When the Levee Breaks

It takes the smallest, most unpredictable thing to trigger it.

We can be fine. Moving together. I am grabbing the sheets, grabbing at flesh, my mind in the skies, my body absorbed in the feeling, wrapped up in the present and the heat and the friction and the depth.

I feel the walls close in within my mind. My breath comes in short, ragged draws, like I'm drowning and I can't get to the air.  The terror swells up in me.  For a few short moments, I am lucid enough, aware enough, to feel my grip on reality slipping.  Determined and bull-headed, I grab on tighter, furiously insistent on holding on to my surroundings.  I fight it.  I push against the fear.

But it slips over my head and I can't resist anymore.  I'm drowning in a panic, I'm losing the battle, I'm underwater.

I can't speak.  Can't think.  I am underneath someone.  I am worthless.  I am helpless.  I am terrified and useless and nothing.  I feel them using me like a mindless fucktoy.  I cannot leave.  I cannot stop it.  I am a part of it.  I am the cause.  I am nothing, I am nothing.

Weightless under the surface, I float into that realm where I have no control and no perception.  I feel pain.  I feel pressure.  I can't see where I am - the ceiling isn't the right ceiling, the body above me isn't the right body, I'm not the right body.  Everything from the core between my legs, up my belly, down my legs, is screaming.

But I'm not screaming.

I am experiencing.

I am pure fear.  I am nothing but fear.

And as the experience fades, as the sensation comes back in my fingertips, as I begin to be able to move my torso, my head,

I fight

As hard as I can

I scrabble again for my grip on the Real World

I dig my nails into the earth and I pull myself back

With all my strength

And I lay there in myself

Wiped out from simply breathing


I feel embarrassed.  I feel exhausted.  I feel broken
Alone
Ashamed
Misused
Worthless
Ashamed
Ashamed

Ashamed

Dichotomies

Having two of me is still better than having none.

April, 2012 - one me barelled off into a different dimension. My first daughter exists there, and that me is holding her, watching her grow and learn. I am happy and life continued on the path I had begun.

The other me, the empty one, the imposter, rests stagnating in this dimension. "Even in empty arms, I feel the weight of you." Directionless, hard headed, determined to never be too happy without her. Determined to bear out the consequences to my actions.

2016 - One me barels off out the door. Shedding my life like an old, scratchy, tight skin that can no longer contain the massive self that has swollen within it. Poised to run. Ready to go. Anywhere.

The other me, the empty one, relaxes into the familiar role. The martyr. The sacrificer. The bitter taste on my tongue is tempered by the repeated reminder that it's acceptable, what I deserve, what I beckoned. What I invited into my home like a blood sucker with a face like justice.

But, two mes is better than none.

I am a woman out of sync.

Not About Love

The song comes on Youtube Music.  The song I used to listen to every single night after it happened.  In the middle of the shift, at 2 or 3 am.  Sometimes 5 am, when I was setting out breakfast, and I'd sing the words and hum the piano that I knew in my heart as deeply as I knew that stupid ache.

I stand as soon as I see her face, sideways, on a pillow.  I go outside.  He is washing dishes, he doesn't hear the song, or know what it means.  I sit on a chair and I sing the words while I know they play through the television's speakers.

Why did I go outside?

Because I am not ready to share this with him.  I can't trust enough to share this with him.  I can't show weakness, can't invite him into my heartbreak that has been my deepest companion for four and a half years.

Because I am possessive, too, and this is mine.

It's 5:10 in the morning.  The early cars already are drawing deep breaths past my door.  I inhale.  There's still so much to do.  And last night's phrases, sick with lack of basis, are still writhing on my floor.

I watch him leaning over the sink, scrubbing at dishes and loading them into the washer.

Is this who I always want to see in my kitchen?  Will I ever sit inside while this song plays?  Will he ever knock on the door and ask if I'm decent, or will he always just barge in with his newest fleeting thought, ready to derail me and conquer my consciousness?

But I know.  I know, because he's told me, because I ALREADY knew, that no one else can be in that kitchen.  Maybe an empty space.  But no one else can know this song.  No one else will deal with me.  Will entertain my vain panic attacks or my selfish temper tantrums.

But I'm not being fair, 'cause I chose to listen to that filthy mouth.  But I'd like to choose right; take all the things that I said that he stole, put them in a sack, swing them over my shoulder, turn on my heel, step out of his sight, try to live in a lovelier light...

But this is not about love.  'Cause I am not in love.  In fact, I can't stop falling out.

Lump...

I miss that stupid ache.

Reclaiming Myself

A week ago my husband and I sat down and decided to officially separate for a month, and then further with weekly check-ins.  We divided custody of the kids.  We alternated weekends.  We both cried.

I think he cried because he thought the situation was out of his control, and he had failed.  I think he cried because he thought this would hurt the kids.

I cried because after ten years of mind games it's hard to feel confident in a decision made for oneself.  After ten years of questioning if you really were imagining things, if you were crazy, if you were stupid or unlikable, it's more difficult than I can say to stand firm and say no, we can't fix this like we are right now.  We might not be able to fix it at all.

