feminism

What Does She Owe You?

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Earlier this week I took Fiona to the dog park. We love to go out there. She likes to run. I like to sit in the sun all by myself and unplug from the internet for a while. Sometimes, I bring a book but I almost never read it because my mind really just loves to wander. We’re usually alone.

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This time, though, a gentleman was there with his three dogs. This man did not share my joy in solitude and quietness out there. He was so enthusiastic and trying so hard to engage me in conversation despite my use of the polite nod, headphones, and actively walking away from him. Finally after his fourth failed attempt at getting a conversation going he said to me, in the exact same tone of voice that he used when speaking to his tiny dogs, “well you’re just not very friendly are you?” Like, he could have easily finished that up with, “Who’s not a friendly girl? You aren’t! No you’re not!”

Frankly, I was just grateful that he was rounding the corner towards giving up so I just said, “not really,” put my earbuds back in and texted my friends about this guy. Look, could I have made an effort? Yeah. Of course. Am I required to? I am certainly not. And why not? Because I’m tired. We’re tired. And also because I’m just a person doing her damn best at being alive some days.

Last year, immediately following the funeral of a friend, I was filling my car up with gas and the man across the terminal said to me, “Come on, baby, smile. Things can’t be that bad.”

A dear friend was walking out to her car in a grocery store parking lot in the middle of the day as a man approached and asked her to him show her tits.

Last winter, a stranger approached me as I was closing up the bookstore and asked me to drive him out to his home in the middle of the country well after dark. And when I very extra politely declined, he said, “well I hope someone helps you out when you need help one day.”

Someone I know was once physically assaulted at work by a man who was upset that her nail polish was chipped. He claimed that she didn’t show him respect by making the effort to appear presentable.

For some people, it can be easy to “see both sides”. It’s easy–really easy to make us look like the bitch because we each said “no” to these men who wanted a piece of us.
That guy was just being friendly or he needed help or he obviously has issues. And because of these special circumstances, we’re expected to make a sacrifice of ourselves to be as polite as possible to these men who are so entitled to us. Entitled to our friendliness. To our bodies, our time, our resources, our devotion.

Sometimes we’re polite because our comfort comes secondary to those around us. It’s part of being a woman. We give and give and give. That’s the way we’re raised and that’s what men were raised to expect from us.
Other times, we’re polite as a means of survival. Because we don’t know how they’ll react to a rejection, we have to butter it up in the most sticky, sweet, gratitude. So flattered that they’ve chosen us to talk to on this lucky, special day.

It’s exhausting.

So when you come to me at the dog park and want to become best friends immediately without taking a minute to read the room, when you need a favor from a stranger, or you want some girl to take her top off or change her nail color to make you feel good I beg you. I BEG YOU to take a second and repeat after me:

This person owes me nothing.

 

 

On Fatness and Acceptability

Libby, , , , , 1 Comment

Boy, you never know what’s going to lay you so low.

So it’s been a productive morning and I reward myself by vegging out and watching IG stories for a a few minutes. And that’s when I see the image of a really fat person and the words, “I’m in love with the shape of you” emblazoned over the photo. And I think to myself, “What? Who is this? What fatphobic stranger on the internet have I been following without realizing it this whole time?!” But I saw this wasn’t a stranger. This was posted by a long-time family friend. So I want to give him the benefit of the doubt. I’m wondering to myself, “wait–maybe this isn’t a fatphobic post but just something else that I’m not understanding yet?”

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So I look all over the photo for some other clue to the punchline but there isn’t one. I took a screenshot, obviously, to show to a friend to ask if there’s something I’m missing here. But there isn’t. I’m not going to post that photo here, today, though, because the subject of that photo doesn’t deserve to have her life on display for the gawking of the internet–regardless of what this person who posted it to begin with believes. But I can describe it to you. It’s a photo taken in what appears to be some kind of a waiting room. This person is just minding her own business, sitting in a chair, looking at her phone. Not the most flattering position that anyone is ever in if I do say so myself.  Waiting for whatever it is she showed up for that day. Living her life in a normal way like everyone does. Minding her own business.

