The 'Expectant Mother' Stall Is Mine, Bitch.

My back has a history, like a scarred Irishman who was molested by a priest and now self medicates by binge drinking rubbing alcohol. I was pleasantly surprised when I made it to the fourth month at my new job without my back slipping out of place, and I was able to focus my energy on the other blessings associated with working an office job, like growing an ass on top of my ass.

Eventually I started to feel the tightening of my back as it descended into depression, but I didn't get my two sizes too small panties in a knot because I had forgotten something important: I no longer work a physically healthy job. And forgetting that vital piece of information was a mistake, because last Wednesday my back attempted suicide.

I booked an appointment with a new chiropractor (not the one who tried to give me a pap smear in 2008-- I only go to him when I'm lonely). I was so far into the pain-o-sphere that I was thrilled to have this man (a man who, in my disoriented and desperate state, resembled Jesus) give me a chiropractic adjustment for the mere cost of $90.

"What would you rate your pain on a scale of one to ten?" Jesus asked.

I looked around the room at the accumulation of Anne Geddes prints, clay casts of children's hands, medical posters of pregnant bellies, plaques boasting parental quotes, and the daddy of all heteronormative propaganda-- a six foot high poster of a man holding a premature infant in his hands with the word "FAMILY" beneath it in ovum-exciting font. I wondered if I had I accidentally booked an appointment with a vagina doctor-- a legitimate vagina doctor, not a chiropractor who wanted to be a vagina doctor.

"Hard to say . . . I've never given birth," I said sarcastically, yet cheerfully, aiming to make shit weird, and I stared at him long and hard with a look that said and for fuck sakes, please tell me you didn't decorate this room yourself, Jesus. He chuckled awkwardly (score) and asked if an eight sounded like an appropriate pain level. I was originally going for a six because I tend to perceive myself as a pussy, but eight sounded okay, and I nodded in agreement.

Once the chiropractic adjustment was underway, it became apparent to both Jesus and I that on the scale of relativity, I had grossly underestimated my pain level. Either the average chiropractic patient is a whiner, or I need to stop comparing the severity of my pain to disembowelment scenes from horror movies. Jesus informed me that my pelvis had rotated approximately half an inch out of place, and while the pain would subside with treatment, my actual healing time would be on par with a fracture and would take up to four to six weeks.

From sitting on my ass at my office job.

The next morning I drove to my second chiropractic appointment, and I admit that I was so high on muscle relaxants that I shouldn't have been driving a bike with training wheels, let alone a motorized vehicle that I unhealthily worship and refer to as "my husband." At this point the pain was starting to get to me, and when I entered the waiting room of the chiropractic clinic and realized that I had walked into a Mommy Blogger Convention, my body went into Anaphylactic shock.

I struggled to balance myself as I wiggled my fashion faux-pas, UGG rip-offs from my feet within a sea of spinning, screaming, toddlers. Must not crush God's children, my mind chanted, must not crush God's children. After helping one of God's children find her shoes while protecting her fingers from getting pinched in the door (no worries parents, I GOT IT), I shuffled my way through the ankle biters like a career crack head and looked for an empty seat, but there were none, and I resorted to a child's storage bench in a tight canal of the Mommy Bloggers Club House.

After bracing myself and contorting myself in prep for the unavoidable pain I was going to experience, I became seated. As my body shook, I lifted my head to see five chipper women sitting across from me, four of whom were pregnant, none of whom would make eye contact. My neurotic, pain stupor told me that this was because they felt twangs of guilt that tugged at their self deserving egos, but there was no way in hell they were going to offer their seat to Whore Without Child.

I, too am glad I'm not an alcoholic.

Since partaking in the Sits Girls Blogger challenge (no, I'm not linking) a few years ago, I feel uncomfortable when surrounded by more than two young, white, middle class mothers at the same time, and being around four pregnant women was on par with day five of an untreated yeast infection. My paranoia lead me to plot revenge-- Guess who's going to park in the Expectant Mother parking stalls from now on? ME, BITCHES.

