Ode to Depression (Get Bent)

Originally posted: February 15, 2014

I don't even know how it started. All of a sudden I was in a pile on my living room floor, sobbing. Then, I got up and left. We all went out to dinner and I pretended it hadn't happened. I tried to be discreet when I wiped away the tears over my quesadilla and beer.

The next day, I was sick, which was serendipitous because I wouldn't have gotten out of bed until it was time to go to work at 6pm anyway.

Sick again the next day. Dragged myself to work feeling like I would implode on myself at any moment. Left early, thankful that I could go back to bed.

My physical illness got better, but the emotional illness didn't. I started spending evenings with my parents so I wouldn't have to be alone drowning in what I've now named The Doom. It's the worst it's been in years.

Fuck you, The Doom.

Fuck not being able to do simple things like feed myself or do a load of laundry.

Fuck not having an answer when my well-meaning dad asks, "Honey... what's wrong?"

Fuck getting better for a while and then feeling The Doom creep up and then crying in bed for a few hours.

Fuck the horrible things The Doom makes me say to myself, about myself.

"You probably couldn't hack grad school anyway."

"Maybe if you were less disgusting things would be different."

"You should quit the play, and your job, and sell your house... and just disappear."

In the back of my mind I know The Doom will pass. I know the weight will lift and brushing my teeth won't seem like skiing up a hill anymore. But for right now I feel like I can't hold it together. I feel like I never want to leave this house, or even my bed.

So, to my old friend The Doom: Get bent.

I Still Remember His Name

Originally posted: December 14, 2013

I still remember his name. I had pushed him back into the blissful recesses of my memory, but now he's back. I was 14 and a half, a tenth grader. He was almost 21, a college student. I thought I must be very smart and mature for an older guy to like me. I thought I had it under control. I didn't.

So when my mother casually says at the bar, "Well, we never said anything about [University] guy." it all came flooding back. I was crying. She was apologizing. What to my parents was a perfect example of them not interfering with my life and letting me make my own decisions was, to me, the thing that broke me. The thing that fundamentally changed who I was and how I will interact with men and relationships forever.

It's been 11 years. I'm still not ok. It took me months to even realize how horrible it was. How I'd been used and abused by someone who should have known better. I needed interference. I needed someone to put their foot down and save me from myself. I never could have realized or admitted it then, but now it haunts me, and will forever.

"Maybe one day we should talk about this so you can put it behind you." I'd really like that, but I'm afraid it's too little too late.

L

Know How I Know You're An Asshole?: Or, The White People Club

Originally posted: September 29, 2013

Growing up in the South, I'm no stranger to seeing people be racist. What never ceases to surprise me, though, is how, as a white person, other white people think it's appropriate and okay to tell me about their racist leanings. It's like we're all members of a secret club, and because I'm white, they assume I'll be down with their bullshit. Two examples of this spring to mind immediately.

I used to go to a water aerobics class twice a week. I eventually stopped because it was at 6:30am and that's just crazy, but while I was going, I enjoyed it quite a bit. There were about 25 women who would attend regularly, many of them older black women. We'd always joke around and give the trainer a hard time about kicking our asses, and it was an all around good time. One morning while waiting for the pool to open, an older white lady came up to me and we start chatting. Suddenly, she expressed exasperation at how some of the women are just so loud during class. She said with that slight whisper, leaning forward so no one else can hear. While she never specifically told me it was the black women who were being so loud and bothering her, it was clear to me that this was a secret white people club moment and she was subtly trying to gain my approval. I told her that I loved how everyone was boisterous. She looked betrayed.

Something else happened today, and it was much more overt. My roommate and I finally got to the Indian buffet that just opened up near our house (lamb on the buffet? What?!?). As we're about to enter the place, a middle aged white lady comes out of the Dollar General next door and walks up to us, arms full of bags. Here's how it went down:

"Will you watch me until I get into my vehicle?"

"Uh.... sure?"

We were really confused, until we looked over and saw an Indian gentleman leaning up against his car smoking a cigarette. His car was parked right next to hers. Suddenly, the panic starts rising in both of us: Does this guy know what's happening? Why did we agree to do this before asking why? Why can't I bring myself to say something to her now? And, for the love of god, why did she assume that we'd understand why she was afraid?

It should be mentioned that neither I nor my roommate are particularly menacing folks. There's no way she really thought we could have protected her against an attacker, but that wasn't the point, was it? The point was that she was racist and assumed that we were racist, too.

L

Confessions of a Feminist Top 40 Queen

Originally posted: August 28, 2013

I pride myself on being a card-carrying, Women's Studies degree-having, privilege-checking feminist. I try to live my life in a way that is as consistent with my ideals as I can. I fail regularly, but the desire to do better is ever-present.

I also love Top 40 pop music. My mother's ringtone on my phone is a Fergie song ("London Bridge," if you must know). I own Spice World on both VHS and DVD, which I was legitimately upset to discover was pan and scan and not letterbox to preserve the cinematic girl power experience. Next month I'll be seeing Hanson in concert for the fourth time since I was 10. I'm listening to One Direction RIGHT NOW.

When it comes to my veracious love of all things pop, I find myself doing a fairly impressive amount of mental gymnastics to justify to myself that I'm not compromising my feminism in the mad dash to consume media. I am most definitely compromising. I'm not sure I can stop. Hell, I'm not even sure I want to stop. I still rock out to that awful "Blurred Lines" song. I feel vaguely guilty at first, but Robin Thicke's falsetto and that cowbell just work me up into a frenzy and I can't fight the urge to sing at the top of my lungs while stuck in traffic. And then it's over and I come down of my pop high and realize that's a song about blurring the lines of consent. Who am I?

Where do we draw the lines with ourselves about what we consume and how it reflects our ideals? What does my ability to turn off the critical part of my brain when it comes to music say about me as a person, a woman, and a feminist?