Unashamed. An Open Book

Flashbacks, Nightmares and Triggers. How to Get Them Under Control. PTSD...

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Sun, 26 Apr 2020 16:14:00 +0000

When I was little my father experimented on me every sexual fetish and deviance he could imagine.
Though he was polygamous and could make any grown woman swoon at his feet, he was too coward to show them his true self, and instead lived out his sick desires with a child.
In this video I share a recent trigger of a memory of one such deviance, what my reaction was, and what I did to respond and remedy my reaction.

Before I continue, I'd like to send my condolences to all those who have lost someone to #COVID19, and my prayers and wishes of strength to those who are #SocialDistancing and quarantined with an abuser. If you need help go to https://preciouslittleladies.org/gethelp for resources.

It is said that sexual abuse survivors experience PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) more severe than a man on the front lines of a battlefield in war. I have learned to manage PTSD with tried and true coping mechanisms to maintain my #MentalHealth, navigate everyday challenges and thrive in my life raising 4 children who are also my biological brothers and sisters.
That isn't to say I never have moments where it's more difficult to do so. Sometimes common life stressors, like bills and business management, can wear me down like it would anyone else. And I find myself more vulnerable to PTSD associated with the sexual trauma, incestuous abuse and domestic violence that I experienced for most of my life.
But because I have educated my self with coping techniques that I employ whenever necessary, my symptoms of PTSD that show themselves every now and again don't scare me.

Social distancing during the COVID-19 pandemic can exasperate symptoms of PTSD. With limits on activities with friends and family to "distract", a survivor is left with more time in their thoughts and memories of trauma.
I hope that you as a viewer, survivor or friend or family of a survivor, can use the information and suggestions in this video help through the healing process during these trying times and in the future.

There are things no child should witness or experience. Yet, every day children all over the world are experiencing and witnessing things that would make an adult go insane.
Please LIKE and SHARE this video to help continue to raise awareness, support survivors of sexual abuse and domestic violence, and help prevent others from being affected.

We are spiritual beings having a human experience, and though no two experiences are alike, there are patterns and similarities. I hope you or someone you know can benefit from my human experience. Be blessed for you are a blessing.

———————————————————————————
GET MY BOOK: UNASHAMED: A LIFE TAINTED…
https://amzn.to/2XlSIbY
http://bit.ly/2Zidnzw
———————————————————————————

Free in a box

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Fri, 01 Feb 2019 16:00:00 +0000

Indigenous

In this world but not of,

Unknowingly known.

Seed placed in soil un-toiled,

Buried deep, though not sewn

I am, therefore this is,

Freely trapped in a box.

Taken from nowhere, but here.

Progressing to a stop.

Foreign to my native world.

Hidden in plane sight.

Darkness’ what’s revealed to me

Blinded by the light.

Exposure is my plea in day.

Revelation my cry by night.

Part the curtain, raise the shade

Awareness is my fight.

Contradiction, irony and improbable notions pave the path that I walk on. And like the crooked man with the crooked stick, walking the crooked lane to his crooked house; it’s only fitting that my creative expression is ironic as well. I am an African American woman of mixed heritage who was birthed and reared in the United States of America. But for most of my life, I was ignorant to most of my native land’s mores, laws and social customs.

I have raised five children, though I am in many ways a child myself. I advise adults, and have guided developing adolescents, yet I am just attempting things that most of them have been practicing since fourth grade. I am Peter Pan in a Neverland where the lost boys indeed did grow up. The only difference is my Neverland is real life, and what I knew to be reality was a nightmare.

Though somewhat cryptic, Indigenous is the essence of my experiences, perspective, and struggles in establishing a life for myself and my children. It reflects my interpretation of my place in society, as well as my purpose in this lifetime. Like many adults in America (and around the world), I am assumed to be a result of my upbringing. Yet, while cultivating a unique awareness, it is this very upbringing that inhibited common interactions with the society that I was a part of. Still, a product of my environment I am not.

Both my paternal and maternal grandparents are Christian Baptists, yet the spiritual practices that I grew up with included Taoism, Buddhism, Judaism, Yoruba, Kemit, Voodoo, Necromancy and Wicca. At twelve years old I taught myself to cook six different cuisines and had to create a menu detailed enough to maintain the strict vegetarian lifestyle and nutritional integrity of a family of eight. By the time I was fifteen I had been trained to build a house from the ground up, helped deliver eight of my siblings, and provided my own prenatal care.

I have an unequaled understanding of the way things work, and a peculiar interest in why things are. Which I am sure I owe a great deal to the "privileges" my parents never failed to inform me that they provided. But, even with these "privileges", I didn’t know the purpose of the Constitution of the United States.

In America 1 in 4 girl children are expected to be sexually abused by the time they are eighteen years of age. I was eight. I was kept secluded and away from other children, teenagers and young adults that were not my own siblings, or acquaintances of my father who molested, raped, and later impregnated me. But, contrary to most who suffer atrocities such as these, miraculously, I do not drown my pain in alcohol, dissipate my sorrows with drugs, or numb my suffering with self inflicted pain. Antithetically, my father's victimization of me inspires an appreciation for things that most take for granted. For example: the right to copulate with a man of my own choosing, is not something I take lightly.

I am overwhelmed with appreciation to the point that I am driven to communicate this experience and others like it, through writing. I do this in a way that the reader feels as if they are touching with my fingertips, looking with my eyes and pumping blood though their veins with my heart.

The journey on my paradoxical trail started at a young age. At 10 years old, I wasn’t allowed to watch R rated films. Yet I was having sex with adults, and was required to watch porn. In an attempt to cope with what was happening to me, imaginary play with my siblings was my favorite pastime. We created a world that where I was an adult, doing positive, responsible adult things. I filled in the blanks of the life I was already living. I had the responsibility of and was forced to participate in acts that only grown woman should be made aware of. So I included in “fake life” the aspects that I felt were missing in real life. These represented the lost control over what happened to my body and mind that I longed for.

In my playtime with my siblings, I would pretend that I was the president of the country that I was in, but not a part of. I was the bread winner, the entrepreneur, the parent and the liberal protecter of my flock. In my writing I revisit that mindset, creating worlds based on ‘what if’ scenarios, and generating rhymes founded on the only thing consistent in my life. My heart beat.

I look back on the days my parents left me home taking care of three to five other children (the number changed over the years), and it seems as though my "fake life" were prophecies that have fulfilled themselves in my life today. The person that I cast my first vote on was the first black president of the country that I live in, and now am very much a part of. I am the head of my household, an entrepreneur, a parent, and a very liberal protector and voice to a growing flock. And like the crooked man and Peter Pan, my place in this world is significant and secure. Just like the unforgettable tales meant to be told to a child.

Grown Woman.

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Sun, 24 Sep 2017 20:00:00 +0000

A few weeks ago someone close to me remarked on my book collection. "You have all these books about sex! You need to read books about relationships. But of course; it figures you would have books about sex."

Duality

Now it wasn't only what this person said that had me damn near losing my religion on their butts, it was also how they said it. What ushered the words from their lips to my ears was a tone riddled with judgement and self righteousness, coming from a face stained with disgust.

I did the only thing I knew how to stop myself from tearing this person a new one. I took a deep breath, said a prayer in my head, and burst...out...laughing! I don't think my reaction helped the situation much (as far as the other person was concerned), but it sure helped me feel better.

Every household should have Power of the Psalms no matter your religious beliefs. The poems written by King David resonate with such conviction and wisdom. I find them inspirational.

As an outspoken woman who has been manipulated, exploited and abused sexually, I contend with a good share of judgements for my openness, candor and confidence. I am ridiculed for my comfort with my sensuality. People have tried to slut shame me for having the desire to be desired. I have family members that don't socialize with me because they've deemed me "over-sexualized," and kin that accuse me of "wanting it," and walking "'ronde 'yah like ya prode," (translation: walking around here like you're proud.) It also takes hours of preparation to dress my voluptuous frame before a speaking engagement so as to not give the "wrong impression," per the suggestions of people I believe care about me.

On a daily basis I ultimately have to contend with trying to make people feel comfortable with their own sexual thoughts about me.

We live in a society where blaming the victim is so ingrained in our culture that even I was once guilty of doing the very thing I complain about. For years I blamed myself for drawing my father's lustful eye. It wasn't until after I a told my mother that my husband was cheating on me did I realize how much of a pandemic blaming the victim is. There I was crying my eyes out to my mom, and her first question to me was whether I was performing my wifely duties or not.

How did this happen?!

You know what? Scratch that; how do we make it stop?

I have a philosophy that contradicts the belief that you have to know where you come from, to know where you’re going. In the usual Aziza way; I beg to differ. You can wake up one day, not knowing who you are, or where you came from, and not allow it to stop you from putting one foot in front of the other to get going.

I don’t know when during the course of human development that the victim became the blame for what happens to them. But, I can rationalize that we do tend to shoot for “the easy target”.

Well, I’m not going to make me being a target so easy. I am no longer a victim; I'm a grown woman and a survivor. And you know what survivors do? They take what happened to them and make the best of it. I explore the human obsession (yes it is an obsession) with sexuality because it was my father’s demented version that drove him to sexualize his eight year old daughter. Since I was reared on a perverted perspective of sexuality, I had to learn if I had sexual desires at all. Sex for me had been synonymous with pain, confusion, fear, punishment and humiliation. I had to deprogram myself; wipe the slate clean. And that meant learning about sex in a very sterile way. I read books; medical books, books on human development, animal sexuality, deviances, sexual practices based on culture, ethnic background and religion. Spiritual sex, reproductive sex, fetishes and sexual illnesses. In learning what sex was, I was able to erase what my father made it.

Pure Sex, SexScopes, Love on A Rotten Day, Born on a Rotten, Women on Top

Now, the interesting thing about self programming is that you erase and rewrite at the same time. I call this mental overwriting. As I absorbed everything I learned about sex, I payed attention to how my body responded to it. Without my father’s presence, I experienced a sense of freedom during my learning, and I became more comfortable with myself as a sexual being. Sometimes memories of my father crept in, but that’s when I incorporated meditative practices. Over time I was able to control and separate the trauma from reality.

For years I would hear my father talk about a woman getting wet from arousal; yet he had to spit in his hands and smear it between my legs to penetrate me. It wasn’t until I was 25 years old that I experienced self lubrication from arousal. In my opinion that was a major breakthrough and proof that my journey to liberate myself from him sexually was finally catching up to my liberation from him physically.

I bring this all up to make a point. Though I was abused and controlled sexually and my human rights were violated in ways that very few can imagine, I deserve to enjoy my life and experiences, sexually and otherwise like any other man or woman on this planet. Those that continue to judge my behavior based on what happened to me are attempting to keep me a victim.

