Category Archives: trauma

It was so much worse than I thought

My friend had a baby two weeks ago and holy shit, seeing her with her newborn has brought some clarity to my own postpartum experience.

The reactionary feelings run the gamut. Joy for this woman who has longed to be a mother; realization of just how bad it was for me; grief over what I missed out on; heartache for myself as a first-time mother; pain over having to navigate it by myself; and if I’m being totally honest, a wee bit of jealousy.

The eight months I spent undiagnosed with postpartum depression and anxiety were even more brutal than I thought they were. I didn’t realize I’d be processing that time of life all over again, but in a way I’m grateful for the opportunity. I’m holding 37yo me gently as I navigate these complex feelings.

A silver lining of not being able to put your newborn daughter down: Eight years later, she still pulls the collar of my shirt down to rest her cheek against my decolletage when she needs connection. And it sends a rush of oxytocin through my heart every time.

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall…Who IS That?

Cleaning out the drafts folder. This one is from 2020.

There is a person who blatantly stares at me.  Usually uncomfortable by such attention, I’m used to her curious eyes now.  She’s really pretty. Her smile is her best feature – it sprouts two dimples when in full bloom. Her eyes are a quiet shade of blue that light up when she laughs.  Her hair is long and shiny and perfect shades of honey and late summer wheat.

I imagine she’s looking at my large pores or the chip in my tooth. I bet she immediately noticed the hint of a double chin and the second-day hair that smells bad underneath the guise of dry shampoo. She probably can’t help but study the hideous ‘skin-colored’ mole thing on my cheek.

I expect my reflection to be plain and disheveled.  I’m rather thankful I don’t recognize this person in the mirror. I’d prefer to only know that I’m beautiful on the inside and remained surprised each time I look in the mirror.

It’s a strange dichotomy to have such a disparate image of oneself.

What goes around…

Cleaning out the drafts folder. This one is from 2016.

This is a story about bullies getting some good old-fashioned comeuppance.

Quarterback was born in 2015. I returned to work at Greed Financial three months later. The boss I adored had left the company and I returned to report to Jafar.

Jafar, a heavy-set woman with unnaturally red hair that she curls every day, was the VP of my area. She has the trendy glasses and wardrobe of the ad world from whence she came. She has a great laugh and an approachable nature. A fox in sheep’s clothing.

Soon enough, my role was layered and then layered again underneath Jafar. It wasn’t a problem, except my new boss was a person we’ll call Tiny Tyrant. The Tiny Tyrant was bat shit crazy. Jafar was a grown-ass bully.

Later

I started the draft in June 2019. I don’t want to relive the details necessary to paint a full picture of how callous these catty women were, so we’ll fast forward to the comeuppance.

I was looking for a new job at the same time I was talking to attorney about Jafar’s interference in my career at Greed Financial. Here’s the series of events:

  1. I started talking to an attorney
  2. I began interviewing internally and externally
  3. A hiring manager at Greed Financial told me that Jafar had interfered with me getting a job in his group.
  4. I asked HR for my file and some poor intern gave me the file they aren’t supposed to show you
  5. I had written proof of their harassment, retaliation and discrimination.
  6. They laid me off the day before I announced I was pregnant with my second child.
  7. I got a lucrative offer from a mom who was nine-months pregnant and didn’t care that I was pregnant.
  8. My attorney went for the jugular.
  9. Greed Financial settled with me.
  10. Greed Financial unceremoniously fired Tiny Tyrant and Jafar.

How’s it up there in the ivory tower?

I’ve been at this company for nearly a decade. My career with this institution will be marked “before that call” and “after that call.”

Before, I was content. I wanted to work hard. I liked my job. I had utmost respect for the CEO based on personal interactions.

Then there was after.

After the shock, I cried tears of frustration and rage. The return-to-work strategy is damaging to women. Namely mothers.

I’m embarrassed to work here. I’m ashamed that I add value to an organization run by a wealthy, mediocre, white, man in an ivory tower.

Knowing what I know now. The idea of returning to the stress of my life in 2020 is unfathomable. No job is worth that. Fortunately, there are plenty of open roles in my field that are interested in paying for my brain – not for my physical body in a cubicle.

This company will not only lose me as a long-time employee, but also as a customer and shareholder over this.

I don’t do business with companies that don’t support women.

That’s some 1950s shit right there

The road to women’s rage is lined with mediocre white men.

The women of my grandmother’s generation were meant to graduate from high school, immediately find a husband and produce as many kids as possible (Irish Catholic). She spent all day tending to the needs of her offspring all day only to tend to the needs of her husband after work.

Then their daughters were allowed to go to college with the exception they would find a husband, quit their jobs and rear children.

Men’s lives didn’t change.

Today, my generation is meant to go to college, grind at a job to earn $0.80 on a man’s dollar, get married, crank out kids and return immediately return to work where we need to be an equal earner to our spouses. We’re doing all of that while pumping breastmilk, not sleeping, trying to be promoted, raising wildly successful and enriched children, expected to live a Pinterest lifestyle, doing all the thinking and planning for the family, taking care of elderly parents and watching every calorie and staving off all signs of aging?

And still men’s lives haven’t changed? What. The. Actual. Fuck.

The guys I went to college with — my peers — have turned into their fathers. They idolized mediocre white men (in some cases, wealthy or worse, only generationally wealthy) and have grown up to fill their manchild-sized shoes.

Today, we’re forced to choose between two decrepit mediocre white men to lead the United States. Two men that came of age before JFK was assassinated, Niel Armstrong landed on the moon and Elvis Presley became famous. They grew up watching mothers abide by gender roles and dote on their husbands every whim.

I finished Kristin Hannah’s The Four Winds last week. It’s a historical fiction novel set in the Great Depression and told through the flipping lenses of a mother and daughter. It’s the story of the societal oppression of women; men abandoning their families; and ultimately rich white men getting richer on the backs of people strategically kept in poverty.

I finished this book at the same time my employer declared war on women. Or more palatable to him, the end of remote work. Semantics. A 61yo man on a modern-day throne decided to fuck all the women in one fell swoop.

It was — as my colleague put it so eloquently — as if a tornado was put in a blender with a grenade and the CEO hurdled it at us.

Mediocre white men can fuck right off.

Look for the helpers

“Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.” – Mister Rogers

Easter was the first holiday after I broke the silence. I was 26 and the fallout meant I would spend the day alone. While prepared to do so, it still hurt.

I declined many sweet offers from friends to join their families. I was still too ashamed.

Forever, I will be grateful to one friend who – in the most loving way possible – bullied me into Easter with her family. On the drive back to my house, I wept quiet tears because for that moment, kindness eclipsed everything else.

Omitting the why and subsequent tears, I told that story at her wedding. That single act of determined compassion and kindness still makes me misty.

Look for the helpers.

Maslow got it

Safety is second only to food, water and sleep in Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. And in the wake of sexual assault, I never felt safe.

I felt most vulnerable on the brink of sleep. Today, the reason falling asleep was difficult is clear. But at the time, I did what people do; I found a way to avoid that feeling.

Moving targets are less vulnerable and allow little time for intrusive thoughts. So, I never stopped moving. My schedule was ridiculous. I habitually exhausted myself so I’d be too tired to think.

The first time I remember falling asleep on my terms was next to my best friend in college. Everyone assumed “we’re just friends” really meant he and I were sleeping together. And we were, but not like that.

I gravitated to the safety of his side. Especially in times vulnerability: Whenever I planned to drink a lot, in the event of unwanted male attention, at night and so on. He protected me. We never talked about it. He just let me be near him. And the safety he gave me was something no other person had done in my life.

I did not make it this far on my own. So many friends propped me up, held me close to their hearts and even carried me when the paralysis of shame or fear set in.

And most of them don’t even know the impact of their kindness and compassion – they are just simply extraordinary people I’ve been so lucky to have found.