To the Honorable Jacqueline Hatch:
It was with dismay and disgust that I read today about your ruling in the case of the sexual assault committed by Arizona police officer Robb Gary Evans and your remarks to his victim.
Unfortunately, I was not surprised.
You see, I am a survivor of multiple sexual assaults. One happened when I was 13; I reported it, with the help of a school counselor, to the local police. No charges were filed, even though I knew the names of the people who raped me. The clothing I had on the day I went to the police station was questioned. My behavior was questioned. My prior relationships with the boys who raped me were questioned. I do not believe the boys themselves were ever questioned.
When I was 18, I was raped by someone I was dating and an associate of theirs. Not wanting to deal with the police again, and far from home during my first year of college, I reported my rape - and subsequent pregnancy - to the school I was attending. I was forced to attend "mediation" with the two people involved, deprived of choices about what to do with the resultant child (I miscarried), and dropping classes I had with those two people was an incredible chore that dragged on forever. It was a small campus. I saw them everywhere. I was not safe. (I transferred as soon as I could.)
I have been very public about my status as a survivor and the way that I was treated by police, college administration, therapists - institutions that are ostensibly set up to help victims of a violent crime or at least refer them to the correct other institutions, institutions that have the ability to mete out one form of justice/aid or another - because very little has changed, and I want other people, other survivors, to be able to receive support and understanding when they come forward. I received that kind of support from some places in my life (and I am thankful for it), but not from institutions who I was told that I was supposed to trust with my well-being.
I would imagine Evans' victim may have felt similarly as I did when she heard your words and saw your ruling.
We hear these messages EVERY DAY, we women. We can't drink, we can't wear certain outfits, we can't flirt, we can't change our minds: we led him on. We can't go outside. We deserved it. Some women - women of color, trans women - get this message more intensely and it manifests in different ways from the mainstream message - some women's bodies are deemed more worthy of protection, justice and autonomy than others. There is a wealth of literature, research and survivor testimonials out there on all of this, and one thing is clear from all of it - there is nothing we could ever do that would make rape justifiable. Someone who understands consent, who is not a rapist, backs off when there is any sign that a woman does not welcome his attentions - even if she did before. It has nothing to do with the victim's actions and everything to do with the rapist's.
I see that you have apologized to the victim; that's a good start. I really do hope that you apply what you've learned from the public response to your callous remarks to future cases, and that there is some way for Evans to be punished for his crime - losing his job would be a good beginning. Sending the message that behavior like his is completely unacceptable is crucial. I hope you understand the fact that your ruling was unjust - a civilian would have been menacing enough, but a police officer who abused his authority in order to assault a woman? Evans is not the first or last, and it is an especially heinous abuse of power. I hope you truly understand the force your remarks had and how truly traumatic it is hearing a system reinforce the idea that you did something to bring your assault upon yourself.
Perhaps you can take this opportunity to work with a rape crisis center or another advocacy organization of that sort to educate fellow members of the judicial community. I can only hope. All of us survivors can only hope. Your voice as a member of the bar, as someone who sits on the Coconino County Superior Court, has more political weight than mine. Please use it for true justice, for true change.
Sincerely,
Jessica Skolnik
Chicago, IL
Friday, September 7, 2012
Thursday, September 6, 2012
when hell's near
A lot of the collective organizing I find myself engaged in is that which some dismiss as "identity politics," but which I really believe is a politic of survival - the necessary agitation needed to disrupt a system which both historically and currently restricts access to resources to certain people based on race/gender/class/sexual orientation/ability.
When the sheer fact of your existence in the world means that you are subject to potential violence, when you are not safe walking down the street because your body scares people who have more power than you do, when you are cut off from the resources you need to support yourself and/or your family, you do what you can to get by. You hustle, you organize, you use what voice you have to advocate for yourself.
I agitate for my own survival, of course, and for/with others facing the same challenges I do - but I'm also not that far down the chain of power, personally, and so I believe that supporting others who are further down the chain from me in their quests for their own survival is critical. That can manifest in many ways, the most common being sharing resources (financial, informational) on a micro-level and using what platforms I have to boost others' voices, ideas, and organizations.
