Well something’s lost, but something’s gained in living everyday…

I’m proud of being 26 years old. I’ve done a lot of hard work to get here, I deserve every single year I’ve earned. So when someone has such a profound effect on me that it brings me back to the mentality of a 15 year old, even just for a night, I get a little pissed off.
I know better than to let myself be antagonized by someone younger than I am. I know better. (In my head, “A wizard should know better!”) Hell, I shouldn’t let myself by antagonized by anyone at all. I should be zen as fuck, because I’ve dealt with a ton of crap in the last ten or so years of my life, and also, I used to be a lot calmer like six months ago.
Apparently weed has that effect on people. Who knew?
Anyway, my patience for people trying to get a rise out of me is non-existant now, and whether that’s attributable to the lack of marijuana in my current diet, or my ever-changing hormones, or the people I have been surrounded by, or just the fact that it was Mother’s Day weekend and I was DONE, I don’t care. I’m a little mad at myself for, well, getting so damn pissed off.
Dude. I am 26 years old. I have seen things, you know? I have done things. And even with all that to consider, I will still rise to the bait of someone who is just trying to make me jealous FOR FUN.
I need to be that person who just does not get jealous. I need to be emotionally invested in making a relationship work without all the crappy emotional baggage that seems to come along with it. I am freaking exhausted thinking about being a better person all the damn time. But jealousy is supposed to be about trust- in your relationship, your partner, and yourself. Without it, I think we can all pretty much agree that the relationship is pointless and you might as well just give up now. And I don’t have a single reason to think that I can’t trust the person I’m with.
So what the fuck was I doing all jealous and pissed off?
I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. I could go all Psych-101 on my ass and think about how insecure I feel in large groups of people, even people I know. I can blah-blah about past relationships not working or being cheated on, I can talk about not being the prettiest girl in the room, I can make excuses about my fragile emotional state since it was my second Mother’s Day without my mom. I can say all these things and more, and I’m sure they’re all true to some extent. But a big part of growing up and getting older is acknowledging your weaknesses and trying to fix them. It’s about being a stronger person, a smarter person, a better person. It’s about knowing that you’re super uncomfortable and shining anyway, because you are a motherfucking ADULT now and that is what adults do. It’s putting on your big girl panties and stepping up. More often than not, it’s walking away from the situations you know will drag you down.
So I’m still learning. It’s a work in progress, this adult self I’m trying to create. I am 26 and yes, I still fail at so many different things at so many different times it will absolutely send your head spinning. I don’t particularly want to get old, but I’m happy to because I know it’s not something a ton of people get to do. And there are a lot of days when I’m much happier to be an adult than a kid. I like to think each year is going to get a little better- at least since my mom died. I’d say they can’t get much worse, but that seems to invite all kinds of trouble. So hopefully they will continue to get better, with as little backsliding as humanly possible.

And besides the intense and immature fit of jealousy I experienced this weekend, how am I doing?
Eh. Weekend before last was harder than Mother’s Day. I went with D (haha, initials) to the bookstore to get a book or two and they had a huge display of those Nut Brown Hares (“Guess How Much I Love You”) and they made me think of my mom, since she loved that book and we used to read it a lot. And they had a copy of “Runaway Bunny”, which I totally got as a present, but at least I knew better than to open it because that would have been HORRIBLE. And of course I started crying and it was super embarrassing, because no one wants to be THAT girl, crying and snotting all over herself in the middle of a bookstore, holding a picture book and a stuffed rabbit, trying not to make eye contact with the poor guy who decided he wanted to be in a relationship with her, because he is so totally regretting that right now. But I’m still that girl, reverently touching the spines of the picture books and letting myself remember all the damn time, because it’s what I’ve got. I feel ridiculous, crying over things like pine trees and picture books and camping gear; hyperventilating when I read someone else’s account of watching a parent die of cancer, but I wouldn’t trade the memories I have of my mother for the sanity that would come with fewer tears at less embarrassing times.
My mom rocked. I didn’t think about her on Sunday any more or less than any other day, because I had my little emotional breakdown the week before. I didn’t worry about what I would’ve been doing if she was still alive, because if she was still alive I would still be in Modesto, trudging along through that life. If you believe in alternate universes, then that Jennifer exists out there somewhere, and I’m sure she’s happy in ways that this Jennifer cannot even begin to comprehend. But this Jennifer has jumped off a bridge, has been pushed out of airplanes and has touched her feet to the ground in Europe, Africa, Asia, and Australia. This Jennifer has a million reasons every day to be happy, and only a few to be sad.
So yes, it’s a struggle for me. It has been for years and it will continue to be for the rest of my (hopefully very long) life. But I am so in love with the person I’m becoming and the people around me that it’s getting harder to say I’d give it all up to go back.

