On the Cruel Cycle of Not Dealing With Your Shit

We've all got problems. Every single one of us. Doesn't matter how you were raised, where you live, where you're from, whether you're rich or poor, what race or gender identity or age or religion or social standing. You've got problems. Of course, any one of those things on the aforementioned list can deeply impact, influence, and spur those problems. But none of those things change this pure and simple fact: Problems. You got 'em. I got 'em. We all got 'em.

Biggie's problem was Puffy hogging all the fish-eye lens-time.

Problems are just as varied and unique as the people who have them, but I've found that there are three main kinds:

1. Problems Caused by You
2. Problems Caused by Other People/Factors
3. Problems Caused by You Not Dealing With the First Two Kinds of Problems

(Author's Note: The third kind of problem is still, technically, a problem caused by you, but I find that it presents itself in one's life completely differently than the first kind, and thus, deserves a category all its own. But more on that later.)

My job is often about helping people through their problems. I have worked extremely hard to make each and every process about the person I'm assisting and not about me, and I've also worked extremely hard to make sure I'm not trying to save anybody from their problems. For years, these two things were my pitfalls as a helper, which, if you know anything about me at all, speak to my own problems. My problems are a result of events in my life - events that have shaped and molded who I am, things that I have done to myself, both good and bad, and things that have been done to me, also good and bad. At 27 years old, I am the product of my current and past environments - family, social, work - and I am the product of current and past problems and triumphs. Some of these things are my choice, and some of these things have not been my choice. But I am absolutely a product of it all.

We, as humans, do not exist in vacuums. Us, our problems, and our existences do not exist without context.

For the purposes of this discussion, let's talk about the bad stuff, or, as I like to call it: The Shit That We Carry. The shit that I carry refers to my baggage (specifically addiction, death, heartbreak, being used, being hurt physically, being hurt emotionally, being betrayed, being silenced, being afraid). Baggage, like problems, is something everybody has. Shit, like problems, is something everybody carries. Nobody lives a life devoid of problems, of baggage, of shit. Our world isn't set up like that, and I have learned that it probably won't change. People will do cruel things to themselves, and they will do cruel things to each other.

How much will all this baggage cost to ship internationally?

Why I Take a Self-Defense Class for Ladies

I love being a woman. It's one of my favorite things in the whole world. I have a lovely uterus and great tits and an awesome vagina. All three of those things (uterus, tits, vagina) are on my Top 5 Favorite Things About Myself List (the other two are eyelashes and award-winning personality). I fucking love being a woman.

That being said. There are a lot of messages out there telling me that being a woman isn't okay. There are a lot of people out there telling me that being a woman makes me less-than, inferior, not enough, stupid. There are entire systems in place that would just love to keep me in my place: Silent. Controlled. Limited. Making you a fucking sandwich.

Fuck your sandwich.

I live in a country that continually tries to pass (and succeeds, in some cases) legislation that tells me my body is not my own, that it is something to be regulated. I live in a world that thinks I'm too much of an idiot to be able to make my own decisions regarding my body and my life. I live in a society where I am told how to be sexy, how to have sex, to not have sex, how to breed, eat, look. I live in a society that actively and continually seeks to limit and comment on my body like it's theirs.

This is reality. If you disagree, you're blind and/or probably a man. 'Cause, let's be honest, ain't nobody passing laws telling men that they have no control over their reproductive systems. Nobody is concern-trolling a dude's penis and telling him what you do with it, or that would demand he be skinny in order to be successful (I recognize that there are a lot of pressures put on men's appearances, too, as part of this gendering world we live in, but it's still not nearly as much as women experience). And ain't no church on the planet that's like, "Hey, you male! Not only are we going to keep you from holding any position of power in our leadership because of your gender identity, but we're also going to condemn you to Hell based on what you decide to do with your nutsack!"

But I digress.

Sometimes it can be really, really hard to love who you are when the entire world is telling you that who you are deserves to be limited. Add on to this that I'm chunky, that I choose to look and act a certain way, and man-oh-man, does society have some things to say about me as a woman. Mostly telling me what I can't do.

And if there's one thing I hate more than anything in the whole world, it's being told that I can't do something.

My Year of Healing

I have come to a very important decision: 2013 will be my Year of Healing.

Granted, this probably would have been a more relevant decision for like, January. Maybe it would have been a real good resolution, even. New year, new start. But fuck it, you know? It's my year, and I'll do what I want.

Last year was hard. If this year is the Year of Healing, last year was the Year of Wounds, of Scars, of Picked Scabs, of Bruised Knees and Hands and the Proverbial Heart. It was the year of impossible lessons, of sleepless nights, of staring out windows and wondering if it gets better, if it stays the same, or if this would forever be mine to carry. It was the year of a lot of crying and throwing things at walls and asking, "Why?"

