‘What we’ve got here is…failure to communicate.’
Laura,
Communication, or the lack thereof (which, anyway, communicates something all the same), seems so much at the center of each of our posts that I figured I’d just tackle the issue head-on. I want to trace what I see as the major moments of non-communication—moments that occur no matter how honest we’re trying to be in our communication. Here’s what I see, anyway: 1) what I failed to communicate, 2) where we are failing to communicate, 3) how we want (?) to communicate (broadly).
1) I guess the thing that was initially interesting to me about the “mean girl” phenomenon is that I imagine in many instances the girl so-designated has no intention whatsoever toward the person who finds her mean—that person might not even be on her radar, or perhaps is registered as nothing more than a blip on the screen. So, one potential pitfall of communication: it is possible for communication (of a sort) to occur even when one party isn’t consciously transmitting any kind of message at all to the other. (This, especially insofar as I can shift our reading of the definition of communication to include the connecting line, passage, or opening itself—something like the communicating door between two rooms.) Is the mean girl even, really, mean?
2) Here’s the weird space of you and me. I can’t say what I want to say without saying too much. So I’m going to get weirdly cryptic here. We will communicate in code. If I say more than I should, I count on you to tell me so. Insofar as that is possible. Is that possible?
There was weirdness around our conversation about the comments. Weirdness that had nothing, I think, to do with whether this space (of the blog) was invaded, but about what we mean to each other. To what extent is my saying to you, “let’s consider opening this up,” always a statement of avoidance. I mean, I suppose, to what extent am I saying, “We can’t do this alone.” To what extent is your saying to me, “Let’s not go there,” an avoidance of a different kind? And here, I’m on much less certain ground. Because it’s you, not me, and I’m simply guessing. Or making educated guesses, I suppose. Are you saying to me, “I need the space we’re creating”—i.e. I need somewhere safe, that you are implicated in; or, are you saying to me, “I just don’t want to?” My response to you, as your friend, depends so much upon how I read that utterance. I don’t know how to read it. We talk about honesty, and nakedness, but in the last two posts we’ve both done our utmost to avoid each. Or at least I have. Maybe that’s all I’m responding to here—how my lack of directness could create such a situation.
3) (Which is really only still #2.) Truth be told, I could give a fuck about the comments. I see the value in them, but I also see the detriment, one we’ve only avoided by being so unrecognized. We’ve been lucky insofar as the people who’ve commented here share a common goal with us—things tend to get pretty ugly when that is not the case. And, as someone who has been forced to restrict her own consumption of this precise form of media because of the dire misanthropy that was growing there, I’m not persuaded that comments are a universal good. In fact, I think what we’re doing—trying to be totally naked in the context of a real conversation—is a good in and of itself. I will never begrudge a moment of this. Our conversation—no matter how influential to the outside world—has had, is having, a profound impact on my life. I am deeply grateful to you for continuing in this conversation with me. That said, we will disagree. Sometimes mildly, and informally, and sometimes with more serious repercussions. There are two poems that are very much on my mind tonight. I want to share them with you:
I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.
I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.
I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind. (Anne Sexton, “Her Kind”)
And:
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul. (William Ernest Henley, “Invictus”)
Can you guess which of these speaks to our relationship? (Lest I be holding out on anyone, obviously I think the Anne Sexton poem speaks more closely to Laura and I than the other.) But, more than that, can you guess how terrified that makes me? Because I have to care about everything you say—even if it’s not what I believe. I suppose I don’t have to, really, but I do. I do. And that is terrifying, to me. I’m trying to keep my hands cool and dry, in the middle of my own private civil war. It’s not so civil, really. And, really, it’s not so private anymore.
