Tag: women

Gumption

MissMLeave a comment

Today would be my second wedding anniversary if I’d stayed. 2 years since I said “I do,” but actually didn’t.

My mind can’t help but wonder from time to time what my life would look like now if I hadn’t ran away. Would I still wake up a little early every morning to carve out some peace for myself, emptying the dishwasher ever so quietly and making coffee for two? Would I still restlessly pace the house back-and-forth in the evenings, praying for the sun to set so I could pharmaceutically induce sleep and get another day under my belt? Would I still cook dinner once a week and end up eating alone because I didn’t want to be a disruption?

I was unwanted. Unliked. Undesired. I shrunk and shrunk and shrunk, and somehow would never be small enough. He needed more space from me than our modest house allowed, so I’d go for drives. Wander around a town that I could never call home and have a cryptic phone call with my mom, trying to force a smile through the phone while I told her that I’m doing fine.

There was no intimacy – physically, emotionally, or otherwise. Our king bed felt like a continent with nothing but an impassable ravine between us. The first time I expressed my despondence with our situation resulted in a tornado of harsh words, threats to leave each other, and me collapsed on the kitchen floor, choking on my own tears. I waited another year to bring it up again.

We were incompatible in most respects, but especially in the conflict resolution department. The cold shoulder was a frequently-deployed weapon in our home, injecting a heavy, hot stream of tension into the air for hours, sometimes days. I’d scream and yell and he’d throw things and fantasize about bashing my head against the wall. More than once, our fights took place over email – both of us typing furiously behind our keyboards, not even 20 feet away.

My first ever suicidal thought occurred on the 1.5-hour drive home from our quarterly Costco excursion. We’d been arguing in circles and the noise of it all had me in dire need of an escape. From the passenger seat, fingers trembling as they wrapped around the door handle, I thought to myself, “tuck and roll, you coward.”

He overnighted me a handwritten letter a few days after I’d left him and stopped returning his messages or phone calls. He was ready to hear my needs and do something about them. We can move back home, or go where ever I need to be. “Please don’t give up on me yet”, he implored, with all the love in his heart.

I may never understand why he wanted me back. I can’t speak to whether he ever loved me, but I know that he certainly didn’t like me for an overwhelming majority of our 14 months spent in holy matrimony. As for me, I loved him deeply until I simply couldn’t. I spent 2 precious years of my twenties in a town that I didn’t understand with a husband that didn’t understand me. I was starved for familiarity, intimacy, and companionship. There was no space or consideration for these needs, and I’m not convinced that there ever would have been.

I hold no resentment in my heart, nor doubt about my decision to sever this relationship for my own sake. I don’t even think I regret it. I grew in ways that would be hard to attain otherwise, and know for certain that I’m too resilient to be broken down entirely or permanently. What an empowering truth.

-M

Connive

MissMLeave a comment

Today I present to you: three stories that illustrate why I do not and will not ever trust a middle-aged white man ever again (not that I need any anecdotal reason. Just open a history book and read like, a header.).

    1. The Dance Teacher

    I’m a freshman in college, and objectively the best ballroom dancer on my team. The Dance Teacher is highly esteemed as both a coach and a dancer himself, even at his advanced age. I couldn’t be more honored that he’s selected me as his prodige. He is going to give me the competitive edge I need to bring home a trophy at the upcoming competition in Vegas.

    He offers me free 2- hour private lessons on Saturdays. We meet at an LDS church building to use their gym as our dance floor. Our first session is a smashing success, and I can tell that he’s impressed with my skill and technique. I am proud and I am driven.

    I am stretching on the floor in preparation for our second private session, and he tells me my legs are tight. He’s right – I’ve been getting cramps in my calves and feet lately due to my rigorous practice schedule. He takes my dance shoes off of me and massages my feet. My calves. My thighs. My cheeks flood with blood and heat. I say nothing and we start dancing. He holds me close and firm and doesn’t let go.

    But he knows what it takes to win, and I know I can be a winner too, so I attend a third lesson.

    His phone rings just as we’re about to begin. “I have to take this,” he says and he walks into the hallway and speaks into the phone. I wait patiently, but can clearly hear his side of the conversation.

    “Hi, honey. I told you I’m picking up some mulch and bringing it to Dave’s to help him finish up his yard. I’ll be home in a few hours. Okay, love you. Talk soon.”

