Alrighty, it's quiet enough here that I think I can manage to do this, now. I, and it, started back here, the night before last, and links back to this at at its end.
So, keeping in mind "explain, not defend," I'll continue.
She only asked one direct, two-part question for me to answer for her, although the other things she said, after that, led to at least one or two for me to answer for me, and perhaps even for some others who may read this, or love or hate me, to answer for themselves as well.
The direct question was this
My only question for you, really, is why...why you feel the need to argue for it, to express it.. because what you have probably been told many times (I don't fool myself into thinking I'm the first ruined little girl to contact you, and anyway your journal would suggest otherwise) is that it does wound, so deeply, little girl women like me.It's two parts, because of the two verbs, "argue for" and "express." Also, I guess I will note that it seems to be predicated on the dependent "since," as well.
(Is starting a sentence with "also" and finishing it with "as well" redundant?, I've often wondered, as I do it frequently.)
So, the question seems to be, "since I've undoubtedly been told many times that it wounds, so deeply, women like the writer, why do I feel a need to argue for it, and express it?"
(And no, I only wish, like the architect, that I knew what I was going to draw here, but then again, maybe I'm also glad I don't - it will be rambly, disjointed, convoluted, and more, I bet - dammit)
"You don't know what it feels like to read your entries," an anonymous comment in the summer of 2005 once read.
"No, I don't, but I know what it feels like to write them," was my response.
The anonymous commentor went on to unveil herself in the coming months, and is more or less a regular here now. I'd watched her 17-year old self writhe in her agony over her 45-year old lover, back in the day, but have recently watched her happiness at what appears to be a presently more age-appropriate thing. I read her entry a year or so ago, where she averred she'd never been touched, but always liked those old guys, even from the time she was three. Her life seemed fine. I never gathered she lost a parental figure, either, or suffered any trauma that way. But she did have that affair when she was, I dunno, 15, 16, 17? I don't know. Maybe that's why she showed up. She dropped by this morning to suggest I update, and I guess, in some small measure is why I am writing now.
The point of that paragraph, I think, is that when she'd made that entry, about never having been touched, but nonetheless, in so many unspoken words, so understanding where I come from, I'd broken down inside, and commented, "I love you."
But (as promised), I digress.
I'll get to my version of the whys shortly enough, but what do I argue for, then? I better make sure there's no misunderstanding, there. I wonder what she thinks I argue for. I did not ask, her, but so now I'll ask myself. To remove all doubt, however, I'll make a brief list of what I do not argue for, which will help to narrow things a bit. (in the following list, "child" is defined as someone under 16.)
I do not argue for the legalization of adult-child sexual interaction.
I do not argue for the lowering of the age of consent below 16 (however, I do think the federal government usurps the power of the states in this realm.)
I do not argue that children below 16 are able to make informed consent to this sort of thing (there are exceptions, of course, of course, but that ability fast runs down as one moves down the scale, and I think 16 is the most sensible approach).
I do not argue, ever, that actual child-adult sexual interaction is a good thing.
So what do I argue for then?
Could I possibly get it into a single sentence? No, I don't think so, but if I were to try, it would appear like this: I argue for my right to exist unshrouded. So, I guess I will just expound on that, still doing my best not to drift too far away from explain and into defence.
I could ask, is that a bad thing, my right to exist unshrouded? I'm not asking for some legally granted right to "be" pedosexually-oriented, I'm only asking for the right of a statement of what feels like fact to me. An "I am, therefore, I am," sort of acknowledgment, or like Ma, from "Babe," when she'd say, "the way things are is the way things are."
If I cease writing in here, do I cease to exist?
Nope, but no one will know, then maybe they'll think I don't, be able to tell themselve I do not. Is that better? Happy to acknowledge my existence only when and if they can put me in a cage and on a list, but not otherwise, is that the only deal I'm offered, then? Is that truly better? If one extrapolates, it translates to "you may exist only as a registered offender; that is the only acknowledgment that will ever be made of your existence, the only place we will permit you to 'be'."
I'm sorry, but without getting defensive, and staying at explaining, fuck that. I acknowledge your pain more than you can actually know, but again, I am sorry, but your present pain does not equate to your right to sentence the next generation to that which you have endured.
