...and I was silent
Dec. 16th, 2005 02:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sev"If someone had experienced sexual assault, like I did," she said, "there's no way they could then be sexually submissive."
I was the only person in the room who self-identified as a bottom. After she said *that*, I wasn't sure I was willing to speak of my personal experience, which differs from hers. But I gave her the chance to clarify. Those of us she was speaking with tried to talk to her about people whose responses might be different. Some brought their personal experience to bear.
"No," she said, "If someone experienced being completely powerless like that, it just would be unthinkable."
Maybe I'd have gotten her to question her assumptions if I'd spoken up. But some days, I just don't have the energy to do the right thing. I'm not up to having conversations in which it's asserted that I'm not "really" a bottom, or that my assault doesn't count because there wasn't a penis involved. Those are hard enough under the best of circumstances.
So the women who'd come out about their sexual assaults closed ranks, mutually supportive, and I stayed on the outside. One of them, who knows my story, came up to me later, and made comforting comments.
This didn't make me feel any better. I'm feeling rotten about dismissive comments, even though they weren't pointed directly at me on purpose. I'm feeling upset at myself that I took it personally. I'm feeling guilty about having passed up the opportunity to try and educate somebody, and I'm feeling guilty about having passed up the opportunity to build some emotional bonds with people I like. I'm pissed at myself for feeling left out when it was my own decision to be silent that set me apart. I'm angry that I "let" myself be silenced, and I'm angry about the standard I set for myself that doesn't leave any room for my feeling tired, marginalized, or afraid.
And I don't know if this is going to make me feel any better, either.
I was sexually assaulted when I was a teenager. It was in the middle of the afternoon, in my own home. I was too drugged to protest. It took me years to realize that my inability to protest didn't mean that the guy didn't do anything wrong.
I was kinked before it happened. I'm still kinky, and largely in the same ways. Kink taught me some very important things about consent: that there's a difference between "lack of objection" and "positive consent." What it feels like to say "yes" and what it feels like to say "no." The idea that I can decide to do some things, but not do other things -- that there were more roles for me than "virgin" or "slut." How to trust that someone will respect my boundaries, how to recover if someone doesn't -- and how to identify warning signs that somebody might not. How to recognize power imbalances in general.
I'm mostly a bottom, and that's mostly how that learning happened. But if I were mostly a top, or completely vanilla, I'd have probably learned many of the same things, just in different ways. Heck, if I'd never been assaulted, I'd have learned many of the same things.
If the world we lived in was less fucked-up, I'd have learned them while I was growing up, instead.
I was the only person in the room who self-identified as a bottom. After she said *that*, I wasn't sure I was willing to speak of my personal experience, which differs from hers. But I gave her the chance to clarify. Those of us she was speaking with tried to talk to her about people whose responses might be different. Some brought their personal experience to bear.
"No," she said, "If someone experienced being completely powerless like that, it just would be unthinkable."
Maybe I'd have gotten her to question her assumptions if I'd spoken up. But some days, I just don't have the energy to do the right thing. I'm not up to having conversations in which it's asserted that I'm not "really" a bottom, or that my assault doesn't count because there wasn't a penis involved. Those are hard enough under the best of circumstances.
So the women who'd come out about their sexual assaults closed ranks, mutually supportive, and I stayed on the outside. One of them, who knows my story, came up to me later, and made comforting comments.
This didn't make me feel any better. I'm feeling rotten about dismissive comments, even though they weren't pointed directly at me on purpose. I'm feeling upset at myself that I took it personally. I'm feeling guilty about having passed up the opportunity to try and educate somebody, and I'm feeling guilty about having passed up the opportunity to build some emotional bonds with people I like. I'm pissed at myself for feeling left out when it was my own decision to be silent that set me apart. I'm angry that I "let" myself be silenced, and I'm angry about the standard I set for myself that doesn't leave any room for my feeling tired, marginalized, or afraid.
And I don't know if this is going to make me feel any better, either.
I was sexually assaulted when I was a teenager. It was in the middle of the afternoon, in my own home. I was too drugged to protest. It took me years to realize that my inability to protest didn't mean that the guy didn't do anything wrong.
I was kinked before it happened. I'm still kinky, and largely in the same ways. Kink taught me some very important things about consent: that there's a difference between "lack of objection" and "positive consent." What it feels like to say "yes" and what it feels like to say "no." The idea that I can decide to do some things, but not do other things -- that there were more roles for me than "virgin" or "slut." How to trust that someone will respect my boundaries, how to recover if someone doesn't -- and how to identify warning signs that somebody might not. How to recognize power imbalances in general.
I'm mostly a bottom, and that's mostly how that learning happened. But if I were mostly a top, or completely vanilla, I'd have probably learned many of the same things, just in different ways. Heck, if I'd never been assaulted, I'd have learned many of the same things.
If the world we lived in was less fucked-up, I'd have learned them while I was growing up, instead.
