Opinion
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
4A — Wednesday, April 17, 2019

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I

t was a couple years ago, 
with my then high school 
girlfriend. She was going 
through a tough time — her 
father had been diagnosed 
with a terminal illness; her 
life turned upside down. I 
was there to support her in 
any way that I could. “Don’t 
worry,” I’d say. “I’m right 
here next to you. You aren’t 
gonna be alone in this.” She 
knew she could count on me. 
Mental illness got the best 
of her, however. Her initial 
sadness turned to anger and 
rage and frustration, grief to 
deep unrelenting desperation 
for her mind to be eased. 
Longing for control and quick 
hits of dopamine to help her 
through her struggles, my 
support became a crutch, and 
eventually, her addiction. I 
remember the day well. She 
had expressed she wanted to 
have sex. I did not. “But it’ll 
make me feel good,” she said, 
as she began to touch me. I 
didn’t want to. My body did 
what physically male bodies 
do when exposed to stimulus, 
and my courage disappeared. 
She did what she wanted, as 
my quiet objections of “No, 
stop” turned to only hearing 
her muffled moans and a 
“See, 
wasn’t 
that 
good?” 
when she was finished.
And here I am, years later, 
left to pick up the pieces. 
It’s been a decent bit of time 
here, we’ve since broken up, 
and I’ve met an incredible, 
beautiful, intelligent woman 
with whom I’d be lucky to 
spend a long, long time with, 
who supports my struggles 
mentally and is patient with 
the occasional lapses I have 
with 
sexual 
dysfunction. 
Dysfunction takes the form 
of 
different 
physiological 
hiccups. For myself, I find 
it difficult to climax, as 
what fills a lot of my mind 
during sex is anxiety. I have 
nightmares 
nearly 
every 
night of this particular scene 
in my mind, my ex-girlfriend 
on top of me, telling me that 

it’s what she wants, almost 
daring me to claim that my 
desires are as important as 
hers.
Therapy helps, but a lot of 
the pain, a lot of the struggle is 
the everyday anxiety. I’ll just 
be out at Potbelly Sandwich 
Shop 
by 
myself, 
eating 
lunch before my afternoon 
classes, and suddenly, I’m 
transported 
back 
to 
that 
night. Smelling her perfume 
transports my mind into that 
fight or flight response. Post 
traumatic stress disorder is 
not a simple disease that you 
can just ignore occasionally. 
You live with it; it becomes a 
part of you. Through therapy, 
you learn to “make the beast 
beautiful,” but even then, it 
never goes away. You learn to 
live with it.

The road is long and 
arduous, but it’s worth it. 
I find beauty in my life 
again. 
My 
friends, 
my 
family, all support me and 
my 
endeavors. 
I’m 
never 
truly alone, and I know that. 
Whether it’s a quick Costco 
run with my best friend, or 
a walk around campus with 
a couple of others, I always 
have someone I can talk to, 
to help carry the burden 
with me. But, once again, it’s 
always there. Especially at 
night, when I’m alone, and 
all I have are my thoughts. 
But, it’ll get better. I know 
it will, and I know that with 
work, with laughter, with 
intention and determination, 
this part of myself that I 
hate so thoroughly will, one 

day, become an even more 
beautiful part of my soul.
Meeting my partner was 
one of the most spectacular 
times of my life. I never 
thought I’d be able to have a 
healthy sexual relationship 
with a woman ever again. I 
still remember the night I 
told her what had happened 
to me. I was worried about 
what she would think or say. 
Once I was finished, she held 
me, and told me that she was 
there for me, and that we 
could be as patient with our 
sexual relationship as we 
wanted. That there was no 
rush, and she wasn’t with 
me for the sex, but because 
of who I am as a human. 
Being comforted not only 
physically, but emotionally, 
was 
so 
refreshing 
and 
changed how I viewed my 
own sexuality. I could be 
patient, and find comfort in 
that patience.
One 
in 
six 
men 
will 
be 
sexually 
assaulted 
at 
some point in their life. It 
doesn’t make us weak or less 
masculine — nor should it. 
Rather, we, as men, should 
encourage other men to speak 
up, to be courageous, share 
this burden with others and 
to attend therapy and take 
medication. There is such a 
thing as healthy masculinity, 
and we can find that in our 
fellow men, in comforting 
those 
who 
are 
having 
a 
rough time. Seeking help 
in a healthy way, wanting 
to 
be 
better, 
practicing 
empathy 
and 
compassion 
and caring for each other are 
ways of practicing healthy 
masculinity.

