Author: RaeAnna

RaeAnna is a wandering bibliophile, dog mama, foodie, advocate, fashionista, linguist, and more. If she's not pantsless at home with her dog, she's out with friends, trying new foods, or on the road adventuring.
In My Own Words, Lifestyle

The Vice Grip In My Chest

RaeAnna

I don’t exactly know what I’m trying to write, what the point of this is, if there’s a point at all, where this will even start, or end. 

I love old and forgotten things. Broken. Worn. I see myself in them. 

All I know is that it feels like my lungs and heart are slowly being compressed in a vice grip I can’t shake. I can’t stop crying. But I can’t seem to start breathing. Every time I almost get a breath in my lungs, the vice grip clamps down even harder. My body feels like it’s slowly dying, and I actually know what that feels like. Though, I know this time it’s just emotional pain corporally manifesting rather than internal organ failure. I’ll take one over the other, and it’s not the one I’m struggling with right now.

My pain is so interwoven with one another. Start pulling on one string of pain, and all the rest start to twinge. Trauma. Survivor. PTSD. Love. Anxiety. Failure. Depression. Abandonment. Worth. I can handle them all. I’ve done it over and over and over again for so many reasons. I fight those demons daily, and I’m still here. I’ll be okay, but I’m crumbling right now.  

I can’t sleep. And food, just, yeah. I’ve been exercising like my life depends on it. In a way maybe it does. The mind needs sleep more than the body, but both have learned how to survive on all but none. I run and do yoga every day. I never stop moving, trying to find something to take my mind off of this pain. Pushing myself past boundaries I hadn’t known existed so the physical pain can, at least, match the emotional. 

I couldn’t sleep last night. So I took to the woods at 3:00 am with my dog to run until my legs couldn’t go on. Truly. I ran until my legs couldn’t, so I sat down and cried. I focused on my heart beat. Feeling my heart condition being pushed to its most extreme limits so my heart would feel like it could explode at any moment because the physical pain made the fact my heart is imploding on itself over and over again a little less poignant. I crawled back in bed and never found sleep. So I laid on the bathroom floor and sobbed until the sun came up. 

I left my room and chose to use my rare free time to chase happiness, doing things that bring me joy. REI, the zoo, a carousel ride, walking Hermann Park, a train ride, dinosaurs at the Science Museum, art at the MFA, more walking, writing at one of my favorite coffee shops. I’ve managed to make my feet cover 26 miles in the last sixteen hours. Yet I’m not tired. I’m not happy. Nothing I do allows me to breathe or dry my tears. 

I’ve been told my entire life I’m horrible at being vulnerable. Vulnerability has always been dangerous. Surviving doesn’t allow any room for weakness, mistakes, failure. I can. With a chosen few… The few who chose themselves to put in the work, to push. To not take ‘no’ for an answer.

It’s the common complaint from friends and partners. They don’t know me because I don’t show them the parts I’m scared of. I’m scared because I can’t change them. I have no control over them. I’ve been met with callous cruelty far more than loving empathy. I make jokes to distract from the agony of so many things. If I make them laugh, they won’t see the silent desperation in my eyes or the tremble in my voice or the way my body language gives nothing away. I have no problem putting down these feelings here, sharing it with the world. Ask me to crumble in front of my people, I can’t. 

I can, but they have to push. They have to demand, leave me with no other option. They have to keep showing up and saying they want the broken parts. They have to see the shine in my eyes and the stoicism take over. An absence of feeling usually means only one thing: They’re on to something. I’m not okay. I’m falling apart. Quickly. I will leave and disintegrate if they don’t just ask the one question: “Why?” Then make me answer it, no matter what. Don’t try to dry my eyes or let me make jokes. Don’t even try to hold me or make it better because they can’t. Not until it’s come out. Then simply exist with me as I lose it. 

The moment I know something is off, wrong, different, emotional, I steal myself. Compartmentalizing every single feeling except kindness and empathy far away from the surface so I can be there for them without needing a single thing in return. I’m a great friend, but I’ve had a hard time letting others be friends to me. So they’re left wondering if I ever felt anything at all. 

I’ve been told I have no feelings; computer programs have more emotions than I do; psychopathic tendencies; cruelly unfeeling. Surviving meant keeping emotions at bay until there was an appropriately solitary moment to deal with them, the shower, before holding my chin up to keep on keeping on. The truth is, I feel everything. All the time. So deeply. So viscerally. I take everything personally. Over-analyzing every conversation and interaction to find out what I did wrong, what I could have done better, how I could have been better. I just don’t show it. 