That’s what I wanted to say. Yes, I backslide into petty fits of jealousy that are totally ridiculous (I’m sorry, D) and stupid and silly, and I don’t know when I’ll be able to walk through the children’s section of a bookstore without tearing up, but oh God. I’ve been to FIVE continents and I’ve seen so many things and I’ve done so much in the last two years. And I’m so happy here, so exceptionally happy here that it would be really, really stupid for me to think I would just go back. My mother made this whole life possible for me, my father encouraged it. I’m the person they raised and as much as I keep looking back over my shoulder, I cannot imagine actually trading this life for that one.
And the most comforting part of all? I know my mom would more than understand. She’d be so pleased.

Ch-ch-ch-changes!

Sweet Jesus, pimples. They’re popping up on my chest (WTF???) and my chin (ugh) and my neck (whhhyyyyy?) and my forehead (goddammit). They’re popping up everywhere, like I’m heading through puberty again, and I am pissed. Couple that with skin so oily I’m afraid the US Government is going to call and ask me to return home so they can mine my face, weird boob pain, a super-keen awareness of EXACTLY where my uterus is at all times, and a massive increase in anxiety, and you’ve got my life, right now, woo-hoo.
So I spend a lot of time reminding myself why this weird post-adolescent puberty-like phase is preferable to what I had going before, because it totally is. Way preferable. You know why? Oh, please. Let me tell you.
So I was put on birth control pills when I was 15 because my periods were ridiculously irregular (we’re talking maybe once every 8 months or so) and extremely painful (curl up in a ball on the floor of my classrooms at school, unable to get out of bed, crying like a baby) and that was (and still is) the medically accepted solution to irregular periods and other bits of pubescent crazy that past generations just dealt with and grew out of.
Needless to say, I didn’t take them very much. Because they made me BATSHIT CRAZY. I don’t have to tell you that being on the widely prescribed and most common form of the pill (this is more than ten years ago, there was like ONE kind of pill) did not work for me, because there are people lining up to tell you how absolutely nuts I was. I cried, I screamed, I picked fights, I yelled, I ripped an $85 pair of pants for dramatic effect while I was fighting with my boyfriend who promptly broke up with me, because even he could see I was LOSING MY MIND.
They did not work. On to the next medical cure.
So I started Yaz in 2006 because clearly the previous pill didn’t work for me. It must’ve been fairly new, because the doctor I saw had samples in her office and- this is not exaggeration- as I was leaving my appointment in tears because she made me feel like the worst kind of pathetic slut on earth, she threw them at me saying “Take these.” Seriously. It was my first experience with doctors offering free samples, and let me just say, free samples are a poor college kid’s dream. (I have never had to pay for an inhaler. I mean, I’ve only needed 4 over my entire lifetime, but still. Never paid. All free.)
Still, I was vaguely aware that this was bad medical practice, and I didn’t go back to see the mean, bitchy doctor. Until I had to. (More on that in a bit.) I saw my GP for all things reproductive for the next five years, where they convinced me that the massive pain I was experiencing more frequently than my periods was all in my head, but just in case, I should only have four periods a year. Don’t take the sugar pills, they advised, just take the active pills. Fine by me, I was still irritated that being on birth control meant more than one or two periods a year, but I was glad that I could predict (sort-of) them, and they didn’t just show up with some short (extremely painful) warning in the middle of English class.
But my pain was immense, and no longer limited to period times. I had a fairly active job (bakery) that required me to be on my feet for a solid 8-hour shift, and suddenly my abdominal pain was always around. It was ridiculous. It hurt really bad. I was super pissed, but there was nothing I could do. Take more Ibuprofen. Take it more often. Take as many of them a day as you want, because it won’t kill you. Take lots. Take Aleve and Ibuprofen. Take all those and Tylenol. You’re not taking them enough. Take them more often. Well, there’s nothing else we can do. This pain is clearly a physical manifestation of psychological problems. (That’s the doctor way of saying “It’s all in your head.”) Let’s schedule you an appointment with a psychologist. (Fine, until I realized I was on my way to see the mom of the guy I’d been dating. That was funny. She recognized my last name and wouldn’t have treated me anyway, but I’m so glad I didn’t even make it in the door of that one. Never mind, she’s an amazing woman and I’m glad I know her socially.)
Blah-de-blah, this went on until 2011, when I’d finally had it. My mom was doing well with whatever treatment she was on at the time (I’m not sure but it was only a little bit before things went downhill) and I started doing research myself on things that could cause severe and unending abdominal pain. I knew I didn’t have PCOS, mainly because I didn’t have any symptoms of it besides pain but also because I’d had one (extremely painful) abdominal ultrasound every year since I started puberty. My doctors were thorough. I know exactly how big my ovaries are and where they sit, in case you were wondering. And they were absolutely positive that there were no growths, cysts, or problems. Clearly this was all in my head. I was told to “toughen up”, that everyone goes through this and that I was being a baby. Relationships ended, my work suffered. I went from being amazing at my job to the bottom of the shit-list very quickly.
