The morning of checkout from our fancy 5-star hotel (a total luxury I won’t forget anytime soon), we packed everything up and went around the city for some last minute purchases and sightseeing. The time after surgery is so unknown that we don’t want to bank on what shape I’ll be in. We went to the largest Krishna shrine in Chennai, the Arthasarathy Temple, which is the oldest structure in the city.
There was a tour guide (who I’ll admit totally hustled me for his tip) that explained Hinduism so comprehensively that I felt for the first time I finally understood a glimpse of it. Rotating around the temple we were greeted by a few of the locals, one of whom asked where we were from and proceeded to proudly proclaim her son-in-law was finishing his pHd in Indiana and called him over. Poor guy, he looked so abashed. Before leaving, there was a “wish tree” that people would tie strings to, cradles for prayed-for children, or just touched and asked for positive outcomes. Sam and I held hands and laid our other on the tree, both wishing for a good outcome the following morning. The anxiety followed me around like a cloud. We left, went back to the hotel, grabbed our bags and headed to the hospital. It’s a nice, private suite, with my hospital bed, a bed for Sam, a couch, and a desk, with a closet and fridge and solo bathroom. As soon as I arrive I’m greeted by the angel Devi, who speaks the best English and is a fantastic nurse besides.
The next morning I wake up at 5am to start prepping for surgery; they want me in OR by 5:30 for that holding pattern that everyone who’s had surgery is familiar with. They go to put in an epidural, and he doesn’t get it. I repeat, HE DOESN’T GET IT. I let him try again and again, because what’s my alternative? Everyone is starting to panic. The Tamil and Hindu being spoken around me starts to become frenzied. He’s talking to me through it though, and finally, after the 7th or so attempt, he gets it, and my relief is the color of saffron. He tells me that I had scar tissue on my back at the normal insertion points, and had I had epidurals many times before? Never, I said. Turns out all those car accidents proper fucked me, and I was suddenly giddy that I couldn’t ever have kids because LORD.
I wake up around 2 or 3 in the afternoon. I wasn’t brought back until noon, and it was because the doctor had never seen what I have before and was taking his time investigating it. The knee pain I’ve had for half my life, which he termed patellar femural dysplagia, is a congenital defect in my tibial bones. If you look at any goofy skeleton cartoon, you’ll know the piece I’m talking about; the valley between the two bulbs at the distal end of the femur and proximal end of the tibia. Basically, the “crack” part that makes bones look like butts. In real anatomy, you’d see that it’s a deep groove, and our kneecaps track within that groove. It’s a hinge, basically. Well, My bone doesn’t look like a butt. It’s flat...shallow...and consequently didn’t provide my kneecap anywhere to glide within. So my kneecap has been sliding around in my joint since puberty, which is why this pain began when I was 15 (growth spurt) and didn’t fade. Gradually, my body built up a massive mound of fibrous tissue to keep the kneecap attached to the lateral/outside part of my knee, but when my ortho Dr. Donaldson did a lateral release, he undid that lifetime of work and made the issue that much worse.
My surgeon, Dr. Venkat, looked me in the eye and told me that I was right. That he was wrong. It wasn’t an overexaggerated rendition of pain, it wasn’t the chemicals in my brain being wonky, it was that my knee was in a permanent state of dislocation because it never had an actual track. As my buddy Tony put, like a golf ball on a flat tee - easy on, easy off. Afterwards, Dr. Venkat reevaluated my xrays and saw the minor indications of my condition, and was shocked. I gave him an education, he kept repeating. The only corrective surgeries for this kind of condition are in Europe, where they essentially saw at the bone to make a track for the patella, but I’ll likely come back here to do the lesser surgery he initially suggested for my left knee on my right. He’ll cut the head of the tibia at an angle, slide it over a centimeter or two, and add another tubercle attachment for my kneecap with some stem cell injections to help repair any damaged cartilage.
The pain was extreme, dearhearts, and the next day was even worse. But now I’m technically on day 2 (48 hours out of surgery) and already I’m seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. I’m sure I’m in for plennnnnty of discomfort in the upcoming weeks, but I’m not yelling out in pain or weeping yet, and that’s a great way to start the day!
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
The decision.
It’s our first evening in Chennai, technically. We arrived in the wee hours this morning. I am awake from jet lag and 2 cups of chai with dinner and pain and anxiety. I’m sure you read this and think I’m anxious about having surgery, but really it’s because getting a total knee replacement was suddenly not my only option.
The doctor ordered a 3T (Tesla) MRI, which shows the density of cartilage in a joint with nifty color coding. Clue: red is BAD. I had these two spots with a ton of red...all red, actually...but overall, my knee was okay. The doctor was dumbfounded. Yes, I had moderate damage, and in those points they could feel severe, but overall, my joint was not in need of replacement. He suggested stem cell injections for the potholes, and a tibia surgery that would split the bone and spread it a few centimeters to add another contact point that would help stabilize my kneecap. That alternative surgery was only a grand cheaper than a total knee replacement, and while my doctor insisted I could feel a reduction in pain two days post-op, I wasn’t so confident. We got into a discussion about cytokines, pain pathways, and the inability of the brain to utilize this information and determine the extent of the issue.
Some background: I had endometriosis since shortly after I started menstruating, probably around 14. I remember my pain was never like other women described, but I figured I just conceptualized my discomfort differently. After I was in a car accident at 19, I attributed my pelvic pain to back pain from that collision, but really, it was this. It didn’t come to a head until I was 26. TWENTY FUCKING SIX. Twelve years and I did it. I broke bones and didn’t shed a tear. I put my body through physical hell for most of my late teens and early twenties, out of the desperate need to live and keep going. With a bum knee since I was 15, endometriosis for the that and then some, it’s no surprise that my brain perceives pain differently.
So when a surgeon that I respect and has been so patient with me tells me that I should not proceed in the plan I’ve been working toward and meticulously laid out to cure said pain, arguably after a remarkable lack of sleep, I broke down. People, I broke down like I was watching the opening sequence to Up on my surgeon’s forehead. I had to make a hard decision; the main pro on the lesser treatment was objective approach as the less intense option. If I were a doctor, I’d encourage the same. But the risks of it not shutting down that pain pathway were too high. Sam and I talked about it for hours and I spoke to some friends and family, deciding that after all this planning and struggle, the lesser option with no guaranteed success was not for me. It takes an average of 6 months to see results with stem cells, and it didn’t account for the issues on the underside of my kneecap that could just reinjure the cartilage.
I sat in the dark and looked deep into myself. It’s the closest to praying that I come, because who needs to speak with words to whatever it is inside each of us? The quiet sense of surety filled me. Acting with my heart has never led me astray, and I know in my heart that this is what is best for me, the future I’ve worked so hard for, and the man I get to spend it with. Pain has been snuffing out my soul slowly and surely for the last two years and when I have the choice to eradicate it as best I know how, I cannot take a lesser choice.
Day 1 in Chennai
I enter the tarmac, and the smell of must hits me. You know the smell...it’s towels that were left on the couch too long after a shower, or your house with the water cooler only after it’s been closed up like a drum for a week at the peak of summer. It’s not bad; far from it, it makes my amygdala light up like a nostalgic summer camper (which I never was) and bring back warm fuzzies of my aunt’s house and beach trips. We arrived at the airport at 12:30am and it took about an hour to go through immigration, customs, and grab the luggage. As soon as we walked outside there were hundreds AND I MEAN HUNDREDS of men lined up to try and get our fare as taxi drivers. Holy crap. Right away some dude tried to grab my luggage to my “waiting car”, and luckily I’m paranoid and also knew that we had a car from the hotel waiting, so I was able to find him and make that grabby sumbitch carry my luggage to the car. Because I’m not a douche, I tipped him $2USD, which converts to roughly $160 rupees, and that’s a high reward from grabassery behavior but such is life. I tipped the actual driver only $100 rupees, and considering a standard tip is 10-20 rupees (approx. 15-20 cents USD) I’m just handin’ out hundreds like a baller. I’ll only ever be rich enough to sprawl out on a 5-star-hotel comforter surrounded by imposing-looking currency, and that’s in India, and Imma take advantage.
We get to the hotel, check in, room is EPIC (and also musty). I shower under a waterfall showerhead, slip on my terrycloth robe and try to defrag after 22 hours en route from LAX to Chennai. I succeed and sleep for a momentous three hours, at which point I spring up like a Hun daisy (thanks Mushu, you have a quote for every occasion). I go down to breakfast, which is also amazing. This hotel officially makes the most magical cheesy eggs I’ve ever had in my life and YOU BETCHA I’m going down an hour early so my food can settle and I can get seconds tomorrow.
People are constantly looking at me. I worried it was because I was dressed improperly (my calves are showing), but I realize it’s because I’m white. And how many times have I noticed with disdain that people in any given place are staring at a Punjabi in a turban, or a Muslim woman wearing a burqa? And here I am on the receiving end, the end clearly demarked “other”, and I am self-conscious and paranoid and fidgety and GRATEFUL. Grateful that I can take this trip at a point in my life when I am acutely aware of my priviledge as a white American and am shoved against the glass; not only do I see an entire society of those who are unable to rise above their station, which I have already done at 30, but I am found wanting by many onlookers. I am grateful to be lacking, know that I am lacking, understand why I am lacking, and try anyway. Because that’s the immigrant’s tale in America, and even after one day, I think it’s really important that most Americans experience this feeling. We’d be a lot nicer of a country if we did.
After breakfast we went to the hospital and met with the surgeon, at which point I had x-rays done and went to another place to have a 3T MRI. That’s right, 3T stands for 3 Tesla, and shows cartilidge damage severity by accumulations of water (which indicates swelling in le cartilidge which is 80% water) - something never made possible to me in the US. I waited a total of 30 minutes, had the MRI for 20 minutes, and picked up my results (including color-mapped readouts, scans, and report) within two hours. While we waited, Sam and I picked up some adroid phones for $90 and Sim cards at ANOTHER location (because they can’t be sold at the same place) which required legit passport photos that we had to walk around the corner to get and were done way more professionally than ours in the states, haha. Got said Sim card and purchased 10 gigs of prepaid data for $20 (HOLLA), then picked up the results and went back to the doc. I’ll talk more about that second fateful visit when I’m stuck in bed post-op, but I’ll tell you a few things right now that I saw driving around the city.
A ganesh painted onto a tree, his trunk melding into the roots. Colorful shrines on every corner (literally), including in the parking lot of the hospital. The tiniest horse I’ve seen that wasn’t a donkey or pony hauling a two wheeled carriage/rickshaw piled high with hay. So many colors. Vendors in every nook and cranny of each street. SO MANY TREES. Almost the entire city is shaded by their leaves. Not as much poverty as I expected. Massive demolition with new construction going up in its place for the poor. Didn’t smell as bad as I’d been warned to expect. So much beauty.
