"Daddy Issues" Episode #2 - The Cold Case of the Comic Book

Just got done reading Nancy Kilgore's book 'Girl in the Water', it's about sibling abuse.  Her sister Sherry sounded awful and so many parallels were present between them that were present between my father and I it was a discomforting comfort.  

Someone once told me to read 'A Child Called It', I did and it struck me as a very insincere memoir.  I didn't identify with that person in the manner I did with Nancy Kilgore (excluding her descent into insane-o fairyland) and unlike Nancy, I did ultimately assert myself and stood up to my father.  But I did that about 12 years too late.

I don't recall being molested.  I know I had a real fear that it could happen, mainly because of my mother.  Her angle in the divorce proceedings was the--false--accusation of child molestation against my father.  But you can't really blame my mother for thinking the way she was, quite frankly, there was some compelling circumstantial evidence.  And he did practice what's called "covert incest" very regularly.  That's not what I want to write about today though you pervs.

Even now my abdomen feels bloated and achy, almost like a period cramp.  I don't get periods anymore.  I do what is called "continuous cycle" because that week of shedding on birth control is completely unnecessary.  I am a woman and I don't want a baby nor do I want my period, so I take the required steps to ensure this will transpire for me.  When I was younger, I used to believe that that's all life really was, was taking required steps.  Filling out documents, turning them in in a timely fashion, a linear process of paperwork.  I learned about bureaucracies at a far too early age.  I also learned about how the callousness and inefficiency of others involved in a process that seems to ultimately be completely out of your control can screw up all your well plotted paperclips and reasons for endeavoring to advance in a system that specifically creates stagnated suffering, it doesn't alleviate it.  I learned that at an age too young as well, despite learning this I've continued to plod along in a system that I know is abusive, broken, and inept, hoping somehow it'll change one day.

I think of the US Government, the reining oligarchy, the corporate lobbyists acting in a confused collision killing us all very softly every day.  And I know that hope, it's like a small precious flower, maybe like the rose in 'Beauty and the Beast', you hope for freedom, for sanity, for fresh air (literally), you hope for sunshine and glad winds, you hope for peace, health, and prosperity for all, not just for a mere few.  You hope various technologies will liberate us from tyranny and bureaucracy.  But it's been a slow sad change.

I could go on but I am limited on time and am getting grossly off topic.           

What I'm trying to say is that our system, The System, is exactly like an abusive authority figure.  We're born into it like hapless children (literally) and get our minds turned into creamed corn, some of us are so abused--they fail to even recognize what is happening--as being immoral, unethical, unconscionable, evil.  While these corporate vampires get our money, our blood, our health, we get problems, and all we have to combat those life problems sometimes is prayer, wishes, and hope.  We all have all kinds of problems but The System, instead of acting preemptively and with ownership consistently blames us for our own problems.  For instance: poverty, homelessness, domestic violence, childcare, healthcare, those are our own problems to navigate blindly through, not unlike a neglected child that doesn't know how to operate a stove and is reduced to eating cold bologna.  Your problems are your own problems because I assure you, nobody is going to help you out of the goodness of their heart anymore.  I feel like I'm in a warped world, surrounded by fun-house mirrors that stretch reality, it gets stretched so much, there's no more measure on what real reality is anymore.  The elders know what I'm talking about and the youths are stupid to think that something similar won't happen to them.  Eventually the font will be too small and you'll be too tired too.  Information overload?--oh, well, there's an app for that.

But we all hope that The System doesn't mean it.  We all hope that He'll change one day, He really loves us back, after-all, it's the only System we have, He's got to provide and reciprocate some real love eventually someday.      

It's not going to happen.  The System, not unlike my father, is a malignant narcissist.  The System doesn't care about you.  The System is toxic, poisoning you, and letting you die.

My dad cared about money way more than he ever cared about me, it's the primary reason why I have never gotten around to reading 'Rich Dad, Poor Dad'.  He made that clear on very many occasions.  Just as evidenced in the many social strata of America, money is paramount, not your welfare.  Our governance is that of an abusive parent.

