I Was An Emotional Prostitute Part 4

Trigger Warning: Rape Scene

Mother took us to a Presbyterian church when we were young. I remember the Sunday school teacher talking about Jesus and how He was the only way to get into heaven. She even talked about the rapture and how Jesus was going to take his believers into heaven before the great tribulation hit. The thing that really impressed me though, was when someone gave me the impression that becoming born again was like having a second birthday. It was a few weeks away from my eighth birthday when I heard this. I decided that if becoming born again meant having a second birthday, then I wasn’t going to miss out on this. I also thought it meant having a second birthday party with gifts and the whole works. When I think about that now, I smile at how innocent I was. I have never regretted giving my life to the Lord - even though doing so didn’t get me the second birthday party I thought it would.

A few years later mother started taking us to a non-denominational church. At first, I hated it. These people didn’t use hymnals and they made a joyful noise when they worshiped. How did people learn the words to the songs without hymnals? Then to make matters worse in my eyes at the time, these people prayed out loud - and in different tongues! As far as I was concerned at the time, this was too much. I wanted to go back to our old church. We stayed because as I would learn years later, mother felt as if God called her to that church.

As I looked around at the people during services, I eventually realized that they had something I didn’t. It’s called the infilling of the Holy Spirit with evidence of speaking in tongues. It’s in the book of Acts, if you want to look it up.

While mother and Don were still married, they became friends with a couple who had a nephew, Dennis, on whom I developed a crush. I thought he was cute and very nice, even though he was five years older than me. At some point, he realized I had a crush on him. He was very nice about it. He sat me down to explain that he was too old for me; that he needed someone his own age.

One night, a couple of years later, mother had him babysit the three of us kids so she could go out with Bill, the man who became her next husband. While she was gone that evening, Dennis and I started kissing when my brothers were out of sight. At one point he asked me to put on a different shirt as the one I had on was rather high in the neck and he wanted to kiss my neck. I liked the idea, so I did as he requested. A little while later, we went into mother’s bedroom and lay on her bed, necking. Pretty soon though, he wanted more. 

Dennis asked me to take off my pants and have sex with him. I said “no.”

He persisted. I said I was afraid of getting pregnant. He said I was too young to get pregnant. I still said “no.”

Eventually I reluctantly agreed because he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. I don’t know what he got out of it; I just know that for me it hurt; physically and emotionally. I was so ashamed about what we’d done when it was over as I had been told that sex without marriage was wrong. Because I had just had sex with this young man, I felt very guilty. I didn’t realize it then, but I had just been raped. I did not at that point in my life fully understand what it was that I had “consented” to. Not only that, but my “consent” was given under pressure, not out of any real desire to participate.

The day after my 11^th birthday, mother married her third husband, Bill. He was a nice enough guy in his own way, but too much a little boy emotionally. He also didn’t have enough understanding about growing young children, girls in particular. He often told me that I cried too easily. When I told mother what Bill had said, she agreed with him. Because of that I learned not to cry easily. When I did cry, I was often ashamed of my tears, even at times of genuine grief, such as breaking up with a boyfriend or when my great grandma died. In fact, when great grandma died, I went to the school counselor to talk to him about her death. I told him how felt like crying a lot. He told me it was normal.

Bill never really got involved with us as kids beyond bringing home a paycheck or if we woke him up. He slept days, worked nights, then spent most of his weekends pursuing his own interests or sleeping.

When I was in the sixth grade, I tripped and fell down a couple of stairs, breaking one of my front teeth in half diagonally. Mother took me to the dentist that night when she got home from work. He put a temporary cap on my tooth then told mother that I needed a new crown. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, as we were there after hours and what he put on my tooth was supposed to be temporary. Several weeks later, I went to mother and asked her about getting my tooth fixed.

She said we didn’t have the money, as it would cost one of Bill’s whole paychecks to fix my tooth. That was her response every time I brought it up. This was very hard for me as it made me feel like I wasn’t worth the money. To make matters worse, the temporary cap was turning yellow. I hated to smile and show that tooth. Mother used to tell me to smile big for pictures; she never realized how embarrassing that yellow cap was. I came to hate having my picture taken.

