winksiwinksi

[winksiwinksi]

To:

tw: sexual harassment, sexual assault

To the boy who lived next door that convinced me into playing “I’ll show you/let you touch mine if you show me/let me touch yours” in the woods when I was five.

To the boys on the playground who snapped my bra.

To the sophomore year science teacher to thought it was appropriate to stick his finger in the hole on the knee of my jeans and wiggle it around in such a manner that even as a teenager I understood immediately to be sexual in nature.

To the fact that I blocked this from my memory until I found out years later he got a smack on the wrist for sexual harassment and didn’t lose his job.

To the beloved high school teacher that told me when I bumped into him at the bars one night years later “how amazing” he’s always found me, even back when I was 15 in the sophomore year musical, all while staring at my chest even after being called out on it.

To the guy on the bike who would follow me around downtown for months and shout about how sexy my legs were.

To the ex who decided to pull my pants down and have sex with me while my head was lying in his best friend’s lap, too drunk to notice until halfway through when I asked the best friend “I’m having sex aren’t I?” And neither of them stopped it.

To that same ex who has written “me, too” in his own status and I wonder if he recognizes what happened that night.

To the guy who “let” me suck his dick, then kicked me out of his dorm room and never talked to me again.

To the grad student teacher who did nothing to stop the untrue rumors that I was sleeping with him.

To the boyfriend who made it so difficult to say no, I always said yes.

To the same boyfriend who enjoyed touching me in situations where I couldn’t stop him without making a scene.

To the same boyfriend that manipulated my memories to make me think previous consensual situations were not.

To the many many guys at the bars and parties that I felt I had to say I had a boyfriend to in order to get away from them safely.

To the number of times I’ve texted that I’ve gotten home safe.

To the number of times I’ve ignored rather than engaged because my chances of safety were higher.

To the number of times I’ve let men tease me because I don’t know what else to do.

To the man who sent his teenage daughters over to tell me how hot he thought I was and then proceeded to show up at the warehouse to watch me skate so often that I had to start making sure I wasn’t the first teammate to show up for practice and, if I was, to not go behind the curtain where I’d be alone.

To the maintenance man who would inappropriately tease and flirt with me every time he came to the office, and to the boss who thought it was funny.

To the lovable, affable man everyone looks up to, who has hit on me so many times, in so many ways, that I’ve started to block his advances from my memory and my wife has had to remind me.

To the man who felt it necessary to tell me that he was avoiding me that day because he thought I “looked so hot” while wearing a schoolgirl outfit.

To the guy in his car the other day that whistled at me while I was simply waiting to cross the street to get my mail.

To the social conditioning that when said guy in his car whistled, I actually felt beautiful for a second at a time when I was feeling self-conscious.

To all of the boys and men that I’ve forgotten about because this happens so frequently it’s impossible to remember all of them.

And, finally, to the fact that I don’t feel like I can post this with my name attached.

[winksiwinksi]

I need to write and put words out there and this is the best method at the moment. There are people I know on here — hi. I just need to post stuff into the abyss. 

12:55 am March 13, 2017

It’s almost 1 am. But I’m telling myself it’s only midnight. Because goddamn Daylight Savings. I didn’t grow up with it. I don’t understand it. And I think it’s bullshit.

I’ve always wanted to write. In high school I kept a journal of pretend poetry. I call it pretend because it didn’t have rhythm. It didn’t have rhyme. It had angst. And that’s about it. For whatever reason I’ve always had more confidence working with other people’s words than my own. So I became an editor. But I wish I could create.

I’ve also always wanted to be a person that creates tangible things. You know. Like a painter. Or a woodworker. Or even a fucking DIY decor person. Whatever that’s called. I’ve been a photographer, and I loved the dark room. But my old job sucked the love right out of photography. I get that bug every once in a while. But digital isn’t the same. And I never think I’m good enough. I’ve been trying to do more baking lately. But I don’t know how to work without a recipe, which kind of defeats the purpose of creating.

