Hate, life, suicide, and the terrifying “kindness” of the non-disabled

May 19, 2013 at 12:18 am (Uncategorized) (, , , , )

This post, and the article I link to, carry a heavy trigger warning for disablist hatred, for sexual abuse, and for suicide.

I’ve been deeply touched by this excellent post, on feminist blog The F Word, about disablist hatred, and in particular the horrible myth that disabled lives are not worth living; that we would be “better off dead” (and might even have a duty to be so).

The article speaks for itself, and I agree with it strongly. I do in fact strongly support the right of anyone who wants to die, to do so. But the ease with which as a society we accept (especially physically) disabled people being suicidal, compared to any other demographic, terrifies me. People should be allowed to die – but they should be given every possible opportunity to live, and live well, so that it is a true choice. What leads, I believe, to a lot of people becoming suicidal after becoming disabled, is not the impairment itself – it is living in a disablist society, it is suddenly losing abled privilege, it is the lack of financial, emotional, social and other support for disabled people. It is having grown up in a culture in which, “I’d rather be dead than unable to do [X]” is considered a totally reasonable and rational opinion to have. For someone to rationally choose to die is one thing. For someone to see no other way out because society encourages them to believe they are better off dead is not merely a tragedy; it is an atrocity.

I have been told, by someone who was supposed to be my best friend at the time, that unless my ME could be cured in short order, I would be better off dead. This happened well over a decade ago. It still hurts. It still makes me angry. And every time someone in the media reels out the “better off dead” line, every time someone talks about “mercy killing” in a sympathetic tone, with no respect for the sovereignty of the people murdered, I get furious, not to mention very, very scared indeed.

To belong to a demographic that means someone would like to kill me is bad enough. As a queer person, as someone on the trans* spectrum. Hell, just as someone who isn’t a het, cis man – I know this applies to me.

To belong to not one, but two demographics that mean that some people would not only like to kill me, but would regard doing so as an act of kindness… that fills me with a horror and distress and panic that I cannot fully articulate. All I can say is: not having experienced that visceral terror, not ever having had that hateful pity directed at you or others like you, is a fairly major part of abled privilege.

I say two demographics: along with disabled people of all ages and elderly people with dementia, the other group of people I have heard the “better off dead” line used against is survivors of childhood sexual abuse.

It’s generally directed more at those who suffered rape and other serious physical sexual abuse as a child, rather than the comparatively minor (though still traumatising) psychological ickyness that I experienced. Another reason why I do count myself as exceedingly lucky.

But it still hurts. We still live in a society in which the concept of someone being “damaged goods” is a real thing in some people’s heads, especially when the “goods” are children. And it’s really, really hard not to internalise at times.

When I have suicidal thoughts, they mostly start with a combination of that, and my disabilities.

The line goes: between my childhood, my marriage and my disabilities, I am utterly and irretrievably broken, and can never live a real, worthwhile or happy life. I would be doing myself and others an immense favour if I ceased to exist.

So far, every time those thoughts have arisen, I have overcome them.

And after I scared myself rather a lot two days ago, I made a promise to both the Magician and the Ranger: to keep being here, to keep living. To not take my own life. To always get help whenever I feel like this, from them, or others.

I tend to avoid making promises these days. For any number of reasons, not least the fact that I’m a Quaker! But this promise seemed an important – and helpful – one to make, and I don’t for an instance regret making it.

And tonight, I feel bullish and angry. I’m angry at anyone who’s ever expressed the “better off dead” opinion. I’m angry that someone like Colin Brewer could be elected to a political position in my country. I’m angry that disabled lives are considered lesser than abled lives, that paid work is considered the only measure of contribution to society, that benefits are considered “wasted”. That propaganda used in some sections of the media today is horrifyingly close to some of that used to justify Action T4.

That abled people underestimate themselves so much that they really believe that even with the right support they would not be able to lead a full or happy or beautiful life if they were disabled.

There is no respect in which I would be better off dead than in my life as it is. I am disabled, and I am currently unable to work, and I am a survivor of rape, child abuse and relationship abuse. I have agoraphobia and monophobia and ME and possible Fibromyalgia, and I have anxiety and depression, and I have Ulcerative Colitis and a deformed neck, and, it now turns out, allergic asthma. I get flashbacks and intrusive thoughts, and I tend to disassociate when receiving cunnilingus.

