A Girl Just Like You

Studies in the Human Condition

Sun, 23 Sep 2007 18:35:05 GMT

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.

Multi-Frame Vignettes

Sat, 19 May 2007 23:00:52 GMT

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.

Once at the clinic, we all went inside and I signed in. There were perhaps two dozen young women there, some with their partners, some with friends, some alone. Some were crying. Many did not look anywhere but into their laps. All spoke in hushed whispers.

After quite a long time, a nurse shuttled all of us into a side room, where we were required to watch a video about Abortion. In very affirming tones, the video told us What To Expect but that abortion wasn't the only choice. We could bear our unwanted children and adopt them out, and sometimes, the woman who ultimately decided not to get an abortion were the most grateful of mothers, et cetera. We were herded back into the waiting room like cattle; I felt like I was being processed, a nameless, faceless baby factory.

I resented the hell out of that video at the time; I felt as if the pro-lifers had somehow struck a blow to our right to choose, and were trying to get us when we were most vulnerable. Now, with some time and perspective, I realize that a lot of those girls might have had no idea what to expect or what their choices were. I sat through the video, then rejoined my mom and my friend. We were the only three in the room who didn't seem to be covered in a pall of sadness. We quietly talked and even laughed a little. I wasn't emotional - I was fine, honestly and truly. I almost felt guilty for being fine, for not being riddled with doubt.

Periodically, a nurse with a clipboard would come out and call a name. The young woman would get up, walk to through the door with her head down, and be gone for anywhere from 2 to 10 minutes. Then they would come back, sit down, and resume their vigils.

My name was called. The initial call, as it turns out, was for a urine test to confirm the pregnancy. I have a bladder with massive stage-fright. My bladder freezes like a bunny when there is any pressure to perform. I sat in that bathroom, trying to squeeze out one or two drops for over twenty minutes. I couldn't do it. I raged at my quivering, empty bladder, which had been deprived of liquids for over 12 hours, thanks to surgical policy.

Finally, I gave up. I went back into the waiting room and sat down again. The nurse told me to let her know when I was Ready.

Fifteen or twenty minutes later, I tried again. After a long, heated battle with my bladder, during which I alternately cursed at it and coddled it, I finally got nearly a whole eighth of an inch of liquid to drip out, drop by drop. I was proud of that urine. I presented it to the nurse and back into the waiting room I went. A few of the girls smiled at me as I told Mom and the father that I'd managed to go.

After another long wait, they began calling us in again. This time, it was for The Procedure. I was called into a large examination room, given a paper gown and told to completely disrobe. I obeyed and sat, perched on the edge of the padded examination table, waiting.

It was at this point, all alone in this cold, sterile room, that I began to get scared. There were cheerful paintings on the wall that said to me, "We are trying to comfort and cheer you up; don't be frightened, little one." I don't remember what the paintings were of, now, but they brought tears to my eyes. That someone would think to put colorful paintings in a room that housed hundreds of frightened, emotionally ragged women, touched me very deeply.

An elderly male doctor came in with a female assistant to do a cursory exam. He confirmed that we were going to use general anaesthesia and then he gave me a routine looking over. He put his stethoscope to my chest.

"Oh! Your heart is beating like a frightened little bird! It's going to be ok."

I fought back tears until they left the room soon after that, and then I let them come. I didn't feel like a frightened little bird, not really...I felt a little stark, I felt ... I suppose I was more frightened than I cared to admit. I sent some apologetic thought-feelings to the being in my belly, some explanatory words, and told it to come back someday if that's what was supposed to happen. My mother, who had a miscarriage prior to my birth, said that she believed it was me all along, that I had come back a second time.

Shortly after the doctor left, I was taken to another room, where I received an ultrasound to (re)confirm the pregnancy and to determine at what stage the fetus was. The details are hazy, but I remember tentatively asking to see the ultrasound. It was a staticky, nonsensical mess. I couldn't even identify a mass that might be a baby. I asked the u/s tech to show me, wondering if, when confronted with my child's sonograph, I would suddenly change my mind. She circled a tiny smudge on the paper, and I pretended to be able to see it against all the background noise of the image. Back to the exam room.

Soon, I was admitted into the operating room. I climbed up onto a ludicrously tall table, where my legs were splayed out into stirrups and my arms strapped to boards running perpendicular to the length of the table. Lying there, strapped to a table in a freezing cold, utterly white room, nearly naked, I felt more vulnerable than I ever have in my entire life. I felt obscenely crucified, with my arms strapped down, sticking straight out to the sides, my shamefully pregnant nether region on display for anyone who walked across the south end of the room.

