Tw CSA, Incest

So this past year or two I started finally accepting I might have experience CSA. It took years before I ever questioned it, yet more years before I considered it could be rape (around the same time I started realizing sex doesn't require a vagina, that cis lesbians can have sex, etc), months after that before I could tell Briar, a year after that before I could type anything about it or say 'sexual trauma' outloud. It's terrifying, both because it happened to me and could say things about me, and because it says things about the other person (who I still hold much fondness for). That, and the fact that I'm always wondering whether mine 'counts', if I'll be seen as attention-seeking and over-reactionary for claiming this language, etc.

It's been a hard road since I began seriously processing this. It's changed the timeline of when I assumed trauma began, with the beginning now stemming before John ever faced me in person. It's changed because I get a lot more sex nightmares than I used to. I recognize things about myself now that make me uncomfortable, like how a lot of the porn that catches my attention revolves around children with children and how I find myself noticing how pretty my sister's hair and eyes are.

One of the hardest things has been the change in how I honk about my sister. Having been seriously processing this for the past two years, she's almost constantly on my mind, in very new contexts. When she came back from Japan after half a year of being gone, I found myself afraid of her? Scared of touching her things or being in a room alone with her, etc. it's strange to feel our bond, which has always been so strong, shift on my end.

But of course it has. (Mastrubation cw) Every time I mastrubate, I go back to an old memory. Sister and I were fingering each other (this night have been the last time it happened to such an extent) and I was, as usual, feeling obligated to put in a lot more effort than she was (I might have had a pad in which made it hard to get anything on my part, but I remember feeling distinct cheated so maybe not). A few minutes in, she told me to stop, saying my nails were too long and it hurt. At the time I had been confused because I knew I liked it better when it hurt (possibly due to my high tolerance, having been semi-addicted to mastrubation at this point and having my sensitivity dulled considerably). I might have wondered whether her poor taste was the reason I was getting such a bad service, too. And now, I'm even more confused, since I know she's a masochist. It makes even less sense why she wouldn't have thought similarly to me.

Again, this is something I think about practically every time I mastrubate (which is still pretty frequently). I should not have constant memories of being fingered--and being made to finger--my sister. That shouldn't be just a regular, everyday memory.

I hate that this is what my life has become--what it has been--but at least I'm far further on the road to processing than I was a year ago. The fact that I can type these things out now attests to that.

Life is good.

Processing why I'm fucked up about sex

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Categories of Abusers

 I think there are three broad categories of abusers. All three are bad and can ruin someone's life (or many people, for that matter). However, I think there are differences in reason and limits that show up when looking for patterns.

The first category is made up of Morally Ambiguous People who are at the mercy of something they suffer from (substance abuse, mental illness, etc). They may be genuinely good people who do bad things unwillingly, and regret their actions. They may not feel any sincere shame for their actions but primarily would not repeat their actions if they were of a rational mind. They may not even be aware that they are causing harm at all (and would willingly try to change if they realized).
At the core, they do bad things primarily because they cannot control themselves, and if they sought out and practiced proper treatment/found a solution for their problem, they may have only healthy relationships (or at least, not so insidious.)
If asked why they do the things they do, they might reply 'I don't know', 'I can't control it', or otherwise express remorse. They may also have a weak justification or deny doing things.

The second category is Bad People. They consciously, willingly decide to hurt others or otherwise do things commonly considered unethical. they may feel they are an exception to the rules, but if their actions were attributed to others they'd probably see them as wrong. They harm others because they can get away with it; however, they usually have at least some sort of moral horizon and some (if not horribly skewed) limits.
This category may not perform Blatantly Terrible Actions (trying to kill someone obviously innocent) if only because it would then be obvious they are terrible. If asked why they do the things they do, they may have a pre-thought out justification for their actions, or otherwise deny they did the things.

The final category is made up of Monsters. These people very willingly inflict pain on others with the intention of causing it. They seem to have no limitations on their behavior; they may disregard rules and ethics altogether. Their tendencies tend to reflect in multiple facets of their character (such as the people they associate with, their politics, their favoured media, etc). These types of abusers are most likely to agree with and support the actions of other abusers.
Bad people may hear about this category and actually agree they are awful. They do not feel like they need justification for their actions, and while they probably have excuses for their actions, it doesn't matter as much to defend their ethics.

Obviously, there's overlap between categories, and some actions of any individual abuser may fit in some categories more than others. It's also obviously simplistic, inexhuastive, and general. However, it's hard to get any more specific without becoming scientific.

