The Policing of Women and Sexuality: Legalize Sexwork

Survival Mode
The Policing of Women and Sexuality: Legalize Sexwork
Loading
/

Gonna start this one off strong, because I spent the last ~6 weeks finally seeing all my friends. Nature is healing. (Everywhere except Japan, at least–because are US citizens aware of the rhetoric around the Olympic games and coronavirus going on in Japan? Or the rest of the world? Oh wait. I forgot we blatantly don’t give a shit what happens to the entirety of their population’s health. How could we…when we don’t even care about our own?
My bad.)

The educated hoes are vaccinated and emerging from our coronavirus slumbers of hibernation to frolic in the sunshine, bare our asses in thong bikini bottoms, and freshen up the tan on all of our cheeks and I am leading the charge.

One of my favorite people, we’ll call him “Citroni” asked me “do you just get angry and write?”
and like… fuck yes I do.

Some people get angry and murder.
Or ignore their feelings for years then snap and have mental breakdowns that harm others. 

…I think I’m doing well with using writing and art as an outlet. 

Citroni also tells me that I am a “walking contradiction” and I probably should not take as much pride in that as I do. (Keep ya on your toes)

The difference between the support I receive from my friendships and those I get from my family, is exemplified by the following: My mom was worried about “what will your friends think [of my blog]” and my friends literally asked if I’d ever seen Lucifer (I had not but I am now starting it), recommended that I watch The Sweetest Thing, and Citroni showed me “It’s Always Sunny”, because there was a recurring theme in our group of 3-4 men that I’d regularly go out with that I reminded them of “Dee” (solely because she was the only woman… I WAS offended initially). He explained the dynamic between her and her husband, apparently one of the main writers on the show, and why the vulgarity and honesty of her character was so groundbreaking.

This blog and “Zeda Grace” is the Sasha Fierce to my Beyoncé and they love that for me.

They also say that “I would’ve thrived as a housewife in the early 1900’s when I could just exist within the house and take comfort in the knowledge that I couldn’t do anything else.” So I wouldn’t feel so obligated to learn and do EVERYTHING, “just because I can”.

It’s not that I don’t want to “work”, either. It’s that I don’t want to work on things that don’t benefit society, disproportionately allow others to profit off of me, are purposefully indulging unhealthy environments and contributing to stress and reduced longevity or quality of life in a for profit healthcare system, and I just feel “safest” at home. PTSD is a bitch and I’m aware of the brevity and relativity of time. Being able to control my environment brings me so much mental peace.

Is it possible that my Maslow’s hierarchy of needs is plateaued at step 2? Security and safety? Probably.

Yzma was right.
I should’ve thought about the difficulties of life before I became a peasant.

I would love to not be so financially insecure too (I’m a progressive gal–I’ll let my husband work after marriage) and rent is expensive. 

Thus, it should come as absolutely no surprise that I am very PRO sexwork. 

I had a wonderful former professional dominatrix who came across my instagram and has offered to speak to me. She is a regular lecturer for an “ethics in therapy” class at Appalachian State, and conducts panels on sexual intimacy and healthy communication within BDSM. Reach out to me if there’s any particular topics, questions, or situations you would like me to relay to her as we gear up for that. So for her, this episode will be dedicated to the Red River Women’s Clinic, based in Fargo, North Dakota, which offers comprehensive women’s health and is working to lobby against all of the challenges to Roe Versus Wade in the form of GOP sponsored abortion bills all over the country. You can donate directly to their campaign at: http://www.redriverwomensclinic.com

For now, this episode will just be me speaking from personal experience into the economic proposition of “marriage” in the USA specifically, what dating looks like in your 20’s, and the ridiculously outdated illegality of sexwork. 

Marriage is an economic proposition for a woman. I don’t know how many times Amy March (Florence Pugh) has to heartbreakingly acknowledge to Laurie (Timothée Chalamet) in Little Women (2019) that:

“Even if I had my own money, which I don’t, it would belong to my husband the minute we were married. If we had children they would belong to him, not me. They would be his property. So don’t sit there and tell me that marriage isn’t an economic proposition, because it is. It may not be for you, but it most certainly is for me.” 

There is no difference in “marriage”, “dating”, and “sexwork”, apart from the length of the expected contract in the United States and the feasibility to exit said contract.

Not in a country where quality childcare is inaccessible and unaffordable, public schools continue to be devalued and underfunded, there is no guaranteed paid parental leave, healthcare is elitist and inaccessible for many, we barely cracked the top 50 (holding solid at 49th) for economic gender equality globally, and women’s rights are constantly being threatened by religious zealots masquerading as politicians.

My personal recommendation would be making sexwork and pornography created or used with the intent for distribution illegal under the age of 25. Sexworkers would not be allowed to seek child support (should they get pregnant and decide to keep the child, which would hopefully be against the terms of the contract to begin with), would have to register with and get regular STD testing verified through health departments, have a verifiable way to conduct background checks for prospective clients, and anyone under the age of 25 would not be allowed on the physical premises, much like how casinos and stripclubs are allowed to bar anyone from location. 

Why 25?
Because the frontal lobe responsible for “judgment” and decision making is reportedly fully developed by then. 

We also shouldn’t universally punish teenagers and young people from taking photos of themselves, though, for the intent of intimacy between themselves and another. A widespread assumption of that will only serve to punish humans who do so, whether the reasoning being they are lacking respect and acknowledgment in other forms of their lives (and further punishing those has been shown to psychologically never be beneficial), or they actually LIKE and EMBRACE their body and it will make young humans afraid of their bodies and any resemblance to sexual behavior in general because it is misconstrued as “taboo” versus “healthy, natural human behavior”. Like Hunter Schafer mentions in Euphoria, nudes are sexual currency in the age of cell phones. Everyone is going to do it. Stop sending children to juvie for it, okay? 

How about we strengthen those revenge porn laws so men can stop texting them in group chats with no repercussions?

The current porn industry already exploits children, particularly young girls coming from largely abusive homes with low socioeconomic status in a way that should be criminal. 

The “barely legal” promotions. “Teen” in the name to appeal to the murkiness and destruction of innocence, naivety, and youth. Anyone can upload apparently any video with no identification required? “Amateur” videos where it’s DAMN clear the “piece de resistance” was unaware they were being filmed (they’re definitely not THAT good of an actress).

Mia Khalifa has scenes that made production companies billions of dollars and herself only $1000-1500 a scene. She has millions of views, death threats from ISIS, and only ~$10,000 total to have “benefitted”. 

Belle Knox had to leave Duke temporarily because of harassment over her revealed porn star status, which she only did to pay for that very same, ivy league education. (An actual human I know dated her, as he knew her in high school, and thankfully he didn’t disgustingly objectify her like his “brothers” did.)

August Ames hung herself after a twitter debate around cyberbullying and homophobia. Las Vegas has TUNNELS where former porn stars live amongst the transient population, because THAT community is more accepting, healthier, and supportive for their social structure. The cover of Blink-182’s “Enema of the State” album (aka: that famous sexy nurse) went to prison in 2008 for tax evasion. Meanwhile it’s legal for billionaires and giant corporations to not pay any taxes but benefit from public space. The average life expectancy of a porn star is ~31 years–down over the past decade from 38 years. 

Taylor Swift forewarned everyone on the dangers of contract negotiation.
Of the exploitation of young, naive women.  

Athletes can renegotiate all the time, including midseason, yet the second women do it, they’re labeled as “greedy” and “manipulative” (Still not over the tragic demise of the friendship between the Barstool Sports podcast’s Call Her Daddy OG hosts.)

Yet women at 18 are allowed to make a decision which may warrant apparently legal death threats, impacts their entire life in ways they literally cannot imagine, and we just allow it, as long as it makes the men in control money.

Women in the porn industry are often, much like the film & entertainment industry, forced or encouraged to consume pills, drink alcohol, smoke substances of many kinds, and many even “choose” to do so because it dulls the pain, lowers the inhibitions, and they don’t or can’t “have an opinion” on their rights because they may never have been taught that boundaries are okay in the first place.

Women all over this country, for decades, are and have been murdered and discarded haphazardly, sometimes whole, sometimes in pieces, because sexwork as a profession, despite rampant sexual violence as is, has been looked down upon in the same way that your high school teachers may have condemned working as a garbage collector–even if that position’s union and wages were significantly better.

Fraternities at UNC hire strippers who pick up dollar bills off the floor with the labial lips of their vaginas, but more than 4 women aren’t allowed to sign onto the same lease because of the “brothel” rule and only sororities are required to have a “house mom”. 

Before you say “not all men”, please remind yourselves that at University of Florida there is a fraternity that does “biker bash”, has girls, some of whom are 18 and left home for the first time for college, ride on the back of men’s scooters, dressed in motorcycle gear, and when they get to the fraternity, the walls of every surface and room are COVERED in porn. Old 80’s porn is blasted on every television, computer screen, projector. Women have to ditch their tops and walk around in leather pants and bras, and will be kicked out of their sorority if a photo of them, even in the background, leaks.

But the school looks the other way because “boys will be boys” and there is wealth involved, yet sororities will punish women for attending a party formally hosted by the same fraternities they set up mixers with.

I would TOTALLY have gone to and LOVED that party, by the way. I’m not discrediting the party.

I literally showed up to the “Tide Slide” event at a different fraternity with 10 cans of four loko like some kind of chaos fairy, and spent the afternoon writhing around with my girl friends on a humongous slip and slide coated in soapy bubbles in just my bikini, I’m HERE for the parties. I just think the sexist standards and legislation are annoying as fuck.

Nevermind the fact that at every university and every woman I’ve ever talked with, widespread knowledge of which fraternities are full of rapists is shared openly. (If there’s that many men, especially young, in-the-process-of-becoming-educated-but-not-yet men in one place, for the record, they all have rapists…you just might not know it yet. It’s basic statistics.) There are whispers exchanged on the public buses. Warnings heeded in group chats. Which fraternities “QB sneak” (quarter bar of xanax in the drink) to roofie women, including in their “jungle juice” and which individuals within to be mindful of. Which men have coked out temper tantrums. Which have STDs or STIs or any combination of letters that may affect your (sexual) health. 

RIP to the UNC basketball team in ~2013 when Yik Yak was still a thing, because the identity of which player (who prematurely left for the NBA) supposedly having R. Kelly style unprotected sex with half the school, despite a virulent and new herpes infection, was exposed.

…No shame to STDs, either, but we ALSO have outdated legislation on that which can’t and don’t protect anyone or require honest disclosure to any extent.

If you’re mature, an adult, and any decent kind of person, just fucking talk like humans about safe sex and protection and whatever you may or may not have, the medications available, etc. LEARN TO COMMUNICATE. You will NEVER build a healthy, happy, or well founded relationship on deceit of any kind. I am a fucking nationally certified epidemiologist these things are SO COMMON and would be WAY LESS COMMON or “problematic” if we just fucking TALKED ABOUT HEALTH AND HAD WIDESPREAD ACCESS TO HEALTH WITHOUT A RELIGIOUS OVERTONE.

God forbid we take the fucking profits away from private drug manufacturing and pushing and allow government test facilities, or government created and regulated chemical manufacturing and research in general to enable healthier and safer environments because people are curious. 

Curiosity is normal human behavior.
Sexuality is normal human behavior.

How about we make it easier and safer and accessible to experiment and try things safely, in an EDUCATED manner, because people are going to do it anyway, without unwittingly condemning unsuspecting, naive victims from the negative repercussions and threats to their professional lives and personal safety for years just for speaking up? 

How about we also stop treating children like collective property instead of the reality–that they will and can be their own soul and person, and not condemn them to the norms, rules, and regulations of excessively strict, controlling households and societies? It’s ridiculous that we even endorse or, at the very least, refuse to condemn abusive, manipulative, domineering parenting methods because of “tradition”, yet then penalize and punish those who weren’t brought up “right” (in conformity) despite being a country sooooo prideful of its “freedoms”. 

(14:14)

How about we remove the guilt associated with some of these behaviors so we create an environment where people can seek help, embrace honesty, and reduce the limitations of the ego and almost exclusively women aren’t thought to be “less than” for engaging in such acts?

Where people can work towards accountability and public acceptance with honesty, instead of privately hiding their actions because “it’s not about what’s true, it’s about what you can prove in court”? (A large issue we’ve seen arise in hit-and-run cases, as it can be less damaging to your driving record and insurance than a DUI.)

In public health, we still use outdated rhetoric on “high risk” behaviors for classification of men who have sex with men, or women who have sex with men who have sex with men, as means of publishing statistical data, yet that same “riskiness” of behavior is only relevant if the person’s partners aren’t mutually practicing safe sex and monogamy isn’t followed.

We associate the premise of “control” with “education”, “awareness”, and “safety”, but only focus on the theme of “control” with reference to legislation.

As far as concerns overlapping drug trafficking with sexwork–the opioid crisis is a huge issue in the area I’m from. 

The guy I “lost” my virginity to, my brother’s best friend growing up, died of an overdose in August of 2020. Thankfully, I have not had random ghostly sex dreams but we did used to fuck all over my high school when my father disbarred him from my house for “dishonoring” me, so there was a bit of a concern for that possibility. Same father my mom had to lie to in order to get me on birth control, mind you, and who lost HIS virginity to a sexworker. Same father who gave my older brother stacks of pornographic magazines and an entire floor of the house. Same father who would purposefully not announce himself and walk into the movie room in the basement when my boyfriends were over, despite knowing I was sexually active with them??

My friend, Amanda, speaks on my podcast about sex on E pills and seizures from substance use, in high school.

My sister’s friend from high school, a marine, who recently reached out to me via IG, told me his little brother was addicted to heroin before he even left high school, when he was a SOPHOMORE, because of teenage parties in the rural country, and everyone knew the distributors, but the local community wouldn’t acknowledge the issues surrounding addiction and lack of mental healthcare for an area dominated by military bases, and children were punished through education for behavior indicating these issues instead of being granted education, potential, and hope in environments that offered an alternative. Really just want to give that guy a shoutout, too, because his brother has been sober over the last 2 years and that is one of the hardest things to overcome. I wish him nothing but the best in his Air Force career. Really, really proud and thankful that my work resonated with his brother, and that he reached out to me as a result. Super cool move on his part and I’m very grateful for his transparency with me, himself, and whatever direction he continues to lead others in. 

We got one DARE class in 5th grade then a “refresher” on sex ed but never any classes that framed “health” in relation to science. Or even medicine. Never any classes that formally taught any kind of “physical health” and education outside of how to be an athlete and what the rules of formal sports are. Never any classes that actually conveyed what “science” is out of purely introductory biology and chemistry.

Good Charlotte was right, my high school was more like a jail cell, a penitentiary.
Public and formal education doesn’t HAVE to be like that, though.

Mina actually told me that drug use was common knowledge in her highschool, (because, Florida) and she always knew she would do cocaine, but that there was a common sentiment that “you were fine if you waited until college.” 

Cocaine was actually more common than marijuana at UF, so this doesn’t surprise me. After knowledge of the realities that everyone does cocaine as an adult, particularly those in higher professional programs or in the Wall Street financial sector of employment, the way we treat addiction and condemn substance use is so classist that it should be embarrassing in our community mentalities. 

With the biochemistry background, all I have to say is what the fuck are we doing with the current culture and treatment towards drugs? Ya’ll DO realize the similarities between prescription medications and “black market” drugs are fucking idiotically overlapping, right? And the potential for abuse or misuse is just as strong? If not more, because people will consume alcohol with prescriptions without thinking twice (Tiger Woods, whats up) because it’s “safe” since it has a white label with a doctor’s name on that orange bottle. 

One of my best friends from undergrad roofied herself because she didn’t realize her new prescription meds would interact with the one drink of alcohol so strongly that she’d physically pass out. 

I arguably “roofied” myself in my gap year. I had NO clue (please don’t laugh, this is just how naive I am/was) that Robitussin, the cough syrup, will do that to a gal. (Shoulda looked it up after the “Jumpman” lyrics from Drake.) Just to further embarrass myself, I had a lingering cough and took some prior to going to La Rez and Pantana Bob’s at UNC in my gap year. Did NOT know that there is a DELAYED effect. Or that over the counter meds negatively and seriously interact with certain substances, particularly one as common as alcohol, to begin with. 

Had 1 drink, waited a bit, felt completely fine.

Had a second drink, still felt fine, arguably more “sober” than I normally did at this point.

Ended up bringing a guy from the soccer team, who went on to play for FC Dallas, home that night and… this poor man. I went from 60-to-zero with about ten seconds left of the cab ride. I remember giving him head (consensually) and him cumming very quickly (not a surprise, as I’ve been known to suck a soul out through a man’s cocks, not unlike the dementors in Harry Potter). I’m also pretty sure I worried him because I had essentially no reaction to him cumming other than slurping that down with the good work ethic for completing jobs that the overachiever in me is capable of. Even that memory is blurry, though, as I started to get pretty out of it, which means this same story could be HORRIFIC from his point of view, 

And then magically it was the next morning, because I don’t remember anything until I woke up passed out in my roommate’s room, with the door to her room locked (by me), and he was just gone. My roommate was not home–she was sleeping over with one of his teammates (despite dating the guy she is now married to at the time). Also 99% sure I went into her room, locked the door, and passed the fuck out. The poor guy left at some point and I have never spoken to him since, so I literally have no idea what happened and while it’s not a great feeling, it IS amusing. 

Let’s just appreciate that from his perspective, this blonde witch who he’s seen once COATED in blood (because I used to get EXPLOSIVE nosebleeds from Accutane, and occasionally they’d come on when I was running in a sports bra and spandex around Chapel Hill and I’d only have my hands to stop it) just took him home, gave him head, then disappeared. Just never came back to my room, IF we were even in my room to begin with (from his perspective).

That experience is also why I think I got drugged at STORY, because it’s one of only a handful of times where my memory goes from standardly creepily exceptional, to essentially nonexistent. 

Maybe the commonality of discussion around these topics is why Mina has a typically “healthier” outlook on substance use in general? She’s done acid exactly one time, and had an amazing experience, so she doesn’t feel the need to do it again. She’s able to go through “cleanses” and completely reduce her alcohol intake to zero periodically just to recenter herself mentally and physically, and this is a gal that once won Senior bar golf with her boyfriend (which takes a fucking TANK of a functional alcoholic to do.)

Florida does a lot of shit wrong, but it seems between my friends who grew up there, there was less consensus on the “shame” of certain behavior. The human body isn’t so ostracized or taboo because women are barely clothed YEAR ROUND, so men don’t assume it’s an “open invitation”. Women don’t grow up thinking their shoulders and body are risqué and physically seeing it is inherently sexualized. Drug use is common and “normalized” enough, with the bricks of cocaine washing up on the beaches every hurricane, that it’s only “problematic” if it impacts your functioning “healthily” in society. (Even though I’d like to remind everybody that we don’t actually have a healthily functioning society in any way.) You’re allowed to do and consume as much as you want, so long as you’re still making money, or working a long term career oriented job, but even then your necessity for an escape from reality isn’t addressed in a way to ask WHY you need to escape reality. 

I’m not one to shame behavior, either– you just can’t excuse or denounce it universally when you’re just as guilty. You can’t control others’ reactions to your behavior and you have to accept that it may have negatively affected them.

Had a conversation recently with an old friend from home, who my mom taught in highschool and who went on to NC State to play NCAA D1 football. I once visited him at school just to be a friendly face, see how he was doing, and he later indicated that he “could have had me if he wanted.” As someone who speaks very openly about sexuality (again, normal human behavior) but is also VERY private and particular with sexual intimacy, I was so offended. I brought it up recently because he posted on instagram about “fake girls wanting a real man” (in reference to women who get their nails, hair, boobs, ass, etc. done) and I messaged him about how maybe he should consider and educate himself on why the beauty industry makes women feel like they need to do “all of that” (which is fire if it’s for your own style, but most of it is tailored to appealing sexually to men) and how hypocritical it was for someone who spends hours in the gym or staring in a mirror to say that. Particularly when he has objectified me in the past. He got a bit butthurt, let me know he used to do drugs and wasn’t that person anymore, but then I reminded him he is still being excessively critical of women instead of acknowledging the system in place that encourages women to feel the “need” to do things like that (even making it financially profitable, since, again, dating, marriage, and childrearing is an economic proposition for most women) and how that same system is why he had to overcome drug use himself, instead of having social support. Or why he’s still “ashamed” of that time in his life and wants to “move on”, versus acknowledging how it affected me, learning from it, and being able to speak to his experiences maturely, openly, and honestly. The conversation ultimately ended well, as I mentioned he is a Leo and while he acts impulsively and passionately, he can’t be universally critical of all women, publicly, and not expect me to call out his prior behavior and actions when that was MY experience with him. 

You simply can’t blame others when your (prior) actions around them paint a different picture for who you are than who you believe you are or who you want to be. 

(24:55)

Change your behavior instead of blaming the other person for pointing out the consistencies year after year, interaction after interaction, when that’s all that THEIR interactions with you involve.

(Chloe from MTV’s Siesta Key could maybe remind herself of this so she doesn’t blame others who point it out, are suspicious, and let her know that you have to EARN trust and respect. You won’t just be granted it just because YOU decided that’s who you are “now”.)

Or just do what a lot of people do when confrontation arises and ignore it, convincing yourself the person acknowledging it is the problem instead of the actions (and long sequence of actions) that they had to be responsible for, because you weren’t.

I know stories of future politician’s sons sucking dick for cocaine (no shame with reference to either of these acts, either, just maybe don’t support the GOP if that’s the case) who still can’t understand the only difference in them doing this and someone from their hometown is that their social class is not being looked down upon for that behavior. Because of who their parents and family are.

I fucked a guy who CREATED HIS OWN DMT prior to hooking up (I bet he loves Joe Rogan) who is now in medical school. Ya girl has a biochemistry degree from a top 5 public university, so because he was well educated, white, and in a fraternity, this was fine. I walk into a room and see a beautiful set up of Erlenmeyer flasks, distillation techniques? The nostalgia. Brings me right back to orgo lab when my lab partner was so introverted and terrified of me, it took him over 2 months for him to actually speak. (I’ve always been aware of my effect on men.)

I actually think, had I smoked weed a little sooner, I would’ve done better in my biochem classes because it helps me visualize and genuinely understand the molecular basis for the interactions better. I can view the chemical reactions as art, my mind creating mental visuals of the text and photographs in a way that better helps me adjust for the way I learn with ADHD.

My grander point is that we view criminality differently based on the socioeconomic status and location it is occurring in and when we’re creating legislation, we really can’t do this. We also shouldn’t have such a lack of progressive federal reform that we have thousands of people still incarcerated for nonviolent marijuana offenses while Wall Streeters hold stock in those, now legal, industries. We also shouldn’t require you to leave your state in order to access a natural, herbal remedy you can grow yourself that is less dangerous and addictive than the federally legal drugs that treat the same symptoms.

Drugs and sex work have always overlapped in the eyes of the US government. 

I’m sure that would still continue with legalization, to some degree, though I currently can’t understand why certain stripclubs are required to NOT sell alcohol if full nudity is involved, and other states have BYOB laws. Saw a reddit comment recently that actually specified, with corporate growth in the USA, the main difference in townships is the nuance towards sex work, so if you REALLY want to experience the differences in states rights, to go to strip clubs in every town you visit. I’ll have to remember that.

 Penalties for drug and rape trafficking and violence towards women should be undeniably severe enough to deter such behavior–including involving castration or removal of reproductive and sexual abilities permanently for those who continue to do so. We have to make comprehensive sexual education the norm for that to be relevant, though, and not make your knowledge of this within a nation so subjective around the basis of outdated bullshit Republican ideologies that affect everyone within the state, but especially women, and negatively impact those who seek help. And if you think it is  “insane” to require forced vasectomies or medical castration, yet also will women, or children, to carry their rapist’s DNA to term, then you are protecting the abusers and not the victims. You don’t actually endorse bodily autonomy or public safety. 

One of my friends had her family stalked by an exotic dancer’s child who sought out her biological dad’s acknowledgement. (Her father had fucked a stripper, basically.) The terror and horror a teenage girl had to go through–including being worried about being targeted through potential gun violence over a decision her FATHER made YEARS ago is disgusting. And all that kid wanted was to find out why he was discarded.

If sexwork was legal, this could’ve easily been avoided through the terms of the contract. Children won’t grow up thinking they aren’t wanted, or were a property investment to “Secure the bag” (I’m looking at you–MTV’s Siesta Key subreddit because why the FUCK do you FLAUNT Alyssa for this? That is the grossest rhetoric in all.) There would be foundations created to financially support sexworkers who decided to keep the children if a tryst did result in pregnancy. Men wouldn’t be able to complain about women “tricking” them into the financial obligation of child support, all while simultaneously thinking buying a gal a $5 drink at a college bar of watered down vodka entitles you to sex and then not understanding the repercussions of casual sex.

Acting like it is solely the woman’s responsibility to have birth control while making women’s health second choice, inaccessible, expensive, and a burden to access or need accommodations for.

We should be paying anyone under the age of 30 to NOT have children. Yes, just like welfare. An incentive for NOT being baby machines (Gilead would NEVER.) And yes, women with multiple children on welfare should be required to undergo birth control/ medical procedures but we should also address worker’s rights and a living wage while we’re at it. And maybe require forced sterilization for men who impregnate multiple women without having the economic means of providing for potential children so they stop fucking breeding and acting like their genetics are a gift to the world. (We should also look into the regulations surrounding sperm and egg donation while we’re at it, because there is a lot of misdirection around the human breeding programs in the USA with less direction than the animal breeding programs governed by the USDA.)

As a reminder, when Colorado introduced IUD insertion for teenage girls without requiring parental consent, teen pregnancy dropped significantly.

Yet, last week the valedictorian of a Texas high school scrapped her graduation speech in favor of addressing the “heart beat bill” effectively banning abortion for all women in Texas.

 There were about 9 girls in my graduating class who, through religious indoctrination, felt it was their duty to carry those children to term. They were seen to have less potential for the decades of life they had left than an unborn mass of cells was seen. Another life became a “savior” for them–which MAY very well be true, but knowing the lack of access to healthcare and religious overtones in the area I grew up in is just sad. Time and time again, women become the burdens of society’s inability to account for them. They are told their lives are worthless, yet should revolve around bringing forth more life…a life that may actually “do” something… and that is the sole and main purpose intended for them. Even if you love your children, and you needed them, this is NOT fair in the modern age (nor was it fair ever). We are condemning women, teenage girls, children, to the misgivings and misdirection of their parents, claiming them to not be responsible enough to make their own decisions yet then bestowing upon them a nightmarish gift in that they should be responsible for the decisions and livelihood of another’s life.

And then we punish them when they don’t know what the fuck they’re doing.

When none of us know what the fuck we’re doing.

One of my friends didn’t know or show that she was pregnant until 4-5 months along and she is over 30 years old. We kayaked ten miles with her now small child just growing from a mass of cells in her uterus. She had a day or two of morning sickness, which she attributed to drinking, and frequently missed periods as is, so she literally DID NOT KNOW or have any indication she was pregnant. Thankfully, her and her boyfriend have been together for almost a decade now, so they were in a position where this wasn’t completely detrimental to their mutual wellbeing. And that child is being brought up in one of the most loving homes I’ve seen, with parents committed and cognizant of breaking the cycles they were subjected to.

A friend of mine has driven her best friend to the abortion clinic and paid for her abortion while they were both high schoolers in North Carolina. Actions she could be legally prosecuted for in the state of Texas, now. The same abortion clinic who protestors would park in my apartment complex’s lot, only to walk over and harass individuals seeking medical care. Could you imagine how quickly this would be reduced if those same protestors were outside condemning former president Donald Trump’s use of stem cell research as therapeutic treatment for coronavirus instead of holding candlelight vigils for his recovery and eagerly awaiting his decrepit parade of virulent exposure in armored vehicles because he got “bored” of his lavish hospital suite? This wouldn’t even have to be a discussion.

(33:37)

We shouldn’t have to exhaust resources and keep women in cycles of debt and violence because the law doesn’t protect them in any way and people are allowed to ignorantly and purposefully impose their spiritual idiocy onto others.

