A redwood.
Tall.
Steady.
Thousands of years old.
With stabilizing roots stretching down, extending their plump, life-gathering tendrils towards the molten core of
Me.
You.
Everything.
A volcano.
Fierce.
Willful.
The force of which cannot be stopped. Cannot be tempered by any man.
It bursts forth with the power of an exploding star.
And then, as its grit settles softly into the nooks and crannies of existence, it whispers:
“You are strong.”
I was halfway through writing a post about why the capitalist consumerism of Christmas bums me out when I stopped mid-sentence and burst out laughing. Oh my god I thought, I am so morbid.
I immediately thought about a conversation I recently had with my sister.
I am a writer. I have been a writer since I started crafting my own letters and narrating my own stories to picture books in kindergarten. That being said, I’ve never shared my writing with anyone. I have a bachelor’s in history. I’ve written history. I’m getting a masters in curriculum and instruction; I’ve written curriculum. But my personal writing, the contents of my brain, and my heart, and my soul; I’ve never shared that.
And now I am. With this blog. This is my first taste of uncensored sharing of the deepest part of my brain, and my heart, and my soul. And it scares me. And I know people are reading it. Not that many people, but still, people. But I am getting zero feedback. Not negative, not positive, just none.
Well, that’s not completely fair, nor true I guess. There have been a few who have reached out and thanked me, told me they’re proud of me, and told me to keep it up. I appreciate that feedback so much! Knowing I have support at all has been key to keeping me going.
But I’ve not gotten any specific feedback. No critiques, no comments about how certain things made people feel, or how they may have been changed because of what they read, or how they connected to something I said. And that makes me hella anxious.
I don’t know how people are actually reacting to my writing.
When I voiced my concerns to my sister, her answer was so simple I had to mull it over for a few days before I was able to accept it as true. Basically, she said there is nothing wrong with my writing. It is honest, it is unflinching, it is dark. And people have a difficult time processing through the kind of feelings this writing makes them feel.
I knew she was right. It made sense. My darkness has been present my entire life. I remember my mom freaked out when I was in preschool because I said my favorite color was black and she thought I was depressed (I don’t really remember if I was yet, but hey).
The reality is, I’ve always been drawn to thinking really deeply, realistically, and morbidly about things. I’ve always been drawn to dark colors, late-night discussions, cemeteries, and the quiet solitude of large bodies of water at night. My curiosity is ignited by decaying buildings, bones, skulls, fungus. I relish the intellectual challenge of true crime, against the background of the crimes themselves.
It probably isn’t a coincidence that I’m also terrified of most of the things I just named.
I have no idea where that morbidity comes from. Maybe it is just my depression manifesting in my personality. Maybe I am just a pessimist. Either way, I’ve slowly come to realize how my darkness can make others uncomfortable. My sister is right, darkness scares people. Darkness brings up feelings people usually try to avoid. Sure, I have set my own darkness free and am glorying in the freedom I feel because of it. But a lot of people are perfectly happy suppressing their darkness and keeping it positive.
I guess it makes sense the masses wouldn’t want to consistently have to confront something they fear so much.
I realize that, just because I’m ready to talk about this stuff, that doesn’t mean everyone is.
I guess I hope that one day, we will progress as a people to regard the darkness with less fear. For, why should darkness be so scary? Why are we so terrified of the unknown? Why do we literarily apply the color black to evil things, “the dark side?”
In the meantime, dear readers, I realize the emotional rollercoaster I’ve taken you on. I thank those of you who have returned to more than one of my posts. I will work on sharing more of my triumphant feelings associated with my mental health journey to lighten the tone a little (at least more so than I am now). And I promise I won’t ruin your holiday with a rant about my critical analysis of the Christmas season.
All I ask in return is that you allow yourself to spend more time with your darkness. Ride the wave of that uncomfortable feeling, let it all out, and see where it takes you. Allow yourself some time to really process through an intense emotion, and see what you find out about yourself in the process.
Love & Happiness to you all.
I have diminished myself to the point of feeling invisible because of a very strong voice in my head. This is the voice of The Patriarchy, and I have spent a lifetime letting it erase me. Another way to think about The Patriarchy, or rather a manifestation of it, is heteronormativity. In short, heteronormativity is the idea that a two-person, financially stable, monogamous, child-rearing relationship is the right kind of relationship. It is what everyone should strive for.
I want to be clear that there are many more layers of The Patriarchy than just heteronormativity. However, when I say “The Patriarchy” here, I am referring to heteronormativity because the word heteronormativity is so unknown I still get the red squiggle underline when I type it out. Therefore, I failed in finding a word to refer to “heteronormativity” that is as easy to read and recognize as “The Patriarchy.” I realize it is an imperfect use of the term as it doesn’t refer to every layer of The Patriarchy. The Patriarchy in itself is many-headed and complex, unable to be sufficiently conquered in one blog post. I encourage you to continue to seek out and read about diverse perspectives on The Patriarchy, dominant culture, and colonialism. If you’re interested start here, here, and here. I am one limited perspective, but I am not the only valid perspective.
My family, my community, my culture growing up was so entrenched in The Patriarchy, I have spent my 28 years of life trying to suppress, hide, and destroy all the parts of myself The Patriarchy wouldn’t approve of. But I’ve found, no matter how much education and experience I have, no matter how many awards and honors I receive, I still felt vile, dirty. I felt unworthy of love because it all came only if I suppressed everything within me that made me, me. Let me illustrate my point with some examples:
I am a lifelong learner. I challenge everything. I question everything. I always want to discuss everyone’s perspective, I want to learn as much as I can behind someone’s motives. This quality has placed me at the receiving end of a great deal of displeasure throughout my life.
