Rachel Thompson's Blog, page 8

This Is the Reason Migraines Affect Sex Abuse Survivors

I’ve had migraines since well, my teens — more intensely since my late twenties. I’ve seen neurologists. I’ve had MRIs. I’ve tried chiropractics. Alternative therapies (acupuncture, massage). Dietary changes. Botox. Behavioral therapy. EVERYTHING. I’m fifty-one now and as I write this, I’m on a preventive treatment that includes medication and diet, exercise, meditation, and therapy, and I still get them. In fact, I’m in a stretch right now that’s lasted about a week and it’s just as awful as you can imagine.

But I function. I’m luckier than most, though on bad days I feel like crawling into a cave of soft blankets and binge-watching Scandal reruns for hours and hey, sometimes I do. I may not be a gladiator, but I can watch them on TV.

Meds like triptans (Imitrex, Relpax, etc), aka serotonin receptor agonists, are the most effective in terms of treatment because they are non-addicting and work quickly. Triptans narrow (constrict) blood vessels in the brain and relieve swelling (Source: WedMd). They are also expensive if not covered by your formulary, and don’t come without their own side effects (sensitivity to hot and cold, nausea, sleepiness). Like any medication, you can only take so much without experiencing rebound (aka, a form of dependence), so you have to mix in anti-inflammatories along with stronger meds, if needed. Occasionally, I’ve had to go to an urgent care for a Toradol (anti-inflammatory) shot or even the ER for a shot of Demoral when the pain has been THAT bad.

What’s interesting to me is that nobody, not one physician or health care specialist, ever once suggested that my migraines could in any way be tied to the sexual abuse I experienced as a child. It’s only through my own research and connection with the amazing community of survivors (in #SexAbuseChat that I started in 2014 with therapist/survivor Bobbi Parish, every Tuesday on Twitter at 6pm PST — join us — all survivors and families are welcome) that I realized how commonly migraines occur in survivors.

Let’s deconstruct.

PTSD In Abuse Survivors

Take a look at the research. Here’s just a quick sample:

“Several studies demonstrate that childhood injury or abuse makes it more likely to develop migraine later in life. The more severe the abuse, the stronger the link grows. These headaches are also more likely to be frequent and disabling. Severe abuse is also linked to other conditions, including chronic pain, fibromyalgia and irritable bowel disease.

Chronic maltreatment early in life alters the brain’s response to stress. This may make it more likely to have migraine. A study of inflammatory blood tests suggests a mechanism for the link. In this study, adults showed higher levels of biomarkers in the bloodstream when exposed to abuse in childhood. Genes are also important in this process. Genes are responsible for how a person and their body respond to early stressful experiences. It is also possible that early stressful experiences may become hard-coded into DNA. This creates a memory of events that leads to impaired health at a later date.” (Source: American Headache Society.)

I’m honestly thankful to know this. It explains so much! To say that finding this out has been life-changing for me seems almost trite at this point.

There are people who say that knowing this is a crutch of some sort — that because someone told me that my migraines are due to the PTSD from the abuse, I now have an ‘excuse.’ Whatever. I’ve had these things for twenty-five years. I’ve seen the top experts and they don’t even know or understand the causes of migraines or how the brain works. So, good luck with your rationalizations. (Here’s more information on how abuse affects the immune system, which can also lead to migraines and other diseases. Source:  American Nurse Today.)

People are well-meaning in the advice. I’ve heard everything from using lavender (done it), to Vitamin D (use it), to garlic (love it), to gluten-free (tried it, didn’t help). You may recall, I was in Big Pharma for seventeen years. My company made migraine meds (nasal spray — hated it, awful taste). I’ve bought and sold these meds. I have spent a lot of time with neurologists and scientists (as a patient, a sales rep, and as a trainer in the home office). I don’t claim to be an expert — far, far from it. The brain is this crazy thing that almost defies explanation. I do know that what works for one person may not work for another, yet sharing information is crucial.

This explanation about PTSD makes sense to me, but it doesn’t take the migraines away. And that’s okay.

Meds and the Stupidness of U.S. Healthcare 

One of my doctors told me something that has stuck with me all these years — there are no long-term physical negative side effects of having migraines. You have one, it goes away (eventually), and you get on with your life. Sure, psychologically, a migrainer, as we are called, lives in well, if not exactly fear — it’s more like dread — of getting one, at least we know we are actively living our lives and doing what we can to prevent them.

Some people don’t, though. They become addicted to prescription pain meds — typically opioids like Vicodin, for example. There’s a reason for that.

I have a prescription for it myself, for when the pain is really bad. My doctor can only write thirty (I’m in California, and since Vicodin is a controlled substance, a prescription must be picked up in person with ID, written in triplicate, and presented at the pharmacy by the patient, no more than once per month). These are federal guidelines, actually, which are only becoming even more strict. I only take them when the pain is unbearable and none of the other meds help. I don’t drive when I take them, and it makes it hard to write or function, which is why I avoid them until I just give in.

Triptans work differently. You take them at the first sign of a migraine. Some people aren’t aware of triptans, or simply can’t afford them. Get this: one prescription of six tablets of Relpax, the triptan that works best for me, isn’t covered by my PPO (Anthem/Blue Cross). The price: $250. FOR SIX TABLETS. I can only take two in twenty-four hours. If my headache lasts a week, that’s only three days worth, and I can’t get more for another month. So, my options are to take Advil (which can cause rebound — take more Advil, which causes more headaches, which means I have to take more meds, which causes more pain, and on and on it goes), or take Vicodin, and the same cycle begins.

Vicodin (or other controlled pain meds) are available in generics, are covered by insurance, and cost about $5. Despite it being more difficult now to get filled, it’s still an easier and more affordable option for people on a budget and in pain. It does not cost more to make a generic triptan than it does a generic Vicodin, but Pharma companies have years of research to pay off. Of course, there’s always the ‘street’ option, not something I’d ever consider, yet people do because of what I mentioned above.

I’m thankful there are non-opioid options for migraines that do work well for me when in fact, more and more people are turning to heroin to relieve chronic pain because of these new guidelines…but that’s a whole other post.

Other Migraine Options

To avoid rebound headaches, I do non-drug and natural therapies like vitamins, meditation, yoga, and behavioral therapy. I also take preventive medications like Topamax and Cymbalta (an anti-depressant which is also indicated to help prevent pain). I also get Botox shot into my temples and jaw (yes, TMJ is part of my issue, too — isn’t this fun?) every three months. And though migraine prevention is a covered and FDA-approved treatment for Botox, my insurance company, in their infinite financial wisdom, refuses to pay for it. Don’t get me started.

Listen, this is my story. Knowing that migraines and PTSD are closely linked has been eye-opening for me, because it’s a partial answer to a complicated question that has dogged me for years. People want to relieve my suffering and the symptoms of my migraines and give me a ton of advice, and I appreciate the love and support from so many caring individuals. I do, truly. What I’m doing usually works, and sometimes it doesn’t, which is why I’m here, sharing what I’ve learned.

I’d love to hear your stories about what does or doesn’t work for you, or those you know and love. Please share below!

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All content copyrighted unless otherwise specified. © 2016 by Rachel Thompson, author. All rights reserved. Permission is granted to use short quotes provided a link back to this page and proper attribution is given to me as the original author.
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Bravery in the Mirror: A Letter to My Abusive Father by @KW_Writes

*Trigger Warning* Please welcome brave survivor and author of Caskets from Costco, Kelly Wilson, today. 
Surviving my Abusive Father 

One of the clearest memories of my abuse at the hands of my father involved a video camera hidden in the bathroom laundry basket.

I found the camera – set to record – underneath a few random clothes while I prepared to get in the shower. The lens peeked through the slats in the side of the hamper facing the bathtub.

Upon discovering the camera, I wrapped a towel around my ten-year-old body and called for my father, who was watching TV and drinking in the living room. He pretended not to know anything about it and took it away.

I shut the door behind him. I stared in the mirror. I felt shock. Disgust. Shame.

Naked, but in the worst sense of the word. I wrapped those emotions around me, like the towel I pulled closer about my body, clutching it closed.

