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“Help! My two year old is a screaming monster!”

7 Jul

All I can say is, buy earplugs, and wait it out. But damn, funniest search I’ve seen in awhile.

“I’m adopted I feel confused”

29 Jun

Did you just find out? Was it sprung on you suddenly, and now your world is in question?

I’ve always known I was adopted. I don’t remember being told-it was just a plain fact, like having elbows. But I do remember being told that it made me special-that my mother and my father wanted a daughter badly, and waited for me, picked me. It was never anything I was ashamed of, or upset about. My parents picked me! They wanted me!

But there comes a time when you wonder who you are-where you came from, whose hair you have, who to blame for your big feet. You wonder if the all encompassing loneliness that you always feel, the otherness, has anything to do with the fact that you were separated from your mother so early. You wonder if your mother felt betrayed and sad when pregnant with you, explaining your own sadness through your life. You wonder if you’d be happy if you weren’t adopted.

I’ve always believed that holding back the adoption talk until the kid is “older” is wrong, and mean. By 16, you’ve formed your sense of self-you know who you are, or you think you do. It’s like believing you’re white all your life, and then having someone explain to you that actually, you’re asian. I cannot imagine how incensed I would have been to only be told at 16 or 18.

Being adopted isn’t a bad thing. It’s weird sometimes. It can feel isolating in the context of circumstances tailored to biological children.¬† And yes, it can be confusing-who am I? Where do I come from? These questions take on a new meaning for the adoptee, because they really don’t know.

What’s even more confusing is finding your birth family. The people who gave you away. The people who look like you, but aren’t you. The people you feel a connection to, and yet don’t. You’re out of step with them, almost the same, but not quite.

It’s confusing to see what could have been yours, where you could have been. The life that was denied. Its confusing when they try and make it up to you, try to bring you in, hold you within the family they couldn’t offer before.

It’s confusing when they reject you because you aren’t what they want you to be. It’s confusing when you feel like you should care, and you really don’t.

“How do i handle people who don’t like me”

20 Jun

Fuck em, that’s how. ūüôā

I wish it was that easy. And in a way it is.

I’m not exactly easy to get along with in real life. I’m a snotty bitch, I put a LOT of stock in manners, sincerity, and honesty. I need the people around me to be themselves, instead of some construct they’ve created. I need people who can challenge my brain in good ways, people not afraid to bitch my head off. (Thinking of you on that one Stace) I need REAL people.

Needless to say, these requirements generally leave me a little…shorthanded in the friends department. Not that I much care. I’m essentially someone without the need for social contact beyond the odd outing. Even that drains me. I’ve never been much for people, unless I’m inebriated in some way, shape or form. Which explains most of high school actually. I don’t need people around me, and would mostly be quite happy if nearly everyone around me disappeared. People act like morons, and generally are happy to isolate themselves from anything important. I can’t stand that. Why be alive if you aren’t trying to further your knowledge or wisdom?

People won’t like you. Possibly even for reasons that have nothing to do with you. There are people I don’t like because I personally feel that the way they live isn’t appropriate for their age. There are people I don’t like because they never shut.the.fuck.up. There are people I don’t like because they are stupid, and would cut off their nose to spite their face. There are people I don’t like because I feel they are hypocritical, their views not matching their actions.

Many people don’t like me. And I’m fine with that. Who wants to belong to a club that doesn’t want you? I’m old enough to not give two shits, to move on and do something better with my time.

But maybe you’re 14, and stuck in some shitty school with no friends, or you have friends but other people make it clear that they don’t like you. In which case, my advice is simple. Fight the fuck back. Hand their ass to them verbally or physically. Stand up and make yourself known. You haven’t done anything, and if these other kids/people haven’t realized that they can keep their dislikes to themselves, they need¬†a simple¬†lesson.

I know, I know-violence is wrong. But you know what? That’s all some people listen to. And I’ve been that girl who was disliked and bullied for no good reason, and now? I wish I would have turned around and smashed that chick in the face a few times. But I’m stronger now than I was then.

At the end of the day, it’s also up to you to decide how much time and energy you want to expend caring about what they think. Do you really care? Do you really want to be liked by everyone? Tomatoes are wonderful, but I don’t like them. Nothing against tomatoes-they just aren’t my thing. And it’s like that with people. I do know many good people who I just can’t stand. Which is ok. Nowhere does it say you have to like everyone.

