No, I Can’t Just Eat A Little Bit Of Bread and Other Frustrating Explanations

Ignorance. The bane of my life. No, I can’t just ‘go home’, the Hague has made that impossible. No, I can’t go through the courts, the Hague is written so I literally cannot win, and no they don’t care that he beat me, even though, yes I did have documentation of the abuse. Yes, it is all retrospective. No I can’t get a divorce, I tried and got turned down twice – the man literally will not allow me to leave the marriage and the law lets him do that. No, if you are undocumented you do not get food stamps, government aid or fluffy puppies. Whatever charity I have received has been privately funded. No, I can’t leave San Francisco, are you actually insane? It is safe here for me and my child. Yes, my child was turned down by local schools, hospitals and other institutions that are meant to help every child. Yes, I have always made sure he had schooling and medical care, and he is doing marvelously well.

No my child was not given a spot to ever play a game of baseball, only go to practice, and yes, that is because he is undocumented. He gave up because he never got to play on a team. No, I can’t just have a little wheat, no I can’t ‘cheat’ and have some gluten, because if I do my celiac disease will explode literally in a bloom of rashes, extreme vomiting and diarrhea, and autoimmune exhaustion. Just a speck, just a bite, and I am toast. Make that gluten free toast, cause I ain’t joking. People presume they know better than me, despite not living my life and surviving it, time after frustrating time again.

In short, I don’t like people very much. Most of them don’t get it. Some of them require more explanations than others, and some refuse to let go of their preconceived ideas of the issues that they are pontificating knowledge of, when they don’t have a foggy clue. Sometimes I decide that I like people enough to explain, to persevere. Sometimes I like someone very much indeed as a friend, but am simply out of energy. Sometimes their superiority complex, their refusal to take my word for the way my life is, is so extreme that the best thing they can do for me if fuck off to the far side of fuck and keep on fucking going. Of course, that makes me look terrible. I look unreasonable. I look grouchy. I look as if I am short tempered. I am not short tempered, I am tired.

I am simply exhausted with explaining. I am burnt out. I can’t explain or justify any longer. Either someone gets it or they don’t, but I don’t have the energy to pour into talking sense into them or getting them to understand my reality. So I get more and more isolated.

Of course I should write about it. I try. Writing has become what feels like an exercise in futility for me. I write. I love writing. I detest pitching. I don’t like playing schmoozing games of being nice. I don’t like the dance. I don’t like the prescribed views that you have to espouse in order to continue. I don’t like the fact that my entire life has been marred by issues which are absolutely due to my sex – due to being a woman, but so many people have no idea what a woman even is any more. When they erased women, they erased the reality of my suffering.

After all, if we become so inclusive in our language that words cease to have meaning, because they include everyone in what should be a protected group, then not only does that protected group get erased, but the protections afforded to them because of their status simply disappear. If everyone can ‘be a woman’, then the word has no meaning, and things happen like losing the right to abortion and contraception. No, I can’t just opt out into being a man, or a theybe. I can’t because that is not what I am. I am a woman. OK, so I can explain double plays, cuss out the umps, drink like a sailor, and swear like one too, but I am a woman, like it or not, and trust me, I really don’t fucking like it.

I hear women talk about what they would do if they were a man. A lot make playful jokes about willies and helicopters. Some want to burp and fart, because of course, women don’t get to do that. If I was a man I would pass through life unnoticed, mostly unmolested and unbothered. People would take my word for the fact that I have a serious autoimmune disease which I know how to handle best and that I can’t eat gluten. People would believe me when I said that what I am doing now was my only option, and to stay safe, I have to stay put. People would treat me with respect and dignity. I would do nothing different, what would be different in what people did to me.

I have a busy day ahead, when what I really need and want to do is nothing. I want to sit in front of the television and watch the end of The Umbrella Academy. They ruined season 3. It is choppy and disparate and nothing makes much sense, but that is ok. It is still fine television if what you are looking for is talking tattooing monkeys in 1 percenter biker gangs, and improbable superheroes. I want to throw on Never Mind The Bollocks and scream like Chrissie Hynde about being in the middle of the road. She has this line “I can’t get from the cab to the curb/Without some little jerk on my back/Don’t harass me, can’t you tell/I’m going home, I’m tired as hell/I’m not the cat I used to be…” This is what it means to be a woman: harassed, exhausted, and wondering where the cat you used to be has gone. This is what I wouldn’t miss if I was a man. If I was a man I would be settling into silver fox status and dating stupid young women half my age, whilst driving a dick-replacer car. Instead I am faded, weathered, torn and broken, and more than all of that, I am tired of it all beyond belief.

One difference between me and Chrissie – and yes, there are many – is that I am still the cat I used to me. I am still that woman. I kept her preserved, iced, locked up and buttoned down, ready to be allowed back into the light of day once I was safe. I kept my heart, my soul, my inner youthfulness and verve, and I am not giving it up for anyone. So if you find me prickly, I am sorry…not sorry. I guess I will keep on writing for now, but I can’t help but feel all of this is a waste of time. I really give up.

7 Comments

  1. rebecca+s+revels

    Writing is the vent, the safety valve that allows enough out that our soul doesn’t implode into the pain and suffering that is either not understood or misunderstood by many.

  2. clcouch123

    You would do so much good in a writing program. I think I mean to say you would do well and a program would do well by you. I guess with official statuses and such it wouldn’t work to apply, though you could always inquire. In no way do I want to tell you what to do. It’s simply that the strength of your voice should be encouraged, plus we need it in the world.

    1. The Paltry Sum: Detroit Richards

      Apologies for being such a grouch recently. I have had one heck of a month and am feeling very much under siege and more than a bit helpless. Thank you, as always, for reading and commenting. I always look forward to hearing from you, you pal, D

      1. clcouch123

        To say the least, you should be a grouch when you need to be. I’m happy to read about your expanded work in writing. Yes, I like your writing very much. It’s both creative and straightforward, not the easy blend to achieve. And there’s power in your voice. Thanks for asking, I’m all right. My heart and heart machines seem to be doing all right with each other. The weather here has been dense (dense air from humidity), which is a challenge anymore for breathing. I’m still stressed by the thudding through the ceiling that happens so often, and I am looking for another place. But I’m still here, and I’d rather be here. Please take care, Christopher

      2. The Paltry Sum: Detroit Richards

        Please keep being here, Christopher. I am glad you are doing at least ‘all right’, though wish things were better for you. I have no idea what it is about noisy people. Where I live is downtown and I am often awoken by people outside fighting, shouting, loving, laughing. At 4am I just want them to be quiet. It is soul destroying to not be allowed to sleep. Humidity is an absolute horror, isn’t it. I am glad to live in mostly cool San Francisco with the marine layer and cool breezes. I will take being cold over hot any time. I agree with you about ‘being here’. I feel the same way. I intend to live as long as possible. I always find pleasure in life, despite all the shit.
        As for my ‘voice’, I fear I am an old fashioned kind of writer. I am too bold, too depressing, too dark to be popular. I have to work out how to sell out in order to make a living at this. Unfortunately I am not exactly a restrained kinda grrrrl. I really hope you find that new place and some peace soon, my friend. Thank you for putting up with my grouchiness. I am on a ‘be sweeter’ to people campaign. Life just overwhelms me sometimes. I would love to be divorced, to not be pursued, to feel safe, to be legal. I would love to think I could stay with my son. I fear that none of that is going to ever happen for me, and I get very tired. You take care too, friend. Feel free to write to my email detroitrichards@gmail.com if you ever feel the need or want to. Your pal, D

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