Spousal rape

My impression is that in most people’s minds, “rape” has two specific connotations:  as date rape by someone the victim barely knows, or as a violent attack by a predatory stranger.  Rarely do I see public acknowledgment of another very serious situation: spousal rape.

What limited discussion I have seen about spousal rape– or, more accurately, partner rape– has focused on whether it is in fact “real.”  The majority, or at least a significant proportion, of opinions are that when people are married (or in a long-term relationship) sex is a right, a given, a duty.  Thus the stereotype of one partner needing an excuse, like a headache, for not wanting sex, rather than being free to say that they just don’t want it right now.  To deny your partner sex is to let them down, and it’s presumed that they would be– and for good reason– upset with you as a result.

Let’s be clear:  There is absolutely no situation in which it is remotely acceptable for someone to threaten, bargain or guilt-trip another into intimacy.  Not on a date, and not in a relationship.  To imply that there is such a situation is to deny and yet condone the misery, humiliation and trauma suffered by survivors of partner rape.  If you don’t believe me about the strength of those feelings, listen to my own story.  Trigger warning for sexual abuse, self-harm.

My husband, who was my first partner and with whom I stayed for seven years, was always sexually aggressive and manipulative.  He pressured me into having sex early on in our relationship, when I was in my mid-teens, and to hide it from my parents, who for better or worse were not particularly liberal on the subject. He insisted on having sex in situations that made me very uncomfortable– in the prop room of the theater building where we went to college, for example.  Throughout, I never had any emotional or physical pleasure from any of our intimacy.

After I moved in with him at 17 (when he was 20) things only got worse.  He started to pressure me to let him do things to me that were very painful and humiliating.  At times, I would cry during sex, and he would ignore me and continue with whatever he felt like doing.  I started cutting myself so deep that I should have had stitches, and ended up with terrible scars.

Because he had threatened to kill me twice before, as well as to kill my beloved cat, and had physically attacked me, slapping me, grabbing me, once slamming my head against a wall, once dislocating my jaw, I had no reason to think that if I denied him he wouldn’t hurt me.  As pathetic as it sounds, I was just as afraid of losing him, since, as often happens in abusive relationships, I had centered my whole life around him.  So the threat to me was real, immediate and implied, if not explicit.  In addition, he took advantage of me twice while I was drunk and passed out, or nearly so, and unable to resist.

Later, when we had separated, I had no choice but to move back in with him for several months.  During that time, he raped me at least 5 times.  I made it clear both in the moment and in general that I did not want to be intimate in any way, but he just kept pressuring and touching and insisting.  At one point he threatened and tried to commit suicide if I wouldn’t be in a relationship with him.  So again, there was a clear threat looming over me as he continually pushed me toward sex.  At one point he even offered to pay me $1000 for intercourse.

There should be absolutely no question, no ambivalence, no doubt that what happened to me “counts” as rape.  In essence, partner rape means taking advantage of a relationship that’s meant to be about trust, love and caring to impose an absolute demand on another person, regardless of how much it harms them.

The experience shattered me.  I felt disgusting, sickened, frightened and violated.  I couldn’t get myself clean enough.  It was around this time that I began again to have horrifying nightmares that had stopped for some time beforehand, while we were separated.  I would wake up screaming and punching the air or the wall.  My skin crawled all the time and I threw up compulsively.  I panicked when I knew he was coming home from work, because of what he might do to me.  I wished he would die, and I considered– and almost succeeded in– killing myself, putting myself in a coma for days after overdosing on several medications.

There is nothing in the world that justifies damaging and tormenting another living being in that way.  Period.  The idea that there is ever a right to sex, that sex can ever be an obligation, is no different from chimpanzees who beat their mates with sticks to force their desire.  It is an animal urge that has no place in society.  Partner rape is a crime and a severely traumatizing experience, and defending it is almost as inexcusable as doing it.

A pocket guide to mood swings [trigger warning]

For all your mood swing identification needs.

Possible responses to breaking a glass:

  • Manic:  “Fucking fuck, I do not have time for this, I am TRYING to get things DONE if everything would just stop getting in my WAY for half a goddamn minute.  I am too smart and too important to be cleaning up fucking GLASS.”  Kicks the floor, stubs toe.  Stays up all night researching what kinds of glasses are least breakable, while also doing an intense workout, watching TV, listening to the radio, reading articles, being pissed off with the TV and radio and articles, and hatching plans to hop a freight train going West and subsist on itinerant work for a year.  Buys an expensive set of “unbreakable” glasses.  Walks on the glass and doesn’t notice cut feet until they become infected.
  • Hypomanic:  “There is a reason I broke this plate.  I just need to figure out what it is and it will change my life.  This gives me a good opportunity to clean the floor, now that I’m down here it seems very dirty, and while I’m at it I’m going to wash the walls and windows and disinfect everything, cleaning is fun, woohoo!”  Puts on loud music and skips around cleaning the entire place while coming up with hundreds of creative ideas; rushes to try to pen them as fast as they arrive.
  • Depressed:  “Fuck, not again.  Why does this always have to happen?  I am such a clumsy retard.  Now I have one less glass, which means I’ll have to wash the dishes more often, and I’m going to have to spend hours cleaning this mess up and probably still end up with glass splinters in my feet.  You know what, fuck it, I can’t deal with this right now.”  Huddles on the couch under a blanket pretending to watch TV.
  • Very depressed:  Bursts into ragged sobs and runs to hide in bed, overwhelmed by the horror and absurdity of the world.

Thoughts on being asked to a party:

  • Manic:  “I’m trying to WORK here and you just made me lose track of the ineffably brilliant train of thought I was following.  If you can’t keep up, at least get out of the way, why can’t you understand how important this is, it’s all so simple!  I guess you just aren’t chosen like I am.  You can’t know what I know.”
  • Hypomanic:  “Yes!  Let’s go dancing!  Let’s stay up all night and go trestling* and come up with a theory of everything!  You’re the best, and I’m pretty great too!  I don’t even need sleep or food!  Everything is fantastic!”
  • Depressed:  “I really want to go and have a good time.  It’s not like people ask me to things very often, because let’s face it, I’m pretty shitty really.  But I know if I get there I’ll feel alienated and anxious and will freeze up and turn red all over and sweat like crazy and have to leave right away, which will be humiliating.  Great, not likely I’ll get invited to anything soon since I’m declining this time.”
  • Very depressed:  “They’re only inviting me to make fun of me, or out of pity, or both.  If I go, I’ll just ruin it for everyone else.  Why am I even here?  What’s the point of all this?  Sometimes I wish I could put a bullet through my brain just to make it stop hurting so much.  I wish the sky would just open and swallow me up and no one would ever even know I existed.  Going to a party is the most miserable thing anyone could do.  If people see me they will hate me and I won’t be able to stand it.”

Manner of speaking:

  • Manic:  Fast enough to be nearly unintelligible, with thoughts streaming out faster than anyone can keep up with.  Total inability to control speech.  Replete with swearing and offensiveness, without a thought for the consequences.
  • Hypomanic:  Fast, boisterous, difficult to interrupt, fixated on special interests.
  • Depressed:  Slow, flat, filled with sighs and groans and more complaining than intended; visible lack of interest in interaction coupled with a yearning to be understood and reassured.
  • Very depressed:  As little as possible; muttering.

The bottom line:  Next time you see these symptoms, know that they are not personal and in no way reflect on you as a friend, partner or family member.

There is no question that bipolar people are difficult to know and care for.  Our experience is often described as a roller coaster, but that’s really too tame.  It’s like a roller coaster where every inch ahead is shrouded in impenetrable fog, and most of the time when you go down a hill, which, of course, always happens eventually, your car smashes to bits and you have no choice but to rebuild it from scratch and get back on, or throw up your hands and walk away.  Half of us will try to kill ourselves at some point in our lives.  Half of those will succeed.

By recognizing what traits are affected by our mood swings, though, you can learn to see the person underneath the mood, or so we hope.  We’d like to think it’s worth the effort.

To paraphrase Season 8, Episode 1 of the rebooted Doctor Who, no matter how scared you are of others’ mental illness, they will always be more scared than you.

*The hobby of climbing a train trestle as a train passes over while yelling and holding on really tight.

Why I stopped killing myself

There are many reasons I started drinking.  There’s only one reason why I stopped.

I remember the first time I got well and truly drunk.  I was 19, and I had bronchitis, as I tend to do several times per year.  I found that the only thing that soothed my cough and let me sleep at all was a bottle of wine that my mother in law (with whom I and my then-husband were living) had had in the fridge for some time.  I had sipped wine before, but never gotten more than a little buzz.  Without even realizing it, I ended up drinking the whole bottle of wine, and what I felt I had never felt before:  total relaxation, not caring anymore, feeling as if nothing mattered because a simple drink could make me forget it all.

Prior to that night, I had disdained alcohol.  I would go to parties at my parents’ friends’ houses and see people drinking and acting like fools, laughing too loud and talking too much, and I always thought “I never want to be like that,” so I would choose a glass of ice water over wine or beer.  In that moment, with that bottle of white zin, everything changed, even though I didn’t know it for a long time.  I started keeping a bottle of vodka in the fridge and making a Bloody Mary or The Vodka Still Works (= ginger ale + bitters + vodka) when I felt stressed out.  (To his specious credit, my then-husband would get upset with me and pour out my drinks, saying he “wouldn’t let me become an alcoholic,” although I think his motivations had much more to do with control than concern.)

But it wasn’t until a few years later that I really understood what alcohol could do for/to me.  I was divorced and had just gone back to university, and every time I was assigned a paper and tried to work on it, I froze up, panicked, couldn’t work, and the more I couldn’t work the more I hated myself and the more stressed I got.  So one night, convinced I was going to fail at anything I ever tried to do and never be loved or understood by anyone, I went to the store and bought a bottle of Merlot.  I drank the whole thing, and I lay on the floor puking into my wastebasket and I thought: “This is it.  This is the solution to every problem I’ve ever had.  If I could just feel like this all the time, everything would be okay.”  And being that I had drunk such small amounts before, I had virtually no hangover/withdrawal, so it seemed there was no downside.

Within the year after that, I began to have opportunities to socialize with people I’d met in class, which scared the fucking shit out of me.  It had been years since I’d had a “friend” or really spent time with anyone who wasn’t my abusive, possessive husband or partner.  Suddenly I understood that if I drank while I was with other people, I could stop feeling so petrified and actually talk to them. 

For the first time in my life, I went to parties, I chatted, I flirted.  I did the things I didn’t know how to do, and I didn’t realize until much later that I was actually being my usual bumbling, bizarre self only less toned down because I had no inhibitions while drunk.  I said whatever came into my head, which, it turns out, usually means I’m being a rude, insensitive asshole. 

I started making stupid irrational decisions, dating people with whom I had nothing in common and then suddenly declining their calls and dropping off the face of the earth.  I had unprotected casual sex even though I hated it, because it just didn’t seem to matter one way or the other.  I didn’t care about anything anymore.  I stopped planning my time and would rush off my assignments while shit-faced drunk at 3AM, knowing in my overconfident stupor that I’d get an A anyhow.  I burned a hole in my stomach that still flares up in times of stress.  I started to have constant tremors and sometimes hallucinations when I didn’t drink, and the obvious solution seemed to be to drink more, to drink all day every day, to just never be sober on the days when I wasn’t caring for my son.

Then I met Person of Interest, and for the first time somebody had a genuine, vested interest in asking me not to drink and abuse drugs.  I knew he loved me, though I didn’t understand it, and I knew why he wanted me to be sober.  But it wasn’t enough.  I would try very hard for weeks to not drink at all, because I was madly, head over heels in love with him and I wanted to do anything that would make him happy.  And then something stressful would happen and I would go on a total bender.  My mental health was beginning to decline drastically, and it was a terrible time for that to happen, while navigating a new relationship.

 Fast forward 9 months; I was hospitalized and then went into rehab.  I tried twelve-stepping.  I attended and I listened and I thought, and at first it seemed like magic, and then pretty quickly it seemed like pretense– just another religion I didn’t really believe in, with its bible and its catechisms and its rituals.  But there was a moment in rehab when everything changed, and it had nothing to do with AA or NA or abstinence or any of the rules or skills I was taught.  As often happens with me, my life changed because someone told me a story.

If you’ve read my Dysfunctional Fairytales, you will recognize this story as incorporated into the first, because it made such an impression on me.  During a meeting, a young woman stood up and recounted the story of how she watched her sister die of an overdose.  “She was a beautiful African-American woman,” she said with tears rolling down her cheeks, “and when I looked in her eyes, I could see that she would be dead, because they were grey, they were just grey.” 

And then she spoke of the children of her sister.  “I try to be close to them, but I can barely stand to be around them because the girl, she looks so much like her mom.  And the boy, he was two when she died, and I was taking care of them.  He’d wake up at night sweaty and screaming and crying ‘My mommy died.’  I miss her, she was my sister, but I hate her a little bit because of what she did to that little boy.”

I am a parent of a little boy, who was five when I heard the story.  And my heart broke.  I realized how selfish I had been, and that no matter how bad I felt, no matter how much agony, my son was worth any price.  As long as he was in this world, unless I abused him, which I would never do, it was better for him to know his mom– even if he ended up hating me– than to know that I killed myself, poisoned myself slowly, before he could even know me and decide.  I couldn’t– I can’t– bear the thought of him going through what that poor little two year old did, and I knew that I had a choice to spare him.  How could I choose any other way?

I’m not going to lie; I’ve gone on a few benders since that night.  I’m no angel.  I’ve relapsed, but it doesn’t last long, because with every drink I’ve taken since then that little boy’s face and voice, as I imagine them, have haunted me.  I may be many things but one thing I cannot do is harm a child, and to kill myself would be to irreparably harm the most beautiful child who has ever existed.  And to continue to drink day and night, to fool myself into treating it as a medication that I deserve, is no different from slitting my throat very slowly.  Any day, I could have gone into DTs and never recovered.  Any day, I could have been gone.  No matter how much it hurts, no more.  Never again.