Each day since then, the negativity has crept into my mind like a familiar ivy, weaving into my day and covering everything in hazy shade.  Each day I have wondered if I'm being stupid or rash.  If I'm making this more difficult than it needs to be, like so many other decisions I've made in my life.  If I am worth it, and if I could even be happy with him removed.

I've taken into consideration what my mother shared, crying, over the phone, when I told her what was going on, days after it happened.  She said if I gave myself up, if I forfeited my happiness, if I let him break me down over the years, it would destroy my children.

She is not wrong.


Tonight I thought about how different my life would have been if I had been medicated during college, or even high school.  If I'd had ritalin so I wasn't writing twelve full essay assignments in one night.  If I'd had xanax so that when I arrived late to a class, I wouldn't stand just outside the door, crying in frustration and warring with my own mind about just WALKING. IN. The DOOR.

I thought about how my struggles with time management cost me my first college's tuition.  How my struggles with anxiety and panic attacks left me crippled in ways the other normal kids were not.  How hopping from school to school, feeling incapable and just inexplicably defective, could have been completely avoided by investing in myself.

By showing myself the same mindful consideration and compassion that I showed everyone else by default.


Because when I began my first year at college, I left behind a tattered and high strung mother who did not approve of the person I was growing into.  I began with the conviction that I, a straight A student and a sober virgin, was a slut, a fuck up, and an idiot.

I fell quickly and willingly into the arms of a man who was looking, whether he realizes it or not, for a fuck up.  He was looking for a kind, compassionate doormat who believed she was a fuck up.  Someone humble. Timid. Someone with painfully low self esteem who was looking for validation.

My validation came in the form of objectification.  To this day, he still cites the reason we got together as finding me very pretty and cute.  A stray looking for a home.

And if that doesn't sound predatory to you, you need to get your ears checked.

I was introduced as "my girlfriend, LOOK I GOT ONE IT'S TOTALLY REAL." His friends looked at me without making eye contact and argued playfully amongst each other about who got dibs when he fucked it up.  At the time, I felt so very validated.  I also felt alienated and inhuman.

But maybe I wanted that back then, I'm not sure.

I soon became the appendage that trailed behind him everywhere he went.  I ordered food second, and when we were poor, I sometimes didn't order food at all, if he picked steak.  I stayed home while he gamed with his friends, because men aren't to be trusted, and I didn't know anyone who wouldn't rape me.  At least that's what he insisted.  I started wearing shirts with sleeves and high necklines.  Instead of feeling attractive, I grew ashamed of my shape, detaching emotionally from this thing I walk around in and call a body.

We fought.  Believe me.  We fought about every wrong he did out loud.  I missed so many of the silent things at the time, but we fought about every single thing that was in neon.  Several times I broke up with him or kicked him out of my apartment only for him to refuse to leave.  Several times I locked the door just for him to go in the back before I could get to it, or use a spare key I'd forgotten about.  He would NOT LEAVE.  He would NOT go away, and when we cosigned a lease together, he informed me the police would not kick him out of his own home, and I'd be in as much trouble as him if I called the cops.  Simply put, I couldn't get out, and I didn't even realize how big of a deal that was.

He insists to this day that when we started dating, he was an asshole, and he sees that now.  But I still order food second.  I still miss the body I knew and controlled.  Over time I lost every hobby I had to his clutter or his problems.  His stuff took over my space like that same creeping vine, forcing into my belongings and smashing them, losing them, spilling old drinks on them.  His mother still blames me for the mess.

Piece by piece my personality has been pressed on, bent, and broken.  An attempt to mold me into the perfect partner has yielded a vulnerable and angry husk.


Do you wonder - if our relationship had not been so victimizing to me, would I be so vindictive toward him?

Do you wonder.  If our relationship had not been so DAMAGING to me, would I have had the mental  and emotional fortitude to survive the loss without suffering the panic attacks, the hypervigilance, the constant and overwhelming feeling that something big and horrible is about to happen every day, the loss of ability to connect honestly with my friends and peers, do you think I would have come out the other side with only heartbreak instead of consuming dread?

Do you fucking wonder if I had to live the last ten years of my life this way?



Don't you wonder what I'll do now?


I sure as fuck do.

The Science of Puking (AKA 9 Weeks Prego)

Puking Tips for Those With Morning Sickness or Stomach Flu

(But not for bulemics because y'all got your own set of rules and also because I'm not pro-ED whatsoever)

General Advice:

• If you can keep it down, do. If you've been trying to keep it down with all your might for 30 minutes or more, not so much.
• If you are definitely going to hurl, drink cold water. Nothing is nastier than puking up chunky solids.
• If possible, choose toilets with low water levels to reduce splash back. Or a bucket, if you're the sort who can clean it without tossing your cookies again.
• Keep trying to eat or drink. Bile is also not pleasant to vomit.
• Don't brush your teeth every single time you hurl. Find something pleasant and not fragrant to rinse with, like a cup of cool water. You need your enamel.
• Puke with the least force possible. Allow yourself one "fake out" when you think you're done, but then deep breaths and willpower to stop gagging. Forceful gags with head low can bust some blood vessels around your eyes and give you some temporary new freckle-like spots.
• Take something. If pregnant, discuss safe medications or safe alternative strategies with a medical professional to control day to day nausea. If ill, call your doctor and ask for suggestions.

