A · Girl · Just · Like · You

Someday, if there aren't already, there will be theses written about Outer Life Guy.

Anonymous blogging is a social phenomenon unto itself, but Mr. Guy takes it to a whole other level. He's not maintaining anonymity because he's writing about controversial topics or because he wants to talk trash about people without accepting any accountability. He's not protecting himself from thronging hordes of adoring fans (well, at least not yet.)

As his latest post states:

"...after a while I began to appreciate another reason for writing anonymously: It liberated my words. Without my name, or my picture, or any idea of my background, expertise or experience, all you, the reader, have is my words. If you like them, it's not me or my face or my background or my expertise you're liking, it's just my words."

Wouldn't it be a wonderful thing if books sold solely based on their content? Granted, a lot of what I consider to be crap would still sell because we all have different tastes, but no one would sell a million copies of a book because he had already sold a million copies of different books. Each one would be judged on its own merits.

We judge OLG on solely on the merits of his words. There is no glitzy content on the website, there's no thrill of reading a famous person's daily thoughts, there are no interesting photos. There's absolutely no reason to read this website unless we enjoy the words there. I do enjoy them. I savor them and roll them around in my head - most of the time. Sometimes, OLG seems off, distracted, less cohesive in his thoughts, but as a human, he's entitled to occasionally miss the mark.

I have in my head a nebulous picture of what OLG looks like, but I can only see him out of the corner of my eye. If I try to focus, to concentrate on his face, he slips away. I have a hazy vision of his house, his family, his place of work - sparse details he's handed out over time filled in with whatever makes sense in my head at the moment I'm reading the entry.

It's all I need. OLG is kind of like the person that you only have sex with. There's nothing else to the relationship - you don't go to dinner, you don't see movies, you don't even talk much. You have great, mutually-satisfying sex and then you go on about your lives until the next time you have sex. Sometimes the sex is better than others, but it's always at least good.

When I read OuterLife, I'm usually inspired to write something myself. That in itself is a pretty good measure of someone's words - when I read crap, I don't want to write. When I read something to which I aspire, it often makes the words flow. He writes about subjects that are thought-provoking, not the usual "Slept bad last night. I had eggs for breakfast, and then OMFG, Kary said..."

OLG is interesting. He is fascinating. He is well-read, articulate and intellectually sexy as hell. My biggest internet crush? A guy whose name I do not know, whose face I have never seen, but whose words sometimes make me smile, close my eyes and imagine something new.

In this post, I have no witty or sophisticated voice; this is just me, saying things that I need to say now. This is all Truth, and I hope that it helps...well, anyone. It will help me to tell these stories for the first time. The first time ever.

Sometimes, Telling the Truth happens in stages. We lie to cover up something we're ashamed about entirely. After some time passes, we begin to tell the truth, but embellish it with smaller lies to make ourselves look less bad to our audience and even to ourselves. We rationalize, we adjust. Later, we may tell the story fully, and there is a relief that comes with that. Now that I have incorporated The Truth into my internal and external dialogue, I feel better. My internal truth did not reconcile with what I was telling others, and therefore, there was a disjointedness, however small, with how I moved through the world.

Some of you will judge me harshly. I respect that. After the first act of the story, you may feel uncomfortable, some judgment creeping in around the edges, but perhaps you'll still be sympathetic. After the rest of it, more of you will judge me much more harshly than you might expect. There is little tolerance for this sort of thing. Your opinion of me will change when you read this post; I can almost guarantee it. However, there is an off-chance that this post will find its way to someone who needs it. I'll explain more at the end.

When I was 25, I had an abortion. For many women, having had an abortion is a secret. Some of us keep it entirely to ourselves, some of us tell our closest friends, some of us tell a spouse, but virtually none of us feel absolutely no shame for having had one, regardless of the circumstances. It is something we try to hide from employers or potential employers. It's not something you bring up just out of the blue.

I shared that I'd had an abortion with my friends, or if the subject came up in conversation with people I'd met. I have told my long-term boyfriends. I told my mom. I have not told my father, the rest of my family or my current, newish boyfriend. I have not told my current boyfriend because he wants to have children, and, even though it's unlikely that we'll ever have them together, I'm not sure how he would react to me having had an abortion.