Be kind, be yourself, and live your life. Stay true to who YOU are, and everything else will fall into place.

“why does my bi-polar husband run away?”

13 Jun

Because if he’s anything like me, he just couldn’t resist the compulsion.

I resist it constantly. This little voice in my head, my own voice but different saying “You could just walk you know. Just go.”

I don’t want to. Everything in me, except for that little crazy bipolar space does not¬†want to go anywhere.

But it’s so scary to feel like you, yourself, your very essence can be overridden by some compulsive voice in the back of your head. I worry that sometime I won’t be able to resist, that I will be overcome with the addiction my brain has to different, somewhere else.

I know there’s no greener grass than that on which I sit. But that doesn’t stop the mini me in my head from whispering at me almost constantly, if I let it, if I allow it space.

Your husband isn’t running away from you. In fact, it has little or nothing to do with you. Being bipolar means you live in this tiny little place where only you exist, and nothing really gets inside and touches you unless you push yourself so hard you feel like blood might pool from your ears. Finding a place of real feeling is rare, lovely, and impossibly hard.

Those of you who love someone with bipolar, take heart. We love you back. We are grateful to you, proud of you. But we fight with a demon that sits on us daily, a demon that ties our hands behind us, prevents us from moving in the directions that might work. We drug that demon into submission, but somehow, it always knows how to escape, and return even stronger. We fear the demon, as we fear losing you.

Help bring us back. Stay strong for him, for us. He loves you, as I love my husband.

It’s just that sometimes, we forget how to steer, and end up in places we don’t want. Bring us back, and help us stay.

“bipolar mothers die quickly”

11 Jun

My word, do we?

I will admit-at this point, if I was unmedicated, I would likely be dead. It’s that simple, and it had gotten that bad. My disorder had gone to that point. What at one point had been almost manageable if you dug crazy chicks was moving into territory that scared me.

But it’s true. Those of us with bipolar are at a higher risk of suicide, with around 15% being successful from 25-50% who attempt to kill themselves at least once. We aren’t the stable individuals we might seem.

Try adding pregnancy to this mix. Bipolar starts to show itself in young adulthood, and it doesn’t exactly get better. Hormones send you for a loop. The pressures of new motherhood, lack of sleep, adjustment to a new role-it all works to try and crush you in a pressure cooker. Post partum, the bipolar mother has an increased risk of depression leading to psychosis.

I didn’t know I was bipolar-in hindsight, considering my behaviour, I should have. But people always discount pregnancy as a time when women lose their minds.¬† I alienated the people around me. I stressed out my household to the point where my daughter was having nightmares. I didn’t enjoy my second pregnancy at all.

I’m lucky, or at least I think I’m lucky because I’m only Bipolar II. I have the disease, but not to the point where I’m completely debilitated. I can function, even if it’s just barely somedays. I can hide my bipolar behind the mask of “weird”. I’ve been doing this long enough-and this likely explains my disdain for people who try to be weird or odd. Some of us don’t have a choice, and don’t necessarily want it, at least not all the time.

I sincerely wanted to die, but was, as usual, saved more by my fear of abandoning the people who loved me than anything else. But if they hadn’t been there for me-I wouldn’t be telling you this story.

Bipolar mother’s do die quickly if no one is around to help them.

“loser unhappy weepy mom”

24 May

oh hon….

You aren’t a loser. You’re not a bad person.

The first few weeks after birth are not always perfect. Actually, they aren’t perfect at all. They’re full of snot, milk, spooge, poop, scabs, lochia…so many smells and textures you’ve never seen before. They’re full of crying, little sleep, anger, sadness, joy, awe.

The first few weeks after having a baby is like taking your entire adolescence and bottling it up into a month or so. Then shaking it and adding responsibility and your nose.

Anyone who isn’t a little unsteady and unhappy is lying.

Maybe you’re like me, and you weren’t expecting or wanting any children. Maybe you were surprised by what your body did, the growing belly, the expanding breasts. Maybe you were saddened by capitulating to drugs, to their wishes. Maybe you’re sad because you don’t want the baby.

Maybe you’re sick, as I was.

