Day 435: The Uterus Patrol
Monday, March 07, 2011
“He’s married, you know?” chided the lady holding my form hostage - and a card-carrying member of the uterus patrol [who I am defining as people who are entirely too involved/vocal about my single life.]
For me, there are very good reasons not to chat with some people: a) it involves engaging with them for more than 5 seconds and b) it is like water torture.
But the reason I asked “Who’s the new guy?” was because he was “new” - not because I was looking for random seed to fill my womb by the photocopier before my morning coffee.
For some reason, waiting for a form thingie requires the obligatory chat.
[Drats to all forms and their handlers!]
Life seems to be just one long paper trail at times - and paper can suck it. [Pardon me – while I give the finger to my multi-form tax return.]
I’ve written this heartfelt note to the uterus patrol…
D-bags [duffel bags],
My problem with you is not that you feel the need to drop into every conversation that I am single, and therefore, somehow broken. My problem with you is that you dare to define how I should live MY life.
And I have simply never thought of housing anything in my uterus voluntarily - ever [and the idea of dressing more than one person in the morning seems like magic of which I am not capable.]
I hate dating because it rarely proves to validate all of the effort it requires [and I am busy doing things I like with people I already know.]
I can actually get through a whole day without proposing to random men, planning a wedding in my head or freezing my eggs.
I don’t want to do any of the following when I get home: negotiate, compromise, clean up after someone, share my stuff or my money or pretend to want [insert Pig Latin here] ex-say all the time and/or fake it.
And no, I will not magically or suddenly like/want to do any of the aforementioned when the “right” man comes along.
Yes, I still believe in love [like Target and really comfy shoes.] But I am busy. M’kay?
Now, go away. Thanks.
Um… I am still exploring my anger.
And damn – it feels good. There is something about standing up for one’s self with very clear intentions – that is better than years of therapy.
Suppressing anger was a problem.
All-consuming or uncontrolled anger was a problem.
But anger with a trajectory is a beautiful thing – a useful thing.
And sometimes getting [insert Pig Latin here] issed-pay off is what it takes.
When I was 17, I got angry enough about the abuse to start planning my escape from my mother’s house. College was my out.
I thought she would kill me [literally] if she found out I wanted to move out so I took one piece of clothing every day and left it at my friend’s house. I just wanted to sneak away one night.
A couple of months after I started my covert operation, she confronted me. “I noticed some of your clothes are missing,” Darth Vader announced as I was standing in front of my closet – I remember as if it were yesterday.
She said I could stay if I did what she said. My mother was a con artist amongst other things. [I know. Right?! Yes, that is a real thing.]
Ironically, being raised in a household where there were decidedly little ethics – made me obsessively ethical [go figure.]
Even further, there is no way to separate my anger and the person I have become.
Because she called me “stupid” every day
I channeled that anger into being a straight-A student [like what is a B? Send an email. Thanks.]
Because I had to get a job in high school to buy my own soap and toiletries [she didn’t want her stuff touching my skin]
I am a budgeting ninja who is hypersensitive about money with almost perfect credit and purchased a house in the middle of a recession
Because I spent my childhood being called “ugly” and “stupid” and “fat” - and being dragged around by my ponytails while she laughed [yes, laughed]
I have never used these words to describe myself or anyone else. And the idea of hitting another living creature makes me want to vomit.
So as I stood in front of the closet - seriously wanting to piss my pants – I told Darth Vader I was leaving. And I left.
I am not saying she made me into who I am. I made me into who I am.
[Don’t get it twisted. She wasn’t trying to teach me anything. She was trying to torture me.]
I am saying
No one can make you do or be anything you do not want to do or be.
And while I am on the topic – here is what makes me angry about talking about anger.
Inevitably, people will always push for forgiveness – just forgive her, they will say - like it is some magic pill
[Disagree. Shallow resolutions lead to fleeting ones. I am convinced.]
Or just let it go - is the other throw-away statement as
They look for a clean, pithy answers to very complex situations - when there aren’t any
Digging through the wreckage of the past is what it takes
And it takes as long as it takes
I have already purged this - I am just documenting it because I feel it is important. But that is not the point...
The point is it is not magic. It is work.
Hard work. That is all.
And I am lucky to have survived and to be sane and to be happy [very lucky]
Now, I am looking at the sun on the horizon long after the battle has been won
And it’s a beautiful thing.
Yes, I am cleaning up some shrapnel here and there – but I have still won
And winning is the point. Peace is the point.
Not being afraid to get ticked off – especially when it is justified.
Not eating my feelings.
And not pretending to be anything I am not.