I have a couple of friends going through some rough stuff, and I am giving them unsolicited advice.
I feel like a bit of an ass about it (on Lucy March's blog, she calls unsolicited advice assvice). I feel like I'm really trying to help. And I wonder if I'm in any position to be giving advice.
It's true that I have come an absurdly long way in terms of my self-esteem and all that, but what if my giving advice is like the blind leading the blind?
I really believe what I've been saying to them. I really believe that if you sit there and say, "I am awesome and I'm going to have great things happen to me," then great things will happen. I think that the universe sends you back whatever energy you're sending out to it. So if you're in a place where you don't think you deserve anything good, then a whole lot of not-good things are going to happen. I believe that. I've seen it work for me. I also believe that you have to demand that people treat you well. If you let them use you and walk over you, if you keep telling yourself that your needs aren't important (or you keep sending that message to the people in your life because you don't defend yourself), then people will continue to use you. They won't magically realize that they were wrong and that they should treat you better. You have to tell them that they're screwing up. You have to demand whatever it is that you need to be happy. If that's time to sit and read, then demand that.
But when you demand this, you don't have to be a jerk about it. You don't have to be like, "Hey, you've been walking all over me for years and I'm tired of it and here's how it's going to be." That's just going to start some epic argument about you. And maybe for a second you'll get some of that resentment out and you'll feel better, but I almost guarantee that it will go back to the old pattern because, at some point, there will be some amount of guilt about the fight (and there will be if you've been a doormat, I mean there's a reason why you're like that) and you'll wind up caving and going back to being a doormat. So don't even open the door for conversation. Just tell them, "Listen, I need an hour every night to be alone and do some things." When your user complains, just reiterate that fact. When they come in to bother you during your hour, say, "No. This is my time." Just no. No argument, no justificatication, just stand up for what you need.
Now, the problem is, that if the user is a real user, they will walk away. Because users want to use people. If they can't use you, then they'll find someone they can. But if the person loves and respects you, they will start to honor your needs. It may take some time, but they will. Because the thing of it is, they may be excited that you're starting to take care of yourself, that you're starting to respect and love yourself -- because, almost always, loving yourself means that your relationship will be easier. It's very hard to love someone who doesn't love themself.
So actually, my message to both of my friends is essentially the same. Love yourself. Put that love and respect for yourself out in the world and see what wonderful things come back to you. Bad things will probably still happen, because that's life, but I really, truly, honestly believe that the majority of the things will be good. And, hey, when the bad things happen, you know that you're solid. And sometimes that's all you need.
And you know what, even if I'm not totally there yet, I still think that's good advice, unsolicited assvice as it may be.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Monday, February 6, 2012
The Back Update and a Bit On Comfort Reading
So, my big neurosurgeon appointment was this morning. What a mess that was. For starters I got a little lost finding the place, which is not shocking and why I gave myself a ridiculous amount of time to get there this morning. Then I got there and there was ten pages of paperwork to fill out. Meanwhile, I got nervous, and more nervous, and more nervous, and more nervous, until I was shaking so hard I could hardly write and I was dripping with sweat. (Add to all of this, the pain from not taking any pills this weekend, and oh yeah, it was special.)
I went by myself because The Hubby was like, "Hey, I'm not going to have to be there, am I?" And I said, "Oh no, they're not going to do anything to me that day." So while I was having a mini-heart attack in the waiting room, and blowing up my husband's phone with texts about my sweat level and the fact I was pretty sure I was about to vomit, The Hubby said, "Hey I could be there in 35 minutes if you need me/think it'll be that long before you get in." And I said, "No, it's fine." Because I am an idiot.
By the time they took me back into the examination room, I was crying. Kind of a lot. The doctor walked in (who was not the neurosurgeon, but the PA, which I have learned means Physician's Assistant), and he was just kind of stunned by the fact that I was having a freakin' nervous breakdown. He was really nice though, he told me that he didn't bite and he had no needles, and I laughed a bit at that (because needles don't scare me, my dad and I celebrated my seventeenth birthdat by me giving blood, true story). So, I started to calm down a bit. We talked about my pain and how it hurts and where it hurts and all that jazz. Then he pulled up my MRI and walked me through the images, showing me how severely screwed up the major herniation is (and good lord, is it screwed up). He told me that physical therapy wouldn't really help me, and, in fact, could increase my pain. And then he walked me through my options for how to proceed. I can: 1) do nothing, 2) take painkillers and some steroid, 3) have epidural shots to control pain and inflammation, 4) have surgery.
So, he typed up his notes for a bit and I looked at the MRI image and thought about it. I started sweating and shaking again. And then I thought, basically, everything but surgery is pain management. Which is kind of like putting a Band-Aid on a broken bone. I don't want to be hooked on pain pills. I don't want to have depend on pain medication for the rest of my freaking life. I want to fix the freaking problem. So, that means surgery. And I told him that I wanted surgery.
And proceeded to hyperventilate. So, I now have an appointment on the 29th to discuss surgery with the neurosurgeon. Apparently I may be a candidate for minimally invasive surgery, which would be excellent, and would apparently just require shaving off the bulging parts. I will be up and walking by the next day and my recovery period will be: walk, rest, walk, rest, walk, rest. There's a 15% chance that my discs could herniate again. There's a chance that the surgery might not get rid of my pain. I'll never be able to lift more than 20 pounds again. But you know what, I'm okay with all of that. I've been dealing with this stupid back pain since 2005. It's time to get it fixed. (And hell, maybe if someone had taken me seriously back then, it would've never gotten this bad. Friggin' asshats.)
So. That's my plan.
In my "my head is spinning too fast to be able to think clearly" daze after the appointment, because, HOLY CRAP I'M HAVING BACK SURGERY, I bought a couple of books by an author I've recently discovered, Eloisa James. She writes historical romances, and a couple of them are revisions of fairy tales, which I love. The first one I read by her was When Beauty Tamed the Beast, which was a retelling of... Anybody? Anybody? Bueller? (Yeah, that was lame.) Anyway, you get it. But it was completely lovely. The beauty was Linnet, a stunningly beautiful young woman who has been completely ruined by a bad prawn, a frumpy dress, a flirtation with a prince, and her dead mother's reputation as a tramp. As her father and aunt are trying to fix the situation, because Linnet's really not pregnant, they find a duke, a bit obsessed with royalty, whose estranged only son is apparently... incapable... of having a family, due to an injured leg, not to mention a fiendish temper. His name is Piers and he's the beast. He's also an amazingly brilliant doctor, and fashioned a bit on the character of House. (Except he's not an addict, yet. There's a temptation to numb his pain with laudanum, but he hasn't succumbed yet.)
