Tag: Houston

Books, Reading Lists

A Reading List with Political Ramifications

RaeAnna

I have been very, very bad at writing reviews for the books I’ve read over the last… two years. Really, super terrible at it. To the point my closet was being over run by books I’ve read and haven’t reviewed, and there was very little room for the books coming in that I have yet to read. So I consulted my board of directors, aka the dogs and I, and we made the executive decision to do a few reading lists instead of overwhelming myself with a to do list that I will, frankly, never do. Working on creating a clean slate for the rest of the year.

Put on my best political outfit and stood in front of Houston’s City Hall. I’m a bad ass… Not really, just pretending.

Anyways, this is a list of nonfiction books I read between 2020 and 2021 quarantine. They all are politically motivated in one way or another. This is one of the few lists that really does not have a stinker on it. Exceptionally well written, interesting, and educational. Pretty much the trifecta of a good read for me.

A Little Devil in America Hanif Abdurraqib
The thing about this collection of essays on the ways Black performance is intertwined into American culture and history in subtle and not so subtle ways. The content of the book is overwhelming and rife with emotion, but it is beautifully crafted. From the way essays are organized to the elegant syntax. Incredible read. 
Book Depository || Amazon

An American Bride in Kabul Phyllis Chelser
An interesting memoir about Chesler’s marriage to an Afghan man and her entrapment in Afghanistan. It’s well written and focuses on her physical and emotional journey, but she could have gone more in depth in all parts. It’s good but could be better. 
Book Depository || Amazon

Bag Man Rachel Maddow and Michael Yarvitz
Spiro Agnew, Nixon’s Vice President, was quite the slimy character. This little book is a riveting exploration of the Bag Man who entered the White House with little political experience and a lot of criminal activity in his past. Highly suggest.
Book Depository || Amazon

Between Two Fires Joshua Yaffa
Russia has always been fodder for conversation and the media, but the reality of living in Putin’s Russia of today isn’t quite at the forefront of people’s minds. Looking into the lives and careers of contemporary Russians, Yaffa is able to paint a picture of the give and take people must deal with daily to get by and even make their dreams come true. Well written and very interesting.
Book Depository || Amazon

Black Futures Kimberly Drew and Jenna Wortham
One of the most impressive books I’ve read; it sticks in my mind as one of the most beautifully written books about Black excellence. An anthology of Black creatives curated by Black creatives, my eyes were absolutely opened to new artists, writers, activists, musicians, and so many other incredible humans bringing meaning and beauty into the world. This is the one you need. 
Book Depository || Amazon

Carry: A Memoir of Survival on Stolen Land Toni Jensen
Jensen is a Native, Métis woman, who has lived her entire life around guns while carrying the weight and knowledge of their violence in her body. As an Indigenous woman, her experiences are not singular but historical. Her personal trauma and that of her people lives on in the body, and she reclaims language on stolen land. Vastly moving. 
Book Depository || Amazon

Charged Emily Bazelon
The balance between prosecutors, defenders, and judges in the American criminal justice system is supposed to be equal, yet prosecutors are gaining more and more power to decide who goes free and who does not. In a system rife with racial injustice, this problem is continuing to grow. Bazelon critiques the failing system in hopes of saving it. Fantastically important read in today’s era.
Book Depository || Amazon

Demystifying Disability Emily Ladau
Disability ranges from visible to invisible and touches so many lives. In a world that is not designed for people with disabilities and continually perpetuates disability erasure, Ladau offers a guide to opening our minds to create a more accessible world so all can enjoy and take part in it. She has an incredible sense of humor and allows space for questions and open dialogue instead of judgment and critique. 
Book Depository || Amazon

An exceptional stack(s) of books.

