Tag Archives: violence against women

NPFP Guest Post: Broken

Welcome to RMB’s Naked Pictures of Faceless People, a series of guest posts from diverse anonymous bloggers. (Read more about NPFP’s origins.) These are the posts that are jumping to get out of us, but for whatever reason — safety, embarrassment, conflict of interest, protection of loved ones’ reputations or feelings, or so on — we don’t or won’t or can’t post at our own blogs. Anyone, whether blogger or reader only, is welcome to submit or discuss a potential post by emailing me at arwyn at raisingmyboychick dot com.

Trigger Warning: There is a trigger warning on this post for sexual assault, surgery, and sexual dysfunction.

Broken

By Kristin Lai¹

I’ve been broken since I was thirteen when my grade nine boyfriend sexually coerced me, triggering my first major depression. I spent the rest of grade nine and all of grade ten being called a slut and a square, depending on who you talked to and sometimes within the same breath. There’s nothing quite like being slut-shamed and prude-shamed at the same time. After that boyfriend my interest in physical intimacy of any kind slowly waned with each successive relationship. My boundaries were shaped more by my trauma than by my desires. I’m pretty damn sure that I would have tried to lose my virginity earlier, with my first truly amazing boyfriend, had I not been so affected by that early sexual assault – and make no mistake, coercion is assault. What I didn’t understand then was that even if I had wanted to “pop my cherry” it wouldn’t have been possible.

You know what I’ve always wanted to be able to do? Wear a tampon. When I was sixteen I mentioned to my doctor that I couldn’t even put in a tampon and she said I might have an unusually tight hymen, the technical term for it is “imperforate hymen”. She told me that I could get surgery for it but she never actually examined me so it all remained hypothetical – and FYI for all of those medical professionals out there, it is entirely unfair to require that a teenage girl be proactive in advocating for herself when it comes to sexual healthcare, it’s your job to pay attention, take notes and ask follow up questions – that doctor never again mentioned it and neither did I.

When I finally tried to get my first pelvic exam it was impossible. It hurt so much when she tried that she had to give up, and yet she had no suggestions or even comments about this fact.

Somewhere along the line I decided that I must have vaginismus, all the while still scared of sex, afraid of being taken back to that bedroom in grade nine; having to explain to each and every boyfriend why I couldn’t “do that” and why I sometimes cried for no apparent reason. I became defined not only by my trauma but by my brokenness.

I read so much shit about female sexual dysfunction I could recite it in my sleep. I even went to a sex therapist who did little more than diagnose me as “pre-orgasmic” rather than “an-orgasmic” and refer me to Lonnie Barbach’s “For Yourself” which assumes that if a woman is not getting into the sex it’s because she’s been taught that “nice girls don’t do that”. This so did not apply to me.

It wasn’t until I was twenty-six and married (that’s right, someone actually married my broken ass) that a doctor actually gave a shit. First doctor in my life to take me seriously about anything. He sent me to a brilliant gynaecologist who was quite impressed with exactly how imperforate my hymen was, she immediately scheduled my surgery and I had that little piece of skin excised (if you’re curious it’s called a hymenectomy).

I went through surgery and hobbled around for three freakin’ weeks (eighteen days longer than predicted) only to find that while I could now get an uncomfortable pap smear I still could not have “the sex” without a great deal of work and discomfort if not outright pain. Also, although I could get a tampon in I could feel the stupid string so, no thanks.

Believe it or not we somehow managed to get me pregnant: it was a goddamn chore, and it hurt. Sex should not be like that. Your partner should not have to ask you repeatedly, “Are you okay? Should I stop?” but he did ask, and he hated that it was hurting me but I grit my teeth and took the pain because I wanted that baby.

I assumed that if I mentioned this to anyone I would be given the same advice I’d heard a million times, “stretch it out with your fingers/dilater/butt plug” and frankly, I didn’t have enough of a libido to put that kind of daily work in. When I had to have an emergency c-section I was disappointed because I had hoped that the delivery would stretch me out to a normal size.