And my continued existence is fucking glorious, a shout of victory that laughs in the face of all defeats, a prayer offered up in breath and sweat and dirt and blood to the Gods. The trees dance when I walk past them, the sea sings to me, and the mountains know my name.

And here and now I resolve that never again is anyone going to get to tell me different.

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Ghost pathways

May 7, 2013 at 11:02 am (Uncategorized) (, , )

It is sometimes galling exactly how ingrained the abused!person thought processes are. Including the ones that date from my childhood.

Over the last few days, I’ve done some fairly assertive things. I’ve been a bit awkward and spoken my truth about being genderqueer in a religion that can sometimes be obnoxiously binary-orientated. I’ve expressed opinions about all sorts of things in all sorts of places.

And I’ve brought to a close a friendship that had long since ceased to function as one. With someone who used to be one of my best friends, but whose behaviour towards me became gradually more dismissive, more patronising, more unpleasant. Someone who regarded herself quite openly as very much superior to me, especially morally – for being mono, for being het, for being a Christian, for being not as disabled as I am. Who praised herself for “not judging me” for my lifestyle, and “not minding” about my disability. Who regarded herself as a much, much better person than any of my friends. Who refused to acknowledge that she wasn’t my only devout Christian friend. Who showed off about what a wonderful aunt she was about to become, an hour or two after I had told her that my brother had cut off communication between me and his children because I am poly. Who borrowed my things, sometimes without asking, and sometimes lost them. Who ganged up with the Warrior against me, and generally brought out the worst in him. Who demanded constant ego-boosting, but when asked tentatively to say something nice about me, could only remark that I have lots of super friends, and was good about introducing themย  to her. Who showed off, repeatedly, about how much more everyone liked her than me. Who crushed me with her pity, and laughed at anything about me she didn’t understand – which was an awful lot. And so on – that’s not an exhaustive list.

I had nothing approximating to enough confidence to pick her up on any of her behaviour at the time. But as I started to realise that every time I saw her I ended up feeling about two inches high – and no wonder, in retrospect – I began to just let the friendship slide. I didn’t reply to her messages, got her off the phone as quickly as I could (not least because I generally hate being phoned, which I had repeatedly told her, but she insisted on doing it anyway).

Last week, I after she left a message on my voicemail saying she wanted to revive our friendship, I sent her a message saying I didn’t want to. That I wished her very well, but I felt that we’d drifted apart, and the friendship wasn’t healthy for me.

I had a passive aggressive response back, but no indication that she’d try to contact me again. Though her implication in the message that she “didn’t judge” me, unlike many of my “other friends and acquaintances”, got under my skin more than I’d like.

And then, a day later, a mutual sort-of friend posted another passive aggressive thing on Facebook, saying that “discarding people isn’t nice” – and making it clear in the comments what he was talking about.

It’s hard. It’s hard, because I was trained from a very young age to be passive and accommodating. To never, *ever* assert myself . And to be pathetically grateful for any crumbs of friendship anyone might deign to bestow upon me. Even if they were stale, or tasted bad. Even if they were poisoned. Because if I wasn’t, then no one would ever want to be my friend again.

It’s easy to see rationally that this was abuse-talk. It’s easy to see rationally that the people who know me best, love me best, and care about me best, all like me being assertive and confident and caring about myself. All support, absolutely, my right to express my opinions, to speak my truth, and to choose where to give my time, energy and love. They *like* the newer, happier Fool. And these are people who aren’t just wonderful to me – these are people with, consistently, better judgement and greater wisdom in all areas of their life, than those who prefer the old Fool, ground down and bowed under and willing to flow wherever a path was cut for me.

Unfortunately, as we all know, knowing something rationally and believing it deep down are very, very different things.

I am getting there. My self-esteem is far better than it used to be. But the old neural pathways are still there in my brain, and when feeling stressed or tired or threatened (or all three), it’s far easier to follow them than to break free of them.

And today, I’m at a horribly low ebb. Low on confidence, very, very low on self-esteem. Convinced that most people are judging me harshly, and wishing that I was the old Fool again. Finding it hard to resist the confirmation bias that means that anyone not actively saying in, ooh, the last couple of hours that they like me, clearly doesn’t. It’s ridiculous, and I know it’s ridiculous. But it’s also very, very hard not to just go along with.

