Flaws and Fears

Dear Blog,

It’s been almost two weeks since my last confession blog post.

My list of excuses for my absence are as follows:

1) I was busy

2) I was having too many emotions to make sense of in a blog post and/or it was stuff I don’t feel I can share publicly

3) I was paralyzed in the overwhelm that is my current emotional life

4) I feel I don’t have anything new to say or contribute to the blog world

5) I was avoiding you


Let’s discuss #3. A lot of people have been saying to me something similar to “you must be so excited and happy with the new house and the upcoming wedding!” And instead of gushing about it, I share an itemized list of all the things I have to do to get the house “ready” or get the wedding details in order. Where is the joy? Where is my happiness? I don’t even notice I’m not feeling those things until someone else does. This seems like a problem on top of a problem.

Not experiencing good feelings while not noticing the absence of said good feelings = problem.

I don’t mean to say I am never happy or excited or full of joy. But these moments are fleeting for me. They always have been. I have spent the majority of my life stressed out and in hyper-awareness mode. I’ve talked about this before countless times. I apologize for the redundancy but this way that I am is all up in my face right now and I need to talk it out (again).

I am always anticipating the problem so I can have a solution. This might be the nature I was born with or it might be the conditioning of growing up the oldest in an alcoholic household. I tend to be all business- meticulous, detailed, regimented, task-oriented, perfectionistic. Being that type of person has helped me function in the world, and in many respects, has helped me survive. These are some of my prized coping mechanisms. They make me really good at my job as an Event Manager. They make me very challenging to deal with in a relationship.

Mr. Darcy and I have been having a rough time the last few weeks. We are very opposite each other in some key ways. We also remind each other of our parents which is basically like picking up the trigger phone and dialing straight to crazy. In total honesty, we have said to one another (in complete fear of it being what the other person might be thinking/feeling) that maybe we shouldn’t get married. Does anyone ever talk about this? Because I sincerely doubt we are the only engaged couple to ever have these fights, thoughts, feelings, fears. Fuck it. So what if no one talks about it. I’m talking about it because it’s real for us. I know we’re not the only ones.

Back before we were engaged and we’d have an argument, sometimes one of us would wonder aloud if we should break up. I think for two people who are afraid of being rejected/left/unloved, going to that place and saying such a thing is understandable. Saying it doesn’t mean it should happen. It doesn’t even mean that either of us WANT it to happen. Pretty much it means the opposite of that, frankly. So now that we’ve upped the ante and are engaged, have bought a house together, and are a little over 3 months from a wedding, we now say “should we get married?” instead. It sucks. It hurts our feelings. Who the hell wants to acknowledge their deepest fears? I know people who spend their entire lifetimes avoiding such things! And yet here we are, looking it in the eye and feeling really shitty about it.

I want to marry Mr. Darcy. Even when I’ve been the one to say “should we get married?” I want to marry him. Even when we are having an argument, I want to marry him. He is my person. I just want to figure out how to get out of my own damn way so I can love him the way he deserves to be loved. I want to find a way to relax into trusting him and this relationship. I want to let myself feel happy feelings for more than a fleeting minute and figure out how to turn off the to do list running in my head like a ticker tape. I want to trust us, that no matter what we’re there for each other.

Every day I choose him, even on the days when I am not my best self or I question why he’d want to spend the rest of his life with me.

We’ve gone through a lot of change in the last month- he started a new job, we moved to a new neighborhood, our commutes changed, our routines flip-flopped, we bought a house(!), and we’re in the final stages of wedding planning. We might be kind of stressed out. I might be in full-on Colonel Sizzle mode, trying to reign in all the chaos. Mr. Darcy grew up in a home with an actual Colonel as a dad. Yeah, you can see how me being like that might not create harmony in the home. But we’re working on it because we love each other and want to be together. We’ll probably always be working on it. Relationships are works in progress.

Permission to be flawed, granted.


Does this emotional meltdown make me look fat?

Last week I had a major meltdown of epic proportions.

I had purchased jeans on-line. I hate jeans shopping. I think I hate it more than swimsuit shopping. As much as I proclaim I am a dress girl all the way, there is this piece of me that longs to just throw on jeans and a shirt and look effortlessly cool and hip and comfortable. But usually when I put on jeans I feel dumpy. I carry the majority of my weight in my belly so jeans that usually fit my legs don’t fit around my middle. As was the case with this pair. I got them buttoned but my stomach was smushed up and over the waistband. I walked out to the living room to show Mr. Darcy and was laughing about how ridiculous I looked. He even remarked, “At least you can laugh about it.”

I went back to the bedroom to change and looked at myself hard in the mirror. I stopped laughing and cringed. I felt ashamed and for me, shame usually gets masked by anger. I started to internalize my anger, saying terribly mean things to myself about being ugly, fat, unworthy, unloveable. I tried to cover up my downward spiral by going about making myself dinner (I had gone to dance class after work so it was nearing 8pm). But then my internal fuckedupness told me that I didn’t deserve to eat. Look at how gross I am. Look at how pathetic. Mr. Darcy tried to be comforting but I pushed him away saying I was going into the bathroom to probably cry. I feel so silly crying about my body in front of him. I know he feels helpless. I know he thinks I am beautiful. But I don’t. And that’s the crux of the problem here.

So I cried and then tried to pull myself together to go watch TV with him on the couch. I looked pretty pathetic sitting there, curled up into myself, far away from any comfort Mr. Darcy might want to try to give me. He tried, bless his heart, and I started to try to explain. “I just want to be normal! I just want it to be easier to find clothes so I can look like everyone else. And this is why I am paralyzed with fear about finding a wedding dress. What if I can’t find anything? What if it’s all dumpy plus sized dresses made out of cheap material? I’m so afraid I’ll have a horrible experience shopping that I will be pushed to this place of self-hatred and I won’t be able to come back from it.” It poured out of me and I felt too raw to sit there exposed like that so I left and went back to the bathroom.

I like to have my breakdowns in privacy.

I sat on the bathroom floor and bawled. I felt scared that I couldn’t pull myself back from the crazy precipice I had found myself at. I couldn’t self-soothe. I couldn’t rationalize my emotional roller coaster. I couldn’t catch my breath. I had spiraled to the dark place. I felt utterly alone.

I suppose this all sounds dramatic and maybe I was being over-wrought. I can usually talk myself down from this mental state but for some reason that night I was unable to.* When I opened the bathroom door Mr. Darcy was standing there, leaning against the wall. I felt even worse knowing he’d heard me- that he’d stood out there waiting for me to be done, knowing that if he’d try to comfort me I would have pushed him further away. So he waited and listened to me cry even though it was hard for him to do so. He’s learned to give me space but not to completely disappear and I am so grateful for him. So thankful that he loves me even when I’m clearly acting like a lunatic.

My therapy appointments are focused on my body loathing because it holds me back from being fully present in my life. Because it’s the thing I always come back to when I feel low. It’s my shame epicenter. And goddamnit I am tired of it. Despite a lifetime of dieting and trying different work out regimes, starving and bingeing, hating myself for not accepting myself as is and shaming myself for not being “an acceptable weight”, I’m just SO DONE carrying all this around. It’s like a barrier between myself and the life I want to live. I want to be free. And so, I’m diving into the deep emotional work and I’m basically terrified about what I could discover. But I’m doing it anyhow because this isn’t how I want to live. Even if it’s just an occasional breakdown, those feelings live inside me just waiting for the opportunity to break out. Where do those feelings come from? And why?

I hope to find out. And I hope what I discover doesn’t break me.


*Turns out those crazy emotions could be attributed to whacked out hormones. Thanks PMS! But still, something has to change.

Body Hatred > Self-Love: Changing the Equation

It was a culmination of things that lead me to this place.

This place where, for the past two weeks (and counting), I have been subsisting on only lean protein, certain veggies, some fruit, non-fat, plain yogurt, and green tea. I’ve been in detox mode. Or as I call it in my mind, “fuck this fat” mode. And yes, the vulgarity is important.

I’m totally pissed off- at myself, at my fat, at my inability to just accept my body as it is and be fine. The truth is I AM NOT FINE and I spend way too much energy thinking about how unattractive I am because of my fat. THAT IS NOT OKAY. I’m sick of it- that way of thinking, that way of being. I’ve tried to embrace the reality of my chubby self. I dress it up and put on a brave face. I already eat healthy and work out 5 days a week. And yet I am still heavy.

What. The. Fuck.

