I used to be so good at hide-and-seek— the hiding part, the staying quiet part- the seeking scared me, but hiding might be one of my favorite childhood memories. I was so small. I fit between tiny cracks and smaller folds, hid myself in baskets and cabinets, in the seem of a folded spare mattress. I took so much pride in my ability to tip tip tip toe, the creekiest floor boards even kept my secrets. There have been a lot of moments in my adulthood where I was desperate for that lightfooted step and it happened again this morning. It’s always the mornings. I wanted to get some water while my roommate was asleep on the couch and fuck it’s the small moments that haunt me. Now whenever I’m trying to be quiet, specifically when I am trying not to wake someone up, I become so fucking clumsy. My depth perception disappears and my hands might shake a little all while I try to breathe through my nose because it’s quieter and my brain is treating this like it’s a goddamn horror movie. My brain tries to convince me I’m the catalyst for WW3 because my glass jar moisturizer hit the quartz countertop too hard.

My experiences- all 4.5 pages, all 20 men, all six non consensual sexual acts, all 3 more- were almost all so average and normal and mundane that they didn’t trigger an initial trauma response. The tense muscles and shoulders at my ears, the shrinking, the egg shells, the bracing for impact, the shame, the intolerance for certain smells or sounds didn’t come until my nervous system started to tally. Too much. Too many. Those 4.5 pages do not include the unsolicited dick pics, the grooming, the disgusting comments made by male friends, family, coworkers, acquaintances and strangers, the creepy grade school teachers, the misogynistic jokes and comments, and perceived entitlement to my body and energy. Every single one of these men thinks that they’re a good guy, has no idea they’ve made it into my journal. I have 35 years of experience, as well as the stories of others, to prove that most men are not good men and that most of you aren’t safe. My experiences are nothing crazy, and it’s still too many pages and too many men. This is the reason for the collective rage. The most heinous crimes committed against us are being covered up and your lack of outrage is palpable. We see it, and our trauma ensures that we clock it. So do better. For the love of fuck, please do better.

No one deserves a door slammed so hard in anger that the whole house shakes, or to hear a voice raised for anything other than joy, a touch for anything other than consensual pleasure or comfort. No one deserves to be called a liar after spending 6 minutes calculating their odds of survival if they just stay compliant enough, of weighing a jury verdict in their favor vs the trauma they’ll face if they keep repeating the no that’s already been ignored.

Do I want attention or to air my dirty laundry like this? No, this should have stayed between me and my therapist. But I just want to call to attention to the fact that my experience is normal. It is average. Most women wouldn’t bat an eye at most of what I have written down. Most women would share their version of the same story. And I want that to make you mad. To be a wake up call. To open your eyes to the truth of what we’ve been screaming about and experiencing for so long that the trauma is carried and inherited in our matrilineal DNA, in our bones.

I had it.

I had it and it hurt me more than anything else.

I used to not be able to sit still when waiting for him to get home, I was so excited

I had panic attacks like a separation anxiety puppy when he traveled.

I wanted to be around him all the time. I cooked and cleaned and managed all of the things and said it as often as possible.

I thought I was so good at loving him.

But he started telling me what I was doing wrong and it hurt to not be loving him right so I kept trying to change how I was doing it. And I asked him for some ways to love me better too and he just didn’t do them. And I still tried and still loved him.

I had the best love and gave everything for it. And it still didn’t work.

He still stopped trying.

He still told me the fight wasn’t worth it for him.

So now what do I do? What do I look forward to?

I did the big love and it was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. How am I supposed to ever want to do it again!?

I can only think of people by the measure of the harm they DON’T bring to me. Quantify consistency. The deepest I get to feel is some curiosity and a sense of excitement. And that’s fun. That’s keeping the sadness away while I figure it out. But what the fuck? What the fuck? I don’t know what I’m supposed to want when my chest, my body, my bones, feel so completely hollowed out.

I watch other people looking for love, that big big kind. Screaming for it, yearning, bargaining with the universe. It makes me want to shake them all and tell them not to do it.

I made the mistake of making love the end all be all goal. And I swear to fuck I did it, I had it. And people will read this and say “he clearly wasn’t THE one” and I can tell you with certainty that that was MY love. I will never have another one like that one and GOD DAMN IT. I’m so angry. And I’m so fucking sad.

Some people will read this and tell me “don’t worry, you’ll find the right one, love will find you again.” And the idea of that makes me so fucking nauseous. I never want to do this again. I never want to do this again.

I will never trust anyone with all of my parts just so they can prove I’m not worth it again. I will not do that to myself. And it is not the goal.

I have been absent. Holidays and commitments, but also a little lack of inspiration. There was one idea I've been playing with and it is still keeping itself a little hidden, still not fully flushed out. But suddenly there is an avalanche of about a billion other things to write about, and I am paralyzed by the choices.

I really do not know how to do this.

I don't know how to grieve all of the things I thought my life would be while children are starving and freezing to death in Gaza, while Renee's wife explains to their son that the country his deceased father fought for went ahead and killed his mother. I don't know how to focus on my own healing while getting a text from my cousin saying "ICE just shot someone on my street". I'm dying to take action but all I can do is keep this sourdough starter alive. I am not equipped to deal with the failure of my marriage while also watching the rapist in charge of our country ignore international law on several fronts. It's like watching some bizarre real life version of Pinky and the Brain play out and I just need one second to breathe but my government literally will not give it to me. I don't know which degree to pursue to ensure I can make eye contact with the worst of them when they are sentenced for war crimes. I still don't know which version of divorce papers to sign.

I am about to start a certification program in health and wellness coaching and I want to finish my degree and I have no idea what's about to be expected of me and goddamn it, I just started therapy. "Has anyone ever prioritized your needs?" No, I think my entire personality might be one big "neglect wound". Which is...great for me. "There's something that is keeping you small, here's a book about self worth that might make you feel tall." Ma'am...... I am 5'1 but our sessions are on Zoom so she has no idea how hilarious it is that I am actually so small.

I am trying to manifest a life where I am more than just fine but some days I feel like I'm barely getting by and I keep wanting to write about the Division of Assets in the ways No One Talks About but TLDR when you get divorced every single relationship you have shifts and I was not prepared for this at all.