Women like Rihanna and Meagan Goode are recognized as strong, confident, brave, modern women for expressing themselves through their fashion choices, using the bodies God gave them. Why not I? Females like Dr. Ruth Westheimer and Virginia E. Johnson are championed for their study and sharing of information on sexuality; what makes me different? Ashley Graham and Stephanie Seymore are praised for their body positivity and hailed as trailblazers for their nude photos in Love Magazine; yet I show cleavage, and the positive response is lower than my neckline.

Sex is a natural act. It is the sweet fruit baring from the tree that is the creation of humanity. And female sexuality is the fertilizer of that tree. A woman who has been abused should not be shamed for her sexuality because those who don’t know how to comfort her or are afraid they will unknowingly contribute to her suffering, are uncomfortable with their own thoughts. I am not a little girl being mounted by her father anymore. I should not be treated like I am supposed to remain that way.

A Reflection

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Sat, 04 Feb 2017 16:40:00 +0000

Like most everyone else, whenever 2016 was mentioned I cringed. Thinking on the year past, I realize I was spending most of my time waiting for it to get better. On January 1st 2016, I just knew it was going to be my year. Everything that I had been planning and working towards was going to finally take off. My book sales were going to skyrocket; I would get a prestigious internship that would put my career in broadcast journalism on the fast track; my family and I would move into a fabulous new home; and some how thousands of dollars would drop into my bank account, becoming a never-ending resource. Well, half way through the year not only did none of those things happen, there were very few signs that they would happen...ever.

Now it's not like when the year started warning signs blazed at every corner. January rolled by effortlessly; I got into my groove with school. Home and kids were moving right along throughout February. I even made some new friends at the beginning of March. Then one night my mother called me saying I should call my brother because he sounded strange the last time she spoke with him. This wasn't unusual. He separated himself from my family as a way to cope with the abuse my father inflicted. But we did see more of him in the months pryer, so I decided to call him just in case.

To my surprise he answered on the first ring, and his tone was condescending yet pleasant (if that even makes any sense), but I was happy to hear his voice.

I asked him if everything was ok and he responded in a way I was not prepared for. A conversation ensued that was so disturbing I experienced anger, sadness, guilt and sympathy all at once. My brother cursed me in ways that I only ever heard from my father. I knew something was wrong. All of the years my brother spent denying and disassociating himself with what happened in our family, seemed to come flooding back so fast that he began to drown in the memories.

I listened as my brother recounted nights that he witnessed my father raping me. Only, he blamed me for it. He blamed me for the physical abuse that he suffered because in his words:

"If I didn't catch you having sex with our father, I wouldn't have gotten beaten."

Through pleas and tears I tried to defend myself only to be met with a busy signal on the other end of the line. Ten minutes after hanging up on me, my brother began texting me with accusations and finger pointing that lasted into the late hours of that night. I responded telling him that I loved him and I suggested that he speak with someone to help him through the hurt.
A few days later I got a call while I was in class telling me that my brother killed himself.

The loss of my brother set the tone for the rest of the year. Opportunities seemed to slip through my fingers. Friends and family appeared to turn on me. I lost someone that I loved and my mind set to a filter that highlighted everything that is wrong with the world. Suddenly the darkness became even darker and the light was like the twinkle of a distant star threatening to reflect the inevitable; that it stopped existing long time ago.

But having experienced the loss of my daughter, I knew I could not let myself be consumed by grief. Though my struggle with the thought that my brother died hating and blaming me for his suffering distressed me, I couldn't let it distract me. It looked like the relationships I had with my sisters were crumbling around me, but I stayed focused the best I could. And though I did not dwell on the goals I didn't meet, or pine over the plans that didn't work out in my favor, everything just seemed more difficult than it should have been. My brother's passing rumbled through my family like an earthquake and the aftershock still resonates even today.

By November my children and I were having Thanksgiving dinner at home away from everyone else. As we bowed our heads to say grace and thank God for the blessings of the year I realized how many blessings we had to be thankful for. I had been invited to give a talk at a woman's conference in Baltimore; allowing me the opportunity to help more people. I was asked to interview a famous presidential historian. I incorporated my nonprofit organization. I built some amazing relationships throughout the year, and my family and I were healthy and safe. Through that small prayer of gratitude I learned that I had been so focused on waiting for the year to get better, that I forgot what signs of it getting better looked like. That's the beauty of counting your blessings. It forces you to adjust to the light no matter how slight it is. Then even a small glimmer becomes a beacon out of the darkness.

The Many Layers of Healing

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Sun, 18 Sep 2016 14:07:00 +0000

Physical wounds take time to heal. In addition, they need to be nursed and protected against further damage. When the human body is wounded our immune system goes into overdrive. White blood cells are shipped to the location of the injury to capture germs and bacteria. Proteins are diverted to help rebuild cells. Nerve endings are fired causing pain to help deter further devastation; and those are only the steps that our bodies take automatically. In addition to the reparative outline that has been instilled in our biological function by The Almighty, when we are hurt physically we do everything from cleaning the wound with an antiseptic, to getting corrective surgery so that we heal appropriately. So with so many steps taken to heal a physical wound, why when emotional wounds are incurred do we expect or desire one quick fix?

As a survivor of sexual, emotional and psychological abuse, I know first hand that there is no one solution that is the solution.

Over the years I have searched for help in my healing process. After being taken advantage of by one of the people that was supposed to protect me, my love, trust and ability to depend on another person were damaged almost irreparably. Rather than hope for the best, I used to prepare for the worst. Instead of trusting in my fellow man, I ridiculed and feared those that sought to get close to me. The wounds that I suffered at the hands of my father were so deep that it deformed and distorted my hopes at a "normal" life. Until I thought: what is a normal life anyway?
Acknowledging that there really is no such thing as normal, was the first form of therapeutic healing I applied to hurry the reconstruction of my mental and psychological wounds.

Sometimes we as individuals get so caught up in our own lives and issues that it seems like we are the only one going through whatever we are going through. When I found out my sister slept with my husband, it seemed so outlandish that I couldn't imagine it happening to anyone else. Fast forward 7 years when I learned about a friend of mine who's sister not only slept with her husband, but had a baby for him that no one learned about until the child was four years old! My point is, there is nothing on this planet happening to only one person. It's not possible. Somewhere in the world there is someone else experiencing similar events that I have. That being the case, there must be proven therapies to recover from the negative results of any trauma. You just have to find the ones that work for you.

My father with my first daughter.

When beginning the journey to heal spiritually, mentally or physically, the first step is to acknowledge the damage; the cracks in the road. Like a cut on your skin, if you don’t recognize it is there, it could get infected, fester and contaminate healthy surrounding cells. This applies to physical, spiritual and mental wounds alike. The larger the lesion, the more damage it has the potential of causing if it is ignored. I learned from early in my adolescence that blocking out and trying to pretend that it was not my father forcing himself inside of me, only exasperated my suffering and disappointment of how a father was supposed to behave. That disappointment in him would’ve transformed into an expectation that all men would disappoint me.

Which leads to the second step of healing: acceptance. Once you’ve acknowledged the damage, you have to accept it. On a daily basis I make myself aware of the damaging effects my life has on me now and while growing up. This is a scary process because there are times I have to relive some of the things that happened to me in my mind. But I know in doing so, I am better able to pinpoint what still needs treatment. Concurrently this helps me to acknowledge and make use of the strength that is inherent to myself and every other human being. By doing research, talking to people, learning how to cope through meditation and prayer, and exploring other types of therapy I may be able to employ, I actively seek solutions to the problems. And there are many. Like the steps that our immune systems use to fight off infection, there are many tools that could help in the healing process. And accepting that fact helps in constructing a plan of action.

They say time heals all. This is accurate, but time needs some assistance. Once you’ve recognized the wound, accepted that it does exist and begin applying mechanisms to help along the healing process, it takes time for the cure to be effective. Patience and consistency are very important keys to healing. When our immune system identifies a wound, it sends white blood cells to the site of the injury. Over time the white blood cells isolate the infection and begin repairing the damage. In addition other nursing techniques like the use of outside antibiotics and supplements to strengthen the immune system can help the process along. Emotional and spiritual reparation works the same way. Along with time, other means of therapy must be employed to encourage healing. And that therapy must be used for as long as it takes to effect a positive change.

Time may heal all, but like a cut deep enough to require stitches, if not held closed, the resulting scar will not be pretty. Forgiveness is essential to recovering from any traumatic experience. But most people think that you forgive someone one time and that's it. This is just not true. Forgiveness is like a fire that has to be tended to. You light the fire and it will burn for a while. But eventually it will start to dwindle unless you stoke it, add more fuel or expose it to more oxygen.
Whether it be yourself or someone that caused you harm, forgiveness is a remedy that encourages healing by strengthening your spiritual and mental immune system. By applying empathy, sympathy and taking the attitude that says "I'm not going to be angry at you anymore thereby depriving you of the ability to hurt me through my mind", we build up strength against that which can harm us.

Healing is not easy. Then again, anything important or worth doing never is. We may scrape our knees and within a few weeks our skin has regenerated itself. But there's a lot going on in the regenerative process. The end result could be comparable to what it used to be, or we can give the body some assistance and the skin will turn out stronger and more resistant.

It's been a long road for me on my healing journey and I've accepted that it may not end until the day I stop breathing. I'm good with that. In fact, you know what; I'm great with that. My life is what it is, and better yet, it is what I make it. We are spiritual beings having a human experience, and I will do whatever it takes to have the best experience I can, because I can.

Antidote

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Sun, 28 Aug 2016 15:00:00 +0000

Imagine for twenty-three years, having to get permission to eat, get your television programming approved; have all of your phone calls screened; have restrictions on if and when you could bathe, and at the risk of being punched in the face, ask daddy if he could leave you alone for one night so you can get some sleep.

For my childhood, adolescence and half of my young adulthood, I was dictated to, brainwashed by, raped, bred, sexually exploited and physically abused by the one person that most little girls look to for guidance and protection; my father. But like all things created by the Almighty, there is an antithesis to his abuse. I’ve learned much from my father; that’s a fact I can’t deny. And the four children that I bore under his oppression are my pride, joy and at the heart of my purpose for living.

This was a picture of my children and I taken at my grandmother's church. My first three were still living with my grandmother as her and my aunt's foster children.

Because of the damage he has done, it almost seems wrong to acknowledge my father’s (unintentional) cultivation of positivity in me. For instance: my spiritual practicality was a seed that he planted by exposing me to various religious belief systems, indoctrinating a fear and love of God and then testing my faith by making my Creator the only thing I could depend on in an abusive atmosphere. My employment of positive mantras to boost self confidence and maintain a optimistic attitude, was a practice that my father used to program obedience and good behavior in his children. And even down to my entrepreneurial spirit, outside of the box perspective and “I can do anything” way of thinking; it’s difficult to imagine having those personality traits without watching my father swindle business partners, confuse and control women, evade government authorities and achieve anything he set his mind to no matter how ridiculous it appeared. It almost seems illogical for something to be the source of the poison and the cure for its damage at the same time. But history has proven that pain and pressure can indeed make you stronger. And in medicine, it isn’t uncommon to make a cure by using the poison itself. I’m not ashamed to admit that my current personal power may indeed have been encouraged to grow through my father’s sick and demented treatment of me and my siblings.

