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nationaldvam · 5 years

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After the New Year a few years ago, I bought myself a copy of Marie Kondo’s The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. It wasn’t a book I actually felt I needed; if anything, I’m almost annoyingly tidy already, a veritable Roomba of a human. I’d moved fifteen times in the decade since I’d turned 18, each time trying to shed whatever I no longer wore.

I bought Kondo’s book mostly as a ploy to get my boyfriend, Rob, to clean out his nightstand. Our courtship had been a steady reclamation of his less-tidy space by my relentless wave of tidiness. (Whatever’s going on in Marie Kondo’s brain that makes her say “I love mess!”, I have it, too.) His nightstand, though, was The Place He Put Things. A place I ached to clean.

The book arrived, and after weeks spent suggesting he read it, I finally decided to live by example. I did as Marie Kondo prescribed: I emptied my closet and bureau into a pile on the living room floor, separated their contents into a peak of jackets and a peak of dresses. One by one, I picked items up and asked myself whether they sparked joy. If they didn’t, into the discard pile they went.

I didn’t take me long to see it, what the discard pile was. It was only the skirts, only the dresses, only the flowers and lace and sparkles. It was everything I’d bought hoping that some colleague might say: Isn’t that cute?

I burst into tears, shame filling me entirely, and then I laughed about the fact that this book had made me cry, this silly, stupid cleaning book.

For months — well, years — I’d carried around a stack of telling moments in my mind, ones I’d shuffle periodically, ones I knew told me something but something I didn’t want to acknowledge to myself, let alone admit. For example, there was this one moment back before I’d quit my job. I had worked at a start-up media company. It was the sort of office that looks fun and has fun snacks and there’s pressure to dress up on fun holidays like Halloween. One Halloween, I’d come as Ace Ventura.

After lunch they were giving prizes to those who’d really gone above and beyond costume-wise, myself not included. I stood in the crowd next to a colleague who’d come dressed as her boss. Earlier her costume had gotten a big reaction, though, because it was her dressing as him: sneakers, jeans, glasses, of course the hoodie. Everyone laughed. Now we were standing around, drinking booze, eating sugar. I told her I liked her costume and she looked embarrassed.

“I feel so awkward. Don’t you feel awkward?” she asked.

I didn’t get what she meant.

“Dressing like a guy!” she said.

“Oh,” I said, and without thinking added: “I always dress like a guy for Halloween, or at least a lot of the time.”

(I mentally flipped through prior Halloweens: My first costume, at age three, an authentic lederhosen. In elementary and middle school, I’d dressed as a male nerd, a male tourist, Charlie Chaplin. When I was in grad school in Iowa, in my mid-twenties, I’d won second place at a roller derby halftime costume contest dressed as Justin Bieber. When I said “Justin Bieber” into the judge’s mic, someone in the crowd shouted, “That’s a chick!”)

“That’s funny,” I said to my colleague, “I haven’t noticed that before.”

Which was funny, because just getting dressed, day-to-day, I struggled with, always. Most mornings my bedroom floor would be lost beneath tops and skirts pulled on and torn off. I’d apply eye makeup or lipstick, then remove it, then change my mind again. I’d pause at the door and cringe and end up back in my room, eyeing the clock, and pull the shirt from the day before from the laundry. It had always been like this.

Back then, I was always sweating. At work I sweated through shirts and cardigans and sometimes jackets, too. If I thought about the sweat it seemed to get worse. In the summer especially I’d go hide in the bathroom a while, wait until the whole joint was empty so I could crouch with my pits beneath the hand dryer. Sometimes I told myself little lies about how I was getting better, generally — getting better at having style, getting better at faking confidence.

I knew deep down this was all a fiction. If anything, I sensed I was getting worse at even leaving the apartment. It grew harder to dress for work; I eventually wore the same few items over and over: a black maxi dress, lace-up sandals, a jean jacket to mop up sweat.

But then I sold a book, and realized that to finish it, I had to quit my job. This meant no more office or coworkers. It meant I didn’t have to leave the house at all. This idea — never having to dress for work again — was appealing for reasons I still couldn’t quite explain.

Now with no office to go to, I rarely dressed, and if I did I wore sweatpants. The days I did go out, for an appointment or a meeting, I might force myself to dress up. Tripping down a cobblestone street one afternoon in heels, I wondered who the hell I was trying to fool.

I eventually ran out of the one makeup item I still sometimes wore, red lipstick, and now found myself incapable of making the trip to Sephora to buy more. The place had always make me melt with nervousness, but now, so unpracticed at being in public, I felt somehow incapable of going inside. I finally convinced a friend to come with me. I found myself trying to explain to her that doing something like buying lipstick was very hard for me. I don’t think she understood what I meant. I don’t think I understood what I meant.

A few days later I wrote about the lipstick incident in a blog post. I published it hurriedly, before I could talk myself out of it. In the post, for the very first time to anyone, I acknowledged what that day I termed “my gender stuff.”

