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--"What got you into martial arts?"

--"What kind of dancer/martial artist/writer are you?

--"How do you deal with brain damage, bodily injury and 

     C-PTSD, yet still dance, write, train, live the way you do?"

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    This Is My Story

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  • Bella Dancer

"YOU OWE ME" - Sexual Coercion, Expectations & Assault

Updated: Feb 23

Continued from:

JERRY-RIGGING - Building My First Set of Armor

BUILDING ARMOR - The Hard Way

THE DAMSEL - Predators, Instincts, “Nice Girls” & Neurodivergence


If our title today doesn't tell you what we're about to dive into, I covered all the trigger warnings and topic clarifications earlier in this series. But it still won't warn you off about my delivery. How's this:



We are not safe for work today.


We are not safe for very many locations in general.


We are not at all recommended for human consumption right now.


Why, you may ask? Eh, somebody hit the quick-release on the choke-chain and one of the Beasties got loose. Swiped the keyboard for a few hours. After reading this warning, anybody who knows me really well won't be surprised at a single one of these words. You might be. Maybe you’ve never seen this side of me. It’s not one I generally share outside my home or the Speakeasy.


But I promised you at the start of this bloggy adventure that I’d invite you in. That I’d take off the armor and get all nekkid in front of you. I promised to show you things I put out in there in my dances all the time but rarely clarify in words.

Until now.


It's always scary to show you this part of the house. It's where all those names are written on the walls. It's where they live and laugh. Down here the mirrors are in shards because I hear that this face is my most hideous. The most monstrous. I could turn you to stone with this face or melt the flesh right off your skull. Can you sit with me and not ask me to cover it up? Can you come down here with me and just let it be what it is? I won't blame you if you say no. Especially considering that's what this entire series is about.


We’re about to do a little banner-rific face-shoving today. A little gob-cramming. Some people like that. I do--under the right circumstances. You know, the mutually consensual type that all parties have discussed and agreed to in advance. What a concept. In those circumstances, I like to take it. I like to give it just as much.


If you’re surprised by that, you’ve probably never read my fiction. If you’re offended, mortified, or appalled, you probably never want to. Prolly wanna stay away from this blog, too.


By reading further today, you’ll have to consent to taking #MeToo down your throat like a Roman warship on ramming speed. If you’re not into that, you should jump overboard right now. No, really. We won’t chain your ankle to the bench and force you to row this shit. We’ve got so many rowers shackled here that we’re spilling them over the sides and out the guts. We’re at risk of capsizing this vessel from how high the masts are stacked with us.


Here, lemme just get the door for ya. I’ve been taught exquisitely well how do that with an oily, slick-eyed grin that belies my actual intentions.


Oh, you want my big, steaming load down your throat?

That’s cool.





…Even if I’d been panting and eyeing and touching him and making explicit sexual promises to him all day, the moment I rejected his come-on SHOULD HAVE BEEN IT.

Oh, and it was.


It.


It was the moment when he delivered the bomb of his answer.


“I could just take it anyway. I could just rape you.”


Rape you…

Rape you…

Rape you…



It’s always there, lurking in the backs of our minds--these kinds of threats from these kinds of people. If you're not well-versed in this subject, you might be shocked at how many skulk behind a gleaming or even unassuming surface presentation. So smooth. So polished. So very "nice." Until they get you alone and the mask drops. Then we have the overt scads who believe they're entitled to the full-court press. Seriously. You might have no idea how commonly it’s wielded, and how potent it is.

  • Sexual rejection = rude. (Bitch.)

  • Rude leads to insulted.

  • Unless you can escape or properly kiss enough ass, insulted leads to pissed off, and once they’re pissed…

  • Violence, rape, smear campaigns, job loss, sometimes even the threat of murder (you and/or your loved ones) all come screaming onto the buffet table of viable options to coerce you back into line for daring to commit such a transgression as uttering the word “NO.” (Or to simply take what they want.)

  • If your transgression is of such an offensive caliber that you are condemned as a faulty piece of sex-toy machinery, no longer found desirable to dispense these services, then violence, rape, smear campaigns, job loss, and murder all become viable options for your punishment and/or disposal.

