"Life's A Journey!": Why My Life's The Train From Cambridge To London

Train times are my favorite. There is the spot in the train to London with a table right by the window. Behind a closed door that doesn't open very often, you'll find the bathroom so refreshment is always close. While you are tenderly rocked in the moving train, the English countryside passes by. Summer or winter, that's a sight for lovers although East Anglia has three hills, if that. To top it all off, the table has a plug so you can literally bring your laptop along to do essential work - all while casually checking out the weirdest little places in the suburbs. In other words, this time on the trains is the perfect time to actually watch the journey, not just be on one. And when I say journey, I mean realizing the purpose, the tasks at hand, and possibly act upon them.

For me, that's writing time. I wrote my last letter to the guy who broke my heart from here and drafted my book outline on this very table. Sometimes, when the train isn't full, it's the perfect spot for meditation. Most people on this train to Liverpool Street are quite quiet. They're not going to the City because they want to. They come from places such as Bishop's Shortford and Cheshunt (yes, those are names of English places). They likely made their money in London and then sought a more simple life in the English countryside. That was my plan, too. Passing these villages reminds me of my exchange program in eighth grade when I spent time in Royal Tunbridge Wells, again a name of a British "city", and a few days in London. I marveled at the beauty, size, and excitement of the City. I knew then one day it'd be home. But what I wanted, in the long run, was the villages. The green. The quiet. So all I ever really wanted was the life of the people on this train.

This journey takes me along a lot of memories. I only got off at the first stop, Whittlesford Parkway, once. That night Richard and I went to a very fancy pub in the middle of nowhere. Considering the size of Whittlesford, this is the only memory to be made there. I had a very nice time that day and enjoyed a dose of Richard's terrible English chat before he would leave a couple of weeks after. And although I saw him every day for a year, I usually think of this pub when I think of Richard. It's nice to have that kind of memory. I would probably have enjoyed that fancy pub with another friend as well but I live well with passing Whittlesford on this train and remembering that fool. He was a big part of my Cambridge time anyways so it only makes sense...

Next stop is Audley End which I also remember well. On February 25, 2017, I passed it the first time. I had just landed at Stansted Airport with one suitcase containing everything I owned. The Stansted Express stopped at Audley End on its way to Cambridge, my new home. I took a picture of the sign, hoping I would never forget that the first town in England I ever saw had a name that could be taken straight out of a Harry Potter book. Audley End... Really? The greenery around it is amazing and not too far along the journey, there is a golf course. That, of course, is an entirely different memory. On my very first days in Cambridge, I developed the desire to go play golf. Not too long after, someone actually took me. Not too long after that, the dream of playing golf had become the dream of playing golf with him. An unattainable dream but something an above-average amount of time was spent thinking about. And just like the previous memory, going past it on this train journey and reflecting is maybe a little bit painful but also the ink in my pen.

After much more green, dozens more villages and a changing scenery from rural to urban, the train slowly runs into London Liverpool Street. I used to work five minutes away from there and was always excited to get off of the train to walk into that office. As a result, the surrounding area has become a place of excitement. Work, yes, but other than one individual I liked everything about my job. It was a life I never imagined but it filled me with pride to see the Gherkin and the Shard come closer from the train like I had in many a music video as a teenager. Only, now it was not a music video anymore; now that was my life. The Liverpool Street area this train now directs to is what my final destination is right now: a place of work, a new career, a comfortable place to make big things happen. Big things are easier made when surrounded by grandeur.

Maybe in the future, it won't be Liverpool Street but that feeling is still there: Getting closer to the city that has been my constant for over a decade. I have seen London come closer to me on trains, buses and planes. Only a month ago my plane was flying so low over Hyde Park I could see the art installations in it. The view never gets old as I look at my favorite city in the world. To call this train approaching the Skyline a dream come true is cheesy but it is true; this train materializes my current dream: taking me out of Cambridge, away from these memories, to realize what the English countryside cannot. I'm not bitter about the past; it brought me here and that's a good thing. But my positivity will have an end if I continue passing the places in which attempts were made to destroy this dream for me. One day soon I'm getting off this train without a ticket back. And then that's my life. Right now, it's this train.

