**TRIGGER WARNINGS**
i don't even know what triggers this sets off besides ALL of them.
last night my 16 year old son added me to instagram.
it was a surprise to say the least.
i haven't heard much from him since november.
there were a few angry/accusatory texts shortly after he moved.
a thank you text for his birthday gift in march.
there was a very angry/rude call a few weeks ago demanding an unknown password for an old iphone before being hung up on.
so to receive an instagram notice that he followed me was strange.
instagram was how he communicated for a very brief amount of time, so part of me was maybe even a little hopeful...is this the start of a reconciliation?
out of curiosity i clicked on his profile to see what he's been up to.
the first picture, just added to his story, right before following me, was a semi-automatic weapon laid out with the caption "colorado keeps getting better."
well.
thats.
terrifying.
colorado is where my ex-husband lives. the one that i had to divorce due to domestic violence.
so.
my 16 year old son who has threatened to kill himself and kill me is visiting my abuser in colorado.
and he posted a picture of a semi-automatic weapon directly before following me.
it felt like a direct attack.
he intentionally added me to make sure i saw the picture of the gun and the fact that he's in colorado.
i clicked on the second picture and it is of him getting a tattoo that reads something about family not being blood.
my 16 year old, getting a tattoo. about family not being blood.
i understand the sentiment. but he's 16. getting a tattoo.
and for whatever reason i clicked on one more photo, one of him, to see what he looks like now. and one of the comments was from my mothers husband. the man that sexually assaulted me and was grooming my son for abuse before i cut off all contact with my mother.
three generations of abuse on one social media platform: the man who sexually assaulted me. the man who abused me. and my son who has threatened me.
it was not a good night at my house last night.
i feel directly threatened.
my son posted a picture of a semi-automatic weapon and then followed me.
i believe this was intentional.
do you know how horrible it is to have that thought about your own child?
do you know how much worse it is to believe he would injure or kill you?
your own child?
knowing, absolutely, sickeningly knowing, he's picturing you when he's target practicing?
and i think, even worse, more that how threatening that felt, is the feeling of realizing, completely and for absolute sure, that people don't believe you.
i have never, ever hidden the reason i left my husband. it was domestic violence. there was a restraining order in effect. it was an abusive marriage.
i have never hidden that my mother's husband is a sexual predator. i may not have always been blunt and detailed about what happened but i have never hidden the reason i cut all communication and ties with my mother.
and yet, in the 8 months since leaving my house, the adults in my son's life have allowed him to reconnect with the man that was grooming him for abuse and the man that did assault me.
they allowed him to reconnect with someone with a long history of domestic violence.
it is crystal clear that people don't believe me.
they think i'm wrong or being dramatic or being to sensitive or...or...or...WHATEVER excuse they told themselves to allow this to happen.
and now my son is low-key threatening me, or at leas taunting me.
i don't know how to deal with this.
i don't remember the full house episode that showed the squeaky clean 22 minute resolution to a situation like this.
Wednesday, July 24, 2019
Tuesday, July 23, 2019
table for one
i am not a good cook.
i fully own this.
i CAN cook. obviously. i haven't starved over the last 21 years. i make a great lasagna, really good chicken enchiladas, spaghetti, tacos, meatloaf...the basics. i read once, years ago, that the average american family has 10 go to recipes they rotate through as their standard meal plan. i would say i have a solid 10 go to recipes i can manage.
BUT, those are box and can recipes.
i CAN make spaghetti from scratch. my dad passed on the family recipe once when i was a kid. it think i can mostly remember it. that's all cans too though: tomato juice, tomato paste, tomato sauce, V8...nothing exactly fresh made.
but my version of cooking and REAL cooking are very different.
hamburger helper: nailed it.
instant mashed potatoes: yup.
mac and cheese: BLUE BOX ONLY. none of that bullshit discount cheap shit.
dinner rolls: pop the pillsbury.
those things are great. there's a reason someone invented them.
they're also made for families.
i am no longer a family.
cooking the last few years has been pretty much on auto pilot. i had the basic things, made the basic amounts, it fed me and teenage boys. IF there were left overs, there was a microwave.
in the last 6 months i have: a) realized how much i really need to change my eating habits, mostly in connection with maintaining good mental health. fuck my waistline. i really don't care about my size (as long as torrid keep making cute clothes. if they ever go out of business i'll have to lose weight or get comfortable in mumus). but MENTAL HEALTH: i need to rein that shit in. did you know that around 90% of your serotonin (the happy maker) comes from your gut, not your brain? I'm really struggling with mental health lately, and i don't have insurance, so it's up to ME to find better answers. it's basic bullshit: proper food helps your brain work better, gives you body better energy, which makes it easier to make healthy life decisions, accomplish the basic functionality tasks without feeling like you've done a full marathon. this isn't rocket surgery. you need the proper fuel for your body. daily vitamins. vegetables. proper balanced meals.
and in the last 6 months i have also:
b) cut my budget by 1/3
c) become an empty nester
d) removed the microwave from my house
so i need to learn to COOK, real food, cheaper, for fewer people, without a way to reheat it later on.
and i know, this is for sure a first world problem.
but it's really fucking hard for me.
i DREAD going to the grocery store now. it used to be bad, but i had the regular items i would grab, the regular portion sizes, call it a day.
now...i'm fucking lost in the store. i don't need a full gallon of milk. i don't need a full jar of spaghetti sauce. i don't need family size cereal. i don't need microwave ready snacks. all my standard go-to items have completely changed.
and it's fucking hard. way harder than i expected it to be.
i've made small inroads- i liked making "lunchables" for a few weeks. meat, cheese, cracker, hard boiled egg, cherry tomatoes, maybe a fun sized candy bar.
it was great. until it wasn't. deli lunch meat is expensive. pre-packaged lunchmeat is shit. most crackers get soggy, the only ones that don't are triscuits, and, i mean, they're triscuits. it's a bale of hay smashed into cracker form. and the meat gets a little warm and the cheese gets a little squishy and holy shit do the tupperware containers fill up the sink fast. i have exactly enough for one week (limited cabinet space) so i HAVE to wash them or the whole system falls apart...and guess what happened after the second week...
and now i've realized that i can try new foods now without backlash or having to double cook. not that i did much of that before. i either avoided new recipes or told the teenagers there's always peanut butter jelly sandwiches. partially due to my youngest being on the autism spectrum. new things were particularly hard for him, especially food wise. trying a new restaurant was up there with being chained in a dungeon filled with slugs for him. we had plenty a battle royale' over the years between both kids. add in that i'm NOT a great cook and many of the new recipes did NOT go well. i get it. totinos and hot pockets work too.
so now i'm trying to change. i'm trying to get better. but mix in financial stress. add in depression. add in anxiety. add in that i'm a picky bitch in my own right. there's several foods that don't like me (looking at you seafood and mushrooms) and plenty of foods i loathe with every fiber of my being (why the fuck does celery even exist?? and why is it in EVERYTHING??)
but i'm trying. i meal plan. i grocery shop. then i don't want to bother cooking for just ONE person. and what do you do with the left overs? there's no microwave to heat things back up! and reheating in the oven without burning or drying things out is still outside my skill set.
BUT.
BUT.
i have the most important thing: really, really good friends.
last night one of my most important people took me out to dinner to make a plan of attack then took me grocery shopping.
did you know they make pasta in single serving little "nests" that you just pop in water?
did you know you can ask the meat counter for a little tiny bit of steak strips or a 1/2 pound of ground beef?
DID YOU KNOW THERE'S A WHOLE BULK SECTION OF DRY GOODS?
she helped me pick out some really, really, REALLY basic healthy meal plan ideas and grocery shop accordingly. it honestly hurt my brain a little.
at fred meyer you can buy ready to go fried rice that all you have to do is heat it up. and pastas with the sauce. and there's a whole section of the tuna fish isle that has flavors and THERE'S CANNED CHICKEN LIKE CANNED TUNA (i'm still a little leery of this one).
i have a recipe for over night oats now (omg i'm mad at how easy that is- rolled oats and milk in the fridge overnight, add dried fruit. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?? fuck off with how easy that is. i'm so mad i didn't know that existed).
i have a meal plan for rice/egg/avocado bowls and ready to eat soups and appropriately portioned pasta with real sauces.
she even wrote out simple recipes and made it as idiot proof as possible for me.
so i'm starting again.
i have things i'm excited to eat again. in portions and packaging i can handle.
maybe one day i'll even enjoy cooking instead of using it as a means to survive. i'm pretty sure that's around step 52018941 and i'm starting over again at step 1.
but, i'm starting. and i have help. not only does she know how to meal plan like a boss, she COOKS. really really cooks. like, makes her own dinner rolls from flour type cooks. and she teaches me. we did a mash-up of things i wanted to learn to cook at thanksgiving last year. she let me pick 3 recipes that we made to go with dinner.
so i'm learning.
i want to be healthy. all around healthy. so you start with the basics. get the food right. the rest of the dominos will start to fall into place, or at least be able to put into place with slightly more ease.
so. here we go. re-learning to commence in 3...2...1...
i fully own this.
i CAN cook. obviously. i haven't starved over the last 21 years. i make a great lasagna, really good chicken enchiladas, spaghetti, tacos, meatloaf...the basics. i read once, years ago, that the average american family has 10 go to recipes they rotate through as their standard meal plan. i would say i have a solid 10 go to recipes i can manage.
