on why you should vote for Bernie Sanders
The Sunday Blunt is a 2020 election survival effort of researched, brief-ish, minimally edited rants on Americaās hellish political hellscape and related hell.
Iāve not been shy about my support for Elizabeth Warren in the Democratic primary. Today she suspended her campaign for president, and Iād be lying if I said Iām not writing this in tears. My hands are a lil shaky. Honestly I feel like Iām going through a breakup. Itās fine. Ultimately Warren was a prepared, fearless warrior for the progressive cause, but not the cause itself, so to honor the righteous work sheās done in this race, it is only necessary that I urge everyone still to vote to cast their ballot for Bernie Sanders.
There are a few considerations all of us weigh to some degree when casting a ballot. Personally, I vote based on shared values; thatās why I didnāt cast a strategic ballot in the California primary and stayed true to my heart by voting Warren. Actually, I cried then, too, when casting my ballot. My boyfriend joked thatās āThe American Dream,ā but honestly... kind of.
At the bare minimum, we want to believe in the vision of America that our candidate represents, and thatās reasonable considering these fuckers *do* work for us. These campaigns, as cursedly long and tedious as they are, are literally job interviews. I imagine those who stay home on Election Day feel unheard and disenchanted and probably disenfranchised by the political system. They wouldnāt hire any of the options. A progressive candidate could turn out more voters by illustrating an America that isnāt a return to the status quo, but something better for all of us. For no small or invalid reasons, most Americans want better than what weāve received so far.
Iām one of those Americans. Actually, I can confidently assume a majority of people reading this are one of those Americans as recent polling shows 70% of us support a pretty radical change in Medicare 4 All. I say radical, but what I mean is moral. Americaās current healthcare model (and the one Biden vows to protect under the misnomer of āPublic Optionā) maintains healthcare as a business where multiple industries make a shit ton of money off of you and me getting and staying sick. This includes the pharma industry, the insurance industry, and the hospital industry. And because industries on a whole incentivize profits, nobody is working on behalf of Americansā health. If Americans are healthy, nobody makes money.
Which is truly wild because our Constitution very clearly and early on identifies the pursuit of life as an inalienable right. Meanwhile, there are 27 million uninsured Americans (like ya girl) and nearly 44 million under-insured Americans buried alive both metaphorically and literally by medical debt or postponing (or altogether not seeking) necessary care. I fall into that latter group. Shitās not right, and any proposal that falls short of guaranteeing health insurance for all Americans and dismantling the profiteering of our illnesses is a disingenuous slab of garbage, Iām not sorry for saying so. There are lives on the line.
Voters also vote with their pocketbooks. Iām not in love with this strategy but Iām broke so I get it. Weāre justifiably protective of our tax dollarsāitās money we earned but canāt control. Who the fuck likes that? And considering the undertaking, itās no question Medicare 4 All would be expensive, and voters want to know if restructuring the current model will flatter their bank accounts. So will it?
The short answer is literally nobody knows. My primary care doctor (a dreamy old fellow named Dr. Horowitz who wears bowties and still sees me without insurance every three months for medication refills, although usually I go every four months when I canāt afford it) tells me the first step of the transition to single-payer will be nailing down cost. Right now, one doctor might charge one patient $20 for Advil while another might charge hundreds because the patient is in a different hospital or a person of color or just because they can. (This isnāt an exaggeration, it happens every day, ask for itemized bills.) So anybody who claims to know how much Medicare 4 All will cost is lying, which means nobody can confidently tell you how your taxes will be affected.
We can predict, however, how much the current system costs you. Obviously, there are premiums and co-pays and deductibles and medication costs and, like, a zillion other ways youāre charged. Need to call an ambulance? Depending on the distance, you can ride in this life-saving transport for between a couple hundred to a few thousand dollars. Wanna have a baby? Ten thousand dollars. Diabetic? Despite outrage on both sides of the aisle, two bottles of insulin can cost upwards of $700 a month and prices are still rising. And even though we live in a dystopian hellscape where we can GoFundMe our healthcare costs, 90% of campaigns donāt get fully funded. Can you believe even that isnāt a solution?
Which means I guess thereās only one thing we can do and follow the advice a rich, retired, Medicare-receiving man swirling iced white wine on a catamaran once gave me: Make more money. No, Iām kidding. We need to elect the only candidate with a god damn humanistic solution to this very real and urgent crisis, shit.
Obviously, and much to my dismay, a vote for Bernie is not a vote for universal healthcare. Before we can even have that conversation, we first have to get our preferred old white man in the White House. Look, Iām not a pundit, but I pretend to be one in every Facebook status and conversation with my mother, so Iām going to answer the question on every political strategistās voterās mind: Can Bernie beat Trump? The short answer is yes and with better odds than Joe Biden. The long answer is holy what now!? who would have the answer to that question? Can you tell the future? Can I tell the future? Can Rachel MaddowĀ tell the future?Ā
In all seriousness though, I absolutely do get it. There is no denying that the threat of four more years of the Trump administration will have a devastating and long-lasting effect on our planet and every single global citizen. Itās bad, my dudes. That said, voting for political strategy is my least favorite way of voting. For starters, itās an unreliable barometer based on nothing but guesswork and confidence in your own thoughts. But more importantly, it is insincere and doesnāt communicate to Democratic politicians what standards and values weāll hold them to. Again, we employ them. If we want to be sensitive about our tax dollars, we should be mindful of which representatives build their whole damn lifestyles off of them. We shouldnāt be voting for politicians who have built a career on passing legislation and otherwise making decisions that degrade people of color, women, and the LGBTQ+ community or lead our country into war.
However, if you arreeee going to vote strategically, hereās why Bernie: Centrists donāt win elections. As much as Hillary was very much a woman and sexism very much played a role in her electoral defeat, so did the fact that sheās a moderate. Thatās (partially) why there was no President Kerry or Gore or Romney or McCain: Each of those candidates painted a decidedly more status quo America compared to their more extreme opponent.Ā
Whoever we elect needs to engage and energize voters. Two things are for sure: 1. Republicans fucking love to vote. (They also love to suppress the vote, but another day, my friends.) 2. Progressive policies are popular and poll better than Trumpās policies across the board. The Democratic Party is a big, welcoming tent where everyone can hang and be protected and represented... when we elect the right officials. Unfortunately, many people the Democratic Party seeks to help (and need to reach in order to win) still donāt see themselves represented in the current political landscape or find solace in moderate policies. Bidenās campaign promises a return to 2016 when, yāall, if you can believe it, I still wasnāt insured. Bernie Sanders is the only candidate in the race whose policies address the needs of marginalized groups weād need to turn out in November.Ā
If we can draw one lesson from Elizabethās campaign, itās that politicians should be listening to the individual circumstances and needs of their constituents. Elizabeth did this in every selfie line and phone call to small-dollar donors and meeting with marginalized groups. At her speeches, she kept the lights on her audiences bright so she could see the people she was talking to. Elizabeth fundamentally understood that this never was about her being president but about the good she could do for each of us once she got there. Thereās no question that Bernie has understood this his whole life. The president isnāt the leader of our land, but rather a representative hired to do the work of the American people. I believe then that it is our duty to elect the candidate who would do the greatest amount of good for the greatest number of us. Without a doubt, Bernie Sanders is that candidate.Ā
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Twenty Lessons From the 2010s
2. Seeking therapy doesnāt mean I failed.Ā
3. Almost all of the shit kids laughed at in my Miami high school was racist or sexist or homophobic or fatphobic or transphobic or ableist. Laugh at things that donāt come at someone elseās expense.Ā
4. Thereās no good reason to give or accept writing feedback that is unkind or calls into question my ability as a writer. The best feedback is that which leaves me feeling accomplished and energized, no matter how many edits need to be made.Ā
5. Stay in touch with what I loved as a child. Thereās a reason my most uninhibited, least judgmental self flocked there.Ā
6. Itās going to hurt like hell until it doesnāt. Keep going.Ā
6b. Besides, it will make for a great essay.Ā
7. Abstinence is one way (and for many, the best way) but certainly not the only way to use drugs responsibly.Ā
8. When it comes time to vote, pay attention to more than just the president. Local and state-level elections can make the difference in whether kids benefit from free lunches and people have access to abortions.Ā
9. Iāll feel better if I do the work.Ā
10. Iāll also feel better if I take the meds.Ā
11. Itās okay not to know something. Just say, āI donāt know enough about this to offer an opinion,ā then ask questions and conduct my own research.Ā
12. It actually doesnāt fucking matter if something works or not for someone else. It only matters if it works for me.
13. Invest time and money into home decor that makes my space feel like me. Itāll bring massive peace.Ā
14. It actually never feels better to check an exās Instagram.Ā
15. Be boring. Itās the only way to get anything done.Ā
16. Iām not my job nor the hours I work in a day. Work can be fulfilling and financially rewarding, but it does not make a life.