What's interesting to note about my life since I've moved to San Francisco is that I have never been more...grounded. Even last year. There was still this sense of utter belonging, that despite all of these things I had been witness to - the losing of minds, self, life - I still knew this is exactly where I was supposed to be. That has to mean something. I know it means something.

Last year was the Year of the Crisis for me as a student affairs professional. As I mentioned in a previous post, it's when I'm at my best. I thrive in those situations. That being said, you can only take so much. If you have to continually respond to critical incidents, and they keep building on each other, and you don't have enough time to build yourself back up in the in-between...it's not pretty. My therapist called it "over-saturation." Last year, my ass was over-saturated (that may or may not be the dirtiest thing I've ever typed).

Maybe I'll tell the whole story here one day - when I'm ready to share it beyond my immediate sphere - but just know that I learned a LOT. I learned a lot about life, death, love, drugs, resilience, friendship, connectedness, purpose. I learned about all of that from somewhere inside of me, and from stuff I read, and from the people I love, who love me, who were there, unrelenting, even when none of us knew what the fuck to say and all there was was the silence of it all. I learned about all of that from people I barely knew, philosophers hidden in plain sight, who shared pieces of themselves with me, who made me realize that I would never be alone.

But it's a lot. It's a lot of learning and a lot of processing, and my mind and heart were on constant overdrive, working to make meaning and sense of it all. I had days where getting out of bed was impossible, where even the thought of facing another day was mind-numbing. I just wanted to lay in the dark and forget. And then there were days where I would get up, go to work, go hang out with friends, walk through the city, sit with students, laugh, eat, dance. Those were good days, but they weren't void of all of those lessons - it was all still there, just...always there.

By the time I made it to December, I was fucking exhausted.

But last year is gone. Done. Over. In the past. So what now? A year seems like a natural mile-marker in change, a natural bookmark to separate Then and Now. After some thought - but not too much, as part of my year of healing will be to NOT overthink every single thing - I made the following list.

10 Things I Will Do For Myself This Year and Fuck Everything Else

1. Travel. See things. Leave the country, leave the state, with friends, by myself, whatever. Just go see as much as you can. On the docket so far: Mexico, London, Wyoming.

2. Do what you want. Don't do what you don't want. If you HAVE to do something you don't want - this applies mostly to work - then find a way to make it palatable. Find the good in it, the control you have in it, see the good outcome, understand all sides, examine the 'why,' and don't lose yourself in it. Additionally, be with who you want to be with. Life is too short and too full to spend it surrounded by people you don't want to be around. Be with and talk to people who lift you up, who make you laugh, who love you, who you love.

3. Take a chill pill. Relax. Sit in the sun. Write. Take you pants off. Get a manicure. Just...be. Being amped or getting worked up over everything all the time is exhausting and you may be starting to look ridiculous. Also, relaxing is good. Sometimes, not working is good.

4. Don't overthink things (as mentioned above). Sometimes things are what they are, people are who they are, and it just is what it is. Accept that stuff, and move-the-fuck-on.

5. Continue taking self-defense or martial arts classes. When yours ends in summer, find a substitute. (I didn't know what learning this skillset would mean to me until very recently, when I realized just how much I loved it. I only started it to appease a friend, but I continue it for me. I've always been in-tune with my body, but there's something about this class and learning the moves that has allowed me to understand my body...better. I know my limits, and my awareness of what I am capable of has become sharper) Good, healthy outlets that you like should be pursued. Pursue pursue pursue.

6. Let go. Release.

7. Start slimming down material possessions. They'll only weigh you down when you're ready to bounce. Buy less, save more.

8. Be strategic. In work, in life, in love. Examine your options. Examine others' options. Don't be the first to speak. Think. Wait. Just a little. Then act, then share your idea, your concerns, your thoughts. See what happens. Look at the bigger picture, the broader scope, and understand before you react.

9. Get internships or jobs or make meetings with people and agencies you want to work for: SF General's Methadone Clinic, Harm Reduction Coalition, SF AIDS Foundation. Find opportunities overseas to do the same work. Utilize your connections. Ask. Find out who knows who and find out how you can know them, too. Follow this passion to the places you want to be.

10. Don't believe anybody when they tell you that your compassion and love are faults, that they hold you back, that they blind you. It's just not true.

Hope.

When you are repeatedly in the position to bear witness to the awful shit that humans do to each other, it's hard to see the good that's out there. In my job as a residence director and crisis responder, and as a volunteer at a needle exchange, I am in the position to see the awful shit a lot. In my experience in those roles, I have seen it. Some days, when I think back on what I've seen, worked with, I feel like I've seen literally all I can see. That's dramatic - obviously I haven't seen EVERYTHING. Calm down, Kristen.

