I am a mid-twenties avid intersectional feminist, advocate, fighter, counselor, and friend. I will be graduating from Bucknell University in May with degrees in Psychology and Women’s & Gender Studies. I work with survivors of sexual assault and other trauma, and I fix computers for a living.
I often blog about what it is like to live at the intersections of a few different mental illnesses, queerness, and sexuality, along with posts about sexism, racism, rape culture, and LGBT rights. There is a trigger warning for these on my entire blog. You will see posts about depression, eating disorders, PTSD, panic disorder, and fat activism. This has been my safe space for four years now, and I reserve the right to ask you to leave it if necessary.
“Our house was small, and when you grow up with domestic violence in a confined space you learn to gauge, very precisely, the temperature of situations. I knew exactly when the shouting was done and a hand was about to be raised – I also knew exactly when to insert a small body between the fist and her face, a skill no child should ever have to learn. Curiously, I never felt fear for myself and he never struck me, an odd moral imposition that would not allow him to strike a child. The situation was barely tolerable: I witnessed terrible things, which I knew were wrong, but there was nowhere to go for help. Worse, there were those who condoned the abuse. I heard police or ambulancemen, standing in our house, say, “She must have provoked him,” or, “Mrs Stewart, it takes two to make a fight.” They had no idea. The truth is my mother did nothing to deserve the violence she endured. She did not provoke my father, and even if she had, violence is an unacceptable way of dealing with conflict. Violence is a choice a man makes and he alone is responsible for it.”