So, the duke, supposedly desperate to see any heir in the family, agrees to set Linnet up with his son, and takes her to the castle in Wales where Piers has set up a hospital. And sparks fly. As do tempers. It's wonderful to read Linnet and Piers going back and forth on each other, because Linnet's no dummy and can give all his venom right back to him. There's one glaring possible historical inaccuracy, but I don't even care, because it's a truly wonderful plot point that gets them alone together. The sex scenes are fabulous. The damages they both carry from their parents is fabulous.
But lemme tell ya, that's not why I love this book. Why do I love this book? Because some crazy bad scarlet fever breaks out, and Piers kicks everyone out of the house so he can tend his patients. He says some terrible things to Linnet to get her to, not just leave the castle, but to leave him. We know he loves her, he knows he loves her, he knows that she loves him, but he doesn't think he should have her -- because his father was an addict, and Piers is really, desperately afraid of becoming his father, and with his injury, the temptation is always there. So, he kicks her out, and she leaves.
Piers saves all of his patients, and is seriously regretting sending Linnet off, so he's thinking of going to London to bring her back and make all better. But he's been having these dreams about Linnet that have been nagging at him. And then suddenly, he realizes that there is a damn good chance that Linnet may have been infected with scarlet fever before he kicked her out, and then he goes searching for her. He finds her in a coma, dehydrated, covered with the sores and rash of the fever and very, very close to dead in a chicken coop. That whole description of what he does to save her, how hard it is for him to see her that way, how hard it is for him to do the things he needs to do to save her, because of his leg, is freakin' heartbreaking. I think I've read the book three times now, and I still sob like a freaking baby all throughout that part. It is so gorgeous, and sad, and just shows how desperately he loves this woman. It's wonderful, wonderful stuff.
Anyway, the point of this is that that's the book, when I was scared to death last night of my appointment, and I hurt, and I couldn't sleep, I turned to that book, specifically to that scene in that book, because watching him fight so damn hard to save her, when he can barely carry a bucket of water up the stairs by himself, is such a wonderful, beautiful thing. It's comfort.
And I love that so much about stories, that they can give you that. That they can make you cry, but you're so happy that you don't even notice that you're crying. That they can give you safe space for you to go when you need to, that you can get a bit of peace for a moment, so that you can finally get a couple of hours of sleep.
I went by myself because The Hubby was like, "Hey, I'm not going to have to be there, am I?" And I said, "Oh no, they're not going to do anything to me that day." So while I was having a mini-heart attack in the waiting room, and blowing up my husband's phone with texts about my sweat level and the fact I was pretty sure I was about to vomit, The Hubby said, "Hey I could be there in 35 minutes if you need me/think it'll be that long before you get in." And I said, "No, it's fine." Because I am an idiot.
By the time they took me back into the examination room, I was crying. Kind of a lot. The doctor walked in (who was not the neurosurgeon, but the PA, which I have learned means Physician's Assistant), and he was just kind of stunned by the fact that I was having a freakin' nervous breakdown. He was really nice though, he told me that he didn't bite and he had no needles, and I laughed a bit at that (because needles don't scare me, my dad and I celebrated my seventeenth birthdat by me giving blood, true story). So, I started to calm down a bit. We talked about my pain and how it hurts and where it hurts and all that jazz. Then he pulled up my MRI and walked me through the images, showing me how severely screwed up the major herniation is (and good lord, is it screwed up). He told me that physical therapy wouldn't really help me, and, in fact, could increase my pain. And then he walked me through my options for how to proceed. I can: 1) do nothing, 2) take painkillers and some steroid, 3) have epidural shots to control pain and inflammation, 4) have surgery.
So, he typed up his notes for a bit and I looked at the MRI image and thought about it. I started sweating and shaking again. And then I thought, basically, everything but surgery is pain management. Which is kind of like putting a Band-Aid on a broken bone. I don't want to be hooked on pain pills. I don't want to have depend on pain medication for the rest of my freaking life. I want to fix the freaking problem. So, that means surgery. And I told him that I wanted surgery.
And proceeded to hyperventilate. So, I now have an appointment on the 29th to discuss surgery with the neurosurgeon. Apparently I may be a candidate for minimally invasive surgery, which would be excellent, and would apparently just require shaving off the bulging parts. I will be up and walking by the next day and my recovery period will be: walk, rest, walk, rest, walk, rest. There's a 15% chance that my discs could herniate again. There's a chance that the surgery might not get rid of my pain. I'll never be able to lift more than 20 pounds again. But you know what, I'm okay with all of that. I've been dealing with this stupid back pain since 2005. It's time to get it fixed. (And hell, maybe if someone had taken me seriously back then, it would've never gotten this bad. Friggin' asshats.)
So. That's my plan.
In my "my head is spinning too fast to be able to think clearly" daze after the appointment, because, HOLY CRAP I'M HAVING BACK SURGERY, I bought a couple of books by an author I've recently discovered, Eloisa James. She writes historical romances, and a couple of them are revisions of fairy tales, which I love. The first one I read by her was When Beauty Tamed the Beast, which was a retelling of... Anybody? Anybody? Bueller? (Yeah, that was lame.) Anyway, you get it. But it was completely lovely. The beauty was Linnet, a stunningly beautiful young woman who has been completely ruined by a bad prawn, a frumpy dress, a flirtation with a prince, and her dead mother's reputation as a tramp. As her father and aunt are trying to fix the situation, because Linnet's really not pregnant, they find a duke, a bit obsessed with royalty, whose estranged only son is apparently... incapable... of having a family, due to an injured leg, not to mention a fiendish temper. His name is Piers and he's the beast. He's also an amazingly brilliant doctor, and fashioned a bit on the character of House. (Except he's not an addict, yet. There's a temptation to numb his pain with laudanum, but he hasn't succumbed yet.)