It would be the last time I would voluntarily look into a mirror until I turned 40, two years ago.

Layers of Disgust and Shame 

I recently attended a writing retreat that uncovered the layers of shock, disgust and shame I had been wearing for so long. Our facilitator would assign us a word and we would write, sharing our work after shedding blood, sweat, and tears on our notebook paper or laptops.

One of our exercises was to write a “Dear John” letter to something that no longer served us, that held us back or threatened to drown us. I chose shame, and I crafted an awesome letter about how shame’s services were no longer needed.

At least one person shared a letter she had written to a family member, and it hit me; I had never written a letter to my abusive father, about the video camera or anything else. I had written letters to my mother, and even an entire book about my grief and trauma experiences, but I had never singled him out.

For thirty years, I had flinched away from mirrors. In stores, I wouldn’t try on clothes. I didn’t have a mirror in my bedroom until a year ago, looking away from my own reflection, avoiding shiny surfaces.

I avoided images or memories of my father in that same way. I flinched away from my experiences with him, all of which have shaped me into the survivor I am.

The difference now is that I regularly look in mirrors. I have an extra-long trunk which makes wearing one-piece bathing suits more difficult. My calves are lovely and one of my breasts hangs like a deflated balloon after a fun party. My hair is shorter than it’s ever been. My eyes are clear and blue, and ready to see everything.

Ready to write a letter to my abusive father.

A Letter To My Abusive Father 

Dear Dad,

“Dear” is inappropriate, but it is standard manners when beginning a letter. “Dad” is misused as well.

For so long, I have been afraid of you. In my mind, like a child’s, you are still larger than life, but in a terrible way, like the clown from It by Stephen King, with razor teeth and maniacal eyes. Even as I write this, I feel this terrible threat, as if you might materialize from the sheer force of my words.

You have, in a sense, ruined my life. I deal daily with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, depression, and anxiety. I never know how I will feel or function from one day to the next. I have to work incredibly hard just to feel stable. I have triggers based on experiences I had with you in the past. The yelling, the drinking, the unpredictable behavior, the violations.

There are years of my life that are missing in my memory. I have to trust that my brain knows what it is doing in its effort to protect me, by allowing me not to remember horrible things that have scarred me for life. Mybrain and nervous system have been forever damaged by your choices and actions. The shame and disgust I carried about myself based on how you treated me almost killed me. I am not dead by suicide, or addicted to drugs or alcohol, which is, at the very least, surprising.

You have, in a much larger sense, not ruined my life. I am one of the strongest people I will ever meet, and I have proven this again and again. I stop the cycle of abuse in my own family with every word I say and choice I make for the good of my husband and children. I advocate for, and protect them fiercely, as I was never protected.

You tried to place the blame on me, on your own parents, on almost anything else so that you never had to feel guilty. I do not take responsibility for your awfulness, and it will not run my life. I take every single horrible thing you’ve ever tried to force on me and turn it into goodness. I choose hope. I find my people and we are stronger together, lifting each other out of the mire. I write and speak truth. I tell jokes and I laugh.

I will never, ever, ever give up. I am worth it.

I look in the mirror and I see clearly. I see you. I see what you’ve done.

I see you.

 

Kelly Wilson is an author and comedian who entertains and inspires with stories of humor, healing, and hope. She is the author of Live Cheap and Free, Don’t Punch People in the Junk, and Kelly Wilson’s The Art of Seduction: Nine Easy Ways to Get Sex From Your Mate. Her latest book, Caskets From Costco , has been chosen as a finalist in the 18th annual Foreword Reviews’ INDIEFAB Book of the Year Awards, the 10th annual National Indie Excellence Book Awards, and the 2016 Readers’ Favorite International Book Award Contest.
Kelly Wilson currently writes for a living and lives with her Magically Delicious husband, junk-punching children, dog, cat, and stereotypical minivan in Portland, Oregon. Read more about her at www.wilsonwrites.com and on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.

 

photos courtesy of Kelly Wilson and Unsplash

 

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Do You Need to Find a Voice or a Friend to Survive? by Guest @mariah_k_mullin

(*Trigger Warning: non-explicit content)

Imagine, if you can, awkwardly standing in a room full of strangers sitting in a circle in creaky metal chairs. They are all waiting for you to speak, all of their pairs of eyes are locked on you, some of them emotional and red-rimmed, others are lowered to the ground, while others still are looking to you like you hold the key to a question no one has asked yet. That is what it feels like constantly as a survivor of childhood sexual abuse or violence.

Surviving Childhood Sexual Abuse or Violence

Most people will never have to worry about how they are going to tell a new friend, significant other, coworkers, or even stranger who is at the wrong place at the wrong time why you are having an anxiety attack. Why it is that you do not like hugs or constant touching. Why you have body issues and self-image issues, no matter the reinforcement later on in life. Or my personal favorite, why you sometimes have nightmares and wake up violent and afraid; even years later. Unfortunately, for some of us that is our daily struggle. So, the important question becomes: how do I tell people and how do I deal with the after effects of my victimization?

According to a study by the Crimes Against Children Research Center, “Just more than half of youth (530 per 1000) experienced a physical assault. The highest rate of physical assault victimization occurred during between ages six and twelve.”

For me, it has never been easy to open up about being a survivor of sexual abuse, abuse by a family member, and severe mental and emotional abuse. I always preferred people to keep their distances. For years I kept silent, living in the same house as my abuser, sharing meals and holidays. All while quietly praying for (and attempting several times) my own death to end the torture. As the years dragged on and no one seemed inclined to notice my pain, I begin to self-injure. I had grown numb, you see; by having no one to talk to and no one to acknowledge my struggle, I internalized all of my pain, and the only way for me to seek release was to harm myself.

My History 

I was always an outgoing child, smiling in photos and playing games, even running a babysitting business growing up. All while dealing silently with this torture. There was so much anxiety, even then, that it was my fault and I would be judged (yes, even at the tender age of seven), I worried what others would think of me. Remember me asking you to imagine that uncomfortable and awkward room? Well, now there is flop sweat going down your back and you are stuttering your words and you may have even just pissed yourself. That is how it feels for a CHILD who is silent during the abuse.

One in 12 (82 of 1000) youth experience sexual victimization, including sexual assault (32 per 1000), and attempted or completed rape (22 per 1000), according to the same study mentioned above.

It wasn’t until I started middle school, at a horrible private institution that stifled my already shuttered and battered psyche and body, that I met a friend I trusted enough to tell what my childhood had been like. She didn’t cry, I will always remember that; she got angry. I began to panic and tried to laugh it off; I had become very good at deflecting my feelings into sarcasm at this point. Then she stopped me, looked me right in my eyes and grabbed my hands palms up. She matched her healing cuts to mine. You see, she wasn’t judging me as I had assumed. She was mad FOR me, she understood abuse and neglect and being so alone you cut to feel real. For us, that was the start of healing and a lifelong friendship.

We ended up at different high schools and on different life paths, but that girl is still my best friend to this day. In high school my anxiety got worse. I know it’s shocking that a teenager could be MORE uncomfortable with themselves, but I just felt like I was different than the rest of the “normal” kids. I felt like I didn’t deserve to date, that I was unclean. I still had trust issues telling close friends slowly. Then, when my anxiety reached its peak, I was sent to a continuation school to finish my high school diploma.

Wouldn’t you know who I connected with again? That same girl who had saved me four years before. We picked up our friendship like nothing had changed, but so much had. While I had curled into my shell of pain and continued neglect and emotional abuse, she had risen above; she had demanded respect, and earned herself a backbone.

Finding My Way to Survival 

She was living courage for me then, and oh, how I desperately wanted to become that person. I wanted to be confident and no longer afraid of my own reflection. I wanted to be whole and happy and free of physical scars, and the emotional ones, too. Her family basically moved me in to their home and showed me real uninhibited love for the first time in my life, and my hungry and aching soul drank it up like a person starved for water in the desert. I began to test my limits at home, setting up boundaries and standing up for myself regardless of the consequences. Since I was a minor I could not legally move out of my situation without reporting it, and at the time I still didn’t think I was worth the fuss.

