PTSD – Page 2 – …on the B.L.

wp-1580178036208 — I’ve been hiding from the world for a week and a half. Beau hasn’t complained.

Every once in awhile I basically disappear from social media. I don’t consciously decide to take a break; it just happens. I won’t post for a week or two. It doesn’t mean I’ve quit, I’m just having an accidental social media detox. This is the first post in a week and a half; I was kinda done with life and needed to disentangle myself.

I have a life, and I get busy. When life is happening, I don’t have time to post.
Being present with my loved ones and all the people I choose to spend time with will always be more important to me than posting at a certain time.
PTSD is a bitch. When I’m in the throws of a bad day or a bad week or a bad month, being a successful blogger is on the back burner. I’m just trying to hold it all together and not be a human puddle.
Traveling sucks up my time. When I’m behind the wheel, I’m obviously not going to post.
Sickness. I hate working when I’m sick, so I don’t.
BURN OUT!!! It’s real. I’ve been dealing with some burn out lately. Not necessarily because of Instagram or social media. Just burnt out in general on a lot of things. When the burn out hits, though, I’m gonna take a break. It can strike at any time.
Migraines are horrible. I refuse to stare at a bright screen when my head feels like home to a mutiny.
I’m lazy.
Work takes up way more of my time than I would like it to. When I’m busy, I literally can’t stop the word flow to post. It can be hard to hold onto thought streams as a writer, so I refuse to interrupt it.
There are periods of time where I lose all brain activity and have zero original thoughts. At least, it feels like that is true. It’s hard to be an enthusiastic content creator when I don’t feel like I’m creative.
I’m not in the mood to deal with the fucking algorithm. The algorithm sucks, and I don’t want to deal with it. Instagram hates me, and I don’t want to deal with the shitty, shitty interaction percentages because NO ONE sees what I post because Instagram withholds them because Instagram hates me.

I’m never going to feel bad about not posting because it is my life and my feed. Being present is more important to me than having a plugged in and constantly curated social media existence. I love my job. I love being a blogger. I love connecting with everyone. I love sharing my life with each and every one of you. Sometimes, I need a vacation or mental break from being present all the time.

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna

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wp-1580178058196 — Hello, world. I’m blogging again after a small recess.

In My Own Words, Lifestyle

TANK XING

November 1, 2019 RaeAnna

I took this picture on Camp LeJeune because the Tank Xing signs are hilarious. To me. They may not be to you, therefore, I think you have no sense of humor. At first, the picture was taken as a joke because what else could it be. I immediately sent it to my best friend:

TANK XING on Camp LeJeune in North Carolina.

Kelsey So you’re a tank now.
Me Yes I am.
Kelsey Well alright then.

The more I got to thinking about it, the more the analogy seemed appropriate.

I might not look like much, but I feel like a tank. Battered, bruised, scraped up, seen a battle or two, but still kicking. Indestructible but not always for the best.

There’s a saying “We’re called survivors because not all of us survived.” It’s true. So many people die at the hands of their abusers. There was a time when I wondered Is this the day I die? Surprise, it wasn’t, but I genuinely questioned it for many years.

I look at my body and see pain. A man dug his fingernails so deep between two of my left ribs I can still feel the divot every day when I put lotion on. There are still scars on my arms from where I scratched until I bled after bed bugs ate away at me for months. Stretch marks line my thighs and hips because maybe he wouldn’t rape me if I wasn’t a size zero anymore. Worry lines spread across my forehead every morning after I wake up from being haunted by memories every night. My body paid for college. This body has been seen and used as a vessel with the sole purpose to serve and service men.

TANK XING | Shirt | Skirt | Sandals | Watch | Sunglasses

This body is mine. I had to sell it to learn I had dominion over it. A right to it. I am allowed to say who can touch it and who cannot. My body is a reminder of the men who believed they could take me because they wanted me whenever, wherever, and with as much force as they wanted.

This body is a tank. It has been through war and survived. In so many ways, I feel indestructible. I have been through so many things and come out alive. Maybe not victorious, but I’m sure as hell not the victim. I am the culmination of all my experiences. In a lot of respects, I have had a very good life. I have found love, belonging, worth, happiness, and adventure. There are a lot of good days, but for all the good days there have been bad years… I have been raped, beaten, manipulated, controlled, and abused. I am haunted by my past, but I’m still fucking here. I have not given up, though I have tried.

