Believe me

My inclination is to trust, at face-value, any accusation of sexual assault. I'm not a statistician, but feel it's safe to assume only a minute percentage of sexual assault accusations are unfounded. People are not largely motivated to lie about this shit. For fuck's sake, who, in their right-mind, would fabricate a false sexual assault claim?

Answer: almost no one

Witness the vast masses of people who've locked assaults in a remote vault of their consciousness, some of whom will only stumble upon these secrets late in life.

When I graduated from college at 51 with my second 2-year degree, the world appeared rolled out in front of me, red-carpeted, ready for this perfectly-seasoned new Occupational Therapy Assistant to cruise forward. I'd been a high-honor student and received job offers from both my level 2 fieldwork sites the first year after graduating. I was poised for success.

Not long into my nascent professional life a quiet but perfect storm blew-up. I was working at a job I loved - really loved - when 3 fronts collided:

• my hormones went ka-flooey, launching a 4-year walkabout on shifting foreign estrogen-and-sleep deprived soil
• I had what I thought was an affair, which turned out to be a sexual predation experience that ripped open the hidden vault of sexual assaults I'd encrypted and archived under the label: my fault
• my son was hit by a car

It was a super slo-mo descent to being unemployed, as I slowly gave up on myself in various capacities. The dark suicidal days on the way down to the bottom were punctuated by functional stretches of hope. And when I reached bottom I chose to stay there and have a good look around - see what all the fuss was about.

Turns out there's a lot of shit down there - untriggered mines with the potential to blow a person's mind to itty bits. So slowly, mindfully, I've taken inventory of all those experiences (at least those I’m able to remember). All-the-while I relentlessly pursued evidence of my right-to-live. I engaged professional help and have had the good fortune to befriend a tribe of staunch supporters.

The steep climb back out is daunting, but at least now there is no hurry. I know what's back there. There's no Temple of Doom giant rock barreling down on me. I dug it up - beat the shit out of it - turned that soil - planted new seeds. I can proceed with intention and focus now, knowing I finally have my own back, along with the loving support of those who know me and love me anyway.

[pictured: my 1st morning attempt at knitting. I euthanized it.]

The End of Misogyny

This is what I'm working to overcome:

I'm highly sensitive to the fact that what I've experienced is not the worst of the worst. I hung back for a long time in silence because I didn't feel entitled to share my experiences - they weren't extremely violent - what did I have to complain about?

This silencing, this perceived safety, kept me from escaping the web of shame. I've felt responsible for the sexual predation encountered throughout my life.

I've been thinking about sexual predation a lot lately. We hear a lot about the overt predators who move fast and make no effort to conceal their intent: the Harvey Weinsteins, the guy who opens the door in a towel ready for a quickie.

The predators I hear about less often are the covert ones, the groomers. They're patient. They dangle grapes above your lips and drizzled honey coats their words. These predators persistently pursue their quarry in hopes of taking you down in a consensual manner, with overtures of love, passion and promises of a future together. It might look like an affair - ala Bill Clinton, but, make no mistake, their goal is not a long-term relationship. This predator will ride you like a cheap pony until they, for whatever reason, can no longer ride you.

It's embarrassing to think back on all the occasions I was preyed upon this way. I was naive. I wanted a real relationship. Instead I got played.

Which leads me to how these predators are usually referred to: as players. So please, let's flip this narrative. They are not players they are sexual predators.

The question begged then is: where is the line drawn? When is prosecution the solution? How do we move forward?

I don't know, but, what I do know is that women need to be taught to wholly love and respect themselves and our culture must uphold this as the standard. BOTTOM LINE: the eon of misogyny has to end.

The future of our planet depends on it. We rape and pillage Mother Earth because of the pervasive mindset that her resources are there for the taking. Awareness is rising, but the race is on. Can we heal her in time to save our species? Or, have we already ravaged her to the point of no return? Only future generations will know. She will go on, but will we?

These are the things I think about while I knit. I finished another washcloth while I mulled over the end of misogyny. Here is the End of Misogyny washcloth:

The fuck-ups are evident, but that's all part of the mission here. Fuck up, reconcile with the fuck-ups and move forward. The key is in leaving the fuck-ups behind. Dragging that shit forward is the pattern I'm releasing. Yay for me.

More shitty knitting, less bad news in my ears

I listen to NPR's Morning Edition each morning while I knit. I'm an early riser, and I like to knit in front of my happy light while I listen to the radio and sip my tea between rows.

This morning I woke to the news that Charlie Rose stands accused by at least 8 women of sexual misconduct. I hope what people are getting is that for every famous person accused, there are a bazillion un-famous people who have committed these same crimes. Yes, you heard me right, crimes.

Fucking insanity - literally.

As I process the bullshit I've endured as a woman in this world, and the more stories I hear from women who are doing the same, I frequently find myself needing to take a step back.