Shortly after Super Mommy Blogger supported my prejudice by giving a monologue about "little boys being the best cuddlers," and I was like, REALLY, we're now gendering CUDDLES?, and I silently wished for a chiropractic office that catered to gays, or the elderly, or elderly gays, Never Blogged Mom of Two Teens responded with an open ended, "my son is sixteen." Super Mommy Blogger heaved a sigh of pleasure at the notion that these miniature beings of cuteness could grow into autonomous individuals who download midget porn on the family computer, but as she reached her Hallmark card climax, Never Blogged ominously added, " . . .  just. you. wait."

And for the first time in days, I smiled.

When I later hit my $300 price limit (I don't have health benefits yet), I dropped out of chiropractic treatment. My back has improved by about 50%, which is largely in thanks to working from home since the 'incident,' and I am happy to report that after I sobered up from the gnawing pain, I stopped plotting revenge against young mothers.

No really, no need to applaud.

The suicide attempt of my back seemed to be the final blow after four months of experiencing neurotic thoughts, constipated chakras, and an over all sense of physical and mental unhealthiness. At this juncture I'm not sure how long it will take before I'll be able to resume sitting on my ass for eight hours a day.

Maybe sitting on my ass for eight hours a day just isn't me.

Bro Totally "Housed" That One: A History of Doctors

There are many theories out there as to why I developed chronic ailments at the age of thirteen, but none are from people with medical doctorates and a decade or two of experience with treating people's health problems. I've chalked it up to their lack of time. Here are some Tums, you feeble, average citizen, now get the fuck out of my office so I can resume the radical game of Croquet I am currently winning on the well manicured lawn of my superior mind. And by lack of time, I obviously mean lack of interest.



My ailments, which have covered pretty much everything under the moon, led me to forego a variety of experimental hoop jumping throughout my early teens.

I went to a gastrointestinal specialist who told me to stay away from spicy and acidic foods and to eat a lot of bran. Because obviously my constipation was due to a lack of fibre, and then I was medicating my constipation by binging on Indian food and suicide wings, which was then causing bouts of torturous diarrhea that were so painful it made me want to vomit. Yes, Bro totally "Housed" that one. Now get the fuck out of my office, little peon. I need space so my spirit can masturbate to the thought of my four car garage.

House is a fictional character, after all.

Then I drank a litre of Barium and had x-rays done of my digestive tract.

Drink it fast. No, faster. FASTER. And if you throw it up, you'll just have to drink it again.

Nothing came of the x-rays.

Then my doctor gave me a Depression Check List from 1974 that included questions like, "are you in a cult?" and later wrote me a prescription for anti-depressants. The Happy Pills didn't alleviate my symptoms, either, but they did make me feel like I was floating in a bubble. I hit up a few counsellors, too: one lady who was convinced that my parents were beating me, or throwing sex parties and letting me watch, because why else would a teenage girl be depressed? And another dude, who laughed at my jokes too hard and for too long. I can't believe you don't have a boyfriend. Just can't believe it. Cannot! Believe! It! I am still not sure if he was a pedophile or simply thought I was a cool kid. Or maybe he just thought I needed to get laid.

Sorry for relating your image to that of a possible pedophile, Steve Wilkos. I know how much you hate them.

In my Junior year of high school, my mom took me to a little Metis lady who met with clients in her basement and "looked into their eyes."



Mom was not impressed.

The woman told me that the chemistry in my body was out of wack due to a childhood of antibiotic overdose and a modern day diet of poison, so she put me on a hard ass, Gestapo style detox elimination diet which would eventually lead me to suck on berry flavoured, herbal tea bags in hope to score a hint of sweetness and quiet my desperate sugar craving.

(Enter your own tea baggin' joke here.)

And that's when my life drastically changed for the better.

Within a few week my ailments subsided and I was no longer living in pain. Over the years I learned more specifically what my body could and could not tolerate, and the "could not" far outweighed the "could".