17. Nothing anybody does to me is because of meā¦ but if I notice the same betrayal is happening often (i.e. heartache), maybe examine my choices.Ā
18. Thereās a difference between loving a person and loving a fantasy.Ā
19. That feeling when I just need to know someone, that instinct signaling theyāll be important to me one day? Thatās my gut recognizing a personās capacity to destroy me.Ā
20. And when they do, my writing and my loved ones will save me.
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on abortion
The Sunday Blunt is a 2020 election survival effort of researched, brief-ish, minimally edited rants on Americaās hellish political hellscape and related hell.
I havenāt had an abortion but I canāt think of a time in my life when, if faced with pregnancy, I wouldnāt have gotten one.
I took emergency contraceptive once. Alone in a Rite-Aid parking lot, I flipped the box over in my hands and had two distinctive thoughtsāThe first was gratitude for access to this true medical miracle. When the condom broke, there was no question Iād take Plan B: that alone was forty dollars I couldnāt spare. The average cost of childcare in California was 45% of my salary, and Iād yet to see the pro-birth stans heading Congress propose socializing that shit. I didnāt even have a savings account.
But more importantly, or more personally, I didnāt want to be pregnant: not then, maybe not ever. My panic disorder thrived on sensitivities and discomfort within my body, and I worried without medication Iād become housebound with anxiety all nine months. Iād lose my job, and thus my health insurance, along with everything else. Iād be without partner: three dates later, the couldāve-been father would leave when he discovered Iām neither competitive nor super into movies. How are those dealbreakers? I do not know. Anyway. I was grateful. A child would have irreparably upended my life.
*
So it goes whenever personhood is threatened, too many brave humans have shared stories to social media about their abortions: the woman whose teenage boyfriend tried to lock her down by poking a hole in the condom, the young girl who wasnāt ready to be a mother. Itās wild, truly, that we demand each other publicly perform emotional labor when science draws the same conclusion: Society conclusively benefits from access to safe, legal abortion.
The Turnaway Study followed for five years two groups of women whoād sought abortionsāone group had received the procedure, while the second was turned away because their pregnancy was, according to laws, too far along to terminateāand discovered that women who received abortions were not at greater risk for negative mental health side effects; in fact, 95% of those women were happy with their decision. A second, Finnish paper studying teenagers over seven years yielded similar results. Both studies reported the women who did not receive abortions were less likely to be employed full-time, more likely to receive public assistance, and more likely to live in poverty. The women who received abortions were more likely to pursue higher education.
While itās nearly impossible to estimate how many illegal abortions were performed prior to Roe v. Wade, calculations of the 1950s and ā60s suggest the number ranges from anywhere between 200,000 and 1.2 million procedures annually. By procedures I mean with bleach, with knitting needles, with scissors and wire hangers. I mean with staircases. Antibiotics significantly reduced the amount of associated deaths, but abortion still accounted for 200 deaths per year or one-sixth of all pregnancy-related deaths, according to the official reports. Doctors estimate the number was much higher. In El Salvador, where all abortions are outlawed, 11 percent of illegal abortions result in death. Thatās 2,000 people per year.
*
āMy second thought was quieter, more confounding: āAm I killing a baby?ā
I was raised Catholic with an asterisk: my father had abandoned the shtick when his second grade nun-teacher slapped him with a ruler, and my mother enforced only CCD classes and Christmas Eve mass. Our household was liberal, pro-choiceāMom had lost a friend to a coat hanger abortion. But I grew up around a church and I have relatives who dig the church and I once dated a man who spent our four-year relationship disappointed I wasnāt āpure for him,ā so I caught the drift: My womb was an incubator. With this pill, I robbed the world of a human. There was shame in my decision.
Itās unlikely I wouldāve gotten pregnant. The sex in question had occurred on the seventeenth day of my menstrual cycle; if the sex happened one day earlier, the chances were exponentially higher. One day later: impossible. Itās curious, the way my reproductive system works: almost as though itās designed to prevent unplanned pregnancy. Where do things go so wrong?
With sperm.
Obviously I wasnāt killing a baby. In the twelve hours since intercourse, if anything happened at all, weād made a zygote, which is a mischievously adorable word but not a baby. I donāt know when a baby becomes a baby. I donāt think anyone does. When my sister and her partner wanted a child, the two pink lines on a drugstore pregnancy test was a baby. Two days later, when my sister told me about her sweet litto embryo: no question, that was my nephew.
But I imagine us reversed, and those two pink lines are a crisis, a financial and emotional grave. To my sister, the embryo is the reason she searches last minute cross-country flights we both know she canāt afford, books the appointment when Iām too ashamed and afraid, triple-checks I asked someone to drive me. The reason she saves my life.
Thereās another asterisk to my Catholic roots: Big, lifetime *Golden Rule* fan. My father wasnāt one for, like, parenting, besides half-jokingly forbidding me from tackle football and motorcycles, and once bending at the hip and looking into my child-eyes and saying this: āI wonāt be mad or disappointed about anything you do as long as you treat others the way you want to be treated.ā
So I think about that.
I think, what if I hadnāt learned immediately the condom broke. if an unlikely pregnancy occurred. if the morning sickness throbbed against my throat for weeks so I couldnāt leave the house: for the illness and the fear thereof. for the panic attacks. for the unmedicated depression. what if I had to do it alone, if the loneliness rocked my bones like the ocean at shore break. How would I want to be treated if I was scared and alone and faced with a difficult decision?
And then I treat people that way.
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How to Be Happy Sometimes
My father is a happy dude. Over the phone he tells me the series of events that ended in the short-sale of my childhood home as the real estate bubble burst, as my parents finalized their divorce. If there was stress or pain in those daysāand without doubt there wasāI donāt remember my fatherās. I remember the house west of US-1 in which the last owner died but still Dad kept her furniture. I remember the cockroaches that drove us to eat dinner on the living room floor. In place of stress and pain, I remember Tuesday night cooking lessons, homemade key lime sauce. My father recalls how disoriented he felt to one day have financial securityācollege tuitions saved! retirements funded!āonly to lose it, swept away like umbrellas in the storm. āBut you know,ā he says, āwe got through.ā
āItās easier to get through when your brain chemicals work in your favor,ā I say, because Iām that kind of person and in that kind of mood.
Dad laughs. āYeah, sure is,ā he says. āI wake up in the morning and my brain goes, āHey man, youāre awesome.āā
āAnd mine goes, āshit, we have to do this again?āā
I was diagnosed with clinical depression in the summer of 2016, but it didnāt start thenāno happy six-year-old closely identifies with Eeyore, Chuckie Finster. Iāve kept my illness at bay for the better part of the past year, but lately I feel it in my bones like an ache I canāt stretch out. To escape the loneliness and discomfort, I drink more than I should, spend more money than I have. You know, numb in the short-term. Exacerbate in the long. Itās just, every morning in rolls the fog. Every sunset I wonder how soon is too soon to fall asleep.
