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August 3, 2013

I’m going to write this post because I think some of these thoughts could be helpful to others. My boyfriend doesn’t like it when I write on here without talking to him, because he wants us to communicate directly. Which is surprisingly demanding on his part. Writing here is often the only way I can let my emotions float freely. I should probably create a blog somewhere else, where he can’t read it.

I am just. So. Angry. At everything. At life. At things going the way they’re going. At him, for asking me if I’m “getting some good rest”, what do you think you fucking moron. At myself for not being stronger or better adapted to the situation. At him, at him, at him. He’s usually my source of comfort, but right now my voice is actually suffocated by anger. I can barely breathe anymore from all this fucking disappointment, anger and sadness that I’ve been swallowing, munching and forgiving.
It’s like a disgusting worm of pent up shit that is wriggling its way back up my throat, digging a hole in my chest.

I’m so angry that I’ve bent over backwards to be dependable, reliable and responsible, to always make sure paperwork, tickets, flights were well taken care of, to prepare things for when he would be here. And I never got that in return, never. I’m angry that I’ve read countless blogs, books and websites, committed to learning about alcoholism and how to be the best partner for him. I’m angry that even now, I’m angry at myself for being obviously codependent and therefore the only real culprit for my feeling this way. I’m angry that I’ve felt completely alone in all this.

sarcasm

He’s the alcoholic on his throne, anyone who can’t deal with that, is just codependent. Nobody can ask or expect him to never drink again, he’s the poor alcoholic, isn’t he? You can’t wait for that promise, you silly goose. He will drink again, and you should be prepared for that, as a good wife! And you will be supportive, and calm, and you will forgive him, because he’s a drunk and he can’t be held accountable for this! You can’t stress out about material shit, and you can’t lay too much on him, because it will stress him out! You must be FLAWLESS! Prepared to give him space when he needs it, but be close when he needs comfort! You must be patient, not expect his sobriety IN THE LEAST and BE INDEPENDENTLY HAPPY. When he’s passed out drunk in a dark alley, at any mugger’s mercy, you should NOT CALL 911. That’s your cue to take a nice hot bath and have a careless, 10 hour sleep!
His only priority is to go to AA and work on his sobriety, you as a wife are just a CRUTCH -especially your cooking skills. You should be prepared to raise children on your own, and to let him be the FUN PARENT who plays dangerous games with them while you’re not looking!
He will lie to you regularly, but you will STILL trust him inherently! Your own honesty will not be rewarded or acknowledged, it will be taken for granted every single day. In fact, everything will revolve around his AMAZING accomplishment of not having drunk for 24 hours, and EVERYTHING YOU DO will PALE IN COMPARISON NO MATTER WHAT. Besides the exhausting life of the alcoholic’s partner, which entails emotional sensors, x-ray fucking vision into his thoughts and chameleon-like abilities to adapt to his waves, you will also have a JOB AND CAREER because he won’t always be able to work or keep a job. You will NEVER FAIL to work your job consistently, but he will flutter from job to job, occasionally fucking up lifetime opportunities. SUCH IS LIFE.
Don’t expect empathy for your role in the relationship from him, either. Never forget that HE IS THE VICTIM OF THE DISEASE. When you get angry, he will counter it with excellent quotations from the big book and you will have to admit YOUR OWN WRONGS. It sucks! But for the marriage to work, YOU will have to do all the work. Many nights you will feel alone, hurt and tired, but none of it will matter if HE is having an amazing day! He will fucking mesmerize you with convoluted mindgames until you’re involved in some kind of fun activity he came up with! It’s GREAT!
Whenever you do something UNEXPECTED as a reaction to his drinking, he will suck up ALL YOUR SPACE and DEMAND that you reaffirm your love for him. But, never forget, YOU are NOT allowed to take his drinking personally. YOU are just the crutch, and you should just KNOW your place even if he gives you no reassurance.

This is your life now. You are that woman.

Periods

January 29, 2013

I’m sitting in my room with a large cup of coffee, made as only I make them. I tend to add four or five scoops of coffee to one cup. Zoingg.

I finished my contraceptive pill strip this morning, this means a period is arriving. Sorry to be graphic, I’m just saying. I used to take five or six strips in a row, and not have my period for extended periods of time, but pumping my body with hormones didn’t appeal to me any longer when I realized as a smoker it thickens my blood significantly. Add to that the heavy black coffee I make, and you can guess my blood pressure.
The whole “that’s not natural” argument does nothing for me, because it has been proven that in theory your body just thinks you are pregnant and your womb just produces an extra organ, being a pre-gestational placenta. This normally.. Well, rots, and that becomes your menstruation. If you just keep taking your pill, the venous blood flow continues through it and it stays there. I don’t know why this suddenly became a technical blog post about contraception.

