#personal narrative

Sooo yes. As we all must know by now, I’m a terrible blogger, forgive me.

But just to update you guys, I’m still happily storyboardin’ (and designing and animating, who knew), life is good, and I’ve got some absolutely RAD news for you guys. 

Luckily it was announced so I can share it now, but I’m part of a team of animators working on an upcoming animated short called Welcome to Showside (by Ian McGinty, an awesome dude who makes comics for Adventure Time and Bravest Warriors)! 

So yeah, it’s been an intense month, but soon I’ll be able to share more about it with you folks!

Til then, I WILL TRY TO BLOG MORE AND NOT BE SUCH A DOOFUS, YEESH

So…it has been a painfullylong time since I posted anything, but a LOT has happened in just the last few months that has kept me really busy and extremely happy, yeehoo! To keep it short, there was a workshop I happened across that led to a rather speedy internship and suddenly TONS of amazingly talented people and friends began to flood into my life…

Aaand short story shorter, I’M A STORYBOARD ARTIST NOW! 

HOW that happened I do not know but I’ll just continue to thank God and go with it, hee! So yeah, hopefully I can post more drawings n stuff in the near future, but for now I just wanted to let you guys know I’m not dead!

Also a biiig hello to my new followers! Thank you for following a hibernating blog—hope to change that soon!

queerascat:

content warning: non-graphic description of a questionable consent situation; non-graphic talk of sex, rape & trauma; self-gaslighting.

this is the third and final post in a series of posts in which i’m writing about my personal experiences with sexual abuse / violence and consent issues. the first post on sexual abuse / violence can be found here. the second post on consent issues and asexuality can be found here. this post is about something that happened during a past relationship in which consent is / was questionable and the ramifications of it.

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consent. not a topic that i’m at all well informed about, but about which i’m writing a lot at the moment as i attempt to unpack and navigate things from my past that i have up until this point avoided doing.

as i mentioned in my previous post, i’ve been in two long-term relationships spanning 9 years in total, 5 of which were sexually active and all of which happened before i came out to myself as asexual (among other things). during the first relationship, something happened that has resulted in me now questioning what even ‘counts’ when it comes to consent.

in a relationship (like far too many) where sex had been consented to multiple times to the point of becoming assumed; where actual yeses and noes are no longer said because attention is no longer paid to asking for / giving consent at all, but rather to respecting when assumed consent is retracted… in that context, if i didn’t act on my ‘responsibility’ to explicitly retract my consent by verbally saying “no,” does that mean i automatically consented…?

how “active” and “enthusiastic” does consent have to be to ‘count’? and once one has consented to sex, how “active” or “enthusiastic” does retracting that consent have to be to ‘count’?

i don’t expect anyone to actually answer those questions. for now, it’s enough for me to just be able to think aloud by blabbering into the void that is the internet. as usual.

Keep reading

queerascat:

content warning: mentions of sex and abuse; talk of consent issues.

this is the second of what has now become three posts that i’m writing about my personal experiences with sexual abuse / violence and consent issues, the first of which can be found here. this post focuses on how my ability to consent may or may not have been affected by not knowing about the existence of asexuality prior to consenting to sex in past relationships.

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even though there are those who insist that consent is as simple as “yes” or “no,” that there is no gray area involved– you either consented or you didn’t– for lots of people consent can be more complicated than that.

in my time on Tumblr, various posts have come across my dashboard on the topic of consent and/or agency, specifically in the context of being asexual. sometimes when i read one of those posts, some part of me is screaming and on the verge of panicking until i close the tab in my browser– but not before ‘liking’ or bookmarking the post because i tell myself that i’ll come back to it later. “later” because i don’t want to deal with it “right now.” (read: “ever.”)

well, here’s me attempting to sit down and deal with stuff, finally.

as someone who has been in two long-term relationships spanning 9 years in total, 5 of which were sexually active and all of which happened before i came out to myself as asexual (among other things), having my ability to consent or even the quality (for lack of a better word) of my consent be brought into question (literally or hypothetically) makes me feel some kinda way.

that said, i have no interest in criticizing any of the existing consent models, nor in adding to them with a model of my own. i’m just here to think aloud, blabbering into the void that is the internet. as usual.