Eight years after my first surgery I finally mentioned it to my doctor and he sent me right on back to my lovely gynaecologist who examined me yet again and yet again she was truly impressed by just how broken my cooch was. She found that even the slightest brush with a soft little Q-tip was enough to make me cringe and wince, turns out that in addition to having been blessed with a truly imperforate hymen I had also been graced with an “exquisitely sensitive” bit of skin at the entrance to that most blessed of orifices.

My thoughts? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

Back to surgery to have, I kid you not, a skinning vulvectomy (I couldn’t make this shit up); a surgery usually performed to treat cancer. If you’re looking this up online, rest assured I did not have my labia or clitoris removed (Wikipedia nearly put my big sister into a fit, “Nobody’s cutting off my little sisters clit!!!”)

I healed much more quickly this time and promptly called big sis to proclaim, “They slit my snatch and my hoo-ha’s healing!” Once the healing was done I took my vajingo out for a test drive and lo and behold, I could put a small dildo in with no pain! I cried, I felt like for the first time in my life I wasn’t broken.

And yet… it’s been several months since my surgery and my partner and I are so used to not having sex, so used to there being issues and difficulties and, in my case, so tired of hoping that maybe just maybe this time it will be okay… that we still haven’t done it.

For a long time I told myself that it was all fine, we just did other stuff and that was enough and maybe for someone else it would have been. But to not have “the sex” because you can’t, because it hurts, because some part of your sexual self was stuffed into a box when you were thirteen, is not okay. To end every attempt at intimacy with the female equivalent of blue-balls; feeling guilty that you can’t be enough while your partner worries about hurting you or triggering you; not even being able to give yourself an orgasm, is not okay. And then the realization that the only way you’re likely to ever have an orgasm is through the one thing you can’t do. It’s heartbreaking.

I have spent my whole life repeating one simple prayer, “Please God let me not be broken anymore.”

***

I have always believed in being sex positive; sex is something to be enjoyed and talked about and no one should ever be made to feel shame or guilt about expressing and owning their sexuality. I believe that if we were truly a sex positive culture I probably wouldn’t have gone through all of this. I also believe that it was my sex positive position – that is, my willingness to openly talk about my boundaries – that protected me from further exploitation. That being said, when you are a sex positive person who’s not having sex it can be isolating and often painful to listen to others share their own experiences of sex and lust and eroticism. After so many years in the queer community it can become unbearable. That pain is where the following poem comes from:

Please stop talking about sex. Oh God please just shut up.
Don’t tell me that sex must be a part of any healthy marriage – you erase me. Don’t make jokes about ‘frigid’ women – you judge me.
Don’t conflate sex-positive with having sex – you mistake me.
Please just stop talking about sex.

I have spent countless hours in my life listening to friends regale me with their sex-capades.
Smile and nod.
“Oh my God I haven’t been laid in three months!”
You poor fucking baby.
There is no room in this room for my experience. So I keep my mouth shut.
This is what invisible feels like.

——————————

Please support the Naked Pictures of Faceless People project by commenting on the posts. Comments which attack or attempt to guess the identity or any aspect of the identity of the blogger will be deleted, however. Protect and respect this space as though it were your own work on display here, naked and faceless.

Anonymous comments are welcome on NPFP posts. Simply put “Anonymous” or any pseudonym in Name, and either your own or a fake email addresses (ex me@me.com) as the email. NOTE: If you have a Gravatar associated with your email address, it will show up even with an anonymous name, in which case please use a different or a fake email address.

Kristin has chosen semi-anonymity, to balance her need for privacy with her desire to not “hide”. ↩

18 Comments | Posted on 4 April 2011 by Arwyn | Category: Body, Naked Pictures of Faceless People | Tags: birth, Health, sex, sex ed, Sexuality, violence against women

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12th International Transgender Day of Remembrance

For the past 12 years, November 20th has marked TDOR, the International Transgender Day of Remembrance. As a cisgender person, I am not the one you should be listening to on this day. But as a cis person, it is my obligation and my honor to recognize this day and help hold the space for trans persons the world over. Please read each of these posts, as you are able to and as is safe for you to do so.

