Loss, Failure, and Zoloft

I’ve facepalmed so many times drafting this post. Honestly, I’m trying to get away from complaining and I’m afraid that most of what I stick on this page smacks of that very thing. At the same time, I use this space to process and communicate what’s going on with my life and frankly, what’s going on right now fucking blows.

For the past few months, leaving my apartment has become more and more difficult for me. I am ruled by this constant sense of impending doom. The only real doom was one of my own creation by not venturing past my bedroom. I don’t want to be around people who know me, even the ones who care about me. I don’t want to answer their questions, because my replies will be honest and honestly upsetting. Graduation didn’t happen for me this year, and I honestly don’t know when/if it will at all. I self-destructed academically and avoided contact even with people whom I know care about me. So now I’m talking to professionals and on a couple kinds of medication and that’s pretty much that. It’s too soon to tell if it’s working.

The breakup I mentioned in my previous post wasn’t as clean as I thought/hoped/intended. I’m bad at staying away. And the thing I was avoiding by cutting ties happened more abruptly than I was prepared for. My ex still has a question mark over our relationship. There are circumstances (not ideal for him) that could mean we might have a chance again. I can’t function while wondering when or if. I need a full stop. Especially if I’m going to keep breathing in and out without being plagued by the anxiety that often comes with the unknown. I have to write my own reality, even if it means operating under a falsehood in order to keep  hold of stability. Burying thoughts is an exhausting task, but I would rather be tired than in pain. This was the longest relationship I’ve ever been in and I hate how much its ending is affecting me. It’s been a hot minute since I was so invested in another person. I don’t want to be the girl who’s world is over because of a breakup. That’s not Lauren, never has been. But I still feel like I’m grieving for some sort of massive loss. A future that I wanted is no longer possible and that is out of my control. So I have to find a way to mourn it without devolving into a tear-dampened, blubbering mess of a woman. Or do I give myself over to my sadness? Let myself feel every ounce of pain that has manifested from my loss? Who the fuck has time for that?

It is difficult not to feel like collateral damage in a war for someone else’s wants.
We could have kicked the world’s ass together.
We could have been brilliant. To me, there is no question mark over that.

Clean Getaway

Have you ever taken a pregnancy test?

I hadn’t until a few nights ago. I’ve made it through six years of sexual activity without ever having to pee on a stick, which is quite an accomplishment  for someone who is as slutty and paranoid as I am. Being both easy and hypochondriacal makes for a rough coming of age. Every STI screening is panic attack-inducing and the wait for every period can make you anxious enough to literally scare it away.

This time I was really late. Not by a few days, but by a couple weeks. I was recently put on a new, highly effective form of bc (Implanon), but I also had unprotected sex with the man whom I’d been dating for six months just a week after it’s insertion. I remember him checking the internet to see if we were in the clear and I’m not even entirely sure on what site he found the information. Long story not so short, I was freaking out Wednesday night.

I was freaking out because a few hours before I took that test, I realized I had no long term future with that man and only a painful outlook for the short term. I realized this as I was struggling to pull out of his driveway and throwing up in his yard. It didn’t matter that I was in love with him. If love was enough, I’d still be dating him. For reasons I’d rather not get into, (actually, I really want to get into them because I’m sad and bitter, but my dad reads this blog so I’ll keep myself in check) I had no power over the situation. I’d tried to break it off with him a few times, always recanting my decision on the grounds that I knew he loved me and that there could be a real chance for us. I’m positive there isn’t anymore.

When I break up with someone, they stop existing in my life. I don’t care if it’s unhealthy or unfair, it’s what works for me and it doesn’t matter who broke up with whom. When I try to be friends with exes, it goes poorly. I like to make a clean getaway and such a getaway is a little dicey if you’re pregnant. Yeah, I know I’m well within my rights not to tell him no matter the outcome, but I don’t feel I’ve ever been in danger in that regard. And remember the part about me loving him? Yeah, that’s still the case and I couldn’t withhold that kind of information from someone I love.

