H.L (via mswaitwhat)

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You Do The Math

by Ijeoma Oluo

When you are 10 and you are jogged from your sleep by the sensation that someone is touching you, you don’t open your eyes right away. You keep them closed and you wonder, “what is happening? Am I still dreaming?” and you reference what you know about touch and you decide that those are fingers. Fingers where you had been told fingers should never be. And you debate whether you should open your eyes. Your young brain does a cost benefit analysis; if you open your eyes, you’ll know and that would be bad, but if you keep them shut, it won’t stop. That would also be bad. So you compromise and you pretend that you are just waking up. You stir with your eyes still shut. The fingers move away but the person who owns those fingers is still there. So you open your eyes. Your mom’s boyfriend says “shh..go to sleep” and he walks out of your room.

Then you are left with even more calculations. Do you say something? It will make everybody mad. But if you don’t say something, it will happen again. And your teacher said to always say something. So when your mom gets up to use the restroom you decide the odds are in your favor and you speak up. A miscalculation.

When you are 12 and you are asleep on the couch of your grandparent’s house and you feel those fingers again, you don’t have to do the math. You know what is happening. “No, not again.” You think, but you know that, just like last time, you aren’t dreaming. When you open your eyes it’s your uncle. His eyes are wild from drugs. You do the math, this isn’t the time to say anything. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, you’ve seen that wild look before. A few hours later you’ll wake again and he’ll be patrolling the house with a rifle, muttering that they are coming for him. You were right, this wasn’t the time to say anything. When he goes to prison for his second rape conviction a year later, you’ll be glad that you won’t have to say anything ever. Again, a miscalculation.

When you add up what sex means, it’s gross, it’s disgusting. You don’t want it, but you know that if you don’t do it, something is wrong with you. So when you are 19 you’ll decide to do it with someone harmless, someone too dim and self-obsessed to hurt you, someone you don’t love and don’t even like. But you forget that even if the odds are in your favor there’s always a risk, and you’ll get pregnant.

When you are 20 and you have this beautiful baby and an abusive husband you’ll do the math on how long you’ll have to stay. A year, maybe people wouldn’t laugh if you could hang in there for a year, you think. You think about the chances that you’ll be able to make it all work, that you’ll be happy – but you don’t have to do much math to realize that’s not a bet you should make.

When you are 22 you leave. You leave after your husband takes your baby from your arms and tells you in front of your family that you are a horrible mother – because you went on a walk without telling you husband where you were going. You talk him into giving him your child back and he storms out. Your mother, who has never told a man “no” in her life says, “Ijeoma, I think you’ve tried hard enough.” And you realize that she’s right. You call your landlord. “I’m looking for an apartment,” you say. “One your husband can’t get to?” he offers, before you can elaborate. He already knows, he’s quicker than you – they all are. He gets you an apartment that day. He tells your husband that it’s illegal for him to burn your stuff, even though your husband hasn’t said anything about that. He’s done the math too.

You move away. You get a restraining order. Through the threats and the fear you still do the math and see that you have come out ahead.

You start talking to a coworker. He is married, his wife is controlling too, he says. You do the math. He can’t hurt you, he’s too busy hurting someone else. He can show that even as a 22 year old divorcee, you are still worthy of affection. He leaves his wife. He’s clingy and controlling, another miscalculation. When you break up with him, you forget to ask for your key back.

When he enters your room in the middle of the night you will wake up immediately – unlike before, you won’t waste your time with your eyes closed trying to figure out what’s happening. You have a child to protect. When you realize it’s him and not a murderer, you’ll be relieved. You’ll be relieved for about 5 seconds. “I don’t want to see you,” you’ll say. “But I need you,” he’ll answer and he’ll climb into your bed. “No,” you’ll say. But he won’t listen and you’ll do an amazing amount of math. He’s 40 pounds heavier than you. He’s drunk. Your child is sleeping in the next room. If you can get through this, he will leave. If you fight, this will be the thing you fear more than all the other things. You will be 10 again. You don’t fight, but when it’s over, you take your key back.

