Teaching Through Trauma: Sexual Violence and Sex Positive Parenting

You may recall that over the summer I caused a bit of a stir with my article, "Sex Positive Parenting, or, We Don't Touch Our Vulvas At The Table." In that post I talked about sex positivity and not shaming children for exploring their bodies, and how honesty empowers and protects children.

I've done a lot of talking about this in the months since. I've spoken at conferences, gone on the radio, interviewed on podcasts... it's been a wild ride.

But part of what I've been doing has been very quiet. And that's what I'd like to talk about now.

Since that article came out, people have been writing to me to ask advice on how to talk to their children about sex, with massive caveats.

Parents who were victims of childhood sexual assault.
Parents with children who were born from rape.
Parents with adopted children who came from a foster system that permitted gross sexual misconduct.

I had advocated honesty, total honesty, about sex and biology. I talked about explaining IVF and cesarean sections to children.

So what about these questions? What do you tell a child, honestly, when the honest truth is both horrible, and unacceptable?

I spent a lot of time thinking about this.

I always told those parents at least one thing, "Whenever you are ready to talk to your child about this, make sure you know that it is not their fault. Make sure you let them know that, no matter what happened to them, or to you, they are not to blame, and they are not diminished by having this as part of their personal history."

I recognized as I wrote these words, in endless variations, over and over again, how little they could do to heal the gaping wounds their parents have.

But as more and more parents wrote me, I felt more and more the need to discuss being sex positive with children in the context of a world filled with sexual violence.

You see, in addition to talking about sex positive parenting, I'm a member of the RAINN Speakers Bureau. I talk to groups of teenagers about rape culture and sexual violence. I talk a great deal about consent and power dynamics and the reality of rape versus the popular mythology.

And I always explain, when talking about sex positivity, that this is a way to protect children from rape culture. That when you empower children with the correct names for their organs, and an understanding of what is and is not appropriate, you can protect them from becoming victims. And more importantly, you can stop them from becoming predators.

This is little comfort to children who are already, in some way, victims.

So when speaking to a child about human biology, about how a sperm must meet an egg, and how that sperm usually comes out of a penis when it is inside of a vagina, is that the time to talk about rape?

As much as I, as a parent and a human being want to say no, it's not the time, I can't. I think that it is the time.

I think sooner is generally better, within reason. I wouldn't attempt to explain rape to two year old, but when a child is able to intellectualize human reproduction, I think it's not too soon to come clean with the facts.

And the facts are this- reproduction is beautiful. It is intimate and loving, it is a way to show that you care, and that you don't want to hurt somebody. Just like a hug, or a pat on the head. But sometimes, people do violent things that look like nice things. You can hug somebody too tight and hurt them. You can hit, instead of patting. These are things nobody should do, and that all of us must learn not to do. But sometimes, people do these things. And sex and rape are like that. Rape is not sex, it is turning sex into a violent act. The way a slap and a pat on the cheek are not the same, however closely they may seem to resemble each other in their mechanics.

These are comparisons a child can understand. And so long as the explanation of what rape is, and how it is related to the reproductive process, blame and shame for the child can be minimized or eliminated.

The problem is, rape is shameful. Not for the victim, but for the rapist. It is a shameful, awful thing to do to another human being, and yet people do. And because of the profound shame and discomfort regarding sex we share in our culture, the shame and blame is often misplaced onto the victim. This happens not because it is shameful to have been raped, but because as a culture we are all so afraid of sex that we cannot distinguish between an act of affection and an act of violence.

Telling a child that they are the product of a rape is never going to be easy. It should never be easy, because talking about sexual violence shouldn't be easy. But we still need to do it.

We desperately need to do it. Especially with children.

I've heard the advice, especially among adoptive parents, to associate the rape with the birth mom. To make it about her, not about the child. I understand this impulse, but to me it reeks of victim blaming. We should never associate a crime with the victim, always the perpetrator.

I have a confession. Until I began working on writing this post, months ago, I had not talked to my five year old daughters about rape. Not explicitly. I had done it obliquely, in terms I thought they would understand. I explained rape culture in terms of "hurting" rather than "sexual violence," because explaining to my children what rape is was something that I thought could wait.

I don't think it can anymore. Not as I've forced myself to sit down and read letter after letter from parents who can't wait. Who don't have the luxuries that I do.

And so, I told my daughters about rape. The five year olds, not the two year old. We read "Where Did I Come From?" and I paused after we finished the page that describes sex.

"You know," I said, "Sometimes people do that to hurt each other."

SI looked at me like I was insane. "They do. Sometimes, one person will want to do that, and the other doesn't, and it hurts them. The book says it feels good, and it does, when both people want to. The way hugging feels good. But it doesn't feel good if your sister chases you and pinches you, right?"

"I don't like that when RH does that," DD agreed.

"Yeah. So sometimes, people try to do that to other people who don't want to. And that's not okay. That's not the same thing as sex, it's something else entirely."

And we moved on.

I didn't use the word "rape." As I've discussed before, it's a hard word to use. I've gotten better at writing it down, the more and more and more I practice at it, but it's so much easier to write "rape culture" than it is to write "rape." And it is infinitely more simple to write than to say.

I did not use the word "rape," and I did not say that it had happened to me. Although I know if I'd let the conversation linger, the question would have come up, and I honestly don't know if I could have answered it.

I really, truly, genuinely don't know.

But this is important. It is vital that our children know what rape is, and that it is fundamentally different from consensual sex acts.

I can't recommend my script, because it is still full of holes. I still have no idea how I will one day tell my children that I was raped, twice no less. But it's something I've known since before I became a parent that I must do.

