Yes, But There Was Also Abuse

People have suggested to me more than once that I write a memoir of my life, as it has been fairly noteworthy.

One day, I sat down to do that and started with the story of the family meeting that occurred in my parent's apartment when I was nearly 10 years old after I had come forward with the abuse I was suffering at the hands of my step-grandfather. I recounted the horrified look on my aunt's face (the only face I can remember from that day), and being sent to another room with a sticker book to keep me occupied while the adults spoke in panicked whispers about what to do next.

I wrote three paragraphs and had to stop. How would I write an entire memoir when the first three paragraphs plunged me into a total state of anxiety? How could I put words to the complex emotions that occurred within a timeline blurred by age and mental self-preservation? I couldn't. It would not be therapeutic for me to re-live a life with story after story of sexual abuse, assault, and harassment.

There was just too much. As it is just too much for most women. I imagine. Do any of us not have a story of feeling unsafe? Do any of us not have a story of feeling pressured, ogled, shouted at, grabbed. Do any of us not have a story of being told to "smile more", "wear some makeup", or "do something with your hair"? Do any of us not have a story of being criticized for what we are wearing? Or what we are not wearing?

I doubt it.    

Because my own abuse began barely before the age of three, my entire identity was shaped around being a sexual object. It was shaped around not understanding boundaries. It was shaped around not knowing that I could say "no"- especially when "no" rarely worked anyway.

I was reading Amber Tamblyn's open letter to James Woods today. While men targeting young girls, especially in the context of the entertainment setting, isn't a new narrative, this one might have been the last proverbial straw for me. Woods' response falls in line with the usual - same old - same old - of male defenses. "She's lying"and "prove it" said with a tone of polite minimizing.

The responses to the Twitter thread were also standard. Men accusing her of needing the attention, lying, being a bitch. Of being too sensitive.

I've heard that one a lot too. Too sensitive. Yes, I'm too sensitive. But also, there was abuse.

It's just more "reasons" to excuse and ignore the fact that we live in a rape culture. We sexualize little girls from early on. "Pretty" becomes a thing you strive to be. As if that matters even remotely in developing a sense of self - of identity. We used to tell girls about being "pretty" more than we told them about being strong. We told them about being "good" and "obeying". We told them about being "quiet".

Little by little, we have been attempting changing that and failing. We create Legos "for girls" in pinks and purples. We engage them in sports and encourage them to join the sciences. But still, the focus is on how they can and should change while maintaining their female-ness. We teach them to speak up, and when they do, they have silenced again with "prove it". Besty DeVos recently undid protections for victims of assault on college campuses. So, once again, the conversation turns to "proving it".  Silencing it.

North Carolina says it's legal for a man to rape you if intercourse began, but you changed your mind at some point. If you are being hurt during sex, you have no right to retract your consent. That's horrible. Barbaric.

On our acceptance of abuse and dysfunction: A few months ago, my step-grandmother died. This woman was a facilitator for the abuse and rape that occurred not just with me, but with other young women in the family. She was a denier, a blamer, and the cause of so much pain and destruction. She did not commit the sexual abuse - but she helped. She did not protect us. I even remember her once giving me advice on how I could avoid it. At 7 years old, I was being blamed.

My mother attended the funeral of this woman. To "pay her respects". It broke my heart. I thought about my own daughter and what I would have done in the same situation. I would have attended the funeral to spit on her and to speak the truth of who she was. I would have represented my daughter. I would have testified.

But my mother, who also grew up in varying abuse and dysfunction, doesn't get it either. That's how deep our rape culture goes - hundreds of years of accepting because it's so common. The past is the past and we have to move on. We've become desensitized.  It's always someone other than the abuser's fault. My step-grandmother's obituary read "loving grandmother", "local school employee", "generous". Maybe - but there was also abuse.

Why isn't this the narrative yet? Why are we not countering the excuses with the facts, which are separate and absolute?

