I Do Not Belong To You

I am a teenager. He is a stranger waiting next to me for the train. When he calls me “sexy” and tells me to smile, I blush as red as his baseball cap. “aww are you blushing, baby?” My stomach churns. I do not want his attention, but I cannot say no. I smile for him, hoping I look more bashful than scared. On the train I seek out a seat next to very large older woman and bite my lip to hold back the tears brought on by adrenaline and embarrassment.

My smile does not belong to me.

 You taught me this when you ordered me to smile for your friend who was over for dinner. I was 5. I didn’t like him, but you took me aside and told me to “smile and be nice” or I would have to sit alone in the other room.

I am 14 years old. He is my sparring partner in Martial Arts class. “I’m gonna punch you in the boob!” He laughs like it’s the funniest joke he ever heard. I am uncomfortable, but I don’t know what to say. He jabs at my right breast, like it’s a target, and pain blossoms across my chest. He laughs, his buddies laugh, and I laugh with them. I don’t want to be rude. “Do you need me to kiss it and make it better?” More laughter. I tell myself we’re all just kidding around, it’s just fine… everything is fine.

My body does not belong to me and I do not have the right to decide what I think is funny.

You taught me this when you let my cousin tickle me without my consent. I was 7 and he was 19. I screamed through the involuntary laughter and everybody just smiled and laughed along. When I finally got away I was angry. Hot tears sprung up in my eyes and shouted at him, at all of you, “I told you to stop!” You gripped my arm and pulled me aside. “Your cousin was just joking with you and you were very rude to him. Go apologize and give him a hug!”

I am 19. He is my sexually aggressive co-worker. He traps me against the wall and whispers explicit things to me, hot breath against my neck. Sometimes he sneaks up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, purposely pressing his body against mine. He grows bolder each day, and he never listens when I insist that he leave me alone. I never tell anyone, just befriend an older man who works with us, and hide near him when I’m feeling afraid.

My sexuality belongs to the most powerful male-bodied person available.

You taught me this when you bought me a purity ring at age 16 and made me promise that I would never let anyone touch me until you gave me away to a man on my wedding day. And all the times you ordered my brother to protect me, instead of teaching me to defend myself.

You just wanted me to behave. You wanted me to obey the rules as children should. You didn’t known that children are just tiny adults. You couldn’t have foreseen that your words would shape the woman I would become. You never thought that I would carry the lessons meant for a five year old with me for the rest of my life.

But I know now. And if I ever have a child I will remember that she does not belong to me. I will never force her to talk to my dinner guest, because I do not own her voice, or her smile, or her body, or her heart.

Self Hatred and the Morning Person

I got up this morning at the usual time and rushed through my weekday morning routine. I’ve been doing the same thing every day for the last 3 years: shower, hair, makeup, clothes, and shoes, fly out the door just in time to make it to the office by 8. 

Getting ready in the morning has always been like a nightmare for me, ever since I was a kid. I’ve always hated my body, and squeezing into clothes makes me self conscious. Staring myself in the face without makeup makes me uncomfortable. Putting on my hand-me-down jewelry that isn’t quite fashionable embarrasses me. Leaving the house with all these insecurities makes me anxious and nervous. Maybe it’s the anticipation that makes me wake up nauseas and sore every morning, feeling like I’ve caught the flue overnight. Depression hits me the hardest in the morning.

Up until recently, if you asked me if I’m a “morning person” I would always say NO. Mornings are awful. Mornings mean facing overwhelming self-hatred. Mornings mean another long day of adversity. Waking up means the disappointment of knowing that I’m still alive. I’d rather just stay buried under the blankets where no one will know I exist.

There are a number of factors that led to my self-hatred. The Patriarchal society I grew up in demonized a woman’s body and sexuality while simultaneously glorifying the concept of the sweet, childlike virgin bride that I knew I would never emulate. I was never encouraged to express my emotions, so all my confusing feelings stayed trapped inside me. Being bisexual (and being taught that such things were abominable) also caused me to vilify a woman’s body in general. It was easier to hate it than admit to forbidden attraction. When paired with depression and lack of education, my natural bodily development became a waking nightmare. The hatred I had for myself and my body was not just a passing teenage phase; it was a devastating condition that colored my entire world in a muddy shade of black.

 For most of my life I sincerely believed that I was stupid, worthless, ugly, lazy, gluttonous, and sloppy. Self hatred is painful, debilitating, and dangerous. Lucky for me, I have people in my life who understand that. I am here today, I am healthy today, because my Hunnie, my sister, and a few close friends chose to take my struggles seriously. They insisted again and again that the opinions I had of myself were false.  They were there for me day or night to talk me though my anxiety.  It took countless long talks and years of hard work to get me to the place I am today. 

This is actually me wearing my fave brown dress pants



I don’t know exactly when it happened, but at some point this last year the heavy fog of depression, anxiety, and self hatred started to dissipate. It wasn’t until this morning that I realized how far I have come. I found myself singing in the shower at 6:00am (sorry neighbor). I winked at myself in the mirror while rubbing product into my super short hair. I put on my favorite checkered socks and walked around the house in my underwear without cringing every time I passed a mirror. And when my grey dress pants were too small to button, I switched to the bigger brown pair and it didn’t even bother me. Really.