Nor
does
mine.
"In some undefinable way (verb purposefully chosen on her part) we're very similar," is what the once-anonymous commenter, Margaret, once said, after all.
I warn comers at the door, and it's all I can do.
(The hardest part of all of this comes at the end, I can already tell. But, having gotten through the bit about what exactly it is I argue for and hopefully, clearly enough, too, I'll move on to the "why for" as to that argument, and to the "why for" on "express it," too)
Why? Why, though?
"Why must you?"
For you and for me, and for all of the plural you and me who will ever follow.
But for me, first, of course, because I am selfish that way. Hopefully, by the end of this entry, you'll recognize a similar selfishness in yourself as well, in your never asking me to stop, though you would if you could.
I have a brother doing 20 to 70 years in prison; he has victims doing sentences of similar or longer lengths. When I think of the beauty he could have made of his life, or his victims of theirs, it slays me. At the end of the day, all of us, on both sides of these schoolyard fences and prsion walls, are doing life sentences.
Anyway, back to more nitty-gritty on "why."
When I started keeping a journal on a regular basis in June of 2000, I'd started that with a simple statement, "I know all of this will seem quite strange and obsessive, but I’m so determined to find out what became of me in the past month.
In two weeks, it will have been seven years since this "era" began.
So yeah, the "why" all started with me deciding to keep a record of what became of me after I located that first "little girl" type, then lost her.
Two years ago, in April, I randomly wandered back into this livejournal (which I'd created in August of 2003, on the cusp of my first real lifer, [gf name], moving here to live with me). She was leaving, though, then, for her own valid reasons, and again, it was a case of me keeping a record. This time, I thought to myself, I'm going to keep it as a public record. That decision, though, wasn't made in any spirit of public service altruism, but only because I thought that would help me to be honest with myself; to be as raw as possible with what I was feeling, which was awful incredible.
A few months into that deal, when I knew she was gone for good, and I knew I wasn't going to get many more chances to create my beautiful world, I also knew I'd better do my level best not to screw that up: to show everything and hide nothing, because nothing ever goes away all the way, and facts are facts, and once I'd faced the truth, I could not live a lie.
That's why I argue for my right to exist, here: to find her, to find my beautiful world, even if that beautiful world only ever exists inside of me, to find it; to have it, to hold it, till death does it part.
I am not permitted, for completely valid reasons, after all, to have one of the other kinds. Worse, even if I were, I *may* not, as in, such things are impossible: little girls do not respond in real life, as they do in my dreams, nor will they ever, all legislation aside. It's one more fact that remains as undeniable as my wish that they did.
I do not deny what I see as facts very well: I exist, she does not, are just two of those undeniable facts.
Which, I think, arrives me at "why do I feel the need to express it?"
It is who I am. For reasons stated in the preceeding paragraphs, this "me" neither can nor may ever be expressed in reality. Ever.
But, oh, how I long for touch. Not for touch of the five or ten-year old, though that does indeed also exist, but for touch of another human being. How I long for connection.
And how, how indeed,
I
melt
completely
down
in the presence of that touch.
You say, "It makes me want to fall on my knees in front of you and ask you to take away everything that's happened to me...". To which I respond that I am on those same knees, with all of the same anguish, and hopeless hope, saying, imploring, and with real tears, "take it, baby, please fucking take it baby, and give me every single thing, honey."
And then, then I'll love you forever, sweet darling.
And she touches the side of my face, down there on my despicable knees, and the flesh of her adult fingers, the softness of her eyes, and her spoken "yes," is softer and delivered with more grace than any child's could ever be.
Indeed, ever will be.
And I was never molested, nor inappropriately touched as a child.
And why, why the "detailed sexualizations of little girls," you ask.
In view of the preceeding several paragraphs, ask yourself, what if I were able to take that from you, to grant your fervent and humble prayer, delivered from your knees? What if I could make that dream come true for you, and make it as if nothing that happened to you ever happened to you? What if I really could make you feel whole again?
Get all the way into that place before you get yourself all the way to the next paragraph, please.
...
Then, what if I took that all away again?
I can't afford to have my wish and prayer answered, then taken away again, any more than you could, were that possible.
