I don’t want to be small and tidy and create space for men, i want to create space for myself

Whenever I’m having clarity and lucid moments as opposed to anesthetic anxiety comas, i feel a connection with the earth and people and time and then i am psychic and know that one beyoncé song will be on the radio when i press Power and i can see everyones past lives

saramountain:

from E. R. Kennedy’s twitter, boosting with permission.

Tao Lin is scum, all these men are monsters

lose me around
the corners of your words

i’ve been here too long
to remain
in the shape
of a skeleton straightjacket

there’s a film that shows
every color known on earth
but we can only see
646,275 of them

there’s a reason you came back from the woods and gave me that handshake but i can’t remember and really it wouldn’t change a thing

the way you look
at me suck me
through a straw
in a watermelon nighttime
record player, yep

feel this
now this
would you do it again?

Roger Mindwater, hard to grab published in Little River (via littleriverlitmag)

(via kdecember)

http://bit.ly/1pwMd2Ymoma:

In honor of Labor Day, a powerful image by photographer Dorothea Lange. 
[Dorothea Lange. Kern County, California. 1938]

moma:

In honor of Labor Day, a powerful image by photographer Dorothea Lange

[Dorothea Lange. Kern County, California. 1938]

(via goldzine)

Young men need to be socialized in such a way that rape is as unthinkable to them as cannibalism.

Mary Pipher, Reviving Ophelia (via wetforest)

(Source: larmoyante, via psycho-cinderella)

reflectingblue:

raakellars:

bansheeandahunter:

False rape accusations are an anomaly.

True rape accusations are a norm.

You’re, quite literally, more likely to be killed by a comet than falsely accused of rape.

Re-blog now, read later.

"Because 1 in 33 men will be raped in his lifetime, men are 82,000x more likely to be raped than falsely accused of rape. It seems many of us would do well to pay more attention to how rape culture affects us all than be paranoid about false accusers.”

(via littlethousand)

DO NOT CENTER THE OPPRESSION OF WOMEN AROUND HOW YOU FEEL ABOUT THESE PROBLEMS AS A MALE

PUT THEIR STORIES FIRST AND THEN YOU WILL FIND OUT HOW TO BE AN ALLY

IF YOU THINK THIS ISN’T YOU THEN IT IS DEFINITELY YOU

belishabeacons:

The rape culture continues because you let it
When I went to trial against my ex boyfriend, I lost on a technicality. Not because he didn’t admit to: being physically and psychologically abusive to me, harassing me, stalking me, or violating police orders not to talk to me. He did admit to those things- to the police- in his statement after he was arrested. No, the reason I lost was because, when I was forced to hand over all contact I’d had between us, I failed to share a conversation we had had on gchat with the police. One in which I explicitly stated that I felt he had sometimes coerced me into sex; he denied this repeatedly, stating we had an ‘insanely good’ sex life.I didn’t hand this conversation over because I thought that the law wanted examples of his abuse, his harassment.  I was wrong.The law wanted me to point out, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he had done wrong by me and I had never taken any agency to counter him.
And so I lost. I went home for Christmas and I tried not to think about it. I tried to stop labelling what happened to me, I tried to stop reading blogs that illuminated my struggle, I tried to put it behind me.Every now and then, though, I’d come across something that reminded me. An ad for Mallorca- and I’m transported to a vacation we took together where he had sex with me without a condom (which I didn’t know about) and then ejaculated inside me without my consent. When I asked him why, he smiled- I was stuck on an island that did not offer the morning after pill over the counter, and he knew that. At the time, I knew that felt wrong. Now I know that was something called reproductive abuse.But I move on, ignoring other memories that come to the surface. “Grey sex” only makes me think of this time, when I was 19 years old, and he cajoled me into making a sex video with him, even though I protested (although not strongly) against it. At one point, he switched me into a position that exposed my body more to the camera. “No,” I said softly. “Come on,” he said. “No,” I said more forcefully. “It’s my birthday video,” he muttered. I relented.He would play that video sometimes when we had sex with the volume turned up high. I could just about hear myself saying “no, no, no.”Rainy mornings with a drier chill remind me of a nebulous number of times, how many I can’t tell you because I don’t remember them, where we were lying in his bed. He poked at me, calling me fat- his favorite abuse was appearance-based- and asked me to have sex with him. No, I’d ask. No, I’d plead. More ‘you’re fat’ would come at me until I said yes. Then, on top of me:
"Why aren’t you enjoying this? God dammnit, why aren’t you enjoying this?"All of these instances are examples of what the law would not hold up as rape. I sometimes even doubt myself labelling them as such; I feel guilty, lesser than someone who has been forcefully assaulted against their will. This isn’t rape. What happened to me wasn’t rape.What happened to me wasn’t abuse, I say. In the middle of the night, I wake up and feel the overwhelming urge to email him, asking him for forgiveness for taking him to trial. It was my fault- if I had shared that gchat conversation, it would have never gone to trial, and he would just have been arrested, released, and he would have maybe been scared enough to never contact me again.It was my fault. It was my fault that, one day when walking down the street, he raised his hand high above my head, and brought it inches away from my face. I cowered; he laughed. “Why the fuck would you do that?” I asked. He smiled, always. “Because you were raising your voice on the street. Why do you have to be so loud?”I tell myself it wasn’t that big of a deal that he pulled me by my hair, by my pixie cut, and told me I was a little girl. Women suffer worse, people suffer worse. It’s my fault that I obsess about it.And when he choked me in a bush until I either passed out or blacked out from panic- well, I shouldn’t obsess about that either. I wasn’t killed. I wasn’t even that harmed- just a scraped up knee. I slept the night in a guest room in his house, and his flatmates told me they’d look after me and make sure he didn’t come home. He did, he yelled at me, and the next morning I fell asleep in his bed again while I heard him tell his flatmate, “I think I was just waiting for an excuse to break up with her for a long time.”I tell myself it’s my fault these things happened because I went back to him. I went back to him so many times; I went back to him every second. Not because I loved him, not because I wanted him, but because I didn’t know if I had the strength to exist without him. And so you tell me: the rape culture exists because I let it. Because my words are not enough. Because shame is not enough.I used the law. I tried to get him the mental help he needed. I still lost.My words to him made me lose.So what are my words now?

belishabeacons:

The rape culture continues because you let it

When I went to trial against my ex boyfriend, I lost on a technicality. Not because he didn’t admit to: being physically and psychologically abusive to me, harassing me, stalking me, or violating police orders not to talk to me. He did admit to those things- to the police- in his statement after he was arrested. 

No, the reason I lost was because, when I was forced to hand over all contact I’d had between us, I failed to share a conversation we had had on gchat with the police. One in which I explicitly stated that I felt he had sometimes coerced me into sex; he denied this repeatedly, stating we had an ‘insanely good’ sex life.

I didn’t hand this conversation over because I thought that the law wanted examples of his abuse, his harassment.  I was wrong.

The law wanted me to point out, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he had done wrong by me and I had never taken any agency to counter him.

And so I lost. I went home for Christmas and I tried not to think about it. I tried to stop labelling what happened to me, I tried to stop reading blogs that illuminated my struggle, I tried to put it behind me.

Every now and then, though, I’d come across something that reminded me. An ad for Mallorca- and I’m transported to a vacation we took together where he had sex with me without a condom (which I didn’t know about) and then ejaculated inside me without my consent. When I asked him why, he smiled- I was stuck on an island that did not offer the morning after pill over the counter, and he knew that. At the time, I knew that felt wrong. Now I know that was something called reproductive abuse.

But I move on, ignoring other memories that come to the surface. “Grey sex” only makes me think of this time, when I was 19 years old, and he cajoled me into making a sex video with him, even though I protested (although not strongly) against it. At one point, he switched me into a position that exposed my body more to the camera. “No,” I said softly. “Come on,” he said. “No,” I said more forcefully. “It’s my birthday video,” he muttered. I relented.

He would play that video sometimes when we had sex with the volume turned up high. I could just about hear myself saying “no, no, no.”

Rainy mornings with a drier chill remind me of a nebulous number of times, how many I can’t tell you because I don’t remember them, where we were lying in his bed. He poked at me, calling me fat- his favorite abuse was appearance-based- and asked me to have sex with him. No, I’d ask. No, I’d plead. More ‘you’re fat’ would come at me until I said yes. Then, on top of me:

"Why aren’t you enjoying this? God dammnit, why aren’t you enjoying this?"

All of these instances are examples of what the law would not hold up as rape. I sometimes even doubt myself labelling them as such; I feel guilty, lesser than someone who has been forcefully assaulted against their will. This isn’t rape. What happened to me wasn’t rape.

What happened to me wasn’t abuse, I say. In the middle of the night, I wake up and feel the overwhelming urge to email him, asking him for forgiveness for taking him to trial. It was my fault- if I had shared that gchat conversation, it would have never gone to trial, and he would just have been arrested, released, and he would have maybe been scared enough to never contact me again.

It was my fault. 

It was my fault that, one day when walking down the street, he raised his hand high above my head, and brought it inches away from my face. I cowered; he laughed. “Why the fuck would you do that?” I asked. He smiled, always. “Because you were raising your voice on the street. Why do you have to be so loud?”

I tell myself it wasn’t that big of a deal that he pulled me by my hair, by my pixie cut, and told me I was a little girl. Women suffer worse, people suffer worse. It’s my fault that I obsess about it.

And when he choked me in a bush until I either passed out or blacked out from panic- well, I shouldn’t obsess about that either. I wasn’t killed. I wasn’t even that harmed- just a scraped up knee. I slept the night in a guest room in his house, and his flatmates told me they’d look after me and make sure he didn’t come home. He did, he yelled at me, and the next morning I fell asleep in his bed again while I heard him tell his flatmate, “I think I was just waiting for an excuse to break up with her for a long time.”

I tell myself it’s my fault these things happened because I went back to him. I went back to him so many times; I went back to him every second. Not because I loved him, not because I wanted him, but because I didn’t know if I had the strength to exist without him. 

And so you tell me: the rape culture exists because I let it. Because my words are not enough. Because shame is not enough.

I used the law. I tried to get him the mental help he needed. I still lost.

My words to him made me lose.

So what are my words now?

(via lakebbell)

I feel sick i have felt sick all day about these women and how their rapists are free and living it up writing their sad white boy jerk off novellas and how there will always be a power structure in place scaring victims of sexual assault into silence
Do not trust a man to care
Take care of your fellow women first

http://themason.tumblr.com/post/98739533036/sarahjeanalex-about-a-month-ago-sophia-katz

sarahjeanalex:

About a month ago, Sophia Katz told me she was raped by a former friend and roommate of mine when she visited New York this past May. Yesterday, she published a piece chronicling the sexual abuse she experienced that week, using a pseudonym for her rapist. I shared the piece…

(via ydylan)

exeyeyeye:

it feels like the compulsion to lash out at men keeps getting stronger and stronger, the need to tear them down consumes me, i want every piece of rotten meat they’ve expelled from themselves to be irrelevant, i want to stop pretending they have the power, stop 
homeboy gave me an STI, one he “didn’t know he had” despite knowingly having sex with someone who was infected. I didn’t know about this until after i was diagnosed and had to have a piece of my suspicious looking cervix cut out and tested for cancer. it came back negative.
when i confronted him with the news he immediately apologized and immediately got defensive, claiming that he wasn’t the one who gave it to me, and that there was no way for us to know it was him even though that is not true in the slightest. i at first fought back but eventually calmed down and accepted that he would not claim partial responsibility. i was wrong.
i am always wrong when i giggle at a joke that i think is lazy, lame, or stupid. i’m wrong when i apologize for not wanting to give a blowjob to someone because its the last thing i would want to do. when men touch me in any way and i’m not interested in being touched, despite our relationship or lack thereof, i am wrong for not pushing their hands away, looking them in the eyes and saying “don’t fucking touch me”
i’m wrong when i slowly walk towards a bed i have no interest in laying in
i’m wrong when i watch girls slide away from a boy who’s fingering her waist at a bar and don’t say anything
i’m wrong when i trivialize my sexual abuse on love’s behalf.
"i did something nice for you i just wanted you to do something nice for me"
i do nice things for you all the time.
i eventually laugh when you slap me in the face, i mean, it was just reactionary,
i dismiss it when you kiss me on the forehead, pat my hair and say “awww”, baby me, think my concerns are cute like a baby hiccup
i wait politely while you assert time and time again that you are more important than me. that you are smarter than me. that whatever you have to say is more profound than anything i have said before and anything i will say in the future.
i listen to you when you criticize me for criticizing men.
i apologize to you when i call you out on your shitty behavior and you have a shitty excuse.
i try my best to make sure you are cool with my plans, cool with my life choices, comfortable enough to take your hard dick and slap me in the face with it while i’m asleep to wake me up
all i want is for you to say “keep it up” and 
not scream at me at the top of your lungs while i’m trying to fall asleep and forget everything ever happened.
the only thing i want is for you to not think of me as a throw away girl or as lazy or as passive in my life
but i am passive. i see women get mistreated all the time and i say nothing. i have been continually mistreated by people i love and have said nothing, or have been silenced by them, 
saying “they don’t need to deal with” the shit they’ve done that’s caused me pain.
ok.
if you continue to just think, then you’re nothing more than a thought
and i’m ready to forget it

exeyeyeye:

it feels like the compulsion to lash out at men keeps getting stronger and stronger, the need to tear them down consumes me, i want every piece of rotten meat they’ve expelled from themselves to be irrelevant, i want to stop pretending they have the power, stop 

homeboy gave me an STI, one he “didn’t know he had” despite knowingly having sex with someone who was infected. I didn’t know about this until after i was diagnosed and had to have a piece of my suspicious looking cervix cut out and tested for cancer. it came back negative.

when i confronted him with the news he immediately apologized and immediately got defensive, claiming that he wasn’t the one who gave it to me, and that there was no way for us to know it was him even though that is not true in the slightest. i at first fought back but eventually calmed down and accepted that he would not claim partial responsibility. i was wrong.

i am always wrong when i giggle at a joke that i think is lazy, lame, or stupid. i’m wrong when i apologize for not wanting to give a blowjob to someone because its the last thing i would want to do. when men touch me in any way and i’m not interested in being touched, despite our relationship or lack thereof, i am wrong for not pushing their hands away, looking them in the eyes and saying “don’t fucking touch me”

i’m wrong when i slowly walk towards a bed i have no interest in laying in

i’m wrong when i watch girls slide away from a boy who’s fingering her waist at a bar and don’t say anything

i’m wrong when i trivialize my sexual abuse on love’s behalf.

"i did something nice for you i just wanted you to do something nice for me"

i do nice things for you all the time.

i eventually laugh when you slap me in the face, i mean, it was just reactionary,

i dismiss it when you kiss me on the forehead, pat my hair and say “awww”, baby me, think my concerns are cute like a baby hiccup

i wait politely while you assert time and time again that you are more important than me. that you are smarter than me. that whatever you have to say is more profound than anything i have said before and anything i will say in the future.

i listen to you when you criticize me for criticizing men.

i apologize to you when i call you out on your shitty behavior and you have a shitty excuse.

i try my best to make sure you are cool with my plans, cool with my life choices, comfortable enough to take your hard dick and slap me in the face with it while i’m asleep to wake me up

all i want is for you to say “keep it up” and 

not scream at me at the top of your lungs while i’m trying to fall asleep and forget everything ever happened.

the only thing i want is for you to not think of me as a throw away girl or as lazy or as passive in my life

but i am passive. i see women get mistreated all the time and i say nothing. i have been continually mistreated by people i love and have said nothing, or have been silenced by them, 

saying “they don’t need to deal with” the shit they’ve done that’s caused me pain.

ok.

if you continue to just think, then you’re nothing more than a thought

and i’m ready to forget it

(Source: lakebbell, via hahalolnice)

iwriteaboutfeminism:

Today, Ferguson is prepared to “keep it moving.”

September 28th

(via quiethouses)