I, and all parents who have survived sexual violence, need to be the face of survival for our children. Not because we choose this, but because we are and always will be their role models. Because what we say and do is what they believe is the right way to say and do anything. And if we maintain a silence about being assaulted, we teach them that what is right and proper is to be silent. But it is not easy. It is never easy.

And if I cannot tell them this without the constant weight of my own misplaced shame, what would I tell them if they were born because of rape?

I know I would tell them that it wasn't their fault. I know I would tell them that I love them, and that nothing that anybody did to me before they were born has anything to do with who they are now.

And I know I would try to have those conversations now, while they would simply inform the facts of their existence, rather than complicate their already difficult adolescence when they must somehow correlate the facts of their burgeoning sexual identities with an understanding of the nature of the act that created them.

This is not easy. This is not simple. This is not fun. There is no solution to how to teach your children something traumatic. Ever.

There is no easy way to explain death. To explain that yes, someday mommy and daddy will die. Yes, someday they will die.

There is also no easy way to explain that human beings are capable of profound suffering, and worse, inflicting it upon each other.

The one question a parent asked me that truly haunts me is this, "There was a line in your blog about how only your daughters have the decision to have sex, but obviously that is not true in the case of rape. I know someday I will have to explain that women are supposed to have the right, but they don’t always. Any thoughts from you in this case?"

My thoughts are these- rape is not sex. The act may look similar, but it is not the same.

There are many ways for a baby to come into the world. They all begin the same way- sperm meets egg. But that can happen in so many ways.

Sex. IVF. Intrauterine insemination. Rape.

None of these are the same.

It is not your doing if your were born thanks to IVF. It is not your doing if you were born as the result of rape. You do not carry the weight of that act. You are loved. You are so loved. And when you are old enough, you will know the difference between what is affection and what is abuse, and in that way you are more than anything that came before you. You are empowered and precious.

This is what I would say, my thoughts.

To those parents whose children came from sexual assault, I would say I have no idea how difficult this conversation will be. I cannot begin to imagine how painful it will be. But remember, the fault always lies with the person committing the crime. Not you. Never you. And not your child.

We can be honest, even if it hurts. We must be honest when it hurts.

Especially when it hurts.

Because children are not obtuse. They see us struggling with our honesty, and it teaches them something important. It teaches then that no matter how hard honesty is, it is essential.

When we are uncomfortable, or in pain, and continue on- it teaches them about bravery.

They are watching us all the time, and they are always learning.

Let them learn the unspoken. Let them learn how utterly horrifying rape is by watching us struggle to even say the word. Let them learn how important it is not to use reproduction as a weapon by seeing how repulsed we are by it. Let them learn how much we love them by holding them and loving them through our own pain and trauma.

Let them learn bravery by watching ours.

I will keep trying. I will keep trying to do better.

And keep sending me letters. I will read them. I always read them. And if I think I can help, if I think there is anything I can do to lesson your burden, I will.

I hope someday, that is a lesson I can pass along, too.

Oblivious

I love this little girl.

I have dwelled long enough. It's time to put this blog to therapeutic purposes and tell you a story.

It's the story of how when I looked in the mirror on Tuesday morning and found three, yes, three brand new grey hairs growing out of my temple, I knew exactly where they came from.

There are moments in parenting that make you want to simultaneously throw up, curl into a ball and cry, and drink until you pass out. There are always going to be those moments. And the thing that makes them so awful is they're always such a surprise when they happen.

Once upon a time, I had a wonderful pyrex mixing bowl. It was a thing of wonder and beauty, even if my husband did nearly concuss me with it. I also had a marvelous pizza stone. And they were both dirty.

I did what any reasonable adult would do. I washed them.

First, I washed the pyrex mixing bowl. And I set it in the drying rack on the counter. Then I washed the pizza stone.

Of course, this was in the build-up to making a family meal, which meant RH was toddling around me like a noisy shadow, tugging and my skirt and demanding juice, asking for apple slices as I prepared to boil water, the usual.

As I set the pizza stone into the drying rack, RH walked around me, to paw at the drying rack. I rolled the vacuum cleaner into her way, so she couldn't pull down the rack filled with heavy stone and glass objects. Seemed like a no-brainer.

And then I grabbed the pyrex mixing bowl, for mixing purposes.

As I lifted it, the weight distribution on the rack shifted, and the heavy pizza stone started to fall forward. Right over RH's little head.

I reacted instinctively. I threw my hands in between my twenty one month old child and the falling piece of heavy stone.

My hands, still holding the gigantic glass bowl.

The glass shattered into a million pieces, shards as long as my forearm and as sharp as any knife in the kitchen exploded from my hands onto the floor. Tiny slivers rained down.

This all happened one foot over my toddler's head.

Unfortunately, she wasn't wearing protective
headgear

I screamed. Of course I screamed. And RH, her hair full of glass fragments, with glimmering pieces of broken glass shimmering all over her clothes, froze.

She didn't cry. It was like she'd been turned to a pillar of salt.

As quickly as I could, I set down the chunks of razor sharp glass still in my hands, and moved the pizza stone into the sink. Then I did what you have to do when your one and a half year old daughter is both covered in and completely surrounded by broken glass.

I stepped into it to rescue her.

I spent most of the night cleaning up broken glass. Picking it out of her hair, out of the bottom of my feet, off of the vacuum cleaner. I had a beer and I called my mother, because apparently that's how I deal with trauma now. I'm still not satisfied the glass is completely gone. There was so much of it.

But RH? Not a scratch. Not a single scratch on her.

And I keep reliving it.

I couldn't have been more terrified and certain that something terrible was about to happen to her if she's beed surrounded by snakes or crocodiles or tarantulas.

And as soon as I put her to bed that night, satisfied that she wouldn't roll over and slice her scalp open with a hidden bit of glass, I realized how badly hurt I could have been, with my arms and wrists right there, next to the explosion of glass.

