Living with a Grizzly Bear

Normally, I detest writing about dreams. I also don’t really like reading about dreams.

But for today, I can’t help but write about this strange series of dreams I had last night.

Waking me up from around 5am to 10am, on and off, some keeping me awake until the next strange series of dreams.

Last night, I got to relive, in the abstract dream way, a series of sexual assaults and physical encroachments that, well, obviously I’m not over.

The details don’t matter, I think, or at least, I don’t really want to go into them. But I was trapped in a house and one of my roommates had a pet grizzly bear. He insisted the bear was tame, but I never really felt safe around it. It would corner me. It would paw at me. It’s paws were gigantic, and you know how in dreams you are not even remotely strong enough, so that was that.

Well, so, i’d go to a room in the house, and the house was never all that concrete in layout, but I’d end up in a room with a former aggressor and I couldn’t get out. And my arms weren’t strong enough, because I knew what was going to happen, and what was happening, and I still couldn’t get out.

Then I’d wake up, turn over, deeply disturbed, and half fall asleep again into another room in the house.

When I’d walk around the house, the Grizzly bear would follow me, watch me, lord over me.

Suffice to say, today I’m mostly inside myself. I lay in bed from around 10 to 11ish, poring over the feelings that came right back up to the surface. Suffice to say, I guess I haven’t ever properly dealt with such feelings. I, like most women, didn’t report anything. I didn’t go see anyone or any place about any of it. I think I should, but fear and skepticism keeps me from doing anything about it. I downplay, deny, or degrade the experiences and convince myself I’m over it. Obviously I’m not. I just don’t want to go through all the effort, whatever effort that would be, to do anything about these memories.

There, I’ve said what I’ve said. Now I’m going to try to get back to work. I’m not really ‘myself’ today, but it’s not written across my shirt that I had a bad night last night, so folks don’t really know whats up.

Fucking grizzly bear.

Rape Victim #432,534,450,654,239

his piece was written by Lia Tarachansky and performed as a spoken word poem at the Radical Vulvas show in Ottawa, on August 10th, 2008.
—

I’m sorry darlin’ if your hands are like his touch

I’m sorry darlin’ but you’ll never know how much

I’m sorry darlin’ if your kiss is sometimes bitter

If when you sleep I stay awake and remember

-

I heard an angry, big, black woman talk

She spoke of what women deserve

Her voice resonates in my mind I sit here in the dark,

Breaking my head open over being too forward or too reserved

-

After battlefields of bad breakups

Judging hip size over makeup

Being crazy with intentions

But just too fucked up to mention

Pops the question- what do I deserve?

-

As I sit here in the dark, more than fifteen years have past

From the first stab to the last

When my tiny body was betrayed

When my innocence was raped

When I started to be afraid

I didn’t deserve anything.

-

now twenty four and he is still in my mind

Darlin’, you don’t understand what it means every time

That yes, sometimes, your love in disguise

When you’re caressing my thighs

You remind me of the first touches and the cries

When my legs were forced to open

And my mind was forced to close

-

I’m sorry darlin’ if your hands are like his touch

I’m sorry darlin’ but you’ll never know how much

I’m sorry darlin’ if your kiss is sometimes bitter

If when you sleep I stare into the wall and remember

-

Support groups aren’t for me, mamma

As you struggle to understand

The impossible to comprehend

Beating yourself over where you were

Now that you know

When my thighs were ripped wide open,

Eight years old.

-

When he told me in his deep, quiet voice

Don’t shake, I won’t hurt you, with my force.

-

Big hands, big face, deep voice, for two years

-

Ended up a warning on a wall in a high school class

Don’t wear short skirts, don’t walk home alone girls

Or you’ll end up wondering the worth

Of what you deserve?

-

Sex it up because no one will like you otherwise

Sex it up because that’s the only way they care

Preposterous, obnoxious, or self-conscious

As long as those pretty little legs open up to play

-

Fighting the images of battlefields for years

Of broken hearts and screaming matches,

picking partners who throw punches

-

Yes, big, black, angry woman.

Women deserve better all around

Everywhere we’re found

So stop telling pretending with equality

Stop telling me I’m free

After all HE did to me.

-

So yes, it took these years to say it loudly

It took these years to know the source

The depth of every part he’s entered

And not just there, my mind, my consciousness, my soul

-

I’m sorry darling if sometimes kissing you I shudder

Or when you want me to hold you down I think of him

If playing rough, I sometimes start it, feeling guilty while we’re laughing

Wanting to grow up, but afraid HE might come back

-

I’m sorry darlin’ but I can’t forget it

No, It does not just go away

And you are welcome, for my sharing

But I’m sharing it in my head all day

-

I’m sorry darlin’ if I’m sometimes distant

You are supportive, wonderful, and true

I sometimes wonder, do I deserve you?