I’m not going to pretend like I am proud of the way that I responded or the messages that I sent. Lots of F words, mostly. I mean, I wish/ hope this person has someone in their life to explain just the level of horrendousness that he committed, today. And I hope that he’s able to hear it, too. But I’m not going to count on it. Some days I’m the person to reach out and teach a lesson. But not today. I’m not the one–even if he would have been able to hear it from me (which I’m sure that he would not).

The subject’s very fat body is not that different from my own very fat body. For the most part, in my life I have not had to encounter that much direct bullying about what I look like. I’ve worked very, very hard to make that the case, actually. All through school, I made a habit of befriending my bullies. They would call me names–the usuals: land whale, Libby Porker (a riff on my maiden name) was a popular one, Free Willy came out around that time so people loved to shout that at me.
Every time someone said something horrible to me, I’d feign the sweetest look on my face, pretend that I truly didn’t hear him and ask him to repeat what he’d said since I’m sure that it was so thoughtful and important. They never repeated it because I’d brought them face to face with thinking twice before they said something hurtful. It was a pretty clever move if I do say so.

Obliterate the sour with sweetness–this was my strategy. And it worked–but it only worked in that eventually they stopped. It didn’t work to teach them about themselves. It didn’t really work for me because I still, always and forever knew that I was an Other among them. They stopped bullying me but they never actually cared about me. I was never really welcome. And it put all the work on my shoulders. They didn’t have to actually learn how to treat people–it was my job to teach them how to behave around me. It was the price I was willing to pay for admission to a seemingly unbothered life. It was either that or getting beat up and mocked openly like so many others–so I think even now I probably would have chosen to pay my debt in emotional labor.

I did all I could to be acceptable and loved. In the 8th grade I read a book about a girl with an eating disorder and went home and tried for weeks to make myself throw up after dinner but I just couldn’t do it. When I was 17, my best friend sat me down on a lawn to tell me that she was bulimic and wanted help. I only felt jealousy–something for which I still feel ashamed.

So, because I’ve worked so hard to have a personality that hopefully makes up for the sin of being a fat person, I do forget sometimes that I’m not inherently welcome in this life. I’m never unaware of my size. It’s never not at the forefront of my mind but sometimes I am able to convince myself that maybe I’ve done the impossible and tricked other people into forgetting about it.

In the 9th grade, the older boy that I had a crush on asked me to dance with him at Homecoming and I felt like the most acceptable, normal girl in the room. Even though he molested me after driving me home–telling me that I was so lucky that anyone would want anything from me, I still can’t help but remember the dreamy way that dance made me feel. Because even at 33 years old and a lifetime of self-awareness and love under my belt, there’s still a tiny sliver of me that felt flattered that he picked me at all.

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Fat jokes on TV or the internet don’t bother me. I’ve been blocking them out my whole life. They’re not funny–don’t get me wrong. They’re offensive to me but, like, on a comedic plane–because they’re not clever. If you’ve been hearing fat jokes since you were in kindergarten, someone comparing Chris Christie to a “beached whale” is not funny. You’ve heard this joke forty billion times. It’s not funny because it’s tired. There are so many horrible things about Chris Christie but his waistline is not one of them.

But when people I know, people I love, people that I’ve allowed into the same room as my soft, forgiving, unguarded body laugh at these jokes–that’s when I’m reminded.

When my friend comments that the waitress is cute enough but she only needs one chin–not two, that’s when I’m reminded.

When people that I have lived life with at some point or another laugh at or point out their disgust at the shape of someone else’s body–for a joke on Instagram, that’s when I’m reminded.

That I don’t belong here. That my body is not my own–it exists for someone else to either laugh at or fetishize. That I have done enough to keep them from saying anything directly to me, about me, but that they still don’t believe that my life matters in the grand scheme of this world. That me and people like me are disposable. That we are walking jokes. That we don’t have real lives. That, we cease to exist when you can’t see us anymore and we’re not real. I’m tired of fighting to be seen as a person.

