I've been doing a lot of thinking and analyzing and delving into the reasons behind a lot of my thoughts and actions recently. The thought that lives in the back of my mind and influences a lot of my decisions basically boils down to "make them like me." I think a lot of people have this thought for various reasons, but for me, the thought almost becomes a matter of life and death - or at least, that's what it feels like.
Let's explore that for a minute.
Often, I get emails at work that are a little upsetting. There's no real reason for them to be upsetting, but I read into them and get upset. (This is just one example of this thought; it manifests in myriad ways.) For example, someone will give some design suggestions for something I've designed and I'll become flustered or disappointed for various reasons. I know there's really no reason for this (except when people who know nothing about design try to do it, but even then, really) but I nonetheless get anxious and angry. When I look into this emotion and ask myself why it's happening, the answer that my brain produces is that other people don't respect my position.
Well, so what? They're not my boss. Not everything I make has to be the next Mona Lisa of graphic design. But it points to a deeper insecurity: maybe they don't like me.
Again, I have to ask myself why this is the case. Who cares what they think? After some thought, the emotional response that came from my lizard brain told me that it was a matter of life and death (or nearly so) that they liked me.
And after a whole lot of delving into why that was the case, I think I know why.
When I was 14, I was a goth kid. Not just a goth kid, really, but the goth kid. There were some other people in town who were different--freaks, we called ourselves; the outcasts, the weirdos, the kids who didn't like country music and wearing Calvin Klein but wanted to wear band shirts and listen to Smashing Pumpkins and Marilyn Manson. But me? I think I took it to another level. I dressed in black every day, dyed my hair black, got into Bauhaus and Sisters of Mercy, and really embraced gothiness. By the time I got to high school, there were a few more of us, but when I was in 8th grade and 14 years old, I was it.
In the small, close-minded, Jesus-loves-guns-but-hates-poor-people town in which I grew up, I was an oddity that no one really knew how to handle. I proudly wore my strangeness like a flag that I flew in front of everyone's face. And everyone hated it. In their eyes, I was the lesbian devil-worshipper that probably deserved what she got.
My 8th grade year happened to be the same year that the Columbine shooting happened. Naturally, everyone blamed goth culture, music, violent video games--everything but the fucked-up kids that actually shot up that school. It gave them yet another reason to despise me.
It probably shouldn't have come as a surprise then that on the penultimate day of my 8th grade year, I was called into the principal's office. After waiting in the lobby for a good hour at least, I was finally called into the vice-principal's office. The two vice principals (why my school had two, I don't remember) straight-up accused me of threatening to shoot up the school on the last day.
Now, not only had I never said this, but the very idea of it horrified me. Despite my hardened facade, those who knew me knew that I was actually pretty funny, somewhat snarky, and.... very sensitive. So when they stood there with concerned faces, accusing me of something I would never do--and something that potentially had legal consequences and, in my mind, would ruin my future--I started crying. Bawling. Saying "No! I wouldn't do that!" and sitting in some of the worst anxiety and despair I've ever felt in my life.
I know some people could brush this off as idiotic, small-town administrators getting unnecessarily paranoid and trying to exercise power wherever they could--because that's exactly what it was--but in my mind, they had control over my future and it was over. This was something that everyone would know and it would haunt me, always. I think that the worst part about it was that I had never felt so powerless about something that I had not done and yet still faced the consequences of. It left an emotional scar that is still with me some 18 years later.
I had to spend the remainder of that day with special ed kids because they wouldn't let me around everyone else and they couldn't contact my grandparents to come pick me up--they happened to be visiting my sick mother in the hospital all day. Finally at 4 p.m. I was allowed to walk home (I lived like literally across the street...) but only if I called the vice principal and let them know I had made it home.
That, I think, is why it's so important to my subconscious to make sure that everyone likes me. My brain made the connection that people liking you = not treating you like shit, which means that everything will be okay--they won't do anything that could potentially hurt me or my future.
A couple of years ago, I had to deal with this again with a coworker who spent her time trying to sabotage my career; it reinforced this idea. I thought, if I had just done something else to make her like me more, everything would be okay. I found out later that she had pretty much targeted everyone in the office and was just batshit crazy. Until I knew that, though, I felt the same powerlessness, anxiety, and terror that I felt when I was 14. There are few things more terrifying than not being in control of your own life.
Does anyone know what the statute of limitations is on suing a school district for damages?
Monday, August 7, 2017
Wednesday, March 1, 2017
National Eating Disorders Awareness Week
I learned today that this week is National Eating Disorders Awareness Week. Let's talk about that for a minute.
First of all, I have a history with people who have eating disorders. Someone very close to me suffered through one during most of my adolescence, which had a profound impact on me emotionally and mentally, and essentially robbed me of my childhood. I more-or-less had to take care of this person because they* also had OCD and psychosis and wouldn't eat unless I were there. It's complicated. Similarly, one of my caretakers spent a lot of energy trying to control my weight and talking about losing weight themselves, which, along with all the societal pressure put on women, had a really profound impact on me.
It shouldn't be a surprise that I've grown up to have some disordered eating habits myself.
I crave food, constantly. But it's more than just a craving; I need to have foods that I enjoy, foods that make me feel good, foods that replace the endorphins and serotonin that I'm not getting because of my severe depression and anxiety. I'll get to those later, but it's like there's a part of my brain--it feels like a snake, perhaps a venomous cobra--that's waiting to rear back and bite me if I don't shut it up by eating and drinking the most delicious foods I can find. Honestly, I can find very few pleasures that come close to the pleasure of eating and drinking good foods; off the top of my head, getting a massage, cuddling my kitten, lounging on a beach (which usually involves a mixed drink...), and being praised for a good piece of art come to mind, but still, I'd almost rather have a big piece of chocolate cake. I only recently realized that.
So dieting is almost literally torture. I've been fairly successful dieting in the past, but it was sooooo hard. From Sept. 2015 through Jan 2016, I lost about 28 pounds, but I was often eating no more than 900 calories a day. I had to have such such a strong will and for such a long time and, eventually, after losing a good amount of weight, I usually ended up succumbing to the need--not want, but need--to eat sugary, fattening foods, so the weight piles back on and then some. My solution has been to not deprive myself but just cut down some, but that doesn't seem to be working; I can eat 1500-1700 calories and still gain weight, or so it seems.
But there's a bigger issue here. First of all, despite what my scale says, I'm tall and pretty muscular, so I'm not actually terribly overweight, just a little. Second, why does it matter that I've got a little extra fat? I'm a pretty good artist and graphic designer, a damn good knitter, I have a decent sense of humor, I at least try to be nice to people, I love animals... Shouldn't that be all that matters?
But it isn't. In today's society and in the eyes of those who raised me, the only thing that matters is if I fit a very specific standard. And, despite the fact that I acknowledge this and know how absolutely silly this is, my brain can't let go of the fact that, since I don't fit that mold, I'm not good enough. I'm a failure. I need to work out 4 hours a day and severely restrict calories and get a nose job and a boob job. That's the only way I'll be happy.
I know there's a body positivity movement going on right now, and it makes me happy, but no matter how often I look at body positive messages or curvy girls in undies smiling beatifically, I just know that I can't do that. I think, Well of course they can love their bodies. They have a cute nose and don't have to worry about a big one like I do, or Well yeah, they look cute in bikinis, but they also have bigger boobs and don't have this little pectus carinatum they're ashamed of. I feel especially deformed and different and I just can't love my body.
One of the arguments body-positive sites often use is that you should love your body for all that it can do for you, and I just think, really? How about all the pain it causes me? I mean, how am I supposed to love my body when my brain is fucked-up and I can't even function normally without psychiatric medications; when my brain randomly has little spasms that cause me to see scintillating scotomas and then have excrutiating pain, sensitivity to light, and mild nausea, sometimes for days; when my eyes don't work properly without lenses; when I've got constant post-nasal drip; when my tongue is too fat and can't stick out very far and my voice sounds like a 12-year-old boy rather than a delicate female; when a bone in my chest protrudes on the left side and pushes my boob over--and, for that matter, when my boobs are so small that my stomach almost pokes out further than my boobs; when acid constantly backs up into my esophagus unless I turn off some of the acid pumps with medication; when my body randomly decides to have diarrhea; when my ovaries weren't formed correctly and can't produce eggs so I have to take birth control just to function normally; when my knees hurt when I try to run; when my feet hurt when I walk too much; when the facet joints at C-7 and T-1 (on my spine) have arthritis bad enough that they cause the surrounding musculature to cramp up and get knots that never go away and cause constant pain?