I felt for a long time that it was my fault, that my rejection of my second born was something I caused. I still feel it sometimes, the guilt, the horror I felt at the sight of her. I see my blank stare in her blank stare those first few weeks. I’ve always felt responsible. She wasn’t a happy baby. I wasn’t a happy mother. But it wasn’t my fault.

PPD is a sickness-post partum depression is not your fault, it’s no one’s fault. If anything, it’s the fault of our medical system that it doesn’t do more to root it out, to prevent it, just to understand it. You aren’t a bad mother. You are NOT a loser. So many of us feel this way, after the birth, and long after. PPD doesn’t just go away. You deal with this for years-mother’s aren’t supposed to not want their children, to feel sad because of them.

We’re supposed to be joyous, and happy.

Happy took a long time for me. I don’t like babies. I see infants and I feel a tightening in a my chest, an awareness of all¬†I lost by being unable to enjoy that first year, that year that I lost to my fucking disease. I barely remember my second born as an infant-I was too sick. But I’m past blaming myself. I’m not a terrible mother. I’m just a mother with a sickness that will never end. I’m a mother who couldn’t have fixed it.

My bipolar diagnosis was almost a gift horse-it made me understand that this isn’t my fault. That the weepy, unhappy me originated in bad chemistry, not in a bad person. I’m not a bad person. I’m just a mother with a brain that doesn’t always work as it should. Or it works too well. I’m not sure which yet.

I’m not a loser because of it. And neither are you. Talk to your doctor, your mother, your spouse, someone. Talk.

“it’s not fair i miss you”

16 May

No.Shite.

Do we all miss someone, somewhere? A time, a place, a smell, a moment.

It’s not fair. None of this is. It’s not meant to be. Fair is something we created our of whole cloth to make us feel better about the way things are. The inherent crap that is our day to day lives.

How else to explain the suffering of a small child? Or the loss of a loved one far too soon?  Or war, or terror or sadness?

I miss me.

Simply put. I could miss my mother, my childhood, the person my father was. I could miss the cool light of a December evening, or the dusky humidity in the August air. I could miss laughing by a cool stream as petals rained down from the trees one bright late spring. I could miss the rising sun on my eyes like fuzzy peaches, feasting on the morning.

I miss the girl who saw those things. I miss the girl who breathed in moments, snatched, grasped, held softly. I miss the girl who didn’t know any better, who would walk off the plank from bad eyesight and excitement. I miss that girl.

Her beauty was in the sheer madness in her eyes, the unstoppable way she barrelled through life. Her laughter, her words. She felt, she heard she was.

It’s not fair. I don’t know where I lost her, or where she died. Is she merely hidden? Can I unearth her, covered in dew worms and slowly rotting tin cans? Is she only covered in the waste of years of sadness and anger, or is she buried under it? Can she be retrieved?

I miss her. I miss her when I see something quietly pretty, or when my children feel the wonder only youth can hold, that sloppy newness. I miss her when I feel my age, in numbers written, in all the things I don’t know. All the things I don’t know! They surround me, and I can barely see myself behind them.

So much time. So much space. So much yearning.

That girl wanted to be free so badly she lost her bearings on what freedom really was. She lost her ability to shape her life in the ways she wanted. To not be created by the events of her life, but rather molded by them, warned. That girl feels so long ago.

It’s not fair. It never was. It wasn’t fair when that girl ran and ran and ran as fast as she could, landing wherever she found herself. It wasn’t fair when she found herself lost, dangling through life, daring herself to make it better.

It’s not fair. But I do miss her.

Screw whatever crap I’m whining about

7 May

Kate had her twins. Early. Very Very early.

She needs some good thoughts, and likely some foot stamping “It’s not FAIR!”. Please go over and leave some thoughts. My heart aches for her right now.

Liam and Benjamin, hang in there little dudes. We’re all rooting for you.

“RULES OF BEING A MOTHER”

3 May

There’s rules?

Did I miss a class in school? I know I bagged quite a few classes, but I’m sure I would have remembered that…

Should we have rules? Do we need them? Would they help us?

I have one rule-Create happy, content with themselves children. Children who will become women who will find their happiness and run with it, who will know their path. Children who will never say “what if”.

Should I rule over what I wear? Should I only wear culottes and high boots, even though the outfit makes me want to throw up on those very boots? Should there be a rule that I should learn how to drive to cart my kids around? Should I turn myself into a cookie machine? Stay at home, regardless of the financial consequences?