BUT, those are box and can recipes.
i CAN make spaghetti from scratch. my dad passed on the family recipe once when i was a kid. it think i can mostly remember it. that's all cans too though: tomato juice, tomato paste, tomato sauce, V8...nothing exactly fresh made.
but my version of cooking and REAL cooking are very different.
hamburger helper: nailed it.
instant mashed potatoes: yup.
mac and cheese: BLUE BOX ONLY. none of that bullshit discount cheap shit.
dinner rolls: pop the pillsbury.
those things are great. there's a reason someone invented them.
they're also made for families.
i am no longer a family.
cooking the last few years has been pretty much on auto pilot. i had the basic things, made the basic amounts, it fed me and teenage boys. IF there were left overs, there was a microwave.
in the last 6 months i have: a) realized how much i really need to change my eating habits, mostly in connection with maintaining good mental health. fuck my waistline. i really don't care about my size (as long as torrid keep making cute clothes. if they ever go out of business i'll have to lose weight or get comfortable in mumus). but MENTAL HEALTH: i need to rein that shit in. did you know that around 90% of your serotonin (the happy maker) comes from your gut, not your brain? I'm really struggling with mental health lately, and i don't have insurance, so it's up to ME to find better answers. it's basic bullshit: proper food helps your brain work better, gives you body better energy, which makes it easier to make healthy life decisions, accomplish the basic functionality tasks without feeling like you've done a full marathon. this isn't rocket surgery. you need the proper fuel for your body. daily vitamins. vegetables. proper balanced meals.
and in the last 6 months i have also:
b) cut my budget by 1/3
c) become an empty nester
d) removed the microwave from my house
so i need to learn to COOK, real food, cheaper, for fewer people, without a way to reheat it later on.
and i know, this is for sure a first world problem.
but it's really fucking hard for me.
i DREAD going to the grocery store now. it used to be bad, but i had the regular items i would grab, the regular portion sizes, call it a day.
now...i'm fucking lost in the store. i don't need a full gallon of milk. i don't need a full jar of spaghetti sauce. i don't need family size cereal. i don't need microwave ready snacks. all my standard go-to items have completely changed.
and it's fucking hard. way harder than i expected it to be.
i've made small inroads- i liked making "lunchables" for a few weeks. meat, cheese, cracker, hard boiled egg, cherry tomatoes, maybe a fun sized candy bar.
it was great. until it wasn't. deli lunch meat is expensive. pre-packaged lunchmeat is shit. most crackers get soggy, the only ones that don't are triscuits, and, i mean, they're triscuits. it's a bale of hay smashed into cracker form. and the meat gets a little warm and the cheese gets a little squishy and holy shit do the tupperware containers fill up the sink fast. i have exactly enough for one week (limited cabinet space) so i HAVE to wash them or the whole system falls apart...and guess what happened after the second week...
and now i've realized that i can try new foods now without backlash or having to double cook. not that i did much of that before. i either avoided new recipes or told the teenagers there's always peanut butter jelly sandwiches. partially due to my youngest being on the autism spectrum. new things were particularly hard for him, especially food wise. trying a new restaurant was up there with being chained in a dungeon filled with slugs for him. we had plenty a battle royale' over the years between both kids. add in that i'm NOT a great cook and many of the new recipes did NOT go well. i get it. totinos and hot pockets work too.
so now i'm trying to change. i'm trying to get better. but mix in financial stress. add in depression. add in anxiety. add in that i'm a picky bitch in my own right. there's several foods that don't like me (looking at you seafood and mushrooms) and plenty of foods i loathe with every fiber of my being (why the fuck does celery even exist?? and why is it in EVERYTHING??)
but i'm trying. i meal plan. i grocery shop. then i don't want to bother cooking for just ONE person. and what do you do with the left overs? there's no microwave to heat things back up! and reheating in the oven without burning or drying things out is still outside my skill set.
BUT.
BUT.
i have the most important thing: really, really good friends.
last night one of my most important people took me out to dinner to make a plan of attack then took me grocery shopping.
did you know they make pasta in single serving little "nests" that you just pop in water?
did you know you can ask the meat counter for a little tiny bit of steak strips or a 1/2 pound of ground beef?
DID YOU KNOW THERE'S A WHOLE BULK SECTION OF DRY GOODS?
she helped me pick out some really, really, REALLY basic healthy meal plan ideas and grocery shop accordingly. it honestly hurt my brain a little.
at fred meyer you can buy ready to go fried rice that all you have to do is heat it up. and pastas with the sauce. and there's a whole section of the tuna fish isle that has flavors and THERE'S CANNED CHICKEN LIKE CANNED TUNA (i'm still a little leery of this one).
i have a recipe for over night oats now (omg i'm mad at how easy that is- rolled oats and milk in the fridge overnight, add dried fruit. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?? fuck off with how easy that is. i'm so mad i didn't know that existed).
i have a meal plan for rice/egg/avocado bowls and ready to eat soups and appropriately portioned pasta with real sauces.
she even wrote out simple recipes and made it as idiot proof as possible for me.
so i'm starting again.
i have things i'm excited to eat again. in portions and packaging i can handle.
maybe one day i'll even enjoy cooking instead of using it as a means to survive. i'm pretty sure that's around step 52018941 and i'm starting over again at step 1.
but, i'm starting. and i have help. not only does she know how to meal plan like a boss, she COOKS. really really cooks. like, makes her own dinner rolls from flour type cooks. and she teaches me. we did a mash-up of things i wanted to learn to cook at thanksgiving last year. she let me pick 3 recipes that we made to go with dinner.
so i'm learning.
i want to be healthy. all around healthy. so you start with the basics. get the food right. the rest of the dominos will start to fall into place, or at least be able to put into place with slightly more ease.
so. here we go. re-learning to commence in 3...2...1...
Thursday, July 18, 2019
i'm about to get loud y'all
i was raised to be polite.
i was raised to bite my tongue.
be the bigger person.
never, ever, no matter what, NEVER cause a scene.
turn the other cheek.
stay out of other people's business.
i've always been an introvert. i've always been terrified of confrontation, so all that worked just fine with me.
when i was married and he was calling me every name in the book, telling me how stupid i am, threatening to have me arrested for asking him to go play cards with me at a friends house (attempted kidnapping was his threat), i cried, oh lord how i cried, but i didn't fight back. i stayed quiet, i made a plan, and i got out.
when i was at work and my coworkers went on rants about how they would never let "those people" (gays) anywhere near their family i kept my peace.
when my male coworkers complained to me about how single moms are all worthless lazy whores that are just trying to get all the money they can from the government i didn't say anything.
i've always worked in the industrial field where "that just the way roughneck guys are." i come from a small town with active racist groups. i've seen crosses burned on lawns. i've seen people be beaten for their sexual orientation. i know people who have been brutalized for the color of their skin. i've seen people literally run out of town by an angry mob of white men in trucks.
i've heard all the "jokes" and i've heard all the rhetoric.
and i'm done.
a few weeks ago i was at whisky wednesday when the gentleman sitting next to me at the bar started going off about all those "turban heads" and running his mouth about a young refugee mother who had recently been murdered by her husband (who then left the country) i couldn't listen any more. i spoke up. they are PEOPLE. that poor mother was murdered and stuffed in a freezer. i don't care what color your skin is, i don't care what language you speak, i don't care what country you were born in. NO ONE. ABSOLUTELY NO ONE. deserves to die like that. and then to disparage her in death? fuck all the way off. i mentioned to the gentleman at the bar that i had dated a young man from iraq back in the day. his response? I HOPE YOU'RE OVER THAT PHASE.
me: and what phase is that sir? dating intelligent people who speak multiple languages, have brilliant minds and engage in conversations that intrigue and challenge me? no sir, i hope i'm never over that phase.
him: oh, they're intelligent?
me: THEY ARE HUMAN BEINGS. they are people. they have lives. they came here from homes. they came here from cities. they have schools and universities and grocery stores. they aren't sand people living in a tent in the desert. AND EVEN IF THEY WERE, THEY'RE STILL PEOPLE. yes. he was very intelligent he grew up with parents who taught at multiple universities around europe. he spoke several languages fluently AND WAS HER BECAUSE HE WAS AN INTERPRETER FOR THE UNITED STATES MILITARY. he helped our country.
him: oh. well. i hope you didn't let him treat you badly like they do.
me: no sir. he was a gentleman and understood that he was dating an american girl in america. he respected me and i respected him.
him: oh.
he finished his drink and left for the evening only to be replaced by this guy:
me: *sets phone down on countertop*
guy #2: i'm so sick of all this pride shit.
me: i'm sorry. what?
g2: your phone background.
me: you do realize, that you're saying that to a gay person, in a gay bar?
backstory: i've had several conversations with this guy previously. he comes in after trivia night at a bar across the street. we've discussed the shift in the "splash" of the molten iron at the earth's core causing the earth to tilt off it's axis a little more. we've discussed forest practices and the need for forest management and healthy burn practices. we've discussed higher education pursuits. we've discussed my writing (when he saw me working on a blog one night). he's, what i would consider to be, a regular at my bar.
where a large portion of customers are gay.
where some of the staff are gay.
it's not a "gay bar" but it's where many of us feel safe. openly so.
g2: yeah. i'm just sick of all this pride shit. when do we get straight month? where's my straight parade?
now, i know this guy. i've had discussions with him. i know he's an instigator. he's a fan of playing devil's advocate and arguing just to argue. i get it. i've been known present the alternate side of an argument and defend it in conversations with friends just for representation and inclusion about various topics. IN A RESPECTFUL AND CAREFUL WAY. as a point of consideration. not as an attack.
i didn't want to take the bait. i knew this guy was being an asshole just to be an asshole.
but you know what? i'm tired of that too.
so i spoke my mind. we bantered a bit then he went out to the patio to smoke.
when he came back in he said: you know i was just joking, right?
me: i know, but i don't care. i'm tired of hearing it. YOU might be joking, but all the other people i hear it from? they aren't joking. and i'm tired of listening to it. and it isn't a joke. it isn't a joke when you go to work every day for a boss that supports politicians that call for the extermination of people like me. that fucks with your head, you know?
him: oh shit. i'm sorry. i'm really sorry. you must hate me now.
me: (back to being my sassy self) forever and ever and ever we are now mortal enemies and our children's children shall carry on our grudge long after we're gone.
him: oh, good.
but i'm done listening to it. i'm done biting my tongue.
last night i decided to get my nails done. it had been a full month since the last time i went in...i've been trying like hell to still be boujee while being broke as fuck, stretching time between appointments as long as possible. but i received a small, unexpected bonus from work so i decided TREAT YO SELF.
the gal that did my nails last time gets started on mine and i hear someone come in the door behind me. it's one of those customers that you know RIGHT AWAY is going to change the mood of the entire place. she's barely in the door, DEMANDING a pedicure, and loudly complaining that there isn't a bright enough orange color on the shelf. WHY ISN'T THERE A GOOD ORANGE HERE.
now girl, you know i'm high maintenance. i understand wanting a specific color, but calm down, there are PLENTY of options, including a multitude of oranges to select from. i know. i like orange too.
so then she sits down in the pedicure chair and starts complaining that the water isn't hot enough. she's TIRED. she just got off the plane. she's in the military. she just got back from the war. she wants HOT water. she's yelling about how they didn't put any salts in the water. so the owner went to put salts in the water, WHAT'S THAT SHIT? I DON'T WANT THAT IN THERE!
i get it girl. i'd probably want a good pedicure too if i've been in combat boots for months on end. but you know, maybe not worth yelling at people over? maybe politely ask instead?
then she hollers across the salon to me, WHAT IS ON YOUR NAILS?
