Shock jocks traumatise teenager

Tags

2DayFM, gimmick, Jackie O, Kyle Sandilands, lie detector, Lies, no appology, rape, Sex, Trauma, win Pink concert tickets

Ooooh, I’m hopping mad!

This is a HUGE story in Australia right now – the Sydney-based Kyle and Jackie O breakfast radio show ran some kind of gimmicky competition to win Pink concert tickets.

I’m sure if Pink heard about this, she’d be appalled.

The set up? Apparently, two people call in, one gets hooked up to a lie detector and the other asks the questions.

Who calls in? An entirely unfit mother dragging her fourteen year old daughter on the show. That should’ve been a red flag right there.

The producers knew in advance what kind of questions the mother wanted to ask her daughter – whether she takes drugs and has sex.

Yep, she’s legally a minor and her mother wants to ask her these questions on live radio. Somehow neither the producers or DJs or anyone connected with the show saw anything wrong with this.

Then, it goes horribly wrong for them.

Because it turns out the girl was raped when she was twelve, something the mother (words fail me) KNEW ABOUT already, but when asked on air, at first claimed she didn’t know if her daughter had had sex!

Under pressure to answer questions, the girl gets emotional and blurts out her painful story. On live radio.

King Bumbling Idiot Kyle (well known for his general idiocy and arrogance) clearly didn’t want too many seconds of silence go by, so asks her:

Right. And is that the only experience you’ve had?

The mother then admits she knew about that, but wanted to know if that was the only time!!

Mercifully, Kyle-the-Fuckwit’s sidekick interrupts, ends the segment and the girl doesn’t have to answer. Both shock jocks/idiot people ramble on about offering counselling to the girl – which she’s had none of to-date (thanks mum!).

Listen to an audio of the segment.

The next day, the King Moron writes a blog post defending himself and claiming he didn’t realise he’d said what he said. My blood is boiling!

It’s wonderful how everyone wants to avoid blame. No one wants to take responsibility. The whole thing is just sick!

Thankfully, the police and child services are investigating the situation.

Sure, Kyle and Jackie weren’t solely responsible for what happened, but they sure are responsible for how they handle themselves. And how they dealt with things afterwards.

Kyle was quoted as saying: We’re not on a time delay, but even if we were, I wouldn’t have dumped the segment… There was no breach of any radio code. What I’m most annoyed about is that some of the press have jumped on this and made it out to be a stunt and a ratings ploy.

I’d like to scratch his eyes out for that statement alone!

Let’s not forget that this incident could and probably did trigger a whole bunch of listeners dealing with their own trauma/abuse/assault/rape/violence.

Or that the girl, already traumatised, is now embarrassed too? That all of Australia knows what happened to her?

I’m busy making complaints to the broadcasting authorities and leaving comments on blogs. I simply can’t tell you how furious this makes me.

But I’m not alone. The uproar is widespread, thankfully.

Some of the news coverage:

• Girl’s rape revelation sinks radio stunt
• Call to sack radio hosts
• Kyle and Jackie O: radio rape case to be investigated
• Austereo in crisis over Kyle & Jackie O rape debacle

If only they’d all say sorry, unequivocally and with no if’s or but’s.

Maybe then I’d feel they were genuinely contrite for this prank, instead of just patting themselves on the back for organising counselling sessions and quietly celebrating the publicity this has generated while doing what they can to avoid being sued.

Grrrr!

**UPDATE** Looks like the public outcry has been taken seriously. The show has been suspended indefinitely with Kyle saying he is ‘unable to work’ or something like that.

**Update #2** OOOH! Kyle is also a judge on Australian Idol. Or he WAS until today. He’s been sacked, thanks to the powers of an international franchise (Idol – see its good for something!).

I really hope that everyone involved takes a good hard look at themsevelves in the house of mirrors and wakes up to the truth of their abhorrent actions!

**Update #3** MediaWatch’s take on the events, PLUS… they shed light on the vile two-some’s other deplorable antics.

~Svasti

Bacchanalian lost girls

Tags

No ambition, Sex, Sexual power, Topless waitressing

Not one but three impish lasses, frolic in suburbia knowing oh yes, they can do whatever they like. And they do, testing the boundaries of their surprisingly ever-growing power as women.

Blowing off shitty part time jobs in restaurants to revel and dance naked in a very ordinary land-locked backyard on blisteringly hot summer days under inviting garden sprinklers. Just for the girls, eighteen year old fun, invite only. And there were no invites.