Someone spent eleven years loving me without knowing I’m sensitive. 

I compartmentalize to survive. I hurt people with my compartmentalization, which only makes me hurt more. 

The fact is, my inability to be vulnerable means I have so few people in my life. I know this to be true. I’ve known it for a long time. But people keep leaving without ever trying to push past a single boundary I’ve erected purely for self-preservation. I can give help without ever asking for what I need. 

So I’m thirty and broken. 

I’m going through it. 

I know I’ll get used to this new vice grip in my chest, and I’ll breathe again. I don’t know when. I know because I have a few I’m already used to, but this one feels different. Bigger. More real. 

In My Own Words, Lifestyle

Miscarriage: It’s Funny How Life Works Out

RaeAnna

It’s funny how life works out. I’ve spent the better part of thirty years telling people I don’t want kids. Those closest to me knew I wasn’t being honest with myself. If I’m telling truths, I knew I was lying to myself the entire time. I finally found the missing puzzle piece. I’m full gay, and the idea of having a baby or two with a woman doesn’t make me nauseous or feel like the world is collapsing in on me. On the contrary, I really would like that someday with the right partner. Wow, no nausea.  

My life would not be what it is if I had become a mother, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get sad sometimes.

Today is the seventh anniversary of what should have been my due date had my body decided to keep my baby instead of yeeting my baby. (I’m really proud I know that slang term, and yes, I giggle every time I read that, so you can too.) I’ve written about the grief and the opposing feelings of grief and relief going along with my miscarriage. There’s a new feeling starting to creep into my soul on the topic. Anxiety. Which I’m probably going to talk about at some point, but that’s not really where I want this piece to go. Nothing but time to let those feelings marinate.

Life is funny. In a deeply dark and very rude way.

Shockingly, my baby was not an immaculate conception. Though, I was on birth control at the time. I got pregnant with a man, Rob*, who I was very much in love with at the time and still love to this day. That being said, he was an absolute ass hat when he put me up the duff. He would be happy to tell you exactly the same but probably less nicely.** He and I had met four summers before while I was vacationing in San Diego. We kept stayed in contact via Facebook and text. I visited a few times. We went in and out of touch. The games life plays. After I graduated college and he’d gotten out of the military, we both ended up in the teensiest bumfucknowhere town an hour south of Chicago. Long story short, we got drunk separately and ended up at one of two bars in town on Fourth of July 2014. Longer story short, he dropped me off at my home the next morning, and I basically never saw him again. What a dick! 

Three months later, oopsies, I was in the family way. And very much alone. Past the point of being able to take care of my problem. I was a mom. Motherhood was not in my plan. Especially not in my 23 years old, just graduated from college, had a big-girl job in the city, finally ready to live my life, single plans. What the fuck, birth control? Call me Myrtle. I was fertile. But, I embraced this new life plan. Fully. I was on board with what was on board me because the baby was conceived out of love and being grown with love. I started dreaming and planning and preparing. Then I miscarried. Grief. So much grief. I drowned in grief for months. There’s still grief. Also relief because again… 23, new college grad, corporate job, single. Did I mention I was 23? I was relieved. Sad but relieved. I also went through it alone. At the time, there was no possibility in my mind of including or even telling Rob. 

Here’s where life gets funny. A few months ago, Rob reached out with an apology letter. A real, hand-written, sent in the mail letter. I was bowled over. The thing about our story is that we were very much in love without having ever been together. He may know me better than just about anyone. Still to this day. He knows my heart in a way very few people do. We fell in love at a distance, but we were only ever best friends. If life were a Hallmark movie, this would be our moment to create the family we almost had seven years ago. But I’m gay! And he holds far too much guilt over what he did to me. 

Suffice to say, his letter rekindled the friendship we once had. Instead of me in Iowa and him in San Diego talking constantly, I’m in Texas, and he’s in Illinois. We talk frequently, almost daily. It’s going to take some time for us to go back to what we once were. What was so amazing about the aftermath of the letter is the conversation we were finally able to have about my baby. Our baby. Which is a really fucking weird thing to say after almost eight years of referring to the baby that never was as mine. That baby can now belong to us both. We can share that grief in a way we couldn’t eight years ago because he did find out about my miscarriage in a really fucked up way. This story is long and great fodder for the writer in me. So buy the book at your local bookstore… someday. 