Basically, I feel like the first few days are a page right out of the Darjeeling Limited and I’m not about about it.
We get to the hotel, check in, room is EPIC (and also musty). I shower under a waterfall showerhead, slip on my terrycloth robe and try to defrag after 22 hours en route from LAX to Chennai. I succeed and sleep for a momentous three hours, at which point I spring up like a Hun daisy (thanks Mushu, you have a quote for every occasion). I go down to breakfast, which is also amazing. This hotel officially makes the most magical cheesy eggs I’ve ever had in my life and YOU BETCHA I’m going down an hour early so my food can settle and I can get seconds tomorrow.
People are constantly looking at me. I worried it was because I was dressed improperly (my calves are showing), but I realize it’s because I’m white. And how many times have I noticed with disdain that people in any given place are staring at a Punjabi in a turban, or a Muslim woman wearing a burqa? And here I am on the receiving end, the end clearly demarked “other”, and I am self-conscious and paranoid and fidgety and GRATEFUL. Grateful that I can take this trip at a point in my life when I am acutely aware of my priviledge as a white American and am shoved against the glass; not only do I see an entire society of those who are unable to rise above their station, which I have already done at 30, but I am found wanting by many onlookers. I am grateful to be lacking, know that I am lacking, understand why I am lacking, and try anyway. Because that’s the immigrant’s tale in America, and even after one day, I think it’s really important that most Americans experience this feeling. We’d be a lot nicer of a country if we did.
After breakfast we went to the hospital and met with the surgeon, at which point I had x-rays done and went to another place to have a 3T MRI. That’s right, 3T stands for 3 Tesla, and shows cartilidge damage severity by accumulations of water (which indicates swelling in le cartilidge which is 80% water) - something never made possible to me in the US. I waited a total of 30 minutes, had the MRI for 20 minutes, and picked up my results (including color-mapped readouts, scans, and report) within two hours. While we waited, Sam and I picked up some adroid phones for $90 and Sim cards at ANOTHER location (because they can’t be sold at the same place) which required legit passport photos that we had to walk around the corner to get and were done way more professionally than ours in the states, haha. Got said Sim card and purchased 10 gigs of prepaid data for $20 (HOLLA), then picked up the results and went back to the doc. I’ll talk more about that second fateful visit when I’m stuck in bed post-op, but I’ll tell you a few things right now that I saw driving around the city.
A ganesh painted onto a tree, his trunk melding into the roots. Colorful shrines on every corner (literally), including in the parking lot of the hospital. The tiniest horse I’ve seen that wasn’t a donkey or pony hauling a two wheeled carriage/rickshaw piled high with hay. So many colors. Vendors in every nook and cranny of each street. SO MANY TREES. Almost the entire city is shaded by their leaves. Not as much poverty as I expected. Massive demolition with new construction going up in its place for the poor. Didn’t smell as bad as I’d been warned to expect. So much beauty.
Basically, I feel like the first few days are a page right out of the Darjeeling Limited and I’m not about about it.
Wednesday, May 11, 2016
on the glory of frequent and unsolicited conversations
I haven't written in a very long time. This blog has served its purpose, which was to grant me an outlet when I needed it most. I am a verbal/written processor; I rarely am able to come to terms with feelings or situations unless I'm able to express it somehow. Now that I'm married, my poor bastard husband hears it all on the frontline and has kept me sane through this intense nursing program (that is now finished! I am a RN, BSN and the world is beautiful).
Recently, I've been surprised on how many people feel safe talking to me. I had so little time in the nursing program that I didn't go to a lot of places and have these opportunities. Two weeks ago or so, I was filling up the mini with gas and a nice young black guy was at the pump next to me, his lady in the car. He was washing his windows and I needed to wash mine too; when he was done, he gave me the wiper, then we started talking about cars. He came over and followed behind me with a paper towel as I washed the windows, making sure there weren't any water lines. He had tattoos everywhere, including his neck and face, and was articulate and considerate. We talked about our moms, and suddenly he said, "You know, you're one of the chillest white women I've ever met." I laughed, we shook hands, I waved bye to his lady (who smiled and waved back), and parted ways.
A few days later, I had a long conversation about the nature of cyclical, systemic poverty with an older black guy at the laundromat who drove a neon green caddy. We spoke for over a half hour, and it was so awesome to learn his perspective. Same for the homeless elderly white lady with an amputated leg. She gave me this open testimony about her history with abusive men, drugs and alcohol, and her nonexistent relationship with her children. It was amazing. And I feel so privileged that something in my nature enables people, literal strangers, to give the gift of their stories to me.
Because at the end of the day, we are our story.
We leave for India next Wednesday, and I'm going to try and write as often as I can while I'm there. I may start a new blog for it, and if I do it'll link it through here.
Make your story a good one, loves. That's all I hope for you.
Recently, I've been surprised on how many people feel safe talking to me. I had so little time in the nursing program that I didn't go to a lot of places and have these opportunities. Two weeks ago or so, I was filling up the mini with gas and a nice young black guy was at the pump next to me, his lady in the car. He was washing his windows and I needed to wash mine too; when he was done, he gave me the wiper, then we started talking about cars. He came over and followed behind me with a paper towel as I washed the windows, making sure there weren't any water lines. He had tattoos everywhere, including his neck and face, and was articulate and considerate. We talked about our moms, and suddenly he said, "You know, you're one of the chillest white women I've ever met." I laughed, we shook hands, I waved bye to his lady (who smiled and waved back), and parted ways.
A few days later, I had a long conversation about the nature of cyclical, systemic poverty with an older black guy at the laundromat who drove a neon green caddy. We spoke for over a half hour, and it was so awesome to learn his perspective. Same for the homeless elderly white lady with an amputated leg. She gave me this open testimony about her history with abusive men, drugs and alcohol, and her nonexistent relationship with her children. It was amazing. And I feel so privileged that something in my nature enables people, literal strangers, to give the gift of their stories to me.
Because at the end of the day, we are our story.
We leave for India next Wednesday, and I'm going to try and write as often as I can while I'm there. I may start a new blog for it, and if I do it'll link it through here.
Make your story a good one, loves. That's all I hope for you.
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
.
I'm profoundly depressed right now, for a lot of very valid reasons. Normally I'd need to write a post to see the validity, but luckily I married the right person, and he validates my stress and anxiety when I share them with him. But that sharing occurs often, and I feel like a wholly burdensome partner, so I'm trying to get it out here and not weigh him down any further.
I don't have the energy to describe all of the factors that are leading to this point. A big reason my coping ability is so low is the intense, prolonged knee pain I've been in for the last 18 months. I don't have it in me to deal with manufactured in-law drama, school drama besides getting there and back and finishing my million assignments on-time, maintain a house, and still be a good person. So I'm withdrawing into myself, bit by bit, and becoming more apathetic than I've ever been. It's a hard place to be. I put all my emotional energy into my nursing and then into my marriage, and there's nothing else left.
December 15 is my last day of my BSN, and I can't wait. Next semester it's just residency and an online class, and taking (AND PASSING!) my NCLEX. Then working. Contuining with my Masters, although with how I'm feeling right now, I don't know if I'll continue anytime soon, or even at APU.
I'm living an emotionally devastated life, and I don't know how to change it, except to keep putting one foot in front of the other. And it's killing me.
I don't have the energy to describe all of the factors that are leading to this point. A big reason my coping ability is so low is the intense, prolonged knee pain I've been in for the last 18 months. I don't have it in me to deal with manufactured in-law drama, school drama besides getting there and back and finishing my million assignments on-time, maintain a house, and still be a good person. So I'm withdrawing into myself, bit by bit, and becoming more apathetic than I've ever been. It's a hard place to be. I put all my emotional energy into my nursing and then into my marriage, and there's nothing else left.
December 15 is my last day of my BSN, and I can't wait. Next semester it's just residency and an online class, and taking (AND PASSING!) my NCLEX. Then working. Contuining with my Masters, although with how I'm feeling right now, I don't know if I'll continue anytime soon, or even at APU.
I'm living an emotionally devastated life, and I don't know how to change it, except to keep putting one foot in front of the other. And it's killing me.
Thursday, May 7, 2015
powerlessness.
The weather outside reflects my mood. My father keeps saying that it's earthquake weather, and it keeps echoing inside my head and rumbling out of my eyes...my core is shaking. I am under such immense stress that I feel myself tearing. Shearing. Pulling and pushing and under no control of the turmoil.
It is, to say the least, exhausting.
That's what has been so enduring lately - the lack of rest. I feel dead, all day every day. Life has become the process of putting one foot in front of the other and putting out the fire under my step. My dream after marriage is just sleeping.
There are issues with the house we're buying. Not with the actual house, not with the financing, not with anything that you would expect for their to be issues with. Nope, we were on our shit and all of that is totally handled. The issue is the sellers.
They had four goddamn repairs to do that were minor as all getout. Replace the wood under one eaves. Put a plate over the pilot light of the water heater, add a strap to it, and add a drainage pipe. It would take a shitty handyman about 4 hours to fix it, but they've waited until the absolute last day. And the tenants are still in there. Not only is my real estate agent not putting pressure on them, she's saying that I...YES ME...told the tenants they should be out by 5/11. Monday. When Sam has to be out of his apartment by Saturday, 5/9. Why would I tell them a date I never even had as an option in my brain?! As a matter of fact, I told them the 7th. As a second matter of fact, it's not my responsibility for their vacancy.
So for 2 days, we'll have to have all of his stuff in a Uhaul parked against my parent's garage and hoping we don't get robbed.
Well Erin, that's not so bad. Why are you freaking out, you may be thinking. Well, because I have a very amazing group of friends that are willing to help me throughout the day of Saturday to move us, get us unloaded and partially unpacked. If we're delayed and don't get our keys until Monday, we'll be alone. And that means we'll be unloading alone. And that means that I'll be in so much physical pain that I may actually not leave bed and say FuckItAll to LIFE. Which I can't afford to do. Not with the school program I'm in. Not with my marriage commencing via wedding in 15 days.
So, like most humans, the fear of pain is motivating me and making me fiercely aggressive. I am gearing up to fracture and could care less what the fallout is.
By fracture, I mean: scream, cry, roar. I'm already doing it extensively. I can't bear the thought of going home, taking care of the dog I'm dogsitting, hear the shit my parents will dole out like candy, do laundry, pack my life, and ultimately have NO CONTROL over whether I will have the home I've worked hard for by Saturday.
