He is Risen

     I was blessed enough to watch the sun rise as thousands of us gathered at the beach to bask in the glory of God's creation and worship him. I got to do it again tonight, learning why, in reality, when we discuss His hugeness or the "cuteness" of Easter, we're making Him so much more minute than He really is.

     What a blessing is that? That our God is so much bigger than even the enormity we assign to Him?

     To all my brothers, sisters, and siblings in Christ, God bless. He is risen, indeed. For those of you from other faiths, God bless you, too; no one can have too many happy thoughts going their way!

Well, fuck

     So I had the second appointment with the counselor at school today. I wish we met for more than just an hour; it always seems like, just when things get interesting, time is up.

     Today, we started out by simply troubleshooting possible reasons behind my new inability to present in front of people and ways to fix that.      It led to a discussion about my rape and the relationship with my rapist because, really, all roads lead to Rome in the end. One of her suggestions is that, because I'm stressed about school things, my brain is equating the stress of school and the stress of rape and responding the same to both. Even though it's unwarranted and fairly inconsequential, my brain is treating a presentation with the same amount of alarm as it did a dangerous situation. She commented that really, my rapist, my ex-best friend that he is, took away my confidence. She then asked me where my anger at my rapist was for doing that.

     That drew me up completely flat. I'm not angry at him. I never have been. I'm too busy grieving the loss of our friendship to even grieve my rape, let alone actually become angry. Understand, I don't mean I'm not angry because I'm being righteous or trying to show Christ's love or because I've moved past it into forgiveness or acceptance. I just... haven't felt angry; apparently, that's not only abnormal but unhealthy. I mentioned to her that, over the nearly 6 months since I was raped, I've repeatedly been tempted to reach out to my rapist to rekindle a friendship. I feel like, if I minimize the rape enough and press it down again, I could just have my best friend back and it would be worth it. Obviously, my logic has won out and I haven't; Christ, have I wanted to though. One of my friends pointed out that it was a pattern I'm used to with my father; no matter how many times he's left, I've always reached out and worked to draw him back. I did the same with other boys throughout my life, and now I'm trying to avoid doing it with my rapist. She suggested that, subconsciously, I'm working so hard to salvage ruined relationships because, if I can't, I'm acknowledging that I can't actually salvage my relationship with my dad. She noticed too that I'm used to the fact that the anger I've had with my father has accomplished nothing; no matter how much I yell or scream or tell him he's hurt me, nothing changes. I've brought the same thinking into processing my rapist; I'm so used to anger accomplishing nothing that I haven't felt it towards him; I've just sunk into the depression that I'm masking with schoolwork.

     What my therapist then pointed out, which left me literally speechless (well, sign-less, really, as she's Deaf) was that, when I was defending my father's neglect based on the fact that it was out of immaturity and he still loved me, the same may be true for my rapist. He may very well feel love for me, even if it's been perverted and twisted and poisonous. She was curious as to why I could so easily defend my father, who has continually neglected and emotionally abused me for nearly 20 years, but not my rapist. Needless to say, I've got lots to chew on before our appointment next Thursday. I'd love to hear all y'all's thoughts on this.

The Professor

     All y'all know how much I adore The Professor. I idolize him. I'm torn between wanting to cuddle him and wanting to be him. I'd be content with some mixture of the two, really. When I graduate in May, I'm going to grieve not seeing him anymore.

     But, oh my golly, can I please have just one week that doesn't have me spending at least 3 hours in his office? Just one? It's only Tuesday, and I've already been there for two hours today. Next week, I've got a mandatory meeting on Thursday plus all the other time I'm sure I'll be stuck in there. It's gotten to the point that Shadow has his preferred spot to chill in there now!

SCOTUS

     Today, as most people have already noticed, the Supreme Court of the United States has began hearing arguments for and against marriage equality and DOMA. I read an article on it yesterday and made the mistake of reading the comments. Seeing such a demonstration of outright hatred was heartbreaking and demoralizing. There's nothing like reading hundreds of people advocating for you and people like you to be murdered.

As a show of support for queers and equality, we've started a movement of wearing red today. Across the board, I've seen Facebook, queers and allies alike, become a sea of red. I could not be more proud of the people in my life for taking this stand. I'm truly inspired and grateful for the overwhelming show of love.

Growing up Christian

     I've been watching a new series about pastors' teen girls. It's fascinating to see the way that the girls are raised to save themselves for marriage. For some of the girls, it's easy to see that they think it's all a load of hogwash. For one of the girls, though, who has 4 older sisters, you can see how much she values it. Even as she protests to her mouth and demands the right to date, I love seeing the commitment she has in her heart to purity. She and the boy she wanted to date had, of their own volition, a discussion on boundaries and desiring purity together. When her eldest sister, who is 30 and married with a child, revealed that she was wasn't a virgin when she got married (she hadn't had premarital sex with her now-husband, just one other man), she broke down in tears because she was so heartbroken for her. She couldn't even imagine the pain that her sister had gone through after she made that decision, and later had to tell her husband and now her family.

     On the one hand, the feminist in me just cringes at the thought that we're educating young woman to not make their own decisions in their sex lives. (In that specific family, while the eldest few girls had grown up with no other message than that sex is "bad," in the interim, their mother actually became a sex-educator who taught the ins and outs while still promoting abstinence, so her younger girls got the whole message.) The other part of me, though, is so incredibly envious. While my mother is Christian, she made no effort to raise me with Christian values or in the church. She never monitored what I was doing or watching or what I was talking about with who. For the majority of my middle and early high school years, I was a staunch atheist. While part of me entertained the notion of saving myself for marriage just as a sentimental novelty, I never gave it much thought. When my best friend, who I was head over heels for, offered me the opportunity, I took it without a second thought. While I wouldn't say I regret that, I can certainly see how easy it made it for me to become so sexually open. Pairing that with a desperate desire to be validated by men as a straight heterosexual girl plus a lackadaisical mother, and it's no wonder I became so promiscuous so young.

     I'm so curious how that would have changed if I'd been raised to see the value of my purity. To see myself as a child of Christ, someone who has so much intrinsic value outside that of attention from men. If I had had a mom who, rather than just befriending me, actually made the effort to be a mom and know what I was doing. If I'd actually followed Christ throughout my life. I vividly remember, for the first almost two months of dating The Ex, I prayed very literally every time I looked at her. I begged God, without ceasing, for the ability to love her right and to stay pure in my love for her. Obviously, in a wide variety of ways, I failed terribly at that. I think that has to be one of my biggest regrets in our relationship; when I combined a lack of constant commitment to prayer with my past promiscuity, it was a failure from the start.

     I keep feeling God place this one my heart lately. How much I want to be pure. One friend hypothesized it was because of my rape in October that I want to avoid sex. Really, though, I feel it going so much deeper than that. I'm not sure what to do with it, at this point, other than keep praying for clarity on it. It's terrifying, because, other than those months with The Ex, I've never tried to stay pure. I suppose this is where I fall back on knowing I never have more than I can handle without a way out, right?

Wish me luck

&nsbp;&nsbp;&nsbp;&nsbp;&nsbp;My chair has been pressing me to see this specific (signing) counselor here on campus about the PTSD and inability to function normally. The nights have been getting worse and worse for me, so I finally emailed the woman last night. She responded this morning, saying she had a random opening from a cancellation at 1500. Lo and behold, I took it. Wish me luck.

Drrrrrracula

Now that my trip to Italy this summer is definitely on, I'm back into trying to learn Italian. Back in my three years of Spanish in middle school, I could barely roll my Rs. That problem certainly hasn't abated in my Italian studies. So, me being the researcher that I am, I'm trying to find tricks to learn to roll my Rs.

One suggestion was to try to roll "Dracula." Well, years of a stutter had me rolling my D instead. Whoops!

To the 16 year old girl in Ohio,

     I can't imagine, every time I turned on the TV, hearing how badly I ruined the lives of my rapists. Of enduring the glares and hatred in a small-town you once called home. Of having imbeciles the nation over saying you deserved it or it wasn't really rape. You were strong for reporting it, and you're stronger still for enduring this every day. I know that being strong is all an act, but from one survivor to another, thank you. You've become the voice for those of us who couldn't prosecute, who couldn't see our attackers behind bars. Even though the time they'll serve is nothing compared to the time they sentenced you to that night, thank you for facing all of this anyways. By fighting and having them labelled as sex offenders, you've saved countless other people from being victims at their hands. Even if it seems like there's a nation against you, know that you have a family of us here supporting you, as well.

Hrmph

     The cat rescue I foster through recently hired a new foster coordinator. That is, admittedly, a huge blessing for our organization; we have far too many fosters and foster cats to be managed by a volunteer.

     Being the creeper that I am, I found our new staffer on Facebook. She's a lovely lady, recently married, and a great supporter of our rescue. I looked a bit further down her page, seeing where she was trying to figure out how to change to her new surname. She then proceeded to post a blurb from California's court page, explaining how to change your name and gender together or separately, laughing at how "crazy" California is. Because, you know, there's so much hilarity about people who are born in the wrong body and spend inordinate amounts of time, money, and heartache to be able to be comfortable as the person they really are. Count your blessings that this isn't something you have to endure rather than mocking those of us who do.

     And people wonder why queers don't like hanging out with cishets. Just when you think you can like someone, they show how ignorant and bigoted they are. Well then.

They say that

           Just when the caterpillar
             thought his world was over,
                he became a

                                      butterfly.


              So when you left,
       I pulled your clothing
               tightly in around
                         me
    to cocoon myself in the
       last pieces I had of us.


                   I waited for the pain
                      to sprout wings
               from my shoulder blades.


                                          But all I am left with
                                          are the moth eaten remains
                                                               of our future.

Dear Cis Scum,

     Yes, I'm transgender. (No, by the way, it's not a noun; you can't call me "a transgender.") Yes, I'm calling you cis scum because, hey, might as well call a spade a spade. No, I'm not subhuman, a freak, or perverted. No, this isn't some sexual fetish; trust me, there's a fuckton of things I would rather get my rocks off with than going through the bullshit of changing my gender. Making me and people like me out to be some sort of freak says a lot more about you than it does about us. Good try, cis scum.

One Upping

     My step-father and I joke that, whenever one does something awful, the other has to one-up them. If I do less than great on a homework assignment, his report will flop at work. If he sprains his wrist, I'll break something. When I scratched the car trying to park (because both my neighbors are assholes, just for the record), he'll back his truck into his trailer and scrunch both.

     I managed to one up his truck, now though, having rear ended an H3. He had to replace his tailgate after his trailer smash, I have to replace our BMW's hood. Motherfucker.

Food Hipster

     As I'm sitting here drinking chocolate almond milk, eating gluten-free cookies and toast, and emailing Domino's to complain that their GF crusts only come in small (that means that, unlike medium pizzas, I can't use coupons; I can get two medium pizzas for the price of one small with coupon), I've realized I'm becoming one of those people.

As a side note, Christ do I miss bread. Gluten-free bread, even toasted with garlic salt, is... lacking.

Still not funny

I, for obvious reasons, fail to find rape jokes funny. When I tell that to you, as a heterosexual male with no history of sexual assault, if you respond with, "Then you're not listening to the right people," I take no responsibility for any violent reaction on my part. Asshole.

Gluten

     I've been feeling great from cutting out most of the gluten in my diet. On the downside of that is, now if I eat anything with gluten, I curl up in gastrointestinal agony. I miss wheat!

Scarification

     I have over 300 self injury scars on my thigh. I'm not ashamed of them, but they're not something I particularly like to show off, either. Many are small and white, but many are several inches long, raised, and stay fairly pink. There is a large burn mark from when I was 14, and a whole host of words; most of the awful things I've thought about myself are carved there so I can never forget them. When I had the physical exam after my rape, the nurse there commented on how the words are even neater than her cross-stich patterns.

     For maybe 5 years now, I've been planning on getting a tattoo there someday. I was ashamed of them, wanted to cover them up and pretend they never existed. Once I turned 18, the plan was to wait until I was 2-5 years clean, since you can't tattoo over scars that hadn't settled. I no longer wanted to hide them, just make them less of a focus. With the exception of my relapse on October 6th, the night of my rape, I've been clean since summer. I was well on my way to the tattoo.

     I'd been contemplating scarification on my thigh instead; a symbolic cutting over all the harm I'd done to myself. There's few scarification artists who advertise, though, even in a metropolitan area like this; even then, I feel awkward finding a random new person for something like this. Just the other day, though, I found out my piercer does scarification, branding, and hand-done dotwork tattoos. I've been being pierced by him since I was 14; he's done all but a couple of my piercings, including my VCH. I couldn't be more comfortable with him; that seems to happen once you've been naked from the waist down with someone. I spoke to him on Friday when I went to get my septum jewelry changed. I talked to him and showed him my scars; he agreed that a large, geometric type design would do well. We're now texting ideas back and forth; he said he's excited for the project, since he has near complete artistic freedom.

     I can't believe it's actually happening. I'm looking forward to looking into the mirror and seeing something more beautiful than a lifetime of hurt.