Post Malone once said, “and I’m still that bitch, so what?” and that really resonated with me. Because I am still that bitch, and I’ve always been that bitch, so what? I'll tell you what: you can only be that bitch for so long, because eventually your body will accept the fact that you’re never going to find out why the check engine light has been on. It’s been four years. We’re all surprised the bulb hasn’t burnt out yet. This unexplained longevity cannot be attributed to solar power, because that would require the sun’s involvement. There’s no chance it’s an LED bulb, because this is a 1900s model with the basic trim level. Were LED bulbs even invented yet? Why is there an ashtray?
Doesn’t really matter, because now the light is out, and the diagnostic report is no longer available to view. You’ve waited too long, and this shop doesn’t have the right manuals or tools to assist. They’re mad at you, too. Literally no one here can help you. They’re not even trying to convince you that yes, you actually still have to pay a human being to rotate your tires, even though rotating is literally the only job a tire has. And they say AI is taking over. No predatory upsell for you, darling, your eligibility has expired. It’s going to be a rough road, because the suspension has carried three children, and the tires are bald (too much rotating). But we will get through, because despite all our shortcomings, at least we are not bald. Slay.
Don’t worry, I have come fully prepared for this voyage with skin glue and adult diapers. Just in case, you can never be too prepared. How many seasons of Grey’s have you watched, and do you know CPR? For what it’s worth: I am not allergic to any medications. My blood type is B negative, which also matches my personality type, so it’s easy to remember. It also proves that I am that bitch; after all, those blood tests don’t lie. Except when what’s killing you doesn’t show itself on blood tests, then they do lie. Will Ferrell, you were wrong about blood tests in that bit about The Landlord. My dad has probably been straight this entire time.
Like the government, the human body is comprised of complex systems that are separate but equal; they work in unison, with full transparency and great communication, always. And, just like everything we were taught about the government is a lie, everything we were taught about our bodies is also a lie. I can track this back to Ronald Reagan somehow, I just know it. Obviously, not everything we learned was a lie; that was a tactic I used for dramatic effect. Did it work? I’m just guessing here.
Our culture encourages us to sustain a lifestyle that is simply unsustainable. Why? The Patriarchy. Yeah, some of you might get your feelings hurt, and you’re outnumbered. You are in danger here. Women are comparing notes, and they’re not very nice notes, but they are factual notes. Because uhh, what the hell is this? Mom, come get me, I’m scared. Just kidding. Partly because of her culpability in this situation. And she’s also dead, so there’s limited availability. Two strikes.
First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage. The standard recipe for the perfect nuclear family, passed down through generations, baby birded into the mouths of little girls, to nourish their developing brains. Meanwhile, the boys were being coddled and also baby birded by their mothers, but with incompetence instead of knowledge, and I mean that with the ultimate disrespect. We were indoctrinated by these little nursery rhymes, and we recited them with joy and celebration as the ideas were being planted into little baby brains and taking root. We weren’t even fully vaccinated yet. If your parents don’t love you, you’re still not fully vaccinated yet (embarrassing). It’s kinda fucked, when you really sit with the realization that we were taught to hold hands and skip around in a circle, singing about the Black Death. Ashes, ashes, why didn’t we do this for Covid?
For a lot of women, they get the fairytale, but only under one condition: they’re playing the parts for everyone in the production. The poets must’ve been running out of rhymes, because they sure left out a whole lot of important shit. Fairytale checklist now complete, she continues moving through her days doing what she was taught: checking all the boxes. She’s so busy checking everyone else’s boxes, she forgot her list even exists. Why is she the only one with a pen?
When my son was born in 2008, there was only one list, and only one pen. My son’s biological father chose not to be involved in his life, and that was his choice to make. I respect him for knowing that his capacity couldn’t meet my expectations, and for seeing himself out. I didn’t need a man then, and I don’t need a man now. If we’re being honest, I could’ve done without the man in the middle, but this story couldn’t. So, off we go.
Being a single mom, while also working a full time corporate job, while also pursuing my degree in the evening, while also tending to a robust social calendar, was a lot to manage. But look at me go! Look at all the great things I was accomplishing, despite my circumstances. Beyonce was right. There really are twenty four usable hours in every day.
Fast forward to the fairytale, I left my career to become a stay at home mom and focus on my family. I was determined to become the perfect wife and mother. How hard could it be? I had a solid history of being able to do it all, for everyone. And this time around, I would have a loving husband and partner to share the load. Hahahahaahahahahahahahaa.