A month later, kneeling and sobbing before my Marie Kondo discard pile, it felt silly, sure, that this book is what had finally done it, but I also couldn’t unsee my actual preferences: so much of the feminine clothing I owned did not spark joy.

I donated it all. I hung and folded the items that remained: flannel shirts, baggy jeans, t-shirts. I had kept a few dresses and heels and feminine winter coats, ones that had seemed really special when I’d bought them. I knew Marie Kondo wouldn’t have approved of my choice to keep them. Each day I passed them and they stared right back at me.

During the months that followed, I steadily shed feminine things. One day, all my makeup: gone. Another day, all my earrings: gone. (My ears had been pierced when I was two!) I tried to do as Marie Kondo said and thanked these items for what they’d given me. I guiltily threw them out, and then felt wonderful.

One August day, I donated the last of my heels and dresses, the ones that had once been my absolute favorites. I happened to run into someone I knew in line at the thrift shop, and he offered to take my box of things to donate. I put them in his trunk and watched him drive away. I didn’t say to him, nor could I have articulated, that I was throwing out the last of me pretending to be a woman.

Walking away, I felt joy, an almost ridiculous joy. I also felt terror, like when a cartoon has walked off a cliff and is standing blissfully on air.

A few days later, Rob and I happened to be flying to another city on vacation. I packed a mostly empty suitcase. When we got there, I said, I’d force myself to go shopping.

Rob knew I’d gotten rid of a lot of my clothes, and I’d begun to talk about gender, but, like me, he didn’t know where I was going with any of this.

The first store was GAP-like. To my left were waifish white mannequins wearing blouses and skirts, cashmeres and scarves; to the right were slightly bigger ones in belted khakis and button downs.

I walked straight ahead, wanting to turn right but afraid. I broke left through the dresses, feeling immediately disappointed in myself, Rob following behind.

I swerved back to the right, hurriedly walking through the men’s things now, wondering if anyone was on to me. I looked at a pair of pants, willing myself to pick them up. How would I ever figure out my size? How could I ever work up the nerve to walk back to the dressing room? I felt like I was going to throw up or pass out. I marched back out the glass doors, with Rob behind me.

We found a café and I cried and tried to tell him some of my story, the first I’d ever told anyone any of it, really. I recalled being three and learning my bedroom walls were painted green because my parents had expected me to be a boy, a fact I had always loved. I recalled how the nickname I’d had since birth, Sandy, was a name for boys and girls both, another fact I had always loved.

“For as long as I can remember, this is who I’ve been,” I explained to him: internally not-female, or not just female, though I didn’t know what this made me instead.

“I love you,” he said, “I support you.” He seemed less surprised than I’d have guessed he be. What fear I had that he would love me less if I were honest about it all was quickly dissolving.

I finished an iced tea. I felt better.

We resolved that I could try going into a second store. He held my hand. I nervously felt along the side that had masculine things. The woman behind the register was wearing a ballcap herself and didn’t seem bothered. I went into a dressing room and tried on item after item. Every time I emerged, Rob beamed.

I couldn’t afford to buy much of anything that day, so when he took out his card, I didn’t stop him; I’d never felt so grateful.

That evening, we went on a date. I wore a new button down, trousers, Oxfords. We moved down the street, his hand in mine, which was shaking, so terrified by the question of what we must look like to others.

Nobody much noticed, or if they did and cared, they didn’t show it. This, I’ve since learned, is often the way of things.

Before that night, I realized, I had never before been both “dressed up” and comfortable.

“You look hot,” Rob said, and unlike how I’d always reacted to such sentiments, I didn’t want to swat away his compliment like a gnat.

The best feelings are the converse of this cisgender othering: the moments of communion, however brief, I share with other queer and trans people out there in the world. Like last June, I walked down Sixth Avenue during the NYC Dyke March, one body in a long splay of bodies, bodies with voices, bodies with drums, and I felt, for the first time ever, like I was surrounded by my peers.

That year I didn’t leave the apartment much because there was always work to be done, and because what would I wear? Because what was I even doing? Because sometimes I’d cry so hard.

I had learned words for myself, words like nonbinary and trans, but I couldn’t yet imagine saying these words about myself to anyone. Trump was elected. The apartment was high in a building with a terrace. I’d stand on it barefoot and study the traffic on the avenue below.

That year I read books — books for the book I was writing, but also books about gender, books I’d finally let myself get after years of not buying such books. When I finally read Julia Serano’s Whipping Girl, I reflected a long time on my choice of Halloween costume that time at work, Ace Ventura. Serano reminded me that the entire plot of Ace Ventura: Pet Detective turns on the “reveal” of a transgender woman. At the movie’s climax, Ace outs a trans woman for the “fake” that she is — literally spinning her around to show her tucked genitals — at which he and everyone else vomits profusely, including Dan Marino and the Dolphins’ mascot, a dolphin.