There are no rules because there are no answers. Aren’t we constrained enough by ourselves, by women? Aren’t we bound by the innumerable ways we criticize and beat ourselves down every day? Are we not ruled by our hearts, regardless?

There are no rules, because we don’t need them. We know the answers by heart. Love-love the people in your life. Forgive them for their idiocies. Feel blessed by what you have. Enjoy every second-it might end any time. Don’t worry about those things you can’t control. Eat the brownies.

Why are you looking for rules? Are you a mother, lost in the first few months after birth? We’ve all been there. It sucks. It’s hard, it’s boring, and it involved more bodily fluids than you’ve ever seen. It will be in your hair, and soon, you won’t even notice.

Are you a father, trying to constrain your wife further, your partner? Are you trying to tell her that there is a “way” she should act as a mother? That how she exists isn’t good enough?

Are you a child, wondering where it’s written that mother’s shouldn’t hurt you?

Are you any of us, looking for answers, and finding nothing?

cannot handle being a mother redux

30 Apr

I’ve been noticing how much reaction this post¬†gets. I have hits for it daily.

I never imagined that so many of us, US, mothers and women, were this fed up and backed into a corner.

I don’t think, no scratch that, you do not see anything when you google “I cannot handle being a father”. Likely because most men don’t bear the weight of children and home and work and themselves. (Some do. But it’s few and far between. At least, they don’t obsess over it) Why do we bear the burden? Why do we allow ourselves to wrap so tightly into “Mommy” that we cannot escape it?

I stay late at work partly because me walking in the door at night causes everyone to ramp it up a notch. But mostly, it’s because I love having the hour to myself. A whole hour where no one questions me, follows me into the bathroom, steals food from the fridge or interupts my reading. A hour I greedily devour. I need this hour like I need air.

But why I am the one that is “supposed” to remember when one kid needs to see the doctor, and when the floor needs to be washed? Why I am supposed to try and plan our menus? Why is the woman supposed to be responsible for everything? Why are we trained this way?

Quite frankly, I am NOT able to do all of it. I forget my own appointments. I buy all the wrong stuff with the groceries. The house would be fuzzy with mold if it was just me. I am not the “girl” as society would have me be. I am more the ignorant guy, thinking in abstracts but woefully inadequate when it comes to day to day living. I’m not “Mom” material.

But everyday I see women coming here, and reading that post. Some comment that they feel the same. How many others see the post and don’t comment? How many of us really want to throw it all off, and run away to somewhere fabulous? (Personally, I’m thinking Chile.) How many of us are sick of the fact that life is no where near what we were promised or told it would be?

I like my life-I really do. I have moments where it all sucks large monkeys, and I want to jump in a vat of Dairy Queen soft serve and float, but there are also moments f joy that grab me by the heart and shake me around for being so ungrateful. I just wish that we were all more honest with eachother-that we could say “YES. This blows sometimes” without it being scary. I wish we weren’t afraid to say “Honey, it gets better, even if today involved a lot of vomit.”

Can we do that? Can we have just one day where we’re honest and gritty and meaningful about the good stuff AND the bad stuff. Of course they’re cute-but what about the whining and sniveling and crying and snot that’s involved? What about the decisions we make daily about what’s best for them, and how we’re likely just running up the future therapy bill.

What about the truth? Does it even matter?

Rules for the Motherless Daughter: Three

26 Apr

“why motherless daughters grieve forever”

To you who searched for this, I wish I had a simple answer, an easy answer that would roll off my tongue and into your ears.

However, I don’t.

I have long answers, conflicting answers, weird answers.

The one thing I noticed after my mother died was that everyone wanted to rush the process-within a year, people treated me like it didn’t matter anymore, like nothing happened. I should “get over it” I should grow up. It shouldn’t have impacted me as it did.

Newsflash: when you’re a little girl, and your mother dies, and your entire world turns inside out, you don’t just get over it. There’s a hole in your heart that never heals. For the rest of your life, you turn to talk to a mother who isn’t there. You crave acceptance from a woman you barely knew. You grieve the loss of “would have been” and “should have been”

You spend your life trying to get over it, and find you can’t. It colors who you are. If someone asks you to say something about yourself, the first thing you say is “My mother is dead.” You expect loss-if you can’t reach the kids and your husband, you think the worst. Someone must be hurt! and you go into planning mode. You anticipate the hurt in order to shield yourself from it.

