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insight, life, Writing

Dry July-Day Eight~ Truth or Fiction

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Out of the numerous videos I have watched over the last week in regard to abstaining from alcohol; almost all of them reassert the same few observations, and one of those observations is, “Without Alcohol Productivity Soars!”

Now, I am going to be honest with you here, like I am in all my other posts… I really didn’t feel any more productive this first week with out alcohol.

My perception and feelings are very hypercritical, especially of myself;  this is when I need the numbers to set me straight and tell me Truth from Fiction.

For instance, I started working out again, two weeks ago, and I have continued to work out while going one week without drinking.

The first week working out, I worked out a total of seven days that week (strictly on treadmill with either 5 lb hand weights or a 50 lb ruck sack), for a total of 3.7 hours, and a total of 13 miles distance, losing a total of 4.25 inches on my body.

Week two of working out sans alcohol, I worked out a total of six days, for a total of 4.5 hours, with a total distance of 13 miles, but with an additional fourteen minutes a day (for four days) of HIIT style exercises bringing my measurements down a total of 9.5 inches on my body (from first day of measuring on June 20).

When we look at ourselves everyday, it can be hard to see our own progress.

In our heads, we imagine our ideals, and when we look in the mirror, we see how far away we are from those ideals.  We stare at ourselves in the mirror, as though we are examining ourselves under a microscope;

“Will he notice this scar?”

” Will some one comment on how flaky my skin is today?”

“Where did that bruise come from?”

“Do you think it will be noticeable?”

“Do you think any one can tell how many ingrown hairs are under my beard?”

“I’m never going to be able to wear a swim suit again.”

Humans are their own worst enemy, but it doesn’t have to be that way.

Many of us had the struggle of endearing the process of bullying when we were children.  We were awkward looking, goofy, and vulnerable.  We wanted friends, just like everyone else.  We weren’t the ones the popular kids wanted to sit with.  Likely, we were a teachers pet at one point or another.  We were generally kind hearted kids, who wanted to fit in.  Fitting in sometimes meant, unattainable conformity.

We learned from an early age, that the world isn’t necessarily inclusive; and that’s okay, because we don’t necessarily want to be included in some things, especially if they are destructive or harmful to ourselves or others. 

It’s possible that many of us are still battling that awkward inner child.  The one that is willing to “go along to get along,”;  the one that beats the bullies to the punch through self deprecation. That inner crying voice, that demands you don’t leave the house unless you look your best, and since you never feel your best, you never feel you look your best; so then you become a shut in, afraid of that scary, mocking world outside the door.

This is a seed of depression, few want to talk about.

The seed of depression that is sewn in our impressionable youth, watered by ourselves and our peers, sprouting in those prepubescent years, going into some adolescent maturity,  where the stalks and roots are reinforced by rings of experience.  Causing us to build that thick outer shell, in order to protect our very fragile insides.

Because, like, everyone knows, it isn’t cool to be fragile or vulnerable.

So we physically take on attributes associated with that fragility, to protect ourselves from pain.  We build layers of fat onto our frames, to buffer our inner selves from the hostile outer world. We cultivate biting senses of humor, to lash like swords in uncomfortable situations.  The effect of both of these actions is in itself a double edged sword; for now we open ourselves up to a new scrutiny, and we compound that pain and discomfort into those soft layers of fat while we drench ourselves in our own poisonous rhetoric.

Anyone who has struggled in this way, will tell you, “If I could just lose the weight, it would be one less thing to worry about.  I would feel more confident.”

Anyone can lose weight; however, just losing weight isn’t going to immediately remedy all the compounded feelings and emotions which caused it to begin with.  Without working out the rhyme and reason, you still have a fat person in a skinny or fit body.  We have an obligation to our inner child to explain the difference between the Truth and Fiction.  We deserve to work these struggles out for ourselves with patience and compassion

The Truth reasserts that, regardless of body fat percentage, you are worthy of love!  Regardless of the pain you have suffered, you are good enough.  Despite all the horrible things you may have believed about yourself, you are unique and vital.

I have found that drinking, reinforces those inner childhood insecurities; and alcohols’ direct connection to empty calories and weight gain, certainly shows me that the correlation isn’t only mental.

Week two I am going to pay close attention to where my productivity soars.  I am going to make an effort to call it out and appreciate it, just like I would do for some one else.  I am going to pay attention to what other distractions cut into my productivity.

I am going to be easy with myself, and try and convince my inner child to calm down and assess before panicking and running away or becoming defensive.  I need to revisit some building blocks of safety, in order to convince that part of myself that “it’s okay to be proud of yourself, for small reasons.”

I am going to commit to expressing more gratitude to myself, for taking this challenge; and following the rabbit down this new and exciting hole.
If you have an interesting story to share about a challenge you faced head on, please leave a comment below, and share your experience.  If you enjoyed this post, please share it and leave a like!

If you just found this blog spot, and you would like to read about my other revelations through the first week of Dry July, click the links below!  Cheers!

Dry July

Dry July- Day 2- Eleven Facts

Dry July-Day Three- Epigenetics and Sleep

Dry July- Day Four- Independence Day

Dry July- Day Five~ Waiting

Dry July-Day 6~ Real Hydration

Dry July- Day 7~ One Week Summary

 

 

insight, life, Writing

Dry July- Day 7~ One Week Summary

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I need a new frickin’ hobby, y’all!

Not drinking, hasn’t been a big deal.  My life really didn’t have much going on anyway, so my routine has basically been exactly the way it was before, sans alcohol.

I think that working out daily, has definitely worn my body out physically, while at the same time see my endurance return.

Sleeping is still an issue, because I want to go to bed at 9:00-9:30, and if I don’t get to bed then I get another wind for about 3-4 hours.  My sleep tends to be consistently restless around 3-6:30 am, regardless of my state of mind or tiredness levels.

I get a lot of pride, sitting down and writing daily.

Writing one cohesive, long story, is kind of hard for me. So sitting down daily like this, is inspiring research and creativity.  Sometimes, life feels so mundane, it doesn’t feel worth writing about.  Dry July has given me a purpose to write, and a reason to look at things differently.  It is bringing my awareness around to what I would like to change, and what is in my capacity to change.

I think I need to start a alcohol free social arts club.

I need more to do during the day, to fill some of these hours that pass by filled by vapid FaceBook posts.  It’s an easy fall back when working from home.  I’d like to actually connect with people in a face to face creative way a few hours a week, just for something to look forward to, and something new to talk about with my grandma.  The conflict I find, is that many people work during the days, during the week… and this is often times when I crave social interaction the most.

I’ve lost 3.5 inches off my waist!!!

In the last week, I have probably saved my self from a weeks worth of empty calories from not drinking.  I have been sticking to water, and one and a half cups coffee, with a couple flavored seltzer waters in there.  This in and of itself feels like quite the accomplishment.

I am purposely trying to retrain my brain to look forward to exercise, by reinforcing pride in myself, when I accomplish it for the day.  I tell myself,

” I love it when my hair is soaked in sweat.”  

However my bunions haven’t been impressed with my up tick in physical activity, so hopefully they will adapt, because the pain is no bueno.

My small goal at the end of the month, is to be able to do a half modified push up.  My upper body strength has totally gone to shit, and my core, is weak sauce.

These are things I can control.

