We Won’t Calm Down

“Calm down.”

“Take a breath.”

“Don’t get upset, that won’t solve anything.”

The above are some of the most infuriating phrases in the English language. I’ve been on the receiving end of them many a time, and they never fail to make me more upset, stressed, angry, or agitated than I was to begin with because of their disingenuousness. People say these things not to ease your mind or soothe you, but to help themselves, particularly when you are a woman. “Calm down, upsetting yourself isn’t going to help,” is really just code for, “Your blatant display of emotion is making me uncomfortable, and I’d like you to accommodate me by being quiet so I don’t have to help or address your concerns.”

We all occasionally get upset over nothing. It’s part of being human, and sometimes a blatant display of emotion isn’t helpful. When you getting worked up over a minor typo in an office email, or when a waiter gets your order wrong, or you can’t get cell reception, or you spill tomato soup on your brand-new white shirt, “calm down” is an appropriate, if ineffective, sentiment.

Now is not one of those times.

Over the next several weeks and months, Senators, Congresspeople, media pundits, men (and women) on the street, newspaper columnists, elite “thinkers,” people on Twitter and Facebook, and pretty much anyone in any position of power are all going to be beaming the same message out to the people of color, women, LGBTQIA+, indigenous and native peoples, and anyone else who dares to be angry, agitated, stressed, sad, or otherwise non-accepting of the tragically corrupt confirmation of Brett Kavanaugh to SCOTUS: “Calm down!”

“You’re being unreasonable,” they’ll say from their podiums and pulpits. “What’s done is done; there’s no use being upset about it,” they’ll sneer to protesting crowds. “What a dangerous time for our sons!” they’ll lament from verified Twitter accounts followed by dozens of Neo-Nazis and white supremacists and PUAs. “Things aren’t that bad; they’ve been worse before,” they’ll write condescendingly in their Medium columns catering to Bernie Bros. “So just calm down.”

No. I will not. My anger, and the anger of so many of my fellow citizens, is warranted and righteous. My fear and stress are reasonable. My wariness of a president and a party who confirmed a partisan hack to the Supreme Court while mocking sexual assault victims and complaining that freedom of speech and to protest, the concept upon which this nation was founded, is “embarrassing” is more than justified. I will not be gaslit. I am a grown-ass woman, and I’ve seen enough to know that we are going in the wrong direction much more quickly than anyone would have thought possible twenty-four months ago. If my rage and fear at our slide into fascism make you uncomfortable, well, that’s just too bad, because I’m not going to back down from expressing them. I’m not going to let anyone tell me or any other woman or survivor or marginalized community member that we’re being unreasonable.

This post is a reminder that I’ll come back to when I’m doubting myself, or when a pundit or a neighbor or the guy on the bus implore me to just chill out. Remember: they’re protecting themselves, not you, from guilt or laziness or facing their own privilege. And that’s their problem, not yours. And if they don’t like it, they can calm down.

It’s our turn to fight

I haven’t written in a long time because I was job-hunting. I have a new job now. So yeah, I’m back.

And this is my election post for the day (also found on FB).

Last night I was despondent. For a few moments, my depression reared its head in the ugliest way. I barely slept.

This morning, I realized a few things:

I am white
I am well-educated
I have an amazing job with amazing benefits
I have an amazing support system
I am cis-het
I live in California

Barring a national overturning of Roe v. Wade or an uptick in assault on women in general nationwide, my rights and I are ok for the foreseeable future. Which is why it is now my job to fight for others.

For people of color, ESPECIALLY women of color
For those who don’t have the chance to go to college
For the unemployed, under-employed, and disabled
For the uninsured or those soon to be uninsured
For the poor
For the LGBT community
For people in places like Flint (STILL NO CLEAN WATER Y’ALL) and Ferguson and Standing Rock.

If you are like me and you enjoy many tremendous privileges, it is also your time to fight.

In municipal politics
In state politics
In national politics
In our communities
In our homes

I’m scared tbh. But I know I’m not nearly as scared as those in the marginalized groups above. So it’s on me. It’s on us (that mostly means you, white people).

