I got nothing. I worked way too hard today to have any creative juice or deep thoughts.

So here’s a few quick hits:

Fergus can’t decide is he is ashamed or proud of himself for pissing on his one pad which is what I wanted him to finally do. The Frantic shrieking is funny as I watch the confusion in his face. Kind of like being a Catholic.

You should cancel your eyebrow waxing appointment when you have a zit in the waxing vicinity.

Men are still a solid disappointment

I hope I wake up tomorrow with my uterus still belonging to me.

I am embarrassed. It doesn’t happen very often. But when it does, I very deeply do not like it. I know, most of you who read my Facebook posts are scratching your heads right now wondering why it hasn’t happened 125 times this month already. That’s because stuff I put out there doesn’t embarrass me at all because it’s my choice and there is a reason I share so much….some greater purpose I believe in.

It’s when I have thought the best of a situation or person and given every reason to believe that faith is not ill placed and then I am still failed….made to think I might have been being silly to believe in the first place. Happens a lot when trying to start relationships. It’s not losing the guy which hurts so much, it’s that I am embarrassed to have been hopeful.

When I get super annoyed at the Deepak Chopra friend types who tell you that if you think positively, positive things will happen or what you put into the world is what you get back, it’s because that stuff isn’t true. That’s just something really lucky people say because they sometimes just can’t believe their luck and need to give it some kind of explanation. Nope, you are just lucky. There’s no karmic, philosophical, yogic explanation. You can still enjoy reading “The Secret” but it’s no different than reading “Charlotte’s Web.” It’s just a story like everything else.

Unless the only thing I put out into the world, which is measured for investment return, is my shit in the toilet, I am not getting back at all what I put into the universe. I have to believe I can do better than just take shits considering I only get that back. Every day I think of 3 things I am grateful for. Every night I pray for what I am thankful for and I put positive thoughts into the world for you and myself. Still, only hearing back from the sewer.

It’s bullshit. People like to take advantage of hopeful, believing people like me (I ALWAYS start from that disposition) because they know I will give everything I have to something or someone I believe in. They are not at all concerned with what they dangle in front of me just being a tool to lure me in. Thing is, all you have to do is ask me for something and I will do it. You don’t need to manipulate in any way. But when you do, I have an expectation. It’s fair for me to have it. So, I am supremely embarrassed when it doesn’t pan out. Hence, how we arrive at the equation of my skepticism going forward. You view it as negativity. It’s just x + y = z.

When I feel like this, I do keep a low profile and am wounded. In fact, this emotion is the one most dangerous to my depression and most likely to re-ignite it. A fact which frightens me because I can’t get on a higher dosage of medication than I am already on. Last resort was a bell I already rang.

I stayed home this past weekend because it was easier to just stay on my couch with Fergus rather than drive a few hours in the rain just to sit on a different couch in front of parents I constantly disappoint. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to answer questions. I prefer to pretend nothing happened. Doing the same thing this weekend. I will stop at a bar after work for 2 beers waiting for take out and then sit in the house alone all weekend because I am embarrassed by something I don’t want to talk about. Something where I did absolutely nothing wrong. In fact I did 200% right. Everybody wins but me. I’m exhausted. I’m embarrassed to have been seen chasing after treats like a dog. It really messes with me a lot.

Getting out of bed today was just a little harder than usual. That’s not good.

Last night I went to a new thing called “Hello Sunshine” which is a tour of a panel of writer, actor, athlete, activist, musician, etc, types touring the US trying to create a community through story telling. The Boston kickoff had Cheryl Strayed who is my favorite feminist. Nicole Byer was also there and I have long been a fan of hers…ever since seeing her do Girl Code.

It was really refreshing to be in a very large group of harmless women all there for similar reasons and searching for similar truths. The panelists are all incredibly talented and intelligent. It also came through how hard they all gave to work “extra” just to be considered human….unlike men who just get that consideration at birth.

It occurred to me then how hard I have worked at so many things in my life. My only challenges and detours caused by the behavior or decisions of men.

My father was brutally verbally abusive to me growing up. I don’t know who of you had experienced that but it’s like taking Ricky Balboa punches to the brain so that you have no self confidence and only learn tools of self sabotage. It was so painful all those years, I really wished he would just hit me instead. A bruise I could see and a bruise would heal. One time, in High School he did punch me in the face. I was so relieved. Finally, something I could tell a friend and a reason I could start packing a bag to move out. Oddly, I don’t think he had ever been sorry about it and my mother has never not defended it.

Every guy I date has wanted everything I have until I have wanted something too. He’d still keep me around but go get everything he wanted everywhere else too. There was always another woman he wished he could have.

One guy would still be seeing me but telling all our mutual acquaintances that I was delusional so that they would sleep with him and they did. They’d look at me like they had won some prize and how sad it was how crazy I must be to think he was still in my life. Yet he was. He was still coming around to me for years.

There’s all the guys who ended up with the Kate’s and Sarah’s after me. The guy who swore he could spend his life with me at some point but married someone else. Or the guy who has loved me best for 20 years except….oops, forgot to mention still being married.

My heart has never really broken just because 2 people weren’t a fit. It’s always been painful, deceitful and disappointing and avoidable ways. That stuff damaged the brain too. Although, nowadays when a guy says his girl is crazy, people have started to catch on and say “why, what did you do to her to make her that way?” Amen. Exactly.

Never mind the obvious one… the rape. The horrible male defense lawyers. The men in the jury thinking “boys will be boys.” Then there was sexual harassment in the workplace. That was fun. My boyfriend thought it was amusing. Not that I expected a fight in the parking lot but maybe a “hey, I’m uncomfortable this is happening to you too” Would day have been nice.