I’m sturdy.

I’m strong.

I am a tank. So get out of my way. I’m crossing here.

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna

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In My Own Words, Lifestyle

I Am A Servivor

October 12, 2019 RaeAnna

“Just another career-obsessed, nail-biting, manophobic, hell-bent feminist she-devil.”

I hate the title survivor.

I’m not a victim. Not anymore. I was a victim when it was happening. But after…

There isn’t a word I’ve found to resonate with my broken pieces. And I’m a words-person. Silence. Nothing. Guilt. Solitude. Shame. Numb. Lost. Broken. They’re not titles I can put on a shirt or a sign to identify myself as one of many in a march. They are feelings. The feelings that have never left me from the moment his hands first touched me with violence in their intent.

I never say, “I’m a survivor,” or “I survived.” I can’t. It feels like a lie. It would be a lie. I didn’t. I did not stand up as the same girl he held down. I didn’t survive. Rape is murder. He murdered who I was. Every time killed a part of me.

The closest I’ve ever come to finding a way to describe myself is “raped,” but people don’t like that. If people have to face humanity’s ability for violence and destruction, they want to see someone strong and owning it or broken and hiding it. Survivor. How happy. How uplifting. What a positive spin on a tragic epidemic. It’s ignoring the actions that were survived. Focusing on the survivor having survived. Past tense. It happened. It’s done. Let it go. Move on.

Survivor. It’s a bow to wrap up a present we don’t want to open. We know the gist of what happened. Some hazy sort of violence. No specifics needed; that one word says it all. It tears down the facade we’ve so diligently constructed, letting people in just enough for them to know there’s a dark past but not enough they actually know a damn thing. Survivor: say the word. People get a sad look in their eyes, “I’m so sorry.” But stop there. It’s a bow to wrap up the story people don’t want to hear.

Ignoring the story, the nitty gritty of it, is its own kind of violence.

Putting people at ease, letting them remain in their comfort zone is easy, kind. It does not facilitate change. If people are comfortable, they’re complacent. Change comes from agitation rooted in pain and suffering. I don’t write about this because it’s fun to dwell in the dark pain of someone’s choices to destroy my mind and undermine my identity. I write because I was raped. I was raped for years. I was beaten. I was abused. I was shared. I was torn. I was hurt. I write because too many people can say the same. Some say it. Many do not. Silence is a virtue. I don’t have that virtue. I had no voice for so long, but I have one now. I tell my story to make people uncomfortable. I tell my story because it is time for change. I tell my story because it has helped people, opened minds, changed minds, softened minds, and made people angry. I tell my story because I can. Many are not able to because of pain or circumstance or they’re no longer alive to tell theirs. I am still here. A broken, tired, angry, hurt version of who I used to be. I did not survive, but I am still here.

I have been writing and blogging and processing in various ways for almost a decade. In college, I wrote under a pseudonym about being a stripper to pay for school and food and a roof not because I was ashamed but because I didn’t know what my future was uncertain. After college, I started a blog to talk about my life and how I struggle to pick up the pieces of my soul. A few years ago, I started …on the B.L., and it quickly grew into something real with a following. I haven’t kept my past or advocacy separate from this, but I haven’t focused on it either. It’s been present by quiet. But no more. This is the driving force behind everything I do. Creating change. My story, as painful as it is, keeps me going.

I hate the word survivor. I don’t feel like I survived. I feel like I just didn’t die; though, there were years I wished I had. I like the word servivor. I’m using my story to serve others by creating change in whatever way I can.

I am a servivor.

I will stand tall. I will stand firm. I will tell my story. I will serve.

Lifestyle

Eight Years

December 31, 2018 RaeAnna

Alex and I rarely take cute pictures, they are usually goofy. | My Sweater (backless!) | My Jeans | My Socks | My Boots | My Watch | Alex’s Sweater (I picked it out) | Alex’s Jeans (these too)

To the rest of the world, today is New Year’s Eve. Up until eight years ago, it was just New Year’s for me too.

