At Any Size

It's coming on January, and we all know what that means.

Diets.  Whole 30s.  Clean eating.  Keto.  Fad diets.  Food guilt.  Inferiority.

And for people like me... just guilt.  Guilt at existing the way we do.  Invisibility.  And the invasive thought that I should not be who I am.

I have one co-worker who just joined the gym after contemplating it for months.  I have distinct memories of walking out of the office last January and Snapchatting my best friend "Everyone in the office is eating salads for lunch.  I'm going to Starbucks to get a sugar bomb.  And some carbs."  Followed by a deep, fat-belly belly laugh.

I was able to laugh that day, but the truth is that being fat and unapologetic about it can get especially hard at certain times of year.  I try to love myself, to remember that people come in all shapes and sizes, and that it doesn't make me less of a person that this is the shape my body takes.  When my body becomes the unacceptable before in marketing campaign after marketing campaign, it's hard not to feel pretty awful about existing.  When I see commercials where people literally shed an image that looks like me and become half of who they were, it's hard to remember that I have never been happier when I have been thinner.  I have just weighed less.

I know that in a week or two, I will be sitting at my desk at work, silently listening as my co-workers, all in better shape than I am, ranging from stick-thin to mid-straight-size range, talk about their diets, their carbs, their workouts, how much weight they want to lose.  "If I could just get rid of 10 pounds" or "I'd be happy if..."  I don't know if they think about me during these conversations, as I silently sit, glancing down at the roundness of my belly, internalizing how I feel like I'm doing something wrong by not jumping on the weight-loss-resolution bandwagon.

You need to change.  You are not good enough.  Try again this year, and this time make it stick.  This endless, repeated cycle of self-deprecation, self-hatred, and resolutions is crazy-making to me.  Year after year, I watch it, and it's heartbreaking in its own way when I think about the amount of time and heartache that could be saved if people were able to just learn to love themselves. 

There is not anything inherently wrong with wanting to eat more nutritious, nourishing food or exercise, or keep your body in good shape.  But the pervasive diet culture that we live in goes into overdrive in January every year, and it's damaging in so many ways.  Even if I wanted to lose weight, I wouldn't make a New Year's resolution.  Because, let's be honest, while it's great to get excited about the calendar changing over, New Year's resolutions are just like diet culture.  Fleeting.

People "try hard" for a little while, then feel like shit when they fail, but the reality is that diets aren't healthy or sustainable.  People recovering from eating disorders are surrounded by triggering "inspirational" quotes and memes and social media posts and articles and tips.  People who are not between sizes 0 and 10, regardless of their health or physical fitness, are even more constantly being told that they are not okay with anybody.  How am I supposed to exist in anything resembling a mentally healthy way when I am being told constantly that I the opposite of desirable, beautiful, normal, acceptable?

Concentrating on what makes you feel well and happy all the time and NOT doing it because of a number on a scale is so much healthier, but that's not the world we live in.  We are not inundated with memes about intuitive eating or healthy-at-any-size or body positivity.  On a day-to-day basis my experience as a fat woman ranges from mostly bearable to occasionally great.  In January, though?  The stats go way down.

So, friends.  I hope you'll understand that if your Facebook or Instagram feed turns into a stream of pictures of salads and gym equipment, requests for Keto or Whole 30 recipes, daily updates on weigh ins, and tips on how to shed those pounds, I'll have to use that handy snooze feature or click the unfollow button.  I know it isn't always easy, but I hope you'll understand that when you're posting about how proud you are that you only ate however many calories today, or about how your cleanse went, or about how much better you are now or how your looks and body have improved, that those things can be really hard for some of the people you care about to read.  When you place such an emphasis on the fact that your body before (which was still half the size of mine) was fat/gross/bad/not okay, you are telling me that I am twice as unacceptable.

Instead, I'm going to try to spend January focusing on my intentions for the year and beyond, on writing, and family, and making art.  I'll be clicking over to my favorite body-positive, fat-positive, lovelies like @fatgirlflow, @glitterandlazers, and @iamdaniadriana.  I'll look at myself in the mirror a little longer and wear my favorite clothes and finally start reading Landwhale by Jes Baker.  I will do my best to remember that life can be beautiful at any time of year, at any size.

Making Excuses

The die was cast with Adam and Eve.  Kicked out of paradise and she took all the blame.  She had to.  Safety was the coin of the realm, and the outies had that market cornered.  The innies had to suck it up.  Play along.  Until the innies screamed that they'd had enough of that world, and blew it the hell up.  -  Plum Kettle

She says no.  He says yes.  She says no.  He says yes.

               It happens so fast, so easily you almost miss it.

                              A no ignored, a sexual assault.  Over in seconds.  

                                             Afterwards, he asks her if she wants to sleep over.

There was a warning at the beginning of Rad Fatties, the 8th episode of Dietland.  So I knew at some point in the episode it would come.  Somehow, the thing that burrowed deep during that scene wasn't the rape itself.  It was the complete matter-of-fact, mundane, quiet everydayness of the whole thing.

He pushes her, she says no, he backs off just enough to make her feel listened to.  He pushes her and I know what's going through her head.

Is she crazy?  Is this okay?  Is she being stupid?

He's telling her he likes her and the deep down longing to feel desired, worthy, even just enough is making her unsure.  He's telling her she's stunning, and how can that not feel good?

She says no, and he's telling her he's sorry, but he's not.  He's telling her it will feel good, and it does, does that mean she wants it?  She wonders if she is overreacting.

But she ISN'T.

That rock inside her stomach, that floor-dropped-out nausea telling her to run, it permeates the screen and settles inside me as I watch.

The look on her face as he takes what he wants... it's not pain.  It's not fear.  It's not shock.  It's resignation.

That thousand yard, half lidded stare says, for a moment I forgot, but now I remember.  I am an object.

The lack of obvious struggle as he tells her he loves her fat ass is a clear indicator the light of hope that this one was different has been snuffed.

The deadness in her eyes says, oh.  This again.  Because it happens again, and again, and again.

Women make excuses for the men who rape them.

All the time.

We talk ourselves down from self-righteous worthiness.  We convince ourselves that what is happening to us isn't that bad or that lots of people have experienced worse.  We bury our real, very valid feelings under a pile of things we "should have" done to prevent someone else's abhorrent behavior.

Because the alternative... it's almost unfathomable.

I didn't want to hurt his feelings.  It seemed easier just to let him do it.

The alternative is that as women, we walk in a world where the monster under the bed isn't imaginary after all, it's your date, your boyfriend, your father, your pastor, your brother, your friend.

The alternative is that we have been conditioned to believe that we owe any man a reason why we don't want to have sex with them.

It is hard to explain the emotional labor of judging every man you meet and trying to decide how likely he is to be the one who will rape you.  It happens every moment, every day.

This is not hyperbole.  This is just.... reality.

Jack was like a red flag factory, but he wanted me, you know?

We ignore our instincts, gut feelings cast aside by hundreds of years of programming telling us that we are meant to be grateful to be the object of a man's desire.  If you are fat, you can add the extra pressure of years of being told no one will ever want you, that the idea of someone desiring you at all is a joke.

How is to possible that we can simultaneously be so used to something that it doesn't surprise us, yet unwilling to share what happened because speaking it aloud shrouds us in a shame so heavy it might suffocate us?

Revolution, Revelation: Living in Dietland

This weekend, I met Plum Kettle.  With some time to myself, I decided to try out Dietland.  I devoured the first 8 episodes like I would devour Plum's chocolate layer cake were it in front of me right now.

Plum's experiences and feelings hit incredibly close to home.  The heart and soul connection to Plum was almost immediate.  How could I take my eyes off a character I can identify so strongly with?  Finally, she is here.

Finally, a show about being fat that isn't about either using size as comedic relief or a plot device centered around weight loss.

Finally, a woman I can root for, really root for, because there is so much about her that is me.

Finally, a woman who decides to break the mold instead of shrinking to conform to it, a woman who is real and who is learning to be unapologetic about existing.

Plum on the bed in the throes of her withdrawal from antidepressants rolls over and her shirt rides up, exposing the soft skin of her stomach.  It is a revelation.  Such a small thing, but so overwhelming, to see skin like mine, there as part of the full scene, a moment, just a piece, not exploited, not for humor, not to shock, just a matter of friction and movement but so unheard of on TV.  Or anywhere.

