Hubby had to go under the knife yesterday courtesy of one fucked up shoulder- some torn cartilage and a particularly nasty case of bursitis. Ouch.
So now he's in a ton of pain but he's doing a lot better mentally. And apparently the percocet functions in his system as a kind of truth serum. Which, of course, I found out the hard way.
After he'd slept most of the anesthesia off, he decided he wanted ice cream. So I drove to Coldstone.
As we're leaving the ice cream store my husband sees a very scantily clad woman walking by- so of course, in the loudest voice possible, he says to me "Look honey, there's a whore!!!"
"Don, hush."
"What's she gonna do, give me a price quote?"
So yea, he clearly feels better.
- Posted from my iPhone because I fucking can.
12 June 2010
No Title
Iraq, 2005
Of course I let him in my hooch. He was my friend. He was also in charge of me as my direct superior. My Sergeant. I had every reason to trust him. Besides, he was only here to deliver a little bookshelf he'd made me. Furniture that was made out of found plywood around the base was highly prized, and my friend had a knack for carpentry.
So I let him in.
What happened next I remember in small chunks of both fuzzy details and moments of perfect clarity. I know he pushed me down on the bed. I remember trying to push him off of me, trying to reason with him, telling him no. I remember that clearly, I told him no, out loud.
He let me up. Then he undid his pants and told me to blow him.
And I did.
I had to. He was bigger than me, knew I couldn't fight him off. And even if my rifle was in my reach instead of propped up in the corner of the room, it wasn't loaded. If I blew him he would leave. If I blew him maybe he wouldn't make me have sex with him too. I was terrified that he would force me to have sex.
I remember the feeling of the hard floor on my knees. I remember staring at the ceiling, willing my conciousness to separate from my body. I remember him grabbing the back of my head. I remember how badly it all hurt. I don't remember when he left, even though I know he did. I don't remember thinking. I was numb.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writing this post makes me want to throw up. But I've got to get it out.
For several years I pushed it all deep down, ignored that it happened until I was actually able to forget that it happened. I needed to function in every which way and I couldn't function without forgetting.
It took an online newspaper article to bring everything rushing back to the surface. Actually, two words.
Command rape.
This article has the best definition I've been able to find:
"While commanders of some units are apparently less vigilant about policing rape, others engage in it themselves, a phenomenon known in the military as "command rape." Because the military is hierarchical, and because soldiers are trained to obey and never question their superiors, men of rank can assault their juniors with impunity. In most cases, women soldiers are the juniors, 18 to 20 years old, and are new to the military and war, thus vulnerable to bullying and exploitation."
Once I had the words to describe what happened to me, all the memories and feelings came rushing back, hitting me like the proverbial ton of bricks. I was sick. I told my new husband, who was sitting close to me on the couch "Honey, I think I got raped in Iraq."
How could I have gone all those years without acknowledging what happened to me? It was pretty simple. I was 19 years old and in a war zone. I was dealing with an abusive (now ex) husband who was deployed WITH me in said war zone. I was dealing with a bevy of equally abusive men who I was forced to work closely with on a daily basis. It was all so bad I had already stopped talking, and mostly stopped eating. And oh yea, we were getting shot at.
In other words, I had more pressing shit to deal with.
After I got home I got pregnant, and immediately afterwards filed for a divorce that proved to be traumatizing, lengthy, and costly. Then I had the trials of single motherhood. And I was still on active duty. There was simply no room left in my head to deal with any additional trauma. It was easier to simply push it down, all of it. To try and forget.
But eventually, what goes down must come up. Even if it takes years.
I blamed myself at first. Maybe it wasn't rape because I didn't fight like I should have, because I didn't bite and kick and scream. Maybe it wasn't rape because there was only oral (and not vaginal) penetration. Maybe it wasn't rape because we'd had consensual sex the year before, during a short relationship prior to my first marriage. Maybe it wasn't rape because I hadn't told him "no" forcefully enough on those nights weeks prior when he grabbed and fondled me; we had been alone and on duty together late at night. Maybe it wasn't rape because I had unwittingly encouraged him in his advances in some way.
I had only briefly entertained the idea of telling someone. I knew for a fact that my report would have been dismissed by my command. They would have believed whatever story he told them, and I would have been shamed and ostracized.
And then, nothing would have happened. No arrests, no reports, no court martials. Nothing.
I knew my (now ex) husband wouldn't believe me even if I told him. He would believe the word of my Sergeant over me, simply by virtue of his higher ranking. He would have believed that I cheated on him.
I was alone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm not quite sure how to end this story. I don't think there is an end. I'm not looking for pity, or commiseration. I'm not looking to be a victim or an advocate, or anything inbetween.
Long after my physical bruises had healed I realized that man didn't just rape my body, he raped my mind. I simply needed to speak my voice. To remind myself that I am still here.
Of course I let him in my hooch. He was my friend. He was also in charge of me as my direct superior. My Sergeant. I had every reason to trust him. Besides, he was only here to deliver a little bookshelf he'd made me. Furniture that was made out of found plywood around the base was highly prized, and my friend had a knack for carpentry.
So I let him in.
What happened next I remember in small chunks of both fuzzy details and moments of perfect clarity. I know he pushed me down on the bed. I remember trying to push him off of me, trying to reason with him, telling him no. I remember that clearly, I told him no, out loud.
He let me up. Then he undid his pants and told me to blow him.
And I did.
I had to. He was bigger than me, knew I couldn't fight him off. And even if my rifle was in my reach instead of propped up in the corner of the room, it wasn't loaded. If I blew him he would leave. If I blew him maybe he wouldn't make me have sex with him too. I was terrified that he would force me to have sex.
I remember the feeling of the hard floor on my knees. I remember staring at the ceiling, willing my conciousness to separate from my body. I remember him grabbing the back of my head. I remember how badly it all hurt. I don't remember when he left, even though I know he did. I don't remember thinking. I was numb.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writing this post makes me want to throw up. But I've got to get it out.
For several years I pushed it all deep down, ignored that it happened until I was actually able to forget that it happened. I needed to function in every which way and I couldn't function without forgetting.
It took an online newspaper article to bring everything rushing back to the surface. Actually, two words.
Command rape.
This article has the best definition I've been able to find:
"While commanders of some units are apparently less vigilant about policing rape, others engage in it themselves, a phenomenon known in the military as "command rape." Because the military is hierarchical, and because soldiers are trained to obey and never question their superiors, men of rank can assault their juniors with impunity. In most cases, women soldiers are the juniors, 18 to 20 years old, and are new to the military and war, thus vulnerable to bullying and exploitation."
Once I had the words to describe what happened to me, all the memories and feelings came rushing back, hitting me like the proverbial ton of bricks. I was sick. I told my new husband, who was sitting close to me on the couch "Honey, I think I got raped in Iraq."
How could I have gone all those years without acknowledging what happened to me? It was pretty simple. I was 19 years old and in a war zone. I was dealing with an abusive (now ex) husband who was deployed WITH me in said war zone. I was dealing with a bevy of equally abusive men who I was forced to work closely with on a daily basis. It was all so bad I had already stopped talking, and mostly stopped eating. And oh yea, we were getting shot at.
In other words, I had more pressing shit to deal with.
After I got home I got pregnant, and immediately afterwards filed for a divorce that proved to be traumatizing, lengthy, and costly. Then I had the trials of single motherhood. And I was still on active duty. There was simply no room left in my head to deal with any additional trauma. It was easier to simply push it down, all of it. To try and forget.
But eventually, what goes down must come up. Even if it takes years.
I blamed myself at first. Maybe it wasn't rape because I didn't fight like I should have, because I didn't bite and kick and scream. Maybe it wasn't rape because there was only oral (and not vaginal) penetration. Maybe it wasn't rape because we'd had consensual sex the year before, during a short relationship prior to my first marriage. Maybe it wasn't rape because I hadn't told him "no" forcefully enough on those nights weeks prior when he grabbed and fondled me; we had been alone and on duty together late at night. Maybe it wasn't rape because I had unwittingly encouraged him in his advances in some way.
I had only briefly entertained the idea of telling someone. I knew for a fact that my report would have been dismissed by my command. They would have believed whatever story he told them, and I would have been shamed and ostracized.
And then, nothing would have happened. No arrests, no reports, no court martials. Nothing.
I knew my (now ex) husband wouldn't believe me even if I told him. He would believe the word of my Sergeant over me, simply by virtue of his higher ranking. He would have believed that I cheated on him.
I was alone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm not quite sure how to end this story. I don't think there is an end. I'm not looking for pity, or commiseration. I'm not looking to be a victim or an advocate, or anything inbetween.
Long after my physical bruises had healed I realized that man didn't just rape my body, he raped my mind. I simply needed to speak my voice. To remind myself that I am still here.
11 June 2010
The one where I change my blog name...
So, if ya'll haven't noticed already, I decided to rename my blog. Why? Because I fuckin can.
I loved Attack of the Toddler!!! but my baby turns four next month. She is a toddler no longer, and renaming my site every couple of years to match my kid's age would be a pain in the ass. For example, Attack of the Forty Pound Four Year Old is a bit unwieldy. Besides, the name suits me. I am the woman who has her coffee pot on her nightstand for easy a.m. access.
I find as my kidling gets older, I need some space for myself. I don't want a mommy blog; I want a place where I can sit down with my cup of steaming hot liquid crack and let loose. I've never really censored myself obviously, but there's many layers to this onion and I'm finally ready to write about the hard shit. Let it all out.
So here I am, with my coffee, as I ponder what skeletons to let out of the closet first. This should be fun.
I loved Attack of the Toddler!!! but my baby turns four next month. She is a toddler no longer, and renaming my site every couple of years to match my kid's age would be a pain in the ass. For example, Attack of the Forty Pound Four Year Old is a bit unwieldy. Besides, the name suits me. I am the woman who has her coffee pot on her nightstand for easy a.m. access.
I find as my kidling gets older, I need some space for myself. I don't want a mommy blog; I want a place where I can sit down with my cup of steaming hot liquid crack and let loose. I've never really censored myself obviously, but there's many layers to this onion and I'm finally ready to write about the hard shit. Let it all out.
So here I am, with my coffee, as I ponder what skeletons to let out of the closet first. This should be fun.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)