About TDOR:

The Transgender Day of Remembrance was set aside to memorialize those who were killed due to anti-transgender hatred or prejudice. The event is held in November to honor Rita Hester, whose murder on November 28th, 1998 kicked off the “Remembering Our Dead” web project and a San Francisco candlelight vigil in 1999. Rita Hester’s murder — like most anti-transgender murder cases — has yet to be solved.Although not every person represented during the Day of Remembrance self-identified as transgender — that is, as a transsexual, crossdresser, or otherwise gender-variant — each was a victim of violence based on bias against transgender people.

Number dead because of anti-transgender sentiment:

This means that, this year, there are almost 180 trans people to be included in the list of names to be remembered, mourned and honoured at the annual Transgender Day of Remembrance tomorrow (20th November).

“The TDOR 2010 update has revealed a total of 179 cases of reported killings of trans people from November 20th 2009 to November 19h 2010. The update shows reports of murdered or killed trans people in 19 countries in the last year, with the majority from Brazil (91), Guatemala (15), Mexico (14), and the USA (14)”.

Why a day of remembrance matters:

As someone who was around and part of the local and national trans leadership when the TDOR started in 1999, as time inexorably marches on I have seen eleven previous TDOR’s come and go. I have that intimate understanding of why we have them and militantly resist the calls from some transpeople to change the focus from a memorial ceremony to a happy-happy joy-joy event because it’s in their words ‘morbid and depressing’
[...]
70% of the transpeople we memorialize are people of color. I don’t want people forgetting that salient point either as we read this year’s list of names. Until anti-trans violence is reduced to nothing and the people who perpetrate it get properly punished for doing so, there will continue to be a need for the ‘morbid and depressing’ TDOR.

A plea to cis folk:

Around the world today, there are many vigils and memorials taking place – if there is one near you, and you can make it, please go along. Spare a few moments to remember those we have lost, to pay your respects – and to remind yourself and cis society at large that trans people are somebody’s children, somebody’s parents, somebody’s friends, somebody’s neighbours, somebody’s partners, somebody’s lovers.

More than anything else, today and every day, please remember that trans people too are part of the human race – and we’re as entitled to life as any other member of humanity.

Most of the dead are women. Most of them are nonwhite. This is not a coincidence; it is a vital reminder that we continue to allow some persons to be more valued than others because of their gender, the color of their skin, and whether their true gender matches that assigned to them at birth.

Every one of the people murdered because of anti-transgender bigotry matters. Each one of them deserves to be remembered and honored — even if we don’t know their names. Too, we are called to bring to mind the ones whose lives and deaths were so held as meaningless to their society that their murders were not reported and did not make this year’s list of the dead.

Today, I remember and memorialize the dead. Tomorrow, I will do what I can to make there not be need for a list next year, and I ask you to join me. If it seems too large a task for you, do something small. But do something. Because this must not continue.

2 Comments | Posted on 20 November 2010 by Arwyn | Category: Body, Kyriarchy | Tags: cis privilege, Gender, Privilege, Race, racism, trans, violence against women

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Guest post: Without a happy ending: what to do when no one else does

This is a guest post from Kelly of Underbellie.

Without a happy ending: what to do when no one else does

My husband works at an institution as a Big Important Computer Guy. Over the last week he’s been getting calls from one of the librarians that a computer user had been repeatedly caught viewing pornography on the computers (this is illegal use of state facilities). The librarian had kicked the young man out, but he kept coming back – only to view more porn. What disturbed the librarian was the (seemingly) unflappable repeat offenses despite what was obviously against the rules. The fellow just kept doing it.

Today my husband was able to take “snapshots” of his browser history without actually visiting the sites — not only sites like pussy.com but, in my husband’s view, more disturbing Yahoo Answers submissions. (As my husband put it: “Lots of entitled, frustrated male stuff.”)