You’d never admit that this is true because you don’t want to face the facts about the kind of person you are but when you laugh at our bodies, you are hating our humanity. This is who you are and I won’t let you get away with not facing that.

“Except for you, Libby. You’re an exception. We love you.” Well, look, I’ve done a lot of fucking work on your behalf to make people like you not hate people like me. But I haven’t even done a good enough job because the only fat person you don’t hate is me. And that’s not good enough. I can’t do it because it’s not my job. It was never my job–it was a coping mechanism leftover from grade school that, at thirty three years old, I’m still relying on. And I’m done.

I’m done being palatable. I’m done being sweet and kind and understanding and the right kind of fat person for you to feel comfortable around. I don’t have to carry this anymore. From now on, understanding that humans are humans is your own responsibility and there’s a lot of work that goes into that.
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Thank you.
XOXO, Lib

All the art in this piece is by Kristy Miliken, from this article.

 

One Day We’ll All Be Dead and None of This Will Matter by Scaachi Koul + August’s Book Reveal

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Every single time I sit down to write one of these book reviews (and I’ve written, like, 13 by now?) I think, “Oh, but I don’t know how to do this.” I open up this blank word document and my brain, as it does when faced with any kind of expectation, goes into primate mode. “Book. Did like. Would recommend.” Is that good? Will you take that? Cool. Good talk. Thanks for stopping by, today.

No, but for real, this collection of essays has been such a joy to read through. I liked it so much that half-way through the copy that I got from the library, I returned it, went down to Bluebird Books, and bought my own copy. I did this so that I could underline the parts that felt so right that I couldn’t just leave them alone like they didn’t touch my soul.

One such passage: Nothing bad can happen to you if you’re with your mom. Your mom can stop a bullet from lodging in your heart. She can prop you up when you can’t. Your mom is your blood and bone before your body even knows how to make any.

Just take a moment with that.

She writes about the things you would expect a feminist child of immigrants to write about in 2017. She writes a touching story of visiting India for a cousin’s wedding. She writes about rape culture. Body image. The way we behave on the internet. The usual. But she has a fresh take that’s different from everything that’s been shared all over Facebook. And her writing style is so inviting and funny–it’s damn funny. And musical.

She told a story about when she was in college and how she and her friends lived themselves into a situation where they realized that one of them was likely a very serious alcoholic. She captured the progression so beautifully. The way it starts out so innocent and fun but eventually climaxes in a hard realization and a drunken fight. I love the way that she wraps up that story, too. It’s not about alcoholism or drunk stories. It’s about the way we get off on our own moral superiority. And she’s right, too.

One of the latter chapters deals with body image. She talks, specifically, about hair. How the hair on her head is seen as perfect and luxurious whereas the hair on her body is an absolute shame and something that she can’t be expected to reasonably control no matter how much time she devotes to it.
She says, “It’s easier to rebel against hair norms if you’re a woman generally unburdened by them in the first place. … For it to really matter, for your rebellion to extend outside yourself, you have to have been born with hair-baggage–that nagging reminder that what comes out of your body naturally makes you repulsive, or tells people that you’re deserving of a slur, or that your sexuality can exist only in a specific vacuum of kink or generous acceptance.”
As the owner of a fat body, I finally felt like someone out there understands me and the particular brand of self-worth that I go back and forth between celebrating and starving for. The way she is at a constant battle between “fixing” and accepting Her Thing. Me, too, Scaachi.

I’m going to be revisiting this book again and again as time goes on. I know this is one of those books that you read and then pick it up in a year and hear all new things. I feel really grateful to have come across this book right now.

9780399563997Next month, we’re going to be reading Amanda Wakes Up by Alisyn Camerota. I don’t know much about this book except that all of the reading podcasts that I listen to are talking about it and recommending it. This is one of my favorite ways to approach a book–with little to no knowledge about it, just the understanding that other people are reading it with you and so many people have great things to say about it.