Much like the way that our bodies produce antibodies when we are exposed to a toxin, the resistance that I developed to the effects of my father’s abuse, I now use to help others heal. My conscious mind (now effected by societal standards) tells me that I do not want the person I’m supposed to hate, to be a source of my evolution and survival. But without accepting that I am my father’s daughter assigned by my Creator to be molded by him well into adulthood, I risk constantly fighting against and hating myself.

As a woman of color my ancestral history is ridden with abuses similar to what I suffered. Women like Harriet Tubman and Sojourner Truth ultimately learned to fight against their oppressors only after being oppressed. Once subjected to the pain and suffering of slavery and discrimination, they and many others like them accessed a power that without that challenge may have never surfaced. Unfortunately not every person feels they have the power to prevail. But I theorize that we all have that power; some just don’t know how to pull from it. With a little assistance, whether from a friend, a colleague, a teacher, a peer, literature or even the media, all the tools necessary to use your personal power is within reach.

We may not know how to eradicate domestic violence, child abuse and sexual exploitation of women and children completely. These deviances fester in our communities like a cancer. When I was eight years old my father became a tumor in my life that seemed to metastasize throughout my entire being. And since I was separated from the outside world for over seventeen years, my access to treatment was limited. Which is why I’ve dedicated myself to sharing my “antibodies” with others that may be going through similar challenges. And while life’s hurdles come in many forms and effect a vast selection of people, healing essentially requires five factors to be effective. Acknowledgement, acceptance, treatment, time and consistency. Within every last one of us lies the potential to become an antidote for violence against women and children. We can nurture that potential by educating ourselves, supporting victims and survivors and at the very least, keeping ourselves aware.

Q&A segment from a book reading I did in Newark, NJ

It’s been thirteen years since the last time I’ve had to get permission to eat, get my television programming approved; have my phone calls screened; be instructed on when to take a bath; and at the risk of being punched in the face, ask daddy if he was finished so I could get some sleep. And though like a cancer, the trauma I’ve suffered threatened my health, mental state and will to live; I take solace in knowing that like the development of an antidote or vaccine, I can use the “antibodies” that have been created through me to assist in the healing of others. Despite the many challenges I have faced, I am here living, loving, thriving and using my strength as an example to encourage those that don’t know how, to cultivate their own.

Supply and Demand

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Sun, 20 Mar 2016 16:43:00 +0000

I consider myself an attractive, charming, confident woman. I am also self sufficient, motivated, goal orientated, hard working, God loving and honest. Indeed I have a failed marriage…well, discarded marriage, but I know what I want and I'm not afraid to go after it. So why is it so difficult to find a good man?

Before I attempt to answer that question, let me define what I think a good man is. A good man, is attractive, charming, self sufficient, motivated, goal orientated, hard working, God loving and for the most part, honest (at least with himself and his Creator); basically someone with the same values as mine just packaged as a man. So again I ask, why is that so hard to find? I’ll tell you why; and it starts with supply and demand.

Now, I tell myself no lies; I know there are women out there that are probably prettier than I am, with bigger booties and smaller waists, but I know for a fact that most of those women are asking the same question.

I was sitting in my kitchen talking to my eldest daughter about my ex husband. I noted how much of a headache it is to get my son’s father to provide for our child and continue to be a part of his life. I mean, it’s less stressful to work extra hours, sell a few more cakes and finagle arrangements with my debtors in order to solely provide for my son than it is to chase his father down for his contribution. It’s easier to miss sleep working late hours than it is to miss sleep arguing on the phone with my ex husband about why the money he promised me to buy his son a coat never materialized. At least the former pays for my time! But this is where the problem lies and supply and demand comes into play.

As women, we can take on just about anything. We survive it all. From being able to withstand the pain from the shifting of our bones and internal organs to allow a whole person to fit through, to our never-ending battle for equal rights; we make shit happen.

Curtesy of FaceInTheHole.com

I mean, we just don't quit. History has shown that if men stop providing for us and our offspring (whether it be by choice or by force), we don’t keel over and die; we do what we have to do to maintain. It takes a lot for a woman to just waste away without even trying. We are living sources of strength and ingenuity and we know how to use it. But unfortunately we have a weakness; our male counterpart. Even though we are conditioned to not need men, we still need men!

Let me be clear, I’m talking in general here. For all you women that have sworn off men, if you wanted to make a baby you need sperm. And if you have no plans of having children then I almost envy you, because my desire for our human counterpart is so intense that I (and many other women like me) have made it way too easy for them to get what they want.

Michael Breyette

I am a sexual being. I love the feeling of a man. I love his muscles, the size of his hands and how they feel on my body; that feeling of protection that his presence provides and the sense of euphoria that is the result of our energy mixed together.
It’s so valuable to me that in making it easy for myself to get those things, I’ve made it easy for him to enjoy everything I have to offer. And I am not alone. The new and improved twenty-first century independent woman has tipped the scales of supply and demand in the favor of the male. In the old days, a man had to prove himself worthy of a woman's affection by demonstrating that he could supply a foundation: financial security, emotional support and social standing. In addition, the presence of a young woman's father only made the screening process more difficult for a suitor. But because events in history have put women in the position where we’ve had to fend for ourselves, and consequential to the increased presence of fathers who aren't present, men seem to think that he no longer has to serve his purpose; and can you blame him? I’m going to play the devil’s advocate here. If you were a person that at one point had to pay your way to gain access, then suddenly one day you no longer had to pay but still gained not only access, but VIP treatment, what would you do?

XX chromosomes

It’s gotten to the point that the responsibilities in my life are so extensive that all I want to do is lay in a man’s arms and feel somewhat less than what I am capable of. I am female! I like to be held and cuddled. I like to feel protected and loved, and unfortunately I can feel all of those things just by getting some loving from a man. And don’t get me started on the repercussions of my child and young adulthood. I have this whole other mind game I play with myself concerning growing up with the black equivalent of Hitler reincarnate. Which makes the tender touch of an affectionate man all the more valuable to me.

It’s as if I and the majority of females, have been installed with some kind of fail safe in favor of the opposite sex. I can never get too big for my britches because what they have is of too much value to me.

It’s a shame really; the male species has figured out a way to devalue what they hold the most dear. How can the very thing that men have risked their livelihood for, fought wars over and in some cases died because of, cause them to look at it as if it’s nothing? What would men do without the Yoni? (If they don’t keel over and die, they certainly will no longer be born ´\_('~')_/`). We have demand for what they supply and vice versa, but though they have a demand of what we supply, we don’t demand much for them to get it. It’s as if we pay them to give them a discount. Isn’t that crazy?And if we demand our fair value, we are labeled as gold diggers, prostitutes and the worst of all (gasp), old fashioned! Oh no, the modern woman can’t be old fashioned! How could she? The female CEO for a company cannot be expected to run the company and still expect a man to open the door for her or pick her up at her residence before a date. She dare not be in a position of power in the boardroom and put a date stamp on when a man can get her in the bedroom. Her sexuality has to remain under her control, and if she puts guidelines like the three date rule on her sex life and it takes three months to go on three dates, how is she going to release the stress built up from managing men who constantly try to tear her down at work by denying herself sexual gratification? Ugh! Get me off this merry-go-round, please?!
From marriage dowries to transference of inheritance, men have put a dollar value on women for centuries.

I propose that rather than fight the monetization of the V, we embrace the fact that men value things with a high price tag. Don't get it twisted. I'm not talking about prostitution (I'll save that for another conversation) or pussy equity. I'm talking about acknowledging the fact that a good woman is so valuable that she is in fact invaluable and cannot be price stamped, discounted or sold second hand like a Birkin bag. Yes, I'm talking about demanding that men make more of an effort than paying their monthly subscription to Netflix (and even then, they are more than likely signing into someone else's account). I'm talking about that even if the dude has no funds, he invest sweat equity to get the buns. Fellas, If you don't have enough cash to take your girl to the opera, then mofo, you better put on a performance written, directed and starring you!
Ladies we have to demand more for ourselves. And we have to demand it together. Every woman that lowers the price of her personal stock decreases the market value for everyone else.
Let's get in formation please, so that our daughters, grand-daughters and great grand-daughters can live in a world where their value is never in question.

My Father's Son

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Sun, 06 Mar 2016 17:39:00 +0000

Raising a man is probably one of the most challenging endeavors a female will have to face. And if you are a single mother, well…finding a needle in a haystack in the dark is probably easier.

My eldest boy at 3 months old

To me, being a parent is God giving you another opportunity to impact the world positively. Parents are given a human to nurture into an adult who will influence everyone around them. That’s a huge undertaking. And if you are a mother with a child of the opposite sex (or a father with the same circumstances), you are faced with trying to figure out how to raise a human that has different body parts, a different way of thinking and a completely different role in society.

God bless those women that have a man in their son’s lives that have and take equal responsibility for the person they both created. God bless those women who have a decent father of their own that they can use as an example of what a man is supposed to be. But what if you have neither? Then what?

The golden rule stands at the core of what I teach my children. “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you”. I figure this is a sure way to keep them on the straight and narrow. Let’s face it; humans are naturally selfish creatures. So if you base how you treat others on how you would like to be treated, there’s little room for error. For some reason this clicks with my son as effectively as a light switch with a busted light bulb.

Understanding the male psyche is a challenge for me. People say women are complicated. Well, it seems men are complicated also; just in a different way.

Case in point. My offspring share the responsibility of cleaning the kitchen. How to allocate that responsibility took its own set of trial and error, but I basically got it down to each person having their own night to clean the kitchen according to a list of chores in the kitchen.

My two girls are pretty okay with this list, but my son; he makes every excuse he can, not to complete it! I tell him to set water; he doesn’t. I tell him to sweep the floor; with distain, using the broom, he moves what he sees with his naked eye into the dustpan. And now that I’ve included a penalty for not completing the list, he spends more time trying to figure out how to penalize his sister than he does making sure he doesn’t get penalized himself!

My youngest, who is a momma's boy, listening to music.

This kid has got me pulling my hair out, biting my nails, tossing and turning at night and losing my appetite. You would think he was my significant other he takes up so much time in my day.

I find myself wondering is it him? Meaning: is it because he is my father’s son, my brother, my son and my father’s grandson that makes him so challenging?