  • And don't you dare get it into your bright little head to tell anyone about these things. (Provided you're still breathing and not in a coma.) (1, 2, 5, 9-11)


We learn this fear the violent way when we’re two. When we’re four. When we’re seven. When we’re eleven. When we’re thirteen. When we’re seventeen. When we’re nineteen, so by the time we’re twenty-two, it’s automatic.


Remember that argument I had with myself, when the image of Satyr throwing me across my bedroom flashed through my mind and I asked myself, “What is wrong with you?”

There was nothing wrong with me in that moment. My subconscious was handily reminding me, through the barest flicker of flashbacks, what had happened the last time I had insisted that a conscienceless predator stop doing what he wanted to do. But I was still two years away from getting those memories back. I was six years away from cracking open my oldest childhood #MeToo box, so I just attributed it to me being my “normal drama-queen, freak-out, psycho-bitch self.”


gif

In the hopes that I could make nice and placate long enough to keep everything happy and calm until I could get this intrusive, foul individual out of my home, I turned out the lights and crawled in next to him, as far over against the wall as I could get.


Having been taught that it was my responsibility to see that I didn’t provoke anybody into raping me, it goes like this:


FAWN. If that fails…

FLEE. If you can’t flee or don't dare…

FAWN HARDER. If that continues to fail…

FINALLY FIGHT. Or pray for Prince Gallant to rescue you.

If your prince does not come and you can’t fight the monster off yourself, or when Prince Gallant takes off his mask to reveal that he is actually the monster…

FREEZE takes over.


Sometimes Freeze hijacks the system from the outset. (5)


That was certainly the case the moment I saw Satyr perched uninvited on my bed, leering so "nicely" at me and daring me to try to make him move.


It was also the case when I heard him roll toward me in the dark. I stayed on my back with my arms curled up on my chest, clutching the covers up to my chin. A little casual conversation. A few loud yawns from me. All ignored. Some “thank you so much, I really appreciate your help (and now I’d like to go to sleep--another yawn)” also from me. The “sure, anytime, glad to help (and I’m not remotely tired--bright-eyed and bushy-tailed)” from him.


There’s nothing surprising in this. It’s just a particularly intense version of that old unspoken rule that’s been around for an age. “I took you out for dinner and a movie, I paid for it all, I used my gas money driving us there and opened all the doors for you like the chivalrous gentleman that I am, therefore it’s now your obligation to reward me with sex.”


Nobody who wants to maintain a reputation as “decent” and “good” would ever admit that.


In fact, the denials are loud and offended. Superheated.


And frequent.


But it could never be louder or more offensive than the unspoken expectation that seeps out from someone’s pores to coat your body like an unwanted caress. Its reek is pungent and it is unmistakeable when it happens.


The price for such Prince Gallant services is almost never negotiated up front, and I’ve certainly never seen it done respectfully. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never had anybody tell me, “Good afternoon. If you agree to spend time with me, I will treat you with extreme kindness, interest, and generosity that is uncustomary to how I would treat you under normal circumstances. In turn, I will expect you to sexually service me until I have blown my seminal wad."


Some renditions could include the following notice: "Fear not. I am a staunch proponent of the female orgasm. As part of my extreme generosity, I will endeavor to give you many."


But not all.


Moving on: "I don't really enjoy camaraderie with females, so once I have acquired this unique Experience Point (you don’t find belly dancing fighter-chicks on campaign very often), I will most likely never call you again, unless I am horny and enjoyed the way you serviced me, and I have no other options for producing my ejaculatory response beyond my palm. I have no interest in being your platonic friend or exploring the possibilities of romantic partnership with you. My actions are solely to acquire a unique sexual experience, so if this offer doesn't sound exciting to you, then let’s not waste my time or yours. Let's amicably go our separate ways, because this is the only circumstance under which I would nurture any sort of connection with you.”


Gee, what would that be like? Radical truthfulness? Heck, I could actually respect somebody for being that honest with me, provided it was delivered courteously. I can connect with honesty. I can trust honesty.


But no-no-no-no-no. Can’t maintain the image of being a Good Guy while admitting these sorts of things in the wake of Puritanical sexual ownership. (I actually blame societal expectations for a bunch of that, because even deeply conscientious and caring men are under those ridiculous outdated pressures.)


