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Girly Question

18 Sep

I bought some new bras in July or so that fit pretty damn well. So well that I bought two.

Fast forward to today. Said bra is slouching it’s way around my body, moving up and down. Now I’ve lost a little weight, maybe 10 pounds if that, based on my jeans now falling off when I run., but I wouldn’t think it would be enough to jack up my bra.

So what the fuck? Anyone else have experience with this? I’ve always have this problem-fits awesome in the dressing room, survives the jump and jiggle test, all of it. But when I get home, it’s like a helium balloon that’s gotten old. And I do NOT get it.

The girls are…substantial I know. But that shouldn’t matter. Should it?

More than the sum of her womb.

28 Jul

You know what I’m sick of.

I’m sick of this shit.

Bitch, where’s your kids? Here’s Britney Spears hard at work on a plan to get custody of her kids back

. Her plan so far involves some pool lounging and flirting with anonymous dudes.

But we know Britney. We can see the gears sparking and grinding in her head. It smells like beef jerky. That’s how you know Britney’s plotting something.

 

Yes, Britney surrendered custody of her children to their father. Yes, she’s had various problems in the last little while. We know.

What drives me nuts each time I open my feed reader are posts that basically stand back and point a “HOLY SHIT DUDES! HORRIBLE MOTHER AHEAD!!!!!” finger at her, which numerous male stars walk out on their children, likely every day. And it’s everywhere-how dare someone with a working womb and vagina give up her kids, maybe to get better, or maybe because, like men all over the world, she can’t handle having them all the time.

This constant assumption of the sainted perfect mother who can’t be separated from her kids-this drives post partum depression, this drives women who work 60 hour work weeks and yet still make the cookies for playschool. It drives women not being able to make the reasonable decisions regarding their children because only bad monster mommies leave their kids. Only evil mommies dare act like men. How on earth could the womb that bore them walk away so easily?

To which I ask, how on each can the ejaculator who created them walk away so easily?

It’s so pervasive, so easy to think “Geez, what a cooze, leaving her kids and going sunbathing.” It’s so easy to judge, so easy to believe she’s a bad mother for leaving instead of a good mother for removing herself in order to get better for them. I could be wrong. She could be a brainless idiot who created a mental illness to rid herself of two children she didn’t want.

Somehow I doubt it.

It’s easy though isn’t it, to point at a woman in a way that we wouldn’t dream of pointing at a man-how many have children in or out of relationships, and all they’ve done is throw money at them? I’m sure you’re all counting right now.

What I expel from my uterus does not make me sacred, or special, or holier. It makes me a mother, as it makes the father a father. He is not blessed with special properties-hell, if he takes custody, he’s some sort of sacrificial cow, gazed at adoringly as a perfect piece of man. The woman-not so lucky, as she is selfish enough to not want her pwecious bebes. 

I don’t want my daughters to grow up in this world-in a world where every tabloid sings the lusty sins, perceived or real, of 15 year old girls, where your gender casts you out in specific ways, where the “good kid” doesn’t always win. I want a world with real freedom for women, not viral campaigns against something written on shitty underwear at K-Mart or pissing matches on the internet.

I want us ALL to have the freedom to walk away if need be. Just like our men do.

Bipolar and PMS-My personal Axis of Evil

11 May

The last few months have been unpleasant. 26 days of the month are normal, copacetic, happy, sometimes sorta down, tired days.

3-5 days of the month are not.

My natural state is one of fairly rapid cycling. I can, literally, go from giggling uncontrollably to crying in a minute. I’ve done this. I hate it. Mixed states are my favorite either-being agitated and manic, really not a great combination.

So lately, with my menstrual cycle being it’s usual insane clusterfuck, I haven’t been enjoying the accompanying swings. Vast swings. Yesterday I was peaceful getting a manicure, then panicked getting a pedicure, then wistful, the manic and happy dancing with the girls then sad and weepy, turning into full blown suicidal urges by 10pm. I kept hearing things and seeing things, flashes out the side of my eyes. I spent the day repeating “This isn’t real.”

