That Time I Punched a Boy

These last few weeks have seen a resurgence of focus on women and the crap we have to deal with. Between the #metoo trend that caught on and the news from Harvey Weinstein's garbage pail, we have once again (remember #yesallwomen?) had to re-illuminate the obvious for ourselves and for our male counterparts. I don't mean that cynically, an obvious truth has a tendency to become background noise. Like the sound of the refrigerator running. When I got hearing aids that were advanced enough for me to hear it- I was furious that it made that sound all freaking day. Then I got over it because it was all freaking day. And if something is all day- you have to adapt so you don't go insane. The belittling and dehumanization and just straight up assault that women endure becomes background noise. For survival. 

Now, to be honest, I didn't really get involved in the hashtag movement, because I don't like to be trendy, and it feels like a slippery slope to me. If I change my profile to the France flag, then for everything I have to hashtag and change my filter. This is why my profile picture has remained unchanged for years. I'm just too lazy to keep up, and I don't want to be guilty of missing some awareness or hashtag or movement on social media. So I miss them all. In my head, this makes perfect sense.

But, I did see a video recently that made me think of something. It was that video that's been going around for a while about the ER nurse mom who was called away from work to address her daughter's behavior- punching a boy (which she did after a boy relentlessly snapped her bra to the point that it unlatched). I have no idea if this thing actually happened, and I hate melodramatic preachy videos, but I also have no problem believing that this thing happened (or has happened many times). It's almost like a parable in its universal relatability. (My spell check says that isn't a word. It should be- or maybe I am saying it wrong.) 

One reason why I think the story is totally believable is because it brought back memories of several times this sort of thing happened to me or my friends growing up. But like background noise, I had really forgotten it. 

But one story I have not forgotten, because it is my Wonder Woman story and one that my family told with pride. This story, the story of That Time I Punched a Boy, is one that I don't even know if I actually remember, or if my memory is my imagination from playing it in my mind every time I heard the story. In fact, I even start to question if the story is true, because it has risen to legend level. I do believe it is true, but perhaps some of the details have been altered for entertainment. So for yours, I will tell the story, with all the fun details.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl (it's me guys) who was about 3 or 4 years old. She was tall for her age, with an unruly mane of blonde curly hair (loose curls then). Her knees were often skinned and her fingernails filled with dirt. She was happy, healthy, and loved. 

One day, she was standing in line with her father (to this day I don't remember why we were standing in line). Behind her was a Boy with his father. The Boy decided that today he would poke the little girl over and over and over again. For fun. Somehow (I found a gap in the story here) the Boy's father either didn't notice or care. The little girl politely asked the Boy to please STOP. The Boy did not give a shit and kept poking her back. The little girl once again asked, but more firmly this time for the Boy to STOP. Once again, when she turned to face forward, the Boy poked. 

Then the little girl turned back, and punched the Boy in the face.

The Boy, startled, fell back onto his bum and looked to his father in protest. The father, suddenly realizing that there was something happening, told the little girl's father "Serves him right!" The little girl's father looked at his little girl, and though his words said "Don't punch," his face was lit up with pride and a smile. The little girl felt satisfaction and love and affirmation. And powerful.

The Boy never poked the little girl again. The little girl never felt like punching a Boy in the face was bad after she had repeatedly asked him to stop harassing her. The little girl (remember, it's me) was taught that day in a beautifully powerful way, that it was OK not to take shit from boys.

The End.

But of course that wasn't the end, right? I mean, boys continued to do stupid shit. But that story, the living of it and the hearing of it, reminded me throughout childhood that I was strong and if I needed to, I could punch a boy in the face. Of course there were times when I was told the cliche sexist thing, but this foundational memory, this moment, was special. I won't put so much pressure on this one event to say that it is why I was able to question all those stupid expectations of women, or why I was unwilling to mold myself to please men under the guise of submission, or why I somehow managed to date men who were not intimidated by my independence and punch-ability. There's also luck, a shit-ton of love and security from my parents, and more stupid luck.

But my God I love that story. And when I tell it, the nonviolent pacifist in me is not ashamed. Maybe that Boy tells the same story of the day he learned how to treat females? Let's hope so. 

Things I Didn't Do

The shower is a fantastic place for ideas to be born. This morning while in the shower I thought about how I am excellent at writing up my "things to do" list, and terrible at actually doing them. Then I thought of all the things I didn't do, for all time. And then the idea was born. I should write a list of things I didn't do. Then everything is crossed off immediately, and it might be funny, sad, or at the very least cathartic for others who have a list just as long. 

