When your uterus threatens to take hostages, things are clearly out of control. Menstruation Rules!
- At April 6, 2009
- By Lotus, aka Sarcastic Mom
- In Body/Health, Humor, Rant
25
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.
Waste away, young lads and lasses. Enjoy your time.
I miss my youth.
Now, before you go brow-beating me about how I’m still young, how I have so much longer to go before I lose my youth, or how much older than me you are and yadda yadda yadda (oh, yeah, I totally just ‘yadda yadda’d’ you), hear me out.
I mean not only youth in body, but youth in spirit, feeling, knowledge.
I miss the bliss of ignorance, the forever stretched out before me. The feeling that anything is possible.
With the passage of time comes experience; with experience comes knowledge, understanding (of sorts).
They say youth is wasted on the young. However, you realize, that is what makes it worth it. If the young knew the value of youth – the desire they would feel to have it back when it was gone… they would never really be able to enjoy it, would they?
With knowledge comes the shift.
The more you learn about the true nature of humans and the things of the world, the more you have to let go of the naive idealism that kept your young cheeks rosy and new.
No, there is no need to let go of hope, determination, and wonder. I am wide-eyed at the world still, believe me.
You could not freely wander the earth with your eyes, heart and mind open and not find a new and amazing thing every day if you tried. This is why I take photographs. Because over and over… again and again, even within my tiny sphere of movement, this happens to me.
So lecture me not on being able to capture the wonder of youth even with age.
But sit beside me for a spell and mourn with me this thing that must happen to us all. Some of us more than others, or maybe just a little bit sooner. But to all of us, it happens, to some degree or another.
The truth is that we must open our hands and let the fancy daydreams of childhood slide from our palms sometimes. Some things which happen steal them from us like wicked trolls, whisk them away to dark places; hiding them from the light. Only a child can pluck them out anew and let them grow for a time again.
My hands are too old to hold onto things which must escape them, already. The effort of trying has worn my fingers tired and weary.
We move through life, rolling along, and suddenly things assault us from this direction or that. The human tendency to ignore these possibilities on a conscious level from day to day allows us to function; it allows us to keep those wheels rolling, greasy and smooth. But no amount of greasing stops a rock from throwing you off your axel. You’ll have to reconsider concepts like need, desire, and love when your cart overturns.
It can take a long time to grease that wheel again. I’m workin’ on it.
I’m workin’ on it.
I speak in riddles because the words are too painful and tiresome to lay out in detail and push around into the proper order. It has been yet another day of remembering so many things that I would sometimes like to forget.
Sometimes.
So many things, some of which I’ve shared before, others which I may never tell you. Time will tell.
For now I close my eyes, take a deep breath in, push a long, tired breath out, and put one hand inside of the other. And hold on.
Tomorrow, I’ll open my eyes, and move those wheels along again.
On a somewhat related note: man, I farckin’ hate PMS.
ALL-ONE-OR-NONE!!! Just use the soap. Don’t drink the Koolaid.
I do a little thing around here where I post about ways that John and I try to become more environmentally friendly (and I invite people to link in with any of their recent “green posts”). I call it Project Support Beauty in Nature (PSBN) and I kind of declared that I would do that every month, on the second Monday of the month.
But I didn’t take into account the fact that:
a) At some point, the second Monday of the month would be when The Blood Curtain Dropped,
b) That when The Blood Curtain Drops, I can’t think of anything but yelling at my Uterus, angrily,
and
c) I’m a lazy douche, so obviously, at some point, I won’t remember to post the PSBN piece on the right day.
All this is to say that yesterday I was supposed to publish a PSBN post, but instead, I got all wrapped up in my menstruational emotions and berated my uterus for all to see, instead.
Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to save the earth. But sticking a funnel up there next month, instead of a tampon, just might. So I’m going to order a Diva Cup this month, and next month, when I’m feeling pretty angry at my girly parts again, I’ll test-drive it and let you all know how things went.
For now, I’ll mention that we’ve started using a different shower soap around here that’s “earth kind.” It’s called Dr. Bronner’s Magic Soap/18-in-1 Hemp Pure-Castille Liquid Soap.
From the website:
 |
|
|
|
||
|
You can see the different fragrances here.
We’ve used 2 scents. The Lavender… um, it smells… interesting. But not in a bad way. It’s just that, well, it doesn’t particularly smell like lavender to me. ???
The peppermint one will kind of make your believe you’re a candy-cane. Compared to how I smell between my monthly showers, that’s not at all unpleasant, though.
You can use this stuff not only for body cleaning but also as shampoo – it’s an amazing all-in-one. If you have long hair, you’ll want to buy their conditioning product, b/c the soap will leave your hair a bit tangly. Other than that, it’s amazing. Cleans well, and leaves you feeling really fresh.
