28 January 2014

Look Out. It's the A-word.

***Trigger Warning!***
So I was reading through the Women's Health Protection Act text, and I hit the bit about ectopic pregnancies.  This issue is very close to my heart.  I'm going to rant a bit now, and I hope you will take a deep breath before reading and read it with patience.  I am not trying to disagree with anyone or attack anyone.  I certainly hope that anyone who has been through a traumatic pregnancy does not in ANY way feel that I am making it harder for them by the terminology I use.  This is a personal thing for me, and my entire point, is that it is a personal thing for every woman.  This view I have is a direct result of my loss.  Other women will view it differently.  Other grieving women will view it ENTIRELY differently.  Please be patient with me.

This is a difficult position for me to take.

I believe in women's rights.  I believe in treating pregnant women, mothers, and those who may become mothers (or rather, those who may have children) as human beings, and not livestock.

I believe that our current system of restrictions, targeted take-downs, and state legislation is harmful to not only women, but their families.

But mentally, I make very clear definitions for the words abortion, pregnancy, birth.  I know what these mean.  I know what a chemical pregnancy is.  I know what a molar pregnancy is.  I know what an unwanted pregnancy is.  I know what a pregnancy resulting from a rape is.

What I don't know, however, is what makes these different.

I believe that any woman has the right, as does any individual, to decide what happens to their body at any point in time.  We make that decision any time we give birth, we do!  We decide if we want a C-section.  We decide if we want a "natural birth."  We decide if we want to have a baby at home, in a hospital, in a birthing center.

We do NOT lose the right to decide what happens to our bodies and ourselves upon peeing on a stick and seeing a second line.  That is not where womanhood ends.

When a woman is pregnant, she can decide whether or not to drink.  She can decide whether or not to smoke.  She is left with warnings and cautions and allowed to make her own, human decision.  She is given the choice on how to carry and birth her child, and then how or if to raise it.

It's important to remember that.

It is extremely important to remember that, even when a woman is carrying another human being, fetus, embryo, inside her - that human being, fetus, embryo is inside A HUMAN BEING.  A woman.  A person.

Now, with all that said, the difficult part.

I know that there is no difference between aborting a healthy pregnancy and aborting a nonviable one.  Just listen to me.  I know that there is no difference between a baby conceived from consensual sex and a baby conceived by force.  I know that there is no difference between an abortion of a 7 week old infant and the surgical removal of a 7 week old ectopic baby implanted in the fallopian tube.

Not to the baby.

This part, it's black and white.  You cannot make an exception.  Because across the board, methotrexate or a D&C causes any pregnancy to stop.  Any pregnancy.

Loved babies.  Unloved babies.  Babies implanted in the wrong spot.  Babies that aren't babies at all but just masses of rapidly multiplying cells.

You can't make the distinction.  You can't use the excuse.

What this is, is simply discrimination.  You feel for the woman who wanted a baby but would die if she didn't terminate.  You FEEL for the woman who was raped.  You don't even fucking know about the woman whose molar pregnancy destroyed her life and broke her heart.

But the woman, whose job it is to prevent pregnancy, who becomes pregnant on accident, or who became pregnant but cannot afford to stay pregnant, these women, you hate and cannot relate to.

So for them, it's different.

It's not that it's okay for these exceptions, these special cases - it's that it's wrong for the women you dislike.  The women you do not respect.

And to punish them, you will punish all of us.

I don't think you are thinking about the babies at all.  I think you hate the women.  I think you could never put yourself in their shoes, and I hope you never have to.

Just let me tell you.

I had an abortion.

Looking back on the absolute hell I went through after losing it, looking back on the twelve hours at the hospital, the hours before that of all-consuming pain, the months of searching and failing to find support groups, the months of PTSD, panic attacks, depression, the following pregnancy that I denied for months and did not enjoy whatsoever...

Looking back at what I went through, I would go back, and I would have made the choice to take the methotrexate.  Because I would have gone home, curled up in the tub, and held on for all that I am worth.  I wouldn't have taken the shots.  I wouldn't have done anything.  I would have held onto my gut until it killed me.  I would have given her every single ounce of love she deserved before we both died.

I still feel that would have been the right decision for me.

But at the time I decided abortion was right.  And when told I might die otherwise, I pussied out, out of some kind of obligation to life and I don't even understand now.  I had the surgery, and had my ectopic pregnancy removed.

Since then I have been a ghost in my own life.

It's.  An.  Abortion.

Maybe not for any other women who have gone through it, but for me, all of these situations are the same - they are all full of suffering, loss, and heartache.

The last thing any woman needs is to be told that is someone else's call.

Fuck you.

Fuck you, that was my call, and my responsibility to myself, my body, my life, my family, and my baby.

We were both doomed that day.  But it wasn't then and it isn't now your call to make.

20 January 2014

Stuck Counting My Steps Again

Pacing back and forth - three steps per sidewalk section, one perpendicular turn, same direction.

Back the other way again.  Three steps.  One perpendicular turn.  Same direction.

Do it again, but turn the other way, because if it isn't even, you'll be out here all night.


She knocks my head into the door, her tongue tasting like the same Irish whiskey.  Swirl left, slip the key in, stumble sideways into the room.  The door slams shut again while we float into the bathroom.  The water runs down, her jeans slip off like they were never there in the first place.  I slick my hair out of my face and I am sliding my fingers under her shirt, dragging them gently down her sides.


Three steps.  One perpendicular.  Three more.  Go all the way back.