Dog Flowers Danielle Geller
A memoir documenting Geller’s personal journey of emotionally processing the objects her mother leaves behind after dying from alcohol withdrawals while being homeless. Combining prose and archival documents, she finds herself in her mother’s home, Navajo Nation, meeting family and finding another side to the woman who gave her life. Very moving. 
Book Depository || Amazon

Hatemonger Jean Guerrero
Guerrero documents the incredible rise of one of Trump’s most trusted senior policy advisors and speechwriter, Stephen Miller. Dissecting the horrific immigration policies and the narrowing of legal immigration, Stephen Miller created a terrifying, inhumane, and unwelcoming America he envisioned as a radicalized teenager. Quite literally nauseating; I could only read it in small chunks. 
Book Depository || Amazon

His Truth Is Marching On Jon Meacham
A beautiful tribute to John Lewis, a man who lived from a place of faith and compassion as he fought for racial equity and justice on the streets, among the people, and in Congress. Meacham writes a comprehensive look at the man and how he became the revered activist he is in the memories and hearts of Americans. 
Book Depository || Amazon

How to Survive America D.L. Hughley and Doug Moe
A hilarious and insightful look into what it takes to survive in America as a Black and/or Brown human. From water pollution to voting laws to food deserts to disproportionate COVID rates and many things in between, this book tackles real issues facing communities across the country. Funny yet eye opening.
Book Depository || Amazon

I’m Still Here Austin Channing Brown
Named to give the impression of being a white man, Brown recounts how her experiences are often juxtaposed against defying expectations by simply existing. In a world claiming diversity, she exposes the many ways actions fail to live up to words. Moving and educational. 
Book Depository || Amazon

In Pursuit of Disobedient Women Dionne Searcey
A New Yorker with a family, Searcey becomes The New York Times West Africa bureau chief, throwing all their lives up in the air to find passion and purpose. Working in the field brought her so many experiences, but she tells the stories which moved her most: The stories, struggles, and lives of women. Absolutely loved this book from prose to story.  
Book Depository || Amazon

My Broken Language Quiara Alegria Hudes
Language is a part of being human, but being a woman trapped between cultures creates a unique need and craving for a language that doesn’t quite exist. Hudes explores her search for language and meaning to tell the stories of her life and family as she searches for her own identity as a bilingual, bicultural woman and artist. One of my favorite memoirs.
Book Depository || Amazon

Oak Flat Lauren Redniss
Combining art and prose, Redniss tells the history of Oak Flat and the sacred meaning it holds for her people, San Carlos Apache, and their fight to keep it from being destroyed for capitalist gains. The conflict is ongoing and a haunting representation of what so many Native Nations are fighting for and against throughout history and today. Emotionally devastating in the best way.  
Book Depository || Amazon

The Devil in the White City Erik Larson
Larson tells two seemingly unrelated stories of the 1893 World’s Fair in Chicago. Daniel H. Burnham, the fair’s architect, had to overcome personal and professional obstacles to construct the White City in time for opening day. Dr. H.H. Holmes, a serial killer, created the World’s Fair Hotel with a crematorium and gas chamber to lure victims. Really well written and hard to put down.
Book Depository || Amazon

The Purpose of Power Alicia Garza
Organizing and activism come with lessons to be learned, and few know those as well as Alicia Garza the woman behind #BlackLivesMatter. In this guide to creating a movement to change the world, Garza focuses on her two decades of experience leading and following as an activist and organizer from grassroots to global movements. A really important read for anyone wanting to change the world.  
Book Depository || Amazon

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In My Own Words, Lifestyle

Seven Years Ago Tonight I Was Raped For the Last Time

RaeAnna

Sitting in my favorite spot in my favorite coffee shop in Houston’s Montrose neighborhood, I’m working on a listicle for tomorrow. Lacking in motivation and inspiration, I’m lackadaisically mocking up something mildly interesting, but decide to procrastinate by scrolling through Facebook to see just what I was up to on this day over the years. My eye catches on a specific yet vague post that only means something to me, and I’m reminded that seven years ago, a few hours from now, I will be raped for the last time.

I don’t drink anymore, which has nothing to do with the events of that night, but I still love a pretty mocktail.

I’m not sure if I want to write about the rape or if I want to write about the role social media plays in recovery, trauma, triggers, and moving on. Probably not either. I’m not actually ready to dive into the feelings of that rape. I don’t feel moved to write on social media either. Both are important, so I should pick one. Or trash this altogether and pretend I’m not crying in a coffee shop because of course my period is deciding to show up and be an emotional one. Then again, I might just be crying in a coffee shop because I was raped seven years ago and it is one of the harder stories I have to write. Partially because it’s the only one I don’t really remember. It is also the most stereotypical and statistically probable rape stories I have. Mostly it is still so fucking painful. Part of me wants to protect him and his family because I deeply care for them still. Even as I write this, I’m censoring every feeling and desire to talk about it because I do not want to give away any identifying information, but at the same time…. He fucking raped me. Then again, the role social media plays in this precise moment is something I have talked about and found fascinating every time a depressing memory pops up in my “On This Day” page or Timehop. 

