100 Day challenge update
The past two weeks have been really intense for me. Not only has my school work intensified, but my life as a whole has just felt really chaotic. Trying to balance school, my social life, writing, finding a job and also trying to find time for myself has been nearly impossible. But I have learned two immensely important things. The first is that I LOVE not wearing a bra and I don’t think I will ever wear one regularly ever again. I have only worn a bra twice during this challenge, and that was for when I was doing yoga because I just can't have my boobs hitting me in the face when I'm trying to relax and enjoy a class. I’ll admit that I'm still getting used to people staring at me because they can see my nipples through my shirt, but I'm so much more confident in that regard than I was two weeks ago it’s seriously incredible. Not to mention that my neck and back pain are so much better now that I’m not wearing bras. I’m not in pain all the time, and I feel so much more physically relaxed.
The second thing I have learned from all of this is that I cannot stand my body hair. I know you're thinking “But Raeann you only believe that because society has trained you not to like your body hair blah blah blah.” And you're right. But I ‘ve realized that I'm allowed to not like my body hair. I’m allowed to not like how it feels or how it looks. So long as that is a personal preference and not me conforming to societal expectations, I am okay with ending that part of the challenge and shaving when I want to. I will be shaving less frequently but I miss having smooth legs and not having my underarm hair prickle my arms when I move. It has come to a point where I am physically uncomfortable with how the hair feels. I wish it didn't make me so uncomfortable because not shaving is wonderful. My showers take about seven minutes at the longest and I can sleep in in the mornings, but I cant take the feeling of it anymore.
I know it might seem like I’m copping out or giving up but I honestly don't need 86 more days to make this decision. Taking care of myself and making myself comfortable and confident should be a top priority and shaving is part of that. I want to shave for myself, and I’m okay with that.
I am going to continue to not wear a bra probably for the rest of my life because it has been so liberating but I miss the confidence I feel when I have soft legs and underarms. Combining the confidence I have found in going braless, and the confidence I get from shaving is going to be amazing, and I can not wait to experience it and write about it.
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I need two hands to count the number of times I’ve been sexually assaulted.
I remember the years. I remember the locations. I remember who was there. I remember who wasn’t there. I remember your touch. I remember what I was wearing.
Are you wondering what I was wearing? Are you wondering what I was doing? Stop reading if you answered “yes” to either of those questions because this story isn’t for you.
What I was wearing doesn’t matter at all. I remember what I was wearing because I always feel sad tossing those clothes out. How can I stand to wear them again when looking at them reminds me of what you did to me?
It was Friday, June 4, 2016 and I was on my way home on the Metro when you sat down next to me.
I wasn’t a little girl anymore. I wasn’t your lover anymore. i wasn’t your student anymore. I wasn’t confused about what had just happened. I wasn’t the new girl. I wasn’t your classmate or friend. I wasn’t a friend of a friend.
I was a stranger on a train who’s sick of you niggas and your nigga shit men and your misogynistic attitudes and behaviors.
I told the station manager what happened.
She called the police.
After sixteen years trapped in the cycle, I finally felt like someone would help me and punish you. In the past, you got a slap on the wrist, or nothing at all, while I was drinking the Kool-Aid disguised as half-assed apologies and mediators asking if we can “just move forward”... (no).
I remembered your locked hair and your face with the tattoos. I remembered your pink and green rucksack (Did you get that from Target?), your New Balance, khaki pants and gray hoodie.
And then they caught you.
I rode in a police car, for the first time, down to Deanwood Station.
They told me I would need to identify you. They would walk you out in handcuffs (in front of all those people waiting at the bus stop) and all I had to do was let them know if it was or wasn’t you.
I was embarrassed. I was worried that the people sitting outside would judge me for calling the police on you... (related reading)
“Should I roll down the window?” I asked, feeling very exposed behind the dark, tinted windows.
“You can if you want to,” the officer responded.
But I didn’t want or need to, I knew it was you.
“Yeah, I’m one-hundred percent positive that’s him.”
I’m not sure why, but sexual assault/abuse makes you feel both ashamed and sexually liberated at the same time.
How was it that I was both mortified around men and wanting needing them to look at me at the same time later that day? I was looking for pity and validation in every glance.
How am I supposed to go back to work with toddlers after this? P expects my cuddles, otherwise he won’t nap. T makes it his business to grab and kiss my face at least once a day. A, H, & L just like to be close, always.
My brain knows which hands belong and which don’t, but my body has trouble. I don’t remember the last time it was easy for me to differentiate.
I’m tired of coming home and telling my parents someone touched me.
I’m tired of my loved ones not understanding my affliction about affection.
I keep trying to repair myself and then someone else comes along.
My body isn’t here for you - why is that still so hard to understand?
While you were busy rejecting plea deals and being convicted of other crimes, I was working up the courage to reclaim by body.
I contacted my long-time friend/photographer and we went to the Metro station.
I dressed as different versions of myself as a way to represent women that I encountered on the train everyday.
Sidebar: I started taking a new route to work because my usual route was just too much after all this. That didn’t stop me from being afraid of men that sat next to me on the train and or men that resembled my attacker, unfortunately...
I did this to emphasize that it doesn’t matter what we’re wearing (or not wearing), we’re not asking for you to catcall, assault, abuse, or belittle us at any given time.
It doesn’t matter if I seem “innocent” (What does that even mean?)
It doesn’t matter if I’m intoxicated (or if you’re intoxicated)
It doesn’t matter if I’m promiscuous or a virgin
It doesn’t matter if I identify as heterosexual or a as a person of the LGBTQ+ community
It doesn’t matter if I believe in God or believe in nothing
It doesn’t matter if I’m naked or covered from head to toe
etcetera
None of these things are an invitation.
Your preconceived notions about me, what I want, and what I will tolerate are incorrect.
When I want you to touch me, I will let you know.
So when you go home and look at your grandma + momma + sister + daughter (perverts and fuckboys always have daughters somewhere) just know I’m praying for them, seriously.
Do they know what you’re doing?
Would you like for someone to do to them what you did to me?
Above all things, Jesus, if I have a daughter one day, I pray I took all the blows intended for her. She doesn’t deserve this.
I’ve not had a hard life by any means, but some genuine evil has managed to invade my borders and it is by Your grace, God, that I’m still here.
And like those that came before you, soon you will comprehend why Sierra means “mountain”.
How many times must I remind you that I can’t be moved?
Hair: Me
Makeup: Also, me
Wardrobe: Me, again
Creative Director: It me
Photographer: Phil Herring of Coffee Shop Studios
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