It is a very strange thing to find that your body has been taken over by another being. And strange to be a container carrying precious cargo that everyone else has an opinion about and an interest in and my god they are going to let you know!
Before I was pregnant, when I needed mental health assistance it could be very, very difficult to get the help I needed. Endless phone calls and waits and unreturned messages and frustration and confusion for which I just didn't have the energy. So it was strange to become pregnant and suddenly find that everyone could not help me fast enough. My baby's health and well-being are important enough to complete strangers that they want to bend over backwards (to the extent that their budgets allow) to connect me with services.
Want to take a jewelry-making class with other moms-to-be? Here's a pamphlet!
Care to try prenatal acupuncture? Come to our free clinic!
Feel like you want support when you bring your newborn home? Let us sign you up for a few visits from a home health nurse!
Compared to what I had gotten used to, it has been rather dazzling.
I am trying to take advantage of every service and opportunity I can manage while it is available, especially now as I'm reaching the end and being pregnant has become very, very difficult. I was aware that it might, but never would I have been able to imagine how.
At the beginning of my second pregnancy, I was warned that miscarriage, pregnancy, and birth can all being very challenging experiences for women who've experienced sexual trauma. When I thought about it, it made sense. I was glad to be warned and I filed this knowledge away with the idea that knowing was half the battle and now that I knew I would be fine.
How I was wrong.
(To be continued.)
March 15, 2012
March 8, 2012
Introducing...Dear Frijole
Did I mention I was having a baby?
I've been discussing this topic elsewhere for privacy. Now I'm ready to share.
http://dearfrijole.blogspot.com
I've been discussing this topic elsewhere for privacy. Now I'm ready to share.
http://dearfrijole.blogspot.com
February 11, 2012
Praise you
You have no idea I'm writing this. In fact, it's entirely possible you'll never read it unless I purposefully send you to this blog entry. We have been together nearly 1 3/4 years, and god knows we have had some turbulent times when I didn't think we could or would make it. We are working so hard on our relationship because we love each other and we want to make it. I try to make a point of telling you the things I appreciate about you, and here are some things that I am incredibly grateful for that you deserve to hear. I probably couldn't say them aloud without my voice breaking.
1. When I make something for you to eat, be it a can of soup or a stew I worked on for hours, you never fail to earnestly thank me for it.
2. Every single day you are at work you call me to hear my voice, even just for a minute.
3. You love my birdies and are good to them.
4. Nearly every day you tell me that I am beautiful, even if I just woke up and I know perfectly well my hair is sticking out in all directions.
5. After we lost our first baby and I was devastated, I was angry at everything. Even when I was irrationally furious with you for having a healthy child when I did not, you didn't get mad at me. You held me.
6. You pour me a cup of coffee every morning even though I am perfectly capable of doing it myself.
7. When you taste something delicious, your first reaction is to share it with me.
8. You tell me your dreams when you wake up, and you listen to mine.
9. Sometimes you fall asleep holding my hand.
10. You never make me feel bad for the seemingly endless things I feel unable to do at the moment. Instead, you reassure me and walk around all the things left undone. This is a constant source of relief.
- end of sap -
1. When I make something for you to eat, be it a can of soup or a stew I worked on for hours, you never fail to earnestly thank me for it.
2. Every single day you are at work you call me to hear my voice, even just for a minute.
3. You love my birdies and are good to them.
4. Nearly every day you tell me that I am beautiful, even if I just woke up and I know perfectly well my hair is sticking out in all directions.
5. After we lost our first baby and I was devastated, I was angry at everything. Even when I was irrationally furious with you for having a healthy child when I did not, you didn't get mad at me. You held me.
6. You pour me a cup of coffee every morning even though I am perfectly capable of doing it myself.
7. When you taste something delicious, your first reaction is to share it with me.
8. You tell me your dreams when you wake up, and you listen to mine.
9. Sometimes you fall asleep holding my hand.
10. You never make me feel bad for the seemingly endless things I feel unable to do at the moment. Instead, you reassure me and walk around all the things left undone. This is a constant source of relief.
- end of sap -
The spotless mind
Joel: I can't see anything that I don't like about you.