And I had a Bailey's on ice to help me get to sleep.

First of all, let me say I know, drinking is a terrible way to deal with stress. And it's one I don't generally resort to. But I couldn't get my hands to stop shaking. I couldn't get my heart to start racing. I needed to do something to force my body to act like it wasn't in fight or flight mode, and I happen to know I'm a more competent parent on a glass of Bailey's than I am on a xanax.

But to be perfectly honest, nearly killing my kid with a giant glass explosion seriously fucked me up.

I know, she wasn't "nearly killed." But she also was. The enormous, sharp, heavy chunks of glass all around her could have easily killed her, and just as easily mutilated her for life.

Not a damn scratch on her, though.

Every time I think about it I feel sick. I blame myself, because I should have been so much more careful. I blame myself because I hesitated for a moment before I put my shoeless feet into a mound of glass shards. I blame myself, because who else is there to blame?

She's okay. She's totally unharmed. She'll never remember it, she won't know it happened. That's how toddlers work.

Me? I'm growing a nice streak of grey at my temple because I'm responsible for giving my youngest child a broken glass shower.

And that, right there, is what parenting is like some days. You worry and worry and blame yourself and second guess yourself because you're responsible for the life and happiness of another human being in a way that only comes with children. And after all that worry and self-blame and fear and agony... the kid is fine. The kid is happy. The kid is oblivious.

The kid loves you, even though they have no idea what you've just gone through in the simple hope that they will remain happy and healthy and safe. Because they already trusted implicitly that it was the most important thing to you. And they were right.

She's a quirky little thing.

That's parenthood, some days. Some weeks.

Picking glass out of your toddler's hair while she drinks a cup of juice and laughs at being shaken upside down to knock the glass of her shirt.

Picking glass out of your feet and ankles and being relieved that it's your skin that got scuffed up. Committing to memory every adorable and heartwarming thing your kid does because you never know what you'll have to remember if next time you aren't so lucky.

Some days, that's it.

Not today, thank God. But some days.

And those other days, there are always extra hugs to enjoy, smiles to ignore, or fights to end. Because life is messy, and it doesn't stop just because one day last week you traumatized yourself.

You just have to learn to be a little oblivious to your own trauma, too.

Let's Talk About Beds, Baby

You probably have one of these.

Nearly thirty years ago now, I was born human. And being human has some drawbacks. One of those is the required ownership of a human spine.

Now, I don't know if you know this, but these guys are seriously flawed. I mean, don't get me wrong. They're amazing. Without them, we wouldn't be able to accomplish about 99.9% of all the spectacular achievements of humanity. But they have a laundry list of problems.

At the top of that list is pain. Standard, run-of-the-mill back pain. It sucks, and nearly everybody's going to get it at some point. Why? Because you have one of these things, and you're going to use it to sit or stand for a couple of decades without taking a nice, antigravity break.

For some of us, the problems come sooner than later. I was blessed/cursed with what my favorite bra website refers to as an "ample bosom" at an early age. By the time I was fifteen, I started needing to see doctors to help me take care of this spine of mine and the incessant pain it caused me. Add to that a couple injuries, a few pregnancies, and then the perils of running around your house constantly while hunched down to about three feet high to chase and communicate with miniature people... well...

Suffice to say, my spine and I have a strained relationship.

I've done an amazing number of things to combat my back pain, which is a combination of standard lumbar pain (that's your lower back), more complex thoracic pain (thank you big boobs), and trauma-induced cervical pain (that's my neck- not my lady business). I've got two chiropractors on speed dial, a favorite acupuncturist, a long list of preferred yoga routines (depending on the area giving me trouble), an equally long list of strength building exercises for the muscles in those areas, running prescriptions for Vicodan and Flexeril (taken judiciously), a massage therapist who knows more about what's going on in my life than my parents... you get the idea.

My kids think Sleepy's is the best place ever.

And starting about four months ago, we got a new mattress.

Let's hold on a second- four months ago? I got the thing four months ago, and I'm only going to tell you all about it NOW? What's wrong with me? What kind of awful blogger am I?

A thoroughly awful one. And by that, I mean I'm thorough.

Let me tell you a little about how my lifestyle has changed in the past four months.

I am back-pain-free about 70% of the time.

That might not sound like a lot to you, but let me tell you, it is HUGE. I've gone from seeing a chiropractor 1-2 times a week to seeing a chiropractor once every other month. (I'll just let you imagine how those savings add up- don't forget to factor in childcare for chiro appointments.) I've refilled my Flexeril prescription once in that time span. Only once. I haven't had any acupuncture. I've (sadly) only had two massages.

In the last third of a year, I've probably saved in pain management about a third of the cost of my brand new mattress.

It kind of blows my mind that we can't use our HSA to pay for the mattress, it's been such a health boon to me.

But not just to me. And not just the mattress.

The Sleepy's guy who sold us our mattress didn't just sell us a mattress. And at no point did he try to up-sell us a mattress. He walked us through the store, helping M and I test the various elements of each model- learning about the different parts of a newfangled mattress (ours is a coil based system, but has a band of memory foam type material running through in a band to provide a little additional lumbar support). He helped us find something that helped me and my bazillion times larger husband sleep more comfortably.

He did more than THAT though, too. He helped us pick out new pillows. Pillows that actually fit our necks, and our sleeping styles. Who knew that could actually make such a big difference?

And I was going to write about it then, but I couldn't. Because I really didn't know how I felt about it yet. I didn't know how I felt about a bed that was a full foot higher than the one I was used to. M didn't know how he felt about a bed that was tall enough that the edges actually needed to support his weight when he sat down. And it's hard to tell after just a few weeks whether or not you're really feeling any better about it.