Then there’s work. Can’t say too much but my brand got slaughtered for many years by a male superior with influence who didn’t like me. And it was enough to damage my pay, my bonuses and advancement. Less capable males have been promoted over me and other far more deserving women because he liked to gossip with the boss. In the meantime, because it’s so well known as the most bogus promotion ever, no one else can get promoted for fear someone might question it as well. Although, with the people in that range, no one would question it at all. In fact, more questions will be because of who didn’t get promoted. That is actually now far more scandalous considering that guy is still around doing less than everyone else.

I have one income, damaged and lower than it should be, which keeps me a little frozen in place. Had I a slight cushion, I’d be making major career and life changes more in line with my moral code and talents. But, I’m single so I can’t.

I can only afford the home I currently live in. I can’t upgrade or move closer to family as every option is beyond my price range. And, when bills and fees go up, May does not. Every year I become dangerously closer to losing it all.

So upon realizing men have done nothing terribly motivating for my life, why do I still care about finding one to love? Why do I still feel like an odd duck because there is no living proof I can be loved? It’s like validation for anyone who already thinks I am weird. They don’t have to take me seriously because I don’t have anyone helping to take my trash out.

In fact, considering everything I have built on my own and have to offer, guys should be worried about being loved by me. But we don’t raise them to be insecure the way we do girls. Girls can do anything they want but still need to get a husband so “worry about what he thinks, dear” while men have all the time in the world to pick the perfect 10 for himself.

I don’t know why I care, honestly. And I guess lately, I have started putting in less effort to figuring out where the boys are and would rather just go where I want to be. Right now, that’s with my head buried in books, my brain chasing important activism, looking for community through smart women and even when in a bar around men, writing about my observations of them while drinking my beer.

I guess when you look at the tools I lacked starting out which caused me to endure the lacking relationships I did which brought me through a rape I almost didn’t report, a sexual harassment someone else reported for me and workplace discrimination I have never been able to report I could be in far worse shape. But then, the far worse shapes are the girls who end up with husbands. Maybe men don’t know what to do in the life of a smart woman who doesn’t need to be rescued. And I don’t know what to do with a man who does need to be rescued.

This is the week I am supposed to call my aunt while driving to the Cape. Decided last minute to stay in town to attend a Cheryl Strayed event and do reading and dog naps all weekend.

I did the aunt call on my way to Boston. I do love my aunt and appreciate her presence in my life as well as all of her generosity. And she is frustrating which I don’t think she can totally help.

She is very damaged and I think it goes back to losing their father at such a young age. She developed anxiety and I think decided every ache and pain she would experience going forward would mean sudden death.

Her latest round of anxiety attacks seem to require a tremendous amount of effort from my sister and mother. She thinks she is going to die every day and no one will know so she has my mother calling every day to check in. When she starts an anxiety attack she gets dressed and calls my sister at 4am to be taken to the emergency room.

We have all told her the ER won’t do anything did her. A lesson my sister learned after wasting a day there with her when she was told to take her high blood pressure pills and make an appointment with her pcp which she never did.

This latest series seems to oddly coincide with my nephew Nathaniel’s new existence just as another one happened when my other nephew Charlie was young. Just because my sister lives a town away doesn’t mean she had time for any this. Why not call my brother? He can work from home.

She is also obsessed with yelling the story of the neighbor who did die in his bathroom and wasn’t found for a long time. I think she ruminates about this happening to her. Tonight she told me she hoped he died right away and that it wasn’t something where he was alive for days alone. Yes, I can understand why that would worry her. It’s something I also have to consider and it’s uncomfortable.

I try to reiterate for her any direction my mom and sister have already given her because I think she needs to hear the same thing repeatedly and wonder if when I say it, it gets any more credibility. So tonight I reiterated how she should get one of this life alert buttons so that at least if she falls down and is still conscious she can get help. At least that way she doesn’t have to worry about dying for days alone. She is not interested. Nor does she seem capable of self recognizing her ER symptoms are an anxiety attack so she just needs to take a pill rather than call my sister.

She won’t do the things which are in her control and would help ease her symptoms. And don’t even get me started on the hip replacement she has put off for 4 years so that she won’t get her nails or hair done if she can’t find a place that’s on a ground floor without stairs. She had been rather active and out and about a lot before the hip thing. It’s just not mentally healthy to avoid fixing that in order to restore her independence.

I know she wants attention and expects us to drop everything for her because she has no one else. We can’t. It’s not fair. It sucks. I know because I am in the same boat. No husband and no kids. But we just have to accept it and make different arrangements and expectations for ourselves.

It also doesn’t help that every time we talk to her she tells us her doctor is black. “But she’s very nice.” What ruse was she expecting? Same with going on and on about the Vietnamese nail people. It’s like she is always pleasantly surprised they are human like her. Incredibly frustrating.

I suppose all of this really gets under my skin because it could be me. I don’t want my mental illnesses to start winning and I do this to my sister and her kids.

I am never going to hit 1600 words a day which is the goal of writing a novel but I still want to discipline myself on the daily stuff because I do want to see if I can find the time to write a book.

Odd day today. I achieved an incredibly well sought after achievement many years in the making. In a specific situation it has officially been validated that there, indeed, is nothing wrong with me but sometimes the environment I am in.

Forgive my speaking cryptically and try to follow. I am the kind of person who sees through you which includes seeing the parts of you that you might be afraid to have seen. So if you are highly flawed or doing bad things, you want me fat away so you don’t have too view yourself as you are.

When you have nothing to hide, it works superbly well. I’m in that place right now. But for over 15 years was actually surrounded by people who couldn’t handle looking at themselves because they didn’t want to do the hard work of fixing themselves or achieving goals in an honest fashion the way I insist EVERYTHING be done.

I am happy but not happy enough. I wanted 1 thing which was to be officially recognized in the same category as 2 people who don’t belong in it. I work way harder and sometimes it takes me longer to get results because I do it without cheating.

