This blog is now done.

I've gone through some personal shit so as a symbolic gesture of rebirth or something I'm moving this blog so PLEASE GO TO THERE AND READ IT!  Thx bye!

https://justkiddingnobutseriously.wordpress.com/

You won't like me when I'm angry

Anger has been on my mind recently.  I've come to the realization that a good part of my depression over the years (other than the genetic pre-disposition/brain chemistry part, THANKS PARENTS!) has been due to anger that I've turned on myself.

Societal norms don't leave a lot of room for human beings to express anger in a healthy way, but it's made particularly difficult and problematic for women.  Until a few months ago, I never really understood the extent to which I've been trained to suppress my feelings of anger, justified or not.  I was sitting in therapy, trying to suss out what had triggered a depressive episode, when my therapist hit the nail on the head: "Jackie, I don't think you are sad.  I actually think you are really angry."  It was a revelation.

Ever since I was a small child, I've known that anger is Very Bad.  Anger leads to shouting, and fighting, and people not liking you.  You are angry?  Well, that means you're mean, and loud, and you fight with people, and good girls aren't mean.  They aren't too loud.  They don't fight with people.  They are liked.

So whenever something happened that made me angry, I would twist the situation in my mind until it was all my fault:

"Another little girl tells me I'm a show-off because I sang well in the school play?  Well, I must seem too stuck up then; it's my fault.  It couldn't possibly be because she was jealous and wanted the part for herself!"

"A boy on the bus calls me a loser and spits in my face?  Well, I must be ugly and nerdy and unlikeable.  It couldn't possibly be because he's a mini-misogynist and a sociopath who picks on every girl in the class because he enjoys hurting them."

"My 10th grade biology teacher leers at me and laughs while my male classmates make fun of my large breasts?  My shirt must be too low-cut; I should wear something with a higher neckline.  It couldn't possibly be because he's a predatory creep who shouldn't be within 500 feet of a school, much less teaching high schoolers."

When you're trained to outwardly express and feel anything but anger, these convoluted justifications for other people's inexcusable or inappropriate behavior become automatic.  They supplant reason and make it impossible for you to view a situation rationally.  And they direct anger inward, where it wreaks havoc while bubbling like lava just beneath the surface of your consciousness--until it inevitably explodes.

I've had several explosions over the years, and they were bad.  One in high school made me some enemies and pretty much ruined my senior year of high school.  Instead of reacting appropriately to individual situations that inspired justifiable anger in me, I kept it all inside until one last, tiny, insignificant straw landed on the camel's back and the camel blew up and screamed at fucking everybody.  That was a bad day--what I remember of it, at least.  My mind has blocked out a lot of it, the fallout was that traumatic at the time.

Much worse, however, have been the much more frequent implosions: the times where the anger burned bright hot and bored a giant black hole in my head and my heart, a hole I tumbled into and couldn't climb out of for days or weeks or months.  When things imploded, I wanted to hurt myself and I thought about ways to make it happen.  I realize now that the Big Breakdown in 2013 was really all about anger, mostly directed at people in my job who were taking advantage of me at the time.  Instead of telling them how I felt and using my anger as a tool to defend myself from their tactics or at least call them out for bad behavior, I blamed and hated and raged at myself for everything that was going wrong and then fell apart.

Now I'm working on expressing anger in a healthy way.  If I need to scream or throw (soft!) things in my apartment at night, I do it.  At work, I try to channel anger into actually, for the first time in my life, telling people when what they are doing is inappropriate, rude, or simply mean.  This has been especially hard because most of the people at work I push back on have 10 years of experience on me and think a lot of themselves (sometimes justifiably, sometimes not).  But I'm learning, and it's actually making me even better at my job--an unexpected and pleasantly surprising bonus.