Four or five men and women bustled purposefully around the room. One got me going with an IV. I remember trying to be polite, but I'm certain that my eyes were as wide as saucers and showed my extreme unease. Someone explained that I would very shortly be asleep and that when I woke up, it would all be over with. It was cold and noisy, and I was strapped down and helpless. Utterly helpless.

A faceless person told me to count backwards from ten. I believe I got to eight.

I slowly came into hazy consciousness in a hallway on a stretcher. There were a few other stretchers in the hallway, each containing an unconscious or semi-conscious post-op young woman. We were all unattended, left like dead bodies in this quiet, dim part of the clinic. I felt no physical pain. Without struggle, I let unconsciousness overtake me again, glad for the nothingness.

Phasing in and out of consciousness, I slowly became aware that I needed to throw up. I have had that reaction to anaesthesia before. As I was recognizing the symptoms of barfing, I weakly hailed a distant nurse, who helped me struggle to the bathroom. I violently vomited a small wad of spittle. It was unproductive, but I felt so much better. I don't remember going back to the stretcher.

I woke up on queue. Literally, a line of stretchers waiting for one of a row of Lazy-Boy recliners against a wall. I didn't care about the recliners. I was fine in my stretcher, where I continued to lapse into dreamless sleep. I woke up, closer to the recliners. I woke up, next in line. I woke up, already in the Lazy-Boy, without any memory of having been relocated. Still, I had no pain.

The person next to me, a large black woman, moaned and groaned. Every few moments, she would loudly and somewhat incoherently complain, "I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM! I HAVE TO TAKE A SHIT!!" but the nurses looked over their shoulders at her and said, "no you don't, that's just the cramping," and "it's ok, that's normal, you're fine. You don't have to go to the bathroom." I wished she would just shut up and let me sleep. But no; every few minutes, there was the moaning and the shouting. Sometimes, I managed to ignore it.

After a while, I have no idea how long, it was time for me to surrender my chair and let the next person in the line of stretchers have it. Again, I felt like processed livestock. Someone got me dressed and out to mom and my friend. I remember climbing into the back seat of the Isuzu Trooper, sluggish and floppy and feeling the beginnings of cramping. Someone drove us home, where I crawled into bed after taking some painkillers.

The cramping wasn't too bad after I finally came fully out of the anaesthesia, and I had no emotional twinges, no second-guesses. I was relieved to have the whole thing over with. The crimps lingered for only a couple of days, and the whole affair was very non-traumatizing. I still remember the feeling of being helplessly strapped down, but that was in a safe environment; everyone there was going to help me, not harm me. I don't want to think about that feeling in a different sort of environment. My abortion was safe, reasonably pain-free, and not difficult to procure. My memory doesn't serve well on the costs...this was about eight years ago, and I believe it may have been around $700. I was thankful to be done. Despite the initial fright of being in the operating room and so helpless, it was not a terrible experience.

Months later, I had a dream.

In the dream, I was back in the operating room. My body was unconscious, but my consciousness lingered overhead. There were doctors working between my legs and a searing pain burned through me. The pain was nearly unbearable, but I remained calm, letting it wash over me. There was a sudden commotion; the masked and gowned doctors were speaking urgently, but I couldn't tell what they were saying. Something was going unspeakably wrong. Pain shot through me.

And then there was crying - a baby's crying. A blue, discharge-covered infant fell out of my body and onto the floor of the operating room. The clinic staff were all horrified and stopped in their tracks for a moment as the baby screamed at the top of its lungs. In that moment of their pause, my hovering self saw the baby begin to crawl, still blue and covered with slime, across the slippery, bloody floor, crying in that extreme and genuine way that very young babies can. My consciousness went to the floor, and the baby crawled toward me, eyes slitted in its screaming cries, pain ravaging my body.

I woke up, still feeling the sharp, jagged cuts to my uterus. Almost in the very second I woke up, this thought echoed through my head: "The mind may have been asleep, but the body still remembers." There was a part of me that endured the cuts, the prying, the scraping, even if the part of my brain that registers pain was temporarily knocked out. My body underwent extremely painful things, those cuts happened, and somewhere, my body remembers them.

