Still

domestication, soulfood, therapy

31 years ago I was just a heart beat in my mama’s belly.

30 years ago I was just a sweet baby in my mama’s arms.

12 years ago I was just a girl leaving her mama’s house.

10 years ago I was just a mama with a heart beat in her belly.

5 years ago I was just a woman leaving her the place where she’d grown.

1 year ago I was just a girl watching her mama marry a man who had long been no good.

5 days ago I was just a woman witnessing the heart break of self sacrifice in her mama’s voice.

Today, I’m just a heart beat, holding fast to the tension of in between. Honoring time and decisions that shouldn’t be rushed. Biting my urge to rescue, rally, defend.

Just a heart beat humbled by the ticking hands of what we do, and who we do it to. Ourselves.

Under it all, a girl who surrendered to love. Looked away from the fact that relationship requires two sets of open hands ready to receive and two sets of open hands ready to give.

Now, coiled, heaving, betrayed by no one but herself. One thousand reasons why. And none of them matter when your face is pressed hard against the cold damp ground, bottom, home, beginning, nothing and absolutely everything.

You’ll get up you always do. But I think you should stay there a while. Take inventory of your pieces and just sit with them. Still.

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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….Β It’s no longer safe for men to be sexually violent towards women, we have your name and we’ll ruin your life. Watch.