The Cerebral Mum

I mentioned in my first history tutorial notes over in my egregiously behind study blog that I didn’t find the small group discussions very productive, but when I finally went again last week (I’ve missed tutorials due tothe ovarian cyst), I was expecting something a little better than what I got. Yes, we were put into small groups again and, not knowing anyone, I just joined those I was closest to.

We were given questions to discuss. Did anyone talk about them? Not at all. Even when the tutor sat with us they didn’t stay on topic. It was so bloody annoying that I eventually got up and moved to another group. (Way to make friends, eh? Chalk me down as another obnoxious mature-age student.) The second group were not talking about history either, but at least they were discussing another university subject and not football.

For philosophy I have only missed one class and that tutorial is fairly quiet as well. I have to give them credit though, because Plato is pretty difficult to engage with as well as being somewhat daunting. I’m think that when we start on Nietzsche next week, they’ll have more than can relate to and more will be said.

But this brings me back to my sexism. I’ve actually spent some time talking to my female tutors and I like and respect them both but while we (okay, it’s only me) are in sexual stereotyping mode I’ll just say that there is one teaching style I like which seems to be fairly rare amongst the women: The Martinet.

I like The Martinet. He gets down to business. He knows that you’re in class for one reason and one reason only. He expects you to talk, and he expects you to do your reading. And so you do. Because if you don’t, you look like a dick.(If you can’t imagine the kind of person I mean, think of The Nazi on Grey’s Anatomy and remember me kindly because I have provided a female, though fictitious, example.)

Captain Slusher, an old teacher of mine that I’ve mentioned before, was a perfect Martinet. He came into class for the very first time, towering over us all, and gave us a lecture about his expectations; about what he would and would not tolerate, about what constituted an excuse and what did not. It’s pretty hard (for me, anyway) to dislike someone who is up front about where he stands and then applies those principles; who is hard but fair. And it has the added benefit that when you’ve done well, you know that you have done really well.

Perhaps that is a weakness on my part - wanting an external impetus - but I like to be pushed. If I can just breeze through a subject with high marks, I guess that’s okay, but I’d prefer to be stretched. I like having to earn every last percentage point.

Incidentally, I have only received one mark so far, for a 500 word answer to a weekly question for philosophy. I only wrote 350 words and I thought my answer was fairly shite. I got 95%. Don’t get me wrong: I was really chuffed (and surprised) by that and I probably did a happy dance for two days straight. It was the first mark I’d received in over a decade. Who wouldn’t be chuffed?

But I’m looking forward to getting marked harder and getting whipped into shape as expectations rise over the course of my degree. (Don’t throw that in my face if I don’t get an HD for my first history essay next week. Just let me cry.)

And I’ve been wondering… What will I be like when I start teaching? Will I be a soft touch? Or will I try out The Martinet style and have it come across as though I have some repressed, chip-on-my-shoulder issue with my womanhood. (Another pretty awful stereotype.) Because, you see, the beauty of Captain Slusher was not only that he was uncompromising in his standards; he was also bloody funny.

And I’m not. Funny, I mean. I’m too serious, too intense, too everything. And my sense of humour is obscure and personal. Whatever game face I decide to go with, it’s going to need a lot of work.

[Btw, there was an interesting review of the movie Smart People which discusses the stereotypes of academics. I might be biased, because I have a blog crush on Jake Pure Pedantry but it’s worth a read. It might even be worth watching the movie. ]

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I’ve been unwell. Well, not unwell, but in pain. I have an ovarian cyst that has been haemorrhaging which is just not pleasant. I even missed a day at university on Tuesday. I went to my Thursday classes but I was in tears by the time I got home.

I got my first ovarian cyst when I was 14 and by the time I got a diagnosis and treatment I had two, one in each ovary; a grapefruit and a golf ball, both extraordinarily painful while menstruating. Luckily, they cleared up with medication. My sister, who gets them as well, had to have her first one surgically removed.

The cyst isn’t a big drama but the treatment is The Pill. At 14, years and years before I was sexually active, I was put on Microgynon 50ED, a “high dose” oral contraceptive and I was told I had to stay on it for the rest of my fertile life. I prefer to let my body take care of itself. I can always tell when I have a cyst because the pain is quite distinct from normal menstrual pain but I only get a really bad one every 2 or 3 years. I have a rule that if the cyst hasn’t flushed itself away through 3 cycles, then I will resort to medical intervention. But 3 cycles is the most they ever last.

I don’t like being on The Pill and decided even before I became sexually active that I would use it for contraception when in a relationship only. I had side effects at a young age due to the dosage, the least of which was significant weight gain at the time when a young girl’s body image is probably at its most fragile. And if I had stayed on it as instructed, by now I would have taken about 7,500 tablets. By the time I reached menopause, if I had continued as instructed, I would have taken over 13,000. I find that idea untenable. While I love and respect science, that level of screwing around with the body’s natural functions should be avoided unless absolutely necessary, in my opinion.

But anyway, that’s where I have been. In bed and in pain. My computer was switched off while I laid curled up in a ball watching Smallville. I’m still not 100% but at least I don’t feel like I’m in labour anymore.

However, my usual posting schedule is not about to resume because, basically, the shit has hit the fan next door, where Big Sis’ boyfriend lives. The upshot is that he needs to move out, and soon. With me and Cas living here in big Sis’ place, there isn’t room for him (he has 3 children on the weekends) so we’re trying to orchestrate a somewhat dramatic shuffle to make sure we all have a bed somewhere.

It looks like he’ll move into my derelict house, temporarily at least, which is probably a good thing for me because the help I’ve needed will be given more urgent attention but there are a lot of logistics to sort out in the coming weeks so postings will (continue to) be a little sketchy.

In other news, my first assignment is due tomorrow and I haven’t started it yet. It’s only 500 words so it shouldn’t be a drama, but with all the financial, residential and health issues rearing their heads right now, well… You get the picture.

Love and kisses to all. And apologies for my inattention of late. That will continue for a little while longer.

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I’m trying to put my finger on it.

I was disappointed to find that both my subjects’ tutorials this semester are being led by female academics. What is that about? I’d love to be a female academic myself, so why do I think I’m somehow getting less out of them? To a certain extent, perhaps it has more to do with who I relate to rather than stereotypes. Then again, just saying “who I relate to” in such a way (ie; meaning males) is stereotyping. Isn’t it?

Can some of it be excused by personal experience? I prefer male doctors, for example. My experience with female doctors have been that they are either to emo or in-my-face or trying-to-connect when all I want is bald science, or too snarky or chip-on-their-shoulder or sour. Now those are some awfully destructive, endemic stereotypes. Perhaps they really were like that, but perhaps my perceptions were influenced by the culture I am surrounded by.

My current doctor, incidentally, is female and I really like her. She’s Chinese. Does her different background effect the way she relates, or do I relate to her differently? (That’s an even more concerning question!)

I have similar “experiences’ with females in wide range of roles. Even traditionally “female” roles. Like nurses. I loathe most nurses with a passion.

And even just generally, I prefer the company of men. With the exception of my blogging pals, I have few female friends. Occasionally, I love a “girly” get together - I’m a fairly girly girl and I have 7 pairs of pink shoes - but too much female company and I begin to dislike my own sex. I can only take so much.

In part, I think it is because I have a “masculine” mind and, statistically, more males than females think and interact the way I do. (Yes, I do think that there are statistically significant differences between the sexes, even though that tells us nothing about any single individual.) I have a sneaking suspicion, though, that I also like to be not so much one-of-the-boys, but the woman who runs with them. Because I “fit” very well, but I also have a point of difference and therefore get special treatment. That’s not a very admirable reason for what is essentially prejudice.

Or is it prejudice? Where is the line between prejudice and preference?

There is no self-loathing in play here. I share the “flaws” of my sex which irritate me in other women and I have no desire to be other than what I am. My “femaleness” informs everything I do and think. I experience the world through my female body. It generates meaning. I find it valuable.

Perhaps it is the complementary nature of “sex” differences which attracts me to the company of men. There are characteristics I admire which I find more frequently in males than I do in females and don’t think that is uncommon. (This applies in reverse as well: There are many men who prefer the company of women.) Still, I find it problematic.

Because I’m a feminist.

I’m not a “feminist, but…”: I’m 100% pure, unadulterated. So how does that compute with my “sexism”? How do I resolve those two leanings? My feminism is obviously not a female bias. It is a combination of broader principles and my female experience.

I think this post is opening a very large can of philosophical worms. I think I need to define my feminism again. It isn’t something I have intellectually considered for a long time. Is it a label that I have worn for so many years that it is no longer meaningful?

It’s time to make this area of my social conscience conscious once more.

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Last night, when I was chatting with my mother on Skype, I wrote…

“I really should go because I want to visit the people who have taken part in the Blog Carnival Against Child Abuse because I’ve been neglecting them lately and they are important.”

She wrote back, “Indeed.”

It isn’t something that gets talked about any more in my family so it was just a tiny confirmation that, although we’ve moved on with our lives, nothing has been brushed back under the carpet. It made me happy.

Anyway, the Carnival is up over at Survivor’s Can Thrive, and this month it is beautifully titled After Child Abuse–Love Remains. I haven’t yet had a chance to read everything yet, but as usual there are many inspiring, and wise, posts. Some of them are even a bit like Music and Lyrics, just as life should be, but I’ll let you dig around and find them on your own.

If you don’t have time to read through the Carnival though, just take a quick look at Austin’s post on her blog, The People Behind My Eyes: Inside A Psych Ward. I found it very enlightening.

If you haven’t visited Austin’s site before you will also find galleries of her artwork there and her artwork is beautiful. Prints and postcards are available from RedBubble

But I have work to do, so for tonight, you’ll get no more of me…

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You might be thinking I’m referring to my lack of substantial posts lately, but I’m not. I’m going to talk about weight which, unless you’re saying the “right” things, is somewhat taboo. At the very least it is a subject which has been perverted beyond all meaning by politics and political correctness. I’m even going to tell you my weight. In fact, many of my weights. It’s changed recently.

When I got pregnant, I weighed 55kg. It was the least I had weighed since I was 14 and had ovarian cysts. Because of the cysts I was put on a very strong Pill and weight gain was the side effect of it. After that my weight averaged out at about 59kg. In hindsight, that’s a ridiculous number to be unhappy with but I didn’t like the way I wore it; all in the lower half of my body, still with a tiny waist which only served to accentuate what was below it. This made it hard to find clothes which fit properly and it made my legs, which have never been shapely, look like logs.

A high school friend, in passing, made a comment about my “smiley knees”. I have never shown them since. Changing schools in Yr. 11, a boy called me “Airport”, a term he thought described the width of my ass. You could land a 747 on it. Yes, that comment stuck in my mind too.

Those comments, however, weren’t the cause of the eating disorder I developed when I finished high school. No; my mind was already ripe for them. I was already hungry for weapons to use against myself.

When I was pregnant though, I gained 30kg. And I didn’t care. Only toward the end did I feel like a whale but really, does any woman make it all the way without feeling like that? I doubt it. That picture is me at 5 months. Apart from the fact that a slash of lipstick might have made me look a bit more “blooming”, I look awesome. And I felt awesome, in spite of being so often tired.

All those hormones really changed my attitude toward my body, not just intellectually, but subconsciously as well. They reprogrammed me. Although I’d had the bulimia completely under control for 3 years, I hadn’t entirely rid myself of all the obsessive thought patterns which were part of it. Why? Because those thought patterns are not just part of a disorder. They’re normal. I was just like an average Jane, who says out loud those numbers don’t matter but feels a little relief when they take a dive and a little shame when they go up.

While I was pregnant I decided that when Caspar was born I wouldn’t concern myself with “getting back into shape” for one year, that I would let my body find its own balance, something I had not allowed it to do for a very long time. That year was over on the 16th of October. I weighed 69kg, 10kg more than I did when that stupid boy called me Airport and 15 kgs more than the heaviest “goal” weight I had ever had.

On October 16th, after 9 months completely free from worrying about it and an entire year where I excused myself from judgement by numbers, it was the simplest thing in the world to continue trusting my body even though it was far different than the ideal i had carried with me for so long. And I have no intention of ever “getting back into shape”. Why would I?

The other day I read…

Everyone is sexy. Everyone is attractive. It is an attitude. A state of mind.
A decision. _{Magneto Bold Too}

I agree with that. I’ve stated as much already; at length, with science and psychology to back it up. We all agree with that, don’t we?

Or do too many of us just say we agree while invisible rats silently eat away at our self-esteem even as we mouth the words?

Right now, I seem to be getting thinner. I weigh 64kg. I did nothing to “achieve” this and I’m not going to let the loss suck me into trying to “achieve” more. Wherever my body finds its equilibrium is fine by me. But I do have a question for whoever is reading this.

Did you even once while reading through this list of numbers make the comparison? Did the comparison make you feel bad? Or good? Or angry? Or relieved? Or irritated? Or defensive? Or whatever.

Did those numbers that mean nothing suck you in?

I’d like to think they caught no one out, but I wouldn’t lay my money on it. As a society, as women, we have a long way to go. And I hope we get there soon.

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So, today sucks. I shouldn’t be sitting at this chair, and I hate my blog. In fact, right now, I am finding it as excruciating as my back. Instead of feeling like this is a place to clear out all the negative junk in my head, I have succeeded in projecting my worm-eating mentality onto it. The move to cerebralmum.com, my Christmas present to myself, hasn’t helped.

In spite of the irrelevance of things like Technorati ranking and hit counts and click throughs the dive in those numbers have left me feeling a little alone. Like nobody wants to talk to me. I realise the utter ridiculousness of this but for some reason, I seem to care right now what everybody, and anybody, thinks of me. Even people I don’t know. Even people who are imaginary.

I don’t think this is a new phenomenon for me but it isn’t something I have always made myself a victim of. I used to be entirely oblivious to it. There is one thing that has slowly worn me down though, and that is gossip. I’ve been on the receiving end often and I don’t like it. In fact, you could probably say I’m afraid of it. In fact, I am probably so afraid of it that not only does what people have said about me cut me down but what people might say about me, or even think about me, leaves me frozen.

Right now, I worry that my posts are all over the place and this blog makes no sense, that this blog isn’t interesting, or insightful, or that it has no personality. I worry that by talking about such personal things, my opinions on particular issues are undermined.

Oh, she’s that poor little victim girl.

Oh, she’s depressed and has no perspective.

Vulnerability and authority do not go hand in hand in people’s perceptions, regardless of how commonplace those vulnerabilities are, so I worry about the image of me that is presented here. I worry about how divergent it is from my own self-image. I worry about how much fuel I am giving to people who will use it to diminish me, to reduce me, to misinterpret me. And yes, I know I shouldn’t.

But I do.

The truth is, I have always been misinterpreted. (Yes, everyone has, but hey… This blog is about me.) My self-image and the things people perceive have always been widely divergent. The things that are most central to who I am are my writing and my critical thinking and my exploration of human behaviour. Those things are my identity. Those things are not very visible to the human eye. So what is it that people see? And what do they talk about behind my back?

One thing that has always been “seen”, and caused much gossip, is my sexuality. Or some fictitious version of it, anyway. I have never understood why, but even when I was young, I was considered to be the girl most likely to “lose it” first. The truth is, I didn’t lose it until 2 months before I turned 20 and and at that stage, I had only ever kissed 4 boys, mostly under pressure. The truth is, my sexuality is more like that of an ice queen. I don’t think about it, I’m usually not aware it and I have never played with it as a way of relating to the world and the people around me. I was always, and I still am to a certain extent, sexually naive. In spite of that, I am frequently perceived as a slut or a vamp or a sexual predator. And boy, is that some fodder for gossip.

I have often wondered why I am seen that way. I don’t have the answer. Part of it is probably because of the way I dressed. I wore costumes, I played dress ups. I took pleasure in the artistry of the self the same way that a painter colurs his blank canvas. Perhaps some people perceived that “art” as pornography. Perhaps my lack of inhibition, my complete lack of awareness for the social rules of dressing, sent mixed signals.

Or perhaps beneath my naivete there has always been a certain “vibe” I was unaware of because I was sexualised at an early age. Perhaps beneath my strengths there was always that Marilyn Monroe kind of vulnerability, that little girl lost which in our society is seen as a sexual cue. I have often wondered about that.

Whatever it is though, it has been the basis of much gossip about me and I do not like it. I do not like being attacked by other women. It offends me, as a feminist. And it offends my sexuality which is extremely private and shared sparingly. And I do not like being made a target of the “hunters” which, as well as giving other women more cause to bitch, has always seemed vaguely insulting. What makes a man come on to someone they have never spoken to? What attracts them? It certainly isn’t Me. To be attracted to Me, you have speak to me.

And then there are the people who have been part of my life who have cherished an abiding loathing while I continued on, blithely unsuspecting, until someone did me the courtesy (kindly or not) of informing me of it. And the dirty looks, and the doors literally slammed in my face and the great, big gossip merry-go-round of twisted facts or completely made-up facts used to influence others to respond to me negatively, to view me negatively.

Some friends have explained this away as jealousy, but I have never been comfortable with that. It seems like such a reactionary self-validation. Really, how many people need to perceive you in a certain way in order to make you question whether or not they are right and you are wrong? How many times were those perceptions thrust at me like knives before I lost my blitheness?

I want it back. I want to be however large I am, even if it is too large. I want to dress however I dress, and talk about the things I want to talk about, oblivious to the petty stereotypes of people who lack imagination. I want to revel again in the artistry of self, without feeling like an offense. I want to feel confident in my vulnerabilities. I want to be comforted again by the truth of them, instead of hiding from them and fearing them, and fearing the people who feed on them.

Perhaps the history of gossip which has surrounded me, and the betrayals of trust, and the dishonesty of those who have spoken behind my back and left me defenceless should be deleted from the equation altogether. Actually, that’s not even a perhaps. They need to be deleted. I need to escape from their clutches. But while I have said that I am arrogant time and time again, I have never been arrogant enough to comfortably say that I am better than someone else.

Why do I even think of it that way? That is not critical thinking. It is not arrogant to say that you know better than anyone else the truth about yourself. So that is one wrong thought process gone. But what else traps me there?

Injustice. Gossip is unjust. I rail against it and that leaves me arguing in circles with clouds of myself which slowly scatter from the gusts of a hollow, echoing wind. It is hard for me to let that go. To let injustice stand. I am the type who would stand silent in front of the firing squad. I really am. I am a martyr type. I would die on principle. When principles are so deeply offended, how do you let them go?

And another trap for me? The fear of hurting others. If my mere existence reduces people to maliciousness and cowardly attacks, aren’t they defensive behaviours? What are they defending themselves from? What is it about me that hurts them? I don’t want to be responsible for other people’s pain. Perhaps it is the martyr in me again, but how do I resolve my conscience with another person’s pain, regardless of how destructively they wield it?

Riddle me that.

Then perhaps I’ll find a way to no longer victimise myself with the gossipers’ mirages.

This post is a Hump Day Hmm, very appropriate for someone who hates their blog right now. This week’s subject was The Gossip Game and, strangely enough, I like my blog better now I’ve written it. If you want to take part, visit Julie Pippert and follow the instructions. There’s a new topic every Wednesday.

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Today, November 25, was the International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women. In Australia, it is also White Ribbon Day.

The White Ribbon Campaign was started by a handful of Canadian men in 1991 on the second anniversary of the École Polytechnique Massacre in Montreal, during which 14 women were killed by a lone gunman, claiming to be “fighting feminism”. The ribbon was their pledge to never commit, condone or remain silent about violence against women and girls.

It is now an international movement.

I can’t overstate how grateful I am to those men who take a stand on violence. I may offend some people by saying this, but I truly believe women’s safety in our communities is dependent on men. There is a limit to what women alone can do to effect change in public attitudes.

Violence against women will only cease when men join with women to put an end to it._{The positive roles men can play.}

It’s not that long since I wrote the poem It’s all in the pitch, bitch. I don’t know that I communicated very well what I was trying to say then but I think it is true that…

Women talk
But men hear
Men’s voices
Like dogs

At the time, I was asking men to speak up, instead of letting things passed, instead of laughing it off when they know something isn’t funny. Today, I’m saying thank you to all those men who do speak up. There are a lot of you, but not yet enough.

It is difficult for a woman to speak in a society that tells her she can’t take a joke. It is difficult for a woman to speak in a society which promulgates the idea that women frequently lie about violence. Only 8% of women subjected to physical violence speak up. And only 4% of women subjected to sexual violence speak up. These are frightening figures and they make it easy for us as a society to believe that the research telling us between 40-57% of Australian women will experience physical or sexual violence in their lifetime cannot possibly be true. _Statistics

Sadly, it is true and we need men to speak for us to the men who do not hear us when we speak for ourselves.

I’m proud of my ability to support myself, to grow and learn and achieve. I’m proud of my ability to raise my son alone. But I am not so blinded by pride that I cannot admit how much our men are needed in this fight and I am grateful to every man I know who does not stand idly by.

I can’t help but think right now of the actions Paul de Waard and Brendan Keiler when they rushed to the assistance of a woman in distress in Melbourne’s CBD earlier this year. I cannot help but think what an awful loss to our community Brendan Keiler’s death was, and what an awful consequence for his intervention Paul de Waard is still dealing with. I do not use the word heroic often, but I cannot help but use it to describe these men.

I also use it to describe those actions which seem less dramatic, like telling a sexist co-worker to shut up, or telling your mate he’s an asshole when he feels up a woman in a bar. Every small action and, sadly, every inaction, makes a difference in the fight against violence against women.

To the men who speak up, and to the men who wore white ribbons today, you have my gratitude and respect. Without you, we can only pick up the pieces. With you, we can prevent women from ever being shattered by violence.

Thank you.

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