The next day you tell a friend what happened, “I don’t know,” you say, “it just sucks.” “It’s rape,” your friend says. But you shake your head at her. No, it doesn’t add up. It would have been, but it wasn’t, because you didn’t want it to be. You stop talking to that friend.

You go on dates – you hedge your bets. You tell your friends where you’ll be and who you’re with in case you turn up dead. The odds are in your favor, but the risk is still there. Your female friends all make the same calculations. You don’t even want to date but you weigh the risk of turning up dead versus being labeled a weirdo, an unloved recluse.  

Your uncle gets out of prison. You are excited to see him, you’ve missed him. You love him. But there’s this part of your brain that won’t shut up. “10 years,” your brain says, “It’s been 10 years now. How old is your sister? 12? How old were you?” And you realize that you can’t be excited about your uncle coming home. You realize that you have to say something. You know that it won’t go well – you’ve learned that already, but you know that there is nothing more important than keeping your sister safe.

But you aren’t safe. You have a restraining order against your ex-husband, a drugged-out rapist uncle showing up at your son’s birthday parties, that ex is at your office every day. You run on autopilot. You aren’t miserable, you aren’t happy – you aren’t anything. You are the walking dead. And one day, you decide that you want to be more.

You enroll in college. You pack up your son and you move out of town. You live in a tiny rat-infested apartment. You make $17k a year. You have no car. You walk your son to school with you every day. You are blissfully happy sometimes, scared and sad other times. You are alive. Your son graduates from kindergarten. The next day, you graduate from college. Your professors congratulate your son as well.

You realize something when you are away. You may never be safe. You may never be secure. You may never have a functional relationship, but you are free. You are free and sometimes that’s enough. You tell the family that your uncle isn’t allowed in the same room as you. You finalize your child custody agreement. You try new and challenging careers. You travel even though you are afraid of flying. You make friends. You go to therapy.

And over a decade later you still aren’t safe, you still aren’t secure. But you are still free. You know that you are a survivor, you are stronger than every person who has tried to harm you. You take great leaps now – you jump canyons. You know that even if you fall, and sometimes you do, you will heal. You don’t care what the odds are, you don’t have to do the math anymore.

help him 

max: taurus, gemini, cancer, virgo, aquarius, pisces sarah: aries, gemini, leo, libra, scorpio, sagittarius, capricorn

safersephiroth squornshellous madsectomy

@hey-its-anita you’re the only Max in our friend group omg.  You’re friends with a bunch of terrible, unhelpful people sorry.

great XD

OMG… I never want to kayak ever. I can’t believe I was begging R to take me. Never.

@mothermartinanature

Versace ♡

HAJAHAHAHAHAHAHAJAAJAJJAJAJAJAJAAJJAAJJAJAJAJAJAJAJAJAJAHAAHHAAHHAAHHAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAJAJAJAJAJAJAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Yooooh

H.L (via mswaitwhat)

the boy tears in the notes are amazing

she thank she meeee

I watched this 60 times just to watch her do the “yess” part

"Oppressed" Muslim Women 

This images are so important because when people (esp. people who identify vocally as feminists) say that the veil prevents women from doing things, that it is an instrument of oppression, we make that veil an instrument of oppression. Islam does not say that veiled women cannot be pilots or doctors or teachers. Bad feminists do. Islamaphobes do.

Thank you.

I love this so much.

As a guy , it just hit me.

good.

im depressed, boys r trash.

Gabrielle Zevin, Memoirs of a Teenage Amnesiac (via missinyouiskillingme)

Jon Kortajarena by Terry Richardson for Sergio K S/S 2012

"guess since im a white man im not allowed to have opinions"

your opinions have shaped the world we live in today not being catered to for 83.9 seconds will not fuckin kill you