because it’s the small things

Okay, so I have been thinking about this for a while and I think very much want to live in San Franciso. But I would also need to be able to make very regular visits to the east coast. (With some extra time to travel other places occasionally, too.) Which would mean I’d need an affordable place to live (in a non-lethal area, please), a lot of time flexibility (an ideally lots of time flexibility so I could do creative projects), and I’d need to find a way to afford the back and forth travel. Whether that’s through becoming someone’s Kato Kaelin, house sitting, just getting good rent, being gifted a house, free airline points, getting some tip-offs from acquaintances in the travel industry, receiving massive windfalls of cash, or some other solution…well, I won’t say it’s irrelevant, because I’d love boatloads of cash most, but I’m open to any solution.

Given I’m not rich (yet), I just can’t figure out how to make this idea work. And I’ve been tossing it around in my brain for almost a year now. I need some help. Any ideas or suggestions? What could I do? How could I make all this possible?

In a best case scenario, I’m not looking for extremely general, daydream ideas like “you could get invited to be caretaker of a rich person’s house while they’re in Europe for two years;” or “you could find a writer’s retreat that will house and feed you for a year.” I am really in need of moving to the next step–I need some real, practical solutions for how to FIND that rich person, or that retreat (just two of many examples).

I’ve always been such a resourceful person, and I find myself at a loss. And this frustrates me. I’m hoping if I put my wish out to the universe, the universe will find a way to answer me.

The universe, and you, that is. Any and all ideas and offers will be most welcome.

1. Having to use uncomfortable, understuffed couches from multiple decades ago because I can’t afford grown-up furniture
2. Feeling unmotivated
3. Wondering why I don’t write
4. Procrastinating
5. Cat hair fucking everywhere
6. Hearing excuses from people
7. Not feeling attractive
8. Avoiding taking dance classes because I think I’m too fat to be accepted
9. Sitting around waiting for something to happen
10. Worrying about money
11. Not feeling like I’m engaged enough in life
12. Sushi. I’ll still eat it, but the novelty is completely gone. I’ve tried pretty much everything.
13. Feeling guilty that I don’t want to be in a relationship while wanting love and affection and sex
14. Hair maintenance
15. Skin breakouts
16. Not having enough money or time to myself
17. Attracting (active) (unconcerned) addicts
18. Secrets
19. Weighing myself
20. Feeling detatched
21. Feeling like all men are untrustworthy and eventually show their true colors
22. Work

At times like this when I’m exhausted but can’t sleep, and too exhausted to concentrate fully on anything heavy, I turn to metafilter for entertainment. Just now the site pointed me to “What Book Got You Hooked”–where a nonprofit has a list of celebrities explaining what book first ignited their reading passion.

This in turn got me thinking of all my favorite picture books when I was a little kid. Of course, like every kid, I was a big Dr. Seuss fan, but here I’ll feature a few titles that don’t seem to be around much anymore.

Miss Twiggley’s Tree – A story in rhyme about an eccentric reclusive woman who lived in a treehouse with a bevvy of talented animals and a color TV. She’s misunderstood and talked about judgmentally by all the townspeople, until she saves all their asses during a flood and they finally figure out that different can actually be cool rather than scary. I loved this book and can still quote parts of it. Quite obviously, my sense of kinship with freaks and outsiders developed early.

How Fletcher Was Hatched – A dog feels neglected by his young female owner, who’s too busy cooing over the newly born chicks to pay attention to him. So he (naturally) devises a scheme to hatch out of an egg to regain her love. Quite obviously, my sense of kinship with freaks and outsiders developed early. Ahem.

The Magic Friend Maker – About a girl who is has just moved to the city (there’s that outsider theme again) who ultimately makes a best friend with the aid of a “magic” rock. 

The Lonely Doll (and following sequels) – A story told in words and black-and-white photographs of a lonely doll named Edith and two teddy bears (Mr. Bear and Little Bear) living in New York City. Reading it as an adult, I was surprised by how completely haunting many of the images appeared and how creepy and sometimes depressive-seeming a lot of these books were. But I loved them at the time, and the photography is beautiful. I particularly loved the one Lonely Doll book where Edith and Little Bear picket City Hall.

So, did any of you read any of these? What picture books were you obsessed with as a small kid? Links to the books appreciated, so I can check ‘em out!

