I Miss your Stupid Face

If there's one thing I've learned about a good, strong heartbreak, it's this:

It never- NEVER- goes away for good.

Even after you've gotten rid of his stuff;
Even after you meet someone new;
Even after you re-invent yourself;
Even after you break up with that someone;
Even after you fly across the planet (twice!);
Even after you move far, far away;
Even after you start a new school and job;
Even after you decide to focus on yourself and follow your dreams;
Even after you chose peace;
Even after you take up yoga;
Even after you improve your diet;
Even after you meet another someone;
Even after you gut your place and make it as clean as it could ever be;
Even after you get a new circle of friends;
Even after you gradually throw out all your old clothes and replace them with new ones that don't remind you of that time in the park under a cloudy sky that he practiced watching you walk down the isle to prepare himself for one day marrying you;
Even after you vow never to look in the window of the restaurant he works at when you drive by, glancing in anyway just because you "saw something shiny";
Even after you realize it's over;
Even after you understand that now, all these years later, you can never be with him the way you were, the way you both wanted and believed it could be;
Even after you wake up next to your second someone new, smiling, loving and un-doubting of his devotion or your own;
Even after you buy a new toothbrush (when was the last time you did that?);
Even after you chastise yourself for slipping up and stalking his Facebook page;
Even after you run into his mom and she tells you how much she misses you and how you'll always be a part of their family;
Even after you go a full day, or even a full week, without him crossing your mind even once;
Even after you give empowering, future-oriented advice to someone going through the same thing you went through;
Even after you have the courage to stop listening to Coldplay, because the significance of those melodies are a part of your past;
Even after you finally get a new pair of winter boots;
Even after you stop thinking of hypothetical run-intos or catch-ups;
Even after you let yourself let go of any anger or vengeance;
Even after you decide your life if not Eat, Pray, Love;
Even after that feeling of cold, hollow abandonment in your chest has dissipated;
Even after you genuinely wish him a happy, fulfilling life that excludes you,

You can never fully detach yourself from how absolutely important he was;
You can never walk by that Italian pasta place without thinking of the necklace he gave you there;
You can never smell McDonald's and not think of him hugging you after a double shift;
You can never see his sister and not see him in the way she smiles or rolls her eyes or giggles;
You can never see photo booths the same way;
You can never trust a person so openly and willingly as you did him;
You can never watch a yolk burst without breakfasts in bed together flooding in;
You can never forget that one day in the year that you were both so excited about (your anniversary);
You can never drink a glass of Disarono;
You can never escape the photographs;
You can never unsee all the smiles;
You can never unhear all the jokes;
You can never unfeel all the embraces;
You can never watch Spongebob with a poker face;
You can never ignore the scar on your hand from the time you fell off the fence trying to get to class on time together;
You can never experience the smell of his laundry detergent as a neutral smell;
You can never go to La Ronde without reminiscing about the ecstasy and confusion of a first love;
You can never come across an energetic boxer and not want to pet her;
You can never see war movies in the same way;
You can never hear the sounds of a soccer game without the image of him on his bicycle at night, in your driveway, watching you cry, undecided as to whether he should leave or stay;
You can never name your future child any of the names you used to talk about, even if you'd known of your favorite names since you were three years old;
You can never get into a black van without flashes of a music festival in July;
You can never forget about how he looked at you in utter, adorably dumb, shock the first time you kissed;
You can never go skiing without his silly nosebleed episode invading your outing for at least a moment;
You can never eloquently describe any well-rounded kind of positive phrase to summarize how "okay" you are (supposed to be) with this;
You can never see a v-neck neon shirt in an unbiased way;
You can never rewrite that part of your life that you wish had so much more in it than just him;
You can never be free from how badly going to your old high school reminds you of him in every way;
You can never gloss over the phrase "Oh, we're not seeing each other anymore" to relatives whom you don't see often enough to keep up to date on your personal tragedies;
You can never hear his name without the slightest flip in your belly;
You can never fully remove him from you.