But I kept reading about endometriosis. It kept popping up in all my web searches and finally, finally, I asked my doctor if there was a reason he hadn’t suggested it as a potential problem I might have. It would explain literally every symptom I was experiencing. It would be a logical answer. His response? “Yeah, that’s probably the case. I can refer you to a specialist if you want.”
I was pissed. I was so mad that I almost walked out without the referral, just out of spite. But I didn’t, I got the referral, and I said I wanted any doctor but the one I had seen before. Dr. Tow.
Let me take a moment to say that my GP is an awesome doctor, and that this was basically my only complaint against him. But it was a big complaint. I had been seeing the man for an exceptional amount of time and he didn’t even bother to suggest endo, let alone offer to send me to someone to treat it. I know he isn’t a gyno, but he was clearly out of his area of expertise and he needed to admit that rather than allow me to suffer for years without any relief.
Cue the entrance of Dr. Le, gynecologist who seemed to know what she was doing, but really was just pulling shit out of her ass. Oh, and “forgot” to tell me that I have a bicornuate uterus. Seriously, she was inside my body, poking around for two hours. I think she could’ve remembered to share that bit of info. But I digress.
With my laparoscopy, I found out I had endo. It had wrapped around my intestines and bowels, pulling them up and back towards my hipbones. It had embedded in my muscles, but the most important news- the happiest moment I had had for a long while- was the knowledge that it was THERE. I had endometriosis, and I was not crazy.
Thank God.
The treatment for endo, I was told, was to take birth control pills and manage the pain with whatever works. For me, because my stomach was absolutely destroyed from the years of taking so damn much Ibuprofen and because it hadn’t helped anyway, that meant Percocet or Vicodin. I started at 2.5mg, and gradually worked my way up until I was taking 10mg every single day. To manage my abdominal pain, I was taking a hardcore dose of narcotic pain meds and birth control pills.
I decided to have another surgery in 2012, just before my health insurance ran out. It was such a bad idea, not least of all because I had to see the evil Dr. Tow (Dr. Le had dropped off the map completely) and she was disinclined to perform the procedure. It showed in the results; I ended up with a misdiagnosed MRSA infection, MASSIVE scars all over my abdomen, and near-constant bleeding that wouldn’t let up. I ruined A TON of underwear. I spent a few hundred dollars at Victoria’s Secret, and then gave up.
And then I turned 26. I lost my health insurance and moved to Australia. That meant no more pain meds. I worried, I panicked. It also meant that when my supply from Planned Parenthood ran out, I would no longer have birth control pills either.
I would be drug free for the first time since I was 15.
But the bleeding hadn’t stopped. For three months I could never predict what my body would do, or when it would do it. I had to cancel a flight to Brisbane because I couldn’t walk, I was in so much pain. I woke up soaked in blood. It was awful. I was miserable, I was devastated, I was worried that moving to Australia was a huge mistake because I was so far from home without any health insurance to speak of.
And then I ran out of birth control. I had my period (it was super weird, but I don’t want to freak everyone out when I talk about discharge, so… It was SUPER weird), it lasted for about a week, and then bam.
It was over.
I didn’t say anything for days, I didn’t want to jinx myself. It’s been almost a month now and I’m just now writing it down, because I don’t want to ruin what has been so, so good.
But after that “period”, I never had a lick of pain again. I haven’t had any weird bleeding. I am in, quite literally, no pain at all. I can run around after the kids, I can do my job, I can ignore the last few Vics and Percs in the bottom of my pill bottle because seriously, I do not need them. I can take Tylenol for a headache because IT WORKS FOR THAT NOW. I have never felt better in all my life.
Except… ugh, my boobs are sore. And my face is like the underside of a Middle Eastern desert. There are pimples (which I almost NEVER had during puberty, lucky me) and my hair is doing weird things and my scalp itches ALL THE TIME. I’ve had a ton of general anxiety which hasn’t been a problem for quite a while over here, and GODDAMMIT MY FACE IS OILY!
And now I never know when to expect my period. But if all the doctors and online medical sites are correct, it will go back to happening every now and then- about every 8 months- and I could not be happier about that.
We don’t talk enough about what happens when a girl wants to STOP taking hormonal birth control. It seems like the medical community thinks you either need to be taking the Pill or trying to get pregnant- there can be no in-between. But no one ever told me that I should try something other than hormonal pills to try to relieve my symptoms from endo. And it turns out that what helped me in the end was NOT having health insurance. We don’t talk enough about alternatives to the Pill. It’s not a cure-all. It won’t solve every problem. And it’s worth telling girls out there that hey, not only are they NOT crazy, but there’s another way to live. You’re not out of solutions, you’re not out of hope.
Personally, I am way happier without birth control pills in my life. Yes, even with the crazy oily skin and the odd neck pimples and the ridiculously itchy scalp and the HEAVY AS FUCK breasts. I am so, so much happier, I could run a marathon.
Except seriously? Condoms suck.

