Fight on

Borrowing content today.

Cristian Mihai

When you feel there’s no hope, fight on. When you feel you’ve got nothing left, fight on. When you feel that life’s not fair, that all you want to do is crawl under your blanket and cry, fight on. Clench your teeth, fight the pain, fight the tears, the anger, the bitter remorse, because the only true thing about life is that it goes on. It keeps moving forward, impervious to your actions or pleas for help. Never give up, never retreat, always fight back. That’s action and reaction. Fight back. Don’t run away, don’t let yourself be paralyzed by fear. Fight.

That’s the only way you’re going to survive. Go all the way, no matter what. Believe you can, say it over and over again in your head until there’s no more room for fear or doubt. You can do it. Nothing’s truly impossible.

Fight on.

There’s no first…

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A funny story. Period.

If you get grossed out easily, go to another blog because I was inspired to share the following story by a Twitter follower from TOO Apparel who told me that TMI always makes her laugh. Sara, this one’s for you.

This story takes place in college, where all the really great (and by great, I mean horribly embarrassing) dating stories happen. Back in a time before I really fully appreciated what it meant to have standards; in men, hygiene, or anything else. Back in an era where all adventures were fueled by a mix of alcohol, hormones, and a hearty disrespect for consequences or repercussions. Those were the days.

It was the end of senior year, it may actually have been senior week (the week following the last day of finals but ending the day of graduation). I don’t remember exactly, because I’m pretty sure that week was actually a 5-7 day bender and some of the details are at-best hazy and at-worst lost entirely to the blackness of an over-inebriated brain.

The girls and I were at one of our favorite bars, a two-floor hole in the wall with decor and ornamentation solely comprised of a neon Bud Light sign and discarded cups and bottles, where the outside patio is really nothing more than a few picnic tables from several generations ago that are now polished smooth by a patina of spilled drinks. I was with my friend in line for the bathrooms, two grungy unisex doors behind which there usually was no toilet paper. I’d dragged her there because I was on the last day of my period and wasn’t sure whether or not I was in need of a new tampon.

Ahead of us I could see a blonde head of hair in a slightly tattered grey gym shirt, and when he turned around he had one of those faces that manages to be a baby-face but also muscular and defined. My friend elbowed me and whispered that he was hot; I agreed. He was in and out of the bathroom before we’d even worked our way up the line to the doors, and as he walked past us I made eye contact and smiled. He passed and did a double take, so I knew I was in.

When I made it to the front of the line and it was my turn to go in and lock the door, I found that my period seemed mostly to be over and decided I wouldn’t need any more leak protection for the night. My pants were black (and cheap), and even though I was sans panties I wasn’t too worried about ruining them.

Later on, I found hot Blondie outside sipping beer with his friends and brazenly went over to introduce myself and hit on him. He was a graduate student studying for a masters degree in something that didn’t interest me; what interested me more was his former lacrosse career and his muscular build. His friends weren’t subtle about encouraging him to leave with me, and when we had a moment alone he asked how nearby I lived (very, very close, I told him).

We left out a back door and he immediately pressed me up against the brick wall of an alley, lifted me up so I was straddling him, and we drunkenly made out for some length of time. It may have been a few seconds or minutes, but it ended when the door next to us slammed open once more and his friends stumbled out, saw us, and immediately began to make noises and remarks (the way large groups of guys always seem to do). He waved them away, lowered me down, and whispered that we should get a move on. Both of us stumbled as we took our first steps, but we gradually made it back to my place after a prolonged and wavering half mile walk.

I showed him to my dimly lit room and he sat on my bed, turning to lie down as he lifted me on top of him. We made out feverishly and took off our shirts, then he fumbled for a few moments with the button on my pants. Frustrated, he looked up at me and asked, “Do you care if I rip these?”

“No.” Before I finished wondering whether or not he was serious, he had flexed his arms and chest and torn my pants right in half, splitting them down the seam of the left leg all the way to the knee. Incredulous, I stood up to take them off the rest of the way, balling them up and tossing them in the trash. I was naked. He was not. I helped him off with the rest of his clothes and provided him with a condom. He put it on and lifted me back on top of him.

My room was lit only by the moonlight but I could see him clearly, albeit through unsteady eyes. His head was cocked back and he was clearly enjoying himself. After a few minutes he remarked on how wet I was and that it turned him on.

Odd, I thought. Since I wasn’t quite there yet.

I looked down.

Oh NO.

I looked up at him to see if he’d noticed anything yet. He hadn’t. The blood smeared on his thighs and lower abs was still undetected by him. I quickly faked an orgasm and soon his real one followed.

As he recovered, I made little motions with my hands, acting as though I was caressing him when really I was wiping him clean of blood and trying frantically to hide my smeared hands. I got up while his eyes still looked closed, and searched in the dark for tissues. When I turned he had sat up, and was drunkenly looking and feeling around, mumbling something I couldn’t make out.

Abruptly, he said something I didn’t understand, clumsily got dressed and pitched himself towards the door. He hit the doorframe, stumbled once, righted himself and was gone before I could even comprehend what had happened.

Shit. He definitely saw. Oh my God, this is so embarrassing. And then, I assume, I drunkenly passed out on my bed and woke up in the morning, mostly none-the-wiser.

A few days passed and I found a contact in my phone I didn’t remember.

Who the eff is Blondie McHotty? I thought back to my recent nights out and remembered: A dirty bar, a blonde guy. The brick wall. Torn pants in the trash. …. the blood.

Oh my God, did I actually do that? Did that actually happen? I bled on him? I wonder if he noticed. Did he notice? Well he didn’t text me ever so maybe he did. He ripped my pants off my body, didn’t he? Wow, that’s incredibly hot. Hey, maybe he didn’t actually notice the blood. Maybe I have other pants he can rip. Maybe I should text him.

“Hey Blondie, this is Trouble from the other night.”

“Hey, wow, I’m surprised to hear from you.”

Shit. He noticed. … But don’t assume anything. Play it cool.

Oh really? Haha why’s that?”

“Well, it’s been a few days. WAIT. You’re not preggo, are you?!?”

Guess he didn’t notice after all.

Did you enjoy that story? Check out TOO Apparel, they make women’s underpants and donate to women in need. Pretty awesome, right? Go get yourself a few pairs of period panties and don’t be an idiot (like me).

This is one of the most powerful images I have ever seen

This is one of the most powerful images I have ever seen

Everywhere I go, I see girls dieting and purging and hurting themselves. Scowling into mirrors and trying to fit into impossible sized dresses. And what else do I see? A bunch of guys encouraging them to do it because they actually think they deserve someone who tries that hard for them.

I didn’t write or say this, but I don’t have a source for it, sorry.

Never Again: Chapter 5


I was getting sicker. Waking up for work was becoming more impossible than the standard Monday blues. My first thought in the morning when I woke up and sat up was routinely, “I’m just too exhausted to get through today,” and I would need to seriously consider whether any of it was worth it at all. When I had to visit clients or sites for work, I would take a nap in my car in a supermarket parking lot afterwards, and tell my manager Angela that there had been traffic on the way back. I was listless, my cheeks becoming hollower by the day, my hair wasn’t growing anymore, my skin was pallid and my lips such a dull pink as to be nearly grey.  It seemed like every food made me sick, so I wasn’t eating. I didn’t know what to eat and I began to become fearful of the negative effects, so I simply abstained.

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‘Why Does He DO That?’ is a life-altering book about abuse, and you need to read it

I’m not too shy to admit that I was once in an abusive relationship. I share my story freely because I never want anybody else, man or woman, to experience what I experienced. It breaks my heart to see people in unhealthy relationships, and to see the excuses they make for themselves and their abusers.

Why Does He DO That?: Inside the minds of angry and controlling men  is a 5-star rated book by Lundy Bancroft that changes the lives of abuse victims. Lundy Bancroft is a therapist who has made a career of studying abusive men, and he designed the rehabilitative program for abusers that is implemented worldwide.

The Amazon synopsis:

“He doesn’t mean to hurt me-he just loses control.”
“He can be sweet and gentle.”
“He’s scared me a few times, but he never hurts the children-he’s a great father.”
“He’s had a really hard life…”

Women in abusive relationships tell themselves these things every day. Now they can see inside the minds of angry and controlling men and change their own lives. In this groundbreaking book, a counselor shows how to improve, survive, or leave an abusive relationship, with:

The early warning signs
Nine abusive personality types
How to tell if an abuser can change, is changing, or ever will
The role of drugs and alcohol
What can be fixed, and what can’t
How to leave a relationship safely

And an excerpt for you:

Why does he do that

Love only grows by sharing. You can only have more for yourself by giving it away to others. (Brian Tracy)

Other women are not my competition. I stand with them, not against them.

Don’t ask me for relationship advice because I will always just tell you to break up with them and throw their shit in a dumpster, because I do not understand the concept of allowing anyone to treat you poorly- this is a zero tolerance zone