My One Woman Crusade To Revive This Blog

I haven’t touched this blog in over two years. What can I say has really changed in that time? I turned 25 and felt my frontal lobe click into place and suddenly realized all my problems are my own damn fault! Then I turned 26 having fixed none of them. Still, the sun continues to rise and set. In 2022 I launched Slutty Garage, my literal baby that I birthed from my loins. Understandably, I’ve put most of my energy into my baby for the past fourteen months. I haven’t stopped writing, I’ve just stopped publishing my personal feelings on a domain that’s, like, the third thing to pop up when you Google my name. Go figure. I guess I started to get a bit insecure about my digital footprint. I mean, there’s a post on here about matching with my college professor on Tinder when I was 21 that I really should archive. I refuse to read it back after all these years but just for your information, my fully-developed-frontal-lobe-self doesn’t stand by anything I said. Also, I’m an out lesbian now. 

What I have read back is my 2021 post about my years involved with YWAM Perth, On Being In A Cult. I stand by what I said there. However, I followed it up with some promises about writing more on the topic, which I have not done. The truth is, I wasn’t exactly ready to open that can of worms. In 2021 I was less than six years removed from my time in the program. I was desperate to heal a wound I didn’t even understand. I am glad I didn’t continue publishing stories about YWAM. It would have hurt too much. Over the past two years, I have continued to get occasional emails from ex-ywammers who have stumbled upon the post. I am grateful for any way in which my words may help those people, but I am also aware of my inability to offer them anything other than solidarity in their pain. I have not successfully untied the knots within myself, but perhaps I have stopped looking for deliverance. The appeal of high-control groups such as YWAM is often the allure of being given a road map. When the chaos and confusion of life are too much, it can be a welcome relief to give yourself over to someone else, to tell you when to wake and when to sleep, what to believe, what to repent for, who to trust, and what to purge. There have been moments in the last several years where I have missed the road map, however dark and narrow. There have also been moments where I have thought of the girl I was and become so afraid because I do not recognize her at all. I recognize her fear and shame but not her choices. I was so desperate to be rid of myself back then, that I nearly succeeded. I don’t remember if I was happier in YWAM at 17 than I am now, or sadder. I only remember scribbling desperate prayers in my journal, there was so much I wanted to destroy within myself. I don’t feel that way as much anymore.

This year, I have been trying to write a book. I have also been trying to keep Slutty Garage afloat on my personal dime while acting as creative director, editor, designer, and distributor. I could outsource more of the work but I loooooove the control. Perhaps as a response to my lack of control over my situation for most of my life? Or maybe just because I am a Virgo. I’ve also been grueling myself with some of life’s hardest questions, like, Do I want to be a career bartender forever? Do I want to go back to school? Why am I still single? How did I not know I was gay for so long? How am I managing to spend so much money on Postmates? Am I fundamentally worse than other people because I hate going to the grocery store? Do I deserve to live even though I drive everywhere and have no interest in riding a bike? Will I ever be able to afford to live in an apartment that’s functional? What will happen to the back bumper of my car if I peel all this duct tape off of it? Is Taylor Swift’s relationship with Travis Kelce the real deal? My burdens are many. 

I can’t promise to revive this blog, but I kind of want to. It’s nice to have a place to publish writing that costs me nothing and is almost weightless in its lack of purpose. Also, I’ve had so much to say since I deleted Twitter. Recently, my iPhone auto-created a slideshow with pictures of my dead dog and set it to the song Dance Monkey by Tones and I. I realized without Twitter I had no succinct way to put this valuable information into the world. Even more recently I found a note on my phone that simply said “Menthol cigarettes smell like sex to me.” It’s humiliating because it reads like a handwritten piece of Tumblr poetry from 2014 but also because it reveals simply how many people I’ve had slept with that smoked menthols. I’ve learned the only way to free myself of the humiliation of writing shit like this on my phone is to publicly mock myself online. Here are some notes I found on my phone about attending Lesbian events in LA: “Masc lesbians in this city are surrounded at all times by a human shield on all sides at least two thirsty bitches deep. I’m exhausted by the demands of my imperfect life and don’t have the energy to try and penetrate that circle” and “Polyamorous lesbians with girlfriends are playing Pokemon Go with pussy meanwhile I’m playing Where in the World is Carmen San Diego trying to find but one single woman with whom I am compatible.” As you can see these are very clearly Tweets with nowhere to go. I created a meme page on Instagram last year that I was having a lot of fun with until I got locked out of the account permanently. This blog is, in some ways, all I have left to indulge my base urge to say stupid shit for a small but loyal audience. And yes, of course, buried in that stupid shit will always be some sentiment that’s almost cloyingly sincere. Cheers to that folks! Maybe I’ll see you (or more accurately, you’ll see me) in the new year!

The Purple Crayon

Oct. 30, 2021

There is no piece of literature on this earth that has impacted more than Harold and The Purple Crayon, the children’s book in which a little boy draws himself a fantasy world from the safety of his bedroom, with his beloved purple crayon. For the past 24-odd years, I have continued, perhaps against odds, to believe I could invent my life the way Harold did, that I could draw nine kinds of pie, that life was not simply just happening to me.

I can see now how this belief has allowed me to wake up, sometimes in the afternoon (often then), and choose to live, rather than to die. Despite the constant cycle of late rent, credit card debt, buyers remorse, work, pouring wine for people that could buy me for the right price, eating as little as possible to save money, but buying a $7 matcha latte nearly every day, I keep going, dragging my purple crayon behind me. I’m desperately trying to forget my past, just as desperately as I try to remember it, to write it all down. I can still draw the nine kinds of pie I like best, I promise myself. It is on days like these that I assure myself it’s true. 

Today is the day before Halloween, and I am wearing head-to-toe purple because the uniform at the “ironic, postmodern” restaurant I work at is simply “monochrome.” I realize now, I am dressed as the purple crayon. I’m at my local bookstore coffee shop, after spending most of the day on the couch, just trying to draw my life into something a little more cheerful in my ninety minutes before work. I saw Harold and the Purple Crayon sitting on the shelf and suddenly my fantasy world, my love of being asleep, my constant daydreaming on long car rides, the imagined scenarios that sometimes feel more vivid than the reality of my life, all make sense. It’s all Harold’s fault. It’s all because of that purple crayon.