I am fat.  I won't apologize for using that word, even if it makes some people uncomfortable.  Fat is not a bad word.  It's a description.  It is not the antithesis of beautiful or of healthy or of worthy.

Plum: I don't want to be a glamazon. I just want to get on an airplane and not have to apologize to the person I sit next to. I want to go to a bar and get hit on by some bald guy, and I want us to argue whether said bald guy is actually into me or whether he just wants to get laid.

Steven: I know.

Plum: You don't, Steven! You can't! Going off Y, I got my feelings back, and it made me remember why I wanted 'em gone.

This is my life too.  Talking to people who try to understand is like walking into a glass pane and expecting to go through it, the way seems clear but you are unable to proceed.  You may sympathize, or even empathize, but the feeling of sitting at my desk listening to coworkers half my size talk about how they want to lose weight just to be more fit, not for looks and about which diets work and the "science" behind them is one I cannot explain to you.  The feeling of friends 100 or 150 pounds lighter complaining about being fat or their pants not fitting is dehumanization.  It is confirmation that I am outside the circle of normal.  I am not a part of this conversation.  The world tells me that I should not exist this way, that I am what acceptable people are afraid of, the worst fate they can imagine.

Everyday I walk around in this skin people look at me like I have the plague. They act like I'm a stain. They stare and laugh and yell, and worst of all, they tell me I have such pretty face and then they lecture me on how I can fix my body because how I am is wrong. - Plum

When someone doesn't like something I've done, they don't just call me a bitch.  I am a FAT bitch.  When I deny a man's advances, he decides I am an ugly cow, no one would want to fuck me anyway and I will die fat and alone.  The words curl, smoke, and stink of disgust and vitriol, they hate what I am, they hate the body I walk in every day.  How do you survive in a world that bombards you with that, and not start to hate yourself even just a little bit?

In the museum of my life, there is an entire wing made up of paintings and moving pictures of my wrongness, the snippets are burned in my memory for always.

This frame holds the moment I first asked for a seatbelt extender on an airplane.

This screen replays the exasperated defeat and disappointment in finding that the "plus" department only reaches size 24.

This photo captures me sitting alone, knowing that my blind date showed up and left because they did not like what they saw.

On this wall, a photomosaic of the faces of the men who've liked me because I was fat, not in spite of it, the BBW fetishists who mask objectification in a paper thin layer of desire.  The man who rubbed himself on my belly fat before I knew what was happening, and to whom I was too shocked and ashamed to object.  The one who disappointedly says "you've lost weight" when I get naked, even though I haven't.

On this screen, I walk in to the eye doctor I visit annually for a checkup, as I have been doing for 30 years.  I got my first pair of glasses in 6th grade, then later contacts.  I had Lasik when I was 25 or 26 and still have 20/20 vision.  Five years ago, I was diagnosed with a condition that affected my vision and optic nerves.  I have been asymptomatic for several years now, the condition has resolved.

And yet.

He tells me to lose weight.

The heat creeps over my skin, the neon sign in my brain flashing "evidence based care???" so brightly I'm surprised he can't see it and explain himself.

He has me come back a month later for a visual field test and an OCT.  When he walks into the room, he makes a pleased-sounding comment about how I'm losing weight.

(I'm not.)

Everything looks good.  Normal, even. But at the end of the appointment, he tells me to lose weight.

Despite the fact that he is an optometrist, and not my general practitioner.

Despite the fact that I do not show any symptoms of the one condition I've ever had that it would be appropriate for him to comment on.

Despite the fact that when I was at the height of my illness, I DID lose weight, on an awful, miserable meal replacement plan, and it didn't affect or improve my condition in any way.

Despite the fact that for all intents and purposes, I appear to be completely in remission.

Despite the fact that I am a 37 year old adult woman, and surely he cannot think he is the FIRST PERSON IN THE WORLD to remind me that I am fat and that's not okay with people.

Because it's "really important."

To whom?

To him?  Is this not my own body?  Does it matter what I want, how I feel, whether there is any evidence that losing weight would make me less likely to have too much spinal fluid once again?

To the world at large?  Because I am offensive?  Because if you are fat and sick, you must be sick because you are fat, and if you are fat and not sick, it's just a matter of time?

Instead of saying any of this, I nod my head in compliance, my nerves burning hot under my skin as I walk out the door.

This is one day.  This is one image in the museum.  This is bullshit, and these are the moments I choose to leave this wing whenever I can.  Like Plum, my self-doubt has largely turned to anger.

Plum:  I hate being like this.

Verena:  What if it’s not you that’s the problem?  What if it’s everybody else that needs to change? What if it’s not you that’s wrong, it’s them?

The path I walk is not the path of least resistance, there are switchbacks and there are snares.  I surround myself with people who are like me, and we grow and learn together, they inspire me little by little to believe that I am worth more.  I try to believe in myself, and some days I can do it.

Other days, I look around me, and all I see is Dietland.

The Thing About Triggers

The thing about triggers is that you don’t know them.  They are lying in wait until the trap is sprung and you are caught gasping for breath in a swirling, rising tide of emotion.

I did not know that the ultrasound would be more than I could handle.  I went to the appointment alone, thinking it was routine.

I did not consider the mental challenges of all that is wrapped up in those parts of me: my womanhood, my motherhood, my sexuality, my identity, cradled low in my body, warm and undisturbed.

She says the wand will be ‘inserted like a tampon,’ but I wonder what kind of tampon she’s ever seen that is a foot long and requires lubricating jelly?

I watch the screen in the dark, my legs spread and eyes searching for any familiar shape in the static grey.  I see the IUD, there in place, signaling the end of my journey and desire in motherhood.

I recognize the c-shape of the walls of my uterus, the nursery my body prepares month after month.  Last time I saw a picture of it, there was a baby swimming there and despite the lack of wanting to ever see that again there is a specific, longing melancholy to knowing I don’t grow babies anymore.

She presses the wand around the curves and bends of my insides, my organs grudgingly make way for this intrusion as a sharp pang of pressure travels down my leg.

I am frozen in space as I try to remember to breathe.  

I see the familiar darkness I’d become so well acquainted with in another life.  I watch as the mouse moves, dotted lines measuring the empty space where eggs mature and release, top to bottom, side to side, empirically judging normalcy.  I am time traveling; each blink brings flashes of multiple ripe follicles clustered like grapes, shots given to force the release of microscopic eggs, tiny syringes full of the best swimmers manually inserted through a minuscule tube.  I hear whispers of prayer after prayer after prayer for that magical binding and division of cells that would make me a mother at last.

There was a time when this was routine.  But that was a different time, and I have not considered that I am a different person now.  I have not considered that in finding myself mentally and physically, in opening my heart and embracing my nature, there is a new discomfort with this invasion.

I have not considered that now I am dealing with new possibilities, demands and recommendations, unsure and sad and still figuring things out.  That right now I don't trust my body, my hope wanes and my love for it has been hiding. 

In the dark, I watch, unaware of the filling of my mind with the past; infertility, longing, marriage, a life that is dead and buried but somehow moving and writhing beneath my surface.  

Nostalgia is not always sweet.  Bitterness creeps and winds, choking out happiness and okay-ness, invasive vines on the life I’ve built.

Finally, she pulls the wand out.  I wipe the foul smelling jelly from my pubic hair and put my pants back on.  I wash my hands in hot water and soap, but hours later it will creep into my nose when I move them too close.

It takes a few minutes for me to realize I’ve been caught.  I walk to my car and get inside, and as I begin the text I am fine, but by the time I’ve finished typing, the tears have come.  The sky is grey and dripping and my eyes open, emotions pour from me like a flash flood.

My heart cries out in confusion, pain, and longing.  The sobs are primal but familiar, and there is a voice inside me that wonders how I can ever possibly stop.  I think maybe I will just cry forever.

The thing about triggers is that you don’t know them.

I would have gone with you, he says, and held your hand.

I didn’t know it was going to be upsetting, I reply.

I believe in talking (out loud) about periods!

I am bleeding.

Right now, I can feel my uterus aching inside me, sending tendrils of wandering crampiness into my lower back and left hip.