As always, if you want to join our virtual book club just let me know! Shoot me a message on Facebook and I’ll add you to our group. Also don’t forget to head over to Staci’s blog to read her take on One Day We’ll All Be Dead and None of This Will Matter. I love reading her thoughts after I’ve settled on my own.

Tell me what you’re reading! Are you keeping up with your summer reading list or has it gone out the window with mine?

XOXO, Lib

Digging for Truth in Rubble

Libby, , , , 6 Comments

I grew up in a world that preached of a need for a redeemer—of my failures and my inability to do any good on my own. This is the story of my redemption and finding the greatest joy my heart has ever known.

I was born into the role of the enemy in my own life’s story. Every thought I had—sinful. Every action I took—double minded. I would never know a pure mind or heart because we live in a sinful world where that can’t possibly exist. The language that was used to show us that Christ was our savior, more than anything, drove the point home that I was worthless—I could never be a hero, even in my own imagination. Regardless, my job was to keep working towards purity and holiness despite the fact that achieving it was well known to be impossible. A treadmill pointed in the direction of Heaven.

I longed for the eventual day when all of this self-hatred would burst forth into the freedom and joy that we sang of from our hymnals. I knew that if I was just more holy, finally I would see light. Seeking guidance, I had learned to explain away the perpetual guilt and bondage that I felt as simply an indicator that I was far from understanding the complex nature of God’s salvation. I wasn’t working hard enough.

I hated myself as an act of obedience to Christ. I was full of sin and he was full of light and there is no darkness in him. So while I prayed, daily, for him to come live inside of my heart I had an inkling that even if he did, our spirits could not really co-exist. I knew he was there because I’d asked him to be there and they told me those were the rules. But I could not feel him. I pictured him setting up camp in a sealed jar inside of my heart, present but never risking contamination.

They preached modesty because our bodies belonged to Jesus as well as our one-day husbands. The boys’ minds will wander and how dare we lead them down a path of sexual destruction when their minds should be focused on the holy things. The mind of a boy—the way his whole life could be derailed simply by bearing witness to the presence of skin was my responsibility.

What if you happened upon someone who didn’t know that Jesus would save them from Hell if only they’d ask him to? It’s so easy if you just tell them about what he can do for them. I hadn’t yet felt this freedom they promised but I was sure it was coming—in fact, maybe I’d finally feel it if I helped to save a person from themselves. Just stop and tell them about Jesus—it’s easy. On top of all these other things to feel guilty about, what’s the weight of another person’s soul? Pile it on, I’d learned to bear the weight.

I was nearing the end of my education at a liberal arts Christian University before the heaviness became too much to bear and I started to toy with the idea of dropping some of it. I stopped going to church on Sunday mornings. That first Sunday, I realized that the only other people in the dorm at that time of day were the hung-over girls and they weren’t going to judge me. I became the one who would retrieve food for them. I’d bring them water and tacos and help them to feel a little better. I never felt guilt over missing church and fully embraced my position as Administrator of Fast Food. It was the first time that I remember feeling like I could breathe full, whole breaths unencumbered by the weight of duty.

I had been told that people who turned their backs on the way that we’d been raised would have no moral compass—that there was nothing to pull them towards living a good life. One person told me that the only thing keeping him from cold-blooded murder was his love for Jesus and the same was true of me. Of course I believed him but it turns out, this wasn’t true. More than anything, my love for others blossomed under the freedom that I finally felt when I began to leave that life behind.

I started dropping other small things and by the time I was 25, I’d given it all up. All of it. I was shocked at how quickly and effortlessly it all just slipped away. The guilt, the self-hatred, the responsibility for the lives and afterlives of others—it dropped right off. Things I held so tightly for so long didn’t hold onto me at all. It felt like sun on my back and wind on my face after a lifetime in a basement. Regardless of this relief, I couldn’t help but resent the faith that I was born into. I blamed it for keeping this joy from me for so long. But with all the rubble of my former belief system at my feet, I began a decade-long excavation process where I was able to pick things up individually, research, and listen to find out exactly how I really felt about subjects.

