Tag: Survivor

In My Own Words, Lifestyle

Tattoos: A Reclamation of the Body That’s Always Been Mine

RaeAnna

I got my first tattoo when I was twenty-four. I didn’t get my next until last month when I was in Denver visiting my best friend. The last set of tattoos were about embracing and even publicizing my queerness, specifically my lesbian identity. In hindsight, I should’ve gotten them years ago; it’s really cut down on the number of men who approach me out in the world. Also they make me happy.  

For my 31st birthday, I doubled my number of tattoos by getting three all at once. They also mean a great deal for very personal reasons. The most personal being the most visible. No one has asked yet, but I know it will be commented on one day. I have no idea how I’ll handle it, hopefully with grace. 

After getting my tattoos in Denver, I knew I wanted more. And I knew exactly what I wanted to get. I didn’t have any set plans for when or where I would get them, but I knew it would be sooner rather than later. 

I’m going to take this moment to introduce Meghan. A few names pop up in my writing with frequency: Dylan, Alex, Amanda, Kelsey. Meghan has been mentioned multiple times over the last eight months but never by name. I don’t name people often because I really do like to keep my private life private. Also I am guarded, and it takes a long time for me to be convinced someone actually wants to be in my life for the good and the bad. Once they make an appearance in my writing, there’s no undoing that. For whatever reason, people pay attention to me and my writing and ask questions when new people show up or when regulars disappear. Eight months is actually quite fast for me to mention a name, but we bonded fast, and sometimes you just know when a human is for you. I figure she’s probably sticking around at this point; we’ve been through a lot. I might as well let her have her name. Plus, like all my other notable friends, she has an exceptionally generic name, unlike me, so there’s still a modicum of anonymity; except I will tag her on Instagram, so if you really want to know what she looks like: good luck her profile is private. Anyways, Meghan is a fundamental human in my life. Why do I mention her now? Because she’s an important part of this story. 

A week before my birthday, Meghan asked what I wanted to do on my birthday. I generally don’t think about it because a) I hate my birthday b) I just let whoever’s in my life plan whatever they want for me c) or I ignore it completely. After giving it some thought, I told her I wanted to have it be very low-key, get tattoos, and have a bonfire. So that’s exactly what we did. 

On the day of my birth, we both got tattooed. Her tattoo is her story to tell, but I will tell you about mine. I got an 8 on my left ankle, servive just above my right elbow, and a crocus on my ribs near my heart.

A perfect 8 for a perfect boy.

The 8 was not originally a tattoo I knew I wanted. On May 7, Meghan and I buried her cat Ocho, who died suddenly. My gay concentric circles tattoo (read about that here) is partially in honor of Ocho’s dog brother, Nigel, who also passed far too soon. I spent so much time with both Ocho and Nigel since meeting Meghan. They weren’t my pets, but they absolutely stole my heart in every single way. When they both passed, I was truly devastated. I still miss them. Ocho was all but a kitten. He and I played… hard. When he wanted to play and I didn’t, he would attack my ankles like the apex predator he was. He ruined my ankle modeling career with his murder mittens. I still have scars. He was also the snuggliest, sweetest, goodest, most determined, stubbornest, swiftest boy in the world. So when he died, I knew I wanted to get something to commemorate him like I did his brother. Nothing felt more right than an 8 on the ankle he loved to shred. I miss him every single day, but I carry a sweet little reminder of his ridiculous antics. 

I love flowers. My best friend, Amanda, is a floral designer who turned me into a subpar designer when she needs me, so now flowers are more than just something to be admired. I appreciate them. I also know a lot more about them than I did a few years ago. So Amanda helped me figure out which flower best represented what I wanted to communicate to myself because… this tattoo will really only be seen when I want to show someone. It’s more of a show and tell kind of thing. 

22 year old me would be extraordinarily surprised by all of these tattoos but especially this one.

The tattoo placement and color is an interesting choice for a couple reasons. I always said I would never get color tattoos… Woops. I have a very colorful arm tattoo and a very colorful crocus tattoo. I also said I would never get a tattoo on my torso until after I had child[ren] because I don’t want stretch marks to ruin them. The older I get, the less and less likely it is I have a kid, so fuck it. 

