you're so last summer.

Spotify’s ‘Throwback Thursday’ playlist this week is curated by none other than Dashboard Confessional to ‘mark 20 years of music that shaped the emo scene!’, and I’m suddenly transported to the cozy confines of my college radio studio, WRFW FM, in River Falls, Wisconsin. Or WRST FM, in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. Pining for my life to begin. Mourning the losses of loves that never began. Feeling such sorrow and pain for crushes that I never really had to begin with. It’s comical, really. How self absorbed and clueless, protected, from the ‘real world,’ I was in those tiny Wisconsin college campuses. Listening to burnt cd’s, scribbled in marker. Dashboard Confessional. Get-up Kids. Taking Back Sunday. Saves the Day. Sunny Day Real Estate. Straylight Run. Thursday. Reggie and the Full Effect. Alkaline Trio. All this pop-punk/emo/mish-mash. I was positive, meant something. My undereducated, overapplied fluorescent eye shadows. Fakeass furry winter vinyl coat from the Mall of America. Chopped, overgelled, flippy spikey ‘punk’ hair. Eyebrow piercing, then later, lip piercing. (and if I need to be completely transparent, completely unnecessary and highly regrettable, double nipple piercing. This 5+ year breastfeeding mother is so not impressed).

I remember having less than $100 to my name. Sitting in dusty dorm rooms, listening to Limewire. Posting ‘deep’ and overly personal and lengthy blog posts on MySpace, wishing I had me an emo boy to take me away. Scrimping pennies to see shows at First Ave in Minneapolis; and then later, scrimping dollars for gas money to drive to the Rave in Milwaukee, where I’d be on the guest list for whatever flavor of the week emo band it was that burned in my veins.

It’s so funny. And adorable, maybe? I wish I could go back to college me. And give her a big shaking, hug, or crisp $20 bill. And tell her to fucking enjoy it. The freedom to nap. Living with best friends. Opportunity to exercise brain cells. Yearn. Because now it’s just not the same. Sure, you still dream as an adult. But mostly just about your next opportunity to go to sleep to dream for real. And man, I wish I could live with the same nonchalant attitude when my bank account falls below my safetynet level, (which might have an extra couple 0’s in it these days).

It’s like I’m being taken back in time, not quite 20 years ago, but almost. And does that make emo music ‘oldies’ now? Am I really that old? Did time really fly that fast? I’ve met tons of people, established myself as an individual and matriarch, professional, and hopefully, friend at this point in my life. But I still can remember the taste of powdery microwaved cheesymac, and bitter sweet sting of UV vodka. prepping for hangs at the 'basketball house.' (not to be confused with the 'football house.')

My five year old has started reporting current events to me. He was singing ‘old town road.’ He keeps name dropping ‘john cena,’ like that’s supposed to mean something or impress me. he told me how ‘ebreebody’s talking about how kobe Bryant passed’ yesterday at bed time, which led to a discussion on what ‘passing’ means, and what ‘famous’ means, and why everyone is interested in a deceased basketball player. All of a sudden, the kid’s a teenager? And I’m old? And not hip with the current times?

Ah. And I’m not even 40 yet. But I guess I’m closer to 40 than 30?

What a world.

Now, get off my lawn. I’m listening to ‘screaming infidelities.’

empathy and a black eye.

below - a text i sent to a trio of (childless) girlfriends that i think freaked them more out on my behalf than getting my point. funny, in retrospect - all of it. but i'm SO PROUD of Holden. The boy is amazing and brilliant. 

You guys. Max just beat the shit out of me midtantrum by chucking a 'little critters' (love that lil guy, lol) book at/in my eye and I lost my chill, sobbing on the floor with a black eye. (Period in T-2 days). Vin had Holden console me while he handled max. Rubbing my back, Holden says, 'mom, I know having kids is hard.'

WTF. THE BOY IS THE MOST EMPATHETIC WIZARD ON THE PLANET. he proceeds to ask me if I'll 'be ok by myself for just a minute,' and then goes to the kitchen and comes back with a glass of water. Says 'i bet that really hurts, mom.' (empathy, again). And then pulls out the old distraction trick by asking me about the art on the walls. Got me feeling better just like that.