That seems to be the theme of Dry July.  Self Control.  Moderation.  Accountability to Self.  Honesty and clarity.  The hardest part so far, is facing how lonely and isolated I have become.  How my weight gain and self image have exacerbated my hermitage.  The truth that though I love being alone, I am still very much a social creature that craves new experiences.  I need to shake up my game a little in order to get some new experiences while still maintaining what needs to be done.

If you have some suggestions on how I might be able to do that, please leave it in the comments section!

Feel free to leave your likes, and share this post!  Read about my first week, day by day, in the links provided below!  Have a lovely weekend!

Dry July

Dry July- Day One

Dry July- Day 2- Eleven Facts

Dry July-Day Three- Epigenetics and Sleep

Dry July- Day Four- Independence Day

Dry July- Day Five~ Waiting

Dry July-Day 6~ Real Hydration

 

 

 

Art, insight, life, Writing

A Casual Conversation About Pain

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“I am well acquainted with pain.”  She said dryly, as she ran her finger tips through the wet condensation that had gathered on her glass.  The beads of water pooling, and dripping down the slick surface, like tears or sweat drops down the curvature of a cheek.

She continues, “The pain has always overshadowed the excitement, or the gratitude.  It has more… longevity.  See, I can savor excitement for a moment, and only a moment, for excitement isn’t sustainable.  I can meditate on gratitude, and it will swell, and grow; but once I leave that meditation, gratitude dissipates into something subtle; like catching the smell of blossoms in the wind.  The pain is so strong and sturdy, it can weather any storm and become stronger because of the storm.  The companionship of pain, get’s me through the day.”

She appears to be caught in some reverie, contemplating her relationship with that one pervasive companion.  She wonders how she’s stuck around this long in such an abusive and imbalanced relationship.  She questions if this fate is written in her genetics, folded into the crevasse’s of her brain tissue, pulsing through her veins.  Is she, her own inescapable pain?  Is it a destiny?

A shadow comes over her eyes,  and she stares down into the shallow watery pool inside of her glass.

“It’s unavoidable, you know?  And you can’t prepare for it; you can’t just schedule it into your calendar.  You can co-exist with it, like co-existing with a bad roommate that you tend to avoid and ignore.  Pain is just trashing you on the inside, and you just don’t have the energy to deal with it; so you go somewhere else, and do something else with someone else… but the whole time, at the back of your mind, you are thinking ‘I eventually have to go home, and deal with all this bullshit.’  And it’s tedious, you know?  It’s like… it’s just hard enough to get by without unintentionally upsetting some one else… but Pain, Pain doesn’t care who it upsets.  Pain doesn’t care that they are ravaging your house.  Pain doesn’t give a shit about protecting your cherished memories, or putting things back nicely.  Pain, is kind of just a big home wrecker.”

She spins the water glass by it’s stem with one hand, and draws lines in the condensation with the other.  Spinning and spinning until their are continuous lines encircling the goblet.

“Pain is cyclical.  You can almost plan for it… almost.  But, it’s smart, and feisty.  Say you expect a visit on around the 20th… Pain shows up on the 15th.  Early, but somehow on time.  It’s like it KNOWS exactly when shit is going to hit the fan.  Pain loves to be at the center of a good solid shit show.  I mean, Pain is a god damn mess, who always expects some one else to do the clean up.  I have been cleaning up that bitches mess, for DECADES.  Some messes are bigger than others… Pain hasn’t made a huge mess in a while… and so I can’t help but think, the next big mess is just around the corner.  That it’s going to be a bigger mess than ever before; like it will be all the messes of ever, and then some… then what am I going to do?  I just don’t have it in me to keep going like this.” 

The bartender, silent until now, refills her glass of water.  The delicate dissolving ice cubes tickling the inside of the glass and melting into the greater volume of liquid.  They both stare at the way the ice dissipates, growing smaller and smaller into little slivers until they finally disappear.

The bartender finally speaks, “Maybe pain is the ice, and you are the water.  The colder you become, the longer you will hold onto that pain;  however, the warmer you become, the less pain you can sustain holding.  Your warmth will shrink the pain until it appears that it is gone.  You are water.  You can freeze; you can vary in temperature, you can heat up so hot, that you just float away into some bigger collective of moisture.  You can expand and contract.  Ice… Ice expands.  Ice is heavy, yet it floats. It’s dense like Pain.  Steam is also expansive, but it’s so light that it floats on air as a vapor. Steam is like the memory of pain.  A veil of our collective pain that we have warmed up to the point that it floats away.  It’s still there somewhere, but it isn’t holding us down, it isn’t freezing us.  It just exists in some different form, and our relationship with it changes.  We realize, we are all water, and the ice is water as much as the vapor is water.  It’s still a part of us.”

She sits back in her seat, both palms resting on the edge of the bar.  She contemplates this analogy; imagining herself trudging through the streets with her body covered in heavy bags of ice.  She thinks about how the walk would get easier on a hot day, and how on a freezing day, the walk would be unbearable.

“How do you control the weather?”  She asks.

The bartender pauses from wiping the pools of liquid that have accumulated on the bar.

“You can’t control the weather everywhere.  You can only control your mico-climate.  If you are sick of the cold, quit hanging around Polar bears or get a thicker sweater; either way, realize no matter where you go, there is always going to be water. And if that doesn’t suit you try living in the desert, where you will find that not having water in it’s many forms, will bring a different sort of pain and discomfort.   The desire to be quenched.  Right now you experience being drenched in Pain, but you aren’t drowning.”

“You are right.  I am not drowning… and I have no desire to be burnt to a crisp.  You’ve given me some things to contemplate.  And, thank you for the water.”

 

insight, life, Writing

Dry July- Day Five~ Waiting

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“Is it too early to drink?” – Novice Drinker

“It’s Five O’Clock somewhere!”- Intermediate Drinker

 “Today is a day-drinking kind of day.”- Advanced Drinker

“Is it Five O’Clock, yet?” – Employed Drinker

 “Liquor is like a good collection of shoes; if you know what you have in your closet,  you can find something to go with any occasion.” -Philosophical Drinker

“Write Drunk.  Edit Sober”  -Ernest Hemingway  (Productive Drinker who sets boundaries?)

Let’s face it.  With the chemical action of liquor, even some of the most mundane activities can seem extra fun.  I know I enjoy family gatherings a bit more with a beer in hand.

But what does one do, when they have spent every day, looking forward to that next beer or drink, and you take drinking out of the equation?

I am a full time, in home care taker for my grandma… I don’t have a bunch of wonderful things I look forward to on a daily basis. It’s like being a mom, but your kid isn’t growing more capable; and an eventual end is inevitable.  Alcohol has been my place holder for new experiences while I deal with the day to day, mundane tasks like laundry; dishes,vacuuming,dusting,picking up dog poop, cleaning up dog vomit, and making dinner .  

I tell myself; “With alcohol I can over-ride how much I dislike these unending tasks, and laugh at myself and my life decisions.  I can see the humor in the craziness of it all.”

I don’t know why I’ve led myself to believe that I need to be drinking in order to get to that place in my own mental attitude.  And this is where I realize where I have suppressed and stunted my own development.

I remember someone telling me; that the age a person first gets drunk, will be the mental attitude they return to every time they get drunk there after.  And through the years I have tried to test this theory out, by asking people how old they were the first time they got drunk, and then observing them when they do get drunk.  I would venture to say, the theory holds pretty strong.