I sobbed on my way to Wal-Mart, which I thought had self-checkout lanes. I was wrong. Bleary eyed and stuffy nosed, I tried to keep my shit together while clutching my little, pink First Response box. Only one register was open that late on a week night, but I think one of the employees noticed me waiting behind some folks who were taking their sweet time. She flagged me over to her lane and didn’t remark on my purchase. If I could, I would hug the crap out of her.

I sobbed on my way home, downed a soda when I got there, and waited for my roommate to go to bed before I opened the box to read the instructions. In retrospect I wish I hadn’t. I could have used a friend that night.

First of all, I was not prepared for the mess.  It’s not like peeing in a cup. So that happened. I set the test on the bathroom sink and I left it there. I washed my hands and opened the fridge for no reason in particular. I was less nervous than I thought I’d be, probably because I knew what I was going to do either way.

And the test said in clear, digital, capital letters, “NO.” No, no I wasn’t.

There was a little cardboard pregnancy tracker in the box with spaces for you to write down what names you would choose for your unborn son or daughter. I tore it to pieces, looked in the mirror, and watched myself cry over something I didn’t even want; that I wasn’t supposed to want. An unexpected pregnancy that I would never have elected to carry to term. Under the given circumstances, I had dodged a bullet.

My ex knew I was late even before I ralphed in his yard. I told him I wasn’t pregnant before I went to bed Wednesday night and I cut my ties with him Thursday morning. The day before his birthday. I know birthdays aren’t really important to him and he’s seen this coming, so I’m sure he’s just fine. There aren’t even any pictures of us together, which makes it easier to pretend like the whole thing never happened.

My relief should have outweighed the stinging sadness that was setting in as I ended the longest relationship I’ve ever had. But staring at the negative test by myself in my bathroom in the middle of the night might be the loneliest moment I’ve ever known.

Laurels: Not Resting on Them

Hi, my name is Lauren Olson. I’m terrible at updating my blog and here is why:

1. I’m bad at setting my own deadlines. If someone assigns them to me, no problem. However, when I have no authority to answer to, procrastination runs rampant.
2. Deciding what to write about is fucking hard. I’ve been trying to put together something about my former workplace without sounding like a disgruntled employee. I would also like to do more media reviews that would be kind of in the vein of my Buffy vs. Bella post. I’ve also had “A Song of Ice and Fire” on the brain since June and I’m nearly caught up with the entire series, so things could be getting really nerdy in short order.

Fear not, there will be posts.

Four Loko-A-Go-Go

Sorry that I haven’t been around lately. I did that thing where I go to school full-time and work two jobs and forget to make blogs. Oops. Shit has gone down in my life and in the world of feminism since I went on hiatus and I promise you, pressing issues will be addressed. But seeing as this is my first blog written after my 21st birthday, I believe it’s best to keep things light.
Four Loko. The caffeinated, alcoholic hybrid beverage that has college-aged people spending some serious one-on-one time with toilet bowls. Or hospital beds. This “blackout in a can” contains three times as much alcohol as a regular beer and has been linked to the deaths of multiple young people. So, naturally, I felt it was my duty to give it a try.

Word on the street is that the FDA is seeking to ban it and all drinks of it’s type. Of course the only effect the ban has had so far is to prompt people to stock up like it’s bottled water during hurricane season. I selected the fruitpunch flavor from the gas station, grabbed a bag of teriyaki beef jerky nuggets for sustenance, and made my merry way home to watch movies and investigate what all the fuss surrounding this drink is about.

When I pulled the tab to open it, I could already smell a strong odor of hooch. Promising. The first sip proved underwhelming in a couple of ways. I expected it to taste like cough syrup, it didn’t. I also expected it to scorch my throat due to the combo of caffeine, carbonation, and booze content. Much to my astonishment, it went down rather smoothly. Now, I’m not saying this is the nectar of the gods, but I’ve swallowed worse. Heh.