One recent Sunday night I made a list, taped it above my desk.
How to Be Happy Sometimes
The list, all positivity and motivation, is unlike me. Inspo culture feels patronizing, veers maybe sorta toward ableism. Hear me out. While "just take control of your thoughts,ā for example, isnāt inherently bad advice, itās a gross simplification of a difficult process for people like me. I hurt in ways motivational quotes canāt heal. Some days, OK, itās enough to smile while applying blush, easy to jog up and back a mile on Los Feliz Boulevard. But there are mornings I nap twice before 8 a.m. and days dishes go unwashed, reaching out from the sink and onto the counter like a limb, I am so sorry Bekah. Motivational quotes remind me of ways I fall short, teach me new shame. āGood vibes onlyā feels exclusive, like me and my illness are unwelcome here, and āno excusesā feels dismissive, like my illness lacks legitimacy, like my strength and courage are recognized only on days I make progress and not on days I donāt. I feel at once small and too much for any given room.
To be #motivational is to be privileged. Iām not suggesting privilege is damning or even bad; rather, privilege is the place from which we espouse and accept advice. Itās worth acknowledging. The items on my How to Be Happy list wreak of privilege: eat healthy, as if more than 20 million Americans donāt live in food deserts; run! implies I am to some degree able-bodied, implies itās not nighttime; prioritizing myself selfishly is a privilege of childlessness. Of course this list is for personal healing so itās chill, but shit, Iām privileged to occupy a space on the Internet and write hi my depression hurts. People everywhere fear disclosing mental health issues to employers will disqualify them from their job, that disclosing to peers and partners will label them crazy or worse. Remember how we turned on Americaās sweetheart Britney Spears when she shaved her head and rammed an umbrella into a van?
Which is why I become frustrated when a quote about changing my perspective doesnāt address my need for professional care but the American healthcare system is trash garbage and I have access to band-aids like flax seed and YouTube but not a doctor. Even with insurance, I canāt afford one. When a quote tells us to take career risks and travel like classism is innocuous, like poverty isnāt traumatic and a reality or risk for a third of the United States population, like wealth is indicative of character and work ethic alone and not systemic oppression. When a quote about willpower as a muscle doesnāt clarify that itās first and foremost a finite resource, that like a muscle it fatigues, that science knows lack of motivation is associated with low dopamine in the prefrontal cortex but not how to target dopamine in the right areas to overcome depression and low energy, that despite what capitalism fronts, humans do not attain value from their productivity. We are not machines.
*
For better or worse, I am a storyteller. Ask where I bought this shirt, I will tell you the vintage shop on Vermont, that I bought it for a Tom Hanks-themed party where I dressed as Forrest Gump Running Across the Mississippi the Second Time. I bought red shorts, too, but couldnāt commit to a red baseball cap considering, well. You know. I also teach storytelling. My favorite writing lesson is on specificity, avoiding abstract bullshit (I donāt say bullshit) in favor of concrete images, that this is how a character develops depth, that this is how readers relate. Motivational quotes, they donāt have that. I want to see the line etched across her knee as she stands from crying on tile grout. I want to see her bitten cuticles, peeling like a sunburn. Insert here the quote about showing the war through burnt socks in the road. I donāt want ten steps to success; I want to know what you eat when youāre hungry and money wonāt stretch the week. For me: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
Throughout college, I was in an abusive relationship and my personality shrunk to fit my boyfriendās wishes: he wanted Stepford, quiet. When I showed him my writing, he asked if I ever wrote anything happy. I learned early what emotions belonged there. That night I quit writing, and when years later I left, I launched this blog. I wrote publicly for many reasons, not least of all ego: my thoughts were important. But in fairness and kindness to myself, I also wanted to help people. Iād endured something traumatic for many years and felt deeply alone in the experience and yet still alone in this new space, freed but confused and in pain. I didnāt know other people went through what I had.
I took motivational quotes like an IV drip, tattooed on my rib cage the John Mayer lyric āwhere the light isā after I revisited albums my ex teased me out of playing and the line reminded me not to shrink anymore. The Monday before I moved to New York, I tattooed birds on my nape inspired by the quote āI always wonder why birds choose to stay in the same place when they can fly anywhere on Earth, and then I ask myself the same question.ā I didnāt once consider that I lived in Florida, where birds fly for the winter, or that I had freedom because my parents and stepmother had money.
One Saturday in a South Beach nightclub, a woman tapped my shoulder. āAre you Lyndsay? Sunday Whiskey?ā
It was the first time Iād heard the name of my blog spoken by someone else. I was holding the neck of a champagne bottle, my chapstick on its lip. Days before I had written a post about moving titled āMy Name Is on a Boarding Pass,ā which. Anyway. I nodded. āYeah, hi!ā
āYou inspired me to move to New York!ā
Iāve shared that anecdote for years but only recently felt weird about it. My writing then lacked nuance, awareness. Certainly experience. I didnāt write who paid for my plane ticketāno surprise, it wasnāt meāor that Iād be moving not to New York but New Jersey into my aunt and uncleās house rent-free. (They are angels.) While there, I wrote posts about sitting with loneliness and fighting the fear of change, but I didnāt write about sleeping in the George Washington train station or gaining thirty-five pounds or sneaking into the woods to smoke instead of finding a job. I didnāt write about my first Google searches for symptoms of depression, the boxes I ticked. When I rode the bus over the bridge into upper Manhattan, I didnāt write that I did so on my fatherās weekly bank deposits so I could spend time with an old fling and his new girlfriend. Itās not that I did a bad thing, inspiring someone to chase a dream. Itās that I lied.
*
When I was three years old, Hurricane Andrew stripped the shingles from my roof and the rain ran through the walls and into the floorboards and damaged all my toys. We piled the mess, damp and moldy, onto the back patio. I learned not to attach value or affection to objects, that whatās yours can be destroyed. I learned panic attacks as young as kindergarten. At twelve my motherās coworker taught me to keep my hair nice and clothes cute, and at fourteen my uncle taught me to stay skinny. In my early twenties I learned my fight or flight instinct is neither; instead I curl into a ball on the floor and weep silently into my kneesāunless Iām also drunk and angry and three-years-silenced: then I thrash, kick my feet into the dashboard, slap the gear shift, the steering wheel, the man beside me. Over the years Iāve learned what magnificent power many men hold within their hands, their fists. Thereās no timeline for unlearning.
I want to get better. And some days, if Iām being honest, I donāt want to get better. Some days itās easier to leave laundry like landmines on my bedroom floor, and other days I self-love so hard I reallytruly believe checking the Instagram of a dude with whom I shared three dates and never heard from again doesnāt affect my self-esteem, doesnāt distance me from reality. Iām still learning the line between self-care and self-sabotage, when a drink at the local bar is avoidance, when procrastination stems from the fear I donāt deserve my career and Iām one email from being found out.