It hurts.  It isn't a debilitating pain, but it's enough that it's a distraction, this aching hand inside me reminding me that I have the ability to make a comfortable home for a baby.  It throbs, radiating from my center, and I wish I had a heating pad or a hot tub.

I take ibuprofen and acetaminophen together, hoping the combination will work better than one or the other to put off the stiff, tight twinges enough that I can clear my head and work.

I go to the bathroom often, because I don't want to deal with the inconvenience of making a mistake, misjudging things, and having to deal with stains on my favorite jeans. 

Unashamed, on Monday I told my two female co-workers that I have been having my period for 10 days, and that I just want it to be over.  How it was weak and lazy, and that I wished it would just pick up so it could end.  I could tell that one of them was a bit taken aback, but the other gave me tips on how to encourage the flow to come so I can feel better.

Today I say my uterus hurts, and she asks if I need anything.  I don't, but it's nice to be able to speak.  Here's the thing:

I believe in talking about my period.

Out loud.  In public.  To co-workers and friends.  On the internet (apparently).

This is not to say that I am entirely comfortable doing this.  When I say these things, or tell my boyfriend my uterus hurts, I still hear a tiny voice in my brain wondering what I am doing.  This is not something we talk about!  I push through it, and I spill the words out anyway, because this is who and how I am in this moment, and it is okay.

If any other body part I possessed was in this amount of discomfort, I would talk about it.  Anyone would.  If you had an earache to this degree, would you be at work?  What if you had an equivalent toothache?  For either of those you'd be at the doctor, but when we have our periods, we must persist in going about our business and just trying our best to ignore it.

Calling in sick for cramps?  If you had stomach cramps this bad, you'd likely spend the day on the couch.  What about staying home because the idea of making sure you change your pad every two hours is just too much to handle at work?  Or because you feel weakened by your body literally draining a portion of your life force?  Good luck being taken seriously.

I remember being a kid and hearing my mom and her female friends talk about their cycles or about what was going on with their periods, or about changes they were going through, and the sense of disbelief I felt that ANYONE would ever talk about that out loud.  HOW MORTIFYING!

The older I've gotten, though, the more sense it makes to me.  Every period is different, but let's think about this for a minute.  If the average period happens every 28 days and is four days long, that means that on average, HALF the population spends 52 days a year bleeding.  That's over a month.  And those are just the bleeding days.  Not the pre-bleeding days when you have to fight the bloat and PMS.  Guess what else?  Hormones shift when a period ends too, so irritability and discomfort can come then too.

Why are people so embarrassed about talking about something that is completely natural and happens so often?  It's 2018 and there's still SUCH a stigma about it.

In January of this year, I posted the following on my Facebook page:

The post got 27 comments, which is on the high-end for an everyday post.  It was engaging, and it was relate-able.  There is some excitement and a lot of relief in talking about something and sharing experiences with people who have been through the same things and can sympathize and commisserate.

Yet, we are quiet. 

I just went 2 months with  no period, and now I have been bleeding for 12 days.  Since Saturday, I have had moderate cramps, to the point that I am having trouble concentrating at work and took a hot bath Tuesday night even though I don't like sitting in my own soup.  I am uncomfortable and irritated.  Today, things finally picked up and I am simultaneously relieved and feel physically drained and uncomfortable. 

And?  I want to talk about it.  I am not ashamed that I am bleeding.  In fact, it makes me feel irritable that I'm supposed to be hush-hush about something that is a part of my life, and with the way my body is currently behaving, it's become a bigger part of my life than it ever has been in the past.

There is no reason for women to hide something so natural that happens so often.  I've become a big fan of talking about the things that are actually happening to me.  Sometimes, this means I'm willing to speak out about things other people shy away from.  Divorce, polyamory, sex, finances, bodily functions, fat positivity.  Why?  Because the more we talk about these things, the more everybody has the chance to realize that they are normal and that it's healthy to talk about them.

I have spent too many hours in this lifetime feeling alone because of what I was going through, and I am done with that.  I have spent too much time isolated, in pain, afraid, when there was love and support out there if I just reached for it.  What is the purpose of being a part of a community if we are not able to support each other in all parts of life? 

Even in 2017, talking about periods is still taboo. The idea that women’s menstrual cycles are gross or unclean or inappropriate is deeply rooted in patriarchy. In cultures dominated by men, periods are misunderstood, vilified, and pushed out of the public conversation. If men had periods we’d talk about them all the time. Making menstrual cycles taboo is a manifestation of the sexism that pervades many cultures.  source

And of course, this is all just me wanting to support other women, and turn to them for support when I need it.  This is me hoping that as generations go on, girls will be able to be body positive not only in how they perceive themselves, but in the way their body works.  I'm not even getting into the political and cultural and social ramifications of WHY this is all still something we whisper about, or the way our cycles are used as an excuse to dismiss and invalidate our emotions and life experiences.

So.  Are you bleeding?

You can talk to me about it.

Want to complain about your cramps?

I'll listen.

Need to rant about your irregular cycle?

I'm game!

Need some chocolate?

I've got a drawer-full at my desk.

Need to borrow some hydrogen peroxide?

I've got a huge bottle under my sink.

In this sisterhood of the bleeding uteri, you should never feel alone.

Don't stop now!  Recommended reading:

• If Men Could Menstruate by Gloria Steinem
• An Indian Take On Gloria Steinem’s Famous Essay ‘If Men Could Menstruate’
• 7 Period Issues We Need To Talk About More
• Breaking the menstrual taboo: Why period stigma still holds women back
• It’s 2017, Why Are We Still Ashamed To Talk About Our Periods?
• Why We Need To Talk About Periods WAY More (15 Reasons)
• The P Word: A last taboo
• 4 Things You Didn't Realize Are Period Shaming
• Why We Need To Stop Being Embarrassed About Period Talk
• Why Is Talking About Our Periods Uncomfortable? Let’s Change That.

What's Inside Me

It comes on at night.

Emotions swirl inside me, mixing, mingling and poking, and after both kids are asleep I sit on the couch, uncomfortable in my own skin.  I can feel pinhole leaks in the dam that holds me together.  I want to escape myself.

He asks me if I want to watch shows, or have time to myself, I don't know the answer.  I still don't know how to take time for myself when we are both here because after years of expectations, I am still conditioned to know that my time should be for someone else if we are both in the same room.  Faced with the opportunity to do something for myself, I often can't decide what I even want.

The tears come and he comes to me.  He tells me I'm not alone and that I'm safe, and I don't fear the world, but I'm not safe from what's inside me and that feels scarier.

Recently my feelings have been...  unexpected.  Unpredictable.  Irrational.  Some I can embrace, my empath heart makes things shaky sometimes, but others are out of place, sharp and jutting.  I went to see my doctor because I suspect my hormones are to blame, and got a referral to the gynecology department because all of my blood work looks "normal."

Year after year, unexplained symptoms, being told I am "normal" when I do not feel it, or being told that if I lost weight I would be better when I have never been typical, even when I took up a more acceptable amount of space.  Thyroid problems, PCOS, insulin resistance, my endocrine system seems to have been cobbled together from spare parts in some backwoods body shop.  Unexplained and untreatable.  Intracranial hypertension and interstitial cystitis and now these mood swings and nausea and probably perimenopause, and mostly a lot of shrugs from a lot of different doctors.  

I have been bleeding for 10 days, and I know that we are not supposed to talk about that, but how do I not talk about that?  First nothing for two months, and now this leaky faucet of pink and it makes me wonder if I am also leaking hormones that twist my brain and fill me with longing for something I can't quite see, a sadness that's blurred around the edges.

Self-assuredness was not something that came easy for me.  Years of work have gone into this battle, and it isn't over.  Some days I look in the mirror and still see unworthy.  I find that lately it slips behind me like a shadow, and I have to work harder to get it back.  Some days I feel like I walk in a fog that hasn't had the light and warmth to burn off just yet.  

I feel that I'm being given so much grace.  He has my heart and I know he knows, but I wish that right now I was more capable of showing him.  There is the past again, telling me that I should feel guilty for just trying to figure out how to take care of myself for the moment.  There is my marriage, telling me that normal relationship ebbs and flows are me declaring war on the person I would least want to fight with.  There are my faded memories, telling me that I don't deserve this grace.  There is my five-years-ago heart, telling me to be careful or I might slip and make myself unlovable again.

