there is shooting on the tv. and the heroine comes in, guns blazing, sexy and witty with all the right answers i wish i had or and the david attenborough type walks me through it so i learn something about american history british history, sudanese, thai, australian, mexican, yemeni, nigerian, peruvian, guyanese, haitian, turkmen, irish, palestinian, take your pick, any of them work or and when the names of the dead scroll i know every single one is younger than me or and i see in the background a neighborhood i used to drive through when i still lived in my hometown or and a reporter says the emts got shot at, i wonder if i knew any of them ems is a tight-knit community or and i don't get the appeal of these violent video games, i just remember all the articles i've read about how constant exposure to violent media puts children at risk for normalizing or gd forbid, engaging in violence themselves or and the police saved the day, actors are much more competent and movies are much more generous or i could shut the damn screen off. nobody is shooting at me here i'm going to make myself some tea

i would never be a therapist because that's who i've been all my life. i wonder if i would ever let myself be a mother.

trying not to cry when she tells me i'd be a good mother,

trying not to resent her because i traded my childhood for hers.

my little sister says "you don't love me" "you don't care about me" "i'm unloved" even in a joking way and i'm having visceral war flashbacks to sacrificing my sleep so she would get some, taking over screaming matches with dad after she started them, defending her to my parents, following parenting accounts on instagram, bringing her food, talking her out of hunger strikes, talking her into therapy, talking her through panic attacks, rubbing her back, biting my tongue, babying her so she would never grow up as fast as i did, carrying her, kissing her forehead, calling her "my child" and only 20% is a joke

and it's almost funny. it would be funny if it didn't make me so sad it would make me sad if it didn't make me so angry it would make me angry if it didn't make me so tired

my hands are always uplifted. ready to hold, ready to grab, ready to guide. crossing the street, moving through a busy crowd, following up the stairs. i'm right here. i'll catch you.

i present my habit as almost absent-minded, instinctual. but i know that instinct doesn't make the intention go away, and all of the context and thoughts that it carries.

most of my friends don't take my hand's offering, and that's okay. my little sister sometimes doesn't, too. the point is to be there, not to be acknowledged. if one of my friends would offer their hand, i would latch onto it.

life is coming from you, not at you.

how can you love and depend on something so greatly and for so long, and when you need it, it leaves you in want and disgust?

ah, my dear girl. my fellow woman. my sister in arms. you are not crazy. you are not losing your mind. you are not two inches away from falling off the deep end.

you are valid. you have a reason to be mad, to be happy, to be overwhelmed, to be jealous. you deserve your tears, your laughter, your grief. you can rely on yourself. you can trust yourself.

you aren't going crazy simply because you have a uterus and a mind.

I would like to extend a screw you to every single white person who says to punch Nazis.

TW: Holocaust mention, Nazis, anti-Romanism, antisemitism

Because guess what?

You don't. You don't punch Nazis. You just virtue signal and try to rack up woke radical points.

Actually, you live with them! What do you do with your uncle who calls homeless people "dirty g*psies" or your mom who offhandedly calls Jewish people "k*kes"? Did you even know those are slurs?

You put up with them, is what you do. Or you complain to your white friends--or worse, your Jewish or Roma friends, who are left extremely uncomfortable and wanting to distance themselves from you.

Or you don't even see it. Did you know that getting "g*pped" is anti-Roma? How about that Jewish people are rich and run Hollywood? Did you know that your grandfather went to Proud Boy summer camp? Did you understand your co-organizer at the leftist rally wore Soviet memorabilia?

And you don't care about seeing it, either. You don't include Jewish or Roma people in your activism, in your thoughts and prayers, or in your policy and legislation.

You wouldn't punch a Nazi, either. You'd sit and have dinner with them, or you'd walk away and post on Twitter. Or you wouldn't notice they're a Nazi at all, even if they walk up to you wearing a 6MWE shirt or holding a Confederate flag.

You don't even know what a Nazi is. They weren't just the guards deciding "left" or "right". They were nurses and teachers. They were teenagers at youth group. They still are. Do you even know the names of the concentration camps? Do you know how many people were slaughtered?

And you don't care, either. You wouldn't say punch a Nazi until million and millions of us were dead. And are dead again.