It should not ever mean busting into discussions that don't directly involve me, insisting that I know better than someone else what they need in order to survive, thinking any of this makes me a better person than others, talking over others, insisting I deserve praise for my Good Deeds, ignoring preexisting community networks in favor of my splashy new organization, hogging the spotlight, making a career out of my participation in an oppressive system and criticism thereof (when perfectly good and voluminous criticism already exists from those who are oppressed by that system). It should not ever mean becoming so enveloped in my movement that I defend the ways in which it's flawed and shout down legitimate criticism.
It involves a lot of listening and a lot of reading. A lot of thought. A lot of meaningful personal relationships. It is not easy or simple and it can't particularly be packaged neatly or sold because it's so practical and conditional.
This is a politic of personal survival as well as collective survival. This is the only thing that matters to me: that we still live in a massively fucked and weighted world that favors those who already have the resources and who are given the benefit of the doubt and are treated with full humanity, who live in this world with less fear of personal harm every day than others, and continues to shaft those who don't.
One more thing: should you dismiss rhetoric (as we are in hyperelectoral mode as a country in the US right now), it matters. It matters because rhetoric is used to enact and justify policy, and policy has real life effects.
When the sheer fact of your existence in the world means that you are subject to potential violence, when you are not safe walking down the street because your body scares people who have more power than you do, when you are cut off from the resources you need to support yourself and/or your family, you do what you can to get by. You hustle, you organize, you use what voice you have to advocate for yourself.
I agitate for my own survival, of course, and for/with others facing the same challenges I do - but I'm also not that far down the chain of power, personally, and so I believe that supporting others who are further down the chain from me in their quests for their own survival is critical. That can manifest in many ways, the most common being sharing resources (financial, informational) on a micro-level and using what platforms I have to boost others' voices, ideas, and organizations.
It should not ever mean busting into discussions that don't directly involve me, insisting that I know better than someone else what they need in order to survive, thinking any of this makes me a better person than others, talking over others, insisting I deserve praise for my Good Deeds, ignoring preexisting community networks in favor of my splashy new organization, hogging the spotlight, making a career out of my participation in an oppressive system and criticism thereof (when perfectly good and voluminous criticism already exists from those who are oppressed by that system). It should not ever mean becoming so enveloped in my movement that I defend the ways in which it's flawed and shout down legitimate criticism.
It involves a lot of listening and a lot of reading. A lot of thought. A lot of meaningful personal relationships. It is not easy or simple and it can't particularly be packaged neatly or sold because it's so practical and conditional.
This is a politic of personal survival as well as collective survival. This is the only thing that matters to me: that we still live in a massively fucked and weighted world that favors those who already have the resources and who are given the benefit of the doubt and are treated with full humanity, who live in this world with less fear of personal harm every day than others, and continues to shaft those who don't.
One more thing: should you dismiss rhetoric (as we are in hyperelectoral mode as a country in the US right now), it matters. It matters because rhetoric is used to enact and justify policy, and policy has real life effects.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
you better be doubtful
I feel a lot like I harp on/concentrate on the same social topics over and over to the point where I may become one long drone - sexual & relationship violence/consent, institutionalized violence, body autonomy, economic justice, dismantling whiteness, gender equity, and so on. There is never a day when these matters are not crucially important to me.
But there are some days when I want to just lie face down on my bed and not talk or hear about any of it. I don't really have the luxury of doing so most of the time, and I'm very much aware that those rare moments when I'm not forced to confront such things simply because I live in my body in this world are because of fucked-up social structures that I benefit from also because I live in my body in this world.
I've felt like that for pretty much all of 2012.
It might be that I have narrowed my access to information so that the headlines I get are particularly tailored to my social concerns, or it might be that this election cycle - and the proposed Republican platform specifically - feels particularly threatening to me personally. This is not new news, but it feels particularly urgent right now. Much of the dialogue I'm reading from left-activist corners feels like it's failing really basic stuff (like an intersectional analysis that takes into account the impact of race, gender, class and sexuality all at the same time as opposed to focusing solely on one axis), and so I find myself reading (and sometimes writing) a lot of necessary 101 responses - but they are the same kinds of responses people have been making to ignorance in activism for the last FORTY YEARS.
I am tired. Tired. Tired. I am not the only one.