I wake up next to my boyfriend with nothing but happiness, tenderness, passion and satisfaction. But for some reason, every now and then, my fingers find my phone, and itch to send you a message. I don't know why; I really don't have a thing to say. Seven years knowing you has shown me, plainly, that you are a selfish, manipulative, self-pitying, opportunistic, aggressive, impulsive, sociopathic idiot. But you were my selfish, manipulative, self-pitying, opportunistic, aggressive, impulsive, sociopathic idiot.

When you felt intimidated by me, you insulted me to feel better about yourself. When you did something wrong, you blamed me, or your mother, or your father, and made the whole conversation about how cruel life was to you. When I confronted you about sketchy conversations with other girls I found in your phone when you asked me to go find something in it for you, you accused me of not trusting you. When I spoke to other males, you became very jealous and made me feel like a bad girlfriend so that I would retreat closer to you, even if that mean isolating myself from my friends. When you played too roughly, I was the weak one. When I said no to filming a sex tape, I was boring. When I said yes to filming a sex tape, I was bitchy for not wanting you to sell it online. When
I expressed my discomfort about your increasing partying with other girls, I was being paranoid. When you cheated on me, it was because I wasn't making enough effort to see you. When you lied about it, it was to protect me. When I decided to try again, you were going to do it right this time. When you violated my body, I blamed myself.

I hated you. But I really, really loved you.

You changed, though. You're really not the person you were. You're scary to me now, because you're like the person I am afraid of within myself. Never mind what time does to perception, or the number of people that have come and gone in our lives since we closed that chapter together. You may as well be a brand-new person to me. I realize my opinion on you is not welcome or even relevant, but sometimes, when I think of you at all, it's like you're really, really gone. Other times, I have said goodbye, but I knew the person was still there somewhere, even if they changed somewhat over time, as people tend to do. I know I have. But you... you must have gone through some kind of evolution, some colossal mutation. Because, should you speak to me, your words don't match the voice I used to hear. Your attitude does not match those dimples I used to poke. Your gross, inappropriate, ridiculous sexual advances do not match the enchanting, tender person who must have respected me at one time. I don't know, maybe you never did and I was too in love to see that.

Either way, for me, this whole experience was like a death. I went through all the coping stages. You, as you were, do not exist at all anymore. You have vanished completely, and some other person who means nothing to me has taken over your body. In a sense, this whole experience was shared with someone who no longer exists.

So when I get a message from you, and it's met with a mixture of revulsion and magnetism, forgive me, but it is not my fault. For what is a girl to do with all these memories, all these feelings, and no real person to connect them to?

Rape Culture (A Theatrical Narrative on Feminism)

Rape Culture.

This term is defined as “a culture in which rape is pervasive and normalized due to societal attitudes about gender, sex, and sexuality”.

Let the record show that I am elated that people are coming out about this issue. Silence is toxic in circumstances like this. I truly admire people who have opened up and trampled hovering feelings of shame and looming judgment from those dear to them. If you want to hear heartbreaking stories from brave people—if you want to feel all inspired and active towards the issue, join the ranks! These people make me want to shout from rooftops and throw confetti and sing really loud and organize one massive, continental group hug!

Chills, every time.

However, the recent outreach to victims of sexual violence has sparked the expected controversy, leaving young women like me confused on where we stand.

How can one be uncertain about their opinion of rape, you ask?

What started as an attempt to raise awareness on a horrible reality for millions of women and men has almost become a victim party for spiteful ex-girlfriends who are looking for a reason to join 

the stampede.

(Excuse me while I clutch the edge of my desk in an effort to not kick my screen in.)

With a human need to label, define and categorize literally everything, this whole movement has sparked a parade of counter-, counter-counter-, counter-counter-counter- (and so forth) ideas. I like to think a conversation between all these ideas might go a little something like this…

Early Feminists: “Hey, shouldn't women be just as important to society as men? We should be allowed to vote and own stuff too”.