Notice empathy has nothing to do with it. Unemphatic people are not penalized in any way; it's about an understanding of and commitment to one's actions.

There are no real 'level 1' or 'level 3' behaviors. It's more about duration, intensity, and belief in the correctness of/pride in an action. For example, category 3 can definitely practice emotional abuse, though it might be much more ruthless and blatant than a category 1 or 2's version (repeated and explicit death threats in comparison to subtle manipulation or vague repeated pokes at one's vulnerabilities). However, category 3 are most likely to repeatedly perform actions that endanger someone's life.



I enjoy organizing things. Making sense of the world grounds me. Before, it was hard for me to even conceptualize that bad people could exist. Now, I have this little framework. It will probably continue to develop.

Life is good.

Thinking about Photography

I'm looking back at old photos, and realizing how our thought influence what we present through the camera. The eye behind the lens influences what appears through it. It's strange to me; even as a photographer, I always assumed it photography couldn't be expressive art, and that anything involving capturing and reproducing reality could do little more than present with distance. I could not see how an artist could influence photography. Make it their own. Tell stories.

But looking back, it's obvious. There are so many things in reality--thousands of moments and angles and perceptions. And which moments you capture--those say something.

It makes me a bit uneasy, looking back at the photos my brother took of me during our warm years. I look back and know, in hindsight, that he loved me. And it makes these really beautiful, flattering images appear in a new light.

Whenever I was the focus, it always seemed like watching someone beautiful I think there's love in these.

Or maybe they're just great photographs. I don't know. But reflecting on it, I always assumed these were the best photos of me, most representative of myself. I think that's because I've always been a bit in love with myself too. (Or, a lot in love with myself.) I can see it in a lot of the pictures I take if they make me the focus.

I always try to make my happiness palpable or I make myself look desirable in some other fashion. I always get transfixed by photos of myself. And when I'm taking photos, I simply wish that I could be the focus of all my shots. It's another form of narcissism, I guess. I've never been interested in finding the beauty of other people through my photos, but I constantly wanted to communicate how desirable I was to others.

I have other photos too, though. Photos where I try to capture edginess, sadness, or more often than not, a feeling of being disturbed.

They're either washed out or they're gritty

I don't know. It's strange. I have a lot more to think about. About photography. About identity. About how I want to be viewed and how I view myself.


Life is good.

Old Poems I Found

Time Capsule

I used to whisper all my secrets into
his keyhole, letting them pile up
inside him like a chest of treasures.

That was back before I made myself
forget forget forget;
he’s become a time capsule of my adolescence

and recently he buried himself somewhere
where I won’t be able to reach him.

Sometimes I wonder where he is,
what he is carrying,
and when I will be allowed to look inside.

Who was I(/Is the monster getting better at hiding)?
I spend hours forgetting who I am.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of it,
bob up to the surface only to find myself
drowning in blood and dripping,
before I slip beneath the surface again.

When it all drains I’m just left
slowly remembering myself on the countertop,
staring at the mirror,
waiting for recollections of the past afternoon
and only finding a map of open wounds.

(Who do I become when
I’m not me and why
do they leave behind so many tracks?)

Twitter Poem


I want to carve a new childhood in fresh snow
Hold your hand
make sure I laugh this time.
We’ll play hide&seek and this time you’ll find me.

Untitled


I used to try to weave my hands into everyone else's
but thy would just keep unravelling.
I couldn't tie anyone down.
So I started weaving my own fingers together.
Wove them into nooses.
But one day I extended my hands to yours
and they knotted into mine so tightly
I doubt they'll ever come apart.

“Broken Toes”

Every day, you are standing on my toes.
I feel the pressure, the weight, and
The crippling pain every single moment of every single day.
It comes in the form of fear.
I fear smokers because you smoke, I fear coughs because you cough,
I fear hallways because one time you walked down a hallway.
I fear beer cans because they make you angry,
Because they don’t make you stumble but they litter the hallways and trip me as I try to run away from you
As you walk down hallways.
.
There are some days where you dance on my toes,
Crushing them and delighting as you hear the cracking of my bones,
Letting the percussive rhythm become the base of your war cries, your song, your dance.
You dance on my toes,
But by sunrise I know you’ll apologize.
You’ll call me to the table and watch me limp, watch me crawl
And roll over the beer cans in the hallway,
You’ll put out your cigarette and cough and say that you know you hurt me,
And you feel bad about that,
good.
But the thing is, you have no idea what you are supposed to be apologizing for.
.
You apologize for hurting me.
You don’t realize that even after you apologize you’re still hurting me;
You aren’t done apologizing yet.
But recognizing that would mean that you would have to get off my feet,
And if you aren’t stepping on my toes then how else will you make yourself taller?
.
The only times you remember that what you’re standing on is me are the times when you hear the bones crack and you watch me drag myself across the hallway afterwards.
You don’t realize that after you apologize you place your feet right back on my broken ones,
I have never been able to fix myself,
My toes have healed in twisted diagonals and after years of you re-breaking them I doubt I’ll ever walk right,
You don’t realize the extent of the damage you’ve caused and that’s why you don’t understand when I’m still angry even after you’ve apologized.

The Past is the Foundation of the Future

1.
My future is built on my dreams
floating above me, as if suspended in air,
a city on a cloud

but my present is built upon
my childhood,
a shaky foundation that shifts and sways
so full of holes, it is,
and blurred and not-quite-solid
my early days a puzzle of sun-damaged pieces,
colour drained

days I can only really remember
by opening old notebooks
and seeing the crayons cry through their circles.
(No wonder I made myself forget)

Now I do everything I can to just remember the present,
pressing it into every page, pencil, and poem I can
singing the memories into songs
hoping that it will stabilize the my dream-cloud’s future.

2.
Just past the early years I forget forgetting
I remember my family relocating to Crystal Lake, Illinois
(a suburb of Chicago which, like all before it,
I strategically wiped from my mind)
and the only thing I can remember of it
is that when my family left Chicago to move to the Pits of Hell
it was a slight improvement

and when we entered the den of Hate and Fire
my knees were so against it that they couldn’t stop
shaking side to side
but everyone else told me it looked just like a house
and nothing like the Pits of the Netherworld
so I went against my misgivings and followed them
(which I wish I hadn’t)
and I was locked within for eight long years
that irreparably changed me

(but I made sure to forget
most of this as well
ask me what Hell looked like and
I will only shudder in reply
with my legs still nodding no)

3.
There is one vague recollection I have
of trying to tell my mother that we were actually
within the fiery depths of Hell
and not a nice, happy, banana-yellow house in
a quiet suburb of Minnesota

and she called Satan himself
to scorch the idea out of me
and I still fear fire, you know,
except for that one time I pretended I didn’t

4.
and maybe I was just trying to blend in
and act like I felt as at home there as everyone else.
I started burning complacency into my skin
until it hissed (like it did after that run in with the Devil)
and I tried to burn any way I could;
but then I got possessed by another damned demon
(that happened a lot to me back in the day–
there’s a lot of them hanging out in Hell and they knew
I was pretty weak to their kind)
and now I can’t stand by a lighter without fearing
my body will act on its own.

Whoever said you should fight fire with fire
obviously never tried it.

5.
But like I mentioned, I got out eventually
And it felt so good! Like Heaven, yanno?
(not like I’ve been there)

but looking at the outside of it, it was made even more obvious
that Mom had been parking her van in the
Gates of Hell all these years, and she still
didn’t know

and I told myself I wouldn’t try telling her again
(because my body still remembered last time
even after I made my brain forget–
you can’t really forget pain like that)
but maybe living free made something slip,
because I told her again

and you can imagine my surprise,
learning what my mother had picked up
from that Hell she called Home.
(My ears continue to fill with sizzling.
I’m still tender to the touch
and it’s been about a month)

6.
And while I regretted forgetting so much,
maybe more than anything
I regret making myself remember
this story again and again and again
(pressing it into every page, pencil, and poem I can
because the past is the foundation of the future).    

Calluses

i.
I used to be afraid of growing callouses.
The way my guitar teacher described them, it sounded like
I would lose my sense of touch,
and I was so so scared
of being unable to feel anything.


ii.
One day a man walked into my house
and I felt so many things that
I wanted to stop breathing.


iii.
One day a man walked past my house
and I felt so many things that
I wanted to stop breathing.


iv.
One day I walked into a therapist’s office
and the way they talked about meditation, it sounded like
I would just relax.

But when I walked into myself
I felt so many things that
I wanted to stop breathing.


v.
One day I walked into a doctor’s office
and the way they talked about medication, it sounded like
I would lose all these feelings,
and I was so so scared
of losing myself.


vi.
One day I existed
and I felt so many things that
I almost stopped breathing.


vii.
I walked into the therapist’s office again
and we talked about how I quit guitar lessons
and we talked about that man
and we talked about men like that man
and we talked about meditation
and we talked about medication
and we talked about sensitivity
and we talked about callouses.


viii.
I left the home that man had walked into,
and I avoid people that remind me of him.
I’m still scared of meditation,
but I have the names of a few prescriptions.
I threw out my guitar a long time ago, but
I started learning how to play the ukulele
and I have never felt better about myself.


ix.
I am beginning to grow callouses on my fingers
and they feel spectacular.   
 


Life is good.

Reminders to self on why I Might Not Be Making Up This Multiplicity Thing

because I keep thinking I jumped the gun. And that, when I do feel singular, that all my past feelings are invalid. So I'm make myself a list to remind myself why I even started researching pluralities in the first place.

• You can't remember a lot of what life was like at home since around middle school/elementary school. You remember all those bike rides to the willow tree throughout middle school, which an old notebook informed you was your way of avoiding the house (you thought you just liked bike rides????). You remember summers spent with dad. You remember, sometimes, the excessive dissociation on first arriving home & homework/picking, and you remember nights with twin, but what else you did at home outside of your room is fuzzy. It is almost like your memory is missing.
• You can't remember when John moved in. When mom started living in the house. It just suddenly happened. They say trauma causing DID usually happens from 6-9 years old, and you have no way of knowing if that happened. Either way, you have bits of memory from what John did. It wasn't good.
• During middle school, you were dissociating a lot. A lot. AT least 6 hours every day. You thought a monster was controlling your limbs. You had frequent out of body experiences. You floated above your shoulder, watching someone else move your body. On a number of occasions (the most memorable being The Cinderella Incident), this monster seemed to try to kill you. 
• At the beginning, this depression was surely your own. But over time, it faded, or it seemed to... from your main life. But sometimes it would come back, different and overwhelming and without cause. It never seemed to make sense, especially as you became happier. It felt like a depression that may belong to someone else.
• The few times you have been genuinely sad--crying in 7th grade back when you could, when you first started running away from home, when the roomies kicked you out of the apartment plans---have felt very different from the sadness you usually feel, if you get sad at all. Maybe you haven't been allowed to be present during times of sadness?
• Starting in college when you got your wigs, you dressed up as Juliana on a few occasions. Remember how that spontaneity felt. How she picked her clothes. How happy she felt when Starbucks said her name instead of yours, how she recoiled at bridging relationships and felt pride when people couldn't recognize you. That was real and existed far longer than you've been thinking up all this.
• You've tried binding a few times. Since when have you questioned your gender? You never have. You've been more than happen with femininity. But someone else sure hasn't.
• When you started letting Juliana move freely, you noticed things. He hates your girlish coat, your shoes, your purse. He hates seeing your face when she expects her own. He swears a lot more. He won't talk using your voice because it isn't his. Even the broadness of your shoulders seemed wrong. It was honest dysmorphia, you talked it over with Beck, it was very very real but not yours. You have never felt uncomfortable in your body. But someone was.
• Your pantophobia. Why did it come? Why did it leave? You never found out, but that terrifying way of interacting with the world--could you have created that? Did it belong to someone else?
• How many time have you created characters for Juliana? When creating self inserts you always had to make two. Two gemsonas. Two fursonas. Two personas when you drew yourself. You never questioned it, but your identity has always been fragmented.
• You're ace. But sometimes there was sexuality in you that never fit into your personality. It seemed excessive, unnatural, not fitting. Was that you?
• It doesn't have to be DID, you know. It can be DDNOS. It can be a fragment, unable to create a fully developed form. You could be co-opting a lot. Some alters can't front often. She could be a walk-in-walk-out. There are ways of explaining this.
• Nothing bad will happen if you are a system.

Life is good.

Thoughts and Observations after Twenty Minutes of Self-Strangulation

• When did I forget that suffocation caused death?
  Will all my suicide attempts be accidents?
  (Have any of them been ‘accidents’?)

• How much would I hate myself for leaving a body inside my dorm,
  giving my friend a corpse instead of a roommate?

• How much tighter does it have to be to leave a bruise?
• Why do I want a bruise so badly?
  (Maybe it would be proof I could have done it if I had wanted to.
  But what would I do when the colour started to fade?)

• Is breathing really all it’s cracked up to be?

•  I was so close to death. I really could have died.

• I was doing it so I could fall asleep. I don’t think I cared how long I would be out.

• Why do I want to live?
• Why do I want to die?

• When was the last time anyone held me this tightly?