Tag Archives: childhood

Pissing on Park Place

I knew I was going to piss my pants eventually. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. I was that girl at school that kept a spare change of clothes in the nurses office “just in case”. I would just get to laughing and suddenly no amount of concentration, squirming or crotch grabbing could keep it in. Warm piss soaking through my underwear, streaming down my legs and puddling inside my shoes. Tears of laughter became tears of shame.

I pissed my pants everywhere; at school, at the park, on a tennis court, while filming a goofy fitness video with friends and even on a Monopoly board. My cousin loved that one! We were playing a long drawn out game of Monopoly and I probably did something ridiculously stupid to make the game more interesting which resulted in a laughing fit which of course led to spontaneous urination. As I leapt from the ground and headed towards the bathroom I left a yellow trail of piss down Park Place, soaked the community chest and defiled the bank.

Later in life I pissed my pants more than a few times while drunk and these stories were probably quite funny if I had any recollection of them. Waking up with cold piss soaked into your jeans isn’t nearly as fun as peeing all over a Monopoly board.

Now I feel like I am going to piss my pants almost all of the time and it’s not due to the giggles or vodka tonics. I have a growing baby smashing the fuck out of my bladder. I swear sometimes it feels like he is bouncing on it like a goddamned trampoline.

Whenever I leave the house I am in a constant search for public bathrooms even if I don’t feel the urge to go at that moment. Chances are that I will have to pee sometime in the next 5 minutes no matter what. Today was no exception. Luckily I was at the Library where the bathrooms are usually clean (even though at this point I will pop a squat behind a bus bench if I have to).

I enter a stall and attempt to close the door. Halfway closed, it hits my stomach. I can’t fit into the goddamned stall! I rush towards the handicapped stall, it’s a shit storm. Fuck! Back to the original plan. Again, stuck. I place one foot on the toilet and scoot over a little more. The door makes it past my rotund stomach and I almost expect a cartoon style “pop” noise to follow. Oh my fucking god! Now the piece of shit door doesn’t have a lock and the weight of my purse and bag of books hanging on the hook is forcing the door inward preventing me from pulling down my underwear. And……it’s too late. I am pissing myself. I push my head into the door to keep it closed and frantically try to position myself. Precariously positioned, I finish peeing but not without a significant amount of spillage, splashage and soakage.

And no, I did not clean up my mess. Fuck that bathroom. I wipe my legs down with paper towels and I am somewhat proud of myself for not feeling any of the old emotions of shame that once accompanied this sort of situation. I had heard that pregnancy led to being less inhibited but I had no idea that I would be quite so accepting of pissing myself.

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“bullying” made me who I am

A few weeks ago I was approached by a young woman yielding a clipboard at a mall.

“Could you take a moment to sign this petition against bullying in schools?”

hmmm…

“You know, no. I believe bullying made me who I am today.”

She looked at me like I had just told her that I strangle puppies in my crotch. I walked away and thought a little more about what I had just said and gave a silent little thank you to every bastard that ever teased me, pushed me down, beat me up, spread rumors about me, wrote slanderous remarks about me on bathroom walls, laughed at me both behind my back and to my face and refused to sit anywhere near me because I was infected with a germ that only other kids can see, a germ that somehow made me stick out like a neon flashing sign that said, “fuck with me.”

I was a relatively normal child until about the third grade. Up until that time I had attended the same school since kindergarten. During my third grade school year my Mother and I moved two times and I attended three separate schools. One of the places we lived at briefly was a senior citizens trailer park in a remote area on the outskirts of a depressing city. I was the only child around for miles. We lived so far from the school that the only bus that came anywhere near us was the handicapped bus. Arriving to school on the short bus is a sure-fire way to get teased relentlessly.

After that the reasons seemed to multiply without any effort whatsoever. I wore dresses every day, that made me an unfashionable outcast. I had frizzy hair, that made me ugly. I had a big gap between my two front teeth, that made me even uglier and obviously too poor to afford braces. I was chubby, that made me fat. I was tall, that made me fat. I was quiet, that made me stuck up. I got good grades, that made me the teachers pet. I read books at recess, that made me a nerd. I fell down when forced to participate in gym, that made me a klutz. I didn’t have any friends, that made me a loner. I didn’t fight back, that made me a pussy. I never cried, that made me hard.

