On New Year's Eve of 2010 I was 33 and in high spirits. I had everything to celebrate: my upcoming matriculation from graduate school, exciting job opportunities, fulfilling projects. My partner and I were having a quiet evening alone, snuggling, when he noticed that the right side of my body was larger than the left. Immediately I knew something was terribly wrong. I went to the bathroom and gazed down at my belly, noticing the remarkable difference between the sides. I came back and told him it was nothing. It was nearly dawn and we were tired. He quickly dozed off. I laid there for hours, engulfed in terror. "Is this what cancer feels like? Like a black hole that you fall into and disappear - forever?" Something inside of me was not a part of me and yet it was there, pushing the soft pink tissues aside.
In the morning my partner left to help a friend with some construction work. I called my mom and cried. As soon as I could, I set up the first appointment with my doctor. While I was waiting to see her, I began sustaining mysterious, large, painful bruises on my legs and belly. I ached and sometimes itched in strange inner places.
At the first appointment my doctor palpated the lumps in my lower back, skipped the one inside of my vagina, and said she thought they were just cysts. I was scheduled for an ultrasound a week later. During the procedure I closely scrutinized the technician for any clues to my condition, knowing that she could not say anything to me about what she saw. Immediately when she put the vaginal probe inside of me she jumped back in her chair, looked surprised, then she furrowed her brow, as if sad, and looked at the image for a long time. After a while a steely coldness came over her. She seemed nervous and pushed me farther back on the table so that the screen was completely out of my view, but I had already seen enough.
There is a large mass attached to my right ovary. It looks white with tangles running through it. Everywhere she pointed the device corresponded with the sick feeling I have inside. She took a lot of time on the lumps in my lower back. Afterward she asked me to wait before leaving so she could confirm with the doctor that she had recorded enough data. She returned and told me I could go and to make a follow-up appointment with my doctor to receive the results. I already knew all I needed to know. These are not simple cysts.
I spent the rest of the day vacillating between rage and despair - inside. Outwardly, I just sat silently and stared out the window as I rode along with my partner while he finished up his daily work. I rarely get to see North Shore Oahu and I love it so much there. Even though I was exhausted I wanted to go, to see the big waves crashing on the sand, to feel the power of the ocean and to remember that nature is great and mysterious.
That night I slept poorly. I woke up at about 2 am with an overwhelming sense of dread. My partner woke up too. He went into the bathroom for a long time and came back crying softly. I rolled over and asked him what was wrong and he said he was worried. I hushed him and held him until his breathing slowed and became rhythmic again. Then I slipped silently out of bed and wandered alone in the cold darkness for a while.
Is this what death is like? Is it like the Hawaiians believed? The spirits no longer walk under the sun existing forever after in the cold darkness? I envisioned myself wandering around for eternity in the cold darkness, mumbling quietly and bumping into things. Eventually, I made my way out into the back yard where at least there were faint hints of starlight diffusing through the clouds. I sat in a white plastic chair and looked out over the dark ocean, which I could hear but not see.
I wanted to call my father and wake him up, pouring my hot wrath over him. It would serve him right for me to die so young, so full of potential. I am enraged at him. I am enraged that he blew the college money my grandparents saved for me, enraged that he sat by watching TV, not even caring when I came or went and with whom, enraged that he never wanted me to be anything more than he was, enraged that he declared me a dependent on his taxes for five years (saving himself a few thousand bucks but making me ineligible for financial aid) even while he knew I was stripping to try to get through college, enraged that he punished my sister for saying I was the smartest person in the family, enraged that I've had to put my life on hold for so long just to get the same level of education that I would have achieved at 24, enraged that I've never had children, ENRAGED that he would rather let me sell my body in New York City than lend me $5,000 to finish a degree I had almost completed, enraged that he then turned around and without hesitation spent $150,000 on my brother's lawyer, enraged that he never valued me simply because I am female ... I fucking hate my father and I blame him for much of what is heinous in my life. How can I square the belief that I had a father who loved me with the actions and in-actions he chose? I've tried. I can't. So here I am, in the middle of the night, the right side of my body full of suspicious lumps, sitting in the darkness, enraged at the man whose DNA helped form my flesh and bones. No wonder.
I called a good friend of mine who is deep into Cherokee spiritual training and he talked with me for a while. When I told him of my feelings for my father he asked me if I would be able to forgive myself for what I've done and for what has happened to me. I cried really hard and said, "How can I forgive myself if I can't even take responsibility??? If I can barely admit it? "
I was a prostitute. There I said it. There it is.