It was around this time that a dear friend of mine breezily referred to herself and her husband as feminists. I played it cool but I was flabbergasted by what she said. She mentioned it in such a way that suggested that anyone who isn’t a total monster is a feminist. I laughed along, pretended to understand what she was talking about and made a note to do some Googling when I got home. It’s not that I’d never heard of feminism before—it’s just that the only way it had ever been presented to me was in a negative context. In the world in which I grew up, a feminist was basically the worst thing that a woman could be. She laughed in the face of tradition and she sought to destroy God’s idea of family. In my research, I tried to maintain a cynical point of view. I didn’t want to blindly accept something simply because it felt to be in conflict with the faith I had left behind. In the deconstruction of my faith, it never occurred to me to pick up this concept, turn it over in my hands, and learn about it in a new way. But when I did, I saw that there was nothing scary about feminism. In fact there was nothing about feminism that didn’t feel absolutely right deep inside of my spirit.

On a basic level, I agree with my friend: anyone who has much basic decency is a feminist at least to a certain degree—whether they acknowledge it or not. Believing that all persons should be honored as humans and not treated differently based on gender is really all it takes. A whole and happy life is for all of us. Feminism told me that I was the hero of my story and that I didn’t have to wait around for someone to save me or even that I needed saved in the first place. When I encountered this world, it was the first time that I’d ever been told that I was worthy of good things or that I was capable of making them happen. I learned that I had certain skills and affinities for certain tasks—I didn’t just have a list of things that women must do. I finally felt an ownership over my life and my body. All this and more compelled me to seek out ways that I could shine this truth to other people, as well. I wanted to shout from the rooftops, “Have you seen this? Did you know how great and capable you are?!”

In more recent years, I joined a private Feminist Facebook group and that has been personally revolutionary in so many ways—not only in a community building sense, but in prompting me to look more closely at the faith with which I was raised. Perhaps there was a baby in that bathwater all along. Many of my deepest friends are believers and they have found a way to marry their faith with their feminism—I see it play out in a certain ways that make it look like the two concepts were made for each other and I wish this was something I’d seen in my youth. Sometimes I wonder if it’s just too late for me–I’m not there and I might never be and I’m very comfortable with that. Cynicism is still an important aspect to the way that I view the world but the bitterness is getting left behind on account of all of this joy.

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“If you’re going to share widely, make sure you’re sharing from your scars, not from your open wounds.” –Nadia Bolz-Webber via Glennon Doyle Melton

The more I learned about equality, I learned about my privileges, Intersectionality, and the way that I could be advocating for equality between all types of people. It’s never been about raising up women and leaving everyone else in the dirt—contrary to what I’d been originally taught. Advocacy for safety and security of all people of all races, gender identities, sexual orientations, all abilities and sizes is crucial to the feminism to which I subscribe. Feminism tells me to stand in the way of those things set to destroy others.

Feminism gave me everything that decades in the church promised would come to me in time—but in a completely different and unexpected way. “Feminist” was the first and only label that I adopted after I decided that I didn’t want them anymore. It’s the only label that has given me more freedom than chains. I feel free when I am strong enough in my body and in my mind to stand up on behalf of someone else. Whether it’s to serve tacos to the hung over or to march on behalf of the forgotten in our community—I have found strength in these bones to rise up. I have finally found redemption.

XOXO, Lib

PS: As you know, I’m always happy to address any and all questions. Email me or send a direct message on Instagram or Facebook and I’ll do my best to address any questions that come up.