I actually need a step stool to get into bed.

Sleepy's gave us a money back, no questions asked guarantee, and we almost took them up on it.
Almost. Because you really do have to LEARN how to sleep on a different bed every night. It's weird- you'd think it's as simple as just laying down and sleeping, but it's not.

Now, most mornings when I wake up, my hands ache and cramp, but my back? Feels just fine. I wake up without back pain. That's totally new to me.

M sleeps through the whole night most nights, whereas he used to toss and turn. And we've gotten used to it. Even after I got us a new bed frame, one that was EVEN TALLER, we're still happy with the bed. Because we're less tired, less achey, and less reluctant to get started in the morning. You know, because we're better rested. It's a magical thing.

Really, the whole experience was kind of spectacular. The prices were good, when there was trouble processing our payment (on their end, not ours) and they had to miss our delivery, they made up for it by delivering for free.

And, of course, they took away the old mattress and box spring so we never had to worry about them again.

I can't recommend Sleepy's enough. (Particularly the Sleepy's at 605 W. Roosevelt Rd. in Chicago.) But I can tell you that investing in a good mattress was, in hindsight, just common sense.

I'm pretty optimistic that by the anniversary of getting our new mattress, it will have saved us as much in medical costs (and attached childcare costs) as the thing cost in the first place. I wish we'd bought a new mattress when I was pregnant with the twins, five years ago. Who knows how much we might have saved by now?

I'm not saying a good mattress will fix your broken back. I'm saying that for once, I'm sleeping in a bed that isn't actually making things worse. That supports my spine and lets it rest and recover from the previous day without causing any additional damage.

It took me a few months to be certain about how I feel, but now I'm sure. I feel great. I feel better than I've felt in years.

And I can offer my bed no higher praise than that.

...thanks, Sleepy's.


Sleepy's did provide me with $100 in gift cards, but all the opinions and choices represented here are my own.

The Worst Part

I am not a perfect mother.

To be honest, most days I'm not sure I even fall solidly into the boundaries of what makes a "good" mother.*

My kids are pretty much free range, or as much as they can be in about 1400 square feet of third floor walkup. And I'm a work-from-home kind of gal- I do a lot of ignoring my children.

Until, of course, they do something really awful.

I comfort myself that I must be a good mom because, when that something awful results in an injury, I'm the person they want to comfort them. They don't just accept my comfort, they truly respond to it. "I want to snuggle," and "I love you, mommy," are phrases I hear constantly. I know, I'm very lucky. But whenever those disasters strike, I really feel like I don't deserve the affection.

About a week and a half ago, SI lost a toenail. Well, "lost" doesn't begin to describe it. She was running pell mell down the hall and tried to leap over a "picnic" she'd left out. Because she has inherited my extremely uncoordinated genetics, she didn't make it. Instead she landed on a plastic plate, slid a few feet, and her toes slammed into the tiny space under the coat closet door, tearing her smallest toenail right out of its bed.

I knew something was really wrong with her first wail. And I did nothing. I leaned away from the sink full of dishes I was washing, and called out if she was okay. She wailed again.

And again, I did nothing.

It wasn't until she was bawling and staggering to get up that I walked to the kitchen doorway, and held out my arms for her to run to me. That's right, she can do the work of coming to me if I'm going to comfort her, too.

To say that I felt like the worst mother in the entire fucking world when I saw all the blood coming out of her toe would probably be an understatement. I felt worse than that. Subhuman. I felt like slime.

I scooped her up in my arms and squeezed her and kissed her and held her and tried my hardest not to flinch or pass out when I examined her toe, and I cleaned it and bandaged it and called her doctor, and then I helped her Skype with Poppa, because he'd just had foot surgery so he had an even bigger owie on his toe.

And she hasn't cried about it since. Not once. Not even when I had to finally clip it free from the tiny corner embedded in her cuticle so it would stop dangling off. That kid is a trooper.

She has to be. She bangs herself up practically every day. If she doesn't have a bruise from running into a doorjamb, she has a blister from yet another pair of shoes she's managed to outgrow, or a scratch from flailing a toy with a sharp edge, or a lump on her head from falling backwards off the couch, or scraped knees from wiping out on the sidewalk.

DD's also constantly banged up. She bonks her head on drawers and cabinets, slips and falls while running in her favorite (and very slippery) socks, falls out of her chair when she fidgets and bangs her chin on the table.

And I pretty much ignore it. They're kids. They get banged up. It comes from constantly moving at high speeds in very crowded quarters. I'm constantly banged up, too, just from chasing them.

"Future Writer" Just like mommy.

But I ignore a lot more than that. When I'm "working," writing or editing or revising or submitting or any number of the things I'm doing to advance a passion I can hardly call a "career" without feeling like a fraud, I just ignore them.

Once in a while I look up and grin at those three little girls, playing so happily, so independently. And I leave it at that.

But mostly I only look up when something goes wrong.

Tonight, something went wrong. After supper we all cleaned up the living room, and the dining room, because they were seas of misplaced toys. Then while I did some dishes they danced in the clean dining room, and when I was done I set them up in front of Night at the Museum with cups of water. Ten minutes later I heard the sound that every parent dreads.

Total silence.

And, like a fool, I let it go on for a whole five minutes.

When I got to the living room,  the furniture was all soaked through. They had been entertaining themselves by spitting all their water all over the couch, arm chair, throw cushions, and afghans.

SI was wearing a new shirt, too. "The other shirt was soaking wet," she told me.

To say I was angry would be an understatement. I was living. I screamed and yelled, I made them clean up the mess, and I put them to bed after only cups of milk instead of real dinners. I had to calm down quite a bit before I convinced myself of even that compromise.

