Nor is outrage, for that matter. Over the past two weeks the opportunity before me has been how to stand in my personal power and be left unscathed by personal deep seated emotional tripwires.
As a young woman I was fueled by rage, rooted in the knowledge that because I am feminine and female I must master the art of being above reproach, retain eloquence of speech in the face of egregious attacks both verbal and psychological, while fending off physical advances by men both known and unknown. It was exhausting, sometimes terrifying, often causing long stretches of voluntary isolation. 
Becoming a mother created a new set of circumstances. Becoming a role, an ideal, a performer of care, and the rage fermented into resentment. Oh, not at my offspring, rather resenting a world and those individuals who blindly followed social norms and beliefs that now as “Mother” my life was not my own. My children were my joy and creative masterpieces in the unfolding, my life however seemed spent like blood dripping from the yanked out heart of a human sacrifice, strike the human part, I wasn’t seen as human. I was mother and wife, my hopes and dreams dismissed in phrases such as “You chose to have children” and “You’ll have your turn.” By my youngest’s eighteenth year it became obvious my turn would never come unless I took it.
In taking my turn I was considered brash, irresponsible, selfish, and of course, a bitch.
I fought the internal demons planted in my subconscious to be a virtuous woman free of the criticism that wanting individual experience was wrong, silencing a chorus of dissent steeped in myths that made being female a de facto weapon of sin. That war began four years ago this month, battles were waged in increments, often involving as much subterfuge as any great intelligence operation of opposing world powers. Tackling multiple fronts, one at a time, taking and winning the ground of my existence with surety of purpose, occasionally falling back retreating into self loathing for I was once again the standard bearer of a fallen woman. Fallen from the tower made to keep me compliant as homemaker where all were succored and nurtured saving me, who wordlessly slaved to ensure “happiness” abounded while waiting my turn. The guilt, doubt, shame and terror of being unattached and unowned was mind blowing in scale.
Two years ago I charged forth and decided it was better to die free unfettered than remain prisoner of acceptable social norms. One year ago full freedom granted, so I wandered following my feeling of freedom finding peace in self reliance. Resentment slowly being leeched from my spleen and bones, rage quelled and soothed, blood pressure back to reasonable levels, life fully held in hands that mattered; my own.
I stayed somewhat to myself, exploring vast expanses of the Western US, working remotely and enjoying the mundane details of life such as bills in my name and being able to eat whatever I wanted without having to share. Small things, petty to some, a delight to this woman who had spent almost the entirety of her adult life as someone’s wife. Owning the little experiences, mistakes, claiming space, taking up all the space I wanted when I wanted and how I wanted. A year of settling into me, my name, allowing myself to have hopes, dreams and aspirations of my own again. Finding that the dreams of youth were either no longer valid or not what I wanted anymore, discovering old passions still had flickering tinders ready to be breathed into flames. A year of not caring about the opinions of others, including family, and certainly not those of strangers.
When the novelty of self discovery waned, my space claimed and settled I chose to reengage with the world. Wanting to meet people and live in community I took a job at a gallery of a semi-successful artist. He hired me without a resume which I thought odd, as I’d only gone in to inquire about the position.
On my first day of training I was informed there was a dress code, women were required to wear skirts or dresses. In the year 2018 I found that shocking, but decided that it was something I could let slide. Yet when I read the book on art sales published in the early 1990’s it all became clear. At the back of the book was a “study” conducted by some US executives about women and professional attire. It claimed that women who wore slacks were seen as using sex or were hyper sexual. My eyebrows raised, I was a young executive in 1990 (before my first marriage) I wore slacks and never encountered such an attitude, but then again I was overseas. My grandmother wore nice slacks and blazers as a manager of a state agency in my teen years, she was the epitome of professionalism. Intuition began ringing warning bells. That was just a few weeks ago, and I started paying close attention to the attitudes of my employer.
Left to attend the gallery alone on my shift as the artist overextended himself by opening a second gallery before he had capital to run the two locations and assets to sell, I was faced with no traffic walking into the gallery. He seemed to not believe me, so I created a tracking sheet to account for the days of not one single person walking in the door or the day there were two people browsing the art on the walls. When I asked questions he was derisive and dismissive, so I stopped speaking. I began to look for other employment, I knew this was an odd arrangement.
