I Think I'm a Feminist

I think I'm a feminist.

I think I'm a feminist because I remember taking a course on Feminism in college and really digging it. I think I'm a feminist because I really hate the idea of objectifying my body, and I find myself complaining miserably when other female-identified people do the same.

I think I'm a feminist because I seek the link between any slight injustice and the Anglo, patriarchal, hegemonic system of capitalism we all survive in.

Most recently, I have exploited myself (for what feels like the final time) for another man... yet again. Amidst exploring the intersection of my many identities for graduate school, I have found a part of me always yearning to explore polyamory. And I have done so - in the form of drunken nights and lonely excursions to other men's homes while waiting for James to get off work. I have explored this yearning in the form of infidelity, shame, and guilt. But after reading source material by bell hooks and Audre Lorde describing monogamy as capitalism's stronghold on heredity, securing the lineage of male names, property, and power, I shook with dismay that I ever shamed myself into adhering so strongly to something that came so unnatural; the ideal image of a 'loyal, thin, successful girlfriend.' I think I'm also pansexual.

The amount of force that I've used to get myself to stick to standards that were never my own is akin to abuse. And the number of times I've gone running back to it as a form of safety is strikingly similar to how one would behave with Stockholm's Syndrome. This last time, however, finally took its toll on my soul. I've gone through multiple iterations of realizing this, but its core nucleus always contains sexualizing my body. This most recent bout included attraction to a fellow member of the gym I go to - and his interests in the same academic material, neoliberal ideologies, and minimalist way of living struck me as different from other men: this was someone a feminist could connect with! So, I pulled the cord: I abandoned monogamy, broke James's heart, and went on this trek of self-sexploration. And it worked! It felt invigorating, empowering, and emboldening. Until his avoidant attachment style pulled him so far inwards there was no cajoling him back out. Until my ways of loving, ways of emoting, ways of existing became "too much." Until my anxious attachment style analyzed every single fiber of my own being to be tweaked, plucked, and pruned to be 'just enough' for his liking. Until I realized the 'too-muchness' of my very being ONLY EXISTED in the power I gave to him. In the power to define security within my own body for me. The too-muchness was only placed in the value I gave him, as I moved my belongings out of James's apartment and into his, waited by my phone for his texts that were never to come, written explanations and apologies for my reactions to his avoidant behavior, only to have them tossed aside as an overreaction. And the moment I realized I gave him much more power than his worth, I did what I do best: I ran. This time, however, I knew I couldn't run back to another man. No matter the unconditional love James had to offer me, I'll never be in a place where I am able to receive it until I've addressed the void that exists deep within my very own heart, a big black hole that stands where I should be. The love that I should provide for myself has never fully been formed, so the me that exists within the pit of the black hole uses its centrifugal force to swing from one luring prospect to the next, gripping for dear life, hoping that this one is the fix. This time it's real. This time it's gonna work.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Well, honey. So as long as you continue to use your body for oppression and misogyny, you will continue to avoid this black hole, increasing its dearth rather than your strength. As long as you turn to the side as you look in the mirror as the parameter for how much love you are allowed to be given that day, just as long as you equate your emptiness with your powerfulness, just as long as you associate another man's cowardliness with your insatiable appetite, just as long as you use the gym, the mountainside, the schedule of your day to manipulate and parse down your body, the black hole within you will continue to be the very opposite of what you are trying to achieve: a gluttonous pig. Because what you are feeding it is not nutritive. It does not increase soul-power, it increases feelings of worthlessness and shame. It is gobbling what you are feeding it and asking for more because it knows what the real thing is. The black hole inside of you is the bastardized child who was never told they were enough. Who was never told 'your body is not a precursor to how much love you deserve'. That 'your body is a marvelous mechanism of support, not a presentation of their self-discipline'. That 'your artful interpretation of the world is something to be explored, not exiled'. That 'other's interpretation of you is representative of how YOU should value THEM, not the amount they value you'. That sometimes it's okay to eat a jar of peanut butter when you feel rejection, if that's what is needed to truly embrace and work through the mud. That whatever is needed to accept what IS rather than escape into what you think SHOULD BE, is an acceptable form of coping. Because that black void is telling me that my dismissal of my own pain, my own appetite, my own desires, my own needs is an exact replica of the abuse I endured by my father. However, I now know that just because that is what I was shown is the way to take care of myself does not mean it is the law of my land.

