Ten months in: Bravery unmasked

I am ten months into my intention this year to be brave and, fortunately or unfortunately, the world has given me more than ample opportunity to practice this.

I think when I set this intention, I envisioned myself doing things I felt good about.  I think I saw myself doing things that I was scared to do.  I pictured myself feeling proud, and I looked forward to feeling like a strong, and triumphant, and brave person.  When I picture what "brave" looks like, I see a handsome, muscular knight in dirtied, bloodied, roughed up armor sitting atop a huge, beautiful, muscular, white horse.  They look a little worse for the wear, and they also look triumphant.  They look beautiful and muscular and strong and proud, knowing that they have withstood a terrible storm and that they have arrived on the other side, victorious. 

Here is the truth: I don't look like that knight.  I don't look just a little beat up.  I don't feel like I've been just a little beat up.  To borrow a phrase from my grandmother, I'd say I look like I've been pulled through a knothole backwards.

And perhaps the thing the fairy tales never tell us is that, after the battle, the knight experiences insomnia, the horse never lets anyone ride him again, and they both end up in therapy.  Maybe that is the part of bravery that none of us ever sees.  If I have learned anything over the past ten months, it's this: all bravery must have a private face.  If it is real, it must have a too-fast heart, and too-shallow breath, and muscles that shake inside their skin.  It must, right?  It just must.  

Or perhaps I search for these answers purely because my bravery is not beautiful.  She is not muscular.  She does not shout, or rally, or sing and exalt in her own strength. 

Instead, my bravery forgets how to smile.  Forgets how to breathe.  She is built from clenched breath, sleepless nights, a racing mind.  She is powered by aching muscles, repeated mantras, an anxious stomach, and constant self-doubt.  A mixture of fear and action, my bravery acts only because she will not let herself see another way. 

Her only strength is putting one foot in front of the other and trying to live as if bravery is a thing we can live into: as if brave futures are as promised to me as old age, and gray hair, and laugh lines.

More often than not, bravery feels like a mixture of brokenness and vulnerability, and nothing about it feels very ninja heart at all.   Acts that seem to take monumental strength are the smallest steps you can imagine: sending an email.  Talking to a friend.  Accepting love.  Believing in kindness.  Remembering to breathe.

Is this bravery?  Is this -- this thing I keep living and acting within as I tell myself I am practicing bravery, acting bravely, being brave -- is this actually bravery?  Is it vulnerability?  Is it just straight-up fear that I'm trying to mask as something positive?  Is it bravery if the tears hiding under the surface sometimes spill over?  If the body erupts into a temple of shaking cells that cannot find warmth, or safety, or calm? 

I'm choosing to believe yes.  I am choosing to believe that this -- this mess of tears and shaking and tightness and breakdown -- I'm choosing to believe that this is bravery, unmasked.  This is what happens to the knight after he fights the battle.  This is the place the princess resides after she slays the dragon.  This is not Hollywood bravery.  Not fairy tale brave.  It is breakdown, and vulnerable, and tired brave.  It is one foot in front of the other brave.  It is the bravery to act as though you believe you are worthy of love and kindness when your bones tell you otherwise.  It is the bravery to act as though you believe in others' love and kindness, when your very cells tell you to stop. 

Stories of bravery are supposed to be triumphant, swashbuckling adventures of action and passion.  They are stories that are meant to be shared, and heard, and told and retold and loved.

But this -- who would ever want to hear this story? 

Not all brave stories have a heroine at their center. 

This is bravery, unmasked, and real.

Re-learning how to remember

It's been a really, really hard week.  

This poem is one I wrote a few years ago that has been on my mind repetitively this week.  I changed some wording that I never liked...and I still think it's too long...but remembering has a lot of steps, no?

The lines in my head today were: "Remember the details.  Relinquish your fear."

There are so many times you have to learn how to remember, and learn how to remember, and learn how to remember again.  

I'm re-learning how to remember.

How to Remember

Forget about it.
Insist that it's not bad
not important
not infuriating.
Smile.
Walk through the darkness and feel your heart squeeze.
Push thoughts and feelings out through your pores.
Take your panic and dump it in the garbage can that smells like desolation.
Reach into your chest and find your heart,
a surprising blue color and slimy cold.
Feel disappointed in yourself:
you know despair has never looked good on you.

Grab and pulsate your heart in a rhythm you control.
Convince yourself this is not an act of self-preservation, but insanity.

