Burnout

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I hit a wall this weekend. I took Sunday off from any obligations with the result that everything bubbled up. Triggered by the R. Kelly revelations, some of my yet-to-be-processed trauma surfaced. The things his ex-wife described hit home. Mix in with that disappointment around the 3-year training program in geriatric care I just started (I wrote about that in German) and I had trouble getting out of bed.

Then I stumbled on an article about burnout among millennials a friend had posted. Even though I am not a millennial, it very much resonates with me. That constant drive to keep moving, to do more and more, is all too familiar. That’s the other thing about trauma: We’re basically told to just move on from it and return to a normal life. As if that were possible. I left my husband (fearing for my life!!!) and then had to raise a child (who wasn’t even 1 years old then) by myself while fighting off constant court challenges from the by then ex. While I had the privilege of having financial resources (which is HUGE!), I also lived with the expectations that I’ll get a “good education” and then a “good job,” expectations I tried to meet for a couple decades. When I quite this track 10 years or so later, shortly before collapsing, I was in school working toward a (second) masters degree with no chance of actually earning a living doing what I love – writing – because I don’t have the connections. Most recently, I quit another job that I had grown to hate and instead of recovering from that, I organized a cross-continental move. Landing in my new home, I was confronted with the death of my aunt (who died the night I had arrived), and just kept going (mourning? No time!). And someone wondered why I wasn’t looking happy?! After that comment, I wrecked my brain why I still wasn’t happy – adding the burden of being happy… Now I’ve started a 3-year training program that so far has been utterly disappointing – and I wonder why I fall apart when the R. Kelly crap is bringing up my own past and I have a hard time dealing with it?!? There’s nothing left in that resiliency jar because on top of all this, I am also trying to do my part to stave off political disaster (guilt-tripping myself for not doing enough to boot).

Ooph. Just writing that was exhausting!

Although, just like Anne Helen Petersen, the author of the article, I feel a sense of relief having written this, having admitted to what I had been pushing aside: I am burned out! (How can I be burned out, I had been telling myself, when I only work 20 hours/week?) Unlike her, I won’t get paid for my insight(s), though, so I have to figure out how to find other ways to live. A search that, ironically, probably has added to my burnout for I have to find something earth-shattering, something that’ll really change the world, or else I’ll remain a failure. Or so I have learned to tell myself.

Again, I wonder how so many of the things Petersen attributes to millennials have plagued me for so long. Maybe it’s because I lived in the center of optimization – the San Francisco Bay Area – or maybe it’s that I am a bit of a canary in the white patriarchal coal mine that is our culture. Culture, I am learning, is independent of country. Germany has a culture (setting aside more typical German things, like Reibekuchen or Spätzle) that is oh too similar to the U.S.: Rape culture; white supremacy; patriarchy; capitalism. There’s no moving away from it. Maybe there is a way to change that, though, something I am even more interested in now.

Was It Right to Out A Survivor?

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The day after I read my date rape story, a video was posted that captured images from the rally. It also contained my voice reading my story. I debated for a moment whether or not I should request that it be removed. I decided that I had made the choice to read my story knowing that this might happen (or a video showing me reading it even). I also decided that other survivors who had spoken at the rally requested confidentiality. I was in a unique position, I realized, to speak out on their behalf. So, I left a public comment, identifying myself as the voice and at the same time reminding the journalist to be more careful about outing survivors like that. The journalist apologized and decided to edited the video so that my voice wouldn’t be heard. This might’ve happened after a man got onto his/her case about it, I can’t remember now. It was clear, though, that my point that I was okay with this got lost. And it also stands in stark contrast with something that happened recently that we don’t seem to be talking about: Ryan Grim of The Intercept outed Dr. Christine Blasey Ford by breaking the story that Senator Dianne Feinstein was withholding a letter.

Was it right for Ryan Grim to write this story?