Lisa
Showing posts with label Vulnerability and Violence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Vulnerability and Violence. Show all posts
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Love in an Elevator
I’ve been thinking lately about the elevator scene in The Maltese Falcon, where Sam Spade watches as Brigid O’Shaugnessy begins her descent to prison, or worse, the gallows. Before the cops arrived to take Brigid on that fatal journey, Sam and Brigid have a fascinating discussion on the subject of love. After she claims that their love for one another should be reason enough to find some alternative solution, one that doesn’t involve her doom, Sam replies: “I don’t care who loves who. I’m not going to play the sap for you.” Sam doesn’t cite his commitment to justice or the truth; rather, he insists upon his own status as the non-duped, a man who knows precisely from whence the threat to his (self) control comes. Of course, this makes him precisely the kind of fool he doesn’t want to be, and the conclusion of the film illustrates this. Rather than ending on this note of self-assurance, we return to Sam’s office where his dead partner’s wife, with whom he had an affair, awaits. Sam, who has been avoiding this nuisance of a woman for the better part of the film, shivers in disgust and tells his secretary to “send her in.”
Wait. I’ve left something important out. After Sam tells Brigid he refuses to play the sap, he goes on to say “I won’t walk in Thursby’s—and I don’t know how many others—footsteps.” Aha. And again, later: “If all I’ve said doesn’t mean anything to you, we’ll make it just this. I won’t because all of me wants to—regardless of consequences—and you’ve counted on that with me the same as you counted on that with the others.”
What is it about love that threatens to reduce us, to compromise our specialness? Slavoj Zizek mentions a passage in Lacan that seems on point: “Everyone knows Lacan’s definition of love (“Love is giving something one doesn’t have…”); what one often forgets is to add the other half which completes the sentence: “…to someone who doesn’t want it.” And is this not confirmed by our most elementary experience when somebody unexpectedly declared passionate love to us—is not the first reaction, preceding the possible positive reply, that something obscene, intrusive, is being forced upon us?” Don’t we worry, in one way or another, about our very “oneness,” our singularity? Don’t we worry, regardless of the possibility of other loves, that love will make us not one, but either less than one, or, perhaps even worse, two?
Maybe the question isn’t what Sam is afraid of—after all, that seems fairly clear. Maybe the question is what Brigid is afraid of. Maybe the femme fatale isn’t a reflection of male fears and anxieties at all. Maybe, just maybe, she has fears and anxieties of her own. After all, she has been the primary searcher for the falcon, “the stuff that dreams are made of.” And doesn’t this bring us back, paradoxically, to blowjobs-for-beer? Maybe the question I should have asked wasn’t what those men wanted—maybe the entire point was: what did that young woman want?
What does it mean to want to be the object of desire, even the object of desire of a non-subject? This speaks, in a way, to LLL’s most recent post, and the question of the woman who lost weight to get her man. Why, after all, should they be lauded for their triumph? What was it a triumph over? It was a triumph over all of our own feelings—I deserve. I deserve better. I deserve to be loved. This is no triumph. This is nothing but compromise.
If Brigid wants the statue, it’s because it can promise her something more. I deserve. I deserve to be loved this much. I deserve to love. What are her anxieties? Precisely that she won’t be loved unconditionally, about which she was entirely right. Precisely that others won’t let go their fear. About which she was entirely right. Precisely that she won’t love herself. About which she was entirely right. Poor Brigid. Poor us.
Wait. I’ve left something important out. After Sam tells Brigid he refuses to play the sap, he goes on to say “I won’t walk in Thursby’s—and I don’t know how many others—footsteps.” Aha. And again, later: “If all I’ve said doesn’t mean anything to you, we’ll make it just this. I won’t because all of me wants to—regardless of consequences—and you’ve counted on that with me the same as you counted on that with the others.”
What is it about love that threatens to reduce us, to compromise our specialness? Slavoj Zizek mentions a passage in Lacan that seems on point: “Everyone knows Lacan’s definition of love (“Love is giving something one doesn’t have…”); what one often forgets is to add the other half which completes the sentence: “…to someone who doesn’t want it.” And is this not confirmed by our most elementary experience when somebody unexpectedly declared passionate love to us—is not the first reaction, preceding the possible positive reply, that something obscene, intrusive, is being forced upon us?” Don’t we worry, in one way or another, about our very “oneness,” our singularity? Don’t we worry, regardless of the possibility of other loves, that love will make us not one, but either less than one, or, perhaps even worse, two?
