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There Is No Right Way To Do Sex And Romance As A Survivor

November 20, 2017 by Natalie Houchins 1 Comment

Surviving Sexual Assault: Reclaiming Myself And Learning What I Want From Relationships

I am many things. I’m 25, I’m white, I’m a female-identified human. I’m from Texas, I’ll eat Pad Thai any time of day. I write, I act, I am heterosexual. I have two siblings, I don’t watch Game of Thrones. I do watch Outlander (and I am unashamed).

My eyes are green, I played left midfield on my high school soccer team. I don’t know how to write code, but I do know how to drive stick shift. I’m a Unitarian Universalist, my parents are still married, I wear a size 8 ½ shoe. I was sexually assaulted when I was a kid, my birthday is in the summer.

My Unitarian Universalist-ness means I go to church on Sundays, but feel the need to let people know I’m not Christian, though I have great respect for Rabbi Jesus (as my minister says). My shoe size is such that strappy sandals are not my thing. I’m a heterosexual woman, so I have a male partner. My parents are still married, which means I go to one house on holidays.

I have two siblings, and one of these siblings gives me shit for not watching Game of Thrones. The other was my inspiration for playing soccer. I drive a Mazda with a standard transmission, and I wear green to bring out my eyes. My birthday is often the hottest day of the year. I don’t engage in casual romance or sex, because I was sexually assaulted as a kid. Many people are adverse to casual sex/relationships. Childhood sexual trauma is not the only reason, but I’ve identified it as mine.

It’s taken a lot of work to integrate what happened to me into my larger identity. It’s as much a part of me as my eye color or how many siblings I have. It still takes work to remember that, and to stay standing some days, especially when sexual assault is in the public conversation, as it is right now.

“Boundaries are something that most kids learn in elementary school. When I was in elementary school, I was coping with the aftermath of being assaulted.”

What happened completely shaped how I see sex, romance, objectification, men, the patriarchy, and how I fit in to all of that. I was five. My brain didn’t have enough in it to contextualize my experience, so upon it I built a series of very unhealthy assumptions about myself/my sexuality, and how to relate to the world, which led to more negative and non-consensual experiences throughout my childhood and teenage years. When I think about my assault, I often don’t think of the actual event—I think of the series of patterns and thoughts and choices it set off in my life. I could go on, but I won’t. It’s a lot. It’s depressing. The anxiety is rising in my stomach as I write this.

Dating/sex has and will always be fraught for me, though I’m just now realizing to what extent. It’s fraught for everyone—romance and sex are parts of our lives that are affected by our most fundamental formations of identity, which are often unexamined and problematic. I have spent innumerable hours of my life talking to friends of all different stripes about these problems. Tinder, Bumble, etc. It all sucks. Breakups are hard. Ghosting is shitty. Fraught! It’s all fraught. And it’s fraught in different and interesting ways for everyone.

This is a little bit of how it’s fraught for me: boundaries are incredibly difficult for me to implement. The concept of boundaries is something I didn’t really learn about or start to work on until I was about 23. Boundaries are something that most kids learn in elementary school. When I was in elementary school, I was coping with the aftermath of being assaulted. Boundaries didn’t mean anything to me. I learned that speaking my needs and desires got me nowhere and nothing, so it’s better to fit my needs and desires to the people around me so as not to create conflict or a scenario in which my needs will, once again, be denied. And if those people’s needs and desires are different than my own, it’s best not to interact with them at all.

So I retreated into myself, only to come out when I felt like it was safe, only sharing what was agreeable, and then not understanding why others would sometimes keep me at arm’s length when I did. I’m learning how to healthily protect myself while not cutting myself off from experiences and other people. I’m trying to connect with others while both setting and respecting boundaries. I’m expressing my needs and desires more and more. I’m doing the best I can.

This has meant, that for me, casual sex and dating has largely been impossible. It’s deeply unappealing on many levels, both superficial and fundamental. Due to boundaries not being secondhand for me, and also because I’m a sensitive person in general, I’ve developed a way of relating to people that is very intense. I’m sort of all in or all out. Going on a date with a stranger from the internet to just “see” if they’d be a fun diversion is something I physically cannot do. Whenever I think that’s what I’m doing, it develops into something deeper. This has ultimately been an incredible blessing, as hardships often turn out to be. My relationships, both platonic and romantic, are what I am most grateful for, and my willingness to “go in” with people is why I have them.