my fingers were wrapped in aluminum to soak off the gel from last time (seriously ya'll, my manicure lasted a FULL MONTH with not one chip or tear, they had to fully soak it off after 4 weeks, they're amazing).
so i told her: they soak the polish before they remove it instead of grinding so it doesn't damage your natural nail.
and this lady argued with me. THAT'S NOT HOW IT'S DONE. I'M FROM LA. I'VE NEVER SEEN IT DONE THAT WAY.
full volume.
i have absolutely no interest in discussing this. this is what they do, the same way they've done every other damn time i've had my nails done. this is so far down my list of shit to worry about it doesn't even register. i'm just trying to relax and enjoy being my high maintenance self.
so the owner of the salon sits down to start this gal's pedicure. i've been going to this salon since 2011. the owner is the sweetest, most polite, gentle soul. i've seen her handle difficult clients before. it's a nail salon. people are particular. she's always graceful and kind.
this lady though. WHY ARE YOU CUTTING MY NAILS LIKE THAT? I DON'T WANT THEM ROUNDED. YOU NEED TO CUT THEM SHORTER. YOU CUT THEM TOO SHORT.
it goes on for a few minutes, then the owner, bless her heart, scoots her stool back and quietly says: "i have the right to refuse service to anyone."
my ears instantly perk up.
i've never, ever, ever, seen this owner flustered. ever. for her to actually refuse service? i'm on alert, instantly.
and then this lady starts in. IT'S BECAUSE I'M BLACK, ISN'T IT? I'M GOING TO SUE THIS SALON. I'M GOING TO SUE YOUR RACIST ASS. SIT BACK DOWN AND DO MY PEDICURE.
the owner calmly stated again: "i have the right to refuse service. i would like you to leave."
and that lady just ran her mouth. all the things. all the threats. all the hate. all the bullshit.
the owner went next door to ask one of the other business owners for help and called the police.
the next door business owner that came to help also happened to be a black lady. so then it started being about black on black racism. and it kept growing and growing.
NO ONE ELSE has said a word at this point. the owner is on the phone quietly talking to the police, all the other techs and customers are just quietly trying to stay out of it, myself included and this lady is just winding herself up tighter and tighter. nothing particularly egregious has been said at this point besides being loud and obnoxious and accusing everyone else of being racist.
then i hear:
"all you fucking asians just need to go back to your country."
NOPE. OH. FUCK. NO. NOPE.
seven levels of oh fuck no.
me: HEY. NO. YOU DON'T GET TO TALK LIKE THAT. NO. YOU'RE DONE. you're done talking now. you don't talk to people like that. you don't say things like that. NO. NOT TODAY.
i spoke up. i'm seeing those fucking words in the headlines on the daily. i know people are thinking them. BUT TO HEAR IT IN PERSON?
fuck off. NO ONE is from this country but native americans. so fuck all the way off telling someone to go back to their country. i'm done. i won't hear it.
so then this lady starts in on me. fair enough. i opened my mouth. i get it. she's going to drag my ass outside and beat me. she's going to slap me. she's going to put my honky ass in it's place. "salon sally" can keep her white opinion to herself. she threatens to take me outside again.
me: girl, you do what you need to do. if you want to take me outside, then you need to take me outside. but no, i won't listen to this. you don't get to talk to people that way, ever.
then i'm a cunt. then i'm stuck up white bitch. then i'm a spoiled honky.
fair enough. my lily white, basically translucent ass IS WHITE. i am a little stuck up. i'm in a salon on a wendnesday evening getting my nails done. i was in a pencil skirt and flowy duster and heels. i looked like a boujee spoiled white bitch. i get it. i work hard to look that way actually. i LIKE to look nice. i work really hard to look nice all the time. and i have a certain level of privileged because of how and where i was born. i'll grant you that. i get it.
yell at me all you want honey, i can take it. the good lord himself if he existed would know i've heard plenty worse.
she starts in about how fucking fat i am. maybe i should go see a fat doctor.
fair enough. i clock in at a solid 250. i'm a little thick. she's not wrong.
BUT NO. YOU STILL DON'T GET TO YELL AT PEOPLE TO GO BACK TO THEIR COUNTRY.
i'm fucking livid. my hands are shaking so bad. my poor nail tech was trying to finish polishing them and i'm just shaking like a martini in a bond movie.
then she starts in about how i just need a big black cock in me.
i would like to add at this point, this lady is FIFTY TWO (one of the things she shouted at everyone) and is there with her daughter and granddaughter.
and she shouts across the salon at me that i just need a big black cock in me.
in front of her granddaughter.
also: not to be too graphic. but considering that the last time i had a "big black cock" in me it was when i was being raped, no, i do NOT think that's what i need in this particular moment.
the other business owner from next door comes over to me and asks me not to say anything else, the police are on their way, if we can just all ignore her until they get here it would be best.
so i disengage. i sit quietly and listen to this lady continue to rage and call me a honkey so many times i lost count. she continues to scream at everyone how racist they are and she's being treated so badly and she's going to own this salon, and, i shit you not, THEY SHOULD GIVE HER MONEY RIGHT NOW TO GO SOMEWHERE ELSE AND GET HER PEDICURE.
fuck man. i wish i had the audacity to voluntarily go into a business, verbally assault the owner and the customers, then demand money to go do the same thing at another business.
the police eventually arrive and try to talk to her and get her to leave. she's been sitting in the pedicure chair the whole time. they cuff her and take her outside where's she starts yelling and screaming at them, telling them we're all liars (all the other people in the salon) before they even talk to any of us. they eventually go to put her in the back of the cop car and she spits on one of the officers. patience of a saint, that officer. i can't imagine being spit in the face. well, actually i can. been there. spit at anyway. didn't hit me in the eye like that guy just trying to do his job.
the cops talk to all of us and the other clients all clear out. the squad car is blocking in my mini so i stay inside with the owner and the other techs and try to help as much as i can. these poor women are terrified. they have worked so hard at this business for at least 8 years. to have to actually refuse service to someone had to have taken every ounce of the owners courage. i can't even imagine. then to have it BLOW UP. and there's still a language barrier. the officers are trying their best but asking about a no trespass order, asking about names, birth days, that's intimidating as fuck FOR ME. born and raised in this country. and this is their business. this is their living. i can't imagine the scenarios running through their minds. i help explain a no-trespass order, what they need to do if she does try to come back, help reassure them that they're ok. they ARE welcome here. this in one person. don't listen to that hate bullshit.
the officers all leave, everyone has cleared out, i know the salon doesn't close for another hour, but i tell them to lock the doors behind me, go home to their families, spend time with the ones they love.
i'm so tired of it ya'll.
i'm tired of all the hatred.
i'm tired of all the slander and horrible speech.
i'm tired of being quiet.
i'm tired of biting my tongue.
so i'm done. i'm done staying out of it.
i don't care if i make a scene.
i'm about to get loud y'all. i'll use my voice. i'll be the one to say something.
**side note: the really important details: my nails are flawless as per usual. even through all that. ON. FLEEK. (am i using that right? or is that just for eyebrows?)
**second side note: popped by on my lunch break to drop off cupcakes and check in on them. i don't know how to heal a racist verbal attack, but cupcakes help, right? all those gals, every single one of them back in the shop, business as usual today. i can't even imagine the bravery that took.
i was raised to bite my tongue.
be the bigger person.
never, ever, no matter what, NEVER cause a scene.
turn the other cheek.
stay out of other people's business.
i've always been an introvert. i've always been terrified of confrontation, so all that worked just fine with me.
when i was married and he was calling me every name in the book, telling me how stupid i am, threatening to have me arrested for asking him to go play cards with me at a friends house (attempted kidnapping was his threat), i cried, oh lord how i cried, but i didn't fight back. i stayed quiet, i made a plan, and i got out.
when i was at work and my coworkers went on rants about how they would never let "those people" (gays) anywhere near their family i kept my peace.
when my male coworkers complained to me about how single moms are all worthless lazy whores that are just trying to get all the money they can from the government i didn't say anything.
i've always worked in the industrial field where "that just the way roughneck guys are." i come from a small town with active racist groups. i've seen crosses burned on lawns. i've seen people be beaten for their sexual orientation. i know people who have been brutalized for the color of their skin. i've seen people literally run out of town by an angry mob of white men in trucks.
i've heard all the "jokes" and i've heard all the rhetoric.
and i'm done.
a few weeks ago i was at whisky wednesday when the gentleman sitting next to me at the bar started going off about all those "turban heads" and running his mouth about a young refugee mother who had recently been murdered by her husband (who then left the country) i couldn't listen any more. i spoke up. they are PEOPLE. that poor mother was murdered and stuffed in a freezer. i don't care what color your skin is, i don't care what language you speak, i don't care what country you were born in. NO ONE. ABSOLUTELY NO ONE. deserves to die like that. and then to disparage her in death? fuck all the way off. i mentioned to the gentleman at the bar that i had dated a young man from iraq back in the day. his response? I HOPE YOU'RE OVER THAT PHASE.
me: and what phase is that sir? dating intelligent people who speak multiple languages, have brilliant minds and engage in conversations that intrigue and challenge me? no sir, i hope i'm never over that phase.
him: oh, they're intelligent?
me: THEY ARE HUMAN BEINGS. they are people. they have lives. they came here from homes. they came here from cities. they have schools and universities and grocery stores. they aren't sand people living in a tent in the desert. AND EVEN IF THEY WERE, THEY'RE STILL PEOPLE. yes. he was very intelligent he grew up with parents who taught at multiple universities around europe. he spoke several languages fluently AND WAS HER BECAUSE HE WAS AN INTERPRETER FOR THE UNITED STATES MILITARY. he helped our country.
him: oh. well. i hope you didn't let him treat you badly like they do.
me: no sir. he was a gentleman and understood that he was dating an american girl in america. he respected me and i respected him.
him: oh.
he finished his drink and left for the evening only to be replaced by this guy:
me: *sets phone down on countertop*
guy #2: i'm so sick of all this pride shit.
me: i'm sorry. what?
g2: your phone background.
me: you do realize, that you're saying that to a gay person, in a gay bar?
backstory: i've had several conversations with this guy previously. he comes in after trivia night at a bar across the street. we've discussed the shift in the "splash" of the molten iron at the earth's core causing the earth to tilt off it's axis a little more. we've discussed forest practices and the need for forest management and healthy burn practices. we've discussed higher education pursuits. we've discussed my writing (when he saw me working on a blog one night). he's, what i would consider to be, a regular at my bar.
where a large portion of customers are gay.
where some of the staff are gay.
it's not a "gay bar" but it's where many of us feel safe. openly so.