How am I supposed to love all of that?
So the question is, does this all cause my anxiety and depression, or is this body-shaming and hating a symptom of it? Who knows? But I know that depression definitely compounds the issue, making it a hundred times worse.
If you've never had depression, consider yourself lucky. If you've never had it, you can't really understand exactly what it's like, but consider this: think of the most difficult thing you have to do, about how anxious it makes you, about how you think it through to the end to try to prepare for it, about how it seems so overwhelming and how you'd just rather skip it and how you'd rather do almost anything but that. Now imagine everything in your life is like that.
The opposite of depression is not happiness, but vitality.
If you have some time and are genuinely curious about depression (and I hope you are), take some time to watch this Ted Talk on it. This guy explains it so, so well.
Last night, I had a little emotional breakdown. Dan went to workout and, while I've been trying to work out with him, I found it so, so hard. I expressed this to him and eventually ended up crying and hugging him, letting him know how ashamed I was of my body, even though yes, I know he loves it; how I hate my nose, even though yes, I know he thinks it's perfect; how he shouldn't have to deal with someone that has such a fucked-up brain and deserves so much more. Bless him, he just held me tightly and loved me, and that's all I need.
Well, that and a better body, a nosejob, a boob job, hair that was always perfect, and the ability to eat what I wanted without gaining weight.
*Don't correct my grammar; I'm using the singular "they" on purpose.
First of all, I have a history with people who have eating disorders. Someone very close to me suffered through one during most of my adolescence, which had a profound impact on me emotionally and mentally, and essentially robbed me of my childhood. I more-or-less had to take care of this person because they* also had OCD and psychosis and wouldn't eat unless I were there. It's complicated. Similarly, one of my caretakers spent a lot of energy trying to control my weight and talking about losing weight themselves, which, along with all the societal pressure put on women, had a really profound impact on me.
It shouldn't be a surprise that I've grown up to have some disordered eating habits myself.
I crave food, constantly. But it's more than just a craving; I need to have foods that I enjoy, foods that make me feel good, foods that replace the endorphins and serotonin that I'm not getting because of my severe depression and anxiety. I'll get to those later, but it's like there's a part of my brain--it feels like a snake, perhaps a venomous cobra--that's waiting to rear back and bite me if I don't shut it up by eating and drinking the most delicious foods I can find. Honestly, I can find very few pleasures that come close to the pleasure of eating and drinking good foods; off the top of my head, getting a massage, cuddling my kitten, lounging on a beach (which usually involves a mixed drink...), and being praised for a good piece of art come to mind, but still, I'd almost rather have a big piece of chocolate cake. I only recently realized that.
So dieting is almost literally torture. I've been fairly successful dieting in the past, but it was sooooo hard. From Sept. 2015 through Jan 2016, I lost about 28 pounds, but I was often eating no more than 900 calories a day. I had to have such such a strong will and for such a long time and, eventually, after losing a good amount of weight, I usually ended up succumbing to the need--not want, but need--to eat sugary, fattening foods, so the weight piles back on and then some. My solution has been to not deprive myself but just cut down some, but that doesn't seem to be working; I can eat 1500-1700 calories and still gain weight, or so it seems.
But there's a bigger issue here. First of all, despite what my scale says, I'm tall and pretty muscular, so I'm not actually terribly overweight, just a little. Second, why does it matter that I've got a little extra fat? I'm a pretty good artist and graphic designer, a damn good knitter, I have a decent sense of humor, I at least try to be nice to people, I love animals... Shouldn't that be all that matters?
But it isn't. In today's society and in the eyes of those who raised me, the only thing that matters is if I fit a very specific standard. And, despite the fact that I acknowledge this and know how absolutely silly this is, my brain can't let go of the fact that, since I don't fit that mold, I'm not good enough. I'm a failure. I need to work out 4 hours a day and severely restrict calories and get a nose job and a boob job. That's the only way I'll be happy.
I know there's a body positivity movement going on right now, and it makes me happy, but no matter how often I look at body positive messages or curvy girls in undies smiling beatifically, I just know that I can't do that. I think, Well of course they can love their bodies. They have a cute nose and don't have to worry about a big one like I do, or Well yeah, they look cute in bikinis, but they also have bigger boobs and don't have this little pectus carinatum they're ashamed of. I feel especially deformed and different and I just can't love my body.
One of the arguments body-positive sites often use is that you should love your body for all that it can do for you, and I just think, really? How about all the pain it causes me? I mean, how am I supposed to love my body when my brain is fucked-up and I can't even function normally without psychiatric medications; when my brain randomly has little spasms that cause me to see scintillating scotomas and then have excrutiating pain, sensitivity to light, and mild nausea, sometimes for days; when my eyes don't work properly without lenses; when I've got constant post-nasal drip; when my tongue is too fat and can't stick out very far and my voice sounds like a 12-year-old boy rather than a delicate female; when a bone in my chest protrudes on the left side and pushes my boob over--and, for that matter, when my boobs are so small that my stomach almost pokes out further than my boobs; when acid constantly backs up into my esophagus unless I turn off some of the acid pumps with medication; when my body randomly decides to have diarrhea; when my ovaries weren't formed correctly and can't produce eggs so I have to take birth control just to function normally; when my knees hurt when I try to run; when my feet hurt when I walk too much; when the facet joints at C-7 and T-1 (on my spine) have arthritis bad enough that they cause the surrounding musculature to cramp up and get knots that never go away and cause constant pain?
How am I supposed to love all of that?
So the question is, does this all cause my anxiety and depression, or is this body-shaming and hating a symptom of it? Who knows? But I know that depression definitely compounds the issue, making it a hundred times worse.
If you've never had depression, consider yourself lucky. If you've never had it, you can't really understand exactly what it's like, but consider this: think of the most difficult thing you have to do, about how anxious it makes you, about how you think it through to the end to try to prepare for it, about how it seems so overwhelming and how you'd just rather skip it and how you'd rather do almost anything but that. Now imagine everything in your life is like that.
The opposite of depression is not happiness, but vitality.
If you have some time and are genuinely curious about depression (and I hope you are), take some time to watch this Ted Talk on it. This guy explains it so, so well.
Last night, I had a little emotional breakdown. Dan went to workout and, while I've been trying to work out with him, I found it so, so hard. I expressed this to him and eventually ended up crying and hugging him, letting him know how ashamed I was of my body, even though yes, I know he loves it; how I hate my nose, even though yes, I know he thinks it's perfect; how he shouldn't have to deal with someone that has such a fucked-up brain and deserves so much more. Bless him, he just held me tightly and loved me, and that's all I need.
Well, that and a better body, a nosejob, a boob job, hair that was always perfect, and the ability to eat what I wanted without gaining weight.
*Don't correct my grammar; I'm using the singular "they" on purpose.
Thursday, February 2, 2017
The Ghost of Narcissists Past
I had an interesting realization as I was driving home from work today.
A lot of things make me anxious, often for no discernible reason. I was puzzling over what particular things made me anxious today and remembered a situation with someone who works in another department that occurred today.
When I say "situation" I mean "Absolutely fucking nothing but Katie blows everything out of proportion."
I've been waiting several weeks (a couple months, tbh) for this one individual in this other department to answer some pretty basic questions so that I could wrap up a design job for him. Today, he finally got it to me and I was able to finish it and send him a preview. I'm lucky to have Adobe Stock at work so I sent him some flyers with Adobe Stock photos, still watermarked so that I wouldn't have to license images that wouldn't be used. He said he liked them, so I licensed them, exported them to .pdfs, and sent him the .pdfs.
Or so I thought. I got a strange email not long after from said individual wanting me to "take the writing off the picture on the flyer." Since I had already licensed the pictures, I didn't know what he meant; one of the pictures had extensive code in some coding language (idk, C? C++? Python? Fuck if I know.) so I asked if that's what he was talking about, informing him that that was the picture.
This particular person, I should mention, is deplorable at communicating. When I get emails from him, I often have to ask him to clarify what he means and then still can't understand what he's trying to say. He also often doesn't answer questions or simply ignores them and gives vague responses. So this was nothing new.
His reply explained it, but I couldn't help but question this person's.... er.... ability, let's say, when I got the answers. Apparently, he got flyers that still had the Adobe watermark on them; his response went something like "Well the words 'Adobe Sto' are on one, there's a triangle on another one.... " etc. Since I had just explained that I had to license the images from Adobe Stock, I had to wonder why he didn't just say "I think you sent me the wrong flyers; the images on these still have watermarks on them" or something to that effect. Instead, he was vague, which kinda left me looking like an ass.