She was drunk - Yes, but there was also abuse.
She was wearing next to nothing - Yes, but there was also abuse.
She slept with a lot of people - Yes, but there was also abuse.
She didn't say anything - Yes, but there was also abuse.
She'd had sex with him before - Yes, but there was also abuse.
She's too sensitive/She can't take a joke - Yes, but there was also abuse.

She was walking around at that hour alone/she met him online/came to his hotel/came to the party/got in his car/said yes once before/slept with everybody/she was trans and didn't tell him/did drugs/was a prostitute/accused other people too/wasn't wearing a bra/wasn't wearing underwear/asked him to use a condom during the rape/she was out of control/she was mentally ill/she's trying to ruin him/she wants attention/she saw him again/she sexted him/she has kids by different fathers/she didn't leave/she didn't go to the police/she didn't go to the hospital. Yes, but there was also abuse.

#ButThereWasAlsoAbuse

From now on, that's my answer to it all. Because the discussion needs to stop being about the victim and what she did or didn't do and turn back to the abuse. We need to start believing women. We need to stop creating a reason why she "asked for it",  or why it's too late for her to speak out. We keep doing this as a society, and all it's doing is normalizing abuse and violence. We cannot have a reason to make abuse acceptable. We need to stop making women afraid to come forward because they won't be believed.

End of rant.

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Fat Bottomed Girls, You Make the Rockin' World Go Round

Last week, our 20-something family counselor, after a conversation about health and weight in which I stated that I had resolved myself to the weight I'm at because I can't lose anymore, replied: "Sure you could. If you just TRIED harder". She then proceeded to tell me about calorie counting and exercise because, of course, at 44 years old I'd never heard of those things before.

When she volunteered her own height and weight, I commented to her that we were actually almost exactly the same. Looking perturbed at being compared to someone she clearly felt was overweight, she said: "Yes, but everybody is different. I have a lot of muscle because I exercise and lift weights".

Bitch, I'm about to lift weights right now and toss you out my fucking window. I was incensed. I was hurt. But, goddammit, I am okay with my weight and accept my womanly self completely so, FUCK HER.

But as the days went by, I saw that that little grenade of a comment was about to detonate inside me, revealing the still very disordered and wounded self-image I've been carrying my whole life. Not only was her comment hurtful, but it was also mean considering I'd shared with her a lifelong battle with disordered eating and weight. And, even though she'd shared her own intense fear of "getting fat" with me, it did not make me feel better. It made me feel sad. Sad that this woman, who is college educated and serves as a counselor to families and troubled youth, was clearly just as fucked up as I was.

So, in the days that followed, as I obsessed about food, weighed myself several times a day, and studied all of my fat in the mirror while wondering how she saw me as so much larger than she, I decided to discontinue with her as our family counselor. Because she's not where I am. She has not had children. She has not grown human beings in her body. She has not gained 60 pounds or more while pregnant and then frantically tried to lose it all. She has not inhaled as much food as she could get her hands on while breastfeeding. She does not understand peri-menopause, or fibromyalgia, or autoimmune diseases. She does not understand depression or how fragile the rebuilt ego actually is. She does not understand the deep, lifelong effects of sexual abuse. She does not understand what it feels like to contemplate suicide because you hate your body. She does not understand the mental energy it takes to just be OKAY with yourself. She does not understand compassion.

Her Kent education and subsequent master's degree be damned, she is not educated enough or mentally well enough to counsel us.

So, to her I say; Do not give people diet advice when they didn't ask for it. Spend some time interning in eating disorder units. Talk to people who are struggling with food addictions and obesity. When someone is feeling bad about themselves, ask them about what else is going on for them instead of confirming what they already fear most about themselves - that they are wrong the way they are.

I also want to say to her; Thank you. Thank you for making me revisit this issue within myself. Thank you for triggering my disordered thinking so I could re-affirm for myself that I am fine the way I am. Thank you for making me remember that I was insane when I was caught in the cycle of starving, bingeing and purging. That no matter what the scale says, I have an obligation to my children to stay sane. I have an obligation to be well. Thank you for making me remember that I have normal cholesterol. I have normal blood pressure. I have normal blood sugar. Thank you for making me remember why I can't go back there again. Whatever the number on the scale reads.