The image of the child being born during the abortion lingered for awhile, but ultimately, I was not traumatized by the dream. I recognized it as my subconscious expressing fears and maybe working a thing or two out. I still viewed the abortion as having been okay, even if my body had endured some pain. It wasn't something that I wanted to do again, but I was okay with having done it.

I would have thought I'd learned my lesson, but sadly, the stabbing pains were just foreshadowing.

Six years later, I became pregnant again. I remember peeing on a home pregnancy stick with my boyfriend waiting in the living room. The stick turned the wrong color, and I went out and told him. We were only three or so months into our relationship, but we had Plans. We were madly in love. And neither one of us wanted children, ever. The decision to have a second abortion was easy to make. I told him I'd had one before, and that it wasn't a difficult procedure.

I was working for a major international corporation at the time, and I had great health insurance. I remember walking outside of the office building where I was a low-level manager, and asking the young man who answered the health insurance's customer service line, "Hello, yes. I'm calling to ask whether you guys cover abortion?"

"Uh," he stammered, but quickly regained composure. "I believe we do, let me check your policy." I heard computer keys tappity-tapping, and soon he said, "Yes, the examinations, the ultra-sounds, the procedure, everything would be covered; however, general anaesthesia is not." I was happy to hear about the procedure being covered, but I was alarmed about being conscious. Thanking him, I went back to work.

That night, I researched local abortion physicians and called around, asking about the prices for general anaesthesia. Most of the costs were well over $1000! I was shocked. That was absurd. I decided to gut it out and just go with the local injection and the "light sedative" the doctors' offices had talked about. I made the appointment downtown; unfortunately, they couldn't get me in for almost two weeks. My breasts were getting really sore, I was insanely cranky and I couldn't sleep worth a damn. I hated being pregnant.

A few days before the procedure, I sent an email out to my team, the six men whom I directly supervised. They were various ages, from slightly younger than I was to old enough to be my father. One was from Poland, one from Thailand and one from a Middle Eastern country that I can't recall at the moment. All of them knew my boyfriend, the father. In the email, I explained why I was going to be away for a few days and why we'd made the decision to abort. Even as I was writing, I had no clue why the hell I was telling them this, apart from generally being an honest person. Perhaps I wanted sympathy, perhaps I wanted them to know that I wasn't just taking a fun vacation.

We all sat near each other, and they had to walk past my desk to leave the area. As each one walked by on their businesses, they offered sympathies and absolutely no judgments. They were a good group of guys. On the day of, my boyfriend drove us into the city. The clinic was a private practice in a 1970's-ish three-story building. We were the only people in the waiting room, and it was quiet and very doctory, not at all like the people-processing plant from the first time.

The assistant called me into the exam room. I looked around at the equipment and saw a large, clear plastic cylinder where, soon, the contents of my uterus would be. It was a little unsettling, but I'm pretty good about Medical Procedures, more curious about than afraid of them. The doctor came in, a woman that I now remember in my head as looking like Miranda Bailey from Grey's Anatomy, but she assuredly didn't. I remember being a somewhat stern-looking, short and plump black woman in surgical scrubs.

She explained, very briefly, that they would give me an IV sedative to help with the pain and to help me relax, then they'd give me a local injection to numb my cervix. After that, she would insert an instrument into my cervix to dilate it, then she would begin the procedure. I would hear something like a soft humming sound from the vacuum pump and I might feel some pressure. Ok, I was ready.

They got me into the stirrups, and the assistant injected me with the Demerol cocktail in my arm. I began to feel woozy right away and thought, "Maybe I'll just sleep through the whole thing!" I remarked how fast-acting the drugs were, but remained conscious. The doctor sat between my stirrupped legs. Due to the curtain between us, all I could see when I looked down at her was the top of her face. She told me I'd feel a sharp pinch as she gave the local, and she was right. She waited a few minutes for that to take effect as she readied the other equipment. We were all set. She told me I might feel some pressure as she inserted the dilating instrument inside my cervix.

As she inserted whatever it was, there was some sharp pain, but it was not unbearable. The local had not taken effect yet, evidently, and the sedative certainly wasn't taking the edge off of anything. In fact, I felt remarkably clear-headed and not at all woozy or sedated. The doctor waited a few more moments before trying again. I gritted my teeth and she got it in there. I took some deep breaths, as I was clenching and making things more difficult.

The pain continued, abating only slightly after she got the dilation instrument finally situated. My cervix did not like it, and I felt like it was trying to spit it out. It also felt like the instrument had teeth on it, digging into the powerful muscles trying to evict it. Finally, my cervix was open far enough, and it was time.