It was hard to explain to people why I couldn't eat a normal, Western diet, and because I was thin, most assumed it was due to reasons of vanity, even despite my half-assed explanations. Other girls started to compare my figure to their own and, by default, I became perceived as a "skinny bitch". But unlike the women in the world who are inherently and effortlessly petite, I was hungry for carbohydrates and didn't perceive the comments as flattering. Instead, I wanted to gnaw on those girls faces and pretend they were McDonalds Cheeseburgers. But I didn't. Because it probably would have given me diarrhea.

The longer I was away from trouble foods, the better I felt, and eventually my ailments disappeared altogether. But the cravings for a big slab of double chocolate cake never really went away, and without the recurring pain to remind me of the consequences of such foods, I began to dabble here and there in hope that as the years passed by, I would out grow my sensitivities and be able to resume a normal diet. In some ways, this did turn out to be the case.  My digestive troubles subsided, even despite eating naughty foods here and there, and the once crippling stomach pain I experienced at fourteen became a rare occurrence. However, when I reached adulthood, other problems arose,  like regular sinus headaches that would develop into migraines and hormonal fluxes that put me in a constant battle with breakouts. Because it had been so long since I had been on a "clean" diet, I could never truly decipher what foods were causing my new troubles.

It had been awhile since I had been shafted by medical doctors so I decided to mention my nagging migraines to my family doctor, who then sent me to an allergist. An allergist from the sixth dimension of hell.

He asked me to relay my history with migraines, and I told him about two incidences that stood out among the rest when I was stricken with migraines after eating frozen berries.

The first time was when I was twelve and had to be taken to the emergency room and drugged due to the pain. I don't remember anything passed my dad carrying me into the hospital, although my mom later told me that the doctors concluded that I had experienced a severe allergic reaction to something I had eaten. The second time was when I was twenty and ate frozen berries out of a store bought bag. This time my mom and I knew what was happening, so my mom fed me a handful of codeine and sat with me while I writhed and cried in pain and barfed a few times until it passed through my system.

"Maybe it was some sort of mould?" I threw out at the allergist.

"IMPOSSIBLE," he barked.

And then sometime during the appointment he asked me if I was on oral contraceptives. I said no.  I wasn't on them at the time because they had been flaring up my chronic condition, which, among the "quack community", they were commonly known to do. Of course he never asked me if I was sexually active in the first place, and if I could teleport back in time, I would pretend to be a devout Catholic and pull the horrifically offended, How Dare You Imply I Am A Whore Who Is Damned To Hell card. But instead I fantasized about stabbing him in the eye ball with his allergy prick pins and told him that my body didn't do well on the pill and explained why I had gone off of it.

He was now yelling. "WOULD YOU RATHER EXPERIENCE SOME MILD DISCOMFORT OR HAVE AN UNWANTED CHILD?!"

Keep in mind that dude didn't know anything about me except that I had recurring migraines.

Of course the allergy test came back clean, except for a mild reaction to dust, but I did learn that no matter what the circumstances, my own quality of life must always, and I mean ALWAYS, take the back burner to preventing the life of a child with a 98% effective method of birth control. Okay, slut?

After moving to Alberta, it took me years to find a doctor that I felt comfortable with, but eventually I did, and I can confidently say that she is the best doctor I've ever had. Which is cool, because for us women, the majority of our doctor visits are spent conversing with our GPs through spread knees as our secrecies are violated by fluorescent lights and speculums that resemble miniature car jacks. But although my new doctor is good shit, I've learned through experience that doctors are a unique breed of people that I don't understand.

I haven't been able to gauge whether doctors think that the average citizen is incredibly stupid and lazy, and get a kick out of throwing asinine solutions at us to see what we'll do with them, sort of like a fucked up, sociological mockery, or if they, themselves, are such Type A personalities that they cannot think outside the box of 1987 text books. Like when my ex boyfriend went to a doctor asking for something to help relieve his arthritic pain that was caused by his Chrohns disease, and the doctor told him to take some Tylenol.

