Day 78: The Names We're Called

 
I've been called a lot of names in my (almost) 38 years.  I was sitting here, trying to come up with a list, and I realized I probably can't even remember them all.  Isn't that amazing?  I've had so many labels and slurs applied to me that I literally can't remember every single one.  Here are just some of the ones that made an impression:


Bookworm
Know-it-all
Weirdo
Show-off
Fatty
Teacher's Pet
Attention Whore
Drama Queen
Bitch
Slut
Control Freak


Those are pretty good, right?  I mean, they cover a decent selection of qualities.  And I could go into a lot here, about how maybe I never would have heard some of these if I'd been born a man, or how quick we are to turn on those that are outside the norm, even if they're outside it in a positive way.  But that's been discussed ad nauseum, and I think we all know the reality.  Anyone different gets bullied about their differences.  It's one of the less attractive features of being a pack species.

At any rate, I don't really want to talk about the names we're called in an attempt to hurt us.  I want to talk about the names, labels, and titles we're given by people that mean no harm.  Sometimes even people who love us.

And how very damaging those can be.

*deep breath*

Once upon a time I was in a relationship with someone, and they were very important to me.  I loved them very much, and so, when they told me something was true about myself--when they named a part of me--I tended to believe them.  When the mean kid in school had called me a bitch, I knew better than to believe her.  When everyone in college called me a slut, I knew where that rumor came from, and--although it hurt--I didn't let it sink into me and claim a piece of my identity.

But when someone I loved told me "oh yes, this is just who you are.  I'm not saying it because I'm mad, it's just true about you." I had no defense in place against this kind of announcement.  I didn't think I had to defend my sense of self against the opinion of someone so close to me.

"Surely," I thought somewhere down in my subconscious, "if they are saying it then it must be true.  Because they love me, and they would not lie about who I am."

Perhaps they would not have lied.  But that didn't make what they were saying the truth, either.

 Living as a version of yourself that is defined by someone else 

is like being a painting that someone has colored all wrong.

I spent years believing things about myself that were untrue.  Every time some part of me would try to refute the lies--to rise up and remind me that this wasn't really who I was--I would explain it away, dismiss it, refuse to listen to the inner voice that insisted that I was living inside a facade that wasn't really me.  I loved the person who had named these parts of myself, and I thought if I rejected their explanation of who I was, I would be rejecting them as well.

It never really dawned on me that, by accepting their labels, I was still rejecting someone.  I was rejecting the me I really was.

Eventually that relationship ended.  There was a cataclysmic fallout.
I was unhappy for a long time.
I was angry for a long time.
I was mourning for a long time.
Both the relationship and its ending left marks on me that will never fade.

But one day--one random day, with no particular significance--a piece of me that I had been denying for a very long time decided to come back and give it another go.

And that--that was a joy.

They've come trickling back.  Some of them are tiny things.  Some of them are bigger.  Some of them are life altering.  But having each one return is like having a long-lost family member walk through the door and announce that they're home.  I greet each one--big or small, good or bad--with such relief and affection.  I should never have let them go.  Now that they are back I will accept them as they are, because to accept them is to accept myself.

Not all of me is great.  But all of me is me.  And no one else--friend or foe--should decide what "me" means.

Day 77: It Took Over A Week...

Warning:  The following post contains discussions of sexual assault.

It's taken me over a week to write this post.

Partially because I've been busy.  Voices of Hope had our big fall Gala this Saturday, and life was sort of a whirlwind leading up to that.  But, if I'm being honest, the fact that I was in tech was just an excuse to put this off.  For once, I actually don't want to write something.  I'm not chomping at the bit to share my opinion.  I feel sick, and sad, and I kinda wish I could skip it.

But I can't.  I can't skip it because it's lingering in the back of my mind, and I don't think it will go away until I write something.  And I can't ignore it because I know that the more we talk about these things--the more light we shine on them--the harder it is for them to continue.

Still.  I don't really want to write this.  Bear with me.

 Bottom left, I'm five or six in this picture.

I was probably five the first time a man touched me inappropriately.  I don't really remember precisely, I was little enough that it's one of my earliest memories.  Certainly, I was little enough that I couldn't reach into the rabbit pen at the local pet store and pet the bunnies.  And I wanted to pet the bunnies.  That's why, when a stranger offered to pick me up and hold me so I could reach them, I agreed without hesitation.
I always trusted adults.  There were so many in my life, and they were all trustworthy.  So I assumed it was an accident when his hand--instead of staying safely on the outside of my little jean skirt--found its way beneath the hem and between my legs, hoisting me up in a very intimate grip.  I didn't like it when his fingers slipped under the edge of my underwear, though, so I squirmed until he put me down.  I remember thinking it took a long time to get him to put me down.  Then I ran to find my mother, and tried to forget about the man. 

And I almost did.

But not really.

On the right, about ten.

I was in first grade the first time an authority figure ignored what was going on, right under their nose.  There was a boy in my class--Jeremiah--and everyone knew that he didn't keep his hands to himself.  Our teacher assigned our seating, and always arranged us boy-girl-boy-girl at our little clumped up desks.  Why, I don't know, but she was adamant about sticking to it, so when Jeremiah ran his hands up the girls' legs and they complained she would just move him to sit next to another little girl.
It was warm out when he was moved to sit next to me, and I liked to wear shorts.  Jeremiah would reach out and stick his hand between my knees, sliding his sweaty fingers all the way up my inner thigh until it reached the edge of my shorts.  Then he would squeeze, and breathe hard.  When I complained to the teacher she told me there wasn't anything she could do about it.  She'd already moved him all around the room, and the end of the year was so soon.  Couldn't I just tolerate it for a few weeks?  I spent the rest of the year sitting as far away as my desk would allow, with my legs pressed tightly together.