You may have heard the term "D & C" before, which sounds nonchalant, casual, almost cute. "D & C" stands for "Dilation & Curettage," which also doesn't sound overtly awful. What it involves is the dilation of the cervix and then the insertion of a "curette;" a long, loop-shaped knife, which is then used to scrape the contents of the uterus away from the uterine walls. A cannula is also inserted and used to suction away the remains. I'd thought I was having a simple suction aspiration, which is the same procedure without the knife; I was wrong.

I have an extremely high tolerance for pain. I was not prepared for what was ahead.

As soon as she began the scraping and cutting, my insides screamed. It felt like she was scraping the inside of my uterus with a branding iron. I was trying to be strong and stoic, but my ragged breathing gave me away.

"Sweetie, you have to relax, you have to breathe."
"I'm sorry...I'm sorry...it just doesn't feel numbed. I can feel everything!"
"Ok, just breathe."

She paused for only a quick moment. I have no memory if she gave me any more local or nothing at all; all I remember was the stabbing pains and feeling like I was going to die.

"Let's try again." She went back to it with the same result. My hands clenched and unclenched and I tried very hard to breathe deeply and normally, but my breath kept coming out as jagged grunts. "Ok, you have to push through this, we're almost halfway done here, it's ok, try to breathe." Clearly, she thought I was a total wimp. I said, one more time, "I don't think the drugs are working."

"If I stop now, it'll hurt more to stop and start again than it will to finish up. You can do this."

I forced myself to lie there, as still as stone from the waist down, as this woman scraped the inside of my body with a knife. Occasionally, I would hear the hum of the vacuum pump. Mostly, it was just the cutting and the agony.

Finally, after an internal eternity, it was over. She covered me with the paper curtain and took my feet out of the stirrups for me. "Is there someone in the waiting room we can bring in for you?" My emotions were rushing down on me like a tidal wave and I barely managed to choke out my boyfriend's name before sobs overtook me.

He came in to find me wracked with sobs, and I remember his face so clearly. He stroked my head and he was obviously deeply troubled. "No more of that," I said through tears. He remained silent, and I couldn't speak anymore. I couldn't explain that I was not crying because I had ended a pregnancy, but because I had just been brutalized. I felt like I had been attacked. Victimized.

After 15 minutes, I was allowed to leave.

My boyfriend drove me home, not realizing that hitting large bumps would make my insides feel like I was back on the table. We didn't talk, I couldn't talk; I was too horrified. I was trying to process the emotions I had from lying there and letting those brutal cuts happen to me. I wondered if this doctor was secretly anti-abortion, punishing women by not numbing us properly, forcing us to endure what I'd just gone through. I resented her, whatever her reasons were.

We never really talked about it, my boyfriend and I. He got a vasectomy.

Four months later, I got pregnant.

This time, I was filled with dread. I was humiliated. I told no one but him, because once is an accident, twice is negligent...but three times? Three times is simply unforgivable. Three times is a hooker in the bad part of town who has no respect for herself or for human life. Three times is a junkie sleeping with anyone while she's high. Three times displays such a callous disregard for life as to be unconscionable. Three times? A woman so stupid, so unthinking, so unfeeling, should be forced to have that child. Besides, maybe all this time, she was meant to have that baby. Maybe this is her last chance. Maybe this is her miracle; after two abortions, surely her insides must bear scars! And the vasectomy? What are the odds?

I was so shamed. I had never felt so ashamed in my life. I had all of those thoughts in the last paragraph and a million others. I knew that I was a horrible person, beneath human. A person convicted of multiple drunk driving offenses would be better regarded than I would be, should anyone find out. I think my boyfriend was disgusted with us both.

Although I was still employed at the same giant corporation, I wasn't going to have two abortions on record there. Fortunately for me, the "abortion pill," then dubbed RU-486 (Mifepristone & Misoprostol) was in its final phase of study before being approved. A local clinic was conducting studies, and all care would be provided free of cost. I signed up immediately. I wasn't at all sure what to expect, but anything would be better than the last time.

The clinic was either Planned Parenthood or a city or county equivalent. It was a free/low-cost clinic that provided women's health services. I went in, had a vaginal ultra-sound, received a lot of literature and information and made two appointments to take the doses of pills. I made sure that the actual expelling of the fetus would occur on a weekend, so I wouldn't have to miss any work. The staff told me that if I had any questions, any concerns, day or night, there was a 24-hour nurse hotline I could call, no matter how silly the question might seem. The staff were very supportive, caring and friendly.

At the first appointment, I took the first drug, Mifepristone. They told me this could cause the abortion to occur on its own, but that I would likely need to return for the second medication, the Misoprostol. The first drug causes the fetus to die and the second induces contractions. The Mifepristone did not cause any cramping or contractions at all, so two or three days later, I went back for the Misoprostol. The staff also gave me two Vicodin to take, in case the cramping got to be too intense. I took the Misoprostol at the clinic and took the Vicodin home.

I planned a day of bed rest. For a few hours, nothing happened, and then I began to get some light cramps. I took the Vicodin, figuring they would get worse. My boyfriend was in his office in the basement, so I did this all alone. The cramps got more and more intense, but it was not unbearable; it was like menstrual cramping times six or eight, maybe. The Vicodin definitely took the worst out of it, and there was only about 15 minutes during which I was in a lot of pain.

There are gory details in the following paragraph; you might wish to skip ahead if you are squeamish.

When the first major wave of cramps subsided, I went into the bathroom, sat on the toilet and something that felt large slid out of me. It wasn't painful; it was just an odd sensation. I looked down between my legs and saw a blood clot almost the size of my palm lying at the bottom of the bowl. I put a maxi pad in my underwear, stood, and looked down into the water at this thing that had just been expelled from my body. I was fascinated by it. A morbid part of me wondered if I could see the fetus in it and I looked hard at it, seeing nothing.

With a weird feeling I can't really identify, I flushed the mass down the toilet, unable to help myself from thinking about unwanted goldfish. A short time later, another (smaller) wave of cramps came along, another (smaller) mass was expelled in the bathroom and that was that. I went down and told my boyfriend it was done. He barely looked away from his computer screen. Later, I found out that he'd been surfing porn online for most of the time I'd been upstairs having the abortion. I was so hurt and so angry by that. It makes him sound callous and horrible, but as a whole person, he is not. He was just unable to deal with his feelings and so turned to something that comforted him; masturbation.

As much as he and I loved each other, our relationship fell apart a couple of years later. During our break-up talks, it came out how much the abortions affected him, his feelings about sex and our sex life. We were never good at communicating with each other, and I hadn't considered how the abortions might have affected him. He wanted children even less than I did - it simply didn't occur to me that he might have issues about it, and even if it had, he likely wouldn't have talked about them.

So, there you have it. My abortion stories.

I still carry shame with me to this day, but I know other women who have had multiple abortions, and I know it's not just reprehensible women who have. Mags, one of my best friends, has had three, also. That's one of the things that has bonded us so tightly together, the guilt and shame and understanding.

The one positive aspect of my experience is this: I am in an unusual position to be able to compare three different abortion procedures. My personal feeling is that the medical abortion (the RU-486 pills) is the way to go. A woman can be in the comfort and privacy of her own home (or wherever she chooses,) with supportive friends or alone, and it is non-invasive. There is no surgery, no cutting, no sense of violation that might accompany a surgical abortion.

My experience with the conscious dilation & curettage may have been unusual or even totally abnormal; it's possible that it's not normally excruciatingly painful. Even so, I would recommend general anaesthesia if at all possible for surgical procedures. There are more risks associated with any experience with a general, but the risks are so small that I consider them preferable to being awake through the procedure.

With the internet so widely available now, women are doing more searching online for abortion experiences to learn what to expect. I'm sharing this to help those women, to help any woman who has had one or more abortions to feel less alone, less ashamed, less guilty.

These are our bodies, and if we choose not to bear children with them, that is our choice, our right. I would never recommend a reckless attitude about getting pregnant or having an abortion; there are risks and there are potential side-effects. There is pain. If you don't want kids, it's better to not get pregnant at all, of course. Stay in school, kids, and so forth.

But having an abortion, or two, or three, or five, does not make you a bad person. It will not necessarily scar you for life, either physically or emotionally. It will not always ruin your chances to have a baby in the future. It does not have to cause you unspeakable emotionally suffering and guilt. If you don't have the guilt, you are not a horrible woman, a failure in any way.

If you have had an abortion experience, I hope that you will write about it. You can always do it anonymously, as I have done. It releases some of the shame to tell the truth, to stop hiding what I've endured and why. This is the first time I have told my story, start to finish, to anyone, and I'm glad that I decided to do so. I know I don't have a wide readership, but if you know someone who might benefit from reading this story, please pass it along. If you have judgment on me that you need to unload, please feel free to do so; I will honor your feelings and believe me - you can't say anything that I haven't already said to myself. Words like "irresponsible" are certainly appropriate here.