Meanwhile, max is Macaulay Culkin to Holden's Elijah Wood and refuses to apologize. How did I raise such a good kid???
Ps- I'm all good, just shook from Holden taking better care of me than anyone else, ever, lol.

pictured below - the culprit.

happy new year.

boy party.

aside from a three month stint in college, i never imagined myself living in a household full of boys as the sole female. yet, here i am. sure, one is my 'partner,' and the other two are my 'children.' but still. that's a whole lotta penis and fart humor.

i came home from work last evening, my first day back in the office after a long overdue break, (SIXTEEN DAYS!), to find all three of my gentleboy/men companions shirtless, fist pumping to some distorted metal record, shoveling spaghetti in their faces. after a bemused smirk/eyeroll combo, my heart melted a bit, and i grabbed a fork to dig in. they're a flurry of emotions, all three of them. anger, humor, frustration, anxiety, attention seeking, wrestling weirdos, busting each others' faces up, either ending up in a big ole pit of belly laughs or overexerted sobs. 

i clean their clothes. i provide their snuggles. i keep us all on track with appointments and social obligations. i give them love. 

i also have not urinated in private in 5+ years. i don't know if it's any different with girls or not, if this is a standard parent thing, or if we just are too lax with the discipline of privacy, but i always have a crowd. it's funny, considering both of my sons demand 'privacy' when they're dropping a deuce, yet i'm not permitted the audacity to request the same favor. 

there's always pee on the toilet seat. the floor. i wipe their asses. 

if i'm in the bathroom for more than 3 minutes. (using the toilet, applying make-up, showering, etc.), it's guaranteed i'll receive company from one of my three male roommates. usually, they'll even bring toys. plop themselves down in front of me on the floor, (me, mid-tweeze on my bikini line) - 'WHAT YOU DOING MOM?'

'nothing. pooping. peeing. privacy please?'

'WHY IS THEIR BLOOD IN THE TOILET MOM?'

'leave me alone. go find your dad. privacy please.' 

'I SEE YOUR BOOTY BUTT MOM.'

'great, i don't need to worry about you inheriting my poor vision, now move along.'

i mean, on one hand - is it annoying AF? of course. hell yes it is.

on the other hand, i try to keep a sense of humor about it and cram all the knowledge i can in their little brains while i have their attention. as soon as i start explaining the concept of 'private boundaries,' 'public vs. private parts,' 'the importance of understanding consent, particularly around women,' or my personal favorite, 'it's not bloody poop, it's menstruation, which is why mommies are cranky and have tummy aches every month and how babies are born. . .' i've found that this method is much more effective in garnering my desired privacy than 'please leave and shut the door behind you.'

i can't wait until these little assholes are in their teen years. i'm going to storm into the bathroom every chance i get. crawl up in their beds and demand cuddles at 3 am. demand that they play with me and then climb on their backs and faces when they're preoccupied. 

but i also appreciate that these minor inconveniences and invasions of privacy are fleeting. sooner than later, they won't command my undying attention or company. sure, i'll be able to use the bathroom in peace, but i'll miss the shirtless boys, fist pumping to spaghetti night, telling me they love me times infinity.

so i'll just continue to smirk and roll my eyes and soak up every minute of it.

oh hi, yes i have a second, is everything ok?

agh. my kid has been in public school / kindergarten for four months, well 13 weeks actually, if you consider the two week chicago public school strike break. and yet, i received my second call from the principal this afternoon, which is technically the third 'notice' we've received from my boy's antics.

they're not bad. he's a really good and sweet kid. but agh! for someone with social anxiety, and was always a star pupil who i don't recall ever getting in trouble in school personally, talk about not knowing what the heck to do other than repeatedly apologize.

my kid's principal is awesome. he always has an upbeat demeanor, and sounds like he's smiling when he talks. but little boys, good lawd.

not six weeks ago, my kid got in trouble for playing 'kara-tay' at recess. the other kid decked him in the belly so natch, h's defense was to pick up a giant stick and bop him in the face. that was a fun call.

this time, h and three of his buddies were playing the 'fighting game' at recess, and while 'only one' of the boys got hit, (my kid didn't get hit nor hit this time, thankgawd), the kids were in pairs of two 'fighting' and things quickly escalated when one of them shouted 'i'm gonna kill you!'.

'oh, hi? is everything ok? oh my, i'm so embarassed, this is the second time you've called me about something at recess, i'm so so sorry, of course we'll talk to him.'

abaksdjflkdas;jlfkajs;dflk.

boys, man. always beating the shit out of each other.

at least this time he didn't get in trouble for another dick joke.

hooray for boobies.

like many of us, my taste in music in high school veered towards questionable. i still find myself rotating towards what i deem 90's classics in my spotify account, such as hole's live through this, garbage's self-titled, smashing pumpkins, and other grunge flavored artists, but i think it's safe to say one band i can confidently vow to pretend never have existed is the bloodhound gang. but they did. and i loved 'em. i somehow convinced my highschool pals to accompany me to check a frat bro filled show at the barrymore theater in madison, wisconsin, when i was no older than 17.

i was wearing some pretty 'sleek' shiny fake leather cotton blend black pants i copped from either contempo casuals or gadzooks!, and a fake satiny green leopard print three-quarters sleeve button up top, and grey fake velvet platform sneakers with an outline of a hot pink cat head on the sides. i was cool. i was also no more than 115 pounds, and was no competition for the other neanderthals thrashing about in the area directly in front of the stage at the venue, and as such, was kicked in the head by some bodacious sweaty rank foul odored bros who battered my pink highlighted self into a passed out and concussed stage. whoops. my friend arlo later retorted seeing my lifeless limp body carried across the stage, (without realizing it was me at the time), 'hey, those look like jodi's shoes.' what can i say. i had style. i was set at the side of the stage by the band's british roadie/manager guy who gave me some advil and a cold wet rag for my head. he took me downstairs to the green room where i saw noah from season 2 or 3 from mtv's 'road rules,' and some real world bro from an earlier season. (celebrities!) i then got 'vip' seating on the side of the stage, directly 9 o'clock viewing from where their bassist 'evil' something or another, who proceeded to urinate on the stage into a garbage can. i got to sit by the piss can. and then they dared some audience member to wolf down 20 big macs on stage for 20 bucks or something. i got to sit by his vomit garbage can, too. and there was a whoooole lot of pot smoking going on by me, too. (although to be fair, that just smelled like my mom's kitchen growing up, so that was no big thing). it smelled great. my head hurt. i smelled pee, vomit, weed, and big macs. and was super nauseous from the numerous kicks to the skull concussion state. 17 was so cool. 

to this day, i don't think my mom knows about that experience. (sorry, mom). 

i also drove a red ford tempo at the time with a makeshift homemade bumper sticker that said 'jodifer be flossin', along with a collection of various early '00's ska and pop punk bands. (reel big fish and rx bandits fo' lyfe, yo.) hello kitty seat covers and power puff girl floor mats. and now i drive a honda fit and pay renters insurance. 

how odd, youth, and adulthood is.

i digress.

this whole ramble is brought to you by breasts. my breasts, to be exact. you see, the forgettable '90's frat-rock bloodhound gang had a semi-popular, yet nauseating album that resembled a breast, with the cd player hole in the middle resembling a darker tinted nipple. it was cleverly titled 'hooray for boobies.' and i have boobs, breasts. or now i do, anyway. you see, i'm a mom now. (surprise, surprise, here we go again on a boring ass mom blog).

i used to write. (warning: another sidetracked ramble coming, i'll get back to tits soon, i promise). i used to do it a lot. about music. about how bored i was. about heartbreak or desires. or about everything in between. i used to have QUITE the collection of myspace blogs. (RIP!) i used to study writing, in college, writing. i even freelanced for a bit as a young adult. but then - life, man. got hitched, had a couple kids. tried to flirt with writing here and there, but was diagnosed with postpartum anxiety/depression, generalized anxiety disorder, and trump presidency took hold and the universe was flushed down a dirty swirlie toilet. this, followed with numerous different concoctions of anti-anxiety meds, talk therapy, attempts at self-discovery and realization and coming to grips with some childhood trauma, and here we are. it's december 2019, on the cusp of a new decade and i'm closer to age 40 than 30. (SIGH GASP). resolutions are for posers, but i'm a poser. i'm going to pretend to set resolutions, and i'm going to pretend to attack them. for myself and for myself. (i was going to say and for my family, but no, just for me).

my therapist has asked me what hobbies i enjoy, or used to enjoy. writing has come up, and when she asks why i don't give it another go, it's always the same thing. 'time, motivation, lack thereof.' but also, i didn't know what to write about. i'm no longer this young hip music fiend, nor do i really care to be. i've come to terms that it's perfectly ok to enjoy the same old shit. I JUST REALLY LIKE 90'S ALT ROCK GUYS, get off my D. but again, i digress. 

some resolutions i want to make.