I am fairly well-adjusted about abortion; I was raised in a liberal household and well-educated about sex, pregnancy and abortion. I do not have a cavalier attitude about abortion; rather, I have a pragmatic one. I have never wanted a child. I don't think I would be a good mother. I am not especially fond of children. I don't want to pass down my genes. I don't want to have a growing, thrashing person inside of me for 9 agonizing months. For my whole life, I have recognized that it is of absolute importance that each person be allowed to decide what happens to his or her own body. Rape terrifies me. Torture gives me nightmares.

For these reasons, I am very, very glad that abortion is legal in this country. I cannot imagine being forced, helpless, to allow a child to grow inside of me. Or worse, being forced to find a back-street abortionist who would more than likely cause more harm than good.

These are scary times in this country; Roe v. Wade is under attack, and while it seems that more politicians may be taking a slightly more centrist approach, abortion rights are being eaten away.

Because abortion is such a secret, the conservative anti-abortion people may not be aware that their daughter, granddaughter, niece, best friend's daughter, high school sweetheart, neighbor, wife or cousin have had one. If they were aware of how many of us have made that choice, it would shock and scare the pants off of them. It might make them dig in their heels and say, "This must stop! This is an abomination! Look how many innocent children have been murdered!" It might also make them reconsider that position, engender empathy within them for what their loved one has perhaps gone through, and terrify them that if abortion were not legal, perhaps their loved one wouldn't be there today.

I am not a disadvantaged person. I travel, I have two college degrees, and I "knew better" than to get pregnant. I am here to share my story of How Shit Can Happen, Even to Those Who Know Better.

There was no broken condom or bad vasectomy; I got pregnant because I was an idiot with a strong sex drive. I was having a lot of sex with a dear friend of mine, and we usually used condoms. One night, we were having a really, extraordinarily wild time out on the couch, far from the nightstand with the condoms in it. He stopped just before pushing himself inside me and said, "wait, is this ok?"

I lied.

"Yes," I whispered; "I can't get pregnant right now." In truth, I had no idea where I was in my cycle or even what day of the month it was; what I wanted was for him to fuck me until we both screamed. I didn't want to stop the momentum to get up, go into the bedroom and laboriously put on the loathsome condom. Also, the man in question had only one testicle; how fertile could he be?

The sex was amazing.

I got knocked up.

Children have never been in my mental picture. The image of my life has not been rife with the pitter-pat of tiny feet.

Immediately, I knew that I had to get an abortion, and quickly. My friend, the father, agreed to pay for the procedure and to go with me. Also, I called my mom. It seemed the thing to do.

I wrote a few journal entries about how I thought I should feel guilty or angst-ridden or torn, but I wasn't. The truth was, I didn't want that little peanut growing in there. I wanted it out of me before it turned into a person.

On the day of the procedure, I drove my mother and my friend down to the clinic. I was cheery and talkative... and speeding. On the way to my abortion, I got pulled over by a State Trooper and I got a speeding ticket. I remember joking about it not being a good day. We all laughed.

I never use the LJ-CUT feature; however, given the sensitive nature of this subject, I shall.
( Details, emotional and physical, and a very long story. )

I was at the gym the other day with my friend, Maggie. We were getting ready for a high-intensity body sculpting class, something we both dread and anticipate. Something which we both desperately need.

We weren't really speaking very much as we got out of our street clothes and into our workout clothes. I had my jeans off, and as I stripped off my shirt, with my back to Mags, she started giggling. I paused, my shirt collar still around my neck, the body and sleeves up around my elbows; "What?"

Giggling, she said, "Really!"

"What?!" I reiterated, peeling the shirt the rest of the way off.

Mags pointed at my butt. I arched an eyebrow, asking for the third (and hopefully final) time, "what?"

"Do you really?" she asked, a smirk on her lips, and a gleam in her eye.

"Fuck me; what are you talking about?"
"Look. Look at your shorts."

By "shorts," Maggie means "underwear." She cannot bring herself to say "panties," and I can't blame her, and we both hate the word "underpants," as it conjures up images of old men in tighty-whities. Usually, we say "shorts" or "draws." When we say "draws," people look askance because, frankly, we're the sort of people who say "look askance," and not "draws."

As I cannot see the back of my draws when they're on me, I took them off and looked at the ass. "I [HEART] SURFERS!!" my underwear flirtatiously proclaimed. There were surfboards on either side of the screened words.

"Holy. Shit." I marveled. There were words on my ass, and I'd had no idea. Words, no less, that I would never utter in one thousand billion years. Words I would never knowingly put on my body.

