IDENTIFYING THE ABUSER

Disclaimer: This post contains issues relating to sexual assault. If you feel that you will be triggered by this post, please close the page.

THE NEGOTIATED KINKY DINNER DATE

I was sitting at the table in the restaurant. My date has gone to the bathroom for the third time that evening. We had agreed together that there would be themes of D/S that we could explore. It was also agreed that dinner would be paid for by him and we would see how things felt when we were together.

I sat alone, eating my meal, waiting for him to return. Something inside me didn’t feel right. I told myself that the fear causing my tribal beating heart was nerves or stress since it was my first date with a man in a long while. In truth it was a red flag and several of them caught my attention. Many times I had the urge to pay for my own meal, and head home. Being the forgiving person that I am even after experiencing many abusive connections before, I thought it down and told myself it was anxiety at a new experience and I gave this person the benefit of the doubt. I ignored my intuition.

The voice continued to grow, steeped in warnings. He was a nerdy guy, a studying teacher; he was someone I wanted to like. He could hold a conversation. Looked decent, and wasn’t overtly creepy. I just knew I didn’t like him sexually. I thought we could salvage a friendship, I was fascinated in his life and his choice to teach so he came back, sat down and asked me multiple times if I was done eating, because he was and he was ready to go. The voice was screaming yes, let’s go. Only for other reasons, my survival skills were kicking in. I was getting ready to obey to save face.

He paid for the bill, and we left to go to my house. I asked him to come over, I made a choice and I decided that if we were in a different environment maybe he would loosen up a bit and we could sit still long enough to enjoy a conversation.

ENTER THE BEDROOM

“Consenting to being in your room doesn't constitute consent to any of these things. You can only know if someone consents to something by asking if they want to do that thing.”

Ten minutes later we were in my bedroom. I asked him if he wanted to just lie down and chat for a while, and he agreed. I lay down and he attempted to hold me. I thought we could sit up and chat about what had brought us together. He continued to move around me, kissing me, touching me, even though I told him to stop. He did after a while and I got of the bed. I took a breather and told him that I would be happy to watch him pleasure himself, but that I was not interested in being sexual with him at all. He said he was fine with that, and I lay back down on my bed. He didn’t listen, he got handsy, told me everything was fine. He towered over me and positioned himself so that he was on top and began to grope me.

I lay there, not speaking, disassociating from my body. My body began to feel again after a few minutes and I asked him to stop, then again, then again and then finally when I said NO REALLY STOP. He stopped. He gave me this look, and for the first time I face him head on and saw that his eyes were glossy, and he was panting. He looked out of it. More than that, he looked dangerous.

Alarm bells sounded. I turned over and pressed my face into the pillow as my breathing became laboured. When he tried to come near me I told him i was having a panic attack and that it wasn’t a good idea for him to come closer, to move, to give me some breathing room. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me closer, rubbed himself against me. Telling me I was OKAY.

I should have told him to leave. I should have yelled out to my housemate. I should have called the police. I was scared. I had asked him to stop and he hadn’t. That only meant one thing. He was choosing not to listen and from experience I knew that when someone doesn’t want to listen there is rarely a chance to get them to stop and do so. Instead I lay there as he finished himself off, put his clothes on then left. I couldn’t move, didn’t want to. I thought if he got off and left then it would be over and I wanted it to be over.

Sadly, this wasn’t the first time I have experienced sexual assault, and yet it didn’t even register what was happening to me. It’s like someone took my choice, and voice cord out of my body and it was running out of battery the further he pushed my no buttons.

What made me continue onwards when I knew that I was being assaulted? Why did my mind separate from my body? Why did I give in when inside the voice was screaming for me to stop? Why did I remain silent?

“Many sexual assault victims don't say anything during their assault because they're in shock or don't want to further provoke their perpetrators or don't feel like they have a choice.”

THE AFTERMATHS – A.K.A MY EYES OPENED AND I REALISED I’D BEEN ASSAULTED

When he left the house my housemate alert to my worry came in to see how I was feeling. I had the tears, they were streaming, and the words were there in my throat. I tried to find them. I let them roll around in my mind. Rape – Abuse – Control – Dehumanized – Objectified – Non-Consent they wouldn’t come out.

 Later I would come to justify it by reminding myself that I had engaged in kinky dynamics. That he was a submissive and I had controlled some aspects of our play as negotiated; Negotiated being the operative and pivotal word. What we had discussed, what I would do had largely been negotiated. He had asked me numerous times to employ the kinky techniques we had discussed. I consented to that because I knew he enjoyed it, he had asked specifically for it, and after talking about it he had agreed to them. I did not agree to being touched. I did not agree to being abused. I did not agree to being disrespected and yet it took me a few more days of thinking, and reading and journaling to realise my reaction to the sexual assault.  I could dress it up anyway I wanted to deny it. That is how powerful the mind is. The reality was I had been sexually assaulted; again.