I started to notice that warm, fuzzy feeling about a third of the way through the can. It was only when I attempted to get off my sofa did I take note that I was actually intoxicated. Half-way through, my fingers and toes started to get a little numb, but I was hella alert, which gives you an idea of what kind of bad decisions could be influenced by the Loko. I ate my jerky, paced myself, and finished the can in about two hours. The last few sips had to be put on the rocks, but otherwise I finished it without any major incident. Could I have started another? Easily, at that point in time my belly was not complaining and I was steady on my feet…for the most part. But I could gauge by how efficiently this got me fucked up, that another can would probably stop being fun really fast.

I slept well and woke only to a slightly lurchy tummy, however as the day wore on, my hangover decided to set in. I’ve been nauseous for the past few hours and had some light sensitivity which is seriously out of the normal for me. Would I drink Four Loko again? Only if I was hard-pressed for cash (it costs a meager $2.50) and needing something to bring to a BYOB. This is another indicator of how Loko can be problematic for the college community: cheap, potent, and easy to get a hold of. Why buy a six-pack of something decent when you can save money and get twice as shitty?

This is the part of the blog where I start getting feministy. Alcohol is the number one predatory drug. Not pot, not pills, but booze. I’m not the party police, but I also want to look out for my friends. Why is it that Four Loko has been making news and getting banned for allegedly putting people in the hospital when perpetrators have been using other types of alcohol for years to commit acts of violence? I’ll be the last to suggest we ban the sale of alcohol, we tried that once and it didn’t turn out so great. What I’m saying is we need to realize that just because it doesn’t make the news, it doesn’t mean sexual assault is less of a problem. I know that my friends and I have each other’s backs when we go out or even when we stay in, but not everyone has that support system. So no matter what you’re drinking, remember to be on the look out for potentially dangerous situations, you could end up saving someone from something worse than a hangover.

Buffy vs. Bella

I’m well aware that talking shit on the Twilight SAGa is no longer what the cool kids are doing. Apparently we’ve moved on to trashing stuff like Glee and other less-than-perfect media juggernauts. However, I have not used any of my precious blog space for this particular topic, so I’m going to do it in compare/contrast fashion. Since we all thrive on conflict, I’m pitting Stephenie Meyer’s piss poor excuse for a heroine, Bella Swann-Cullen, against Joss Whedon’s incomparable Slayer: Buffy Summers. A fair fight? Not really, but who gives a fuck?

Round 1: Personality
Buffy: Bubbly, loyal, stubborn, feisty, courageous, flawed, and seriously punny.
Bella: She doesn’t have any. Round one goes to the Buffster.

Round 2: Posse
Buffy: The Slayer’s cohorts are varied and vibrant. They consist of demons, ex-demons, werewolves, and humans alike. Her besties, Xander and Willow, are just as big a part of the story as the main character Also, big brownie points for a positive portrayal of a queer couple via Willow and Tara. The relationship that Buffy has with her Watcher, Giles is unique and genuinely touching. Friendship seems to be one of the strongest themes of the series and not even in a sappy way.
Bella: Yeah, she’s friends with all sorts of beings, but they sure aren’t friends with each other. Bella just happens to get helplessly stuck in the middle of several ancient feuds. While characters like Alice and Jacob are among the more interesting of the series, that isn’t saying much. They can’t make up for the banality of the main couple. Give another point to the Slayer.

Round 3: Villains
Buffy: While often campy, the big and little bads living near the hellmouth have always been pretty diverse and quite a few have been legitimately scary. For example, The Gentelman from the episode “Hush”. They take your fucking voice away so you can’t scream when they CUT OUT YOUR STILL-BEATING HEART!

The Gentlemen sans their flailing, straightjacketed henchmen.