My passion flies around me like feathers caught in the wind, my fingers grasping and brushing but unable to pull them to me.  I want to write, I want to connect, and it feels like it is right there but so far away, and so immense that I can't figure out where to begin.

I sit down to write, and it pours out.  I know I need to make space for this, and I don't know if I am afraid or just tired, but I haven't made myself commit.  I don't know the answers, but I know that on the page is where I need to be.  

I think maybe this is praying, these sparks in my brain, tears turned to thoughts of grace and longing and the things that make me who I am.  This is who I am, right now, right here.  I may not be this in a day, or even in an hour, faces and shapes and emotions morph and change like the shadows of branches blowing in the wind.  This is who I am and it is messy and confusing and full of so many things I can't even begin to describe.  This is who I am, for now, and this is okay.

I am woman

Today is International Women's Day.

It feels complicated and heavy this year.

Maybe I don't feel like celebrating because no matter how many strong women are highlighted in my Facebook feed, we still have so far to go.

A misogynistic rapist in the White House. Harvey Weinstein, Louis CK, Kevin Spacey, Mario Batali, Sherman Alexie.

Dick pics and demands in my inbox, her inbox, all the inboxes.

None of it new, none of it stuff I haven't written about or been considering for months.

It's... discouraging.

The climate right now for women seems as grey as the Washington sky today.

My inspiration gland must be out of service for the day.

Maybe I don't feel like celebrating because just when I've kind-of-maybe-sort-of figured out how to be strong, and who I am, things are changing.

It seems I've reached a certain age and my endocrine system has begun the transformation from lazy river to roller coaster.

I noticed recently that I'm more bothered by violence than I used to be.

Criminal Minds has been one of my favorite shows for years, and I haven't watched it in months.

I watched a preview for Red Sparrow, typically the kind of movie I'd be into, and all I could think was that it looked really violent.

I am tired. It seems like so many people are hurting.

Things with a capital T going on at work have left me to sit in on interviews with employees, then re-live them, re-re-live them as I transcribe.

I thought I was finished, but today there were two final interviews.

My empathy on overdrive, I return to my desk with a heavy heart and zero spoons.

I suppose it is my day.

After all, I am woman.

You may try to hear me roar but today I think my throat just sings the low sweet melancholy chords of rainy afternoons.

Still, even on this muted Thursday, I carry within my heart a deep and indescribable love for the dozens of women in my life who inspire me, whose words and breaths I absorb. 

I ingest the things their eyes convey- strength, love, pain, power, like a gift from so many goddesses.

My ambrosia.

Life is complicated, and so are we all. 

I am not sad.  I am not happy.  I feel... matte.

I embrace my lack of shine just for the day, for the evening. 

I don't worry.

The glimmer always returns.

Strange Bedfellows

I used to be a great sleeper.  I would slip into a light snore almost before my eyes were completely closed.

Now I find myself laying in the dark at 3 AM, confused at the lack of heaviness in my eyelids.

My dreams are strange.  They aren't nightmares, but I wake unsettled.  My mind and body don't leave dreams behind upon waking.  Sometimes they linger beneath the surface for hours after waking.  I carry this nameless muddy confusion with me into  Danny's room.  He is back asleep within moments, his breathing even and slow.  I carry it back to my bed and will my body and mind fruitlessly to just be more tired.

I am a stranger to insomnia, and I am not enjoying this newfound relationship.  I try to use The Secret- reaching into the universe calling for the Sandman to come, but it seems that method works no better in the dead of night than in the daytime.

Time passes and anxiety builds, I think about my alarms, knowing that the more time goes by, the more difficult it will be to wake again.

3 AM comes and I give in, I admit to myself that sleep may come but it isn't close.  I pick up my phone, this double edged distraction.  For a few minutes I let my mind focus on Facebook housekeeping and Instagram photos of faraway friends and fat-positive feminists.

Just as I finally begin to feel that weight creeping into the corners of my eyelids, my blinks coming 3/4 speed, a heat crawls across my chest and down my arms.  I guess it shouldn't surprise me as a woman in my late 30s to finally become acquainted with these flushes, night sweats like the younger, flightier sister of the menopausal hot flashes all women hear about and steel themself to expereince everything - not if, but when.

I used to be a great sleeper and now I wake to a quiet house, the short hair at the nape of my neck sticky and my thighs slick with that skin on skin hot blanket hot flash sweat.  The blanket off, cold air feels like relief from the suffocation of the same covers that felt so cozy two hours ago.

The most unfortunate part about these strange bedfellows is the absolute quicksand feeling of 6:30 AM.  I have never been a morning person, and these new nighttime roommates exacerbate my aversion to the morning alarm.

Some days I nap after work, the exhaustion catching up with me, and wake to bedtimes and cuddles and wondering how many times I'll be awake tonight.  Some nights sleep returns, relief like the summer rain after a drought washing over me.

I used to be a great sleeper, now irony is my love being the one snoring first, as if your bed can only tolerate one good sleeper and a time and it's not my turn anymore.  He snores and I lay next to him, wondering how long tonight, how many minutes, and will they turn into hours and will I sleep deeply and how many times tonight will that familiar click open and padding down the hall of little feet interrupt my no-pattern sleep patterns?

Nighttime now means something else, a hot-cold-awake-asleep dance of dreams and waking.  I stumble, pirouette, trip and spin through the hours between twilight and dawn and as I dance I remember that I used to be a great sleeper.

I Believe in Divorce

I believe in divorce.

I believe in it unapologetically, with my whole heart, and with every fiber of my being.

When I ask "if you're unhappy, why do you stay?" I get answers about children, about how the relationship is good "except for..."  I deflate, because living in the place of "except for" isn't really living at all.

I absolutely don't think it's decision that should be made lightly.  It is a heartbreaking thing to know that you are better off ending something you commited your heart to permanently.  If you have children, deciding that it is a better idea for them to have two homes is... nauseating.  Four years after my divorce the memory of the gut-wrenching thick sickness of those decisions is still enough to turn my stomach.  The memories of dealing with the feelings for which they had no words in the months after we moved out are still sharp enough to take my breath away.

In many cases, the innacuracy of talking about giving up is immense.  If you think about it, the fight put into trying to salvage an unsalvageable wreck was the opposite of giving up.

I also believe that breaking the promise you made is not the end of the world.

I believe that you deserve happiness.  You deserve a full life and dreams and plans and futures that you reach not in spite of being held back, but because you are free.  You deserve not only to be happy, but to be well, mentally and physically.

In the beginning, thoughts may start as seeds, tendrils creeping slowly into your thoughts like sprouts that haven't surfaced through the soil quite yet.  At first it seems entirely ludicrous.  You turn the word over in your mouth, silently, whispering in your brain.  divorce  You wonder, what does it really mean?  What does divorce actually feel like?

It feels like failure.  It feels like admitting that you are not good enough, not strong enough, not smart enough to figure out how to make something work that you are supposed to be able to make work.

It feels like giving up, because you really meant it when you sat there and looked into each other's eyes and said, that won't be an option for us, not ever.

It feels like a bad dream, like a black hole pit in the middle of your being, sucking up all the things you always knew to be true.

It feels like grief.  You have lost the you that you thought you were, and the you that you thought you were becoming.  You have lost your partner.  You have lost the dreams and plans you'd made for the years to come.  It feels like your heart is breaking, wrenched in two right inside your chest.

It feels like being not enough, and it feels lonely, despite the fact that half of marriages end this way.  We marry young, we marry ideal, we marry for many different reasons and years gone by can erode those reasons until we see that life is full of so many other options.

The grass isn't greener on the other side, not right away.

But... it also feels like relief.  And day by day, week by week, month by month, it gets better.

Days pass, and the balance of dark to light starts to tilt.  You figure out how to give yourself a little bit more grace, a little bit more acceptance, a little bit more love.  Things are hard, but over time they get easier.  You figure out the new normal, and how to make things work.

You find that your body feels lighter than it did before.  Without that heavy burden of trying to make something work that couldn't, you are able to move more easily.  The stress of taking on the responsibility of someone else's happiness dissipates, and you remember what it's like to base your decisions more on your own needs.

