Tag: ptsd

Some parents DID raise us to accept abuse from men

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I love Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. However, some parents DID raise us to accept abuse from men.
Some parents raised us to always put a man’s need first. To always find excuses for men’s abuse. Some parents raised us not to see men’s abuse, to deny it, to deflect away attention from it, to blame ourselves for provoking and triggering the abuse. Some parents raised us to be scared of standing up for ourselves when we are abused by men. Some parents raised us never to tell about men’s abuse. Some parents raised us to look like the perpetrator while the abusing man looks like the victim, when we speak up about the abuse. Some parents raised us to feel responsible for men’s abuse.
To sum it up: some of us were raised by parents to accept abuse from men and to blame ourselves for it.
This is a real problem in our society – and just as wrong as when men are abusing women who were NOT raised by parents to accept abuse from men.
Image credit: @bananalovemuffin

NEW! “Red Story nr. 3”

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“Red Story nr. 3” by Mia Makila, 2019. Digital collage. Edition of 5. Available.

DETAILS:
This is the third piece of my “Red Story” suite – a visual series about the traumas I am slowly overcoming. Instead of my usual perspective of examining the emotions of the survivor/victim (me), I am focusing on the crazy actions and bizarre behavior of the abusers. In the third story piece I am exploring the strange behavior of one of my ex boyfriends. Our relationship was based on a power imbalance. I lived in his house, he was a ‘master’ – dominant, in control, better, stronger, smarter – whilst I was made into a submissive ‘lolita’, a living doll, an object, weaker, dependent and isolated. This imbalance had many dimensions – it was economical, material, physical, emotional, psychological and sexual.
 
During our first year of living together in his house, he had a bizarre ritual of unzipping his pants right after he had served me dinner, then he would take out his (soft) dick and place it on the dining table and would just be standing like that for a while – so proud of himself and his ‘thing’. This usually happened when the family across the street (a mom, dad and two teenage boys) also were having their dinner and could see him standing like that, through their window. I would do what all good girls are supposed to do in situations where men make us uncomfortable – I would giggle.
 
But after I was out of this toxic relationship, I started to question this absurd routine. What was he trying to tell me – with his dick on the table, next to the food I was about to enjoy? What did he demonstrate? Was it an act of intimidation, a power demonstration, psychological abuse or perhaps an expression of a sexual fetish (with the eyes of our neighbor family as an important factor)?

NEW! “Red Story No. 2”

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“Red Story No. 2” by Mia Makila, 2019 (digital collage). Available.

Details:

This piece was difficult to make. It is a real memory from my life. A moment that repeated itself over and over again throughout my relationship with an abusive man. I loved that man. Or I thought I loved him. I thought he loved me. But at times, he told me he wanted to kill me. During a few seconds while physically abusing me. he even tried to kill me:

Most of the times he is just threatening my life in various ways. Sometimes with his hands. Sometimes he has a knife. Or boiling water. I am on the floor. He is on top of me. I have his spit in my face. His hungry saliva all over me. His hands around my neck. We are both sweaty. I am screaming. He is yelling, calling me things, telling me that I am a sinner, I am the devil, a prostitute. Worthless. I am fighting for my life but at the same time – I am not here. I disappear. I dissociate. At times I am shielding  my body with a painting of birch trees that hangs on our wall. When he is trying to strangle me, I pretend to get unconscious to make him stop. My strategy is successful. The grip of his hands around my neck relaxes, he whispers: “Mia? Mia?….Mia?” Since I am holding my breath, I suddenly grasp for air and he starts to cry: “I am such a monster… I’m sorry. I’m sorry”. My job now is to make him feel better. “No, you are wonderful, I love you so much, you are not a monster” I tell him and start to comfort him with my body. Nobody knows what he is doing to me. Nobody is comforting me, not even myself.