On how to write about a squidgy thing.

So, here I am at work, on my lunch hour, taking a break from looking up various numbers to compare with the numbers on how expensive (supposedly) the KSM trial in NYC may be (I feel like this is the Surviving Rape, And Also National Security Law and Human Rights blog, which is a weird combination, but, there you go)(also, did you know that next year, the Department of Defense is going to spend $718,795,000,000*? YES. IN ONE YEAR. On killing people and/or unnecessary and poorly managed wars! I love America!)

Anyway. The other night, when I had a bad night, I lost my own little war with myself to not hurt myself. And. I am trying to figure out how to write about that. Or whether I should. (This is SO NAVEL-GAZEY, sorry. Not only am I thinking about writing something extremely personal to process it, I am now writing about the thinking about the writing in order to process it. This is, like, small intestine gazing, right here).

Part of the problem is: people I know and deal with daily may read this, and I don't want them to feel sorry for me, because I hate that, or ask me about it, because I don't want to talk about it (I think? Let's be real, I don't know if I want to talk about it or not), or treat me differently, like I am made of glass, which I am not (at the moment).

But I also made the decision to be as honest and open in this space as possible, because this blog was to be an aid in recovery (and you all reading this are helping! Thanks. Seriously). And, too, maybe the blog is to document the journey, just to bring light into some of the very deep, dark, scary places one ends up going in trying to work through the trauma. After all, monsters that hide beneath the bed and in the closet are only scary until you turn on the light and see there's nothing there. And it could help, on this journey, to see where I have been, to mark a path, know that I am going somewhere, or at least moving and not stuck, and then try not to double-back on the huge potholes in the road.

So, basically, I think I am going to write on this, but I am looking for the words to help me frame it. How do I explain this in such a way that well-meaning friends won't panic over me? Or scold me for not calling them? Or try to give advice, as if I had done something wrong? Or, no: how do I tell about something when there is no response I can think of that will feel good and be helpful to me, because I am totally unsure of what I need from other people at the moment?

I am not saying don't comment to this post! It's just hard to write a play, if, you know, you don't have any idea how you want the audience to feel about it or react to it or think about it.

So, essentially, there will probably be a fairly substantive post coming, probably about me and rape surviving and feminism and patterns of women's responses, especially how women's responses are fucked up or sad because of the way women have internalized social messages, but yet, even though I think they are fucked up or sad, I can't. stop. doing them. And this aggravates me to no end.

But for now, I am back to looking up numbers. And looking at all these budget proposals to spend on weapons, I can only wish you all peace.


*This is Obama's proposed budget for next year, 2011. So, really, it could get higher or lower, but it will never get low enough that I will ever be able to comprehend that much money.