Some people believe that divorce isn't for them.  They believe that divorce is for people who have been cheated on, lied to, abused, or deceived.  It's just not that simple.  All relationships are complex things, put two complex beings with hearts and minds and souls and wants and needs and beliefs together and how can it NOT create something even more complicated?

Of course no one deserves to be mistreated, to be hit, talked down to, beaten, gaslighted, called names, shamed, assaulted.  Even then, the decision to leave can be indescribably hard to make.  Because people are complicated.  But there is another group out there, stuck in this middle-ground purgatory of marriages that are just... meh.

When I was considering the future of my marriage I bought a book called "Too Good to Leave, Too Bad to Stay."  In hindsight, and as time went on, I realized that in my particular situation there was no "too good to leave" at play.  However, relationship ambivalence is a real thing, and I think we all deserve better.

When I was married, I used to hear stories of people who were still in that stomach-flipping, heart pounding, take-your-breath-away love after years together.  I would hear about people who loved their spouse more with each passing anniversary, who looked forward to the rest of their lives together, and who still found each other irrisistable.  I didn't believe them.  I scoffed, thinking that there was no way those things were true.

Now that I am in the after, I see.  That kind of love is possible, and I want it for everyone I know.  I want to shout the the world, especially to the women whose hearts I feel connect to mine.

You are beautiful, and you don't have to settle for okay, for good enough.  Life is too short to give in to what is easy when you could be experiencing things in full, glorious color.

You are worth more.

You are worth everything.

The Urge

It rises from within like water bubbling through layers of silt, that familiar urge.  Pulling at my mind and heart, self-doubt wrapped in guilt and colored muddy with anxious fear.

Take it back.

Words flew from my lips and fingertips sparked by passion and feelings of righteousness and being tired of the same. old. thing.

Smooth it over.

What is a voice for, if not to be used?  I have found myself in a new year, screaming louder than ever before, caring less and less what people think.  When I first dubbed 2018 the year of not giving a fuck what other people think, I was kind of joking.

It has only taken a week to realize I'm not joking.

Am I supposed to be a certain way?  When I think about what is expected of me, I see pictures and words.

Skinny.  Compliant.  Agreeable.  Ladylike.  Peacekeeper.  Forgiving.

These are not the words that light the fire within me.  I can feel my passion rising to the point of overtaking me, and I've never felt such power.

Apologize.

But, for what?  I have done nothing wrong.  This urge to silence my own voice is as infuriating as it is ridiculous, and it has been ground into me year after year, experience after experience.

But they might be mad... upset... at me...

It is not my job to make you feel better about the things you don't understand.  It is not my job to re-assure you that I know YOU aren't the bad guy.  It is not my job to walk you through examining your part in this story.  It is time for me to write MY part.

It is not I who does not understand.  I have been overlooked and pushed aside because of what lies between my legs and beneath my skin.

Look, I'm not trying to say...

The more I look, the more there are.  I tear up reading The Militant Baker.  I am wholly inspired by Anna, her look, her kindness, her positivity, and her unapologetic commitment to being who she is.  I devour Shrill, the way you devour a book you're unable to put down because there they are - the words you had inside you and didn't know how to say.

I am not alone.

I don't think you're a bad person...

I am starting to understand that it is okay to love myself.  It is okay, even, if that means that I am not always nice, that I don't have to let people off the hook for things they didn't mean or didn't think about.  There can be no change without realization.  There can be no progress without self-examination.

I know you don't mean to be hurtful...

My dreams have changed, they have morphed, they run ahead of me like sprites laughing in the sun, calling me to catch up with them.  I have new heroes now, and to join their ranks would be an honor.

I don't mean to be confrontational...

I don't?  I think... I do.  I think 37 years in, it's about time for a big damn confrontation.

An Open Letter: Not All Men

This morning, Democratic senator Al Franken resigned from his senate seat amidst allegations of sexually inappropriate behavior.  I listened to his words, about how he is not admitting fault, and my heart hoped that it wasn't true, but at this point, hope is pretty dingy.  I nearly cried as he gave up his senate seat.

I was talking to a friend a couple of nights ago about how angry I am, and how disappointing it continues to be that people are surprised by how utterly shitty our patriarchal, misogynistic culture is for women to live in.  It started with us talking about the fantastic Welcome to Hell video from last week's Saturday Night Live, and this is what she said:

I know it's nothing new and I've known all this shit for a long time, but sometimes I get so so so mad about it all.  Like the keys in the parking lot thing.  I hate that we have to do that.  I have done it since I could drive, and like, planned what I would do if someone attacked me... ...men on my Facebook are like, oh shit did you guys know about this?  YES AS A MATTER OF FACT.  And of course now that men are learning about it, it legitimizes everything.  Like millions and billions of women throughout history wasn't enough.

I've been feeling so unsettled and aggravated because of the atmosphere of the world at large, and this morning, I posted something on Facebook about it.  This is what I posted:

I'm so fucking disappointed.  Because Al Franken's resignation is an example before the blind eyes of people like Roy Moore.  Because it is so frustrating that no matter how many women come forward there are still so many men in power, and other men who refuse to hold them accountable.  Because change is happening but it isn't and we still live with this fucking rape culture misogynistic BS that makes me glad I don't have daughters but scared I won't be able to negate the lessons it will try to teach my sons.  I'm just... ANGRY. 

Several hours later, I got a private message from a male friend about my post.  I've removed any identifying information, but here are some snippets of what the message said:

"I understand what you are saying, however, this post comes off as a blanket statement against men in general.  It was a bit hurtful."

"I have never nor would ever coerce or offer inappropriate remarks to any woman.  I've been on the receiving end of inappropriate comments and ACTIONS from women in authority and yes occasionally from men.  Could it be nurture over nature?"

I'm not posting this to shame anybody.  I sat there at my desk for at least 10 minutes, typed in and erased about 10 different replies to this person.  I took a step back because I knew that it wasn't going to be civil, then my mind went where it always does - to writing down how I feel and why I feel this way, and backing it up with the words of some other smart and succinct women and men.  So, here's my open letter to this man, and to any other men who read my post this morning, or any woman's post about the current climate, #yesallwomen, or #metoo, and felt the same way, or who have been tempted to talk about how not all men are bad.

*****

Kind Sir,

I want to apologize for the fact that you felt hurt by my post, but I just can't bring myself to do it.  It's nothing personal.  I don't dislike you, and part of me doesn't blame you for your response because I think a lot of guys really don't know better.  I’ve had a really hard time responding at all because I feel like you’re missing the point entirely.

First of all, my post was not a blanket statement.  I didn't write that "ALL MEN ARE IRRESPONSIBLE SEXUAL PREDATORS."  I wrote that there are a lot of men in power who abuse that power.  That's true.  I'm not entirely certain why you chose to take it so personally.  If you haven't abused your power, or taken advantage of your inherent male privileged to oppress women, there is nothing for you to feel hurt about.  However, now that you have told me it made you feel bad, let's talk a bit.  Let me ask you a few questions.  

When you learned to drive, did you learn to hold your keys between your fingers as you walked to your car at night in case someone tried to grab you? 

I did.  

Have you been sent random photos of men’s penises because somehow this has become an okay thing to do in our culture?  

I have.  

Have you been flirted with, then when you turned someone down, been told they didn’t want you anyway because you are fat/ugly/a whore?  

I have.  

Have you made less money because you are a woman?  

I have.  

Have you been discounted at your job because you have the wrong genitals, and had someone needed to hear the exact same answer from your male boss?  

I have.  

Have you sat in the ER and held a woman's hand while she has a rape kit done, and is given antibiotics to try and make sure she doesn't catch anything from it?

I have.

Have you ever thought how it's lucky you never got raped, because really, that's all it is is luck?  

I have.  Often.

This isn’t a question of nature vs. nurture.  This is a question of whether you care enough to try and understand how exhausting and scary it is to grow up as a woman in this culture.  There is a systemic issue of power and sex which involves men.  That doesn’t mean that it doesn’t happen in reverse but that is not systemic and it’s also not what I’m bringing attention to.  

