Today, I am sprinkling some of Sark's thoughts among mine.
Today, as I have been for some time now, I am frustrated. The men in my life are not getting along, and I have been doing what I can to hold things together. It's not in my power.
(page 53) “Explore healing options. If you feel unloved, look to yourself for love. Whatever the issues are, ultimately self-love and acceptance are the answers.
“We all have tiny, mis-shapen parts of ourselves that we hide away and don’t love. Turn towards those parts and cradle them.”
Perhaps it is passive-aggressive that I write this. Perhaps it is cruel. Perhaps the fallout will be harsh.
(page 90) “Nobody tells us as little girls that we may fall in love and have moments of hating our beloved, or have ridiculous arguments at 2 am over something neither person understands.
“My friend John calls it, ‘the nuance of annoyance.’ After you’ve been with someone for awhile, all the tiny and large things they do that annoy you, come forward.
“We are not taught something I call ‘intimate negotiations.’ It involves adjustment, compromise, integrity, truthtelling, options, willingness, and heart-full listening.”
But I am at the end of my rope, and my only option now is to let go. I can't keep holding on. It's not helping anyone that I am, least of all me.
What does letting go mean? Like most other meaningful questions of late: I don't know.
My counselor tells me that the only true thing we can control in this world, and even that only in degrees sometimes, is how we respond. The way we feel, to a degree, is a choice. My choice not to be numb, to seek help in navigating my memories and feelings, has led to depression. I have chosen to fight, and the fight is mostly in fancy.
This week I started out unable to visualize, to seeing that I was washed away at sea, to finding a boat, and then oars. And now I'm in the stuff of dreams: an emotional forest. I have seen both images of Shrek, where Fiona takes on bandits, and Snow White, where when she's calm, all the forest is her friend, but when she's scared, the forest is instead her enemy.
And I don't want the forest to be my enemy, so I'm watching closely.
(page 83) “Creative exploration will always result in mistakes, and if we fear those, we risk paralysis and a numb ‘good girl’ mentality.”
I let go of my rope, and I continue to explore. Where that will lead me, I don't know. I did realize that I wasn't dangling from the rope, poised to fall. Instead, I am deeper in my emotional landscape than the rope allowed.
I'll figure it out eventually.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
In the Forest
Today I'm exploring Starhawk's The Spiral Dance.
(page 32) “All began in love; all seeks to return to love. Love is the law, the teacher of wisdom, and the great revealer of mysteries.”
Today I am once again journeying through my emotional landscape. It's quite big, and I'm beginning to think Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself" could also be an appropriate frame.
Today I am walking through the forest. I started out on a tiny beach, out of the rough seas at last. I think I'm on a peninsula, that this will eventually lead back to my castle, but I'm not completely sure.
All I know is that I'm scared to traverse the forest. When I chose to explore my forest today, my stomach tightened into a knot, and I knew suddenly that my nightmares form there. And then I thought that that was silly, because I usually enjoy my nightmares. My nightmares rarely scare me.
But I'm scared of the forest. I realized that I should take as many of me as I could. The first ones forwards were wearing white and yellow. Yellow? Is yellow fear or jealousy? I'm not sure yet. And then royal blue, deep emerald green, fuchsia, royal purple, and black and gray stepped forward.
We've been walking, and it reminds me of the forest Fiona and Shrek wandered, but I also know that the forests of Snow White will be there too. And with so many mes, I'm not afraid anymore. Mint green and pale pink have also shown up, and now orange.
(page 24) “The image of the Goddess inspires women to see ourselves as divine, our bodies as sacred, the changing phases of our lives as holy, our aggression as healthy, our anger as purifying, and our power to nurture and create, but also to limit and destroy when necessary, as the very source that sustains all life—we can move beyond narrow, constricting roles and become whole.”
I'm worried, not about the forest, but about facing it alone. I'm glad I have me for company.
And I'm not sure exactly what the forest signifies. I've realized that it is a sacred place, that it can turn into a maze, that it can be nurturing but also destructive. That I could become lost in the shadows and the brush, and the close-growing trees. And so many varieties of trees there are!
I like my forest, but I haven't yet learned its secrets.
(page 32) “All began in love; all seeks to return to love. Love is the law, the teacher of wisdom, and the great revealer of mysteries.”
Today I am once again journeying through my emotional landscape. It's quite big, and I'm beginning to think Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself" could also be an appropriate frame.
Today I am walking through the forest. I started out on a tiny beach, out of the rough seas at last. I think I'm on a peninsula, that this will eventually lead back to my castle, but I'm not completely sure.
All I know is that I'm scared to traverse the forest. When I chose to explore my forest today, my stomach tightened into a knot, and I knew suddenly that my nightmares form there. And then I thought that that was silly, because I usually enjoy my nightmares. My nightmares rarely scare me.
But I'm scared of the forest. I realized that I should take as many of me as I could. The first ones forwards were wearing white and yellow. Yellow? Is yellow fear or jealousy? I'm not sure yet. And then royal blue, deep emerald green, fuchsia, royal purple, and black and gray stepped forward.
We've been walking, and it reminds me of the forest Fiona and Shrek wandered, but I also know that the forests of Snow White will be there too. And with so many mes, I'm not afraid anymore. Mint green and pale pink have also shown up, and now orange.
(page 24) “The image of the Goddess inspires women to see ourselves as divine, our bodies as sacred, the changing phases of our lives as holy, our aggression as healthy, our anger as purifying, and our power to nurture and create, but also to limit and destroy when necessary, as the very source that sustains all life—we can move beyond narrow, constricting roles and become whole.”
I'm worried, not about the forest, but about facing it alone. I'm glad I have me for company.
And I'm not sure exactly what the forest signifies. I've realized that it is a sacred place, that it can turn into a maze, that it can be nurturing but also destructive. That I could become lost in the shadows and the brush, and the close-growing trees. And so many varieties of trees there are!
I like my forest, but I haven't yet learned its secrets.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
On a Rowboat
Responding to: “An Old Enemy in a New Outfit: How Date Rape Became Gray Rape and Why it Matters” by Lisa Jervis.
Today is a better day than yesterday, and so I'm tackling a memory I've not wanted to tackle. But in the rough seas of my emotions, today I remembered to imagine a rowboat, and then I realized I needed oars, and the Room of Requirement in my soul provided them. Some people would believe that I have called out to a higher power, but whose metaphor is it? I've caught a glimpse of land, and I just have to make my way there. Yesterday it was all I could do to tread water, and all I saw was darkness.
(page 163) [Gray rape is] “…a disgusting, destructive, victim blaming cultural construct that encourages women to hate ourselves, doubt ourselves, blame ourselves, take responsibility for other people’s criminal behavior, fear our own desires, and distrust our own instincts.”
Once upon a time in my late teens/early twenties, I read an essay that described the trauma of another teen girl who had frozen up and not resisted the advances of some boy. She appealed to an older woman, asking for understanding that the girl had been raped, that the memories were crushing her, and the older woman said "you raped yourself."
(page 166) “This is how the language of ‘gray rape’ accelerates the victim-blaming cycle. The very concept the phrase relies on—that a supposed gray area of communication or intoxications means that you cannot trust your own memories, instincts, or experiences—is designed to exploit the stigma and fear that fuel the guilt, shame, and denial.”
And while I was reeling, trying to understand what had happened between me and JRS, I started wondering if I too had raped myself. Could it all have been some huge, almost cultural, misunderstanding? Was it only rape in my own mind, and I the perpetrator? And, because of that essay and the comments of a few others, that's what I chalked it up to: my failing.
(page 164) “…everything about so-called gray rape seems awfully familiar: The experience is confusing, makes victims feel guilty and ashamed, and leaves them thinking they could and should have done something differently to prevent the attack.”
Part of my misunderstanding is that I had enjoyed kissing and fondling with JRS before he bulldozed me into sex--sex I wasn't ready for, sex I didn't want.
(page 169) “But here’s the thing: flirting and hook-ups do not cause rape. Rapists and the culture that creates them—with its mixed messages and double standards—cause rape.”
It took more than a year to come to terms with my experience and to move past it. I buried the experience, never quite satisfied with it. I had an easier time recognizing what MZ did as rape. After all, I said no over and over and over with him. He just didn't listen.
(page 164) “…any therapist, sexual assault counselor, rape survivor, or close friend or family member of a rape survivor knows that feelings of guilt, shame, self-blame, and denial are common almost to the point of inevitability, no matter what the circumstances of the crime.”
But I didn't resist with JRS. How could it be rape? At least, that's what I thought at the time.
(page 165) “When the culture teaches you that lack of consent is measured only in active, physical resistance, when your actions are questioned if your date refuses to respect ‘no,’ you’re going to have a hard time calling rape by its real name.”
I've unburied those memories, and I am ashamed that I blamed myself. I betrayed myself in framing JRS as a colossal misunderstanding. It was JRS who refused to pull his head out of his ass and recognize that something was horribly wrong--that I was not willing, that I was not cooperating, that I was just enduring, that I was frozen, that his attention was not welcome.
(page 166) “Despite gray rape proponents’ eagerness to use their phenomenon to shift responsibility from rapists to victims, the fact remains that the reluctance in question is a symptom of the very social disease—sexism, misogyny, men’s entitlement to women’s bodies, and the idea that sexual interaction involves women’s guarding the gates to the land of the sexual goodies as men try to cajole, manipulate, and force their way in—that enables rape in the first place.”