My most influential person came into my life eight years and a few hours ago. His name is Alex. He’s made appearances here and there on my blog. He’s been a big part of my travels this year. He helped make 2018 brilliant.

I can’t really describe Alex to you in any way other than he is an amazing person. People love him or hate him. There is no in between. I don’t know why people hate him except he is an intense kind of man in all the best ways. So there is probably something wrong with the haters.

There are people who come into our lives and change everything. Alex is that person to me. I am who I am because of him. He has become such a part of my story it is impossible to tell it without him. He is written on my soul.

We are always laughing together. Seriously. It’s obnoxious… To other people, I imagine.

On New Year’s Eve of 2010, Alex came into my life, and he never left. We were in college together. He was a senior; I was a freshman. We had almost no reason to meet. Due to fate and a heart condition, he’s stuck with me. We were in choir together. When our director rearranged the seating arrangement, he ended up sitting in front of me. Very few people know this about him anymore: he has a beautiful singing voice. Long story short. Out of sheer optimism or naiveté or stupidity, I invited this dude, who I’d never had an in-person conversation with, to my house for New Year’s. He hugged my dad before we’d ever touched. It was ballsy. It worked out.

In the last eight years, Alex and I have been through more than I could ever write about. We walked to hell and back holding hands a few times over. It wasn’t easy. Actually, it’s been the hardest eight years of my life. Because of him, they have been the best eight years of my life. He is just shy of sainthood. Flawed as he is, he has always put me first. I have severe PTSD. I’ve been through sexual assaults and domestic violence. I have been in abusive relationships. I have been insecure. I have been broken. I have been bruised literally and in a non-physical sense of things. I have seen some pretty horrific things. Through my darkest days, Alex has always been there. He has never left. He has never made me feel less than. He has made me laugh through my tears. He has held my hand when there were no words to be said. When I have been unable or unwilling to pick up the pieces of my soul, he has put them back together. He helped make me whole, when I had never known what that felt like.

Alex went into the Marines over five years ago. We spent three years living together before he enlisted. In five years, we have spent one Christmas and one birthday together. He deployed twice. Two weeks ago, he left on his third deployment. He’s on a boat somewhere in the world. I don’t know where. Late on Christmas Day, I was lucky enough to get a phone call from him. We exchange emails whenever he has internet. I don’t know when he’ll be home. It will be eight months or more. It’s hard. I miss him. I miss hearing his voice. I miss getting to visit him. This isn’t new. We’ve gone over a year without seeing or talking to each other by phone in the past. It’s part of life in the military and loving someone in the military. Many other women, men, and families go through the same thing. Worry is part of our lives.

Just doing normal people stuff in a field in 12 degree weather. Like normal people.

Alex and I have been a part of each other’s lives for eight years. They have been beautiful and stressful and all the feelings in between. Life has been hard on us. A lot of things were out of our control, some that weren’t, and some that seemed like they were. I wish many things had gone differently in our combined lives and our lives before each other. Then again, I don’t. I wouldn’t change him or I or what we have for anything in the world.

I can’t tell you who I am without talking about Alex. He has been an integral part of my life. Some people don’t just influence who we are, they form who we are. He has pushed me to be better. He has questioned my opinions and thoughts. He has held me when I’ve cried. He always challenges me to be the best version of myself. I don’t think I’m as good for him as he is for me, but I’m not going to tell him that any time soon.

It’s been eight years. I hope to have about a gazillion more, but I’ll settle for another seventy. I think I can make it to 97. Any day after that will be a blessing I think.

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“Can we just take a normal picture???” I ask. He responds “No.”

Blog + Dog

Closet Anxiety Attack

November 7, 2018 RaeAnna

Just so you know, these pictures were taken this morning. She was in a very good mood with a wagging tail and being bribed with treats. Lots of treats. I would never invade her privacy or exploit her during an anxiety attack. She’s very good at putting on the sad puppy eyes for treats; it’s a boxer trait.

Sometimes, the only place to go is the closet.

Beau is a rescue dog. Honestly, she is the best dog I have ever had, and there have been a more than a few. I brought her home almost two years ago. The first year was a little rough, but so worth it.