When I ran the preview for this blog, I noticed spacing issues in the last two paragraphs. I'm sorry, but I have been unable to fix those issues.

I Was an Emotional Prostitute Part 3

Trigger Warnings: Verbal abuse; bullying, suicide thoughts

During the divorce, Don moved out of the house. A couple of years later he remarried and moved to a city north of us. Despite the abuse, I still thought of him as my father. After all, I didn’t really have a good father figure in my life.

On occasion I would take the bus to see him, which was a three hour trip, one way. One time I accidently got off at the wrong stop. I’d been reading a book, looked up, thought it I was almost too late for my stop, and pulled the bell. I borrowed a phone to call him to come get me. He had to drive 14 miles or so to pick me up because it would be at least another hour before the next bus. He was so angry with me that he chewed me out the whole way to his house. Told me if I hadn’t really wanted to come, I should have told him so. He couldn’t understand that I’d made an honest mistake.

Another time he wanted me to come see him at Christmas time. I didn’t want to, so he told me that if I didn’t come see him, he would withhold the present his mother had sent to his house for me. I refused anyway, even though I really wanted what his mother had sent. She had a knack for choosing just the right gift. I have often wondered what he did with it and what, if any explanation he gave her.

The abuse Don did to me wasn’t the only thing about him that caused misery and shame. His last name, which became mine when he adopted me, was Gass. I took a lot of teasing over that. Children in elementary school would see me coming and say things like, “Oh, no! It’s Gasser. She stinks!”

Then they would run away from me. Or worse yet, they would threaten to beat me up for simply walking by or through the area in which they were playing. Telling the playground monitors didn’t do me any good. They simply told me to stay away from the kids. Telling mother didn’t do any good either. She told me to ignore them.

The other kids also told me I was ugly. Adults would tell me that I was going to be very pretty when I grew up. I know they meant well, but it made me feel a bit like the ugly duckling. Only my question was, when would I be grown up enough to become the lovely swan?

To make matters worse, I was bullied on a couple of occasions when walking home. Once when I was a couple of blocks from school a group of kids quickly surrounded me as I walked. A boy named Jimmy was on his bicycle. He held up his front tire in front of my face while telling me to kiss it. I refused, but he kept insisting. When I realized I was pinned against the fence surrounding our babysitter’s house I screamed as loud as I could. The babysitter’s mother came out to see what was wrong. The kids quickly scattered. I thanked her for coming to my rescue, then told her what had been happening.

The other time, I was walking across the playground after school one day, when a couple of older boys started chasing me. One of them threw a rock at me and hit me in the temple causing a cut, which required attention. I went to the school office where I was taken care of by the school secretary, Letty. Several days later, I went to the school office for some reason and happened to notice a framed picture of a boy on Letty’s desk. It was one of the boys who had chased me that day. When I told Letty this, she said, “Keith? Oh, no, he’s a nice boy. He wouldn’t do that.”

Until then I had thought Letty was an adult I could trust. I never felt safe or comfortable with her afterwards.

Another time when I was walking home, I saw a couple of boys up ahead hiding behind some trees. Because I’d seen them, I didn’t think there was anything to worry about. As I walked past their hiding spot, I heard a thud. Then one of the boys said something about a branch blocking it. Only then did I realize that one of them had a large rock in his hands that he’d tried to throw at my head. The tree branch saved me from serious injury.

            The last time I was bullied, I was riding mother’s bike up and down the street in front of our house. Some girls I knew from school walked by on their way to the airport. We all started talking then one of them lit up a cigarette and wanted me to take a drag. I didn’t want to do any such thing, but she insisted. I clamped my mouth shut and refused. Pretty soon I realized she wasn’t going to give up. We happened to be in front of the next door neighbor’s house, so I thought if I screamed loud enough, mother would hear and come running. I screamed; and sure enough, mother came running. The girls ran. I told mother what had happened and that I thought I knew where one of the girls lived. She drove me to her house and we talked to her parents. They came by later with her in their car to ask if she was the one. I said she was and never heard another word about it, but from the expressions on their faces, I am sure she hadn’t heard the end of it.