JRS raped me. I did not rape myself.
And I've filed that essay into the "WTF? Lies people say to enable rapists" drawer in my head.
Today is a better day than yesterday, and so I'm tackling a memory I've not wanted to tackle. But in the rough seas of my emotions, today I remembered to imagine a rowboat, and then I realized I needed oars, and the Room of Requirement in my soul provided them. Some people would believe that I have called out to a higher power, but whose metaphor is it? I've caught a glimpse of land, and I just have to make my way there. Yesterday it was all I could do to tread water, and all I saw was darkness.
(page 163) [Gray rape is] “…a disgusting, destructive, victim blaming cultural construct that encourages women to hate ourselves, doubt ourselves, blame ourselves, take responsibility for other people’s criminal behavior, fear our own desires, and distrust our own instincts.”
Once upon a time in my late teens/early twenties, I read an essay that described the trauma of another teen girl who had frozen up and not resisted the advances of some boy. She appealed to an older woman, asking for understanding that the girl had been raped, that the memories were crushing her, and the older woman said "you raped yourself."
(page 166) “This is how the language of ‘gray rape’ accelerates the victim-blaming cycle. The very concept the phrase relies on—that a supposed gray area of communication or intoxications means that you cannot trust your own memories, instincts, or experiences—is designed to exploit the stigma and fear that fuel the guilt, shame, and denial.”
And while I was reeling, trying to understand what had happened between me and JRS, I started wondering if I too had raped myself. Could it all have been some huge, almost cultural, misunderstanding? Was it only rape in my own mind, and I the perpetrator? And, because of that essay and the comments of a few others, that's what I chalked it up to: my failing.
(page 164) “…everything about so-called gray rape seems awfully familiar: The experience is confusing, makes victims feel guilty and ashamed, and leaves them thinking they could and should have done something differently to prevent the attack.”
Part of my misunderstanding is that I had enjoyed kissing and fondling with JRS before he bulldozed me into sex--sex I wasn't ready for, sex I didn't want.
(page 169) “But here’s the thing: flirting and hook-ups do not cause rape. Rapists and the culture that creates them—with its mixed messages and double standards—cause rape.”
It took more than a year to come to terms with my experience and to move past it. I buried the experience, never quite satisfied with it. I had an easier time recognizing what MZ did as rape. After all, I said no over and over and over with him. He just didn't listen.
(page 164) “…any therapist, sexual assault counselor, rape survivor, or close friend or family member of a rape survivor knows that feelings of guilt, shame, self-blame, and denial are common almost to the point of inevitability, no matter what the circumstances of the crime.”
But I didn't resist with JRS. How could it be rape? At least, that's what I thought at the time.
(page 165) “When the culture teaches you that lack of consent is measured only in active, physical resistance, when your actions are questioned if your date refuses to respect ‘no,’ you’re going to have a hard time calling rape by its real name.”
I've unburied those memories, and I am ashamed that I blamed myself. I betrayed myself in framing JRS as a colossal misunderstanding. It was JRS who refused to pull his head out of his ass and recognize that something was horribly wrong--that I was not willing, that I was not cooperating, that I was just enduring, that I was frozen, that his attention was not welcome.
(page 166) “Despite gray rape proponents’ eagerness to use their phenomenon to shift responsibility from rapists to victims, the fact remains that the reluctance in question is a symptom of the very social disease—sexism, misogyny, men’s entitlement to women’s bodies, and the idea that sexual interaction involves women’s guarding the gates to the land of the sexual goodies as men try to cajole, manipulate, and force their way in—that enables rape in the first place.”
JRS raped me. I did not rape myself.
And I've filed that essay into the "WTF? Lies people say to enable rapists" drawer in my head.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Guilt
Today I feel like concentrating on another Osho Zen Tarot card: Guilt.
Guilt: “We all long to be better people—more loving, more aware, more true to ourselves. But when we punish ourselves for our failures by feeling guilty, we can get locked into a cycle of despair and hopelessness that robs us of all clarity about ourselves and the situations we encounter.”
I have a tendency towards guilt. Guilt can be a blight for joy.
I enjoy sex, but when I feel guilt about sex, it feels less wholesome. Sex is not healing when it has guilt in the mix. When I'm immersed in guilt, I want sex less.
I want sex that feels like my soul is flying, a butterfly. I want sex that makes me forget my name, forget anything but skin on skin, heat, passion. I want sex that makes me feel glorious, powerful, radiant. And guilt will block it all.
Whenever I worry that my marriage or my lover's marriage has hit a rough patch, whenever I worry whether I'm paying enough or not enough or too much attention to one person and not enough or too much to another, then I feel guilty.
Right now, I am wrapped up in guilt, not just over my sex life, but as to whether I'm a good enough parent, whether I'm providing enough or doing enough for my family, whether I'm selfish--that word such a trap for good girls like me.
Part of me wants to be quite matter-of-fact and open about the depression I'm mired in, another part thinks that it'll be too much hassle, another part thinks I shouldn't make people uncomfortable by being open.
And yet I'm not willing to tiptoe through life so as not make others uncomfortable. If my depression is too much for the masses, then the masses give themselves only false comfort.
I guess I need to figure out what I can and what I cannot live with. And also what I can and cannot live without.
I'm tired of feeling guilty. And I'm working to find a new way.
Guilt: “We all long to be better people—more loving, more aware, more true to ourselves. But when we punish ourselves for our failures by feeling guilty, we can get locked into a cycle of despair and hopelessness that robs us of all clarity about ourselves and the situations we encounter.”
I have a tendency towards guilt. Guilt can be a blight for joy.
I enjoy sex, but when I feel guilt about sex, it feels less wholesome. Sex is not healing when it has guilt in the mix. When I'm immersed in guilt, I want sex less.
I want sex that feels like my soul is flying, a butterfly. I want sex that makes me forget my name, forget anything but skin on skin, heat, passion. I want sex that makes me feel glorious, powerful, radiant. And guilt will block it all.
Whenever I worry that my marriage or my lover's marriage has hit a rough patch, whenever I worry whether I'm paying enough or not enough or too much attention to one person and not enough or too much to another, then I feel guilty.
Right now, I am wrapped up in guilt, not just over my sex life, but as to whether I'm a good enough parent, whether I'm providing enough or doing enough for my family, whether I'm selfish--that word such a trap for good girls like me.
Part of me wants to be quite matter-of-fact and open about the depression I'm mired in, another part thinks that it'll be too much hassle, another part thinks I shouldn't make people uncomfortable by being open.
And yet I'm not willing to tiptoe through life so as not make others uncomfortable. If my depression is too much for the masses, then the masses give themselves only false comfort.
I guess I need to figure out what I can and what I cannot live with. And also what I can and cannot live without.
I'm tired of feeling guilty. And I'm working to find a new way.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Daily Routines
Responding to "What Feminism Means to Me" by Vivian Gornick.
Of late, I've been trying to be content with what I have, with my family, with my home, with my friends, with my husband. I've been searching for meaning in my daily routines, as depression pours down on me.
Sadly, I think my mother's brother's death was the last straw that led me back on the path of major depression.
Happily, I am ready to deconstruct and heal myself from the inside out.
(page 372) "It remains one of life's great mysteries--in politics as well as in love--readiness: that moment when the elements are sufficiently fused to galvanize inner change. If you are one who responds to the moment you can never really explain, you can only describe what it felt like."
There are many fronts on which I am looking for peace. I am looking for peace within me, to accept who I am (who I've always been, but buried because others may not like me), to accept the partnership and relationship between me and my husband, to not overwhelm my children with my persnickety demands, to have friendships that aren't dependent upon my being happy.
And I know somehow that happiness can't be more than a side effect of my inner journey: to make it the point is like making orgasm the point of sex, dooming yourself to failure.
My journey has to be about reintegrating the rainbow of mes wandering around inside my inner landscape and learning how to navigate my world.
(page 375) "I understood that I would have to face alone the very thing my politics had been preparing me for all along. I saw what visionary feminists had seen for two hundred years: the power over one's own life comes only through the steady command of one's own thought."
My happiness can't come from without. It has to come from within. I have to chase away the doubts, the resentments, the loneliness, the fear, all the emotions that could block me from happiness, and I have to do that constantly (or, more accurate, recognize the negative emotion, study where it's coming from, and find a way to calm it). No one else can do it for me, it's as ridiculous as asking someone to go to the bathroom for you.
(page 376) "The daily effort became a kind of connection for me. The sense of connection was strengthening. Strength began to make me feel independent. Independence allowed me to think. When I thought, I was less alone. I had myself for company. I had myself, period. I felt the power of renewed wisdom."
Earlier this school year, I felt lonely on the mornings when it was just me and the baby. Lately, as I've stated before, I've taken a Zen approach to some of the daily chores, especially laundry, and doing the chores, blogging, and thinking have all helped me overcome the despair I might find when lonely. My contentment with being alone in turn makes it easier to spend time with others. I no longer depend on them to stop my loneliness. Because I don't expect them to rescue me from myself, I can appreciate others more for who they are.
(page 376) "...life is an endlessness of 'remembering' what I already knew."