This week has been interesting, because there is simply a lot of shit going on in the world that is pissing me (and most people with a modicum of common sense and human decency) off.  This whole HobbyLobby business has cast a pall over the week since Monday.   Yet another blow by a bunch old white dudes to the dignity, health, and autonomy of women in this country.  And, just like when I was a child, I hear the same old message loud and clear from all sides: "Women: don't get angry don't get angry PLEASE DON'T GET ANGRY.  Not only does it make us SUPER UNCOMFORTABLE, it also means you're a Shrill, Hysterical, Very Bad and Mean Feminist (TM, Fox News).  No one will like you if you're angry."

Here's the thing - some people won't like me (or any woman, really) when I'm angry, and I'm finally getting that this is good because anger is necessary, and if they see that I'm angry then I'm going in the right direction.  Anger gets things done.  Directed at the right targets, anger can be a powerful tool for change, both on a personal level and on a broad scale.  Harnessing my anger has made me better at what I'm currently paid to do, and it's helping me understand and fight my depression.  Harnessing anger has fought injustice and ended atrocities around the world.  Harnessing anger of millions of minorities and their allies is what will fuel the ongoing fight to stop nutjobs and bigots from trying to take the world back to the Middle Ages.  It's also what will ultimately win that fight.  GO SHRILL, HYSTERICAL, VERY BAD AND MEAN FEMINISTSTM!!!!!!!

So, yeah, some people may not like me when I'm angry, but that's cool.  It worked for the Hulk, right?

Asshole alert! Also, sexism in the workplace.

So I've been in HR at a major tech company for nearly seven years, and throughout my tenure I've spent a lot of time putting on a smile and pretending to be nice to assholes.  Well, as of today, I'm done.

This morning, at the request of my client group, I gave a optional, extra, special, not-required-by-my-job presentation on new performance management practices to about 30 people live and on video conference.  These practices are controversial and are causing folks some consternation, which is acceptable.

What happened during the meeting, however, was not.

About halfway through the presentation, one of my senior clients got up, wrote a word he "didn't want to hear" from me anymore on the whiteboard in huge letters, and then crossed it out to demonstrate to me and the room (because I'm a fucking five-year-old kindergartener, apparently) that he really doesn't like that word and he doesn't want to hear it ever again!  He was visibly agitated the whole time, his eyes widening and his jowls shaking as he chastised me, his colleague, in front of his peers and direct reports, for the HR department being "the politburo." Of course, as all assholes who want to cover their asshole-ish asses do, he proceeded to clarify that he "wasn't directing any of this at me" but was "just so frustrated with the system," etc.  After holding back tears for the remainder of the presentation,  I tried to take him aside to give him some feedback about treating me like a 10 year old in front of a good chunk of his team.  He cut me off abruptly: "I know what this is about, and, you know, I apologize, but I'm just so frustrated..."  I told him that I found what he did humiliating, and that my hurt feelings were not related to what he said, but how he said it.  He cut me off again: "I don't understand why you feel that way!  I'm just frustrated about the process!"  We decided to talk more later.  He sent me one of those "sorry that you were offended" bullshit emails, and I repeated that we'd talk later in the week.  I didn't think I could look at his fucking face twice in one day.

I'm sure some people reading this would say that I'm overreacting.  That I'm too sensitive.  "He apologized, what's the big deal?"

I'll tell you what the fucking big deal is.

The big deal is that this man thinks it's ok, just because he's frustrated about an HR process, to belittle a colleague in front of his peers and reports.

The big deal is that these same peers and reports will now think it's ok to treat me the same way he does.

The big deal is this guy has a history of intimidating and bullying his coworkers, and he's never been disciplined for it.

The big deal is that my boss's response to it was, "That's too bad, I'm so sorry!"  In case you were wondering, my boss is also in HR.

The big deal is that if I were a man, this never would have happened.

Oh, yeah, I'm pulling the sexism card.  I'm fucking doing it.  And you know why?  Because it's in my hand, motherfuckers.

