Susan B Anthony I owe you an apology

Susan B Anthony I owe you an apology. I woke this morning and forgot to thank you for all you did. Because of you, I am able, as a woman, to walk wherever I chose. As a woman I am free to voice my opinion. As a woman I am free to decide whether I want to have children, and rejoice loudly if that child is a female. As a woman, I am open to decision, and because of you, I am free to do so. As a woman, I can choose whether or not I want to marry, and whom I want to marry, and as a woman, I am now free to divorce.

We forgot what you went through so that we may enjoy these few basic luxuries that you never were able to enjoy. We can go to the University, to the movies, we can walk aside or in front of a man, we can talk as loud as we want, dress anyway we wish, we can dance, we can sing, and we can be respected. But you couldn’t. In a day and time when it was “forbidden” for a woman to be anything other than a slave to her man, you broke boundaries and said what we all take for granted now, I am a woman, I am a person, and I belong!

"I know nothing but woman and her disfranchised."

“The fact is, women are in chains, and their servitude is all the more debasing because they do not realize it.”

By fighting for a woman’s right to vote, you gave us the right to exist. By defying all who told you it was wrong, you gave us a voice forever. By refusing to pay the fine, you paved the way for all women to live free in a country that refused to recognize women and people of color as true citizens. You made it alright to be alive, and you made it powerful to be a woman.

And so, before I forget once more, I thank you, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for laying down what little you had to fight the biggest battle of your life. I thank you for everything I am because if you had not achieved what you had, I would still be silent because then I would have only been a woman.

One Fear At A Time

Perhaps it isn't about finding hope in conquering fear all at once, perhaps the true victor is the person who conquers one fear at a time, but conquering it nonetheless. I find myself at a paradox of this question, quest, in my life. I have many fears, I will admit, far too many to list, or maybe I should. If I labeled each one, gave a word to it and inevitably gave it a voice, maybe we could have a dialogue, a meeting of minds, and I could finally resolve the issues. Could it hurt? If I named each one, would it hurt? It isn’t like falling down and scraping a knee, no, it’s more like barrelling down a freeway with a map in your face, dodging oncoming traffic using nothing but sheer hope and white knuckles. Facing a fear, a specific one, staring it down and letting it know exactly how you feel, no, that is pure fear, in its rawest form, in its concentrated state, unstable and ready to rumble.

So, what is my first fear? My main fear? My writing. This is me, in my most concentrated state, unstable… and ready to rumble. What people don’t get about me when they read my writing, they are reading me. I can’t hide in my words, they flow out and tell all my dirty secrets, and then, when it’s all over, I lay breathing heavy, panting, wiping sweat from my brow, and hoping… no one laughs at me for attempting it. Thinking back I can pinpoint the exact moment that fear cemented itself in my noodle. I was 15 and I had just finished the first six pages of the first story I would ever write, Patty’s Girls. Though it has undergone many facelifts since that day, those first six pages… they were my beating heart. I felt… funny how words escape me, me… the writer! I have never felt like that doing anything else. I can see what I am typing. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not talking about visually seeing the words on the screen or on paper, not that kind of see. I mean, I can see everything in my story in my head. I can see the characters, I can sense them, I can feel how they feel. When I write, my heart rate calms, my mind calms, the storm around me calms. I know definitively what I want to do as a career… d-e-f-i-n-i-t-i-v-e-l-y! I know to my core! How many people can say that and truly mean it? Probably over a billion but that’s not the point here. The point, as I am trying to dodge, is the truth as to why writing… no, not the act of writing, but the act of getting published scares the soul out of me. The day I showed those first six pages to someone, I had chosen incorrectly. I showed them to my older sister and my father. I should have known but I was so excited. It was my first time, my first moment as an artist, my artistic virginity given to the muses. I wanted to share this newly discovered “thing” I could do. When I presented the six pages to my older sister and my father they sat quietly until the end… and then they laughed at me. The room, though I am sure did not actually change, turned a grey color, pale reflections of my continued life with them. I sat for only a few minutes, stood, tucked the six pages under my arm, walked back down the hallway, head hung low, and went back to my room.

Two things happened that day; first, I learned I could never share my work with my family, and I never did, to this day. Second, I found refuge in my room, away from people, isolated for my protection, and they never followed. I could stay in my room for weeks on end, and a lot of times I did. I dropped out of school, I hoarded nonperishable food, spent my days writing poetry. I believe them laughing at me was the final straw. It isn’t a secret I was abused, severely, throughout my childhood. That isn’t a surprise. My actions, my depression, anxiety, social phobia, agoraphobia, and eating disorder all stem from that childhood. I stay inside so I can’t get hurt by people. I stay fat so I am unappealing to men. I stay ugly in my own mind in order to stay safe. When they laughed at me for doing something life-changing, they smothered my trust.

I can sit here and name every moment of my childhood my family shredded. How they took everything I felt was important to me and told me I was wrong for wanting it. But that isn’t the point to this. This is me naming my fears. Giving them a face… so later I can smack them in it! Right in their fear faces!

So, here goes:

1. I am afraid to go outside.
2. I am afraid to be thinner.
3. I am afraid of success.
4. I am afraid of failure.
5. I am afraid my family was right to do what they did.
6. I am afraid I will never be more than I am right this minute.
7. I am afraid of losing the one person I truly found love with.
8. I am afraid she will see the cracks in the foundation I try hard to hide.
9. I am afraid tomorrow will be the day she leaves.
10. I am afraid to have children with her because I am afraid I will turn into my mother.
11. I am afraid none of my childhood happened.
12. I am afraid my writing really does suck balls and I am deluding myself into believing I am actually decent.
13. I am afraid I am more messed up than I realize because I can’t see it.
14. I am afraid of the night time, not the dark, I can hide in the dark, but night time, because that is when everything bad happened. Night time is my trigger.
15. I am afraid to fall asleep because of the nightmares.
16. I am afraid to be awake because of the nightmares.
17. I am afraid to be weak.
18. I am afraid of hurting people.

I think that’s a great start. One at a time.

The Curse

I call it the curse, when you are lucid throughout your mental illness. You fully understand you are sick and unable to function, yet, it’s like your mental illness is a separate entity, alive, breathing, kicking and screaming. And it’s stolen a car, thrown you into the passenger seat, threw a seatbelt on you, smiled maniacally, and then you’re off. The police are rushing, chasing after the two of you. You can see all of this going on and yet you are unable to stop it. You see the curve coming, you beg your mental illness to slow down, please slow down! Taking two wheels you take the curve and your mental illness laughs. The police are still in hot pursuit but there is no sign of slowing down. Peaks and valleys, storms and calm, mental illness behind the wheel, you pray to make it out alive.

This is the curse. This is being awake during the entire mental illness trip. Some get better. Some stop the car or leap from it while it’s moving. Some dig their nails into the dashboard and scream. Some quietly sit, eyes closed tight, lips parched and cracked, tears streaming down their face. Some… don’t make it. Sometimes it’s too much. Sometimes it’s too quiet. Sometimes there isn’t enough time in the day to journal all the crap that happened. But do not… I repeat do NOT question our devotion to get better or to function or to just stay alive. You may not see it, but behind our eyes there is a war waging; a full on war.