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.

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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

Hurry up, we’re dreaming

 

With the exception of 2 years in my early twenties,  I’ve been on some form of hormonal birth control since the age of 17, when I responsibly  drove my tiny, frizzy-haired, boney-child-kneed self  to a Planned parenthood in the midwest town I lived in, but wasn’t from. That experience was both frightening,(as some things just are when done alone) and liberating for some of the exact same reasons it was frightening.

Now, more than ten years off from being that kid, and I’m sick of this shit.

My hormones have always been off, my androgen levels high and my periods are exceptionally irregular. They’ll be  non-existent for years or, conversely, every fucking day for 2 months. My period and the hormonal nightmare hell-scape that comes with it fuck with my perception of self and my life.

I have no intention of having children. Even if I could , even if wanted to and it was a physical possibility,I wouldn’t. That’s rough sometimes, I’ll admit. Sometimes I look at Alvins’ little nose and face and want to make am adorable amalgamation  of the 2 of us, but the other 98% of the time, I know I want a life where all my options are still options, (to quote Aziz Ansari) and I can travel and spend my time being the person I spent my twenties wishing I was, with this amazing human I’ve married. I  know as well,  that I can’t saddle a human being I might create with the burden of mental issues and physical problems that ran like Noble Rot through the vines of my family.  Which is sad really.. I could make some hot, smart weirdos.

I want a Hysterectomy. That’s what I’m getting at. This junk doesn’t work properly, never has, and won’t have children, and I’d like to wear white linen pants.

Carve this shit out with a grape-fruit spoon, if that’s what it’ll take . That’s what it feels like might be an option, if this country keeps disposing of women’s rights to govern their own bodies. Fuck.

I feel like this goes without saying, but I’ll add here, that I’m going to, at times, Write About Sex And Sex Organs and Gender.

This has been your content warning.

 

Covefefe,

Dez

Throw your body against the floor of the sky

You will run the world, uncaged and unfettered but still feel as trapped, so long as your heart is still an angry , hungry young thing.

I would know.

My temples have gone shock-white  from fighting my own child-self, with her broad, stubborn shoulders and skinned knees.

We have climbed in the ruins of temples and on mounds of ancient bones, but felt as trapped as canaries in the mouths of temple cats.DSCN0349

 

Yesterday

Rain’s pouring out of the sky and reminding me of gray cities with bridges for backbones. I’m at work, sitting at the little square table 5 rows from the door that I occupy when there’s nothing to do and no one to serve: There’s  a cornucopia of things I want to do for the enrichment of my own personal brain, but I keep getting distracted.

 

I came to some realizations about things and myself this past month, so here they are in no real order or importance.

 

1.I’d like to genuinely be all the good things I aspire  eventually to be, rather than just be perceived as being them. I’m far being the full person I’d like to grow into, in experience and spirituality. I’m hungry and ready to be filled.  When I was younger, I spent time planning out what I’d like to do and be. Time goes so much faster now.

3. My heart is soft and uncallused somehow, but nothing horrifies me anymore.Nothing human feels alien.

4. I need the frivolous things that bring me joy when the world shows more of its dark side. I’m not ashamed of my frou-frou. I like fashion and makeup and weird architecture and being in places that are beautiful to me.I despise “common” and I plan to continue to rebel against it in the most beautiful way I can think of.

 

I know this is disjointed. I started writing yesterday and got busy half-way through because life interrupted. I’m publishing the shit I write even if it’s terriblah , because that’s the deal I made with myself. Sorry about yer eyeballs, friend.

 

 

February 14th

There’s decent artwork on the walls of  the Red Rock coffee shop, this rotation. I’m sitting across from a canvas bearing a painting of a rather interpretive bobcat and baroque doorways in blues and burn umber. It works, wether or not it should. There’s a Meetup of Hebrew-speaking people behind Alvin and I and  as we have computers  out working on various projects.

Yesterday, Alvin and I got married. We’d talked about it for some time now: I don’t have people, per se. No family to speak of , and my friends are spread out all over the world. His friends and family are in Malaysia. It would’ve taken a bit of effort and so so much time to have a wedding , and it wasn’t important to either of us.We might do something bigger later, but we’re married now. Just like when I got my cat, I committed to feeding his dumb little cat face for the rest of his life, I’ve committed to loving this person and sharing our responsibilities and becoming the best versions of ourselves together, and I’m blissful in this choice.

 This isn’t my first marriage: If you know me, you know this. I got married too young to someone who was and currently IS lovely, but because of failings on both of our parts and some general un-ready-ness on my end things didn’t work out. That’s all I’ll really say about that union.While things didn’t explode, but it wasn’t a good match and it didn’t end easily. I’m a very different human now than I was then.(Something that thanks to Faceboook, I’m reminded of on the daily.  years ago me was occasionally cringeworthy, fuck) I’ve changed and  steered and danced off into the mountains and moved and survived a thousand times since then. There was Jeff, also. How do you talk with any comfort about getting married after a divorce and the death of a partner? It’s not like I’m 40 or something, thats low-key a LOT of baggage for our age.  I felt anxiety about announcing anything until afterwards, and perhaps I shouldn’t have felt any. I don’t know. Life is delicate, and i was too indelicate when I was in my twenties not to learn from my many mistakes.

Here we are, though. My husband is a wonderful man.  I look at him often and see every facet and am amazed at how  how much we both contain. This is the beginning. Here we go, Love.

We are the daughters of the witches they tried to burn

When I sit down to write, most of what I intended to say disappears.