I recalled other transphobic — specifically transmisogynist — cultural artifacts that attracted me when I was younger, realizing in fact that so much of the comedy I loved growing up hinged on the joke of crossdressing: Mrs. Doubtfire, Monty Python, Little Britain. Also the joke of gender non-conformity, in the case of It’s Pat. I probably loved these things both because they brought up the topic of gender, which did greatly interest me, and because they shamed me, bullied me away from acknowledging my own truth.

Sometimes I would be forced to leave the apartment. I’d put on new clothes, ones that made me feel a flutter of pride. Friends wouldn’t recognize me. Strangers would stare. Or they’d call me “sir” and I’d be stunned but also unsure whether I wanted to correct them. I also felt that these were the first times I’d ever dared to show myself honestly to the world.

Sometimes I’d run into someone I knew — a girl from back home, a guy from grad school. I’d see them avoid my eyes, sure that they didn’t know me. I’d feel hurt, and then I’d see them realize, say something like, “You got a haircut.”

Sometimes I’d have to attend some event or occasion I hadn’t since the change, like a job interview or funeral. Attempting to dress, I’d fall apart, totally lose nerve. Rob would stand with me, tie my tie, wipe my tears. At that funeral, some relatives didn’t recognize me, and others thought I was my brother. But then they did see it was me.

“Sandy!” they said. After, I’d feel a supreme relief, like at least now they know, even if they don’t get it.

I worked up all the courage I had and made an appointment at an actual barbershop. For years I’d gone to a salon that smelled like chardonnay and chemicals, pretended the whole time I wasn’t having a panic attack.

In the barbershop the men didn’t seem to notice me. I got the cut I wanted. I exited feeling something like pride, rubbing the buzz on the back of my neck. Walking through the park on my way home, I stopped and did something I’d never much been tempted to do before, which was post a selfie. I shook with nerves.

I never used to picture myself in middle or old age, but now I do. That began happening after I came out. Another new thing I started to feel was that I love myself. Not just how I look, my haircut, my style, though I do love those things. I now love my body itself to an extent I’d never have imagined was possible. Before I hated everything about me, body included, totally, powerfully, if for reasons I couldn’t quite spell out.

Presenting myself now, in a way that’s honest about how I’ve always mentally straddled the gender divide, I also feel the cruelty of gender-segregated spaces more sharply. I hate the TSA and avoid changing rooms. Cis women in bathrooms sometimes look shocked or horrified when they see me, or they make frowning remarks (like “This the men’s?”). I contemplate going into men’s rooms but frankly, I’m too scared of men. If I’m being honest, I avoid being in public still, as much as I can.

These days, I’m called “sir” and “ma’am” with equal frequency. Sometimes people think I’m male at first and then realize I’m not, usually when I talk, and sometimes I then see a wild anger in them. In those moments, I feel my vulnerability. Though in other senses I feel safer; I am no longer constantly catcalled, as I was before — that drumbeat of male violence, muffled. All the time I feel how arbitrary these categories are. All the time, I know this is all just about power.

Some who see me now are excited about my apparent difference. In a restaurant, a waitress ran over, grinning, nearly shouting, “What are you?”

I’m 31 now, and living a life that a few years ago I couldn’t have imagined. My book’s paperback calls me Sandy and they/them. Rob and I married and moved to an old farmhouse in the country. I now have two floors of rooms to tidy. I often wander delightedly for hours, scrubbing and straightening and vacuuming cat fur and flies and once, with a whoosh — to my great surprise — the skeleton of a baby mouse.

Rob and I write out our chores on a big spool of brown paper by the fridge, to ensure we contribute evenly. I am proud of us, of him, for how we’ve managed to share the responsibilities of maintaining this home. And yet, through all this change, a constant remains, bulging with wires and papers and who knows what else, the one place I’ve accepted I’ll never tidy: his nightstand.

#marie kindo #gender #queer #trans #culture #new #news

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walkinsauce · 6 years

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To Mom, Or Not To Mom... That Is The Question

Okay, so this isn’t pertaining to my usual topic of polyamory or Tinder dates, but I guest blogged on my friend Rhiannon’s blog about motherhood. (Have I ever used that word before? Probs not.) It’s basically a letter from me, a non-mom, to moms. I thought I’d post it here, on my own blog, so you guys know:

a. I’m still alive.

b. I’m still writing.

I’ve posted a link to her blog at the end, to corner you into reading my blog first. Enjoy.

Dear Moms,

Sup? It’s me, non-mom. From the alternate universe. The one you wondered if you might end up in. And you’re a mom, the one I still wonder if I’ll ever be. Don’t you wish there was a reboot of Sliding Doors, but instead of the two trains, there’s one Gwyneth that has a baby and one that doesn’t? Which life ends up better? Which has more love? More pain? More meaning?

(And if you’ve seen the movie, less waiting tables?)

