When your uterus threatens to take hostages, things are clearly out of control. Menstruation Rules!

Dear Internet:

My muse wanted me to tell you that she’s been rockin’ and rollin’ pretty heartily recently. She has knocked back some stiff drinks, tickled my brain with the naughty feather, and laughed in my ear. I have grinned, typed, and clickity clacked away at my keyboard, happily.

She also wants you to know that tonight, she’d love to help me out and provide some great content for you, however, she’s been struggling to keep her head above the muck inside the swirling vat of menstrual hormones that is MY ENTIRE BEING right now. Earlier, she was doing the drowning sign and gasping for air. I gave her the finger and told her to “fend, bitch” because I have my own shit to deal with, okay?

She is currently fleeing from my angry, rampaging uterus, which is running at her full force, prepared to bludgeon her to death with an engorged tampon. It has already threatened to create a hostage situation with a list of demands if it can capture her. That ho bettah run, because here at Casa SarcMom we do NOT negotiate with Effing Terrorists. Or Asshole Uteri.

In defense of the out-of-control uterus, it feels like a damn badger is gnawing on it, and just in case you’re wondering? NO. THAT DOES NOT FEEL GOOD. It feels… how do they say it? AbsofackinlutelyCraptastic.

So that great content? Uh… yeah.

Also? Who the hell authorized there being NO WINE IN MY HOUSE RIGHT NOW?

I might have to burn it down just to make a point.

I’m going to go punch myself in the uterus really hard (knock that damn badger loose) and then look for the matches.

Someone send booze.

Some letters I really needed to get off my chest, immediately.

Dear Uterus,

Just so you know, it would totally be okay with me if you wanted to just… you know… leave. For awhile. Get out. GO AWAY. Consider it a vacation, whatever! WE really don’t need one another right now anyway, right? And the ripping, tearing, and cramping pain you’re causing me today is really not what I’d call “pleasant” or “enjoyable” or even “moderately bearable.” It’s more like “excruciating” and it “sucks ass.” It makes me want to “smash myself in the head with a sledge hammer to numb all feeling in my body.”

You’re also creating quite a mess around here. I, for one, don’t appreciate the stained crotches in my underwear that I can never seem to avoid when you start doing your special thing every month. Furthermore, I’m quite tired of feeling like a regularly tapped keg of Hawaiian Punch.

In case you’re trying to leave a “trail” because you were thinking I was lost in the woods and needed to find my way home, let me set you straight. I’m just fine, here at home, and there are no witches trying to eat me. (In fact, as long as you keep it up, Uterus, NO ONE is going to be trying to eat me. Thanks for that!)

So, really, please treat yourself to a Bahamas Cruise several times in a row, or a couple of months in Europe. Really, that would be great. Hell, go spelunking in some caves somewhere and get eaten by bats for all I care. I just think we need some time apart.

It’s not me. It’s you.

Your Encasement,
Lotus

**********************************************

Dear Mind/Brain, Back, Stomach, and Legs,

Look. Just because Uterus gets the notion once a month to start acting like a total jerkface doesn’t mean that you should, too. I would really appreciate a little support here. I mean, at a time when I’m literally feeling like The Evil Undead is clawing its way out of my gut, you could step up to the plate and try to help me hold things together instead of chiming in with The Chorus of Pain and Insanity.

But no, you’re just a bunch of shameless lemmings. If you weren’t attached to me, I would say something like, “I hope you just fall off/out/rot/die/snap.”

But, um, don’t do any of that. Please.

Holding Onto Last Shred Of Sanity
(for as long as mind allows me to, damn you, mind)
Lotus

**********************************************

Dear Eve,

It was a SNAKE.

AN EFFIN SNAKE!

Really? You had to listen to a SNAKE?

I HATE YOU.

One of Your Many Daughters, Bound To Your Sin,
Lotus

You can tell I’m on my period when I talk about “the indicent.”

Or when I tell you in detail about how I have PMS or, you know, just flat out announce that I’m on my period.  That’s also a good way to tell.

But you can rely on me to talk about the miscarriage around this time of the month, too, I’ve come to realize.  Because, really, it’s actually more painful to me than the date on which the miscarriage happened, this bleeding that says there is no life within these fleshy walls we call “my uterus.” 

The bleeding that says, “AH-HAHAHA, YOU ARE ALONE IN THIS SHELL OF MEAT.”

I don’t think my depression about the matter is excessive.  It’s not worse than it was in the beginning, but it’s not really getting better either.  How about that, y’all?  I guess it takes more time.  Or magic dust.  Or what-the-hell-ever.

