This is your brain on PTSD
[This happened last night actually. It takes time to reflect on such events. Read this as if it is happening, because these are my thoughts immediately after the event]
I was physically assaulted less than two hours ago and I did not report it to the police. Is that a bad thing? I guess it depends on who engenders the dialogue…It depends on what I look like, compared to my perpetrator.
And hitting back is never an option if you are male–you just learn to take it–long after the fear of violence leaves your body, anger sets in, and then the numbness, and then the matrix of contradictions about women’s violence against men and children–and men who were once children. Then depression.
But from my literal, lifetime of experience, men who call the police are as likely as their perpetrator to get hauled off to jail, because violence against men is du jour, and profitable one way or the other to the police and state court systems, as well as to women’s organizations that depend on minimizing and marginalizing this topic.
Men who break the norms, and the rules of being violated or bullied by women are a bigger threat to society than men who just shut up, and take it “like a man, “because shouldering the violence of America has always been a male burden, and always has been expected of us.
I spent over fifteen years employed in, or owning businesses, that were a cultural anthropologists dream of opportunities to observe situational violence, and served as training grounds for violent women to get away with violent crimes.
Then something kicked in: I had had enough of violence. It is a toxic poison that creeps into the center of you, and seeps out in all the wrong places.
But before I get all rhetorical, here are the facts of my assault, two hours ago:
1) I was walking home from a bar–not drunk, but buzzed enough to sleep. I like a few beers to calm recurrent PTSD, and I like to walk at late at night. But I am always prepared for violence.
2) I walked from the bar clutching a prime cut of flank steak, rare, nestled into a bed of fried yam fries. I looked forward to finishing my meal at home, over a cold one.
3) I walked one block towards home, and quickly noted the sound of loud voices. Loud voices are not uncommon at this time of night, but loud female voices, raucous, and ‘distressed’ in that way that females can get–all worked up over comments about hair or something.
4) I pulled my large canister of pepper spray out of my side pocket, and hid it in my hand, knowing full well that violent women travel in packs, and always have violent men beside them. I proceeded forwards at my green light.
Raucous womens voices late at night are very common, and almost always charged with violent or sexual energy. As a male, and trained to the sound of ‘women in distress‘ as most males are, I recognized one distinct female voice and then another–parties to the conflict, it turns out.
In my years of experience, the loudest females are usually capable of initiating the most violence,and their will to violent rhetoric is almost always a signal to actual violence to come–that violence which sucks others in.
Their vocal ranges were beyond ordinary, and obviating my caution.’
5) I proceeeded forwards, and encountered a large diverse group of males and females outside a bar. That bar, my memory told me is one that I recognized as being a former ‘hillbilly stomping ground’ or, a bar that was once predominantly full of white people
6) That bar is currently a ‘wigger/nigger bar’ where everyone of all races calls each other nigger. “Wusup myNigga”,” Yo Nigga,” “You my nigga?” and so forth. Make of that what you will.
7) I paused ten or fifteen feet from the site of the violence, and looked at my options. People were flowing from the bar to the street. My experience has taught me that the Laden principle of street crossing does not apply for men at all, for various reasons too much to go into here, with this being one of the more extreme examples of what happens to men who disobey the rules [here]
So, engendered male, my options of walking around the violence were as good as my options walking through the violence–side note: if you have never been around violence, good for you. Stop reading here. You deserve a nice life, with your head tucked firmly up your privileged ass, and nice, fresh clean, cloudlike white diapers every day!!
I grew up in the most extreme violence, and spent years climbing out of it, with varied success.
But I have never been so fortunate, and I have never been sheltered or or protected by any law, or entity, ever. So here is my reasoning during that moment.
a) walk around the violence–which had alreadyspread into the street, which meant waiting for a stoplight. If I immediatyely extricated myself, and walked across the street despite a contradictory stoplight, I could face police violence–which is always more scary that crowd violence.
b) walk through the violence at an opportune moment. An opportune moment is one wherein ‘friendly’ members of a mob recognize me, and my face as a face unaffiliated with that mob violence, and let me “pass”. This is a common occurence when an out-group member encounters in-group violence. ( Anthropology 101?).
c) wait till the violence passes, in which case I might become a witness to the violence, implicated in the violence, and also a further victim via police line-ups, witness statements, and other dirty cop tactics of social control/police authority–like arresting people who refuse to participate in the charade of informing the good officers what happened.
