Welcome. Good luck.

Pt. I Found Here
Pt. II Found Here

When Does Your Body Become “Yours”? 

Around the closure of middle school, and with the start of my body’s natural entrance into puberty due to this incredibly natural concept called “aging”, I began experimenting sexually with my peers, which is, yet again, NORMAL. By that, what I really mean is I made out with a guy once in the summer after 8th grade but maybe if I was lucky, I went to a sleepover with incredibly basic versions of spin-the-bottle (and by “Basic”, I mean they blew me away as “risque” at the time and really we weren’t even using tongue yet.) I had quit gymnastics, opting to pursue soccer, track, and football in highschool, as well as my elite equestrian career. I went from just 4’11” to 5’7” over a short 12 month span, joined a travel soccer team with little to no prior experience, and moved from my P.O.A. pony, Sandy, to my palomino horse, Wildfire, as the fences surpassed 3’ in my eventing competitions. I was leveling up in so many ways, but for the first time in my life, men (boys) were actually starting to take recognition of me. No longer was I the shy, quiet nerd in class. I was the shy, quiet nerd that my male teenage peers wanted to fuck. 

However, according to my incredibly overbearing father, I wasn’t allowed to date, I could have absolutely no social media of any kind, I must get his permission for everything. 

Hopefully we will have made some progress by the time my friend’s children are of adolescent age, but all that set-up was some premonition in my mind that I was “his” to give away once he judged someone worthy. My body, but particularly sexual expression, was controlled by others and outside of my control. An idea I still angrily reject, that makes me not unable to even fathom getting married (because the archaic thought that someone might have the audacity to either ask my estranged father for my hand in marriage or that I would need anyone to accompany me down the aisle as if it’s not the stare-inducing catwalk in whatever form fitting gown I squeeze myself into that I’ve daydreamed of performing on my entire life.)

I had exactly two discussions on sexual education with my parents, or rather, my mother. The first, when my fifth grade class separated the boys and girls one day at the end of the year, after first getting our parents to sign a permission slip for us to discuss “the birds and the bees”. The second, when I finally approached my mom about getting on birth control for my “first real boyfriend”, even though I’d already been having sex for months prior to that. Looking back, it really makes me question why Christianity-influenced sexual education is allowed to perpetuate in public schools, or our government, for that matter, and how the way I was taught as a woman to view my body was ever viewed as “healthy”. At least it wasn’t the abstinence-only bullshit some places still desperately cling to, but dammit do we need to make some more progress. 

Sex, and the female body, just wasn’t a topic of discussion. I wasn’t allowed any of the fancy magazines, because Cosmopolitan was trash and full of made-up tips. Not only that, but I shouldn’t even touch myself. The blasphemous vitriol encompassing soiling my body with my own touch was unbearable. I had to hide my feminine products behind carefully placed larger items on the conveyor belt while checking out at the store, tucked away discreetly on the shelves within my own private bathroom, zipped within the pocket of the purse I carried to and from the restroom–terrified of the moment someone might realize exactly what they were. I understood the very basics of what I was physically going through, but I didn’t know what was normal. I wasn’t sure if the things I was feeling were common, because I was never actually taught why hormones were important for women to understand. Thanks to sports, other than the height jump, I really didn’t have physical changes that necessitated any additional discussions. 

All of these small things added up to make me feel ashamed of being a woman. I was too ashamed to even learn about my body on my own either–reliant on the hands, mouths, and penises of whatever males caught my attention over the years to be able to anticipate what my body needed better than myself. Nevermind where to even start with self-educating–am I even allowed to google terms like that? What if my father looked up the search history and I got grounded? And what did it mean, to someone who wasn’t particularly religious any longer, contemplating atheism vs. Bahaism vs. being agnostic, to question their “purity” or lack thereof for their next partner? 

We don’t want to be faced with the reality of paying for our teenage daughter’s choice of vibrator, but we’re okay with consoling them after their adolescent heartbreak also ends in slut shaming for succumbing to the basic biology flooding their endocrine system. I guarantee you, if they’re getting themselves off, if they view sexuality as more of an enlightening rather than a sin, then they’ll have a lot less interest in a boy who doesn’t share those thoughts.

I get it, no parent wants their children to become sexually active. They seem so small, so innocent, so naive, and all you want to do is protect them from the horrors of the reality of the world. 

But part of creating such a historically militaristically superior country, (such that all international trauma occurs outside of our geographical boundaries and we therefore feel safe from, or even encourage, as long as it makes our personal lives a little more cushion-y and we remain naive to the purpose behind the maneuvers) and living in a “developed” nation, (where technology is meant to replace a large portion of the working class so we, collectively, as a country, may actually enjoy being human) we are supposed to have the time, stability, and ability to educate ourselves and improve upon our past behaviors so that the world, or at least our country, local communities, and friendships, are more enjoyable.

Is it really a surprise that a country built on white, conservative, Christian, patriarchal values and so resistant to change to the reality of the NATION around them would also have a generation of women whose days as a youth were filled with values of independence, being whoever you wanted, traveling wherever you wanted in the world, but weren’t expected to resist against the numerous legal restrictions restricting autonomy over our own bodies? Or that we won’t question the law, and subsequently the behavior or ideology that facilitated and created a culture that thought viewing women in this way was the most appropriate? Or that I’m supposed to listen to a religious culture whose own willingness to forgive and look the other way has damaged hundreds of thousands of children throughout history, yet still grasps to this fallacy that believing in it somehow pushes you above others in the rankings of the world? 

