Things Not Said

Today, I sent a rep at my job an email that was direct, but not disrespectful in the least.  I am helping him do his job (to be clear, not my job), in addition to doing my job.  He was rude and abrasive in his email he sent me to do his job, and I responded not even in kind.  I even had a coworker read my response before I sent it to him to make sure my disgust and frustration with him was not coming through in my email.  I just wanted to make sure I was clear and stand up for myself for once.

And know what happened?

He escalated my email to his managers who then sent it to my manager for which I received a kindly but sternly worded reprimand for the way I spoke with this rep.

To be clear and transparent, this was the email I sent:

“Rep, 

As I told you I would, I did send emails to everyone on the list on March 8th.  As I did not have access to the list at the time I sent them, I could not update the spreadsheet.  You granted me access, so thank you, but as I stated prior, I was out basically all of last week with the flu, so no I have not had a chance to update anything.  My leads have to come first, so updating the list cannot be my priority, when I'm out for a week and have leads I have to work. 

I will update the list at my earliest convenience, but with the exception of one "unsubscribe," I have nothing more to report other than the fact that those emails were sent.  If there was more, I would let you know. 

Since there was no activity to discuss, I did not think it was a good use of either of our times to keep this meeting, especially as I am playing catch up. 

In the future, I will keep our meeting time, but as I told you I would, I will keep you abreast of what is going on as it is going on.  When I get a chance, I will update the list; for now if you need to report to management, you can just let them know that everyone on the list received a first touch email, and only one responded with an "Unsubscribe" – Name, Company.

 Thank you, 

Kerissa”

I do not like this person, but because my pay is oft dependent upon them converting my leads, I basically have to do anything they want me to do.  It’s like my team is a team of work prostitutes.  We consistently are told we have to “stroke the reps egos” and basically worship the ground they walk upon.  And we do it.  Because if we don’t, they can fuck with our pay and make our lives a living hell. 

Why do we live in a world where, when one voice finally speaks up, I get in trouble for being a goddamn person?  With feelings.  And limits. And boundaries.

Why do we live in a world where grown men can talk to us however they want, because “me man, you woman,” and the moment we speak up for ourselves, like we are supposedly allowed – nay, SUPPOSED to do, the same macho man turns into an overgrown baby and has to tattle to his manager that little Kerissa hurt his ever fragile feelings?

Why do we live in a world where the people at the top who can make a difference choose not to and then silence the people at the bottom who try to? 

Guys, I’m so tired.   Why does every job I have drain the literal life out of me?  Is there even a position that exists where you can be respected and still kind at the same time?  Is that even a thing?? 

Dear friends,

I am writing this letter, and it is long overdue.  I write it with a saddened but softened heart.  I remember back in high school, either my freshman or sophomore year, I had two very good friends.  I think their names were Athena and Pablo.  Kids were not nice to me at my high school; I was an outsider who hadn’t grown up in Richardson, TX, threatened their status as the most intelligent student in the class (not intentionally – I just used to be really smart, I guess?), and was respectful of and reverent to all authority figures, which gave me the quick label of “teacher’s pet” in almost every class.  Girls excluded me from activities; boys didn’t even look at me sideways; and the only time people wanted to interact with me was when they wanted to use my brain or my work ethic to their advantage.

And yet, in my gym class – where I was terrible at gym-ing (I know nothing) – there were two lovely people who reached out to me, the girl who sat alone in the bleachers, hiding her face and sometimes her tears in a book.  Pablo and Athena were kind to me when almost no one else was; moreover, they were my friends.

A ways into our relationship, I found out that both Pablo and Athena were homosexuals. I had never personally met a homosexual person before, and all I knew was what I heard at church.

“Homosexuals are the most sinful of all, giving into the worst of fleshly perversions.”

“Homosexuals will live a life of pleasure but burn in the eternal fires of hell.”

“Homosexuals are not people to be associated with.”

 I immediately became uncomfortable around them, recoiling at Pablo’s touch when he would hug me and answering Athena’s conversations in as few words as possible, lest I be struck dead for having associated – nay, befriended – not one, but TWO homosexuals.  We slowly grew more and more distant, until they both finally confronted me and asked me what was wrong.

I don’t remember the exact words I said, but the gist was, “I am a Christian, and you both are homosexuals.  I can no longer be friends with you, because you are sinning.”

And I think that’s the last time we spoke.

 To Athena and Pablo, I am sorry.  At the time, I was doing what I believed was right in the eyes of God, my family, and my church.  I did not know any different, and I was still growing in my faith as a Christian and learning how to read and interpret the Bible myself.  I was ignorant, and what I did to you all was deplorable.  I bit both hands that had fed me, and walked away without a second thought.  I used my religion that day to “promote social inequality and social conflict” (Sociology 659).

 I am 24 years old now, and what I made happen between us breaks my heart.  I cannot find either of you to say how sorry I am, and to explain that every single one of us sins, and no sin is greater than another in God’s eyes – the adulterers, the thieves, the murderers; we don’t revoke their civil rights the way we do towards homosexuals.  That is not our right.  I learned as I grew that the love of God is not like that.  I am supposed to love every person I come into contact with, even my enemies!  And you all were not my enemies.  I know that this experience helped shape me, but I hate that this happened.  I pray for you two sometimes, and I ask for forgiveness for the hateful thing that I did in my ignorance.

 I want to use my Christianity to “motivate people to work for positive social change” (Sociology 659).  That is why I want to say that I am sorry.  Not only to Athena and Pablo, but to every homosexual who has had the Christian finger of disapproval wagged in their face instead of being shown the love of Jesus Christ and being led by example.

 I am so so sorry.

 All the best,

I love you. You make me mad sometimes, but that's just what people do to each other; we bug each other. You can be bothersome, and I can be hella irritable. It doesn't make me love you any less; it just makes us more human, which makes me love you more.

I get scared sometimes. Scared that you'll wake up one day and finally realize what a burden I am and that I'm easy to love but difficult to live with.

My heart gets so sad sometimes. I am filled with dread, a sense of impending doom, and ever present irrational fears that make me not want to be around anyone or do anything. And then you stay with me, but in doing so, you miss out on life, and how unfair that is to you sorrows me.

I hurt sometimes. My body won't let me catch a break, so if it's not one part of me, it's another. And it confuses me and hurts and hurts, but I don't know how to fix it.

I smile a lot. More than I feel like it, because I don't want to have to explain the unexplainable -- the feelings I myself cannot figure out. So it's easier to fake a smile sometimes.

I have troubles. I know we all do. Just feels like mine often wind up burdening others so very much.

There is a common belief in the United States that the poor are poor because they just don’t work hard enough, don’t set the right goals, make bad decisions, or are not smart enough.  I know people personally who believe this, and to be honest, it blows my mind. Like seriously, I wouldn’t even expect the people I associate with to believe something so self-centered and blatantly wrong.

And yes, I am judging you right now.  And I’ll tell you why. Literally any one of us can have a fall from good fortune and grace.  Literally any one of us can wind up with little to nothing at all. Literally any one of us can be living to paycheck to paycheck.  Who are you to tell a single mother of four who is working two jobs and doing everything she can to set her kids up for better that she is lazy or unintelligent?  What gives you the right to disparage the homeless veteran who gave his time and physical and mental health to a country that didn’t value him enough to help him re-assimilate when he came home?  And what of the young teen couple who made some mistakes but are trying so hard to finish school and still take care of their child while having to lose out on their own childhood? Are we to tell them that they made bad decisions, so they will be poor forever?

I grew up in a categorically poor household.  I watched my dad work his butt off every day. He worked whatever job he could, and yes he liked some and disliked others:  cleaning, programming computers, teaching in dangerous inner city schools, commuting every week from Illinois to Oklahoma to work and family, and holding a full-time (and then some) job while dealing with renal failure.  My dad has a high school diploma, a bachelor’s degree, and a master’s degree. He started at a disadvantage in the USA, being an immigrant and no less a Haitian one. He had and still has an accent. His parents were immigrants too and worked their way up from having almost nothing when they immigrated here.  But my dad worked so hard to get to where he did. And you know what? It still wasn’t good enough. Not because he wasn’t smart. Not because he didn’t work hard. Not because he made bad decisions – he made some of the best, for himself and for his family.

So why wasn’t it good enough?  Why were we so low income? Why were we constantly pinching pennies and barely scraping by?  Because sometimes, no matter how hard you work or how crazy smart you are, you still get the short end of the stick.  And let me tell you this, in the United States of America, the black male, Haitian immigrant, medical disability, has an accent stick is VERY short.

So maybe we should look at some of these factors that affect the poor so often.  Maybe, instead of selfishly and arrogantly assuming that those who hold the wealth in our country are the smartest, most hard-working, most skilled people, we should look at the better opportunities often afforded to them – or that they are often just born into – and be grateful for those.  And in that gratitude, recognize that sometimes others just need a little help, so that they might have even a fraction of those opportunities.

So...  there’s been a recent (like a week ago-ish) new development in my life...

I think I’m in a relationship, y’all.  I sure as heck hope so.  Because he’s kind of awesome.  Just saying.

So I’ve been talking to this guy for I think a little over two months now, and he’s been patient enough to wait to meet me, even after I had a housesitting job, then moved, then went and got deathly ill for almost a month.  And he could have blown me off -- or assumed that I was blowing him off -- and obviously found someone prettier and more outgoing and more available than me.  And in today’s world and our society, I think I would have been disheartened but sadly not surprised if he had.  BUT he didn’t.

And it’s easy to have a crush on someone online, but I wasn’t sure how I would feel when we met in person.  I was SO nervous.  Full disclosure:  I arrived at the restaurant and almost didn’t go in.  But I reminded myself that I am a big girl and not a bitch.  And I’m so relieved I did.  Because he’s pretty amazing.  And in less than half an hour, I wasn’t nervous anymore.  I felt comfortable and content.  And those are good feelings.

AND HE’S A FREAKING UNICORN.  I had no expectations, but he paid for dinner, on our first freaking date!  And I was worried that he might not wanna have a second, because I don’t think I’m that interesting to be around, but he initiated and was like, “I’m free to hang out tomorrow,” all cool-like.  And I had to act like I was as cool he is, and be like, “Yeah, I think I’m free; let’s hang,” even though in my head, I was screaming, “OH MY GOD, YES PLEASE!”

And he opened the door for me to get into the car, y’all!!!  Like a true freaking gentleman!!  And he didn’t jump right into talking about sex when we met online and asking me for gross favors -- or demanding, like some guys seem to think is okay.  And he’s open and honest, and he expects honesty from me too, which I appreciate.  And he has a ton of siblings, and he’s close with his family.

And GOD, his eyes!  He’s like beautifully handsome.  And his hair looks as soft as a baby’s, but I don’t think it’s appropriate to just touch someone’s hair or to randomly ask to -- hint, hint, wink, wink, people who ask to touch my hair -_-.

And... I realize I’m gushing and rambling!  It’s not on purpose.  I think I’m like insanely and possibly prematurely smitten with him.  And he makes me feel pretty, just by looking at me.  And that like feels great, because I honestly don’t feel pretty most of the time -- even though I really like my lips -- and guys especially don’t make me feel pretty.  And everyone tells me how awesome and “beautiful” I am and what a catch I am, but if I literally threw myself at people, I swear nobody would catch me (so also, please quit telling me that).

I don't think that's a hashtag, but it should be. So people know. So we get a little bit of Justice and don't have to keep their names secret, while they get to get away with it and maybe do it again.

So, name them:

Guys, I’m gonna keep this one brief.  I’m not going into a ton of detail, because I don’t have the energy right now.  It’s just too draining.

I just had a cry in the shower.  I had to sit down, I was crying so hard.  I tried to breathe, without catching water in my mouth.  My chest was hurting.  My soul was aching.

And I knew why this was such a painful cry.  Because I had been keeping it in for weeks, cashing in my tears for the physical pain I had been in with the gastritis.  But I knew that these tears would come eventually.  I’m just so relieved that I was home.  And in the shower, where sound of the water could cover up my sorrow.

I reported the rape a few months ago.  I did everything I could to prove that Matt had raped me.  I had to see his horrifically evil face and identify him in a photo line-up.  I gave every account I had kept in journals and notebooks and letters to my family members, the phone that should have had the evidence on it (but my brother swept it, not knowing how important it was that I hadn’t done so).  I had to recount the entire story to a police officer, then again to the detective, then again on paper -- filling over eight pages.

I did everything I could, but I had no expectation of a prosecution.

And the week before I got sick, I got the call:  “There just isn’t enough evidence for a prosecution.  But we’ll keep it on file.”

And even though I had prepped myself for weeks, it still hurt.  In addition to the physical pain in my belly, now I was carrying around an emotional weight in there too.

And I finally heaved it up in the shower tonight.

It was a cry of sorrow.  A cry of anger at the system that won’t actually help us if we don’t report immediately and get a rape kit done, like the rape wasn’t traumatic enough.  A cry of rage that Matt even got the “opportunity to tell ‘his side.’”  A cry of frustration with myself for not going sooner to report.

But also a cry of relief that I had done the absolute best I could and had finally been able to report it.  And a cry of hope that it IS in the system, so if any other girl (or guy) reports him, my report will set off a red flag and could help that person.  And a cry of finality with the whole ordeal; once I go pick up all the evidence I had submitted, I don’t have to go back again and sit in another room recounting one of -- if not the -- the worst things that has ever happened to me.

I don’t always feel highly favored, but I oft feel so very blessed.  And I realize, just because I don’t feel so, it doesn’t mean it’s not so.

I planned on writing a blog post as I sat in the shower bawling -- like I do sometimes.  Don’t we all?  But I got out of the shower to see a message from a dear old family friend from my youth, asking me to call her so we could talk.  I freaked out for a second that I had missed my chance while weeping and luxuriating in the shower, but alas, I had only been ten minutes (so rare).

I got dressed and called her.  My heart was filled with gratitude, love, and wonder.  Even though I haven’t seen her in many, many years, conversation was as comfortable as if I seen her just yesterday.  And conversation was real and honest.  So it was even better than when I was a sophomore in high school almost ten years ago.

I shed some tears, as quietly as I could, as she spoke and listened in love.  And then she prayed with me, and even though my breath was catching and those ridiculous tears were rolling down my cheeks again, I felt a blanket of peace wrap around my shoulders, like she was giving me a hug, even though she was miles away.

My sister was practicing her palpations on me for her upcoming practical, when she had to find muscles and bones in my legs.  I tried to no avail to keep the giggles from frothing out of my lips, but I could not.  She looked up at me, confused, and tried to find the muscle again.  I jerked away, barking out a laugh.

“Are you ticklish?!”

“YES.  VERY.”

We had a good laugh, as she asked me how come she didn’t know that about me.  I told her it’s because I hate being tickled, so I don’t let people tickle me.  And with that, I remembered just how much I hated being tickled.

When I was younger, tickling was fine.  Most kids like the thrill of the feeling and the uncontrollable laughter that it elicits.  It can even be a comfortable and trusting feeling, since it’s usually a parent who is doing the tickling, or a trusted adult like a sitter or caretaker.

As I got older, I didn’t like it so much, but I didn’t really know why not.  By around fifth or sixth grade, I was totally over it.  I also could feel what I call “phantom tickles,” where someone could just wiggle their fingers towards me, like they were tickling me but not actually touching me, and I could feel the sensation.  My older brother and sister would do it constantly, because they found the concept to be amusing.

My dad liked to tickle us a lot, and I don’t think he meant anything more than to play around with us.  But I just didn’t like it.  And I told him so.  I asked and eventually would tell him very firmly that I didn’t like being tickled, and please don’t tickle me.  I would recoil from that undesired touch again and again.  And I remember actually getting angry one day and telling him, “I don’t like that.  Please don’t tickle me.”  I may have even lost my mentality and not even have said “please.”

And I got into trouble.  He got angry with me and didn’t listen.  I dodged the touch again and again, and he told me that I needed to just let him tickle me.  I don’t even know if he told me why, but it was understood that he was my father, and I should not have questioned his actions in the first place.  So time and time again, he would tickle me, even though -- and sometimes because -- I didn’t like it.  Maybe just to show me that he could, and there wasn’t anything that I could do about it.

And I realized why I didn’t like it.  I don’t like tickling because it’s something someone can do to you where you can’t control your reaction.  I don’t like that loss of control of my own body.

This reminded me of another thing.  He used to just punch us or hit us for no reason.  He would say it was to have fun, but I HATED it.  And this one I straight up remember telling him “no” to.  Which was a MASSIVE no-no.  You do not tell my dad no.  That was something I knew better than.  So why in heck was I sitting there flat-out telling him that?  Because it was more important to me that I not be touched like that than for me to save my skin and avoid trouble.

And do you know what I was told?

The gist was:  “It doesn’t matter that you don’t like it.  Because it makes ME happy, you should let me do it.  You are not good at self-sacrifice.  You don’t always do things because you like them, you let other people to make THEM happy.”

Guys, I’m writing this right now, and I’m literally shaking.  I recall being so angry and frustrated, I cried.  I remember him continuing to take jabs, and using his knuckles to punch me in the ribs -- he literally called this move “rib-ribs.”  He did it so often, it had a freaking name.

Too many days, I ask myself why I just laid there and let Matt do what he wanted.  The cops and detective and all the people want to know, “Did you scream?  Did you fight?  Did you say ‘NO’?”  And it’s like I’ve let the world down, because I didn’t, or I didn’t enough.  But did anyone ask or try to figure out why??  Maybe because I had a history of my body not being mine?  Maybe because I was told that I’m SUPPOSED to let people touch me how they want if it makes them happy??  Maybe because I was told that my happiness and desires didn’t matter and that I was supposed to self-sacrifice???

So often, we don’t try to figure out what went wrong so long ago.  My life was punctuated by events and habits that led me to react -- or not to react -- in a moment when it mattered most.  But the reaction didn’t happen in that moment; it had been brewing for years.

Guys.  I’m like so so tired again.  I’m getting into my danger zone of being tired, I know.  And that’s not only depressing in and of itself, it’s also hella scary.  I think it’s for many reasons, but I think that the biggest one is probably that I’m losing all the safeties we built around me over the past year.  I can’t find and hold a job, so I have no financial security.  I can’t find a place to live, so I’m about to not have housing security.  I haven’t been taking my meds consistently, because I just don’t remember, and now I don’t have a job to go to the doctor to get them refilled anyways, so I’m losing my physiological security.  I am moving away from all my friends soon, and I barely get to see them as it is, since I left BJ’s, so I’m losing my emotional security.

 Oh, and I reported the rape. So, there’s that little elephant in the room.  Which in a way, has made me feel a tad bit safer in the literal sense of the word, and definitely stronger, but has definitely taken a toll on my wellbeing, while I await more information and must keep recounting the story in vivid details. My head had stopped hurting for a little bit (like a few days), but the pain has come back with a vengeance, so that’s fun.  Except not at all.  And my stomach keeps hurting.  But I keep baking, and emotionally eating, so that’s not actually good at all.  I’m either losing ridiculous amounts of weight or gaining them.

 I’m just super tired. And I’m asking myself, would it be the responsible thing to do to just admit myself into the psych ward this time, instead of waiting for some really bad shit to go down and being forced in there? But that’s stupid, right?  I don’t want to die.  I just want to rest and not worry about all this extra stuff that sometimes feels like too much.  But I look around, and everyone else can handle their shit, so why can’t I?  And then that makes me more depressed.  It’s just an obnoxious cycle that wears you down and beats you like butter in pastries.

I am all for and about the #MeToo movement and the incredible amount of attention and awareness that has come of celebrities sharing their stories, but WHY THE HELL does it have to come from celebrities for it to be listened to?? It's frustrating and even mildly infuriating that common folk, such as myself and many other women and men I know, aren't given the light of day when certain issues come up. But the minute it happens to someone in the limelight, "Oh my God! What a horrible injustice!!"

It's like when celebrities are like #nomakeup, and everyone's like, "she's so brave/confident/awesome." And I'm over here like, "Why is that a feat?! I don't wear makeup EVERY FREAKING DAY!"

Mind you, I'm not saying this to diminish anyone's stories or experiences. Everyone's story is worth listening to and doing something about. But that's just it. EVERYONE'S. Guys, please listen to each other regardless of title, status, position, or profession. Because that girl working at the Aldi is just as important as the guy fixing your car who is just as important as the star in the movie you last saw.

I realize more and more everyday that not saying certain things makes them taboo and contributes to the shame felt in certain areas of life. Don't talk about abuse. Don't talk about depression. Don't talk about rape. Don't talk about gun violence. Don't talk about anything that is actually of import and should be talked about. And certainly don't talk about anything that people do every day, even the good things, if it'd make someone else uncomfortable.

So I'm gonna just put this out there. Because it makes me uncomfortable. And maybe it'll make you uncomfortable. And I'm tired of skirting around issues that shouldn't be and aren't really issues.

Let's just get to it. Masturbation. Girls do it all the freaking time, myself being one of those girls. But it's like taboo to talk about. And I'm not saying it's like dinner conversation or whatever. I'm just saying, it's not something to be ashamed of. I have thought my whole life that I was doing something wrong, but I'd venture to say it's actually not only normal but also common. Pleasuring yourself helps you to discover things you do or don't like, apparently relieves stress (them endorphins though), and just feels pretty darn good. So I'm done feeling ashamed of it. It's not a freaking bad thing.

It's almost as hard to describe as it should be easy to. I'm laying here, on my friends' couch, and he gave me a blanket that smells like a memory. I can't pin the memory, except that it has something to do with my mom, and those are usually some of the most comforting and best memories. After an emotional day like today, where everything made me wanna cry, I'm taking a moment to cry a little into this memory senses. And that's okay. Because, I'm okay. Or I will be.

So thank you, love. I know you didn't know but, thank you for bringing me this blanket that I needed to keep not just my body warm, but also my heart.