Your message smacks of the “not all men” argument, and the thing is that we already KNOW it’s not all men, of course it's not.  That's missing the point though, the point is that it IS all women.  ALL women in the US are growing up in an environment where this is commonplace behavior that happens to them every day.  Where I'd conservatively estimate that 80% (at least) of my women friends have been raped, sexually assaulted, or harassed.  Where I get called babe, honey, sweetie, and dear by men who don't know me.  Where my best friend's male coworkers put their hands on her leg, or got close enough to rub up against her in the copy room when there was plenty of room not to.  Where the idea is alive and well that women somehow invite rape when they choose to look pretty or wear a skirt or some makeup.  Where articles and news channels continue to use the phrase "non-consensual sex" when we all know what they are ACTUALLY talking about is rape.  Where a pedophile is in the senate, and a rapist is in the White House.

As soon as “not all men” gets thrown into conversation, it’s shutting down a valid conversation that could be used to make things better.  Here’s a good explanation of that:

“If I’m talking about rape statistics and you say, "not all men," we’re no longer talking about the horrifying amount of people raped. We’re talking about whether or not everyone is a rapist (spoiler alert, we both know they’re not). 

If I’m talking about catcalling and you say not all men, we stop talking about how men on the street feel entitled to talk about my body, we’re talking about how sometimes men that I walk past don’t harass me.  

It changes the conversation from something that is happening to women that shouldn’t be to the fact that not every man does this, so we shouldn’t be talking about it. 

Maybe not all men do these things, but enough do these things that I feel comfortable saying "men" when I talk about these issues. 

Because it’s not just a single man or a few men, it’s a lot of men. 

And it might not be every single one of you, but it’s enough that these are consistent problems. If there are just a few shitty men doing these things, catcalling and talking down to and assaulting women, why is it such a universal thing that most women can relate to? It might not be all men, but all women experience these kinds of things. 

If the first thing you choose to do when a woman talks about how men have treated her in the past and how it seems like a systematic problem is to say, "not all men," you’re enabling men to keep doing that. 

Saying "not all men" makes you as much a part of the problem as the men she’s talking about.” source

Part of the problem with that argument is that as a part of the group who engages in the coercive and inappropriate things, you can’t be the one deciding what is coercive or inappropriate.  Are you really asking to be recognized for the fact that you have managed to act like a decent person and NOT assault anyone?  That should just be a given.  You are a man living in a patriarchal society, so you’ve been told you’re right and you’re entitled.  This isn’t your fault.  It’s a function of our society.  But you can still recognize it as a problem, and if you don't do anything to change it or make it better for our kids, that part IS your fault.

"Some men rush in immediately to remind us all that not all men are rapists and harassers. And of course they aren't, but that doesn't change the fact that toxic masculinity exists, that rape culture exists, that we live in world where sexual harassment and abuse of women at the hands of men has been normalized. It doesn't matter that not all of them do — it matters that too many of them do. Why isn't that enough?" source (and an excellent article I'd highly recommend.)

Imagine if you are a woman who has been raped, and instead of hearing "I'm sorry that happened to you, we need to work to make sure that never happens again" what you hear is "Well, not ALL men are rapists."  How do you think that impacts the healing process? 

There is an inherent problem with your response to my anger and outrage and pain being that YOU have never done anything wrong or said anything inappropriate.  Aside from the fact that you are taking my feelings and making them about you instead, you are coming from the standpoint of being part of the group that has experienced privilege and entitlement, and benefited from the culture that tells boys and men that all of this is okay, even expected.  Boys just being boys. I don't think you've ever done anything on purpose, but I also think that it's not always easy for men to identify behavior that wasn't okay, especially when outside forces have been telling them it IS okay for their entire lives.

I have been in a similar position when a friend who is a person of color has told me that my comments were problematic.  I felt angry, and I felt accused and I felt like defending myself.  But do you know what?  It was not my place to do that.  It WAS my place to listen to her, to examine my behavior and attitudes and language, and to figure out how I could do better for people who are being discounted, marginalized and treated poorly instead of somehow making it about me. 

Now is not the time for men to speak and to cry out "not me!"  Now is the time for men to listen, and for good men to reply with "I hear you. I see you.  I believe you.  I support you."  To ask the questions that need to be asked - what can I do to cultivate change?

The mere fact that you chose to private message your feelings to me shows me that you didn’t feel comfortable saying this in a public comment, which is probably because you knew that it would not be well received.  Perhaps there is a reason for that, and that is something to think about.

I hope that you will take this not as an attack, but as an effort to explain to you why your response was problematic.  I hope that instead of choosing to get defensive, you will take this opportunity to do some reading and some thinking, educate yourself, and decide to offer your support to women instead of just defending yourself against an accusation that never happened.

Sincerely,

Rachael

Further Recommended Reading:

Not all men are guilty of violence and sexism – but all men have a responsibility to stop those crimes

#YesAllWomen

Time Person of the Year 2017: The Silence Breakers

Soulmates

People think that soulmates have something to do with romance, but I know they are wrong.

Since I was two years old, I have always had a best friend.  I have many friends, and I love them, but I always have that one person who is my anchor, my female confidant, my person.  My heart needs that friendship as deep as the ocean, the one that you can turn to without doubt or hesitation.  The one that you can turn to when you cry because you dropped the frozen pizza face down on the oven door, or when you need to send a series of 15 snaps ranting about something, and who will understand when you’re fine two minutes later.  The first phone call or text you make when grief hits and life stands still.  That person you text as you prepare to pull out of their driveway after a whole night together - "I miss you.  Why don't we live together??"

Our connection is inexplicable to me, some supernatural, sparkling path that leads from my heart to hers.  Sitting down to write this is hard, because for all of my vocabulary and for all of my experience with caging my emotions in words on a page… this one feels wild and un-containable.

Being in the same room is like the eye of a storm.  Life never stops around us, but for a few hours, it can’t touch us.  In your lifetime, you may meet a handful of people who nurture your spirit and fill your bucket so completely.  This is a cavernous love, the kind that you feel in your core, whose memories alone are enough to bring smiles and tears.  Hugging is dangerous because it’s like a living security blanket – the appropriate time for a “normal” hug passes in seconds and sometimes I just don’t want to let go.  I have met a lot of people in my life whose energy clashes with mine, and this is the opposite of that, currents that merge and play instead of colliding.

Neither of us remembers how we became friends.  We both remember the first time we met, but how we went from friendly hellos that night three years ago to where we are today is a mystery.  Surely it is part luck and part destiny, and part the encouragement and support of our wonderful partners who seem to recognize that we need each other.  In a way, I love the fact that I can remember a time without her, because it makes me excited for all the time we have left as friends.  She makes sense to me, and she Gets me in that big G way where you can be completely yourself and never wonder if they know what you mean or whether you’re joking.

We can cry together and laugh together, make the worst jokes and puns to each other, be terrible and amazing and witty and sometimes we don’t have to say anything at all.  We can tell our truths without judgement, knowing that there are not rules, no right way to get through the moments we need to get through.  When our hearts are breaking, we are each other’s caves – that warm, dark space you crawl into where the world can’t see you, but your people can.  Few people exist with whom you can seamlessly navigate the quiet buzz of grief intermingled with the humorous and mundane.  But that is life – and those relationships that mirror it feel the most natural of all.

I don’t mean for this to read like a love letter, but in some ways it is.  Because if I made a list of the people I love most in this world, she would be near the top. I imagine us growing old together in the same way I do with my heartmate, and think about how we will either be the Cool Grandmas or the Embarrassing Grandmas, but either way, it’s going to be fantastic. In my mind I know that we haven’t always known each other, but in my heart it seems impossible. 

Speaking of my heart, I tend to give out pieces of mine, which is a dangerous game.  On the other hand, when you find the right people to hold those pieces, the love you gain access to is almost infinite.  When the end of the hours that never seem like enough comes, I leave a piece of myself behind, and know that it is safe.

A New Idea

Dear Bill O'Reilly, Harvey Weinstein, et. al.,

It seems like you are really struggling to understand some things, so I just thought maybe I could help.  So here are some new ideas and tips, courtesy of women everywhere.

If you don't want to lose your job, if you don't want to be criticized by the media, if you don't want to lose your livelihood, if you don't want your family to be embarrassed, if you don't want to go to jail... don't fucking rape or sexually harass people.  It's really NOT THAT HARD to understand. 