I had apparently saved the exported .PDFs in two different locations and had sent him the previous versions by accident.
Well, NBD, you might say, except for the hassle of trying to figure out this person's strange communication style. For me, however, I immediately went into anxiety mode and stayed there for most of the rest of the day. By anxiety mode, I mean in a constant state of mild anxiety triggered by my small mistake.
And therein lies my realization: I can't make any mistakes.
Here's why.
For six and a half years, I worked for someone who was a prime example of a narcissist. She had to have her nose in everything, created her own realities, thought everyone was against her and that she was so much better than them, took credit for everything that happened in my department, treated me like a dog playing fetch (except not so friendly) when important people came in, and, most importantly, yelled at me any time I made a mistake.
Once, for example, she yelled at me because we ran out of coffee. I could tell on this particular occasion that she was having a bad day, so I approached her with caution to let her know. (My days were always kind of touch-and-go with her; if she was having a bad day, I knew she would take it out on me, but if she was having a good day, I knew I was in the clear.) When I told her about our coffee situation, she yelled at me, in front of coworkers, telling me that it was a "pattern" that I "let [the department] run out of things constantly!" and the like.
Another time, probably the worst, she yelled at me in front of coworkers and clients for not picking up someone's check on time.
This was a pretty common pattern with her.
Finally, she left. I won't get into why, but I immediately felt better (for a while; another person came along who tried to sabotage my career, but I won't get into that. She's gone too now, thankfully.)
So as I drove home, wondering why exactly I had anxiety over something kind of silly that most people would get over, I realized this. Much like a dog who's been "gifted" with a choke-chain, I had been conditioned by negative-reinforcement to fear and hate making mistakes.
Even while I thought about the otherwise tiny, insignificant mistake I made, I tried to come up with excuses to explain it, to try to make it okay, make sure I wasn't yelled at, treated like an adult instead of a dog who's peed on the rug. And this lasted, for the most part, for the rest of the day; even when I was thinking about something else, there would be a lingering, mild anxiety, and then I would think about why, remind myself, and get anxious all over again.
Here's the thing: unless it's a really big, intentional mistake, I usually don't care, even a little, when other people make mistakes.
Because it can't be their fault.
It's always my fault.
A lot of things make me anxious, often for no discernible reason. I was puzzling over what particular things made me anxious today and remembered a situation with someone who works in another department that occurred today.
When I say "situation" I mean "Absolutely fucking nothing but Katie blows everything out of proportion."
I've been waiting several weeks (a couple months, tbh) for this one individual in this other department to answer some pretty basic questions so that I could wrap up a design job for him. Today, he finally got it to me and I was able to finish it and send him a preview. I'm lucky to have Adobe Stock at work so I sent him some flyers with Adobe Stock photos, still watermarked so that I wouldn't have to license images that wouldn't be used. He said he liked them, so I licensed them, exported them to .pdfs, and sent him the .pdfs.
Or so I thought. I got a strange email not long after from said individual wanting me to "take the writing off the picture on the flyer." Since I had already licensed the pictures, I didn't know what he meant; one of the pictures had extensive code in some coding language (idk, C? C++? Python? Fuck if I know.) so I asked if that's what he was talking about, informing him that that was the picture.
This particular person, I should mention, is deplorable at communicating. When I get emails from him, I often have to ask him to clarify what he means and then still can't understand what he's trying to say. He also often doesn't answer questions or simply ignores them and gives vague responses. So this was nothing new.
His reply explained it, but I couldn't help but question this person's.... er.... ability, let's say, when I got the answers. Apparently, he got flyers that still had the Adobe watermark on them; his response went something like "Well the words 'Adobe Sto' are on one, there's a triangle on another one.... " etc. Since I had just explained that I had to license the images from Adobe Stock, I had to wonder why he didn't just say "I think you sent me the wrong flyers; the images on these still have watermarks on them" or something to that effect. Instead, he was vague, which kinda left me looking like an ass.
I had apparently saved the exported .PDFs in two different locations and had sent him the previous versions by accident.
Well, NBD, you might say, except for the hassle of trying to figure out this person's strange communication style. For me, however, I immediately went into anxiety mode and stayed there for most of the rest of the day. By anxiety mode, I mean in a constant state of mild anxiety triggered by my small mistake.
And therein lies my realization: I can't make any mistakes.
Here's why.
For six and a half years, I worked for someone who was a prime example of a narcissist. She had to have her nose in everything, created her own realities, thought everyone was against her and that she was so much better than them, took credit for everything that happened in my department, treated me like a dog playing fetch (except not so friendly) when important people came in, and, most importantly, yelled at me any time I made a mistake.
Once, for example, she yelled at me because we ran out of coffee. I could tell on this particular occasion that she was having a bad day, so I approached her with caution to let her know. (My days were always kind of touch-and-go with her; if she was having a bad day, I knew she would take it out on me, but if she was having a good day, I knew I was in the clear.) When I told her about our coffee situation, she yelled at me, in front of coworkers, telling me that it was a "pattern" that I "let [the department] run out of things constantly!" and the like.
Another time, probably the worst, she yelled at me in front of coworkers and clients for not picking up someone's check on time.
This was a pretty common pattern with her.
Finally, she left. I won't get into why, but I immediately felt better (for a while; another person came along who tried to sabotage my career, but I won't get into that. She's gone too now, thankfully.)
So as I drove home, wondering why exactly I had anxiety over something kind of silly that most people would get over, I realized this. Much like a dog who's been "gifted" with a choke-chain, I had been conditioned by negative-reinforcement to fear and hate making mistakes.
Even while I thought about the otherwise tiny, insignificant mistake I made, I tried to come up with excuses to explain it, to try to make it okay, make sure I wasn't yelled at, treated like an adult instead of a dog who's peed on the rug. And this lasted, for the most part, for the rest of the day; even when I was thinking about something else, there would be a lingering, mild anxiety, and then I would think about why, remind myself, and get anxious all over again.
Here's the thing: unless it's a really big, intentional mistake, I usually don't care, even a little, when other people make mistakes.
Because it can't be their fault.
It's always my fault.
Tuesday, January 31, 2017
Candles in the dark
I felt that I should take a minute to look at all the candles, the small flashlights and torches and lighthouses in an otherwise overwhelmingly dark time.
Whether or not Trumplethinskin wants us to, I've noticed a big trend: America is moving forward without him. Scientists have just done groundbreaking research by reversing previously incurable diseases thanks to the use of stem cells and gene therapy. The Boy Scouts have just let transgender boys join them. Planned Parenthood and the UCLA have received huge donations. We have a resistance movement lead by park rangers, NASA, and Shia LeBouf. Women are standing up en mass, not just around the country, but around the world, to declare that we deserve equal treatment, better healthcare, and the right to not be constantly harrassed and to feel safe. Many of these other countries have also responded to Trump in humorous ways which gives me hope for the world--that there are good people and good countries out there who are willing to voice their opinions right along with us as we yell "no more!" and "Not my president!"
Many of these people, including people like Bernie Sanders and Elizabeth Warren, are in positions to really affect change, and they're doing all they can to make that happen; they're voting against Darth Orange's appointments, supporting protesters, loudly voicing dissent, even bringing Der Trumpenfurher's tweets to congressional meetings. And whereas we may have once disagreed about religious ideology or whatever, we are now banded together to protect our brothers and sisters of other religions from the persecution we have seen so much of in the past. We have been brought together and reminded that we are all connected, we are all together in this fight. Actually, I find myself agreeing with statements by normally far-right individuals like John McCain; he put out a statement with Lindsey Graham about how we can no longer torture people and that restricting immigration is unamerican and some other things. Here is the statement in its entirety:
“Our government has a responsibility to defend our borders, but we must do so in a way that makes us safer and upholds all that is decent and exceptional about our nation. “It is clear from the confusion at our airports across the nation that President Trump’s executive order was not properly vetted. We are particularly concerned by reports that this order went into effect with little to no consultation with the Departments of State, Defense, Justice, and Homeland Security. “Such a hasty process risks harmful results. We should not stop green-card holders from returning to the country they call home. We should not stop those who have served as interpreters for our military and diplomats from seeking refuge in the country they risked their lives to help. And we should not turn our backs on those refugees who have been shown through extensive vetting to pose no demonstrable threat to our nation, and who have suffered unspeakable horrors, most of them women and children. “Ultimately, we fear this executive order will become a self-inflicted wound in the fight against terrorism. At this very moment, American troops are fighting side-by-side with our Iraqi partners to defeat ISIL. But this executive order bans Iraqi pilots from coming to military bases in Arizona to fight our common enemies. Our most important allies in the fight against ISIL are the vast majority of Muslims who reject its apocalyptic ideology of hatred. This executive order sends a signal, intended or not, that America does not want Muslims coming into our country. That is why we fear this executive order may do more to help terrorist recruitment than improve our security.”
