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Sat Aug 23, 2014, 01:58 PM

We have a patriarchy problem. (trigger warning)

“In the 1890s, when Freud was in the dawn of his career, he was struck by how many of his female patients were revealing childhood (sexual) victimization to him. Freud concluded that child sexual abuse was one of the major causes of emotional disturbances in adult women and wrote a brilliant and humane paper called “The Aetiology of Hysteria.” However, rather than receiving acclaim from his colleagues for his ground-breaking insights, Freud met with scorn. He was ridiculed for believing that men of excellent reputation (most of his patients came from upstanding homes) could be perpetrators of incest.

Within a few years, Freud buckled under this heavy pressure and recanted his conclusions. In their place he proposed the “Oedipus complex,” which became the foundation of modern psychology… Freud used this construct to conclude that the episodes of abuse his clients had revealed to him had never taken place; they were simply fantasies of events the women had wished for… This construct started a hundred-year history in the mental health field of blaming victims for the abuse perpetrated on them and outright discrediting of women’s and children’s reports of mistreatment by men.”

Lundy Bancroft




From the ibelieveyouitsnotyourfault tumblr:

In first grade, a boy named John— a notorious troublemaker—systematically chased every girl in our class during recess trying to kiss her on the lips. Most gave in eventually. It was easier to give in than keep running. When it was my turn, I turned and faced him, grabbed his glasses off his weasel face, and stomped on them on the hard blacktop. He ran to the principal’s office and cried.

In fifth grade, I was asked to be a boy’s girlfriend over email. It was the first email I ever received. He actually told me he wanted to send me an email, so I went home and made an AOL account. We went to a carnival and he won me a Garfield stuffed animal, and then he gave me a 3 Doors Down CD. A few days later, he broke up with me, and asked for Garfield and the CD back. I said no.

In sixth grade, a girl in my year gave head to an eighth grader in the back of the school bus while playing Truth or Dare.

In the summer after sixth grade, I kissed a boy for the first time at sleep away camp. He was my summer love. During the end-of-the-summer dining hall announcements, where kids usually announced lost sweatshirts and Walkmen, an older girl stepped up to the microphone, tossed her hair behind her shoulders, and proudly stated, “I lost something very precious to me last night. My virginity. If anyone finds it, please let me know.” The dining hall erupted into laughter and cheers. She was barred from ever coming back to the camp again, and wasn’t allowed to say goodbye to anyone.

In seventh grade, I told my brother I decided when I was older wanted a Hummer. What I really meant was I wanted a Jeep, but I didn’t know a lot about cars. My mother overheard and screamed at me for “wanting a Hummer.”

In the summer after freshman year of high school, I went to sleepaway field hockey camp with many of my close friends. One of them, named Megan, I had been friends with since kindergarten. One night when I was showering, she ripped open the curtain and snapped a photo of me on her disposable camera. I screamed. She laughed. We both laughed when I got out of the shower a few minutes later. After camp was over, her father took the camera to the convenience store to get it developed. When he gave the finished photos back to her, he said, “Your friend [Anonymous] has grown up.”

Sophomore year of high school, one of my best friends Hilary had a party in her basement while her mom was away. We invited some of the guys in our grade and someone’s older brother bought us a handle of vodka. One of the boys who came sat next to me in Spanish class. His name was Thomas. I remember playing a simple game, where we passed the bottle of vodka around in a circle and drank. I remember being happily tipsy and having fun, to suddenly being very drunk. Thomas and I started chanting numbers in Spanish, and he leaned towards me and kissed me. We kissed in the middle of the party, with all of our friends cheering. Then we went into Hilary’s bedroom.

