Feminine Rage, Or Whatever

You can never perfectly plan for what a man is capable of doing to you. Any man could kill you. That's the problem. That is the issue at hand. It is why every time I hear a man say, "well... or but... or Not All Men", I immediately disregard them as an ally. They become dangerous, because if they aren't hurting me then they are friends with someone who will.

That is why I do not believe things will get better for us. To put it simply, you cannot take the man out of a man. Due to them being physically capable of something (Fuck! Even through a gun.) just the knowledge of that and the ability that so many, too many men have of not addressing that part, well things simply will not improve. Men who do not believe themselves to be dangerous, do not believe they know any other man in their circle who is capable of such things.

So we will keep being killed. We will keep being raped. The only person that can stop doing these things is a man. It is a decision each man must understand, then they must understand that not every man understands at all, nor cares to.

Fathers harm their daughters. Husbands kill their wives; set them on fire rather than have them out there with their own last name again. Boyfriends kill us and our friends rape us. Friends are all of a sudden different when you are in a relationship. You find out Brad from college feels that you have friend-zoned him. The realization that friendship with a woman has its own title; it makes you see red.

And then you find yourself at the age of 31, a shell of the girl you once knew. It's your job to pick up the pieces and put them back together. Coming so close to picking up the bottle instead. All of the time lost, but almost believing the voice saying, "It's okay. It's better to be doing this drunk. Rest. You've tried."

February 1, 2022 - my phone 

After watching Promising Young Woman.

Renew

That was the word I used to repeat and have splayed about my bedroom. It was a sort of affirmation to myself and those around me. What did that mean to me when I was 19-23? It was a way to remind myself that I could always pick myself up again. Every day if that was what I needed. In recovery you always hear "One Day at a Time". Essentially, I realized that is what I needed even before I admitted it to myself. Alcoholism isn't the problem for me, it is a symptom. My issues so deeply rooted within me that I was racked with trauma by the young age of 11 when my father decided to look at my naked body on multiple occasions. For the longest time I didn't know what to call it. I knew I hadn't been raped although it sure felt like it. At 31 I was given space to come to terms with what happened. I was assaulted. I was sexually assaulted. The man I should have been able to trust more than any-one-person betrayed my feelings of safety. The yelling, screaming, belittling, his withholding of love and his belt or paddle slamming against my body, those are something I feel more able to heal from. But the loss of choice over my body, well that fucked me up deeply and severely.

My father first called me a slut at the age of 14. I wasn't allowed to wear make-up, but my best friend at the time was exploring that world. She was rather good and sometimes she would tell me that it was okay, and she was going to put some make-up on me. I was allowed to go to the mall this day. I fucking hate the mall now, but back then it was my escape. It was the one place I could go without him overshadowing any chance of fun and peace. Later that night he saw me. I was wearing skinny jeans, a studded belt, and a black shirt. I also had on eyeliner and mascara. He looked at me and said, "You look like a slut. And I won't have a slut for a daughter." I can't tell you if that impacted me more back then, or now. The emotions I feel from this memory range from apathy to anger, sometimes I feel sick, but sad is generally what overpowers the rest. I feel sad for that little girl. My body was his. It always had been.

I've dated men who have continued this cycle. I've been called a slut, ho, skank, crazy, bitch; all by men that have claimed to love me. How can someone love me when they internally and externally hate women? I was talking to my therapist two sessions ago. We were getting to the end of our session. I remarked that I think my father hates women. She said, "I would say so." That validation kind of got the ball rolling. How many men have I dated that hate women? Very few men will admit to hating us, but actions speak louder than words. Incels exist for a reason, do they not? Every man is an abuser or is/was friends with someone who has harmed one of us.  We need to see accountability here, or things will never change.

Every time I hear of another woman beaten, set on fire, raped, murdered, or missing after last being seen with her partner or after repeated attempts to stop harassment, I think to myself: men hate us. 

