“I don’t mind”

Marilyn Monroe said I don’t mind living in a man’s world as long as I can be a woman in it.
There was a time when I agreed with her. When I truly believed they women were equal, that the reason I was ignored was my age.  But then I noticed something. The people who said that women weren’t equal, and it needed to be changed treated me with respect. They heard what I said… The people who said that women were equal ignored me.
Fast forward to today, and I’m making less than a man would at my job. It’s not that I negated less. It’s that I was lied to when the negotiation ended. It’s that there are no local jobs that I will ever be paid the same as a man.
There are no local jobs where I will be respected like a man would. There is less chance for me to do the photography I like because I’m a women, and should be taking photos of people. Yuck. Not Me.

I’m trapped by being a women. I’m ignored, pushed aside. If what I want for me isn’t what the other person in the transaction wants, I’m expected to give up my goal, regardless of how that makes me feel…

So no. I’m not happy being a women in a man’s world.  I’m not content to be unequal to any one, based only on my gender, and sexual orientation.

Success journal

I  finally started  one.  My amazingly  awesome therapist gave me a journal with (insert quote  here)   written  on it.  This quote gave       me some thing to think about… And the end result of that thinking was to give me a journal that’s a simple list of what Ive done. This is something that I have neglected to focus on or even acknowledge for a long time. I review this journal second thing(meds come first) I. The morning. Its helping me move towards getting out of bed before work so that my life is more then laying in bed and work. I’m feeling really happy about this and am considering posting this list as a photograph on twitter, but I’m not sure if I’d be OK with making it public, or of it would just feel like too much work.

the darkest times

It was a dark and stormy night. The road that was going to lead me home was an unsafe one, that had rock slides and sheer cliffs. My friend refused to let me take that one, so I took the safer route. It’s still a mountain pass, but no sheer drops,  3 lanes in each direction, and much straighter. So, I thought that all would be good.
There was a car to my left, and rocks all over the road. Running over one of them left my tire punctured and my rim broken. Thankfully I had a spare in the back of my car. In a crying panic I called my friend.
I was sitting in my locked car, waiting for them to rescue me when the wrong car pulled behind me, A man in a yellow rain suite then shined  a mag light into  my window. He was highway patrol.  He was professional. but that doesn’t help me at all. I’m triggered by law enforcement, as well as car problems.  Just as he left, another vehicle with far too many lights pulled up in front  of me.  I was already at a 10.  He was a nice man who changed my tire for 60 dollars.
This let me go on my way and I made it home.  Now I;m not copying well while waiting for a replacement rim.
This part is much harder then the  first part in the car becouse no one seems to get it… Im cut off from all  of my safe places. I cant just toss a few items in the car and  take off.  I feel at times like I did when my now ex boyfriend wuld take his care and leae me withonlthe stick sift that I couldnt drive.

Why I’m skipping Thanksgiving this year

When I was a kid, food was always an issue. My dad apparently didn’t believe in eating breakfast, or lunch. Of course there cereal, but the milk would be spoiled, or all gone. There would be no tea to drink, only black coffee.  The sugar was gone so often that I didn’t bother to check for it, and the milk.. already covered. So, there was nothing but toast but the jelly would have mold on it. of course my Dad didn’t think that there was a problem with eating moldy food, so sometimes the bread would be moldy also. That left me with little to eat for lunch. Lucky for me, there were a few smart teachers who would call my Dad, and make sure that I was given both breakfast and lunch at school. But that didn’t start until they figured out that I was using my birthday money on food.

When I got older, things got a little better. I started cooking, and thus got leftovers for lunch. That became cool when I got to high school because I would eat good for me food, and my friends wanted to be healthy.  The problem then became getting proper food.  There was a period of a few months where my diet was almost nothing but shitty iceberg lettous. I was still at the age where I needed a work permit, my parents wouldn’t sign it without me handing over my paycheck. I didn’t have a place that I could have hide the money safely. My room was considered fair game for searches. So, I wasn’t given food that had any nutritional value, and I didn’t have a single safe person who was willing to help me get it.

On top of this, I was always told that I was “fat” and my dad gave me various pills. They got flushed. I know, that’s bad to do with them, but It’s what I had to do. I didn’t want to take them. My problem wasn’t that I needed pills, I needed food that was healthy. If I ate too much, I was fat. If I ate too little, then I was being disrespectful for not liking the food.

So, I’ve already had food issues. This is only the ground work for the real problem. My last exboyfriend refused to eat anything that i cooked after a little while. He would then get offended if I didn’t like or eat the food that he made, or wanted to go out and eat. But I wanted healthy food, not fat and sugar filled stuffs. But, I let him cook, and I gained weight. As this happened, he got steadily more abusive. I don’t know if it was about my weight, or if it was about him being an asshole. But, it happened.

Then, earlier on the night he attacked me, he odored a pizza for us… one with meat on it… despite it being the one that I was paying for, and it was celebrating for me, and I don’t like meat on pizza. I like vegetables, and lots of them.  He knew this, yet disregarded my tastes at my celebration, on my dime…

so, now the girl who has post-tratamic-stress can’t handle sitting down with a group of people and eating. So, I’m skipping Thanksgiving this year. I will not force  my self into an experience that is high pressure, and likely to end bad with people who won’t understand. I say that because the ones who do understand let me just say “not this year” and answer with “ok” or “I understand” or “I’m here to talk about it.”