I don’t even want to hear from the “not all Christianity” people, because the reality of religion, particularly globally, is it has MANY more implications than just moral or ethical peace of mind. And being a Christian doesn’t make you a bad person, that isn’t what I’m getting at nor do I think that in the least. There are plenty of decent Christians. But it is also impossible to ignore the globally historical context of Christianity’s influence over FEMALE rights (again, largely because it has been most common amongst patriarchal societies such that the two ideas go hand-in-hand in interwoven confusion) and from a more generalized perspective, latent functions of religion are consistently, decade-after-decade, country-after-country, global-movement-after-global-movement used to ostracize minorities, spread hatred, and (in my country, the USA) stigmatize humanity in such a way that we are terrified of the reality of what it means to “be human” and look for some hope to follow when the bounds of our knowledge fail. Not to mention the spread of disease and exploitation of land in the name of “missionary goals” that has just wiped through populations such that the Trail of Tears is essentially America’s Holocaust and society wants to look the other way or skim over it in U.S. history. (That isn’t an insult to the Holocaust either, that’s a testament that the USA has committed horrific crimes against marginalized people on the same land we now govern and we can’t really look the other way and say we were always doing things “for the greater good”, because it’s necessary to specify for WHOSE greater good, which is usually our white European ancestry.) 

Those decisions, made based on that very same Christian mindset and ideology, were horrible. Inexcusable. And still affect the lives of the descendants today because the average person only makes roughly 10% more money than their parents. So what if you don’t know who your parents are? What if you come from a single family home? How do you escape cycles of poverty when doing so is choosing between the safety and security of your family and emotional love of like-minded people (if you were lucky enough to grow up in a community like that) with a circle of peers who had the literary resources, the representation of historical figures, the financial security that you lacked? And how do you do that when those who were responsible have washed their hands of it, prayed for forgiveness, done ten hail mary’s or whatever and believe that just because they wouldn’t outwardly do or say anything in person that it must not actually happen…that it was propaganda, a leftist LIE, bad editing, even though the evidence that land, lives, and money are being moved around like pieces on the chessboard in Harry Potter are right in front of you, publicly available data. Or that you’re lucky if, like Ron, Hermione, and Harry in “The Sorcerer’s Stone”, you get to make your own choice of movement and aren’t just a pawn under the guise of someone else’s direction. 

My purpose of this is truly not to condemn Christianity. It’s just important to be honest during reflection and acknowledge that identifying your belief system as the “right” one will inevitably create an environment where those less educated, or more warped by power, utilize that concept to establish dominance over others (if there is a “right” choice, then surely logic points at the others as “wrong”). Sure, that’s the way the world works, and religion has persisted, or at least been prioritized and preserved, throughout civilization after civilization, but that’s just one of the reasons why I’m not religious. 

Your “not all Christians” comments that I KNOW some of you mentally screamed just serves to protect your own public interests because you, individually, try to be a decent Christian and you either worry your own behavior or identity will be used against you as an insult (much like characteristics of minority’s identities have been used insulting against them…by Christianity… for the record) or you would rather live in blissful ignorance because the thought of it happening in your own little bubble of Christian community is too terrifying of a concept. This sermon wasn’t for you. Not all of us get that choice. And most importantly, not all of us grow up and can remain happy in those environments, so the premise that “if you don’t like it, leave” doesn’t really work when it instills generations of unnecessary neglect, abuse, and trauma. 

The country, community, and household I grew up in are/were all white, conservative, Christian values. I went to a private school the majority of my early life and church every Sunday. My father, a well revered man within the local community, was admired, revered for his work with special education individuals. My parents were married quickly after college, had 3 children, a large home, a small (family) farm, it should have been the American dream. 

So why couldn’t I be happy, or move on from it, even years later? When I’m no longer religious? When I no longer live with, or even speak to, my biological father? 

We can all learn from studying the experience of trauma… 

In my own education and discovery of reconstructing the values of my prior reality with prioritizing what I want in life, who I want to be in life, what I actually value, I realized I felt compelled to revisit, to question, these experiences, much in the same way that makes me a great, passionate scientist, BECAUSE I have had to experience a lot of these things alone, but I don’t have to anymore. 

For the record, two years ago if you asked me whether I anticipated ever having a blog and comparing the dictatorship of living under a household with my biological father to a militant regime and undercover operation aimed at trafficking children, I’d probably shrug my shoulders and be like, “I bet there’s a reason I do that.” I’m well aware of the concerns of going too in depth in psychoanalysis and implanting memories (we’ve all yearned over Joseph Gordon-Levitt during Inception, I’m sure), that therapy doesn’t work for everyone, that some people attribute psychology to a field of fallacy. That’s great. Start your own blog and YOU write it if you want me to touch on that. 

I, however, would like to normalize being able to talk about the experiences that shape you in life as a person and drive your passions, emphasizing what we LEARN from those psychoanalytical depths, even when it’s not pretty. 

