Objectification, for most of my life, meant little more to me than car ads with beautiful women and calling pretty girls hot tamales. I knew it was bad in a vague sort of way without connecting it to myself. It wasn’t until I saw a therapist years after my divorce from a narcopath that I began to see that I had turned myself into an object. A good object, but still an object. My therapist looked at me dead on and said one of the most significant things anyone has ever said to me. Alice, you are not a tool. It dawned on me then as it still occasionally dawns…