You can’t always get what you want…

If you buy into the idea that dreams show us our deepest hopes and fears, then it’s pretty obvious what I’m thinking about underneath all the day-to-day minutiae. Marriage. Families. It’s like suddenly, I woke up one day and all my friends, the people I know, are married and starting families. They’re settling down and buying houses and doing all the things I thought I wanted when I was younger. And before you stop and apply your Psych-101 head-shrinking techniques on me, I haven’t had any horrific, traumatic experiences that have led me to fear commitment or babies or whatever. It’s just… It’s so hard to believe I’m 26, sometimes. And that doesn’t sound old to me, but it’s older than I thought I would be when I got married. It’s not so bad, and I’m really glad I haven’t settled down yet, because how I would have time to do all the things I want to do if I’m busy changing nappies or making dinner every night? But those things aside, it was only a matter of time before I started to freak out about being the last single girl I know.
Minus the wild exaggeration (I know plenty of single women, just give me a minute to think of them), I’ve been having the strangest dreams that people I know, and hardly think about anymore, are getting engaged. Couple that with the insane number of Facebook announcements telling me someone is engaged or someone is married or someone else is having a baby, and it feels like my life is progressing at a far slower rate than everyone else’s. That would be fine if I wasn’t so hyper-aware of what everyone else is doing in the world, but that weird high-school girl need is ever-present in me, even if I don’t say it. There is still a part of me that wants to be like everyone else.
And there’s a larger part of me that is disgusted with that need and does everything it can to squash it. Planning trips around the world, thinking about all the things a pregnant woman can’t do (deep-sea diving, swimming with sharks, bungee jumping, skydiving, wild nights at dance clubs getting insanely drunk- the usual), and internal pep talks when things get especially rough. When I think about all the things that could have been, I remind myself how ridiculous it would have been to take care of my mother and a child at the same time. I think about how silly it would be to try to hop around the world with a child and yes, I am grateful to not have one of my own. In those moments and at those times, I am glad that the only person I really have to worry about is me. I’m glad that I don’t need to think about someone else above myself, because I am still a ridiculously selfish person. But I already know that won’t change until there is an apparent need.
But I’m 26. Maybe I know a few women who are happily single, but that doesn’t make it easier to see my friends get engaged one right after the other, dominoes falling all around me. Maybe it’s only a matter of time and patience before it’s my turn, but anyone who knows me knows I’m not exactly a model of patience.
I’m not in a hurry to settle down. If I wasn’t bombarded every single day with updates of the lives of my friends (and their friends) then I don’t think it would bother me as much. But I am. I see, every day, people I’ve known for a long time settle down and tie the knot and have babies, and suddenly I can’t measure up. Sure, I’ve been to Egypt, but that doesn’t seem to be nearly as wonderful as getting married and having a family. Besides, everyone else seems way happier than I am.
The problem is this grass-is-always-greener attitude. No matter what situation I was in I’d be jealous. Not because I’m not happy with what I have, or who I am (for the record, I think what I’ve got is pretty good and I’m generally an awesome person) but because everyone else looks happier with what they have. Facebook allows us to see only the best (or funniest, or most remarkable) points of someone’s life, but it doesn’t give us any perspective on those things. All we can see is what we’re missing out on, and for me, that’s marriage and kids. Do the married ones occasionally feel a twinge of jealousy when looking through the pictures of us nomads? I have no idea, but I would think they do. Only because that’s the culture we live in. That is the situation we put ourselves in.
I know what you’re thinking. I could avoid this whole mess if I removed myself from social media, if I just focused on myself and didn’t worry about anyone else. But in a society like ours, I don’t think that’s at all possible. And it’s easy to be happy if you don’t know any different. That’s why we say “Ignorance is bliss.” But we also really hate stupid people. No one likes stupid people. And ultimately it brings me more joy to see my friends- near and far, young and old, single or married- happy in their lives.
So occasionally (like a couple of times a week) I dream (nightmares!) about people I’ve known over the years getting engaged, getting married, having babies, laughing at me. And I feel kind of down about myself, fumbling through the beginning of a relationship that I really want to work, watching kids and helping them grow into their own, unique people, and trying to figure out exactly what I want from this life. But if my only other option is to ignore the world around me, then I’ll take the worry and wondering. And someday, someday I’ll get this whole “life” thing figured out.

