Happy Father's Day

This Father’s Day, I would like to break old habits and actually show my appreciation for the fathers who have brought happiness into our world.  Today, fathers, it’s all about you.  Because you deserve it.

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To the fathers who teach their children how to appreciate and love life; the fathers who plan, prepare, and follow through with making their children’s lives better than their own; to the fathers who love their children and show it; the fathers who love their partner(s) and show it; to the fathers who allow their children to be who they are; the fathers who allow their partner(s) to be who they are; to the fathers who are responsible; the fathers who work in and outside the home; to the fathers who are strong enough to cry; to the fathers who will reach out for help, I wish you all a very Happy Father’s Day.

To the fathers who never use drugs just to get by; the fathers who never blame drugs for their incompetence and mistakes; to the fathers who never lie; the fathers who never separate their families from the rest of the world, especially their extended family;  to the fathers who never make their children cry at their own awards ceremony; the fathers who never make their partner(s) cry at work; to the fathers who don’t control their children and/or their partner(s) lives; to the fathers who never eavesdrop, I hope you all have a Happy Father’s Day.

To the fathers who will admit when they are wrong; the fathers who will deal with the consequences of their actions; to the fathers who speak the truth; the fathers who lead by example; to the fathers who share their heritage; the fathers who appreciate their rich and remarkable ancestry; to the fathers who will teach what they can; the fathers who understand that their children can teach them new things; to the fathers who appreciate the work their children and partner(s) do; to the fathers who take the time to listen, I wish you all a very Happy Father’s Day.

To the fathers who know how to control their anger and frustration; the fathers who never abuse their children; to the fathers who never beat their children until they are bleeding and covered in bruises; the fathers who never threaten to kill their children; to the fathers who never bully their children until they cry; the fathers who never humiliate their children for being different; to the fathers who never abuse their partner(s); to the fathers who never shove paint into their pregnant partners’ mouths, I hope you all have a Happy Father’s Day.

Disorder

My days have been plagued with disorder. I'm starting to see that this isn't a new thing: that I have always felt extremely anxious, on the brink of a panic attack – actually having panic attacks… always. While living with my parents, I used to have panic attacks. There was one particularly painful moment in my life when I had a panic attack every single day. Sometimes I would even black out randomly – although, that may have partially been encouraged by my eating disorder. I think somewhere in the back of my head, hidden in a little treasure box which itself was stowed away in a safe place waiting for me to open it when I felt safe, when I left my parents, that I knew something was wrong. I had to have felt the confusion, fear, terror. None of my friends shared with me snapshots of the darkness, fears of heart attack, sweating profusely, hyperventilation, and cutting for some kind of release. My experiences seemed unique. Hm, then again, I never told anyone either. Ah, who knows anymore!

Perhaps I knew somewhere in my mind that all these disorders mixing and exploding was the product of something atrocious. But when such things like panic attacks become a daily activity, it’s as though their existence is taken for granted, completely accepted and understood as normal. To add to this familial history of one betrayal after another is the sexual abuse I’ve endured since I was 16 years old. Behold! Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and it's taking over my fucking life.

I hate acknowledging this, the fact that I actually have PTSD and that it’s consuming my life. I don’t want it to. I’m fighting it, but it’s much too strong. How can I fight it when I’m still not even sure what’s causing it? All I’ve been able to discern is that I’m triggered when a man expresses sexual interest in me, when a man is violent – verbally and/or physically, when my privacy is invaded, when I try not to think about anything, when I’m alone, when I’m around people, when I’m walking in the street, when I’m alone in my room…It seems to me that almost everything encourages my heart rate to increase in fear and eventually I must prepare to hide myself in the unfortunate event that I might actually have a panic attack.

And so many people I know tell me, “Angelica, don’t let your abusers win. Don’t let their petty actions control your life like this.” Such statements only make me feel so much worse, especially when the anxiety, the panic attacks, the hypervigilance, insecurity, the flashbacks all decide to do their thing regardless of what I want. My responses are out of control! I'm not letting anyone do anything!  But I am fighting, and I most definitely don’t want them to win! Obviously I don’t like feeling this shit. And I will never, ever let anyone control me.

Honestly, it feels to me like I’m doing all the rights things by avoiding whatever triggers me. I push my already tiny and shrinking comfort zone whenever I can. Whenever I go out and my anxiety doesn’t consume me, I feel accomplished. I pay attention to the little and the big steps I take. I’m doing the best I fucking can!

