you? drool.
May. 10th, 2024 03:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
venusundaetw sexual assault, internalized homophobia, abelism
once an acquaintance asked impulsively how i had such a bad memory for [an autistic person]. entirely ignoring the abelism sprout emerging from the ignorance dirt to answer that question in earnest, there were 15 seconds of my life where i entertained a joke of an answer. in the deep dark recesses of my mind, i questioned how to make a punch line out of getting my head inconsiderately smashed against headboards by sloppy frat boys, making me the patriarchy's feminine counterpart to the indoctrinated footballer who gets his own micro concussions from a national pastime.
i didn't realize how much i got my head smashed during sex until i started fucking women.
right now isn't the moment to go into gruesome details about the abuses i've endured at the hands of men. mostly because we don't have all day. but also bc the current inspiration is leading me to just documenting the pattern recognition happening today in particular in the daily grind that is my own trauma processing.
i've done slow and steady work to protect myself. it hasn't always been successful. to reconcile and heal your own emotional and physical destruction is, if you can imagine such a thing, kind of taxing. the data you extrapolate out of the ashes is not always complete - data you're trying your best to build an effective shield out of but the instructions are torn apart and you have to dive back into the ash pile to recover more of it when really you just want to wash your hands of it once and twice and ten more times and go to sleep forever still feeling grimy even though there is no actual ash beneath your fingernails anymore.
a few years ago a woman was in my bed thrusting against me until, neck bent like a silly straw, my skull was smashed between the wall and the bed.
and i was so surprised when she paused and asked if i needed to move.
now these words are not here to take the time to notice the statistics of care that men and women gave my brain across years of my sex life. they are not even here to ask questions about culture and societal indoctrination.
they are here to gently request that i notice my own story of healing that is behind me.
i want to say it was so gradual and subtle a journey that i barely noticed the changes as they occurred - deciding to gently rock me on to the next very straightforward level in life (that is obviously right in front of me andrest to find of course) rather than dragging me along unwillingly.
but actually, i think the chaos that surrounds was simply louder the entire time.
and i have only just learned to quiet it enough that i can find the healing that happened underneath that entire time. and the truth in every moment of that story was that once i allowed myself to just be fully as queer as i authentically am, i also finally allowed myself to be safe.
i used to choose the people in my life based on a standard i didn't understand bc it wasn't mine. i wasn't living that. so i mirrored what the culture told me i was supposed to want and then just thought good sex was like winning the lottery or growing up and liking your dad: not anything to count on happening.
sleeping with men before i came out was painful. it was as tiring a chore as needing to go to meetings and luncheons and business mixers for networking. it was a task apparently so high in skill that most people would just have to live with doing it for fun badly just to say you did it. yea yea we all sing in the shower and add our fantasy daydream to perfect it. i grew up being told that doesn't mean all of us need a record deal.
some of the pain was so loud that "bad sex" washed itself with fruity scented soap of the judgement of even being "bad". it slid right off your body like hands on you in the shower, and you accepted that's just what sex was. pleasurable but only in a slippery and fleeting way. and it was better than some things that i'd been through.
i should not have been introduced to collecting data on violent men at age six. but i was.
that distortion in the data was so distracting that i barely paid attention to the fact so many more data points piled up in the meantime. i didn't really remember how adamantly that boy from a different high school asked to just look, like just for a second nobody is watching. i totally forgot about the salesman who insisted i was attracted to him until i decided to just stop repeating myself and became his "dumb bitch" who couldn't even talk right (head: fully whacked against the dashboard in the process). you certainly didn't even notice that one night where that one thing happened the third time you'd ever gotten drunk in you life.
there's plenty of data for you to continue to reconcile as you deftly quiet the loudest ones first. the muscle memory in your body turning that volume down makes it easy. makes it almost funny, the monotony of it.
i have problems letting people get too close. but even when it only lasts hot and blinding seconds of my life before i tell her she's reached her alloted attention quota in my heart, it is healing every time.
every time a woman giggles and slides her glossed lips against mine, every time the silicone pops from my own lips, even every time i've slept with a man after learning (testing, doubting, denying) that yes it really actually is true you are a lesbian, because now we had clear boundaries and communication about everything and so it couldn't be anything but healing.