There were times even at this young age when I was so depressed that I wanted to kill myself.  I literally hated my life because of the abuse I’d suffered. I felt life wasn’t worth living. The biggest reason I didn’t was that I could not figure out how to do it in a relatively painless manner. The act of killing myself scared me more than the idea of dying. I am thankful I didn’t.

I did however, try to run away a couple of times with a friend and my brother, Mike. The first attempt we did in broad daylight. A neighbor lady saw us and figured out what we were doing. A few minutes later, she pulled up beside us in her car and ordered us to get in. She then drove us home and told our parents what had happened. Mike and I were grounded for a week or so. The next time we tried it; we had agreed to meet after going to bed. That time Don, mother’s second husband, saw the packed suitcase sitting in my closet. He proceeded to open it up and dump the contents onto the floor of my room. I never did have the courage to tell him that he was the biggest reason I wanted to run away from home.

I Was An Emotional Prostitute Part 2

I think there are a few lucky people who look back on childhood as some of the most wonderful, carefree days of their lives. I, unfortunately am not one of those people.

My name is Mayone (my own) and this is my story.

I was born in the mid 60's to a couple named Von and Mary. They separated and divorced before I was two while mother was pregnant with my younger brother, Mike. My father disappeared. I didn’t see him again for over 30 years.

A few years later mother married a man named Don. Several months later, she had one last child, a boy named Marvin Wayne after his paternal grandfather. He was never called by his first name though; we always called him Wayne. I loved helping mother take care of him whenever possible.

For a few years, things were fine. Then one day, Don stopped me in the hallway, held my face, and pushed his tongue into my mouth while kissing me. I was disgusted at the time. Even now as I write this, I can feel how disgusting it felt to me. Thankfully, it only happened the one time.

 Another time, Don came to my younger brother, Mike and I one day to ask if we wanted to learn a new game. We asked him what new game. He refused to tell us until we said “yes” or “no.” I agreed right away, but my brother was hesitant so, I pleaded with him until he agreed also. Don grabbed six dice and said, “Come on.”

We all went into my room and Don shut the door for privacy. He then told us that in this game we were going to play, we would all roll the six dice. We could then stay with what we had, keep part of what we had and roll again or we could roll all six dice again up to two more times. The person with the lowest score had to take a piece of clothing off. In the end, when one person was completely naked, we would all roll the dice again, if the naked person still rolled the lowest score, the person with the highest score, got to “have their way” with the loser.

I remember losing a lot it seemed and Don was usually the winner at those times. He would then have me lie on my bed while he used a vibrator on my vagina. It always “tickled” in such a way as to make me writhe across the bed. I remember liking the sensation yet wanting to get away from it.

I should make one thing clear here; the vibrator Don used on me was not the kind you find in today’s sex shops. It was one made by a company for the specific purpose of relieving pain by “massaging” the aching part of your body. It had a tan plastic case and was about 6'l x 4'h x 2'w with a metal top, which made me think of a double humped camel.

I’m sure Mike was the lowest roller on more than one occasion; however, I don’t remember what happened to him. On one occasion Don was the loser and I was the winner. I had seen mother hovering over him one morning as he lay on their bed, so I decided to imitate her. I had him lay on my bed, climbed up over him and rubbed myself against him. I didn’t do it for very long as I didn’t really know what I was doing and I got bored with it. That was the closest we ever came to having actual intercourse at that time.

This must have gone on for several weeks if not a few months before mother found out what was happening. She learned about “The Game” when I was cleaning my room one night. I found the cord for the vibrator in my room and went to put it away. As I walked through the living room with it, mother saw it and asked me why I had it. That’s when I reluctantly told her about “The Game” we played in my room while she was at work. She told me that what had happened was wrong. When she saw that this upset me, she also told me it wasn’t my fault. It was Don’s, as he knew better. Shortly after this they separated, then he filed for divorce.

Once the story came out about the game and Don’s abuse of us, I didn’t feel totally comfortable with him anymore. One day shortly after that happened, he was sitting in a chair in the middle of the living room and asked me to come to him. I shook my head “no.” He insisted that I come to him and promised not to hurt me. I reluctantly walked over and stood next to him. He put his arm around me and talked to me briefly before letting me go. I scampered away as quickly as possible.

Don also physically abused me as a child. On more than one occasion he used a tree branch to beat me with when I did something wrong. Once he even made me go out and take a switch off the tree. I spent so long trying to do it, that he came out to get a different branch.

On another occasion Don beat me with a stick and then put it next to my dresser telling me as he did so that he was going to spank me again in the morning for the same offense! He asked me to remind him. I nodded my head in agreement. The next morning I saw the stick and ignored it. A few days later as I was cleaning my room, I quietly took the stick outside and threw it away. He never mentioned it again.

There is one incident in particular which stands out. I went to an elementary school, which was approximately five blocks from our house. I walked to and from school every day. Don always told me to come straight home after school and I always did. I just wasn’t always as quick about it as he thought I should be. He expected me home from school within 15 minutes of school ending. I was often late as I always walked home with friends and we would laugh and talk all the way to my house, then they would go on to their homes. I was late so many times that Don finally threatened to chase me to and from school spanking me all the way if I was late one more time. Shortly after that I was late coming home again and he did exactly as he’d threatened to; chase me to and from school, spanking me all the way. In later years, I started thinking that the punishment was excessive for the crime and talked to my mother about it. She didn’t agree as I had come home late so many times. I realize now that it was public humiliation, which is wrong under any circumstances.

I Was An Emotional Prostitute Part 1

I AM...

I am my life experience

I am a child

conceived to meet my mother’s need for unconditional love

I am a baby girl, loved by her father

I am a toddler, abandoned by her father

I am a young girl

sexually and physically abused by her mother’s second husband

Then raped by a young man she had a crush on

I am that same young girl

with emotions and sensitivities I don’t understand

and am not allowed to express

I am

a young woman growing into womanhood   

                                               without the guidance of a loving father

and with a mother who would control me

I am a young woman

who wants to try her wings

only to have them continually clipped

I am a rebellious young woman

constantly fighting

fighting for the right to be me

fighting for the right to explore the world around me

and find my place in it

I am a woman unsure of herself

and her place in this world

I am a woman in pain

from wounds that cannot be seen

with the natural eye

I am a woman

only now

learning who I am

and what I really want in this life

I am a single mom

who must cope with the day to day rearing of my son

while I work to find myself and become emotionally whole

I am also a woman in love

with a man I cannot have and am no longer sure I want

What you have just read is the introduction to the story about my life. Over the next several weeks, I will be posting parts of my story. It may not be easy to read, but it wasn't easy for me to write. At times I felt like I was writing nothing more than a tell all. I finally realized that I had to. If I didn't people wouldn't understand why I needed the emotional healing that only God can do.

I'm not sure how long it will take to tell my story in this format, but I expect a year or more.

What I'll share is the truth of my life as I remember it, emotions and all.

Can’t Teach Your Children?

            I recently had a conversation with a man I’ve known for most of my life in which he said that you can’t teach your children anything. To prove his point, he told a story about his daughter and teaching her to play piano.

            He’d hired a piano teacher for her and told the teacher that he not only wanted her to teach his daughter how to play, but he wanted the teacher to show his daughter how musical chords are built. Well, the teacher taught his daughter how to play, but when it became clear that she wouldn’t teach how musical chords are built, he fired her.

            He told the next piano teacher the same thing. He not only wanted her to teach his daughter how to play piano, but he wanted her to teach her how chords are built. She too, failed at the task.  About the time he was going to fire her, she came to him and said that she was moving. He was so grateful, that he let her stay on till she left.