So, the duke, supposedly desperate to see any heir in the family, agrees to set Linnet up with his son, and takes her to the castle in Wales where Piers has set up a hospital. And sparks fly. As do tempers. It's wonderful to read Linnet and Piers going back and forth on each other, because Linnet's no dummy and can give all his venom right back to him. There's one glaring possible historical inaccuracy, but I don't even care, because it's a truly wonderful plot point that gets them alone together. The sex scenes are fabulous. The damages they both carry from their parents is fabulous.
But lemme tell ya, that's not why I love this book. Why do I love this book? Because some crazy bad scarlet fever breaks out, and Piers kicks everyone out of the house so he can tend his patients. He says some terrible things to Linnet to get her to, not just leave the castle, but to leave him. We know he loves her, he knows he loves her, he knows that she loves him, but he doesn't think he should have her -- because his father was an addict, and Piers is really, desperately afraid of becoming his father, and with his injury, the temptation is always there. So, he kicks her out, and she leaves.
Piers saves all of his patients, and is seriously regretting sending Linnet off, so he's thinking of going to London to bring her back and make all better. But he's been having these dreams about Linnet that have been nagging at him. And then suddenly, he realizes that there is a damn good chance that Linnet may have been infected with scarlet fever before he kicked her out, and then he goes searching for her. He finds her in a coma, dehydrated, covered with the sores and rash of the fever and very, very close to dead in a chicken coop. That whole description of what he does to save her, how hard it is for him to see her that way, how hard it is for him to do the things he needs to do to save her, because of his leg, is freakin' heartbreaking. I think I've read the book three times now, and I still sob like a freaking baby all throughout that part. It is so gorgeous, and sad, and just shows how desperately he loves this woman. It's wonderful, wonderful stuff.
Anyway, the point of this is that that's the book, when I was scared to death last night of my appointment, and I hurt, and I couldn't sleep, I turned to that book, specifically to that scene in that book, because watching him fight so damn hard to save her, when he can barely carry a bucket of water up the stairs by himself, is such a wonderful, beautiful thing. It's comfort.
And I love that so much about stories, that they can give you that. That they can make you cry, but you're so happy that you don't even notice that you're crying. That they can give you safe space for you to go when you need to, that you can get a bit of peace for a moment, so that you can finally get a couple of hours of sleep.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Musings during the Super Bowl
So, I've been as bitchy as I feared I would be today without my painkillers. Thank goodness the neurosurgeon appointment is early tomorrow. (By the way, total yay for that!)
I haven't been paying a lot of attention to the game tonight -- I really don't care about football -- but I do kind of hope that the Patriots win, but to be honest I wouldn't be upset if they didn't. I enjoyed Madonna. I've enjoyed the commercials. I finished Frederica, which was the absolute most adorable story ever written. Which I'm pretty sure I declared loudly and at length to The Hubby several times.
The Hubby took me shopping for a bit today, because my absolute favorite, completely beloved boots officially fell apart. So he bought me new boots. 'Cause he's a sweetheart. And then I finished the chocolate and peanut butter ice cream he bought me it yesterday, because he's a sweetheart.
Kind of looking forward to The Voice. I hate American Idol because too much of it is focused on being negative to people and making fun of people who obviously can't sing, but the worst singers on the The Voice are just average, y'know? Nobody ever sucks. Hopefully this year I can keep myself in perspective and not get all pissy and wish I could audition for it or anything (which I really couldn't, you know. I'm not that good. I'm decent, but I'm not amazing).
I'm debating on trying to start the new Jeffrey Eugenides book I checked out from the library -- The Marriage Plot -- because it looks interesting, but I've been hesitating for some reason. I guess we'll see. It's been staring at me from the top of my book shelf for awhile, so the guilt of not reading it is starting to get to me.
I've been thinking about, depending what the neurosurgeon says, starting to do some water walking. I'm just vain and shallow enough to worry about looking like an old lady, though. But apparently it's amazing exercise, and there's not a lot I can do with my back, so if the water walking would be helpful, then that's what I'll do. The chubbiness must die. (Well, that's not really my primary motivation. I want my back to get stronger. But it would be a nice side effect. Like cake for icing.) But all of that is really dependent on this appointment tomorrow, and I'm really not certain how I want it to go. The Hubby wants surgery -- let's get it fixed and get it done. The parents don't want surgery because surgery should always be the last resort. I see the pros and cons of both sides a little too clearly, so I just want someone to decide for me and then tell me what to do. Which I guess is what tomorrow will be.
Anyway. Yeah, I'm just rambling. I'm kind of nervous, I guess, but I don't really know what I'm nervous for. I guess we'll see.
I haven't been paying a lot of attention to the game tonight -- I really don't care about football -- but I do kind of hope that the Patriots win, but to be honest I wouldn't be upset if they didn't. I enjoyed Madonna. I've enjoyed the commercials. I finished Frederica, which was the absolute most adorable story ever written. Which I'm pretty sure I declared loudly and at length to The Hubby several times.
The Hubby took me shopping for a bit today, because my absolute favorite, completely beloved boots officially fell apart. So he bought me new boots. 'Cause he's a sweetheart. And then I finished the chocolate and peanut butter ice cream he bought me it yesterday, because he's a sweetheart.
Kind of looking forward to The Voice. I hate American Idol because too much of it is focused on being negative to people and making fun of people who obviously can't sing, but the worst singers on the The Voice are just average, y'know? Nobody ever sucks. Hopefully this year I can keep myself in perspective and not get all pissy and wish I could audition for it or anything (which I really couldn't, you know. I'm not that good. I'm decent, but I'm not amazing).
I'm debating on trying to start the new Jeffrey Eugenides book I checked out from the library -- The Marriage Plot -- because it looks interesting, but I've been hesitating for some reason. I guess we'll see. It's been staring at me from the top of my book shelf for awhile, so the guilt of not reading it is starting to get to me.
I've been thinking about, depending what the neurosurgeon says, starting to do some water walking. I'm just vain and shallow enough to worry about looking like an old lady, though. But apparently it's amazing exercise, and there's not a lot I can do with my back, so if the water walking would be helpful, then that's what I'll do. The chubbiness must die. (Well, that's not really my primary motivation. I want my back to get stronger. But it would be a nice side effect. Like cake for icing.) But all of that is really dependent on this appointment tomorrow, and I'm really not certain how I want it to go. The Hubby wants surgery -- let's get it fixed and get it done. The parents don't want surgery because surgery should always be the last resort. I see the pros and cons of both sides a little too clearly, so I just want someone to decide for me and then tell me what to do. Which I guess is what tomorrow will be.