The more I work, however, the more difficult the process becomes. I discover more questions and still no answers. I discover more roadblocks, more huge-fucking-normous walls to climb. I’m stumbling through an inner struggle to understand where my abused self ends and my real self begins. Are they two different people or are they one in the same? Is the answer to incorporate them or keep them separate? Does my abuse have to define me? I really don’t want it to. It hurts too fucking much! I don’t want to be defined by my scars. What does it mean to take pride in my scars? How do I deal with their presence? Is it possible that I can think about them too much/too little?

What the hell is this healing stuff all about anyway? What exactly do I need to heal and how do I do it? I understand that what happened to me wasn’t my fault now. That I never deserved such treatment. That I deserve better. I love myself, goddamnit! And this is mainly why it hurts! I’m out of control – if someone decides to abuse me, WTF CAN I DO?! Sure, I can fight back but what good does it do? I’m going to be honest with myself and y’all, if someone attacks me again I’ll probably curl up into a ball and have a million panic attacks on the spot. I’d like to believe that I would kill the motherfucker, but I doubt that would happen and I doubt it would help much.

What else drives me nuts is that the abuse I’ve endured isn’t a rare occurrence: My experiences are NORMAL. I don’t feel safe or in control. I feel vulnerable and powerless.

In my head I keep asking myself two questions:
How can I have a disorder when I feel like one of the only sane people left on this earth?
How am I classified with various disorders when the world around me seems to be crumbling?

Change

It is time for change.

My parents have turned my only sister against me. There is only so much I can do to help her understand my situation when she lives with them and is forced to hear them demonize me every single day. To my parents, I have been brainwashed by feminazism to hate family and men. To my parents, I have been brainwashed to think of myself as only a victim. Now, my sister believes these horrible lies too.

I am in a great deal of pain. I feel irrevocably betrayed and cruelly misunderstood. There is no hope for my nuclear family: I have no hope. I cannot reach out to them. And no matter how much I try to remind them that I am a human being, that I require my humanity to be respected, they will not listen. There is nothing I can do for them...

There is nothing I can do for them.

There is nothing I can do for them.

Angelica, remember, that while you cannot do anything for your parents and sister, you can do plenty for yourself: Look inward.
Angelica, you are not alone.

Yes, it is time for change.

I can, and actually have already started, to redefine my own family. As a child my parents told me repeatedly that my maternal grandmother and paternal aunt were vicious, narcissistic women that I should avoid. In recent months I have spoken to them, and now see that my parents' stories were complete lies. I have made friends with these women, and in so doing I have created some semblance of family. Currently, our bonds are still weakened by the way we have all been treated by my parents. So we spend our conversations trying to ease the pain and heal.

I have recently graduated from Colgate University and am now completely on my own. It is very scary, but I'm doing it with some help from friends and family. Change is happening whether I like it or not. I'm in San Diego, California right now working. And will be in New York City in September for more stable work. Indeed, change is happening.

I must remember that I cannot spend my time changing people. They have to do that for themselves. And by that same token, I must remember that I can spend my time changing myself. I can, I really MUST, spend my time on ME. More introspection, more reflection, more work. Blog, get ready for some more action. I created OutLet so that it would be just that, an OutLet. Instead it has become a place where I post very deep and well thought out essays. I want to keep doing that, but if that becomes my standard I'll never write anything else. (And as you see I haven't.) So, I'm going to focus on expelling more of my raw emotions and thoughts.

Let it Out. Let it aaallll OUT!

Can You Do This For Me? An Open Letter to Richard

I have just woken with an overwhelming need to write, to let my thoughts and emotions pour out of me ungoverned by a revision process or the worry that my goal is not accomplished. I know y'all will get it.

Last night, my emotions started to shift. This morning, they have transformed. And this is not to say that my emotions have taken on a mind of their own, choosing to take me any place they please. I take full responsibility for these changes. But I guess this is what people mean when they say they have a change in heart?

Damn, it has been too long. I have been far from this blog, too busy to write and pay attention to my inner-most feelings. This can't go on any longer.

Last night, I ran into the person who is responsible for sparking all of the suffering I have had to deal with since August. I ran into the guy who sexually assaulted me. And instead of wanting to enjoy watching him suffer when my presence forced him to hide his face, I felt the need to hug him.