Or will you end up on my battlefields too

-

I’m sorry darlin’ if your hands are like his touch

I’m sorry darlin’ but you’ll never know how much

I’m sorry darlin’ if your kiss is sometimes bitter

If when you sleep I stare into the dark and remember

So try this one on for size…

Eventually feministinguottawa will have tags and categories, but because we haven’t had a meeting yet, I figured such decisions and methods will come after (ie. the problem of categorization)

But oh boy do I have an innaresting thought train for you! ALLL ABOARD!

File this under political thought, feministing, and critical disability.

Today Montreal’s English Language newspaper, The Gazette, contained an article about research linking anti-depressants to the treatment of, what is it called again? Oh yea, mmhehe, “premenstrual dysphoric disorder, the psychiatric term for severe PMS”. mmhehehe, put that one up there with “restless leg syndrome”

Now, let’s see what kind of ‘advice’ we get on a google search for PMDD. Ah look, the first few hundred hits are sponsored by big pharma. Factsforlife head researcher John. H. Greist is also linked to the development of anti-depressants with Eli Lilly. Small coincidence that the researchers linking “PMDD” are also linked to pharmaceutical developments and researches. Stranger still that he lends his authoritative voice in support of Eli Lilly in an article that compares GlaxoSmithKline’s product with Eli’s, as if peoples well being is secondary to the stock values of these companies. ANYWAYS, we have to move on.

Now I’m not denying the existence of, Premenstrualdysph well Im not going to call it what they call it, but, “severe PMS”. Neither am I affirming “severe PMS”. In fact, I don’t know so much about calling anything “PMS” in the first place, like, huh? Do we name breathing a syndrome? Like, air-dependency syndrome? Haha, I get cranky and anxious if I cant breathe, too, so I have air-dependency syndrome AND PMS. Somebody make me a pill so I can be assuaged of my pharma-created fears of needing air.

But the train must press on, else we will get nowhere, yes? I will move along.

Critics in the Gazette article point out that this is, essentially, Big Pharma pathologizing hormones, especially of the female-experiential variety (icky). And if you didn’t catch the philosophical gargelly goop, in short, the origins of this “disorder” come from a womans bodies disposition in relation to the social world in which she inhabits. That is to say, and I’m now picking up where these so-called critics left off, but that the mere fact of such a disorder emerging as a category in and of itself is preposterous enough, given the socio-historical-econo patriarchial assumptions running underneath such a notion.

How is it patriarchal? Let’s do some thinking.

Now, the Gazette also mentions that 64% of people diagnosed with depression are women. This also means that roughly 64% of Big Pharma’s clientele for depression are women. Plus, I’ve read elsewhere other rates that peg it at around 75%. Moving along, Big Pharma’s defenders say that the statistic correlates to gender because men are not encouraged to talk or understand their feelings, and so are less likely to seek treatment of their depression.

No mention of the historical facts and consequences of living out patriarchy there, eh folks?

Still, let’s do more thinking. If this defense is to rest, I must wonder at the neutrality of the DSM-IV. Oh dear I’ve gone too far, heck. If you know what the DSM is, skip the next paragraph. Unless you think I’m funny.

The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (now working on the 5th edition) is, well, it’s how it sounds. The criteria are generally laid out for all kinds of wonky disorders, like oppositional defiance disorder, which they say onsets at around the age of 2 and can last until your twenties. Then you make peace with the man. But believe it or not, children as young as 28 months have been put on deadly cocktails of drugs (that have never been properly screened for childrens’ consumption).  In short, the DSM is psychiatries’ manual to render ill all forms of human experience except that which drives capitalism. Oh, where’s the link for that statement, you say? Well, that’s an unpublished 20 page paper of mine. I’m citing me.

So, as far as the experiential neutrality of the DSM goes, we can ask a few pointed questions on this subject of depression and the disproportionate stats on how much more it affects women.

Never have I encountered anything in the DSM that is touchy feely, or feelings-positive. I am offended that the defense (re: men don’t talk) artificially renders the DSM as a pro-feminine document. If anything, it makes women confessional. In binaries that are so restrictive, as far as the politics of experience goes. You’ll see later in a sample questionnaire.

But even if it is a fellas fault for keepin his trap shut about his feelings, this is not a very good defense tactic. I mean, if someone is disputing the neutrality of the DSM on the basis that it overdiagnoses/pathologizes womens experiences, you can’t defend neutrality by invoking gender stereotypes. In short, you can’t say that the manual is neutral but men are not. Because by definition, this manual is mean to be a statistical compilation of mental disorders; it is supposed to be universal, so defending it on gender specificity… LOLz0rz. (my conclusions to paragraphs are always awesome). I mean, how do I say this? You can’t aggregate and then disseminate while trying to invent a universal category of experience.

But wait! We’re nowhere close to being done with the thinking.

After all, this is the politics of experience and the right of women to their madness I am defending. (madness under patriarchy is fair game, and the revolution will never be psychiatrized).

Here’s the politics of experience clincher: The ways in which many mental disorders are screened by the DSM are through checklists. Ordinary, snapshot checklists. Let’s look at a standard test for depression. (open as a new tab. feel free to take it, but take it with a couple, no, make that a dump truck’s worth of salt.) Crap, I’m majorly depressed. Look at the results field: “0–13: minimal depression; 14–19: mild depression; 20–28: moderate depression; and 29–63: severe depression” So, everybody on earth is depressed, just a wee bit.

But if you notice, the questions are, well, freaking absurd. Logical nightmares.

ie.

19.

I been failing more lately.
I fail a lot now.
I am a complete failure.
I am as good as ever.
Maybe or maybe not.

Haha, who the eff would ever say they are good as ever? Especially against the notion of failure.. yea, right,  I’m as great as ever, I love sex just the same, everythings just the same as it ever was, right? . . .

But alas, who, exactly, decided that your past self is more valuable than the self experiencing changes of that self?

Like, if it’s all relational, who is to say anything about whether I should be better now at making decisions? I’m only 23, of COURSE I can’t make decisions, and I get all anxious about them, and I lay in bed thinking of all my worries. DUH, I’m alive.

And again, with sexuality, as if you should always have the sex drive of a 15 year old. Frankly, the inclusion of sex drive as a serious question on depression depresses me. You know how risky that piece of information is? Can you imagine, you and your partner, and your partner is all hot and bothered, and you are saying No, and they pull out the depression card? Plus, what about all my asexual homies out there? Do we have to be sexual? Why? Isn’t that a bit biodeterministic, there, DSM?

Oh, and there are dozens of other standard tests for depression, so the mere screening process isn’t universal.

Suffice to say, this is snapshot philosophy of the self, as if “more”, “less”, or “same” has much correspondence or meaning. I know, I can feel more and less things, but whoever said the first version of me was any good? Isn’t the fact that I’m feeling or not feeling anything valuable in and of itself? Like, why mess around with my right to my experience of myself? Why steal the authorship on who I am supposed to be?

Short answer: Patriarchy.

Sigh. I am SO longwinded.

Coming back to “severe PMS”. Let’s look at one the questions they have on a screening test online.

Check the symptoms you have during the week before your period:

	Depressed mood
	Anxiety, tension, edginess
	Sudden mood shifts
	Irritability, anger
	Loss of interest
	Difficulty concentrating
	Fatigue, loss of energy
	Appetite change, food cravings
	Sleep problems (too little, too much)
	Feeling out of control, overwhelmed
	Physical symptoms (bloating, breast tenderness, pain, weight gain)
Please answer all of the following: Yes No Do these symptoms disappear during or after your period? Do these symptoms occur with most every cycle? Are the symptoms severe enough to really interfere with your life?

See? Again, yes, yes, yes. That’s mostly me. But, another clincher: who gets to decide what a “real” interference in your life is? Patriarchy is an enormous interference in my life, every stupid stinking goddamn day. The same can be said of men and women around the globe, here at home, whatever you want to say. The question really is, “what is life”?

Lets go back to some basics. And while I may seem to go into some biodeterminism of my own, bare with me, I’m not an either/or kind of thinker. Bothland is the happiest and saddest of places.

Life. Life. I was born a wee baby girl and, inevitably, my hormones did the thing and made this body into a human-making-machine. So it goes. That much I’m not, by the virtue of my regular periods, going to deny.

So, in and among the processes that happen to a womans body, I just have to ask: how could my body be wrong, and your science be right?

Now, I don’t know if I actually suffer from severe PMS. That’s because I’m bonkers off the map anyways. But still, how could any womans body be wrong in its stone-age executions of cycles, and modern-mans science be right?

More important and pressing, how, on EARTH, could this ever be inverted, how could anyone ever think to convince women that what happens to their bodies is actually a curable mental condition?

Well, now it’s time to switch to consequentialism.

What are the consequences of pathologizing hormones and womens experiences?

Without reference to patriarchy and oppression, women are being sold a way out of what happens to our bodies. I must interject and say, hey, cures for the flu are cures for the flu, but naturally occurring processes are not diseases. In short, being severely PMSsed Off is not a disease. It is not a “chemical imbalance” (don’t even get me started on that hypothesis; which it still is, and is still disputed in scientific communities). It is what it is.

