Witchcraft poet, neurotic sex symbol, over-educated sadist, and generally only dangerous to herself and a few unfortunate bedmates. Found haunting the halls of academia, frequenting shady establishments and eating candy at home in bed.
Don't Touch Me
I do not like being touched, especially by strangers. I don't like strangers trying to hug me. I'm not even keen on handshakes. I hate it when you are on the bus and the thigh of the person next to you rubs against yours. It makes my skin crawl. Crowds give me anxiety. I don't like it when people tap me on the shoulder. I hate it when someone I barely know touches my arm. Touch is not a comfort to me.
I wish we had a better relationship. I have been trying since I was a teenager to feel better about you but our negative relationship still haunts me every single day. I have tried everything to hide you. Extreme corsets, tummy-slimming undies, control top pantyhose, baggy shirts, those horribly uncomfortable tummy-tucking Lycra shorts thingies that just end up rolling down and creating a weird lump under my clothing... you name it, I've tried it. And still, there you are like a creepy stalker following me everywhere I go.
This entry is going to stray into some very personal and fairly painful material for me. I am going to come out publicly as a self-mutilator in an attempt to make other people understand what it means. Self-mutilators are pretty darn misunderstood.
Pubic Hair or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Muff
I have recently read Caitlin Moran's How to Be a Woman. I was struck by her chapter on body hair, specifically pubic hair and our present cultural obsession with female pubic hair (or the lack of it). She suggests that having a nice hairy muff might even be a political action. It got me thinking about pubes and the ridiculous amount of thought women put into them. Women are no longer meant to have a "dark tangle of pubic hair" between their legs. We are meant to be bald between our legs, smooth as eggs, not a stray hair out of place that might find it's errant way between someone's teeth as they go down on you.
Just Keep Swimming
For years I have struggled with an unnamed illness that just didn't seem to have a cause. My test results would come back clear. There was no diabetes, Lupus, STDs or arthritis. I'd been diagnosed with interstitial cystitis, IBS, gastro-reflux, severe sleep apnea, depression, and anxiety. Even with treatment for all these other conditions, I still felt constantly sick, achy and fatigued to the extreme. Finally, after a barrage of not so great doctors (who treated me like I was stupid, lying or didn't know my own body), I found an amazing clinic with doctor's who would actually listen to me. I've been diagnosed with fibromyalgia.
Nobody Gave Me an Owner's Manual for My Vagina
I've been thinking a lot about vaginas this week. I suspect anyone who owns one actually thinks and worries about it quite a bit. I also suspect those who don't own one think about them a lot too. Maybe I'm thinking about vaginas because I'm going in for clinical treatments again and that means I will have a lot of nurses and doctors poking around down there. Maybe it's because I'm reading feminist manifestos again. Maybe it's because my uterine lining is shedding, I'm bleeding like someone shived me, and it hurts like a sonuvabitch. Whatever the impetus for this train of thought is, I've been thinking about muffs, vags, minges, lady bits, pussies, cunts, twats, caverns, holes, carpets, mounds, vulvas, etc., etc. and now I'm gonna write about them.
Better Dead Than Fat
As I was growing up, a fat little girl in a family of fat, short women, I always had the feeling that someone was missing. Someone who was supposed to be there and wasn't. I was surrounded by uncles, great uncles, cousins, my brothers, my parents, great aunts, several grandparents and even my great-grandparents. There was an abundance of extended family, but still, somebody was missing.