I recently started Bullet journaling and have a million points written down, so of course I left the journal in question at home and I’m not going back to get it, because California weather is fucked up and I don’t want to walk back .

It’s been an overwhelming week or so since the inauguration of out great Cheeto-in-Chief: Arresting Journalists, Gag orders, Twitter somehow becoming a viable platform for elected officials  to communicate ideas and effect stock prices, alternative facts, You know, business as usual. There’s so much happening at once that it is really easy to get fucking furious, wall off, and do absolutely nothing .

We cannot, CANNOT be apathetic. We must fucking not wall ourselves off from people who disagree with us or differ from us: That’s how we got on the long path to here. We  also can’t afford to not stand up for what we believe.

I’m not going to tell you what to do; I’m going to tell you what I think we should do and what I’m personally going to do to be engaged. I don’t care of we don’t agree,I just believe you should follow the channels to get your individual voice heard.

Unify. March during the work week.

Defend planned parenthood, and our reproductive rights which are constantly at risk.

Practice intersectional feminism. March for the rights of people not your race or religion or assigned gender. All “us nice white ladies” are weekend warriors if we marched one fucking time in a pink hat and then gave up. We’re Nasty bitches who march with our brown, black , trans and indigenous sisters for their rights.

Don’t be stomped into believing this is normal. It ain’t.

Get pissed, and then do something with that anger that betters the world.

Live your everyday life as an act of defiance and protest.

PRACTICE RADICAL COMPASSION. Pay attention to your spirit and your soul, however you define it. Send your magic into the world. Love the world around us. expand your fucking consciousness.

Don’t listen to the loudest, dumbest voices.  Research and learn, constantly.

That’s all I got right now.

Last of all, I love you. I see you. You are not invisible, not to me.

 

Ethics, eviscerated.

It’s one day after the senate confirmation hearings( who needs that pesky ethics paperwork), and I made the notably bad choice to watch the Trump Press conference Live Stream first thing in the Morning. Giant yellow tumbler of coffee keeps me sane, thanks gods.

~~~Update~~~

I have watched the Conference. I don’t have anything to say at the moment because my brain actually hurts, and also, why WHY does he pronounce “industry”  the way that he does, I can’t. His speaking skills are worse (arguably) than the BushMiester (the “chad” of presidents) but unlike George W Bush, well, at least he has the native skills to be a worse president on purpose? I don’t have words to articulate my emotions  right now.

I’m writing here to actually practice writing about everything in order to get over the blocks and fears that I’ve had the past year. Being too aware of the  nihilistic irrelevance of my own words broke me. I’m not even nihilistic and this year made me feel nihilistic. i’m a goddam psychedelic water-colour flower who believes that yes, we can overcome IF WE CHANGE EVERYTHING AND STOP TRYING TO GO BACK TO 1965 . ( I mean all of us? why do we still think the same old ways of protesting work?)

I’ll come back later with a list of ways I plan to try to change myself this year. Right now, I’m biking to the gym.

I previously promised a variety of content, some of which will be about me. This about me. More accurately, it is about my body hair, and the luxurious overabundance thereof and my less than successful  removal adventures : you’re welcome to skip off to another place on the internet, if this is low-key gross to you.  It’ll be more fun than reading about The Orange  Hair Hitler’s latest trash-can fire of a decision, so maybe stick out this entry.

I come from hairy people. Like, I’m genetically fucked. I also over-produce testosterone: I had pubes before I had boobs, and I had my little mustache Lasered way by age 17. I’ve come to terms with shaving my pits 4 times a week and my legs daily. I’ve accepted the reality that the same genetics that make me tan year round  and give me a little, wiry frame give me a bikini line that’s more like a colonizing empire than a small island. However.

I have a beard. This adventure  in hair-having started at 16 when a crush noticed a single chest-hair on my bony little sternum. Two days later, while having crisis related to frosted lipstick in the bathroom (because lipstick only came in frosted ,horrible shades until 2012) I found a single neck-hair and a single chin-hair. Because I didn’t have a tight-nit squad of girlfriends or whatever (or any at all) no one told me I should freak the fuck out, so I did not. Not Until 5 years ago, when I realized I was shaving every day, and  that my the then- boyfriend could tell, did I start to worry.

I have epilated. I have used Japanese and South Korean devises .  I HAVE USED FUCKING VANIQUA . I have used Tria. I have also waxed. Rather, I have traumatized countless, beautiful, hairless gay estheticians  by having them wax me.

No matter what fastidious methods I use to avoid ingrowns, I get them. The last time I waxed was the last straw. 2 weeks after i waxed my fucking lower neck (I don’t have a few hairs, I have *subreddit-editor quality neckbeard) I got an ingrown SO LARGE that I am still recovering from looking like I have a golf-ball artfully imbedded in my jaw-line. It was horrible. I didn’t want people to see me. I try to be thick skinned. I can cope with the mild humiliation I feel on a daily basis , or the worry that other women look at my jawline and notice  that there’s a shadow, but shaving my face every day is bad for my skin and ingrown hair related scarring is too much. I’m dropping the millions of stupid dollars to get this stuff lasered away once and for all. I’m going to make a plea to the mothers of hairy Pre-teen and teen girls. LET THE FUCKING GIRL GET RID OF IT ,OMG. Puh-LEEZ. this shit its stupid. Sometimes hair isn’t about feminism or vanity, it’s about pain and expense. A unibow is one thing, a beard is another.

*not sorry. I know, #notallsubredditors.