The Magician is being wonderful, as is the Ranger. And as are several of my close friends.

I will get through this, and be more confident again – I have before.

It’s just… a bit frustrating, and a bit scary, and a lot sad. I’m thirty-four. I fervently hope that there will come a day when I will no longer default to abused!person thinking. Hopefully before I am very much older…

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Dream recovery…

April 20, 2013 at 11:24 am (Uncategorized) (, , , )

For the second time since getting involved with the Ranger, last night I dreamed that the Warrior was putting pressure on me to have sex with him again.

His argument was simple: you are doing this, this and this with the Ranger. Therefore you should be doing things with me, too. I was miserable, but a large part of me was all, “oh, well, since you put it like that…”.

The Magician was strangely absent from the dream, which fortunately did not get a lot further before I was woken by the alarm.

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The first time I had a dream like this, it spun me, and left me feeling dreadful. This morning, while I am a little haunted by it, mostly I’m just relieved. I’ve woken up in a world where I don’t ever, *ever* have to let the Warrior touch me, ever again. And if he tries to touch me (in any capacity) without my consent, or tries to pressure me into touching him, then the wrath of a fair number of close friends, which is so far being held in check largely at my request, is likely to descend on him in a pretty bloody impressive way.

I may choose to hug him or shake his hand when I next see him. I don’t have to. I may choose to let him see me naked again (given that we both attend an annual weekend-long gathering at which there is a sauna). Again I don’t have to. It’ll be my choice, entirely. And if I do let him see me naked, it will be with the slightly petty but entirely justified satisfaction of knowing that he will be seeing something he is never, *ever* going to touch, ever again. That my bare skin is for others now, not him. And that I am no longer tied by marriage, by guilt, by being worn down, into feeling responsible in any way for his sexual needs, or his desire for me. I owe him nothing (beyond the decency and respect that I hope to manage towards all), and he has no one to blame for this but himself.

No one, ever, is going to guilt-trip, cajole, whine or otherwise pressure me into sex again. And every time my subconscious disturbs me with my fear of the Warrior getting to do that, I will have the joy of waking into a world where this is not the case.

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And, besides. I highly doubt he even fancies me any more, and as far as I’m aware, he and his girlfriend are intending to be entirely exclusive. Which is fine, and their choice, and clearly what she wanted from him all along. And they’re bloody well welcome to each other. ๐Ÿ™‚

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My body, my sexuality – they are for me. But also, they are wonderful, powerful things that I get to share with people of my choosing. People who value me. People who understand consent. People who love me. People who make me tremble with desire. And in the Magician and the Ranger, I know I have chosen exceedingly well. ๐Ÿ™‚

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And now, the difficult stuff [TW for sexual assault, sexual abuse]

April 1, 2013 at 11:46 am (Uncategorized) (, , , , )

This being the blog in which I talk both about my kink/sex life and about being an abuse survivor?

There is something I’ve not talked about on here, but with my relationship with the Warrior over, it’s time.

The Warrior was not actually very nice to me.

For much of our relationship, he frequently guilt-tripped or otherwise pressured me into sex, and otherwise trampled on my boundaries. Even in the last 2-3 years of our marriage, I had to repeatedly ask and insist and argue until he would finally stop his habit of groping me and then not letting go when I said “no”, saying that he “liked fondling me” (so therefore my preferences about it were irrelevant? :-S ). And then there were other things – him getting in a mood with me when sex hurt me and I had to ask him to stop. And the time when he accidentally penetrated my anus rather than my vagina in the heat of the moment, and was furious with me when I was distressed about it and insisted that he wash before we resumed.

It was no wonder that even though he is a switch, in the latter years, as I started to recognise that I am allowed physical boundaries, I had no interest in submitting to him. I simply did not trust him at all. Dominating him still appealed, but I confess with some shame that my main motivation in wanting to tie his wrists was not lust, but to keep his hands from touching me in ways I did not want or like. It was, by the end, about the only way I could bear to be sexually or kinkily active with him. His submission started to pall, to feel false and even rather nauseating. He fawned on me, but he did not respect me – in the bedroom or out of it. He had me on a pedestal, but did not admire or truly love the fullness of the person that I am. And whenever I fell off that pedestal, he was harsh, patronising, even a little emotionally abusive. He supported me financially and (at least until the Magician came on the scene) was also my primary carer in my disability. Unfortunately he also believed this gave him an automatic moral high ground in our relationship, he resented my neediness and did not deal with that resentment. He treated me as though I were not an adult, not his equal. He was dismayed by my coming out as genderqueer, dismissive of my childhood experiences. The Magician put his finger on it absolutely when he said that even at his best, the Warrior mostly regarded me as a cross between a pet and a social secretary – and I never even noticed the damage that was doing.