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Our culture in the USA reveres the history of our nation’s success. We wave our military pride and justify that, because we overpower other, significantly smaller countries, through forced intimidation and keeping conflict on their own territory, that we shouldn’t have to address the cultural unrest or criminal injustice within our own borders because we had “bigger things to worry about.” We call protestors of Black lives matter “privileged” because “they should be grateful they even have the TIME to protest”. We call our healthcare workers “heroes” while simultaneously making their jobs harder by feeling the NEED for exquisite sushi because “you have to stimulate the economy” and passing legislation that makes a global pandemic a bipartisan issue. We took capitalism and inserted it into our government such that politics is now a “retirement plan” for those whose jobs are arbitrarily designated as “more important”, and thus, more financially rewarding, when in reality, those people were likely responsible for only a few years of actual labor before moving into abstract thinking and having dozens, hundreds, or thousands of people funneled into roles under their control and because we attribute hard work = financial payout, the fact that they likely had the funds to control every aspect of their life’s narrative is negated because “they struggled too”. We took obsession with celebrity culture and materialism and idolized it in such a way that reveres Elon Musk for his conspiracy hoaxes on the coronavirus pandemic, even though the guy’s genius is limited to the realm of engineering, because somehow him being a billionaire means he would have the best interest in the world at heart, even though the very fact that he’s a billionaire means he’s capable of understanding how the country functions well enough to exploit it and selfish enough to not care about reinvesting it in his community…but at least he got rid of all twelve of his homes recently. 

Is it REALLY such a surprise that the global pedophilic ring of Ghislaine Maxwell and Jeffrey Epstein was operating with frequent U.S. citizens and is well woven, tangled, dreaded into the political regime of the country? And, again, how the fuck do you think a guy who has STILL outwardly pledged his support and “well wishes” for that woman to be innocent? Fuck Trump 2020. I cannot wait until we live in a Black Mirror-esque reality where your public opinion and ability to vote on a national ordinance can both be easily accessible and verified, as well as be mentally connected to the weight of your opinion compared to your trove of knowledge on scientific fact or accurate news sources. Bring on the “Bill Gates’ computer chips into people’s brains conspiracy theory”. The average American has a 3rd grade reading level. Some of you clearly need it. 

Let’s look closer at our history towards women.

We tell women how we want them to dress, sexually gratifying and consuming the imagery, then call them whores for dressing that way in real life or being firm and confident in their own sexual prowess and pleasure. 

We uphold lengthy prison sentences for nonviolent drug offenses or make sure to show up for court sentencing over a 15 mile per hour over-the-limit ticket on a straight, narrow, otherwise vacant stretch of highway, while excusing the physical abuse of domestic violence and don’t even bother to look for some of the women who go missing because “nobody cares about them”.

We underpay historically women-dominated fields, such as education, so that even if I wanted to teach as a career in Maryland, knowing I could be most useful sharing my knowledge with and shaping the lives of the future generations, particularly within the underserved area I grew up in just outside of D.C., the $46,000 I would make as a single female with a bachelors and what will be TWO master’s degrees…for a public middle school math program, could never support a financially secure lifestyle such that I wouldn’t have to worry that a single health scare like cancer, would bankrupt me. 

We entice women by manipulating their desperation for the attention a free $2 shot brings, then tell them they “should have expected” the sexual expectation or assault because too many men now think sex is something you do TO a woman and not something you do WITH a woman. Or that a few rounds of a $2 shot is not the equivalent of me prostituting myself for $10.

We make women feel as if their only role of value to men is for breeding purposes, yet don’t provide them paid maternity leave (because, again, the man should be able to provide for a single family in this heteronormative capitalist society and they shouldn’t end up back at work anyways). Then we make women who are incapable of supporting viable life feel guilty, as if somehow it is their fault even though it may just be shitty biomechanics. Haven’t you seen National Geographic? ALL of the elephants in a tribe help raise those babies. If one falls into a sink hole, do you think it matters who the biological mama is? No. We also make women who choose not to have children feel like they “are going to regret that choice” even though it is likely the poor availability of men, or parental figures, in their lives that have created an inhospitable environment to feel as if children are an unwilling sacrifice. (Or, just, you know, the state of the world in general and how massively overpopulated we are, greenhouse gas emissions, etc.)

We exploit themes of “daddy issues” in a way that mocks the women who have had to challenge the authoritarian bounds set for them, go to years of therapy over the the abandonment issues, foster the ENDLESS angry insinuations or societal concern that “but he’s your father, honey, you should forgive him. You only get one.” even though your disdain is going on 15 years of the 27 in your life and you feel like that is more than appropriate enough time to bury the hatchet and move on. A few years back, we reached the tipping point where he was a really shitty father for a lot longer than he was a good one, so, that’s the last I want to hear on that. 

We criticize women whose entire goal does not involve securing a husband or having children, even though them appearing more “attainable” is, in fact, an unfortunate psychological factor into boosting their opportunity for recruitment in many industries within the U.S., and since “higher up” roles are STILL largely held by white males, you have to consider that reality if you want to help infiltrate and change that trajectory for generations after you. One guy recently asked me why I talk about the burden of being single so much and whether it ACTUALLY affects my life, and maybe it’s because he’s an engineer and people expect him to be reclusive, or at the very least, nerdy enough to not be dominated by “Dating”, but as an attractive woman, it is literally the only thing people EVER ask me about. To the point where it’s obnoxious that it seems like the only thing I’m supposed to care about. Which is, again, infuriating given that I’ve helped chemically synthesize an advanced stage prostate cancer inhibitor, or that I hiked an entire mountain the previous weekend, or that I know what the inside of your body can look like, and yet, dating and my relationship status is, without fail, always the priority because “a pretty girl like you must be locked down”. 