I’ve met a lot of people who started partying when they were twelve and thirteen years old.  Those ages are hormonal/ emotional roller coasters.  Men that I have met, who started drinking that young, tend to be more destructive or mischievous when they get drunk.  Women, tend to get kind of high and giggly and/or highly emotional.  I think the influence of how vulnerable that age is, plays into the brain physiology long term.

“One aspect of brain functioning that is commonly studied in youths as well as older adults is neuropsychological performance,1 which includes memory function, attention, visuospatial skills, and executive functioning (e.g., planning, abstract reasoning, and goal-directed behavior). (1 The term “neuropsychological performance” refers to performance on standardized tests of thinking and memory skills.) Several studies have suggested that heavy alcohol use in young people appears to be associated with potentially long-term deleterious effects on neuropsychological functioning.”   -National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism

I am wondering if cultural standards and norms regarding alcohol consumption, that differ in other countries, effect the epigenetics of their people; which in turn is going to relate to neuropsychological performance of those people on some level.

For instance, children are allowed to drink in many European countries.  Does the acceptance of that practice lead to better boundaries around alcohol?  Is the society more relaxed about alcohol, and therefore use it in a different manner (more or less respect)?  Do European countries have a higher addiction rate than the US, whose laws are different in regard to the age of consumption; or are American funded Studies, speaking for the whole world when they say to abstain from alcohol until (American) legal adulthood, (also known as “when the brain is fully developed)?

We’ve seen what can happen to society when alcohol is forcefully taken away.  Alcohol has existed in many forms for centuries.  It is ingrained in almost every nook and cranny of culture.  Creating alcohol, in it’s easiest form, can be unintentional.

I remember cleaning out my locker, my senior year.  And at the bottom of everything, there was a glass bottle of apple juice I had taken a couple of drinks out of, at the beginning of the school year, re-capped it, and put it in my locker.  Experimental and curious, I opened the bottle and as I did the liquid began to frantically fizz, and the whole hallway began to smell like hard cider… oops!

All it takes to make some alcohol, is sugar, yeast, water and time.

It might be time to look at alcohol in a completely new way.  I am not sure what that looks like yet.

I think this blog post has inspired some creativity for me… You will have to stay tuned to see how all that pans out.

If you learned something new from this post, give it a like, a comment and a share!

And if you just stumbled in for the first time, and want to read more about my Dry July experiences and revelations, click the links below!

Cheers, and have a lovely day!

Dry July

Dry July- Day One

Dry July- Day 2- Eleven Facts

Dry July-Day Three- Epigenetics and Sleep

Dry July- Day Four- Independence Day

 

 

insight, life, Writing

Dry July- Day Four- Independence Day

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I suppose for many people on July 4, in the United States,  it’s hard to say “no” to imbibing a cold alcoholic beverage (or two, or ten) during one of the myriad of barbecues and festive events happening during this auspicious holiday.

I mean, I am pretty sure this is the American Holiday that brought us “Drunk Watermelon” and garbage cans full of “Jungle Juice.” Why do I think that?  Because according to the police scanner these summer beverages pair best with explosives.

One might wonder if people NEED to get drunk, in order to appreciate the sounds and colors of  supposed Independence at the end of the night.

I didn’t have any Fourth of July plans.  My day was pretty much like every other day, with the exception of trying out a new Chicken Teriyaki recipe, and firing up the grill to make a beautiful meal that probably SHOULD have been photographed and put on Instagram.  I drank a nice Sparkling Lavender Water, and listened to sirens and fireworks.

And, let me tell you, the sirens and the fire works went all day, and well into the night. So, I just had to tune into the police scanner.

Would you like to scare yourself into never drinking again, and staying off the roads on a holiday?  Then listen to the scanner on a day like July 4th.  It is one call right after another of drunken, violent, idiotic, preventable, controllable nonsense.  Most of which is all fueled by intoxication.

I’ve never had so much compassion for our emergency response teams before.

As I listened to the dispatchers taking calls, patching in officers, and making instant decisions;  I couldn’t help but be surprised and amused.  I listen to the scanner every now and again, but I have never tuned in for hours at a time, where there are very few breaks in the feed.  Yesterday was one of those days.

Selfishly, I kept waiting for someone to call about fireworks being shot off near my house (illegal to do because I am in city limits.)  A few calls came in about the disturbance, but the officers were never able to make it to those calls, because more pressing issues would over ride their direction.

Drunk drivers.  Runaways.  Fights in parking lots.  A naked woman in the back of a cargo van with the doors open.  A man with no legs had fallen out of his wheelchair and was passed out on the side walk.  Grass fires all over town.  Domestic Violence disturbance.  Reports of gunshots.  A sixty year old man, on LSD had fallen down, hit his head and was unconscious…. 

The calls just kept coming.  All these people seem to be going to some weird mental extreme to express their “Independence.”  But how many of these people woke up today, July 5; only to realize they may have just lost what little Independence they may have had yesterday?

How many people ended their night with the vision of  red, white, and blue flashes of an emergency vehicle taking them to jail, or to the hospital.  Maybe even the flashes of light behind smoke as firefighters douse fires on property, like homes.

How many people will have their cars towed, and their licences revoked?  How many will have lost their pets in the chaos?  How many of them will be impressed with deep regret for their carelessness?  How long will the blotter brief be, after two days of full throttle parties?

I don’t know, I am just glad I wasn’t apart of any of that nonsense.

We choose where we go, and what we do.  We have a responsibility toward ourselves and our fellow humans, to be self responsible.  How many people were doing just that, only to have someone else encroach on their life with bad decision making?  It happens more often than we would like to admit, and a “holiday” is no excuse for that behavior.

And, this is what I was worried about; If I don’t drink, and I going to become an even more Judgey McJudgerson and the Judgeyville Judgers – type person, again?

No.  No. I don’t think I am being judge-y.  I am telling it like it is, based off of clear observation.  Yesterday and the day before, was a SHIT SHOW for emergency response teams, and I am guessing that 80% of those calls were preventable; that is, if people presented a modicum of self control.

Holiday’s and celebrations seem to trigger the thinking that everything is a “free for all”, and self control goes out the window.  It appears people believe the norms of function go on hiatus for 24-72 hours surrounding a celebration.  It isn’t healthy.  And, worst of all, it appears to be a self-feeding beast.  It is an energy that we, as Americans have been fermenting for quite some time now, and it feels like it might burst.

 

If you enjoy following these posts, feel free to like, share, or leave a comment.  I would love to hear about your July 4, 2017.   Did anything crazy happen?  Did you have any realizations about Independence?  For updates on new posts, press the FOLLOW button.

To read the first four parts of this saga, click the links below!  Cheers!

Dry July

Dry July- Day One

Dry July- Day 2- Eleven Facts

Dry July-Day Three- Epigenetics and Sleep

 

 

insight, life, Writing

Dry July-Day Three- Epigenetics and Sleep

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What does full throttle exhaustion feel like?  I don’t know for sure but I assume it feels a lot like I have felt for the last three years.  I’ve been constantly tired, that is until I would have a double shot of Jameson on the rocks.

My senses would perk up as I would hold the cold astringent liquid in my mouth for a whole minute before choosing to swallow; letting the taste of liquor bathe my tongue, the chemicals seeping into the porous flesh of my mouth.  Those sweet chemicals breaking blood brain barriers, causing synaptic sensations in my gray matter.