I’m heading out to dinner with one of my good friends, so I can press pause on writing this and figure out what I want to do while pretending I’m completely fine with my friend. Write this? Don’t write this? Stop here, press publish, and call it good. Or continue on by diving into the trauma or the social media. Or find a whole other angle and write on that.  

Okay, I’m back. I decided to write…. I hate me. This job is terrible sometimes. Can someone please sponsor me or hire me to write a column so I can get paid for the pain I’m dredging up to create a little bit of good out of the craphole I call my past.

I’m choosing to kind of go in the rape direction but with a different angle because I literally threw up thinking about diving into that and I can’t stop shaking. I’m going to pretend the shakes are from the americano even though it very much is the anxiety.

Being the rape survivor I am, the kind of rape that was cyclical and repetitive. So many rapes. Too many to count. So many rapists. I think I know how many, but I’m not completely certain how many were involved in the gang rape, so it’s an estimate. At some point it all blurs together in a sweeping memory of the fact these things happened and were a daily part of my existence. Only the extraordinary instances stand apart from the others.  

I was drunk seven years ago, which for most people would not be unusual. I rarely drank and refused to get drunk with anyone but my partner. That night, I was with my best friend, a friend I’d had for a very long time, a friend I trusted completely. We drank. I drank a lot. I don’t remember what happened. I remember what came after. I remember being willing to look past it. To forgive. To move on. Chalk it up to a drunken night between friends. An oops we could laugh about later. But the truth is… I was way too far gone to give consent. I truly don’t remember anything, to this day, but I do know what happened. All I asked was to keep that night between us until I figured out how I felt. Instead, he told all our friends I was a bad lay. No shit. I was incompacitated. It also wasn’t sex. It was rape.    

Seven years ago was hard in an unexpected way. Being raped and recovering from that was not new and had become a routine part of my life. As shitty as it sounds, I know how to recover from rape, get my head on straight, pick myself back up, claim it, and keep trudging along. The act of getting over being raped seven years ago tonight wasn’t really that hard. I’d done it many times before; I half expected to do it again—most days I still do. What was hard was knowing my best friend did it to me. My best friend who knew everything did it to me. What was hard about that night and the aftermath wasn’t getting raped; though it was awful. It is always awful. It was and is the grief. 

Grief is a bitch. I have lost people in so many ways. Some from death, some from growing apart, some because they were cruel. Yes, I had lost people I was close to because they raped me. This was different. I grieved in a way I never had before. I recovered from being raped, but seven years later I still miss my best friend. He was family. He was a pillar in my life. He knew everything about me, and I lost him. I lost one of three people I thought I would be able to count on forever. The only person who had never made my faith in him and us waiver. He rocked the foundation of my soul because I lost faith in my own ability to trust people. I had let him into the darkest recesses of my soul for well over a decade. He knew things about me not a single other human knew. I let myself lean on him and depend on him in a way I haven’t been able to before or since. We went through so many things. We grew up together. We loved each other. We were as inseparable as two people could be while living in neighboring states. I legitimately thought of marrying him because the idea of spending my life with my best friend seemed awesome. 

He raped me, and I lost him. I lost his family who made me their family. I can’t scroll through my life from 13 to 23 without him playing some role in each memory. Even if he wasn’t physically present, he was always on the other end of a text conversation or phone call. 

As I write this, the grief is overwhelming. I remember him so starkly as the man I could count on. Not being able to remember the actual raping makes all of this harder. If I could remember, I could hate him. But I can’t. I don’t get to hold on to the terror or how unsafe I felt or my confusion or the moment I knew what was happening and accepted my fate or the stomach curdling touch of his hands on my body or any of the other things I know happened. The moments that would turn all of those happy memories sour so I could stop missing him, stop loving him. The one time I decided to drink with him, he raped me. Alcohol took the memories of those horrific moments away from me. Some have called it a blessing, but I don’t. I’m left grappling with the knowledge of what he did and the aftermath juxtaposed against ten years of trust, joy, laughter, history, and intimacy only people who experienced adolescence together have. There are two competing versions of this fundamental human in my mind and neither sit well. I grieve because I don’t have the man who was once so important in my life’s story, who knew me so well. I grieve because I don’t have the closure of being able to hate him so I can let go of that hate and move on. 