There are a few things I am taking solace in: making music. Building things. Being with the people I trust and love. Good food and books and records and movies.
I am glad I have those things in my life.
But I am so tired.
At the same time, I feel like I have to pick myself up, dust myself off, and keep fighting no matter how little energy I have, because times are so incredibly critical. I try to use my voice where it's useful, try to promote others' voices where that's what's needed, try to share the resources I have and help community organizations connect with one another if I can.
Sometimes I feel very lonely. Other times I feel lucky, surrounded by others who understand, others who are fighting too, others who I look up to.
This is going to be a pretty short piece, but I just wanted to acknowledge that I feel lucky to have this space to share my thoughts, as I am lucky to have the people around me both virtually and in my "real" life that I do. If anyone else is feeling isolated and alone in this horrendous political climate, feeling small against institutions that were built broken and have further corrupted, let's squeeze one another's hands for support. Let's lean on one another.
But there are some days when I want to just lie face down on my bed and not talk or hear about any of it. I don't really have the luxury of doing so most of the time, and I'm very much aware that those rare moments when I'm not forced to confront such things simply because I live in my body in this world are because of fucked-up social structures that I benefit from also because I live in my body in this world.
I've felt like that for pretty much all of 2012.
It might be that I have narrowed my access to information so that the headlines I get are particularly tailored to my social concerns, or it might be that this election cycle - and the proposed Republican platform specifically - feels particularly threatening to me personally. This is not new news, but it feels particularly urgent right now. Much of the dialogue I'm reading from left-activist corners feels like it's failing really basic stuff (like an intersectional analysis that takes into account the impact of race, gender, class and sexuality all at the same time as opposed to focusing solely on one axis), and so I find myself reading (and sometimes writing) a lot of necessary 101 responses - but they are the same kinds of responses people have been making to ignorance in activism for the last FORTY YEARS.
I am tired. Tired. Tired. I am not the only one.
There are a few things I am taking solace in: making music. Building things. Being with the people I trust and love. Good food and books and records and movies.
I am glad I have those things in my life.
But I am so tired.
At the same time, I feel like I have to pick myself up, dust myself off, and keep fighting no matter how little energy I have, because times are so incredibly critical. I try to use my voice where it's useful, try to promote others' voices where that's what's needed, try to share the resources I have and help community organizations connect with one another if I can.
Sometimes I feel very lonely. Other times I feel lucky, surrounded by others who understand, others who are fighting too, others who I look up to.
This is going to be a pretty short piece, but I just wanted to acknowledge that I feel lucky to have this space to share my thoughts, as I am lucky to have the people around me both virtually and in my "real" life that I do. If anyone else is feeling isolated and alone in this horrendous political climate, feeling small against institutions that were built broken and have further corrupted, let's squeeze one another's hands for support. Let's lean on one another.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
winter rainbow
I used to be skinny. I also used to hate myself.
I was a US size 4-6 for most of my teen/young adult life. I always had big tits and a big ass/hips relative to my frame, which is a tiny one (I'm somewhere between 4'9" and 4'10". The rest of my family is also that short). My body was sexualized from a very young age, a site of shame, and as I went through puberty I also learned that it was an easy way to get attention (both negative and positive - it took me a long time how to figure out how to separate the two).
I can remember being 11 years old (the year, interestingly enough, that I became socially involved with the boys that would sexually assault me two years later). I weighed less than 90 lbs. I'd lie in bed pinching the skin on my sides and belly. I was so disgusted with myself, so depressed, so suicidal, that I'd seized on my weight as the thing to focus on (having been bombarded with messages about weight and attractiveness and self-worth from every conceivable angle). I ate nothing but yogurt for a week. I starved myself sometimes, and then I'd binge. I hated myself so much. I wished to disappear. I wished myself out of my skin, away from the frame and flesh I found so repugnant.
And so I developed body dysmorphia.
That stuck around as I developed healthier eating habits, as I stopped doing insane amounts of drugs, as I started coping with the fallout from that assault at 13 and both earlier and later issues, as I started putting myself together slowly and carefully, as I worked on my mental and physical health in fits and starts. I never saw other fatter women as anything other than beautiful, though I'd compare myself to skinnier women and wish that I could look like them, wished that I could benefit from whatever I perceived them to benefit from (the more I unpack it, the more absurd and irrational it's revealed to be). All of my bodily self-hatred was focused toward the things that deviated from the standard - my hair, my nose, my height, my shape. Fat was a strange phantom, a psychic location for my inner self-hatred.
When I went on anti-depressants I gained weight, and a few years ago I was diagnosed with PCOS, and both the PCOS and the hormonal birth control I went on as an attempt to deal with it were contributing factors to my gaining even more weight. I am now a US size 10-12 (still smaller than average, but on my frame that means something different than it might for someone taller than me). At first I was really unhappy with how I looked (as I always had been), but as I began to talk to friends of mine and women in my community who were larger than I am I started realizing a few things:
1) That it's incredibly insulting to other larger women for a smaller woman like myself to speak in the way that I was speaking about my body, regardless of my intention (I feel terrible about this on a daily basis);
2) That I benefited from thin privilege for a very long time, and that I still do to some extent (I can shop in straight size stores, etc);
3) That the weight loss industry is horrifying, misogynistic, manipulative and nothing more than the hand of capital in my pocket;
4) That my health is my own business and that nobody has the right to judge anyone else based on their weight;
5) That I am personally a thousand times healthier and happier in all respects than I was when I was skinny.
Without movements like Fat Acceptance and Health at Every Size, without the words of wise women out there (both friends and strangers), I doubt I would have come to these conclusions. I owe these women a debt of gratitude far larger than I can ever repay. I am proud of my belly, my big thighs, my big hips, my ass. I no longer find shame in my hair, my nose, my short neck. My cleavage is my business, and I can choose to reveal it or not as I please. These aspects of my body are all part of me, and my body is beautiful because it is MINE and because I love being alive. The phantoms no longer haunt me.
I never thought I'd get here, much like I never thought I'd shake the constant cloak of depression and PTSD that I was hiding and suffocating in (that I wrote about in December). But I have, and I write about it here to flout the myth that skinny is necessarily better or more desirable. I feel more loved, more comfortable, more proud and beautiful than I ever have.
We all have different bodies, and we have to learn what's comfortable and what's right for us. Sometimes what's right and comfortable and natural for us aligns with socially acceptable standards, and sometimes it doesn't. I'd love to live in a world that celebrates the beauty and power of all sorts of different bodies, but as long as there is money to be made off of shame and pain the fight for that utopia will be a tough uphill battle. I'm inspired to fight, though. I am full of fire.
I was a US size 4-6 for most of my teen/young adult life. I always had big tits and a big ass/hips relative to my frame, which is a tiny one (I'm somewhere between 4'9" and 4'10". The rest of my family is also that short). My body was sexualized from a very young age, a site of shame, and as I went through puberty I also learned that it was an easy way to get attention (both negative and positive - it took me a long time how to figure out how to separate the two).
I can remember being 11 years old (the year, interestingly enough, that I became socially involved with the boys that would sexually assault me two years later). I weighed less than 90 lbs. I'd lie in bed pinching the skin on my sides and belly. I was so disgusted with myself, so depressed, so suicidal, that I'd seized on my weight as the thing to focus on (having been bombarded with messages about weight and attractiveness and self-worth from every conceivable angle). I ate nothing but yogurt for a week. I starved myself sometimes, and then I'd binge. I hated myself so much. I wished to disappear. I wished myself out of my skin, away from the frame and flesh I found so repugnant.
And so I developed body dysmorphia.
That stuck around as I developed healthier eating habits, as I stopped doing insane amounts of drugs, as I started coping with the fallout from that assault at 13 and both earlier and later issues, as I started putting myself together slowly and carefully, as I worked on my mental and physical health in fits and starts. I never saw other fatter women as anything other than beautiful, though I'd compare myself to skinnier women and wish that I could look like them, wished that I could benefit from whatever I perceived them to benefit from (the more I unpack it, the more absurd and irrational it's revealed to be). All of my bodily self-hatred was focused toward the things that deviated from the standard - my hair, my nose, my height, my shape. Fat was a strange phantom, a psychic location for my inner self-hatred.
When I went on anti-depressants I gained weight, and a few years ago I was diagnosed with PCOS, and both the PCOS and the hormonal birth control I went on as an attempt to deal with it were contributing factors to my gaining even more weight. I am now a US size 10-12 (still smaller than average, but on my frame that means something different than it might for someone taller than me). At first I was really unhappy with how I looked (as I always had been), but as I began to talk to friends of mine and women in my community who were larger than I am I started realizing a few things:
1) That it's incredibly insulting to other larger women for a smaller woman like myself to speak in the way that I was speaking about my body, regardless of my intention (I feel terrible about this on a daily basis);
2) That I benefited from thin privilege for a very long time, and that I still do to some extent (I can shop in straight size stores, etc);
3) That the weight loss industry is horrifying, misogynistic, manipulative and nothing more than the hand of capital in my pocket;
4) That my health is my own business and that nobody has the right to judge anyone else based on their weight;
5) That I am personally a thousand times healthier and happier in all respects than I was when I was skinny.
Without movements like Fat Acceptance and Health at Every Size, without the words of wise women out there (both friends and strangers), I doubt I would have come to these conclusions. I owe these women a debt of gratitude far larger than I can ever repay. I am proud of my belly, my big thighs, my big hips, my ass. I no longer find shame in my hair, my nose, my short neck. My cleavage is my business, and I can choose to reveal it or not as I please. These aspects of my body are all part of me, and my body is beautiful because it is MINE and because I love being alive. The phantoms no longer haunt me.
I never thought I'd get here, much like I never thought I'd shake the constant cloak of depression and PTSD that I was hiding and suffocating in (that I wrote about in December). But I have, and I write about it here to flout the myth that skinny is necessarily better or more desirable. I feel more loved, more comfortable, more proud and beautiful than I ever have.
We all have different bodies, and we have to learn what's comfortable and what's right for us. Sometimes what's right and comfortable and natural for us aligns with socially acceptable standards, and sometimes it doesn't. I'd love to live in a world that celebrates the beauty and power of all sorts of different bodies, but as long as there is money to be made off of shame and pain the fight for that utopia will be a tough uphill battle. I'm inspired to fight, though. I am full of fire.
Monday, January 10, 2011
the common-sense guide to being a survivors' advocate
1. If there's a story in the news about rape charges or a survivor brings a story to you, don't dismiss that story. Listen. Don't assume automatically that the charges are false or could be false. The chances of it being false are extremely low.
Don't make excuses for the person who is being charged or the person you're being told the story about ("Wow, but he's always been cool to me!" is the most obvious example of the kind of dismissive language/excuse I'm talking about here). No matter your intentions, this is rape-apologist language, and it's one of the many factors that contribute toward survivors not speaking up - a cultural atmosphere in which we we as survivors have historically had our experiences scrutinized, minimized and dismissed.
2. If a survivor comes to you with a story and would like advice as to how to proceed, let the survivor direct the course of action (as long as that course of action isn't dangerous to anyone). Remember that there are survivors' organizations and crisis centers in your area that can help and have the resources to do more than you can alone; that's always my first suggestion. Those organizations will also in many cases help the survivor through criminal, legal and medical filing if that's what the survivor chooses to do.
3. Donate your time and/or money to a worthwhile organization that supports survivors' services in your area. There are local and national shelters, hotlines, and other nonprofit organizations that are always in need of your energy.
4. If the person being accused of assault is an artist or musician (or producer of goods, so on and so forth), step back and question why you're supporting this person's work, if you are. There are enough artists and musicians out there that you're not losing anything significant by not focusing on, supporting or choosing not to associate yourself with that person's work. If that person is a member of your community, help figure out community strategies to deal with the resultant issues. Keep in mind that safety within the community comes first.
5. Take the time to educate yourself. Start here:
Yes Means Yes
Rape Victim Advocates
Support New York
Men Can Stop Rape
Don't make excuses for the person who is being charged or the person you're being told the story about ("Wow, but he's always been cool to me!" is the most obvious example of the kind of dismissive language/excuse I'm talking about here). No matter your intentions, this is rape-apologist language, and it's one of the many factors that contribute toward survivors not speaking up - a cultural atmosphere in which we we as survivors have historically had our experiences scrutinized, minimized and dismissed.
