Anxiety is a big floppy dark bird that flies behind me, always. It seems ridiculous that he (yes, my anxiety is gender specific) should be swift because he is so large and lacking in grace.
And yet, he flies.
He catches me on the uphills and wraps his wings around me. He does not have feathers. He is a being clothed in darkness and velvet that smothers. His wings compress my chest and cover my face and his darkness sinks into my mind. The ability to breathe is gone. My heart races away from me. The darkness catches me.
I feel like I used to be unstoppable. Reading back on old blog entries and remembering how I used to run circles around an airfield at 4pm, in the middle of the summer, with the heat index sitting at 110, pushing a stroller containing a child that almost broke me. The stress that was present in those days was overwhelming at best. I feel so much weaker now, and I struggle to understand how I stood up underneath all that weight. I used to run so fast, anxiety couldn't catch me until I stopped. Now I am fallible and weak and not fast enough to outrun it.
I'm so confused by this anomaly. Those were such hard days, those early stroller days with Sam. Getting up at 4:45 to run on the treadmill in the early hours. Another run later in the day. Everything was regimented. My life was broken up into segments of predictability and battle. I didn't have time to dwell on how I felt, I just kept going. Molly's schoolwork got done. Sam was defined by the all consuming hope of him eating and drinking. Those were the days when he still threw up constantly. Baby blankets went with us everywhere, to soak up the mess that was inevitable. He did not speak. He was so far behind developmentally. Molly was on a competitive gymnastics team. My husband worked from dark to dark and got one weekend off every three weeks. I did it all and I held it together. I made cloth napkins and hung our clothes to dry on a clothesline because it was better for the environment. All our meals were homemade. My husband ate on a different schedule because he worked late, so I always prepared a plate for him that was waiting in the fridge for him when he got home. My kids got minimal screen time. We read books and played. We ran errands and they went with me everywhere. During the 4+ years we lived in North Carolina, as far as I can recall, we never had a babysitter. It just never came up. I never went out at night. My friendships were defined by children.
All these things. I did and did and did. Are they anything? Do they count? Are they just chasing the wind?
My son devours books now. I taught him to read. He read voraciously, but talks of almost nothing but video games. He tells me how many games he plays over the weekend, when he is not with me. The child that couldn't watch an episode of The Andy Griffith Show, or get through Monsters Inc without hiding behind the couch to avoid the conflict and stress, he now watches Clone Wars.
I poured myself into Molly from the beginning and it was joyful. She was my best little friend, from South Carolina to Alaska to North Carolina to Indiana to Hawaii. She was conversation and sunshine and light and fun. She is the reason I bought my first Bob and started running outdoors in Alaska, avoiding the main streets because I didn't want anyone to see me wearing shorts. We saw marmots and moose and avoided bears when we smelled or heard them. We saw Denali in the distance and climbed small paved mountains. We joined a Mom's running group and I traded strollers with moms that pushed doubles and did hill repeats because I didn't mind the pain. I wanted to push harder and feel it hurt. I taught Molly to read when she was six. She went from being illiterate to reading chapter books in less than six months. Stroller running became a different experience. Loads of books, contained in a plastic bubble stretched over the stroller so they wouldn't fall out when we crossed streets. Molly was a dance. She was stubborn and refused to eat and fell asleep on her broccoli when I told her that she couldn't leave the table until she had eaten. I could make her cry just by looking at her and she was incapable of telling me a lie.
Sam was equal parts fragility and iron.
He was cuddly, happy to snuggle in a rocking chair for hours. I gave him parts of me that I did not know that I had. He brought elemental things to the surface. He stripped the skin from my bones, the sanity from my mind and left me raw and then clawed at me. I stood between him and death. Death taunted me on one side and he struggled on the other and my brain broke. I became a shadow person, just functioning, carrying on from one task to the next, crashing at the end of the day, then getting up and repeating the process. One of the biggest challenges of parenting, in my opinion, is being nice. Just- being nice. Anyone can function on minimal sleep. Not everyone can sleep for only four hours nightly and still be nice. Eventually, it wears you down and you want to cut a bitch. If you have small children, you don't cut anyone, you just get really angry at bad drivers and drink an obscene amount of coffee.
With Sam, everything was broken down into small incremental bits. Things that I took for granted with Molly were celebrated as milestones.
I gave Sam everything that I had left and more. I have no regrets. Except for that one time when I accidentally overdosed him on heparin. I regret that.