Alcohol can complicate things.

Whether I’ve thought about it or not, that moment rocked my trust in male friendship. I have always been a guys’ girl. I’ve always felt more comfortable with men than women. There’s an easy camaraderie between us. My dude friendships always outnumbered my lady friendships significantly. Sure dude friends had raped me before. Sure it was awful. None of them had been all that close. None of them really even came as much of a surprise when I put clothes on and climbed out of whatever spot they chose to rape me. I had never been hurt in that way by someone so close to me, someone I considered to be my person. I slowly let every dude friend in my life fade away. It took me five years to let another man come close to being my friend. I’m still working on allowing myself to trust the men I have in my life.

This is not a cautionary tale telling women and girls to not drink or they’ll be raped. Hell, I have hundreds of stories where I was stone cold sober getting raped. Rape is never the raped’s fault. Fault lies completely in the hands of the rapist. Don’t fucking rape people. If there is too much alcohol, don’t fucking touch them. Even if they beg. Err on the side of let’s enthusiastically and soberly consent to this. Like fucking adults. 

This is the story of life after. For those who say it gets easier. If it gets easier for you, I’m super duper happy for you, but that’s your story. Mine does not get easier. Fourteen years after the first time I was raped, I’m still broken. It’s livably difficult. There are new waves and new obstacles and new grievances. I am always processing and growing and figuring out how to deal with the consequences of men’s violence. Social media is full of reminders and triggers. Am I fine? Yes. I sure am. I’m sitting in a coffee shop, getting this out. Yes, there are tears. Yes, I went to the bathroom, locked the door, and doubled over hyperventilating. Yes, I will post this, then get up and walk to my car like nothing happened. I am a survivor, and it fucking sucks. I’m finally getting to the point where good things and bad things happen and I don’t instinctively want to call my rapist of a best friend. I have learned to live without him, but I miss him every day, which makes me sad because now I’m the person who misses her rapist. But I don’t miss the rapist, I miss the man he was before. So here I am. Pissed off, on my period, emotional, hyped up on caffeine, in public, and in desperate need of a hug. 

Happy Sunday. I was raped seven years ago tonight for the most recent time. I don’t know if I’m going to sleep tonight.

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna

Books, Fiction

The Twelve Dates of Christmas by Jenny Bayliss

RaeAnna

Worth A Read Eh
Length 340
Quick Review Single and independent Kate is coerced into a dating service consisting of twelve dates with twelve men by her best friend in Blexford, England. 

I really don’t know what I’m doing, but whatever!

It’s a cute yet predictable story—I feel like I will probably say that a few times over the course of my Christmas book reviews this year and for the rest of eternity because I have yet to find a revolutionary one. Anyways, The Twelve Dates of Christmas is cute. Frankly, give me anything set in England and I’ll like it more than I would if it’s set in the U.S.

Kate is an artist. Having moved to her hometown of Blexford to be with her father, she’s been single in a small town for a good bit. She’s a smart and sassy sweetheart with a fierce independence that makes it hard for her to find a partner. Though Kate has all but given up on a happily ever after, her best friend, Laura, has not and convinces her to join a dating agency that will send her on twelve dates with twelve different men spanning the Christmas season. At the age of 34, Kate has very much decided she’s not searching for passion but compatibility. Throughout the Christmas season, she spends her time with her best friend Matt, Laura, and all the vibrant characters decorating the town. 

Like all romance novels, the characters are ridiculously over the top, but I personally enjoyed “The Knitting Sex Kittens were a formidable group of women, all over age sixty and all single, by either design, divorce, or death.” The town and characters are saturated in Christmas joy and cheer, and, let’s be honest, that is the only reason I read this or any Christmas novel at all. I’m here for the Christmas spirit. 

Kate is an ambitious woman with lots to give but she ends up having many conversations along the lines of: ““I’m not looking for sparkle, Dad,” said Kate. “I am on a grown-up-woman mission to find a suitable, sensible partner who has no improper pride and is perfectly amiable.”” As a single woman in my thirties, I can, in some ways, identify with the want to search out compatibility over passion, but, and luckily Kate does figure it out, both is an option and the best option. 

The biggest problem I had with The Twelve Dates of Christmas were the grammatical errors and typos. I’m not even going to blame Bayliss for this because the copy editor should have caught it. For me it was distracting, but the average reader probably won’t even pick up on it. I’m going to call this: editor problems. As in most rom-com books, the character development is lack luster at best, but it’s a fun, easy read to take our minds off the holiday stresses. 

You can put this one on your holiday reading list to enjoy. 

Memorable Quotes
“Kate had to admit that her regime of pajamas, toast, and telly by seven thirty every night was not conducive to establishing a satisfying sex life.”
“But for her, contentment waned quite quickly to become a faint questioning, which bloomed into nagging doubt and ultimately wholehearted assuredness that it wasn’t right. Laura called it self-sabotage. Kate called it gut instinct.”

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna

Buy on Amazon | Buy on Book Depository

Title: The Twelve Dates of Christmas
Author: Jenny Bayliss
Publisher: Putnam 
Copyright: 2020
ISBN: 9780593085387

Lifestyle, So Gay

Labels Make Me Uncomfortable… But I’m So Gay

RaeAnna

I’m gay. This is the term I’m comfortable with. Queer works too. Labels make me uncomfortable, but I’m also a writer, so words make me comfortable. I want to express who I am with words, but also I hate being defined because the moment labels enter there’s connotation, expectation, stereotypes, and all that jazz.

I’m only getting started.

The labels for my sexual identity have shifted drastically over the years. The first label I ever tried on was gay. It’s also the most recent one I’ve been wearing. I never told anyone when I wrote “I think I’m gay” in my diary at twelve before burning it because privacy didn’t exist in my childhood home. In recent years, I’ve used pansexual because it feels inclusive of my past. I have only ever been in relationships with men. I’m not mad about it because those men have made me who I am today. For the good and the bad. Some of them literally saved my life. I am trauma bound to all men and yet one specific man for so many reasons. In my adulthood, I have had amazing taste in men. They are going to go on and be fantastic partners to hopefully equally incredible women. I’m not that woman. If I could be, I would. But I’m not. Those relationships didn’t work for a lot of reasons. Very valid reasons. Some incredibly painful reasons. Even if those relationships were perfect—not that there is such a thing—I would have left eventually.

There’s one man I truly imagined a future with. But it was one of those very hazy, hypothetical, willing it to happen imaginings. We talked about all of the possible futures we could have. Engagement, wedding, marriage, children, retirement. Amazing human. Just the best. It would have been an amazing adventure of a life. But even in the absolute height of being in love with him, something deep inside told me it wasn’t quite right. I always brushed it away because being in love doesn’t usually go hand in hand with rationality. I never gave voice to the internal unease. I never told him or anyone my feelings; I’m incredibly private to begin with, but if I said it out loud or even thought it, then it would be real. He and I would never end up together. At one point the idea of not being with him was soul crushing. The bond we shared because of trauma and just a decade of history has made it so hard to let go of that hazy imagining no matter how much I needed to for myself and him. There was a bigger reason I always knew it wouldn’t work. Even very recently, I didn’t want to confront it. I was trying to force false realities into truths, make my life fit his, and create hypothetical worlds where my gayness could exist in tandem with a straight life. I tried and tried and could never make myself see the house, the kids, the full life with him. So I said I didn’t want those things. Convinced myself I didn’t in the hopes that he wouldn’t want me. Because it was easier to completely cancel that future with him and everyone than admit the reality. I was pushing away my reality, my dreams, and ultimately my identity because I loved him so deeply, knowing it wouldn’t work in the furthest corners of my soul. In a way, I don’t. I don’t want those things…. with a man. But with a wife. It doesn’t feel like a terrifying trap.

Loud and proud member of the Alphabet Mafia.

This is not a reflection on him. He will be an amazing father and husband, but not with me. It is also not a reflection on how I feel about being gay. I am so proud to be gay. It is not an identity I have hid from, but it is an identity that has hid behind love, trauma, abuse, and survival. Now I exist in a safe and settled home where I can be all of the things that I am all at once.

I am so gay. 