I will never stop missing my mother-no daughter ever will. Regardless of her absence being due to death, mental illness, or abandonment. A daughter will miss the mother she should have, the women who should help her find her place in the world. She expects a mother, needs a mother.

She will never, ever stop wanting her arms around her, her words in her ear.

Not ever, not once.

Don’t rush the grieving. Don’t tell her it’s over, it’s better, she’s better.

Forever is a long time indeed.

“can i handle being a mom?”

20 Apr

Of course you can.

You don’t think it right now though, do you. You’re scared, excited, worried, thrilled, and possibly bulbous and not terribly mobile.

I didn’t think I could do it either.

I never wanted kids, never dreamed of having them. My future didn’t include children. I didn’t even particularity like kids. My self image did not depend on children, and in no way was formed to include them.

What a rude awakening those pink lines were. I cried when I saw them-not because I was happy, but because I was terrified, and backed into a corner. This was not my life. I could not be a mother-what the hell did I know about being a mother?

Nothing, that’s what.¬†

Somedays since that day are tough. This morning as I walked the trail behind our house, I absently thought, “I could just walk away”. It would be that easy. But nothing is ever that easy. There are times when I stare at my children in horror, wondering what I have brought into the world.

And yet there are times when I think of all the shit I’ve gone through, all the pain, and Rosalyn’s smiling face and throaty giggle makes it all better. Vivian’s grin and sweet nature heals me.

Somehow, life hands you the tools and makes it easier. Somehow.

Just don’t ask me how that happens, cause I have NO idea.

“we laugh when our newborn cries it out”

4 Apr

Of course you do. It’s a stress reliever.

Now, I’m not sure why you’re searching for this. Do you feel guilty? Did someone tell you this is wrong? Cause it’s not.

When my daughters were infants, and I was especially cranky or sick of dealing with an infant, I’d pretend that their screams and cries were really lots of cursing. Generally, in falsetto, the conversation would go something like”

“You goddamned cocksucking bastards! I’m tired! I can’t fucking sleep you cockknockers! Fuckers!”

It relieved my stress at listening to them cry without anyone getting hurt. I sounded like an utter moron doing this, but somehow, it helped. Plus, there’s nothing funnier than saying “fuckers!” in baby talk.

Listening to a baby cry it out is quite possibly one of the most heart rending things you’ll do. We know it doesn’t feel right. We know we should gather them in our arms and snuggle them to sleep. But something had gone terribly wrong in our world, and we don’t. We trap them in a room alone, and wait for them to give up.

We give up, because we have to. Because we need to go to work. Because we want the bed back. Because we’re told it’s “bad” to “coddle” the baby. Your newborn shouldn’t cry it out yet. They need you, despite what your father in law might say.

Everyone learns to sleep eventually. And sometimes, people just need to cry. Even you.

Go to your newborn, and hold them. They don’t need to cry. They need you.

“i cannot handle being a mother anymore”

26 Mar

Somedays, I can’t either.

Somedays, the crushing weight of my being a mother sits on me like sleep paralysis, waiting for me to move, almost daring me to. It wags it’s finger in my face, telling me I’m a bad mother, an ungrateful mother, because I cannot keep up with my own children sometimes, because I pretend when my husband and I are out alone that we ARE alone, that no one waits for us at home, ready to cover us in wet kisses and sticky fingers.

It’s the responsibility that gets to me-the knowledge that forever, I am connected to these creatures-I can never leave them, not truly. They will always be a part of me. Their toes will forever be the toes that kicked me in the ribs.

But somedays it’s the drudgery, it’s getting up and feeding them, convincing clothes onto them, sitting with them, then working all day, arriving home in time to listen to them scream about not wanting to go to bed. Those days get to me. Those days test me, because they test my love for them, they test the bounds of my patience and temper. On those days, the bad mommy sometimes gets to come out and play for a bit.

I have been tempted in the past, to throw up my hands, and walk away from it. From all of it. Times when it’s gotten so hard, too hard, worse than I ever imagined, I wanted to walk down the road, climb up onto the highway, and begone. Never to be seen again. I thought it, many times.