One thing my new doctor has difficulty wrapping her head around are my chronic imbalances and super sensitivities to pretty much everything that is typically perceived as healthy and noncontroversial. An annoying effect of my chronic imbalance is that it has a tendency to skew the results of pap tests. My old doctor was well aware of my on going struggles and didn't think much of my skewed pap results. However, my current doctor is adamant to do six month re-testing until it's all worked out, which I am completely on board with since I'm becoming concerned that it's been so long since I've had a proper pap result. The thing is, new doctor isn't making the connection between my pap results and my chronic issues, and I've realized that I need to smarten up and tap into all the information I've learned outside of the traditional medical field, or else I will spend years going back for re-tests, which my doctor office calls me for every six months with grave, end-of-the-world seriousness, as if I need to get in there ASAP before the apocalypse strikes and I miss out on my chance to enlist in The Resistance and the whole fucking world dies due to the absence of my superior zombie killing skills, and then when my results remain abnormal, I will be shipped off to stunned specialist after stunned specialist, just as I did when I was fifteen years old.

So, I am on day five of The Nazi Diet, which puts me in the detox phase, also known as "die off" to those familiar with homeopathic medicine.  Die off is a bitch because during that time chronic symptoms tend to get worse. Many of my adult symptoms have already alleviated, but the old school discomforts have resurfaced and every day I wake up feeling like I am being stabbed in the stomach with a pitch fork.

But on a positive note, I feel like I am turning a new page in my life. And it's a good page, I think. I am also looking forward to the prospect of fitting into some of my old pants. Double points if I can ever squeeze my ass back into my pair of acid wash jeans. I am not, however, looking forward to the prospect of losing some of my boobie chub, because when I am laying in bed at night, cold and lonely, my boobie chub hugs me and gives me warmth.

My First Spiritual Cleansing With an Aura Ninja

A few weeks ago Mom got her aura read at a neighborhood party.

The Reiki master, AKA Aura Ninja, came back last week to administer another healing, and my Mom was like, Oh My God, WANT TO? I was like, Oh My God, YES.

So I got up early before work to go with Mom for a spiritual rub down. We walked into my mom's friend's yard and was greeted by her kids, four canines. The friend's husband warned me that the German Shepherd had been abused, so I was cautious as I tried to slip by him. But of course my mother, the dog whore, had to pet them all, and rub them behind their ears, and talk to them in her retarded dog voice, which is simply a more mature version of my retarded cat voice, and while I awkwardly lingered and waited for her to pull it together, I felt the German Shepherd's nose ascend up my ass.

Do I need to remind you why I am a cat person?

You will all be comforted in knowing that my womanly schedule has resumed its normalcy back to a 28 day cycle. LOOK HOW INTIMATE WE'VE BECOME. So when Patches, the German Shepherd, had his nose up my ass, all I could think about was that Pop Up Video for Madonna's Like a Virgin that included some factoid about Madonna being asked if she was menstruating before she shot the scene with the lion because lions are attracted to the scent of blood and have a high likelihood of eating menstruating women.

I anxiously anticipated being mauled by Patches, but instead the husband scolded him for his intimate explorations and he withdrew. You know what's worse than having a dog's snout journey up your personal atmosphere? Having other people publicly notice.

When it was my turn to have my reading done, I followed the Aura Ninja, a petite, pleasant man who wore a hippie shirt, into the back room of the house. Two of the dogs followed me. Naturally. Always popular in all the wrong ways. I laid on the rub down table and the Aura Ninja tried to gently shoo my fan club out of the room, causing the alpha dog to whine in detest.

He shut the door and comforted me by telling me that he would not be touching me -- not like the shady chiropractor with the office on 32nd street who stroked my face and told me I was pretty, and then had me put on a gown and contort my legs into pornographic positions as he pretended not to stare at my vaj-j through my lace panties. Or the manager at my work who grabbed my head while I was on my knees and humped it in front of my seventeen year old co-worker and then got fired. No, he would just be moving his hands above my body, conducting positive energy flow.

"Do you know how to ground yourself?"

I said no. He said he'd do it for me.

I tried my best to go to my happy place, a room of white overlooking the ocean with open windows and soft linens. A desk. A pen. A stack of crisp paper.