I used to think I was a weirdo for not having maternal instinct. I’m being very deliberate when I use the term “maternal instinct.” It’s annoying when people assume women who don’t want kids, don’t like kids. I do like kids. I’m a proud, fun aunt, capris and patterned tops to boot. I also love my friends’ kids. (Hi Porter!*) I’m just very self aware that I don’t have that natural instinct that most women have, to birth one.

I started noticing maternal instinct creeping up on my girlfriends in our early twenties. I used to wait tables at a rib restaurant with my good friend Sarah. These were back in the days we’d actually still serve in heels. (Ooof.) For months, I saw Sarah’s face light up every time a baby in a stroller came in. She got SO excited. Played peak-a-boo at the speed of a good improvisor. I’d usually just stare at the baby, and wonder how much food I was gonna have to sweep from under the table once they left. I was also tracking how much Sarah held her breath at tables with seniors, who were marinating in perfumes and Bengay. Finally, one day I made a deal with her:

“Hey, I’ll take the geriatrics if you take the kids.”

And that was the beginning of a beautiful server partnership. And my first sign that I actually might not have maternal instinct. You can force a lot of things in life- a laugh, a zipper, one or nineteen extra things in a suitcase… BUT- you can’t force maternal instinct. And I’m no professional, but I don’t think you should.

If I had it, I’d use it. But I don’t. So this is my life.

To be fair, I was a very popular babysitter as a teenager. You had to book me a month in advance if you wanted me to watch your kids on a Saturday night. I had a regular gig looking after Heather and Shevaun every day after school for three years. In some ways, I feel like I’ve already raised kids. And for cheap! Four dollars an hour. You can only wish for child care prices like that these days. (I did make them all watch The Young and the Restless though.) I was a one woman Babysitters Club. And I took every dime you paid me and bought Guess Jeans and Espirit T-Shirts. Thank you for giving me the gift of being able to afford such style. My dad was still trying to pay off the Nova.

I owe a lot to moms. More so to my own, who got pregnant with me at 18. I often feel like I’m living my 20’s and 30’s for two. I’m grateful to my sister, who has kids. Now I have the pleasure of being a long distance aunt, who enjoys sending creepy cat postcards. (And when I say creepy cats, I mean creepy.) My parents have grandchildren, and I still have a silly dream I mustered up at 18. And they seem to be equally proud of both of us. (BLESS supportive parents. Living in L.A. for two years has proved to me that not everyone has them.)

I’m not one who likes to argue existential debates. I know what I feel, and I go with that. Plain and simple. If I’m doing life “wrong,” then so be it. When I started comedy, twenty years ago, I seemed to be the only one plugging that childfree life. There was an untapped well of jokes in this department at the time. Like:

“I’d rather look pregnant than get pregnant…”

“I honestly believe that smiling at a child at Loblaws… is just as good as motherhood.”

Now I almost feel hacky for doing these jokes. There are now at least two generations under me that are done with the patriarchy. I also have girlfriends who are praying they get the tail end of it. If there’s one thing I’m sure about, it’s that no two women have the same plans for life.

I had the best interaction with a mom at a BBQ the other day. I was scooping some sort of festive salad on to my paper plate when I found myself embarrassed about the state of my finger nails.

“Oooof. I should have at least clipped my nails into some sort of shape where they don’t look like jigsaw puzzle pieces.”

She responded with,

“You should see my toe nails.”

“Mine too!”

(Hard to say “me too” anymore.)

We instantly bonded. That’s the one thing that always connects me with a lot of moms. Our lack of “pretty girl” esthetics. Of course, for a mom it’s probably due to a serious lack of extra time. I have no excuse. I just don’t care.

At this same party, I ended up bonding with another chick. She was my age, and like me, of the childless lifestyle. Much like two moms who meet and bond over having the same age kids, me and this girl found a twinship over not having kids. It’s equally exciting for us! (I got this term “twinship” from my bff Melissa, who will probs get nervous that I’m quoting her, and will text and say “NO! It’s not my term! I read it in a book! I don’t want people to think I made it up. I feel bad.” And if you know me, you know I also have a twinship with Melissa.)

The cool thing is, either way, women are finding connections with each other. And isn’t that all that matters?

“Thanks” to social media, moms and non-moms believe they have a good look into each others lives. You probably think I take 82 vacations a year (or so it seems), and I get scared your kids are going to be fully grown before my career takes off. When I see moms in my fave coffee shop on Montana Ave, I’m mostly jealous of their cookie purchases. I have no excuse for buying a cookie. At least you can say,

“… and a cookie, for little Ava here.”

And then you eat half the cookie. I see what’s happening there. Bless kids for giving grown-ups a reason to eat cookies. I can’t buy a cookie. It’ll look like I just got dumped or something.

I know there’s still a good chance I will end up a step mom, and I gotta tell you…

I’m into it. I actually like the idea of being a step mom. Rhiannon seemed shocked when I told her this. I know fairy tales ruined the idea of step-anythings decades ago, but what’s so bad about it? Kids aren’t dumb. Parents are exhausted. Two moms and two dads just may be what it takes. Plus, I’m probably gonna skip the sleepless nights and crazy medical bills. (America only.) OH, but I can tell how shit my reputation is by how long it takes a single dad to introduce me to his kid…

(That’s a good sign for divorced mom’s though. I can rest assure you that your baby daddy is picky about who they let in to your child’s life.)

I better wrap this up. I told Rhiannon I would keep my babbling to a max of 1500 words. (What mom has the time for more?)

In closing, I’d like to thank all moms for their clothes at clothing swaps. Your maternity clothes are my beer drinking clothes. I’m a woman who loves to bloat. Thank you for joining me in my love for Birkenstocks. (Sorry, Allison Dore.) Oh, but to the moms who lose the baby weight five seconds after having a kid, and walk into the coffee shop with your stroller and size zero yoga pants…

Fuck you.

Just kidding.

Have a cookie.

Signed with a shit tonne of respect,

Your new non-mom friend,

Christina Walkinshaw

*Porter is three and while he’s starting to read, I’m pretty sure this isn’t his genre. I need a scratch and sniff blog. Send toy cars.

Here’s Rhiannon’s response to this blog:

http://theobliviouschildblog.tumblr.com/post/176022952325/to-be-or-not-to-bea-stepmom

#motherhood #mom #mommy #mommyblogger #nonmom #single #sliding doors #pregnant #patriarchy #smash the patriarchy #cookies

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theobliviouschildblog · 6 years

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** Guest Blog - Christina Walkinshaw **

Pictured above, I am very drunk with my good friend Christina. We were at our friends Nancy and Steves baby shower in the summer of 2014. They had sangria which was basically red wine, white wine and vodka ( who needs mix OR to inform Rhiannon that there wasn’t any in it)... After 3 pints I was letting the children put stickers on my body, inviting myself over to other peoples homes for dinner the next week and bit the “fruit baby” centrepiece:

Christina and I were having a blast! Childless and working on our careers in comedy! She was one of my instant friends in comedy and thankfully we have stayed that way. She is currently living in LA following her childless dreams, a path that I once was on and will catch myself wondering about from time to time, usually during tantrums and meltdowns.

She writes a blog about Polyamoury and had a very successful one about going on Tinder Dates, so what better person to write a guest blog and get their opinion about motherhood and parenting than her!

Check out her blog HERE!

and follow her on Instagram and Twitter

I will be writing a response to this and post it tomorrow. Especially an explanation on the Stepmom part.

Without further ado, enjoy!

Dear Moms,

(And if you’ve seen the movie, less waiting tables?)

I used to think I was a weirdo for not having a maternal instinct. I’m being very deliberate when I use the term “maternal instinct.” It’s annoying when people assume women who don’t want kids, don’t like kids. I do like kids. I’m a proud, fun aunt, capris and patterned tops to boot. I also love my friends’ kids. (Hi Porter!*) I’m just very self-aware that I don’t have that natural instinct that most women have, to birth one.

I started noticing maternal instinct creeping up on my girlfriends in our early twenties. I used to wait tables at a rib restaurant with my good friend Sarah. These were back in the days we’d actually still serve in heels. (Ooof.) For months, I saw Sarah’s face light up every time a baby in a stroller came in. She got SO excited. Played peek-a-boo at the speed of a good improviser. I’d usually just stare at the baby, and wonder how much food I was gonna have to sweep from under the table once they left. I was also tracking how much Sarah held her breath at tables with seniors, who were marinating in perfumes and Bengay. Finally, one day I made a deal with her:

“Hey, I’ll take the geriatrics if you take the kids.”

And that was the beginning of a beautiful server partnership. And my first sign that I actually might not have a maternal instinct. You can force a lot of things in life- a laugh, a zipper, one or nineteen extra things in a suitcase... BUT- you can’t force maternal instinct. And I’m no professional, but I don’t think you should.

If I had it, I’d use it. But I don’t. So this is my life.

To be fair, I was a very popular babysitter as a teenager. You had to book me a month in advance if you wanted me to watch your kids on a Saturday night. I had a regular gig looking after Heather and Shevaun every day after school for three years. In some ways, I feel like I’ve already raised kids. And for cheap! Four dollars an hour. You can only wish for child care prices like that these days. (I did make them all watch The Young and the Restless though.) I was a one-woman Babysitters Club. And I took every dime you paid me and bought Guess Jeans and Espirit T-Shirts. Thank you for giving me the gift of being able to afford such style. My dad was still trying to pay off the Nova.

seemed to be the only one plugging that childfree life. There was an untapped well of jokes in this department at the time. Like:

“I’d rather look pregnant than get pregnant...”

“I honestly believe that smiling at a child at Loblaws... is just as good as motherhood.”

I had the best interaction with a mom at a BBQ the other day. I was scooping some sort of festive salad on to my paper plate when I found myself embarrassed about the state of my fingernails.