Not to mention that a lot of times, the biggest Bads are people Buffy used to work with, trust, and fuck. Faith, Dark Willow, and Angelus respectively. Dark Willow always brings up some complexities because part of you feels so satisfied watching her flay Warren for killing Tara. Then there are villains that reform and become a regular edition to the Scoobies like Anya and Spike. More on that peroxide punk later.
Bella: This girl is pretty much always at odds with the same, boring, dusty, old vamps. Not a lot of variety here, folks and they are rarely very intimidating. I mean, Sunnydale is plagued by things like The Gentlemen and the scariest of the Volturi is Dakota Fanning. Honestly. Buffy takes it again.

Round 4: Love Life
Buffy: The bedroom is where things tend to get a bit dicey for our Slayer. This is where my feminist lens gets a bit hyperactive, because as empowering as the series usually is, there are almost always negative consequences when Buffy chooses to have sex. First and foremost, when she loses her virginity to Angel, it literally steals his soul and changes into a completely different and devastatingly evil person. Not a great message. Then there was that random guy Buffy hooked up with when she started at UCSD who was obviously just using her for sex. Oh, and for as lovely as Riley was most of the time, there was an entire episode where evil spirits were feeding off the energy from the couple’s marathon of love-making. See what I mean? I might even venture to say that Spike was the healthiest sexual relationship Buffy ever had (which is a kind of relationship Bella has never and will never have.) Where our girl really gets the edge is how she deals with break-ups. When Angelus emerges, she galvanizes herself and kills him in order to save the world, even after his soul returns. What would you expect from She Who Can’t Stay Dead?
Bella: This girl just gives up her life (literally) to the first guy who gives her an ounce of attention. Turns out Edward is all about that attention seeing as he has a tendency to sneak in her room at night uninvited so he can watch her sleep. *shudder/vomit* He’s not exactly a complex guy, either. You learn pretty much everything you need to know about Edward in the first book. And when he dumps Bella in the second Twilight Tome, she doesn’t take it well. I wouldn’t call the “not speaking to anyone for months and developing an eating disorder because your first boyfriend is a douchebag” approach healthy or heroine material.
Winner: Three guesses and it rhymes with Shmuffy.

Keep in mind that I only started watching the Vampire Slayer series a few months ago. I read my first Twilight book three years ago. Hopefully I’ve illustrated the need for better young female characters in the pop culture world, but for some reason “Damsel in Distress” always sells. Girls can be the ones doing the rescuing and they don’t have to wait to get married to do so.

I leave you with this:

What It Means

There are people in this world that whole-heartedly believe anti-choice legislation empowers women. That those laws show confidence that all women, no matter their willingness or lack there of, have the strength to be mothers. But really, the only thing those kinds of laws do is restrict. The language used in them might as well say, “Never fear, ye feeble-minded womenfolk! We know what’s best for you and the only way we can show that is by limiting your decision making!” In essence, these laws do not trust women.
You see, women are still working against the stereotype that we are flighty, overly emotional flakes and that change our minds more than we change our socks. Apparently, this also means that our decisions hold less weight, that our choices needed to be monitored because our feelings are so easily altered. We just don’t know what we want, you know? And we need to be gently prodded in the “right” direction.
Fortunately for my sisters and me, there are people who choose to think outside that tired trope. People like Dr. George Tiller who embodied what it meant to trust women until the day he was murdered in his own place of worship. It takes courage to show that trust, to advocate for female voices that others would intend to stifle. For some, trusting women is such a frightening concept that they would seek to harm the professionals who provide basic, legal healthcare service to those of us that need it most.
This battle of trust is not only being fought in terms of reproductive justice, but also in terms of how we react to sexual violence in our culture. When a victim or survivor of sexual assault is brave enough to come to you with her story, one of (and possibly) the most important things you can do is to trust and believe her. Too often women come forward to share these most painful of memories and they are met with “Are you sure?” Instead of people respecting what they have to say, personal sexual history and manner of dress become the indicators of truthfulness. If we want to end violence against women, we must trust victims and survivors and incorporate them into the process of prevention.
I’m writing this today because it’s the anniversary of the Roe v. Wade decision. It’s kind of like another Thanksgiving, in my eyes. I’m thankful for the privileges I have in my life and the right to have ownership of my body. Thankful that people still see how reproductive healthcare needs improvement and that it is not just a “women’s issue”. Endlessly thankful that I have friends and loved ones in my life that I know whatever big decisions I am forced to make, they will trust me.

The Straight and Narrow: Dating While Feminist

Dating in college is like a painful game of trial and error. Every error yields little but frustration, disappointment, and new reasons to criticize yourself. This can be said for pretty much anyone who actively tries their hand and heart at a relationship, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say that finding someone as a straight feminist is even more challenging.
First let me acknowledge that being straight has countless privileges. You can openly talk about your partner at work without feeling like your job’s in jeopardy. You can hold hands with your partner in public without being stared at or receiving cat calls. You never have to come out as being interested in the opposite sex. Pretty big perks that a lot of us don’t even think about. There are also some pretty big perks for women who don’t identify as feminists.
Apparently since a good chunk of my friends are queer, that must meant that I, in fact, am also queer. This results in men assuming I am not interested in them and may be part of the reason they avoid me like the plague. If this theory is true, I should start hanging out with more skinny people and their slenderness will rub off on me, which would probably fix the other reasons why men avoid me. But that’s another blog for another day.
People usually like to date those who share similar world views and values. Being a straight, radical feminist, the number of men (that are attracted to women) who feel the same way I do seems to be dwindling. Not to mention all the preconceived notions people have about you when you’re as vocal as I am. To some, I’m a baby-eating man-hater that never shaves her legs and absolutely loathes sex. Okay, let’s be honest, sometimes I get a little lazy with the shaving. You would too if no one ever looked at your legs. Also, it’s getting really hard to reconcile my views on being strong and independent with feeling like I’m ready for a relationship. Yeah, I’m 20 and I’m young and I have a lot of time and what not. Piss it. I’m lonely. Being a badass single woman with badass friends is fun and all, but having someone that wants to share in your badassedness above anyone else is even better. I want to be a priority, because that’s how I would view them.
Besides, who needs to date when television has brought us wonders like “Conveyor Belt of Love”! I’d much rather a conveyor belt of assorted cookies and pies. Also, credit to Erin Horth for coming up with a good title for this post.

I’m So Over This Decade

So, I was gonna write this lengthy post and fill it with intellectual reflections about the past decade. Then it started to get weepy and nostalgic so I said “Fuck it” and decided to let the Counting Crows speak for me.

And I don’t normally do resolutions, but here goes:
1. Be less cynical.
2. Find a way to earn credit hours through activism.
3. Find a way to see Amanda Palmer live after many years of her eluding Missouri.
4. Write more letters.
5. See the ocean.

Glee and Me: Showchoir Cofessional

Word had been spreading around about Glee for months before I caved in and starting watching. The reason for my hesitation will be explained in due course. One day, I broke down and turned to hulu to get caught up on the first few episodes of the season. I watched them and cried. The vibrant choral arrangements, the spot on riser choreography, I was hooked. What moved me to tears was the reminder of something I spent years of my life devoted to: showchoir. After moving to college, I’d been trying to block it out. Erasing every late night rehearsal, costume change, and trophy.