I just had to stop and message him to tell him I’m writing this because holy shit after nine years (our timeline is weird), I am finally able to text him freely again. I have one of my closest friends back. That was the thing. Tied up in all the grief over losing my… our baby, I was also grieving over the loss of my best friend and a man I loved deeply. Losing him was physically painful. I wrote so many letters. I kept copies, and to this day, I can’t read them because of the pain I can still feel in my chest. My baby was ripped from my body, but I felt like my heart was too. I lost two people. I grieved over someone I would never get to know, and someone I knew all too well. 

Knowing someone as deeply as we knew each other, I knew exactly why Rob left me. I knew exactly what he was thinking. I knew in my core that one day he would reach out. I knew that even though he treated me like shit, his heart, as misguided as it was, was doing it for what he thought to be all the right reasons. The years faded the pain of both losses. I stopped glancing around corners in the grocery store. I stopped listening for his name when I saw mutual friends. I stopped pretending to be happy when I passed him at the gas station. When I moved across the country, I left the last connection we had. I stopped hoping he would reach out, which turned into a faint possibility that had no actual impact on my life. When I talked about him, it was always with warmth and love because I could never let the bad ending (we’ll call it a hiatus now) tarnish the great years we had together and every wonderful thing he did for me. Rob, the best friend, was always separated from Rob, the baby daddy, in my mind. 

Then he did reach out. Exactly one month after the seventh anniversary of my miscarriage. And my best friend walked back into my life. 

Miscarrying was one of the most emotionally taxing things I’ve been through. It has long and lasting repercussions; some of which I’m just starting to grasp. As I look to my potential future as a mother, I know my relationship with miscarriage is not over. I know I am going to have to confront my feelings and anxieties if and when I get pregnant. I know when I do get pregnant, it’s going to be a choice with a partner who I will love beyond measure and trust to hold my hand through every step of the way. I never faulted him for leaving me because he didn’t know how that night would end, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt for years. 

But today will always be the day I honor the baby I’ve never held. For the first time, I’m getting to share today with the man who helped me make that baby. In a way, today is easier because I have him back. I know how hard it was for him to send me the letter in November… I have always known his heart. He put words to his vulnerabilities, and I took a chance. I am grateful for the baby I wanted to raise. I’m grateful for the man who gave me those thirteen weeks. I am grateful that I get to call him a friend again.

*He specifically asked to be named, so Rob is his real name.
**He was the very first to read this before it went public.

bisous un обьятий,
RaeAnna

11..., Lifestyle

11… Moments Leading to Embracing the Fact I Have Sexuality

RaeAnna

It’s Women’s History Month, and I am an absolute history nerd. I’m also a woman. So yay for this month. I had a voracious craving for history as a kid. As an adult, I realize I was searching for women. Women who bucked tradition, lived exceptional lives, did the unexpected. Women who did not sit down and look pretty. History, more often than not, has been documented by men, who were more concerned with their own stories than those of their mothers, sisters, wives, mistresses, and daughters. Though the stories I sought out were harder to find and less documented, they did exist. As I pulled on the thread, I found more and more extraordinary women. 

I am very anxious putting these pictures out into the world…

As a student of history since I was seven years old, I have been acutely aware of the problems women have faced throughout documented history, and I have seen those same problems play out in far too similar ways in my own life, my friends’ lives, and in the media. For as far as we’ve come… How far have we really come?  

By the time I turned into a teenager, I was in love with the resilience, audacity, innovation, and endurance of women throughout time. I still am. I also saw the glaring pattern. Women were noted in history, novel, song, and poem for two reasons: they were born to the right family; married well; and gave birth to someone [usually a boy] important OR they were someone’s mistress and or a prostitute. There are exceptions, but by and large, the pattern is clear. At the heart of this… S.E.X. Let me be clear, sex for men. Not with. For. Sex for men’s desire, power, wealth, name, lineage, so on and so forth. Wife or whore, women were notable for one reason and one reason only: their sexual/fertile availableness to men. Even the women who were not attached to men, so much focus is placed on their fuckability or their “virginity”—looking at Elizabeth I—or their sexuality was questioned—fair, lesbians have existed for a lot longer than TikTok; it’s just upped our visibility. This is a long-winded way of saying: By the time I was a teenager, it was blatantly obvious how powerful women’s sexuality is. For the good and the bad. Every single woman noted in history books (up until a very recent point but even they probably have had to do some of this) has had to leverage their sexuality in return for protection, shelter, food, power, money, and all the in betweens. Some did it overtly by being a mistress/prosititute, not having sex but leading men on, or marrying and having a “cushy,” “respectable” life. I had read enough history to know all the outcomes, the positives, and the negatives. Whore, wife, or virgin, I knew I was damned if I did, damned if I didn’t. 