    That was our last private lesson.

    2. The Professor

    The Professor and I have great rapport. Healthy banter. I’ve been in several of his classes before and genuinely enjoy his lectures and teaching style.

    We are nearing the end of the semester, and I am extremely stressed about my capstone group project. Let’s just say that not everyone in the group has my vigor and drive for perfection. I’m visibly distressed in class today – my chest is red and my breathing is shallow.

    The Professor dismisses class and looks at me with concern. “M – swing by my office in a few minutes if your schedule allows.” I’m perspiring through my dress. Was my group project that inadequate? Will this tank my GPA? I’m on track for Cum Laude and can’t bear falling short.

    His office is down a long corridor, and the surrounding rooms are unoccupied. “Thanks for swinging by,” he says genuinely as I enter his office and take a seat on his couch.

    “I couldn’t help but notice that you looked a bit distressed during my lecture today. I want to assure you that you’re getting an A on your group project, but I unfortunately can’t say the same for the rest of your peers.” I take the first real breath I’ve taken all day and feel all of my muscles release, the heat from my cheeks dissipating.

    “Can I show you something?” He asks. I nod and he stands up and motions for me to do the same. “You need some breathing exercises to manage your anxiety. I can’t have you panicking in my classroom.” I give a half-hearted giggle. He walks behind me and says, “May I?” as he puts both hands on my diaphragm, not bothering to wait for a response.

    “Now, breathe deeply. Deeper than you even think you can.” I obey, watching his hands expand with my abdomen. “Good, good. Another one.” I breathe again. On the third breath, his hands ascend to my breasts. I can feel his hot breath on my neck and we both realize that it’s time for me to leave.

    3. The Mediator

    We’re conducting our 1:1 mediation evaluation via Zoom. I join the call and see that The Mediator is sitting in his car, spooning a milkshake into his mouth. Am I in the wrong place?

    “Sorry for eating in front of you, but the lower my blood sugar is, the grumpier I get.” I give a confused chuckle.

    He begins asking for reasons that I am seeking a divorce. I’m unsure as to why this is relevant to his role in mediating my case, but I answer his questions as vaguely and matter-of-factly as I can. I have no idea how any of this works. He asks if I’m dating anyone and says “If you’re f*cking 10 black guys, I need to know about it. I want to be prepared for whatever I’m walking into for your mediation session.”

    The conversation continues, and he mentions that he would totally hook me up with his son if his son weren’t already married. He offers his nephew as an alternative.

    “Let’s get me back on the market first,” I say, as light-heartedly as I can muster. He is finished with the evaluation now, and the call ends.

    A few days later, on a Saturday, I receive a text from him. “Hey M, this is The Mediator. Can you send me four or five of your favorite pictures of yourself?”

    “Hi Mediator,” I respond, “What will they be used for?”

    “Remember that nephew I was telling you about? And I was only kind of kidding with you.”

    I fired him and got my deposit back, but not without being threatened with legal action.

    All 3 men were of a very similar demographic – white, much older than me, and in positions of authority. I was perhaps a bit naive in my earlier years, but my distrust, defiance, and confidence grows each time I land in a situation such as the ones I’ve illustrated here. I pity the next one, as I know that there will be more.

    -M.

    Rejuvenescence

    MissMLeave a comment

    Move over Demi Lovato, because it is I who is mastering the art of starting over.

    2024 was hopefully the ugliest year I’ll have in a while. Heartbreak and Hurricane Helene shook me hard enough to finally change my situation. I’m no longer stuck. No longer restricted, afraid, small, or self-depreciating. Y’know what they say about hitting rock bottom? Well I’ve licked my wounds, brushed myself off, and am standing on my own two feet for the first time in too long.

    I’m gliding into the new year with a renewed sense of self, and I’m so relieved that the Real M is still in there. I’m writing this post in my very own space, sitting on my very own pink couch, next to my beloved Doodle, whom I get to parent exactly how I want to from now on. I am safe. I am centered. I am at peace.

    This is the year that I start living my life on *my* terms. The year I stop making accommodations and negotiations that conflict with my needs, desires, and goals. I spent my 20’s in a perpetual state of believing that I was unworthy and unlovable if I didn’t become who everyone else wanted me to be. I said yes to things my soul desperately tried to reject, and vice versa.

