for the little girls.

~This is a letter written for the messy-haired, wide-eyed, mismatched, rumpled little girls who prance around my classroom, for the nameless hooligans that skip across the road, for the readers and rebels, for my two tenacious nieces who are the bright light in my eyes.~

~This is for you.~

You are full of potential. 

Your grubby hands grab everything, pull it up about one inch from your eyes to examine it. Usually it goes into your mouth unless I stop you. You have this way about you, curious like a cat but with a much better temperament. Your eyes shine. Nothing about the dirt, the sweat, the errant hair offends you. Fun is more important than whatever clothes you happen to be wearing.

It's beautiful. I envy you.

I envy your hope, your willingness to embrace tomorrow and today at the same time; it's a trait so few adults possess, knowing how to respect the future and live in the now, and we usually waffle between fearful planning and irresponsible abandon to the moment. 

But you ask all the right questions about the future while giggling about the present. You have wild eyes and a tender heart. You are not afraid to sulk, to run indoors, to cry, to give hugs. 

Your possibilities are limitless. I want you to remember that. 

Because you will be pressured to change. Not always on purpose, and not always in words, and not always by people. Sometimes life will hammer that spirit out of you. Sometimes it is out of necessity that you become hard for a while, and there's nothing wrong with protecting yourself if the situation calls for it. We all go through different seasons.

But you bright, inquisitive, hopeful beacon of light, you cannot stay that way. Strength is not the same thing as stonewalling, and often it takes more of a person to be open than closed down. I encourage you to set healthy boundaries, demand respect, and be ready to exit if it is not given; but you must. not. give. up.

You cannot kill your potential because the world has treated you roughly, and believe me, it will treat you roughly. You will be scolded. You will be scoffed at. You will be let down by people you love. You will be boxed in, beaten up, tied down, pushed off a cliff. You will get sick. You will lose those you love, by death or abandonment. 

But I need you to remember. I need you to recall before you were taught to hate your body, before you were taught to be embarrassed of your intelligence, before you were taught the gross lies about your sexuality, before you were used by those closest to you, before you were bogged down by bills and expectations and sexism. I need you to remember putting that bug an inch from your nose to examine it, remember the stained tips of your sneakers in the mud, the laughter lines in your pillow from sleepovers. 

You have potential. You have destiny. You will change the world.

You are the future, little girl.

And I love you dearly.

respectfully,

a former little girl. 

sour grapes to wine.

It seems like everyone is getting their heart broken. 

A friend laying across from me in bed, tears slipping into my pillow, asking why he made her wait for so long just to lie to her. She's one of many struggling with a pull she can't quite seem to control, the desire to possess what poisons her. She's strong but not impermeable. Things hurt. She has never been defined by who she puts into her arms but it's hard not to be shattered to let someone in so deep who then seems so intent on destruction as they leave. He did not break her in a clean line. Her ribcage is jagged.

She's not the last nor the first to tell me things like this. This past month has been mired by women treated terribly. I've been tempted to pass them off as adventures in miscommunication but that would be a lie; most of the agony is a result of deliberate actions. 

We're not made for this, I think as I field texts and tears. This is not how people should become entangled and then extricated. We jump heartfirst, we offer it all to have it vomited back to us. We are taught to be a slave to our hormones. It happens constantly.

We're not made for this, I whisper into the dark of my room.

We're not made for this, I cry in the front pew at my church.

We're not made for this, my head and heart finally agree.

You're not made for this, a voice says from deep within, and yet it happens anyway.

There have been quite a few times this year when I angrily asked God why. It seemed as though everything short of death had something to stab in my back. My health, mental and physical, kept spiraling downward until it plateaued in not one but three new diagnosis and a dependence on daily medication. My emotional life was wracked by worry over my sister's custody battles, the threat of my parents separating, the devastation of losing the house and my car, and the grand finale of my impending divorce by infidelity that was not mine. 

I did not turn to God at first. I turned everywhere else. I went out and drank. I turned to sex with an albeit wonderful man who had no idea what he was getting into, and then threw myself into that relationship. I spent not entirely wise amounts of money on clothes. I carved regret into my left arm. I said terrible things to hosts of people. I curled up on the shower floor after slicing from palm to wrist after I couldn't take it anymore.

The voice was still there, though, reminding me I was not made for this.

Then why, I called out. 

"I have no idea how you f*cking did it." My roommate said at the kitchen table, red-rimmed eyes and one hand on the vodka. Her own relationship had been ended by her volition but not necessarily her choice. More heartbreak. "How did you stay in this apartment, in that room?"

She hugged her cat to her chest. "I can't do it. I have to leave." She continued. "All I want to do is talk to him."

It was with complete sincerity that I rested my elbows on the table and met her gaze. "I have been there." I whispered. "I understand every feeling. I know what it's like to break an attachment to somebody. It's like an addiction. You can't give in." 

I let a tear go. It was the second time I had ever cried in front of these particular roommates but suddenly I had not a care in the world. She needed support. "You are a wonderful person and I can't watch you suffer. Protect yourself. It hurts now, but in the long run it's better." 

Thank you for being my friend, and being relatable, and empathetic. She wrote later.

I looked into my coworker's face later that week and told her the same thing, that in the moment there was no pain like hearing words of rejection but it would get better, that she could not fix someone who did not want her. 

My friend cried into my pillow two days later and I held her, repeating the words I had told myself so many times, that his behavior was not something she needed to judge or take responsibility for, that she was not devalued or defective from this. 

I cradled a screaming toddler as their parent walked out of my classroom and soothed them, whispering into the top of their head, "I know, I know. I know how you feel. It's alright. I won't leave you." 

I held my sister's hand as she prepared for court and shared her fear of being stripped bare by someone she once trusted, and I meant when I said I understood.

I ascended the steps to the Sanctuary and told myself no one would stare when I walked in to sit with my parents. The acoustic guitar of the worship leader strummed and I stood with everyone, grateful that I could melt into many voices, and mumbled my way through some hymns. The maroon carpet proved to be more interesting than most of the faces and I trained my eyes on it. "Good morning, church." The Pastor began as I was acclimating myself with the thread count. "Today's sermon will be about trusting God when you don't understand."

I bawled openly. 

I realized this aching in my heart was not an accident. The walls I had built allowed me to pass terrible judgement and see people in black and white instead of shades of human. I told myself that no one had helped me so no one else needed help. Empathy is a muscle and every time I neglected to use it the fibers calcified. I became a tower; proud, strong, my foundation a mixture of indignation and concrete. 

When it was smashed the heart inside was raw and reality hit me with all the tact of a hurricane. I fought my feelings at first, but try as I might I couldn't retreat into my shell. The gate had come down, the castle was swarmed, and there was nowhere for me to hide. No, I struggled, screaming, I'll never love again.

Yes you will. 

No.

You will. And it will be frightening but glorious and full of promise and devoid of pride. You will care. You will empathize so deeply it will cut you but when you bleed tears you will heal. You will grow and gain. This pain is powerful and beautiful and cleansing. Let love burn you, and let it scar you twice because it is better to have felt the heat than to live in the chill.

I'm not done with you yet.

You are becoming something beautiful.

How could I have supported my friends without knowing the shape of the dagger in their back, or how could I have held the child who felt she was being abandoned and pour myself into her tears that I understood, without first suffering? I had muttered to myself that I never wanted to be vulnerable, to lean into someone so strongly, to put such faith in things that were mutable. I had promised solitude. And then I failed. I empathized, I cried, I bled, I broke, and I rose again.

Romans 8:28: “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”

My purpose is to love again. 

devotedly yours,

A. 

unlovable.

It's easy to give into the waves

to let the sadness swallow me 

whole.

While it whispers

while it gurgles

that I am unloveable.

And the ocean is hungry for my tears

it's waiting for my downfall

to catch me in its hollow bed

to kill me with a salty kiss,

to remind me I am unlovable.

And the earth is no better,

with her merciless ground and sky

pushed between

lips that never love;

a marriage between dirt and hurt,

between the darkness and the dawn,

for my dreams and waking life

tell me

I am unlovable. 

As a child I used to crush dolls together

and wonder

why they never kissed,

why they never wrapped arms around waists,

why their faces stayed the same

as though

they despised each other,

like the secret to love

was secret hatred,

and the secret was I was unlovable.

A puzzle I could never crack,

a code I could never piece together

was how you loved me

why you loved me

when you loved me,

but I remember where you loved me.

Cause it sunk into my skin

every touch

every firework

every ember

and it burned but the burn was the fire I wanted.

and I had no reason to feel unlovable.

But the earth, the sky, the sea, and the dolls

were all just smoke

and signals

from the ashes in my belly. 

I put them out

I stamp them out

I cry them out

I scream them out.

Let tragedy draw me back to the arms of love.

My jaw my unhinge but truth

but truth

has no allegiance and on the shoulders I will stand,

and my knees may be covered in dirt

and my heart may be dipped in hurt

but home is where the peace is

and peace is worth fighting for.

Back to the arms

back to the heart

back to the start

in silence

in darkness

in ashes

in brokenness

I am lovable.

I 

am

lovable.

"He's only dating you because he's secretly gay and you look like a man"; when our bodies become ammunition.

**Disclaimer: I am writing this essay from the POV of a cisgender woman. Trans* women and genderqueer/non-binary femme-presenting humans have equally important appearance issues that I cannot do justice to write about, as I have not experienced them. This collection of thoughts is based on my life personally.**

To be fair, the illustrious scholar who spoke the title of this post was the same person who, after reading an old blog post of mine where I came out as an asexual at the time, told me that I was making up my sexuality to hide the truth from my husband and that I should just admit I was having an affair already. His opinion mattered as much as a dog who shits on my lawn; I grumbled, but I went to clean it up because what are you gonna do? Can't teach an old dog how to not be an asshole, or something to that effect.

Unfortunately it was something that bothered me at the time, given that I was in high school and a mire of self-loathing wrapped up in bad poetry, and it would be a nail in the coffin I had spent so much energy crafting for myself. From that day forward I never went out without makeup and if I wasn't looking hot enough to receive stares out in public then I simply wasn't good enough. I'm not looking to blame my turbulent inner voices on the dazzling opinion of a clearly superior philosopher (who also gave me such gems as, "if we accept homosexuality than pedophilia will be next!" and "You really need more negative people in your life to take you down a notch") but the fact of the matter is that his opinion was a trigger. The thing about words is that you never know what someone needs to hear in order to be pushed over the edge.

I distinctly remember an encounter over the internet a few months ago (I know, I know, it's never helpful to fight over the internet) where my husband had rightfully called out a boy who said it was "discrimination" to say that rape jokes aren't funny. While J tried to explain the definition of the word discrimination and how it didn't apply at all to that situation, the boy suddenly brought our then-religion into question and made some seriously inappropriate remarks about our sex life, dragging me into a conversation I was previously not a part of and calling me a liar. I messaged the boy privately, saying that the next time he wanted to discuss something that was not his business he should probably ask my opinion instead of talking about me like I wasn't there. He responded by saying that my passive-aggressive message was about as sexy as my "thousands of open-mouthed selfies".

The question is, how were my looks pertinent to the conversation?

The answer is, as a woman, I am treated as an object and, like an armchair or potted plant, I am expected to apologize for the space I take up and my price is being attractive.

Was the jab at my selfies a calculated, sexist move intended to put me in my place? Unlikely. It was most likely a knee-jerk response. I went back and checked all our messages, making sure I hadn't brought his appearance into the conversation, ready to apologize to him if I had instigated his insult. I hadn't. But, see, I haven't been socially conditioned to see other genders as the sum of their outside parts, to think that how my features aligned was somehow pertinent to the validity of  my experience and feelings.

The twisted relationship between women and their physical appearance is hot-button issue that the world simultaneously creates and then scolds us for being worried about. We are expected to look exceptional at all times but when we acknowledge that all our hard work has paid off we are attacked for the crime of self-esteem.  Our right to personal expression is required to come at the expense of being pleasant to look at and god forbid if you want to decorate the skin you're in, because as everyone knows your own journey of identity is secondary to looking pretty. As of right now I have green hair and I can't tell you how many times I've heard from other women that they would LOVE to put an unnatural color in their hair, but they are not sure if they can pull it off; the constant barrage of YOU-ARE-REQUIRED-TO-BE-PLEASANT-TO-LOOK-AT has taken a toll on the fundamental right to express yourself. After all, it's just hair, right?

The message goes far deeper than how we style our tresses.

Whether or not you believe in the idea of The Patriarchy, you cannot deny that women are expected to alter their appearance more than men and keep up the facade until the day they die. Our brains, our careers, and our wallets are at the mercy of how our weight folds against our bones and how gleaming our teeth seem to be, or even if our skin is the right shade to be considered up to par with the current standard of beauty. We pluck and cover, dye and trim, sweat and squeeze, spanx and diet and even when we do these things for ourselves it is taken away from us and immediately placed back in the hands of the onlooker to judge.

The message is clear: You are only as good as your body and we own you. 

When women engage in society, when we dare to make it about something other than our looks, the masses react accordingly with what they have been shown. I truly don't believe that anyone brings up a woman's looks thinking they want to reaffirm centuries of low-level hatred. Normally, people are vomiting preconceived notions they have been spoon-fed; they have digested the subtle social cues for years. In the back of their brain they know that women are bred to equate beauty with worth and it's a vulnerable part, hiding somewhere between the heart and head, usually unreachable by both.

Predators always strike the soft spot first.

And it's in this mindset that our bodies have become ammunition. Every inch serves a duality as a bullet or a target, because they can be shot for pain and hit for pain. The quickest way to dismiss a woman is to bring it back to body; draw the attention away from her voice, her ideas, her rights, and bring it back to if her nose is big, if her skin has spots, if her body dares to take up space with curves or bones.

Make no mistake that this vessel has been as a child soldier, pulled into a war it did not sign up for. Like a prisoner it has developed stockholm syndrome-dependance on products and compliments from our captors.

It's time to take your body back.

So no, you misogynist who was uncomfortable with me daring to have a voice, this conversation will not be derailed by your attempts to put me in my place. You will not assert control by trying to demote me to a decoration. My body is made of up many parts and many flaws that have nothing to do with you. My body is an empire and I am the dictator; this is not a democracy. You are not a revolutionary. I am the emperor. I am the monarch. And I say the war is over.

love,
a

I have let go of religion but I cannot let go of God.

I have done it. I no longer identify as religious. I have given up.

It was more of a slow fade than an abrupt retreat. Having grown up in a church and being immersed in the culture is a lot like putting vegetables in any type of soup; the longer they sit in the broth the more of the flavors they take on, and no matter how long I've been away from the actual building there is no denying that I was marinated by it. Religion has become stale to me. The lightest flavors are the first ones to go when you overcook the broth, the robust base the taste that still lingers, and likewise I disbelieved some things right away but held on to others as long as I could. 

I never believed that I was somehow of less worth because of the sex I was born with. Sure, when I went to a private Christian school and we started studying the 1950's in history class and I would (loudly) object to the lovely examples of domestic life the textbook gave us, I was bothered by the groans that happened when I put my hand up; "here she goes." One person said from the back of the room. I only spent about a year being a high school feminist before I realized there was a lot less pushback when I tried to encompass what the church says a good woman is, and so I associated being culturally feminine and quiet with being a good woman (never mind my horrible personality at the time.). In the back of my mind, however,  the seed was still planted that I could do anything I wanted to do and be anything I wanted to be, even as I sat in the guidance counselor's office and she told me that going to college for nursing was a great choice because they have access to flexible schedules that make it easier to raise children, or we had to participate in school-wide, girls-only modesty meetings to make sure we were making it easier  for straight boys not to sin. 

The seed was still there, and it whispered to me. 

Letting go of the crushing box religion has put women in was easy for me. I embraced feminism and started looking at religion's (read: Christianity) hot button issues with a critical eye as opposed to someone desperately trying to explain them away to outsiders. It couldn't support its own weight. I found the same when I studied the restrictions placed on the gay community, on body modification, and on sexual rights within marriage. These things fell from my fingers without a fight. 

One by one the pieces slipped away. And a broken puzzle is good for no one. 

There were many things that did not leave me easily. Despite the fact that everyone has a different experience and it doesn't seem to guarantee marital success, I still purported my virginity-until-marriage like it made me a special snowflake. Ironically enough the anxiety issues that have me in therapy give me incredible control over every fact of my life and, as a result, made it easier to follow the rigid rules I based my worth on. Holding myself to such a standard meant that I held other people to it as well, and judgement became part of my social repertoire. I have said many cruel things I am ashamed of. Letting go of the inherent right I felt to police other people has, sadly, not been something that has been easy to peel off. 

Accepting judgement was also something that left me with a fight. Before, I told myself to simmer down and accept undue criticism (the difference between helpful personality changes you need to make and someone giving you an arbitrary opinion is colossal) because it was all a teaching moment, and honestly, people tend to like you more when you're a doormat. Someone who isn't afraid to stand up for themselves has been a boon to many religions and so they attempt to write people off with terms like "troublemaker", "ungrateful", and "dramatic." Every time I go to assert myself there's always the voice in the back of my head that says it will be easier if I accept everything quietly, that I need to be meek and quiet and a people-pleaser. 

Being entrenched in something, even with good intentions, means that mark it has made on you is woven into your DNA, like a tree that grows around a foreign object to salute the sky. Extraction is tricky, painful, and sometimes devastating.  At times confronting the untruths religion had given me felt a lot like deforestation. 

I am never a fan of destroying what nature has created but sometimes the only way to breed fertile soil is to burn the dead ends to the ground.

It does feel like I've walked through a few fires and flames in my lifetime and with each tragedy some religion is shed. Reality is a friction, intended to exfoliate down to bare bones until we have nothing but the truth to face. I felt that scraping. It was uncomfortable, but I made the choice to stop attending church even though we had found one full of great people -- I felt disingenuous, my apathy offensive to those around me who truly believed.

So I walked away. But something followed me.

I felt hollow in my chest, an empty place that neither friction nor fire had filled. While the rest of my body enjoyed the new lightness it had been afforded the space behind my heart seemed to weigh me down. It did not make sense; I had stopped worrying about false rules of modesty and wore what I wanted, my language flowed freely in whatever manner I chose, and the world had opened under my toes as I tiptoed around, trying to explore the boundaries I had broken. I should have been levitating. I should not have been reminded of my gravity.

But you see, I often say that people are either made to be wolves that prowl alone or meant to huddle in packs. In my desire for an all-or-nothing commitment I forgot that labels only apply when you desire them. Boundaries only exist as fences you build in your mind.

I started the awkward trip backwards in my memory to retrace the steps I took through my religion. It occurred to me that, though I could recall the moments I was embarrassed because of the legality, and even when I tasted the pain of crusading against those who were different, it was by the letter of the law. It was the law I had the forsaken, the law that had crushed so many under it's heel, the law that facilitated death. It was the law that was held over people's heads, the law that was thrown at some instead of the life preserver they desperately needed, the law that was supposed to feed the starved.

I was done with the law. But it does not mean I was done with humming a hymn when walking down the road, done with fevered prayers during my panic attacks, or done with the peace that satiated my blood as I examined creation. Boundaries only exist as fences you build in your mind.

For while the law had failed me love had not. It's true, forsaking the rules of organized religion means that I don't have the answers I would like --- but come to think of it, I'm arrogant for assuming that I possess intelligence advanced enough to have an answer for everything. I don't have an answer for the joy that fills me when my niece giggles. I don't have an explanation for the electricity that seems to jump from the piano to my hands when I play. I cannot pretend to understand why my husband has such a power in his kiss that lands on the back of my neck.

The definition I was given of god may have disappointed me but God in the essence of love has not failed me. He was not silent when I battled an eating disorder. He was not cruel when my heart was broken. He was not dismissive when irrational fears crept in. He was not missing as jobs were lost and money was tight. He was not absent the first time I had a panic attack. He was not absent in the dark, in the cold, in the pain.

He was present in every prayer and faithful in every promise because the love that lived inside of me gave me peace.

So I will have a forest for a church and kisses for a prayer book. My confessional is a glass of wine and my forgiveness is a tear shed slowly. My doctrine is my life story and my prayer is an honest conversation.

Because I have let go of religion but I cannot let go of God.