I donāt know what better looks like. I do know, however, that anyone who enjoys leaving their comfort zone hasnāt left it yet. This shit is terrible. The healing process is rarely good vibes and face masks and Chardonnay. Itās accountability and guilt. Itās embarrassment and learning to forgive when no one says Iām sorry. Itās ten thousand Iām OKās whispered into a bathroom mirror, knuckles white against the counter. My most recent depressive episode ended one year ago, and since then managing my illness has looked like home cooking and eight glasses of water and still dating the wrong men but recognizing it sooner, leaving easier. It looks like a two-hundred page notebook half-filled with lists and setting an alarm three hours before a morning run to calm the anxiety and appropriately medicate. I run at 8 a.m.. Ā
I donāt know. I want to get better. There are daysāfewer and usually spaced months apartāI donāt want to get better. Maybe a year from now life will look like waking up and thinking, āhey girl, youāre awesome.ā Maybe better is filled with face masks and Chardonnay and motivational quotes and a chemically-balanced brain and forgetting that boy did that thing to my body that one time, or maybe not. Maybe better just looks like being happy sometimes.Ā Ā
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Like Walking on Eggshells
In the summer of 2015, I started therapy because I had feelings for a man and wanted to die. I drove to San Francisco and drank beer at a brewery with the guy and his friends. After a few hours I grew tired and he grew tired and we shared a platonic parting and I returned to the house at which I was staying and crumbled onto the bathroom floor, idealizing death. Itās relatively uncommon, me thinking of dying. But when I do, Iām almost always writhing on a bathroom floor with romantic feelings, even the requited variety, for a man.
Ā *
Ā I want to marry beneath a remarkable tree. The guests, all fifty or sixty of them, will sit on mismatched couches, and Iāll wear a form-fitting, beaded dress, maybe in blush. Iāll write my vows, of course, and so will he. Weāll dance to my fatherās band under strung lights and stars, and my sister will say a toast thatāll make the room laugh, except me; Iāll cry. In a good way. We wonāt form conga lines or play the YMCA, and I donāt care for cake, or dessert for that matter, but for tiramisu and macarons, so he can choose what we cut and feed each other, kissing between bites.
Ā *
Ā What I did not know, at least not with any confirmation, was that emotionally abusive relationships scar longer and deeper than physical ones. This is not to say that physically abusive relationships arenāt damaging, debilitating motherfuckers. They are. Just that, according to my therapist in our first session, emotional abuse lingers, infiltrates in unexpected ways.
Ā *
Ā Over the years, my romantic daydreams have changed: As a young girl, I wanted the poofiest princess dress and a church with stained glass windows. Now, a year shy of thirty, I daydream the wedding less. Instead, I read advice on how to make relationships work: respect each other, donāt keep secrets, choose each other every day, even when heās infuriatingly arrogant and Iām infuriatingly stubborn. In my daydreams he cooks, because I canāt, and I clean, even though I hate washing dishes, because I appreciate him. I donāt imagine kids or buying a house, but I do imagine a spare bedroom that we convert into an office and fill with books and in that room we have a No Speaking policy but every once in a while Iāll gaze up from my computer, and him from his, and Iāll smile at the way his eyes squint behind glasses and heāll smile at the way my eyebrows furrow and rise while I read.
Ā *
Ā I donāt think Iāll marry. I donāt think anyone can love me, not like that. Which is weird, because I actually really like myself. Iām talented and intelligent and kind. Iām accepting of others and Iām funny, and even from an early age, Iāve been ambitious with enormous, all-consuming dreams. If Iām ever a girlfriend or a wife, Iād be a good one: Iām supportive and affectionate and excellent with parents. Iām willing to make sacrifices and compromises and prioritize someone above myself. And, okay sure, Iām impulsive and messy and I hate being wrong, and my bet is Iāll always be this way, but for someone else, Iād sweep more often. Take deep breaths. Let him win.
Ā But still I donāt think Iām worthy of love. I didnāt think this way before the abuse.
Ā * Ā Ā
Ā Abusive relationships give the sensation of walking on eggshells. I read that somewhere, not long after the break-up, and I liked how it summarized my fear. I hid from my boyfriend in showers, cried while he slept. He fought nasty: name-calling, intimidation, gaslighting. Heād leave me (or when I felt particularly brave, Iād leave him) and he'd call to say he fucked another girl in our bed. I felt small and the world felt fragile and at every moment I feared heād detonate. At restaurants. On vacation. In our bed. I want to know what it feels like to be angry and not leave or be left.
Ā *
Ā On Thanksgiving I called my father and we talked relationships. I told him theyāre awful and why do we subject ourselves to them? Iām a million contradictions. Outwardly, I scoff at love, build walls so high one needs a rope and a god damn ice axe. But inwardly, love is a ravenous desire, unfuckingquenchable. Iāve never admitted that to anyone. Certainly not to my therapist. Only once or twice to myself. I feel desperate and shameful. Pathetic with poor priorities. Besides, we all know what happened last time.
Ā On the phone, my father said heās open to a relationship. Heās a recent widower, which I assumed meant he was out of commission, but, as he said, itās the opposite: Once youāve experienced a healthy, loving relationship, you want it again and again. As my father reminded me, I donāt know what thatās like. Shit, I donāt know what loveās like. The first man to say he loved me slammed me into walls, and the next two, on later dates, said they didnāt believe they had the capacity for love.
I propose an upside. Historically Iāve accepted conditional affection and Iāve feigned love when I didnāt feel it, for feelingās sake. Iām not that way anymore: I date serially, sure, but I also reject perfectly kind, intelligent men because I canāt fake attraction. Iāve waited this long. I know what I want and what I offer. Itād suck to settle.
*
Ā Ā On long drives I dance and sing and imagine a man riding shotgun, laughing with me. I imagine slow, naked mornings and road trips through the desert and a No Speaking rule in our home-office. In my daydreams, the man is no one specific, but he loves the me I love. Itās nice to have these daydreams. For a while I denied myself them.
Ā Iām making space and, I like to think, progress. My heart was broken earlier this year and I didnāt idealize death on my bathroom floor. Last week I told a man I like him and didnāt follow up with āso I think we should end things.ā These steps seem small, yes, and compared to the work I still need to doāforgive myself for my past relationship, stop speaking negatively of love, donāt force intimacy out of fearātheyāre unimpressive.Ā
But it feels like something, yāknow? Like healing. Ā
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Me, too.
Mom and Dad: I love you. You donāt want to read this one.
At seventeen, I promised a boy weād have sex but I changed my mind. This is to say, I had had doubts from the minute I initiated the AIM conversation until the minute I lay on his bed, his fingers fumbling for my zipper. I wanted to say ānoā when he kissed me and I wanted to say ānoā when he stripped off my shirt and I finally said ānoā when he unbuttoned my jeans.
I remember saying āno.ā
I donāt remember how he responded. I donāt remember how he felt inside of me. I donāt remember if we kissed or for how long sex lasted or whether he undressed completely.
But I remember saying āno,ā and I remember afterwards he left to play soccer with his friends.
What is it to own your body? Iāve, afraid, given my body away and my body, forcefully, has been taken, robbed for minutes or seconds, cupped in a manās eager palm, entered by a manās hungry dick. Iām not always sure to whom this body belongs. I believed I owned my body, but on a summer Monday afternoon at seventeen years old I said, āno,ā
and then.
Sunday night I scrolled my Facebook feed: Woman after womanāhundreds of womenāposting two words: āMe, too,ā as in: I too have experienced sexual harassment or assault. Women shouldnāt have to expose the secrets a body holds for others to believe predation and trauma,
but we did in throngs,
and Monday night a man who last month non-consensually grabbed my vagina spent two hours trying to convince me, first, to shut the fuck up, and second, that it never happened.
My body felt his grasp before my brain knew the word for it. My body registered its discomfort, its theft. I remember that. I donāt remember what I said, or if I said anything, or if I did, in what tone at what volume. But I felt his grasp for days after. I know it happened. Iād rather it hadnāt.
I havenāt owned my shoulders since an ex-boyfriend forced them into walls. I havenāt owned my waistline since an adolescence spent flipping through Momās Victoriaās Secret catalogs and Cosmopolitan magazines. I havenāt owned my breasts since a gay man groped them in a Hellās Kitchen bar.
My body has been stripped for its parts, claimed by male gaze and male hands and male desire.
Maybe that explains why, after a man grabbed my vagina (in a bar, over cheese and crackers) after I stomped out after he followed me down Vermont Avenue after I told him to get the fuck away from me,
I hugged him goodbye.
The eye suggests this body belongs exclusively to me, but experience taught me it doesnāt.
Men claim bodies, first, because they can. On average, men are stronger than women. Anatomy, as Freud put it, is destiny.
Men claim bodies because sex is inherently violent in the same way violence is inherently sexual. Testosterone controls both sex drive and humanās propensity to violence. Freud notes that sexual intercourseāthe āprimal sceneāāstrikingly resembles a violent struggle: the physicality, sweat, penetration, thrusting, grunting, nails clawing backs, teeth biting flesh.Ā Ā
And then thereās society.
I donāt want to write right now about the ways society fails women. I want for once men, the lot of them, to take my word for it.
As I write, I think of inevitabilities:
People will read the opening to this essay and belabor the fact I initiated the AIM conversation. People will challenge my credibility when I canāt remember every detail. People will wonder what Iād done for my boyfriend to lay hands on me, dispute the existence of female objectification, reason that men who arenāt sexually attracted to you cannot sexually assault you.Ā
I know people will do this because Iāve done it to myself.
Once a man told me he could never respect a woman who slept with him: the way she relinquished her body to his control. He said he could never respect a woman he fucked, the word spit like shrapnel.
I forgot we had hugged goodbye until he said so. The day after the assault, I remembered talking to him in a bank parking lot and thenānothing. In one retelling I said I threatened to call the cops. In another I omitted the parking lot altogether. But when he said itāāWe hugged goodbyeāāthe memory rushed to my body: his arms his chest his waist. The streetlight to my right. The defeat in my limbs.
Maybe he returned to me my body, but with it comes great shame for where it had been.
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Weāll Always Have Sunsets
It was early 2009, and I did not want to meet my fatherās new girlfriend. My parentsā divorce had finalized only a few months earlier. This new woman, I thought, was at best a rebound, at worst a homewrecker. I was twenty and angry.
We shared the same favorite Beatles song, me and the new girlfriend. āRevolution.ā I learned that the night we met. She treated me, my father, my sister, and a couple of our friends to see The Fab Faux, a Beatles tribute band that sounds like the real thing. We drove there in a limo. When āRevolutionā startedāthe clanging electric guitar, the racing drum, the background yellāshe tapped my shoulder. āThis oneās my favorite!ā She sang along, smiling, dancing with hands and hips. Dadās new girlfriend smiled the kind of smile that made everyone around want to smile too. Iām not sure if by that point my father had nicknamed her āSweet Thang,ā but probably. By the end of the show, I knew for certain my fatherās new girlfriendāKim was her nameāwas impossible to dislike.
*
I stood on the dock, bitching.Ā āI do not do boats.ā
Ignoring me, my father loaded the boat with essentials: a cooler, life vests. I went to Key Largo thinking weād jet ski, not boat. Thereās a difference: one Iād done before and decidedly disliked, and the other I hadnāt tried, so my feelings were up in the air. I worried about seasickness. The last time Iād gone boating was a year or so prior in St. Augustine. I had deep sea fished, or rather, I spent the trip curled in a ball, trying not to throw up. But this day, the bay was smooth and notably shallowāimperative differences I chose to avoid. Ā Kim promised Iād be fine. She talked me on board.
It turns out, I like boats.
Kim teased me for years: when Iād go tubing, when Iād kneeboard, when I learned how to drive the boat, the one afternoon I tried wakeboarding, the vacation in Hawaii I snorkeled. āI thought you didnāt do boats,ā sheād say, imitating my whine. āOh hey, Miss I-Donāt-Do-Boats.ā In Canada, we sailed while the sun setāKimās favorite time of day. My father played guitar and we sang.
Recently Kim saw a photo of me on the same boat from that first day. My father drove, and I smiled beside him. Kim laughed looking at the photo, said Dad should have that framed and mailed to me. āRemember how Lyndsay doesnāt do boats?ā
Kim didnāt know that just after that photo was taken, she was Baker Acted for threatening suicide to her daughter.
*
A month after I moved to New York in 2013, my father called on my lunch break. He worried Kim might have a problem with alcohol. After her fatherās funeral, sheād drank so much, she passed out on the toilet, fell off, maybe got a concussion.
Iād drink at least that much after your funeral, I probably said. Or maybe I said, I donāt knowāthat sounds like a reasonable day to get drunk. Whatever I said that afternoon, sitting at a picnic table in front of a grocery store on Fulton St., too many miles from my family to be of any use, I needed to believe that no, no, Kim was not an alcoholic. Not our Kim.
In hindsight, there were signs. Iād lived with my father and Kim for the six months preceding my New York move, and in the mornings while drinking coffee, Kim sometimes poured herself a glass of vodka before retiring to her bedroom for the day. She worked from home. In the evenings,Ā her words slurred, her memory like mist. Iād later learn that what I had interpreted as sometimes was frequently, and what Iād interpreted as normalĀ wasnāt.
I returned to my office. Should I confide in someone? Alcoholism wasnāt that serious, was it? I mean, I drink. And sometimes I donāt drink. Kim could do that: control her consumption. I remember thinking, or maybe the right word is hoping: Thereās nothing to worry about. But what if there was?
*
Kim passed away January 4, 2017, at 6:36 p.m. from complications of alcoholism, namely cirrhosis of the liver and esophageal varices. She is survived by her husband, four children, two stepdaughters; her mother, and two brothers. Her first grandson was born 36 hours later.
*
Iām not sure which anecdote best illustrates my stepmotherās alcoholism.
Maybe the time she flew to New York for rehab, drank during the flight, forgot why she was on a flight, and tried to check-in to a hotel at which she had no reservation. She slept in the lobby. The police came.
Maybe the time she chased my father with a garden hoe.
Maybe the rumors she circulated about my fatherāthat he was using her for money, he was cheating. She had developed Korsakoff Syndrome (a chronic memory disorder), and in the morning sheād love him but by afternoon sheād forget, rage and call him an asshole. Could he get the fuck out of her house? More than once she demanded her assistant pack my fatherās clothes in garbage bags.
Maybe that she said these things and behaved this way while my father put his life on hold to help her. He called every doctor in town. He researched every rehab center. He left her cards on the nightstandāI love you, heād write, his all-caps handwriting in permanent ink.
Maybe the Christmas she tossed half my presents in our backyard lake. Sheād thrown other things in the lake, too: her wedding ring, for one. Once she threatened to drive into the lake.
Maybe the time she lost her car at a hotel. Sheād forgotten she drove, took a taxi home, and the next morning sheād forgotten to which hotel sheād gone.
Maybe the time I went to her house and she told me to fucking leave, that Iām not her fucking daughter, and why donāt I tell my father to fuck off, while I was at it. A minute later she emerged on the driveway in tears. She was sorry, she would do anything for my dadās girls. Amy and I were like daughters to her. I couldnāt stop crying.
*
That was not Kim. Kim was sick.
That was not Kim. Kim was sick.
That was not Kim.
Kim was sick.
*
My father proposed to Kim in bed. They were that way, without frills. The six of us kids took to calling them Tomberly, or sometimes Tim. Their love was that gross gooey shit I didnāt believe existed until it stood before me, arms wrapped around waists and shoulders, smiling and laughing as though the only ones in on a joke. They were happy. My god, they were so happy.
They married November 3, 2012, in an intimate ceremony in Key Largo, FL. My step brother walked his mother down the aisle; my sister and I walked our dad. Kimās daughter was maid-of-honor, and my Pop Pop was the best man. They married before a dock during sunset. My fatherās band played the reception. Kim wore a teal and coral dress.
This year she forgot their anniversary. She was hospitalized, throwing up blood.