In rereading last night’s post, I’m not feeling comfortable with how the last three paragraphs read. Or rather, I think their meaning can be misread. So just to clarify in case it sounded this way to anyone, I have absolutely NO desire to perpetrate physical harm on anyone else. It’s not within my makeup to do that. I was thinking more along the lines of some female-centric version of a Frank T.J. Mackey “Seduce and Destroy” kind of thing. And that sort of thing that doesn’t really do any party any good in the end or have any positive outcomes (at least, it wouldn’t for me). It’s taking desire and misdirecting it in unhealthy ways. That’s what I meant about destroying lives, even my own.

Nonetheless, the word choice I came up with subconsciously last night leaves me feeling as if I have some thinking to do about this kind of impulse and what’s really behind it. It’s too much for me to examine right now in the early in the morning, but it’s definitely something I might want to think about more when I am ready.

The other day, my therapist asked me if my rape had happened in July. Because I’d told her that I’d been suddenly feeling surrounded by sexual assault issues–no matter where I looked, another story or reference seemed to be popping up.

I don’t remember when I was assaulted. I can’t even pinpoint the exact age I was, let alone the month. But I think I’ve begun to realize that every July for the past few years, something strange happens. I become overwhelmed with desires, and the desire to act out. Not only do I notice sexual assault issues more accutely, but I start wanting things that are bad for me. Compulsively. With no desire for limits. Or rather, with a burning desire to disregard all limits. For instance, I start eating food I know is harmful to me, and I don’t want to stop. My body wants more and more and more. Particularly sweet things. I crave and crave. If I eat a little (and I have), the desire for it burns through me like wildfire. I do. not. want. to stop.

Similarly, and right now, this moment, I want to fuck someone so badly I can barely contain myself. This is not something that can be self-satisfied. This is something carnal that can only be satisfied by wrapping myself serpent-like around a living, breathing, pulsing life and squeezing and sucking and swallowing every ounce of sexual energy out of him, till he and I are both no more.

I want to breathe in his scent until I’m dizzy and lick his sweat until my thirst is quenched–and it will be a long, long drink to satisfy that thirst. I want to hear his voice in my ear. I want to hear his breath go ragged; I want to hear him moan beyond all control. I want to hear him come again and again and again and again. I want to watch his body convulse in pleasure so extreme the thought of coming down from it is pain.

I’m feeling this so acutely I’m afraid to talk to any of my male friends right now. Because I’m not capable of being responsible. Because it’s been too long and I want and want and want. I want so much that I’m willing to take unacceptable risks. I want it so much that I’m willing to play with fire. To disregard feelings and to toy with emotions. To fuck with people’s heads to sate my own need. To cross my own self-drawn boundaries.

I want it so much I’m willing to destroy lives. Including my own.

This is, right in this moment, how bad my need is. And it can’t be satisfied by anything I have in my life right now.

For some reason, I’ve been suddenly surrounded with sexual assault issues this week–in the lives of people I know, in films, on blogs, in email discussions with friends, etc. Everywhere I turn the topic is coming up. I’ve been wanting to write about a few of these recent encounters with the topic, but I’m finding it hard to get started.

I guess since I’m tired, for brevity’s sake I’ll start with what I think will be the shortest one. 

I won’t go into the details of that got me to what I’m going to write below, because it’s someone’s personal story and I don’t feel comfortable revealing that without their permission. But let’s just say the topic came up of why someone who was sexually assaulted, but not raped (by this I mean no penetration of any type) would have such a difficult time recovering emotionally from it.

In answering this, I came up with a metaphor that I think may helps explain and (hopefully) combat the harm produced by one of the problematic responses many people give victims–and that victims also often require of themselves–after a sexual assault: That is, asking for an assessment of the “degree” of the assault. And once that’s been asked, measuring whether the level of emotional response is “appropriate” relative to that “degree” of physical trespass.

Here’s what I came up with to get through to people about it:

When it comes to sexual assault and its emotional after effects, degree doesn’t really factor into it. Trying to measure the “allowable” emotional impact of something like a sexual assault and how a victim “should” respond based on that is basically the same as if a child came up to you crying and told you an adult had just walked up to him on the playground and punched him in the face, and you asked him to tell you exactly how hard the adult had punched him, and on what part of his face, because if it “wasn’t too hard” or “in too bad a place” then he really needed to stop crying already.

No one in their right mind would do that. They wouldn’t be thinking about whether the kid had a right to be upset; they’d be running to the police to get that abusive bastard locked up before he left the park.