And can I just say how weird it is that I agree with republicans? Like. That says something.
We are not alone. These past few months have helped me personally to weed out people who buy into only the far right's rhetoric of "Hurr but emails!" etc. and really learn who the more intelligent (sorry; it's true) critically thinking people are in my life--those who have read enough dystopian novels or studied history enough (or both) to recognize patterns that are emerging right now.
If you are one of those intelligent, well-read, critically-thinking people who knows that our country needs to more forward with progessive ideals instead of set back by fear mongering and "alternative facts" (sigh.) I just want to thank you. Though I usually crawl into myself and hide, right now, I want to give you all big hugs and cry on your shoulders. Kindness, speaking out, defending your fellow human, and just..... well, being nice is what we need right now as a country.
No, niceness will not change Drumpf's actions, nor will it help the millions of displaced individuals, nor will it help me get my goddamn free birth control back (I literally have to have that to be healthy) but it's a start, and the personal is, after all, political.
Honestly, after a thorough review of our system, I think that being nice is the only way to change things at all. Thanks to gerrymandering, our votes are mostly useless. Districts are already drawn based on the voting patterns of the individuals in that district, and they're constantly redrawn in favor of their own party's interest, so they get to pick what the district looks like based on who will vote for them, assuring they stay in office. It's pretty much BS. Then the (usually) republican elected governors and such will head to congress after essentially rigging the elections in their favor and get bought by lobbyists in exchange for certain laws and regulations passed. This is why the US is the way it is today. Money and cheating. So voting, while a good idea, is probably useless.
I think this is why it's so, so important to be nice these days. Perhaps we can change peoples' minds about how they vote, and then all that gerrymandering will have been for nothing; the votes actually WILL count and then, perhaps, change can happen.
But most importantly, try to focus on the positive. The majority of this country is still on our(?) side. People with a brain see what's happening and know about its devastating effects. And that, at least, stands for something.
Now give me a damn hug.
Thursday, January 5, 2017
Complaining is good for you.
We are all entitled.
No, not like that. We are not entitled to be the first in line, to have the absolute best of everything, and to talk to a manager if we can't get a venti half-caff non-fat no-whip hazelnut mocha frappuccino.
But there are a few things that, I believe, humans are entitled to. We are entitled to have emotions, for example. What I mean by that is that the emotions that we have are natural reactions to situations based on social conditioning. For example, if I become irrationally scared when I see a piece of cheese, it may be because I choked on a piece when I was very young or something. (I'm not actually scared of cheese; I love it.) If I become happy and relaxed by the smell of Toyota air conditioners (shut up, it's a thing) it's because it reminds me of going to the beach with my family in my grandfather's old Toyota. And having those emotions are perfectly natural. We are entitled to them.
However, there seems to be a prevailing opinion by people older than my generation that we're not entitled to have certain emotions. Frequently I hear phrases like "Suck it up," and "In my day, you learned to just deal with it," and that "safe spaces are for people who don't want to have their ideas challenged" (because they don't understand what safe spaces actually are.) But why? Why should we suppress these emotions that are perfectly natural and are, in fact, a product of not only social conditioning but part of our very social and biological evolution?
I think we shouldn't. I think it's okay to complain. I think it's okay to let people know they're being douche bags. And I think that we should get apologies.
Here's where I'm going with this.
Right before the economy crashed in 2008, I graduated with my B.A. and started looking for a job. As you may have guessed, there was nothing. The graphic design field is notoriously difficult to find a job in, but even more so when there simply aren't any jobs available in the area and you don't have enough experience for even an entry level jobs (because, these days, even entry level jobs require experience, which makes no goddamn sense to me.) After some hunting, I was approached by a former graphic design professor who told me that the Writing Center director of the University I attended was looking for a very part-time Web Designer to work on their website. Naturally, I jumped at the chance, even if only to get my foot in the door.
I'll spare all the details, but after about six months, I moved into a full-time office assistant type position where I did all the budgetary stuff, then moved into a "program coordinator" position where I did a lot of tutoring, particularly with multilingual students and students with disabilities. I did this alongside graphic design and budgetary stuff until the director resigned, at which point another person and I actually ran the Center for a year before we hired a new director. Now I'm in the process of moving into a position where I'm only doing graphic design stuff.
Sounds good, right? The old, get your foot in the door and advance in the company story, right?
Well, sort of.
Without naming names, my first boss was.... difficult to work for. For the six and a half years I worked under her, I was treated very poorly. Sometimes I would be treated like her daughter--and in that way she became a mother figure to me--and sometimes she would treat me like a servant not worthy of notice, even yelling at me occasionally for the smallest infraction or passive-aggressively ordering me around and giving me contradictory orders. It got to the point that I was anxious every day before she came in, wondering if she would be in a good mood or not. If she was, I was okay that day. If she wasn't, I knew she would take it out on me. The thing is, because I had grown up in a similar environment (i.e., people with Narcissistic Personality Disorders--this is why she became a mother figure to me so easily) I didn't really know much better. I spent my life walking on eggshells.
That's not to say, however, that I didn't look for other jobs. I did. A lot. I started by going back to get my M.A. in Digital Media Studies; once I got that, I put in something like 150 applications for graphic design-type positions in the Houston area and even got several interviews, only to get turned down for every single one. I was, in a word, stuck.
This may have been mostly me complaining, but I really needed to get some things off my chest. I'd also like to say to other people in similar situations that it's okay to complain; it's okay to let people know you're not okay, and do not ever, ever accept anyone telling you that you shouldn't be complaining or whining. If something is truly wrong, let people know. (I mean if you're just doing it for attention, then seriously, shut up, but if you have a legitimate reason, PLEASE speak up.)
And for everyone else out there: please recognize the suffering of your fellow human beings, and please apologize when you've actually done something wrong to them. (If you haven't and you're being asked to apologize for someone else's shitty behavior toward you, that's probably gaslighting, and you have my permission to smack your abuser in the face.)
No, not like that. We are not entitled to be the first in line, to have the absolute best of everything, and to talk to a manager if we can't get a venti half-caff non-fat no-whip hazelnut mocha frappuccino.
 |
| She wants to speak to your manager. |
However, there seems to be a prevailing opinion by people older than my generation that we're not entitled to have certain emotions. Frequently I hear phrases like "Suck it up," and "In my day, you learned to just deal with it," and that "safe spaces are for people who don't want to have their ideas challenged" (because they don't understand what safe spaces actually are.) But why? Why should we suppress these emotions that are perfectly natural and are, in fact, a product of not only social conditioning but part of our very social and biological evolution?
I think we shouldn't. I think it's okay to complain. I think it's okay to let people know they're being douche bags. And I think that we should get apologies.
Here's where I'm going with this.
I've been through some shit.
Right before the economy crashed in 2008, I graduated with my B.A. and started looking for a job. As you may have guessed, there was nothing. The graphic design field is notoriously difficult to find a job in, but even more so when there simply aren't any jobs available in the area and you don't have enough experience for even an entry level jobs (because, these days, even entry level jobs require experience, which makes no goddamn sense to me.) After some hunting, I was approached by a former graphic design professor who told me that the Writing Center director of the University I attended was looking for a very part-time Web Designer to work on their website. Naturally, I jumped at the chance, even if only to get my foot in the door.
I'll spare all the details, but after about six months, I moved into a full-time office assistant type position where I did all the budgetary stuff, then moved into a "program coordinator" position where I did a lot of tutoring, particularly with multilingual students and students with disabilities. I did this alongside graphic design and budgetary stuff until the director resigned, at which point another person and I actually ran the Center for a year before we hired a new director. Now I'm in the process of moving into a position where I'm only doing graphic design stuff.
Sounds good, right? The old, get your foot in the door and advance in the company story, right?
Well, sort of.
Without naming names, my first boss was.... difficult to work for. For the six and a half years I worked under her, I was treated very poorly. Sometimes I would be treated like her daughter--and in that way she became a mother figure to me--and sometimes she would treat me like a servant not worthy of notice, even yelling at me occasionally for the smallest infraction or passive-aggressively ordering me around and giving me contradictory orders. It got to the point that I was anxious every day before she came in, wondering if she would be in a good mood or not. If she was, I was okay that day. If she wasn't, I knew she would take it out on me. The thing is, because I had grown up in a similar environment (i.e., people with Narcissistic Personality Disorders--this is why she became a mother figure to me so easily) I didn't really know much better. I spent my life walking on eggshells.