“Oooof. I should have at least clipped my nails into some sort of shape where they don’t look like jigsaw puzzle pieces.”

She responded with,

“You should see my toenails.”

“Mine too!”

(Hard to say “me too” anymore.)

We instantly bonded. That’s the one thing that always connects me with a lot of moms. Our lack of “pretty girl” esthetics. Of course, for a mom, it’s probably due to a serious lack of extra time. I have no excuse. I just don’t care.

At this same party, I ended up bonding with another chick. She was my age, and like me, of the childless lifestyle. Much like two moms who meet and bond over having the same age kids, me and this girl found a twinship over not having kids. It’s equally exciting for us! (I got this term “twinship” from my BFF Melissa, who will probs get nervous that I’m quoting her, and will text and say “NO! It’s not my term! I read it in a book! I don’t want people to think I made it up. I feel bad.” And if you know me, you know I also have a twinship with Melissa.)

The cool thing is, either way, women are finding connections with each other. And isn’t that all that matters?

“Thanks” to social media, moms and non-moms believe they have a good look into each other's lives. You probably think I take 82 vacations a year (or so it seems), and I get scared your kids are going to be fully grown before my career takes off. When I see moms in my fave coffee shop on Montana Ave, I’m mostly jealous of their cookie purchases. I have no excuse for buying a cookie. At least you can say,

“... and a cookie, for little Ava here.”

And then you eat half the cookie. I see what’s happening there. Bless kids for giving grown-ups a reason to eat cookies. I can’t buy a cookie. It’ll look like I just got dumped or something.

I know there’s still a good chance I will end up a stepmom, and I gotta tell you...

I’m into it. I actually like the idea of being a stepmom. Rhiannon seemed shocked when I told her this. I know fairy tales ruined the idea of step-anythings decades ago, but what’s so bad about it? Kids aren’t dumb. Parents are exhausted. Two moms and two dads just may be what it takes. Plus, I’m probably gonna skip the sleepless nights and crazy medical bills. (America only.) OH, but I can tell how shit my reputation is by how long it takes a single dad to introduce me to his kid...

(That’s a good sign for divorced moms though. I can rest assure you that your baby daddy is picky about who they let into your child’s life.)

I better wrap this up. I told Rhiannon I would keep my babbling to a max of 1500 words. (What mom has the time for more?)

Fuck you. Just kidding. Have a cookie.

Signed with a shit tonne of respect, Your new non-mom friend, Christina Walkinshaw

*Porter is three and while he’s starting to read, I’m pretty sure this isn’t his genre. I need a scratch and sniff blog. Send toy cars.

#childless #motherhood #stepmoms #BabysitterClub #TheYoungandtheRestless #comedy #friends #babyshower #aunt #catposters #singlelife #momlife #guestblog #christinawalkinshaw

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sanguinesprout · 7 years

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Uhhh welp... *derps x2* (Update and some past therapy and college/uni talk)

I really wanted to write a post but at the same time I’m not feeling very well and feel like the effort to do so might drain me even more. Maybe I’ll try write it more brief, since all my previous posts end up so hella long lol.

Anyways, on monday was what I thought would be a therapy session but it was in fact another referral consultation, but I still poured all my truthful feelings and fears out. I feel kinda proud I didn’t kind of hold back or soften the things I said as much as I usually would (though I still stumbled over some words and blanked a little, but it’s okay!). Also I wasn’t as nervous as I thought I’d be, I was just so focused on trying to give the consultant all the relevant information possible and almost went overtime in my super fired up blabby confession moment lol. She noted it all down and said she’d speak with her supervisor and decide where or who best to refer me to and be in contact by the end of the week.

I literally told her so many things that I would have a hard time telling anyone or even writing here. I began with the avoidant stuff and then kinda veered off into my super paranoid-ness troubles and a little on dependent-ness, it was... ugh... real difficult to talk about it without feeling like a fool but I also mentioned how I’ve been trying really hard to rationalise things and be more positive and stuff and for someone to acknowledge and sort of praise that felt nice. I also pulled out some of the most random and uncomfortable situations from my past to give as examples for things and it was uh... I struggled a bit and felt awkward a little but she was very sympathetic and nice! :>

When she asked what my perception of myself was, as I mentioned I have a low view of myself, I said what I thought (and it was only a few adjectives of the negative kind, but they were strong words... I guess I am being too hard on myself, but I can’t help it when it’s all I can see of myself :c) and she was a little surprised and said not many people would be able to say it so bluntly *laughs nervously and burrows head in the sand*. I made sure to get across that I’m very sensible about my actions and have been trying my best to improve and that I have a lot of hope to get better and she said this was good too ^^ There was a lot of other stuff but it’s too much effort to write down and remember lol. I’m not sure what she makes of all the stuff I said and what the supervisor will say about it, I just hope it goes in the right direction and stuff ahhh >< (Also that they don’t ask to see my blog because I did happen to mention it... they wouldn’t though right...? Like to make me conquer my fears or something ;w; ...Even if they did (unlikely) I could say no, don’t worry silly self!)

