So it is already the 13th, and I have not posted anything this month. A big part of that is my inability to type efficiently on my tablet, but I am figuring it out.
Another big part is that I have been largely processing the same shit I wrote about in my last post, and it is really painful to think about, and to feel those feelings, and to live so closely with the reality of it, and writing about it just makes it more real. I guess I've had to shore up a bit before l could start moving again.
Things have gotten much easier in a lot of ways over the past month. There has been such a tremendous diminishing of stress - its been fantastic. Unfortunately, I have just been so exhausted all of the time. My mind is all excited about going out in the world and living life, but my body is all like, "dude, hang on a second." It is the complete opposite of what I have been accustomed to.
I am relieved to know that I do have to have surgery to remove my gimpy uterus. I am done with it, anyway, and the idea of not feeling constant pain, and of having more energy, is so exciting!
There are many emotional aspects of having my uterus removed that I am kind of worried about. I wonder if I will feel a great sense of loss, or if my hormones will be going crazy. I keep thinking about when I was 17 and had an ovarian cyst, and I went into surgery thinking the cyst would be removed laproscopically, and then waking up to learn that I had a new six inch incision across my abdomen, and one less ovary. It was very devastating.
But then I think about where I was in my life then, how I was still in that treacherous prison of childhood, and had no way to empower myself. My mind is a much different place now. I think I may feel some loss at part of my body being removed from me, but also relief. It is happening at a very metamorphic stage in my life, and it is like the pain of the past is going to be symbolically removed from me when they take out my uterus.
It is really so literary, the symbolism of it all. My uterus representing my feminity, how it was invaded and distorted by vile intrusions before my first conscious memories even began to take shape. Also how it was the stage for that little speck of my dad to intertwine with that littke speck that was me, and where an entirely different monster-girl was created, and then removed, both processes largely involving my dad.
And then my own babies were created and sheltered and protected in the very same place. It is so strange to think of the vast distinctions of purity and violation and beauty and devastation that have taken place all inside the tiny baby sack in my abdomen. My uterus is the Clermont Lounge of my body, and the time has come for demolition, and for removing the old, both good and bad, and creating space for something new. A new space that is just for me.
It reminds me of how it will never be impossible for me to see my mom's face in my mirror, or how it will never be possible to deny that my dad was the person who taught me how to read. My parents gave me ways to access the beauty in life. That is still the hardest part to understand, that my parents are people who gave me so much, but are the same people who withheld and took so much from me. They taught me how to live while simultaneously showing me how to die.
They were my greastest blessings and greatest enemies at the same time, kind of like how my uterus was a place for my beautiful children to become alive, but also was a place that held and protected that tiny innocent beast that was the beginning of my father's child.
I have to say that incest is one of the single most diabolical acts in this life. It is the greatest of all mindfuckers, and the most efficient producer of shame. It is devastation in a bottle, fed to humans who have no choice but to trust. The inability to distinguish love from hate is what hell is like, and a child knowing what hell is like before knowing what riding a bike is like is tragic.
Incest is a tragedy. The only thing I can imagine worse than being a victim of incest is being a perpetrator of incest. Actually, that is not true - being manipulated and forced to perpetrate incestuous acts on others is also worse than being the victim...maybe even worse than being the master instigator. Not being able to distinguish within one's own self the difference between being a victim and being a perpetrator is just as bad as not being able to distinguish the difference between love and hate in someone your existance relies on.
So profound today!
A few days ago, one of my doctors told me that I was a great healer for my family, and I asked her why she thought so, and she said that whoever is able to heal from something gains the ability to heal others. I liked that a lot, because it allowed me to recognize how significant my healing has been, and that it is time to move toward a new part of my life.
The part where I don't have a uterus.
P.S. attempts to demo the Clermont Lounge, to the best of my knowledge, have failed.