    I’m not a wife, as it turns out. And I’m not meant to live thousands of miles away from my mama. I’m not one to stay stagnant in my professional endeavors because where I’m at is “good enough.” I’m not a small town girl. And all of that is perfectly acceptable, respectable, and authentic.

    If I’m not those things though, then what am I?

    I’m an autonomous individual first and foremost, which is a concept that is still being absorbed in my not-so-plastic brain. I have had to fight myself from asking someone, anyone, for reassurance or validation in my decisions over the past several months. From whether to leave my East Coast life, to which townhome to live in, to whether I should get a tubal ligation, to whether I purchased too much pink decor for the Barbie Dreamhouse my soul desires. As excruciating as it was, I didn’t ask a damn person for their opinion. And I’m not accepting unwarranted input, either.

    I am the architect of my day now. I wake up every morning full of excitement and optimism for what the day will hold. I emerge from my sleeping quarters as early as I want to and nobody makes me feel guilty for not being around when they wake up. I go to the gym at a time that works best for my schedule and I give my Doodle treats and loves and games freely and nobody lectures on how inadequate my parenting is. I work hard and sometimes I work late, because the investment pays off, both literally and in my own sense of fulfillment. And nobody accuses me of neglecting my family for doing so.

    I go to events by myself and am not required to be at any particular meeting spot at any particular time. Nobody unfoundedly accuses me of running off to cheat or flirt with other men. I can’t cheat anyway, because I’m not committed to anyone but me. The only infidelity I’m capable of is not honoring my authentic self. I don’t apologize for things that don’t warrant an apology. All of this freedom is intoxicating.

    I can’t tell you in concrete terms where my life is headed from here. I have an overwhelming case of decision-paralysis. The dust is still settling and I’m still in the market for a therapist that can hopefully help me integrate all of these unresolved wounds and shortcomings into a healthy, balanced woman who knows what she wants and how to get it. I’m ready to be that woman.

    M.

    Enervated

    MissMLeave a comment

    *TW: Rape*

    “Your Body, My Choice.” The anthem that young men are already splattering all over womens’ online content – a mere 2 days after the election. The fear burning inside me is the same fear I felt the first time I was sexually assaulted, nearly 10 years ago. I write to cope, and the narrative below serves as a sort of emotional bloodletting. Please do not read further if you feel that this content will be harmful to you at this time, and know that extend my deepest compassion and support. I see you, I feel for you, my heart breaks alongside you. There is no happy ending or silver lining to this story.

    Me: “Okay fine, I’ll come over. But JUST to watch a movie. Promise nothing else will happen.”

    Him: “Of course not, cutie!”

    His house is nice; well-kept. The couch is made of that fake, cheap leather. Sleek, but not the type for watching movies on. I’m wearing my favorite Victoria’s Secret PINK jacket with a black bra underneath and yoga pants. He guides me to the couch and offers me a drink. Crown Royal Green Apple and 7-up. Not my first choice, but beggars can’t be choosers. In 6 months, I’ll be old enough to enter the holy temple of the State Liquor Store and select my own libations. He pads to the kitchen to fix me a cocktail while I browse the DVDs shelved on his entertainment system.

    He wants to watch Transformers. Again, not my first choice, but maybe the buzz from my drink will help me enjoy it more. I sip.

    My head is spinning. I shakily set my empty glass on the side table. My arm is heavy and stiff as a brick. I lay my head in his lap and vigorously fight my heavy eyelids. I lose.

    Some time later, he hoists me over his shoulder in a fireman carry. I am jolted awake, my head hanging low. I notice I’ve been drooling. I mumble something.

    He has a creaky metal bed frame. He tosses me on the mattress like I’m weightless. Rips the zipper of my jacket down. Exposes my bra. I whimper.

    My vision is blurry. He violently peels my yoga pants off of me. His thumbnails scratch my hips. I can’t breathe.

    He sticks his head between my virgin thighs and my heart stops beating. Why am I not fighting? Flying? What’s the 3rd option again? Freeze?

    I freeze.

    He’s on his feet now. He cracks open the door and a sliver of light slips in. I feel my eyes widen.

    The crinkling of a wrapper. He slides himself into a condom and slides that into me. I yelp. A tear rolls down my temple. I wonder how much longer this will take.

