these women meant everything to me

I am so sick of women
being reduced to titles.
Like our names don’t represent
the hours our mothers spent in labour
just to see us, just to look in our eyes,
and know everything that we would accomplish.
Everything that we would be.

I was given my name
because I was meant to be different
(and a writer, funnily enough).
I am not His Girlfriend.
I am not a High School Drop Out.
I am what I say I am,
what I demand that you call me,
and no other names that you wish to give me
are permitted to leave your mouth.

—  My Name is Not Girl, I.S.

I had the luck and pleasure of meeting Carrie Fisher (with Gary, of course) this year at New York Comic Con. I got to thank her for Leia, for everything she’s done, and let her know how much she, as a woman in sci-fi, meant to me.

She was gracious, funny, clever, and unashamed of any part of herself. I think this photo we took together shows that.

I’m devastated at her loss, as I’m sure many of you all are. But we all have to try to strive to do at least half as much as Carrie Fisher did–as women, as geeks, as people.

She is one with the Force; the Force is with her.

“If fat people just ate less calories, then they’d lose weight.”

Oh honey. Let me explain to you a little thing called set point. The set point is the theory that our bodies weight is predetermined at birth by outside factors. Such as our genetics and environment. When your body becomes accustom to a certain weight it will do everything in it’s power to stay at that weight. Like changing your hormone levels to increase appetite. Not everyone is meant to be a size 2, an that’s ok. Instead of us forcing others to conform to our social standards by shaming them, lets learn to embrace everyone’s differences and understand them.

“Before I was a parent, I was the perfect one. People told me my life would change. People told me I would be tired. That parenthood would be the greatest and hardest thing I would ever do. 

Yeah yeah yeah.
I know. I know.
I knew everything. 

My family would just smile and nod at my ignorance, and I wonder now if they were scared for me.

I recently sat in a friend’s baby shower. I was surrounded by women making light hearted jokes about new parenthood, about sleep depravation, and pregnancy cravings. They exchanged recommendations for swaddle blankets and butt creams. Underneath the small talk and "oohing” and “ahhing” over tiny gifted baby clothes, sat the realness, the hardness of motherhood. I could feel that every mom in the room, behind their sleepless sunken eyes, knew what that meant; they had felt that weight, but they only had the heart to give gifts and hugs and congratulations. I sat there in silence, when all I wanted to do was talk and talk and talk about how new motherhood really can be. To let her in on all the real secrets of being a mother.

I wanted so badly to prepare my friend somehow for the wave that was about to wash over her.

I was there too, belly rounded with life, yesterday. I had the iPhone app, the “Welcome Baby” books, the nursery that I had pinned on my Pinterest. I had the trendy pacifiers, the over packed hospital bag, the pretty dresses my girl would probably never wear. We toured the hospital. I googled birth stories while rounding my hips on a yoga ball. And I learned all about how you breath a baby out of your lady parts.

I remember eating whole pineapples, and choking down giant Evening Primrose Oil pills by the handful to will my baby out of my uterus. 

I was ready.

It took what felt like seven years for her to arrive. More specifically, 41 weeks and 1 day. That extra eight days made me extra prepared. I remember sitting, ecstatic, in the hospital, after the epidural had been administered. I was too giddy to sleep. 

Oh, the time had finally come, and I was so ready.

Then in a blink, she was here. She was tiny and marveling. She was so incredibly beautiful. She was perfect.

But wait.
I am not ready.
This is so hard.
I am so tired.
Why hadn’t anyone prepared me for this?

I. Know. Nothing.

If I was sitting across from that very pregnant, very eager and naive version of myself, I would tell her this:

The love you will feel is nothing like you have felt before. It will be foreign and familiar all at once. It will fill you to the very top of your heart, nearly spilling over. The thing about this kind of love, though, is that it can feel heavy. Disproportional. You may feel like you will nearly break in half from the top-heaviness. You will not be able to tell the difference between exhaustion and depression, and that darkness will rob you from what should be the most tender months of your daughter’s new life. 

Your baby will cry, a lot. Your days will both begin and end with the saddest screams you will ever hear. Your body will respond the way that it is programmed to - with panic. You will google everything from “dissecting baby poo” to “newborn who hates life.” And you will come up short. You will always come up short.