Anyway. Yeah, I'm just rambling. I'm kind of nervous, I guess, but I don't really know what I'm nervous for. I guess we'll see.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Nothing Serious
I'm a little worn out by all the whining I've done about my past the last couple of days, so I'm steering clear of those kinds of discussions for awhile. I will just say that although my past has been problematic, although I may come off as a man-hater and a victim, I am most certainly not. At least, not anymore. I couldn't even tell you when it all changed, or how it all changed. I know that sometime after I stopped taking anti-depressant medications and stopping seeing therapists, I started reading, almost exclusively, romance novels. I branched out from Jennifer Crusie and found other authors and subgenres that I enjoyed. And I think that I was affected by those stories the same way Jennifer Crusie was when she first started reading romances -- that here were these positive stories of women working hard to find happiness. And even though I can't pinpoint exactly when it happened, suddenly reading became my therapy; stories became my medication.
And suddenly I was happy, but it was a sustained completely goofy happiness. I have been known to bunny-hop across the apartment just for giggles. The Hubby and I went to get our taxes done last night. He "fake stole" a peppermint and I wrote on him, and the chick doing our taxes stopped suggesting that we get some "dependents" so we could get a bigger refund. :)
Right now I'm reading Frederica, by Georgette Heyer, and it is so adorable. It's a Regency romance, and I have always maintained a disdainful distance from historical romances because usually they involve things so improbable as to border on ridiculous, or what the SmartBitches call the "Old Skool Romance" hero, who is generally an asshole who must be redeemed. Since we all know I how much I hate men, I am not a fan of that kind of hero. (Dripping sarcasm, by the way -- although I don't like the rapey asshole heroes, they annoy me for some reason.) Anyway, I've found a few historical romances that have been absolutely incredible. I've heard so many references to Heyer lately, that I decided to bite the bullet and try her out. Oh my god. SO cute. Take one something by Jane Austen and throw in the most hilarious and ridiculous set of accidents, and that's Frederica. The heroine is smart and funny and sharp. She thinks she's too old to be a suitable marriage partner for anyone, but wants to push her younger sister (a stunning beauty, but not a whole lot going on upstairs) into society. And the hero is this supremely bored, too rich for his own good, sardonic, sharp guy who is convinced to help, and to watch him fall under the spell of the family, to not be bored, but to try to do the right thing for everybody, and to watch him slowly realize he's in love with Frederica.. *sigh* It's just too, too wonderful. I am totally in love. And they do the things that Jenny Crusie and Lani Diane Rich determined were necessary to establish a good romance -- they work together (there's a completely hysterical scene where they just kind of improv with each other, which reminds me of It Happened One Night), they have great dialogue, and you can tell that they really care about each other, and it's so fabulous. So much squee.
Anyway, romance is fabulous. Haha.
Also, I'm going painkiller free this weekend, because the big meeting with the neurosurgeon is on Monday, and we want to have the decision based on all the facts. So, I may become extremely bitchy by tomorrow. That may be why The Hubby went out and got me peanut butter and chocolate ice cream of his own free will. Haha. That's a smart man. I'm very lucky.
Okay, I'm going to go back to my extremely happy-inducing book and to the UFC event we decided to buy.
Here is the transcript of a Three Goddess chat on romantic comedy, where they discuss everything they learned from their review of romantic comedy films on Popcorn Dialogues: http://lucymarch.com/?p=6066. It's awesome. You will learn much.
And suddenly I was happy, but it was a sustained completely goofy happiness. I have been known to bunny-hop across the apartment just for giggles. The Hubby and I went to get our taxes done last night. He "fake stole" a peppermint and I wrote on him, and the chick doing our taxes stopped suggesting that we get some "dependents" so we could get a bigger refund. :)
Right now I'm reading Frederica, by Georgette Heyer, and it is so adorable. It's a Regency romance, and I have always maintained a disdainful distance from historical romances because usually they involve things so improbable as to border on ridiculous, or what the SmartBitches call the "Old Skool Romance" hero, who is generally an asshole who must be redeemed. Since we all know I how much I hate men, I am not a fan of that kind of hero. (Dripping sarcasm, by the way -- although I don't like the rapey asshole heroes, they annoy me for some reason.) Anyway, I've found a few historical romances that have been absolutely incredible. I've heard so many references to Heyer lately, that I decided to bite the bullet and try her out. Oh my god. SO cute. Take one something by Jane Austen and throw in the most hilarious and ridiculous set of accidents, and that's Frederica. The heroine is smart and funny and sharp. She thinks she's too old to be a suitable marriage partner for anyone, but wants to push her younger sister (a stunning beauty, but not a whole lot going on upstairs) into society. And the hero is this supremely bored, too rich for his own good, sardonic, sharp guy who is convinced to help, and to watch him fall under the spell of the family, to not be bored, but to try to do the right thing for everybody, and to watch him slowly realize he's in love with Frederica.. *sigh* It's just too, too wonderful. I am totally in love. And they do the things that Jenny Crusie and Lani Diane Rich determined were necessary to establish a good romance -- they work together (there's a completely hysterical scene where they just kind of improv with each other, which reminds me of It Happened One Night), they have great dialogue, and you can tell that they really care about each other, and it's so fabulous. So much squee.
Anyway, romance is fabulous. Haha.
Also, I'm going painkiller free this weekend, because the big meeting with the neurosurgeon is on Monday, and we want to have the decision based on all the facts. So, I may become extremely bitchy by tomorrow. That may be why The Hubby went out and got me peanut butter and chocolate ice cream of his own free will. Haha. That's a smart man. I'm very lucky.
Okay, I'm going to go back to my extremely happy-inducing book and to the UFC event we decided to buy.
Here is the transcript of a Three Goddess chat on romantic comedy, where they discuss everything they learned from their review of romantic comedy films on Popcorn Dialogues: http://lucymarch.com/?p=6066. It's awesome. You will learn much.