My doctor claims it’s normal, and I believe she’s right. For years I’d have what we called “freakouts’, and they always coincided with that time of the month. I, in my paranoid state, always assumed it was Mogo’s way to not taking any blame. Now I know that isn’t the case.

It’s disorienting, because you think you’re ok. You feel ok, until you don’t, and suddenly the persecuted thoughts start, you start staring at yourself thinking you’re too fucking fat to live, you’re useless and it hurts to much and then suddenly you’re ok, like a tornado came and went and you’re laughing and you can’t believe you felt that way! except for the lingers delusion that something is going to go terribly terribly wrong.

The delusions I can handle. I have a grip on them, even though my doctor didn’t seem to care much when I mentioned them-maybe I didn’t make them clear to her. But these intermittent spurts of DIE DIE DIE I want to DIE! are a but much to handle, and they worry me. What if they linger long enough? What if the lithium stops working? What if the illness overcomes me and wins?

I shouldn’t fear as I do, but I can’t help it. Once you’re out of the storm, you cannot imagine going back in and surviving. Maybe if my manic periods were more satisfying, or longer, maybe then I’d not mind the thought. But they aren’t long enough to make anything feel good. They are short, and angry and brutal, and the depression always feels like it lasts for months anyway.

I want this to be easy. I want it to stay shut behind the lithium door and leave me be. But it won’t.

growl.

17 Dec

I have been so very very unpleasant the last few days, there aren’t even words. It’s the kind of unpleasant that makes me worry the Lithium isn’t working. It’s the kind that seems to be PMS, but without the M.

Which is just great. We have a night out and hotel room on Friday, so I’m sure you can all guess when the “M” part of that acronym will make an appearance.

Foul. I’m fucking FOUL.

I missed the bus, so I walked 2 blocks, and called a cab so I could get to the mall to take the bus. It’s windy as shit outside, and about to get cold.

I walk in the doors to work and two lazy smokers decided to light up inside, which I totally appreciate since I quit smoking years ago and don’t wish to walk through the stench.

I’m just so very unpleasant and tired to be around. Is this the new trade off? 3 weeks of normalcy for a horrid week of menstrual irritability? Cause really, I’ll have a hysterectomy then please. This is a bit much, even for me.

I’m coming up Man Sized

19 Oct

I want to be a woman.

It’s a vague craving. As the lithium starts to kick in, I start to feel more like a girl, like a woman.

When I’m very sick, I feel almost sexless, between male and female. I don’t take care of myself, I dress sloppily, forget to wash. I stop caring, period, regardless of being manic or depressed. My exterior, and my feeling of womanhood, is usually the last thing I care about. I don’t identify as a female during that time.

Of course, I never cared all that much to begin with. My mother and I would have “discussions” that I usually lost about me putting on a dress when I was younger. Little ladies never wore black. I remember how upset she was when my father let me spend my own money on fatigue green shorts and shirt. How I looked like a little boy.

And I did. I had short hair (her doing) and had a tendency to wander around without my shirt on. I figured hell, if boys could do it, why couldn’t I? Even then, I didn’t understand the big difference between them and I. I didn’t care.

After she died, I really didn’t have any idea how to be “girly”. My size didn’t help. At 11, I was about 5’6 or so, and wearing a woman’s size 12 or so. I wasn’t fat, despite thinking so at the time. I was a big girl. But when surrounded by petite little things wearing Jacob and Esprit, you begin to feel like an outsider. Having experienced a death didn’t help matters either. While I was mostly ostracized from the land of lady to begin with because I was weird, it was made even worse because I was the girl with no Mom. No one knew how to handle that, so ignoring me was the best thing.

Trying to develop a female identity alone is hard. Made harder still when any attempts are laughed at anyway. So I turned away from that part of me, and fast. I became the girl you didn’t fuck with instead of just being that loser weird girl. Boys didn’t look at me that way-C cup or not. I was that strange.

It’s hurtful to look back at this. To think of how little I mattered to those around me, how I was invisible despite being so big. How the largest in the room becomes the easiest to avoid I’ll never know. I was always just a friend.