            One day while he was at work, he came up with a way to show his daughter how to build the music chords, so he wrote it down and took it home. That night, he walks in and sees his daughter at the dining room table. He put the piece of paper down next to her, she looked up and said, “Dad! I’m doing my math homework.”

            He then goes into the other room, puts on headphones, and tunes up his guitar. When he’s finished tuning his guitar, he takes off the headphones and starts playing so that his daughter will hear him. After a few minutes she comes out and he’s able to get his point across about how musical chords are built.

            He ended his story by reiterating that you can’t teach your children anything.

            If I’d been thinking well at the time, I could have asked him who potty trained his daughter or taught her manners.

            I also could have proved him wrong on the spot, but I know he wouldn’t have listened to me and it would have caused unnecessary drama for me to do so.

            Here’s what he did wrong. Instead of respecting what his daughter was doing, homework, he insisted she pay attention to what he wanted to teach her. Had he respected what she was doing in the moment, she probably would have come to him on her own when she was done with her math homework and discussed the music chords he’d put in front of her.

            What he taught her in addition to the music chords, was that what she was doing was not as important as what he wanted to teach her right that minute. I find this ironic given that in the discussions we’ve had about education over the years, he’s made it clear that education is a high priority where he’s concerned. He even tried to convince his son to go for a Master’s degree after this young man had earned an A.A. while attending high school and getting straight “A’s” then going on to earn a Bachelor’s degree in his chosen field.

            So, because he had to “grab” his daughter’s attention and he couldn’t convince his son to get a Master’s degree, he thinks you can’t teach your children anything. He’s wrong. The moment we become a parent, we become our child’s first teacher.

            Think not? Think about this. Who teaches your child to walk? To talk? To go potty? Unless you can afford to hire a nanny or nurse, you do.

            There’s also the fact that we teach our children about how to live, even if only by example. For instance, when we hold our children and comfort them, we’re teaching them how to love and that we love them. I also read recently that babies who are comforted and held when they cry will better learn how to deal with their emotions than those who are allowed to “cry it out.” So, in essence, from the time they’re babies, how we take care of them teaches them how to handle things or not.

            Our children learn how to do so many things simply by watching what we do. I remember learning how to hold my silverware by observing how my parents held theirs.

            I know my son learned how to weed a garden by working side by side with me.

            More importantly, though, we teach our children about what to expect in life and relationships by how we behave.

            Think about this for a moment. If our children see parents who love each other and them, they’ll seek those kinds of relationships for themselves as they get older.

            If they see their parent’s abusing each other, chances are good they’ll be abusers or become victims of abusers in their own relationships.

            We also teach them basic life skills. Things like respecting other people. Good manners, such as “don’t talk with your mouth full” or “don’t cut in front of others.”

            Hopefully we teach them compassion by showing compassion for others. By this, I mean how do we treat those less fortunate than ourselves? Do we look down on them? Or do we offer them a kind word or a smile?

            We can’t ever forget that as parents, our children are watching everything we do and learning from us. We are their first example of how to conduct themselves in this world.

The Past Two Weeks

If you follow my blog, allow me to thank you for following me and to apologize for not writing one the last two weeks.

The last couple of weeks have been difficult. We were supposed to run errands one day, but I had some sort of stomach bug. I honestly felt at one point like I might run a fever, which is really unusual for me. I got over that pretty quickly as I actually stayed home in bed. Something I hate to do. My wonderful kitty, Rusty, spent the day in bed with me, so that made things more pleasant. Thankfully, I love to read and have plenty of good books to help pass the time.

After a couple of days, I knew I was better, so we decided to run our errands. That morning, I got online for something before we left, I don’t normally do that, but I did this time. While I was on the internet, I checked my e-mail.  

I received an e-mail with news that I knew was coming, but caused me grief, nonetheless. My grandmother, in this case, my maternal grandmother had died. She was 95 years old so it wasn’t totally unexpected, but it was still hard. She was a wonderful lady.

I know that when I was young, she allowed me and my then pregnant mother to live with her when she found it necessary to leave my father. We lived with her till mother married her second husband.

