In my last post I talked about the kinds of sex that I used to like, and in some cases still do. In this post I need to talk about why it’s important to talk about sex after you’ve been abused.
This isn’t an easy topic for most people, but especially those of us who have been abused. When you tell me that I am sharing too much information, I understand that for you me talking about sex is triggering. When you do it over social media however, you are pissing me off.
You are as an adult human being, fully capable of not following me. Of making the choice to see yourself out of a conversation that had nothing to do with you to begin with, but you make the choice to comment, and to shame me into not talking about sex, and that’s not okay.
This actually happened. Someone asked for awkward sex stories, so I shared the one about the guy who asked if I wanted kids while he was still in me. Someone responded with “TMI”.
Okay, but me talking about how I was punched in the vagina over and over again is okay, talking about how I had nails pushed into my body until I learned how to scream without making a sound is okay, but me talking about awkward sex is too much information? Go fuck yourself.
Power based relationships often create shame and fear around conversations about sex. Be it with a parent or a life partner, if we feel intimidated or weird about our own sexuality, it’s largely because we’ve been told that we’re supposed to.
That’s a fallacy that allows the patriarchal society we live in to continue devaluing the life of survivors of rape and sexual abuse. If you can survive the roller coaster that comes with being bullied as a child, and raped as a teenager and young adult, if you can survive being raped period, then you can survive anything.
A creature who can experience the sheer volume of emotional, physical and mental mind fuck that comes with being abused, that comes with being a survivor, you are strong. And some days you break down and you have your moments of lashing out, and no you aren’t perfect, but you’re fucking scary when you lash out, because you survived being raped.
It’s one of the worst things a human can experience, and those who know your story are not only ashamed of their own sexual desires and needs, but they’re afraid of you because you aren’t.
When you’ve been abused, you learn to become comfortable with scenarios that other people might find triggering, more often than not those instances that we’re afraid of are the same things that turn us on sexually.
It’s how our brain learns to be less afraid of the things that hurt us in the first place, or the things that might hurt us. It’s basic psychology, the brain turns bad into good so we’ll be less afraid. To dumb it down.
So, knowing that, I have to learn to get comfortable in my own sexuality, I need to have conversations about awkward sex, I need to get comfortable in my own skin again, because it’s part of the healing process.
If I am ever the kind of person that wants to have another human in my life again, I am going to assume that sex will be a part of that relationship, at least I hope so…and for that to happen, I need the freedom to express these thoughts openly and honestly with my support group.
Which consists mostly of people on Twitter these days, which by the way I’m fine with, but you can’t have half of me on Social media. You either understand that I am a whole person, regardless of your judgement of me, or you choose to shame me into only discussing what you think I should be talking about.
I warn you, if you haven’t learned that by now this won’t work with me, specifically, then you’re a fucking moron.
In case you have forgotten who I am, I am the Loud Mouth Brown Girl who refuses to remain silent when I have something I need to get off my chest. I stopped doing that the day I got arrested for having a panic attack on a fucking airplane, which is literally my worst fear and greatest shame.
I am the girl who refuses to keep secrets for the sake of fucking decency, I am the woman who survived being gang raped no less than three times in her life. Molested so many times that my vagina literally dried up for ten years, and tortured by sociopath’s pretending to be Hell’s Angel’s biker members.
Do you really think I care what you think of me on twitter? The only reason I’m writing this all out is so I don’t have to carry all these thoughts in my head, because once I release them into the universe it’s no longer my burden to carry.
I have created a space on my Twitter account for women and men to share their stories of success and triumph, while also feeling safe enough with me to share their stories of trauma and horror. When you invade that space to tell me I am sharing too much information you are trying to fold my true self into a box that I am absolutely not okay with.
This is the definition of gaslighting behaviour, and I want you to understand all the reasons I won’t allow it. More importantly, I need, for all the reasons listed above, to ensure I don’t allow it, which is why I am writing about it.
I see each of the blog posts and pages listed on this website a pledge to the universe, and to my Krisya Ohana. I see it as making a record of the time I realized I don’t have to be what other people expect of me.
You can expect that I am going to suffer for ever, all you want, but the reality of the situation is that I am stronger and wiser now than any of the men who abused me. I survived them. In this place of quiet and healing I understand that in ways I didn’t in my first day of healing.
I realize what it means to have survived abuse, I can survive a few idiots on twitter telling me what I can and cannot talk about.
I would never, ever, tell anyone what to talk about, largely because that’s what fucking Nazi’s do. I would never tell someone not to read a book, even if I hate it, because that’s what fucking Nazi’s do.
I am not a Nazi. I am a strong powerful woman that has always believed you can only do what you can do until you can’t do it any more.
I can keep doing this. I can keep speaking out about the things that matter to me, I can keep sharing my experience so that other people can see that it’s not as hard as it seems and it seems a lot harder than it actually is, because it’s fucking hard.
As I write this, I am watching Ellen give away twenty-five thousand dollars, and it’s the purest moment in television history. If you haven’t seen the Hillary Clinton episode yet I highly suggest you watch it. Ten years ago I’d look at this moment and whisper “I wish someone would give me twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Today I realize I am looking forward to the day that I get to give away twenty-five thousand dollars on Ellen’s show to someone who needs or deserves it.
My way of thinking abut life has been completely altered by this healing process, and the least of the things I feel these days is shame.
I am open with my sexuality, so that other people can be too. It’s part of making sure that we no longer feel alone in our fucking weirdness, because if there’s anything that people who have been sexually assaulted think about themselves, it’s the weird.
You’re not weird, you’ve just been assaulted, and it feels weird because we’re shamed into not talking about the things that make us feel good, because they don’t like to see us healing.
There is a spiritual connection to everything that happens to us, and once we begin to understand that what we’re dealing with is the darkness trying to shame us back into the fear and guilt, we learn to fight back against that by spreading love.
Never stop talking about healthy sex.
Never stop spreading love, it’s how we heal.
Sending all my love,
Devon J Hall