I was so angry I nearly had a heart attack. That's no exaggeration- I have a neurological condition called dysautonomia that occasionally causes me to have bouts of tachycardia and arrhythmia. It took four minutes of careful, focused breathing before the pain in my chest died down.

Four minutes where I could think of nothing other than what a poor excuse for a parent I am.

It was water. Water. Not milk, not juice, not even cracker crumbs. Just... water.

And I lost it.

I could come up with a million excuses for my own temper. I haven't really eaten today (true), I've been ridiculously exhausted since DD's trip to the ER (also true), I've had zero time or motivation for self care or emotional maintenance (true)...

It doesn't matter. What matters is that this isn't an isolated incident. I'm a ticking time bomb of rage just waiting to happen.

I'm constantly stunned and impressed by what my daughters know, what they're interested in. I'm constantly shocked that they've managed to pick up such spectacular life skills and academic skills from me being vague and distant 90% of the time.

I'm amazed at how a day where I had truly sweet, wonderful, loving moments with all three of my children, individually, could turn into a night where I'm shaking and panting and talking myself down from having a triple martini for dinner, with a pint of ice cream as a chaser.

I know I should calm down and remember the good parts.

DD sitting on my lap to read useless informational pamphlets after I put her hair into a ponytail at the doctor's office.

SI took this picture

SI holding my hand as we walked to the car from the preschool, asking me how my day was and listening to my answers.

RH, running up to me and hugging my knees, over and over again.

But it's all eclipsed by this awful, painful hunch in my shoulders, by the crushing weight of guilt pressing down on me, but the overwhelming awareness of how ridiculously, improbably, outrageously tired I am.

I feel like I must not be a good mom. A good mom wouldn't freak out over a couple of pints of spilled water.

A good mom wouldn't scream at her children over something as harmless as a wet couch.

A good mom wouldn't only be available when she has to be. She'd be available whenever her children wanted her to be.

And that's not me. I'm not that mom. I'm the mom telling the kids to play by themselves so I can get something done. I wouldn't judge any other mom for doing this, but I'm sure as hell judging myself.

And my verdict is that I could do better. I must do better.

And the worst part is knowing that I probably won't.





*Yes, I know, I'm a good mom. Just as wracked with self doubt as the next person.

Kiss with a Fist

This week's Twisted Mix Tape theme is "I don't just love you, I'm addicted to you."

I know that this is a wonderful opportunity to share "The Perfect Drug" and "Dilaudid," but there's something more important I want to use this mix tape for.

Yes, I'm using Twisted Mix Tape Tuesday as an opportunity to get onto my soapbox.

But this is more than my soapbox. This is about real life, and real people, and real life tragedy.



A few days ago, Chris of Adventures of a Thrifty Mama was murdered by her estranged husband.

She'd filed for divorce, for a second time. He had a history of abuse. But after dropping her request for an order of protection, the police gave him back his guns, and he used them to shoot her, her oldest son, and himself.

I didn't know Chris well. Our paths crossed online more times than I can count, the internet is a remarkably small place sometimes. She was sweet, enthusiastic, motivated... she often made me uncomfortably aware of just how lazy I can be. She was creative and resourceful, and she loved her four children more than anything.

She was trying to sever all ties with her abuser. It was the most dangerous time for any victim of abuse- the time when they are most likely to be killed.

I had an abusive boyfriend once. He roughed me up, sexually assaulted me, and when I tried to cut him out of my life... that was when the death threats started. After a few years, I finally tried to file for an order of protection, but they wouldn't give me one without a police report.

So I tried to file a report, and the police shrugged me off.

Chris had police reports. She had eye witnesses to abusive behavior. Her abuser's actions were well documented, known.

And then he killed her and her son, leaving a four year old, a six year old, and an eight year old orphaned, without their big brother.

So why am I writing about this now? When there's a Mix Tape to play?

I'm writing about it because sometimes, songs can convey more about a situation, about a pattern, than somebody up on their internet soapbox, screaming for somebody to do something.

But the thing is, women often WON'T leave their abusers. A friend of mine- Trisha of IdeasForWomen.com, has been fighting for custody of her child since leaving her abuser- from her abuser.

There are so many reasons women stay.

And so many of them are like addiction.

So I'd like to dedicate this mix tape to Chris, and Trisha, and the one in four women who have suffered domestic abuse.

Like addiction, you think you're hooked on something good. But as time passes you see that it's rotten, through and through.

And that's where we'll begin.


First up on the list, "Jane Says." Listen past the cheerful drums, and this is an ominous story about a woman dealing with an abusive relationship. "He treats me like a ragdoll," she says. "She's going away to Spain, when she gets the money saved. I'm gonna start tomorrow. I'm gonna kick tomorrow." The language of addiction fits the story. "She says, I've never been in love. I don't know what it is... I want them if they want me. I only know they want me."



In the beginning, it can seem exciting. Or "fixable." Or just, the way things are. You make excuses. You ignore it. The early stage infatuation begins to shift into outright addiction.



Once the habit is formed, it can be hard to break. So yes, the abuser is hurting you. Yes, you know it's wrong. But you're still making excuses for them. Still in love. Still unwilling to admit how bad things might be.



There comes a point when your friends can see what's happening. Maybe they say something, maybe they're afraid of driving a wedge between you when things are so dark. This song is from the perspective of a friend, trying to get another friend out of an abusive relationship. "You're just a sucker for the ones who use you, and it doesn't matter what i say or do, the stupid bastard's gonna have his way with you." But it takes an even darker turn. It becomes an ultimatum. "He's gonna beat you like a pillow... And if you take him home, you'll get what you deserve." "So don't cry, Delilah. You're still alive, Delilah."



And accepting abuse becomes internalized, habitual. "I think it's because I'm clumsy. I try not to talk too loud. Maybe it's because I'm crazy. I try not to act too proud... They only hit until you cry."