Maybe the question isn’t what Sam is afraid of—after all, that seems fairly clear. Maybe the question is what Brigid is afraid of. Maybe the femme fatale isn’t a reflection of male fears and anxieties at all. Maybe, just maybe, she has fears and anxieties of her own. After all, she has been the primary searcher for the falcon, “the stuff that dreams are made of.” And doesn’t this bring us back, paradoxically, to blowjobs-for-beer? Maybe the question I should have asked wasn’t what those men wanted—maybe the entire point was: what did that young woman want?
What does it mean to want to be the object of desire, even the object of desire of a non-subject? This speaks, in a way, to LLL’s most recent post, and the question of the woman who lost weight to get her man. Why, after all, should they be lauded for their triumph? What was it a triumph over? It was a triumph over all of our own feelings—I deserve. I deserve better. I deserve to be loved. This is no triumph. This is nothing but compromise.
If Brigid wants the statue, it’s because it can promise her something more. I deserve. I deserve to be loved this much. I deserve to love. What are her anxieties? Precisely that she won’t be loved unconditionally, about which she was entirely right. Precisely that others won’t let go their fear. About which she was entirely right. Precisely that she won’t love herself. About which she was entirely right. Poor Brigid. Poor us.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Scrape
I ripped my knee open on a 8th grade class field trip to Fargo to watch a film for health class. I don’t remember which film we were in town to see. But I do remember slipping in the parking lot, the realization that I was about to hit the ground, and the last minute thrust of hands and arms out front to catch the impact. I remember the small rocks embedded in my palms, and the four deep swaths of asphalt caught in the knee that took the pavement at a sharp angle. I remember the sharp thrill of the pain and the gradual nausea of the shame. I remember becoming the unintended center of attention at precisely the moment I most wanted to fade quietly into the background, camouflaged and ready to defend my position by any means necessary.
I still have four faint lines under the skin of my left knee from the asphalt, but the emotional scars from that period of my life are certainly more profound. More profound than I like to consider, it would seem.
I’ve spent the last couple days in a space of un-reality, a space I visit from time to time. There’s not much here, to be honest. There’s an easy, sensual feeling, something summery and voyeuristic. It’s like a small room in a small cabin as the sun is setting. There’s a sultry, close atmosphere, and a wooden chair facing the window. Outside something is happening to a woman who looks strangely familiar. I watch and watch and watch.
I go to this space when the feelings get too intense, as they altogether too often do. When I can’t quite make it to the space, when a rainstorm has washed away the gravel road leading to that small cabin, I stage a storm of my own. I obliterate myself. And I wake to a world ravished and in desperate need of rebuilding. I get to work, forgetting all about the eerie feeling of the calm before the storm.
The refusal of pain, the attempt to construct the self as totally invulnerable, is an act. It is a deliberate expression of a particular self in a particular world; it is a staging, the playing of a part. I’ve written a play of the past, one where I was liberated rather than afraid, where I was determined rather than confused, one in which the desire of the other was always more my desire than theirs.
When, in reality: I’m twenty years old. It’s summer, and I’m living off campus and dating a frat boy. I’m confused, I’m unhappy, I’m drinking too much and smoking too much pot. I’m at a party at the frat house, drunk enough to take the edge off the feeling of anxiety that lives at the edges of my existence. I’m flirting with every man in range, but the flirtation is fueled by anger, rage, rather than attraction. I’m furious that I’m a woman, furious that I’m the object of male desire, furious that I can’t find a way to rearrange the space in which I live, to gain some purchase for a life of my own. I’m furious that I want them to like me, to tell me that I’m valuable.
The night wears on. I drink more, flirt with a friend of my then-boyfriend, and find myself, half-dazed, in a dark room with this boy. I remember nothing until I come to with him on top of me and inside of me, fucking me. I try to figure out where I am and what has happened. Was I passed out? Did I black out? I’ve got no sense of what’s led to this moment, and I begin to shake my head: no, no, no. I say it out loud, but he’s almost finished. And then he’s finished. My then-boyfriend finds out. He’s devastated, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything at all.
One day you fall. You skin your knee. You should have it cleaned out, but you’re so humiliated by your own clumsiness that you pretend it hasn’t happened. You limp on, through the pain, while the dirt remains somewhere inside. You heal, but the traces remain, traced in the very body, just underneath the skin.
