Newcomers to ETEV probably haven’t spelunked the archives, so it may come as a bit of a surprise to learn that I’ve got clinical depression and anxiety. They’re both kicking up one hell of a fuss at the moment. You might not know it from a few recent blog posts and my Facebook feed, especially not since my feed has been full of my comments on the Supernatural marathon I’m currently running and precious little else. I’m pretty good at covering the worst bits up. That’s such a weird thing about these disorders: if I haven’t hit absolute rock bottom, I can look pretty bubbly and bouncy. I might even appear to have my shit together.
I don’t. But I’ve been dealing with this for a long time, and I know how to put the mask on so I can function in the outside world. And I know what to do when I’m no longer going to be able to fake it to make it.
So. I’m going to tell you a truth: the reason I’ve been mainlining Supernatural is not just because it’s an entertaining show, but because I’m using it to stave off a major depressive episode. Tell you what, teetering on the edge of the abyss is about the most unpleasant sensation a mind can feel. There’s a reason why we turn to things and cling to them, whether they be drugs, alcohol, a teevee show, or whatever. When you’re going over the edge, you’ll grab at anything that appears to give you a chance of not going over.
If you hang around in social justice circles for more than about a minute, you’ll probably encounter someone insisting that those of us paying attention to language aren’t doing anything important. Said attitude is usually displayed by people sniffing about how we’re being too politically correct. They dismiss our attempts to, for instance, get people to stop using gendered slurs or ableist insults. Even our allies sometimes have a distressing habit of downplaying such things.
“Traditional marriage and religious liberty are under attack all across the nation,” writes former Harris County GOP Chair Jared Woodfill.
No, Jared and all the other crybaby cons. Not a bit of it. Traditional marriage is just being asked to share its sandbox with others. It gets to keep all its toys. It’s still got plenty of room to play. Nobody’s kicking sand in its eyes, or telling it to go home, or borrowing its bucket and shovel and not giving them back. If traditional marriage can’t play nicely with the other kids, that’s its problem, not theirs. It can learn to share the space, or go home to sulk, but nobody’s attacking it. Continue reading “Dear “Religious Liberty” Brigade: You’ve Lost. You’ve Always Lost”→
The Yarn Mission seeks to “use yarn to promote action and change to eradicate racism, sexism, and other systems of oppression”. The group, founded by CheyOnna Sewell, a PhD student in criminology, seeks to spark conversation about race and police brutality by engaging with curious passersby as they knit, all while providing a comforting activity for beleaguered activists.
“As a black woman, you’re invisible,” says Taylor Payne, a member of the group. “But knitting makes people stop and have a conversation with you. If someone asks me what I’m doing, I say, ‘I’m knitting for black liberation.’ Sometimes they respond and sometimes I just get ‘Oh, my grandma knits,’ like the person didn’t hear me. But at least it opens the door to talking about my experiences.”
When I was in middle school back in the olden days (hint: it was just after leg warmers went out and hypercolor shirts came in), I had this t-shirt that had a cartoon duck on it. It said “Tall, Duck and Handsome.” I’d done some growing, so it was a little short – it skimmed the top of my jeans, and like an inch of belly was exposed when I raised my arms. This was too much for the puritans of our local school district, who pulled me out of class, called my mom, and told her that such skimpy clothing was not allowed on awkward prepubescent girls.
My mother, who was something of a warrior, read them the riot act. She belted them with facts: we were still little kids. The shirt was cute and funny, not sexy. The shirt covered pretty much everything unless I raised my arms overhead, and if they couldn’t handle that little bit of skin, that was their problem. She had them quaking by the end of her tirade. I think they were about to give up and send me back to class, but she pulled me out of school and took me to have either ice cream or lunch – unfortunately, my memory fades on that point. We had a nice mother-daughter day, and I knew from then onward that my mom would always have my back in battles over dress codes. When they divorced, my dad took over the not giving a shit and expecting other people to accept my sartorial choices. When people would ask him how he could possibly let me wear x, y, or z, he’d calmly explain to them that I was comfortable and creative, and if they had a problem, they’d have to deal with it their own damn selves.
How hard is it for relatively* privileged people to just shut up and listen when people talk about the way society shits on them? I’ll be honest: Really fucking hard. And yet there’s nothing actually easier.
B and I are sitting side-by-side. We are in different worlds.
B’s wishing he’d known women actually like sex back in his raging hormone days. Society had told him that girls just aren’t in to doing the wild thing, and he’d believed that, so he missed a lot of opportunities. He’s not the sort of man who’d ask a woman to do something she didn’t like. It’s why we’re together.
We’re watching UFC fights. B wishes the cage girls were curvier – these are famine years for men attracted to women who jiggle more in the bum than boobs. He’s hoping for an audience shot of Benson Henderson’s wife, because she’s a hottie. I’m busy watching various nearly-naked men in exquisite physical condition grapple and writhe. Some of the wrestling moves look like they could easily be modified for incredible bedroom encounters. And if Benson Henderson and I were unattached and he was interested, I’d love to test that theory with him. But as much as I’m assessing the fighters for potential happy fun sexytimes, I’m also aware that every one of them could turn horrifically violent in a heartbeat, and their strength, speed, and skill mean I wouldn’t stand a chance. So as much as I enjoy admiring the bodies and consider their performance potential, I’m also trying to read their character, aware that misjudging it could get me raped, killed, or both.
Coinky-dinks are funny things. I didn’t think I’d ever come across glittery hoo-ha’s again outside of the Dogs and Goddesses deconstruction I’d got inadvertently sucked in to at Raven Wings. For those who are blissfully unaware of it, Dogs and Goddesses is a gawdawful romance book about a bunch of single women, their dogs, and some Mesopotamian goddess, plus a sexy god (of course), and a weird murderous priestess (ditto), and the sexy but assholish math professor (yep), and some other people I don’t even remember, because the bits Yami quoted were atrocious. There is a potion, and aphrodisiac cookies, and one of the ladies ends up with endless orgasm powers, and I just can’t with this.
Look, I only got involved in it because I was reading her This Present Darkness deconstruction. I will tell you about that book someday soon. Then you will understand why I enjoyed watching Yami savage it, and why I accidentally ended up reading a deconstruction of a really bizarre romance novel. Yami’s really damned good at deconstructions and I was powerless, okay?
“There have never been frontiers between astronauts. The day that this notion sinks into the minds of politicians, our planet will be different.”
Part of me would like to see that world. Part of me wonders if, as Robert Frost’s neighbor said, “Good fences make good neighbors.” I know we need fences even in our own communities. I know sometimes those fences are the only way to co-exist. There are some frontiers between people and nations that need to be there, at least for a time. I just hope that if we do ever get to the point where frontiers dissolve, it’s because we’ve all learned how to treat each other well. Continue reading ““There Have Never Been Frontiers Between Astronauts.””→