Thank you GOP Senators for Selling America's Daughters to the Highest Bidder

Thank you Senators for selling America’s daughters to the highest bidder.  After all how could we consider ruining the lives of our white, rich and elite.  I remember the first time I heard those words, “you will ruin his life.”  At the age of 16, I didn’t comprehend the cost of my silence.  But I was taught then just as we continue to teach young girls everywhere, you will never be as valuable as him.  

I could count the cost of my silence in terms of dollars and cents, because certainly therapy was never cheap.  There were years I spent on a couch trying to unravel the events that changed my life.  There was so much weekly therapy needed to help me find the forgiveness I needed for the adults that failed me every step of the way, and certainly the counseling I needed to find alternative coping mechanisms besides bottles, pills or lovers who reminded me of my lack of value.  How much money could I have possibly spent over the last 30 years?  Certainly, the near hundreds of thousands of dollars I spent could not be as valuable as his life.  And I was one of the lucky, privileged ones.  I could access therapy.  But clearly those dollars were worth less than him. 

Perhaps I could count the cost of my silence in years lost because there were many.  I lost years being unable to forge healthy relationships.  I didn’t trust anyone.  How could I when I was taught at 16 that I couldn’t trust anyone to find value in me?  And this was reinforced again in college when I was told the police weren’t needed or by my job that told me his value as my superior was much greater than mine.  I lost years trying to drown out the memory of what happened to me.  I lost years never sharing my story. I lost years of friendships because the energy it took to remain guarded exhausted me.   But how could I consider taking away even a minute of his life.  How could I have ever considered how inconvenient it would have been for him to hear he raped me?  He stood to lose so much more than my mere silence.  After all I could have blemished his career and certainly, as a white, elite man, his value was so much greater than mine. 

Or maybe I should count the cost of my silence in terms of self-esteem and self-confidence because certainly I struggle with both even still.   I denied myself opportunities because I didn’t see myself as good enough.  Imposter syndrome kept me from going to the prestigious schools I got into, from taking the job that I was afraid I wouldn’t be good enough to maintain or from dating people that would treat me well because who would want to be with someone that is not as valuable as him.

I could try enumerating my silence in terms of my physical health.  Stuffing so much inside caused me so much intense physical pain.  I have ulcers, back pain, cluster headaches, and hip pain.  I have TMJ from grinding my teeth.  For a long time, I didn’t care what I ate or how much or little I exercised because why bother when there was no value in fueling a body that was less than.

Or what about my mental health?  Certainly that was worth far less than his life.  Beyond the cost of therapy, there were also the cost for medications that kept me from hurting myself.  How does one quantify the cost of stigma from living with and hiding a mental illness?  Certainly that can’t be more than his lily white life. 

And last but not least, my sense of safety.  Can we even calculate that?  The times I have spent waiting for the “right” parking space so I am near a light or close to a door.  Or the times I spent in my home because I wouldn’t feel safe going to that club or that party.   But what value can we even place on safety when his life could possibly be ruined. 

Thank goodness we have the GOP to remind us that the value of the white, elite man will forever be worth more than me and certainly more than women of color and even more still if she is not thin, uneducated, trans, or gay. It won’t matter if we tell 30 years later or the day we were assaulted, because the greatest crime is ruining his life and that we can not afford.  So America’s daughters are here for the abuse by the white, rich and elite.  They will work tirelessly to protect the men who will raise men to hurt their daughters.  They will forego any sense of morality and justice.  Because America is a white man’s country and the GOP is here to remind us that they will sell their own daughters to the highest bidder because even their lives aren’t worth squat. 

National Mental Health Awareness Month

It’s 6 am and I am having a panic attack. I can’t help but think about how May is National Mental Health Awareness month and here I am in the whirlwind of my anxiety. The stigma of my diagnosis keeps me closeted in most components of my life. I think about how often I have been asked, “what is making you so anxious?” or “why are you so depressed?” and how these very questions are why I hold so much inside. If I knew why, I would slay it like the dragon it is but instead I am silent like the millions of Americans living with a mental illness.

Biologically speaking, I was born with a mental health disorder. I wish I could just “cheer up.” My brain just doesn’t work this way. It needs help to function; for me to function. I am on my way to work now and hoping no one notices that my medication hasn’t fully done what it needs to do. Here I am in my cold sweat and my heart beating out of my chest. Maybe if I dress nice, no one will notice. Maybe my nice shoes will distract me from the fact that I am still breathing too heavy. I know this is part of the nurture. The part that raised me to believe I should hold it in; that this is a private matter; that I just need to “pull myself together”. I sometimes think about how cheated I was. I never had a chance to not be mentally ill. I wonder what my ACE score is.

I start to think of myself as a giant redwood tree. My rings tell the stories of all the years of my life. If you were to cut me open would the lines show all the years of drought? The years of being denied the nurture I needed. Would they show the lacerations and cuts? The years of cutting myself and the years of letting others hurt me. I didn’t know any better. I just knew this was how it was, so it continued until I learned to make it stop. Until the medications helped me make it stop. And the therapy. So much therapy.