And the seasons they go ’round and ’round…

Trying to force myself to write is getting ridiculous, mostly because I don’t respond to my own pressure and I end up just feeling like crap about it. But I seriously can’t get anything out. This is what I want to do, this is what I want to be good at, and unless I can make myself more motivated it’s never going to happen. Since I can’t see myself doing anything else with my life, I need to buckle down and get my ass into shape. But shit, I get so easily distracted.
So I’m in Australia, I’ve started my new job, I’m already tired of winter and it hasn’t even started yet, and suddenly I like kids. Also I can communicate with them. It’s so strange. Children are odd little creatures, but over the last month I’ve found myself warming to them (at least the ones I work with, I haven’t completely lost my mind to think that I will suddenly enjoy all children) and there are a ton of days when all I want to do is sit back and listen to them create things and play and have fun. And they don’t seem nearly as terrifying as I had originally thought. I get the general impression that I would have to be an idiot to do something to really screw them up. But in addition to all the things I’ve learned to love, there are still a few things I cannot get on board with.
Dora. I f-ing hate that kid. She is annoying, and I hate seeing her stupid bare midriff when she goes swinging around with her monkey friend. Go solve your own problems, Dora. I don’t want to hear what’s in your backpack or where the stupid map tells you to go. I can tell you where to go.
Vegemite. I will never like vegemite. Stop trying to make me. It’s gross. *shudders*
Spiders are dangerous. Don’t pretend like they’re not. Especially over here, where they can (and will) kill you. If spiders want to take over, they will. Spray all the chemicals you want, but they’re nesting in your clothing. Ew.
Tropical f-ing birds. We all know I hate birds, birds are my least favorite pet-animal, but these birds take the cake. It sounds like every single day begins with a giant dolphin being strangled outside my window. Seriously, that is what birds sound like over here. I’m in the middle of a city, not the rainforest, but still there are crazy birds screaming their tail-covered asses off for attention I am most unwilling to give them. Unfortunately the children love them, so we encourage the birds to come hang out.
Bad dreams (that aren’t my own). I will never, ever, ever get used to the scream of a little kid that happens just as I’ve fallen asleep. Never. Because it sounds like there is something terrible happening, and to a 3 or 4 year old it is terrible. But I don’t want to be reminded how ALIVE I am just as I try to fall asleep. I move to abolish all bad dreams. Forever. Seriously, go away and leave the children alone.
Poop. Is. EVERYWHERE. Even if you think you’re safe, you’re not. Poop is everywhere. It is all around you. Every single day, we spend a ridiculous amount of time on poop and poop-related discussions. Bribing a child to poop is, by far, the strangest thing I’ve done. The kids make up for it by being insanely brilliant and adorable, but just barely.
T (4 years) can read. Which is adorable, since he reads to his little sister all the time and I sit next to them and listen and catch up on my adult reading (Harry Potter or some Pynchon or Tolkien, depending on my mood). It sucks because I can’t wear my Hooters shirts anymore and hey, I like those shirts. It’s going to get worse soon when he learns that Auntie Jenn is reading “Clockwork Orange” and “Requiem for a Dream” and when he gets old enough (at least 20) he will read them and it will traumatize him even more to remember his nanny used to read those books during quiet reading time and he’s going to get super embarrassed and freak the f out. That is exactly what I would do. Poor T.
On the other hand, awesome things like this conversation go down EVERY SINGLE DAY.
T: “Uncle Daniel came and took Auntie Jenn earlier today.”
Dad (Theirs, not mine. Duh.): “Oh, are they good friends now?”
T: (completely serious) “Nope. He’s stealing people.”
Nothing is better than a four-year-old thinking his uncle is stealing people. Like his nanny. I nearly peed myself when I heard this conversation happened. And this stuff happens everyday. I (3 years) sings to herself on the toilet. “Little poops, little poops…” (told you poop was everywhere) and does these ridiculously precocious things that make me wonder if she’s being possessed by the spirit of a teenager and is not, in fact, a 3 year old girl. I’m probably going to cut out before she gets old enough to be a real pain. I’ll be the cool aunt who comes to visit and takes her to get her ears pierced, but I don’t know if I could do the day-to-day. I’m scared on behalf of Dad and Mum.
Every day presents new challenges for me, and every morning when my alarm goes off- and that’s T, bouncing around his room like an elephant- I seriously consider hitting the snooze. But I get up. And it never fails to be entertaining. Because this morning, we travelled by train and car and plane, went to the library and talked about how library books are to be treated nicely and shared because they are for everyone, read a few stories, and capped it off by being secret agents. (I’m 00-Jenn.) And we did all this without ever leaving the house. Actually, we did most of it without ever leaving the play room.
And now my favorite little Mexican girl is on TV, showing her tiny brown belly and driving me mad. *sighs* But the kids love Dora, and that’s what comes on while I’m getting lunch ready. Which is what I need to be doing right now.
Ugh, more rain. Hopefully the weather clears up and I can do something fun this weekend. Like go to the beach. Or the bookstore. Or both, at the same time. Which is possible here, because the beach is literally across the street from the bookstore.
I’m not complaining.

All my bags are packed…

There are a lot of ways to refocus your priorities in life. Moving from one continent to another is definitely one of them, something I’m learning over and over again, the hard way. Not that I’ve ever learned a thing the easy way, mind you, but I’ve heard it’s a way to reduce stress. It’s easy to look at the material trappings of a life and imagine what it would be like if they were gone, but it’s another thing entirely to systematically go through all the items acquired over a lifetime and decide what is important enough to drag across an ocean, and what can simply be discarded. I know that a life is so much more than the physical trinkets that surround it, but knowing something in theory and putting it into practice are two different things entirely.
I spent so long amassing a collection of wines I love so much, only to find that now I must choose between drinking them all or leaving them behind. Twenty-six years of music boxes lovingly chosen by my father, and now I have to walk away from them. Carefully chosen and framed artwork adorning my walls, left here for the walls to enjoy. Stacks and stacks of books no one will read, no one will stare at, no one will obsess over because no one will be here to stroke their covers. I’ll leave movies unwatched, photos unframed, clothes unworn and cosmetics unused because there is only so much a person can drag 13,000 miles to start a new life.
So how do you decide what goes, and what stays? Material items are by no means the important components of a life, and certainly not necessary to show a life well-lived, but there is nothing rational about making decisions like this. At least not for me. A person who packs an entire suitcase of shoes isn’t working with reason and sense, she’s desperately hoping no one will notice that she’s packing an entire suitcase of shoes because she can’t bear to deal with the important things. Because when the material items are all you have left of a person, you’ll do anything to hoard all of them close and never let them go.
Sometimes it’s the physical that truly helps us believe our own memories. Human memory is such a flimsy and weak thing- we forget what is so important but hold onto the most idiotic of ideas and facts. For the life of me, I can’t remember my mother’s voice or the way she smelled but I know the last book she ever gave me. I’ve developed intimate emotional connections with blankets, with albums, with CDs and pictures and clothing just because she gave them to me. I can’t get rid of a single thing she gave to me, because I can’t seem to let all those little pieces go. They make the shaky, wavering human memories seem more real, more true.
So while I’m supposed to be packing those things that will help me be better prepared for life outside this country, I’m waging an internal war with myself- the petty, ridiculous emotional attachment I’ve suddenly developed for the blankets I hated as a child because they’re scratchy against the overwhelming sensation that they hold a deep connection to my mother. And under all those psychological issues and that angst is a deep frustration, because instead of moving forward with my life I am constantly sliding back farther and farther.
It’s a battle between holding onto those things that mean the world because they’re a connection to the woman who made me the person I am, and letting go of the weight that’s keeping me from reaching the surface, from learning to fly.

I had a dream my life would be… so different now from what it seems…

There was a time when love was blind, when the world was a song, and the song was exciting…

I’m sitting here, wide awake in the very early hours of the morning, and I was reading through some old blog entries- I’ve done a shamefully meager amount of writing since I started this blog almost two years ago- and I came across this, from an entry before I left last year, the first time.

‘Cause I’m running away, baby. You can’t stop me now.

And when I get back, I can finish up school, get a good job, get married, and have a family. Everyone says life isn’t perfect; that you can never have everything you want. I truly believe that if I do this, and I am lucky enough to have a family with someone who loves all of me- to me, that will be perfect. It’s everything I want in life, and so I’m rolling the dice.