Therefore, yes, that's part of the reason for my detailed sexualizations of little girls: I can't afford for anyone who might think they might want to be with me for real to be fooled at all. Whoever...must see me for exactly who I am, and not some romanticized version of their wish. I do not mind if she must go for her own reasons, for how could those not be valid, but I cannot afford to have her go for having discovered after she arrived, who I really am. That much, she needs to have, at first, with eyes wide open.
(Oh boy, an anonymous lj comment just came over - I'll skip that one for now, for sure)
The other part of that is simply that it's who I am. Like you said about the reason you return here, again and again, "that would be asking me not to breathe...It's wired into me." You didn't ask for that to be wired into you anymore than I did.
One of the last times I made a post like that, containing the "sexualization of little girls," was after I'd read an entry made by one my friends list, one who is not like me or those who like me. I don't have the time to look it up, for it has been many a month since, but she'd written something like, "what if you were never allowed to express yourself?"
Shrugs. I guess you can just ask yourself the same question, and maybe understand.
And yup, I sure could screen such things, since I sure don't like causing pain to anyone who can't resist coming through here. It's not my intention with such things to cause pain. And it's not my only and whole intention to unveil myself in the course of finding someone to live my real life hours with, either. So, there's two reasons, at least, that I don't hide these kinds of things. It may hurt, yes, hurt like all hell, yes, but there is this: one's like you also need to know that one's like the one that hurt you do indeed exist, identical in every way to the one that hurt you, with the one critical exception that they don't want to hurt anyone like you were then, back when you were young and whole.
Ones like you have to see every single, sordid scrap of the ugliness, before you can even see the glimmer of hope that lies in the beauty of my existence: it is the only part of your prayer that I have the power to grant.
Or of my own.
If I thought it would be better that I did not write such things, better for me and better for you and better for the other me's and the other you's and the you's that were you before you became this you, and the me's that were me before I became this me, I would do it in a flash. But I know better, because I know me, too well.
I'm sorry, but I hope you can understand. Thank you so much for writing me so kindly.
This arrives me at the final frontier, and I am almost out of time, now, so I think I will only be able to introduce the thinking which the other parts of your letter have inspired.
"You can't have it," you said, in so many words, "it hurts them too much, it wounds them, too deeply, and over and over again."
Fuck.
They've not all been as touched in as damaging a way as perhaps you have. Some insist there was no touch, ever, at all, that they can recall.
Why then? Why are they like this? Why do they call me beautiful?
Most have, though, yes, been touched, I confess.
Missy was one of these. (That link and entry comes with a LOI (lots of information) warning, btw) [that link is dead, for now - maybe at some other point]
Another, though, recently opined that something makes it arise in any of them, saying "i don't think people come here without..having something in their background that makes it so...whether it's being touched themselves, or watching friends, or hearing of friends, or the absence of a parent (which is mine)..something HAS to happen to make that little girl part freeze, or come back out, or whatever...that isn't just something people WANT and then it happens,"
[I started this at 10, it's after 1, now, and I have to go to the son's t-ball game, so I will continue when I get back.]
[Mkay, back - definitely gonna skip the anonymous comment 'till I get to the post entry button for this, else who knows what might happen to it.]
I asked her, then, a day or two later, a question which I now notice that she never really directly answered. I was talking about the relative rarity of ones like her, and said in a series of ims, "I used to think there were more of us, after I first discovered there was at least one of her...but I'm not so sure at all - I think "pretty damned rare" is a better guess [and she agreed, "probably," as I continued my ramble,] and in re this whole deal: there ain't no easy answers. what you said yesterday, I think, or maybe early today, about....something makes that come out in one - for you the absence of a parent...well...like...wtf is one to do?...is that damaging you then, killing you to the core, and if you could have that kinda "daddy love" without that pedo bit, I'd bet you'd take it in a sec...is one like you supposed to just cram that back, is that the deal, is that the better thing, the indication...and to what end, I wonder, too.
[Now, I also see it wasn't really posed as question, but more a statement of fact: of course, if anyone could have that kinda love without the pedo bit, they'd snap it on up.]
In any case, her conclusion about it all was similar to mine: "its hard to figure what to do...but those of us that are there.. are there because we want to be...there are still more that have had any sort of something happen and chose the repression route."
So yah, beyond the direct question you asked, the other thinking your email has inspired is along those lines, "wtf is one supposed to do about all of it?"
Do I just shut up and end up playing a game of charades with some certain someone, never tilt my hand and show the cards that would set me free? And, what of those ones come to me and say "touch me like daddy..touch me as who you are, give me him who is inside of you and I will give you her, who is inside of me.
Rip me apart, all over again."
Even if I was never touched.
I dunno. The therapist's couch for something everyone seems to agree is incurable - not even mentioning such professionals are obligated by law, oaths aside, to report those they think a danger to others - who among those will take the chance of being wrong, I wonder?, silence behind a mask?, prison walls?, the peace of death, perhaps?
I don't want to destroy anyone by being here, or by existing, but I got children who need me, real children, my children. They need me, here, living, and loving and alive, and not dead, inside or out, and certainly not behind any other walls, either.
I might ask, without any harshness at all, keeping in mind your recommendation is for life, what your answer would be.
For if there were an easy answer for either of us, it shall have been made and propounded across the land eons ago. The only scrap and clue I've found so far is to be honest, inside and out, and just hold on tight and hope for the best.
If it's any comfort, I still have hope of arriving in a place where I no longer have to or want to be here, and then you shall not have occassion to come across, or return to, my writings and writhings any longer.
Peace is all either of us want, after all, from the things which torment us. I found a place and a person, once or twice or thrice or more, which and who have turned all that torment, all that ugliness into something I've seen as so beautiful, even for moments at a time, though I've caught glimpses of forever, too, from time to time. If you found something like that for that which torments you, I just bet you'd risk everything to share that with even one other person like you. You cannot not want to share it, unless you haven't any compassion at all, in which case it would be likely you'd never recognize it were it pounding upon your door.
In regard to that, and really, I guess lots of all of this, and lots of all of me, my favorite bit of the following quote is "it is... at least as exigent."
"'Of course, let us have peace,' we cry, 'but at the same time let us have normalcy, let us lose nothing, let our lives stand intact, let us know neither prison nor ill repute nor disruption of ties.' There is no peace because there are no peacemakers. There are no makers of peace because the making of peace is at least as costly as the making of war -- at least as exigent, at least as disruptive, at least as liable to bring disgrace and prison, and death in its wake." - Dan BerriganI do not think I've done a very good job, here, of explaining or defending anything, but I've tried, anyway, which is all any of us can ever do. At least I know in my heart, if nothing at else at all, I gave you a place and person upon which you could unburden yourself of the things you said in your email. No matter the pain it caused you, had I not been here, that shall not have been possible, not that way, anyway.
I hope someday it gets better for you, but I know that yes, some things never change. I'm sorry if my peacemaking endeavors, either for myself or for anyone else, have cost you so much, and continue to cost others like yourself, so very much. But, there are more of you's and more of me's, the ones who haven't been touched, the ones that have, the ones that haven't yet found out or admitted, they're one of me. And after all, one of those could actually turn out to be one of my own sons.
One never knows. You don't ask for this anymore than you asked for that which you were served. But as you know, it happens, and it's real, and its going to continue to be real, likely forever. No mask masks it, no silence silences it.
I think there is a better chance someone like me reads this and gets a feel for what I'm saying, how much more there is to be found in something, which I still feel is so possible, than there is in the alternative. I think there is a better chance I inspire someome to seek a reality with someone they won't hurt, than that I will inspire someone to hurt someone like you once were. I just somehow feel, inside, that my approach ends up making less of you, than more.
Actually, I think it already has, somehow - for I still write from my desk, rather than from some other place.
Yup, the other things need figured out, yet. The questions about how much I might hurt, with my breed of love, those who say they love me. Those questions are not new to me, by the way, but have been renewed by your email.
I think that's very important.
And truly, I apologize so sincerely to you and to any like you for the pain I cause you by my existence, and my testimony here of that existence. If it's any comfort, the journey has not been painless for me, either. It's trite, yes, but no pain, no gain, after all.
And my hopes remain so very high, still, seven years later, of gaining so very much for myself - and if that ends up earning something for the rest of us, well, then cool.
Alrighty, shuttin,' now. My final apology is that I am sorry if this is not the answer you were looking for or hoping for, but it is my answer while I continue to look for others.
Best again.
[I think, considering her concern about being found out, that I oughtta first ask her if my editing of her email is cool, before I make this a public post (did and done)]
[Retro 12:22 PM, Sunday May 20, 2007;
Alrighty, ready to unscreen/make public these bits, but, given my word hangover, I'll say/ramble about a few of the things I'd left out? changed? done differently? Make admissions? I don't know?
It's too presumptuous. It's too assumptuous (doubt that's a word). It's too righteous. It's not written with enough sensitivity toward the author of its inspiring email, or the ones on the behalf of whom, perhaps, she wrote.
Those would be the admissions, I suppose.
Or, maybe these are, even, too. I guess the part I left out the end, the part I'd parenthetically alluded to along the way as being the "hardest," was some sort of concession. They tell yo to do this in your first course on expository writing in regard to argument papers. Ah, but then again, was it an argument? Yes, yes it was. Though I tried to keep it at explanation, perhaps all such explanations of the would-be sordid end up at defence papers. No matter, I do not think it hurts to add in concessions in which I believe - at least to the extent of the definition of "could."
I could be wrong. It could very well be that my writing and my existence inspires others to commit crimes, creating new victims. It could be that my existence and my writing makes the recovery of past victims that much more difficult, or delayed, re-victimizing them all over again. It could be that my relationships with grown women are only and always will be only, destructive and fatally flawed, based upon something which is best left alone, or ignored, or somehow pushed out, or endeavored to be moved beyond.
Last (is there ever a last with me?), in regard to the final sentence of that last paragraph, I think I should mention, that, at least for me, the events of the last seven years have changed me in some fundamental ways - depending upon what one means by "fundamental."
This way (with one more "dependent" in place): In regard to those who are adults, depending upon how one defines love (lmao, that's gotta be the biggest "dependent" in the whole wide world), I have learned to love those who are not children. I have learned, or come to, lust for those who are not children. In regard to those who are children (girl variety), I have learned temperance, restraint, and of more beauty that I ever thought possible.
Though, damn, that last sentence is so tidy, but, to disclaim the word "restraint," lest someone misunderstand, or worse, misconstrue that word, let me clarify. I do not mean, that in the past, prior to this journey, that I was an offender that way. Nah. I kept things too far out and away from me for that.
But it was like this, if I may be ugly for a moment or two...when I would see a little girl, either in real life, or a sought out photographic form, who was to my liking as to age, form and spirit, I'd commit all of those to memory, and "relieve myself" at, generally, my earliest opportunity.
It's not like that, now.
At all.
The things that were there for me, then, no longer have the validity they did, then. Then, that was the only validity, the only possibility.
Now, now I save something up. And no, not just my ejaculate, though yes, that's a part, mhm. I save that up, all of that physical and metaphysical stuff inside, to share with an adult, when I can. And though some little girl almost always remains present in some form or other, it is so, so different.
Soooo, yes, it is better for me, for it no longer remains an endless, hopeless cycle. However, given the things you have said in regard to those adults with whom I interact...this way...the jury remains out on whether it is better overall. That is, in the past, there was no real victim, for the subjects or objects of my desire never had a clue what went on out of their presence. But now, perhaps I create new victims, or revictimize old victims. Which, would make it all an entirely selfish endeavor, indeed.
This question, however, is not a new one, as I brought it up myself, nearly two years ago, just a renewed one.
So, I guess, like, don't cross the river if you can't swim the tide?
All done.
Errr, I'd thought I was, then, an hour and a half ago, but I wanted to add the line and link, "Missy was one of these," and it took me that long to locate the entry. That is the only editing I have made to the original, I promise.]
[Retro 11/06/2007, 1:59; For the record, she wrote back, thanked me (1000 times) for this, my answer to her email, and ultimately gave me permission to post her reply to this answer, which, eventually, I shall, somewhere or another. Also, several months later we became real life lovers. It couldn't work, though, because of distance and her need to stay in her state, and for someone with her, all the time. It was over about two weeks, ago.]