*
Alcoholism is a disease. A disease like cancer is a disease like diabetes is a disease like HIV is a disease. Many dispute this, claim people like Kim have a choice in the matter. Theyāre wrong. Nobody, least of all Kim, would choose this.
The National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Addiction defines alcoholism this way: āAn addictās life is often centered around their drug of choice, which in the case of an alcoholic is alcohol. They spend much of their time figuring out how to obtain it, drinking it, and recovering from its effects. They also do this at the expense of practically everything and everyone around them. Jobs suffer, as do relationships with friends and family members, and often alcoholics are in trouble with the law.ā
Alcoholism alone explains the illegal golf cart rides down busy roads to the gas station. Why she lost custody of her youngest sons. The bruised liver, the tar stool, the blown esophagus, the near-dementia. The tubes, the heart monitor, the machines that kept her alive more days than her body would have survived on its own.
*
I last saw Kim not connected to wires and machines in a hospital bed on Christmas Day 2015. (I first saw Kim connected to wires and machines in a hospital bed on Christmas Day 2016.) She was sober and chain-smoking on the porch beneath the tiki hut. It was later in the evening, only a few stragglers from the day remained: me, my father, Kim, and this guy who turned out to be a neighbor, but whom Iād never before met. He argued politics, something about how you just have to work hard to obtain a college education, blahblahblah.
āLook,ā I said. Hard work can get you only so far: because of hard work, I honed my talent for writing and obtained a career. But I qualified for said career because of a costly masterās degree, which required a cross-country move. Kim paid for my undergraduate and graduate education. She financially supported my moves to New York and Los Angeles.Ā
No matter how much hard work, I would not be where I am today without my stepmotherās generosity.Ā
Kim awwād, pulled me into her arms. She never did these things for recognition. Sheās not that way, helping people to feel better about herself. She paid my tuition because she knew I wanted to be a writer, and she knew I wanted a degree that said so, and she knew she had the means to help me accomplish that.
āThatās so sweet of you to say, little love,ā she said. She smiled her Kim-smile, her cheek pressed into mine.
*
At her celebration of life Saturday, I shared many of the above stories. The oneās about Kim. Not the oneās about her disease. No person should be defined or remembered by that which ailed them.
*
The first time I said aloud āKim is dead,ā it tasted badly. It was palpable, the words a weight on my tongue.
Grief is relentless.
Addiction is relentless.
My family, weāve had practice in griefāwe lost our Kim years ago. Interventions. Rehab stints. Marchman Actās. Doctors and psychiatrists and drugs and memory loss and yellingāmy god, there was so much yellingāand legal documents and lakes.
I last heard Kimās voice on Election Day. She sounded good, sober. I couldāve recognized her voice anywhere. She joked I should run for president. We laughed, and I remembered Revolution, and boats, and the family vacation to Steamboat Springs when like dominoes we all contracted stomach viruses, and Christmas-Day-matching-pajamas and Costco-maxi-dresses, and singing B-b-b-bennie and the Jets!, and the way the sun glowed behind her on her wedding day.
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Kiss Me, Iām Depressed
I.
Do you ever wake up with the sunrise, well-rested after eight hours of sleep, and kiss your dogās cheek, smile into her fur as she licks your face good morning, and then exercise to music you love and drive to work listening to music you love, and feel goodāgenuinely goodāand motivated, like maybe one day youāll go back to school for a PhD, because, heck, youāre smart as shit, or maybe direct a movie, because is there anything you canāt do?, and you drink coffee and work a job you love with a boss you love even more, and then around 2:30pm an ache grows in your chest, a palpable dread as you consider the rest of your dayāteach children, attend dinner with your closest friendsāand you wish (an all-consuming wish) to instead curl into a ball in bed, or even on the floor, what does it matter?, and cry or drink wine, or cry and drink wine, and quit your job and move to Europe or frankly anywhere, anywhere but here, because does anything matter anyway?
II.
In the fourth grade I gagged up everything I ate except koala cookies, the ones filled with strawberry frosting. The doctor called it stress. I was nine, afraid of my teacher. I didnāt have a word for it then. Stress wasnāt quite right. Iād later be diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder.Ā
III.
(From āYouāre The Worstā)
JIMMY
I just still canāt understand. Can youācan you explain it to me? Please.
GRETCHEN
Iām scraped out. Iām that car we sent to Mars, flipped upside down so the sun canāt reach my solar panels. Iāve always been able to flip myself back over eventually, butā¦ I ran out of times. This is how I am now. And itās not okay with you, nor should it be.
IV.
This morning I drove to my therapistās office. My appointment was for 11:00, but I called last night to change it to 9:00. I guess I called too late and/or no one listened to my voicemail, because I arrived but my doctor didnāt. I waited until half-after and then drove to Starbucks for an egg and cheddar sandwich. I cried in the parking lot, drove down the street, cried in another parking lot. I texted the man Iām dating to run away from me as fast as he can. I texted my sister: Iāve hit bottom. I texted my boss to say Iād be in shortly. My eyes swelled. I screamed into my steering wheel: Iām a problem Iām a problem Iām a problem Iām a problem
I donāt remember now if I took surface streets or a freeway to work.
Ā V.
It doesnāt always look this way. Around noon it looked like me sitting silent while everyone around me spoke. I felt suffocated. My chest burned. Tuesday night it looked like too much whiskey. Six months ago it looked like curling into the fetal position in the bathtub, shower running. This morning it looked like not washing my hair for the fourth day in a row. I couldnāt lift my arms. Do you know how hard it is to lift arms? A year ago it looked like gas station coffee and pajamas. When Iām lonely, it looks like swiping on a dating app. When I lived in New York, it looked like staying in bed until four every day. It looked like Thai food and Jameson shots. It looked like living with an ex.
VI.
(From āYouāre The Worstā)
GRETCHEN
You need to stop. Itās like you have amnesia. Every day you think things are going to be different and Iāll just be happy. Well, maybe you can understand this: I feel nothing. About anything. Dogs, candy, old Blondie records, nachos, you, us, nothing. So, for the last time, please go.
VII.
Dear loved ones,
My brain is broken, and Iāve spiraled into my dark place. Itās not terrible here, but for the lack of light and the sudden, impractical mood and appetite fluctuations.
I drank a strawberry milkshake for lunchāthat helped, until my stomach hurt. Teaching tiny humans helps. Writing helps. Alcohol doesnāt help, but Iām learning that the hard way. Iām sure exercise would help if I had the energy. I have no energy. (Itās not that I hurt; itās that Iām hollow.) Singing Alanis Morissette helps, specifically the Jagged Little Pill album. My Chihuahuaās kisses help. If someone wants to bring me brownies, Iām almost positive that wonāt help-help, but Iām willing to give it a shot.
I guess what Iām trying and failing to say is, I know this happens, sometimes for months, if Iām lucky for only weeks, and who knows how long until it passes, how long Iāll feel another way before that passes, too, and believe me I know to do *what makes me happy,* although right now āhappyā feels like some imagined bullshit that dim-witted, half-brained hippies fell for. You canāt fix meāyou canāt fix meābut if someone wants to love me, wants to accept me anyway, wants to listen, wants to sit in silence in my bed, wants to tell me Iām pretty and smart and funny, wants to walk my dog because fuck thatās tedious right now, wants to recommend music, wants to watch The Mindy Project, wants to send me snail mail, wants to stare at the stars, wants to let me cry, wants to pay off my credit card bill, wants to go for sushi, wants to write me haikus, wants to dance in my living room, wants to listen to me read poetry, wants to watch the sunset or stay up all night for the sunrise, wants to buy me coffee because another fun thing is Iām constantly tired, wants to play me guitar, wants to play me piano, wants to play Story Cubes, wants to understand meā¦well. Iād like that.
VIII.
As per Alex Simandās request, I shall end with a poem I just pulled out of my ass.