The fact that it matters is only in relation to a society that is patriarchal, that has never organized itself around the principle of equality and cooperation among the genders. Feministers often joke about this already, that if men got periods they would, oh, have a national holiday about it, or have vacation time, or have competitions to see who bleeds more.

PMS blame has been around in my life even before I ever could PMS. And I took stock of what that meant, what it has come to mean over time: a moody, angry, overwhelmed, anxious, edgy, irritable, bloated, food-craving woman is an identity sans grata. These are the personality traits that are off limits to women, else we be declared PMS-ers, which sounds like code for crazay. Psychiatry is doing its best to let us women know that such experiences of ourselves are wrong, off-limits, harmful, dangerous, and problematic for the ordinary functioning of the everyday.

Now, I am almost done this long winded exposition. But I am going to leave you with a question that I myself have put a hypothesis to.

In the history of the self in society, so, the history of the theological self, and the history of the secular self, in society, among all of these historically regulated selves, which popular doctrine has abdicated interruptions of the self on the basis of efficiency?

Begging the question just a bit?

Well, that’s just another chapter in this long winded bothland world of mine. It’s also central in my 20 page paper on all of this.

Time to sign off. I leave you with a youtube video that I dont know is any good coz im in the library with no sound, but I have studied the works of David Healy and I am in debt to him and always will be.

The revolution will not be psychiatrized: or, let’s all PMS like crazy!

I am a Feminist, and so can you!

 

The question of my feminism, as the previous bloggers have set the trend, is a great way to introduce myself to this new project of ours. Like Chaya, as of recently I have been extremely eager to scream it out from the roof-tops- “My name is Amy Kishek, and I am a Feminist!” It has become a defining trait in personality, and in many instances, the defining trait. It informs nearly every decision I make, nearly every reactionary and even proactive action I take, and nearly every opinion I share and debate. It is as much a part of me as any other philosophy, ideology or belief I hold, if not more so. Why? Because being a feminist means that I like myself. I like the way I look, what I think, what I say, the choices I make, and the actions I take. It means that I am not afraid of who I am and of what I want to be. It means I am my own person despite what I am told I am or should want to be. It means I refuse to listen to a society that would label me as this, that, or the other thing. I am willing to not only take myself at face value but to take pride in that individual.

 

This is what makes feminism so revolutionary. It is the concept that we need not be ashamed of our past, of our race and background, of our sexuality, of our goals and ambitions, of our physical selves, of our mental and intellectual capacities, and of any other part of us, which society perpetually tries to make us do by defining us in ways that limit our ability to express ourselves and make our own choices- the people who define the debate as “pro-life/pro-choice”. The question of who we are as human beings, as individuals, is left up to them in black-and-white dichotomies (sexual object/slut vs. sex &/or man hating/prude). What feminism does is allows us to define ourselves in our own terms. It is a fight for equality and for a sense of self, in which we strive to shake off the shackles of oppression in a society that doesn’t recognize the true us. Imagine that!

 

I have always been a feminist, and was never afraid to say it. Admittedly this didn’t make me very popular by any stretch of the concept, but it wasn’t a point I was willing to concede. But like Chelsea, I more or less grew up thinking women were just as capable as men. Although I had a “stay-at-home” mom and other seemingly “un-feminist” upbringing factors, which I attributed to cultural differences (a post of cultural and moral relativism later), I thought that I could do whatever I set my mind to. Even on the cultural level I still had role models like Hanan Ashrawi, and was surrounding by female educators and community leaders who were more inspiring than any male counterpart. Sadly, I wasn’t aware of the extent of the difficulties and challenges faced by women like Ashrawi, or the fact that once a woman becomes the head of a school board, or a city councillor, this is more or less her class ceiling, as these are the few women-friendly sectors or offices.

 

This year, I can comfortably, if not somewhat shamefully, say that I truly knew what it was to be a feminist in the classical angry protest first-hand challenges sense. This is what defined the year for me- this realisation. It came from the 101 week Bikini Contest, the Oral Otis’s oppressive editorials, harassment from male coworkers, threatening blackmail emails, being told that the word “vagina” invaded my female manager’s “positive space”, and of course public sexual harassment. I am sure there’s more. There always is.

 

I came to many conclusions from all of these incidents. First, I now know that I am a stronger individual than I thought which is good because the odds of these types of challenges letting up entirely are highly unlikely. Secondly, I realised that the case for feminism is alive and well, and that I had more than enough personal reasons to become not simply the participant I’d always been, but now an advocate for it. And most importantly, I learned that there is a network for feminist; we are many, we are motivated by similar situations, we are passionate, and we are right! And it is through these networks, mainly of friends, the Women’s Resource Centre, and now this blog, that we will continue our fight for equality.

 

My name is Amy Kishek, and I am a feminist.