 Love,
 Morgen and her big fat ass.

Dawn - A Short Story

"You're an idiot."

"Shut up."

"She's right. You're an idiot."

"Shut up!"

"Don't take your anger out on us. We're trying to help you."

"Yes. We're your friends. Don't we always look out for you?"

"True. Where would you be without us?"

"Go away! You're just trying to upset me, and I was in a good mood today."

"When are you ever in a good mood?"

"I've been in a good mood since I moved here. It's nice here."

"Keep telling yourself that. If you were so fucking happy, you wouldn't need us."

"Language!"

"I'm sorry. But it's the truth."

"I am happy! And I don't need you here! You're just always tagging along and annoying me."

"Not true, Dawn. You know you need us. Remember the last time you told us to go away? You ended up in a drunk tank with a broken nose. Which still looks horrid, by the way."

"Indeed."

"That was ONE time! And it wasn't because you weren't there. I don't remember exactly what happened, but I know it wasn't my fault. It was just one of those things. An accident."

"An accident, yes. But that girl was in intensive care for two weeks. And she'll never see right out of that eye."

"Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!"

"We'll shut up when you pull yourself together. But until then, we stay."

"She's right. We can't leave you to your own devices. You show poor judgment."

"I concur."

"Well, maybe I wouldn't have been drinking if I hadn't been trying to get away from you two. All that relentless nagging. All that talking, talking, talking. I don't want to talk. I want to stay here and be happy."

"Dawn, dear, there were things that needed to be discussed. You can't just ignore us."

"I didn't want to talk about it then, and I don't want to talk about it now!"

"That may be true. But you know he needed to go."

"Yes. You handled that situation very poorly. You just ran away and we had to step in because you're weak and stupid."

"I'm not! I just didn't want to be there anymore. He was scary. I was afraid. Everything hurt."

"But you just let him go, Dawn. And, we felt that it was in your best interest to handle the situation properly."

"I handled it just fine. It was over fast. He didn't hurt me anymore once I stopped struggling."

"If you say so. But, because you refused to handle it, we stepped in and handled it for you."

"I don't want to talk about that! You didn't have to do anything. No one had to help me. I just want to forget. This place makes me forget. All you do is remind me and make me feel bad."

"If we hadn't helped you, he would have just walked away. We couldn't allow that, Dawn."

"He got what he deserved. Becoming a shameful drunk was just unnecessary. And frankly, quite embarrassing."

"Yes, it reflected poorly on all of us."

"I don't care. And I haven't had a drink in weeks. I'm feeling much better."

"Hmmm...keep telling yourself that, dear."

"Oh shit. Here comes the reality police. We'll see you later, Dawn. We'll be waiting."

"Dawn? Honey? Are you alright? It's time for your meds sweetie."

"Yes, please. I'm not feeling well."

"Here...take these. Have some water. Lift your tongue sweetheart. Very good. You'll be feeling better in no time. Why don't you go into the activity room and finish working on your project? We'll be serving dinner soon. It's meatloaf night. You like meatloaf."

"Yes. Thank you."

DYI Reusable Menstrual Cloths: A Way to Sustainability and Environmental Protection, or Just Gross?

Because I occasionally think about going off grid someday, I am always researching different ways to have the modern things I need, but in a way that's environmentally conscientious.

I have gone through the composting toilet phase, the family cloth phase, the tiny house phase (which by the way now cost more than 40k!) as well as anything and everything else that YouTube has a dirty hippie video on.

So, last week was DIY menstrual cloths.                                          

So the first thing I noticed is that stores like Whole Foods were selling "Mama Cloths" for up to about $15 a piece which is pretty ridiculous. Then I saw people showing how you can make your own, but that still required a sewing machine and an awkward trip to Michaels.

These women were making their cloths out of pretty patterns that have rainbows and Disney characters on them (I also saw people who crocheted homemade tampons but I didn't even have the mental capacity to figure out how that works but to each their own) but I felt that any color other than black was just going to gross me out.

As far as I can tell from some of the homemade videos I saw was that you can pretty much just buy any old material and make them out of that and hand sew them. So, I went to the local dollar store and started researching supplies. After trying on several washcloths in Dollar General, I settled on black microfiber.

I bought so many microfiber towels and washcloths that I started to think I could have just shoved a ShamWow in my vagina and called it good...but I digress.

I got to work folding, cutting and sewing my dish towel rags, and after about 47 hours, I had made three.

Because Aunt Flo has a sense of humor, she decided to delay herself until I finished those three and then paid me a visit just to laugh at my stupidity. Also, because I had nowhere to be, I decided to try them out.

The verdict: Not too bad. First of all, they are HUGE. They look like grown up sized Lego blocks, and I'm pretty sure that if I sped up the process, I could build my own house with them.

Secondly, they are really comfortable. It's like a pillow for your vagina. No bunching or discomfort and I just threw them into the wash after a cold rinse cycle. They dried well and retained their shape.

So, what are my final thoughts on this sustainable grossness?

Cost-effective? Yes.

Easy to make? If you're not me - Yes.

Comfortable? - Yes.

Do I care about the environment? Yes.

Am I going to use these things on a regular basis? Hell no.

And now, here's a clip on the subject of feminine hygiene from the Dave Chapelle Show.

Edit: Over a year and a half later and they are still in good shape and going strong. Also, I use them far more frequently than I originally thought I would because vagina pillow.

Do Employment Assessments Alienate Good Potential Employees?

Because I had been actively attempting to drum up more work, I was spending an average of six hours a day filling out applications and taking assessments.

And, because of a recent experience I had with a popular car rental company who shall remain nameless (but you Trekkies know who I'm talking about), I have decided to pose the question to employees and employers alike: Are lengthy assessments and applications just alienating and frustrating good employees?

On average, the process is pretty much the same on the employee's end; You find a position you'd like to apply for, you click the "Apply" box, and you upload your resume' and cover letter.

Now, all of your relevant information is in their system...but they'd like you to type it all in manually again anyway. So you do. Done? No.

Actual screenshot from an assessment

Now come the assessments. Provided there are no glitches in their system, and their assessment software is compatible with your computer, you embark on a 1-3 hour journey that leaves you forgetting what job you actually applied for in the first place.

The above-unmentioned car rental company had a 150 question section first. Yes, FIRST. I was asked questions like "Do you like to visit art museums?" "Do you like poetry?" "Do you like to read?"

None of these questions seem to be relevant to the position in question, but I play along and answer as truthfully as I can.

The first section is done! I move forward to the second section; A 50 question math test. I complete that even though the job description requires no math.

I have now completed section two and move on to section three. Section three is a 30 minute tutorial on the test that is still to come. I watch the tutorial (which cannot be skipped) and move onto the test customer service/ data entry section. This section lasts an hour. It freezes several times, at which point I need to start all over again. But I do it.

After what feels like an eternity, I complete all sections. Within hours, I receive a standard rejection email stating that based on my assessment questions, they can not move forward with my application, but I am welcome to retry in a year. A YEAR. Because I like museums?

So, I am wondering: If my section 1 assessment questions were the problem, then why was I prompted to do two more hours of testing?

While this may seem like an extreme case, it actually isn't. I have to say that most of the application processes are just like the above example. Amazon is another company with a similar assessment process. However, if you are not accepted for one position, and you want to apply for a different one, you cannot retake the assessment. Therefore, you are rejected for ALL positions based on an assessment you completed 3 months ago for a different position.

It's mind-boggling. And I'm actually good with bureaucracy and hoop jumping. I can't imagine how anyone who doesn't test well, or who can't complete the tests because of lack of equipment or resources or who has a disability, can actually take these tests successfully.

Maybe I'm too old school. But I miss the days when someone posted a "Help Wanted" sign in their window, and you could walk in, answer a few questions and, hopefully,
leave with a job.

A happy ending for all.

Over The Rainbow

A friend suggested that I write a blog about why I picked the covers that I did, and what they mean to me (thanks, Stacy!).

I wanted to start with "Over the Rainbow" as it is the most emotional story for me to write.

As some of you may remember, my Uncle Jim passed away nearly two years ago after a very long battle with Melanoma.

My uncle was responsible for some of the happiest memories of my childhood. He was the very picture of goodness, compassion, and generosity. He celebrated each holiday with a child's enthusiasm and, no matter how much he was suffering physically and emotionally, always tried to smile, laugh and celebrate the good things in life.

Me, Uncle Jim, and my newborn brother, Brook

He was only 15 when I was born, and even though he was a kid himself, he always took the time to spend quality time with me, and when he married my Aunt Mary Anne, their home became one of my safest havens during the course of my very difficult childhood.

He loved me no matter how I challenged my family...no matter how long the time was that passed between us. His "How ya doing, kiddo?" still rings in my ears when I think of him.

Thanksgiving times at my Grandparent's house almost always involved he and I watching "King Kong", Mighty Joe Young" or "The Wizard of Oz" together.

"The Wizard of Oz" was one of his all-time favorite movies, and after he passed, I would often think about the song "Over the Rainbow", and slowly came to realize what a profound song that was.

The song speaks of a need to believe that there is a place beyond pain...beyond suffering and loneliness. A place where magic exists and all things are possible.

He believed that people were basically good and that no matter how far you roamed in the world, you could always come back to family and love would be waiting for you.

That's who he was for me. Unconditional love. Even when I didn't deserve it... Even when I didn't say "goodbye".

So, as we set up to do this song, I felt anxiety. Anxiety at the difficulty of it and anxiety about making it be good enough to honor his memory. To thank him, and to tell him that I believe in magic too, and the lessons he taught me by example are part of my very being. Some of these lessons came so late in life for me. But, I have them now and I can never thank him enough for them.

The most important of these lessons came about in my last conversation with him. He said: "I spent a long time being angry with God. I thought, 'I try to be a good person - a good Christian - why would God let this happen to me? And then I realized that I am here for a human experience. Sometimes, getting sick is part of a human experience. It has nothing to do with God, or how good you are. It's part of being human'".

After 3 or 4 fruitless takes of the song, I brought his picture into the booth with me. It was a picture of him holding my firstborn, Antonio, nearly 17 years before this recording.

After that take, Jake and I noticed an anomaly: A strange electrical disturbance that wasn't caused by wiring, software or distortion. It does not occur in any other track and did not occur in any other take but the one where his picture was present. It is an electrical, static interference that buzzes in and out at random.

You can hear it the most at the end of the song when I start to cry a little during the recording.

We chose to leave it that way. It might have been something totally random and unexplainable, but I'm not sure about that. I want to believe he was there and knew that I was thinking of him. I want to believe it was magic.

And even if it wasn't, he'd want me to believe that too.

For you, Uncle Jim.

In Another Life

Hi everyone!

Jake and I decided to put together a cd of the covers I'd been working on, and we have decided to try
and use them to raise a little money for the local food pantries and homeless outreach programs.

We came here to Las Vegas last year after some very, very hard times. As our time here comes to an end, and we prepare to return to the east coast, we have been thinking about how very grateful we are for all of the good things that have come our way this past year.

Most importantly, we are so grateful for all of our friends. It is not lost on us how often people have reached out to us, and helped us in any way they could. We are humbled.

The title of the album, "In Another Life", represents for me all that I wished had been, while acknowledging so many of the lessons that I learned along the way about love, friendship, faith and selflessness.

If you can't contribute financially, but can bring a donation of any kind to a local shelter or show some kindness to someone in need, please let me know and I'll be happy to send you a digital copy of the album :)

Click the title :)
                                                             
                                                              In Another Life