Life Of Women

{Life /of /Women}

I didn’t write this because I was trying to to be a ‘raging feminist’. I did it to inform.

Oftentimes, the biggest issue (especially right now) is that so many people have been uninformed or misinformed for so long — there is a gap of knowledge where other people filled in the spaces for themselves.

It’s only becoming a problem now because people are finally speaking up — finally saying something… We’re no long enabling behavior that stems from jokes or misinformation. Because that’s what all of this is… a lack of education and understanding.

The truth of the matter is, men have no idea what it’s like to live the life of a woman. Adversely, women have no idea what it’s like to live as a man. And instead of listening, there’s arguing.

At the end of the day, all we want is too be heard — to be listened to. To be treated like the lives we lead are important.

We just want things to change.

So before I get into this, and you get your panties in a bundle, I encourage you to read the following with a true open mind. This is NOT an attack on men. This is an awareness piece. Man or woman, if you have ever made another person feel unsafe… Maybe this could be the knowledge and understanding you need to create safer environments in the future.

Now… Thank you for the time you spend reading this.

Sometimes I keep my headphones in at the gym even if I’m not listening to anything, simply because I don’t want to be approached.

I do not smile at strangers unless they are working or are on-shift (I.E. a cashier or a gas attendant), it’s safer because strangers working are supposed to be polite. I’m afraid my smile makes me approachable elsewhere — that I’m “asking” for the attention.

I have panic attacks if I sit next to middle-aged men on a plane, and their head lolls over onto my shoulder when they sleep. I am not a pillow, I am not your pillow.

I’ve mastered the art of the world’s worst resting bitch face. My last male boss said that to me (that’s a direct quote), letting me know how unapproachable I am. I have mastered that because I have no space that is my own anymore. If I don’t have that face or wear it wherever I go, I am seen as someone with no personal boundaries.

My last boyfriend told me that since I identify as bi-sexual, he understood that I had needs that he couldn’t fulfill. So if I wanted to be with a woman all I needed to do was to just let him know. Then he followed it up with, “Only if I can watch.”

Nearly every male over 40 that I have ever interacted with has touched me on the small of my back or my shoulder when talking to me, or standing next to me — regardless of if I know them or not.

To make really good money while attending college I became a bartender. I wore makeup every night, curled my hair and smiled. I was just polite, doing my job, looking presentable. I had older gentlemen hide twenties around my work establishment then message my personal Facebook with clues to where the money was hidden because they said, “They noticed how hard I was always working.”

I have been sexually assaulted three times. Each time I was told I was crazy, and that I was making it up. It was always a message from someone — usually my assaulter.

I wear six silver rings on my fingers every day. Sometimes I’ll take my shiniest, prettiest one and put it on my ring finger when I’m out in public alone.

I stopped buying any product that was pink or related to women. I don’t buy women’s razors, women’s deodorant, women’s body wash, women’s soap... Want to know why? Something called the Pink Tax. I am legitimately charged a tax on items when I buy them, just for being a woman. It’s a real thing.

Sometimes the line for the women’s restroom is so long in public that I will sneak into the men’s. I will only do this if it’s a single room with a lockable door. I have been scolded and shamed on multiple occasions when I left the bathroom, shamed by men waiting to use it after me, letting me know that I wasn’t a man and that I should wait my turn for the woman’s restroom instead. The last time I checked I knew my identity and they did not. I also think being able to use the bathroom should be everyone’s right.

I refuse to have any male doctors or psych counselors or therapists. It’s not for lack of trying, because I have tried. It’s for lack of listening, understanding, and comprehending my legitimate needs fully in the capacity I deserve.

One time when I was about thirteen or fourteen, I was at my friend’s house. My brother was friends with the older siblings, so we would go to the family’s house together. One day, we got in a fight and he came at me — getting physical. He towered over me about to grab me and I punched him in the face. I felt cornered. I’m not justifying my actions, just telling a story. His bottom lip immediately split like the Grand Canyon and blood began pouring down his face. He screamed at me, asking why I would ever hit him while I wore a ring. I now wear six on my fingers every second of every day. Six out of ten of my fingers are protected…

Some of my past partners refused to wear non-latex condoms because I was allergic to regular latex. I have had past partners say they hated condoms and refused to wear them. I have had past partners ask me multiple times in a row if I was taking birth control, and if I was sure I was taking it properly. Because the idea of birth control should be solely my responsibility?

I would rather have a target on me that I have a service animal for an unseen disability than have the simple target of being a woman alone in public.

When I have something wrong with my car, I have my boyfriend call the mechanic and make the appointment for me, because otherwise I won’t be taken seriously (again, not for lack of trying, because I have tried).

Then, when I go to take the car in for my appointment without him, they ask me the same questions I know my boyfriend gave them answers to over the phone. I know because I gave him an exact script of what to say to them. They tell me, “That they’ve checked multiple times and they are having a hard time believing I have an issue with my car.” On the phone they told my boyfriend that they’ll figure it out and make sure it’s solved — that it’s, “No problem.” They give me my rental and it’s a Chrysler mini-van. They ask me if I’m a mom. I let them know sternly that I am not.

Can we just talk about the fact that I felt the need to start this piece with a disclaimer?

I have (using details) outlined my sexual assaults to most of my ex-boyfriends and guy friends. Every single one of their responses has been (or something like this), “I can’t even imagine.”

In previous places of employment, I have been told that if I did not dress professionally in a dress with tights or dress-slacks, that I would not be taken seriously as a professional.

I feel like everywhere I go, I need to explain my thoughts or my reasoning for something. I’ve gotten really, really good at finding and gathering evidence for every single claim I make for anything. I try to only state my opinion if I have proof, otherwise I don’t say anything at all.

Before my first date with my current amazing partner, I told my best friend where I was going, gave her the address, and told her that if I did not contact her by eleven or eleven-thirty that she should be worried. I have done that for every single blind date I have ever gone on. Someone always knows where I am, who I am with, and what that person looks like (yes, I will show the person that’s looking out for me photos).

I was filling my birth control prescription today. I have had the same birth control for five years, and I am adamant about not having other generic brands filled in it’s place. I have found something that works for my body, and I refuse to have anything else. I have notes all over my Rite Aid account, and I get harmlessly laughed at every time I am in because the name of my prescription is in all caps on my account notes. I know this because every pharmacist has chuckled whenever they pull up my account. Usually I chuckle along with them. Except today, the male pharmacist pulled my prescription, scanned it, and stated, “You women and your birth control. You’re never okay with what we give you, we always have to order out. You cannot have any generics, even if it’s easier for us pharmacists.” I say nothing and leave with my brown paper bag of inconvenience.

I could talk to you all day about how I can’t walk around at night. How I have three containers of mace hidden in inconspicuous spots in my life. I could also talk all day about how I used to have cans of wasp spray instead of mace because it shoots twenty feet instead of three or four. I could talk about how I don’t feel safe in public alone, or at night alone. I could also talk about how I have way more keys on my lanyard than necessary, so that if needed I can intricately lace the metal between each of my fingers as a makeshift weapon. I could also talk about how I have speed dials set just in case. I could go on and on… But I believe other women have already stated those things already.

It’s time to listen to us. It’s time to try to understand us. No more excuses.

Thank you for your time, your support, and for being a part of my journey!