By middle school the teasing had reached an all time high. To make matters worse I was maturing at an incredibly slow pace. I didn’t have the slightest interest in boys and my body was even less interested in developing breasts or anything else resembling that of a normal twelve-year-old girl. I didn’t understand what was going on around me, the girls spoke a language I knew nothing about and the boys uncomfortable laughter made me think there was a joke that I wasn’t in on, would never be in on. The sign that glowed all around me was just as bright as ever, tempting everyone from the popular kids to the outcasts to tease me, berate me and threaten me. I kept quiet, the silence building a wall around me, I was becoming impenetrable.

No matter what they did I never said a word; not to them, not to my teachers and especially not to my parents. When I came home covered in bruises I said I fell down in gym. I didn’t dare tell my parents how I had been jumped at the park near my house, how boys from another school happened to see my glowing “fuck with me” sign and beat the shit out of me for no reason at all. They laughed the entire time, as they kicked me in the back of my head and smeared dirt in my face.

I never said a word about the boy who threatened to rape me every single day for years beginning in the third grade. I had no idea what rape was but the way he would hiss the threat into my ear sent shivers of fear and dread down my spine. I was relieved of his torments for a year or so, after he physically attacked a teacher in the fifth grade. By seventh grade, he was back and I endured his unpredictable verbal attacks well into high school.

High school, I couldn’t bear the idea. I still felt like a child, or rather like someone more ready to be an adult than to be a teenager. I found the entire situation ridiculous. I still didn’t understand the language, the posturing or the general idiotic behavior of adolescents. But there was no way of getting around it and I had to figure something out. I knew I couldn’t keep going the way I had been, quiet and accepting of my fate. Something had to be done, I knew there was no point in expecting the situation to take care of itself, they would always be assholes, I couldn’t change them but I could change me.

I made a dramatic transformation between middle school and high school. I cut off all of my hair and dyed the remaining few inches bright black. I went thrift store shopping and got an entirely new wardrobe of old man clothes; baggy polyester plaid pants, over-sized golf shirts, paisley ties and dirty sneakers. I didn’t realize what I was doing at the time but what I created was a “don’t fuck with me, I am a bad ass lesbian” costume. It worked. I mean, I was still laughed at and the rumors ran rampant while I did nothing to suppress any of it, but I found that it is a completely different experience when people laugh at you for something you have control of. When they laughed at my hair, I took it as a compliment. When they called me a dyke, I laughed because I had fooled them, I was playing a trick on everyone and I enjoyed the spectacle that I had created. This was a way better coping method than being quiet and looking at the ground. I paraded myself proudly and soaked in all the ridicule hurled my way.

My costumes changed over the four years of high school, from old man lesbian to ultra femme frills and lace with a little Morticia Adams thrown in from time to time and I not only kept them guessing at who I actually was but I was constantly figuring it out for myself as well.

For a period I needed the taunts and teases to keep me going, to validate what I was constructing or deconstructing. But near the end of high school I felt a sort of contentment within myself at what I had created, I began to realize that I had accomplished what I set out to do, to make myself inaccessible, impenetrable. The process that began so many years before was complete, the wall was up.

Up until now I have been grateful to have become the person that I am and I always gave some credit to the kids who teased me, taunted me and beat me up for helping to create that hard wall of “you can’t fuck with me anymore” attitude that I have carried with me ever since. But now that I am going to be a Mother, I am rethinking…well, everything. Am I too hard, too closed off, too self-sufficient? My wall that took so many years to build has served me well, perhaps saved my life but it might be in my way now. Maybe as I focus on bringing a new life into the world I should attempt to shed some layers from my thick exterior, not too many, just enough to let a little more light in, let a little more hope seep through and let a lot more love pour out.

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A soggy mess and the death of a friend

“I’m going to pick you up after school, okay honey”

“Okay, Mom”

She walked out the front door and down to the corner where the school bus picked her up every morning. A few other children were already gathered nearby. Greetings were not exchanged, her presence was not acknowledged. She appeared not to mind as she opened a well-worn book and began to read. The bus arrived promptly and she was welcomed aboard by the driver’s warm smile.

There was a book fair at school that day and she had a pocket full of money, saved up for months from lemonade stands and extra chores around the house. Books were her best friends and she was anxious to meet her new pals.

The book fair took place after school and she would have to be patient through hours of tediously boring spelling, math and science classes. As the teacher repeated herself for the sake of the slower students she thought she might jump from her seat and scream out loud. But she would never ever do anything so rude. She was respectably poised, restrained to a painful degree, back straight, hands clasped and teeth clenched.

At lunch she sat by herself under a tree and opened her lunch sack. She ate her sandwich slowly, with care and contemplation, the way she did most things. The other children watched her and snickered both behind her back and to her face. Most days it didn’t bother her, today especially.

The bell signaling the end of the day finally rang and she walked hurriedly to the auditorium where the book fair was held every year. Book shelves had been arranged in a large circle with tables lined up in the middle of the circle and at one end was a woman with a silver cash box waiting for the influx of knowledge hungry students.

The smell of freshly printed books was intoxicating, the rows of brightly colored book covers was dizzying. At the end of one table she spotted her first pick, the new Beverly Cleary; Ramona, Age 8. A perfect way to start her shopping adventure. Her arms quickly filled up, the sharp corners of each book making red indention’s on her thin pale skin.

The rush of the hunt sent endorphins pulsing through her brain, she was calmly ecstatic. She handed over all of her hard-earned money without hesitation or regret. Her books placed in a plastic bag and handed to her with a smile. She walked out of the auditorium with a slight skip to her step and headed to the corner where her Mother had promised to pick her up.

The last school bus was just leaving and only a few cars remained in the parking lot. She was not surprised that her Mother was late, she had grown not to depend too heavily on the promises of adults. She simply settled down in the grass and opened a book.

The day which had begun sunny had turned gray and dismal. She waited patiently. A light misting of rain began to fall and still she waited, patiently. A few teachers drove by slowly and asked her if she needed someone to contact her parents and she declined, not wanting to be a bother. The custodian locked up the gates to the parking lot as the last car pulled away.

“Hey, sweetie. You need a ride?”

“No, I’m fine.”

And she truly felt that she was perfectly fine, under the tree which provided a bit of shelter from the lightly falling rain, with her books, waiting patiently.

An hour or more must have passed and finally she became uneasy, quickly coming to the conclusion that her Mother had forgotten about her. Her decisiveness quickly led her to the decision to simply walk home. After all, she knew the way, it was a long way but she was sure she could manage. She was sure of most things, especially when it came to accomplishing things on her own.

She began her walk in a light mood, enjoying the feel of the rain on her face and the smell of wet asphalt. Crossing the freeway overpass she paused to look down upon the passing cars through the chain link fence. She had never seen the freeway from this perspective and it made her feel overwhelmingly insignificant. The rain had begun to fall a bit more heavily, soaking her socks, her toes numbed almost immediately. Her walk home continued as passing motorists paused briefly out of concern. She declined each offer of assistance not out of the “never talk to strangers” theory but because she truly did not feel like she needed help, her independence and tenacity both an asset and a hindrance.

She had walked close to a mile when the sidewalk crumbled and disappeared. Weeds and mud lined the busy road, the rain creating an annoyingly slippery surface on which to complete her journey. Dusk arrived stealthily through the gray skies and steadily falling rain. Her shoes and socks were completely covered in mud, her pants soaked to above the knees. Walking became a trudgingly difficult task with slow, thought out steps to avoid slipping in the thick mud.

Her shoulders and back ached from the heft of her book bag, the plastic handles digging into her palms painfully. No amount of shifting the weight from arm to arm alleviated the burden. She began to resent the books she had been yearning for months.

Finally she reached her street, she could see her house at the end of the block, it’s empty driveway and darkened windows. Slowly she made her way home and opened the door with the key she kept tied on a string around her neck. She removed her shoes and clothes heavy with rainwater and mud and left them on the floor of the garage. She would deal with them later, right now she needed something warm and clean.

Cold and naked she walked down the hallway to her bedroom, dragging her sack of books behind her. She slipped on her pajamas, her wet hair clinging to the sides of her face and sat on the floor, dumping the soggy mess of books in front of her. They were ruined, all of them. Pages fell apart through her fingertips, ink smearing across her hands. She held her face in her cold hands and cried, her tears mixing with dirt and ink creating a face like that of a painted woman in the midst of a breakdown. She fell asleep right there on her floor, a sad, wet little girl, defeated not by having been forgotten or for having to walk home miles in the rain but by the fact that she was unable to save her books, as if it were her who had caused their destruction.

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Happy Meals taste like tears

I didn’t eat much fast food as a child. Unlike many of my friends, my family ate dinner together every night. My Mother served the sort of home cooked balanced meals that lack originality but get the job done; meat, vegetables, potatoes and the occasional casserole. Ketchup, salt and pepper helped blend everything together to a palatable consistency. My Dad really loaded up on the salt, leaving a ring of white granules on the table once his plate had been cleared. He never held back on the complaints and I kept my mouth shut. While he loved to spur on the furious wrath of my Mother I lived in constant fear of her tirades.

“Goddamn, could this meat be any tougher?”

“Then you cook the fucking dinner from now on.”

“I wouldn’t make the dog eat this shit.”

“Fuck off and die.”

Between the lines they cared about each other in a strange and volatile way.

When I was about 7 things began to change, most noticeably, the dinner situation. We  weren’t eating together quite as frequently. Some nights I was left to fend for myself, a bowl of cereal or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. One afternoon my Dad brought home about 30 hot dogs from a gas station. I had never had a hot dog and I was so intrigued I must have eaten at least 5 of them, smothered in mustard and sweet relish squeezed from plastic packets. Our table was a mess of paper hot dog holders and soggy napkins, a crime scene of sorts, a portrayal of our current state as a family in the midst of a meltdown.

As the deterioration of  familial structure became more apparent I grasped blindly for some sense of security and familiarity. Everything was falling apart, crumbling before me and I was helpless to stop it. One night I awoke to find my Mother in the kitchen packing Tupperware into a box. I asked her what was going on and she told me matter of factly that “we’re moving, just us”. The next day my Dad picked me up from a friend’s house after school. He was driving a car I had never seen before and he looked tired, worn out, defeated. He said, “we have to talk”.

We went through a McDonald’s drive-thru and he got me a Happy Meal and a milk shake. Not only had I never had a Happy Meal, I had never even been through a fast food drive-thru. Something was seriously wrong and no amount of processed meat, salt and sugar or the brief delight of a plastic toy could conceal the fact that the shit was about to hit the fan.

We walked to a vacant bench near the playground. Kids squealed with innocent joy, birds chirped in nearby trees and the Autumn sun glared off my Dad’s eyeglasses. He encouraged me to eat my hamburger as he sipped at the chocolate shake. I struggled to swallow the greasy meat and salty fries, each bite another reminder that everything was suddenly different and might not ever be the same again.

“Honey, you know how when you are bad you get sent to time out?”

I nodded my head, eyes cast downward. I had never been sent to “time out” nor had I ever even heard my dad use the term before but I was of course familiar with the phrase and the meaning of the word.

“Well, Daddy was bad and I have to go away for a while, time out for grown ups….prison.”

I stared at my food, carefully spread out on the waxy paper, the colorful box and plastic toy nearby as if for comfort.

“How long?”

“I don’t know for sure, Honey. A year, maybe more. You and Mommy are going to be okay, you just do what she says and be a good girl.”

“Okay.”

I looked at my Dad only briefly, it hurt too much to know that this might be the last time I ever see him. That was how I felt, the final goodbyes, one last chance to make it right kind of moment. But there was nothing left, I was beginning the process of shutting down, a process that would continue for many years to come.

“Can I go play on the swings now?”

“Yeah Honey, go play.”

I walked over to the swings slowly, my head spinning before I even pushed off, feet sinking into the sand and hands tightening around the hard twisted metal of the chains. The cathartic rocking of the swings created a swooshing soundtrack to the spreading numbness inside me.

I felt abandoned and alone even as I slid in to the seat next to my Dad, his arm reaching around my shoulders in an attempt to reassure me that everything was fine. We were both too smart to believe it but neither of us brave enough to say it. He dropped me off at home and I watched him drive away knowing that life had changed, that I had changed, aged years in a matter of moments.

When I walked into the house, my Mother asked me,

“Did you have a good time with Daddy?”

“I had a Happy Meal.”

 

 

 

 

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I want to feel like this forever

“When was your first drink?”

“God, two years old I guess”

“Two?! Ok, I will rephrase. When was the first time you got good and drunk?”

“Yeah, two. But I know what you mean. I was 13 the first time I willingly got drunk”

Ok, here are explanations of both….

Booze was never taboo in my family, it flowed freely at parties and my parents never kept track of what was in the house. In fact my first official drunk was when I was just a toddler. I obviously don’t remember this but I have heard my Mom tell the story over and over, laughing every time. I apparently stumbled over to the coffee table, grabbed a glass of red wine and downed the entire thing, a professional drinker at two! She told me that I screamed all night long, eyes rolling around in my head (I must have hated the spins as badly then as I did years later). She was too afraid to take me to the hospital for fear of persecution from Child Protective Services. I toughed it out that night, I survived to drink again one day. There is no stopping a determined toddler with DNA mapped out perfectly for addiction and substance abuse.

My next good drunk, New Years Eve, 1993. I swallowed my first glass quickly, my mood as sour as the champagne. I was struggling with bulimia, and by struggling I mean not having enough time to vomit between meals or enough hours in the day to obsessively run mile after mile. I hated school and everyone there. The only solace in my life was my new-found love affair with smoking.

My second glass, enjoyed a little more than the first but still gulped with purposeful intent. I feel the bubbles in my nose and this makes me gag a little as I am reminded of the sensation of vomit spraying out of my nostrils which unfortunately is a daily occurrence.

My third glass marks the end of the first bottle. I sneak out the back door for a smoke. I hold my glass of champagne in one hand and my Marlboro Light in the other. I feel like a fucking supermodel for about half a second. I am in love with that fleeting sensation of power, sex and maturity. I am no longer a child, if I ever was one at all. I stare at the night sky inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly, luxuriantly.

The second bottle of champagne disappears in no time at all. My Mom is asleep in front of the television, Dick Clark counting the year down like pennies thrown in a fountain, meaningless wishes and a waste of time. I stumble into my room and collapse onto my bed. I have one loud continuous thought reverberating through my head, “I want to feel like this forever, I want to feel like this forever….”

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The yard sale

She was a nervous child, she acted out to express her anxiety. Unease and discomfort followed her around like a heavy blanket wrapped around her ankles.

Her parents fought constantly, mostly about money as most adults ill-prepared for parenthood tend to do. She began to worry about the bills, the rent and groceries. This was on top of the already monumental tower of worries that the child carried around with her; the behavioral difficulties of her puppy who refused to be house broken, the daunting organizational predicament she encountered with her book bag that resulted in hours of preparation each school night, the nightly dinner dilemma of a full plate of food that in some unimaginable way was to be consumed fully and enjoyed and most of all was the constant and unyielding worry of the safety of her family and her home.

She felt as though her life and the lives of her family were held in some precarious position, ready to disintegrate at any moment. Somehow she had to protect them and herself from the unknown threat that lingered at the edges of every moment.

After an especially violent fight over the nonexistent rent money the child decided the time had come, she would do something to help. She had seen yard sales in the neighborhood and it seemed like a perfectly reasonable way to make some quick money and money was what her family needed.

The next morning was a Sunday and she woke up before sunrise, in fact she had not slept at all that night. She walked into the front yard and felt good about the task before her, she knew for sure that this was the right thing to be doing. She gathered most of her toys and old clothes from her bedroom, glad to be rid of the offending clutter. Arranging her belongings on a blanket beneath a tree she felt like a shop girl, humming a pleasant tune of self-satisfaction. She brought out dishes from the kitchen, knickknacks from the living room, records and books from the shelves, a clothes hamper, a step stool and a spare set of silverware that her Mother kept in a drawer.