I still have four faint lines under the skin of my left knee from the asphalt, but the emotional scars from that period of my life are certainly more profound. More profound than I like to consider, it would seem.
I’ve spent the last couple days in a space of un-reality, a space I visit from time to time. There’s not much here, to be honest. There’s an easy, sensual feeling, something summery and voyeuristic. It’s like a small room in a small cabin as the sun is setting. There’s a sultry, close atmosphere, and a wooden chair facing the window. Outside something is happening to a woman who looks strangely familiar. I watch and watch and watch.
I go to this space when the feelings get too intense, as they altogether too often do. When I can’t quite make it to the space, when a rainstorm has washed away the gravel road leading to that small cabin, I stage a storm of my own. I obliterate myself. And I wake to a world ravished and in desperate need of rebuilding. I get to work, forgetting all about the eerie feeling of the calm before the storm.
The refusal of pain, the attempt to construct the self as totally invulnerable, is an act. It is a deliberate expression of a particular self in a particular world; it is a staging, the playing of a part. I’ve written a play of the past, one where I was liberated rather than afraid, where I was determined rather than confused, one in which the desire of the other was always more my desire than theirs.
When, in reality: I’m twenty years old. It’s summer, and I’m living off campus and dating a frat boy. I’m confused, I’m unhappy, I’m drinking too much and smoking too much pot. I’m at a party at the frat house, drunk enough to take the edge off the feeling of anxiety that lives at the edges of my existence. I’m flirting with every man in range, but the flirtation is fueled by anger, rage, rather than attraction. I’m furious that I’m a woman, furious that I’m the object of male desire, furious that I can’t find a way to rearrange the space in which I live, to gain some purchase for a life of my own. I’m furious that I want them to like me, to tell me that I’m valuable.
The night wears on. I drink more, flirt with a friend of my then-boyfriend, and find myself, half-dazed, in a dark room with this boy. I remember nothing until I come to with him on top of me and inside of me, fucking me. I try to figure out where I am and what has happened. Was I passed out? Did I black out? I’ve got no sense of what’s led to this moment, and I begin to shake my head: no, no, no. I say it out loud, but he’s almost finished. And then he’s finished. My then-boyfriend finds out. He’s devastated, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything at all.
One day you fall. You skin your knee. You should have it cleaned out, but you’re so humiliated by your own clumsiness that you pretend it hasn’t happened. You limp on, through the pain, while the dirt remains somewhere inside. You heal, but the traces remain, traced in the very body, just underneath the skin.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Exposed, In Danger, At Risk...or Vulnerable?
LJ and G and I were talking about vulnerability; how did feeling or being vulnerable inform our beliefs about ourselves and our ability to be autonomous in the world. I was trying to describe my first memory of being vulnerable because I was female.
It was 1963 and I was twelve. I walked to and from school every day along a series of sidewalks that were a straight shot to my apartment building. The lengths of sidewalk ended at my building in a dead end.
It was fall; the neighborhood was park-like with many large old oak and maple trees lining the sidewalks. The leaves had been falling, but there were still many golden and red ones on the branches high over my head; they made a muted scratching sound in the light breeze. It was misty that day; a fog had settled down as I walked home. It wasn’t too thick, just foggy enough to be wonderful to a near adolescent romantic.
I was very happy that day. This was not a usual occurrence for me. I was not popular in school, but seen as a sort of freak. I was teased and laughed at for appearing to be unsophisticated, and indeed I was. I did not know much about how to navigate the world. Since this was a fairly small neighborhood elementary school, my reputation followed me to the sixth grade. One of the things that was known about me was that I did not know how to tie my sneakers in the third grade without making two separate loops and crossing them together. I was not very coordinated and was picked last, if at all, for any sports. I made friends with the other weirdoes, and that was the absolute clincher. So, being happy that day was not in direct relation to anything that happened that day in school.
It was the sweater.