    He grunts and moans in my ear, and then pushes himself off and out of me. “It broke,” he gasps.

    My brows furrow. What. broke.

    Now he’s the one with panic in his eyes. He disappears again. Bathroom, I presume.

    It takes all of my strength and focus to pull my yoga pants back up over my hips. He left them around my ankles.

    He lays down next to me and slings his arm around my waist. He kisses me on the cheek. I hate spooning.

    My eyes defy me once more. Hours pass.

    It’s 5:02 AM, according to the harsh, green light emitting from his alarm clock across the room. I’m alert – clear, even.

    I delicately slide out from under his arm, which is still slung heavily around my waist. He’s snoring. I pinch my jacket off the floor and slide my arms into it and then close the door so gently the door knob barely clicks.

    I zip up my jacket and frantically search the dark living room for my phone and purse. One last door knob to safety. I grip it.

    “Don’t you want to stay for breakfast?” My cheeks turn red hot.

    He pulls me in by the waist and rests his chin on my shoulder.

    -M.

    Solus

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    Disclaimer: I’m 1/3rd of a bottle of wine deep, so the words are flowing in an exceptionally unrestricted manner.

    Alone. I used to feel that metaphorically, as in “nobody gets me and I don’t have any friends.” But right now, I’m literally alone, and it’s an entirely different mind-fuck.

    Matthew went back to Salt Lake City to uHaul our belongings to our new home – Asheville, North Carolina. He’s been gone for 6 days so far, and has 3 more to go. It’s really hard to not fixate on the fact that everyone and everything I know is thousands of miles away from me.

    The trailer remains our only dwelling (we close on our house in less than a month!), but I’ll be damned if I live in that thing alone. I tried for a couple of days in the interest of saving money, but landed abruptly in a hotel room near downtown Asheville after one of the gnarliest panic attacks I’ve had since being medicated.

    It all started when I slammed my thumb into the trailer door. It took seconds for me to wiggle it free, and the pain induced a mountain of hyperventilated sobs. To be honest, it didn’t even hurt that bad, but tears don’t all have to fall for the same reason.

    Before I knew it, I was doubled over in a panicked hunch, desperately gasping for relief. I hadn’t slept in days, and my mind wasn’t safe there. Provincial gentlemen in souped-up (yes, that’s how you spell it, I checked) trucks intermittently sped past my trailer with music blasting so loud that it left me with tinnitus. It was cold and loud and shaky, and I needed my mama.

    It took her little convincing to get me to book a hotel room downtown, so here I am. It’s still hard, being so far away from home that I can’t hug my mom and cry into her shoulders, but I like this place, and I’ll like it even more upon reunion with my dogs and my person. I’m still peeing even more than usual, and find myself walking on treadmills for hours just to keep myself occupied. I’ve even considered watching reality TV. However, I’ve also discovered some of the best wine I’ve ever had, made friends with some middle-aged southern ladies (my favorite!), and have a list of restaurants to show Matthew upon his return.

    A lot of people would enjoy being in my situation, I think. A whole week to yourself in a hotel with the means to do whatever you want? That sounds nice if your thoughts are manageable. Mine are always on turbo-speed, and I spend all of my alone time trying to get my body to keep up. I would love to sleep, but because I won’t, I already have a sunrise hike planned for tomorrow.

    Anyway, there’s no takeaway here, but I feel a little bit better.

    -M.

    Erudition

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    Growing up in the LDS faith, I was always taught that having a firm testimony was paramount to my salvation. I was taught that the mormons have the complete Truth, and that god only gave the other religions a snippet of it. Having shed that value system, I have since realized that proclaiming to know ANYTHING about the divine is not only ignorant, but inhibitory to spiritual growth. Why would I continue to search for capital T “Truth” if I have convinced myself that I already have it?

    My curiosity for theology is insatiable. Thanks to podcasts, books, and loved ones of beautifully diverse backgrounds, I have gained insight from studying faiths from all parts of the globe, and have obtained value from each of them (yes, even Christianity, despite their notoriously violent and abusive history).

    As I embarked on my path to spiritual healing after leaving Mormonism, I discovered the Divine Feminine, and how many Eastern and indigenous cultures revere and worship goddesses. In these contexts, femininity is revered in conjunction with the masculine. This type of worship has been sorely missing from my life, as I’ve never once related to all of the typical dude prophets we find in western scripture. I also think it’s a bold assumption that god is a male, or even has a gender to begin with.