Because of my family’s circumstances, I lost my first man child to the system when he was only five months old. I didn’t get the opportunity to bond with him like I did with my other children. I wasn’t able to breastfeed him, be there for his first steps, or have the honor of listening to him pronounce his first word. When I got him back I had to consciously put in effort effort to make up for lost time. Though I watched in envy as he ran to my grandmother for consolation if he bumped his knee, I had to keep reminding myself that the sweet rewards of being a mother was little sacrifice for my and my children’s freedom and reunification. Therefore, I made it my business to be involved with my son on another level.

So why after putting so much effort into spending time with him as he grew up, does he act like I “just don’t get it”? Sometimes I feel like that in this kid’s head I am his mortal enemy. In his eyes I never seem to do enough, am fair enough, give him enough, consider him enough or understand him enough.

Don’t get me wrong, I know he loves me. But I can’t help but wonder if because he knows that he is my father's son, in his mind I am less his mother.

I have faced the actuality that I may never know the answer to this inquiry, so I have to interact with my son while ignoring the facts that glare over me like the sun's blinding rays on a winter morning. Which means that every time I have to reprimand, lecture or discipline my son, I must pull out my mental sunglasses and engage him in a way that’s as cool as the way my blue reflective Ray Bans make me look. But when I tell you that this kid pulls out all the stops to make me feel like I’m just a bad parent…(sigh, where are my shades?).

I listen to what he has to say when he accuses me of treating him differently because he’s a boy. I bite my tongue when his logic makes as much sense as burying your head in a garbage can for fresh air. And I regain control (yes regain, because the struggle to keep my voice down is real) of the pitches and volume of my voice when I know his attempts at manipulating and outsmarting me drives me so cray I just want to SCREAM!!

But, I love him. I love my son dearly, and I am thankful for the opportunity that God gave me to raise a beautiful, talented, charismatic man that will contribute great things to the world. And I realize that my predicament is no different form all the other single mothers of young men. Boys challenge us because they are trying to establish themselves as men. From testosterone raging through their systems, to societal pressures and demands made on them dictating that they are the dominant sex, the position of the mother of a developing man is a challenging one.

Usually after my son blows up because he feels I’ve disputed his manhood by taking away his cell phone or video games, I have to give him his space. I used to try to confine him, punish him further or display my power over him in some sort of fashion, but that just wasn’t working. One summer I had to literally get in my car to chase him down the street. But now, I lay the law (because he has to follow the rules, male or not) and I give him his space. He calms down, and after being mad at me for a little while, he comes around. I don’t take it personally anymore. I used to take it so personal when he’d disobey me in the middle of me disciplining him, but I understand that he is coming into his own and trying to establish his machismo. When I show him I understand his perspective, and I take into consideration when making my decisions on him, he is more receptive.

We are a work in progress and we have progressed. Now if only I can just get him to stop sleeping in the living room and spreading his man funk around the house.

Reflection

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Tue, 04 Aug 2015 22:52:00 +0000

Writing for me is like conjuring a spell or stirring a magic potion intended to heal, change and effect everything around me and within me that may be wrong, harmful or not ideal to my goals, dreams and desires. As of late, it has become more difficult for me to make the time to write. Finances, my children, my personal and professional life and my book Unashamed: a life tainted... has distracted me from my bubbling pot that are words in black on white. But the happenings of my everyday are no excuse.

Since my book has been published, I have become more slack in my writing. As wonderful as my euphoric high from completing my book is, I have two other books in the works that I haven't touched. And until a few weeks ago (thanks to the new love in my life) nothing in my life had evoked a poem. Though everything I just described are valid reasons to not spend hours clicking away at my keyboard, I know for my personal well being, continuously writing is important.

So I will begin a more consistent schedule of blogging with a sort of reintroduction in the form of literary reflection.

The poem below is titled "Indigenous", and for those that may be stumbling upon my story for the first time; my name is Aziza Kibibi McGill Ayinde, and I was raped, beaten and impregnated by my father.

Indigenous

In this world but not of this world

Unknowingly, known

Seed placed in soil un-toiled

Buried deep, though not sewn

I am, therefore this is

Freely trapped in a box

Taken from nowhere, but here

Progressing to a stop

Foreign to my native world

Hidden in plain sight

Darkness what’s revealed to me

Blinded by the light

Exposure is my plea in day

Revelation my cry by night

Draw the curtain, raise the shade

Awareness is my fight

Contradiction, irony and improbable notions pave the path that I walk on. And like the crooked man with the crooked stick, walking the crooked path to his crooked house; it’s only fitting that my creative expression is ironic as well. I am an African American woman of mixed heritage who was birthed and reared in the United States of America. But until about seven years ago, was ignorant to most of my native land’s mores, laws and social customs. I have raised five children; though I am in many ways a child myself. I advise grown men and woman, and have guided developing adolescents; yet I am just attempting things that most of them have been practicing since fourth grade. I am Peter Pan in a Neverland where the lost boys indeed did grow up. The only difference is my Neverland is real life, and what I knew to be reality was a nightmare.

Though somewhat cryptic, Indigenous is the essence of my experiences, perspective, and struggles in establishing a life for myself and my children. It reflects my interpretation of my place in society, as well as my purpose in this lifetime. Like many adults in America (and around the world) I am a result of my upbringing. While cultivating a unique awareness, it is this very upbringing that inhibited common interactions with the society that I was a part of. Still, a product of my environment I am not.

Until I was twenty-four I was kept ignorant to the social standards of the most liberated country in the world. Concurrently, I was exposed to things that other children and young adults my age were not. I knew what the internet was before most people even heard of it. I was allowed to investigate how bread rises and manipulate edible science before most kids my age knew how to make 'Peanut Butter and Jelly' sandwiches. Both my paternal and maternal grandparents are Christian Baptists (a religion common to African Americans), yet the spiritual practices that I grew up with included Taoism, Buddhism, Judaism, Yoruba, Kemit, Voodoo, Necromancy and Wicca. At twelve years old I taught myself to cook six different cuisines and had to create a menu detailed enough to maintain the strict vegetarian lifestyle and nutritional integrity of a family of eight. By the time I was sixteen I had been trained to build a house from the ground up, helped deliver eight children, and provided my own prenatal care. I have an unequaled understanding of the way things work, and a peculiar interest in why things are; which I am sure I owe a great deal to the ‘privileges’ my parents provided. Though, despite these ‘privileges’, I didn’t know the purpose of the Constitution of the United States.

In America one in four girl children are expected to be sexually abused by the time they are eighteen years of age. I was eight. I was kept secluded and away from other children, teenagers and young adults that were not my own siblings, or acquaintances of my father who molested, raped, and later impregnated me. Contrary to most who suffer atrocities such as these, I do not drown my pain in alcohol, dissipate my sorrows with drugs, or numb my suffering with self inflicted pain. Antithetically, my father's victimization of me inspires an appreciation for things that most take for granted. For example: the right to copulate with a man of my own choosing, is not something I take lightly. I am overwhelmed with appreciation to the point that I am driven to communicate this experience and others like it, through writing. I do this in a way that the reader feels as if they are touching with my fingertips, looking with my eyes and pumping blood though their veins with my heart.

The journey on my paradoxical trail started at a young age. At ten years old I wasn’t allowed to watch R rated films, yet I was having sex with adults, and was required to watch X rated films. In an attempt to cope with what was happening to me, imaginary play with my siblings was my favorite past time. We created a world that we lived in where I was an adult, doing positive, responsible adult things. I filled in the blanks of the life I was already living. I had the responsibility of and was forced to participate in acts that only grown woman should be made aware of. So, I included in “fake life” the aspects that I felt were missing in real life. These aspects represented the control over what happened to my by body and mind, that I longed for. In my playtime with my siblings, I would pretend that I was the president of the country that I was in, but not a part of. I was the bread winner, the entrepreneur, the parent and the liberal protecter of my flock. In my writing I revisit that mindset, creating worlds based on "what if" scenarios, and generating rhymes founded on the only thing consistent in my life; my heart beat.

Being free in a box, lends one plenty of time for analyzation and contemplation. I also focused masses of energy on anything that I did. I thought about thoughts, that I thought of before thoughts that I think I thought, on a regular basis. Which continues to primarily manifest in my writing, but is also apparent in everything that I do. I look back on the days my parents left me home taking care of three to five other children (the number changed over the years), and it seems as though my "fake life" were prophecies that have fulfilled themselves in my life today. The person that I cast my first vote on is the president of the country that I live in, and now am very much a part of. I am the head of my household, an entrepreneur, a parent, and a very liberal protector and voice to a growing flock. And like the crooked man and Peter Pan, my place in this world is significant and secure. Even if it is only like a tale meant to be told to a child.

The Power of Love

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Thu, 26 Feb 2015 23:33:00 +0000

A friend of mine text me the other night and urgently told me to watch an ID network Dateline special report about the 'Vampire King' Marcus Wesson. Not knowing about this villain prior, I gullibly watched the report open minded and vulnerable. The late hour allowed the visuals of the incidents and the similarities of them to my own life access my psyche; in turn giving me nightmares for the rest of the night. I tossed and turned, as memories of my own father injected themselves into dream settings from the show. My father's claims of the "evil government" and his "divine status" paralleled those of Marcus Wesson; and the misdirected devotion of the Wesson children aligned with that of my mother, my brothers and sisters, and myself.

Wesson trained his children to kill each other if any government agency were to ever come knocking on their door (Can anyone say horror movie?). According to my dad, he was the only one who could take any of our lives, but the confusion he instilled in us caused a form of Stockholm Syndrome where we would protect our home and our family (which included him) at almost any cost. The life we lived was all we knew no matter how bad it was, and the longing for moments of better days fueled our ability to weather the bad ones.

When the host of Dateline asked one of the specialists on the Wesson case, why is this kind of brainwashing so effective, the response was "because humans need love...as far as the Wesson kids knew, their father loved them." This statement pricked me like an unsuspected thorn in a bouquet of roses. "Love?" I thought. "How and why would love be the cause of such suffering?" Then I realized that anything as powerful as what we call love, can be used to destroy the very thing that it helped create; life.

I thought about my mother and how she allowed her love for my father to affect the choices she made concerning herself and her children. I thought about how as a child, my love for my parents made me excuse and limit my questioning of what happened to me. I thought about the thousands of women in the world that stay in abusive relationships because they love their abusers, and all the children that endure pain and neglect at the hands of their parents because they know nothing else but love for the people they came through. All this thinking inspired me to ask my Facebook friends "Why do humans need love?"

Below is a snippet of the feed.

Aziza Kibibi

January 23 at 2:06pm ·

Why do humans need love or to be loved?

Unlike · · Share

You, Stanley Duvivier, Calesha Corder, Motherof Skywolf and 6 others like this.
Juda Myers Because that's the place God belongs

January 23 at 2:19pm · Unlike · 1
Lowell Lukens Flez Love is a product of nature....without the relationships we create, humanity would have not progressed.