CAROLINE LLANES | COLUMN

Mind, body, boats
W

e’re 
four 
months 
into the year now, 
a time by which 
the 
majority 
of 
people 
have 
shed 
the 
shackles 
of 
their 
New 
Year’s 
resolutions. 
One 
common 
resolution 
that’s probably been 
abandoned by now 
is 
losing 
weight, 
whether 
it’s 
five 
pounds or 50. I’ve 
made countless New 
Year’s 
resolutions, 
but I’ve never explicitly made 
one about weight loss. This is 
interesting 
considering 
the 
contentious and tumultuous 
relationship with my body 
and my own weight, which 
for a very long time now I’ve 
never 
really 
talked 
about 
with anyone. Let’s see if I can 
explain it here.
In high school, I rowed 
competitively. We had practice 
for two to three hours a day, 
six days of the week. Every 
day before practice, we did 
a 
mile-long 
warm-up 
run, 
accompanied by sets of 50 to 
100 squats, jumpies, sit-ups, 
push-ups, jumping jacks and 
everything in between. We 
rowed in boats on the water 
most days, but one day a week 
was set aside as our “land 
day.” On land days, we would 
row on a machine, also called 
an erg, and do weights, often 
accompanied by a timed run. 
In short: It was a lot of work, 
and we had to eat accordingly. 
In high school, it felt like I 
was hungry all the time. I had 
a 64-ounce water bottle that 
I would drink in its entirety 
and then refill throughout the 
school day. I had a big lunch, 
accompanied 
by 
frequent 
snacks throughout the day so 
I could fuel up for practice 
later on. I’d come home from 
practice, 
and 
I 
would 
be 
starving. I would eat as much 
as I possibly could for dinner, 
then later on, I’d have a snack 
as I did homework. I saw food 
as fuel, and it was — it got 
me where I needed to go, and 
sustained my body as I put it 
through hell. I gained a ton 
of weight the year I started 
rowing, all of it muscle: I felt 
great, I felt strong and I felt 
like I was finally happy with 
my body because I was putting 
it 
through 
the 
impossible, 
and it not only survived, but 
thrived.
This happiness wouldn’t 
last long. My senior year, I 
sustained a lower back injury 
through 
a 
combination 
of 
overuse and overcompensating 
for weak ankles from my years 
of middle school soccer. I am 
the first to admit that I did not 
handle my injury the way that 
I should have. I prioritized 
rowing through the pain over 
taking time to heal out of fear 
of being seen as weak or lazy. 
My back never fully healed, 
and I still deal with pain today. 
Some days are better than 
others, and I’ve learned to deal 
with it, mostly by buying a 

very comfortable mattress pad 
— turns out, your back needs 
support at night when you 
sleep! It was tough, 
but I left rowing 
behind, and since 
I was no longer a 
competitive athlete, 
I had to change my 
relationship to food 
as well.
I 
no 
longer 
needed 
thousands 
and 
thousands 
of 
calories 
at 
every 
meal, 
and 
as 
it 
happens, I wasn’t hungry for 
them. I adjusted to dining hall 
food, and having access to that 
food at nearly all hours. As 
quickly as I gained weight when 
I started rowing, I lost that 
weight when I got to college. 
There would be days where 
all I would have was a glass 
of cranberry juice and some 
fruit snacks, and others where 
I would have three full meals 
in the dining hall. Food was 
no longer fuel, so it had little 
value to me. I ate when I was 
hungry, and sometimes I’d just 
forget with my busy schedule. 
Yet, once I moved off campus, 
I realized that cooking was 
not only necessary, but fun. I 
love trying new recipes, seeing 
what works and what doesn’t, 
experimenting with spices and 
flavors. Most of all, I love how 
communal cooking is. I love 
cooking with my boyfriend, 
having 
friends 
over 
and 
cooking meals for them, just 
making other people happy. 
But unfortunately, the journey 
doesn’t end here, as I have 
confronted more obstacles on 
the road to happiness with 
my diet. It is a struggle to find 
a balance for myself that is 
healthy in every facet. 