    I have also learned that there are several modalities for Sacrament. I’ve experienced the power of plant medicine, and have achieved mental states that can only be described as ethereal. These experiences have helped me dive deep into my own consciousness and have empowered me to pursue Truth within myself. They have also connected me intimately with Mother Nature in reverence.

    Then there are contemporary spiritual leaders such as Ram Dass, who have taught me to separate the “me” from the “I,” and become the witness of my own emotions and how I react to experiences. This practice has helped me keep trying times into perspective, and to not identify with the negativity that tumultuous events can bring.

    I could type all day about the things I’ve learned and will continue to seek out as I search for Truth and meaning, but I’ll get to the point now. The knowledge that I’ve acquired and pieced together is uniquely mine. Who knows if there’s a god out there somewhere who dictates scripture and triages the dead into whatever degree of glory they earned? Will he withhold my heavenly dwelling from me because my eggs aren’t in one basket? If so, I’m not interested in heaven.

    You won’t find me in church. I won’t give precious hours of my time to sit in pews and have gatekeepers of Truth tell me how to interpret my spiritual experiences. I commune directly with the Divine, and the intuition provided to me by my maker is the only guide I need.

    In closing, I’d like to bare my testimony. I don’t know that any church is true. I don’t know if there’s a god, to what extent she or he is involved in my life, or whether there’s a warm welcome waiting for me on the other side. I am dedicated to continuously seeking out Truth, regardless of where it comes from. I am committed to not committing to any one dogma, and to actively exploring as many schools of thought as I can. I know that I’m entitled to establishing an eclectic ideology of my own, and that it will ALWAYS be subject to change. I believe that no religion has (or ever will) monopolize Truth. In the name of personal revelation, amen.

    –M.

    Itinerant

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    You thought I was done with this writing thing, did you?

    Not a chance.

    I’ve been spending a lot of time between now and January 23rd, my most recent check-in with you guys, making more mistakes, meeting different people, gaining new perspectives, and also attempting to learn a thing or two from all of that.

    I’ve been graduated from college for a little over a year now, and I’ve been walking around like a deer in headlights ever since. It’s honestly adorable how unprepared I felt when I graduated high school. That was NOTHING in comparison to how I feel right now. Does one ever learn what the hell is going on in this whirlwind of experiences that we compile together and call “life”?

    I turned 23 on Memorial Day this year, and shortly thereafter, experienced what I surely hope I can call a “midlife crisis.” You see, I woke up one morning and dyed my hair pink, and later pierced my nose. Two days later, I got the stud taken out of my nostril and began the process of vigorously washing out the color from my yellow locks. It could have been worse though, I could have gotten BANGS.

    I’ve continued to draw further into myself while a part of me desperately tries to reach out. I’m a prisoner to my mind, a captive audience to a voice that chants, You shouldn’t be here. You don’t belong. You are not wanted.”

    Sometimes, though, I do get over myself and defy my mean brain. I hide behind my sense of humor and cool demeanor as I interact with others, peeking from behind the sky-scraping walls at others whose intentions I may never know, may never trust.

    Humans love an origin story. We want to know where we came from, what existed first. Chronology. But I can’t seem to put a start date on when I started feeling this way, which leads me to believe that perhaps I always have.

    This isn’t a call for attention, or even sympathy. I don’t even feel pity for myself. Perhaps it’s an integral part of who I am. I’m comfortable in my solitude, acclimated to my loneliness. I am capable of making myself happy, and I do so often. It’s only on days that I fail that I wish I were different.

    I guess the most I could hope for for myself is to eventually allow myself to be encompassed by those who help set me free from my malicious mind. I’m not there yet, though. So I sit in my quaint apartment behind a keyboard, attempting to assign words to feelings, transforming the internal to the external, so that I can get some peace and quiet.

    M.

    Remedial

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    I recently became a volunteer advocate at the Rape Recovery Center, a local nonprofit that provides counseling services, a crisis hotline, and hospital teams for survivors of sexual violence. In order to become an advocate, one must complete a 40-hour intensive training program. I’m at the midpoint of my training now, and while my experience so far has been one of empowerment, solidarity, and fulfillment, it’s also forced me to re-examine and really process (for the first time) my own rape.

    I’ve come to realize that due to many contributing factors, I have yet to take the time to really process what happened to me, and how it’s impacted me physically, cognitively, and spiritually even now, a few years after the fact.

    My initial response was one of damage control. Immediately after regaining control of my body, I sped to a pharmacy to pick up a plan-B pill, inquired a private feminist Facebook group that I was a member of about STI testing, and took the proper steps to ensure that my perpetrator would not be able to contact me again.

    A member of the aforementioned Facebook group took it upon his (or her)self to notify my father of what happened to me. This member screen-shotted my original post about inquiring about STI testing, and emailed it to my father, which gave me more damage to control.

    I’ve been floating around from day to day, somewhat numb, ever since. I’ve always been kind of a distant person, but since this occurred, I’ve been even more withdrawn, even less in-touch with my emotions and my ability to connect with people, especially men.

    A guy that I’m not personally friends with DM’d me on Facebook the other day, and asked me if I was a rape victim.  I responded in the affirmative, and he proceeded to tell me that I’m so much stronger, and my spirit is more alive since I was raped.

    I found this response both appalling and offensive, for a handful of reasons. First of all, this man does not know me. He didn’t know me before the rape, and he doesn’t know me now. How, then, can he feel confident in making such a statement? Furthermore, I was strong before this happened to me. Nobody needs to experience sexual violence in order to become strong. I had the strength to cope with this trauma before it even occurred, and I refuse to credit this incidence for giving me any such thing.

    As for my “spirit being more alive,” I have felt quite the opposite. This incidence swiftly changed me into the cynical, numb person you all know and love today. I struggle with my emotionality every day of my life. I don’t know how to connect with people. I don’t even know how to process my own emotions without enduring a full-fledged panic attack. My sense of security has been breached, and I’ve realized that there are infinitely many things that are completely out of my control.

    The man who made these comments did so with good intent. However, he does not know my experience, and therefore should refrain from telling me what it did to me. Perhaps I’m over-reacting, but I don’t feel like anyone is qualified to make such bold statements about an incident that had such a severe impact on my life except for myself.

    Anyway, I am sincerely honored and excited to become an advocate in my community, and hopefully be the support that I so desperately needed when this happened to me. It’s going to be triggering, difficult, exhausting work, but I feel like taking it on will be a healing experience for me, overall. It will, however, force me to rely on others for support when the burnout inevitably hits, and discouragement sets in.

    So I’d like to thank my amazing support system in advance, for helping me through this.

    M.

     

    Cured

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    It happened last week-the most dramatic mental shift I’ve experienced since the day that Anorexia dug its sharp claws in to my then thirteen-year-old body and held me captive for almost a decade.

    I’ve been weight-restored for several years now, and my disorder is no longer visible to the public. But my mind was a battleground, my thoughts plagued with calorie counting and clean eating and ketosis and carbohydrates, drowning any rational thoughts as it pertains to food intake.

    I ate the same thing, at the same time, in the same quantity every day for years at a time without switching it up. I didn’t know what hunger was, because I was doing everything I could to prevent a binge, and, consequently, a purge and episode of debilitating guilt that would inevitably follow.

    I would turn down dates and social outings that would involve food, and at a minimum would conduct extensive research to ensure that I could find something “clean” to eat that would fit into the latest diet plan that I was subjecting myself to. Because there was always a diet plan.

    Some days, I’d look at my body and decide that I was too fat to engage with others. I was disgusted by what I saw, and would spend hours in front of the mirror, sniffling as tears dripped down my face and onto my chest as I poked and pulled mercilessly at the cage of flesh I was sentenced to live in.

    Anorexia lost, so bulimia took a swung at me, and suddenly I’d find myself bingeing out of control, tearing through entire cereal boxes, eating full packages of Oreo’s and loaves of bread, in complete secrecy. I would then hide the evidence of my binge episode, shut myself up in my room, and cry until I felt able to purge it out through hours of cardio at the gym.

    I’d sit in the break room at work, mouth watering, as I watched coworkers partake in catered lunches from the company, candy at halloween, and pie during the week of Thanksgiving. I never gave in once, and stuck dutifully to my low-calorie, sugar-free, low-carb lunch that I’d packed the night before.

    But then, one day, I gave in.

    Last week, my company catered Zupas for us, as we’d had a record day the day before. I had packed my own lunch the night before, as usual, and intended to eat the contents of my lunch tote and then chew gum for the remainder of my break to avoid any more “temptation.”

    But I was exceptionally hungry that day, and I just so happen to really like Zupas. So, I took a deep breath and marched straight up to the table, and grabbed myself a sandwich and a chocolate-dipped cookie.

    For the first time in probably a decade, I sat down and slowly enjoyed every bite of that half-sandwich and chocolate-dipped cookie that I allowed myself. I let myself taste it all, and savor every last calorie. And when I was through, I smiled. No feelings of guilt, no compensatory behavior, and honestly, not even a second thought about it. It was an effing cookie, after all.

    But that’s the thing about eating disorders, they instill a completely irrational fear of things like cookies and sandwiches, things that a lot of people eat on a daily basis. Instead of feeling guilt-ridden and anxious, I felt at ease, comfortable, even.

    Ever since that stupid little experience during my lunch break at work, my entire attitude toward food and my body has done a 180. I eat slowly now, without anxiety or agitation. I enjoy every last bit of it, and stop when I feel comfortably full. I go to the gym almost every day, and I do workouts that make me feel good about myself and confident in my body’s capabilities. I don’t purge, and I don’t poke at my stomach in bathroom mirrors in pubic restaurants anymore. I haven’t weighed myself in months, and people call me “Thicc” and it doesn’t offend me one bit. My “thicc” butt still fits in my size 0 jeans from high school, and has frankly become one of my favorite features about my physical self.

    And I’m happy. Of course, I have a laundry list of things I’d change about my body if I had an unlimited budget for liposuction. But I don’t have an unlimited budget for liposuction. I do, however, have a life to live and I think that after ten years of limiting my experience as a human being due to the fear of weight gain, I’ve had a breakthrough.

    I think I’m finally free.

    M.

     

     

    Denunciation

    MissM1 Comment

    I’ve heard a lot of bullshit regarding the ousting of sexual predators disguised as prominent and powerful men (i.e. a lot of hoopla from dudes exclaiming just how scary it is to be a man nowadays, The War On Men, etc.). I’m not quite sure which I find most disturbing-the sheer number of celebrity men finally being called out for their sexual offenses, or some of the reactions to these allegations from normal, everyday dudes.

    I get it, you’re shocked. You don’t want to believe that someone as likable as Louis C.K. (your favorite comedian!!) ACTUALLY masturbated in front of numerous women. Or maybe you can’t believe that these women finally spoke out. Or worse, maybe you can’t believe that actions like his could potentially result in consequences.

    I don’t speak for all women, nor would I ever attempt to, but I personally was not shocked, because I know that these things happen. And I know that oftentimes, the offender is someone you would have never expected.

    You see, it’s scary being a woman every day. As girls, we learn very quickly where our place is in society, and that it’s safer and smarter to submit to the men who have power over us than to fight back or speak up. The brave women who have spoken up against their abusers over the past few months gain nothing from doing so, except for possibly allowing their perpetrators to victimize another woman.

    And don’t give me that nonsense about “false accusations,” because only 2% of rape cases turn out to be false, which is no higher than any other alleged crime, according to the FBI. And if you ARE worried about facing a false accusation, why not just ensure that you’re conducting yourself in a manner that could never be misconstrued as sexual harassment? It’s not scary to be a man nowadays. Y’all still hold the majority of systemic power. It’s scary to be a sexual predator. So make your life easier by just not being one. Problem solved.

    Finally, we’re being listened to. And furthermore, action is being taken against these malicious men. And if that’s not reason to rejoice, then I don’t know what is.

    Frankly, if you’ve ever sexually assaulted another human being, I want you to be afraid. I want you to be looking over your shoulder all the time, anticipating a consequence that could ruin your career even, like you ruined your victim’s sense of safety.

    In a perfect world, we’d identify all these perpetrators and put them behind bars so that perhaps one day, women would be free to explore their world without the constant, inhibitory fear that we could be harmed, raped, or killed at any moment by someone who can easily overpower us. Maybe one day, we can go for a jog at night, after the sun sets, and not worry about the possibility of our own 20/20 episode.

    M.