So I decided that I had to DO something because I am not good at just sitting back and letting life happen to me. I’m a person of action. And so, inspired by a blog friend, I picked up the 17 Day Diet book and have immersed myself in the process. It’s very similar to South Beach which I had a lot of success on before I met Mr. Darcy. Remember when I dropped 30+ pounds? Well. Uh. I gained 25lbs of that back. And that realization made me crumble in a pile of my own self-loathing. I could tell clothes were fitting me differently but then I bought a scale and the truth of it could not be denied. This is not the first time I’ve had to take a very hard look at myself and my body.

There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to put this here- admit to my fatness like it’s some secret. The feeling of vulnerability in confessing that I am depressed about my body and my inability to keep weight off and the fact that I can’t seem to truly accept this part of myself is off the charts. But I know a lot of you struggle with this same issue and like all the other personal stuff I share, I figure sharing this might help some of you.

At work my co-workers are intrigued and/or appalled by the food I am existing on. Some of my naturally thin co-workers have never had to diet and having to give up certain foods seems unfathomable to them. “No bread?! I would die.” (I’ve heard this.) “Why are you doing this to yourself?” to which I asked, “Have you ever been fat?” A look of horror flickered across his face. Don’t say the word fat! Don’t admit your fatness aloud! No one wants to talk that bluntly about it.

It’s my fat and I will talk about it if I want to.

If you have never been fat, you don’t get it. There is probably something you might not like about your appearance but if you’ve never been overweight you do not get why I am doing this. That’s what I want to tell them. Eat your Wendy’s cheeseburger and fries and be thin and don’t worry about me. I am taking care of me.

That’s the hard thing about sharing your “diet” with anyone. There are so many opinions. How you should do it. What worked for them. You’re fine the way you are. You should just. . . FILL IN THE BLANK. I am not asking for advice because I am having yogurt and fruit for breakfast, okay? I’m just trying to get a handle on my relationship between my mind and my body. It’s really complicated and not easy but I am hoping it pays off. I would like to use all that brain-space and energy for more productive things than self-hatred.

I have done a great deal of really hard work on accepting myself. I’ve had a lot of success in every area but this one. I’ve reached rock bottom when it comes to my body hatred. I want to look in the mirror and not be full of judgment. I want to walk in a room and not worry about what other people are thinking about my size. I want to be free from the self-loathing. I’ve got shit to do and this? This is taking up too much time in my life schedule.




Nothing More Than Feelings

I am having too many feelings.

Maybe this is my normal level of feeling-ness but the difference is that I am actually feeling them. Like deep, a gut-punch of feeling. I blame therapy entirely.

I suppose this is the purpose of therapy (it is) and that I should feel some level of gratitude (I do) and yet I’m not sure how to BE. Does that make sense? I’ve lived my life at the precipice of certain feelings and now I’m in them. It’s all a bit much, frankly.

It’s probably odd to people who know me that I’m just now getting in touch with feeling my feelings. Especially because I spend 90% of my blog going on and on about my emotions. (Would we call that irony?) I’m entirely more comfortable talking about other people’s feelings than my own. Let’s talk about you! Let me take care of  you! I have lots of advice (that most of the time I won’t take for myself) (AHEM). I’ve used this blog (and before that, countless paper journals) to express in written form what is often hard for me to articulate out loud. I’m a process-y kind of person. I delve into the muck of my mind. What can I say, I relish in organization in all its forms.

It’s just that now instead of being in my head all the time, I’m in my feelings.

So when I am sitting on my therapist’s couch -the couple’s counselor, the one who has me do direct eye contact for upwards of 45 minutes at a time (hello! INTENSE!) and I’m talking and looking at her and she’s just there, just listening, just supporting, just staring straight at me. . . I am unnerved and yet, it opens me. It opens me to a place that is unfamiliar and scary and yet I want to dive deeper into it. I feel things acutely and if I look away, attempt to shift focus, lamely try to divert her attention, she sees.

It’s a powerful thing, being seen.

In my last session I felt like I had a positive revelation about myself. I walked out of the office feeling that I had a grip on who I am and, no small feat, I felt really good about that person. Even though when I talked about myself to her I was emphatic in my explanation of Who I Am as a person. I’m a good person. I am strong and intuitive and sensitive and funny and kind. I’m very loved.  I said all this with strong gestures, almost making fists and pounding the arm rest. Uh, who are you trying to convince? Oh right- me. I even was considering how to shift my blog and my persona of being this “neurotic is the new normal” type of girl. Because that person? I’m outgrowing her. I don’t want to play into that small version of myself. I’m tired of writing that story.