The Aura Ninja's tummy gurgled. I began to think about farts, the ones you don't let out and then they pop and groan inside your intestines. I wondered if he had to fart. Maybe he had to fart and it was giving him a tummy ache, and here he was trying to fill a room full of suburban jerks with positive light (at no charge) and all he wanted to do was let a good one rip. "It's okay if you need to fart," I wanted to say. "My boyfriend does it in front of me all the time." But that's the type of thought I only verbalize when I am drunk, so I kept my mouth shut.

I was wowed by how fast the Aura Ninja got into the zone. Anyone who knows anything about meditation knows that getting into the zone is not an easy feat. I don't think I have ever successfully gotten there by conscious choice. Aura Ninja's breathing changed as he began the spiritual rub down at my feet.

My college boyfriend poses in a banana hammock to demonstrate the multi layers of his aura.

I reminded myself to focus. I shot back to my happy place and closed my eyes. Take my negative energy, I thought to myself, take it, Ninja.

When he got to my abdomen, his breathing became more tired. He moved his hand over my uterus in a fast motion, as if trying to clean three month old marker off of a white board. He had found my period. I wondered if my low iron was making him feel spiritually fatigued. Is he experiencing menstrual cramping? Oh God, the poor guy already has to fart. I started to feel bad.

Right. Focus. I was struggling. I thought about all the negative energy I had stored inside of my body escaping and floating up towards the ceiling. I was trying.  

After enjoying a relaxing swim at the local pool, two women compare the auras shining from their lady parts.

As he made his way up towards my head, he heaved and sighed as if dragging a 500 lbs boulder up a hill. I wondered if this was normal or if I had a high maintenance aura. Once again, he vigorously rubbed as if working a knot out of my brain. By this point I could feel the energy from his hands. Now, just so my Atheist, science devoted, University of Saskatchewan friends know, I am not saying that I could feel the rub n' tug of God, or that I was absorbing some sort of supernatural power from the heavens. So calm down. All I am saying is that I could sense his bodily energy, which felt like certain parts of my body were being weighted under pressure, somewhat resembling the sensation of water pressure.

When he was done he stood back and said, "wow!"

"What is it?!"

"Boy, is there ever a lot going on inside your head."

I laughed. "I know."

"You're constantly thinking and analyzing everything. I haven't experienced someone who thinks as much as you do in months."

"That doesn't surprise me." I told him that I am a writer but refrained from telling him that I am a sociology grad who is constantly creating and critiquing thesis ideas in my head-- I didn't want to scare him.

"That explains a lot. If you shut off your mind a bit and just be, your creativity will soar. You will do many great things."

I nodded. Over the past couple of years I've come to realize this, albeit in bits and pieces, and I've hinted towards it in past blog posts, but the line between writing and thought control is blurry. Sure, shutting off your mind as a visual artist is easy. But as a writer? I have yet to figure out how to do that.

"What are your thoughts on dreams?" I asked him.

"Well, sometimes our dreams offer us guidance when we are unable to consciously sort through issues on our own. Why do you ask? What have you been dreaming of?"

The week before I had dreamt about Satan watching me at a distance, the type of grotesque, demon creature that even horror movies can't create, and then there were the maggots and the flies. The day prior I had a horrible dream where I was sexually assaulted in a particularly humiliating way. I had an audience. They were laughing at me.

"Oh, nothing in particular," I responded. "But I have certain dreams that I perceive as guidance dreams, and I was just wondering if that was familiar to you."            

"Very much so."

"I do have some pretty disturbing dreams though." Cough. Cough.

"Disturbing dreams are nothing to be alarmed by. Some dreams come to us as a way to work through issues from past lives. You don't have much baggage from this life, but you have a lot of baggage from past lives."

Most rational people would be rolling their eyes, putting up walls, and thinking, holy shit, this guy dropped a lot of acid in the 70's, but his mystical, outer-limits-like comment reflected something that I've thought for a long time. There are reasons, but they're personal and I am probably already being scoffed at, so I will end the past life discussion there.

My mom had her aura rub down after I did, and when we were on our way home, I told her about my experience with the Aura Ninja.

"He said something about you to me, too. I asked him if I could tell you and he said yes."

"What did he say?"

"He asked me if you had a boyfriend and said to be careful."

