This Election and My Uterus

I'm a pretty loud-mouthed liberal, so I doubt many of you wonder my reasons for voting for Obama. But as a woman, I wanted you to know where I'm sitting. Where are you?

Abortion and Birth Control
This didn't used to be so close to my heart, but this has hit home. First of all: I'm on birth control because I have cramps from hell. My insurance provides that for me because I need it in order to attend class regularly and perform to the best of my ability at work. I'm also a (somewhat) sexually active, adult woman. Even if I had perfectly normal periods and didn't require medication to regulate them, I would be on birth control, because that's the responsible thing for me to do. My insurance company should still support me in making that responsible decision. When I have sex, I am not only on birth control now, but I use condoms--responsibility, folks. If I were to get pregnant under those circumstances, I sure as hell would get an abortion. I am in no way ready to have a child and I in no way want one.

I'm offended and creeped out that these GOP politicians are so concerned with my sex life. I will do whatever the fuck I want with this body, I will be as safe as I can when I do it, and if all that falls through, I will not further curse this nation with the birth of another unwanted child. Tell me how the Republican Party can oppose birth control, abortion, and funding for social programs? You don't want to help prevent pregnancy? Cool. You don't want to help end what you did not want to help prevent? Ummm... You don't want to support the child that would not prevent coming into this world? Fuck you. That is greed.

Many want to argue that this is not a War on Women. I call bull shit. If a man gets a woman pregnant by rape, incest, or consensual sex, he can walk away. He holds no legal responsibility while the woman clearly does. He commits a legal abortion by disappearing, leaving the mother to deal with that kid. A woman doesn't get that option. If she becomes pregnant and is forced to carry the child to term, then she is responsible. The world may never know who the father is--but she is marked. That child is hers. She has to drop everything to raise it. Or adoption, whatever. But let's be real. We have enough kids in the system. Maybe we should put a little more emphasis on those children who are already alive with friends, talents, interests, and loves.
And I love when some say they're only okay with abortion in cases of rape and incest... yadda yadda. Because the woman wants to go to court after she was raped to prove it was rape... meanwhile the child comes closer and closer to the point in its term where abortion is no longer an option. Incest? Maybe she doesn't WANT the person to know she's pregnant. And in the end, how do we prove any of this? We can't, really. Not even science is positive on that. So all y'all are full of shit. You're just trying to make yourselves feel better about telling rape victims they have to raise that baby. This is just something that cannot be government regulated.

Here are some further concerns I don't have the energy to write about in detail:
Capital Punishment
The War on Terror
Fear of Theocracy
Public Programming (a weak attempt at appearing fiscally conservative)
Foreign Relations
Medicare and Social Security
Gay Marriage
Equal Pay (without the help of binders)
My future in a mental health field

The Consequence and Magnificence

I'm having such a difficult time defining where I am emotionally right now. I've been starting on posts like this a lot lately, then reverting back to some social issue that pisses me off. There's been a lot of that lately, partially because I'm becoming more informed and I'm interested in the things I'm learning, but also because I'm defining myself. I'm in this watery state right now. I'm trying to shape myself; to stand up straight.

In that place it's kind of hard to define myself. I think I need to define my beliefs and values before I begin to define myself. Those are the things that define me, and without them I am shallow water.

This is my third week out of therapy. My counselor must be really sick. I suppose I could see someone in his absence, but I'm a picky client. I want someone good. And I want someone who I have a relationship with. I'm going to have to play catch up when he gets back anyway. And there's plenty of catching up to do. I was still dating Jacob (barely) when we last talked. Everything's changed since then. For better or for worse? Perhaps it was a neutral kind of change. I liked where I was at that time, but if it was a lie, then I don't want to be living there anyway, if that makes sense.

I'd say I'm generally happy where I am. I do stupid things still, and I regret a lot. But I'm better about finding perspective necessary to learn and move on. This attempt to define myself has helped to hold me responsible. I'm creating this person--or being true to this person--who expresses assertions to which I had not always adhered. But it's constantly on my mind now, and I'm fond of the person I'm discovering within myself. I want to be her. And I will.

So where am I emotionally? I think that those posts bitching about social issues are a pretty accurate picture. It's questions, it's (dis)beliefs, it's music... that's where I am. Those are all good things. I can't always be there. But that's the consequence and magnificence of sitting on the edge of the window sill.

Tbird's Window Sill

Allegory of the Song

If a song had been playing in your head since the development of reasonable thought—taught thought—and it followed you everywhere, would you feel free when you heard it, or trapped? It seems like the same 5 or so different songs play in everyone’s heads, and even though the lyrics are written down, no one agrees on the words. You yourself had your own lyrics, because those that were written down did not speak to you. We are all so different. It seems odd that the same song would appeal to all of us; and it doesn’t! That explains all the adaptions and arrangements of the original texts.

Although the originals of these songs songs are similar in certain ways, the melodies are so, so different, that they cannot be played all at the same time—chaos. Those with exceptionally flexible (and disillusioned) personalities can play them all at once. But those who hold too closely to their own music, cannot do this. That is most people.

Most People

At different times in your life, the words were louder than others. There were times you found comfort in the words, and others that the words only confused you. You didn’t know how to turn it off (if you’d even know that to be an option), and the lyrics didn’t always fit in your alto line. You only picked the important ones. But then you met some people without the music. You didn’t even know that existed away from darkness and emptiness. But these people were writing their own lyrics, to their own tunes.

Sometimes they lined up with one another, and sometimes they didn’t, but it didn’t really matter. The point was, they were writing their own songs, and they were beautiful. They didn’t have to make beauty out of an original piece that wasn’t that good in the first place.
It didn’t take long for the song to disappear from your own mind. For a while there was blackness, but quickly you began to compose your own symphony of purpose and ethics.

The first song: Did you lose it? Or did you leave it behind?

Lost or Left

On Compassion, Self Love, and Roadkill

The air smells of pleasant decay—the pleasant smell of dying trees. I often say road kill smells good. I get looks. It’s not that I want to bottle it and replace my Chanel, no. I just acknowledge the inevitability of death. I don’t think it’s gross. It doesn’t even make me that sad anymore (although I still hold a soft spot for cats), because that animal meant nothing to me in its life, and it doesn’t mean anything to me in its death. That comes up often in my mind. 9/11 was no exception to my confusion. So, distorted faces and that quickly drawn air held tightly in our lungs comes from… nothing real. Breathe it in. I breathe that body in the same way I take in the smell of drying leaves. Neither could have lived forever, and that would be an exhausting life indeed.

Roadkill

 I have to remind myself constantly that much of what I “hate,” or “dislike,” or “find unattractive,” is culturally instilled and doesn’t much reflect the way I really feel. Culture is inescapable—we are influenced by where we come from and who has ever meant anything to us. That is part of what makes all of us so interesting. There is a culture within my household that can never be replicated anywhere. That’s brilliant. But yet: I find that I’m getting to a point in my life in which the harm of value judgments is becoming apparent. Just as culture is inescapable, so is judgment. But for years I used that as an excuse for being an insecure bitch. (I was pretty normal in that regard.) That insecurity was masked by my ability to focus the attention on someone else; on someone with pants that are too tight, or someone who is awkward, or even someone who is unkind to others. That’s an interesting concept. Two wrongs, eh?

 Judgment isn’t all that inescapable—it’s just really fucking hard. It’s that hard for three reasons, I think. 1) I do it all the time, and it’s hard to catch. 2) I’m mortified at how often I do it. 3) I force myself to consider why I was thinking or saying that—about others or myself.

I’d say number three is the hardest. It’s exhausting to delve into my insecurities all the time. It’s exhausting to figure out where they come from. And more than exhausting it’s painful.

I’m trying really hard. It’s going to make me a better, happier person. Just like deciding road kill doesn’t actually smell that bad and daddy longlegs are acceptable snacks, and that I should not be sad for the loss of someone I don’t know; most of the parts of our world that we think are bad, are not a big deal, and we'd be happier if we stopped hating. I assert that everyone is good. Every single person is good. Everyone does bad things. Sometimes those bad things are unforgiveable—that’s the nature of human relationships: feelings get hurt. But behind those bad things are feelings of inadequacy or pain. You can’t tell me that in a moment of sadness you’ve never lashed out at someone. Sometimes that’s all I ever see of someone. That happens to all of us. We have one interaction with someone, and it was bad—so we assume we don’t like them, right? And it’s not that I pity them. I don’t pity my “enemies.” I just acknowledge their goodness. I’d want someone to do the same for me.

I hate what religion does to people oftentimes. I hate that the goodness of a person is masked by the hate they’ve been taught. And you know what? That is a lot bigger than ignorance. There are things I know nothing about, that I’m ignorant to, but because compassion is already within us, I can be kind to them. Ignorance isn’t the problem—it’s learning the wrong thing. And still. I don’t pity those people. I will still be kind to them, as hard as it is for me. I will be kind to the goodness in them, and as it arises, I will be honest about my distaste for what I know is incorrect in them. Hate is taught.

Lately this has been on my mind. Actually, it’s on my mind all the time, because apparently I am ruthless in there. And I wanted to share it. I know I talk about this a lot in a lot of different ways. But it took a few different takes for me to finally understand what it means to be compassionate. And I’ve made it clear that I believe we all have it in us. Based on your culture of home, it’s harder for some to get there, but I know it’s possible. And compassion towards others and yourself is the only way to learn to love yourself. The only way. I repeat that statement with an emphasis I can’t give you with the written word.

Love the shit out of yourself. Look (really, really hard if necessary) for the good in others. Tell that voice that tells you that you look fat in that dress you love to shut the hell up. Because you know that hearing it from someone else does nothing. You have to believe it yourself. I just talked to Sara about this, which is why I decided to make a post. I think Sara and I are kicking our own asses, and one another’s. Let me know if you want in on the love.