All this is to say that I’m making progress. Even when I write posts like yesterday where I admit to falling into a pit of despair and negativity. Even when I have a bad day. Especially when I let myself feel the feelings without distracting myself or worse, completely disconnecting to the point of numbing out. I’m rather adept at that.  You might never have noticed because I’ve been practicing my cover up techniques for many years. Or maybe you did? It’s well documented that I am a terrible liar.It’s quite possible I could have been deluding myself all this time.

Regardless of all that, the point is that I am getting somewhere. I’m not sure where. I’m not sure when. I’m not 100% enjoying it but it feels like the right path.





Supple texted me, “Do you want to go see The Barber of Seville with me tomorrow night?”

I replied, “Sure!”

Then I thought to myself, “What exactly IS The Barber of Seville?”**

I googled it and was all, “Uh oh. It’s opera.”

Let me explain.

Despite my love of theater and music, I just don’t love them together. Yes, yes, I grew up loving The Sound of Music and Grease (though I prefer the uber-cheesy Grease 2) and was required to sit through multiple viewings of Oliver (my Mom’s favorite). In high school my mom, sister and I would go to the theater on final dress rehearsal night wherein I was subjected to the likes of Jesus Christ, Superstar and My Fair Lady.

I just don’t get why they have to SING when they could be talking. Oh right! BECAUSE IT IS MUSICAL THEATER.

I can stomach musical theater in small doses. But the opera? That takes it to a whole other level. THEY SING EVERYTHING. And they sing it repeatedly. And it’s in a language I don’t speak. And it goes on for a very long time.

I think opera could seriously benefit from an editor.

At last night’s performance, there was an older lady sitting a row ahead of us and four seats to our left. Not 20 minutes into the performance her head was thrown back and she was sawing logs. Occasionally she’d jolt herself awake, grab her theater binoculars, and pretend she hadn’t just been fast asleep. Nobody bought it. But I found it entertaining. She might have been my favorite part of the show. That and the cocktails. (And of course, Supple’s company.)

At the intermission, Supple asked, “So what do you think?” And I replied, “I remembered I don’t like opera.”

I wish I liked opera. Liking opera sounds so cultured. But alas, I am not that girl. You can take me to the theater, an author reading, a poetry slam, a dance performance, to hear classical music or hip hop or indie folk or jazz but you can’t take me to the opera.

Feel free to judge me.

**If you think you aren’t familiar with opera, The Barber of Seville, you probably know it without knowing you know it. There was a Bugs Bunny adaptation called The Rabbit of Seville that is widely known. I recognized a lot of the music because I had seen that cartoon as a kid.


Three Sided Truth

What you and I don’t know about each other could fill volumes.

I piece together tidbits. I know what you look like though I’ve never stood in the same room with you. I know you have family you are close to and friends who love you. I know you are creative and kind and apparently funny though I have no idea what type of humor amuses you. I know you’re sensitive and a healer. We probably could have been friends. Except.

We’ve loved the same man. At the same time.

I am fairly certain you hate me. I don’t blame you and honestly, I understand. I’ve done things I never thought I would. Felt worse than I ever thought possible. Circled around my truth, hid from it, then swallowed it. Whole. In my own heart I’ve bargained. I’ve walked away repeatedly. Fought to break free so you could have a chance. So I could, too. I am not entirely selfless and definitely not blameless.  I am so many things, qualified as good or as bad depending on the seer, but I am always honest.

Ask him. He knows the brunt of it best.

I don’t know what you know of me. Or if it’s you that is checking my blog from where you both live together. I’m not even certain if you know that he talks to me. That he always has found a way back even when I change my number or move or say goodbye. A thousand times, goodbye. That I’ve always said you deserved better. That we all did. Because we all do.

By all turns, I am the other woman. I do not fool myself into believing any different. I’m the personification of a deeper problem. I’m a fantasy escape programmed in his mind’s speed dial. But I’ve participated in a lie that is not my own which makes me party to the masquerade. And that is not who I am. Not in every other place but here. And here should be no exception.

How much do you want to know?

You and I have never spoken though you’ve told him we have. I get the desperation that drove the lie. Maybe you’re hoping to finally get the whole truth. I think you already know but the mind can guard against the heart’s worst fears.  I do not know your intimacies, your inside jokes, your years of knowing him in ways I never have or will. I do not know your heart. But I hope you know that truth is the very least of what you deserve.

What you do with it is your own.

