(Source: findingcharlie, via florels)

d-a-l-t-o-n-i-s-m-o:

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d-a-l-t-o-n-i-s-m-o:

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(via e-x-c-r-u-c-i-u-s)

nprmusic:

On her new album, Jenny Lewis explores the weight of full adulthood, and its paradoxical precariousness.
Stream The Voyager from NPR Music’s First Listen. 

nprmusic:

On her new album, Jenny Lewis explores the weight of full adulthood, and its paradoxical precariousness.

Stream The Voyager from NPR Music’s First Listen

(via npr)

(via e-x-c-r-u-c-i-u-s)

(Source: ninelivesbazaar, via wethinkwedream)

"“Consent is sexy” is rape culture wrapped in feminist packaging. “Consent is sexy” is no longer good enough, if it ever was.

I can appreciate that there was once a need for this narrative. This line of thinking has served a purpose and helped bring conversations about consent into mainstream public consciousness. There was a time and a place for common sense arguments like, “Isn’t it so much hotter to get enthusiastic consent from a partner who whispers, ‘I want your cock’ than starting to fuck someone who isn’t into it?” The concept of consent was so far removed from mainstream conversations that we needed something catchy and simple and kind of glamorous for people to latch onto in order to hear what we had to say.

But I feel like at this point, we’re beyond that narrative. A lot of people get the concept of enthusiastic consent. We’re talking about it in more places and with more people than we ever have (though not nearly enough, I know). We’ve made some semblance of progress when it comes to talking about consent. And so it’s time to start framing consent differently. Because, to be quite honest, a thong with the words “consent is sexy” is not just not doing it for me, it’s actively offensive to me.

Because why is the end goal always for women to be sexy? Why is that what we’re supposed to aspire to (and while consent is not exclusive to hetero pairings, we usually only talk about consent as it relates to them, thus being that I, as a woman, should want to aspire to be sexy for a man)? Why is it that we feel like we need to frame consent as something appealing to men in order to make it worth talking about? What if I don’t want to be sexy? What if I just want to be respected? What if I just want to have agency? What if I just, you know, don’t want to be raped?"

Moving Beyond The “Consent Is Sexy” Narrative | Fiending For Hope (via iamcharliesangel)

(Source: brutereason, via iamcharliesangel)

this is everything because he never takes selfies

this is everything because he never takes selfies

wendelah:

[description: David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson, holding hands and looking fine.]

wendelah:

[description: David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson, holding hands and looking fine.]

(Source: , via didyoueatallthisacid)

"

1. Because a woman brought into this world will inevitably be given pepper spray “just in case.”

2. Because by sixteen, a young girl knows how to avoid being sexually assaulted, while a boy of the same age does not fear sexual assault in the slightest.

3. Because a girl who mocks men is a bitch, and a boy who mocks women is joking.

4. Because a girl who has sex is a slut, and a boy who has sex is a man.

5. Because in a murder, the killer is at fault, but the blame of rape is often put on the victim.

6. Because we teach girls how not to get raped instead of teaching anyone simply not to rape.

7. Because a woman should put more clothes on if her outfit makes a man uncomfortable, because his self control is her responsibility.

8. Because feminists just need to chill out.

9. Because a 22 year old sex-obsessed virgin can murder 7 people, and the problem is that someone should’ve just slept with him.

10. Because not all men are predators, but yes, all women are prey.

"

(via onefitmodel)

(via sayitinslugs)

"

In fact a mature person does not fall in love, he rises in love. The word ’fall’ is not right. Only immature people fall; they stumble and fall down in love. Somehow they were managing and standing. They cannot manage and they cannot stand – they find a woman and they are gone, they find a man and they are gone. They were always ready to fall on the ground and to creep. They don’t have the backbone, the spine; they don’t have that integrity to stand alone.

A mature person has the integrity to be alone. And when a mature person gives love, he gives without any strings attached to it: he simply gives. And when a mature person gives love, he feels grateful that you have accepted his love, not vice versa. He does not expect you to be thankful for it – no, not at all, he does not even need your thanks. He thanks you for accepting his love. And when two mature persons are in love, one of the greatest paradoxes of life happens, one of the most beautiful phenomena: they are together and yet tremendously alone; they are together so much so that they are almost one. But their oneness does not destroy their individuality, in fact, it enhances it: they become more individual.