Writing has always been equal parts cathartic and painful. Finally writing these things down. Owning the fact that I don’t want a heterosexual future. I don’t want to marry a man. I don’t want to have children with a man. I don’t want to raise a family and grow old with a man. It is all so relieving to admit. Before it was: I don’t want to get married. I don’t want to have children. I don’t want to grow old with anyone. I have no fucking clue what the future has to hold. I may never have any of these things. But I know if I get married, have children, and grow old in a romantic relationship it will be with a woman. I may not actively pursue these things right now or ever, but oh my god, it feels like something I may actually want one day. As I type, I can actually feel my heart loosen its grip on the things it held on to so fiercely out of love, loyalty, and self-preservation.

Honestly, this is probably my favorite hand gesture. No shame.

One day, I will probably be comfortable with the label: lesbian. It’s accurate. Or at least the closest thing to accurate. (I would try dick again with Taron Egerton. He is a phenom and a gift to the world, but even him… I just don’t see it working out long term. Sorry Taron. I know there’s a real chance there. *eye roll*) I’ve been saying “No new dick.” for over a year. The truth is… no dick. I don’t want dick. I want a woman. Wearing lesbian on my sleeve feels like an erasure of the awesome men in my life, past, and ultimately the love I once had. Intellectually, this does not make any sense at all. I’m aware. There are lots of lesbians who once loved men, were in relationships with men, had children with men, so on and so forth. What makes sense and makes me comfortable do not always have to be in alignment. Acknowledging the dissonance right now works for me. 

Identity is always shifting; although, I’m never shifting straight. That’s just a big nope. Ten years ago, I was telling people I was attracted to women. Five years ago, I was telling people I wasn’t straight while in a straight passing relationship. Three years ago, I was proudly pan. They’ve all tasted strange in my mouth and in my heart. A year and a half ago, I tried on queer, which I very much like. It’s been in the last year that I started using gay, which is short and sweet. I like it. I like the way it catches people off guard. I like the way it makes me feel. I like that it’s a synonym for happy. It may always be my preferred identifier; it may not. I know one day I will take on lesbian. Maybe next month. Maybe after I have 2.5 children and a white picket fence with a woman I have yet to meet. Maybe before I die completely alone. The future is all up in the air at this point in time. 

BUT AT LEAST I WON’T DIE STRAIGHT.

In My Own Words, Lifestyle

I Am Not Trauma Bonding

RaeAnna

I am not trauma bonding. 

I’m incredibly open about my past, which was basically 24 years of constant trauma. (The last six have seen their trauma, but nowhere near the first two and a half decades of the hellscape I called home.) So fun! It’s a huge part of my life and led to my career in social justice and writing and depression (kidding?). If I could separate me the person from me the traumatized, I fucking would. But I can’t. It is ever present. A character in my story. It comes up. In my stories and especially in my humor. If you don’t like dark humor at my own expense… I’m probably not for you. To be in my life is to have some familiarity with my trauma. Don’t confuse that with bonding or asking others to take it on. I’ll carry that weight; I’ve got this; it’s not new. My pain is a familiar companion. 

My trauma solidified my existence as a raging intersectional feminist in search of knowledge.

When a new person starts to enter my life in a non-surface relationship, I tend to give the ten minute run down. Friends, dating, whatever. The rundown will happen sooner rather than later.

I am not trauma bonding.

Sharing the events that made me is as necessary as where I’m from and who my siblings are. I am a writer who specializes in memoir work. One of the biggest reasons I give the rundown is because I want a person to find out from me what happened to me. It’s a heads up. A hey, I’m okay. I don’t want them to find out all the really violent and awful things that were my daily life through an Instagram post, an article on Medium, through my blog, on Facebook, or worse a 280 character tweet. I’m not about to do that to a person cause that just feels shitty to me. I wouldn’t want to find out someone I care about even a teensy bit was gang raped at nineteen. I want people to know I’m okay; I’m not a sploot on the surface of the Earth. I’m a broken, thriving human. 

I am not trauma bonding.

My story opens the door for people to tell me their own stories. Or not. It’s up to them. I’m not trying to have a good cathartic cry and feel my feelings with someone. No one gets that. Tears and devastation are left for solo road trips and hot showers. I’m not looking to be raw and open. I’m looking to change the world, even if it’s just in small ways. My story is not new, but it has had an impact on people’s lives; helped them find their own voice; not feel so alone; know someone somewhere sees their pain and cares. My story is in the world because I want to end the stigma for survivors, for those who did not survive, for those who have yet to survive. Maybe my story will stop someone from going too far and creating another survivor. I don’t know. Do we ever really know the impact of our existence in the world? All I know is that I have a voice. I have a past. I will use my voice to do as much good in the world as I can.   

