What A Way to Go

Okay, so I'm reading the BBC news site (me? reading the news? but really, I was) and I stumble across a series of stories about women (primarily women) abducting other, heavily-pregnant women, and slicing them open to remove the foetus.

Ouch.

I have to say, I've had 2 kids, and while it wasn't exactly a summer stroll along a sun-kissed beach--more that crack from that movie about 'pushing something the size of a watermelon through something the size of a lemon'--it at least had the benefit of not, well, killing me.

And there were drugs. Not very good ones, until the epidural (gas and air is probably a good way to get high if you're not in pain, but if you are, it's a whole lotta nothing, and pethidine DOES get you high and STILL does nowt for the pain) but they surely at least take the edge off. Labour, via the normal modern means is, while not what I'd describe as pleasant, more than bearable.

Unlike being carved up by a supposed friend's kitchen knife, so they can get to the gooey infant-sized goodness within.

!!!!!

I've honestly never understood the reason being pregnant is *such* a ridiculous faff; I kid you not, every waking moment of the first 3 months or so, you just lie there and pray to die. You are so sick, so retchingly, heavingly, stomach-turningly ill, you would genuinely trade your life for a respite from the unrelenting nausea.

Then, as soon as you begin to feel a bit better, you get hit with what the midwives unconcernedly refer to as 'ligament pain;' for the love of God, it feels like someone has every muscle between your knees and your belly button stretched to the breaking point on an old-fashioned clothes wringer, and they are cranking the handle randomly, upon a whim, whenever their own sadistic tendencies require. There is *nothing* that can be done for ligament pain. Lying still, sitting up, uncrossing your legs, taking a gentle walk, reclining in a hot bath (not too hot, because you'll faint and your blood pressure will skyrocket and nevermind your agony, THE BABY might be uncomfortable if they get too warm) none of this is *any* use whatsoever. You must just endure, as your legs and abdomen spasm, sometimes for the best part of an hour, until tears are gushing down your face and you are begging your partner, your mother, people walking past the car in which you're trapped, writhing, to bring you ibuprofen that you *know* you can't take.

But ligament pain, though it honestly feels worse than actual childbirth, is arguably not the worst bit... once it stops, and you've entered your final trimester, you become so tired. So. So. So. So. TIRED. I don't mean to repeat myself, but unless you've been pregnant, you cannot know the fatigue of which I speak. No matter how much you sleep at night (not that you can sleep through the night, by this point, seeing as how you're so heavy you can't breathe and so round you literally can't roll over, even with the energetic aid of a loved one and the careful positioning of 900 specially-made pillows) you are incapable of staying awake for more than approximately 2 hours in any one day. If you can manage to wake up feeling rested, put on yesterday's clothes which you've laid out by the bed, and make it all the way downstairs to the couch without needing to stop for air, you *know* you've done well. The thought of then staying awake for another half hour is ludicrous. It'll never happen.

And that, I have now realised, is the way the Good Lord designed pregnancy, so that, as a pregnant woman, you are programmed to stay in your house, doors and windows locked, moving only from bed to couch to toilet and back again, and never leaving the relative comfort and presumed safety of your own home. You're too fucked to walk to the door, so even if well-meaning friends drop by, you can't let them in--this is so that, in case they ARE baby-crazed-knife-wielding-lunatic-asylum-escapees (and you've not realised this, in all the time you've known them) you'll be protected by your own ineffectualness. Unless there's someone else present, someone with a vested interest in your well-being (husband, boyfriend, live-in lover, your mom) then there should, in theory, be NO WAY of getting to within 10 or so feet of you.

If, however, you are a freak of nature, and you're actually capable of going round someone else's house, unaccompanied, without a wheelchair or bag trolley or a circus strongman to ride on, well, what do you expect??? Obviously, you're an abomination, a genetic convergence of such awesomeness that you shouldn't exist, and you WILL be gutted like a fish and your offspring WILL be stolen from your very womb, because the sheer incomprehensible superiority of your DNA, flowing through said offspring, will call to those poor sad individuals who can't have children of their own, and even more than they covet every child they see, they will hunger and thirst after your baby with a passionate greed they cannot control.

And you'll wind up, skull bashed in, decomposing on some madwoman's apartment floor, as your 3-week-premature SUPERBABY trundles along, peachy keen, just fine thanks for asking, 6 days after being forcibly ripped from your body, with not a moment of medical care in all that time.

General Update

Just what it says on the tin. This is a general update, done in the style of bulletpoints, for those rare and special few who actually read all this and give a flying frog how I am.

• I am nearly divorced. Should all be official on August 25th, and while there are *lots* of things to ponder with regards to that, I truly think it's for the best.
• My soon-to-be-ex-husband and I are actually getting along alright now. He's still a twat, and so am I, but we're trying to be downright amiable with each other, and some progress is being made.
• It's been long enough to tell now, and I feel confident in saying my kids are groovy. I will not claim that this is a result of my husband leaving; on the other hand, I'm less stressed now, and we have more company/visitors, and we occasionally go out these days, and I can see the benefits for the kiddlywinks. Fab.
• I was tortured by my GP yesterday (not his fault, he's a sweetheart, but the pain is very real even if he didn't mean to cause it) so I am a little unavailable; even when I'm online, I'm probably just sitting on a hot water bottle and window-shopping to take my mind off the excruciating agony (is that not overstating, a bit? what other kind of agony is there?) so no one be offended if I'm not around for a few days.
• Finally, I hope everyone is happy and whole and enjoying what passes for summer in the Northeast/Midlands. Those of you down South, you *may* actually enjoy something that is a bit like summer. The rest of us will imagine what it's like (though I'm actually a bit partial to rain and wind, myself) while cheering ourselves up with trips to indoor attractions (yay for Sealife Aquatic Centres).

I love you guys, and as always, I appreciate you reading my whingy little blog... even when you sign on under fake names, to post narky comments, you-know-who-you-are. Even then, I thank you for your time and energy. You're a splendid little bunch of blokes, really, and I'm continually pleased and surprised to have you about.

*group kiss*

Back in April

I composed a rant that touched upon the subject of people doing things that are wrong, even though in their hearts, they KNOW it's wrong. They use various justifications, mitigating circumstances, and, particularly, the degree of wrongdoing to rationalise this--yes, what I did was wrong, but it wasn't that wrong and/or you've done something worse, so it's fine.

I wonder, though--do some people *really* feel that way? To me, you can almost always look at a situation and see the right choice/wrong choice, and no amount of self-justification can change what you *know* to be the right choice. Whether or not you then act in the correct fashion is, not irrelevant, but not the angle I'm coming from; my point is, to me, you can knowingly choose to do wrong, but surely, once you've made that choice, don't you still know, in your heart of hearts, that you're doing something bad?

I've broken my marriage vows. All mitigating circumstances aside--like the fact that my husband's broken them too, if in ways that sometimes differ from my own--just looking at that one statement, I made a vow, and I broke it. I am in the middle of breaking it. I am tearing the fabric of my marriage asunder, or really, I am cutting the final thread of that fabric which still remains intact; in my heart of hearts, I know that the garment of wedded bliss was largely reduced to tatters *years* ago.

But. Still. However.

I lied. I lied. I lied and I lied and I lied and I lied and I lied some more, when you boil it down to the basics. I said I'd forsake all others, I said I'd love him with all my heart, I said I'd stay with him forever, and I'm not staying forever, and that means I LIED. About the biggest lie you can tell, really--I will love you 'til the end of my days--and I told it.

I know that I am a lying sack of shit, and I am disgusted with myself.

But that's in the part of me that knows that it's wrong to lie. Whether you mean to or not, whether you have reason to or not, to protect someone else or save someone's life or for any good intention, it is always wrong to tell a lie; to break a promise; to not keep your word. In some part of myself, I genuinely believe that.

Of course, this is the part of me that is so anti-abortion, I believe women who fall pregnant as the result of rape should just have the resultant baby, and if they don't want to keep it, just give it up for adoption, because abortion is murder and murder is wrong. My Mama taught me that there's only black and white, and nothing in between, not a single area of grey, and deep down, I still believe that. Really. Deep down, I do. Ideally.

