That Warm Fuzzy Moment When...

...you're renewing your membership at the local science museum, and discover how stupidly easy it is to add a third adult onto your account.

Sure, it's designed with child caretakers in mind- you have Parent A, Parent B, and... Uncle C?  Grandparent D?  Babysitter E?  There's any number of reasons that a standard nuclear family might want to add another adult to their account!  But it works just fine for my purposes, as well.  My purposes, in this case, being the addition of my husband's girlfriend to our account.

Yeah!!

Assault & Trauma

Trigger Warning: This post talks about assault, trauma. Parts of it might be interpreted as rape apology.

There's an idea that I've been turning around in my head for awhile, that perhaps we as a culture partner the ideas of assault and trauma a bit too closely.  There seems to be a notion that assault is the input, and trauma will always be the output.  You can't have the output without the input.  The bigger the input is, the bigger the output is.  It's a 1:1 ratio of assault:trauma, and you simply cannot have one without the other.  And I think that this view misses quite a bit of the range of human experience.

Some of the implications of that have already gotten some discussion, as the idea that everybody processes their experiences differently has become more widely understood.  I think that this article brushes up against it, as it challenges the notion that to be assaulted is to be eternally broken inside.  In recognizing the fact that everybody heals differently, we necessarily recognize that everybody has different responses to their experiences.

The idea that a violation of one's consent or boundaries can be traumatic, regardless of the "severity" of the violation is another way in which this discussion has moved incrementally away from the 1:1 assault: trauma model.  I think that's it's incredibly useful and important to acknowledge that a non-consensual ass-slap, or "gray rape" can be traumatic events with major, lasting consequences.

I would like to see the conversation continue pushing and poking holes in the 1:1 model.  I'd like to see recognition that very real trauma can result from events which are not assault, or even a consent violation of any kind.  I'd like to see recognition that assault- even clear-cut, undeniable assault- may not always be traumatic.

It means accepting that as humans, our experiences and emotions are messy.  It means accepting that sometimes a person's actions can be terribly damaging to another, but it doesn't necessarily mean that those actions were wrong.  It means understanding that sometimes people do genuinely fucked up things, and everybody walks away alright.  It means that while there is a strong correlation between assault and trauma, the relationship is not always one of causation.

I've had sexual experiences that were blurry around the consent edges (and in one case, by-the-book assault), that I feel great about.  I've debated elaborating on those experiences in this blog for quite some time.  Ultimately, the fear that somebody else would use those as a model of appropriate behavior is what keeps me from elaborating on details.

Conversely, I've had sexual experiences that were solidly within acceptable consent guidelines that left deep scars.  There are no special details, or circumstances, from those.  It was normal sex in established relationships, and unremarkable in every way save my own reaction to it.  For a long time, I dipped my toes into the idea that those experiences had been non-consensual.  Because how could they have been this traumatic, done this much damage, if they'd been consensual?  I may have gone through the motions, but he should have known that I didn't want it, right?  Wasn't it clear how detached, how disengaged I was?

My model of sexuality, trauma, consent and assault simply didn't allow for the possibility that something could be so damaging without it having been wrongdoing.  My hurt didn't seem like it could be valid, or legitimate, without the non-consensual framework.  I think I was groping towards the place where I'm at now when I wrote this entry a few years ago.  In truth, I didn't entirely believe my words at the time.

I do now.

This is not to say that sexual trauma is always independent of assault- not at all.  The two clearly have a close and frequent relationship.  But I believe that it is inaccurate to speak as though they are inherently linked.  The current narrative leaves a massive void where I think many experiences may fall.  And that does a disservice to everybody involved.

Not That Weird, After All

My husband and I haven't had sex in something like two and a half years.  Which, for those who are counting, is about a year longer than we've been married.  Stripping that, along with the romantic partnership, out of our relationship is what let us get to a healthy, stable place with one another.  We were pretty bad at finding mutually satisfying ways to be sexual or romantic.

But we're pretty fucking great at living together, and leaning on each other for the important things.  For all the ways in which we are not, and make a point to not be, primary partners, we are pretty bombass domestic partners.  The way that I characterize it is that if I get hit by a bus, I want my husband to be the one making decisions.  We can trust each other in that way, with that depth, without holding hands or getting each other off.

At first glance, this seems to throw many people.  Marriage gets taken for granted as a package deal.  Even for non-monogamous folks, who already tend to think outside the box when it comes to relationships, our approach is consistently met with surprise.

And then they think about it.  "Huh.  I guess that makes sense."  Sometimes folks without long-term partners even have a lightbulb moment of who fills that role in their own lives.  "Oh, like my friend Peter!  We've lived together on and off for the last ten years."  "Oh, like my friend Erica!  We just took a three week trip together, and she's been my best friend since college.  If I got hit by a bus, I think that she's the one I'd want making those types of decisions."

And then Reader's Digest, of all things, sealed the deal.  While waiting at the doctor's office with my husband ('cause we go to important appointments together!), he pointed out a copy with a cover story about traits of happy marriages.  "Hey, see if we're normal!" he suggested.  So I flipped it open to the article.  Most of the numbers and percentages were not particularly relevant or interesting to me, so I've since forgotten them.  But one jumped out.  According to Reader's Digest (super legit, I know), a solid 20% of the happiest couples are no longer attracted to one another.  Triumph!  "Looklooklooklook!  We're not weird!  See?!"

Well.  Maybe a little weird.

But at least not the only ones who figured out that you can do this without doing that.

Labels

I cannot overstate how happy I am to have a label for my sexuality.  While revolting against labels is currently en vogue ("You can't box me in!  I'm a snowflake!!"), finding out that I did have a bucket, and therefore was not utterly alone in my experience, was hugely validating for me.

I'm too asexual to claim to be normal in that regard.  This has made itself clear- repeatedly, and painfully.  But I'm not asexual enough to write it off entirely- there ARE contexts in which I really like being sexual, with myself and others.  Before discovering the label "gray-a" I felt like I didn't fit in anywhere I went.  I was my own little island of freak.

So I'm pretty excited about having a label, and I wear it with pride.  It gives me a framework to explain who I am, and a sense of security that my experience is shared by others.