I know. This shocks me too.


It all starts with arriving at Colgate University, and wanting desperately to find my group. Immediately, I searched for the metal heads. And I found a few. One who is now my partner of 3 years and going, Dan. Another who became a fairly good friend. We'll call him, Richard.

We'd cross paths quite a bit. Stop and talk to each other in the rain for hours. He listened to my stories of pain - about being abused by my father, about being stalked and raped by a man 12 years older than me in high school. Richard seemed to have a heart and a good set of ears. Why wouldn't I trust him?

So, when I had invited him over to my apartment that August night to listen to some metal, I didn't expect him to turn into such a douchebag. As soon as we set foot into my apartment, he didn't seem to care about the music anymore. He asked me to sit next to him, so I did. And he immediately laid on top of me.

"Are you hitting on me?" I asked him.

"Duh."

Sigh. "If I wanted to fuck you, Richard, I would have invited you over to fuck. Not to listen to music," I stated.

And he responded by guilt-tripping me. Saying things like, "Oh, I might as well leave now," and, "I didn't know you were that kind of girl."

Frustrated and hurt, I said to Richard, "Look, I want you to stay because I do want to hang out with you. But I am not going to fuck you." So he stayed, but there was still no interest in music, or hanging out. He kept bringing up his desire to be sexual with me. Eventually he asked me, "Could I at least kiss you?"

And before I could say no, he was on top of me and I couldn't move my head. His tongue was in my mouth and I couldn't push him off me. Scared, I kissed back hoping that this would encourage him to shift his weight so I could push him off me.

"I don't want to do this," I stuttered.

"Ok, I'm leaving," said Richard. He got up and went to the bathroom.

I ran to my computer and IM'ed the only person who was still online at 2 a.m. He was in Virginia. "Stay online. Something bad is happening," I said to him. And he stayed.

Richard came back, and leaned over me in the chair. "You're so beautiful," he said to me as he leaned in and stole another sloppy kiss from me. It hurt so much that he wouldn't listen to me. I never consented to any of this. I think back to this moment, and my heart slows down, pounding harder, crying louder. The shock of each thump shakes bits of scab off ancient wounds that are desperately trying to heal. He told me that I am beautiful and then he violated me. Who is this person, and does he not realize how much he is hurting me?

I pushed him off me, shaking, and I said to him, "Richard, stop. I don't want to hook up with you."

And this motherfucker. THIS MOTHERFUCKER SAID TO ME: "I'm not leaving until you give me a kiss good-bye."

HOW FUCKING STUPID COULD ANYONE POSSIBLY BE?!?!?!

Fuck you. Leave me the fuck alone. If you do not leave I will castrate you. You've already stolen too many kisses. LEAVE!

So what does Richard do? He leans over me and tries to steal kisses from each side of my cheek. I'm moving my face to avoid his lips, and I'm getting furious each time he kisses my cheek or the top part of my neck. I feel so dirty. I want to be clean.

I turn to him. I wrap my fingers around his esophagus and clench. I stand up and I look him in the eyes and I say, "I don't want to hook-up with you. Leave."

Eyes wide, he choked, "Wow. You're strong." And he stumbled around my apartment, calling friends, trying to find another way to get his kicks. I felt weak. I was shaking. My stomach clenched and I felt that at any moment it would turn inside out.

He eventually left, but his taste wouldn't leave. The fear wouldn't leave. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't stop thinking about what happened. And I started to blame myself. I even thought for a good while that I wouldn't tell anyone.

But I knew that it wasn't my fault and that I had to talk about what happened. Already being a survivor of rape, I knew that I needed to be true to myself and everyone else. I decided to confront Richard, to tell him how I felt and how he shook all the stability I had been working so hard on.

After I confronted Richard, and he gave what seemed like a sincere apology I went to Campus Safety and reported the event. In my experiences, when abusers have apologized for their actions they go back to old habits. This couldn't happen anymore. I wanted to work on mediation with him. Educate him about sexual abuse and about positive sexual relationships.

Consent isn't when you force her to kiss you back. Consent isn't when you encourage a very negative environment in which a woman is too scared to fucking speak. Consent isn't when you have to work harder and harder to get her to stop saying, "No."

Consent is when the prospect of sex comes up, she smiles with excitement. Consent is when she tells you what she likes. Consent is when she asks, "Can you touch me this way?" Consent is when she is comfortable enough to touch herself in front of you. Consent is when she says, "Yes!"

