Doubting Trauma

 

Ok. So I was asking for it. Yep, the reason we use trigger warnings. Depending on the theme of the event or the audience involved, we may be inclined to use “content warnings.” I wasn’t asking to be traumatized, but honestly,  I often have an issue with the application of these warnings. Mostly because I find it to be an overused trend in academia, and can label things that are generally not a trigger for anyone but assholes. I was once told to TW for “racially charged language” in a slur-free poem I wrote about chicken. I did however mention being black *eye-roll.* I knew this wasn’t always how they played out, but I didn’t really get it. Now I get it. Not unlike an allergy warning, it would be nice to know what contents could possibly cause a scene or encourage me to check out for the next 24 hours, before I watch, hear or read something.

 

TW/CW: Sexual assault and mention of rape.

 

Recently, while watching porn (I know it’s fucking horrible – I’m not claiming to be perfect) I heard a phrase that made me drop my phone and I almost threw up (yes I said phone. Never touch my cell phone). Half my vision was black, I saw stars and had a nasty taste in my mouth. The scenario was something I had sought out for years, but something hit home in this particular scene. Porn only comes with trigger warnings in the form of tags. Sometimes. Tags of things you want. Sometimes. Sometimes traumatized people are turned on by things that resemble the event that traumatized them. Turns out I have things to remember, but most of me wants to deny it. Strange thing is, I wasn’t always this reactive. I thought I was over this ages ago. Now it’s biting me in the ass. I can’t say why, but how is another story. I have vivid flashbacks as a reaction to very simple things, like a phrase, tone of voice, a song, tuxedos…my list for flashbacks is pretty well known to me. But I get this other thing and I don’t know what to call it. It’s this strange twitch or spasm that starts with this pressure at the back of my upper jaw – as if I were about to yawn, then turns into a shiver down my spine and muscle contractions in my neck and face. They happen when I’m hit with a memory, stressed, confused for no apparent reason or sometimes at what seems to be random. For the longest time I thought it was nothing more than a twitch until it happened in front of my mom one day and I froze. My speech was slow and very slurred. I was struggling to speak and suddenly exhausted. And of course everyone’s favorite reaction is transitioning to an alternate personality. I zone out, or seem to pass out before I check out or transition, according to witnesses.

A few weeks ago I had a some rape scenarios in my dreams. Each time I woke up still feeling the burn from my pants being ripped off and the sting of being slapped. Sometimes I wake up gagging on things that aren’t there or feel like my tonsils are bruised and this was also one of those times. Then of course I made the mistake of sharing this (not nearly as detailed) with someone directly, out of trust and at the wrong time. Whoops. Of course with being emotionally overwhelmed, reactive and conflicted, I checked out and many of my friends ended up talking to Flip that night (observer alter?) on Facebook messenger. The next morning, still feeling gutted by the conflict of the night before, as well as, yes, more shitty dreams, I believe a little one came out. I figure this because of what I came back to. My dog was on my bed (never happens) and I had a blanket making a sling between my legs – something I did when I was between 3 and 6. I was in fetal position with my genitals and backside covered, with the bedroom door in full view. Still feeling protective of my back and too exhausted/fearful to feed or even relieve myself, I went through a list of people to talk to. Then I came to a realization: everyone is tired of my shit. I can’t blame them. I have been a lot of talk about help and very little, to no action regarding my mental health for a few years. Do I have reasons for this? Absolutely! Does that make the conversation lighter? Hell no! And so, it leaves me with simply being aware, logging as many events as I can remember and taking a moment away from triggering situations instead of trying to “tough it out” only to make excuses later. That morning I tried using visualizations, tried soft music, some grounding exercises I learned in rehab, tried replaying happy memories and videos linked to positive experiences. I spent hours home alone, in my room, trying to do something other than be where I was, but my heart just kept racing in spite of fatigue. I called the Mental Heath Mobile Crisis Team. I figured this counted as some form of crisis as I was panicked, unpredictable, at a loss and had no one to talk to. I hoped I would transition on the phone. But I was let go. They had nothing to say to me. I guess it wasn’t a crisis?

