Back again.

I know. I know. I keep disappearing on you. I would apologize…except, I’m not really sorry about it. So much is floating around in my brain and my tidy compartments have all exploded and I am sifting through the mess. Just haven’t felt up to sharing, I guess.

So, I am sort of living at Jennifer’s. I don’t know for how long. I end up staying a night, which turns into two, and then three, and then two weeks. He usually gets sick of me and then sends me home. I stay there for a few nights, and then end up back at his place. It’s…an adventure, I guess. I can’t tell what’s going on in his brain. Does he like it when I stay, or does he just tolerate my presence? No clue. Too afraid to ask. Meanwhile, Mom is upset that I am not living in the place I’m paying rent for, and doesn’t think it fair that I am utilizing my bedroom as a storage unit while I’m staying at Jennifer’s. She wants me to move out–but in to where? To her house? To Jennifer’s? It is complicated, I guess.

I do a lot of guessing, these days.

Faith! My missionary brother wrote me a letter and sent it via snail mail for my birthday. Oh, yes. I had a birthday. It was mostly fun and involved delicious food, including cheese fries and raspberry sherbet (though not at the same time). Chuck sent me a letter, telling me to seek out God, to do the things I have been taught are good, to not do the things I have been taught are bad, and that there are people praying for me. I was touched, and then got confused, and now stand conflicted. I miss the Church. I miss the structure and the well-meaning people. And then I remember how many times I was told that I was going to hell because I was immodest. And how many panic attacks I had while sitting in Sunday School, listening to lessons about how I need to submit to the will(s) of the Priesthood leader(s) who had charge over me. And how the abuse I experienced in my last relationship was justified by the words of the Prophets, according to my ex.

There is this void in my heart where a love for my Father used to be. My dad has been dead for almost 13 years. I used to pray, and I have never been able to decipher if my prayers were directed toward my father or my Father. God is a concept I desperately want to believe in but cannot justify against the ills of this world. Either God is good and imperfect, or is perfect and therefore can be neither good nor evil. God is just and merciful. Either way, He cannot be everything I want Him to be, or need Him to be. That is, He cannot be both good and perfect. Neither is my father perfect. But he is…was…good. And so I don’t know how to separate my father from who I want to believe my Father is.

I am reading about many LDS women. My intention is to write (and hopefully, someday, present) a paper about LDS women, feminism, and the ERA. The goal of my paper is to explore how a legacy has been set forth by many women seeking for equal recognition under the law, and how that legacy might propel us — that is, we who identify as Mormon women — forward. My secret hypothesis is that in demanding that the US Constitution be amended to guarantee protection for all under the law, regardless of gender, we will find a way to achieve gender equality within the Church.

That is my hope. My prayer, I guess.

In the meantime, I’ll keep on reading.


Love Poem.

i am slowly falling in love.

if i could write poetry, this would be a love poem.

she lies in bed, staring intently at the ceiling through her closed eyelids, taking in the way this person molds between the sheets. the deliberate breathing, as though this person knows that living can be a choice. she opens her eyes, sits up, lets her gaze fall on the constellation on the thigh of the blurry-eyed. traces the points to form a picture. the big dipper. eyes extend the lines, tracing what is not obscured from view by the bunched up blankets. smile crosses her lips. runs her fingers through hair mussed by sleep, and tucks a loose strand behind an ear. time to greet the daylight. walks to the bathroom, looks in the mirror. the face of a new lover and long-time friend stares back at her. the silence speaks snark: about time you noticed me.

I Packed My Angry Eyes…

List of things that make me angry:

  1. When I am treated as though my thoughts could not possibly have validity because I: am not religious; grew up being religious; am “young,” as though my beliefs are a rebellious phase I will inevitably grow out of. There is a possibility that my beliefs will change over time. I will not dispute that. But the supposed impermanence of my beliefs/ideas/concerns does not make them invalid here and now.
  2. When people respond to my being offended with “that is your choice,” absolving themselves or the institution that they are defending of any responsibility in the situation.
  3. When these same people expect me to apologize for offending them.
  4. When people call me “nazi.” This occurs most frequently in the context of “grammar-nazi” or “femi-nazi.” Neither me pointing out the incorrect usage of a word nor me calling for the dismantling of an oppressive/patriarchal system resemble nazism. Try counteracting my arguments with actual rebuttals and not ad hominem attacks.
  5. When people think that it is okay to tell me how to behave/dress/speak.
  6. When people think that, because they identify as women, telling me how to behave/dress/speak is a “feminist” move.
  7. When people decide to point out how every system they don’t belong to is awful, while their system is THE ONE AND ONLY TRUE AND AWESOME system.
  8. When people dismiss or outright ignore the parallels and/or connections between their own system and the systems they deem to be “evil.”
  9. When people laugh and call me ignorant before having done their own investigation into a matter.
  10. When people tell me not to get angry.


Remember hate speech person? Well, guess what.


He strikes again!

He didn’t say anything, this time. Welp. Not verbally.

There is this book on display at the library where I work. It is about the anatomy of the breast. It has a picture of a breast on the front of it.

Coworker in question felt it necessary to put the book face-down, put a piece of paper over the back cover, and leave a sticky note on top for the librarians to see.

Something along the lines of: “Dear Librarians, could you please move this book somewhere else because it is offending me and it is pornographic and I don’t think it should be on display.”

Of course, I wanted to have a little chat with said coworker about the human body…how its functions are not contained to mere titillation. But, I knew such a conversation would fall on deaf ears. As such, I decided to fix the display instead.

After I left the floor, coworker person un-fixed my fixing of the display. We were leaving the library, and I saw the un-fixed display. So, I re-fixed the un-fixed but previously-fixed display. Coworker doubled back after I had exited the library, to re-un-fix the display.

I just get SO FRUSTRATED because if he, for whatever reason, is offended, he has the option to just NOT LOOK AT THE DISPLAY. But, no.

That would make sense.