You Don’t Know Dick

It is the thing that has shaped my life and from which I will never recover. I will survive. I am a survivor and a warrior, slaying the memories that haunt me, that can drive me, that can pull me to the ground and cover me with darkness.

It is also the shape of that which I pleasure myself with, loving it and hating it at the same time. As I sigh with each orgasm, I hate myself for enjoying the thing that was used against me for so many years, that was flaunted in my face as a child, and the thing that stole more than my innocence.

And you, who carry it as a weapon, as the thing that makes you superior, you don’t know dick. You don’t stick around to see the aftermath of your actions, nor do you care. Your dick is a mantle of power over those who are weaker, more vulnerable than you. It is that which amuses you and, you think, dictates who you are...but...you don’t know dick.

There is some truth to the saying, “a man’s brain is in his dick.” Yet not every man, and I say this to convince myself. I cannot know what is in every man’s mind. I have been a victim, swayed by my own experiences. I carry my prejudice as a shield to the war I fight every day. There are those who tell me that it is the past, I need to move on. You don’t know dick.

As I wash that rubbery ‘toy,’ feeling its weight, its shape in my hands, I am disgusted with myself. Ironic, isn’t it? Judge me, talk about me behind my back, criticize me. You cannot do it as much as I have to myself. You cannot know the confusion, the self loathing, nor the pain that exists in just being who I am. But I am a survivor. I am the heroine of my world. Know it. Believe it. And those of you who continue to wield it as a weapon, as a power greater than the weak; those of you who continue to judge PTSD and the struggle of living with it, let me be the first to say to you,

You Don’t Know Dick.