Dear Sasha,
My boyfriend wants to eat my shit. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but this doesn’t disgust me. Should it?
Lady Who Doesn’t Give a Shit
Dear Lady,
Listen, if it doesn’t bother you, then by all means let the man have his meal. You may want to get checked for fecal-bound bugs and vi-ruses, though, and maybe if this is a thing he enjoys with some frequency, he should get some hepatitis shots.
Theoretically, this act may not bother you, but the real deal might be a little more than you can handle. Perhaps you’re thinking, “Oh, no big deal, he’ll just eat it like a cookie and that’ll be the end of it.”
No way, sister. From what I can tell, people who eat poop seem to need to ingest it like they’re feral three-year-olds. There’s a lot of lip-smacking and finger-licking and digging around in the cave for more treats. This is not a polite meal at a fine restaurant. This is your partner regressing into a place in their baby lizard brain that might just blow you the fuck away.
So there’s that to think about.
Before you embark, you may want to discuss the way this fantasy will unfold.
Dear Sasha,
How do you remember things from your childhood?
I have for a long time had this feeling that I might have been sexually molested, but I can’t remember anything about it. What are some signs that I can look for?
Maybe I am just neurotic or looking for something to blame for my problems.
I went to a New Age counsellor in my early 20s (am in my late 20s now), and when she asked if I had ever been sexually abused, the first thought that came into my head was “Not that I remember,” but I said no and had this weird feeling that I was lying. Our sessions would usually consist of her asking about my childhood and my crying uncontrollably, embarrassingly, for no good reason.
Maybe I just have general trauma from my childhood (like from my dad being what might be called “emotionally abusive”) but not from a particular event.
Maybe I have cultural trauma just from existing in this fucked-up culture.
These ideas came back recently when a friend confided to me her recently remembered sexual abuse. Am I just being self-centred, trying to make this about me?
Looking For Insight
Dear Looking,
I’ve been wondering the same thing myself these days. Not about childhood sexual abuse, but remembering painful things from childhood and wondering what impact these things had on me in my later years. I’ll be back in Montreal this weekend doing a little bit of that kind of soul-searching.
Much as I love the benevolent ambiguity of New Age spirituality, when someone talks you through a panic attack by suggesting you envision a pearlescent goblet of light or you’re directly addressing childhood sexual trauma, you may want to try a few other therapeutic styles for balance.
Also, the term “New Age” can encompass many different therapeutic approaches, so I’m not certain what kind of work your therapist had you doing. You seem to be relatively new to the healing game, so here is what you might want to say to potential therapists as you begin your investigations: “I’m exploring the idea that I may have been sexually abused as a child. What methods do you use to study these possibilities in people?”
Please be very wary of people on the fringes of therapeutic trends who tell you, as though they know better than you what your experience was, that if you think you’ve been abused, you’ve been abused. This seems to be a popular approach these days: when you suggest possible past abuse, someone grasps your arm, looks kindly into your eyes and informs you that you were raped. I dunno – I find there’s an odd, backhanded and irresponsible empowerment to this kind of support.
No matter what, it’s hard not to cry in therapy. I don’t think I’ve ever gone to a therapy session – even with my apathetic psychiatrist, who often nods off – without launching into tears at some point or another. You go there because you’re feeling vulnerable and fucked up, they ask you direct questions about this, there’s a sofa you’ve never cried on before and a box of tissues within arm’s reach. Plus, a lot of therapists fancy themselves artists manqués so just being in the presence of their creative offerings – be they photos, macramé pot holders or ceramics – is enough to get the tear ducts exploding.
Next thing you know, you’re bawling your face off, seemingly for no reason. Then they gently imply that maybe you have feelings and that on top of it you’re allowed to have feelings and nobody’s ever told you it was okay to have feelings and then it’s game over, Tito, get me some tissues. So, really, even if you’d had an ideal childhood and an adolescence unmarked by cruelty, you’d probably be sniffling away. Talking about your feelings is tough.
I would suggest you look up the work of Staci Haines. She’s awesome.
Whether it’s sexual in nature or not, abuse you suffer as a child can have a profound impact on intimacy in your adulthood. Having had an emotionally abusive parent can lead you into some pretty shitty relationships with men.