I am fucked up because of my father. That abusive cycle continued in the men I have given my time, energy, body, and even love to; and with every moment my body became an object to possess. I will not let these men destroy me. It is my responsibility to rise up, no matter how unfair this is. I must set fire to those parts of me which have been corrupted by hate, manipulation, and violence. I will not become another statistic. I am more than "the crazy ex".

Drastically Rearranged

I met someone. I can't really put into words what it is like to talk to another human being and then realize you've spent the better part of your life disengaged or dimmed. Sitting in silence doesn't feel awkward, it is more of an understanding that you are thinking and that's okay. He's an open book that I want to keep reading. Hell, I would read him a handful of times, I'm sure. I'd probably learn something new about myself each and every dive back in.

We went to a "Silent Disco". 10/10 would recommend to anyone who loves music.

He never touched my body. In fact, he stayed about a foot away from me for 98% of the night. A stranger touched me and the words, "he touched me, but he didn't need to" kept playing in my mind. I really had to focus on not letting go of the fun. After that though I snapped back into living in the moment. There I was with a wicked cool person who was letting me be a woman having fun. There were no expectations. He even asked if he could touch my headphones before he touched them. And all of a sudden it was like: BING!

He respected me more in that one fucking encounter than I've ever been respected in my life. He is not from The U.S., and it shows. I'm not a fool. I understand that misogyny exists everywhere. It's a fucking plague. However, he addresses that part of himself so eloquently that sometimes I find myself trying to dive into his brain. Is he a professional con-man? Is he a Narcissist who has perfected his skill?

Needless to say, I got home today and cried. Therapy has opened up a lot of memories and although I want to understand myself better, I've gotta lay it down straight: this is hard. I haven't loved myself enough. People have sensed that about me and they have taken advantage. Men, lots of men. People enjoy making fun of women like me with a term coined as "Daddy Issues" because even the abuse from a father must be placed back on the little girl.

I'm tired of being used. I'm tired of the blurred lines of consent. So let us recap:

Yes is yes. Maybe is no. No is no. Yes can become a no at any time. Yes can become a maybe, which is still a no. One yes now does not mean yes in the future.
 
Silence is no answer which is NO.

Hey Tory Talbot Hall, when a girl is passed out it's called rape.

Meetings With My Therapist #1

 Kathy reminded me that we are our own worst critics. Instead of seeing a victory as a victory we see it as a loss. Every day I don't drink is a victory even if it was shitty, hard day.

I've been bone-shattering mortified reading my older blog posts. I've been mortified by a handful of things. My rage was consuming me at such a young age. The treatment I accepted from both my father and those I would go on to date. There is a correlation there and if I'm being honest, it's terrifying to scrape over in therapy. I'm mortified that I was capable of not addressing my internalized misogyny, racist beliefs, and prejudices. I am not that girl anymore. I will address it. I will feel the feelings. I will be disappointed. I so easily could have drowned under that rage and hatred. It's easier there. A huge part of recovery is accountability.

This is a victory. I now understand how judging someone by the people they've slept with is not okay. It's none of my fucking business. This is a victory. I now understand that having a cop fuck with you outside of your house and then let you go with just a warning is a privilege. There are bigger things in play. This is a victory. I now understand and comprehend that Obama's skin color didn't have any correlation to his time as President. (This was especially hard to read. I am so, so fucking sorry.) Obama failed us because he is a U.S. Politician. Politicians as a whole tend to not be very good people. We the people, are failed and exploited every-single-day. This is a victory... sort of. I mean, the world is fucked but at least I am not naive to that any longer. *thumbs up*

I sort of can't wait to really dive into what went on in my life to cause so much anger. As women it is so easy to be placed in a box. We are crazy, or too sensitive; if only we could take a joke. Women are expected to do this and do that; what those things are varies by the man showing interest or not showing interest but still feeling the need to comment. Men have had plenty to say about me. Men have taken my body and made it their personal plaything. I've been a mother to grown men. I've been a stepmom to kids I didn't want to care for. (My fault for dating men with kids. That won't happen again.) I've been a maid. I've been an accountant. All labor that was unpaid for.