After reading 'Girl in the Water' I felt inspired to write, not some fancy poem or some wannabe article, but really write, about real pain.  Because her story helped me, maybe my story might somehow help?

Lately I've been trying to pin down the exact moment my abuse started.  It's hard to do.  I can therefore identify with the women that claim there were no red flags in their adult romantic relationships for them.  Or the red flags came far too late in.  To those women, I believe you.  And sure while Sherry Kilgore did some very awful wretched stuff to Nancy Kilgore, I don't even know where to begin my story.

My father was awarded custody of me when I was six years old, he was a towering man at 6 foot 2 inches.  I loved him so very much as a child.  I thought nobody was smarter or more talented or funnier than my daddy!  He was everything I wanted to be: smart, creative, an awesome storyteller...  

He posed himself as someone that rescued me from my crazy mother, all throughout my life I was reminded of this.

I don't mean to downplay Ms. Kilgore's childhood traumas, I too readily identified with her but there is a difference in a family dynamic where there is literally only one adult father and one child daughter.  When the man is a towering pillar of flesh, almost like a demigod custodian of life and he displays what I now know is called 'narcissistic rage' but I didn't know this until recently.

Narcissists don't view children as a regular person would, a child is an extension of their own ego, a refection of self, a way to reflect themselves.  In this manner you are more a mirror than a child.  In their rages, you are a mirror that can become broken repeatedly with terrifying ease. 

I've narrowed down my first red flag that something was wrong with my father's disciplinarian approach not long after I moved in with him.  He didn't like me reading comic books while shitting because I'd take longer in the bathroom so he forbade me from doing so.  It was more like a sharp conversation so I didn't really think what he ended up doing would happen.  At this point in my life reading comic books while pooping was a type of habit so it was difficult to honor his request.  I was also a child and would forget things sometimes, that's how children do.  We got back from church, I still remember my outfit, have no idea how or why, it was a light blue velvet peasant dress, with some yellow embroidery over my undeveloped chest, white opaque stockings, black patent shoes with breather holes and silver buckles. I think I had a headband in my hair but I wouldn't have put it there, neither would have my dad.  His old live-in girlfriend Janette must have put it in my hair but she was absent for this incident.

Anyways when we got back from church I had to go to the bathroom and I foolishly took a comic book in with me to read.  I was almost done doing my thing when my father inquired on the other side of the door if I was taking longer than I should due to reading a comic book, my heart sank, I was already afraid of my father and of displeasing him.  I had forgotten this new decree of his already and was too scared to admit my transgression so out of fear I lied and indicated that no I was just about done and had brought no comic book in with me.  Then while the toilet flushed and the water in the sink ran, I shoved the comic book up my dress and down my pantyhose, the tights serving as a type of internal pocket, the dress covered the rectangle perfectly with its design.

I came out and stood proudly in the hallway, I was a good girl that wanted to listen to her daddy, what was a white lie to get his adoration and approval?  I swore to myself I'd never do either again: lie to him or read a comic book in the john.

He cooed approval at me and for some reason patted my belly.  The way you'd pat a dogs belly with approbation.  There was obvious paper resistance and a crackle that only newsprint paper could make.  His entire demeanor changed in an instant.  I can no longer remember the exact wording and this was an extremely dormant memory, one that required digging around in my mind palace to even find.  But it was like a sunny blue sky day immediately became boiling over with black clouds.  You lied to me?  No, go take it out, I want to see it.

I tired to apologize and explain that I had accidentally forgotten, I had only fibbed out of self preservation. 

I don't think he let me close the bathroom door to remove the comic book so it was extra humiliating.  I had to only turn my back to him and lift up my dress to remove the Duck Tales comic book from where it was stashed but he was fuming mad. My dad has hazel eyes and they would turn silver like mercury whenever his temper escalated to white hot rage.  I didn't know at the time that it would become a novel and predictable precursor, it would become an omen for his wrath.  