That's not to say, however, that I didn't look for other jobs. I did. A lot. I started by going back to get my M.A. in Digital Media Studies; once I got that, I put in something like 150 applications for graphic design-type positions in the Houston area and even got several interviews, only to get turned down for every single one. I was, in a word, stuck.
That's not all I did. More than once, I went to HR to complain about her behavior, only to be told by the director of HR at the time that "Well, there's nothing we can do; she's got tenure and she'll always be the director...." (Little did they know, she would eventually resign.)
In 2014 or so, because she made up her own reality (narcissists often do this) she basically rage-quit over a reorganization of the division the Center is located in. She thought for some reason she was getting demoted and let her ego get in the way of something she had spent her life creating. But that's narcissism for you.
At the same time, she had hired a second program coordinator to create programs and whatnot for incoming Freshmen students. She literally quit the same day that this person was going to begin working. So, being that I had been there for so long, I had to more or less help this person get started. At first, she and I got along pretty well. At some point, this sort of.... changed. I'm not sure exactly what the catalyst was, but she went from getting along with me to suddenly hating me. I tried to talk to her; I drew a picture for her and put it in a card; nothing. Instead, she yelled at me in meetings and spent all her time trying to sabotage my career. This lead to me coming in with some of the highest anxiety I've ever experienced. Every day I had basically constant panic attacks, fearing that people would believe her story over mine and that this long career and reputation that I had at the university would be utterly ruined. At one point, we were pulled into HR along with our temporary supervisor and yelled at by the HR director at the time (who didn't last for long) because we didn't get along. This sociopathic coworker turned the HR director's yelling at both of us into an attack against me by giving me dirty looks and smiling as though it were all my fault.
Finally, we hired our current director, who's the best boss, ever. He helped diffuse the situation by basically telling us not to talk to each other anymore (which was awesome, since it meant that she couldn't send me rude emails anymore). Not too terribly long after this, she left. My interpretation of this is that, since she couldn't order everyone around and break everyone down, she didn't wanna be there. The day she left was one of the happiest days of my life.
Quite a while before she left, while I was in the throes of constant anxiety and desperate for a way out, I reached out to the Associate Vice President of Student Services and asked her about moving into a job wherein I could be the official graphic designer for the division. My former boss and I had thrown around this idea a little, and the AVP was, thankfully, not only receptive to the idea, but replied with, and I quote "Have you been reading my mind?!?" I remember leaving that meeting in tears--tears of joy and relief because finally, there was a way out.
In 2014 or so, because she made up her own reality (narcissists often do this) she basically rage-quit over a reorganization of the division the Center is located in. She thought for some reason she was getting demoted and let her ego get in the way of something she had spent her life creating. But that's narcissism for you.
At the same time, she had hired a second program coordinator to create programs and whatnot for incoming Freshmen students. She literally quit the same day that this person was going to begin working. So, being that I had been there for so long, I had to more or less help this person get started. At first, she and I got along pretty well. At some point, this sort of.... changed. I'm not sure exactly what the catalyst was, but she went from getting along with me to suddenly hating me. I tried to talk to her; I drew a picture for her and put it in a card; nothing. Instead, she yelled at me in meetings and spent all her time trying to sabotage my career. This lead to me coming in with some of the highest anxiety I've ever experienced. Every day I had basically constant panic attacks, fearing that people would believe her story over mine and that this long career and reputation that I had at the university would be utterly ruined. At one point, we were pulled into HR along with our temporary supervisor and yelled at by the HR director at the time (who didn't last for long) because we didn't get along. This sociopathic coworker turned the HR director's yelling at both of us into an attack against me by giving me dirty looks and smiling as though it were all my fault.
Finally, we hired our current director, who's the best boss, ever. He helped diffuse the situation by basically telling us not to talk to each other anymore (which was awesome, since it meant that she couldn't send me rude emails anymore). Not too terribly long after this, she left. My interpretation of this is that, since she couldn't order everyone around and break everyone down, she didn't wanna be there. The day she left was one of the happiest days of my life.
Quite a while before she left, while I was in the throes of constant anxiety and desperate for a way out, I reached out to the Associate Vice President of Student Services and asked her about moving into a job wherein I could be the official graphic designer for the division. My former boss and I had thrown around this idea a little, and the AVP was, thankfully, not only receptive to the idea, but replied with, and I quote "Have you been reading my mind?!?" I remember leaving that meeting in tears--tears of joy and relief because finally, there was a way out.
I knew that this position wouldn't start soon; there was a lot of paperwork and funding and HR BS to deal with and yadda yadda. I figured maybe the next Fall at the earliest (it was around May when I approached her, if I remember.)
Summer 2015 came and went.
Fall 2015 came and went.
Spring 2016 came and went. I was told that I would probably start the job around Jan 1, 2017.
Summer 2016 came and went.
Fall 2016 came and went.
Summer 2015 came and went.
Fall 2015 came and went.
Spring 2016 came and went. I was told that I would probably start the job around Jan 1, 2017.
Summer 2016 came and went.
Fall 2016 came and went.
Jan 1, 2017 has now came and gone. And I'm still not in the position.
The weeks before the winter vacation had been filled with more anxiety, and the few days since I've been back have been even more anxiety filled. I really thought this was a done-deal.
Thankfully, I've been contacted saying that HR has finally finished with something and the AVP and I can meet and finish up any paperwork so we can post the job internally, apply for it, hire me, and put me in it. (It's a formality, but legally they have to post the job.) So.... February at the earliest.
At this point, I think I'll finally feel okay. I won't be anxious about getting into the job, I won't have a horrible boss (I haven't for a while, but still), I won't have a coworker trying to sabotage me..... Maybe I'll be in a better place. Maybe.
Is it wrong to think that, because of everything that's happened to me, that I'm owed a few apologies? Every time I think I should get some, I think no, that's just life--but why? If someone treats you like shit, shouldn't you get an apology for it at the very least?
I have gotten one apology from my boss. Apparently, the sociopathic coworker who tried to sabotage my career used to yell at him, too, and even came to him with problems with one of our coworkers who is literally the nicest, most easy-going person I've ever met. Home girl has problems. And hearing that apology--and that I was not the only one targeted by her crazy--meant the world to me. It's helped me to move on.
But what I haven't gotten is even acknowledgement of the fact that for six and a half years I was psychologically tortured by a micromanaging, passive-aggressive narcissist who took all her problems out on me, and that HR didn't do literally anything to help. I mean, some people know through the grapevine how difficult she is/was, and have said as much, but they've never acknowledged the scope of it, the fact that it still affects me when I interact with my new boss/coworkers who are the exact opposite of her, and the fact that it's one of the things I discuss in therapy. And I've certainly never gotten an apology for it, or for the fact that HR did nothing about it. Is an apology so much to ask?
I've also never gotten an acknowledgement from my former temporary supervisor about the sociopathic coworker--he never even said "yeah, she was crazy," or "you handled it well," or anything. Considering the fact that this person once threatened to write us up if we didn't get along (without ever giving us any strategies to do so), I especially feel I'm owed an apology by him. Otherwise, he and I get along quite well. But that one thing sort of nags away at the back of my mind when I'm around him.
And finally, I haven't gotten an apology for how long it's taken to get me into this (really cushy) graphic design job (nearly two years!!). I don't expect much of an apology for this one, but damn, it would really be nice. I'm really tired of being treated like shit.
The weeks before the winter vacation had been filled with more anxiety, and the few days since I've been back have been even more anxiety filled. I really thought this was a done-deal.
Thankfully, I've been contacted saying that HR has finally finished with something and the AVP and I can meet and finish up any paperwork so we can post the job internally, apply for it, hire me, and put me in it. (It's a formality, but legally they have to post the job.) So.... February at the earliest.
At this point, I think I'll finally feel okay. I won't be anxious about getting into the job, I won't have a horrible boss (I haven't for a while, but still), I won't have a coworker trying to sabotage me..... Maybe I'll be in a better place. Maybe.
And I'm owed some apologies, dammit.
Is it wrong to think that, because of everything that's happened to me, that I'm owed a few apologies? Every time I think I should get some, I think no, that's just life--but why? If someone treats you like shit, shouldn't you get an apology for it at the very least?
I have gotten one apology from my boss. Apparently, the sociopathic coworker who tried to sabotage my career used to yell at him, too, and even came to him with problems with one of our coworkers who is literally the nicest, most easy-going person I've ever met. Home girl has problems. And hearing that apology--and that I was not the only one targeted by her crazy--meant the world to me. It's helped me to move on.
