Boundaries, Shame & the Peanut Butter Defensive

I recently tried to set a new boundary with someone I used to be close to.

This was hard for me.

And he responded with some version of "Okay. By the way, I think you blew this way out of proportion."

That's the thing with boundaries. I don't expect guys to actually respect them.

. . . . . . .

When I was a young teenager (14) my family visited Nepal. I remember quite a bit about our trip--white water rafting, my sister's bout of dengue fever, the incredible oatmeal at the missionary boarding house--

And the rather sudden objectification and perceived accessibility of my body.

There was something about being 14, being a stranger in a strange land, and having men "accidentally" "bump into" me as I was walking down the street.

It was a confusing business.

I wrote to my dad about this, and in his reply he humorously suggested I coat myself in peanut butter or some other sticky substance so that the offender would get a nice little surprise as he copped a feel.

"Ha! Bet you weren't expecting to get peanut butter on you, you pervert!"

Unfortunately, I could not appreciate my dad's advice at the time.

Instead, I started crossing my arms over my chest and not making eye contact.

. . . . . . .

I was 15 and my favorite, most-worn piece of clothing was an extremely baggy, thin black sweatshirt. It managed to engulf whatever boobs I had at the time.

I'm certain one friend threatened to take it out and burn it.

I loved that thing.

. . . . . . .

I've had guys tell me, "I'm you're boyfriend. I'm supposed to push your boundaries."

I've had guys ask me out after I told them repeatedly I just wanted to be friends.

I've had grown men ignore my (polite) requests to stop harassing me via email. [Pro tip: don't use the word "please" when asking someone to stop harassing you.]

And the thing with boundaries is, they can start closing in on you, until you keep contracting inward, smaller and smaller, barely taking up any space, in a desperate attempt to hold onto whatever is still inviolate about the self.

And I wondered what about my boundaries or my self seemed so fluid, permeable, and defenseless. What about me said, "No really. I don't mean it. Go ahead and cross that line."

And my boundaries felt about as valuable and effective as smearing peanut butter on myself to prevent sexual assault. [So many questions: Crunchy or creamy? Name brand or store brand? Organic or not organic?]

When someone (or lots of someones) tramples your boundaries more times than you can count, you start internalizing the shame of "I'm not worth it."

. . . . . . .

But that's not what boundaries are for--I want boundaries that leap, and bound, and expand, and run, and fight back, and talk back, and that assert that--

YES. I am important. I am worth it. My story is worth telling. And this is MY side of the story that you don't get to control.

These are my boundaries.

This is my peanut butter defensive. Or rather peanut butter offensive--I picture myself running through the streets of Nepal, covered in peanut butter head-to-toe.

And if you don't like it, well--

I've got a jar of Skippy with your name on it.