I became convinced that no one would ever love me, or even like me in that way. At least, not in a want to actually be seen in public kind of way. So I built up my defenses, and used weird as a sword to keep others away.

Which is not to say no one ever noticed me. But it was rare.

I spent years distancing myself from anything girlish. It equalled weak in my mind, and I couldn’t bear that. I culled the soft spots into submission, and buried them deep inside my chest so no one could find them. I became strong enough to hold the world up.

And it was pretty much working until the bipolar got right out of control. Then suddenly, I wasn’t strong enough to hold anything together. The softness leaked out, begged for some face time. A woman began to growl underneath it all, and wanted out.

And she’s coming out. But I don’t know what to do with her.

um, er…trying to not freak out.

17 Oct

So let’s say there’s this woman who has two kids. She had a tubal ligation and an endometrial ablation over a year ago. She’s been told she can’t get pregnant.

She’s 3 days or so late on her period. Let’s say she’s NEVER late, and that even if she can’t track the date exactly, she knows about when it should arrive. And it hasn’t.

Sure, three days aren’t much to shake a stick at, but she has never EVER been late before. The only other times she’s missed a period is when she was pregnant. Her body is that trustworthy.

Say what you will, there is always the chance that she could have an etopic pregnancy, or a very very small chance of having a natural pregnancy despite the thinned uterine wall. There is always a chance.

And let’s say that this chick is freaking out, and her doctor is on leave until December. What should she do? She knows that it also might be the drugs she’s on, but she doubts it, since she was on one for three months without an issue, and just switched to a new one that shouldn’t have an effects in this regard whatsoever.

So she’s worried. Not really really worried, but still…..

So foul

18 Sep

I’m foul foul foul.

It’s “that” time of the month. You know what it’s like being bipolar and then getting your period? It’s like World War Three. Shit falls down, breaks apart, blows up and generally is unpleasant to be around.

I feel so fucking fat I don’t even look in the mirror at this point. Starving myself is beginning to look better and better everyday. I feel so invisible.

I’m depressed. I’m fucking tired of being depressed, or feeling like I should be happy when I just don’t feel anything. Weren’t these drugs supposed to help this?

I’m angry. I’m fierce and fiendish and loud and all I want to do is scream my lungs out for days. I can’t even go anywhere and sing, the one real vent I normally have. (besides, not singing loudly for so long has left me bereft of the little bit of control I normally have over my breathing)

My back fucking kills, likely because I’m becoming disgustingly fat. My self loathing knows no bounds this week.

The pills must not be working, because the dreams are back. The horrible fucking death dreams are back, and I sleep the sleep of the tormented.

AND I turn 30 next week.

Fuck.

“I am so embarrassed I got my period”

3 Aug

Now don’t be.

It happens to all of us. Its special. (Ok, if you’re lying on the floor bleeding like a stuck pig and wondering if you’re ovaries are trying to come out of your body, you might disagree with me on this point).

And ok, some of it isn’t that special. Like here. It wasn’t very special at the time.

But it built character, and that matters, right?

Here’s the thing. This means you’re becoming a woman. You are leaving childhood behind. I don’t care what all the TV shows say, or the books. This is a signal from your body and nature that you are blossoming into something more. Into a being that can create life, give life. You are learning that your body cannot be governed, not always. It’s magical if you think about it.

Don’t ever be embarrassed to buy what you need. (or, just go get a Diva Cup and be done with it.) Walk out without the double bag and be proud. I was actually more mortified when a cashier put it in double bags for me without asking-why would I be ashamed of a natural process? My body is doing what it should-bleeding to remind me that I haven’t created life just then.

I was embarrassed as hell when I got mine-and annoyed. Because I had no one around me to help make it a celebration of life-the giving and continuance of life, to celebrate my coming of age. My own rite of passage.

Celebrate for you if nothing else. Dance under the moon, run free through dew wet fields-tie into your world as much as you can. Embrace the womanhood that is coming.

There is nothing to be ashamed of. Be happy and strong, and grow into the woman you will be.