Then we have the Friendzone Games. Definitely can't own up to the fact that you'd never seek out a full conversation with me, much less spend an entire day helping me with a project if you didn't think you'd get laid after putting in all that work.


Thus do the manipulations, omissions, false promises, and lies get oozed out. Then the invoice is slid across the counter at the back end when it’s too late to return all those “niceties.” Some men abide by a woman's rejection and "merely" drop her like a freshly boiled egg, revealing that their "friendship" was bullshit. Others don't abide by it, hammering away at the Friendzone while secretly harboring the belief that "no really means not yet" and she'll come around in time because friendship is never genuinely enough.


And we can feel that shit. (7, 8, 11)


Then you have the heavy handed ones. The violent, entitled ones. They're liable to start dropping bombs because they have a penis and someone with a vagina had the audacity to tell them NO.


The sneaky ones who don't want to own how violent they are perform circus acts of "nice" and then drop bombs of "you owe me" at the back end.



I suppose I could barf up dinner on Prince Gallant's shoes but I doubt the restaurant would reimburse him for it.


In the same way, I could have shoved my armor into Satyr's hands with a “thanks-but-no-thanks, this is too expensive for me.” Alas, I suspect he wouldn’t have enjoyed wearing those leather Madonna-cones any more than I did.


So as I lay there in the battleground of my own bed, I tried to be grateful for all the nonrefundable things he’d done for me, while the stink of coercion and his tit-cones-for-tat energy slunk under my covers to infiltrate my mattress.


All I wanted was to plant my heel in his gut and shove. I wanted to hear the WHUMP of his body hitting my unyielding, wooden floor. I wanted to keep booting until he was out my door, then take his shoes and clothes and everything that was his and dump them into the hallway like Belle dropping Gaston’s boots on the stoop.



But that gets really dangerous for nice girls who don’t know self-defense. It’s also dangerous for MegaBitches who’ve become obsessed with learning how to protect ourselves. (1)


So nice girls who value our bodies in one piece don’t do that. (1)


Good girls who don’t want to be {fired, blacklisted, ostracized, doxxed, assaulted, murdered, stalked, or have our reputations/lives/children/parents destroyed} smile and show our appreciation in the hopes that you won’t attack us for being what you call "bitches, dykes, users, and cunts." (1)


Grateful girls who are terrified to reap those perilous consequences kiss ass and suck cock and bend over, thanking you for pressuring us into prostitution that trades sex for the un-negotiated, un-contracted, un-hired services you’ve rendered under the guise of “gifts” and “helpfulness” and “being a good guy.” (1)

  • Dinner and a movie.

  • Fixing my broken sink pipe.

  • Teaching me how to make armor.

  • Giving me that promotion that let me quit my third job.

  • Offering me your house, your name, your sheltering arms when I’ve been rendered disabled, then never letting me forget—not for one moment—how much I owe you for everything you said you wanted to gift to me “because you love me.”


At least sex was originally part of marital negotiations. Alas. Physical abuse in Month 2 of the relationship while I’m still wearing a neck brace (and that my damaged brains conveniently can’t store into memory overnight) kinda renders those clauses null and void.


So do lies and manipulation. Good thing I have my journals to remind me of who I am--and who everybody around me is. Because those gorgeous little books are stuffed with all sorts of horrible things people have done to me and gotten away with because I lost the memories once I fell asleep.


They're also full of slimy, duplicitous things people have done. I can't begin to count how many guys that I’d really wanted as friends who have lied when I made things perfectly clear: “I am not interested in a romantic or sexual relationship with you. I have a boyfriend. Fiancé. Husband. I think you’re really cool and wanna hang out, but that’s it.”


“Yeah-yeah-sure-great-no-problem,” they say. “I just think you’re cool, too. Nawwww, I don’t like you that way. You’re like a sister to me.”


Bullshit.


But I’m a hyper-literal, bluntly honest tomboy with theory-of-mind issues, so why wouldn’t they like me the way I like them? I cherish my male friends and need them in my life, so if you tell me those things, why wouldn’t I believe you?


Oh. Right.


Hahahahahahahahahah.


Let it be known: if you have a penis and I say that I want to be friends with you, that means I genuinely want to hang out with you and do all the groovy stuff we have in common together and laugh and talk and ruminate about life and geek out. It means I want to be your friend, whether or not I think you’re hot.