This is ME we’re talking about here. The same girl who, at 8 years old, covered her whole body with washcloths in the bathtub because she didn’t want to have to see how “fat” she was. The same girl who refused to look in the mirror for much of her teenage life.. The same girl who stopped eating because a friend mentioned that she had a “little pooch.” And there I was this morning, smiling at my curves and meaning it. I just thought “welp, guess I’m not a size 8 after all.” Those grey pants were milestone for me.

Don’t be afraid to reach out to someone who’s hurting. You don’t have to say much. Simply tell them the truth:

You are beautiful.

                                 You are smart.

                                                           You are strong.

                                                                                         You can be anything you want to be.

And don’t stop saying it until they start to believe.

Dear Diary: Losing My Pure Heart

Context: When I was thirteen I fell really hard for the only boy I'd ever spent any time with. He was a friend of the family. We held hands twice before the adults caught on and shut it all down. I wrote this is my diary shortly after that incident.

Dear Diary,                                            August 18
Oh I feel so horrible! How could I do this? I've preached to my friends but I'm just a hypocrite. I'm so confused and ashamed. If I can't say "he's my first love" on my wedding day, why does it even matter how many there have been. I'm a used napkin now. I know God used this to teach me, but why did he have to steal the gift of a pure heart? Why did I let this happen? It's not fair. My life is a mess. I wish I had a different life. I wish God put me somewhere else. I wish i could stop wishing! I don't want to be a worldy girl. I hate them. I hate how they gossip. I hate thier flirty clothes. I hate thier cakey makeup and nail polish. I hate how they always seem so happy... I hate that I want to be one of them, and I hate how it shows.
-Sarah

Still Crying: Dear Young Parents

This post is from an anoymous reader. Please remember to show your support in the comments section!

_________________________________________________________________

Dear Young Parents:

Because of my own experiences, I would encourage to try hard to avoid spanking your children.

My own experiences with spanking I believe are responsible for a sexual fetish that I wish I did not have.  It is important for everyone to realize that young children develop sexuality at an earlier age than we probably realize.  The butt is very close to genitals.  Force or pressure directed to one area is generally felt in the other.  Without meaning to do so, I believe many well-meaning parents accidentally cause or promote such a fetish. 

My parents did nothing that even today I believe would be classified as abuse.  They were well-meaning and the discipline I got was probably less than they received as children.  However, between ages 4 and 12, I was spanked maybe one to two dozen times.  It was not often and my parents preferred other methods of discipline.  They did use spanking though when they felt behavior called for it.

Perhaps, the ritual involved in my punishment accounted for what happened.  I don't know.  I will say that when I was spanked for some wrongdoing it was usually done in a specific way.  I would be called to the living room and my father and mother would talk to me and my two siblings (brother and sister) about what I had done wrong.  My father would than explain the consequences which would include getting a spanking.  My pants were usually pulled down.  Although, I was never spanked on my bare butt. Instead, I was spanked in my underwear.  My father would make me bend over his knee and would spank me until I cried. Sometimes it was with his hand.  I remember a couple of spankings with a very thin paddle. I don't think even today anyone looking at the paddle would have called what he did abuse.  However, the whole experience was very shaming.  To this day, I remember my mother sitting there with a look of satisfaction on her face while I got spanked in my jockey shorts.  Also, having my brother and sister there to watch this was hugely embarrassing for me.

Please don't do this to your children.  Find other ways to discipline them.

 - A concerned parent.

(Please show your support and leave comments for the authors if you can. Remember, this is an open ended series! Please consider writing something yourself, or sharing the project with your friends and followers. The guidelines are listed here, but feel free to write in whatever format is easiest for you)

Sick-Fil-A

Chick-fil-A's homophobia doesn’t really surprise, nor does it necessarily bother me. Companies donate their money and build their products wherever and however they want all the time. If I was going to boycott CFA I’d have to boycott lots of other things, like gasoline and tennis shoes.

What surprises and frustrates me, are all the people that are using this as an opportunity to spread hatred. Whether you agree or disagree with chick-fil-a and their choices, it makes no difference. They will go on spending their money how they please. By declaring a "chick-fil-a Wednesday" you are not supporting anything or anyone, you are simply seizing an opportunity to express hatred towards an entire group of people.

I'll be staying as far away from Chick-Fil-A as possible tomorrow. Not because I dislike their menu or their business model, but because I can't stomach the idea of hundreds of people getting together to celebrate homophobia over chicken and fries.

Still Crying: Power Over Memories

This post is from an anonymous reader. It is another testament to the sexual repercussions of corporal punishment.

__________________________________________________________________

I'm convinced my parents didn't know any better. When they grew up, they were beaten with rubber hoses. Hitting kids with hands or spoons or belts probably seemed kind by comparison.

I was always sensitive. All I needed was for my parents to tell me they were disappointed in me. I didn't need to be hit on top of it. Worse than the pain was the sheer humiliation of being hit, and the feeling of being powerless to stop it.