Ā roses are redāi guess
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā i donāt know
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā i like the yellow ones with
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā pink tips
and i like morning breath
on my forehead, on my belly
the squishy part above my hip bone
i giggle ācause it tickles
but i like it anyway
and i like morning weather
and body heat
and cold fingertips dancing on my rib cage
can you hold around my rib cage?
squeeze the life back into meā
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā these days iām bones
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā these days iām tired
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā these days i need a pinch
to know iām breathing
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Good Girlfriend, Bad Daughter
by JEH, guest writer
I cowered in the corner of my best friendās bedroom, one shoulder against her armoire, the other against her turquoise wall. āPlease,ā I said to my boyfriend. āI canāt. My mouth hurts.ā
āYouāre a fucking cock tease.ā His voice was a whisper, but his anger filled the room as he raised his fist. āStand the fuck up.ā Ā
I turned my head to the side, moved my hands in front of my face. āPlease donāt.ā
I donāt remember what he said after that, but a moment later I nodded and extended a hand, and he pulled me up and backward toward the bed. I do remember that I was in my bathing suit and my hair was wet; weād been swimming that afternoon. I remember that in the lamplight my skin looked even tanner than it was; I was sixteen, it was summer, and I wasnāt a fan of sunscreen. I remember the pain in my jaw as I fit his penis into my mouth. Iād had my wisdom teeth out a few days before. I remember his hand on my head.
That night I went home and showered and dried my hair. I sat on my bed and wrote about the day in my diary. āI gave Kris head for the first time tonight,ā it probably said. āHe said I was amazing,ā it probably said.
I wasnāt a victim. I was a good girlfriend.
*
Later that summer my mother read my diary, a fact I didnāt know when she asked me if I wanted to go to dinner with her, just the two of us. I thought that would be a special treat; Iām the oldest of five kids. I didnāt get much time alone with my mom.
In the dim light of the restaurant, my mother paused and changed the topic of conversation. āI know you think youāre a āgood girl,āā--she framed her fingers in scare quotes across the table--ābut good girls donāt give blow jobs.ā
My face burned. I didnāt want to, I wanted to say. Instead, I nodded and took another bite of pasta. āYes, maāam,ā I said. āI know.ā
At the end of the summer, Kris kissed my best friend and, when I broke up with him, started to call me in tears and threaten to kill himself. Once, he showed up at my window at midnight; he lived an hour away. I told him to go. I told him I never wanted to see him again.
After that, he stalked me via AOL Instant Messenger, where he berated me ceaselessly. I flinched each time the incoming message signal dinged. I told him to stop. I called him an asshole. I muted the computer. I kept reading. At cum-suckin whore, I printed the conversation and took it to my father, a lawyer. I was afraid. I prayed I had grounds for a restraining order. Ā
My dad read, then looked at me. I couldnāt meet his eyes. āIn a court of law, theyāll say you provoked him,ā he said. āYou shouldnāt have taken the bait.ā
I nodded and took back the paper. āOh. Yes, sir.ā I felt painfully aware of my mouth moving over the words. Ā
I folded the paper and put it in my diary. I never wrote in my diary again.
*
Years later, when Facebook opened to the public, I started getting friend requests from Kris.
Each time I see his name, Iām sixteen again: in a bathing suit; at a restaurant; standing in front of my father.
I freeze. I swallow. I am painfully aware of my mouth.
October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month. Iāll be sharing my stories throughout the next few weeks (and forever), and I hope others feel liberated to do the same. We should notācannotābe silenced. Our voice is our power.
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Donald Trump Is Our Abusive Boyfriend
After the second presidential debate I walked home from the neighborhood bar and collapsed into childās pose. My roommate had skipped the debateāāI know my triggers,ā she saidāand now lay on the couch scrolling through Netflix. I inhaled, filling my chest and stomach, and then exhaled, as though I could expel from my memoryāmy bodyāthe horror show Iād witnessed. There is not enough wine in the world for this shit. Ā Ā Ā Ā
In 2005, Donald Trump rode in an Access Hollywood bus with host Billy Bush and bragged about how, as a celebrity, he can do whatever he wantsāmost notably, grab women by the pussy. Initially journalists and mansplainers everywhere clutched their pearls at his vulgarity, until it occurred to everyoneāHOLY SHIT!āthe Republican presidential candidate bragged about sexual assault. This would be shocking had he not spent the last year and a half incessantly targeting every human not born white male. His campaign is a master course in oppression, and at least half of our country doesnāt notice or doesnāt care. Iām unsure which is worse. Ā Ā
I was most recently sexually assaulted two years ago. New York City, the downtown 1, dinnertime rush hour. Somewhere between 79th and 50th, a man squirmed his flaccid dick out the zipper of his red jeans and stood there, his hipbones at my eye level. When I later told friends about this, I heard more than once:Ā āWelcome to New York.ā This is the equivalent ofĀ ālocker room banterā for desensitized city dwellers.
During the debate, people around me laughed. I fidgeted. I slapped my chairās arm rests, tapped my foot against the tableās legs. I ordered a second Bulleit neat. I practiced the breathing exercises a hypnotist taught me: inhale for seven counts, exhale for eleven.
This election cycle became triggering long before Fridayās video. I started unfriending Trump supporters on Facebook weeks, no, months ago. Two weeks ago I took a personal day from work: I couldnāt do society. As someone who endured emotional abuse and has spent years clawing her way out the other side, I donāt need my progress derailed by an orange man with a penchant for āisms and āphobias. I feel threatened. I feel unheard, invalidated, gaslighted, unloved. Years ago I made a pact with myself: I will never allow a man to make me feel like that again. America, you shouldnāt allow a man treat you this way now.Ā
You are in an abusive relationship. Itās cool: it took me more than three years to recognize I was in one. Frankly, itās not completely your fault, as our culture doesnāt speak often enough or loud enough about domestic abuse.
Evidence of Trumpās abusive campaign has been obvious since he threw his hat in the ring and generalized Mexican immigrants asĀ ārapists.ā Heās made a habit of humiliating people, highlighting the mistakes of others, attacking anyone who jokes about him (or disagrees with him), exhibiting zero empathy or compassion, and giving no shits about anyone elseās feelingsāI mean, unless those feelings mirror his feelings, and in which case, itās still all about him. Ā Ā
I compiled the following handy-dandy list on how Donald Trump abused America between hisĀ āapologyā Saturday morning and debate performance Sunday night. Heads up: this may be triggering.Ā
1. He demeaned and disregarded the opinions, ideas, suggestions, and needs of others.Ā
Anderson Cooper: Please allow her to respond. She didnāt talk while you talked.
Hillary Clinton: Yes, thatās true. I didnāt.
Donald Trump: Because you had nothing to say.
2. He belittled andĀ trivializedĀ Clintonās accomplishments, hopes, and dreams.Ā
Clinton: Well, here we go again. I have been in favor of getting rid of carried interest for years starting when I was a senator from New York. But that's not the point here.
Trump: Why didn't you do it? Why didnāt you do it?
Clinton: Because I was a senator with a Republican president.
Trump: You could have done it. If you were an effective senator, you could have done it. But you were not an effective senator.Ā
3. He accused and blamed Hillary for things he knew werenāt true.Ā
Trump: First of all, she was there as Secretary of State with the so-called line in the sand.
Clinton: No, I wasn't, I was gone. I hate to interrupt you. At some point we need to get the facts out.Ā
Trump: You were still in contact with the White House.
4. He made excuses for his behavior, tried to blame others, and had difficulty apologizing.Ā
Trump: Hillary ClintonĀ and her kind have run our country into the ground. I've said some foolish things, but there's a big difference between the words and actions of other people.