Having finally received enough information to document the violation of policy, he locks the user account and instructs the staff to have the man contact him when he next tries — and fails — to log on. The fellow is soon escorted into my husband’s office, where, confronted in dry, by-the-book lingo about his policy violations, he asks “what’s the problem?”, showing no remorse or even understanding — and waits for things to go back to the way they were.

When my husband informs the Chief Information Officer of the offense, she reams the young man extensively, but then gives the go-ahead to reinstate his log-in.

While investigating the man’s IDs in the process of reinstating the account, one of which has been obviously modified, he learns that another lab worker, E., a woman, had a creepy encounter with this same young man just a few days ago.

My husband goes to head of security and relates the details of both the internet history and the incident with the lab worker. The head of security seems to take this very seriously and discusses the measures he’ll take; he informs my husband that when it comes to safety it is no violation on my husband’s part to discuss details of the user’s computer history.

******

And that — so far — is that.

I don’t want to get into discussing pornography and whether it is some kind of litmus to the harmful objectification (is there any other kind of objectification?) of women which is in turn correlated to the support of violence against them. Briefly, it’s my opinion that in a “perfect world” porn would be mostly sex-positive and rather fun; but in the world we live in porn is corrupted by kyriarchal and oppressive memes; there is a strong correlation between many straight men who consume typical porn and attitudes of oppositional sexism and rape apologism¹.

But please don’t let this be a derail: the fact is my opinions on porn aren’t necessarily central to this story because in this case what my husband and I found most disturbing were his repeat offenses, his Yahoo submissions, his lack of remorse or even comprehension when confronted, and the fact at least three women who’d had experience with this individual were disturbed and agitated by his behavior.

And what does my head in is how many, many men (and women) would have done so much less than my husband in a case like this.

So now my husband is home and he’s worried. He’s thinking of the George Sodini case.² He’s taken entirely appropriate and protective measures and put things in the hands of his superiors — but he’s not sure that’s enough. He’s conducted himself admirably (to my view), but he’s thinking of E. and wondering if he should talk to her. He’s worried it would be “creepy” (to E.) if he did.

At this I disagreed; my advice was to talk to E. and tell her briefly there was an investigation; then to offer – in a non-professional capacity — that if she ever felt uncomfortable and wanted an escort or any help, to call him and he’d come right over.

And then I thought of the times I’d been coerced and violated and the many men (and women) who knew or were there — and did nothing. I don’t think in my entire life any man, besides my husband and father, have ever offered their assistance in the way my husband is thinking of offering it to E.

And I thought of those horrible stories where — afterwards — people wring their hands and say, “He seemed like such a Nice Guy!”³

And I thought of America’s horrific track record of sexual assault, coercion, and rape.⁴

Entitled assholes (or Nice Guys™, see above footnote) are not the same as rapists (although some of them are, in fact, rapists). But, I’m sad to say, rape and sexual assault affect us all – even the genuine nice guys – and our silence and discomfort only serve to maintain the status quo.

So, do we like the status quo?

Can we live with it?⁵

I’m not holding up my husband as a hero and, on the flipside, I’ll be pretty pissed if anyone accuses him of not doing enough to stop a (potential) monster. I don’t particularly want advice given on what, if anything, my husband should do next – or if he should have never taken things as far as he did – because my trust in his awesomeness is pretty solid. But I note he took this more seriously than the other six employees yet (with, I hope, the exception of head of security), while still acting in his professional capacity — which is a fine line. Tonight my husband and I both feel a bit worried, unsettled, upset. But I’m impressed with him.

It worries me to think others — many, many others — might be exposed to information like he was — and do nothing.

“rape apologism”, Google search ↩
see: Collier Township shooting; for more analysis Kate Harding’s piece is stellar as is the brief piece on Soc Images noting that massacres of women are generally not considered hate crimes. ↩
“Explainer: What Is A ‘Nice Guy’?” at Shakesville ↩
Some statistics from RAINN. ↩
More rape statistics. ↩

11 Comments | Posted on 22 October 2010 by Arwyn | Category: Body, Kyriarchy | Tags: Gender, male privilege, rape culture, violence against women

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Everything is linked

Been a while since we’ve had a good ol’ fashioned link post, hasn’t it?¹

Anyway, have some links. If you’re a Liker² of Raising My Boychick on Facebook, you might’ve seen some of these, but fear not! for I have fresh content for you as well.³

***

I had the privilege of hearing Liz read a fabulous post about knitting, geekery, and feminism at BlogHer in August. In Kids and wheelchair manners she writes about curious kids, clueless adults, and her light-up chair.

I also don’t like it when grownups yell at kids not to stare or ask questions. I’m in a giant cool exoskeleton with light-up wheels. I have purple hair. Kids get to stare. They should be curious! If they ask me why I’m in a wheelchair, I can answer them however I like. The parent doesn’t have to step in and act all embarrassed. I might say that I use the chair to help me get around, or because my legs hurt if I walk very far. If we’re in a social situation or a playground I get out of the chair, sit on a bench, and teach random children how to push themselves around in my wheelchair. It’s fun and it demystifies disability for the kids and teaches them that mobility equipment is just another tool.

***

The right to bear at Spilt Milk is one close to my heart, as I still, happily, sleep with the bear my grandparents gave me for Christmas when I was eight. And yes, I take him on planes with me. Can I sleep without him, fly without him? Sure, but why should I want to? Why is my bear less socially acceptable than another person’s nightcap, gin-and-tonic, night light, Xanax? As Elizabeth says:

It’s not ‘babyish’ to find ways to self-soothe and to cultivate feelings of security: it’s human, and it’s smart. It’s not wrong to form attachments and dependencies and when it’s people and things that do not harm us, it’s actually desirable to do so.

***

The more I learn about Babble, the less I like them. Reason number three: Breastfeeding, Babble, and Business at Marf Mom. Prompted by PhD in Parenting’s post about the unethical advertisement of a formula company-run “Feeding Experts” hotline on Babble’s breastfeeding guide page (reason number two!), she wrote to Babble’s CEO. And he replied — but not terribly politely.

What was upsetting to me was how he characterized me. …because I disagreed with the objectivity of his website, I must be looking for a mandate that every woman breastfeed?! Finally, what does La Leche League have to do with my email? I’m not a member. All I did was suggest their site as a better resource than a formula company!

It’s not great marketing to answer complaints by telling your consumers that THEY are the ones with the problem.

***

I adore equally the title, substance, and footnote to muslin: a threat to the fabric of society at a shiny new coin, so go, soak it all in.

You want to know about hypocrisy?

Hypocrisy is a country of immigrants, who continue to perpetrate a genocide on the original inhabitants, running around with stickers on their vehicles manufactured from natural resources that came from stolen land that proclaim “Fuck Off: We’re Full”.

Hypocrisy is a country where the banning of an item of dress is regularly recommended, saying no Australian has any right to dictate the standard of dress of another. Really? Can I have that in writing?

Hypocrisy is the complete lack of perspective, the total cognitive dissonance, that the 7000 people who voted that a Muslim function, in a room used after hours at a community facility, having dress code is fundamentally wrong. A dress code. You know, like the one bigots would impose when they say burqas should be outlawed.

***

Penultimately, I offer a trio of posts on rape culture — but it’s not as bad as it sounds. I’ve put them in order of painful, hopeful, and fabulous.

On Birth Rape, Definitions, and Language Policing at The Curvature carries a strong trigger warning, and is about rape denial in circles who should best know better.

I’m used to seeing this sort of thing — discussions about whether or not an event that is admittedly horrible really deserves to have the title “rape” attached to it, accompanied by convoluted reasons as to why calling it rape would just mess everything up for real rape victims. What I’m not quite as used to is seeing it being done in the name of feminism and/or anti-rape activism.

The Boiling Frog Principle of Boundary Violation at the Yes Means Yes blog should also come with a trigger warning, and goes through some pretty scary truths, but ends up, I feel, in a place of hope:

We need to look for the places where boundaries can’t and won’t be enforced … and fix them. We can’t start when and where the rapes happen. We have to start at the beginning. We have to believe that bodily autonomy is a human right, and that the little violations matter. If the whole culture believed that, it might not end all rape, but it would end a culture where rape is normalized and generally unpunished.

I wrote in reply⁴:

I take hope from this that yes, what we do as parents⁵ matter. We can be a part of the solution, by respecting our children’s bodily autonomy as much as we are able, and avoiding “the little violations” as much as possible.

Not to say that if we are not able, we are necessarily raising rapists, or rape victims — but rather that we CAN make a difference, here, now. Any step toward honoring our children’s boundaries and giving them the tools to recognize others’ and enforce their own is a step toward dismantling rape culture.

Will you take a step with me?

As your reward for making it through those, we have The Suffering Ween: An Important Social Essay over at Fatshionista:

When described in such terms, the frustration, resentment, and even violent rages of heterosexual men railing against the forced witnessing of women’s bodies that fail to give them hard-ons becomes a perfectly understandable and even sympathetic response to a world that has failed to identify how deeply (even irreparably, as some things can never be unseen) it has damaged them. We are, after all, describing the single most sensitive and vital organ in a man’s body, from which fully nine-tenths of their motivation to do anything in life is derived.

Clearly, these are young men suffering from a heartbreaking deficiency of boners.

***

And finally, if you missed it (embedded as it was in one of my gazillion-word-long self-important posts) I put up a new Glossary entry, to a word I hope catches on:

Emovtypical is a new word¹, meaning those with emotions and moods which fall into the range which society expects. It is based on the use, largely in Autism circles but in other “mental disability” circles as well, of “neurotypical”, to contrast with the neurodivergent or neuroatypical, that is, those whose brains do not conform to society’s expectations.²

***

In other news, I just realized I could link straight to footnotes from other pages, and this might be the single coolest discovery since fire, ice, or the vibrating motor.

What say you, readers? Any interesting links or world-shaking discoveries to share? Self-promotion, frivolity, and non sequiturs always welcome.⁶

————————-

In part because I’ve been reading these things that are kind of like bloggy link round ups, but when I go to click on “more” I can’t find it? Also they smell like pulp and intelligence. I think they’re called “books”? ↩
What? Have you come up with a better idea since Facebook decided to stop using “fans”? ↩
Plus copious footnotes. Because. Wait, you want a reason? Fine, because kittens. ↩
On Facebook — see? You really should follow me, if you’ve succumbed to that particular internet evil. ↩
There are many things about this post I would change now, having heard many more stories of rape being committed by women and other non-men, but I think the basic points still stand. ↩
This footnote exists solely so that the last footnote won’t be all serious and some junk. You’re welcome. ↩

8 Comments | Posted on 23 September 2010 by Arwyn | Category: Body, Kyriarchy | Tags: birth, breastfeeding, Links, rape culture, violence against women

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Naked Pictures of Faceless People: Love the Way You Lie

Trigger Warning: There is a trigger warning on this post for descriptions of domestic violence.

Love the Way You Lie

Have you ever heard a song called Love the Way You Lie, by Eminem and Rihanna? That’s my marriage, with a baby thrown in, to a T. Isn’t that sad? Isn’t that beyond sad?

I can’t tell you what it really is
I can only tell you what it feels like
And right now it’s a steel knife in my windpipe
I can’t breathe but I still fight while I can fight
As long as the wrong feels right it’s like I’m in flight
High off of love, drunk from my hate,
It’s like I’m huffing paint and I love it the more I suffer, I suffocate
And right before I’m about to drown, she resuscitates me
She fucking hates me and I love it.
Wait! Where you going?
“I’m leaving you”
No you ain’t. Come back we’re running right back.
Here we go again
It’s so insane cause when it’s going good, it’s going great
I’m Superman with the wind at his back, she’s Lois Lane
But when it’s bad it’s awful, I feel so ashamed I snapped
Who’s that dude? I don’t even know his name
I laid hands on her, I’ll never stoop so low again
I guess I don’t know my own strength.

My pregnancy was hell. We would be all good for three days or so, and then wham! an explosive fight resulting in my trying to leave and him not letting me. I started talking to another guy — and told him about it. Sure, we had some great fun and good times. But when it’s bad it’s awful. We busted in some doors and put bruises on each other. One of us would always break down, cry and beg for forgiveness. This was happening even when I went into labor. I was just as much to blame as him.

You ever love somebody so much you can barely breathe
When you’re with ‘em
You meet and neither one of you even knows what hit ‘em
Got that warm fuzzy feeling
Yeah, them those chills you used to get ‘em
Now you’re getting fucking sick of looking at ‘em
You swore you’d never hit ‘em; never do nothing to hurt ‘em
Now you’re in each other’s face spewing venom in your words when you spit them
You push pull each other’s hair, scratch claw hit ‘em
Throw ‘em down pin ‘em
So lost in the moments when you’re in them
It’s the rage that took over it controls you both
So they say you’re best to go your separate ways
Guess if they don’t know you ’cause today that was yesterday
Yesterday is over, it’s a different day
Sound like broken records playing over but you promised her
Next time you show restraint
You don’t get another chance
Life is no Nintendo game
But you lied again
Now you get to watch her leave out the window
I guess that’s why they call it window pane.

Then we had the baby and we were good for about a week. Then I got sick, very, very sick. He refused to help, didn’t want to let me leave to stay with my mom so she could take care of me. I begged and I cried and he told me I’d get over it. Maybe it was then I knew we didn’t love each other anymore. I did leave with my mother and the baby, and after much pleading, he came to see us that night. I remember crying hysterically while nursing my baby, “Mom, he doesn’t love me anymore, he doesn’t love me, he doesn’t.”

Now I know we said things, did things that we didn’t mean
And we fall back into the same patterns, same routine
But your temper’s just as bad as mine is
You’re the same as me
But when it comes to love you’re just as blinded
Baby, please come back
It wasn’t you, baby it was me
Maybe our relationship isn’t as crazy as it seems
Maybe that’s what happens when a tornado meets a volcano
All I know is I love you too much to walk away though
Come inside, pick up your bags off the sidewalk
Don’t you hear sincerity in my voice when I talk
I told you this is my fault
Look me in the eyeball
Next time I’m pissed, I’ll aim my fist at the drywall
Next time. There won’t be no next time
I apologize even though I know its lies
I’m tired of the games I just want her back
I know I’m a liar
If she ever tries to fucking leave again
Im’a tie her to the bed and set this house on fire

We came back a month later. We were okay for a while. He supported my every decision with our baby. He was a great daddy. Then our fights started again. It was always over nothing, nothing at all, and escalated into what was bothering us everyday. I think I just read everything as if he didn’t care about me, since what happened with my illness. I still talked to the ‘other guy’, mostly after fights, fantasizing about a relationship that never could be. He still takes my keys, blocks my car, pins me down, won’t let me walk out the door. Now he takes our baby from me and says I’ll never see her again, and I better quit acting like a psycho or he’ll get custody as his family can afford an attorney and mine can’t.

Our baby is now almost six months old, and she knows when we fight. She hears us across the house, slamming doors and throwing things, screaming in each other faces, hitting, pushing, and she starts screaming hysterically. We both feel bad and I always say we have to end this or resolve this, I won’t keep fighting in front of our child and damaging her. So we both apologize, even though we know it’s lies. And then we do it again. I love him and I hate him. I can’t leave and let him rip our baby away from the only mother she’s ever known. But I can’t stay here and let her be in the midst of our insanity. Nobody knows about this storm that is our marriage but us. What the hell do I do, what the hell do I do? I keep saying it’ll get better the older we get, we’re still so very young. I hope it will. I hope it will. Until then, my daughter, forgive me. Please forgive me. I never intended for you to get wrapped up in the midst of a tornado and a volcano.

Just gonna stand there and watch me burn
But that’s alright because I like the way it hurts
Just gonna stand there and hear me cry
But that’s alright because I love the way you lie
I love the way you lie
I love the way you lie.

(Lyrics copyright Eminem or Aftermath Records. No copyright infringement intended.)

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