By the end of the glass, I would have an artificial second wind.

Maybe that second wind would lead to starting a new experimental project; maybe it would lead me to dancing in my dark back yard under moon light until I was breathless and sweaty, maybe it would lead me down some conspiratorial rabbit hole, maybe it would lead me to do some mundane domestic task that I had been putting off (like my own laundry.)

Either way I would chemically prop myself up, until I was tired again; falling into a sedated sleep, where I would lay still for hours.  To be exact, by “hours” I mean,  four hours.  Four hours for my body to metabolize the poison, and send signals to my brain and bladder to get up and get moving, urgent to purge the remnants of spent cells from my internal ecosystem.

I would wake up, quite easily,  but my brain and body both felt the neglect of real rest, so I would go to the bathroom, and crawl back into bed, where I would quickly fall asleep again, only it was a fraction of the quality restorative rest I needed and was chronically neglecting.  Maybe I could grab a nice three to four hour stretch, but when I got up the second time, my body and mind would both be dragging.

Every day I would have the same conversation with myself, ” If you just get up the first time, and get your day started, you could take a little nap later.”  

 ” Maybe if you didn’t go back to bed, you wouldn’t be tired all day.”

“But, I have a natural tendency to be tired at 6:30 am, I think it has something to do with the time of day I was born and my circadian rhythms.”

Interestingly enough, I might not have been wrong about my natural sleep cycles.

  February 6, 2016  livescience.com reported on this topic discussing genetics and it’s effect on our circadian rhythms.

“According to a new study by the genetics company 23andMe, the preference for being a “morning person” — someone who enjoys waking up early and going to bed early — rather than being an “evening person,” who tends to stay up late at night and desperately reaches for the snooze button when the alarm goes off in the morning, is at least partially written in your genes. Researchers at the company found 15 regions of the human genome that are linked to being a morning person, including seven regions associated with genes regulating circadian rhythm — the body’s internal clock. ”

Full article here.

When I was younger, in school, and very sober; I was on a schedule.  I had to be up early to catch the bus or be at school extra early for an event, or be at the pool by 5:00 am to open.  It was ingrained in me to never be late, in fact, ALWAYS BE EARLY!  And let me tell you, I was a pro.

When I was in High School, on Speech and Debate trips, sharing a room with three other girls; I would make sure I was up the earliest, in and out of the bathroom first and situated on the bus well before it was time to depart.  Mainly, I didn’t want anyone to get in my way, and I didn’t want to have to wait on people who were sluggish.  This is just one example of how I would adapt just enough to get by without conflict.

What no one knows though, is that I probably had the worst quality of sleep due to excitement for the next day, the fact I am a light sleeper and some random sleepy team mate is snoring next to me and stealing all the blankets.

When I went to Christian College for a semester, I didn’t have to be up early every day… so my schedule adapted to that.  I would stay up all night sometimes, trying to study; finally I would give up, go for a run around three or four in the morning and return just in time for the doughnut shop to open with fresh doughnuts.  Then, I would take that box of doughnuts back to the dorm and leave them for my suite mates.   (When everyone else was gaining weight, I was losing pounds like I never had before.)

Genetics testing companies are now capitalizing on areas of health, wellness, and fitness of individuals interested in making the most of their genes.  Companies like FitnessGenes®  and DNAFit are using genetic data to help people maximize the physical benefits of their unique genetic make up.  FitnessGenes® blog  assert that “Your Genes Are Not Your Destiny”    through a process called  “epigenetics”.

So though the DNA code is fixed, the epigenetics can be changed by outside influence.   For instance, a person with an active genetic marker to be a night owl, living in that schedule, will reap more benefit exercising later in the day than they will exercising right when they first get up.

These epigenetic markers can be influenced by what we eat; what our sleep cycles look like, the quality of our social interactions and frequency of exercise.  All of those activities send signals to our cells which effect the bodies rise and fall of hormones in the blood of the individual; so what may be good for the goose, might not be good for the gander.

I think it’s safe to say that alcohol consumption has an effect on our epigenetics.

 The National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism   says  “Alcohol can influence gene expression, and specifically epigenetic regulatory processes that modify the activity of genes, through a variety of mechanisms. Some of these are related to the metabolism of alcohol in the cells, explains Dr. Samir Zakhari. In general, several metabolites, such as nicotinamide-adenine dinucleotide (NAD) in its oxidized and reduced forms, acetyl-coenzyme A (acetyl-CoA), and S-adenosylmethionine (SAM) serve as cofactors for numerous reactions in the cell, including reactions related to epigenetic DNA and histone modifications. Dr. Zakhari reviews some of the pathways through which alcohol metabolism alters the levels of these metabolites in the cells and how the changes in metabolite levels may impact epigenetic processes such as DNA methylation and histone acetylation. (pp. 6–16) ”

Well, shit.  What have I been doing to myself?  I have always considered myself smart, if not a bit rebellious.  I am starting to see very clearly that I have thrown my common sense to the wind in regard to this issue for far too long.

It’s is Independence Day, here is America… perhaps today is the day to gross myself out to the point of quitting cigarettes because I am sure it is negatively effecting my epigenetic expression, I think I might be ready to be the best I can be… I’ve gotten a taste of my own personal rock bottom and quite frankly I am over it.

 

Feel  free to leave your stories of how you notice outside influences effect your body and mind in the comments.  Give this post a like and feel free to share with your friends.

To read the other posts in this saga, click the links below. Cheers!

Dry July

Dry July- Day One

Dry July- Day 2- Eleven Facts

 

 

 

 

 

insight, life, Writing

Dry July- Day One

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Let’s get down to it.

Day One, I didn’t even really think about drinking.  The day before I spent probably a good four hours watching youtube videos of peoples tips, tricks and before/ after pictures of weight loss after stopping alcohol.  I embedded my mind with all the health reasons I’ve been over it for a long time, but negligent to take the next step.

I exercised twice during the day, because I knew that the night time was going to be the hardest for me.  See, if I am sober and listening to my circadian rhythm, I want to go to bed around 9-9:30, but my grandma doesn’t want to go to bed until later.  I never feel good about going to bed, unless I have tucked her in, and know she is in for the night.  Drinking would give me a second wind to stay up later, because I wasn’t drinking just one drink.  Just one drink would probably be enough to exacerbate sleepiness, but it would also lead to sleeping for four hours and waking up wide awake as my body had metabolized the alcohol.

I’ve been self medicating sleep for years, so I know when I take breaks my body is tired, but my already active mind is trying to reboot and rewire.  I was hoping that by over exerting my body, it would be easier to settle to sleep.

Well, that didn’t work.  I was restless.  I used my usual breathing and mental techniques to fall asleep for a sober nap and my body just wasn’t having it.  My mind was in some peak awareness and I could hear the popping of fireworks behind the white noise of my air conditioner.  Usually white noise can be enough to help me sleep, because I am a light sleeper, but the fire work noises sounded like some one periodically knocking on the walls of the house.  Just as I would feel myself slipping toward sleep, another noise would shake me out of it; leaving me to start over from the beginning.  Slowing my heart rate, breathing deep and focusing on that “falling feeling.”

I started my sleep journey around 11:30, tossed and turned until around 6:30, and finally fell into an uncomfortable sleep with uncomfortable and vivid dreams.