It’s now past 1 am. And I’m sitting here in a towel after taking a warm shower to try to help me fall asleep. But I’m too scared to try. Because I don’t want to be up all night tossing and turning again. And it’s easier to just let myself be awake than it is to try to fall asleep.

I’m a good bottle of wine in. But I don’t know how much it actually is because I get boxes of wine. I drink a lot of nights. But I’m also in denial of that. It’s probably most. I just deleted “most” and wrote “a lot.” So that should say something. It’s weird to know you have a problem using alcohol to cope with shit but to know that you aren’t an alcoholic. I don’t think most people get the difference. Maybe I’m fooling myself and there is no difference.

I’m getting married to the love of my life in less than three months. I know we are meant to be together. But it doesn’t stop that “what if” voice. I mean. No one goes into marriage thinking they will get divorced. I’ve also never trusted myself or another person enough to make this kind of commitment. And I’ve spent a lot of time purposely working to be independent. But I’m forever not independent anymore. And that’s scary.

And I’m planning that wedding. And there are so many goddamn details. Details that run through my brain all night long.

We’ve also been fighting. The kind of fight you can’t even explain. The kind of fight that changes everything. Not in a ending-things kind of way, but in a huge-revelation kind of way.

I recently moved from a blue bubble in a red state in the Midwest to a blue bubble in a red state in the South. And this blue bubble everyone loves to praise is way more of a purple bubble.

And in this purple little city (town? what is that definition?), I’m pretty sure we know 3/4 of the queers between 25 and 40. All eight of them. My partner can’t walk down the street without getting looks. I have the privilege of getting a break from it when we aren’t together, but she never gets a break. But it does mean I get some subtle and not-so-subtle homophobic remarks from strangers that make me go “errr errrr errrrrrr” and run away as fast as I can. It also means that we get all these straight people who don’t understand how, “in this blue bubble,” we could possibly not feel safe holding hands walking down the street.

Which comes first — the anxiety or the thing causing the anxiety? As in. Am I anxious about everything because I have anxiety? Or is there a thing causing anxiety that’s giving me anxiety?

The healthcare marketplace is terrible. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of those people who wants it gone. It has helped so many people, and it needs to stay. But it has so many problems. 1) You can’t do anything on that damn website without calling. I’ve spent so much time on hold, I’ve actually gotten the on-hold music stuck in my head out of the blue. During my move, I called 10+ times. Everything has been a fight. 2) The subsidies aren’t enough and they don’t go high enough into income brackets. While technically I can afford my monthly payment, it can be a struggle. 3) In order to afford the monthly payments, I have to get a plan with a $6800 deductible and gamble on whether or not I actually will be using the health insurance I pay way too much for each month. 4) Somehow the dear state I’m in finagled a way to screw over anyone trying to use the marketplace. I have dental. But I have no dentist in a 30 mile radius. I needed to see someone for my anxiety, but I hadn’t set up a primary doctor yet because it was so overwhelming and my anxiety would get in the way. I finally attempted to get in somewhere and I had one specifically mental-health choice — a behavioral health clinic. This clinic is meant for people with low incomes and shitty insurance. But it is my only choice. I am the person with shitty insurance. But I’m using up resources for people who literally have $0 in income per month (I overheard a convo while checking out). That doesn’t exactly help my anxiety now does it? So I get to go assure them that I’m a little crazy. But not too crazy.

I’m coming to terms with the fact that I need professional help with my anxiety.

I’ve always wanted to write. I’ve tried journals but have always failed at being consistent. Maybe doing it on the computer will help. Though I’m not supposed to be in front of a screen right now — bad for trying to sleep. Should I post this? Will that keep me writing? What ever happened to Live Journal or Xanga? I was really good at that.

11:50 am March 15, 2017

Day 1 on Zoloft. I just finished my first appointment with the psychiatrist. I really don’t like going to the behavioral clinic. I feel like I’m using up someone else’s resource. I just have to remind myself that this was my one choice at the moment. This is my resource. I get anxious just going there, because it’s such an in your face kind of view on the zero shits government gives.