HR: “Hmmm yeah that’s cute, how about we let you vote and give you the right to own some stuff in an attempt to quiet you down and make you feel victorious enough not to notice little micro-aggressions that will follow women around for the next couple hundred years?”

Early Feminists: “Oh, okay. That’s good for now, I guess.”

HR (to self): “Disaster averted!”

Second-wave Feminists: “Look it’s cool that we can vote and everything, but what use is that right if the people in power don’t really do anything for us?”

HR: “What do you mean?”

Second-wave Feminists: “Well, the domestic thing is getting boring and repetitive… and we seem to be facing some prejudice in the workplace. We can’t seem to get anything outside of schools and hospitals. Even then, we are not paid the same amount as men. And what are we to do about pregnancy and our careers? It’s not like men can carry children. The whole ‘second sex’ idea is getting old.”

HR: “Alright. Here’s some birth control, and let’s plop a couple female bottoms down in Congress, or whatever. I guess we’ll give you equal pay, too.”

Second-wave Feminists: “And what about the whole ‘women-as-sex-objects’ and ‘chauvinist-exploitation’ issue? We should be allowed to be seen for all our potential, not just for sex.”

HR: “One thing at a time. You want to be taken seriously, right?”

Second-wave Feminists: *Scowl*

HR: “Fine. Marital rape is illegal now.”

Third-wave Feminists: “Hey, umm we’re super glad about all that, don’t get us wrong but…”

HR: “What now?”

Black Feminists: “You forgot about us.”

Third-wave Feminists: “Well all that stuff only focuses on a small group of women, and a small group of issues. Is there anything that can be done about the archaic media-portrayal and the language used to talk about us?”

HR: “…what?”

Third-wave Feminists: “For starters, words like ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ are really degrading. Also, we find this binary gender-identity thing very constricting, and—“

HR: “What am I supposed to do about that? You have equal pay *ahem* mostly, and we let you do what you want with your body as long as it doesn't challenge our personal ideas of what a women is supposed to be, based on the standard family model. Sure, there might be a few iffy laws here and there, but don’t push too hard. You’re asking too much.”

Third-wave Feminists: “Asking too much? Disregarding the anti-feminist undercurrent going on here—“

Anti-Feminists: “Hey…”

Third-wave Feminists: “—there are still some big problems. Namely, issues with sexual identity and consent. We really don’t feel respected. A ton of our girls are starving themselves and way too many are physically violated. We think this is directly related to the male-dominant mentality we've been living in, where a sense of entitlement supersedes basic human rights.”

Anti-Feminists: “So now you’re blaming men for all your problems?”

Early Feminists: “Well…”

Second-wave Feminists: “We aren't raping and bullying ourselves.”

Third-wave Feminists: “Well now we are, because we've been forced into this male-fabricated model of what a woman is, how she should dress, how she should act, what she can and can’t say…”

Black Feminist: “Imagine throwing ethnicity on top of that.”

Anti-Feminist: “Don’t make this a race thing.”

Annoying Facebook Commenter: “Feminists are so stupid; they should die.”

HR: “Woah woah woah. Third-wave, I thought you wanted to be equal to men. I think some people might start to feel put-down by that kind of talk.”

Third-wave Feminists: “Sorry. Just trying to move forwards without disappointing our mothers.”

Anti-Feminists: “These girlies are out of their minds... probably lesbians, too. Look at that haircut.”

Radical Feminists: “That is degrading my self-worth. Men are all the same.”

HR: “Hush. Ladies, what do you propose we do?”

Radical Feminists: “Destroy the Patriarchy!”

HR: *Facepalm*

Anti-Feminists: “I TOLD you they were irrational, extremist dykes!!! Probably on their periods. *Scoffs* Women.”

6-year-old girl: “What’s ‘dyke’ mean?”