With The Patriarchy inevitably comes gender roles. I received indirect, but specific, messaging around gender roles growing up. Men are supposed to be strong, angry, protective. They make the money, make the decisions, run the country. Women, on the other hand, are meek, fragile, and agreeable. They rear the children, maintain the home, sooth the man’s ego when he returns at the end of a hard day of running the world. I’m not alone in receiving this messaging. I grew up in the 90s. The television and movies I watched as a child presented this model relationship to me over and over again.
My personality has never gelled well with these gender roles. I am independent. I am challenging. As a result, my formative years contained a lot of training to shut down that part of me. I was often told to “stop talking.” I was called difficult, antagonistic. I was told to mind my business, shut my mouth. Stop being so loud, so argumentative. I was called a know-it-all and a bitch. Over time, in order to avoid this push-back, I just stopped using my voice. I stopped raising my hand in class, stopped asking questions, stopped trying to enter discussions. By the time I hit high school, I spent most of my day in silence. My voice disappeared and, my self esteem was so low, I wished my body could disappear too. I didn’t make many friends unless they were willing to engage with me and push passed my training. I didn’t get my voice back until well into college, but always knew where to toe the line and back down when the aggressive reactions to my voice started again.
The gender roles enforced by The Patriarchy taught me to hand over the keys to my body to the men that have come in and out of my life. I learned from an early age that my goal was to find a man willing to take care of me, start a family, and settle down. Men on the other hand, they need to spread their seed. Sow their oats. They would only commit when they found “THE woman,” who would be interesting enough to do so with (watch Friends all the way through and you’ll see exactly what I mean).
Indirectly, this messaging, coupled with my already low self esteem, caused my brain to equate male attention with self worth. From puberty onward I manufactured my outward appearance and disposition to be attractive to men. I made their interests my interests. I complimented them and said what I knew they wanted to hear. I never said no. I let myself be used. I engaged in flirting and texting and casual sex because I thought it gave me purpose, was a marker of my success as a woman. And then, eventually, when I tried to say no to a boy with whom I had been flirting, who was practically a stranger, I was raped. Violently.
Ironically, my rape resulted in increased promiscuity. It taught me that everyone and everything was right all along. In my head, me saying “no” was the result of my attack so I pushed my voice and my sense of self even further down. I erased myself and allowed my body to be used by whomever wanted to, however they wanted. My body became public property. It became an empty shell.
I am bisexual (Surprise! And sorry to all my family members and friends who follow my blog, whom I was incapable of telling in a more personal and appropriate way). The thing is, bisexuality doesn’t fit into The Patriarchy. The Patriarchy is dedicated to the gender binary. Men are men, women are women, men and women are attracted to each other and stable monogamy is their goal. Growing up, I heard over and over again that bisexuality isn’t real. That the people engaging in it are just confused, looking for attention, or going through a phase. This is a phenomenon called bi erasure, and it is real.
Bi erasure worked its way so deeply into my subconscious I even remember saying things like “No one is bi. Boys who say they are bi are really just gay. It is more natural for women to experiment with other women, but that doesn’t mean they’re not straight.” Looking back, not only does this make me cringe, it makes sense. I was trying desperately not to make myself even more of an “other” than I already felt I was because of my voice. I was desperate to justify my crushes on Jessica Rabbit, Britney Spears, and three of the girls I went to high school with. I wanted to erase my sexuality so I could only engage in the kind of heterosexual relationship The Patriarchy would approve of.
The suppression of my sexuality resulted in a lot of self loathing. I was embarrassed, I felt gross, I felt like I didn’t fit in. I married a man, a man whom I love very much, before I ever allowed myself to admit that I’m bisexual. And this blog post is the first time I’m telling many people in my life because I am still scared of the potential push back I may get from all the same voices in society who started striking when I was young.
All of this training from The Patriarchy resulted in various rules and limits I put on myself in order to reach success in the eyes of The Patriarchy. I got tattoos as a way to get the control over my body back, but only in places that could easily be covered by clothes so I would still appear worthy of respect. In undergrad, I learned how to produce writing based on what my professors wanted, rather than what I thought. I got a career in teaching, to appear noble, respectable, and stable. I pushed myself to excellence, held ridiculously high expectations for myself, strove for perfection. All so not a single teacher, boss, or coworker would have anything to complain about in my job performance. I married a man, bought a house, my credit score is over 800.
In short, I did everything The Patriarchy wanted me to do. All the while, denying everything that would make me feel fulfilled, genuine, alive, interested, connected, happy. I erased all of my passions so I could focus on teaching. I never had a hobby. I became a workaholic. I never said no to a single thing my job demanded of me. I punished myself every time I slipped up, or let my attention waver. The only thoughts I reserved for myself were criticisms. Functionally, I was successful from the point of view of The Patriarchy. I was also fucking miserable.
So, after 28 years of suppressing everything that made me feel alive, I wanted to die.
But I don’t want to die. I want to live. As myself. I want to be free. I want to explore and experiment. I want to connect intellectually, creatively, and spiritually with people who also don’t fit into The Patriarchy, or at least don’t need me to. I want ownership over what makes me feel successful. I want ownership over what gives me worth. I don’t want to be invisible anymore.
An Experiment with Vulnerability 