Rebecca O'Donnell's Blog, page 6

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Stubbornness

People have the strangest expression on their face when they hear you've been abused. At first, it's sort of like they swallowed a bug: the eyes glaze, the expression freezes but doesn't quite hide the dismay, the momentary pause before launching into speech which is either mesmerized or resistant. It's a taboo subject that polite society shuns, so when a person openly discusses it, society is a bit flabbergasted. One of the reasons I wrote FREAK is to show that no matter what kind of self destructive moron you've been in the past, you can still discover the realization that you deserve to be happy. And actually believe it. We hear kind folk reassuring us of this every day but we certainly don't believe them. It has to come from within, and insecurity is going to throw everything in the book at you to stop that from happening. We're far too choice a meal ticket for it to give us up without a fight. We're addicted to our own insecurity, and will aid and abett its flourishing inside every inch of us. So tell it to fuck off. You're in this healing thing for the long haul, and nothing is going to stop you. Not cruel people, not triggering scents or sounds, not even your own vicious inner voice.

You're an expert at misery. You know how to be crushed, drained and desiccated by sorrow, shame and rage. This is familiar territory. Hope is what's terrifying. We're all about "what ifs:" what if it doesn't work, what if I fail, what if I become happy and lose it? Do it anyway. Try, and keep trying, past the disbelief, past the self derision, the anger, the panic, the self mutilation. Perseverance and sheer stubbornness is key. You've already tried self hatred and it's been an abject failure. Try self love. It takes time, a long time, but it worked for me. If you keep at it, it'll work for you.

Love, R
Freak: The True Story of an Insecurity Addict

Self Mutilation

A lot of my fellow self mutilators have told me that they find my self love exercises absolute bullshit. "They don't work, I can't tell myself "I love you," it's impossible, you're stronger than I am so of course it works for you," are the most common complaints I get. The mutilations come in the common forms, such as cutting, piercing and burning, as well as the uncommon: skin peeling, toenail ripping, inner cheek gnawing, splinter imbedding, even bone breaking and tooth torture. We victims of CSA and other abuses find any way we can to hurt ourselves. And why not? The little bitch deserves it. We're the ones who caused our abusers's sexual interest, we're the skanks who made them lose control, we're the chickenshits who didn't tell. So we rip and tear and bruise and blister, and oh, how we love it. The adrenaline surge when the pain first hits, the release when we break the skin and feel that wet rush, the euphoria of knowing there's another hurt to survive. It's our drug, our bottle of sin, our ghastly comfort to help us through yet another day. And all of it in secret, hidden well, obscure enough to not be noticed. Abuse victims are sneaky.

We are royally, deeply and disturbingly fucked up.

When I first began my self love experiments, my self hatred was so intense, I called myself names every day and hadn't looked at my full face in the mirror for years. The exercises were simple but surprisingly difficult to do. First, I stopped all self derogatory humor. No more making them laugh around the water cooler by describing my lumpy ass. No more jokes with my own shortcomings as fodder. Then came the "I love you, Rebecca's" every night, followed by "good night, beautiful mind, good night beautiful body, good night beautiful spirit." I hated all three of those, so it made sense to counter each negative with a positive.
Did I welcome those words? Feel a relief, heal overnight? No. All of it pissed me off. I'd say "I love you" then immediately follow with, "you stupid fucking liar." Good night to the trilogy brought out the trilogy of horrific body, stupid bitch and dead whore insults. Every day for six months I did this ping pong match between my logical mind and my unreasonable psyche. The key here is persistence. It doesn't matter if you believe it or not., just keep at it. Given enough time, water dripped on stone can dissolve it or form a bridge. So have patience and keep at it. It took six months for me to feel the slightest difference. If you can't say "I love you" to yourself, say it to a photo of you when you were a baby. If you can't say it, write it. I haven't hurt myself in years now. It's amazing, looking back, at exactly how miserable I was. But I am finally getting free of that awful yoke, and the difference is astonishing. So hang in there, my broken and bleeding brothers and sisters. You can be happy. You can find something good inside. You can laugh again. You just have to be persistent.

Love, R
Freak: The True Story of an Insecurity Addict

Blindsided

When you openly talk about a taboo subject like rape and incest, you're normally prepared for a daily barrage of judgmental comments, glares and even hostility. You go in knowing that's what's coming, but it doesn't really matter because of the overwhelming support of people who want to help or need to hear. But every once in a while, you're blindsided. Somebody gets past your guard and truly zings you. Your guts turn to ice, you lose your train of thought, the old insecurities rush into the breech and join in the attack.