Women aren’t even taught or knowledgeable about our own bodies because they are framed as taboo and learning about them is met with negative connotation (in part because it exacerbates the reality of just how poor treatment of women in the USA is). Did you know that women who agree to allow medical students to partake in their care, in MANY states, are also (unknowingly) agreeing to unnecessary invasive procedures WHILE UNDER ANESTHESIA. And women, especially black women, weren’t given anesthesia for many procedures historically. Children even commonly weren’t numbed for suturing, in part because we just assumed they would “forget” or never realize this was NOT APPROPRIATE. This would NEVER be the case for how we treat fully grown, educated men.

 But women’s health is secondary to “health”. 

Women’s, sexual, reproductive, mental health is ultimately just “health”. And WHY would a country without universal healthcare want to appropriately frame “health” in any context if it requires diminished profit margins for shit “leaders” in our economy? We would NEVER sit there and tell people they’ve reached “peak physical health” and can just “stop” devoting time to work on it. That they shouldn’t prioritize it. That there isn’t nutrition, stretching, sleep, or SOMETHING they can improve upon even if they physically feel okay. 

We frame panic attacks and anxiety so negatively, so preventable, yet wouldn’t dare accuse someone who suffered an aneurysm or cardiac event from not “having done all they could”, ultimately just by assuming there are some things “out of your hands” and others “within your control”. Even though the very nature of why many people seek access for mental health is because others are imposing unhealthy behavior onto them that is beyond their control.

As long as it’s the government, we encourage and allow it to continue, though?

We don’t teach comprehensive health, not just comprehensive sexual health, because we keep individuals subservient to outdated conservative norms by not.

My friends and I were remarking on whether our skeletons are STILL changing–because we recently had to size up our clothes, yet our actual bodies haven’t really changed so much as our hips are getting wider. The only reason we even knew was because of 6 years of advanced schooling in a health degree and Mina sews her own clothes, so she measures herself, and could confirm that her hips are skeletally wider. But we shove 26 year olds with disordered eating on television screens to play high schoolers and expect the adolescents to connect that these are unrealistic beauty standards. We tax the shit out of feminine care products or just add it to the unreasonably marked up costs for women’s marketing, clothing, healthcare in general.

And even still, largely white men elected to Republican governments are allowed to impact legislation in a way that negatively affects women, all of the women, who may have been born into or live in the state they govern despite not believing their idiocy, all while simultaneously going to war on the basis of other culture’s treatment towards women. The hypocrisy is surreal. It’s actually maddening. It should not be allowed.

Leadership should be fucking better than that.

Kanye West wrote a song about women being nothing but gold diggers then married a woman who paid off $53 million in debt for him–money she made resulting from the legal nuances of largely pornographic work. Is it any different because she was dating the man in the video at the time?

Projection is a powerful bitch.

Karma is a bigger one.

(Can Kris Jenner be everyone’s momager, please?)

I went to the University of Florida for graduate school. I can tell you right now the “sugar baby”  lifestyle is huge, and common. ESPECIALLY amongst sorority women. The “cheap” end is $100-500 per hour of their time, many of which doesn’t involve or include sex at all. (I have a friend who is actually a married lesbian and she would go meet old white men in Orlando at the Cheesecake Factory and get $1000-1500 just to meet for dinner.) #RedistributeThatWealthGirllllllll

If your children are fucking men for hotel room spots or the potential for away and date weekends through their fraternities, that’s basically sexwork. (And all of your children are doing it.)

My best friend was invited to a fraternity formal in undergrad and the guy was disappointed that she was a virgin and LITERALLY SAID, “well, there goes my weekend.” This guy didn’t know her at all, he’d merely played a few games of beer pong against us, so I’m not sure why he thought she should inherently want to fuck him without knowing anything about him, but he still felt entitled to sex? (He was a “nice” guy too because he didn’t uninvite her or sexually coerce her.)

Had another gal friend get flown out to Israel to visit a guy she was talking to there, who paid for half her plane ticket. Sexwork. 

(38:18)

Dating is the premise to marriage and marriage is undeniably an economic proposition in the United States. With that being the case, how can we dare to condemn sex work?

Drake said if he drops $10k on a gal to not think anything of it and I’m just tryna find a man to buy me the new Joah Brown and Alo Yoga clothing collections.

All we do is make life more difficult for women by pretending like sexwork isn’t or shouldn’t be legal.

At age 18, I was supposed to be tasked with escorting an Australian diplomat’s 26 year old son around Washington, D.C. for a weekend. Because I wasn’t getting paid, I was expected to be thankful for “the opportunity”. I refused to do so, because I found it creepy that a 26 year old would ever want to hang out with an 18 year old, however “innocently” and couldn’t fathom what I would be able to talk about. I would rather go to the museums myself, thank you very much. At 28, I find it creepier in the current societal context. My mom has a 10+ year age gap between her and her siblings, though, (as she was an “accident” born in Italy while my grandfather was stationed overseas) and is 12 years younger than my stepfather, so the potential for a future marriage or romantic compatibility wasn’t considered negatively in the same way formal sexwork is viewed. Because of the legality of the contract.

My piece of shit ex had a groupchat with “him and the boys” (this is the Orlando CPA with multiple degrees who now manages his own Fidelity related firm and raped me in my sleep) where his male friends, including ones with girlfriends they are now engaged/married to, asked HIM if they should “stop in Gainesville and service [me]” when I was emotionally conflicted about our relationship and not interested in sex while I was working through that. 

A few years ago, I had another guy that I regularly hooked up with from UF who, when I was in Tampa for a gals trip weekend, hit me up. We regularly sexted, exchanged nudes, and had been doing so for years with plenty of shared sexual chemistry and experiences previously. He got a hotel room, since he lived at home, fucked me and came in about a minute. (His sex tape would’ve been a tik tok), and then he left (which I later found out was to go on a date with his now-girlfriend who I only found out about after he finally posted her a YEAR into their relationship while he was STILL in contact with me.) I wouldn’t have cared as much if I had been paid, to be honest. But him leaving me there made me so worried about whether I was being filmed, secretly, whether his excessive neatness and minimalist lifestyle was a predisposition to his original plans of actually murdering me there, to which he may have chickened out. I felt so used and disgusted. Because that isn’t what I signed up for.

If you wonder why every woman knows another woman who has been raped, but men seem to not know any rapists, it’s because it’s not enough of a reason for them to distance themselves from them. It’s because they excuse the behavior. It’s because they themselves know or remember instances of murky territory that condemning their friends might highlight and they’re aware themselves of just how at risk they are for the same “accusations” which comes down to not being aware of or respecting other people’s personal boundaries.

…Yet sexwork is still illegal and women commonly aren’t able to report events when they happen because of the legal nuances and discrepancy around consent and evidence. Comprehensive sexual education isn’t required. 

Yet women, people coming forward years later, are the ones being “dramatic”.

When I was 21, I worked at MD Anderson in Houston, Texas doing advanced stage head & neck and thoracic oncological work. I was working 14 hour days of unpaid research “experience”, which was a great opportunity, but nevertheless involved me staying at my biological dad’s friend’s house and being in a very tight spot financially. This friend, a man in his late 30’s (maybe early 40’s at the time), was dating a 23 year old with a slender bodily build and long blonde hair, much like my own, who would not let him stay at the house with me because she felt threatened. I did not know he was dating someone so similar to me, physically, until I was there. I don’t think I would’ve felt comfortable, had I known–even if he had given me his BMW to drive, had a pool with a motor so you could swim laps in place, and I received free lodging. She had fake, large tits though (and I do not), so he saw her as more “sexually mature”. A “very different age”. Because she was coerced by the beauty industry and media representation for women to cater and prioritize physical appearance and comfort for the male gaze, not for her own beneficial wellbeing. That was a “good” thing, to him.

While we’re on the subject of Texas–you’re not allowed to own more than 6 dildos but stripclubs are free for alls because “god forbid” we include government legislation like those in the DMV (DC, Maryland, Virginia) which involve pasties (not complete nudity), not being able to touch without clear consent, and allow women to engage in this line of work in healthier and safer contexts where they can actually report violations and have security.

Don’t know why lack of government regulations has to kill so many people before we just simply stop allowing it and allowing people to abuse public government positions of “power”, but we’re still not investigating the fucking insurrection and attempt to dismantle democracy so fuck your ethics.

I was paraded around military bases before I was 18 years old, beating marines and navy seals in physical competitions just to “prove women could”. Military men who were interested in my eventual “coming of marriage age” status to be able to make a formal proposition, waited patiently and were seen as “noble”.

Men in general still embrace the antiquated idea of asking fathers for their daughter’s hand in marriage, before they even ask the woman herself, because the priority of a woman’s sovereignty is never for it to be her own. 

Considering marriage–It might strike you as shocking, but I can’t WAIT for the day I get to take my husband’s last name. To get rid of my biological father’s? Fucking RIGHT. Sign me up. I actually considered going back to my mother’s maiden name, and the only reason I haven’t yet is I have published research in Nature, a huge scientific publication, and it would be annoying to have to reference 3 names I went by on tax and legal documentation for the rest of my life. A small gift for whatever man dares the risk and lives a lifetime of partnership with me. A token of my gratitude. A truly progressive gal.

(44:33)

To summarize my issues with the current illegality of sexwork, I’d like to pose the following scenarios for you:

In a country where women in the workforce is at a 33 year all time low, in part because a pandemic required the “burden” of childcare to fall largely onto women, who also happen to make up the majority of the educator’s workforce (glorified babysitting in the public school sector for less than $35,000 per year), as 76% are female, how dare we condemn a profession aimed at reducing sexual repression and meeting the sexual needs, healthy needs, of others and allows redistribution of wealth into female pockets. (Which we all know they want to keep from us in a variety of literary contexts, anyways.)

In a country that has not ratified the U.N.’s Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women, despite having been involved with drafting that legislation, and openly criticizing and engaging in warfare with Iran, Sudan, and Somalia–other countries where we criticize the lack of progressive legislation directed at women empowerment specifically, it’s a bit hypocritical.

In a country where child marriage is allowed, even though the vast extent of those involve girls being “allowed” to marry their rapists, as the majority of those cases involve older men preying on TEENAGERS. CHILDREN. YOUNG GIRLS. Where parents can make those decisions for female children and we can force young girls to be responsible for another’s life yet not allow them to dictate their own, this should be criminal.

In a country where my boyfriend, a junior in a top 5 public university at the time, was allowed to specifically vocalize that he was “clean”, even though he had never had ANY kind of sexual health testing, engaged in numerous sexual encounters without protection of any kind, and people under the age of 24 account for over 60% of chlamydia diagnoses, half of gonorrhea diagnoses, and over 80% show no symptoms, and then would have had no repercussions of any kind after he cheated on me and AGAIN exposed me, nonconsensually, to yet again MORE STD’s, we make women ashamed for calling it out. THOSE men don’t even have to get tested. They can literally be prescribed the pill because you tested positive (which is a good thing, healthcare wise), without ever visiting the doctor or receiving their own formal positive test or sexual education. The burden and responsibility falls and remains on those, the few, who are already responsible instead of creating a more responsible society.

We make it difficult, if not impossible, for women to trust men.

At this rate, YES, I am ALL FOR agreeing to a set amount or fee for dating, sexual acts with appropriate testing, a legal system that will support me should I (and the terms of our contract) be violated, ALL FOR THIS. I’d honestly feel safer dating if I wasn’t constantly worried about being yelled at for not being more emotionally invested, if somebody was accountable for my location and company, if I could perform background checks on these STRANGERS, if friendliness wasn’t so uncommon it might be misconstrued as “interest”.

YES, YOU CAN DATE ME FOR MONEY YOU JUST MIGHT NOT BE ABLE TO AFFORD ME. SLIDE IN THOSE DM’S. PAY MY BILLS. JUST RECOGNIZE MY RIGHT AS A GOD DAMN AMERICAN TO REFUSE SERVICE TO ANYONE, AT ANY TIME, FOR ANY REASON.

Isn’t that what you conservatives fight to defend, so much?

That moment in Holes when Sigourney Weaver’s fucking BEAUTY of the character “The Warden” in a childhood flashback comes on, and that little girl drops her shovel, stomps her foot, and is all, “I’m tired of digging! Grandpa!” Well, I am fucking tired of working and existing for the collective societal benefit of seemingly everyone other than myself and not be paid for it. I am tired of my body being used and appreciated by everybody else, but the second I recognize its worth and appreciate it myself, veiled comments on needing to be “humbled” emerge from the bitter dredges of jealousy. 

In the only “high income” country that does not require paid parental leave, we essentially punish women (and families) for the choice to have kids yet also demand a working class supply of labor to exploit instead of the goal being less labor and better working hours for all.

In a country simultaneously enacting legislation that prevents widespread access to birth control, comprehensive sexual education, and allows these decisions to be made for human beings without their consent, based on religious affiliation they do not agree to, partake in, or actually understand or believe in, what the FUCK happened to “separation of church and state”?

In a country where the wealthiest, those involved in making said very legislation, have been proven time and time again to be involved in rape trafficking, or can hop on their private flights and access legal sexwork elsewhere (including with children)–why would we allow them to be the morality police?

In a country where law enforcement agrees to “look the other way” as long as they are allowed to partake in the sexwork, which is effectively sexual coercion. (Approximately 34 states still allow law enforcement to have sexual relations with detainees.) And a WOMAN , a judge CURRENTLY SITTING ON THE SUPREME COURT, ruled that a city was not liable for damages to a raped teenage prisoner because “rape wasn’t in the official job description” for the guard–do we have to specifically outline this as disallowed in employment contracts moving forward?

In a country that ranks 49TH of 142 applicable countries in gender equality (based on the World Economic Forum’s Gender Gap Index) yet continues to devalue local community positions, punishes people who seek higher or better education through the ever-increasing cost of PUBLIC education and student loans (making it nearly impossible for those to return to the communities they left), and makes being a shitty person more profitable because “health” is undermined in every level under capitalism. 

In a country where over 1 in every 4 women is raped (or attempted), where the norm is sexual violence and harassement, who the fuck are we protecting by keeping sexwork illegal? Surely not the thousands of children rape trafficked through the foster care network?

In a country whose DECREPIT HEALTHCARE SYSTEM and refusal to just fucking MOVE TO UNIVERSAL HEALTHCARE has us ranked LAST of the “industrialized” nations for healthcare system performance, yet healthcare workers themselves have to worry about their salaries being depleted (instead of companies involved in tobacco or alcohol having to pay more corporate tax) and stupid fucking white GOP dick suckers on the internet insist that “America is the best country in the world” without recognizing that “the America’s” is TWO CONTINENTS. “America” isn’t even a fucking country. Claiming only US citizens are “american” is ignorance at its FINEST.

In a country where that very same healthcare system is allowed to prey on the insecurity of largely women, via plastic surgery and medical spas, overlapping with the beauty industry, without requiring mental health evaluations or access to mental health services of any kind or asking why so many women, including teenagers, are allowed to make life altering procedural decisions, all while not ensuring they have access to actual healthcare, nutrition and affordable healthy food options, safe recreational areas.

What the FUCK are we doing keeping sex work illegal?

Who the fuck are you protecting?

Just a reminder, this episode is for the Red River Women’s Clinic, if you’d like to donate you can access it here: http://www.redriverwomensclinic.com. Thank you all for the support, reading, listening and interest. My main marketing is through word-of-mouth, so I really appreciate anyone sharing it, publicly or privately. You can follow me on instagram @zedagrace, especially if you like functional fitness and what I can only describe as the “soul cycle” of yoga. Movement is medicine. Have a wonderful week.

SOURCES:

https://nces.ed.gov/programs/coe/indicator/clr

https://www.citizen.org/article/dead-last-u-s-health-care-system-continues-to-rank-behind-other-industrialized-countries/

https://coloradosun.com/2019/10/21/colorado-abortion-rates-keep-declining-free-iuds-and-easier-access-to-the-pill-are-the-reason/

https://nypost.com/2021/06/03/texas-valedictorian-paxton-smith-slams-abortion-ban-in-speech/

https://www.the-sun.com/lifestyle/1471708/suicide-death-prison-porn-stars/

https://www.rollingstone.com/culture/culture-features/death-of-a-porn-star-201939/

https://www.redbled.com/dead-pornstars/

Carolina Girls: Best In the World

Survival Mode
Carolina Girls: Best In the World
Loading
/

I’m just gonna jump into it because I drove up to New Jersey about a month ago to visit my bestfriend and it was…amazing. OMG I had so much fun doing absolutely nothing but being with her. I came back to life like the Grinch, my heart grew three sizes that day. Ahh this is terrifying. Why can’t life be like The Vampire Diaries where I can dissociate and turn my emotions off (I mean…it can be, but I don’t want to exist that way.)

Fun aside from that visit actually–she introduced me to some of her friends from the area, which is always amusing because they don’t know about her gymnastics background, and a bunch of the men were doing a dumbbell workout (totally “showing off” in just such an amusing array of attempted masculinity). They showed her what to do and then were SHOCKED when she just broke out the whole workout, hitting every skill, mastering technique, and doing so with the same dumbbells they were using. I was sitting on these bar stools at the time, amused as hell, loving the emasculation. When I first meet people, especially a group I’m being introduced to, I’m usually fairly quiet, I like to observe, people watch, mentally become aware of behaviors and energy and learn about them. The men migrated near me and started playing basketball on a small hoop like the ones men hang up in corporate offices or your high school teachers posted above the garbage cans, at one point.

I can’t recall the exact context, but one of them looked at me sitting and watching them and went “I’m sure the amount of testosterone in the room is intimidating” and I said, very calmly, “I think we have different baselines for what “too much testosterone” is”.

Hahahahaha. I have never seen men take a step back and be so amused, not offended, and concede immediate respect in one moment. 

Back to my lil intro, I just wanna give all of my friends and the people currently in my life a huge shout out lately. Whether it’s my internet pals, like Nikki and Stephen (@wittyidiot), my chosen family, my actual sister, and my incredibly diverse and insanely interesting array of humans I get to call my support network. I’ve felt so much love lately, and I think I was actually able to finally accept love because I learned how to actually see it, because they taught me how to trust it. How to trust myself. And they believed in me. They were and are patient with me. They recognize the way I light up their souls, the room, the planet. 

I wanted to switch into entertainment because I realized the thing I value most about myself–with all of my ridiculous skills, from sewing (which translated great from the seat cushions we learned how to make in Girl Scouts to closing up Mohs surgery scars with the precision of a plastic surgeon), to animals (sometimes it’s easier to learn how to ask for love after you see a dog do it), to disease and health (a holistic, educated approach that takes into account the boundaries of western medicine), to childcare (and YEARS of experience as a babysitter across multiple familial dynamics, continents, and parenting styles)–was that I wanted to be helpful in any situation. I wanted to have the answers–or at least know where to look for them. 

When I consider the idea of “setting up a life for myself”, my answer always comes back to wanting to be the person who could help my friends in any way possible. Apparently this is a testament to being an ~Aquarius~ (to all you nonbelievers). This was my draw to medicine as well–I wanted to be helpful, and it was the most tangible and direct way for me to do so. But how many people can’t ask for help? Like I couldn’t/can’t/still struggle with? How many people can’t afford healthcare? How many people can barely afford life

I wanted a way to be there for people that transcends the boundaries of direct communication–because I knew all too well I wouldn’t always physically be available. I knew that sometimes it was easier and necessary to learn the framing you needed impersonally. That topics like the ones I cover are often dark as fuck, and will get that much darker, and not everyone can fathom sitting through and watching me talk about them–but it doesn’t mean they don’t want to listen. As someone who struggles to express emotion publicly, I get it.

There are different types of loneliness, but feeling like there is no mutual understanding for your mind is perhaps the worst of all. 

My friend Amanda, who has recorded a few episodes with me, sent me a highlighted passage from a book that covered the idea that she was scared nobody would ever actually understand her. She said she used to think like that and now she thinks I’m that person for her. I literally burst into happy tears when she sent me that. And what are friends for if not to reassure you that you’re worthy of the love you don’t think you deserve, that you’re scared to want, that you’re terrified to need. 

My friends have shown me so much patience and love over the years, but especially these past few months, that I think it’s important to remind everyone that “control” isn’t “love”. You should have a support network that embraces and loves you and lets you share your version of love with the world. That cultivates and strengthens your version of healthy love–especially for those of us who grew up in abusive households. My friends have always been my escape, my happiness, my understanding. I want to create a life that continues and allows me to be there for them in ways that they know and can understand that I’m here for them to rely on as much or as little as they need. I’ll always be here. 

Writing allows me to do that. It allows me to impact and be there for the people who might not have anybody in their physical life who gets them…yet. It allows me to share my education, which is the PURPOSE of education. Not everyone can or will have access to formal education. Even amongst those who do have access to formal education, some people have to get it through places like Clemson or FSU or even worse…Duke. (LOL…just kidding…kinda.) Not everything needs to be so elitist you have to achieve XYZ goal BEFORE you feel “worth something”. Ya’ll (myself included) suck Nike’s child and prison labor corporate bullshit’s dick, yet won’t “just do it”? 

When I say “entertainment is overvalued” I mean “people shouldn’t be able to make and have millions of dollars for abstract work while communities and vital roles that allow others to do such abstract, creative work are so drastically underpaid”. That’s not the entertainment industry’s fault, though. And I don’t think we should really continue to perpetuate such pathetic excuses for entertainment that someone like Jake and Logan Paul are so monumentally influential for doing absolutely nothing of value. That sporting industries should endorse violence and head trauma and society should embrace and allow such shitty behavior to be so financially profitable. We are positively reinforcing horrific examples for behavioral growth within the USA yet then wonder why people are struggling and why societal values are in such a terrifying dichotomy under a 2 party political system that we pretend can and should be allowed to represent a multicultural nation. All of those decisions ultimately come down to the lack of progressive reform for workers rights, distribution of wealth, restrictions regarding lobbying for multinational corporations, and universal healthcare. Celebrities and wealthy individuals can pay their way out of accountability within the court system, since penalties aren’t based around percentages (and they hire teams of lawyers to avoid everything, including taxes, anyways), and who can blame them because our prison systems are cages, not “reformatory” in any way. I’m very obviously a “public school kid”. 

I also think it’s amusing when people assume I don’t have friends because I don’t post them on my social media as much as I post my frothingly witty commentary. Maybe that’s on me, and I truly think I go out of my way so they all know what they mean to me…but I still want to make it a point to be better at vocalizing it. I think not sharing that side of me is a way for me to not accidentally overstep other’s boundaries–because I care about my friends and I AM private with intimacy of its various forms. I’m private about love. But is that because I’m scared to share it? To express what it means to me, lest it not be reciprocated or perceived in the way I intend it? 

So a few of these episodes are going to be love ballads, centered around my friendships

We ALL have Daddy Issues, this is a Patriarchy (Remember)… (8:10)

Particularly as a woman, my female friendships represent my ability to love. Even when I’m single, and intimately celibate (basically always), I’ve never questioned whether the absence of a partner at my side diminished my worth. And as women, especially as conventionally attractive women (read: white ethnocentric beauty standards), you have people ask why you aren’t dating someone ALL THE TIME. A lot of young women are taught they need to make decisions around the ideal scenario for a future partner, an IMAGINARY FIGURE, with the implied heteronormative context. By all means, if you have a suitable candidate able to express his emotions and be a PARTNER, sign me up. I shall share the enthusiasm of that Grandma from the end of Mulan. Love is a battlefield and I’m obviously geared up for war, all the time.

This past month, I realized I have never once doubted that the “right” person for me was out there because I have such a strong support network of friendships, many of whom live across the entirety of the USA. And I’ve cultivated those relationships through years of living together and apart. I never feel the need to rush through life because I am happy and loved. I’ve never worried about whether or not I would be a good wife, or “partner”, in part because I spent 4 years living with one of my best friends from a tier of female counterparts that are the reason I can love myself so much–because they’ve showed me what deep, meaningful love really is.They’ve ALWAYS been there to show me what love is (my childhood best friend remains and will always be one of the largest support figures in my life and I’ll hopefully get the time in life to cover all of the people I love, in no particular order.)

And I think a lot of men are deterred by the idea of being “friendzoned”, which is just sad to me because you should want the emotional love of friendships, especially those with women. 

Women aren’t more “emotionally manipulative” just because you’re “emotionally incompetent”–we just live in a society where we’ve been expected to put on facades for who we are that “society” deems “acceptable” and are good at playing those roles. We’ve been thrown into costumes since childhood. Make up allows people to craft new identities with their mood. Hell, you can even sign up for significant plastic surgery for making your body more visually appealing for others because the GOP will only regulate it when someone wants to change their body for themselves.

But nobody seems to connect that to the reality that our natural selves are taught to not be the preferred self we put forth into the world.

We are naturally gifted with emotional intelligence, and psychological sciences, as a result. 

One of my favorite people, we’ll call him “Venus” (because I play tennis with him and he likes space) is a surgeon who went to Yale for undergrad. Every time I visit him, he shares his friends with me, who are as equally as wonderful of a collection of humans, and he introduced me to what a silent disco is recently. We’re the same age, and as my friends are a pretty wide range of ages, I get to ask him whether he’s ever pressured to “settle down”. His undergrad bestfriend and he both told me that topic literally never comes up. It never feels rushed. It doesn’t seem like his worth diminishes with age, or even reproductive value. It made me realize that women are taught our whole lives to place the emotions, considerations, and priorities of others before themselves. Men are allowed, from childhood, to largely believe and trust that they can prioritize themselves without fear of that. 

However, in doing so, we cripple men by making them think they have to be the providers, they have to be an “alpha”, they have to know the answers, be silent, strong, and resilient all the time. By always being allowed to prioritize themselves, by their worth not being tied or related to the presence or absence of another, it can sometimes be a struggle to place the emotions, boundaries, and consent of others above yourself. 

This is where the patriarchy fails men. 

We have a modern day society in the USA that essentially only allows them to express emotion through sport, so they CLING to sport, the only place they aren’t shamed for expression of it, and often center their friendships around it–while also playing a game pretending they’re managing all of these famous celebrities who can just like, throw a ball really well. Which is cool and all, but please stop centering your personalities around pretending to be in control of humans via fantasy football because instead of just telling your male friends you love them, you need a thinly veiled excuse of football to have a “reason” to come together and spend time together every week that your potentially stereotypically demanding spouse may deem as “acceptable” because “boys will be boys”. As if you should need a reason to be allowed to have friends?

By the way, if your boyfriend’s favorite player is Tom Brady, he just wants to be allowed to cry in public and love his family and still be respected by the “manliest of men”.

(More of an Eli Manning gal myself, personally. Which I’m now realizing is a testament for Strider not being so gifted with words but very gifted at his craft and familial strength.)

This is why female friendships are so superior. Male friendships are (typically, not universally) centered around being there for each other in the easy moments. You don’t need the words. It’s grunting and physical expression and being content without explanation–stoicism. Women share EVERYTHING. It’s why they’re allowed to be “gossipy”. It’s why women have served in warfare throughout history in unconventional roles, or been MASSIVE serial killers because it was difficult if not impossible to divorce abusive husbands (and why the USA continues to frame sexwork as illegal, because not doing so would make it that much more difficult to dehumanize other country’s cultures and continue to justify that warfare and violence).

Women ask questions.

They reveal details, even those which are intimate.

They disrupt the status quo of a society centered around men in power. 

The only time you should be worried about the things you share is if you question the character of the person doing the sharing. 

And then I think you have to ask yourself if you’re actually worried because of them, or if because the way you talk about people, the intention behind it, is flawed yourself. If you aren’t phased by accountability, if you don’t understand or like yourself, if you’re terrified of not always having the ability to have control, then I think it’s scary. Because you’re worried about what people will say. 

You should never have to worry about what the people you love have to say about you.

There is NOTHING more strong than a female friendship, because for women, those are often the only, or first, people there who choose to love you and understand the shared struggles of the world you live in. Especially if you weren’t really allowed to be friends with boys, or when jealous girls growing up made a lot of assumptions since you played on the football team (I mean I did send one of them nudes but so what), and did fall ball baseball, so being friends with guys always comes with insistent pestering that there must be some underlying narrative other than maybe men ALSO just needed additional love and support. 

Maybe that human is a cool fucking person regardless of their gender or biological sex and you want them in your life. 

