“Short Skirts, Scrapes & Secretive Scars,” was my first post on this blog. I originally wrote it on LinkedIn, two years ago, after Brock Turner’s light slap on the hand for being convicted on three counts of felony sexual assault.
Now, two years later, how far have we come? As a society, we are shaming and blaming the victims of sexual assault.
I am sitting here fully aware of my own contribution to rape culture. When I was younger, I thought I’d asked for it by the clothes I wore, my outgoing, flirtatious personality, the fact that I was a dancer, etc.
I undervalued myself. I under valued you, but didn’t even know I was doing it. I know it now and now is what matters.
Enough victim blaming and shaming. Enough. #MeToo
Continue reading “My own contribution to rape culture”
And once she learned to kick and scream, the monsters quieted down.
When she knew she was safe to stop kicking and screaming, the monsters left
She was left with some permanent scars that she saw as rich and beautiful, because they were perfect to her and not because they had to be, but because they just were.
The little girl healed and the woman flourished.
The little girl and the woman agreed to coexist as the caretakers of each other and providers of the ointment that would protect and honor her scars
Continue reading “Little Girl Found, Kicking & Screaming”
This is hard for me to write but less hard for me to make right.
I have recently gotten hooked on long bicycle rides. 20 miles may not be much for a cyclist who wears super cute Lycra clothes that say things like, “Shimano.” For me, 20 miles is as far as my Day-Glo white legs wish to take me. Like many cyclists, I work up a pretty good shvitz. Continue reading “The Jew Who Wasn’t a Jew Until She Was”
I almost hate to put the anniversary of 9/11/01 beside National Recovery Month, but everything seems to connect somehow to that fateful day, getting real and honest about the impact of it, and getting real and honest about how we cope or can’t cope is what connects us to recovery.
Today, in the year 2001, everything changed. I can only speak for me, but as inherently fearful and geared toward sadness as I was before 9/11, the volume of my fear and sadness resounded at a higher decibel and with more frequency.
It still does, but I work very hard to locate a peaceful and serene volume and that happens almost solely by working with and helping others.
I am currently in my 19th year of sobriety, but up until this year, I had absolutely no idea there was a, National Recovery Month. Continue reading “This Day and National Recovery Month.”
DISCLAIMER: If you are my Dad, or maybe even my Mom, or someone who doesn’t want to read something you will likely consider risqué, STOP READING! It is not my intention to shock, alienate or embarrass anyone. My intention is to put it out there to all readers or anyone who will listen, that being a woman with an intense and thriving sex drive and especially post-trauma, is not only extremely healthy, but is to be embraced and celebrated. For some of us, we go through incomprehensible shit storms that we may believe cause damage (NOT PERMANENT) and battle scars. (BATTLE SCARS ARE PRETTY HOT.) For someone who finds inner peace and especially inner and outer sexual peace, well… who needs to be quiet about that? Not me.
Please… let’s stop feeling victimized and ashamed, period.
If you think you wish to read on, first, take this subliminal test:
Continue reading “The Har-moan-ious Melodies Created from Dissonance”
I was young, ambitious and was sure it was all my fault.
In the early 90’s, I was an overbooked public speaker, spokesperson, trainer, speech writer and producer for a slew of Fortune 500 companies. Looking back on that vibrant and successful career, I often shake my head that I didn’t have full appreciation for how much I got paid to see the most beautiful places in the world.
Instead, I felt sort of lost, feeling like I wasn’t doing anything that really mattered in this world.
In those days, I wore a lot of skirts. Some of the skirts were short. Sometimes, the skirts were short and made of leather. Once, I worked for a well known Japanese firm, and was provided with a fire engine red bustier, a tiny lace skirt and 4″ stiletto heels. Continue reading “Short Skirts, Scrapes, & Secretive Scars”