But in my eyes, in my heart, I couldn’t do it, I never would. I could never walk out that door and not come back. Because being a mother isnot just¬†a test-it’s a battle. Sometimes it’s lovely and gentle, other days, it’s bloody and loud and frightful. Somedays I don’t like it at all.

But somedays are so fragile and simple, I want to place them under glass so they never disappear. I draw on those days, to get me through the wrong ones.

“why is guelph a fantastic city to live in”

2 Mar

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! It’s NOT! OMFG I HATE HATE HATE HATE Guelph. OOOH! Hate it SOOOOO much. It’s dirty, it’s screwed up from someone reading the wrong plans, I can’t navigate in that city, AND it’s full of annoying, full of themself student “activists”.

I cannot begin to explain how irritating I find Guelph to be.

“fatass people who are ugly”

25 Feb

¬†¬†ETA: If I’m going to continually get hits on this search (and WTF?) at least do me the favour of telling me what the HELL you’re looking for anyway! This is getting old!

Le sigh.

WHY are you searching for that? I mean really…..lots of skinny people are uglier, BECAUSE they’re skinny, and they think that’s meaningful on some level.

Does it specifically matter that they’re fat AND ugly? What is ugly anyway? The people I consider “ugly” are mean, nasty people with no real moral compass or consideration for others. Most people I know are beautiful, because their hearts are in the right place.

I suppose it’s likely something juvenile, and more than likely connected to myspace, especially since you were here 3 times searching for this. Did you find what you were looking for? Are you more content in your body, thinking your found someone who isn’t?

Let me tell you a secret. For all my whining and bitching that I hate my body, I don’t. Not really. My body created children. My body nutures my children. My body keeps me well. My body pleases my husband. My fatass and I have met an uneasy truce, and while once I would have been dismayed by this hit, I’m not. Not anymore.

And that makes me a little different than you I suppose. I’ve accepted myself, wrinkles and fat and all. I’ve accepted the differences in all of us, even when they gross me out. I’ve accepted who and what I am.

Have you?

“melancholy”

22 Feb

Who searches for just melancholy? Are you sad? Are you lonely? Are you doing a project for English, and this is the quickest way to rip someone’s poetry off?

Or are you dreaming of “before” in a way that makes you misty and sleepy?

This morning I sat in the bathroom, reading the Wal-Mart flyer. (This is the only place I can read any of the paper in peace at this point). The front page proclaimed “BABY DAYS!”, and showed all the accoutrement’s of infancy. Diapers for new babies, car seats for tiny tots, freshly pulled from the womb, tiny onesies that trigger some weird hormonal rush.

All these things, they rush me back. They rush me back to that time when the world was open to everything, when the days ran into each-other as you stared at your tiny baby mewing her way through the world. Time helps me forget the boredom that accompanied the first few months after Vivian was born, but not how terrified I was to take her outside, to take her anywhere by myself. I feared I’d screw it up, she’d cry, and someone might take her away because I was unfit. My anxiety rose just to walk to the store, but I’d strap on the sling, and make my way regardless. People thought she was darling, wrapped up like a sausage against my wobbly bread tummy.

The first few months of her life was like remembering what the sunlight was, or at least that’s how I remember it. Rationally I know that it wasn’t this easy for me, that it took time for me to adjust to this creature clinging to me, to having to bounce her in a chair for hours while she slept, dragging it with me to the bathroom. The adjustment from me alone to me with child was not easy, and not a battle won without effort and fear.

But how I am melancholy for those first days sometimes. How I wish I could bottle that newness so I could drink of it again. The discovery-finding myself, finding my daughter, my love for her, my love for her father-the stark difference of our lives was incredible, exhilarating and terrifying, but ultimately worth it. But I wish I had been able to slow down, worry less, and enjoy the slow metamorphosis of our selves.

“bipolar hate showing weakness”

6 Feb

Don’t we all.

I think it’s one of the listed items in the DSM for bipolar diagnosis. We can’t be weak-we won’t be weak. Then someone might find us out, might figure out what’s really with us, might figure out that we’re big fat whiny fakers who are really just whiny, crying babies in the corner. We don’t want anyone to think we aren’t stronger than they are, smarter, braver.

Who are we kidding, really?

