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amulMy dream life is getting more overtly Freudian by the day. Last night's dream barely even needs analysis. I dreamt that I was at a party, populated entirely by men and women who adored me, I was a public figure, renown from my photography and lectures. In a corner, Christine sullenly leaned against a wall. Still no face, just a familiar pair of jeans and a head full of hair. She would not talk to me, and it spoiled the entire night for me. Beautiful creatures offered themselves up to me, but I was unable to enjoy such advances with My Ex standing there.
I woke up and briefly contemplated trying to begin my new, undefined plans for my morning habituals. Then I realized I'd be out of town for the weekend, and that next week would be better to start. Later, while I drive, I will try to formulate some details.
I checked my email and morning web-browsing. One of the pieces has me thinking about menstruation, thinking about those awful six months when Christine just never stopped bleeding, thinking about the red tides that swept in and out of my life over all the years.
I remember in high school, watching a girl stiffly walk up a set of stairs. I'd hardly met her before, knew her to be one of the older stoner kids. Friends with a girl I was crushing on, I think. I was a sophomore. The guys I was hanging out with made fun of her, and she tried to defend herself through gritted teeth.
Hey, let me walk with you, I offered. "I don't need help," she protested, defiant. It made me think of Her, who had first exposed me to such issues. Not help, I assured her, just distraction.
It took her fifteen minutes to get up another flight of stairs, and I did what I've always done best. I talked. With my words, I took her mind off her cramps and low thoughts.
I remember hours of sitting in my bedroom, staring at EQ bars, the phone against my ear shouting obscenities against my half of the species.
I remember the profound diligence with which a lover kept track of the feminine details of her life. So blessed with regularity and a minimal degree of pain that she didn't even realize it.
I remember the miscarriages, and Christine's denials, years later, that we'd ever had unprotected sex. How many, I don't know, and never will.
But mostly, I remember how she let it consume her for a week out of every month. Sitting on the couch, a heating pad between her legs, surrounded by the chocolate and soft drinks I fetched for her. The remote in her hand and a grimace on her face. For one week out of every month, I could love her in my fashion without complaint. I tended to her, brought her things she wanted, could speak kind words to her. It was the only time she wouldn't complain.
One week out of every month, she was an invalid and I could take care of her.
Then one day, the bleeding didn't stop. A week went by, two. Still, she sat on the pad, still she held the remote and stared at the screen. She stained every pair of underwear she owned, even went through the ones she refused to risk such stains on. Another week went by, and I did the laundry. A month, and I began to worry.
Two months, and I was scared now. We had flipped over all the couch cushions to hide the stains, and I went out and bought new bedsheets to replace those that'd come out of the laundry still stained. Three months, blood on every side of every cushion. I'd given up any pretense of strength and was begging her to see a doctor. Four months. No doctors visit. Her skin was paler from the lack of sun. It'd been over a month since she'd showered. I'd wait until she fell asleep and then call my friends and cry, fearing for her life and not knowing what to do. Five months, and I was asking everyone I could for advice, vows of silence forgotten.
In the end, I scheduled an appointment for her, and dragged her kicking and screaming to it. The bleeding would stop on its own before they could figure out what was happening.
She never forgave me, though she appreciated the actual visit. Still, I'd done something she'd told me not to do, I'd forced her into something she refused, and she never forgave me. There wasn't a seat in our home that wasn't covered with a dark brown stain.
I used to be so proud when I'd see other men squirm over the subject. Considered myself superior for my ability to discuss the subject comfortably. I used to love buying tampons and chocolate, used to revel in the approving and envious looks the cashier-girls would give me. Cynical Without Bitterness once gave me a kiss on the cheek for being such a Good Boyfriend, and I ate it up.
Now, I only manage to keep hold of my wits about half of the time. Sometimes, I can sit there and quietly discuss it, birth control and water weight, cramps and nausea. Other times, my stomache tightens and my vision is obscured by memories of frantically scrubbing, red-brown stains on the white plastic heating pad.
Strangely, I was comfortable with the subject more often with AD. Her attitude was no-nonsense about the entire thing, and there was no room for fear within the confines of the complete openness which we shared. It helped that it was never crippling with her, that she dealt with it as easily as she dealt with a headache. It helped that, whenever I feared her as a woman, I could elevate her to a goddess.
She turned so many of my dark impulses and illogical fears into things of amazing beauty, into tools with which we could shape a future together. She gave solace and applied a salve of devotion against my hundred wounds.
When I first met AD, I called myself Broken. By the time I moved to Chicago, she'd helped me heal and I stopped calling myself that, saying instead that I was Damaged. Since then, I've healed on my own.
Perhaps from now on I'll call myself only Scarred.
I woke up and briefly contemplated trying to begin my new, undefined plans for my morning habituals. Then I realized I'd be out of town for the weekend, and that next week would be better to start. Later, while I drive, I will try to formulate some details.
I checked my email and morning web-browsing. One of the pieces has me thinking about menstruation, thinking about those awful six months when Christine just never stopped bleeding, thinking about the red tides that swept in and out of my life over all the years.
I remember in high school, watching a girl stiffly walk up a set of stairs. I'd hardly met her before, knew her to be one of the older stoner kids. Friends with a girl I was crushing on, I think. I was a sophomore. The guys I was hanging out with made fun of her, and she tried to defend herself through gritted teeth.
Hey, let me walk with you, I offered. "I don't need help," she protested, defiant. It made me think of Her, who had first exposed me to such issues. Not help, I assured her, just distraction.