But then again, it’s just a body…

Sexuality and I have quite the shituationship. 

I don’t and shouldn’t have to choose between the two. Fuck convention. Normal doesn’t exist. It’s all a spectrum, and I don’t have to pick one static spot on that spectrum. I and everyone else can be wherever we want to be on that spectrum whenever we want to be there. And that’s the problem… History has always divided women into wives and whores. One doesn’t like sex; one is only sex. Both versions erase the woman and her sexuality. 

At 30 years old, I’ve finally decided to dive head first (yep, innuendo) into a sexuality journey. And I hate it. Legitimately, it makes me uncomfortable and anxious and sometimes a little nauseous. I have half-heartedly embraced and avoided my own sexuality my entire life. I’m not talking about being gay-gay. I’ve been out in some fashion for over a decade and coming out-out in November was about the easiest thing I’ve ever done. I’m talking about sex-sex. Having sexuality at all. Actually, no. I’m talking about sexuality and not sex or sexual orientation. Though the three are related, there’s a difference. I have always wavered between my need to be taken seriously as a straight-laced, conventional human and the fact I’m a human who really loves sex and leveraging the sexuality that comes very naturally to me. 

Without further ado… Here are eleven moments that would define my sexuality and inevitably lead to my need to embrace the fact I am a sexual human being. 

And women’s sexuality should no longer be stigmatized or punished or hidden.
  1. Rape Though this should be plural, I can’t count how many times it’s happened. But every time I was raped, it pushed me further and further away from my sexuality. It’s hard to have a healthy relationship with sex and sexuality when literal years of my life sex equalled violence and sexuality equalled asking for it. 
  2. Losing My Virginity It’s not even a good story. I just got rid of it with someone I trusted so I could finally say “yes.” But it was a pivotal moment. Terrible sex, but I got to say ‘yes.’ I learned I could consent to sex. I would continue to get raped by other men for a handful of years to come, but it’s the life I’ve had. 
  3. Dating Men It’s hard to claim sexuality when I only dated a gender I have no attraction to. Then again, dating men allowed me to not have to confront my sexual dychotomy because I made the excuse of “I’m just not that sexual.” or “Sex is hard because of my history with sexual abuse.” Valid, but also a fucking cop out (for me personally), if I’m being honest.
  4. Stripping Gasp. I was a stripper to pay for my very expensive piece of paper. Really. It’s how I paid for college. I became obsessed with human sexuality and the science behind attraction while I was stripping. In my typical logical fashion, I scienced my way into making a lot of money. I had truly lived in a thought bubble where anything outside of basic sex was fringe. Hahahahahaha! Ha. I was so cute and naïve once upon a time. Sexuality is fucking weird. It’s a grayscale. There is no normal. Everyone has a kink or a thing, and it’s about embracing your sexuality and finding a partner[s] who makes you feel safe enough to explore that. As a stripper, I was quite literally paid to be that safe place for people to embrace and explore their kink and pleasure. Sometimes it was creepy, triggering, strange, cringey, awkward, but sometimes it was erotic, fun, lovely, and humorous. I walked in clueless; I walked out with my eyes wide open.
  5. Rape Really it’s a two parter. If I didn’t give sex, it would be taken. So I made sure I was never in a situation where it could happen because whether I said “no” or not, sex was happening. (I am very aware this is not at all true. So many men, women, and theys are polite, lovely humans who have no problem understanding consent. As a woman in my early twenties, that was not my reality or experience. So it was easier to pretend like sex was never on the table ever so I would never have to face the potential of being raped… again.)
  6. First Time Touching A Woman Ohhhh my god. I realized I was riding the gay train on a strip club stage a few weeks after I turned twenty, which was about three days into being a stripper. In Iowa, the laws are lax, and a great deal of touching is allowed. I touched boobs for the first time… Yeah, it was great. The fact I was getting paid to do it took some of the joy away, but hey, it was my gay awakening. Though it would take me ten and a half years to go full gay.
  7. First Time I Kissed A Woman I was a little drunk one night at the bar the last week of my Junior year in college. A very tiny, beautiful woman kissed me. It was the first time I kissed someone and thought, I’d like to have sex now. 
  8. Masturbating I’m going to tell you something that I have only ever told one person. But first, back story. Masturbation has held an immense amount of guilt and shame for me. It was something I was forced to do by my high school rapist, and it just has been something I have avoided for almost half of my life. That being said… I did it when I was younger… to women. I never masturbated to men or straight sex. The fact I don’t touch myself has become the punchline to many jokes in my friend group. It’s also a great way to win Never Have I Ever. My closest friends know it’s hard for me, maybe not the why because I’ve never put words to it until right here. I’m exploring that now at almost 31. It’s an adventure akin to a battle. But it’s also an important step, that I’m hesitantly taking.
  9. Rape Last time, I promise. What I didn’t learn in the history books, I learned from this. Sex is powerful. Learn how to leverage it in any and every way, and it could get me in and out of situations I didn’t want to be in or situations I did want to be in. I learned where I was willing to compromise my dignity and self worth for my safety. I learned how to nuance conversations and body language in covertly and overtly sexual ways to get what I wanted no matter what. I truly believe every woman knows how to do this on some level whether they realize it or not. Some of us have just been forced to master it… Mine was for self-preservation. It worked; I’m not dead.
  10. Sleeping Naked Ignore the fact I was a stripper. I hate being naked. It makes me so uncomfortable and vulnerable. I don’t care if people see me naked, but the act of existing without clothes is deeply unsettling. Because I was a stripper, I am very, very good at hiding my discomfort, but to this day, I am not comfortable with my body because it is the thing that someone took away from me. So I started sleeping naked sometimes. I hate it, but it’s also kind of helping, a little, maybe, hopefully. I won’t keep you updated.
  11. Naughty Photos I very recently started taking spicy pictures of myself. And I’ve decided it’s important for women to have them, even if it’s just for ourselves. Actually more so just for ourselves. It’s empowering. For me, it’s a reclamation of my own body. Also, I may never look as good, as young, as strong as I do right this moment. I want to look back and think, good for me! I’m not sharing the vast majority of the pictures I have, but it makes me love my body just a little bit, which is a weird and new feeling. Looking at them makes me feel sexy and beautiful and desirable, and those are not feelings I have ever felt I am worth or deserving of. 
In My Own Words, Lifestyle