Keep reading

queerascat:

content warning: explicit talk of childhood sexual abuse & religous trauma without going into detail; explicit mentions of acephobia, biphobia, homophobia

this is one of two posts that i’m going to (hopefully) post on the topic of sexual abuse / violence and consent issues. this specific post is a submission to @resourcesforacesurvivors​‘ series on Intersectional Ace Survivor Stories and pertains to navigating childhood trauma and religious family as a not-so-young-anymore black, non-binary, bi / pan asexual. while i have talked briefly about the topic of this post in a video, for the most part the experiences discussed in both posts are ones that i’m only just now sitting down and thinking about. please bear with me as i try to put things into words.

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i’ll be honest with you. i’m extremely hesitant about posting this or drawing any kind of connection between myself and sexual abuse. why? well, for one, my online presence isn’t exactly anonymous. on top of that, i don’t actually view myself as a survivor. even identifying as a victim at all is something that i’m still coming to terms with.

regardless of how i view myself, you, dear reader, might view me as a survivor and/or a victim after reading this (or the upcoming) post and quite frankly, i’m not sure how i feel about that. it almost feels like posting this is a calculated risk of sorts that i’m taking.

the goal: to put a story that seems to be uncommon out there for those who might benefit from hearing it.

the risk: being viewed as or associated with something that i don’t don’t even view myself as or associate myself with. having people attribute who i am to this trauma.

…well, enough with the stalling. here goes nothing.

when your (a)sexuality and/or gender is blamed on childhood trauma that you didn’t even know happened to you, how do you even begin dealing with it? and where do you even go from there?

Keep reading

This post is a submission to RFAS’s intersectional ace survivor stories series.  You can learn more about the series here.

This post is a submission by an author who prefers to remain anonymous.  Please respect their privacy and do not speculate about their identity.

Trigger warnings: discussion of abusive relationships, mental illness, victim blaming

I am a biromantic asexual. I suffered an incredibly abusive relationship all through out my childhood. I have been diagnosed with OCD, anxiety and depression. For years I have been told that these things are directly related, both by mental health professionals and by those close to me. Before learning about asexuality, I really thought that my history of abuse and mental illness had cut me off from ‘normal’ sexual/romantic relationships.

It took a long time and a lot of courage to accept that was not the case, and to convince myself that these aspects of my identity are not causes and repercussions of each other.

I am an abuse survivor because I let an awful girl destroy every aspect of who I was before I knew her. She cut me off from everyone else in my life. She took away everything I loved by telling me they were worthless passions if she did not share them. She triggered my anxiety and paranoia, and she took my happiness. My abuser took everything from me, but she did not take my ability to be attracted to people. I was asexual before her, and I am still asexual now that she is gone from my life.

To all those aces who are told their mental illness or abusive past ‘broke’ them: it didn’t. Your asexuality is not a side effect of your personal history, it is an intrinsic part of it. Your sexuality was not stolen from you, it is still a part of your identity even if those around you cannot acknowledge or understand it. For years I have been told that I am broken, but that I can be fixed. I know now that even if I leave behind my mental illnesses and my history of abuse, I will still be asexual. That part of me is not broken, no matter what anyone else says.

queenieofaces:

This post has been cross-posted to the Resources for Ace Survivors wordpress.

This post is for the June 2016 Carnival of Aces, which is on the topic of “Resiliency.”

Content warnings: discussion of trauma and violence (sexual and not), mentions of substance abuse and suicidality and self-harm, all in the context of talking about a work of fiction

Between 2008 and 2011 I wrote the longest piece of writing (fiction or non-fiction) I’ve ever produced–a 133,472 word, 251 page (single-spaced) vampire novel.  I poured most of my creative energy into it for 3 years and then just hid it away in my hard drive.  I returned to it recently, when I mentioned in a conversation to a friend and suddenly became intensely curious whether it held up or not.  For the terminally curious, I liveblogged my reread, but this is not really a post about the vampire novel I wrote (thank goodness–no one wants to read about that).  Instead, it’s a post about resilience, how the vampire novel I wrote helped me process a lot of the things going on in my life, and the extent to which I can gauge how much I have grown and changed by looking back on it.

Keep reading

iamunwell:

It’s Ace Awareness Week so let’s talk about some things that happen(ed to me) as an asexual survivor!!!