Hilary’s bedroom was in the basement, on the ground floor, with a large window next to her bed. When someone went outside to smoke a cigarette, they realized it was a front row seat to what was happening in the bedroom. It was dark outside, and the light on was in the bedroom. They called everyone outside to watch. I don’t remember getting undressed, but apparently we were both completely naked in Hilary’s bed. A friend of mine told me later she tried to open the door and stop what was happening, but Thomas must have locked it. They said they pounded on the door. I don’t remember hearing them pounding. I don’t remember seeing everyone’s faces outside the window. I remember Thomas holding my head down, and shoving his penis into my mouth. I remember trying to resist, pulling back, but he held his hands firmly on my head, pushing my face up and down. That’s all that I remember.

The next day, my friends and I went out to dinner at one of our favorite local restaurants. I couldn’t eat anything, and it wasn’t because I was hung over. Every time I tried to put food in my mouth, I felt like I was choking. Anytime a flash of the night before appeared in my mind, I felt like vomiting. My friends sat with me in silence. Then they told me a girl named Lindsey, who had briefly dated Thomas freshman year, had stood outside and watched the entire time. Even after everyone else stopped watching. My friends said they didn’t watch.

On Monday, Thomas and I sat next to each other in Spanish. We didn’t speak. We didn’t make eye contact. I went to the girls bathroom and threw up. I hear Lindsey and Thomas live together, now, ten years later.

Junior year of high school, my teacher for Honors Spanish was named Seńor Gonzales. Seńor Gonzales had all of the girls sit in the front row. Seńor Gonzales called on any girl who was wearing a skirt to write on the chalkboard. Seńor Gonzales asked a friend of mine, who had broken her finger playing an after school sport, if she broke her finger because “she liked it rough.” Seńor Gonzales was a tenured teacher.

Senior year of high school, I got my first real boyfriend. His name was Colin. He was on the lacrosse team with Thomas. He told me that sophomore year, Thomas told everyone on the team what happened that night at Hilary’s. Everyone cheered. Colin said that, even then, he had a crush on me. Even then, he wanted to punch Thomas.

Colin and I lost our virginities to each other. Colin said if I got pregnant, he would make me have the baby. He didn’t believe in abortion. Colin said if I got pregnant, he would make me have a C-section. Colin said that if I didn’t have a C-section, my vagina would be too loose for him to ever enjoy having sex with me again. Colin said that he wouldn’t let our child breastfeed. He said his mother gave him formula, and that he turned out just fine. I didn’t get pregnant.

Junior year of college, I lived in Denmark for the spring semester and studied at the University of Copenhagen. Copenhagen is one of the safest cities in the world. Guns are illegal there. Pepper spray is illegal there. One night, my friends and I went to a concert at a crowded club in a part of the city I didn’t know very well. I brought a tiny purse with money, my apartment key, and my international cell phone. For some reason it made sense at the time to put my purse inside my friend’s purse. Maybe I didn’t feel like carrying it. We were both drinking. My friend left the concert to go home with her boyfriend. One by one, everyone I was there with left the concert, until I was suddenly alone and I realized I didn’t have my purse, or any money for a cab ride home.

I started walking in the direction that felt right. I walked for a long time. I had no idea where I was, and didn’t recognize the area. It was almost 4 am. I was on a residential street when a cab pulled up next to me. I asked the driver if he could drive me to an intersection down the street from my apartment.

I don’t have any money, I said.

I really need your help, I said.

I will do it for free, he said.

Sit in the front, he said.

I sat in the front. We drove in silence for some time, until he pulled over on the side of a dark street.

I don’t want to do it for free anymore, he said.

He locked the car doors and reached across the center console and slipped his hand up my skirt. He grabbed my vagina. Hard. I pushed his hand away and unlocked the door. I ran down the street and realized he had taken me a block away from the intersection I wanted. I walked to my apartment and threw rocks at my roommate’s window until she let me inside. She yelled at me for waking her up. I escaped. Nothing happened. I was fine.

The summer after I graduated college I helped Hilary find an internship. She was an art major and wanted something for her resume besides waitressing. We found a posting on Craigslist to be a studio assistant for a painter in the Bronx. It was listed as an unpaid internship. The toll for the George Washington Bridge was twelve dollars, plus gas, but she got the internship anyway. She wanted the experience.