As a child, somewhere in my subconscious, I knew life would never be as simple for me as it was for Harold, but I still haven’t stopped trying. 

Following Up, With Gratitude

Dear Friends & Readers,

Before anything else, I need to say a heartfelt thank you to everyone who has reached out to me with words of support since publishing my blog post "On Being In A Cult" a few weeks ago. Your responses have made a profound impact on me. Beyond the countless words of love and support, I've received many messages of solidarity. I want to say thank you to each and every person who has shared their YWAM or spiritual abuse experience with me. It is heartbreaking to learn that so many relate to what I wrote, though I feel incredibly grateful to be part of creating a safe space for people to share their stories. Your messages have validated my perspective on YWAM and made me feel entirely less alone. The responses I am continuing to receive are invaluable in my own healing process.

The response to my blog post has made it clear to me that my story is one that people want to hear. I'm working on writing more to help elucidate the YWAM Perth experience, as well as offer some kind of continued support to those who have suffered from spiritual abuse. 

Something I don't think was entirely clear in my first blog was where exactly I put the blame. In cult scenarios, it can be very hard to know who to hold accountable for a myriad of systemic abuses. Oftentimes the abused person becomes the abuser, particularly in situations where brain-washing and coercive control are involved. In the case of YWAM Perth, emotional manipulation is very prolific. I believe a lot of the people that are doing harm there truly believe that they are in the right and aligned with “God’s purpose.” This doesn’t excuse anyone’s actions, but it does help to understand the toxic cycle of abuse within high control groups, in which no one is safe. 

One woman I specifically mentioned in my post reached out to me and we had a really wonderful reconciliation. Her words truly blew me away, not only with her readiness to take responsibility for her actions, but with her complete lack of anger or defensiveness toward me. I didn't expect the reaction to my blog post to bring me so much personal healing, but it has. I’m incredibly grateful for everyone who has looked at my words with respect and taken my experience seriously, particularly those who are currently involved with YWAM or have only recently left. There are a lot of good people caught up with YWAM. My anger is not so much at the individuals as it is at the structure of enforced doctrine that causes so much mental and emotional harm. 

I don't view the issues at YWAM Perth as a case-by-case issue of "bad seeds" or people incorrectly enforcing the rules. I think, for the most part, the rules are the problem. Of course, there are specific people who ultimately must take responsibility for the abuses they've inflicted. I don’t feel comfortable calling out any individuals by name at the moment, but I am working on processing and writing down more specific experiences. There is much still to say. 

In reiterating my gratitude for the outpouring of love and support I have received once again, I want to offer my skills and support to other people who wish to share their YWAM spiritual abuse stories. If anyone wants to work alongside me to publish their story on this blog (or somewhere else), I’d be happy to write or co-write or edit your stories. I know a lot of people are eager to get their experiences out there, but it can be very difficult to trust journalists. I’ve received some interest in having me write on behalf of others, and I’m certainly willing. Additionally, anyone who has questions or wants to process their experience is always welcome to reach out to me, either through my contact on this blog or through Instagram. 

This experience has set a fire under me and given me the ability to write again after years of staring longingly at the page, knowing I had so much bottled up inside me. I have you all to thank for helping me reclaim my life and my voice. Thank you. 

All love,

Abby

On Being In A Cult

I have never been good at keeping secrets. I’ve always been chronically sincere. If a friend plays me a song or serves me a dish I don’t like, they’ll know. I simply can’t keep the look on my face from giving me away. Honesty, for better or worse, has been my way of life. Yet, in one area I have learned the value of privacy that borders on secrecy. I’ve learned how to lie, to refuse to be branded with the sinister words “Ex-Cult Member.” 

For many people in my life, my past involvement with the organization YWAM (Youth With A Mission) is mostly a mystery. I’ve done my best to distance myself and move on from that part of my life which includes so much I wish to forget. Recently, YWAM Perth has entered the news and I’ve had to question my dedication to such secrecy. After years of only having conversations behind closed doors, only discussing the abuses and traumas with professionals and trusted friends, people are coming out publicly with their stories. I’ve decided to take the time to address my past involvement with the organization I now know to be a cult. 

YWAM professes to be a Christian Missions organization and boasts thousands of members, past and present, at campuses all over the world. My parents joined the campus in Perth, Western Australia when I was eleven. With it came adventures. I saw the world before I was a teenager. I moved homes, on average, every 9 months for the first 18 years of my life. I saw the 2009 New Years Fireworks in Sydney, Australia. Later, I was hospitalized for Typhus and I watched my sister get Malaria. I’ve slept on a lot of floors, in a lot of windowless rooms. I experienced a lifetime of shock, fear, wonder, joy, and adventure before I could legally drive a car. My parent’s choices to join YWAM are their own, and I hold no anger toward them. They support me in being who I am and using my voice the way I chose to. Still, if I could spare my childhood self from the reality of being indoctrinated into a cult, I would. I wish I didn’t know what it was like to be at war with my own mind. At YWAM, there was always something within me that needed to be purged, some darkness within my own soul that was preventing me from financial security, happiness, or the ability to “hear from God.” 

The West Australian published an article this month with the headline Youth With A Mission: Perth Christian group which housed rapist Jarryd Hayne ‘blamed sex assault victims.’ Recently, I took to social media to break my silence on YWAM and express my grief at YWAM Perth’s decision to admit now-convicted rapist Jarryd Hayne into their school amidst his trial. What I feel the need to address now is YWAM’s response to the accusation that they have placed blame on sexual assault survivors for their own assaults. 

Reading their response, published on July 4, opened old, haphazardly patched up wounds for me. Mostly, it impressed on me the ability of institutions, particularly religious ones, to lie and hide behind a set of dogma in the face of criticism. Even knowing what I do about YWAM’s abuses of power, I still, naively, expected better. Somewhere in my heart, I expected to see the leadership take responsibility, even if superficial, for the harm they’ve caused. 