Crocuses thrive in adverse conditions. They actually can’t bloom without four months of below freezing temperatures. They bloom even when there’s snow on the ground. Year after year, crocuses come back with more and more blooms. Small and delicate flowers with a huge impact and an ability to thrive because of the chilling period. I feel like a crocus that hasn’t bloomed yet. I feel like someday I will thrive because of the chilling period. That I will bloom because of the harsh conditions I have servived. I wanted it near my heart because sometimes I think my heart needs the reminder that all the pain it has endured will lead to something beautiful. I just don’t know what the fuck that beauty looks like yet. Hopefully, I servive long enough to find out. I chose the color purple because it’s my alma mater’s color; the place I met two loves of my life, Alex and Kelsey. I would not be here covering myself with tattoos if they had not chosen to love me all those years ago.  

servive was the hardest. It took me two weeks to be emotionally stable after inking myself. I was truly a wreck the day after my birthday. I didn’t get off the couch. 

My favorite but the absolute hardest.

“Servive” is a word I came up with because I hate being called a survivor. I am. I was cyclically raped for years. I’m a domestic violence, sexual assault, rape, psychological abuse survivor. It’s an integral part of who I am. It’s not something I have ever hidden from. But I hate the term survivor. I didn’t survive. The girl I was before is dead. Everything I went through killed that person. Who I am now is not who I was. I will never be her again, and I would give anything to be the person I was before. I am not stronger, I did not survive, but those are conversations for another post another time. So, I coined the term servivor or servive because I use my experiences, my story to serve others, to make change, to bring awareness. There has to be good that comes out of the hell I call my life. 

I watched the ink needled into my skin as each letter of servive started to appear. I cried the whole time. It was hard and overwhelming and emotional. I knew it would be hard, but I had no idea how awful it would be. I’m glad Meghan was there because I needed someone who loved me to be by my side. The men who hurt me left their mark on my heart and soul and memory. It’s indelible. I will never forget. But they’re invisible. I only had invisible reminders of the men who killed the person I was before. Now I have a physical reminder. It’s not for everyone. For me, I needed it. I need that pain to be visible, even if I’m the only one who understands.  

The process of having servive tattooed on my body felt like I was branding myself with every wrong and violence those men put my body and mind through. It was awful. It was horrifically painful emotionally. I was not okay in any way. Choosing to put it in a visible place was a choice I made for myself. A very hard choice that opens me up to questions because it’s misspelled, but it also opens me up to vulnerability just as much as animosity. I made that choice knowing it would be hard. It’s one of the few times I’ve underestimated how difficult something would be. I do not regret it. I love this tattoo more than the others because it’s hard. Because I earned it. It is a reminder of where I’ve been, so many obstacles I’ve overcome, an allowance to give myself grace, and a message to not give up. 

While I was getting the first of the three tattoos, Meghan had just finished getting hers. She sat down to watch me get mine, as much for her own amusement as in support. She asked a question that I will never forget, which she does frequently without meaning to, it’s irritating how accidentally insightful she can be, “After you get a tattoo, do you feel like it was always supposed to be there?” I had never thought of it in that way, but the only tattoo I had up until six weeks ago is not extraordinarily visible. Having it felt right. But it had also been there for seven years, and I go long periods of time without seeing it. With my most recent tattoos, I see them constantly. I can’t agree with her more. 

Looking at these tattoos on my body, they feel like they were always supposed to be there. I feel more myself than I’ve ever felt before. I wasn’t the kid who looked at tattoos and thought I would have them. It wasn’t until I was in my early twenties that I even considered getting one. I’m a cautious person by nature, and tattoos are permanent. These tattoos, that mean a great deal, feel like I’m finally reclaiming my body—something I constantly struggle with. These tattoos make my body feel like my home. Like I’m taking ownership of something that has always belonged to me but was never accessible. Marking it. Making it my own. Decorating it with things that make me happy, turning it into a representation of my truest self.  

For my 31st birthday, I got tattooed. I’m slowly giving my body back to myself. 

11..., Lifestyle

11… Phrases People Have Responded With to My Writing

RaeAnna

Last night, I pressed publish on a post about the fact being reminded I was raped seven years ago. This morning, I woke up to a notification from Instagram saying someone was concerned about my current well being and a list of resources. I couldn’t help but giggle a little bit. I greatly admire the existence of that feature, and also find it incredibly misdirected at me. 