As in that scenario, when it comes to sexual assault, the degree of the act doesn’t matter–the fact that the act happened is what matters, and what holds all the emotional impact. What matters is that something wrong was perpetrated, and it’s harmed the person it was perpetrated on as a result.

There are no “shoulds” or “shouldn’ts” in terms of  the feelings around it. It’s an extremely upsetting, scary, and traumatic thing, and it is always seriously wrong behavior on the part of the perpetrator, regardless of degree. Whenever someone disrespects and devalues another’s body, needs, and boundaries, that is a dangerous person. And the victim of that person has survived a dangerous situation. It would makes sense that she or he would feel strongly about it, and that it would have strong after effects.

Asking a sexual assault survivor to “quantify” her or his assault–or, if you are a survivor yourself, telling yourself you have to quantify it–is never helpful to healing from that trauma. It is only harmful.

And also, in my experience, those of us who have been sexually assaulted–no matter what our assault was like–also do this same thing to ourselves. We tend to try to minimize the event by telling ourselves it was “not that bad” or that “nothing really happened” or that we “shouldn’t be making such a big deal about it.” (Or all three together.) But actually it’s just the opposite. It WAS bad, something DID happen, and it IS a big deal, no matter what the physical situation was or how “far” the perpetrator(s) got before he/she/they stopped his/her/their unacceptable behavior.

That last sentence is one of the most important things to stress to a victim of sexual assault, no matter what type of assault it was, no matter how long ago in the past. There is no minimizing of it, regardless of degree. And it’s not something people “just forget and get over.” Or that they get over at a predictable and standardized pace. It lingers. It is trauma, and the brain and body reacts to trauma over an extended period. It doesn’t let you forget.

So stressing that sentence to a traumatized survivor is a far better, more supportive option than questioning the “degree” of someone’s assault vs. their emotional response. That’s not what a victim needs. Ever.

So what do you think? Does that opening metaphor work? I find often that sexual assault often makes people so uncomfortable, they can’t seem to think properly, but if you can take it outside of the context of sexual assault and use a comparative association, people can sometimes get what they’ve been unable to see right in front of them the whole time.

—
Update: I’ve been getting a lot of hits on this article from AAG’s blog and elsewhere today, so I’ve decided to republish some posts from an older blog of mine that document some of the history/struggle/growth/healing I experienced around my own assault, including my personal story. If anyone would like to read them, you can find all of them categorized in the order they were first published here.

I can’t put them all up now, because it requires fixing lots of links and things, which is very time consuming, but I’ve put up three of the main ones and may put up more as I go along.

Something  outside just blew up. I was just sitting here watching TV and then there was a bright flash of light behind me through my closed shades, followed almost instantly by a huge BOOM. It scared me shitless. 

I knocked on my neighbor’s door. She’d heard it too. We both looked out the window. There was no smoke, no visible signs of fire, no sirens going off. No one else in our whole apartment complex was even looking out their windows to see what happened.

What. The. Fuck.

One of the scariest parts of living in DC is that whenever you hear something like that, your brain involuntarily thinks, “This is it. I should have moved.”

And now I’m also thinking I have no idea how people deal with experiencing that every day, hearing those things go off all around them. Because there are people somewhere experiencing that, right now. People who are seeing that flash, hearing that huge boom. Again. Right by them. Or steeling themselves for the next time they will. Because they know there will be a next time.

I’m scared for them. And scared for this country, too. We’ve been so lucky. So far. I hope to god we stay lucky.

Lately these two songs are playing in a constant loop on my car’s CD player and IN MY HEAD. And I don’t want to make it stop. Enjoy.

1) “North American Scum” by LCD Soundsystem. Fantastic lyrics that you can’t help shouting along with. Great beat; completely rough and danceable at the same time. Mmmmm, so good. And oddly, it may possibly be the most patriotic song ever written. (The official video for the song is really boring to watch, so here’s a great live performance of it they did on Letterman.)

2) “That’s Not My Name” by The Ting Tings. Katie White kicks ass for us overlooked “nice girls,” telling the rest of the world how it is, and looking damn hot while doing so. Plus, the beat’s infectious. Like, malaria infectious. If there was a good kind of malaria. I dare you to listen to this and then not sing the chorus to yourself all day (and night–I actually dreamed this song in my sleep the other night).

Okay. So back in the nascent days of Friendster, I signed up. It was fascinating for about two weeks. And then, after I uncovered all of the famous people I was connected to, I couldn’t see the point. THEN I got invited to the early days of MySpace and everyone kept saying it was better than Friendster. They stopped using Friendster and went full tilt for MySpace. As far as I could see, it was pretty much just like Friendster, except for the ability of bands or writers I liked to make bulletin board posts telling me when they’d be in my neck of the woods. And also, up-and-coming bands could see my listed influences and could write and suggest I give their band a listen, too, based on that. A nice quirk, but not what I’d call a huge value add. And it was just a pain in the ass to keep checking THAT email and Friendster’s along with all my other email accounts. I also didn’t get the point of adding loads of random strangers to my “friends” list who weren’t asking to be added to actually get to know you, but rather just to make a point. And it seemed like such a huge time suck.

So then along came Facebook and Twitter, and I just said no. Enough is enough. No one can convince me that Facebook is doing anything more advanced than MySpace was, other than the annoying clever little widgets you can set up for your friends. And as for Twitter, are there actually people who want to know what all their friends and blog contacts are thinking at every moment of the day? I mean, I love you people, but I don’t really want to know that much about you. Moreover, why would I want to share the fact that I just woke up, or that I ate a bowl of grits, or whatever, with a bunch of people. Do they really need to make sure that I’ve woken up and eaten every morning? And am I so dependent on the responses of others that I really need to insta-publish every clever thought that comes into my brain right that second? And then read everyone else’s thoughts and responses? Ugh. It just sounds like a huge time suck.

I don’t want to be contactable when I’m out in the world away from the phone and email. I want some mental space from you people to just be alone with my thoughts.

So yeah, I wrote them off as being a Friendster or MySpace but with even more time suck. So I figured I’d ride that trend out being untrendy.

But…there have been a few social networking sites that seem to have an actual usefulness to them. LinkedIn, for example, where you can network professionally. Say you need–or a friend needs–a new job. You can email your contacts asking if they know of anything and they can email theirs, and through this chain you may get a good lead or two. There’s also Meetup, which allows you to connect  and meet offline with groups of people in your area who share similar interests–even if those interests are kind of obscure. I’ve met a number of friends that way. And there’s also Yelp, where members write up reviews of shops, bars, and restaurants in their local cities. A GREAT resource for finding the best place to get a haircut in town, or for where to hang out when you’re on vacation. So I joined LinkedIn and Meetup, and I use Yelp all the time. And of course sites like Flickr and YouTube are great sources for finding images and video I want. Even though I tend to not think of them as the same kind of social networking, they really are.

So I like social networking with a POINT or a USE. But so many of the others I mentioned earlier seem completely pointless, other than the ego stroke they provide. Which I’m not really feeling a need for.

And now, someone’s just sent me an invite to Bebo. Seriously, I gotta ask–how many sites do people want to maintain at one time? Doesn’t it seem like it would just be better to go out and actually do some stuff with your friends, rather than connecting with them at a distance, while you’re still alone? And maybe like, engage your long-term memory for a change?

Does anyone else think about this like I do? Or am I having one of those “grrr, you kids, get off my lawn” moments?

And okay…sigh…does anyone know about Bebo? Is it worth joining? Is it ANY different than any of the others? What other things are the current up-and-comers in the social networking world? Any better or worse than any of the ones I’ve just mentioned?

Back in my mid-20s, I used to work for one of the big bookstore chains. One of my fellow employees was this woman whom I absolutely loved. She was smart, cool, artistic, and just fun to be around. She was also clearly a lot older than I was, though her exact age would have been hard to gage–could have been anywhere from late 50s to late 60s. I didn’t really think about this much; I knew we weren’t the same age, but it seemed irrelevant. I just enjoyed her company.

Anyway, we used to talk a lot and she was a very open person; she wasn’t scared to share her views or her history, even when either was unconventional. So I was surprised when one day in the context of a conversation I asked her what her age was, and she refused to tell me. I told her it didn’t matter to me, and she still refused to share the info. At the time, I found this both surprising and a little insulting–did she think I would judge her based on her age? I reassured her again it didn’t matter to me, and said I thought it was strange that she could be open about so many things, but this one thing, which I felt was of little consequence, she wouldn’t discuss. She said something like, “I don’t really share that, because people change when they know my age. I’d rather you just relate to me without a number attached.” I let it drop and never brought it up again, but I thought for years that she was being silly. I thought to myself that when I got older I’d never do that; that I’d always be proud of my age and announce it freely.

Turns out that’s a pretty easy proclamation to make when you’re 23. Also turns out that at 40, I am starting to grasp why my friend wouldn’t share her info.

I turned 40 last summer. By all accounts, I look and act much younger than what people’s conception of 40 is. In general, people tend to assume that I’m about 8-10 years younger than I am. I have good genetics that way; all of my family looks younger than their age. And having made some lifestyle choices that buck the standard “middle-aged, suburban soccer mom” trend, people also tend to assume from my lifestyle that I’m younger than I am.

I’m not embarrassed to be 40. I like it. And, to cop a phrase from Gloria Steinem, when people say, “Wow, you don’t look/seem 40,” I always want to say to them, “No, you’re mistaken. This is what 40 looks like [also].”

But I’ve begun to notice some significant differences in people’s reactions to my age when I reveal it now. When I was in my 20s, and even in my 30s, people would sometimes act surprised at hearing what my real age was, but there seemed to be no concept attached to it. It really does feel like the word “forty” is some cross-over threshold in people’s minds. I am currently friendly with people of many ages–some almost 20 years younger than I am; some nearing 20 years older. I don’t really notice this stuff most of the time. But I have noticed a new level of reaction/response when I share my age now, particularly with people younger than I am. I sometimes feel like people suddenly put a little bit of a wall up–like if I tell someone who is an acquaintance my age before I have gotten very friendly with them, they suddenly pull back, thinking “oh, not in my age bracket; we can’t have anything in common.” I also run into situations where I refer to a pop culture reference that some of my friends and acquaintances are too young to know. Sometimes–not always, but sometimes–I feel like the air gets uncomfortable around that.

Not everyone’s been like that. I’ve made some friends recently who younger than I am and are well aware of my age and seem to have no issues with it. But sometimes it felt at the start like some of them had to “train” themselves not to have issues with it. And occasionally the topic comes up in weird ways, “Someone your age wouldn’t [fill in some weird assumption or other].”

I can’t say I’ve been entirely innocent of some of this behavior myself. I can remember having older coworkers who seemed to have trouble with computer issues, for instance, and I automatically assumed their age made comprehension more difficult for them; and that they might not be able to get up to speed on modern stuff too fast.

I think about that sometimes. Not often, but it’s begun to occur to me for the first time in my life. Professionally, will people begin to think my age indicates a lack of being “plugged in;” that it will mean I’m not “cutting edge” enough to be able to think up new, viable ideas? Will I begin to be discounted and devalued, just because of a stupid number? And if I don’t always want to be involved with the new-new thing, will I be unable to survive and support myself?

I don’t know the answers to these. And I feel that all I can do is be myself and know my capabilities, and assume that other people will come around to seeing what they are, despite possible initial prejudices.

I also still tell myself I am proud I’m 40, and I have no need to hide it from anyone, and people can learn from me to be proud of who they are at any age. I still tell myself I want to proudly announce my age when I’m in my 50s, and 60s, and 70s and beyond.

But these days I also have suddenly had thoughts where I think, “You know, my friend at the bookstore might have had a point. Maybe I want to do that, too.” Some days I think it might be better. Not to LIE about my age and say I’m younger than I am (which I could get away with, but refuse to do)–but to just refuse to share it. To let the person I’m talking to think whatever they want to, and relate to me without the added information. 

I think now that it wasn’t that my friend was ashamed of her age at all–that she was fine with it. That it wasn’t about that old stupid saying, “A lady never reveals her age.” It wasn’t about her femininity o need to be seen as young.

I think that maybe even though she was fine with it for herself, perhaps she just wanted to protect herself from a world that is sometimes not fine with it. That she preferred to be ageless, not pinpointed in time. Which is, quite honestly, how I feel. I don’t feel a particular age. I feel ageless.

I suppose that’s an answer I can give, “I am ageless.” But on the other hand, it may sound a bit…precious to say something like that. 

So here I am at 40, starting to realize that age both doesn’t and can sometimes matter, in different ways, depending on how I want to look at it. And I’m now contemplating two diametrically opposed things. Part of me wants to honor my feeling of agelessness and not label myself with a number (seriously, I hate numbers and labels of all sorts, really). But another part of me wants to proudly proclaim what age I am and blow away stereotypes and fuck anyone who can’t handle it or can’t see past it; their problem, not mine.

Have any of you ever thought about this kind of thing? What are your thoughts on it?  How do you handle the age thing? Have you ever made assumptions about someone based on their age?