I think one of the more irritating things about all of this, is in spite of all these events and more, recorded by myself and others, I doubt my symptoms and I still doubt my own trauma and experiences. I’ve been constantly telling myself that I’m over it or that it’s a non-issue. Telling myself to suck it up or brush that shit off. I’ve turned off my feelings for months at a time each year, pretending to have them when it could benefit me, then being overwhelmed and panicked when feelings return. I fail to recognize, time and time again, how I have been influenced by multiple, toxic intimate relationships. I even to this day, wonder if I encouraged my step-father to touch me the way he did and why I make such a big deal of it. “It was practically nothing,” says that voice in my head. It was practically nothing, but it was betrayal by the one closest to and most trusted by me. Since betrayal feeds rage, I’ve been keeping people at quite the distance these days. I may be somewhat transparent, but that’s just because I care less about what people think and it makes for a great filter. Being that close to someone is frightening for me, but I still need to be social and care about me.

I somehow continue to grow with this. Like trees grow around  chain-link fencing and weeds rise through concrete. Contorting, winding and pushing through rock and metal in on the surface while the roots continue to seek nourishment. Imperfect and facing the sun, I seek answers while making an effort to care for myself. Sometimes that care is spilling my guts into the universe, or simply looking my imperfect self in the face and saying, “I love you. We got this.”

What is this?

Why this blog? Well, I’ve got too much garbage floating around in my head for one and secondly I find honesty quite refreshing. This is a blog for people who like to read dirty little secrets, who feel like a freaks of nature, or feel a sense of relief from seeing how stupid someone else can be. These are true stories and ramblings of a 20-something who drinks and fucks way too much. These stories are not necessarily in chronological order and I wish to remain, as well as keep other parties mentioned anonymous.

I remember finding a porno mag for the first time. I might have been 4.5 years old and quickly became fascinated with them. My stepfather had quite the collection – he was probably passing them off as outdated stock for his corner store but let’s be real. The pile of mags started moving around the house to avoid me finding them, but I always did. Anytime I had a few mins in the house alone or could get away with it, I was looking for it and not long after, jerking away in a corner. I felt kinda weird about it but that wasn’t enough to stop me. In fact, I had to share what I was “learning”. Unfortunately that meant more demonstrating and actual doing than showing pictures. It started in daycare, showing off our bits to each other and touching them, cuddling pantless under the blankets so our genitals could touch. Then we got caught. So I tried more in a place I couldn’t get caught – in the woods by my grandmother’s house. By age 5 and 6 I was talking my cousins into getting rimmed and sucked. It wasn’t a tough sell. Eventually we were having sex. And no it wasn’t any good and yes I felt shitty about it but couldn’t stop. I would continue to convince peers that it was a fun thing to do up until age 9 or 10. Then my friends didn’t want to experiment anymore. At least not the human ones.

I was obsessed with genitalia, both mine and other’s. I started finding porn on the internet, choosing my words wisely so it looked as though I stumbled upon it. I found bestiality, videos of animal sex, rape scenarios and bdsm. I encouraged dogs to hump me out of pure curiosity and that quickly came to an end. Then eventually I was humping plushies. My first orgasm was me at 10 years old, humping a giant carnival plush toy in my mother’s office. I’ll never forget the surprise and the rush I got from that. That was clearly what I was chasing this whole time, right?

There’s so much more detail to this that I’m avoiding for the sake of intrigue. Like my unexplained obsession with dogs and feeling like I was one once, or how I have a vagina but always saw myself as a male. I will say that I did eventually go to therapy. Lol I’ve had a lot of therapy, and y’know what folks, when I told them my about my guilt surrounding my cousins and other younger people in my past, they had a tendency to avoid the topic all together. That’s right! Shrugged that shit off saying things like “It’s impossible for a 4 year old to penetrate.” Well she was wrong, but OK doc, way to go into denial for me. Would I ever do this again? No. I have no interest in children. I was also a child at the time and at a stage where one year was a wide gap. Because of guilt surrounding this, I became suicidal. I toyed with the idea earlier on when the activities began, but once I hit puberty and started figuring out what I actually like, I felt like a dirty, worthless, piece of shit scumbag who actually deserved to die. That feeling followed me for years to come, but my obsessions just grew and adopted other habits.

Self harm became my new rush. Mostly cutting. This was 8th grade me. I was no longer living with the stepfather but he made visits often and was molesting me by that time. I kinda didn’t fully realize what he was doing for a while, but I knew something felt wrong. That’s when the therapy began, I came out as bisexual, and the touching became more frequent. I was constantly looking for escape and began finding it through autoerotic asphyxiation. Doing it at home, at school and then finally, that year I had my first stiff drink of Bombay Sapphire gin when I was home alone and eventually passed out. This was so much easier than cutting, and socially acceptable…. sort of. So I’d have a drink, choke myself and jerk off with a knife teasing my skin or a lemon wedge in my mouth. I gotta say it felt like progress.