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Archives for May 2014

#YesAllWomen

I have always considered myself a strong woman both mentally and physically. I keep my cool in emergencies and I am usually one of the first people to act. I’m 5’9”, I have a broad frame and I pack on muscle just by looking at a set of weights. I am larger and stronger than the average woman and because of years of stage combat and self-defense training I would fare much better than the average woman in a fight. Yet the UCSB attack and the emergence of the #YesAllWomen campaign has really made me think. I am very fortunate in the fact that I have never been in a verbally or physically abusive relationship with a man. I am also very fortunate that I have never been sexually abused or assaulted. Sadly, this puts me in a minority group. I have lost track of how many of my friends have been raped. When I really stop and think about it, the number is mind boggling. It breaks my heart that I have friends that have to differentiate between when they forcibly lost their virginity and when they chose to lose their virginity. I can’t even begin to imagine the horrors that exist in their past.

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Then I realize, that to a certain degree I can, because like them, I live every day in fear. I have never had any of these atrocities acted upon my body, yet there is an ever present warning light in the back of my mind reminding me that my turn could be just around the corner. I am not a victim, yet. All of the strength and training that I possess may not be enough to stop the inevitable. That’s right, the inevitable. I think every young woman, if she’s honest with herself, expects to be harmed by a man at some point in her lifetime. And that’s not right. There are a lot of really great men in this world, but they aren’t the ones that we’re taught about. So we’re afraid. I am afraid . . .

Because admitting that I’ve never been raped will eventually be met with the quip, “Challenge accepted!” and no one will be there to shame the man that says it.

Because I was taught to scream ‘fire’ or ‘fight’ instead of ‘rape’ or ‘help’ because the former will draw attention and the latter will not.

Because I was trained to carry my purse so that I can swing it at an attacker in a moment’s notice.

Because I was taught that you never open the door to an unknown man after dark, because obviously he is there to rape and kill you.

Because I’ve said yes to sex, even when I didn’t want to, because I was afraid of what might happen if I said no even though the man had shown no signs of aggression. Better to have the semblance of a choice, then have the choice removed completely.

Because I was given a “rape whistle” at my college orientation, and I knew girls that needed it for that purpose.

Because in college my friends and my reaction to men sticking their hands up our skirts at a dance club was either to avoid clubs completely, or make sure that we always wore pants.

Because I automatically start going over my self-defense training whenever I’m alone at night and see a man.

Because I sleep with a dagger by my bed, and nobody questions why it’s there.

Because I live my life with this insidious fear I have the tiniest glimpse into what life must be like for the women who are less fortunate than me. That makes my heart ache and my very soul cry. We should not have to live like this. #YesAllWomen deserve equality, but more importantly we deserve to be safe.

Not Your Tale to Tell

I just finished a book in which a saying was repeated several times, and each time it really rang true for me, “It’s not my tale to tell.” A person that I hold dear was given an unwelcome diagnosis last year. And despite the fact that it has completely rocked my world and affected me deeply, I have kept as quiet as possible about it, because it is not my tale to tell. It is not my tale to bruit about the internet. If this person wants to keep it to themselves then that is their prerogative and I have to respect that. I’m only bringing it up now because it is a required piece to the tale that is mine to tell.

Ever since I found out about this diagnosis my own health has deteriorated. Which isn’t overly surprising as some of my pre-existing maladies are exacerbated by stress and there has definitely been an overabundance of stress in my life lately. However, the paranoia and worry that has started to border on hypochondria – that every ache, every muscle twitch is a harbinger of doom – is most definitely not normal for me. If I had a dollar for every time I went onto WebMD to look something up over the past seven months I could take a week off of work with no pay. It has grown into the ridiculous.

Then I was talking to a friend and she said something that stopped me in my tracks. She was recounting something from her own past, and I don’t think that she intended to be giving this bit of advice, since it wasn’t the point of her story, but she recalled that someone had once told her, “You aren’t the one who was sick.” In her past, she wasn’t the one that was sick, and right now I am not the one that is sick. I can’t think of a single other thing that I needed to hear right now more than that phrase.

I am not the one who is sick.

Therefore I need to stop acting like I am. I need to stop worrying that I might be. I need to stop fixating on the worst possible outcome. All I am accomplishing is driving myself absolutely insane. So check that off of the to-do list and move on with my day! If only it were that easy . . . but then again why can’t it be that easy? Who says that change needs to be long and drawn out? Why can’t it be more like a switch? Make a decision, have a realization, flip the switch. Flip – new way of thinking. Flip – new mindset. Don’t dwell, don’t hem and haw, don’t second guess, flip the switch and be happier. It’s a goal.

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If it’s Good Enough for Me . . .