I don't ordinarily wear underwear. I wear a bra, because I can't stand my breasts flinging around, whapping innocent passers-by in the head, but I seldom wear panties. My body is not that of a lingerie model. I am a size sixteen, and while I am what can be called "voluptuous," I am not curvy. I am lumpy. I know plenty of women who are larger than I am, but who have these gorgeous, sweeping curves to their waists and hips and, even amidst a roll or two of fat, are proportional and sexy.

Because I don't look good in the underwear, I haven't traditionally worn it. I don't like pantylines on my ass, and I refuse to wear a thong because they look ridiculous on me. However, recently, I have discovered boyshorts. I love the boyshorts! They cover up the problem areas but they're still sexy. I bought about a dozen of them a few days ago, in colors I thought were fun and cute. Obviously, I didn't thoroughly examine them.

After body sculpting, I went home, flung open my dresser and rifled through the new shorts. "ALOHA!" exclaimed one pair. "DANGEROUS CURVES" arced across another. Ladybugs pranced around a third. The rest were ok.

I am not one to have my shorts announce my moods. By and large, I seldom greet people ass-first, in my undies, so "ALOHA!" seems a bit silly. If someone is in a position to see that cheery greeting, "Hello and welcome!" is probably a foregone conclusion.

Fun and flirty is all fine and good, but Jiminey Christmas, people; please don't make my shorts talk to me.

Many are the reasons why I've undertaken this endeavor anonymously. The most relevant is this: I don't often find this voice. However uninteresting these writings may be, the voice I hear in my head every day is even more so.

There are times during the day when I want to write something here...when my best friend snubbed me, when I looked in the mirror and saw my mother, when I stood on top of the tallest building in town and gloried in the magnificent view...but I cannot find any but the most ordinary words.

My inner monologue, in its monkey-like fashion, pratters on about body image and finances and political science, all in very plain, uninteresting, yawn-inducing sentence fragments. Feeling-pictures. The scent of blooming lilacs mixes with a childhood memory and suddenly I'm smelling their fragrance as a three-year-old on a tricycle, which reminds me of the episode of a favorite television show when everyone flashes poignantly back to their early years.

That's my life, not this sometimes clever, insightful stuff. Without any name attached, no one urges me to keep producing, asks "why haven't you written anything on your blog in awhile?" No one corners me, saying, "I never knew you were bulimic!" It's safe here in Anonymousland.

We all wonder who Outer Life Guy is, but the distance he puts between us and him by not giving us even his first name is enormous. It keeps us at arm's length, further than that, even. No familiarity is offered or welcomed. It's perfect. We stay over here, behind this line, standing politely.

Maybe that's what I'm aiming for; an audience that is interested, but far away.

And yet I crave comments that aren't here, tidbits from people who don't know who I am, but who read intimate details of my life.

It's a strange fascination; "Love me, but please stay over there. Thank you."

I am writing a book.

And, please realize that when I say, "I am writing a book," what you should read is, "About 5 years ago, I wrote approximately 75 pages and promptly wrote myself irretrievably into a corner and I haven't the faintest idea how to continue." Further, "a book" may be too grand a title...it may just be a longish short story. Now that we have our lexicon established, we may proceed.

The core concept is, and I don't expect you to pardon the pun, rather novel. I truly enjoy my main character and her occupation. Like many new authors, however, I cannot figure out how to divorce my reality from hers. How to make her Not Me. This is where I'm running into the large brick wall of despair and lethargy.

What I need to know is, is it worth continuing? Before I spend a laborious year slaving over a hot word processor, should I waste my time? It could be argued that the end product is worth it in itself, even if another pair of human eyes never reads a page. The act of creation is holy and sacred and not to be trifled with, et cetera. When I was much younger, I was frequently besieged by the urge To Create. I was riddled with it until I produced something from the feeling. The something was generally a very bad poem or a short story revolving around oral sex and/or gothy vampires. The trouble now is, The Urge must compete with many other, much more pragmatic urges and concerns; going to work, shopping for food, avoiding apprehension by any one of a dozen governmental agencies. You know - life.

It is not as if I can simply ship off my mere 75 pages to a publisher with a note, asking them to kindly review the tripe I have thus far dribbled out and should I continue? If I must ask, then I probably already know the answer. I could find a local writing group, but, being the solitary, competitive person that I am, I would probably only feel raw and hostile toward the other authors who would, no doubt, be far better writers than I.