The artist was a 38-year-old Canadian painter named Bradley. Hilary was 22.There was another intern there, an art student from Manhattan named Stella. Bradley needed assistants to help him make bubble wrap paintings. Stella and Hilary would take a syringe and fill the tiny bubbles with different color paints until it formed a mosaic. Bradley always had Hilary stay after Stella left to clean the paintbrushes and syringes. He told Hilary she was beautiful. More beautiful than his wife, who he only married for citizenship. He told Hilary they had a loveless marriage. He told Hilary he wanted to have her beautiful children. They began an affair. He told Hilary has wife knew and didn’t care. He told Hilary he was going to leave his wife soon.

Everyday Hilary drove to the Bronx, cleaned Bradley’s paintbrushes, and had sex on the studio floor. Everyday she went home with no money, and everyday she paid the toll at the George Washington Bridge. She needed the internship for her resume, she said. It was too late to find a new job, she said.

I could go on. I could tell you a lot more. About the whistles on the sidewalk, the kids who sat at the bottom of the stairs in high school to look up our skirts, my friend who was a prostitute in South Carolina, the men who’ve cornered me in parking lots and bars calling me a tease, the unwanted grabbing on the subway, the many times my father has called me fat, the time I traveled to the Philippines and discovered Western men pay preteen locals to spend the week in their hotel, the messages on OKCupid asking to “fart in my mouth.” About how I wasn’t sure if I had been raped because I was drunk and kissed Thomas back. How he raped my mouth and not my vagina, so that must not be rape. How easy it was for me to escape the dark street in Copenhagen, and how that made it not matter since “it could’ve been worse.”

Men have no idea what it takes to be a woman. To grin and bear it and persevere. The constant state of war, navigating the relentless obstacle course of testosterone and misogyny, where they think we are property to be owned and plowed. But we’re not. We are people, just like them. Equals, in fact, or at least that’s the core of what feminism is still trying to achieve. The job is not over. We’ve made great progress. There are female CEOs, though not very many. There are females writing for the New York Times and winning Pulitzer prizes, though not very many. There are female politicians, though not very many. But these advances are only on paper. The job won’t be over until equality permeates the air we breathe, the streets we walk and the homes we live in.

I think back to how easy it was for me, in first grade, to feel fearless and strong in my conviction to stomp on John’s glasses. I felt right in reacting how I did, because John’s behavior was wrong. But his was an elementary learning of the wide boundaries his gender would go on to afford him. For me, it would never again be so easy.

- Anonymous, age 25




From the projectunbreakable tumblr:














"It was easier to give in than keep running."

31 replies, 7270 views

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Arrow 31 replies Author Time Post
Reply We have a patriarchy problem. (trigger warning) (Original post)
redqueen Aug 2014 OP
CrispyQ Aug 2014 #1
redqueen Aug 2014 #3
theHandpuppet Aug 2014 #6
gtar100 Aug 2014 #2
redqueen Aug 2014 #4
CrispyQ Aug 2014 #5
theHandpuppet Aug 2014 #8
Tuesday Afternoon Aug 2014 #16
CrispyQ Aug 2014 #20
GeoWilliam750 Aug 2014 #19
CrispyQ Aug 2014 #22
Aldo Leopold Aug 2014 #7
redqueen Aug 2014 #10
Aldo Leopold Aug 2014 #11
littlemissmartypants Aug 2014 #9
GeoWilliam750 Aug 2014 #12
BlancheSplanchnik Aug 2014 #13
tblue37 Aug 2014 #14
GeoWilliam750 Aug 2014 #17
Jack Rabbit Aug 2014 #15
HockeyMom Aug 2014 #18
Dont call me Shirley Aug 2014 #21
me b zola Aug 2014 #23
1monster Aug 2014 #24
pnwmom Aug 2014 #25
oberliner Aug 2014 #26
BlueJazz Aug 2014 #27
stage left Aug 2014 #28
Laffy Kat Aug 2014 #29
niyad Aug 2014 #30
chervilant Aug 2014 #31

Response to redqueen (Original post)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 02:39 PM

1. That was incredibly powerful writing. -nt

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Response to CrispyQ (Reply #1)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 02:44 PM

3. A whole lot of women are beginning to speak up.

The blowback from those who are so transparently desperate to maintain the status quo will only get worse.

