendants that still feel attacked, and rightfully so by the government?

What defines New Mexico is not the beautiful skies and wide open spaces that are nice to visit but instead is the massive amount of oppression, appropriation, and torture forced upon those born here. I have not spoken of the domestic violence culture that you are supporting by visiting… but it is a nice place to visit, so I hear. It would be better if it were a nice place to live.

Rape, Molestation, and Trigger Warnings (Trigger Warning)

I am sitting here in a moment of pain and anguish that has my body and brain fighting for supremacy. If my body has it’s way I will rest in bed and sleep. My brain is however screaming to be heard. My heart is broken. A judge has decreed that, with allegations of abuse that the judge believed, two small children are to be left alone with their SEXUAL PREDATOR OF A FATHER. This link has a trigger warning on it. I know most of my posts come with one. My life is triggering for me and I know can trigger others.

I am triggered back to Thanksgiving. I was in the same place, with adults knowing. I could have been saved. I am a very angry woman at times because of this. When the judge who sentenced me to rape, as this judge has these girls, at the same age as the youngest… when that man died? I was so very happy. He couldn’t hurt anyone else. This judge needs to have his ability to be a judge removed. This needs to be appealed.

Their mother needs to deny him his “legal right”. No man or woman who is a predator has the right to their children. This is why the foster care system exists. The system is abused, I know that, but if neither parent is capable that is the core ideal. The mother is not referenced much and I am presuming she is capable. It’s called Sole Custody with limited visitation or NO VISITATION. It’s called respecting that when he gets into the room with those girls and rapes them, and breaks them, you Judge are as guilty of that rape.

I feel the hands on me again. I feel that terror. I feel like puking. Molestation is a “pretty” word used often to hide the depths of sexual abuse in reporting. The fact is, that this man will rape his children. That is why they have to lock the door. I can see them sitting as I once did. The dark room, if there is a window you sit beside it. The bed covers are pulled over you, you wear your pants so that it’s harder.

My step mother was there sometimes when he did rape me. She condoned it actually, because it kept him out of her bed. An adult cannot protect them. Their lives are now on a dangerous precipice. I pray that they are strong. The betrayal of the system does not shock me, it cannot because my betrayal wasn’t news worthy. Perhaps public outcry will help these girls.

Perhaps in a few years when they start to look to healing, they find this post or one like it and know they aren’t alone.

I was eight years old. It’s been almost twenty years. Almost TWENTY YEARS. I am not over it. I never will be over it.

I hope that this judge is punished and his sentence, for these girls have been SENTENCED AND PUNISHED BY HIM is overturned.

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