Keep squeezing, hands bloodied and eyes red 'til others stay away.
Realize they're afraid of what parasite is living in you,

what curse has come over you,

what germ has infected you,
afraid you could be
contagious.
Push them away.
Feel yourself drowning.
Keep smiling.

Find a mask.
Pick it up and examine it.
Describe it as stoic, with a Mona Lisa expression
that could be sad if you look at it right, but smiles on first glance.
Consider it perfect.
Check the price tag, even though you know your
first-born child, right arm, and a leg would be worth it.
Steal the mask and tell the world you'll pay it off later.
Examine your tools and choose denial as the one with the sharpest edge
for digging your way out of trouble.
Feel ashamed, but know
it's worth it if you're going to survive.

Take the mask to an alley.
Drop it on the concrete and
throw it against the wall.
Leave it in the rain and examine it again.
See that it survived,
take it home and put it on.
Try to assume its persona.
Spend time getting to know
the new you.

Love yourself,
hate yourself,
then start over.
Walk through the darkness.
Breathe in the panic and revel in the night.
Feel a primal destructive urge and turn it inward.
Stop showering and lose your mascara.
Don't eat.
Try not moving from your couch.
Eat chocolate and
don't sleep.
Attempt to never sit down.
Sleep too much.
Never stop smiling.
Grow accustomed to the mask.
Tell yourself it's over.
Wipe your hands and believe you have

moved on.

Go to bed thrashing.
Wake up crying heart-bleeding sounds.
Tell yourself it doesn't matter and ignore your tears.
Sleep, fitfully, and wake again, screaming.
Beat your mattress in frustration and scream again, fully awake.
Scare your neighbors and forget to care.
Stop smiling.

Peel off the mask, carefully, and drop it on the bathroom floor.
Smile as you watch it shatter.
Burn candles at both ends and stare into the flames.
Search for symbolism in sunsets, stars, stairs,
stand on street corners with cardboard signs
begging for spare answers and
come home with an empty cup.

Forgive him.
Say "screw forgiveness" and stop believing in god.
Believe in sunrise, even if you hate it:
it's the only thing that's certain.
Sleep with a pen for the times you need to slaughter him at 3AM.
Write poems on your sheets by moonlight that consist only of the words "fuck you."
Sleep with a flashlight to catch nightmares in the act.
Murder them with your sleep-deprived ferocity.
Smile.
Stop writing.
Reach into your chest and grab your heart.
Pump its luke-warm smoothness into some semblance of a rhythm.
Wash the pink goo from your fingers and smell shame.
Watch it go down the drain.

Tell your story.
Watch people disbelieve
disavow
dismiss
disrespect you and start over.
Work your way back and tell it again.
Remember the details.
Relinquish your fear.
Realize this is not your shame.
Tell it again, insisting it is important enough
bad enough, and
infuriating.
Reach into your chest and grab your heart.
Feel it pumping its red, healthy blood
and smell courage.
Pull your hands out clean.

Stand on a street corner.
Leave your cup at home.
Hold signs reading "1 in 4,"
and pray for change.
Walk down a dark alley.
Breathe out the panic.
Feel the memory in your bones and
remember you have
Survived.

The Ways Through It

The Ways Through It

These are the ways through it:

One.

Imagine your body a tower.

Your blood is mortar, your bones turn brick,

you render yourself

impenetrable.

A fortress of your own creation,

the mote around your feet grows to ocean.

You push the tide outwards with your hands,

you, the sorceress, the magician, the controller of your universe,

you watch it retreat when it touches the shore 

and bring it back to you. 

Not this.

Your body

is not a tower

has never been armor

has never known how to still

to protect this beating heart

has only ever known

to care for her quietly, and these

are the ways through it:

One.

Imagine yourself a shadow.

A trick of light.

A terrestrial ghost for non-believers

neither seen nor touched- 

people think they saw you once. 

A two-dimensional emptiness that takes up

no space,

you spread yourself thin,

take up only the places that are

walked over, you

know all the motions of a person

living a life.

Stop here.

You earthly body of cells and breath,

you mortal energy of skin and blood

you make this being human

an art of love, of beauty,

you three-dimensional being of real,

how you breathe your heart,

your beating heart,

it is living, you are living,

and these are the ways through it:

One.

Find yourself unwrapped-

there are so many hearts left surprised by you.

Let them be amazed by your open

do not deny this world, there is such

creation within you

you blessed, holy being of love,

this is the only way through it:

the breaking, surviving

the moving, surviving

the healing, surviving

unraveling, surviving

the hoping, and ripping, and cutting

surviving,

it is here, it is waiting, it is real, and

this is the way through it:

One.

Imagine yourself growing.

Your branches, your stem, your leaves and petals

may be torn and scattered

till all evidence of you is ruined.

There are so many ways out of this life, but this.

This.

This is the way through it:

One.

Imagine your roots.

Your safe roots.

They are deep.

They are reaching,

embracing, grounding, holding,

and this 

is the way through it:

One.

Imagine your roots.

Your roots will never leave

this sacred ground.

What would it mean to believe this?

In working with children with developmental disabilities, my job is to treat the child's challenging behaviors, including aggression, tantrums, non-compliance, self-injury, and property destruction.  My treatment typically consists of first conducting a functional assessment, which is an assessment method through which I observe the child's behavior in a number of manipulated situations to determine why he engages in the challenging behavior (i.e. to determine what function his behavior serves).  During the functional analysis, I observe the child for a 10-minute period, typically with a caregiver, and I count the frequency of the challenging behaviors.  Treatment, then, stems from this: once I have determined the "reason" a behavior is occurring, then I am able to develop a treatment plan that creates a functional way for the child to get that need or desire met.

Like any good research, I also have a control condition to make sure there isn't something else going on that might cause the child to be engaging in challenging behaviors.  In this condition, the child has access to attention, to preferred items, and demands are not placed.  Basically, the parent just sits and plays with the child for 10 minutes.  Typically, there are no challenging behaviors during this condition: the child chills out and enjoys watching "Bubble Guppies" or "Blue's Clues" or playing with beads or puzzles or their Nintendo DSi. 

A few years ago, I worked with a young man with a significant developmental disability who had very significant challenging behaviors.  As with most of my patients, I began with a functional analysis, and we started with the control condition -- the condition in which parent and child sit and play together.  For this particular child, though, the control condition was a mess.  I sent mom into the session room with the directions to "just sit and play as you normally do.  Do not place demands, just sit and talk to him and watch Bubble Guppies together."

He engaged in challenging behaviors throughout the session...but the issue was clear.  In the 10- minute "play" session, his mother placed 60 demands.  That's 6 demands a minute, every minute, and kid was having none of it.  He tantrumed, he was aggressive, and he was noncompliant with just about every demand that was placed.  After conducting multiple observations in session and at the family's home, it became clear that this was their normal: mom just placed constant demands all day, every day.  Even though it led to aggression.  Even though it increased his tantrum behavior exponentially.  Even though the functional analysis was incredibly clear that he only engaged in tantrum behavior when demands were placed...she continued placing demands.

For months, we talked about why he was being aggressive.  I showed her all of my graphs of data supporting this hypothesis.  We talked about how we had to back off on the demands and then slowly increase his tolerance to them.  We talked about how the number of demands she was placing was unrealistic for ANYONE to follow.  We laughed about how even I would probably throw myself on the floor if someone asked me to do something 6 times a minute.  I used analogies about how even simple demands such as "what color is this?" and "where is your nose" are "work" for him, and that he was working 24/7 without much pay...so of course he was bitter and resentful.  Mom got it, and she was able to explain back to me why she had to back off, and she understood that it wasn't forever...that we had to just back off to gain some compliance and to decrease the rate of problem behavior.  She understood that even though she was placing 6 demands a minute, he wasn't complying, and that it would be better to have one successful demand and no aggression than to have 6 unsuccessful demands and bite marks.  She saw that he complied with me when I placed demands at low-rates.  And she continued to place all of the same demands.

After months of this work with no change, I knew there was something I was missing.  There was a piece of the puzzle I wasn't seeing, no matter how many ways I tried to explain it.  I thought I was asking the right questions: "what is hard about decreasing the number of demands?"  "What makes it difficult to cut back on the number of tasks you ask your son to do?"  "What is most challenging piece of following through with these recommendations?" 

Her answers were always the same: "It's not hard.  It's not challenging.  I'm trying to do it, I see that it works.  I just can't."

Finally, I called her in for a session by herself for us to really hash things out.  After talking for a good 30 minutes and getting the same answers, I finally changed my question.

"What would it mean for you to not place as many demands on your son?" I asked.  Here, mom's eyes filled with tears.

"It would mean I'm not doing everything I can," she said.  "It would mean I don't care about him.  It would mean I'm not setting him up for success."

We talked about this for a long time, until she said, "I know that what you are telling me is right.  I know it is more important to go slowly now so he will listen more in the future.  But I need him to be successful.  I need to teach him everything now."

"Tell me what success would mean for your son," I said.  "When you picture his future, what does success look like?"

"He will have his own business," she said.  "He has to have his own business."  I reflected internally on her non-verbal 13-year-old son, and considered the feasibility of this plan. 

Very gently, I asked, "What would it mean for you if this is not something that happens for him?  What would it mean if he does not have his own business?"

Here, she began crying.  "If he is not a successful businessman," she said, "my parents will disown me.  Having an adult son who cannot have a job will bring such shame on the family, he and I will be disowned."

And in that instant, everything changed. 

Naming the fear for me, naming it for herself, discussing it thoroughly...it enabled her to change her behavior.  After another few months, we were able to end treatment as he was engaging in no challenging behaviors at home or at school.  Mom was able to place a reasonable number of demands at home, and he was able to comply.  Thanks to the simple shift of one question, everything changed.

*****

This question is now one that I use frequently in therapy, and I am rarely disappointed.  It takes us out of the realm of what is happening or not happening, and into the realm of meaning and possibility. 

To the young man who is cutting: "What would it mean for you to find another way of expressing your anger and hurt?"

To the parent who yells that their child does not have autism: "What would it mean for you if autism is an accurate diagnosis?  What would it mean to your child?  What would it mean for your future together?"

To the dad who refuses to stop spanking his 3 year old: "What would it mean to find other methods of discipline?  What would it mean to find other ways of getting your little guy to respect your authority?"

These questions take us so much further.  They often evoke tears, and they take us straight to the heart of the issue. 

*****

I'm so far past exhausted, I can't even see where I passed her.  I'm pretty sure I ran over her somewhere on the highway around Wednesday or so, and I've been running on fumes ever since.  Due to several client cancellations, I was able to come home from work early today and tried to take a nap, but my mind is busy and refuses to shut off -- ever.  I decided to read, and was preoccupied by all of my thoughts about what I should be doing instead: grading papers, writing notes, responding to emails, washing dishes, reading the chapters I'll be teaching in my class this week, ending rape culture and racial inequalities...the list is endless. 

Instead, I laid on the couch with the dog for a bit and made myself focus on being and breathing. 

What would it mean, I asked myself, to just let myself have this time?

I let myself follow this thought further and further down the rabbit hole until I landed on the final question...the one that is hiding behind the walls and resistance:

What would it mean to allow myself to believe that I am worthy of time, and love, and self-care?

Pffffft, I thought, I already believe that.  Come on now...

But do I really?

What would it mean...what would it REALLY mean to believe this...to embody it?

What would it mean for us -- any of us -- to give our souls the time and love they are looking for?  What would it mean for us to admit that we need time to cry, and fall apart, and put ourselves together again?  What would it mean to believe that we don't have to earn this time?  That we have already arrived, are already worthy, are already enough?

What would it mean to accept the fact that our energy is finite, that our body is a resource that can feel depleted, that we need time and care and love in order to survive?  What would it mean to remember, and re-remember, and re-remember that survival is not always something we need to do alone?

What would it mean to remember that it's okay that this is hard?  That all we ever do in this life is practice, and practice, and practice, and hopefully learn to give and receive love?

What would it mean to let ourselves do just that -- to practice, and to give and receive love?

Are you ready?  Can we practice, and give love -- and receive it -- as already-worthy human beings together?

On kindness, big love, and showing up

Remember when I posted about going to General Assembly?  Something I particularly remember was someone talking about how Unitarian Universalists are the people who show up.  Need something done?  We'll be there.  Need a group to gather to protest, or join in solidarity, or celebrate, or bear witness?  We're there.  An inherent part of our faith (if I can say that...part of MY faith for sure) is to strive to truly live our values.  I strive to really live and act and stand behind and rebel against those things I believe our values say we should live and act and stand behind and rebel against.  Not just when it's convenient.  Not just when someone else organizes a project...but to live it, inherently, as part of who I am in my daily life.  I remember one of the many fantastic people who spoke as saying, "We are the people who show up," and I remember thinking to myself, "if I went down in history, or in people's memories, as someone who showed up, I would have lived a meaningful life."

*****
(If you haven't read the last several posts, you may want to catch up first...start here). 

As a woman, and particularly as a woman who has been sexually assaulted, safety is never a "given."  When your experience has been denied, and your requests for protection have been repeatedly shot down, you learn that safety is a privilege and not a right.  What I learned four years ago was not to trust myself, my instincts, or my body.  I learned over and over again that security can and will be denied.  And I learned that, if I tried to assert myself and fight for my right to safety, I would only ever be hurt.  