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Response to redqueen (Reply #3)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 03:09 PM

6. I can only hope it will get worse for them

But the level of denial is unbelievable!

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Response to redqueen (Original post)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 02:43 PM

2. Yes we do. Probably the root cause of many of our problems.

It's written into western cultural history like it's normal but I truly think it's a mental illness our species has been suffering from for a long, long time. And part of our "waking up" is to realize just how insidious it is.

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Response to gtar100 (Reply #2)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 02:45 PM

4. Very well said: part of waking up is realizing how insidious it is.

It is something many recoil from once they start to get an impression of how very insidious it is.

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Response to gtar100 (Reply #2)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 03:01 PM

5. IMO, the big three are going to have to go, before any real inroads to gender equality are made.

Too many women accept oppressive roles because of their faith. The three main religions are based on oppressing women & defining women as less than men. The Bible goes so far as to say that Eve was created from Adam's rib. If that's not a message of possession & ownership I don't know what is.

The whole religion thing disgusts me. God was created by man to control & oppress women. And to oppress other men they don't approve of, but mostly women.

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Response to CrispyQ (Reply #5)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 03:39 PM

8. +1

Couldn't agree more.

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Response to CrispyQ (Reply #5)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 04:40 PM

16. What are the big three? Thanks. N/t

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Response to Tuesday Afternoon (Reply #16)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 04:55 PM

20. The Abrahamic religions. -nt



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Response to CrispyQ (Reply #5)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 04:55 PM

19. Love your sig line

Faith is psychology
Religion is politics
Theology is semantics
God is inponderable


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Response to GeoWilliam750 (Reply #19)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 04:59 PM

22. Love yours too!

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Response to redqueen (Original post)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 03:34 PM

7. These women are so unbelievably brave.

I'm trying to raise my two beautiful daughters to be strong, independent, and savvy, and yet I worry often they will be deceived and taken advantage of by some asshole boy or man at some point in their lives.

I think this worry derives from the fact that both my older sister and my wife suffered sexual abuse as teens. This side of the male psyche is like an unrelenting tide.

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Response to Aldo Leopold (Reply #7)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 03:48 PM

10. The ubiquitous sexual objectification of women is a large part of what fuels that tide.

Thats why I bother posting in GD in the seemingly hopeless effort to raise awareness of how destructive it is.

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Response to redqueen (Reply #10)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 03:49 PM

11. And thanks for doing so.

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Response to redqueen (Original post)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 03:41 PM

9. Power and Control.



Kicking.

Love, Peace and the Righteous Fight.
~ Lmsp

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Response to redqueen (Original post)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 03:54 PM

12. It is said that one in three women are victims of some kind of sexual assault

I wonder how it can be that low.

I live in a relatively safe city. and so many women I know have been assualted by both strangers and people they know. Some of it is "only" non-violent stalking, and some of it rather frightening.

Perhaps one telling measure of the oppression experience every day is that women avoid eye contact on the street, keeping eyes down, avoidance if not completely submission. It would seem at least partly - I would assume - because to make eye contact is to invite an unwanted approach.

Most good men have no idea what goes on every day in women's lives.

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Response to redqueen (Original post)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 03:55 PM

13. this says it all.

Men have no idea what it takes to be a woman. To grin and bear it and persevere. The constant state of war, navigating the relentless obstacle course of testosterone and misogyny, where they think we are property to be owned and plowed.