Topless beach-side sunbathing was amusing too, knowing it teased their male acquaintances.

But their game was to pretend they didn’t realise the impact. Most often because they didn’t quite believe in themselves anyway.

Teasing and deciding they too, could behave as the boys and men did. Nonchalantly and bravely. Not looking for love. Use and discard as they desired. Easy and painless, they told themselves.

This was their world, where fun and sex pushed away other realities.

Men, they had if they wanted. But none were invited to these private parties, nubile paganish nudes, most pleased with themselves and the sense of freedom these little parties generated.

Rebelling perhaps, against the vanilla world they inhabited? Most likely. Completely at sea in their urbanite lives? Definitely.

Later, three bedrooms in that house were busy as they enjoyed their male playthings. But on their terms, when they chose, only.

Their attitude was arrogance, flippant fun and constant amusement. With scant thought for their own value.

But she was grateful to her sometime male lover, given her experience of sex to date was not pleasant. So surfer-dude C, a gentle non-masochistic sunny blonde, was a revelation.

Still, she wanted nothing more than the occasional dalliance, given her fractured sense of self.

When a friend of one of these hormone driven gals suggested a way to make fast money – serving beer topless – they weren’t perturbed in the least. Getting paid to tease men and give up nothing? Too easy.

One by one, they tested the waters.

She was last – first, she quit the final year of high school she was repeating. Bored, she had no direct ambition that made sense. So she quit, and started wearing little and earning a lot. Why not? It was so simple.

The location of that first gig is hazy now. Though, the pub’s interior is crystal clear. A central oblong circus ring shaped bar with dark coloured tiles, surrounded by reverential working class men.

The three of them were together, ring leaders of this event.

Her friends helped adjust her newly purchased g-string and tiny black satin shorts – all that she wore. She stepped into heels and make up. Then it was time.

Men were both lecherous and kindly. She knew nothing of serving alcohol, and learned on the hop. A shandy? A pot? A glass? Mixed drinks? The patrons mostly taught her the ropes, not minding an excuse to talk stare at her bare breasts a little longer.

The most memorable part of that day? Beer splashing on her breasts was cold but inevitable, and it made the men laugh.

~Svasti

Please note: I am writing here about the past, and mostly its in the past. I do this to help shine the light and illustrate where I was, and how I got to this point. This is no longer stuff that torments me.

Innocence – part 2

Tags

1980's, Betrayed, Crying underwater, Diary, First boyfriend, Half-brother, Innocence, Love, Police, Runaway, Secrets, Self-esteem, Sex, Silence, Virginity

[Read part 1]

Packing

The afternoon of the day I ran away, my sister watched me pack… in the room we’d shared since she was born, throwing notes on scrunched up paper across the room, playing with dolls and toys, fighting, creating an absolute mess, giggling way past our bedtime.

She kept saying she didn’t think I’d really do it. And she never said a word to my parents.

The bag was stashed in our wardrobe, a place we’d spent time hiding to eat illicit chocolate. Where not too long ago, I’d leave out cheese and milk, hopeful faeries would visit.

I wrote a note – don’t bother trying to find me – about all I can recall from the rambling one pager (as if they wouldn’t think of where to look).

How terrifying for my sister to wake and see I was gone. How panicked my parents must have been (no one has talked about that time to me, ever).

Apparently this was the only time my brother showed anything resembling caring for me – taking to the streets on his bike, looking for me. Apparently.

What next?

Tick, tick, tick. I was hiding. Not in control. No idea what my life was going to be like. Police looking for me. All I wanted was to be with my boyfriend (though he was going back to England), just what my parents didn’t want.

I knew I was missing out on school. Would I ever go back? Would I ever see my school friends again? What about my little sis? Swimming training?

The cops took my bag of clothes, also containing my diary… documenting my childish fancies.

Documenting also, the night N indelicately erased my virginity… copying in my childish hand, in the style of some adolescent book I was reading then, the words were stark – As of tonight, I’m no longer a virgin. I don’t feel different, but I know I am… – can’t have been pleasant reading for my parents.

It was later I discovered they’d read it. If I was them, I’d have done the same. But that act still violated my trust and I was furious. Especially when my dad would say – you live in a world of fantasy most of the time, don’t you – based on what he read and held it against me as though I was retarded, for a long time.

But I hated him for a long time for reading my diary.

Before all that… I was hiding out in the next door neighbour’s house. In a bedroom. Under the bed. I didn’t get to see N very much at all. No one would let us be alone together.

I’m sure there were phone calls and discussions I wasn’t privy to. About me, not including me.

Night rolled in…

N’s aunt and uncle eventually convinced me the best thing to do was to go with the police. They knew I was there; they wanted to help make things right with my parents. I didn’t know how to, and I was scared. And angry. And worried I wouldn’t get to see N again.

Cop shop

They took me away in a police car to the local station where my parents waited. I knew by then about my diary. I spewed fury – I hate you – at my parents. Dad cried, one of the only times I’ve seen that, to this day.

At the station I was given two choices – go home with my parents or stay at a girls’ home. A place for juveniles. I don’t know if it was just a threat… but for a while I was seriously gunning for the girls’ home.

Much of the station time is a blur. I remember a police woman being very abrupt, and in return I was rude. Mum slapped my face, afraid I think, the police would make decisions for me.

I scowled. None of this would’ve happened if they hadn’t said I couldn’t go to the airport so as far as I was concerned, it was their fault.

Somehow, during some very tense moments, tears and anger, they all talked me down. Talked me in to returning home on the promise of being able to go to the airport for N’s flight back to the UK.

I shake my head in wonder now, thinking of the wilful young child that I was, the anger and destruction I created…

A night of reckoning

The car ride is blank. Back home, I think my brother and sister were in bed – perhaps awake?

My parents and I sat in the kitchen, looking at a calendar. Trying to work out if there was any chance I could be pregnant.

No mum, I haven’t started my period yet.

Doing the laundry she’d noticed some blood in my knickers, so she wasn’t sure.

I don’t remember much of what was said, the three of us sitting there. Tension, sadness, anger and frustration. At some point I shouted – What would you know? How could you understand what its like?

Things grew silent.

Teary and terrified, mum revealed her darkest secret – her first son, out there somewhere – taken from her for the crime of being pregnant and unmarried (a brother I’ve never met??). My first glimpse of the shame and grief she’d worn like an invisible coat, never removed.

I expect you think I’m a terrible person, she stated.

Oh my god mum, no I don’t! That’s… so sad! So horrible.

Sworn to secrecy, I couldn’t tell my brother or sister or even mention it again.

Went to bed at some point, back in the room I shared with my sister. Gone for one whole life changing day, I think.

Back to school the next, and no one knew. Now I had two secrets I didn’t tell anyone except M. And I only told her little bits. Done and dusted, I was left to live with the aftermath.

And then…

So long, goodbye…

Hazy tear stained scene of N and me at the airport. My parents, his aunt and uncle, hovering on opposite perimeters as we hugged and I cried inconsolably. We promised to write, to call, to stay together.

He went through the gates and he was gone.

I wrote the first of many letters that night. Pages of ‘I love you‘ written over and over. A long wait for something in return. A phone call or two. The promise of ‘a promise ring’.

Sputtered into nothing.

Realisation came slowly, then as with sunrise… dusk vanishes swiftly in the first rays of sunshine. Full daylight. Oh.

It was over. He didn’t really love me. Oh… He didn’t want me. Had he only wanted sex?? Oh!!

There was a silver pendant and chain my parents gave me once. I’d loaned it to N because he asked (though I hadn’t wanted to) and never saw them again. I wrote and asked for them back. Nothing.

Far away in another country… he didn’t want me any more.

Heartless

In recent times I’ve talked of feeling like my heart had been ripped from my chest. My therapist asked me if there was another time I’d felt like that before.

Sure was. When I realised I’d been used and discarded.

Felt like I’d been raped (though I hadn’t – just manipulated). Cheated and misused, certainly. Empty, sad, heartbroken and alone. Lost. Confused. Betrayed. Shredded.

Coulda driven a truck through my chest, the hole there felt that large.

Every notch my self-esteem rose on the back of being loved was gone. Worse, it was all a lie. Extreme pressure filled my head… would it explode?

But none of this was a topic of conversation at home. Just like my mum, I wasn’t allowed to express my pain. No privacy either, in my shared bedroom with a sister too young to understand.

I found solace in swimming training… diving deep and crying underwater where no one could see or tell the difference. For seconds at a time.

Struggling on at school and home, I was low. But you wouldn’t have known, ‘cept for the odd flare up with my mum. Arguments like a flash and gone again, core issues never addressed.

Two generations both limping in pain, but not solidarity… what could’ve brought us together just pushed us further apart as secrets often do…

~Svasti

Innocence – part 1

Tags

1980's, Blow jobs, First boyfriend, Ice-skating, Innocence, Love, Runaway, Self-esteem, Sex, Statutory rape, Virginity

I can’t really tell you what happened with 100% certainty. When I was thirteen. Or fourteen. Geez, I can’t even remember my exact age. I know it was the middle of the year, whatever year it was.

Ice-skating

It started very innocently, though my parents probably wished they’d never taken us ice-skating that day. Yeah, I was still young enough that an outing with the parents wasn’t completely embarrassing… yet.

What happened was: I met a boy, N. Or rather, he skated over to talk to me.

In my experience of life to date, that just didn’t happen. At all. Ever. No one came up to me. No one asked me out. Instead, they were all interested in my best friend M, a talented blonde gymnast.

I had the killer combination of a crappy self-image and a highly romantic and idealistic nature. Innocent, too. I’d only ever been kissed once.

This boy, he was from England. Out in Australia staying with his Aunt and Uncle. He was seventeen, tall, blonde, and had the fuzzy makings of a moustache.

Unlike any of the boys I’d grown up with, he thought I was pretty. He asked me for my phone number. I wasn’t so much attracted to him I think, as I was amazed that he liked me. That someone liked me…

A boyfriend

I don’t know how we got from that point, to actually going out. There must’ve been several phone calls back and forth. He must’ve come over to meet my parents. I even have vague recollections of my dad driving us somewhere and ‘conveniently’ going inside so we could kiss in private.

Perhaps my parents thought it was all just harmless… I mean, sure, he was too old for me. At that age, three or four years is a huge difference. But he was here on holiday only. Maybe they thought it’d be nice for me to have a boyfriend.

I recall going bowling one night – N’s friend drove us. I remember hanging out with N in town after school, and his (against the rules) visits to my high school.

Most of all, I remember N trying to get me to sleep with him. Asking me over and over.

I’d read so many books by that age, but many of them were the fairy tale variety. And I knew that you had to be in love before you did anything like that.

I must’ve communicated somehow, this idea of needing to be in love, to N.

And he, being seventeen, must’ve seen that as a golden opportunity. In retrospect it’s so transparent, what happened next.

That is – he put a solid effort into convincing me he was falling in love with me. He’d say things like: No, I’m not in love with you yet, but I think I could be falling for you… That slowly changed until he said: oh yes, now I am in love with you…

I was elated.

A school yard

My parents allowed me to go to the wedding of one of N’s relatives. A very 80’s wedding. A disco DJ, a smoke machine, everyone wearing gaudy outfits. And I’m pretty sure at that point, I had a perm (my one and only).

And at the reception in some dinky school hall, N fed me drinks. Quite a few. Before long I was drunk.

He took me for a walk. Into the school yard, out onto the grass. Told me he was in love with me, and once again asked me to have sex with him.

When ‘no’ turns into ‘yes’, you know you’ve had too much to drink, eh? Wish I knew that at the time…

He took off his jacket and spread it out for me to lie down on. I don’t remember much of the actual act. Except it hurt a bit. And I was no longer a virgin. It wasn’t fun or enjoyable. But N was happy.

And I thought he loved me, which counted for oh-so-much.

I was in trouble when I got home that night and my parents smelled alcohol on my breath. Perhaps they started to realise this wasn’t a good situation for their very young daughter to be in. They didn’t know my secret.

But I was grounded.

Playing up

That didn’t stop N and me seeing each other though. He had his stay in Australia extended by another month. And we spent much of that time trying to see each other.

As pathetic as it sounds, I was grateful that someone loved me (or so I thought).

I idolised him, thought he was amazing. For loving me. Y’see, by this age, my self-esteem was already in tatters.

We had sex a few more times – its hard to get alone time as a kid. I’d sneak off from school at lunch time to my place, just around the corner. And we had sex on my little single bed, in the room I shared with my sister. Can’t say I enjoyed it, but it was what N wanted so I did it.

This is what you do when you love someone, I thought…

He’d talk to me about ‘positions’ and ‘blow jobs’ – I thought it all sounded kinda gross. All I could handle at that age was feeling loved and the missionary position.

Runaway

Can’t remember why exactly, but I did something to piss off my parents. So much so, they said you’re not allowed to go to the airport and see N off when he leaves.

Which was a silly thing to say to a young girl about the boyfriend she idolised.

So I ran away.

Packed a bag and in the middle of the night, left a note on my bed and snuck out through the back door. Walked past the late night pizza shop and through parts of town I shudder when thinking about now… probably a good hour or more to his aunt and uncle’s place. Didn’t want to wake anyone up, so I slept on the outdoor seat on the back porch. Til N’s uncle came out and found me and my large duffle bag and brought me inside.

I’d created a problem for N and his family. N was asked if we’d slept together. Their first thought was that my parents would charge N with statutory rape and they hurriedly made plans to protect him, and initially, to hide me.

Of course, I had no idea why things had become so serious.

The first time the police came by, they hid me in the next door neighbour’s house. My future was being discussed – perhaps she can work as a baby sitter for the neighbour’s kids – I didn’t really like the sound of that, but had no idea what else I could do.

I’d left home. As far as I knew, it was for good.

[Read part 2]

~Svasti

Hormonal warfare

Tags

Anxiety, Desire, Eye contact, Happiness, Hormones, Intimacy, Positive, Red wine, Senses, Sensual, Sex, Spring, Tapas, Waking up

I’m like a little seed, dusty and dry but full of potential. A seed that’s been sitting in the garden shed in the dark for a very long time. Waiting. With no reason to think there was a way out from that unnatural yet safe place I’ve sheltered in, weathering the storm of recovery.

Perhaps the change of season has something to do with it?

For rather suddenly I feel exceptionally alive! It’s Spring, not yet Summer. But the weather is becoming reliably warmer and more beautiful. There’s a flavour to the air. A warm caress on the breeze. Cascading blossoms of every colour to take in with the eyes and nose.

It’s almost like I’ve never used my senses to engage with the world before. Not properly. Not like this. I can feel every hair follicle on my head. No situation is without intense sensory involvement.

Could it be… could I be… finding some happiness? Possibly really waking up after this seemingly endless numb-out?

There are difficulties still, but they take center stage less and less.

However there’s one issue that currently looms larger than any other.

Sex. Intimacy. Or the lack thereof. I posted about this topic a few months back.

Once again comes into view. The first trigger was the boy who’s recently been paying me some attention in a coy kind of way.

That situation created a lot of anxiety for me. I didn’t know how to respond at all. Especially if someone’s not being up front. I can barely hold a decent conversation with the guy, as sweet as he is. I guess that means it’s simply not right anyway. Surely if it was, it would be much easier. That doesn’t stop the anxiety running ten to the dozen though!

And I’ve just begun to realise how often I go out of my way to avoid eye contact with men I don’t know.

In that respect it was tough starting my new job, in which I have to deal with new people every day at the moment. New clients to talk to regularly. Some of them are men. It’s been a swift learning curve though, so I’m grateful for that.

And yet… gawd, there are periods each day where I’m totally and completely overwhelmed by my desire to be, erm, getting it on!!

I have the hormones of a teenager.

Except for one very minor blip, there’s been nothing on the radar at all in the last three years. So I’m apparently stuck in this way a little… because I can’t wilfully lift out of this issue with the same effort I’ve applied in almost every other area of my recovery.

I’m afraid of getting what I want, and I want it badly… but I also don’t know how to get there. And if I do get there, I’m not sure if I’ll feel safe and secure.

Amusingly, I think all that sexual energy is being sublimated into other areas of my life. I nearly lost it completely over dinner with friends on Friday night. Granted, we were eating some of the most delicious tapas I’ve had in years. I was also drinking some pretty spectacular red wine… it was very intense and sensual.

I’m just grateful for the mercies of meditation practice that help redistribute the rest of that energy!

~Svasti

No sex

Tags

Dating, Depression, No sex, Sex, Trust

Friend warning: There’s a handful of friends who know I’m writing this blog. For the sake of their possibly delicate constitutions, this is a chance to NOT read this post. Some people are squeamish when defining what they consider to be “too much information” regarding their friends’ sex lives. 🙂

**************************************************************

I often wondered if I could qualify for special compensation to claim back my virginity?

Immediately after being assaulted, there was simply no desire for intimate contact with another person. None. Nada. Zip.

Unsurprisingly, for the first six months after, the idea didn’t even cross my mind.

Yet, I’m someone with an incredibly high sex drive. Always have been. Often, I’ve had more interest in sex than my boyfriend or lover.

There was a point where my natural desire for intimacy resurfaced. But I still had no interest in letting a man anywhere near me.

At the same time, I longed for gentle, comforting human contact. I desperately wanted to be hugged and kissed. To have my hair caressed. And not just by friends, but a lover. I desired that closeness, the bonding, the affection and care that comes with such a relationship.

There’s a theory that if you go without sex for long enough, your libido eventually goes away. But that never happened in my case.

According to my therapist, the assault created some fatal flaws in my self-confidence/self-esteem. But like many women, they were never that crash hot for me in the first place.

I also felt incredibly unattractive post-assault. I suppose that’s the depression and shame colouring my view, as I’ve been assured that’s not the case. What I wanted… I also could not want.

Obviously, there were other issues including the ability to trust. Although the assault was physical and not sexual, because Andre and I had been intimate that kind of messed up that area of my life as well. I mean, getting naked, sharing energy, bodily fluids and so on with another person requires a decent level of trust, right? And how could I trust myself let alone another person?

So on one hand (no pun intended!), I needed and desired sex, love, tenderness. On the other, no man had the secret password that would grant entry through the castle walls.

Quite the quandary.

To cope with this bizarre situation, I sought out the company of ‘safe men’. Mostly men at my work that I get along well with, who are in committed relationships. There’s nothing wrong with forming a little crush on men who are taken, right? I mean, I didn’t want or expect anything. It never went beyond a little office flirting. They are strong men with integrity I could hang out with, and feel good around. Feel safe.

They ofcourse, never knew they played this role for me. Most of them still don’t.

But it wasn’t enough. Neither was masturbation. Or toys. Eventually, everything lost its allure, but I was still incredibly horny with no effective outlet.

Initially I could control it, ignore it. Whilst much of the raw emotion was floating around, I had plenty to keep me busy.

Then the unanswered call of my libido grew louder and more insistent. But still I did nothing.

There was a time when I decided I should perhaps consider dating again. So I jumped online (nice way to try and control the situation) to meet a few guys. But it wasn’t the right time. The whole thing badly spooked me, despite the harmlessness of a couple of dates and one or two kisses being all that occurred.

I recall wondering if I could proposition past lovers to ‘help me out’. I was vibrantly aware that my desire for sex was as much about feeling safe as it was about the physical act. I wanted (and still want) someone in my life who will help me through this tricky aspect of my recovery.

I don’t know if I have the right to want this of another person, but I do. Actually, I can’t even imagine the sort of person who would be capable of this work. They would need a rare combination of qualities – awareness, intelligence, sensitivity to both emotional and energetic shifts, the ability to demonstrate a lot of love and care. And most of all, they must be 1000% trustworthy.

It was two years and four months between ‘drinks’ – terribly analogy I know! It was November/December last year, and I thought I was ready. I thought I’d met someone with the above-mentioned qualities. But ofcourse, like everything in my skewed, post-assault world, my judgement of other people is also impaired. And he wasn’t.

Like all good horror stories, I didn’t realise that particular fact until it was too late. We had sex twice. The sex wasn’t even that good. Perhaps I’ve just been spoiled in the past with really, really great sex? Fuck, I don’t know!

I’ll talk more about this encounter in another post. But basically, he was emotionally vacant. Wait, let me revise that and instead say ‘emotionally bankrupt’.

My involvement with him, and the turgid events surrounding that time triggered a new episode of depression.

Its own way, that was a blessing. Because this time, the depression showed up mostly as physical pain, as discussed elsewhere on here. I thought there was something seriously wrong with me. There were other symptoms ofcourse, but it was the pain that led me through a series of events out of the fog. Towards my practices, my therapist, and the birth of this blog to name but a few recent changes.

So, I can’t possibly feel anger towards this man I was briefly involved with. I see that situation and that person as just a messenger. And the message was: its time to get your shit together girl!

My Guru says: That which is your weakest point will eventually lead to your liberation.

Perhaps for me my weakest point is sex, because I remain hornier than all get out. Sigh!

~Svasti

Once upon a time…

Tags

Car sale, Drums, Friends, Friendship, Meeting, Money, Relationship, Sex

This is also not “that” post… (but this one is!) 😉

We met at a nightclub.

I was out with K (my heroine) and her friend. You could say it was a fairly wild evening. Full of costumes, dress ups and people expressing their sexuality as they saw fit. The theme for the night was ‘fur’.

He was there playing bongos as part of the entertainment. I was drawn ofcourse, to the percussion as I always am. The heartbeat of a dancer, it pulls at my hips and my pulse. He was wild, muscular and tattooed. The drums could only just be heard above the rest of the music being played. He moved his drums and asked me to follow – up on the balcony where it was easier to hear the rhythms and there was more room to dance with abandon.

We connected that night, Andre and I.

Oh god – how much to tell? I am trying to be honest, but I’m also trying to stick to the point… so let’s just say there’s more to describe but not here. Not now.

After 12 years living in Sydney, I hadn’t been back home in Melbourne for very long. Not quite eight months in fact. I was starved of friendship and good company. Especially the company of people with a spiritual nature. I worked with plenty of people who… are either married or in long term relationships with established circles of friends. But none that I felt a great deal of resonance with. Great people, just not my people.

I’m also not the sort of person who makes friends quickly. Unless ofcourse, I do. There are some people I can make instant friends with, but otherwise it takes me a long time. The ‘instant’ friends are few in number but when it happens, its friggin’ awesome.

So we hit it off, and were seeing each other almost from the start. The sex was amazing. I’ve always been spoiled in that respect – having incredible sex in my various relationships/flings. In fact, its one of my biggest downfalls – I stay involved with someone longer than I should because the sex is great! Eventually I wake up, and get out… but not as quickly as I could do.

Andre would come over and play me music and I’d cook. He is Afro-American and a brilliant jazz and blues musician. He plays a gazillion instruments, writes poetry, paints and does kung fu. We’d go out dancing, or hang at a local pub and chat about life, the universe, everything! Also, he wasn’t freaked out by pictures of gurus and Indian gods and goddesses in my home. So in many ways, he was my sort of person.

Despite all the great things about him, I started to notice that when he left my place, I felt drained. It seemed to take a lot out of me to have him over. Also, he was really mysterious and didn’t share a lot of details about himself. He spoke in riddles a lot and whilst the more creative part of my nature didn’t have a problem with this… I’d gathered enough information to know that he and I weren’t going to be long term.

Towards the end of our time together, he’d convinced me to sell my old car to his ex-girlfriend (and mother of his kids) where he was acting as the go-between for us both. However, there was some drama around the deal, in which I had to assert my need to be paid in full at the time of the sale. Andre did some shouting at this point, but it wasn’t anything terribly odd.

Later on ofcourse, I found out the significance of that situation.

Anyway, his ex and I spoke on the phone, and worked things out. There was also a further misunderstanding around whether the car was being sold registered or not. I had said unregistered, but this didn’t translate via the middleman somehow. So she agreed to pay me another $200 or so, and I agreed this amount could wait another couple of weeks.

I should state that it was around the time of the ‘car drama’ that my intimate relationship with Andre was over. In part, this was due to the situation, but also, I think it was clear that other things weren’t in synch for us. We didn’t speak for a couple of weeks.

Andre’s ex was meant to meet me to hand over the last of the money she owed me. With her kids and work, she was finding it tough to make a time with me. So she asked me if it was okay for Andre to bring it over to my place.

I said yes.

~Svasti

Body Scars

Tags

Body image, Bras, Depression, Exercise, Jogging, Sex, Weight gain, Yoga

Today I went to buy some new bras – a necessity I’ve always hated.

From my early teenage years I had big boobs. I was always embarrassed to be wearing bras when my schoolmates had barely a hint of anything worth restraining.

As I grew older, I discovered there are hardly any bras made for young women with DD cups. I mean, you can buy DD bras alright, but they’re not suitable for chicks who don’t want to look like a grandma when they undress.

Then there’s the matter of support, which reduces the candidate pool even further. Sure, you can get some lacy & pretty DD bras these days but they aren’t bras you can wear with any regularity unless you want to end up with back and/or shoulder pain.

Anyway, I digress.

What I noticed today in those oh-so-helpful dressing rooms with mirrors that show you what you look like from every angle is this – my body is wearing the war wounds of my trauma.

Now, in my pre-assault life, I was never what you’d call a thin wispy thing. But I was fit. I jogged, I did yoga, I rode my bike, I went to the gym. I was curvaceous but toned. And now, my body looks like a wasteland of this time. The basic structure and musculature is still there, but it’s obscured by more body fat than I’ve ever had in my life. Not that I’m obese. Just possibly carrying around 15-20kg more than necessary.

I’ve had body issues most of my life. In my eyes I’ve always been too tall, too big boned compared to other females. I also had a brother that managed to tell me every day for a good ten years that I was ugly, fat, stupid, wasn’t going to amount to anything etc. And you know what they say – if you’re told something often enough, it sticks.

I managed to see through the taunts about my intelligence – it was blatantly clear I was much smarter than my brother. I was able to make a life for myself, study, and get good jobs that paid well enough. So that never really stuck. But the body image stuff really really did.

I need to say that when I’m fit and not carrying too much excess body weight, I’ve received many compliments. I never had a shortage of men in my life and I was able to be… if not happy with how I looked then – okay. I was okay with how I looked and I could accept I’d never be model thin or gorgeous. And I could also accept that men liked how I looked, even if I could never see it myself.

But today, taking a good look at myself in the mirror (for the first time in a while) – I was able to see the exhaustion, the pain and the need for refuge imprinted on and in my flesh.

I’ve always been sporty, always active and doing things. But like many people dealing with depression – I stopped. Well, it was stop-start for a while before my will for exercise sputtered into nothingness.

Something I seem to do is self-punish. If I’m feeling low or down, I’ll take things away from myself that could make me feel better. Sad but true. And throughout the last couple of years I’ve held myself responsible for what happened to me. For what someone else did. Yeah, yeah – logically I know it’s not true. I can’t count the number of times people trotted out that tired old line “what happened – it’s not your fault you know”. Yup. Try telling that to the Supreme Judge residing within who signed my guilty verdict before the bruises had healed. And it seems, I’ve made myself pay with my body.

There’s another theory, one I’ve been thinking for a while. And one with which my therapist agrees. It’s around being attractive to the opposite sex.

Until December last year, I hadn’t had sex with anyone since I was assaulted. Well, technically from a month or so before I was assaulted actually. Andre (not his real name) and I had been seeing each other for a few months before I called it off. At least a month before that night.

For a long time it wasn’t even a question, I had no sex drive. I had no interest in men. I was literally too terrified to get close to anyone. [Note: I’ll deal more with some of these topics (sex, dating etc) in separate posts.]

In any case, the theory is something like this – in order to not have to deal with men being attracted to me in any way, I let myself gain weight. I stopped doing the things I enjoyed that also helped me maintain my weight. It’s a great avoidance tactic when you think about it.

Then, once I noticed the weight I’d been gaining I did make an effort to lose it. For a while I even had a personal trainer I was seeing twice a week for 2-3 months. But whilst I got fitter, I didn’t lose any weight.

I do know now that this is a psychological reaction in an attempt to protect myself. The only problem with that is because I have prior issues with my body/weight/looks, my weight gain contributes to my depression. So I avoid mirrors and I don’t go shopping for new clothes a lot. Despite being aware of all these things, I find it incredibly difficult to re-build my exercise routines.

Lately I’ve been making slow but steady inroads towards regaining my fitness. I have a ‘once a week’ rule. If I can do something at least once a week, it’s a triumph. Right now, I’m either going to a yoga class or going for a light jog. Anything else is a bonus.

The first effort to adhere to this rule was going to my favourite yoga studio. In order to make this possible, I had to put a few structures in place. I made a vow out loud to a friend that I was going to go. I pre-packed my yoga bag the night before and made sure it was in the boot of my car. Then I drove my car to the train station next to the studio – not my usual station. Despite all of those things, I had to again verbalise to someone at work what I wanted to do, and took their encouragement on board. It was still touch and go as I was walking back to my car after work. Heading towards the studio, I felt as though I was wading in wet sand. It was unbelievably tough. But finally I got there and my inner cheerleader went berserk!

There were a few weeks between this first effort and the next. But now I seem to have it sorted, at least for my ‘once a week’ rule. And when, a couple of weeks ago I went for a walk/jog in a local park, the crowds went wild!

It’s still hard every day. As much as I love exercise, the battle to allow myself something that I enjoy is a tough game to win. But slowly the Supreme Judge within is losing gravitas.

Looking in the mirror(s) today I saw I’ve got a long way to go. I don’t want to look like this any more. I do want to be attractive to men once more.

I know that in order for my body scars to fade, I’ve gotta start taking care of myself. The early foundations are there. And right now I’m waiting for the impulse to arrive that will make the ‘once a week’ rule obsolete as my natural desire to be active returns. I live in hope, with a healthy dose of intent thrown in for good measure!

~Svasti