After we moved to another state, we would sometimes drive down to see her for a few days. I always enjoyed those times. She lived on a farm with her second husband, Carl. The food was always fresh (as far as I know) and there was a whole farm to explore.

But what made those visits really special was Grandma herself. The home cooked food she prepared and going into town with her for shopping. Not mention that back then her mother was still alive, so we always got to see her too.

My strongest memory of her involves mincemeat pie. If you’ve never heard of mincemeat pie, let me assure you that it is made with meat. Beef that’s been finely chopped to be exact. It also has raisins, apples, fruit juice, and spices.

I mentioned in passing that I’d like some mincemeat pie. The next day after dinner, Grandma brought a mincemeat pie to the table for dessert. I was thrilled. Then my youngest brother, Wayne, said, “I don’t like mincemeat pie.”

I said, “How you do you know? We’ve never tried it.”

Grandmother looked at me, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. “You’ve what?!”

I don’t remember what I said in return, but as I look back on this story, I think if I’d said, “You’ve never tried it . . .” I might have been safe. I enjoyed the pie, thankfully. I’ve had some since then, but none measure up to hers.

Also, I learned later that she’d stayed up half the night making it, which is why she was shocked at our reaction.

I feel blessed to have had her in my life for so long. Age wise, she outlived her own mother. I’m also thankful I got to be with her on her 95^th birthday. I had a feeling that trip would be the last time I would ever see her, but I hoped I was wrong.

I attended her funeral in Idaho, where she’d lived most if not all of her life and learned some interesting things about her. For instance, she was born prematurely and only weighed two (2) lbs. That kind of birth weight is a concern even today, so back then it was a literal miracle that she survived. She was a fighter from the beginning.

Even as she got older, she maintained her independence and fight till her body wouldn’t let her anymore. A former neighbor told us how after she quit driving, she would try to walk everywhere. In their little town, it’s possible to do that. One day, my grandmother started to go somewhere and she walked through the neighbor’s yard. The neighbor saw her going and offered her a ride. Grandma refused, saying she’d walk. A while later, the neighbor looked out to see Grandma sitting down. She went out and Grandma admitted that she needed the ride.

Another thing I learned about her was that if she liked you, you became family, regardless of blood. I’d kind of seen that in action with one of her caregivers when I visited her for her 95^th birthday, but I hadn’t realized just how many people she considered family till I met a couple of them on this trip.

There was a lovely couple, husband and wife, who’d bought Grandma’s duplex, then allowed her to live there rent free. While they were working on the other side of the duplex, as it needed some serious work done due to prior tenants, Grandma would come over and visit. They quickly became family.

There were other stories, but I don’t remember them all. I’m just grateful that she had such wonderful people around her during her last days on earth.

I think the hardest part of her death, for me, was the realization that she was literally my last living grandparent. I wouldn’t have wanted to die before her as she’d already suffered the loss of one grandchild, my brother, Wayne, but it’s still hard to know that never again will I call someone “Grandma” or “Grandpa.”

The Modern Women’s Liberation/Feminist Movement Part II

Continued from last week.

One of the worst for me was a man I dated and planned to marry after we’d gone through our church mandated pre – engagement counseling. IN essence, he’s the perfect example of why so many women are frustrated.

When we dated, he controlled a lot of our relationship. For instance, he didn’t like me to wear jeans, even though I find them to be comfortable and practical. If my hair was too short, he pouted at me. Worse than that though, was his refusal to listen to me when I expressed my needs or desires.

For example, if I needed a new purse he’d buy me one, but it had to fit his idea of what my purse should be. If I found one I liked, he’d insist I hand to it him for inspection. He was paying for it so I didn’t feel that I could or should argue. If it didn’t have enough pockets to be “organized,” he’d insist I put it back.

