Objects Don't Have Names
Photography by Alejandra Maria
By. Nica Selvaggio
*Please note this content may be triggering for those who have experienced sexual violence.
I wake up. I feel tired. I am always tired. I have always been tired. I am a woman. I am a man. I am neither. I am both. I am nobody. I am everybody. I have no body. I have no home.
The result of erasure? Nothing’s left.
I’m supposed to be writing an essay about sexual assault. And I suppose my fatigue and gender expression and general feelings of invisibility are relevant here. I am tired. So so tired. From existing in a body that is so seen and erased at the same time. That is simultaneously praised and degraded. It makes me forget that my body is my own.
I exist in a feminine appearing, thin, petite body. I exist in a body that invites the masculine gaze. I exist in a body that is viewed as an object that will satiate.
The first time my body was violated was before I knew how to speak. Literally. Between the ages of 2-3 is the first time a man penetrated me. I don’t actually recall this incident, but my body does.
Every time I try and open. Something closes.
And that’s just the beginning. The tip of the iceberg. I have been alive on this planet for 30 years now, and the amount of times I have been catcalled, followed home by someone on the street, coerced into sex, violated, or assaulted is too many to list here.
Beauty was never kind to me.
In the past 3 years alone, I have been sexually assaulted on 5 separate occasions. I will not recall the details of those incidents here for you as trauma porn, nor will I defend my choice of the word assault. It took me too many years to call these incidents by their proper name. Convinced that “it wasn’t that bad” and that it was “my fault.” You might even be feeling that I’m being dramatic now- or that I somehow invited the violence towards myself. That I must have done something for this to happen to me so many times.
Maybe I was wearing slutty clothing. Maybe I was flirting. Maybe I was drinking too much. Maybe I was intimidating and said no and sparked his rage. Maybe I didn’t fight back. Maybe it seemed like I liked it. Maybe I just laid there. Fawning. Frozen. Maybe I was asking for it. Maybe I didn’t know how to say no. Maybe I was never taught.
We tend to blame and shame victims in this culture, which is why so few are willing or able to speak. And can you blame us? The consequences of being a “woman” with a voice are too great. I could name countless instances in recent years where we have watched this play out on a grand stage. I get easily overwhelmed by politics because my nervous system can’t take it, but the names Trump and Kavanaugh come to mind.
I have never reported any of my rapes or assaults. I have never gone to the police. I have never shared about them publicly. About all the times a man told me he was using a condom when he was not. Or all the times when I did actually say “no” and “stop” and it was ignored so that the other person could finish. And definitely not the times when I was moaning but I felt like I was dying- a violation of my own.
An object becomes an object.
Except I am not an object. I am not a doll to be dressed up and played with. I do not exist to be gazed at or for anyone else’s pleasure.
my no matters
my pleasure matters
I have a body-
I have a body?
I have a b o d y.
And I deal with daily reminders in my body of all the times it has been treated like an object. In the form of sensory flashbacks of my attacks. Blood pounding in my ears. A heartbeat that doesn’t make sense. Nerve endings on fire in my skin. The endless fatigue. The struggle to get out of bed. The lack of appetite. The floaty feeling in my head. The urge to simultaneously run a marathon smash a mirror just to see something besides me break and collapse in a heap. The hyper-vigilance I feel walking down the street. Always scanning for threat. Feeling as if I am being overtaken even when I am safe. The shadows always near. The fear never leaves.
any man who has ever
fucked me. couldn’t see me.
I just had to step outside and take a smoke break. Get some air in my lungs. And then read what I’ve written so far out loud to myself. See if I can hear the ring of truth in my words. It’s not the symptoms of assault in my body that make me go mad. I’ve learned to manage. With daily routines designed to help me get back inside my skin. Food water exercise people sun. We’re not that different from plants.
No- it’s not the physical symptoms that drive me mad, although they definitely present a challenge in my day to day living. It’s the gaslighting about the events that makes me feel like an insane person. The constant questioning of reality. I find myself double triple fact checking all of my words. Did I get that right? I am so afraid of being called a liar. Completely unwilling to unveil any details that could reveal who my attackers are. A courtroom always awaits for a woman who is unafraid to tell the truth.