My heart sank a little as I prepared to hear some sort of premonition about how my current relationship is doomed for heart ache, and then I'd have negative, psychic bullshit whispering, he's not the one, or you still suck at life, Lojo, you still suck at life, thus causing me inevitable mind fuck.

"Oh no," I said, "why did he ask?"

"He said he could feel a powerful energy coming from you and he thinks you're very fertile. So he said to be careful if you're not wanting a baby right now."

"I AM ON MY PERIOD. FIRST THE DOGS HAVE THEIR SNOUTS UP MY PRIVATES, THEN DUDE TRIES TO TWIDDLE AN IMAGINARY FIRE ABOVE MY UTERUS, AND NOW I AM SUPPOSEDLY IN TURBO BABY-MAKING MODE. CAN'T A WOMAN JUST HAVE HER PERIOD?"

My Mom laughed and agreed that possibly the uterine contractions I was experiencing-- the uterine contractions that were so gnarly that I was popping codeine every four hours-- was why he had sensed a surge of energy radiating from my lady parts.

Oh, life. It's just not as romantic as it is in the movies. Or new age spirituality. Nor is it as attractive.

And as for why he mentioned this to my mother and not me, who knows.

All in all, I greatly enjoyed the experience and I look forward to going back when my uterus isn't throwing dogs, Aura Ninjas, and energy from alter plains off course.

And I promise my male readers that I will not mention my period for at least three months. So let's chug a beer and bump chests.


My Birthday: what better day for a counseling appointment?

Tuesday, May 25th, was my twenty-seventh birthday, and the first day I sat in a counseling appointment in ten years.

The night of my high school graduation and eighteenth birthday. When Bear saw this photo on my computer, he said, "awww, you were a cutie." I told him that I had gone to my graduation solo. "Really?! What the hell? I would have gone with you, and I would have been like, hey everyone, look who I'm doin' tonight." He's SUCH a sweetheart.

I have a history of depression, but I am not depressed. Depression is like having a demon of sadness riding around on your shoulders who slowly puts your spirit to death. And farts sulphur in your face. I don't have any mood disorders, either. I am quite rational in my discontent. Like, gee, maybe so-in-so would sell me a bottle of Adavan? Or, if my life doesn't change in fifteen years I will just off myself-- after my kitties pass on, of course. Maybe I should write this down on a Post-it note.

The counselor asked me why I was there. I told her that my life hasn't panned out the way I had hoped, and that I was looking for skills to better cope with some of life's disappointments instead of slowly descending into self destruction. Or sitting on the toilet bawling for two hours until the skin on my face has an allergic reaction to my tears. Like last Saturday.

She suggested that we re-cap some of these disappointments. So, I started small and worked my way up. Starting with my post-secondary schooling experience and my subsequent never-developed career path. I told her that after a long journey, I have recognized and accepted my true purpose and that I have been eagerly pursuing it. She pointed out how my face lit up when I talked about it, and how recognizing one's true passion is truly the hardest task of all. "You're on your way. So. . . what's the problem?"

The woman had a point. I wasn't sure.

 At age three my journey took me to the farm where I mastered the art of being cute. And taming barn kittens.

I've always inherently known that if something is important to you, you give it your all and you construct your own success. On the other hand, I was raised in a family and a culture that preached the system: go to school and follow the rules; go to school some more and follow the rules; work a nine to five job and follow the rules. That's the foundation of success. And success is happiness.

My gut fought me from preschool through until university. I tried to adapt to the system and I shoved my seemingly risky ideals further and further down, but some larger force that I envision as a large drag queen always waved her finger in my face and was like, "nu-uh, girlfriend! That's not your purpose. And until you embrace your purpose and fight for it, you're going to work that goddamn night job, and you're going to smile about it. Bitch."

It was hard to open my mind, ditch old conventionalities, and convince myself that it is okay to follow my gut and do it on my own with no guaranteed outcome, and in this regard, I have come a long way. But I still struggle with the voices of others who still think I need to get a real job, go back for more schooling, move on with life, grow up, slowly die inside, etc. They don't believe that I will attain any other kinds of success. Ignoring the doubts of others is the hardest thing for me to do.