However, I also learned to stand in that incredibly hurt and vulnerable place.  I learned to fight back.  I learned how to find my voice -- and I did, over, and over, and over again.

Perhaps the biggest thing I learned, though, was that I was completely alone.  No one wants to stand with the person who has been ostracized.  Who would want to put themselves in that incredibly vulnerable place?  Very quickly, I became good at not asking.  Very quickly, I became good at standing alone.  

I learned that people don't show up.  Even when they say they will.  Even when you ask them.  They don't show up. 

*****

Trust is something I still, clearly, struggle with.  Believing I am deserving of safety and security is something I have to work to truly believe.  The incident of the Creepy Union Rep and the Negligent Security went about like I expected.  Even to approach the issue was hard.  It took having a community behind me to even begin approach it.  When Security told me "no, we can't meet your requests," I was ready to let it go.  I already knew the end of the story, I thought.  My bones are still tired from the last ending I tried, and tried, and tried to re-write.  

But there were differences.  Friends sent messages to follow-up.  They asked in person.  They gave hugs, and they wanted to make sure I knew -- like really knew -- that I SHOULD be helped.  Not just that I "deserve" it (as if I had somehow earned it), but that safety is just something that I SHOULD have, and that negligence or denial of my requests was decidedly not acceptable. 

It was...weird.  It was kind of...uncomfortable, almost.  People, it seemed, were behind me.  Like really behind me.  Not just a couple miles out.  Not just shouting distance.  They were standing with me, and were close enough to touch.

*****

Tuesday morning, I was not a happy person.  I dreaded the thought of calling security: people don't show up, remember?  Even when they're supposed to.  Even when they're right there.  Even when they should.  I had promised myself that I would call them, and I was going to spend the day psyching myself up to do just that.  I got up early and finished some paperwork at home, walked the dog, cleaned up a bit, and left for work around 8:15.  I was enjoying my drive into the city and practicing my songs for choir when somewhere on I-95, in the middle of Handel's "For the Glory of the Lord" my phone binged.  Facebook message.  I glanced down at the message -- from a church friend.  Wonder what that's about, I said in the middle of one of the long strings of running notes I have yet to master.  I looked back at the road, then back down at the message to read the beginning of the message that popped up on the phone's lock screen.  "A couple of us have been talking and we'd like to come..."  

...and I knew -- or thought I knew -- what it was going to say.  My eyes instantly filled with tears, and I did the only thing I could do in that moment.  I took a deep breath to slow down my thoughts and my heart rate.  I looked back up at the traffic.  I turned up Handel.  And I told myself that I was wrong.  That's ridiculous.  There's no way.  Absolutely no way.  Don't be stupid.  You're SO wrong.

When I finally made it into the city, and to my office, I closed the door.  I took a breath.  I opened the message.  And I cried.

She wasn't offering vague promises of violence (which primarily appear in the "hey, I'll come beat up that dude for you if you call me" variety).  She wasn't just saying, "call me anytime" as a promise of future support for when I might REALLY need it.  

She was saying, "I want to be there.  We want to be there.  Please tell me where to go so we can be there for you."  She was offering to stand with me, because my safety mattered.  It mattered to her.  It mattered enough that she was willing to get others in on it.  It mattered enough that others were willing to be in on it.  It mattered enough that she was willing to drive to walk me to my car.  My safety...the safety that didn't matter to Security now.  The safety that didn't matter to the dean, or my advisor, or to my colleagues or my cohort four years ago.  My safety mattered enough that she wanted to stand with me.  She was asking if they could show up.

And I told her no, and I told her she doesn't have to, and I told her I was a snotty mess in my office, and I told her thank you, and thank you, and thank you.

And she said "pfffft."  They were going to show up anyway.

Somewhere between 9:30am and 6:30pm, I had convinced myself: she said they would show up...but they wouldn't.  Really.  Something would happen...they weren't really going to actually show up.  I felt guilty: what if I've just been making a big deal out of nothing?  What if they drive all the way out here, look around, and say, "oh this?  Ha!  You're fine."  What if they told me they were coming...and then they didn't?  What then?

So sitting in the stand-still traffic on 695 (shhh...don't tell), I sent a message giving them an out: "you don't REALLY have to show up.  I feel bad making you drive out here...it's silly."

And she said "pffffft."  And she said that they DIDN'T have to do it, but that they wanted to. 

And they showed up anyway.

I'm not kidding.  They literally showed up anyway, at 9:30 at night, like it was just something people do.  They walked with me to my car, and absolutely nothing happened.  The Creepy Union Rep did not show up.  No one was hiding in the bushes.  No one followed us.  ...but they didn't think I was crazy.  They agreed that it was dark.  That there was no security presence.  That it was unpopulated.  That there were lots of dark recesses for people to hide if they wanted.  That my requests should have been able to have been met.  My body was not wrong.  She was not mixed up, or tricking me, or lying.  And, for once, I didn't feel quite so broken.

There is so much power in standing with a person.  There is so much power in showing up.

*****

My heart does not even know how to process and understand the amount of love that has been shown in these actions.  Even now, after all this writing, words are failing me as I try to convey the enormity of this experience.  The only thing I can say is that, for the past 4 years, as hard as I tried to believe that love is always bigger than anything else, I couldn't.  I still believed that there could never be an act of love or kindness that would be as large as the hurt I had experienced. 

I know now that I was wrong.  There is love, and kindness, and there are acts of solidarity that can warm even the most desolate areas of our soul.  I don't believe in a God...but when I think about the magnitude of this kindness and love, god is the only word I can find that is big enough to fit.   

The achingly honest truth: What do we do when we're tired?

Yeah.  Still writing about it.  (If you don't know what "it" is, make sure to read part one...and if you're curious, part 2 and part 3).  As I start to prepare for Tuesday, and for going back to the classroom, and deciding what I will and won't say to my students...and deciding what I will and won't do to make myself feel safe...and deciding how I will and will not (or, more likely, can and cannot) mentally prepare myself for the challenge I know this will present for me, and my body, and my soul...I'm overwhelmed.  And I'm really freaking tired.

I'm going to be painfully honest here.  Painful for me, because I don't want to write this, because...well...it kinda makes me look bad.  But I think honesty is important, because, I've heard, that my honesty sometimes illuminates truths for others, and that's something I can do, right?  I can write truth, even when I'm tired.

So here's the achingly honest, complicated truth: I wish I had not entered into this battle.  I wish I had been able to just chalk creepy-union-rep-dude up to just having poor social skills, and that I had never written about it, or talked about it, or emailed anyone about it.  I wish that every trace of that experience had never seen the light of day outside of that classroom. 

And here's the other part of that achingly honest, complicated truth: wishing that makes me feel like a bad person.  It makes me feel weak.  It makes me feel like a bad feminist.  It makes me feel like a fraud, and it makes me feel guilty.  How can I be this person who TEACHES about privilege and oppression and power and being an ally...and also want to sweep my own experiences under the rug and pretend they never happened, thus condoning and perpetuating the status quo?  How can I be a person who strives to be active in the world of social justice...and also actively silence myself and my experiences because of the very social constructs I want so badly to fight against?

The answer, of course, is startlingly simple: because I'm human.  Because even when -- perhaps especially when -- you are "awake" to these experiences, and can name what is wrong in them, and pick apart your reactions and identify them as being mediated by societal influences you want to fight...even then, you're still part of that sociocultural/political web of oppression.  Just because I can name these things, or write some semi-cogent thoughts about them, it doesn't mean I'm exempt.  It's easy to advocate for issues you do not personally live. 

I think, though, about how things never happen in a vacuum.  I think about how the response I received may be indicative of underlying issues throughout the organization that others are fighting (or maybe should be fighting, but are not).  I think about how I, as a teacher and not an undergraduate, may have a power and privilege and voice that would not be afforded to someone else fighting a similar concern.  I think about how I have been through a similar struggle before, and it may have given me knowledge and experience (and therefore power) that even other teachers may not have. 

Here's the final piece of that raw and throbbing truth: even though I don't want to, even though I know better, and even though I see entirely clearly what I am doing, I doubt my experience and the legitimacy of my concerns.  "Oh Autodidact," I say to myself, "you're making a big deal out of nothing.  You're just reacting this way because of things that happened in the past."   Or "you're just reacting this way because you're anxious."  Or even, I'm embarrassed to admit "you're just reacting this way because you're emotional and your hormones are out of whack."  (It's called internalized oppression, folks.  That shit's real).

