I went to Guatemala because, regardless of what the courts say, I, too, am on trial. Collectively, we, citizens of the most powerful democracy in the world, are responsible for making sure our government doesn’t fund genocide. And when it does—and it did—we are responsible for making sure it never happens again.
I had experienced bouts of profound sadness before, as well as overwhelm and anxiety, but at the age of 33 I had my first experience with this kind of depression and I was stunned.
I could have taken on the daunting role of single mother even though I know that I’m not strong enough to handle the very real emotional hurdles that come with it. That’s not the kind of mother I would want to be. It’s not the kind of mother any child deserves. So yes, I made a choice.
He was shaking me in the hotel lobby as we got onto the elevator. The man at the desk came up to our room to “check everything is OK,” and I told him nothing, but I promised myself it would be the last time.
I was pregnant when I was 17, too. Where I came from, just a mile and a half up the South Hill from Crosswalk, the shame wasn’t in getting pregnant, it was in staying pregnant. To have a baby as a teenager is to have a permanent and public record of the sex you had in your older boyfriend’s parents’ basement.
The toxic masculinity in the world prevents men from speaking out like I am. I want to be a part of changing that. I want men to know that it’s okay to talk to others about these things. It’s okay to be vulnerable. It shows true strength. But the only way to make actionable, tangible change is by getting out there.
You were the daughter of a narcissistic abuser who you watched beat your mother so often that you thought it was normal behavior and that everyone’s parents did that. You were the daughter of a man who hated women.
I got off the phone, and the dam broke. I started to cry. This was what it had come to. Maybe it was what pregnancy was all about – my worst fears stared at me in the face: that the baby would be developmentally disabled, that our child would be brain damaged. And that somehow it would be my fault.
By Elana Rabinowitz I pushed my thick wooden chair inside my desk and looked up. The substitute was nothing…
For the past year, I’ve been contemplating how to make a meaningful contribution to the #MeToo movement, a personal experience that could illuminate, an allegory, some teachable moment.
I often find myself telling people I have a terrible memory. I mean that in two ways: 1/ I don’t remember anything well, and 2/ What I often remember are the terrible things that have happened.
There have been times over the last eighteen months that I knew without a doubt that my purpose was over, that my time had come. Slogging through that and pulling myself together enough to do something as simple as brush my teeth was difficult. I am fortunate in that I have exquisite friends who, at times, fell over each other reminding me that I am not the story another person made of me.
Now, what name did I want to reflect me? What name did I want to represent “me” to the outside world?
To be, or not to be, Smith or Jones. That was the question.
For a long while, truth will live inside me like a secret. It will pace back and forth along the edges inside my body to learn the space and depth of its confinement.