I was so ridiculously optimistic about what I thought the future would hold for me. But the thing that shocks me the most, knowing what I know now, is that I thought I could travel as much as I have, see as much as I did, and still want to come home. Still want to come home and start a family, fall in love, and live happily ever after. I thought that would still be possible.
Now that thought makes me laugh. I can’t believe I thought I’d want to come home and- worst of all- stay here. Oh, I have no doubt I meant somewhere else in California, but still. Stay here? Fall in love here? Like I would have gotten that thing checked off my list of things I want to do, don’t need to travel any more. In reality, my goals and dreams have only gotten bigger and wilder as time has passed. Sure, I’ve seen England and Ireland, Spain and Egypt, Australia and New Zealand- but there is so, so much more I want to see and do. Go to every continent got added on, I never did make it to Israel.
It’s the thought of staying still for too long that bothers me. I see people younger than I am and they work three jobs just to afford to have their own house. What good is the house going to do you when you’re never there? But most of all, you sold your life, your soul, and for what? Not freedom, certainly, because now you have a giant anchor stuck to your ass, keeping you from truly ever escaping.
I know I see the world differently than most people, but I cannot imagine having a 9-5 job. Doing the same thing every day, I don’t care what it is, I would absolutely not be able to do that. I was not made for that kind of life. And the more I look at the world around me, the more I wonder when we became so obsessed with being stationary. Who put such a high premium on being stuck in one place? Living your life, day after day, everything exactly the same. I see that in my mind, and I hate to say it, but it all just seems too “Revolutionary Road” to me. I’d end up trapped, he’d end up trapped, we dream about getting out, and then bam! Trapped even more by reality. I can truly understand why April killed herself.
I don’t want to be miserable, trapped by society’s ideal, trying to make it work until I finally just give in and get the lobotomy.
I know the disappointment my family feels. I know what they want from me, and if it didn’t sound so tediously boring and horrible, I would try it. But every time I think about being stuck in one place, even for a day, I start to panic. I don’t want to be forced. I don’t want to be trapped. I want to be able to live and work and move, but I don’t want to be stuck.
The job I have is a good one. But even if it was a bad job, or a crappy job, or just bartending for tips and a place to sleep at night, that should be good enough. Because sure, I’m smart. But isn’t it also important for me to be happy? And I swear to God if I could travel the world and see the things I want to see and touch the things I want to touch and feel the things I want to feel, I’d sleep on a floor. All snide remarks about my humongous wardrobe and shoe collection aside, I know I could live out of my backpack for a year. And sometimes I think my parents forget that they raised me on camping and backpacking, walking around outside barefoot and stuck me in Girl Scout hell for 5 years. I think they honestly forget that I can use a bear canister, that I have never once left food or even toothpaste out of the bear box, that I can make a pretty killer campfire. I can launch a boat and hike up a mountain, and I cook better than most people I know.
If I was moving to Europe, to go backpacking around the country for a year, I wouldn’t be taking everything with me.
I’m moving to Australia. To a home that is waiting to welcome me with open arms. This is not meant to be a temporary change of address. I am moving on, I do not plan on coming back here and calling it “home” again.
Kids grow up. Kids move on. And, if you’re lucky, if you’re doing something right, they’re going to stumble a few times but never truly fall, and they will always know they can come back. But it won’t ever be home again.

“The margins of reality…”