and also the orgasms are better now.
once an acquaintance asked impulsively how i had such a bad memory for [an autistic person]. entirely ignoring the abelism sprout emerging from the ignorance dirt to answer that question in earnest, there were 15 seconds of my life where i entertained a joke of an answer. in the deep dark recesses of my mind, i questioned how to make a punch line out of getting my head inconsiderately smashed against headboards by sloppy frat boys, making me the patriarchy's feminine counterpart to the indoctrinated footballer who gets his own micro concussions from a national pastime.
i didn't realize how much i got my head smashed during sex until i started fucking women.
right now isn't the moment to go into gruesome details about the abuses i've endured at the hands of men. mostly because we don't have all day. but also bc the current inspiration is leading me to just documenting the pattern recognition happening today in particular in the daily grind that is my own trauma processing.
i've done slow and steady work to protect myself. it hasn't always been successful. to reconcile and heal your own emotional and physical destruction is, if you can imagine such a thing, kind of taxing. the data you extrapolate out of the ashes is not always complete - data you're trying your best to build an effective shield out of but the instructions are torn apart and you have to dive back into the ash pile to recover more of it when really you just want to wash your hands of it once and twice and ten more times and go to sleep forever still feeling grimy even though there is no actual ash beneath your fingernails anymore.
a few years ago a woman was in my bed thrusting against me until, neck bent like a silly straw, my skull was smashed between the wall and the bed.
and i was so surprised when she paused and asked if i needed to move.
now these words are not here to take the time to notice the statistics of care that men and women gave my brain across years of my sex life. they are not even here to ask questions about culture and societal indoctrination.
they are here to gently request that i notice my own story of healing that is behind me.
i want to say it was so gradual and subtle a journey that i barely noticed the changes as they occurred - deciding to gently rock me on to the next very straightforward level in life (that is obviously right in front of me andrest to find of course) rather than dragging me along unwillingly.
but actually, i think the chaos that surrounds was simply louder the entire time.
and i have only just learned to quiet it enough that i can find the healing that happened underneath that entire time. and the truth in every moment of that story was that once i allowed myself to just be fully as queer as i authentically am, i also finally allowed myself to be safe.
i used to choose the people in my life based on a standard i didn't understand bc it wasn't mine. i wasn't living that. so i mirrored what the culture told me i was supposed to want and then just thought good sex was like winning the lottery or growing up and liking your dad: not anything to count on happening.
sleeping with men before i came out was painful. it was as tiring a chore as needing to go to meetings and luncheons and business mixers for networking. it was a task apparently so high in skill that most people would just have to live with doing it for fun badly just to say you did it. yea yea we all sing in the shower and add our fantasy daydream to perfect it. i grew up being told that doesn't mean all of us need a record deal.
some of the pain was so loud that "bad sex" washed itself with fruity scented soap of the judgement of even being "bad". it slid right off your body like hands on you in the shower, and you accepted that's just what sex was. pleasurable but only in a slippery and fleeting way. and it was better than some things that i'd been through.
i should not have been introduced to collecting data on violent men at age six. but i was.
that distortion in the data was so distracting that i barely paid attention to the fact so many more data points piled up in the meantime. i didn't really remember how adamantly that boy from a different high school asked to just look, like just for a second nobody is watching. i totally forgot about the salesman who insisted i was attracted to him until i decided to just stop repeating myself and became his "dumb bitch" who couldn't even talk right (head: fully whacked against the dashboard in the process). you certainly didn't even notice that one night where that one thing happened the third time you'd ever gotten drunk in you life.
there's plenty of data for you to continue to reconcile as you deftly quiet the loudest ones first. the muscle memory in your body turning that volume down makes it easy. makes it almost funny, the monotony of it.
i have problems letting people get too close. but even when it only lasts hot and blinding seconds of my life before i tell her she's reached her alloted attention quota in my heart, it is healing every time.
every time a woman giggles and slides her glossed lips against mine, every time the silicone pops from my own lips, even every time i've slept with a man after learning (testing, doubting, denying) that yes it really actually is true you are a lesbian, because now we had clear boundaries and communication about everything and so it couldn't be anything but healing.
and also the orgasms are better now.