And because female friendships often aren’t burdened by the assumption of reproductive beneficiaries, with family and friends asking whether or not anything has “ever happened”, or what they’re “missing” (which is just a very rude narrative, by the way) we are allowed to love each other freely and openly and not being romantically attracted to someone doesn’t mean they’re “missing” something. To confess our worries and fears and share everything because the presumption of society is so and we’ve been allowed to. We’re even allowed to make out with each other, sexually experiment, and people still don’t label you as “gay” with implied negative connotation. (#HeteroflexibilityShouldBeTheDefault)

The simplicity offered in male friendships is cool, but your emotional connection can’t be dependent on solely your partner. And I think a lot of male-female friendships struggle because men feel ties to the possible physical attraction, combined with that novelty of ease of emotional intimacy and the space to be yourself that female friendships often have to offer, without actually considering whether the pairing would make a good partnership. Whether you want the same things in life. Whether you value happiness, love, and marriage in similar contexts. Whether you approach life in ways that complement each other. 

Never forget to tell the people who mean the world to you how you actually feel.

Never withhold establishing healthy boundaries centered on your own needs, either, because healthy love won’t judge you for it. 

I never really worry about the presence of a partner at my side, even when I’m lonely, because I have some absolutely amazing, phenomenal friendships. I also credit my friendships for forming my unconventional family—my actual support network—which I don’t receive from emotionally unavailable parents. 

My relationship with my sister is also slowly improving, and we talked about how hard it is to recognize that your parents don’t really care enough to worry about you. They divorced and checked out and decided they were done caring about the past, so they never consider the way it still affects you. They can’t… that would retraumatize them. And their own journeys towards self acceptance and happiness are valid. Who am I to tell my mom she isn’t allowed to be happy and make decisions for herself after 24 years married to a narcissist who tells the whole world you cheated, yet I have very few memories of my parents actually together because they didn’t ENJOY being together. Or how my memories of them are plagued with mental visuals of my dad just screaming at all of us, berating us for our emotions, mocking us for crying, ridiculing us for CARING, and my mom got it worst of all. I didn’t ever want to learn to cook because it reminded me that my family’s kitchen wasn’t a happy place to be. The knives remind me of my brother chasing me through the house, kicking down my door, and my mom not believing me because I was being “so dramatic”. The family dinners recalled being interrupted, laughed at, when I tried to tell a story. The kitchen was a physical crescendo for harm. My mom’s dowry of a $250k house on 4 acres of a 75 acre horse farm outside Washington, D.C., with my biological dad’s own aeronautical engineering pursuits within the DoD and her dad being a Colonel working out of the Pentagon made it the perfect “in”. Logically, you should’ve married her. But you didn’t “love” her. You don’t know how to “love”. Nobody blames you. Life was different then. She seemed good enough. The internet wasn’t commonplace. You didn’t know what you needed in reality. Your parents used to force you to eat liver and if you didn’t like it, they beat the shit out of you until you ate.

Some people you just don’t want in your life because you don’t like who they are and don’t like anything they bring to your life.

It sucks when that is someone who is supposedly genetically predisposed to loving you unconditionally who won’t re-learn the ways he chose to survive.

There’s a difference between “surviving” and “thriving”. 

My friends have shown me the love my parents couldn’t give to me. And it makes me really uncomfortable to have acknowledged with my sister that I could have disappeared for weeks on end and been missing or dead on my solo treks in the Appalachian Trail and nobody would’ve looked for me for a while. Maybe that’s why I like true crime so much, because I’m aware of my own close encounters with death, and even if that were to occur, my presence can live on through my words. (For writers, this is even almost a perk/awareness that death often brings larger acknowledgment…This is not an invitation to kill me.)

So I want to write about the greatest loves of my life to date, my friendships. The people who really know me. The ones I know will exist for however many years they walk on this earth with me. The ones I’ve never doubted, who help me learn how to accept love and bring me strength even when I’m seemingly alone. The relationships that matter most.

All Aboard The Hot Mess Express (20:15)

Carolina is a part of me. We are just intertwined, magically. It’s hard to explain to people, but let’s just say when her fiancé was with us, he knew to get in the backseat and to inform me of how he was keeping “my girl” safe. 

My sister tells me she never doubted she wanted to go to college, because she heard all of my stories about me and Carolina and she just “wanted that!” Which is honestly a sentiment that has brought me so much pride, because Carolina and I blossomed in our independence through education and as Michelle Obama says

 “Education is power.”

I actually forget that Carolina is EXTREMELY shy, because she is a heathenous psychopath who I love with my entire being, and I apologize to all within the Carolina community at UNC Chapel Hill for the events I’m about to share. LOL but especially my “dad”/mentor who was the Vice Chancellor for the duration of my years there.

My friendship with Carolina started at a club gymnastics away meet at Virginia Tech. I hitched a ride, basically for the chance to see my friend John who was in ROTC there, and to party at another college, and in said partying, ended up three way kissing with Carolina and our other friend, Zan. Carolina and I both liked Zan so we had a mini feud off, but also were like “oh what the hell, might as well”.

Turns out, Carolina is a much better kisser than Zan.

Zan just slid his tongue side by side like a snake and Carolina and I went into the bathroom to discuss the tongue thing and nicknamed him the “snake” and when he overheard or picked up on it, we told him it was because he was “so suave and slithery” hahahahahahaha. He totally embraced it and kept referencing it himself and we were just reminded of his tongue darting back and forth. A true foundation for a beautiful friendship to come. 

This was freshman year, when I was so homesick I wasn’t sure if I would end up staying. Carolina is my version of “Stitch”, sent to wreak havoc in the form of love and chaos in my world…although I am arguably a bit weirder, so I think we just switch between the two frequently and fulfill that role for each other. (#BiIRL)

Everyone we met assumed we lived together, because Carolina slept over in my twin dorm bed so often. We’d end up partying most nights of the week and it was most convenient for us to just crash at my home, where the bus dropped us off. My actual roommate really liked the alone time to a degree, and was a night owl, so I don’t think she minded. I also think it was good for her to see such a shit show behind the scenes, too. 

Carolina’s also what started my obsession with “The Vampire Diaries” from the CW. If you enjoy anything similar to Game of Thrones and want another feminist, fantasy lore / period piece (because, flashbacks, duh), go watch it. It’s available on Netflix and covers addiction, racism, difficult familial relationships, dissociation, death in ways that are easier to deal with because it’s framed in reference to mythological creatures.

Carolina was REALLY into vampires and once tried to bite herself to see because, logically, “you don’t know until you try it”.

I mean, she’s not wrong…

Freshman year, we went out probably 5-6 nights a week to different house parties, bars, and fraternities even though I never really talked to anyone other than Carolina, nor did we ever typically have a “plan”. We called ourselves the Hot Mess Express and if you’ve ever partied with gymnasts, it’s wild. Acrobatics were the norm. Thus, when you’re drunk, they’re fun party tricks. And Carolina loved to do her aerials. Since I could shake my ass, we soon had guy friends from these fraternities who would ASK us to come to their parties so the athletes would stay and dance. We had zero interest in hooking up with any of them, and went home with each other at the end of the night, but it was pretty fun. I guess I didn’t realize how notorious we were on campus at the time. 

I pieced it together playing cornhole with Carolina and her fiance when I visited them recently. I never felt any competition towards her, even with Zan, because I knew I would still have her. I don’t really feel competition towards women in general, because I never really had to “compete” against them. I played mostly male dominated sports, baseball and football, my teenage years. I switched to softball just to go to states one year, but none of the women I was close with ever felt like “competition”. I wanted them to win. If not me, then hopefully one of my friends who I knew and felt was actually a good person. 

I was raised to compete with men, not with women. I had “She’s the Man” to set the scene for me. 

When my competitive drive kicks in, it’s not even because I want to see myself win. 

It’s mainly because I want to see men lose

And I only do it if they get cocky. I avoid competition when possible, but I won’t shy away from it when it’s presented on a silver platter. And Carolina is one motherfucking hostess. 

We spent entire nights commanding the beer pong tables at fraternities, even betting men who wanted second or third attempts to defeat us into giving us the clothing off of their backs. This isn’t a joke, and it happened more than once. At several different fraternities. 

Carolina could drink her weight in alcohol, any kind, and I was always the more sober one, but damn were we a terrifyingly coordinated train wreck. Dancing was great because it burned off the otherwise “empty” calories, moving your body feels good, and it keeps you more “sober” (distracted). So we danced as we played, no matter who our opponents were, we were having fun because of each other. I have no doubt it was magnetic, alluring. 

Colleges often have rappers come to the fraternities, too. And if you’re pretty, you meet them all. (This isn’t a flex, and they’re easy to fuck so it’s more impressive to not expose yourself to the STD, but it is cool to point out.) We saw Troop 41 and did the John Wall, Afroman smoked weed in the room in front of us (I didn’t smoke yet, so I didn’t want to), only one of the Ying Yang Twins came to little frat court’s party because the other was in jail, my sister’s friend went back to Waka Flocka’s hotel room and claims they “didn’t” hook up to her fraternity boyfriend after her phone “died” and she slept over, this girl from UF used to talk about fucking G-Eazy like his name doesn’t have the word “easy” in it… you name it. 

Carolina and I did all this and experienced college together, having each other’s backs. I’ve never particularly cared what people I didn’t respect thought of me, and I think that was good for Carolina, who had somewhat tried to assimilate. She’s the Aubrey Plaza of my life, and I love her for it. I think, as similar to a “cat” as I may be (when you first meet me at least…she’s a cat person, so naturally she loved me) that I’m actually a golden retriever in our friendship (and her fiance is the golden retriever of her soon-to-be marriage). We both love her so much we just like spending time together.  

We created a “Battleshots” game and can no longer fathom the smell of Raspberry burnette’s because the handle we got made me completely hate vodka for a while there. (I’d bet every single group of college girls has one particular burnette’s flavor that they HATE.)

We spent weeks going through a kleptomaniac phase. Many girls go through this. It’s the inherent desire around being able to talk your way out of something. We never did it to anyone other than men, and to be fair it started because someone took Carolina’s jacket out of a fraternity and as the last girls there, we ended up going home with a much nicer black jacket by “God’s fate”. So when I got my new and properly functioning TI-84 for physics out of the Chi Psi library while Carolina did an aerial into a bookcase (distraction) and bruised her hip, we just took it as a sign from fate that we went a step too far and calmed the antics.

The boys on our (my) dorm’s floor actually made it a game to see if we could steal their shit. GREAT for us, by the way. Also easy pickings. We waited until they were asleep, knowing they never locked their doors, and took all their shit while they were laying there alone. They dared us to, they couldn’t complain. 

Don’t engage in competitions you aren’t willing to lose next time. 

We also once spent an entire night going around and telling people it was her 20th birthday and we needed 20 articles of clothing. We made out for some of the items, but men taking off their boxers and handing them to us was just a power trip all around. The ease of it.

We walked home with arms loaded.

On the topic of Chi Psi—that poor fraternity. One time we showed up (it wasn’t a costume party but we were coming from one elsewhere) in feathered bras with whipped cream canisters, went to their dance floor, just gave people random shots of whipped cream and left when they were empty. 

We had entire RANDOM fraternity composites in our dorm room over two miles away because we’d walk home. We’d just walk into random houses we didn’t even like drinking or partying at (usually because of the general awareness and forewarnings from women that you’d get QB sneaked) and take them.

We ended up giving them back and making sure they were safe, it was just fun for us to make the men feel somewhat uncomfortable and to eventually find out it wasn’t rivalry between the adjacent house, it was two unaffiliated mayhem wreckers. 

Chaos is a ladder and we were monkeys in a barrel forming our own.

My sister once visited UNC her senior year of high school when I was trying to make running happen (I didn’t go out because of a meet and wanting to not drink most of that year), and I woke up to her and Carolina snickering to themselves, bringing home handfuls of items and 3 fraternity composites which are ~4’ long frames. It was hilarious (at the time). 

The fraternity I was later sweetheart of had a guy who had hooked up with my sister that same weekend & waited for YEARS of friendship to tell me. Honestly, I was just glad that guy hadn’t thought it was me because my sister and I look like identical twins. I also pieced together that “little Asian Alvin’s” shoes (the way his brothers referenced him), which Carolina had borrowed to walk home in, was the Alvin I re-met years later in pharmacy school. 

One time Carolina and I walked into a fraternity’s cocktail party and the president, who was apparently sober, ended up offering to drive us home so he knew we’d get back safely. (AKA so he knew we wouldn’t return later that night.) I sent his fraternity a thank you card and they read it at chapter. Sorry to my friend Joe who the brothers found out lived on my floor.

It’s a tough world out here for us women, sober guys who take you home and don’t try to get anything from you while you’re blacked out are a rarity these days, and I wanted him to know I appreciated it.

Don’t tell me those attempts to get me into etiquette classes didn’t come in handy.

The first cocktail we went to, I found out I was invited on because the guy “thought I was innocent” (huge turn off, I obviously left with Carolina and don’t know why this guy thought that because I had TEETH MARKS on my neck from wrestling guy who I had met literally the night before and he asked what it was). Whilst crossing the street, leaving the party and making a dramatic, impromptu departure, Carolina stumbled, fell, and gave herself a black eye. It was nothing, though, we’ve both had much worse from gymnastics. On the P2P on the way home, she had her eyes covered and hair over her face like the girl from The Grudge she likes so much, and people kept asking if she was about to puke and I was so disinterested I’d tell them to mind their damn business and she was fine. I was loyally protecting her and preventing her from having to explain herself.

We’d go out, and she’d get drunk, but this girl was DEDICATED to her education. I got a facebook message one morning to bring her shoes to campus, because she walked from the house she slept over (again, virgin until now fiance, hadn’t really even touched a penis, just liked to make out a lot) and went to her 8 am class in the dress she wore out BAREFOOT because she couldn’t find her shoes. But fuck missing a class. (She had a 4.0 and is insanely smart.)

We’ve had other gal pals through the years but few who were equally loyal or didn’t feel insecure over our own bond that they really stuck around. (We’ve kept friends separately, but one or both of us have typically had “fallings out” (or just grew distant) with most of our other friends from this period who were the same age at least.) And I loved Carolina so much I didn’t even care about taking the “fall” for her, ever. No way would I ever sell her out.

I’m a real ride or die bitch, I just have anxiety so I might ask some questions about where we’re riding to.

I have no doubt it was a hard dynamic to feel confident in, but that’s not on us. We go out of our way to include, it’s just hard to keep up, and not everyone needs to be on the exact same tornado path of cyclonic havoc. 

One girl, who I knew from track, but who our swim team friends, track, club gym, and cheerleading teammates knew as “the girl who lied to so many of their teammates and slept with SO many people that she didn’t know what “loyalty” or “healthy” behavior was” and who, even with the slut shaming culture, there is no excusing how this girl would befriend all the women and then SEEK OUT to fuck their boyfriends or purposefully set sights in the males they were interested in and somehow thought we still owed her any kindness…? No. I mean I guess thank you for showing everyone that “not all men…but a lot of men” are shitty and didn’t deserve them? She had a threesome with two of my friends who are married now and tried to commit suicide and blamed it on my friend and her boyfriend. I know NOW that it’s mental health issues, but I watched two friends who were happy together, who are now married and have a wonderful life together, get blamed very publicly for someone else’s own insecurities–and the attempt to make other people feel bad about stuff they have no need to, their own happiness, is NOT the way to go about it. 

Carolina actually helped me realize that you could be an alcoholic and never be aggressive towards others. As drunk as she got, she never verbally or physically attacked me like my siblings had. We were idiots, but she loved me and I spoke her language (even at her drunkest–you know how moms can understand their toddler babbles?) and we always had each other’s backs.

So when this same aforementioned girl heard a rumor that I said she had chlamydia (it was Carolina, really, and Carolina didn’t SAY she had chlamydia, she remarked on how many of our mutual friends realized she lied to them prior to fucking them and was a pathological nymphomaniac who to this day does the same thing and has been engaged several times, and how lucky they were they hadn’t gotten chlamydia since they weren’t CAREFUL OR PRACTICING SAFE SEX), did I care to correct her? Absolutely not. I did not give a fuck if she thought I said it, and if it kept her from directing her anger to Carolina who am I to correct her? She got kicked off of every team because of “the drama” she caused with her teammates (which is pretty shitty for her because her coaches saw sexual promiscuity and removed her access to a regular sporting outlet and ability to “perform”). Sports Psychology really needs to step up its game and NCAA athletes, especially those who leave toxic home environments for perhaps the FIRST TIME, need access to resources and coaching staff who are aware of the reasons for behavior. And we shouldn’t punish people for it by further removing healthy forms of support. At the same time, there’s only so much empathy I can have when she befriended us then did the exact same thing to us (with Zan, actually). I know we have “savage” culture and whatnot, but our other friends from these teams KNEW that we saw her at practice and would ask us about the details she’d tell them and the spider web of made up stories was just phenomenal, truly. 

Don’t expect people who owe you no loyalty to lie for you. 

Don’t expect to lie and for it to not catch up to you, either.

This is why I don’t shy away from the dark. People are not “universally good”. Any suggestion otherwise is frankly, idiotic. Unrealistic. Unreasonable. I’m sure I will be answering for things I do the rest of my life. Women in power have to step down for revenge porn leaks of their nudes, yet senators and house reps can support and encourage an insurrection and remain instilled. I’d like to change that narrative. I refuse to be afraid of the story that created me. I can only go in with the best intentions and work on learning to frame my communication in a way that is ultimately beneficial and constructive to learning for the rest of my life. Sometimes that means overlooking the short term satisfaction, or “likeability”, and prioritizing long term reward. Sometimes that means reminding yourself that, as viewers, listeners, and onlookers, you don’t and may not be privy to the entire story. You don’t and can’t possibly understand all of the interwoven details. Maybe you impulsively jump the gun, project, get triggered over things you would’ve done differently without reminding yourself that you are different.

This realization was actually a tough reality for me recently, related to Strider, because something finally “clicked” and I realized I was expecting him to communicate in the way that I communicate instead of listening and perceiving what he was saying, knowing who he is, and communicating and learning together. 

It’s hard to figure out how to frame some of my life because of the difficulties in establishing a pseudonym, obscuring details that really prevent anyone outside of save maybe a handful of people who ACTUALLY know the private details (already) from being able to identify. I think this is when it’s important to step into nature and remind yourselves of how small humanity is in the grand scheme of “the Earth”. We are but a blip on the timeline. Pretending otherwise is egocentric. Why are we not using the little time we do have to positively influence the world–which you can’t do by pretending only the positives exist. That’s not what beneficial change is.

And how can you work towards change by denying the existence of the reality you want to change?

If the end goal and a pillar of education is to use the anecdotal narratives to highlight the cultural framework of these stories, how can I possibly avoid the topics that mean the most to me. I won’t slip rose colored glasses or a filter onto the realities of life. Rafiki damn told us “the past can hurt, but you can either learn from it or run from it” and most of society is so afraid of accountability that they won’t have these discussions, they’re avoiding them and just want to “move on”, or they associate negative repercussions with learning (because Albert Einstein was the one who said “it is a miracle that curiosity survives formal education” and the people who need access to the education the most are likely those who associate formal education with “failure” of variety, or “struggle”.) And people undeniably care a lot less without tailoring it for their entertainment value. I don’t really think we have the time or I have the energy to sugar coat who I am or what has shaped me, and I naturally speak just like I write. Satirical cynicism is second nature, by now.

I don’t want to be afraid of that. 

I don’t want to have to hide it. To be scared of its perception. 

HUMANITY IS A ZOO (39:19)

I view humanity in the way I view the Earth. (This perception has insurmountably helped my social anxiety reintegrating now that I’m fully vaccinated.) I attribute humanity to a simultaneous parallel to the entity of the biodiversity kingdom. So many species, changes, and markings. Are they venomous or poisonous? Is their natural predisposition aggression or are they gentle? Maybe some species are invasive and just not meant to intermingle. “Christianity” is arguably an invasive species in the USA, along with the entity of indigenous cultures globally because of its ties to colonialist expansion, so maybe viewing certain individuals and theories, not racial groups, in similar lighting is important for framing mentality. Humans can migrate–why else do we have travel developed in the way that we do. We need to accept and prepare and enable that safely, without condemning the so called “invasive” species that might’ve been dropped off by a jackass who thought a cute baby tiger would be a pet like the stuffed animals he was bought as a child, property to own, versus treating it like the whole ass spiritual entity that animals, mammals, and humans, are?

Humanity is weird, and this viewpoint may be weird (and historically has been used to justify racism), but evolutionary anthropology, much like the biological science work of Jane Goodall, studies animals to learn more about humans. It studies the historical context and development of the species. Approaches it with openness. 

Everything we “know” about humanity is ultimately just things we’ve collectively agreed “make sense”. Our language–just made up sounds that we share a mutual understanding around. The way we view the world is a long collection of knowledge regarding people, places, times, and interactions with the natural environment.

We study animals, plants, bacteria to learn ways to make sense of the world around us and ultimately explain humanity in relation to the rest of the world. We use echolocation and sonar based technologies in part because we observe and see how other species communicate. And that’s the reason our military intellect is so prestigious. It’s based on communication. So why have we overinflated the most competitive, alpha predator mentalities over embracing collaboration and love. Don’t make me start talking about bonobos and chimpanzees again, I hate thinking of anyone from Duke outside of a healthcare context.

I know ya’ll are like “this motha fucker is such a typical Aquarius” and maybe my connection to nature is just so strong that I’ve grown up loving and appreciating the various species, climates, terrain, and am just happy to learn what they have to teach me. I told someone I was spending my days soaking up the sun like the cold blooded reptile I am (or Sheryl Crow) and they were like “you’re so hard on yourself”–which is ONLY the case if you associate reptiles and being cold blooded with negativity? (There’s a place and environment for those, too, by the way. They’re quite useful and helpful.) It’s a fucking joke. I WAS happily and contently just tanning without thinking twice or viewing myself or mentality negatively. So annoying. 

Back to Carolina. (42:28)

Carolina might’ve been a shit show, but DAMN that girl was a champ.

She was a virgin until her current fiancé. I actually threw her a party when she had sex, complete with a card from Harris Teeter with a gold fist bump that said “pow” on it. Her fiancé told me he felt so proud of it and I said, “why… it had NO relation to you. It had EVERYTHING to do with her. It literally could have been anyone and I would’ve gotten her that regardless, because for HER, it was big.” She was arguably terrified of penii prior to him, and we even questioned whether she had repressed childhood memories (or if it was just good ole catholic guilt)— something I think a lot of women, especially, worry about.

And Carolina didn’t fuck with consent. That woman would march out of bars at the end of the night, unwilling to go home “empty handed”, choose a guy she thought was attractive, even if he was outside near the bus stop, go home, make out, turn on The Grudge (to “ruin the mood”), and just snuggle. She never wanted to fuck them, she wanted the company.

She’d always be there to remind me to “keep homeboy purely slampiece”

(I would never listen, unfortunately. Which is why I now literally don’t hook up or cross physical boundaries with anybody unless I’m interested in the idea of dating. Just not something I can do personally.)

I actually felt bad when I finally agreed to try smoking weed junior year, because Carolina had tried to get me to do it for EVER. Instead, I let my junior year boyfriend teach me in front of the fraternity I would later be sweetheart of, via a 2 foot bong. I’d done edibles in her presence, at least.

I’ve gone to every single familial event—her sister’s wedding, her mom’s second wedding, beach house extended family vacations. My mom got remarried privately, at the courthouse, and texted my siblings and I a group chat to inform us, so it was nice to have the opportunity to experience my “other mom” actually having a wedding. Her fiancé recognized how integrated I was into her family when I knew almost every person at her mom’s second wedding, and not many had met him (they actually asked if he was my fiancé). I can never thank her enough for being the family and love that I always needed. I honestly don’t know what I would’ve done without her.

And there was a time period when things weren’t really “good”, you know. But that’s what love is. You are entitled to a support system, and it doesn’t make you a burden to need certain things from your loved ones. Carolina and I just so happened to need each other perfectly, reciprocally, and were lucky enough to find each other.

Carolina was and is my version of what love is.

And I know her fiance is right for her because he loves her just as much as I do, in his own, albeit similar, way. (He is the “Andy” To Carolina’s “April” if this was Parks and Rec.) When she was depressed, I provided the love that I hope she clung to, or was always aware of, in some of those moments.

When she couldn’t see her own light, she was still undeniably mine.

She made my life better just by existing. 

We talked recently about lack of representation in pop culture which never made her unique Spanish beauty feel appreciated and her morbidly dark, insanely smart brain being intimidating. Coupled with shyness, it was unapproachable in a lot of ways. (My own mom actually tries to say she wasn’t “cute” back in the 80’s and my mom was hot as fuck, I’m sure she was just too naive to pick up on the interest.) I created a space and partnership for Carolina to learn how to love herself, and I created an environment where my life would have been undeniably worse without her in it. Carolina set a precedent for the love I expected for true partnership in life, and I don’t mind waiting for the right balance because I know it exists, because of her. 

Carolina let me love her unconditionally, like a golden retriever for her own life. I didn’t mind being the more “sober” friend (I didn’t like drinking much anyways because of the alcoholism in my family), so she got to be the conductor of the hot mess express. (With this ass…I was clearly the caboose.) Of the few times I did black/brown out, which was infrequent, even for the amount we’d go out, she was always ready to care for me. We once took the private P2P rides home (a little bus that picks up college students like uber, but for free and through verified state employees) and she literally reached out and had me throw up into her HANDS, instead of onto the floor of the van, just so we wouldn’t be an inconvenience to anyone else but each other. (Tequila Tuesdays at the Library are not my friend and if your favorite alcohol is tequila you are DEFINITELY insane…in a good way. I can’t and never could stomach a single shot.) 

One time (which is not a good look on me), we were at her dad’s lake house and playing pool as a drinking game with 100 proof Captain Morgan. Every ball that was left on the table at the end of the game was a shot (or half a shot, or a sip, as games went on). Guess who, 1 game in, switched out her chaser with rum only for her to literally not notice. My bad on that. Her dad had a discussion about “drinking” the next day, because we’d gone upstairs and walked through the maze of taxidermied animals (he has an entire safari, he’s one of those big game hunter type of men and writes alien cyberfiction in his spare time… truly a curious dude and I’m not gonna penalize him for the society he grew up in because he IS dedicated to learning, but we have to make it easy to learn) and had a late night drunken convo with her stepsister. The next morning she also gave herself a fat lip and jumped into the lake off the dock to distract from the mess (prior to the talk).

She is a fucking tough ass chick, too. That “performing for love” piece I just released? She also did gymnastics–way better and way longer than I did. If it wasn’t your ankle or your back, you weren’t allowed to complain. Injuries didn’t exist. Gymnastics teaches you how to eat shit in ways that won’t hurt you.

At my dorm freshman year, I once watched her sprint, chasing a guy from my floor along the hallway across the opening where the basketball court was. (Picture a giant “X” shaped building whose corridors with 4 rooms/1 bathroom each have doors that face outwards and hallways open to the air except for a sturdily high, thick railing.) As fast as she was, I, in complete terror, unable to do anything, watched her body tilt forward, falling towards the ground, only for her to seamlessly transition into a forward roll and continue chasing him like nothing had happened. 

One time, to her dismay (and my unmatched enjoyment) I hacked the facebooks of her and her best friend from highschool, a man, and set them to be “in a relationship”. She got over 500 likes from everyone in Charlotte who knew them and ALL of the comments were like “we knew it!” “congrats!” hahahahahahahahahahaha. It was her most “liked” facebook post ever.

She would stay over at the wrestling guy’s house just so I could hang out with him, and meet his friends, with company. I literally woke up to texts one day of her telling me his best friend, who she slept downstairs in the living room on the couches with, was just farting in his sleep the whole night. We wouldn’t even ask these guys for a ride back, the 2 mile walk up a HUGE HILL the next day, because

we would just walk with each other and were determined to be codependent independent women.

We treated each other like we were in a relationship, because, in a way, we were.

Friendships ARE relationships

and Carolina and I both value loyalty above all. We are weird as hell (a sentiment, which, the biggest difference between myself and that dear sweet fiancé of hers is that he thinks it is an insult when I reference myself as being “weird”, because he tries to “apologize” and say “no you’re not” when I claim I’m weird and I have to remind him that being weird or unique or strange isn’t a negative…sweet, sweet man.) and I think Carolina and I provided each other the knowledge and stability that someone was capable of loving you for who you honestly were.