Your baby will only sleep in ten minute increments.
In a plastic rocking chair. (Don’t buy a plastic rocking chair.)
In the bathroom.
With the bath water running. 

You will feel like you are going mad, day after day, alone in that bathroom. Between the sound of the water running and her screams, you may feel like your nerve endings will be permanently frayed. 

At the endless ER trips that you take you will be written off as “The Paranoid New Mom.” (Press on.) They will give you pamphlets on “Colic,” and that just will not cut it. For awhile, nursing will be excruciating, and your baby will fight it, hard. Contrary to the laws of nature, Anabel will not come out knowing how to siphon milk from your body. Also, panic will flood your body when your milk lets down the majority of the time. Yes, breastfeeding induced anxiety attacks are a thing, and it will happen to you. (Hormones are jerks.)

Did I mention how depleted you will feel? 

Eating, and sleeping, and showering are not a part of this season (not often anyway), and right now, in the thick of it, this season will feel never ending. While others’ newborns are napping sweetly in their stylish organic leggings via Instagram, yours is miserable. There are over 2 billion mothers in the world, yet you will feel deeply alone. Compared to everyone else, you are failing. No matter how many hands you have on deck, you will be deserted.  

This love will crush your ego. It will destroy your capability to trust yourself. The fear that creeps in the shadows of this love will paralyze you. Strangers will call your newborn “mean.” Loved ones will say you are giving your baby too much attention. (Neither of those things exist.) You will feel guilty for not measuring up. You will feel guilty for feeling guilty. You will feel guilty for feeling guilty for feeling guilty. You will cry over absurd things, like not being pregnant anymore. And over massive things, like the way your body has transformed because of pregnancy. You may never feel like you will get the hang of carrying this love.

But what if I told you that one day your daughter would smile? That she would even laugh? And so will you. Her intestines will eventually develop and digest food, and she will not scream excessively anymore. You will find answers to everything you questioned. I would even tell you that your doctor will admit that you were right all along. Saying, “you guys owe me an ‘I told you so’ on that one.” That will feel pretty great. 

I would also tell you that it gets better. Oh, how it does. She will learn how to sleep and nurse. And I would even tell you she gets really great at both.  I would tell you to find the hope in your daughter’s eyes. As they lighten, so will that weight. 

Though you may never have parenthood all figured out, there will be a day when you will find a way to wrap that love around yourself, instead of being buried in it. 

And though it is hard to believe, one day you will have a vivacious, smart, and unbelievably happy little girl. A girl that absolutely adores the world. And you will have clean hair, and time to make breakfast for yourself in the morning. 

You will.

Hold on to that truth. There will be a day that you will marvel over the fact that the girl in front of you is the same baby that was so unhappy before.

You will be better. You will grow. You will adjust, and settle, and adjust again. That is what motherhood is, I think. Finding ways through the good heartbreak to fit more love inside of you. There will always be something that stretches your capacity for more. You will learn how to balance the goodness with the heaviness. 

And, I beg you, embrace that things will always feel unfinished. Let unfinished be okay. Let unfinished be enough.

It is enough.
It is enough.
It is enough.

And forget what you see on Instagram,
You are one hell of a mother. 

Just… want to settle down with a nice lady. Women like me in theory, but in practice… I’m nothing honestly. Everything points toward me being grateful enough to recognize that I am not meant to be around others. And then, being alone.

She was my first high school friend.

We had what I considered to be a very minor difference of opinion. I believed men’s issues were worth addressing as well as women’s, she did not. Apparently this is just cause for a long term friendship being discarded; the explanation I will never see because she blocked me before I was granted that chance.

I’m not sure what she meant by “one of her many issues”, since we spoke rather infrequently over the last couple of years, and when we did chat I was adamant in my support for her.

Despite everything, I really hope she’s doing ok. I really hope she’s happy.