Instead, the July 4th statement is a bold defense of YWAM Perth and a flat-out denial of responsibility for their injured staff and students. It is an attempt to save face in the wake of bad press. I’d be so bold as to say, it’s an attempt to protect the institution's unchecked cash flow. YWAM Perth needs churches to keep sending their young people overseas to do their training programs. I know from my time there that their goal has been, for a long time, to be “1000 strong” with on-campus members. It’s hard to recruit those kinds of numbers when people know that you’re an organization built on victim-blaming and rape apology, among other things. What I specifically want to address is the experience of Discipleship Training School (DTS) students at YWAM Perth. The DTS exists for the “benefit” of the students. It exists to break down and fundamentally change the students for their own “spiritual growth”, but it markets itself as an act of service by the students themselves. The idea for many young people is that they will take a gap year before college to see the world and do some good. The specific program that I did was predicated on anti-sex trafficking. We were there to make a difference, to fight a global tragedy. Instead, the DTS is a “school” wherein the students are denied all privacy, pushed to their emotional breaking point, and made to fall in line and follow a rigid schedule that leaves no room for questioning. 

At 17, I had already been indoctrinated in YWAM as an organization since I was 11. I didn't understand the breadth of what I was getting into by doing a DTS. I truly believed I was accepting donations toward what would have been a worthwhile service experience. I can say with confidence that I participated in and witnessed absolutely zero meaningful positive impact on any suffering person during this 6-month “mission.” I am grieved to think of the churches and individuals who contributed money to pay for my very expensive DTS. I wish I never saw a single donation. 

In an attempt to pull this cult-shaped splinter from my side once and for all, I want to address some specific quotes from YWAM Perth’s July 4th Response to the press:

It is among the central tenets of our faith that we must maintain a lifestyle that is founded on upholding biblical standards of conduct, including as to the obligation to spread God’s word, the covenant of marriage between man and woman, repentance, in forgiving those who do us wrong, respecting human dignity and abhorring any type of violence. The traditional values and beliefs we hold are well known.

I appreciate YWAM Perth finding a way to bring their stance on gay marriage to the forefront when it has nothing to do with the article itself. Points for transparency I guess. As a queer woman, I’ve long been familiar with the organization’s feelings about the LGBTQ+ community. It’s one of the first reasons I left forever. 

We undertake our mission (being evangelism, training and mercy mission) through various programmes, including the Discipleship Training School (DTS Programme) in Perth.

The DTS Programme and other programmes are conducted or supervised by experienced teachers who have had several years of experience and training in Christian missions.

This is where the misleading statements start. I had to laugh when I read “experienced teachers.” During my DTS I was subject to weekly counseling by a 19-year-old who, among other things, regularly encouraged me to distance myself from my friends back home in America, particularly those who were gay. She was a leader in my DTS. I don’t hold ill will against her, but I know from other people’s accounts that she continued to mishandle her position over the span of my 6-month DTS and was later promoted. This is just a small example of the trust placed on inexperienced people who are unqualified to provide advice, counsel, or leadership, spiritual or otherwise. 

Potential participants are made aware of our core values and beliefs before they are admitted to the DTS Programme.

In that regard, before undertaking the DTS Programme, participants are provided with access to details as to the nature, contents and purpose of the DTS Programme through our website, the registration process (and the information provided in the course of that process) and communications with our school leaders.

I was not made aware before my DTS that I would be compelled to spend 18 hours in a windowless room confessing to every “sin” I had ever committed and listening to 30 others not only do the same but also recount every trauma inflicted upon them in their past. I had no clue that I would see girls compelled to list the names of every person they had ever had sexual contact with. I cried so much that day that the skin on my eyes peeled for days after. I was told that the peeling was a beautiful metaphor for shedding the past, for forgiveness. It felt like a punch in the gut. 

I did not know before my DTS that I would be encouraged to distance myself from my family and friends, and to cut ties with “nonbelievers.” I didn’t know that I was to have the “spirit of homosexuality” prayed out of my body. I didn’t know that I would be encouraged to fast from hobbies, friends, and food and to give up things that I enjoyed so that my time could be spent exclusively in prayer and service. I didn’t know that I would be told my financial struggles were a direct result of not fasting enough, that suffering must mean there was something in my life for which I needed to repent, needed to cleanse myself from. 

I didn't expect that after I was groped by a stranger in the street in front of my fellow students, my experience would be mocked, laughed at, but never directly addressed. I would never be asked if I was ok. I didn’t know that later that day I would be asked with a group of fifteen other women to take time to “honor the men” on our team. 

I didn’t know how quietly I would sit, waiting to hear a voice, a word from God, a sign that I was good enough to be a part of his world. I didn’t know how hard I would look for signs, for cosmic clues. I didn’t know that I would be asked again and again why I wasn’t hearing from him. What was I hiding? What unconfessed sin was festering within me, building a wall between myself and true “freedom in Christ”? I was taught to look at myself with the discerning eye, with medical precision, parsing for sin at every turn. 

I had no idea the amount of self-censoring, criticism, and shame that I would carry with me as a result of the YWAM Perth foundational six-month training program. I didn’t know that I would one day join a Facebook group of close to a thousand members who had all suffered abuse under YWAM globally. I had no idea the shocking and disturbing stories I would read, and relate to.  

The feedback we received from our participants has been overwhelmingly positive.

We consider that this reflects the fact that vast majority of our participants appreciate and become involved with our programmes because they share, and believe in, our core Christian values and beliefs.

It’s hard to expect negative feedback from people you’ve brainwashed. YWAM’s statement subtly devalues all critics of YWAM Perth as simply being “unbelievers,” who ultimately cannot be taken seriously. This is a common pattern I witnessed. 

We unequivocally would like to state that the experience of some of our participants and staff, as related to us, is not reflective of our values or our beliefs. 

We sincerely regret and apologise to those of our staff and participants who may have been affected by any shortcomings in ensuring that the values and beliefs that we share have been adequately and properly communicated and implemented on the ground.

Please note language such as “may have,” “shortcomings,” “adequate.” Anyone who’s ever read a celebrity’s Instagram-notes-app-apology will recognize this kind of deflective and shallow posturing.

They place blame on individuals who improperly implemented the YWAM-way on the ground instead of taking responsibility as an organization or recognizing that the failure could be values and beliefs themselves.

We never blame the participant for any sins that he or she confesses to. We never blame the participant for any sexual or other abuse he or she may have suffered.

This just isn’t true.

We accept that things can always be done better.

This is the sentence that inspired me to put these thoughts down on the page. I have to laugh at the thought of the leadership board patting themselves on the back for the radical bravery of admitting “things can always be done better.” The passivity in that, the shoulder slump of “nobody’s perfect.” The language is such a bold-faced refusal to change, to accept responsibility, and to admit failure. I can see the entire board shrugging their shoulders in half-hearted unison as if to say “we will never change, no matter how much bad press we get, no matter how many people come forward, we know we’re doing God’s will.” Ultimately, the greatest lesson I’ve taken away from my past with YWAM is to never trust an organization or individual that professes to know the will of God. 

I would love the Christian communities that I grew up in to grapple with the reality of what it means to enact “God’s will” as a global mission, and how that often means sending hoards of mostly white, European people into other countries, mostly made up of People of Color, to “evangelize” and make converts. I would like to see everyone who’s ever participated in a short-term mission trip to investigate the damage caused by traveling abroad, befriending children, often poor, influencing them to make spiritual commitments they’re too young to understand, and then getting on a plane and leaving them forever. All white people need to understand the White Savior Industrial Complex. 

I am very tired, but I’m only beginning to put my personal experience into words. It may take me the rest of my life to unpack my 6-month DTS in Perth, let alone my seven-year association with YWAM as a whole. I would love to talk about other stuff in therapy sometime this decade. Putting my thoughts on paper, choosing not to hide behind the shame of having been associated with this group, has been incredibly healing for me, but it has been exhausting. 

To put it plainly, if it looks like a cult, smells like a cult, and keeps telling you it’s NOT A CULT, it probably is...a cult. It seems naïve to expect my words will have an impact. I can only hope this message reaches a few parents and churches considering encouraging their youth to join YWAM. Ultimately, I have written this for myself. It feels like my first exhale after six years of bated breath. 

Brain Exercises for Quarantine: My Quick and Dirty Tips to Slip and Slide Your Way to a Smooth Brain

Now that I’ve passed the 60 day mark of my personal COVID19-Pandemic-induced social isolation, I’m confident that I have the perfect technique for passing the time in productive ways when you can’t go outside. 

All this alone time has helped me to meditate on the things that are really important. My mind is almost always empty and unstimulated by the perils of reality. I fall asleep promptly at 10 pm with a smile on my face and sweet baby angels playing harps in my ears. Now that I have all this extra free time, I’ve decided to experiment with thinking and really lean into the neurons in my brain. When I attempt to occupy my worm brain, it tends to sound like wind chimes rattling out of sync with gasping breaths of a poisoning victim, or the off-key bell of a haunted elementary school. The best way I have found to drown out this noise is through thought exercises, many of which I have listed here for your benefit. Begin by staring at a blank wall, ceiling, or empty refrigerator. This list is based on my own experience and the personal breakthrough I’ve had during the past month-plus of social distancing.

• Think about the last time you had sex in explicit detail but in a cringe way, not a fun sexy way! If you’re in quarantine with a sexual partner you don’t get to participate in this one. It’s best for people whose last sexual encounter was awkward and/or disappointing. The last time I was intimate before quarantine it was on a mattress on the floor in a bedroom decorated only by 3 Uniqlo shopping bags taped to the wall. Think about all that tenderness...replay it in your mind moment by moment. Remember that when quarantine is over you can look forward to more encounters like this one! 

• Picture your first day of middle school. What were you wearing? What were you nervous about? Who was your crush? How was your skin? Lean into this exercise. Add a mantra if you like. A go-to for me is “I will never escape my middle-school self…” over and over. Deepen the exercise by thinking about the last time you felt beautiful. You might still be beautiful, but who knows. If you’re like me, you haven’t seen your body in quarantine besides during the 15 minutes of your weekly shower. 

• Make a list of all the ways important people in your life have disappointed you. This works best with close family members, if possible. If you don’t have any family, think about that. If you have the time, and I know you do, call them up and take the disappointment to the next level. Air your grievances, create conflict where there previously was none. Burn those bridges while you can! 

• Make a mental map of every bedroom you’ve ever had. Start with your earliest memory and work up to your current bedroom, which you may never leave. 

• Conjure the taste of school lunch in the 10th grade. I like to concentrate on a particularly dry muffin I would buy at least once a week. The flavor may have been banana or apple but it mostly tasted like ash to me. I encourage those who are stockpiling and buying up half the supermarket to recognize that this is what you’re leaving the rest of us with. 

• Try to remember in explicit detail everything you said in public last time you were wildly drunk. If you hurt a friend’s feelings or said something obscene or offensive to a stranger, repeat it over and over in your head until it loses its power. This is a strength exercise. If you’re able to pull up drunk texts or DMs on your phone, do that. Desensitize yourself to them. These words can’t hurt you now. 

• If you’re over the age of 25 and have a uterus, count your remaining eggs. I find this is like counting sheep and really helps me fall asleep. 

• Create a fictional argument with the person you trust most. Imagine they say something devastating to you. Get really irrationally angry until it starts to have a physical effect almost like cardio. 

• Concentrate on your breathing. Wait...are you experiencing shortness of breath? Is that anxiety or a deadly pandemic? Meditate on that tickle in your throat. Allergies...or? You’ll find that this is a fun game that can help pass hours at a time. 

• Picture the face of everyone you have ever kissed. Next, picture the face of every person that’s ever rejected you. If possible transition to thinking about the people you rejected and wonder if you might have made grave mistakes that will leave you trying to fill an unfillable void for the rest of time. Physically feel the void inside you. Breathe into it. Celebrate what your body and mind are capable of. 

I know what you’re thinking, my brain is on some Megamind shit right now! Just remember to center your breathing during this mental workout. As you inhale, reach back into your deepest, darkest memories. As you exhale, sink deeper into the full expression of your grief. This will create a wonderful tension. Now that I have studied my own failures the way a priest studies a holy text, I feel emotionally armed for whatever the big bad world has to offer me, inside or outside of my living room. Quarantine has helped me to come to terms with many things, not the least of which is the fact that you can’t run forever. Reality will inevitably catch up to you and reality bites. 

Watching the Taylor Swift Documentary and Making It About Me

The central theme of Taylor Swift’s documentary, Miss Americana, is, as I understand it, becoming unmuzzled. Say what you will about Taylor Swift, I certainly have, but the film successfully tackles what some would consider to be a universal female experience. Taylor grapples with her relationship to her past self, her people-pleasing self conditioned to respond to praise and adoration. It was refreshing for me, as someone that grew up with Taylor’s career as an inescapable marker of time, to finally hear her admit to what many of us were thinking. She needed, almost pathologically, to be liked, praised, and seen as good. She says early in the film, “My entire moral code as a kid and now is a need to be thought of as good.”

What struck me was the honesty with which Taylor says she felt the need to be good not for goodness sake, but to be seen as good, to have people believe she was good. The climax of the film is, of course, Taylor stepping out and taking a political stance and for the first time, choosing to be “unmuzzled” in support of women’s rights. This shift was dramatic for Taylor because it came after years of personal silence to protect her image.

In February I had the privilege of seeing Amber Tamblyn and America Ferreira in conversation at The Wing in West Hollywood to discuss Amber’s book, Era of Ignition, which was released last year. Era of Ignition is the continuation of Amber Tamblyn’s unmuzzling since she has been an outspoken activist women’s rights advocate for years now. When asked about her age in regards to the subtitle Coming of Age in a Time of Rage and Revolution,  Tamblyn said that her late 20s into her 30s was the time during which she emerged apart from her career as an actor. She spoke to the experience of being an object in the industry and choosing to step out and achieve her potential after years of feeling silenced and repressed. This didn’t happen in her early 20s or even her late 20s, it happened in her 30s.

I’m so young. I think about that all the time. Often I laugh at how old I feel. I feel 17 and completely unprepared for life in just about every way. But also, in other ways, I feel like I have lived too long and seen too much. I do think I have a lot to say and a lot of experiences to share for someone who is essentially toddling aimlessly through life. Sometimes I feel like Boss Baby, but most of the time I feel like just a regular baby. This blog has laid dormant specifically because it is a Blog. A blog is essentially a public dairy. I have written and withheld many incomplete, rambling entries that are simply about blogging and how I’m uncomfortable doing it. I’m not particularly embarrassed about writing about myself. More-so, I am deeply concerned that I will write something now that I will disagree with and be embarrassed by years down the line.

The truth is, I have nothing to write about on this blog that isn’t somewhat intimate and potentially embarrassing. I love being honest. I treasure radical honesty and vulnerability from others. I found myself and my confidence through reading Rookie Magazine, may she rest in peace, and being endlessly inspired by Tavi Gevinson’s honesty and emotional vulnerability. People often tell me I’m an open book which I resent because, of course, I would prefer to have people believe I carry an air of sexy mystery. That’s simply not my reality. Despite having a big, loud mouth I often feel like I have left things unsaid. I love to share my most flippant thoughts as soon as they pass through my brain, but when it comes to my more intimate experiences, beliefs, and feelings, I find it hard to put the words down on the page.

You may be asking how I managed to make a Taylor Swift documentary and an Amber Tamblyn book talk about me. My answer is that, as a white woman, it is very easy for me to make everything about me. Then again, I think I might be the target audience for both the doc and the book. It makes sense that they would stimulate something in me. I don’t feel muzzled by society. Sure, I often feel that people, specifically older men, don’t take me seriously. But being underestimated by men (or seen as a semi-sentient fuck-hole) makes me roll my eyes more than it hurts my feelings. I’m not after the favor of any old men, I don’t need to win them over. Like Taylor and Amber, I think the only thing standing in my way is myself and my discomfort with the truths of my own life. The minute I say something I feel or have experienced it will become real, and I will be imprisoned to it. I won't be able to lie to myself.

Here is the ugly truth: I feel like I’m violently spinning and flailing in the vast emptiness. 2019 was brutal and 2020 hasn’t improved for me or seemingly anyone. I am desperate to write. I have to write and I have to post or I will simply disappear like Tinker Bell when no one believes in her. I don’t think I pathologically need to be liked so much as I need to be seen. I hope to not be this way one day. I hope to go offline and live in Santa Fe with my dogs, painting and reading Joan Didion until I quietly pass away. But I guess, before I do that, I have to write a fucking blog.

New England Tune

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Everybody wants to move away from the cold and gray. Let ‘em go, I'll stay

My move to LA has, in every sense, been more difficult than I expected. For a long time, I've taken pride in being almost fearless, undaunted by the future and unafraid of risk. It was not difficult for me to move away. I never expected myself to have the luxury of a sense of home. My life has always been defined by change, by incompletes, by goodbyes and separations. So moving to LA did not intimidate me. I wasn’t aware of how much of my identity has been tied up in Massachusetts, in New England, in Boston, in the North Shore, in Salem, and on the Cape. I’ve spent many Autumns away from Boston and the falling leaves. I’ve experienced quite a few sunny and warm Novembers. Still, this one feels different. Perhaps because I know I will not live in New England again for a very long time.

I met Ben Mueller of Low Ceilings in 2016 after moving to Boston from the Cape for college. He was buddies with my roommates at the time. I think I saw him perform before we ever spoke. The music of Low Ceilings became a defining element of my coming of age in Boston. It was the soundtrack of some of my happiest and most challenging moments. It was made by my friends and beloved by my inner circle. Seeing the band play always felt like a celebration of something, of whatever we were all going through, of surviving another frigid winter. In 2017 I took Ben’s promotional photos which I am delighted to see he still uses from time to time. 

Now, with the latest Low Ceilings release, I find myself nostalgic for something I didn’t even know I had, home in Boston. But it feels good to love my home even from a distance and to know that I can always go back, even if, at the moment, I don’t want to. 

Ben’s songwriting has undoubtedly grown over the past four years. It’s been a pleasure to listen to Low Ceilings in Boston, in LA, and on the road between. In college, I was grateful for a community and a talented group of friends whose work I was proud of. Now, I’m grateful for a little piece of home that I can put in my ear.

ol’ photo by me

Listen to Low Ceilings on Spotify

I Don't Know How To Ride A Bike

Once, as a child, I was biking in a gated neighborhood of ex-patriots in Chiang Mai, Thailand. I was with my only friend at the time who I connected with only on Nintendo DS games and our recent discovery of liquid eyeliner. I had to de-mount the bike and walk it around corners, a fact I was very insecure about. Near my friend’s house, I was startled by what I understood to be a hot French family. I went flying off the bike in front of them and tore my palms and knees. The family reacted with what I understood to be hot French concern. I have no idea what they actually said. I shamefully walked the bike back to my friend’s house and I have not been on a bicycle since. That was 11 years ago.

I Am She (All The Things I Haven’t Written)

Surprise bitch! I’m back. I moved to LA, got a job, got an apartment, brought along my same insecurities and primal fears, and now I’m ready to get back in the blogging game. You’re welcome

Instead of putting the effort into actually writing a post (ew) I’ve decided to publish my private iPhone note of “blog ideas.” This is a list I compiled shortly after buying my domain name. It should serve as an overview of the kind of groundbreaking content I intend to serve up on abigailbaldwin.com. Some are titles, others are more thematic concepts I would like to explore through prose. I’d love feedback on what “articles” you’d most specifically like to read.

Blog Ideas

• Lady Bird and Me 

• Every old man I’ve had sexual thoughts about 

• Tinder vs. Bumble vs. Hinge vs. Being Alone

• Blow jobs 

• Masturbation Cured My Depression: and Other Things I Wish Were True 

• Femme power anthems I listen to when feeling out of control of my own life 

• Why Eric Andre should have sex with me 

• Gay Conversion Therapy Made Me Gayer

• Why friendship is better than sex 

• I don’t know how to ride a bike 

• Tweet Draft Graveyard 

• I Am She (Dakota Johnson as the vagina chest witch in Suspiria)

• Worst things I’ve thought about people I’ve waited on 

• Worst things people I’ve waited on have probably thought about me 

• Best Public Places To Shit in Boston 

• In Support of Instagram Hoes

• Wouldst Thou Like to Live Deliciously: Yes, I Wouldst

• Get in Ladies, We’re Aborting This Baby! 

• Complaint Column (this is like an advice column except people write in complaints and instead of giving advice I just affirm their right to be pissed)

Boston, Thank You. I Can't Say I'm Sorry.

I’ve spent years rejecting any sort of sentimentality or nostalgia. I simply don’t look back. I rarely have. Now, I approach my upcoming move from Boston to LA in much the same way as always. I look forward, and leap forward, with little regard for what I am leaving behind. This approach is getting harder and harder to maintain. Boston has become the closest thing to home I’ve ever known. The city has given me so much, mostly in the form of incredibly important friendships, and difficult life lessons. But it has also taken a lot out of me. Or perhaps I’ve just given up on a lot during my time here. I admit I have accomplished absolutely none of what I set out to accomplish in Boston. Nothing has looked the way I expected. Boston has been the location of my greatest mistakes, failures, and injuries. 

I wanted to write a letter to the city. Not a love letter or even a goodbye. Just something to reflect on the importance of the past four years of my life. This post is not that. I don’t have the words. At the end of the day, I am just so, so happy to leave. I cannot magically muster up sentimentality within myself that doesn’t exist. I am so relieved to run away. Still, I know that I can continue to quit, continue to move, continue to run, and I will never outrun myself. I will never escape what I have for so long considered the center of all my problems: my own mind. 

My genuine hope and prayer is that this time I am running toward something, not away. I’m running toward a potential future that is outside of what I planned, outside of what I dreamed as a child. I’m starting over from 0 with no expectations except that I will try and try and fail and try again. 

These words may seem sad, but I can honestly say that I feel immense joy and hope. I don’t regret a thing that has lead to this moment. I can’t promise where I’ll be in a year, or even a month. What I can promise is that nothing will go according to plan. 

Thank you to my friends, the ones I am leaving for a time, and the ones I am moving toward. You have borne the brunt of my own sullenness. You have held my head up and given me the warmest, sweetest joy in life. I am overwhelmed by the love I experience daily. I know I must be the luckiest girl in the world when it comes to the people in my life. There are no words to express my gratitude for the safety I have found in my friends. I am so hopeful for all of our futures. 

I want this website to be a place of humor, but even more so, honesty. Trust me, I have a lot of juicy things to spill and laughter to share, mostly at my own expense. Those words are coming. But right now honesty has taken precedence. So here is the most sentimentality I can muster, and all the love in my heart. Boston, thank you. I can’t say I’m sorry.  

Killing Eve Has The Best Pussy On TV

Killing Eve is my favorite show right now, not just because it’s run entirely by women with storybook names (the show was created by Phoebe Waller-Bridge, who turned the show-running duties over to executive producer Sally Woodward Gentle and actress-writer Emerald Fennell for Season 2). I’m attracted to Killing Eve in the way I’m attracted to most women. I gravitate toward stylish angry business ladies with femme-dom energy. And Killing Eve has given me female characters that I haven’t seen before. They’re complex and mean and vulnerable and not defined solely by their trauma!

Killing Eve is a cat and mouse game where both leads are the cat and the mouse. They equally pursue and evade each other. It’s also about lesbian desire. But Villanelle and Eve’s relationship is deviant for reasons other than their genders. The show is about Eve’s fall from grace. It’s about secrets, shame, lies, and of course, murder.

Eve is the heroine of the story but she’s certainly no hero. She’s far too selfish and deceitful to represent goodness to the viewer. Still, you root for her because you understand her boredom, her fascination with the forbidden and her lack of satisfaction in her marriage.

TV is often afraid is show women’s dark sides with out demonizing them. In Killing Eve I get to see a woman struggle with her darkest desires, her shame, her fear, while still seeing her as a whole woman and not a “whore” or villain who exists to antagonize the man. The show begins with the quietly brilliant Eve bored of being overlooked, of not having her opinions valued, or her insight appreciated. Now, Eve has power, and an open door to the darkness she spent years repressing. Eve wants Villanelle, a violent psychopath who murdered her partner and tormented her husband. On paper, it isn’t ok. If I was Eve’s friend I’d definitely worry about her sorry ass. But as a viewer, I enjoy seeing a character uncover what, in reality, we are all trying to hide: lust, greed, selfishness and downright dirtiness.

I can’t talk about Killing Eve without bringing up the aesthetic euphoria, particularly of Jodie Comer’s character, Villanelle. She’s almost too perfect of a television character: the beautiful psychopathic assassin. She’s unbreakable and uncatchable, lead astray from her murder path only by her obsession with Eve Polastri. Does she love her, lust after her, or want to kill her? Villanelle gets in trouble the way a murderous psychopath does best, in a violent play for attention and desire for near worship. Of course, in fabulous outfits, soundtracked by 60s pop, and groovy, haunting originals by Unloved. She’s a sexy comic book villain, grounded by a dynamic performance by Comer that maintains believability.

But her outfits are delicious! Villanelle (more accurately, her costume designer Charlotte Michell) is as unafraid of bold color and pattern mixing as she is of armed men and government pursuit. She delights in the details and the performance. She dresses for the occasion, whether is a power suit or vintage couture. When Villanelle visits Oxford University, she sports a cream ensemble (à la Man Repeller’s #stickofbutter campaign) with a cable-knit sweater knotted around her shoulders. The unspoken truth is that she bought this outfit to have a 3-minute conversation in an alleyway. That is the flamboyance that makes her such a joy to watch.

I’ve watched the marketability of (often faux) girl power grow exponentially in my lifetime of media consumption. Perhaps it was around the peak Hunger Games craze when I started to realize people were suddenly marketing Powerful Kickass Women at me HARD. Then we started seeing male-centered series get remade with female casts. It’s shocking to no one that most of Hollywood’s Female Empowerment is directed by men. For generations, men have made money off of women’s insecurities. Now they’re making money off of telling us to get over those insecurities and love ourselves and also kick ass. This article from Buzzfeed does a good job rounding up the female empowerment entertainment of 2018. It is a distinct delight to enjoy a piece of media about women that is actually made by women. For that reason alone, I’ll keep defending Killing Eve as having the best pussy on television.

What Phoebe Waller-Bridge does best is hold a mirror up to what women are most ashamed of, and then smile about it. She does it on her Amazon original Fleabag and again on Killing Eve. I suppose, I like seeing women whose minds are as dark as mine, whose desires are as “deviant” and whose behavior is as regrettable. I’ve been trying, so ardently, to become comfortable with myself as I am. I’m so sick of trying to change. I can’t rewrite my code. I’m not saying I’m going to fuck a sociopathic assassin, but I sure-as-shit might wear a bold printed pant-suit and lust after some folks with questionable behavior. I might even wear head-to-toe cream and leave my husband for woman. Who knows. Whether or not I decide to actually take inspiration from the women of Killing Eve, I will continue to enjoy seeing women wrestle with darkness on TV. Because we’re wrestling in real life and it’s ripe with entertainment value.

I Matched With My Professor On Tinder But I Couldn't Be His Bratty Sub

The year is 2018. It’s Halloween evening. I am a Junior in college and I find myself having too much of a good time at a small party of friends. There is, of course, someone at the party who has piqued my interest. I’ve never found it difficult to develop crushes, particularly on strangers. I arrive at the party, beer in hand, with a hopeful and flirty attitude. I’m wearing a wrap shirt and bell-bottoms with platform shoes. My skin is shit but I’ve done a bang up job on my makeup and I’m feeling cute and confident.

An hour or so into the party, two, maybe three drinks deep, I find myself not connecting with my crush quite as much as I’d hoped. It’s fine, I’m in the corner with some friends laughing about our Tinder dating foibles.

I’m swiping through tinder as I often do during an alcohol-fueled evening, and I’m empowered by my casual left swipes, rejecting almost every potential suitor. My tinder deck includes both men and women, ages 19-38. I’m choosy but I like a wide breadth of options.

Suddenly— I’ve just swiped left on a man who was most definitely my young, very crushable professor from Freshman year. I can’t let this opportunity pass me by. Lusting after authority figures isn’t exactly rare in my social circle. Imagine the hilarity, the jealousy of my friends if I were to bed this professor! So --I pay actual American dollars to retract my accidental rejection and swipe right on this man.

I am instantly nauseated by this decision but I play it cool and unembarrassed. We don’t match.

I wake up the next morning and promptly cancel my Tinder Gold subscription and basically forget the whole thing.

I rarely Tinder sober, and hardly ever open the app during the day. I’m busy with my vibrant IRL social life and, hitting on people on Instagram. My tinder notifications are off. And anyway, I’ve never been that into older guys. I’m pretty unenthusiastic about men, to begin with, particularly any man with something over on me like age or authority. I’ve been known to lust after greasy-haired man-children with asymmetrical earrings and dirty vans (thoughts and prayers please). Employable adults who wear v-neck t-shirts and slacks would be new territory. I recall that The Professor used to wear ridiculous little scarves to class. They were long and thin, draped around his neck, offering no warmth despite it being the dead of winter.

You can Imagine my surprise when I casually tap on the dreaded flame logo that afternoon to find that I have, after a formal waiting period, matched with The Professor. I remark to a friend over a convenience store tuna wrap that he probably doesn’t get many matches -- but I’m promptly corrected. College girls love older men, she tells me. I admit that in the fourth grade, while my classmates were preoccupied with High School Musical heartthrob Zac Efron, my childhood longing was directed at my very first crush, Hugh Jackman.

I start to wonder: Does this man even recognize me? I will admit, I’ve had several hair transformations since taking his class two years ago --, from jet black to snot green to peroxide-disaster-orange before arriving at my final destination as a bleach blonde. He doesn’t teach at the school anymore, as far as I know. My chances of running into him on the train are greater than my risk of running into him in the hall

In my naïveté, I decide to lead with a joke.

Me: Hey, teach, what are your office hours?

Of course, this reads like an invitation for sexy professor role play, a fetish I simply don’t have, or at least don’t have time to uncover.

The Professor: My office hours are Thursday from 9 pm to 2 am. Do you have questions on your paper?

I recall that sophomore year I conducted a phone interview with The Professor. He did give me some fairly helpful career advice about finding a mentor. He did not understand that I was trying to make him my mentor. Although I had wanted his professional guidance, the idea of him teaching me a thing or two in the bedroom doesn’t exactly turn on the waterworks.

Me: Only if you have answers.

Is this a smooth response? Should I have gone straight for “what are you wearing”?

I imagine him writing back, I’m wearing a pathetic little scarf and nothing else. Alright, this is getting amusing again.

The Professor: I think I can offer some guidance, yes.

Me: What kind of guidance?

I know I’m bating him but it’s just too easy.

The Professor: Firm but sensitive. Inspiring of creative abandon. Guidance to see you embrace your truest self and unafraid to give a spanking if need be.

I register that this may be sexy to some. And yes, I’ve played along and encouraged this. But the thought behind his words, the almost calculated flirtation and far-too-artfully placed offer to slap my ass have me practically jumping out of my skin.

Now, there’s nothing wrong with a little ass slapping, but I think I’ve led this man into thinking I’m about to be his bratty sub. He might have held my interest longer if he had asked me to spank him. But honestly, I think my revulsion at the spanking comment goes beyond mere sexual preference.

I have a visceral, almost instinctual reaction to this kind of expression of male dominance. The only thing I can really compare it to is a fight or flight response. How very dare this man assume that because I am a younger woman (and you know because I actively played along with his professor role play) I am interested in being his sub, ready to take instruction, bend over and be spanked by this nearly 40-year-old man. As-fucking-if. And so, I get mean. I address him by name. Let’s call him Jack.

Me: Do you have any idea that I was one of your students?

The Professor: Hmm...yikes. Abigale Baldwin?

First of all, I become disturbed at how quickly he conjures my full name. Perhaps he did know the whole time? I recall he was always nice about my work, although he never graded a single assignment after the midway point in the semester. I think I left him a pretty complimentary course evaluation.

Secondly, I notice he can’t spell “Abigail” despite it being my display name on Tinder.

He continues to call me “Abigale” for the remainder of the conversation. Unfortunately for him, I only bend over for men who know how to correctly spell my extremely common, historical and biblical name. But I admit, I’ve probably just caught him off guard by revealing I was his student and he’s rattled. I look back at our emails from 2016 and see he spelled my name correctly back then.

He asks me why I swiped right. I consider admitting that I’m basically just gay for women and androgynous men with nose rings. I do not, however, consider sharing the truth of my drunken excitement on Halloween. Nor do I consider telling him that, yes, at one point I did entertain the idea of meeting him for drinks and fairly vanilla sex.

Instead, I tell him I swiped right for the laugh. It’s not a lie, but it’s certainly not the kindest version of the truth.

But I don’t leave it there. I drive the knife deeper.

Me: Truth is, I’m not really into the professor thing [true]. And tbh, you escalated way too quickly. You’ve got to leave ladies guessing especially if you want to get with 21-year-olds [not true].

Look, centuries of female oppression and degradation have reserved me the right to reject men in a less-than-sensitive manor. Still, I get the sense pretty quickly that I have embarrassed this man for no good reason at all. The truth is, I’m not freeing any oppressed women with my words. No, it’s more personal than that. I’ve always felt the need to prove myself to adult men, even as a child. I wanted to be seen as an equal but knew it was an impossible task. It hasn’t felt any more possible as an adult woman, and I’m jaded.

The Professor: Well Abigale, I hope you’re doing well.

...but I can’t be stopped.

Me: Trying to come back from the spanking comment?

Him: Well, obviously. But I really do hope you’re doing well.

He promptly unmatches. I can’t exactly blame him. I snapped at him fast, as if to say, Fuck you for using tinder to try and get laid (you know...what tinder was made for). And also aren’t you SO EMBARRASSED for being attracted to me, someone with no interest in fucking you! Perhaps I don’t take as much joy in humiliating adult men as I thought. Damnit! My conscience really does ruin all my fun.

Now I’m left with the memories and the funny story, but I’m decidedly uncomfortable with my instinct to punish men for being sexual beings. As if, with my attitude alone, I can reclaim the space that has so often been taken from me. I’m haunted by the times in which I have been made to feel small, an object to be used for the pleasure of men. I will hear no more about what they want to do to me. I want them to be afraid to say it-- to know that at any point I may enact my power to bruise their fragile male egos. But I’ve only managed to give myself whiplash with my sudden revulsion, my own inability to be delicate and patient. I feel remorse, but I go back to swiping anyway.

What To Expect When You're Expecting . . . To Read This Blog

Is blogging dead? I ask myself this etherial question shortly after buying my personalized domain name. What follows is a series of increasingly more difficult questions. Who am I? What do I have to say? Why do I want a blog? What is the point in my writing anything down? What is the point of anything? What is the point of life? What is the point? On this blog, I will set out to answer none of those questions. Okay, perhaps I’ll answer the first two.

Hey, it’s me, Abby. Or, Abigail Baldwin, as is stated in at the top of this website. I am a 21-year-old woman. I enjoy drinking, tweeting, and scrolling through hours of ASMR on Instagram. I have the confidence of an upper-middle-class white man but the insecurities of an acne-riddled 13-year-old. I recently left college without completing my degree in “Media Arts.” I do not, ostensibly, have any regrets. I have, however, made a lot of decisions I feel incredibly iffy about that I’d love to discuss here.

I’ve never kept a blog before, nor have I consistently journaled since I was 16. Despite this, I have some idea of the kind of topics I’d like to cover here. You can most certainly expect me to write about being a college drop (flunk) out and how I keep from hating myself! You may also see me mention being bisexual since I cling to my LGBTQ+ status as a reason to call myself oppressed. I’m not actually that oppressed. However, I have had some pretty colorful experiences being manipulated and indoctrinated in a variety of religious contexts. My hope is to use this blog to chat about sex and love, tell bits of my story and, from time to time, explore my relationship to faith and spirituality. I may also write about lighter topics such as music, movies, and my beautiful, dry, over-bleached and splitting hair!

On this blog, you will not receive wellness tips. I have none. You will not see product reviews unless you personally want to pay me for them. I am a huge sell-out. You will not be privy to stagey photoshoots of me in front of a brick wall, unless you personally want to take my picture. I am very vain. There will be no celebrity gossip, I save that for the group chat. Lastly, I will not leak my nudes, because this blog is free.

Currently, I live in Boston. I’ll probably be writing from various coffee shops while sipping a London Fog or soy latte and commiserating with my fellow self-indulgent white women. It’s sad but true.

At the end of the day, I’m doing this because I need a hobby. Writing is one of the only things that makes me feel like a person and not a tiny tit-less cog in the machine. Also, I want to be famous enough to peddle $30 multi-vitamins to innocent youth. That’s why. If you already find me grating I would love if you complained about me online, because all press is good press.

Please…

Like, favorite, retweet, follow, subscribe, friend, unfriend, mute, block, unblock, cancel, stan, promote, etc.

xoxo,

Gossip Squirrel

(this will not be a recurring tag)