Sometimes I'm a Bad Friend

I’ve haven’t been treating my friends very well lately. Which is really, really unlike me. Because I care. I hate scaring people. I hate inconveniencing people. I strive to be the kind of person who is ready to be there for you whenever the need arises.

Because I didn’t have that growing up.

I didn’t have a person who stood in my corner when I was attacked. I didn’t have a people react well to being bothered when they were busy. I didn’t have a person who called out bad behavior. I didn’t have a person who protected me from the scariest person in the world.

I became that person, because I knew no one else was going to stand up for my siblings or my mother. I had to be the brave one. The strong one. The one who fought back. I claimed the role of Momma Bear, Mother Hen, the Protector, because nobody else would take on the mantle.  I never wanted anyone to ever feel the way I did.

The flip side of being the protective one, is that you gather a lot of people who rely on you. You gather people who look to you for comfort, love, advice, inspiration, etc. But they aren’t the kind of people whose first instinct is to catch you as you fall. They expect you to continue to stay strong no matter what.

So, when I say I haven’t been a very good friend lately- I should clarify. To me, my “bad” behavior looks like ignoring text messages, ending phone calls instead of answering, avoiding my friends.

Why am I doing that?

The short answer is “I’m tired.”

The full answer is a little bit more nuanced.

I have depression. Some days are really, really bad. Bad in this context means I’m struggling.

Struggling with feeling emotionally drained- like those times you have when you’ve been dealing with conflict with loved ones or when one bad thing after another keeps happening- and finding the “happy” is not the first thing on your mind. My struggles include sensitivity to noises, like screaming, crying, loud or repetitive sounds- they make me clench my teeth and flinch. Motivation is low- because things don’t hold much interest, or their demand of my attention feels draining.

So I did what I normally do on a particularly bad day- I reached out the best way I can when I feel drained- by sharing a Facebook post letting people know I’m not okay.

But I always have impeccable timing- because on my really bad days, everyone else is having an incredibly busy or rough day too. Normally I just give up on the fact that anyone will be able to help me at that moment and just lay on my bed and distract myself until hubby gets home.

However recently, with the amount of reoccurring “bad day, I let people know, nobody comes to help” instances, it’s beginning to feel like I’m not worth it. People read my “I’m having a bad day” and think I just woke up on the side of the bed. When my reality is my brain is telling me to jump in front of a bus, my kids are being typical destructive screaming toddlers, and I can’t stop crying.

On those days I feel like the worst parent in the world because I yell, because I want my noise to be heard. On those days I feel like a waste of space. The epitome of human garbage. My attempts of reaching out for someone, anyone to just come and sit in my house while I cry on their shoulder, or shower, or just have a quiet house for fifteen minutes and is met with nothing but “I’m sorry” and “love you” makes me want to scream.

I scroll on the internet, waiting to just feel numb so I can attempt to tune out the “I’m garbage” echoes in my head. And when friends see my post and text or call, all asking me to do something- let them know if there’s anything they can do, do I want to go out, do I need anything- I was angry.

Angry that I had to continue to explain how I felt. Angry that my call for help was interpreted as a “I’m being a good friend if I ask you how you’re doing ” instead of the one thing I actually needed.

All that anger brought up other memories, memories of me reaching out the best way I knew how – asking to live with friends because I couldn’t stand living at home anymore and being told no. Trying to explain how bad things were and being brushed off with, "everyone get’s mad sometimes." There were more times than I can remember- and no one believed me, or were too busy to do anything.

I relied on isolation then, to protect myself. And I have reverted back to isolation now to cope with my feelings of rejection and dismissal. I feel angry even now, even though the recent occurrence was a week ago. Because it’s easier to be angry and lash out, then it is to sit in isolation and feel truly, and undeniably alone.

Rationally, I know I’m not being fair to the people who have worried about me for days. I know it’s not fair to judge them for their lives being busy, having obligations, or having their own bad days.

Emotionally I wish they never made the promise “call me if you need anything” because it feels like a lie. A lie that they tell to feel good about themselves, but one they never intend to act upon. Which is unfair, because friends do come help, family does reach out and watch the kids. I don’t expect people to revolve around my life, nor would I want them to. I just wish that people understood the depth and true severity of the situations when I make my “It’s a bad day” posts. Because on days like that, I don’t need your words of concern or affirmation. I need a hug. I need a babysitter. I need someone else to actually be the strong one while I lose it.