‘Chapter One. He adored New York City. He idolized it all out of proportion.’ Uh, no, make that: 'He-he romanticized it all out of proportion.’ Yeah. 'To him, no matter what the season was, this was still a town that existed in black and white and pulsated to the great tunes of George Gershwin.’ Uh, no, let me start this over…
'Chapter One: He was too romantic about Manhattan, as he was about everything else. He thrived on the hustle bustle of the crowds and the traffic. To him, New York meant beautiful women and street smart guys who seemed to know all the angles.’ Ah, corny, too corny for, you know, my taste. Let me, let me try and make it more profound…
'Chapter One: He adored New York City. To him it was a metaphor for the decay of contemporary culture. The same lack of individual integrity that caused so many people to take the easy way out was rapidly turning the town of his dreams in..’ No, it’s gonna be too preachy, I mean, you know, let’s face it, I wanna sell some books here.
'Chapter One: He adored New York City. Although to him it was a metaphor for the decay of contemporary culture. How hard it was to exist in a society desensitized by drugs, loud music, television, crime, garbage…’ Too angry. I don’t wanna be angry.
'Chapter One. He was as tough and romantic as the city he loved. Behind his black-rimmed glasses was the coiled sexual power of a jungle cat.’ Oh, I love this! 'New York was his town, and it always would be.’

Lmao at every white person who keeps telling us Shawngela shippers to chill the fuck out. Most of us Shawngela shippers are BLACK women. Y’all love to talk over us so fucking much. Shawngela meant everything to me as a YOUNG, BLACK woman, seeing that a white man could love a black woman for herself without fetishising her and RESPECTING her culture. She brought out the soul in that boy; he wrote poetry for her, about her, and in general, he started listening to classical music because of her. Black men have proven time and time again that they don’t want black women and that all we’re good for is being the punchline to their jokes. This isn’t about the writers of whatever, this is about every black woman’s hopes and dreams being crushed, about again the issues of less representation for black women, THIS IS ABOUT ME AS A BLACK WOMAN TIRED OF US BEING DISRESPECTED AND USED AS PROPS TO UPLIFT WHITE WOMEN. This sends a message to myself that this is all black women are good for. FUCK YEAH I’M UPSET


i feel this way about dudes? i grew up with just women and my friends have been mostly girls, and while i have guy friends now, i still find it hard to relate to their lives in some ways. i think i’m bisexual (??) but i can’t imagine being with a man, like everything beyond friendship makes me feel /so/ uncomfortable. some would say homoromantic bi, but i’m not sure that’s a thing. so yeah, i can kind of relate, though i don’t experience the gender related dysphoria.

yeah i guess its weird to say maybe but : i always thought ‘gender related dysphoria’ meant ‘genital related dysphoria’ but now that i wrote all that out im like 


i can kind of understadn that, what you’re saying about everything beyond friendship with men makes you feel uncomfortable. whenever i try to make female friends i get nervous because even though its just making friends its still like ‘new’ because ive never really done it and it all feels like a big put-on like im lying the whole time trying to be like ‘one of the girls’ and i want so badly for it not to be that way ??? i want a girl gang so bad

but i guess if i wanna be in a girl gang i gotta get better at relating to / with women

or do i ??

i dk now im really confusd ive always called myself a ‘masculine woman’ but like 9 minutes ago when i realized i always consume media and produce work from the perspective of a man and cannot read or watch television thats supposed to be from the perspective of a woman bc i cant relate im like ??? wtf ??? like is this gender dysphoria? or internalized misogyny ? im not educated enough 4 this


Let this be a tell all sign that black resistance is the change. The curators of the Grammys know how influential Beyonce is, yet they still didn’t award her for her impact on culture and the globe. It’s not enough to say ‘Maybe next year a black artist will win a big award’. We deserve recognition now because music would cease to exist if it wasn’t for black artists. This was another white lash tbh. Another attempt at white supremacy and black oppression. I’m really feeling bad right now. The Lemonade album meant alot to me. I felt like black women’s presence was being showcased in marvelous ways. I’m hurt because I know we are enough. Our art, our beauty, our hair, our skin, our thoughts everything. Let’s not let the mindset of white people be the way be describe ourselves. We ARE always enough. 💗

that-bloke-named-dave  asked:

I recall when I was younger, around age 10-14 or so would spout the rhetoric that being a feminist meant supporting women, and being an anti-feminist meant you hated women. I don't know where I got it from, but at that age some adult had to have indoctrinated me into believing that blindly. Being a child, I would just absorb everything like a sponge, so it's scary to think that someone had me believing that for so long as such a young age without ever explaining what it was.