And yet, I’m still not there despite my actual behavior and performance being a thousand times better. I have given more than I thought I could. I should be celebrating but find myself exhausted and ready to collapse under the weight of wondering what more could I possibly do?

I don’t get it. And neither will anyone else when they figure it out. Yet, I will be the one they ask for explanation. I’m the one they look up to. I’m the one they emulate. I don’t have an explanation which is more than just my own personal letdown. It’s their letdown too because now they will feel their own efforts futile.

I will likely get 3 great things out of this. I only wanted and needed one. It’s the 4th item that didn’t make the list.

Empowering evening meeting at a coffee shop with like minded individuals to see writer, Steve Almond speak. He brought his 9 year old son who can sing, play guitar and write his own songs. Incredibly impressive and inspiring to see a child so full of hope, creativity and opportunity. Steve mentioned most adults try to beat the creativity out of children. Amen, Steve. That certainly was my childhood.

Decided to grab a quick bite and drink before heading home. A very strange man sat down next to me and put his backpack in the empty seat between us. He is only drinking water. In 10 minutes he has gotten up 3 times with his backpack and gone to the restroom which is making me incredibly uneasy.

Boston Marathon 5 years ago I stopped into Typhoon for sushi and a Kir Royale. Before leaving, I went to use the restroom. The wait was unusually long. I couldn’t imagine what the girl was doing but it was so long. I wondered if she had drank too much and gotten sick or passed out. The Marathon coincided with Red Sox opening day so lots of drunk people by 2 pm. When she eventually case out she was carrying a backpack. In my mind, I jokingly considered she must have built a bomb in there.

Maybe 15 minutes later I was at Pizzeria Uno standing in the front window watching the runners go by while drinking an Angry Orchard. Next thing I know bombs started going off. I didn’t love because even though my brain registered they were bombs, my body froze in place. How random that I had just kiddingly thought of that a few minutes before.

4th trip to the bathroom, this guy. I am trying to understand a million rational reasons for it. Perhaps he is killing time before an early am colonoscopy. Maybe he went to the doctor today and was told he is exhibiting signs of dehydration so he’s working it out here.

I’m supposed to believe there’s a reasonable explanation for everything… that anything else is paranoia. Because of the people who criticize me, I am trying really hard to stay in my seat and eat my salad rather than running out of here. But he just came back without the backpack. A panic attack is starting.

Will you make fun of me for running outside right now?

I have never, ever wanted to have children. I say this with deep respect and love for my friends who can’t have children and want them very much as well as the ones who have been through hell to conceive, anyone who has lost a child, etc. I realize how offensive it is to almost every woman to say out loud what I just said. I know it’s a purpose for so many women. I understand that. It’s just never been for me.

I have heard women describe the yearning and that they were born to be moms. I have heard that the proverbial clock is an actual feeling. I know that marriages can get all caught up in the tumbleweed that fertility treatments do to what was once, spontaneous, enjoyable, un-pressured sex.

So there’s really something you feel? I am not being sarcastic at all. I am deeply curious because my body has never once felt any urge.

Is it something broken in my love function? Is it my derailed train track of a brain where the chemicals don’t transmit the route because they just ride and ride and ride and fall off every time they approach the station? Or, is it an actual hormonal imbalance thing where I just don’t produce the amount of hormone necessary to feel that urge? I don’t know. I only know that I have never felt what most of you have felt. I’m not sad about it, just super curious. Imagine if I actually had wanted kids and turned out to still be me at 44 battling depression and PTSD knowing I missed the chance? Imagine how morbid I would be then!

I have tried to picture myself with kids. When I do, they aren’t white kids who look like me. I never imagined being pregnant. I am wicked grossed out by pregnancy and would never want something in my body but I saw adopted kids whenever I imagined being a parent. Isn’t that weird? I figured if I did get married and somehow that urge came along, I’d just adopt kids from other countries who need a home. I really did picture my family as culturally blended….if I had felt the need to have one. Never admitted that to anyone before.

I have been sexually active and responsible about it for 30 years. Yes, responsible about condoms when I was a teen. Never had the sex talk with the folks, never discussed safe sex in the Catholic school but somehow I knew condoms, condoms, condoms! I still had a pregnancy scare at age 16 with my high school sweetheart who was a bit older and in college. My mother found out and was enraged. Imagine how comfortable that was to deal with when this is the same woman who freaked out over me and a friend playing with maxi pads a few years before – like freaked out so bad my friend never came back to my house again. Yeah, not a nurturing “your father and I love you very much and are here to support you no matter what” moment. It was more awkward than talking weather with a gynecologist when your feet are in stirrups. WAY more awkward.

I remember her making me get an official pregnancy test at the hospital and then dropped me off at school. Heaven forbid we do this at home. She said nothing to me after that. It was like nothing was happening. Common response to everything in our house. She also never told me what the results were so I walked around for a bit thinking I actually might have been pregnant and was wondering what the plan was. She had made it quite clear there would be a plan and I wouldn’t have a say in it. There was one night I got violently ill in the bathroom and to this day, I don’t know if I was just violently ill or something else had happened. I just knew when I got my period awhile later I wasn’t pregnant and then I called my boyfriend at college from the school payphone to tell him that part. I never told him about all the rest of it.

Once all was said and done, my mother made an appointment to get me on birth control. I actually wasn’t interested. I didn’t see having sex with my high school boyfriend as a gateway into high school sexual depravity with any boy who walked by. I was a dumb teenage girl who loved her boyfriend and pictured having sex with no one but him for the rest of my life. The only problem was that even with my school girl naïveté, I think there was a small, undeclared feminist poking her head out at the boyfriend. I felt the birth control conversation should involve him. He didn’t respond as though we were in an equal partnership so I dumped him right then over the phone. I wasn’t having that response. And, by dumping him I solved the birth control problem. I wasn’t going to have sex anymore so I wouldn’t need it. Silly me. I actually believed in love then.