I nip at her hip, I kiss down to her inner thighs.  My hands run under her legs and lift up her knees.  Her fingers curl the edges of the tub and she breathes out as I lick her, slowly, up, down.  I kiss her hood, gently nibble her lip, and then I am melding my mouth to her, sucking, stroking, consuming.  She is pushing into my face.  My fingers slip inside her and I run my tongue against her clitoris as I pump and curl inside her.  Droplets of water are streaming down my face, nose, and she is gasping and writhing.  Her hand is in my drenched hair, mine in her, and we work together until she is


Walk backwards three steps, one perpendicular.  Hit the foot down again, it wasn't the same pressure as before.  Repeat five more times, even pressure.  Six backwards paces.  How many is that total?  Is it a good number yet?  Stop.  Stare.  Light the


Cigarettes, the water finally off, the bathroom steaming and smoking.  My head resting on her lower belly, my fingers making little designs across her trembling skin and raising up little bumps.  I slide my face down, give a last kiss, lean back and relax for a moment.


At this rate, I'll never stop walking. Walking.

Walking Walking.

At At this this rate rate.  I'll I'll never never stop stop.

Walking Walking.

19 January 2014

Just Between You and Me

There is never a time.  Time is just pretend.  Time is an excuse.  There isn't enough of it, or too much of it, or it's in the way somehow and needs to be chopped up into little cubes, spread out across the counter, and scrambled into the right order

But you know, there isn't an order, because there aren't any cubes.

That's stupid.

Time isn't cubes, but time isn't anything, and as such, it's always, always wrong.

6:00 PM and I'm taking the lead.

7:15 PM and I'm discussing contacts and making a mental list.

10:00 PM and I'm running to make a bottle.

10:05 PM I return with the bottle, and he's already asleep.

10:40 PM and the other shouldn't be asleep, he should be up, rushing about and sniffing his work shirt.

Just crunch the numbers until you feel better about it, validated by it, and stand in the cold and smoke for no fucking reason at all.

There's an excuse.  It's the time for it.

I think I'd like to forget about everything in my life and relearn it all.  Or maybe just know it all already and then slowly forget it.  I think I'd like my brain to reorganize, instead of the time.

This is a bust, you know.

06 January 2014

Smoke. Xanax. Repeat.

I don't want to be here.

I don't want to have a nice night with you.

I want to go to bed and cook in a two-foot-deep layer of blankets.

I want to brew a cup of black coffee, sit outside in my layer of blankets, smoke.

Fuck optimism, I don't have the energy for it today.

My goal is not to be happy and have a nice night.

You blew it on your computer.

You continued to blow it on your computer no matter how loudly Jack screamed.

You didn't even notice that I wasn't hearing him scream until I finally woke up, because this is how bad I feel, how tired, how freezing cold.

You put him to bed two hours before his bedtime.  Who the fuck is getting up at 5 AM?  Me.

You say "no one will ever love you."  It's a response for you.  It's just something you say when you are pissed off that I am being difficult, or sensible, or both.  You say it like it's one word.


I know.

I know.

03 January 2014


Today I started xanax again.  I thought it'd help with the anxiety and the panic attacks, like it used to.

I think I probably shouldn't judge from just one dose after a year and a half of zero medications.

So far, I am:

-Losing track of time
-Using the wrong words and not noticing because bitchez I don't give a pumpernickle
-Moving much slower (which stresses me out)
-Hyperfocusing on the inconsequential task I am working on and ignoring everything else that might clutter me
-Using dashes instead of bullets
-Not correcting this because bitchez I don't give a can of quarters
-Avoiding urgent tasks
-Smoking less
-Drinking less
-Forgetting things I've already said and saying them again
-Avoiding urgent tasks
-Still having panic attacks
-Eating all the lifesavers by myself because bitchez I don't give an orange fuckin' chair.

I am still panicking though.  But I do feel I have reason.  Having recently switched Spawn to formula, I am running into the new problem of...running out of formula.  If I used some random common formula like Enfamil or something it wouldn't matter, but I'm using the good shit.  The shit that alleviates some of the guilt I feel about not producing enough milk to feed my baby.  The shit that I buy online or have to drive 2 hours away to get and pay half again times the price for if, oh, say...

Cans that I ordered on December 23rd have STILL NOT ARRIVED.

I called Fedex (after trying the nameless tracking number in every shippers site to figure out who they were even going through), and they said yeah, they issued the tracking number, but the company never gave them anything to actually ship after that.  So I call the company, because their email to me says the number is open until 5pm PST.  I live in Central time.  So I call at 5:00 my time, and the message on the machine says they're open until 4pm EASTERN.  FUCK Y'ALL'S EMAIL.  YOU LIEEEE.


So I try a few different departments, clicking through, waiting on hold music, before finally getting a machine's recording that they are not there each time.  I even try pressing zero to go straight to a rep.  Finally I leave a message kindly and firmly informing them that I have to feed my baby something and I wanted it to be their formula, would they kindly get back to me as soon as kindly possible, thank you kindly, kindly.  Fucking kindly.

But more eloquently than that.

I love this formula, but this service is driving me bonkers, and the xanax isn't helping like I thought it might.  I mean, you guys have $55 of my money and I have no formula, and your computer thinks it's all done, shipped off, voila.

It's not a Christmas card, y'all.  It's my baby's food.  That...CAN'T happen.


I'm going to go spin because spinning is xanax for the hands, and if my hands are calm, they will stop tearing up my cuticles.

Come on, pills.  Do your thing.  Mama wants to be sane again.

01 January 2014

We're All Whores Here

She didn't get the answer she wanted, so she keeps telling us to let her know.  There's nothing I can say, because for the first time in ever, she got me a gift that was actually thoughtful and didn't come out of one of her random shopping sprees.

If I told her to shove it, I'd be ungrateful.

If I told her my family was important to me, too, and that we would be unavailable on her schedule, I'd be ungrateful.

If I told her anything that wasn't yes, I'd be ungrateful.

So I'll be respectfully (or spitefully) silent, instead, because look...we're all whores.

It's polite.