Friday, February 3, 2012
A Very Rambly Attempt to Correct Some Potential Misinformation
So, I wanted to follow up on some stuff I said yesterday, because I had a lot of ideas swirling and I don't entirely know how much sense I made. I rattled off a list of terrible things that men have done to me over the years. All of that is true, but that's not the whole truth. Some of those things happened because of me, because it was something I asked for. Let me explain.
I hated myself. I thought I was unworthy of anything good. I thought I was fat, ugly, melodramatic, and horrible in every way. I wanted to kill myself more times than I would like to think about.
And I think that when you are so mired in that self-hatred, you attract people around who validate your beliefs. I was a horrible person, so I dated people who treated me horribly.
Even the rape I kind of blame on myself. It wasn't a terribly violent thing, so everyone envisioning me getting grabbed and dragged into an alley can get that out of your head. I was on a date with a guy I didn't know particularly well. I'd met him a couple of times at the record store I worked at -- he was a customer -- and then one day our flirting got a little intense, and I gave him my number. We went to dinner -- where he super-obnoxiously flirted with the waitress and then demanded to know if I was jealous. Then we went to the movies, and he didn't have enough money for my ticket, so I bought it, but I didn't have enough money to buy Skittles. I always have Skittles at the movie theater. This is was the only time I didn't have Skittles. I have never not had Skittles again. I've decided it's some kind of good luck charm. Anyway, the movie was good -- 28 Days Later -- which I loved because it showed that it wasn't the monsters that were dangerous, it was people. Great, great stuff. The guy was crazy annoying, so we were walking around town and I had already decided I was over him and I was going home and never talking to him again. And we magically wound up at his house, and he asked me if I wanted to come in. I decided I would because I really had to use the bathroom. And then he basically threw me down. I pushed at him and kept saying no, and he just... plowed ahead. And a funny thing happened. My brain just totally shut down. *Caution: Gross Stuff Ahead.* I was on my period, and I had a tampon in, and he... entered anyway. So while he was going to town, in my head there was this very clinical, detached voice saying, "Wow. I hope I can get this thing out myself, otherwise I'm going to have to tell my dad and he's going to have to take me to the hospital, and then he'll have to know that I had sex." It was odd. And then he was done, and I got up and went home. And he came by the record store the next day and said something completely unrepeatable and I never saw him again. Thank heaven.
One time I was talking about it in therapy (with one of a string of therapists I've seen over the years), and I explained the whole incident and the therapist told me that that kind of detachment during a rape is really common.
Anyway, the point is, I blamed myself for years that it had happened. I would totally freak out if any of my friends ever blamed themselves for getting raped, but I blamed myself. "If only I had never gone into his house..." and so on. I don't blame myself that way. I do blame myself in the way that my negative, I-hate-myself energy attracted someone who wanted to feed on that. He validated my belief that I was unworthy of a loving relationship, that I was someone that I should hate.
And I think that's why a lot of the bad things that happened to me happened.
And, just for full disclosure, I've done some really terrible things to men. I regret that I've done them, but those are the facts. I usually wound up hurting one of the few good guys I would find, who defied my I-hate-myself energy, so I had to hurt them, to destroy the relationship, so that, once again, I could validate my belief that I was a horrible person.
However, mine is a rather extreme example.
I do not and will never believe that other rape victims were "asking for it." A person's clothing is not indicative of their consent to sex. Ever. I'm tired of hearing that. A person's sexual history is not relevant in determining whether or not they were raped. Just because they've given their consent before, doesn't mean they did during this instance. Argh. Rage, rage, rage.
I explain the high school torture with.. well, those guys were just dickwads. I'm still annoyed by that. But it got so ridiculous that I decided to just have fun with their crap. They thought I dressed weird? I was going to dress weirder than they ever imagined. (I distinctly remembered a polyester Mrs. Partridge-eque dress, fishnets, leg warmers, Doc Martens, four completely different earrings and like twenty necklaces.) They thought I was a lesbian? Then I'd sing Ani DiFranco songs at the talent show. I'd get down on one knee and ask my female friend to one of the dances. I bought a guy a corsage. The hell with them. But they did make life extremely miserable. Although it was odd kind of miserable. I was used to it. When I switched schools, I was scared. I was going to a private school -- a private, boarding school -- and my mom worked there, so she squelched my weird clothes so she wouldn't look bad. And there, basically no one paid the slightest bit of attention to me. It took me quite a while to make friends because I was just ignored. But eventually I met some seriously awesome ladies and my senior year was awesome -- for the most part, I made a really big mistake at one point and almost lost all of my friends -- and I'm really thankful that I got to go there.
But I wonder what would have happened if I had stayed at my first high school sometimes. Would I have eventually broke under the pressure of those guys' bullying? Or would I have continued to try to defy them and show that they couldn't get to me? I don't know. But it's interesting to think about.
Anyway. Wow, this is a rambling mess. Oh well. Yay blogging!
Oh, right. About my parents. I know I said yesterday that my mom is the result of my having such poor self-esteem, but I feel really terrible about that. Yes, she said those things. But she said it from a place of trying to help. She loves me tons, and I know that. She and my dad were just very, very young when they had me, and they did the best they could. One time in therapy (a different therapist than the one discussed above), my therapist told me I could be mad at my mom and my dad (who used to be kind of controlling and kind of judgmental). That it was totally okay to be mad at them. But I can't. Because it's simply not fair to be mad at them. They were infants, for heaven's sake. They didn't know what they were doing and they really did the best that they could, and I know that. I can point to certain things and say, "Well, I wish that had happened differently," but I can't be mad at them. I love them both dearly and I'm very glad that I have them for parents. I have great relationships with both of them and I am super thankful for that.
Was there anything else? Oh, I'm sure there was, but that will have to do for now.
I promise tomorrow I'll write something less melodramatic. Thanks for hanging in there.
I hated myself. I thought I was unworthy of anything good. I thought I was fat, ugly, melodramatic, and horrible in every way. I wanted to kill myself more times than I would like to think about.
And I think that when you are so mired in that self-hatred, you attract people around who validate your beliefs. I was a horrible person, so I dated people who treated me horribly.