January 23 at 3:30pm · Unlike · 1
Aziza Kibibi Both interesting answers Juda and Lowell. But, I feel like love is sabotage. To need to be loved leaves one vulnerable. It's almost like a self destruct mechanism. In some ways the sacrifices some make to be loved can be destructive in itself. Yet, because we crave love, those who don't get it in some form or fashion, wither away. Why do you think? Alosha Ayinde Motherof SkywolfJenny G. Perry

January 23 at 7:46pm · Edited · Unlike · 1
Alosha Ayinde Because love feeds the soul like food feeds the body. It is a necessity that is built into us. The only thing that makes it so confusing is the fact that it is not a material object that can be supported by scientific explanation. And when faced with things we can't scientifically explain, we become overwhelmed with confusion.

January 23 at 8:02pm · Unlike · 1
Aziza Kibibi Hmmm, intriguing Alosha. So how about when it becomes harmful? Let's say a woman who loves her husband but he beats her? Is the love she feels an illusion? Can and idea of love replace the real thing; like medicine that just supress the symptoms but not cure the illness?

January 23 at 8:08pm · Unlike · 1
Alosha Ayinde Some people are driven by pain. And some people love things that hurt them like alcoholics or drug addicts. Some people's bodies feel a need for the things that harm them. Such as someone going through crystal meth withdrawal.
Because every situation ...See More

January 23 at 8:12pm · Unlike · 1
Aziza Kibibi But is it that serious?

January 23 at 8:16pm · Like
Tiffany Smith Love created us

January 23 at 8:30pm · Unlike · 1
Alosha Ayinde Yeah son people are lonely out here lol

January 23 at 8:41pm · Unlike · 1
Aziza Kibibi But if the sun is hot, does it need heat? Tiffany

January 23 at 8:43pm · Unlike · 1
Darnell Isom A good post! I like it

January 23 at 11:18pm · Unlike · 1
Jenny G. Perry I think it's what we're here for, Doll. On a soul level, it's our essence. But those who experience trauma where love should have been have to heal in order to have faith in love again and to trust it's real. For example, if someone loves you and hu...See More

January 24 at 9:18am · Unlike · 2
Aziza Kibibi I like your thought process Jenny. Corry and Shara, what do you have to say?

January 24 at 11:22am · Unlike · 2
Corry Jones Love is a huge social neccesity, I think without it humans would be anti-social, aloof, and overall mean to one another, without the expression of love we would only live to procreate essentially becoming robots of humanity. Love gives us a chance to feel joy and pain, to over come heartbreak and share a connection that bonds people over time and space. I wouldn't want to imagine a world without it,

January 24 at 11:28am · Unlike · 3

The ancient Greek used 7 words to define the different states of love
Curtesy of Adrian Catron for the Huffington Post

According to York psychologist, Professor Authur Arun, love is a combination of chemicals and hormones. Backed up by Helen Fisher of Rutgers University, these hormones are released in three stages that ultimately lead to a long happy marriage between two people; a process intended to maintain the survival of the human species.

But what about when that backfires? According to the U.S. Justice Department, in the United States, one of the most dangerous places for a woman to be is in her own home. That's crazy!

Why doesn't the need for survival of self, overpower the survival of the human species? Why when a man beats his pregnant woman so bad she loses her baby, does her instinct to sustain herself and protect her children, not take over? There are many reasons, social and emotional, why a woman stays with her abuser, but one of biggest reasons is because she loves him. Love is so powerful that it has the ability to spark life, sustain it and distinguish it. No wonder God is it's closest association.

My conclusion is this: humans need love in order to thrive. It is the pure uncontrollable emotional energy sourced from our higher selves that has the ability to span time and space. And like most things on earth, we need some of what we are made of to replenish, maintain, rebuild, heal and function.

Whether it is a combination of chemical reactions in the brain or a drop of pure divine essence from the Almighty, It is love that compels a mother to feed her newborn; and it is love that inspires great works of art. Love can fuel the building of a wonder of the world and it can also tear down an empire. I guess we just have to take the good with the bad. But like any form of power, love should be used wisely. The unconditional love of a child should be cherished, honored and handled very carefully. The emotional

adoration of a partner should never be used to control and manipulate them. And like in the cases of the Vampire King and Aswad Ayinde, if your family loves you because they have to, doesn't mean that you should take advantage of it for selfish benefit (I like horror movies when they are only a movie).

If you are blessed enough to be given the gift such as the ability to wield the power of having someone love you, you must use that power wisely because having that power also means you have the ability to destroy. And we wouldn't want that, now would we?

There's No Place Like Home

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Mon, 22 Dec 2014 16:48:00 +0000

Home can mean different things to different people. For some home is where you lay your head at night; for others home is where your loved ones reside. We make homes in our hearts for the ones we love and sometimes home is established in the place you go to speak to God. Whether home is defined by brick and mortar or the stuff that dreams are made of, one thing is for sure: home is supposed to be where we feel loved, safe and comfortable.

Home made cinnamon rolls.

Growing up I toiled with the idea of running away from home. Its weird when you're a child because that's probably the only time where home can be destructive, but leaving is an unlikely consideration. I knew very little outside of home and the thought of wondering the world scared me. Though home consisted of pain, rape, mental abuse and humiliation, it was still the place where my brother and sisters lived. In my young mind the only way I could run away was if I took them all with me.

When one of my sisters was a baby and the abuse from my father seemed unbearable, I had dreams of growing breasts and producing milk so I can breastfeed my baby sister and run away with my siblings. I still dream some of those dreams, and the town that we

Sitting up in my room

run away to has presently made it's way into some of my other sleep visions. This place of freshly paved roads lined with cream, gray and white houses and buildings with arches in front of them, became my other home. I became addicted to the feeling of serenity and safety that through it my subconscious offered and it contributed to my desire to sleep as much as I could to escape what was happening to me. Today it is one of places where I go to when I meditate, and I find myself drawn to architecture that reminds me of the buildings in my dreams.

My mom and I went to church recently and the preacher spoke on bringing the glory of God home. He spoke about how people are happy outside of their residents, and jolly when they spend time with their friends; but miserable when they are at home with their family. I couldn't relate. It took me twenty-three years to get away from the home I grew up in and now that I have my own, I've created a space so filled with love it is the only place I want to be most of the time. My children are happy when they're home (I can barely get my eldest to go out with her friends and I anticipate a phone call in the middle of the night when my youngest sleeps over his grandmothers house), and my friends see it as a place to escape to.
I go out into the world to work, learn, teach, help and expand my territory. And while I bring the glory of God home all the time, I am thankful that my home now is not only a destination for glory, but a source of it as well.

Repairing The Internet

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Thu, 04 Dec 2014 03:32:00 +0000

As a survivor of sexual violence people I meet tend to walk on eggshells with me when it comes to things of a sexual nature. I am also expected to be modest and demure, and am judged on my expression of feminine sensuality. The vulgarity of what has happened to me has branded a salacious annotation on my forehead that I may never escape. When I relay my story I notice some of my audience reprocess their thoughts on my attire as they survey my cleavage and measure the clinginess of my pants. For a moment, I see their consciousness disconnect from my words as they attempt to imagine me as an exploited little girl; after which they compare their depiction of my child self, to the woman that's standing in front of them. Then their demeanor changes from that of engaged participation to withdrawn embarrassment.

When choosing the cover of my book, most that I looked to for feedback chose the picture of me wearing a turtleneck. Family members try to convince me to wear long skirts and loose shirts because they don't want anyone to think I "...liked what was done..." to me. And on my journey to expand my story to different media outlets I'm told that the posts on my blog where I speak of things like "yoni" and "orgasm", poses questions about my character. To this I ask: what gives? What is it about me that warrants such unrealistic expectations? I am a woman for crying

Bruce K. Cantrell

out loud; I have needs, I am confident, courteous, maybe a little flirtatious and most of all, just being myself! Then I realized; to blame myself for the discomfort people feel when they associate my victimization with my mature grown womaness (Grown womaness: feminine confidence and personal responsibility of ones own sexuality), is like saying as a child I did something to make my father molest me.

While I understand that the thought of a child being raped is difficult for most to digest, I can't help but be concerned how much of that difficulty is due to sexual arousal the thought provoked. Do people shuffle in their seats at the listening of my story, not because of a surge of compassion and sympathy running through their hearts, but because of a rush of passion and lust welling in their groins? Is sexual deviancy more common that we think?

Case in point: Kim Kardashian was recently featured posing nude in Paper magazine's winter issue

titled "Break The Internet". Before the release of the physical issue an internet sample was posted online, to which most people commented that they found Kardashian's pictures "shameful", "gross", "degrading" and "disgusting". Ignoring whatever photoshop or artificial enhancements that Kim Kardashian may or may not have had, the only adjective that came to my mind was: beautiful! There she is, a voluptuous, gorgeous woman standing demurely in the nude. All that was on display was her body. She is not presenting herself in a pornographic way. She is not spread eagle sticking something up her twat or sandwiched between two men with oversized genitalia. She is simply standing there, full breasted and big bottomed with an enduring smile on her face. So why are people so offended? I'll tell you why; because they are uncomfortable with their own thoughts (not including the haters of course). The problem with most Americans is that their minds

are in the gutter. An when I say "in the gutter", I don't mean erotic thoughts and feelings in general. I mean distorted, misguided, irresponsible, misconstrued interpretations of mental eroticism. How can an individual be so uncomfortable with their own sexuality that they hide, suppress and deny it, but consider themselves authorities on standards of sensual expression? All they're doing is impressing their own sexual guilt on others. The only reason why those that respond negatively to my expressions about sex in my writing take issue with it, is because they have a problem with what and how it makes them think and feel.

Now don't get it twisted, I don't condemn anyone for their thoughts; one's actions are all I'm concerned about.

But, don't chastise me and claim I (or Kim for that matter) am inappropriate because I make you uncomfortable, when the fact is, you make yourself uncomfortable.

Now that that's been said, seen and I'm sure very soon, heard; take some responsibility and instead of judging me, help me do something about those that do turn their thoughts into actions. The world (both physical and digital) will be the better for it.

In Memory

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Fri, 17 Oct 2014 19:34:00 +0000

It's been a while since I've written a blog post and I feel like I don't know where to begin. A lot has happened over the summer. I've learned quite a few lessons; and taught some. I took my kids on our first rode trip (I will share pictures and video before the year is out). I got to know special people and I published Volume 1 of my book. But this post isn't about those things.

Today marks the fourth anniversary of when my fourth child for my father grew her wings. I miss her dearly. At times during my family's very eventful summer, I found myself feeling guilty enjoying activities we would not have been able to enjoy if she was still with us. We even went to Great Adventure for the first time since she died.

Losing one of my children has probably been one of the hardest things I've had to deal with. The torture my father use to put me through I eventually became conditioned to. And even then I always trusted that my Creator would deliver me. But when your child goes back to The One, there's no coming back; there's no way to find her; theres no escape from the loss. There is only time and I am a testament that while time does not heal all, it does make things a lot easier.

I wrote a poem last year for her and I want to publish it here. I contemplated if I should post it on the blog I created about KoKo, but most of the posts on that blog was written from a painful place. Since Unashamed An Open Book is more about healing and growth, I have included it below.

The Production of A Drop

Thoughts of you ran though my head today, as usual. Bittersweet memories shove me back to a period that is ever-present in my mind. I imagine our times spent together, the struggles we endured together, the moments of joy we experienced with each other, and I miss them.

As my surroundings blur, so my minds eye can focus on the visions of you occupying my brain, my stomach constricts like the palm of a fist. The energy in my groin begins to rise into the space in my belly that continues to get smaller and smaller as if it will implode on itself. I focus on your smile in my head and the way the hair on my arms would rise when you touched me. Its selfish of me really, the self pity I feel because I, I, I....Miss you.

The energy in my belly begins to gyrate looking for a way to escape because the force is just too great for this little space at the core of me.

Instantly its not in my belly anymore. With one exhale this energy skips past my lungs unaffected by the intrusion of the immaterial mass.

I’m lost in thought now. Transported back to a time where I can smell the small crease between your collarbone and your jawline. I experience the tickling sensation between my fingers as they glide through your hair. Now my neck is warm and tingly. Forgetting for a moment the surge of energy climbing its way through the core of me, I notice my throat is dry so I swallow.

As the muscles in my mouth contract and relax, my jaws flood with saliva, as if in anticipation of something in my stomach that needs to be digested.

My esophagus responds like it has a mind of its own, and it almost hurts. Not enough so to restrict my breath, but enough to make me conscious of the slim shape and small size of the tunnel that serves as a path of physical survival.

Suddenly my mental journey through time with you comes to the day you were no more. Well, no more with me as I understand it. I see myself helpless, helpless, helpless and again, very selfishly I, I, I, pity me.

The energy that began in my groin has left a faint trail of its presence in my throat and is now clawing its way through my face. Uncontrolled by my conscious mind, my nostrils flair in an attempt to adjust to the diminished air flow caused by the swelling in my sinuses. A response triggered by the journey of the immaterial mass making its way through the core of me.

Just as I open my mouth to make use of an alternate breath escape, the conduit connecting my sinuses to the glands in my eyes begin to swell. I notice that my surroundings are not only mentally blurry but physically distorted as well.

The corners of my eyes itch slightly as I try to push my self pity aside and hold on to the visions of you in my mind smiling at me. I hear your voice just as clear as if you were whispering in my ear when I laid next to you. My lower eyelids are weighted with the hold the energy clawing up my face has. Invisible fingers seem to pull on my lower lash line forcing me to squint just a little.

The thought of how much my life has changed now that you are no longer a part of it, invokes an alternate ending answering the question “what if you were still here?” And again, selfishly, I feel sorry for myself.

These thoughts mixed with the itch in the corner of my eyes, combined with the tingling of my sinuses, in unison with the constriction of my esophagus, effected by the tightness in my belly, stimulated by the energy in my groin, causes me to blink. Then, the energy, the immaterial mass making its way through the core of me, clawing up my face, is released as moisture in the form of a drop escaping the windows of my soul. I miss you my daughter, and I cry.

Infamous

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Sun, 27 Jul 2014 17:38:00 +0000

I've been dreaming about my father every night for the last two weeks. Themes of my dreams include everything from him calling me on the phone to tell me that his appeal had been approved and he would be out of jail within a couple of days; to a regular day in my present life with him in the background. In my sleep, the sound of his voice echoes through my head as if he has penetrated my thoughts. One morning when I woke, I pictured him sitting in his cell meditating on me and my children, plotting what he would do to us if he ever escaped. Questions of his exposure to the media flooded my brain; did he see the Katie Couric show? Has he read the numerous internet articles written on him? Does he follow my blog? My interpretations of the dreams where my dad is in the background of my everyday life, is a psychological manifestation of him in my life through my children and my work. And for the dreams where he tells me he's getting out of jail...well, that's a fear that I'm sure every person that has had a crime committed against them where the perpetrator has been convicted and punished, has.

Dwennimmen. Adinkra symbol for strength

My mother's concern with me publishing my book is that it would make my father famous. That he would develop a following of pedophile supporters who share compassion for his predicament.
I told her while I did consider the possibility, I came to the conclusion that if he didn't have a following of sympathizers already, any he gained going forward will also be exposed to the consequences of engaging in child sexual abuse. "Let him become famous..." I told my mother. "...because in doing so, he will prove the perfect example of what could happen if you are to exploit a child for your sexual pleasure."

I was sixteen years old and my first child was five months

I plan to visit my father in jail in the near future. I feel the chapter in my life that includes him won't be finished until I do. The only time I confronted him directly was at his sentencing. He held a piece of paper up to his face while he accused me of lying. I've grown since the last time he attacked me; since the last time he tried to contact me; since the last time I testified in court and since he cowered at his sentencing. He doesn't know me anymore and I'm sure he believes he still has power over me. I'm looking forward to the day when I look into his eyes as he suffers the consequences of his actions, list off all of my successes and achievements and say "You did your best to destroy my potential and you failed. Look at me now."

How Do You......?

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Sun, 20 Jul 2014 19:23:00 +0000

"...did that [being sexually abused] cause problems in your marriage as far as getting to know someone and trying to explain everything?" That's the question that Truth, one of the hosts of The Morning Wood on Gyroscope radio, asked me during my interview. And though I gave a short answer on the show, his question inspired a question that I had to ask myself: How does being sexually abused effect my relationships?

Me and Sinn, one of the hosts of the 'Morning Wood', getting
some grooving going during a song break.

After looking back on my history with men; noting the ones that would be considered failures; concluding that they weren't failures, just not what I needed or wanted; and evaluating what I do want in a relationship; I theorized that being sexually abused effects not only my relationships with men but my relationships with all humans. But being that I was sexually, physically and mentally abused for seventeen years of my life, it's difficult to imagine what my life would be like had I not experienced the one I've lived. Which poses another question. Who would I be had I not been abused?

A friend of mine sent me a link to a blog written by therapist Louise Behiel. Ms. Behiel's post "The 16 signs of Childhood Sexual Abuse" was both informative and disheartening. Disheartening because symptoms like "not being able to tolerate water being splashed in your face" and "seeing double entendres in ordinary conversation" suggests that almost everyone including newborn babies have been sexually abused. And informative because indicators that in my own research I've found to be associated to sexual abuse like; being unable to have sex in certain positions and a victim's abuse of drugs and alcohol, (which I myself have no issues with, but have spoken to women that do) made complete sense. Her source of this list is from a book called Secret Survivors by E. Sue Bloom (1998). I've ordered this book so I can read it in it's entirety and give it a more educated review, but the list published on Ms. Behiel's blog to me does more harm than good. Most comments in reaction to the list had people thinking that every little glitch in their lives was due to childhood sexual abuse. Yes, people tend to be products of their environment but there are other causes for alcoholism and drug abuse that have nothing to do with being touched inappropriately when you were five.
That being said; I am more protective over my children than most parents are. Being in the same room as my abuser puts me on edge. I use to have a very sensitive gag reflex, And my sexual boundaries may be set outside the next girl's limits, but should I look at these as disfunction?

Child molestation is a grotesquely calamitous deviance in our society. It inflicts wounds on victims that may never heal and causes handicaps in survivors that no amount of therapy could ever correct. But the truth is, these wounds and handicaps are a part of who we are. Learning to function in spite of them, only makes us stronger.

I believe that destructive behaviors like self inflicted pain, promiscuity and the abuse of others, are a victim's denial that the trauma they suffered cannot be removed. If one excepts what happened to them and proceed with a course of treatment, healing and management, they could function in a productive manner. Granted, I am not a psychologist and I have no certificates to prove that my ideas are backed by an accredited institution but I have lived my life and I am still here.

To know that the day my father touched me changed the course of my development towards a life of possible disaster saddens me. At the same time, it makes me all the more passionate about being a survivor, a parent, an advocate for women and children, a positive role model and an encouragement to other survivors.

I do not spend my time dwelling on the fact that I am different from those that have not been molested. I do not attempt to run from things that will forever be a part of me. If I did, it would cause a constant feeling of failure and I would be miserable. I know that wounds heal and disabilities forces you to sharpen other skills.

Being abused greatly effects my personal relationships with men. While life with my father has shown me the selfish, evil potential of man kind, I also have more appreciation for loving, considerate, kind men. I am a hopeless (and hopeful) romantic, and if that's because I was molested as a child; oh well.

Victims Of Crimes Vigil

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Wed, 07 May 2014 16:40:00 +0000

When I was asked to speak at the Passaic County Victims of Crimes Vigil, I was honored and excited. Not only would it be an opportunity to speak with other survivors of crime but it would give me a chance to continue to raise awareness on child molestation and domestic violence. I was told that the assistant prosecutor (the prosecutor who worked on my case against my father) would introduce me, and I was to speak for five to seven minutes. I thought: sure, no problem! The length of my name alone will count for two minutes, so I have nothing to worry about. Then four days before the event, I received another call saying that I was to speak for fifteen minutes! My stomach did a dive like an olympic swimmer off his board, because I couldn't imagine what I would talk about for fifteen minutes. Oh the pressure!

Well I didn't quite make it to

fifteen minutes, but I hope that every minute I had the microphone in my hand, would be sixty seconds that a crime survivor could be touched positively.

A Woman's Worth Part 3

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Sun, 23 Feb 2014 21:12:00 +0000

If there is anything in the world that could make a person digress from being a sophisticated, mature responsible, member of society, to a jejune, idiotic, unscrupulous social basket case; it is matters of the heart. Just the other day I watched a small group of males and females with ages ranging from 34 to 46 act like a group of kindergartners fighting over who's playing next to who in the sandbox (pure imagination considering I've not been to school lol). And it was all due to love. Whether one is 16 or 61; throw sex and emotions into the mix, we all revert to a very primal instinct. Defense of territory. Which brings me to my third and final installment of 'A Woman's Worth'

Yinka Shonibar's Diary of a Victorian Dandy: 0.300 hours

Now I really should be doing homework, but over the last few months I've developed feelings for someone that has me very distracted. He's single, but there are a lot of women in his life (old and new) vying for his attention. This predicament that I find myself in has got me thinking about womanizers, players, dandies, and polygamists; and how they effect the value that a woman put's on herself in a relationship.

My viewpoint on committed relationships may be a little different from most women. I grew up in a family where the patriarch had relations with multiple females concurrently, yet it wasn't governed by any particular religious belief or culture. This was not a lifestyle that my parents agreed on when they first married, but something that my father manipulated my mother into over the years.

Cleopatra is a representation of a woman's influence over men.

I was taught that a woman is supposed to unconditionally serve the man in all aspects; and this theory was supported with examples from various cultures, belief systems and religions. Since then I've formulated my own thesis on the subject, using biology to support my ideas. For me it boils down to this: if man had not created the institution of marriage and monogamy, as a species we'd have one primary focus. To be fruitful and multiply (AKA, the survival or our species). On average a woman produces one egg a month. Once it is fertilized, gestation is complete, birth commences and the lactation period ends, two years would have passed. In contrast, a man has nowhere near the procreation limits that a female has. His millions of sperm gives him the ability to make multiple babies with only one orgasm. He is neither the vessel nor a source of nourishment for life, giving him free agency to plant his seeds as often and in as many places as he is physically able. That being the case, I fully understand a male's struggle with maintaining a monogamous relationship. It's biological baby!

Harriet Tubman helped roughly 300 slaves
escape slavery.

Now you may ask "Aziza, does that mean you are a polygamist?" And my answer is yes and no.
Western culture dictates that a relationship between a man and a woman should consist of one man and one woman. Some feminists believe that any female who allows her man to be with other females, degrades and devalues herself, while putting the integrity of their coupling at risk. My opinion is that a woman sets her own value. There is no institution or belief system that can do that without her approval. You can be in monogamous relationship where your partner cheats on you and treats you like shit, or you can be the 4th wife of a loving household who has the support of 3 sister wives. You can also represent a minuscule fraction of the bedded roster of a modern day Casanova, or one half of a power couple ready to take on the world. My point is, the going rate of a female individual is set by said female individual (yes I objectified us). If a woman holds herself in high value, than others will hold her in high value also. If you know your worth, than you will set a standard for yourself, and everyone around you has no other choice but to except that standard.

Harriet Beecher Stow's Uncle Tom's Cabin was
pivotal in the abolition of slavery by garnering sympathy
for the plight of African Americans.

Granted we have centuries of oppression piled onto everything feminine. Time periods where we were declared and burned as witches because we began menstruating. Rapes inflicted on us as a spoil of war. Belief systems that alienate us during our monthly cycle, and religions that blame us for sin and suffering. But as a source of infinite power and the cradle of life, drawing those who want to own and control us is to be expected.

We as women have to recognize the power we have in ourselves. In doing so we will recognize that same power in our daughters, sisters and other women, in turn increasing the agreed value of our species. I mean, when you think about it from a theological stand point, if man was created first, women are version 2.0 (you know, the version after the kinks were worked out). And from a scientific standpoint, female chromosomes are XX while male are XY. What is a Y but an X missing a leg (things that make you go hmmm).

Though still working on her legacy
Aziza Kibibi knows she's the shit.

So I go through all this to say what about love and relationships? Only you can determine how to conduct your relationship. Titles like polygamy and monogamy only have the weight we give them. When a woman understands her worth, she sets the standards of her relationship with a man and uses her power to determine what she will and what she will not allow. Whether she shares a man with another awesome female or keeps the man to herself, does not decide her value in a relationship.
But, the value she puts on herself as a female and human being, does.

We are the origin of humanity; we are the saviors of civilization; we are masters of ingenuity and we are the nurturers of nations. We are jewels finer than any that can be appraised by an outside source. Study and know your worth ladies, and you will find that it is beyond measure.

A Woman's Worth. Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Sun, 09 Feb 2014 19:53:00 +0000

In an oversexed society, one challenge I've faced in raising my daughters is convincing them of the value of their sexuality. How can I expect them to heed my suggestions on when, why and who they engage sexually with, when casual sex is commonplace in the media and among their friends.
The teenagers in my daughter's school, are engaging in sexual activity before they even know what a menstrual is. Real life examples such as these threaten to ruin all the hard work I put into establishing sexual morals and ethics in my girls.

And don't get me started with the boys (those of body and those of mind) that try to convince young ladies that giving up the cookie "is not a big deal" and attempt to guilt their female comrades to engage because "everybody else is doing it". Which brings me to the point of this installment of 'A Woman's Worth'.

If giving up the cookie is not a big deal, why are their so many people lined up to stick their hands in the cookie jar? And if everybody is doing it and seeing it and showing it, why should that decrease it's value?

As Summer's Eve demonstrates in the advertisement above, one thing that adds to a woman's worth, is her sex (that may sound sexist, but it's a fact). Men fight for it; they are inspired by it; they build careers based on it (money, cars and nice houses draws cookie like light draws moths); they go to jail for it; they die for it; they sacrifice for it; I mean, the list goes on.

Yoni is the source of life, it is inspiration for music and poetry and has been a subject of visual art for centuries. It has been a bargaining chip in times of war and it's required to maintain civilization. Some religions and cultures believe that it's essence can increase personal power and extend one's life span. It is the one thing that no matter how available it is, it never depreciates. So I teach my girls to take care of it, keep it clean and healthy and that instead of giving up the cookie to whoever asks, make sure they know that the one they share it with, is worthy.

A Woman's Worth. Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Wed, 05 Feb 2014 22:02:00 +0000

I am a feminist; I am a humanist; I am an egalitarian; I am an entrepreneur; I am an employee; I am an employer; I am a writer; I am a mother; I am a survivor; I am a daughter; I am a sister; I am a woman.

I have contemplated what position I want to portray to the public concerning my beliefs politically, religiously and otherwise. Then I thought; why does it matter? It really shouldn't because my experiences growing up effects every single one of us (directly and indirectly) no matter your race, color, income bracket, political position and yes; sex or gender.

But of course, as someone who is in the process of publishing a book, I have to take these things into consideration when it comes to marketing. As a female in the public eye with a platform concerning sex, I have to consider how I dress, what I say, how my own sexuality is received etc; if I want my message to get across. I call this the necessary evils of consumerism. But, God help me, I will stay true to myself, the cause and by all means maintain my integrity.

Amidst the many hat's that I wear, professional consumer is one of them. I love fashion, movies, fine dining, music and technology. I can tell you when Christian Louboutins are going on sale, and which "Italian" designer handbags are really made in china. I utilize Ebates on most of my online purchases for cash back benefits, and I was a member of GILT and Ideeli before the websites even launched.

It was through my automatic repeat of Beyonce's new album 'Beyonce', playing on my iPad Mini, connected via bluetooth to my Big Jambox that I first heard of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. (Even in my consumer hat I still learn stuff)

She is a beautiful African author who happens to be born the same year as me, five days later. She is a feminist; a humanist; an egalitarian; a writer; a daughter; a friend and my new inspiration.

Please enjoy and share your thoughts!

Be great!

('A Woman's Worth' will be a series of short posts on this blog during the month of February, acknowledging the awesome power of female. Please check back often.)

The Birds and the Bees

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Sat, 18 Jan 2014 18:45:00 +0000

As a survivor of sexual exploitation, the most challenging aspect of recovery is one's outlook on sex. I went through many stages in my sexual growth and it's safe to say I continue to go through them. As a little girl I was confused between the sensations I was feeling, if what was happening to me was right or wrong, fear, and the stress on my body. I have children and I know sexual exploration is a part of growing up, but to have it forced on you is traumatizing to say the least.

By the time I reached puberty my father had pushed my body to the point that my physical senses were numb and my mentality was that him raping me was another one of my household chores. If I wanted to avoid being choked or punched while he had intercourse with me, it was best that I didn't fight.

I went from a little girl who's innocence and love for her father was used against her, to a teenager who's will had been broken to the point that she fit perfectly into the role created for her; to a grown woman with little identity of her own; sexual or otherwise. So what now?

At twenty five years old I'd already been having sex most of my life; but I'd never had an orgasm, I didn't see sex as something that was suppose to be pleasurable for a woman, and I'd been trained to please one person. When I was with my first, outside of my dad, I really wanted to express how I felt about him physically. We talked on the phone, spent time together and I told him what happened to me. I trusted him and when we kissed for the first time (one of the many things I hated doing with my father) my body ignited with sensations that I didn't know was possible. I wanted him, and I wanted him bad! But when the day finally came, it was a disaster. As soon as I felt his penis, seventeen years of sexual abuse came flooding back. I didn't break down, I didn't bolt and I didn't refuse; I reverted back to the trained obedient little girl I grew up as, and I went through the motions of making this man cum. As soon as that happened, I felt nothing. No amazing sensation running through my body, no will, no understanding if I liked what was happening or not. I was again the orifice being used for a man to get his rocks off on. And it was horrible.

I felt like everything that I built with this man went out of the window. I was embarrassed, ashamed and because he didn't orgasm, I felt like I didn't do my job.

This whole experience made me resentful. I was away from my father, yet he was still present in my life through my interactions with another man. I knew that had to change.

Thanks to my dad, sex was something negative in many ways, and I had to dispel so many head games it was crazy! Without knowing anything about psychology, I knew I had to deprogram the associations I made between sex and misery, and start all over again.

Sex statue in Thirumayam temple.

I started to read books on sex (scientific and entertainment), masturbation, female anatomy, sexual art, fetishes, female orgasm (and ejaculation) and different cultural sexual practices. I watched porn and read erotic literature, while paying attention to what aroused me and what didn't. If I saw images that pertained to my father but still triggered sensual sensations in me, I didn't shy away from it. I told myself that if other women can enjoy it, than there's no reason I couldn't either. From there, I started masturbating. I was the only one I trusted with myself so, I enjoyed myself, by myself. I communicated with the man (who became my first love) everything that I did and he was in full support. Then one day while having an erotic dream, I woke up in the middle of my first orgasm! After that, I couldn't get enough. Rape? What rape? Molestation? What molestation? Daddy? Who the hell was that and what did he have to do with my orgasm? This became my viewpoint of the pleasure my body was capable of feeling.

(Side note: God created sex as a means to reproduce. In order to make a baby a man has to orgasm but a woman doesn't. Yet we still have the ability to orgasm. Which means, God gave us our orgasm just for us to enjoy! I'm just saying... woo hoo!)

Once I was comfortable with my ability to have sexual feelings without associating it with something negative, I introduced my boyfriend. And the rest is history.

Recovering after sexual trauma is a process. It takes work, focus and practice. But first one must accept that they have a right to and deserve to enjoy sex again. Starting with the passion to retake the power stolen from you, and not allowing the abuser to maintain control after the attack, enjoying sex without hangups is possible, and very probable.

My father performed cunnilingus on me when he started molesting me, and today cunnilingus is probably my favorite sexual activity. Im not ashamed to say that there may be some association pertaining to (this is where I get technical) Unconditioned Stimulus, Conditioned Stimulus and everything else concerning classical conditioning and Ivan Pavlov. But I don't care! It could be, and it could not be. I'm not going to dwell on it because doing so would just be a continuation of crediting and/or discrediting my father for my sex life. At the same time if there is association, oh well. There's nothing I can do about it now. I need to live my life, and that includes enjoying the pleasure that myself and someone I care about can give me.

S.O.S.

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Sat, 28 Dec 2013 19:34:00 +0000

I'm not sure if I should be blogging while I'm in this state of mind, but I'm going to anyway.
I'm not usually one to pity myself; shit happens basically. I've had children looking up to me all my life. First my siblings; they depended on me to entertain them for the hours our parents weren't home, to figure out what to eat when I wasn't old enough to use the stove; to keep them focused when we had to do our homework and stop whichever baby from crying when our mother wasn't around to breastfeed. When I had my own children I had to do some of the same things, but on top of that be a better example of a mother than what my own was. And that included protecting my daughters from my father.

My father favored my children which also created animosity amongst everyone else. There were so many psychologically confusing dynamics in our family that it's made me somewhat of a pro at dealing with stress in my life today. In addition I feel like I have to project a certain level of togetherness and strength to those around me. I can count the times on one hand that my children have seen me cry. Eighty percent of the time that I'm sick, I still go to work and school. Depression is not an option and if I feel a rut coming on I get exercising, or writing. You may ask; what is your point Aziza? And my reply is: despite the fact that I am doing well considering what my life has been there are times that I need help. But I have a serious problem asking for it.

When my father would come into my bedroom when I was nine, he'd tell me that telling my mother would make her go crazy and I'd never see her again. And this was only one of the many lies he used to confuse his daughter to maintain control. After beating me because I tried to fight back when I was twelve, he said that my compliance gave him the strength to take care of the family. I became use to having a lot of responsibility with little assistance. There were decisions I had to make as a child that effected my entire family. And I was led to believe that if I asked for help the result would end in someone else's peril or sacrifice. Today, I don't want to put anyone out of their way, or have them inconvenience themselves for me. It's natural for me to put the needs of others in front of my own, but I have to convince myself that I'm deserving of the same treatment. Which is work in itself. So If I have a problem or a challenge, I pull up my boot straps, buckle down and handle my own business. But just lately I've been feeling overwhelmed. There aren't enough hours in the day, days in the week, weeks in the month or months in the year for me to get all I have to do done. At the same time if I have a day where there isn't as much to do or things can't get done because they are outside of my control, I feel useless and unproductive.

What am I suppose to do with myself? And that question is not rhetorical either. If anyone reading this post has any suggestions, I implore you to let me know. And while I'm at it, if you know a literary agent, a publisher, an editor, how to write a grant proposal, a financial advisor, a lawyer and have suggestions on dealing with a fourteen year old boy who's father is his grandfather who happens to be in jail for molesting, beating and raping his mother; please tell me. Because I need some help.

The Power of Knowledge

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Sat, 14 Dec 2013 20:13:00 +0000

I have one more day in my fall semester at Essex County College. I'm anxious about my grade in my most challenging class; French. I also took African American History II, Biology 101 and Cinema appreciation to go towards the fulfillment of my communications degree. I'm thinking about things like maintaining my grade point average, and what am I going to do after I graduate. There was a time I never thought I'd have concerns like making it to class in the morning, or getting an assignment submitted on time. And here I am a full fledge college student.

I sit in class on some days, distracted by the young adults around me sighing out loud in complaint of the Professor's homework assignment. It was frustrating for the progression of my African American history class to be hindered by students that didn't appreciate the opportunity to get an education. There we were, watching a film on the sacrifices people made to improve the quality of the educational system, and the young people watching were uninterested! I just didn't get it. If they only knew what it was like to want to go to school, and not be allowed to.

My father homeschooled me until I was 11. Before he stopped teaching me, he promised that I would go to high-school. I looked forward to the day I'd walk through school doors and sit in a classroom with other students. Well, while under my father's rule, that day never came. By the time I was 14, my dad banned education among me and my siblings all together. Any teaching I did of my brothers and sisters, I did in secret. I had to worry about my father finding worksheets I created for my sisters to practice their handwriting. I got nervous any time he walked in on them reading a book. So when I watched a film in class on Fredrick Douglass, showing him sneaking around to learn to read, I became overwhelmed with emotion. That film and any others like it themed in slavery, connects to my life growing up on so many levels. Therefore it pains me to see others take the opportunity they have to get an education for granted.

Kermit sacrificed himself for science and education.

Learning French gave me a better understanding of English. I've seen the inside of a frog up close and personal. I learned that the free school breakfast my kids eat in the morning, is thanks to a man named Heuy P. Newton; and instead of just watching a film, I can't help but analyze the editing, cinematography and Mise-en-Scene.

I didn't get the chance to walk through school doors and sit in a class room with other students until I was 35 years old. And most of the other students are my daughter's age. I may feel a little uncomfortable when one of these kids wants to give me attitude like I'm their peer, because I'm harshly reminded of my seniority over them. I've even had professors 8 years my junior which is a test in humility in itself. But I'm not embarrassed and I'm not ashamed because I'm using my opportunity to get an education for all it's worth. Better late than never, is what I say.

Food for thought (this time it's literal):

In January, 1969, the Free Breakfast for School Children Program was initiated at St. Augustine's Church in Oakland by the Black Panther Party. The Panthers would cook and serve food to the poor inner city youth of the area. Initially run out of a St. Augustine's Church in Oakland, the Program became so popular that by the end of the year, the Panthers set up kitchens in cities across the nation, feeding over 10,000 children every day before they went to school.^[1

Giving Thanks

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Mon, 09 Dec 2013 07:16:00 +0000

I look forward to the holiday season. I love to celebrate Thanksgiving with my family and I revel in the smiles that come after someone opens a gift I gave them for Christmas.
My father stopped us from celebrating holidays some time ago. I don't even remember exactly when, but I remember controversy between my dad and my mom's family surrounding Christmas,

My Apple Rosemary Turkey

Easter and Kwanzaa every year. When my aunts tried to give me and my siblings Easter baskets, he didn't allow us to except them because he said they purchased them after Easter, when the baskets went on sale. Sometimes I was allowed to keep the toys my extended family gave me for Christmas; that is until my father threw them away before spring the next year.
Well, now that I have my own family, I make sure I make up for lost time.
My first Christmas after I got my children back from foster care, was especially memorable. I couldn't afford a christmas tree so I bought a spiral "tree" made up of lights from the supermarket. I

My famous Macaroni and Cheese

spent most of December that year checking the newspaper for community programs that were giving away presents to low income families. I made my way around to four different organization collecting wrapped boxes that said 'boy' or 'girl' so I could make the small space under our vertical light display overflow with boxes with items inside unknown to even me. I was determined to make my children's first christmas at home with their mother, just like the holiday episodes of popular sitcoms. And I did. The smiles on my children's faces, and the excitement in their voices, made me feel like the best mother

in the world. The effect that their response had on me the first Christmas I created for my family, motivates and will continue to motivate me every year. And yeah I know there was conflict on the first Thanksgiving day, and there's confusion about what day Christ was born on; but the tradition of cooking food, cleaning house, planning outfits, shopping for presents, and decorating a tree, all for the people that are most important to me; well.....just makes the logistics about dates and origin seem unimportant. I love to watch my children enjoy the fruits of my labor and I adore when my family wears or uses something that I gave them.
I, pray for the Native American souls that were taken during the first Thanksgiving, just like I acknowledge the celebration of the day that Christ was born. But the most important thing to me is being able to appreciate and celebrate the holidays in my own home (and sometimes at grandmas house) surrounded by my children. And for that, I am truly grateful.

Soroptimist International says; Aziza Kibibi: A Mother, a Survivor and an Inspiration!

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Mon, 14 Oct 2013 12:29:00 +0000

This is an amazing opportunity for mother's like myself to help live their dream. This award helped me with school, music lessons for my children and allowed me the freedom to finish writing my book.
If any of my readers are interested in applying for the Woman's Opportunity Award, please contact me and I can mentor you in the application process.

When Dreams Become A Reality

noreply@blogger.com (aziza kibibi) — Thu, 19 Sep 2013 19:34:00 +0000

When I was a preteen, one of the ways I escaped the stress and confusion that resulted from the abuse my father inflicted on me was to sleep; and dream. I'd use the spare time I had during the day between chores, homework and caring for my siblings, to close my eyes and descend (or ascend) to a place that I felt I had control over what went on in my life. In my mind I'd hold visions of mansions with endless gardens of roses; wardrobes full of pretty dresses, and every My Little Pony toy I could think of, until I drifted off to sleep. I hoped that the pictures in my imagination would manifest during my slumber so I could live in an ideal world free of responsibilities, violence and the sexual pressures my father put on me.

The only other time I used sleep in this way was when my daughter died. I internalized my emotions and spent most of my days sleeping while my children were in school. I tried to hold the image of my daughter in my head hoping I'd see her in my dreams. Today my dreams are still very vivid, but in a different way. I've done everything from coming up with story ideas for books, solving problems in my life, while I slept; literally. I even found the remote control for my television with the help of a dream, lol!, and my life's dream to raise awareness of child molestation and help other women and children are becoming a reality.

It wasn't until sometime last year I found a way to use my dreams in yet another way.

I'm a single parent, working, in school and running a business; but finances seem to always be a challenge. My children are all musically inclined and I would love to get them music lessons. But that takes money. We are limited in what we can do for fun as a family because all income goes to bills and education. We go to the movies during a.m. hours to take advantage of matinee prices. We've been in our house for three years now, but I just got cable. And going out to dinner is a luxury my budget won't allow at this time (it's a a good thing I can cook my butt off). Then one night I dreamt I got a scholarship. I wasn't even sure what a scholarship was, so I hit the internet and finally came across some that I qualified for. One of these opportunities meant to ease the financial burden of furthering one's education, was through a women's organization called Soroptimist International. When I Googled the organization further, I found they had a sub organization called Live Your Dreams dedicated to bettering the lives of women and children (can anyone say candidate?). Oh the irony!

A picture Soroptimist International took of me

I signed up with the organization right away and applied for the scholarship. To make a long story short, after two essays, a few months, and some references from some very good friends, I won three different levels of what the organization calls the Woman's Opportunity Award! The funds couldn't have come at a better time, and along with other things for my education and family, I got my children music lessons!

When I'm up late at night studying for a test, I take short naps. While I sleep the information seems to process within my dreams, and while in class I can better recall what I read. When I have writer's block for a paper, I read the research then sleep for a while, and when I wake up my block is gone. One day during psychology class my professor asked us to test if our brains retained information better if we go to sleep after reading it. The class was split in the results, but for me it's always worked.

My dreams mean many things. I use to use them as a form of escape during my traumatic childhood. In many ways I'm inspired by the vivid scenarios in my head while I'm resting. I've went to places I've never been and met people I'll probably never know, all through my dreams. And as I continue to dream up ideas, manifest wishes and fulfill goals, I can tell you from first hand experience my life today increasingly become the thing that a little girl's dreams were made of.

Food for thought:
According to studies done by the National Science Foundation, information can be better retained with reinforcing stimuli delivered during sleep. Click the link for the full article.