At age four my journey revolved around Jem and the Holograms, which inspired me to dress up as Aja for my preschool Halloween party. I ignored the doubts of others who mistook me for a pantless gypsy. In my heart, I was Aja, rockin' out on lead guitar.

We graduated in topic to my serial, long term relationships. "Did you learn from those relationships?" she asked. I assured her that I had learned an incredible amount from them. "Then that's a good thing. It's part of your journey."

It soon became apparent that a lot of my inner disgruntlement is derived from my desire for approval. Who knew that the girl who rocked combat boots in the halls of high school would ever give a shit. Especially at twenty-seven. Suddenly I no longer seem so cool.

My journey at age seventeen. Please note my vintage GNR sweatshirt. I mean, AWESOME vintage GNR shirt.

Over the years I have adopted a lot of guilt around this so-called journey of mine and my romantic history has become another source of failure for me, as though I have built a reputation of love dysfunction and I've earned some sort of unworthiness when it comes to choosing or attracting a mate.  Whether or not my insecurities around these things are largely self perpetuated, I don't know. But I do find that my relationship with my parents is better when I am single, and I translate that into the assumption that if I am dating someone, then I must be fucking up my life somehow.

The counselor asked me about my current relationship and what he's like. I relayed some of his qualities to her, and while parental approval was still fresh in the conversation, I made a comment about how different he is in regards to the paradigm in which I was raised.
"Is he loving towards you?"
"Yes."
"Does he work?"
"He's a hard worker."
"Good husband/ father material?"
"Yes."
"Then who cares. It's your journey."

My parents mean a lot to me. I respect them. I trust them. And they've done a tremendous amount for me in my life which I will always be incredibly grateful for. Because of my strong relationship with them, the line between what I absorb and internalize and what I disregard has become unclear. The boundaries are blurred, and at twenty-seven, this is definitely something I need to work on.

My journey at age fifteen and the beginning of my passion for the air guitar.

The counselor relayed some of her own experiences with developing boundaries with her parents. She told me a story of when she was twenty-five, bought her first house, and her boyfriend-at-the-time moved in. "My folks didn't talk to me for three months," she said, "but they got over it." She told me of a time when her father was questioning some of her life choices and she confronted him on it. "Have I ever royally messed up?" she asked him. "Have I ever done anything that I didn't think through before I did it? No? Then you need to back off and let me live my own life."

That hit home with me. There are times when I think, "dammit, but I haven't really fucked up! Why don't I get more credit? C'MON!" The counselor reassured me that parents just love us and want us to be happy, so they guide us in the ways that they think is best, even if it doesn't necessarily fit with our own desires or paths. "Stop looking for parental approval," she advised me, "because all it is going to do is interfere with your own journey."

Then we discussed the kicker, an inner haunting that almost constantly eats away at me. We briefly explored the issue from past, present, and future. I told her that it is something I rarely speak of with anyone because it makes me feel insanely vulnerable. She asked if I had spoken about it with Bear. Coincidentally, I had spoken to him about it for the first time the night before. "Was he supportive? Or did he run away screaming?" I told her that he had been more supportive than anyone has been before. "Do you think that maybe he feels similar about his own life? That maybe he has a similar sadness?"
"Yes," I told her, "he told me so."
"Do you see the congruency between you and him?"
"Yes, I do."
 "You're on your way, " she assured me once again.

At the end of the session my counselor gave me tips on healthy coping skills, like nipping negative self-talk in the bud so it doesn't morph into depression. She gave me relationship advice in regards to coping with difficult work schedules, seeing that Bear works out of town for ten days at a time, and I am constantly in night shift mode-- a common relationship issue here in oil town, Alberta. She also reminded me that sometimes life doesn't work out the way we want it to, but that other great things will come into our path that will be equally as rewarding. However, the strongest message she had for me was the importance to learn patience.