I think I buried this memory because of how uncomfortable this pseudo undressing in front of my enraged father was.  I think in my child mind, as I had double disobeyed my dad with a lie and infraction, this was an unshakable deserved punishment.  Reexamining it as an adult I now can finally recognize his gross overreaction.        

He was yelling at me about the double disobedience.  Insanely demanding my comic book, I wasn't moving fast enough for him.  Unlike Nancy Kilgore that entered a fairy land, I went underwater, the world was slow, I was calm, my father was fast, my father was angry, I just shut down, I didn't feel anything other but a dull curiosity over what helped create his outbursts and when they would be over.  I learned it was best to not move, look around, look at him directly, not to cry in an obvious or loud fashion.  I cried quiet for years after obtaining freedom.  The loudest moans you could imagine on mute.  I would let snot run out my nose, wiping away snot, or snorting or sniffling was a sure sign of crying.  He did not like nor allow me to cry during his rages and I learned this early on, but not on this day.

I handed him the comic book, he angrily and very snarky lectured me on the virtues of honesty.  Him and the entombed cartoons hovering feet above me.  His head wildly bobbling, eyes gone silver - and this part fascinated me most, distracting me from the full realization of his anger, I mused over how it could happen, the bright shining chrome of daddy justice.  It felt supernatural. 

He bowed down to my level, but not how a good father would on one knee speaking kindly to me, but leaning over, bending at the waist, his upper torso with his head forming more of a backwards 7, holding and shaking the comic book in my face, spittle flying--as it often did--the familiar colors of his eyes, the brown, the green, the grey, replaced by this metal.  Demanding complete honesty from me always and my entire obedience to all of his degrees, as he was my father.  And much to my horror, as I still wanted to finish reading my new comic, he started to rip it slowly and methodically to shreds in front of my face, so close to my face his actions were making me flinch despite my not getting hit yet at this point ever by him.  He stood up and proceeded to shred the comic only more quickly, he balled up the comic book, walked to the kitchen, threw it away, and went into the living room.

There was no discussion, no time to apologize, to reason, no love in that discipline, I learned nothing other then to be terrified of my father that day.

I had never been spoken to in such a manner by him or anyone else, I was floored.  I had never seen anyone so very enraged, nor have I to this very day, to the degrees of violence my father could achieve. 

I remember how dismayed I was over him destroying a prized possession, I remember feeling like small meat he could easily pickup and tear into so many strings.           

Now I realize what occurred was a narcissistic injury, I greatly despite how unintentionally offended the mighty ego of my father.  I lied to him, I almost even outwitted him and that I think all these very, very many years later, was the real culprit that a child almost outwitted him is what led to that particular fit.  The daughter he told his ex-wife to initially abort.      

I despise I am his descendant.  Often throughout my life, I've ached for amnesia.  I wonder what person I might really be if I hadn't endured about a dozen years of total humiliation and denial of self needs. If my father had never decided to call me a stupid dumb little bitch or cunt like they were nicknames.  If he didn't insist on urinating while I was taking a shower behind a semi-translucent shower curtain.  If he wasn't so enamored with my wonderful tits or weight gain or loss.

The human female condition is still a pretty awful condition to be in overall.

This song reminds me of my dad.  His fluctuations. 

My head is killing me.
     

Feminist Armchair Regime: "Genital mutilation isn't funny" - A Thoughtful Response

Feminist Armchair Regime: Genital mutilation isn't funny: The following is cross-posted from the  Damsel in de Tech  blog. Click  here  to see the original. Every once in a while there's a new...