Someday soon, it'll be better. I just wish I could exert some type of action to make it so.
It is, to say the least, exhausting.
That's what has been so enduring lately - the lack of rest. I feel dead, all day every day. Life has become the process of putting one foot in front of the other and putting out the fire under my step. My dream after marriage is just sleeping.
There are issues with the house we're buying. Not with the actual house, not with the financing, not with anything that you would expect for their to be issues with. Nope, we were on our shit and all of that is totally handled. The issue is the sellers.
They had four goddamn repairs to do that were minor as all getout. Replace the wood under one eaves. Put a plate over the pilot light of the water heater, add a strap to it, and add a drainage pipe. It would take a shitty handyman about 4 hours to fix it, but they've waited until the absolute last day. And the tenants are still in there. Not only is my real estate agent not putting pressure on them, she's saying that I...YES ME...told the tenants they should be out by 5/11. Monday. When Sam has to be out of his apartment by Saturday, 5/9. Why would I tell them a date I never even had as an option in my brain?! As a matter of fact, I told them the 7th. As a second matter of fact, it's not my responsibility for their vacancy.
So for 2 days, we'll have to have all of his stuff in a Uhaul parked against my parent's garage and hoping we don't get robbed.
Well Erin, that's not so bad. Why are you freaking out, you may be thinking. Well, because I have a very amazing group of friends that are willing to help me throughout the day of Saturday to move us, get us unloaded and partially unpacked. If we're delayed and don't get our keys until Monday, we'll be alone. And that means we'll be unloading alone. And that means that I'll be in so much physical pain that I may actually not leave bed and say FuckItAll to LIFE. Which I can't afford to do. Not with the school program I'm in. Not with my marriage commencing via wedding in 15 days.
So, like most humans, the fear of pain is motivating me and making me fiercely aggressive. I am gearing up to fracture and could care less what the fallout is.
By fracture, I mean: scream, cry, roar. I'm already doing it extensively. I can't bear the thought of going home, taking care of the dog I'm dogsitting, hear the shit my parents will dole out like candy, do laundry, pack my life, and ultimately have NO CONTROL over whether I will have the home I've worked hard for by Saturday.
Someday soon, it'll be better. I just wish I could exert some type of action to make it so.
Thursday, January 1, 2015
tempered.
I ruminated on the year that had just passed by. It was,
like it is for everyone, the beginning and the end of so many things, but there
were more than the average notable occurrences. Most importantly, it was the
last year I would ever be single (at least I hope). Really, who goes into
marriage assuming that it’ll someday end? Not me. And not Sam, thankfully. We
met in February and intend on walking through this life together. As a part of
that, it was also the last year I would spend New Year’s Eve alone. It was the
last year that I would feel lost from my path; nursing school has begun and as
the culmination of four years of work, it feels like a big part of me that has
been waiting to bloom has finally started to. It was the first year I lived
without the fearsome pain of endometriosis, and had to live for 365 day the
reality of never having a period, ovarian cysts, terrifying bleeding,
suffocating pain, or the possibility (however slight) of giving birth to my own
offspring.
It’s an odd thing, accepting that bit. It’s easy to accept
something when you have the capability, and a little harder to swallow when it
has been forcefully taken from you…more so when you yourself is the one who did
the taking, to survive and thrive.
I realize I haven’t blogged in quite some time, and as I was
talking to my friend Kathleen today, I realized why that was. Simply, it’s Sam.
Blogging began as a way for me to expel my deepest self with force and words. I
was unable to do it in regular life, primarily because I was too busy, or often
because it was too much for me to reasonably expect my friends to listen to as
I processed my life and feelings. Life is not easy, and I am poor, but instead
of therapists or making my friends hate me, I turned to this venue. Writing it
made it true.
And now, honestly, I tell everything – EVERY SINGLE THING, that
poor bastard – to Sam. He is in every way the best thing to happen to me. Also,
the idea of spare time to write these days is a mirage, and I think that if I
am going to devote a certain time of day to writing, it needs to be creatively,
not just regurgitating the same things I’ve already verbally worked out with
Sam or another friend.
I’ve decided a few things though. 2015 will be a big year
that much is certain. Sam and I will be moving into our own place with a spare
bedroom for our loves who need a place to land for a while. We will be getting
married in May (the date isn’t known by many because we’re eloping and don’t
want to cause a fuss), I’ll be completing my B.S in Nursing at the end of the
year and beginning my preceptorship in anticipation of the NCLEX, and I’ve mentally
committed myself to volunteering in a nursing home, ideally with hospice
patients who don’t have their own family to sit with them.
I just watched a documentary called Serving Life, about inmates
volunteering in Angola penitentiary’s hospice program, and what the warden said
has stayed with me: it’s about taking care of each other in this life. I’ll dig
your grave, and someone else is going to dig mine.
I’ll hold your hand and dig that grave for you, because I am
capable of doing so, and not everyone is.
There was a lot more that happened in 2014. Mental health
advocacy for friends, cosigning on a car for a friend, refinancing my own,
getting different health insurance (saving me thousands every year – THANKS OBAMA!),
two knee surgeries, not missing a single day of nursing school despite those
surgeries and still managing a 3.8 GPA, loving not only my life-partner but his
family, road trips, tears, fears, and everything in between.
My best friend told me today that I am mellower these days.
That Sam has calmed me down. Truly, I think that I am now tempered…that the
fire of these last few years has done its job. I felt my blows. I hardened, and
sharpened, and am formed in the best shape so as to slice.
So as to slice.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Reflecting on anger.
When I think about how I've changed the most in the last 10 years, it would be how my anger manifests itself. I still have a reputation for being fearsome, but I'm less inclined to punch someone and more inclined to yell or, more often than not, stay eerily calm.
(Except that time I caught my mom using drugs last August, and I truly beat her. She says I beat the shit out of her. I say I beat the piss out of her. Because I literally did.)
Today, again, I found evidence of a relapse. Lucky for her she wasn't home, so I had time to calm down as much as possible by productively channeling my anger into cleaning. My mother is a pathological liar, and probably one of the most selfish people I've ever known. These things don't make her a bad person, per se, and she is capable of kindness, but not if it came at the expense of her comfort. That is where we're different, and I'm well aware that many of my more permanent characteristics are a complete opposite of her as sheer defiance.
I try to never lie, even when it makes me uncomfortable, because she made me lie about everything from a young age. I have never been drunk, because she's an alcoholic. I've never used chemically-based drugs recreationally, because she's an addict. I've never slept in more than 2 days in a row, because she will literally sleep all day if you don't make her wake up for something. I am obsessive about doing dishes and laundry regularly, because I grew up around disgusting piles of both for weeks on end as a child (and to this day, whenever I'm not home for a few days). The list could go on and on, and it's all in direct reaction to her.
What makes it hardest is that I cut out liars from my life as soon as I can see them for what they are, and yet I haven't yet been able to cut out the worst/most frequent/pathological liar that haunts me. My mother is like the anchor that tethers me to all the most agonizing aspects of my origin story that I am perpetually trying to rise above. I rarely get genuinely angry...irritated, sure, plenty, but never for long...and most of those incidences are on her. What the fuck does she have so hard that she feels driven to escape? She literally has no accountability anywhere in her life. She doesn't have a job, doesn't pull her weight in the house, and is sleeping more than waking day to day. WHAT THE FUCK IS SO HARD ABOUT HER LIFE when she's literally had a caretaker in her OWN GODDAMN DAUGHTER SINCE I WAS 9 YEARS OLD.
WHAT THE FUCK. And really, I know it's not as bad as MANY other people have it. I'm not deluded. My good friend Trisha has a mom that would make you wince to hear the stories. She gets it, even though my story is like the diet version of hers.
But here I am, hours later. Angry, frustrated, betrayed, and wanting to cut the ties that bind. How much better would my life be without her? And really, do I owe her any more of the life that she seems hell bent on ruining?
I warned her today that if she keeps this up, she'll be daughter-less and will die alone.
I'd never said the words out loud before, and I'm finally to the point that I mean them. I imagined a future without the fear, drama, instability, and anger that she brings to my life, and it was a beautiful sight.
"Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering." -Yoda
I'm pretty over being her doormat when I refuse to be that to anyone else. Why is she exempt from the standards I place on anyone else I let close to me? "Because she's my mom" just doesn't cut it anymore.
(Except that time I caught my mom using drugs last August, and I truly beat her. She says I beat the shit out of her. I say I beat the piss out of her. Because I literally did.)
Today, again, I found evidence of a relapse. Lucky for her she wasn't home, so I had time to calm down as much as possible by productively channeling my anger into cleaning. My mother is a pathological liar, and probably one of the most selfish people I've ever known. These things don't make her a bad person, per se, and she is capable of kindness, but not if it came at the expense of her comfort. That is where we're different, and I'm well aware that many of my more permanent characteristics are a complete opposite of her as sheer defiance.
I try to never lie, even when it makes me uncomfortable, because she made me lie about everything from a young age. I have never been drunk, because she's an alcoholic. I've never used chemically-based drugs recreationally, because she's an addict. I've never slept in more than 2 days in a row, because she will literally sleep all day if you don't make her wake up for something. I am obsessive about doing dishes and laundry regularly, because I grew up around disgusting piles of both for weeks on end as a child (and to this day, whenever I'm not home for a few days). The list could go on and on, and it's all in direct reaction to her.
What makes it hardest is that I cut out liars from my life as soon as I can see them for what they are, and yet I haven't yet been able to cut out the worst/most frequent/pathological liar that haunts me. My mother is like the anchor that tethers me to all the most agonizing aspects of my origin story that I am perpetually trying to rise above. I rarely get genuinely angry...irritated, sure, plenty, but never for long...and most of those incidences are on her. What the fuck does she have so hard that she feels driven to escape? She literally has no accountability anywhere in her life. She doesn't have a job, doesn't pull her weight in the house, and is sleeping more than waking day to day. WHAT THE FUCK IS SO HARD ABOUT HER LIFE when she's literally had a caretaker in her OWN GODDAMN DAUGHTER SINCE I WAS 9 YEARS OLD.
WHAT THE FUCK. And really, I know it's not as bad as MANY other people have it. I'm not deluded. My good friend Trisha has a mom that would make you wince to hear the stories. She gets it, even though my story is like the diet version of hers.
But here I am, hours later. Angry, frustrated, betrayed, and wanting to cut the ties that bind. How much better would my life be without her? And really, do I owe her any more of the life that she seems hell bent on ruining?
I warned her today that if she keeps this up, she'll be daughter-less and will die alone.
I'd never said the words out loud before, and I'm finally to the point that I mean them. I imagined a future without the fear, drama, instability, and anger that she brings to my life, and it was a beautiful sight.
"Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering." -Yoda
I'm pretty over being her doormat when I refuse to be that to anyone else. Why is she exempt from the standards I place on anyone else I let close to me? "Because she's my mom" just doesn't cut it anymore.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
On being accepted.
Last Wednesday, I interviewed with the head of Masters in Nursing at my school of choice. After some hesitant language, the last ten minutes were spent planning my start date. I was in. I was accepted.
In the span of twenty minutes, my life's axis tilted, and I emerged elated and surefooted. All of this struggle for the last two years has not been in vain. I didn't work full-time at the hospital, volunteer as a CASA, and take anywhere from 10-14 units while in constant pain and alone up north for nothing. Sacrifice had placed a seed in my hand, and conquering innumerable hurdles had provided the tears to make it grow.
You may think I'm being dramatic, but I'm not. And I don't regret a moment or any decision I've made to get here. It's in my own time, to be sure, but there is nothing but soul-deep surety that this is what I'm meant to do with my life. Finding a path that's yours alone can take time, but the hunt is worth it, even if it takes your entire life. I can tell you this confidently, my loves: don't stop until you find the place that your feet feel home.
Things are going incandescently right. Under normal circumstances, I would start to be scared around now, thinking that the other shoe is about to fall and I'll be at the disadvantage again, clawing upwards. But I think those days, the grand sweeping gestures of them, are behind me now. They've shaped me. As my good friend Sarah says: a good blade bends when pushed. It feels every blow that hits it. I felt my blows. I bounced so I wouldn't break. My metal was being tested. My self, the foundation of me, has been forged, and it's beautiful and fearsome and an oathkeeper. I would not have it any other way.
My mother looked at me the other day, and tilted her head just so. She told me, "You've always had a force of character, Erin. Me, I never had that backbone. I liked to believe I did, for a long time. We build up myths of ourselves in our own minds, and in mine, I was strong, but I never really was. And then there's you. And if there's anything that every parent will say about their children, it's that we wish they had more than us. In some ways, I gave you less than I had, but you were born with more strength of character than I ever had. That's the best gift I could ask for...you being so strong."
I love and am loved fiercely. While many other aspects of my life may be in flux, those two truths have remained the same, and I daresay always will. What could make you stronger than love? I feel it so intensely that it falls from my mouth when at my lowest and most exhausted and afraid. I don't fear death because of it. I don't fear failure, because it's just a state of mind. I don't fear loneliness, because who could be lonely with so much of this? So much. So big.
Be fearless. Nothing can hurt you. When it stings, know that it's your metal being tested, and the more you bounce, the stronger you'll become. You are infinite in this love. Go courageously into grace. Your best self is waiting for you in the unknown.
In the span of twenty minutes, my life's axis tilted, and I emerged elated and surefooted. All of this struggle for the last two years has not been in vain. I didn't work full-time at the hospital, volunteer as a CASA, and take anywhere from 10-14 units while in constant pain and alone up north for nothing. Sacrifice had placed a seed in my hand, and conquering innumerable hurdles had provided the tears to make it grow.
You may think I'm being dramatic, but I'm not. And I don't regret a moment or any decision I've made to get here. It's in my own time, to be sure, but there is nothing but soul-deep surety that this is what I'm meant to do with my life. Finding a path that's yours alone can take time, but the hunt is worth it, even if it takes your entire life. I can tell you this confidently, my loves: don't stop until you find the place that your feet feel home.
Things are going incandescently right. Under normal circumstances, I would start to be scared around now, thinking that the other shoe is about to fall and I'll be at the disadvantage again, clawing upwards. But I think those days, the grand sweeping gestures of them, are behind me now. They've shaped me. As my good friend Sarah says: a good blade bends when pushed. It feels every blow that hits it. I felt my blows. I bounced so I wouldn't break. My metal was being tested. My self, the foundation of me, has been forged, and it's beautiful and fearsome and an oathkeeper. I would not have it any other way.
My mother looked at me the other day, and tilted her head just so. She told me, "You've always had a force of character, Erin. Me, I never had that backbone. I liked to believe I did, for a long time. We build up myths of ourselves in our own minds, and in mine, I was strong, but I never really was. And then there's you. And if there's anything that every parent will say about their children, it's that we wish they had more than us. In some ways, I gave you less than I had, but you were born with more strength of character than I ever had. That's the best gift I could ask for...you being so strong."
I love and am loved fiercely. While many other aspects of my life may be in flux, those two truths have remained the same, and I daresay always will. What could make you stronger than love? I feel it so intensely that it falls from my mouth when at my lowest and most exhausted and afraid. I don't fear death because of it. I don't fear failure, because it's just a state of mind. I don't fear loneliness, because who could be lonely with so much of this? So much. So big.
Be fearless. Nothing can hurt you. When it stings, know that it's your metal being tested, and the more you bounce, the stronger you'll become. You are infinite in this love. Go courageously into grace. Your best self is waiting for you in the unknown.
Thursday, May 29, 2014
On being a woman who takes no shit.
There's been a lot of talk of misogyny in this last week after the terrible Santa Barbara shootings and the crazed rants/manifesto of the entitled fuck who did it (I don't remember his name and don't care to).
I do care about the victims.
WEIHAN WANG - The tearful mother said her only son was supposed to come home to Fremont for the summer, go on a family vacation to Yellowstone National Park and celebrate his 21st birthday in July. The station said the father, Charlie Wang, could only stand in the doorway, hugging his wife and uttering deep, guttural cries. Wang, 20, and his parents immigrated to the country from China ten years ago. He graduated from Fremont Christian School and was studying computer engineering at UC Santa Barbara.
Liu called her son "the joy of the family," someone who aced his SATs and never bragged about it.
"I wish I could go in exchange of my son's life," she said. "I'm just heartbroken. You can't imagine for a mom."
CHENG YUAN HONG - Hong, 20, was a hard-working and bright student who was always willing to help others. "James was shy, quiet, gentle, sweet, kind and most respectful," Laurel Cohen told the San Jose Mercury News on Monday. "Not someone who easily could engage in conversation. But I remember his earnest nature, conviction, honesty and mostly his smile; it lit up a room."
GEORGE CHEN - "We would die a hundred times, a thousand times, but we don't want our kids to get hurt," Chen's mother, Kelly Wang, said as she fought through tears. "This shouldn't happen to any family. This should be the last one in the United States."A family friend said Chen, 19, was a gentle soul who had a fondness for working with children.
KATHERINE BREANN COOPER - Her friend Courtney Benjamin said Cooper, 22, was a painter with an outgoing side. Known as Katie, she was about to graduate with a degree in art history.
"She was a self-proclaimed princess and I love her for that," Benjamin said. "And I know she has a crown on her head today."
CHRISTOPHER ROSS MICHAELS-MARTINEZ - Michaels-Martinez, 20, was an English major from Los Osos, California. The son of a criminal defense attorney and a deputy district attorney in San Luis Obispo, he planned to spend his junior year in London next year and to law school after graduation, his father, Richard Martinez, said. Friends said Michaels-Martinez, who served as residential adviser at a dorm last year, was the kind of guy who would welcome strangers into his home.
VERONIKA ELIZABETH WEISS - Weiss, 19, was first-year student from Westlake Village, California.
Her father Bob Weiss told the Los Angeles Times his daughter was a tomboy who played four sports at Westlake High School — cross country, baseball, swimming and water polo — while earning straight A's. Her strength was math. "There was never a day I wasn't proud of her. Never a single day," he said.
Their deaths have caused a lot of discussion; beyond the perpetual gun debate, it's gone to the deeper causes of hatred that would spawn such a tragedy. Most of recent American mass killings had perpetrators that suffered from some kind of long-standing mental disorder (although definitely not all); this one was bitter misogynistic. 1 in 6 women are the victims of sexual assault in the US, and while I've never considered myself a victim, I realize that technically I have been. It came up in discussion with one of Sam's friends last week; he's new to this whole women-are-equals concept, and has been trying to educate himself on feminism. Out of nowhere, I explained the following, which I never realized I believed:
"Look, women are taught to be victims before we're taught to be individuals. I was raised by a single mom who was molested at 5. As soon as I was taught to pull up my panties by myself, I was taught to never take them down for anyone. Ever. Before I went into kindegarten and had to get my shots, the nurse said, 'Okay honey, pull down your panties, I have to give your shots' and I completely lost my shit. I was so beserk, it took 2 other nurses, a doctor, and my mom to hold me down, and I bit my mom so hard she was bruised for a month. That set the tone for my life. As soon as I realized I couldn't run from danger, I learned to punch. I've fought one girl ever, and I was 8. Every other fight has been with men who thought they had a RIGHT to me. As if I was property. As if I didn't have a fucking say in ANYTHING. And they paid for it, either with shame or pain. They felt my 'say', I'm sure for weeks. People marvel at that...when most smart women run, from the bar, to their car, whatever, I turn around and face that threat head on. It's why I rarely go to bars anymore, or concerts. I'm not conventionally attractive by any means, and I'm intimidating in terms of height and weight, and men STILL grab at me, and call me a cunt when I turn away. Then it escalates. For the average woman, it's after they learn to stop being ONLY a victim that we learn to become an individual, which is why, I believe, most have that identity crisis in their late teens/early 20s instead of early teenage years, like a lot of men."
I've been grabbed, yelled at, threatened. I've stopped men from trying to roofie a friend's drink at Vault Martini Bar in Redlands (which is why I avoid ALL OF THOSE FUCKING BARS...the entitled trash of Redlands cause an intrinsic higher level of risk than any ghetto dive bar I've ever been to), and got into a big ol' screaming fight that almost went to blows when I called him on it. I've had my breasts and butt grabbed at almost every concert I've been to, I've been hit on at bars; when I politely decline or laugh at the ballsiness of the line they start name-calling. Naturally, if they say something about looks or weight, I laugh harder and go along the thought of: "NICE and you JUST HIT ON ME?! Someone you think is fat and ugly? WAY TO BE PATHETIC!" etc. If they stand up to try and tower over, the shock on their faces when I don't back down is as surprising as their pick-up method. If they'd said anything along those lines to a man, there would OF COURSE be repercussions. If they heard a man saying that to their mom, future-wife, sister, or daughter, they'd go ballistic. So why, I wonder, is it acceptable for them to say it to someone else mother/partner/sister/daughter? It defies all logic, and underlies one of the fundamental inequalities facing women across the globe: we are not individuals to society. If we don't actively belong to someone next to us (these incidences almost never happen if I'm with a male friend), we don't belong to anyone and are up for grabs. Like a mining claim; if no one is there, stake it...the mine is just there to give and has no say.
