“Slut” – Art to end the silence on rape culture


“Slut”

is what they reduce us to

“untrustworthy”

in their minds

clear cut

dirty.

Sexuality

is not ours

brutality

from the powers

that be

shame and showers

hypocrisy

A word that has it’s own gender

men are eligible

never the offender

even when they are the violator

women are penetrable

disreputable

This word has no objective

but to stigmatise

oppressive

bias they vocalise

religion and war

the old male agenda

property

we are no more

So instead of this word

use nothing

these lines are not blurred

our bodies remain ours

its just their egos crushing

equality empowers

are you not tired of judging

(Poetry by Charlotte Farhan)


Slut - By Charlotte Farhan
Slut – By Charlotte Farhan

As women or even as girls most of us have been slut shammed. This is a sad fact of our society, a practice which has happened in many forms throughout history, although the term was apparently only brought to life in the new age of social media, with platforms readily available for people to offer their opinions on everything and one of the most prolific of discrimination women face online is slut shaming. With young girls being subjected to this from their pre-teens onward.

A girl or woman has a uncompromising task in society to be both sexy and modest, with the goal post moving back and forth, with men asserting themselves whilst diminishing women.

As well as the patriarchal agenda, internalised misogyny exists within women who themselves can be the harshest critics of themselves and other women. Their have been countless times with my female friends when they have called other women and girls sluts, whores or suggested that they are “asking for it”, these are women in their thirties and in the same breath they will also decide that if they wear “that dress” they themselves will be seen as a slut, or if they sleep with a man “too soon” they will be deemed a whore. It pains me as I know this rhetoric is damaging for us, for everyone.

Certain people are thought to be more “slutty” than others just because they belong to certain ethnicity’s or groups. Such as women of colour, in particular black women – who for a long time have been subjected to the disturbing suggestion that they are “wilder” less tame – by white people and the residual effect is still believed by many.

Sexual assault victims (like myself) can be deemed a slut just for being raped or assaulted with the perception that we must have provoked the attack or act, by wearing certain clothes, red lipstick or just because we were sexually active before hand.

The LGBTQ community can be also deemed more promiscuous or “sexually deviant”, due to archaic beliefs that this community is rooted in perversion.

Th fact is that if you are using the word slut to describe others or yourself then you are contributing to the rhetoric of slut shaming and ultimately rape culture.

Ask yourself why you are concerned by what others do with their sexuality, what they wear or how many partners they have had?

Then ask yourself why some people are exempt from this discrimination, do you judge everyone equally?

And lastly if you are shaming yourself, it maybe useful to find out where this shame originates from, it may have been some one else’s judgement you have held onto and deemed your belief or part of your identity, let go of this by unpacking it, seek support – be kinder to yourself.

If this judgement is your own, of yourself, then possibly you are internalising misogyny and this can be very unhealthy for your self esteem and self worth.

These ideas have not always existed in me, I have had to do lots of work to understand this socially acceptable discrimination. However, it is not a word I use and even if the word arises in me at moments of weakness or self loathing I am able to challenge them and let go.

We can challenge, raise awareness and let go together.


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A Kind of Healing – Art and Poetry By Charlotte Farhan

A Kind of Healing - By Charlotte Farhan
A Kind of Healing – By Charlotte Farhan

 

A Kind of Healing – By Charlotte Farhan

smoke into the night

smoke into the morning

remove

feeling

numb

a kind of healing

memories clutter

dreams smudge

nightmares form

creating

other worlds

mirrors

reflecting the storm

shackled to distraction

narratives of others

re-imagining stories

living through

our screens

blinded

white noise

like screams

sleep

is not peaceful

sleep

it does not recharge

sleep

opens wounds

scars

replaying

old trauma

faded

and cracked

smoke fills my view

smoke keeps me amused

inhaling

a remedy

a pass

to myself.