“This is a story of loaded glances and leaning in too far/this is a story of vague advances and confessions in smoky bars/so now I am walking down the sidewalk/and I am singing to myself/and I’m going to leave it all behind me now/’cause I don’t need this, I just don’t need this. . ./some fantasies are never meant to be realized at all/ and some regrets could be prevented/if you read the writing on the wall. . .” -Burning Bridges, Chris Pureka

Self-Love Day 2009

vdaypourhommeToday (and tomorrow) mark the third annual Self-Love Day started by none other than the Queen of the PRB, Snackie. Last year I kind of cheated and talked about the Fella instead of directly about myself. And the year before that I made a list. Boy, I was ambitious (and single).

The deal is to dedicate a post to talking about yourself and something in particular you love about you. THEN anyone reading can chime in with something they love about you thus creating a wild comment orgy lovefest.

Was that too graphic? Ooops.

So what do I love about me? Maybe it’s because I’ve been so sick this week but it really got me thinking about being nurturing. I’m a thoughtful person who is good at nurturing people. I’ll run to the store for juice if you need it. I’ll send you a card when you’re feeling blue. I’ll hold your hand when you are crying. I’ll tell you you can do it when you courage falters. I’ll cheer for you on the sidelines and throw you a party to celebrate.

I love that about myself.

Here’s the part where you chime in (if you feel like it) with what you love about me. Feel free to participate! Self-Love Day is actually two days this year so you also have tomorrow.

Here’s how the whole thing works:

1.) You’re gonna grab yourself a banner.  If you don’t like the one I’ve used in this post, you can find another one here.

2.) You’re gonna post that banner and then tell us all something that you really like love about yourself (thus, the “self-love” portion of our program).

3.) Ask or beg your readers to post one thing that they too love about you!!!  If your blog friends are nice, you shouldn’t have to beg…much.

4.)  Enjoy yourself and spread the love by doing this on your blog!  If you want to, drop me a line or a trackback so that I know you participated too!

Have At It

Today is your chance to ask me questions. Woo Hoo!

Is there anything I’ve left hanging that you need closure on? Is there something you’ve always wanted to know about me or Seattle or going to Catholic school for 13 years? The rules here are non-existent so ask away! Just please do not ask me to do math. I’m not in the mood.

Intent On It

I’ve been avoiding thinking about setting my intention for 2009. I realized recently that part of my mild depression I have been experiencing for the past few months now has a lot to do with judging myself too harshly AND disassociating with my own life.

Let me try to explain.

Shit has been hitting the fan this year but a lot of it is shit that isn’t MY shit. Being the overly empathetic, control freak, “helper” that I am, situations that impact me in a peripheral way have negatively impacted my outlook on life. I know I sound vague and I’m sorry but since these aren’t my situations, I’m not at liberty to discuss them in a public forum.

Let’s just say that I am learning some valuable lessons about my own limitations. I’ve spent most of my life trying to go higher and higher, to achieve more, to BE more. I put a lot of pressure on myself to be a certain kind of person. My obsession with doing the “right” thing and not fucking up is so fundamentally detrimental to my own health that I have to lay it down.I have to stop. I don’t want to be this way anymore.

Let me tell you a story.

I used to be a smoker. I smoked off and on for years. This was AFTER my father died of lung cancer. Yeah, I know. Brilliant! I hid the fact that I smoked. Or at least, I tried to hide it. I would only smoke outside or in my car on the way home from work. If I was going to meet up with people, I would be sure to shower and brush my teeth and change my clothes between smoking and meeting up with them. I was fanatical about the cover up.

(Interestingly enough, the covering up totally smacks of how my dad hid his alcoholism but that’s just an aside I felt compelled to share as the correlation literally just came to me.)

I blamed the fact that I smoked on certain boyfriends who smoked like chimneys. Since I spent a lot of time with them, I ended up smoking with them as a shared activity. Did they force me to smoke? No. But for a long time I didn’t take responsibility that it was ME who was choosing to hurt MYSELF. I knew all the scary facts about smoking. I knew and I consciously chose to hurt myself (and others around me).

(Gee, that sounds a lot like my dad and his drinking too.)

I thought I was doing a great job hiding my habit which is such a joke, really. Cigarette smoke is a stinky habit. A lot of my memories have faded where my father is concerned but one that I distinctly remember is the smell of his smoking hand. His hands were worn, wrinkled and tanned with elegant long fingers. His pointer and middle fingers were embedded with the scent of cigarettes. When I used to smoke, there was something about it that made me feel tied to my dad. And since I lived in the grief of losing him, in some fucked up way, it comforted me.

