Things Trixie Loves
Posts tagged "sexual assault"
TW Rape

I don’t know if rape jokes encourage rape culture. I don’t care. You still shouldn’t tell them.

Statistically, if you have told a rape joke to a group of more than five people, one of the people you told it to was a rape survivor, possibly of multiple rapes. They will not necessarily disclose this to you; rape apologism is endemic in society and most rape survivors are cautious about whom they tell. Some may even be too ashamed of their rape to admit it to anyone, or because of rape-minimizing narratives like “men can’t be raped” and “I consented to oral, so I couldn’t have been raped” may not admit it even to themselves. The fact remains: if you’ve told dozens of rape jokes in your life, then you have almost certainly told a joke that minimizes or trivializes rape in front of a survivor.

And if you put as your Facebook status “I totally raped at Halo today” for your two hundred Facebook friends to see, statistically, you have just reminded thirty-three people of one of the worst experiences of their entire lives.

To describe how well you did at a video game.

Good job!

An Addendum, On Rape Jokes.  (via transformfeminism)

THIS.

I seriously don’t get why so many people—including my best friends, who know exactly what I’ve been through because I’ve sat down and told them—insist on making rape jokes in front of me, or using that word for anything other than what it’s intended.

Because I really don’t want to relive this each and every day. Okay? Okay.

(via subtletysmyweakness)

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(via vicktorina)

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Body Love (Trigger Warning: Body Image)

I hate my body.

I make myself nauseous when I see myself. My body sickens me. My body disgusts me. I disgust me. 

I have internalized so much anger and shame and guilt and hatred that it’s become a part of me.

I am disgusting. 

I want to take pictures of my body and post them here. I want to scream as loud as I can that I am beautiful, that this fucked-up society that helped create me hasn’t broken me, that being beaten and raped hasn’t broken me, that being called a hippo, elephant, and cow hasn’t broken me, that you abusive misogynistic ex-boyfriends and lovers who have placed all of my worth solely on my body are wrong—I am and always will be more than how I look; my body is the least important part of me and I refuse to let you redefine me as simply an object. I want to shout until my voice is gone that you’re hurting me, Goddamnit, and by pointing out how fat and gross I am—well, maybe you’re trying to help, but it just hurts.

But I am disgusting. I have a double chin, a roll of fat on my neck. My torso is all fat: breasts, stomach, ass. I used to look pregnant. I don’t anymore; now it’s quite clear that I’m just fat. I’m cartoon-character, Harry-Potter’s-aunt, balloon fat.

While I was walking on the sidewalk today the wind was blowing blossoms off the trees. I want to be like that: lithe and graceful, thin and pretty. 

I’m not. I don’t think that I ever will be, but I certainly am not now.

And for fuck’s sake, I want to be one of those beautiful girls who really believes that her beauty comes from something other than the pure fetishization and objectification of her body. I want to be one of those wonderful women who truly understands how fucked our system of beauty is, that there is nothing wrong with looking the way she does, that she is gorgeous and has the right to be so.

But I’m not. I’m not. I base my worth on my body and my body is hideous.

I don’t want to feel like this. I want to have worth. I want to love myself. I want to practice what I preach, damnit. But I don’t and maybe I can’t. 

I think the worst part is feeling shame for feeling shame. My entire political and philosophical mind recognizes that the way I feel about my body and self is unhealthy. Feminism teaches me to love myself the way I am, because everyone is beautiful. Islam teaches me to love myself the way I am, because Allah created me thus and anything created by Allah is holy, sacred, and worthy of love. 

So many counter-culture images tell me to love myself regardless of how I fit into the average female ideal. So I’m 255 lbs. So I’m a size 22. So I’m heavier than anyone in my entire family. I need to love myself.

One of the men who means the most to me, one of the men who is honest about me, took me aside the other day when it was quite clear that I was really loathing myself. He tried to insist there was nothing wrong with me. There was nothing wrong with the way I looked. Our ideal woman is based on some really fucked-up principles, and 100, 200, 300 years ago, I would basically be the ideal. That I’m beautiful, and it’s our society that’s fucked. 

But I’m still constantly turned down based on how I look. I’m still constantly judged based on my weight. The people who try and make me like myself are the same people who think sleeping with me—as I now look—would mean they’d be ridiculed by our friends (who are my friends too, supposedly).

So society tells me to hate the way I look And then society tells me that I should love myself no matter how I look. So then I feel guilt and shame and hatred based on how fat I am, and then I feel guilt and shame and hatred for feeling badly about how I look. It’s this spiral of self-loathing and I’m stuck in it and completely unsure of how to get out.

I hate myself, and I hate myself for hating myself. It’s pretty messed up

(And if someone drops the word “Rubenesque,” I will slap you. That word’s become a cop-out, at least in my life, to make me feel momentarily better for being ugly).

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Friend of Mine

Trigger warning: sexual assault, domestic violence, PTSD, self-harm, ED

I’m feeling pretty lost. So many things feel futile or worthless or broken.

I no longer feel safe at home. Cars driving by start me panicking, but leaving the house feels so unsafe too; there’s so many more people when I leave. I have to go to work for 1 hour tomorrow, and I’ve been panicking to the point of regression just thinking about it. I need to get out of here, it feels like. Out of this house, this workplace. Out of this town. Somewhere I can’t be found. Somewhere KJS doesn’t exist. Somewhere where I’m not constantly looking over my shoulder in fear.