I can be broken and strong, femme and capable, vulnerable and resilient, traumatized and healthy.

I am not trauma bonding.

I am simply preparing people for what the reality of being in my life is. To stand by my side in any significant capacity is to bear witness to pain that was, is, and will be. Though the events of my past are solidly in my past, the consequences and pain are ever evolving. I’m constantly reconciling and healing. Honestly, I’m also testing the waters to see if this new person can handle it. Out of sheer self-preservation, I’m not going to let myself become emotionally involved with someone who will flee when the hard stories start coming up. Let alone if they invest a lot of time and get to the point where they may see the consequences of another’s actions in the form of my anxiety, PTSD, depression, and OCD. The truth is, I am a bit of a mess. My life and mental health is really in a good place considering, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have bad days. I want to know I can potentially show a side of me that is not completely together and capable. I don’t want to hide integral pieces of myself. Fuck, I’m not going to stop writing, talking, and fighting for change because someone is uncomfortable with my past; I’ve been there too many times to do it again. I take pen to paper, fingers to keys, putting that pain on display for the world to see and hopefully feel. This is my job. This is my purpose.

I am not trauma bonding. 

Silence was my protector for so long. I refuse to be silent. I refuse to be a well behaved woman. I am strong. I am broken. I am clumsy. I am kind. I am funny. I am sad. I like to think I’m smart. I am multitudes. But I am traumatized. I am not asking a single person to take that trauma on. It is just a story among many stories of my life. 

bisous un обьятий,
RaeAnna

In My Own Words, Lifestyle

What Self Worth?

RaeAnna

Worth has always been a concept I struggle with. Showing up and bolstering friends through their self worth journeys is easy. I can see how worthy they are of every amazing thing life has to offer. Applied to myself. No. Maybe there’s an alternate reality where I don’t struggle with mental health issues. We’re obviously not in that one.

Baring it all is easier physically than emotionally, but I wouldn’t be a very good writer if I didn’t try.

Existing in the world, all I want is to make every single person I come into contact with feel seen and respected, worthy of dignity, even if it’s for the briefest moment in passing on the street or the internet. If I let people come into my life, I love them so hard and show it in every way I physically and emotionally can. I will give until there is nothing to give. Part of this is genuinely who I am. The other part is because I don’t want anyone to feel the way I feel all the time. 

Worth was not instilled in me, ever. If anything it has been actively undermined for as long as I can remember. The only worth placed on me was in my body, my face, my aesthetic, but I’m thirty and have officially reached my expiration date. 

I came into adulthood having only been treated like an object to be used, abused, possessed, fought over, shared, showed off. Trotted out like a trick pony with an impressive resume. Fuck, did I work hard for that resume. I was a very impressive high school student, but it’s all shit from there. 

Throughout childhood and adolescence, my existence was a reflection of my mother (I can’t include my father because he didn’t take part, he didn’t stop it if he even noticed, but he was not like this). If I was anything less than exceptionally perfect, my existence was ignored, and I was quite literally locked in my bedroom until I could come out and be exactly what was expected. It wasn’t about teaching manners or behavior. It was about complete control, policing my identity, mind, opinions, and existence into a tight box meant to glorify her impeccable parenting and public/self image. 

The first time I heard ‘I love you’ from someone who wasn’t saying it to a carefully curated version of myself was the first time I was raped. The physical, psychological, and sexual abuse was constant and inescapable for two years. He shared me with his friends because I was just such a good lay. There was no escape at home. There was no escape at school; I was so isolated, I had no friends. I had no one I could trust, let alone to protect me.

At twenty, I finally escaped my parental control for the roomier box of sex work. Stripping was a means to an end, a way to pay for college and not be homeless. It gave me the freedom to explore my sense of self and learn to reclaim the selves that had been stripped away by my parents and my rapists. It simultaneously served as empowerment and solidified my existence as deserving of abuse, possession, and gratification to others. I can’t speak to stripping today or outside of my bubble and experience, but it was rough. To survive and succeed, being tough and a bitch was the only way to make it through. And I did it sober without dropping out of college or giving up a single major. 