It didn’t take long after starting college to change my mind. I craved a guy who probably looked like a muppet which no one else could understand. We couldn’t stay off each other. It only took one incident of “um, Christine, I can’t find the condom.” No need to give detail on how we found it. Let’s just say I noticed it when I bent over to look for it somewhere else. Off to the campus health clinic for Plan B. No way I was going through a pregnancy scare again. We held hands in bed while I took my pill and stared at the top bunk above us knowing squarely the choice we had just made. I got on birth control by the end of that week and never looked back. Haven’t been off it since.

By not having children, have I made a mistake? Am I missing out on life’s greatest blessing? I will give serious credit to my friends on this one as they have never once said anything to me about it. They love their children but have never tried hoisting that onto me. They have never once criticized me or taken me less seriously just because I don’t have the knowledge that comes with being a parent. They treat me as just as knowledgeable as they are in that, if I needed kid advice they’d give it to me and if they need travel advice, I’d give it to them.

Most childless women crash right into people who are comfortable telling them how wrong they are or how they will change their minds someday. I am living proof that some women really don’t ever change their minds. We actually do make it through the dating and mating stage feeling nothing in the womb and come out the other side with no regret. No changed minds. No feeling of missing out. The only thing in the rearview mirror is the suitcase on the sidewalk we forgot to load in the car as we head off to the airport for a trip to Europe.

Is that right or wrong? Is it healthy? Is it some kind of denial? I don’t know. Hard to say. It’s just that I’m a pretty determined gal who feels sorry for myself on things for about an hour or two and then if I still want what I couldn’t have the traditional way, I find another way to get it. Meaning, nope, haven’t landed a husband. I am not happy about that….even filled with feminine rage at wondering what a man would do for my life anyway. But bet your ass if I had really wanted a kid, I wouldn’t have waited around for a man. I’d have asked my friends what resources they used and hook myself up with a bunch of folders of hot donor dads.

My mom always said she could tell when I really, really wanted something vs. just saying it. I would tenaciously go after the stuff I was very interested in. There was no stopping this hound on a scent when I was hunting down a dream. But I could sit on the couch all day eating pop tarts talking about how much I wanted to sign up for a gym and never actually get off the couch and do it. I suppose that’s what going after a kid has probably felt like for me…couch with pop tarts or baby. Frosted cinnamon pop-tarts, toasted and then butter on top has never gotten old. While I may not eat them for 6 months at a time, the pantry is never without them.

I need to share something that happened to me the other day. My initial thought was that it’s part of a category in which one shouldn’t speak. Then, driving home from the Cape today and Podcast heavy with deep thoughts, I realized it’s the exact reason I should broach it.

I am going to headline this is a topic in which I have no expertise, no firsthand experience, no business making proclamations or suggestions. It’s extremely sensitive and easily offensive. It’s virgin territory and I expect it will be uncomfortable to read just as it is to write. I may offend without meaning to. Normally, I do mean to offend and rouse when I write. I am also not without blame whether subconscious or not. I am getting very naked here because I think there’s a point to it even if I don’t yet know what it is. And, much like getting naked, that is an area where I have jumped the gun many, many times in the past with men without first thinking it through so at least I have some precedent 😄. Sorry, have to infuse this with some humor to get myself started. Either humor or a beer. This is a rough one.

One of my favorite writers is Cheryl Strayed. She also had a super cool podcast which just recently ended this year in which I have listened to every episode. Even though many I didn’t personally relate to, I was always compelled to listen to learn something about other people’s experiences or to imagine how I might behave in similar circumstances. For example, having not been married and still dating at age 44, I found episodes dealing with blended families interesting as I anticipate being a stepmother if I ever do find someone.

I am just super curious about people. I am the only person I know who has been to Las Vegas five times without gambling because the people watching is sport enough for me. When listening to “Dear Sugars” I felt very empathetically challenged in the most positive of ways. I also enjoyed the diversity of “expert” guests on each episode and was introduced to brilliant writers I had not previously known. The lessons I learned listening to these podcasts on my weekend commutes certainly smoothed the way into my much more vocal feminism of the past year and desire to speak on behalf of marginalized people.

Cheryl recently partnered with writer Elizabeth Gilbert (Eat, Pray, Love) for a writer’s retreat and an article has been circulating online from a woman who attended and said she was the only black woman there. I was immediately compelled to read it because I genuinely wanted to hear about her experience while also finding it hard to believe this would be something Cheryl Strayed would intentionally orchestrate. I really wanted to know more because I believed that had to have been a terribly awkward experience and one in which one of my best friends has spent her life navigating….having been the only black person in our entire white Catholic High School.

My friend of nearly 30 years would joke with us about being the only black kid but never once ever told us what she must have really felt at times. She has a buoyant personality, never one to delve into the negative. For some reason, hers is a situation that has been on my mind a lot the past couple of years – an entire life she lived in front of her white friends without us ever really seeing her life through any eyes but our own. She has an entire life, vastly different challenges, experiences and feelings we know nothing about. How can that be? How did we never notice? Were we too afraid to ask or were we completely shrouded in white privilege oblivion? It bothers me.

I can pontificate on our behavior (or lack of) here and there but never really hit the target. She was from a wealthier family than many of us. Her parents were incredibly well educated and prestigious in their careers. It made perfect sense that she be in private school with the rest of us. It actually made the least sense for me to be there as I was the one who needed tuition assistance. She had a great relationship with both of her parents. I didn’t. I think I believed her to be more privileged than me. Her being black made no difference to me in our friendship because I just loved her. But it should have made a difference. I should have wanted to know more. I should have known she wore very different shoes from me.