All the girls in my class that fall were wearing mohair sweaters. The sweaters had a large round neck and three quarter sleeves; one wore a turtle neck underneath. This was the costume, along with a short pencil skirt (mine not as short as they were allowed; all of them could wear anything shorter than I, which also contributed to my freak status) white crew socks twirled so that the ribbing made a vortex design around each sock, and black ankle boots. I was not thin as a child, or ever, except for the years as a speed freak, so a pencil skirt was not very becoming for me. I also had bigger breasts than my peers (more freakishness) at that time, and my mother, along with rejecting any of my stabs at being like the others, disallowed a bra with the declaration that I was too young. Big ass, bouncing breasts…freak.
I don’t know how or why it happened, but that previous evening my mother presented me with a Kelly green mohair sweater, just like the ones the other girls had. I was beside myself. It did not matter that my skirt made me look fat, or that I didn’t have the boots, but dirty white sneakers. I had the sweater and a turtleneck and I pulled it on that morning with pride.
The day went well in school. I was complimented on my sweater and almost treated like a peer. I had to stay late that day for some infraction, but I don’t remember what it was. I didn’t care, it had been a day made distinctive by finally fitting in.
I walked home alone. There was not much traffic in that neighborhood most times and no one was out walking that day. The day was hushed and misty, like something out of Jane Eyre. I was so happy to have the walk to myself, no teasing boys remarking on my body. I hugged my books to my chest and closed my eyes tilting my face to the sky catching the slight water droplets there.
As I brought my face down and opened my eyes I saw him. A man was two sidewalks ahead of me walking toward me. He walked with his hands in his pockets, had what seemed like some type of bomber jacket on, and a pompadour hairstyle. I was staring and I realized it, so I quickly lowered my eyes. I didn’t think he saw me but I didn’t want to be rude. I raised my head and noticed that now he was walking away from me; in the same direction, along the same path, but now in the opposite direction. He was also continuously looking over his shoulder at me. I saw his profile and I knew he was gauging my progress, keeping track of me.
I knew I was in trouble. I continued to walk. I looked around; not a car, bicycle or person walking. Now the mist made me chilled even though I was sweating, my lovely mohair sweater had become a horror of itching, and my breasts seemed to jump out from my body larger than ever. I no longer felt happy, or pretty, or free.
I kept watching as he kept watching. Finally, I neared the block of my building and the dead end. He was standing with his back to me on the corner. He knew I had to come to him now. There was a ramp to the basement on my left and I could catch the elevator there—maybe. My mother told me all the time, never go in that basement, always come to the front of the building. Don’t go in the basement.
I ran for the basement as fast as I could. I rang for the elevator and threw myself into it as the doors began to close and his hands tried to reach to stop them. I saw his dirty fingernails as the doors closed.
I never told anyone because nothing really happened. I took off the Kelly green mohair sweater, rolled it into a ball and stuffed it into the back of my closet on the floor. I never wore it again, and oddly my mother never asked about it.
A month later Kennedy was killed, the world was not the same place even for the adults, and I made a new friend. She was also a freak, but she didn’t care, and I felt saved.
A year later I was raped by her brother’s best friend.
I don’t know how to be vulnerable in the way most of the women I know talk about. I don’t think they do either. All of our experiences are not the same; some of us were violated emotionally, some physically, most of us endured a combination of many incidents of infringement on our selves, our private spaces.
I don’t know. I just know that despite all I have learned about myself and living, I still see men as I did in my earliest experiences. I would like to bring down the wall, but being vulnerable means I can be hurt. I don’t mean hurt like I will cry I mean hurt like I will be damaged. The thing is: I already am.
It was 1963 and I was twelve. I walked to and from school every day along a series of sidewalks that were a straight shot to my apartment building. The lengths of sidewalk ended at my building in a dead end.
It was fall; the neighborhood was park-like with many large old oak and maple trees lining the sidewalks. The leaves had been falling, but there were still many golden and red ones on the branches high over my head; they made a muted scratching sound in the light breeze. It was misty that day; a fog had settled down as I walked home. It wasn’t too thick, just foggy enough to be wonderful to a near adolescent romantic.