I have been lucky enough 
to experience rowing from 
multiple 
dimensions. 
A 
crucial part of any boat is the 
coxswain, a smaller person 
who sits either in the bow or 
stern of the boat. The coxswain 
is responsible for steering, 
directing 
practice, 
running 
drills 
and 
coaching 
the 
rowers, whether that’s giving 
them motivation or making 
corrections 
on 
their 
form 
and technique. When I got to 
the University of Michigan, I 
joined the men’s rowing team 
as a coxswain on a whim, just 
to see what it was like. If I 
hated it, I’d quit, and if I liked 
it, great. After not rowing 
for a whole summer, being 
back in a boat was thrilling. 
It made me realize just what 
I missed so much about the 

sport, and it gave me a second 
home on campus, a family and 
teammates who had my back. 
And here was where I started 
changing my relationship to 
food yet again.
Coxswains are small. It’s 
a part of the job description. 
They’re shorter than their 
rowers, and weigh anywhere 
from 90 to 130 pounds, and 
have to fit into the tiny seats 
built for them in various boats. 
Certain races even have weight 
minimums 
for 
coxswains, 
where they weigh in and are 
given bags of sand to make 
up for missing weight. For 
example, if a race’s minimum 
weight for coxswains is 120 
pounds, 
a 
coxswain 
who 
weighs 110 will have to carry 
10 pounds of sand. It’s all very 
technical and a part of the rules 
of racing, a completely normal 
part of the sport. It’s also a 
source of near constant stress 
for me. I am not a large person 
by any means, but at five-foot-
six, I am the tallest female 
coxswain on the team. I’m 
not going to get into the nitty 
gritty details of my weight in 
this column, but let’s just say 
it’s something I struggle with 
when I’m forced to confront 
my weight on a near weekly 
basis, all while reminiscing 
on my time as a tan, muscular, 
powerful high school athlete. 
Recently, it seems that every 
calorie I eat is accompanied by 
an omnipresent sense of guilt: 
What will I weigh in at if I eat 
this sandwich? If I skip lunch? 
If I go to yoga twice this week, 
can I eat these jelly beans? 
What about water weight? 
How much can I sweat out?
Now, 
is 
this 
a 
healthy 
attitude to take? Probably not. 
But I’m not sure what else to 
do. I love to cook and I love to 
eat, but right now I feel guilty 
for enjoying it. I feel like I have 
to sacrifice because my athletes 
are sacrificing so much for the 
same sport. I don’t talk about 
this with anyone, and have 
never told anyone this whole 
story because I don’t want 
anyone to worry. People think 
I’m chill, laid back and go with 
the flow. I’m the coxswain who 
loves to cook, not obsessed with 
weight at all. I don’t have all 
the answers. I have to admit 
that I don’t know how to have 
a healthy relationship with my 
body, the food I eat and the sport 
I love. I’m so incredibly lucky to 
be surrounded by people who 
love and support me, and make 
sure that I’m treating myself 
with care and respect and want 
me to be healthy, because I 
know others don’t receive this 
same support. I have a long way 
to go before I find that place 
where I’m happy and healthy 
and confident with my weight, 
my body and my place on my 
team, but just by writing this, by 
processing my own emotions on 
the subject, I feel like I’ve taken 
steps in the right direction.

W

e all do it. It’s 
not 
considered 
a 
surprise 
for 
most of us. But despite its 
commonality, 
it 
is still a uniquely 
individual 
experience — and an 
intimidating one at 
that.
What is it, you 
may ask? Growing 
up. It is something 
that I always looked 
forward to in some 
capacity as a child. 
I wanted to be able 
to make my own decisions, 
stay up as late as I wanted 
and be able to watch that 
one show because I could. 
There was this air of glamour 
associated with being an adult 
and considering yourself a 
“grown up,” as depicted in 
the famed “13 Going on 30.” 
Jennifer 
Garner 
wanted 
nothing more than to move 
past 
the 
awkwardness 
of 
adolescence 
and 
suddenly 
live an established lifestyle. 
This concept seemed ideal 
to me in the past, and I 
genuinely believed that the 
progression of growing up 
worked 
somewhat 
in 
this 
way. I convinced myself that 
one would move past all of 
the uncomfortable growing 
pains and find themselves in a 
position in which everything 
had panned out akin to one’s 
vision.
I am now learning that the 
movies are unrealistic.
Moving toward the summer, 
I find myself at a crossroads. 
I am nearly halfway through 
college. As of now, I think I 
know what I want to do, but 
such is seemingly as subject 
to change as the weather 
report on my phone. The 
past two years have been 
transformative, but I also 
feel as though they have gone 
in the blink of an eye. For 
me, time feels as though it is 
moving so quickly that I am 
barely running fast enough to 
catch up to it. Fortunately, I 