Two mature persons in love help each other to become more free. There is no politics involved, no diplomacy, no effort to dominate. How can you dominate the person you love? Just think over it. Domination is a sort of hatred, anger, enmity. How can you think of dominating a person you love? You would love to see the person totally free, independent; you will give him more individuality. That’s why I call it the greatest paradox: they are together so much so that they are almost one, but still in that oneness they are individuals. Their individualities are not effaced – they have become more enhanced. The other has enriched them as far as their freedom is concerned.


Immature people falling in love destroy each other’s freedom, create a bondage, make a prison. Mature persons in love help each other to be free; they help each other to destroy all sorts of bondages. And when love flows with freedom there is beauty. When love flows with dependence there is ugliness.

"

Osho  (via thatkindofwoman)

(Source: psych-facts, via sayitinslugs)

The Trauma of Being Alive

psychotherapy:

by Mark Epstein

Talking with my 88-year-old mother, four and a half years after my father died from a brain tumor, I was surprised to hear her questioning herself. “You’d think I would be over it by now,” she said, speaking of the pain of losing my father, her husband of almost 60 years. “It’s been more than four years, and I’m still upset.”

I’m not sure if I became a psychiatrist because my mother liked to talk to me in this way when I was young or if she talks to me this way now because I became a psychiatrist, but I was pleased to have this conversation with her. Grief needs to be talked about. When it is held too privately it tends to eat away at its own support.

“Trauma never goes away completely,” I responded. “It changes perhaps, softens some with time, but never completely goes away. What makes you think you should be completely over it? I don’t think it works that way.” There was a palpable sense of relief as my mother considered my opinion.

“I don’t have to feel guilty that I’m not over it?” she asked. “It took 10 years after my first husband died,” she remembered suddenly, thinking back to her college sweetheart, to his sudden death from a heart condition when she was in her mid-20s, a few years before she met my father. “I guess I could give myself a break.”

I never knew about my mother’s first husband until I was playing Scrabble one day when I was 10 or 11 and opened her weather-beaten copy of Webster’s Dictionary to look up a word. There, on the inside of the front cover, in her handwriting, was her name inscribed in black ink. Only it wasn’t her current name (and it wasn’t her maiden name). It was another, unfamiliar name, not Sherrie Epstein but Sherrie Steinbach: an alternative version of my mother at once entirely familiar (in her distinctive hand) and utterly alien.

“What’s this?” I remember asking her, holding up the faded blue dictionary, and the story came tumbling out. It was rarely spoken of thereafter, at least until my father died half a century later, at which point my mother began to bring it up, this time of her own volition. I’m not sure that the trauma of her first husband’s death had ever completely disappeared; it seemed to be surfacing again in the context of my father’s death.

Trauma is not just the result of major disasters. It does not happen to only some people. An undercurrent of trauma runs through ordinary life, shot through as it is with the poignancy of impermanence. I like to say that if we are not suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, we are suffering from pre-traumatic stress disorder. There is no way to be alive without being conscious of the potential for disaster. One way or another, death (and its cousins: old age, illness, accidents, separation and loss) hangs over all of us. Nobody is immune. Our world is unstable and unpredictable, and operates, to a great degree and despite incredible scientific advancement, outside our ability to control it.

My response to my mother — that trauma never goes away completely — points to something I have learned through my years as a psychiatrist. In resisting trauma and in defending ourselves from feeling its full impact, we deprive ourselves of its truth. As a therapist, I can testify to how difficult it can be to acknowledge one’s distress and to admit one’s vulnerability. My mother’s knee-jerk reaction, “Shouldn’t I be over this by now?” is very common. There is a rush to normal in many of us that closes us off, not only to the depth of our own suffering but also, as a consequence, to the suffering of others.