I told my internet pal Nikki I am the “hospice of life”, which I attribute to my time working in end-of-life care for terminal head & neck and thoracic cancer at MD Anderson a few years ago (or my several near death experiences and my childhood functioning to watch and be the home health aides for my grandparents). I want to make every day my best day possible, whatever that means, for however long I have left. Because it might not be my decision when or how it ends, but it is my decision to make every moment until then work for me.

And Carolina shows me the same type of love. Perhaps most of all, she shows me the type of love that I need. The freedom to bloom, to grow, to be free. Embracing who somebody is without wanting or needing them to change, and just loving them in whatever form they show up in that day. A common sentiment that overlaps with yoga in a lot of ways, now that I think about it.  I recognized I needed to look for love and partnership in ways that overlap with the way my friendships work. And I realized the handful of men that I’ve spiritually connected with, who I can imagine enjoying a life with, remind me of her, much like her fiance reminds her of me in a few ways. 

I won’t “settle” for love until it can mirror the love for another’s soul in the way that my friendships offer me the opportunity to love and grow. I’ve never thought twice about whether or not I was capable of it. I’m a phenomenal nanny, the best dog mom, and just overall super loving beneath the scathing commentary and to those who know me privately. And knowing “my people” are out there on this floating space rock with me is pretty miraculous. It’s okay if you’re not born into love, or if you need a different type of love than your biological family can provide. You’ll find those people. Maybe it’ll be through the internet and sounds absurd because you’ve never met each other and the other person could be a 300 pound dude named Chuck who lives in his mom’s basement like this is Ready Player One, or maybe you’ll get lucky and you’ll meet your people right away. Either way, you must never give up hope. Look at me, getting all Star Wars on you. 

Alright that’s enough love and emotion for the day. Have a wonderful week.

Hope you think of me if you pray in church towards a half naked man draped across an altar and it fucks you up. I’ll be getting down to Lil Nas X’s music video in the meantime.

Not the second cumming of Christ you wanted,
but the second cumming of Christ you got.

Love is real. Toodles.

Performing for Love

Survival Mode
Performing for Love
Loading
/

CHILDHOOD

If Disney Channel taught me anything growing up, it’s that I knew to anticipate my parent’s conflation of their previously failed and now second chance at a career or dream manifesting its way into my own life and I would certainly have to dramatically break free. All of those “it’s not my dream, dad, it’s yours” Zac Efron bullshit? Ya. 

So if anyone wants to give me shit for enjoying the art of “performance”, please direct your attention to the talent show at Mary H. Matula Elementary school when I was in third grade where I sang “The Star Spangled Banner” in a fuzzy blue sweater and red velvet skirt, both from Limited Too. Beginning the performance in dedication to my grandfather, a 3 time war veteran whose career for the U.S. Army involves testifying to congress and intelligence briefings in the Pentagon. Accompanied by my grandmother, whose pianist and organ skills were utilized at virtually every religious congregation in the area as well as providing the orchestral production to the local theatre during musicals. Obviously, I fucking won. I’ve known how to emotionally manipulate a crowd my entire life. I think we can all agree that wasn’t MY idea, either. I had wanted to learn the dance from the end of The Lizzie McGuire movie that Hilary and Haylie Duff performed with my best friend Shelby but nooooooo, that wasn’t “talent show material”. 

So sit back, keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times, strap in, and enjoy the ride of this shit show. 

Back to parents using their children to live vicariously through–Let’s consider “sports” as a whole. How many parents, my own included, view sports as an “investment” instead of a healthy outlet for the natural human behavior of “competition”. Fuck “functional fitness” as a concept in childhood. 

Instead, we convince ourselves that children are just naturally predisposed to need so much fucking outlets for their aggression, focus, and drive that they WANT to be screamed at for 3 hours a day, 6 days a week in the pseudo-military, physique development training that is competitive gymnastics. I grew up in the fucking 90’s, too. My parents were riding HARD on that Olympics Team USA dream. Simone Biles was asked why she didn’t smile and she said “smiling doesn’t win gold medals” and people were like “oh that’s adorable, how cute” then a few months later we found out she’d been sexually molested by her trainer, along with hundreds of other athletes, for YEARS.

Gymnastics literally operates as a way to funnel children, but especially young women, out of the “general populace” and into excessive athletic competitions that essentially require you to use performance to justify abuse. We’re not like “oh shit, maybe this is a new method of child labor. There’s no way this is healthy.” Instead, we just sit there and go “Yuuuuuppp. Abuse and performing for love is the norm. It’ll be worth it. Gotta sacrifice everything if you actually want it”–without asking why the fuck we’re requiring children (and their parents) to realize you’re only THAT driven if you don’t have other outlets for creative and artistic expression as well as emotional catharcism. 

Now, I bring this up because as I approach my 30’s, and the unsolicited advice from older men on Seeking Arrangements remind me that “my looks won’t last forever” (no shit, dude… that’s when I’ll rely more heavily on my MULTIPLE STEM DEGREES), I have hit a rather unfortunate realization that having once run 85 miles a week, and playing multiple sports a season for YEARS, and the sheer amount and brutality of CONTACT sports, including gymnastics and football, does not bode well for my long-term physical health in a for-profit healthcare system. I have put my body through HELL. I will likely need a double hip replacement before I’m even 40. Can’t wait. 

Before quarantine, I was under the impression that I had a great body because of all the workouts. Now, after ~a year of limited physical activity (save yoga), I’ve realized it’s the cPTSD that keeps me in a state of hypervigilance and in constant fight or flight mode 24/7. Yippee! 

… Ya’ll can laugh but I’d prefer to be transparent simply because of the unrealistic standards for women’s bodies in the media, the exploitation of the beauty (and plastic surgery) industries capitalizing off women’s insecurities without requiring anything even remotely resembling mental health care and utterly lacking consumer protections, and the desire for people in the USA to get a “quick fix” for everything, thinking “treatment” of various forms will be a “solution” (particularly for such insecurities). 

Back to my childhood—

Let’s look at a few key moments in sporting, performance, and healthcare history that *likely* impacted the way I view the world:

When I was in kindergarten, I broke my foot for the first time by being pushed out into the fireman’s pole area on the playground, falling straight down (without holding onto the pole), and landing “Indian-style” (a VERY outdated term. Criss cross applesauce, crosslegged, etc) on the ground. I cried, and despite only being in kindergarten, learned a difficult life lesson which is that women’s pain will constantly be undermined and overlooked under the assumption they are being “dramatic” (a common trope in medicine, even). My teacher would not even let me call my mom. I had broken 3 bones and had to wait for the end of the school day. 

Once in gymnastics, before I quit because I would literally come home crying, hated my coaches, and begged my mom to let me stop (I loved the workouts, just not the “ALL COMPETITION MODE ALL THE TIME”), I ran full speed at a vault, just failed to jump on the springboard, and completely annihilated myself at full speed. Could’ve easily broken a rib, had the wind knocked out of me, tried to go hug my mom who was seated with the other parents next to the runway, and instead got pushed back onto it, BY MY OWN MOTHER WHOSE COMFORT I WAS SEEKING, because “you’re gonna get DQ’ed”.

A few years later, on the first day of a 4 day horse competition at a location called “Fair Hill”–which hosts huge overnight eventing shows–one of the horses I was walking STOMPED on my foot. I believe (if I remember correctly) that this was not the same foot I had already broken. Nope! The opposite one. Luckily, I broke a few bones on this side too–even things out a little neurologically, ya know. Did my mom believe me? Nope. Not at all. I was told to “suck it up” because people were depending on me. 

The conflation of sports with financial success, the ability to skirt capitalism and corporate working environments, and utilizing sports as a way of paying for what would otherwise be an unaffordable and inaccessible college is a dangerous game for children. Children are not seen as a decision brought into this world by two (sometimes more) loving parents who just want to provide a human with love and care. 

Children themselves become investments. Property.

By the time middle school even came around, my parents were fucked. To nobody’s fault but their own. They had raised me to be a soldier. I performed for love and the necessity to compete ALL THE TIME and to be the best, or at least your best, ALL THE TIME was solidified. Who could blame them, though? I was good at everything. They were just funneling outlets for it to me left and right. It probably had something to do with my own creative-as-fuck mom stayed at home, raised me on a farm, and then I had the musculoskeletal development through gymnastics. 

So what is the point that I’m getting at? I’m not “mad” at my parents. My sharing these stories is never with the intention of punishing them (at least not for my mom. Truthfully… I do not give a flying fuck about my biological father’s feelings.) It is, however, to reflect on the reality of the societal conditions I was raised in. Conditions that were and remain actively encouraged within the capitalist framework of our society with little to no well organized and developed social support programs. 

I have to actively AVOID competition now. I had to LEARN how to empathize. 

And when you’re raised by parents and BOTH of them were raised by family serving in World War II, one having a U.S. Army career and the other being NYPD law enforcement, you don’t really get a “soft” childhood. You get taught to be tough. Arguably, you’re doing the bare minimum of teaching–helping your children survive. 

You teach them to excel. To win. As is the only acceptable outcome in the USA–particularly backed by generations of teachings regarding dominance in all forms–land, sea, space, olympic.

And I undeniably rose to the challenge. 

But at what cost? 

For years my competitive drive was flaunted. It was rewarded, positive reinforcement’s finest. I kept winning, at everything. I’d switch into and pick up a new sport as I got bored, or competition was limited in the other outlets. In truth, I was probably a bit of a terror. I KNOW I wasn’t always the nicest teammate. Granted, I was there to work. To be respectful. To commit. To honour that commitment. To prove my worth with every practice, game, match, competition, whatever. 

And as long as I kept winning, my parents were doing something right. Their community success, their own value, resided in the way I “turned out”. Because fuck the concept of loving your children for whoever they actually are. For providing them enough emotional support, love, and quality time to actually be mentally balanced. They had to win, to earn, respect, love, and admiration at every step. They had to harness that drive, that conflict, that inner turmoil and channel it into competitive outlets because they had no control or ability to hold power within their home. 

Side note–My own biological father is so fucking delusional over who I am that he actually believes I didn’t want him to get married. I honestly could not give two shits if he is married or not. I simply did not care to invest in a relationship with a stepmom or step siblings when I had and wanted ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to do with him. I also just couldn’t afford to fly out to his wedding, when he chose “Hawaii” for “the convenience of HER children”, when I was in grad school and had a combined total of $2,000 to support myself for rent and food after my tuition was paid. I worked for my apartment complex, had an etsy, and STILL struggled but sure let’s make it clear you didn’t think about and don’t care if your own daughter attends your wedding then call her “unreasonable” and a “brat”. I have worked during every vacation I’ve been on, had free lodging, couch surfed, etc. so I could still travel, but how unaware of the reality do you have to be to label your daughter as “emotionally manipulative”, beginning in middle school, just because she doesn’t like or respect the person you are and makes that clear. 

For years I walked right past him, sitting glued to his computer screen or watching the same reruns of “A League of Our Own”, “Revenge of the Nerds” (which literally includes a rape scene he’d laugh at), and “The Sandlot” for hours when he came home from work, just to ran away ALL THE TIME. He literally never once realized I didn’t come back inside, or upstairs. He was nonexistent as a father for at least a decade of my life when I lived with him. He DID, however, show up to my sporting events. Ready to cheer me on and take all the credit for MY successes publicly. At my graduations, my friends have told me how he turned the conversation to himself, and to the many “sacrifices” he made for me over the years and how “proud” he was–while doing absolutely nothing to actually assist me in those achievements. Not even very basic or regular communication. It’s easy to sit there, cheering for and by someone when they’re winning. That isn’t what makes you a good parent. I do not need your applause. 

For years, I was the recipient of public endorsement after public endorsement, only to be criticized, to analyze and review my mistakes, to be punished behind the scenes. My perfectionism is the product of the environment I was raised in. An environment that was undeniably unhealthy, but even though I am now tasked with a life journey of remembering those moments, of relearning a way to be “healthy”, of figuring out how to finally be comfortable accepting help (and even being able to ask for it). Of not even having biological familial support for that because my parents had children to fill a gap in their lives and marriage and relationship without understanding or comprehending the world they were raising those children in. Without trying to understand them, or their world, because it contradicts their own.

Since excellence was expected, it quickly lost its glamour. Trophies don’t mean shit when you win one every weekend. National merit awards are weightless. Academic scholarships and college offers piled up. I was rewarded by society for pretending like my inner turmoil and unhappiness didn’t exist. For escaping and finding mental peace for everything that could keep me away from home. Competition gave me that. But why did I need it? 

I loved competing so much that I hated NOT competing my freshman year of college and set out determined to “actually” try (in track) so I could walk on to my collegiate team. I realized I had no interest in gymnastics again–my shoulder surgeries offered limited trust in the likelihood that I wouldn’t tear or break something again, but running was a feasible goal. After all, with enough time, anyone can systematically get better at it. It’s basic physiology, biomechanics. It’s cheap, free–you just lace up your shoes and go. It allowed me to reintegrate myself within the woods, exist in my natural state–free, moving, earthly. 

I went from partying 6 nights a week and drinking alcohol for the first time one year to working my way up to an easy 85 miles a week of SOLO distance training around Chapel Hill completely self-motivated. 

The endorphins kept me happy. My body was used to needing them in such high quantities after years of sports. Elle Woods was right–happy people don’t kill their husbands, or the other men who wrong them. They channel their frustration into physical performance and everything else just kind of melts away. 

So what do we do in the USA, when levels of anxiety and depression surpass The Great Depression? When long working hours and the necessity to be productive 24/7 are driving hard working individuals to their deaths and they’re convinced it makes them more valuable than others they look down on (so it feels “worth it”) because they perceive one’s circumstances and opportunities to be the same without awareness. When 25-35% of Americans are inactive, yet many more lack the space, resources, money, and safety to feel secure in exercise? Did you know that for women (and any other sexual assault survivors), it often feels safer to be heavier in weight. You may be catcalled less. You might command less attention if you float subtly as a wallflower. You feel safer, harder to kidnap.

Why have we created an environment, a society, a country where people have to have marathon endurance of energy, of mental strength, just to feel valued, seen, and heard within society? 

Why do we embrace an environment that makes you beg for worth, for love, for acceptance, and then wonder why it isn’t fulfilling? 

Why do we then ridicule, ostracize, and beat down those with moments of clarity–those who look around and question “why”. 

To what avail? 

Why do we exhaust their fuel tanks and then berate them for being empty? 

COLLEGIATE CAREER (15:25)

Part of the draw of sports was it offered my parents the opportunity to not have to pay for college. College got exorbitantly expensive. Both of my parents had scholarships, so they just anticipated that we would also and then they’d “figure out the rest”. They’d go on to take out loans (in our names), with money that never went to our own personal bank accounts, then set certain expectations for where and when our money would be given to us. 

I had to run track, because otherwise I was required to get a job. My parents never let me work in high school, outside of the summers, and I’ve discussed how the financial coercion allowed me to remain in more than one unhealthy relationship–the allure of presents I could never afford on my own was too appealing to pass up or break up with. 

Even the jobs I did get, my dad essentially forced me to take. I umpired beginning in middle school–his personal favorite, despite hating having to make the power calls, throwing adults out of 10U REC LEAGUE SOFTBALL GAMES WHEN I WAS 13 YEARS OLD. I hated bending over behind home plate as a crowd of boys from the ballpark watched behind me–clearly, awkwardly, and albeit somewhat innocently, fantasizing about me without connecting how physically uncomfortable I was inside. I didn’t really have a choice to care, though. I was expected to take the games (it was good money, there weren’t enough female umpires), I was going to be at the ballpark anyways (my dad was umping on other fields, we needed the money for all of our activities), and these were innocent boys who had childhood crushes on me–they weren’t expected to treat me with respect or fully abide by MY boundaries (a sentiment an unfortunate amount of men still embrace). 

In college, he genuinely thought I’d enjoy working at the local baseball stadium, dancing on the dugouts in between innings. I never enjoyed being forced to be an entertainer. Even if I was naturally good at it. I didn’t and shouldn’t have needed a second job for $7.25 minimum wage, when in reality he just wanted an excuse to be at that fucking ball field. I was standing on dugouts in short little khaki shorts, dancing to “Sweet Caroline” and “Cotton Eyed Joe”, plastering a glowing smile across my face, laughing on cue, and ignoring the sexually suggestive commentary of the washed up 40 year olds clinging to their love of baseball who would stand in the dugout so they could get the best view of my ass–all things women are trained to do our whole lives. My father universally thinks everyone seeks out the same power and limelight that he craves would come easy to him, and in doing so, he created a Frankenstein’s monster a la me, the eldest daughter. 

He no longer gets a choice in how or why or when I “perform” any longer. 

So fuck ‘im. 

Looking back, I find it hard, if not downright IMPOSSIBLE, to believe my biological father, a man who flaunts his intelligence, his financial prowess and awareness, and his ego, wouldn’t have been able to understand that, had he just divorced my mother when they stopped loving each other, we would’ve all gotten almost 100% of financial aid, because of her teacher salary, and I don’t really sympathize with anyone who uses the “but he paid for your college” trope because college was an expectation in my family and they specifically raised us knowing they would pay for it. I’m not going to apologize for being a national freak in high school and having the opportunity to literally go anywhere I wanted. 

In reality, my father prevented the divorce until he was ready to leave the community (and had a reason to physically move away) so he could control his public image to the best of his ability. He tells anybody that will listen these days how my mom cheated on him. Mind you, that very boss at that baseball stadium once asked me if he and my friend’s mom with giant fake boobs, perfect hair, and a Marilyn Monroe style body ever had an affair. My boss was the older sister of one of my brother’s baseball teammates almost his ENTIRE life. The woman she referenced had overlapped on almost every team with my brother. My dad can go fuck himself about my mom being the reason the marriage didn’t work.

He also tells people I “faked my PTSD and car accident for attention”, which is conveniently his way of discrediting the validity of my claims lest they ever negatively impact him. 

Women who are “hysterical” have historically been quite easy to keep submissive, subservient, quiet. 

I have no interest in ever being one of them. 

My parents never visited my siblings or I at school, outside of SAVE the rare holiday, or a sporting event. There were no “surprise” visits, or even care packages. 

My brother, the eldest, went to the University of South Carolina and walked onto their baseball program, the same program that went back-to-back-to-back College World Series finals. They won back-to-back national championship titles. Half of his teammates were drafted into the MLB. He took batting practice with Bryce Harper when he visited his brother. He found money–he was technically a “student manager”, as even with 91 games a season, the majority of D1 NCAA baseball only uses one catcher and the bullpen catcher position worked out well for skirting NCAA rules about paying students and not “technically” expanding your roster. He found fame–athletes, especially National Championship baseball athletes, were celebrities on college campuses. He found support–my dad would visit him just to be able to go to the games, talk to him in the bullpen, share “the love of the game”. (My dad went to Embry Riddle, so even though he played AAA ball for the Yankees feeder team over the summer, he never had the opportunity to play in college.) 

I never was able to earn that “official” roster spot, either, during my time at UNC, but the only time my dad DID visit my school was when I was running at track meets. Or for graduations. Otherwise, there was no reason to be there. To be supportive. It was an unnecessary hassle to see me. 

Yet, I’m to blame for “the joy of achievement” being a fundamental pillar of my ENTJ mentality? You know children are shaped by their genetics and environment, right? Both of which have everything to do with my parents and nothing capable of being controlled by me?

Again, I don’t necessarily “blame” my family for this. 

My parents both grew up under the context of military drafts, constant warfare, tension, and stress. Their fathers arguably could never fully take off their uniforms–how could you? Discipline comes naturally, and both of their own mothers were just as strict. They went to college, hours away from their parents, and travel wasn’t as feasible, affordable, or accessible. People wrote letters, they didn’t text. You sat in silence and learned how to survive on your own. How else were you expected to grow? 

Teaching your children to know they can’t depend on you, emotionally, mentally, physically, and then wondering why they’re hyper independent shouldn’t be so confusing. 

From a VERY young age, I was taught that my pain, my mind, my soul, would be ignored. In more ways than one.

I was taught to “suck it up”. To “move on”. In part, largely because there was no other option. 

When I started therapy my junior year of college, after a horrendous break up that left me unable to cope or function with any resemblance to humanity, it might’ve been the first time in my life that I had support from someone, an adult, who just wanted to learn more about me. Who wanted to learn more about why I do the things I do–not to judge, not for ulterior motives (save maybe some curiosity and also money), but to support and encourage my growth. I had someone who looked at me when I revealed things who would cry and watch me struggle for the words I needed without pressuring me to hurry up and find them. Someone who cared to listen. It only took me 21 years, and I feel like I got there a lot quicker than most Americans (lol, competitive nature, remember). How sad is that. 

I was desperate to make track work, even though I was forewarned and had my own nasty experience with the coaching staff. I hoped it would ease the financial burden I was to my parents. I hoped it would provide the structure and guidance I felt lost without. I wanted it to demonstrate my potential, my work ethic, my strength, mentally and physically, without requiring words. I never quite got the answers or validation from others that I sought, but I certainly found and prioritized myself over all of those miles. In truth, it didn’t end up mattering that the politics made me hate the formal premise of something I had learned to seek peace within, because I knew of the patterns of repetition, the mental clarity, the focus, the drive, that it took and that was enough.

SELF LOVE (24:13)

It makes me sad, in a way, how far humanity, particularly the bounds of “professionalism” within academia and the capitalist job industry, have skewed our purpose on this earth. Even the most kind hearted people worry about exposures over their public image. Exposures of seemingly innocuous human behavior well within the frame of “the norm” for our species–even if a particular conservative consensus portrays a fallacy of otherwise.

An old friend, who, if truth be told, was never really a “friend” to me (even if I thought they were my best friend for a few years) tried to blackmail me recently. In hindsight, and thanks to a reminder from my old therapist that “just because someone was a good friend in X context or Y year doesn’t mean they still benefit you”, it’s blatantly clear her own narcissism and “main character” syndrome has created an environment where she desperately grasps for control. I get it, though I don’t think I’ve ever particularly cared what people are saying about me, because I know my own integrity, character, and commitment to honor and honesty speaks far louder. 

Naturally, she texted my biological mother a link to this blog, framing her interest as a “concern” for my well being and wanting to know how my mother intended to “handle” me, a 28 year old woman. She threw a few threats in (in the same sentences she’d claim she was trying to handle it “like an adult”) like whether she should make her own blog and tell the world that my boyfriend in undergrad once mistakenly told me he was “clean” even though he had NEVER been tested for STD’s ever (Kansas and North Carolina…get your sex education together fucking now) and I got chlamydia. IDK…call me crazy but it seems a little disingenuous for someone about to start a surgical residency to stalk the private blogs of someone who has blocked them on all forms of social media and then try to socially shame them for sexually transmitted infections. Particularly in this modern age of healthcare. You have failed part of your training if that is the case. (I mean, she did fail part of her training but the current standards for med students are ridiculously paced, though that’s a separate discussion). 

…You’ve also failed the social norms of respecting any kind of boundaries. I’m allowed to reference the events in my life and people who shaped it and hold no allegiance to people who have sexually assaulted me when I shared a bed with them. I’m sure you thought I didn’t remember, since I never mentioned it and we remained friends, but you are a predator. And we don’t negotiate with terrorists over here in the U S of A baby. Kindly fuck off and out of my life and live your own without caring more about controlling your public perception than changing your private actions. Good luck.

Maybe that’s the hardest part for people to respect, or acknowledge…That those who you’ve interacted with do have their own stories–which might differ from you, or offer a striking contrast of perspective. But it seems ridiculous to expect them to be under an obligation of misplaced “loyalty” when you had none for them. 

I suppose if you’re obsessed with control this doesn’t strike you as weird. 

Personally, I’m not interested in power–I’m interested in the balance of it. I’m interested in the reciprocity of it. The fluidity and exchange of it. Mindful observation, communication, acknowledgment. There is power in knowledge, as Michelle Obama likes to remind us. Which is why the reciprocity of knowledge of my friends, the people in my life, matter most of all to me. I don’t want to be dominated by imbalances.

When you are motivated by serving others, it becomes so commonplace to put aside yourself and put the needs of others first that it takes a lot of time to re-learn this and not feel guilty for needing to express yourself in the way that you do. I’m reading “The Body Keeps the Score” and it’s incredibly validating about how I break down randomly crying in yoga, reminded of specific events with certain muscle activations, or how my own progress and recovery almost necessitates that I “shed” these events in ways that I feel are beneficial to creating conversation for a more important narrative. 

It is freeing, to speak on it. 

It is freeing, to allow myself to be who I am meant to be. 

I think I put up with a lot of unhealthy behavior, both in this “friendship” specifically and my previous relationships of variety (familial, dating, etc.) because I grew up in an environment that taught me to have unconditional love towards those who abused me. Physically, mentally, and emotionally. I tried setting boundaries, asking for space and things I needed, and they were ignored, downplayed, or frankly dismissed without care. I was a CHILD. Why is it that the burden fell and continues to fall on me to “drive it home”. 

I don’t want that kind of energy in my life any longer.

 It’s cancerous, so to speak. 

But to be who I’m meant to be, I also can’t hate myself or the events that got me here. I must speak on them, because they shaped me into who I am and trying to understand people, the community, life was my form of empathy and compassion when my abusers were calling ME the “narcissist” and “self involved”. Even after all of that, I’d forgive them because I loved them regardless. That’s not good, and that’s not healthy.

While on a walk with a good friend, someone I competed with on the Math team, who is a brilliant mind in STEM, I was reminded of the fact that when everything went wrong in my life, I clung to self love above all. Maybe that was my privilege. I was beautiful, skinny, blonde, and smart, but nowhere NEAR the “prettiest” (nor did I have the knack for fashion or the money) to be “popular”. I was athletic and good at any sport I wanted to try and was allowed to do (which I again contribute to hours of abusive coaching through muscular development). I was gifted in music, though I stopped publicly singing pretty early on because my brother would mock me for how much I loved it. I was smart at every subject, and loved to read and learn. I was enough, for myself. So when others mocked me, however true or false the words that they whispered or shared brazenly, I didn’t really care. I wish they wouldn’t. I didn’t enjoy it. But I knew it wasn’t a reflection of me. They had no meaning over who I was to myself, and that above all was the difference. 

My family has lost power over me, namely because I no longer respect or require the love of people who were seemingly incapable of loving ME. I find it tragic and pathetic that a child was framed as the “difficult” one for questioning her surroundings and that her parents only stopped their abuse when I got smart enough to threaten to call CPS. And instead of asking yourself why your child thought they needed law enforcement to protect their physical environment, you branded them as “difficult”. 

You said “every child runs away that young” when I was ~5 years old. Does every child pack a backpack after a particularly harsh disciplinary measure from their father, hide it in their closet, wait up ALL NIGHT and then sneak out in the early hours of the morning, crossing the dew covered grass barefoot, dragging my cat comforter, backpack slung over my shoulder, and DIABOLICALLY PLOT TO LEAVE WITH A DEFINITIVE PLAN? Then just LITERALLY NOT COME HOME FOR A WEEK until you’re forced to? Does every child not miss their family?

Maybe Disney’s Soul had it right and our personalities are decided for us long before we emerge into the physical realm. 

Maybe to some, even my own father, I AM the “manipulative megalomaniac who is intensely opportunistic”… but that’s Earth’s problem.

Or, maybe I’m just honest

Maybe my “weapons” of communication, my words, my writing are the way that I make sense of my world, because in reality they’ve been dismissed, for far too long.

I know the way I love myself can be matched because of the quality of my actual friendships. 

My best friend from undergrad lived with me all four years. We shared a room for 2 of those, practically, and still held sleepovers in the same bed when we needed the companionship. (#SapphoAndHerFriend). When she was depressed, because hormonal irregularities in women fucking suck and it’s our actual biology and can we please teach it and get universal healthcare for christ’s sake, I’d clean her room for her, and she’d let me, knowing it made me happy to be helpful and she didn’t have the energy or time to prioritize it. Her family took me on every family vacation, I’ve gone to every wedding, beach weekend, or just casual hang outs because I just love to be in their presence. And she loves me for who I am. Who I actually am. Not who other people want me to be.

My sister told me she never doubted whether she wanted to go to college because she saw what my best friend and I had and “just wanted that”. 

Of my two best gal friends from graduate school–one lives in Florida and I literally could just exist happily as her roommate for decades if she wasn’t destined to be a mom sooner rather than later. We didn’t LIKE to go entire days without talking to each other. The other one lives in Boston and has dated one of my best male friends and visiting them is like visiting home. She is the most incredible chef and it makes me hate the “chore” of cooking less and perceive it as an act of love and nutrition rather than just a way of integrating chemistry into health. They make me a better person, because they love me without expectation. They nurture my growth. 

One of the people whose minds I value so much, but whose privacy I’ve also wanted to protect, goes out of his way to remind me that I have already accomplished so much. Even with the “failed” collegiate sports track (to my mother, whose legacy of a full ride D1 scholarship and 9th at Penn Relays was NOT going to be in my future), he would dismiss me undermining my accomplishments and say things like “psshhhh. Please. You’re basically an Olympian.” I thanked him the other day, after my biological mom passively mentioned to me “you haven’t even accomplished anything yet”, for reminding me that success is arbitrary and very subjective.

To me, “success” now means happiness. 

And happiness means mental peace. 

That aforementioned “joy in achievement” that ENTJs crave so desperately now means a wider range of things to me. Maybe it’s the romantic in me, for I am an artist at the root of it. Though I tend to also downplay THAT, because I’ve never taken formal art classes and don’t know proper technique or how to reference (but Van Gogh was also self taught so as long as I don’t take up the drink or cut my own ear off, I think I’m on the right path). Plus, writing is even more self deprecating and emotive than painting and since writing is in everything we do, and most people are capable of doing it, those who don’t publish their work in the same avenue, or get the insight of others prior to publishing, might downplay their significance. The old “if a tree falls in a forest and nobody is around, will it make a sound?” phrase? “If nobody is reading their scribbles, can they call themselves a “writer”?” 

I am done performing. 

My friends have shown me that I don’t need to. 

I have shown them the same. 

I do everything now for self love. 

I have faith in myself, above all, and know I don’t need to tread along these roads alone, but I do need to make myself accessible to those who want to walk with me, for however long.

I want to allow myself to love–who I am with the understanding that I’m certainly not that “difficult”, I’m just “honest”. And it’s perfectly clear the USA struggles with accountability regarding the “truth.” 

I want to allow myself to learn–in both the traditional academia sense and in unconventional routes, such as just seeing what my favorite humans can teach me just by learning about them. Mindful observation. Who they are, holistically.

I want to allow myself to grow–to plant myself where I know I’m happy, where I want to create and cultivate a life.

Maybe I’ve been watching a little bit too much “Game of Thrones”. Maybe Spring bringing warm currents of air, the flowers blossoming, and the leaves returning has happily coincided with my diabolical nature feeling extra refreshed. Maybe the culmination of my fully vaccinated status, embarking on air travel again, and moving plans are the momentous change signifying clarity, peace, and a new day. Signifying hope. 

Or, maybe it’s just love. 

My friend from the math team, let’s call him “Wade”, because I told him his hacker cybersecurity status gives me major “Wade” from Kim Possible vibes, asked how my car accident changed who I am. He’s known me pretty well since middle school, though as an introvert and nerd he fulfilled the “wallflower” role of the public school experience. I told him it changed nothing about “who” I am, PTSD and all, but it changed the way I prioritize life. 

In a way, I feel like I died that night. I watched myself fly into the treeline, out of control, and fully accepted my death. I was content, in that moment. Ready for it. 

All of this just seems like extra time. 

It seems like the time I get to enjoy my life.

It’s the time I get to prioritize the people I love, and those I want to create a life with. Not the things that I want to do. Not the goals I want to achieve.

It’s time I get to create a life for me.

It might seem “illogical”, maybe it’ll derail my career, however temporarily, but I won’t regret it. 

You don’t regret the things you do in love. 

Because at the end of the day, there isn’t enough love in the world. 

How can there ever be? 

And living a life built on love, for yourself, for others, for your community, means acknowledging the things that come easy–the highs, the achievements, the stepping stones–but even more so the ladders that built you into who you are. The foundational concrete. The support beams. Reconstruction and remodeling. The carfax. 

I know what “love” is because I know how to show it to the people in my life. Because it is what I show to everything in my life–my art, my animals, my friendships, my travel, my relationships, the sky and leaves and trees around me. Other people’s love might look different–communication is about learning how to speak each other’s language, and not everyone will try to learn yours, however badly you may wish it.

The great wrestling love of my life and I never worked out because, ultimately, it was me who couldn’t communicate. Which may seem crazy, given that I have essentially a personal diary on the internet freely available for anyone and everyone to read. (Arguably because I opened up to one guy and had to rush to make it seem like that wasn’t MONUMENTAL for me…) Yet, now I think even that was for a reason, even if I don’t understand it quite yet. Even if I never find out why. He was a communications major, too (typical of D1 athletes), but it’s why he knew my sleeping soundly with him was so huge, or why he knew I enjoyed watching him play video games and openly talking to his friends about me, or why he knew I loved him even though I couldn’t speak to him. 

I couldn’t tell him that I called him after my car accident because no, I didn’t have anybody else to call. My mom yelled at me. My sister asked me if she could get back to her birthday dinner while I called her from the side of the road, trying to distract myself from reliving the crash over and over and over again in a seemingly parallel universe to my retinas intaking the actual scene unfolding before me in current time, while I sat there, dissociated, and realized I had moments before decided I was okay with being dead. That I didn’t think I’d be making that phone call…but she didn’t care. I was a distraction. An annoyance. A burden.

I couldn’t tell him that I loved being in his presence because, for seemingly one of the few people’s presences, ever, I felt mental peace. That him trusting his intuition and chasing me down in the dining hall my freshman year, jumping over tables to get to me, was the start of an invisible string weaving our tales and lives together harmoniously for years to come. I didn’t know how to voice to someone that I knew I loved them because I recognized what I felt I’d been denied my whole life. Someone chose me.

And when his dog, the love of his life, who ADORED me, and to this day, who I think he will always, always, ALWAYS wonder if he misses me (even if he’s plenty happy now), had tumors and surgery and needed to consider termination of treatment, I didn’t know how to explain that I knew how scared he was because I’d gone through it with several horses, now, including one that followed me around the pasture like a puppy.

And I don’t think I could be that person for him, even if I felt it, because I didn’t know how to communicate it. And I was scared to learn. Scared he’d judge me and leave me. I couldn’t tell him, someone who was just as worthy of undeniable love and support as I was, that I cared or why. 

In truth, I don’t think I knew how to frame it, because the sad reality is that recognizing that was your experience sucks, for everyone involved. 

How do you explain that to people? 

I went on a date recently, which was nice enough, but I knew it wasn’t “it” because he kept APOLOGIZING to me when I explained who I was. 

I’m not “sorry” for the things that happened to me. Do I wish that I had some different contexts? Sure. Do I make decisions now to prevent myself from being stuck in the same cycles of negativity? Sure. But being “sorry” for the things that made me who I am–someone I LOVE–is never going to be the answer. 

To this day, I’ve only told one man a particular layer of depth regarding my familial life directly. Some of the ones I’ve formally dated have experienced it first hand, for sure. But only one has asked me to tell them. And when I asked him not to pity me, he told me that my telling him had the opposite effect. He said he thought higher of me, like I was stronger. It’s scary to believe him. To think that might actually be the case…especially from someone I love, someone I think already does (and arguably who I just want to) love me. 

…He’s a dumb ass Virgo, though, so try as he might to “not let me in that easy” (his words, not mine), I’m like “bro, you associate me with everything you love. Figure it out. I will not beg for it. I deserve someone who can communicate their love for me without stipulation. Who chooses me every single time, whether it is convenient or not.” My friend from UF was once at a tailgate, about 2 years ago now, and told me this guy was there, sitting off to the side, by himself, looking down at his phone and smiling. He was texting me. It’s little moments like these, times I know he thinks of me, the depth in the moments in which he needs me, that I know he loves me. Even if he struggles with his own words. 

I don’t know why, call it a premonition, but I just think everything is going to fall into place. I think I am exactly who I’m meant to be, for whatever I’m meant to do in this lifetime, because I’m committed to learning and growing along the way. 

There is power in intelligence. 

And there is confidence in the intellect of oneself. 

How better, than to cultivate a life, devoted to loving oneself, one’s friends, one’s chosen family, so fiercely, passionately, and purposefully, that your love becomes that powerful? What else is there?

“Homie, I’m Professional”

Survival Mode
"Homie, I'm Professional"
Loading
/

-LIL DICKY

You wanna know why I really started this blog?

When I recognized that you could be one of the best doctors in the United States and the uneducated, selfish opinion of a spray-tanned narcissist would render all of that education, power, and years of cultivated intellect useless. 

So what are we talking about today?

Professionalism in the workforce.

Or, how I like to call it, the differences in societal expectations for a female’s private life compared to that of her male coworkers.

Fuck it, let’s jump in.

Please don’t start talking about the patriarchy…

Oh, but guess what… I am. 

Acknowledging the undertones of our own patriarchal society means acknowledging the traditional gender roles that are almost universally similar all over the world at varying stages throughout history: from hunter-gatherer societies to modern day civilization, men worked the manual labor, having stronger physical builds, more calloused hands, and really embracing that burly warrior “save me kind stranger” mentality that I am still (annoyingly) attracted to (& why one of my recent Bumble matches extended that to my being attracted to army / marine branches, but not navy or airforce…woops…guilty as charged), whereas women were the child care providers, the “gatherers”, more passive, and ultimately, weak

As an aside, we all KNOW men were the little bitch babies who rebranded women as “weak” even though a significantly high proportion of women wake up in a pool of their own blood several days of the month, are capable of growing an entire human being inside of them, and then EITHER PUSH SAID BABY OUT THROUGH A HOLE IN BETWEEN THEIR LEGS OR GET IT SAWED OUT OF THEM, MOVING SKIN, INTESTINES, MUSCLES TO THE SIDE, AND THEN REPOSITIONING IT ALL BACK INTO PLACE AND STITCHING THEM BACK UP LIKE NOTHING HAPPENED.

Anyways, with the industrial revolution and moving away from agricultural roles, more and more men entered the workforce in factories or office jobs and women still stayed at home with the kids. Coupled with years of war after war (because a bunch of men across a variety of countries, who had thousands of acres yet demanded more power and sailed across oceans because men are ultimately selfish fucks and think they MUST “know all” and enact a “best” way of life over people instead of just minding their own fucking business) and Rosie the Riveter propaganda, women diverged from their traditional gender roles, traded their corsets and hoop skirts for pants, and realized they did not in fact need to solely rely on someone else for their health and livelihood.

Now, I will acknowledge, that there is some comfort in the fact that I could probably exist solely on my looks, willingly permitting myself to be a baby machine and collecting enough child support to fund my preferred lifestyle for at least 18 years. My dream, however, is for someone to just pay me to exist with no sexual or birth obligations, ya know, like the lifestyle of a wealthy heiress. Unfortunately, I was born a peasant (read: civilian army brat). But, who knows…maybe, when I’m inevitably still single several years from now, working on yet another degree or creative venture, I’ll back track on that and be begging one of the guys I’ve ignored for years to go back to his simp lifestyle and wife me up. However, that’s unlikely, because if there’s one thing I am above all, it’s stubborn.

I’d rather die of loneliness than admit my need for a man.

Do you know how infuriating it is to enjoy and crave the security walking in a male’s presence offers me as a fiercely independent woman? Ugh. gross. 

Yet, as more and more women entered the workforce, diverging from the “1950’s gender norms and nuclear family” model (heterosexual parents of opposite genders with 3 children where the male was the sole financial provider, spending minimum of ⅓ of his life away from his wife and kids and the female was a housewife who did more than a full-time job taking care of the children for no pay other than her husband’s meager factory earnings), we continue(d) to undervalue positions held by women, while placing excessive earning potential in administrative positions largely held by men, continuing to perpetuate women needing to meet the standards of male superiors across almost every field at nearly every moment in their careers. Unless you were a small business owner, or inherited a sum and could fund whatever projects you wanted, you likely would not have made enough money, regardless of what advanced degree or career field you achieved, to comfortably support yourself and propel yourself out of whatever modern day American caste system you were born into. 

Even now, I hold multiple careers: I’m a middle school teacher at a school in a predominantly low-income area, I work as a contract epidemiologist on SARS-CoV-2 (which, is universally no longer a hoax thanks to the negligence of the Republican lawmakers in Washington, D.C.), I have my own small Etsy business with my art. Yet, my male “Best friend” had the audacity to tell me he didn’t want to read my blog “because he would rather read something like that from someone who is ACTUALLY accomplished.” (Literally the biggest eye roll of my life.)

SIR. I developed an advanced stage prostate cancer inhibitor step-by-step from visualizing and recreating the active site to chemical synthesis to spectroscopically confirming it was the right chemical to then testing it in vivo for efficacy BY AGE 22. AND WAS PUBLISHED IN A HUGE NATIONAL SCIENTIFIC JOURNAL. So, excuse me, if I think that your opinion on what it means to be “accomplished”, just because you inherited a few family businesses in the hospitality industry and make over 5 times the money I do, is shit.

All you’ve accomplished is your Ocala Trump rally became a super spreader of coronavirus. Great fucking legacy. Go fuck yourself.

That’s what happens when you devalue the work that actually matters and keeps society running, yet allow men to desperately think they shouldn’t pay taxes on their 87 hotels that are purely for luxury travel. Build some parks, beautify the community, make things accessible, and reinvest in the people and places that allow you to not care about the difficult stuff as much. Because your little facade that let’s you ignore the realities of the world are because of THOSE people who are the ones that make your grandiose Gatsby-lie is cliché. You don’t need 30 fucking cars while people are committing suicide over the bleakness of the poverty they’re born into. 

The disappointing part is this isn’t just a regular occurrence with my male friends, who pretend to be conscientiously aware, yet still won’t call out hypocrisy when it’s in the form of their childhood best friend, spouting off racist, sexist, or homophobic remarks directly across the table from them, but it’s ALSO universally occurred at every workplace. Just this summer, whilst working on coronavirus deployed to a south Florida county health department, my supervisor sent out a site-wide email detailing the dress code, specifically “no skirt shorter than fingertip length”. Yet, the very next day, after confirming my skirt was in fact, several inches below fingertip length, it “was still too short” and she demanded I go home and change or be fired (which, she had no firing or hiring potential over me, for the record). At one point during the conversation she even confirmed it was well within her clearly dictated dress code policy (from her snotty email the day before), but that my legs, which were underneath my desk, which I sat at for almost every hour of the day other than lunch, were still “too distracting”. I don’t know what kind of perverted lesbian you are ma’am, but you’re making the rest of us queer folk look pretty fucking done with your bullshit subjective sexuality on our bodies. As a white, blonde woman, I pass for incredibly heteronormative, too, so I find it a personal obligation to stick up for the small instances when injustice occurs within my presence, whether or not it involves me, because that’s nothing to what people must do when they don’t perceive anyone noteworthy to be a corroborating witness. I believe the phrase was

“you are personally responsible for becoming more ethical than the society you were born into” and I believe that to be firm and true. 

But some of the worst criticism of women comes from other women–so how can we possibly dismantle a system that has somehow pitted conservative women who prefer the comfort of traditional gender roles against the free-spirited wanderlust hippies who just want love in whatever form it takes possible? Especially when the end goal for both is just valuing deep, meaningful, authentic love, it just takes a slightly different form? How do we convince those who don’t want to listen that we all want peace, security, comfort, and love, but the way to do that is not by refusing to acknowledge other mindsets, withholding public support and assistance, and encouraging a safer world for all? And the world as a whole is angry. So we’re right to be fearful. Within our own country, we are edging towards a modern day civil war, all because our piece of shit tangerine who holds the White House hostage called for a “Stand down and stand by” order for the Proud boys aka the Ku Klux Klan aka literal nazi’s in the United States. DID NONE OF YOU FUCKING GO TO THE HOLOCAUST MUSEUM AS CHILDREN? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YA’LL WHO CONTINUE TO LOOK ASIDE AT THIS BEHAVIOR?

I won’t get into it within the context of this discussion, but you can find the direct comparison of Trump and Hitler HERE.

The important context of bringing that up is somehow it made more sense to have yet another shitty white male president instead of a false feminist icon just because the “its her time” mentality was a shit platform for a woman to represent a feminist icon to all the youth of tomorrow. Every former Trump supporter I know, and there are MANY, because I grew up incredibly conservatively, went to undergrad in the state of North Carolina, and went to graduate school in the state of Florida, would STILL have made that same exact choice. The stakes for the first female president were high, sure, but they weren’t unrealistic. Inability to meet these standards isn’t because these women don’t exist, it’s because we’ve sequestered power in such a way that women have been historically dependent on men for generations

We’ve allowed men to remain dominant across every society for so long, because of their sheer physical dominance. So our government has become overtaken with a bunch of ex-military men who could just as easily be shitty football coaches but instead go into politics who condemn themselves to cycles of violence because they never learn the value of a life whilst guiding drones from a distance and we encourage people to never step foot outside of their own little bubble, so the WMAL radio show that my stepdad plays every day, an INCREDIBLY right-wing news station, literally has an anchor calling for preservation of Texas as a red state.

Why do you WANT to be drawn to violence?

How could we ever be encouraging a less violent, better world for our children if we’re refusing to help those who show up on our doorstep?

You all are acting like the people who turned Mary and Joseph away. Might I remind you that the majority of you worship a book about a man of color who is murdered by keepers of the law. 

Yet, women have emotional intellect. Women are devious, breath-takingly alluring, cynical. Women haven’t been encouraged to hide their emotions so they parade them freely. Those who do it without giving a damn on the reception of others, become deadly. I would know, because I’m one of them. If you ever were lucky enough to see it in action, you’d understand the alarming nature of this blog is perfectly packaged into an innocent looking actress who can flip tactics at the drop of a hat. Only I’m not playing someone else’s role. Growing up in an abusive household–physically, mentally, emotionally, will do that to a girl. I’ve just chosen to use it for the “Greater good”, instead of the Kyle Rittenhouse version of a misplaced vigilantism that is really just lunacy. Believe me, I’ve contemplated long and hard about what people I would have enjoyed killing. My high school boyfriend beat the shit out of me for four years, I’ve stared down the barrel of a gun, I’ve beaten the shit out of someone who sexually assaulted me, the thoughts entered in fleeting passes while I stoically faced all of these, and many other, difficult circumstances. I think, even for sane people, or at least the majority of men, if you had been in that position, your fight-or-flight would’ve been activated and you would’ve put your own survival over your abuser any day. I’m resilient. A survivor. So if you want me to let the law hold them accountable, stop undermining my faith in its uses. 

If I were a man, my confidence that inevitably teems with sexual undertones due to the physical attractiveness of my outward physical form would be APPLAUDED. My acknowledgment of reality and the need for pragmatic decisiveness would be paraded on a Joe Rogan podcast much like Elon Musk. Nobody would make the “humble too” comments when I specify not feeling the draw to be tied down, because my value wouldn’t be tied to another person acknowledging it’s worth and placing it above their own, and I wouldn’t be assumed to place a greater value in someone else’s career and educational development over my own. 

So in 2020, what is the point of me “shutting up” and “getting used to it” when my aunt had to deal with the same criticism, commentary, and hurtful insinuations over fifty years ago just because it’s the “cultural norm”. Why the fuck do we think that is just acceptable, inevitable? Safer for women? And now that we KNOW better, when we can document account after account to prove this is a HUGE issue across multiple cultures, why the fuck aren’t we refusing to let each and every single one of the 50 states progress at their own pace of dismantling racism until history is in fact doomed to repeat itself because Captain America: Civil War is about to be released and suddenly tubby middle-aged white men are going to act like him taking a “liberal” stance (condemning racism) means they should boycott Marvel or whatever fucking universe he’s from because apparently human decency is a fucking political issue still. How about you channel that rage towards your other white men who are the reason we have to have this conversation over and over and over again? Okay, buddy?

People suck in every color, don’t think whites are so superior. 

When I make any decision in my personal life: sexually, related to social media or how I communicate with my friends, what clothing I choose to buy or be seen in in public, it can never be made without considering what those decisions might prevent me from doing within my career. But why is that so? We have a president who has undeniably sexually assaulted hordes of women, is implicated in a pedophilic sex trafficking ring with two other disgraced former best friends, and yet, even with that, this man was elected as president of the united states. Supposedly the most coveted position in the world. And I still didn’t want the first female president, a symbol for future generations of women to come, to be one who lacked transparency, who stood by her husband and political marriage without acknowledging it, who publicly condemned her husband’s mistress, a young girl who spent time with a very powerful man–a man of whom was supposed to be the bigger person, the authority, of literally every person in the United States. Fucking pathetic excuse of a nation we live in. THOSE were our choices?

And how do we go about enacting change if those of us who have access to higher education, even those like me who take out thousands of dollars of loans because what knowledge gives me will never not be worth it, get drawn into the bubbles of glitter and distracted by our years in debt until we look around and realize the smooth-talking con men of the world have usurped logic and condemned those in the public eye such that no sane person would ever willingly enter it. Your life inevitably going to be picked apart with such vulgarity that Joe Rogan’s Spy-Kids Floop Fooglie’s thumb-men looking ass can somehow roast you for your physical appeal as if there was any world where his opinion was somehow more valid when you were just trying to make the world a better fucking place. 

Maybe its because of the optics. Scientists were historically meager, weak, depressive folks. Our increased intellect meant we questioned the world with such intensity that we realized the bleakness in how far society has skewed humans from our innate purpose on this world–of actually enjoying and learning to appreciate the natural world around us, instead of always desperately building wall after wall because we’re scared of what’s outside. Did we ever think that Albert Einstein maybe looked around, saw the state of the world, and was like “we need to do something about this.” Why do we always reference his depression in studies about his life but not about how depression is inevitable in a society that puts money and individual prowess over enabling safe, loving human interaction? Of welcoming your neighbors? On teaching values of peace without tying it to one particular religion because there’s no “one” right way of life and if we don’t know that by now, then I really don’t think you should be able to vote in a cultural melting pot of a country. 

Or, maybe, it’s because when scientists have spoken out, they die. You can’t tell me those Russian doctors just fell out of those windows on their own. Or that Edward Snowden wasn’t arguably justified in warning the American people, even when, in my opinion, it’s hugely naive to assume every moment of your life ISN’T being watched, unless you live in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. To be honest, having a trail for people gives me, as a single woman, a sense of peace. It’s accountability. And as a woman, 1 in 5 of whom will be raped or attempted to be raped in their lifetime in the United State. Although for every 1000 sexual assaults, only 230 are reported, and 995 of those 1000 perpetrators will walk free. So I like knowing that there may now be some greater chance to hold those people accountable. But scientists are also usually quieter, nerdier, we were bullied when we were younger. I’m currently facing the knowledge that if Trump really does enact his authoritarian rule over the United States and refuse to leave office, come November, with some false claim about the corruptness of the mail-in ballot system, even though he had nothing to say about it when the same system benefitted him in 2016, I might need to escape to Switzerland and hide out for the content on this blog, because it may become “illegal” and I’ll be back in the Salem Witch Trials hysteria I thought we had finally moved past as a society. If you think I’m being unnecessarily dramatic, I would like you to open your fucking eyes to the reality that our federal government is currently preparing for the scenario in which he refuses to leave office and tries to enact martial law with a militarized police and Proud Boys army. 

And there’s truth in Michelle Obama’s infamous “when they go low, we go high” mentality, but it’s also as equally important to draw the line and know when to say “Step the fuck back, what I’m doing with my life does not involve you at all so take your god damn opinion and shove it up your ass.” If white men are wondering why people are still so irritated when everyone has the right to vote now, please look at Congress, to this day, and let me know how a majority of white men are SURE that they are the reckoning force to bring values of diversity, representation, and dismantling oppression into this world when really they’re just telling us they’re still comfortable assigning themselves as the gatekeepers of determining what topics have validity or not… even when they have no actual experience in the fields. 

We’ve also undeniably had an overwhelming presence of military leaders within every level of our government, largely due to name recognition and the power of symbolic imagery, so it’s going to take more than one black, male president to change the cultural ideology, especially when every new colored, queer, or gendered individual is going to be the first _______ whatever position still for decades to come depending on which state they choose to live in, inevitably overcoming the same obstacles time and time again all because we think leaving it up to “state’s rights” means parts of Alabama still exist in the good ole 1950’s, even though we should probably be sterilizing people that contribute to placing less value on knowledge (in whatever form), think LESS government will solve the whole “crime” issue, or just have an IQ below a certain point. I’d rather sterilize them, at least temporarily until they can be educated, than the immigrant women who seek out a better life, only for the “pro-life” (read: really just anti-abortion) crowd to refuse to acknowledge their existence because they want to universally assign a devalued human belief onto an entire cultural group with no knowledge of them as an individual all because they (falsely) believe immigrants don’t pay taxes, despite the fact that undocumented immigrants paid tens of millions of dollars more in taxes to a system whose healthcare they can’t access validly, a system they can’t vote in, yet one whose president, worth billions of dollars, pays less than a middle school teacher with two degrees working in a low income community. I believe it was Miss Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez who tweeted, “Just to be clear. There is nothing “pro life” about denying people comprehensive sexual education, making birth control harder to access, forcing others to give birth against their will, and stripping them of healthcare and food assistance afterwards.”

It’s sickening, the hypocrisy.

And the patriarchy IS because of the military, but I find it impossible to believe that your prejudice towards military strength is so usurped by your views that you truly believe a man who created an environment where half of our country, particularly the die-hard, supposedly pro-military regions of Texas and Florida, will question utilizing masks and doubting science, in an age of global warfare of biochemical weaponizing, is a good man. If that’s the truth, then you are an absolute idiot. I have no sympathy in saying that because your judgment is clearly clouded. Maybe all of you constitutionalists were right and only 6% of the population SHOULD have the ability to vote. Plot twist–it shouldn’t be you uneducated cucks. We sealed our fate the day we tied property ownership to voting potential–securing power in the hands of those who take more than their “fair” share in a system undeniably rigged to benefit them. You should hold yourself to a higher standard than that as a human being. If your religion hasn’t taught you to place value outside of monetary gain, then this is the entire problem with organized religion.

And in addition to sequestering power in the hands of (historically) white men of various European descent, those same men now have this delusional sense of importance because they have tangible, real idols in every position and industry that are taught to them from such a young age that nothing seems impossible, except, in the modern world, maybe finding a girl who doesn’t still enjoy shaking her ass to funny lyrics on Tik Tok. Men–we all know you’re just jealous that you feel so restrained your theatre-geek-loving-self is hidden under more layers than Shrek. Get with the times, gents.

It’s that same elevated importance in men too that let’s them just “decide” not to be aware about the realities of the world. They cram a year of emotions into the weeks of their NFL fantasy football leagues–as sports has historically been one of the only ways men have been allowed, by society, in the United States, to actually CARE about something. They can get emotional, but only in reference to competition. But life is a game, baby, and we’re all just here to win. Even Albert Einstein is quoted as saying “you have to learn the rules of the game, and then play it better than everybody else.” But men with small minds, like said aforementioned Joe Rogan, Donald Trump and pretty much any white male still endorsing him, only see a limited sense of competition. They lack that emotional edge that encompasses the nature of unconventional warfare women are so talented at. Whether it’s been repressed for years because they’ve been taught that was the only way to achieve success or they’re just upset that the hot girl from their high school wouldn’t fuck the pompous pig they’ve always been, even back in the day, that lack of connection to empathy will always render them weaker. You see, for those of us who have had to learn to compartmentalize emotions–as I said, it’s a dog eat dog world out there and I’m always going to survive–any man who overcompensates his financial success with material goods and nothing else substantial is always going to come in second. Or, as I like to call it, be the first loser. Mainly because they don’t actually understand true happiness. Their version of winning, like everything else in their life, is a facade. They slap a price tag to success, or a position title, even the most coveted one in the world, now so pathetically devalued that it will never hold the same weight it once did, and cry out desperately for outward validation because they’re unable to provide that inner sense of validation to themselves, and they always will be unable to do so.