#ShareYourRejection: Truth or Fallacy?

I spend a reasonable amount of time on Twitter. Until recently, I was responsible for finding the biggest Trending Stories in the world on a daily business, so where else to look? In this endeavor, I learned to love the good old hashtag. My favorites included #PooWatch, where a local police department updated the public about an arrested man that had seemingly swallowed a plastic bag of cocaine and then refused to use the bathroom for over two months or #MeToo which literally saved lives and changed the world. Sometimes we get hashtags that just become a trend and inform people like nothing else could. That's what #ShareYourRejection is right now.

This picture (and subsequent dance battle)
with a senior Amazon VP is the result of my failure.

On this hashtag, people all over the world shared what they had to go through in their lives to become who they are - through rejection. Big names chimed in to share their stories, just to show the casual users that they, too, had suffered before. The road to greatness, they say, cannot be achieved without failure. And indeed, I understand why many people need the hashtag to remind themselves of that: Because embellishing failure makes it hurt less. While I found it encouraging that Judd Apatow said his writing was rejected by everyone before he became, well, Judd Apatow, and Mia Vardalos writes about how many people told her she could not write a script as an actress, those examples do little to shed light on the truth: sometimes we fail for a reason. What they do do, though, is encourage. These people are exceptions to the rule, and we can be that exception, too.

Going through that hashtag surfaces stories of people who tried to "make it" in industries that have absolutely nothing to do with money, computers or stuff like medicine. If you're the best at making money for someone, creating new tech or save lives, nobody rejects you. Quite the contrary: If you rock there, you don't even have to do anything; success will find you. The creative business, so my business, works completely different. I have seen the best fail, and the worst make it. And now Twitter saw them, too. Talent means nothing a lot of the time. While we can agree that the Apatows and Vardaloses are now having the last laugh, it will create a false sense of justice for the majority of us.

As a creative myself, I can write many a blog about my failures. Many, many more people said "no" to me than "yes". My biggest achievement was taken away from me because the person who offered me the opportunity later admitted he became aware of me "because I was pretty". Sooo, I don't feel too hot although I've had amazing chances. I am only sitting here in England because I was rejected from my dream job, only to be called by Amazon a few weeks later, paying up big time and offering me a job I didn't even know existed. Persistence isn't the problem sometimes; there is still luck. So, of course, it worked out in the end, but I did fail my intended plan. I don't doubt that one day it all falls into place, but only the fewest become award winners and can laugh about their failure. Most of the time it just hurts for a long time and possibly never changes.

Yet, I succeed at convincing myself that it will be me who succeeds in the end as well. And that was what I saw in #ShareYourRejection: a shoutout to all people who refuse to give up. My ambitions are astronomical and I have reason to believe I can be one of the people that can share a hashtag like this one day and encourage others not to quit. At the same time, there is a lot of wrong information on this topic: Just because Einstein flunked maths at school we should not believe we can do anything. Perpetual failure can very well mean we do not have what it takes. Sometimes, Oscar winners sharing their stories will tell the 14-year-old girl in Germany that she can win the Oscar, too. That girl was me, and I still believe I can. Maybe that's not smart and I should get back to reality and accept I am not Mia Vardalos or Diabolo Cody. I'm not ready to do that though. 

Brighton Pride: Ode to a Queer Haven

Brighton is the queerest place in Britain, they say. They weren't kidding. This weekend, I experienced Brighton Pride; an experience that requires words. Maybe pictures. Maybe video footage and a feature film. But: nothing captures a moment, an event, a place designed entirely to celebrate love. Every kind of it. Although I am tortured by heartbreak and have very seldom benefited from all the benefits of love I am one of it's biggest fans. Who loves who couldn't matter less to me. In fact, I was in the company of a bunch of queerios who love who they love every day. This weekend, this city displayed so much more than a platform to present love. The stage was given to anyone who needs one, not just those who want to share who they like sleeping with. On top of that, there's also the city of Brighton, a coastal city in a country that just voted Brexit. So please allow me to take my stage to talk about it.