Men: “Umm yeah we don’t exactly agree with that.”

Third-wave Feminists: “SO not okay.”

Second-wave Feminists: “Calm down, Radical. People are going to think you’re some kind of fanatic.”

Radical Feminists: “Well don’t you think we should be given some advantage over them? They've been domineering for thousands of years!”

Men: “Hey, we inherited this issue just like you did. No one is trying to hurt you.”

Standpoint Feminist: “Maybe not the good guys like you, but there are people out there who aren't so good. A 13-year-old down the block just committed suicide for incessant slut-shaming at school. One story is worse than the next, and it’s happening all around the world.”

Black Feminists: “It’s happening right here, too.”

HR: “Well what should we do about that?”

Third-wave Feminists: “I don’t know, like, raise awareness and stuff?”

Anti-Feminists: “Ehh, you don’t know what you want.”

Early Feminists: “Votes for women!”

Second-wave Feminists: “Equal employment opportunities!”

Third-wave Feminists: “Respect from our peers!”

Standpoint Feminists: “International freedoms!”

Black Feminists: “Unity!”

Radical Feminists: “We want to be in charge for once!”

Annoying Facebook Commenter: “Pbbt.”

Tumblr Feminists: “Jail time for eyeball groping!”

ALL: “What!?”

Tumblr Feminists: *Sips Starbucks* “Ugh men are such pigs! I know this girl who is friends with this guy whose sister has a friend who got raped at a concert.”

6-year-old girl: “What’s ‘rape’ mean?”

Second-wave Feminists: “That’s terrible!”

Third-wave Feminists: “This is what we’re talking about!”

Men: “You can’t blame that one event on all men ever.”

Radical Feminists: “That remains to be seen. What happened, Tumblr?”

Tumblr Feminists: “Well apparently they were just drinking and having a good time and stuff, and she went to the bathroom with him. And she said she wasn't really sure but she gave in. But in the morning, she totally regretted it, though.”

Radical Feminists: “Well, that’s not cool, but…”

HR: “That’s not rape.”

Anti-Feminists: “Fucking women, man.”

HR: “Watch your language. Man, I’d hate to be a girl growing up these days.”

Third-wave Feminists: “You’re giving us a bad name, Tumblr.”

Tumblr: “Who are you to tell me what is and isn't rape! You don’t know my story! I decide if it’s rape or not!”

Men: “Well, did the girl say no?”

Tumblr: “She shouldn't have to!”

Third-wave: “Well it would be nice if he had asked, but isn't it up to the girl to stop it if it goes too far?”

Anti-Feminists: “What was the skank wearing? She was probably asking for it.”

Tumblr & Radical: *Furious sputtering*

Annoying Facebook Commenter: “TROLOLOLOL.”

HR: “Men should ask, but…”

Men: “Well if she doesn't say anything, how are we supposed to know?”

HR: “We can’t follow everyone around all the time, opening bedroom doors, asking, ‘everything okay in here?’ That’s an invasion of privacy.”

Men: “If girls don’t speak up until after it’s too late, some young boys who just didn't know better could get in a lot of trouble… Not everyone means harm.”

Third-wave: “I agree. But I think maybe the problem is more in the mentality. Tumblr gave us that one case. What about—“

Tumblr: “Well I get cat-called sometimes!”

ALL: “…”

Tumblr: “…That’s like verbal rape, right?”

Actual Rape Victim: “Okay no. Getting whistled at in the street, and getting pinned and beaten before forced penetration is really not the same thing.”

Second-wave: “Different ballpark.”

Anti-feminists: “How often does that actually happen?”

Third-wave: “Hard to say. There’s so much shame wrapped around this issue.”

Tumblr: “Yeaah! And there shouldn't be.”

Standpoint Feminists: “There are bigger issues than catcalling and drunk hookups.”