When I read the essay about the retreat, I found myself disappointed with the writing. It had nothing to do with the author being black. I just expected something different. I had recently received editor feedback that my piece lacked a call to action so I started looking for that “action”in the work of others so that I may learn. I went into the essay expecting specific blame or thoughts on a future solution. Not necessarily her responsibility to teach white people about her history but something we are genuinely missing. It felt more like a couple’s argument where the woman doesn’t offer up much information and says to her partner “if you know me you should be able to figure it out by yourself.” Sometimes, no matter how loving the partner, partner needs a clue.

The author definitely did a good job of describing the white women there as being those with the cashmere shawls sitting around fire pits. I’d like to add wine to the image as it also fits. Pinot Grigio. Very fair description and those women make me uncomfortable too. I’m white but I don’t own anything cashmere. My shawls are typically scored as a free gift from DSW when I spend over $50 on shoes. But she’s right, that’s the exact type of woman I would expect to see at that retreat because it cost money to get there. The bulk of attendance would be likely wealthier white women wearing similar outfits as one another. I see them at TJMaxx quite often.

My critique of the writing got lambasted by another white woman who criticized me just shy of calling me a racist. Had she called me a racist, I would have actually been ok with that. I am not afraid to examine it within myself. It’s not that I want to be one. I have said my whole life I am not racist. I know I have even proclaimed the typical racist oblivious white woman response of “one of my best friends is black so I can’t be a racist.”

What bothered me about the attack was that she got my intent completely wrong and that she saw herself as superior to me. She missed something very vital. If she’s white, she’s just as privileged as me and has no business calling me out because by being white herself, at some point in her life, maybe even in this moment she too has racism inside of her. I am guessing she has a black best friend or a black partner or a black co-worker she has lunch with and that, therefore, she is an enlightened one in the position to educate us ignorant white girls she may mistakenly have assumed do not have any black friends. Losing my politeness a little myself, I accused her of having a privileged white woman hobby causing her to believe herself above the rest of us….quite mistakenly. I actually don’t think she has any business attacking me or branding me with incorrect assignation when we are of the same privilege. In fact, I believe she is a bully which really has no place in any dialogue laced with hope of change. My critique was of a person’s writing. Her criticism was of me as a person. Not exactly balanced and very much against the prospect that women need to raise one another up, not crush each with the sharp point of a red bottomed stiletto.

I had the opportunity to see one of my other favorite writers speak a few months back. It was Roxane Gay. Brilliant writer and a black woman. The audience had some diversity but was mostly white women again. What is that about? I don’t know. She’s an amazing writer and force in the literary education world and speaks at a ton of events. Her writing is relatable for any woman. And I do think we want to be genuinely supportive. We are white, yes. But we are also women and marginalized on gender so I think we are starting to feel some kind of kinship and responsibility to reach across. We just don’t know the right way to go about it.

A white woman in the audience asked what white women can do to support black women? Could she teach us? Wrong question. We may all be marginalized on the basis of gender but there are thousands of years of history that further marginalize women of color. It still happens now. Roxane said something to the effect of the first thing we need to do is not ask that question. It’s not for black women to relive their horrific stories of 10 years ago or 20 minutes ago to teach us what to do. We will never be on equal footing, The first thing we have to do is acknowledge we are still more advantaged than them and always will be. That’s a hard pill to swallow when you genuinely do not think yourself better a person than the black woman sitting next to because you aren’t. But your life is better and that is fact. It’s ok for her to resent you, even if she is your friend and loves you.

The biggest takeaway from that event was that privileged people can and should use our voices to speak for those who are not privileged. It’s not fair that it takes us to put a spotlight on an issue for it to be noticed such as the “#Metoo” movement which was started by a black woman. It wasn’t until white actresses started speaking that it became a movement. It’s not right but it’s the way it works. That’s where we have a major responsibility to scream at the top of our lungs for everyone because we are listened to. It will only be from the fight from me and my friends, that my entire community of friends might eventually benefit and be protected. But no one will listen to my black friends, my Asian friends, my Latina friends or my gay friends alone. It’s only if I can articulate what their rights mean to me that the audience puts down their phones and can be compelled to action. Gross but true.

Why would I be ok with being labeled a racist? Because it’s fair. I don’t actively discriminate against anyone and I do put myself in harm’s way in this political administration by speaking up for anyone whose rights are or will be threatened based on the changes to the Supreme Court. But, am I comfortable driving down an unlit Boston back road at 2am with my car doors unlocked? No. I will tell you that I am not in that moment fearing attack from a black man. I am actually fearing attack from any man or strung out woman, truth be told. But that doesn’t mean the black man didn’t make me think twice. In order to be real, to move forward meaningfully and intentionally in this world, I believe I have to allow it to surface and give it words. I am ashamed of it. Our country has conditioned me to think it even if for only a millisecond until I correct myself, which I always do. The inherent bias is in all of us and I think the healthiest thing might be just to admit it. Admit we aren’t perfect. Admit we have to take a second to unfilter our cultural filter and we have to admit we are better off. We are privileged and we don’t know what it’s like to be less privileged than our current state.

Perhaps realizing my privilege and asking to be understood and forgiven for it is what I am so desperately searching for men to say when I am ferociously blogging and updating Facebook statuses on women’s rights. It’s not like women don’t know men have it better than us. It’s not that we blame all of them ( though many actually are at fault – maybe a little more than many….trying to think of how racism started in the first place and I think it was the white boys….) just as it’s not a secret I have it better than black women do. Keeping it from being said out loud doesn’t make it untrue and it doesn’t make the next privilege down from ours not notice what they have less of.

