Rape Survivor – …on the B.L.

I Hate My Body, But It’s What I’ve Got

March 23, 2022March 26, 2022 RaeAnna

It’s Women’s History Month, and when I look at my body, I feel as if it’s an amalgam of the horrors women have faced throughout history.

These pictures might seem like they’re attention seeking. These pictures are not taken for you. They’re for me. They’re hard to take. They’re harder to share. These pictures are a rebellion, a reclamation, an acceptance, a step towards peace, a forgiveness.

Trauma lives in the body. What happens when the body is the trauma? I moved away from the city, the area, the state, the region where the violence happened. I cut off the people who didn’t protect me, the people who wouldn’t believe me, the people who defended my rapists. I can’t move away from my body. I can’t cut off the fouled pieces. I’m left with two options. The choice of not living in my body anymore. Or the choice of accepting its defeat and survival. I tried desperately for the first one, but life has decided to hold onto me with a grip a lot stronger than I often would have liked. So I have to make the choice every minute of every day to accept that when I see my body, part of me will always see the body taken away, the reminders of everything it has endured.

Looking at my body, how would you describe it?

We probably don’t see the same thing because all I can see is a body:
Raped
Beaten
Cut
Sold
Ripped
Choked
Threatened
Shared
Torn
Bought
Disposed
Experimented
Filled
Bloodied, so much blood

And that’s just before I turned twenty.

I don’t see anything beautiful. Anything to be desired or worthy. I don’t see strength or resilience. I don’t see anything precious or deserving of protection. I don’t see a body to be loved or worshipped. Though I’m trying very hard to get to a point where I do see those things, maybe just one would be a good start.

I see ears that heard I love you for the first time as I was raped for the first time. I see a mouth that was never taught to say “no,” not that any of these men understood consent. I see a scar from the time a man decided to teach me a lesson for trying to say “no” by taking a knife and carving out a piece of my skin. I see a body shared with friends because it’s “just so fucking tight.” I see a face that seems to just ask to be punched or slapped. I see a scar where a man, who just couldn’t contain his desire, pulled my ass apart so hard it tore me. I see eyes that have cried so many silent tears it’s amazing I haven’t died of dehydration. I see a body called beautiful every. single. time. it was raped. I see a mouth that has learned to smile and say “thank you” after having a dick shoved in it until I threw up. I see a body that never belonged to me. I see a body someone and someone and someone and someone and someone’s friends decided to take and use until they grew bored. I see a body told to cover up and hide because men can’t handle themselves: odd, I was never raped naked at a strip club, but I was raped in jeans and a turtleneck by my high school boyfriend. I see a body that was never enough.

My mind knows that this body has persevered through everything so that I could be thirty years old and say I have: climbed mountains; broken men’s noses and ribs and dislocated knees when they pushed too far; fallen in love; held people as they cried through their own trauma; survived broken hearts; written piece after piece like this; spoken in front of thousands about my trauma and sex work; attempted suicide and survived; rescued dogs; rescued people; traveled the world; learned languages and skills and information; given kindness with everything I am because I don’t know what pain other people are going through; listened to stories that make me grateful my life hasn’t been worse. I know in my brain that I never deserved anything that happened to me, but my body feels like it tells a different story. I know in my heart that this body has more to offer the world than to be a punching bag, but it will take time to believe that.

I have always worn clothes, makeup, and confidence like armor. A way to distract everyone who looks from the deep discomfort I feel in my soul in perpetuity at the sheer audacity my body has to continue existing in the face of everything. The act of being naked in the shower is sometimes so much that I’ll go days without one. Leave me unattended too long surrounded by water in my own undress, I will break down. Wearing a bikini was traumatic for years and is still daunting. What if someone sees a scar and asks. Then I have to explain that men are violence, and it’s a real downer for any pool party. I have finally gotten to the point where I can practice hot yoga in a sports bra and leggings. Sex is just another story completely. I’ve reverted back to wearing grandma underwear from thongs because they just feel so exposing right now. I started sleeping naked and walking around the house in pants and a sports bra to get acquainted with my own body in a small yet safe way. I’m wearing crop tops because they terrify me, and I refuse to let fear hold me back from celebrating the fact I’m 30 and I can wear whatever the fuck I want. As a stripper, I learned to harness the confidence I gained from clothes and makeup to stand in nothing but heels in front of hundreds, demanding their eyes and forbidding their touch. I’m trying desperately hard to find some comfort in my body. I mask it so well, but the truth looks back at me in the mirror. And the truth is, I kind of hate that I have to live in this body knowing everything that it’s been through. But I can’t exactly change it. And I don’t want to.

Along with the memories of suffering this body holds the knowledge it survived. It’s learning what the after looks like. Pain but also hope. Sadness but also joy. Struggle but also resilience. Remembrance but also inspiration.

The history of women, my history is fraught with violence, subjugation, pain. It lives in my… our bones, our story, our existence. I and every other woman has continued on. Remembering those who did not survive. Resisting the sacrifice of our identities along with our bodies. Persisting when hope seems non-existent. Living to be that hope to another. Fighting for a better tomorrow for our daughters. Creating spaces of healing and joy. Whether in silence, through words, with actions, in art, women have not disappeared. We are still here. We are strong and beautiful. Our stories and souls are as varied and stunning as our bodies. And our bodies tell the story of life.