After every breakup, my peers have encouraged me to try and be casual. They’ve extolled the idea of our teens/twenties being the “time to go nuts” and “we shouldn’t settle.” I went along with this for a while, feeling increasingly shitty about myself because I couldn’t seem to ever do this. I thought maybe I just wasn’t cute. I thought, maybe I’m a coward and I have to push myself to come out of my shell. I thought there was some kind of collective joke that I was missing. I thought a lot of things, and none of it was ever productive or positive.

What I’m here to say is that there is no right way to do sex and romance as a survivor. For other survivors it may look very different. For other survivors, emotional intimacy may be impossible. Physical intimacy may be a language that is easier to speak.

I’m also here to say that survivors, especially survivors of childhood sexual trauma, are often erased in all these conversations about modern dating. Millennials and their online dating! Millennials and their casual relationships! Millennials are just eating avocado toast and getting wasted and DOING IT! Hashtag hashtag. Just go on the Tinder date, they said. It will be fun, they said. My friends, it’s not fun for me. And it’s not fun for you either, most of the time. Who are these pronouncers of what we are like? Who decides? The copywriters at Buzzfeed or Brother or Cosmo?

You are only wasting your youth if you think you are. And I am not. I’m taking control of my life for the first time in 20 years by fully accepting myself and the world in which I exist. I’m not forcing myself to live our cultural idea of a “healed life.” I am healing, and my life looks like what it looks like. I “get out there” and “come out of my shell” in many ways.

You are never too young to take care of your heart. The time to “go wild” is whenever the hell you want, however the hell you want.

Support Natalie’s writing on our site by subscribing to our newsletter on this link, Subscribe here!


Natalie Houchins is a graduate of Northwestern University, with
degrees in Theatre and Gender & Sexuality Studies. She is a writer and
actress based out of LA, who is perennially homesick for Austin, TX.
She currently spends her free time hiking, watching Battlestar
Galactica and resisting the Trump administration. For more information, visit her website: www.nataliehouchins.com.

Filed Under: Featured Post

Oppression Is Metaphysical

August 16, 2017 by Natalie Houchins Leave a Comment

Oppression Is Metaphysical

One night a few weeks ago at the bar I work at, I got hit on by a guy named Jake. This happens a fair amount, and I’m pretty sure they’re all aspiring screenwriters named Jake. I don’t have a uniform, and when I’m standing by the bar waiting to carry drinks to customers, I look like a girl who is alone in a bar. Cue drunk dudes assuming I do not value my solitude or personal space.

Jake approaches me. I scream over the music that I am working and do not want him to buy me a drink. He asks what I do when I’m not working. I scream that I’m an actress and a writer, and, being in LA and having exactly zero shame, whip out my business card and hand it over. While examining my business card, he adjusts his dark-rimmed glasses and says he’s a screenwriter too. NYU class of 2012, in case I was wondering, which I was not.

He says, “I bet working at a bar you get a lot of material for writing.” I scream that I do in fact. He then, confidently and shamelessly, proclaims that he’s not going to get anywhere in writing or directing as a white dude, and that I, as a woman, am a “novelty,” and should “use that to my advantage.” He then said it would be better if I were black.

I was proud of myself for having the presence of mind to respond something like, “Actually in the short span of my film career, I’ve been lucky to have mostly great experiences, but when I’ve served in leadership positions I’ve received a fair amount of condescension from people who have no right to condescend to me. Also it would not be better if I were black; I assure you.”

I used a hand gesture to describe that being a woman in film feels like ~hands pressing on my face~

He didn’t get it.

“Most of the people I know who worship logical reasoning are white men.”

He muttered something like, “Woah, that sucks, but you know,” and then said his Uber was there and he promptly exited.

There are many, many Jakes in the world. They usually don’t bother me. This particular Jake, however, did.

I thought about him for the rest of the night and later, while I lay in bed, feet throbbing from a night of running vodka sodas to young Hollywood. I thought about him the next day as I tweeted about him, hoping the momentary release of sharing a small trauma on social media would make me forget.

It didn’t.

I realized that the reason I’m still thinking about Jake is that while I did speak my truth, and felt good about that and my little hand gesture, I did it because I was trying to prove something to him. I needed to somehow give him concrete facts about why I was oppressed in the film industry, and that saying, “It would be better if you were black” was layers on layers of fracked up.

What I wanted to say, but couldn’t, because both the music and my anxiety were too loud, was this.

Oppression is not logical or legible. Externalized, it looks like women and minorities (and intersections thereof) not being in as many leadership positions in the film industry, thus inspiring all of these conversations around inclusivity (#oscarssowhite, The Geena Davis Institute on Gender in Media, etc). Problem solved!

Internalized, it’s a warm, familiar, suffocating blanket that cannot be differentiated from your brain itself. It is not a system within your brain. It IS your brain.

Your brain was created in part by this interplay of trying to make sense of a world which values your reality less than other people’s. It feels like, in situations where your particular identity is not often found, walking into a party where you don’t know anyone. Should I get a drink? I don’t know the host very well. I don’t want to seem like I’m being greedy, but I should have something in my hand. God I wish I were drunk. I guess I’ll just hang in the bathroom for a while until I can find a nice dog. Is everyone staring at me or am I just being paranoid? Wow these people seem really nice, but I feel very suspicious and afraid of them for some reason. God I’m such an idiot. This is all in my head. BE COOL, NATALIE. JUST BE COOL FOR ONCE.

Humans desire survival. They strive for security. They do not strive for joy. That’s why I apologize every time I speak, even though I can actively feel those apologies stacking a weight on my shoulders.

I also didn’t say that the condescension was pretty easily dismissed, or that the director I’m co-writing a film with is a 45-year-old man who has been absolutely nothing but supportive and encouraging with me. I didn’t say that I would not trade my femaleness, despite the danger, objectification, and lack of representation for anything in the entire universe, but that it’s still hard to be a woman every single day.

My femaleness, though I struggle with how well I perform femininity, is one of my greatest joys. It’s an inextricable part of what makes me an artist, and an inextricable part of what makes me despair. I don’t feel that it’s a novelty, per se, but I think it’s a juicy, interesting thing about me. Hopefully people will give me opportunities because they like me and my work, both of which are female. So will they only give me opportunities because of my femaleness? Will I care if I’m getting paid?

The hours I’ve spent thinking about all of that ^^ have been innumerable. How many hours could I have spent writing or relaxing when this was running through my head? What was Jake doing while I was worrying about all of this?

There are many contradictions. There is joy and sorrow at the same time. I understand Jake’s frustration, but what is MORE frustrating is that I will never ever be able to articulate all of this to him in a way that he will ever understand. I attempted to give him facts about something that is based on a lie. I was speaking his language about something without words in it.

Oppression is a phantom. Oppression is a metaphysical force with tangible consequences and effects, but also with intangible consequences and effects. Oppressed people have to contend with this faceless, slippery thing every day and somehow try and convince other people of its existence and harmfulness. Believing in someone’s oppression, in her experience, requires a leap of faith, not logical reasoning.

Most of the people I know who worship logical reasoning are white men. Logic and reasoning are necessary for our collective existence. But it is not lost on me that the people in my life who tell me to “be logical and reasonable about x, y, z” are people whose lives seemed to have been governed by these rules. My life has largely not been (and I’m a straight white cis lady!).

In my gender studies classes in college, we were always searching for the source of oppression. We were searching for the source of gender. We were searching for sources that could never be found. It was head spinning and off-putting. There is one text I come back to over and over, as a balm. This is Judith Butler from her essay, “Imitation and Gender Insubordination.”

“Gender is a kind of imitation for which there is no original; in fact, it is a kind of imitation that produces the very notion of the original as an effect and consequence of the imitation itself.”

This quote has served me as a mantra and prayer. When I repeat it to myself, I remember that there is no concrete source for the illogical, supernatural, metaphysical, cosmic, outside-of-reason, manipulative, horrifying force that is gendered oppression. There is only performance and justification. Anything can be justified if you need it enough; anything can be explained away.

So what Jake sees is a person who should just game the system, which seems to him to be swinging my way in the cultural discourse around the arts. From his perspective, the logical and reasonable thing to do would be for me to use my gender (which for some unknown reason has been oppressed and is now being celebrated-ish) to get ahead. He thinks that this will, in turn, keep straight white men out of the film industry. He sees his own destruction.

What I see that Jake fails to see or be curious about seeing, is that I have to contend with my insecurities as an artist in addition to my insecurities about this nebulous game that I don’t know the rules to. I see polo shirts and jeans and direct, masculine hand gestures during discussions about how Quentin Tarantino is the greatest of all time. I smell Old Spice. I see dudes looking at me expectantly, hoping that I’ll be brilliant, and then feeling blank and very aware of my breasts, anxiety churning my stomach. I read my scripts back to myself and think 1) it is shitty in general 2) my priorities are all wrong 3) plot is too feminine 3) female whininess 4) I have no place here. I cannot be invisible, even to myself. Everyone sees my femaleness, and so do I. It’s exhausting.

Can I logically talk myself out of all of those points? Yes. Does it work? No. Will I ever know if any of that is true or if it’s just me questioning myself because I’m a woman? Do all women feel like this or is it just because I’ve experienced abuse because I’m a woman?

In a perfect world, Jake would be right. I’d be able to use my “novel” identity to take advantage of all the outreach programs and diversity pushes happening right now. But we do not live a perfect world, dear Jake. We live in a world where the exchange of internal and external oppression creates a very strange, grey, shitty, and at times joyful and euphoric and defiant experience for those caught in its crosshairs. It’s different for everyone, and we are all trying our best, including you.

What would help though is for the Jakes of the world to put the logic and reasoning they so desperately cling to, away for a moment. Save them for later, for they are still necessary, and to listen to what we are saying. To watch the strange hand gestures we make in the dark in West Hollywood bars, and then say, “Tell me more.”

 

 

Support Natalie’s writing on our site by subscribing to our newsletter on this link, Subscribe here!


Natalie Houchins is a graduate of Northwestern University, with
degrees in Theatre and Gender & Sexuality Studies. She is a writer and
actress based out of LA, who is perennially homesick for Austin, TX.
She currently spends her free time hiking, watching Battlestar
Galactica and resisting the Trump administration. For more information, visit her website: www.nataliehouchins.com.

Filed Under: Blogs, Featured Post

Millennials And Supportive Parents: Should We Feel Guilty?

August 2, 2017 by Natalie Houchins Leave a Comment

Millennials And Supportive Parents: Are We Supposed To Feel Guilty?

Image by Beatrice Murch (License CC BY-SA 2.0)

 

A common narrative about artists is that they have it really hard. They’ve chosen a career without upward mobility, much money, or social clout, unless they somehow break into the stratosphere. There are scores of stories about artists who had to fight for their right to pursue their art as a career. Parents and friends and teachers and societies that collectively told these people: no, you are not allowed to do this. You have to put on a suit and go to a job and be a normal person. You will never make money, you aren’t good enough, you’re too fat, you’re a woman, you’re gay if you do that, you “should” be doing…fill in the blank.

We hear stories about people who had to go their own way and forge a path that diverged from their upbringing. We collectively understand that being an artist is hard work, and that the “struggle” is somehow a part of that.

I read the Patti Smith memoir, Just Kids, in 2013. In it, she details her entrance into poetry, visual art, and music. It is filled with strife, an unsupportive family, an unplanned pregnancy and subsequent adoption, poverty, hunger, drugs, and sex. It’s a stunning book, full of insight and wisdom. As an artist, I deeply connected with her story of discovering the creative impulse, though I didn’t relate to the narrative of her life.

“I felt bloated from all the emotional support and encouragement. What was I fighting for? Being an artist is about the struggle, right?”

I read the book while attending a summer program in England, where I studied Shakespeare. It was paid for by my parents (and a grant). When I got back from my summer program, I was in a show based on Just Kids that my wonderful parents attended.

After the show was over, I continued my senior year of college studying theatre at a prestigious, well-funded institution, paid for in part by (you guessed it) my parents. Over the course of that year, I often thought about Patti. She fought for so much. She went hungry. She was homeless. She put up with enormous amounts of shit, all for her art. As I lay awake in my apartment that my parents had indeed paid for, I thought of Patti and I felt ashamed and unworthy.

I’ve been an artist my whole life, but began pursuing it in reality at age nine, when I appeared in a local theatre production. My dad was the one who gave me the flyer advertising the audition for chorus members in Really Rosie. He drove me to the audition. He drove me to the callback, the rehearsals, the performances, and then later, every single audition, rehearsal, and performance of every show I was in until I could drive myself.

My parents attended all the shows I acted in, wrote, or directed, including the ones I did in college. They encouraged me to go to a performing arts high school, and to pursue a degree in acting and writing. They allowed me to live with them while I saved money to go to LA. They are incredibly proud of my little loser life that I’ve constructed for myself on the way to theoretical artistic success. They are awesome. They are dysfunctional (giving me an abundance of material to pull from) and interesting and very kind. Never, not even once, have I felt like they disapproved of my life path.

So, what’s my problem?

When I graduated college, I felt, like most do, extremely unmotivated. I did a lot of sitting and staring at screens and walls. I drank a lot of wine. I halfheartedly looked at casting calls and wrote some mediocre (at best) stuff. I was even bad at waiting tables, giving up shifts left and right, forgetting drink orders, and then whining about shitty customers. When people would ask what I was “doing,” I evaded it. I wanted to be the truest, most artistic version of myself, but instead spent my days curled up and waiting for Christmas.

Somewhere along the line, in the middle of all that love and encouragement (and pressure) I had lost the “for what” of why I loved art. I did all the shows, camps, education, etc because that’s what I did. That’s what my schtick in life was. I was “performing” the role of art-kid. I performed for my parents, peers, friends, teachers, and extended family.

In college I continued this, doing just enough to keep my part. There were no real obstacles. Going to a performing arts high school, I didn’t even really experience bullying because of it. My high school was poorly funded, but that was it. Theatre kids (at least to my knowledge) weren’t shoved into lockers or subject to any other tropes. Growing up in Austin, being artsy was the norm. No one was trying to stop me from doing this. No one was pushing back.

I graduated, spent a trying nine months in Chicago, and then finally moved back home to Austin to have a good, long, honest look at myself. I felt bloated from all the emotional support and encouragement. What was I fighting for? Being an artist is about the struggle, right? Why am I even doing this? Do I love it? Yes, but what do I love about it except all the positive reinforcement? Is it time to just accept that I should do something else?

The answer I got to that question was a resounding “hell no.” After about two minutes in therapy I realized I had plenty to say and also that support from your parents and community can absolutely make you lazy and unproductive, but only if you let it. You know what can also make you artistically unproductive? Untreated depression, working 60 hours a week at minimum wage, oppression, and hunger. There are people who have overcome all those things and have gone on to be spectacular artists. Maybe the struggle of all that gave them inspiration, and perhaps something to prove. But there have also been billions of people with the artistic spirit who have not been able to cultivate and pursue it, because of circumstances outside of their control.

The struggle can give us fire and a certain distillation of truth and knowledge of what is important—a closeness to life—but it’s not going to put words on the page. If you have time and space and emotional support, use it. Compassionately watch the people around you, push yourself to learn more about the people not around you, and interpret what you see in the way that feels right to you.

Don’t shame people (or yourself) for having support. Instead, try your damndest to give that support to people who don’t have it. We should be funding the shit out of schools like my high school; creating scholarships and communities for kids whose parents are unable or unwilling to support them. We need all voices. The artistic spirit transcends circumstances. If it’s there, it’s there, whether your parents are bankrolling all of it, cheering from the sidelines, or actively working against you.

We should not romanticize the struggle, because this validates society’s views about artists and puts arts funding directly at the bottom of the priorities list. Struggle isn’t cute or even necessary, especially when you desperately have something to say and can’t say it because you’re hungry and severely depressed. So, to my friends who come from families and institutions that gave you a chance: count your blessings, look outside yourself, and give a hand to help those who don’t have it. There is plenty, especially now, to fight for.

 

Support Natalie’s writing on our site by subscribing to our newsletter on this link, Subscribe here!


Natalie Houchins is a graduate of Northwestern University, with
degrees in Theatre and Gender & Sexuality Studies. She is a writer and
actress based out of LA, who is perennially homesick for Austin, TX.
She currently spends her free time hiking, watching Battlestar
Galactica and resisting the Trump administration. For more information, visit her website: www.nataliehouchins.com.

Filed Under: Blogs, Featured Post

TFW(That Feeling When) We Share Ourselves On Social Media: Can We Be Authentic?

July 19, 2017 by Natalie Houchins Leave a Comment

TFW We Share Ourselves On Social Media: Can We Be Authentic?

Image by Maëlick (License CC BY-SA 2.0)

 

Last Monday, I was so depressed I didn’t leave my bed until noon. After eating breakfast and spending an hour staring into space, I pulled it together enough to go to the gym. I walked in, took in the smell of the lobby, and then immediately turned around to go back to my car. I listened to NPR drone on until the tsunami of feeling subsided and I felt like I could drive.

When I’m depressed, everything feels impossible. My skin prickles with sensitivity. My mind snakes through the mountain path of fatalism and gender pain like a steam train. I buy a ticket, and I can’t get off until I reach the end of the line, whenever and whatever that is.

After I got home from my gym experience, take-out in hand, I sat on my couch and looked out my window. Watching myself have this experience, seeing my neural pathway train go round and round, I had the impulse to share something about it. I wanted to Snapchat a picture of myself with a caption that somehow described my experience while giving it levity. Something along the lines of: “tfw your depression hits, but then you get tacos and maybe it’ll be ok.”

Yes, I know I’m not very funny. I’ve never really “gotten” how to Internet. I LITERALLY (and I mean that literally) did not know what a meme was until a year ago. I’m almost 25, so I know I’m probably slightly over the hill in terms of Internet speak, etc, and I’m sure my impulse to write an article about this is evidence that I clearly do not “understand,” but the fact that I was having a pretty bad depressive episode (in my book) and wanted to share it with the world, gives me pause.

“We want to share our vulnerability, but the act of sharing it, whether it’s something positive, horrible, or somewhere in between, is the opposite of vulnerability. When you control the narrative (however much we think we control the narrative on the Internet), you’re not being truly vulnerable.”

I didn’t pick up the phone and call my parents, friends, or partner. I didn’t text my therapist. I didn’t write in my journal or attempt to make art of any kind. What I wanted in that moment was for the 30 or so people who follow my Snap Stories to pay attention to me for three seconds. I wanted to hurl my experience into the ether and receive…validation? Understanding? Someone to relate? Someone to see me; truly see me?

In my purview at least, we are talking about ourselves more honestly on social media these days. For a while, I felt like the goal was to make your life look as awesome as possible. That’s still there of course, but now there’s something else. There is a desire for not just performance, but connection via sharing the more vulnerable parts of ourselves (maybe the performance of connection?), whether we are sharing something positive or on the darker side.

I see that Kermit meme. I see “existential” memes. I see little videos of kids or animals looking pissed/sassy/doing something clumsy or stupid, with an accompanying caption acknowledging that the person who posted it has done or felt something similar. There’s “relatability.” Instead of, “Look at how awesome my day was! My boyfriend bought me flowers and I feel really loved and wonderful and I wanted to share to make you jealous but also because I am consuming myself and am intoxicated by my own aesthetic,” we say, “tfw bae buys you flowers (heart eyes emoji).” That feeling when. You’ve had that feeling when. Everyone can relate to a feeling when. Look, I can share this braggy thing because y’all are with me, right? RIGHT?

And on the flipside, when we’re having a horrible day, we don’t share a picture/caption with what’s really going on. We mitigate it with some kind of humor or irony qualifier. Or maybe there’s no humor qualifier, but there’s something to signify that this was a CHOICE. Look at me, I’m being vulnerable. It’s cool. I did this on purpose. Or, when we’re hungover or feeling “vulnerable” (socially sanctioned vulnerability like sickness or sharing in a collective emotional experience a la an awards show or basketball game), we caption it with, “I literally want to die,” or, “my life is a dumpster fire.” Nevermind that you may have literally felt like dying at some point in your life, or that people have lives that are actually out of their control—lives one might consider a “dumpster fire.”

We want to share our vulnerability, but the act of sharing it, whether it’s something positive, horrible, or somewhere in between, is the opposite of vulnerability. When you control the narrative (however much we think we control the narrative on the Internet), you’re not being truly vulnerable. You’re sharing a curated portion of your vulnerability, just as I did in the first paragraph of this article. I tried to be as honest as possible about what happened that day.  My nitty gritty physical sensations, and my thought process—but the sentence, “My mind snakes through the mountain path of fatalism and gender pain like a steam train,” is a pretty way of saying something that isn’t pretty or even romantic.

I’m being forthcoming about my experience, and I suppose I’m opening myself up to attacks from strangers on the Internet who no doubt have things to say about mental health, etc, but I’m still the one who decided to proclaim my reality. Even if I don’t get any likes or shares, or any response, I’m still the one who made the choice. I’m still billing myself as relatable. Not abject. Not outside the “norm,” though the norm has now been greatly expanded.

There is nothing wrong with sharing our stories. I know I have been positively affected by reading and seeing what other people have to say about their pain or success. I think that the move toward more honesty, even if it’s couched in irony, humor, and hyperbole is a positive one. It creates space for real life conversations that may not have happened before. It gives us a collective vocabulary, however rudimentary, for talking about hard things like post partum depression, body image, oppression, chronic illness, disability, economic struggle, etc.

What worries me though is that we are all relating to each other in a way that is masquerading as authenticity, but, we must realize, is not. No matter how honest social media gets, the choice to put yourself there gives you agency that is always, ultimately, false.

All the Instagram photos in the world of your post-baby body or the way your face looks when you give yourself a double chin or a flower with a caption about your recent loss will not change the fact that your decision to share your experience, while valid and meaningful as hell, is not authenticity. Authenticity and earnestness will never be cool, because not being in control will never be cool.

Keep sharing your memes and struggles however you need to package them, but don’t forget that being vulnerable is when you allow people to see you when you haven’t made any choices. It’s hard fucking work, and it should be. The pay off is too valuable for it to be easy.

 

 

Support Natalie’s writing on our site by subscribing to our newsletter on this link, Subscribe here!


Natalie Houchins is a graduate of Northwestern University, with
degrees in Theatre and Gender & Sexuality Studies. She is a writer and
actress based out of LA, who is perennially homesick for Austin, TX.
She currently spends her free time hiking, watching Battlestar
Galactica and resisting the Trump administration. For more information, visit her website: www.nataliehouchins.com.

Filed Under: Blogs, Featured Post

Millennials And Launching Into Adulthood: Why We Can’t Find The Starting Line

June 1, 2017 by Natalie Houchins 1 Comment

-Millennials And Launching Into Adulthood: Why We Can't Find The Starting Line

Image by Steven Depolo (License CC BY-SA 2.0)

 

Launching. Taking off. Starting fresh. The first day of the rest of your life. The beginning of the “next chapter.” We hear these things when we graduate, begin a new job, move to a new city, start dating someone or get married, or on the flipside, quit a job, break up, etc. Instagram is littered with pictures commemorating these moments, after which we imagine that everything will change. We will suddenly “begin again.” We will feel like a new person, if not actually be a new person.

I’ve written in my journal, dream journal, word document journal, social media, and an article, about how graduation is an artificial denotation which has no real bearing on our entrance into “adulthood” (which is what, again?). Graduation is not magical. In fact, something I’ve learned over the course of being in the world outside of school, is that nothing really is (except love, but that’s a whole other essay).

I subconsciously thought that my psychic state would drastically change when I graduated from high school and college; allowing me to be ready for the next chapter. I drew a thick line after both of those days, in a desperate attempt to organize my life and the myriad feelings accompanying these events. What happened instead was I felt alone and confused.

“The past is not over or done haunting you when you think it should be, and the future sometimes whispers in your ear, disguised as inspiration or fear.”

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Filed Under: Blogs

I Have 5 Jobs And I’m Underemployed

May 2, 2017 by Natalie Houchins 1 Comment

Image by Niezwyciezony (License CC BY-SA 2.0)

 

If you’re like me, the way(s) you make money have almost nothing to do with your actual passion. This is true for a lot of folks—I actually don’t know that many people in the workforce who are doing exactly what they want to do. I have a lot of friends who have jobs that are just jobs. What they love to do is hike, read, be with friends, watch good films, travel, etc.

Their jobs facilitate what they love to do. When they aren’t working, they can do these things. When what you love to do cannot really be monetized, or when you don’t have the kind of passion to pursue what you love as your main career, you usually get a job that you don’t love so you can pay the bills and then some. It’s not always great, but our culture teaches you to get through it. I by no means say this is right or good or the best way to do things, but it is what is “done” by the majority of people. Happy hours exist just for you.

However, for artists of all different stripes, when there is a sliver of a chance that you could get paid for what you love to do most, and your life has worked out so you made the decision to see if you can do that, you usually work jobs that suck in a certain special kind of way. They are “flexible” (read: 4 hours a week, or between the hours of 10pm and 2am). They are “fun” (you have to talk to strangers for hours which depletes you emotionally and physically). They are “low stakes” (they pay you jack SHIT). Every now and then there is that fabulous remote gig where you can work whenever/wherever and actually use your intellect in a way that leaves you with creative energy to spare. These are few and far between. I have found it once and it was a fleeting, beautiful affair.

“I no longer have the option of endlessly watching Battlestar Galactica and lamenting my life decisions.”

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Filed Under: Blogs

Making Friends Should Not Be Like Capitalism

March 28, 2017 by Natalie Houchins Leave a Comment

Image by Disney | ABC Television Group (License CC BY-SA 2.0)

 

Six months ago, I moved to LA to pursue acting (said everyone who moved to LA six months ago). I didn’t move because I wanted to move to a new city. I was pretty content in my hometown (Austin, Texas), having built a solid life there for the previous eighteen months. However, I knew my career possibilities were limited, so I packed up my minivan and headed west.

Having been a theatre kid my whole life, I never had to try very hard to make friends. Friends came with the territory when you spent every waking moment with the same group of people, all of us working towards a common goal. Because of this, I thought for sure I was an extrovert. Extroverts love to be with people, right? That’s the definition as far as I was concerned.

It wasn’t until after college I realized I was actually a textbook introvert. Without the structure of school and theatre, I found myself spending most of my time alone, and afterwards, feeling more energized. I was uninterested in hanging out with people I didn’t already know. In fact, I dreaded it. I came to see that the through-line in my friendships is that I don’t seek connections that aren’t meaningful and don’t have the potential for intimacy. It doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy somewhat surface level relationships, but I can’t really maintain them unless I know we will go deeper.

I don’t mind seeing the same people over and over again, because to me, relationships aren’t about new information, but about witnessing people through time. This is why most of the people I see on a regular basis are those I know from high school and college. I’ve only made two genuine new friends since moving to LA, and both are over the age of forty.

“What is this pressure about? Where did it come from? I (and many others) maintain that capitalism and its values affect far more than our notions about money.”

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Filed Under: Blogs

Striving For Perfection In High Heeled Shoes

March 9, 2017 by Natalie Houchins Leave a Comment

I procrastinated a lot before finally sitting down and writing this article. I watched hours of Netflix. I went to Zumba what felt like a thousand times. I stared out my window. I worked on other stuff. I ate food. Mostly, I watched Netflix.

I think pretty much everyone knows this feeling. Glassy-eyed, watching the cursor blink on your computer screen, anxiety sitting on your chest like a cement block.

Ironically, this article is supposed to be about perfectionism: where we learned it, how it sort of wrecked our lives, and then possibly, how we can mitigate its impact.

This week, while I let this blank word document fester on my desktop, I decided to investigate this concept the only way I really know how: by a combination of talking to my therapist, consulting my tarot, getting ideas from friends, thinking about my childhood, generally getting in touch with my feelings, and consuming large amounts of caffeine (and a touch of adderall—just a touch).

The results of my investigation are as follows.

My friend gave me a quote from author, Elizabeth Gilbert, She said, “Perfectionism is fear in high-heeled shoes.” I immediately set a weekly reminder of this quote on my phone.

“The best part about the real world? No one cares about you anymore. You aren’t “the future.” Your GPA is done. No one is keeping track of you (except data analysts).”

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Filed Under: Blogs

Trump And Vulnerability

February 17, 2017 by Natalie Houchins Leave a Comment

Image by Greg Parish (License CC BY-SA 2.0)

 

I have been searching and searching for what is at the center of my hatred for Donald J. Trump.

There are the obvious things: his stupid voice, his stupid hair, his idiotic phrasing, his over generalizing about pretty much all identity groups. His lies. His fake money, fake university, fake steak, and fake tan. I hate his sexual aggression most of all. He is the embodiment of many disgusting and silly things, and there are scores of people who hate and pity him as I do. I see the contempt splashed across my Facebook and Twitter accounts every day.

Although he hasn’t directly threatened them, I’ve been paying close attention to (liberal) men. Specifically white, specifically straight, and specifically cisgendered. They hate him, too. With fervor. This hatred and disgust was hopeful to me at first—yes! They are seeing how terrible this kind of behavior is! Maybe they’ll understand what the rest of us have had to deal with for millennia! Maybe things will change! Maybe! Maybe! And then…some things did.

When Trump was elected, I got a lot of calls and texts from these men, wondering how I was coping. I had great conversations with them. I felt stronger. They assured me they would donate to Planned Parenthood, and we all agreed we could be better at fighting racial injustice.

But something still wasn’t right. I think a part of me was expecting a critical shift in our culture. A drawing out of the poison. But what is the poison? What is this visceral, essential, nameless thing I have known my whole life? And then, after months of circling around it, it came to me. Or I came to it.

Inflexibility. For months, we were subjected to Trump’s (and the rest of his administration’s) inflexibility, which is perhaps inextricable with his narcissism. It sounded like this:

No, I will not take criticism, and in fact I will go so far as to say none of it is true, and degrade the media in the process. No, I will not ask for consent or respect your answer if you don’t give it. I will make Mexico pay for this wall and that is the end of it. We are doing this. You are doing this. This is happening. This is the truth.

Now, we will be subjected to it for the next four years (ostensibly). This brand of inflexibility is appalling in a world leader, but it also feels deeply personal. Noxiously familiar. It is the mysterious, primordial, destructive force I have felt pressed on me my whole life.

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Filed Under: Politics Corner

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