.png)
Today is Thanksgiving in Canada, and although I truly have so much to be grateful for, I'm having a hard time feeling it today. Today instead of rolling around in a food coma, I'm writing this blog post trying to work through the ick I've been feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I am NOT ok.
And I'm fairly certain I'm not alone in this.
I've been walking around for the last week with my emotions very close to the surface. It's impossible to ignore or avoid what is going on in the world.
There are those that may say "well, that's in the U.S., not in Canada."
That totally misses the point.
I was on vacation last week. My own life was wearing me down and I needed to escape for a while. To unplug, recharge, relax.
I also needed a break from the oppressive and triggering overwhelm of the world we are living in right now, a world where male privilege is so tightly woven into the fabric of our society we don't see it anymore. It's staggering.
Being on vacation was not restful, relaxing or recharging. It just gave me time to think and I think I'm furious. Things I thought I had laid to rest have been revived.
I thought I was okay. I thought I had moved on. I thought I was at peace with it.
I'm not.
And that realization completely took me by surprise. I didn't expect it.
So much for my vacation.
I had to measure every world. Every gesture. Every aspect of myself. What I wore, what I said, second guessing everything I did.
Do you know how taxing that is to do every single day?
It's like that scene in "Raiders of the Lost Ark" where Indiana Jones is carefully eyeballing and measuring out the sand to leave in the bag. Trying to guess how much he needs - how much is too much, how much is not enough - what will prevent the whole thing from being triggered and causing him harm.
That's how I felt in every single moment.
Is this outfit too much? Is it baggy enough or does it cling to my ass too much? Is it too low cut so when I bend over it reveals my bra? Am I smiling too much? Is my sense of humour too much? Am I too friendly? Am I too closed off and bitchy? Is my open nature an invitation to further harassment?
EVERYTHING.
And then came the anger.
I shouldn't have to change anything. I had done NOTHING wrong. All I was doing was being myself. And yet I was carrying the burden of it all.
And I still am.
I even debated about posting this blog. Is this post too revealing? Have I said too much? What will the impact be? Who will I hurt? Am I being a jerk by posting about this kind of stuff when I should be grateful for all that I have been blessed with?
Walking the tightrope between needing to speak my truth and share my story at the same time as being utterly afraid of it is exhausting.
Why do women wait for years before telling their stories? Here's what I think - maybe they wait because they've convinced themselves that they're okay and that it's all in the past until one day something happens and they realize they're not okay.
And perhaps they never really were.