I'm a gold mine FOR ASS KICKING, MOTHERFUCKERS.
My worst nightmare (and this is truly something that haunts me) is being held down in an alleyway by a group of men and having no power. I usually take down one or two, but the rest exact fierce retribution because of it, and I wake up as I'm dying. I've told a few women friends that nightmare, and they always nod in understanding: it's a common fear with most of us. Some of them have said, "Doesn't that make you want to stop being aggressive and just carry pepper spray?" And the answer has been a resounding NO. Absolutely not. I refuse to silently take it, because that shock and horror in their eyes is worth that courage. When I ask them, "Would you let a man talk to your sister that way, or your daughter?" a spark of cognition can be seen, and possibly saving another woman from the fear of this man callously approaching her warrants the risk.
Yes, I'm a human. Yes, I have a say. Yes, I have people who love me (and even if I didn't, like the many women who are adrift in our society without a base and are unsurprisingly the worst victims of assault). Yes, I'm a woman. All of these things mean that I am not, contrary to Mother Culture, up for grabs to the first man who gropes or crudely propositions me. Really, when has "I'd tear that ass UP" ever worked as a pickup line?!
So, while I cannot change how men the world-over view us women, I sure as shit don't let them get away with it. And that, my darlings, is all I'm saying - always try and keep yourself safe, this goes without saying - but when faced with the disfigured face of misogyny, don't be afraid to ask the simple question: "How would you feel if someone said that to your mother/sister/wife/daughter? (*Note: I'm well aware that we are worthy as individuals, but we're breaking down massive, time-old walls here. You gotta start small, and teaching empathy requires something they can immediately identify with.) I'm your equal, and you should be ashamed of yourself."
It's their shame, not yours. Rise up.
I do care about the victims.
WEIHAN WANG - The tearful mother said her only son was supposed to come home to Fremont for the summer, go on a family vacation to Yellowstone National Park and celebrate his 21st birthday in July. The station said the father, Charlie Wang, could only stand in the doorway, hugging his wife and uttering deep, guttural cries. Wang, 20, and his parents immigrated to the country from China ten years ago. He graduated from Fremont Christian School and was studying computer engineering at UC Santa Barbara.
Liu called her son "the joy of the family," someone who aced his SATs and never bragged about it.
"I wish I could go in exchange of my son's life," she said. "I'm just heartbroken. You can't imagine for a mom."
CHENG YUAN HONG - Hong, 20, was a hard-working and bright student who was always willing to help others. "James was shy, quiet, gentle, sweet, kind and most respectful," Laurel Cohen told the San Jose Mercury News on Monday. "Not someone who easily could engage in conversation. But I remember his earnest nature, conviction, honesty and mostly his smile; it lit up a room."
GEORGE CHEN - "We would die a hundred times, a thousand times, but we don't want our kids to get hurt," Chen's mother, Kelly Wang, said as she fought through tears. "This shouldn't happen to any family. This should be the last one in the United States."A family friend said Chen, 19, was a gentle soul who had a fondness for working with children.
KATHERINE BREANN COOPER - Her friend Courtney Benjamin said Cooper, 22, was a painter with an outgoing side. Known as Katie, she was about to graduate with a degree in art history.
"She was a self-proclaimed princess and I love her for that," Benjamin said. "And I know she has a crown on her head today."
CHRISTOPHER ROSS MICHAELS-MARTINEZ - Michaels-Martinez, 20, was an English major from Los Osos, California. The son of a criminal defense attorney and a deputy district attorney in San Luis Obispo, he planned to spend his junior year in London next year and to law school after graduation, his father, Richard Martinez, said. Friends said Michaels-Martinez, who served as residential adviser at a dorm last year, was the kind of guy who would welcome strangers into his home.
VERONIKA ELIZABETH WEISS - Weiss, 19, was first-year student from Westlake Village, California.
Her father Bob Weiss told the Los Angeles Times his daughter was a tomboy who played four sports at Westlake High School — cross country, baseball, swimming and water polo — while earning straight A's. Her strength was math. "There was never a day I wasn't proud of her. Never a single day," he said.
Their deaths have caused a lot of discussion; beyond the perpetual gun debate, it's gone to the deeper causes of hatred that would spawn such a tragedy. Most of recent American mass killings had perpetrators that suffered from some kind of long-standing mental disorder (although definitely not all); this one was bitter misogynistic. 1 in 6 women are the victims of sexual assault in the US, and while I've never considered myself a victim, I realize that technically I have been. It came up in discussion with one of Sam's friends last week; he's new to this whole women-are-equals concept, and has been trying to educate himself on feminism. Out of nowhere, I explained the following, which I never realized I believed:
"Look, women are taught to be victims before we're taught to be individuals. I was raised by a single mom who was molested at 5. As soon as I was taught to pull up my panties by myself, I was taught to never take them down for anyone. Ever. Before I went into kindegarten and had to get my shots, the nurse said, 'Okay honey, pull down your panties, I have to give your shots' and I completely lost my shit. I was so beserk, it took 2 other nurses, a doctor, and my mom to hold me down, and I bit my mom so hard she was bruised for a month. That set the tone for my life. As soon as I realized I couldn't run from danger, I learned to punch. I've fought one girl ever, and I was 8. Every other fight has been with men who thought they had a RIGHT to me. As if I was property. As if I didn't have a fucking say in ANYTHING. And they paid for it, either with shame or pain. They felt my 'say', I'm sure for weeks. People marvel at that...when most smart women run, from the bar, to their car, whatever, I turn around and face that threat head on. It's why I rarely go to bars anymore, or concerts. I'm not conventionally attractive by any means, and I'm intimidating in terms of height and weight, and men STILL grab at me, and call me a cunt when I turn away. Then it escalates. For the average woman, it's after they learn to stop being ONLY a victim that we learn to become an individual, which is why, I believe, most have that identity crisis in their late teens/early 20s instead of early teenage years, like a lot of men."
I've been grabbed, yelled at, threatened. I've stopped men from trying to roofie a friend's drink at Vault Martini Bar in Redlands (which is why I avoid ALL OF THOSE FUCKING BARS...the entitled trash of Redlands cause an intrinsic higher level of risk than any ghetto dive bar I've ever been to), and got into a big ol' screaming fight that almost went to blows when I called him on it. I've had my breasts and butt grabbed at almost every concert I've been to, I've been hit on at bars; when I politely decline or laugh at the ballsiness of the line they start name-calling. Naturally, if they say something about looks or weight, I laugh harder and go along the thought of: "NICE and you JUST HIT ON ME?! Someone you think is fat and ugly? WAY TO BE PATHETIC!" etc. If they stand up to try and tower over, the shock on their faces when I don't back down is as surprising as their pick-up method. If they'd said anything along those lines to a man, there would OF COURSE be repercussions. If they heard a man saying that to their mom, future-wife, sister, or daughter, they'd go ballistic. So why, I wonder, is it acceptable for them to say it to someone else mother/partner/sister/daughter? It defies all logic, and underlies one of the fundamental inequalities facing women across the globe: we are not individuals to society. If we don't actively belong to someone next to us (these incidences almost never happen if I'm with a male friend), we don't belong to anyone and are up for grabs. Like a mining claim; if no one is there, stake it...the mine is just there to give and has no say.
I'm a gold mine FOR ASS KICKING, MOTHERFUCKERS.
My worst nightmare (and this is truly something that haunts me) is being held down in an alleyway by a group of men and having no power. I usually take down one or two, but the rest exact fierce retribution because of it, and I wake up as I'm dying. I've told a few women friends that nightmare, and they always nod in understanding: it's a common fear with most of us. Some of them have said, "Doesn't that make you want to stop being aggressive and just carry pepper spray?" And the answer has been a resounding NO. Absolutely not. I refuse to silently take it, because that shock and horror in their eyes is worth that courage. When I ask them, "Would you let a man talk to your sister that way, or your daughter?" a spark of cognition can be seen, and possibly saving another woman from the fear of this man callously approaching her warrants the risk.
Yes, I'm a human. Yes, I have a say. Yes, I have people who love me (and even if I didn't, like the many women who are adrift in our society without a base and are unsurprisingly the worst victims of assault). Yes, I'm a woman. All of these things mean that I am not, contrary to Mother Culture, up for grabs to the first man who gropes or crudely propositions me. Really, when has "I'd tear that ass UP" ever worked as a pickup line?!
So, while I cannot change how men the world-over view us women, I sure as shit don't let them get away with it. And that, my darlings, is all I'm saying - always try and keep yourself safe, this goes without saying - but when faced with the disfigured face of misogyny, don't be afraid to ask the simple question: "How would you feel if someone said that to your mother/sister/wife/daughter? (*Note: I'm well aware that we are worthy as individuals, but we're breaking down massive, time-old walls here. You gotta start small, and teaching empathy requires something they can immediately identify with.) I'm your equal, and you should be ashamed of yourself."
It's their shame, not yours. Rise up.
Saturday, May 10, 2014
Set sail.
April was, I hope, the hardest month I'll face in 2014. I was in a car accident, Sam and I found a puppy who was hit by a car on Easter (more on that later), Sam moved, my knee became acutely painful, Rita was slowly slipping downhill and I couldn't help at all, with the now-constant migraines that have tainted almost everything with an aura of disbelief and pain.
Car accident.
After dodging an almost car accident five minutes previously, a woman in a huge brand-new truck cut me off in slowing traffic. I slammed on my brakes, but slid into her anyway. Her truck, thankfully, was barely damaged, but my Mini had the hook jacked up and it punctured my radiator. From punching in my clutch and brake so hard, along with the impact, I got shin splints. Getting my car into the body shop wasn't too terrible, and luckily my Italian family had a spare car, so I was able to borrow it for the ten days the Mini was in the shop. Unfortunately, when I got the car back, there were multiple problems, so I had to keep taking it back, and this naturally escalated to me complaining to the shop manager, my insurance company, etc. I got it back the Friday before Easter.
Migraines.
I had blood work done the last day of March to test my hormone levels (plus the normal yearly panel); that SAME DAY the office tried to call me with my results, which didn't make any sense. Long story short, the office MAs said "everything was normal" but that my cholesterol was high and yadda yadda. This all happened before my accident on the 4th; a few days after the accident, when my shin splint pain was intense, I tried to make an appointment and the office REFUSED to schedule me because it was the result of an accident and told me to go to the ER. This, of course, unleashed a tirade about how ridiculous it was to try and send me to the ER for a non-acute issue, when my doctor is a DO and better qualified to treat me ANYWAY. Afterwards, when I was able to check my own lab values online, it turned out that I had literally NO estrogen in my body (the range I'm supposed to be in was 42-289 and I'm less than 3), and my cholesterol was "high" because my HDL (your good cholesterol!) was so high...so the percentage of HDL/LDL was ideal. Also, take note that 85% of your cholesterol is made by your own liver, so trying to control it with diet, etc, is pretty pointless. With all of these issues...the false report of my lab results, the refusal to schedule me, etc., I had to go and complain to the Quality and Compliance managers of the medical group. I also got my hormone replacement changed, and started on a new migraine medication. I sincerely hope that my values will balance out in the next few months and these migraines will be a distant memory to that rough 6 months post-hysterectomy.