I figured out a long time ago why I care about gay rights so much without being gay. I don't identify with a sexuality other than the one people call "normal" but I identify with being trapped, wanting to express myself, needing to be different and simply just having the same right as some people around me that did nothing different from me than being "luckier". Every member of this community that showed itself in all shapes and colors last weekend has felt disadvantages for simply being themselves. But not now. Not this weekend. Being different was the reason to be celebrated. They call this event "pride" because being different has value and needs to be acknowledged as nothing else but an asset. Being different, or in this instance queer, isn't a choice we make. Like our parents; we didn't choose them. But we can definitely be proud of what we are, who we are, where we are from and that's simply an effect of who gave birth to us. So every pride event is important for this society we're all trying to shape. Because I hope that one day, what we saw this weekend will be "normal" when everyone can be whoever they please to be and be proud of it.

In Brighton, that is easier than most places. Even after the weekend, the rainbow flags stayed out. Men and men and women and women kept holding hands. The litter in the streets disappeared and people went back to work on Monday. But the spirit stayed. This city is happy and you can tell. It's easy to say in the hottest summer since the early 70s when a city offers 1000s of cold brews, 100s of beautifully lit outdoor restaurants and dozens of street musicians who are not merely trying to make a living but delight mothers who are watching their children learn to swim in the sea. It is very much a summer place that feels like the word "vibrant" has a literal meaning; the street seems to have a pulse. In those veins flows life, creativity, and love - for everyone, not just the lucky ones.

A simple glass of wine in The Lanes becomes what life was made for. Of course, it's hard to enjoy things right now. I am surrounded by love, happiness and a true zest for life when my thoughts are with the person that is causing me to miss out on all if that right now. But he doesn't have that either. He is not Brighton. The goal must be to become Brighton in the flesh. As a city, it already reached me. But I realize I am miles away from personifying this place. Not because I'm not gay or in love or creative but because I am scared to be me, have not expressed myself freely in months and am not proud of my difference. Instead of sniffing cocaine at a queer takeover on Saturday night I fell asleep half an hour past midnight, thinking about how old I am. I am not Brighton anymore but I'm not yet Cambridge. But that's why getting to know a place is like dating: we gotta find the one that fits. Those who are (in) Brighton: congratulations! I will still be looking who and where I will have to be.

I'm Back... Both to Writing & in Moscow!

I arrived at Moscow Sheremetyevo both times in the dark. Last time it was four o'clock in the afternoon, pitch black and minus 25 degrees. On Friday night, it was four in the morning, the sun was getting ready to come up and the 25 degrees made me sweat. What a difference 50 degrees make... The only thing that was similar was the dark; I was coming from the dark both times. That darkness came from uncertainty about the future. Two years ago, I didn't know what the end of the year would bring, and last time the end of the year was three days away. This time, that darkness seems way less persistent. And although I arrived in the dark again, the sky already lit up again. It's summer now so Moscow doesn't stay dark very long. Neither do I.

Places turn into the experiences we had there and so I wonder: will Moscow always be the place for me where I sent off my grad school application full of hope, accompanied by a significant man who would turn out to be an even bigger disappointment that the application failing? Two days into this visit, it turns out it doesn't. There's something magical about visiting a place twice, especially if the first visit was as significant as mine. I am currently sitting in a bar looking at the bridge of the Cathedral that man and I threw pennies off of into a frozen Moskva river. He told me to make a wish. We both wished for the same, and it wasn't that out future together works out. And it didn't. What we wished for also didn't work out - my PhD. Now I'm sitting here looking at this bridge, almost seeing myself stand on the bridge, knee deep in snow. None of my feelings are the same. And I love it.