This is most likely why, around age 8 or so, I began having sexual fantasies involving being spanked. My adult sexuality has revolved around giving and taking power. I believe sexualizing it was a way for me to gain control-- "You're hurting me? Humiliating me? Joke's on you; I like it!"

My mom found out when I was in my early 20s. When she asked why, I told her. "We didn't spank you *that* much," she protested tearfully. "Why do you remember all the bad things and none of the good?"

In college (before I became aware that spanking wasn't an inherent part of childhood) I decided I could never have kids, because spanking to me was an purely sexual act. I never did have kids, although the reasons were numerous and not limited to my fear of sexually abusing them. That was not an idle fear, though, and I didn't want to have to choose between my sexuality and harming my children.

Would I have been this way if I hadn't been spanked? I don't know. It is what it is, and while I enjoy a happy sex life this way, it wasn't worth the abuse.

(Please show your support and leave comments for the authors if you can. Remember, this is an open ended series! Please consider writing something yourself, or sharing the project with your friends and followers. The guidelines are listed here, but feel free to write in whatever format is easiest for you)

Still Crying: Sexuality Tied To Violence

This post is from an anoymous reader.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

The thought of spanking simultaneously disgusts me and arouses me. Yes, I mean sexual arousal.

I had never seen porn, I had no idea that some people felt spanking could be used in erotic ways during sex. But as I started to cross into puberty, those thoughts were there.

When my parents spanked me I detested the sharp pain, the sting on my skin, the humiliation of being still while being attacked. I hated it. I wished with all my might that they would quit using spanking and try some other form of discipline. I stifled the rage that rose with every physical punishment.

But at night it was different. My dreams would be filled with violence, people hitting me, people tying me up and whipping me, and then I would wake up panting and aroused, and at the time I didn’t even know what sex or sexual arousal was.

I didn’t know why the idea of being hit was arousing, when I detested the fact that my parents hit me. But I learned how to play off that fantasy to get those feelings, I imagined being out somewhere and being attacked and raped. When I got married, to a wonderful gentle man, those unspoken unacknowledged fantasies in my head were the only thing that got me to orgasm.

I felt confused and worried, perplexed by the strong connection my sexual arousal had to the idea of violence when I was repulsed by the idea of my husband actually hitting me. It frustrated me that something that was used to hurt and humiliate me for so long, that I thought I would leave behind with leaving my parents home, now invaded my sex life unbidden.

I have since learned that children can often eroticize things that were painful to endure as a way of coping, and I believe that is what happened to me. And is it really that surprising that hitting a person in a sexually sensitive area of their body could have consequences? As time has gone on, and I have been honest about what happened to me, it has become easier to become experience sexual pleasure without the need for violent fantasies, but it hasn’t been easy. My earliest sexual memories will always be tied to a spanking spoon, and there isn’t anything I can do about it.

(Please show your support and leave comments for the authors if you can. Remember, this is an open ended series! Please consider writing something yourself, or sharing the project with your friends and followers. The guidelines are listed here, but feel free to write in whatever format is easiest for you.)

Still Crying: Spanking and it's affect on sexuality

I recently posted a rather controversial status on Facebook. It received so much traffic and debate that I've decided to re post it here for easy sharing, linking, tweeting, etc. This serves at an introduction to the following posts from readers on this exact subject:

 

A person's rear end is an erogenous zone. When you strike a child there (spanking), blood rushes to the area and stimulates the genitals. It isn't something you would notice, because the arousal is masked by the pain. But subconsciously, the child's brain is linking sexual arousal with violence, powerlessness, and pain. I have spoken with dozens of people who have experienced this connection between sexuality and violence well into their adult lives due to spanking. A parent's choice to spank their child can literally follow that child into the most intimate parts of their lives. Has anyone else experienced these consequences? So far I have 2 anonymous submissions on this delicate subject to my Still Crying Series. If you have been affected in this way, YOU ARE NOT ALONE. Please contact me if you would like to share your experience as well. This is an effect of spanking that nobody ever talks about, but i suspect that it is a lot more common than anyone thinks.

_____________________________________________________________________
UPDATE: I recieved dozens of emails in response to this status from readers who knew exactly what I was talking about. My inbox was full of little notes from people who have experienced sexual damage as a result of thier parent's choice to spank. This note came from a reader named Maria.

"Sarah, your status today sums up why I have not contributed to your series. That is the best summary I have ever heard of the twisted relationship between corporal punishment and sex.... It is just too triggering and the feelings are too intense, for me to be able to write a meaningful contribution. I am fifty years old, and my father has been dead since I was seventeen. That is how deep these wounds can go -- that I still can't talk about it. Maybe you can use this comment as a short contribution... Thanks for doing this. It is important work."

Some of the people who have contacted me have asked to be put in contact with other victims like them. It can be pretty lonely when you feel like you can't talk to anyone about your experiences. If anyone is interested in contacting other people with similar experiences, just email me at whoiamwithoutyou1@gmail.com and I will do my best to help you out.