Within that same group of men is a special place in hell set aside for the men in STEM fields. Men who have been so pathetically focused in their careers, a great, noble goal (but again, it’s JUST as necessary to learn how to communicate your goals to the general public for it to be relevant, and teachable) that they have to be sat down like children and you feel like a fucking parental figure of a man several years older than you who refuses to set aside the time to expand his own cultural awareness. No, instead, he begs for YOU to set aside the time, time and time again, to be the one responsible for educating him, even though the information is freely fucking available on the internet, but you just don’t see it as a beneficial use of your time unless you can also potentially fuck the source of it one day. Cry me a river. As I said, I’m not mad, I’m just way less interested. I have been, since, even several months into getting to know me, you revealed you were STILL contemplating whether to vote independent or not. What the fuck, dude. 

Or the likes of those researchers, Scott Hardouin, MD and Thomas Cheng, MS, amongst others, who published in the August 2020 Journal of Vascular Surgery issue addressing the “Prevalence of unprofessional social media content among young vascular surgeons”. Which, hear this, went into a lovely, completely fucked up detail in which, a man, went through the social media of male and female surgical trainee, unethically, as he did not have the permission to use the Association of Program Directors in Vascular Surgery database for his “research”. (Which, if you ask me, honestly just sounds like a bunch of hot female surgical trainees wouldn’t fuck him, so he wanted to Mark Zuckerberg his way into the medical field by creating a way to effectively rank them that would negatively hurt their careers or personal sense of worth.) So these MALE students, supervised by MALE leadership, subjectively ranked social media posts of women wearing bikinis, OFF-HOURS, as “POTENTIALLY UNPROFESSIONAL” compared to men on social media. Note: male bathing suits were not “unprofessional”. Even if you wanted to potentially label a male bathing suit like a speedo as “unprofessional”, they WOULDN’T, because that could constitute discrimination towards the LGBTQ community. And medicine is the forefront of this discussion because we, as scientists, as cultivators of the human body, of artists of humanity, should be the most progressive of all, especially of the subjectivity of social constructs related to gender and social norms. Not to mention that women comprise only 10% of active vascular surgery members, so the barriers they certainly already face in a male-dominated field definitely don’t need to be raised. 

WE AS A SOCIETY PROBABLY NEED TO ACKNOWLEDGE THE FUCKING FACT THAT PEOPLE SHOULD NOT ALWAYS “BE” PROFESSIONAL. AND YES, I CAN SAY THAT, BECAUSE OF THE VERY MAN SEATED IN THE FUCKING WHITE HOUSE. Seriously. No matter what your job is, you should be able to move through your private life, if you’re not hurting anybody else (which is why all you dumb fuck anti-maskers don’t get to just have your fucking “freedom”) with honesty and not be constantly terrified of the retributions. If the medical community is so progressive that a huge public university’s medical school can shelter a self-proclaimed potential pedophile who was investigated by the SBS and had his parents destroy all records of the child pornography he did in fact access, then we can be progressive enough to stop fucking stigmatizing women. Especially in relation to the blatant sexualizing of the female body through toxic patriarchal and heavily Christian overlapping themes, as medical professionals, you should acknowledge that your “danger zones” or “private parts” are literally just another body part and maybe we should be able to colloquially discuss aspects of health without stigma, and by shaming almost exclusively the female human body, we’ve condemned the women in our society to cycles of violence that are running rampant and unobstructed, led by the man currently housed at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Get your shit together, men. Because I’m fucking sick of it.

Wanna know just a few other bullshit things I’ve had to deal with as a woman in STEM, before you go overreacting or claim that I’m “unfounded”. Ask every single fucking woman for examples of things that they have to do differently in order to not either put themselves at risk in a male-led world or to allow themselves the ability to continue on the clearest, easiest path without adding additional obstacles into their own path–I guarantee you, the list will continue growing.

To date, I have:

-Had a man come up to me and my blonde fellow scientist and grad school BFF at a professional, international conference, and tell us, (making the assumption that we did not already know), that “people will see your beauty and assume you are not smart. You will have to work twice as hard.” We know. This conversation is proof of that. I watched Legally Blonde when I was like, 9, dude.

-Have had my fellow coworkers, one of whom I got the job, team up and basically decide they no longer wanted to be my friend or communicate with me at work, and one even had her boyfriend, who I’ve been friends with for over 8 years, block me on social media because she was so insecure in my friendship with him, while I still worked with them both. He’s literally the only person I can nerd out about pharmaceutical and biochemistry stuff, you stupid bitch. I hope you don’t spend the rest of your life that catty.

-The aforementioned skirt incident

-Been told that I’m “difficult” or a “bitch” more times than I could count–professional and private life alike, even when I was in the right, even related to my studies. Shout out to Tina Fey, because bitches really DO get stuff done, and men still love them. I’m not settling, baby. Get on my level or get your ass back to the dugout. You’ll be back up to bat eventually. Know your place on the roster.

-Have essentially been disowned by my family all because I lived in Florida and posted pictures of my absolutely phenomenal ass because, 1. I can and 2. That’s me, and 3. I’m the one who has to answer for my actions, not you, so once again, shut the fuck up. I went to Europe 3 years in a row. I study the human body. I question the bounds of reality. It’s gonna get a lot fucking weirder throughout my life, you can’t stop it if you tried. So stop trying.

-Have to wear glasses (they’re blue light and do nothing other than prevent me from getting a headache), yet am instantly questioned less and have to defend myself on far fewer occasions than when I don’t.

-If I walk into a room of patients with a male, particularly one who is physically taller than me, HE is assumed to be the superior. They will still ask him for his opinion, even after acknowledging my role as the superior, even though, when the roles are reversed, they NEVER ask for my second opinion.

-People are more likely to ask for a second opinion in general, or have to search or “look further into” my knowledge before they determine that I was, in fact, correct. I speak with conviction and authority purposefully, and yet it still happens. My own mother is guilty of this. 

-A male with the aspirations I have would be met with a constructive tone of acceptance when he explains his life goals. The possibility of a family is never mentioned–he’ll have time for both whenever he decides to settle down. Instead, I get the laughing disbelief and “you’re really something, aren’t you”. Oh, I for sure fucking am, or at least will be. I will achieve every single one of my dreams, and thanks to Claire (my wonderful therapist), I won’t even COMPLETELY discount a family, because there is absolutely no reason why I SHOULDN’T achieve everything I want in life. 

-Nearly every single one of the men I’ve dated in my private life have LOVED that ambitious drive. It attracted every fiber of their being to me. It was a magnetic pull, entrancing, the song of a siren, calling them to their impending doom upon the shores. It’s also the reason every single one of them succumbed to weakness, straying from our relationship with dishonesty and lying of various forms, so pathetic and scared of their own weaknesses that they then used the very reasons they fell in love with me so quickly to also be the reason they leave down the road. And I’m supposed to feel bad for them? No.

I’d much rather be single than undervalued.
Fuck that. 

Like I said, I’ll just keep getting degrees. Asserting my dominance in the most tangible way for females to do so. Because I am questioned, I do need the letters behind my name to command the same, or at least near the level of respect my male counterparts are immediately granted just by their very existence. And because their voices carry more weight, I unfortunately also need them to open their ears and listen to what I’m telling you. And then to SPEAK about it, and be an advocate, to their male counterparts who discount the validity in my assertions. Who actually need to hear it from them because, even if they don’t completely change their mind, acknowledging that behavior isn’t appropriate or DOES exist, STILL, can at least make them that much more likely to identify it if and when they witness it for themselves. It’ll make them stop and think, whether they outwardly admit it to you or not. And eventually they can no longer continue to deny it without looking like an ignorant asshole. 

Luckily, my ass is nice enough that many (white) men do follow me and will actually still take the time to look into it, out of nothing more than curiosity, so it helps me blend into the audience I need to appeal to. The audience that needs to start educating themselves so it can no longer be my responsibility to condemn myself to the task. Thank you Old Row for posting that picture of me on the pizza floatie. I gained like a thousand followers in a few hours, though with starting over anonymously under a pseudonym, I’m no longer reaping the benefits of men sliding into my DMs as frequently, just to pay me for something harmless like pictures of my feet, or me belittling the size of their dick mercilessly. Seriously, y’all are some repressed mother fuckers. 

I’m happy to make the money off of it, but since so many of you do it, the fact that I do make money off of it shouldn’t need to be some mystifying taboo secret. We live in a capitalist society with terrible redistribution of wealth. The median household income in 2018 was $74,600. Which means that, if you lined up every US household’s yearly salary, from least to greatest, and took the middle number, it would be $74,600. Half of all of our households make less than that. The top 1% of families in our country hold 40% of the wealth. The bottom 90% hold LESS THAN 25%. We are in a global pandemic and the wealth of our handful of billionaires increased by trillions of dollars yet most individuals received only one $1200 stimulus check, and that’s only IF they filed their taxes last year. We instead prioritized corporations and businesses over the individual fucking people? What the fuck is wrong with our government. Get that money, sis. They won’t respect you either way, so you might as well cause a fuss while you do it. 

And I played fucking football in highschool so I think I can make that statement. 

Clearly, tying every aspect of ourselves as humans under some guise of “professionalism” doesn’t impact men in the same way that it impacts women. When is the last time someone would see a male in a bathing suit and determine they “weren’t going to use them as a surgeon” based on how their body looked. If anything, the worse it looks, the better. They probably spend all of their time in the hospital anyways. For women, you have to tread this delicate line of being pretty, but not too pretty. You have to be sexually appealing, but your boobs can’t be too large, or they dominate the frame of your face. You can’t look too nice, either, there has to be an edge of mystery. I get assumed to be “slutty” for wearing a bikini in Florida (which was cheeky, yes, but much less risque than the actual G strings of the strippers in the cabana next to me) when you check my instagram, even though I haven’t had sex in 2 years and am a serial committed relationship person in general. (Mostly because the men fall quickly and they fall hard. Like I said, they’re depraved of such intimate connection that the second they see they won’t be judged for it, they’re captivated by the allure, only to recognize the course of their path and draw screeching breaks like the train in Snowpiercer at the realization their independence may be threatened. It won’t. Because mine also won’t be. But this is besides the point). 

And I don’t feel the need to leave that stuff on “private”, because part of my entire purpose in life, and part of public health, is reducing the stigma around things that cause inherent struggles and cognitive dissonance within society. It would be limiting my potential to withhold it, more afraid of the acceptance and how it is perceived than having to compromise my own values. I would rather use myself as an example over and over again than ignore the realities of the world out of “convenience”, even when the things don’t necessarily involve me as much. Because the shape or appearance of my ass has absolutely no fucking relevance to my ability to decipher and analyze data, to formulate opinions, but it absolutely can help me captivate a larger audience. To use my platform and people who otherwise would not come into contact with me for a greater purpose. You all obviously read and listen to this. You’re taking in my mentality, savoring it (or despising, either way, you’re supporting and enabling me, so thank you). I hope I can somehow intrigue you within the process of learning enough that you continue to show your support. 

In fact, one of the main reasons I keep myself in such good physical shape is that when men can clearly acknowledge my physical superiority, and tangible strength, it’s slightly easier for them to acknowledge my mental strength as well. 

It started with the Presidential Physical Fitness test in third grade, sorry Madison, I could do more pull ups than you because I had 3 hours of gymnastics every night. 

Continued into high school, where I ran with the boys in track, because they were the only ones who would actually run more than 2 miles with me, or when I ran 5k’s around the various naval bases, emasculating the marines with my light, elvish footsteps in my Nike Frees. 

Or when I played football and kicked a game winner, so I was finally “accepted”, even though I could have been used just as much to run the ball in, and actually play any other position or even like quarterback because not only was I fast as fuck, but I can read a sports game better than most people. That’s where intellect gets you as an athlete. The Eli Manning of all of my sporting teams. 

Or maybe it was playing baseball when the mom on the opposing team filed a complaint about me jumping in when the team needed an extra player, all because I gunned her son down at home from center field. By the next game, I was officially registered and all of my runs counted. Go take your participation trophy home, lady.

Or on the futsal courts, when I had to body the fuck out of the physically stronger guys, who took those opportunities to let my ass graze up against their pre-teen cocks, only to be like “WOAH!” just because I was playing exactly the same fucking way they played with the guys. You don’t have to go easy on me, ya know. I actually hate that. 

And that demeanor commands respect, because men have become so warped that the only time they are allowed to openly experience emotion in our patriarchal society is through sport. Coupled with the endorphin high of physical performance, and that maybe being one of the only ways many of them have ever been validated or heard words of affirmation, it’s no wonder they tie physical performance to desirability so much. So keeping myself in shape has its advantages. Having a six pack, which, for women is even more difficult than for men, because generally men don’t have a lil layer of fat protecting their uterus, and the muscle definition I have draws the acknowledgement that I can hold my own in battle. I am a gladiator, a soldier. But I shouldn’t have to make myself physically intimidating to hold my own in a progressive world. 

And I also shouldn’t have to soften my striking intimidation, my unconventional warfare, just because it comes across that much harsher from the face of a beautiful woman. You really fail to recognize that Athena, the goddess of war strategy, was ALSO the goddess of wisdom, poetry, and art? The woman born wearing battle armor was still able to understand and appreciate the softer side of the world. It’s all connected to emotional intelligence. That’s how you achieve true strength. 

So instead of stigmatizing women, or limiting anyone’s identity to strictly their professional role, how about we stop being so obsessed with specialization of just one thing that we neglect the multifaceted reality. Specializing and becoming the best is only really important for its generalizability. But the very fact that you seek the spotlight means you don’t want to exist in complete anonymity, that’s where the hermits who wander amongst the Appalachian trail reside. And if we seek greatness, which, historically, the USA has been rather inundated with thrusting upon everyone else in the world, then we actually need to start being great. Of achieving higher levels of self actualization. Of requiring greater standards for the level of humanity in our society, which starts with not creating an environment where your worth, and subsequent political vote, is SOLELY dependent financial status. And those who are truly great do not refuse to acknowledge their flaws.

So knowing that these issues exist, we need to do better. Men, specifically, need to do better. But also the women who use their positions or desperation for a grasp of power to harm other women, instead of climbing the ladder together. Even Drake has been trying to tell y’all that it shouldn’t be lonely at the top–that defeats the purpose. I talk about my experiences all the time, not to highlight the wrong doings of others (that is just a pleasant lil latent effect) but so everyone can learn from my mistakes or the events in my life to better themselves. It’s as self-critical as it is confident. I approach my personal life with the same scientific separation in the quest for knowledge that I do my IRB-approved studies. 

And more often than not, ESPECIALLY in therapy, I struggle to get through these discussions.

It’s HARD to be so resilient and strong.

I didn’t name this blog or podcast “Survival Mode” because I was frolicking through the fucking flowers my entire life.

It’s not easy to sit down and have these discussions with yourself, let alone others. But it’s a lot harder to live in a world that ignores it. 

Nobody is fucking happy for a reason. People are escaping to social media instead of reality for connection because reality sucks. But you have every ability to change the reality you live in, even just a little, and even by example. Let’s stop setting unrealistic standards for humans, even in professional roles. Let’s require accountability, introspection, vulnerability, even from our leaders. Because our leaders should be setting the greatest example of all. 

And life is a competition, yes, but we don’t have to measure the value in it by productivity. The best creation is not rushed. There is value to slowing down, beauty in recognizing and accepting the madness. It is luminescent, ethereal. We need to value humanity for the things that actually make us human in society–our connection, expression of emotion, ability to learn and grow together. Our capitalist society doesn’t need to dictate EVERY SINGLE THING such that every aspect of our lives must be monetized, or you only release art when you think it’s profitable. Learn to express yourselves. Learn to express humility. Compassion. Empathy. It’s far more complex and intriguing than anger.

Learn to once more value being human. 

Sources:

https://medicine.umich.edu/dept/surgery/news/archive/201904/women-vascular-surgery-symposium

https://www.jvascsurg.org/article/S0741-5214(19)32587-X/fulltext#:~:text=Potentially%20unprofessional%20content%20appeared%20in,(6%20accounts%2C%202.5%25)%2C

Ghislaine Maxwell Pt. 2

For part 1 of a satirical trilogy into the wonderfully cozy home of familial warmth I grew up in, read this first

The Middle Child

Foreword:

The first introduction into this rabbit hole of my increasingly complex family dynamics was only the tip of the iceberg for the realm inside my head. There is a reason I prefer my solitude now, and it’s not because of my warm embrace by society as a child. I scorn the physical restraint of hugs, save maybe a handful of individuals, not because I was taught how to be comfortable in my own body and interacting healthily with others. 

The main reason I don’t succumb to the pull of substance abuse disorders, mental breakdowns, and the crushing weight of knowledge that my species has single handedly destroyed this beautiful planet beyond recognition, unlike so many of my relatives (and the rest of society), is that I’ve gone out of my way to secure and prioritize my mental health… only through a combination of pure stubbornness, the resources to learn beyond my environment, and the willpower to educate myself on it without feeling a stigma to repress or be ashamed of it. 

Much like the opening scene of Euphoria, when Zendaya’s wonder that is the character of “Rue” is brought to this reality, her mother addresses something along the lines of how “plenty of successful people had [childhood depression].” A montage of Vincent Van Gogh, Sylvia Plath, and Britney Spears having psychotic breaks or committing suicide proceeds to play out. Even Albert Einstein struggled with depression, and as a scientist, it’s scary to study the reality that my increased intellect is also the potential reason for my anxiety. It’s scarier, though, to realize that in the 21st century, I now have a platform to be able to share my stream of consciousness and document my fears, my concerns, and my emphasis on the power of mindset and I’ve somehow been gaslighted by my own family, friends, and part of society to think I should shelter it like a lighter’s flame on a windy night behind your hands. 

I can’t delve into my hopeful, still incredibly early stages of my public health and legal career, arguing over the ethics and stigma attached to certain topics–historically trending based on cultural premonitions, while shadowing the recesses of my own mind, struggling with the very same concepts. I can’t be worried an online presence will criticize my future career paths, when those same career paths will eventually involve advocacy…and my passion for advocacy is rooted in those very personal experiences I wish to explore. I can’t be afraid to have to address the skeletons in my own closet that may one day be dragged out, paraded in front of me, or for some reason used against me to involuntarily commit me to a 5150 hold, or worse…invalidate my opinion in a male-dominated public setting. 

My friend Bill once told me how he thinks my generation’s greatest strength is facilitating open conversation. 

Part of that involves having an honest conversation with myself, first. 

And believe me, I have had several years of (unfortunately) honest conversations with myself where I hold myself under scrutinizingly-heavy pressure and unrealistic expectations under the premise of “I should’ve known better”, so this isn’t about the fact that I need therapy. This is about the fact that I use writing as my preferred form of expression, and I want the people in my life moving forward to understand what I care about, why I am the way that I am, and how I actually feel underneath it all. You don’t write about the things that are easy. 

So why do I need to do it? 

Honestly, because I’m exhausted from not feeling able to. 

Years of verbal, emotional, and at times physical, abuse, all at the hands of my biological relatives. Cycles of substance abuse and behavioral patterns that are transgenerational–fully acknowledged yet never addressed. 

Years of every new person in my life expressing some kind of pity, or sadness when the topic of family comes up or if they innocently ask what I’m doing for the holidays. Until, finally, it’s just easier to say “I don’t have a family” than to explain that mine just doesn’t, and may never, understand me. 

Years of trying everything else. Therapy. Meditation. Yoga. Running. Lifting Weights. Creating a list of things to talk about. Setting boundaries. Working on forgiveness. Somehow, it all gets thrown back in my face (a spiteful “You need therapy!” as if that is actually supposed to be some kind of insult… Hey, news flash, buddy… MOST PEOPLE NEED THERAPY, not to mention this may not exist if any of y’all had ever actually gone to it yourselves instead of taking your mental handicaps out on me in real life.)

Years of it being portrayed as if I’m the unreasonable one because I’m the only one who outwardly has a problem. Everyone else can carefully avoid topics that may set off the avalanche of dismayed self realization, but I’m the only one who hasn’t been able to. I don’t smoke or drink away my problems, forgetting about how I physically attacked my sibling in my early 20’s thanks to a few rounds of watered-down shots. I don’t refuse to apologize and instead just show up absentmindedly a few months later, hoping the other person had forgotten the things I previously said. 

I am simply not willing to pretend like these things didn’t occur, or didn’t exist, because I have had to live with them for that long, without a choice. But, I’m not trying to summit the hypoxic graveyard of Mount Everest by myself. I don’t need to carry this alone. I could, but it’s not necessary in this day and age. I can bring an oxygen tank. I can bring a sherpa. But people need to know that’s where I am in the world. 

______________________________________

For the record, I’m also tired of trying to weed out the newcomers who are ACTUALLY interested in learning about “me”, in whatever sense or capacity is available to them, without wasting my own time, and as of my past decade I tend to live in a new state every 2-3 years because of my career goals and honestly, I really don’t want to have to constantly retell the same exhaustingly intense theories for the rest of my life, but “normal” people can talk about things like family, career goals, values in life, much more casually.

Again, not exactly normal here. (Did you read the first post?)

So, whether it be professionally, athletically, educationally, whatever, I am actively working on making myself more available mentally, because clearly, emotionally I can be fairly checked out.

To be clear, yes I am stating that THEY (newcomers) can waste THEIR time reading about me, so long as I don’t waste my own. 

#JustENTJThings (Go look up MBTI)

Anyway, let’s Recap…

Short summary of my initial post is:

  • My grandfather and father are terrifyingly intellectual men in fields of military strategy and all things aerospace engineering (i.e. missile/weaponry development)
  • I was “trained” as a small child, and while my childhood was incredibly wonderful in a lot of ways, there was also a lot of navigation of stress in various forms
  • It’s possible that ‘training’ was some discontinued CIA-program to eventually sell me off/push me to gather intelligence and subject my body to whatever was necessary in my pursuit of knowledge in how the world works

So without further adieu, let’s continue…

Clue #4: Debutante Themes + International Diplomacy

Did any of you ever watch “She’s The Man” and relate to Viola Hastings’ disgust at her current situation and understand just why she was so frustrated? When Jo March in Greta Gerwig’s 2019 rendition of “Little Women” cried out in desperation of being so lonely, but wanting to be respected even more, was your initial reaction to undervalue her feelings? When Arya walked away from Gendry’s promise of a ladyship and land in season 8 because “that’s not her”, did you cheer? Feel a sense of pride? 

You likely felt compassion, empathy, an understanding of who they were because the backstory of their character arc was available to you. 

So when I refused my mother’s repeated advances to present myself to society via a debutante ball and cotillion, or when I decided I was going to join the football team AND be the top runner for cross country AND play varsity soccer in high school, or when I was one of the only women out of ~15 students out of a class of 22,000 undergraduates to graduate from a top 5 public university in one of the most difficult, male dominated degree fields available, when does my validation come? 

And where does my validation come from? Do I value the opinion of the family members I honestly can no longer respect because of the repeated nature of our adult encounters? Do I value the opinion of the supervisors who just yesterday sent me home because “while my outfit meets all technical criteria of the dress code, your legs are too tantalizing”… underneath your desk… in South Florida… in the middle of the summer? Do I value the opinion of the men who admired all of my virtuous aspirations initially, only for my independence to slowly become a deal breaker due to their own insecurities, causing them to stray? 

Fuck that. My validation comes from myself. 

I’ve always been this “difficult” of a person. I was five years old the first time I ran away and I distinctly remember packing my bag in spite (at my father) and holding my cat comforter up so the edges wouldn’t drag across the dew-laden grass as I crossed the street to my Uncle’s house. But am I really “difficult”? Or do I just question the subjective confines of my world because I know I can? 

And how do you present yourself to society when you don’t enjoy it, or it feels like a facade to do it in any artificial way? 

I had no interest in curtsying, learning how to delicately fold a napkin across my lap, or waiting on a male partner to escort me out into the world, even in adolescence. The cotillion angle, try as my mother might, was never going to happen. 

She should’ve known I wasn’t one to conform to gender norms when I took TWO boys to the third grade spring fling. In my defense, I narrowed down my choice from the entire male class, who had each given me an extra valentine (seriously, I peaked early as fuck) to just the two most popular boys. Chris Parker’s mom even picked me up and then drove to pick up Madison along the way. (Also…thinking of these instances then reassessing my previous, completely “unrelated” sexual preferences these days in quarantine is really that much more amusing). In fact, my entire third grade year parallels “me” as a human, in general. The presidential physical fitness test became my bitch, and the ten measly pull ups I had to do were nothing for my 100-pull-up, 100-v-up nightly bar routine that had to be completed before I could leave to go home from gymnastics…at the end of a 2 hour practice. One day, I got bored in gym class and was literally just allowed to stay in gym the rest of the day and hula hoop to break the Guiness World Record at the time, purely just to prove I could. My best friend fed me chicken nuggets to my outstretched palm during lunch. I even won the talent show later that Spring in an incredibly itchy, fuzzy Limited Too blue sweater and red skirt while belting out “The Star Spangled Banner” after first dedicating it to my three-time war veteran of a Grandpa (front row, in the audience) while my Grandmother, the hometown angel who played the organ and piano at every local parish and theatre club, accompanied me. Seriously, though, why is who I am these days and what I stand for STILL surprising to literally anybody who grew up with me. 

Once it was clear I had no intention in conforming to being a “lady” of society, other tactics of securing my status as being worthy of another person’s admiration took hold. My aunt’s job, working for some privately wealthy multimillionaire based out of D.C., took her all over the globe. Once I turned 18, and could freely travel with her without raising parental concerns, she took me with her to Rome where I spent 10 days exploring the city with an Italian Air Force Chief of Staff’s son, also my age, who was attending school overseas due to his father’s station. Later that summer, I was asked to accompany a 24 year old Australian diplomat’s recently-college-graduated son to a private dinner. The age gap and request wouldn’t have been weird…except for the fact that I both had an (abusive) boyfriend of several years and had never even been to college yet so what the heck could a small-town girl who ran against her best friend for queen of the county fair as a scholarship competition possibly offer a diplomat’s son in one-on-one conversation over a single night? With my dad, it was the men from base–whichever colonel, general, second lieutenant, whatever the fuck rank of marine, navy, or army man it was that day blending together into indistinguishable introductions, exuberance over how lucky they were to finally be introduced to me, the lust and intrigue behind their gaze obvious to anyone with half a brain. 

Those interactions certainly weren’t all bad, though.

I was the only youth at a five-course meal with multiple four star Italian generals. So, even if I was only there as a pretty face that could hold a conversation with the military men being honored, being fed cherries hand picked from the owner of the estate’s private groves, perched atop the roof top balcony overlooking Rome, at least I was there. When I was 21, I even had the opportunity to stay at the home of my dad’s long time friend, a former Marine-turned-oil-industry (conveniently right around the early-to-mid 2000’s…) man in Houston, Texas while working at the top cancer research center in the world for a summer! So, even if the man’s 23 year old athletic, blonde girlfriend “wasn’t comfortable” with him being in his own house when I was present , at least I got free use of the extra BMW, a pool with one of those motors that lets you swim in place, and prime real estate in Houston, Texas for free.

Not everything was a manipulative set up of any kind, and one could argue that life in general is about opportunity, so the more opportunities these equally curious and almost imaginative interactions earn you, the better. At the very least, I have a deeply complicated and interesting life story up until the current age of 27. But when your entire life has been centered on graduating college with virtually NO expectations set for you other than settling down and marrying a man, it is really difficult to not feel a hot flash of anger when they seem to ONLY happen, LARGELY because of your looks (which, again, up until this point, was a thing to keep modestly) and because the idea you might be happy, or fulfilled, on your own, seems absurd. It’s even insulting, most of all, because instead of not wanting to be distracted or undervalued after a string of shitty relationships, I’m apparently not allowed to provide myself time to relax and put myself first, because they’re worried that my “biological clock is ticking.”

For the record, looking at the facts of how my Grandpa didn’t believe I should have the right to vote AND TOLD ME SO, I grew up a farm girl riding my ponies over my acres of tobacco and hay fields, and my childhood consisted of glorifying the military prowess of egotistical men who feel a need to claim things (land, women, animals) for themselves and white colonial history, the emphasis of my place in society as a woman was probably one of the least shocking things I still feel residual pressure from. (Truthfully, I’ve even developed a bit of a kink for men in civil-war-era attire, which could just as likely be from Damon and Stefan Salvatore gracing the screens of my Netflix bingeing as lustful vampires, both secretly enamored with the same girl (a common theme in the entertainment I am drawn to, you’ll find) as it is due to my desire to enact some decades-later control over my own militaristic childhood in a Freudian version of sexual empowerment.)

As each year passes, even into my late 20’s, their tactics have only gotten more obvious. I’ll come home from running, sweat dripping off of each limb, glistening across my sternum, darkening the fabric of my sports bra, to a strange couple standing in my mom’s foyer, their conveniently-similar-in-age son just happened to be accompanying them to check out my mom’s bike. I get pestering, frequent insinuations that I must be a lesbian, since I don’t want to bring anyone home for the holidays (and I bought a Subaru) so strongly that I refuse to even consider the fact that I could even potentially find women attractive just because the minor chance they might be right is too infuriating that I just mentally have never allowed the question. 

But why do I care so much? 

What about their dismay at my happy solitude is so insulting to me? 

The fact in this life is whatever I achieve in life may be undermined by the lack of a male partner’s presence at my side. Sure, times are changing. Things are different now than they used to be. But the thoughts are still there. Whatever degrees I earn, jobs I hold, whatever a career looks like to me, will somehow seem sad, or lonely, if I opt to do it alone, whereas the male equivalent is revered and nobody asks whether you think you’ll regret focusing on it ten years from now (because, biologically, time is on your side so it doesn’t matter quite so much). If I had a dollar for every time one of the patients at my surgical dermatology job asked what was “wrong” with me because I wasn’t married yet…even after asking about my degrees and lifeplan, I may have been able to afford to stay at that job. If you think I’m exaggerating, and that “it’s not THAT bad anymore” “progress is being made”, explain to me why Emma Watson claiming she’s “Self partnered” is an ACTUAL news story. If we’ve ACTUALLY made that much progress with society, and women’s place, PLEASE justify why a single woman trying to find her place in the world and using her past experiences is pitied, constantly questioned, and statistically is at an increased risk for violence against her persona compared to her male counterpart. Has anyone ever asked Leonardo DiCaprio what is wrong with him for cycling through <25 year old girlfriends constantly? Suck my dick. 

From there, I wonder, do I actually think my family’s goal was trafficking me like Ghislaine Maxwell inevitably did to her victims? Or do I just think women’s role in the culturally relevant history to me and my ancestors just resembles female trafficking through use of legally enforced restrictions of whatever “freedoms” (or lack thereof) over my own existence that society wants me to have at that time? 

Is it just that I associate marriage with financial coercion and an abusive, controlling narrative because of my own experience, as well as the many, MANY similarly shared experiences with my friends, whereas that is just some kind of sample bias because of the environments I place myself in that draws similar people together? 

And, with a lengthy, repetitive, and globally cyclic patterns of female submission and inferiority of the sexes, arguably the one universally consistent, sociological trait of humanity, how is the concept of “marriage” any different, even in a Western country, when it is systematically interwoven with the increasingly difficult nature of raising a child, let alone multiple, on a single income, when the occupations commonly held by women are underfunded and underpaid (don’t even get me STARTED on education), and when sexual expression is still stigmatized so strongly that the “respectable” women are only those who reserve it for just their partner? 

Clue #5: If it looks like a duck and acts like a duck…

Speaking generally, the leaps between abuse are more of a mild hop, a casual stroll, a mindful gap. Remember those “slippery slopes” your parents spent hours warning you about? Domestic violence, sexual assault, sexual coercion, physical abuse, one tends to lead into the other and they don’t end up feeling that dissimilar from each other. At some point, it becomes a muted blend of apathy. Look up virtually any chronic reoffender in our criminal justice system–a system which HORRIBLY discards women, let alone children, for the fucking record, which I absolutely will speak separately on. One offense right after the other, yet they’re allowed to just reenter society because “not being a threat to women” is apparently different from “not being a threat to society”. Apparently, we just exclude women (or children) when we think about “society” as a whole.

In fact, in 2008 the Supreme Court ruled the death penalty for rape of a child was cruel and unusual punishment, even though the rape in question involved a man’s 8 year old stepdaughter and tore her perineum (the skin between the vagina and the butthole…also commonly torn during childbirth…the joys of femininity. Further side note… Shout out to Chrissy Tiegen for keeping it real on the internet,though).

Do you know what I think is “cruel and unusual punishment”, though?

Having been sexually assaulted multiple times, I can tell you right now that I’m going to be a dramatically changed person because of it. I have to actively work really, really hard at being a better person every single day because the reality of that, coupled with my PTSD, has provided me a cynically realistic view of the world. I know it will likely impact me the rest of my life, and I’ve learned to adjust my mindset to accommodate at continuing that slow, but gradual improvement, but it’s incredibly difficult in a country that does absolutely nothing to rehabilitate these offenders so they’re less likely to recommit, but also refuses to remove them from the gene pool, while also making it difficult for us to even access proper, affordable, and regular mental health care. It’s a system that has facilitated financial success and power for extorting the broken pieces for your own monetary gain, however easily, quickly, and long you can do it without being held accountable.

For the record, we could very easily look to European countries like Norway perhaps, who have some of the lowest crime rates and lowest rates of re-offenders with their prison system globally, so they must be doing at least something of minute importance we could take note of and try to apply. Marital rape wasn’t even a federal law in the USA until 1993! The year I was born! A man could rape his wife mercilessly, and that was completely cool.

Yet, you mean to tell me I’m not supposed to fucking talk about this? Or that I shouldn’t draw on personal experience to fuel the hell fire that is my career trajectory… or worse, it’ll ruin my chances of finding a suitable man? L M A O. I should just wait in the shadows until I MIGHT be lucky enough to actually be successful before I share it with anyone? I should be content with watching the uneducated cucks (actually, I should stop using that insultingly. Nothing wrong with that if it’s what you’re into) on CSPAN make policies affecting my livelihood and body and NOT use my social media to draw attention to this?

Much like Lady Gaga, I, also, am fueled largely on spite.

My desire to help society is not so much founded in my love of people as it is in my hatred for shitty people. (Emphasis on PEOPLE, and not just MEN, ahem… my hatred is not one-sided.)

In the USA particularly, at some point our values of what it means to be a decently good human being became vastly overshadowed by obsession with material wealth and consumerism, and it grosses me out just enough to keep me an active member of society, intent on trying to minimize my own ecological consequence and appreciate the wonders technology allows me to enjoy with ease, instead of moving to an island as a biologist for the remainder of my days much like the remarkable tale of Eloise Wehrborn de Wagner-Bosquet, the Galapagos baroness (this story also, coincidentally, involves multiple male lovers vying for their Paramore’s affection and was brought to me by the best murder square out there, Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark.) On a related note, I saw a meme today that said “I’m the granddaughter of the witches you couldn’t murder” and I felt a warm fuzzy feeling in my chest, so there’s that.

Because of this stress on outrageous materialism, it also makes sense that the entertainment industry really funneled the Me Too! Movement into what it is today, since objectification of women is most blatantly obvious when women’s bodies are figuratively and literally, replaceable, malleable, and directable. There was also no denying to the public JUST how influential those acts were in directly securing the positions or roles under question, because the financial incentives were publicly available information under each Wikipedia page for whatever film’s title or the IMDB for the actress was readily accessible.

Yet, what has come out of that? One creep remains in jail? The victims have to sign documentation preventing themselves from going public if they want any hopes of the financial pot? (But it’s too much money for our work-to-live country, so no matter how heinous the crimes actually were, the appeal eats away at you, justifiably so.)

The reality of our government’s refusal to acknowledge social justice issues like systematic racism, cycles of poverty, violence towards women, is because those topics will ultimately turn the conversation to criminal justice reform. The individualistic, greedy nature of capitalism will be called into question further and further until it can no longer be ignored that we aren’t actually creating a safe, secure zone for our children to grow up in. Instead, we elect those members to seats in our government, we revere them as well-standing members of the community, we reward them for the triumphant accolades their daughter’s garner as if it was their mind doing the work, or sprinting through that finish line. 

So why do I have so much overwhelming passion-induced anxiety, a NEED to devote myself to acknowledging and addressing this? Why can’t I just let these intense topics fade in the archives, diving into the new headlines like the average American citizen? Particularly when it seems like my life is relatively decent, well-adjusted? I “turned out fine”, I “should stop whining”, “how is this even relevant to you”, “quit being dramatic”. (If you’re thinking that right now, though (aka probably my family), let’s take a collective moment to acknowledge the fact that you’re mentally bitching about me, but still spending the time to read this. Stay in your lane and just hate in silence, for all of our sakes. Kanye West has taught me that no press is bad press (or does that only work for men?) and even if this blog ends up imploding in a 2008-era-Britney-Spears-headshave-mental-breakdown, read the caption… “it’s COMEDY!” (I hope you read that in the voice of Alexandra Cooper from Call Her Daddy). 

At some point in the mental process, you realize you enjoy learning about other’s stories, historically, in my case, all aspects of true crime but recently focused more intensely on the victims of Jeffrey Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell, because you find solace in their shared understanding of torment. You feel a sense of relief that the world is allowing them a platform to not fade away into oblivion. That living through it MEANT something.

You take pride knowing that the normalcy of developing the skill of quickly shutting your emotions down, unreadable, the ease of flipping that mental switch so you could think solely on logic, at your most unpredictable, was developed as a result of the trauma. That you see more logically, and analytically before than ever, but are almost robotic in that sense, overactive, always scanning. 

And with said aforementioned logic, what may have just been a cut-and-dry case of the traditional, harsh lifestyle of an alcoholic farmer with a knack for domestic violence could just as plausibly have been the grooming stages of a far more expansive network of modern day trafficking given the statistical outcome of intergenerational trauma and substance abuse disorders, you just lacked the awareness at the time to notice the details. You also continue to trust in your gut, because every accusation that ever was called “crazy” by your ex boyfriends were usually pretty spot-on. 

Because just the very idea that You, someone who tends to not necessarily lead with empathy, becomes overwhelmed with this physical need to devote your life to addressing these issues, even though you’re likely setting yourself up for a lifestyle of cyclic relative loneliness, repaying debt, and investing in your education as a desperate hope of bringing a sense of understanding to your own mind, is such an insane concept. That you’ve been bullied into believing dreams of professional degrees, a gap year to enjoy life at your own pace renders you selfish beyond repair and “wasting your life” because the very idea that you could want more of your life than to marry and have children was blasphemous and somehow insulting to them? But, sure, Ricky, I’m a real “Dr. Death” just because I aspire for a doctoral degree and a lifetime of happiness with my chosen family that actually “gets” me. Fucking sue me for wanting to do more than vote idly by the rest of my life even if it means that I’m poor and cry every so often if I’m helping others. I still struggle with the insinuation of acknowledging abuse at any level, particularly because the distant ringing of “Go ahead! Call CPS! See how much better you like the foster system!” I heard my father repeat all too well lingers at the connotation. But, at some point in therapy, you just have to get over the hurdle of what your brain is refusing to allow your mouth to say and blurt it out. 

In public health, the most important factor of any initiative is stakeholders–the people who care so passionately about these issues because it personally affects them enough to want to make a difference. It draws into question my own passion. Why do I care so much about it? Why shouldn’t I just be content with a nice little, modest suburban home and ride the coattails of my privilege to stability, throwing money at a GoFundMe as needed and feeling good about myself? Honestly, I don’t mind those people at all, as long as they’re using their awareness to create conversation in their own households. But why would I not be happy with that? The answer is simply that my own experiences of sexual violence, physical and emotional abuse render it necessary for me to reevaluate the sincerity of these feelings. I’ll be the first to admit it sounds ludicrous, but much like that list of similarities between Lincoln and Kennedy that floats around the internet every few years, there are undeniable overlaps and I can’t deny the desperate, almost illogical emotional needs working as motivators throughout my career, insurmisable in any other sense other than “I REALLY wanted to [do that].” 

Psychology and the State of the World for Women…

Uncovering the extensive network of trafficking (underage) women (children) that was/is Jeffrey Epstein’s world requires knowledge of just how these actions affect the “survivors” who live the rest of their lives in fear. 

My reality is that imagining the type of fear, shame, and residual trauma those women must feel causes me to revisit my own distant, lingeringly painful memories tucked away under lock and key . Even though I had “long forgotten” some of these issues, keeping them placated in the background by an overwhelming amount of business, I still filled that busy time by studying the body (perhaps making that choice subconsciously?) and subsequently coming to understand how these things that encompass my timeline have literally changed my own physiological and hormonal chemistry, for better or worse. Each new paper on PTSD treatment, the physiological effects of chronic stress, seminars on interdepartmental learning offered clarity. That clarity, though, doesn’t, and won’t stop me from changing from running on my favorite rural, countryside trails to well-populated, publicly-surveilled paths for safety and comfort, even if I hate the pavement, need to carry my phone, and longer drive. Nor does it keep me out of the gym in the off chance that somewhere down the line, I’ll need to fend off an attacker, and want to be physically capable of holding my own if so. So, whenever news of something as insane, outrageous, and despicable as human trafficking comes up, the conversation inevitably turns to mental health, forging a “new normal”, and actually vindicating it means acknowledging those people didn’t have a choice at some point and they can be a “victim” and simultaneously want acknowledgment, crave communities of mutual understanding, and facilitate growth without that defining who they are or making them helpless. 

“Justice” after these events, if anyone is actually held accountable, also has many interpretations, but ultimately involves subjectively deciding on an “unequal but relatively fair” sentencing in repentance for some previous ideology, action, or thought. Part of establishing a “just” punishment involves understanding the mentality, the thought process behind the actions. The reasons people traffic women and young girls, though, is the same mentality that applies to the rich’s necessity to acquire any other tangible good. In the game of life, women, along with everything else in the USA, have a price, and can thus be owned.

Only, in the USA, we’ve outlawed prostitution, we’ve injected Christian virtues into every vein on our body in such withdrawal-laden intensity that we overdosed our government and local culture so nudity, the female body, and sexuality are still taboo in that, we can at least vote (between two shitty white men who both want to or have historically participated in making legislative dictations to our bodies, using their views on what rights we “should be allowed” to have as political strategies) but WOMEN ON ENTERTAINMENT PODCASTS ARE CRITICIZED FOR TALKING ABOUT SEX. The “is there no privacy!” argument gets thrown around even though these women are literally talking to their friends from the comfort of their own homes and putting it online, but MEN who talk about it freely and have been doing so for AGES, literally since men first got together and decided they would unionize, (there is a REASON Game of Thrones depicted the wildlings, an interpretation of feral humans, as metal as nature in a nomadic world as savage creatures, humanities stripped comparatively even to mythological renaissance-style times, and it wasn’t because the women were savage without reason), MEN who clearly fuck anything with legs and a vagina (and I honestly think, especially judging by a quick scan (read: several HOURS of research into) options of sex toys available to them, the legs are questionably required), those MEN get revered as gods. Their sexual charisma, chiseled body, unattainable attitude is a PERK to literally every single career they could hold.

The Kardashians get murdered on social media, even when they talk about fertility concerns, learning how to navigate raising biracial children as a parent, the criminal justice system, but y’all still support the NFL who takes a blatantly dismissive outlook on the players who beat their women multiple times. Y’all WORSHIP the turf that man walks on because his ability to catch a ball in a COMPLETELY MADE UP SPORT THAT NO OTHER COUNTRY PLAYS (and therefore isn’t even justifiable for anything outside of purely entertainment value) is more important than the fact that he ran a dog-fighting ring, or nearly beat a woman to death. Y’all glorify cage fighting and potentially beating another man to death on internationally broadcast television as a “manly” sport and justify the money as being worth the risk of permanent brain damage, if not death, or chronically aggressive interactions with families that include children. Y’all continue funding a rapper, sending him to the top of the musical hits charts, who has openly admitted to raping a 13 year old girl, JUST LIKE THE ACCUSED THIS ENTIRE BLOG HAS THUS FAR TOUCHED ON, but Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion talking about their pussies being wet during sex (AS THEY SHOULD BE) gets y’all all hyped and bothered. Ciara taught me a looooong time ago not to get worried about all that, though. So I won’t sweat it.

Destigmatizing females using social media as a platform to talk freely about their experiences as a female, the good, the bad, and the ugly, is literally what the goal of social media is supposed to be. It’s SUPPOSED to be about creating a community for people to be some version of themselves. So why do we shun it when that version is an authentically free woman? 

Creating these conversations, has secondary implications, though. The real “trickle down economics” is that destigmatizing female sexuality also means addressing violence towards women–law enforcement may actually begin to thoroughly investigate when a legally represented sexworker goes missing. 

Destigmatizing feminine conversation in general, usually coaligns with increased access to mental health resources–women LIKE talking about our problems (usually), it’s even more fun when they’re paid to listen patiently! (Just kidding about the listening patiently part, therapy is so much more than that and my therapist has worked me into some corners. Claire, if you’re reading this, 1. I am so sorry I haven’t updated you in a while, 2. Please don’t write a case study about me, I’m obviously writing it about myself and 3. You are a gift to this earth). 

Destigmatizing female conversation might also improve lives for men–you can actually understand us better, talk about your own feelings, learn about what unique and terrifyingly beautiful creatures we are at every level of our beings, and, because it usually tends to be the most important thing to you that “does at least 30% of male thinking” (according to this guy I met in graduate school), your sex lives would probably VASTLY improve because you wouldn’t be scared to ask or try new things in the bedroom, you wouldn’t be worried things could “feel a little gay” when literally it is just you and your girlfriend in the room, you would learn that if you invested even half the emotional capacity into learning our own bodies as an adult with a new perspective and learned experiences as you did to yourself when you were a kid and your dick got hard for the first time, you might ACTUALLY get us (read: females) to willingly revere your mediocre cock with as much enthusiasm as we do our orgasmic sculptures of silicone tucked inside the nightstand’s drawer. 

Of the five safest countries in the world for women, almost all have legal prostitution, for the record. Keeping prostitution illegal in the USA as a direct result of the stigma surrounding female sexuality, also keeps barriers like “professionalism” on social media and every other aspect of your life controllable by your job–holding your healthcare, financial security, home at the mercy of your supervisor. How many men do you think have formal complaints logged into their HR files over being shirtless on social media? Or in bathing wear?  (I’m looking at you, #MedBikini)

It’s the same concept behind criminalizing marijuana, but making it illegal only made it illegal for poor people.  It keeps the majority of money (and power) lined in the pockets of the rich, (white) men who control the brothels in Las Vegas, it makes women who only care about money (which is, again, COMPLETELY FINE IN A CAPITALIST ECONOMY) resort to valuing themselves at only $7 a month for an OnlyFans or $1000 a scene to be immortalized on pornhub (IF you get paid at all and don’t just have your revengeporn thrown up there!), when they should be getting PAID to allow others in their mystical sexual presence. But, because it is illegal, and there is no discord, no discussion around what our bodies are actually worth, all stigmatizing sexuality does (in a historically heteronormative society), for women, is keep them subservient to men because they can’t use all of their skills and talents to their advantage, or every communication is word-of-mouth instead of women creating businesses, hiring legal security, ensuring partners are testing for sexually transmitted diseases and using safe methods. 

Side note, in case you were curious, if I didn’t have so many hang ups because of my “daddy issues”, you better bet your ass that I would 100% let my thousands of dollars of student loans from my grad and next program be paid for by some lonely 40+ year old dude if I could legally do it and wasn’t constantly worried about getting murdered by the shady nature of it. Or even if some nerdy, rich guy somehow found me and was like “hey can you be my girlfriend for $150,000 a year, I’m lonely and want to travel the world” you can BET my passport would be the first mother fucking thing stamped. I will GLADLY be your muse if you can fund me a few years of the freedom to think and learn more about the world from a perspective I can’t currently attain purely from a financial standpoint. The happiness that comes from a business-like decision out of logic to meet financial and physical needs with someone willing to openly communicate and add a significant level of ease to your life is absolutely something I should not feel “GUILTY” for. How is that any worse than the absolutely shitty men (read: normal, average white guys well advanced in their careers and seen by society as “successful”) getting to use my body sexually, including the ones who were honestly complete shit in bed (I like to rescue animals of all kinds, apparently) who I took under my wing like a young Anakin Skywalker, only to cheat and blatantly, unacceptably disrespect me years later after significant emotional investment on my end?

My career would never just up and leave me and I would 100% fund it and my economic stability in this manner if it wasn’t one more stupid fucking obstacle to being “respected” that women have to deal with. 

Back to the point.

Female trafficking is a necessity to these people, a craving for power and validation over others, commonly to inflate the egoes of the rich. Much like the foreshadowed warnings of “The Most Dangerous Game”, the nature of humanity is to acquire power over another. Once you get bored with owning things, you want to up the stakes. The ability to view actual human beings as a “commodity”, their feelings disregarded because you think you pay them well enough to not have any. And since our economy and culture centers around money, it may be enough to keep them significantly quiet. The ability to separate reality (and even legality) from practicality, so you don’t feel guilty over the choices you make. Those sociopathic-like tendencies are typically reserved for both the world’s most powerful leaders and lethal criminals. They can flip the switch on empathy, if it’s not permanently stuck in the “off” position (sound familiar).

And who better to quantify that, than someone who has had no choice but to be increasingly aware that level of horror in the world exists.

Yet, even if you spend your entire career under a public vow to dismantle it, or at the very least actually illuminating what a problem it is and how strongly it ties into the position of women within our society, how can you possibly still be “good” when you also lack the emotional capacity to care about public sentiment when sharing it as a stream of consciousness. And there’s definitely no way you can be morally good by feeling a need to speak out, to publicly acknowledge how you interact with the world after being shaped by your own somewhat similar experiences, to even potentially profit off of it down the line? Selfish. 

Pete Davidson walked in his post-Ariana-break-up interviews so I could run on a blog.

It’s these types of questions in my analysis that make the complexities of the human mind, the memories these stories jog for me, and the importance of widely available, high quality mental health resources that much more intriguing.

For instance, I’ve heavily questioned my sexuality as a scientist, because with my educational pursuit of my undergraduate and graduate degrees, and the subsequent increase in knowledge on what “science” actually is, one comes to find that “science” is just inherently questioning the nature of reality. In medicine, you learn the biological response as to why something feels good. The chemical release, the uptake by receptors, the action potentials propagating through your skin. And yet, you exist, grew up, flourished in a world that has socially convinced you that acting on these propagations will ostracize you–even if they’re literally not hurting anyone, it’s your own body, etc. You grew up engrained with ideology that “marriage is only legally acceptable between a man and a woman”, “you should only have a single partner at a time” “marriage is controlling, manipulative, and should be for life even when you absolutely hate each other” and were somehow not supposed to rebel against it, even though the whole world was at your fingertips in every other aspect. Not to mention the interpretation of a book intended to instill and redress moral values, the stories of love, learning how to express yourself, coming of age, also condemning you to hell for biological temptations that you couldn’t stop and that, ultimately, were NORMAL.

But this was America! Women, especially white, hot, blonde women, were able to really BE somebody! It’s selfish for me to even be angry about, or question, any aspect of my previous lives because the opportunities they’ve given me proves the world is at my fingertips! Barbie had every different role possible. My Kirsten American Girl doll mimicked my Amish neighbor’s lifestyle. My cousins won “model” searches down at the local mall. My life was the set up in every movie that graced mainscreen Hollywood growing up. I even looked like Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen in my 90’s photos. That’s the harsh part though–all of my heroes were just fake characters. They weren’t based on any women in actuality. Other than sports athletes, I had no knowledge of role models that were representative of who “I” was at the time. Until “Hidden Figures” came out in 2016, I didn’t think anyone even cared about the hardships of women in STEM. Prior to that, I was only learning about men whose LIFE work I was studying that could now be boiled down to a semester-long, 3-hour course twice a week. It’s a tough thing to realize that the world you live in was not created for you. It was created for who you are physically, but you push the boundaries just a little too much because of the thoughts inside your head that question the purpose behind these technological advances and societal values when they don’t seem to actually improve our lives enough to allow us to slow down and enjoy the natural pace of humanity. Those kinds of thoughts don’t just create a minor ripple, even if that’s how you start out, you explode from seemingly nothingness like the Beirut explosion. 

(( Side note: donate to the Lebanon Red Cross here > ))

Mindy Kaling once had her character on The Mindy Project state, “tattling is when a young girl does it, when a hot woman does it, it’s called whistle blowing”. Yet, I don’t consider this “Whistle blowing”, in any way. Having the audacity to question my background is seen as the same “disgraceful” or a “tainted image” on my family, as if I came in blazing hot, making concrete, direct connections between the two theories. I would just like to blissfully point right back that if my family didn’t want me to write about them or go through this, mentally, then maybe they could’ve given me a little more love and support over the past decade (or even like, during the timeline for any of these events to take place so the memories wouldn’t be cloaked in mystery).

But, apparently, unconditional love is not guaranteed just by biological relation.

Funny how that works out, isn’t it.

(Thankfully, that makes it just as freely available from a “chosen” family forged from those you meet in life. For every shitty person in the world, there are just as many good ones willing to give love freely and without expectation because they never were on the receiving end of such an arrangement. They might be a little harder to find, but they’re there.) 

At some point in your research, as mentioned at the beginning of this post, you studied the trends of scientific discovery and the lives of those you were following behind–how those who came later were often depressed, unhappy with the state of their lives, the ensuing struggle with the enticing curiosity of knowledge that could topple societies. The obsession with each other’s work, the indulgence in exchange of passionate thoughts. Art and science interwoven so deeply that for you to truly achieve self actualization, you know you will have to acknowledge the passion behind it. 

And in recognizing that conundrum, you noted the actual experiments weren’t as intriguing to you as a topic of focus as the method of communication in which one pursuit built upon another. The method in which one scientific achievement spread–the blossom of communities, the growth of ideas, the ability to grow from words, and abstract concepts.

Would these scientists have been so depressed if they hadn’t had to wallow in their misery alone? 

Would they look at society, all of the “progress” stemming from their inventions, and be proud of how that contribution was mutilated (built upon)?

What about the scientists who created the atomic and hydrogen bombs? How do they feel about the state of the world these days? How much did they know, or actually understand, about the consequences of their actions? 

What’s the purpose of avidly working towards a theoretical future when you have the ability to make a tangible influence on another’s life locally, today? How did you choose what to prioritize? And how did you know doing that was “right”?

You finally had the time to slow down and watch as pieces of the puzzle revealed that the pursuit of higher degrees in medicine, law, or biological science wasn’t necessarily your end goal, though they were a means to an end. For the record, they were also logical, as you had no current plans or even prospects of marrying, no “need” for biological children of your own, and they would conveniently increase your lifelong earning potential as well as how rewarding it is to annihilate mansplainers, but nobody wanted to hear about that because their dreams of grandchildren were slowly disintegrating much like when Bing Bong faded into oblivion in Pixar’s take on explaining the importance of acknowledging your emotions, formally known as “Inside Out”.

Your end goal was the pursuit of having your voice acknowledged, heard, and appreciated just a little bit more.

And to do that, you had to start to talk. 

Was I Almost Ghislaine Maxwell-ed?

I would like to preface this by saying I, as an epidemiologist, understand that human trafficking, sexual violence, violence towards women, etc. are incredibly unfortunate issues in today’s society. Much like coronavirus, I think the issues in society are not, in fact, getting worse, they are merely being filmed. (A popular sentiment being passed around the twittersphere, according to Reddit.) In no way am I trying to undermine or sensationalize the severity of it. I am just exploring the world of memoir blogging, whilst possibly risking a breach of national security and careful scolding from my biological father (should he be present in my life to have a valid influence over my decisions), and spending the excessive amount of time available for me to freely exist while spiraling myself into existential dread with psychoanalysis of my self-proclaimed “daddy issues”. 

Much like how my favorite badass true crime ladies, Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark of “My Favorite Murder”,start the beginning of their live shows, I would like to reiterate that this is MY written word and should you dislike it you can kindly get the fuck out.

