#MeToo

I originally posted this on social media, but several people kept asking to share my status. Because of my privacy settings, that required a lot of copy and pasting and was difficult for people not directly connected to me. So I’m just going to go ahead and toss this up here for sharing purposes. And for what it’s worth, here’s some receipts on me already saying #metoo over and over and over and over and over (major CW on some of those). People everywhere have stories like these! You just have to listen to them.

I am late to the #metoo party because I don’t know that I have the energy to say Me Too anymore. I’ve been saying Me Too for years now, and it’s emotionally exhausting. The main thing I get back from saying Me Too is more Me Toos from other women.

You know what I almost never get? Men saying anything at all. At some point, it stops feeling empowering to hear from so many other women about their shared experience. Instead of feeling less alone, I just feel like a repository of other women’s secrets, having nightmares about their experiences and feeling powerless to change anything.

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Twenty-Nine

A few years ago, when I was feeling pathetic and homesick in Scotland, I saw a video posted on a blog I occasionally read. Its appeal was twofold: first, the creator of this video clearly lived in DC, a place I was desperately missing, and second, the content was so familiar that it could have belonged to any twenty-something living in the District [of a certain demographic slice of society].

Fast-forward a few years and I decided to make my own version. Despite never being without my phone, I found it surprisingly difficult to remember to shoot a couple seconds of video every day. Either things seemed too mundane to bother filming, or too engaging  in the moment to step back and capture from behind a lens. Nevertheless, I managed to grab something from most days between 29 and 30, and now here we are:

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PTSD

This is an essay I wrote in July 2013. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was the exact moment when my world imploded. I’m happy to report that I have since rebuilt my life with the help of family, friends, medication, and extensive therapy, and I am stronger and better for it.

The first step in that process was finally acknowledging and opening up about my experiences with sexual assault. In sharing this essay with an increasingly wide net of friends, I have learned that almost every other woman in my life has had to deal with sexual harassment and violence in some measure, but almost none of them talks about it. That is why I am publishing this essay at long last.

I believe that as a society, we need to hear the voices of more survivors of sexual violence. The taboo surrounding discussion of sexual assault, rape, and abuse is too strong to prevent it from happening, and it is too strong to help victims heal. If I had felt more comfortable talking about my own history, I don’t think I would have become as sick as I did. But I also believe that no individual survivor owes it to a single person to talk about their experiences. So that leaves me. My own voice.

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2016: Year of The Rock

This past weekend, I had a friend staying with me for New Year’s Eve. K and I tricked her into stretching out her visit out way longer than she had planned, and the three of us spent most of the weekend holed up in my tiny studio apartment, playing out an extended version of a 12 year old’s slumber party. We even watched The Craft!

Amongst the many conversation topics it takes to fill two straight days of talking, we spent a good chunk of time going down an Enneagram* rabbit hole. (If you’re not familiar with Enneagrams, think Meyer’s Briggs, without being a complete piece of shit like Meyers Briggs. Don’t try to put me into one of 16 discrete boxes, you reductionist survey! YOU DON’T KNOW MY LIFE!) Comparing our personality types quickly devolved into comparing the worst, most unhealthy aspects of our personality types, and boy was it fun. Here are some choice excerpts from my profile, Five:

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Felicia Day, Fear, Failure, and Me

This past Thursday, I finally read Felicia Day’s new book. Well, technically, I listened to Felicia Day’s new book, for specific medical reasons. But we’ll get there.

To say that I enjoyed You’re Never Weird on the Internet (Almost) would be an understatement. I’d like to think that most people would at least enjoy this book. It’s funny and poignant and extremely weird–all the things you would expect from a memoir by Felicia Day. But I’m not convinced that most people would love it as if Felicia Day and the universe at large conspired to write and publish this one specific book to be found and consumed by one specific reader at one specific point in their timeline.

That’s the degree of my love for this book. It was only a couple days ago, but I’m pretty sure this book changed my life.

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Hatoful Failure

This past Monday, my friend No H invited me over to her place to play video games. “Hatoful Boyfriend was on sale for $5!!” she said enthusiastically. Hatoful Boyfriend is a Japanese dating sim that No H has been desperate to play ever since it was featured on Day9’s old Geek & Sundry show, Meta Dating.  For those of you that don’t understand any of the words in that sentence, a dating sim is a type of video game that basically functions as a choose-your-own-adventure romance novel, where the primary objective of the game is to date someone. Choices you make, such as what outfit to wear or how to flirt with another character affect which of the love interests you can end up with as well as your ultimate success in the game.

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