Tag-Archive for » womanhood «

A girl is a word without a definition.  I’m born to live as a word no one knows but me.  I have no context, no words around me who understand my definition.  Most other words haven’t even bothered to look me up except to use me—usually, abuse me because they’re trying to tell me what I mean.  But I can’t change my meaning to suit them.  I may not know what my meaning is, but I know it’s not what they’re telling me.  They force their meanings on me, never understanding I’m a new word they’ve never heard before, so new I haven’t even defined myself yet.  I’m still choosing what words I want around me.  I’m still creating a sound and a shape, practicing being something I like, something I can live with, something that sounds strong but sweet and bears good ideas in others’ minds.

Lately, I’m pushing my meaning too far.  As a result, I’m constantly shaky, fatigued, and frightened.  The things I care about suddenly lack significance.

It sounds like depression.  I know this feeling, the desire to cry and the choking feeling around my throat; it’s depression.

I’m floating on an imaginary line      losing

focus and going from

one meaning    the next

to

stop

I just watched Terminator: Salvation for the first time, a movie I’ve concluded was made to ease the loss of control Americans feel.  Who can blame us?  The state of the economy is enough to give anyone a panic disorder.

So Hollywood gives us this action-packed film full of familiar things like salvation, duty to society; the empowerment of the poor, and watered-down lipstick feminism in the form of a hot young girl who took some kickboxing lessons.  It’s about everything the first decade of the twenty-first century has been about.

This movie is a reflective product of this culture, but I still don’t know whether Hollywood is trying to promote a revolution or if they’re giving me a controlling substance, a Media pill to render me passive by satisfying my impulse to rebel against the dominant party to the right of me.  Somehow, it’s hard to believe commercialists have my best interests at heart.

Then again, movies like The Women make me feel like a more assertive model for women is represented in mainstream media: we can have it all, but do we want it?  Is it even healthy?  And do we really want to reach our goals if it means betraying other women, and therefore ourselves?  The movie says “no” to all three questions.  Instead, it argues women need women friends to help them do what they cannot possibly do on their own: survive this life in one emotional piece.

I knew what kind of woman I wanted to be by watching my sister Maggie’s successes and failures, my mother’s philosophies at work, and my girl friends’ misconceptions revealed for what they are.  And all of them had one thing in common: they weren’t hot, young girls who had taken kickboxing lessons nor knew how to hotwire a car.  They were stupid when they were young, ignorant through most of their 20s, and sometime after they turn 30, they’re trying to fix the mess they’d made the last few years.  I want to see more movies about women going through all that, and being okay with it, even as they try to prevent it.  I want a heroine as barely in control as I am.  Except, this woman, unlike me at my worst, is trying to be okay with it all–the fuck-ups, the wrinkles, and the betrayal.  I want movies to be made about that kind of woman.  I want movies to be made about that kind of woman, because I don’t have any real life examples.

What I mean to say is, there’s also a crisis of womanhood.  Most of our mothers didn’t survive the war.  They’re victims of the patriarchy with Stockholm Syndrome.  Isn’t it worth considering whether it’s healthy to even engage with these women we call Mom , if only for those times when we are most vulnerable to judgment?  Maybe rather than fight an obstacle, we should sometimes focus on avoiding it, at least until we’re ready to confront it?

Of course, the risk is becoming addicted to avoiding.

I spend at least some time every day writing for self-improvement.  But last week, during therapy, I realized I’ve been avoiding  people.  I realized I’ve been avoiding interacting them because it’s painful, because I fear them looking at me and judging me.  I realized I’ve been avoiding my social anxiety.

16
Nov

Originally posted here, the following [with little editing] was in response to a friend’s comment.  I’ve re-posted it here to bring attention to this major part of my trauma I’ve been trying so desperately to ignore: men as a whole.

Every day, I struggle to see men as fellow victims. Intellectually, I know they are. I know the patriarchy has claimed them as it’s claimed us.

But then the two men I respect most in the world tease me for the aches and pains my constant anxiety have caused. “It was all harmless kidding,” I tell myself, “and it is kind of comical. I’m always whining.”

A long list of self-deprecations are proven true by their laughter.

I—I hate to admit it, but I feel very much like you do. I still sometimes think, “aw, look at that guy with his kid.” That, however, is quickly subsumed by images of him molesting her.

I’m probably naive, but I just can’t embrace that image, yet. I can’t think of all men that way. I feel that, for me, and I only speak for myself, I would be giving into the trauma and condemning myself to this fractured reality.

I know. I’m a fool for hoping. They keep beating me, and I keep licking their hand. But, as I see it, if I give up on men, I give up on women, too. It’s the nature of a binary. To that point, I’ve dated women. Their good intentions are equally worthless. Even the ones you don’t so much as kiss will caress your soul as they lead you toward their parapet.

No. Forget what I said. My argument is flawed. None of those women damaged me for years: stole into my mind, ripped apart my anatomy, and irrevocably harmed my sexuality.

You caught me, bradamant. I’m having some difficulty accepting my feelings against men. I know it doesn’t end. I want to say there are exceptions, but every man I’ve thought was an exception has proven to actually be damaging in a way so subtle, his damage is more perverse than the last one’s.

But I’m afraid to hate men, bradamant. I’m afraid to leave them forever. I fear I would be letting the Andys win.

Not letting them win is the only thing that drives me.

Oh, God! That’s an ugly realization! They’re at the essence of my every motivation. They define me.

Have they already won?