Even if I do think your personal meatsuit is physically appealing to my senses, it does not guarantee I want to have sex with you.


Even if I enjoy the idea of inviting you to stuff all your long, firm objects into and out of my hot, dripping holes, it doesn’t remotely mean that I WILL.

Nope, when I say “friends” I truly mean that word. And when I do a favor for someone because they’re new, because they need help, because I like them and I want to do something thoughtful for them, I truly mean the word “favor.” I mean the word “gift.”


When Satyr hurled that price tag at me followed by the two-punch combo of his rape threats, it shattered the last vestige of my ability to trust--most of all to trust myself in discerning who I could trust. This incident and some others in my early SCA days created such cognitive dissonance in me that I could barely function in public. (3, 6)


Every smile someone gave me was a red flag. Yet every red flag that didn’t transform into a monster proved that I was “just seeing things”--that I really was “crazy after all.” And yet enough of those red flags proved justified, which meant that I could never stop suspecting underhanded motives with every new friend I made.


Thanks for that.


I pushed it down. Tried to ignore it. I hid it behind my own smile and a flurry of activities in this wondrous foreign fantasy world.


At subsequent events, there was constantly oh-so-much kindness heaped upon me from other men “because that’s what we do in the SCA.”


Mm-hmm.


After the Satyr Incident, I could never again stop fearing that it was all bullshit propaganda--just another manipulation tactic for the Satyrs Calling it Assistance. The Society of Creative Assholery. The Superficially Chivalrous Aggressors.

It made me suspicious that James had been helping me for similar self-serving reasons. And Michael and Robert and Sam and Diarmuid and Berwyn and Saerik and all the other guys who put me in armor. Had even our beloved Halfdan harbored less-than-honorable intentions that would have revealed themselves later when he slammed down a slick-smiled invoice on my counter, demanding that I remit sexual payment?

Dang, girl. Paranoid much?


I was paranoid, and it showed every time I was in armor. It showed in my dancing. It showed in every interaction I had while I was surrounded by hundreds of strangers, and especially ten-thousand of them--already an overwhelming environment for the neurodivergent HSP.


Not that I knew that about myself. I wouldn’t even hear the term “Highly Sensitive Person” for another decade, and it would take the next ten-to-twenty years for me to completely understand what that means about me in public places, and me in interpersonal interaction. It means I was instinctually walking around wearing mental horse-blinders and noise-cancelling headphones in an attempt to weather the bombardment of too many voices-noises-sights-smells-colors, and a sea of confusing social cues that were drowning me.


So at twenty-two, did I have the ability to read subtle cues like perfectly friendly, helpful men who would ultimately wield the word "rape" like a knife against my throat? (2)


Good luck with that.


I adored the SCA. Like…I don’t have enough words to describe how elated I was to have discovered it. I adored so many people I met in the Society, but the Satyr Incident rendered me with even less ability to decipher friend from foe than I’d been born with. Plagued by that PTSD-laden paranoia, I began to wonder if any of those fighters actually gave a shit about my desire to learn how to fight, or if they were all just trying to bang me.


As it turns out, a great many of them were. I even began to worry that females had underhanded reasons when they did nice things for me.

What is it that you really want from me? How long until the bill comes due with you, too?


With some of them, it did. Some of them wanted to sleep with me, too. Others wanted to control me, use me, wear my reflected glory and flash my accomplishments around for benefit of their household or kingdom. I’ve never been able to balance the overwhelming tally of these type of invoices that have been sprung on me after the gifts--I mean, expensive services have been rendered.

  • Fighting in every battle at your side instead of going to dance classes because you made me that shield I never asked for, so you think I’m obligated to spend my time at events the way you want me to.

  • Sex because you graciously ate my popcorn and watched movies on my couch. How nice of you.

  • Exclusive access to my time and energy at an event of thousands of people—including some of my best friends that I haven’t seen in a year—because we rode and camped together.

  • Keeping your house like your mother keeps hers in exchange for feeding me and giving me a place to sleep when you said you wanted to see me heal from injury and build an artistic, home-based career because TBI had obliterated my ability to work at my day job anymore. Oh yeah, and sex, when you can’t do it with the lights on, look me in the eye, stop masturbating on my body the way you masturbate to the porn you prefer to me, or so much as acknowledge my merest existence when you walk in the door after work and I’ve said, “Hi, honey, welcome home!” Day after day after year of the silent treatment crickets. (12)


More like prick-ets.


But I was ever-so NICE.


I hate that word. I would much rather be kind. I’d rather be loving. When you back me into a corner and shove price tags in my face after-the-fact, I’m not going to be either of those.


But I had learned how well fawning worked to keep volatile explosions at bay when I was very, very young. My family is notorious for passing this around like we pass the sweet potatoes at Thanksgiving. Keeps things on an even keel, doesn’t it? (Sometimes.) Because “nice” is not only a weapon that manipulators and predators use. It’s also a primary survival tactic of prey, and it was far too ingrained in me by the time I became old enough to start having a say in what I wanted out of my life.


What I didn’t want was more abuse, and things had been made very clear.

“Loudmouth bitches,” "uppity cunts," and “ungrateful twats” had bad things happen to them--and “they deserved it.”


Then again, so did any female who got on her knees or spread her legs, so we were constantly between the stones and the hard place with that one.


In many ways, we still are.


The moment we females engage in sexual activity with a single person who has not contracted us for such services in marriage, we get called a “slut, whore, piece of meat.” (Not like we don't get called these things as virgins in shapeless clothing and glasses with our hair in librarian-buns.) As such, We Sluts lose our status as a “quality woman” and therefore we “deserve” any sexual coercion, harassment, and assault we receive forever thereafter.

Thankfully, there’s always been something in me that would never let me truly cave. I didn’t yet know how to say NO the moment I felt it and then defend it with tooth and nail--not when someone was doing something I didn’t like, and especially not when they were “just being nice” to me.


So before I made a study of the invaluable arts of self-defense, I constantly found myself pendulum-swinging between doormat-people-pleaser and ravening-cunt-backed-in-the-corner. When people have ignored my politely phrased boundaries, my firm-but kindly phrased requests to respect my boundaries, my squirmy-and-uncomfortably phrased boundaries, my tight-lipped silences and pointed looks telling you to back off--when I’ve had e-fucking-nough and the switch flips into Bitch Mode, that has gotten me into more trouble than if I’d just stuck to one or the other.


Eventually, I learned that it was much better to flip the “FUCK NO” switch the moment I caught the slightest whiff that someone had no respect for my politely outlined boundaries. Squish that crap when it's tiny, even if I made a snap judgment about someone I didn't know.

Eventually, I learned to stop caring about being labeled a “bitch” or a "slut" or a "cunt." (13)


Now I tend to slap those labels onto myself while sharpening my claws and bearing my fangs in a grin. Don’t get me wrong. I purr and laugh a lot, and I’m still extraordinarily sweet. Kind. Generous. Loving.

Except when I’m not.


Then I'm simply efficient.

--


MORE FROM GAVIN DE BECKER (11):


It is no question that this is what the culture teaches. That women have to be nice all the time. You have to engage. If I say something to you in public, you have to respond. You can’t be a bitch. You can’t be mean. And the fact is that men, at core, are afraid that women will laugh at them. And women, at core, are afraid that men will kill them.


They often believe that if you’re not nice, you’ll increase the likelihood of danger and risk when in fact the exact opposite is true. It’s when you’re nice that you open up and give information, that you engage with someone you don’t want to talk to. Here she doesn’t want to let someone into the door, and for some reason, her fear of being perceived as not nice, she opens the door and lets him in, and it ultimately leads to a rape.


I have not heard of one case in my entire career where someone was not raped or murdered because they were nice. In other words, that’s not the thing that motivates rape and murder. But I’ve heard of many, many cases where someone was victimized because they were open to the continued conversation with someone they didn’t feel good about talking to…and didn’t listen to the first feeling…she said, “I second guessed it.”


--


So there ya have it. After the past 16,000 words that I’ve regurgitated about this subject, perhaps you’re sick of it. Welcome to our world. Then again, maybe you’re still wondering what happened after Satyr refused to accept my myriad forms of “NO” and dropped the bomb of those eleven little words into my lap.

