broken bones

last week, i broke my left arm. it's a radial fracture in my elbow. my feet got tangled up on the stairs and i missed the handrail and went careening to the ground, landing on my hands- hard. the force of the hit in my wrists broke my elbow. i'm wearing a splint, no cast and i have a sling. when you are hurt in some way, it's interesting how everyone wants to know what happened to you- like total strangers in the store. it feels kind of invasive at times but other times it is conversational and okay. like "yes, i broke my arm falling down the stairs." and other times "no, i'm not in an abusive relationship." a long time ago, when i had a black eye, the stranger questions were even worse. the truth was, i got mugged. but i started lying to people in grocery stores and telling them i got hit with a baseball in a game because a crapload of judgment came my way from strangers when i told the truth. 'what were you doing out at night in a bad neighborhood? you shouldn't go walking by yourself.' the whole victim blaming thing is just out of control. it was easier to tell a white lie to strangers than to deal with their feelings about the matter. it didn't matter that i had not told the stranger what neighborhood i was in or whether i was by myself. it's funny when strangers feel entitled enough to make those leaps. i told my friends the truth and some of my friends joked that my boyfriend must be beating me up, which was false and also quite hurtful. because at the time of that black eye, i was long away from any abusive relationship and it was already far in my past. when i was in an abusive relationship, many, many years ago, i mostly got hit where it wouldn't show and no one ever noticed that i was walking wounded. so, guys, no, my husband is not hurting me. i truly fell down the stairs in the parking garage and it happened in the day time, so you don't need to be concerned about me walking alone- not that i would care at all if someone told me not to walk alone, cause i will do it anyway- i am stubborn like that. but just thinking out loud, wondering what someone would have done had i ever confessed to the abusive relationships? mostly people did nothing that knew about it- felt they could not-- or actually were unable to- or said that they did not think it was that bad. but the most common reaction was- no one noticed. here is the thing. when someone is in an abusive relationship, the first thing you notice is not going to be a black eye. that is just movie of the week hysteria nonsense. the real story is that look in her eye. she is the walking wounded, she will flinch at a loud noise. she will react out of proportion to a perceived threat. she will walk around with a look in her eyes that only those of us who have suffered will recognize. look for the finger marks on the arm where she was held too tight. she will be protecting some area of her body that is sore. that happens a lot. people are funny. nosey when they shouldn't be and stay out of it when they should get involved. this is not to say there are not a whole ton of wonderful, compassionate and cool people in this world. because there are. unfortunately, they don't make a good story in blog. it's the rudes i am writing about, the looky loos in the grocery store. but just for the record, thanks to my awesome friends and all the kind people out there who wished me well. hugs and kisses.

Journey to a feature film

When I was seventeen years old, I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted to be a writer and an actress. I was going to throw all my stuff into a junky car the day I turned 18 and drive to Los Angeles and make my fortune. That is what I was going to do. It was my sworn destiny. I was going to work my butt off until I was a working writer and actress and no matter what happened, I was not going to get jaded. Because it was about the work. And I loved the work. In January of the year I was going to turn eighteen, I got pregnant. Everyone told me to get an abortion. Everyone. But I didn't. I'm the kind of person who is going to do the thing everyone tells you that you cannot do. And I was going to have that baby. At 17, I thought, what if this is the only baby I get to have? You laugh. A great cosmic joke that I had five babies. I vividly remember my 18th birthday. I sat outside in the beautiful sunshine on the front porch of the crappy apartment I shared with my boyfriend and let that dream die. That year was high school graduation. I attended while pregnant. No one knew. I was watching everyone go off to their bright futures and my dream of running off to LA was dying as the baby inside me grew. I considered adoption for a long, long time. I thought about it deeply. Ultimately, I made the most selfish and unselfish decision, I kept him. I knew I was in it by myself and I just mustered the strength to do it alone and left my abusive boyfriend and moved back in with my parents. I wrote stories all summer. I thought my dream was over. Everyone told me it was. Everyone. And I smiled and nodded when they said it was over. That I had screwed myself with my own passionate mistakes. That it was time to grow up and do something sensible. And I put that dream in a box with a bow on it and kept it safe. I would take it out every now and then and look at it and sigh and cry a little for that little girl who wanted too much. The fall after I had the baby, I enrolled at Webster University and began a new dream. Going to college was the best decision I ever made. I didn't know I wanted to be a director. I didn't know I could be a director. I discovered what I didn't even know I had in me. Then, I found theater again. I found little magazines that published my stories. I found ways to be a mom and pursue dreams. Smaller dreams. Smaller goals. Just do one project at a time. At my parents house is a gas stove that has a pilot light in the middle. It's always burning. This was my dream. It stayed alive, burning quietly in the middle until something arrived to make it grow. That was my dream waiting to ignite glorious burners in creation. I was waiting to catch fire. And I climbed my way into a short film and then another and finally, finally I was ready to start my feature. This is what I have been practicing for my whole life. If I had not made those mistakes and trashed my dream and re-invented it, I don't know that I would be here today. But the story is not over. I'm crowdfunding to raise the post production funds I need to finish my film. It's going to be a big roller coaster ride, I can already tell. Look what was waiting for me right here all along. I've been so lucky that so many people believe in me. And most of all that I did not quit. This is the year it's happening. My seventeen year old self is not sure how I pulled it off so far. She can't really believe it. That girl wanted so much, had so many stars in her eyes. If I could, I would have told her to be patient. It's the work that matters and the work will come. Miracles will happen. Ready to catch fire.

Quitter

Today I was reading a friend's facebook status. He was posting about the recent death of a friend's father from lung cancer. The friend was giving away stuff after and gave him some packs of his dad's cigarettes. As he put it, dripping with nicotine and irony, he was smoking a dead man's cigarettes. Addicts are funny that way. I probably would have done it, and felt creepy about it, but done it anyway. Because addicts will do just about anything for that addiction. We will justify whatever we need to do or say to get it. It's been nine years. Nine years. And I don't want a cigarette when I used to want to cut off a body part to get one. But now it makes me curl my lip and turn away. I hate them. Hate the smell, hate being around them. It's not as bad when I'm outside with the smokers but generally the smell just nauseates me. How did I get this way? From a die hard pack a day smoker with a heck of an addiction to someone who loathes the sight of them... Self hypnosis, I think. I had long and difficult realizations about how much cigarettes, the evil monkey, controlled my life and told me what to do and when to do it. It was one of the hardest things I ever did in my life, quitting for good. But when I made the decision, I was able to stay with it and be done. Finally. Because I quit like four or five times before, but it had not been a permanent thing. It's a mind set shift. My final quit went like this...I was pregnant so I HAD to quit. I did it every time I was pregnant but I knew this time that this was my last pregnancy so I may as well quit for good. I had a pain in my chest every time I inhaled and I knew this was only going to get worse. And even though I was pregnant and didn't want to be forced to quit, I knew inside that it was time. And that if I went back after I had the baby, it would be totally stupid. Get it done now. I gave myself about two weeks to quit and I tried the whole... okay all the cigarettes are gone but it just did not work. I became neurotic as hell and went out and bought more. Even though I was only smoking one or two a day at the end, just the safety net of knowing I could get to them seemed to calm me. So, I tried to get through one day without them, just set a goal of one day. I kept about five cigarettes in my bedside drawer. Just in case I was losing my mind. I counted the hours away from them. Told myself I could make it one hour, then one day, then one week. I forgot about them, eventually. I had been telling myself in my head every negative thing in the world that they had done for me. I smiled at the thought of going on an airplane and not thinking about them the whole time. Flying all the way to Australia without a nicotine fit. Not having to step outside in the snow and cold to smoke. The thought of my hair smelling sweet again. Waking up in the morning and not coughing for ten minutes. Not having to leave the party and the conversation I was enjoying. Finishing my thoughts without the monkey nagging at me. Being able to smell fresh cookies baking and the subtle scent of flowers in the next room. I thought to myself, what am I giving up but prison? I am giving up monkey jail. I am taking back my life, my freedom, the person I am, not the person I am with cigarettes. I no longer need them to feel less shy, less awkward, more cool. It was me there all the time, not them. I found those cigarettes in the drawer some years later and I laughed and tossed them out. Because I no longer needed them, no longer wanted them. That quit was nine years ago. I have zero desire to have a cigarette. No temptation. And I realized that what I really found in all of this was ME. This is why I don't drink really. Because I enjoy being my authentic self. Because I am fun, I am lively, I am enough. But somehow I did not know I was enough when I was a kid and I used cigarettes to ease the awkwardness, to fit in, to have something to do with my hands and to mask the confidence I did not have. I had always quit before with the pregnancy and a temporary promise. To quit... until I was done carrying the baby. I could do anything on a temporary basis. As soon as it was only me, I went right back to the monkey. I had to find a way to change me. To find me. To convince me that I was worth saving all on my own. I would never let anyone boss me around like cigarettes did. When I realized that, I was free. I know it is over for good now. I love that. But I also know that others have to find their own path. At first, I tried to share this miracle secret. It worked for me, it will work for you. Hmmm, probably not so much. People have to find their own path to everything important and personal. If this story helps someone, I do hope it does but I realize now that my method was not the ultimate cure for anyone but me. I wish luck out there for anyone that is going through this right now.

For My Mother, eulogy from her only daughter

Today, July 20, 2014, I read this for my mother at her funeral service. I have copied it here. I think the first thing that you should know is that, my mom was awesome. Really awesome. And all of you that knew her knew what a great sense of humor she had. She was so funny and she loved to laugh. I would come over to her house meaning to just drop something off and we would end up in the kitchen having tea and just laughing and telling stories. I told my mother everything. My husband would call and say where are you? And I would tell him I was with my mother and he knew he wasn't going to see me for a few hours. My mother left me a lot of beautiful memories for a lifetime of stories.
I can only share some of them with you here today but I will be talking about my mother for the rest of my days. She was the first person I loved, the first person I smiled for and to say that I adored her is an understatement. She will always be my heroine. My mother told me a lot of stories growing up about her mother, her grandmother and all the really amazing women in her family and her life. Her stories were so vibrant that even if I had not met these people, her words always left me with pictures in my head. She would always say to me “Vanessa, you inherited all of my vices and none of my virtues.” and then she would smile, because I think she was quite proud I inherited her strong will. You see, my mother was always quite determined, and when she got a thing in our head, she would find a way, even in the rest of the world was not quite sure she should.
My favorite memories will always be coming in to her bedroom at night and getting in bed with her while she had her evening ice cream. She used to share the ice cream bowl with her favorite cats, who would wait at the end of the bed until she was done and then lick the bowl. Her favorite cats were never the easy, friendly ones. She loved the difficult cats who did not always come to you, but when they chose you, they loved you completely. My mother always appreciated a bargain, a coupon or gem of a thing underpriced at a flea market. She taught me to haggle and she taught me to walk away if the price was too high. But mostly, she understood the value of things, and she knew the value of joy in what you loved was not a thing to be taken for granted.
My mother loved opera, cats and chocolate. Not necessarily in that order. And she loved to travel. Many times, I traveled with her and she took me to the most wonderful places but the times I did not get to go, she always brought me something. The souvenirs were lovely but the best thing she brought home were stories.
Once I asked my mother what she would do if she won the lottery. She smiled and told me “I will never win the lottery because I don't gamble. I learned my lesson a long time ago about gambling.” and of course, there was a story to come with that. Once when she was quite young, she and some friends went out to Coney Island for the day and they ended up doing some gambling. My mother bet it all and lost it. Her friends ended up leaving and she got into an argument with the boy she was with and he left. There she was, alone without any money or way to get home and in quite a fix. In desperation, she combed the beach for empty bottles to turn in for enough change to catch the subway and after a long time, she had enough. As she was riding home on the subway, she told me, she made a deal with God. She promised she would never gamble again if God would arrange for her to have an opera ticket whenever she really needed one. And God kept his part of the bargain. She always got an opera ticket when she needed one. Even the most extraordinarily difficult tickets to get. My mother always found a way.
When she first heard that The Three Tenors were going to do a concert in Italy in 1990, I could feel her excitement and I knew this was a concert she simply had to attend. That concert was going to be magic and tickets were brutally difficult to come by. In the first round of sales, she was not able to get one. By sheer coincidence, my mother had gotten a grant to go to Italy that summer and do research, so that was the beginning of the stars aligning. On faith alone, and without a ticket in hand, she traveled to the ancient Baths of Caracella and was lodged in a nearby convent. A woman named Laine was there with her daughter and they did not have tickets either. Laine had gotten a tip earlier in the day of a woman who had two tickets for sale and she invited my mother to go with her, but alas there were only two tickets and not three. Still, my mother did not give up, she spent all day looking and asking and finally, she ended up sitting and waiting at the box office hours before the concert. Then, miraculously, a few tickets became available. Because she had been so kind to the woman at the box office, my mother was the first to be called over when the returns started coming in and she got her ticket at last. Turns out, this was the beginning of a very beautiful friendship with Laine and those two had more adventures than I can describe here today but I can tell you, I loved hearing about every one.
Opera was always important to my mother but as important was education. I don't think I understood how important for a long time until she told me this story. My mother got her Bachelors degree in English from Hunter College but she wanted more, so she applied for a scholarship and was accepted to Yale University into their PhD program. I asked her once why she chose Yale over other Ivy league universities and she smiled a wry smile at me and said “It was close enough to New York that I could still take the train to the opera whenever I wanted.”
My mother came of college age in the 1950's when America was telling women to stay home, be housewives and don't think too much. But education was important to her. Hanging on the wall in Forsyth, Georgia are the diplomas of her grandmother, and her mother. So, she pursued a higher education in a time when women went to college to get their “MRS” degree and quit as soon as they would accomplish that goal. Though my mother had a lot of suitors, she met and married my father at Yale in her first year, but she never once considered giving up her education goals. She actually only missed one class when she was pregnant with my older brother and that was when she had to take the train to New York to give birth. The following semester, she returned to school and was called in to the office to discuss her scholarship. It had come to administrations attention that my mother had gotten married to my father, a fellow scholarship student, pursuing his degree in English. She was told that she was losing her scholarship. My mother was stunned. She couldn't understand what she could have done. She was an A student. When she asked for a reason, she was told that administration no longer felt she needed the scholarship and that it should go to some young man who needed it to have a career and support a family. After all, she was told, it was unseemly for her to undermine her husband in this way, she was married, she did not need her education, she should now be supportive to her husband. My mother then asked “Am I being kicked out of the program?” He said no, she was just losing her scholarship. She asked “If I find the money to pay for school, can I stay in the program?” In my mind, I imagine the shocked look on the administrators face as he hears this question. And the answer. “Sure, if you can find the money, you can stay and finish.” In my mind, this man did not expect my mother to do it. But he did not know my mother very well. If you put a brick wall in front of my mother, she just found a way to climb it. And because my mother was who she was, she found a way. She worked two jobs and went to school full time, she got some help from her family and she finished her PhD, while raising my older brother. I cannot begin to tell you what this means to a little girl who happens to be her daughter. The day she told me that story, I knew my mother was magic. I knew that I held in me a piece of that magic and I knew that day that I would always find a way to reach my goals because she had. She had showed me that the impossible is sometimes possible anyway. As she stood beside me the day I graduated from college, I knew that I had found a way because she taught me not to give up on your education when you really wanted it. My mother loved us all fiercely and we loved her just as fiercely. An extraordinary woman. An extraordinary life.

View from the Middle of the Movie Set

Recently, I spent two days working on a film for a guy I know who is a pretty talented film maker. I like his work, want to see him succeed and therefore I volunteered my time to help his film get made. I also donated to his crowdfunding campaign. Supporting local talent is important to me. I chose to be a production assistant for him for a couple days I had to give him that would not cost me a babysitter or anything but my time. I like and admire this filmmaker, he cares about his craft and I wanted very much to see how he worked. I did get the opportunity to learn about him, too and the way he works. This is all very useful and interesting to me to watch others practice their craft. There is always something to be learned and absorbed. I've learned a few things about myself in that time as well. First, I'm too experienced in this business to be a production assistant (PA). It's frustrating to me, but there were definite pros in this situation. It really is barely one step above extra in the process and while both roles are completely and utterly necessary, and very important, it's hard for me to do for a number of reasons, which I will explain in a minute. But first, the positives, of which there are many. I'm glad I did it. I got to watch the behind the scenes in a way from a point of view that I haven't in a long time. I watched how people treated me. These are people I might hire later to work on my shoot. I want to know what they are like when they are not kissing the producer or director's butt. How will they treat an extra or a lowly PA? Not just to their face but behind doors when they think no one is listening. It's kinda like being undercover boss. Oh, how much you can hear when no one thinks you care or are listening. Or everyone just kind of believes you are nobody. It was nice to be anonymous or, mostly anonymous on this shoot. A few people I have worked with. It's enough to have some friendly faces and some good conversation. I got to talk with the actors, the crew and the extras, that is really nice. And it was a little humbling at the same time to see myself back in this position and view it in a different way. I haven't been a fresh faced PA in a long time and it was eye opening. The funny part was I do a lot of this stuff on my own sets. When I produced a feature film last summer, I did a lot of cleaning up, a lot of setting up and a lot of helping out. That is just who I am no matter what set I am on. So... setting up craft services is nothing new to me. Being told to do it is. I'm usually the one either doing it or telling people what to do. I'm used to being the producer or the director. I did a good deal of PA work and enough extra work in college to let me know I don't want to be an extra again. Not that there is anything wrong with it. Being an extra is great for people with no film experience or little acting experience that just want to meet people and see what a movie set is like. It's even fun for them. It's not fun for me. At all. I think it was the first time but I am just too ambitious to be happy in that place. If you want to be an actor, be an extra once or twice but don't make it a regular thing. Audition, take acting classes, study your craft. If you don't want to be an actor, but you love movies, please be an extra! It will be fun for you and you will get to see yourself in a movie. Show up and expect to wait but know that we filmmakers are very grateful that you are there. Thank you for your time and your energy. You are very important and we value you more than you know. Now, I said there were some less than positive things I figured out. I remember when I was ten years old and we were asked to run for class president for a month. I didn't want to. I didn't want to be a leader. It terrified me. I thought I would always be a follower, that I would always be the person who was doing what I was told to do and was grateful just to be there. I'm not ten any more. I'm a leader. I had no idea I was meant to be that way but at some point I grew into it. No one wanted my opinion of what the shot looked like or the camera position of what I thought of the actors. That is what I am meant to do in this world. I am meant to direct and when I am not doing it, well, it actually physically hurts! It actually bothered me deep down in ways that I am not sure I can adequately describe. It's kind of like watching through a window. There is great joy for me every time I am on a movie set. I love the action, everything going on, I love a working set and this set, I must say, it ran beautifully. Great people were hired, there were wonderful attitudes and smart people and the set was terrific. But I was consistently stifling who I am. I need to stop looking for other people's work to do and get my own done. I was not meant for that job. I have too much ambition, too many ideas, too much... other. If anything, it reinforces for me how far I have come over time. I am ready. Oh, the things I need to put out into the world. I'm not going to be truly happy until I am leading my own set. This was an exercise in frustration for me and I don't need any more frustration. I need to find funding and get my dreams on paper and then out into the world.

The Comfort Level

When I was a teenager, I remember the pressure to drink was kind of intense. Everyone was doing it. Personally, I hated alcohol, from the way it tasted to the way it made me feel. Sure I tried it, but I hated it. Still, I noticed people had a comfort level at parties and if they saw that YOU were not drinking, they avoided you, somehow felt you were judging them. I've never been willing to "acquire a taste" for something I don't like. Why? I don't care for coffee or scotch. I don't see that changing. I'm not sure where the line changes for people's need to have alcohol to have fun- no one suggests that a group of 8 year olds at a birthday party needs to "have a drink" so they can lighten up and have fun. I think 8 year olds have pretty much cornered the market on having fun. Yet, somewhere along the line, somewhere between say... 8 and 14, somehow it is no longer acceptable to just have fun without the addition of some sort of artificial fun stimulant. I see all kinds of facebook posts telling women to survive parenthood you need wine. I guess in the fifties wine was also valium. So, in some way we are supposed to start suppressing whatever emotion we have and then we get to a party and we need to stimulate it so we are fun. When did we lose the ability to just have fun? We need permission to "let loose"? In high school, it was easy... I noticed that if they "thought" I was drinking, that was all that mattered. So, I would casually take a beer, open it up, take a horrendous first sip and set it down next to me. I never touched it for the rest of the party. Someone would come by and ask me "hey, you need a beer?" and I would say "Thanks, I just got one." or "Whew, I need to sober up, you got any soda?" This did not get any better when I was a grown up. But I did stop faking it, because, it wasn't really MY problem if you thought I should drink. I have always known how to have a good time and I make my bad decisions sober, thank you very much. I like my wits, I've spent years with them and I like to take them out at parties and show them off, as for my sense of humor, it's just fine. I don't need to enhance it with dulling my senses or interrupt my hilarious story because I have to go puke now. I encourage teenagers to "fake it" because two things- first, you learn that it really is okay to be the sober person at the party, and second, you learn that people's perception really is a false sense of security. If they perceive you as drinking and you learn you don't need to do that to fit in, you really have an easier time figuring out who you are, absent some fake fun stimulant. Underneath that beer, that double vodka tonic... I hate to break it to you, you are still you. But all that being said, I never cared if other people drank or got drunk or made general fools of themselves. It was amusing to me. I have been drunk in my life. It takes far less for me to get drunk and it happens pretty fast. I have had the experience, and I have never much cared for it. Sometimes I will have one drink, sometimes even two. It's a rarity but a lot of times people love that I am always willing to be the designated driver. People got used to me being sober, my real friends did. Strangers and new friends still question me regularly. Why don't you drink? Is there some reason you can't drink? (That's code for 'are you an alcoholic?') What do you mean you don't like it? Well, I guess I shouldn't drink if you aren't going to. NO, please, by all means, go ahead! If I ask the waitress to hold the tomatoes on my sandwich, you do not need to hold the tomatoes on yours! It's not necessary! I tell you what, I have done more foolish things sober than I ever did while I was drinking. Maybe I just don't need my inhibitions lowered because I learned how to relax and have a good time without the additional fun stimulant. I guarantee that I was just as shy if not more shy when I started out, I was terrified to talk to people I did not know. When I was a teenager, it was really hard, sometimes it was cripplingly difficult. I know- hard to believe now but I was terrified. But I just got out there and did it to the point that eventually I was comfortable. I guess alcohol was not making it better and it might do that for some people, I have sympathy for that, I really do. It's darned hard to be terrified to talk to people at a party. I've been with alcoholics after they get sober. They are lost at a party, it's really hard for them to figure out how to socialize without the alcohol. I feel bad for them. Now they have to answer all those same questions and when or if they reveal the problem with alcohol, people get all squirrely and stupid and make them even more uncomfortable. It's ridiculous. I guess my whole point here is that-- we really should stop pressuring people about alcohol. It's your problem if you want someone else to drink to make you feel better. Get over it. I'm sorry if you perceive me as not fun because I am not drinking, that really is your problem. Yes, I like to go to bars, yes I like to go to parties, yes I like to go to concerts and yes I like to have a good time! I don't want to have to fake drink to make you more comfortable. We should be past that by now, don't you think?