Her first customer arrived soon after she had perfectly arranged every item on the front lawn just perfectly. The girl watched nervously as the woman rummaged amidst her family’s house wares. She wasn’t nervous about any possible repercussions of what she was doing, she simply hated seeing the items being fussed with in such a careless fashion. She was proud, possibly the first time she had felt such an emotion, of the work she had done and wished she had a few minutes alone to enjoy the moment. However more customers were filing onto the lawn and she resumed her duty as shop girl. She sold the step stool for $1 and the books for a quarter a piece. People pretty much made their own price as she held open her beaded coin purse, the heft of which pleased her deeply. Within an hour the lawn was a shambles of rumpled blankets and a few unwanted articles of clothing. The books had been carried off by an overweight housewife in a stained bathrobe, the clothes hamper drug away by kids on their way to a grassy hill, the records snatched up by an awkward young man with a bad complexion and the set of rarely used silverware was hesitantly purchased by an older woman with a cranky disposition and a guilty smile.

With a deep breath of satisfaction at a hard days work the girl held tightly to the bulging coin purse as she walked back into her house. Her Father was coming out of the bathroom and walked past her without a word. He put on a pot of coffee, sat down at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. The girl placed the coin purse in front of her Father.

what’s this?
money
where’d you get it?
I had a yard sale
a yard sale?
yeah, for rent money
what are you talking about?
for the rent… I, I heard you and Mom yelling about not having enough money, I wanted to help
oh my god, what did you sell?
…um just stuff we didn’t need….Mm..my toys and some books
what else!
…uh….I don’t know,….some, some records and some silverware
some what!
the….the silverware that we never use, it was in that drawer….really, we never use it
oh god, oh no…no no no!
I just wanted to help, I’m sorry, I’m sorry….

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Afternoon errands in El Cajon

The stale city air stifles me
the sun feels more intense on this side of town.
I grew up here, I despise it here.
 I wandered these streets as a child, alone, open to suggestion.
I remember counting my steps to school every morning,
an early glimpse into the world of OCD.
The heat of this city can be felt all year long,
fresh air is a rare commodity, a pleasure to be savored.
I remember the struggle to breathe, to think, to feel anything besides….
desperation, to get out.
 

 

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Soberly Suffering

I awoke on Friday knowing something was wrong. This wasn’t just allergies, I was sick as shit. My head told a story that didn’t need a fairytale dose of caffeine to create a happy ending. My throat felt hot and sticky and the ache of my ears reverberated through each cavity filled tooth. My Lungs gave a muffled scream of, “Help, we’ve been taken captive. We tried to stop him but he was bigger and stronger”. Hello bronchitis, it’s been a while. At least I can escape for a few days with my books and some Robitussin DM. Wait, No I can’t….. Fuck! I am sober and pregnant, dextromethorphan is a no-no, as is Nyquil and every other happytime 10% alcohol filled medicine. Those would all be much too enjoyable for anyone in my situation. This will be an interesting week or two, my first experience with sober bronchitis.

I have had bouts with bronchitis on a semi-annual basis since I was about 9 years old when my bronchitis became full on pneumonia. I spent over a month in bed high on dextromethorphan and experiencing my first joyous bout with anorexia. My fever got so high I experienced hallucinations and I remember having the distinct thought, “I am dying, and it’s OK.” I was too ill to eat and lost about 20 pounds. I hadn’t thought much about my weight before that point in my life but as soon as I began to lose weight I became obsessed with the feel of my bones appearing through my childish flesh. I became so accustomed to the light-headed feeling when I stood up that I wanted to feel that way all the time. Tylenol with codeine, Nyquil, cough syrup and my new friend starvation made this possible. Laying in bed with a stack of books felt like a perfect way to spend the rest of my life. I didn’t miss school, friends or the outside world. I had all I needed in my room, in my bed, within arms reach. When the bronchial grip began to lessen, the phlegm that had settled comfortably in my lungs really let loose. In an attempt to get me to cough up the offending phlegm my Mother told me,” you know, phlegm is fattening.” I then kept a bowl next to my bed; happily coughing, spitting and counting my calories. Ironically, years later I kept a bowl under my bed into which I retched and vomited after each meal waiting patiently for the house to be empty so that I might empty the foul-smelling bowl of puke into the toilet. Often times the bowl would sit; filled to the rim, rotting under my bed for days before I could empty it. The smell would fill my bedroom with disgust, shame and self-hatred. Now when I think about my days spent in bed sick, my nights spent awake and unsettled with fevered confusion, my days spent starving and uneasy on my feet, wavering in and out of consciousness, they all seem to remind me of one thing: control. My body becoming out of control with sickness and my own attempt at taking control by starving myself, by purging myself, by hurting myself.