Rape culture permeates.
I could tell you about all of my friends who have stories very similar to mine. I could tell you about the ones who chose to confront their attackers and ended up being assaulted again. I could tell you about the threats, the demeaning, the gaslighting. I could tell you about the ones who never got an apology. And never will. Or all the ones who don’t even know that they have committed assault because they were drunk and don’t remember it. Consent cannot be given while intoxicated.
I could. tell you.
I could. tell you.
I could. tell you.
my story. my pain.
but what’s. going to.
make you. believe me.
over any. of them?
we’re not. the same.
After all, you can’t even trust the body that I’m in. Your view of my gender another act of trickery. Who am I to say that I’m not a woman? That’s the world I walk in. I have been socialized as female. I do have a pussy that has been assaulted and worshipped between my legs. I am in touch with my feminine. Sometimes I even wear lipstick. A costume of sorts.
This most recent Halloween I dressed up as Mia from Pulp Fiction. Super femme in a black bob wig. Red lips. Black lace bra. Eyelashes for days. White powder and a blood stain on my nose.
I didn’t recognize myself.
I was out with one of my dearest fellow non-binary queer friends. They didn’t know how to dress for Halloween- it’s tricky for those of us without gender. I lent them my fluffy bunny onesie.
Easier to be animal than beast.
Cigarette smoke curled around us creating a safe cocoon in the neon lamplight outside of the bar. We both needed to breathe after being surrounded by sweaty dancing bodies in the basement. A private moment to share a laugh and a glance. A shock of October cold air to bring us back. A mutual understanding of how it feels to exist in a space where costumes let you blend. And the dysphoria that brings.
A separateness.
A rude interruption. A drunk man who looks like every other man approaches. Drawn in by the deception of my femininity. He compliments and praises my “badass” choice in costume. Says it’s “original.” Gaze glued to my breasts. Out of the side of his mouth he says to my friend in the bunny onesie “you could have put in more effort.”
I puff up and get big. No one fucks with my friends. I say “you’ve overstayed your welcome.” Eyes blazing. Not knowing if that’ll invite an attack or retreat. Not caring. So sick of the constant staring but missing. Realizing that I have been wearing a costume my whole life. Not just that Halloween. He turned on his heel abruptly. Walked away scoffing. Having no idea of the violence perpetuated in that exchange. Invisibility can be safety.
Every time I have been assaulted- I have experienced gender dysphoria.
stop. how can this be happening?
I’m not a woman. I’m not supposed to be
the one. breaking.
How can I be assaulted for something that I am not? Why is it considered normal for women to be assaulted and silenced anyway?
Why is this even relevant? Because the conversation on assault has to include a conversation on gender. And even more important than gender- a conversation about power.
Rape isn’t about sex or gender or genitals. It’s about exerting power over another. It’s about making another person feel as if they have no power or value or boundaries. This can happen between people of any gender in any direction.
Rape is a robbery of the worst kind.
the innocence lost
a sense of self shattered
how does a person
keep going without
p o w e r
to fuel them?
If you can rob someone of their sense of self, you rob them of their power. If you ignore or violate a person’s basic right to their boundaries, you literally rob them of their edges. If you deny or refuse to see a person’s identity or exert power because of a person’s identity, you make that person invisible. If you treat a person like an object- they become an object. They cease to have a name.
I can tell you that through the grueling work of continuously healing from my assaults- I no longer view myself as an object. I have given myself a name. Selvaggio means Savage. And I am more beast than animal. I have a body. A body that is full of power.
What’s mine cannot be taken.
I am made of compassionate rage. And that rage is what has allowed me write the words that you read. I have no expectations for what you might take from this essay. It’s out of my hands. What matters is the sharing. The speaking.
This essay is for those who have survived sexual assault and the subsequent trauma and erasure. I need you to know that you are not alone. You are seen here. You exist. All of your reactions are valid. Your feelings matter. Your healing matters. Your body is yours. Me too.
Signed,
A Tired Truth Teller