I had a very taboo day.
Was fitting with the weather. Cold, windy, rainy. Nothing you want to talk about.
Though, you can talk about the weather. No one will find your morally reprehensible or evil. I mean, unless you are plotting to take over the world with a fancy Weather Machine with Helena Cassadine. Then, perhaps. But, widely, talking about the weather is safe, something comforting that brings factions of humanity together against the forces of nature. The worst possible offensive in talking about the weather is that it's annoying. Big deal.
I dislike taboo. I dislike that women, everywhere, go through this and cannot openly discuss it. The emotional, physical, unforeseen crappery. The pain. My, God, the pain. Emotional, physical, unforeseen pain. Guilt. Of course the guilt. Because Someone, Somewhere cannot ever even hope to have that situation bless them and theirs, and how dare anyone take that for granted. Kill that dream. Kill.
I am forever broken. Messy. Hurt. Damaged. My pain is unforeseen, unknowable, unspeakable.
But I would like to speak. And not about the rain and General Hospital plotlines from the 70s. About the taboo.
Comments (5)
Hey, you,
So spill it, somewhere, in it's face. Shout it out and wear it on your sleeve.
Fuck it up, and sweep it where ever you want it.
That pain is yours, but I hope you don't feel alone in it. I know how it feels to swallow a twister. Hang on to what ever keeps you steady. It's always there, when you lose your balance.
Hang on to it.
--How about Tortilla Soup?
Posted by lu | October 11, 2006 11:20 PM
Honey, I hear you. Honestly. I'm sorry you're hurting, but you are not damaged. You're human. We do what we can, what we have to. Fuck taboo.
I love you, to the ends of the earth and back again.
Hold on.
Posted by Jennifer | October 12, 2006 6:29 PM
Back on the porch, with blankets, warm fuzzy socks and a bottomless pot of hot tea. We don't have to talk, we can just cry together if that feels right.
Someone left this for me, and want to share it with you:
We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep. It's as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out windows, or drown themselves, or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us are slowly devoured by some disease, or, if we're very fortunate, by time itself. There's just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds & expectations, to burst open & give us everything we've ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) know these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning, we hope, more than anything for more. Heaven only knows why we love it so...
Virginia Woolf, in the book "The Hours"
Posted by lu | October 12, 2006 7:21 PM
Thank you, infinitely.
I love you guys.
Posted by t | October 14, 2006 9:44 AM
Oh, Trisha. Oh, Trisha. I am so sorry. You're in my heart.
Posted by Sarahlynn | October 16, 2006 10:40 AM