And I guess that's the thing: I can academicize (is that a word?) the hell out of the thing.  I can talk theory, and rhetoric, and spew big words about these issues, and it doesn't change a bit of it.  It does not change my experience, or my reactions, or the way people respond to me.  When it comes down to it, I'm just as much of a fish in the sociocultural pond as the next person, and we're all struggling to see the water we're swimming in.  Even when you think you're seeing the water, you're not.  And even when you think you've accepted or rejected various components of the water, you haven't, really, because you're steeped in the stuff.  You're still breathing it, and marinating in it, and being subconsciously indoctrinated by it, even as you name it and reject it.  There's not a damn thing you can do about it, except continue to chip away at it and acknowledge that you're just another fish struggling to see the water we swim in.

That makes it all feel helpless, you know?  It makes me tired.  It makes me feel like it's not worth the fight.  I've been here before, in other ways.  I've lost here before.  This is perhaps both my greatest strength, and the thing that renders me immobile.

So my question, then, is this: how do we do this, even when we're tired?  How do we, any of us, continue our personal fights for justice and equality and safety as we continue to drink from the dirtied water and breathe the fumes of privilege, marginalization, and oppression?  How do we have the energy to fight, and to breathe, and to keep walking forward, knowing we walk into an air that is just as dirtied, and knowing that our streams are still polluted?  How do we have the strength to keep believing in the war when we lose battle after battle, and when we must come home and sit with those raw and painful truths? 

I'm not stupid...I know the answer is supposed to be "self-care."  It's supposed to be "supportive friends" and "breathing" or "yoga" or "smashing things like the Incredible Hulk" or whatever it is you do to make you able to re-engage.  But this...this is different, somehow.  This isn't just a "tired of people being assholes" struggle.  It's not just "sick of the jerks and their jerky-jerk ways."  This is a bone-tired sort of tired.  A world-weary sort of tired.

Other than writing...what do we do when we're tired? 

Where do we turn for truth?

I'm going to keep writing about this, guys.  I hate that I'm going to keep writing about it...and I also have to keep writing about it.  For me.  For women.  For all of us seeking to understand our experiences, I have to write this.

(For you who have no clue what I'm talking about, read part 1 and part 2 to catch up.  Or read on.  It'll peak your curiosity enough to want some context, I'm sure).  

And you know, I notice something I'm not proud of.  I worked really hard over the past several months to NOT undermine myself.  To stop apologizing.  To stop selling myself short.  I had gotten good at it.  Not great, but at the very least I noticed the tendency to be pulled in that direction, and I could sometimes stop myself.  We had a fantastic conversation about this in my class, actually.  We listened to Lily Myers' poem, "Shrinking Women," in which she says, "I asked 3 questions in Genetics class the other day, and all of them started with 'sorry.'"  I gently called out a young woman in my class who starts every comment or answer with, "I'm sure this is probably wrong," or "I don't think this is right, but..."  We had an amazing conversation about it.

But do you know what I REALLY wanted my first sentence to be?  Do you know what I wrote first?  "I'm sorry that I'm still writing about this."  It's been two whole days.  I mean seriously.  Who am I to talk about this for two whole days?

Ridiculous.

I fell back into that pattern, and I see it.  In talking to a good friend online, he said about my last blog post, "it makes me angry on your behalf."

"Thank you," I said.  "And I'm sorry." 

"Sorry for what?" he asked.  And honestly...I had to think about it.  The "sorry" just popped out automatically.  Sorry I made him feel angry on my behalf?  Yes...that's actually the answer.  And it's also ridiculous. 

I can change this pattern, and I will, but I think it's interesting and noteworthy, right?  Make me feel unsafe, make me feel unable to advocate for myself...and I fall back into those patterns of apologizing, of undermining, of not wanting to take up space.  Feeling unworthy is like sand: that shit gets everywhere, and it's impossible to get rid of it.  It just keeps coming back.  Even when you think it's gone, you find a bit in your suitcase or in your shoes.  How would the world be different -- how would women be different -- if we were able to always (or almost always) feel as though we and our bodies and our safety mattered?

I also want to make it clear that it takes serious bravery to write this stuff.  This isn't just stream-of-consciousness, make me feel better type of writing.  I am grateful, always grateful, that I am a writer and that I have this ability to think and reach answers through my words.  But this is work, and it does require a unique level of bravery.  It's not easy.  It's just not.

Tonight, I'm thinking about what I said about intuition.  I'm thinking about the ways our bodies communicate with us, and the way I try to listen to my body.  I'm not always good at it, but I try.  She tells me what I need.  She alerts me when there is danger.  She has in-born mechanisms that kick-in without me giving them the conscious okay that assist in keeping me safe.  It's pretty amazing when you think about it.

We tell ourselves and our friends all the time: listen to your body.  Trust yourself.  Figure out what it is that YOU need and do it.  You deserve to feel safe.  You deserve to take care of your body.  You deserve to do what you need to feel secure. 

And that's true, right?  Of course it is. 

 But here's what we don't think about: sometimes our bodies get mixed up.  I was going to say that they lie, but I don't believe that's true.  A young man I work with tells me that he doesn't get the answers on his homework WRONG, per se...he just sometimes gets mixed up.  And I think that's right.  I think that's what's happening here.  My body isn't wrong.  It isn't lying.  It's just a little mixed up sometimes, and it's hard to tell what will actually be the right choice. 

Earlier tonight, in the middle of choir practice, my body freaked out momentarily for no good reason other than the fact that I realized that I would be leaving at 9:00 and it would be dark and I would have to walk across the dark parking lot to my car.  For a moment, in the middle of fumbling my way through page 48 of Handel's Messiah, my body convinced me that something bad would happen - that I would be unsafe - in the parking lot of my church. 

And I'm not saying that could NEVER happen.  I'm just saying that I could be 100% certain that I would be leaving the building with 2, or 5, or 10, or 20 people who care about me and my wellbeing, and while no place is ever 100% safe...this particular scenario ranks pretty high up there.

Like I said, my body...she gets mixed up sometimes.

It gets complicated very quickly.  I know, for example, that calling Security for an escort to my car is the right choice.  But honestly, every part of my body HATES this idea.  Hates it.  Like, panics when I think about it.  My breathing gets tight tight tight, I feel my shoulders clench, and something in the pit of my stomach forms an impenetrable rock.  When I make myself think through calling them, tears sting my eyes, and I want to curl up under my covers forever.  This is truth.

How, then, do we know when to listen to our bodies?  How do we trust when it is making the right decision?  How do I know -- like really know -- what is right, and safe, and trustworthy, when my body is all mixed up and can no longer tell the difference?  What then?

I've been thinking about a workshop I went to on welcoming people with disabilities.  In it, it was said that accommodations should be present and available, at the ready, such that people do not even need to ask.  This is how we create a welcoming and inclusive community, they said.  This is how we send the message you matter, and you are welcome here.  And it makes sense, right?  If the things a person might need are available (after a need has become clear), why make a person have to ask, time and time again?  We are trained from the time we are little that if we ask for something repetitiously, we are kinda a pain in the butt.  Personally, I'm not a fan of being a pain in the butt.

This is a piece of my issue with this, I guess.  I just feel like...if my safety and security mattered, they would have a security presence in the building.  If my safety and security mattered, they would have people there, whose job it is to walk people out.  If it mattered, I wouldn't have to call them away from their desks all the way on the other side of campus.  Instead, I need to call them every damn week and have them come out...like something could happen in the interim that would make me safe.  (Am I going to grow 10 inches, a beard, and a certain piece of genitalia in the next few weeks?  I think not).  Barring that, I need to feel like what I need in order to have my most basic safety and security needs met is an accommodation.  Something that people need to go out of their way to provide.  And I just don't like making people go out of their way. 

In my head, I keep asking myself, "what do you even want, Autodidact?  What is it that you want?"  I wonder if I'm expecting too much.  I wonder if I'm asking for too much.  I convince myself that this is just a "me" thing, and that it doesn't really matter.  Does it matter?  Does it matter if one person feels unsafe?  Two people?  Five?  When is there a critical mass of people such that change should be made?  When is it enough such that we will be heard?

I keep thinking about the words of the Director of Security in an email he sent.  "As uncomfortable as it may have been," he wrote, "please know that they are welcome here to pursue their union activity." 

What privilege that statement conveys, no?  "Uncomfortable," he says...when the words in my email were "unsafe" and "threatened."  "They are welcome here," he says...which makes me - the person employed by this institution - wonder: am I also welcome here?  He says this as if he knows that, because there is legitimate union activity that has been authorized, he knows that this person (this person without obvious credentials, I may add), would not have been a threat.  What a privilege it is to be able to believe that people are who they say they are and are who they seem, simply because they say it.  What a privilege to believe that being an authorized union representative and being a guy-who-could-hurt-a-woman must be mutually exclusive.   

But then we -- we with the confused bodies --how do we know what is right anymore?  How do we know what is safe?  We whose experiences have been denied, or downplayed, or whose direct requests for change have been shot-down, how do we know our requests are valid?  How do we remember that we are worth the struggle? How do we come to believe again in our own body's ability to tell us what is true?

And in the absence of our body's voice...where do we turn for truth?