Lead photo: Blue Muse Photography

“You’ve Got the Right to be Mad”

Libby, , , , 3 Comments

One thing I’ve always been mindful of… possibly to the point of being self-conscious is the Angry Feminist trope. There’s something about being angry that manages to delegitimize what it is you’re trying to say. It shouldn’t—but it does, to the rest of the world. Think about it. It’s so much easier to just disregard what a person is saying if you just write them off as angry. But what if you reached deep inside yourself and pulled up just a little bit of extra grace? What if you looked just a little bit and weren’t put off by the fact that they are angry but thought a little bit about why they’re angry.

I try really hard—especially when it comes to the subject of Feminism—to keep this an anger-free zone. Part of that is because I don’t want to get written off as the Angry Feminist but a lot of it is because I want you to be able to hear me as clearly as possible.

But today I’m angry and I’m a feminist. And I’m gonna be your Angry Feminist. I’m asking you to try to hear me anyway. Can you do that?

What am I angry about? Let’s see… I’m angry about these bizarre and harmful societal expectations about the way that men and women should behave. They’re bizarre because they’re just completely made up. They’re harmful because they actually kill people.

I’m mad at the societal more that says that men are more informed on matters of basically anything outside of the confines of a kitchen or a laundry room. I’m mad at the guy who can’t help but explain Trump’s Muslim ban in the simplest of terms for me saying, “he’s just trying to keep you safe, hun.” With a tilt of his head and a twinkling of his eye as if to say, “aren’t you adorable with your opinions and thoughts about important matters?”

I’m mad at society’s obsession with infantilizing women and the guy at the McDonald’s drive thru who loves to play into it by calling me “my beautiful baby girl” and “honey baby” during the course of our very, very short transaction. And then when I don’t smile and bat my eyes, he tells me to “have a better day, Beautiful.” As if the only reason I’m not fainting at his charms is because I’ve had a rough day—not because he is the source of my irritation.

I am… so completely livid. Furious. So physically repulsed by the way that women are here to be the helpers. The ones who would rather split themselves open than inconvenience another person. Women are the ones to set ourselves on fire to keep other people warm. We are the helpers. It’s what we do. It’s, what? Just the way God made us? This is the tactic that was used by a man to try to get me into a car with him on Wednesday night.

I was getting ready to close up the bookstore at 7:00 pm. A guy came in and I told him, “Actually I’m just closing up.” He made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. It wasn’t anything in particular about him—just his energy. He was fidgety but obviously trying to make himself appear calm. He started to approach me to say something but then when he saw that there were other people in, he stopped himself. He said, “Oh, that’s okay. I’m just going to look around a sec.”
When the other people heard me say that it was closing time, they gathered their things and left. Then the man approached me again. He told me that I seemed like a nice girl and asked if I believed in helping people. He stretched his hand out and said, “My name is Robert.” I shook his hand but my other hand was holding tight to the phone in my pocket. He asked me a few more times if I believed in helping people who really just needed some help and had fallen on hard times. He told me, several times, that his name was Robert. He even said, “I’m not lying. My name really is Robert. I have ID to prove it.” While he was rifling through his wallet to find his ID, he was telling me this convoluted story about how he’d been at Dillons buying groceries but his ride left without him? Or something? It was having a hard time following his story. He was trying to find his ID but also it was obvious that he was hoping I’d say, “Oh, no. You don’t need to show me your ID, I don’t need that.” But I didn’t say that. Not because I cared about seeing it—I truly didn’t—but because I was trying to figure out how to get this guy out of the store so that I could lock the door. And I could write this off as a weird moment.

He hands me his driver’s license. It looks relatively normal. I know what a Kansas DL looks like except that it was missing something crucial. This ID didn’t have his name on it anywhere. “This man is lying and he is not safe” was the only thing in my mind. I thought about pointing it out to him but I didn’t want to give him anything else to talk about to me and I didn’t want him to get upset. I just wanted him to leave.