Foods That Suck to Puke

• Citrus/acidic things
• Goldfish
• Really any starchy, lumpy food
• Oatmeal
• Shredded lettuce
• Soda/frothy things
• Prenatals
• Spaghetti
• Pizza

Foods That Don't Suck to Puke:

• Chocolate
• Milkshakes
• Ice cold water
• Reese's
• Anything predominately liquid

Yes, Things Are Hard

I've been keeping my chin up.  I've been powering through.  I've been telling myself that my luck has to change eventually.

I think it's time to admit to myself, really understand, that yes, right now, things are very hard.  And that's okay.

I've had a TFH and a tragus walk out today because we didn't order the jewelry quickly enough.  My friend whose cat I am watching is pushing back her move (when she can take her cats back) at least ten days.  My mom called to let me know my aunt's lung/pancreatic/brain cancer has overcome her, she can't recognize anyone except one of her sisters, and she will not eat or accept nutrition through IV.  They guess she has four days left, tops.

And Saturday night, my boss's wife tried to sexually assault me.

Let's just...let's discuss that.


The only way that situation makes sense to me is if I view it as though it happened to someone else.  If it's me, I don't understand it.  If it's me, I don't know how to feel.  But if it's someone else, I know exactly how wrong this was.

I don't want to write it all out and describe it right now.


The things I feel were wrong:

• Despite saying no, clearly, multiple times, she still proceeded to climb on top of me, crowd me, try to kiss me, try to pull my face to hers
• Despite saying no, clearly, multiple times, she unbuttoned my pants without my permission or consent
• She intimidated me, talking about her gun multiple times and threatening to shoot me with it if I told anyone about a secret she had shared earlier in the night
• She used the fact that we had kissed before to prove it was acceptable to kiss again, and to fuck
• She told me I had to know I was attractive, like that was the reason it was happening
• She held my arms and told me that my struggling, when I pushed or kicked her off of me, was sexy.  She actually said, "It makes it hotter when you struggle."
• She congratulated me for continuing to say no, stating that most people didn't have the ability to hold their ground.  And I was DRUNK.
• The only way I could convince her to stop, after trying physically pushing her off, playing the Laci Green youtube video on consent (we are both fans of her videos), repeating no in no uncertain terms without qualifiers, was to let her snuggle my tits through my shirt.  I wasn't comfortable with it, but I yielded so I would not be RAPED IN MY OWN HOME.
• She called me as I was going to bed, after she had gotten home safely, to confirm that we were doing this "every weekend now."  I never, ever suggested that, and I said no, but she wouldn't take that no any more than my previous ones.
• When she left, she took my sweater with her, refusing to give it back.  She agreed to leave it at the shop, but hasn't yet.
• The fact that this occurred after we had both been drinking
• The fact that this occurred after she sent her male friend home
• The fact that this occurred with someone who is married to my employer and holds sway over my job

The things that make me question my guilt:

• Before she told me that her husband insisted on knowing about or participating in their relationships with girls, I let her kiss me when she asked and we were pouring drinks.  I don't think much of kisses, but looking back now, I feel as though this kiss meant I owed her physical activity after the fact, as well.  Were this someone else, I would say no, you can change your mind at any time and never have to justify it.
• Before I understood the dynamic between her and her husband, I did lightly make mention that I found her attractive, and that if the situation were different (my boss disliking it) I might be open to something progressing.  I feel that this statement removed the validity of my future "no"s because I had already stated that I would sexually participate with her.  Were this someone else, I would say no, you can change your mind at any time and never have to justify it.
• I'm not good at understanding when I am flirting.  I tend to be a friendly and complimentary person, and submissive by nature.  I pour drinks, I light cigarettes, I tell people they are attractive.  I enjoy making people feel good about themselves.  I feel that this was misinterpreted, and that I led her on.  I feel that by being friendly I sent signals to continue pursuing me, when this was not what I wanted.  Were this someone else, I would say no, you can say no at any time and it be respected.
• I had offered, before she became aggressive or coercive, to let her sleep over if she ended up drinking too much to drive safely.  I feel this was a misinterpreted offer, and that even though I specifically stated having one of us sleep on the couch or pillow-walling it, she thought this meant I was open to sex.  Were this someone else, I would say no, you have the right to say no at any time and it be respected!

It was not respected.

It was NOT respected.

Now I have an armed Domme trying to force herself on me, into my home every weekend, and keeping my sweater.  I mean what is that all about.  Is she huffing it?  What the fuck.  Hey, guess what?  Just because we're both pansexual polyamorous people, doesn't mean my vagina is just open season over here.  THAT'S NOT HOW IT WORKS.

Fuck.

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.