I now know what it is like to lie myself down as a trampoline arena for someone else to bounce on and walk away when they decide they are done playing. I now know what it is like to trample on myself with another so they have a playmate, and so I don't have to play alone. I now know what it is like to abondon the nucleus of my being to satisfy societal proscriptions: it feels like shit. Because this type of abandonment IS abuse. And I've made a declaration, a promise to my body that I will never objectify her again. By embracing her, I am dismantling the notion that she should look however society beckons her to look, however men cajole her to be, and however her unearned privilege grants her unwarranted advantages. Part of what's so scary about this dismantling is that it is very comfortable to earn invisible privileges. Knowing the pain that already exists within a privileged form makes it even scarier to allow my bodily form to expand and explore in every which way she needs to, knowing that the beneifts of her previous position were mostly invisible. But I'd rather be slapped in the face by the reality of what it's like to embrace myself rather than live in the mystification of self-abandoment any day. Because what I know now is that abaondoning myself isn't just abandoning me, but those highly-sensitive children who came before me, the curvy women who exist around me, the people who do not benefit from a misogyinstic patriarchal system of capitalism (namely those of color, of LBGTQA+ identity, those disabled, those of the lower class, and every organism in between).

And those people? They are my PEEPS! They exist on the island of Misfits along with all the other parts of myself I've rejected as 'too much.' I know that now. And when you know better, you do better. And this means replacing the misogynistic introjects of my psyche with empowering notions of what it is to be female in this world; to defy oppression, to stand for fair and equal treatment of oneself and another, to unapologetically embrace the rejected parts of themselves that exist equally within society and within their soul.

This is the declaration I have made to myself to do better: I promise to use my body as a tool of political activism, to stand for the dismantling of systems of oppression that exist within and without myself.

Attached is a scholarly narration of how I've gotten here, from the beginning of my 1st Quarter of grad school to its completion, rounding off the class, 'Society and the Individual':

My undergraduate years of studying Political Science satisfied the Social Justice Warrior within me. The last time I saw my father was when I was 8 years old, watching him be shackled into his prison cell after testifying against him in the court of law. The inner child within me who was not afforded protection from him at the time she needed it the most finally received it; and so did each global injustice I would learn about. My impetus for protection was splayed in a projectile fashion onto that which shocked my world: hegemonic land grabs, water grabs, colonial power plays, and institutionalized racism just to name a few. What’s better yet: I finally had something to blame for my inherent sense of injustice.

Unfortunately, one must build a pretty hefty persona in order to play the game of Politics as a profession. One must put on airs to earn their keep in a dog-eat-dog world, which, in the Western culture of the Global North, must be somewhat centered upon a racist, ableist, misogynistic, and patriarchal axis in order to gain enough support within a sick system. This tended to wear and tear upon my soul, which wasn’t too far beneath the surface of my very thin skin. I devoted as much of my heart as my brain to my studies: sacrificing my own needs out of white guilt and overcompensation to combat the inherent shame of my ancestry. As if I was the sole proprietor of racialized injustice, climate change, and human domination over nature, I'd be damned if I didn't omit single-use plastic, trade my car for a bike, and exist as little as humanly possible. This created a warped sense of identity, whose value came from how much she gave to others and how much she looked as if she was playing the part; assessing size, community service, production of waste, consumption of meat, and level of activity as the parameters of worth. Over time, this abandonment of self led me to developing anorexia nervosa, necessitating multiple treatment centers. The excavation of soul was such a massive task, I was convinced it was impossible.

While receiving treatment, I was afforded time to imagine how I would feel if I could solve every global injustice…and the answer was devastating: still powerless. Pointing fingers and playing the blame-game felt vindicating, but was only a band-aid approach to the deeper wound: trauma. I began to read self-help books while I simultaneously identified trauma-bonding, splitting, and dissociation in real life. This is when my passion for the psyche came to fruition; if there was science behind my madness there was hope. There was structure to the chaos. There was value in my struggle of self. There was worth. I came to acknowledge that Political Science was my way of projecting a defense against the system, against ‘the man’, who, I later came to realize, was representative of my father, and eventually switched professions.