So just say it. Say you know you have it better than someone and that you are sorry for their experience. You wish it weren’t the case but you are trying to understand and you want to do something useful because of it. You know you are, at times, ignorant and that’s not what truly is in your heart. You are not looking to be educated by anyone but you are willing to listen and to look around with a wider gaze. That your presence is at least an indication you are prepared to explain to others what your privilege allows you and how everyone should be entitled to what you have. You should get a little uncomfortable and start fighting for others because old white men with money listen to other white people with money. That’s the only fighting chance this country has.

In exploring this topic and opening up about my own unintended ignorance, I am not looking for a pat on the back or an argument. I am not proud that I don’t know what it’s like for my best friend to walk into the same stores I walk into while it’s probably assumed she can’t afford to be there. The funny part is, she actually is the one who can afford to be at Louis Vuitton, not me. I’m the one they should side eye. But they don’t and that’s the point. She’s a brilliant, hard working, well established business woman, loving wife and amazing mom. She is everything in this world I am not. The only thing I am confident I am better at than her is my driving. I remember her as being a frightening driver and the fact she has a motorcycle license keeps me happily 2000 miles away from her while staying in touch via text messages.

I am proud of her and proud to be loved by her. And, I am only just realizing she still probably had to teach her son about how to behave around police. I would never have to do that if I had a son. I have access to better, less biased healthcare. She had a higher chance of dying in childbirth than our white friends did. She has a higher risk of dying from late to diagnose cancer than I do. She is more likely to be manhandled by police at a traffic stop than I am. We need to start realizing and saying these things. We are the ones who have to fight for those experiences and outcomes to change because the establishment doesn’t listen to anyone else.

I’ve gone 30 years not asking questions and assuming because my best friend never says anything that everything is fine. I don’t want to do that for another 30 years. None of us should. I guess that’s my call to action. Call yourself out and then call our government out until we ALL have equal footing…or at least as easy as the white men do.

The backdrop of this past week has been the Supreme Court nomination process for Brett Kavanaugh. Right now, as I am certain he is being confirmed, I am in my favorite coffee shop seeking haven and distance from the unraveling of the America I once knew and was proud of.

There has been a deluge of support for Dr. Christine Blasey- Ford because of her experience and her courage to take on the patriarchy in its highest form. Millions of women stand beside her having had similar experiences and only speaking out now for the first time. It’s a time to unite in painful solidarity. It is a time to create community in the sharing of visceral, unbelievable but TRUE stories. It is a time for the barriers, which normally separate women, to dissolve into the form of a soft, comforting childhood blanket of pacification. It is also a terrifying time to be a woman because no one actually cares. “Don’t look away from me” is yelled at the patriarchy and their response is to hide in men’s bathrooms or , from the safety of a podium in front of a tv crew telling us to “grow up.”

Ever since Trump got elected I have had a theory that he and his rich white, male constituents are acutely aware and fearful that if they were average middle America, middle income guys hanging out at the local bar, they would not be able to attract any woman there. Instead of being able to understand that in terms of chemistry or female lack of attraction to average male mediocrity, they are unable to walk away from the night ok with being turned down…to get up tomorrow and just try again. Instead, if they can’t attract us or get us to accept a drink from them, they are going to force us into their bedrooms by slowly chiseling away at any rights we have which allow us to choose personal freedom present state.

I am on several online dating sites. Each site has different lengths and options for profiles. Some only allow a quick paragraph and some have unlimited space and questions to answer so someone can make a thorough choice. Despite the length, every one of mine mentions I am a liberal feminist looking for a man with similar beliefs. A couple profiles allow me the space to go a little deeper by getting into my expectations for the kind of equal partnership I desire, including sexual experience and their need to understand that pleasing me is important to the dynamic and growth of our relationship and will provide them with dividends as well. I see nothing wrong with expressing who I am and who I want. I am 44 years old and have gone decades without settling into an unhealthy relationship which many women mold into a traditional marriage acquired with ultimatums which unearth the insecurities and laziness of some men. They cave in because they figure it’s easier than getting back out there and starting over.

Ever since Dr. Blasey-Ford spoke and the tv has panned to women everywhere begging to be seen and heard, I have received multiple online messages from men giving me feedback on my profiles on how “a little humility would be endearing” to a guy messaging me simply to tell me he appreciated my interest in him (all I did was look at his profile and then cancel out of it because I wasn’t interested) and that he voted for Trump and would again.

I asked the “humility” guy to explain what he meant. I was confused because I couldn’t tell if it was an insult or compliment. While confident about what I bring to the dating table, I am a humble person in general. He explained that I thought too highly of myself and thought myself important, that I should be on psychiatric medication….the taunt of a teenage boy. Wow! I told him if I were a man, no one would think anything wrong with my profile and being explicit about my needs. I am important and allowed to treat myself that way.

I am on psychiatric medication and proud of it because it keeps me alive and functioning with an aggressive, full time job where I excel as well as a life abundant with curiosity and adventure. I then told him he really shouldn’t make fun of people using mental illness because so many people have it and that kind of stigma is what keeps many of them from seeking help. Managing mental illness is no different than having to manage something like diabetes or cholesterol and should not be picked on. In fact, he is likely surrounded by people suffering from mental illness and doesn’t know it. His final response was “smell the glove,” a reference to a highly offensive album cover from Spinal Tap which began with a naked woman performing a blow job on a man. They rejected that cover so the next one was a woman chained at the neck while a man waved a leather glove in her face. Basically, an insult premeditated to offend and put this “important” woman in her place.