In my dream I was staying with this strange older host couple  that had a bunch of  young people staying with them.  The guests were rambunctious, and not very interested in keeping things clean. Especially the bathrooms.

I find myself in one such bathroom, and some one had plugged a toaster in near the toilet.  The counter top was covered in miscellaneous objects.  I accidentally bumped the plugged in toaster, into the toilet, which created a spark… and I freaked out.  (In real life I am intimidated by electricity.)   I approached the hosts and told them what happened and they freaked out, telling me I owe them all this money for damages.  I think to myself, “You are mad about this toaster incident, but you seem unconcerned about the filth and damage all these other people are doing to your home.”

I had to figure out how I was going to make the money to pay for the damage.  I got lost trying to find my car, where I planned on just running away from the situation.  That didn’t work and I was back at the house.  I tried to work out a trade, and I made a really interesting piece of art that stood about six feet tall, and they said, “That’s not enough.”  I began to see that they weren’t a friendly old couple; they were extortionists.  They wanted cold hard cash; which I didn’t have much of.  I handed off $22.00 out of the $72.00 I had in my wallet.  They aren’t satisfied, but I don’t let on I have more, knowing I will need it to get out of this place. 

See what I mean about rebooting and rewiring?

Past insecurities, like dirty bathrooms and electricity, which have played predominate roles in past dreams, rise again to the surface.  Shame, and feeling lost.  Trying to compensate for that shame with external actions attempting to convey worth, are thwarted.  The desire to run away from everything vile, in order to return to something beautiful.  The arduous journey; the internal struggle, the fear of loneliness.

As my body and brain attempt to regain a normal balance, I am sure I am going to have more restless nights.  More latent realizations.

Dry July

Dry July- Day 2- Eleven Facts

insight, life, Writing

Dry July

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I am going to take a hint from the Aussies and give my own spin to Dry July.  Dry July is a concept to encourage Aussies to cut out drinking alcohol for the entire month of July, in order to bring awareness and monetary support to those suffering with cancer.  It’s a sort of fund raiser, where you get people to sponsor your sobriety for the month by donating to the Dry July fund.  Those funds are distributed to people suffering from, or care taking people who have cancer to help defer costs, because let’s face it; Cancer is an expensive mistress.

The idea is, “people don’t choose to have cancer, but you choose to drink.”  By taking the month off,  you can focus on your own health and wellness.

Australians, much like Americans, live in a socially acceptable alcohol fueled society; and it can be hard to escape the temptation to drink because it is readily available and legal.

I myself have gotten into a lazy habit of  daily consumption, and not even the stereotypical consumption of social behavior.  In fact, looking at it, has made me redefine social behavior.  See, even though I have sat alone drinking, I am actively being social on the internet or on the phone.  So, even though I am not out at a party or a bar, I’m still engaging in conversation while staying up late and drinking.

Through this month I hope to start some new routines, and set some goals for myself.

I want to redirect my focus on my fitness.  I’ve jumped back into exercise in the last week, and I have dropped around seven pounds.  I know that by cutting out the empty calories of drinking, I will lose that weight much quicker.

I want to start a podcast.  I have wanted to do that for about seven years now, but I didn’t know how to start.  I think that Dry July is the perfect beginning topic, because I don’t expect it to be easy.  I live two blocks away from a bar/ liquor store.  I don’t have any bills or debts, so it’s easy to spend my disposable income there.  Topics that I would like to talk about are the effects of drinking in a sedentary environment, how to stay healthy while being a care taker; and my personal experience of taking a break.

Over the last few days I have been watching many youtube videos of Australians who decided to do Dry July.  I have been finding all the tips and tricks of tackling a sober month.  The consistent point that is expressed is; “What is your personal reason?”  Most people reach a point where they just make the decision because they have a personal epiphany, like how much weight gain they have gained.  Or taking a new look at their societal norms and wanting a break.  Some just want to save some money.  Some people just need the collective energy of a group dynamic to cessate.

For me, it is definitely the weight gain, and the senseless use of money toward something that isn’t going to help me at all in the long run.  In fact, I know it has been suppressing me from my potential; and at 36 years old, I want to see where that potential leads.

If you are interested in taking your own spin on Dry July, and would like some accountability, please feel free to reach out to me.  I know that I will probably need some people to talk me through any urges that may come up.

Dry July- Day One

Dry July- Day 2- Eleven Facts

 

 

Art, Cheyenne, insight, life, Writing

Mother Pluckin Mothers Day

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I’ve never really thought about being a mother, or what it actually means to be a mother.

I suppose more likely that I have given it some severe criticism over my days.

You know that moment when you just submit to how things are; how you are sure they will always be in the midst of knowing, while STILL trying, somehow,  to make it better – perhaps over compensating in some mentality that had served you for a good long while; but has become such a self identifying characteristic, that letting go is hard, and humbling and tough to move beyond?

Yep.  That is me.

I could blame the anti-mom game on my early life; social programming, feminism, Disney, and the World In General… but I won’t.

I made a choice of self preservation due to trauma in early life… and I have unabashedly  stuck to it.  I empowered myself by it;  I gave it life and definition.  I fed it by ignorantly and fyoulishly adhering to my trauma blinders.

HA!  Like I think I have always known things!

When I was a child, I wanted to be a Grandma, above all…but, I also knew I never wanted to be a mom- so being a grandma, was probably out of the question.

I grew out of attempting to age quickly, and clung to the idea of being “The cool Aunt.”    My tag line is “When you can’t handle the transitions, save your sanity and send them to me.”  I believed I could be the bridging gap between generations, despite being a decade older than my sister.

Somehow, being single and childless, in my mind, equaled freedom which directly translated to “more room to comprehend and connect.”  It also meant “choosing ones own connections” aka “being exclusive and reclusive, mysterious and confused.”   “Appearing more purposeful than I actually feel.”

I have been, successful.

Successful at avoiding certain responsibilities by “opting out.”  Successful at using the word “No”, even when it’s too much, going too far.  Successful at building a very strong fortress around my totality of being-ness.  Successful at giving out selective passage with time limits, to those who dare venture these walls.

But hey, what is your definition of  “Success”? Is it at all defined by your MOM?

Mothers, just…they just aren’t suppose to just leave, ya know?

I don’t know… I mean… based off Disney, they are bound to. Moms exist as a memory with Disney.  Why is it all the girls and boys who love Disney movies the MOST, still have their mom‘s?

Right?!?  They not only HAVE them… they are CLOSE to them…

I guess, I should admit, I never really “bonded with my step mom in a way that  would ever give me a real “Mommy” vibe.  In the same breath, I will admit, I gave that woman hell with solidified child thoughts.

“You AREN’T MY MOM!”

“Why did you choose HER?”

“She WILL NEVER understand me!”

What wasn’t childish, and I didn’t understand back then, was the fact that I was unknowingly competing with an adult woman for my fathers’ attention.

Whoa, right?!?  No one tells you that at 9 years old, even if you are going to a therapist who is SUPPOSE to help you navigate shit exactly like this; why?  Because you are STRONG, you are RESILIENT, you are SMART, and if an adult explains it properly, YOU WILL COMPREHEND AND OUT DO EXPECTATIONS!

On the other hand, you can still carry all those attributes and go on like a bumbling fool because the adults around you are afraid of breaking a child who has already broken.  A child seeking security, and finding everything around themselves a suspect.  A child adapting, but never REALLY feeling like they are trusted or heard.  Ho, Hum.

I don’t blame the effect of this on any one but myself these days.  And, I am hard on myself, so I ask myself things like  “Why didn’t you see this and understand this dynamic earlier?  What is wrong with you?  Why do you continue to fixate on things that are more easily accepted AS IS, instead of ruminating solutions to the past free-will decisions and actions of others?  If that is what they would have thought was best, they would have.  You know they are doing their best just like you, but you STILL SHOULD HAVE SEEN IT and KNOWN.”

UGH.  Someone please bring me a 2×4 to beat my own head in.

That has been my life on repeat in variations for TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS!

Coincidentally, my step mom married my dad at the age of 28, in May, nineteen years ago this year.

I had just finished up my first grade year.  And let me tell you, it was an EPIC year.  I went to Ireland with my grandparents, my brother and my dad.  I felt like I landed in a place made just for me, except for my sensitive stomach.  We traveled in a rented van and stayed at B&B’s and I felt like the magic of my heritage was upon me. During the school year  I had a beautiful and kind first grade teacher, Miss Rolfe, who was super nice and magical.

Then The End of The Year came.  A week before the last day of first grade, I found out my Miss Rolfe was getting married, and on the last day of school we made a celebratory field trip to Brimmer Park, down the road from Baggs Elementary.  I remember my grandma took me to buy  a gift, and I chose two silver candle holders.  I was excited to show her how much I adored her.

We had a child like bridal shower in the park.  We all brought gifts, and over sized white t-shirts for her to sign in magic marker. On mine she drew an eye + heart+ you.  I felt that inscription in my heart.  She was beautiful, she taught with kindness and I thought she would be there forever.

At the end of our picnic park party, Miss Rolfe broke the news; the man she was marrying had something happening in Arizona.  She wouldn’t be at the school the next year; she was moving.

My heart broke, and I am sure my attitude showed it. My grandpa picked me up from school and we walked the three blocks home.  I was miffed.

I remember being home a while and my dad came in.  I was in the kitchen, and he knelled down to me sitting at the table.  He asked me something like “What do you think about me marrying Karen?”

And my heart sunk lower in my chest, but given the opportunity to express, I said “No…No.”

I received an answer that culminated in “It’s too late.”  I had no “real choice” in the matter.

So finding out I was getting a “new mom” with no choice, and realizing I wouldn’t be returning to Baggs Elementary; I was hit with the realization that  I lost a teacher, a school and all my friends; but, hey, I was gaining a step mom and a move to the country west of town, to a new school and house.

I stayed mad for two decades, and anything I deemed my step mothers doing in my misery, went into my brain archive.

How DARE you ask me, what I think and feel, if in the end, it matters, not?

I have always fallen victim to my observations and opinions.

How does one become malleable?  Roll with the punches and keep your mouth shut.  Make up your mind and keep it to yourself.  Suffer in silence.

I looked for my dead mother until I was fifteen; thinking somehow, someway, she could get away faking her death and continue living with another family in the same town.  I looked for her in the aisles of stores, and in the  clouds when I flew on planes.  I thought, in my youth, that you could just put a bouquet of flowers on the roof on birthdays and Mothers day, and she would just float down and get it.  It all continues to give me cognitive dissonance.

But… you know what pulls me out of that dissonance?

I am THIRTY SIX FUCKING YEARS OLD!  This shit is old hat.  I graduated  high school half of my life ago.  Life has moved on.  Everyone is moving on in their own way.

If I am honest with myself and my observations, these truths are undeniable… I have kept myself stuck despite knowing the evolving truths….

My dad has someone who loves him, and her loves her back.

My sister has an attentive mother that adores her, and she deserves that.

They all have done the best they can with me, but I kind of scare them.

Everybody is fighting to comprehend the day to day, and it’s changing swiftly.

My step-mom has always done the best that she can with no guide book, she is brave and resilient; but most like me, adaptable.

I wish I came upon all this alone, but I didn’t.

I have been really blessed in my adulthood to have surrogate mothers.  Women, regardless of age, whose lives seemed to somehow collide into mine.

I haven’t had the same “call and check in every day” or “pop in unexpected” or “care for you when you are sick” kind of relationships; but I have had some eye opening realizations and some heart felt growth.  But honestly, I mean, in my own experience the one thing you have to face about a surrogate is, they will always be there MORE for their own in the most natural and organic way.  You are not really the Fruit of Their Loom, er Womb.

Kind of the same thing with my “step” situation.

She has my sister, and my sister has her; and in no way would I ever wish a woman to grow up motherless. They have a pact I will never truly understand.  And I would never do anything to keep them from it.

I hypothesize that maybe if you have enough surrogate moms, you can actually plan that into your schedule and hug more frequently, and have a reason to make lots of handmade cards?  I don’t know.   What I do know, is, they are there when I need them,most times.  But I don’t ask for, or expect much, and that makes it easier for everyone.  Life is like that.  Sometimes, you have to just figure it out on your own because no one is there to pick up the call or rescue you.. or just soothe you.

And that is okay too.

Some of us have to learn to “Mother” ourselves.

My surrogates and my step mom have taught me more about themselves and myself in regard to the life around me by their unique perspectives and my willingness to listen and observe.  They present perspectives I don’t have on my own, unless I really try.  They DO HAVE birth children! They understand love on a level that I don’t They have  and continue to ride that roller-coaster which may not be ending soon when it comes to life transitions and need.

Rumor has it, “You always want and need your mother… no matter how old you are.”

What do they want in return? These Mothers?  Proof of existence?  Proof that their pain and turmoil and worry isn’t in vain?  Proof that their best attributes can rub off and be impactful and important through progeny?… Justification to a certain degree, that the risk was worth it?  The worry has worth?

Honestly, I don’t fucking know.  I am not even going to pretend right now.  Tell me.

The best I can come up with, is, they are like me; care taking spirits.  I took a different angle, and I know that the out come will be different.  I have no expectation than to have to deal with the most gruesome parts of mortality alone.  They probably expect or at least hope their children will be there to hold their hands through it, when it is their time.

I need to work on honoring this, because quite honestly I have previously just shat upon a Mothers purpose, Their purpose.   We don’t have life without Mothers.  We do not have balance without Women… and care taking humanity would be a lost cause without that energy.

But, I’m not a feminist…?!?

I don’t have to be, because regardless, Mothers gonna keep Mothering.  I apologize if I wasn’t appreciative before.  You all impact the totality of the past,present and future.  We need your love and attentiveness.  We need your kindness and structure.  We need your support, and your presence.  We need your fearless protective nature.

You are a TREASURE.

Thank you.

May all you Mothers, have a Mother Pluckin Mothers Day.

Art, life, Writing

Trials and Tribulations of Being a Single Woman in a Man’s World

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It was more than just the nausea. More than indigestion, vomiting and sleeplessness.  It was more than just a time of high energy, in which those who are sensitive (such as myself) may find themselves transmuting what ever the world around them, was unconsciously throwing off.  It was way more intense than any other PMS episode I had ever experienced.

Sore tits.  Constant cramping to high heaven.

It was more than not being able to eat for two weeks; daily emptying my bile reserves.  Food wasn’t staying down, nothing sounded good and weary was I.

Yes, it was more, so much more.