I Hate My Body, But It’s What I’ve Got

RaeAnna

It’s Women’s History Month, and when I look at my body, I feel as if it’s an amalgam of the horrors women have faced throughout history. 

Sippin’ a Virgin Daquiri in Cozumel.
Just existing at home.
Hiking in Nevada.
Beach Vacation to North Carolina.
Crop Top and Cruisin’

These pictures might seem like they’re attention seeking. These pictures are not taken for you. They’re for me. They’re hard to take. They’re harder to share. These pictures are a rebellion, a reclamation, an acceptance, a step towards peace, a forgiveness. 

Trauma lives in the body. What happens when the body is the trauma? I moved away from the city, the area, the state, the region where the violence happened. I cut off the people who didn’t protect me, the people who wouldn’t believe me, the people who defended my rapists. I can’t move away from my body. I can’t cut off the fouled pieces. I’m left with two options. The choice of not living in my body anymore. Or the choice of accepting its defeat and survival. I tried desperately for the first one, but life has decided to hold onto me with a grip a lot stronger than I often would have liked. So I have to make the choice every minute of every day to accept that when I see my body, part of me will always see the body taken away, the reminders of everything it has endured.

Looking at my body, how would you describe it?

Trip to Orlando.
Solo camping trip to the Grand Canyon.
A memorable view in Cancun.

We probably don’t see the same thing because all I can see is a body:
Raped
Beaten
Cut
Sold
Ripped
Choked
Threatened
Shared
Torn
Bought
Disposed
Experimented
Filled
Bloodied, so much blood

And that’s just before I turned twenty. 

I don’t see anything beautiful. Anything to be desired or worthy. I don’t see strength or resilience. I don’t see anything precious or deserving of protection. I don’t see a body to be loved or worshipped. Though I’m trying very hard to get to a point where I do see those things, maybe just one would be a good start. 

