jonathanvair
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6 Lessons I Didn’t Want In Sexual Abuse
🕑 Added 2019-07-21 18:29:59 +0000 UTCThis is a public post.
CW: Sexual abuse
Hello, dear Patreon members and other friends.
I’ll dive right in. I was sexually harassed at a train station on Tuesday, and I’m still not over it. Aside from a private twitter account and my Discord, I hadn’t posted this anywhere, nor did I want to. But I know from firsthand experience that if any painful thing I experience can help someone, I owe it to the world to put it out there.
Here goes something.
—
At our place, Sasha and I have been hosting a dear friend, a trans woman I first met overseas three years ago, whom isn’t making any social transition until she’s safely living and securely employed in Europe. Our 590 square ft. apartment forces us to cohabitate in creative ways. Last Tuesday, this looked like taking the train down to Albuquerque to see a friend, leaving Sasha at home to fulfill his artistic obligations in rare solitude.
We spent the day eating, seeing a film, and as a huge surprise to me, buying new jeans. It’s rare that I get to purchase new clothing for myself, because my proportions and tastes aren’t all that common in the United States. I want well-fitting clothes with comfort and integrity behind the design. I don’t mind higher prices if it will last me several years of wearing every day. So how grateful I was that my friends humored me on that day, stopping at a store on the way back from a restaurant we ate at. I ended up purchasing some Lucky 105s sized at 28x32. I loved these jeans. They fit me like a glove while still having a comfy stretch to them. It would be a welcome replacement to my last pair that had the crotch and knees completely blown out of them.
At the train station with my friend, two men were already standing by a nearby bench. The louder one called us “girl pants” and later “ladies”, as he asked us for a light. While humored somewhat that he managed to correctly gender my friend, despite her being bigger than me and socially presenting as male, I knew this guy wasn’t joking. While I’m used to being casually misgendered based on my hair, hat, and frame in my livestreams and on my walks to the grocery store, this was different. To this guy, women were objects for him to use. I chose to respond neutrally every time he yelled because I didn’t want to incentivize his coming closer.
Again, he asked if any of us ladies had a light. I apologized for not having one, this time, looking up at him to show that I sincerely was sorry that I couldn’t help. He said, “You know what?” and with an extravagant motion brandished his own pocket lighter and applied to his cigarette. I was genuinely surprised and was happy to laugh for a reason that wasn’t threatening. He mentioned how firm my face was, and that he should put his dick in my mouth. It had to go somewhere, he said. I stopped laughing.
We kept our heads down. I put away my phone to free up my hands. I looked down the tracks, praying that the train lights on the horizon were heading in our direction, and soon. The guy next to the harasser called, “Is he bothering you ladies?”
“No, you’re fine,” my friend said. I continued to look down.
The second man asked if we had an iPhone 6S. “Sorry, we don’t,” I said, wondering if they had enough time to rob us while trying to remember if iPhone 6S models were worth stealing nowadays. I’m sure more interactions happened, in the few seconds remaining, but I can’t recall them.
By the time the train arrived, I no longer saw either man awaiting at the platform. My friend and I went inside, and as customary, up to the second floor of seating for a better view. We passed a suspicious-looking guy that my facial blindness kept from recognizing. On autopilot at this point, I sat in the same car regardless of the strange vibes. When a staff member checked our tickets, I asked him to come in closely, whispering to him that we were harassed on the platform by a man wearing… what was he wearing… and he was black and had corn rows. I remembered so little. I did my best to not be reactive, keeping my head down for most of it. The attendant assured us that this man, who was drunk, was not allowed to enter the train. He got on a nearby bus line instead, according to his intel. He also said we’d be hearing from the conductor shortly, and apologized for such a traumatic thing happening to us.
The conductor came to us, apologizing again for what happened. He said that we were welcome to file a police report, but couldn’t operate our claim through the train company itself, as crimes happening on a platform are not treated as crimes happening on the train itself. The strange passenger a few seats away spoke up to contribute to the end of the discussion, and the conductor visually dismissed him before leaving.
The passenger with the strange vibes turned out to be the second man from the train platform. He spend over twenty minutes recounting the interaction, adding many details to the other passengers in hopes of making for a better story and also getting our attention. This was happening in the quiet car, too. It made it all the worse, hearing this guy use this abuse for social leverage to a stranger in such a petty way. I could feel this odd validation in his voice when he mentioned the man holding a weapon (that I couldn’t see, if it existed at all) or that we were profiled because we were white (which I don’t think is true either.) Maybe it was actually about us hearing it—he did keep making eye contact with me through a gap in the seats. In any case, I felt like every sentence made our return home slower and more painful. By the time we moved to another train car, he had already left.