We hear the right’s cries of “saving the children” but do nothing to actually better the environments that contribute to this exploitation–environments that largely rely on female submission, and do nothing to improve the foster care, public education, or primary care/women’s reproductive rights programs that prevent unwanted (teenage) pregnancies, raise the children that aren’t aborted or experience terrible loss, enable physical health management for improved quality of life, and do nothing to actually give back to the community in a physically present way other than the regular financial donations, because “time is of the essence” and “your time is valuable” and would rather be spent with your family, so you pay for it to be someone else’s problem and your bubble of community and faith in Jesus tells you that’s enough to let you sleep at night. Better yet, you just “save” all of these children now and yet vote for four more years of a future that disadvantages them…but at least they are alive to experience it???

But what can we do? 

Growing up in the public education system right outside Washington, D.C., I didn’t realize that my peers around the country had significantly different history and government classes in their school curriculums. The events of national history and patriotism that I was learning about were happening on the land around me. John Wilkes Booth rode across my farm’s land to get to Dr. Mudd’s house after shooting President Abraham Lincoln. Every single school field trip was the short bus ride into Washington, D.C. to whatever museum was most relevant in our local curriculum. We passed the buildings where this legislation was being passed, the votes were being held, the laws were being developed, and it felt tangible. 

This guy I fucked like, twice, over the year and a half I knew him in graduate school has a very amusing kink (no further details, even though I know he’d be wiping the sweat off his brow if he was reading this and it brings a flickering grin across my face) and has divulged his…interest…in me over the last 2 years since I graduated. Mind you, we live several states away from each other, it is CONSISTENT and patterned communication, and the guy is a fully functioning member of society for all other purposes. I’m not one to kink shame, either, so it was an insulting turn of events when he implied that, because of his (and my shared) sexual interests, I would “never be able to get into politics”. 

Sir. 

Have you seen who occupies the white house? 

Things that are normal in society and normal for a healthy, moderate lifestyle, ESPECIALLY when we now KNOW just how “normal” these things are and what the global, educated consensus on “normalcy” is, just should not be stigmatized so much. It should be a natural part to revisit our experience of things, to learn and grow and figure out what it means to be a culturally aware, healthy human. The fact that we even need to specify the necessity to prioritize this abstract theory, as if it is some “Healthy People 2020” goal. (Sidenote: Oh, Michelle Obama, you remarkable woman, I’m so sorry about this year’s trajectory.) 

Would you ever have the audacity to sit there and tell a Jewish person that they shouldn’t care about the Holocaust because they didn’t “personally” experience it? Or that they shouldn’t talk about it? Or that we shouldn’t remove the statues or symbols of Hitler in society? No. So stop telling black people, women, emotional men, literally anyone who tries to empathize and refuses to bend to this idea that the people you idolize were “amazing” and start listening to HEAR their stories. Question for curiosity, not to prove your preconceived thought. Start opening your ears to those in pain around you. 

Clue #6: Celibacy and Sexual Apathy 

My first “real” relationship in highschool, I spent 3-4 years being abused, forced to have sex nearly every day just so my stalker (“boyfriend”) in the form of “high school love” wouldn’t shank me the way he threatened to shank my male best friend at soccer practice one day. If you’re like “why did you stay for so long?” Well, a “healthy” conscious of guilt, growing up in a family that had an unequal power dynamic between gender roles, and the stereotypical “started out overly sweet and affectionate, won my emotional trust and hormonal dependency, then gradually divulged into more and more severely deranged behavior” all played a role. In fact, I used to have to take my mom’s car to visit friends I had met during track, who lived an entire county away, after he would leave my house for the day, so that when he drove by later that evening and saw mine still in the driveway, he wouldn’t be suspicious. I wasn’t allowed a myspace or facebook when it came out (which worked to my advantage because there are no embarrassing archives of me in high school) and had to tell my male friends from school they weren’t allowed to text me, because I might “stray”, which meant he’d grab and twist my arms until they were covered in bruises, but mottled with my soccer injuries you couldn’t differentiate.

… That was normal behavior to me, though. My father had ensured I had no control over the use of my own body. I watched what happened when my mother broke the rules. I watched my grandmother wince when my grandfather would angrily shout out in his sleep. I was still doing so well in sports and school, excelling as always, so why should my unchanged behavior warrant concern? Why would my parents be alarmed with the way I was treated, when doing so would highlight the trenches of flaws within their own foundation? Why should I expect, or want, anything better, or different, for myself when I didn’t know what else was out there? 

Plus, my high school boyfriend was many things and a obviously a complete psychotic nutjob above all, but there is no denying he had an incredible penis for a 15 year old to learn how to enjoy herself on. Truly, a wonderful specimen of the human body for my first “real” boyfriend. Solid girth, good length, capable of satisfying a lifetime equestrian. I was getting off, and since I was so much smarter than him, I could get around his inadequate attempts to tie me down and continued to live a Hannah Montana-esque double life of secrecy–a much longer story for a much different time.