I see ears that heard I love you for the first time as I was raped for the first time. I see a mouth that was never taught to say “no,” not that any of these men understood consent. I see a scar from the time a man decided to teach me a lesson for trying to say “no” by taking a knife and carving out a piece of my skin. I see a body shared with friends because it’s “just so fucking tight.” I see a face that seems to just ask to be punched or slapped. I see a scar where a man, who just couldn’t contain his desire, pulled my ass apart so hard it tore me. I see eyes that have cried so many silent tears it’s amazing I haven’t died of dehydration. I see a body called beautiful every. single. time. it was raped. I see a mouth that has learned to smile and say “thank you” after having a dick shoved in it until I threw up. I see a body that never belonged to me. I see a body someone and someone and someone and someone and someone’s friends decided to take and use until they grew bored. I see a body told to cover up and hide because men can’t handle themselves: odd, I was never raped naked at a strip club, but I was raped in jeans and a turtleneck by my high school boyfriend. I see a body that was never enough.

Enjoying a day in the sun on a cruise.

My mind knows that this body has persevered through everything so that I could be thirty years old and say I have: climbed mountains; broken men’s noses and ribs and dislocated knees when they pushed too far; fallen in love; held people as they cried through their own trauma; survived broken hearts; written piece after piece like this; spoken in front of thousands about my trauma and sex work; attempted suicide and survived; rescued dogs; rescued people; traveled the world; learned languages and skills and information; given kindness with everything I am because I don’t know what pain other people are going through; listened to stories that make me grateful my life hasn’t been worse. I know in my brain that I never deserved anything that happened to me, but my body feels like it tells a different story. I know in my heart that this body has more to offer the world than to be a punching bag, but it will take time to believe that. 

I have always worn clothes, makeup, and confidence like armor. A way to distract everyone who looks from the deep discomfort I feel in my soul in perpetuity at the sheer audacity my body has to continue existing in the face of everything. The act of being naked in the shower is sometimes so much that I’ll go days without one. Leave me unattended too long surrounded by water in my own undress, I will break down. Wearing a bikini was traumatic for years and is still daunting. What if someone sees a scar and asks. Then I have to explain that men are violence, and it’s a real downer for any pool party. I have finally gotten to the point where I can practice hot yoga in a sports bra and leggings. Sex is just another story completely. I’ve reverted back to wearing grandma underwear from thongs because they just feel so exposing right now. I started sleeping naked and walking around the house in pants and a sports bra to get acquainted with my own body in a small yet safe way. I’m wearing crop tops because they terrify me, and I refuse to let fear hold me back from celebrating the fact I’m 30 and I can wear whatever the fuck I want. As a stripper, I learned to harness the confidence I gained from clothes and makeup to stand in nothing but heels in front of hundreds, demanding their eyes and forbidding their touch. I’m trying desperately hard to find some comfort in my body. I mask it so well, but the truth looks back at me in the mirror. And the truth is, I kind of hate that I have to live in this body knowing everything that it’s been through. But I can’t exactly change it. And I don’t want to. 

On a solo trip to Santa Fe.

Along with the memories of suffering this body holds the knowledge it survived. It’s learning what the after looks like. Pain but also hope. Sadness but also joy. Struggle but also resilience. Remembrance but also inspiration.

The history of women, my history is fraught with violence, subjugation, pain. It lives in my… our bones, our story, our existence. I and every other woman has continued on. Remembering those who did not survive. Resisting the sacrifice of our identities along with our bodies. Persisting when hope seems non-existent. Living to be that hope to another. Fighting for a better tomorrow for our daughters. Creating spaces of healing and joy. Whether in silence, through words, with actions, in art, women have not disappeared. We are still here. We are strong and beautiful. Our stories and souls are as varied and stunning as our bodies. And our bodies tell the story of life. 

At thirty, I am filling a void created by the actions of men with art. These words, these images, my existence. It is all art for my own sake and for those who have never been able to tell their stories. The fact my art creates empathy and anger gives my body and its pain the worth I have never been able to afford it. 

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna

Books, NonFiction

Raging Against Male Privilege in Entitled by Kate Manne

RaeAnna

Worth A Read Most Definitely
Length 269
Quick Review If you’re looking to be angry at the obstacles women face, this is a great book to read. If you have no idea what obstacles women face, please go read this, right now. 

Entitled by Kate Manne | Shoes | Pants | Bralette | Earrings

Sometimes I think I’m the only one who likes to subvert serious conversations with an incredibly dark sense of humor, but then I read Kate Manne’s Entitled. I wouldn’t call it funny, but I would call it witty. Let’s be honest, male privilege is sadly funny in usually the most ironic ways; however, male privilege is a plague on society, hurting women and ultimately holding the entirety of the world back from its full potential.  

