You don’t know me, and you aren’t even trying to understand me…

So, last night, I lost my shit again. Why doesn’t matter at this point. It’s just another trigger in a long, long list. I started talking about how I was initiated into sex abuse by my babysitters after they found my porn stash. I was 7. I started stealing porn that year to bribe the older boys with, and they gave me the pages they didn’t want. I got the pictures of the “ugly women,” and I got the sex stories.

This is a paraphrased account of what I ranted about on Twitter. And, before I go on, I have to say, I sometimes feel bad that my followers have to deal with these frequent explosions from me. I try not to react so much to other people, but once I’m upset, I can’t contain my emotions and I blow up.

Someone wrote DMs to me, telling me how what happened to me was not my fault. They said I’d been groomed by my “pedophile” baybysitters. That would be a pair of sister, one 11, the other 12. This person who thought to help me was ready to label other children as pedophiles for experimenting sexually. I pointed out that I already knew about sex when they found my porn stash. I was already curious and wanting to explore, so their offer seemed like a good idea. I’m not saying I wasn’t abused, or that it wasn’t molest, or that it wasn’t a bad thing. I’m saying, what this person said didn’t match reality. It’s the story that they wanted to make up about me, so that I wouldn’t have to be responsible for my own mistakes.

Since that first idea didn’t fly, and it was clear that the little girls who approached me were not pedophiles, this person changed direction and said it was those older boys who groomed me for sex by giving me the porn. Again, this is simply not the case. I was not instructed to steal porn for them. I made the choice to steal it so I could bribe them, and then they would stop hitting me. After the first few stories I’d read, I requested the letters and stories. I groomed myself.

I’m not saying the boys were innocent angels. They beat me so often, I was afraid of all boys. But they didn’t groom me for someone else to exploit me. I did it. It was my mistake, and what followed after might not have totally been my fault, but there is no outside source who was coaching me toward my corruption.

And y’all people can’t handle that kind of reality. I lose track of the number of times that people tell me that what happened to me didn’t really happen that way, and there must be someone else to blame besides me. Y’all are so eager to absolve me of my crimes that you’re not willing to hear my story. I can talk about it all I like, but you don’t hear me. You hear the voice in your head that narrates my story in terms that are more appealing to you. You lie to yourself even as I’m trying to confess my truth.

People who get tired of me talking get mad and ask what the point of my constant confessions are. Am I wanting other kids to grow up like me? No, I wouldn’t want anyone to grow up the way I did. I wouldn’t want anyone to grow up feeling worthless and unworthy of affection. I talk because I want you people to open your eyes and look at everyone. I want you to see the warning signs around kids who are at risk of being exploited. I want you to care more and to stop projecting your outraged feeling on the victims to silence us. I want you to try and understand our pain. And what depresses me is how many of you put your outrage over the thoughts and feelings of the victims.

I don’t feel angry at that person for denying the validity of my memories, or at anyone who’s done this to me over the years. I know that this need to absolve me is your misguided efforts to help me feel better. But it does depress me, because I wonder how anyone can begin to understand why I feel so broken, when they aren’t even willing to accept the story of how I broke myself.

How can any of you know me, when you never stop talking to hear me?

Yet another ungodly long writing ramble…

Right now, me and my muse are in discussions about future projects, which I suspect will cause even more people to hate me as my squicky releases pile up. But our discussion is not a debate so much as a reaffirmation of the reasons why I chose to to write in the first place, and a recognition that editing and revising have often diluted my stories.

First, I’ve been reading a lot these last few months, and a lot of what I’m reading is still relying on the same formulas. The hero that nobody talks to suddenly becomes the most important person in the world. The fate of the world hangs on the decisions of one person, or on a small group of people. Everyone always has the right answer to lead to an obvious conclusion. Morals are usually starkly black and white on these conflicts, and the conflict is typically resolved with someone being killed. Might makes right, and revenge is always the right answer. The hero works in a kitten orphanage, coaching crippled kittens to use mini-wheelchairs while the villain eats puppy stew every day for lunch…after strangling the puppies himself and saving the wrung out blood for the soup stock.