I’m sure some of my good friends reading this are like, you told us you wanted us to check in, and now you don’t? Why do you keep changing what you need?

Because I’m human. Because on bad days, words of affirmation feel like lies. They don’t sink in. “I love you!” from far away is as good as “I ate a sandwich”. It’s just words. There’s no, “I love you enough to drive over. I love you enough to watch your kids. I love you enough to hold you while you cry. I love you enough to listen. “ That’s the difference. And I’m going to admit that when it’s a really bad day, like last week, I still might not respond well. I’ll still isolate myself, I still won’t believe anything you say, I will still be emotionally distant. Because I’m struggling, and the words “I’m garbage”, “Why am I not good enough?” will be the soundtrack in my brain. And all that any of us can do is wait it out.

I guess the thing I hope you take away from me sharing these occurrences is to check in before your friends post they’re having a bad day. If they are having a bad day, and you are able to- take them food, a good movie or game, give them a hug, clean their house, put them in the shower - anything to let them know that you care both in words and in deed.

The other thing that I think is incredibly important to understand about people with mental health issues is explaining everything that’s going on in their head can be complicated, extremely frustrating to condense, or just plain exhausting. It really can be a struggle to have to tell people over and over and over again why you feel sad- when maybe the only reason is the chemical imbalance and the medication isn’t adapting. You are not entitled to the inner working’s of their mind. It’s not wrong to ask them what’s wrong. Just let them know that they don’t have to talk about it or explain everything. Let them know that you are there to be supportive presence, and not another drain upon their energy.

I really do have good friends, whom I love and I know love me. Right now I'm working on forgiving the ones in the past and the ones in the present for not saving me when I wanted to be saved.

Adventures with a New Therapist

I went to see a new therapist today. It was not a good therapy day. Not because of the paperwork, that’s just a necessary evil. No. Today was difficult because I had to answer questions that even I don’t ask myself anymore.

Trying to explain to a complete stranger why you answered “I feel the dread of impending doom” on a questionnaire is no easy feat. Because trying to take your thoughts and translate them into comprehensible English is hard enough. Add crying to the mix just makes it that much more difficult.

To answer the question- things just…

Bad things happen to everyone. But it often feels like the universe likes to be particularly cruel with its distribution of “sucky-ness” when it comes to me and my family. It’s hard to be excited for the future when you know that getting your hopes up for good things is just asking for heartbreak. Example, getting kicked out of your house not long after Christmas. Finding out your parent has a disease and watching them being hooked up to a machine daily in order to live. Watching another parent go through an already sucky pregnancy and then miscarrying.  Sibling getting injured right after a parent loses a job.

And from the stories from one parent’s childhood- let me just say, that they’ve been dealt a whole load of suck their entire life, and it just only goes down hill from there.

So I find it extremely hard to find things to be excited about in the “future”. If I want to function like a slightly normal person, I don’t allow myself to think that far ahead. Because the future only holds chaos, pain, and day to day suck fests.

I still cling to the immature belief that good things should happen to good people and life proves me wrong every step of the way. I just want things to lighten up. I want the world to just freeze and be okay for five freaking minutes. But life doesn’t work like that.

Everyone has tragedies, crises, failures, and letdowns. Everyone also has good things happen to.

But back to therapy.

I know people mean well when they bring up the good things. Like my little family. But again, this stranger doesn’t know me yet. They don’t know that I originally sought out therapy because I believed that my son “stole the sun”. I believed that my pregnancy with him screwed me up. On the really bad days sometimes I still believe that. But I’m seeking therapy now to try and heal from my miserable, awful childhood.

It was hard answering question after question about why I answered the way I did, only to start crying all over again and have to take five minutes just to be able to speak. Again, crying isn’t weakness- I’m just annoyed because it’s a barrier to explaining my thoughts.

After our session, I wanted to call up my previous therapist. I wanted therapy for going to therapy. Haha.

I feel raw. I feel drained. I feel all the emotions of digging up the past- anger, pain, vulnerable, protective. I am again emotionally paralyzed and I can’t do anything remotely productive when it comes to work. My hands and my brain aren’t responding. Because all I want to do is curl up in my bed and listen to lives other than my own- be they on the internet or in an audiobook until I don’t feel anymore. 

A Difficult Day

Sometimes things dont get done. The pile of laundry in the corner of my bedroom is as tall as me, my kitchen hasn't been mopped in months, and I cant even see the floor of my children's bedroom.

I think the last time I truly deep cleaned one room was literally December. It's now May. There are dirty dishes that have sat by my sink for literal months, always getting glanced over for more pressing dishes, like sippy cups and spoons.

Sometimes I feel insane- seeing things where others dont, making mountains out of molehills. I wonder if anyone else feels the weight of the chaos pressing in on them, trying to swallow them into the black void that is MESS.

I reach to make a real dinner from scratch, not from a box, and things are squishy that shouldn't be.

The children are screaming. And when there's silence I turn around to see more mess- fabric pieces thrown everywhere like confetti. But I cant rush to put it away because I have chicken on high heat, and it's almost done. One minute is the difference between cooked and burnt.

They're hitting eachother. Screaming at eachother. Nothing I'm doing is helping. I know that my children won't even eat what I made. Why am I even doing this to myself?

They brought toys into the kitchen. Every step must be thought out carefully if I don't want to stick to the floor. Or worse, slip and pour everything on top of myself.

There's some kind of loud rattling coming from outside, like someone decided to make themselves a nuts and bolts smoothie. I can't get the clamor of screaming kids, the kitchen timer, and this unknown noise from pressing in.

It's a different noisy now. After husband finally woke up from his nap. After fleeing the house. The birds are singing. There's the swooshing of cars as they drive past. But my mind can only help me type as my heart continues to pound. My teeth ache, I forgot I've been clenching my jaw.

I wonder how other mothers do it. If they too shove their children in their bedroom and pray that they just come out alive in a half hour. If they contemplate just letting their children wander outside by themselves and become some other poor soul's problem.

A familiar yet hated cage, this stay at home mom situation. I feel guilty for sitting by myself and working alone for a few hours everyday. I feel guilty for wanting to leave. To plan time outside of the house, because it becomes harder and harder to find available and willing babysitters.

I crave freedom. I crave being outside, but I hate leaving my home. Because people are scary. They will see me and know that I'm a terrible mother. They will see my children and hate them because they aren't clean enough, nice enough, smart enough. They will hate me and wish that I didnt exist, they will see me and my spawnlings as a burden. And all the effort and work I do is for nothing.

Today is a hard day, harder when my spouse is already tired, already done with the few hours he spent with the kids. And it's my turn again to pull the chaos into some kind of familiar order.

It's exhausting, this life of work never being done. And it won't ever be enough. Hindsight will plague me with would's and should's. Because experience hasn't proved to me otherwise.

This isn't the worst day ever. It's not even a bad day compared to most. Despite that, here I am typing my thoughts in a cemetery not wanting to go home.

Usually I'm good with tying in some kind of lesson I want people to learn. Perhaps today is that the ordinary can be unbearable. 

My Thoughts on Abortion

I am but one voice among the many. Since it's not my state that passed the abortion law, my opinion shouldn't hold that much weight.

But I have this feeling, that somebody out there is wondering where I sit with all this. Maybe it's a friend, maybe it's family, or former coworkers. I don't know who needs to hear me of all people but I'll state my case anyway.

I grew up like many other Christian people did, believing abortion was evil. I even said something along those lines to a girl when I was 12. She had told me that her mother had one, long before she was born. I don't remember her exact response, but I do remember the hurt in her eyes and the lesson I learned. Which was that her mother was human, and it wasn't my place to judge this girl's mother, let alone call her evil.

When I got home that day, I told my mother about the experience. And you know what she told me?

 Abortion is between you and God.

Sometimes things happen to a woman that are scary, and terrible, like rape. God wouldn't force her to live through that experience. It's not our place to judge her for her decision. Because in the end, it's between her and her creator.

I have thought long and hard about that conversation over the years.

Now, I have gone into detail about the unpleasant experiences I had growing up in a different post. If you want a clearer picture you can read my Unpacking Baggage post. Here, I will simply say that I often wondered why my parents had so many kids. Why my dad kept me, if he hated me and my siblings so much. I don't wish my childhood on anyone. I often wondered why I was even born if he obviously didn't want me.

I am well aware that there are so many kids out there living in abusive homes, being neglected, bouncing from foster home to foster home, and living in orphanages, or subject to slave trafficking. The adults of this world are not kind to children. Sometimes children are treated as trophies- beautiful in public but never treated with love or affection at home. And worse, the women subject to terrible circumstances, and then being handed the responsibility of taking care of themselves while pregnant. My heart mourns along with these mothers and children in their current state.

My opinion? I believe in God. I practice my religion. I believe that abortion should only be practiced in cases of threat to a mother's health, or in cases of rape and incest. And I believe that *I* should follow that belief.

Others? They didn't have my upbringing. Those young teen moms, the mothers with cancer, the women dealing with addiction and mental illness. And the women who wan't an abortion because they can't take care of a child, or another one. Women who suffer from the fear of being pregnant. Pregnancy is awful. I know. I've been through it twice and for me it is literal Hell. I wouldn't wish that Hell on anyone that wasn't fully willilng to undergo it, keeping the baby or no.

That is why, I personally, fully support a woman's choice and access to abortion. I'm not being forced to get an abortion and neither is anyone else. I believe that
women need to have a safe place to go, without resorting to deadlier methods to get rid of a child they clearly do not want.

Because I am a firm believer that children shouldn't grow up believing that they are the reason for their parent's suffering. They shouldn't grow up questioning why they even exist. They shouldn't be praying to a God they have a hard time believing in why they were born. Or worse, praying to God to let them die, because they weren't wanted in the first place.

I dont feel like adoption is a part of this argument. Because for me, adoption isn't just putting a child into a system of care. It's adults picking and choosing a child. Children don't get to pick their parents, whether they are adopted or not.

I do have further feelings on the subject of adoption, but they are not needed for this post.

I don't need to argue about the NY law, because it's not my state. My opinion is nothing to those lawmakers or citizens.

I don't need to argue with you, my reader, either. Because like my mother so eloquently said, "it's between you and God." You don't have to agree with me. I understand your point of view, whether you call every abortion murder or not.

I just want the women who have contemplated, or undergone an abortion, to know that I love them. Your reasons are your own. Your fears, dreams, hopes, and struggles are your own. I will stand with you while others spread their hate and scorn. Because I too have been there.

I sat there staring at a positive pregnancy test two weeks after getting out of the hospital for suicidal ideation, wondering if my meds and therapy were going to be enough to keep me and my little family safe from myself. I did survive pregnancy a second time, but I had an amazing support system.

You might not have a support system. I understand why you wouldn't, couldn't, keep a baby.

Again. "It's between you and God." I am here to simply love you.

Daily Fears

I am afraid of a lot of things.

I am terrified of heights, because I am terrified that whatever I'm standing on will collapse underneath me and I'll fall to my death.

I am afraid of not having a clear walkway to my bedroom, because I am terrified of slipping and falling in the dark.

I am afraid of calling people on the phone, because I am afraid that everything that I say won't make sense and I will have to repeat myself. I am afraid my inability to communicate will make the person on the other end of the line more frustrated until I get yelled at over the phone.

I am afraid of telling strangers I need help, because I am afraid they will see me as incompetent, and thus untrustworthy.

I am afraid that people review everything I said to them over and over, and will hate me for my uninformed opinions and ideas.

I am afraid to walk into unfamiliar places by myself. I am afraid I will get lost and look like an idiot.

I am afraid of stating my opinion to people smarter than me, especially professors. Because there is nothing worse than seeing someone you admire and respect, lose their respect for you.

I am afraid to tell people everytime I have a bad day, because I'm afraid that they will complain that I had a bad day recently. That there's a rule out there that states how many bad days you can have in a row before you have to have a good day.

I am afraid of being anything other than put together around strangers, because I'm terrified that they will see me for the failure that I am. That they will purposefully point out my flaws and turn more people to hate me.

I am afraid that I am replaceable. That anybody else could take my place and do a much better job. That my children and husband would be happier without me. That my friends would be happier with someone else that didnt hide or was so afraid. That nobody around me would miss me.

I am afraid that my mental illness is permanent. That I will have to fight just to get out of bed. Everyday. For the rest of my life.

My biggest fear is that the lies my brain tell me- that I dont matter, that no one will miss me, that people only put up with me out of pity- are all true.

Unpacking the Past- Case 1

Sometimes the past haunts you more than you expect it to. Part of me wishes that somehow, magically when I turned 18 everything that made childhood hurt would be wiped clean and I could forget all the hurt, and words, and the messy negative feelings of my adolescence. But as we all know, we don’t get an emotional memory wipe when we become legal adults. We have to carry around our emotional and psychological baggage just like everyone else and unpack it and sort through it if we ever want to take care of it.

So today I am taking that step of unpacking my baggage. There are going to probably be several posts that deal with me processing my past, all in an attempt for me to heal. This is me showing my metaphorical injuries that have been festering and, currently, infecting my current day to day life. And I refuse to let the infection continue to spread. So it’s time to metaphorically cut out the bad tissue, let myself be vulnerable and exposed, and let my tribe of friends and family support me while I heal. 

So today's surgery is delving into some things that I have kept hidden for years. 

I was verbally abused all growing up. 

I’m not talking about the occasional yelling by a parent who has lost all patience.

I’m talking about being called a piece of crap and trash for every wrong doing. I’m talking about being shouted at until I cried because I broke a toy or spilled something. I’m talking about hour long lectures about how I was a terrible child because I didn’t stop my siblings from hitting each other, or not cleaning up their toys, or if they ruined a nice thing.

I’m talking about feeling like you weren’t allowed to eat, because if you ate too much bread, or used up the last of the peanut butter, or went through the packages of ramen "too fast", then you got a lecture about how expensive food was. If you opened another package of something when another bag was already open, then you could expect a yelling match and being sent to your room for the rest of the day, with my dad possibly hiding it later. If you touched one of his favorite foods, or something he planned on using for a meal a week down the road, another lecture. If I was cooking and I wasn’t doing it exactly how he did it, I would get shoved aside and told exactly how I did everything wrong.

Nobody could do anything right, in my house. And for almost half my life, I believed that I deserved it. The yelling, the threats to drop kick us, slap us silly, lock us in our rooms for weeks, the complaining about how we never listened or did anything right, that as soon as we were 18 he’d kick us to the curb… I believed that my siblings and I were the most unruly children to ever grace God’s green earth. I honestly thought that we must have been terrible burdens not only to my parents, but to everyone around us, if we needed to be yelled at and threatened so much.

I was responsible for my siblings… that philosophy was drilled into me so much that it is now an essential part of my character- I am responsible for everyone around me. But most importantly, I was their protector from my dad. When I finally realized that this behavior was not just awful but abnormal- normal dads don’t make their children cry for opening a bag of cheese, I started to talk back. Yes I was a moody teenager. And oh boy did I have a beef with my dad. So I called him out on it. Often. I asked him hard questions… like “if we’re so awful, why did you have six of us?” and “why do you live with us if you hate us so much?”

Of course, a 13, 15, 17 year old didn’t deserve an answer. I was a moody, disrespectful teenager. Who was I to question his authority? And I would often be told after an argument like that… that I was just like my mom. And no, I never took that as a compliment. Not when he complained about my mother to my aunts and uncles for getting distracted by reading. Not when he condemned my mother for being a terrible mom because she played video games – the same video games he played right along side her. Not when he belittled her in front of me and my siblings. Telling me that I was like my mother only drove in the mentality that I was an annoying burden in his life.

I would like to say that I treated my siblings with kindness and love, and sometimes I did. But often I was just as angry and yelled at them too- because in my mind I was far less scary and mean than my dad. That really was the scariest thing; saying “Do I need to go get dad?” because getting dad meant a shouting match that would make you cry, a prison sentence in your room, and a possible physical punishment as well- usually spanking.

But you know what the hardest part about the abuse was? The fact that my dad could be so kind to complete strangers. The fact that he could be charming, and funny, and sweet to everyone but us- his own flesh and blood- made me feel like I WAS the complete garbage I had been called all my life. I can recall a good friend of mine and a coworker of my dad that said: “He must be so fun to be around at home.”

Boy did I want to correct her and tell her everything… but I couldn’t. Why make people think less of my dad when he hadn’t done anything mean to them. They wouldn’t believe me. They’d think it was the complaining of some angsty teenager. Nobody would believe that my sweet, charming, kind dad was a raging man who belittled and verbally tore his family to shreds.

So when we got kicked out of our house right after Christmas my senior year, I moved out. My dad may have been “joking” every time he had threatened to kick me out as soon as I was 18, but I didn’t want to find out. So I beat him to the punch. I lived with friends for a few months, and then with my Uncle. And boy did I learn… learn that I really couldn’t have cared less about finishing high school, or musicals, or anything else. Because no matter what happened, I was stupid and a burden to everyone around me. A lot of my social anxiety comes from these years of abuse. Because if I was a burden and inconvenience then, it still must be true now.

Thankfully, my friends and family did help me. I learned a lot of self confidence and I learned that I didn’t have to be around people who made me feel small or worthless. It took me 17 years of listening to that kind of talk to believe those lies and it might take me another 17 to unlearn it.

So why am I writing today? Why share all this, today of all days?

Because I am angry.  Angry, that the man who called me garbage for a majority of my life, wants everyone to forgive and FORGET the pain he inflicted for 24 years. He wants people to be happy that he’s making positive changes and pretend that the past never happened- that the hurt will just magically disappear. And that makes me angry, because deep down, it makes me cry. Because the apologies I received growing up- still made his anger my fault. There was never “I’m sorry, what I did was wrong.” It was always- “I’m sorry, but what you did was wrong and I was right to yell at you.” I can count on one hand the times my dad has attempted to apologize.

The only real apology he gave me was at the beginning of June this year. And this was the first time that he had asked for my forgiveness.

Now I am a believer in change. People can change. The person I was, the yelling 13 year old big sister, is not the woman I am today. And I did forgive him. I forgave the man that was sitting on my couch that asked for forgiveness- because I knew he was trying. And I really do forgive the man who is working on becoming a better person. However, I did not forgive the man I think of when I hear the word “Dad”. I did not forgive 17 years worth of abuse in that moment, because I am still working on letting it go.

In order for me to let it go… I need to write it out. I need to let my tribe know what I’ve gone through. I am done letting the dad of my past hide behind his charming exterior, because I no longer feel a debt to him anymore. I no longer feel like I need to please him, because I’m never going to receive his praise or approval- so why should I need it now? My pain is just that- mine. Hiding my pain for the sake of his reputation will only continue to hurt me.

So this is step one in my process of healing. And this is the hardest thing I have ever felt compelled to write.  

This Is Not A Fad

I’m going to come right out and say it- I am butt hurt about the people who call the rise of women telling their sexual harassment/abuse stories as a “trend” or a “fad”. That implies that it started out of the blue, and will disappear just as quickly. Sure, the hashtag #MeToo may stop being shared or used, but that doesn’t mean that the events that happened in women’s lives just disappeared and the world is going to go back to the place where men’s behavior is rarely questioned, and women are always seen as liars and attention seekers.

I didn’t choose to share my stories with the hasthag because at the time, I was never physically assaulted. But oh boy, do I have stories about harassment and just outright sexism. And it’s not just in my teen years. So let’s take a walk down memory lane and I’ll show you how these stories have impacted me- because these instances didn’t happen in a vacuum. Some of these stories still impact my daily life.

Elementary School

My first encounter that I can recall of sexism I was sitting in my new small town 5^th grade class. I am one of three girls in a class of twelve. Not only that, I am the new kid, so I throw all these kids for a loop. 

We’re doing our U.S. History and Government unit and discussing rights. The example of equal pay comes up and I kid you not, my male classmates turned to me and said, “Women don’t need to be paid the same as men, right?”

The group of four guys didn’t like my outright “Heck yes they do!” response. It boggled my mind that they thought I would just sit there and agree with them.

Another instance, 6^th grade at the same school. I’m sitting on a bench during recess with a friend. Up walks two boys from the other sixth grade class. One proceeds to get down on one knee, and says in the sweetest voice, “Daria, I just wanted to let you know,” making sure he has my full attention before he jumps up to his feet and getting right in my face to shout, “I f&$king hate your guts.” He and his friend then burst into laughter and walk off as though telling me this was by far the best joke ever told. I remember just sitting on that bench with my friend. Both of us speechless. I don’t remember doing anything in particular to either of these boys, let alone doing anything that would warrant an excuse to be told that. Now don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t a complete angel in 6^th grade, but when was the last time a stranger walked up to you and told you that they hated you?

6^th grade really was just full of crap from boys. Letters telling me I was the ugliest person on the planet, that I should go die in a hole. All of which  were signed with a loving “from your ugly butt.” Because preteen boys are so creative at their insults. 

I had snowballs with rocks in them thrown at me. I was tripped into a huge puddle of mud by a boy I knew didn’t particularly like me. 

One guy thought it would be funny to follow me around and terrorize both me, my sister (who was in 3^rd grade) and her friends. 

During a dance I had a handful of guys come up and tell me that “Victor” wanted to dance with me, but I just couldn’t believe them at this point- because I knew that I was going to be the butt of yet another joke. 

I remember being dragged to school because I hated going to school- because as much as I had good friends, it was still a nice little slice of hell. I even got to sit in front of the Principal and was asked by him why I didn’t want to be at school. But I knew he wouldn’t believe me if I told him. He was there at a school bowling activity when I slipped and sprained my ankle and thought it was an April Fool’s Day joke- because every kid wants to skip school and then sit there while everyone else has fun.

Would you want to go to school where you felt singled out by a male population that was 3 boys for every girl?

Middle School

Oh boy middle school.  My 7^th grade locker neighbors were boys that thought it was funny to spray my stuff with their Axe body spray and close my locker while I was still rummaging through it. My good guy friend was friends with a guy who constantly told sexist jokes, and was just generally menacing. Greatest feature of this guy was him telling me every day on the walk home from school that my boobs needed to be bigger- because my young teenage body was there for him to appreciate, obviously.

High School  

Thankfully my later teenage years were much better, at least at school. But I will never forget the summer before my Senior Year. 

I was talking a rather long walk home from a Church Carnival. I’m about halfway home when this white car slows down and seems to try to keep pace with me. I glace at the car to see if it’s someone I know, maybe if they were a friend messing with me. But I don’t recognize these guys. Both are skinny, wearing white wife beaters and staring at me like I am the juiciest steak they’ve ever seen. I quickly look forward and keep walking. Somehow that ticked them off so they speed up, and go around the block- and I’m hoping that they will be going off to where ever they were heading.

I cross the street and I see something white out of the corner of my eye, and it’s the white car again. The guys roll down their windows and are just staring at me. One starts talking but I am so terrified I’m having a hard time catching what he’s saying. I just shake my head and pick up my pace, terrified because at any moment, the one in the passenger seat could reach out and grab me. I was terrified of reaching the end of the block because they could have turned and blocked me from crossing the street toward home. But I guess they got frustrated with me and sped off, swearing loudly at me and calling me very unpleasant names.

But I didn’t know if they were going to circle around again, they’d done it once already. So before I waited for them to drive around I back tracked and took the longest and most complex route home that I knew- making the average 30 minute walk an hour. Every single white car that passed me terrified me. I remember getting home and telling my parents why I got home so late. And only my mother was sympathetic. My dad asked me why I didn’t do “this or that?” And my sister just younger than me laughed and thought I was making a mountain out of a mole hill.

While working at a theme park and riding the bus home, I remember guys giving me those similar “you are a big juicy steak” look following me off the bus.

Conclusion

So what does all this mean?

It means that I am still uncomfortable walking by myself and a white car slows down.

It means that during high school I wore pajamas and baggy shirts so nobody could see my body because if nobody could see it, then they couldn't comment on it.

It means that I grew up thinking that the only men that would ever want to marry me were either crazy or extreme perverts. Luckily that is not the case… well he’s a little crazy but not in a negative way.

It means that I rarely trusted the men around me because they either hated me for simply existing, or only saw something they wanted to play with- I wasn’t a person.

That messes with you! And it’s taken years to get over this. But I still feel like I must ask my husband whether he hates me for doing/not doing x, y, or z.

Now that I’m a mother, with both a daughter and son, I don’t want that to be the world they grow up with. I don’t want my children to think it’s acceptable to tell people how they should look, or shout rude comments to complete strangers (in person or on the web). I don’t want either of my children to think that no one will believe her when she’s facing bullying or he’s being harassed. 

My hope is that I teach my children that respect means treating every person they meet with kindness and civility.

Dear readers, I don’t tell you these stories to make you feel pity or to demonize men. (If I thought all men were evil I would NOT have gotten married, let alone had children). My point is to tell you that the women who are putting their reputations on the line and their hurt out in the open to spread awareness- that’s not a fad. That’s not a trend. That’s a cry to be heard and validated that they are humans with experiences that affected their lives. Whether or not you agree with how they handled things, doesn’t matter- they aren’t asking your opinion. They are asking you to say “I see you. I see that your experience was real.” You can have whatever opinion you want, I can’t control your mind. But I ask that you show more kindness, both to the men and women who have taken the brave step to speak out. We've all been vulnerable once, remember how you wanted to be treated.  

In the words of a good friend of mine, "Be excellent to each other."