Puppy Rescue.
Sam and I had Easter with my Thompson family and later, dinner at his mom's house. (I absolutely love his family, and am all the more thankful that they're so damn awesome after the terrible experiences I had with my ex's mother.) A lady that was dining with his stepdad's family next door started walking home and then rushed back; she'd just seen a dog hit by a car and the car had kept going, and she didn't know what to do. She didn't get a license number or anything, so there wasn't anything we could technically report. Sam and I went with her down the block to look for the dog and see if it had any tags on it to contact the owners, but when we found it, it was this little pit bull puppy with a harness but no tags. She was gorgeous, and so friendly! She still had her milk teeth, she was so young. The owners of the yard she'd landed in offered to keep her until the actually owners came around in the next few days, and I gave my number just in case they DIDN'T come by (I knew that, as a pittie, she wouldn't make it at a shelter). They called in less than ten minutes because their dog was being mean to her, and they didn't want her to get more hurt while on their property. So Sam and I went and got her and took her home (only possible because my dad had left for Egypt a few days previously). She was absolutely the cutest and most playful baby, already potty trained, already fixed, and not at all aggressive with Lucy and Ethel even though they were being bitches to her. This was Sunday night, and by Wednesday night/Thursday morning, she was vomiting profusely. I'd arranged to have her meet some possibly furever home candidates that day, but we didn't even know if she'd survive...my sweet girl had parvo. By 10am on Thursday, she was unresponsive and wouldn't open her eyes even when I picked her up; she was almost gone. I couldn't afford to take her to the vet and knew they didn't have better odds than I did, so I wrapped her in a cool towel to try and bring her fever down, turkey basted pediasure into her mouth, and kept kissing her forehead. By the evening, she'd seemingly rebounded, and I doubted if it was parvo to begin with, but sure enough, she was sick again overnight. She vomited everything she tried to drink for the next two days, then the diarrhea began. She was wasting away, and it was agony to watch. I barely slept, trying to comfort her whenever she woke up to puke. I started giving her subcutaneous injections of pedialyte by day 3 to try and get/keep SOME fluids into her, and I honestly think that and the pediasure on the first day are what kept her alive. She made it through, and watching her eat food and be able to keep it down was one of the biggest sighs of relief I've ever felt. That entire week was spent solely at home, taking care of her, and I'm thankful that of all the people that might have rescued her, it was someone who COULD stay home and had such an expansive resource of friends with insights on how to keep her alive. She's now living with my friend Nat, and is named Zelda, and they're very happy together. She's my first furry goddaughter!
Sam moved.
We found Sam an apartment and he was able to move in less than 10 days after first viewing it! It's close to his work and a perfect place for him to call home until we get married and buy a house of our own. It was a unique experience; I've never moved with a partner, and knew that it would be a test to our relationship. Sam is a really amazing man...he is constantly doing small and intensely sweet/supportive things for me, like massaging my ankles and shins/calves after the accident to help with the splints, my neck and shoulders during headaches, my hand when I'm stressed. I hope that I reciprocate on the same level in different aspects, but I feel like I come up short more often than not. In this circumstance though, I knew that if I could essentially captain the moving ship, it could go smoothly, and it did! And he trusted me to do that for him, which is a testament to us as a partnership. Thankfully, my friends Jessica and Yvonne and Sam's brother Jon were able to come help us on moving day, so we got him completely moved in less than 4 hours. I bought a fridge from my friend Nichole and was able to borrow my friend Drew's truck to move that over the next day (Jessica came AGAIN that day to help me load it up!) and another friend sold us her epic bed and gave him a desk. Truly, you know the impeccable quality of your friends at times like this.
Rita.
Rita, my Jewish sass factory, passed yesterday. I wrote a blog/letter to her here on my previous post. Her decline was a huge lesson for me, as a person/daughter/aspiring nurse. The system failed Rita, but mainly because her decisions were motivated by fear and her daughter wasn't strong enough to let her go. I've always strongly advocated for the patient (and my experiences at Sutter Coast, and especially with Case Management) gave me the skills to better do so, but I was powerless to help Rita. I have always chafed at that notion; I am very rarely powerless, I don't just sit placidly and hope for things to happen in my favor, and I'm very skilled at changing circumstances to go down a manageable route. This was not one of those times, and I think it's a very important experience to go through. People are more motivated by fear than any other emotion, and it's usually to their detriment, but you cannot make someone strong or courageous for someone else when they lack that foundation to even advocate for themselves. Truly, this highlighted that as a person and as a nurse, I can only hope to inspire by example.
Even though this might sound like a long rant of complaining, it isn't. A lot of good happened this month, it was just an unexpectedly tiring journey to get there. Life goes on. We just have to try and steer the ship in the direction we hope to go, but be prepared for when storms throw us off course, and handle the readjustment as gracefully as possible.
Car accident.
After dodging an almost car accident five minutes previously, a woman in a huge brand-new truck cut me off in slowing traffic. I slammed on my brakes, but slid into her anyway. Her truck, thankfully, was barely damaged, but my Mini had the hook jacked up and it punctured my radiator. From punching in my clutch and brake so hard, along with the impact, I got shin splints. Getting my car into the body shop wasn't too terrible, and luckily my Italian family had a spare car, so I was able to borrow it for the ten days the Mini was in the shop. Unfortunately, when I got the car back, there were multiple problems, so I had to keep taking it back, and this naturally escalated to me complaining to the shop manager, my insurance company, etc. I got it back the Friday before Easter.
Migraines.
I had blood work done the last day of March to test my hormone levels (plus the normal yearly panel); that SAME DAY the office tried to call me with my results, which didn't make any sense. Long story short, the office MAs said "everything was normal" but that my cholesterol was high and yadda yadda. This all happened before my accident on the 4th; a few days after the accident, when my shin splint pain was intense, I tried to make an appointment and the office REFUSED to schedule me because it was the result of an accident and told me to go to the ER. This, of course, unleashed a tirade about how ridiculous it was to try and send me to the ER for a non-acute issue, when my doctor is a DO and better qualified to treat me ANYWAY. Afterwards, when I was able to check my own lab values online, it turned out that I had literally NO estrogen in my body (the range I'm supposed to be in was 42-289 and I'm less than 3), and my cholesterol was "high" because my HDL (your good cholesterol!) was so high...so the percentage of HDL/LDL was ideal. Also, take note that 85% of your cholesterol is made by your own liver, so trying to control it with diet, etc, is pretty pointless. With all of these issues...the false report of my lab results, the refusal to schedule me, etc., I had to go and complain to the Quality and Compliance managers of the medical group. I also got my hormone replacement changed, and started on a new migraine medication. I sincerely hope that my values will balance out in the next few months and these migraines will be a distant memory to that rough 6 months post-hysterectomy.
Puppy Rescue.
Sam and I had Easter with my Thompson family and later, dinner at his mom's house. (I absolutely love his family, and am all the more thankful that they're so damn awesome after the terrible experiences I had with my ex's mother.) A lady that was dining with his stepdad's family next door started walking home and then rushed back; she'd just seen a dog hit by a car and the car had kept going, and she didn't know what to do. She didn't get a license number or anything, so there wasn't anything we could technically report. Sam and I went with her down the block to look for the dog and see if it had any tags on it to contact the owners, but when we found it, it was this little pit bull puppy with a harness but no tags. She was gorgeous, and so friendly! She still had her milk teeth, she was so young. The owners of the yard she'd landed in offered to keep her until the actually owners came around in the next few days, and I gave my number just in case they DIDN'T come by (I knew that, as a pittie, she wouldn't make it at a shelter). They called in less than ten minutes because their dog was being mean to her, and they didn't want her to get more hurt while on their property. So Sam and I went and got her and took her home (only possible because my dad had left for Egypt a few days previously). She was absolutely the cutest and most playful baby, already potty trained, already fixed, and not at all aggressive with Lucy and Ethel even though they were being bitches to her. This was Sunday night, and by Wednesday night/Thursday morning, she was vomiting profusely. I'd arranged to have her meet some possibly furever home candidates that day, but we didn't even know if she'd survive...my sweet girl had parvo. By 10am on Thursday, she was unresponsive and wouldn't open her eyes even when I picked her up; she was almost gone. I couldn't afford to take her to the vet and knew they didn't have better odds than I did, so I wrapped her in a cool towel to try and bring her fever down, turkey basted pediasure into her mouth, and kept kissing her forehead. By the evening, she'd seemingly rebounded, and I doubted if it was parvo to begin with, but sure enough, she was sick again overnight. She vomited everything she tried to drink for the next two days, then the diarrhea began. She was wasting away, and it was agony to watch. I barely slept, trying to comfort her whenever she woke up to puke. I started giving her subcutaneous injections of pedialyte by day 3 to try and get/keep SOME fluids into her, and I honestly think that and the pediasure on the first day are what kept her alive. She made it through, and watching her eat food and be able to keep it down was one of the biggest sighs of relief I've ever felt. That entire week was spent solely at home, taking care of her, and I'm thankful that of all the people that might have rescued her, it was someone who COULD stay home and had such an expansive resource of friends with insights on how to keep her alive. She's now living with my friend Nat, and is named Zelda, and they're very happy together. She's my first furry goddaughter!
Sam moved.
We found Sam an apartment and he was able to move in less than 10 days after first viewing it! It's close to his work and a perfect place for him to call home until we get married and buy a house of our own. It was a unique experience; I've never moved with a partner, and knew that it would be a test to our relationship. Sam is a really amazing man...he is constantly doing small and intensely sweet/supportive things for me, like massaging my ankles and shins/calves after the accident to help with the splints, my neck and shoulders during headaches, my hand when I'm stressed. I hope that I reciprocate on the same level in different aspects, but I feel like I come up short more often than not. In this circumstance though, I knew that if I could essentially captain the moving ship, it could go smoothly, and it did! And he trusted me to do that for him, which is a testament to us as a partnership. Thankfully, my friends Jessica and Yvonne and Sam's brother Jon were able to come help us on moving day, so we got him completely moved in less than 4 hours. I bought a fridge from my friend Nichole and was able to borrow my friend Drew's truck to move that over the next day (Jessica came AGAIN that day to help me load it up!) and another friend sold us her epic bed and gave him a desk. Truly, you know the impeccable quality of your friends at times like this.