I have a place lined up. A possible apartment, a possible source of income. A place I know I will feel safe. But my Mum’s pretty insistent on having a car as well as a license. I don’t think I can afford rent, food, bills, and a car in this new place. So instead I feel not just triggered constantly but also stuck. Needless to say, I’m pretty much constantly on edge of crying, regression, and defensively striking out. I do not like this about myself. It is not an emotional place conducive to survival.

My body image and eating issues are pretty much out of control. I’m cycling between compulsive hoarding/bingeing (how the hell do you spell that?) and fasting worse than I can ever remember. And I hate my body. I hate it. If I could cut it apart without actually causing severe injury I’d do it in a heartbeat. I visited friends for the first time in 10 months. It was great and for the most part just what I needed. But some things got said that I just really didn’t need to hear, and got said multiple times, in public, and I’m having a really hard time NOT reacting to them. It’s tough when someone says “you’re not my type,” but it’s acceptable. I mean, blondes aren’t my type. Doesn’t mean they’re not pretty. It’s harder when you hear from the two people you’re attracted to that, “if you were thinner and prettier,” they’d date you or fuck you in a heartbeat. I mean, to someone with self-esteem and body image issues, that’s hard. Fuck, it’s hard no matter who you are. It’s worse when they continue, though. It’s worse when it becomes “if you were thinner and prettier” I’d be all over you, but as it stands now, I can’t sleep with you because “my friends would never let me live it down.” Fuck it. Your friends are (were?) my friends. And two people (my two best friends, the two men I love, the two people who matter so much out of all of my friends) both think that I’m so ugly that to be physically attracted to me would make them outcasts. I don’t care who you are. Even if you don’t have an EDNOS, that’s a pretty fucking damaging thing to hear. Five times. In public. It is not helpful that the only guy who has found me attractive was abusive. I don’t ever want to eat anymore. So I end up spending my time on pro-ANA sites and fasting.

I want to love myself and have forgotten how to.

“Don’t look back; the past is just that.”

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You have to question a cinematic culture which preaches artistic expression, and yet would support a decision that is clearly a product of a patriarchy-dominant society, which tries to control how women are depicted on screen. The MPAA is okay supporting scenes that portray women in scenarios of sexual torture and violence for entertainment purposes, but they are trying to force us to look away from a scene that shows a woman in a sexual scenario, which is both complicit and complex. It’s misogynistic in nature to try and control a woman’s sexual presentation of self. I consider this an issue that is bigger than this film. … There is something very distorted about this reality that they’ve created, which is that it is OK to torture women on screen. Any kind of violence towards women in a sexual scenario is fine. But give a woman pleasure? No way. Not a chance. That’s pornography.

Ryan Gosling, actor and feminist, in a letter protesting the NC-17 rating of Blue Valentine. The rating was based on one consensual sex scene, in which he goes down on Michelle Williams. (via ladiebear)

Let’s bring this back. 

Word.

(via itscandidlycara)

(via eloquentandbrave)

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Oklahoma's Forced Ultrasound Abortion Law Ruled Unconstitutional →

It violates medical ethics by forcing doctors to perform medically unnecessary procedures and discounting women’s ability to make personal health decisions without the government’s interference.

“The court has resoundingly affirmed what should not be a matter of controversy at all — that women have both a fundamental right to make their own choices about their reproductive health, and that government has no place in their decisions,” said Nancy Northup, president and CEO of the Center for Reproductive Rights.

Finally some good news. At least for the moment, it’s no longer legal to rape women seeking abortions in Oklahoma (and for those of you saying it’s not rape? Fuck off. If the woman chooses not to consent to having something shoved into her vagina, it’s rape. Go read Oklahoma’s sexual assault and rape laws; I have. This counts as rape in OK, and most other states as well).

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The following day, I attended a workshop about preventing gender violence, facilitated by Katz. There, he posed a question to all of the men in the room: “Men, what things do you do to protect yourself from being raped or sexually assaulted?”

Not one man, including myself, could quickly answer the question. Finally, one man raised his hand and said, “Nothing.” Then Katz asked the women, “What things do you do to protect yourself from being raped or sexually assaulted?” Nearly all of the women in the room raised their hand. One by one, each woman testified:

“I don’t make eye contact with men when I walk down the street,” said one.
“I don’t put my drink down at parties,” said another.
“I use the buddy system when I go to parties.”
“I cross the street when I see a group of guys walking in my direction.”
“I use my keys as a potential weapon.”

The women went on for several minutes, until their side of the blackboard was completely filled with responses. The men’s side of the blackboard was blank. I was stunned. I had never heard a group of women say these things before. I thought about all of the women in my life — including my mother, sister and girlfriend — and realized that I had a lot to learn about gender.

Why I Am A Male Feminist (via meggannn)

Side note:  For me, I do all these things.  And if there are people I do not know at a party, I might not drink at all.  

(via clgomalley)

I’m lonely and desperately want to make some friends, and start dating again. I don’t, because I’m too stuck in this trying-to-protect-myself-from-being-raped mode. And here’s the thing that really fucks with me: It’s not only expected of me to be in that mode, it’s actually probably a good idea. I’d rather be alone for the rest of my life than be in a situation where I could get raped again. 

(via clgomalley)

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