I have already overcome depression, because my depression came in cycles throughout my life. I know I will heal. I know I will overcome this again. I just need to remember how. I'm on my way.
There is another thing I know, that makes this depression different. I have not had the suicide ideation and urges that came with my previous depressions. I am not plotting the death of anyone close to me either. I knew (somewhere, somehow) that I didn't have to go down that path. I remembered not to take it.
Of late, I've been trying to be content with what I have, with my family, with my home, with my friends, with my husband. I've been searching for meaning in my daily routines, as depression pours down on me.
Sadly, I think my mother's brother's death was the last straw that led me back on the path of major depression.
Happily, I am ready to deconstruct and heal myself from the inside out.
(page 372) "It remains one of life's great mysteries--in politics as well as in love--readiness: that moment when the elements are sufficiently fused to galvanize inner change. If you are one who responds to the moment you can never really explain, you can only describe what it felt like."
There are many fronts on which I am looking for peace. I am looking for peace within me, to accept who I am (who I've always been, but buried because others may not like me), to accept the partnership and relationship between me and my husband, to not overwhelm my children with my persnickety demands, to have friendships that aren't dependent upon my being happy.
And I know somehow that happiness can't be more than a side effect of my inner journey: to make it the point is like making orgasm the point of sex, dooming yourself to failure.
My journey has to be about reintegrating the rainbow of mes wandering around inside my inner landscape and learning how to navigate my world.
(page 375) "I understood that I would have to face alone the very thing my politics had been preparing me for all along. I saw what visionary feminists had seen for two hundred years: the power over one's own life comes only through the steady command of one's own thought."
My happiness can't come from without. It has to come from within. I have to chase away the doubts, the resentments, the loneliness, the fear, all the emotions that could block me from happiness, and I have to do that constantly (or, more accurate, recognize the negative emotion, study where it's coming from, and find a way to calm it). No one else can do it for me, it's as ridiculous as asking someone to go to the bathroom for you.
(page 376) "The daily effort became a kind of connection for me. The sense of connection was strengthening. Strength began to make me feel independent. Independence allowed me to think. When I thought, I was less alone. I had myself for company. I had myself, period. I felt the power of renewed wisdom."
Earlier this school year, I felt lonely on the mornings when it was just me and the baby. Lately, as I've stated before, I've taken a Zen approach to some of the daily chores, especially laundry, and doing the chores, blogging, and thinking have all helped me overcome the despair I might find when lonely. My contentment with being alone in turn makes it easier to spend time with others. I no longer depend on them to stop my loneliness. Because I don't expect them to rescue me from myself, I can appreciate others more for who they are.
(page 376) "...life is an endlessness of 'remembering' what I already knew."
I have already overcome depression, because my depression came in cycles throughout my life. I know I will heal. I know I will overcome this again. I just need to remember how. I'm on my way.
There is another thing I know, that makes this depression different. I have not had the suicide ideation and urges that came with my previous depressions. I am not plotting the death of anyone close to me either. I knew (somewhere, somehow) that I didn't have to go down that path. I remembered not to take it.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
On Self-Respect
Responding to "A Year of Living Dangerously: 1968" by Dana Densmore.
I've been exploring the reaches of my mind and emotions, rethinking limits, and doing my best to love and respect myself. Unless I'm able to love and respect myself, I won't be able to love and respect anyone else.
(page 83) "As I saw then, and still do, the thing we want as women is full humanity, not male privileges and female privileges. And it has always seemed to me... that full humanity is about deciding what one wants for oneself out of life, and then working to make one's choices a reality. Until we are fully self-respecting, how can we really demand respect from others?... But no one, male or female, will be likely to truly respect anyone who does not respect herself. Hence I thought we must learn to respect ourselves by giving up passivity, by resisting the stunting and crushing of our wills and aspirations, by taking action and taking risks, by rejecting excuses about the barriers to women, substituting a determination to know down, climb over, or slip around any obstacles.... living dangerously."
And I am indeed living dangerously at the moment. As I struggle to keep myself afloat amid the chaos of depression, as I struggle with reconciling and rethinking and reopening old wounds and hurts, as I struggle to be at peace with who I am rather than the idealized version of me that I wish to be, I find myself unable or perhaps unwilling to reach out to anyone else. So I risk losing relationships that are important to me, because I am rebuilding myself.
Sometimes it may seem like I don't care. It's far more complicated than that. I can't really explain myself at all on this point, just trust that I do care, whether I show it or not.
And as I progress through renewing myself, I have an obligation to stop unhealthy patterns that I unconsciously repeat with my children. My children rely on me to model how to interact with the world, and I need to remember that.
I'm not done responding to Dana Densmore's essay. This is just the beginning. This is just one piece. There is so much more to explore, but I'm not ready yet.
But I'm sure she'd appreciate that I have begun.
I've been exploring the reaches of my mind and emotions, rethinking limits, and doing my best to love and respect myself. Unless I'm able to love and respect myself, I won't be able to love and respect anyone else.
(page 83) "As I saw then, and still do, the thing we want as women is full humanity, not male privileges and female privileges. And it has always seemed to me... that full humanity is about deciding what one wants for oneself out of life, and then working to make one's choices a reality. Until we are fully self-respecting, how can we really demand respect from others?... But no one, male or female, will be likely to truly respect anyone who does not respect herself. Hence I thought we must learn to respect ourselves by giving up passivity, by resisting the stunting and crushing of our wills and aspirations, by taking action and taking risks, by rejecting excuses about the barriers to women, substituting a determination to know down, climb over, or slip around any obstacles.... living dangerously."
And I am indeed living dangerously at the moment. As I struggle to keep myself afloat amid the chaos of depression, as I struggle with reconciling and rethinking and reopening old wounds and hurts, as I struggle to be at peace with who I am rather than the idealized version of me that I wish to be, I find myself unable or perhaps unwilling to reach out to anyone else. So I risk losing relationships that are important to me, because I am rebuilding myself.
Sometimes it may seem like I don't care. It's far more complicated than that. I can't really explain myself at all on this point, just trust that I do care, whether I show it or not.
And as I progress through renewing myself, I have an obligation to stop unhealthy patterns that I unconsciously repeat with my children. My children rely on me to model how to interact with the world, and I need to remember that.
I'm not done responding to Dana Densmore's essay. This is just the beginning. This is just one piece. There is so much more to explore, but I'm not ready yet.
But I'm sure she'd appreciate that I have begun.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Depression and Me
Responding to "Mental Illness: The Stigma of Silence" by Glenn Close.
I didn't originally plan to talk about mental illness in this blog, but to not do so is to silence a piece of me. I have struggled with depression off and on for the vast majority of my life. My mother was the first to tell me that depression runs in my family, that her mother suffered, that her brother committed suicide, that her sister had trouble participating in life. And yet, when she discovered that I too struggle from it, her first response was to silence me: what would people think? Oh, the stigma.
I really don't care what people think. I came out to my friends and a couple professors as depressed, and while a few stated that they thought differently of me because of that, they didn't stop being my friend.
"What mental health needs is more sunlight, more candor, more unashamed conversation about illnesses that affect not only individuals, but their families as well. Our society ought to understand that many people with mental illness, given the right treatment, can be full participants in our society."
When I have difficulty functioning, I rely more on my husband and children to pick up the slack. I have sought treatment to stabilize my moods, which clears my thinking (it gets foggy, and I have difficulty thinking things through), and gives me the energy to survive.
This is a process. I don't know how I managed to convince myself that I could explore the reaches of my psyche without once again unleashing depression, how I could possibly talk about the experiences of my life without discussing depression.
Depression is part of me. But it doesn't have to define me. I don't have to let it hinder me.
I didn't originally plan to talk about mental illness in this blog, but to not do so is to silence a piece of me. I have struggled with depression off and on for the vast majority of my life. My mother was the first to tell me that depression runs in my family, that her mother suffered, that her brother committed suicide, that her sister had trouble participating in life. And yet, when she discovered that I too struggle from it, her first response was to silence me: what would people think? Oh, the stigma.
I really don't care what people think. I came out to my friends and a couple professors as depressed, and while a few stated that they thought differently of me because of that, they didn't stop being my friend.
"What mental health needs is more sunlight, more candor, more unashamed conversation about illnesses that affect not only individuals, but their families as well. Our society ought to understand that many people with mental illness, given the right treatment, can be full participants in our society."
When I have difficulty functioning, I rely more on my husband and children to pick up the slack. I have sought treatment to stabilize my moods, which clears my thinking (it gets foggy, and I have difficulty thinking things through), and gives me the energy to survive.
This is a process. I don't know how I managed to convince myself that I could explore the reaches of my psyche without once again unleashing depression, how I could possibly talk about the experiences of my life without discussing depression.
Depression is part of me. But it doesn't have to define me. I don't have to let it hinder me.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Turning Rainbows Into Tie-Dye
Today I'm wandering my psyche and quoting Sark.
(page 54) “Sometimes we are stuck in a maze of our own making and could use a helping hand.”
Last night I was at work when depression caught up with me. Nothing and Everything flooded me in a deluge of emotion like bricks, and I was miserable. I haven't felt that down in over a decade, right before my last suicide attempt. It was awful.
I'm still not sure what exactly triggered it. I thought that when I went home I'd either wake up my husband and cry, or that I'd call a suicide hotline.