It should really be no surprise that after years of enduring this, and even more years of deconstructing these sexual norms through several long-term, progressively healthier relationships and therapy, that I’ve now begun to struggle with my sexual identity. I can finally cringe at any reminder of what I thought was acceptable.

For the record, I have not been immune to my fair share of several unhealthy, chronic hook-ups, (in fact, I have even had to get a restraining order against one of them) but your girl appreciates her solid, reliable, I-know-what-I’m-getting dick, okay. There is a lot to be appreciated in the stability of generic, well-endowed penii as a mid-to-late 20’s woman tired of the burden of her gender. However, when I’m not in committed relationships in recent years, I tend to enter periods of complete, utter sexual apathy in lieu of even casual attempts at hook ups.

The first time, in undergrad, I cycled through a period of celibacy for almost two years while focusing on my random whim to actually see what I was capable of with track after quickly tiring of partying my freshman year. Part of that was definitely because the guy I absolutely adored (who had an amazing cock that I got to ride to my little heart’s content on and off for 8 years until about 2018 actually) transferred to Tennessee, and I didn’t care enough to find anyone else who could toss me around like the proprioception of a wrestler can, but mainly it was the “not wanting to be distracted” thing. (I tell myself, while annoyingly wondering how his dog is doing.)

Recently, I’ve been in another cycle of celibacy since May of 2019 (so roughly, what, 15-16 months?). For no reason in particular, other than “I’m not looking” and “it’s not a priority.” And whenever anyone seems so surprised by this (I suppose being capable of being sexual and sluttiness are mutually inclusive for women these days), because of the lack of clothing in my photos gracing instagram, I truly just have no patience for the explanation. 

After traveling over 5 times (woah, the privilege) to Europe (3 of those times, I was “working”, I’ll have you know), and living in Florida for 2 years, as well as the lifetime of athletic performances in my past life, I got used to being really comfortable with my body. I no longer rushed to sexualize the shape of my breasts, or the well-defined curvature of my ass in barely more than my underwear. In fact, I didn’t even think about my body when I threw on clothing that covered it. I walked down the Red light district in Amsterdam, a blonde American parting the red sea of tourists with presence alone, looking at naked girls draped across bed frames in windows and watching their eager movements, attempting to lure in the weak for a few minutes of “pleasure.” I sat absentmindedly on the beaches of La Ciotat, the pert nipples of the woman accompanying my beach chair’s neighbor out, yet on no more of a “display” than any of the men meandering around shirtless. I stared at paintings, statues, and figurines of “Feminine beauty” in Parisian, Dutch, and American museums, drinking in the subjectivity of that perception and acknowledging the cultural norms that allowed the art to exist. 

After spending time in cultures that allowed me to freely exist as who I am without judgment and with relative anonymity, cultures that didn’t value my physicality far above the rest of my assets, I began to realize how criticized I had felt my entire life. First, by my own family, then my peers, and finally, society. 

Sex, and intimacy, are one of the most difficult things that still comes so naturally to me. Even with the years of misuse and historically questionable ethics behind such acts, it is my nature to share it, to indulge it. But, I still live in a country that shames me for wanting to cavalierly discuss it at brunch with girlfriends. So, instead, I choose to flip the mental switch of apathy to “off”. If I can’t do it the way I know it’s supposed to be done, teeming with sensuality, love, passion, need, I just won’t do it at all. 

I read “The 5 Love Languages” by Dr. Gary Chapman, and, despite being relatively unamused and having more of a “no shit” moment, because anyone who has gone to therapy for years would have had that emotional insight as well (although, I guess it’s a lot quicker to learn it over the span of a few hours of reading), and was haunted by the reality that physical touch is probably one of my main love languages. It would explain why I refuse to let anyone other than those I’m super close with have physical access to me. It would explain why I would still be particularly resistant to that childhood abuse. There was comfort, though, in the knowledge that I’m fully confident, even with recognizing I physically guard myself more as a result of my childhood, that I can still allow that level of intimacy of legitimate spiritual sexual connection (shout out to that aforementioned 8 year “hook up” and the couple of others who I know I genuinely loved.) 

I, personally, can separate “sex” and “intimacy”, which is also why I am so obstinate about reducing the stigma around female sexuality, legalizing prostitution, etc, even with my history of being sexually assaulted on 3 separate occasions, states away from each other (Again, stories for another time). Preventing that has done nothing to help keep women from being objectified by society and has only increased violence towards women and allowed a country where our last election involved a choice between a rich and powerful man who sexually assaulted women or a rich and powerful women who led the publicly dehumanizing campaigns against the women her husband sexually assaulted. Both of which are reportedly attributed to a global pedophilic ring and still have significant influence in our political climate. 

Additionally, I do consider the fact that I can just “turn it off”, for years at a time, is evident of the extent of trauma tied up in it, though, or the very least, my emotional apathy, which is apparently fairly abnormal for a woman but, thanks to reddit, is reassuringly normal for the 1% of ENTJ ladies who understand my pain. The ease at which I transitioned into exploring my sexuality, even with being too scared to explore my own body personally, the lack of concern or awareness for how severely unhealthy those early relationships were, the knowledge of what to do even with no access to anything remotely similar to the playboy magazines my older brother was provided, a strict ban on all “American Pie” movies, draws the question of where in the fuck and when did I learn this stuff? If it really was all from natural bodily functions and emotions, why do we make it seem so bad? What is the point? 