Today, I had to turn the radio off. Knit in silence. Breathe. Un-clench.

Here's the latest completed project alongside my new one. I'm using a new stitch called Moss Stitch. It's a variation of Seed Stitch. I think it's swell.

It's not always zen

...sometimes it's a fuckity fucking cluster fuck.

This sunny Sunday morning, while sitting in front of my 'happy light' knitting, I started a row and the first stitch felt wrong. I did not stop, but plowed forward: k1, p1, k1, p1...

At the end of the next row I found a gigantic loop of a stitch and remembered that tug I felt; the one I ignored.

FUCK!

Grumbling, wimpering, I un-knitted 2 rows. It was hard, but I persisted. That's what grown-ups do. When an adult fucks up (it happens), they admit it. When they realize what's fucked up, they do what they can to mitigate the damage.

The crumb of insight I gleaned was acknowledging I ignored what I felt. There was a nudge in the mistake I made, which, if I'd inquired, would have saved time, energy and preserved self-esteem.

Don't ignore nudges. Whether it's a physical cue, intuitive, emotional, whatever - I need to pause and inquire. I am entitled to ask questions. I don't have to accept every shitty situation that comes along and let it steamroll my intent. I can stop and face whatever-it-is and say, "Hey. What up?"

Meeting myself where I am, taking stock of the factors in play, being present to what is, choosing a path forward: all these adulting things I lost are coming back to me. Un-knitting my mistakes, painful as it may be, is what I aim to do.

Trust in myself gains a foothold and I look up for my next opportunity.

Me, reconfigured

I'm on a path less traveled and it's scary.

Lest anyone think I'm lounging around, enjoying freedom from punching-the-clock, let me lay it out for you:

I am navigating a dark night of the soul. I have gone through these before, but this time I simply lived to the edge of the limits I could bear. I couldn't take another step without a time-out to sift through the detritus of my wreckage, to cull the insights gained and archive the accumulated bullshit.

I hit a concrete wall, the likes of which I've encountered a couple of times in life, but those events were preceded by obvious triggers that would foreshadow a life-changing experience.

This time there was nothing but a slow starvation of estrogen that hijacked my mind, carved a canyon of insomnia 4 years-long through my sleep schedule, while my body morphed into a foreign entity. Also, there was that 8-week episode of possession by 12 year-old me that flagged a deeply buried injury in need of healing.

Wait. This is not a condition I could point to and say life-changing?  See how the patriarchal poison slips into my perceptions? My weak-feminine cultural conditioning is revealed as my nascent fierce-feminine, smart and scrappy, fights back against a lifetime of toxic masculinity. This is what systemic abuse against my womanhood has wrought, that I couldn't see menopause as a legitimate reason for my breakdown.  I remember I'm a witch now, still learning to see things differently.

I'm at the threshold of a freshly-infused woman-positive gestalt, and I'm thankful for my knitting and writing. Both serve to remind me what my personal truths and visions are. Time spent wrestling with words and yarn offers insight that might not otherwise arise. The pace of a handicraft is an inviting doorway to mindful presence. I tune in to my body and breath as I sink in to the rhythm of stitches.

I believe women are the metronomes of humankind. If we shift the rhythm of our beings, the world may eventually fall into step with us.

New yarn

There's this definition of yarn: 1. spun thread used for knitting, weaving, or sewing.

And there is this definition of yarn: 2. informal a long or rambling story, especially one that is implausible.

The metaphor is everything.

My story, my long, rambling, implausible story, is playing out here through the yarn.

So, with another shitty washcloth knitted, today I will choose a new yarn; step in to a new space.

This is how change begins.

Sexual abuse is pervasive

The fact that I felt the need to apologize about posting too much about sexual abuse is evidence I've got more work to do.

I'm watching a Netflix original film titled The Keepers (thanks, Nina). It's a true story, told in 7 gripping episodes, of women who are investigating the murder of one of their favorite teachers in 1969, a Nun at their Catholic school in Baltimore. What unfolds is a heart-wrenching story of their quest for truth that exposed the systematic abuse by the school chaplain and other men, of students during the late 60s and early 70s. The brave souls who stepped forward shared corroborating experiences then suffered re-abuse as their stories were doubted and dismissed by the diocese, the police and the state attorney in charge of sexual crimes. 

Systematic. That's a key word.

Sexual abusers work systems, manipulate as a means to protect themselves and use blame and threats against their victims. The system can be a country, a business, a government, a municipality, a fraternity, a religion, a family. Vulnerable people have been abused throughout time and across organizations of people, be they vast in population or nuclear. Sexual abusers are everywhere.

I want to be done blaming myself. I have lived small and quiet. I'm not sure what's next, but there will be knitting involved.

[pictured: the washcloth I finished this morning]

Breaching my boundaries

I was listening to NPR yesterday evening, as I often do, and they were reporting on the allegations that Louis CK repeatedly exposed himself to women, masturbated in front of them or while on the phone, etc. Disturbing for many reasons, one of them being I LIKE HIS COMEDY!
WTF, dude.