“Child maltreatment is experienced by a little less than 1/7 of youth (138 per 1000). The study divided maltreatment into five categories (physical abuse, sexual abuse, emotional abuse, neglect, and family abduction) of which emotional abuse (name calling or denigration by an adult) was most frequent in occurrence.” (From the Developmental Victimization Survey by the CCRC, again as mentioned above.)

Having my newfound sense of family was everything to me. I started dating and doing my hair and makeup (things I had previously thought I didn’t deserve). I went to parties with friends, I danced, I started writing out my feelings and there began my love affair with the written word. I even found my own style of clothes and music and movies, which had always previously been done for me. Eventually, with the help of my new family, I found the most important thing of all. My voice.

That girl and her family saved my life by giving me the courage and freedom to be, and learn to love myself. That room doesn’t scare me anymore, and all of those eyes. I now lecture to and volunteer with in the hopes of preventing this from happening to another person’s child ever again. Now, I am loud and proud of who I am. It took them years of consistent trust and love, and unconditional faith in me to become who I am today. It isn’t an overnight kind of thing; you won’t read this and wake up tomorrow realizing you just need to let your significant other love you and you’ll stop being repulsed by his touch (I have been there).

Finding the Love of a Sister Helped Me Survive 

What I honestly discovered is that it was the love of a friend, a sister, that gave me the courage to blossom past my pain and vices. Every story is different, and every survivor has a story. Mine has an entire family of heroes in it. The amazing thing is, if you were to ask them, I know for a fact that they would say I was the hero of my own story, and that I am nowhere near done writing it yet. They would be partially right. You have to become okay with saving yourself.

I spent too long waiting for an adult to help because that’s what they tell you to do. Well, this is the real world and there isn’t a prince charming coming to slay your dragon. For me, I didn’t slay the dragon: I made good friends with it and we live in harmony together now.

I will always be that girl. I will always have to stand in that horrid room and explain some of my eccentricities to those deserving of an explanation. What I learned is that not every person is deserving of your story. That room is only as uncomfortable and awkward as you want to make it, you actually don’t even have to sit down in it if you don’t want to! Get up and walk out with your head held high knowing that you are not the problem. You are not A problem, or puzzle to be solved. Our life experiences shape us into who we are, so we are each uniquely made and come with our own carry-on baggage, which isn’t the worst thing in the world, and the sooner you embrace it, the sooner you will embrace yourself.

There is no mold you need to fit into, no special phrase you need to learn in order to be a survivor, and no, we don’t have a special handshake. Although I wouldn’t mind shaking the hand of a fellow survivor (assuming they permit touch).

That is what we are, ladies and gents, survivors. That is a mighty powerful word. No matter what they did to me, I am here. I am standing. I am doing what I love and building my career as a writer. I still have my best friend that I was thrice-blessed with in this life and we are planning an amazing new chapter in our lives now. Without her support, the support of someone who could feel my pain, I don’t know where I would be… I don’t even know WHO I would be.

I was going to sum this up here. I was going to say, “In the end I learned…”, but that isn’t accurate. I am not at the end. Being a survivor means we go on, it means that I never give up (even on a bad day; let’s be real they still exist). On those bad days, I call my “sister” and we talk about nonsense and our books in progress and our next adventure out into the world together. I call her and we talk about our lives and living them. I am reminded that I have one.

I am lucky to be here and choose to live in positivity and help others find their own versions as well. Being a child sexual abuse survivor does not define me, but it did shape pieces of me, pieces that I defined later on. Pieces I reinforced with a core of steel and heart that I use to battle any bad days or bad people.

There is no shame in my voice in that room now. I can introduce myself quite well and explain my trauma to those who I feel need the information for one reason or another, but I never feel the shame anymore. There is no guilt in this freedom I have found with my confidant. Being able to talk to someone, someone who is outside of your situation but understands is beyond beneficial and I can say with a certainty that I would be dead now if it wasn’t for my “sister” coming into my life and giving me family.

Now, I am able to shout out who I am from the roof tops, I am no withering flower on the vine. Talking about myself and my trauma brought about the ability for me to take ownership of my body and myself. I own me. No one else does. No one else has a judgement in how I cope and survive. No one has that right for anyone. Because we are survivors, we lived. We are here. And that angel of a “sister” I have is always here to make sure my backbone stays strong and my core is tight.

I am free and unashamed.

Find more information on Crimes Against Children and statistic information from this article go to: http://www.unh.edu/ccrc/statistics/index.html


If you or someone you know is being abused or neglected, seek someone to talk to. Never suffer in silence. Call one of these numbers or go to a website listed. I promise it gets better and there is someone on the other line who understands and will be there for you.
Nation Children’s Alliance – www.nationalchildrensalliance.org
National Domestic Violence Hotline – 800-779-SAFE(7233)
CyberTipline (to report online victimization of children) www.cybertipline.com
Child Help USA (for victims, offenders and parents) – 800-4-A-CHILD (800-422-4453)
Source for quotes:
Finkelhor, D., Ormrod, R.K., Turner, H.A., & Hamby, S.L. (2005). The victimization of children and youth: A comprehensive, national survey. Child Maltreatment, 10(1), 5-25.


(Images courtesy of Pixabay.com)

Mariah Kaye is a working writer, hoping to have her first novel published by 2018. She currently lives with her best friend and their black cats and family, planning their next adventure around the world or curled up with some good books and vegetarian snacks. Mariah also does volunteer work with young victims of abuse and is an animal rights activist.

Follow on Twitter for updates on her writing and activist activities. @mariah_k_mullin

Keep a sharp eye out for Mariah’s new blog venture with her “sister”. Coming 2017.

Would you like to be part of my Broken Pieces Pay It Forward  Initiative? Purchase a copy for yourself, fill out an easy form on my site, and I’ll gift a copy from you on my dime to a friend in need!

Purchase Broken Pieces and Broken Places  (now published by ShadowTeams NYC and Lisa Hagan Books) on Amazon now!
Learn more about all of Rachel’s books here. Connect with Rachel for social media services on BadRedheadMedia.com.

The post Do You Need to Find a Voice or a Friend to Survive? by Guest @mariah_k_mullin appeared first on Rachel Thompson.

This is How Male Debates Fail Women by guest @HMJonesWrites

Please welcome honored guest, award-winning author H.M. Jones. Her latest release, Monochrome , is now available from Feminine Collective Publishing on Amazon. Read it. Amazing book.

Many people listened to the most recent U.S. presidential debates. People picked “the winner” and “the loser” of the debates not long after in polls. This is not a political post, so you may stay and play with me, if you will. No this, readers, is a post on our notions of debate and argumentation, and how they are based largely on masculine ideals of power. So this is a feminist thing instead of a political post? Yes. It is. You may leave now, if you wish.

Those of you who are still with me, let’s talk, and by talk I mean let’s think. That’s what talking is to me, it’s thinking. To many of my female friends and colleagues, talking through something is thinking through something. It’s not the sort of talking that is loud and full of gestures, that barrels over the ideas of everyone else. It’s the sort of talking that weighs pros and cons, adds stories and learnings and ideas, and asks for participation and input.

Debates: As Defined By Men

Just following the debates, and during the debates, people largely believed that because Mr. Trump had more talk time, a louder presence and wouldn’t be silenced (even when it might have been better for him to be silent), he won. What does “winning” in this manner mean? Where do our ideas of “winning” when it comes to debate come from? Men in power. That’s traditionally who debated, who have been given the space and the attention for generations. They set the rules.

The louder you speak, the more confident you speak, the more you speak (as a man) portrays power.

So, as women, should we follow these same rules? I’d say no, for a few reasons. For one, I don’t think that bowling over people is an effective way to deal with others. It stops up communication and leaves people feeling unheard. If the point of debate was to sway the public based on reason, facts and substantial research, bowling over other voices would be bullying behavior.

What Are Debates About, Really? 

Let’s face it, debates aren’t about revealing truth or dealing in reason. Debates are the first instance of Reality TV. These “debates” are meant to deface and point fingers. They are unsubstantial and loud. I turn them down and sometimes off because they just make me frustrated. I don’t care for verbal fist fights.