No obligations! My new mantra XD (Idek know if I’m using the right word but oh well, it works for me so imma use it! lololol~) Getting stuff off the chest and having your problems acknowledged really does feel like a weight has been lifted slightly hoo~ I feel a little bit more motivated and willing to disclose my fears and keep pushing to improve too ^^

I went to the supermarket after that with my sis who drove me to and from the appointment and I browsed around at a super leisurely pace. Maybe it was the sort of motivation boost from letting off the steam at the consultation that allowed me to roam around feeling less conscious of the other shoppers than I usually do, it was nice. I did still feel awk sometimes squeezing past people and sort of hovering around them cause I wanted to look at something but I persisted and I got to peruse as much as I wanted >:D

I said I didn’t want the post to get long but I thought why not write a little about my past therapy experiences since this post is about therapy, so here I go~! :U

In college I went to see a therapist lady about my ‘social anxiety’. I don’t remember the details before that, it was probably me finally acknowledging I was genuinely having a hard time with socialising or fitting in wherever I am and constantly being anxious around others that prompted me to get help. It’s likely I read some shizz off the internet then too lol. I think in school before that I would converse and confide in a friend who also had similar feelings but when it got to college I hardly saw them because their schedule was like the opposite of mine. The line between friends and classmates, it kinda becomes clear once you stop being together out of convenience (of the same class times and such).

The friendships I had and were grateful for just gradually faded and I guess my lack of initiative (or fear) to continue communication outside just made it even more inevitable. It’s okay though, people move on and people change, especially in the case of when people move to far away locations too. They have their life to live however and with whoever they want, and I have mine (which is terrible but... maybe it won’t be later on). I do miss them and I miss the time I spent in school with them, but what I hope most is that they are all happy and doing well c: There’s a lot more I’d want to write, but this post isn’t about that. There’s plenty of time to reminisce, remedy and maybe even reconnect with them someday later on.

Anyways, I can’t remember anything too detailed with the therapy there except we talked some and she game some sort of worksheets with some tasks to help me acknowledge my feelings and fears and to try expose myself to them little by little. I don’t think I got that far with that or maybe it’s because I chose to start seeing her so close to the end of my time at college that well the sessions obviously didn’t continue for long, I don’t think I went more than a small handful of times.

Something else I remember from probably one of my first talks with her, is that she asked me what I would wish for (or where I’d wish to live?? idk too long ago to remember) if I could, and I said something like to live in a normal house like everyone else lol. Idk I was envious of the cosy homes my friends, relatives and families on tv have that were so different from my own, more modern and homely unlike mine which is so old, unconventional and constantly noisy because my parents workplace is aside it. (Maybe the work place and home being so close makes it hard for my parents to sort of separate their work mindset and leisure time and that’s why they can never sort of relax and why I can never be comfortable idk.) Uh well anyways, she replied that it was such a humble(?) modest(??) wish... uh I’m really not sure of the right word to use to describe it or what she said exactly but basically it was indicating my wish was not like the extravagant sort of things other people would probably wish for. My wish (though I can’t remember the exact context leading up to asking about it) was in essence to be normal and have a normal environment and I guess that still stands, though I do have bigger dreams now too, but still not the overly extravagant kind haha. Idek what I was trying to say in this paragraph lol *goldfish memory*.

Also something else during college time, is that I went to this breathing exercise help thing which was supposedly supposed to help people who are anxious in exams or something but I just went in hope it might help me in general. It literally was just listening to some relaxing nature sounds and seeing some matching imagery while having your pulse tracked at the same time and I sucked at it and didn’t really improve much lol XD It was supposed to help you regulate your breathing and stuff but I just probably got more anxious about it. I wonder if it is anxiety that has been causing me all sorts of worrisome chest related problems, as they have persisted till now more than a decade later unresolved and still causing me bother. This is one of the health problems out of many which I have been trying to get to the bottom of and fix in the recent years, it’s really unsettling not knowing what’s really wrong or how to fix it ugh. Maybe I’ll write about it in a separate post another time (always putting off stuff ahhh, but I guess it makes sense to here), I’ve actually been trying real hard and gone through quite a lot of things in effort to resolve things, I’m kind of proud of myself for doing so but I need to continue to persevere.