It took her fifteen minutes to get up another flight of stairs, and I did what I've always done best. I talked. With my words, I took her mind off her cramps and low thoughts.
I remember hours of sitting in my bedroom, staring at EQ bars, the phone against my ear shouting obscenities against my half of the species.
I remember the profound diligence with which a lover kept track of the feminine details of her life. So blessed with regularity and a minimal degree of pain that she didn't even realize it.
I remember the miscarriages, and Christine's denials, years later, that we'd ever had unprotected sex. How many, I don't know, and never will.
But mostly, I remember how she let it consume her for a week out of every month. Sitting on the couch, a heating pad between her legs, surrounded by the chocolate and soft drinks I fetched for her. The remote in her hand and a grimace on her face. For one week out of every month, I could love her in my fashion without complaint. I tended to her, brought her things she wanted, could speak kind words to her. It was the only time she wouldn't complain.
One week out of every month, she was an invalid and I could take care of her.
Then one day, the bleeding didn't stop. A week went by, two. Still, she sat on the pad, still she held the remote and stared at the screen. She stained every pair of underwear she owned, even went through the ones she refused to risk such stains on. Another week went by, and I did the laundry. A month, and I began to worry.
Two months, and I was scared now. We had flipped over all the couch cushions to hide the stains, and I went out and bought new bedsheets to replace those that'd come out of the laundry still stained. Three months, blood on every side of every cushion. I'd given up any pretense of strength and was begging her to see a doctor. Four months. No doctors visit. Her skin was paler from the lack of sun. It'd been over a month since she'd showered. I'd wait until she fell asleep and then call my friends and cry, fearing for her life and not knowing what to do. Five months, and I was asking everyone I could for advice, vows of silence forgotten.
In the end, I scheduled an appointment for her, and dragged her kicking and screaming to it. The bleeding would stop on its own before they could figure out what was happening.
She never forgave me, though she appreciated the actual visit. Still, I'd done something she'd told me not to do, I'd forced her into something she refused, and she never forgave me. There wasn't a seat in our home that wasn't covered with a dark brown stain.
I used to be so proud when I'd see other men squirm over the subject. Considered myself superior for my ability to discuss the subject comfortably. I used to love buying tampons and chocolate, used to revel in the approving and envious looks the cashier-girls would give me. Cynical Without Bitterness once gave me a kiss on the cheek for being such a Good Boyfriend, and I ate it up.
Now, I only manage to keep hold of my wits about half of the time. Sometimes, I can sit there and quietly discuss it, birth control and water weight, cramps and nausea. Other times, my stomache tightens and my vision is obscured by memories of frantically scrubbing, red-brown stains on the white plastic heating pad.
Strangely, I was comfortable with the subject more often with AD. Her attitude was no-nonsense about the entire thing, and there was no room for fear within the confines of the complete openness which we shared. It helped that it was never crippling with her, that she dealt with it as easily as she dealt with a headache. It helped that, whenever I feared her as a woman, I could elevate her to a goddess.
She turned so many of my dark impulses and illogical fears into things of amazing beauty, into tools with which we could shape a future together. She gave solace and applied a salve of devotion against my hundred wounds.
When I first met AD, I called myself Broken. By the time I moved to Chicago, she'd helped me heal and I stopped calling myself that, saying instead that I was Damaged. Since then, I've healed on my own.
Perhaps from now on I'll call myself only Scarred.
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no subject
Date: 18 Aug 2005 17:04 (UTC)I think most women like myself who have debilitating cycles react with defiance like that one girl because so many people (many of which were boyfriends who were supposed to care about us) make it seem like we're crazy and over-reacting to a "normal process of the body". For a great deal of us, it's anything but normal, and life really does stop, and there's no way for a man to ever truly understand what it feels like. And so many people, men and women alike, look down on those of us who suffer (and, oh, is it suffering) from such things.
I am touched at your honest caring and concern, as well as your decision to finally take action regardless of her protests.
no subject
Date: 18 Aug 2005 18:14 (UTC)It's nothing to do with controlling birth, but for cyclic regulation there are a hundred options and one of them may be right for you. I know a hundred women for whom it has been an amazing blessing, and less than a handful who regret searching for the right prescription.
no subject
Date: 18 Aug 2005 18:48 (UTC)i was on bc pills at one point to control my own cycles, which are kinda crazy. but popping powerful prescription (yay alliteration) pills to try to control physiological responses that aren't well understood...not always the best way to deal with things. i regret taking them...they may likely have been one (of probably many) things that influenced my health to go all, um, the way it went. there's lots of details and such that make me think that, but i'll spare you. in retrospect, i should have just popped handfuls of advil and coped with the menstrual hell as best i could, though, yeah, it was hell (and the pills helped at the time). and i should have gotten acupuncture, which seems to work better/more safely for some mysterious hormonal chickstuff than western medicine, in my experience. but i didn't know.
exploring options is good. necessary even, really. it's just taking some of them lightly (as i did, then) that i take issue with. i should totally have a chixors-cut lj rave sometime about my divacup, hmm.
i guess i'm just speaking up as one more of that handful.
no subject
Date: 18 Aug 2005 19:01 (UTC)One in particular is rather vocal about their virtues, but she's not the only one from which I hear that story.
no subject
Date: 18 Aug 2005 19:02 (UTC)no subject
Date: 18 Aug 2005 18:43 (UTC)no subject
Date: 18 Aug 2005 18:59 (UTC)