If that’s what debates are, shouldn’t women just show that they can be loud and abrasive, too? I suppose if a woman likes that type of argumentation, she can do so. I think we need to push away from this form of argumentation. It was not created by women, and it feels an awful lot like mansplaining when it’s done. Because it is, really. Do we really want to carry on with what is wrong about debates already? Or should we try to bring some civility, some actual intention to these spaces? I would like to see what that looks like. Women who try this tactic, however, are called out as weak, ineffectual, as “losers.”

The Male Point of View vs. The Female Point of View 

When I was in grad school, I had mostly older male teachers. When writing for men, I wrote in a more aggressive way. I poked holes in the arguments that others presented in a forceful way. I made them seem small. I talked my own theories up. I hated those papers. I hated that game. I could do it, and I did it well. I was one of the top students, singled out by respected professors, was prized by my male colleagues with the way I could debate verbally and in the written word. It is the way of writing papers in the game of higher education. So I did it. Until I didn’t.

I had a female professor who questioned that way of writing, who called it preening. And I realized, as my heart grew lighter, that I agreed. Writing in that way was counterintuitive to my own understanding.

The person I respect most in life is my mother. Where many male role models in my life would often blow up and shut conversation down when we butted heads, my mother would sit, discuss, ask questions, listen. She directed her questions in a way that made me see things the way she saw them, without telling me I was wrong. She didn’t run over me when she spoke; she made me want to speak by creating a level playing field and inviting my ideas in. I would often concede wrong, at the end of our talks, as would she to some extent. We would meet in the middle and solve our problems. We still do.

Except the couples of times when I bowled her over, when I spoke over her and dismissed her. As I got older and more learned, I began to do that more often. It was something I learned was effective in this world. A power grab.

In that class my teacher told me to tell a story to open my paper, to invite my reader to empathize before hearing my stance. When I put research into the paper, she asked me to give more precedence to strong voices in support of my stance, to talk of opposition but not to shoot others down. She wanted me to show the other side in a fair light and reveal where I differed. She asked me to treat my reader and those who think differently respectfully, and they will want to listen to you.

It wasn’t about winning or losing an argument in that paper. It was about connecting emotion, empathy, facts and research in a respectful way. It was my favorite paper to write. I was nominated for the graduate research essay prize for that paper. I didn’t win. One of my male professors suggested that my paper could have been more “assertive.”

Are Male Debates Sexist? 

Is this a sexist post, to suggest that women might have a learned strength in debate that most men are not asked to have? No. We have had to learn to navigate for power, since we were not handed it. We were accessories, property. We could not throw aggression and gestures behind our words, or we would be presumptuous, even in danger. Instead, we learned to listen, to reach people on a deeper level, including the people in power. We learned negotiation.

So, how do we reveal our strength as such, when, currently, it is seen as a weakness?

How do we ask people to change the perception that louder, more aggressive and snarkier language is more correct? Will we have to learn to play the game or can we change the way the game is played by refusing to verbally knock our opponents around?

I’m not sure what the right answer is, but I know that I wish so much that this life was less about competition, aggression, and tackles than about reason, empathy and love.

 

Thoughts on this post? Please comment politely below. Trolls will be happily salted and melted like snails. 
I’m honored to guest this week on H.M.’s blog! Head on over to read my post: This is the Reason Interrupting is Sexist
royalty-free photos courtesy of unsplash and morguefile

Author H.M. Jones is a B.R.A.G medallion honoree for her debut novel, Monochrome, re-released as a third edition by Feminine Collective. She writes poetry, new adult, young adult, fantasy, sci-fi and speculative fiction. Connect with her on Twitter, Facebook, or her website.

The post This is How Male Debates Fail Women by guest @HMJonesWrites appeared first on Rachel Thompson.

This is How I Lived to See Another Day by guest Peter Olsen @banishedcougar

*Trigger warning: violence.
This is a semi-fictionalized account of real events that occurred in April 1990. Names have been changed or omitted, and conversations have been altered with creative license.

In our lives, we make mistakes. Some good. Some bad. Some that are laughable. Some that are forgettable. And some that are so profoundly stupid and potentially devastating to our lives that we continue to live inside the shadow of that mistake.

April 2, 1990. 19 years old.

I spent the weekend with a friend in a rural city about 30 minutes from where I lived. We really didn’t do any spectacular that first night. Just hung out, drank some booze, and indulged in some herbal refinements. I was supposed to finish a short video project for a video production class. My friend was going to help me write the script and film what we could. The project was due Monday.

“Shit…I have no fucking idea what the hell I’m going to do,” I said.

My friend laughed, almost falling off the wooden bar stool he was sitting on.

We stayed up most of the night writing the script. The plot centered around a dirty cop with the Seattle Police Department who was fired for misconduct. He purposefully lied to a grand jury in order to get his family’s killer convicted. The story starts 18 months after the killer was released from prison due to an appeal.

During breakfast the next morning, we went over our game plan how to film it. We went over our lines and blocking. My friend unexpectedly bolted up the stairs and disappeared for a few minutes. He sauntered down the stairs hiding something behind his back. My friend had a smile on his face. Hidden behind his back, my friend had a 12-gauge shotgun. He lifted it up, slid his hand down the stock to the pump, cocked it and said….

B A N G

One thing my Dad was always very clear about was “NEVER go into my closet and touch my gun without supervision. Guns are not toys, they can hurt you. If you own a gun when you’re older, Peter, always remember that a gun is always loaded, no matter if the chamber is empty. A gun is always loaded.”

It was April 2nd 1990. I was 19 years old. And it was 4:00pm.

And in that split-second…my life came to a fucking screeching halt.

I was in limbo.

This was my Judgement Day.

Everything about my life for the past 19 years of my short existence on this mortal coil flashed before my eyes. All the pain, all the sorrow, all the laughter and the tears. Flashed in front of me like watching a reel-to-reel movie.

The time when I destroyed my sister’s Play-doh ice cream truck with a wiffle ball bat.

The time when I saw my Dad break both scapula as he took a swan dive off the top of a ladder onto the cold, unforgiving cement floor of the garage of my childhood home.

The time when I met my first girlfriend. That time when we fell in love at first sight. That time kissed for the first time. That time I rode my bicycle over to her house and snuck in the window at two in the morning. That time we lay in her bed, naked, holding each other and she said, with a tear in her eye, “I love you, Peter.”

And that time I cheated. And that other time I cheated. And the other time I cheated. And that time when I lost her. And that time we reconnected. And that time when we were laying naked in her bed at her apartment in Seattle.

And that one last kiss outside her apartment building and she said, “We will never see each other again, Peter.” And that time when I never said that I was sorry for shattering her heart into tiny pieces.

And the time when my psychologist diagnosed me with “clinical mood disorder,” and I thought my life was over.

And the time I tried to kill myself.

It was April 2nd 1990. I was 19 years old. And it was 4:00 pm.

And in that split-second

The good. The bad. And everything in between.

Everything flashed before my eyes.

And then my broken, bleeding body crashed to the floor.

D A R K N E S S

When I came around, I had no fucking idea where the hell I was. I was barely conscious and my eyes were barely opened. All I could think about was Just walk it off.

I tried to sit up. It’s probably not that bad, I thought. I slowly opened my eyes.

The look on my friends’ face. The absolute fucking horror.

“Don’t get up, Pete! Just lie down! The ambulance will be here soon.”

My friend told me in the hospital a few days later that he ran back and forth from the kitchen to grab paper towels to help control the bleeding. He was too afraid of getting in trouble from using his Mom’s expensive bath towels. We had later determined that Bounty is indeed the quicker picker-upper.

I started to move a little bit, thinking I could at least sit up.

“Look, Pete. They’re almost here! Just a few more minutes. Don’t fucking move, man!”

I moved my head just a little to left to see a very large pool of blood and bits of gore scattered around. A person could lose one pint of blood without much of an issue. But I lost between two to three pints, which caused me to go into shock.

I looked further down and found that part of my leg was gone.

GONE!