Although I have preached the concept of life being a journey and not a destination, the idea of truly appreciating the experience of life's adventures, good and bad, is pretty foreign to me. I spent the first twenty-one years of my life within a framework of straight forward, tangible goals. You endure task A to reach place B, and you do it as quickly and efficiently as possible. Unfortunately, that system is a bit of an illusion. At least it has been for me. Now I am learning how to have faith, plug away at whatever I need to do, practice patience, and try to appreciate the joy of the journey.

At age eight my journey led me to a best friendship with the equally cat-crazy Melissa, which ultimately became one of the greatest joys of my childhood.

"You know, you're very normal," my counselor told me. "Extremely normal, in fact. And I don't get to say that very often."

I probably won't be going back for another session. Both of us feel as though I got what I needed in our ninety minute chat. Nonetheless, I am glad I got my doctor to refer me when I went in to see her a few months back, and I recommend counseling for anyone who is going through a difficult time, even if they are like me and not suffering from text book depression. The experience was much more cleansing than spending my birthday getting wasted and enduring a hang over the next day.

A few days later, Bear called me from work and asked how my appointment had gone. "What did she say?" he asked.
"She told me that I need to learn patience."
"Don't I tell you that all the time, babe?"
"Yes. I needed the extra reassurance."
"You'll get where you want to go," he said.

A Birth Control Update: Recovering From Oral Contraceptives in the Bell Jar

The weather is gorgeous outside and the inside of my apartment is sick. Not sick as in, "dude, those are a sick pair of aviators," but sick like the boogers on the wall of the men's bathroom at work.

Being a Canadian, my body intrinsically thinks party! and vacation! when it's nice out. At minimum, time to get drunk and run through the sprinklers. But most of us have to continue with the bullshit of our daily lives-- bullshit meaning work a job-- despite the rarity of gorgeous, summer days.

The Pertards have started getting their summer sponge baths again and I have cut off Snort's mullet. She detested, but I assured her that practicality must come before fashion and that she could grow it back in the fall. I am waddling around in my new mini dress, stopping in front of the man-fan every so often to get a shot of cool air up my fanny. Then I grunt like a man. And scratch my balls. But it's really not as titillating as it sounds. Mostly because I have a layer of Proactive Refining Solution caked to my face.

It's my second month of being off of the oral contraceptive, Yasmin, (click here for back story from a previous post), and the state of my womanly matters are less than peachy. My first cycle off Yasmin was a success. I was five days late, but since it was my first time being pill free, moderate period dysfunction was expected. My skin immediately cleared up and I temporarily resumed my career as a super model until May rolled in and my skin broke out again. Hence the Proactive Refining Solution caked to my face.

There are things I miss about the pill, like the bouquet of cleavage it gave me, and the almost-painless periods that gently reminded me that I have a functioning uterus instead of the abrasive monthly gift that reminds me that ALL MEN MUST PAY. I also miss the convenience of knowing exactly when to expect my period. But at least I am not dead, or missing my gall bladder. Yet, anyway.

Click here to read about Alberta women joining the class action suit against Bayer (Yaz/Yasmin).

This month things have gone to shit, and by shit I mean that I am on day thirty-seven of my cycle (I am usually a twenty-eight day kind of woman) and I still haven't gotten my period. If it was normal for me to miss the odd flow, I'd be giving two thumbs up that I get the month off, but I haven't missed a period since. . . ever. And no, according to First Response, it's not that, so you can all resume a normal blood pressure rate.

In five days I will be twenty-seven years old. Like the disappointing men who have come in and out of the revolving door of my heart, nothing in my life has fallen into place. Mentally preparing myself for the possibility of an unexpected pregnancy, and then realizing, no, my fertility is just fucked from that stupid birth control pill that everyone is suing is something I don't need. And now I am wondering if I will have to spend the next year in complete disconnect from my body as I plow through the mind torture of late and/or missed periods. Read about other women's post-Yasmin period experiences (or lack there of) here.

And I wonder when the time comes that I am ready to plan a child if the damage will be done and I will be too late. I wonder if I will have to live with those consequences for the rest of my life. All I ever wanted was to do things right. Now I don't even know what right is. All I feel is loss.

And that, dear internet, is as much honesty as I will ever share with you.