A call from a grown child came in, tears and heartbreak from the loss of a beloved elder connected to a significant other. I spoke to child and their beloved and joined in their grief. They needed my presence and didn’t ask for it, I offered to come to them, a several day drive for me. I was planning on quitting anyway but didn’t want to leave the artist in a lurch (good girl programming still at play), the community was not to be found in the small town of Sedona where most people are living out the end of their days or healing from past wounds in this life or some other.
When I spoke to the artist about needing to leave, for beloveds had no other support, he laughed. Later in the day he berated me for not asking questions, I countered him with his own past actions. He accused me of lack of sales, I pointed to the traffic sheet, I kept my business acumen to myself. He wasn’t going to hear it anyway. I smiled dangerously and felt that old rage winding up, but knew it wouldn’t serve me. You see I climbed out of my former chains by creating businesses from no capital and slowly but surely increasing my income to buy my freedom. I never told him that I was a business developer and project manager, I was taking a sales job to meet people. I kept my knowledge to myself, stayed quiet until he accused me of sexualizing a painting that showed unity between masculine and feminine. My inner Goddess erupted, not in rage, voice raised in calm loud surety of truth that such a concept was basic metaphysics and I would accept no shaming or accusations.
The next day, I could not rouse myself out of bed. I needed to go where my heart called and I could not stomach being in the presence of yet another metaphysical fraud claiming mastery while being so entrenched in a culture of misogyny. Yet those old voices were crowing for clemency, after all what if he closed down? What about his dream? Silencing these pleas for pity and to be the “bigger person”, a simple question rang true in the cacophonous mental fray, “What do you want?”
With clarity comes decision, bags were packed in minutes, fridge emptied into a cooler and gallery key removed from it’s chain, I raced out with my dog in tow, handed the key to another poorly placed shop owned by the artist and headed off on the several days drive to where my heart called. My only words being, “I quit.”
Once arrived to heart’s destination, greetings abounded, hugs and grieving ensued and future spoken in terms of respect, grace and ease. A beautiful experience, to be fully human, seen for all the complexities of a life lived and more life to experience.
A few days later the phone rang, my best friend and business partner worried and scared trying to remove a male tenant from her home. I stayed on the line and coached her through the process of what to say in the face of a middle aged man having a toddler like tantrum. She had community with her, yet even in the face of reason he refused to be reasonable, whining and mewling to be heard, making unfounded accusations and refusing to accept he was no longer welcome. Hearing his demands made my blood boil, “Why does he believe his ‘no’ means more than yours?” I asked my business partner on the phone angrily.
Listening to the scene I could hear gentle male voices encouraging him to stand down. Soothing and staying firm, I allowed outrage to quell and the sensation of gratitude for men who get “it”. They weren’t there to rescue my business partner, they were they to support her wishes, as were the other women. It was old paradigm juxtaposed against the new, focus on that new space of reason, partnership, healthy discourse and firm boundaries felt better than my old friend, rage.
That night my friend called uncertain about going to court, that good girl programming in play. We chatted about what it means to have safe boundaries, to own your space, and to claim sovereignty while allowing others the freedom of consequence. We talked about not wanting our rage to rule us, we’re middle aged and spent years embittered in our own ways, we want our power, sense of self and personal sovereignty in tact. Rage is a step, outrage shines light on the issue, but there’s so much more to be experienced in living a life.
Action, not accepting excuses, refusing to bend or break in the face of cultural accusations of the sin of being born a woman. Choosing self, taking risks, standing adamant in our truth, being willing to dive deep and excavate what is actual truth versus the programming of thousands of years of misinformation masquerading as divine doctrine, this is what’s needed as a next step.
As I approach my fiftieth year, my strongest intent is to continue my life course free and unfettered from old bonds of rage. Just taking massive action, caring not about reputation and refusing to give way in the face of socially acceptable ridiculousness. 
The end of this two week view into the rise of intolerable misogyny, was a call from a young woman I mentored through her graduate studies. She asked if I would train her on various communication techniques I use as a consultant and instructor. “I could use a post grad program in badassery and you’re the only one I could think of who could teach it.” I smiled at her request, I’m a transparent mentor, sharing vulnerability and hard won life lessons. Badassery includes owning failures and learning curves, I felt blessed she wanted more and saw that more in me.
That is what’s needed, more than rage, willing strategic support, building networks, creating a system for repair for women and the men who choose to step off the old paradigm of superiority and privilege.
Postscript: I was just going to write fiction, short stories and leave behind a fifteen year career of business and personal development. After the last two weeks I think maybe letting my feminist flag fly freely may be the best thing I can do.
L A Rivers 