There are a lot of misconceptions, to be fair. And I’m highly sceptical of people that claim to never have been sucked in by at least some ridiculousness unless there’s some extenuating circumstances.

I mean, I honestly never really thought about it. Feminism never came up, even when we were studying the history of women’s suffrage in the UK. And my first exposure to a feminist was a ridiculous one at university who never actually talked about feminism as a subject, just said that things that weren’t sexist were sexist, so nobody took her seriously as much of anything.

I’m not going to lie. I was sucked in over some silly things, looking back, thanks to this site. On my old, fandom blog – now gone – there were people that reblogged standard posts about feminism, but I wasn’t interested in that, I was much more interested in fandom things. What got me was, because I was so invested in the fandom, were long posts about the amount of women that were killed off, and the use of women as “manpain.” I was even suckered in over the idea of representation because it was framed well. When a couple of Jewish characters made short appearances in the show, I was really pleased, so when others called for representation at first, I could understand it. When people talked about the “spectrum of sexuality,” I could believe that. Some rape statistics. I just never bothered questioning anything because it wasn’t really something that I was passionate about, and I didn’t even register the misandry or propaganda.

I think what changed it was the sudden crackdown of outsiders coming in and attacking people over ships that they didn’t like existing. That was my first real experience of “SJWs.” They were all teenagers, none of them even liked the show, but they spent their time sending hate, wishing shippers dead, calling shippers paedophiles, saying that anyone that wrote anything dark was a monster and a rapist. 

And that was awful. Until, of course, the fandom itself was infected.

If you liked one main character over the other, that was because you were an abuse apologist. If you liked the other main character, then you were homophobic. One argument said that because one of the main male characters was “female coded” (because he wasn’t as macho as the other), then if you weren’t his fan the most, you were a misogynist. I had someone, in the days of fanmail, write some long messages telling me that because I identified with one character, that meant that I was dangerous to be around my brother, that I probably abused him and… because I was more open about myself on that other blog, much more personal things that genuinely – I usually hate this word, ugh – triggered me. 

And that’s what made me start to question everything. It wasn’t the random, falsified “facts” that crossed my dash, because I didn’t bother questioning them, I was too busy taking the free time that I had to have fun with a show that I loved. It was the sudden and extreme outpouring of hatred. People started to spend time writing fanfiction that was thousands of words long, not to create a fun (or dark, or depressing, or whatever else) story to enjoy, but to spread hatred and to try and shame others into conforming with them. So I started thinking about things, really considering what was going on, and I realised that the fandom was a horrific mess of “SJW” types, and the only decent fans were few and far between, pushed away because of how toxic it all was. Hell, people were making up sexualities that others swallowed without a thought because they suddenly explained why a heterosexual male character could actually totally be gay for another character instead of people just separating the show from their shipping fun, and then suddenly adopted those labels for themselves.

The point of this story is that I don’t think people question anything unless they need to. I know that was my problem. And they start out by wanting to do some good, by thinking that they’re helping people somehow. But then, like a cult, only their interpretation is allowed. Anyone that goes against the narrative is evil. And it manipulates, it genuinely destroys friendships, it alienates, and the only way that you’re allowed back into a “good place” is by bowing, scraping and giving in to what the majority around you demands.

This “SJW” thing has infected its way everywhere. I really do believe that it’s dangerous. It’s one of the reasons that I talk about the things that I talk about. Maybe it’ll mean that one person who’s on their way to believing all this changes their mind and actually thinks about everything instead of blindly going along with it. Because if so, they could save themselves pain and save others that might have been their victims some pain. 

And really, just one person reconsidering things is worth it, in my view.

Perhaps the whole point of dieting is telling women: “Don’t indulge in your desires. Don’t eat that burger. Don’t have that cheesecake. Don’t do what you want. Because you know, being a size 8 instead of a 10 is worth all that sacrifice and the hunger pains.”

Maybe it’s not, though?

Like, you put a chocolate cake covered in cream in front of me, yeah, I’ll eat it. I’ll never apologize for eating it. 