Last night, I was sad. This morning, I was fine. I am a rape survivor. I am a rape survivor who talks about being a rape survivor. I do so publicly because doing it in private does not create change on a systemic level. Oh, and I quite literally made it my job. 

This is another example of my life looking better in pictures than in reality.

The fact that people are concerned about me is sweet. I do appreciate it. I receive at least one message from a follower, acquaintance, or random stranger telling me to seek help before it’s too late or letting me know about the redeeming qualities of Christ every time I write a post on my past or mental health. These are actually a bit comical because it comes from someone who does not at all know me and makes sweeping judgements based on very little information. Instead of looking at what my story represents on a cultural or global scale, they take it as a cry for help. What I do appreciate is when followers and friends reach out to let me know that my writing resonated with them or taught them something. That’s why I do what I do. I’m not here to be a martyr. My writing is not a cry for help. Pity is not welcome.

To write the pieces I put into the world, I have spent years processing, soul searching, and articulating how I feel. Then revisiting all of those feelings to see if they still ring true. The last time I was raped was seven years ago; there’s been some time for healing. I am at a very stable place. Stability is relative, just like mental health is relative. We all have our struggles. Mine are on display so others know they’re not alone and the world cannot claim to have a lack of stories and information. I’m here. I’m speaking. The knowledge is out there to be had, and a person’s own ignorance lies in their unwillingness to look for realities of the world. 

When people read my work, they are taking in a culmination of years of introspection and self-awareness. The fact that I am so forthcoming about my struggles and feelings is really quite a good sign. I wasn’t able to talk about any of this without dissolving into a puddle of tears at the outset, let alone write piece after piece for the world to consume and tear apart. I’m stable enough to know that I’m opening myself up to criticism and even threats. When my writing and experiences are criticized and torn apart, it’s more than the words and my ability to formulate them; people are going after me, the human, because in memoir pieces the words and the human are one and the same. Had I chosen to slam all the raw feelings I was experiencing onto the page as they first bubbled to the surface of my psyche in the beginning phases of my recovery, well that would have been an absolute rambling disaster. There would have been no cohesion or really anything for anyone to gain from reading it other than… confusion. I was confused myself. I still do not attempt writing on topics that I am not acutely aware of my feelings, experiences, mental state, and a preparedness to lay it all out there in written format.  

I’m not at all sure why anyone looking for positive affirmations or a rosy outlook on being a survivor is following me. I’m not here for that. I’m not here to tell you this shit gets better. I’m not here to be an inspiration of “look how far I’ve come, you can too.” My goal is and always has been to make people uncomfortable by forcing them to look beyond the pretty pictures that cover my Instagram feed to see the reality of what living a life fraught with violence and trauma looks like. At best I’m an existentialist, but most days, I’m a nihilist. I don’t approach life with an “all will be fine attitude;” I approach life with an attitude of “if I don’t die and the dogs are healthy, it’s a successful day.” I don’t subscribe to the ideologies that everything in life happens for a reason or what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. I was a fucking badass before I was raped, gaslit, and abused for years. I’m pretty cool now, but I’m not better because someone raped me. I use my past as a way to connect with people and open eyes to the harsh realities of what surviving looks like. I’m also not telling anyone else’s story. This is strictly my own, but the fact it resonates with so many from all walks of life and genders means this is a huge problem, and I am not unique. Because my story may seem extreme, but it isn’t unique. There are so many humans who can identify with my struggles in one way or another. You may not see them in the comments, but I see them in my inbox and when I’m approached in public and when I hear through the grapevine that my story helped someone’s someone. I’m here to rock the boat, make noise, create a space for people to feel safe, and most importantly impact change. 

This space is where I write on whatever I want to write on without getting paid; I wish I were getting paid. From the books I read to the pieces I write to the causes I support, this space has always been about equity and inclusion. The thing is: I’m a writer. Like actually for realsies. Writing pays my bills, puts food in my dogs’ bowls, and buys plane tickets to cool places. I’ll write on just about anything that pays the bills, but I specialize in social justice with a focus on gender and racial equity. I’m also a memoirist tackling violence against women, abuse, sex work, sexual identity, and all the things that have touched my life. 