Rita.
Rita, my Jewish sass factory, passed yesterday. I wrote a blog/letter to her here on my previous post. Her decline was a huge lesson for me, as a person/daughter/aspiring nurse. The system failed Rita, but mainly because her decisions were motivated by fear and her daughter wasn't strong enough to let her go. I've always strongly advocated for the patient (and my experiences at Sutter Coast, and especially with Case Management) gave me the skills to better do so, but I was powerless to help Rita. I have always chafed at that notion; I am very rarely powerless, I don't just sit placidly and hope for things to happen in my favor, and I'm very skilled at changing circumstances to go down a manageable route. This was not one of those times, and I think it's a very important experience to go through. People are more motivated by fear than any other emotion, and it's usually to their detriment, but you cannot make someone strong or courageous for someone else when they lack that foundation to even advocate for themselves. Truly, this highlighted that as a person and as a nurse, I can only hope to inspire by example.
Even though this might sound like a long rant of complaining, it isn't. A lot of good happened this month, it was just an unexpectedly tiring journey to get there. Life goes on. We just have to try and steer the ship in the direction we hope to go, but be prepared for when storms throw us off course, and handle the readjustment as gracefully as possible.
Dissolver of sugar, dissolve me, if this is the time. Do it gently.
My bubbe, Rita Evelyn Serlin, died last night. She was 92. This has been a very painful and drawn out event, and highlighted the truly undignified way that a person can be herded toward death. I think, truly, that Rita gave me one of the greatest gifts with her decline and passing from this life; her fear, and her daughter's weakness, took from her the god-given right to die gracefully. Instead of passing when she became acutely ill and, I think, meant to, she was put on multiple ventilators over the course of numerous hospitalizations in the last 2.5 months, and was finally discharged on hospice. Seeing her on Thursday, the day before her death, was a shock beyond anything I've experienced. She was emaciated, and the skin that was so plump and soft just months ago was tightly wrapped to her skull, and her mouth was open. I immediately started crying, as I do now just remembering it. This was not Rita. Rita's soul was already gone, and her body was just delayed in catching up with her. I kissed her cheeks over and over again, and warmed her freezing hands that grasped and ungrasped with her heartbeat. Oh Rita. How I love you.
To my dear Rita,
I can feel you with me, and so as I write this, I'm sure you're reading it too. I have adored you since we met, and know that you were one of those people that is both a mirror and a ideal to those privileged enough to have you. You adopted everyone you loved, making them immediately yours, and they were all thankful for it. You could be harsh and exacting, and your daughters debilitating issues are evidence that sometimes, we learn to be our best selves in the last decades of our lives.
When we had dinner on Valentine's Day with Linda and Nick, you held my hand and told me that death is a terrifying thing. That you were so scared...not necessarily of death, but of dying. I felt my eyes water but didn't let tears fall, because I refused to be weak for you. I kissed that hand, the soft gnarled branch that gripped mine, and told you that I've stared death in the face and wasn't scared because I've never felt like I didn't do what needed to be done. No regrets. You said you had too many, and all I could say was that things done in the past should stay there, and that you were loved. You will always be loved.
I hope you heard me, when I whispered that you didn't need to be afraid. I knew the collective love of everyone who came to hold those hands and kiss those cheeks through the recent months would carry your soul through the storm of death and fear you were facing. Now you're on the other side, and I feel in my marrow that I was right. That you're alright...dancing, singing, drinking margaritas, eating salted steak, teaching yoga, and laughing with your loves that met you.
There is nothing more reaffirming to faith than death, and mine is simple: good souls are going to be alright, whatever comes. And I know it's true.
Thank you for demonstrating, every day, that it's never too late to change. That you can leave the beaten path whenever you feel the need. That there is no such thing as age-appropriate behavior. That naysayers can suck it. I have felt very powerless throughout your entire final chapter, but I know you saw me, and heard me, and know that I adored you.
Enjoy the party til I get there.
With all the love I possess,
Your sweetheart.
To my dear Rita,
I can feel you with me, and so as I write this, I'm sure you're reading it too. I have adored you since we met, and know that you were one of those people that is both a mirror and a ideal to those privileged enough to have you. You adopted everyone you loved, making them immediately yours, and they were all thankful for it. You could be harsh and exacting, and your daughters debilitating issues are evidence that sometimes, we learn to be our best selves in the last decades of our lives.
When we had dinner on Valentine's Day with Linda and Nick, you held my hand and told me that death is a terrifying thing. That you were so scared...not necessarily of death, but of dying. I felt my eyes water but didn't let tears fall, because I refused to be weak for you. I kissed that hand, the soft gnarled branch that gripped mine, and told you that I've stared death in the face and wasn't scared because I've never felt like I didn't do what needed to be done. No regrets. You said you had too many, and all I could say was that things done in the past should stay there, and that you were loved. You will always be loved.
I hope you heard me, when I whispered that you didn't need to be afraid. I knew the collective love of everyone who came to hold those hands and kiss those cheeks through the recent months would carry your soul through the storm of death and fear you were facing. Now you're on the other side, and I feel in my marrow that I was right. That you're alright...dancing, singing, drinking margaritas, eating salted steak, teaching yoga, and laughing with your loves that met you.
There is nothing more reaffirming to faith than death, and mine is simple: good souls are going to be alright, whatever comes. And I know it's true.
Thank you for demonstrating, every day, that it's never too late to change. That you can leave the beaten path whenever you feel the need. That there is no such thing as age-appropriate behavior. That naysayers can suck it. I have felt very powerless throughout your entire final chapter, but I know you saw me, and heard me, and know that I adored you.
Enjoy the party til I get there.
With all the love I possess,
Your sweetheart.
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
Eventful processing and ample gratitude.
It's very apropo that after I wrote my previous blog, bemoaning the dating life, I quickly met Sam.
We've been together for a few months now. Love is a living, breathing organism that we build between us daily and nourish with understanding, encouragement, and gratitude. I haven't held any punches, have told him every single thing that comes to mind, and he revels in it. His love, unlike the others that have been offered to me, is not conditional, and that's an amazing fucking thing.
"Perhaps the depth of love can be calibrated by the number of different selves that are actively involved in a given relationship." -Carl Sagan
I am basking in him. He's incredibly intelligent, so kind, gentle, and giving. Truly, he exemplifies the best features of humanity as a whole, and I aspire to be more like him. For the first time in my life, I'm not dating a project, someone who "wants to be a better man" for me, or who I'm playing at Jiminy Cricket to keep on the straight and narrow. Nope, not even a little bit, not even at all. He's his own self, and I feel deeply lucky that I get to experience any length of life with him as my partner, let alone the rest of it.
I've been dealing with migraines ever since the surgery. Initially they started a month after surgery, then I doubled up on my HRT and they went away, only to come back about six weeks later. I've since changed hormones, so hopefully they'll even out, but I'm still fighting headaches. I was also in a car accident over a week ago, and I noticed after a few days that the pain in my shins was getting worse. I went to urgent care (because that's where the xrays are!) and turns out I have some hairline fractures in my tibia, hence causing me pain. The doctor told me to stretch, massage, and stay off my feet...Sam, wonderful as he is, added my shins/ankles/calves to the list (along with my neck and shoulders) to what he massages without complaint to try and ease my pain.
Note: isn't it interesting how after a bad relationship ends, when you start something new, all of the small things that drove you quietly into sadness previously are the things that mean the most now? For example, Liam would massage ANY of his friends that came by...cracking their backs and giving them long back rubs...but when I threw out my back and could barely move my shoulders/neck, he wouldn't rub them without complaining and trying to wheedle out of it the entire ten minutes he did it. Without the guilt and shitty way I felt in response to his attitude about it, I wouldn't so hugely appreciate the small gestures that Sam makes without me ever having to ask. He'll look at me while we're driving, see my eyes wince or some other tell that conveys a headache, and he instinctively reaches up to knead my neck and kiss my forehead. It's heavenly, and so deeply appreciated.
Integrating the other into our life plan wasn't difficult, and neither one feels like we're losing anything to build something new. There's no puppeteer with us. No secret financial source that dictates behaviors, no deception, no malice, no guile. I feel safe, really safe with Sam, and that is something that I've never had the privilege of feeling with someone. I hope to never lose it, and will work actively to maintain it.
"For small creatures such as we, the vastness is bearable only through love." -Carl Sagan.
Thank you for loving me, Sam. I love you.
We've been together for a few months now. Love is a living, breathing organism that we build between us daily and nourish with understanding, encouragement, and gratitude. I haven't held any punches, have told him every single thing that comes to mind, and he revels in it. His love, unlike the others that have been offered to me, is not conditional, and that's an amazing fucking thing.
"Perhaps the depth of love can be calibrated by the number of different selves that are actively involved in a given relationship." -Carl Sagan
I am basking in him. He's incredibly intelligent, so kind, gentle, and giving. Truly, he exemplifies the best features of humanity as a whole, and I aspire to be more like him. For the first time in my life, I'm not dating a project, someone who "wants to be a better man" for me, or who I'm playing at Jiminy Cricket to keep on the straight and narrow. Nope, not even a little bit, not even at all. He's his own self, and I feel deeply lucky that I get to experience any length of life with him as my partner, let alone the rest of it.
I've been dealing with migraines ever since the surgery. Initially they started a month after surgery, then I doubled up on my HRT and they went away, only to come back about six weeks later. I've since changed hormones, so hopefully they'll even out, but I'm still fighting headaches. I was also in a car accident over a week ago, and I noticed after a few days that the pain in my shins was getting worse. I went to urgent care (because that's where the xrays are!) and turns out I have some hairline fractures in my tibia, hence causing me pain. The doctor told me to stretch, massage, and stay off my feet...Sam, wonderful as he is, added my shins/ankles/calves to the list (along with my neck and shoulders) to what he massages without complaint to try and ease my pain.
Note: isn't it interesting how after a bad relationship ends, when you start something new, all of the small things that drove you quietly into sadness previously are the things that mean the most now? For example, Liam would massage ANY of his friends that came by...cracking their backs and giving them long back rubs...but when I threw out my back and could barely move my shoulders/neck, he wouldn't rub them without complaining and trying to wheedle out of it the entire ten minutes he did it. Without the guilt and shitty way I felt in response to his attitude about it, I wouldn't so hugely appreciate the small gestures that Sam makes without me ever having to ask. He'll look at me while we're driving, see my eyes wince or some other tell that conveys a headache, and he instinctively reaches up to knead my neck and kiss my forehead. It's heavenly, and so deeply appreciated.
Integrating the other into our life plan wasn't difficult, and neither one feels like we're losing anything to build something new. There's no puppeteer with us. No secret financial source that dictates behaviors, no deception, no malice, no guile. I feel safe, really safe with Sam, and that is something that I've never had the privilege of feeling with someone. I hope to never lose it, and will work actively to maintain it.
"For small creatures such as we, the vastness is bearable only through love." -Carl Sagan.
Thank you for loving me, Sam. I love you.
Friday, February 21, 2014
The Intricacies of Dating
This is going to be a quick post, and I know I haven't written since surgery and I will definitely hash that out later, but I've decided to go back on the dating scene after processing my breakup with L last August at the encouragement of my friends, and I tell ya: THIS IS SOME COMPLEX SHIT.
I've never dated more than one person at a time. Mainly, I'm just an intensely monogamous person, so when I find someone I want to invest in, I develop a type of emotional tunnel vision and can't pass out my affections to other men willy nilly. Right now, that's intensely difficult. I went back on the dating site that I met my last two serious relationships on, and right away, I got a lot of attention. WEIRD. One that I met on Valentine's Day was a douche, but I met another guy a few days later who is absolutely phenomenal. I adore the shit out of him, but he's recently out a of a long-term and very serious relationship and justifiably wants to take it slow. I want him to take it slow too, but it's difficult, because there are other guys who are sweet and adoring and funny who are also interested. Universally, we all concur on just dating for now, but I feel extremely conflicted trying to date more than one at a time.
So are we just hanging out? Is there some exclusivity I'm supposed to abide by? What am I supposed to disclose and keep secret? Because, let's be honest, I have no filter and keep very little secret.
I suppose this is all "better" than having romantic inclinations for the unattainable (a previous prof, nothing more need be said) and staying single for no other reason than to avoid what made me unhappy in the past at the risk of achieving the unique happiness of laughing through life with someone else.
GUH. JUST GIMME WHAT I WANT, UNIVERSE.
<3 br="">
I've never dated more than one person at a time. Mainly, I'm just an intensely monogamous person, so when I find someone I want to invest in, I develop a type of emotional tunnel vision and can't pass out my affections to other men willy nilly. Right now, that's intensely difficult. I went back on the dating site that I met my last two serious relationships on, and right away, I got a lot of attention. WEIRD. One that I met on Valentine's Day was a douche, but I met another guy a few days later who is absolutely phenomenal. I adore the shit out of him, but he's recently out a of a long-term and very serious relationship and justifiably wants to take it slow. I want him to take it slow too, but it's difficult, because there are other guys who are sweet and adoring and funny who are also interested. Universally, we all concur on just dating for now, but I feel extremely conflicted trying to date more than one at a time.
So are we just hanging out? Is there some exclusivity I'm supposed to abide by? What am I supposed to disclose and keep secret? Because, let's be honest, I have no filter and keep very little secret.
I suppose this is all "better" than having romantic inclinations for the unattainable (a previous prof, nothing more need be said) and staying single for no other reason than to avoid what made me unhappy in the past at the risk of achieving the unique happiness of laughing through life with someone else.
GUH. JUST GIMME WHAT I WANT, UNIVERSE.
<3 br="">
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Letter to Chauncey
Dear Uterus,
It’s almost time for surgery. Dr. Machado is going to cut
you out of me, and I won’t lie to you, it’s a separation that I’ve been looking
forward to a long time now. I don’t want you to think that I don’t love you, or
am eager to see you go. Truly, how could I hate you, when you’ve been a part of
me since birth? And I don’t hate anything about myself. The truth, however, is
that there are definitely things about myself that hinder my development as a
person, and right now, you’re my number one offender. It’s not your fault, at
all. Truly, I think this inability to function properly in, essentially, a
small way is what is required for me to reach my higher spiritual self. You
see, love, you’re a living embodiment of the female ego. Part of what women
have used as leverage against men in patriarchial societies is that WE have the
ability to bear children, and WE can endure labor, and WE are therefore worthy
of respect. While I’ve never felt those sentiments too strongly, in weaker
ways, it’s been thrust upon me since I was old enough to conceive. I would go
to a doctor’s office and they would ask me if I’d ever been pregnant and how
many children I had, stunned into speechlessness when I said no to both. You,
uterus, have been an unspoken expectation placed upon me by society; that even
if I was unmarried, I would bear fruit in the form of a child from you, and
would take my place among the ranks of single mothers, like my own, struggling
perpetually to build something better solely for said child’s benefit.
This, love, is the truth of it. I have never felt the
fundamental urge at the core of myself to be a biological parent. For awhile I
wanted to be a surrogate for a nice gay couple, because I thought (and still
do) that pregnancy is such an absolute miracle. When I was told I couldn’t have
children, I mourned for a short time, naturally. It’s good to acknowledge the
end of a possibility. But truly, I have always known that I am meant to parent
other people’s children, to try and mend what others have tried to break, to
love what others have thrown away. I always wondered: could I do those things
with my own children to care for? Truly? Could I emotionally commit at the same
level to kids I may not have in my home longer than a year as I could to my
own? And the answer, always, was no. I knew, whenever that situation was posed,
that it was more important for me to foster than make more children for an
already overpopulated planet. Not having a partner, doing so was just an effort
of self-absorbed vanity, wanting a baby that was half my genetic makeup to show
off to strangers and family. I wanted no part.
Uterus, this is why that this extraction has no blame and is
definitely not your fault. It was the powers that be cementing what was already
known in my innermost cells, that I wasn’t meant to carry children. You are
freeing me from the societal ties of convention that bind, hinder, chafe
against my life as it has been lived and will forge onward, away from their
beaten paths. You’re helping weed out potentially hundreds of unfit partners,
that couldn’t imagine life with someone who couldn’t bear their offspring or
wanted to parent other people’s children. You’re enabling the removal of three
likely cancer sites that could have ended this glorious life I intend to live
much too soon. Most of all, taking you out is the only permanent solution to
the pain that you’re causing me on a daily basis, that has at times taken away
my will to live and endure, and has sapped all of my strength, financial
solvency, and creative drive. You, without malice, have held me back, and it’s
time to let you go.
I’m 28. I’ll be on hormone supplements for the rest of my
life. I’m thankful that you allowed me the time to come to these realizations
on my own before you gave out completely, so that I wouldn’t feel deprived of a
future not meant for me. A woman’s value, in our society, is still closely tied
to the number of children you have, how you financially support them, and how
you parent them, and now those criteria will no longer be applied to be. Not
only do I feel like I’m looking forward to a future with significantly less
pain, I feel like I’m looking at unlimited possibilities, freed from the
constructed paradigms of mother-culture that keep up tethered so tightly.
I’ll see adieu. And that I love you, have mourned you, and
will flourish for your sacrifice.
Truly,
Erin.
Friday, November 8, 2013
On love.
I’ve had a tumultuous couple of months, friends. I couldn’t
tell you everything even if I wanted to. As youknow, on my birthday I fell and severely
damaged my ankle…two weeks later, Liam and I broke up. In that break-up
conversation, some nasty things were said; he resented me for my extensive pain
issues, didn’t see a future with me because I wouldn’t “get along” with his mom
(which I did, I just didn’t let her walk all over me when she got rude, and
apparently that wasn’t good enough). The guilt and manipulation that surrounded
our time together, sex, guh…everything, really did a number on me, and it has
required months of processing to understand the scope of it all. At the end of
the day, I think he was playing a charade that he wasn’t even fully aware of;
he wasn’t being himself, he was being “the boyfriend” he thought I deserved,
making most of his sentiments and promises invalid. That’s why it seemed so
ideal, because he was working hard at making it so, but it was equally untrue.
Two weeks ago, I left to go to St. Louis for Jessica. Her father
was suddenly diagnosed with stage 4 small cell lung cancer that had metastasized to the
rest of his body, and he didn’t have long. I was delivering two of his sons and
his granddaughters for a final farewell, as well as being there for her as I’ve
been for every major event since we met, and to say my own goodbye. It was fraught
with issues; her parents didn’t leave and free up space when they said they
would, we all got a terrible stomach flu, I got a cold before I had to drive
solo back with her youngest brother, etc. But it was worth it, to be there for
my family. I’ll always do whatever it takes to fulfill that most fundamental
promise I make to whoever I pledge my love to.
While I was gone, a flirtation developed with a friend of
mine. I think it was fueled by my absence, and moved things faster than they
would’ve gone if I hadn’t left. It’s already over, and the finality of it hurts,
because of how much I truly enjoy him. He’s one of those people that makes any
conceivable situation better, and really embraced my rowdiness, which was
always frowned on by other people I’ve dated. The unfortunate part is that he
is extremely stressed with work, his business, and family, and I felt like a
burden on top of all that; one more person wanting a piece of him, and even
though I tried hard to be essentially low maintenance, I felt like I wanted
more than he could give and it would lead to resentment quickly. There’s nothing
worse than someone you care about resenting you, and as I type that, Liam’s
words are cutting through me and I know I won’t be dropping those bags soon. He
fed on a very specific insecurity of mine; since I was 12 and had to live with
my aunt, I’ve been told to do everything in my power not to be a burden, and I
work so hard at it constantly. I clean up after myself, especially if I’m
visiting someone, I bus my own tables…it just never ends. So, being resented
for being the burdensome half of a relationship due to something completely out
of my control has, to say the least, severely bruised me. Those same feelings
arising so quickly into this flirtation, and the wincing pain I felt at the
thought of being a burden and consequently resented by someone I enjoyed so
much, made me backpedal quickly. Maybe in the future he'll have more time and I won't feel like I'm in chick warfare with other girls for a piece of his attention. I don’t think I’ll be
able to help wanting him, but it’s not fair to ask him to give more
than what he’s told me he can manage.
Besides, I’m getting a hysterectomy in 19 days. That’s a lot
for anyone to try and handle, and I know my Liam couldn’t have. I don’t feel
right asking anyone to go through it with me, emotionally or physically, which is why I’m going alone. It
feels right that way.
I wonder sometimes if I’m so obsessed with not being a
burden that I’ll end up so low on a totem pole that no one will notice if I go
missing. And who would be to blame?! No one but my own damn self.
Why can’t my extremely hot and sweet Anatomy professor
suddenly realize I’m his life mate and ask me out? Although, even as I joke
about it, I know he’d be yet another person that would be embarrassed by my loudass
mouth and rowdy nature, and I’m sick of it. I’d rather be single than be
shushed.
On that note, I’m going to have a drink. I’ve cried enough
for a week. Toodles noodles.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)