My life is a snowglobe, turned upside down and shaken. All these things that I have done- teaching my children math and how to read, all the things they have seen and the stories we have told and lived- what are they worth now? There is no mental rest. There is only transition and questions.
"What will you be?"
"What will you do?"
Why is anxiety catching me now?
Is it
the divorce
the pandemic
the quarantine
protests
racial tension and the desire to show love, but not knowing how
the uncertainty about my future
a job
finances
child support back payments that are still floating around somewhere
?
It's probably just the unbearable lightness of being.
There is so much going on in the world right now. I am struggling to balance it all, to properly mentally allocate priority to all the different things going on. I feel like I'm being pulled in so many directions right now, to care about so many things, and I do care.
This season of thought, time, and isolation, equally defined by inactivity and revolution, it is bringing memories to the surface and causing me to examine myself. I'm studying who I am and what has built me, these blocks of life experience.
I look at my hands, and they are old. My brain is tired and my emotions are weary and worn out. My limits are set lower. My tolerance for manipulation is gone. I crave real things. This is why I love the trails and the ridges and the waterfalls and the mountains. These things are real and hard, soft and green. They cut and heal.
Anxiety, I am tired of you. Fly away, dark bird. Drown and dissolve.
Saturday, June 27, 2020
Wednesday, June 17, 2020
the problem of consent
The problem of consent.
What is no?
"This isn't working. We should stop. Just stop. Please." Are these statements the same as, "No," and should they be respected as such? If you don't claw a man's face or back or draw blood, is it still no?
What about silence? What if you're in a group situation where close quarters are necessary and unavoidable and touching happens and someone's ass gets grabbed and,
"Haha, sorry, my bad.."
"Haha, no worries, it happens..."
But then it happens again.
How many whoopsies does it take to equal intention? When does an accidental touch become an assault? He, "didn't mean to," but her ass still got grabbed and she still feels violated. It was an accident, and as a female, with the inborn auto response to apologize, step out of the way, and say please, when does one stop forgiving the accidental offense?
What is the appropriate response for a minor and is it the same as that of an adult?
We tell girls to stand up for themselves and self advocate. Do not tolerate being disrespected or inappropriately touched. Who do you tell?
-authority figures
-coaches
-teachers
-parents
Is it worth it? There are several possible outcomes to speaking out regarding suspected inappropriate touching. Tell an authority figure, preferably a female. That's sound advice, unless there aren't female authority figures available. There is always the possibility that you will not be believed. You speak out, tell your side and- Congratulations, you are now a pariah. You will lose your friends, your self respect. Your friends will be forced to choose sides. Did he really do it? Is she lying to get attention? She's lying, what a dramatic dirty whore. Or: he's a pervert and that reputation will follow him as long as he remains in the social vicinity. There are no winners when a bad thing happens, even if the person in the wrong is reprimanded and correctly disciplined. The damage is already done. Speaking out regarding sexual assault or harassment is not simple. The rules are not clear cut or easily defined. If you don't speak, there is always the possibility that the male in question will continue his inappropriate behavior, with you or with others. By not speaking, are you paving the way for another Brock Turner? White male privilege is power. Do you risk sacrificing your self respect, invite the questions, the awkward conversations, the disruption to your life, all just in case the guy that ruined part of you decides to ruin part of someone else? The possibility that he will reform or be punished enough to change his attitude and actions is tenuous at best. He won't change. You will just be another name in the paperwork, if it gets far enough for paperwork. At the very most, one day he might end up serving three months, get out on good behavior, and his people will mourn the time lost. All that potential, that future wasted, just because he made a mistake.
I search myself and turn inward to try and understand what it would take for me to reach out and consciously touch someone without consent. I cannot lift my hand far enough. I cannot imagine reaching into someone's personal space and grabbing their body, just because I want to.
I want, I will. I want, I must. I see it. It is my right to touch it.
What happens to a person's brain, that it becomes bent and broken and perverted to the point that they believe they may violate someone's body just because- They. Want. It.
This uninvited intimacy that ruins real intimacy.
I drank too much. He drank, but I don't know how much. I only knew his first name. He was a friend of a friend. I don't remember how I ended up in a bed with him, I only remember him being on top of me. He was a lot bigger than me and I couldn't push him off. I said all those things:
"This isn't working. We should stop. Just stop. Please."
He did not stop. I drove myself home later. My self esteem was so shattered, I couldn't openly accuse him. I talked to my manager at work and lost my job because they could/would not continue to employ a lying whore.