Since I probably got rid of all the male readers now, let me talk about what it does to me, and exactly what happens, without needing to worry about my choice of words.
The first day, usually, is all about the ominous feeling that’s ‘it’s coming’. You can feel it. It’s not there yet, but you can feel your lower belly gets heavier. As the day progresses, you get bloated too. This whole process is incredibly stupid and annoying. This is where irritation, shortening of your fuse and all that starts manifesting itself. The day before the period would be the worst one, if my period didn’t hurt the way it does. Admittedly, my womb is lazy and the muscles cramp up easily. If anyone has any tips on how to turn your womb into an athlete, keep me posted (pun intended). I suppose orgasms are good exercise, I read that somewhere, but it hasn’t seemed to help out much since I’ve been in a healthy relationship.

The second day after my last pill is usually when the blood starts percolating out. This is a terrible expression, even I can tell. This hurts like someone was pulling out my inner organs with a rusty wire tied around them. It comes in waves. Some sadistic, invisible little devil is pulling on my uterus. It always happens when I’m in the middle of an H&M store, or when I’m having to help someone get something from the upper shelf of the supermarket. I’m standing there, and I almost involuntarily collapse. Not only do I feel ridiculous, I also get these awful, commiserating looks from older women. Poor girl, she’s probably having a miscarriage. All I can do is place both hands on my waist and massage my lower stomach with my fingers, hoping the cramp will cease. If this is what contractions feel like, I’m going to suffer the day my little human decides to come out.
This is the day where emotions are most unstable and culminate into a roller-coaster of highs and lows. It makes you feel farcical and risible, but you can’t help it. This is where nonsensical and irrational reactions find their way out, like “God, stop eating with so much noise, I can’t believe how much noise your mouth makes when you’re chewing”.
Seeing a jar of peanut butter can make you feel profoundly woebegone, because you had been doing well with your self-imposed diet, and you know you’ll cave and be a pig. I’ve stood before the cookie-cupboard before, despondently looking at its content with this far-out look on my face, preparing myself for the inevitable sugar spree and consequent gloomy feeling. It’s all a part of it.
This is also diarrhea day. For some reason, I never produce a solid shit on this day. If anyone knows why that is, I’d love to know. It’s like my body is preparing itself for the exhausting stretch that’s about to come by getting rid of excess crap.

Day three is equally bad. Additionally, at this point, the blood isn’t red or somewhat fresh anymore. This is where it turns to a dark, dark purple-ish color. This is where you can tell it’s actually dead. This is also where it tends to clot, which is incredibly disgusting when removing a tampon. You have the tampon, but you also have slimy blood coagulated around it. The thing is, it’s not only blood, it’s also vaginal glop.
This is another day of potential diet fraud. This is where you tell yourself ice cream is milk, and thus contains calcium and protein, which is good for you.

For me personally, on day four, the worst is passed. The cramps are reduced to a manageable tightness of my abdominal muscles, due to the random contractions they’ve been forced to perform. The tampon that I pull out at this point shows some white again, it’s never entirely saturated. Relief washes over me; I got through it. I didn’t slit my wrists, my boyfriend didn’t leave me and I’m not pregnant.
Suddenly my spirits are up. Bring it on, it’s no problem. This is also where I may or may not take dense decisions, like buying overpriced shoes or starting to put together an absurdly complicated dress. Which won’t be finished, ever.

Day five is one last stretch of drab. The dress isn’t working out, I’m broke, what is the point of life. Tampons come out brown, I hate the smell of it, which inevitably finds its way to your nose even though you’re doing everything to keep it far away from you and perform the whole act of rolling it in toilet paper swiftly and with exercised hands. Opening the bathroom trash can is another endeavour where you attempt to open the lid juuuuust enough to push the tampon inside, without allowing the lid to send a rotten waft of old tampon smell your way. Never succeeds.

By day six, the period is pretty much over. I switch to pads by then, since what’s coming out is only very very sparse old brown goo. I want to shower all day every day, but know that’s neither healthy or attainable with my kind of energy. I feel washed out from the emotional swings, the physical pain and finally my body is letting go of all the water it’s been holding. I’m not even sure why it does that. Is it maybe to prepare the water sack of pregnancy? This is where I lose 3 pounds in one day of peeing.

Day seven. I’m up in the fucking clouds. It’s over. I’m me again. It’s time to open another strip, and try to take it out of it’s plastic wrap. There’s a little cut on the side to smoothly rip the top off, but the corner somehow always breaks and I can’t realistically get the strip out. I try to tear it open with my teeth, but I just end up hurting my gums. MOTHERFUCKING FUCKING FUCK. I’m too proud to grab scissors. This is personal now.
After five minutes of wrestling with the strip shackle, I finally get it open and take the pills out. It’s like it’s scornfully telling me ‘just because your period is over doesn’t mean the pain of being a woman is’. Fuck everything.