about that rape accusation

social awareness, therapy, your body

Does it feel like women have gotten out of hand lately?
Like the Aziz Ansari mystery woman and the Harvey Weinstein’s accusers are on a power trip? Motivated by money? Coming out so late after the fact? On the girl-who-cried-rape-band-wagon?
And last year they all knitted pink cat hats and (the privileged white ladies at least) marched (or was that a saunter) across America’s main-streets in protest of the misogynistic buffoon that too many of our sisters elected into horrifying amounts of power, too bad it was in January could have at least appreciated so many boobies on the National Mall. Then one day last fall a bunch of basic ass women thought that someone was a) reading their facebook updates who cared or, b) thought for a second that they would dare to tell their stories of harassment and sexual assault right there in the open either with adjectives or with simply #metoo, as a way of making a point.

The Larry Nassar thing tho we can all agree was fucked, right?

I mean, I did hear from a number of dudes that they couldn’t believe the sheer numbers of women they knew that spoke up during the one week where #metoo was relevant.
You know what I couldn’t believe? That anyone was fucking surprised. I’m not.

 

You know why women are out of hand all of the sudden?

WE WOULD LIKE TO STOP GETTING RAPED.

RAPED.
We would also, appreciate it if our children were not raped. Groping, verbal assaults, attempted rapes, cat calls, sexual harassment, discriminatory workplaces, power manipulations, non-consensual but not quite violent sex, incest, needing to walk with our keys jutting through our fists just in case. ALL OF THAT, let’s go ahead and throw that in the mix too. WE ARE FUCKING SICK OF BEING SEXUALLY VIOLATED.

It’s never been okay with us. It’s just taken a very long time for us to find a platform to speak from. Taken a long time for the ground swell of permission to build, that corrodes the shame, un-cages the voice and let’s us scream. All of us together, I hold that even for the ones that can’t or won’t yet. We’re done.

This is the critical mass, look around. Up next: this shift…. It’s no longer safe for men to be sexually violent towards women, we have your name and we’ll ruin your life. Watch.

 

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Profile Update

domestication, Love, social awareness, soulfood, therapy, your body

I am not Beyoncé. Hard to believe I know. I am also not June Cleaver, Jessica Alba or Princess Di. I probably have more in common with Julia Louis-Dryfus and Elizabeth Warren. Today I updated my Bumble profile to the perfect mix of setting reasonable expectation while still sounding fun, sexy, uninhibited, and classy . Choosing pictures where I look subtly breath taking, but down to earth. Literal earth, at least two nature pics and one selfie in heals. Shots with the perfect amount of I like to party sex appeal but not party so hard that I’d suck your dick on the first date sex appeal.

 

And it occurred to me, WHAT IN THE FUCK ARE WE DOING TO OURSELVES.

 

So here’s my honest to God’s truth Bumble profile:

Hi I’m Reagon. Pronounced Ray-gun. Yes, like the president. In fact that’s my shtick (follow me on FB, Insta, Twitter, & Snap @reagonforpres). [Hey, if I can’t get a cup of coffee or a cocktail at least I can get a few more followers… add this to future branding campaign advice.]

 

Any way, I clean up real nice, in fact I was recently told that I look like a living doll. But I also, regularly look like a homeless person. Also, like clock work every year I do no shave November, and December, and sometimes January, February and half of March. By spring break every year I can Rapunzel style French braid my pubes down to my ankles and sculpt my leg hair into a punk rock Mohawk. Hot right?

Honestly, because we just met I’ll painstakingly shave, pluck and pull 80% of the hairs out of my body. They were all blonde to being with so this process annoys me highly but so does the prospect of dying alone. So here we are.

To appease all of your inquisitive minds, the drapes match the rug. And I do have rug. Fuck ladies, let’s stop paying Tammy at the local Wax Palace $100.00 every ten days to rip the hairs out of our vag okay? Like, can we add that to our next national ballot? It’s clear ya’ll aren’t actually down for the revolution, but can we at least let my lady hair sail free?

Sorry about that tangent. It’s nice to meet you.