The list can go on. Suffice to say, you're not punching Nazis. And I can tell you that saying it does nothing except make Jewish, Roma, and BIPOC folks thoroughly pissed off.

my mother and i are pawns. i would think that we should be two of the most important people in my father's life, and we are not. we are little playthings, his eldest and his wife. a mini-wife, a mini-mother; and his wife, my mother. our opinion is moot. our bodies are in the way. our mouths are for laughing at his jokes. our hands are for cleaning his messes. our feet are for walking behind him. our eyes are for watching him, but never when he is watching us. when he is watching us, our eyes go to the ground.

my father is not a terrible person. i am very well-off. very lucky. very privileged. he treats us like playthings. mats to roll up and put away or bring out when it suits him. i have never felt as objectified as i am around him. physically. verbally. emotionally. we are pawns, my mother and i.

eggs. 21 april.

i don't like cooking for my father. i do like cooking--food is a love language of mine. i got that from my mother. i like cooking for people, a lot. i'm jewish, i know death and i know food. i'll always cook or bake for my friends or family. but when i cook for my father, i feel like my mother. "how many eggs do you want?" "three," he tells me. i make the best scrambled eggs in my family. i'm proud of it. my dad asked me if i would make scrambled eggs for him. i didn't want scrambled eggs. so i made three for him. i scraped the bottom of the pan with the spatula. as i'm turning the yellow around carefully to keep it fluffy, my dad sits at the dining room table on his computer. i feel like my mother. "how many eggs is that?" "three," i tell him. "you didn't want any?" no, i didn't want any. he would know if he had asked.i make scrambled eggs for my father. i cover the pan so it stays hot. "you didn't use oil?" i thought he would like that i didn't use oil. no, i don't use oil when i scramble eggs, because it's okay if they stick to the pan a little. it's easy enough to get off with a sponge. no salt or pepper either. i thought he would like that, too. "i'm having pasta." eggs have protein. (so does cheese in the pasta.) he tells me, "always protein over carbs." but i didn't use oil. he eats the scrambled eggs out of the pan, pouring hot sauce right on it. he cleans the pan. i clean his dishes, and the mess that he made where he ate. i don't like cooking for my father.

yes, i am a man-hater.

i have never known anything else. i do not know how to exist in this world as a girl in any other way. it is being afraid of men, you understand, that turned into hate. it is tiring to be a girl. it is tiring to be afraid all of the time. to be hateful is to be protective of myself. the hate doesn't replace the fear, they are both still here. one is an outer shell that protects me. the other protects me too. so yes, i am a man hater. i hate men. but feminism did not make me hate men. men did.

you know that feeling when you’re watching a show or movie and there’s a scene where the found family is just having the best time celebrating something and it slow motion pans out while music plays in the backround and you’re just filled with this feeling of immense joy but also deep desire for that kind of happiness and friendship?

no, just me? okay.

14 april. 2022. fury.

fury. fury. i'm drowning in it all the time. my girlhood--i was told, i was told my girlhood would be filled with giggles and pillow fights and first kisses and braces and elective classes and locker combinations. i was told--i don't remember who told me, maybe it was the movies or the books, it probably was--maybe it was my relatives, or my older friends, or--it was all of it, i guess. and it's wrong. it's wrong, and that just makes me madder. i'm young. i'm a girl. i don't know how to drive. i can't vote. i still, with misogyny and rape culture ingrained into the very air that i breathe, i still don't know if my first assault counts. the first time i was sexually assaulted was only two grades later. my girlhood is supposed to be naive, for crying out loud. i am supposed to be--i thought i was supposed to be doing bad lip syncing. but one of my great mothers was married when she was my age. another was raped. another had a child. another died. another was raped. another was killed. another was raped. another was beaten. another was raped. girlhood has never been about sneaking out late at night and learning what love is and learning how your body works--how your body feels. it has always been about fury. fury for yourself. for your younger self. for your great mothers. for your mother. for your sisters. fury, fury, fury, fury, furious about this girlhood that i was never going to get in the first place. who told me about this girlhood? who lied to me? i feel stolen from, i feel robbed of something that was never mine in the first place.

Why would they fight when they are so deeply in love?

a pinterest comment voted most helpful on a post about archeology and  necromancy in a magic school

This changed my entire perspective and now I’m in tears. Thank you so much.

“but is it still abuse if the abuser doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it?”

YES IT IS. Abuse is defined by the pain and trauma victims go thru, your suffering and fear don’t go down one bit because “abuser may not be aware of what they’re doing”, actually, it goes up! Being tortured by someone who doesn’t care enough to even freaking realize they’re damaging you is much more dehumanizing and emotionally taxing than at least knowing the abuser’s intention clearly and that they’re achieving exactly what they want to achieve. Being lost about abuser’s intentions adds on to the trauma!

It doesn’t matter if they meant to do it or not (in most cases they absolutely meant it or didn’t actually give a shit if they’re hurting you or not as long as they get what they want). Staying safe from this person is important. Stopping the abuse and preventing any future abuse is important. Healing is important. Label the abuser with whatever you need that helps you to heal. Forget abuser’s side of the story and focus on yours. What they agree or disagree, what they’re aware or aren’t aware isn’t nearly as important as stopping that person from harming you, and preventing them from hurting you ever again.