Thank you, anyone who has read this far. In this regard, I am not "just like you," I suspect; but maybe there's one woman here who feels that kinship.

Aloha!

Sat, 19 May 2007 21:56:02 GMT

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.

Nameless

Sat, 12 May 2007 00:09:48 GMT

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."

Auteur, c'est moi.

Sat, 28 Apr 2007 03:47:52 GMT

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.

Mute

Tue, 24 Apr 2007 04:00:35 GMT

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.

Big swing and a miss from this promising newcomer...

Tue, 02 Jan 2007 01:20:59 GMT

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.

Burning Inside & Outside

Wed, 22 Nov 2006 00:44:18 GMT

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.

Fully Rational

Sat, 04 Nov 2006 05:59:22 GMT

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.

Summer

Sat, 04 Nov 2006 05:47:36 GMT

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.

Disposable Life

Mon, 15 May 2006 16:51:51 GMT

I have been browsing around some of the journals I haven't read in awhile an came across dandelionlady's post about Kleenex Klearcuts.

This is one of my biggest hot buttons in this life - everything is disposable. Cameras, cell phones, batteries, plates, cups, mugs, silverware, diapers, cleaning "wands," - EVERYTHING. It infuriates me.

Are we so lazy that we cannot wash a dish or put a hanky into the washing machine?

I grant you, the hanky factor can have a bit of "ew" involved; I remember my father carrying one around when I was a child, and I remember being vaguely grossed out by the nasal remnants contained thereupon. Still, it was handy and environmentally responsible. Dad Got It. I didn't. At least, I didn't until I was quite a bit older.

How is it that, as we advance as a society, we become less and less morally responsible? We make wonderful advances in technology and even recycling, but then we outdo ourselves in the opposite direction, taking 5 steps back for every two steps forward.

I want to live in the times Star Trek is written in. I want no poverty and no pollution. I want replicators and, more importantly, transporters. I want my damn hover car! I want to look back upon the ills and evils of today's humanity with a rueful shake of my head and a cluck of my tongue and say, "thank goodness we were able to overcome the worst portions of our nature. Thank goodness we're no longer like them."

It pains me so to see our world in this state. Things were better before we came down out of the trees. I'm sure walking upright, using tools and planting crops seemed like great ideas at the time, but just look where it's all gotten us. Disposable lives. Just use and throw away! No fuss, no muss! No worries about where that piece of plastic and chemicals go - it vanishes!

How about a little responsibility and foresight? How about consideration?

How about I'm delusional.

"Swarthy"

Fri, 12 May 2006 23:31:07 GMT

Every now and again, a word lodges itself into the forefront of my brain and refuses quite adamantly to vacate the premises. It's an insidious process - I remember or write or hear a word that strikes my fancy and make a note to incorporate (or reincorporate) it into my more frequent vocabulary.

I mean well, really I do.

The trouble is that once I become more aware of wanting to use the word, I use it. A LOT.

This week, the word has been, "swarthy."

I wish I were kidding, gentle reader, I wish that beyond all wishes. Truly, how often can one inconspicuously use the word "swarthy?" "Swarthy" stands out in a crowd. "Swarthy" couldn't be less inconspicuous. Saying "swarthy" more than once a month makes people look at one in an odd fashion.

I've used it twice today.

"Which guy do you mean?"
"The one in the orange striped shirt, next to the swarthy guy."

My friend arched an eyebrow and I sighed resignedly.

"That's twice," she lamented.
"I know. I can't help it."

Swarthy.

I work with a woman who cannot stop saying "cognizant" and "aspect." It's her curse, her burden, her albatross.

"I just want you all to be cognizant of the fact that..."
"I'm fully cognizant of that..."
"He is cognizant of your desire to..."

Always the same emphasis, never "aware of." "Cognizant."

The other word, "aspect," comes in less frequently but still rather noticeably.

"I'll need Babette to help with the filing aspect..."
"He's taking care of the driveway aspect of things..."
"If you look at it from this aspect..."
"I'll ask him if he's had a chance to think about the moving aspect..."

I envision my hands snaking around her throat, choking the evil words out of her: Woman, be healed! Out, OUT dread words of Satan! I cast thee out!