Hmm... okay now for the therapist I went to in university. I can’t remember the exact thing that prompted me to start going or how I came to know of it, but it was probably the similar feelings of struggling and needing guidance and idk reading posters or some info booklets maybe. I know I started going later than I could have again and stopped going completely because... well, I ended up dropping out of Uni altogether :c I was struggling so badly, the anxiety, the depression etc. just made it so difficult to sleep, concentrate or understand anything and just being there unnerved me so much. I still regret it and feel like such a failure, but university isn’t for everyone anyways, I just chose to go because it is the typical thing to do after college (but a degree doesn’t guarantee work or anything so bleeeh~)

The therapist I was appointed was a guy and he was nice and this will sound really ridiculous and I feel real bad thinking this, but something about the way he looked reminded me of an army sergeant and it made me extra uncomfortable and intimidated. It was just so hard to unsee and also the fact he is a guy like I mentioned earlier make me unsettled (I’m even more insecure around guys) Dx Also I remember talking about some of my female related physical problems as I was going to doctors trying to sort stuff back then too (still partially unresolved now ugh) and well uh... it was so awks but he said he could understand and relate because his daughter had the same problem, he would share some stories about her other times too and I guess it was kind of nice, it helped me to see him more as a softer father type person rather than an army sergeant I guess lol.

Anyways that’s not important! One of the things I distinctly remember about my sessions there, is that one of his earlier sort of tasks was to write down what I thought of myself on a paper. I took the paper and I drew a simple scrawl of myself with an unhappy face and next to it (or in a speech bubble) I wrote ‘I hate myself’ and without looking up, I cried onto it... :< (I wonder how many times therapists have to see people cry a week or even a day ><) He gave me a sympathetic look and I don’t remember what else happened that session, probably just talked about some more basic stuff about myself and some positive thinking advice.

Another thing I found memorable is that he told me ‘you are the one that knows yourself best’ and it really stuck with me. There was also a kind of ‘you are the only one that can change yourself/you are the one that can help yourself most’ kind of phrase (but I can’t remember the exact wording) and before that he would use a sort of metaphorical situation and ask me what I would do. The one for this phrase was something about being out at sea/or a pool and needing help... *blank blank something something* ...uh I can’t remember the rest of the details and I don’t think I should guess because I made a whole lotta nonsense in the other paragraph before lol. Again it feels kind of unreal, like I was a different person then or that I’m seeing it from a different perspective... I wonder if it’s dissociation or something, it just feels so strange ><

Oh also this is semi-irrelevant but I went to have Dyslexia tests at both college and uni also (my friend that already went recommended me to go). I just wanted to know why I was struggling so bad, why I had so much trouble with concentrating, taking in info and all that stuff. Maybe I’ll write about the outcome of these and where they lead me another time (ugh) when I write about all my other health focused posts. I’ll just mention again that so many things in mental health and function overlap and that it’s so difficult to discern the definitive reasons for things, the diagnosis I got was...eh... and I took it with a grain of salt pretty much (and btw my family/relatives weren’t all that convinced or supportive of this or when I had a diagnosis of depression which was... well it wasn’t great). I’m glad I had the courage to go to these too because it did help me to understand myself and work a tiny bit more efficiently, but I guess my avpd-ness prevented me from wanting to use the stuff and advice they gave me in class and well, it was already kind of too late to sort of salvage what little motivation I had then and try continue.

Uh... that was hella negative. But I guess that’s basically all I remember about those things. I started writing this post on monday but well I guess I had more to write about than I thought and I didn’t have enough time alone to think about it and write it lol. I’ll finish this post by mentioning some of my more positive things from yesterday ^^ I phoned the mobile provider of this phone I bought recently and returned to get some details on my return. I’ve put this off for a few days already and wasn’t going to try, but I pushed myself to and yay I got the answer I wanted (though I could have said my question a bit more straight forward in the beginning instead but in the end I got there, so it’s okay xD). The past year or so I’ve called the doctors and my phone provider the most probably lol. About why I returned the phone... I just really wanted a new phone because mine is so old and frustratingly dysfunctional, but I changed my mind about the one I got and decided to wait to get another one. Indecision and impulse buying at it’s best yo~~~

Also I emailed an enquiry to a seller about some problem I had with some product bought from Amazon (which I’ve also been putting off). In general I feel I’ve been trying harder to not let that ‘oh no someone’s gonna judge me’ feeling from stopping me do some small things I wanted to do, like listen to this derpy old cd I found on my living room stereo just before and commenting on some things online (with my cheesy jokes and over enthusiastic complimenting as usual lol *facepalm*). Also thinking more positively about things like, when you feel you weren’t successful, it’s best not to beat yourself up about it, at least you tried and you can try again and it might be even better than previously. Like with this post, I didn’t finish it on monday or yesterday like I wanted, but there’s no point feeling down or mad at myself for it (I mean it was my own choice really and my fear stopping me, but it’s not gonna help to be overly harsh to myself about it) and since I’m continuing it now anyways, it’s no big deal. It wasn’t mandatory for me to finish it, I shouldn’t worry about it, no obligations! ^^ I hope I can keep it up and keep pushing out of my comfort zone too!

Ze end~! Must go do something more productive! Let’s go~! :3

#avpd #therapy #depression #anxiety #social anxiety #personal #feelings #fear #avoidance #past #memories #Don't give up!#I can do it!#Don't worry so much #let positivity shine through #Let's try our best! :3

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