I was very happy that day. This was not a usual occurrence for me. I was not popular in school, but seen as a sort of freak. I was teased and laughed at for appearing to be unsophisticated, and indeed I was. I did not know much about how to navigate the world. Since this was a fairly small neighborhood elementary school, my reputation followed me to the sixth grade. One of the things that was known about me was that I did not know how to tie my sneakers in the third grade without making two separate loops and crossing them together. I was not very coordinated and was picked last, if at all, for any sports. I made friends with the other weirdoes, and that was the absolute clincher. So, being happy that day was not in direct relation to anything that happened that day in school.
It was the sweater.
All the girls in my class that fall were wearing mohair sweaters. The sweaters had a large round neck and three quarter sleeves; one wore a turtle neck underneath. This was the costume, along with a short pencil skirt (mine not as short as they were allowed; all of them could wear anything shorter than I, which also contributed to my freak status) white crew socks twirled so that the ribbing made a vortex design around each sock, and black ankle boots. I was not thin as a child, or ever, except for the years as a speed freak, so a pencil skirt was not very becoming for me. I also had bigger breasts than my peers (more freakishness) at that time, and my mother, along with rejecting any of my stabs at being like the others, disallowed a bra with the declaration that I was too young. Big ass, bouncing breasts…freak.
I don’t know how or why it happened, but that previous evening my mother presented me with a Kelly green mohair sweater, just like the ones the other girls had. I was beside myself. It did not matter that my skirt made me look fat, or that I didn’t have the boots, but dirty white sneakers. I had the sweater and a turtleneck and I pulled it on that morning with pride.
The day went well in school. I was complimented on my sweater and almost treated like a peer. I had to stay late that day for some infraction, but I don’t remember what it was. I didn’t care, it had been a day made distinctive by finally fitting in.
I walked home alone. There was not much traffic in that neighborhood most times and no one was out walking that day. The day was hushed and misty, like something out of Jane Eyre. I was so happy to have the walk to myself, no teasing boys remarking on my body. I hugged my books to my chest and closed my eyes tilting my face to the sky catching the slight water droplets there.
As I brought my face down and opened my eyes I saw him. A man was two sidewalks ahead of me walking toward me. He walked with his hands in his pockets, had what seemed like some type of bomber jacket on, and a pompadour hairstyle. I was staring and I realized it, so I quickly lowered my eyes. I didn’t think he saw me but I didn’t want to be rude. I raised my head and noticed that now he was walking away from me; in the same direction, along the same path, but now in the opposite direction. He was also continuously looking over his shoulder at me. I saw his profile and I knew he was gauging my progress, keeping track of me.
I knew I was in trouble. I continued to walk. I looked around; not a car, bicycle or person walking. Now the mist made me chilled even though I was sweating, my lovely mohair sweater had become a horror of itching, and my breasts seemed to jump out from my body larger than ever. I no longer felt happy, or pretty, or free.
I kept watching as he kept watching. Finally, I neared the block of my building and the dead end. He was standing with his back to me on the corner. He knew I had to come to him now. There was a ramp to the basement on my left and I could catch the elevator there—maybe. My mother told me all the time, never go in that basement, always come to the front of the building. Don’t go in the basement.
I ran for the basement as fast as I could. I rang for the elevator and threw myself into it as the doors began to close and his hands tried to reach to stop them. I saw his dirty fingernails as the doors closed.
I never told anyone because nothing really happened. I took off the Kelly green mohair sweater, rolled it into a ball and stuffed it into the back of my closet on the floor. I never wore it again, and oddly my mother never asked about it.
A month later Kennedy was killed, the world was not the same place even for the adults, and I made a new friend. She was also a freak, but she didn’t care, and I felt saved.
A year later I was raped by her brother’s best friend.
I don’t know how to be vulnerable in the way most of the women I know talk about. I don’t think they do either. All of our experiences are not the same; some of us were violated emotionally, some physically, most of us endured a combination of many incidents of infringement on our selves, our private spaces.
I don’t know. I just know that despite all I have learned about myself and living, I still see men as I did in my earliest experiences. I would like to bring down the wall, but being vulnerable means I can be hurt. I don’t mean hurt like I will cry I mean hurt like I will be damaged. The thing is: I already am.
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