I wrote what's below as a comment to this blog post (a blog I enjoy reading) however of course the comment post was too long so I'm just going to post the comment as my own blog post to serve as what I hope will be interpreted as a thoughtful response to their piece on how male castration isn't funny, male castration is NOT funny, of course, but there needs to be more dialogue on the topic.  In order to completely understand my comment, you also must read their blog post that elicited my comment.  So merely for your thoughtful consideration dear reader:



I actually disagree.  If we ever develop the type of justice system necessary to deduce without flaw or margin of error that a rapist raped or that a molester molested, I think there should be a real threat of becoming an eunuch with what you did 'scared' on your face.  If people, in particular, women, girls, boys, effeminate men, have to live in preemptive fear to take strides daily to avoid rape, torture, retardation, permanent disabilities, and death, I think that's a major problem.  I think what would balance out a rape culture is an accountability culture.  Instead we have developed a habit of avoiding becoming a victim (carrying mace as a "precaution") and the real issue of avoiding creating serial rapists/molesters/violators of other persons is completely sidelined.  It isn't funny when a man gets castrated, especially when our pool of men is steadily shrinking due to environmental toxins/endocrine disruptors, however, perhaps the best tactic to eliminate sexual violence is to eliminate the cause of that sexual violence.  And typically the weapon wielded is nothing more than an engorged penis.  I know it sounds very radical, I am not saying I am inherently right, but I do feel that at some point prison (if the offender even does get penalized) does not suffice but the patriarchy in general does not suffice.


And what is the elimination of the male foreskin?--nothing more then genital mutilation but it's accepted socially and even preferred by most as the ideal penis, circumcised vs uncircumcised, (those are "pole results" that I would like to see).


Frankly, we've already entered an era of transparency, it's already happening and technology has changed everything and no doubt will revolutionize the justice system whenever it finally does take a foothold and an era of accountability takes hold.  For instance this "Revenge Porn" phenomenon and/or "Creepshots" phenomenon, it's an abstract physical violation, not unlike engaging in coitus with someone who is incapacitated and thereby against their freewill because at its pith that is what rape is, someone decrying your ownership to your own inherent sexuality, it's instead shucked for the sexual gratification, at times, of unknown others.  How nice would it be, with just the install of an app on your Google Glasses for a single lady to access a potential sexual partner and learn that five previous sexual encounters by that male were recorded without consent and broadcast all over The Internet unknowingly and against the will of their female sexual partner, all of sudden that cute guy at the end of the bar isn't so cute anymore is he?--and to me, that would be a symbolic, electronic form of castration and one that's necessary for all the rest of us that aren't sexual deviants so we can walk freely as intelligent thinking beings with our own sexual autonomy not as dominated sexual beings, and not have to take preemptive precautions at being literally or figuratively defiled.


I tried starting this dialogue in my blog post entitled, "Revenge Porn, "Ratters", Creepshots, Is All ERAPE And This Is Why..."


Epidemic male on female rape in South Africa is what created the RapeAx device, otherwise an item born from the mother of invention due to *necessity*.  More like internal mace, it's a safeguard against rape that does threaten to mutilate the male rapist's genitalia and it serves as a rape deterrent not just for those wearing it, it serves as a rape deterrent for all females that would otherwise be targeted because, *gasping shock of air* the potential rapist is unable to discern who wears one and who doesn't until it would be too late for the rapist to know for sure.  So it reverses that aura of uncertainty and fear, it is not the woman fearing being raped it is the man fearing castration or pain to his genitals by the act of raping.  


That is a serious and real power-shift. 