I've supported dozens of leaders over the years, nearly all of them men.  I have lost track of the number of patronizing, rude, and downright overtly sexist remarks and attitudes I've witnessed and experienced from almost every single one of them.

There was the guy who once referred to me as a performance management "dominatrix" in front of his team.  The guy who spent an entire meeting staring, quite obviously, at my chest while we were supposed to be discussing talent strategies.  The guy who called me "hot" to my fellow HR coworkers in the office while I was standing 20 feet away (this guy was also in HR, whaddya know!).  The countless, countless managers who have praised male workers for being aggressive go-getters while, in the same breath, suggesting their female reports "tone it down."  I could write a fucking book.

Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of female assholes, too, all over the place.  But while the majority of leadership positions in corporate America are held by men (and yeah, they mostly still are, especially in tech), the majority of assholes I work with will be men, too.  Leaning in is great and dandy, unless you want to avoid assholes and sexism, apparently.

That's the big deal.  Today, this man was such an asshole to me that he made me want to quit my job.  He looked down on me from his position of power and maleness and decided that it was ok to belittle me, the HR girl, because I am not powerful and not male.  And he taught a bunch of other people who look up to him (most of them male) that this is how they should treat me, too.

So I'm done being nice.  I will be Catbert the evil HR cat, if that's what these fuckers want.  I'll give back as good as I get.  I'll be the asshole.  Let's see how they like it.

Windbreaker Pants

About a third of my mornings, I take a later shuttle (meaning it leaves after 7 am) to work, and whenever I do I inevitably encounter Windbreaker Pants Couple.

Windbreaker Pants Couple are, as you may have guessed, in a relationship.  A very close and publicly displayed relationship.  They cuddle while waiting for the bus to arrive, their arms linked.  They take a pair of seats in the front of the bus, their heads bowed towards each other like a pair of doves as they share a soft chuckle over something displayed on one of their mobile phones.  They occasionally kiss, the rest of their coworkers looking on.

I call them Windbreaker Pants Couple because the guy only has one pair of pants, and they are glorious.  They are made of (you guessed it) windbreaker material, with a pattern of grass-green and highlighter-yellow patches.  The waist and ankles are secured by drawstrings, ostensibly so he can tighten them to protect himself from the harsh San Francisco weather.  Again, these are the only pants he owns.  I have never seen him not in these pants.

The sight of Windbreaker Pants Couple always raises so many questions, both practical and metaphysical.  Here's what I would ask Windbreaker Pants Couple if I were capable of working up the physical and emotional courage:

• Where did you get those pants?  Are they a family heirloom, passed down through the generations?
• Do your pants have magical powers?
• How often do you wash your pants? 
• Girlfriend, have you every suggested to him that he might want to invest in another pair of non-windbreaker pants?
• I'm in HR; do you really think cuddling and kissing on the work shuttle is a good idea?
• That being said, you guys look really in love.  That must be great.
• Did you meet at work?  Online?  Seriously, how did you find each other?  Any good dating sites I should try? 
• I'm so lonely.  So, so lonely.  No, I'm not crying, there's just something in my eye. 
• Ahem.  Anyways.  So, as an HR representative I could probably get up a donation fund to buy you some jeans or something. Though I guess windbreaker pants would be really comfortable. 
• (To myself) Hmm, maybe I should get some windbreaker pants?  They seem to bring love and contentment and look non-restrictive.
• (To them) Seriously, though, I'm in HR, please stop kissing on the shuttle.  It's freaking everyone out and also reminding those of us who are single that we are going to die alone.  Also, get some new pants.

I swear that one day I will work up the guts to engage Windbreaker Pants Couple.  On that day, I suspect that many mysteries of the universe will be revealed.  Until that day comes, however, I will simply gaze upon Windbreaker Pants Couple from afar, wondering at their epic love and the enigma of that dude's pants.

So I've had some wine...

...and everyone at work is, like, resigning and I need to get ready for several months of WERK so, whatever, I deserve all the wine.

But as usual when there is wine, I have thoughts.  Here they are, in no particular order:

1.  Olympics: what is the difference between ice dancing and pairs skating?  It appears to be the same except the Americans who are doing the pairs thing are not as good as Davis and White.  Or are they the same thing and I have missed something? CONFUSION.

2.  Olympics thought number 2:  Did you all see that thing where the 2 skiers tied for gold?  That's crazy!  I cried.  Might have been the wine, BUT WHATEVER IT WAS AWESOME, OK?

3.  Olympics thought number 3: So, these people work out like 10 hours a day and I am sitting here drinking wine and eating chocolate.  I feel awesome about myself.

4.  Non-olympics thought: I have four weddings to go to this year.  I should probably stop drinking wine and work out more.

5.  THE VERONICA MARS MOVIE IS COMING OUT SOON!  This is like all I have to look forward to in life...yay?

6.  I should start my taxes.

7.  Wow, these Russians are really good at skating.

8.  Have I really had that much wine?

Thirteen years

When I was sixteen years old, I had my first full-blown encounter with depression, a disease that has followed me from high school, to college, to my first job (still my only job); from dorm rooms to roommates to my first one-bedroom; from the West coast, to the East coast, and back again.

I remember crying so hard that I thought I'd blinded myself with tears on the floor of my childhood bedroom.  I remember one of my college roommates dragging me to the campus health center as I blubbered and babbled.  I remember breakdowns in a dizzying array of bathrooms - high school bathrooms, lecture hall bathrooms, grimy nightclub toilet stalls.  I recall many impromptu outdoor walks at my office campus spent sobbing and staggering, incoherently wailing on my cell phone to my poor, beleaguered mother.  

I remember going on meds and the elation of the cloud lifting for the first time.  I remember thinking I was "better" and could go off them on my own, leading, of course, to a sudden drop back down the familiar black hole.  I remember doing this two or three times until I finally realized that I needed the meds, that I would always need them, that I could very possibly die without them.

I remember five or six failed attempts at therapy with awful practitioners; women who thought that if I could just eat better and exercise more and meditate daily I would be fine.  I remember thinking that if one more therapist told me to eat more fruit and meditate I actually would kill myself.

I remember wanting to kill myself, more times than I can count.

Most of all, I remember this week last year.  In late January of 2013, I had what I now think of as "The Big Breakdown."  We had some sort of awful week-long work meeting with "planning" and "strategy" and a million people milling around everywhere, asking, "How are you, it's been so long," and I lost it it.  I got a migraine that turned into a flu that turned into a bleeding, aching hole in my chest out of which my depression screamed "DIE DIE DIE YOU ARE NOTHING." I made some sort of minor mistake at work and lost my shit.  My boss at the time, bless her heart, had no idea what to do with me, but was compassionate when I realized I needed to get some help and didn't guilt trip me about what happened next.

I took two weeks of medical leave.  My poor beleaguered mother flew out to stay with me, and she helped me get what I needed.  She listened to me when I cried, and she helped me make and keep therapy and doctor appointments.  She walked with me in Golden Gate park and watched TV with me and took me to IKEA to buy a side table for my living room, which was something I desperately needed, apparently.  She washed my dishes.

I found, for the first time in over a decade, an amazing therapist.  I had begun to think that they didn't exist, but they do, and he is one of them.  I got a new diagnosis and new meds and they helped.

My mother went home, I went back to work, and it was hard.  Really hard.  A year later, it still is.  But I have a therapist now, and my friends, and my family, and the knowledge that after thirteen years of this shit, there are good times in between the bad ones and that I have what I need in place to get through the bad ones.  This past week was a bad one, this Anniversary of The Big Breakdown.  But I survived it, and I can feel myself coming out of it.  It will be ok, for now.

