Self Worth – …on the B.L.

I drove myself to the airport this morning. It’s not the first time I’ve had to park my car while I jetset. It definitely will not be the last. But I was not supposed to drive myself. I hate spending money I don’t have to, and honestly, there’s something really lovely about having someone care enough to do the airport drop off and pick up dance with.

I masked up. I was just alone and drinking coffee.

I booked this trip two weeks ago, and for me, that’s some pretty good advance warning. I spoke with my platonic life partner and roommate and best friend, all one person, about driving me. I had picked flights that would work with his work/life schedule. He agreed. It went on our household calendar. Last night, he got home from work. I was working at the table. He’d been invited out with friends. Great! Have fun. Remember we need to leave the house by 3:45 am, so just be home by then. He gives me a hug and says he’ll be home by nine so we can watch a show before getting some sleep and heading to the airport. 10:30 hits, and I head to bed.

When I wake up and head downstairs to leave… No truck in the driveway. No ring notification. No man on the couch or in his bed or anywhere in the house at all. It’s 3:30. You know. Still time. Four calls straight to voicemail while I’m brushing my teeth. I eventually leave a voicemail. “I’m not angry. I’m not even disappointed. I’ve just come to expect this.” The petty asshole in me responds to his midnight-thirty “Love you!” text message with “Then maybe you should be home to take me to the airport…..” “But I guess not.” I did not take the high road. Grace was not given. Not my proudest moment. I let all the doggos out and said my goodbyes before hopping in the car and driving my independent lady ass to the airport. I did cry in the car. Not a breakdown cry. The silent stoic tears of a war bride waving goodbye on a train platform in a 1950s black and white movie. Probably not that pretty, but you get the picture. Hurt.

I’m taking this trip because I miss my best friend; I’m going through an intensely tough time and need to get away; the day after I get back my life will revolve around the out-all-nighter because he’s having his hip replaced, and I’ll be taking care of him. This is me being punchy about the fact I’ll be his nurse round-the-clock for six weeks and he couldn’t make it home in time to take me to the airport. Not sorry. I am also not sorry for airing this information. I’m a writer. He knows this. Life is copy.

Two quick things before I get to what I actually want to talk about. 1) This scenario is not actually a huge deal and was easily solved. The emotional aspect… Different story. Had this happened ten years ago, I would be a proper mess, but I’m so much more healed now. So I’m a slight mess instead. 2) If this were an isolated incident, I would be mad or disappointed. The problem, it’s not. So I’m hurt because it never feels lovely to be forgotten, and it’s pretty terrible never being a priority or able to depend on someone.

Trauma is a huge part of my story. I have issues. I am excessively familiar with all of my issues and triggers and the coping mechanisms I’ve developed over the course of thirty-one years. I’m quite good at telling my people what I need from them to keep functioning as optimally as I can. These things are quite easy and simple because at the end of the day, they’re my problems and I hate being a burden. I wear my trauma on my sleeve; it just makes life and relationships easier when I’m not hiding things that impact me so deeply. So everyone close to me knew what they were getting into and decided to stay. To the extreme point that if I’m dating someone or getting to know someone as a friend I lay it all out there on the first date/hang out. Truly, all they have to do is Google me and so much is out there for consumption. I am old enough to know I don’t want to waste my fucking time on people who will judge me, not support me, are intimidated by whatever, think what I do is dumb, can’t handle it. Trial by fire. Their reactions say it all.

Sad and hurt for too many reasons but ready for adventure.

When you have a relationship, platonic or romantic, with a person who has survived and lives with trauma, you have to accept that your actions, even the innocuous ones, can have a huge and sweeping impact. I struggle with worth, abandonment issues, being enough, and just feeling like an entirely forgettable human. Among other things. So when I was left to fend for myself this morning, the thought was “Alone. Like always.” Maneuvering the logistics of getting to the airport: so simple. Maneuvering the emotional toll of being forgotten and abandoned: not so simple.