Most “normal” days I am “fine.”  Whatever that is.  Sometimes stupid things make me cry.  Sometimes un-stupid things make me cry.  Sometimes people say asshole things, and that makes me cry.  But mostly, on “normal” days, I am fine.  And I think, “Oh, I am getting better, and next time I have my period, it will probably not bother me so much like last time.”

But I am wrong.

I have not gotten past the part where I want that very baby back.  Somehow I feel like I should have been able to let that go by now and want a different one, but it’s just not happening for me.  I have times when I can clearly acknowledge the fact that I still want to have another child someday and that I cannot have THAT child someday, and so I would have to have a DIFFERENT child someday.

But I don’t want to.

And then I think about it some more and I wonder if I really DO want to have another child someday.  Maybe I just still think I kind of sorta like the idea of having another one someday, but that it’s not really true that I actually want to have one.

And I really don’t need to hear any more about how often it happens, or why it probably happened.  I especially don’t want to hear about how it was probably ”for the best” because of why it probably happened.  Thanks, but telling me that my “embryo” [my baby, asshole] was probably some kind of fackin’ chromosomally mutated freak isn’t going to make me want it back less.  If Braden had some type of disease, I would also still want him, I’d just WANT HIM TO BE HEALTHY.

Also, Braden has been extra challenging for me lately.  He is pretty much always up my ass so far I’m choking.  Quite often, he is screaming/whining/throwing a tantrum/crying.  I don’t quite know what to do when, for example, I’ve been playing with him all day and then I’m just trying to have a conversation on the phone with my husband who is NOT HERE and whom I MISS and Braden comes over and shoves a toy in my face.  I tell him to wait, but then he cries, screams, or just gets another toy and hits me in the face with it instead.  I get frustrated and raise my voice at him telling him to, “Just let me talk to Daddy for a few minutes!” but that just makes John mad at me. 

It’s all just triggering a level of insanity in me that I am not mentally coping with very well.  Icanhasdrugz?  Maybe that’s what I need.

I’m reaching the end of my rope and finding it’s just a frayed knob and when I look down, there’s a pit of glass shards waiting below.

What with my inability to let go of the desire to have my dead baby back, and Braden having been really, extra difficult lately, I kind of really am starting to sort of think I maybe don’t want to have another one, not even someday, not even one day.  Not ever.

And it’s making it really hard to make love to my husband.  Because THAT’S HOW YOU MAKE A BABY AND I’M SCARED.

(Ooops, I just said that to The Internet, didn’t I?  Oh well.)

 

That ends this installment of Pity Theatre.  Also known as, “Oh, Poor Me!” 

Not likely to be seen on Broadway anytime soon.

 

 

It’s a damn good thing I don’t wear mascara.

I have no grand idea for what to post today.  This is going to be one of those posts where I just sat down and said, “You know what?  I’m in a #@%* mood, and I’m going to write about what I’m feeling right now.”

So, um.  Sorry, in advance.

Because it’s been one of those days.

Not one of those days when things go wrong for you over and over and over again, or anything.  Just one of those days when the biggest thing that’s gone wrong for you in a long time just won’t leave you alone.

(*ding* Yes. She is going to talk about that again.  The trolley has halted momentarily.  If you would like, you may get off. *ding,ding*)

Every period is a reminder.  And this Monday I started the second one since, well, you know.

Before I got pregnant, I was actually right about to buy one of these thingies.  You know, part of my “Going Greener” thing and all, plus I just like to do weird things with my vagina.  Well, not really, but that was kind of fun to type.

Then I was pregnant, and I was all, “HAHAHA!  Good thing I didn’t order that Diva Cup yet, since I won’t need it for a long, long time! *SNORT!*”

“HAHAHA.”

Yeah.

Today, when I looked into the box that held only 3 more tampons my heart felt heavy.  Because I knew I’d have to buy more of them.

It’s the stupid things like this that make it so it won’t leave you alone.  Things like how your hand runs into the $140 bottle of prescription prometrium (often used to sustain at-risk pregnancies during first several weeks) at the back of your vitamin cabinet sometimes.  The one you only took 2 of before you found out it was pointless and stopped.  But you can’t throw it away, because… well, you just can’t. 

And how you only finally realized that you were really hoping it would be a girl when you found out that’s what one of your friends was having and it caused you to cry uncontrollably at a point when you really thought you were okay.  Which was a shock to you in so many ways, considering you never even realized you cared what the gender was.  Or that you’d care now.  Or that you’ll always care. 

It’s that stuff.

Ah, there it goes again.  At least it wasn’t a children’s show this time.