1) write, again. and if i can't think of anything - write about what i know. or just post dumb shit. it doesn't have to be for you, or for anyone else. just me. i can post obnoxious videos showing real life parenthood. (kids screaming, mostly). or glimpses of my past, hopes of my future, or funny ass odd shit my junior gremlins spout out. just TRY to get ye old creative juices flowing again. it's time.

2) cook more. i've learned with time on my side, and patience, i'm actually not terrible in the kitchen. and i really, really, enjoy it. even if i eff up royally and it tastes like catfood. obvs, i'd rather it not, but it's still fun using weird ass kitchen gadgets purchased when drunk on amazon years prior and finally getting around to trying out. i made lobster last week! it wasn't great, but it wasn't awful, either. i'm also apparently really, really good at making cookies. and breakfasts. and casseroles. and my husband is no longer a vegetarian, which gives me a much wider array of experimental recipes to monkey with. there's nothing like ignoring my children's howls and shrieks from the other side of the apartment, (knowing damn well it's driving my better half mad), sipping on some secret Cabernet, and dancing, in elastic waist target pj pants, braless, to some old ass 00's indie pop while 'making dinner.' i should do it more.

3) stop obsessing on my appearance. i don't know if this fixation came as a result of my addiction to subscription boxes, the fact that i 'need' a lot of the shit that comes in them, (hello, anti-aging creams and eye serums), or if it's just the feeling that i can proactively 'fix' my looks with some magical solutions and potions, but i need to just stop obsessing over it. i'm not gorgeous, but i'm not hard on the eyes, either. there's a lot i can work on internally. my expanding waist band and 36 year old breasts (coming back to them, i promise), are where they're at now for a reason. i'm who i am because of my experiences. i will never be a super model. time to ditch the fad diets and quit beating myself up for aging naturally. it's annoying and stupid. people care about me, or they don't. a brightened complexion or perkier tits won't change that.

4) that being said - i would like to exercise more. for the adrenaline kick. i bought a cheap-o treadmill and exercise bike last year, and i feel like i'm on top of the world whenever i get my lazy butt down in the rape-me creepo basement in my apartment. i need to suck it up and take it one step at a time like my therapist says. (step 1 - put on the workout clothes. now that you've done that you might as well move to step 2 - walk to the basement; and since you're already downstairs, step 3- stand on the treadmill. if not motivated, go back upstairs. but since i've already made it that far - might as well just run and get it over with).

5) kick the meds. i suffered post partum with the birth of my second child in 2016 and took nearly a year to do anything about it. march 2017 i finally talked to my ob-gyn and she sent me to a psychiatrist. i've been on a variety of prescriptions since, and they've helped - but i think it's time to ditch the training wheels and deal with things head on. after chicago's 6 month winter streak, of course.

it'd be awesome if i can accomplish any of these, and i'm going to do my damndest - starting with this blog and getting back to writing/posting dumb ass shit.

so. hooray for boobies. tits. 'they're called breasts, please respect them and my personal space,' as i repeat numerous times to my curious gargoyles, whenever they punch, pinch, or shake my boobs.

both of my children, two boys, were born on mothers day. 

my eldest was born in may of 2014 and is now 5 1/2. my youngest was born in may 2016 and is 3 1/2. they both LOVED my breasts. the older one breastfed until he was formally evicted just shy of two years old, when i was 7 1/2 months pregnant with his brother and my bigass belly couldn't handle being a jungle gym to a ravenous toddler. so technically, i had two months of 'freedom' from my breasts being milked like a cow, but not really, because of all the other freaky ass hijinks that occur when you're super pregnant and literally CREATING another human being. 

the younger one, now 3 1/2 breastfed forEVER. and when i say forever, i mean up until three weeks ago tomorrow. it went from 'oh that's great that you breastfeed, good for you!' and then after he turned one, it was fake smiling and dealing with all of the 'how much longer do you plan to feed?' inquiries, (well intentioned, I'M SURE). then, around 18 months it was ok, no more breastfeeding in public, or even when friends are around, because people started acting like i was a polygamous mormon alien. and then he was two and it was, 'oh you really need to let it go,' between pursed lips, and the infamous 'this is more for you than him.' (still, best of intentions though RIGHT?) 

dudes. i wanted my tits back. badly. but the fact of the matter is, they were stretched out, my nipples are/have been permanently disfigured and popped out (although maybe that's from the 'bold' and wise decisions of piercing my nipples at age 20 to 'spite' a former flame who broke my heart, who, the funniest part is, i don't even remember who it was). and then he was 3. (the kid, not the 'flame' who inspired the insipid nipple piercings). and screaming for 'MILKY'. (if he's old enough to ask for it, he's old enough to drink out of a cup!). no shit, sherlocks, he is and has been. but the fact is, i'm a city dweller and i can't afford, (nor do i want to) be a homeowner, so i rent an apartment and am too courteous to my neighbors than to let him 'cry it out' at 4 am when he wakes up wanting to suck on my tit (always the right one), for whatever reason. again - three years olds? they don't 'cry it out'. they SCREAM. and snot. and get mean. and hit. and get straight up nasty. and maybe i did spoil him. or let it go on for too long. but it was my decision (or actually, his). the whole thing was his decision. i was never, ever, ever, one of the 'granola' crunchy type moms. i occasionally let swear words slip in front of my kids when i get frustrated. i let them eat sugar before 8 am. i smoke pot to unwind in the evenings (away from my children, but still). i let them have screen time. i even let them both watch the movie 'krampus,' upon request. so no, i'm not one of those 'weird' moms that carries her ten year olds in slings and celine dion's her boobs for whatever reason. 

i just loved my kid and it gave him comfort and helped us bond. and i very rarely got sick. and he was always super healthy too. (but 3 weeks post weaning, we're both sick as shit now!!)

we tried, though. oh lordy did we try to wean. but like shitting in the toilet vs. a diaper, it happens when it happens, which is when he was ready. which thank god, was three weeks ago, tomorrow.

i know this post is a total boner kill, and prob not whatever you perverted horndogs were hoping to read with all my boob references, but this is my life now. it's where i'm at. i'm finally, FINALLY, celebrating my breasts' freedom after a 5 1/2 consecutive year hostage situation. i could still totally douse you with a nasty ass boob squirt gun party trick (ask ashley, hahahahahaha), but i won't. mothers are crazy. we bleed buckets of flesh fluid each month, and survive. we create human beings. we are milked, LITERALLY, to nourish our young.

and my boobs, my poor, old lady boobs, are finally once again my own. they've been through a lot. in addition to five and a half years of breastfeeding, they also underwent a double lumpectomy in 2012. but they're mine. MINE. again. 

almost makes me want to body surf and do a keg stand, but i think instead i'll opt out for a night of roasting some garlic broccoli florets and a shrimp linguine saute fest instead. maybe rock out to some 90's riot girl tracks that i wasn't hip enough to enjoy the first time around. 

and write more. i'll do my best, guys. i promise. 

metoo.

Both times I found out I was pregnant, I wanted a girl. Both times I gave birth, they were to boys. And anyone that knows me knows that I'm head over my exhausted and frazzled pee stained heels for them both. Without the slightest idea it was coming, I'm now 35 and a boy mom. We play cars. We 'pew pew' swords, kitchen spoons and light sabers. We also play dress up, ponies, and make up. In a way, I'm not your stereotypical 'boy mom' but a mom who gave birth to boys that are being raised to appreciate boy and girl things. Or whatever. This isn't about that, but sort of.

Today, I'm so incredibly grateful I gave birth to boys, and not the daughters I was pining for. Up until 2016, I've never been a very political person. I'm not even sure I'm very morally driven. I like to think I have my own internal compass of what's good and bad, or right and wrong, and I give myself a pass when the needle points more towards the questionable decision areas every now and then, but I pride myself on being humane enough to know when I'm being a shit or fucking up. So this isn't really a politics driven rant, or morally driven rant, but just a mess of anger, hurt and confusion, likely stemming from a lack of one in the other.  

The thing is, I've been depressed. And anxious. Life is hard. I completely understand that all of my issues, minus those of family health, are completely first world problems coming from a person of privilege. I understand my place of privilege. My skin tone, my financial class, my education, it's all to my benefit. My husband and I happen to work our asses off for everything that we have, and we've come to grips that we'll very likely never be within the financial means or discipline to be homeowners and afford luxurious vacations (outside of the bi-annual weekend 'family trips' to Wisconsin). But food is on the table, we have a reliable vehicle that's under a decade old, we somehow found ourselves in the right place at the right time to stumble on the perfect rental unit in the ideal neighborhood for our family, and we can still afford the weekly amazon impulse buy when our stress levels soar.

Knowing that we're comfortable, and doing quite ok, and having two young happy and healthy children, it's hard for me to admit I’m depressed. and anxious. but I am, and it's the reality. and I'm sure, with the vast majority of the 'millennial' or 'xenial' or whatever the generation i belong to as a 35-year-old tech savvy individual who also grew up with a rotary phone using the card catalog at the local library, I’m not the only conflicted adult torn between societal expectations and realities. hell, anyone born between 1980 and 1990 are likely single handedly keeping the pharma industries of Zoloft and Lexapro in business with all the shit going on, am i right?

but i digress. I’ll likely keep doing that within this jumble of text.

i am a woman. and today, a woman is testifying in front of the entire world, in efforts of trying to keep other women, and girls who will someday become women, from having to endure similar traumas she herself suffered at age 15, at the hands of a man pushing to become one of the country's leaders and rulers. a supreme court justice, who would decide whether or not the brock turners of the world are just 'boys being boys' or entitled privileged wanna be rapists. because he himself is being accused of a similar situation.

and all the horror of that brave woman, and this sickening excuse of a man, and all the other victims coming forward in protest. the dialogue of 'what kids don’t do this' and accusations of opportunists, and that's not really rape or sexual assault. 'get over it.' why didn't she speak up, etc.

the stats. every person knows at least one woman who's been the victim of sexual assault. what is sexual assault? the grayed and blurred lines of the metoo movement. the Asia Argentos playing both sides. the 'but she was drinking'. the 'well look what she’s wearing'. the rape culture. the all of it.

it's. just. so. fucking. exhausting. and everyone can say it more eloquently, clearer, better than i. on both sides, sure. I’m not here to make a point. I’m not trying to push someone from side A to side B (but let's be honest, if you're reading this at any point it means two huge things: 1) i was brave enough to say fuck it and finally put this out there - somewhere and way to go me!; and 2) good bye. for real. if you're side B - the 'boys will be boys,' questionable type? you're the reason I’m exhausted. and anxious. and depressed. and whathaveyou. i don't care if you're my aunt, cousin, childhood best friend, whatever - good bye. I’m done. i need to save my energy for survival, not to argue why everything in this world is a fucking shitshow and blaming sexual victims is terrible). but yeah, tired.

the first time i was assaulted i was 12. I’m not even sure if my first recollection is indeed my first assault, but it's the first time i woke up and realized something wasn't right. i was wearing a Santa Claus night gown from Wal-Mart. it was a 'family friend' who i had known my entire life. my mom would let him watch me and stay with me while she frequently left town for arts and crafts show, how she made a living at the time. he was divorced and had two of his own children, who he was not allowed to see or contact. i was twelve, i didn't know that was weird or question it. he smoked pot and drank with my mom and her friends. he was always around. I’d stay at his house and he'd take me to the mall. buy me whatever i wanted. clothes, CDs, toys, you name it. he always had calendars or images of naked women around. he'd talk openly about sex, or how much he liked going down on women, to which I’d respond, 'ew that’s gross.' 'you'd be surprised how good it could feel.' appropriate, right? he'd play porno movies when i stayed over. on repeat. he'd promise to buy me the new cd i wanted, if i had another drink (but don't tell your mom). i chose red dog beer, b/c the marketing was cool and i thought it made me cool by association. or those nasty wine coolers because they tasted like candy. I’d get drunk, he'd smoke pot, we'd watch porn and whatever horror movies i picked out at family video. it was normal. I’d come home with tons of new clothes and goodies. my mom just figured, cool, free babysitter and the kid's got shit i don't need to buy her myself.

then one night, i woke up with his hands in my underwear. i pretended to sleep and tossed and turned to get him to move his hands away. i moaned as if waking up and rolled over. after what felt like forever, he finally left the room. i shook and shuddered and had no idea what happened or why. he came back and told me he dreamed he did something, and he didn't really do anything did he??? i cried and hid under my blankets. ran out of the room. hopped on my bicycle in the pouring rain and rode to my grandparents’ home at 4 am on the other side of town. didn't even bother putting pants on, i was still wearing my Santa Claus Walmart nightgown and underwear that were still stretched out from invasive fingers. i fell off my bike twice, cutting my leg. i pounded on my grandparents' door at 4 in the morning crying and couldn't bring myself to say anything. they stared at me shocked, until i whimpered 'he touched me.' 

my grandparents took care of me that night. my mother asked me how i wanted to handle it. i was 12. in 7th grade. in a town of 800, with a class of under 30. have you ever been a girl in junior high? bitches are damn vicious at that age. you can't do anything without being judged and ridiculed, especially with an eye prescription as sorry as mine and an unknown last name. the last thing i wanted was to have myself exposed as the white trash girl. i told my mother i never wanted to hear his name mentioned ever again. i just wanted it all to go away. forgotten, so it would never have happened.

my mom started a new job working third shift the very same night of my abuse. our house front door didn't lock. the size of my hometown, it didn't matter if you locked your doors. even when you left town. so i very clearly remember this being the first time in my life i a) realized our door didn't lock, and b) was terrified of who could come in. she left me by myself overnight, and i laid in fear he would return. he didn't - not that night anyway. but i did leave school early one day a bit later (months, years? i don't know) and saw his fire engine red truck parked outside our house, and when i did come home an hour or so later, the kitchen smelled of marijuana. so i know they remained in touch. and this is why my relationship with my mother will permanently be strained. why I’ll always be distant, no matter how hard i try to forgive and forget, put myself in her shoes. and this is why i never touched an ounce of alcohol in high school. everyone thought i thought of myself as so high and mighty, but i figured, even then, even though i wasn't even drinking the night in question when this occurred, that by accepting his offers of clothing, CDs and having 'just one more drink and I’ll get you xyzzy at the mall,' it was my fault. and the idea of drinking, letting a drop of red dog or wine coolers hit my lips would bring it all back. i was victim shaming myself. at 12 years old. 

and that was just the first time. throughout college and my early 20s, i drank heavily. because, it's Wisconsin culture, right? and i partied. and i was always craving male attention. i was 'liberated' if you will. that's not saying i didn’t have a slutty phase or three, but i still can recall more than i can count on 10 fingers of other questionable experiences i had that never did and still don't sit well with me to this date. 

waking up to a man on top of me, who i did not invite into my home, unaware i had been followed. (three times). telling a man mid-act, 'stop,' which was ignored. (twice). pretending to sleep while 'friends' took advantage of me thinking i was conked out. getting so belligerently drunk and waking up from a 'brown out', unaware of my surroundings, to being taken advantage of (Jesus Christ i don't even want to admit how many times i can remember this occurring). and others. the whole metoo movement has highlighted the culture of how women are treated. and if they dress a certain way, flirt, or drink and put themselves in certain situations, it's just what comes with the territory. it's your fault. it's my fault. it's always been my fault. and even typing this out - i still believe that it is and was my fault. still. 

so if it's my fault, was it even assault? or is it just a consequence? 

if i had a daughter, i know damn well how i'd respond. or a friend confiding the instances i outlined above. IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT. so why is it mine? because of the brett kavanaughs. because of the brainwashed men and women who support him. because of the 'christian' relatives on facebook, who share memes supporting donald trump.

this self doubt. 

it hurts. and it's conflicting. and i hate myself for it. and i wish i could go back to me as a child, a teenager, a young 20 something. and shake myself viciously and make myself swear to abstain from all sex and alcohol and to dress in bib overalls and long sleeves and throw out my makeup and stay away from assholes, and. . . . 

why does our culture do this to women? why can't i be proud of my past and my accomplishments and how my hardships have strengthened me to get where i am today? 

i have a beautiful family and amazing friends. 

but not a day goes by that i don't feel the pit in my stomach. of the ridicule and regret. and filthiness and trauma and mixed up feelings towards myself, individuals I’ve encountered, and my mother.

so, this woman, who is standing up so bravely today. believe her. no person in their right mind would come forward with all of this. i can't even type this, let alone speak it to the world without sobbing face first in a bucket of alcohol. 

this is why I’m grateful i don't have daughters. a mother wants to protect her young. and i don't know how i could protect a daughter. the world is not kind to women. 

so for those of you who do have daughters, i vow to help protect yours the best way i know how - to raise my sons to be respectful, genuine and kind men. while it's a trying process currently at ages 2.5 and 4.5 and i can't even manage to get them to quit bopping each other or their parents on the head, i still drive in terms such as 'consent,' 'personal space,' and 'respect' on a daily basis. 

we gotta fix this. it's gotta end. 

#metoo