 


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Am I Real -Art and Poetry by Charlotte Farhan

am-i-real-1

 

AM I REAL?

by

Charlotte Farhan

The nature of reality perplexes most,

nothing can “be . . . ” and “not be . . . “,

so when I tell you I feel like a ghost,

please believe me.

Anything outside your mind can be unsure,

but how does something exist?

Does one have to have thunk it – to be sure,

of flesh and bone is all I consist.

Am I mentally constructed,

are my thoughts my own?

or possibly I came to this earth abducted,

or maybe I arose from my tombstone.

Is my conscious mental state related to my body?

for I see myself below,

separating self as I disembody,

left behind is but a puppet show.

 The earth is like water inside a fishbowl,

diminished in size and dimensions,

all unreachable as it slips into a black hole,

staring at my own reflection.


This piece of art and poetry addresses how it feels to be in a state of depersonalisation or derealisation. I experience both as symptoms of my anxiety disorders (OCD, GAD, CPTSD and AGORAPHOBIA) as well as my borderline personality disorder.

Find out more HERE

These sensations and feelings of being unreal or not being able to know what is real or not – have been causing me issues since I was a very young child. The worst times were when my voice used to speed up and I would hear myself speaking a million miles per hour, but others around me heard me speaking at a normal speed, or when I felt objects were to large or too small causing me to question all perspective, but by far the most disturbing is when you feel like an illusion, like a left over imprint.

As someone who has a degree in philosophy and who has studied philosophy for over 10 years now, “the theory of mind” was and still is one of my favourite subjects within philosophy. It has simultaneously helped me to accept that none of us truly know what reality is, as well as further perplex me and leave me questioning everything even more.

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There is not a lot of understanding when it comes to these disorders, often when people do not understand something or have not felt the things being described – it is easy for them to dismiss. However – why would anyone assume their reality is the same as another? There is evidence that we all experience the world differently without having any kind of mental illness or neurological damage.

How am I to know what you see… and how are you to know what I see…?

When I am touched does it feel the same as when you are touched?

When I eat do I taste the same flavours and interpret the textures the same as you?

Do I see the world as a “glass half empty kind of place or half full”?

Do I think the same thoughts?

The list goes on and on…

It is never as simple as “reality is reality”.

So question these ideas more, never judge another persons reality to be wrong or fake and remember that 1 in 5 people will have a mental illness at some point in their lives and some of us will have it for life.

End the stigma and learn how to better understand others and their reality.


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Between States – Poetry by Charlotte Farhan

Safe Place - By Charlotte Farhan
Safe Place – By Charlotte Farhan

Between States

Closing my eyes,
seeing emptiness, however endless,
hearing sounds of days already had,
voices of lonely goodbyes.

In cornfields we escaped,
laying in beautiful memories beneath future possibilities,
Time is only relevant to my existence,
numbers, hands, faces – clocks stop.

Pendulous over my metaphorical cliff.
Blue surrounds me,
mist kisses me as tears precipitates,
waves crashing below.

Dreaming takes forever,
passing hours – drifting.
Life tries to wake me with flickers of light,
clasping tightly at the reigns of this delusion.

The breeze carries a scent with it,
brushing my hair against my face,
familiarity sinks into the pit of my stomach,
I know this place.
This residence has no name,
no directions given, or maps written.
Stepping through a cerebral maze,
with the house getting further away.

This world between states,
of mind and power.
My consciousness hesitates,
not wanting to let me go.

 


 

Between States - By Charlotte Farhan
Between States – By Charlotte Farhan

Art and Poetry by Charlotte Farhan

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Neuro-divergent me – A Poem by Charlotte Farhan

Neuro-divergent me

 

There are parts of my brain,

people call sick,

inside things can’t configure – to the accepted standard.

There were times when fitting me into a box,

was a main concern.

Or blame – who’s left her out too long

too often, too little.

How about inside,

thoughts, dreams, the others in here?

Feelings which overwhelm,

sensory information begins to concentrate,

like compressed gas in a cylinder.