Trusting people is so hard for me. I’ve let people in and been hurt over and over and over again. Trust is built over time and in the little moments. Watching TV on the couch after a rough day. Text messages to check in after falling down the stairs. Sleepovers for funsies. Showing up on time or at all when plans are made. “Safe travel” texts before planes take off. Not canceling. Including people in conversations. Remembering how to pronounce a name. Randomly reaching out for no reason. Sending a postcard. Listening without judgement. All these little things are teeny moments building trust and relationship between people. Trust takes time to build and often so little to corrode or destroy. To protect myself and cope with a life of abuse, I keep people at a distance, don’t give them chances to build trust, and make it incredibly hard to get to know me. How I have any friends is quite the mystery at this point. I’m working on it. As shitty as it is to say, when one person lets me down, it feels like another tick mark against all of humanity. Like, welp, this person can’t be trusted, and they’re human, therefore all humans are ashtrays. Refer to the first sentence of this paragraph… I am aware this is a problem.

I’m not someone who needs, wants, or even craves grand gestures. (Maybe I am, but I’ve never had anyone remotely try, so I wouldn’t actually know. I do love doing them, however.) Little things mean the most. A ride to the airport is not life altering, but it’s a little thing. Love, true love, exists in those little things, the quotidian, the quiet moments, the in betweens. It’s not always explosions or fireworks. It’s life altering in fundamentally consistent, persistent ways of sharing joys and sorrows, every big and little moment. Love is showing up and bearing witness to a lived life. Those tiny moments mean everything. To someone with trauma, it means everything and so much more. I don’t ask for much. I don’t need much. I probably need more than I realize, but I’ve been alone and self-sufficient for so long, I don’t know what it’s like to lean on someone or ask for help. Maybe someone will force my walls down and make me realize it’s okay to need things. To that woman, I say, “Best of luck. I’ll be quite the challenge.” Until then if ever. Fuck that shit; I’m a strong, independent woman. I don’t need anyone. I got myself to the airport like I’ve done numerous times before. And I’ll take myself home.

That doesn’t mean I’m not hurting. I’m not struggling. I’m not wondering if he forgot because I’m forgettable. Or he didn’t come because I wasn’t supportive enough of his night out. Or he didn’t think I was worth taking to the airport. Or that maybe I just don’t deserve someone to care about me. Or he just doesn’t want me in his life anymore. Or he never cared at all. Logically, I know all of this is untrue and it was an accident. But that doesn’t mean I believe it. Feelings and logic rarely coexist peacefully.

When you decide to be in someone’s life who is dealing with trauma, you better be damn sure you know what you’re getting into and that your actions have repurcussions. Your accidents and mistakes carry more weight. Little things mean the most, for the good and the bad. I know what it’s like to be on both sides. Being the traumatized and loving someone with trauma. It’s hard doing the loving, but I also know just how worth it it is. Then again, I also know how to be there for them because I know. And when you love someone, you just show up. Trauma or no trauma. Show up. That’s the bare minimum, and it shouldn’t be a lot to ask for. Then again, my bare minimum was “This one doesn’t rape me!” for the longest time. It’s been upped to, “This one doesn’t make me cry every day!” I’m fucked up. I know.

So I’m sitting on this fucking plane, crying my big, gay tears next to a man in a MAGA hat, trying to convince myself that maybe someday I’ll find someone who will ask if I need a ride to the airport and show up. (Shout out to Amanda, who offered, but I “had a ride.”) It should be simple. But it’s not for me. The idea of my having worth enough for anyone to take me to the airport let alone love me does not exist. The accident of falling asleep at a friend’s house after a fun night out is small, but to me, it carries connotations of so much more.

In My Own Words, Lifestyle

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

What Self Worth?

November 17, 2021November 18, 2021 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.

Tag: Self Worth

Abandonment Issues Triggered Over Driving Myself to the Airport

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

What Self Worth?