• not realising how affected you are till you try and enter a relationship with a new person and suddenly everything is different
• boundaries go UP
• once okay-go or maybe-go areas become complete no-go do-not-touch flashback-triggering zones
• sexual repulsion? oh hi, nice to meet you completely new facet of asexuality
• boundaries go UP and then sometimes DOWN AGAIN but not usually all the way
• even make-outs and vanilla intimacy needs aftercare
• kissing with your eyes open now because otherwise you forget who it is and maybe it’s That Person
• boundaries go oh no we’re fine WAIT SUDDENLY WE ARE NOT
• developing a whole language of consent and checking with your partner because otherwise there’s no way they could do anything without asking first. your own code of quick looks and near-touches and wordless, cautious suggestions
• what sexuality you do have??? ruined forever
• other people getting into it and being noticeable turned on makes The Fear begin because rape culture taught you that’s why rape happens
• half the resources there to help you are too busy steepling their hands and sighing “mmmm but you’re not a real ace™ though”
• the special hell that is a trauma-based kink (e.g. noncon, roughness) being the only thing that gets you going
• unfairly blaming yourself for being unable to give your partner what they thought they were getting even if you made it clear you were ace
• talking the talk when you’re flirting but being physically incapable of walking the walk because once you’re in that situation it’s Too Real
• unable to go to pride events to celebrate your asexuality because it’s all so. fucking. sexual.
• discovering@resourcesforacesurvivors & being emotionally w r e c k e d by their every post

This post is by Coyote, and has been cross-posted to the RFAS wordpress.

I don’t even want to write about this, but I want it to be written, and maybe, if I peel back the layers slow enough, I can explain why.

[content notes: graphic description]

I don’t like reading posts like this.  Not always.  That’s layer one.  Sometimes I get something out of them, and sometimes I don’t.  It’s hard to gauge what ratio of comfort to discomfort I’ll get from them – what will work as reassurance and what will just make me feel sick.  And I think that’s mostly a matter of how it’s all framed.  I guess I need a window into what’s happening as it’s being written, some kind of clue into what the author is experiencing as they’re sharing it, something to orient me, because otherwise, I tend to get sucked into the story itself, experiencing that and that only, stuck inside it without a context to step out into, and come away feeling worse.  I want to put up some kind of barrier there.  I want you to hear the author, me, thinking this through, as a sort of overlay, holding the subject at arm’s length.  I don’t know how to do this otherwise.

Layer two, then.  I don’t want to face up to it.  Not for what it is, but for what it means about the relationships I still have now.  We never talked about it after it happened.  Now I’m wondering if we should have.  But you won’t understand what I mean by that until I tell you.

I don’t want to put words to it.  But I know, also, the strange relief I’ve found in hearing others’ reflections on their own stories, especially stories they wonder don’t “count,” and I’ve found a strange gratification in mentally retagging this memory as CSA, almost as much as I found relief in finally, finally letting myself ID as ace.  By now I’ve mostly quieted a voice that says it’s silly and pathetic to even write about this with the tone I’m setting.  And maybe that, itself, is a layer three as much as a reason to write this anyway.

My culture gives us very specific narratives of sexual violence – a short script, narrow roles, cardboard characters with tightly scripted lines that don’t account for the diversity of reality.  Any deviation from the imposed mold feels “fake.”  The way I figure, the more you hear the real stories that don’t follow that short script, the easier it might be discard it altogether.  It should help.  I can hope.

I, at least, know I wouldn’t be writing this at all if it weren’t for the others who wrote before me.

I don’t really know where the layers begin and end, really.  I won’t be numbering any more.

Here’s what part of my mind tells me: CSA by grown adults is done by parents, or family, or mentors, or coaches, or teachers, or older friends, or older partners, and above all, by pedophiles.  Labeling something as CSA goes hand in hand with accusing someone of being a pedophile.  Or so I’m supposed to think, I guess.  It’s different maybe if the perpetrator was the same age.  But a grown adult?  Has to have been a pedophile for it to really be CSA.  Which, I’m not sure he was, so it can’t be.  Determining that is part of the criteria.  If I don’t think of him as a pedophile, then it can’t have been CSA.  That’s how it works, right?  Just because I know how I experienced it doesn’t mean I know how he did – and that’s what matters, right?

Or so I tell myself.

I’m putting this out there because I can’t stand the thought of someone thinking I hadn’t already thought through all this myself.

That’s one of my hangups, in all this.  Calling it CSA feels like it wouldn’t be fair to him, or to her.  Abuse is only done by abusers, after all, or something.  And if I can’t be sure enough, can’t be confident enough in categorizing either of them that way, can’t make myself believe in that, then I know I’m not supposed to call it CSA at all.