Start at 4:50.
They come up with all sorts of explanations for themselves. "I need you." "I love you." But this is what they really mean. "I need you... to put through the shredder in front of my friends." "I need you to beat to a pulp on a Saturday night." The addiction swings both ways.



Then come the threats. Hints of what might happen to you if you put a toe out of line. If you leave. "His head was found in a driving wheel, but his body never was found."



And this is where it ends. If you don't get out this is where it ends. Just as with addiction, either you live long enough to break away, or it kills you.

And sometimes, it's breaking away that kills you.

Let's think about a culture that glorifies violence. About a world where I can cherry pick songs about spousal abuse, domestic violence, and murder out of thin air. Where there are so many of them that I could fill you up a flashdrive to give you nightmares each night.

Because I've been having a few of my own. Falling asleep thinking about Chris, and her fourteen year old son Isaac, and her three very little kids who survived their mom...

Think about it. Think about what it says about all of us.

Think about our addiction to victim bashing and guns and an endless litany of excuses.

And think about a woman who tried to do everything right, and still couldn't get away from this disease. This disease of violence.

Remember Chris.

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like...

My little ballerinas

Well, not in our house, yet. I've been reminding M to bring up the tree from storage for more than a week, but go figure- the Christian can't be bothered.

That said, Christmas is seeping in around here. SI is VERY disappointed it didn't start the day after Channukah ended, but she admits that waiting another two weeks isn't that big a deal. The kids are thrilled that I've mounted our wreath on our door, and they've started receiving warnings from their father that Santa Claus is watching.

And most excitingly of all- my great aunt and great uncle took us to see "The Nutcracker" at the Joffrey Ballet this past weekend.

DD and SI eating popcorn with their great-great-aunt and uncle

There are some things about Christmas that, yes, even as a Jew, I love. The Nutcracker is one of them. Ever since my childhood best friend had a Nutcracker themed birthday party what feels like eons ago, I've been hooked.

Source

And the Joffrey Ballet is world class dancing. Truly. It was nearly as magical for me as it was for the kids. DD sat on the edge of her seat- staring wide eyed and gape jawed at the dancers. SI grabbed my shoulder and pointed wildly every time a familiar character or plot twist appeared, grinning and throwing herself into her great-great-uncle's arms.

Source

DD's favorite part was when the toy nutcracker turned into a dancer (I also LOVED that). SI's favorite part was the doll with all the children underneath. (Yeah, that was pretty spectacular too.)

Source

M's favorite part was the Arabian dance, and I'm on the verge with agreeing with him myself. It was, to put it mildly, stunning.

Source

But I think my favorite part was how completely, un-self-consciously ELATED my children were. How they floated on air from the moment they put on fancy dresses and learned some basic positions from M (who used to dance competitively), to the awe on their faces as they listened to the child choir caroling in the lobby, to their shock as we passed the Santa Shuffle 5K downtown, and they saw HORDES of rovings Santas on the street, to DD's shock at being "bitten" by the Nutcracker outside the show. (SI lifted the lever while DD's fingers were exploring his teeth.

"Mommy! The Nutcracker BIT me!"

Despite missing out on the actual show, even RH caught ballet fever for the day.



It was a magical day.

I'm sure none of us will ever forget it.


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And hey! Guess what? I'm guest posting over at Raised on the Radio today! Come check out my mix tape- Amazons of Rock!

"My Friend"

What follows is my entry for last week's Blogger Idol, which I'm proud to say won the top honors from the judges.

I won't ask you to enjoy it.



My Friend

She was slender, dainty, refined. The sight her filled me with calm, regret, and a sense of freedom. She was sharp, but not to sharp. She gleamed in the dark, cold but present. She hurt me, and I wanted her to. She was the four inch gravity knife I kept in my pocket.

I'd been bullied horribly as a kid. My family moved just in time for me to start middle school in a new state, and I knew from the moment I walked past the flagpole things would be worse. I roamed the halls in silence, knowing with every step how much I was hated, how far I was from fitting in. Angry stares and taunts and attacks echoed inside me, as though I were being hollowed out until I was nothing but an empty girl-shaped shell.

One day I bought a knife. Functional and feminine. For protection on my late night strolls.

...that's what I told myself.

But instead of walking through the darkened neighborhood I sat on my bed, staring at the wall and feeling nothing but the dull throb of old pain coursing through my limbs. It didn't make sense. There was no reason. Nothing should have hurt the way everything did.

I heard her whispering from my pocket. I squeezed her, my thumb resting on her hilt, terrified and thrilled all at once. Flick! The silver blade sped out of its handle and I bit my lip, resting it against the back of my arm. Flick!

I watched the tiny line form beads of blood, watched them connect slowly, watched them dry.

And the pain was gone. I breathed a sigh of relief and gratitude. I laughed. I slept like a baby.

By the next summer my left arm was a mass of scars. Faint white lines that showed brightly after an afternoon in the sun. The occasional cluster of scratches that could have been from one of our cats. They were never deep. They never bled for more than a minute. They liberated me, I never felt the need to hide them.

In groups I felt utterly alone until I slid my hand into my pocket and wrapped my fingers around her.

My knife helped me, I told myself, helped me cope with depression that bordered on suicidal every other day.


They were scrapes, really. She didn't want to hurt me. She was my friend.

On one of my midnight walks the police picked me up for being out past curfew. They took me to the station and made me empty my pockets.

I knew the law. I was old enough to carry a knife. My knife was small enough, wasn't spring loaded, wasn't even really sharpened.

They took her anyway. There was no question where I'd gotten the little red lines on my arm. No cat, no blackberry bushes. I didn't fight for her.