Some of these things I have proudly not done, with no guilt. Some of them I learned to let go of. Some of them I feel sort of bad about, but obviously not enough to do it. Some are simply missed opportunities. All of this is true. 

So here goes....

Things I Didn't Do:

-Make a wedding album 
-Get my Wedding dress professionally cleaned
-Baby albums, for either baby
-Save a lock of hair from either child's first haircut
-Any picture album of my family ever
-Updated pictures on my wall
-Completed all the thank you notes for the following:
     -birthdays (mine and children's)
     -Wedding
     -baby showers
     -anything I am forgetting
-Utilize the Study Abroad Program in college
-Travel a lot before I had kids
-Kiss a lot of frogs
-Get most of my dry-clean only clothes dry-cleaned
-Spring Clean
-Exercise consistently for more than two months
-Crafty thing of the day
-Teach my kids to ride a bike
-Teach my kids to cook
-Bake that thing
-Not procrastinate on getting my taxes together
-Clean the dyson like that youtube video says I should
-Clean the keurig like that youtube video says I should
-Write a book start to finish
-Follow through on that volunteer organization
-Volunteer to be a Room Parent
-Go to a PTA meeting
-Have a vegetable garden that I planted
-Landscape my yard in total
-Write that person regularly
-Call that person regularly
-Return that phone call
-Reply to that email
-Go to that event
-Have a career
-Paint that room
-Decorate that space
-Hang that thing
-Consistently mow the lawn
-Consistently walk the dog
-Stop cracking my knuckles
-Write letters to my kids every year like that pinterest thing said
-succesfully do any pinterest project
-Rescue any animal
-Foster a child
-Actively participate in a political campaign that I care about
-March in the Women's march
-Read that one Book
-Return those books to the library or person who loaned it
-Give the dog her flea and tick medicine the same day every month
-Clip coupons
-Not order delivery
-Not drive through
-Not let my kid watch TV
-Not let my kid play video games
-Chaperone the field trip
-Read that parenting book/blog/viral article.
-Watch that epic sad movie (Schindler's List, Hotel Rwanda, etc)
-Run 
-Jog
-Trot
-Ride that horse
-Snorkel with the barracudas 
-Travel to Australia
-Visit your friend in LA or NYC
-Get that eye exam
-Learn German
-Learn Spanish
-Invite your neighbors to a block party
-Host a fancy dinner party
-Fix the fireplace
-Refill the bird feeder
-Go to that festival
-Create my will
-Officially pick (and inform) who gets the kids if we die
-Pretend I liked that person
-Show up on time to that thing
-Go to the party
-Host the party for someone selling something
-Buy the thing from someone selling something
-Buy boy scout popcorn
-Plan an effective surprise
-Claimed that fart
-Introduce myself
-Say hi to that person I actually know
-Maternity Portraits
-Infant Portraits
-Pay extra to keep the ashes of my dog
-Tip the people who didn't do anything extra
-Live in another country (as an adult)
-Get a cloud data storage
-Save enough money for taxes
-Save enough money for new hearing aids
-Napa Valley train
-Take my husband to the Rockies
-Apologize to that person
-Consistently check fire alarms and carbon monoxide alarms
-Weed the garden
-Pay that one girl back
-Stand up to that person
-Return the bra that isn't the right size
-Return the tablecloth you borrowed
-Finish that book
-Fix your engagement ring
-Plant those bulbs
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There are plenty more things I didn't do. And I hope you'll make your own list, and then just burn it or something. Because all of us didn't do that thing at some point. And the guilt is just not really worth the weight on our chest. Or maybe the list will be a helpful reminder that you actually don't care as much about the things you didn't do. So maybe you won't care as much about the next seventy hundred. You can put it on your fridge with a note saying "shit I didn't do, and actually feel fine about." Or don't do any of it- no worries.

The Grey

Today the sky loomed grey. It does this often in the winter near DC. I feel the effects of the grey, swirled with the gumbo of awful coming down the city pipelines.

When the Grey hits, it paralyzes me. I am not sad or happy or mad or anything. I'm frozen still as time whips by. Hours pass and I've done nothing. It's as if I'm moving in slow motion and the world spins faster. It makes me feel like I'm losing my mind. This is not my first rodeo on the Grey. I've been here before and I've got some tools, if I can get to them fast enough, I may not lose yet another day.

Today my tool is "treat yo' self" and not like the characters in Parks and Rec. I'm not buying anything. I shaved my legs. I am wearing knit pants and a tank top without bothering with a bra. I'm putting my hair into a pony tail. I am drinking hot tea. I read Mary Oliver. I'm going to put on nice socks. I'm writing this. Then I have a short and simple list. And I'm going to do that list as best I can today, taking breaks for meals. That's it. That's what I have. But I feel comfortable, I feel less overwhelmed. I've given myself permission not to save the world today. I've given myself permission not to write the novel today. I've given myself permission not to make the big to do list today. I'm just going to tackle this small list of three things. That's all.

Words

In the Harry Potter series, Dumbledore has a line that goes something like this: "Words are our most inexhaustible source of magic." J.K. Rowling, the magic-maker herself, has every right to work a phrase like that.

I feel like words are failing me lately. Not for scarcity- no- my God- there are so many words. Too many words. Piles and piles of useless, ridiculous words. I am drowning in the word-piles vomited by people who can't find the edit mechanism in their brain. This might explain my sudden thirst for meditation, silent worship with the Quakers, and as much sleep as I can get. I need to get away from all the damn words. They suffocate me.

It's a bit like losing the foundation to my house.

My sister and I were talking this morning. She shared that she had a bit of an epiphany about doing the best she could at her practice- her skill set. She is a therapist, and she said that she used to have these grand ideas of changing the world- maybe through writing or speaking. She said that now she feels more centered in her new endeavor: to cast aside the "be all things" and focus on the skills that she has already crafted. She is now on a mission to be the best therapist that she can be. She might not have a brand or start a revolution, but her patients will get unbelievable care, and that can be revolutionary.

I was so inspired by that, I thought- wow- if we all just focus in on the thing we are gifted for- on the thing we've crafted within ourselves- on our passion- then maybe all the people- as wholly functioning parts- will make a more whole world.

Then I thought: what the hell am I crafting? I have a book, which might as well be titled "the never-ending writing" for the lack of an end in sight. I have a blog, which I fairly diligently update (not this one) and a handful of folks seem to enjoy. I had a job in a career that was respectable, which I took a break from to do this book. Yet, right now my craft seems to be sleeping and eating Cheezits, and also avoiding housework.

This blog is titled "writing light in dark corners" yet every time I feel compelled to come over here and write, I feel like I'm dumping black ink into the sun's glare. I want people to see the darkness that the light of oblivion seems to be blotting out.

And there again, are those precious words. The words which have been my balm and sacred space are now garbage piles. Putrid, overflowing, smothering mountains of absolute rubbish. Weighty little shits that mean nothing. Even the gorgeous words are rendered plain by the sheer volume.

Too many words.

I don't have my art anymore. Loud and thoughtless mouths have taken my paint and pissed it everywhere, demanding that people respect their art form which took them seconds and zero thought. Or worse- they intentionally crafted the words to hypnotize and paralyze and exploit. My precious words have been transformed from flowers to daggers, honey to piss, magic to tricks.

Too many words.

I feel like protesting with silence. Confronting with SILENCE. You're going to trash words? I will make them sacred again. I will stop speaking, writing.

Even worse, I stop caring. That is what has happened. I used to have this fire inside me, I could not sit still if I wasn't writing it down, thinking it out. Now I just sit and stare into the blue sky aching for silence.

Every terrible thing that happens. Every beautiful thing that happens. I no longer have words for them. They have been stolen. Words are no longer magic. I have become an unbeliever.

So I am lost, and I don't even have the words to describe it.

Beauty

Today I looked through some pictures a relative sent me of her time in France, her home country. The pictures were unbearingly beautiful. Unbearingly is not a word- but it works better than unbearable. It's an action - not a past tense thing. I felt nearly assaulted by the beauty. It was screaming at me: "What the hell are you doing with your life? Get out of your house!" It was also offering me a window into my own salvation. "Want hope and truth and goodness? Stare at me."

When things get hard, when I feel the weight of terribleness sitting on my chest and trying to poke holes into my soul, my breathing reaction is to find beauty. If I can just see the horizon on the ocean, if I can just catch a glimpse of the milky way, if I can somehow stand on a mountain with piercing blue skies and crisp air- then I will be saved. Then I can breathe. Then I won't drown.

I become desperate for beauty. 

Often I just long for it and grow depressed in my despair of not having it. Sometimes I am in the right place where I can see it clearly in front of me. Then times like yesterday, I get off my ass and create it my damn self. I plopped our dinner outside, built a fire in the fire pit, and suddenly, I had beauty. I stayed by the warm fire until it grew dark outside and the creatures of the night began yelling and carrying on in their usual way. I'm hardly ever outside for the transition from day to night and that is a soul-sucking crime. 

The bugs and frogs and who knows what else out there were all screaming at me: "It's about time you came out to hear us! Why do you ignore us?" I don't know. Something of practicality and logic keeps me indoors. It's a plastic wrap trap and I am trying to rip it off. 

Time, money, and adult responsibilities keep me from traveling the world and seeing the northern lights. But why? Time, money, and adult responsibilities are all temporary- and SO IS beauty. Why am I chasing the first? Why not chase beauty? 

Disability Porn

I have thought about this topic for a long time and could never quite find an analogy that stuck, until now.

You know those videos that show a deaf person "hearing" for the first time with a cochlear implant? Or the before and after of a paraplegic who miraculously learns to walk? The video of someone who is in medical debt finding out that they will get that prosthetic or treatment they couldn't afford because of some benefactor? You know what I'm talking about, and before you feel the shame rising- don't worry- I've watched them too and I've cried too.

But I always felt this nagging thought at the back of my mind, like something wasn't quite right. I think that I understood it best when I kept seeing people share the video about the cochlear implants. I found myself feeling bitter. I heard my thoughts scream: she can't hear perfectly now guys- she still has a shit ton of adjustments to go! I heard my mouth say: why the hell did she have to wait so long for treatment anyway? I found myself saying: it's not like she's had a shitty life thus far and everything is awesome now that she can hear slightly better. I realized that it really hit home the discomfort I felt when I knew the disability personally.

And that's when I came up with the idea of disability porn. Sexual porn is all about having access to all the pleasures without the work (or reward) of intimacy. Disability porn is the same. You get to have the pleasure of seeing gratification, happy moments, miracles, without any of the work, heartache, or understanding of the context it took for that person to be where they are. Just like porn, you feel good, you almost mistake the pleasure for a good deed and intimate knowledge of the subject. When you watch these videos and you cry, you actually think that you are contributing to the miracle. You feel good because you felt good watching something good happen.

Here's the problem, you haven't actually helped anyone. And you have no idea that you haven't.

Suzy Q with the cochlear implant? Her life was really lovely before she got it. She figured out how to be human without it. She probably even figured out how to be content and joyful without it. Or maybe she was miserable, but you don't know any of that. She likely didn't have access to the information or funding to get the implant until something magical happened like access to healthcare or marriage to someone with a health plan. Or maybe someone gave her the money. Or maybe she saved up. Or maybe she went into debt for it. After the implant? She has to relearn how to hear. That sound of the refrigerator running? It's going to make her want to tear her hair out until her brain finally learns to shove it in background noise mode. Also, she still can't hear perfectly. She won't ever hear perfectly, because that's how it works. But we don't know any of that story. We just see her visceral reaction to hearing a voice of a loved one like she's never heard it before. What we don't know is what her tears mean. Me? Every time I got a new set of hearing aids I was shocked at how terrible I thought my own voice sounded. It was loud and echoed brashly in my head. Her tears? Maybe she's sad that it's not what she thought it was going to be. Maybe she's happy because she has been waiting for this day for a long time and after many obstacles (maybe put in place by our refusal/ignorance to advocate for her) has finally gotten here. Maybe she's just overwhelmed by the sheer noise that is invading her brain. We have no idea because we don't know her. We don't know what she's been through, and we don't know what happens after.

That's why I feel uncomfortable. Because I glean a little pleasure by sneaking in to this sacred space and consuming her miracle. I don't have to do any of the work. I don't have to think about the consequences. I don't have to struggle. And I get to feel like I'm a good person.

That's disability porn.

I apologize that I may have ruined all your disability porn for you. Now you won't be able to watch a feel-good video about someone getting a miracle without the added frustration of wondering why it took so long, or why they needed it in the first place, or why we think that being deaf/blind/mobility impaired is so horrible to begin with. Actually- no- I'm not sorry- because these are the things we need to think about. We can't consume miracles. We can't get all the goods without the intimacy of the journey.

Why not? Because it isn't real. It isn't authentic, and it doesn't help.

Spring Cleaning with Depression

Welcome to my step by step guide to Spring Cleaning with Depression!

This morning, when you woke up, you thought for a moment about not going immediately back to sleep. Congratulations! Today might be your day!

After you wake up again (about 45 minutes later), you are on your way to spring cleaning.

Drink coffee. Take your kids to the bus stop, even take the dogs for a little spin (walk the long way home and call it a walk).

Get back home. Take a shower. It is now 10am, and you should be proud.

If you are still feeling like you might be able to accomplish something today, then dress for success. That means sports bra (which works because all your regular bras are dirty), yoga pants (you have a clean pair downstairs because your husband folded laundry while watching netflix last night, while you were already asleep), and a tank top.

Now, there is an expression "swallow the frog," which means that you should do the hard thing first. This is a terrible idea. Start with the easiest thing.

Be sure to make several trips up and down the stairs because you keep forgetting to grab what you need. Get your music going, and please don't take too long to decide on a station because you don't have that kind of time to waste. The magic of energy might disappear without notice.

It is 11am, you are dressed, your music is on, your laundry basket has managed to make it to the laundry room with dirty laundry inside. Run the laundry (the easiest task).

Put the superhero sticker from your shirt onto the washing machine and marvel at how it never occurred to you before that you could totally cover the machine in stickers and it might make you smile every time you do laundry. Or will it stress you out because it isn't clean and simple? You decide to leave the sticker on the machine (and another smiley face sticker you find) and figure out how you feel about it later. Laundry is in the wash.

Now you are going to clean the cleanest bathroom, the guest bathroom that no one uses. It will not gross you out and it will feel easy. Your music choice is really working for you, who knew 90s school dance would get you going like this?!

Now you realize the guest bed still has the old sheets on it from when your brother-in-law was here three weeks ago. Take the sheets off. You will make the bed again, once you remember to grab the clean sheets from upstairs.

You found windex under the kitchen sink when you went up to get more paper towels. You don't typically use windex (bc vinegar water works and it's easy enough) but maybe you should just use the rest of this bottle so you can throw it out. So you windex the bathroom mirrors and the glass doors (inside AND out).

Your friend has called and she's bringing lunch over because she's amazing. You switch the wash to the dryer (immediately!) and tell the unmade bed you'll be back later. The windex bottle has three tablespoons left in it and is sitting on the table downstairs. It will likely remain there for another month or two.

Friend arrives and you eat lunch for 45 minutes. Then she asks if the dogs (who have been marching up and down the stairs with you with very puzzled looks on their faces) need a walk. You decide they DO need a walk. SO take a 30 minute walk. Then hang out for another 30 minutes.

It is now 130pm and you have one load in the wash and one in the dryer, and a clean bathroom and unmade bed. And clean windows.

Your friend has left and you think you should probably at least make that bed. You go upstairs for the sheets, see the pile of unfolded laundry on the bed and the sheer sight overwhelms you. SO you sit down and think for about 20 minutes about how you can do this thing. Honestly, you only thought that for 5 minutes, the other 15 was checking email and social media. Anything to distract you from the impending doom of laundry and other unfinished tasks that slowly started to scroll like movie credits in your brain.

You get a lucky strike of clarity and step away from your distraction. You remember what you came for and at 2pm, you grab the sheets, go down and make the bed. The music was no longer giving you nostalgia or pep, so you left your phone playing "My Heart Will Go On" to your laundry pile on the bed upstairs. Downstairs, while you made the guest bed, you came up with an idea for rearranging furniture. You did this rearranging and decided it was OK and left it that way. You aren't sure though. You also remember that one thing you wanted to set up in the guest room, but you can't do it right now. So you cautiously tack it onto the scrolling list and hope to God that you don't get paralyzed again by it.

Before succumbing to paralysis, you manage to switch the laundry, and though the dirty pile is getting smaller, the clean clothes pile is getting bigger. Which is overwhelming. Your energy is running out like you knew it would.

It is 230pm and your child will get home from school in an hour. You feel you deserve a break, so you lie down on the floor and let the dogs lick your arm and lie down beside you. This feels sweet, and you don't want to break the spell, so you stay there. An hour goes by like a flash.

Your child is coming home from school, your day of productivity is done. You made a bed, cleaned a bathroom, and ate lunch. And put clothes in and out of the washer and dryer. But you feel like you cleaned a 15 room bed and breakfast. You wish that you could be normal, that you could power clean a house in 3 hours, but that happens about as often as a full solar eclipse, except you don't have the ability to plan for it.

That's the end of day 1 of spring cleaning with depression. You have no idea when day 2 will happen. It needs to be tomorrow... but you already know that's not going to happen. At least your guest room has clean sheets.