My fairytale was more like a warrant round up. Where law enforcement tricks you into showing up to the convention center under the guise of winning a free TV, but it’s all a facade. There is no TV, and now you are going to jail. I really would fall for some shit like that, and well, what comes next fully supports that claim.
After my daughter was born, I struggled significantly with postpartum depression. Most days, I cried all day. It became a regular part of my day, like the morning sickness that lasted all day when I was pregnant with my son. The boxes were still being checked, the lists were being accomplished, despite it all. Nothing to see here. I was living the dream, after all! To be sad would mean I am ungrateful, and that wasn’t the case. I was living the dream. My successful husband walked into a clean house, a homemade meal on the table, timed perfectly with his arrival home from work. Everything was prepped and ready to go for our evening routine, all he had to do was show up and play the part. When I went to my doctor with serious concerns about my worsening postpartum depression, my OB told me that every Sunday, he takes the children out so his wife can have a day of respite, so why don’t I just try that? Oh, and here’s some Zoloft. Best of luck! This country is failing mothers, every single day.
I did everything. And when I say everything, I mean it. I would travel to see my family in Texas, several times a year, taking the kids with me every time. My husband would stay home, enjoying the homemade meals I made for him, prior to my departure. A different meal for each night away, perfectly packaged and labeled with simple instructions to reheat, readily available to him to enjoy at his leisure. Not every meal would be enjoyed, though. There were many times I would arrive home to find that he didn’t even touch those meals; preheating the oven was simply too much work for him. Damn.
That level of effort seeped into every crevice of our marriage; on both ends. I’ve always been an overachiever, and I was no stranger to picking up the slack of a lazy coworker. This was different, though. Over time, my job description started to look less like motherhood and more like a CVS receipt. The expectations for my role were changing, but the guidelines were also changing, and I just couldn’t keep up anymore. I was always failing, and that was really hard for me. If my only role is to be a wife and mother, and the feedback I'm receiving is that I'm terrible at both, what’s the point? Don’t even get me started on the pay structure - we’ll save that for a different day.
I pushed through anyway. I bought the card deck “Fair Play” and was convinced this was the solution. Finally! We can finally have a tangible plan to balance the domestic load, laid out before us, with clear expectations for all. Except that’s not what happened at all, because my starter husband made it very clear that he would not be participating in taking on any of the domestic load. That was my job, he went to actual work so our bills were paid. He said this in front of our marriage counselor, so there was a witness. I would drop the receipt, but, unfortunately the other participant in my marriage will not consent to those records being released to me, per that marriage counselor. I cannot imagine why.
I was trapped, and I was fucking tired. Who will check all of these boxes, if not me? But then again, if I'm the only person still checking boxes, what the fuck is that guy doing still doing here? There’s a reason I’m unapologetically pro divorce.
My last pregnancy was an absolute nightmare, and it was a surprise nightmare, which is even worse. I was on birth control; a fool proof birth control, but this was obviously all my fault. Remember when Republicans thought the Covid vaccine would make them infertile? Well, Abigail Taylor was on the way to prove a fucking point. You were wrong, and it turns out that embryos are actually a lot more resilient than we were initially taught. She proved herself in that category, too. You go, Abs.
My marriage ended the day I told my first husband that I was pregnant, but I didn’t know that it was over at the time. He did not want to have another child, and so I became a fucking problem the moment I held up three positive pregnancy tests and announced the obvious. Foresight should really see an eye doctor, because hindsight is 20/20, and foresight is legally blind. I was fuuuuuucked. Oh, and both my wrists were broken at the time. More on that later.
I trudged through a high risk pregnancy, being hospitalized several times for various reasons, and I was all alone. My husband left for a guy’s trip while I was being discharged from after a three day hospitalization because of a kidney infection when I was seventeen weeks pregnant. Instead of giving my body the rest it was screaming for, I came home to all the responsibilities I had neglected by being out of commission, and I got to play catch up, by myself. While pregnant and parenting two other kids, alone, making sure our home was back up to normal operating standards before he came home. Don’t worry, it gets worse.
Now we’re three kids deep and the receipt printer has run out of paper, and ink too, now that we’re inspecting it. Nothing that I did was good enough. He would come home after work to a clean house, but if the kids made any type of mess, it became a test: “what do you even do all day?” Which ended exactly how you would expect. I held on to my marriage for so long, I barely made it out alive, and that is neither a joke or sarcasm. I am dead fucking serious about that.