On the other hand--mercy over justice. If something unbearably shitty happens to someone, ie rape, and there are unfortunate consequences, then the person who's been shat on has to deal with those consequences in the best way they know how, and I don't think anyone else has the right to judge them regarding that choice. Not that my husband's behaviour during our marriage was rape in a sexual sense; but between the pair of us, we fought and forced and took advantage and fucked up repeatedly and eventually ruined things, and I'm not evil through and through because I saw it first.

Even if I feel it, sometimes.

So. To recap my original point. I know I had 'justification' to do the sorts of things I did, as a married woman. And I was so unhappy, I'm not sure how I'd have stopped myself... but I did try. And I still knew then, and know now, that I was in the wrong.

I wonder if my husband realises when he's in the wrong?

And NO, that's not me taking a shot at him. He knows what I'm referring to, and he knows it was wrong... I think. Doesn't he?

My whole point is, I just wonder. ?

I Know This Guy;

No, actually, I don't. I don't know him at all.

But it's recently come to my attention that there's a certain type of person, who thinks that anyone with a blog, is a certain type of person.

I don't know the guy who made this statement. Therefore, he doesn't know me. He's not intimately aware of any of the relevant facets of my psyche. He's not close enough to perceive the innermost secrets of my soul. He's only sensible of my existence in the most peripheral fashion. He has no right to make judgments based on *one piece* of information about me. He doesn't know me AT ALL.

Now, if he were to read my blog, he would know me; and he'd see that I'm exactly the type of person who has a blog.

I am the type of person who thinks they have something to say. Who thinks other people want to hear it. Who talks a fair bit of bullshit (in a creative-outlet-I'm-just-getting-it-off-my-chest sort of way) all things being taken into account. If he were to read my blog, the gentleman in question would no doubt feel a surge of the most satisfying personal gratification, because, indeed, he is absolutely right.

At the same time, so am I.

You Guys Are Probably Right

Probably, I'm just on the rebound. Probably, I'm just getting my leg over. Probably, it's just that I haven't had sex in so long, I'm getting confused by all the happy fluttering endorphins and hormones swimming through my veins like Uncle Kracker (you know the song; ''All you know is, I make you free/and swim through your veins like a fish in the sea...'')

There's some danger of digression there. Moving on, and my point is--fuck you guys. No offence meant (lots taken?) but he's a little man-babe, and I'm having him, and if anybody gets hurt it wont be me because I'VE BEEN TOO FUCKED FOR TOO LONG, NOT IN THE NICE WAY, AND THERE'S NOTHING LEFT OF ME TO HURT.

That's the whole *point* of this blog. I started it because I was burning, and bitter, and angry, and yes okay a little bit of a whinge, and I needed to vent my rage, because I'd already cried myself out of tears.

I have cried myself out of man-tears (that's tears over/about/regarding men, obviously; I'm not implying that I shed particularly manly tears, which would surely be a contradiction in terms). The next guy I cry over will be my son, if he turns out to be A) autistic, or B) a prat. Other than him, well... I'm just not sure men are worth it, to tell you true. From where I'm sitting, you--and that is literally all men, really, pretty much every last one of you--seem to be one part uselessness and two parts delusions of grandeur, with a splash of self-righteous advice-giving thrown in for good measure.

Does that sound good to you...? It's not, really. In spite of my natural inclination towards you, you're not all that tasty a beverage, as a rule. And if I've found one of you I can stomach for even a few weeks, nevermind months or years or eternity, I'm gonna count myself lucky and drink my fill. That's all you can hope for, really, isn't it--fuck knows love doesn't last even when it IS real, and most of the time it's just lust anyway, and who even gives enough of a shit to learn to tell the difference? Not me. Not anymore. I'm just taking my thrills as they come, or cum, as the case may be, and not worrying about anything else. Besides.

Everyone's probably right. I couldn't possibly be in love with him.

Unbelievable

I am in love.

That's it, that's all, there's nothing more to say.

I am in love.

Oh GOD I'm scared now.

Nervous - Part 3

And again, ignore my *last* post.

I am nervous. And I do hope everything is okay.

I've done all I can do. I've written a little letter, I've said a little prayer, it's out of my hands now. All I can do is sit back, wait, and shit a few more bricks...




Times like these, I just want my mom.