Fun

 It wasn't one thing. There were a series of things that I saw. It did make me wonder what was going on in her life. What was causing such chaotic posts. Sort of off the wall and getting stranger every post. I liked some things, scrolled on for others. Some made me pause and stare. It didn't make sense to me. It didn't resonate with me. As time went on, I began to see that there were a stream of screen shots of texts from friends asking if she was okay. If it was safe for her daughter. I tried to piece something that made sense. Face value it was still not clear. I got an idea. I didn't know the whole story. But, I could tell she was going through something traumatic. Something that made her shift her entire life. To look at things differently. Things that didn't make sense to her friends or to me. That didn't mean that she wasn't okay in a general sense. It just seemed like she was dealing in this way. Cosmically. Spiritually. Not a cry for help from judgment. But a call to her true inner workings. To the fast movements of the mind. It was raw and real and hers alone. There was a screen shot of texts from a friend. The words were so harsh I guffawed. I'm just worried about you. Hiding her judgments behind love. She said that her posts weren't made for everyone's eyes. Not okay to share. Not okay to make public. What would happen if it came back on her daughter? My eyes went wide and I felt a tinge of embarrassment. 

I felt it for her. Embarrassed FOR her. For having a friend that would say something like that to her. (Your posts are just so negative... The voice of a cunt in my past.) I felt it for the friend for saying it. For knowing that I have been that person before. Judging. For making the already open wound worse. For scraping open a healing wound and then saying it was out of concern. I'm concerned for her friend thinking that is an okay thing to say in such judgment. 

I wanted to say out loud to this woman being judged: Ma'am. Take out your titties. Dance around to your own drums. Feel sensual and magical and enlightened in new ways you never (or haven't in awhile) felt before. Who the hell is that person to criticize? She should unfriend you if she doesn't want to see it! Don't stop making content that enlightens your spirit. Fuck that cunt. 

I was angry, too. But then I was also embarrassed for myself. Because I have gone through this. I felt this before. And I have been both the judgmental friend and the one being scrutinized. I've felt that all before. Things that didn't make sense before. Unlocking some inner spiritual box that had been enclosed. What came out shortly after was.... strange. I felt.... weird. I liked that I felt weird. I felt like I didn't care how strange I sounded. I just needed to get it out. Let it out. Express it all... Despite how weird I came across. 

I sat in the bathtub thinking about it. About all of it. About how it felt. How it feels now. How I got out of it. I sat in the bathtub allowing a billow of blood to disperse. It reminded me of a placenta. The veins and tissue diluting with the water. Surrounding me with the shed of life that never will be. Blood clots and strings of different lengths dancing with the ripples of water. We all start out as a sack of blood and cells. Held together by our mothers. Vulnerable sacks of veins and tissue. It was beautiful and spectacular. It made sense then. It made sense what she meant. We should be allowed to free bleed. To do what feels right to us. Not to appease what other judgmental (mostly women, surprisingly) "well-meaning" people have to say. Fuck them. Fuck them all. 

I think we all deserve to go a little crazy. To be loose and weird. Wild and free. Appreciate your body how you are and just love the way the air feels. Becoming a mom is tough enough. If I was physically an egg in my grandmother (since my mother had developed her eggs in her womb), I am a part of my grandmother and my mother. Potentially a part of my mother lived in my grandmother after she grew up. There's no telling how long she lingered and if she does still. I may linger in my mother, or at least I have for years after my birth. My children linger in me. I feel them. Their danger. It's more than instinct. They are connected to me. Small pieces of them live inside me. Maybe even my daughter has pieces of her brother in her as well. We ignore all the science behind the strange process of procreation and birth and we neglect to think about how it effects our mothers and yet- we judge. Cool miracle, mom, I guess.

Our bodies physically change. Our lives are disrupted entirely. Our emotions become all about our children. Whether we fight it or embrace it. We are forever changed. Hopefully, for the best. We are entirely devoted on a cellular level to adapt to our children. It's the "bond" that dad's say they want to try to make with their children and can't comprehend why it is really near impossible to get that kind of bond. Yeah you maybe have some of your stuff inside the kid, as a dad, but you don't get the kid's own stuff back. Choosing the correct person to have a baby with makes so much more sense to me on a lot of levels now that I'm older. I used to think that having a baby with someone I loved was the crème de la crème. I probably would have still been stoked knowing that part of his DNA made our kids and then a part of our kids lived in me- meaning that a part of him could be inside of me. The thought is bitter now, which is an awful thing to say. But it is the truth. I can't go back there. I won't. The thought that he helped create my kids just makes me bothered. Annoyed. That I have to deal with a tiny dictator version of him. What a miracle! Children are just a fucking miracle, dude. 

I didn't get pregnant and therefore I bleed. I keep on bleeding. For years. Decades. Just dropping out excess dead parts of me. Babies that never will be. My body expels the idea of what could have been. Flush the system and start over. It's not enough for my entire life to be disrupted by children, but there's a constant reminder of what could or will never be. For some women, this is heart wrenching. Because they can't have children. Their choice was taken from them. From cancer, surgeries, genetics, age, or choice. They can't or won't. And everyone constantly reminds us of what we can and cannot do. If women don't have children, they are harassed for all the fucking periods they will endure without a tiny worst version of themselves asking for snacks constantly. You cannot win. Women cannot win. It's all the emotional pain that people will never comprehend unless they go through it themselves. What is pain to someone who doesn't feel it? 

This is what I thought about. This was the process I jumped through in only a few minutes in my mind. While I sat soaking in a tub slowly turning pink. I bet there is royalty who bathed in blood for the health benefits. And here I am, shooting it out for free. Soaking in all the free iron I can manage to make in a month. 

Ma'am. Bleed wherever you want. Post it. Enlighten the folks who don't want to know what happens to about half the population around the world. We fucking bleed. It's messy. It smells strongly of rust and cunt. It's awkward. Uncomfortable. It's raw. It's painful. Feels like fire up your asshole at times. Or up inside near your cervix. Like a flaming rod raping you. It's a double over feeling. Migraines or headaches. Craving so much food that you don't want to eat because you are in pain. And you feel fat because of all the bloating. Horny but feel too raw to want a good fuck. Or you do but after your loud orgasm, you have to clean up staining blood from the towel you laid down. And then you bleed more. Your body is physically working against you to turn you inside out. Women just smile and do our jobs. We just go to work and laugh at jokes that aren't funny. We listen to men make decisions for us and just smile and fucking bleed. I get it. I really do. Truly. We physically, emotionally, spiritually bleed.