Once I left my marriage, I realized that I was no longer the unpaid, domestic help for an ungrateful, below average man, who is also bald. I was just me, and if there was something I didn’t really feel like doing, I didn’t have to do it. When I could finally, finally, rest, I started feeling so much better. I was finally healed! Problem solved. I totally made that up, by the way. No, no, it still gets much, much worse before it ever gets better.
Although I was out of the marital home, the conflict remained ongoing, and there was no end in sight. The fear and uncertainty that loomed over every day became all encompassing. After my ex husband discovered my DUI arrest, that man tried to take my children away from me. It was nasty, it was evil, and it was completely uncalled for. The thought of not having my children was unbearable to me; I couldn’t even comprehend how he could do this to me. My sister, Natalie, held me while the anticipatory grief of losing my children escaped my body in animalistic sobs. Truly, that’s the only way to describe it. It was really fucking bad. Her husband, Matt, was also there, but because of dissociation, I'm not sure what his exact role was during all of this. I’m sure he did great though. Matt is one of the good ones, and I really mean that. Thanks, Matt.
I’ve struggled with dysautonomia my entire life, it’s just how I'm wired. You’ll have to look that up on your own time, because I’m not legally allowed to give medical advice. I don’t know how to explain it to you idiots, and I struggle with how to even pronounce it, if I’m being honest. Two out of three of my children also have faulty wiring, which is unfortunate for them. My first fainting episode was when I was an alter boy at church, and no, there’s no such thing a an alter girl, or at least there wasn’t then. The Pope is pretty progressive, and I haven’t kept up. Ten Hail Maries for you, sinner girl. I woke to a Holy Water shower, and I wonder now what the long term side effects were from that intervention. We’ll never really know.
As a general rule, all bad things are inherited from male DNA. Mama Marge and I decided this fact years ago, for obvious reasons. But as another general rule, I am not a liar. So to the two children that are impacted: I am sorry. To the other one: you got lucky.
My dysautonomia remained mostly dormant after my son was born. Doctors said it was probably hormonal, and also probably just something silly I made up in my head for attention. It turns out, it’s not hormonal, and while it is my brain’s fault, it’s not for attention. My nervous system is so wrecked that there were mornings that my brain literally went offline to protect itself from the perceived threat of what that day would hold. Does that make her a Girl’s Girl?
So there I was, just playing possum on the reg. I felt like the punchline of a bad joke. Like, yes I got a concussion while getting out of bed this morning, and I got lost trying to find my way home from the bus stop because my brain threw a conniption fit after the concussion. My brain said, guuuuuuuuurl.. nah. And then my kidneys decided to take out their earrings, too. I was about to get fuckin’ jumped by my organs! I was in danger, and it was horrible. It turns out that chronic stress really does kill you from the inside out, and not in an ichronic way, either. I literally had to wear diapers, because my urinary tract was just offline and nobody could figure out why. I was peeing literal blood, and all the little facts and figures they find in your pee? off the charts. Overachiever, remember? I literally had to wear diapers. It was fucking terrible, but it’s the truth. My body was failing in real time, and doing a really good job at it, if I do say so myself.
How did she die? Stress. I have worked far too hard on the plot of this series for me to go out that way, but all jokes aside: listen to your body. Stop pretending you don’t speak the language, nobody believes you. There’s a reason they tell you to apply your oxygen mask before the lap child; because that’s how the manual was written, and they are legally required to read it to you as it’s written.
It was written that way because even if you’re not in a free falling aircraft, life is a free falling aircraft, and you cannot help others if you aren’t helping yourself first. That can feel impossible, especially as a mother, and even more impossible if your husband is a piece of shit. I’m not telling you to do a five step skin care routine (a baby wipe and Botox will do for now, thank you), but I am asking you gently to listen to your body. Please just rest, even if just for five minutes. Say no more. Try to take on less. Because if you don’t, your body will make you. And based on my own experience, she’s probably not going to be very nice about whooping your ass. Why should she be? Better start saving up your self care points now, or you’ll wind up like me - with mild brain damage and a permanently scarred eyebrow. It’s also a good time to check in with your support circle and see who does the best with blood and guts, and who has a fully stocked First Aid Kit. And then? It’s time to rest, please (or else).