So, I wanted to follow up on some stuff I said yesterday, because I had a lot of ideas swirling and I don't entirely know how much sense I made. I rattled off a list of terrible things that men have done to me over the years. All of that is true, but that's not the whole truth. Some of those things happened because of me, because it was something I asked for. Let me explain.
I hated myself. I thought I was unworthy of anything good. I thought I was fat, ugly, melodramatic, and horrible in every way. I wanted to kill myself more times than I would like to think about.
And I think that when you are so mired in that self-hatred, you attract people around who validate your beliefs. I was a horrible person, so I dated people who treated me horribly.
Even the rape I kind of blame on myself. It wasn't a terribly violent thing, so everyone envisioning me getting grabbed and dragged into an alley can get that out of your head. I was on a date with a guy I didn't know particularly well. I'd met him a couple of times at the record store I worked at -- he was a customer -- and then one day our flirting got a little intense, and I gave him my number. We went to dinner -- where he super-obnoxiously flirted with the waitress and then demanded to know if I was jealous. Then we went to the movies, and he didn't have enough money for my ticket, so I bought it, but I didn't have enough money to buy Skittles. I always have Skittles at the movie theater. This is was the only time I didn't have Skittles. I have never not had Skittles again. I've decided it's some kind of good luck charm. Anyway, the movie was good -- 28 Days Later -- which I loved because it showed that it wasn't the monsters that were dangerous, it was people. Great, great stuff. The guy was crazy annoying, so we were walking around town and I had already decided I was over him and I was going home and never talking to him again. And we magically wound up at his house, and he asked me if I wanted to come in. I decided I would because I really had to use the bathroom. And then he basically threw me down. I pushed at him and kept saying no, and he just... plowed ahead. And a funny thing happened. My brain just totally shut down. *Caution: Gross Stuff Ahead.* I was on my period, and I had a tampon in, and he... entered anyway. So while he was going to town, in my head there was this very clinical, detached voice saying, "Wow. I hope I can get this thing out myself, otherwise I'm going to have to tell my dad and he's going to have to take me to the hospital, and then he'll have to know that I had sex." It was odd. And then he was done, and I got up and went home. And he came by the record store the next day and said something completely unrepeatable and I never saw him again. Thank heaven.
One time I was talking about it in therapy (with one of a string of therapists I've seen over the years), and I explained the whole incident and the therapist told me that that kind of detachment during a rape is really common.
Anyway, the point is, I blamed myself for years that it had happened. I would totally freak out if any of my friends ever blamed themselves for getting raped, but I blamed myself. "If only I had never gone into his house..." and so on. I don't blame myself that way. I do blame myself in the way that my negative, I-hate-myself energy attracted someone who wanted to feed on that. He validated my belief that I was unworthy of a loving relationship, that I was someone that I should hate.
And I think that's why a lot of the bad things that happened to me happened.
And, just for full disclosure, I've done some really terrible things to men. I regret that I've done them, but those are the facts. I usually wound up hurting one of the few good guys I would find, who defied my I-hate-myself energy, so I had to hurt them, to destroy the relationship, so that, once again, I could validate my belief that I was a horrible person.
However, mine is a rather extreme example.
I do not and will never believe that other rape victims were "asking for it." A person's clothing is not indicative of their consent to sex. Ever. I'm tired of hearing that. A person's sexual history is not relevant in determining whether or not they were raped. Just because they've given their consent before, doesn't mean they did during this instance. Argh. Rage, rage, rage.
I explain the high school torture with.. well, those guys were just dickwads. I'm still annoyed by that. But it got so ridiculous that I decided to just have fun with their crap. They thought I dressed weird? I was going to dress weirder than they ever imagined. (I distinctly remembered a polyester Mrs. Partridge-eque dress, fishnets, leg warmers, Doc Martens, four completely different earrings and like twenty necklaces.) They thought I was a lesbian? Then I'd sing Ani DiFranco songs at the talent show. I'd get down on one knee and ask my female friend to one of the dances. I bought a guy a corsage. The hell with them. But they did make life extremely miserable. Although it was odd kind of miserable. I was used to it. When I switched schools, I was scared. I was going to a private school -- a private, boarding school -- and my mom worked there, so she squelched my weird clothes so she wouldn't look bad. And there, basically no one paid the slightest bit of attention to me. It took me quite a while to make friends because I was just ignored. But eventually I met some seriously awesome ladies and my senior year was awesome -- for the most part, I made a really big mistake at one point and almost lost all of my friends -- and I'm really thankful that I got to go there.
But I wonder what would have happened if I had stayed at my first high school sometimes. Would I have eventually broke under the pressure of those guys' bullying? Or would I have continued to try to defy them and show that they couldn't get to me? I don't know. But it's interesting to think about.
Anyway. Wow, this is a rambling mess. Oh well. Yay blogging!
Oh, right. About my parents. I know I said yesterday that my mom is the result of my having such poor self-esteem, but I feel really terrible about that. Yes, she said those things. But she said it from a place of trying to help. She loves me tons, and I know that. She and my dad were just very, very young when they had me, and they did the best they could. One time in therapy (a different therapist than the one discussed above), my therapist told me I could be mad at my mom and my dad (who used to be kind of controlling and kind of judgmental). That it was totally okay to be mad at them. But I can't. Because it's simply not fair to be mad at them. They were infants, for heaven's sake. They didn't know what they were doing and they really did the best that they could, and I know that. I can point to certain things and say, "Well, I wish that had happened differently," but I can't be mad at them. I love them both dearly and I'm very glad that I have them for parents. I have great relationships with both of them and I am super thankful for that.
Was there anything else? Oh, I'm sure there was, but that will have to do for now.
I promise tomorrow I'll write something less melodramatic. Thanks for hanging in there.
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