If you don't want to be embarrassed or humiliated, don't do things that, when exposed, will EMBARRASS and HUMILIATE you.  You should be ashamed of yourselves.

Here is another tip, for anyone that's not sure.  There is no such thing as "non-consensual sex."  There is also no such thing as a "non-consensual sexual relationship."  There is sex, and there is rape.  There is a sexual relationship, and there is sexual harassment, abuse, and rape.  Rape is not sex.  Rape is a violent attack and a show of power.

Oh, here's another!  If you have to pay someone $32 million to not talk about something you did?  You probably SHOULD NOT HAVE done that thing.  You should probably not do that thing ever again.  You probably deserve to lose your job when people find out about this thing.

Rot in hell.

Rachael

Roller Coaster

Day 2.

I thought I was feeling better.  I did start to feel a tiny bit of hope today, I see friends who are doing things to make a difference.  I see people I respect and care about showing strength by saying they will concentrate on what they can do on a local level to make the world a better place, and how they will fight for what they believe in.  I have read Facebook posts spreading messages of support for all of the people who feel they are in danger now.

But that's the problem.  Not only do people feel they are in danger, they ARE in danger.  People I love, are in danger.  Terrible, awful things have been happening.  In direct response to this election, in direct response to the example the new president elect has set and the behaviors he has made okay.  In direct response to the leader of the free world being a racist, misogynistic, homophobic egomaniac.

High school students chanting "build the wall" in their cafeteria. 

Women being sexually assaulted (grabbed by the pussy - THANKS DONALD) because of a Bernie Sanders bumper sticker, or just because, well, they HAVE a pussy.

Racial slurs, everywhere.  Left in printed and handwritten notes on the windshields of cars, spray painted, shouted at people on college campuses, in subways, at gas stations, in schools.

Hijabs being ripped off the heads of people going about their business, while others must make a decision about whether to stand strong in their beliefs or leave the hijab at home because they don't feel safe.

A Latina college student coming back to a wall built across the dorm room by her roommate telling her to get ready because Trump is president now.

Countless people, including my friend's adopted/foster daughters, being told to "go back where they came from."

Incident after incident after heartbreaking, sickening incident.

So the tears come again, and I cover my face, turning away from my children because I can't begin to explain this, not today, not right this moment when I can barely manage to bring my own thoughts together.  I know it's absolutely important to talk to them about this stuff.  I want them to be on the right side of things, to know how to use their good hearts and kindness and privilege to protect and stand up for people. But right now I just want them to be kids for one more day and not understand the ugliness that's happening all around us.

What is this?  How can this be?  This is the worst part of humanity.  This is not who we are.

Please, don't let this be who we are.  

My heart feels rent into 1000 pieces.  Because it's not just adults, it's CHILDREN.  Kids who have learned such hatred and intolerance and now are physically and verbally assaulting other children.  This is not the world I want for my sons.  This is not the world I want for my nieces.

There is a part of me deep inside where a bubbling black hole of despair and confusion sits.  It comes to the surface in my tears, in the ache in my chest, in the way that every so often my stomach threatens to send back up everything I've eaten today.

All I can think is that somehow, we have to fix this, but I don't know how.

Hope Extinguished

My kids were late for school this morning, but I didn't care.  As I drove, the world around me was grey.  The sky is dreary today, the chill has returned to the air, and rain pelted the car as we made our way there.  My heart today matches the weather, grey and dull and muted.  A fog fills my mind and soul, and the future is impossible to see through the haze.

When I got home, I pulled out my computer.  I know I need to write.  This is how I process, and I can feel it in my bones, that I need to put words down.  But it's hard.  I don't know where to begin, and having a coherent thought that lasts more than a few sentences has proven more difficult than usual.  I suppose my mind is trying to process the feelings of disappointment and trauma and fear.

My heart is broken.  I have always believed that people are generally good, and I suppose that now is the time for my faith to be tested.  I see people try to be positive - the sun will come up tomorrow, we just have to keep trying and fighting.  Right now, though?  It just feels like the world has turned upside down.

The hope and excitement that I felt, that so many of my female friends felt, so many of my friends with daughters felt, has been extinguished in the worst way.  I know it's not forever, but it feels so incredibly bad right now.  This hope was squashed by the opposite of a feminist.  Instead of an experienced woman who would support equality and women's rights and the things we believe are fundamental, we are left with a misogynist who would like to repeal Roe v Wade, judges women by how attractive he finds them, and has openly based his opinion of female politicians on the fact that he finds them unattractive.

You can't tell me that this isn't setting this country back.  You can't tell me that this presidency isn't going to affect me negatively when the campaign alone has re-traumatized so many survivors of sexual assault and unwanted attention. We have gone from a person who, the day after a horrifically painful defeat, said "And to all of the little girls who are watching this, never doubt that you are valuable and powerful and deserving of every chance and opportunity in the world to pursue and achieve your own dreams." to a man who has said that if she wasn't his daughter, he'd totally bang his daughter because she's hot.

I have voted in 5 elections now, and never have I felt dread like I did yesterday.  Last night, my mom tried to rationalize that we've been through this before, and we'll get through it again.  But this time feels different.  This time feels personal.  Because this isn't just about policy or politics.  This is personal.  As of Jan 20, 2017 we will have a person in the White House who thinks that it is okay to force sexual attention on women.  We will have a person in the White House who would look at me and I am 100% certain would think I'm worth less because I have a vagina, would think I am worth less because I am overweight, would think that I am worth less because I am not on my own two feet right now and need to ask for help.  We will have a person in the White House who has been outspoken about not supporting LGBTQ rights.  We will have a person in the White House who thinks people of color are less important than white people, who has been openly racist in a myriad of ways.  This is not hyperbole.  These are facts.  I have no doubt in my heart that this man actually believes these things, and that feels like the most dangerous thing of all.  We spend so much time trying to instill in our children that bullying is not okay, and we have seen the absolutely real damage it causes.  Now, we will have a person in the White House who is one of the biggest bullies I've ever seen.  This is the person our children will see leading our nation.

I am in pain today.  I am feeling the fear and pain of my friends who are women, but even more for my friends who are non-cis or non-straight.  For my friends who are seriously talking about how they do not feel safe because of the person they love or because of the color of their skin. For my friends who feel self conscious just going about their business today because their are brown.  For the mothers are texting their daughters pleading with them not to wear their hijabs in public today. This is just so awful that I don't think I have the words to express it.

This feels different too because it is unprecedented.  When Bush 2 ran and won, it sucked.  But at least he seemed to care about saving face or appearing sane.  Donald Trump is an ego-maniacal billionaire who has stoked the fires of intolerance and hatred in this country to an astounding degree.  I'm not one to make exaggerated comparisons, but there is a REASON that he has been compared to Hitler by so many intelligent people.

What we need is love.  What we got is hate.  What we need is compassion.  What we got is divisiveness. What we need is acceptance.  What we got is ideas about deporting Muslims and a big wall between the US and Mexico.  What we need is to lift each other up, and what we got is a president who will step on anyone and everyone to get where he wants and do what he wants.

I haven't even come to a place yet where I move out of the fog of emotions and start thinking about politics.  About how the dollar started to lose value last night, about how other countries are going to see us now.  About how humiliating it feels to have a person leading our country who has no political or military experience, who is blatantly unqualified for the job.  About foreign policy and the economy and how that's going to affect us.  About funding for social programs, and the lack of a balance of power with conservatives in the majority in all three branches.  About health insurance and mental healthcare and marriage equality.  About the supreme court.

I don't know what to do.  I don't know how to process everything that I am feeling.  I don't think there is really anything I CAN do, other than try to get through today, one hour at a time, then try to get through the week, one day at a time.  I could probably keep writing and adding to this for hours, as the thoughts come tumbling in, but I need a break.  So I'm going to go and look for jobs to apply for, because while that's kind of depressing and painful, today it feels like the less frustrating option.  Besides, my tears have run out and need time to replenish themselves.