Clue #7: A Sexual Identity Crisis

As a historically heterosexual female questioning my sexual identity for quite possibly the first time, it also begs the question how do I know that I am actually heterosexual? I would gladly bring in sexual partners of any gender to a trusting relationship, so does this desire for exploring the bounds of physical pleasure make me “wrong”? Does it mean I’m inherently attracted to them even if I have never given thought to how I view these potential “additions” in anything other than a sexual capacity? Plenty of other species of animals are polyamorous, so why do we assume humans must be? In Ancient Roman mythology, men took up male sexual partners after marrying. Why could I not do something similar? Why are all of the men I’m attracted to so sexually repressed that it borders on homophobia when I suggest trying something new? The fads of sexuality, at least those along the East Coast and perpetuated as “stereotypically [white] American”, are tied heavily to heterosexual marriage “norms”, and thus, legality…yet those societal acceptances wax and wane with every “revolution” or isolated civilization in history. Who am I to judge what I believe in, then, without at least trying it once? And how have we not yet learned, with the internet and freedom of information, to be much more moderate of perspective in a country founded on freedom? 

This premise, though, is far more complicated when you introduce themes of an extensive history of both physical and sexual abuse into new interactions with men. It’s extremely difficult to feel the security, companionship, and safety of a healthy relationship when my mind immediately categorizes every man into a filing cabinet of “Warning”. Every interaction with their “species” is now carefully reviewed–lest I make the same naive mistakes I made for YEARS when I “thought” I was in love before. Every accidental touch in a bar, every seemingly innocent catcall, every overlap of their body so it invades my personal space never appearing across my face as “awareness” but being mentally noted, anyway. To be fair, I’m pretty cynical towards MOST of humanity, because the average US citizen has approximately a third grade reading level, which can be a bit of a gap. So, to be clear, I tend to hold suspicion for humanity in general and not just men, we’re just focusing on men for the moment since that is the vast majority of my sexual history to date.

Wanting to enter a consensual sexual relationship to be “choked out” helps desensitize the horrific visuals of being slammed against the wall, threatened until you promise that you aren’t lying about hanging out with another guy (by a kid who got a 980 on all three sections of his SAT…meanwhile, you got a 1560 on just 2 sections…yikes). Or, how, because of your parent’s incredibly fucked up familial dynamic, you previously associated love with suspicion, control, maniacal mood swings instead of loving someone who accompanies you through the mundane activities of what actually encompasses “daily life” and now question, even with recognizing that, whether you’ll be able to healthily identify relationships moving forward? 

 What happens if your partner of choice finds out or guesses about your history, though? Let alone a history you haven’t come to terms with yourself? What happens, when, at 27, you still aren’t quite ready to combine “sexuality” and “compassion”, except through physical expression. You don’t know how. You’re re-learning as you go. 

And how can you explain that? How do you explain in adulthood that you’re investigating childhood traumas tied to your sexuality? At what point in your bumble conversation do you casually interject that the reality of your existence is crumbling around you and you’re about to embark on a mission of sexual self-discovery, so you would like the occasional use and objectification of the male body to make that a reality and offer a solid relief from your current array of silicone sex toys? Or how, despite being questionably candid, you can remain so emotionally unavailable to the receiver of the information?

How do you explain answers that you don’t, and will never, have? Nor do you particularly care to delve into because you’re just following your gut and know that you’ll figure out the right opportunities along the way? Or that, if you were a guy, you probably wouldn’t have had to worry about a lot of this? Your mind just wouldn’t even work that way? Must be nice.

An Awakening

Coming to grips with the idea that I don’t actually need to define my “sexuality” (but if I had to choose, I’d most align with pansexual), and it can just exist as curiously as it occurs, without further question, is an even bigger victory than Dolores recognizing she was capable of tearing down and reconstructing the boundaries of her own existence (to me). Although, I exist in a country where, prior to 2015, just five years ago, I would’ve had to make significant life decisions based around that definition. 

Factoring in my medical background, stigma towards the eroticism of the layers of specially differentiated cells separated into distinct layers of “blood”, “muscle”, and “skin” cloaking my body peeled away, and what remains is a young women learning how to appreciate herself for who she is, what that entails, and how she can influence the world. By physically cutting into the layers, patient after patient, within a surgical dermatology setting, to watching the concept of a “host’s” physical body being easily repaired and replaced on screen in Westworld, to crossing my own mental barriers through psychoanalytic exploration of my thought’s caverns, it became clear that there were simple, biological explanations for my behavior (and desires!), but I was made to feel ostracized by normalcy out of concern for the “taboo” labeling, much of which still existed in the medical world I was so desperate to continue forging a path in. Every male associate being assumed to be the superior by the patient when he is in the room with me, ESPECIALLY if he’s white. Every global conference where some random man would take it upon himself to share with me how “everybody will doubt your intelligence because of your beauty” after hearing your questions on a particular research topic–as if he were doing me some favor, or the irony in how he was doubting the fact that I would already know that. (I’ve watched Legally Blonde, thank you very much.) It became absurd that the most intellectual amongst us were incapable of separating the idea that one’s neural functions under one environment could exist wholly apart from the method in which a physical vessel is utilized under different conditions, and that being “professional” had to extent almost solely to repress females in the work force–whether it be criticism on the premise of dress code, extracurricular activities, or just natural sex appeal as if it was OUR fault that you were socially awkward and uncomfortable around a strong female you were also physically attracted to?  

