“‘Miscarriage’ by the way, deserves to be ranked as one of the worst, most blame-inducing medical terms ever. To me, it immediately conjures up an implication that it was the woman’s fault, like she somehow ‘mishandled the carrying of this baby.’ F that so hard, right in its patriarchal nut-sack.”
It’s one of those menstruation days on which I’m so irrationally exhausted that I’ve become suspicious of the entire process, as if my body is somehow shedding things it shouldn’t, like…”No, no, we NEED that, what are you doing?!”
Before I left the house today I just threw a bunch of pills in my face and chased them with a bucket of coffee. Screw it, it’s bound to fix something.
Ah, yes. A key decision in any “relationship” — do I end it now while I’m pretty sure I can handle it, or let it ride until it crashes and burns in the most damaging possible way?
Pfft. JK, it’s not actually a question. Y’all know I’ll suffer for a good story — let’s dance, Feelings!
Kidding. The beauty of having played the He’s Just Not That Into You home game for 2 years a while back is that I can see it easily now. Plus ending the 10-year relationship right before THAT… I mean, it can’t hurt TOO much if this one ends. “We’re done? Oh, OK, cool. I’ll have more time to clean.”
But it turns out the “slut shame” doesn’t come from the sex. It comes from sex being all there is — from me not being feelings-worthy for whatever reason, from being kept around solely for my ability to wet a dick.
I’m not built for that. I don’t need Edward Lewis, but I damn sure ain’t settlin’ for Stuckey.
I acknowledge the possibility that I’m hormonal and misinterpreting, but I think I’m right. If I can’t tell that you, um, like me, or want to spend time with me, that is legit insane-making for my membranes.
I deleted (not blocked) his number, and, with it, my ability to text him anything belligerent and cunty. He’s still free to contact me, though, so we’ll see what happens.
Hm… Though I guess I probably should’ve seen what happened before I spent the weekend getting myself over this based on these assumptions… Oops. Ah, well. Call it preventive care.
Quotable therapist: “I promise, you don’t hit menopause and automatically become a Republican.”
You heard it here, folks.
I’ve been so run down that I was a little worried about my blood donation appointment today. I know I CAN donate, but I was concerned about feeling even more depleted. So I Googled it, and dammit, Australian Red Cross — I can’t decide if I’m comforted or insulted by your assurance.
“Oh, because I’m a woman overrun with hormones, I must want snacks and a couch? How dare you stereotype me?!”
“You DO want snacks and a couch.”