"You know, Jonathan," my friend said, "you're handling this way better than a lot of people would." I almost broke down crying.
I asked her, “Is it sexual harassment if it’s just verbal?”
“Yes, Jonathan,” she said, “It still counts as sexual harassment.” I already knew that answer inside of me somewhere, but it felt like part of my cognitive abilities were no longer there. It was as if I was in a waking dream. I was experiencing the praxis of a pacifist outside of their element. Make no mistake, my friend was strong-enough to defend us both, or at least be intimidating about it. But the question remains, would I have physically fought if that was the right thing to do? That’s a question I don’t have the answer to, and it hurts just as often as the other times I’ve been in this position.
The last time I physically struck down an assailant was in third grade. Since then, I handled my altercations by blocking punches and retreating. Due to extenuating circumstances during puberty, I developed this fantasy I’m not proud of—being the victim of a vicious attack in a secluded place, then turning on my assailant as a physically dominant rapist, an almost justifiable way to punish someone trying to take my life (justifiable in my then-sixth grade mind, at least). When I think of fighting someone who deserves it, I think of the taste of their blood. My body gets hungry at the thought of breaking my knuckles into their teeth, of feeling the texture of their throat pulsing between my fingers. As my mind involuntarily jumps to destroying their orifices, orgasming to their pleas for mercy, I try not to break down crying on the train. I picture my new monkey fursona crumpled in a ball, the fresh victim of sexual abuse, unable to stand up. I almost cry again, picturing the weight of this anthro spider monkey around my shoulders, stumbling together, losing track of who is who, as we make our way home. I want to live a life focused on loving others. I only want to be affirming and loving to others. I wonder where Resin, the black hare, fits into this. Would he show us the way?
I didn’t ask for such awful fantasies. But I made my choice years ago to not hurt other people or find sexual satisfaction in the destruction of others, and the love others have shown me on this path continues to affirm me in humbling ways. I choose to believe that the burdens I have carried uniquely qualify me to serve others.
We walked home from the Santa Fe train station. I had a hard time looking Sasha in the eye. My friend made sure to give me the space to do the talking, because she could tell it was something that I needed more practice with than she did. After I was sure I could say it without crying I told him. Saying we were “verbally, sexually abused” sounded hyperbolic in my mind. Am I a victim now? What if I don’t want to be a victim? What if it’s bullshit to talk about this when so many other people face this discrimination daily, or to worse extent? I had to let that slide and be honest with myself—a bad thing happened that should not have happened, and knowing my psychology, the worst was yet to come.
—
I handle anger, trauma, grief, everything big, as a slow boil. I don’t feel my swells of anger until a day or two after the thing happened. And then there’s no telling how long it’ll go on for. Normally no longer than a week. I follow a friend’s Two Week Rule, “You get two weeks to feel shitty, and I’ll even host you here if you need it, but after that you’re done. You gotta pick up where you left off.” I’ve never needed two straight weeks to start picking myself up off the floor, but giving myself that freedom helps me in my healing process.
Just like group therapy, it’s time for a check-in. How am I physically, emotionally, and spiritually? It’s hard to verbalize. My baseline is lower than it usually is. I can experience highs throughout the day, serving as a distraction from the inevitable plummet into the endless what-ifs, “What if I fought him?” “What if he had a weapon?” “What if I could do it all again?”
I’m doing better than when this freshly happened, but I have a ways to go before I’m myself. Since all this happened I can’t picture myself streaming anymore. I had the hardest time doing my mentorship appointments. I even turned down playing video games with my friends because I just did not want to be around the people who already knew me well. It’s easier around strangers, walking out in public. And at home I’ve technically been productive on art (personal and commission work!) but I’m getting drunk as often as I can without feeling sick. I’m escaping, keeping my head above water, and completely fine with that. As of now, 7PM my time, I’m on my fifth shot of liquor as I type this message. And while I’m not even drunk —hardly even buzzed—I feel no regrets about this. I’m not dehydrating and I’m not experiencing alcohol poisoning. I’m pursuing a slow, measured pace as I allow myself time on standby before I’m actively healing. This is part of owning up to adulthood on my own terms, something I find myself deciphering even as late as age 31.
—
Because it’s important to turn bad things—even destructive things—into learning experiences, here are 6 points that felt worthy of sharing:
1) Unfortunately, this experience is completely routine for others.
More often than not, I get profiled at airports, continually chosen for “random” security checks by the TSA, even in the TSA Pre-Check line I paid into to avoid being further molested. I often get weird looks during our road trips through the United States, even after purchasing a trucker hat and avoiding pieces of my clothing that will look “too gay”. So long as my hair is long and I wear clothing that physically fits me, I’ll probably get only a few in-person interactions per year where I question if I’ll be physically harmed, or worse. And while those moments fuck me up, my home and immediate neighborhood make it easy to exists. Even with the queer-phobic sentiments I get every week working on Twitch, at the end of the day I’m my own boss and I’m working in the safety of my home.
My situation is many, many times better than millions of others.
2) The pain of others does not negate my pain.
Staying in your lane is good. Trusting people when they share their pain with you is good. Questioning your biases is good. Acknowledging the suffering of millions of people who have it worse than I do is important, and it also will not help me in processing my trauma. While I’m intrinsically connected deeply to some people on this Earth, my pain is mostly my own, and if I only focus on the pain of others, I deny myself the ability to process and redirect my pain into something constructive. No one, including myself, should diminish the pain I experience.
3) Coping is an art, not a science.
Focusing on treading water isn’t bad. I don’t need to slam my head into a wall for brownie points. I can eat the pint of gelato my friend gifted me, and drink the whiskey my neighbour purchased for my birthday, and I can binge on online media. I don’t need to avoid getting drunk because I’m not an alcoholic and I have no predisposition towards being one. I don’t need to feel threatened by watching Netflix for several days because I usually never watch it. I have just enough funds to go “fuck me, guess I’ll expect zero work to be done the rest of the week.” I actually made great progress on a big job in my queue, and a personal piece too, but that was only after I told myself I shouldn’t expect anything to be completed at all.
It sounds counter-intuitive, surrendering to expressing my feelings fully, and yet somehow getting good work done, but that’s what happened for me. I gave myself the chance to to feel pain, to self-medicate said pain, to be sloppy with my emotions. And once I said that can and should happen, it made working way easier. It took years for me to have these freedoms, dammit! I’m ready to appreciate them, especially after knowing how many of my friends and family just don’t have those freedoms for themselves right now.
Allow pain to teach you, but do not allow it to overstay its welcome.
4) I can never know for sure (and neither can you) how I’ll feel or respond until I’ve experienced a thing firsthand.
I’ve been verbally, physically, and sexually abused before. Those things aren’t new to me. But my context and my surroundings have always been changing. I’ve received plenty of harassment online, and read plenty of testimonials on harassment, but those aren’t designed to prepare me for experiencing harassment face-to-face, and where I didn’t expect it.
I’m noticing a pattern:
Reading Twitter threads about workplace discrimination is not the same as being thrust in that position while you’re at work, fighting between maintaining your dignity and keeping your head down just enough to keep getting income in a toxic place.
I grew up with divorced parents and friends whose marriage had ended only a few years after they started. I learned a lot from them, but it wasn’t the same as getting divorced, myself.
Having queer friendquaintances isn’t the same as coming out and instantly losing a huge chunk of your family and friends. It's not the same as struggling through futile attempts to justify your existence to now-strangers who think you are living a lie.
Having black friendquaintances is not the same as being black or marrying into a black family, and by extension shouldering those burdens placed on them by society.
By extension, when my brother-in-law was consistently profiled by cops, those fears of police brutality now affected my family firsthand in a way that was not the same as empathizing towards those victims in the news.
When I was profiled by a cop last December, (because of similar traits to what triggered the train station incident, I’m sure) it was another reminder that my current physical appearance, despite liking how I look, can jeopardize my safety. All I can do is minimize the time I spend in places that punish me, and conversely, spend as much time as possible around places that love who I am.
No matter what happens, I’ve made it past plenty of good and bad experiences, and they’re all worth sharing if it helps someone else. In my desire to help, however, I must always acknowledge the difference between imagining someone’s pain and living it.
5) Punishing myself was easier than admitting that I had been wronged.
This may sound insane, but all these were actual thoughts running through my head:
Maybe I shouldn’t have worn those jeans.
I normally don’t part my hair under the hat that way during trips. Maybe he’d have wanted to rape me less if I was more careful about my hair style.
Maybe embodying a different accent or posture would have helped him understand that he should not mess with me. Surely, I must have passively taught him to treat me that way.
I didn’t stand up for myself, so I deserve to be harassed by him.
These things, of course, aren’t true. The guy was a drunk loser who chose to make jokes at the expense of me and my friend. He wanted us to hurt. He didn’t know or care about us, so I shouldn’t have treated him like his opinions or ideas mattered. But for a few days, it was easier for me to believe the lies I told myself. Is he going to do something worse to someone else because I chose not to press charges? I can’t know the answer to that. But I do know that I need the help of others, and there are others in the world who need my help. They’re waiting for me to get better. And while I can’t rush that process, I also can’t spend any more time than I should nursing these wounds.
6) I lost myself, and I’m the only one that can get myself back.
Traumatic things can leave you feeling like a ghost, like a shadow, just floating around while everyone else sees the same you on the outside. Forgetting details is normal. Forgetting obvious things is normal. Not being receptive or fair to your own experience is, sadly, pretty damn normal.
Despite my history of receiving threats, after that rape threat on my way home, I lost track of who I was. I didn’t want to stream or talk to friends. I didn’t want to cook, didn’t want to eat, didn’t want to study languages. Definitely didn’t want to work on commissions or personal art. Couldn’t picture having a sex life with my partner, couldn’t picture being a leader in any context. It felt like basic tenants of my identity had been stolen from me. I already knew that reclaiming these things would be an active and not a passive thing. The problem was being too depressed to care.
But every time I felt a little more ready to cook, or to draw, or to have an appointment with one of my mentees, it was my choosing to manually achieve the things I had been doing, automatically, for years. I certainly appreciate them now as much as ever, but I had to practically relearn those things.
These words I could not have written four days ago. But they are written today, proving that I’ll be ready to stream again. I’m about 70% Jonathan right now. I’ll see you all at 100% in a few days.
---
The references in this post to previous trauma are expanded upon in my Black Hare tier of my Patreon, where I process my more private and sexual pieces, all paired with artist statements, before putting them out into the world. It's the most popular tier on my Patreon and you should absolutely check it out. But any donation on my Patreon helps me do more work like this, so please offer what you can afford if these themes are important to you.
You can also download BEOKAY: The Dark Art of Self Therapy for examples of my trauma repurposed into writing and artwork making a positive difference in the world. And if you can't afford the price tag but could use the support, you're morally obligated to message me for a free download code.
Thanks for reading, my friends.
Love,
-J
Comments
Jonathan Vair Duncan
Thank you, Rooth. Your response was a welcome thing to start my morning with. You're exactly right—my candidness is a means of self-preservation. I cannot allow myself to regress in secrecy to be someone I don't want to be. Even if it's not ending on a happy note, I think the fact that you chose to acknowledge the reality of a future encounter is a lot better than pretending it won't happen again. I'd so much rather hope for the best and expect the worst than be caught this strongly off-guard. It says so much of you that you're willing to leave messages like that rather than rest on platitudes. I'm happy to call you a friend for that reason.
Rooth
After such a harrowing encounter, I’m very glad you are home safe. It seems like the kind of thing that could have over-escalated, and I am thankful you handled it in a way where that did not happen. I’ve known too many artists to pass far too early from this world, and each had so much more to give, so much more to show us. I pray that does not ever become your story. I’m often surprised and impressed at how candid you are, especially publicly, but this one takes the cake. It also makes it fairly clear to me why you do this, generally. It’s essential to the pace of your maturity. Were it not for your ability to be this open all the time, you’d be growing much more slowly, if at all. This is as true of positive life-affirming moments as it of moments like what you’ve just described. I’d somehow missed this until your follow-up tweet or I’d be taking a much more consoling tone, but you’ve achieved 100% Jonathan already, and much more quickly than I could imagine, for you or for myself. I know there’s still more to do on this, and being 100% Jonathan isn’t the end of the experience, but this time to recovery is efficient precisely because you are as effective at sharing as you are at listening. You make so much sense to me now. There is a thing that troubles me most about your story: there was but one line written to the notion of “next time”. But if these guys are local, and given how viciously guy #2 recounted the tale, “next time” may not be so far away. Aside from obvious practical reasons to prepare for a ‘next time’ generally, ... well, really that’s the main concern. I had a second one, but then I thought a moment or two about what I know about Jonathan, and realized it was moot. I hope my little brown surrogate, Colkegan, provided a dram of comfort once or twice. *hugs* Be well.