Richard goes back on his word, and he is not willing to work on any mediation. So I am forced to take disciplinary action within the school. Which is a long and painful process because the administration at this school doesn't care. I finally have a chance to share my case, get my justice, and they do not punish Richard.

Words cannot describe how hopeless, how lost, how betrayed, how hurt I felt when the administration told me, "He is given probation. You should be grateful."

But he still doesn't know what he did wrong! You are only teaching him to abuse women who will not speak!

For two weeks I felt a rage within me that I didn't know existed. Caught in the same daydream of slaughter and revenge, I was paralyzed by my rage. My rage bubbled up so furiously with no outlet I thought about cutting again.

"I could manage to hide the cuts on the bottom of my feet," I thought to myself one night when Dan, my partner, was looking at me concerned. Then Dan started to deal with his own rage. Both of us caught in the flame of revenge, isolated in our own apartment, stewing in the pus of our infected, ancient wounds with no outlet, no hope, no recollection of a life worth living.

I decided that I needed to drive through all this shit and deal with it later. So, I avoided dealing with my own problems by starting a movement against sexual abuse on campus. I figured if I was going to avoid my problems, I'd better do it productively.

This past Wednesday, I held a speak-out and gave a speech on the main quad where students, staff, and faculty are always walking past. Over 200 people showed up to listen to my speech and share their own experiences of sexual abuse at Colgate. We all shared. We all listened. We all cried. We embraced each other. It was hands down the most positive experience of my life and I will never forget it.

The Syracuse news showed up as well, and I was interviewed. http://www.cnycentral.com/news/video.aspx?id=375812

The speak-out has been quite popular on campus. Every time I leave my room, I am approached with smiles and gratitude, "Angelica, you did such a great job! Thank you for what you are doing!" This is much nicer than leaving my room with the fear of running into Richard. I feel accomplished, like I can sit down alone and feel comfortable again.

So when I ran into Richard last night, it didn't bother me. In fact, I had a hunch that I would see him at this event and that didn't bother me either. I'm not scared anymore.

This friend of mine says to me, "Angelica, that was a great speech!" And he continues talking about what we will do next. I notice he is sitting next to a guy who is ducking his head down so low, one might think he was trying to hide. "Richard!," I think to myself. How fucken ironic is this?

So we keep talking about policy on sexual abuse and the coverage the movement has gotten. Richard continues ducking his head. I wave for my friend to take a walk with me because I couldn't look at Richard any longer. His noticeable fear is making me pity him.

After the event is over, I notice Richard run out of the venue as fast as he could. I reunite with Dan and he tells me, "Yeah, I've been staring at him all night. He, and his friends sitting in front of him looked uncomfortable."

While sitting in our apartment, shooting the breeze and talking about fairly serious things, I tell Dan, "Ya know, if Richard would just apologize to me I would forgive him. I would even want to be his friend again." He expresses the same feeling, but says, "He would never do that."

The thought doesn't leave, and I keep fantasizing about what would happen if he walked up to me and apologized. I would cry. And I would embrace him. I would want to be his friend again.


I wake up today with love in my heart. I feel new energy swelling inside me, and it's becoming increasingly positive. After so long, I am not used to waking up without a desire for vengeance, or enacting institutional change. Today, I feel like weeping, like letting my tears cleanse my swollen wounds and finally leaving them to heal. I feel like weeping for the shame that you feel, Richard.

You said you were sorry once, but then betrayed me twice. I don't know what's going on in your head, Richard, but I know that you are suffering too. I know you treated me the way you did that night because you feel alone. But Richard, know this: if you had just asked me to hold you, to lick your wounds, I would have. Richard, know that if you had confided in me instead of lashing out at me, I would have listened. Richard, know that if you had cried to me I would have kissed your tears away.

And even after all the pain I have suffered, I'm not sure if the love I once had for you ever disappeared. Richard, all of this hurts me so much because I felt love for you and your lack of compassion for me made me feel guilty. I don't want to feel guilty for loving someone.

Richard, know that my wounds can never properly heal without you. I'll do my best to work on it myself, but this pain is so deep I need an extra hand. And the only hand that knows how to put these shattered pieces back together is you. You were there, Richard, and I know that you remember what happened.

Richard, if you feel the same way I do, you know exactly what it is that you need to do.