My pictures look good. My words tell another story. My daily life is somewhere in between.

If you read my work, you know I’m not going to write about rape or abuse and pretend everything’s fine, it’s all in the past because it’s not. All of those events have a ripple effect that will forever impact the way I live, think, and interact with people. I go to sleep and memories play on my eyelids like I’m at the IMAX. I have an innate distrust of men. I avoid attachment. I’m careful when entering relationships of any kind. I’m overly cautious in everything I do. I have depression episodes and anxiety attacks and PTSD triggers. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my! I am honest about all of these things because I am okay. If I were not okay, I would not be writing. If I were not okay, I would be institutionalized. If I were not okay, I would actually probably be dust because I don’t want to be buried. I’m honest about everything I live with and go through because it is quite literally my job, but I only make it public when I am in a good place. Just because I’m in a good place does not mean there is a lack of pain. That pain will always exist in tandem with every other feeling. If I hid from these feelings or pretended I am thirty, flirty, and thriving or told people it gets better, I would be an awful writer and a liar. It would play into the zeitgeist of all that Power of Positivity, manifesting bullshit. That may work for you, but I hate that crap. You will not find it here. You will not find it from me. You will not find it in my story. I’m here to be obnoxious. If you don’t like it, unfollow. I’m not phased. I won’t be offended. I’m not for the faint of heart. I’m not someone who half-asses anything. I’m not going to make my pain smaller to make it more palatable for the world. If it’s hard for you to know what I’m going through, imagine what it was like to live through it and keep going day after day after day. 

Today’s listicle day… So let’s add a listicle that is somehow related to this post… Umm… Lot of ellipses here because I’m thinking. Ta da, eleven phrases people have said to me after posting an article. 

  1. “I know you like books, so you should definitely add the Bible to the top of your list.”
  2. “I’m so sorry you went through that. I promise, one day you’ll wake up and it just won’t matter anymore.”
  3. “Have you considered meditating?”
  4. “If you’d gotten pregnant, then your rape could be something to complain about.”
  5. “You’re gay, we get it. God still loves you. Less but there’s always redemption.”
  6. “What were you wearing?”
  7. “If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’ll show you what it’s really like to be raped.”
  8. “You’re really flirty, so I don’t know what you expected.”
  9. “Rape happens. I’m tired of hearing women talk about it like it’s the end of their life.”
  10. “You can’t write about being raped if you’re dead.”
  11. “Women don’t call it rape when it’s a real man.”

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna

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

In My Own Words, Lifestyle

Past Me Would Be So Disappointed In Present Me

RaeAnna

I am not okay. 

Making struggling look chic since 1991.

I am, but I’m not. Life is always an adventure and a bit of an uphill battle. Yet I find myself struggling even more than usual as things like health issues, insecurities of freelancing, home upheavals, desire, and the overall current chaotic status quo of life and the world are ever looming in the back and even foreground of daily existence. What a time to be alive. 

The predictable New Year, New Me posts are running around the internet as we enter the third week of 2022. The usual ten year challenge is circulating with side by side pictures from 2012 and 2022 to show their glow ups. I may include my own, but I have not decided yet. Motivational posts are even more prevalent than usual in my feed, which is saying something considering the majority of women in my life are positive-look-how-far-you’ve-come-manifesting people. I am very much not that. 

There are lots of motivational things that really grate my soul, but the current, and so far longest lasting, motivational mantra that makes me want to move to the wilderness and quit all human interaction is any and all renditions of the following variations on:

“Think about how proud your past self would be if they could see you now.”
“Your past self would be so proud of you right now.”
“There is a past version of you that is so proud of how far you have come.” 
“If the version of you from five years ago could see you right now, they’d be so proud.” 

Gack! Absolute pukerific. 