While cleaning up after dinner I reflected on an experience I had, years ago when I was a single parent. A guy I knew peripherally asked if I would sleep with him for $1500.

I declined. 

He persisted. 

The conversation went on too long, and the last offer I received was that I watch him masturbate for $1500.
Ugh.
No.

A lightbulb went on last night when I remembered that  that guy was good friends with none-other-than the older boy (young man? He had to be 4 years older than me) who molested 12 year-old me. WTF? I'm not assuming they talked about me, but I can't rule that out either. It is a weird coincidence, though.

So this morning while knitting I reflected on what happens when you're young and someone manipulates you into doing something you really don't want to. My boundary was breached - the sovereignty of my body, breached. I blamed myself for it. I guess I still do. Why did I let that spider spin a web around me? I can't answer that. But, I do know that it got easier to breach my boundaries after that. In fact, what boundaries existed?

I am here, now. I am thinking that as a broke single parent I turned down $1500 to watch a slimy guy jerk off.

Good for me. Tiny crumb of insight, see?

There was a boundary that wasn't crossed.

[sunset on the channel]

Getting better

In many ways. I have to be thankful that I'm able to dive down to the bottom and crawl back out. I spend days in the fog of my own war, but emerge, eventually. Progress has been spotty. Still, I need to fete the gains and integrate those tiny crumbs of insight, rather than indulge the impatience that laps at my mind. Life is a beautiful mystery and revelations are rare. I need to embrace the mystery. I want to worship the mystery and forgive myself for seeking explanation at every turn.

[pictured here: calendar, journal, book - 

You are a Badass: How to Stop Doubting Your Greatness and Start Living an Awesome Life,

 and my shitty knitting]

Knitting is meditative. It relaxes my mind. I'm thankful for my beautiful shitty knitting.

This summarizes yesterday:

I need to read The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel Van der Kolk, M.D.  I bought it, started reading it and stalled. The body work I need to access is closely guarded by a falsehood of my own creation.

When in doubt, knit

It is widely understood that when a young person is traumatized, their development is likely to be disrupted. Thus, when a trauma is revealed, therapy is often recommended in assisting with finding and bridging these developmental gaps.

Through my training in occupational therapy I grew to understand the therapeutic value of 'activities.' Much of my work in the field has involved helping people engage in activities that add value and meaning to life. Facilitating those experiences brought me great joy. The variety of activities I was able to develop stimulated me professionally and provided ample opportunity to be creative and resourceful. I've been out of that work for a while now and I've had time to reflect on something.

While I rejoiced in creating fun activities for others, I almost never created those opportunities for myself. But now I'm charting a new course. Knitting is my new therapy. It's a gift I'm giving to myself - long overdue.

Over and over I meet the twelve year-old girl in me. She shows up in the irritation and impatience I feel when I make a mistake. Adult me models calm, steady problem-solving for my wounded inner child. It is extraordinary to witness. The parts of me that were certain forgiveness was a forbidden realm are softening. I can almost feel her leaning, sometimes, against my chest. She trusts me.

Through knitting I am rebuilding trust in myself. I get to reconfigure my responses to the world around me. I never asked questions. I accepted what I was given - took what life served - ever in reaction mode. I get to change that.

Today when I was trying to decide what to do next, I chose to knit. It helped.
Here is the result:

The Pride of Completion

When I encountered obstacles I had to pause and figure it out before moving forward.  It is satisfying to cast-off and knot a project.

 This is the most complete and actually decent thing I've ever knitted. Perhaps I will grow up after all.

Some stitchin' and some Witchin'

I've been listening to more radio lately - because I can. I love me a good podcast, too. My ol' friend Janet (I met her when Duncan was in kindergarten) shared yesterday's broadcast of On Point with me, one of my fave shows. The theme was Embracing the Word Witch. Excellent discussion and now I'm basically coming out as a witch. Witch life has been calling me for decades, and I've locked my doors and shuttered my windows at the idea for too long. Why? Fear of the patriarchy, judgement, ostracizing. Well, fuck all that bullshit.

The specter of the patriarchy has hung heavily over me since puberty. As with so many women, the sovereignty of my body was breached at a young age. The denigration of my womanhood has unspooled ever since. Predators abound. Where am I safe?

With women.

I know there are men who are phenomenal, supportive, allies. I married one.

But, it is in the company of women that my womb, my heart, my gypsy spirit and my lucious body are all safe and sovereign. My sisters who share a deep connection with earth wisdom and magic are the keepers of the divine feminine flame. I'm throwing my lot in with them. In this insane clown posse of a patriarchy, I choose them.

So call me a witch, please. I would like that.

I submit a photo of today's Seed Stitch progress. Accolades are appreciated: