Category Archives: I am Pregnant

Motherhood becomes me

For the first time in my life I feel content in my own skin. It’s as if my skin needed to be stretched to an uncomfortably pregnant degree then shrunk back down again, a little looser, a little wrinklier. I feel more me than ever before. Maybe I was always meant to be this woman, this Mother. I lived as a reckless, petulant child, a depressed and listless sleepwalker and an unpredictable addict. I never quite felt right, like I was put together sloppily; my limbs loose and awkward, toenails and hair follicles seeming too alive while my intestines contracted and died over and over again.
Today as I pull up my jeans I feel a sense of contentment. My ass might be a little flatter without an hour a day to devote to pilates. My tummy a bit loose and with the faintest of stretch marks. My engorged breats are almost always ridiculously lopsided. My eyes reddened and burdened with a months worth of luggage.
I turn briefly towards a mirror as I walk out of the room. I don’t stand, turn, squat and peek from odd angles obsessing over every square inch of my body the way I used to do every single day. I feel good and fuck it, they were after all my favorite pre-pregnancy jeans. I may fill them out a bit differently than before but I love the differences because they represent the Mother that I have become.

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Filed under Alcoholism and other Assholes, I am a Mother, I am Pregnant

Not such a Bad Motherfucker after all

Disclaimer: The following is a rather graphic story of the birth of my Son. If you are frightened by words like placenta then this may not be something you should read. Actually there really isn’t much on this whole blog that you should read. pussy.

I had plans. Of course I did, I am OC fucking D after all. What I failed to plan on was….well, every motherfucking thing. I wasn’t prepared at all. My goddamned know-it-all, I can do anything, Hawkins approach to life really fell through for me on this one. I don’t know what I was thinking, what I was expecting or why I thought I had it all figured out. Twelve hours of intense labor showed me how much of an idiot I actually am. I am truly humbled by the power of my own body, an uncontrollable force of nature which taught me one of the most important lessons of my life, I am not a bad motherfucker after all.

My water broke around 4am on July 24. I immediately got in the shower, washed my hair and shaved what I could. After I finished applying my makeup and blow drying and bouffanting my hair I made sure my bags contained all the necessary items and everything was organized and ready to go. Then I proceeded to do what I had planned on doing for as long as possible, wait. I didn’t want to be one of those women who rush to the hospital at the first trickle of water just to get sent back home or worse yet get pressured into an induction.

Contractions had not yet started so I knew the wait might be awhile. I had no idea that I would spend the next 56 hours waiting. About 12 hours after my water broke and contractions had still not started I began to wonder if my water had actually broken. I may have been convinced that it hadn’t if it weren’t for the somewhat continuous flow of water that leaked from my vagina every time I moved.

I bounced on my exercise ball. I walked laps around the house and the backyard and eventually the neighborhood. I did the few yoga poses I could still manage with my overwhelming girth. I paced and stomped the ground tantrum style and all to no avail. I performed hours of nipple stimulation and even briefly considered clitoral stimulation but decided that was too weird even for me. I ate an entire pineapple and swallowed dozens of Evening Primrose oil capsules. No contractions here. Back pain, yes. Swollen feet, yes. Thunderous thighs rubbing together as I limp and waddle my way around the block, yes.

After 48 hours I was exhausted. I hadn’t gotten much sleep in weeks and the anxiety of not quite knowing if I was in labor or not, should I go to the hospital or not, am I putting my baby in danger or not, had taken its toll on me. Not to mention it’s the middle of Summer and hot as fuck. I am done with this shit, this pregnancy, this slow ass labor, this uncomfortable reality that is about to get really fucking weird and I know it, I feel it coming. An anxiety I had not planned on was creeping in and making itself at home, firmly planted where I thought my calm resolve would be, where my bravery and strength should be.

This wasn’t in my birth plan. What was in my birth plan was plenty of “will not’s”, “do not’s” and “only in case of emergency’s”. I had planned on a natural birth without any drugs, epidural or measures of induction. I had planned on self-hypnosis and breathing to help me through the pain. I expected to ease through each phase with grace and quiet acknowledgement of my body performing a natural act. I planned all of this on my own after reading a few books and some brief research on the internet about childbirth. I wanted to channel the inner tribal woman in me, the primal female surviving on instinct alone.

I had theories and dead set conclusions on the matter of childbirth and what was “right” and what was “wrong”. Epidurals were “wrong”. Why? Because it represented weakness? Yeah, that must have been my reasoning. Drugs administered to ease pain and help restore calmness were “wrong” because once again they represented weakness. And of course because I am after all an addict and obviously any possible interaction between opiates and myself will result in yet another torrid affair of pills and lies. Induction was “wrong” because it would ultimately result in a cesarean section. Episiotomy was “wrong” because it was unnecessary especially since I had been performing perineum massage for weeks to prepare the tissues. An IV being put in my hand in case I needed fluids was “wrong” because it was really there to tempt me into accepting drugs. And above all caesarean section was “wrong” because what does a surgical procedure have to do with having a baby? Women have babies they don’t have operations and babies come out of vaginas not incisions. I left no grey areas, unless the statement “only in case of emergency” is grey but really it’s more transparent than grey, more an admission of “I know I’m not really in control if shit goes south and you are going to do whatever you want anyways so go ahead”.

What was there left to be “right” after so much being boldly proclaimed as “wrong”? Being left alone was “right”. Breathing silently through the worst of the contractions was “right”. Trusting my body to do what it naturally knows how to do was “right”. Staying calm and alert was “right”.

I didn’t follow my fucking rules any more than I have ever followed anyone’s rules. My contractions finally came around 8am on July 26 and by noon they were coming every 5 minutes and getting fairly strong (or what I considered to be strong at the time). Time to go. At the hospital they told me I was 5 cm dilated and fully effaced. Ok, halfway there, I can totally do this. Around this point I get in the bed and I do not get out of the bed until the next day. I had planned on staying pretty mobile and active during labor, pacing the halls and experimenting with positions. I did neither of these activities.

As the hours passed and the pain increased I became aware of one thing and one thing only, I was not prepared for this kind of intensity and fuck it all, I was scared. I couldn’t admit defeat quite yet, at least not out loud. Silently I was begging for the epidural, I was waving white flags and falling to my knees in humble defeat. But on the outside I was breathing through the contractions like a good girl and pretending to relax during the intervals. I was sipping my water and feigning interest in a television program.

Then shit got weird. The contractions got fucking strong, like going through a meat grinder at 60mph strong. I sat upright in the bed propped up in a lobster crawl like position through the worst of it. I felt my body tensing, bending and extending like Reagan in the Exorcist. I even projectile vomited just like the lovely demon child. I was just short of jamming a crucifix into my vagina when the Doctor proclaimed, “Okay, you are at 9cm. We are almost there.”

Transition, the worst was yet to come but it was almost over. I could do this. Maybe? Oh, fuck, no I can’t do this at all because I can’t breathe, I can’t focus and I can’t even remain conscious. Everything goes fuzzy, black and weird. I hear voices that seem very far away. I am hot as shit and keep begging for the air conditioning to be turned up. I am shivering uncontrollably, shaking and trembling. Every muscle in my body seizes with the coming of each contraction.

One hour later the Doctor comes back and proclaims, “still at 9cm”. “FUCK!” I gutturally yell as he removes his hand from my vagina and my hope from my soul. And he leaves.

It is midnight and my screams are disrupting the entire floor. I am a spectacle. Nurses assigned to other patients are peeking in to see what the racket is all about. Apparently natural births aren’t all that common around here. My exhaustion is apparent and I am now unable to even pretend to breathe in an effective manner. I get through each contraction by screaming as loudly as possible and then quickly pass out from the pain only to be brought back to reality by yet another contraction even stronger than the last.

One hour later, still 9cm. I give up. And the baby isn’t happy. His heart rate is low. I am unable to help him, I am too tired and I barely know who I am or why I am even at the hospital at this point. I admit defeat and ask for the epidural. Due to my very clearly written birth plan the Nurse actually does her best to talk me out of it. I convince her I will not regret this decision.

It takes forever for the anesthesiologist to arrive, he’s a busy man. In fact everyone at the hospital seems overworked and exhausted. I had been all too aware these past few months that I was only one of many pregnant women waddling around town. In fact I can’t remember ever having seen quite so many rotund bellies before. I am so desperate for a moment of peace that I don’t care how dark the circles are under the anesthesiologist’s eyes just stick that fucking needle in my spine and make me happy. As I scoot my giant naked ass towards the edge of the bed I begin to have one of the strongest contractions yet. I am instructed not to move, that it is incredibly important that I do not move, in other words, “stop fucking moving bitch, there is a giant ass needle going into your spine”. I sit still through the bowel shuddering contraction comforting myself with the knowledge that relief is now only moments away.

A few minutes later and I am calm, I am still and soon I drift off to a short well needed nap. I awaken to the Doctor telling me that I am still at 9cm but we can go ahead and start pushing. Two deep breaths, push, push. Two deep breaths, push, push. Rest. Although my nether region is comfortably numb I can still feel enough to tell when I am having contractions so I am aware of what my body is doing and I know when to push and when to relax. Two hours of pushing and every muscle in my back, neck and head have congregated into one angry charley horse. Then it happens, the Doctor tells me he has to perform an episiotomy. Oh fucking fuck fuck!! There goes my vagina, done, mutilated for life. I feel the pressure of the incisions welcoming my newly formed vag-ass. This should be a lovely wound to deal with for the next month, a gaping slice in my tenderest of fleshy parts to cushion me every time I sit, lie down, walk or god-for-fucking-bid sneeze. Whatever, this kid needs to get the hell out of my body and if that means cutting me open and turning me inside out while at least half a dozen people stare into my bloody gaping cavities then so be it.

Deep breath, deeper breath, push, push harder…..and I feel a release. He’s out. It’s quiet. Really fucking quiet. The only sound I hear is my own voice asking if he is alright. He is not being placed on my chest as I had expected. My breasts exposed and waiting for the warmth of my son grow cold. They tell me that he is having a hard time breathing. I see his limp body in the bassinet surrounded by nurses, a tiny oxygen mask being placed over his little face. His silence breaks my heart, his bluish skin rips my soul to pieces. Half an hour goes by and still I have not looked into my Sons eyes, he has not felt my skin against his face. The nurses assure me that he is fine and I am at least comforted by the fact that he has not been taken to the NICU. If it were serious he wouldn’t be here in the room with me. At least I have that. I surprise myself with my composure. I am not a hysterical mess, I must be strong for my Son.

Finally, he is placed on my chest just as the last of the placenta is being pushed from my uterus. He stares into my eyes (his vision unhindered due to the fact that I insisted that they not administer the standard erythromycin eye drops which make a baby’s vision blurry for about 12 hours). I know his eyes just as he knows mine. We have known each other for a lifetime, for a hundred lifetimes. In our quiet contemplation I know that nothing will ever be the same again. A human being just came out of my vagina, or should I say my vag-ass. Of course I knew he was in there for the past 10 months, his kicks and squirms were impossible to ignore but I don’t think I had fully realized the enormity of the situation (if you consider 8lbs 15oz enormous). This boy in my arms was mine, my responsibility. His health and well-being depended upon my own health and well-being. Selfishness is no longer an option, my own body hardly belonged to me anymore, a sacrifice of flesh and a surrender of vanity. Well, not a complete surrender of vanity I do still have a full face of make up on and I have recently touched up my lip gloss.

During the next few hours as I hold my Son close to my heart I try to calm down from the delivery. I am shivering uncontrollably, a side effect from the epidural. My body temperature is all over the place, freezing and sweating at the same time. My legs and feet begin to tingle with feeling and I am anxious to use the toilet instead of repeatedly having a catheter inserted into my urethra. What I am not looking forward to is the effects of the epidural vanishing completely and facing head on the pain and discomfort of the episiotomy.

I drift off to sleep around 3am. I dream a soundless, colorless, weightless vision of calm nothing, a sort of surrender to the unknown. I am exploring this non-place with quiet enthusiasm. I don’t know where I am going but I am not afraid and I do not hesitate.

I awaken to the weight of my Son in my arms, a weight that feels right as if my arms have always been empty, waiting to be filled.

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Filed under I am a Mother, I am Pregnant, I dreamed..., I remember, Something that happened

At peace

Waiting for a train, I casually find a seat among strangers. The bench is hard and the still afternoon air is warm and stifling. I am strangely content even as a bead of sweat makes its way down my neck and between my breasts.

I notice a young woman looking at me slightly curiously. She hauls her luggage behind her as she walks towards me and sits down on the bench next to me in a casual sort of way as if we knew each other. Smiling, she asks me, “how far along are you?” I answer politely that I have a few more weeks to go. She asks if I know what I am having and I tell her that it is a Boy. “I had a boy”, she states in a reminiscent tone that held both sadness and a sense of wonderment as if that time in her life had been a dream that she was momentarily revisiting. Her eyes sparkled with an inviting pleasantness, an uncommon trait amongst strangers met on train platforms.

We continue our friendly conversation about baby clothes, the strange still heat of the day, summer scarves and the likelihood of the train arriving on time. It doesn’t of course and our conversation loses momentum, becoming a staggered repetition of head nods and polite smiles.

The train pulls into the station and we rise from the bench, her with ease and I with a slow deliberate heave. As she gathers her luggage and we make our way towards the train she says to me, “I just have to tell you that you are beautiful, a truly glowing woman. You look like you are at peace. Are you? Are you at peace?”

“Yes, I am at peace, very much so.”

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Shut your mouth and be patient

I have been feeling a bit more private these days. As the day approaches when this kid will be all out in the open, exposed to the world, I am becoming more hesitant, a little more careful with my words. A calmness has come over me, a quiet still air surrounds me. Preparing, physically and mentally for the arrival.

I keep having dreams about a flat stomach, I reach down and feel my pliable skin, loose and empty. Soon enough….soon enough.

I want to be alone, alone with my thoughts and my emotions. I speak and I instantly want to snatch the words from the air, pull them back and shove them down my throat. Any part of me that gets out in the open is like a little piece of the kid inside getting out as well and he’s just not ready yet. Can anyone ever really be ready to face this world, these people?

My dislike for people ebbs and flows, right now, it’s fucking flowing strong and steady, no ebb in sight. Everything feels like a threat, to my safety and my sanity. Everyone makes me uncomfortable, situations take on a life of their own and I am carried along, arms flailing and skirt swept up in the wind, I am exposed and vulnerable.

Pregnancy feels like a weakness, I imagine motherhood feeling very strong and powerful. Be patient, be calm, just a few more weeks.

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Filed under Feels like Sunday, I am Pregnant

Rubber appendages

Confused, as if under water, head wrapped tightly in gauze, the world distorted and hazy. I blink and shake my head in an attempt to clear my vision, my perception of the world in front of me. My breath comes in short gasps and long drawn out inhalations made with great effort. Unable to perform, to appear as if I am a normal functioning adult, a pregnant woman going about her business, shopping for milk and eggs, hand reaching towards refrigerated shelves with extreme effort not to allow the heavy rubber like texture of my arm to show through the pinkish white skin. One foot placed in front of the other, again and again, I look on in wonder and amazement that my legs are capable of such a motion. Click, clack, click, clack. A deliberate action.

The anxiety of today has overcome me completely. I want to give in, succumb to the temptations of tears, a sleeping pill and a warm bed, dreamless sleep and heavy-headed nothingness. I do nothing. I do not give in and I do not move forward, stuck in a limbo, between panic and sleep. If only I could smoke a cigarette, the action of hand to mouth, inhaling and exhaling with a purpose, luring me back to reality. If only I could curl up into a ball, shrinking down to the size of a grain of salt, disappearing between the cracks in the floorboards. I would hide in the darkness until the safety of night, the relief of tomorrow, any other time than now, this never-ending moment of pause.

Closing my eyes, I wait……

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Growing our garden

My Dad always said his dream was to live off the fat of the land. Well, look pops!
Our garden is coming in nicely; carrots, melons, brussel sprouts, cucumbers, onions, garlic, spinach, beets, peppers and zucchini! I am planning on making baby food and freezing it so when the kid is ready there will be fresh food for him, grown from our own garden. You can fill up ice-cube trays with the pureed veggies, freeze them and then store the cubes in plastic bags. Pop one out whenever you need one and it’s just the right amount. I plan on losing all this damn weight with fresh vegetables as well. A month-long juice cleanse without spending a fortune on organic vegetables at the store. Now I just need to figure out how to grow fat-free greek yogurt and I will never have to buy groceries again.

 

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Filed under I am Pregnant, Memories of Dad, My Home

Tantrum

Did I just have a tantrum? On the kitchen floor, splayed out like a dying cow. My attempt at retrieving a pan from the corner cupboard that mysteriously descends into a fucking abyss beneath my kitchen floor resulted in my stooping, bending, crawling, reaching, laying flat on the floor, arms outstretched, curses flying like a hormonal fire storm and all to no fucking avail. I feel helpless, weak, debilitated and condemned to this awkward cumbersome body forever. My frustration spilled out of me, sweat and tears pouring from my face, my screams reaching into the abyss of lost saucepans and soup spoons. My dogs watched on, confused and unwilling to offer any assistance. I surrender. Fuck that pan, I didn’t want to cook dinner any damn ways.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, wiping tear soaked strands of hair from my face I regain my composure or at least something close to it. At seven and a half months pregnant I am getting very close to my breaking point of uncomfortablity. Two more months, my fucking god. Eight more weeks of wobbling around on aching feet, getting stuck on the couch and having to pathetically ask for help like an invalid and rolling around on the kitchen floor, sweating and cursing myself into a tear-stained mess. Fifty six more days of pissing every ten minutes, regurgitating my own bile every time I lean forward, losing my breath after climbing five or more stairs and avoiding mirrors for fear of spontaneous screams of horror.

Maybe having the occasional tantrum will prepare me for dealing with a little one having a tantrum. I have dealt with tantrum prone children before and I always used the “ignore them and they will eventually shut the fuck up” approach. I have a feeling that this approach won’t work quite as well with my own child. It’s easy to ignore a child that isn’t yours, their kicks and screams a mere annoyance. If I were to witness such an outburst from my own child I would most definitely act in a more caring manner, kind of like the way that I should react to my own personal tantrums. A few weeks ago my therapist told me that I need to “be nicer to myself”. I laughed. She didn’t. I told her, “I guess I can give it a try”.

Does shopping count as “being nice to myself”? If so, then I have succeeded. Actually, it does count because I once again confronted my dreaded nemesis, the dressing room. I made my way through a tangled mess of sundresses and pantsuits at The Burlington Coat Factory. That store should be called One Big Ghetto Ass Mess. But I always find good deals there so I brave the disaster of disorganization. I entered the dressing room with trepidation and an armful of brightly colored maxi dresses. I disrobed and stifled the screams, the curses and the tears. In my underwear and heels I held my head high and slipped on a pink paisley dress of the finest polyester that $14.99 can buy. My round stomach was framed nicely by the whimsical design and my ass although huge appeared to take on an almost acceptable shape. My mandatory hour a day of yoga and pilates have done something after all. Wait! Am I being nice? In a dressing room? What the fuck!? Something is going on here, but instead of questioning it, analyzing it and tearing it apart I decide to get the fuck out before I turn on myself. No need for an eyeliner touch up this time, a first for sure.

From the dressing room to the kitchen floor, small strides and hard falls. I’ll get up, eventually and with a fair amount of huffing and grunting. I will reapply my makeup as many times as I need to. I will close my eyes and pretend that two months have passed, that I am holding my child in my arms rather than lugging him around in my gut. I will be calm. I will also probably throw a few more tantrums before this is over and it’s perfectly fucking alright. It’s also perfectly fucking alright to be a little bit nice to myself every once in a while.

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Filed under I am Pregnant, My Home, Something that happened

Fuck you old man

Finally, I am within sight of the bus stop. My aching feet can’t take much more of this plodding adventure down the hot city sidewalk. The tight leather has rubbed my heels completely raw and my pinky toes are moments away from a squishy blistery pop. Fuck it, I remove my shoes and walk barefoot the rest of the way to the bus stop. Barefoot and pregnant, that’s me, on display and I don’t give a fuck.

I take a seat on the bus bench next to an old man wearing a tweed sport coat and sweat pants and look at the wreckage my feet have become. Jesus fucking Christ! I am thankful for my constant supply of band aids that are an absolute essential for the girl on the go or in my case the girl who refuses to drive a car or wear flats and has retarded feet from being born a club foot. I start unwrapping bandages and applying them in neat little rows up the backs of my heels when I realize that the old man is staring at me, seriously and creepily staring at me. In no mood for weirdness even from an old man donning a pretty sweet coat I say, “What?” rather harshly and with a head movement/eye roll that shows my semi-ghetto ass upbringing. He doesn’t look away for a second just keeps staring at my feet, eyes roaming up my leg but never up much further. He is smirking, the motherfucker is smirking. Okay, maybe he is crazy, senile or a little of both but I am so creeped out I really don’t give a shit. I would just get up and walk away but I really need to get these bandages on my feet before the bus gets here because I may have just walked down the street barefoot but there is no way I am contracting a mersa related foot fungus from being barefoot on the city bus. So, I continue to cover as much of my raw, blistered and bloody feet as possible until I run out of bandages.

And, yes he is still staring at my feet and yes he is still smiling. This must be like live action porn for the old fucker foot fetishist who likes seeing pregnant girls in pain. I get my shoes back on, wincing as I stand up for the approaching bus. I awkwardly bend to adjust a slipping bandage and can’t help but notice the old man still watching my every move.

“Fuck you old man!”

I don’t care that other people are nearby and heard me curse at what they think is an innocent old man. I don’t care that even this outburst didn’t manage to get his attention away from my feet or the fact that the bus doors were opening just as I yelled at him. I feel better, my feet feel better and I know that he deserved it because a pervert is a pervert no matter how old the offender.

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Dressing room melt down

Dressing rooms have always been a place of misery and torment for me and often the beginning of yet another period of tortuous self-destruction. I don’t know how many times I have left a dressing room with mascara smeared across my reddened face and headed home in a silent rage, shaking and choking back sobs. A bottle of vodka helped wash away the shame, followed either by days of starvation or endless binge and purge sessions. Starvation felt too rewarding, light-headed and calm, my mind able to focus too clearly on the problems at hand; my fat ass, my huge thighs, my cheesy blue skin that glared at me almost fluorescently under the dressing room lighting. Bulimia felt more appropriately like punishment, my stomach uncomfortably distended with undesirable food cooked hastily, consumed furiously without tasting, no enjoyment what so ever. Because that isn’t the point and I certainly do not deserve to enjoy anything. Violently purging again and again, swallowing water from the bathroom sink only to purge again, making sure everything came out clear or at least red tinged, a little blood just means you are doing it right. As I sat huddled in the bathroom, heart skipping beats, lungs and esophagus burning with bile dripping from my nose, I stared at my bloodied knuckles and I knew that I deserved this.

For years, I have made a point of avoiding dressing rooms which was usually easy seeing as how I mostly shop at thrift stores that do not have dressing rooms. “Eyeballing” measurements have led to a closet full of clothes that don’t fit quite as expected and many trips to resale shops, trash bag over the shoulder disappointment and a five dollar store credit slip.

This thrift store vintage polyester clad closet of mine hasn’t been too generous with maternity wear but I thought I was making the best of the temporary situation with what I had. Well, boy was I fucking wrong. I was made very aware that I had worn out my welcome with two dresses that still fit quite well, especially paired with my fave Sam Kinison coat. Apparently I had crossed into crazy territory simply by wearing the same outfit one too many times and by donning a wool coat on an 80 degree day. Comments like, “You know you actually don’t look pregnant in that outfit, you kind of just looked like you put on weight” and “That coat on a thin girl says, ‘Downtown chic’ but on a fat girl it says, ‘I have 13 cats”, finally convinced me to go shopping for actual maternity clothes, the kind with stretchy stomach panels that go up to your tits and a little extra room in the hips.

I hesitantly walked into the maternity store at the mall and was greeted by a chirpy young girl and I immediately wanted to turn away and run but considering the fact that my red leather pumps had created a substantial blister on my heel I was actually yearning for the relief of a sitting down in a quiet dressing room. I quickly grabbed up a few options; a black skirt, black capri pants, bootcut stretchy jeans and a pair of skinny (fucking hilarious) jeans, all with said tit approaching stretchy panel. I wobbled back to the row of torture chambers, closing the door behind me with a sigh or maybe it was a grunt. I sat down, drank a bottle of water and attempted to prepare myself for this momentous event. Stalling, I applied lip gloss and checked my text messages. Before I had even begun the task at hand the chirpy young girl was asking me how I was doing. I replied cordially and sat a little longer, contemplating the “eyeball” method and just buying the clothes and going home. “Eyeballing” may have worked half of the time in the past but seeing as how I haven’t really given too much actual mirror time to this new body of mine I knew I had to do it. I had to strip naked in this tiny room under this awful disfiguring lighting that I swear only exists in dressing rooms. I remove my well-worn polyester dress with ease and as I bend over to remove my heels I am confronted with reality. I am plastered across the mirror covered wall like a billboard advertisement for albino dairy cows in drag (yet another wonderful premise for a children’s book).

Motherfucker, shit, oh my fucking god, this has to be a fucking joke, you fat fucking bitch whore. Okay, calm down you red-faced sweaty bitch. Don’t you start crying, not this time. You are a grown ass woman and you are fucking pregnant which is why you are in a fucking maternity store and buying fucking maternity clothes.