Even the rape I kind of blame on myself. It wasn't a terribly violent thing, so everyone envisioning me getting grabbed and dragged into an alley can get that out of your head. I was on a date with a guy I didn't know particularly well. I'd met him a couple of times at the record store I worked at -- he was a customer -- and then one day our flirting got a little intense, and I gave him my number. We went to dinner -- where he super-obnoxiously flirted with the waitress and then demanded to know if I was jealous. Then we went to the movies, and he didn't have enough money for my ticket, so I bought it, but I didn't have enough money to buy Skittles. I always have Skittles at the movie theater. This is was the only time I didn't have Skittles. I have never not had Skittles again. I've decided it's some kind of good luck charm. Anyway, the movie was good -- 28 Days Later -- which I loved because it showed that it wasn't the monsters that were dangerous, it was people. Great, great stuff. The guy was crazy annoying, so we were walking around town and I had already decided I was over him and I was going home and never talking to him again. And we magically wound up at his house, and he asked me if I wanted to come in. I decided I would because I really had to use the bathroom. And then he basically threw me down. I pushed at him and kept saying no, and he just... plowed ahead. And a funny thing happened. My brain just totally shut down. *Caution: Gross Stuff Ahead.* I was on my period, and I had a tampon in, and he... entered anyway. So while he was going to town, in my head there was this very clinical, detached voice saying, "Wow. I hope I can get this thing out myself, otherwise I'm going to have to tell my dad and he's going to have to take me to the hospital, and then he'll have to know that I had sex." It was odd. And then he was done, and I got up and went home. And he came by the record store the next day and said something completely unrepeatable and I never saw him again. Thank heaven.
One time I was talking about it in therapy (with one of a string of therapists I've seen over the years), and I explained the whole incident and the therapist told me that that kind of detachment during a rape is really common.
Anyway, the point is, I blamed myself for years that it had happened. I would totally freak out if any of my friends ever blamed themselves for getting raped, but I blamed myself. "If only I had never gone into his house..." and so on. I don't blame myself that way. I do blame myself in the way that my negative, I-hate-myself energy attracted someone who wanted to feed on that. He validated my belief that I was unworthy of a loving relationship, that I was someone that I should hate.
And I think that's why a lot of the bad things that happened to me happened.
And, just for full disclosure, I've done some really terrible things to men. I regret that I've done them, but those are the facts. I usually wound up hurting one of the few good guys I would find, who defied my I-hate-myself energy, so I had to hurt them, to destroy the relationship, so that, once again, I could validate my belief that I was a horrible person.
However, mine is a rather extreme example.
I do not and will never believe that other rape victims were "asking for it." A person's clothing is not indicative of their consent to sex. Ever. I'm tired of hearing that. A person's sexual history is not relevant in determining whether or not they were raped. Just because they've given their consent before, doesn't mean they did during this instance. Argh. Rage, rage, rage.
I explain the high school torture with.. well, those guys were just dickwads. I'm still annoyed by that. But it got so ridiculous that I decided to just have fun with their crap. They thought I dressed weird? I was going to dress weirder than they ever imagined. (I distinctly remembered a polyester Mrs. Partridge-eque dress, fishnets, leg warmers, Doc Martens, four completely different earrings and like twenty necklaces.) They thought I was a lesbian? Then I'd sing Ani DiFranco songs at the talent show. I'd get down on one knee and ask my female friend to one of the dances. I bought a guy a corsage. The hell with them. But they did make life extremely miserable. Although it was odd kind of miserable. I was used to it. When I switched schools, I was scared. I was going to a private school -- a private, boarding school -- and my mom worked there, so she squelched my weird clothes so she wouldn't look bad. And there, basically no one paid the slightest bit of attention to me. It took me quite a while to make friends because I was just ignored. But eventually I met some seriously awesome ladies and my senior year was awesome -- for the most part, I made a really big mistake at one point and almost lost all of my friends -- and I'm really thankful that I got to go there.
But I wonder what would have happened if I had stayed at my first high school sometimes. Would I have eventually broke under the pressure of those guys' bullying? Or would I have continued to try to defy them and show that they couldn't get to me? I don't know. But it's interesting to think about.
Anyway. Wow, this is a rambling mess. Oh well. Yay blogging!
Oh, right. About my parents. I know I said yesterday that my mom is the result of my having such poor self-esteem, but I feel really terrible about that. Yes, she said those things. But she said it from a place of trying to help. She loves me tons, and I know that. She and my dad were just very, very young when they had me, and they did the best they could. One time in therapy (a different therapist than the one discussed above), my therapist told me I could be mad at my mom and my dad (who used to be kind of controlling and kind of judgmental). That it was totally okay to be mad at them. But I can't. Because it's simply not fair to be mad at them. They were infants, for heaven's sake. They didn't know what they were doing and they really did the best that they could, and I know that. I can point to certain things and say, "Well, I wish that had happened differently," but I can't be mad at them. I love them both dearly and I'm very glad that I have them for parents. I have great relationships with both of them and I am super thankful for that.
Was there anything else? Oh, I'm sure there was, but that will have to do for now.
I promise tomorrow I'll write something less melodramatic. Thanks for hanging in there.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
A Defense. Or, I Swear I Don't Hate Men
Okay, what I'm about to discuss has been swirling around my head all day, so I have a lot, a lot of thoughts and most of them are not really organized. So, when this starts to ramble, please just hang in there. I have a point.
(deep breath.)
So, it has been brought to my attention that my "central theme" on here seems to be that I hate men. I've had the Fem-Nazi, man-hater epithets thrown my way before, but this was the first time I ever took the phrase seriously. This is because the friend who told me about it told me to brace myself before he said it, because he knew I wasn't going to like hearing it, because he knows that I don't actually hate men.
So I did a little reading on here in the wee hours of the morning and while I never say "All men are scum who should be sent to a fiery death," I say things like "Women suffer under a lot of shoulds" and "The romance genre is ridiculed because its created by and for women and promotes a healthy female sexuality," which could be read, especially by someone who's read my more virulent Facebook posts, as "This happens because all men are scum and should be sent to a fiery death." And therefore, I find myself at a weird point. I certainly don't hate Men, but I certainly don't want to be one of those male apologists who thinks Eve Ensler is the devil. So, what to do? Well, this is my best attempt to clarify my position on feminism, men, and why I write about women's issues the way that I do.