I started connecting the realms of my life that existed in my youth as distinctly separate, yet shared larger themes. Why could I compete in a spandex leotard, running as hard as I could at a springboard, muscles clenched as I twisted, turned, and flew through the air, and have a framed high-definition copy hung up in my foyer, yet was apparently also supposed to be embarrassed if a photo I sent some random dude of the side of my body, cleverly hidden by a towel, with implications of how I wanted him to impale me, got out? Okay…congrats. It’s hot as fuck. Why are we even talking about this? Enjoy the show. I’m over 18. I’m allowed to have sex. I have more important things to concern myself with. The fact that I wouldn’t personally care about the likelihood of that happening, yet, if it were to, it would consume a considerable amount of my time, I would have to address it, it would impact my career and could even be used to punish ME, and even with being confident in myself, just the possibility of that happening contributes to the chronic stress in the background of my life is ludicrous. 

To me, there is no difference in how my body is viewed or in what capacity it is being admired by society. Whether it be sports, education, art, or sexually, I should not have to sit here and make it a topic as if it is up for discussion how I should use it. I should not have to live with the knowledge that it has been exploited likely just as much, if not more, times than it has loved. I shouldn’t have to worry about how it may be “distracting” to those paying me to use the brain it houses. I should be able to freely debut it as artistically as I wish while also being able to function as a woman with something more to offer society without that being particularly risqué.

But, I do. 

Circling back to Ghislaine… 

With each passing year, and each increase in freedom, my knowledge is reinforced that the way I was raised and the way I previously viewed my body and sexuality was not normal. Each shuddering resonation of the “Athlete A” documentary, particularly the voiceover of Kerri Strugg breaking her ankle to win gold at the 1996 Olympics in Atlanta, acknowledging that “there is a line between tough coaching and child abuse” brings me flashes of breaking my own foot in three places at a horse competition, only to be told I was “probably exaggerating” and being made to walk on it for three more days! (A real, “the show must go on” mentality.) What would my grandfather have done in WWII, had he broken his foot, after all?

Then, comes the struggle every true crime addict comes to when they realize just how close they came to being susceptible to the very crimes they are fascinated with. So, when the topic turns to the realization of the plausibility that someone within my own family may have had knowledge of or access to these pedophilic rings splashed across the front page of every newspaper, (pedophilia being one of the dark threats to national security), these aren’t just statistics like also being a woman running alone on a bike path on a random afternoon. These are, instead, overlapping themes of jet setting around the world, a myriad of politics, militant, finances, power. The places and circuits and lifestyle of stuff you are just discovering that could very easily have been taking place around your naive self your entire life becomes overwhelming.

 You weren’t shielded from anything, you were hidden from reality. 

It wasn’t sustainable. 

Suddenly, the therapist’s office visits, the recurrent nightmares since I was little, the seeming insanity in memories of sleeping over the Pentagon “just for fun”, driving in the Gators around the corridors after literally being smuggled through security (this was pre 9/11), being introduced to my father’s bosses, all of the memories I was now struggling with in the identity crisis that is trying to find your place in the world in your late 20’s became that much more suspicious because I opened the Pandora’s Box that is “why do I struggle so much with my sexual identity as a self reflective, more-than-modestly confident, traditionally heteronormative woman?” 

Given that I have adopted a policy in recent years of refusing to have any version of a relationship with my biological father any longer, coupled with a Butterfly Effect of gradual disdain starting in middle school and the aforementioned technology boom from the first post, is it really my fault that the timeline becomes suspicious when I revisit old memories. Am I truly to blame for questioning the nature of my reality? Wouldn’t this have been inevitable at some point? Careful, logical analysis–the thing I’m rewarded in doing within every other facet of my life these days is what I’ve been told was a good thing?

Flipping through my family’s old photo albums, I am reliant solely on my own experience to quantify the glimpses of visuals that replay against the blackened screen of my forehead as my eyes flicker across the black and white copies lying on my bed in front of me. Revisiting how I perceived those events at the time and the subsequent method in which they shaped my life, how they still contribute to some illogical sense of guilt well into my adult life, has since come under extensive scrutiny. Would I even trust anyone else’s first-hand account of these events, if I were to get them? Particularly with my family’s history of the method at which they “handle” things and the light in which they shrug things off? My mother still reveals little tid bits of reality she hid from me, thinking she was doing me some insane type of favor. She recently admitted she knew my high school boyfriend was insane and was just worried he was going to try to kill me if she actually kept him out of our house. I tried to break up with the kid dozens of times, but she taught at the neighboring high school that he went to and would always talk about how sorry he was and how she viewed him as her son. I had to live years of my life in fear that got increasingly worse and worse because my mom knew how insane this kid was and decided to keep postponing the issue until I could move away for college versus holding him accountable in any kind of legal or even parental aspect? Sounds very similar to how the USA likes to handle our problems, so I’m not sure if I can blame her. 