Maybe one day, I can get on board. But at thirty, knowing who I was at fifteen, twenty, twenty-five… hate to tell these motivational humans: Past me would be soooo disappointed. There are past me’s who would be angry with the woman writing this. Even twenty-nine year old me would be a bit confused by the choices I made over the last year. I don’t think these posts are directed at high achievers who were absolutely gutted by some unfortunate tragedies of existing. In my youth, I had high hopes, big dreams, and a certain lack of empathy for seeing how life exists in shades of grey. At fifteen, I knew exactly what I wanted for my future and fell prey to the belief that with enough hard work and dedication, success is guaranteed… Call me a cynic, but that’s just not how life and success (which is highly personal and not at all one size fits all) works; privilege, opportunity, education, health, society, connection, gender, race, a bit of luck are all important details the American Dream conveniently leaves out. I digress. At twenty, I saw the same future for myself but with a far greater understanding of life’s grey scale. At twenty-five, my envisioned future started aligning more with my actual passions and abilities rather than a future I decided to want based on what had been deemed worthy according to societal pressures and my own desire to stick it to men. 

I decided to do a ten years later side-by-side. Kind of fun. 20 v. 30

Future I Wanted at 15-23
I wanted to have a power house career in the corporate world. Suits and heels. Sitting at a desk in a high rise with a view. Making so much money I could buy a Burberry purse and wear Louboutins—not everyday but, you know, have them in my closet. Sipping martinis at a swanky bar with my fellow powerful business lady friends after work. Going home to my quirky yet very classy one bedroom apartment and dog and settling into silk jammies and drinking wine on the couch as I read. Hopping on planes to go on adventures in five star hotels around the world. Maybe meet a person who likes the same things and never wants to get married or have children.

Future I Wanted at 25 
Basically the same except change the corporate America bit to be a successful memoirist, freelance writer, and stand up comic with goals of being a writer for film and TV working mostly from my home office except when remarkably cool projects took me onsight somewhere. Also my swanky apartment would need to have a study because fuck working in an office.

Present
I’m going to be far more transparent about my life as it is than I care to be, but I would be a terrible writer if I turned away from things that scare me.

At 23, I was on a path to make my future a reality. I ended up in a job that I was very good at which would lead to financial prosperity, in part because I was on track to make six figures before 25 combined with the fact my car was paid off and I had no debt. Burberry and red bottoms were almost tangible at 23. After two months, I realized I was fucking miserable. Being great at a job does not guarantee happiness. Before I turned 24, I knew I was going to walk out of the door because I was not a suit up for work kind of woman the way I had thought and hoped I was. I willingly and happily walked away from the future I had worked incredibly hard for to be poor and change the world… Okay be poor and try to change the world. 

My health is fucking shit. There were two years where I spent a lot of money seeing specialists trying to figure out how to get better. I gave up. There’s only so much “You’re fine” a person can hear when things are clearly not fine. I have spent months at a time stuck at home unable to leave because I’m debilitated. It’s hard to write or even find work when I’m so weak walking to the bathroom is almost impossible. I would be lying if I said there weren’t days where I would make a comfy nest of pillows and blankets in the bathroom with water and books because I was unable to go from couch to bathroom quick enough. Oh chronic illness. I’ve been enjoying a fairly tame period, so knock on wood, yay. 

Financially… I hate life. I love my job. I would love my job more if I made money. I make money, but COVID fucked it all up. I was really on my way to doing quite well when COVID showed up. I had niched myself as a freelance writer for women, creatives, and travel. Three areas that were hit incredibly hard by COVID? Yes. When my clients’ lives are thrown for a loop, my income falters. I am not in a financial spot where I can support myself. I also have this really awful problem of letting people take advantage of me financially… To the point it has put me in a not great spot. Like actually really bad. Only took me thirty and a half years to get here, but I’m working on setting some firm boundaries, but I’m terrible at it. Upside, I know why I’m like this, but it’s a long story, and I don’t care to share. 

Saying this always feels very self-indulgent, but it’s objectively not untrue. I was dealt a rough hand when it comes to life. Growing up in a house steeped in toxicity and abuse, I was not set up for success on a personal level; though it did push me to succeed academically so I could get the fuck out. Hey, did that at least. All of this was quickly followed by years of rape and abuse at the hands of men. I spent my twenties emotionally coming to terms and owning just how fucked up and unstable I am and then learning how to cope with it all. I’m stable, but I’m also a gigantic dumpster fire below the surface. My saving grace is my hyper self-awareness that lets me publicly own the fact I’m the homeless person riding in the back of the struggle bus so no one can shame me or leave me under the pretense of hiding it. I also need to add in my depression, PTSD, and occasionally crippling anxiety.

