A Resounding Yes

It’s ironic this situation landed in my lap as I was watching the The Makers on PBS.

So I am sitting here, watching the history of the feminist movement (which was going pretty well by all accounts until Phyllis Schlafly showed up…in my experience, nothing good has ever come out of Missouri), when my girlfriend texts me because the current guy she’s dating stood her up. He asked for a raincheck.  She’s pissed.  Feeling empowered by my current viewing, I am bold enough to suggest that maybe she should not grant his raincheck request.  “Tell him no,” I bravely suggest. 

She didn’t.  And in all honestly, until about a week ago, I would not have either.  But a shift has occurred.  …I’m not saying it won’t shift back at any moment…but as I sit here on the cusp of forty, I am empowered enough to say, “No thanks.”  Finally. 

I’ve read He’s Just Not That Into You.  And I get it.  I realize that inaction, whether something as asinine as forgetting a date or as mundane as not opening a door, screams volumes.  If he doesn’t call when he says he’s going to, it’s not an oversight.  We all know this – I personally know this because I accidentally call people from my purse all the time (please refer to the post Moneyball from March 2012).  Yet despite books, movies, what-not, we as women – and if I had to venture to guess, as people – refuse to see this simple truth.  Actions speak louder than words.  And whether or not words are actually involved… we know.  We know.  We know if a friend is upset, whether or not she says it.  We know when we didn’t get the job, even when they say, "we'll be in touch."  We know he’s not (ever, ever, ever) going to change despite his protests to the contrary.  Yet we suppress that “huh?” – that little voice at the base of our skull when someone’s actions do not match his words.  It’s as though we’ve fallen into the deep end of the pool and we have no perspective to judge what is happening above ground.  We suppress our intuition – which is unfortunate.  Because I’m discovering that following it could save us a lot of time.

We not only ignore that prickly instinct in our brain, but we refuse to advocate for ourselves.  We will stand up for a friend, a pet, the homeless man on the street…but why not ourselves?  What do we think we are going to lose?  An opportunity at a relationship?  Love?  A dream realized?  Intuitively – if we really listen – I think we know that opportunity is already dead.  …and if it’s not, would pulling over and asking, “what’s really going on here?” be the catalyst that killed it? 

Why don’t I advocate for me?  I didn’t until this simple realization came to me:  he can reject me whether or not I am silent.  I can advocate for myself or I can stand quietly in the corner and wait oh-so-patiently for his next move…but I can’t change the outcome.  If I’m about to be rejected, silence will only prolong the inevitable.  And if he does stay around…well…isn’t it kind of half-ass at best by this point? 

I’ll tell you one thing for damn sure – in love and in life, I deserve a resounding yes.   And listen up people – we all do. You, me – and yes, even Phyllis the hypocritical bitch -- deserve a resounding yes (if you don’t know feminist history, that won’t even be remotely funny, BTW).   If the king is naked, I deserve the opportunity to inquire as to why.   And to say it's unacceptable.

I'll still get dumped – but at least now it’s on my terms and my time.  And painful though that might be in the moment, it allows me to free up space for someone new and inevitably better to walk into the room.  

How do I know he’s coming?  Because I’m no longer willing to settle for less.

There Ought to be a Law

Tonight, the Violence Against Women Act passed the Senate.  There were 22 male Senators who refused to vote in favor of the bill.  And the first word that came to mind when I saw the voting result was, of course: "DOUCHE."  Who would not vote for legislation to protect women from violence?  (Answer?  A douche.)  But in an attempt at spiritual growth, when a relative asked the question, "Why do we need a separate law to not hit women?  Do we need a law to not hit people in wheelchairs?  Or Mid-westerners?  Or Yankees fans?"  (...while a smart-ass answer came to mind with regard to Yankees fans -- and I've suppressed it thus far -- but please note, I AM DYING over here!), I attempted to answer sincerely.  Which was not easy.  Because the answer was profoundly personal.

This is what I said:

We need a separate law because my dad hit my mom.  And me.  And my sister.  And my brother.  When I was in college and my father hit me enough that I needed to go to the hospital, the police -- rather than asking me if I wanted to press charges or arresting the man, as common sense would dictate -- asked me what I had done to provoke him.  

I wish we didn't need a separate law, but because women still make $.77 on the dollar (and financial means is a deterrent to leaving) and because the "good old boy" mentality is alive and well in some places, we need a separate law.

I'm sure there are a lot more statistics, facts, numbers and what-not in the Congressional Record and elsewhere on the web -- cost of violence with regard to missed work...health care...mental health.  My answer was personal and off the cuff.  The relative who asked the question has known me all but 11 days of my life  -- and had no idea this happened to me.  ...well, why would he?  Victims of domestic violence become really good liars.  We make up stories.  We hide facts.  We shove our emotions way, way deep inside so that no one -- including ourselves -- can ever find them.  This is why I went into acting.  And politics.  And law.  Lying was a talent I had been refining my entire life.

It's interesting what we are able to remember, because I can tell you the exact moment I knew I had to lie.  I was about five years old.  I was standing in the dining room and I was about to be "punished" -- a.k.a. hit -- for doing something mundane like turning  the T.V. volume up too loud or neglecting to pick up my Barbies.  I said to my father something along the lines of, "I don't think this is normal.  People on T.V. don't get hit like I do."  And he responded to me (with a lot of malice in his eyes), " I hit you because you deserve it."

That's when I first learned what a horrible person I was.  This did not happen to other people.  This happened to me.  Because I deserved it.  So at this statement, I assumed that (a) other people knew I was hit; and (b) they did nothing to stop it.  Which was why I had to hide the violence -- because I thought I was hiding the terrible secret that I was a bad person who provoked my father.  It never occurred to me in the thirty-some-odd years that have since passed to think anything different.  ...despite being a grown-up.  Despite hundreds of thousands of dollars in counseling and anti-depressants...and alcohol.  It did not occur to me that this initial conclusion might be wrong.

I assumed that my relative knew what happened to me.  I assumed everyone knew.  And I suppose that's the more profound reason as to why we need a separate law to protect women (and children) from violence.  Because they take on the shame.  I did something to provoke him.  I deserved it.  It was my fault.  I did.  And I've had many, many years of wavering between attempts at both perfection and self-destruction to prove it.

Tonight I realized that I was still holding onto an idea and identity that was created by a five year old.  And it wasn't serving me.  So allow me:  I'm a survivor of domestic violence.  I was just a kid and it was not my fault.  And we need a separate law to address violence against women for many reasons -- but first and foremost, because no one -- whether five or fifty -- should be led to believe that it's her fault she was hit.

Silence allows this message to persist.