All of this is whiny and self-indulgent, and I apologize. I'm trying to fix the "I have too much to say" problem by attacking things head-on, one at a time, as they present themselves. Tonight, this presented and, I'm sad to say, I have nothing truly interesting to say about it.

But, it is said and therefore, the demon is slain.

One down, 8,000 to go.

Next, please.

It isn't that I haven't anything to say.

There are frequently times in my life during which I am rendered utterly mute by the sheer volume of things I have to say.

Nuances of the afternoons that I want to celebrate for pages and pages, conversations I've had with famous (or infamous) people that have either flabbergasted or enthralled me, relaying the tale of The Great Vasectomy Story.

The trouble is that when I think about getting it all down in words, my brain just - slips off. My attention slides off the details as they were covered in a thick, viscous oil. A moment or two later, I regroup and remember, "Hey! I have something to write about - go back!" but again I ooze off down the gentle slope.

It's kind of like being high; thinking of something stellarly cool and important and making a note of needing to remember it, but then, like a hound after a particularly elusive fox, my brain bounds off to another, related detail. The first thought is still there, close by, but slightly fuzzier. Then, an adjacent shiny thing catches my mind's eye and I'm off a bit farther down the trail until finally, 5 or 10 or 3 minutes later, I can no longer remember the original, crystal clear epiphany - I only remember that it was there, and of vital importance. And now it's gone.

So my friends, all what ... 4 of you who read this blog? ... I have so much to say. I just haven't yet figured out how to do it.

I like the idea of socializing.

I enjoy the possibility of social butterflyhood.

In my fantasies, I appear at interesting places, where fascinating people find me fascinating, where I can regale a rapt audience with charming and witty tales from my brilliant and poigniant life. There is laughter, there are shocked silences, there is suspense, there is adoration in the eyes of my beholders.

Truly, I am quite a catch in my little imagination.

The difficult bit comes in trying to get off the couch.

On the couch, there is an entire world of things to do, all without the hassle of standing and moving. There are magazines, books, television, movies, internet, pets, masturbation, music, video games...my god, why on Earth would I ever leave this spot? I tell myself, "this is how Jabba the Hut started out, lady; get your ass off the fucking couch! Move! Go and actually do something, don't just read about it or use a joystick to manipulate yourself in virtual reality!"

Trouble is, I am really good at arguing with myself, at playing Devil's Advocate. I argue that I never would have heard the exchange on "The West Wing" that made me laugh so hard I actually peed a little had I not been On the Couch. I argue that, had I been elsewhere, the best sex of my life with a new neighbor wouldn't have occured when he invited me up, because I wouldn't have been there to invite up! Often, it is cold and raining outside, which is, perhaps, the best argument of all time, as far as I'm concerned. That's sort of the trump card right there.

Me #1: Hey, look! There's an expo of actual preserved human corpses on display at the art museum! You can touch them and look at the structure of the muscles and stick your head inside the cavity and everything! How cool is that?! Let us depart immediately!
Me #2: Is it sprinkling out?

My house is my cocoon, my warm, embracing womb, the shell of my egg with all of the nurturing, gentle, soothing goodness inside. It smells good in here. The lighting is soft. The decor is inviting. I am surrounded by My Stuff, the objects I have chosen to keep over the years that mean something to me: The skull of a racoon, a dreamcatcher made by a friend, a stained glass hummingbird, paintings, photos of my friends and family, glass bottles and jars full of incense and sage, stone carvings and books, books, books. So many books, like comforting acquaintances - even those I've not yet read. Parting with a book is like parting with a little dollop of my soul.

Outer Life Guy recently wrote about how he would like to pare down his belongings, to simplify his Things so that they do not own him. I relate completely, but, unlike OLG, I have not been successful in giving away much of anything. The meaningless trappings of a decadent life are not difficult; old camping gear makes way for new, computers several years old are donated to clear the room for the latest geekery, atrocious torch lamps from college are easily hauled off to Goodwill and replaced with lighting much less twenty-something.

But my books?

The idea of giving away my books, even those I will never, ever read again, is akin to giving away actual brain cells. It's as if, in my mind, the knowledge I have gained from the books is so tremulous that it will evaporate should the source be too far from me. Should I ever need to look up a quote or a fact, or if I ever want to refresh my memory of a storyline...what if I've given the book away? The knowledge will be gone, gone forever! I'll be left empty, a once-brimming vessel now bereft of anything but drool and a sense of past glories lost.