And to critique amusement, that's a difficult thing to do because typically people laugh at uncomfortable truths!  Does it make men uncomfortable that instead of women being worried if they "wear the wrong thing" or go "to the wrong place" at the "wrong time of day" "without having a buddy system in place" or that if mothers don't have to worry about their children getting sodomized by a friend, neighbor or family member, that instead perhaps the men have to live up to a higher expectation of themselves instead of penetrating sexual beasts, does all that make them uncomfortable?--you better believe it terrifies them and brings them discomfort.  You better believe that notions of men becoming women (the true fear) by loss of penis makes most men uncomfortable as hell, which is why they laugh.  And a woman, dear sexless God, do you remember Lorena Bobbit???--an abusive relationship/marriage, that ended in castration of wife against husband in 1993 for an act of rape, I was 8 or 9 years old when that happened and that was and still is a rare concept for many to grasp back then that a wife could be raped by her husband...   ...people laugh and joke about things that make them uncomfortable for the most part and here it is 2014, and it'll sound cold, but I don't think feminists should worry themselves about male castration jokes, when there's still too many dead baby jokes, blonde jokes, and battered women jokes flying around.  Forgive me, I'm a huge fan of your work, I like what you do, but this point, I do not agree on fully.  It is also a very trivial thing to focus on when we have SO MANY social ills to correct. 


Especially when chances are that the uncomfortable titters from the audience emanate from men.                        

Stuck In The Middle With BobbySue

In the mornings when I’m getting ready for work, I listen to Lisa Landry on Pandora.  Despite her being a stand-up comedian, her antidotes can be terrifying.  A domestic soothsayer of sorts, she can warn of the trials and errors of marrying the wrong man, the man obsessed with recipes, siring a son, and having dedicated bowls for keys; motherhood as a forced burden -not a blessed reward.  This morning my mind began to drift to the time when I first—and coincidentally last time—ever douched.

My first—and only—girlfriend, BobbySue Elisabeth Dawn McGraw insisted upon me having the experience.  Said nothing could make you feel, cleaner.  I remembered the rush of mint on the insides, an enema for the soul, tingling, the ultimate hygiene.

I’ve only read one account on the act of female douching and it was written by Stephen King in ‘The Dead Zone’.  The female character Sarah uses it to supplement sex, in order to quell her sex drive, to the point of it hurting her.

And I realized the extreme disconnect between Sarah and BobbySue.

BobbySue had had so many dicks in her, including her step-fathers, in her childhood, where in her adulthood she would go from door to door in a fully lite house checking doorknobs to make sure they were still locked.  Door to door, room to room.  She snorted heroin to forget how in the middle of the night, he’d single her out from her other siblings who reached to protect her, a part of her mind still always hiding in cubby holes and running away from home.  Eventually when she would depart and become under the custodianship of her biological father, since he was a crack-head, got her addicted to crack and pimped her out to support their now completely justifiable habit at twelve years of age.  BobbySue spent so much time getting herself sent to juvenile prison on purpose, by the time I met her when she was 24, she was illiterate. 

So this morning, sometime between washing my face and brushing my teeth, I wondered as to why BobbySue had so loved that summer eve’s feeling and knew why.  She was washing all that evil dick out of her.  All that had terrified her.  All that had immobilized her.  All that had confused her.  All of her self-loathing, guilt, and disgust.  Each dick no better than a fucking ‘Sorry!’ game piece stealing her love, her innocence, parts of her soul.

Rape is not merely the violation of a human body, it is the violation of a human soul.  You are not inside of just their body.  You are inside of their mind.  You are inside of their soul.  And you are a violator.  You trespass and desecrate a sacred temple.  When bones are broken, a life is broken.  It is the ultimate invasion and force of will.

It’s not sexy, it’s not hot, and not every woman has a “Rape Fantasy” but every woman has a real, legitimate fear of rape or else there would be more female midnight runners.

Women don’t douche because they want dick, they douche because they had too much.  They douche because that dick has soiled their very soul, their zombi.  They douche for rebirth of self.  For a wound that never heals.  Marked from birth, a less than.  A slut slot for your comedic undoing.  In your house?  Has your last name?  That bitch is your property, do what you will.  The broken American women and girls will just continue to douche privately in their bathrooms and not write about why.  Because maybe like my BobbySue, they were molested ever since they could remember by a man they had to call father.  

BobbySue’s mother in denial or worse yet, victim blaming.  Like my own mother was doing the other day about Amanda Berry. 

Feminism worked?

If Wikipedia gets their way, I’ll get categorized an American woman writer.