I walked through the gates of Gorky Park earlier where I rang in the new year 2016. There was a fountain in the middle that was playing music and dancing to it. Last time, it was off. The whole park was buried under a blanket of (snow and) silence. I decided to accept this fountain as the difference between then and now. New Year's Eve 2016 sucked. There were no fireworks, literally and figuratively. The fountain dancing now, the mood lighter, the warmth engulfing much more than just my skin, mirrors my feelings. I am looking at a much brighter future than then. The despair is gone, the uncertainty of if I will ever get out of Egypt, the insecurity about this man I liked for a decade. Of course, I don't know what will happen by the end of the year but I know it will be far less soul-crushing than the year ahead when I was last here. I no longer hold out for someone to accept me; neither a school nor a man. I moved on from those dreams. That is why Moscow summer 2018 is a different place than Moscow new year's 2016. 

This time, I'm here for football. To experience Moscow, a world-friendly, multicultural country that accepts every nationality (because that simply isn't the world we live in these days). That's not the Russia they live in, either. However, this experience beats every place anyone could visit. Moscow was great last time, but this time it was a pool of Croatian, Mexicans and Brazilians. Rivals were hugging, the whole world was here. I spent the night with two Georgians and four Mexicans. The Mexicans kicked me out of the world cup final and here they were, forming an umbrella of sombreros for me when the skies opened as soon as the game was over. In the end, they gifted their sombreros to friends they made along the world. This stuff simply doesn't happen very often.

I loved Moscow both times but this time it became a symbol. This second visit to a place I once considered to make home has been eye-opening. That person I was then isn't around anymore. I haven't changed but my life has. I now have fewer worries; that happens with age. I don't have to worry about the six dollars I just spent on a chicken skewer, I finally don't hold out for a future with someone anymore who's unwilling to have one with me, I will not be a doctor and I have the freedom, money, and experience to be whoever I want to be. Everything that happened in the last two and a half years made that possible. So visiting a place that stood for the absence of all of that is now the symbol of me realizing; that time changes everything, that my despair is a waste of time, that all is good in the end. Moscow is no longer the place of this man, neither is it the place of the FIFA World Cup. I look forward to coming back one day, sit in this restaurant and look back at what life has become.

Eternal Happiness Is Impossible

Today, I was riding my bike through the rain, miserably squinting my eyes so I could see. All I wanted was to get home. My thoughts were drowned out with not water, but music. Because you know what happens when you allow thoughts. For one year now, I have believed myself to be happy. I have and have had everything I ever needed. I consider myself extremely lucky and no detail about my life bothers me (anymore!). And yet, today, while in this empty moment full of horrible rain that should flush out any thought other than "get home quick", I asked myself for the first time in a year "am I unhappy?". I don't understand how it could take so long...

The answer is clear, I am not. I like waking up every day, I don't spend days in my bed not leaving my room much like some time when I lost everything I loved. Life is good to me. My journey through this life has been impeccable and exactly what I would always hope for a life although often hard. Happiness comes from knowing all this, and being grateful for it. Since I know how to do that, I believed I'd never be unhappy again which might or might not stay true. The thoughts that came into my head today were of a different nature though. They were not thoughts, they were feelings. And I haven't had any in a long time.

The reason it is so easy to be happy is that I count my blessings every day and on paper, they look great. Anything other than happiness when living my life would be outrageous. But today I remembered that I am not that person that looks at a sheet of paper and assesses; I'm the girl that closes her eyes and tries to feel. I don't meet people by talking, I don't make decisions by making pros and cons and I rarely ever think about what is "the right thing to do". I have a gut, a body of intuition, and it has seldom let me down. That's where I come from, that's who I am. And as fragile and vulnerable feelings are, this part has stayed concealed from people for many years. In the last year, however, I have hidden them so well I didn't even find them myself.