I have seen some of the worst of what people do to each other and to themselves. Sometimes they do it to steal, to control, to feel like they have power, to get ahead, to survive. Sometimes they don't have a reason. Sometimes, bad shit gets done, or is done to, or happens, and that's just all there is.

It can be hard to hold onto hope - hope that it gets better, that you can overcome, that others can overcome, that we can keep marching, that we can survive what is done to us, or what we do.

In all my hours of therapy and introspection and reflection, I've developed a lot of strategies to manage my stress around dealing with critical incidents - that's what we call them in the biz. Critical incidents: When we respond to crisis or emergencies and the decisions we make are critical to the safety and wellbeing of those involved. I like to call those crisis moments "when shit gets real." In order to manage the stress that inevitably comes from the continued response to when shit gets real, I have breathing exercises, escape exercises, writing exercises, thinking and speaking and physical and emotional exercises. I have exercises for days. But the thing that helps the most? Hope.

If you hold on to hope, you can still see the good. You can still have something to move forward towards. You can still know that you're not alone. It's not easy. I was reminded of that last night, watching a client at the needle exchange walk away into the night after hearing his story; holding the hand of an assault survivor in the middle of a busy ER; walking back into my apartment after, sitting on my bed and crying for them both. When so much bad happens, will we ever be able to make it out? And then, if we do, will we still trust, love? Will we still see the light, the good, the heart? Will we be okay?

Hope is the feeling of expectation that something is going to happen - something good, I think. Hope is feeling like, even though it's shit now, you can wake up tomorrow and maybe it will be different. Maybe this time, it will be different. And maybe the world is still shit around you, and maybe it all still hurts, but you woke up and started marching anyway. Hope is what gets you out of bed, it's what makes you ask for help, it's what can keep your mind alive.

Hope is the thing they can't take away.

You have to hold onto hope. And, just as importantly - to me, at least - it's like Harvey Milk said, "You gotta give 'em hope."

The Truth About Crisis Response.

When people ask me what my favorite part about my job is, I lie. I'll tell them the drug and alcohol education, the hilarious things students say, the free apartment in a great city. I lie about this because the truth almost always elicits the same look from people: A mix of horror, shock, and like I'm batshit crazy. The truth is that my favorite part about my job is crisis response.

This look.

In the residence life world, not one thing seems to be as reviled as being on-call, or the duty phone - or, worse yet, the duty phone ring. The ring that, when you hear it out in public, randomly, even when you know you're not actually on-call, your blood freezes in your veins and you think, "OH GOD. WHAT. WHAT NOW." I tend to play along with that mentality because I get self-conscious sometimes. I worry about what people will think of me if they knew the horrible truth...

I love the damn thing. I love 3am duty calls. I love that moment, just before I roll into the room, when I'm not quite sure what's going to happen, but I'm ready to not be ready. I'm ready for the surprise, for the chaos, for all the different directions it can go. I love the feeling of adrenaline, the way it seizes through my veins, the way it snaps every single sense into high alert and everything becomes clearer around the edges. I love the challenge, the pulse, the collaboration, the way I can exchange a glance with another first responder, and if we're on our game, we come in strong, hard, a united front. Mostly, though? I love when shit gets weird.

At this point, I should probably clarify that my love for this part of my job does not mean that I sit around, hoping for terrible things to happen, or for students to snap, or for there to be some disaster, just so I have something to get my rocks off on. For as much as I love a good 3am duty call, I would much rather sleep through the night. For as much as I love talking to students about drugs and alcohol, I would much rather them not get transported to the hospital because they had too much. For as much as I love supporting a student through something tough, I would much rather them know peace, health, and wellbeing. I don't wish for bad things to happen. But I'm ready for when they eventually do. I have to be.

Today, I was leaving my apartment, on my way to lunch, then to a meeting, and not in a good mood. I didn't want to deal with shit, didn't want to work, and honestly, wanted to tell the world to fuck off while I went and sat in the sun and read a trashy romance novel and was grumpy about nothing in particular.

But oh, Universe, you are a saucy, tricky minx.

Just before I left the hallway, I overheard a student screaming and crying from her room, obviously on the phone with somebody, obviously distraught, but I couldn't tell what was specifically wrong. She was just sounded...completely hysterical, screaming all sorts of terrible things. I debated leaving her alone - sometimes you just need your privacy to feel what you need to feel - but there was something different in the way it all sounded. My gut told me not to walk away, and I've learned to listen.

I knocked, and she screamed at me to go away and leave her alone. I identified myself and told her that I wasn't going anywhere until she came out and showed me she was okay. She opened the door just a crack, glared at me through red-rimmed eyes, over puffy cheeks, and said, "I'm fine. See. Now fuck off." Then slammed the door in my face.

I stared at her closed door, then thought, "Oh no this little girl just didn't." Then I knocked again and said, "I'm not moving until you talk to me."

I let her scream at me through that closed door until it sounded like she was going to rupture her vocal chords. People walked by, giving me funny looks, and I told them everything was fine. She screamed and cursed and insulted and threw shit at the door. And I waited. And waited. And waited. And I kept saying, "I'm not moving." And eventually, the crying and screaming stopped, and the door slowly opened. She just stood there, looking disheveled, defeated, and exhausted. I know it's a little messed up, but I had kind of counted on that. Tell me to fuck off? Please. I'm one of the most stubborn people I know.

I told her that it was okay not to be okay, that whatever was going on, she didn't need to go through it alone. Writing it out like that makes it sound kind of cheesy, trite. But the truth is, it's one of my guiding philosophies. When you live in my community, you're never alone. End of story.

I ended up sitting with her in her doorway for a bit, listening to her talk between quiet, hiccuping sobs, about what she was going through. I could feel the adrenaline ebbing a bit as I slipped away from a more immediate and amped response mode. She was obviously moving through something profound, but  the longer I sat there, the more I realized that she didn't need much else than space to talk and to be heard.

At the end of the day, we all just want to feel like we're being heard.

When our conversation ended, she had stopped crying completely. I made her promise to meet with me in an hour, so we could sort out some stuff, mostly around getting her support in some areas, and I left for my meeting. As I left my building, I realized that my sour mood had lifted. My head was no longer foggy, and I felt alert, awake, and okay. She had given me something else to focus on, something bigger than myself and my problems, and we were both going to be okay.

Walking across campus, feeling the breeze in my hair, the sun on my skin, I felt at ease, steady. It was beautiful out, the sky clear and blue, one of those rare, warm San Francisco days. I thought about something that's a constant for me in this work: For as much as I want to take all of their pain and anguish away, it's not on me to save them. It's not on me to save anybody. I'm not going to carry anybody through anything. But we can hold each other up as we walk through the fire together.

The one where the feminist killjoy starts a blog.

So. Here we are. A blog. How original. How original that I'm being so contrary about trying to be original, telling you I really don't care, but actually, I do. I really, really do. Look at me, look at me!

Truth is, I've been thinking about doing this for awhile, especially given the journey I've been on for the past two and a half years, where it's led me, who it's led me to, and what I've learned (I'm sure we'll get to that later). I've been staring at this post for days, wondering, "A blog? Really? Am I that girl?" Yep. Sure am.

I have a lot of thoughts, a lot of feelings. Sometimes it helps to share them, put them out into the Universe, see what sticks, who catches them, and if it means anything beyond my own existence. What I've found by sharing these thoughts and feelings every now and then is that 1) I feel better, and 2) somebody else is usually on the same wavelength and it makes them feel better, too. And then, beyond that, maybe that makes us feel a little less alone, a little less isolated with all of our own thoughts and feelings about whatever - the world, our existences, our mistakes, our general musings.

To simplify it, unnecessarily: A lot of shit has happened in the last year, and I miss writing about stuff and having people read it. Call me self-indulgent. Call me a millennial. Call me maybe?

I miss writing, and lately, I've been especially keen on writing about hard stuff, tough stuff, and sharing it with the world. Stuff that, in my experience, people are scared to death to talk about, but desperately want to talk about: Sex, drugs, death, power, privilege, hate, love. Shit that touches everybody's lives in some shape or form, on some level, on all levels, that we never fucking talk about. It's stuff that touches my life. It's stuff that I'm usually chin-deep in, every day, all the time. I figure a blog is a way for me to talk about it constantly without annoying the shit out of the people in my life 'cause they can choose to read it or not. Either way, here it is, for the Universe's amusement. Laugh it up, fuckers.

My promise, to myself and to you, whoever you are, is to give realness. I think all these conversations have to start with honesty, and also the admittance that I'm gonna make mistakes, and I'm gonna fuck up, and I'm gonna rely on feelings and instincts over facts and "rational thinking" almost all the time, and that's okay.  Because that's real, and that's who I am. Sometimes it may get gross, or hard, or awful, or uncomfortable, or hilarious, or sentimental, or just plain sappy. I think we all have to ultimately be okay with that. At least I do. You can be okay with whatever you want to be okay about. Like I said, read it or don't (but hopefully do because, again, self-indulgent, hello!).

I can't ignore the timing of this particular project, as its creation is fast on the heels of a new goal and a promise I've made for myself: To finish my current grad program, and then to travel for an indefinite amount of time, to literally exist and be in awe of the world around me, to heal, and then to find public health work in another country. So let this little corner of the Internet also stand as a way to chronicle that journey, to hold myself accountable, and to act as something I can look back on, years from now, and think, "Wow. For all you've learned and seen, nothing has really changed. 'Cause you've always been pretty fucking crazy."

All right, ya'll. Let's get weird.

Here are some ponies in sweaters to show you just how serious I am about this shit.