And then, as a complication, there’s the small matter of having seen, more than once, in multiple ways, an element of my experience written in as an explicit exception to what counts as CSA.

As we’re all supposed to know, it can’t be CSA if it was a legitimate medical examination by a doctor.

Which, it was.  A legitimate medical examination.  I have to assume.

I find myself wondering now if the people who know me will draw a link between this and other things they know about me, like this will explain why I think X Y or Z.  I shouldn’t deny it, I guess.  Seems fitting, almost, in a twisted way.  I’m anxious of people attributing to it overly much, though, even if it contributed somehow, as much as anything.

There’s really too much in the way of disorganized anxious thoughts to fit in one post.  I’m trying.

But yes, that’s one thing I want people to understand, I guess: that doctors aren’t exempt.  That a medical license doesn’t put you above the possibility.  That seeing someone say “no one should ever touch a child there, except for a doctor” made me want to curl up behind a locked door and turn to stone.

I didn’t recognize it as wrong at first either, you know?  I didn’t have a concept for it.  He was a doctor.  It was a part of the exam.  And more importantly: I didn’t have a concept of getting to reject to what adults decided to do to me.  I didn’t have a concept of… anything being sexual except for sex itself – or, well, no, that’s not true.  But I didn’t know that that was an applicable way to describe how I was experiencing it.  Which, I was.  It was.  Because that’s a pretty normal reaction, I think, when a man has his hand inside your underwear.

I don’t want to hear again about how this is acceptable and fine because of the context.  I’ve heard it enough from myself.

I want to finally let myself believe that the way I felt, and feel, actually matters in any kind of way.  No matter what adults I couldn’t say no to decided was best for me.

It would be better if I could let it rest, but I can’t, until I figure out what this means, among so many other things, about still talking to her.

The other day, I saw this billboard that must have been part of some awareness campaign.  It had a picture of a child’s painted fingernails, with a letter painted on each nail, that read the word “molested.”  And it had a caption something like, “kids won’t just tell you,” and then something about learning to recognize the signs.  Which is a good point, I guess, but made me feel pretty stupid, seeing that while in the car with her.

Here’s another thing I’m hung up on: everything I’ve ever heard about parents & CSA of their children by-other-adults has been about their children telling them.

There’s nothing in the script for if they already know.

There’s nothing in the script for how to bring it up, years later, if they were there when it happened.

That’s what’s actually even harder to write about, actually.  My mom being there in the room, which I guess made it feel more like something that was supposed to be happening and that I was just supposed to endure it, the way I endured anything else about being a child subject to the will of its adults.  God, you know I don’t even remember how old I was?  I was younger than ten, I know that.  I feel like I might have been about six, maybe.  Maybe younger.

What confounds me still is that it’s not like she was completely impassive as she watched this unfold.  Her face contorted and she started crying.  I didn’t get why.  I get it now, more.  Doesn’t make it better.  Actually makes it worse.

I remember her saying something like, “I’ll never let anyone hurt you,” which at the time was an utterly mystifying thing to say because the discomfort wasn’t the kind I would have labeled as pain, so I was confused why she was even saying that.  He wasn’t hurting me, I remember thinking.  It was just… really uncomfortable.  Really, really uncomfortable.

What it felt like at the time was… more than I would have allowed anyone to do, given the choice.  Not something I would have given permission for if asked.  It’s not like I was given any kind of opportunity for giving informed consent.  Not in the slightest.

It fit the bigger picture of what I knew about the world, though, because I effectively grew up being taught that I wasn’t allowed to set my own boundaries.

I think I’m disassociating a little bit now.  Was a bit before, too.  That’s okay.

Uneventfully we left the doctor’s office and I mostly forgot it happened and we never spoke about it.  Ever.  Because, I guess, there wasn’t really a reason to.  As my guardian she could have done something and she didn’t.  Doesn’t seem like there’s any reason to bring it up, now, if she won’t.

But, ever since I realized I could describe what he did as… molestation, if not CSA, it’s been plaguing my thoughts when I’m with her.  She could have done something; she didn’t.  Why didn’t she?  I’m not sure I want to know the answer.  I’m not sure it would leave me any better off than before.

It’s an ongoing dilemma of mine.  It’d be nice if it could just be over.