Thank you sincerely for following my blog. ❤ ~Sarah *Davs
“Not being assaulted is not a privilege to be earned through the judicious application of personal safety strategies. A woman should be able to walk down the street at 4 in the morning in nothing but her socks, blind drunk, without being assaulted, and I, for one, am not going to do anything to imply that she is in any way responsible for her own assault if she fails to Adequately Protect Herself. Men aren’t helpless dick-driven maniacs who can’t help raping a vulnerable woman. It disrespects EVERYONE.”-Emily Nagoski
When I was 12 I was raped by a guy in his 30’s. At the time, age 12, I didn’t realize the difference in mentality between child and adult, and naively believed that I was mentally and emotionally on par with my rapist. We met in a park while I was babysitting and he was with a group of children from a daycare. He asked for my phone number, knowing full well my age. We later met in front of my house, I was wearing a short skirt and high heels, I got in his car and he took me to his house where he instructed me to tell his roommate that I was 16, because that’s better(?)
I honestly just thought he was a cute guy that I wanted to be around, and didn’t predict him attempting to do anything physical with me, please remember that I was 12. I had no idea what kind of situation I was putting myself in.
About two months later I was late, and scared. I told my brother I was afraid I was pregnant and unbeknownst to me, he went to the police, and also every bar in town looking to beat the motherfucker down.
I remember the police trying to get information out of me, at the time (12) I blamed myself for wearing a short skirt and high heels. I remember feeling immense guilt over the idea that someone might go to jail or prison because *I wore a short skirt, and high heels* I remember an officer telling me that, even if I were naked it still wasn’t a good enough excuse for a man to have sex with me against my will. I however, was unconvinced and went on blaming myself for years.
I cried, I said no, I tried to push him away, but I still blamed myself because of what I was wearing. I believed I was asking for it.
As an adult, I know it’s bullshit. THIS is rape culture. THIS is why I need feminism. Men have just as much ability to control their libido as women. Men do not have stronger, uncontrollable urges. Rapist’s suffer from weak minds NOT strong, overpowering dicks.
Every time a girl is sent home from school because her shirt was cut too low, or jeans too tight, her entire class is taught that a hard dick is her fault. Every time a girl was sexually harassed, assaulted, or raped, and what she was wearing, drinking, did she have a reputation, comes into consideration, we are taught that a hard dick is our fault.
It’s a sick joke to say women and girls bear the responsibility of a hard dick when we have nothing to do with the body or brain that owns and controls said apparatus. Teach boys self control, teach boys they are stronger than an urge, stop underestimating men. Men, manly men, have 100% control of their “wondering eyes” and urges. We know better, and we need to speak up for women and girls that have internalized sexism, who will be sexually harassed, assaulted, raped, and blame themselves.
You may believe that a woman who is drunk, walking naked in the streets at 4am is asking for it… well, so did I.
Three weeks after my diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) I sit alone in my studio apartment hovering my finger over my keyboard. My screen set to Google search. I’m hesitant to type, terrified of learning what behaviors I display that are the result of this new, to me, mental illness.
I was diagnosed with bipolar in 1993. I was so young that I never had a grieving period for the person I thought I was pre-illness, I had not yet gotten to the point of defining myself. Throughout the years, I’ve lived my life through the lens of someone who is bipolar. It is not who I am, but a distinctly undeniable part of what makes me me. It never scared me because it was always there.
I struggle with Agoraphobia, I have PTSD, and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. But this (BPD) feels different. All of the mentioned illnesses I’ve aquired were undeniable and obvious when they struck. When I became ill with each new disorder I still knew who I was, I still understood my own triggers, ticks, and quirks. I was still there, sometimes barely recognizable, but I never lost hold of this basic understanding I’ve formed about who I am as a unique, individual person.
Borderline Personality Disorder is not blatantly obvious, if you do not know the hallmarks to look for. It’s a lot like bipolar, not in all the symptoms, but in the stigmas. People generally understand anxiety and rarely fault you for it. PTSD is widely talked about and almost never seen as a personal fail. Agoraphobia, is basically the need to isolate, or fear of public spaces, again, not seen as a personal fail. Borderline though, like bipolar, comes with a lot of assumption and judgment. They are both often misunderstood and treated as a personality flaw.
This new diagnosis makes me feel like I don’t know anymore, who I am. I learned for the first time in over twenty years that there are behaviors I show that are the result of an illness that I know nothing about. I could not stop crying when I got home from seeing my therapist who confirmed what my boyfriend had suspected and even researched for six months prior. He kept saying, in hopes to comfort me “nothing has changed, you’re still the same person you were before the diagnosis” but, what I could not put into words was that, maybe nothing has changed, but everything is different. I may still be the person I was five, ten, even fifteen years ago, but how I think of myself has shifted. I feel upside down, as though the grasp I thought I had, of my own identity, was false. As if I have to relearn what and why I act the way I do, and learn new ways to cope, deal, or curb actions I thought were under my control, or in the very least within my understanding.
I reached out to someone I trust, who in an attempt to comfort me advised that I pay no attention to the new diagnosis. As if ignoring it would somehow make everything ok. I would love to ignore it, but this is not something I can unlearn. Now that it is confirmed, that I have this illness, it is my responsibility to understand it, because how else can I get better or learn to navigate myself if I deny the root of my behaviors?
I don’t know. I like to wrap up my writings like a present, you untie the bow, open the box, and have some sort of satisfactory ending like a shiny new toy. But today, it’s like I didn’t have time to buy wrapping paper. So here it is, in a paper bag, the price tag still hanging off the side. I don’t have an easy way to end this post because I am still grieving for a perception of myself that is now gone. Maybe next time I will have had a revelation, good news, a shiny new toy. But for now all I have to give is the truth, and it isn’t pretty. ~Davs
Image by Davs at http://www.Davs.Etsy.com
I’ve been ashamed of myself, for months, maybe longer. Ashamed because I have not lived up to the person I thought I was going to be by this time, after making some life changes a little over a year ago.
It’s hard to look at yourself in the mirror and not find everything wrong, when you are disappointed in yourself. Guilt, I have too much. Emotional issues I believed had been laid to rest, reawakened, unexpected, like fast zombies, because we all know zombies are supposed to be slow.
I am ok though. I am managing. I’m not on top of the world. But I am not at the bottom. I guess being bipolar for over twenty years has left me confused as to what it is to be ok. Before the medication, before the therapist, before the psychiatrist, before I began seeking help for my mood swings, it was either or and no inbetweens. Either singing from proverbial hilltops, or swinging from a metaphorical noose.
What it is to be OK, I am learning only now. Learning to be OK with being OK? That’s where I fall. I’m supposed to be this great mom, artist, friend, writer, individual who breaks glass ceilings. I’m supposed to have an active social life, always adding to my contacts, painting soup bowls for charity. Never sweat pants, never three days with no shower, never sitting alone in a stairwell crying because I can’t come to terms with just being OK. Just here, living, breathing.
But here, this is the thing, I am here, I’m alive, I’m breathing and I’ve got to learn to be OK with not always being on top of my game. What good does it do me to pick myself apart? So what? So what if my art isn’t selling right now? So what if I didn’t take an extra two minutes to apply mascara today? So yeah, maybe I’m not wearing a cape and scaling buildings. But why did I ever think I was supposed to be a superhero? This isn’t a movie. Nobody can be great all the time. I catch a voice inside me saying “at least you knew how you felt before. Not like this, where nothing is extreme” I admit, being medicated has been a journey. Nobody wants to want to die, but when you find yourself always at the extreme end of a feeling there is some comfort in knowing exactly how you feel. Not having that intense emotion all the time leaves me confused, to be honest. Am I happy? I’m not laughing hysterically. Am I sad? I’m not making plans to kill myself. I mean, that is strange, right? That I don’t know that I’m OK. That I have to remind myself that I’m OK.
Please don’t misunderstand this: I’m glad I got help. I’m glad for this. This new reality of being OK. But it’s new to me, and alarming at times. It confuses me, it leaves me a lot of room for thought. Before I got help, very little thought was put into some of my biggest life decisions. And I paid dearly for that. I was so fervent in whatever opinion, or feeling, or belief I had, before I got help, that I missed out on a valid reality; just breathing, just being alive, just being here. My dreams come from that time in my life, I like to call it the ‘Hot Air Balloon Era’ and they are so big, I’m embarrassed to tell you. And maybe a big part of what makes this new reality of simply being OK, so hard. Because the urgency of my emotions did not have time to just be OK.
Yes, I am not winning any marathons. But I’m not burning any bridges either, and I need to appreciate it.
I am here, I’m alive, I’m breathing.
I’m here, I’m alive, I’m breathing.
I’m here, I’m alive, I’m breathing.
You have to admit, there’s something very beautiful about that.
It’s sad when people so quickly say that suicide is selfish. People looking to take their own lives are suffocating internally. Often they convince themselves that the world would be better without them. They are victims of lies believed, fed by negative messages coming everywhere from society, abuse, depression, themselves, and even bullied in. But not selfish.
My step brother killed himself 13 years ago. How my whole family and I wish he had reached out before choosing a permanent “solution” to a temporary problem. The easy thing would be to call him selfish, because I’m still here, and have witnessed the repeated tidal waves of pain he caused in all that love him. But I will never blame a victim. I miss you Christopher. Your pictures sit by our family’s photos in our parent’s living room, but you never will. And it breaks my heart over and over.
Please, if you think the world would be better off without you, understand that you are needed and wanted to be here. If you are suffering, know that you are not alone. Realize that no matter how low you feel, there is always tomorrow. Recognize that if you take your life today, tomorrow won’t have a chance. If you are sinking, know that there is help and hope. Please be aware that someone does care, even people that you don’t even know care. You only get one life. Please stay.