Mild

19 Jul

Yet again I found myself thinking about feminism on my bus ride to work. Yesterday I read an article (find it here) about Wendy Shalit’s new book “Girls Gone Mild”. Some of you might recall that name from her last book, “A Return to Modesty.” 

I’ll be frank. Her previous book irritated the hell out of me, because at the time, I found the entire movement for returning ‘chastity” to young girls smacked too much as a problem with them, something that girls needed to fix. But with this new book, and what’s been quoted from Ms. Shalit, I find myself nodding and wanting to read the book. I don’t agree with this woman and everything she says-far from it. In one short article, I find myself at odds with gems like

Traditional feminism has been utterly incapable of dealing with problems that girls are facing. They are so committed to the idea that that we have to be like men and that any differences between the sexes are socially constructed the result has been extremely unhealthy for girls. Let’s be clear: A lot of men are wonderful, but it’s the adolescent male that the third-wave feminists are now imitating.”

I don’t believe it’s unhealthy for women to be able to be as mediocre and asinine as men in any way. In fact, I resent the implication that women need to be some sort of flag bearer for a better, simpler more chaste sex.  But her basic argument, that the current climate of SEX SEX SEX more More MORE! is not truly empowering, is one that I agree with wholeheartedly. Look around-children aren’t children-we feel free to allow them to dress as adults, yet treat them as powerless creatures. We let young girls just blossoming into their womanhood strut around with degrading messages. We allow our daughters to believe that careless sexuality is always the answer, instead of a choice. And let’s be frank-in the current culture, it isn’t a choice as much as a battlefield. Bucking the trend of your peers can be a very difficult endeavor that many girls, let alone women, are unable to force. If the perceived guide to happiness is a little action in the back field, what do you think will happen?  I

 firmly believe, and always will, that a woman’s power is in her right to choose-choose sex, a career, children, anything. To be as lame or as powerful as any man. Young girls also fall within this. The difference is in age, and experience. Young girls today are constantly given the message that how they dress “doesn’t matter”. It does though doesn’t it? I know I judge everyone I see based on their clothing to a degree, as most people do, whether they’ll admit this or not. The two girls who were are most 15 and had everything, and I mead EVERYTHING hanging out were not empowering themselves. They were on display like heifer. I wanted to grab them and tell them that there are other ways to prove their equality and their worth, ways that actually mean something. But who listens to the fat old lady? It’s a world of pelvic thrusts and “slap my ass” dance moves.

You my darling, cannot be equal to a man. You are different all right. You are a thing. A little modesty, a little self worth, might help girls, and ultimately women, realize that empowerment isn’t at the end of a penis. That truly feeling equal, acting “like a man” has more to do with asserting one’s self and realizing one’s value. So perhaps it isn’t so much acting like a man, but acting like a fully realized person. I’m not naive enough to believe that all ills can be traced back to provocative dress, but I worry about the effect on an entire generation growing up within a world that places outward value solely on T&A. What kind of leaders are we creating? Where are the GRRRL’s? 

It all causes a serious disconnect within me regarding my own daughters. I want them to be in full control of their sexuality-they choose who and when they sleep with someone, within reason. I want them to be proud of their bodies, and what they can do. I want them to value themselves. But I also want daughters who realize that sexuality means more than a quickie in a parked car. With the multitude of messages the world sends me, and my daughters, I have trouble finding where rationality begins. 

I can tell you one thing though-they are dressing as little girls for as long as humanly possible. Recent construct or not, they deserve the childhood our society can afford them.

Today’s hormonally inspired baking is…

18 Jun

Chocolate Chip Cookies!

(I know, you’re saying how original right now! But give me a break-I made strawberry cheesecake cupcakes awhile back.)

Chocolate Chip Cookies, random from the internet.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (177 degrees C) with rack in center of oven. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper. Set aside.

In the bowl of your electric mixer (or with a hand mixer), cream the butter. Add the white and brown sugars and beat until fluffy (about 2 minutes). Beat in eggs, one at a time, making sure to beat well after each addition. Add the vanilla and beat until incorporated.

