So there’s this evil character on Private Practice, she’s the BOSS, THE Chief-of-Staff, Charlotte. The cold hard unfeeling hateful, sexaholic, overly-ambitious, Ex-Texan LA-living, plan-killin BITCH. God, to hate her is the only RIGHT way. She’s the epitome of the bad, bad, evil devil-woman, Charlotte.
And then she is raped, beaten, battered and criminally assaulted. She’s raped on a show that makes a habit out of maiming, torturing, killing, ethically dilemma-ing, the hell out of its own characters, which has the effect of emotionally fucking with its own viewers.
As a viewer, it’s like a train wreck. You don’t want to watch. You don’t want to participate in the viewer jerk-off that it is. Lured in by the sexy promiscuity of it’s former Grey’s Anatomy star Kate Walsh and your desire to see her make a true love life, a true loving relationship. You’re attached to the characters. The interweaving of emotional entanglements. So you watch. Every week. Even though the emotional issues bring up emotional issues for you. Ones too close to home. How can they not? The show covers every emotional issue. Ones you have experienced and ones you have only imagined. But, they are not reality. They are not anyone’s true emotional life. They are not the equivalent of anyone’s and everyone’s encompassing emotional experience – all the bad parts and some of the good parts – encompassed in every single person’s tragic and horrible life experience. And you watch, because For God’s Sake, it CAN’T get worse than this, you tell yourself every week. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.
Then there’s the rapist, huddled. Afraid. Freaking out about what he is. What he did. “I had a bad night,”
“That happens,” goes the dialogue.
She is strong for her lover, her boyfriend. Because that’s what women are. Another of yours, a man like you, yourself, did this to you. Let ME comfort you. Let me hold your strong and complicated feelings of violation of your woman in my womb, that which has just been violated.
My womb, the place that holds your feelings, your pain, your issues, your emotional turmoil and garbage that you just can’t figure out because you were born a man and don’t know what the hell to do with the heavy, hard baggage of all the awful and terrible things that happens to you and the women you love; your mothers, daughters, sisters and wives.
Don’t forget . . . she IS the evil character. The one you kind of . . . naturally . . . hope something bad happens to. That’s righteous justice isn’t it?
Who hurt YOU Lee? The shrink asks the rapist. Because we all know that someone must have hurt YOU for you to behave like this towards women. We all want to get to the foundation of the problem, to find the cure for this hateful, abusive, tragic treatment of women you feel compelled toward. Who hurt YOU Lee? Perhaps if we find the source, we could cure this centuries old disease of violence against femininity, this bizarre hatred of half of the species of humans.
When she, the woman, the raped one talked about it, there is her hardness. Her detachment, her coldness, her disdain for the pity of her vulnerability – her being a woman – the distainment for her own vulnerability – the fact of being feminine – weaker. Ugh. Weaker. No way is she going to expose that part of herself for the sake of protecting other . . . women. Other disdainfully vulnerables – who might also have . . . character flaws, emotional blocks for which she feels inferior, other feminines who might be also . . .a bitch . . . the kind who don’t hold their men’s negative and destructive emotions properly , effectively in her womb space, keeping them safe and protected and without harm to themselves or others.
You ever call me the victim again this marriage is off, she says to the man she’s to marry, hesitantly because to marry would be to acknowledge this curse of femininity and vulnerability, but still, to marry.
She had it coming, and I gave it to her. I gave it to her so good. They’re all the same, you hear me? They’re all the same.
No one’s going to press charges . . . Ain’t life a bitch. . .
Well, for us. I guess it is.
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