I say my romantic relationships have been wonderful and healthy, but that’s not the whole truth. That’s the version of the truth I wish existed. They are wonderful men. They did their best under remarkable circumstances, but my relationships have never been healthy. Not perpetually toxic, but there was toxicity. Some stood firmly on the boundary between toxic and abuse, though that was never their intention, the line became very blurry at times. The problems were abundant and varied, but the fault was usually placed at my feet. I’m no innocent, but it took me a long time to accept that a majority of the blame was not mine to apologize for. 

I am the partner people search out when they want to be fixed or at least have a hand to hold while the fixing happens. Platonic and romantic alike, I am the support: emotional, financial, physical. I show up consistently as the same person without wavering or asking something in return. Leaving the person and the place better than when I arrived. I give everything I have emotionally and physically because if I have it and someone else needs it, it is now theirs. I cannot be disappointed or hurt if there are no expectations of receiving anything at all. I’m the embodiment of “I’m just happy to be thought of.” Not even included. Thought of. 

I want someone to love me and see me as I am. Just me. I want me to be enough for once.

My worth was always in my body. Never my mind, and I am acutely aware people do not look at me and think: smart. They will get to know me and still not think, ‘Hey, she’s intelligent.’ Fine, but I will be valued for more than the appearance of my body, so I compensated. I took on all the love languages and those that do not have names. I give them out as if they are as plentiful as air. I created a self worth contingent on the things I could offer.     

When everything in my life has always been treated as transactional, it’s hard not to internalize that. I started using my body, my time, my capabilities as currency to buy a shred of importance in the eyes of someone I care for. If I wanted love, I had to be a certain thing. If I wanted to not get raped, I had to do certain things. If I wanted to avoid a punch, I had to tread carefully. If I wanted the barest minimum of respect, I had to go above and beyond to be and provide perfection. Unproductive days where I put my work or, God forbid, my own mental health first, letting the house go messy; not making dinner; leaving a pile of laundry unfolded; not reorganizing the pantry for the seventeenth time while managing to care for the necessities of surviving and working two full-time jobs is shrouded in a thick layer of guilt because I’m not doing enough. If there is something to be done or a feeling out of place, I have not done enough and my worth is nonexistent. 

The problem is, transactional worth based on what I can do and give people is still objectification. It is still a lack of worth. My value is still rooted in possession, neglect, usefulness, and just a new trotting of the trick pony. I did this to myself. I needed to feel like I was worth something other than another beautiful body decorating the world. I grounded my worth in what I could provide to others, but no one stopped me. No one told me I’m worth anything just as I am. No one told me I could sit in silence without makeup on in sweatpants and still deserve dignity, autonomy, the right to exist, love. 

Internally, if I’m not giving everything I have all of the time, I feel like I deserve to be abused, raped, neglected, and unloved. Do not construe this with searching out those actions, I have spent my life avoiding them. But when people or partners treat me poorly, I feel like I deserve it. I don’t blame them. For more than two-thirds of my life, the world taught me I existed to be abused. A human punching bag. A vessel for sexual gratification. A lump of clay to be molded into whatever novelty the day and moment required. If I wasn’t perfect, I didn’t deserve anything at all. Even if I was perfection, abuse and rape were just around the corner. So much of who I am is firmly based in trying to scrounge for any infinitesimal amount of love I can get whether it’s love for me or an idea of me because at least I’m being thought of. I desperately want to love and be loved as I am. I want to be seen and respected. I want to exist without fear. 

I have spent my life alone surrounded by people who have shown me I can’t trust them entirely. I still feel so utterly alone. The battle to reclaim two and a half decades of a life stolen from me is exhausting. I’m doing it alone. At this point, it feels like there is too much to tell, too much to show, too much to explain, too much to defend to let someone else be with me. It feels like an unnecessary burden to ask anyone to take on even if all they’re taking on is bearing witness.

Thirty is still young, but I have lived a somewhat extraordinarily full life. Not full in the ways I once hoped it would be, but they have been experiences nonetheless. A shell with not a lot left to give. I feel like I’m too old, too bitter, too used, too mediocre to be loved, let alone valued.