Emotional Voyeurism

Survivor blogs and stories are public autopsies of private pain. We talk about the most personal things, logging the ups and downs of recovering from rape. It doesn’t go away. There’s a time capsule of my thoughts, feelings, and the things that have happened.

The intent of the survivor story is twofold. First, it helps the survivor be heard—feel heard, more so, actually. It’s journaling. The second part is for other survivors—to see that what they’re feeling is, forgive the term, normal. This is what the aftermath looks like. It’s not going to be the same for everyone, but seeing that being fucked up and having thoughts that feel so abnormal really isn’t abnormal at all. You find a place where it’s not weird, and you can share.

The social nature of putting it out there takes bravery—or stupidity. I’m not sure which.

My question is about the readers. I know who some of you are, and I still have no idea why you’re here. Is the story that compelling? Am I just that good of a writer? I know my hilarity and charm draw so many in. Is it because you know one of the main characters? Is it support—for me? For him? Is it morbid curiosity? Or just something to talk about over holiday dinner?

--“Hey, the crazy lady that {D} raped told this great story about when she got raped with her own dildo by an Italian maritime attorney.”

--“Oh yeah, I read that one too! What exactly does a bruised cervix feel like, you think? Pass the mashed potatoes.”

Y’all gotta admit, this shit is weird. Like, bizarre. I almost think it’s defeating—or at least not serving the intended purpose—but at the same time, I think we’re all survivors of {D}. We all love him and hate him.

I was prepared to speak at the hearing Friday, and I wrote this. There was buildup and context, but I think you’ll get it:

“{D} is not a monster. {D} is not uncontrollable. What {D} is, is untreated. He needs help, and no one is helping him right now. Someone should have helped him by now. Right now, I need to be that person.

 I need to protect other women, and the only logical step for that will be to get {D} a psychological evaluation and start addressing the actual causes of his addiction and his behavior. I need to help him. So I ask the court for an injunction mandating treatment.

I wasn’t in love with him because he hurt me. I was in love with him because there is a person in there, and that person needs help. I need to love and forgive that person and help him.”

So guys, I’ve asked a million times for you to talk to me. You’re not going to—and I’ll get to that in a second—but if I don’t succeed in getting someone to mandate treatment, can you guys like… gang up on him and talk him into it? He needs help.

I need help too. I’m getting help. I have my therapist and my meds. That’s about all I have.

I have a collection of screen recordings set aside—of people in Carson City reading specifically about suicide, suicidal thoughts, and depression. I set them aside so if I ever succeed in killing myself, my children can sue the state. I’ve reread some of the shit I’ve said; I would have reached out to me and offered help. Just reached a hand out into the darkness.

I’m not complaining—I am complaining—but don’t misunderstand. I appreciate the support. You guys show up, and like last weekend, I needed it even though I was hysterical over nothing.

You guys need to process what I’m saying in your own way, since you’re connected to the story by some odd thread. But it would be nice to hear from someone one day—just to know why you engage in the emotional voyeurism.