Granted, I could have ignored these guys but was pretty disgusted with men and felt like eviscerating them in response to this whole Kavanaugh debacle. The government patriarchy might have been winning but I can still let guys know I will never willingly have sex with them which is a deep enough insecurity among white men that Trump got elected in the first place. I told the Trump voter that I wished him luck dating as I didn’t know any women who would date a Trump voter….a little too much of a whiff of misogyny which would overpower the cologne and aftershave. He also told me I should be on psychiatric medication for being a “moonbat” liberal. I gave him the same advice about how we shouldn’t make of people for mental illness and that men have higher suicide rates than women as they hide their illnesses more and don’t get as much help. He called me a bitch. Romantic.

A third guy has been texting me off and on and I haven’t really felt a major connection to him. His casual approach to life isn’t appealing to me in these dangerous times when I am laser focused on my trauma, safety and future. I actually told him I needed a man break because I am not really in the mood for having to flirt, pander to ego and please a man. He told me he hopes I feel better soon. It’s not an illness.

My dating life mimics the Supreme Court nominee process and government patriarchy. These guys feel empowered to eviscerate women….something which hasn’t been socially acceptable in about 50 years. I blame Mary Tyler Moore. She was a catalyst which enraged the older men by showing a woman could get a job and rent her own apartment while wearing pants on occasion. The seeds of sexual fear were planted.

I can’t put all the weight on Mary Tyler Moore. Murphy Brown wasn’t helpful when she decided to be a single parent. That fictional tv character incited real life Dan Quayle who blamed her for the denigration of the American Family. Hence, an underground movement to commit to overturning Roe V. Wade someday. Interesting…..the mediocre white man who works at only half the “busyness” of a hustling career woman can hold a grudge better than a woman. 30 years later, Kavanaugh. These guys are afraid their jobs are leaving America or that they have to compete for work against women and people who aren’t white which isn’t fair because it means they would actually have to apply themselves more, can’t openly discriminate or “grab them by the pussy” in the workplace.

For years I have grappled with thinking I was at a disadvantage by being single. I can’t quit my job to chase my passions because I don’t have partner income we can shuffle around and “make work.” Many of my friends have been able to take risks because the husband can help, they can cut back for awhile but still survive. I also have moments at night when I have trouble sleeping and wish I could roll over and tap my husband on the shoulder for a quick chat or hug. My friends can do that. They will tell you it’s been years since it happened so I make a mental note….”if you ever get married, don’t let that stuff slip away because of routines and the familiarity which can dance with contempt.”

It wasn’t until I started traveling more that I realized I might actually be the one with advantage by being single. Sure, money is very tight and I often pray there might be change under the couch cushions in order to buy dog food, but I can go anywhere I want and pursue my travel schedule without compromise. I can eat microwave Lean Cuisine dinners without guilt that I didn’t provide a meal for someone else. I can put off doing my laundry as long as I want. I can leave the dishes in the sink until tomorrow after work because I just don’t care. I hate unloading the dryer and the dishwasher for some reason. So I wait days. Yes, you heard me right….days and it doesn’t bother me.

I have my own mortgage and financial independence. If my imaginary husband cheats on me, I don’t have to consider staying because I can’t afford to be without him. I am not putting up with affairs I pretend not to know about or suffering through eating disorders and overly intense gym workouts to keep my trophy body from deteriorating and risking a younger, fitter replacement. I go to the same workout but go home to my dog, have a beer and eat EL Fudge double stuffed cookies before bed. Yeah, I think the scales are actually tipped in my favor.

As Kavanaugh, a man now bent on liberal revenge, is confirmed I terrifyingly realize I am the enemy. I am a single woman, childless by choice who is financially beholden to no one and, with the exception of that one time I was raped when I was 20ish, can choose who I don’t want to have sex with or sit at a bar with. I am incendiary to the patriarchy. I am the woman they are aiming their legislation squarely at. All this time I thought I was doing a good thing by learning how to take care of myself. I have been rejecting the penises of incredibly insecure men who are lucky enough to have more money and power than me. They have been keeping score of how many times I turned my back on them.

I am reminded no matter how far I think I can go in life, my leash can be jerked back by rape because they always have that one power over me. Whether it’s in a dark alley, my bedroom, a bathroom stall or a parking lot it can also be done with legislation signed by men of the highest court or the desk of the Oval Office. I somewhat joke that I need to figure out the exact right time to leave the country before they start rounding up single women and putting us in interment camps. But it’s kind of not a joke. It’s true fear wrapped in humor like a palatable bacon wrapped scallop. I can get out of bed and leave the house for that. But eventually, every party ends and I may be forced to clean that house and give blow jobs to the owner who makes my skin crawl as many times as I have turned his type down since I started dating 30 years ago.

God bless America.

On Friday I was tasked with coming up with a 5 minute speech about an event or person who can help define who I am as a person. It was required that it be vulnerable. All week I wavered on topic. I figure everyone would expect me to talk about the bombing which is why I didn’t want to talk about it. Sexual assault way too deep for this audience, despite it being the topic of America, and I was going through re-trauma all week which is really hard for non-victims to understand. They want to be supportive but the topic is just too shocking for a non-victim and I understand that. It should be revolting.

My relationship with my dad seemed to be the talk I could do because, good and bad, I am mostly a product of him. I am a response to war and a reaction to that which cannot be controlled. I am also incredibly resilient and compassionate towards others.

I spoke of how I was raised to do the right thing, to not pick on others, to speak up for the disadvantaged, to leave no man behind. I was taught that even if I had it really, really bad I still had the responsibility to be a good person….that doing the right thing couldn’t be harder for anyone else than it would be for us. Therefore, it’s reasonable to expect it from everyone. He was wrong on that point. I was woefully unprepared for a life of running into wrong and sometimes being more shocked by the existence of it than the sin committed. I really struggle through situations when integrity isn’t one of the first 5 values a person has. I never quite know what to do with that. I usually get an upset stomach.