I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, doing the wrong things. For years, I believed, that due to those facts, what happened was my fault. I shouldn't have been there. If I hadn't been there, it wouldn't have happened.
On the flip side, he could have gotten off of me and let me walk away. That would have been a good choice.
Was drinking Jager shots as good as a non-verbal consent? Did my bloodstream consent when the alcohol hit and slowed me down and made me easier to manipulate? Did I get what I deserved because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time? Nearly 20 years are gone between now and that short chapter in my life, but it was formative.
I did tell people. I tried. I got two types of responses:
- Shit happens, what can you do?
- You're a lying whore.
Even now, it's difficult for me to type the word and say what it really was.
What are the critical learning points? Men are usually bigger and stronger. As women, we are typically physically disadvantaged. Saying NO doesn't guarantee an appropriate response in return.
I cannot speak for an entire gender and I don't have everything figured out. I know what I will tell my daughter. Don't go to a party alone, even if you know the person hosting. Keep your girls close. Squad goals = safety. Go with your girls, leave with your girls, no girl left behind. If it comes down to it, be dramatic. Yell, scream, use your nails. Leave him with memories of you that he will never forget. Be the crazy bitch in the story he tells his friends the next day. Tell your girls how it went down so that you retain validity. Whether you take it further than that is a personal decision that is highly individual. There are no hard and fast rules, each situation is case by case. You can say he touched you, he can say he didn't. If he maintains that he didn't touch you, it becomes a judgement call. Do you want to live with that, the division of public opinion about who is right and who is lying? Are you strong enough in spirit and confidence that you can stay unbroken while under scrutiny? Will it hurt you more to accuse or more to stay silent?
The rule of consent when it comes to uninvited touch: Don't touch a woman unless she's okay with it. Don't touch a man unless he's okay with it.
This is a simple basic standard of normal and healthy human contact. If you have to sneak a touch, make it seem like an accident, you need to work on your life. The man that grabs and brags is a pathetic excuse for a human.
I'm so sad for the man that is not man enough to merit consensual touch. What a lonely piece of human trash, this person that has to reach out and touch something that isn't his to touch, especially when he knows the consent to touch would never be granted. He wanted, so he took anyway. Stop stealing. Work on yourself. Be better. Women are not the sum total of their bodies and appearance. We aren't toys to be played with, squeezed until we squeak. Dogs play with squeaky toys. Real men do not. Stop encouraging this mentality of inevitability, the inevitability of sexual violation. If it didn't happen to you, it's happened to at least one of your friends. I believe the state of the world is only deteriorating. People are moving away from relationships and keeping sex and intimacy separate. It will get worse. If sex is not about intimacy, it is a a physical act just like rock climbing or boxing or running or biking. The depersonalization of sex makes it easier to justify thoughtlessness about the act itself.
She's not a person, just a nice piece of ass.
What is no?
"This isn't working. We should stop. Just stop. Please." Are these statements the same as, "No," and should they be respected as such? If you don't claw a man's face or back or draw blood, is it still no?
What about silence? What if you're in a group situation where close quarters are necessary and unavoidable and touching happens and someone's ass gets grabbed and,
"Haha, sorry, my bad.."
"Haha, no worries, it happens..."
But then it happens again.
How many whoopsies does it take to equal intention? When does an accidental touch become an assault? He, "didn't mean to," but her ass still got grabbed and she still feels violated. It was an accident, and as a female, with the inborn auto response to apologize, step out of the way, and say please, when does one stop forgiving the accidental offense?
What is the appropriate response for a minor and is it the same as that of an adult?
We tell girls to stand up for themselves and self advocate. Do not tolerate being disrespected or inappropriately touched. Who do you tell?