I finally called an emergency trip down the canyon, to Boulder yesterday morning.  After arriving home the night before at 11pm, falling right to sleep, only to awaken at 2 am with previous said symptoms in addition to profuse sweating and dry heaves that kept on until 7:30 am.  At which point, I couldn’t take it any more.

If I wasn’t suffering from ulcers and irregular menstrual cycle again, I would think I was pregnant… but I just bled.  I stayed in bed all of Tuesday, my day off; I stopped bleeding, assuming it was because I was supine all day.  I began bleeding again on Wednesday… I figured I must be in the clear, I mean I am no stranger to morning nausea from the ulcers.  I know I haven’t been eating the best lately, due to stress.

It was the swollen breasts and soreness that was causing the confusion.  My breasts have always felt uncomfortable before and during a moon cycle; but this time, even I noticed I looked more “filled out” in a couple of shirts I normally wear.  My tits looked better than they ever have before.  I needed to know for sure, I wasn’t pregnant.

I found a free clinic that does testing and counseling.  I arrived at 9:36 am, but they were not yet open.  Located in a some what ghetto strip mall, “Real Choices Pregnancy Center” was neighbored by a check cashing/ advance pay check place and a bead store.

As I approached the front door, a white piece of paper attached with scotch tape to the winds announced that Real Choices, would not be open until 9:45 am, today.  “Okay, only nine minutes to go.”  I scramble back to my car as the air is heavy with fog outside, and seemingly more cold than the higher elevation I drove down from.

I feel somewhat unprepared.  I expect this feeling to pass.  It doesn’t.

9:45 comes and goes.  9:56 a silver car pulls next to mine.  A very conservative school secretary type exits the vehicle with a large yellow folder fill with urine sample cups.

I wait three minutes before enter Real Choices.

Mickie, introduces herself and apologizes for running late, I tell her I have nothing but time today… what a long day I am in for.

Mickie sets me up in the restroom with instructions to pee in the dixie cup and bring it to her when I am done.  I have been holding it now for over a half hour, so letting that yellow river flow, seemed quite the relief.

My anxiousness wants results, and I am being less conscious to detail in response to the emotional place I am currently at.  I am distracted by  my own uncertainty.

Mickie invites me to sit, and I am instructed to use a disposable dropper to pick up some urine from the dixie cup and to place a few drops on a pregnancy test result screen.  I do just that and then Mickie asks me some preliminary questions.  Name; date, birth, last period.  I tell her December 19, but that I have had bleeding since then.  I explain how I have had painful and irregular periods for as long as I can remember.   I tell her I had read Black Cohosh can help Amenorrhea ( a period that doesn’t come.)

I explain my cycle is usually waivers between 32-52 days; this cycle was nearing forty-eight, one of my longest ever.  I had no concern of pregnancy.  (Perhaps just my hopeful thinking.)

At this point, Mickie drops the bomb… I am pregnant.  These tests are 97-99% accurate.  My body has enough of a specific hormone to confirm, yes indeed, I am pregnant.

I tell Mickie the truth; I have no desire to have children.  She reflects upon me her beliefs.  At this moment I realize this free pregnancy test and any counselling that they offer at Real Choice, is funded by some Christian organization.

A look of fear and concern crosses over Mickie’s face.

“So you DO believe, at the time of conception, this is the beginning of life, right?” she asks.

“I believe life may have begun, but the soul personality, has yet to be attached.”  I respond.

Mickie casually pull her delicate cross necklace from beneath her collar.  “Well I am the mother of four children, ” she starts in and immediately I zone out.

“She hasn’t a clue!” I think, “She is only a volunteer here.  She is just here to represent her religious organization.  She isn’t some young vagabond in the mountains. She doesn’t exchange hours of her time for room and board from those she works for!  She doesn’t live in this paradigm.  She was probably supported through all of her pregnancies by her God fearing husband… She probably didn’t get pregnant from a random one night stand with a stranger just because she was horny and wanted to get laid, and the situation was there.  She probably never got pregnant from a condom breaking while having sex in her car during a blizzard and a full moon…. or maybe she did.”

At this moment though, that seemed like a very far off reality and since I zoned out most of her story, I guess I couldn’t be certain.  She was now telling me, how she has met “so many women who have chosen abortion” and how they end up feeling so horrible about it for the rest of their lives.

In my mind, I think ” I wouldn’t feel that way.  I know I wouldn’t.  I am so adamant about NOT having a family, unless I feel it is circumstantially ‘right’.  I can’t take nine months to have a kid for someone else, when right now I have to change things within and around me.  Even adoption wouldn’t leave me that choice.”

Mickie and I chat a while longer.  She attempts to get me an appointment at a free clinic for an ultrasound.  I have no money, and no luck.  She offers to take me to the Emergency Room, but her religious organization doesn’t want her to shut down the center for her to escort me. I don’t want to go to the ER with her anyway.

I am shocked.  I am unsure of how to proceed.

Mickie expresses concern that I might have an endoscopic pregnancy because of my bleeding.  She urges me to seek care very soon.

I finally leave; paperwork of confirmation in hand.  I need to smoke a bowl.

I drive back up the mountain in silence.  In my mind I am bargaining with the Universe.  I do not want pregnancy.  If abortion, by means of a tube, being shoved into my uterus, is the only way to go.. I’ll do it.  I don’t know how, because for someone with no money, three hundred or more dollars is expensive.  I feel I am early enough in the game, that there must be another answer.

Perhaps more Black Cohosh?  It could create uterine contractions.  I have more.

I recall hearing about a drug that induces labor in a few minutes by putting it inter-vaginally.  Or, what about self administered tappomant (percussive massage) on the lower abdomen?  Jumping jacks?

I get to my town, and I keep driving.  I need to see friends who understand.  I need to know if my clairvoyant friend senses anything about my situation.  I arrive at their house, but no one is home.

Shit.  I need to talk about this with clear people, NOW!  Finally I call a mutual friend who passes along a cell number for the friend I am looking for.  I call and find out she is over an hour away, and had just arrived at her destination.  It sounds as if she is in a bit of chaos when she picks up the call.  She tells me to give her a couple of minutes so that she can go outside and call me back.

I wait about twenty minutes before she returns my call.  I give her a run down of events, and she offers to drive back up the mountain, to take me back down the canyon to the ER>  It would be over an hour before they would be there.

Sleep and nutrition have been rare for me in the last few weeks.  I decided I would stay, and rest on their couch until they arrive.

I find myself in somewhat of a daze; not asleep, not awake.  I am half way nauseated.  She arrives an hour and a half later.  She walks in with her baby, explaining that her husband is concerned about her unnecessarily taking the baby to the ER, which is bound to be rife with sickness.  Her mother in law will take me alone.

Another hour and half of highways later, we are amidst the smog of Denver.  Lutheran Hospital; unbeknownst to me, one of the busiest ER’s in the the Denver Metro Region.

My stomach is feeling stronger now.  We sit among the sick and injured.  I fill out admittance paperwork.  I get my stats taken.

I wait for six hours in the waiting room.  The TV is tuned to CNN.  I am fully up to date on the Anna Nicole coverage.  I know I am going to have to sit here a longer while, so I eat a Snickers bar.

A man enters and throws a fit about the length of the wait. He is raising his voice.

The ER attendants reaffirms, “There are NO rooms!  There are NO beds!”