Also I have six dogs, own a house, and live in the United States with a man. I very much did not want to have a lot of dogs, own property, live in the U.S., or live with a man. These were things I very much wanted to avoid. Yet here I am.

The only reason I have been able to survive and live the life I lead as a young freelancer with serious health problems is because I’ve made exceptionally great decisions even under duress, I’m fantastic with money (when I make/have it and when I don’t), I took my clothes off in college and therefore have minimal debt. I chose a partner who gave me a place to collapse when my health was [is] poor and as my freelancing career took off and then stalled. I do not want to admit this, but I’m going to because I’m not the only human in this position. I hate being dependent on anyone ever for anything. Yet, I have had to be dependent on my best friend over the last five years for short and long periods of time. From picking me up from the bathroom floor to taking care of our mortgage, he has consistently been my partner. I hate, hate, hate that I’m financially dependent on him. It gives me so much anxiety. It keeps me up at night. It is the one thing I always wanted to avoid and successfully did for years. If you look at the future I wanted, it never included a partner or being dependent on anyone. I have deep seeded issues with avoiding dependence of any kind. If I’m not 100% completely independent, I feel like I’m failing. I like being the successful one, the one with money, the one who’s got it all figured out, but I am not that right now. 

I like the way my life looks in pictures because it completely glosses over the fact I’m a disaster.

Boy, oh boy, do I feel like a failure. I stood in my kitchen an hour ago sobbing because I feel like I have done nothing and am a complete waste of oxygen. Hell, I can’t even support myself and my dogs without assistance. I am struggling mentally more than I have in a long time. I have not made a difference. I make shit for money. I’m exhausted, in pain, and a giant mess. I have failed in every sense to accomplish any of the things I wanted to accomplish. I am so mentally and emotionally depleted that for the last two years, the thought of writing anything meaningful makes me want to disappear. Actually the thought of disappearing makes me feel better.

When people tell me they’re jealous of my life, job, travels, whatever, my immediate thought is what the fuck is wrong with you? There is nothing to be jealous of. I should be a cautionary tale rather than inspire jealousy. My current life shituation makes my skin crawl.

Looking at my life in comparison to the things I wanted for myself five, ten, fifteen years ago… Well, I have absolutely failed. Achieved zero things. I think the only thing twenty year old me would be proud of is the fact I’m not dead. Although the fifteen and twenty-five year old me’s might be disappointed in that fact. Suicide has been a prevalent part of my life’s story. I am not dead. I am probably not even a failure. 

Life is not black and white, it is all shades of grey. I’m thirty having achieved nothing that I want to. That’s okay. Thirty is not where life ends, though society leads us to believe it to be so. Maybe I have a long life ahead of me. Maybe I don’t. What I do know is that I’ve lived a hard life. I had to take a good chunk of time off from achieving things other than not dying and keeping the dogs alive. Putting myself back together was more of a priority than chasing bylines or writing books or advocating for change. I can’t do those things if I’m dying inside. 

Future I Want Now 
My idea of success is vastly different than it was even five years ago. Part of that is because I’ve welcomed my gay identity with open arms and can embrace a future I never imagined for myself. I would love to be financially successful enough to buy a lighthouse in Scotland to write and relax and have a cute house in Houston’s Heights or Montrose neighborhood. But I’ll be content if I can take care of myself, my dogs, and travel here and there. More than anything, I’m chasing happiness. I want to be happy and surround myself with humans who challenge and inspire me. I want to fall in love and stay in love. I want to change the world and create a safe space for people to exist as they are. I want to laugh and cry and be vulnerable. I want to be a source of love and kindness and acceptance in the world. I want things that cannot be quantifiably measured. 

My life is not where I want it to be. That goes for all past versions of myself and me as I write this. This is not the life I want for myself, but that doesn’t mean I’m disappointed in the life I’m living. I am old enough to know everything I have done and all the choices I’ve made were best given the circumstances. I’m doing what I have to as I figure out how to survive, get through, and maybe even have a future that doesn’t include an excess of poverty. I do not regret a single thing in my life. I am a culmination of everything I have experienced, and I don’t hate me. I like who I am. I’m even kind of proud of this woman. I’m still alive, and, for me, that’s an achievement. So I’m going to keep trying, being who I am, and I will get to a point where I’m proud of where I am. 

bisous un обьятий,
RaeAnna

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.