Calm down, breathe. Okay, skirt, not too terribly bad. Next, black capris, hmmm….the stretchy tummy to tit panel is kind of comfortable. Boot cut jeans, terrible. Skinny Jeans, don’t even make it off the hanger. Done. Quickly slip into my cool polyester dress noticing the holes under the arms and barely there stitches in the hems threatening complete detachment at any moment. I pull on my Kinison coat, careful not to further rip the lining as I slide my arms into the sleeves. I take my raggedy ass self up to the register and pay for my new clothes as the chirpy girl fills my bag with diaper coupons and nipple cream samples. I leave the store with a renewed sense of “I am pregnant motherfuckers” empowerment and “I am a fat fucking cow” self-hatred. That old bitch self-hatred is never too far away, she hides out for a bit, biding her time, especially in dressing rooms. She is like a yeasty mold and the dressing room is a moist fold of skin in the middle of summer. The stench is pretty much the same and the lingering itch an embarrassing reminder of your awful fucking human self.

Finally at home I take a hot bath to wash away the grime of public transportation and street traffic but more importantly to soak my bloody blistered feet. I’m still not giving up on my heels no matter how painful it may be. I reflect on my day, my mirrored image, my pasty white ass and thick thighs.

I want to drink, I want to be empty, I want to hurt and get lost in the numbness that proceeds the purge.

These thoughts come as instantly and easily as ever before, flashing red lights and sirens of demands. In the past I conceded quickly and without much of a struggle, giving in with arms outstretched in search of comfort and relief. Now, I have a choice, a choice I never knew was there. I can just sit with these feelings, let them linger and hang in the air around me. A staring contest of sorts, who will look away first? They lose and I am left staring at the mound in front of me, my stomach poking out from the peaks of bubbles and the rising of steam.

I haven’t thought much about the kid at all today, you know me being the selfish ass bitch that I am. I was too busy staring into a fucking mirror hating myself to realize that I was also staring at the body that is busy creating the brain of my child. How can I hate that? How can I feel these self-destructive urges while my kid is in there, sucking on his fingers and opening and closing his tiny little eyelids? I feel a rather adamant kick to the ribs and place my hands on my stomach in an effort to soothe him. In a hot bath, hands on my rounded abdomen holding my son safe I am at peace.

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Filed under Alcoholism and other Assholes, Ana, Mia and other Bitches, Fashionably Unreasonable, I am Pregnant, Something that happened

Mascara, the cure for Insomnia

Things get creaky, the walls when I walk, the floor when I fall. A slow screech lingers in my head, invading the quiet, the dark. Sleepless nights, wandering around my house. Get up, piss, get some water, repeat 10 more fucking times until finally its morning and I can add some more pointless activities to this ridiculous routine. The heavy-headed dizziness of sleep deprivation overcomes me, becomes me. An hour of pilates awakens my limbs, filling my lungs with oxygen. Am I awake yet? Can you awaken when you never really go to sleep? A shower washes away the residue of the previous 24 hours of existence. Am I awake yet? Not really, no need to be. I will live forever in this halfway world between reality, dreams and unsleep. I paint a portrait of myself, intricately filling in every crevice and pore, sweep of eyebrow and curl of lash, smearing of red, the illusion of a mouth, an eye, a girl, a woman, a whore and a clown. Now I am here, I have arrived.

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Filed under Fashionably Unreasonable, Feels like Sunday, I am Pregnant, Uncategorized

Thoughts without words

I still question my own reality constantly but I never question the reality of this life inside me. The opportunities that lie ahead for him are open, empty spaces waiting for his feet to trample, his hands to mold and tarnish. He is his own entity, completely separate from me. I am but a vessel. My wasted used up body somehow created a beautiful living being, already surpassing any of my attributes or accomplishments by fucking light years. How did a body that contains this fucked up brain manage to create another little brain, perfect and pure?

I love this separateness that exists within me, this duality. It has given me strength beyond comparison, strength to live and thrive for the sake of something far beyond my own value or worth. I want to crawl inside his head if only for a moment, to see….everything. Everything that matters is encased inside his tiny little brain. What are thoughts like without words? Without comparisons? Without values? Without judgments? Without censors? Without shame? Is this the only time a person feels completely and utterly safe? Loved? Free? The lucky son of a bitch, he gets 2 more months of that shit.

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Filed under I am Pregnant