HR: “Agreed. But telling stories of rape where they do not occur does not help the situation. It makes a culture of victims.”

Actual Rape Victim: “It’s insulting. It trivializes the real thing that real people go through. It’s not a game.”

Third-wave: “We’re trying to strengthen, not weaken our image.

Radical Feminist: “Why is it always about the image?”

Standpoint Feminists: “Do you realize the average age of female prostitutes worldwide is 14? 14!!!”

6-year-old: “I’m turning 7 on Tuesday.”

Seconds-wave (to Standpoint): “…Really?”

Anti-Feminists: “You are all spoiled.”

Men: “Maybe you ladies don’t realize how good you have it…”

Tumblr & Radical: “Typical response from a man.”

Men: “No, listen. A hundred years ago, you couldn't even vote. Look how far you've come. No, it’s not perfect, but maybe you should focus on real, tangible problems instead of exaggerating for pity.”

HR: “If you want to appear stronger, act like it.”

Third-wave: “We could still use a little help... I agree that things are better now than they were before, but the point isn't to compare conditions for women now to those of women before. It's about looking at our situation TODAY next to that of men TODAY. That's what it's always been about. We want to be equal to me. And so far, we've been way behind, and it wasn't our choice.”

HR: “Ok. We shall raise the age of consent and we’ll have Dove and Always churn out a couple commercials.”

Third-wave: “...I guess that’s good.”

Post-Feminist: “There, now we've done everything we've set out to do.”

Black Feminist: "Have we?"

HR: “We can’t change peoples’ thoughts. Now all we have to do is wait for those videos to get enough likes.”

Tumblr: “Yaaaay! Can’t wait to post that commercial! #Equal rights!”

ALL: *Double Face Palm*

FIN

Hope you enjoy! Leave me your thoughts.

Eighteenth of February

Today was a good day. Great, even.

I got a lot of artwork done, saw some friends, played some music, and ate some chocolate. Breathing was easy and nary a smile was faked. I did not suffer a moments' loneliness or self doubt as I walked the hallways of my school, or moved from one studio to the next. No one cut in front of me or shoved me. The air was fresh and cool, like Tuscan pears plucked off a tree in mid-July. A soft breeze kissed my face as I walked out of school to go home. I just caught the 419, and when I got to Fairview, the 470 came straight away. My shorter-than-usual trip home allowed me just enough time to reflect blissfully upon my day, with no room for boredom to set in.

As I got off the bus, with the remnants of a good day's grin on my face, I heard a sound. At first, I thought it was laughter. I looked over across the street and saw two girls around my age standing a few meters away from each other; one, in a sweater with her arms crossed and shoulders hunched against the breeze she had not dressed for. The other, with a big coat and tissues in her ungloved hand. The first girl turned and walked down the street away from the second girl, who bent over with her face in her hands. I still wasn't sure if her howling was laughter or not.

It wasn't. I figured this out when she tried walking up the street but stopped repeatedly, crouching half-over again and again. It became apparent to me that she was sobbing, not gigging.

"Are you okay?" I called.
She shook her head. Her whole body shook. "No" (although it came out sounding like a sad meow).
"Hang on."

I crossed to the other side of the street, hopping over a low snowbank. The girl had stopped walking. I don't know how she was able to breathe, she was crying so hard.

"What happened?!" My hand hovered abover her right shoulder as she turned to face me. A very pretty black girl with big eyes overflowing with tears, and long braids stood before me.

She was barely comprehensible the first time she moaned her response. I asked her to repeat it. I couldn't understand her the second time, either. What could cause a person to bawl like this out in the open, all alone?

"I just caught my boyfriend cheating on me."

Turns out, she was going to meet him, saw him *with* another girl, and he simply told her, "it's over".

I was able to get little else out of her aside from her name. I asked her if she called anyone, but I couldn't understand her answer. I offered to have her come in and have some tea and calm down out of the wind, but she shook her head and kept crying. I suddenly wished I had remembered my gloves.