Getting together with the Magician changed me, and in ways the Warrior did not like. The Magician’s love, and respect, and care for me made me value myself more. He gave me the courage to explore myself, and to learn to like what I saw. The dissonance between the way they each treated me was often confusing and even painful. Though it still did not really clue me in to how dysfunctional my marriage to the Warrior actually was.

I never consciously noticed it at the time, but while I loved the Warrior for the whole time we lived together, his treatment of me and my subconscious awareness of his own unhappiness in the relationship were a constant, dull, horrible pain and sorrow.

Realising that I was abused as a child was awful and overwhelming, but it also gave me an excuse to just back the hell away from my sexuality and kink-self, and so escape that part of my relationship with the Warrior entirely. The Magician is grey-A, only sporadically kinky and/or sexual himself. And even if that were not the case, he respects me utterly. His attitude was: whatever I needed, was no problem for him at all. But the Warrior hated it. Throughout that whole two years of processing the child abuse, he almost entirely failed to have my back. He saw it as just another example of my being too weird to deal with, and thoroughly resented the lack of sex.

And now? I’m free of him. And, you know, in many ways that freedom hurts! In a few months I will start living on my own for the first time in my life – and I have anxiety, depression, monophobia, agoraphobia and ME/CFS. It’s going to be a massive challenge, and I am afraid. Meanwhile, my living temporarily with the Magician has screwed up his disability benefits (basically because the DWP is run by sociopaths). I’ve gone from a comfortable middle class lifestyle to a poor one, and inevitably that was something of a shock.

So, there is fear. There is grief. There is hurt. And more fear because, you know, anxiety disorder.

But oh goodness, also a joy so fierce it’s sometimes unbearable. The relief of pressure from no longer desperately trying to please and love someone who did not respect me is more powerful than I can describe. And between that and the tremendous support I’ve had from the Magician and various close friends, my mental health is actually remarkably okay right now considering. I feel that with a tremendous weight lifted from me, I am gradually drifting upwards.

And then there has been the last three weeks! To have, suddenly, two partners who both truly respect and love and value the person I am is almost brain-breakingly wonderful. I’ve been actively poly for over 4 1/2 years, but I don’t think I ever truly understood what that meant until now.

And the idea of sex and kink is pleasing and appealing again – and actually, more wonderful than it has been at any time, because I am so much more healed from my childhood from all of the processing I’ve done over the last 2-3 years, as well as being without the Warrior. I don’t feel triggered or trapped or panicky at the idea of doing things, watching things, thinking about things. I’ve been cheerfully watching clips on Dreams of Spanking, and looking forward to when I can afford to get some paid content! I’m looking forward to having both the Magician and New Person take photos of me – neither are photographers at the semi-professional level of the Warrior, but they’re also both pretty good, and could do with the practise. ๐Ÿ˜‰ Above all, I feel I can respect and love myself, as a person with a sexual appetite, as an obedient and hedonistic sub, as a caring and sadistic dom. As a powerful person, whichever form my kink is taking – and I am, at the least, much less scared of that than I have been in the past. As a beautiful genderqueer person, who is now free to explore the possibilities of life with a great deal more freedom and integrity than ever before.

None of which is to say that I’m healed entirely, from the child abuse, from being raped as a teenager, from what I am (with sorrow) coming to regard as a sexually and occasionally emotionally abusive relationship of thirteen years. I am not. But I am closer to it than I have ever been.

It was the Warrior’s decision to leave me for his other partner when she made him choose between us, and while it was mine to end the actual relationship, it was clear that he was only holding back from doing this himself due to lack of courage. The decision to divorce was taken jointly.

It is hard, right now, to feel very grateful to him or his other partner for anything! But I am really, really glad that he chose her over me. However devastating and terrifying many aspects of all this are, it is, I think, going to prove one of the best things that has ever happened to me. ๐Ÿ™‚

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