But I can’t talk about this stuff without mentioning the INSANE LABELS on the bottles.
Talk about some nutball-type mind control propaganda. Whew! They sure as hell want to make sure that when you buy their product you also buy into their entire philosophy on… well… everything batshit crazy under the sun, man.
(They probably have Internet Spies and will now send operatives to kill me, making the whole thing look like an accident. I am telling you all now, if I am found with a bottle of Pure Castille Soap crammed up my butt, it was NOT an accident, I did NOT fall on it! Lies! Lies!)
But on the serious, reading the labels of these soaps started making me feel that at any moment, I could be insanely driven to join a cult living in some remote place, perhaps the jungles of South America?
Random sampling of weirdness from the bottle:
“7th – Each swallow works hard to be perfect pilot – provider – builder – trainer – teacher – lover – mate, no half-true hate! So, each day like a bird, perfect thyself first! Have courage and smile my friend. Think and act 10 years ahead! And the man without fault? He’s dead! Do one thing at a time, work hard! Get done! Then teach friends & enemy the Moral ABC that unites all mankind free! Uniting One! All-One! Face the world with a smile, life is always worthwhile! To the fearless are given crowns, keep out the past, disappointments won’t last! Help unite mankind, or we’re wandering clowns! Diligent preparation, precede… spectacular restoration! So, help teach the whole human race, the Moral ABC’s All-One-God-Faith, lightning-like, for we’re All-One or None! All-One!!”
Uhhhhh, okay?
The whole bottle is covered with stuff like that, top to bottom, in tiny print.
Whenever I look at it for too long, I start wanting grape koolaid, for some reason.
Gotta go wash my hair and body with Pure Castille Soap now. If I start referring to my home as “The Compound” sometime soon, send help, okay?
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.
When I hated both my vagina and my mom, simultaneously.
I remember when I first started getting armpit hair.
I was mortified.
My mom? Was excited.
I was sitting on her bed, with my hands behind my head, all chilled out, leaning back. I can remember her noticing the armpit hair and pointing it out, smiling and gesturing. The expression on my face had to have been one of complete and total terror. She, on the other hand, was dangerously close to suggesting we should have a parade for my pit hair.
I could see myself on the lead Pit Hair Parade! float, my arms strapped up and to the sides. Large spotlights would aim at my pits and flower adorned arrows would be positioned to point right at the tiny hairs there, in case people were not aware that LOTUS.HAS.PIT.HAIR.NOW!!!
I slapped my arms down, and tried to change the subject, while mentally willing with all my might that time would just stop. Maybe God really did exist and I could pray to him right now to erase this?
Because it was embarassing.
Of course, at that age, at a moment like that, you think nothing could be worse.
But, of course, you are WRONG.
Because then? You have your period. Because that’s what happens to girls. At some point, your cooter’s gonna bleed, and you’re going to have to tell someone so you can take care of that problem before it really gets out of hand.
And it’s NEVER NOT EMBARASSING.
No. Nope. Shut up. Don’t tell me your wonderful story of Not Embarassing First Period Having. Just stick your hands in your pockets and whistle while you tell yourself that you were about to tell me a big, fat, horrible LIE and think about how you’re sorry.
So, um, anyway. Who do you tell? If you’re like me, you tell your mother. And you don’t enjoy it. But you get it over with, and then you expect it to go away.
You don’t expect to be washing the dishes after dinner, minding your own business, and have your mother practically float into the room on her Mommy Pride and gush about it to the two MALE, European houseguests sitting at the kitchen table.
They speak very little English, but you quickly see that they have perfected that Creepy Guy Look Of Knowing And Thinking Ew Things, because they are aiming it right at you. Picture it, right now. If your skin didn’t crawl, you don’t know what I’m talking about.
I.Couldn’t.Believe.She.Had.Done.That.
She CLEARLY hated me. I was SURE of it.
I just wanted to DIE.
And reflecting back upon these things now, I have to tell you that I still *cringe* when I remember this stuff. But now I also get it. I have an idea of how she felt. I feel it every time I see evidence of Braden growing and changing. Each little example of him becoming and experiencing and doing and being? I want to tell everyone! And, well, it’s clear that I overshare. I mean, a large majority of you have seen my kid’s hind quarters. I think it’s safe to say that I’ve already laid the groundwork for putting Braden in situations where he’ll just want to DIE.
But one day, maybe, he’ll get it, too.
I’m just thankful my mom never had a website.
Braden’s in for it. 
Happy Mother’s Day to all you lovely and wonderful mothers out there. Keep being proud – they’ll get over it.
Show Sponsors
The Awesome