My books are an enormous part of "home." I like being At Home. I'm comfortable here, even though when I do go out, I am friendly and funny and more outgoing than I give myself credit for. I am not, by any means, fascinating and interesting and witty and charming, but I do alright. I would just rather stay in. Home has a strong gravitational pull. Couple that with bodies at rest tending to stay at rest and I have a truly teriffic recipe for Jabba the Hut.

On my deathbed, will I look back and think of how comforting being at home was and how I enjoyed it, or will I instead regret not getting out there and hiking the abundant trails, sailing the seas and exploring the wonders of, say, New Zealand? I suspect it will be a mixed experience, pangs of regret buffered by waves of contentment, tinged with the fear of what is coming next.

I so love the human condition. I hate it with everything I have, but I love it more than that.

When I was a little girl, I did odd things.

I had a good childhood. I wasn't abused; in fact, I was spoiled rotten by parents who loved and supported me. I drew something fairly close to the jackpot.

Still, I remember sitting in my little bedroom, surrounded by its country decor frills, wooden geese and paintings of Beatrix Potter characters, right up close to the electric heater. How I loved its warmth on cold days! Huddling right on top of it to suck in as much precious heat as possible, I would start testing myself; how much pain could I take?

It wasn't the product, at least to my knowledge, of being tormented inside, of feeling the need to burn the tragedy in my soul onto my flesh, where it would heal and distract me from my tormet. That wasn't it. In truth, I believe I was testing my limits, trying to make myself stronger. I nearly wrote "immune from pain" just there, which might lead those amongst us to point a tidily-manicured finger at me, look down over spectacles and say, "Young lady, you have just revealed that you wanted to be immune from pain. This implies that you were in pain, does it not?" Perhaps, but not the unceasing torment I have seen in the faces of my friends or people I've only just seen on the street in passing.

There is some question of sexual abuse from either an elderly relative or an infrequent babysitter, but I have zero memory of such, and my mother (the former prude, the current sex cult member) insists she never saw any signs. She doesn't try to dismiss my questions, she just lets me know she honestly never thought anything happened.

But there was the burning. I can, very clearly, remember doing it. I can remember the sense of testing myself, but what if, in all of its human agility and complexity, my brain has shut off, utterly blocked-out some kind of abuse? It would be like a digitally-altered video feed, expertly done, with no sign of tamper. That is really unnerving to think about, because what the hell else is lurking in there? Was I a tormented child? Is that why I have an eating disorder?

Jesus. Let me state, for the record, that there had better be some sort of Answers waiting for us at the end of the road, whatever else lies there. Seriously.

Becoming bulemic was a totally rational, well-thought-out process for me. It wasn't a slope I helplessly slid down, unaware of what lurked in the abyss below. I barfed because I enjoyed eating far too much, far too often, and I didn't want to weigh 300 pounds. So, I thought (logically,) I'll just puke after I eat way too much. Piece of cake, ha ha.

Each time, I understood what I was doing, that it was unhealthy and that it could have Consequences. I pitied the poor, silly girls who weren't aware of what they were toying with. I knew. I was cognizant. I didn't have to throw up my dinner, I wasn't compelled uncontrollably to the bathroom, where I would vomit up whatever gutload of comestables in as dignified and as tidy a manner as possible. I'm too smart for that, you see.

Years passed.

No one knew.

I was an expert at hiding my secret. I am even overweight, so no one would suspect, anyhow. I am 50 pounds overweight instead 150. "I should probably stop this," I say to myself; "It's easy - just stop eating so much."

The slope had gotten me and I hadn't even seen it coming.

The addiction isn't to vomiting; the addiction is to the food and to the not being grossly obese. The vomiting is secondary. The addiction is the food and the lack of control. The addiction is revelling in "one more slice of pizza," late night sugary snacks, brownies at lunch, half a batch of cookie batter, a fried fish sandwich. The addiction is the guilt after having consumed whatever it was and the vomiting is the only way to get rid of it.

Dammit.

"I am too smart for this," said she, reaching for the bag of bittersweet chocolate chips.

I wish I could say that I've spent the summer traveling Europe, seeing beautiful places and people, doing exciting, interesting things...but the truth is that I have been letting the summer slip through my fingers almost willingly. I wish and I half-heartedly plan and I chastise myself for doing nothing and yet here I am.

In this respect, I hope that I am not a girl just like you.