2. If a survivor comes to you with a story and would like advice as to how to proceed, let the survivor direct the course of action (as long as that course of action isn't dangerous to anyone). Remember that there are survivors' organizations and crisis centers in your area that can help and have the resources to do more than you can alone; that's always my first suggestion. Those organizations will also in many cases help the survivor through criminal, legal and medical filing if that's what the survivor chooses to do.
3. Donate your time and/or money to a worthwhile organization that supports survivors' services in your area. There are local and national shelters, hotlines, and other nonprofit organizations that are always in need of your energy.
4. If the person being accused of assault is an artist or musician (or producer of goods, so on and so forth), step back and question why you're supporting this person's work, if you are. There are enough artists and musicians out there that you're not losing anything significant by not focusing on, supporting or choosing not to associate yourself with that person's work. If that person is a member of your community, help figure out community strategies to deal with the resultant issues. Keep in mind that safety within the community comes first.
5. Take the time to educate yourself. Start here:
Yes Means Yes
Rape Victim Advocates
Support New York
Men Can Stop Rape
Sunday, January 9, 2011
organs
Stretch your arm out. Point your finger.
A to B. Nebula. There is no connection.
There are a thousand possible links.
We chew on ourselves. Our mouths are full
of flesh and dead words, cells sloughed off.
The newsday sets when we stop the noise,
screaming silenced beneath the fold.
Ourobouros. Nothing left. Seize the immediate.
Nothing left. There's a narrative. There is no connection.
There are a thousand possible links.
Each of us an empire, collapsing. The dust from
our abandoned cities clouds the sun.
Lay the blame: a new foundation.
A to B. Nebula. There is no connection.
There are a thousand possible links.
We chew on ourselves. Our mouths are full
of flesh and dead words, cells sloughed off.
The newsday sets when we stop the noise,
screaming silenced beneath the fold.
Ourobouros. Nothing left. Seize the immediate.
Nothing left. There's a narrative. There is no connection.
There are a thousand possible links.
Each of us an empire, collapsing. The dust from
our abandoned cities clouds the sun.
Lay the blame: a new foundation.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
mississippi kite
There aren't distinct points demarcating The Time When I Was Severely Depressed (essentially from my beginning memories of consciousness to age 22 or so) from The Time When I Started Reckoning With Things But Was Still In A Lot Of Pain (ages 22-28, roughly) from The Time When The Clouds Are Allowed To Pass (ages 28 - present). Only in hindsight am I able to carve out rough biographical epochs, useful for tracing growth, learning forward and trying not to commit familiar mistakes.
My depression as I knew it is gone, and that's weird. It's weird to wake up without a demon curled around my neck, whispering how worthless I am, sucking out my energy, reminding me throughout the day that the world would be better off without me, that I've fucked up many times over, that there's no atonement possible. That demon was my familiar for so long that without it I found myself not really knowing how to function - I'd relied on it to gauge my actions for so long. It warped my lens and cast a long shadow over everything I could perceive.
I had my eyes examined a week or so ago for the first time in eight years. Turns out I actually need glasses - my prescription isn't that strong (I'm a little nearsighted/astigmatic) but it's strong for someone who wasn't wearing any kind of corrective eyewear. When I put my new glasses on for the first time, the amount of detail I could see was astounding. My brain was processing "blurry" as "normal."
It was a quick adjustment to my new glasses, but the analogy to operating without the demon is obvious. It took way longer to figure that one out. For a period of time, every single step I took was a little bit wobbly. I had to learn all over, in my late twenties, how to assess myself and others, how to operate in the world. I had a decent idea, but the process of rehabituating is a strange and complicated one. After about two years of this, I feel like I'm on solid ground.
The sadnesses I feel now are normal, not all-encompassing, and I know how to deal with them - how to work with them (as I would work with any other strong emotion), how to let them flow over and through me. They don't appear rootless. Meditation, talking/thinking things out and letting myself lean on others (as I let others lean on me) actually help.