As a rescue, she has a lot of idiosyncrasies. With time, she has gotten more comfortable and less tightly wound. The evidence of her struggle during her formative years is always evident, though. The kitchen is a difficult place for her. Everything is terrifying. I love being in the kitchen, so we have bad days sometimes. Usually, she sits on the couch watching me or curled up on my feet on a comfy rug.

Last week, I was cooking dinner in the kitchen like I usually do. Beau was sitting next to me on her rug. Her back leaned up against my calf. I had one of the bottom kitchen cabinet doors open to grab a pan out; it was situated in front of my legs. The stove made a clicking noise every once in awhile, which is usual. This day, the clicking noise triggered something in Beau. I felt her start to shake. Her shaking became stronger over the next minute. She stood up and pushed her way between my legs crawling into the cabinet. I stopped everything I was doing to sit down next to her.

Giving the camera her signature side eye.

I put her sweater on her because it helps make her feel safe. I held onto her tight. Like in people, when there is weight pressed on her body, it help calms her anxiety. She likes to be in enclosed spaces where nothing can sneak up on her. As someone with PTSD, I understand this more than she knows.

She crawled out of the kitchen cabinet shaking violently and ran to the closet. She crawled as far into the corner as she could under all the clothes and on top of the shoes. Luckily, I managed to get the shoes out from under her. We sat there for twenty minutes. She shook and shook and shook. She cried. I held onto her. She was so scared. She even peed a little; it’s not abnormal during her severe anxiety attacks. It breaks my heart every time. She was curled into my body as far as she could. We both cried in our own ways. Her breathing started to quicken, and I had to help slow it down. Her shaking slowly eased up.

When she started to pace, I tried to find somewhere else we could sit down. She was not comfortable anywhere in the house. So we went outside. Beau needed to run the shakes off. So we ran and ran and ran around the apartment complex until her tail started to wag again.

Her anxiety attacks have become a rarity now. They happen every few months instead of every few days. They don’t usually last more than a few minutes, but this one was a particularly bad one and lasted over an hour. I still don’t know exactly why it happened because nothing was out of the norm.

Beau is such a sweetheart. She is the light of my life. Sometimes, all I can do is hold her and love her as she fights her own demons. As a rescue and a former abused animal, these things are part of our life.

xoxo,
Beau and RaeAnna

Lifestyle

#MeToo

October 16, 2017 RaeAnna

This isn’t necessarily about books. There is one thing I am more passionate about than literature, and that is advocacy. I have a passion for so many issues, but the one nearest and dearest for me is sexual assault and rape. With everything going on in the past week, I decided to share with you something very personal. I have had a separate blog about this issue for years. You can find that here: Unashamed Truths of a Middle Class Twenty Something. You can find my original blog post of this here: #MeToo

If you have been a part of my life or followed my social media in any degree in the last six years, you will not be surprised by this statement: I have been raped. I have been raped more than once. I have been raped by more than one man. I have been raped by more than one man at the same time. I have PTSD. Men have irreversibly changed my life through violence. I have been raped.

If you follow me, you know I don’t like to say I have been sexually assaulted. It’s not specific enough. I have been raped. And I am so far passed giving a fuck if that makes you uncomfortable to hear.

Harvey Weinstein and his deplorable actions have finally lead some of Hollywood’s biggest names to come forward to tell their truths. Good for them! Social media is starting to explode with #MeToo to show how widespread rape, sexual assault, and sexual harassment are.

Rape is not a socioeconomic issue. Rape is not a race issue. Race is not a cultural issue. Rape is not a political issue. Rape is not a women’s issue. Rape is an issue.

Women are taught to protect themselves. Men are not taught to ask for consent. Women are taught to keep quiet. Men are taught to boast about their conquests. Women are taught shame. Men are taught pride. Women are taught how to be slut shamed. Men are taught to slut shame. Women are taught to laugh. Men are taught rape jokes are funny. Women are taught to be kind. Men are taught to be ruthless. Women are taught to be weak. Men are taught to be strong. Women are taught to suck it up and keep on keeping-on. Men are continually reinforced with the fact they can do pretty much anything they want to women and face zero consequences.