 

Today I woke up on a twin sized air mattress next to the beaming eyes of the most exquisite creature that I have ever seen. Between me lovingly gazing into my daughter’s eyes in a sweet sleepy stupor I tried to identify what that old familiar sound was. Oh my God what is that??? It sounds like the dog is barfing in the tent. Oh my God THE DOG IS BARFING IN THE BED, IN THE TENT. I somehow contorted my body even further than should be humanly possible and clung to my blankets for another ten minutes. Partially because I was freezing fucking cold and partially because I wasn’t exactly bouncing out of bed over joyed to clean up dog vomit. But I did, eventually, and as promised it was fucking disgusting. This thought crossed my mind numerous times, I’m so glad that no one has to see me dressed in seven layers of clothes, thick wool socks shoved in flip flops cleaning up barf. And trust the flip flop socks didn’t give off a sexy geisha vibe.

 

The nice thing about waking up to a steamy pile of vomit is that your day really only goes up from there.

 

I made a fire. I ate a hotdog for breakfast. I took down the campsite. I wrestled the tent like an alligator into it’s impossibly tiny bag. At one point resorting to laying my entire body on the stabbing rocks, again seeking solace in thank God that no one can see me and laughing at the heavens, “Ohhhh mother fucker, this damn tent is a real metaphor for my life. Well look at this God I DID IT! Un-barfed, neatly folded and then artfully crammed and shoved into it’s pouch. Zipper amazingly closed and all done by me, myself and me. Alone. Fuck. I surrender.”

I’m not trying to do that shit ever again by myself. But I will because of the RBG in me.

After the seventy-second load to the car I stripped out of three layers of clothes. Taking amusement in the breadth of my own undressing capacity. Hot dudes that I bring home from the bar get the Dita Von Teese dimly lit peak-a-boo slow undress session. But, in the wild there I am teeter-tottering on top of my six year old tennis shoes with the grace of a hippo with flamingo legs. A real homage to Eric Carle, without the tear jerking sentiment.

 

And then I drove our three barely pulsing corpses back home. The two things that I miss most about having a man:

1) being the passenger

2) indulging in the helpless girl act long enough to not be the one who has to catch and release the parade of spiders that are fleeing into my home at the moment

 

Here’s the thing: I CAN DO ANYTHING. Literally, anything. I look back to my younger years with bewildered awe. I can’t believe that I did all of that. I look into my future with bewildered aweee, girl you still got it. The thing that changes once you know that you’re powerful beyond measure. That you are divinity incarnate. That your talents can’t be contained. Is that you don’t have to prove yourself to anyone anymore.

 

Yes, I want to be seen. I want to be heard. I want to be held. I don’t really care if you know that I’m a total sex kitten in my embodied sexual prime. I don’t care if you know that I spent thirty minutes today unclogging my bathroom drain. While interjecting like a school girl, ewwweee this is soooo sick. I don’t care if you know that I smoke a bowl in my hammock or that I wrote a highly intimidating business letter all today. Really I just don’t care anymore.

 

I’m just going to keep showing up as me. Vast, unapologetic, liberated, loving, loud, soft, determined, tired, me. Maybe I’ll charm you. Maybe I’ll scare you (I’m good for that). But if you’re the type that looks at fire and sees beauty then maybe we should get coffee. And maybe you could pick me up. I’m serious about never wanting to drive again.

 

Sincerely,

Splendid, complicated, lovely, exhilarating, real as fuck Reagon

The Humpty-Dumpty Notion

social awareness, therapy

Disclaimer: I go to hippy school. Which is a choice that I have made, because I’m not interested in having mainstream indoctrinated methods of helping people shoved down my throat. So, in addition to reading the DSM 5 we also read all of ‘alternative’ philosophies about everything including that psychotherapy is a myth. Here’s the paper that I want to turn in but won’t.

Both chapters (required reading) were like riddles, tongue twisters, Fanny Dooleys. My favorite was this Humpty-Dumpty notion that Lakoff and Johnson refer to. Of which I may be completely misinterpreting. But interpretation is really just a cultural construct and after all there really isn’t such a thing of objectivism.

Here goes, Humpty-Dumpty walks into your office- yolk all over your couch, bits of shell everywhere, in short- he’s broken as fuck.  But doc, all of the kings horse and all of the kings men, even they could’t put me back together.