In a separate bowl, combine flour, baking soda, and salt. Add the dry ingredients to the egg mixture and beat until incorporated, adding the chocolate chips about half way through mixing. If you find the dough very soft, cover and refrigerate until firm (about 30 minutes).  

For large cookies, use about a 2 tablespoon ice cream scoop or with two spoons, drop about 2 tablespoons of dough (35 grams) onto the prepared baking sheets. Bake about 12 – 14 minutes, or until golden brown around the edges. Cool completely on wire rack.

Makes about 4 dozen – 3 inch round cookies

Note: You can freeze this dough. Form the dough into balls and place on a parchment lined baking sheet. Freeze and then place the balls of dough in a plastic bag, seal, and freeze. When baking, simply place the frozen balls of dough on a baking sheet and bake as directed – may have to increase baking time a few minutes.

Recipe:

1 cup (2 sticks) (226 grams) unsalted butter, room temperature

3/4 cup (150 grams) granulated white sugar

3/4 cup (160 grams) firmly packed light brown sugar

2 large eggs

2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

3 cups (420 grams) all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking soda

1/4 teaspoon salt

1 1/2 cups (270 grams) semisweet chocolate chips

Note:  Can add 1 cup of toasted and chopped nuts (pecans or walnuts).

No nuts for me baby. Cannot STAND crunchy things in chewy things. Call it food neophobia if you will, and in some ways it likely is, but hey, at least if there’s something crunchy in there, it’s a bug, and I know right away.

But I’m curious if anyone has any favorite cookie recipies that aren’t your standards, but are still easy to assemble from what’s in the cupboard, and actually taste good. If I bake, I use butter (or crisco the odd time, but it makes me kinda…queasy). I want all the taste, or none. I have tons of cookbooks, but I’d rather hear from people who have used the recipies. Sometimes I’m not feeling like trying something, but want something new nonetheless.

I’m annoyed, with bonus

10 May

I’m annoyed that I’m always craving crap to eat, and then eating it. I’m annoyed that I seemingly have no self control. I stare longingly at runners swiftly moving past me, their bodies compact and ready. I stare down at my expanding self, and wonder how long until there isn’t enough room for me to spread into any longer.

I can’t control my eating. Why is there always one thing I seem to be unable to resist? And is this the trade off from not smoking? 50lbs or more? Why can’t I ignore that screaming need to eat the worst thing within my sight?

How do I retrain myself to eat only good things, especially when those around me are uninterested in trying to, or learning with me?

I’m annoyed that things that fit 3 months ago, loosely, are now tight. I’m annoyed that I haven’t gained any actual weight, and this is still the case. I’m annoyed that my foot hurts so much when I walk, keeping me from walking more.

I’m annoyed that there are days when I hate my body so much that I would tear it apart with razors. I’m annoyed that there are days when I hate myself so much, hate that I’m running out of sizes, annoyed that it’s all so far out of my reach and control.

I’m annoyed that I don’t have a doctor who will help me. I’m annoyed that I won’t be able to find on who will. I’m annoyed that all of this makes me feel even more helpless.

I’m annoyed that I have no will anymore, that it’s been leached out of my by childbirth, or tiredness, or by the simple sense of wanting to find something for me. Since I quit smoking, I’ve always been craving something, anything. I silent craving that seems just as, if not more dangerous than the smoking.

I’m annoyed that I want to cry, that I feel trapped within this body that isn’t me, within these feelings that I don’t own, behind this mouth I cannot stop.

I’m annoyed that I don’t know how to help me either.

All right bastard fat ass

9 Apr

I  think I’m ready to fight you off for good this time.

I restarted my Sparkpeople account. I tallied up my calories for today. (Not bad if I don’t eat dinner). I’d walk home if there wasn’t 3 feet of snow everywhere.

I’m tired of feeling tired, tired of not setting an example for my children. But I don’t want to try some stupid diet that I’ll never stick to. I can’t not eat flour, since my buttermilk pancakes aren’t nearly as good with whole wheat flour. Live without potatoes? HA!

