Control.
I have been thinking about this lately...why is it I was able to take the abuse of the childhood (seemingly) in stride, and now I am finding it difficult to function in the same manner.
I hope someone can relate it this. I do not want to be the only one: When the body was raped, it of course was very painful, both in a physical sense and emotionally. After awhile, however, I began to try to rationalize it. I thought if I could get to a point in beleiving it was not as severe or horrendous as I felt it was, maybe then I could deal with it better.
I began thinking of it as merely a physical act. Sex was similar to breathing, or running: natural. I tried to tell myself that, tried to tell myself so many things: that having sex so young did not make us cheap or filthy, that having sex with a relative was no different than a stranger...that labels were just that, labels, and it really did not matter who was fucking us, because the act was the same anyway. Just bodies connecting, like Lego blocks. I refused to use the term rape...it felt safer. It felt as if I were left with some small shred of control. If I told myself that somehow I had caused it, or deserved it, or even wanted it, then it was all right because I still had the control.
Even some rituals I learned to perform more or less willingly. Do not misunderstand me...I never wanted to. (There was one Inside named Zillah who did, but she was...different, let us say.) It always came back to the control, the desperate need to feel in control. "Allowing" these incidents to occur was worth the self-loathing just so I could tell myself that I was in control. That is probably why I stepped up to take so much of the abuse...I suppose I instigated it, somehow.
And then I recall how I fought...sometimes I was so sick of the shit I fought until all involved were bleeding. I was in control then, too. Furthermore, I was not passive in that. And yet...not only did I still receive punishment in those times, but I received it far worse than if I had laid there, complacent. How much did the false sense of (apparently non-existent) control cost me? How much did it cause us?
I cannot write any more. The words fail me; I am certain the English language does not have enough adequate adjectives to describe what I feel at this moment.
I hope someone can relate it this. I do not want to be the only one: When the body was raped, it of course was very painful, both in a physical sense and emotionally. After awhile, however, I began to try to rationalize it. I thought if I could get to a point in beleiving it was not as severe or horrendous as I felt it was, maybe then I could deal with it better.
I began thinking of it as merely a physical act. Sex was similar to breathing, or running: natural. I tried to tell myself that, tried to tell myself so many things: that having sex so young did not make us cheap or filthy, that having sex with a relative was no different than a stranger...that labels were just that, labels, and it really did not matter who was fucking us, because the act was the same anyway. Just bodies connecting, like Lego blocks. I refused to use the term rape...it felt safer. It felt as if I were left with some small shred of control. If I told myself that somehow I had caused it, or deserved it, or even wanted it, then it was all right because I still had the control.
Even some rituals I learned to perform more or less willingly. Do not misunderstand me...I never wanted to. (There was one Inside named Zillah who did, but she was...different, let us say.) It always came back to the control, the desperate need to feel in control. "Allowing" these incidents to occur was worth the self-loathing just so I could tell myself that I was in control. That is probably why I stepped up to take so much of the abuse...I suppose I instigated it, somehow.
And then I recall how I fought...sometimes I was so sick of the shit I fought until all involved were bleeding. I was in control then, too. Furthermore, I was not passive in that. And yet...not only did I still receive punishment in those times, but I received it far worse than if I had laid there, complacent. How much did the false sense of (apparently non-existent) control cost me? How much did it cause us?
I cannot write any more. The words fail me; I am certain the English language does not have enough adequate adjectives to describe what I feel at this moment.
posted by Logan Nambiet at
5:26 PM
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