When I turned 30 I gave myself a gift: I quit smoking. I thought about what I wanted my future to look like and realized that in my expectant dream I wanted to live a long time and be a parent and, you know, have full lung capacity. I had tried to stop before but this time, because I set my intention, it stuck. I haven’t smoked in almost six years.

The point being to this random post is that in the past when I’ve made a “resolution” to stop or start doing something, I’ve failed miserably. Something about calling it a resolution automatically jinxes me. So I don’t “resolve” to do things. I set intentions. That way it’s more like a trajectory path instead of a MUST DO THIS OR YOU FAIL kind of thing. Besides, I’ve never responded well to being bossed around.

Hopefully between now and tomorrow, I’ll have an epiphany as to what my 2009 intention should be.

No Means No

Back in my late 20’s before I even knew what blogging was I had a bit of a wild streak. I was always a very good girl up until then. I went to 13 years of Catholic school which should tell you something. (Take that as you will.) I was on a couple of dating sites and was basically having fun with it. At one point my friends requested a flow chart because they couldn’t keep all the guys straight. I was not, for the record, sleeping with all of them but yes, I was probably making out with many of them. I might go on a few dates with them and things would be perfectly fine but there’d be no real spark. Or we’d meet and it was only the beer goggles that got me through the date. There was the guy who had the same name as my Dad (weirded me out) who showed up with gold bling everywhere and an electric blue leather jacket who insisted on trying to kiss me in the first 15 minutes of meeting me and then gave me the excuse that he was “just needing some of my chapstick.” Yeah, off my lips. I handed him the chapstick from my pocket and told him to have at it.

Back then I made a lot of poor choices and went on dates with men I knew in my gut were not a match for me. I’m sure a big part of it was ego-stroking. I liked the chase, the flirting, the making out. I didn’t like commitment. I didn’t want to fall in love.

A few times things turned sour. I once met a guy for drinks and as the night wore on we shared some pretty frank stories of our sexual past. Later, when it was time to go home he claimed he was too drunk to drive himself the thirty minutes home and asked to crash at my place. I said ok as long as it was on the couch and that we would not be having sex. (I had no tact back then.) When we got home he stripped down to his boxers while I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth and putting on pajamas. He was in my bed in his underwear when I came into the room. WTH? I reiterated that we were not going to have sex and I’d be more comfortable with him sleeping on the couch. He whined about it being small and I was tired so I just said “whatever” and climbed into bed. After the light was off, the hand drift came. I removed his hand empathically and reminded him that we were there to sleep, not fuck.

A few minutes went by when he pushed his entire body up against mine and tried to kiss me and shove his hand up my shirt. I pushed him away and said in an angry tone for him to knock it off. That’s when he laid into me calling me a cock tease and claiming that I shouldn’t share about my past sexual escapades if I wasn’t trying to tell a guy I wanted to have sex with him.

What?! People actually think that if you mention sex you mean you want to have sex with them? These are the same people that think kissing is a direct signal that you want to have sex. Um, no. How many times have I told this guy that wasn’t going to happen? And now the fucker is in my bed harassing me?

Stupid, stupid Sizzle.

I jumped out of bed, flicked on the light and in no uncertain terms told him to get the fuck out. That guy had “potential date rapist” tattooed on his head. It just took certain lighting to see it clearly. He kept pushing my boundaries. He manipulated the situation and tried to shame me. He wasn’t taking no for an answer so the time for being “nice” was over.

He cussed at me as he threw on his clothes and stormed out the door. I was shaken but relieved. I think I just sat there stunned realizing that things could have been much, much worse. And I was a self-defense teacher at the time! I really should have known better.

I think too many of us have experienced situations where signals got crossed, boundaries were pushed, playful fun turned into a very scary situation. I consider myself lucky that I have never been raped or physically attacked but I know too many people who live with the memory of such trauma.

I am participating in Kapgar and Carly Milne’s Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign, a month-long awareness campaign on behalf of Rape and Incest National Network (RAINN). The topic of sex will be smattering my posts throughout April. You’ll find a link at the bottom of each sex-related post encouraging you to give to this very worthy cause. Please be sure to write “GBBMC2008″ in the “More Information” box and indicate that you came from Sizzle Says when you donate.

It’s not too late to get involved! Participants can sign up through April 15th. Won’t you join us?

Donate Now.