Our culture rewards perfection… through the words we use and the actions we take. Falling short is not just a mistake, its downright criminal! Punishable by docked pay and privileges… Problem is those privileges are not what they seem, special incentives to garner better compliance. They are, in fact, the meat and potatoes that are needed for us to live; attain shelter, food, and clothing. Our noncompliance with expectations and our efforts to be heard in our authentic voice can now literally kill us. So, in fact, anyone who speaks from a personal perspective that resonates from within themselves while actively choosing to shed the mass hysteria being cultivated faces pathological diagnoses, efforts of imposed deprivation and segregation and ultimately social and physical ostracism.
My last post was difficult for me because it revealed a over 50 year sexual historical impact I suffered at the hands of my adoptive father. For most of the years of my growth and development, not being able to access the facts left only brief glimpses into the horrors I had endured. As a result of the use of words, my sexual historical drama began being formulated. During that time I struggled over the words I chose to use so I could first come to understand my own experience and then come to help others understand personal behaviors emanating from me that had no meaning out of context.
In a place where I was devoid of explanations for my own behavior and experience, I was open fodder for the “professionals” to assert their own. At those times MY PATHOLOGY became the focus rather than the resilience within me to withstand the mounting years of cruelty. I was a delinquent in need of rehabilitation. There were many times when my comprehension waned and sentence structure eluded me. As long as YOU sit in judgment of me and my behaviors without an effort to understand the context within which such behaviors developed, the more unjust your methodology in it harsh criticism of what you cannot and choose not to know!
A paragraph title is inappropriately constructed in the previous blog about my “recurring nightmare”. It happened when discussing the “Abysmal Understanding of Trauma Informed Care” I asserted the word, needed before Trauma Informed Care. It is a “Freudian slip” revealing the depravity of my own treatment during my sexual subjugation over the past 50 years. Psychiatrists, MDs, teachers, parents, siblings, coaches, neighbors, grandparents, aunts and uncles, were all privy, if not participant in some part of the mounting evidence but chose NOT TO SEEK THE NARRATIVE taking place within MY OWN DEFINITION of the experience. It was too easy to “blame the victim”. I was the whore and obviously “wanted it” (a quote from my adoptive father to his sister when he told her he would not intervene when he watched my 16 year old ‘boyfriend’ rape me in the next room. Now a licensed gynecologist, that ‘boy’ has girls and women to play with to his hearts content. The Attorney General received documentation of my experience but I am sure found themselves ‘too busy’ to care)
I am angry because I do not trust men…. after all, I haven’t ever experienced a loving relationship with any man nor have I received the respect that my experience and education has given me. Instead, across the board, men have wielded their power and privilege to silence me, impoverish me, and sexually abuse me. I have gone without the basic necessities more than I have gone with everything I need.
The one exception with the men I have known was my first husband, a kind man but also a friend and nothing more. He loved me deeply but had a difficult time with handling my drive to seek my own “sexual healing”. He treated me with kit gloves. I was a passionate athlete, expressive through dance, art and music. He was awkward and lacked a sense of adventure. No wonder why I was confused because I was not physically attracted to him in anyway. On top of that, when broaching difficult subjects, he would experience an epileptic seizure. I was too much for him in every way, shape and form.
Why did I marry him? He respected me like no other man did before or has since. I never knew healthy relationships with a boy or man, so I latched onto what I thought love should be; respect. I just couldn’t and wouldn’t give up the best in me to fuse with the unspoken limitations imposed by him.
“Is there anybody out there/” (Pink Floyd)
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