Eighteen.

I was nine the first time someone pinched my ass on the bus.  I was twelve the first time a boy grabbed my boobs without permission.  I was fourteen when my Sunday School teacher told me he didn't hold with rape, but if a woman was mowing the lawn in a bikini then clearly she was asking for it.  When I was sixteen a guy I disliked just announced he was my boyfriend, and started showing up places when he knew I would be there.  When I was eighteen a male friend took me to his friend's house and basically offered me up like a host gift.  We walked through the door and he said to his friend, "Here, I brought her for you."

Twenty

I have thirty-seven years of stories like this.  My entire life's memory is peppered with them.  I have grown up with these incidents as a facet of my life. 

Some of them are truly frightening--like the time a man followed me from the parking lot late at night in a rest area on I-81, and was waiting when I came out of the bathroom.  He followed me back towards the car, and I started to panic, not knowing what to do.  I will be grateful to my dying day to the friendly man that saw him and stopped to talk to me, refusing to leave until the guy following me finally gave up, got in his car, and drove away.  Thinking about that still terrifies me. 

Some other stories are more commonplace, like the guy who commented loudly on my ass while I was doing some grocery shopping during the heat wave this summer.  Apparently he liked my short shorts.

Twenty-two

All of them--every single one of these stories--are about a man who, in some way or another, treated my body like it wasn't mine.  Like he had some sort of right to it--the right to touch, the right to pass judgement, the right to offer it up.

When people defend the culture of treating women like property, it makes me sick.  I don't care if it's a presidential candidate, or a movie star, or a guy at your office.  When we say "that's just how guys talk" or "he didn't mean anything" we are reinforcing the idea that it's okay for men to think of women this way.  And it isn't.  Even if most of them wouldn't act on it, the perpetration of the thought alone makes it more acceptable for those who want to act on it to do so.

Charlotte, age six.

My daughter has already been kissed without her consent.  She's six.  It's just starting.  She will have a lifetime of stories to tell, as well, and it makes me want to scream and punch things.

Screaming and punching won't help, though.  Instead I will tell her simple truths, and hope they sink in.

Your body belongs to you, and no one else.

You alone have the right to say who can touch you.  You alone have the right to say what you will do with your body.

Enjoy sex.  Laugh at bawdy jokes.  Flirt with people.  None of those things takes away your right to have the final say.

Appreciate the men who ask if they're crossing the line.  Who tell you to let them know if they do.  Those are the men you can trust.

Never be afraid to tell someone when they've crossed a line, even if they don't ask.

Don't judge other women for internalizing this cultural lie of being public property.  They've been misled their whole lives.

Don't be afraid to say no.

Thirty-seven

I will tell her these truths.  And I will tell her all my stories, so that, as she grows, she knows what to look for.  So that she doesn't assume it was an accident.  So she doesn't sit quietly and press her legs together to not make trouble.

I will tell her so that she knows she's not alone in the experience, and that she doesn't have to be ashamed.  So she knows that she didn't do anything wrong.

So that, even if I can't help her learning to accept that this shit happens, at the very least she won't start thinking it's okay.  

It's not okay.

Day 76: I Cannot Keep It In Any Longer

Y'all, I gotta talk about bras.

Okay, look, mostly I don't wear real bras anymore.  I wear these 1/2 sports bra, 1/2 lined cami little doo-hickies that provide a moderate amount of support for daily activities and keep me from poking someone's eye out when the weather turns cold.  Most days these are all I really need out of a boob sling, and that's just fine.

You don't need undergarments when you wear pajamas.

One of life's many blessings.

HOWEVER...
I have actually promised our costume coordinator that I will continue to wear the appropriate undergarments on stage.  You might scoff and think this does not matter.

Trust me.  It matters.

Dancing.  It makes support matter.

So, anyway, I need a bra.  A real bra.  Something with hooks and cups and less elastic than not.  And you'd think this wouldn't be a big deal.  After all, I do still own some from days of yore.  Can't I just wear one of those?


APPARENTLY I CANNOT.

Why not?


I'm glad you asked.

I, like many women, have the joy of what is basically an eternally changing body.  It's not that the fundamentals change--my bones are pretty much what they are, barring breakage, and my ROUGH outline is mostly the same from year to year.  But within that outline, there's a lot of... shifting.

Some of this is due to the natural process of bearing children.  I swelled up, shrunk a bit, swelled even more, then shrunk again.  That's all very well and good. But some of it, as far as I can tell, is because there are gremlins living beneath my skin that shift fatty tissues in the night. 

Yesterday your pants fit but your bra was too small?  No worries, in a few days your bra will be perfect and your pants will give you muffin top!

 I went searching for an image that captured what I was talking about, but got side tracked by this one.  Really?  Really?  Are EITHER of these women complaining about their bodies?  If this is them when they're bloated, what do they NORMALLY look like?

Sorry.  I digress.

Anyway, bloating is just a fact of life, and I'm not really here to complain about it.  I'm REALLY here to complain about bras.

Because they are evil.

And they are expensive.

I say this without hyperbole: the most expensive items of clothing that I own are bras.

Let that sink in for a minute.

Not evening gowns, not coats, not the custom corset I made myself... Nope.  Bras.

IT IS UNCOMFORTABLE, DEMORALIZING, HIGHWAY ROBBERY TO HAVE TO GO BRA SHOPPING.

And yet, here we are.

There should be a therapeutic hotline for this kind of thing.