I turned twenty-nine earlier this month, which means it's been thirteen years with this disease.  That's nearly half my life.  I know that I will have this disease as long as I live.  I know that it's a part of me, and that no matter how many times I beat myself up about not being "normal" that this is my normal - and that many others share this normal with me.  And so I try to remember instead that I'm one of the lucky ones.  I have help.  I am lucky.  I am so, so lucky.

I write this not to indulge in self-pity or self-aggrandizement, nor to celebrate my triumph over depression (especially not the latter, because there is no triumph over depression, as any sufferer knows).  I guess that on this Anniversary of The Big Breakdown, and after thirteen years of my brand of normal, it's good to remember where I've been and what I have and to be grateful.  And to take a breath before diving into whatever's next.  Here's to the next thirteen years.



 

I just can't anymore you guys. I cannot.

Seriously, guys.  I just can't with these people.  I know we're supposed to be calm, and collected, and engage in serious debate, but I just...no wonder people go rage-y on the news and in comment boards.

Last night, Texas went all to shit and it's no surprise, considering the progress of things in Ohio and Wisconsin of late.  People yelled, and tampons were confiscated, and shitty people gloated, and I went to bed early because I Just. Cannot. Anymore.

People love to employ the trope of the "angry feminist."  And sometimes, we feminists make it easy, because we are angry.  GUYS, WE ARE SO ANGRY I CANNOT EVEN TELL YOU.  We are angry because no matter what progress is made, hatred, devaluation, exploitation, and belittling of women is still everywhere.  Even in America.  It's in workplaces, and doctor's offices, and government chambers, and homes, and schools.  It's in the act of walking down the street near my home in San Francisco at 7 pm when it is still light out and being called a "cunt" because I won't smile at the drunken homeless man on the corner who makes a lewd comment.  And last night, it was in the actions of the Texas state senate, which not only passed a bill that will (if enacted) severely restrict TX women's access to safe and legal abortions, but also refused to entertain amendments that would otherwise help women and families (sex education improvements, funding to update clinics, exceptions to the bill for women's health).  If you care about or even remotely like women and the quality of their health care, you do not pass this bill and you certainly don't reject all amendments out of hand that would improve women's lives.  So yeah, we're angry.  When people are detested and held down because of their skin color or ethnic background or which set of reproductive organs they possess, they tend to get fucking angry.

I get that people don't like abortion and vehemently oppose it.  I get it!  You know what?  I don't like abortion either!  It sucks!  It's a traumatic process, and is usually being performed because of less-than-ideal (unwanted pregnancy due to BC failure or lack of BC, no financial or other resources to birth or raise a child) or outright tragic (serious birth defect, result of rape or incest, mother going to die) circumstances.  However, if human history, medical science, and common fucking sense are any indication, its existence is critical to the overall health of the female population.  If you are not a woman choosing to get one, it is also (according to the Supreme Court and, you know, personal autonomy) none of your fucking business.  

So why do so many conservative lawmakers make it their business?  Do they really think our idea of a fun Saturday is to head to the abortion clinic with our gal pals with the theme to Sex and the City playing on our iPods?  Do they think we all have those cards like you use at Panera: "Get nine abortions and your tenth is free?!"  I know they don't care about kids, because once they're born many extreme conservatives would rather let them die of a preventable illness than pay a bit more in taxes to get them affordable health care.  I know they don't care about life because they refuse to support reasonable gun control laws and love executing incarcerated criminals.  So my conclusion is that, if they're men, they really just hate us.  If they're women, they really just hate themselves.  

So what do I, a woman with a brain, do in the face of such hatred?  I give up on tolerance and calmness of manner.  I just don't care anymore; I can't care and be measured, because it is damned exhausting.  I don't respect your views, and I don't respect you.  You hate me because of mine, and also (mainly) because I have a vagina.  So why the fuck should I turn the other cheek?  What the hell: I hate you too. If you are anti-choice, go fuck yourself.  Or die.  Whatever works. Because I. Just. Can't. Anymore. You. Guys.