I’ve read so much of this stuff, and I’m sick of it. Lots of people aren’t, and some people will be buying new versions of the formula without knowing how old or overdone it is. Lots of people will love it, and the publishers will keep cranking out more of the same. I get that. So if I want something different, instead of complaining, I have to write it myself. Which is easier said than done, and just writing the stories doesn’t mean I can sell them. Writing a story isn’t a big fucking deal, but writing a good story with a great pitch to catch readers with? That’s not so easy.

Mom…

It’s 3:33 as I sit down to write this. We came back from dinner, and I dropped on the couch in a bleak depression.

It started with a girl. Always does with me, but this one was a gem. White dress, blonde, possibly 7 or 8. Every time I looked up, this girl was somewhere else in the restaurant, dragging one of her four aunts (I know cause she kept shouting Zia to get their attention) or two cousins around behind her by her pinky. She ran outside, jumped around, pounded on the glass, and generally could not be ignored.

A less patient childless person would be writing this same post whining about a spoiled brat who couldn’t sit in place or be controlled by her parents. In fact, I can just see a status message on Facebook from some of the uptight whiners who think they’re funny: “Ugh, such an entitled little shit, drawing attention to herself. Why can’t her parents see how stupid their princess is?”

But I saw this happy, safe kid, and I wanted so bad to know what her story was. How cool must her life be, to have a family that makes her their whole world. How cool must it be to feel that happy and safe?

Another painful trip down memory lane…

Thinking about Cherry has me depressed, but I’ve gone and made things worse by thinking about Rachel. If there’s anyone in my past who can tear me up worse than Cherry, it’s Rachel. Because there was only one chance when I could have done the right thing, and to do that, I would have had to confess to Rachel’s mom that my little brother had blackmailed me into seducing Rachel’s sister. By then, bro was already back in juvi for shoplifting again, and I was pretty sure I’d be joining him soon if Rachel talked.

Rachel caught me messing around with her older sister, and she wanted to be in on “the game.” That’s what bro had me call his plans. It wasn’t proper sex though, just nude heavy petting. That’s what bro preferred, I guess. I never saw a reason to push for more, especially since I was feeling guilty over what bro started. But not guilty enough to turn myself in. Part of that had to do with how bro looked when he got back from juvi; bruised and cagey. I wasn’t looking forward to finding out how to get a matching set of bruises. Which is funny, because I got them anyway.

In any case, when I balked at Rachel’s demands, she called her mom. She was right up to the point of telling her mom that her sister and I weren’t wearing any clothes before I relented and told her she could play with us. I was near the tail end of 11 at the time. She was in the middle of 4.

A very long post on sexual violence and my personal history with it…

First, please go to http://www.helpthecheerleader.com/ and read it before you get into this overly long entry. This is TMI and a TL;DR ramble of ELEVEN pages, (No, really) so either way, you’re going to be reading a while. Unless you’re planning to skip this post for being too long-winded, (Totally fair if you do. And FYI, this is a ramble, not a rant.) I’ll wait while you read the above link, and then the one below.

Finish the first? Right, now please read this: http://www.nytimes.com/2011/03/09/us/09assault.html

Before I discuss anything, let me say that when I talk about my past, it isn’t to brag, or to get sympathy. I am speaking about my past not to offend anyone either, but rather to inform. I am writing as a former life-long resident of Texas, as a past victim of sexual assault, and as a perpetrator as a sexual predator. In fact, I probably would be in prison if I were in any other state besides Texas. The cops had many chances to arrest me, and I’m only going to talk about one of the chances they had. But each time the cops chose to look the other way and let me walk. Part of me is eternally grateful that I did not end up in prison.

But then I recall how those same cops took my reports of my mom’s abuse and sent me right back to her. They filed a report, but that did me no good, and it didn’t even matter until years later, when my mom tried to run an in-house daycare. She spanked a child and the parents complained. AND THEN my complaint came up in the system, and mom was banned from watching other kids.