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Response to redqueen (Original post)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 04:01 PM

14. The woman who runs the Everyday Sexism website has compiled the

womens' stories from the site into a book. If you are interested, it is available on Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/s/?ie=UTF8&keywords=everyday+sexism&tag=googhydr-20&index=stripbooks&hvadid=39345257690&hvpos=1t1&hvexid=&hvnetw=g&hvrand=2801446700070153732&hvpone=&hvptwo=&hvqmt=b&hvdev=t&ref=pd_sl_4ri3lu8hfu_b

ON EDIT: Of course, some jerk started a website in retaliation, where he posts rants about how men are really the ones oppressed by sexism. He left a nasty review of the book on Amazon, and when women commented on his review, he posted a bunch of nasty responses to their comments.

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Response to tblue37 (Reply #14)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 04:48 PM

17. It is amazing

That some men must feel that they must be dominant even in their misery and victimhood.

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Response to redqueen (Original post)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 04:37 PM

15. K/R

This is very powerful stuff. I don't like to post on these subjects. For no good or apparent reason, I'm uncomfortable with them. Evil things done to children is a subject that makes me cringe like nothing else, although nothing like that was ever done to me.

There are some people on DU who need to see it, like the one whose post I voted to hide last night. I thought it was a no-brainer, but the vote was 4-3 for hiding. Perhaps the three who voted to let it stand need to see this, too.

I was unaware of Dr. Freud's early research. Perhaps it should be re-published for a second opinion in the light of new facts and changing social norms.




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Response to redqueen (Original post)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 04:50 PM

18. Poor, poor persecuted (Christian) White Men

My heart bleeds for you, from an Old, White Woman. You are CLUELESS as to what real persecution really is (Gender and Race).

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Response to redqueen (Original post)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 04:57 PM

21. Bible, Genesis, Garden of Eden, Eve, Original Sin, LIES LIES LIES ALL LIES!!!!!

"I was a product of spousal rape" my mother told me

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Response to redqueen (Original post)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 05:04 PM

23. K&R

Whenever someone tries to hush your voice that is a signal that you need to become louder.

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Response to redqueen (Original post)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 05:05 PM

24. Please place your (trigger warning) in all caps at the beginning of the title...

Like this: SEXUAL ABUSE TRIGGER WARNING

I really didn't need this today. Your trigger warning came at the end of the title and I didn't even notice it since this was on the home page.

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Response to redqueen (Original post)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 05:08 PM

25. TRIGGER WARNING: A friend of mine's sign might be the worst of all of these.

Her story breaks my heart. If she had a sign it would say,


"I told my mom and she didn't believe me.
I was eight.

So she kept leaving me alone with him,
and he kept doing it,
for three more years.
When they got divorced,
she said she was sorry.

But now she gets mad at me sometimes.
She says I better be good

or she'll send me back to him."

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Response to redqueen (Original post)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 05:29 PM

26. This is so depressing

 

We do have a very serious problem.

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Response to redqueen (Original post)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 05:35 PM

27. Oh Me. I know a lot of men on DU read these stories and feel like I do. Outraged and numb.

 

I want to post line after line of kind, caring, consoling words and all that comes out is:
Oh Me.

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Response to redqueen (Original post)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 05:58 PM

28. Thanks for this thread, Red Queen.

It really is #yes, all women, isn't it? Too bad, Freud couldn't hold out.

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Response to redqueen (Original post)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 06:09 PM

29. So, so poignant.

It really takes it toll, doesn't it? Shapes us into who we become. How many of us wish we knew then what we know now?

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Response to redqueen (Original post)

Sat Aug 23, 2014, 07:18 PM

30. k and r and bookmarking because I am running out of time.

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Response to redqueen (Original post)

Sun Aug 24, 2014, 08:07 AM

31. My sign would say:

My estranged family thinks I seduced my abuser. I was 10-12 years old, he was in his mid-thirties. He was my brother-in-law. He also molested my two younger sisters.

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