Webb City 2006

I lived “Glee” each year I was in high school. People say to me: “Surely there isn’t that much drama!” On the contrary. Much like any large group of teenagers who’s activities are monitored by a group of parental elites (the moms and dads of the “popular” kids), the Hillside Singers had our share of debacles. Through the years girls have gotten pregnant, people have brought illegal drugs to competition trips, there have been torrid love-triangles, parents have faced off with directors. Not to mention the rivalries with other choirs. Or when rival choir directors get fired for sleeping with students. Can you see why writers decided to use showchoir as material? It’s a community filled with extreme talent and extreme troubles. My choir is one of the oldest of it’s kind in the country, as it was established in the early 1980′s. There are many traditions, but the biggest one to see the ax in recent years is “initiation”. It’s essentially a hazing ritual that takes place for first year members during a weekend choreography camp before school starts. The older boys would shave random patches of hair off of the younger boys. Girls could expect to be ambushed by water guns in their sleep. But the big event was the massive snake and poison ivy infested hill that all newcomers had to roll down and climb up. My year, the men had to go in only their swim trunks. Girls could wear as much clothing as they wanted but had to roll down with apple sauce down our shirts and pants. It was all a big joke, right? Kinda, except for the fact that all but one returning hillsider assured us we would never be accepted in the group if we didn’t participate. Administrators caught on and did away with this “tradition” two years later.

Of course, there were favorites. I was not one of them. My mother worked full time; she didn’t have time to participate like some of the other parents. Not to mention that she didn’t go to the same church as my director. Even as a public school choir, we had some kind of christian pop number in our routine each year I participated. I seemed to be the only person irked by this. I spent 12 years in vocal music and 4 of which involved with this particular director. I took lessons from her, performed well in state competitions, shirked other duties so I could be in her showchoir. To this day (though it’s actually difficult for me to admit) I have an amazing singing voice. I can send my soprano pitch to the back of an auditorium without the aid of a microphone. I have made people cry before and not just my mother. At the final spring concert of my senior year, most of my friends received glowing remarks and awards to match. I left the stage empty handed, made a swift exit and wept in my car for several minutes before entering my house. Twelve years of my life were utterly fruitless. I had no awards, no scholarships because I was not a favorite. I went my own direction too many times to be paraded around as one of my director’s obedient pets.

This is what real life showchoir looks like.

(Oh and in the comments of that video, you can catch a glimpse of the rivalry between my school’s co-ed and women’s choirs.)

So, that’s why I’ve clung to Glee, in hopes to see someone like me succeed at something they love. Unfortunately, my viewing experience has been marred. For all the brilliant voices on this show, the ones that seem to get the most attention are straight, conventionally pretty, white voices. The male lead, Finn, doesn’t even have the strongest talent, in my opinion. The actor who plays Artie doesn’t use a wheelchair in real life. Would it have been so hard to hire a disabled actor to play a disabled character? Why did Chris Colfer (Curt) get shoved back in the closet when this role as a queer character was written just for him? As much as I love all the music, I get the feeling that it’s overly synthesized. I’d like to hear a more genuine sound, but maybe that’s just me being naive. Also, there were two different characters who were lying to their partners in some way about their pregnancies. These plotlines perpetuated the notion that women aren’t to be trusted with their own bodies and are out to trap men into parenthood. It’s unfortunate that due to how minorities are being treated in the script, people are more likely to remember characters as “Aretha” or “Other Asian” rather than their actual names: Mercedes and Mike. I really hope that after this 4 month hiatus some of the more ignored characters will get to develop. I’m tired of Finn and Quin.

My apologies if this was long and arduous. I just have a lot of unaddressed feelings on the topic, so thanks for bearing with me.

-Lauren Mae

Clusterfuck to Finals

Okay, folks. I’m stuck in the middle of what Emily Luft has coined as “finals month.” Because there is too much hair pulling, teeth gnashing, paper writing, and coffee drinking to fit into just one shitshow of a week. I’m studying for 4 different finals on top of launching a book club (if you want to get in on it, let me know) and coming up with an event for March’s Women’s history month. It’ll be a little bit before a write a full-fledged post. Conducting a mini-survey on masturbation as that is to be the theme.

If you’re feeling shitty, here’s some Amanda Palmer to make it bettter: