My first memories...

A routine check up at the family doctor. I bent over and touched my toes, as he ran his fingers along my spine. Something wasn't right. I was really young to start developing scoliosis and my parents should take me to get it looked at further.

The Ronald McDonald house, before we checked into the hospital. I had a lot of fun there, actually. A family down the hallway bought me a cassette tape player so that I could play the Reba McIntyre tape that my neighbors had gotten me before we left. Their son was five years older than me, and didn't have any hair. My dad bought me a necklace right before we left, one of those with the little clay animals that all the kids had when I was younger. It was an elephant, and by the time I'd left the hospital its ears and trunk had fallen off.

The waiting room before surgery. The nurse came in, she was young and pretty and smiled the whole time. She had a stack of Disney movies and asked me what I'd like to watch before I went in. I chose Aladdin. My mom and dad came in a kissed me, my dad doing a lot better job of holding the tears back. And then I was sleeping...

I woke up to blurry doctors and blurry parents. The tumor was gone, they told me; not removed, just gone. My parents were thrilled. I was groggy. Reality set in when the nurses lifted me from my surgery bed and my body lit on fire. My parents held my hand and told me how proud they were and how well I'd done, smiling with red and puffy eyes. I didn't smile back.

And I kept not smiling for weeks. My dad stayed every night with me, sleeping in a chair at night, spending the days reading and singing and trying to bring me back. But he was the one who let them hurt me. He was the one who kept letting them poke me and move me around. One day a nurse came in and I said something mean to her. I can't remember the words, but something vicious, something to get her to leave me alone. When she left my dad pulled his chair to my bedside and looked me in the eyes. "I know you hurt and you're angry, and its not fair. But you do not get to treat people like that. She's only trying to help you."

My dad borrowed some colored markers and stole a stack of paper cups. He spent the afternoon making a collection of puppets, and after dinner he knelt by the side of my bed and put on a show. Finally, I laughed.

The doctors had said I wouldn't walk again for at least a year, but as soon as my back started healing my dad got me up and moving. The first time my feet touched the ground they felt rounded. I teetered back and forth like I was standing on spinning tops. Before we'd left, I'd just started riding a bike, and now my feet felt like foriegn objects. I spent every day wandering the halls of the hospital, one hand gripping the rail along the wall, the other holding my dad, listening to the sound of the other children crying in their rooms.

I was on my way home in six months.

I can't guarentee the complete accuracy of these memories, I was barely five after all. But ultimately, the memories were probably more formative than the reality.

The Doxxing of Cynthia Gockley

Though I'm quite new to this whole blogging thing, I've been following along with several of the prominent manosphere and feminist blogs for some time. These topics have fascinated me for awhile, partly as a train-wreck-can't-look-away kind of thing, but also because gender issues are something that I've been thinking a lot about. They're a confusing, controversial topic to discuss, even now, and even though the manosphere is basically just a glorified hate group, at least they give me something to argue against to solidify my own views.

But the doxxing thing is just disgusting. Pure and simple.

And it proves their status as just a hate group, a group who's main concern is trying to play the devil's advocate, either to get attention in the only way that they're able, or as some kind of vengeance for their perceived disenfranchisement. If they were a legitimate political movement, not only would they, well, be doing something, but their main points would be able to stand on their own without them needing to tear down feminists for daring to question them.

Case in point, Cynthia Gockley, one of my favorite bloggers who routinely questioned the MRA's and manospherians, and in turn got her name and personal details posted on the internet. I won't link to the article, or even give the blogger credit for doing it, but it's not hard to find if you're interested. This blogger claimed that her following his blog and twitter and commenting on the things he posted made her a crazed stalker and dangerous psychopath. Never mind the fact that he was the one who purposely put his controversial opinions out into the public sphere, knowing he would piss people off and get attention for the things he said. You can tell he took much pleasure in writing his post, twisting the personal details she'd written about herself and trying hard to make it look like she was the sick one. Reading it, I can just imagine him chuckling behind his computer, thinking himself some sort of evil genius.

But his little plan just isn't going to work. See, the manospehere has this idea that they can destroy feminists by doing just this, by doxxing them, and then future employers and friends and relatives will Google their name and think less of them. But really, all it takes is a couple clicks to his other articles to realize just who it is that's making these claims, and that perhaps he isn't exactly the best judge of someone's character. Also, there are plenty of people like me out there to defend her reputation and post truthful things.

But better yet, go to her blog and judge for yourself: http://rooshnme.blogspot.com