I am a feminist. I am not ashamed of the descriptor. I don't think that the word translates to "some crazy woman who doesn't shave, thinks all men are the devil, and saves her menstrual blood in a jar in the fridge." Nope. I am a feminist because, quite simply, I believe in women's rights. I believe a woman should have every right a man has. I believe that the presence or absence of a Y chromosome has nothing to do with what a person can achieve in this world. I idolized Susan B. Anthony as a second grader. When I found out who Gloria Steinem is, I idolized her. When I found out that I am extremely distantly related to Lucy Stone, another first wave feminist leader, I was ecstatic.
But look at me. I wear makeup and I love it. I'm married, and I even took my husband's name (although, to be honest, I was planning on hyphenating and then wrote "just Moore" at the last minute -- I do like it though, it sounds very literary). I am not your stereotypical "bra-burner."
Because I love men. I really do. I love all humanity (just not when I'm driving).
There have been a few men who have done some seriously shitty things to me. I've been raped, I've been hit because I wouldn't have sex, I've been treated like a whore, I've been mocked and harrassed and told that I wasn't pretty enough to date, or that I was pretty only so long as I was thought to be sexually available to them, and then I was a bitch and so have you. I have a complex about never being good enough because of how some men in my life treated me. There were a group of guys in my first high school who decided for some reason that I was a lesbian and made my life a living hell for two years, until I switched schools. And so on.
But just like I think it's wrong to judge one ethnic or religious group by the actions of a few people, I don't judge all Men and say that they're all rapists or abusers. I know that that's not right. There are a ton of men in the world who would never think of raping someone, who would never think of hitting their girlfriend, wife, or lover. I know that.
And let's face it, men don't have a monopoly on misogyny. Not by a long shot. Some of the most hateful, horrible, vitriol-spewing women-haters in the world are women. Phyllis Schafly, I'm looking at you.
In fact, god love her, my whole complex about being too fat and not pretty came from some well-intentioned but poorly executed statements from my mom. When I was in elementary school, I wanted to take ballet, and she told me I was too big for ballet. She meant tall because she thought dancers were short, but my brain took "too big" and made it into "too fat," and I've had a complicated relationship with my weight and food ever since. When I was ten, I told her I wanted to be an actress and a writer. And she asked, "Wouldn't it be better if you were a writer? Something that didn't focus on your appearance." Now, my mom loves me and my brother more than anything in the world. She never meant to imply that I wasn't pretty. What she was hoping for, was that I wouldn't caught up into caring about my looks and deriving all of my self-worth from appearance. But my brain said that she meant I wasn't pretty, and then the universe seemed to hammer that message home for years, and of course, I became obsessed with how I looked.
Women have done terrible things to women. Women have done terrible things to men. That is true. A wealthy white woman in the antebellum period definitely had it better than a black man. But a black man had it better than a black woman. And the white woman was still basically property, in a lot of instances.
Race, class, and gender all intersect and someone's experience isn't limited to just one of those factors. So, when I post things about women having a rough time, I never mean to imply that all women have it worse than all men all of the time. Not in the slightest. My world is seen through a lens of a roughly middle class, college-educated white girl. I don't always describe it in those terms, because that's a lot of descriptors to put on something, but I generalize and speak in broad strokes about the female experience, as I have seen and felt it to be.
So when I talk about all the shoulds placed on women, I don't mean to imply that there isn't a list a mile long of shoulds for men. There is. Definitely. And in a weird way, I think it's harder for men sometimes, because while the expectations of what women should be have been largely consistent through the years, the expectations for men are constantly shifting :
A man should be a "manly man" who has no feelings, drinks whiskey and eats red meat for every meal, as raw as possible because he's a Man. A man can't be a singer and dancer and not be thought "less than a man" (which does double-duty as also a horrible insult to gay men). A man can write poetry about daffodils. Real men don't write poetry. Men should be concerned about their appearance. Men should roll around in dirt all day.
And so on and so forth. It's ridiculous, really.
So, why didn't I acknowledge the shoulds placed on men? Well, for starters, I never imagined more than one guy would ever read my blog, and the one that I knew was reading it knows that I'm a feminist and that's how I see the world. Also, I'm not a man. I can comment on what I see portrayed on TV and say that men are getting the same ridiculous body-image messages women have been getting for years. I can say that all these Superman truck ads, and the Dr. Pepper 10 ad, are all serving this image that a "real man" is an action hero, and, above all Not Female, and that is a very limited view of masculinity and misogynistic at the same time. But, since I am not a man, I don't feel those pressures every day. I don't know what those standards do a man's sense of self worth. I'm a woman, so I talk about how women feel. And I don't even talk about how all women feel. Just what I've seen and experienced.
So. There. I don't hate men. How'd I do?
(deep breath.)
So, it has been brought to my attention that my "central theme" on here seems to be that I hate men. I've had the Fem-Nazi, man-hater epithets thrown my way before, but this was the first time I ever took the phrase seriously. This is because the friend who told me about it told me to brace myself before he said it, because he knew I wasn't going to like hearing it, because he knows that I don't actually hate men.
So I did a little reading on here in the wee hours of the morning and while I never say "All men are scum who should be sent to a fiery death," I say things like "Women suffer under a lot of shoulds" and "The romance genre is ridiculed because its created by and for women and promotes a healthy female sexuality," which could be read, especially by someone who's read my more virulent Facebook posts, as "This happens because all men are scum and should be sent to a fiery death." And therefore, I find myself at a weird point. I certainly don't hate Men, but I certainly don't want to be one of those male apologists who thinks Eve Ensler is the devil. So, what to do? Well, this is my best attempt to clarify my position on feminism, men, and why I write about women's issues the way that I do.
I am a feminist. I am not ashamed of the descriptor. I don't think that the word translates to "some crazy woman who doesn't shave, thinks all men are the devil, and saves her menstrual blood in a jar in the fridge." Nope. I am a feminist because, quite simply, I believe in women's rights. I believe a woman should have every right a man has. I believe that the presence or absence of a Y chromosome has nothing to do with what a person can achieve in this world. I idolized Susan B. Anthony as a second grader. When I found out who Gloria Steinem is, I idolized her. When I found out that I am extremely distantly related to Lucy Stone, another first wave feminist leader, I was ecstatic.