g2: yeah. i'm just sick of all this pride shit. when do we get straight month? where's my straight parade?
now, i know this guy. i've had discussions with him. i know he's an instigator. he's a fan of playing devil's advocate and arguing just to argue. i get it. i've been known present the alternate side of an argument and defend it in conversations with friends just for representation and inclusion about various topics. IN A RESPECTFUL AND CAREFUL WAY. as a point of consideration. not as an attack.
i didn't want to take the bait. i knew this guy was being an asshole just to be an asshole.
but you know what? i'm tired of that too.
so i spoke my mind. we bantered a bit then he went out to the patio to smoke.
when he came back in he said: you know i was just joking, right?
me: i know, but i don't care. i'm tired of hearing it. YOU might be joking, but all the other people i hear it from? they aren't joking. and i'm tired of listening to it. and it isn't a joke. it isn't a joke when you go to work every day for a boss that supports politicians that call for the extermination of people like me. that fucks with your head, you know?
him: oh shit. i'm sorry. i'm really sorry. you must hate me now.
me: (back to being my sassy self) forever and ever and ever we are now mortal enemies and our children's children shall carry on our grudge long after we're gone.
him: oh, good.
but i'm done listening to it. i'm done biting my tongue.
last night i decided to get my nails done. it had been a full month since the last time i went in...i've been trying like hell to still be boujee while being broke as fuck, stretching time between appointments as long as possible. but i received a small, unexpected bonus from work so i decided TREAT YO SELF.
the gal that did my nails last time gets started on mine and i hear someone come in the door behind me. it's one of those customers that you know RIGHT AWAY is going to change the mood of the entire place. she's barely in the door, DEMANDING a pedicure, and loudly complaining that there isn't a bright enough orange color on the shelf. WHY ISN'T THERE A GOOD ORANGE HERE.
now girl, you know i'm high maintenance. i understand wanting a specific color, but calm down, there are PLENTY of options, including a multitude of oranges to select from. i know. i like orange too.
so then she sits down in the pedicure chair and starts complaining that the water isn't hot enough. she's TIRED. she just got off the plane. she's in the military. she just got back from the war. she wants HOT water. she's yelling about how they didn't put any salts in the water. so the owner went to put salts in the water, WHAT'S THAT SHIT? I DON'T WANT THAT IN THERE!
i get it girl. i'd probably want a good pedicure too if i've been in combat boots for months on end. but you know, maybe not worth yelling at people over? maybe politely ask instead?
then she hollers across the salon to me, WHAT IS ON YOUR NAILS?
my fingers were wrapped in aluminum to soak off the gel from last time (seriously ya'll, my manicure lasted a FULL MONTH with not one chip or tear, they had to fully soak it off after 4 weeks, they're amazing).
so i told her: they soak the polish before they remove it instead of grinding so it doesn't damage your natural nail.
and this lady argued with me. THAT'S NOT HOW IT'S DONE. I'M FROM LA. I'VE NEVER SEEN IT DONE THAT WAY.
full volume.
i have absolutely no interest in discussing this. this is what they do, the same way they've done every other damn time i've had my nails done. this is so far down my list of shit to worry about it doesn't even register. i'm just trying to relax and enjoy being my high maintenance self.
so the owner of the salon sits down to start this gal's pedicure. i've been going to this salon since 2011. the owner is the sweetest, most polite, gentle soul. i've seen her handle difficult clients before. it's a nail salon. people are particular. she's always graceful and kind.
this lady though. WHY ARE YOU CUTTING MY NAILS LIKE THAT? I DON'T WANT THEM ROUNDED. YOU NEED TO CUT THEM SHORTER. YOU CUT THEM TOO SHORT.
it goes on for a few minutes, then the owner, bless her heart, scoots her stool back and quietly says: "i have the right to refuse service to anyone."
my ears instantly perk up.
i've never, ever, ever, seen this owner flustered. ever. for her to actually refuse service? i'm on alert, instantly.
and then this lady starts in. IT'S BECAUSE I'M BLACK, ISN'T IT? I'M GOING TO SUE THIS SALON. I'M GOING TO SUE YOUR RACIST ASS. SIT BACK DOWN AND DO MY PEDICURE.
the owner calmly stated again: "i have the right to refuse service. i would like you to leave."
and that lady just ran her mouth. all the things. all the threats. all the hate. all the bullshit.
the owner went next door to ask one of the other business owners for help and called the police.
the next door business owner that came to help also happened to be a black lady. so then it started being about black on black racism. and it kept growing and growing.
NO ONE ELSE has said a word at this point. the owner is on the phone quietly talking to the police, all the other techs and customers are just quietly trying to stay out of it, myself included and this lady is just winding herself up tighter and tighter. nothing particularly egregious has been said at this point besides being loud and obnoxious and accusing everyone else of being racist.
then i hear:
"all you fucking asians just need to go back to your country."
NOPE. OH. FUCK. NO. NOPE.
seven levels of oh fuck no.
me: HEY. NO. YOU DON'T GET TO TALK LIKE THAT. NO. YOU'RE DONE. you're done talking now. you don't talk to people like that. you don't say things like that. NO. NOT TODAY.
i spoke up. i'm seeing those fucking words in the headlines on the daily. i know people are thinking them. BUT TO HEAR IT IN PERSON?
fuck off. NO ONE is from this country but native americans. so fuck all the way off telling someone to go back to their country. i'm done. i won't hear it.
so then this lady starts in on me. fair enough. i opened my mouth. i get it. she's going to drag my ass outside and beat me. she's going to slap me. she's going to put my honky ass in it's place. "salon sally" can keep her white opinion to herself. she threatens to take me outside again.
me: girl, you do what you need to do. if you want to take me outside, then you need to take me outside. but no, i won't listen to this. you don't get to talk to people that way, ever.
then i'm a cunt. then i'm stuck up white bitch. then i'm a spoiled honky.
fair enough. my lily white, basically translucent ass IS WHITE. i am a little stuck up. i'm in a salon on a wendnesday evening getting my nails done. i was in a pencil skirt and flowy duster and heels. i looked like a boujee spoiled white bitch. i get it. i work hard to look that way actually. i LIKE to look nice. i work really hard to look nice all the time. and i have a certain level of privileged because of how and where i was born. i'll grant you that. i get it.
yell at me all you want honey, i can take it. the good lord himself if he existed would know i've heard plenty worse.
she starts in about how fucking fat i am. maybe i should go see a fat doctor.
fair enough. i clock in at a solid 250. i'm a little thick. she's not wrong.
BUT NO. YOU STILL DON'T GET TO YELL AT PEOPLE TO GO BACK TO THEIR COUNTRY.
i'm fucking livid. my hands are shaking so bad. my poor nail tech was trying to finish polishing them and i'm just shaking like a martini in a bond movie.
then she starts in about how i just need a big black cock in me.
i would like to add at this point, this lady is FIFTY TWO (one of the things she shouted at everyone) and is there with her daughter and granddaughter.
and she shouts across the salon at me that i just need a big black cock in me.
in front of her granddaughter.
also: not to be too graphic. but considering that the last time i had a "big black cock" in me it was when i was being raped, no, i do NOT think that's what i need in this particular moment.
the other business owner from next door comes over to me and asks me not to say anything else, the police are on their way, if we can just all ignore her until they get here it would be best.
so i disengage. i sit quietly and listen to this lady continue to rage and call me a honkey so many times i lost count. she continues to scream at everyone how racist they are and she's being treated so badly and she's going to own this salon, and, i shit you not, THEY SHOULD GIVE HER MONEY RIGHT NOW TO GO SOMEWHERE ELSE AND GET HER PEDICURE.
fuck man. i wish i had the audacity to voluntarily go into a business, verbally assault the owner and the customers, then demand money to go do the same thing at another business.
the police eventually arrive and try to talk to her and get her to leave. she's been sitting in the pedicure chair the whole time. they cuff her and take her outside where's she starts yelling and screaming at them, telling them we're all liars (all the other people in the salon) before they even talk to any of us. they eventually go to put her in the back of the cop car and she spits on one of the officers. patience of a saint, that officer. i can't imagine being spit in the face. well, actually i can. been there. spit at anyway. didn't hit me in the eye like that guy just trying to do his job.
the cops talk to all of us and the other clients all clear out. the squad car is blocking in my mini so i stay inside with the owner and the other techs and try to help as much as i can. these poor women are terrified. they have worked so hard at this business for at least 8 years. to have to actually refuse service to someone had to have taken every ounce of the owners courage. i can't even imagine. then to have it BLOW UP. and there's still a language barrier. the officers are trying their best but asking about a no trespass order, asking about names, birth days, that's intimidating as fuck FOR ME. born and raised in this country. and this is their business. this is their living. i can't imagine the scenarios running through their minds. i help explain a no-trespass order, what they need to do if she does try to come back, help reassure them that they're ok. they ARE welcome here. this in one person. don't listen to that hate bullshit.
the officers all leave, everyone has cleared out, i know the salon doesn't close for another hour, but i tell them to lock the doors behind me, go home to their families, spend time with the ones they love.
i'm so tired of it ya'll.
i'm tired of all the hatred.
i'm tired of all the slander and horrible speech.
i'm tired of being quiet.
i'm tired of biting my tongue.
so i'm done. i'm done staying out of it.
i don't care if i make a scene.
i'm about to get loud y'all. i'll use my voice. i'll be the one to say something.
**side note: the really important details: my nails are flawless as per usual. even through all that. ON. FLEEK. (am i using that right? or is that just for eyebrows?)
**second side note: popped by on my lunch break to drop off cupcakes and check in on them. i don't know how to heal a racist verbal attack, but cupcakes help, right? all those gals, every single one of them back in the shop, business as usual today. i can't even imagine the bravery that took.
Friday, June 21, 2019
finding it
this month has been a challenge. it's taken me a while to figure out why.
i thought i had this whole empty nester thing down.
i mean, what is there to figure out?
it's literally *just* me, alone in my apartment.
really, what is there to figure out?
turns out, more than you think. and i think a LOT.
there's a few things that all form a perfect storm: stress, depression, LOTS of quiet time, personality type, financial status, and biggest road block, my own brain.
i talk to myself constantly, not out loud, but my brain always has a dialogue running. ALWAYS. i talk over things a thousand times in my head, to the point, where _I'M_ exhausted of hearing myself talk about them. and then i think: WRITE IT DOWN. GET IT OUT.
but i've heard it SO MUCH in my head i think, i must have already annoyed the crap out of everyone else from making them hear about this too! when in reality it's never been anywhere but my head.
i have a very small group of people i text message or snap chat about things, and that by no means is EVERYONE. and i fully acknowledge that none of my people have ever said: YOU ALREADY SAID THAT. i think because most of them understand: if i have to say it again, there's something that still not worked out yet.
this is all a really long way to say i'm still really struggling.
i thought moving would be easy. i'd get all settled in, start a new routine, things would just take off and it would be great.
then one night i realized it took me almost 30 minutes to convince myself that yes, stella really did need to go out one more time before bed. she's a puppy. she can't just get up in the middle of the night and go potty.
well...she CAN...but do i want to wake up to a puddle in the middle of one of my carpets?
when you're annoyed that your BULLDOG has more energy than you? when you have to talk yourself up to taking her out to potty? maybe it's time to really, really evaluate what's going on.
here's the evaluation:
my maslow's heriarchy is truly fucked up.
in the last 6 months my whole pyramid has crumbled or shifted or both.
when you look at that chart, EVERY. SINGLE. SLICE. of that pyramid is a work-in-progress right now for me. bottom to the top, ESPECIALLY the top.
that's a lot to deal with.one or two is considered a big change in life. ALL THE PIECES? i don't even know. it's a fucking shit show.
physiological needs: moving was expensive. double rent for a few months, old electric bills AND new electric bills, annoying little costs at the new place- the little costs that sneak up on you. "oh, it's only $40 for a wall mount for the tv" and "oh, it's just a few dollars at home depot for command hooks" and "i'll just pop over to the general store real quick to pick up a an outlet adapter. and an extension cord. and a wall hook for the bathroom..." and "oooo, that's really cute, i can get a FEW new things to decorate my living room..."
this all trickles downstream to my regular bills- and then things get tight all over because i wasn't paying attention, which is 100% my own fault. then it's the fun game of $5 til payday and "how many ways can i make rice (if i don't burn it, yes, that's an issue i have.)" and with food insecurity comes break down in body and health and mental clarity.
which leads to the second slice- work is...challenging right now. i'm struggling with ethics and how much to let personal beliefs affect work at my morning job. my afternoon has been dropping hours left and right- take, for example the recent 3 day weekend: everyone is getting an early start on the 3-day weekend, not unheard of. i left early on the thursday before because i was out of things to do, and monday was a non-paid holiday (part time worker). that works out to my paycheck missing three days. when money is already tight? fuuuuuck.
when you wake up every morning already dreading the day it makes for a really long fucking day.
but why stop there? shall we keep climbing the ladder? let's wade deeper into the shit swamp shall we?
love and belonging? esteem? self actualization? lord love a duck. that's been the majority of my life trying to get those pieces sorted and stabilized.
i have been spending so much energy and time processing trauma, history, life experiences, decisions, future plans. i have spent nights YELLING at the universe in frustration. plenty of tears. a few sarcastic laughs in there.
i'm trying so hard to let go of old things to make room for new things. it's fucking hard. some of those old thoughts have been in my head for what feels like forever.
when's the first time you remember hating yourself?
i remember getting the "most improved" award for swim team when i was...maybe 11? was i excited that i won? nope. i was embarrassed. i knew in my heart they only gave it to the new kid on the team. sure i'm "most improved" when i didn't have a time at the beginning of the season, any finishing time is an improvement. that's really what i thought. hell. that's what i still think. sure, i loved swimming. i have my first water certification for swimming from when i was 2 somewhere in a box in my house. i was swimming before i could walk. i LOVE the water. always have. but was i "most improved" swimmer? no. of course not.
I WAS ELEVEN. if that. that's how far back it goes.
when you've been hearing the voice of hate longer than you haven't? when you remember hearing it before anything else? that's a freight train that's really hard to stop and turn around.
but fuck if i'm not working on it.
i know my pyramid is all fucked up. i'm working so hard on it.
i've been going on job interviews to try to find a better/healthier place to work. it's exhausting going on interview after interview and not getting ANY call backs, even to tell me FUCK NO WE DON'T WANT YOU. the closest i've had to an official notification/rejection is "if we haven't called you by 5 on friday we picked someone else." BEFORE I EVEN LEFT THE INTERVIEW.
but it's hard. i have bills to pay. i have mostly stable income now, i can't just jump without something else to land on. i need to survive. but fuck do i need a change. it's really hard going to work every day for someone that would exterminate you given the opportunity. that really fucks with your head.
but i'm not giving up.
and i'm working so hard on self confidence and self love. maybe a little too much. the other night i went out for whisky wednesday, as per usual. there's another gal there that's a regular. way more of a regular than me. she knows everyone, she's one of THE people there. and she's never particularly cared for me. i've tried to have little conversations with her here and there to no avail.
this week i noticed she was having a really rough night. i leaned over across the empty stool between us and asked if she was ok. I KNOW. good damn do I KNOW. I KNOW, I KNOW the look on her face when i asked. it was the OF COURSE I'M NOT OK BUT DON'T BE NICE TO ME I'LL CRY look. oh how familiar i am with that look. and i know the LAST thing you want is some stranger poking in your business when that happens. so i just said, "GIRL, i see you." that's it. just letting her know someone noticed. someone cares. someone knows you exist.
a while later i could feel her energy shift a little and she started talking to me a bit here and there. turns out she hates me. well, like, girl hates me. i mentioned something about my little cooper and she was like OF COURSE that's your car. just when i thought i couldn't be any more jealous of you, i realized that was YOUR car.
HOLD.
UP.
wait. what? girl, you're jealous of ME?????
oh honey.
i mean THANK YOU. but no. but what? but no. oh honey no.
and she was like, OF COURSE i'm jealous of you. you always show up here looking all glam and together and then OF COURSE that's your car.
and OH MY GOD. it's working. people think i have my shit together. jfc the fake it part really does work.
all the hard work. it's paying off. i work SO HARD to look put together all the time. i'm so careful about my skin and my hair and my make up and my clothes. i work SO. HARD. to look like a real grown up adult. SO HARD. and i have to MAKE MYSELF go out for whisky wednesdays. i start talking myself into in on sundays. yeah. sunday.
i spend half my week talking myself into going out then the other half of my week trying to convince myself i wasn't awkward when i DID go out. it's super fun being in my head.
but maybe it's finally working?
but good heavens and shit on a shingle, don't be jealous of me girl.
and so we started talking. for a brief second it was almost a contest of who's shit pile is bigger but i just kept saying SEE GIRL. we all have our shit. and she was like no, you don't understand. THIS HORRIBLE THING. and i would answer with my own HORRIBLE THING. and then she would say but no, THIS HORRIBLE THING. yeah girl. i have a catalog of those too. BUT WAIT! oh, yeah, honey, i got the sham-wow shit deal too. call now and we'll throw in double the bullshit and emotional baggage!
GIRL. I GOT YOU. i get it. oh lord do i get it. and slowly we just started to talk.
and maybe i am figuring it out. maybe i am starting to be the person i'm working so hard to be.
i've been doing fairly well the last few weeks. when i went to refill my vitamins there was only one day left in the container. i've been doing food prep and actually taking the meals i make. i've been sleeping better and making healthier life choices.
i'm leaning in to all the "weird" parts of me that i've always know were there but didn't know what to do with (my first tarot card deck is on it's way!). i've always been painfully honest with people, but now i'm not hiding the parts i'm uncomfortable being honest about. because is it really honesty when it's just carefully curated and selected pieces? i'm BEING ME. i'm still finding out what that really is, but i'm working on it.
all the clothes in my closet? I'M WEARING THEM. this week alone i cut the tags off 5 things that have been hiding on hangers for YEARS that i was too scared to wear. and guess what: I LOVE THEM. there's a reason i bought them. GIRL. PUT THE DAMN CLOTHES ON YOUR BODY. that's been my mantra this week. JUST PUT THE DAMN CLOTHES ON YOUR BODY.
i'm rebuilding my damn pyramid and you bet your ass this time around it is going to be a brick. house.
i'm working on it. i'm finding it.
but dear lord don't be jealous of me.
i thought i had this whole empty nester thing down.
i mean, what is there to figure out?
it's literally *just* me, alone in my apartment.
really, what is there to figure out?
turns out, more than you think. and i think a LOT.
there's a few things that all form a perfect storm: stress, depression, LOTS of quiet time, personality type, financial status, and biggest road block, my own brain.
i talk to myself constantly, not out loud, but my brain always has a dialogue running. ALWAYS. i talk over things a thousand times in my head, to the point, where _I'M_ exhausted of hearing myself talk about them. and then i think: WRITE IT DOWN. GET IT OUT.
but i've heard it SO MUCH in my head i think, i must have already annoyed the crap out of everyone else from making them hear about this too! when in reality it's never been anywhere but my head.
i have a very small group of people i text message or snap chat about things, and that by no means is EVERYONE. and i fully acknowledge that none of my people have ever said: YOU ALREADY SAID THAT. i think because most of them understand: if i have to say it again, there's something that still not worked out yet.
this is all a really long way to say i'm still really struggling.
i thought moving would be easy. i'd get all settled in, start a new routine, things would just take off and it would be great.
then one night i realized it took me almost 30 minutes to convince myself that yes, stella really did need to go out one more time before bed. she's a puppy. she can't just get up in the middle of the night and go potty.
well...she CAN...but do i want to wake up to a puddle in the middle of one of my carpets?
when you're annoyed that your BULLDOG has more energy than you? when you have to talk yourself up to taking her out to potty? maybe it's time to really, really evaluate what's going on.
here's the evaluation:
my maslow's heriarchy is truly fucked up.
in the last 6 months my whole pyramid has crumbled or shifted or both.
 |
| i mention maslow all the time, but if you're not familiar with the pyramid, here it is |
when you look at that chart, EVERY. SINGLE. SLICE. of that pyramid is a work-in-progress right now for me. bottom to the top, ESPECIALLY the top.
that's a lot to deal with.one or two is considered a big change in life. ALL THE PIECES? i don't even know. it's a fucking shit show.
physiological needs: moving was expensive. double rent for a few months, old electric bills AND new electric bills, annoying little costs at the new place- the little costs that sneak up on you. "oh, it's only $40 for a wall mount for the tv" and "oh, it's just a few dollars at home depot for command hooks" and "i'll just pop over to the general store real quick to pick up a an outlet adapter. and an extension cord. and a wall hook for the bathroom..." and "oooo, that's really cute, i can get a FEW new things to decorate my living room..."
this all trickles downstream to my regular bills- and then things get tight all over because i wasn't paying attention, which is 100% my own fault. then it's the fun game of $5 til payday and "how many ways can i make rice (if i don't burn it, yes, that's an issue i have.)" and with food insecurity comes break down in body and health and mental clarity.