The chaotic man seems drunk or drugged, or just damaged.  A breezy Malibu type shirt hangs half open on his beet red chest.  This is not a small man.  The ER staff swiftly admit him.  To where, with the lack of beds?  It’s unknown, or perhaps unspoken that there is always room on the Psych Ward.

Various small dramas proceed with brash interactions, including a bitchy blonde ER nurse and an injured, low-income white guy.  I am among some of Denver’s best and brightest, today.  To each of their benefit, I am certain it is hard to think, when such pain and sickness impede your life…  The ER staff do not have it easy, especially in Denver’s busiest; still, is it really necessary to have such a sassy attitude with those who seek their care?

Six hours later, I receive a gown, a room and a tasty IV with anti-nausea medication.  YAY!  The cool fluid flowing into my arm, is easing away the sickness of reality.  It’s about time to really find out what is going on.  There is yet, more waiting.  I read magazines that I would never purchase.  I breeze through the gossip in regard to Brangelina and Britney… who looks how, in what?

Honestly I don’t fucking care.

They draw my blood, which leads to more waiting.

A silly tech wheels me to radiology for an ultrasound.  We are on the precipice of finding out exactly how far along this train wreck is.  Thank God for pain meds and anti-nausea.

A lubed belly and an ultrasound later, I find out I am eight weeks… TWO MONTHS?!?!  Oh yeah, that broken condom in the car episode.   Brilliant.  Some silly dread who happened to be in town for the weekend, over from Leadville.  Silly.

I endure the ER for another two and a half hours.  Fully re-hydrated and drugged, I am free to leave.  It’s now 11:30pm and everything is closed.  All I want is Chick-Fil-A ( avid pro-life, gay hating chicken.)  Actually, it’s all I have craved for weeks now.

Sleepily I laze in the passenger seat as I am driven back up the mountain.

The next few hours are used in mental formulations.  I will take more Black Cohosh, I will perpetuate my own bleeding.  I will find a loose pill of Misoprostal in the cabinet of my birthing nurse employer.  I will stay with my friends for a couple of days, to ride out the nausea where I am allowed to smoke cannabis.

I arrive home to find a dead cat in my room.  It seems to me, to be a sign of things to come.

I conspire to find and take the Misoprostal vaginally; causing me to bleed chunks later.  I am feeling smart, maybe too smart for my own good, as I am sure this will cause a miscarriage. In my mind, this is decidedly a pregnancy that WILL be terminated, whether by force or effect.  I feel a stress of unknowing, burden my ovaries.  The pain goes through waves of increase.  A sort of feeling, like my uterus is being ripped from me; and yet it stays placed inside, only to be positioned in pain from unknown origin.

I tell myself that this isn’t a “safe” pregnancy.  This is not a “conscious” pregnancy.  This is not a continuing pregnancy.  How am I going to end up paying for all of this; monetarily, physically, spiritually?

Word has it of “Emergency Medicaid,” but no one I talk to has much information.  My circumstances seem applicable, to me.  Will the State of Colorado, agree?  I rationalize that it would cost less for The State to assist in the cost of termination, than it would cost to assist in the long term raising of a child, from a no income young woman.  I learn The State has it’s own ideas as to what It believes our money should be allocated to assist.  Most of it, seem illogical.

A small bit of paperwork for an ongoing, onslaught of more paperwork and phone calls.  I could have allowed myself to be attached to the system for weeks!  Whatever hard earned taxable dollars I had previously earned, were deductible from the over all system; so for those weeks, I could get the best in medical help, if I so choose.

Painful wisdom teeth?  Fuck it!  They will pull them for FREE! (No tip required.)  Just provide proof of pregnancy, and you too, can have a free first class ticket to any medical predicament.

In the right wing tradition of Pro-life, our male dominated system, peeks it’s head into our State and Federal run programs.

Women considered irresponsible for multiple births out of wedlock contributing to our supposed over population are somehow supported… but abortion is only legal in a few states.  Women are demonized for having children out of wed lock, with various men; yet our system is seemingly aligned with the idea that “man SHOULD spread his seed.”

It seems it is economically easier, to live in a life of unwanted, and avoidable circumstances, than it is to independently make a decision for oneself;  to have to  ultimately live in a state of shame perpetuated by a political and religious agendas.

Sure, sometimes men get slammed with child support, but in reality, less than half of them actually pay. Even then, somewhere out there, under the radar; out of the political and religious eyes; we learn that abortion is the most common surgical procedure performed on women in this day and age.

Silently we are speaking back.  This topic will not be spoken about at your local church group, in any light manner.  In fact, the topic will most likely be avoided all together.  The topic is too, taboo… a product of bad taste.  Despite it all; when those groups gather, there will be at least one woman in the group who will have done it, or considered it, depending on their personal beliefs and situations through their life.

Male domination in the world, will cause them to question their choices.It will only be conversations that are whispered among sisters, that they will find commiseration.  Otherwise, they will be left to feel, that they didn’t really have much of a choice in the matter, because  ironically,”Life must go on.”

Weirder yet, conception is another touchy subject especially when it occurs outside prudential expectations..  The way conception unfolds, apparently happens on it’s own terms.  There isn’t always need for attraction or permission.

One in three women will be raped at some point in their lives.  How many of those, become pregnant from the rape?  How does that rock a woman, emotionally; especially when unprepared  and un-wanting for such news?  I have met a man, who is a byproduct of such an event. Conceived from rape. He survives his adulthood caught in child like delinquency.  The man is desperately talented, yet he is lost in a search for something meaningful  in all the wrong places.  You might say he has a lot of loose ends.

His mother committed suicide.  She was never able to cope with the past pain that brought her son into the world.  He was twelve and committed to juvenile hall, when he got the word his mother killed herself.  They wouldn’t let him leave to go to her funeral.  Ten years later, he was dealing with the effects of not being in attendance and the violence of his beginnings.

When is self preservation an act of higher intuition?

My step mother is in disagreement of my choices, yet  I feel confident.  There was a time when, what she thought may have mattered to me, enough to affect my decision making. Not today. Now, it’s all about me.  The question, exactly, is how?  I keep going back to the idea of self preservation.

When we took that drive up the mountain and  I was running groggily through my thoughts.  I was thankful the Vicodin was easing my pain.  I thought about the ultrasound, and how I was able to see the beginnings of a being, forming inside of me.  At eight weeks it was only a grain of sand, only sort of visible in it’s embryonic form.

Seeing the beginnings of life, had changed nothing in my mind.  It had only reaffirmed my self preservation.   This being was bringing my attention to what I have avoided; my own body, my own ability to procreate.   I realize how I had abandoned my own system. Secretly, I felt somewhat cursed from the beginning of my own life.  My pain was likened to the feeling of rotting from the inside out, right through my reproductive organs .  A feeling as thought the ligaments holding everything in place, were being ripped directly from me.

Lately, I feel new to anything feminine.  Maybe it’s been about four years or so, that I have actively tried to assimilate myself to societal ideals of womanhood.  Everyday has been a struggle.  I feel covered in a facade of accessories.  I suppose, I have mainly attempted to be more feminine through ways of appealing to others by physical perception.

If there is one thing I hope to learn from all of these experiences that I have gone through; I hope one day, to find an answer to the question that stands strong for me; “how does one truly become womanly.”

So far, it seems I am finding out first hand, the hard way.  Regardless, I am thankful.