WWJD? What Would Jew Do? What do the good atheists and the good skeptics and humanists have to say?
I won’t wait long to hear that all violence is perpetrated by men, etc etc, ad nauseum.
Nor will I wait in telling you what I did: I walked gingerly through the violence as I have attempted all my life, but only after I had made eye contact and shared facial expressions with members of the crowd who seemed to be relatively detached from the violence– like rolling my eyes, and signifying that such violence is ‘NOT any business of mine’, eye to eye with what appeared to be the most sober, humored people in that crowd.
But what was that violence, you ask? Who were the violent people in the crowd? And what was my assault? What were the dirty bits?
I will tell you: after my WWJD moment passed, and I was affirmatively nodded through the crowd by seemingly detached participant A -a white male in Wigger gear, and participant B-a mixed female in college age clothes–I walked on by in the path that cleared like a parted Red Sea…
At which point the combatants–who had been pulled apart just before my entry–re-converged.
Two tall (5’10-11″), relatively attractive mixed and or black females, who had been pushed away from each other, lunged at each other, from 10 feet away, and despite being yelled at to calm down, insisted on throwing punches over the shoulders of their referees who were trying to hold them back.
And that is where the shit got funny.
Imagine now, girl A and girl B, and Guy A:
As I passed Girl A on my right–who was being pushed out of the conflict by Guy A–she began to punch guy A in the face; at which point, he gave her a hard shove in the center of her chest and told her to knock it off. She responded with full fingernails and fists in his face, and then, backing off, said
” I’ve already called 911.” That, in my experience, has been what any 911 call looks like anyways–some woman who digs a shitter deep hole with her violence, and THEN calls the cops FIRST. Female bullies always call the cops when they are about to get their asses kicked for what they do. ( ANOTHER STORY)
Needless to say, I moved forwards, past her, and out of range–or so I thought.
Having passed, as I turned to look back at woman A) AND THE MAN SHE WAS PUNCHING–and I was punched squarely in my right kidney by combatant number two, Girl B, from out of nowhere.
Like a Myriam, not turned to a pillar of salt nearly, but definitely a man who was punched with a boxers rib jab by yet another woman, I was cowed, and gasped–my kidneys are my weak point, as I have only one, and I haven’t done a boxers sit-up in years!
Then, she rushed by me, slightly looking over her shoulder in my direction, made eye contact, and then hurled forwards towards girl A.
Ouch, I thought in that moment. My bad kidney!-my only kidney, in the shape of a horshoe by defect of birth. I have no idea why she socked me there–a complete stranger hit my weak spot!! But I am aware that any good boxer knows the sheer value of a kidney shot can take an opponent out quicker than a good hook to the jaw.
Women seem to know your weak spots, and go for them by rote. I have learned that through a lifetime of being assaulted by women, and wondered if she had a brother who might have taught her the value of that shot; I actually marveled at her punching power!
And it got even weirder–I noticed her strong long legs going up to her ass like pillars; I refelcted on the years and years of knowing women’s violence first hand, that if I worked the game and acted a victim--I could probably even use that card to work my way into the crowd, and win approval as a victim–maybe even hook up with her at some point because ‘she owed me’ something–an apology.
I watched this sort of bar violence, and bar politics for years on end, enough to know its system, and work it.
Such is the perverse nature of enduring women’s violence.Now, I had to pause, and reflect–and also salaciously admire–these two comely
warriors that I had been caught in the middle of. I also instantly recognized the value of my life experience–the value of knowing that most people–and certainly most white women– could not be so lucky to see what I have seen about women in general, and women’s violence in particular.
But women are egregiously violent, and more so when drinking. And white people in general–detached as they are from the primal heirarchy, and reality in general–they don’t see or acknowledge it because they refuse to look–it scares them. It is a discussion that needs tobe had.
And most white violence takes rhetorical forms, and hides itself behind police and state structures.
They employ victim narratives that disadvantage some at the expense of others–white peoples violence is systemic, inappropriately examined, and malevolently applied via social tropes, and stereotyopes that uphold social orders, even while perpetrating violence elsewhere. The white power structure is not a valid representation of reality–but it works well as a system of social control, and as system of capital formation and taxation.
Put another way, that system relies on lies, rather than truths to sell itself to you.
And white peoples choices to systemically refuse to discuss violence perpetrated by women? White culture decisions to marginalize stories of womens violence? That is the grease in the gears of such as system of social control.
Wanna’ know the main tool of controlling boys, or turning them into state sponsored homicidal maniacs?
Tell the boys “never ever hit girls.” And doubly damn the boy who would sock her back–all social mechanisms are designed to uphold this sort of female violence.
This was a painful, lunacy-worthy lesson in contradiction for me most of my life: being bullied, and battered by girls and women from infancy into adulthood. But it’s there, and it’s real. My kidney will tell you that tomorrow.
Now here’s the really, really fucked up part–the really demented part–about the specific, and differential effects of women’s violence against people in general, and men, specifically, AND ME THREE HOURS AGO, that sits in my craw: despite having been assaulted by a complete stranger; and despite a crowd of witnesses seeing it–seeing me, a mere passing stranger– being literally punched in my back! by a woman I have never known–is unthinkably wrong, unspeakably demented–and strangely, according to girl/boy politics–acceptable to my society!!
If I were to call it in as an assault against my person, there is no doubt in my mind that I would be brought into a jail, or a mental institution–because womens violence is condoned, encouraged, accepted, and validated by police culture, and society at large. Any member of team female violence would no doubt concoct some derailing minimalization of that woman’s violence against me.
And, as those things most certainly always work out, the officer on the scene–being a fem-trained dolt, woul say ” Well, I gotta bring one a yuh in, or both of yuh,” because police are trained like everyone else to conceive of women as “victums of mail viuhlince,” despite decades of studies to the contrary.
It blows my mind.
I had been “tapped” by that violent female as a potential ally, witness or partner in her crimes of violence; and by my experience, and by inference, as a potential sexual partner by my willingness to “protect her” should the police actually come, or she loses her shit too deep in some trouble she started, or chose to participate in.
Or maybe, I was merely assaulted, again.
And after a lifetime of enduring women’s villence, i know it quite well. Sounds strange, doesn’t it? Sounds like Stockholm Syndrome, or trauma based bonding, right? Learn to love women, learn to love women’s violence.
But see, it was ME, engendered male, and well aware of such a discrepancy within my culture–many men would kill to be her hero in that moment (and I have not discussed the males in this crowd at all), who wasn’t about to have any part in it.
That I had endured random female violence from her out of nowhere was a gift, so the rhetoric says–lucky me, another chance to NOT open my mouth and condone it, or open my mouth like a playa’, and discuss my sexual opportunity! A chance to be a hero!
See, the trick with female violence is that they are daring you to ask for an apology–and on that basis they decide if you are a “good man or a bad man.”
Upholders of female violence are hero’s in a fascist culture–becuz theres always bigger trouble ahead in a fascist world full of perpetual war, and perpetual victims.
Sad, but true: women’s violence against men–and men remaining complicit through silence–is what encourages further acts of violence. Violence and stress caused by violence has a cumulative effect and it begins in childhood.[ .pdf here]
Story of my life–literally. Women tapping out of the battles they get themselves into–me ‘saving them’, really, from their own violence.
My reward? Pussy in my face–if I play my cards right…but is that really a reward? I don’t think so–because I realize that every woman I cover for could well be using that violence against children–and, if so, she needs to be stopped.
I wish my father was so wise….
And women’s violence against men and children–It has to stop being taken lightly.
Sadly, I do not have it in me to do what white women have been doing for years, and getting away with: I will not call the police; I will not call my mother (she’s been dead for over a decade now); and I will not relegate that anonymous woman’s violence into the realm of imprisonable deviance–because I know, and expect, that women are, and always will be violent.
What I WILL do is open the door to discussions about women’s violence, and open my ears as well to how we can solve this cyclical, circular problem. The only thing I know for sure about four hours ago? Not one man threw a punch at anyone, while two women duked it out, and over twenty bystanders looked on.
But no one did anything but laugh at that punch to my sole kidney. Not a damn one–even me. I will wait, and listen, if anyone has suggestions.
But the simple truth is, women who abuse, abuse those furthest from having an immediate voice in their rhetoric of violence–and the least power in any situation of women’s violence–and their victims seldom prosecute.
As the threat of police coming was in the air, the crowd pulled it’s consecutive heroine’s apart, and enabled them into the safety of running automobiles, and hurried away from the scene of their crimes.
The girl who struck me, looked at me and smiled sheepishly as she was ushered past me–and then she turned, and began to yell at her co-conspirator who drove her away ” I would have killed that bitch…”