I indulge. That’s what life is meant to be about. Gorging on everything. 

Why are people so keen to make women feel ashamed for this?

You know what? All the greatest love stories are tragedies. But we love them anyway, sometimes we love them most of all.

Root and Shaw are a love story. A great one. And so it is a tragedy as well. But the kind that leaves a beautiful, bittersweet scorch on my heart, the kind I will always smile about even through the pain.

Root would certainly not regret a thing. Shaw will certainly never regret meeting Root.

And I will never regret falling in love with their story.

Death doesn’t diminish the life in those moments they did have. They meant the world to each other. Theirs is the kind of story people write poems for and legends about. And it’s everything I ever wished to get in a story written about two women for once.

And their story was fully realized and filled to the brim with their ‘symphony’.

So YES, I love Person of Interest for giving them to me. 

It’s no surprise that I am extremely upset and disappointed about Lexa’s death. Not only was she a huge part of the show, but a huge part of my life. Alycia portrayed an incredible character that allowed those in the LGBT community, especially women, to feel empowered, respected, and feel that it is okay to be the way the are. I will never forget how Alycia and Lexa made me feel and how they helped me to feel okay with who I am.
Thank you Alycia for everything. For continuing to be my reason to smile, happiness, and for making a character that gave me hope. There aren’t enough words to describe what your work meant to me.

May we meet again. Reshop Heda, thank you Alycia.

Dude I know on Facebook is always posting asinine articles about Pickup Artists or how feminism is destroying everything and everyone as happier “celebrating the innate differences of men and women” by keeping women out of business and at home raisin’ babies and makin’ sandwiches, but now he’s insulting cruiser style motorcycles on top of all that and it’s like he’s manifesting into this pure nugget of qualities that are meant to antagonize me, personally.

I am literally open to every single thing that is consenting and doesn’t involve an animal and everyone is of age. Everything that’s legal, I’m down with. Yo, I’m down with any adult—anyone over the age of 18 who is down to love me. I don’t relate to being boy or girl, and I don’t have to have my partner relate to boy or girl. I remember telling [her mother Tish] I admire women in a different way. And she asked me what that meant. And I said, I love them. I love them like I love boys. And it was so hard for her to understand. She didn’t want me to be judged and she didn’t want me to go to hell. But she believes in me more than she believes in any god. I just asked for her to accept me. And she has. As long as you’re not hurting anyone, your choices are your choices.
—  Miley Cyrus

I was cleaning out folders on my laptop recently and came across hundreds of Brittana/Naya Rivera/Heather Morris pics and videos.  They were almost entirely from 4-5 years ago, shortly after I came out.  It really hit me why I’ve been so upset about everything going on with the 1OO.  Brittana meant so much to me and made me feel less disgusting about being attracted to women.  Clexa did this for a new group of young women, and it’s been devastating having everything ripped away from them.

While I love Clexa, I haven’t been involved in the community like I was with Brittana.  I certainly don’t have any pictures or videos of the actresses saved anywhere.  But I know what it’s like to be so vulnerable as a young wlw and what any kind of representation means.  We scrambled for scraps with Brittana, eating up even the tiniest background moment.  It was the opposite with Clexa.  Clexa was like a five course meal, but the writers messed up by only serving two of the promised five courses and giving everyone food poisoning.  


I find myself asking myself this question quite a lot,
Is this our fate? Is this the way it was suppose to be? This whole black women vs black men ordeal? Even black women vs black women and black men vs black men. Were we never meant to be united or loving towards each other as a majority?

This might not make any sense, and I know this seems like a stupid and bizarre question because well of course this isn’t how it’s suppose to be. It’s not suppose to be like this. Because of our history and everything our ancestors went through and what our descendants will go through, we were suppose to be united and stronger than ever…. right? 😕

But it seems to me that maybe we will never see it being any other way than it is now. Self-hate, hate towards each other, harming each other, killing each other. Maybe I’m just being a major pessimist. Not all of us dislike or hate each other. In fact, there is plenty of love between each other, but not nearly enough to suffice. I just wonder if the fallout between black women and black men in particular was always going to happen no matter what. When my thoughts get real deep like this, I get to the point where I feel like there is no hope.

What do you think?