So I’m going to try again. I’ve done this before, and when I was motivated to do it, it was working. I’m hoping that the Wellbutrin will allow me to maintain a level and stick with something for the first time in my life.

Cause you know? It would be nice to get back into even a size 18 pants. I won’t get much smaller than size 16 due to hips that shifted, but hell, being able to buy pants in a “normal” store would be a step up.

I know that the majority of my problem is far too many calories ingested, and ZERO exercise (It’s winter). So it’s time for me to shut up, and stop eating! right? (And it’s also time for my father to stop making pies, but I digress)

Any advice for good cookbooks for lighter eating? I’m picky, and like weird stuff (like plain rice cakes-yum!)

I quit smoking cold turkey. I can lose the flubber, right?

Two questions, for girls (or boys)

19 Mar
  1. I have VERY thick, irritating wavy hair. The hairdresser was able to smooth and straighten it SOOOO nicely. I can’t get it to flatten at ALL. Any thoughts? Please remember that I suffer from femaidiosious (I don’t know squat about chick shit)
  2. WHY do I constantly feel bloated? Is there a certain food I should beware? Could the less than one pop a day be doing this? More water? Less water?

I’ve had these in my head for awhile, and figured I’d put it out there.

So….

8 Jan

let’s say I might be getting a work trip to Tennessee in the next week or so. Let’s also say that I’d like to do some shopping, and I’m “bigger” boned, and need some advice. i also have 11W feet, and would like some new pretty CHEAP shoes.

Come on girls. I’ll have limited time, and limited funds, but i need SOMETHING new clothing wise. Help a chick out.

25 Oct

I hate being a girl.

Most of the time. There are times when I love being a girl. (Multiple orgasms coming to mind on this one)

But when I have those achy cramps, and a headache, and that slightly squicky feeling between, I don’t dig it.

But I’ve noticed something else. When I get my period, I become ravenous. I could eat horses. It’s insane.

Since starting to take the Trileptal, I’ve seen my appetite turn from something strange and out of control to something barely there. I eat like a normal person. I never even imagined that was possible. I used to eat everything, for no reason. Now I eat when I’m  hungry, with the occasional snack.

But right now, I’m freaking STARVING. And i’ve already eaten a few things. Like a ham bagette and rice pilaf and an apple and yogurt and stuff.

Still VERY VERY hungry.

I think today’s hunger was caused, in combination, by my monthly friend, and this article talking about Caloric Restriction diets, and their effects.

Now, some women would read that, admire the restraint some people have, think about the weight loss, and decide, what the hell, time to reduce my calories.

I on the other hand, read the article, thought “you poor poor crazy man” and proceeded to run out to buy the earlier referenced ham sandwich. While I do admire anyone who can deal with eating only 1300 calories a day in the hopes of living a few years longer, I am most certainly not one of them. I like food (sorta). Sadly, food is not as enamoured of me as I am of it. Especially in my ass region.

All I know is that I had to eat greens all the time, especially when I’m already moody and prone to outbursts causing weeping, I’d kill myself.

So much for those added years. If I wanted to deprive myself, I’d move to Cuba or something.

Bleeding is fo Suckas

7 Sep

When I was 13, I got my period.

How exciting you say. Just like almost every other girl who ever existed.

But there’s a catch.

I was 13 when I got my period, and had no mom. I had only a father who referred to any menstruation related products as “Sanitary Napkins”.

I kid you not. It’s taken me at least 15 years to get him to say “pad“.

I had a stash of various pads and tampons stolen from other people’s mothers, figuring that I needed to be prepared for when IT happened. I thought having one a day would be fine. I had read all about it at the library, and took the claims of “teaspoons” of blood seriously.

I know, I know. I don’t believe it either. Stop laughing and keep reading.

And then it came, and I spent the majority of a morning writhing on the linoleum in the bathroom from cramps, the kind of cramps they tell you are similar to labor pains. That day, I decided to beg any and all gods to remove my ovaries and uterus. I wasn’t going to use it anyway, and this kind of pain was just mean.

Eventually I picked myself off the floor, stuffed my mouth full of Motrin and made my way to school. Wearing light blue jeans, and my favorite loyalist days shirt. The one with the ruffle that my mother had made.

Everything was just fine until I coughed an hour into the day. Suddenly, it was like the gates had been opened, and it had been raining for days and days. I imagined blood was pouring off my chair and on to the floor. I thought about what I could do, where I could run.

Instead, I stared straight ahead and tried not to move. Not.An. Inch. No coughing, no talking, no nothing. I would wait until the end of class, and tie my coat around my waist. I knew that the evidence on light blue jeans would be too clear.

At the end of class, I stood up after everyone else had left, and felt that torrent begin. All I could do was let it happen-it’s not like I could close my legs and keep it in. I ran from the room for recess, and hid in a corner by a window, my coat tight around my waist.

I was not the first student back into the room, and when I entered, I heard the boys sniggering and all the girls pointedly NOT looking in my direction. Suddenly, one of the louder, ore boorish boys yelled out,

“Mr.. Dubeau, we can’t sit here-she BLED all over the chairs.”

In my defense, I only bled on one of the chairs.

Everyone in the room started to howl, and I managed to cover the red/pink spectrum in under 20 seconds on my face. And still, I felt the blood between my legs. The teacher was helpless-he was male, and everyone thought he was gay. In grade 8, that’s a death sentence. (he eventually was finished off by the class after us, who caused him to hurl a computer monitor out a closed window). So he did what any male teacher would do.

He sent me to see a female teacher.

Mrs.. Adams quietly took me aside, and began to explain a few things about my flow, and how to use pads. I had been dumbfounded the first time I stood in front of the aisles of “Feminine Products”. Wings? Super Plus? I had no clue what anything really meant, and she kindly explained it to me. I watched her almost waver into pity, but she knew better. I was deeply embarrassed because I didn’t know what I was doing, and had caused the problem. I wanted help, not a shoulder.

Besides which, Mrs.. Adams was the most feared teacher in my school. You did NOT fuck with this woman, who was all of 5 feet tall. So I sat and let her explain that part of the birds and the bees to me. Then, she called my Dad, which only made me feel worse. My FATHER was going to know about this, and be just as uncomfortable and embarrassed about it. I wanted to crawl under a rock.

I wanted outside for him. I couldn’t bear to be in the school one more second. He came, and picked me up, and we drove home in silence. I cleaned up, tried what she had told me to do with the pads (double them up honey-some days are worse than others) and went back downstairs where he waited. The way back to school was silent as well, until we were almost there.

“I can’t Dad. I can’t go back. I’m so embarrassed.I bled all over a chair! Don’t make me go back, please..”

My father stopped the car, and looked me full in the face.

“You have to go back. That’s the only option here babe.”

What he didn’t say was what I heard in his eyes. That life has sucked for us, and this is just another in a long line of terrible, horrible no good things that might happen. That sometimes life hurts, a lot, and yet we have to soldier on. That he desperately wished my mother was there to make it all better, was there so he wouldn’t have to tell his daughter to go back into school to a guaranteed roasting. That all his love couldn’t make it better, and that this was what life was-doing what we don’t want to do sometimes. And it hurt him too.

I knew I had to go back in. And I dreaded it like I had never dreaded anything ever before. But obviously, there had been “a talk”. Likely a speech about being nice to the poor girl who had no mother. The offending chair was cleaned, but in my eyes, the stain never went away. I didn’t look anyone in the eye. At first.

My father taught me one of the most important lessons I’ve ever learned that day-that we do the hard things sometimes because it’s right, or it’s the only way. Hell, I can even apply this to childbirth in some ways-the only way out, is THROUGH. More importantly, my father taught me that it’s ok to be scared even when life requires something hard from us. That I’m human, and it’s ok to feel, ok to be a girl. That losing my mother didn’t mean I couldn’t handle life.

Ironically, I also learned a valuable lesson about OB tampons from Mrs. Adams. Which, all told, may have been the most important lesson I’ve learned.