Before I even start to get wound up, lemme point you to Harriet Jacobs’ excellent dissection of why rape jokes aren’t funny, you jerk: A woman walks into a rape, uh bar.*
As far as I can tell, the “joke” is usually that it wasn’t really rape at all, or it wasn’t a “real” rape, or it was a fun rape, or it was a deserved rape. Which, seeing as how rape victims get to hear that shit, completely seriously (and with completely serious consequences) from their rapist, friends, family, and cops, you might see as how it doesn’t come off as a joke so much as it comes off as same shit, different day.
Yep, she nailed that shit. Read it. I’ll wait.
What’s in my craw tonight? Well, I started talking to a therapist on Tuesday. I get to do this once a week for a while, until we figure out how to make me stop reliving/suffering/fighting the memories. She asked me what I wanted out of therapy. I told her that I wanted two things – for the empty feeling to go away, and for some sort of closure. Carrying around this for 35 years… oh god. That’s so not the way I want to think about this, y’all. I’ve been walking wounded for THIRTY-FIVE years, since the first quiet night that this all started, with me left quivering in my bed, afraid to tell a soul.
I like the therapist. She asked good beginning questions, was appropriately affected by my story [yet still all business when she needed to be], and recognized that I’m a force to be reckoned with, strength-wise. But here’s the rub… I’m strong, yes. I made it so far without telling a soul, working on myself without any other help until recently. Yet coming home from the session, I wanted to cry. I don’t even know why. I guess it’s like picking at a scab over and over and over.
I hope this does what I want it to do. I’m tired of the scars.
*She takes her username from the slave Harriet Jacobs, hence the Blog name “Fugitivus” – please do go check it out.