The premise of this blog will essentially dive into the satirical comedy of my life as I entrench myself in exploring the volatility of my repressed memories and psychoanalytic review of the history of “me”. As an ENTJ, epidemiologist, celebrated athlete, biochemist, and woman, I have held many roles within this world already. Yet still, I feel somewhat lost excelling in a world that was not created with me in mind and seems so resistant to change. 

Thanks to a LOT of hours of watching, re-watching, and then assessing “The Office” and “The Mindy Project”, I finally saw my personality reflected in popular culture. Historically, as a white-blonde haired, blue-green eyed, 5’7” athlete, I have physically been represented, for which I am grateful, though I was then confined to roles of helpless Princesses waiting for a handsome prince, the damsel in distress, the Fiona not the Shrek. Out of all of the compliments I’ve ever received (and believe me, not even in a “braggy” way, but there have been a lot), my favorite one was “you have a beautiful mind”. It’s difficult to get taken seriously, for all of the incredibly stereotypical reality that is the magical wonder of Reese Witherspoon’s “Legally Blonde”, when the male-dominated field of chemistry, biochemistry, and (historically) medicine, sees the energetic eagerness of a golden retriever in human form and discards it to the side, tells it to “tone it down”, tries to funnel you into a shell of who you are.

A lot of boundaries are being broken around the globe lately. For better or for worse, the average citizen also is arming themselves with the real financial currency of the world: intelligence. What the wealthy really buy for themselves, a premise cultivated by Amanda Seyfried and Justin Timberlake’s 2011 Sci-fi thriller “In Time” is just that–time. The time to not have to do the more “mundane” tasks of the world. The ability to afford less stress–not so as to say the wealthy don’t have stress of their own, but so they can afford to prioritize quality of life. They can afford to reflect. They can afford to enjoy life at the pace of their leisure–however fast or slow that may be. They can afford to sit and think without distraction.

So in a world of thought, where does a fairly introverted skeptic who walks through life like one of the elves from Lord of the Rings but feels the inner pull of Sméagol/Gollum’s cognitive dissonance fit in? 

In a world where different kinds of thought are accessible all over the world, I wanted to figure out a way to share the art that is my life that may include, but isn’t tied to, my appearance. I am well aware of how narcissistic this may come across, but frankly, at some point in one’s life, you have to prioritize YOURSELF. I’m 27, single with no plans of changing, living in Washington, D.C., and trusting the direction of Miley Cyrus, Beyonce, and Taylor Swift amongst others to put into words, visuals, and musical sequence the way I felt for years with no form of expression and the way I feel trying to healthily navigate that in a realm that finally allows us to “talk about it”. Not all of us come from happy homes with warmth and love. Some of us process our emotion through expression, learning from it as it comes and goes. 

Yet, how does one share their thoughts when their entire online presence has been, and could be, tied back to, and used against knowledge of their personal identity? When they grew up thinking knowledge of even a single red solo cup in a photo would ruin their chance of success? When their military family meant no social media was allowed in general, due to concerns over data security? When the risk of their very curious nature could also ruin their chances at their dreams? The same creativity that inspires them so artistically and has made them feel so passionately about every aspect of their life is meant to be shut off. The fluidity of events that built up to this inspired person should be muted, tucked away in a box of memories, and certainly NEVER publicly acknowledged. The very reason that one is as gifted as they are should be sheltered from the world, and from oneself, so they have to float through life ever questioning, in suspicious loneliness, in illuminated confusion. 

So, with that in mind, I want to create a space where I can figure out a way to express, benefit from, and inspire other like-minded individuals, but most of all individuals who may just get drawn in by one facet of me, to get insight to some stuff they may never have seen before, and maybe, just maybe, come out just a little more educated, emotionally intelligent, reflective, whatever. It’s not like I’m an egomaniac like Elon Musk or Kanye West and trying to play God with people’s lives, so I figure my opinion might be a little bit more rational and worth a damn. 

I also LOVE logic and debate, so please understand that I, as a chronic student cycling from career-to-degree-to-career-to-degree as I care to, having lived all over the East coast, and traveling to several states amongst the company of high-profile personnel over the years, am constantly learning as I go. I think the whole point in my career as a student has not so much been the subject matter of my learning, but rather the process itself. I never want to not be learning. 

That being said, I have studied…quite a lot. As an epidemiologist, of all of the plagues that I’ve studied, humanity is by far, the worst. Yet, as a woman (and aforementioned lover of true crime), I have a sick fascination with watching the possible statistical trajectories of my life revisioned before me. I will be wrong (probably most of the time, actually, but, as I said, I walk through life like an elf… it’s not exactly “normal”, so I will never admit it to anyone outside of my close friend group and then any random strangers on the internet who happen across this. 

Thus the birth of the study of their, and my own, behavior via dramaturgical memoir in the form of a modified ~influencer~ blog. 

Side note…why are we even criticizing “influencers”, brands, or celebrities of pop culture in general of not speaking up from an academic perspective? We should be championing it. The fact that some people are mad that hot girls are monetizing themselves in a capitalist economy probably has the same views my own Grandpa was VERY vocal of, in that women (and subsequently, myself) shouldn’t have the right to vote. 

But guess what, Grandpa! Not only can I vote, but my tastefully nude photos can be showcased on the same website as my recollections of your war stories and desperate (though incredibly cool and intriguing) search for our genealogy. 

We should be reaching out to, educating, helping those very same hot girls to take an interest in and learn about the world they’ve found themselves lucky enough to be successful in. 

We shouldn’t mock their bright colors, catchy dances or vulgar phrases because “cursing isn’t lady like”, telling them to not utilize a platform that allows that repressed creativity to filter through. 

We shouldn’t funnel athletes, people who have met, interacted, and shared experiences with thousands on a national or global stage into muting their performances, resigning them to using an armband or kneeling to be the only acceptable form for them to speak out in. 

We shouldn’t stifle the voices of women in healthcare, or the underrepresented in general, resulting in them feeling as if their dramatic passion must be quieted in the profession.

But, to understand their voices, to have access to the minds, the theory, the logic behind their choices, to really know who they are behind the scenes, the true intimacy of humanity, we must first figure out a way or it to be heard. 

_____________________________________

So, back to the premise of the title and thus, “blog post #1” (please be nice, I do not consent to any “Roast Me” Reddit posts, should any show up about me, they are photoshopped I am just telling you that right now). 

Now that I’m home, on our family farm outside Washington, D.C. in this 2020 dystopia “summer” of coronavirus, my online school is completed, and I’m no longer living in a hotel and calling people who “just died last night”, I finally have the time to sit down and think about how I feel about “me”. I’m usually very introspective as is, which you would probably guess purely from my years of experience dabbling in hot yoga.

Naturally, this introspection has now spiraled me down the rabbit hole that I was raised in the equivalent of a secret military training program, my daddy issues are related to repressed memories of child trafficking, and the breakdown of my family began when it became clear I was not redeemable or able to be used in the way I was intended (as an ornament to be auctioned off one day, as most women who marry are). 

I also quite possibly just need to unfollow the conspiracy theories subreddit because I fully acknowledge how insane this will sound. I would also like to reiterate it will inevitably be a sick, twisted level of satirical comedy and will not be everyone’s cup of tea. (If anything, it’ll be like a trainwreck you can’t possibly tear your eyes away from.) With quarantine, the investigation into Epstein, and smoking a fair amount of weed (sorry, Mom), the paranoia that I may have repressed memories over my own father revealed the following.

Clue #1: My family net of interwoven secrecy

My entire life, I had access to things most people associate with “higher society”. A naive little farm girl, tucked away from the realities of the world, a family commune with a Colonel for a Grandpa who served in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam. Because of his military background, his years spent at West Point both as a student and a professor, the horrors of reality he saw overseas, we had the security of growing up in the same house, my entire life, just outside of the hub of global affairs. Just outside of where the actual decisions were being made in Washington, D.C. Just outside of the buildings where people’s lives are reduced to the very statistics I now study, and manipulate, and have to be tasked with prioritizing at my own interest, or what I choose to “care” about that day. Just outside of where the monuments, structures, and memorials were enacted, of where history was being made, commemorated, and shared, of where both my maternal grandfather and biological father worked for the Pentagon in a variation of Aerospace Engineering, Nuclear weaponry development, and Military tactics for nearly every single major military event in US history and worked as a unit with other governmental faces to contribute to influencing the fate of the world. 

Since I was a woman, though, they didn’t think that I would be watching, or aware, of the insight freely available to me purely by an alignment of genetic cells. My grandfather’s words were some variation of refusing to share anything with me because I was a “feeble minded woman” who “shouldn’t have the right to vote” heavily juxtaposed by my biological father encouraging me to be an equal to my older brother, or any man. 

Nevertheless, I was certainly happy. I was supplied with as many ponies as I wanted, got to join the Girl Scouts, then became a Brownie, pony club! (After I came across “The Saddle Club” series in the local public library), private school, dressed up and paraded out every Thanksgiving as a turkey, and every Christmas as an angel, nevermind how much you absolutely HATED mass congregations and forced theatre. A welsh pony, chestnut brown–just like the one in my latest book, followed by an Icelandic import from Canada, showing up in the middle of the night, his bay coat illuminated by the moonlight like wet pavement. Hundreds of presents on holidays! It was never given though–no, certainly not a gift. Everything was a reward, positive reinforcement for my hours in the gym, days spent in the saddle, diligence with my reading. 

So when my parents switched me to public school in second grade, to better accommodate my transition into the elite gymnastics circuit–on an olympic development track, I also began climbing the rankings in horse competitions. Moving from dressage to showjumping to eventing, adding in games and polocrosse as easily as I added in another pony. I collected trophy after trophy, in literally everything I tried. Once one discipline got boring, another quickly took its place. The events I read about in books well beyond my grade level, devouring page after page, were actually happening for me. 

And I didn’t have to care about any of it. I was a soldier, after all. 

My grandfather saw to that. Respecting his authority was instilled deep within my being. The system worked, was rigid, was right. As long as I showed up, I got to play whatever I wanted. And I loooooooved to win. 

I had trainer after trainer freely available. A trampoline. Maybe I should pick up soccer? No, not on a girl’s team, it has to be a boy’s team. They’re more fun to play with. My identity became whatever was in front of me. And because I knew the value of hard work, knew that “talent” was a clever way of disguising hobbies as things you just decide you might like one day, and then try again and again until you’re eventually relatively decent at it, I didn’t need to question who I was. 

I collected title after title, the true value in the trophies being confined to the text engraved on the plate.  And as many achievements as I had on every soccer field, track, football complex, or horse ring in the state, I matched them, if not more, in school. My intelligence and calm demeanor floored teacher after teacher (a stark contrast to my older brother’s incessant energy). While I may not have acted out in class, I still spoke passionately, I engaged, I made myself heard in the situations I was allowed to, at every opportunity. Yet, I still only did it, when I was permitted to

My physical prowess and adaptability are almost surreal, and always have been. Academic and athletic excellence. All wrapped up in the muscular, blonde haired, blue-green eyed frame, it was scarily reminiscent of Angelina Jolie’s character’s upbringing in Soviet Russia in the movie, “Salt”. My resume was phenomenal, such that when I met someone who so obviously embellished theirs in graduate school, I was genuinely disgusted that anyone would lie on their resume. (Remember, naivety will be a recurrent theme.)

So where does Ghislaine Maxwell and our political/military background fall into this? 

Ghislaine Maxwell, news sensation, probably (definitely?) secretly dead in a cell, inevitably smuggled out, replaced by a body double from the coronavirus epidemic (some poor family of a white, brunette lady of slender build will be just another “misplaced” funeral mix-up, aye?) in a staged suicide, Kerri Washington will revisit her role as Olivia Pope on the magic that is (everything) Shonda Rhimes’ “Scandal” to “handle” it, the Cruella DeVil of child sex trafficking, you know the one. 

Well, I think it’s pretty safe to say, though also at the risk of coming up sounding like a big conspiracy theorist, that apart from Ghislaine Maxwell and other members of high society, most of the people actually controlling things on a global scale PRIOR to the big “boom”of tech with the emergence of the new millenium were the military leaders, and solely the military leaders. Prior to the convenience of having every household equipped for communication, the military and political figures were a string of name recognition picked largely by familial lineage or military prowess. If you were lucky, you revolutionized an industry and got involved with your cunning traditional academic intelligence (or just sheer luck). 

Either way, technology has made knowledge of the realities of the various currencies the world’s power is concentrated around that much more obvious to the average citizen. Money, military force, humans, women, children, bioterrorist agents, intelligence, the actual identity doesn’t matter. What ultimately matters is who the people are that can move the lives, identities, souls of societies around their Risk Boards at their discretion, and understanding that those people are generally not in those positions of power because it is an easy position to hold, or because they are morally righteous. With that in mind, I think it’s pretty reasonable to assume that nearly every single person who historically has or continues to exploit an under-serving system has a million skeletons in the closet and a million pieces of information capable of being thrown around indiscernible until the odds turn into their favor. 

From that draws the reasoning that my Grandfather, a distinguished military leader of our country, one who preferred to remain back in the shadows, secluded from the world yet readily accessible when needed, may have been involved at some point in his incredibly successful career, at using nefarious tactics to achieve a means to his end. It’s only logic that the same people pulling the strings behind the scenes, the ones actually responsible, for “containing” the horrors of the world were the military strategists. And to contain them means understanding them, studying them, being aware of them and their intricacies. Furthermore, our government, particularly our defense department, has a history of ethical concerns with their developmental training programs. 

My grandfather was a lot of things and as much as I respect (with a healthy whim of absolute horror towards) him for the life he created, I really don’t think it would be that implausible to think he may have tried to create a lineage that could be inserted into every position necessary to obtain intelligence with his own family and I was ultimately intended to be either married off or sold to the highest bidder in his circle. From that, the obvious trail of deductive reasoning yields I was likely meant to be an eventual target of Jeffrey Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell’s extensive pedophilic ring. 

Which, for the record, is horrific, but is not that uncommon, humans just prefer to pretend like we aren’t just another animalistic species. Instead of clawing out their jugulars, we use those big brains and opposable thumbs to systematically torture our prey into submission. To eviscerate their humanity into nonexistence and proceed to position their body as we please, convincing ourselves that they must enjoy it to some extent just because of their biological, physical reactions. We peel back the layers of emotions one by one until none exist, but delude ourselves that they have free choices, a good life, they’re lucky

And given that my grandfather (and likely my father to a lesser extent) ran in and rather LED our country through some of the most horrific infractions against human life seemingly possible, I have to argue…who, amongst them, wasn’t involved in some extensively heinous activity? Or how do you not engage in especially heinous activity when you learn to live that wildly, that savagely, that destructively? And what then, was my Grandfather guilty of? What was he guilty of that kept him desperately clinging to mortality from his bed in the veteran’s home, hallucinating his memories, for days while we held his hand? What was he actually doing when he was carted off to some random geolocation on the planet for weeks, or months, on end?

To be clear, he was a GREAT, absolutely phenomenal man, and I do in fact feel like a dick even questioning my history. Not enough of a dick to not actually write it, but the guilty premise is there. Thanks to my catholic ex-boyfriend, I was taught to just ignore that notion and pray for forgiveness later. 

Which means reflecting back on the manner in which I was raised, the trajectory of my life, the buildup of everything magically working out despite no shortage of near-death or existential crisis, the question, naturally develops into whether my own lineage, hidden in the shadows of public knowledge, should be under question? The easily-controlled (bought) narrative of limited press, of word of mouth, the altered or confidential military records, it isn’t limited to the USA. Sure, Trump is shitty and likely guilty but SO ARE LITERALLY EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE IN ANY OF THOSE CIRCLES OF “HIGH SOCIETY”. 

…But, by design, this could include my own family. 

______________________________________________

So far we’ve connected that military and public figures (the “wealthy”) basically run the world because they have some form of power (currency) to design their own worlds. Just a few generations ago, this was decided by genealogy and luck. Decided decades in advance by powerful men in a powerful room under the impression they all possessed a premonition on “progress” in a society worthy of value. 

Then came the somewhat unpredictability of “technology”. And with “technology” came  a whirlpool of achievements: public accelerations in travel, methods of communication, massive and intercultural spread of knowledge occurring from the safety of one’s own home. Suddenly, a new trajectory broke off… the interwoven nature of the world’s rich, exacerbated and torpedoed by the USA celebrity culture, upsetting the traditional militaristic leadership of succession in our government and no longer unnecessary to acknowledge with the culmination of the 2016 presidential election. 

Any system exploitable can also be weaponized in the same sense. With technology, the same rich people who ruled the world and had been raised on the expectations that it would one day be handed to them began to be “exposable”–a threat only increased and immediately to their dismay by arming every citizen with their own way to record evidence. So what, ultimately, threatened to topple the careful succession of global progression the most? What should be exploited by those in power or desperate to achieve power? Intelligence

Intelligence. 

Intelligence as a currency is the most important long-term payout. Climate change, public health, environmental health, societal influence by mother nature and the biodiversity of the planet is how war’s have ultimately been won in the past. Of what actually gives someone the upper hand generation after generation. My grandfather knew that, and it’s why he reportedly helped change the trajectory of the Korean War. The Department of Defense, blatantly corrupt governments, seemingly smooth regimes of monarchical tradition, all of the political leaders know that intelligence is ultimately just questioning the unknown. Which is a science, a study, an -ology. 

The ‘best’ military leaders take that knowledge and weaponize it in a long-instilled survival instinct of “self preservation”. Those novel inventions intended for innocent use become weapons of mass destruction five inventions down the line.

Which makes the most dangerous asset, then, the scientists.

The one who have access to the limits. The ones who usually enjoy discreetly existing in the background, emerging from our labs to report our results to others who then go on to make the decisions. So what if you could weaponize that in the form of a trained woman, capable of playing any role given to her, classically conditioned to never question authority? 

It would be logical, at least. Only emphasized by the ever-amassing sequence of coincidences that form the tangled spider-web of my life. It’s a real-life version of the meme of Charlie Day in Horrible Bosses when he’s trying to explain how everything connects. Side note: If this is anything remotely close to what detectives do all day, I may need to consider yet another career change. Thus, I’m just pointing out that it’s a LITTLE suspicious that a beautiful blonde-haired blue-green eyed athletic fireball who is good at just about everything and now has degrees in biochemistry and epidemiology from two top ten universities and has also traveled the world under a lot of incredibly convenient situations with a lot of relatively important people may have been part of a discontinued genealogical CIA mission to develop the next generation of agents to insert into the realm of the rich. 

Clue #2: My Father 

Without getting into the depths of it, I have, what one could classify as “daddy issues”.

The frustration of being a hot, blonde, white girl who loves to test her limits both sexually and physically means that self-reflection inevitably draws me to concern over Freudian’s psychoanalytic connection with my enjoyment in being consensually degraded by men of my choice with the manner in which I was raised. As a scientist, when I study these theories, I naturally connect them to myself to increase my neuronal connective network and ability for recall via compartmentalization in the future. Despite distant hummings of “correlation does not prove causation”, that is still a debate as ancient as “what came first: the chicken or the egg?” And I fit right into the stereotype. 

My kind of sexual kinks are certainly not normal, and while I won’t elaborate just yet, it absolutely has called into question whether my fetishes are engrained into my incredibly dominant persona because of “nature”–evident by all of the home videos of me as a difficult child, or the militant, disciplined regimen of my “nurture”. When I start to inevitably become both overwhelmed and slightly disgusted by the possible reasoning behind my sexual interests, I at least find comfort in reminding myself that it’s not just my own household that, as a woman, restricts me. It’s having to explain myself every fucking time, its growing up as a trophy, some ornament to society for my family, just to suddenly have an ability to make my own choices. It’s having people be “surprised” at my intelligence. It’s having an entire group of people assume they can have a priority over me, judge me, tell me where my place is. 

Thus, the frustration in society’s obsession to connect that purely to my father is just disturbing. 

And my best friend, the person who helped me survive undergrad from literally every single year in Chapel Hill has just as complex of a relationship with her father. She, too, was thrown into the elite gymnastics world, a high society father, thrown into dance as well as gymnastics, but, unlike me, she actually enjoyed the girlier aspects of “womanhood”. She smiled in all of the photos of her dressed up, paraded around for the amusement of others, whereas I glared threateningly at every camera. 

Yet, where I explored my sexual promiscuity, she took the opposite route. A virgin in college, but an incredibly beautiful girl (this is only relevant because she’s pretty in such a way that you KNOW it wasn’t because she “lacked options” or some bullshit like that). As her best friend, we spent hours together, contemplating why she was so mentally hesitant to proceed past OTPHJ and dry-humping filled make out sessions. We also didn’t quite realize just how absolutely terrified of seeing a male penis she was until I set my friend Carl’s as her phone background at a gymnastics meet…she screamed and cried upon flipping it open. At 20 years of age. it was definitely not a normal reaction, and as we both have a truly vile disdain for our fathers, we’ve inevitably discussed at length the possibility of having repressed memories of them.

We bonded over our childhood depression, we’ve discussed our similarities in struggles at length, and taken solace in the shared experience of our increasingly distant relationships with our fathers where, try as we might, there are incessant warning lights of pain every single time they come back into our lives. So why, if it seems like they didn’t actually do anything that severe, do we feel such hatred? Such deep-rooted, illogical, survival instinct-like hatred telling us to run the opposite way from them if we want a happy life? And why does that warning sign still blare across the speakers of the megaphone of your inner psyche long after you’ve acknowledged and moved past them? 

My father was not a seasoned military man like my grandfather, yet he was arguably worse. No, he didn’t curse and scream to the high heavens when the Washington Redskins lost on a Sunday night. Nor did he down an entire handle of Hendrick’s gin each night. Instead, he designed the horrors of the world instead of directing them. Developed nuclear warheads, disappearing onto a naval ship for months at a time, out in the middle of the ocean, unreachable for days. Counterterrorism negotiation: understanding the minds of the horrible people in the world because you also think that way. Analyzing the boston marathon bomb on base, categorizing the explosion, figuring out how to recreate it. His own obsession with knowledge meant he succumbed to the novelty of leisurely cruising the internet each night instead of engaging in valuable discussions with his daughters. His preference for topical debate and need to lead his own household staunched the creative impulse in his children during their adolescence–they retreated to their rooms instead of spending any quality time as a familial unit.

It must have been a difficult balance, instilling such important virtues of independence then having that same logic used against you. Realizing your children growing up with access to more education from a younger age, more stimulation, a visual and auditory overload you couldn’t even imagine, meant that they also surpassed your plan for their growth far quicker than you were able to predict. That your inability to conform to an adapting narrative meant you were being left in the dust. 

So when your daughter, struggling to come into an identity of her own with the rush of hormonal swings that is puberty, sees you mocking your own mother, the most wonderful woman in her life, for everything that makes her a “woman”, a deviation emerges. The emotional manipulation, the laughs at her tears, the “a little dirt won’t hurt” mentality that pertained to ballfield and home life, those visuals have persisted long after the pain has receded. Unable to process the events in real time, my childhood life and list of upcoming performances always bearing dangerously up ahead, I stratified all of these instances into little filing cabinets deep in the recesses of my brain. So with a combination of coronavirus, a political election, global distress, a human, and child, sex trafficking scandal, I finally have the time to actually be reminded of, and explore, these memories. It’s a rabbit hole into who “I” am that is inevitably tied to “him” at some point. It’s inescapable, and thus, frustrating.

Add in the fact that the same man was incredibly suspicious of data tracking (almost to a paranoid level), has been talking about “China” being our main threat for well over the last decade, and would disappear for weeks on end, only to reemerge holding the empty shells of missiles shot off somewhere in the ocean…shells that later become named in the deaths of others, there is no denying that he was and still remains one of the most intelligent men I have ever met.

Which is exactly why it draws logical concern that he could have been so worried because he had something to hide. 

Clue #3: One of Just Many Family Secrets

So what type of fucked up family creates an absolute unit of a child who can ALWAYS be working, honing her craft, amassing talent after talent so she can one day blend in to literally any situation she needs to? Who has teachers not even on her schedule create time for her to learn new subjects for fun? Who naturally draws others in but keeps them at an arm’s length until she decides they are no longer suspicious? 

As I said, but somehow feel is still necessary to report, my grandfather must’ve been a great, but terrifying, man in his career. The atrocities of the missions he led in every war across multiple continents, his years living in and studying warfare in Italy, his refusal to ever discuss any aspect of his past, yet his desperation in later life to “create a legacy”…despite needing to drown out the horrors of that same legacy with his gin. He was the one who did what had to be done. He could, and did, make those unspeakable decisions. And that’s exactly what they are–unspeakable.

So how far did his involvement go? 

It seems only logical my assumption for what I was intended for.

Given the visible fear my mother and her siblings had for my grandfather, his incessant need to expand his legacy and extensive search into our heritage in his later years meant he had full intentions for our own family to follow in his footsteps–for this information to be important. I have also known for years that my mother was sexually assaulted by a long-time esteemed friend of the family, reportedly. An incident that was briefly mentioned and then shuttered back into its cage. Combined with myself, one who has an incredibly brilliant memory, now struggling with most aspects of my identity, including my sexuality, and have not had any meaningful relationship with my own father due to the somewhat aforementioned extensively psychoanalyzed cyclical pattern of behavior. And on top of all this, somehow, even though my mom didn’t work and stayed at home, we just mysteriously had the funds, for literally all of my and my siblings activities, hobbies, pursuits of interest?

The family farm we grew up on was more of a complex in the years I was alive. My parents faced my uncle and whichever of his wives was living with him at the time. Behind the pond in our backyard, my aunt’s home lay submerged in woods. Immediately to our left, if we were staring out at the cobblestone private road, a few miles off the only main highway that ran through our town, the culdesac culminates in my grandparent’s house, overlooking the rolling hills and wooded acres of former tobacco farming. Between my grandparent’s and parent’s house lay the apple orchard, where helicopters did and could land anywhere relatively discreetly. Also conveniently used as part of our horse pasture or jumping field. The acres of woods that surrounded our households, the barrier of the horse pastures, the miles of forestry. 

The peaceful home that I knew and loved as my serene oasis is now, very clearly, a fortress that allowed us to pass, excel, and grow just below the radar of civilian life in the small town. Competitive enough to challenge me but not in such a way that drew attention. I realize that our grandfather planned out the location so every terrorist attack, every civilian threat on our capital could make us reachable by helicopter in minutes. We always knew we’d be okay because there were protocols in place. And we were at least on the list for priority evacuees should the worst happen…all thanks to my him. We owed him our security. 

And my biological father was OBSESSED with reminding us that our searches were being monitored. Reflecting on this now makes me realize that not only was he monitoring us himself, but he was really referencing our data being monitored. So that the things we did, as children, couldn’t be stolen by a stranger in a chatroom. So the guy jacking off in the omegle chatroom wasn’t hacking into our camera feeds and watching our underage selves through our laptop screens, only to sell it on the web and have it reemerge 30 years later and be used to blackmail us on our political campaigns. This paranoia, yet an understandable and legitimate fear, really just fed into my exhibitionist fetish 20 years later, so congrats on the anxiety. Now I’m just navigating trying to monetize it myself and come to terms with the reality that as a scientist overlapping with education, I am not allowed to publicly acknowledge my sexuality to any significant extent, lest I be burned at the stake of some online Facebook community watchgroup. 

My father’s domineering, dismissive nature of anything that didn’t go perfectly in line with his plan–even if that dismissiveness was towards his own children– has always been something I witnessed quietly. His public facade of being this incredible asset to the community, his obsessive compulsion to be publicly appreciated, that he years later validated in your own personal success…that was never enough behind the curtains. There was always more to have. 

For me, a young woman (ugh, can it just like, not be pedophilic and ageist to refer to myself as a “girl”, I am only 27 for crying out loud) who shares the obsessive curiosity of interest in her genetic background with her grandfather, I now seek insight as to what ration went into the details that shaped my life before I was aware that I could shape my own. In the interest of global news as of late, particularly the unveiling of the Ghislaine Maxwell story, it only served to make me wonder…With how interconnected these webs are, it’s fair that one whose own family fits that complexity of secrecy could be involved in similar affairs. 

It would also, just as likely explain the otherwise inexplicable and almost insurmountable level of hatred for my father, or it may very well have just been a completely honest, small town operation. Those trucks in the night were just farm deliveries. Those helicopter landings all legitimate missions.

But still…A girl can wonder.

A girl with anxiety can spiral.