I exist in a much different reality now. That is not to say that my mind works much differently than it did before, but I have a better filtration system now. Being pregnant has forced me to care for myself in a way that I never imagined I could. Eating proper meals is a big fucking step for me. And I don’t mean eating one wholesome meal with multiple food groups and obsessing over it for weeks by bringing it up whenever possible, “But I do eat, remember the chicken, rice and vegetables meal, I ate that!” Well, fuck you eating disorder, I am eating a couple healthy meals a day, maybe not three but definitely two. Oh, you want me to jam my fingers down my throat…NO. Just that fucking easy, no. I never thought that no was an option when it came to my eating disorder or even to alcohol for that matter. Pregnancy has given me two wonderfully empowering letters, NO.

So, as I soberly suffer through this bout with bronchitis I am getting plenty of fluids, experimenting in the kitchen with homemade spicy soups and getting a healthy amount of rest. Who knew being sick could feel so good.

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Root canals and Tijuana cab rides

I haven’t been to the dentist in over 5 years. This isn’t something I am proud of or even something I was consciously aware of until recently. I had many strange experiences at the Dentist over the years. When I was about 6, I was at a Children’s Dental center where they gave all the kids this purple drink that was supposed to make them calm and woozy (drunk, they were getting us drunk). Being the future alcoholic, I probably asked for seconds. After the initial intoxication I was led into an open room with about 6 dental chairs and one Dentist who popped around to each one. An assistant prepped me and wandered away while I became increasingly agitated. When the Dentist came to me and began prodding around in my mouth I apparently bit him. I remember being confused and scared and this must have been my natural reaction when having a strange man put his fingers in my mouth. His reaction however was a very unnatural one since he was a children’s Dentist and all. The motherfucker slapped me, hard. I have felt extremely vulnerable at the Dentist ever since then. But that never encouraged me to take care of my teeth as a preventative measure against having strange men’s  fingers in my mouth.

I have had more than my fair share of filings, root canals and fancy gold crowns. Skittles and bulimia tend to have that effect. To mellow my mood before such an appointment I would often take a few; vicodin, somas, valium…whatever, you get the idea. (I thought about the purple drink but didn’t want alcohol on my breath). One time I was getting a root canal and was actually feeling quite cozy and warm and I must have dozed off a bit. I awoke to my mouth filling up with hot blood and the Dentist exclaiming “oh, shit!” Definitely not something you want to hear while you have your mouth pried open with metal devices and a suction tube is stabbing the back of your throat. I leaned forward and blood poured out of my mouth and all down the front of my bib and puddled in my crotch. The Dentist told me that the drill had “nicked” the underside of my tongue. She said this was due to the fact that I had apparently fallen asleep and had begun to snore. She wasn’t stupid and told me, “next time, try not to be so high.”

My most pleasant Dental experience was surprisingly enough when I had my wisdom teeth removed in Tijuana. I was in and out in less than half an hour and eating street tacos within the hour. I was calmed by the silence of the Dentist (he didn’t speak a word of English) and efficiency of the staff (they had at least 20 patients waiting). A classic TJ cab ride made for a death defying experience and really fulfilled all of my expectations.

Well, today is the day. I have a Dentist appointment. The only reason I am not putting it off is because apparently  you have to get a check up while you are pregnant to make sure you don’t have any infections or some shit. Fuck, I am seriously procrastinating right now. I suppose I can only hope for another interesting story.

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Filed under Alcoholism and other Assholes, Ana, Mia and other Bitches, I remember