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