I wished I was able to tell her, really tell her, how much I understood. How badly I could relate to the pain in your chest just takes up the whole room, and how your stomach weighs a million pounds, and how breathing air feels like breathing scalding hot water, and how Parkinson's seems to spring up overnight, and how utterly sick you feel after having your whole life ripped out from underneath you in an instant. I wished I could express to her how temporary that feeling is; even though it feels like the sadness will suffocate you, it won't; how after days and weeks and months (and even years for some) of heavy, grey air, eventually the fog begins to lift. How one day, she'll be able to drive by his street without bursting into tears. How she'll hear his name without her heart cracking open. How she'll run into him and feel nothing; not sadness, not love, regret, humiliation; he's just another person you walked by. I wanted to take her back and show her how I was, curled up on the floor; waking my sister up because I couldn't stop crying; hyperventilatng and experiencing full-blown panic attacks.

And I wanted to show her my day today. Today was a good day. Great, even. I wanted to tell her he didn't cross my mind even once, and one day he won't cross hers either. I wanted to show her how I got my life back, and that she will too. How even though he shamed and disrespected her, no one else had to.

But this girl was a total stranger.

All I could say, while her big, misty eyes were still focused on me, was "stay strong".

It's all you can do.

Justice

I don't even know what to say.

I waited 2 years for these words, but lying in front of me, the screen looks dull, somehow.

I did everything I could to move on, and every time I think I have, my phone buzzes and I see your number. I deleted you so long ago but I always know when it's you. It's almost like you left me alone too long and it's time to stirr me up again. Like I seem too happy and it's time to show your disgusting face once more. This isn't the face, the voice, the name of the person I met all those years ago. This is a manipulative, callous, indulgent, vain, thoughtless, disrespectful, deceitful, possessive, insecure, arrogant, greedy, jealous, selfish, destructive, ass-licking, cum-dumping, body-invading, tube-with-which-one-douches-- who, quite frankly, will never know anything better than his slutty girls with daddy issues who are only with him because they need someone, ANYONE, to love them.

The feeling is like dry ice using my stomach as a trampoline, and my mouth is dry. Dry, just like always, when words hide under my tongue. Acid is burning through my stomach lining, slowly sinking, making its way to the part of me that he made his... with a fucking dog tag. The part of me he took because he deluded himself into believing he was entitled to it. That his urge superceded my right to my own skin.

I was afraid you'd leave if I was honest with you. With myself.
I imagined every possible scenario where you were met with chaos. And I'm not talking about losing your phone or a broken arm. I'm talking about libraries on fire in the desert. Earthquakes in glass shops. Getting drowned by your mother's tears. Tsunamis. Tornados. Disease. Dehydration. Radiation. Starvation. Amputation. Alienation. Castration. I imagined all of these things happening at once right in front of you, because they are. They are happening all at once, right in front of you. You just don't have to balls to look me in the eye and see it.

But nothing prepared me for this.

Nothing could.

So, ladies and gentlemen, that text you are waiting for- that sweet, sweet justice you have been dreaming about- when it arrives, it will not compensate for everything that happened. Everything they did to you. All the time you wasted.

So, from one basket case to another, just be happy. People do shitty things, they make empty promises to get their way, and they lie. And you will want to die. You will feel a sharp pain simultaneously in your head in your heart as though someone cracked an iron whip against it, and you won't know which one started bleeding first. You will wake up on the floor with no memory of the tantrum that brought you to your knees in the first place. You will feel like a carpet was yanked out from beneath you when you thought all was well and the room will spin like... silk. And even after that, more pain will come.

But as long as you take a deep breath, get up off the floor and start walking again, they don't win. As long as you make the choice to live another day and bare your face to the world, they don't win. As long as you can get home at night, look yourself in the face and see a human being who deserves better, they don't win. As long as you let it buzz, they don't win.

Let them send all the texts they want.