This isn't a political rant, I promise.
I have a hate/fear relationship with Home Depot. I hate it because it's filled with things I know nothing about, and there are few things that irk me more than ignorance. I'm afraid of it because its sheer magnitude and volume trigger my anxiety and leave me overwhelmed and overstimulated. It's all too much. But being a suburban wife and mom, I inevitably find myself wandering this vast expanse of hardware and things-I-didn't-know-were-a-thing on occasion. (People buy 3/4" copper pipe? WHY?!) I took a trip there today to buy paint and area rugs, but my dear husband tagged along. He showed me right to the carpet department, and suggested I squeeze between the hanging displays of soft pile. Instant relief. I nestled in, Temple Grandin-style, and felt at ease between the squishy fibers. I can do this, I thought. This is okay.
Later on, I had to run to work to make some copies for tomorrow's school day. Husband called and asked if I would return to the Depot for a forgotten item. No problem, I thought. I could visit my rugs. I parked, went to the necessary department, conducted my business, and left. As I was walking to my swagger wagon, I noticed a car parked next to mine on the driver's side. There were people in it. I got a little uneasy.
As I got closer, it became clear that the occupants of the car were consuming some sort of presumably-illicit substance. They didn't look like altar boys, I can say that much. I briefly considered turning around and grabbing a fresh-faced Home Depot soldier to accompany me out, but I immediately dismissed the idea. My bags were heavy and my chicken-wing arms were protesting, and besides, I'm not a baby. So I walked to my door and fumbled with my keys. The guys in the car got quiet, and my nerves ramped up. I couldn't figure out which damn key unlocked my damn door because they kept looking at me.
One guy whistled. I looked around and saw no one - NO ONE - in the vicinity who could help. (How could this be, when the population of a small town was milling about inside?!) I finally grabbed my key fob when the other one leaned out the window and said, "Hey there, fine piece of ass. We've been checking you out. Why don't you hop in and we'll take you for a ride?"
He was a foot away from me. In that instant I thought, "There are two of them and one of me. There's no one around. I couldn't overpower the Snuggle teddy bear, much less two grown men. I'd fit through their window if they pulled hard enough. Should I scream? Why did I wear my yoga clothes to the store?" In that instant I thought about the time in senior year when I went to the bathroom during math and was pushed against the wall by a boy who thought it okay to shove his hand all the way up my skirt. In that instant I thought about the time I was held to a bed, knife against my neck, by a boy I thought loved me who told me no one would believe me so I should keep my mouth shut and do what he said. In that instant I thought about the time a big boy I trusted told me the boogey man would get me if I didn't give him the pleasure he demanded.
Nothing happened. I got in my car, peeled out of the parking lot, and stumbled back into my home completely unscathed. Well, maybe not completely. Because here's the thing. Sometimes lewd words made by men to women truly are harmless. (Would these junkies have hurt me if they'd had the chance? Maybe so, maybe not.) But even if those words harbor no ill-intent, they still have tremendous power to intimidate, terrify, and traumatize. Women get hurt by men at alarming rates. Think I'm alone in my experiences? According to the Rape and Incest National Network, an American is sexually assaulted every 109 seconds. SECONDS. Additionally, one out of every six women has been the victim of a completed or attempted rape in her lifetime. I'm certainly not alone, though I wish I were.
This notion that "boys will be boys," or that guys just don't know any better, is utter and complete bullshit. When I came home today and told Husband what happened, he was mortified. His first question was, "Did you get their license plate number?" To which I replied, "I was fucking terrified, so no, I didn't." "Oh," he said, "God. Maybe you should carry a gun." He's a good man who has never so much as raised an eyebrow to me much less his voice or his hand. He doesn't take kindly to people who pick on women.
But I don't want to carry a gun, and I don't want to blame myself for wearing yoga clothes to Home Depot. I don't want to blame 17-year old me for going to the bathroom during class and exposing myself to dirtbags trolling the halls for victims. I don't want to blame 13-year old me for trusting my dearest, best friend who turned out to be a wolf in sheep's clothing. I don't want to blame the 5-year old me for... being a little girl, the most vulnerable human on the planet.