Fat load of good that report did me. It’s the cops who could have saved me, who SHOULD have saved me. After all, I reported the crime, just like I’d been taught in school. But instead they were just one of many factors that made me into the lovely little monster I am today. After running into too many other people in Texas who are somewhat like me, I know that my case is not unique, nor even rare.

So, if you’ve read those two links, you know why I’m upset. (If not, going beyond the cut is probably going to offend you. Fair warning.) I avoided saying anything when those 18 men gang-raped a little girl because she was “dressed too sexy.” I avoided saying anything while community members tut-tutted about how this would affect the lives of the men. And this is because on some level, I feel sick with guilt over my own crimes. I always feel like a hypocrite speaking out on these topics.

The Long, Slow Goodbye. (Or the meltdown resignation)

Four years ago, I started an experiment and self-published my first story through Lulu. It was full of typos and first-time mistakes, and ever since then I’ve strived to put together a better book. In those four years, I have reached the point where my self-published books were as good as the pro books, and in some cases, mine were even better. I made tables of contents for mine, and lots of pros didn’t bother. I revised my ebooks when I found mistakes, or when readers did, and the pros fire and forget every product, every time. I’m not saying they should go back and fix every little thing. I’m saying I worked harder than the pros would. I committed myself to give people the best product I could, even fixing stories long after they were released.

I was doing this for fun, but over time, I’ve invested more and more of my energy and money into convincing readers to check my stuff out. At times, my free downloads were doing so great, I assumed soon I would see lots of reviews. But other writers explained in their blog posts how people who read stuff for free don’t feel any obligation to lend support. Free readers have to be bribed to offer support. This went against everything I feel passionate about. I’m a vocal supporter of writers, but also of musicians and visual artists. I’m a vocal and passionate person, and I want to believe that deep down, everyone can be just as passionate if I could just find the right message to stir them to feel something.

But you know what? In four years, no one ever proved me right. I have some fans who are just as passionate, but those people are other writers. It’s not that my works fired their passion. They already had passion. They saw my drive and energy, and they wanted to help me achieve my goals. If I make nothing else clear in this TL;DR post, I want to make it clear how much I love and appreciate those communities of writers. Pro, semi-pro, or amateur, you folks are all right, and I never, NEVER want to resent you for having success.

Sometimes even simple advice can’t be followed…

Let’s start simple with the most basic advice any beginning writer gets in their quest to become better: “write what you know.”

Over the last few years, I’ve seen this four word sentence everywhere. The first time I’d heard it was from my aunt Brenda. If anyone can be directly credited for my love of reading and writing, it’s her. And when I was a wee thing of fifteen, I’d asked my aunt what would help me become a better writer. Brenda said, “The most important rule you always have to remember is ‘write what you know.”

I was a smart-ass even then, and my exact response was, “Yeah, right! I can’t write what I know, or I’d be arrested!”

To which my aunt replied, “That’s what fiction is for.”

The truth is usually ugly…

This is the longest non-fiction post I’ve ever written, and as the title warns, this is going to be hard to read. It’s an online confession, and I’m putting under its own category, TMI. I’m sure most of you know McKenzie Phillips’ story by now. If you don’t, you can look her up first, or read it after you read this.

Her coming out about such a sensitive topic got me thinking about how often I hid my past. People don’t like to think about some kids growing up too fast, and they don’t like to talk about how queer kids are treated by society. So when someone brings the subjects up, the standard response is ridicule. Because if they do it enough, they can shame people back into silence. (Thus allowing the cycles of abuse to continue unchecked.)

I’ve had more than enough of being ridiculed, so just the fear of rejection has kept me gagged for a while. Oh sure, I hint at being bad, but a full confession is difficult to write without the silent editor reminding me that people will judge me based on my confession. They’ll dismiss me, because I’m no longer a real human being. Then I’m just “one of those people.”

But having your approval without full disclosure is a hollow, bitter feeling. It’s a lie by way of omission, and I never feel comfortable with that. That’s why I’ve decided to write about parts of my past to try and explain why I see myself as a broken person. If you prefer to remain ignorant about my lousy childhood, I’d advise skipping this post.