I said in an earlier post that I think I had learned from the Brits. Their forceful hiding of anything that can be traced to true, raw and life-changing emotion was a way of thinking I had not yet acquainted myself with. I thought maybe, just maybe, my heart leading the way was not the right thing. In the past 390 days of being in this country, I have told many tales, but never the truth. Because the truth is how I'm feeling, how I see the people around me, how very much in love I am with things I cant have. I showed nobody, except for two or three five second breaks where emotions forced their way out, namely in the shape of tears. Almost! But I swallowed them, in true British fashion. There were no tears throughout times that should go down as my hardest. I don't have to get into how that is ridiculous for someone who feels like me.

This hiding of the essence that is me, a cesspool of emotion, feeling, passion and often melancholy, didn't happen voluntarily. I often pride myself on my bravery, having done so many things people are scared of. Most of my peers think I'm a badass because look, that sheet of paper with all my daredevil moves suggests that I am. Having said that, I am scared to feel. So much so that I haven't done it. To really allow myself to acknowledge what has recently happened to me would guarantee feelings, and not the good kind. So I just don't. No acknowledgment of those I love, no acknowledgment of probably the biggest heartbreak of my entire life, no acknowledgment of the anger I feel towards someone who almost ruined my life. I am happy, thats all that mattered.

Happiness is like a drug; I didn't want to let it go. I was able to fool myself into happiness for a year by running away from everything that could threaten it. But now, I'm losing the race. They're getting faster and I'm getting slower. I stayed idle for a long time not changing anything about my situations, sometimes relationships, so that I could keep riding the wave of happiness. Instead, I should have gotten off the wave when it made sense. Sometimes it's right to not be okay. I should really have acknowledged that a while ago and not hide it from myself. It might be the easier way of living, but it isn't mine. I don't write a sheet of paper, I write chronicles. Everyone who has ever seen a glimpse of the part of me I call emotion here has seen the four or five-page letters I compile to express one feeling I have on one given day. In order to be me, I need the chance to write these Chronicles. To write the Chronicles, I need these feelings. And they are forcing their way out now... 

Self Worth: How I Watched Myself Lose Respect

My closest friend in London, and one of my closest friends in life, is an incredible person. She's wearing a fair bit of Latina on her sleeve but tried hard to be 'like us' now that she's here. She has proven to be strong, caring and intelligent. She is creative and open-minded. In short, the girl's a catch! Yet, recently she has had a very hard time, struggling with her boyfriend and the country she had hoped to make a home. With nobody at fault, my friend started talking down her achievements: her recent master's graduation was "not a big deal", the reason she couldn't get a job was that she "wasn't good enough". She was set to settle: for an inferior job that was exploiting her and a relationship that didn't look promising to make either of them happy. And oh yeah, she was facing the boot from the country. You can only imagine how she would end up thinking that she was not worth the good things in life...

What it did to me is open my eyes. I kept telling her for half a year that the silver lining was close, that jobs and relationships work out if they're meant to and that all she has to do is be herself. That is precisely what she couldn't do through all the doubt and uncertainty. Because that, my friends, is impossible. Doubt and uncertainty, mixed with some shitty experiences that actually feel like we're not good enough, are rodents that come eat your self worth away. How do I know? I've been there. But losing faith in oneself is easy, watching someone else do it is more drastic. There I was, watching a strong, independent woman that obnoxiously smiled all the freaking time when I first met her be reduced to a shell, thinking nice things weren't meant for her. To feel that feeling is normal but it's deceitful. Most people have felt it but hearing it's not true made it feel no less than the truth to me back in the day. Appreciating our own merits has to come from within. Even confirmation does nothing if we don't believe it ourselves.