But what I haven't gotten is even acknowledgement of the fact that for six and a half years I was psychologically tortured by a micromanaging, passive-aggressive narcissist who took all her problems out on me, and that HR didn't do literally anything to help. I mean, some people know through the grapevine how difficult she is/was, and have said as much, but they've never acknowledged the scope of it, the fact that it still affects me when I interact with my new boss/coworkers who are the exact opposite of her, and the fact that it's one of the things I discuss in therapy. And I've certainly never gotten an apology for it, or for the fact that HR did nothing about it. Is an apology so much to ask?
I've also never gotten an acknowledgement from my former temporary supervisor about the sociopathic coworker--he never even said "yeah, she was crazy," or "you handled it well," or anything. Considering the fact that this person once threatened to write us up if we didn't get along (without ever giving us any strategies to do so), I especially feel I'm owed an apology by him. Otherwise, he and I get along quite well. But that one thing sort of nags away at the back of my mind when I'm around him.
And finally, I haven't gotten an apology for how long it's taken to get me into this (really cushy) graphic design job (nearly two years!!). I don't expect much of an apology for this one, but damn, it would really be nice. I'm really tired of being treated like shit.
But... Character building!
There are those who will, undoubtedly, say that these experiences helped shape me to the person I am today. And yes, in a way they did. They made me less trustful of people. They've made me more cynical. They've made it harder for me to develop friendships. They've made it a little bit harder for me to reach out to people at work. I completely distrust HR--as far as I'm concerned, HR is out to ruin lives. Go ahead and tell me I'm wrong for thinking these things. I dare you.
All I want, really, is for people to say "I'm sorry. I know it was hard. We should have done something. Can we do anything?"
For a university that goes out of its way, quite frequently, to tell its employees that they care, they do a shitty job of actually caring.
All I want, really, is for people to say "I'm sorry. I know it was hard. We should have done something. Can we do anything?"
For a university that goes out of its way, quite frequently, to tell its employees that they care, they do a shitty job of actually caring.
But other people have it worse.
Okay, no. Shut up. Shut up right there.
Saying something like that invalidates the fact that I have feelings and emotions at all which, as I said before, people just have. We're entitled to have them because they're completely normal--like having arms and legs and eyes. Yes, other people have it worse, and that sucks, but they're not here now and I'm not them and I'm still experiencing really negative emotions and that needs to be recognized.
This kind of talk is common among people who like to gaslight. Gaslighting is a common tactic of narcissists; usually they say something like "Well you wouldn't feel so bad if you didn't do x y z." Basically, they're turning the situation around to make it your fault. They make you feel bad for feeling bad--so don't you dare complain about it. In fact, I recently read an article that was all about how the reason your life sucks is your own fault because you need to stop making excuses and change your life. The thing is, sometimes things are just out of your control.
Saying something like that invalidates the fact that I have feelings and emotions at all which, as I said before, people just have. We're entitled to have them because they're completely normal--like having arms and legs and eyes. Yes, other people have it worse, and that sucks, but they're not here now and I'm not them and I'm still experiencing really negative emotions and that needs to be recognized.
This kind of talk is common among people who like to gaslight. Gaslighting is a common tactic of narcissists; usually they say something like "Well you wouldn't feel so bad if you didn't do x y z." Basically, they're turning the situation around to make it your fault. They make you feel bad for feeling bad--so don't you dare complain about it. In fact, I recently read an article that was all about how the reason your life sucks is your own fault because you need to stop making excuses and change your life. The thing is, sometimes things are just out of your control.
Listen to me now, writer of that article: I was in a horribly shitty situation for 6.5 years and I did everything I could to get out of it, and still couldn't. The only thing I didn't do was quit and go back and live with my family which, unfortunately, would have been an even worse situation. So basically, it was quit and become homeless, or stay there and look for a job I could pay my bills with--which I did, and got exactly nothing. SO.
Shut.
The fuck.
Up.
Up.
And apologize for writing that article.
There is one situation in particular that vividly sticks out in my mind. I was having dinner with some friends a few years ago and complaining about how shitty I felt after an event we all went to; how tired, sore, etc. One person piped up and said "No. You do NOT have the right to complain! I stayed up for 48 hours STRAIGHT doing xyz etc..."
I was so angry at this. When I told her all the shit that I had had to go through in the months leading up to the event, she was surprised and actually seemed a little repentant. But should she have said that I didn't have the right to complain the first place? Helheim no. In fact, I would argue that she should have been complaining with me. This is once again an example of someone invalidating feelings of another person which--sing along if you know the words--is never okay.
There is one situation in particular that vividly sticks out in my mind. I was having dinner with some friends a few years ago and complaining about how shitty I felt after an event we all went to; how tired, sore, etc. One person piped up and said "No. You do NOT have the right to complain! I stayed up for 48 hours STRAIGHT doing xyz etc..."
I was so angry at this. When I told her all the shit that I had had to go through in the months leading up to the event, she was surprised and actually seemed a little repentant. But should she have said that I didn't have the right to complain the first place? Helheim no. In fact, I would argue that she should have been complaining with me. This is once again an example of someone invalidating feelings of another person which--sing along if you know the words--is never okay.
This may have been mostly me complaining, but I really needed to get some things off my chest. I'd also like to say to other people in similar situations that it's okay to complain; it's okay to let people know you're not okay, and do not ever, ever accept anyone telling you that you shouldn't be complaining or whining. If something is truly wrong, let people know. (I mean if you're just doing it for attention, then seriously, shut up, but if you have a legitimate reason, PLEASE speak up.)
And for everyone else out there: please recognize the suffering of your fellow human beings, and please apologize when you've actually done something wrong to them. (If you haven't and you're being asked to apologize for someone else's shitty behavior toward you, that's probably gaslighting, and you have my permission to smack your abuser in the face.)
Monday, November 21, 2016
A letter to congress
The following is an actual letter that I wrote to Representative Pete Olson of District 22 of Texas, the district in which I happen to reside. I would encourage all of you to write your own representatives and congressmen, as well as call them and let them know your stance on the issues they stand for.
__________
Dear Mr. Olson,
I'm writing today as a concerned citizen of not only your district but of the United States. The recent election has shown the racism and lack of education rampant in the US. As an educated woman who works at a university, I am appalled that such things exist at all, and to see them within our government is even more troubling. There are several such issues about which I have specific concerns, and, unfortunately, many of them are listed on your website among the issues about which you are passionate. The most troubling of these issues is that of women’s healthcare. While I will try to keep this letter brief, please be advised that I work in a Writing Center and value knowledge and rhetoric backed by data and statistics rather than, as Stephen Colbert puts it, “truthiness,” or believing something because it feels like it should be right. Since such truthiness has now become the ideological stance of the nation, I feel I must speak out and let you know the actual truth in order to become the best representative you can be.
To begin with, you say on your website that you are a “staunch defender of the unborn.” However, I see nowhere on your site where you mention protecting the lives of children after they have been born; indeed, on your website, you seem to dismiss the lives of many children born to immigrant parents, claiming that Obama’s decision to give children immigrant children under 16 amnesty was “illegal.” Similarly, I see nothing about funding children’s healthcare expenses, particularly for those mothers who, like you, believe that they should not get an abortion and are forced to carry their child to term, despite not being able to financially care for them. Quite the contrary; in your section on health care, you seem to make the claim that getting rid of Obamacare would “...[encourage] a competitive healthcare market.” While this claim has merit in theory, the truth is that the only accomplishments achieved by this action would be “...[increasing] the federal deficit by as much as $353 billion over the next decade” and that those making over $250,000.00 per year, “would escape ACA-related tax increases.” (1) Since Obamacare was signed into law, nearly 17 million people have been given access to healthcare who would not have otherwise gotten it. (2) Since the only benefit to repealing Obamacare would be for the wealthy and would hurt literally millions of Americans--including those who have young children and the children themselves--I must wonder what your true motive is in your many attempts to repeal it. If you are truly pro-life, to use the commonly-used term, will you step up and be pro all life, or just pro unborn life?