So, what do I say: Sorry Humpty, this psychotherapy business is all a myth. Wish I could help ya bud. Wanna chat? That’s all we’re doing any way. But, side note, that will still be 100.00 an hour, mama’s got bills to pay ya hear? Ohhh, no we don’t accept Medicare. Even though I’m quite sure that you would qualify for some kind of disability. Yeah, no I couldn’t help you fill out that paperwork, the federal government doesn’t actually recognize the validity of my licensure.

Listen, man, here’s what you need to understand: all of this, I mean ALL of this is a societal construct. We’re all prisoners, baby, we’re all prisoners. Then maybe we exchange recipes, he knows how to make a killer Denver Omelet. I wonder if that might be a suicidal ideation. But fuck a safety plan. Safety, that’s pretty objective.

So, what cha doin’ later Humpty? Got any love interests? Wanna watch youtube? That’ll cheer you up.

57 minuets later, end session. I’ll see you next week, take care sir!

Altruism

Love, social awareness, soulfood

This is the part of the year where I start posting revised class work on my blog, #sorrynotsorry. In a rather elementary yet still somehow tear jerking fashion I was asked to answer this question yesterday:

What is altruism? 

I am so far detached from myself right now- well recently- that I can barely define anything for myself. I’ve been lending my words, my expression, these things my essence to the that which I already know. The past lessons, long learned. These new experiences- my version of reality, yes as I perceive it- those are still zapping through my mind. Zapping like little sparks of static electricity when the night has fallen and the bed is made. The sheets tearing apart. Is it liveliness? Is it clinging? I don’t know. But I do see and feel a show of instantaneous sparks of fire. A fire that won’t catch. Doesn’t hurt. But you feel it still and you kind of wish it would happen again.

That’s the only conclusion that my writing has come to lately. I’m back at this place again. Again. Home. Inner-childhood. Deeply ingrained, damn it girl you weren’t careful enough. The undertow of the ocean that was my life for 26 years. Chaos. Pain. And now I have to loose my breath and be thrown back to sea. Again.

Focus Reg- what is altruism to you? Doing good.
What is doing good?

It’s like a little strip of rainbow in the clouds. Not rainy clouds but clear beautiful sky clouds. Despite the fact that you are going through the motions of life- stressful, mundane, thrilling- your eye keeps going back to that spot. Because you don’t want to loose it. It’s magic. And it must have been put just there in your path so that you can experience it or- it you.

Doing good is a default state for me. Sometimes I consciously go out of my way to do extra and that is rewarding. But altruism- externally- is who I am. Who I strive to be. Who I have to make more space for.

Internal altruism that wax and wanes. That is work. That is the first thing to get axed on the priority list. That’s the hole in my wellbeing at the moment. The hole that is leaking anxiety, grief, regret, mis-steps, miss-words, missed opportunities, into my life.

Altruism is both automatic and my never ending task for the day, moment, for forever. It can’t wait.

Hey Fatty Read This!

social awareness, soulfood, Uncategorized, your body

Yes I’m talking to you:

It has been brought to my attention over and over again since ummmm about puberty that this needs to be said. It needs to be screamed from a mountain top. So here goes.

If you’ve recently gained 10+ pounds read here: 

IT IS 1-0 MOTHER FUCKING POUNDS. I CAN GAIN TEN POUNDS IN ONE WEEK. STOP!!! Not to say that I haven’t been there 18000 times because I have. For some reason when you’re losing weight for any reason (adderall, exercise, stress, poverty) life is good. It’s like the one thing that is there in the clutch, at least I can tie my shoes in these jeans. Something good is at work.

But, when the tables are turned and everyday you notice more and more dimples on your ass and your fat clothes get rotated to the front of the closet (and suddenly nothing can be dried because “Damn it babe, you keep shrinking my clothes….”), there’s a cloud over your head. All of the justifications (I’m bloated, I’m stressed, the scale FUCKING lies!!) are perfectly fine. If they help, good, use them, blindly follow them. You do not need to spend one more second of your life feeling like crap because of __ amount of pounds you gained. It’s not helping.