I have a personality where losing myself can happen very quickly. Once I care for a person, place or thing, it can thoroughly destroy me. It seems silly now because I am also verging on arrogant to protect myself from that side of me but I didn't do bad in life. I have two degrees in random stuff that makes people say "excuse me, what?", I survived two years in the toughest country in the world, I have been a great friend to my friends and I overcame lots of family history bullshit and various sicknesses; I don't really need confidence boosts. But it was all gone when I couldn't find a job, when I wasn't even worth a message of "sorry Sina, we are going with another candidate" to 200 employers all over the world. And I actually begged my ex once to come back to me when this guy treated me like crap. In fact, I've had many a guy walk over me because it felt better to me than losing them. As of late, I lost my self worth in trying to make everyone happy while not really looking out for my own happiness. Funnily enough, the guy who destroyed my self worth told me that would happen. He was wiser than me; nevertheless, he has me sitting here today feeling like appreciating me is too much to ask from people.

Of course, I know it's not true. Of course, my mind tells me I'm great and I deserve everything I have. But the people I cared for did not return that feeling to me. Therefore, when I think of someone, maybe even that person, to do anything that's not 100 percent only going to benefit themselves, but me, I can't imagine that. If it happened, I'd be surprised. Maybe I know they should, but I just don't believe they will. And that way, boom, self worth is gone. Because the moment I okay that behavior I stop demanding their respect. I am currently watching a Russian pensioner dance for his grandchild because she's crying. He doesn't want to dance; he is scratching his head because he's very embarrassed with everyone watching him. But he does it because he wants her to stop crying. Self worth derives of people finding you worthy of effort but to me that just hasn't happened in a while....

I have come to realize that I don't struggle with finding myself worthy but I don't enforce my worth on others. But I should. I don't demand people to appreciate me. Instead, I do whatever it takes to make them happy. Sure, I want to do that. When Fernanda and Richard left, I wanted them to have a nice last night and I was willing to forego anything I wanted that day or night and I loved doing that. Because I love them and their happiness made me happy. Both of them were appreciative of me trying for them but self worth goes to sh** the minute you feel they wouldn't do it for you. That moment you should walk away. Someone who doesn't try is not worth our time. Period. I don't enforce that doctrine. Instead, I try harder. It has nothing to do with self respect and everything with making yourself a target for exploitation. I'd say right now would be a great time to start changing it but it's actually a tough thing to do.

In all the recent debate about power, I realized that not men, but the people I care most about, have power over me. And unfortunately, they have very often exploited that. Most if not all of them would be shocked that their lack of effort for me has destroyed my self worth, some of them, however, have knowingly exercised that power over me. That it resulted in me thinking I'm not good enough or I have to try harder to please them is not their fault, but mine. People don't give you what you don't ask for, although it shouldn't be like that. Those days are over though. I hope. If I recognized one thing in my friends devaluation at the hands of others or circumstancial tragedies, it is that I have been slowly but surely allowing the same thing to happen to me. Those pesky rodents trying to tell me I'm not worth what I have or who I am can go suck it. Even if they're right. Because if I don't believe I'm good enough for my job, my life or a certain individual, neither will anyone else. 

Three Months Late To The Party: #MeToo, too!

I've had almost a week in the sun with nothing but my thoughts, waiting for original thought. I read one book about English humor, spoke to many friends about Egyptian culture and revisited my childhood with my sister. Very clearly, I came here to reflect not to look forward. Totally involuntarily, I came back to the topic of the decade and realized that despite thinking about it for the best part of the last decade, I actually missed volumes. That topic is sexual assault, gender equality and a whole load of fucking injustice. "Wait a minute", you may say, "you DIDN'T think about this, Sina?" It is what I talked about for years, being one of the loudest voices pro-feminism in my circles, and yet I missed so much. While I watched #MeToo as an onlooker, thinking there was nothing new for me to be learned, I was ignorant, once again. It took until today for me to see... 

I entered a restaurant at my hotel in Sharm El Sheikh tonight. Within two minutes at the place, the waiter had asked me if I have a boyfriend, two had catcalled me and all of them had stared at me. I think by now we have all agreed that this behavior sucks and needs to stop. I always saw it, I always felt annoyed by it, and I didn't need #MeToo to find the courage to criticize it and demand change. There is the obvious shit like that, and there is the other kind, the worse one because it's so hard to fight: the unconscious superiority, the inherited privilege that as a man coercion and exploitation is an easy feat some might not even know they are possessing. When I love someone, I work for them or need anything from them, they have power. And they do not realize they are using it. 

I'm months late to the party but I genuinely only realized three days ago that I had #MeToo stories I never wanted to share. Many, actually. I am worse than most of the women that shared so far; they actually realized they had something to share. I didn't. I thought I'm definitely not scared to share anything, I was just nose-deep in motherfucking oppression to even realize I had men take advantage of me. And now I see: I am scared. This is private. And although I shouldn't be embarrassed, I am! But that's what I do, overcome what I'm scared of. In recent history, I was disrespected by men I had sex with plenty, and I mean plenty. And here I am, colloquially telling a public audience including past and present employers, workmates and family members, that me having sex with men had consequences that are very private. But I realize this is the world we now live in; a world in which my personal experience with sexual assault is not a matter I manage behind closed doors but that is part of my personality that doesn't need to be hidden.

I could talk about many experiences. I've been hurt by people I slept with a lot. It's what happens when you like someone and they have the power to hurt you. Someone you sleep with, you don't ignore the next day. Not cool. But there are many weird stories, too. I had a guy I crashed with one night film me in the morning, while I was fully dressed, never even touched him. Countless guys said to me about other girls they slept with that they are "stupid" or shit in bed. Or, a nice favorite from someone I was actually sort of in love with, I am gross because of some bodily fluids that I can't stop from flowing. Nice! Well done, men! But I'm not here to be the feminist blame bomb, not all women are great, and I can understand the argument that I probably didn't make the mistake of sleeping with men but sleeping with assholes. Just because Azis Anzari is one, doesn't mean they all are.

My most violated experiences actually come from my relationships. People who loved me. So here we are: they probably never meant for me to get hurt. But I got hurt big time. In recent history, I cut ties with a guy who I know cared about me for a long time but not to the extent where I was able to leave a room after sleeping with him without feeling like I was nothing but an ends to a mean. I had feelings for the man that he knew of and boom, I'm the target! It's very easy to coerce a woman into sleeping with you if you make her feel like she is wrong for not wanting to. I can't blame him for being selfish when it was that easy to get away with it. Oh, no, wait, I CAN! Just because I'm a flipping idiot, I believe, a man could opt for the right way, that is, not use me. This is really hard to admit but, of course, I was stupid. I could have said no. But I was under the impression until just a few days ago, that is, that to keep him, I'd have to. And he played with that. 

And then there are the times I said no. The tough one. The one that is hard to admit because it came from someone I loved, who loved me. Someone I believed didn't want to accept the no out of love. I'm a smart woman and don't eat mens' shit very often but one can't claim I've experienced a lot of love in my life. So for me to please the people I love, sexually or not, is a toxic environment. Someone who loves me deserves to be loved back, right? You can see where I went wrong. A very hard to admit example of this is a man I loved ignoring my "no", abusing me emotionally and verbally for attempting to say no until my no became a yes. Out of guilt. And that happened to me. ME! I think those who know me would be surprised because I'm strong and I stand up for myself. And that's how I know that we have a problem: Because I am all these things, and if it happened to me, it can happen to anyone. 

Love doesn't make this better. I have tried to excuse men being abusive to me by finding the fault within myself, as women do. It's completely incorrect to do that and it took me 30 years to figure out. Unfortunately, I came to see that I come from an upbringing that, subconsciously, taught me to be like that. My childhood and family could have done a better job at empowering me to be anything but a habitat for a fetus. I can take people I don't care about me hurting me very well but when I actually care, these human beings are in the prime position to exploit me. And many men have for the sake of their sexual pleasure. Being strong and courageous didn't spare me that experience, it just obviously prevented this blog. That shall now be over, along with me excusing that behavior. Just as much as men have to change their thinking, I do: To discover self-worth, I clearly haven't understood myself that a woman is worth just as much as a man is.