But look at me. I wear makeup and I love it. I'm married, and I even took my husband's name (although, to be honest, I was planning on hyphenating and then wrote "just Moore" at the last minute -- I do like it though, it sounds very literary). I am not your stereotypical "bra-burner."
Because I love men. I really do. I love all humanity (just not when I'm driving).
There have been a few men who have done some seriously shitty things to me. I've been raped, I've been hit because I wouldn't have sex, I've been treated like a whore, I've been mocked and harrassed and told that I wasn't pretty enough to date, or that I was pretty only so long as I was thought to be sexually available to them, and then I was a bitch and so have you. I have a complex about never being good enough because of how some men in my life treated me. There were a group of guys in my first high school who decided for some reason that I was a lesbian and made my life a living hell for two years, until I switched schools. And so on.
But just like I think it's wrong to judge one ethnic or religious group by the actions of a few people, I don't judge all Men and say that they're all rapists or abusers. I know that that's not right. There are a ton of men in the world who would never think of raping someone, who would never think of hitting their girlfriend, wife, or lover. I know that.
And let's face it, men don't have a monopoly on misogyny. Not by a long shot. Some of the most hateful, horrible, vitriol-spewing women-haters in the world are women. Phyllis Schafly, I'm looking at you.
In fact, god love her, my whole complex about being too fat and not pretty came from some well-intentioned but poorly executed statements from my mom. When I was in elementary school, I wanted to take ballet, and she told me I was too big for ballet. She meant tall because she thought dancers were short, but my brain took "too big" and made it into "too fat," and I've had a complicated relationship with my weight and food ever since. When I was ten, I told her I wanted to be an actress and a writer. And she asked, "Wouldn't it be better if you were a writer? Something that didn't focus on your appearance." Now, my mom loves me and my brother more than anything in the world. She never meant to imply that I wasn't pretty. What she was hoping for, was that I wouldn't caught up into caring about my looks and deriving all of my self-worth from appearance. But my brain said that she meant I wasn't pretty, and then the universe seemed to hammer that message home for years, and of course, I became obsessed with how I looked.
Women have done terrible things to women. Women have done terrible things to men. That is true. A wealthy white woman in the antebellum period definitely had it better than a black man. But a black man had it better than a black woman. And the white woman was still basically property, in a lot of instances.
Race, class, and gender all intersect and someone's experience isn't limited to just one of those factors. So, when I post things about women having a rough time, I never mean to imply that all women have it worse than all men all of the time. Not in the slightest. My world is seen through a lens of a roughly middle class, college-educated white girl. I don't always describe it in those terms, because that's a lot of descriptors to put on something, but I generalize and speak in broad strokes about the female experience, as I have seen and felt it to be.
So when I talk about all the shoulds placed on women, I don't mean to imply that there isn't a list a mile long of shoulds for men. There is. Definitely. And in a weird way, I think it's harder for men sometimes, because while the expectations of what women should be have been largely consistent through the years, the expectations for men are constantly shifting :
A man should be a "manly man" who has no feelings, drinks whiskey and eats red meat for every meal, as raw as possible because he's a Man. A man can't be a singer and dancer and not be thought "less than a man" (which does double-duty as also a horrible insult to gay men). A man can write poetry about daffodils. Real men don't write poetry. Men should be concerned about their appearance. Men should roll around in dirt all day.
And so on and so forth. It's ridiculous, really.
So, why didn't I acknowledge the shoulds placed on men? Well, for starters, I never imagined more than one guy would ever read my blog, and the one that I knew was reading it knows that I'm a feminist and that's how I see the world. Also, I'm not a man. I can comment on what I see portrayed on TV and say that men are getting the same ridiculous body-image messages women have been getting for years. I can say that all these Superman truck ads, and the Dr. Pepper 10 ad, are all serving this image that a "real man" is an action hero, and, above all Not Female, and that is a very limited view of masculinity and misogynistic at the same time. But, since I am not a man, I don't feel those pressures every day. I don't know what those standards do a man's sense of self worth. I'm a woman, so I talk about how women feel. And I don't even talk about how all women feel. Just what I've seen and experienced.
So. There. I don't hate men. How'd I do?
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Completely blank
I've been sitting here staring at this screen for twenty minutes, should-ing all over the place. I should have something interesting to write about. I should be able to write about something interesting. I should, I should, I should, I should. Blegh to doing that again.
And it's not working anyway. My brain is a blissfully blank of anything to do with my life. I want to read the Georgette Heyer novel I recently bought (my first Heyer, who is, apparently, a goddess in the romance genre, everyone talks about her). I want to eat something that requires extremely minimal effort and I want to go to sleep. (Yes, even though a good friend brought me some seriously insane coffee at 2ish today.) That's pretty much all I'm thinking about. (Well, that, and some seriously pissed off reflections on political stuff, but this is not the place for that, and I'm trying to stop thinking about those things because rage makes my back get all stiff.)
So, I'm going cop out today and direct you to Will Write for Wine (http://www.willwriteforwine.com/) and tell you listen to some of their podcasts. They're a few years old, so all the stuff about the wine is probably not relevant anymore, but all of the writing information is still wonderful. I listen to these podcasts at work and I've learned a freaking ton, and the writer improvs are always hilarious. So, go, listen and enjoy. I'm going to stop should-ing and start sleeping.
And it's not working anyway. My brain is a blissfully blank of anything to do with my life. I want to read the Georgette Heyer novel I recently bought (my first Heyer, who is, apparently, a goddess in the romance genre, everyone talks about her). I want to eat something that requires extremely minimal effort and I want to go to sleep. (Yes, even though a good friend brought me some seriously insane coffee at 2ish today.) That's pretty much all I'm thinking about. (Well, that, and some seriously pissed off reflections on political stuff, but this is not the place for that, and I'm trying to stop thinking about those things because rage makes my back get all stiff.)
So, I'm going cop out today and direct you to Will Write for Wine (http://www.willwriteforwine.com/) and tell you listen to some of their podcasts. They're a few years old, so all the stuff about the wine is probably not relevant anymore, but all of the writing information is still wonderful. I listen to these podcasts at work and I've learned a freaking ton, and the writer improvs are always hilarious. So, go, listen and enjoy. I'm going to stop should-ing and start sleeping.
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