In a prefect world  we would be able to look in the mirror and say I’m a human and this is what humans look like. But we’ve been conditioned to look in the mirror with various shades of horror. Put down Shape magazine right now.

Here’s a little story: No one ever said a dog was ugly or unworthy because she has a sweet tooth *cough Meena*. But I do look at her round behind waddle in front of me every day when I walk her and I take stock of how up or down the scale she is. Dang, Meena’s getting really fat, I should probably stop using her as the garbage disposal. Damn, Meena’s lost a lot of weight, probably because our house is COVERED IN URINE and she’s too disgusted to eat off the floor. (Wanna come visit???). But that’s it. I don’t think of her any more or any less, though I am still quite angry about the spite shit.

That beautiful parable was to say that yes you are going to notice when you gain weight and so is everyone else (see below). And that’s okay. If any one of those people (your/myself included) think less of you as a person because of it then they are an asshole. Remind yourself of that often. Hey *insert your name here* stop being such a fucking asshole to me. 

If you’ve recently lost any amount of weight, yes 3 pounds counts, read here: 

Let me tell you about a time that I lost a solid 25 pounds last year. I weighed 138 pounds at one point, which is basically Reagon as Kate Moss. A few random women commented. J said nothing. Literally nothing. Until Christmas after I’d gained at least 10 of it back. He says, “Have you lost weight or something?” Pretty sure a fuck you for never noticing, I’m getting fat again, pass the kringle blurted out of my mouth. And I meant it. I bared my belly in public and you didn’t even notice. And now I’m on the one way train to fatty-dom. WONDERFUL!

The meaning of that story boys and girls, is that life is unfair. No one ever threw anyone a parade for losing 10 pounds. BECAUSE IT’S JUST 10 POUNDS. Legit one of my ass cheeks weighs at least 25 pounds. And not in some sexy Kim Kardashian way… well actually, yes in a sexy Kim Kardashian way because fuck it. Celebrate what yo mama gave you girl. You may have noticed that we are getting old as fuck. I have an angry furrow wrinkle between my eyebrows, it’s only going to get worse. And I’m probably going to need to eat my emotions one of these days, on the first of the month to be exact…. fuck a monthly pay cycle p.s., and I will gain weight again. This is life. You’re rich and you’re poor. Your fat and your skinny. You’re in love and your lost. You’re navigating life. It’s not easy.

If you’re a human being read here: 

 

Don’t make life harder by launching a one man war on yourself. Please. There’s a good chance that I personally (hi Mom and my two best friends that read this religiously) love every single ounce of you. And if you don’t know me personally (shout out to that one dude in Amman that reads my blog) there is someone in your life that adores every single thing about you (even if it’s your mom). They/I always  will, regardless of the size pants you fit into this week. Meet us there won’t you.

a doer or a being?

social awareness, soulfood

As of late I have been trying my hardest to grant myself patience and appreciation in the process of finding and defining my career. It hasn’t been easy and for the past three months it has literally been a daily meditation – let it be – let go of expectations – trust the timing of your life.

Today I listened to an interview in a series with Krishna Das (the Keith Richards of hippy dippy- mantra chanting- cult following- Eastern informed pop-music). In it an audience member asked are you a doer or are you a being? Honestly, that question sends me into the same cognitive overdrive that, that one semester of astronomy did. So, my succinct answer is that I have been a doer. That my default state is to do. Yes, I do with precision, thought and compassion but I always do. Doing. Being.

One of my most beloved professors lived in Nigeria  for many years. She shared the commentary that in most of Africa people don’t ask, “What do you do?” but rather, “Who are you?”. This distinction corresponds directly with the rate of unemployment (a Western construct) in the area. “What do you do?” situates the opposing party into an evaluation of worth based on circumstances largely outside of their control. “Who are you?” evaluates a person on who they are as a person, their thoughts, their actions.

Full circle, this summer I went to an intensive women’s retreat where one of many soul bearing exercises was to ask as many women as we could over lunch, “Who are you?”. When they answered you were to continue to press, ask three additional times “Who are you?”.

I went into the gathering with my mental notes in order: Mother, Medical Administrator, Student, Writer, Getter of Groceries, Cleaner of Toilets, Information Consumer, Artist. BAM. Iron clad with retort, I pose the question to the unassuming middle aged, grayed, Teva wearing woman in font of me in the buffet line:

“Who are you?”
“I am the human expression of the divine”.

 

“Uhh”. Let me regroup.

“Who are you?”

______
This is about a year old. But still something that I’m trying to get a grasp on, how to be.
Photo Cred: Yuli Serfaty

The Fear of Change

create, science says, social awareness, your body

Good golly. I really can’t say this in a brief way.

In a nutshell: I’ve been studying Existential Therapy and Carl Jung before that and have essentially called to question every single aspect of my reality in the past three weeks. (Which is not separate from LIFE that keeps happening to me…. that I keep attracting/creating). Part of this process has been creating art work that explains the concepts. What a beautiful challenge.

So yesterday I realized that social media is a giant crutch/addiction/detriment to my self-actualization so I’m on a indefinite Facebook hiatus. And then I started looking at the WHYs behind my use of Instagram because I don’t want to give that up aka I’m extremely resistant to that change and wasn’t sure if it was even something that I wanted to potentially ever put on the cutting block.

Long story short my response was to create a new Instagram called @reallifereg that only has pictures from my trash bins. This was a huge wakeup call about my own lingering body image issues and self depreciating beliefs about my own appearance plus called into question the WHY was that picture not good enough. I explain in each caption why I chose to delete the photo.


I created a one image representation of all of this :

____________________________________________________________

Here’s the more polished explanation with references if you wanna geek out:

My piece is the most succinct visual representation of a rather convoluted but powerful experience that I had considering James Bugental’s contribution to existential psychotherapy. In Corey’s explanation of Bugental’s approach to resistance on page 144 he shares that, “Forms of resistance include intellectualizing, being argumentative, always seeking to please, and any other life-limiting pattern.” I have been processing that one line for over a week because of my constant employment of those tactics that I had never viewed as self-limiting before.

After researching Bugental’s explanation of resistance which included reading a powerful article entitled, A Fate Worst Than Death: The Fear of Changing (1984) I sat with why I am resistant to a career change. That boiled down to perfectionism and always seeking to please. From there I explored all of the myriad of ways that I am a perfectionist and what that means to my self actualization as well as my short and long term goals. This lead to re-evaluating my use of social media, specifically the visual perfection that I have curated on Instagram that serves my public persona but does absolutely nothing for my internal self.

After deleting my Facebook account I created a new public Instagram feed that has only has pictures that I had previously deleted found in my trash bin on my phone. In each caption I wrote the reason why I chose not to post the photo and delete it. In this very revealing exercise I realized that so many of my deleted pictures were “selfies” and how intertwined those deletions were with my ego, being self-conscious, old patterns of body dysmorphia and a general malaise with the changes in my face as the result of aging. The large piece that I printed encapsulates that entire process of self-exploration in one image. Referencing a time in my life where I was extensively studying anatomy and had a very different relationship to all bodies, mine included. My piece is an ode to a real, non-resistant, surrendered acceptance of my self entirely and the necessity to be honest about that process.

and they all fall down

social awareness, your body

In the last two days two men that were once friends in Lawrence have died. With a void of any information as to why and how they passed I’m left to assume that they went the way of far too many of my other young male friends from home. An overdose. An inebriated freak accident. Something that will never make the obituary. Something that will always weigh heavy on their loved ones chests. Something that didn’t have to be.

I wrote this yesterday. I add another tick today with a very heavy heart.

_____________

How surreal
to watch the boys you call home
drop dead one-by-one
18-20-26-29-41.

How surreal
to lament a life that you haven’t
touched in ten years.

To lament
a life that could have been theirs.
There would have been
recovery -relapse-recovery
forgiveness-trust-pride.

But there you are
blue, cold, dead.

Another tick on the
countdown to
everyone you know will die.

I don’t know who to be mad at
you ?
the place?

The town that nurtured us
into fearless adventurers .
The same town that spoon feed  it’s children
ruckus, party and drugs.

The town who forgot to teach
resilience, family and self-care.

Boy- you inherited your priorities
upside down and inside out.
Man- you are a vessel.
Not a party.

________________________