I feel rage and apathy. I don’t give a fuck and yet I give all the fucks in the world. Why is it a struggle to be me? To be housed within my reality? I do not necessarily feel trapped by circumstance or existence, but to some extent I do feel confined and yes, sometimes imprisoned. Of course my prison cell would be a hard sell to the public or anyone looking to engage in oppression olympics. Its true, I live a respectable life, all things accounted for. A nice apartment, world class education, travel, excitement, adventure, beauty, brains, and love. So then where does this apathy and dissociation stem from? There is reason to believe (and evidence that would suggest) that there are many out there in the world suffering from a sense of ennui. The term ennui is defined as a feeling of dissatisfaction and listlessness arising from a lack of occupation and excitement, resulting in a lack of enthusiasm. Which is odd, because when I am out and about doing my thing, I have an abundance of enthusiasm, positive energy, and optimism. Yet when I am at home, I am filled with dread, anxiety, and depression.
“Well, Lindsey, why don’t you get a job?” Ummm, Hello… I have been looking for work for some time now and I can’t make fish bite the bait. I also have contributed greatly and admirably to a collective campaign that will elect the first Woman President of the United States. Didn’t you get the message? One doesn’t engage in revolutionary work to make millions. Thanks for playing.
“Why don’t you try harder, apply to more places?” I have high standards for myself and the course of action I’d like to direct my work in. I have two degrees in American Literature & Culture and Sociology. I deserve to have my contributions respected, celebrated, and compensated fairly.
Yes, perhaps I am being, oh I don’t know, too picky, overly confident, suffering from an inflated ego, or even lazy. I admit, I’m a procrastinator. I like deadlines. I enjoy friendly pressure. I excel under time constraints. Of course I work within the context of my own non-linear and progressive timeline, but I get shit done… If I care about the work. If I am invested in seeing the job through.
I don’t respond well to idle threats, nor to patronizing and degrading sermonizing on what’s my fault, or how I could do this or that better. Words that are condescending, disrespectful, hurtful, and altogether abusive, well, lets just say they go in one ear and out the other. I stem from a family lineage of abuse and mental illness. Its something that one has to deal with at some point or another, otherwise the vicious cycle of domestic and substance abuse continues. I fight it head on every day, and for many years off & on, I’ve had to forgo substantial healthcare. I’ve never been diagnosed with depression, mental illness, or bipolar disorders, but feel that those are certainly a part of my psyche. I’ve struggled with chronic illness practically my whole life, and yet no one would really think twice about what might be happening internally compared to what it appears to be a collected calm surface. Still waters run deep. Its what some have termed an empathy gap.
Yes, I am defensive. If you attack me, I am not one to turn my check so that I can then bend over to be fucked. Don’t like my language? Treat me with respect and there won’t be a problem. You know, its not often I wake up in a good mood. I’m tired. I feel shitty. And I have no desire for food. Sometimes I think I’d like a donut, but then I don’t have any in my home or otherwise because I am made to feel shame & shitty for indulging in those delightful little delicacies in life that make it all worth while. Sure maybe a donut isn’t going to solve all my problems, but hey isn’t that the point? To enjoy a little frosting on top of the cake to recommit oneself to the struggles of the day to day grind. Fuck eggs. They suck. And they’re just cruel little reminders that some of us don’t make it past the embryonic stage because we’re trapped within a factory farming system profiting off mass produced suffering so another can consume their bodies. Yeah, that shit is real. And boy chicks get thrown into the grinder. Good morning, welcome to reality, wake up and smell the exploitation.
(P.S. I didn’t eat your shitty scrambled eggs, or drink your cold nasty coffee. If you’re hungry you can scavenge them out from the trash with your attitude, and the time you proclaim to have been wasted.)
Its Friday, and I woke up to my Lover poking, prodding, and rubbing up on me for love. “Its been awhile” he complains while mounting me, and quickly relieving a pained scrotum of its back-stocked inventory. I don’t care, but then I do. As is the usual case, the exchange of intercourse is an invitation for him to become fussy, mean, irate, and irrational. Reads like an overgrown big baby with its umbilical cord still suckling from its parasitic mother. I mean, is that normal? I thought post-coitus was supposed to release good oxytocin into the brain and body, to give you a sense of euphoric happiness and complete content. Of course, thats IF you actually reach climax, experience an orgasm, and ejaculation. Word on the street is that 5 minutes does not amount to the Female orgasm. And one, two or three licky licks ain’t getting anyone, anywhere fast. Just FYI.
So I’m pissed. Some asshole that is so lovingly referred to as my Lover is within minutes after fucking me, yelling at me. This is bullshit. The table is messy, cluttered, has paper work on it, and it hasn’t changed. Boo-fucking-hoo. Tears are streaming down my face, because being shouted at, called names, and faulted for minor minuscule indiscretions, doesn’t feel good. This may come across as being totally exhibitionist with invitations for sympathy, but its not. My writing is to help me move on from the aches & pains of living with insecurities that stem from a life of self-doubt. Its not a pleasant experience when someone takes advantage of your sexuality to project and impose their own fantasies onto your body for the sake of their own, and only their pleasure. Its called any number of dehumanizing terms and words. Fill in the blank at your own discretion.
I call out the abusive behavior and how he has taken advantage of me, only then to have it turned around to say that its me thats taking advantage of him, and everyone knows it.
Really? Sure if you want to define it as such, and then dig up evidence to support that claim. Granted, they pay the full rent, and pull financial weight for the time because I have very little, if any, income. I hope to one day soon have a healthy steady income. I’m certainly worth it, and have worked hard in the meantime to do what is right. I volunteer, network, workshop, do all those things that professionals advise to land a professional position. I do what I can without selling out for something I don’t believe in. Am I making excuses for myself? These are just the facts. And you know what, I am not alone. Its is extraordinarily clear that there is a shortage of good jobs out there. I know, I’ve applied to a great deal of them and very few took. Yes, I have been taking the initiative to get my foot in the door with an organization I admire & respect, but nothing is every guaranteed in this world. Nothing. Not even tomorrow or the results of Election Day.
But here’s the truth. I care very little for what appearances look like, how things may seem, and what others think of me. If someone thinks I am a bad person taking advantage of my man, seriously, go fuck yourself. I endure his anal-retentive abuse, make love to him, and support him emotionally, physically, and sexually. Not you. Some would probably consider me a prostitute, concubine, or escort because of our shared lifestyle. The reality is we’ve been in a relationship for almost 15 years so if one person has to pick up the slack while the other is going through a “rough patch”, and struggling to find fulfilling work, then thats what it takes. Yeah, I’m expensive, and quite frankly I’m worth it. I know its hard to read the words of a Woman who openly professes her value, but thats the way it is. Especially with me.
I think I will move forward with my sexual political protest and abstain from the act of intercourse until this whole patriarchal system of war, dominance, and sexist abuse blows over. In homage & respect to the ancient Greek classic Lysistrata.
I could be a great deal of many things. Fill many occupations. Maid, nurse, child-care provider, and housewife, I am not. I mean yes, possible, but no, its just not going to happen. Not to discount those who have admirably committed themselves to such work. They make the world go round & the sun shine, and yet their hard work is still undervalued and underpaid throughout society. However I did not study or train to do such labor. I am a Writer. I have ambition. I get what I work for. When I invest in myself, roots of success are planted, and in time the fruits of my labor spring forth in abundance. I know this intrinsically, as if it were carved into the marrow of bone.
And I don’t give up. I am a Tiger, crouching patiently in the shadows, waiting for the opportunity to pounce, and devour my prey. And my bite is infinitely more powerful than my prophetic bark.