I am now typing at my desk at work wondering who will notice. I close my door because I am not sure if I might spontaneously cry. But in this space, I am the boss. There is no room for mental illness. This is seen as something our patients have. We speak about how fragile and weak they are. We don’t acknowledge that there may in fact be staff living with mental illness. Instead we speak quietly behind closed doors and deny opportunities for upward mobility because “you never know.” We have labeled the mentally ill as unpredictable and unstable. The most stable thing in this office is me. My team knows I will be here first thing in the morning and always the last to leave. I tuck my emotions in under my blazer. I have enough hours of sick leave saved up to take nearly a year off of work. But I am the unstable one because I have a diagnosis. The fear of being seen, of really being seen means I would lose the respect of my higher ups. They like to think they dance the steps of understanding, of compassion, but these are just words. I am expected to hold it inside. Just like my mother taught me. And the stigma continues. I wonder how it would look for me to out myself. To announce out loud all my diagnoses. But I know I will remain in my closet because my work world isn’t ready. After all, we are still grappling with women as people. We other the mentally ill. How advanced would we need to be to offer the space for me to have my panic attack?

And so many thoughts keep swirling around. They will continue because this is how my brain works. Is this how it works for everyone else I wonder to myself? Are we all living with this constant narrative? How would it feel to know that I am just like everyone else and everyone else is really just like me?

Today I am outing myself. I am the face of someone living with mental illness. So many of my friends here live with mental illness too. I see you. Today I want you to see me too.

#mentalhealthfeelslike #NationalMentalHealthAwareness #mentalillness#StoptheStigma

Parallel

It's Thanksgiving.  I am full, still digesting the news from two months ago.  I can't get pregnant.  I am absorbing the alone time silently wishing for a fast forward button to January.  My boyfriend has left for the day to spend the holiday with his family.  Our worlds have become parallel.  He is living and I am just existing in my own silent path next to him.  Exhausted, I barely can keep up.  We our worlds apart.  He has moved forward as if the last few years had never happened.  And I am still grieving.

I told him last night I had wished for 2 more months before the holidays began.  I needed time to mend my broken heart.  He is silent.  He has moved on and we no longer are walking on the same path together.  Craving the touch of his hand in mine just as he does when we cross the street.  Maybe it was the security I needed that he wasn't abandoning me, at least not this time.  He forgot to be my friend in the beginning of all this.  At times I felt like I was Sisyphus carrying the weight of our work and him up the hill only to have everything crash down on me month after month.  And now I am left with this giant stone.

I used to relish in my alone time, especially during the holidays.  Truth is, I have spent many Thanksgiving's alone.  My family of birth shattered years ago.  I had hoped to have a family to call my own.  It was the dream.  And now I feel uncomfortable in my skin trying to find a sense of gratitude for all that I have, desperately wanting to stop dwelling in all that I don't.  The picture around me is peaceful with the fur family gathered around prepared to catch my tears.  And me, I tap away on the keyboard as if to create a peaceful lullaby that will comfort me. 


And while I continue to search for words and thoughts to keep my mind from wandering to those dark places, I keep reminding myself that it can't rain forever, even though at the moment I am wishing for an ark.

Pause Button

It's like a time out, but I call it a pause. I have been doing them a lot lately I have noticed. It's my own personal way of stopping all that is happening around me. I turn off the news, I put down the phone and then there are too many pet videos to count. I just need things to stop and this is the only way I know how. I am not delusional, really. I know the earth still spins and life continues while I am paused, but I choose to press the pause button. Why shouldn't I have a moment in time that is just mine? I want the quiet and the calm. I waited 40 years for the chaos to end. It continues, but I can still press pause. 

Too many events. Too much sadness. And yes, too much death. On the heels of my sparkly friend who now shines from a different place and the news reminding me of how scary the world can be; it's time to press pause. And while I sat on the couch yesterday across from the woman who is supposed to help me breath through the storm, I want to pause her too. I don't want to hold on to her words. I want to let them go. This session is brought to me by the letter "T". Every single leather couch owning, note writer with several initials after their names says the same thing. Isn't this the thing I am supposed to let go? All those memories, all those events, and yes, the bad people. Aren't I supposed to let them go? Why is it necessary I have to talk about this... again? I feel like I am indulging someone else's sick fantasy. "My patient is so sick." "How sick is she?" I watch as she furiously scribbles in her note pad. And they all look at me as if they are telling me something new. As if I have never heard the word "trauma" before. Don't they understand the illness in my head? Don't they recognize the shame? Seriously, do they think I need the affirmation or that the "empathic" look is supposed to make me feel better?

I feel no better than the mouse in the lab. I am someone's experiment as they try to fill me with words just to see how my body reacts. The worst being the eastern practitioner who told me that each and every story was my fault, even the ones in my crib. I somehow asked the universe for it all and apparently my subconscious continues to crave more. I am Oliver Twisted now, "Please sir, might I have another?" I wished I walked away thinking she was wrong. But the experiment continued and the illness inside just grew. She was my Milgram.

Perhaps the pause is my antidote, my cancer fighting pill that keeps the shame from taking over. Tonight, I am popping the pill. I am putting my past trauma's on hold today and while I am at it, I am pausing all that is happening around me too. I am typing and while the words don't come out quite the way I see them in my head, the clickety clack of my typing soothes me just the same. It's the lullaby for the depressed. And of course, the sound of the button as I push pause.

Infertility

The words have been swimming in my brain and I knew to write my story would be to acknowledge the hurt. I am drowning. The tears just flow and I can't help myself. Small fits of rage punctuated by tears that appear as little dots on a page. And still I can't help myself. I let the tears flow. Everything is at the surface and raw. I used to live for moments like this, where the facade was removed and I was real. Now I gasp for breath at my reality. I don't know how to live with this and I think the harder part is I don't want to. I suppose I shouldn't be shocked. I am 42 years old. I just don't feel it. I thought I could do anything I set out to do. I believed my body wouldn't betray me. I believed in my own will. I wanted to believe that all the decisions I have made my entire life would not lead to regret. There are no "do-overs" and I see myself now as having truly fucked up my opportunity to have the one thing I have always wanted, family. I have been diagnosed as being too old. The words sting. I waited and I waited and I waited for the "right" time and now the time is gone. I thought I got to choose. How did this choice get taken away from me. Why didn't I get my notice before expiration? Wasn't someone supposed to warn me that in this case if you don't use it, you really do lose it. And now it's gone. All my fantasies of family gone. Sure, I still have the one I was born into that rejected me from day one. The one that reminded me of all their regret. And even more now, I don't understand. And in my head, they have never counted. I wanted a family of my own. I wanted that love to give. And it's just gone. This is my diary I tell myself. Where else can I go with all this? Years and years of trying only to be reminded of chronology. I feel so broken and the reality is I am. Dreams of family gone with one diagnosis. And there is nothing I can do to fix this. The girl with the perfect grades, the straight teeth, the clean home with everything in place and this. This tarnish on my record, this black mark next to my name, this blemish. Fuck that, it's more than a blemish. A blemish goes away. I still can't breath. I have been crying for days. And the letter from the doctor sits here reminding me that the purpose I believed I had does not exist.

White

A childhood stolen far too soon.
I never asked to make these decisions
I never asked for the guilt
For the yelling
For the blame
For the hatred
For the depression
For the mania
For the anger
For the loneliness
For the sense of being so fucking alone
I didn’t chose any of this and still I can’t walk away

I wonder how I would feel if she were to succeed
If the blade cut through and I just watched instead of making the call
What if the cocktail worked or the pills kicked in or the rope dug just that much deeper.
What if I let her run, what if I just let her go.

I feel so much anger watching her peacefully sleep with her wrists wrapped in white.
And I wonder, when do I get mine?

Safe

I don’t understand why they call it Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The P and the T and D make sense, but not the stress. Stress doesn’t begin to describe what I feel. It seemed like such a simple decision. I need shoes. Actually, I desperately need shoes. I would just leave work early and go to the mall and buy shoes.

As I stepped out of the office, the bus was waiting as if it knew my mission. And despite the typical crowdedness the Muni usually offers me, instead there was a seat. Not just any seat either, but a solo seat. So I sat, headphones on, as the bus slowly crawled down the hill toward Union Square. I looked out the window and away from the action inside the bus. I could hear the yelling, but still I ignored the altercation around me. I had a goal and a destination.

As I stepped off the bus, I expected the swarm of holiday shoppers. I breathed slowly and deeply as I pushed through the crowd, reminding myself of my errand. I made it all the way in to the store and up the escalator and then it hit. The rush of anxiety, the feeling of being totally overwhelmed and this was beyond stress. My hands began to clench and I wanted to leave. I forced myself to wander the floor, touching shoes. But I knew there would be no success. I couldn’t open my mouth. The tears were already forming and all I could feel was shame. There was Christmas everywhere: Red and green wherever I looked. I could feel the rush of warm begging me to remove my coat. And I knew as the warm began to turn into pools of sweat I had to go.

I flew out of the store and onto the street and began to walk. I wanted to wander aimlessly until I felt better but knew I had no choice but to walk down Market Street to the bus terminal or I would be forced to take the night bus, which drops me off blocks instead of feet from my car and there would be more anxiety. As I made the walk down Market, I tried to ignore the faces walking by, but in every face I saw him. He was here in San Francisco. He was walking behind me. He was walking towards me. I couldn’t stop seeing him. My heart raced as the fear became paralyzing. I slowly let my gaze become unfocused as I continued walking, so I could no longer see anyone.

The sweat began to dry and my feet reminded me the shoes I was currently wearing needed to be retired. And I was desperate for home, the isolated sanctuary that protected me like a soft cocoon. How I wished I could metamorphose into a butterfly. There were months to go before my wings would develop and I could fly under the soft rays of the spring sun. But for now it’s tears. Not stress, just tears. Just like the deep drops of a winter rain, my tears flowed from the same dark place from within. And as I stepped inside my fortress of solitude the tears rolled down my cheeks as if to create a moat to protect me inside. And for now I am safe.