Did he sexually assault me that night? Not with his penis. Not with his hands. Not with an object. I’ll tell you how my Inner Tigress broke out of the dungeon and managed to extricate me from this situation without having any of my bodily orifices violated.


But first let me assure you. Having experienced multiple counts of sexual molestation, harassment, coercion, threats, and violence, including outright rape over the course of my half-century in this body…having experienced a variety of violent attacks, black-listing, smear-campaigning, being fired for turning down a come-on from my boss, stalking, menacing, and threats to my reputation, physical safety, loved ones, and even my life, you can trust me on this one.


That was an assault.


Let that sink in for a moment.


From my handy-dandy dictionary: as·sault | əˈsôlt | noun 1 a physical attack: his imprisonment for an assault on the film director | sexual assaults. Law an act, criminal or tortious, that threatens physical harm to a person, whether or not actual harm is done: he appeared in court charged with assault. a military attack or raid on an enemy position: troops began an assault on the city | [as modifier] : an assault boat. a strong verbal attack: the assault on the party's tax policies.

As you can see, you don't have to force your dick inside me to traumatize me. So now imagine the impact when you do.



Daddy, Daddy if I was raped would you wanna know where I walked?

Would you wanna know what I wore?

Would you wanna know who he was?

What if I was 30 or 12?

What if I had one drink?

If the victim is your daughter, does that complicate the blaming?

We will no longer be silent!

Speak up, let your voice be heard!

Dissenters drown in a sea of truth and our healing will cover the Earth!

For all of you who have been sexually harassed, coerced, molested, assaulted, and raped…

🖕ME TOO 🖕


Careful with your ears. It's about to get REALLY FUCKING LOUD IN HERE. (4)



I'm not the person to ask for advice about this subject. These people are:


RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network) - Including the National Sexual Assault Hotline 800-656-HOPE



CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE

--UP NEXT: FAWN, FREEZE, FIGHT, FLEE - How I Escaped That Rape Threat

--OR: You can find five decades worth of tales about being a female learning the Arts of Self-Defense HERE.

--THE NAVIGATION TABLE OF CONTENTS




A RABBIT-HOLE OF LINKS

1) Women, Sex & Violence

When Women Refuse - a collection of stories about violence inflicted upon women who refuse sexual advances. Even a mere scan is appalling.

Male sex entitlement is killing women

Sexual Violence Myths & Misconceptions

--Violence against women: Where are the solutions?

Did you know your phone has a PANIC Emergency Button?


“NO” is a complete sentence. Full Stop.

Additionally.

🖕Lawnmowers.🖕

2) Rape Threats:

Rape Threat

Rape Threats on Instagram

Toxic Twitter: women's experience with rape and death threats

Random Rape Threat Generator (RRTG) - Disarming the personalized terror invoked by the online Rape Threat by showing just how overused, common, and uninventive they actually are. Because this tactic is not a technology problem. It’s an interpersonal problem that has nothing to do with the person receiving the threat.

What the RRTG tells us about online misogyny

A conversation: “Is threatening to rape someone illegal?” My perpetrator did not use “I WILL” language. He used “I COULD.” This makes it extremely difficult to prosecute, especially because I had no physical evidence of the threat, no one else witnessed it, and he thankfully did not follow through with action.


3) Cognitive dissonance

4) Medusa: Women's Victimhood, Rage & Protector Archetype

We all know the story. Or do we? Viewed through the lens (mostly written by men) of Athene being a jealous goddess and Poseidon being a rapist, Medusa is merely a tragic survivor of sexual assault who was then cursed and banished by a victim-blaming female. This is an all-too-common experience.


So is the scenario of a Medusa who chose to lie with Poseidon and was punished for it, as well as for thinking she was more beautiful than Athene. (Because competing over beauty and the male gaze has to be foremost on the mind of the chaste Goddess of Wisdom, Crafts, and Strategic Warfare) 🤨


But not all the tales are told this way, especially in the oldest Goddess-centered cultures. Athene, who has connections to more ancient figures like Ishtar, isn't always portrayed as a vain, jealous, petty goddess. What if a protective Athene was outraged over the rape of Her priestess and BLESSED Medusa with the means to defend herself in the future the way her immortal Gorgon sisters could? Serpents used to be a revered symbol of transformation and spiritual awakening, not the be-all-end-all of evil. After Perseus, Medusa's raging face, devastating gaze, and decapitated head with its venomous vipers became a symbol of Divine Empowerment and Protection--the Aegis--that Athene wore to guard Her own heart.