The hard part about being a raped woman is you’re constantly surrounded by men acting out, in varying degrees, the same behavior which hurt you. Where is our safe space?

I met my first rapist in church. We grew up together. I met my second in college. I met my third in church. I met my fourth in middle school. Aren’t these supposed to be safe places? Some even sacred? Church is supposed to be safe and holy and the embodiment of Godliness. That’s the problem. Rapists are everywhere masquerading as friends and even family.

I don’t like working in an office. It’s hard because they usually only look at me as one thing: their next blow job. Or they think I’m stupid and only hired me because I am nice to look at. I found it easier to work in a bar because at least, there there was a lack of nicety about it. Those men were up front about their assholishness.

I work from home now as a freelancer and blogger. I try not to leave the house without my big dog or my even bigger boyfriend. Speaking of which, I like to date big men because they scare away the other men because men don’t actually respect women enough to leave them alone when they say no. If I go to the grocery store alone, someone either asks for my number or calls me a bitch, but usually it’s both. As a blogger and freelancer, I spend most of my time online or on social media to expand my business. There is no respite there either. My Instagram inbox is filled with older men bombarding me with dick pics, sexual come-ons, and more. It’s become a new hobby of mine to see how many white men don’t take “no” for an answer. The best insult I get is “blond,” which is funny because I’m not even blond. The worst is somewhere along the lines of I hope you get raped.

When I’ve told men I’ve been raped, too often I hear “Yeah, me too! Haha.” Then they realize I’m not joking, they’re usually a bit confused followed by “I guess, I shouldn’t make rape jokes around you then, huh?” Rape has become more of a punchline and less of a criminal offense.

In college, I remember reading essays on rape. The authors didn’t know how to charge the men because it is so he said she said, and unfortunately, the men have the power. The authors were angry and upset and frustrated because they didn’t know what to do. Their arguments were well thought out, but nothing ever came to fruition in court when prosecuting. The authors were alive and writing in fifteenth century France. I remember sitting at home on my couch in tears with the heaviness of the knowledge that not a single thing had changed in over six hundred years. If some of the greatest thinkers of Renaissance couldn’t encourage change in one of the most pervasive issues, how would I?

I have been incredibly open about my past. I have always believed it can help someone. There are days, I don’t know if it’s true. There are month long periods, I will go without writing or talking about it. It doesn’t mean it’s not there; it’s just too hard to go there.

I don’t like being known as the girl who got raped. It’s not a fun identity. I have been on the receiving end of many rape and death threats because of it. Why men think this is an appropriate response is beyond me. It’s amazing how many women have similar responses. I’ve heard everything from “if you would have gotten pregnant by your rapist, then you’d have something to talk about” to “I hope it happens again and they disfigure your face” to “maybe you should have fought harder.” When employers Google my name they find two things: I’ve been raped, and I’m vocal about it. So I don’t get many interviews… Actually, none.

I mentioned I wanted to try stand up comedy to a friend because I funny stories, I like to make people laugh. Their response was “like ‘I once got raped in this super funny way’? Yeah, funny.”

I am known as the girl who got raped. Even to those closest to me. I am not known by my triple degree or penchant for books or encyclopedic trivial knowledge or my musical talent or even my personality. I am known as the pretty girl who was raped. I am not defined by the achievements I have worked my entire life for. I am known by the actions of men. Moments have defined who I am in the eyes of others because I chose to speak out in order to create change in the world women inhabit.

Sexual harassment is rampant. Sexual assault is rampant. Rape is rampant. Sex trafficking is rampant. Every woman I have ever known has been sexually harassed, some don’t even know it. I know too many women who have been sexually assaulted. I know so many women and men who have been raped. I have worked alongside sex trafficked women. I am the keeper of so many people’s painful secrets because they have no safe place, no one to talk to. I keep my own secrets because some things are too hard to talk about.

I don’t want children. If I were to have children, I don’t want girls. I want boys. I want to raise boys to be good men who do not rape or perpetuate rape culture. I want to raise boys to be good men who call out sexist jokes and support women. I want to raise boys to be good men who raise the bar for all other men. Because I do not want any other woman to know a moment of the pain men have caused me.

xoxo, Beau and RaeAnna

xoxo,
Beau and RaeAnna