The box titled crazy became too comfortable and familiar for me. My hope is that with a better understanding of myself I will find a better understanding of those that helped me enter that box, and therefore fully understand myself. My present existence is a swirly mess -HOLY SHIT- being an adult is hard. Parents aren't just raising children. They are creating an adult. Think about that before you make a life that is not choosing to be made. Are you helping create a better world? Will you die for them?

October 13th, 2019

October 13th, 2019, that was the day I walked into an AA meeting. It was either that or suicide. Those first three days all I could manage to do was spend my time hitting those rooms. Crying eventually turned to sounds of a toad, my body had nothing left to give. My first meeting is where I met her. Met her is an over-statement. I couldn't talk much. She walked in like a movie star. She was quiet but I knew she had entered without seeing her. She sat one chair away from me, that chair remaining empty. We were the only women in that room. She slipped me a note at the end of our meeting and walked out just like she had arrived. You felt her exit. In the note was her name, her number, and the message that I could call her anytime. I knew she meant it. This was so unfamiliar to me. I finally felt a release of some pain. By the time I got outside to maybe try and say something she was a silhouette surrounded by sun. She turned down a side street. She was a scene from a movie. She is always a scene from a movie.

She helped me that first night. She helped me get through those first few days, which turned into weeks, and then months. She was there every time I wanted to give up. She wouldn't even let me think of it. She encouraged my love of plants and I fondly remember the day we fit a small tree into her car and giggled the whole time.  A few months ago I was told she had relapsed.

~

I met him at meeting two. I knew from watching him that he was carrying pain. He smiled and laughed though and that was nice to see. We both headed straight towards the coffee and then sat at opposite sides of the room. During that meeting I entered back into crying. He was watching me, I felt like everyone was watching or trying not to watch. I was wiping snot on my pants. I don't even remember when I last washed my hair, but he wasn't staring at me with pity or disgust. He just looked sad. He slipped me a note with his name, his number, and a message that said I could call him anytime. I knew he meant it too.

He helped me that first night. He helped me that second day.  We poured our coffee together. We sat together. When he realized I was running on empty he found me a way to get home to pick up a few things. (I was staying with an old roommate due to my failing relationship.) He reminded me I needed to eat and that I needed more than coffee. He kept me going. Yesterday, I found out he tried to commit suicide.

~

That date, October 13th, 2019; no longer feels like a beacon of hope. It is the beginning of a countdown. When will I relapse? When will I decide to end things? She is strong and magnificent. He is capable of compassion in a world that tries to stomp that out. Who am I? Can I even be who I need me to be?

I am 31, and I still write.

I have been through so much. I wish I could say things got better. I've decided to share some things I've written over the years. Some from paper but most from my phone; everything that I just need let out.

I eventually entered into a world of alcohol, drugs, more rape, more sexual assault, drug dealers, and more dangerous men. Let us get real, I've been dealing with dangerous men my whole life. I'm ready from here on out.

This is going to be random. They are going to be my ramblings. This is going to be out of sequence. But it will all be me. The before me, me now, the me I hope to one day become. Just winding around, because that's where I am now. I'm clawing my way out of my own swirling depths of chaotic despair.

Birthday Girl.

People disappoint me daily. To think I've almost lived in this world for 23 years. Why? People suck. And unless I want to live in a tent in the wilderness with my 3 wolves, I'm going to have to be around people for another 50+ years. I don't like this one bit. Not one bit.

*cheers to gin*

Getting me through the next few days until I cry because I'm old(er) and have nothing to be proud of.

Divorce and Marriage.

I don't always invest my heart into marriages, but when I do, you damn well better love each other forever.

Too deep...

I know I shouldn't let bullies get to me, but they do.

They do.

They have.

They will.

I fear they always will.

Too deep...

Commitment is so rare these days.

I feel like our generation, and the one before, was raised very badly. Divorce, Break-ups, Families disowning their members, not even fucking bands can stay together.

What is wrong with us?