I want to make you think. You don’t need to apologize.
If you have read one of my many articles, with the exception of a few, you’ll notice that they predominately discuss my own raw, personal experiences. No, they don’t often involve violence or the general need for a huge trigger warning, but… they are uncomfortable.
I say that my writing is “uncomfortable” for a few reasons:
1. They often involve me being in an emotionally vulnerable situation.
2. The stories delve right into quite nuanced and often silenced subject matter.
3. I receive an overwhelming number of apologies and…
Thx for the attention tho ;)
I’ve written on my own experiences of gaslighting, and I’m not shy about expressing my views of sexism, misogyny and everything in between. Don’t get me wrong, I am all for banter and I completely expect disagreement.
I can hold my own, and if you don’t want to hold yours respectfully, don’t get in the ring.
But please, God, please read beyond the first three lines of my article and/or responses to others so your criticism can at least hold some weight.
Because right now, it’s a bit embarrassing…for you.
I don’t like to…
Three times I learned that being a child wasn’t an option.
From a young age, I felt guilty for being anything but immaculate. If I ever let myself slip, I was taught to view myself as weak and in need of punishment. It didn’t matter what others did, all that mattered was that I met my internal expectations for what it meant to be accepted by others, at whatever cost. After all, I was a fraud and I couldn’t let anyone know this deep dark secret: that underneath it all, I wasn’t perfect.
I remember being told that I was…
“Colorblindness” is unacceptable.
To be honest, I wasn’t even considering writing about this. I had another story in mind. But as fate would have it, I ran across a Google review that I left about the treatment I received at a car tag agency two years ago this August, a month after my husband and I got married. Our anniversary is today.
After crying from what I now understand as shock from other people’s assumptions deeply seated in racism, in addition to the fear for my husband and what he would have to face in a racially hostile world, I…
It was almost too late
I come from a white lower middle-class family in a small country town in the south. Tainted with generational trauma, which bred vicious cycles of abuse, I was determined to get out.
Early on, I noticed how the middle-class whites lived on one side of town, and every other shade lived on the other. Sure, there were exceptions to this rule, but those who tried usually didn’t last long.
I remember the “good” school district was on the white side, and the “bad” school district on the other. My mother moved into a neighborhood that…
It was the 4th of July of ‘99. I walked into my mother’s bathroom, taking a brief break from watching Pokémon on my box television.
I glanced at myself in the mirror to at look at my oversized, hole-ridden white Spice Girls t-shirt and the mismatched Esmerelda scrunchies holding my lopsided pigtails in place.
I sat on the toilet, swinging my legs in the air since my feet didn’t quite hit the tile floor yet. I glanced down and saw what looked like brown and red watercolor paint in my underwear. I wasn’t scared because I associated badness with pain…
Paying respect to the people and things that protected me.
I was at a point of loss, still unable to process the grief. Shock still vibrated through my body, even though it had been seven months since her sudden death. My aunt was only sixty-four.
The woman smiled at me; her tone was child-like.
“There will be a baby! A baby!”
My good friend looked at me, amused.
“You’re going to have a kid?”
Only being twenty-three and by no means settled down, I was confused and rather nervous.
“Um. Excuse me?”
“It will be a little girl. Oh what…
A statement of rage, deep sadness and defeat.
We as little girls are taught our bodies are a man’s weakness
Whether it be daddy or uncle or brother or cousin
We are told to be “appropriate” or otherwise reap the repercussions
We must not reveal our bodies
We must refrain from the slightest exposure
Our precious and supple virgin skin
We must not show affection
We must abstain from sitting in daddy’s lap
Or giving uncle a hug
Or giving brother a kiss
Because it will tempt him
It will tempt him because we as little girls are seductresses
As I’m getting off the plane from Hong Kong back at my coastal home, I have my bright pastel yellow suitcase encrusted with fake pearls in tow. At moments when I need to see something joyful, I just glance at it. Pastel yellow has always made me feel uplifted, no matter how strange that sounds. Pearls, albeit fake, are just classy.
I’m walking down towards the airport exit, feeling the effects of exhaustion from the long flight, but at the very same time, I feel refreshed with a new sense of hope. As I reflect on the people I met…
Ladies, we need to share stories and start this conversation.
I live a paradox. I believe in women and our empowerment. I am deeply passionate about finding ways to ensure that we as women are heard and acknowledged by society. I want nothing more than to take part, no matter how miniscule, in improving our and our future generation’s lives. We deserve nothing less.
Yet women hate me.
Top Writer | Cursed with the gift of an unshakeable intuition | Notices the unspoken | Wannabe Audrey Hepburn