While doing research on what program to enroll in, I battled between Pacifica Graduate Institute and Antioch University. Antioch offered the liberalism and soul-quenching creativity my heart was perpetually drawn to, while Pacifica offered status and awe. There was also something about being caught up in the turmoil of my own trauma that turned me away from the desire of becoming an LMFT. If I can barely imagine my own existence, how could I possibly put myself in the shoes of another’s? There were things that, as a white, middle-class, heterosexual woman, I would never be able to comprehend about another’s existence…nor would I try ... so I thought. So I went with Pacifica, in hopes that their PhD. program would satisfy my privilege, rather than challenge it.

However, after the first quarter, the jargon of Jungian Psychology and emphasis on level of scholarly achievement removed what psychology meant to me: the meaning-making behind human struggle. The gold cultivated from the shit. The alchemy of self-discovery.

I needed to listen to my heart.

Alas, at Antioch, I was thrown for a loop. Originally shying away from the individual experience, gravitating toward the systemic, I did not pay much attention to experiences of subtlety. Until watching the Color of Fear, I avoided peering into another person’s world. It felt invasive; too personal, too intimate. Until I learned that such avoidance was afforded to me by privilege and oppression. What I was avoiding was the very thing that makes me able to walk around in the world without noticing my race. What I was avoiding was the quiet ire a person of color experiences as they are ignored at a checkout line. What I was avoiding was the murmurs of strangers made while a person in a wheelchair crosses the street. What I was avoiding was the faint denial of a job to a hardworking person without housing. What I was avoiding was the trash thrown at a transgender individual. What I was avoiding was the threat of rape or forced marriage experienced in conversion therapy by an LGBTQ+ individual. What I was avoiding were the subtle grievances amounting to the ginormous loss of humanity.

I will forever be impacted by the Narratives of Participation read aloud during one of our gatherings:

“Instead of defending against the dislocation and liminality of rupture, one may be able to bear and contain the ambiguities, fears, uncertainty, and uncanniness of a pilgrimage. Ruptures may be embedded in narratives of participation that embrace exploration.

In this type of journey, one will often feel disoriented and lost. Without a road map for transformation, one is pressed to develop a capacity for engaging a process of trial and error, of improvising meanings for one’s new experiences, meanings that may themselves prove inadequate. In such a process, there may be a disidentification with and sacrifice of old ideals and a deconstruction of old ways of thinking. There may be a long period when contradictory ideas contend for space and adherence. Supportive and witnessing relationships will be crucial. In liminal space, one meets the unknown, the marginalized, the synchronistic, the other, the unconscious edge of one’s former narratives” (Watkins & Shulman, 2008)

I am forever grateful for Professor Fernando and my colleagues of Society & the Individual class for providing the supportive and witnessing relationships that are so crucial during this time of transformation. I find myself questioning my use of power, internalized privilege, and subsequent oppression on a daily basis, but in a more authentic way than before. Although assessing my use of dichotomous, hierarchical, and linear thinking proves to be much more uncomfortable than the soothing sabotage of self-pity, it happens to be much more fruitful in a lifelong manner.

My identity as an indebted trauma survivor and lifelong victim of the system has been wracked to its core. The injustice that I experience daily lives on much more in my head than it does in society. And that is a privilege. Rather than succumbing to the narrative within my head, I am now questioning what it would be like to view myself as victimless Emily? Emily who defines her own power as not by what was robbed from her, but by her intentional participation in the world around her? Emily who has power. Emily who uses that power to question power. That is a terrifying notion for me, loaded with remnants of guilt, fear, and uncertainty.

Having a firm understanding of the interwoven nature of my privilege and unbraiding it from my victimhood will be a life-long endeavor. Viewing others’ narratives from a hierarchical framework, stripped of my own bias will certainly be a work in progress. I know that I have much to be illuminated by, including the narratives of fellow classmates, professors, and eventually clients. I can be grateful that, however ironic, the newfound uncertainty of my own identity will only cultivate a patience for proper reflection upon the suffering of future unknown souls: the work of Psychotherapy.

Resources

Watkins, M. & Shulman, H., 2008. Toward psychologies of liberation. Palgrave Macmillan UK