Readers will most certainly have noticed the lull in output on Elegant Hustler this month. This is not for lack of work or investment in the site. On the contrary, more content has been created in the past few weeks than at any time prior. But as foreshadowed in Hustler Rules about a month ago, the tone of this project has shifted a few degrees and left me struggling with how to present the upcoming essay.
Recently coming to terms with a history, rather an entire lifetime of parental abuse, has been both liberating and extremely hard work. There are multitudes of stories, insights, and personal anecdotes that not only heal me in expression, but heal others by finding someone with whom they can connect. The difficulty I’ve had in getting the ball rolling with my first story about a sociopathic father and complicit mother is that being a product of the community in which I was raised I am still conditioned to feel shame in what it means to call myself a victim. Rich, white, male dominated suburbs in the Northeast are run by rich white males. The women and children who express their suffering are either crazy, sluts, or troubled. I fell into all three of these categories growing up. I knew adult women, wives and mothers, usually divorcees, who fit the bill too. It seems like an obvious concept to overcome - that women must be silenced of their uprising against oppression or abuse so they are put down with oppressive and abusive labeling and brainwashing. However it fucking works. Not as effectively as anyone would hope. Though I know in my father’s case his only concern at every hospital visit was whether or not his secret was surfacing during therapy. How I was feeling, if I was in pain, never really came up. So maybe no one actually gives a shit if another teenager or mother of four commits suicide this year. Those guys are doing just fine.
However I’m not. I have been writing incessantly for the past three weeks. I’ve had a thorough game-plan worked out this whole time. But when I sit down to pull it all together my hands freeze. My heart skips. My shoulders feel just a little heavier. I’m stuck on the idea that in describing my abuse and sharing my life as a victim I am automatically put on dramatic female status. It’s not the story. It’s not the sharing. I'm good at that. It’s the fact that I am claiming it. And making an accusation. I worry that no one will really believe what I’m trying to say. For I grew up in a world, much like most of this fucking world let’s be honest, where when a woman decides to share that she has been abused, hurt, victimized, she has to fear that she’ll be called a liar. I know what total fucking bullshit this is. I know how backwards and wrong and terrible that makes us, our communities, the systems in which we keep trying to operate. Yet I can’t get my body to stop physically reacting to my plan to recount stories of my past giving damning evidence that I was raised in a house with two people who were soulless and daft enough to actually feel genuine hate towards one of their children and treat her accordingly. The misogynistic anti-female values embedded in every institutional fiber of my hometown are buried so deep inside of me that no matter how evolved and self-aware I am they continue to hold me back.
I’m expanding my Facebook community and starting to befriend more women who are brave enough to share their stories, their pain, and their struggles with the world. I see nothing but support and love given their way as a result. This should be a good enough start for me to finish piecing essay Number One together. Though my hands are shocked still and my stomach flips itself I have one driving force that is powerful enough to override my body’s resistance: the other survivors. We all need to know that we’re not alone. And that we’re not dramatic, or damaged, or Crazy. You can define the word Victim however you want, but you don’t ever have to deny it for yourself because someone is uncomfortable with your suffering. Just because some men don’t want to believe that women can be hurt, doesn’t mean that our pain isn’t real.
Please stay tuned for upcoming stories of a new nature. And of course I’m sure I’ll have to keep tossing in tales of Fake Doms and Megadicks to keep things upbeat. You know. All those Fake Doms. Or really just. Men.
Am I being too harsh on the dudes? Ladies, you tell me. There’s a rape-positive all male convention coming up in Chicago next week. A sociopathic predator who wants to pass legislation overwhelmingly restricting the control women have over our own bodies just won the Republican Caucus in Iowa. This morning I saw a public Facebook profile for a reverse-sexism group leader, claiming MEN are the ones being objectified, for EVERYTHING. Ok. Fine. Take off your clothes. Get in bed. Fuck me. Did you cum? Feel better? Bye.
Yeah. Men only feel objectified when they’re getting rejected for it. Women feel objectified when they’re in danger of being assaulted. Fuck this shit. I think I’m ready to write about my abusive father now.
Coming Soon: Home Videos: A Predator and His Weapon of Choice
We got this girls. Fuck we do.