I've carried this shame and fear for so long. I've tried so hard to distance myself from it all. I am an academic, a professional. I am educated. I've barely had sex in ten years. Am I clean yet? Is the ghost gone? Am I a good person now? Am I still dirty? The memories of men I don't know or love using my body as a masturbatory device are still there, buried deep in the flesh - the very flesh that is now diseased. I hate my own body because it is the site where it all happened. I hate my own mind because it allowed all of this. I hate the world for being so indifferent and chaotic.
This morning I got to see my doctor and get the ultrasound results. She took some time explaining things to me and used a lot of big, qualifying terms that had the effect of making me feel oddly comfortable. I have three "questionable ill-defined masses" in my lower back, one on the left and two on the right. I am scheduled to have them biopsied next week. I have a large, "complex cyst, with soft tissue nodularity and septations" on my right ovary. I don't know what any of this means, except that my friend's blog post really spoke to me this morning:
"Sexual assault causes the body to be an unfriendly environment leading the survivor to at times feel dirty and ashamed. These feelings cause the individual to disconnect from their body entirely ... The words "the scene of the crime" speak volumes in criminal investigations and movies. In the case of sexual assault, despite where the event occurred, the scene of the crime is the body itself. The body then becomes less of a vessel for the spirit, and more of an enemy always reminding them of what they long to forget. Resolution of the sexual assault requires the body to be empowered. Forming a loving relationship between survivors and their bodies will enhance their ability to care for themselves as well as live with less anger and fear ... However, rarely are survivors able to articulate that they feel their body is an enemy."
I feel my body is an enemy. I wonder if these feelings, often associated with rape, can also arise from the occupational trauma that accompanies sex work. Many of my sexual encounters as a hooker were rape-like. They were not necessarily violent, though some were. All were consensual and during all I "checked out," went somewhere else in my mind. I definitely felt diminished as a result of sex work. I felt defined by it. "Once a whore, always a whore ... Used goods ... Damaged goods ... Dirty."
Intellectually, I understand that the shame of being a whore arises not so much from the sex or the money, both of which can be quite good, but rather from the social stigma that continues to haunt me deeply, all these years later. It is a manifestation of our general hatred and fear of sexuality, particularly female sexuality, which causes this shame. It is a backlash against old Goddess-worshiping religions which honored human sexuality as sacred and divine. I know that at one time prostitutes were priestesses. I understand that when men label sexually active women as "dirty" they are really just projecting their own crippling sense of shame and worthlessness. I know that I am more than the sum of so many fleshy parts, that I am a full and complex human being. I know all this. It exists, a string of words, abstractions, and concepts in my mind, and yet deep in my core I'm still haunted ... still living with the ghost.
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Even when most of the people you know don't know or care much about feminism, social justice, et al., every so often you find something you want to show them so they understand why you care. This is one of those times.
Thank you for this.
Thanks for sharing this, and for being so honest.
I'm not much of a praying person, but I'm sending you all the good vibes that I can. I'm rooting for you!
I have no words to describe how this post makes me feel. Everything that comes to mind simply falls short.
So I'll just say thank you so much for sharing and I wish you the best with everything.
-Sophia
This is exceptionally well-written and I sincerely appreciate that you shared it with me.
Though I can't relate to being a sex worker, I can relate to the aftermath of sexual assault. Mine happened in childhood, but rape is rape by any other name. It's left me confused, uncertain, fearful, and disconnected with other men. The times where male company, particularly lots of male company at once cannot be avoided altogether fills me full of dozens of both negative emotions and positive emotions, most of which are contradictory to each other.
Though I am bisexual, I stopped engaging in relationship and sex with other men because I was always inundated with an equal part attraction and disgust---something I could never manage to regulate or, better yet, to take leave of no matter what I tried.
I never saw my body as enemy as much as I saw my brain as enemy, and since I have always struggled with mental illness, that was at least familiar to me. Unlike you, I do not remember what happened to me in totality. In my situation, it is as if the memories of the trauma were part of some film reel, cut into a thousands frames, and scattered haphazardly through my memory, never to be lined up in the correct order. I know enough of what happened from what I can cobble together and often I wonder if I'd really wish to relieve it all.
