What if the worst were to happen?
Would I be forced to feed its parasitic seed?
At the end, when its seed is extracted,
It will have drained my soul, trust, hope, and joy.
Once the seed is planted,
My humanity has been ripped from me.
I’ll be nothing but a wilted flower;
Dried from the inside out.
The decaying, fallen petals are my tears of melancholy;
What little of me is left will be a husk,
Of the woman I used to be.
Sometimes I hate how stupid and shallow others are and how much they look and act like me… ☼ Sometimes I think I second-guess myself too much; but, …Sometimes…
“Sometimes I wish I were transparent because I get tired of having to move when people want to see something behind me.”
So powerful, and so human. Highly recommend the read!
TW: Brief mention of r***, incest, and abortions.
Today was both a good, and a bad day. I started off with tender breasts, PMS, and a fuzzy brain.
I was supposed to go to a lunch of a family friend, but epilepsy said, “Nah.” Luckily my amazing husband went to the store upon my request and picked up my Diet Coke, Twix, and Starbursts. Then he gave them to me and hid in his man cave. Wise man.
Later, Patrick and moved shit around in the apartment, to both change the energy flow, and to organize and store shit. We got a lot of work done today, and I can feel it. I finally smudged the apartment, after “thinking about it” for weeks. I feel so light, like a plastic bag, floating in the wind.
Lately, though, I’ve been really emotional, but not because of hormones. In Texas, they are trying to ban abortions after 6 weeks, regardless of r*** or incest, and make it possible for ANY ONE to sue someone they suspect who’s received an abortion, or someone they suspect performs abortions. The person doesn’t even have to be guilty of the “crime” to be sued, just suspected. The State of Missouri is now trying to ban IUD’s, because they’re considered aiding in abortion.
I feel so violated and angry. I have never been pregnant, and actively avoid pregnancy, as it often leads to children. But what if my birth control fails? What if the worst possible outcome occurred, but I’m forced to grow that person’s seed?
These situations occur EVERY DAY. A woman from my past became pregnant when the manufacturer of her birth control filled the whole month of her cycle with placebos, instead of the hormonal BC. I’m sure she was one of thousands who unknowingly became pregnant.
The woman showed no symptoms of being pregnant, and all the while she was receiving heavy treatment for Covid-19 symptoms. She was 18 weeks along when she found out; the fetus was severely underdeveloped, and had the pregnancy gone to term, the child would have come out with horrifying side effects of this treatment. This doesn’t begin to unpack the trauma, excruciating pain, and worsened sickness for this woman.
Women don’t have abortions to fill out a punch card; it is a last resort when everything else has failed.
This has been weighing on my mind as heavy as 25 cats. For the first time in my life, I am terrified for my future. I live in America – the land of the free, and home of the brave. This isn’t supposed to be happening in America; these things happen “over there”. Where is my freedom? Where is the freedom for other women?
My real fear is, what’s next after abortions and IUD’s? Will hormonal birth control be next? And then, will we be too busy being barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen to have a job or be educated?
It’s not “just” banning abortions; it’s a slippery slope back to the 1950’s.
But. I’m at the point in my life where I know if I don’t speak up, and evangelize for us as women, that I’m apart of the problem, and I am done being apart of the silent majority.
I was not born to be normal; I was born and raised not run away from a fight, rather, grab my sword and beat it until it cries for its momma. I was born to lead, and I was raised to get shit done.
So that is exactly what I’m going to do.
My metaphorical pen will be my sword. I will share stories of women I’ve crossed paths with throughout my ridiculously traumatic and unstable life.
I hope you will join me by speaking your truth, or just sharing this piece; help start a larger conversation.
Let’s start a revolution. #SaveTheUterus
So I have been actively avoiding my blog, and more importantly, writing lately.
I am not a person who can just put forth garbage just to have content. I take great pride in my work, and believe in living with integrity, even when it feels like I’m climbing Mount Kilimanjaro (cause everyone climbs fucking Everest). I am uncomfortable posting fluffy shit like all of the “Blog Babes” suggest; I give exactly 0 fucks about writing “10 Best Fashion Tips, and #7 is unbelievable!”
I’m a loudmouth, opinionated bitch. My life, up until this point, has not been fun and fuzzy. I grew up witnessing domestic abuse, and then I walked into an abusive relationship. I have epilepsy, and generalized anxiety disorder, and I’m recovering from a life-long eating disorder, and emotionally numbing in any way possible. At the age of 12, I called a teen hotline and told the person on the phone that I thought I had depression.
I had no bodily autonomy for most of my life; my body was the property of everyone else, and I had to keep it clean and pure for them.
During my first appointment with a psychiatrist, after I told her my whole story, she paused, took a breath, and stated, “It’s impressive that you’ve been suffering alone this whole time, and not in a good way.”
Translation: I am fucked up.
So. Hi again. Thanks for sticking with me thus far. I know, this started on a really depressing note, but it’s my blog and I can be a party pooper if I want. So there! 😤
But I digress.
Because I refuse to put out fluffy shit, I hardly post. Pulling that shit from within and putting the shit on paper is hard as fuck.
Looking back at that trauma is extremely difficult, not only emotionally, but the more I remember from my early teens, the more I piece together more experiences with my illness. I, too, have to open the door to the loneliness and despair that I felt then.
I look back at that little girl and it hurts to put myself back behind those melancholy eyes, and experience that trauma all over again. It’s devastating, and so unfair that this little girl, at the age of 12, knew she had depression, and yet, the adults in her life failed her.
But, I have to unpack it. If I keep shoving it into the back of the closet, with the memories of my platform Spice Girl’s shoes covered in puke (I’m still waiting for those to make a comeback), I’ll never get better, and I’ll never completely understand myself.
I’m too self-aware and anxious to let that shit fester. I need to dig it out, explore it, and de-clutter it. Like Marie Kondo says, if it doesn’t bring you joy, thank the items for their work, and let it go.
So, Imma start letting that shit go.
But I warn you: this could be some Taylor Swift type shit going forward, but if I can also make millions using old diaries and hard feelings, then let the “Swifting” begin.
PS. I cuss A LOT. Like a lot, a lot. But it’s a scientific fact that people who swear a lot have a higher pain tolerance, so who’s laughing now, mom?!
Supine Flu Do you struggle when the alarm goes off every morning? If you have a really hard time, you could have something called dysania. This means…Supine Flu
I have been experiencing this off and on since the beginning of the Pandemic; my poor snooze button is worn out. Side note, I think it’s morbidly funny that “pandemic” is a new part of our daily vocab.
Some days it doesn’t even feel worth it to get out of bed, since at the end of the day, we’re not that far from it in the first place. I find myself working from bed more and more, and shortly after, sprawled out and probably napping.
I have a whole new respect for stay-at-home parents and people working from home before this bull shit begun. How do you do it?
What kind of things can I implement to make me get out of bed (and making it doesn’t help)?
It feels like cruel irony:
The person who loves you the most, makes you feel the most empty;
My heart aches because love is blind,
But my mind and soul know the truth:
Love is not love without boundaries.
The cold hands of abuse sink their nails into my throat,
And I look to their comforting embrace,