Suddenly the naivety of my childhood began to peel away with every investigation into my past. My entire life, I had been suffocated under activity after activity, because I genuinely LOVE to be busy. But, what is that necessity for business routed in? As of late, I opt for the comfort of others and solitude of the natural landscape. So why am I still so anxious? Why do I feel the pressure of living up to the sacrifices of “overcoming” something? 

To date, I’ve “overcome” a lot more than the alluded familial dynamics. A tornado that decimated my hometown into a warzone, being held up at gunpoint, being threatened with a gun (on a separate occasion), having to seek out two restraining orders and walk into that courtroom by myself to hold the person who sexually assaulted me and harassed me in my apartment and the one who threatened me with a gun accountable, a long familial history of alcoholics, a family that “didn’t talk about it” because of our complex, deep military background, a local sniper threat and mass shooting drills in elementary school, numerous suicides and tragic deaths across each of my different friend groups between grades 7-10 so I went to roughly 8 funerals over a two year span in my adolescence, my biological father withdrawing into himself and mentally abandoning our family simultaneously, watching the way he talked to everyone else through the exact opposite of rose-colored glasses–seeing his “true nature” at home, the stark contrast between caring about things when they were under a spotlight and having any actual empathy towards your own family in the shadows. And the list continues growing, because these are the realities of life. 

I’ve “overcome” my stubborn resolution to never be a different person to the world and back at home for this reason. Instead, I have a methodologically presented array of ~*~layers~*~. Donkey (any Shrek fans here? …Who am I kidding…who ISN’T a Shrek fan?) can laugh, but much like an onion, I present my strictest, most utilitarian self to the world upon first meeting. The grittiest layer, harsh, covered in a little bit of dirt (after all, it doesn’t hurt anyone, remember?) With time, and effort, though, you get lucky enough to see the inner gooeyness that is inside. The guarded, beautiful light that strategically kept hidden from the world. The Evenstar of my soul, expressed in the activities I invest my time in, the talents I cultivate. Slowly, you come to realize the softness behind those layers. And not just a mildly appealing softness, but a soul so all-encompassing, flooding warmth into every crevice around it, that it’s met with a fear in the world because of the strangeness of its warmth. Characterized as a raging fire of destruction instead of a wave of uplifting magic, the perspective is disrupted and misconstrued as anger to those who can’t grasp it. 

And what, then, is the anger being misconstrued from? The truth is that all of those events that I’ve “overcome”, every visual horror carefully preserved in the archives of my photographic mind are ever present, available at my whim to be revisited. Rushed to the forefront of my mind following a traumatic car accident involving my tire popping on the interstate, spinning several meters into a treeline, I watched the history of my life replayed as simply as every movie frame during a death sequence. Only, when my car finally came to rest against the 6-7th tree I hit, I hadn’t died. 

Not even two years later, I finally have both the time and ability, in the form of a salaried summer vacation, for the first time in my life to actually just exist in comfort. Not worrying about where my next rent check is coming from, not spending the majority of my time doing monotonous task after monotonous task for a miniscule fraction of the money under the guise of “higher education”, compromising my finances at the risk of freedom, not being forced to work to live. Finally being able to, and having the opportunity, to revisit what talents, goals, desires out of the many, many that I’ve accumulated, are actually mine. 

Such a seemingly simple task if only it wasn’t shrouded with the dread of confronting years of repressed memories. And then confronting and struggling with the fact that I have still managed to flourish in a world that was not created for me, but certainly allows me more privileges than most, only to coexist across the multiple realms with no way to explain how each aspect of “you” is a great deal larger than the individual sum of its parts. 

It’s a struggle learning to balance needing to recognize and disclose the oppression when your entire life your own opinion has only been meaningful in the most superficial sense. In any serious context, your voice, knowledge, demeanor was always meant to be silent unless spoken to outside of a purely academic context. 

You’ve always had to justify your actions. People never take your extensive, meticulously cultivated education as fact–yet they’ll google it themselves to make sure, and only then acknowledge, in a tone of surprise, that you were right. 

Taking back your voice, however insane or complicated or delicate those thoughts may be, is important for healing. 

_____________________________________________

EPILOGUE:

Prior to quarantine, I’d been developing a novel that dives further into the events listed above and how they help me connect with the communities around me. With the global pandemic finally acknowledged by our national government, though never sufficiently addressed, it seemed imperative to create a space where I could delve into creative writing on the topics of passion woven into the news. It felt strange having two completely separate works of writing that I wanted to eventually put forward, however, particularly with the stigma of what it could mean to my family. 

Then, in August, Taylor Swift released her latest beauty on the world that is “Folklore” and she mentioned feeling as if “you should project the art you make onto the world” (or something along those lines). 

If I always wait until I hit certain milestones or goals to take initiative on things, then they may never happen. I know, first hand, how quickly the timeline of your life can significantly change, so I started following more impulsive whims. My “story” is a part of who I am, and, while this is certainly a satirical and dramatized version, it is also how I’ve interpreted the world as a woman (and none of what I’ve said is a lie). I don’t want to be ashamed or afraid of the things that have shaped me. I also don’t want to hide behind a curtain and feel some political necessity to present a different version of myself to the world when we as humans should encourage growth and learning and retrospection. 

This will be the last of the Ghislaine themed chapters of my familial dive for now. The blog will transition into public opinion, investigative journalist/epidemiologist pieces as I see fit.

In other words, I will do whatever the fuck I want.