82 Things That Are Not Consent

1. Being pretty.
2. Being thin.
3. Being curvy.
4. Having large breasts.
5. Having a nice butt.
6. Having self-confidence.
7. Wearing tight clothes.
8. Wearing short skirts.
9. Wearing make-up.
10. Wearing no bra.
11. Showing cleavage.
12. Wearing heels. 
13. Wearing thigh high boots.
14. Wearing garter belts.
15. Wearing a bikini.
16. Wearing no clothes.
17. Taking sexy pictures.
18. Taking boudoir pictures.
19. Taking nude pictures.
20. Being a model.
21. Being a Sex worker.
22. Walking.
23. Walking with a bounce in your step.
24. Swaying your hips.
25. Walking in a bad part of town.
26. Dancing.
27. Dancing in a bar.
28. Dancing in a club.
29. Dancing on a pole in a strip club.
30. Dancing naked.
31. Buying condoms.
32. Carrying condoms.
33. Being on birth control.
34. Having slept with someone before.
35. Sleeping with someone else.
36. Sleeping with lots of someone elses.
37. Sleeping in your own bed.
38. Sleeping in a friend's bed.
39. Sleeping in a strangers bed.
40. Really, any kind of sleeping. 
41. Being on a college campus.
42. Being in the military.
43. Being in a foreign country.
44. Being in the city.
45. Speaking to a man.
46. Speaking to a woman.
47. Speaking to an athlete.
48. Dating an athlete.
49. Liking parties.
50. Going to a party.
51. Going to a frat party.
52. Going to a dungeon party.
53. Going to a swingers party.
54. Drinking drinks at a party.
55. Being alone at a party.
56. Passing out at a party.
57. Drinking alcohol.
58. Getting drunk.
59. Taking drugs.
60. Flirting.
61. Laughing at someone's jokes.
62. Being sex positive.
63. Being kinky.
64. Being outspoken.
65. Being promiscuous.
66. Going on a date with someone.
67. Letting someone buy your dinner.
68. Letting someone buy you a drink.
69. Letting someone pay for a cab.
70. Accepting a gift from someone.
71. Chatting with someone online.
72. Being on a dating website.
73. Giving someone your phone number.
74. Kissing someone.
75. Going to someone's house.
76. Being alone with someone.
77. Being quiet.
78. Saying "I'm not sure."
79. Saying "Not tonight."
80. Saying "Stop."
81. Saying "No."
82. Saying NOTHING.

Just seemed like some people were confused, so I thought I could help.

The Fattest Girl in the Room

I am often the fattest girl in the room.

I am the fattest one in my group of girlfriends.  I am the fattest one in my immediate family.  I am the fattest one in my office at work.

There are days when I look in the mirror, and I wonder what the big deal is.  I look at myself, and I see a human being, a woman, perhaps taking up a bit more space than average, but in the grand scheme of things, not that large.  Some days I look in the mirror and think, I'm just fine.  Some days I even like myself.

Other days I look in the mirror and all I see is that I am not good enough.  That I am too fat.  That there are places on my body that roll and drape and pillow and dimple where they should be flat and smooth and tight.  My hips are wide, my ass is expansive.  My breasts are bigger than they used to be because I've gained weight, and I like that part, but I don't like so much that if I lean back just right I can feel a part of my back touching another part of my back that I didn't used to be able to feel.

There are days when I put on a pretty outfit, where I find a shirt that flatters me, and I feel confident, and pretty.  I find a shirt that matches my eyes and it looks so good the way it cinches in just below my bust then flows out, not clinging to the parts of me I don't want to highlight.  I put on earrings and brush my hair, and feel like I might be able to take on anything.

Other days I try to go clothes shopping and hours and hours of looking and trying results only in feeling upset and frustrated because clothes just are not made for this body.  Yes, there are "plus sized" clothes out there.  I am 5'7" tall, and when I go to Lane Bryant, most of the pants are still 2-3 inches too long for me.  So... am I supposed to be an amazon?  Because last time I checked the average height for women was like... 5'4"?  Most of the shirts and dresses available there gape in the chest, because even with the weight I've gained, I am usually still a C cup, definitely no bigger than a D.

Plus size clothes are made for women who are proportionately larger.  Women who are 6 feet tall and have a 45 inch waist, but not for women like me.  There are few clothes out there made for a woman with pretty shoulders and thin ankles, but bulky thighs, wide hips and ass, and a lot of weight on the front.  I carry much of my weight around my middle, especially in the front.

I look in the mirror, and I do not think I am that far outside the norm, so I wonder, WHERE are the clothes for women like me?

Do you want to know a secret?  I am more comfortable naked than I am clothed.  I have been naked in front of men, and friends, and people who I don't know well, and felt completely at ease.  When I am naked, all I am is myself.  My shape is not WRONG when I am naked, it just is how it is.  When I am naked, I feel normal.  When I try to squash and push and shove myself into clothes not made for me, it can be hard to feel even a semblance of normal.

Some days I try to get dressed and put on two or three outfits before I settle and feel comfortable and like I can be seen in public.

I have stretch marks on my stomach, my arms, and my breasts.  Some days, I run my fingers over that shiny soft skin and I kind of like how it feels.  When you gain and lose 50 pounds or more multiple times in relatively short time periods, these squiggly reminders are inevitable.  Some women call them tiger stripes.  Mostly women who are thinner than me, I think, and see their stretch marks as their largest imperfection.

There are days when I feel beautiful.  Where my boyfriend calls me his pretty girl, or one of my friends tells me how lovely I am, or where I look in the mirror and see my happiness written on my skin like a beautiful song.

Other days, I don't think men find me desirable, or the ones who do fetishize me, ask me if I am a BBW.  I am not a BBW, I am just a W.  If you think I'm beautiful, maybe I'm a BW, but why do you need to have a term for women who are larger?  It makes me feel like you ONLY like me because I am fat.  Or, they tell me that I'm not fat, which is just as bad, because come on, dude.  I am fat, and being fat and beautiful don't have to be mutually exclusive... right?

There are days when I rage, inside my head.  I think, who are all of these people to tell me that I am not worth looking at?  Who are they to tell me that I am not good enough, that I am not enough? Who are they to tell me that I don't have just as much right to happiness as they do? Fuck them!  I am a human being, a beautiful one, inside and out.  I am pretty, and smart, and worth looking at, worth loving.

Other days, I just hate being the fattest one in the room.  Knowing that other women see me and feel relieved because they aren't the fat one.  Seeing things online or in magazines or just around out in the world that make it very clear to me that my fat, the shape of me, makes me a BURDEN on society.  There are days that I know that people look at me as the problem. People look at me, and think I deserve less because I am... lazy. Ugly. Slobby. Not trying. Not caring. Fat. Obese. Disgusting.  These days, it is perfectly clear to me that I am doing something to other people just by existing in this body.

There are days when I think about losing weight, yes.  There are days when I think of joining the YMCA and counting calories, and the fact that I haven't stepped on a scale in probably two months because my highest weight in the past was 267, and I'm about 99% sure that isn't actually true anymore.

Other days I think about how it has always been extremely hard for me to lose weight because of various metabolic issues I have, and it makes me feel defeated before I even begin.  I worry that working out a few times a week and cutting back on calories wouldn't even make a dent.  I'm not sure I would handle the disappointment very well.  It's really hard to try so hard, and put so much effort into something, for so little result.  Some days I think about how I am not behind in my bills, and maybe I should just do Medifast for a couple of months and lose weight that way.  It doesn't seem like the healthiest way, but at the same time, I know I could DO it.

There are days when I tell myself that if I lose weight it will be for me.  To feel more comfortable, to be able to do things that I want to do that require more flexibility and stamina.

Other days, I am angry.  I don't know if I want to lose weight at all.  I wonder if I only think those things because I am SUPPOSED to want to be skinnier and better.  I am angry that fat shaming is a thing, and if you don't think it's a thing, you're probably not fat.  It's pervasive, and insulting, and minimizing.  I wonder if I only think about being less fat because people have told me, to my face, or just through action and culture, that I am NOT GOOD ENOUGH.  That if I am fat, I should WANT to lose weight, because being skinnier is being better.  I am angry that I am judged, and I want to throw it in their faces, and say, no, I will not change myself for you.  I am happy.

But, the fattest girl in the room is not the happy girl.  She is not the one who glows and laughs and smiles.  She is not the one who gets the boy in the end.  She is not the one with the high powered job and nice car and fashionable clothes.

I am not supposed to be happy.  I am the fattest girl in the room.