And I am bleeding. EVERYWHERE!

There was a hole the size of the fucking Grand Canyon exposing the inside of my left thigh.

The wound measured 5’ x 3’ x 1 inch deep on the upper thigh of my left leg.

Oh Jesus, I thought. This isn’t happening. This is not fucking happening.

A few minutes later, what seemed like an eternity, emergency personnel arrived The cops looked around the house and asked my friend to join them in another room. Two of the EMT’s came directly to me.

“Hi, I’m Mike. I am here to help you. Don’t be scared; we might seem intimidating but we’re here to give you a hand.”

“I don’t need a hand, man, i need a fucking leg.”

Mike the EMT smiled then began to ask a series of questions as the other EMT was trying to mobile me for transport.

“Who is the President of the United States, Peter?”

“He’s not the true leader of the free world, he’s a figurehead. Congress actually runs the shit.”

Both of the EMT’s chuckled. But then things got serious. Mike the EMT looked at the second EMT and nodded. Mike the EMT’s face went from semi-jovial to “Oh, holy fuck.”

I was strapped onto the gurney and away we went.

“What hospital would you like to go to?” Mike the EMT asked.

“Providence…I”m Catholic so I think I’ll have a better chance of not dying.”

D A R K N E S S

I woke up awhile later and slowly opened my eyes. Once my eyes opened, I saw shapes. People and things. Engulfed in an eerie haze. It felt as if everything was in slow motion. A forced alternate reality with no escape. Everything felt surreal and dreamlike. Nothing real, everything fake. I floated…levitating over the sheets of my bed. Feeling nothing, neither happy nor sad, awake or dreaming, alive or dead. I was just…there.

Living my worst nightmare, I watched myself, stuck in a David Lynch movie.

Out of this haze came a figure moving toward me, walking directly out of the haze like an angel slowly floating down from Heaven.

“Hi. I’m Anna,” the angelic figure said.

“Am I dead?”

“No. You are in the emergency room at Providence.”

“Oh…um…okay.”

“I’m the trauma nurse. I’m here just to keep you company.”

“Um…okay.”

At some point someone got hold of my parents. Mom and Dad really had no idea what happened when they received the phone call.

Did Peter play a practical joke?

Is he really hurt? If he is, then how bad is he hurt?

It took Mom and Dad an eternity to get to hospital. After they saw the wound, they were speechless.

It’s sheer luck he didn’t shoot me a few inches up and to the left right in the groin, or I would have easily bled out like a flash flood in the Southwest during monsoon season. Instant death. Lights out. Game over.

D A R K N E S S

They whisked me away to the operating room.

I’d been hurt before. Broken foot, a few stitches, sprained wrist, a concussion or two, but nothing like this. Nothing this fucking bad. I learned a long time ago that I have no tolerance for pain, which is a gross understatement. I would definitely be a horrible sub in BDSM relationship.

I woke up several hours after the first surgery. Groggy and high as fuck from the wonderful pain medications. On top of all this, I wasn’t mentally all there. The doctor took me off lithium, a drug I was taking for bipolar disorder, due to the possible complications lithium would have with the pain medication, Demerol. I started hearing voices and hallucinating. Ironically, the doctors found I was allergic to the Demerol. It was killing me.

Due to the allergic reaction to the Demerol, my blood pressure became a very serious issue. At one point, my blood pressure hit 50/30. That’s close to coma city. Awake and alive…but barely. Once I stabilized, the doctor took me off Demerol and put me on another pain medication.

Besides the concussion I suffered from falling hard on the wooden floors of my friend’s parent’s house after being shot, besides losing two to three pints of blood, besides flatlining and then being revived on the way to the hospital…I still was in serious trouble.

Laying there…laying there in that…bizarre existence. Not knowing if I was alive or dead. That uneasy, nightmarish, surreal, dream-like existence, where everything yet nothing seemed real. Yet somehow in this state, an indescribable feeling of peace washed over me. I became at peace with my dire situation.

This was my last ride.

This was the end.

I was 19 years old. I had lived a short but decent life. I fell in love with a beautiful, intelligent blonde-haired angel. I survived being bullied in high school. I survived a suicide attempt and self-injury. I was fortunate enough to have a loving family and an amazing best friend.

I was ready to die.

I passed out for what I thought was the very last time.

D A R K N E S S

By some dastardly, cruel stroke of fate, I woke up. I should have been dead.

I was alive. Dammit…I was alive.

The room was empty except for me and a male nurse checking on me.

“Hi, I’m Michael. How are you feeling, Peter?”

“Like a fucking zombie.”

“I have no brains so I assure I’m not on the menu.”

“Good to know.”

“Is there anything I can get you. Water, perhaps?”

“Yeah, sure.”

The male nurse sat with me for a while, cracked a few jokes, and read the paper aloud.

That male nurse saved my life. He was my guardian angel. For the next few nights, he would be my protector from the icy clutches of the Grim Reaper. At one point, he thought I was strong enough for real food. Not the horrible, bland hospital food, but honest-to-goodness, real life food.

Per my request, he got me a bacon cheeseburger, onion rings, and an orange soda. It was the best fucking bacon cheeseburger, onion rings, and orange soda I’ve ever had. Until I threw that shit up ten minutes later. The male nurse laughed.

“It’s okay, Peter. You’re just not ready. But you will be,” he said. “Baby steps, my friend. Baby steps.”

 

In our lives, we make mistakes. Some good. Some bad. Some that are laughable. Some that are forgettable. And some that are so profoundly stupid and potentially devastating to our lives that we continue to live inside the shadow of that mistake. Each decision we make either is a success or a failure.

“Why do we fall, sir? So that we can learn to pick ourselves up.” ~ Alfred Pennyworth (Michael Caine), Batman Begins

April 2, 1990. 19 years old.

I was 19 years old.

It was 4:00 pm.

And I lived to see another day.

 

After graduating from Washington State University with a B.A. in Humanities, Peter M. Olsen found his true passion and became a blogger. He writes for Feminine Collective, and is also a mental health advocate dedicated to helping people with mental illness. In his free time, Peter is in the search for the greatest taco trucks in the Pacific Northwest. Peter is a raver and PLUR warrior, video game junkie, coffee addict, and an all-around pretty cool guy. Trance and house music keeps Peter a very happy guy. Peter lives in the greatest city on Planet Earth, the Emerald City…Seattle, Washington.

Twitter: https://twitter.com/banishedcougar
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/banishedcougar/
Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/peter-m-olsen
Website: https://razorcast.net

photos courtesy of unsplash

 

Would you like to be part of my Broken Pieces Pay It Forward  Initiative? Purchase a copy for yourself, fill out an easy form on my site, and I’ll gift a copy from you on my dime to a friend in need!
Purchase Broken Pieces and Broken Places  (now published by ShadowTeams NYC and Lisa Hagan Books) on Amazon now!
Learn more about all of Rachel’s books here. Connect with Rachel for social media services on BadRedheadMedia.com.
Join Rachel for #MondayBlogs every Monday, #SexAbuseChat every Tuesday,  and #BookMarketingChat every Wednesday. Learn all about it by clicking on events here !

The post This is How I Lived to See Another Day by guest Peter Olsen @banishedcougar appeared first on Rachel Thompson.

This is the Reason I Won’t Talk Politics on Social Media Anymore

Don’t discuss politics. I broke one of my own cardinal rules of branding.

I know! I did it. I shouldn’t have, but I suppose, after all, I’m human. I gave into the temptation to discuss politics for the past few weeks on social media. It’s been bloody, and frustrating, and glorious.

And now, I’m done.

Let’s deconstruct.

Polite Discourse: Is It Possible? 

I used to think so. Lately, though, no. I frequent mostly Twitter and Facebook. Twitter moves faster, so I’d hop on a trending topic between working on clients and see some comment Trump made, or another misogynistic comment about women regarding Clinton by the media, and I’d retweet or share an article, often without commentary. Occasionally, I’d add my own take. As a fierce defender of women and children’s rights, that is my right. Right?

Wrong. The simple act of sharing an article I did not write, just shared, would bring about a barrage of hate and trolling. It’s not possible in this current political climate for people to have calm discussions without immature tantrums, mud-slinging and name-calling, which is sad. The assumptions people make about others is egregious. It’s as if having our own thoughts and opinions that differ from theirs is a crime and we must, therefore, be punished! Don’t even get me started on the guys who obsessively started stalking my various streams for daring to have a differing viewpoint.

Sure, there have been some amazing instances where people from both sides have come together to agree in some of our discussions, and that’s great and one of the wonderful, organic benefits I love about being on social media. Does it happen often enough to justify the barrage of trolling and racist hate? No.

Worse, the negativity was bringing out the worst in me. I wasn’t being the better person I’m capable of being, and I take full responsibility for that, which is why I’m stopping that behavior right now.

What’s been your experience interacting with opposing parties on social media? 

Using Our Platforms For Good 

In building my platform, my author brand, on topics I’m experienced in or passionate about, I used to wrestle with this question: do we have a moral responsibility to use our platforms for good? I believe we do, which is why I go out of my way to not be a self-promotional “Buy my book!” robot; rather, I use my time on social media to share articles and blog posts about people who have survived trauma, women’s issues, feminism, equality, and other topics that address what I feel are the inequalities in this world: sexism, victim-blaming and shaming, misogyny, inequality, racism, anti-semitism, and women and children’s abuse and trauma.

Sharing what we are passionate about shows who we authentically are. 

Continuing to share articles and blog posts about these topics on social media, and here on my blog are important to me — it’s crucial to give others a voice after trauma. Will I continue to share articles with regard to the political candidates, however? No. Arguing with trolls about why their candidate is better than mine is a ridiculous waste of my time (I especially love when they use SHOUTY CAPS). There is no winner, no changing of minds, no unicorns and rainbows — not that I expected that anyway.

The whole process left me feeling frustrated and wasteful — I could have spent that time instead on positive experiences, helping others, writing, creating. I ended up mad at myself for allowing the negativity to take hold. This isn’t me being a victim here (a foreign concept for me) — this is me being a survivor. Do I feel it’s healthy to argue with people for no good reason? No.

So, I’m done.

If you discuss politics on social media, how do you find it makes you feel? 

Branding and Politics 

I have written about branding before on BadRedhead Media, and usually take my own advice. This was somewhat of a social experiment, if you will, as I’m often a guinea pig for what I recommend to my clients. In the nine years I’ve been on Twitter (they recently validated my account, too!), I’ve successfully avoided politics and it’s been fairly peaceful — with the exception of discussing feminism, because you know, the word scares people who don’t quite understand that it doesn’t mean women hate men (but that’s another post).

As a woman with a strong voice, who has been recognized for my voice, I will continue to use my voice in my books, blog posts, giving others the opportunity to tell their stories, and support and fundraise to help women and children survivors of sexual abuse. That’s my thing, my branding, if you will.

Branding is really about managing people’s expectations. When people come to your social media stream or page, are you consistently discussing topics that you are passionate about? Be consistent, and people will come back for more. You know me as the chick who writes what scares her in Broken Pieces and Broken Places, and encourages others to do the same.

Politics doesn’t scare me; frankly, I find it ridiculous, staged, and what people argue about, quite surface. The issues themselves are important and deeply felt — the fact that people are arguing and trolling one another on Twitter or Facebook about it all won’t change minds at the ballot box, and that’s my point. I’ve long thought that arguing about politics is a time-waster. What else could we be doing with that time?

Come November, I’ll vote the way I want; but, make no mistake, I will vote.

And please, vote the way you want. Just stop yelling at me about it IN ALL CAPS.

Would you like to be part of my Broken Pieces Pay It Forward  Initiative? Purchase a copy for yourself, fill out an easy form on my site, and I’ll gift a copy from you on my dime to a friend in need!
Purchase Broken Pieces and Broken Places  (now published by ShadowTeams NYC and Lisa Hagan Books) on Amazon now!
Learn more about all of Rachel’s books here. Connect with Rachel for social media services on BadRedheadMedia.com.
Join Rachel for #MondayBlogs every Monday, #SexAbuseChat every Tuesday,  and #BookMarketingChat every Wednesday. Learn all about it by clicking on events here!

 

 

The post This is the Reason I Won’t Talk Politics on Social Media Anymore appeared first on Rachel Thompson.

How Do Men Deal With Sexual Abuse? Guest Paul Gilmartin @mentalpod Shares His Story

I feel beyond blessed to have connected with comedian Paul Gilmartin (of Dinner and a Movie fame). Today, Paul shares with us a bracingly honest account of dealing with covert sexual abuse and incest. I honor Paul’s forthrightness and honesty in dealing with his past, and helping so many others with theirs. 

Paul hosts an incredibly weekly, hour-long audio podcast, The Mental Illness Happy Hour, consisting of interviews with artists, friends and the occasional doctor. Paul has graciously offered to interview me, and we are going to make it happen in his L.A. studio live soon!

*Strong trigger warning for sexual situations and imagery.*

 

Taboo Tales
by Paul Gilmartin

I’m a recovering alcoholic and addict, I’ve been diagnosed with treatment-resistant depression due to childhood adversity, and I’m a survivor of covert incest. Which is a lot to fit onto a business card. There’s a special font called “ehhhh.”

Covert sexual abuse or covert incest means stuff happened but none of it was overtly sexual, it was more sexualizing, discreet, disguised or purely emotional. In other words, I didn’t fuck my mom. There’s a sentence everyone should experience saying to a room full of strangers. But she’s always given off the vibe that she wants me.

How can I describe what it feels like to be an incest survivor? Well. I didn’t sign up for it. I didn’t want it. And extricating myself from it has been painful. It’s like LinkedIn.

Most people who know my mom would never guess, because abusers are narcissists and most narcissists present a different persona outside the family very, very well.

1 in 5 males have been sexually abused and 40 percent of their abusers are female; mostly moms, sisters and babysitters. I never knew the numbers were that high. To be fair, I was keeping track with an abacus.

My mom feasted on my innocence; talking to me like a spouse starting when I was seven, breaking down and looking for me to comfort her yet not protecting me when I was being mistreated by adults right in front of her. She took my temperature rectally until I was eight, saying we needed to keep doing it this way because otherwise I might bite down on the thermometer. I remember feeling like I was being tricked but quickly banishing the thought.

There were often reasons for me to be naked or in my underwear that felt really sketchy and if I tried to cover up she would say “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” or “I saw it before you ever did,” making me feel like I was the one with the problem. My body never felt like my own.

Until I was 24 I let her grab my ass and tell me how attractive I was. Again she acted like I was being hypersensitive. After I moved out, she would leave messages saying “Hello Mr. Gilmartin, this is Mrs. Gilmartin” and say things like “Buy you a drink sailor?” The list goes on an on.

I don’t hate my mom. I feel sorry for her. But I don’t like her. I really really, really don’t like her.

I have never liked being around her. Ever since I was little, when I hug her I feel dead. I go numb like a possum. I shut down. I want to cover my genitals. I always figured I was just a bad son for not feeling differently.

I fear that people think I’ve abused children because of what happened to me. I haven’t; because I would never ever drive a van. Global warming is real.

Mostly, I craved approval and attention.

But incest has scarred my sexuality. It makes intimacy really, really difficult. Sexuality became a tool to numb myself instead of expressing love. I feel easily overwhelmed or even disgusted by the idea that my wife finds me attractive. It has nothing to do with her. It’s my fear of being devoured.

As incest survivors, we wind up having a really complicated relationship with our bodies because in many ways it’s a crime scene we can’t leave. Many of us experienced arousal during the abuse, right along with the feelings of being grossed out and frozen. It happened to me during a bath she insisted on giving me because I had gravel in my knee. I was 12.

If you’ve never experienced arousal AND being grossed out. It’s a roller coaster. Red Flags. Home of the half boner.

So I buried all these thoughts, feelings and the truths from myself and woke up every day with a suffocating feeling of doom. How can you not feel doomed when the person who was supposed to protect you is the person who tricked and used you?

Before I could put a name to what happened to me, I dealt with it by being a pig.

I objectified women and I know I hurt some. In hindsight, I couldn’t see them as people. They were bodies to simply soothe my unconscious pain. I’m still trying to forgive myself for it but it’s hard.

A lot of incest survivors are left with sexual fantasies that revolve around incest. This was never the case with me, until three years ago when I confronted what happened. Bit by bit all the memories were coming back but for some reason I was now feeling their pain and giving them weight. I felt something inside of me breaking.

Starting in grade school I’ve always had a fantasy about going up to an older female and having her hold me while I cry. When I got into therapy I realized it had something to do with my mom not being there for me but I didn’t know what it was I wanted to say. As something in me started to break, I found the words.

***

I went to my wife and asked for a hug. I broke down and started sobbing. I said “My mom tricked me, me she used me. I was a good boy. I didn’t deserve it.”

My wife said, “I’ve been waiting 20 years for you to say that.” She had my mom pegged the first time she met her and saw how she touched and looked at me. I always protested that that’s just how my mom is. I finally saw that my wife was right. I wanted to die. That’s how much I hate when my wife is right.

I don’t know if I can fully describe the feeling of confronting a truth like incest. It must be what someone experiences when a parent you love dies. Or when a popular person unfollows you.

When the image of my mom as loving – that I had to create to survive – popped, I felt not only like an orphan but stupid. If I could have missed that truth, what else was I wrong about in the world? I felt like an astronaut whose lifeline had been severed and I was floating in space. Untethered is the best word I can use to describe it.

So incest fantasies were how I dealt with the pain. In some sick way it soothed me. I read stories online about boys being abused by older females that should have made me cry but they turned me on. I talked to my therapist and discovered it’s a really common thing with people who have experienced sexual trauma. Then I talked about it on the podcast and hundreds and hundreds of people shared similar experiences, not just with incest, but all sexual trauma. Some rape victims can only orgasm thinking about being raped. If that’s not a T-shirt, what is?

One man whose red-haired babysitter used to make him finger her was addicted to pornography, specifically videos of fingers being inserted into women with red hair.

I learned we often want to re-experience a facsimile of what happened, but change some small part of it to give us the illusion of control. The mere act of fantasizing about it is a way of taking control back.

For me, I fantasized about a different mom or babysitter doing it to the 11 year-old me. I masturbated to this fantasy to soothe the pain. And then one day I realized I was turned on by the idea of masturbating in front of my mom. That too could go on a T-shirt but it feels more like a hoodie.

In my fantasy, the piece I wanted to change was I wanted to be the one to manipulate the situation into happening. Fortunately, it was easy to imagine her going along with it. Gross, but true. I also found it interesting that the idea of HER manipulating or initiating something made me sick to my stomach.

I didn’t judge myself for this. I found it a little funny. I would think to myself “I’m about to jerk off thinking about jerking off in front of my mom.” I didn’t shame myself.

A small part of me worries that you are judging me for my fantasies, but the love I have received from talking openly about it has far outweighed those negative thoughts.

There is nothing like a warm hug from a fellow survivor. Crying on each other’s shoulders. It’s a beautifully fucked up club with a horrible cover charge.  

As I’ve healed, the fantasy has decreased, thank God. But it’s still there. I have shared it with my wife, my friends and people in front of me at the post office.

It’s freeing to talk about and especially to laugh about.  I do it all the time now, especially on my podcast, the Mental Illness Happy Hour.

***

And the beautiful thing about surviving what I did, and opening up about it, is that people now open up to me about their pain, dark thoughts, fantasies and confusion. Most sexual trauma doesn’t fit into a neat category, because most predators are trying like hell to avoid it looking like that, because then they can keep it hidden from you and probably themselves.

Actually, I wonder what she thinks about what she did. I’m afraid to confront her because the thought of being in the same room with her makes me sick. Unless I’m jerking off. Which would be awkward in a retirement home. I would have to do it when nobody’s around like at 2 in the afternoon when they’re all at dinner.

It doesn’t matter if the abuse that happened to you is prosecutable. That’s not the most important thing in healing. Especially since most people’s trauma isn’t prosecutable. Processing the feelings is what matters. Setting boundaries or cutting contact with toxic people and becoming your own best friend. That’s what we have control over.

I cut contact with my mom almost three years ago. Initially because of what she did, but ultimately, because of how she refuses to respect my boundaries today. It’s been the greatest vacation I’ve ever had.

If you’re out there and you relate, don’t keep it inside. Talk to someone. Talk to me. Email me. Just for the love of God, don’t do it through LinkedIn.

 

Do you need help right now? Contact RAINN.org for both men and women, 24/7. 

More on the Mental Illness Happy Hour:

The show is geared toward anyone interested in or affected by depression, addiction and other mental challenges which are so prevalent in the creative arts.
Paul’s hope is that the show and this website will give people a place to connect, smile and feel the return of hope. The biggest myth about mental illness is that you are alone and there is no help.
Connect with Paul on Twitter at @mentalpod or Facebook on the Mental Illness Happy Hour page.

 

Would you like to be part of my Broken Pieces Pay It Forward  Initiative? Purchase a copy for yourself, fill out an easy form on my site, and I’ll gift a copy from you on my dime to a friend in need!
Purchase Broken Pieces and Broken Places  (now published by ShadowTeams NYC and Lisa Hagan Books) on Amazon now!
Learn more about all of Rachel’s books here. Connect with Rachel for social media services on BadRedheadMedia.com.
Join Rachel for #MondayBlogs every Monday, #SexAbuseChat every Tuesday,  and #BookMarketingChat every Wednesday. Learn all about it by clicking on events here!

 

images courtesy of Paul Gilmartin and Unsplash

The post How Do Men Deal With Sexual Abuse? Guest Paul Gilmartin @mentalpod Shares His Story appeared first on Rachel Thompson.

How My Elements Are On Fire

How My Elements Are On Fire
by Rachel Thompson

It’s all in the ending, regardless of how it begins, causing water to steam, fire to crackle, earth to heat, air to move. The elements are angry, my worry stones tell me, as I roll them across my aching fingers, as they jump, biting at my bones.

Heavy bones, tired of the weight I carry, this burden of a love I’m supposed to feel, one that is written and raised, sun pinging off a peeling, faded golden seal, all perfunctorily created in some airy office in California by an hourly clerk I’ve never met. Intimacy marked by agency, diametrically opposed.

What a strange little dance we’ve created, this business of love, that which started from binding twine or ribbon to one-upmanship in millions of dollars in flowers that die, of clear, shiny rocks pulled out of caves on the backs of babies, of twinkly lights that carry no meaning. Yet, if every intimacy of marriage is different, how is it that the human condition of energy and fluid exchange is no different? The song remains the same.

My body moves me forward because that’s where I’m supposed to be. I can’t go back to that silent place of quiet fury and prickly doubt, feeling my worry stones compelling me to go, move, jump, girl!

Taking responsibility, blaming myself, for not creating enough crackling fire or earthy warmth, yet in the end it wasn’t about that, really.

It’s not about me, or him, or us. It’s not about shedding the skins of blame, or dusting the detritus of what little clarity remains. It’s about the energy surrounding us, undulating in circular waves and unseen, infinite patterns.

It’s a lie that all the elements work together in unison — they fight for prominence, just as we fight for the one we need, filling our core, giving us life.

I needed air to move.

To end.

To begin.

Copyright, 2016 (Broken People), Rachel Thompson and ShadowTeams NYC Publishing

 

This poem originally appeared on Feminine Collective . Please visit their amazing site for more of my poetry, and others works by amazing writers from all over the world.
photo courtesy of unsplash


Would you like to be part of my Broken Pieces Pay It Forward  Initiative? Purchase a copy for yourself, fill out an easy form on my site, and I’ll gift a copy from you on my dime to a friend in need!
Purchase Broken Pieces and Broken Places  (now published by ShadowTeams NYC and Lisa Hagan Books) on Amazon now!
Learn more about all of Rachel’s books here. Connect with Rachel for social media services on BadRedheadMedia.com.
Join Rachel for #MondayBlogs every Monday, #SexAbuseChat every Tuesday,  and #BookMarketingChat every Wednesday. Learn all about it by clicking on events here!

The post How My Elements Are On Fire appeared first on Rachel Thompson.

This is the Reason Writing Your Story Helps you Thrive

Writing Your Story Helps You Thrive

I tell people right away I’m a survivor of childhood sexual abuse (either face to face, or through my writing), but I didn’t used to. I held that shame and fear of judgment in tightly for years, a filmy veil of anxiety separating me from everyone else. I didn’t feel I could get close to friends or even lovers, always holding back this ugly secret. If anyone saw the real me, the tainted, used me, they wouldn’t want to pursue any kind of relationship; either that, or they’d use it against me somehow.

A common mindset after trauma – to be in victim mode and not even realize it. Total nonsense, of course, because I’m awesome. Ha! This is what shame tells you, one of many horrific stories we learn to believe.

Therapy and meds helped me a lot to overcome those lies, but the damage is incredibly deep; it never truly leaves us. I moved from victim to survivor, but it took a lot of work, and if I’m totally honest with you right now, I still argue with myself sometimes — I minimize, telling myself it could have been worse, which is just so incredibly fucked up. How much worse would it have to be? I was only eleven when a man stole away my childhood…and then he came back for more.

Eventually, I found the courage to write and share my story, despite the voices in my head telling me to shut the hell up, nobody cares to read about yet another victim, that talking about something that happened thirty-plus years ago would be seen by total strangers as a pathetic bid for attention (when truly, who cares? It’s my story, dammit, and I matter). And there are plenty of those people — mostly men, let’s be honest here, who haven’t experienced what’s it’s like to be the victim of a sexual crime and therefore cannot relate — so they minimize and dismiss survivors frequently, or explain to us how we ‘should’ feel.

This isn’t misandry on my part — men direct these comments to me (and so many other survivors, regardless of gender) on social media, emails, and blog comments almost daily telling us to ‘just get over it’ or ‘stop being a victim.’ These careless comments rarely come from women, though that’s not always the case, as many male survivors will tell you — they are often told by women to ‘suck it up’ or ‘be a man’ by women.

I believe these derogatory comments are the result of ignorance, and an overall lack of compassion more than anything.

(In fact, just the other day, I man told me on my public Facebook wall that ‘woman thrive in victim mode, while men just get on with it.’ Ignorance, clearly, as 1in6.org shows the rate of suicide in male sexual abuse survivors is much higher than in women. Ignorance craves an audience, sadly, and yet his comments reaffirm why I write these articles, share my story, and continue to encourage the #SexAbuseChat community (join us, every Tuesday, 6pm pst on Twitter) to tell their stories, too.)

{For a review on this pervasive form of ‘mansplaining,’ read this fascinating article by Rebecca Solnit.}

I moved beyond surviving into thriving. Writing, no publishing, my story, became such a huge part of my recovery…I truly had no idea the impact it would have on so many others, and myself.

“Write something you’d never show your mother or father” ~ Lorrie Moore

Making Friends With Shame

That’s where I changed my paradigm and fooled that wretched little voice: I made friends with Shame. She’s been with me longer than almost anyone, and she has a lot to say, too. So, I let her speak, and Broken Pieces was born. I released it in 2013 and, until I recently republished with Lisa Hagan Books and ShadowTeams NYC (which takes away the ranking, sadly, but it’s working its way back up!), it was #1 on Amazon’s Women’s Poetry list, #2 on Women Authors, and Top 20 on all of Memoirs for over a year, which blew me away.

Broken Pieces has won many awards but more importantly gave rise to a huge community of survivors, and that means more to me than anything else! #SexAbuseChat (every Tuesday at 6pm pst/9pm est) on Twitter with survivor and licensed therapist Bobbi Parish, and a 100+ person strong private survivor support group I moderate on Facebook are all the result of that first book.

Broken Places followed in 2015, with more amazing reviews, awards, and top rankings. I’m writing the final Broken book now, Broken People, for a Winter release. Apparently, Shame still has more to say.

Beyond Surviving: Thriving

I’m still as busy as ever with writing, business, publishing, my advocacy work for other survivors, and most importantly, being a mom. Beyond surviving, I’m now thriving though with occasional triggers, I stumble my way back.

My kids vaguely know something bad happened when I was younger – my son will be eleven in September. He’s very protective of his mama, and I love that about him. I’m raising him to be respectful of all women, including his seventeen-year-old sister with whom he bickers constantly over the Xbox and Squeakers, our girl cat. He has a lot of females in the house to learn from!

The lessons are there, though, and that’s what matters; I tell them both often, “you get what you give, and you give what you get.” Give mad, get mad; give compassion, get compassion. Him: Give money, get money? Me: Welcome to capitalism (and book marketing). Most importantly, I’m always looking for opportunities; when things don’t go my way, I figure out what I could have done differently or what I learned from the situation….a hard lesson for kids to learn, but an important one for all of us. Some adults never get there, survivors or not.

I survived, and now I thrive, because I give what I get.

 

Do you want to submit your own survival story and be featured? Take a look at Speak Our Stories, a joint initiative of my #SexAbuseChat and #SayftyCom. More here: SpeakOurStories http://ow.ly/13m0303aiDn 
Would you like to be part of my Broken Pieces Pay It Forward  Initiative? Purchase a copy for yourself, fill out an easy form on my site, and I’ll gift a copy from you on my dime to a friend in need!
Purchase Broken Pieces and Broken Places  (now published by ShadowTeams NYC and Lisa Hagan Books) on Amazon now!
Learn more about all of Rachel’s books here. Connect with Rachel for social media services on BadRedheadMedia.com.
Join Rachel for #MondayBlogs every Monday, #SexAbuseChat every Tuesday,  and #BookMarketingChat every Wednesday. Learn all about it by clicking on events here!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

photo courtesy of unsplash

The post This is the Reason Writing Your Story Helps you Thrive appeared first on Rachel Thompson.

Do You Want To Share Your Sexual Abuse Survival Story?

Do you want to share your sexual abuse survival story (as yourself or anonymously)? Every voice matters. Let’s hear yours.

Speak Our Stories 

I’ve partnered with Dr. Shruti Kapoor, Social Entrepreneur, Founder of @SayftyCom, Awarded International Women of the Year, Ending #VAW with #sayftychat (On Twitter, Mondays, 11am EST) to bring your stories to life. We’ve created Speak Our Stories! a joint project of Sayfty and Sex Abuse Chat via @SpeakOurStories!

Why? Because we believe in the strength of our many voices, in community, that speaking our truths helps others know they are not alone. On top of all of that, providing shared resources and solutions helps every survivor find the help they need.

Please Share Our Mission 

(here’s a tweet if you want to share):

Speak! your ‪#‎survival‬ story and be featured! http://ow.ly/w3yQ302ZVZj courtesy of @SexAbuseChat @SayftyCom and the new @SpeakOurStories!

Please follow the new Twitter handle http://twitter.com/SpeakOurStories and tell your survivor friends!

We’re working on the blog, FB page, G+, Pinterest, and starting a private Facebook discussion group in the next week or so. For now, we’re open for submissions. All the information you need is on the form below.

Submit YOUR Sexual Abuse Story

To submit your story, click on the link here:

Speak Our Stories http://ow.ly/w3yQ302ZVZj

Any questions, please ask away…

 

Would you like to be part of my Broken Pieces Pay It Forward  Initiative? Purchase a copy for yourself, fill out an easy form on my site, and I’ll gift a copy from you on my dime to a friend in need!
Purchase Broken Pieces and Broken Places  (now published by ShadowTeams NYC and Lisa Hagan Books) on Amazon now!
Learn more about all of Rachel’s books here. Connect with Rachel for social media services on BadRedheadMedia.com.
Join Rachel for #MondayBlogs every Monday, #SexAbuseChat every Tuesday,  and #BookMarketingChat every Wednesday. Learn all about it by clicking on events here!

 

 

 

 

 

 

photo courtesy of unsplash

The post Do You Want To Share Your Sexual Abuse Survival Story? appeared first on Rachel Thompson.