Alas, my fantasized exorcisms have no effect. Every morning, I become cognizant of a new (or not so terribly new) aspect of the business. My eternal sufferance. My ever-present exercise in tolerance.

My test in patience.

My mirror, for I am afflicted with the same illness.

"What an adorable dog!"
"Very. In a swarthy sort of way."
"You intolerable nitwit; you can't call a dog 'swarthy.'"

Vague Weirdness

Fri, 12 May 2006 23:10:27 GMT

We can customize the titles of our friends page, our comments pages and so forth over here on LiveJournal. This can lead to much weirdness and confusion because I could call my various pages:

Which one is my friends page? Which one is my userinfo page?

Gotta click on 'em all, what fun!

There is usually at least a theme to the madness - something terribly clever and just obscure enough so that the person thinks it's mercilessly original and brutally cool - Goth, Birds, Gardening, Guns, Geek and so on. But sweet Jesus, people - make the information useful! If your theme is birds, say, try something like:

I mean, give us a clue already! We Netizens (a term I haven't used or heard in forever, and which I shall eternally loathe) have an attention span of less than or equal to 3 seconds - if we can't find what we're looking for in that period of time, poof! We're outta there, baby. You lose. Thanks for playing.

Have a nice day.

In a nutshell: Don't call your Friends page "Hazelnuts."

Even the Best of Us

Thu, 27 Apr 2006 22:57:59 GMT

For well over a year, I have read the unparalleled blog, The Outer Life. The man who writes The Outer Life is one of the most brilliant observers of the human condition I've read - and given the volume of blogs I read, that is saying something. OLG (Outer Life Guy, as he's often called) is one of those writers who can casually make the most insightful comments and make it sound as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He may, for all I know, slave and fester and swear and scream to make it all happen, but damn - he makes it happen. I suspect that most of it is natural and just needs polishing, that bastard.

I crave new Outer Life, and when a new post popped up on my RSS feed today, I dropped everything and immediately went to see what fresh delights awaited me. His most previous post, The Rope, disallowed comment, and I truly wished to leave one. I have been to the edge of the abyss he was staring into with such distaste and boredom. I lived there for quite awhile and the blackness and I developed a mutual hatred of each other. What blew me away was that he is also living there - yikes and away, He's One of Us! Fuck me. The pedestal cracked just a tiny bit, but I think I love him all the more for the personality this human flaw added. I wondered: Did he debate whether or not to post such a terribly personal essay? Did he ponder what his readers would think of him as I did when I posted my When In Rome post?

Depression has such a stigma attached; so many of us suffer with it, yet are loathe and ashamed to admit it. There is something wrong with me!! All of these other people are leading perfect, happy lives with Meaning and Purpose and here I am on the couch with neither motivation nor desire to move. There are people out there white water kayaking and climbing the mountain because it's there. I am reading email, desperately wishing I were able to do anything else one second and the next not caring if I ever leave the house again.

Reaching the end of one's rope is, to be sure, a eye-opening experience. It makes one appreciate certain things and abhor others. It made me never want to be dangling from a frayed end again, although as soon as I climbed back up a bit, I got lazy again and slipped back down. "Damn", I mumbled in my thoughts. "Shit." I dangled awhile, paralyzed by my own apathy. "Fuck. I hate this. Too bad it'll never end."

Like OLG, I decided I was "better" on numerous occasions, as soon as the lethary wore off and my mood lifted, I was no longer depressed. Thank God that's behind me, now! Ho-ho, wasn't I a wreck? So miserable and pathetic. [I would shake my head at my own silliness] Wow. Ok, let's move on. Somehow, however, "moving on" never quite got as far moved along as I would have liked. Depression is insidious, slithering into one's ear with great stealth, silently coiling itself around one's brain before it strikes and BOOM! Squish. Stifle. Slouch.

I swear it's a lack of stimulation and adventure that causes this thing in the first place, and having it prevents me from seeking out stimulation and adventure and Jesus Christ how the fuck do I break out of it? With sound discipline, I imagine, a trait which I decidedly lack. If I were evading predators and hunting food and avoiding tar pits, I suspect I would not be depressed. I'd be alive. That sounds nice.

Shit. I've broken my cardinal rule - don't just babble on without a point. Alas, even though I do have my own sense of superiority (instilled by my upbringing, I suppose, and by my education - I hate realizing that,) I suppose I occasionally need to realize that I'm every bit as fallible as the rest of us, perhaps even more so. Balls.