For months I didn't cut, and the pain inside me just grew. I didn't know how to let it out, how to feel it without feeling consumed by it without my friend.


I experimented with other knives. Using my childhood Swiss Army knife felt perverse, like I was polluting something beautiful. Using a kitchen knife seemed like a violation of my mother.

I found a razor blade at the bottom of my box of painting supplies, and hid it in a wooden box in my room.

I feared that blade. I never cleaned it, secretly hoping it's rusting corners would carry some horrific infection, kill me and put me out of my misery. And the razor blade cut deeper than my knife ever did, than my friend ever would.

I watched my skin part from itself, gaping at the pale, bloodless color of my own flesh, watched blood pool down my arm thinking to myself, Dear God what have I done? But I'd been cutting too long, it was too late to ask for help.

Everyone knew I was doing it to myself.

I used that razor blade four times. Six slices. And after each slice I felt no relief. I felt no weight lift from my shoulders. Only fear and emptiness.

After each cut I wept. Because it didn't hurt, nothing hurt, and all that was left was the shame and fear of knowing I could not stop.

I lay awake in bed, darting terrified glances at the ornate box on my shelf, mourning my knife. I squeezed a slender cigarette lighter in my pocket, almost the same size, pretending as hard as I could they were the same. I threw the razor blade in the trash.



But the pain and fear didn't leave. Instead I watched the six ugly scars pucker and bulge on my bicep while the countless white lines on my forearm grew ever fainter, leaving no trace my friend was ever there.

The hurt inside of me began to fade to numbness, and I refilled the wooden box. This time with sleeping pills, amphetamines, aspirin, anything I could get my hands on that could be lethal.

Each time I dropped a fistful of narcotic painkillers into the box, the weight lifted a little. The sight of the box filled me with gratitude. As I drifted to sleep, I smiled towards it.

My new friend.

Yet More About "My Friend"

"She was slender, dainty, refined. The sight her filled me with calm, regret, and a sense of freedom. She was sharp, but not to sharp. She gleamed in the dark, cold but present. She hurt me, and I wanted her to. She was the four inch gravity knife I kept in my pocket."

By now, I hope you've read my post for this week's Blogger Idol challenge- "My Friend."

(And yes, voting is still open, so there's still time to cast your vote for me.)

The response I've received has been incredible. I haven't even begun to find ways to respond to the dozens of people who have reached out to me through all manner of channels to talk not just about the post, but about the issues it discusses.

About depression, and suicide, and especially self harm.

Stories from strangers about their own ongoing struggles. Stories from loved ones about dark chapters in their lives. Stories from long-time readers who crave the freedom of confession.

Keep sending them, please. Don't hesitate.

Here's the thing about opening your heart and baring your soul- it heals. It genuinely heals. It's what talk therapy is fundamentally based on- expressing, acknowledging the emotions inside of you. The experiences you've endured- internally or otherwise.

Keep sending me your stories.

But don't stop there.

There are a few things that didn't make it into that post. I remember at the time, some people close to me accused me of cutting for attention. (I considered this ludicrous, as when I wanted attention I stepped up to the mic at a poetry reading, signed on for a play, or danced onstage in my underwear for the Rocky Horror Picture Show.) And some people asked me if it was a cry for help.

What I understood then and still understand now is that it was neither. Self harm is an intrinsically personal act. Whether it's done somewhere visible, as mine, or somewhere hidden, as so many do. And that is what I tried to convey with my story.

And that is what I hope that all of you could take away from it. That really, when you get down to it, depression becomes as much an entity in your life as any person. You have a relationship with it. You almost worry about it when it's not there. Perverse, but true.

And what I did not include in my story, and wish more than anything that I had, is this:

Help is out there.

In so many more forms, both public and private, than it was when I was that depressed girl.

It can be as simple as contacting the Crisis Text Line. Just text “CTL” to 741741. It's a toll-free text-line, connecting you to trained people who want to help. They're there around the clock, every day.

There's SiOS- Self-injury Outreach and Support. They're an online organization dedicated to providing help specifically to those people dealing with issues of self-harm.

And as always, there's the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. 24/7, access to local trained therapists. 1-800-273-TALK


And I am here. I read every email, even if I don't answer right away. I am listening.

Don't be afraid to open up. It heals. Truly.

You're going to be just fine.

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To vote for Becoming SuperMommy, click here.

Writing in a Dark Place

Taken by Aunt Genocide, about a year after the events depicted in this week's Blogger Idol

A few words about today's Blogger Idol piece.

One of the things the judges have always asked of the contestants is to keep our voices true. True to our writing, of course, but mostly, true to our blogs.

And sometimes, that's a problem for me. Because I have several voices in my head- I'm very schizophrenic these days.

Most of the time I have a blogging voice in my head, and I have a memoirist in my head. And they don't talk the same way- which is as much a surprise to me as to anyone.

Me, a year or so before this week's Blogger Idol tale

And so I set out to write this post about something I'd never shared before from the voice of the blogger- and it was going to be FUNNY. And self deprecating. And have lots of gifs. But then I got to thinking, do I really have no secrets? Nothing at all?

And then it came to me. Something I had never written about, never even talked about, but only because it wasn't exactly a secret anyway.

Everybody knew what was going on. It's just that almost nobody confronted me.

And my scars are still there, plain as day, for everyone to see. It's just that nobody asks about them.

So yes, this was a hard post to write. And I have no doubt that for those of my readers who knew me then, and who know me now, this will be hard to read. And I'm sorry for that. Feel free to vote and avert your eyes.

But I am proud of this little piece of storytelling.

And I am far enough away from the person I was fifteen or sixteen or seventeen years ago to look at her somewhat dispassionately, and to see and feel things from her perspective without actually BEING her.

Does that make sense?

Enjoy the post, please. And maybe learn from it a little bit.

And as always- please vote for me.

More than Outliers

This week on Blogger Idol I published what would have been my "End of the Month Controversy." 

To be honest, this is not what I would have published here, as my Controversy. I like to take the time to go truly in depth in these topics. To explain every angle, to answer questions before they're asked.

But I had an 800 word maximum, and that meant I didn't get to do the subject the way I would have liked.

So you'll have to settle for this instead. I hope you enjoy it. :)


More than Outliers

A well regulated

You might have to cross state lines, or even go online, but you can get a gun. You can get a gun if you don't have a license. You can get a gun if you've had no training. You can get a gun if your wife has a restraining order after you bloodied her face and threatened her life. You can get a gun if you have severe PTSD or schizophrenia. You can get a gun if you're drunk. You can get a gun if you're blind.

There are about 270 million guns registered to civilians in the United States. 90 guns per 100 people. That's only the number that are registered, and only an estimate. We don't even know how many guns we have .

But we do know how many people guns kill each year. Each day, in my city, it's nearly two deaths every single day.

It's hardly even news.

militia

I could tell you how many times I've seen a gun in the last ten years, being emptied blindly in the midst of a pointless argument, as onlookers scatter. I need both hands to count the times I've peered through my windows to give descriptions to 911, cataloged nondescript grey sweatpants and white t-shirts running towards the trees behind my building. I could tell you my neighbors nearly moved after a bullet implanted itself in the headrest of their minivan's driver's seat.

I could tell you when I worked in the projects everyone carried a gun. They'd all been shot, had scars of torn flesh and children and brothers and parents lost. Because a bullet doesn't mourn.

And I will tell you the untrained, reckless, panicked or boasting masses in the streets are as unlike a militia as the third shift wait staff at Denny's.

being necessary to the security

When somebody decides to kill, they nearly always use a gun.

We know gun manufacturers like to say you need a gun to protect you from a gun.

We know they lose nothing when their products take a life.

of a free state

America has more guns per capita than any other country in the world. America also has the most citizens in prison.

the right of the people to keep and bear arms

But only some arms. No anthrax, no smallpox blankets, no flash drive of information or can of napalm.

Only the machines that do nothing but wield death, that serve one purpose and one purpose only.

And two thirds of Americans who die from gunshot wounds? Aimed and fired at themselves.

Because a bullet doesn't hesitate.

shall not be infringed.

The sensation of a gun in your hands is exhilarating. Empowering. With a gun in your hands you feel powerful. With a gun in your hands, you feel in control.

We distance ourselves from mass shooters. Adam Lanzas and James Eagan Holmes and Black Trenchcoat Mafias... we say they are disturbed, evil, psychotic. We call them monsters. We say that without guns, they would have found another way to kill. That society's failings are those of our abysmal mental health care resources, not the gun lobby.

Most public shooters aren't psychopaths without a conscience- they are people, seeking the validation of notoriety. And notoriety they receive. But their body count is minutiae compared to the everyday tally. The thousands of ignored fatalities.

Most shooting victims in my city are bystanders. People cowering in their houses when bullets fly, through walls and windows and human flesh.

Most other victims weren't facing mysterious assailants, but somebody they knew. The random murders of the world... those are the outliers.

"A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed."

These words were written by the same men, at the same time, as the 3/5s compromise. By the people who granted "inalienable rights" only to white men of property. These words are of a different time, of inexpressibly fallible character.

And had the authors of this one sentence been beyond reproach, would they have quaked at the prospect of so many dead, so fast, at the hands of so few?

The time is long past to ask- why do we want this kind of weapon? Why is it acceptable to profess your dedication to a murder machine made of metal and not of sarin gas?

And beyond that, what gives any person the right to wield another's death?

When will we finally acknowledge that yes, guns kill, and they have killed enough?

I Need You Here Tonight, Like the Ocean Needs the Waves

We love Kate

You may remember my friend Kate.

I wrote about her a while ago- but here's a quick refresher:

She had a bike accident. After a few days, she started getting migraines. Then she had a massive stroke that nearly killed her.

Forget it- don't read what I have to say about it. Watch these videos her husband made, just make sure you've got a box of kleenex.






She's had an amazing recovery. After months in the hospital and months of rehab, she's finally home.

For her birthday, her friends and family came together to do something amazing- to raise money to pay for her medical bills. Local businesses, old clients, friends, and family members donated dozens of baskets that they auctioned off to raise funds for the expenses.

The auction was at a massive "I  Heart Kate" celebration, at the same venue where Kate and Chris were married five years ago. A friend spent the evening screen printing "I Heart Kate" t-shirts to help raise even more funds.

There was live music, spectacular tamales, more brownies than you could shake a stick at, a photo booth, and something truly incredible. One of Chris and Kate's favorite bands- Mae- featured prominently at their wedding. They used Mae songs for both the ceremony and the reception.



Chris reached out to the Dave Elkins, the lead singer and guitarist, and Dave Elkins came all the way to Illinois to play at the event.

It was amazing.

That wasn't all, though. It was also Kate's birthday. And when you've spent half your summer with a trach in your throat, when it seemed for a while you might never see another birthday candle, blowing out more than thirty candles on one cake? That is one gigantic, incredible, inspirational victory.

It was an emotional evening.

That said, Kate's family isn't out of the red yet. There are so many bills, and they do keep coming. To help the family, you can buy I Heart Kate t-shirts- like so, modeled by Chris:

You can but the shirts here, and take home a little of the celebration.

Or- you can hit the donate button.

Thank you.


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Also- voting for Blogger Idol is live! I've written a very personal piece about my own fears when I thought the person I loved might not come  Please vote for me!

Thank you again. :)