I recently made the decision to put my dogs on Prozac. They’ve always been high-strung, especially Zoey who has had separation anxiety since she was a puppy. Because of this I have a very set routine for when I leave and when I come home.  I’ve done thunder shirts, calming phermones, blanket over the crate, blanket that I slept with in the crate. You name it, I’ve tried it and kept the things that worked to maintain our precarious balance of momma being able to leave without the puggles freaking out.

However, back in December, for no specific reason that my roommate or I can come up with, they started to howl and cry every morning when I would leave for work. For a while my roommate would come out tell them to knock it off, give them a treat and they would settle. But after a while that didn’t work, and on days when she wasn’t home they would cry for hours annoying all of our neighbors. Sorry! I took them to the vet, clean bill of health. I tried to identify something that was causing the upset, no luck. I tried all of my old tricks and read a bunch of new articles that gave advice to do all of the things that I was already doing. I tried everything that I could think of to avoid putting them on medication, but nothing worked. They were miserable and strung out and so was I.

Election Over

Then one day it occurred to me. Why was I okay medicating myself so that I felt better and could function normally, but I was hesitating to do the same thing for my dogs? Before this realization if you would have asked me about the stigma of anti-depressants I would have told you that I’ve gotten over it. After all, I now openly admit and talk about the fact that I take them and that I have no shame about that. That wasn’t always the case. For a very long time I felt ashamed about taking them or admitting that I have clinical depression. Because of that I wasted years feeling horrible because I felt like I was less of a person if I succumbed to my depression and took meds to lift my mood. I had this asinine belief that I was strong enough to do it by myself. That I was fine.  That somehow having clinical depression made me weak and I had to fight against that. Talk about expending your energy in the wrong direction!

It wasn’t until I looked at my depression from a different angle that I was able to get over this belief.  If I was diagnosed as diabetic, I would try everything in my power to control my blood sugar through diet changes, exercise, etc. However, after trying that, if my doctor told me that it wasn’t enough and that I needed insulin, I would take the insulin. I wouldn’t need to think twice about it, and it wouldn’t make me feel like I was weak or less of a person. It would mean that I had a disease and thankfully there were drugs out there that could help me function normally. So why would I treat a diabetes diagnosis different than a depression diagnosis? They’re both diseases that have meds to help diminish the effects and symptoms so that your body can function normally, so what’s the difference?

That’s when it occurred to me, that a stigma was keeping me from feeling good. The stigma against mental illness and all that that entails was preventing me from living my life to the fullest. How stupid is that? So I got over myself, said screw what anybody else thinks, I’m going to feel good and be happy. Four tries later my doctor and I landed on the right cocktail of meds and I no longer spend my free time curled up in bed hiding from life. It has made a HUGE difference – both my happiness and my productivity. Being depressed is really time consuming! I’ve come to accept that I will probably be on meds for the rest of my life, and I’m okay with that. It’s what is best for me.

So if it’s good enough for me, why did I hesitate with my dogs? The incredulous look that I got from one of my neighbors when I told her about my choice reminded me why. She acted like I was giving up on them and committing them to a looney bin because I didn’t want to deal with them anymore. There it was, the mental illness stigma rearing it’s ugly head, and if she reacted that way about giving prozac to dogs, I can’t imagine what she would have said about me taking meds! Needless to say I ignored her and made the same choice for my dogs as I did for myself, and good lord I wish I would have made that choice a long time ago! My dogs are still their crazy, hyper lovable selves, but the nervous energy is gone. They can actually lay down and fall asleep without waking up and freaking out about every noise they hear. They can meet and say hi to other dogs without getting really anxious. I can leave the house without them acting like the world is coming to an end. It’s amazing, and the best part is that they seem to be happier. So stigma be damned, we’re all a bunch of nuts in my house  and I’ve got the meds to prove it!

That Moment

That moment when everything seems to be coming and going all at once and no matter how hard you try you can’t grab hold. Can’t get in, can’t slow down, can’t make sense.

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That moment when responsibilities and commitments and desires turn huge and looming and threaten to crash in all around on top of you. Holding you back, holding you down, holding you from peace.

That moment when you realize that words are lost, thoughts are lost, all that is left is feeling. A feeling that you can’t express. Can’t quantify, can’t qualify, can’t decipher.

That moment when you give up and just be, letting the world sing on around you watching it swirl indecipherably by. Give up control, give up your plans, give up

That moment when you realize that you’ve been pushing and striving in the wrong direction for the wrong things. Which is why you can’t breathe, can’t scream, can’t cry for help.

That moment when you finally breathe deep and shed the bonds of should have, would have, need to. Breathe deeply to stop the swirling, stop the chaos, stop the world.

That moment when slowly gingerly you take hold once more. Find your grasp, find your footing, find your path.

That moment when you realize that that path leads straight up. Out of the milieu, out of the stress, out of the noise.

That moment when you find yourself above.