I shared that my childhood could be pretty bad….because it was. I know when you grow up upper middle class with appropriate nuclear family in tact, no physical beatings and both parents work, that you aren’t supposed to admit that the wallpaper is there to cover a lot of damage. You know many people have it worse than you so you are expected to go the silent, nodding route. Well, that’s not me. That route creates alcoholics and shame. Not to say I don’t dabble with those but mine is about dulling pain or trying to block things out….not to pretend things don’t exist.

My father is someone who spent 40 years fighting war memories and not talking about them. His PTSD went untreated for 40 years and my life was a major symptom of distress for him because he couldn’t control how I felt and he couldn’t make me be silent. You can’t raise me to be a fighter and expect me not to fight you when you are the thing that’s wrong. He was vocally dissatisfied with me and my personality on a daily basis. I had a shrink as a kid and she called it verbal abuse. It was incredibly damaging and responsible for nearly every one of my shortcomings whether it be depression or weight problems.

As an adult, I still had all the good values he taught me and I used those to my advantage whenever I could. Every parent fucks their kids up in some way. Once you are an adult all your choices are your own from there and you can only blame yourself at that point.

It wasn’t until I bought my house that he and I started getting along better. We couldn’t get through one day without some snide comment from him on something I couldn’t do right….even in my mid thirties. At that point, though, he was getting help for his PTSD so he was in the thick of therapy and that can be a dark place to navigate. I was just happy he was doing it. He deserved to have some hope in his life.

I learned a lot through my mom about how many regrets he had about how he treated me and how much of my dysfunction he felt responsible for. He wouldn’t tell me, but she did it for him. Unfortunately, I also learned a lot from other family members he confided in about things I should have heard about directly from him. Like that he had been diagnosed with PTSD in the first place, what his triggering event was and what he had to do to get benefits from the VA. That was also the same conversation where I found out from my cousin that my rapist’s family called my parents during the trial to get me drop charges. I told my mom all the Vietnam stuff I learned but never the part about the rapist. They don’t know I know about that.

When I experienced the bombing, my father was actually very well equipped to help me and set expectations for what I would experience as fallout. I was in therapy within a week with someone who specialized in treating PTSD and I was forgiven many alcoholic binges which took place frequently over the next few years. Surprising considering, as a child, I was given no room for error. It was actually hard to adjust to this compassion and understanding until I learned how much I really needed it. That’s where Cape weekends became my routine. Being “home” was my safe place where my pain could be understood and no one would tell me how lucky I was to be alive or remind me who has it worse than me. My father knows that pity has never once entered my mind. The pain and sadness has never been about that. It’s survivors guilt which is ridiculously complicated and something most people cannot relate to. Why should they if they haven’t been to war?

This week I craved the safety of my weekend trip. Watching the Supreme Court shit show is like being assaulted all over again. A bunch of men forcing a decision through despite so many people protesting with good reason. And the non-victims want to be supportive but don’t know how so they turn away from it and hope it blows over and I go back to posting funny Facebook memes as a signal that the smoke has cleared and it’s a good time to re-approach.

But even in my safe place my own father feels entitled to an opinion about the women who come forward to tell their stories. He actually believes women do this for attention….a thought process I might be able to explain away due to his white male privilege , but not for him. He sat through 2 rape trials watching me get vilified. Does he actually believe I did that for attention? If I needed that intense level of attention I think I could have found a less embarrassing way of doing it. After all, who enjoys having their psychiatric records discussed in a public court or talking about their sex life and non condom usage with their father listening on? Who wants to explain the “icky towel” in front of her father? Who wants her father to see her ripped clothing as evidence or hear that her creative writing ability is what spun this story? Who wants to admit that she almost didn’t do the right thing by trying to suppress this and never tell anyone? It was only through coincidence I met the victim after me. That slapped me in the face and made me do the right thing. It was within the same year but it could easily have not happened for 35 years until I see my rapist on tv auditioning for the most important job in America which will have direct consequence to women and children for decades, maybe even centuries to come.

It’s funny, I was driving home from my now unsafe place today listening to a podcast about families destroyed over ancestry test kits. Some of the people talked about it making so much sense finding out they weren’t related to the people they grew up with because they were so vastly different in personality. I became very curious and am interested in going through the process. Now, I feel fairly secure in the fact I am not from another family…. not saying I am expecting to uncover that I have different parents. We are just not controversial in that sense. But I have begun to feel that I am nothing like my family. And I am starting to feel I am nothing like my friends. And the more resolute I become in discovering who I am, the more I feel completely isolated and unusual in this world. Who am I and where do I come from?

A few weeks ago I think my Psychic predicted this crisis of community coming. She discussed that I hadn’t found my people….my community. She said I have beliefs, interests and personality traits the people in my life just don’t believe in and in my attempt to remain attached to something….anything….it’s holding me back from becoming fully myself. At the expense of myself.

I have no safe place. I live in a country run by men who hate me simply because I have the audacity and requirement to support myself financially. This means I have to work harder than they do in order to get by because I get paid less and because I have yet to find one of them to share finances with. Therefore, I am the enemy and must be rammed into in my place. Except I am past the age of being able to survive by being barefoot and pregnant. So where do I go?

Because I was assaulted and have opinions about that, I am separated from those who don’t. It makes me see things others don’t want to see. Only they don’t realize I don’t want the burden of seeing them either. I want to be able to walk past a tv in a bar and not stop because I just heard a sentence spoken that I remembered hearing when I was in court around the age of 21. Yeah, I want that life. But I am decades past ever having the chance for it. In that tv or via social media, I also find more comfort and safety with strangers than I do my community because I have experienced things my community hasn’t. I love my community more than they know, even knowing they may not really know me. I guess that’s how big my empathy throbs and maybe why I hurt so much right now. Is there a home for me anywhere? A safe place anywhere? And where are the other people experiencing this because I think I need to meet some of them?