-authority figures
-coaches
-teachers
-parents
Is it worth it? There are several possible outcomes to speaking out regarding suspected inappropriate touching. Tell an authority figure, preferably a female. That's sound advice, unless there aren't female authority figures available. There is always the possibility that you will not be believed. You speak out, tell your side and- Congratulations, you are now a pariah. You will lose your friends, your self respect. Your friends will be forced to choose sides. Did he really do it? Is she lying to get attention? She's lying, what a dramatic dirty whore. Or: he's a pervert and that reputation will follow him as long as he remains in the social vicinity. There are no winners when a bad thing happens, even if the person in the wrong is reprimanded and correctly disciplined. The damage is already done. Speaking out regarding sexual assault or harassment is not simple. The rules are not clear cut or easily defined. If you don't speak, there is always the possibility that the male in question will continue his inappropriate behavior, with you or with others. By not speaking, are you paving the way for another Brock Turner? White male privilege is power. Do you risk sacrificing your self respect, invite the questions, the awkward conversations, the disruption to your life, all just in case the guy that ruined part of you decides to ruin part of someone else? The possibility that he will reform or be punished enough to change his attitude and actions is tenuous at best. He won't change. You will just be another name in the paperwork, if it gets far enough for paperwork. At the very most, one day he might end up serving three months, get out on good behavior, and his people will mourn the time lost. All that potential, that future wasted, just because he made a mistake.
I search myself and turn inward to try and understand what it would take for me to reach out and consciously touch someone without consent. I cannot lift my hand far enough. I cannot imagine reaching into someone's personal space and grabbing their body, just because I want to.
I want, I will. I want, I must. I see it. It is my right to touch it.
What happens to a person's brain, that it becomes bent and broken and perverted to the point that they believe they may violate someone's body just because- They. Want. It.
This uninvited intimacy that ruins real intimacy.
I drank too much. He drank, but I don't know how much. I only knew his first name. He was a friend of a friend. I don't remember how I ended up in a bed with him, I only remember him being on top of me. He was a lot bigger than me and I couldn't push him off. I said all those things:
"This isn't working. We should stop. Just stop. Please."
He did not stop. I drove myself home later. My self esteem was so shattered, I couldn't openly accuse him. I talked to my manager at work and lost my job because they could/would not continue to employ a lying whore.
I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, doing the wrong things. For years, I believed, that due to those facts, what happened was my fault. I shouldn't have been there. If I hadn't been there, it wouldn't have happened.
On the flip side, he could have gotten off of me and let me walk away. That would have been a good choice.
Was drinking Jager shots as good as a non-verbal consent? Did my bloodstream consent when the alcohol hit and slowed me down and made me easier to manipulate? Did I get what I deserved because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time? Nearly 20 years are gone between now and that short chapter in my life, but it was formative.
I did tell people. I tried. I got two types of responses:
- Shit happens, what can you do?
- You're a lying whore.
Even now, it's difficult for me to type the word and say what it really was.
What are the critical learning points? Men are usually bigger and stronger. As women, we are typically physically disadvantaged. Saying NO doesn't guarantee an appropriate response in return.
I cannot speak for an entire gender and I don't have everything figured out. I know what I will tell my daughter. Don't go to a party alone, even if you know the person hosting. Keep your girls close. Squad goals = safety. Go with your girls, leave with your girls, no girl left behind. If it comes down to it, be dramatic. Yell, scream, use your nails. Leave him with memories of you that he will never forget. Be the crazy bitch in the story he tells his friends the next day. Tell your girls how it went down so that you retain validity. Whether you take it further than that is a personal decision that is highly individual. There are no hard and fast rules, each situation is case by case. You can say he touched you, he can say he didn't. If he maintains that he didn't touch you, it becomes a judgement call. Do you want to live with that, the division of public opinion about who is right and who is lying? Are you strong enough in spirit and confidence that you can stay unbroken while under scrutiny? Will it hurt you more to accuse or more to stay silent?
The rule of consent when it comes to uninvited touch: Don't touch a woman unless she's okay with it. Don't touch a man unless he's okay with it.
This is a simple basic standard of normal and healthy human contact. If you have to sneak a touch, make it seem like an accident, you need to work on your life. The man that grabs and brags is a pathetic excuse for a human.
I'm so sad for the man that is not man enough to merit consensual touch. What a lonely piece of human trash, this person that has to reach out and touch something that isn't his to touch, especially when he knows the consent to touch would never be granted. He wanted, so he took anyway. Stop stealing. Work on yourself. Be better. Women are not the sum total of their bodies and appearance. We aren't toys to be played with, squeezed until we squeak. Dogs play with squeaky toys. Real men do not. Stop encouraging this mentality of inevitability, the inevitability of sexual violation. If it didn't happen to you, it's happened to at least one of your friends. I believe the state of the world is only deteriorating. People are moving away from relationships and keeping sex and intimacy separate. It will get worse. If sex is not about intimacy, it is a a physical act just like rock climbing or boxing or running or biking. The depersonalization of sex makes it easier to justify thoughtlessness about the act itself.
She's not a person, just a nice piece of ass.
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