know I am not alone.
I am struggling to find a 
balance between focusing on 
my future and taking time to 
live in the moment. 
I find it difficult 
to allow myself to 
de-stress and enjoy 
this 
time 
before 
responsibilities 
increase and more 
is 
expected, 
but 
also focus on what 
is to come. As a 
college student on 
this campus, I feel 
as though there is 
such a fixation on the future. 
This is not a new phenomenon, 
but rather one accelerated 
with the onset of the college 
admissions process. “Taking 
this 
class 
will 
help 
you 
prepare for this test, which 
will 
look 
better 
for 
this 
school,” the story goes. There 
is this persistent expectation 
for students in most schooling 
environments to, at a young 
age, possess a keen awareness 
of the “next” thing. With eyes 
locked on the future, will we 
fail to enjoy the now?

Will I miss out on an 
opportunity because I failed 
to dedicate the extra time to 
it? Or instead chose to pursue 
other interests? Can I find a 
balance between managing 
my own expectations and still 
enjoy living in the moment? 
Am I doing enough or too 
much?
I do not have the answers. 
As summer comes, classes end 
and the next phase begins, 
I challenge myself to be OK 

with not knowing all of the 
answers, but instead knowing 
that the next thing may not 
always be what I anticipate it 
to be.
Recently, someone told me 
that if they could go back in 
time and advise a younger 
self, they would say to not 
plan life out. As someone 
who 
calendars 
everything, 
this idea terrified me. When 
growing up and moving into 
the next phase or stage of 
something always seemed like 
a priority, how could I just not 
plan? Would it be possible?
Now, I am not saying to 
completely abandon an idea or 
plan for what you want and how 
you envision reaching a goal. If 
you find yourself in that place, 
that is amazing. But as I look to 
the final two years of college, 
or 
tackle 
the 
sometimes 
daunting 
task 
of 
applying 
to more job opportunities, 
I am going to advise myself 
to take hold of that notion. 
Sometimes one cannot plan, 
or anticipate, even if they 
believe they are following 
everything according to the 
predetermined steps they have 
laid out.
The secret is that no one 
person truly has everything 
figured out. This is something 
that I have not fully wrapped 
my head around yet, or accepted 
in its entirety, but it is true. No 
one person has all the answers 
for how we can surpass the 
difficulties or ensure that we 
achieve all of the steps we 
predetermine that we need to 
take to reach our foreseen goals 
later on. Despite glamourizing 
the concept at the beginning, 
Jennifer 
Garner’s 
character 
realizes this — that growing 
up is not really as easy as it is 
depicted to be. I am going to 
hold on to that, and remind 
myself sometimes there are 
growing pains, regardless of 
age. 

When I grow up

Caroline Llanes can be reached at 

cmllanes@umich.edu.

ANONYMOUS | OP-ED

This is the fourth piece in the 

Survivors Speak series, which seeks 

to share the varied, first-person 

experiences of survivors of sexual 

assault. If you are a survivor and 

would like to submit to the series, 

please see our guidelines for 

submissions on our website. Though 

the deadline has passed, we may 

accept late submissions.

Survivors Speak: Life as a male sexual assault victim

SAMANTHA SZUHAJ | COLUMN

CAROLINE
LLANES

The next thing 
may not always be 
what I anticipate 
it to be

CONTRIBUTE TO THE CONVERSATION
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Recently, it 
seems that every 
calorie I eat is 
accompanied by 
an omnipresent 
sense of guilt

We, as men, 
should encourage 
other men to 
speak up, to be 
courageous

Samantha Szuhaj can be reached at 

szuhajs@umich.edu.

SAMANTHA
SZUHAJ