We women deserve to walk the earth feeling safe, secure, and confident. We do NOT deserve to believe our bodies exist only for the entertainment and exploitation of men. It's bullshit and I won't stand for it. I have a daughter and I have sons and I have an inner child who's been begging me to speak up for decades. NO MORE. WE CANNOT AND SHOULD NOT TAKE THIS ANY LONGER. If you have a story, please share it. If you are a women, please speak out. If you are a good man - and most of you are! - please don't dismiss the toxic waste that comes out of other men's mouths. Together we can change. Together we can fix this. NO MORE.
Sunday, October 23, 2016
Friday, October 14, 2016
The Thief of Joy
There's this lady in my church who appears perfect in every way. She has silky blonde hair and sparkling white teeth and feminine style and a demure, gentle personality that leaves me convinced small animals must follow her through the woods when she takes walks. She even has a pair of perfect, blonde, well-mannered children who have probably never been dirty or sticky in their entire young lives. I hate her. Or rather, I hate what she brings up for me. Being in the same zip code as this girl inflames my own insecurities. My hair is pretty cool, but it cost a lot of money and someone else had to do it for me. My teeth are crooked and stained. My style, while authentic, won't be on the cover of Vogue any time soon. And my kids? They're amazing, but they're also loud and very, very grimy. If this lady is New York City, I am Hoboken.
How can it be that I try so hard to look like I've got my shit together - unsuccessfully, on most days - and other people can just roll out of bed with rays of light beaming from their skin? They're prettier than I am, more approachable, smarter, funnier, kinder, and damn it all, so, so much thinner. (I imagine we all have one marker of our own failings that cuts a little deeper than the rest; this is mine.)
And don't even get me started on accomplishments. I am blessed with some remarkably talented, hard-working friends, who collectively have an entire alphabet of credentials after their names. Comparing my professional achievements to theirs is like comparing a street mongrel to a pedigreed show dog. These people have done things! Real, important, meaningful things! I'm pretty confident my students like me, and I love what I do, but there are no letters after my name. (Perhaps I can ease my anxiety about this by forcing my students to address me as, "Your Highness," or at the very least, "Esteemed Madame." Might be a tough sell with sixth graders.)
What is a girl to do when she's surrounded by people so obviously, glaringly better than she? I've tried a couple techniques in the past. I call the first one pure, unfiltered bitterness. It fails almost immediately, because while it's briefly cathartic to think, "You're more __________ than I am and I hate you for it," it's pretty lonely and toxic. The second technique relies on a sort of reverse comparison. Instead of finding yourself in the down position, seek out people who make you feel superior. This one is actually fairly easy - "Well, at least I don't wear slippers to bring my kids to soccer like that poor sap," - but it fails because it is profoundly unkind. You will end up feeling just as miserable and inadequate as before, but with an added scoop of guilt and shame. The third technique, which has been my default for as long as I can remember, is to harshly berate yourself for your deficiencies and do whatever possible to fix or hide them. For me this technique forms the spine of my decades-long eating disorder. "You are good, I am bad. I don't know how to be as good as you, but I can be thinner, or I can die trying." The logical fallacy here is crystal clear: The negative self-obsession simply leaves no room for actual constructive growth.
There's a fourth technique I've considered but haven't tried. It's a strange concept I'll dub Empathic Realism. This technique presumes that all people - regardless of how perfect and sparkly they appear - experience pain, fear, and self-doubt. We're really not so different at all. Even the Disney princess in my church has likely cried herself to sleep, yelled at her kids, fought with her partner, and felt inferior to someone else. Here's the power in Empathic Realism: it's an equalizer. It levels the playing field for all of us and invites us to see each other the way we really are. What we see on the outside is almost never the whole picture. A lady with a dazzling smile may be hiding deep distress. A husband who brings his wife flowers every day may be hiding infidelity. A guy with a successful career may be distracting from an addiction. A 1950s-worthy wife and mom may be hiding desperate, aching loneliness. That's the realism. The empathy piece comes when we acknowledge the humanity, not the veneer. When we look at someone and say, "I see the real you in there. I'm right there with you."
That acknowledgement must extend to ourselves, too, for this technique to reach maximum effectiveness. Am I perfect? Ha! We're already determined that's not the case. But I try to to the right thing. I try to be honest, act with integrity, and serve others. I stumble often, but I get back up. In the end, it's the soldiering on that's the true mark of success. When we can soldier on together, in solidarity and shared humanity, we've achieved the best success of all.
How can it be that I try so hard to look like I've got my shit together - unsuccessfully, on most days - and other people can just roll out of bed with rays of light beaming from their skin? They're prettier than I am, more approachable, smarter, funnier, kinder, and damn it all, so, so much thinner. (I imagine we all have one marker of our own failings that cuts a little deeper than the rest; this is mine.)
And don't even get me started on accomplishments. I am blessed with some remarkably talented, hard-working friends, who collectively have an entire alphabet of credentials after their names. Comparing my professional achievements to theirs is like comparing a street mongrel to a pedigreed show dog. These people have done things! Real, important, meaningful things! I'm pretty confident my students like me, and I love what I do, but there are no letters after my name. (Perhaps I can ease my anxiety about this by forcing my students to address me as, "Your Highness," or at the very least, "Esteemed Madame." Might be a tough sell with sixth graders.)
What is a girl to do when she's surrounded by people so obviously, glaringly better than she? I've tried a couple techniques in the past. I call the first one pure, unfiltered bitterness. It fails almost immediately, because while it's briefly cathartic to think, "You're more __________ than I am and I hate you for it," it's pretty lonely and toxic. The second technique relies on a sort of reverse comparison. Instead of finding yourself in the down position, seek out people who make you feel superior. This one is actually fairly easy - "Well, at least I don't wear slippers to bring my kids to soccer like that poor sap," - but it fails because it is profoundly unkind. You will end up feeling just as miserable and inadequate as before, but with an added scoop of guilt and shame. The third technique, which has been my default for as long as I can remember, is to harshly berate yourself for your deficiencies and do whatever possible to fix or hide them. For me this technique forms the spine of my decades-long eating disorder. "You are good, I am bad. I don't know how to be as good as you, but I can be thinner, or I can die trying." The logical fallacy here is crystal clear: The negative self-obsession simply leaves no room for actual constructive growth.
There's a fourth technique I've considered but haven't tried. It's a strange concept I'll dub Empathic Realism. This technique presumes that all people - regardless of how perfect and sparkly they appear - experience pain, fear, and self-doubt. We're really not so different at all. Even the Disney princess in my church has likely cried herself to sleep, yelled at her kids, fought with her partner, and felt inferior to someone else. Here's the power in Empathic Realism: it's an equalizer. It levels the playing field for all of us and invites us to see each other the way we really are. What we see on the outside is almost never the whole picture. A lady with a dazzling smile may be hiding deep distress. A husband who brings his wife flowers every day may be hiding infidelity. A guy with a successful career may be distracting from an addiction. A 1950s-worthy wife and mom may be hiding desperate, aching loneliness. That's the realism. The empathy piece comes when we acknowledge the humanity, not the veneer. When we look at someone and say, "I see the real you in there. I'm right there with you."
That acknowledgement must extend to ourselves, too, for this technique to reach maximum effectiveness. Am I perfect? Ha! We're already determined that's not the case. But I try to to the right thing. I try to be honest, act with integrity, and serve others. I stumble often, but I get back up. In the end, it's the soldiering on that's the true mark of success. When we can soldier on together, in solidarity and shared humanity, we've achieved the best success of all.
Wednesday, October 12, 2016
Owning Your Story
It's been awhile, friends. Life got demanding, like a toddler in the toy aisle. I've thought for months about writing, but there were too many demands on my time and attention. (Full disclosure: I've been afraid to write. Vulnerability can be a real hindrance to military-grade productivity.) Today I took a moment to check my blog, and I had a private message from a reader in South Korea. As it turns out, I have a lot of readers in South Korea. Who knew? (To my friends in the far East, thank you, I see you, and you are loved.) Anyhow, this reader was succinct: "I need to hear your words. Your story is like my story and I don't know how to tell mine. Please write." Wow.
Now, there are a few directions I could've taken with this request. My initial thought was, "Oh my God, what have I done? This poor kid thinks I'm some kind of a role model. I'm a disaster. I need to take down my blog." That was followed with, "Hey, look at me! People on another continent have read my stuff!" Finally - mercifully - I thought, "Okay. Here's proof that all the shit I've been through, all the shit I still face every day, has a purpose. It means something. It'sfor something."
As luck, or fate, or God, would have it, this message was followed almost immediately with a lunch date with the new pastor of my church. A little background may be helpful here. My old pastor recently retired. Before she did so, in addition to being at my hospital bedside when my babies were born, she was my spiritual wingman through multiple rounds of eating disorder treatment. She was gentle when I started to slip and a real hardass when I was dying. In short, she was a rock star in the concert of my life. Fast forward to this new gal, and I was hopeful but cautious. I didn't introduce myself with, "Hi, I'm Cassie, I'm a longtime church-member and chronic anorexic!" I didn't mention it at all. During our lunch date, after finding common ground in kids and work and books, she recommended I read Glennon Doyle Melton's Love Warrior. I downloaded it as soon as I got home, and that's where this tornado started blowing.
I'm not far into the book, but one thing's for sure: it strikes awfully close to home. (I highly recommend it, by the way. Unfiltered truth is the best.) The book's beginning describes Melton's descent into bulimia and addiction and her willingness to sacrifice her body for a fleeting, insincere sense of value. I get that. I thought about my own past, with its two decades of starving and purging and cutting and lies and false perfection, and I thought about my friend from South Korea. "I need to hear your words. Your story is like my story and I don't know how to tell mine. Please write."
Message received, universe. Here's the truth: I'm having a hard time. Would I love to be 95 pounds again? Absolutely. I'd do it in a minute. No questions asked. Every single day I put food in my mouth reluctantly, spitefully, resentfully. I eat for my family, I eat for my students, I eat for all the people I don't want to disappoint again, since I've disappointed them so many times before. But here's the thing. As agonizing as this process is, there's joy in it. There's joy in the knowledge that I'm looking at my past and saying, "Nope, not anymore." There's joy in the ability to climb out of bed in the morning, take my dogs for a walk, and share breakfast with my kids. There's joy in the progress I've made, even if there's still a long way to go.
I'm owning my story, because one person in one corner of the world asked me to do so, and because one new pastor - who, jury's in, is wonderful - prodded me out of my comfort zone. I'll be writing more. I'll be sharing more. I'll be vulnerable, despite the hit it may strike to my robotic productivity. There has to be a reason I've seen and survived what I have. I intend to own it.
Now, there are a few directions I could've taken with this request. My initial thought was, "Oh my God, what have I done? This poor kid thinks I'm some kind of a role model. I'm a disaster. I need to take down my blog." That was followed with, "Hey, look at me! People on another continent have read my stuff!" Finally - mercifully - I thought, "Okay. Here's proof that all the shit I've been through, all the shit I still face every day, has a purpose. It means something. It's
As luck, or fate, or God, would have it, this message was followed almost immediately with a lunch date with the new pastor of my church. A little background may be helpful here. My old pastor recently retired. Before she did so, in addition to being at my hospital bedside when my babies were born, she was my spiritual wingman through multiple rounds of eating disorder treatment. She was gentle when I started to slip and a real hardass when I was dying. In short, she was a rock star in the concert of my life. Fast forward to this new gal, and I was hopeful but cautious. I didn't introduce myself with, "Hi, I'm Cassie, I'm a longtime church-member and chronic anorexic!" I didn't mention it at all. During our lunch date, after finding common ground in kids and work and books, she recommended I read Glennon Doyle Melton's Love Warrior. I downloaded it as soon as I got home, and that's where this tornado started blowing.
I'm not far into the book, but one thing's for sure: it strikes awfully close to home. (I highly recommend it, by the way. Unfiltered truth is the best.) The book's beginning describes Melton's descent into bulimia and addiction and her willingness to sacrifice her body for a fleeting, insincere sense of value. I get that. I thought about my own past, with its two decades of starving and purging and cutting and lies and false perfection, and I thought about my friend from South Korea. "I need to hear your words. Your story is like my story and I don't know how to tell mine. Please write."
Message received, universe. Here's the truth: I'm having a hard time. Would I love to be 95 pounds again? Absolutely. I'd do it in a minute. No questions asked. Every single day I put food in my mouth reluctantly, spitefully, resentfully. I eat for my family, I eat for my students, I eat for all the people I don't want to disappoint again, since I've disappointed them so many times before. But here's the thing. As agonizing as this process is, there's joy in it. There's joy in the knowledge that I'm looking at my past and saying, "Nope, not anymore." There's joy in the ability to climb out of bed in the morning, take my dogs for a walk, and share breakfast with my kids. There's joy in the progress I've made, even if there's still a long way to go.
I'm owning my story, because one person in one corner of the world asked me to do so, and because one new pastor - who, jury's in, is wonderful - prodded me out of my comfort zone. I'll be writing more. I'll be sharing more. I'll be vulnerable, despite the hit it may strike to my robotic productivity. There has to be a reason I've seen and survived what I have. I intend to own it.
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