Clementine: But you will! But you will. You know, you will think of things. And I'll get bored with you and feel trapped because that's what happens with me.
Joel: Okay.
Clementine: [pauses] Okay.
Clementine: But you will! But you will. You know, you will think of things. And I'll get bored with you and feel trapped because that's what happens with me.
Joel: Okay.
Clementine: [pauses] Okay.
January 15, 2012
What Mrs. J's class saw
I still dream about my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. J. She loved me because I was quiet and got good grades and made 100% on all my spelling tests that year. But I hated her. She got mad and lost her temper easily, and when she did she said nasty, mocking things to her students. This volatility was an anxious kid like me's worst nightmare.
One of the students that Mrs. J's wrath was regularly directed to was Robbie V. Robbie was a naughty boy who was usually causing trouble, but even worse was the fast that he smelled like mothballs. The rumor around school was that Robbie's parents were mean to him and made him put his clothes in mothballs as punishment. I have no idea what the actual situation was, but I identified with Robbie because my home life was unhappy, too. I tried to be nice to him, and I didn't complain if I had to sit next to him at lunch like everyone else did.
One day in class, Mrs. J. was fed up with Robbie, and she placed his desk in front of hers so she could keep an eye on him. She was in an exceptionally bad mood that day, and I watched her warily as I tried to draw as little attention to myself as possible.
At one point she got so irritated that she said, "Robbie, you smell. I'm sick of smelling mothballs. Stand up." Robbie slowly did as he was told. Mrs. J. grabbed her can of Lysol off the bookshelf behind her, directed him to hold his arms up and turn around slowly, and then proceeded to spray him up and down.
The class was surprised and looked around at each other for cues on what to do. Some stifled giggles behind their hands clamped over their mouths. I was horrified and started to cry. I can still remember the look of shame and humiliation on Robbie's face as he stood in front of the class with his arms out. And I still dream about it to this day.
One of the students that Mrs. J's wrath was regularly directed to was Robbie V. Robbie was a naughty boy who was usually causing trouble, but even worse was the fast that he smelled like mothballs. The rumor around school was that Robbie's parents were mean to him and made him put his clothes in mothballs as punishment. I have no idea what the actual situation was, but I identified with Robbie because my home life was unhappy, too. I tried to be nice to him, and I didn't complain if I had to sit next to him at lunch like everyone else did.
One day in class, Mrs. J. was fed up with Robbie, and she placed his desk in front of hers so she could keep an eye on him. She was in an exceptionally bad mood that day, and I watched her warily as I tried to draw as little attention to myself as possible.
At one point she got so irritated that she said, "Robbie, you smell. I'm sick of smelling mothballs. Stand up." Robbie slowly did as he was told. Mrs. J. grabbed her can of Lysol off the bookshelf behind her, directed him to hold his arms up and turn around slowly, and then proceeded to spray him up and down.
The class was surprised and looked around at each other for cues on what to do. Some stifled giggles behind their hands clamped over their mouths. I was horrified and started to cry. I can still remember the look of shame and humiliation on Robbie's face as he stood in front of the class with his arms out. And I still dream about it to this day.
December 31, 2011
Tiny, tiny people
Our cat is being neutered next week.
This evening I attempted to gently explain to five year old Darius what "neuter" means using words he already knows. I said, "Just like you, Freddy has a penis and balls. We'll take him to the doctor and he will perform a surgery that removes Freddy's balls. That way, he won't be able to make baby kitties if he meets a girl cat."
I was trying to tread carefully here, as he is not my child and it is not my place to have his first birds and bees talk with him.
"Why doesn't he want to make baby kitties?" he asked.
"Well, I don't know if he wants to or not, but we don't want him to. That's why we are taking him to the doctor," I answered.
He looked thoughtfully at Freddy's rear end. "His balls let him make baby kitties?"
"Yes," I explained. "Just like humans can make baby people, cats can make baby kitties."
His eyes widened. He reached down to his Batman costume pants, lifted up his own testicles, and said, "You mean there's tiny people in here?"
This evening I attempted to gently explain to five year old Darius what "neuter" means using words he already knows. I said, "Just like you, Freddy has a penis and balls. We'll take him to the doctor and he will perform a surgery that removes Freddy's balls. That way, he won't be able to make baby kitties if he meets a girl cat."