(page 36) “Women’s hearts are big enough to bear the pain, peer into the dark, and do the work.
“We are led into darkness anyway by events of life: death, loss, and pain. We cannot pretend that we don’t live with the darkness, or smile it away or think somehow we will escape.
“There is no need to escape!”
Somehow last night I was able to turn in all around all by myself. I grabbed back the reins of my mood, remembering my counselor responding to my description of my emotional landscape, that I was able to save myself. So I did.
I started wondering what color my misery was. I wondered if it was blue. And I wondered what color my anger was, and I got angry. I dug myself out of the wet bricks with anger. And I let anger fuel me into purpose. I did my job with purpose, focusing on getting everything done that I needed done.
After a storm, there is often a rainbow, if you look away from the sun. I looked for the rainbow, and then I used that to make tie-dye banners to decorate the castle of my soul.
I also stayed up even later than I intended, talking about what happened with my husband, who loves me enough to talk about Everything and Nothing even though he had to get up in a couple of hours.
I am in a more peaceful place today, but very tired.
(page 54) “Sometimes we are stuck in a maze of our own making and could use a helping hand.”
Last night I was at work when depression caught up with me. Nothing and Everything flooded me in a deluge of emotion like bricks, and I was miserable. I haven't felt that down in over a decade, right before my last suicide attempt. It was awful.
I'm still not sure what exactly triggered it. I thought that when I went home I'd either wake up my husband and cry, or that I'd call a suicide hotline.
(page 36) “Women’s hearts are big enough to bear the pain, peer into the dark, and do the work.
“We are led into darkness anyway by events of life: death, loss, and pain. We cannot pretend that we don’t live with the darkness, or smile it away or think somehow we will escape.
“There is no need to escape!”
Somehow last night I was able to turn in all around all by myself. I grabbed back the reins of my mood, remembering my counselor responding to my description of my emotional landscape, that I was able to save myself. So I did.
I started wondering what color my misery was. I wondered if it was blue. And I wondered what color my anger was, and I got angry. I dug myself out of the wet bricks with anger. And I let anger fuel me into purpose. I did my job with purpose, focusing on getting everything done that I needed done.
After a storm, there is often a rainbow, if you look away from the sun. I looked for the rainbow, and then I used that to make tie-dye banners to decorate the castle of my soul.
I also stayed up even later than I intended, talking about what happened with my husband, who loves me enough to talk about Everything and Nothing even though he had to get up in a couple of hours.
I am in a more peaceful place today, but very tired.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Intersections
Today I am reflecting on portions of "Coming of Age: Civil Rights and Feminism" by Barbara Emerson in The Feminist Memoir Project: Voice From Women's Liberation (edited by Rachel Blau DuPlessis and Ann Snitow).
(page 69) [Anita Snow:] "The radical feminists that I knew and worked with in the seventies were all professed antiracists, and as I said, many of us were inspired by experiences in the Civil Rights Movement. So if you would have said to us back then, this women's movement you are building is a white movement, we would have been very defensive about that."
[Barbara Emerson:] "What is wrong with it being a white movement, if by that we mean that it was addressing the needs of white women? Now, what would be wrong would be for white women's movements to deny that women of color have different needs, and to deny sisterhood thats necessary for all of us to address the problems of women."
This blog is about my experiences, my thoughts, and my desires. It comes from my experiences and privilege as a White woman in the USA.
I've come to the realization that I am uncomfortable taking from and commenting on essays by people of color (POC on many blogs), because I feel that I am somehow minimizing the difficulties that women of color especially have that I am not subject to. But I don't want to shy away from anyone who has something to teach me.
I realized as a teen that I am racist. I'm no longer a teen. I'm not naive and privileged enough to claim that I'm not racist.
I grew up hearing racist slurs against Hispanics, Blacks, East Indians, and Asians (I separate the two from recognition of cultural differences). I don't repeat the slurs, and I've refused to teach them to my children.
Despite the racism inherent in my upbringing, I value my friendships with Hispanic, Black, East Indian, and Asian people. I learned about many different cultures and religions growing up, and feel that that knowledge is a gift. When 9/11 happened and Arab American and Muslims in particular were demonized, it was shocking to me. How could anyone be that ignorant to be scared of someone because of the color of their skin or their religion?
But here I am, admitting that I am racist. My attempts at educating other Whites about racism are born from educating myself. My intolerance of racism in others stems from not tolerating the racist thoughts that occasionally cross my mind.
I consider myself a womanist ally, as I cannot and will not steal the label womanist for myself. Womanism grew from the racism inherent in mainstream feminism.
As I explore essays and writings by women of color, I hope that I am able to overcome my privilege and not say stupidly racist things. I will be taking from the writings that which speaks to me, applies also to my life, or things that maybe I've never thought of before and that I wish to mull over. I hope I'm not offensive in my responses, but acknowledge the possibility that I may end up being unintentionally offensive anyway.
If I do end up being offensively racist, please let me know. I recognize I'll never be done learning.
(page 69) [Anita Snow:] "The radical feminists that I knew and worked with in the seventies were all professed antiracists, and as I said, many of us were inspired by experiences in the Civil Rights Movement. So if you would have said to us back then, this women's movement you are building is a white movement, we would have been very defensive about that."
[Barbara Emerson:] "What is wrong with it being a white movement, if by that we mean that it was addressing the needs of white women? Now, what would be wrong would be for white women's movements to deny that women of color have different needs, and to deny sisterhood thats necessary for all of us to address the problems of women."
This blog is about my experiences, my thoughts, and my desires. It comes from my experiences and privilege as a White woman in the USA.
I've come to the realization that I am uncomfortable taking from and commenting on essays by people of color (POC on many blogs), because I feel that I am somehow minimizing the difficulties that women of color especially have that I am not subject to. But I don't want to shy away from anyone who has something to teach me.
I realized as a teen that I am racist. I'm no longer a teen. I'm not naive and privileged enough to claim that I'm not racist.
I grew up hearing racist slurs against Hispanics, Blacks, East Indians, and Asians (I separate the two from recognition of cultural differences). I don't repeat the slurs, and I've refused to teach them to my children.
Despite the racism inherent in my upbringing, I value my friendships with Hispanic, Black, East Indian, and Asian people. I learned about many different cultures and religions growing up, and feel that that knowledge is a gift. When 9/11 happened and Arab American and Muslims in particular were demonized, it was shocking to me. How could anyone be that ignorant to be scared of someone because of the color of their skin or their religion?
But here I am, admitting that I am racist. My attempts at educating other Whites about racism are born from educating myself. My intolerance of racism in others stems from not tolerating the racist thoughts that occasionally cross my mind.
I consider myself a womanist ally, as I cannot and will not steal the label womanist for myself. Womanism grew from the racism inherent in mainstream feminism.
As I explore essays and writings by women of color, I hope that I am able to overcome my privilege and not say stupidly racist things. I will be taking from the writings that which speaks to me, applies also to my life, or things that maybe I've never thought of before and that I wish to mull over. I hope I'm not offensive in my responses, but acknowledge the possibility that I may end up being unintentionally offensive anyway.
If I do end up being offensively racist, please let me know. I recognize I'll never be done learning.
Monday, October 19, 2009
What Is Normal?
Responding to the song "What Do You Hear In These Sounds?" by Dar Williams.
"I had this wall and what I knew of the free world
Was that I could see their fireworks
And I could hear their radio
And I thought that if we met, I would only start confessing
And they’d know that I was scared
They would know that I was guessing
But the wall came down and there they stood before me
With their stumbling and their mumbling
And their calling out just like me..."
This is my confession: I am scared and guessing and trying to keep my head afloat in a storm of emotions that I don't know how to handle beyond pretending they're not there.
I worry that I'm not good enough and never will be.
I worry that I'm not normal, that I'm scary-strange, that there's something wrong with me.
And I wonder if my worries are normal, then does that mean that what's wrong is in fact something about the culture/society that I live in?
I've finally noticed that I am depressed, and that I am not the only one in pain. I don't know if what works for me will work for anyone else. I'm not even sure what works for me.
After years of false starts and struggling with the decision, I am in counseling with a therapist that I feel I can trust.
And in talking about my problems, I can see that I'm not the only one with them.
I've also realized that I'm not going down this path searching for happiness. I'm aiming to stop being miserable. I'm sure I'll realize that I'm happy somewhere along the way.
"I had this wall and what I knew of the free world
Was that I could see their fireworks
And I could hear their radio
And I thought that if we met, I would only start confessing
And they’d know that I was scared
They would know that I was guessing
But the wall came down and there they stood before me
With their stumbling and their mumbling
And their calling out just like me..."
This is my confession: I am scared and guessing and trying to keep my head afloat in a storm of emotions that I don't know how to handle beyond pretending they're not there.
I worry that I'm not good enough and never will be.
I worry that I'm not normal, that I'm scary-strange, that there's something wrong with me.
And I wonder if my worries are normal, then does that mean that what's wrong is in fact something about the culture/society that I live in?
I've finally noticed that I am depressed, and that I am not the only one in pain. I don't know if what works for me will work for anyone else. I'm not even sure what works for me.
After years of false starts and struggling with the decision, I am in counseling with a therapist that I feel I can trust.
And in talking about my problems, I can see that I'm not the only one with them.
I've also realized that I'm not going down this path searching for happiness. I'm aiming to stop being miserable. I'm sure I'll realize that I'm happy somewhere along the way.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Zen Minded
Responding to “An Immodest Proposal” by Heather Corinna.
(page 183) “This is a world where women still frequently are not asked for consent, are often raped or coerced, still engage in sex with partners out of feelings of duty or obligation, usually have our sexuality depicted in grossly inaccurate ways by men and other women alike, and independent female sexual desire and earnest sexual enjoyment are not only disbelieved, in some circles, but are even ‘scientifically’ contested.”
According to some scientists, the orgasms I have should come from clitoral stimulation rather than penetration, while other scientists would say that penetrative orgasms are the only true orgasms out there. Happily, enough real science has been done to recognize that there are trends, rather than absolutes, for what brings women to orgasm. Truth is, I'm not particularly fond of clitoral stimulation, though it generally feels better when I'm already rather aroused. If I'm not aroused enough, it's just an irritation.
The attitude that women get pleasure through a set script of movements while women who have a different route to pleasure (like enjoying threesomes) are aberrant is one of the reasons I remain anonymous. I don't want to be labeled a slut.
I'm contemplating expectations and their impact on my life right now. Some of my happiest moments have been when I've felt I've failed completely and it no longer mattered what anyone else's expectations may be. I relaxed and allowed myself to pursue my own desires. I don't have sex out of duty or obligation, because it isn't worthwhile. Have I ever had sex because it seemed expected? Yes. I'm an absolute failure at pretending to enjoy it.
(page 185) “In Zen Buddhism, we aim for beginner’s mind, a way of thinking in which we approach all we can with the freshest eyes and few preconceived notions. The unknown can make us fearful, but the opportunity to have an unknown, to be able to approach something completely anew, is a gift.”
I've recently decided to attempt a more Zen approach to life, though I worry that it will keep me complacent, accepting too much. I'm trying to be more content with whatever I'm doing, staying in the now. I also worry that it will make me dissatisfied, unable to stay content in the moment and wanting more to be an activist for things that I might be able to change. I'm not sure yet, but I think it's just nerves about trying something new.
Truthfully, I could be getting a Taoist and a Zen approach confused, as I have formal training in neither.
I've mostly succeeded in Zen laundry this week. The process of laundry is an unending chore, and I can't escape it. I could refuse to do it, but not having clean clothes to wear is just frustrating. Relying on others to do laundry for me hasn't worked, so I needed to step up and do it myself. I can't change it, so I've got to adapt to it.
Now my laundry frustration is once again solely the mismanagement of putting clean clothes away by my children. I hope I can continue in my acceptance of laundry, rather than getting involved in whatever else I may want to do at that moment, which just leads to resentment.
I suppose that I'm trying to be more conscious of what I can and cannot change, and refusing to expend energy fighting that which simply is not going to change, that I do not have the power to change. For example, I can't change anyone else. I can lead by example, changing myself. I can attempt to persuade others through the power of my words, building a bridge of commonality and hopefully getting them to question their own assumptions. But ultimately all I have power over is me.
(page 183) “This is a world where women still frequently are not asked for consent, are often raped or coerced, still engage in sex with partners out of feelings of duty or obligation, usually have our sexuality depicted in grossly inaccurate ways by men and other women alike, and independent female sexual desire and earnest sexual enjoyment are not only disbelieved, in some circles, but are even ‘scientifically’ contested.”
According to some scientists, the orgasms I have should come from clitoral stimulation rather than penetration, while other scientists would say that penetrative orgasms are the only true orgasms out there. Happily, enough real science has been done to recognize that there are trends, rather than absolutes, for what brings women to orgasm. Truth is, I'm not particularly fond of clitoral stimulation, though it generally feels better when I'm already rather aroused. If I'm not aroused enough, it's just an irritation.
The attitude that women get pleasure through a set script of movements while women who have a different route to pleasure (like enjoying threesomes) are aberrant is one of the reasons I remain anonymous. I don't want to be labeled a slut.
I'm contemplating expectations and their impact on my life right now. Some of my happiest moments have been when I've felt I've failed completely and it no longer mattered what anyone else's expectations may be. I relaxed and allowed myself to pursue my own desires. I don't have sex out of duty or obligation, because it isn't worthwhile. Have I ever had sex because it seemed expected? Yes. I'm an absolute failure at pretending to enjoy it.
(page 185) “In Zen Buddhism, we aim for beginner’s mind, a way of thinking in which we approach all we can with the freshest eyes and few preconceived notions. The unknown can make us fearful, but the opportunity to have an unknown, to be able to approach something completely anew, is a gift.”
I've recently decided to attempt a more Zen approach to life, though I worry that it will keep me complacent, accepting too much. I'm trying to be more content with whatever I'm doing, staying in the now. I also worry that it will make me dissatisfied, unable to stay content in the moment and wanting more to be an activist for things that I might be able to change. I'm not sure yet, but I think it's just nerves about trying something new.
Truthfully, I could be getting a Taoist and a Zen approach confused, as I have formal training in neither.
I've mostly succeeded in Zen laundry this week. The process of laundry is an unending chore, and I can't escape it. I could refuse to do it, but not having clean clothes to wear is just frustrating. Relying on others to do laundry for me hasn't worked, so I needed to step up and do it myself. I can't change it, so I've got to adapt to it.
Now my laundry frustration is once again solely the mismanagement of putting clean clothes away by my children. I hope I can continue in my acceptance of laundry, rather than getting involved in whatever else I may want to do at that moment, which just leads to resentment.
I suppose that I'm trying to be more conscious of what I can and cannot change, and refusing to expend energy fighting that which simply is not going to change, that I do not have the power to change. For example, I can't change anyone else. I can lead by example, changing myself. I can attempt to persuade others through the power of my words, building a bridge of commonality and hopefully getting them to question their own assumptions. But ultimately all I have power over is me.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
All In the Head
Responding to Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by JK Rowling
(page 723) “’Tell me one last thing,’ said Harry. ‘Is this real? Or has this been happening inside my head?’
“Dumbledore beamed at him, and his voice sounded loud and strong in Harry’s ears even though the bright mist was descending again, obscuring his figure.
“’Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?”
Right now I'm on medication for depression because of all the hurt I feel and have felt for much of my life. I'm in counseling because I am reliving and rehashing bad memories. Perhaps not too surprisingly, as I go through this journey or process, I'm having a difficult time keeping my relationships in positive places.
As I try to re-imagine my psyche into a healthier, less pain-filled place, I have a some wonderful imagery, often borrowed from pop culture. One of the images that recur in my head is that of Raven on Teen Titans, the episode where Beast Boy and Cyborg get lost in her head and meet a rainbow of Ravens. I too have a rainbow of Anons walking about in my head. I'm not sure what color I am manifesting at the moment.
Healing the emotions is hard work. My meditation/thought of the week is to not worry about good or bad, and to focus on being. And I'm also supposed to buy myself some clay to create with.
In the meantime, I'm still on my laundry from a Zen approach project. It never ends.
(page 723) “’Tell me one last thing,’ said Harry. ‘Is this real? Or has this been happening inside my head?’
“Dumbledore beamed at him, and his voice sounded loud and strong in Harry’s ears even though the bright mist was descending again, obscuring his figure.
“’Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?”
Right now I'm on medication for depression because of all the hurt I feel and have felt for much of my life. I'm in counseling because I am reliving and rehashing bad memories. Perhaps not too surprisingly, as I go through this journey or process, I'm having a difficult time keeping my relationships in positive places.
As I try to re-imagine my psyche into a healthier, less pain-filled place, I have a some wonderful imagery, often borrowed from pop culture. One of the images that recur in my head is that of Raven on Teen Titans, the episode where Beast Boy and Cyborg get lost in her head and meet a rainbow of Ravens. I too have a rainbow of Anons walking about in my head. I'm not sure what color I am manifesting at the moment.
Healing the emotions is hard work. My meditation/thought of the week is to not worry about good or bad, and to focus on being. And I'm also supposed to buy myself some clay to create with.
In the meantime, I'm still on my laundry from a Zen approach project. It never ends.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Rape Culture and Me
I have wondered frequently enough over the years why I didn't fight harder when MZ raped me, when JRS raped me, when JD emotionally abused me. What was wrong with me?
But after all these years, I've finally realized that there was nothing wrong with me. There's something wrong with our world.
Today I added a post from a blog to my links section, Rape Culture 101. It's a description of rape culture.
I'm also responding to Another Post About Rape #3.
"The way men and women interact on a daily basis is the way they interact when rape occurs. The social dynamics we see at play between men and women are the same social dynamics that cause men to feel rape is okay, and women to feel they have no right to object. And if you accept those social interactions as normal and appropriate in your day to day life, there is absolutely no reason you should be shocked that rape occurs without screaming, without fighting, without bruising, without provocation, and without prosecution. Behavior exists on a continuum. Rape doesn’t inhabit its own little corner of the world, where everything is suddenly all different now. The behavior you accept today is the behavior that becomes rape tomorrow. And you very well might accept it then, too."
Growing up, I was a Good Girl. I tried so hard to be a perfect daughter, the smart and athletic and involved girl. I was respectful. I didn't talk back. I didn't get into fights. I didn't embarrass my family by my bad behavior. I didn't curse. I didn't sneak out at night (no, actually, I lied about volunteering an extra hour or so at a car wash...). I didn't smoke. I didn't drink. I never did drugs. I behaved.
And I most certainly did not talk about things that would bring shame to my family. I didn't talk about the incestuous molestation I endured. I didn't talk about the depression that was slowly choking the life out of me. I was GOOD!
When I was 17, I set my sights on JD, who was a decade older than me. He worked at the mall, and I saw him there often. He was charming. I ended up at the mall on my 18th birthday, legal at last, and pursued him. We flirted lots, ended up having sex, and he taught me a few things. The sex was good. His behavior wasn't. He broke up with me whenever I offended him, and told me I was a foolish child who didn't know what she was doing. So I tried to learn how to act to please him, because that's what I did. Pleased others.
A BAD GIRL I befriended saw what was happening, saw how I was being taken advantage of, heard the abuse and control, knew how it could end, and rescued me. She started a verbal altercation in the mall and he snapped. He scared the shit out of me. I never went back.
And it could have so easily back-fired, had she been wrong. I would never have spoken to her again.
I ended up taking a creative writing class with his ex-girlfriend. He'd hit her before she got out. That could have been me.
But a bad girl rescued me.
JRS took advantage of my lack of fight at that time too, as I was reeling from the realization that my "boyfriend" was an abusive creep.
And then there was MZ. He flirted with me, always showing a protective face. He wanted to protect me from the world. He would come around and make sure the boys hitting on me in the boy-friendly shop where I worked in the mall were behaving themselves. He even told a guy that was having trouble respecting my decision not to meet him after work that I wasn't interested.
And so I thought I owed him the appreciation of going out on a date with him. He repaid me by raping me. But I was a good girl and I owed him my appreciation for his protecting me. Maybe he just couldn't control himself or something, because I led him on? What was wrong with me that he didn't understand that I said no?
What was wrong with me?
Really, the only thing wrong with me besides crippling depression was that I didn't know how to protect myself when there wasn't a threat of violence.
I was taught to be a good (and passive) girl.
But after all these years, I've finally realized that there was nothing wrong with me. There's something wrong with our world.
Today I added a post from a blog to my links section, Rape Culture 101. It's a description of rape culture.
I'm also responding to Another Post About Rape #3.
"The way men and women interact on a daily basis is the way they interact when rape occurs. The social dynamics we see at play between men and women are the same social dynamics that cause men to feel rape is okay, and women to feel they have no right to object. And if you accept those social interactions as normal and appropriate in your day to day life, there is absolutely no reason you should be shocked that rape occurs without screaming, without fighting, without bruising, without provocation, and without prosecution. Behavior exists on a continuum. Rape doesn’t inhabit its own little corner of the world, where everything is suddenly all different now. The behavior you accept today is the behavior that becomes rape tomorrow. And you very well might accept it then, too."
Growing up, I was a Good Girl. I tried so hard to be a perfect daughter, the smart and athletic and involved girl. I was respectful. I didn't talk back. I didn't get into fights. I didn't embarrass my family by my bad behavior. I didn't curse. I didn't sneak out at night (no, actually, I lied about volunteering an extra hour or so at a car wash...). I didn't smoke. I didn't drink. I never did drugs. I behaved.
And I most certainly did not talk about things that would bring shame to my family. I didn't talk about the incestuous molestation I endured. I didn't talk about the depression that was slowly choking the life out of me. I was GOOD!
When I was 17, I set my sights on JD, who was a decade older than me. He worked at the mall, and I saw him there often. He was charming. I ended up at the mall on my 18th birthday, legal at last, and pursued him. We flirted lots, ended up having sex, and he taught me a few things. The sex was good. His behavior wasn't. He broke up with me whenever I offended him, and told me I was a foolish child who didn't know what she was doing. So I tried to learn how to act to please him, because that's what I did. Pleased others.
A BAD GIRL I befriended saw what was happening, saw how I was being taken advantage of, heard the abuse and control, knew how it could end, and rescued me. She started a verbal altercation in the mall and he snapped. He scared the shit out of me. I never went back.
And it could have so easily back-fired, had she been wrong. I would never have spoken to her again.
I ended up taking a creative writing class with his ex-girlfriend. He'd hit her before she got out. That could have been me.
But a bad girl rescued me.
JRS took advantage of my lack of fight at that time too, as I was reeling from the realization that my "boyfriend" was an abusive creep.
And then there was MZ. He flirted with me, always showing a protective face. He wanted to protect me from the world. He would come around and make sure the boys hitting on me in the boy-friendly shop where I worked in the mall were behaving themselves. He even told a guy that was having trouble respecting my decision not to meet him after work that I wasn't interested.
And so I thought I owed him the appreciation of going out on a date with him. He repaid me by raping me. But I was a good girl and I owed him my appreciation for his protecting me. Maybe he just couldn't control himself or something, because I led him on? What was wrong with me that he didn't understand that I said no?
What was wrong with me?
Really, the only thing wrong with me besides crippling depression was that I didn't know how to protect myself when there wasn't a threat of violence.
I was taught to be a good (and passive) girl.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Conflicts
I have been dealing with mood issues since starting this journey down memory lane. The rage it has uncovered surprised me, and I started having depression symptoms as well. I started fighting with pretty much everyone, and when I've tried not to fight, I've dissociated instead. I'm in counseling and have now started on an anti-depressant. I know this takes time, and that I just need a little patience. Healing isn't always easy.
I've also recognized that when I'm angry, I don't always take well to conflict or disagreements, and I tend to be much more defensive.
Because I don't want my anger to permanently affect my relationships with those I love, I am doing my best to figure out a constructive way to deal with it without just shutting off. This post about a community web site's posting rules for disagreements has helped me understand my own thoughts about disagreements with those I love and care about.
"maybe the staying and struggling seem so impossible because we havent agreed upon how we will talk to each other. how we will argue. how we will make decisions."
My husband and I have different approaches to arguing. He wants to deal with the hurt immediately so it doesn't boil over in him. I want a cool down period so that I won't boil over in the heat of the moment. Three days is about what it usually takes for me, and then I'm ready to talk about things rationally. It's difficult to reconcile those time frames.
But my avoidance of talking while angry leads to uncertainty and tension in my relationships with my best friend and my lover, which then just extends the hurt feelings that I was trying to avoid anyway because I didn't want to lash out while angry.
And then there's the question of whether to talk or to write. My thoughts seem easier to manage in writing, as I tend to blank on words or combine two words into one when I try to speak while angry, but when I write, I can't always tell if the reader will understand what I'm trying to say. I can, and often do, edit my written words. It's difficult to do that when speaking. This may actually be the easiest challenge to overcome. I can always write it down and then read it out loud, which I never think to do.
I think I should bring this up to my counselor, and see if she has any suggestions.
The pit of rage I discovered surprised me. Now I need to learn to deal with it.
I've also recognized that when I'm angry, I don't always take well to conflict or disagreements, and I tend to be much more defensive.
Because I don't want my anger to permanently affect my relationships with those I love, I am doing my best to figure out a constructive way to deal with it without just shutting off. This post about a community web site's posting rules for disagreements has helped me understand my own thoughts about disagreements with those I love and care about.
"maybe the staying and struggling seem so impossible because we havent agreed upon how we will talk to each other. how we will argue. how we will make decisions."
My husband and I have different approaches to arguing. He wants to deal with the hurt immediately so it doesn't boil over in him. I want a cool down period so that I won't boil over in the heat of the moment. Three days is about what it usually takes for me, and then I'm ready to talk about things rationally. It's difficult to reconcile those time frames.
But my avoidance of talking while angry leads to uncertainty and tension in my relationships with my best friend and my lover, which then just extends the hurt feelings that I was trying to avoid anyway because I didn't want to lash out while angry.
And then there's the question of whether to talk or to write. My thoughts seem easier to manage in writing, as I tend to blank on words or combine two words into one when I try to speak while angry, but when I write, I can't always tell if the reader will understand what I'm trying to say. I can, and often do, edit my written words. It's difficult to do that when speaking. This may actually be the easiest challenge to overcome. I can always write it down and then read it out loud, which I never think to do.
I think I should bring this up to my counselor, and see if she has any suggestions.
The pit of rage I discovered surprised me. Now I need to learn to deal with it.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Meditations Towards Happiness
I've begun to read Succulent Wild Woman: Dancing With Your Wonder-Full Self! by Sark. It's actually a bit fluffy for me, but I need a pick-me-up. I've been mired in depression for weeks, and I've lost my perkiness.
(page 14) "It isn't easy for any of us to transcend the past, or pain we might have suffered. Yet, there are gifts in those pains, and we can choose to let light into the dark places. We are not alone!"
The whole point of this blog and of seeking therapy was to shine light into the dark places of my memory, the dark unexposed parts of my soul. And it's harder than I thought it would be. The pains feel almost fresh, and some of them have been ripening for a long time.
(page 10) "My own journey is full of fear, pain, love, shame, wonder, ecstasy, luck, daring, and marvelous imperfections."
I took a journey through my psyche and found a series of me trapped in an MC Escher drawing, climbing a ring of stairs only to find myself once again on the bottom. How can I go up and up but never get anywhere? So I took drastic action in my mind, and bent and tore that picture open. At first there was only a void in the opening created by ripping the picture, but then it filled with a flight of butterflies. I don't know what the butterflies hide, but I'm not scared to find out anymore.
(page 11) "I invite you to travel along with me as I share my stumblings, astonishments, and discoveries as a woman."
I invited a handful of friends to travel with me through this. I hope we all survive the journey, because it's already proven to be a painful one for me. While I try to spare everyone the full force of my anger, the rage that this journey has revealed in me, I have been unable to fully shield everyone. I have already hurt feelings while trying to just keep myself together. I'm sure I'll hurt more. The journey isn't going to be comfortable all of the time, that's just the way healing is. Sometimes the wounds have to be reopened, cleaned, and then scored so that the edges can bleed together and reknit. And that means pain.
(page 13) "I guess I look bright and untroubled, and I smile a lot, which is sometimes a mask to hide shyness, fear, or pain."
I learned to mask myself with a smile a long, long time ago. I was not allowed to show my pain as a child. After all, I was a white, middle-class girl from a respectable family, and dammit if I was unhappy then I should just count my blessings and stop feeling sorry for myself. After all, what would the neighbors think?
And the whole time I was living with the person who molested me, whom my parents refused to believe did so. I was forced to eat dinner sitting right next to him, which was actually probably better than across from him, having to look at him while I ate. I could instead imagine an invisible forcefield between us, so he couldn't pollute my space. I would push his chair as far away from mine as possible, and do my best never to have him in my field of vision, though I couldn't stop smelling him. Ick.
Even now I hide behind a smile most of the time, and it can be shocking for people when they realize that my smiles sometimes have tone, and not happy ones at that. I can be aggressively perky when I'm annoyed or angry, my smile more a baring of teeth and my enthusiasm little more than a snarl. My smiles can be anxious or scared or panicked while I do my best to keep myself calm and in control.
(page 13) "I do not know more than you do. My investigations have shown that we frequently think others know IT but we don't know IT.
"What is IT?"
I don't know what IT is, but I'm looking to be a more content, more calm, more connected person. In some ways, I'm looking to be more Zen about things. I'm looking to be a healed, healthy, whole person whose mind doesn't have chasms. I'm looking to stop being numb all the time. I want love, peace, and happiness. I don't know how to be happy on a regular basis.
According to Sark, I'm looking to be a more succulent woman.
(page 5) "Succulent: Ripe. Juicy. Whole. Round. Exuberant. Wild. Rich. Wide. Deep. Firm. Rare. Female."
I'm not sure what it all means yet.
(page 14) "It isn't easy for any of us to transcend the past, or pain we might have suffered. Yet, there are gifts in those pains, and we can choose to let light into the dark places. We are not alone!"
The whole point of this blog and of seeking therapy was to shine light into the dark places of my memory, the dark unexposed parts of my soul. And it's harder than I thought it would be. The pains feel almost fresh, and some of them have been ripening for a long time.
(page 10) "My own journey is full of fear, pain, love, shame, wonder, ecstasy, luck, daring, and marvelous imperfections."
I took a journey through my psyche and found a series of me trapped in an MC Escher drawing, climbing a ring of stairs only to find myself once again on the bottom. How can I go up and up but never get anywhere? So I took drastic action in my mind, and bent and tore that picture open. At first there was only a void in the opening created by ripping the picture, but then it filled with a flight of butterflies. I don't know what the butterflies hide, but I'm not scared to find out anymore.
(page 11) "I invite you to travel along with me as I share my stumblings, astonishments, and discoveries as a woman."
I invited a handful of friends to travel with me through this. I hope we all survive the journey, because it's already proven to be a painful one for me. While I try to spare everyone the full force of my anger, the rage that this journey has revealed in me, I have been unable to fully shield everyone. I have already hurt feelings while trying to just keep myself together. I'm sure I'll hurt more. The journey isn't going to be comfortable all of the time, that's just the way healing is. Sometimes the wounds have to be reopened, cleaned, and then scored so that the edges can bleed together and reknit. And that means pain.
(page 13) "I guess I look bright and untroubled, and I smile a lot, which is sometimes a mask to hide shyness, fear, or pain."
I learned to mask myself with a smile a long, long time ago. I was not allowed to show my pain as a child. After all, I was a white, middle-class girl from a respectable family, and dammit if I was unhappy then I should just count my blessings and stop feeling sorry for myself. After all, what would the neighbors think?
And the whole time I was living with the person who molested me, whom my parents refused to believe did so. I was forced to eat dinner sitting right next to him, which was actually probably better than across from him, having to look at him while I ate. I could instead imagine an invisible forcefield between us, so he couldn't pollute my space. I would push his chair as far away from mine as possible, and do my best never to have him in my field of vision, though I couldn't stop smelling him. Ick.
Even now I hide behind a smile most of the time, and it can be shocking for people when they realize that my smiles sometimes have tone, and not happy ones at that. I can be aggressively perky when I'm annoyed or angry, my smile more a baring of teeth and my enthusiasm little more than a snarl. My smiles can be anxious or scared or panicked while I do my best to keep myself calm and in control.
(page 13) "I do not know more than you do. My investigations have shown that we frequently think others know IT but we don't know IT.
"What is IT?"
I don't know what IT is, but I'm looking to be a more content, more calm, more connected person. In some ways, I'm looking to be more Zen about things. I'm looking to be a healed, healthy, whole person whose mind doesn't have chasms. I'm looking to stop being numb all the time. I want love, peace, and happiness. I don't know how to be happy on a regular basis.
According to Sark, I'm looking to be a more succulent woman.
(page 5) "Succulent: Ripe. Juicy. Whole. Round. Exuberant. Wild. Rich. Wide. Deep. Firm. Rare. Female."
I'm not sure what it all means yet.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Reconnecting
I'm back to blogging, hopefully on a near-daily basis. I need the creative urge, which has been sorely lacking this past month as all the negatives overwhelmed me.
Today I'm responding to a post from kateharding.net about approaching women.
"Human connection, love, romance: there is nothing wrong with these yearnings."
It is human to want connection, love, and sometimes romance. But even when I desire love and/or romance, I don't want that with just anyone. It has to be with someone of MY choosing. Sometimes I may want a conversation with a person who doesn't trigger my creep alarm, but that doesn't mean that I want physical closeness. And even if I want physical closeness, that doesn't always mean that I want sex.
And sometimes I just want to be left alone.
"Those women do not want to be approached, no matter how nice you are or how much you’d like to date them. Okay? That’s their right. Don’t get pissy about it."
If I'm not receptive to being approached, and you take it personally, I will forever more consider you a jerk that I don't want to know. Because you're acting like a jerk. I don't care if you're hot, if you volunteer for a feminist organization, or whatever makes you believe that you're all that. When you get mad because I don't want company, then you've blown it.
"Because a man who ignores a woman’s NO in a non-sexual setting is more likely to ignore NO in a sexual setting, as well."
When I say no, it should be respected. I should not have to apologize for saying no, and if you feel that I should, then you are marking yourself as threatening. You are revealing yourself as someone I cannot trust to respect my boundaries or me.
In relationships, there is always some give and take, and depending upon the levels of trust and commitment, we can discuss or negotiate boundaries. But that is in an established relationship built upon shared trust, reciprocity, and respect.
Only through time and effort can you demonstrate that you are someone who will never rape me, which is my requirement for sharing my body. If I don't trust that you will never rape me, then I will not engage with you sexually.
"Don’t rape. Nor should you commit these similar but less severe offenses: don’t assault. Don’t grope. Don’t constrain. Don’t brandish. Don’t expose yourself. Don’t threaten with physical violence. Don’t threaten with sexual violence.
"Shouldn’t this go without saying? Of course it should. Sadly, that’s not the world I live in. You may be beginning to realize that it’s not the world you live in, either"
Because sadly, too many people do not recognize that we live in a culture that condones rape. So now it's time for a re-posting of the "Don't Rape" list that pops up from time to time around the Web.
A reminder, both men and women can rape, and both men and women can be victims of a rapist. This is written about not raping women, but it applies to everyone.
A lot has been said about how to prevent rape.
Women should learn self-defense.
Women should lock themselves in their houses after dark.
Women shouldn’t have long hair and women shouldn’t wear short skirts.
Women shouldn’t leave drinks unattended.
Fuck, they shouldn’t dare to get drunk at all.
Instead of that bullshit, how about:
If a woman is drunk, don’t rape her.
If a woman is walking alone at night, don’t rape her.
If a women is drugged and unconscious, don’t rape her.
If a woman is wearing a short skirt, don’t rape her.
If a woman is jogging in a park at5 am , don’t rape her.
If a woman looks like your ex-girlfriend you’re still hung up on, don’t rape her.
If a woman is asleep in her bed, don’t rape her.
If a woman is asleep in your bed, don’t rape her.
If a woman is doing her laundry, don’t rape her.
If a woman is in a coma, don’t rape her.
If a woman changes her mind in the middle of or about a particular activity, don’t rape her.
If a woman has repeatedly refused a certain activity, don’t rape her.
If a woman is not yet a woman, but a child, don’t rape her.
If your girlfriend or wife is not in the mood, don’t rape her.
If your step-daughter is watching TV, don’t rape her.
If you break into a house and find a woman there, don’t rape her.
If your friend thinks it’s okay to rape someone, tell him it’s not, and that he’s not your friend.
If your “friend” tells you he raped someone, report him to the police.
If your frat-brother or another guy at the party tells you there’s an unconscious woman upstairs and it’s your turn, don’t rape her, call the police and tell the guy he’s a rapist.
Tell your sons, god-sons, nephews, grandsons, sons of friends it’s not okay to rape someone.
Don’t tell your women friends how to be safe and avoid rape.
Don’t imply that she could have avoided it if she’d only done/not done x.
Don’t imply that it’s in any way her fault.
Don’t let silence imply agreement when someone tells you he “got some” with the drunk girl.
Don’t perpetuate a culture that tells you that you have no control over or responsibility for your actions. You can, too, help yourself.
If you agree, re-post it. It’s that important.
Today I'm responding to a post from kateharding.net about approaching women.
"Human connection, love, romance: there is nothing wrong with these yearnings."
It is human to want connection, love, and sometimes romance. But even when I desire love and/or romance, I don't want that with just anyone. It has to be with someone of MY choosing. Sometimes I may want a conversation with a person who doesn't trigger my creep alarm, but that doesn't mean that I want physical closeness. And even if I want physical closeness, that doesn't always mean that I want sex.
And sometimes I just want to be left alone.
"Those women do not want to be approached, no matter how nice you are or how much you’d like to date them. Okay? That’s their right. Don’t get pissy about it."
If I'm not receptive to being approached, and you take it personally, I will forever more consider you a jerk that I don't want to know. Because you're acting like a jerk. I don't care if you're hot, if you volunteer for a feminist organization, or whatever makes you believe that you're all that. When you get mad because I don't want company, then you've blown it.
"Because a man who ignores a woman’s NO in a non-sexual setting is more likely to ignore NO in a sexual setting, as well."
When I say no, it should be respected. I should not have to apologize for saying no, and if you feel that I should, then you are marking yourself as threatening. You are revealing yourself as someone I cannot trust to respect my boundaries or me.
In relationships, there is always some give and take, and depending upon the levels of trust and commitment, we can discuss or negotiate boundaries. But that is in an established relationship built upon shared trust, reciprocity, and respect.
Only through time and effort can you demonstrate that you are someone who will never rape me, which is my requirement for sharing my body. If I don't trust that you will never rape me, then I will not engage with you sexually.
"Don’t rape. Nor should you commit these similar but less severe offenses: don’t assault. Don’t grope. Don’t constrain. Don’t brandish. Don’t expose yourself. Don’t threaten with physical violence. Don’t threaten with sexual violence.
"Shouldn’t this go without saying? Of course it should. Sadly, that’s not the world I live in. You may be beginning to realize that it’s not the world you live in, either"
Because sadly, too many people do not recognize that we live in a culture that condones rape. So now it's time for a re-posting of the "Don't Rape" list that pops up from time to time around the Web.
A reminder, both men and women can rape, and both men and women can be victims of a rapist. This is written about not raping women, but it applies to everyone.
A lot has been said about how to prevent rape.
Women should learn self-defense.
Women should lock themselves in their houses after dark.
Women shouldn’t have long hair and women shouldn’t wear short skirts.
Women shouldn’t leave drinks unattended.
Fuck, they shouldn’t dare to get drunk at all.
Instead of that bullshit, how about:
If a woman is drunk, don’t rape her.
If a woman is walking alone at night, don’t rape her.
If a women is drugged and unconscious, don’t rape her.
If a woman is wearing a short skirt, don’t rape her.
If a woman is jogging in a park at
If a woman looks like your ex-girlfriend you’re still hung up on, don’t rape her.
If a woman is asleep in her bed, don’t rape her.
If a woman is asleep in your bed, don’t rape her.
If a woman is doing her laundry, don’t rape her.
If a woman is in a coma, don’t rape her.
If a woman changes her mind in the middle of or about a particular activity, don’t rape her.
If a woman has repeatedly refused a certain activity, don’t rape her.
If a woman is not yet a woman, but a child, don’t rape her.
If your girlfriend or wife is not in the mood, don’t rape her.
If your step-daughter is watching TV, don’t rape her.
If you break into a house and find a woman there, don’t rape her.
If your friend thinks it’s okay to rape someone, tell him it’s not, and that he’s not your friend.
If your “friend” tells you he raped someone, report him to the police.
If your frat-brother or another guy at the party tells you there’s an unconscious woman upstairs and it’s your turn, don’t rape her, call the police and tell the guy he’s a rapist.
Tell your sons, god-sons, nephews, grandsons, sons of friends it’s not okay to rape someone.
Don’t tell your women friends how to be safe and avoid rape.
Don’t imply that she could have avoided it if she’d only done/not done x.
Don’t imply that it’s in any way her fault.
Don’t let silence imply agreement when someone tells you he “got some” with the drunk girl.
Don’t perpetuate a culture that tells you that you have no control over or responsibility for your actions. You can, too, help yourself.
If you agree, re-post it. It’s that important.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Fantasy
Responding to "The Fantasy of Acceptable 'Non-Consent': Why the Female Sexual Submissive Scares Us (and Why She Shouldn't)" by Stacey May Fowles.
Last night I found myself unable to sleep because of a rather vivid sexual fantasy I couldn't stop thinking about. The kind of fantasy I had is considered a rape fantasy by the mainstream lexicon. It came complete with a safe word.
My fantasy involved my partner(s) trespassing boundaries that I normally hold as unbreakable, and doing so in a forceful manner. I may even ask for my fantasy to become true someday. Who knows? The vulnerability and trust required are enormous.
I even recognize that my fantasy may have more to do about destroying certain memories, but that's less important than the pleasure I hope to receive.
I would say that my fantasy is tiptoeing into the world of BDSM.
(page 121) "For BDSM to exist safely, it has to be founded on a constant proclamation of enthusiastic consent, which mainstream sexuality has systematically dismantled."
Something I've just recognized, more by accident than anything, is that I'm not sure MZ would consider himself a rapist. And yet, I clearly and repeatedly told him no. There is a cultural narrative that no is just a yes in disguise so the girl can think she's not a whore, and that men just need to keep going unless the girl puts up a fight. Never mind that she might be scared you'll just rape her more violently.
And here I am fantasizing about something that looks like rape from the outside, but because I'll be the one requesting the activities, it's not. I'll be asking for a mild degree of violence, for some of my normal needs to be ignored, and for me to be restrained and to submit to activities that could be considered degrading.
But I have full and utmost confidence that nothing will happen without enthusiastic consent.
(page 120) "...by it's very nature BDSM is constantly about consent. Of course, it's language and rules differ significantly from vanilla sex scenes, but the very existence of a safe word is the ultimate in preventing violation--it suggests that at any moment, regardless of expectations of interpretations on the part of either party, the act can and will end."
Ultimately, I would be in control the entire time, able to stop everything with a single utterance.
When I was raped, I had no control. I had no agency. I was violated. My humanity was rendered moot. I didn't matter.
Should this fantasy come to fruition, I will matter. I will have the power. I will have control and agency, despite appearances to the contrary.
And, in all honesty, I don't care if the rest of the world finds it acceptable. I do.
Last night I found myself unable to sleep because of a rather vivid sexual fantasy I couldn't stop thinking about. The kind of fantasy I had is considered a rape fantasy by the mainstream lexicon. It came complete with a safe word.
My fantasy involved my partner(s) trespassing boundaries that I normally hold as unbreakable, and doing so in a forceful manner. I may even ask for my fantasy to become true someday. Who knows? The vulnerability and trust required are enormous.
I even recognize that my fantasy may have more to do about destroying certain memories, but that's less important than the pleasure I hope to receive.
I would say that my fantasy is tiptoeing into the world of BDSM.
(page 121) "For BDSM to exist safely, it has to be founded on a constant proclamation of enthusiastic consent, which mainstream sexuality has systematically dismantled."
Something I've just recognized, more by accident than anything, is that I'm not sure MZ would consider himself a rapist. And yet, I clearly and repeatedly told him no. There is a cultural narrative that no is just a yes in disguise so the girl can think she's not a whore, and that men just need to keep going unless the girl puts up a fight. Never mind that she might be scared you'll just rape her more violently.
And here I am fantasizing about something that looks like rape from the outside, but because I'll be the one requesting the activities, it's not. I'll be asking for a mild degree of violence, for some of my normal needs to be ignored, and for me to be restrained and to submit to activities that could be considered degrading.
But I have full and utmost confidence that nothing will happen without enthusiastic consent.
(page 120) "...by it's very nature BDSM is constantly about consent. Of course, it's language and rules differ significantly from vanilla sex scenes, but the very existence of a safe word is the ultimate in preventing violation--it suggests that at any moment, regardless of expectations of interpretations on the part of either party, the act can and will end."
Ultimately, I would be in control the entire time, able to stop everything with a single utterance.
When I was raped, I had no control. I had no agency. I was violated. My humanity was rendered moot. I didn't matter.
Should this fantasy come to fruition, I will matter. I will have the power. I will have control and agency, despite appearances to the contrary.
And, in all honesty, I don't care if the rest of the world finds it acceptable. I do.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)