It’s nothing new for me to rail on the medical industry about women’s health issues. It should be noted, however, that I rarely (if ever) talk about abortion rights or access. That’s because I’m fortunate enough to live in California, a state that still allows a woman to terminate a pregnancy if she chooses- without the consent of her parents, without a waiting period, and without mandatory counseling to ensure she won’t regret her decision later.
I could say so many things right now about the sad, horrific way we treat the women of this nation. In fact, I do. A generation of girls- daughters and sisters and cousins and friends, crying out for help and all we do is ignore them. Doctors have all the time in the world for the pharmaceutical industry but no time for the women who need legitimate medical care. Am I proud of how far we’ve come in the United States? I’m ashamed. All the times I’ve been told I just have to live in pain, that my medical concerns are “all in my head”, that bleeding for weeks on end is “normal”- these are the problems I have faced in the last two months alone. As a society, we are fond of shaming women and making them feel less than human.
We live in a country where- and these stats are current, as of 2008 (things have only gotten worse since then, as any semi-conscious adult female can tell you)- 4 states have only one clinic that can perform legal abortions, 26 states have a mandatory waiting period between seeking an abortion and actually obtaining one, 37 states require parental consent for a minor to have an abortion, and 9 states have laws that require that a woman has an ultrasound before terminating her pregnancy. But my favorite, my absolute favorite statistic of all- my favorite law, the best part of this whole story- are the 11. ELEVEN! States that require that the woman receive counseling on the fetus’ ability to feel pain. ELEVEN states are so concerned about the ability of something the size of a pinky nail to feel pain that they are willing to mentally, emotionally, and physically harm actual living, breathing human beings over it. These are laws, passed by state governments with elected officials in this glorious country called the United States of America.
It was 40 years ago this month that the Supreme Court ruled that abortions are protected activity under the unenumerated rights clause of the Constitution. It was just three years later that Congress retaliated, passing the Hyde Amendment that dictated that no abortions could be funded by government money- a fact that is nearly always forgotten when talking about Planned Parenthood or the downfall of modern society. My parents’ generation took a huge step forward in fighting for the rights of women, and was almost immediately beaten back. Since 1973 no major pieces of federal legislation supporting women’s rights have passed and been signed into law. There have been no more big victories, no more reasons to celebrate. So what does my generation do?
This fight isn’t just about abortion- because no women starts out her reproductive years aching to end a life. This fight is about the ability to control our own bodies, something men have been doing for generations but women have yet to really have the chance to do. This isn’t about whether Congress or state governments have the right or ability (which they demonstrate every two years, quite effectively) to say when or where or why we can terminate a pregnancy. This is about the ability to make the choice before ever having sex to have a child or not. With the miracles of today’s technology, it is remarkably simple to “opt-out” of producing a human being every month or so. Believe me, I exercise that right quite effectively every single day (during the good times). But what about the women who don’t have access to birth control? Because that’s what this is about. This is about birth control. This is about choosing to forever change your life, and at least one other person’s, because of the lack of access women have to birth control and reproductive health care.
“The abortion war, like many other political fights, is largely waged on the margins of reality.” Yes, yes, Kate Pickert- it is. But it’s in those margins where our fate as human beings is decided. Gay, straight, pregnant, single, married- it never, ever matters to the people who will take your fight, your war, and distort it until you no longer recognize the truth. The margins of reality. That’s an excellent term. I wish I’d thought of it, because it carries such a vivid mental image in addition to being an entirely accurate way to describe this war for our bodies.
Most abortions- about 90%- occur in the first trimester of pregnancy. No woman carries a child for months and months and suddenly decides she no longer wants to bring that life into the world. Late-term abortions are catchy and they make excellent pamphlets, but show me a woman who chooses that for herself and I will show you someone who is so far outside the norm of society that she is the exception, not the rule. Most women would do anything to have the baby they’ve been growing and loving, I sincerely doubt anyone gets seven months in and changes her mind.
There are brave young women in this country fighting for legitimately viable access to health care- health care that includes, among other things, pap smears, pregnancy tests, prenatal care, and birth control. So simple, one little pill, and yet so many women have their hands tied behind their backs because they cannot get access to something so tiny and drenched in animosity. But far past the issue of birth control, far past the issue of a tiny pill that empowers and enables women to do almost anything- far past all these things, so simple sounding here on my screen, is what we do to the women who are denied access to birth control and basic medical care.
This isn’t just a women’s issue, and it’s certainly not only a poor women’s issue- but disproportionately more poor women have abortions and unwanted and unplanned pregnancies. We are constantly hurting the women of this country by telling them they can be anything, and showing them they will have no help in making their lives better. Abortions aren’t cheap, but they’re much less expensive than another child. On the other hand, government assistance will help pay for your child, and no one will help you pay for that abortion. 1 in 3 women will have an abortion by the time they turn 45. That’s a ridiculously high number, and the only way to lower that number is to increase access to birth control and better health care. This isn’t a women’s issue, this isn’t a poverty issue, this is an issue of every citizen of the USA. I’m 26, college-educated, close with my family, and what many people (even ones that aren’t related to me) consider to be a fairly intelligent and talented individual. Luckily I could afford the $40 my health insurance charged me for my birth control pills- until my health insurance coverage ran out on December 31st. Still, I’m one of the lucky ones, because my town has a Planned Parenthood- an institution I’ve donated to since I got my first paycheck, because I knew someday I might need their services. Yes, I can go down there, see a doctor, get a pap smear, and a three-month supply of birth control pills, Plan B, and a bag of condoms. The Planned Parenthood in my town doesn’t provide abortions, they provide basic medical care for women who would not have access to it any other way. They save lives, they save dignity, they save women. The answer is not to deny women any kind of competent medical care at all because you have a different way of looking at the world than they do.
In 2012 we lauded and praised President Barack Obama, saying he was pushing women’s health to the front of American attention. Birth control must be covered by health insurance. It must be readily accessible to women everywhere in this great nation of ours. That’s a step, sure. But to praise him so readily- to keep shouting about the victory of Roe v. Wade in a society of women who have been nothing but shafted by this health care system and this government is to set our generation and the next and the next up for more failure. It is not enough to rest on the overly-tempered successes of our grandparents, and apathy is not something my generation does well. Maybe this generation’s big achievement will be gay rights. And that is something I believe we should all be proud of. But the women- these women- our daughters, sisters, mothers, teachers, friends, and lovers- need so much more, and we owe it to ourselves to fight for them.
The future of organizations like NARAL and NOW and Planned Parenthood is completely reliant on one thing: connecting with this generation of women and fighting for them to have better access to better healthcare. It’s not enough anymore to talk about the days when abortion was legalized and the first birth control pills became available. Now we need to discuss the future of women’s healthcare in this country- ovarian cancer, endometriosis, breast cancer, HPV, pap smears, birth control, and, yes, abortion. I, for one, appreciate knowing that I live in a place where, if I needed to, I could exercise my right to control what happens to and with my uterus.
This is my plea, to the women of America: stand up for your right to access better healthcare for yourself, for your mother, your sisters, and your daughters. It is not luxury to be enjoyed by the very wealthy or the very lucky, it is a fundamental right to be shared with everyone.