I start by setting up a monthly donation to Planned Parenthood, which will be crucial to the well-being of women and girls and even men in the coming months and years if the ACA goes down. And then I research my next steps.

To 2018 and beyond.

Much love.

Reminder: You Are an Actual Person

It’s been a hell of a week. I don’t need to link to any of what’s been going on because, well, if you don’t already know you must be a mermaid living in King Triton’s undersea realm who is too busy trying to trade your voice to a sea witch in order to marry a random human prince to pay attention to Land News(TM), in which case, good luck with that.

If you identify as a woman, you are probably having a lot of feelings right now. Anger. Sadness. Fear. Defiance. High Priestess Michelle Obama–First of her name, Mother of Dragons and Malia and Sasha,Harvester of Organic Vegetables–summed it all up pretty well, I think.

If you identify as a woman this week, you’re probably also experiencing flashbacks. Flashbacks to the time your classmate reached down your shirt and groped at your (still flat) chest during story time when you were six and said this meant you were his girlfriend. To the time when your middle school teacher looked a little too long at your bare, white, unshaven thirteen-year-old legs on the first warm May day in seventh grade and remarked that he was “grateful it was shorts season.” To the time when your roommate came home crying because a boy tried to pressure her into sex before she was ready and called her a tease for refusing. To the time your heart was pounding in your chest as you walked down the dark New York street at nine p.m., worried that the strange man on the corner, angry at having his catcalls ignored, would follow through on his threats to “fucking rape and kill you, you ugly fat bitch.”

To all the times you were made to feel like nothing more than a receptacle for men’s feelings, from lust to disgust to rage to impulses of violence. To all the times you were reduced to body parts: boobs and butts and legs and hair and midriffs and arms and feet (yes, even feet). To all the times on the sidewalk you were told, unprompted, to smile.

To all the times you were made to feel like less than human. Like less than a person.

One definition of feminism is “the radical notion that women are people.”

A reminder for you, because I’ve needed to remind myself so often this week: you are an actual person. A human being. A soul. You are more than the meat on your bones. More than a number on a scale of attractiveness or weight or both. More than a reflection of what some men (and women) hate about themselves and the state of a scary and changing world.

I am an actual person. You are an actual person, too.

I love you.

Good night.

How I leave my apartment when I am scared

Sometimes, when you are an anxious person, you go through periods where it is difficult to leave the house because you are afraid of really weird and/or unlikely stuff. When you’re an anxious AND depressed person, it’s doubly fun, because sometimes you can’t leave the house because you’re afraid of really weird and/or unlikely stuff, and sometimes you can’t leave the house because you’re too sad and tired to get out of bed and have maybe forgotten how to shower. It’s good to have variety, I guess?

Today is one of those hard-to-leave-the-house-because-I’m-afraid-of-weird-and/or-unlikely-stuff days. Here is a short list of some of the things I am anxious about that may happen if I leave my apartment:

I forget my keys and get locked out of my apartment. The locksmith is unavailable and I have to spend the rest of my life living with all the other homeless people in Golden Gate Park while my landlord jacks up the rent on my place to over three grand a month and lets it to a family of four who just feel lucky to afford anything in the city.
I step in dog poop and have to throw away my good flats.
There is a sudden tsunami and I drown and die.
There is a huge earthquake and a building falls on me OR a fissure opens up in the earth and I fall in and I die.
I get hit by a car and lose a limb(s) and/or die.
I have to go to the bathroom but I am somewhere where there is no bathroom and I am uncomfortable because I really have to pee but can’t (this is a very real fear and happens a lot because I keep myself well-hydrated so I don’t die of dehydration in case I am ever trapped somewhere without water and also because it helps with digestion).
There is a man outside my apartment laughing to himself while urinating on a tree and I have to walk past him while he catcalls me (this one is gross and happens about 1x per week because San Francisco).
I go all the way to the pharmacy to pick up my prescription because Walgreens texted me and said it was ready. I get there, and it is not ready, and I have to wait at the pharmacy for twenty minutes during which time I run into someone I know and have to make small talk (this is scary and very possible due to unreliability of Walgreens).
I run into one of my neighbors in the lobby and have to make small talk (this one is the most terrifying because it is the most likely due to living in apartment building with actual other humans).

Some of these fears, as you see, are more likely to come to pass and are more dire than others, but my mind manages to rotate through all of them at such a pace that they all seem equally plausible and horrifying. These fears live in a part of my brain ruled by The Blob. The Blob is grey and always vaguely anxious and looks, coincidentally, like one of the ghosts from Pac-man:

The Blob is very well-meaning: he (or it?) just wants me to be prepared for any and all contingencies. Unfortunately, when he’s in top form, his preferred form of preparation is for me to stay in the apartment and never leave. This is not feasible, and so, on days like today, I have to use all the tools in my arsenal to get him to chill out. Despite his constant yammering in my head since I woke up, I have managed to leave my apartment TWICE already and am planning to go out a third time – for a social engagement, no less, with, like, three other people! What’s more, I’m meeting them in a restaurant that I have NEVER BEEN TO BEFORE, which is sort of a huge deal because new restaurants usually have Ebola (I’m pretty sure that’s science).

So how do I do it? I’m not a superhero, and I have ZERO judgment for people who don’t manage to do it (there are days when I can’t, myself), but here are some coping strategies I have adopted throughout the years that help:

Medication – this is less a coping strategy than a preventive measure. A lexapro & lamictal a day keep The Blob at bay!
Breathing – I breathe really slowly and just think about my breathing and nothing else until I can get up from my bed, put on shoes and a bra (and clothes) and leave the apartment.
Disaster-proofing my purse – people joke that I carry around a pharmacy in my purse…and I basically do. Other than the usual keys, wallet, phone, I have nearly all stomach and headache remedies in my bag in a plastic pouch at all times. The extra weight is worth the peace of mind.
Planning – going to a new place to eat? I Google my route, menu options, and Uber ride prices as well as weather conditions (thanks, San Francisco micro-climates!).
Focus on the likely good outcome – this one is the most important. Because of The Blob, I’ve often missed out on meeting people, going places, or experiencing things that could make my life a lot better/happier/more fun because I was too busy hiding in my apartment due to anxiety. If I think instead about what GOOD could come out of whatever I’m leaving the apartment to do, my anxiety becomes that much more manageable. For instance, tonight when I meet some friends from my old job for dinner, I can tell myself that not only will I most likely NOT get Ebola, I will also get to catch up with people who are awesome, hear all the juicy gossip since I left, and enjoy some delicious food at a place that has FOUR STARS on Yelp!

The best part of my coping strategies is that their effects are cumulative – the more often I manage to overcome The Blob and get out of the house, the (usually) more positive examples I have of good outcomes to look back on the next time I’m dealing with general or social anxiety! Don’t get me wrong: I’ll always be something of a homebody, but on days like today I’m proud of myself for taking the leap…and leaving my apartment. Anyone else have good coping strategies to share? I’m always looking for more!

Well, only two hours to go until I leave for dinner! Time to go pack my purse, get some work done, and research the temperature at 8 pm tonight in the Mission 🙂

Old dogs and real emotions

I’m currently visiting my parents in my hometown in New Hampshire (go…granite? And…cows?) as part of my summer “funemployment” travels. One of the best parts of visiting home, other than seeing my family and friends here on the East Coast, is hanging out with my old black labrador retriever, Jazzy (née Jasmine – yes, after the Disney princess. SHE HAD GREAT HAIR, OK?).

Jazzy is fourteen years old this month, and still almost as energetic and as sweet and hungry for treats as ever. She’s an extremely comforting presence to all who meet her, and she is possibly my parents’ favorite child. She’s also approximately ninety-eight years old in dog years, and our family is aware that we don’t have much time left with her.

This awareness was intensified this weekend, when I was petting her and discovered a large lump on her right flank. My parents took her to the vet on Monday, and found that it was cancer, specifically a mast cell tumor, common in older dogs. Despite her age, the vet recommended surgery as she’s in good shape otherwise, and it was scheduled for the following day. Though anxious about our beloved pet, we all felt good about this course of action and relatively upbeat.

