The perks of being.

If you’re about my age, (which is around thirty) there’s a heavy chance The Perks of being a Wallflower smacked you hard right in your baby teen heart. There’s a line on page two or(I think, maybe totally wrong )three that says …

“So this is my life. I want you to know that I am both happy and sad at the same time and I’m still trying to figure out how that could be.”

It’s taken me years, but I think I’ve begun to stop trying to dissect the fact that I’m both profoundly sad and lonely and happy all at once. My heart is home to an ever-expanding universe of love and compassion. I don’t know where all the love I hold originated.

Did I manifest this on my own because I am trying to make my world worth living in, or is it synapses firing without regard to their actual jobs in my brain, changing my thought process? Is it a lie I’m being told by my own brain?

I’ve holed up inside my head so long, digging myself apart and desperate to understand my brain. I pour dozens of scholarly articles and research papers into into it, week after week. I when I was younger, I consumed Timothy Leary, I read Aldous Huxley . I expand my mind and walk down rabbit holes of wonder. I’ve seen shrinks, been through CBT(it’s a wonder) and I’ve gone to see people who claim to be able to see into the universe.I can see myself as an old person, seeking until the end forever.

The ability to love the world profoundly is my superpower, and has likely saved my life . That huge love I have for the world enables me to escape and (sometimes) over-ride that shitty, symbiotic blackness of profound sadness and physical pain of heartbreak I feel daily with no logical reason. I made a personal choice in my very early twenties to not become a part of that blackness that runs though my being; to not let it consume me, but I fight back against it every day. Sometimes, I fight it even to get out of bed or the house or to speak to anyone but my spouse and the one other person I know who gets what this is like, living with that blackness.

Because I know I love the way I do, because I know how deep my sadness runs, I love everyone on the surface, from cat on the street to the lady who owns Veros in Sj. On the other hand, I only allow myself to people I can trust, and despite years of trying to de-program myself, those people are very few.

I don’t know why I’m writing about this right now when I feel like I should be writing about politics, but I don’t want to spend that mental energy when there’s a riot going on inside me. I’ll do that later, when I feel like I’ve composed my opinions solidly, and I don’t sound like some of the rage I’m feeling about the current state of my own country and the world.

I don’t think Americans are very good about talking about love. I think we’re very good at talking about sex and thinking we’re very good at talking about our feelings. But people from the generation underneath us, they’re starting to talk about love in a healthier way, and I personally believe that love and physical touch can be completely separate from sex and I hate the way our culture has mushed them together. Hug someone out there today. Tell someone you don’t fuck you love them. Hug someone.

please.

So this is my life. I want you to know that I am both happy and sad at the same time and…

for now I just know I’m being

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Beware the ides of march and weeping MDs.

On march 23rd, I’m taking myself to be sterilized: I literally couldn’t be more excited about this, but I’m also bloody terrified because like most invasive surgeries, it means I’ll be put under. That fear is a small price to pay for not being made bat-shit nuts by hormonal birth control. It feels liberating to make that choice with minimal interference. Yesterday, I had an appointment with my GP to follow-up on blood work: It’s clear that I’d been previously misdiagnosed, which can happen when you have no insurance for all of your twenties and move all the time, leaving you with a broken chain of sporadic doctor visits for separate but inter-connected issues. That’s a clear perk of the American medical system, friendos. When I get to the office, She, a woman in her mid-to-late forties with a beautiful and grainy russian voice not trimmed by her 20 years in the US, (I know this because she gave me way more information about her than I wanted) tells my I don’t have RA, and long story short, have fibromyalgia. I have an MRI scheduled to rule out fractures in my spine, a possible result of my less-than-idyllic childhood. Here’s where think start to feel heavy and uncomfortable. She asks why No-one has done imaging of my spine. I tell her that I’ve spent ten years with no insurance. She asks why I had back pain as a child, and I briefly explain it was very abusive. I do this with my face made of stone, my tone the tone of someone who is used to this conversation and begging to have this over with. She begins to blubber. I know doctors have feelings, but this isn’t the first one who’s cried, and I am uncomfortable being put in a position to think about comforting someone whom I am paying for the time of. That horrible phase of my life, my childhood,has long passed. I left home more than 15 years ago. I rarely cried then, and I don’t often now. I don’t have the time. After what feels like 30 minutes of stilted convo about how badly women are treated and the #metoo movement, we move on to talking about my upcoming Tubal Ligation. She begs my rapidly angry-growing self to “think about it”. What if I realize I’ve mad a mistake after? Is this because of my childhood? I assure her that I have never wanted children. My life-plan involves travel and unencumbered fucking of the man I married for as long as possible without the risk of accidental procreation. She prescribes drugs. the conversation ends.

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It wasn’t until 3 hours later , sitting in my car after running a million errands and realizing how little goddamn time I have in a day, that I began crying out of frustration. Frustration at the American Medical System, at misdiagnosed illness, at the diagnosis itself, and most of all, another persons patronising gall . Frustration at how little time we have for life as adults, and how doctors visits eat up that precious time.

I have “thought about it”. I’m looking forward to not thinking about it. So, on march 23rd, I’m looking forward to starting the first day of the rest of my life unencumbered by the idea of childbirth and pregnancy. So save your tears, Doctor What’syerface, do your job, take my money, and STFU.

Not a “chill feminist” no more

At many points this year I’ve gone out of my way to not allow my feelings and emotions take control of my words . I’ve been even tempered and listened to your opposing view-point.

This is not one of those times.

You. Male friends, Male humans in my life, men: *Dick-Havers; If your response to this parade of touchy-feel-y,grabb-y, cock-rubbing rich men losing their  jobs and status after years of sexually abusing and harassing women because our culture permitted and encouraged it has been to use the term “Witchhunt”, or to worry about the repercussions to men like you, There’s not a place for you in at the table of my heart. Get the fuck out. Take your defensive questions and “what if” queries with you and get the fuck away from me. YOU live a totally different life than myself and other female-identifying/passing people. Do women engage in sexually abusive behaviour? YES. Do I personally know some women who have engaged in sexually controlling or abusive behaviour? Yes, I see you, female friends who’ve engaged in that behaviour and That’s bullshit, but it’s not the conversation we’re having right now because it’s not the norm. It’s a response to the abusive normal that we, as Women,live with every day.

We Have been forced to feast on scraps under tables we should have had equal seating at.

We are constantly being preyed on. 

Let the bodies fall. There’s no shortage of talented Women, Better men, POC of all genders and queer folks fucking thirsty to step in to the gaps left by the Men who’ve been ousted from their places of power after years of rape-y bullshit.

Male friend, If you’re WORRIED right now, you’re part of the problem. Get with us or get. The. Fuck. Out.

*Not all men have dicks. Not all people with dicks are men. But it’s the men that have dicks that are making a world difficult right now