Aside from your double-speak stance on healthcare and abortion, there are other facts related to women’s health on your site that are misleading or simply untrue. For example, your belief that “life begins at conception” would make every woman capable of producing ovum to be an occasional murderer. Scientifically and medically speaking, while sperm may quite often find an egg and fertilize it, it is also as likely that the now-fertilized egg will then not take root on the uterine lining. When this happens, the fertilized egg is shed as though it had never been fertilized at all. For more information about a way a woman’s body works, I would invite you to view the Crash Course series on the reproductive system: https://youtu.be/RFDatCchpus Furthermore, I would invite you to consider your position from a woman’s point of view; would you want to be called a murderer by someone who has no idea what pregnancy and, for that matter, your natural reproductive cycle are actually like? I say these things not to antagonize, but to invite you to consider these issues from the perspective of those whom this will affect.
Yet another issue on your website that is rife with misinformation is the Planned Parenthood issue. Your belief is succinctly illuminated by the statement “I do not believe taxpayer dollars should be spent on these organizations.” Your website would suggest, as do many other conservative websites, that Planned Parenthood’s major function is to perform abortions; you use language such as “organizations that perform abortions” when talking about Planned Parenthood. This language is not only biased but reveals a lack of information and helps to spread misinformation to those who view your site. According to Factcheck.org, only 3% of Planned Parenthood’s patient care is for abortions; 35% goes to contraceptives (which prevent abortions in the first place), another 35% to Sexually Transmitted Illness screening, 16% to cancer screenings and prevention, and 11% to other health services, most of them specifically women’s health services. More importantly, by law, abortions cannot receive federal funding; all the current funding goes to desperately needed health services for women. (3) Once again, I must question your motives, since, as with your healthcare stance, it seems you wish to defund programs for those who need it the most. I therefore must reiterate my question: are you really pro-life?
Related to this issue is your discussion of the video which surfaced in 2015 of the so-called “undercover footage” from Planned Parenthood. Whether or not this is simply outdated information or an example of willing suspension of disbelief in favor of cognitive dissonance, I don’t know, but as of August 27, 2015, these videos had been exposed as fake; Jackie Calmes, in a New York Times article, reported that “‘A thorough review of these videos in consultation with qualified experts found that they do not present a complete or accurate record of the events they purport to depict,’ the analysis of a private research company said.” (4) I would like to request that you update this information on your website in light of this fact and please not continue to spread this misinformation. I would also hope that this may help you to reconsider your view on organizations which help women such as Planned Parenthood.
As a woman, I am very concerned by the aforementioned issues and your stance on them. It is deeply disconcerting to discover that decisions can be made about your body over which you have no control. I am fortunate in that I have a condition known as Premature Ovavrian failure with Primary Amenorrhea, which means that I am unable to produce ovum and cannot naturally conceive; because of this, I have to take birth control in order to get the needed hormones for my body to function correctly. Therefore, personally, I am concerned that I may have to once again begin paying for birth control if Obamacare is repealed, which is an added expense that I, a middle-class single woman, cannot afford. Frankly, I am also scared that these restrictions on women’s health are just the tip of a larger, anti-women iceberg. As a final plea, please take the time to read the account of a deeply religious LDS woman from Utah who had to have a late-term abortion in order to save her own life; she describes it as a harrowing experience, none the less so because she had to wait for an ethics committee to decide whether or not her life could be saved(!). (5) Because of all of this, I must inform you that, until your stances change and you publicly denounce Donald Trump, my colleagues, friends, and I will not be voting for you during the next election cycle--and believe me, we will be voting.
All the best,
Katie Hart
_____________________________
1 http://www.latimes.com/business/hiltzik/la-fi-mh-cbo-repealing-obamacare-20150619-column.html
2 http://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2015-05-06/health-how-17-million-people-got-insurance-under-obamacare
3 http://www.factcheck.org/2011/04/planned-parenthood/
4 http://www.nytimes.com/2015/08/28/us/abortion-planned-parenthood-videos.html?_r=0
5 http://www.dailykos.com/story/2016/10/20/1584899/-After-the-debate-a-Utah-woman-stepped-up-to-share-her-late-term-abortion-story-and-it-s-going-viral
Wednesday, November 16, 2016
I will see you again in the place where no shadows fall
I had originally intended this blog to be a socio-political type blog, but I need to type some things out so I can process them.
Today, I had to do one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I had to take my 15-year-old dog, Sheila, to the vet to be euthanized.
I first saw Sheila when she was only two days old. My aunt, at the time, was living in Tulsa and had come down for a visit. In an attempt to keep her entertained, my grandmother suggested we go to the SPCA and see some of the animals, since my aunt and I are both animal lovers. We enthusiastically agreed.
When we got there, there she was: a beautiful, tiny, red merle Australian Shepherd amongst a litter of 6 other tiny, two-day-old Aussie pups and their beautiful blue merle mother. I had never had a dog before, though I had grown up around my aunt's dogs, but I nonetheless knew almost immediately that I wanted to have the little red merle as my own. In the coming weeks, I visited her frequently and very easily picked out a name for her: Sheila, because that's Australian slang for woman. She became Sheila Matilda because of the song Waltzing Matilda. I looked forward to the day I could bring her home.
When she was just three weeks old, however, my grandmother came to pick me up from school and had Sheila in a laundry basket in the front seat. I was obviously quite surprised; I remember saying "Sheila! What are you doing here?" in a surprised tone, and my grandmother, somewhat flabbergasted, sighing and saying "Get in the car." It turned out that, despite the five other three-week-old Australian Shepherd pups at the SPCA, they had decided to put the mother down because she was, quote, "bleeding from the rectum." They never really investigated why or what to do about it; they just euthanized her, and, at three weeks old, Sheila was left on our hands. I was furious at them, as you might imagine. While I was looking forward to bringing Sheila home, this was not how I wanted to do it. Moreover, now we had to bottle feed her every few hours throughout the night. Nonetheless, we did it all; we bottle-fed her, got her used to solid food, potty trained her--all of it. For all intents and purposes, we were all Sheila ever really knew.
She loved us all enthusiastically, and I loved her every minute she was alive.
For the last few months, Sheila has been rapidly declining. She has been in the advanced stages of dementia for some time now, and a few weeks ago I was told of this and had to begin to accept Sheila's coming end. That was hard enough. Then, last Saturday, my grandmother and mother and I decided that today we would do the humane thing and end her suffering. After the fear and disgust of last week's election, combined with finding out my grandparents voted for Trump, it was too much to handle.
I was surprisingly able to sleep last night, even though I've been in the habit for the past few nights of waking up at 3:30 or so and eventually drifting back off to sleep. I had my alarm set for 6 a.m. and when it finally went off I was ready to get up. I knew that the dreaded day had come but there was something in my unconscious that prevented me from completely accepting this; I got up and went about my morning as I usually did with little to no emotion attached to it.
The big difference between this morning and most mornings was that I took an unusually long time to get ready; typically I'll pull my hair up, maybe put on makeup if I feel like it, put on some decent work clothes, and head to work. This morning, as though my sub- or un-conscious brain were trying to delay the inevitable, I woke up, brushed my teeth, washed my face, put in contacts (I've been in the habit of wearing glasses), fixed my hair, decided I didn't like it, re-fixed it a bit, did some rather extensive makeup, dried some clothes to put on, went back and did my hair yet a third time, took my pills and vitamins, and checked Facebook, all before heading out the door. Outwardly I continued to show no emotion, even as I made the drive back to Angleton to see Sheila one last time, who had been living with my grandparents since I moved out of their house.
I thought I might cry after she passed away, but even before that, the moment I saw her, I broke into tears. The thing is, I didn't get emotional because I knew she would leave us soon, but because of the state in which I found her. My grandparents had been doing everything they could to take care of her, but even then, she could barely move, had been howling in confusion and probably pain, had a strange growth on her eye, and had basically peed on herself because she couldn't get up to go outside and, when she did, according to my grandfather, all she did was walk in circles. That was the proverbial straw that broke my emotion-camel's back; I sat down with her and pet her, trying to soothe her, and talked to my aunt who was doing the same. Soon my aunt and I loaded her into my aunt's SUV and headed off to the vet.
I sat in the back with Sheila. The ride there was nerve-wracking. I kept pulling Sheila close to me and holding on to her, which seemed to comfort her enough to keep her from howling for short periods of time and also from sliding off the car seat. It was nonetheless very hard to deal with. I kept thinking to myself, Sheila's already gone. This isn't my funny, happy-go-lucky dog who runs in the back yard and gets in everyone's lap and begs for treats; this is a shell of her former self. This isn't Sheila.
We eventually got to the vet and some vet techs came out with a smallish stretcher of sorts to carry her in. I was stunned to learn she had also lost a vast amount of weight, despite the fact that she had apparently been eating quite a bit; according to my grandmother, her blood work had been quite good, but something else was very, very wrong. I could feel her spine and when they weighed her at the vet, she weighed 15 pounds less than she once did, which is quite substantial for a dog. They then took her into a room and placed her on a blanket while they got everything ready; I followed them back because I wanted to say goodbye to the beautiful canine I had known since she was 2 days old.
With every moment my resolve strengthened; I was sure that what we were doing was the right thing, and that she had, in fact, been suffering for too long. This amazing dog did not deserve to suffer even a second more.
I had already been crying a bit by that point, but the worst was yet to come. The vet, who was very nice and sympathetic, took her for a bit to put in an IV, and then brought her back and placed her on a blanket on the exam table, and so the end began. He first injected a sedative and some anesthetic into the IV as I pet her on the head and stared her in the eyes, saying "I love you, Sheila. I'll always love you." She quickly drifted off to sleep but continued to make some grunting and huffing noises. It wasn't much longer until the vet injected the meds that would stop her heart; very soon after, he listened for a heartbeat and said, quietly, "She's gone." He then left the room to give me some time to grieve alone.
I'm glad he gave me this time. I haven't cried as hard as that in a very long time. I continued to pet her on the head, giving her kisses on her head and snout, stroking her beautiful red-merle fur, and reiterating that I would always love her and instructing her to sleep sweetly. I could have probably stayed in that room kissing her and crying for much longer; I'm not sure how I was able to eventually pull myself away from her, but through sheer force of will I did, and then gently knocked on the door to alert the vet that I was done saying my goodbyes.
It seems so surreal, and I'm constantly on the verge of tears, even though I'm back home with my spoiled-rotten cat, Loki. On the days leading up to this I had been feeling paralyzing fear to the point that I had my first full-blown panic attack in a long time, as well as extreme sadness over the loss of such a beloved soul. However, ultimately I'm happy that she's not suffering anymore; no one deserves to suffer like she did, and I'm glad I could be there to take it away for her.
Let's waltz Matilda one more time, Sheila.
The Tale of the Best Australian Shepherd, Ever
 |
| Sheila thought she belonged in everyone's lap. She did. |
Today, I had to do one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I had to take my 15-year-old dog, Sheila, to the vet to be euthanized.
***
I first saw Sheila when she was only two days old. My aunt, at the time, was living in Tulsa and had come down for a visit. In an attempt to keep her entertained, my grandmother suggested we go to the SPCA and see some of the animals, since my aunt and I are both animal lovers. We enthusiastically agreed.
When we got there, there she was: a beautiful, tiny, red merle Australian Shepherd amongst a litter of 6 other tiny, two-day-old Aussie pups and their beautiful blue merle mother. I had never had a dog before, though I had grown up around my aunt's dogs, but I nonetheless knew almost immediately that I wanted to have the little red merle as my own. In the coming weeks, I visited her frequently and very easily picked out a name for her: Sheila, because that's Australian slang for woman. She became Sheila Matilda because of the song Waltzing Matilda. I looked forward to the day I could bring her home.
 |
| Sheila after her first bath |
When she was just three weeks old, however, my grandmother came to pick me up from school and had Sheila in a laundry basket in the front seat. I was obviously quite surprised; I remember saying "Sheila! What are you doing here?" in a surprised tone, and my grandmother, somewhat flabbergasted, sighing and saying "Get in the car." It turned out that, despite the five other three-week-old Australian Shepherd pups at the SPCA, they had decided to put the mother down because she was, quote, "bleeding from the rectum." They never really investigated why or what to do about it; they just euthanized her, and, at three weeks old, Sheila was left on our hands. I was furious at them, as you might imagine. While I was looking forward to bringing Sheila home, this was not how I wanted to do it. Moreover, now we had to bottle feed her every few hours throughout the night. Nonetheless, we did it all; we bottle-fed her, got her used to solid food, potty trained her--all of it. For all intents and purposes, we were all Sheila ever really knew.
She loved us all enthusiastically, and I loved her every minute she was alive.
 |
| She loved being outside. |
***
For the last few months, Sheila has been rapidly declining. She has been in the advanced stages of dementia for some time now, and a few weeks ago I was told of this and had to begin to accept Sheila's coming end. That was hard enough. Then, last Saturday, my grandmother and mother and I decided that today we would do the humane thing and end her suffering. After the fear and disgust of last week's election, combined with finding out my grandparents voted for Trump, it was too much to handle.
I was surprisingly able to sleep last night, even though I've been in the habit for the past few nights of waking up at 3:30 or so and eventually drifting back off to sleep. I had my alarm set for 6 a.m. and when it finally went off I was ready to get up. I knew that the dreaded day had come but there was something in my unconscious that prevented me from completely accepting this; I got up and went about my morning as I usually did with little to no emotion attached to it.
The big difference between this morning and most mornings was that I took an unusually long time to get ready; typically I'll pull my hair up, maybe put on makeup if I feel like it, put on some decent work clothes, and head to work. This morning, as though my sub- or un-conscious brain were trying to delay the inevitable, I woke up, brushed my teeth, washed my face, put in contacts (I've been in the habit of wearing glasses), fixed my hair, decided I didn't like it, re-fixed it a bit, did some rather extensive makeup, dried some clothes to put on, went back and did my hair yet a third time, took my pills and vitamins, and checked Facebook, all before heading out the door. Outwardly I continued to show no emotion, even as I made the drive back to Angleton to see Sheila one last time, who had been living with my grandparents since I moved out of their house.
I thought I might cry after she passed away, but even before that, the moment I saw her, I broke into tears. The thing is, I didn't get emotional because I knew she would leave us soon, but because of the state in which I found her. My grandparents had been doing everything they could to take care of her, but even then, she could barely move, had been howling in confusion and probably pain, had a strange growth on her eye, and had basically peed on herself because she couldn't get up to go outside and, when she did, according to my grandfather, all she did was walk in circles. That was the proverbial straw that broke my emotion-camel's back; I sat down with her and pet her, trying to soothe her, and talked to my aunt who was doing the same. Soon my aunt and I loaded her into my aunt's SUV and headed off to the vet.
I sat in the back with Sheila. The ride there was nerve-wracking. I kept pulling Sheila close to me and holding on to her, which seemed to comfort her enough to keep her from howling for short periods of time and also from sliding off the car seat. It was nonetheless very hard to deal with. I kept thinking to myself, Sheila's already gone. This isn't my funny, happy-go-lucky dog who runs in the back yard and gets in everyone's lap and begs for treats; this is a shell of her former self. This isn't Sheila.
We eventually got to the vet and some vet techs came out with a smallish stretcher of sorts to carry her in. I was stunned to learn she had also lost a vast amount of weight, despite the fact that she had apparently been eating quite a bit; according to my grandmother, her blood work had been quite good, but something else was very, very wrong. I could feel her spine and when they weighed her at the vet, she weighed 15 pounds less than she once did, which is quite substantial for a dog. They then took her into a room and placed her on a blanket while they got everything ready; I followed them back because I wanted to say goodbye to the beautiful canine I had known since she was 2 days old.
With every moment my resolve strengthened; I was sure that what we were doing was the right thing, and that she had, in fact, been suffering for too long. This amazing dog did not deserve to suffer even a second more.
I had already been crying a bit by that point, but the worst was yet to come. The vet, who was very nice and sympathetic, took her for a bit to put in an IV, and then brought her back and placed her on a blanket on the exam table, and so the end began. He first injected a sedative and some anesthetic into the IV as I pet her on the head and stared her in the eyes, saying "I love you, Sheila. I'll always love you." She quickly drifted off to sleep but continued to make some grunting and huffing noises. It wasn't much longer until the vet injected the meds that would stop her heart; very soon after, he listened for a heartbeat and said, quietly, "She's gone." He then left the room to give me some time to grieve alone.
I'm glad he gave me this time. I haven't cried as hard as that in a very long time. I continued to pet her on the head, giving her kisses on her head and snout, stroking her beautiful red-merle fur, and reiterating that I would always love her and instructing her to sleep sweetly. I could have probably stayed in that room kissing her and crying for much longer; I'm not sure how I was able to eventually pull myself away from her, but through sheer force of will I did, and then gently knocked on the door to alert the vet that I was done saying my goodbyes.
It seems so surreal, and I'm constantly on the verge of tears, even though I'm back home with my spoiled-rotten cat, Loki. On the days leading up to this I had been feeling paralyzing fear to the point that I had my first full-blown panic attack in a long time, as well as extreme sadness over the loss of such a beloved soul. However, ultimately I'm happy that she's not suffering anymore; no one deserves to suffer like she did, and I'm glad I could be there to take it away for her.
Let's waltz Matilda one more time, Sheila.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)