At thirty, I am filling a void created by the actions of men with art. These words, these images, my existence. It is all art for my own sake and for those who have never been able to tell their stories. The fact my art creates empathy and anger gives my body and its pain the worth I have never been able to afford it.

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna

In My Own Words, Lifestyle

I Have Been Self Censoring

October 31, 2021October 31, 2021 RaeAnna

Right after college, I started writing a lot about my experiences as a rape survivor. After a while, I started being inundated with messages from people—strangers, friends, and family alike—asking questions or just letting me know how much my stories helped them through their own recovery. Once I was able to accept I had been in a sexually, domestically, psychologically, and financially abusive relationship, I started talking. I did a whole lot of reading, researching, and listening too. But I started talking. I talked to friends, I talked to strangers who had their own stories, I got up and spoke in front of groups, I lectured at a university, I performed slam poetry, and I wrote. It was a part of me, and a part I was not going to hide.

Except I have been doing just that. Hiding. Not necessarily on purpose. It’s been pretty inadvertent. A byproduct of my life, relationships, working, and the world at large. I’ve had a hard time writing. I can blame a lot of it on the pandemic, a lack of motivation, wanting a break from reliving those painful memories, and/or a surge in depression and anxiety. Although, that would only be a half truth.

I have been censoring myself.

Censorship is something I really do not like, but that opinion is a completely different piece. Yet, I have been taking part in censorship, and, in my opinion, the very worst form of censorship: self-censorship. Over the course of my blogging/content creating/writing journey, I have written and posted about depression, anxiety, being a rape servivor, PTSD, mental health, and all that jazz. Except, I’ve written and posted about the sunny side of those stories. There’s a way to write about trauma and pain with a sense of humor, a brief overview, a silver lining to make it palatable. A piece that makes people go, that’s a bummer and continue on their days without being weighed down by the story they’ve just read.

For the longest time, it remained a mystery. Why couldn’t I write? Why couldn’t I post anything I did write? Because I love the fact that my darkest pain can be a light for other survivors. To share the burden, help others heal, create a community, be seen was so meaningful.

The answer was simple: I didn’t want to hurt anyone.

I have always been bad at opening myself up to people. Showing emotions and vulnerability is not a strength. If anything, I’m realizing at 30, the people I thought knew me best really don’t know me well at all. It’s not their fault. Not even remotely. I am so private about everything, that I don’t let those closest see me. They have proven they care over and over again, but being open does not come naturally. Instead, I allow myself to exist in their lives as a fairly emotionally one-dimensional human. I’ve been censoring my existence to everyone my entire life. Censoring comes easy. It’s easier than being raw and open. It’s hard letting the entire world really see you. Especially when most of what there is to see is pain.

“To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.” Friedrich Nietzsche

I don’t shy away from hard work, and I have always found it much easier to write than speak (my friends are used to getting letters expressing my emotions when I’m feeling anything other than Happy), so that’s really not the reason I have been silent on the topics that mean the most to me for the last five years.

Pain. My reality, my truth causes other people pain. Pain, not discomfort at the violent and abusive behavior they’re being brought into. My pain causes others pain because the experiences that I was forced to endure challenges their perception of me, themselves, and life. I deny my experiences to maintain peace, which denies a huge part of who I am, which only causes me more pain. I was taught to tip-toe and hush-hush, make myself small, and never hurt anyone’s feelings or create waves even if that means not speaking the truth or denying the truth completely. So I have been protecting feelings. Other people’s feelings. Feelings belonging to people who wouldn’t give a second thought to what it’s like to be in me.

I live a non-traditional life. I like it this way. It makes me happier. I watch people struggle to fit into a box that society has made for them. They find happiness or contentment. Sometimes they don’t. But I’m not convinced they’re all soaking up all the happiness and joy the world has to offer. I’m not happy when I’m conforming or doing what is expected of me. Though I’m good at it, I’m miserable chasing the traditional ideals. Those who have chosen to be in my non-traditional life support and love me no matter what. I don’t talk about so much of it anymore because it makes things difficult for some. I don’t even think about it anymore because I’ve spent so much time overthinking how a post or picture will upset the status quo.

People take my silence as shame or guilt. I’ve made some really hard choices. I’ve made out of the box choices. I’ve made dangerous choices. I’ve made stupid choices. I’ve made choices for love. I’ve made choices for money. I’ve made choices out of necessity. I’ve made choices with great repercussions. I’ve made choices of all kinds. I’ve mostly made them alone. I have been very alone yet surrounded by people my entire life. As an adult, I’m more comfortable alone than in partnership because I will be solely responsible for my choices no matter the outcome. The one thing I am not is guilty or ashamed. I am not ashamed of the life I live or the person I have become or the person I was or the things I did. In fact, I’m pretty fucking proud of every choice I made because so often I made desperate choices when there were very few options and none of them were good. But I have not lived with that pride because it causes pain.

At 30 with a lot of very serious health problems, I am goddamn tired. I am tired of always censoring what I say because it hurts people. I am tired of having to not talk about huge swaths of my life because it hurts people. I’m tired of not being able to be me all the time because it hurts people. I’m not going to continue to be small because it makes other people’s lives uncomfortable.

I’m not censoring myself anymore. It’s all going to be out there. Because I’m not being real. I’m not being authentic. I’m not doing everything I can to make the world a better place.

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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