*** TRIGGER WARNING ***
This goes into much more specific and disturbing detail than my last post of this nature. Please, please take care in reading this. If you’re in any doubt about how much you may or may not be triggered, click here instead. P. xxx
Earlier, bourach at Conversations with my Head wrote an incredibly brave and personal post on the sexual abuse to which she was subjected at the hands of her father. Although it’s utterly heart-wrenching, bourach’s usual eloquence and bravery in facing her horrible experiences comes through, and she deserves much credit as always for that.
‘Armed’ with both my ‘new’ memories, and the ones I already had, I had been thinking for a while about trying to do something similar, but had been deliberately avoiding it. bourach has finally inspired me to get my arse into gear and do it.
I don’t know what C would say about the hitherto avoidance. Is it good that I psychologically dodge this bollocks when I’m away from him (so as I don’t end up gaining an Art degree from the portfolio of my stomach, or have a go at slitting my wrists again), or should I be working my way towards finding the words to express it to him in session? I don’t know. Who cares? I’m ruminating on it anyway, so why not try to put it into words…even if they are only written ones for now.
I’ve been able to say the word ‘rape’ a few times to A, and once, as you may know, to my in-denial mother. Last week I think I even said the words ‘forced fellatio’ to A, which is a first. Hurrah? I still can’t imagine saying these words in therapy, though, which is where they need to be said. A may be able to support me, but he can’t therapise me. Or maybe he can, what the fuck do I know – but I shouldn’t think it’s his primary function in my life.
Is it because C is a man that I find expressing myself to him about this so difficult? Do I feel all the more defiled in front of him because of some inherent (and, I assure you, unconscious) anti-feminist bullshit that’s been planted in my head? That I’m not meant to be a debased whore in front of a man…that I’m meant to be pure? Maybe it’s the stupid fraternal-paternal transference bullshit – don’t want my nice Daddy-friend-person to think of me as the tramp that I think I am.
Would it be any different with a woman? I think I might be able to say rape, but I’m not sure how much further I’d get than that. But yeah, maybe in front of a woman, in front of whom my sense of defilement would seemingly appear to matter less, I could discuss this bollocks in the most literal of terms.
Detached. Aloof. Depersonalised. Third person-esque. It’s all a technicality.
I recognise, therefore, that in the long-term sense this is why C really is the best person for this stuff; it can never be so emotionless and abstracted because of our shared relationship and my attachment. Ha. The beauty of the ‘long-term’. Aside from the very real logistical difficulties of that – in the sense that I will stop seeing C in June or July – the reality is that in the short to medium term this is the most horrific, unbearable thing that I can imagine doing. I do not want to relive this stuff. The sense of shame and utter debasement of it all paralyses and sickens me. Whore whore whore slut slut slut bitch slut whore tramp cunt.
As bourach rightly said in her post, the recall of the sensations is some of the worst of it. The one that is my current psychic fixation is the terrifying choking mechanism of when he inserted his penis into my mouth. Can’t breathe, can’t breathe…tiny hands push his legs, trying to move him, scared of choking to death…but he seems to like that – back and forth it goes, deeper and deeper in my mouth, harder and harder. Can’t breathe. Please stop. Tears. Not sure if they’re from being upset or the physical problem of choking.
And finally it ends, but not before he squirts a horrible drink right down the back of the throat. Oh help…I’m gagging…gag gag gag…but he moves back, it’s out…thank you God…spit spit spit. Wipe it away at the corners of the mouth. Something between teeth…one of those strange hairs the eyes were faced with when he was doing the choking. He closes his trousers…walking away now. Safe. Safe.
Fuck. I feel violated and physically sickened all over again. What is striking is that I feel choked again, just remembering / writing, even though there’s nothing physically making me feel that way now.
I feel the sensation(s) so strongly; the physical ones, the mental ones. The gagging, the terror, the utter bewilderment, the pain of being forced to stand at the angle I was. My back hurt, my legs hurt. I remember my eyes being about level with the top of his pubic hair. In every other way, though, although the first person sensations are so completely and thoroughly mine, the visuals of this are all third person. The man is my uncle, and the little girl is me. But I’m watching this from elsewhere – from an angle not even physically possible in the environment that this particular incident (and others) took place. It’s like a vile pornographic film on loop inside my traitorous bloody mind.
Oh, and then there’s rape. I didn’t know that word at the time, even though I did have a rudimentary knowledge of sex.
Incidentally, a couple of people have asked me – just in the course of silly conversations in which friends sometimes engage – how I found out about sex. I always said, truthfully, that I really didn’t remember, and I still don’t. But, I now ask myself, could this abuse have ‘informed’ my tiny mind? I don’t know.
Anyway. Rape. I was about to say that, officially, that’s where the penis is inserted into the anus or vagina without consent, but I see that it apparently now includes oral penetration too. Um…yay? It’s a good thing, I think, but it’s hard to feel anything approaching cheer in this subject matter.
But let’s go with my original, uninformed interpretation. Thank merciful God, there was never any anal rape – not that I can recall, at any rate. But there was certainly vaginal penetration. Oh yes.
I feel suffocated as I type this. Literally. God. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. There’s that old can’t breathe again. This time for different reasons. I see him there, on top of me, crushing my small body. And the pain…oh, the pain. [Wincing now] It hurts it hurts it hurts…please, God, stop the pain. Won’t be bad again if you just stop it. Can’t breathe…pain…gasp for breath…he goes in and out, didn’t even know there was anything ‘down there’ to go into before…but it hurts [Wince wince wince] it hurts so much…please stop
What are these noises he makes…gasp gasp pain pain…why does he move like that…what is this about…it hurts…he sounds like he is hurt too, every time he moves he makes those weird noises…why…what…
Very loud noise now…[he arches his back]…’down there’ where he put it in, it feels strange along with the pain, like there’s water in it…pain…gasp…oh God oh God why has he fallen on top of me…can’t breathe, can’t breathe…is he dead…gasp gasp…oh thank you God…he’s moving, onto his honkers…it’s out…relief relief relief…breathe breathe breathe
Pain still…something oozing…what…don’t know what is happening…oh good he’s putting his trousers back up, maybe he will get something to help the pain? Why is he sweating, why are his cheeks red like that….pain pain…OH GOD BLOOD…what what what??!!! Pain, breathe, blood…and white stuff, pink stuff…it’s there, with the blood…Oh God what is it…he stands up. “Pull your pants up Pandora, and put your skirt back down,” he says [something like that], “there’s a good girl. Then come back inside. You’re OK.”
But not OK…it hurts…crying…always was crying….he’s leaving…cry…hurt…breathe. Dress. Follow him outside…walking is hard. Aow…
On both of these occasions he was waiting for me outside / round the corner. If I was under his charge, I presume that it would have looked suspicious if he was suddenly spotted wondering around without me.
It hurts. It hurts. Physically. Mentally. All my nerves conspire against me like they did when I was experiencing akathasia in January. It is so real, so overwhelmingly and profoundly fucking real, and so unbearably now. It wasn’t then, it is now. Now. Now.
I can’t write this anymore. I’m sorry.