Medusa is also one of my symbols of power, outrage, and self-defense. Enjoy.

--The Many Faces of Medusa: Monster, Victim, Protector

--Re-Examining the Myth of Medusa and the Dark Goddess

--Medusa & The Gorgons

--The Wiki

--Athene

--The Aegis



In case you missed these links in the previous posts:


5) Just Say NO

Why Didn’t You Just Say “NO”?

—Before you ask why someone didn’t say “NO” or leave, CONSIDER THIS.

Fawning is not consent. It's a trauma response like Fight, Flight & Freeze.

The Freeze Response


6) The Traumatized Mindset & C-PTSD

Complex PTSD - how prolonged and repeated childhood trauma rewires the nervous system and manifests in personality, self-esteem, and behaviors

8 Signs You Might Be Traumatized

How Trauma & Dissociation interrupt the ability to form memories

—One of the best books I have ever read in my life: The Body Keeps the Score - Brain, Mind & Body in the Healing of Trauma

—Don't want to read the book? Here's the basic premise of what trauma does to the body and why talking about it, even in therapy, so often doesn't solve the problems: Short Version. Or Long Version by the author himself

—A few of the myriad healing techniques discussed in the book: EMDR, Yoga, Mindfulness & Support Network. These are only a few the book covers.

EMDR: The technique that has given me the most success, both for immediate single-incident trauma (my big car wreck) and for C-PTSD.


7) The “Friendzone” and Using “Nice” to Get Sex

—“Friendzone” sounds better than “liar intent on sexual manipulation zone” to me.

One man talks about using “nice” as a tactic for sex - “Women aren’t slot machines that you put kindness coins into until sex falls out.”

How the term “Friendzone” perpetuates rape culture and sexism

The Dark Side of the Friendzone


8) The positive side of the Friendzone - the differences between what many women and men are looking for from coed friendships and why it’s so confusing


9) #MeToo and More Fun Feminine TomFoolery

It’s no wonder men objectify us when our bodies are asking for it

Schrodinger’s Rapist - why women assume the worst about that guy who's "just trying to be nice"

—Schrodinger’s Rapist - yes, we have to talk about this again

—ALSO: Sexual violence committed upon males hits just as hard--and it's not only done by other males. They're just silenced and stigmatized, which heaps on more damage to male survivors, and it further perpetuates the cultural "boys will be boys" myth that “males are either sexually insatiable and aggressive or pussies; females are weak, pure damsels or conniving, manipulating whores.”


10) #YouToo: A Few At-Risk Populations

Rape Statistics by State 2021

Rape Statistics by Country 2021 - and how difficult it is to get an accurate account. Anywhere. Because not everybody calls rape "rape". Remember once upon a time that wives were considered "unrapeable?" In a bunch of places, they still are, and even in spite of US laws it's still difficult to prove even here.

—Ooooh, and remember that time the United States conveniently labeled Black females "unrapeable" so they could do what they wanted to their slaves? That crap still trickles down into attitudes today:

The legal system has failed Black girls, women, and non-binary survivors of violence.

American Indian and Alaska Native women are still the highest at-risk group for violence and sexual trauma--96% from non-Native perpetrators because the indigenous Nations have been stripped of their authority to prosecute them.

—Another hidden atrocity: People with disabilities are more than seven times higher to experience sexual assault than people without.


11) Boundaries, Instincts, Self-Defense

—Another one of the best books I’ve ever read - The Gift of Fear - Survival Signals That Protect Us From Violence by Gavin DeBecker

Gavin De Becker

Why your boundaries are not welcome in an abusive relationship - the mindset that I was drowning in after escaping a violent and head-fucky relationship the year before I got engaged. And a few thoughts on how to rectify that.

Setting healthy boundaries after an abusive relationship

A full episode on Oprah with Gavin DeBecker


12) Coercive Control & Psychological Abuse

--The Tactics


13) Bitch.

--Slut.

--Cunt.

**It should be noted that I’ve never known anyone who was nicknamed Satyr. That makes this tale a work of fiction.


Based on the episodes of my life that aren’t.

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