The stigma I face is a bit different than yours. While you deal, in part, with a Puritanical notion that reviles sexuality, the fallout from my own trauma makes me wonder if it will ever be possible for me to completely trust another man or to easily make a male friend. Neither of our situations is fair or excusable by any means, but what they do prove is that the human body is not meant to experience this degree of emotional and physical upheaval.
Comrade Kevin. I understand what you mean. I cannot be in the company of men too easily unless I cover my body. If one of them appears interested, or if he's looking at me that way, I'm overcome with insurmountable terror and urge to flee.
My relations with men will probably always be marked by confusion and conflict. I'm truly sorry you experienced what you did. I'm with you in saying it's not fair and that as children we lose an unfair fight.
Beautifully, beautifully written. I can't stop thinking about all that you've written. Keep putting it all into writing and sharing it with the world!
Being a prostitute makes you a criminal, NOT a bad person.
I sincerely hope that this uber-cyst turns out to be non-life threatening.
I just want to let you know, that you are not alone.
Im in college getting a degree for a professional career.
I was a stripper.
I know its not exactly the same as prostitution, but pretty close. Its a very slipperly slope.
But you feel torn. You feel like, how could you be a educated person and also a prostitute at one point? You feel like you can never forget. But you shouldnt forget, take it as an opportunity, to appreciate your body as lots of people never can. You know exactly how precious our bodies are, and how important it is to always respect them. You can recover, you are already on the right track.
Congratulations on the degree.
Wow. Thank you for sharing this. I don't know what else to say. I wish you the best.
I want to give you a big hug. *hugs*
This is one of the most beautiful and terrible things I have ever read.
You have an amazing gift as a writer.
I beg of you I beg of you to find a support group, especially one modeled after AA, something with a twelve step program and meetings and a sponsorship program. I really truly identify so deeply with so much of the toxic anger and resentment and self loathing and fear you expressed, and I was delivered from all of those through working a program. I believe that you too can know a new freedom.
It is a backlash against old Goddess-worshiping religions which honored human sexuality as sacred and divine.
[citation needed]?
I am sorry. You never were and never will be dirtied by what you did. The men who would hurt you are dirtied by what they did.
You have the love of your partner and your mother, and men and women around the world who have been torn apart by sexual assault. You are not alone, and you do not deserve to feel this way. No one else can truly understand you but they can understand the root and shape of your feelings and accept you - and there are a lot of us.
Best of luck with your biopsy.
Beautiful post. And so sad. We'll be thinking about you.
ok, so i read this yesterday and i wanted to comment something but i just had no idea what to say. but i've mulled it over and i'm just gonna recommend things that have come to mind since then.
1: YOGA, i don't know if you have tried it yet, but yoga has really taught me to love my body. The amazing thing about yoga is that it not only focuses on your physical self, but also on your inner self. the poses are extremely relaxing (and hard) and make you notice and love often forgotten parts of your body.
2: Maybe a way to begin to love your body completely is to start in the often ignored parts of your body. There is a cool exercise that i do sometimes in the shower. You begin from your toes and you think of something that your toes have done for you that you are thankful for (like, thank you for keeping my balance), then you move on to your feet (thank you for supporting me for so long today), then you calf (etc), and on and on, until you have addressed every part of your body in a positive way.
3: Susan Brison has written this wonderful book called Aftermath. She's a feminist philosopher (and a great professor). She wrote the book after she was violently raped and almost murdered. In the book she deals with the notions of "self" after violent encounters on the body. She's really great.
good luck!! I will be thinking of you.
Thank you for this post. It makes me feel a lot of things. What stuck out to me the most is your description of living in the body, and having your body be your enemy.
My body was my enemy for a long time. It was the scene of the crime, as you said. I've hated my body and loved it. I have hated the parts of my body that were marked as "female" because those were the places that were attacked.
And yes, society would always blame a "whore". It's a free choice for some, a coerced choice for others, and something that is imposed or forced on others yet. Society does fear female sexuality, and this view mirrors the disdain and contempt some men feel for women they see in sexual ways. Sexuality has a lot of power - the power to make something trivial or much more important, the power to change the meanings and rewrite the rules completely. If sexuality was viewed as a necessity that most humans need, like food, perhaps it wouldn't be seen as "immoral" or some such nonsense. It would just be another fact of life.
Thank you again for posting this. I don't pray either, but I'm rooting for you!
i'm sorry.