The appointment was a tele-appointment. I spoke with the doctor over Skype. Which in some ways I really liked the separation. He was just a screen. In other ways, it allows me to stay separated in a not good way. I don’t know if I like it or not.

I have a couple of tips for him. 1) I’m there for anxiety. And I’m pretty ashamed of my use of alcohol to cope. So maybe hold off on the lecture about how I’m ruining my liver. I assure you. I know. 2) I’m there for anxiety. Anxiety partially caused by the current political climate. I already told you that I’m getting married to a woman. So there’s a pretty good bet on the fact that I’m a flaming queer liberal. Maybe when I say I went to school for journalism, you should hold off on “Ohhhhh Trump says bad things about youuuuuuu…” and when you hear “Yeah, that doesn’t really help,” as the reply, maybe not continue to say, “But he’s right! I mean, the media never says anything good about him.” And when the reply is a really awkward “mmmmmmm” because your client can’t believe they are in this convo right now you maaaaybe don’t then say “I mean, of course he did business overseas! He’s a businessman!” He said “moving on” when I was silent and balking at the screen, so I guess he figured it out. Maybe.

So I’m on (generic) Zoloft, 25 mg. Which was the expected prescription based on everyone I’ve talked to. Not sure how I feel about that, other than something needed to happen so I’m glad something happened. So now I’m on meds. Moving forward I guess.

[winksiwinksi]

Never quite know whether to be pissed or flattered when I find a photo of mine being shared on social media. Especially when my photo credit isn't on it. But I don't own the majority of my work anyway. So fuck that noise.

[winksiwinksi]

Adulting: Knowing you need to be the strong, supportive, and positive one even though you are scared shitless, too.

[winksiwinksi]

Adulting: Trying to get my binge eating and bad self esteem habits in check. A big motivator is so I don't pass them along to my eventual child.

[winksiwinksi]

Adulting: Getting sad while reading the newspaper (that you do daily) when you realize that you won't be voting for the school system referendum you support because your partner will have a new job somewhere else by then.

[winksiwinksi]

Adulting: Using your Christmas money to help cover hospital bills.

[winksiwinksi]

I really appreciate being forced into a corner and then being alienated for it. Why am I even still caring?

[winksiwinksi]

Adulting: The act of accepting, navigating through, and thriving in a world where 85% of the time you have no idea what you are doing.

[winksiwinksi]

Feeling very frustrated about so many unrelated things I can't control.

[winksiwinksi]

Five years ago I had just left an abusive relationship for the last time. One where I was consistently told I was not good enough for this or that. Including that I'm not worthy of having my picture taken with him. We were together 9 months and I'm pretty sure one exists in that entire time. One. I've been camera shy ever since. (Except for selfies because I can control them.) Today I let myself hang contorted in ropes. Almost completely at the mercy of another, being photographed by someone else. And I kind of love the photos. I'm calling this a huge win. Fuck you asshole. I'm getting through your shit. Fuck you....fuck you.

[winksiwinksi]

If I haven't hit the "fuck it" breaking point yet. What will it take to get me there? Goddamn.

[winksiwinksi]

Huge news media pet peeve. "Gay marriage" and "gays and lesbians" don't cover everyone affected by RFRA.

[winksiwinksi]

Every once in a while I'm reminded I live in Indiana. This Religious Freedom bill? Thanks, I really appreciate my future wedding compared to a KKK rally.

[winksiwinksi]

Uhg. Not playing tonight is being back a lot of old insecurities and angst.

[winksiwinksi]

Today I bought my first adult purchase: a car! Now I just have to wait for my daddy to sign the paperwork so they'll actually let me drive it home.

[winksiwinksi]

Wut. I have 529 calories left for the day? Good thing I'm drinking a bottle of wine and not entering it!