Starting off with Brett Kavanaugh’s hearing and the attack on Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, Manne only digs deeper into the blatant problems women face due to men’s entitlement. What’s even more impactful are the chapters on the subtle ways women are hurt by male privilege. It is the everyday male privilege affecting the physical and mental well being of women everywhere that is so often overlooked and unaccounted for in daily life and conversation. We can all agree rape, beating, retributative violence against women is bad. What isn’t talked about so often is emotional labor, mansplaining, domestic labor, medical gaslighting, bodily autonomy, parenting, and so much more women are inundated with and by daily, which has an immeasurably negative impact on women’s psyche. Yet Manne never lets up on the importance of every facet, no matter how seemingly benign, the pain caused by male entitlement through anecdotal and academic evidence. 

Noting Manne’s definition of misogyny—therefore male privilege—may be one of the most important moments in Entitlement,

“First, some instances of misogyny lack any individual perpetrators whatsoever; misogyny may be a purely structural phenomenon, perpetuated by social institutions, policies, and broader cultural mores. Second, understanding misogyny as more about the hostility girls and women face, as opposed to the hostility men feel deep down in their hearts, helps us avoid a problem of psychological inscrutability.”

Misogyny is pervasive, and men are not the only culprits of it. As much as women are victims, we are also culpable. Manne tackles instances of women perpetuating and bolstering misogyny and male entitlement because this system indoctrinates us from the moment we enter the world to cater to male feelings, privilege, experience, and everything else. Defining an aspect of that, “himpathy, as I construe it, is the disproportionate or inappropriate sympathy extended to a male perpetrator over his similarly or less privileged female targets or victims.” It is not our fault, but once we have the knowledge, we can choose to combat the system keeping us in a place we have never deserved to be in. Manne is not only providing the information, she’s creating a rule book for every woman and man to follow on how to create a better tomorrow for men and women. 

I’m just going to stare down male entitlement in a power suit.

Short, yet deeply unsettling from start to finish, Manne unveils the horrifying world women are born, live, and die in. She does not fail to point out the imbalance when the minority status is multiplied by race or sexual identity. Chapter after chapter rages on, enumerating the ways male entitlement causes harm, creating a spiral of depression. For me, at least. Ending with a glimmer of hope in the last chapter, an address to her unborn daughter. Manne hopes for an easier future for her daughter; though, she knows the fight will be “long, and interminable.”

The narrative may end in the last chapter, but the Notes section is an amazing trove of research, statistics, quotes, anecdotes, and information. Do not overlook it. It’s powerful and soul crushing, in the best way.

Women fill the role of provider. Providing, providing, providing for the needs emotional, physical, and all the in betweens of men, children, and everyone around us.. Even when completely fulfilling the role of provider or caretaker happily without complaint, women are interrogated, berated, and undermined at every turn. It has been the way of the world for so long, it’s what we women have come to expect as acceptable, and it is not. Kate Manne’s Entitled can be summed up in one succinct sentence: “We expect too much from women.”

Memorable Quotes
“As we’ve already begun to see, medical misinformation is a ubiquitous feature of anti-abortion activism.”
“If the truth is not our property, then neither is authority.”
“If men often feel entitled to certain kinds of paid work, they also feel entitled to far more by way of leisure, as compared with their female partners.”
“Do men do so little because they engage in more leisure activities than their female partners? Or do they engage in more leisure activities in order to do so little?”
“Another reason men don’t do more is that, under such conditions, asking them to pull their weight is in itself a form of labor.”
“Don’t we regard rape as a heinous, monstrous crime? Yes, in the abstract. Very well then, but in practice, why do we refuse to hold certain perpetrators accountable vis-ȧ-vis certain victims?”

bisous un обьятий,
RaeAnna

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Title: Entitled; How Male Privilege Hurts Women
Author: Kate Manne
Publisher: Crown
Copyright: 2020
ISBN: 9781984826572

11..., Lifestyle

11… Ways I’m Combatting My Executive Dysfunction Problem

RaeAnna

Historically, I have not struggled with executive dysfunction. Actually, I have always been incredibly good at all of those things. Which is the only reason I have managed to override the PTSD, anxiety, and depression that try very hard to keep me… doing absolutely nothing and being, arguably, on the verge of successful human. The last two years, though. Dude. Fucked up all my shit. I’m in a super not great place. And nowhere near where I want to be. In a lot of ways, I feel like I’m drowning under the pressures of trying to be the successful human I think I could potentially be someday. Also under the pressures of trying to live my life. I’ve never really had the luxury of saying: “This is what I want. This is who I am. I’m going for it.” I’m not going to bend to other people. 