It had happened and my reaction needed to be understood, not suppressed. The fact that I have experienced it so many times in my life, sexual and non-sexual abuse was a red warning flag that something was not right in my shadow lands. I treated it as common. I brushed it off and let him walk free. I let whatever secrets I told him or the fact that I engaged in kink be the thing he ‘had over me’ even though he has nothing over me. 

Why did I do that, and where did I go in my mind to find that acceptable?

When I confronted him, he felt he had done nothing wrong.

 I wanted to call the police, or talk to someone about it. I want someone to call him out on his assault and get him to admit he needs to take responsibility and I would feel justified and happy, but I don’t imagine it would make a difference, because just like his conversation, his tell tale comment throughout the night “everything’s fine” “ don’t worry about it” I don’t feel in this instance it would change a damn thing. Which is sad, and it makes me wonder where does that leave me?

It leaves me aware. I never knew that it ran this deep. How I disconnected and held this belief that I was weaker, lesser than a man/woman who felt they could abuse me, using their control and false entitlement to gain what they needed sexually and emotionally.

I always step into the world with strength, and assertiveness and yet time and time again when confronted with the same energy I have fed this horrid community of men who think it is okay to degrade, and abuse women/men. I realised that although IT WAS NOT MY FAULT, it is my responsibility now to decide what I am feeding, and what container I am living inside that would allow this to occur.

It is time that I confront the shadows of Abuse. Both the abusive tendencies that I may hold in myself and those inflicted upon me by the experiences that I have had. It is time for me to have a voice, stand strong and learn to be proud of myself as a woman, to speak up for my rights, to say no with the safety that it will be respected and to not feed, nor tolerate rape culture.

Some may think that I let him get away with it.That I am weak for not going to the police or for wanting to let it be, heal, and recover from it. I thank you for your witnessing. I thank you for being here to share with this post. I thank you for hearing my voice, because even though I chose not to report, I am reporting now. I am giving myself a voice. I am speaking to all the women who have been abused. I am not hiding. I am not suppressing this. It is real and it did happen and I am not letting it happen again.

SPEAK UP – GIVE YOURSELF A VOICE – CONSENT IS YOUR RIGHT

If you feel like you have been abused speak to someone. Write to someone. Give yourself a voice. Even if it is painful, don’t lock it away. Don’t justify what has happened no matter what situation brought you to it.  If you do nothing else, open your mouth and share your experience. Be part of the change, the shift. I know it will feel like someone is ripping you into shreds – face that shadow. Face what choices you made and know that sexual assault is not a choice that you made.

QUOTES IN THIS POST WHERE REFFERENCED FROM THIS FANTASTIC BLOG POST I FOUND ABOUT CONSENT

Consent - Seven things you might think are consent that aren't

WFT IS VOICE - The Journey Begins - Writing Series

When it comes to fiction I’ve always been uncomfortable with describing the voice of my characters, or what voice means. I’m an intuitive writer for the most part  I listen, I write, I pull some Tarot cards to get me started on a theme or a topic and let my characters do the talking

I do the same when I am journaling. I wait to centre myself then listen for the ‘person’ inside of me that needs to do the talking or ranting or who’s screaming to write poetry. Usually it doesn’t take me long to get into the rhythm of the voice that wants to talk. Sometimes I have to sweet talk it out of its cave, or take a backseat while the voice pretends to be someone else, and I sit there tsking and clicking my fingers.

“Nuh-uh, that ain’t you. I ain’t buying that bullshit Drew.”

Why then does it seem so hard for me and many other writers to pin-point what voice actually means? You can see it, hear it, write it, and when asked to explain it, or write about it, or hell think about it for longer than it takes for a kettle to boil the old mush dump just shrivels up like walnut left out in the winter with its shell removed. It’s uncomfortable to look at. You know it’s a nut, but what nut and what the fuck does it mean really? Why is it even important?

When I started University I had a number of excellent teachers who shared multiple messages, read from various books, recommended passages to read and held classes and seminars on voice. I grew a little more confident in my ability to establish that is was made up of lexicon, and diction, style, choice and P.O.V and that inside those P.O.V the voice of one character could change or not change depending on the piece of writing I was working on. It got me thinking, as a Journal writer and a Non-Fiction writer for my blog how those parts of voice also factor into me as a person, and how I express myself, with  my characters in the fictional worlds I create and  how I do so on paper in my shadow work, tarot work, and personal posts.

It is there, my voice is always there. Unique and authentic each time I write. I can see me. Can you see me?

Would you want or even expect that a page from my journal, an essay for University or a blog post share the same voice, my voice? A voice you could tell without my name being attached to it was intrinsically and intuitively me?

(Image Pinterest)

That leads me onto the deeper questions around my right to change my voice or the essence of it, and whether it would still be me. What do you think?

Does each piece of writing give me the freedom to create, dissect and express the persona’s that live inside of me that comes out in my fiction and non-fiction?

Am I being inauthentic if I step inside a persona to tell a particular tale in a personal essay or memoir? If one of my stories centres around my life as an Ex- Dominatrix, while another on my favourite authors, and the next oracle card recommendations would I be denying my true self if I shifted diction, lexicon and p.o.v to either distance myself or get right up in your kitchen for a tea time confessional?

What about when I am taking on the creatrix mother role and birthing voice into my characters? Do I have an obligation to step away from the character and listen to their authentic voice speak when they too have their own complex persona’s just like me?

How do I give them that voice, and how does their voice dictate the way I write and you read my stories? How do they dictate your own?

These are all questions that have sprung from opening the damn box on Voice. The mysterious, hard to pin down, opinionated ‘technique’ as a storyteller and the pivotal part of us all that tells us apart, that helps to educate, brand, debate and develop a personal and collective power.

I want to explore this. I want to look at what different writers, speakers, tumblrs, say about voice in writing, and in society alongside my own experience as a person who uses writing to give myself a voice, and a platform and catharsis to develop it.

I want to give you, the reader the opportunity to join in along with me on this journey. It will be random, as all life and most writing is – right?

Posts will be intuitive, and I will endeavour to give you all some helpful links, insights and maybe even some INSPIRATION that will help you to understand your own voice better whether you are a speaker, blogger, poet, writer or a reader or just interested in reading some Uni student/ writers rambles on whatever is floating around in the mind sink at the time.

I want to leave you with a simple question, one that you can come back to: 

What do you know about your own voice and why do you feel it is important to you?

Okay, so that was two questions, who’s counting?

I’d love to hear your responses, leave them in the comments or feel free to email me at

Authenticangelbliss@gmail.com

Fears for Tears - What If I Was Never Afraid?

The question always comes. What would I do if I wasn’t afraid? What would I do in my life if I didn’t have fears? Fears that are human, raw, and real to me and are often developed in the psyche by societal conditioning or self conditioning. What would I do?

It would be easy to say I would live a life without consequences. I would walk the line and the path of what I have always wanted to do without looking over my shoulder as the shadows that roam up and down the walls and hide in the dark places of my mind. I can’t even remember a time when I wasn’t consumed by the imaginary and illusion of “scary” and it has driven many of my motives in a fight to never let people in.

How is that working for you? The voice in my mind screams at me as I dance around the space between authenticity and the wonderful array of masks that fill up every possible surface, ready to grab and adorn. The truth is it never does.

You could argue that there are healthy fears that warn us not to go down one path, to self destruct or injure ourselves, like don’t put your hand in a boiling pot of water. We fear the boiling water because of the damage it will do, and rightly so, but what if we weren’t afraid of the water and we dove in and let it scold us a little? We would certainly learn not to do it again, would we have learned that if we hadn’t of tried it? Because what if we had skin that didn’t burn and it was all an illusion we were told to not live openly, freely, with curiosity. 

Now I am not saying do this, but I assure you I have stuck fingers in the boiling pot of water and I’ve dealt with the consequences and sometimes that has made me feel more alive than fearing the boiling pot of water and getting someone else to handle it.

Loss is one of the more brutal and beautiful parts of being a human. Each of us looses something every day, we lose the day, the moon, the sunlight, and we even lose consciousness to go into an astral magical land when we close our eyes. We don’t live in a world where we fear these losses right?

I do. I live in fear of going so sleep. I fear the night as all the demons of my past come back to haunt me. I fear walking in the sunlight because it fucking burns and if I sparkle even just a little someone will notice it and point it out, then another person will stop and watch and pretty soon you have whole streets of people lined up waiting for you to be “human” because you fucked with tradition.  

The way I see it, you can turn your back, and live in fear of the picket fence that they are sharpening or you can spread your arms and dance in the sun. Pretty soon the people who step beyond that threshold will join you in your glittery disco ball life rave.

We only get one life right? Even if you are like me and believe there is more lives to come, lives that have come before and parallel versions of myself split of into different universes, splits in time and possibly even countries in other bodies, do we really want to live it worrying about all the things we’ve done to wrong people or ourselves?

At some point we need to face the shadows and take its hand. Whether it leads is down a worse or better path, we are our actions. In each moment we choose to burn in the sunlight, or bathe in the moon. We can close our eyes and pull the covers up tight, or kick them back and breathe in the complexity of our existence asking who am I? Who can I be? What am I not afraid of?

I am not afraid of writing

I am not afraid of telling the truth

I am not afraid to love with an open heart and mind

I am not afraid to own my losses and try again

I am not afraid to admit I am a perverted/Dark human

I am not afraid to admit that I am a wild animalistic woman

I am not afraid to go against tradition and become a new way of being

I am not going to live my life believing that I am afraid of these things

It all comes down to choice. It all comes down to be willing to talk, to write, to pain, to dance, to move, to take risks till it all comes out and we are left with ourselves.

Our shadows will smile, and we can smile back knowing that no matter what anyone said, or what you decided to do, there is always another day and there is no such thing as forever – Be open, be fearless and live.