When we went engagement ring shopping, we saw a lovely ring with a round solitaire stone that had a gold leaf extending out one side to cover the wedding band. I tried to tell him that although it was a lovely ring, it didn’t fit my sense of style. He insisted that it was the perfect ring because when I married him, I’d be “turning over a new leaf” in my life. I think now that if we’d married, I’d have either tried to find a way to lose the ring or at least lose the leaf. The stone wasn’t what I wanted either.

There was also his habit of reaching over to tickle my butt in public. When I objected, he’d remind me that I laughed. Well, yes, I did. It’s a natural reaction to being tickled. That still didn’t mean I wanted him tickling my butt in public.

The worst part for me was that everyone around us thought he was so perfect for me. I couldn’t convince anyone otherwise.

We didn’t become sexually involved till after I moved into my own apartment for the first time. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the most considerate of lovers. I’m sure he didn’t know how, but I also didn’t feel like he’d listen to me if I tried to tell him how to please me. I got proof of that one night.

The mattress on our bed had a tendency to shift to one side during sex. I have no idea why. One night it shifted so far that I was seriously afraid we’d roll off the bed and into the dresser not more than two feet away. When I informed him our precarious position, his response was to tell me he was almost there and could I hang in there a little longer?

What the hell? I was seriously scared that if we rolled off the bed we’d have to go to the hospital, which would mean explaining to the church and my family what we’d been doing.

Then there was the time I was living back at my mother’s house after a live in job that hadn’t worked out. We were having sex in the bedroom I shared with another woman who wasn’t home at the time. My mother’s dogs started barking like crazy about something. I told him I thought we should get dressed and check on the dogs as I was worried they’d wake my mother’s husband who worked nights and slept days. He said they’d be fine. The next thing we knew my mother’s husband nearly walked in on us. Thankfully he had the presence of mind to get up and hold the door closed.

I could go on about his lack of listening to me in situations where it really mattered, but I won’t. He’s also not the only one to treat me that way.

My son’s father once complained because I was too tired to have sex with him. He said, “I always have energy for you.”

I looked at him and thought, “yeah, but you’re not in the later stages of pregnancy in the summer heat!”

The last guy I dated once made me feel guilty because I didn’t want to have sex with him one night. I’d had a rough day. I’d woken up with a headache, but had sex with him that morning in hopes that it would help me too. It didn’t. On top of that, I had to drive several miles to pick up my then young son, then drive several miles back to his apartment to be with him that night. Then when I didn’t want to have sex with him that night, he got out of bed and went over to his computer while I cried quietly.

He did apologize the next morning. He told me that he’d realized that I’d given what I had to give that morning.

So, it’s no wonder to me that women are still screaming about women’s rights. It’s no wonder to me that the signs have gotten so graphic. Women are angry. We feel like we’re not being listened to no matter how we speak.

I used to talk loudly to be heard or repeat myself a lot because I often knew I wasn’t being listened to. Over the last 15 years or so my voice has gotten quieter because I knew my roommate was truly listening to me.  Now I need to talk loudly again; possibly even scream. Only this time, it’s not just for me. It’s for all women who feel their voices aren’t heard by the very people who should be listening to them.

For too long we’ve been treated as if what we need, as if our comfort level is second to everyone else’s. The result is that too many of us can’t even do self-care beyond basic hygiene because we’re made to feel guilty if we try to do something purely for ourselves. It’s past time for that attitude to stop. It’s past time for women to feel free to take time to themselves while their men take on their normal jobs. Its past time for the attitude that “boys will be boys” is gone. Its past time for the idea that women who are raped or assaulted either brought it on themselves or that they’re crazy. Or worse yet, not believed because the man involved is a “good” man or holds power over someone.

We need to find our voices and keep talking till we get what we need. Till we’re no longer treated as if we’re a bitch for asking for what a man in the same position would be given. Till we’re treated as if what we need matters and that we’re not wrong for trying to take care of ourselves before we drop from exhaustion or lose our minds because we can no longer do everything that’s expected of us without a break.

I didn’t join in this year’s women’s march as I didn’t understand the fight we still face. Now that I do, I will consider joining in next year’s march. I may even make and wear a pink vagina hat.