The good thing about hellish experience is, once you start to love yourself, even the zingers don't matter. You've faced far worse than a cruel comment from a cruel person trolling for a meal. So don't lose heart, my brothers and sisters of circumstance, when some moron with teeth draws blood. See them for what they are, and see your own courage and worth. If a self loathing, suicidal basketcase like me can find happiness, anyone can too. Hang in there.

Love, R

Interviews

I booked our first interview for our series on abuse and incest victims. A truly brave and compelling woman. Very excited and honored to have her as our first guest.

The Chain

I was cleaning out my closet yesterday and came across a letter from my ex which, for some reason, I hadn't thrown away. It was written when we were separated and not yet divorced, when he was still trying to get me back. It was a cruel note, which he somehow thought would be compelling; part of the plan he was enacting to cut off all avenues for my independence and make me go back to him. I have to admit, the words still stung a little.

"...I don't think you realize how vulnerable you are, Rebecca. You have no skills, no training, no real significant intelligence. You can't balance a checkbook and didn't even finish college. You're hoping your talent will be enough to get by. I'm sorry, but it's not. You'll have to leave your "beloved New York" because there's no way you can make it there. You need someone to take care of you. Seriously, you're like a naive child thinking you can do it on your own. That's one of the things I love about you, this dream world you live in. But it's not safe for you to be on your own. You won't find another man who could handle all your faults, sweetie. I love you despite them. Don't you understand? You need me. I want to take care of you. You need to let me do that. I want it more than I can say. Enough of this. I love you.

Peter"

The funny thing is, the vicious nature of the letter probably never even occurred to him. He was just gently reprimanding his pretty but stupid, vacuous wife who dared to leave him. It was a short time later that his cajoling turned to revenge for the audacity of choosing poverty over him and his money. That's a fascinating thing about the arrogant who have money: they resent when you don't revere it.

I look at all I've accomplished since I changed that toxic environment I lived in. My book got published, I've been on radio and TV, I've been fortunate to help other people. The ex might scoff that I'm not a best seller, but FREAK has done some good for people, and that is a price above rubies. And I'm just getting started.

So don't let the poisonous words of others, despite how softly they're wrapped, keep you from following your dreams. Insecurity loves a good abusive dialogue. There are few things better to keep you chained.

Take care.

R

Crapola

Don't ever let anybody tell you you're scum. Not even you. That belief system is a big load of steaming crapola. Counter the compulsion to believe it with daily doses of "I love you's" spoken to a mirror. If that's currently impossible, find a photo of yourself as a little kid and say it to that. It doesn't matter if you believe it. What's important is to keep saying it, regardless of the storm of self abuse Insecurity throws at you. "I love you" is Chinese water torture to insecurity. Wear it down.

Pimps

I had a good but disturbing day today. Puttered around the house, went for a walk, worked on my confectionery stuff, did some writing. It was early evening when things got disturbing.

Tino and I watched a documentary called “Pimps up, Ho’s Down.” Very fucked up but good program. Nothing surprising, but as the army of interviewed pimps talked about “how to keep a bitch down,” they openly admitted that they sought out rape and incest victims because they were easier to manipulate. I listened to the way they spoke, the words and/or threats they used to keep a woman obedient, and felt a cold recognition in techniques used by my brother, my father, both husbands, and even friends from my past. There was a fierce loyalty that so many of the prostitutes had for their terrible masters…and my brain started racing. This was manipulation stripped of subtlety, the raw, brilliantly horrific core of how an insecurity addict gets caught, and learns to love their terrible prison.

It’s the suffering itself that’s part of the draw. One pimp got choked up over his one “bitch’s” loyalty. She was shot five times and didn’t die immediately. He got to the hospital and the woman was apologetic. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she said. “I’m sorry I can’t get up and get you your money.” Her mother, who was in the room, cried, “What have you done to my daughter?!?” As the pimp was relating the story, he got defensive about his whore’s faithfulness. “I didn’t do nuthin’ to her! That was dedication! That was loyalty!” Both parties were fed by the suffering. He, legitimately moved by her willingness to suffer for him, she for this chance to prove how much she loved him. She already suffered for him every day, but this was the jewel in the crown; her honest regret that she couldn’t suffer more and give him money for it. He was moved by it, even repulsively humbled. It made me think of when I was fourteen, and my dad telling me he couldn’t concentrate at work sometimes because he was trying to figure out ways to make me cry. I always refused to cry, regardless of what he did to me. I knew my tears were what he wanted. When I asked him why he wanted me to cry in the first place, he said, “Because that’s how I know you love me. If you didn’t love me, you wouldn’t give a shit.” My suffering was the only proof of love he could accept.

I watched this documentary, watched the girls hobbling home after a night of stranger fucking, with their scarred vaginas and swollen feet, hungry and shivering in the cold, their asses exposed to the winter cold, all to keep their flashy peacock gilded and at leisure. It’s like a man and a trophy wife. He picks up a beautiful woman, drapes her in jewels and parades her around to show the world how awesome he is, to own such a magnificent creature. It’s the same with these shattered, mind-and-body-fucked women. Look at my flashy peacock. My suffering got him those clothes, those gators, his fancy car. I’m so grateful he allowed me to suffer for him. I belong to someone who gives me the chance to bleed and serve. I’ll die for him, and be grateful for that, too. Beware any bitch who tries to take what I got.

It was terrifying…because it hit home. I remember trying to please both my husbands, an impossibility because they were men who could not be pleased. I remember feeling triumphant when I got the tiniest compliment, even if it was a backhanded one. They controlled me in the same way these pimps did, with intimidation, derision, violence and all consuming greed. It wasn’t just sauce and strength that got me away from them. It was luck. This documentary really got to me. I watched my sisters of circumstance and thought, “There but for the grace of God go I.” I remember when my daughter Rhianna was a baby, and I’d just left my first husband. I paid the babysitter twenty dollars extra a day so she could stay the night while I, homeless, slept in my car. Even when we got a tiny efficiency apartment, I couldn’t afford heat, electricity or food. I stole scraps off plates at the restaurant where I waitressed so we could eat. I thought long and hard about being a prostitute. We’d lived upstairs above a hooker a year before, and men were always offering me money to fuck them, thinking I was in the game. Nobody dreams of growing up to be a prostitute. Desperation is usually the driving force. I came close. If a person is wounded and hungry enough, manipulation is easy. The pimps trolled for new meat at seedy bars, bragging that they could spot a daddy-fucked bitch a mile away. Then they moved in for the kill. An incest victim’s self hatred is so overwhelming, all they need is one good push to tumble into the web…and call it daddy. So be careful out there, my brothers and sisters of circumstance. Whether a predator offers a ring, a wardrobe or a fist, he’s still just a pimp in sheep’s clothing.

Take care.

Love, R

Pimps

I just watched a documentary called, "Pimps up, Whores Down." It was horrifying but not surprising. I watched the way the pimps manipulated the women and thought it eerily similar to the ways I used to be manipulated, when my self loathing was still running my brain. One pimp even said he sought out rape and incest victims because they were easy to manipulate. So guard yourself, my brothers and sisters of circumstance, against your own insecurity. Don't let a pimp make your decisions for you until you're eaten alive. They may wear different faces and spin different webs, but if they only want to control and harm you, they're still just a pimp.

Crazy April

I haven’t written on this blog for a month. Crazy April swept in and took me to a new home, a new job and a new relationship with my beloved Tino, all in the span of a month! My head is still whirling, especially stunned by the fact that all these new things are wonderful. Tino’s back, months ahead of schedule, and we got a new apartment less than a week later. Frenzied packing ensued, helped by the marvelous D. I gave my two week notice at my old job after much deliberation, then worked out my remaining time while my Italian set up my studio and unpacked everything at the new place. I slept on the inflatable mattress in between. Got a call from the brilliant young film maker Anre Fuentes, who did my author interview, saying he wanted to make a movie of FREAK. I am currently writing a screenplay version, very surreal, while I finish the Russian Tea Room confectionery piece and work on an embroidery commission. Life is never dull for a Renaissance woman, that’s for sure. Creating is like food and water: a necessity.

And my beloved, screwed up, courageous chickenshit brothers and sisters of circumstance! Thank you for your encouragements, your insight, and your precious trust. I won’t let you down. These astounding changes, so rapid and so very positive, will help me do more for more of you than ever. That’s the dream, and I’ll chase that slippery little bastard until he’s tuckered out. Then I’ll pounce, and never let him go.

So keep up that steady jog, shuffle or crawl forward, my friends. It’s possible to be happy, even for lost, dejected and miserable souls like us. Wade through your own disbelief and move on past the cynical bigmouth sniping over how much you suck. Don’t listen to that cruel siren’s song. It only wants to eat you, and we’ve teeth marks enough.

Take care.

Love, R