I stood extra tall. I broadened my shoulders. Anne Lamott says “courage is fear that has said its prayers.” I pulled on the armor that the women in my life have given me. I was bouyed with the prayers that they have prayed over me without knowing it. The prayer of “fuck that guy” from Cammie. The prayer of “I just want to hold you” from Sherilyn. The prayer of, “listen to your instincts” from Becca. The prayer of, “I will not stand for this” from Kalene. The prayer of “oh, hell no” from Kat. I pulled on Katelin’s ass-kicking boots and felt fire in my eyes.
He asked me to give him a ride to his house; it’s just a few miles south of town and he doesn’t feel safe walking after dark. “You would really be helping me out a lot and you seem like the kind of beautiful girl who helps people. Do you believe in karma?” He’s trying to be charming but one man’s charm is another man’s manipulation and that’s how I usually take it. I said, “I won’t be the one to help you, today.” I made no excuses. I made no apologies. His nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed, but he still pretended, poorly, to be casual. I pointed to the south and said, “The deli is right next door. By the looks of the number of cars parked on the street, there is probably a lot of people in there. I’m sure that if you really need a ride, one of them could find a way to help you.” I was pointing to the door, never leaving my spot behind the counter. He inched toward the door, said a few more things about helping people and how I should do it because there are people in the world who need help and they might be angels in disguise. He finally left—walking north. When I couldn’t see him anymore I sprinted to the door, locked it, and hid behind the counter. I was done being courageous. I was terrified. I felt like such a baby.

I called my husband and asked him to come to the store without telling him why. Without question, he said “sure” and was there within a few minutes. I hid behind a bookshelf until he got there so as not to be seen.

And ever since then I’ve been going back and forth between, “maybe I am just over reacting and he was just a guy who needed a ride home” and “could I have died if I’d gone with him?” The more I think about it, the less I feel like it was innocent.
Like the way that he’d supposedly come from the grocery store but didn’t have any bags at all. Like the way that he waited until I was all alone before he asked me for help even though there would have been a better chance for getting assistance if he’d asked more than one person. The way that he confirmed that he’d go to the deli to ask for some help but walked the opposite direction when he left. Not just the opposite direction of the deli but the opposite direction of where he said his home was.

And when I’m not wondering what could have happened, I’m thinking about “what if…” Like I came home and saw my dog, “what if I was kidnapped tonight and then Fiona would have to be locked up in her kennel all day every day because I wouldn’t be here to let her out while Ryan’s at work?” Or, “what if he’d raped me and kept me alive? Everyone would say, ‘well, what did you expect getting into a car with him??’ ”

I know, I know it’s drawing a lot of conclusions. And I know, I know, #notallmen. But fuck, you guys! I’m really, really tired of doing that thing that women have to do all the time. That thing where you’re constantly at war between being safe and being the kind of person who thinks everyone is a predator. Do I think Robert was a predator? Absolutely I do. Or he was working for one. But the next morning when I opened the store, my first customer was a man wearing a black coat with the hood all pulled up and I was instantly nauseated. Just filled with dread. When he lowered his hood he proved to be a regular, relaxed, 24 year old dude who was really cold. Because it was cold outside. He spent his whole visit surfing the sci-fi section and making cheerful small talk with me. I was actually quite grateful to have him in the store. And I was left doing that thing we’re constantly doing where you’re like, “Oh… man… he’s harmless. Hahaha! I’m such a sexist jerk for assuming that he came here to hurt me.” But my god… what else are we supposed to do?! I’m tired of it. It’s exhausting to be always on guard. If you’re too on guard and nothing happens, you’re hateful and distrusting. If you’re not on guard and something happens, then you’re a dimwit and gullible.  I’m going to be extra on guard for a long time. And I hate that because I don’t want to be the kind of person who holds prejudice. I don’t want to not trust people. I don’t want to be a slave to my reactions. But here we are. Here’s where I am right now, anyway. But at least I’m safe, I guess.

XOXO, Lib

PS It should be noted that I immediately told my boss. She called the police and let them know what had happened. And we’re looking into ways to keep us extra safe when we’re working alone at night. So don’t worry about any of that.