It is easy to forget in what followed that Grim, without consulting her, forced a survivor to go full on public with her story. He did that despite the fact that this survivor had begged the people she chose to out herself to, to keep it confidential. Sure, we could say it was his journalistic duty to report and all this stuff. And, yet, maybe Senator Feinstein, as the senior Democrat on the Judiciary Committee, read the situation like it ended up playing out: Releasing the letter wouldn’t make a damn difference to the Republican support for the Supreme Court nominee and it would ruin Dr. Blasey Ford’s life all over again. Remember, the Republican chair also had the letter. It is very likely that the two had talked and Feinstein decided it wasn’t worth the risk.

I find it disturbing that in all the talk around this story, this particular element is not being discussed. If we really do want to protect survivors, allowing them to go public when we chose to do so, we are doing a damn bad job of ensuring that.

I am not sure whether Grim did the right thing here. It is easier to say now, after the fact, that it was all in vain. And maybe the public rage that was ignited by women in response to the Republicans exertion of patriarchal power made it worth it. Yet, Grim’s decision, given that he works for The Intercept, has more of the flavor of taking an “establishment Democrat” to task. “But he didn’t know, at the time, he’d out a survivor!” might be an excuse. Well, there is enough in his original reporting to suggest that he did. Debra Katz is mentioned as “a whistleblower attorney who works with #MeToo survivors.” Ryan Grim decided that it was okay to drag a survivor into the spotlight despite that survivor’s request to keep her story confidential. No, actually, this was not okay! If anybody’s life was destroyed in what happened next it wasn’t the rich white man’s who now sits on the Supreme Court, it was Dr. Christine Blasey Ford’s. And a white man made the decision to do that. Again.

P.S.: I am not sure if it is right to use her name in this post. I guess she is now out in the open. I did not use the Republicans’ names because I don’t want to honor them. Plus, their names remind me of their cruelty and immorality. To me, Dr. Blasey Ford is a shero!

Anger, Shame, and Power

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Shame is the tool of the oppressors

It does not change our behavior. Guilt does. Shame is used to get people to oppress themselves. This is also why we cannot shame up the hierarchy. White men in power literally feel no shame because they are on top of the power pyramid.

There is, however, a way we can use shame as a tool of liberation. And that way is being demonstrated in the #metoo movements. Yes, plural. There are at least three: Tarana Burke’s, the more recent (more glamorous) version, and the one that is most relevant here: Unshame.

We need to help each other refuse to take on the shame of rape. A woman, a person who was raped has nothing to be ashamed of! Yet, we learn to feel that shame to hide our anger!

Anger

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I am so fucking angry
if I were a dragon
I’d burn it all down
because I’d be spewing fire
all over the place

I am so fucking angry
if I didn’t know better
I’d castrate them all

I am so fucking angry
if you mansplain on me
I’ll scream

I am so fucking angry
because the rapist can
be angry
because his privilege to rape
is being questioned
but I am not allowed to be
because I am a woman

Well, fuck this shit!

I am ANGRY

On Date Rape – My #MeToo Story

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Content warning: As the title of the post suggests, it is about date rape. I share my experience with it.
To get help if you’ve been raped and are struggling with the aftermath: Please find someone to talk to! You are not alone! One option is to call RAINN at 1800-656-4673 or use the link to find help closer to where you are. People who staff these phonelines are trained to help us survivors.

“It wasn’t that bad. It’s been so long ago.”

These are the thoughts that keep going through my head. And yet, there are all the signs that this isn’t true. I oscillate between feeling tremendous rage at mostly white men dismissing her account. And then I want to hide somewhere. Both signs of post-traumatic stress injury.

Photo by Ted Weinstein taken before I shared this #metoo story. tedweinstein.com


It was in 1988. 30 years ago. I had met Dennis through work. He seemed charming. And I was intrigued by the idea of having a relationship with an African-American man. In my naive 20-year-old mind, he must automatically be progressive and interested in all the same things I was. I was politically active. I had come to the United States from Germany to reconcile the crimes of the Nazis. He invited me to his friend’s house. I can’t remember what excuse he made for that. It was only much later that I found out that he was married. He picked me up in front of the library. He drove a sportsy car. A green sports car, maybe a Volkswagen. I could still pick it out from a lineup. Just like him. We walked up the stairs to his friend’s apartment. It was a one bedroom. The living room had a bar-like counter that connected to the kitchen. I was sent into the friend’s bedroom because they had to do something. The friend came in after a while and chatted with me. I actually liked him better than Dennis.

My memory of what happened next is a bit fuzzy. I was offered something to drink – and got a cola that seemed very sweet. Then the friend left and Dennis and I were alone. Somehow we ended up on the couch. Dennis pulled my pants down. I am not sure why I didn’t resist. It was as if I had become paralyzed, become an object for a man’s pleasure without her own will. I remember the small window, high above that let light in. I was trying to go there with my mind while he tried to enter me. I remember that for some reason he couldn’t. I was too tight. He gave up at some point. Not sure if he ever came. I remember him suggesting I take a shower. I remember that I desperately tried to wash off what had just happened. And I couldn’t. I felt both numb and disgusted. And confused. What had just happened? Something in me had shattered.

He brought me home. As I was leaving the car, he touched me between my legs and told me to save that for him. I never did let him get close again. He must’ve been reassigned at work because I hardly saw him again. At some point, his wife called. She had found a poem I wrote him. I wish I would’ve told her to burn it. Maybe she did anyways.

I got an STD from the whole thing. The doctor who examined me told me I had been raped. I hadn’t associated that word with my experience. It fit. I had been raped. Me. The feminist. Something more shattered.

Because soon after the rape I ended up in an abusive marriage, I rarely talked about the rape. It wasn’t so bad compared to what I survived in the marriage. That’s what I told myself. It wasn’t until recently, when I read in “Not That Bad” about downplaying our experience, that I realized that the two are probably connected. My self-image had been shattered. The rape made me vulnerable to an abusive man.

So, yes, all this is 30 years ago now. I was a young adult then. And it’s still haunting me. Today, 30 years later, I am still the woman who was raped. And I am certain Dennis won’t even remember me. Nothing shattered for him. He was not traumatized by the experience. Hearing all the dismissals of Dr. Blasey Ford’s story, it seems more shatters inside of me. Each dismissal tells me: What happened to me doesn’t matter. It is such a long time ago.

And this is why I get angry because, damn it, it does matter! Even though it happened 30 years ago, the wound is still there. Sure, I put myself back together again – and I can still feel the cracks where I had shattered. Every time someone dismisses Dr. Blasey Ford’s story, the cracks open again. I shatter some more. Being raped is traumatizing. Being doubted is retraumatizing.

So, I am angry because every time a rape is dismissed, I am dismissed. Every time a rape is dismissed, I am told what happened to me doesn’t matter. Every time a rape is dismissed, I am told that my experience isn’t that important, I am not that important.

I am tired of these stories men (and, sadly some women…) make up to downplay the impact of rape. The rape shaped my life. That is important. And if you tell me otherwise, you’re just an asshole – and most likely a privileged white man. And your #timesup, damn it!

Reflections on Immigration

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In 1995, the Republican controlled Congress passed a law that would make it easier to deport permanent residents who were accused of a crime, even minor ones. I still remember hearing about this on the radio driving in my car. I can still see the dashboard. I was terrified. My ex-husband kept threatening me with “see you in jail.” What if he’d use this law to get me deported and thus separate me from my 4-year-old son? What if I then would no longer be able to protect him from his abusive father? I decided to become a U.S. citizen. At least that would keep me safe; at least that would allow me to stay in the country. It was an agonizing decision because I would lose my German citizenship. At some point, the realization that I’d be German even after that helped. I’d be able to get that citizenship back because my parents are German. I am German. So, I thought.

In 2018, that assumption is being tested. According to the German government, I am no longer German. I will have to reapply for my citizenship. I cannot even do a 2-week, unpaid internship without jumping through the hoops of an immigration system designed to keep people out, to keep me out of my home country.

In addition, there is hatred toward immigrants everywhere. Mostly it is directed against those immigrants who have the “wrong” skin color. I am white. I am still scared. I still feel unwelcome everywhere. I still feel invisible as a human being. That’s what it is really about: We are not treated as human beings, we’re being treated as annoying numbers, as people who are dangerous, who need to be kept away or else we’ll be poisoning the water and the gene pool. I was able to leave my abusive husband. I am not able to leave the haters. It seems like nowhere is safe anymore. I am not welcome anywhere.