However, about an hour after her appointment, I was petting her again, this time on her left flank, and, lo and behold, what should I feel there but another lump, this time with two nodules, that felt exactly like the cancerous tumor I had discovered on her other side. My parents and I promptly lost it. Jazzy, unaware of why we were all freaking out, simply went to each of us for her usual round of head scratchings, probably thinking to herself, “God, these humans sure are weird. Can I have a treat, please?”

Everything turned out ok – we took Jazzy in the next morning for surgery, and they simply removed both tumors, and told us it’s likely that this will be the end of it. She was hilariously high on pain medication last night (she would be a terrible companion for a pub crawl), and is pretty exhausted today, but the vet says she could live another year or more of high-quality life if no more cancer crops up. Here she is this morning in one of her favorite spots, her crate, dozing from the pain meds – you can see her scar on her belly if you look closely, as well as the white patch on her leg from her previous bout with cancer seven years ago (yep, this literal bitch is a literal 2x cancer survivor):

I'm sooooo high, you guys. — I’m sooooo high, you guys.

This whole incident, however, got me thinking about how I judge myself based on my emotional reactions. After I discovered the second tumor, I was numb, and then angry, and then I sobbed. I could barely sleep Monday night, and was a wreck most of yesterday from lack of sleep and anxiety about how Jazzy was holding up in surgery. And all the time I was experiencing this flow of “negative” emotions and sensations, I was berating myself for feeling them. “She’s just a dog,” I thought to myself. “Other people in the world are suffering horrible tragedies like earthquakes and starvation and Donald Trump running for president, and you’re literally losing sleep over a fourteen-year-old quadruped who’s already lived beyond the average lifespan for her breed. You’re a ridiculous and stupid white girl.” I apologized to my mother when she saw me crying. My parents were great, supporting each other and me by saying “it’s ok to be sad, we love her – old dog or not.” I still couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt, however, over being “too emotional” over something that was “not a big deal.”

Once the surgery was over and Jazzy came home in good, albeit dog-drunk, shape, my relief allowed me to make the connection (my therapist would be proud!) that trivializing my emotions, regardless of their cause, is a pattern I’ve engaged in my whole life. I used to get so upset at work when I was stressed or when someone said or did something unprofessional or mean, and then get even MORE upset by the demon voice in my head which told me I was overreacting or being unreasonable. Society in general teaches us to suppress or hide “bad” emotions, like grief, anger, or frustration, especially when the cause of these emotions isn’t justifiable by some arbitrary standard. Inconsolable because your ninety-year-old grandfather died? Well, he lived a long life, what are you crying for?! In a rage because some sexist jerk at work made a joke about the size of your ass? Happens to everyone – no need to make a fuss – also, you might want to consider losing a few pounds! Depressed because you got divorced? Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all!

Any of this sound familiar to anyone?

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think it’s necessarily healthy or feasible for people to go around constantly weeping or screaming or otherwise giving full vent to every single emotion in public. But I do think that we harm ourselves by judging certain emotions as “bad” and then encouraging, if not mandating, that we suppress any expression of these emotions, even in public or professional settings. I think it can be appropriate, even useful, to cry at work, for instance: one of the best moves I ever made in managing the relationship with a client was telling him that he had made me cry (he had berated me in a meeting in front of forty people). When he truly realized how his actions had made me feel, our entire relationship changed – it became more honest, more respectful, and more effective. By the time I left the company, he was my favorite client – all because I let him know, with my words AND body language, how angry and sad he had made me feel with his behavior.

Lol looking at this post it seems sort of weird to go from talking about an old dog with cancer to crying at work, but to me the connection is important. It’s ok for me to cry about my sick dog. It’s ok for you to be angry with a mean coworker and to express that anger appropriately. It’s ok to laugh out loud when something is really fucking funny. It’s ok to be a real, whole human being, and not a robot or a Vulcan.

If you’re reading, I’m interested to hear about your own experiences – how do you deal with strong emotions in tough situations? How do you remain authentic to yourself in a society where authenticity is often touted but rarely embraced?

I hope you have a great week. I’m off to pet Jazzy – she’s milking this “I had cancer! Pet me!” thing for all it’s worth!