5. He called people names, gave unflattering labels, and made cutting remarks.
Trump: I was surprised to see [Bernie Sanders] sign up with the devil.Ā Ā
6. He played the victim and tried to deflect blame onto others, rather than take responsibility.Ā
Trump: Let's be honest, we're living in the real world. This is nothing more than a distraction from the important issues we're facing today.
7. He invalidated and denied his abusive behavior when confronted.Ā
Trump:Ā No, I didnāt say that at all. I don't think you understood what was said. This was locker room talk.Ā
Trump: Nobody has more respect for women than I do.
Cooper: In the days after the first debate, you sent out a series of tweets from 3:00 a.m. to 5:00 a.m. including one that told people to check out a sex tape. Is that the kind of discipline...
Trump: No, it wasn't check out a sex tape.
[It was.]
8. He made subtle threats and negative remarks with the intent to frighten and control Clinton.Ā
Trump: If I win, I am going to instruct my attorney general to get a special prosecutor to look into your situation, because there has never been so many lies, so much deception. There has never been anything like it, and we're going to have a special prosecutor.
Clinton: It's just awfully good that someone with the temperament of Donald Trump is not in charge of the law in our country.
Trump: Because you would be in jail.
9. He tried to make us believe that he is always right, and others are always wrong (even when heās proven incorrect).
Trump:Ā How stupid is our country?
Martha Raddatz: There are sometimes reasons the military does that. Psychological warfare.
Trump: I can't think of any.
Raddatz: It might be to get civilians out.
Trump: I can't think of any.
10. He gave disapproving or contemptuous looks or body language.Ā
After I lifted myself from childās pose, I joined my roommate on the couch. We watched Mean Girls. I ate leftover Thai. We laughed about Glen Coco. I wonder now, Who here has felt personally victimized by Donald Trump? The Republican presidential nominee is somehow, strangely, our real life Regina George.Ā
October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month. Iāll be sharing my stories throughout the next few weeks (and forever), and I hope others feel liberated to do the same. We should notācannotābe silenced. Our voice is our power.
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Itās Because Youāre Crazy
I was visiting San Francisco when it occurred to meāunprompted and after only two beersāthat Iād never properly addressed my four-year emotionally and verbally abusive relationship. I mean, I thought I had. Iād done shit. In the five years since our breakup, Iād moved to New York and Los Angeles, once drank enough vodka to nap on Sammy Sosaās shoulder, started a career and pursued a masterās degree, trespassed across the George Washington Bridge, became a vegetarian, figured out what in the worldĀ āfeminismā means, and paid $1,425 of my hard-earned, cash-money a month for a one-bedroom apartment in the Hills. I was hot shit. Until, that is, I sat in a brewery at a picnic table across from my most recent ex-boyfriend (a kind man with whom Iād broken up, but hadnāt wanted to), and upon returning to the apartment at which I was staying, I thought, what a wonder it would be to die.Ā
I donāt mean die-die. I mean, not answer my phone, not get out of bed but to shit or pee or pour another whiskey, not deal with sticky emotions and memories and heartache. Die metaphorically, yāknow? And, really, only until the pain stopped; once the pain stopped, Iād be chill. But life, in that moment, was killing me.Ā
The next morning I emailed therapists. I scheduled an appointment for Wednesday. Driving south on the 101, I rehearsed the session. Iād start from the beginning of my love life (twelve years old, a boy I saw only three times in as many months whose first name rhymed with his last), segue into jokes about unrequited love, and land on this zinger: the conclusion Iād come to on the drive: Iām terrified of love.Ā
I should be clear: Iām not afraid of *commitment* or *heartbreak* or *vulnerability*. That is to say, I am afraid of all of those things. But more pressingly Iām afraid the man I love will call me a slut. Iām afraid the man I love will pin me against walls, car doors, our bed. Iām afraid the man I love will yell at me so loudly, so forcibly, our roommate will consider police intervention. Iām afraid the man I love will emotionally stray and blame the betrayal on me. Iām afraid of gaining weight to the man I loveās disapproval, and later, his insults. Iām afraid Iāll uncover some buried courage to get the hell out, only for the man I love to call two days later with the heads up: he had fucked another girl in our bed. Iām afraid of the rug burn from crying on the floor. Iām afraid the man I love wonāt apologize. Iām afraid the man I love will demand I shoulder the blame.Ā
Iām afraid because this happened to me.Ā
Therapy went as rehearsed, but for one breakthrough: my therapist confirmed Iād been abused. I knew this already, of course; Iād conducted the Google searches, written the op-eds, spoken the words aloud. But nobody had, like, so assuredly validated it. So when she said,Ā āYou were in an abusive relationship. Youāre okay. It wasnāt your fault,ā I could do little more than drum my fingers on my knees and try my best to breathe.Ā
Thereās a stigma against mental health, but that much we all know. Why else would it take five years to seek therapy? Why else did I deny myself antidepressants? Isnāt life easier thinking maybe Iām a little screwed up, but, like, nbd, than a PhD-toting stranger saying so?Ā
Less obvious, though, is the persistenceāthe downright unawarenessāof gaslighting. Besides it being the one skill at which presidential nominee Donald Trump is truly accomplished, gaslighting is also the mad-chill friend who tells you toĀ āCalm down,ā toĀ āRelax,ā says,Ā āItās not that big of a deal.ā Gaslighting is the old college buddy who says,Ā āI was very close with you and [your ex-boyfriend] during the time you were dating and I donāt recall any abuse.ā Gaslighting is saying,Ā āYouāre insane,ā andĀ āYouāre crazy,ā yes, but itās also saying,Ā āOther people have had it much worse,ā andĀ āI think youāre interpreting your feelings as abuse.āĀ
All of this has been said to me. This year.Ā
But if the abuse was merely my imagination, and in fact my ex-boyfriend was an honest man, and me, a delusional woman, and in fact Iād conjured up the whole ordealāwhat for? I beg to knowāthen why did I tense when a man I adored gripped my shoulders? Why did I compulsively shake, claw at my skin, writhe and struggle to breathe while watching the movie Room? When Joyās captor, Old Nick, yells, hadnāt I heard a variation of his words before?Ā Ā
Look, Iām not not messed up: Iāve been diagnosed with depression and anxiety, and any given day might be improved with a glass or two of pinot. But the implication of an old college friend saying,Ā āI have had unhealthy relationships and maybe Iāve even let a man treat me less than perfect, but when Iāve reflected and saw the role I played in the relationship, I didnāt blame him or write fictitious stories about him just to get sympathyā is this:Ā
Your reality, Lyndsay, is untrue. No, look, I hear you: your ex-boyfriend was sometimes a jerk. And sure, your relationship wasnāt always the healthiest. But, like, have you considered thatās your fault? If it was so bad, why didnāt you just leave? Thatās plain weakness. Whatād you say? You were afraid to leave? Thatās ridiculous. What, he slammed you into a garage door track? Maybe thatās because you were crying too loudly.Ā
I know the implication by heartāIād gaslighted myself for years.
Iād spent all that time avoiding therapy telling myself Iād asked for it. I was too sensitive, a crybaby. Was there another way to love someone like me: damaged, emotional, too outspoken for her own good? If Iād shut the fuck up every once in a while, quit fighting my ex, or better, quit believing Iām worthy of his love, Iād realize he makes good points. I am immature and insecure and slutty and crazy, and this manāthis gentle, honest manāis doing me a service letting me know.
No, I never needed anyone to gaslight me. I had it covered. Ā Ā Ā Ā
In my therapistās office, I drummed my fingers on my knees and tried my best to breathe. My heart raced. I gulped, an attempt to break the knot in my throat.Ā āYes,ā I said.Ā āIāve been abused.āĀ
āNo,ā I said.Ā āIt wasnāt my fault.ā
October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month. Iāll be sharing my stories throughout the next few weeks (and forever), and I hope others feel liberated to do the same. We should notācannotābe silenced. Our voice is our power. Ā
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