The demon - and various events, most of them traumatic - helped ensure that I was a real asshole as a teenager/young adult. Any wounded animal would be. I spent most of my time licking my wounds, trying not to smear blood everywhere, and lashing out at anyone who tried to love me. I count myself extremely lucky that I had music, art, writing, literature and what existed of an underground community (and people who loved me) to fall into, because if I hadn't had those supports I would have tumbled headlong into the abyss. I've spent the last decade or so trying to figure out how to pay others back for the support I received, and I think I've figured out a few common-sense strategies through trial and error - ethical principles, responsibility to my community, and so forth. (The demon enjoys stripping you of common sense and replacing obvious things with its own bent philosophies.)
I have this kernel of hope to offer others in various phases of struggling with the demon in the many guises it appears in, be it organic depression or PTSD or a combination thereof (or something else) - you won't know when it leaves, but its absence will be loud. It'll take time to adjust, but we humans are remarkably adaptable creatures and if you're tempered by the fire, as anyone fighting the demon is, you'll figure out how to reckon with its absence. There's never a day when the fight is over, but there are days when it gets so much easier, days when you can relax your vigilance, days when you can allow yourself to experience real joy and an entire spectrum of other emotions and experiences you previously thought weren't possible. Being a grown-up is weird. Being a grown-up who's spent her life reckoning with this shit is even weirder. It's complicated and it's messy and there is no neat ending - but there is motion beyond, life beyond, and you'll know it when you're in it - and it is worth fighting for. It is worth it a thousand times over.
My depression as I knew it is gone, and that's weird. It's weird to wake up without a demon curled around my neck, whispering how worthless I am, sucking out my energy, reminding me throughout the day that the world would be better off without me, that I've fucked up many times over, that there's no atonement possible. That demon was my familiar for so long that without it I found myself not really knowing how to function - I'd relied on it to gauge my actions for so long. It warped my lens and cast a long shadow over everything I could perceive.
I had my eyes examined a week or so ago for the first time in eight years. Turns out I actually need glasses - my prescription isn't that strong (I'm a little nearsighted/astigmatic) but it's strong for someone who wasn't wearing any kind of corrective eyewear. When I put my new glasses on for the first time, the amount of detail I could see was astounding. My brain was processing "blurry" as "normal."
It was a quick adjustment to my new glasses, but the analogy to operating without the demon is obvious. It took way longer to figure that one out. For a period of time, every single step I took was a little bit wobbly. I had to learn all over, in my late twenties, how to assess myself and others, how to operate in the world. I had a decent idea, but the process of rehabituating is a strange and complicated one. After about two years of this, I feel like I'm on solid ground.
The sadnesses I feel now are normal, not all-encompassing, and I know how to deal with them - how to work with them (as I would work with any other strong emotion), how to let them flow over and through me. They don't appear rootless. Meditation, talking/thinking things out and letting myself lean on others (as I let others lean on me) actually help.
The demon - and various events, most of them traumatic - helped ensure that I was a real asshole as a teenager/young adult. Any wounded animal would be. I spent most of my time licking my wounds, trying not to smear blood everywhere, and lashing out at anyone who tried to love me. I count myself extremely lucky that I had music, art, writing, literature and what existed of an underground community (and people who loved me) to fall into, because if I hadn't had those supports I would have tumbled headlong into the abyss. I've spent the last decade or so trying to figure out how to pay others back for the support I received, and I think I've figured out a few common-sense strategies through trial and error - ethical principles, responsibility to my community, and so forth. (The demon enjoys stripping you of common sense and replacing obvious things with its own bent philosophies.)
I have this kernel of hope to offer others in various phases of struggling with the demon in the many guises it appears in, be it organic depression or PTSD or a combination thereof (or something else) - you won't know when it leaves, but its absence will be loud. It'll take time to adjust, but we humans are remarkably adaptable creatures and if you're tempered by the fire, as anyone fighting the demon is, you'll figure out how to reckon with its absence. There's never a day when the fight is over, but there are days when it gets so much easier, days when you can relax your vigilance, days when you can allow yourself to experience real joy and an entire spectrum of other emotions and experiences you previously thought weren't possible. Being a grown-up is weird. Being a grown-up who's spent her life reckoning with this shit is even weirder. It's complicated and it's messy and there is no neat ending - but there is motion beyond, life beyond, and you'll know it when you're in it - and it is worth fighting for. It is worth it a thousand times over.
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