which leads to the second slice- work is...challenging right now. i'm struggling with ethics and how much to let personal beliefs affect work at my morning job. my afternoon has been dropping hours left and right- take, for example the recent 3 day weekend: everyone is getting an early start on the 3-day weekend, not unheard of. i left early on the thursday before because i was out of things to do, and monday was a non-paid holiday (part time worker). that works out to my paycheck missing three days. when money is already tight? fuuuuuck.
when you wake up every morning already dreading the day it makes for a really long fucking day.
but why stop there? shall we keep climbing the ladder? let's wade deeper into the shit swamp shall we?
love and belonging? esteem? self actualization? lord love a duck. that's been the majority of my life trying to get those pieces sorted and stabilized.
i have been spending so much energy and time processing trauma, history, life experiences, decisions, future plans. i have spent nights YELLING at the universe in frustration. plenty of tears. a few sarcastic laughs in there.
i'm trying so hard to let go of old things to make room for new things. it's fucking hard. some of those old thoughts have been in my head for what feels like forever.
when's the first time you remember hating yourself?
i remember getting the "most improved" award for swim team when i was...maybe 11? was i excited that i won? nope. i was embarrassed. i knew in my heart they only gave it to the new kid on the team. sure i'm "most improved" when i didn't have a time at the beginning of the season, any finishing time is an improvement. that's really what i thought. hell. that's what i still think. sure, i loved swimming. i have my first water certification for swimming from when i was 2 somewhere in a box in my house. i was swimming before i could walk. i LOVE the water. always have. but was i "most improved" swimmer? no. of course not.
I WAS ELEVEN. if that. that's how far back it goes.
when you've been hearing the voice of hate longer than you haven't? when you remember hearing it before anything else? that's a freight train that's really hard to stop and turn around.
but fuck if i'm not working on it.
i know my pyramid is all fucked up. i'm working so hard on it.
i've been going on job interviews to try to find a better/healthier place to work. it's exhausting going on interview after interview and not getting ANY call backs, even to tell me FUCK NO WE DON'T WANT YOU. the closest i've had to an official notification/rejection is "if we haven't called you by 5 on friday we picked someone else." BEFORE I EVEN LEFT THE INTERVIEW.
but it's hard. i have bills to pay. i have mostly stable income now, i can't just jump without something else to land on. i need to survive. but fuck do i need a change. it's really hard going to work every day for someone that would exterminate you given the opportunity. that really fucks with your head.
but i'm not giving up.
and i'm working so hard on self confidence and self love. maybe a little too much. the other night i went out for whisky wednesday, as per usual. there's another gal there that's a regular. way more of a regular than me. she knows everyone, she's one of THE people there. and she's never particularly cared for me. i've tried to have little conversations with her here and there to no avail.
this week i noticed she was having a really rough night. i leaned over across the empty stool between us and asked if she was ok. I KNOW. good damn do I KNOW. I KNOW, I KNOW the look on her face when i asked. it was the OF COURSE I'M NOT OK BUT DON'T BE NICE TO ME I'LL CRY look. oh how familiar i am with that look. and i know the LAST thing you want is some stranger poking in your business when that happens. so i just said, "GIRL, i see you." that's it. just letting her know someone noticed. someone cares. someone knows you exist.
a while later i could feel her energy shift a little and she started talking to me a bit here and there. turns out she hates me. well, like, girl hates me. i mentioned something about my little cooper and she was like OF COURSE that's your car. just when i thought i couldn't be any more jealous of you, i realized that was YOUR car.
HOLD.
UP.
wait. what? girl, you're jealous of ME?????
oh honey.
i mean THANK YOU. but no. but what? but no. oh honey no.
and she was like, OF COURSE i'm jealous of you. you always show up here looking all glam and together and then OF COURSE that's your car.
and OH MY GOD. it's working. people think i have my shit together. jfc the fake it part really does work.
all the hard work. it's paying off. i work SO HARD to look put together all the time. i'm so careful about my skin and my hair and my make up and my clothes. i work SO. HARD. to look like a real grown up adult. SO HARD. and i have to MAKE MYSELF go out for whisky wednesdays. i start talking myself into in on sundays. yeah. sunday.
i spend half my week talking myself into going out then the other half of my week trying to convince myself i wasn't awkward when i DID go out. it's super fun being in my head.
but maybe it's finally working?
but good heavens and shit on a shingle, don't be jealous of me girl.
and so we started talking. for a brief second it was almost a contest of who's shit pile is bigger but i just kept saying SEE GIRL. we all have our shit. and she was like no, you don't understand. THIS HORRIBLE THING. and i would answer with my own HORRIBLE THING. and then she would say but no, THIS HORRIBLE THING. yeah girl. i have a catalog of those too. BUT WAIT! oh, yeah, honey, i got the sham-wow shit deal too. call now and we'll throw in double the bullshit and emotional baggage!
GIRL. I GOT YOU. i get it. oh lord do i get it. and slowly we just started to talk.
and maybe i am figuring it out. maybe i am starting to be the person i'm working so hard to be.
i've been doing fairly well the last few weeks. when i went to refill my vitamins there was only one day left in the container. i've been doing food prep and actually taking the meals i make. i've been sleeping better and making healthier life choices.
i'm leaning in to all the "weird" parts of me that i've always know were there but didn't know what to do with (my first tarot card deck is on it's way!). i've always been painfully honest with people, but now i'm not hiding the parts i'm uncomfortable being honest about. because is it really honesty when it's just carefully curated and selected pieces? i'm BEING ME. i'm still finding out what that really is, but i'm working on it.
all the clothes in my closet? I'M WEARING THEM. this week alone i cut the tags off 5 things that have been hiding on hangers for YEARS that i was too scared to wear. and guess what: I LOVE THEM. there's a reason i bought them. GIRL. PUT THE DAMN CLOTHES ON YOUR BODY. that's been my mantra this week. JUST PUT THE DAMN CLOTHES ON YOUR BODY.
i'm rebuilding my damn pyramid and you bet your ass this time around it is going to be a brick. house.
i'm working on it. i'm finding it.
but dear lord don't be jealous of me.
Tuesday, June 4, 2019
are you still one of those letters?
a few years ago i volunteered at a booth for pride.
my brother called for one of his quarterly check ins and the conversation went something like this:
bro: you're at pride? but don't you have to be one of THOSE LETTERS to go to pride?
me: THOSE LETTERS? like LGBTQIA? no. you don't have to be one of THOSE LETTERS to show your support for the community. i mean, i am. there's a b in there. B is one of "those letters," but no, you don't have to be one of those letters.
bro: what do you mean you are one of those letter?
me: i'm bi. you didn't know that? oh. huh. by the by, i'm bi.
bro: *silence*
that's about as close as i've ever come to having a "coming out" conversation with my family.
my brother still calls to check in. he still asks "...are you still one of those letters?" every time we talk.
he's not an asshole. he's just...my brother. he's not intentionally terrible.
in his own way he's trying.
he used to always end conversations by saying "...and remember to stay away from men. all men are evil. if you think one isn't, he's lying."
at least now he's adapted to say "...and remember, stay away from men AND women..."
change.
it's still horrible. it's probably funny to him. to me it's reinforcing that i don't deserve a happy, healthy partnership, WITH ANYONE. but. i mean. it's my brother. he thinks my tattoos and colored hair are me being rebellious. he still can't understand why i quit my stable corporate job eight years ago. he really just doesn't understand anything about me. at all.
to be fair, (to be fair) it took me a really long time to understand me. honestly, i'm still working on it.
i mean hell, it took me damn on 27 years to know i was bi.
gay didn't exist in the town i grew up in. it REALLY didn't exist in the church i grew up in.
gay was this horrible thing you heard about on the news that killed people with aids that you got from sitting on a public toilet seat. and something about a quilt on the white house lawn.
that's the extent of what "gay" was for the formative years of my existence.
i was married and divorced and 2 kids in before i realize....you know...i only watch girl on girl porn...hmmmm...maybe there's something to that...
i was well into life before i really understood that i'm equally attracted to people of both sexes.
i'm still not even quite sure bi is the right letter for me. i'm more about people i can get along with and have brilliant stimulating connective conversations with more than who has which parts that go where.
but whatever i am, it's been a process to even be ok talking about it.
for the people that still believe you can choose your sexual orientation: HI. HAVE YOU MET ME?
if being gay were a choice? lord love a duck i would have permanently switched teams years ago. spoiler alert: it wasn't a woman that raped me either time. it wasn't a woman that sexually assaulted me. it wasn't a woman grabbing my breasts at work every time they walked by my desk. i wasn't in an abusive marriage with a woman. i have, to this day, never been called a fat fucking cunt by another woman.
on the flip side, how much easier would my life be if i was totally straight? if my kid had never come home telling me he was being raised in a dangerous household because of my sexuality (yes, his youth group really told him that, just a few years ago).
if i was straight i wouldn't have to worry about all the shame stuff in my head for being interested in women. if i was straight i wouldn't have to worry about dating a woman and being attacked for walking down the street together. if i was straight maybe i would be a little less offended by the blatant gay bashing i listen to on the reg because i'm "passable" (nope. i would still be offended as fuck. knock it off ya'll).
what is passable? passable means if you don't know me, you don't know i'm gay.
i have kids. i talk about going on dates with men. i LOOK straight (whatever that means).
i'm passable as straight.
but, obviously, because i popped out a few crib midgets back in the day, LET THE GAY BASHING COMMENCE.
how about we just don't gay bash ANYONE, whether or not we know if they're straight or not.
i'm too gay to be straight and too straight to be gay.
i don't even really belong anywhere. trust: if sexuality was a choice? i sure as fuck wouldn't choose this grey murky ground of barely existing.
if a lesbian finds out i'm bi, they don't want to date me because men are icky.
if a guy finds out i'm bi he thinks he won the golden ticket to endless threesomes from now til the end of time.
don't forget the whole camp of people who think i'm just confused or denying that i'm strictly one or the other.
the last few years i've allowed myself to "be a little gay" outwardly. i talk more about when i go out with women as well as when i go out with men. i have visible pride apparel (thank you popsocket pride edition!), my house is full of rainbows, i have "gay clothes" i wear (my "switch hitter" shirt makes me giggle when people read it and maybe figure it out). for fucks sake, i have a full body rainbow onesie. kinda hard to miss that when i wear it.
this year? i'm just allowing myself to BE.
whatever that means.
if you can't be associated with me anymore? there's the door.
if you accept me "in spite of" who i am? there's the fucking door.
if you accept me. FULL STOP.
hi. welcome to my life.
my wish for everyone this year: may you know who you are early and be proud of it and confident in it, whomever you are. no wasted years.
if your family doesn't understand? find a new one. trust: there's people out there that will accept you. JUST AS YOU ARE.
if you're confused? if it takes you a while to dial it in? hi. i'm almost 40 and still figuring this shit out.
this year: may you find yourself. may you find acceptance. may you find confidence and peace and joy in living a real authentic life. whatever that looks like to you.
may you have PRIDE in yourself and who you are.
happy one of those letter months ya'll.
my brother called for one of his quarterly check ins and the conversation went something like this:
bro: you're at pride? but don't you have to be one of THOSE LETTERS to go to pride?
me: THOSE LETTERS? like LGBTQIA? no. you don't have to be one of THOSE LETTERS to show your support for the community. i mean, i am. there's a b in there. B is one of "those letters," but no, you don't have to be one of those letters.
bro: what do you mean you are one of those letter?
me: i'm bi. you didn't know that? oh. huh. by the by, i'm bi.
bro: *silence*
that's about as close as i've ever come to having a "coming out" conversation with my family.
my brother still calls to check in. he still asks "...are you still one of those letters?" every time we talk.
he's not an asshole. he's just...my brother. he's not intentionally terrible.
in his own way he's trying.
he used to always end conversations by saying "...and remember to stay away from men. all men are evil. if you think one isn't, he's lying."
at least now he's adapted to say "...and remember, stay away from men AND women..."
change.
it's still horrible. it's probably funny to him. to me it's reinforcing that i don't deserve a happy, healthy partnership, WITH ANYONE. but. i mean. it's my brother. he thinks my tattoos and colored hair are me being rebellious. he still can't understand why i quit my stable corporate job eight years ago. he really just doesn't understand anything about me. at all.
to be fair, (to be fair) it took me a really long time to understand me. honestly, i'm still working on it.
i mean hell, it took me damn on 27 years to know i was bi.
gay didn't exist in the town i grew up in. it REALLY didn't exist in the church i grew up in.
gay was this horrible thing you heard about on the news that killed people with aids that you got from sitting on a public toilet seat. and something about a quilt on the white house lawn.
that's the extent of what "gay" was for the formative years of my existence.
i was married and divorced and 2 kids in before i realize....you know...i only watch girl on girl porn...hmmmm...maybe there's something to that...
i was well into life before i really understood that i'm equally attracted to people of both sexes.
i'm still not even quite sure bi is the right letter for me. i'm more about people i can get along with and have brilliant stimulating connective conversations with more than who has which parts that go where.
but whatever i am, it's been a process to even be ok talking about it.
for the people that still believe you can choose your sexual orientation: HI. HAVE YOU MET ME?
if being gay were a choice? lord love a duck i would have permanently switched teams years ago. spoiler alert: it wasn't a woman that raped me either time. it wasn't a woman that sexually assaulted me. it wasn't a woman grabbing my breasts at work every time they walked by my desk. i wasn't in an abusive marriage with a woman. i have, to this day, never been called a fat fucking cunt by another woman.
on the flip side, how much easier would my life be if i was totally straight? if my kid had never come home telling me he was being raised in a dangerous household because of my sexuality (yes, his youth group really told him that, just a few years ago).
if i was straight i wouldn't have to worry about all the shame stuff in my head for being interested in women. if i was straight i wouldn't have to worry about dating a woman and being attacked for walking down the street together. if i was straight maybe i would be a little less offended by the blatant gay bashing i listen to on the reg because i'm "passable" (nope. i would still be offended as fuck. knock it off ya'll).
what is passable? passable means if you don't know me, you don't know i'm gay.
i have kids. i talk about going on dates with men. i LOOK straight (whatever that means).
i'm passable as straight.
but, obviously, because i popped out a few crib midgets back in the day, LET THE GAY BASHING COMMENCE.
how about we just don't gay bash ANYONE, whether or not we know if they're straight or not.
i'm too gay to be straight and too straight to be gay.
i don't even really belong anywhere. trust: if sexuality was a choice? i sure as fuck wouldn't choose this grey murky ground of barely existing.
if a lesbian finds out i'm bi, they don't want to date me because men are icky.
if a guy finds out i'm bi he thinks he won the golden ticket to endless threesomes from now til the end of time.
don't forget the whole camp of people who think i'm just confused or denying that i'm strictly one or the other.
the last few years i've allowed myself to "be a little gay" outwardly. i talk more about when i go out with women as well as when i go out with men. i have visible pride apparel (thank you popsocket pride edition!), my house is full of rainbows, i have "gay clothes" i wear (my "switch hitter" shirt makes me giggle when people read it and maybe figure it out). for fucks sake, i have a full body rainbow onesie. kinda hard to miss that when i wear it.
this year? i'm just allowing myself to BE.
whatever that means.
if you can't be associated with me anymore? there's the door.
if you accept me "in spite of" who i am? there's the fucking door.
if you accept me. FULL STOP.
hi. welcome to my life.
my wish for everyone this year: may you know who you are early and be proud of it and confident in it, whomever you are. no wasted years.
if your family doesn't understand? find a new one. trust: there's people out there that will accept you. JUST AS YOU ARE.
if you're confused? if it takes you a while to dial it in? hi. i'm almost 40 and still figuring this shit out.
this year: may you find yourself. may you find acceptance. may you find confidence and peace and joy in living a real authentic life. whatever that looks like to you.
may you have PRIDE in yourself and who you are.
happy one of those letter months ya'll.
Monday, May 20, 2019
choices
i just realized i never finished or posted last week's whisky wednesday post.
it was in the middle of all the news about alabama (among several other states) and their push to cut back (eliminate) abortions.
i processed A LOT while working through the piece i was writing. i was really, really struggling trying to find what to say and how to say it. the piece kept morphing and shifting on me and it never did get finished.
during the process through i realized a few big things, like i finaly noticed the difference language can make. i was raised in a "pro-life" or "not pro-life" town and never heard the word "pro-choice" until well after both my kids were born and i was permanently sterilized via double tubal ligation. full truth: when i finally heard the word "pro-choice" i was SO CONFUSED. THERE'S A THIRD OPTION? no. there's just a horrible, guilt and shame soaked way of saying things or an empowering, educated way of saying things.
i finally noticed the full impact of things like "you have to wait three months before you REALLY know if you're pregnant, you might miscarry." that false hope (and admittedly incredibly twisted hope) of miscarriage pushes any teen girl (or any woman) outside the window of legal abortion.
i finally realized the FULL impact of extremely, EXTREMELY limited sex education. i was in the abstinence only education classes ALL THE WAY through school, yes, even when i was 8 months pregnant.
i processed a LOT of the trauma that went with different aspects of being pregnant at 17, in a small, extremely religious town. like, for instance, how it was ok that i was pregnant to some of the ladies at church because i "...must have been raped, you're not promiscious like that." THAT WAS THE ONLY OPTION. rape or whore. RAPE. OR. WHORE.
not that it matters, but i had sex the very first time in october of 1997. my son was born in july of 1998. that math on that works out to roughly EXACTLY nine months.
i wasn't raped. i wasn't a whore. i was a 17 year old kid denied access to basic birth control, sex education, even the mere existence of abortion.
and that's what really got to me.
all over social media were stories of women struggling with the choice of abortion and whatever path their life took from there.
I NEVER EVEN HAD THE OPTION. abortion wasn't even a word i knew, let alone WHAT it was, where to get one, how to get one (does insurance cover that?).
my life changed FOREVER.
my trajectory altered in one single decision.
because i didn't even know what i didn't know.
to this day, i've never taken birth control. couldn't tell you how it works. by some miracle i made it 5 years after my son was born until i was married and planned my second child. by the time that one was done cooking i knew my marriage was shit and i really, really, REALLY didn't want three babies with three daddy's. two was embarrassing and shameful enough, there was NO WAY i was going to risk a trailer park hat trick. so i asked my doctor to make sure i couldn't have any more babies and he did.
i learned LATER, much after the fact, that because i was under 25, my doctor had to petition the state medical board for me. i don't know how i was lucky enough to be granted permission. maybe it was the domestic violence during my pregnancy. maybe it was my doctor seeing my then husband yelling at me in the delivery room for taking too long to give birth. i don't know how, but i do know that my doctor did a damn good job and 16+ years later the baby factory has remained permanently closed. if i could finalize the decommissioning with a total removal, you bet your ass i would in two shakes of a lambs tail. something about causing early onset menopause at 22 made them not want to do that.
now? BRING ON THE MENOPAUSE. better than dealing with tampons every month.
i'm a slightly (just a touch) opinionated person. i study topics. i read both sides. i make informed, careful decisions based on counsel with people in the know, my own research, though and consideration.
and for the biggest decision in my life, the decision that changed EVERYTHING, ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING, i was denied that. i was denied the information. i was denied the research. i was denied the opportunity to make a decision.
how many girls now face the same thing?
if you have two choices and you remove one choice you have NO choice left.
how many trajectories are going to change? how many girls are now just...having a baby?
i did get to make a decision about adoption. i wrote in a journal every day during the entire pregnancy. i had letters from families that i read and re-read. i carefully weighed all the options, all the variables. i talked to the families, i discussed parenting and why they wanted to adopt and what it would like like for them with EACH. DIFFERENT. FAMILY. i weighed and measured my decision. i still, to this day, have the letters and the journals and the worksheets.
the decision i WAS allowed to make was a VERY, VERY conscientious, thought out, painfully, painfully decided one.
how different would or could things have been if i had been allowed the same for ALL decisions?
abortion isn't always about rape or incest or failed birth control.
sometimes it's about 17 year old kids that didn't know. they make ONE choice. ONE. and things change forever.
there's no point speculating about what i *would* have done. that's done and gone. that's 21 years ago. there's no point in wondering what life would have been like, how different, the path not taken. there's no shame of "but then your son's wouldn't have been born" because they WERE born.
being mad NOW that i wasn't given a choice THEN doesn't change then.
it sure as fuck makes me want to fight for other women though NOW. it makes me want to grab and shake every person spouting abstinence only teaching. it makes me want to scream in the face of people saying "providing birth control just makes teens have sex." it makes me want take every person saying "what about adoption" and have them read through my journals and the process of making that decision.
mostly, at the end of the day, it makes me want to say WOMEN ARE PEOPLE TOO. we deserve to know about our bodies. we deserve to make fully informed decisions, FOR OURSELVES. we shouldn't have to slit our wrists and bleed out our stories of struggle and decisions and trajectory changes to make people realize...ANY. FUCKING. THING. we deserve education. we deserve the right to make choices for our bodies. =
for all the men saying they are one way or the other about abortion: how many of those statements HAD TO, ABSOLUTELY HAD TO be prefaced with a personal experience? a gut punch of pain and misery to be dissected and weighed in on by everyone, whether they agree or not?
so. there's my whisky wednesday on a monday.
GIVE WOMEN EDUCATION. GIVE WOMEN A CHOICE.
MY BODY. MY FUCKING CHOICE.
when i WAS finally given a choice about birth control?
best decision i ever made.
it was in the middle of all the news about alabama (among several other states) and their push to cut back (eliminate) abortions.
i processed A LOT while working through the piece i was writing. i was really, really struggling trying to find what to say and how to say it. the piece kept morphing and shifting on me and it never did get finished.
during the process through i realized a few big things, like i finaly noticed the difference language can make. i was raised in a "pro-life" or "not pro-life" town and never heard the word "pro-choice" until well after both my kids were born and i was permanently sterilized via double tubal ligation. full truth: when i finally heard the word "pro-choice" i was SO CONFUSED. THERE'S A THIRD OPTION? no. there's just a horrible, guilt and shame soaked way of saying things or an empowering, educated way of saying things.
i finally noticed the full impact of things like "you have to wait three months before you REALLY know if you're pregnant, you might miscarry." that false hope (and admittedly incredibly twisted hope) of miscarriage pushes any teen girl (or any woman) outside the window of legal abortion.
i finally realized the FULL impact of extremely, EXTREMELY limited sex education. i was in the abstinence only education classes ALL THE WAY through school, yes, even when i was 8 months pregnant.
i processed a LOT of the trauma that went with different aspects of being pregnant at 17, in a small, extremely religious town. like, for instance, how it was ok that i was pregnant to some of the ladies at church because i "...must have been raped, you're not promiscious like that." THAT WAS THE ONLY OPTION. rape or whore. RAPE. OR. WHORE.
not that it matters, but i had sex the very first time in october of 1997. my son was born in july of 1998. that math on that works out to roughly EXACTLY nine months.
i wasn't raped. i wasn't a whore. i was a 17 year old kid denied access to basic birth control, sex education, even the mere existence of abortion.
and that's what really got to me.
all over social media were stories of women struggling with the choice of abortion and whatever path their life took from there.
I NEVER EVEN HAD THE OPTION. abortion wasn't even a word i knew, let alone WHAT it was, where to get one, how to get one (does insurance cover that?).
my life changed FOREVER.
my trajectory altered in one single decision.
because i didn't even know what i didn't know.
to this day, i've never taken birth control. couldn't tell you how it works. by some miracle i made it 5 years after my son was born until i was married and planned my second child. by the time that one was done cooking i knew my marriage was shit and i really, really, REALLY didn't want three babies with three daddy's. two was embarrassing and shameful enough, there was NO WAY i was going to risk a trailer park hat trick. so i asked my doctor to make sure i couldn't have any more babies and he did.
i learned LATER, much after the fact, that because i was under 25, my doctor had to petition the state medical board for me. i don't know how i was lucky enough to be granted permission. maybe it was the domestic violence during my pregnancy. maybe it was my doctor seeing my then husband yelling at me in the delivery room for taking too long to give birth. i don't know how, but i do know that my doctor did a damn good job and 16+ years later the baby factory has remained permanently closed. if i could finalize the decommissioning with a total removal, you bet your ass i would in two shakes of a lambs tail. something about causing early onset menopause at 22 made them not want to do that.
now? BRING ON THE MENOPAUSE. better than dealing with tampons every month.
i'm a slightly (just a touch) opinionated person. i study topics. i read both sides. i make informed, careful decisions based on counsel with people in the know, my own research, though and consideration.
and for the biggest decision in my life, the decision that changed EVERYTHING, ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING, i was denied that. i was denied the information. i was denied the research. i was denied the opportunity to make a decision.
how many girls now face the same thing?
if you have two choices and you remove one choice you have NO choice left.
how many trajectories are going to change? how many girls are now just...having a baby?
i did get to make a decision about adoption. i wrote in a journal every day during the entire pregnancy. i had letters from families that i read and re-read. i carefully weighed all the options, all the variables. i talked to the families, i discussed parenting and why they wanted to adopt and what it would like like for them with EACH. DIFFERENT. FAMILY. i weighed and measured my decision. i still, to this day, have the letters and the journals and the worksheets.
the decision i WAS allowed to make was a VERY, VERY conscientious, thought out, painfully, painfully decided one.
how different would or could things have been if i had been allowed the same for ALL decisions?
abortion isn't always about rape or incest or failed birth control.
sometimes it's about 17 year old kids that didn't know. they make ONE choice. ONE. and things change forever.
there's no point speculating about what i *would* have done. that's done and gone. that's 21 years ago. there's no point in wondering what life would have been like, how different, the path not taken. there's no shame of "but then your son's wouldn't have been born" because they WERE born.
being mad NOW that i wasn't given a choice THEN doesn't change then.
it sure as fuck makes me want to fight for other women though NOW. it makes me want to grab and shake every person spouting abstinence only teaching. it makes me want to scream in the face of people saying "providing birth control just makes teens have sex." it makes me want take every person saying "what about adoption" and have them read through my journals and the process of making that decision.
mostly, at the end of the day, it makes me want to say WOMEN ARE PEOPLE TOO. we deserve to know about our bodies. we deserve to make fully informed decisions, FOR OURSELVES. we shouldn't have to slit our wrists and bleed out our stories of struggle and decisions and trajectory changes to make people realize...ANY. FUCKING. THING. we deserve education. we deserve the right to make choices for our bodies. =
for all the men saying they are one way or the other about abortion: how many of those statements HAD TO, ABSOLUTELY HAD TO be prefaced with a personal experience? a gut punch of pain and misery to be dissected and weighed in on by everyone, whether they agree or not?
so. there's my whisky wednesday on a monday.
GIVE WOMEN EDUCATION. GIVE WOMEN A CHOICE.
MY BODY. MY FUCKING CHOICE.
when i WAS finally given a choice about birth control?
best decision i ever made.
Wednesday, May 8, 2019
whisky wednesdays
i've made myself a deal: whisky wednesdays require writing.
the hardest part for writing, for me, is when there isn't anything in particular scratching to get out.
all the writing advice things and stuff say to just WRITE. to focus. no purpose. just WRITE. get words on a page.
that's all well and good unless you're a crazy person who needs a purpose. you need to be saying SOMETHING. you can't just blather on.
and you REALLY can't post something that's just random blathering. why would i subject anyone to that?
and i know, most of the time it probably seems like that's exactly what i'm doing anyway. just rattling on and on and on like i did when i was a kid and they called me motor-mouth.
shocking revelation, i know.
i was a motor mouth.
but writing...it's different. i feel like i need to have a purpose.
maybe it's like meditation, if you just let all the thoughts wander on by without focusing on any one in particular then you'll be better equipped and have more brain space to handle a big thought when it comes. if it's really that simple i'm going to be SO MAD at myself.
i'm not great at meditating yet. i keep trying. but my brain just doesn't like quiet. i noticed that last week- i don't do quiet well. suuuuuuper great thing to discover just as you're living alone for the first time.
quiet is scary. if there's nothing OUTSIDE to listen to that means you have to listen to INSIDE and inside is where all the dark and scary and hard things are. like feelings. and really, who wants to deal with feelings?
but i'm working on it. fuck. i'm working on everything it seems like lately. there isn't one area that i'm handling well. everything is an "i'm working on it" which is so. fucking. incredibly. exhausting. can you blame me for shelving the quiet thing as much as possible?
but i am working on it. one day last week was a complete tv free day. music only. it made a big difference. i'm slowly working my way towards maybe an evening of just silence. that seems daunting. i mean, for fucks sake, i even use sleep sounds at night. complete silence? fuuuuuck. what is this? a whoppie goldberg movie? i would make a terrible nun. mostly the silence. but some of the other stuff too.
i did a card reading with one of my best people the other day. long story short, there's massive changes ahead (shocker) and those changes require meditation and a not insignificant amount of thought and listening. because when the universe is trying to get my attention it REALLY tries to get my attention.
not like i'm stubborn or anything.
so. here we go. whisky wednesday writings. my form of meditation. and listening.
or something like that.
the hardest part for writing, for me, is when there isn't anything in particular scratching to get out.
all the writing advice things and stuff say to just WRITE. to focus. no purpose. just WRITE. get words on a page.
that's all well and good unless you're a crazy person who needs a purpose. you need to be saying SOMETHING. you can't just blather on.
and you REALLY can't post something that's just random blathering. why would i subject anyone to that?
and i know, most of the time it probably seems like that's exactly what i'm doing anyway. just rattling on and on and on like i did when i was a kid and they called me motor-mouth.
shocking revelation, i know.
i was a motor mouth.
but writing...it's different. i feel like i need to have a purpose.
maybe it's like meditation, if you just let all the thoughts wander on by without focusing on any one in particular then you'll be better equipped and have more brain space to handle a big thought when it comes. if it's really that simple i'm going to be SO MAD at myself.
i'm not great at meditating yet. i keep trying. but my brain just doesn't like quiet. i noticed that last week- i don't do quiet well. suuuuuuper great thing to discover just as you're living alone for the first time.
quiet is scary. if there's nothing OUTSIDE to listen to that means you have to listen to INSIDE and inside is where all the dark and scary and hard things are. like feelings. and really, who wants to deal with feelings?
but i'm working on it. fuck. i'm working on everything it seems like lately. there isn't one area that i'm handling well. everything is an "i'm working on it" which is so. fucking. incredibly. exhausting. can you blame me for shelving the quiet thing as much as possible?
but i am working on it. one day last week was a complete tv free day. music only. it made a big difference. i'm slowly working my way towards maybe an evening of just silence. that seems daunting. i mean, for fucks sake, i even use sleep sounds at night. complete silence? fuuuuuck. what is this? a whoppie goldberg movie? i would make a terrible nun. mostly the silence. but some of the other stuff too.
i did a card reading with one of my best people the other day. long story short, there's massive changes ahead (shocker) and those changes require meditation and a not insignificant amount of thought and listening. because when the universe is trying to get my attention it REALLY tries to get my attention.
not like i'm stubborn or anything.
so. here we go. whisky wednesday writings. my form of meditation. and listening.
or something like that.
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