I was trying to tread carefully here, as he is not my child and it is not my place to have his first birds and bees talk with him.
"Why doesn't he want to make baby kitties?" he asked.
"Well, I don't know if he wants to or not, but we don't want him to. That's why we are taking him to the doctor," I answered.
He looked thoughtfully at Freddy's rear end. "His balls let him make baby kitties?"
"Yes," I explained. "Just like humans can make baby people, cats can make baby kitties."
His eyes widened. He reached down to his Batman costume pants, lifted up his own testicles, and said, "You mean there's tiny people in here?"
December 13, 2011
Two brown eyes
I had one of those moments. One of those moments where it's a certain kind of day and you're in a certain kind of mood and a certain kind of song comes on. Suddenly, you're 15 years old again and in the middle of the frantic 5 minutes between 5th and 6th period and you seek out those two brown eyes. Those brown eyes that--on the rare occasions when they catch yours--have the power to warm you to your toes. For a moment you are lost. And then the stoplight changes to green and it's time to go but your eyes have misted over and you've been punched in the gut. All because of the memory of two brown eyes.
December 10, 2011
Where I went and why I stayed
I imagine most people think they know how they would react in a given situation. I know I did. I always had a bit of feistiness in me that led me to believe I would fight an attacker tooth and nail. Plus, I was smart. I was educated in sexuality and gender issues. I taught classes on those subjects fer chrissakes.
In the back of my mind lately--in spite of all the other things I have going on--I have been processing some of the issues that kept me from fighting back, from speaking up. The list is incomplete.
1. Though I struggled, I didn't scream while it was happening because I didn't want to make a scene. I get made fun of for being overly dramatic; I always have. And when I reported a molestation to a trusted adult as a child, I was told that I had misunderstood what had happened, and that it had not happened the way I said it did. Because I misunderstood.
I thought maybe I was misunderstanding this time, too.
2. Admitting to myself what was happening put me in danger of panic. And if panic set in I felt like I would lose all control.
Better to keep quiet and calm and alert.
3. He didn't beat me up. Didn't pull a weapon on me. Didn't even say a word, in fact. He just held me down with his own weight. Despite the pain and the powerlessness, I kept telling myself, "It's just sex. That's all it boils down to. I've had sex plenty of times. I can survive this." Though I couldn't even allow myself to think about the word "rape" at the time, looking back I know I felt I wasn't "raped enough" (i.e., raped violently enough) as others I knew had been in order to be seen as having been "legitimately" raped by others.
They wouldn't believe me--wouldn't take me seriously.
4. I know you're not supposed to shower. I've seen enough Law & Order episodes to know. But the idea of going to a doctor or a police officer dirty and unwashed was unthinkable to me. I just wanted to wash his presence off and forget.
The shame and humilation were unbearable.
In the back of my mind lately--in spite of all the other things I have going on--I have been processing some of the issues that kept me from fighting back, from speaking up. The list is incomplete.
1. Though I struggled, I didn't scream while it was happening because I didn't want to make a scene. I get made fun of for being overly dramatic; I always have. And when I reported a molestation to a trusted adult as a child, I was told that I had misunderstood what had happened, and that it had not happened the way I said it did. Because I misunderstood.
I thought maybe I was misunderstanding this time, too.
2. Admitting to myself what was happening put me in danger of panic. And if panic set in I felt like I would lose all control.
Better to keep quiet and calm and alert.
3. He didn't beat me up. Didn't pull a weapon on me. Didn't even say a word, in fact. He just held me down with his own weight. Despite the pain and the powerlessness, I kept telling myself, "It's just sex. That's all it boils down to. I've had sex plenty of times. I can survive this." Though I couldn't even allow myself to think about the word "rape" at the time, looking back I know I felt I wasn't "raped enough" (i.e., raped violently enough) as others I knew had been in order to be seen as having been "legitimately" raped by others.
They wouldn't believe me--wouldn't take me seriously.
4. I know you're not supposed to shower. I've seen enough Law & Order episodes to know. But the idea of going to a doctor or a police officer dirty and unwashed was unthinkable to me. I just wanted to wash his presence off and forget.
The shame and humilation were unbearable.
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