Walking alone at night

When I was growing up, I was an only girl and all the time the boys in my family were allowed to walk at night alone and do things and go places I was not allowed. I was taught to fear the unknown and fear being raped and attacked and that somehow if I stayed in or was never alone this would not happen. Nevertheless, when I was a teen, I snuck out of the house at late hours and walked at night, by myself in the middle of the street, fearing the bogeyman on every block. I did it anyway. I was hyper aware of myself and everything around me. I wish I could tell you that bad things never happened to me. They did. A couple of times. But not because I was walking alone at night. But because bad things happen. In my own home, I was beaten up by my father, so being home did not protect me, either. Once when I was seventeen and walking at night. Once I was with my boyfriend at night in the garage behind my house and a stranger came in and held a gun to my head. Once I was in the parking lot at Taco Bell at 9 PM and I was mugged and punched in the face. That was the time I fought back and refused to give up my car keys. Another time some creepy dude was yelling obscenities at me and following my boyfriend and me through Paris and I chased him away. Yep, I used to cower but now I just have decided to be a bad ass bitch about it. So, since bad things have happened, you would think I would "know better" than to walk through parks at night and to go to dangerous places in Central London and Times Square or Toronto and walk around at 3 am. But I refuse to let the bastards who hurt me or fear of the unknown keep me inside when I feel like taking a walk or being out. And of all the times I have been alone at night in places, very rarely have I been attacked. I lived in London for three months and I walked home alone every night through alleys and side streets and along main roads. And all those times, I survived just fine. I am aware of two things. First, that anything can happen to me at any time. My dear friend was kidnapped and raped while she was walking her dog in a lovely "safe" neighborhood at 9 am. A perfectly acceptable time for a woman to be outside. Second, I refuse to let fear rule my life. Men do not live in the same way that women do- they have not grown up with the fear of rape being pounded into their heads to the point that they believed somehow that their actions will prevent that bad from happening. They are not street harassed and physically and sexually intimidated the same way we are. And I live my life aware, I listen wholly to my instincts. If something tells me to get the heck out of there, I do. I don't bother with pretense if someone is walking to close to me and I don't care if it seems like I might be hurting their feelings if I cross the street. But I will not allow all this to make me afraid to be out at night. Ever. Not everyone can live this way and I don't expect them to do so. I'm not advocating this for anyone else> I refuse to be kept inside. I refuse to modify my life to accommodate some terror that people want me to believe and honestly, if something bad happens, I'm not going to hold myself responsible. Fortunately, I have survived some pretty awful stuff. I refuse to let this stuff make me miss out on living my life in the manner in which I want. I refuse to apologize for being unafraid to go places I am not supposed to go. This is still my life, I still get to own it.