I wish OLG the best of luck - I wish us both all the luck in the world.

When in Rome

Tue, 04 Apr 2006 04:57:36 GMT

Having attended a prestigious university, I studied many things - art, science, languages, history - and I inadvertently received an education that was both broad and deep. Though I did my best to avoid it, I must have absorbed knowledge through osmosis of some sort.

I learned about ancient Greece and Rome and longed to walk through the ruins of such a great and wonderful civilization. I knew, with certainty as sharp as any razor, that this is where I should have been born, when knowledge was new and humans were still filled with wonder at the unknown. I imagined not knowing how our hearts pumped. My mind reeled, pondering being unaware of the structure of suns, of the existence of the creatures of the deep seas, believing in a preponderance of gods. Not knowing the technological wonders of radio. Photography. Microbiology.

Zippo lighters.

The Romans lived without such marvels, but they did get a few things right. They knew how to make wine. They knew how to build temples that withstood ages. And they knew how to throw one hell of a party.

The Romans loved to get down. They wanted nothing more than to celebrate to excess - drinking, eating, making love and making merry until the days blurred together. They partied until their bodies could take no more, then they pushed themselves further. They did whatever they had to do to continue. This is where I first learned of the practice of binging and purging; a curious and unpleasant practice, to be sure. Yet a devious and desperate part of my mind ferreted the idea away, assuredly knowing that my unfolding propensities for excess would find it handy someday.

I did, indeed. Rather than engaging in discipline, moderation and restraint, I threw myself wholeheartedly and exuberently into indulgence, extremes and dreamy forays into various pleasures. My experience widened, my perception narrowed and my waist grew all around. Noting that my figure had visibly increased, I half-heartedly attempted diet and exercise, but to no avail. My appetites outweighed my feeble discipline.

A flickering memory wavered into view, and I quickly learned how to rid myself of extravagant, calorie-laden indulgences. It worked; my friends the Romans came through for me. My size stabilized.

Unfortunately, armed with this new tool, I learned that I could eat more.

To make quite a long story short, I gained more than a few pounds over the following fifteen years, the purging never quite keeping up its end of the bargain.

Here I am, a slightly-thirty-plus woman, fingers stuck down her throat, victim of her own culinary bacchanals.

Sweet Venus.

I am bereft of a point. I have just never shared this with anyone before and it was poking at me.

I'm not perfect; remember - I'm just like you.

Progression

Tue, 04 Apr 2006 03:57:25 GMT

It is gratifying to know that even the most prolific and inspiring of weblog authors were once mere mortals, simple folk exploring a new medium. They were giddy with the excitement of publishing something for the entire world to drink in, their words got away from them, their fingers flew ahead of their better judgment and they published...normal silliness.

Everyone is fallible.

Some of us just learn to cover it up better than others.

Someday, the world will explode.

Tue, 04 Apr 2006 03:32:20 GMT

We're going to breed ourselves to death. We'll be an enormous ball of flesh expanding at the speed of light because everyone thinks they're outstanding parents and that their children will save the world. Their children will solve the problems of cancer, AIDS and world hunger.

The trouble is, 99% of them are wrong.

Most of these children will only contribute to ills of the world. They'll develop cancer, they'll contract and pass along AIDS and they'll only keep breeding and contribute to world hunger themselves. Seventy-five percent of them will be perfectly mediocre as they loaf along through their lives. Fifteen percent will form a crust on the world, becoming an oozing, festering scab the rest of us want to pretend isn't there but can't help picking at. Seven percent will lead exemplary lives, aspiring to great heights most of us will never achieve. Two percent will become the most beautiful people - the supermodels, the super-wealthy, other descriptors containing the word "super."

The final one percent, that fragile, tremulous and tender tiniest bit, might just save us all.

They'll be the actual brain surgeons, rocket scientists, researchers, holy people. They will try to save the world, to save us all, including the seventy-five percenters, even the fifteen percenters - those who wouldn't stop to help them change a tire in the middle of the desert.

Do we have to create the other 99% to produce the 1%? Are the rest of us necessary? Or is it just one, gigantic, ironic, unending, vicious circle? We need the 1% to save the 99%.

I am not part of the 1%. I'm somewhere between the 75 and the 15 and the seven. I suspect that most of us are, which is a bit impossible, statistically speaking.

I'll be a part of the exponentially-expanding ball of flesh because I do not excel. I do not force myself to excel.

Thus, I am a flaking scab on society.