When disasters strike we may have an immediate empathic response, but underneath we are often conditioned to believe that “normal” is where we all should be. The victims of the Boston Marathon bombings will take years to recover. Soldiers returning from war carry their battlefield experiences within. Can we, as a community, keep these people in our hearts for years? Or will we move on, expecting them to move on, the way the father of one of my friends expected his 4-year-old son — my friend — to move on after his mother killed herself, telling him one morning that she was gone and never mentioning her again?

IN 1969, after working with terminally ill patients, the Swiss psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross brought the trauma of death out of the closet with the publication of her groundbreaking work, “On Death and Dying.” She outlined a five-stage model of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Her work was radical at the time. It made death a normal topic of conversation, but had the inadvertent effect of making people feel, as my mother did, that grief was something to do right.

Mourning, however, has no timetable. Grief is not the same for everyone. And it does not always go away. The closest one can find to a consensus about it among today’s therapists is the conviction that the healthiest way to deal with trauma is to lean into it, rather than try to keep it at bay. The reflexive rush to normal is counterproductive. In the attempt to fit in, to be normal, the traumatized person (and this is most of us) feels estranged.

While we are accustomed to thinking of trauma as the inevitable result of a major cataclysm, daily life is filled with endless little traumas. Things break. People hurt our feelings. Ticks carry Lyme disease. Pets die. Friends get sick and even die.

“They’re shooting at our regiment now,” a 60-year-old friend said the other day as he recounted the various illnesses of his closest acquaintances. “We’re the ones coming over the hill.” He was right, but the traumatic underpinnings of life are not specific to any generation. The first day of school and the first day in an assisted-living facility are remarkably similar. Separation and loss touch everyone.

I was surprised when my mother mentioned that it had taken her 10 years to recover from her first husband’s death. That would have made me 6 or 7, I thought to myself, by the time she began to feel better. My father, while a compassionate physician, had not wanted to deal with that aspect of my mother’s history. When she married him, she gave her previous wedding’s photographs to her sister to hold for her. I never knew about them or thought to ask about them, but after my father died, my mother was suddenly very open about this hidden period in her life. It had been lying in wait, rarely spoken of, for 60 years.

My mother was putting herself under the same pressure in dealing with my father’s death as she had when her first husband died. The earlier trauma was conditioning the later one, and the difficulties were only getting compounded. I was glad to be a psychiatrist and grateful for my Buddhist inclinations when speaking with her. I could offer her something beyond the blandishments of the rush to normal.

The willingness to face traumas — be they large, small, primitive or fresh — is the key to healing from them. They may never disappear in the way we think they should, but maybe they don’t need to. Trauma is an ineradicable aspect of life. We are human as a result of it, not in spite of it.

Mark Epstein is a psychiatrist and the author, most recently, of the forthcoming book “The Trauma of Everyday Life.”

(via sayitinslugs)

"

I read several dozen stories a year from miserable, lonely guys who insist that women won’t come near them despite the fact that they are just the nicest guys in the world.

..I’m asking what do you offer? Are you smart? Funny? Interesting? Talented? Ambitious? Creative? OK, now what do you do to demonstrate those attributes to the world? Don’t say that you’re a nice guy — that’s the bare minimum.

“Well, I’m not sexist or racist or greedy or shallow or abusive! Not like those other douchebags!”

I’m sorry, I know that this is hard to hear, but if all you can do is list a bunch of faults you don’t have, then back the fuck away..

..Don’t complain about how girls fall for jerks; they fall for those jerks because those jerks have other things they can offer. “But I’m a great listener!” Are you? Because you’re willing to sit quietly in exchange for the chance to be in the proximity of a pretty girl (and spend every second imagining how soft her skin must be)? Well guess what, there’s another guy in her life who also knows how to do that, and he can play the guitar. Saying that you’re a nice guy is like a restaurant whose only selling point is that the food doesn’t make you sick. You’re like a new movie whose title is This Movie Is in English, and its tagline is “The actors are clearly visible”.

"

David Wong, 6 Harsh Truths That Will Make You a Better Person  (via coolgrandpa)

(Source: violetmaps, via sayitinslugs)