I am a writer. It’s who I am, and who I’ve always been. It is an integral part of my identity. I’ve lost sight of that. Around six years ago, I stopped writing about the things that matter to me. And two years ago, I pretty much stopped writing entirely. Outside of the things I had to write to pay the bills… I wasn’t writing anything of note at all. 

These things make me happy and help keep me on task.

My life is completely different than it was two years ago. In so many ways, it looks the same from the outside. But I’m more me than I have been in probably ever. The first thing I have to get back is my ability to be productive. And not in the “The dogs aren’t dead, so it’s been a good day” way. I mean in the “I’m getting shit done, clean house, exercising, working thirteen hour days because I want to, going to sleep happy (that’s not been a consistent thing in my life ever)” way. The only way I can get to being that person again is by figuring out how to re-engage my executive functioning. So I’m trying, key word there, to do little things every day to get to where I need to be. Because I need to not be here anymore.

  1. Journaling I’m really bad at this. I have never kept a journal regularly. I’m not good at this. I’m not good at writing my inner dialogues down in fear that they will be read and used against me. This has happened the few times I did journal. I also think it’s important as a writer and memoirist to keep track of where I am and the journey I’m on. If I have kids one day, maybe they’ll get a kick out of how much of a mess their mom is/was, but I’m sure they’ll already be aware. 
  2. Eating Breakfast I’ve never been a breakfast eater. Actually, I have a hard time remembering to eat when I’m not feeding other people. Food is important to survival and brain function, apparently. 
  3. Lighting A Candle I grew up visiting St. Louis Cathedral in NOLA. I’m not Catholic, never have been, but we would always light a candle and say a prayer. I’ve continued that tradition every time I visit a cathedral. I am not religious in any way, but there’s something calming about lighting a candle and thinking on a thing before thinking on lots of things for work.
  4. Letting the Christmas Tree Be This is kind of a funny one. I’m KNOWN for letting my Christmas tree stay up far too long. Like. It’s become an Easter tree too long. This year, my big tree was out the door by January 15. The fake one in my office is still up. Partially because executive dysfunction. Partially because I really like it. So it’s staying until it bothers me. This also goes for the stacks of books I have around my office. They make me happy. A little nuts but happy.
  5. Flowers I love flowers and always have. I’ve always been the person that will happily buy myself flowers just because. I don’t have people who buy me flowers, so a woman’s gotta do it herself. I managed to snag myself a florist for a best friend who has convinced me to help her in her shop sometimes, so I keep myself well supplied in flowers. 
  6. Keeping A Book Close That Makes Me Smile Obviously I love being surrounded by books. An entire wall of my office is bookshelves. I’m a book critic. But some books just make me happy when they’re around. So I’ve started keeping a book on my desk that makes me smile every time I look at it. 
  7. Tea I call it inspiration water. I only drink tea in my office. Caffeine only affects my anxiety, but the way caffeine works in coffee is different from tea, so my anxiety lives a better life when I drink a gallon of tea at my desk instead. 
  8. Pride Things I’m really super gay. It’s something I haven’t talked about a whole lot over the course of my being out. It would pop up every pride as a reminder that straight passing relationships can still be queer, but the fact is… I’m just a lesbian. For as much as it is a part of my identity, it’s not a big part of my storytelling, so I’m popping the pride things around my office to remind myself I need to tell those stories too. Problem being: I write about my trauma, and I don’t have gay trauma. 
  9. Music I’ve always shied away from music outside of classical and instrumental jams while I work because I have a tendency to get distracted and want to dance and sing along. Not usually great for productivity… Except it might be. I’ve slowly started incorporating music I want to dance to as a way to give my brain a break and my body a chance to move. It’s way too soon to tell if this is helpful or counter productive.  
  10. Exercising I hate exercise. I don’t. But I do. It’s my least favorite activity I do willingly and regularly. It’s good for my brain. The more I move, the better my brain works. I’m still working on getting into that rhythm. 
  11. Spending Time With People and Not Working Workaholic has very much been my operating status for ever. Twelve hour days are a regular occurrence. Eighteen hour days aren’t unheard of. I have not been doing any of that since the pandemic began. I miss it, but I also know how wildly unhealthy that is. I’m trying to be more engaged with friends and surround myself with people who inspire me rather than need me to take care of them. 

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna