One fun thing about disclosure (I’m being sarcastic, it’s not fun) is that even when the listener believes you, even when they get the severity — there’s a risk that it’ll pan out like giving away your True Name to a sorceress, a carte blanche window into your soul, a contract signed in blood.  Because now they have something on you and by God, that something has summoned an authoritative confidence that knows know bounds.  They have one narrative in their head about what this Means About You and what you’re supposed to be Doing about it, and you, as an entity, cease to exist under the projected image of the character in their head.

They’ll feel entitled to reinterpret your experiences for you.  They’ll feel entitled to tell you what to pursue, what to terminate, what to prioritize, what to feel.  You continue to exist in spite of violation, you survived, you’re still here, but a TV mystery has no room for anything but a dead body — an inert corpse, to be puppeteered by their self-applied authority.  Because the fact of a legitimized violation eclipses all else about you, and you become, again, that object and unsouled mannekin for anyone’s posing.  Because you’re damaged — unwhole — sentience undermined — agency written off like a totaled car.  It’s like a version of the sick role where the ironclad obligation of “cooperating with a treatment agent” features limitless application, and where appointing themselves as treatment agent requires no credentials.  You tell them one thing, and it’s like they own you.

3 responses to “Dissolved

  • You don’t owe anyone a tour of your scars. | The Ace Theist

    […] don’t have to risk being denied autonomy over your own story and dissolved into fuel for the exact perverse ideas your lived experiences […]

  • DasTenna

    I made that experience recently with a journalist who ignored what I told about my asexual experience the moment I mentioned that I was sexually abused once at the age of …19!. To her, this one experience became the only one that mattered and that I couldn´t be sure about my own sexuality. She wouldn´t listen to me or others who told her to trust the audience to understand the difference. I wasn´t allowed to speak about how I as an asexual experience and live intimacy, because one bad thing happened to me. It hurts. It hurts even more because it demonstrates clearly who is in control of our narratives in public. It´s not us, but them. Hermeneutical injustice all over again.

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