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