Somedays all I want is to curl up in someone’s arms and be a tiny little girl, something weak, a day old kitten, and be petted and taken care of. It would be so easy.

But that would be weakness, and I shun it.

Get used to it.

Shoot em up.

5 Feb

So Texas mandates the HPV shot for all girls.

Most of me thinks “Holy shit, dude has his shit together!”

The other half mutters about being in Merck’s bed, and how little research has been done on this vaccine.

Mostly though, I can’t help but think, if I had the chance to help protect my daughters from at least one form of¬†cancer, I’d do it in a heart beat.

I see people yelling about how we don’t know anything about this vaccine, and it might hurt them.

It might not.

I see people screaming that it’s better to teach them to abstain.

I say it would be better to teach your sons that lesson, have a chat with your daughters, and take them to karate class after getting the shot.  Women get raped every day.

People are yelling that it should be the parents right to dictate what protection their kids get.

Should it be? I don’t believe in parental notification laws because¬†I don’t ever believe that parents are the best judge of anything regarding their kids and sex. I don’t believe that parents necessarily know what’s best. Yet I also don’t fully trust that we’re given all the information to make the correct decisions. So where do we draw a line between all of this?

If we have a vaccine that, at first glance, can prevent cancer, shouldn’t we be jumping up and down for joy? If it prevented lung cancer, or prostate cancer, if it had NOTHING to do with a penis entering a vagina, wouldn’t everyone be estatic that we, that mankind had finally started to find a way to prevent suffering?

But sadly, HPV is something contracted by the evilest of evils, SEX. And of course, the blame is, as usual, being focused on chicks. Girls should abstain. They should wait until marriage.

No one mentions male culpability in all of this. That the woman could be as chaste as driven snow until her wedding night, and her bastard husband could still pass this on to her, and eventually kill her. It’s her husband after all-why should she need a condom?

Cause the bastard spent some time sowing his oats as a teenager, wasn’t careful, and all he got was a “way to go son” from his Pops.

But hey, she doesn’t need the shot. She’s not a whore or anything.

Tired, tired tired of this. Of all of this. Of the constant virgin/whore thing y’all got going on. Of expecting women, girls even, to be something they will never be. The entire purpose of sex is reproduction. Which means mammals will do it. It’s programmed. It’s in our blood. And best of all, it feels good.

Your daughters will fuck. My daughters will fuck, someday, and hopefully with rational help from me, they will pick their partners well, and be safe. But they will be getting this shot, because as a mother, as the daughter of a cancer victim, I know what the real risk is. I’ve watched someone rot from the inside, eaten away. I’ve watched someone die.

I refuse to let someone else’s misguided sense of morality kill my babies. I refuse to consider my daughters thinking people with options and desires. I refuse to ultimately, blame them for what they may bring on themselves. I refuse to let sex cloud the judgement of an otherwise near miraculous vaccine.

I refuse to crawl back into the trees and let the monsters claim my children. We can prevent disease and death. Why wouldn’t we?

* While I’m a fan of the vaccine, I would also do my research. I agree with many of the points on this list at Evil Slutopia, and find all of them good food for thought. I most definitely agree with “DO YOUR RESEARCH”. Go read.*

“I want to know if Im crazy”

13 Jan

So do I dude. So. Do. I.

People said I was crazy when my mother died. People said I was crazy when I hitchhiked through Ontario. People said I was crazy when I was 16 and moved away from home. People said I was crazy to meet my birth mother at 18. People said I was crazy to marry at 20. People said I was crazy to have a kid.

People say that. A lot.

My brand of crazy isn’t a bad thing. Ok, so the bipolar part of crazy can be, but sometimes it’s a cool thing, like when I’m on a roll and everyone around me is laughing harder than they can breathe. My crazy makes me a little different, so that’s a bit fun.

But the other part of my crazy that involves hearing things and seeing things and wondering if everyone is out to get me, that’s not quite so fun. Or the urge to go buy things, to spend oodles of money, not so fun either. Or the dreams, oh the dreams I have, of death, of dying, of repeated moments in times. Those aren’t fun either.

I can’t tell you if you’re crazy. No one really can. Maybe your crazy is the right reality? Maybe you’re so far gone, no one really can tell anymore.

Maybe it doesn’t matter anyway.