Pain is all that can be felt,

physical surges through my spinal cord,

to my brain – the host.

Being born with this disposition,

having an environment devastated.

Parents – the same chemistry

Clueless in their own damnation

However happily participating

in their haphazard irony.

Not typical, not normal,

they said and continue to claim.

“she’s weird, she doesn’t look me in the eye”

they whisper whilst backing away.

Thought of as rude, too direct,

judgements made habitually,

privileges left unchecked.

My cognition brought into question,

By those who never had to confabulate.

The world is not odd to me,

as it is all I can see,

you need to cure me.

Not trusting my words and memories,

abusing me,

leaving me.


when I close my eyes - by Charlotte Farhan
When I close my eyes – by Charlotte Farhan

 

Art and poetry by Charlotte Farhan.

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Art Spotlight – The Broken Willow

The Broken Willow – By Charlotte Farhan

The Broken Willow - By Charlotte Farhan
The Broken Willow – By Charlotte Farhan

 

She is a broken willow tree,

she searches for love to nourish her bones,

nurturing her roots from her lake of tears,

wishing for rolling grass and open meadows to plant herself.

Once she was child,

found underneath her family tree,

blame has never been claimed,

she has been crying now for forever,

begging for arms to embrace her,

their hands will never be clean,

whilst they hold on to that skeleton key.

“Take caution” she says,

they leave so effortlessly,

scars are left open,

unclean,

she screams for forgiveness relentlessly.

Softly touching the ground,

the autumnal willow cascades like blood,

she feels something die inside,

the cracks are forming,

she knows she will break into pieces,

she whispers one last time for them,

even though love was denied.

Once abandoned she starts to lay herself to rest,

lowering her head and closing her eyes,

content with the silence now,

her emotions have been buried alive,

she is a broken willow tree.

(written by Charlotte Farhan) 

The Broken Willow - By Charlotte Farhan
The Broken Willow – By Charlotte Farhan

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I Ripped out my Heart – By Charlotte Farhan – Art and Poetry

I Ripped out my Heart – By Charlotte Farhan

 

I Ripped out my Heart - By Charlotte Farhan
I Ripped out my Heart – By Charlotte Farhan

I couldn’t feel anything today,

not one feeling was felt,

shadows of the world like ghosts,

haunted memories locked in,

set to continuously replay.

Desolation in my mind created an echoing sound,

my thoughts rattled in my head like pennies in a box,

my emotions running like deer on a hunting ground.

I slowly began to itch the itch,

the one burrowing into my thorax,

the one which seemed neverending like a bottomless ditch.

Ripping into my torso,

hacking at my ribs as if they were a rotten enclosure.

I started to pick away at my flesh,

trying to get to the prickling feeling deep inside,

pulling up my lungs as if they were a bloody mesh.

My chest felt tight and the constrictions of my rib cage felt like a prison,

All my thoughts turned to the release I would feel if I just reached inside,

my blood is beautifully glistening the purest crimson.

Soon I heard it,

the deep thumping of my heart,

burrowing deeper my hand suddenly felt it,

pulsating in my grip.

The feeling is like none experienced before,

the more I squeezed the better it felt,

as if I were the captor and it my prisoner of war.

Wanting to never lose this awareness of self,

never wanting to abandon my own heart,

like so many had done before,

debasing me and tearing me apart.

I started to slowly haul it out of my cavity,

the ripping was glorious,

the pain was euphoric,

lost in depravity.

Eventually I was left with my heart in my hand,

as it beat its last beat,

the emptiness returned and the emotions stopped,

holding my heart closer,

I began to deplete.

Just me and my heart,

together at last,

no longer spare parts.

Never letting it go,

never losing my grip,

seeing myself lying below,

the nothingness began again,

the waves of time smashed me into unconsciousness,

I became an abandoned ship.

Agoraphobia - By Charlotte Farhan
From the painting Agoraphobia – By Charlotte Farhan

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