Tag Archives: self-indulgent introspection

I am thinking big thoughts

I am thinking big thoughts.

I am thinking about evil, about the act of allying, about oppression and anti-oppression, about the thoughts shaping actions and the problems of thought police, about babies and bathwater and deep waters we drown in and deep waters that sustain us.

I am thinking about the importance of high standards, the importance of forgiveness, the need to not give a pass to hateful behavior, the need to not blow up everyone because no one is perfect.

I am thinking of “let he who is without sin cast the first stone” and “the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing” and “an eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind” (and the misogyny and ableism in popular quotes).

I am thinking of the absolute wrongness of “love the sinner but hate the sin” and the absolute necessity to label the action, not the person.

I am thinking about the difference between “I can’t be bothered to do any work” and “one more thing I have to watch myself on, worry over, obsess about might actually do me in”.

I am thinking about feelings, and centering, and bullying, and lateral marginalization, and interpersonal communication.

I am thinking about nuance, and about spectra of color, and about the beauty and allure of stark contrast.

Things that sparked this, though it’s about so many things: Mary Daly — feminist, transmisogynist — is dead. Margaret Cho — comedian, “fag hag” — is a chaser (or fetishist, or both).

I wonder: To what standard do we, should we, hold our icons? Our forebears? Ourselves? Are we allowed to say any good of those who do bad? I do not believe in anyone being pure evil, capable only of badness; nonetheless I believe there is evil out there, and humans are so good at being bad to each other. Is there some level, some litmus, at which point one is “too far gone”? Is it possible or useful to say that everyone deserves respect and kindness, when some simply will not return in kind?

I know this: there are no perfect people. I am not perfect. I have failed. (Oh hello ciscentric, trans-faily post from a year ago.) Is there a difference between me and Cho? Between Cho and Daly? Between Daly, who praised extermination, and the Inquisition, which tried it? There must be, somewhere. But are we to measure evil? (Is evil even the right word?) Do we determine the acceptable by whether we measure with teaspoons or bushels? These are not rhetorical questions.

Those two cases are about trans issues (cis privilege, transphobia, transmisogyny), but these ponderings are about so much more: it’s about saying CIO is wrong without saying parents who do CIO should have their children taken away. It’s about saying that the USian foster system is broken, but maybe some families are worse. It’s about saying that we can’t demand romance-movie-flawless relationships, but no one deserves beatings or belittling. It’s about having ideals, while living breathtakingly, heartbreakingly human lives — without using that reality to excuse atrocities.

I don’t know where the lines are. I don’t know what the answers are. I know someone can meet all the checkboxes (of whatever list we care to name) and still be, fundamentally, an asshole — and someone can miss the lists, fuck up regularly, and still be, fundamentally, someone I want as my friend.

I don’t personally know any of the people nominated for Lesbian/Bisexual Woman of the Decade. I know some of them have messed up, and some continue to mess up, to hurt, to oppress, to marginalize, in some serious ways. I know we mustn’t, and I know I don’t want to, ignore or minimize any of that. Yet I also do not want to sit as judge for who is enlightened enough, good enough, perfect enough for us to celebrate and embrace — to judge the worth of a person based on checklists — when I know perfection does not exist, and I do not know how to find or define good enough; when I pray every day to avoid being so judged. But if I fail to try, am I the one allowing evil? I fear I am. I fear my trying would have me doing evil.

I am thinking big thoughts.

I’ve yet to think big answers.

7 Comments | Posted on 8 January 2010 by Arwyn | Category: Body, Kyriarchy | Tags: Gender, Lesbian/Bisexual Woman of the Decade, Privilege, self-indulgent introspection, Sexuality, trans, transmisogyny

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The M-word: in which I indulge in angst, whining, and more angst

So, for some reason, some o’y'all seem to like my writing. Or what I have to say. Or something about this blogging thing I do, anyway. (Don’t ask me why, I dunno either; I’m still trying to figure it out.)

And, this blog, for some reason, is getting a teeny, tiny bit Out There. Which is, y’know, cool.

For example: Didja know an article from here was published in a real print rag? So, it wasn’t mine, it was a guest post. Not that I’m bitter or anything. (OK, maybe a little bitter, although I love the lucky author to death and don’t begrudge her the byline at all.) (OK, maybe a little begrudge.) (That they put in my old web address after I asked them three times to use the new one? That I might be bitter about.)

And I’ve been contacted for an interview so someone else can get paid to write a book.

And got a very weird offer I’m not sure what to do with yet, that might actually give me money — if I just agree to sell my soul, my dignity, and my values. (It is, alas, totally legal.)

Completely unrelated (except in my crazy brain), over in the Twitterverse there’s a convo (Twits don’t have conversations, that’s too many characters) on #blogmoney going on, and over in another part of the intarwebz I’m eyeing ad rings with simultaneous lust and revulsion.

And an already-published friend is writing her third novel, and damn it’s good.

And Kelly Diels is prostituting her cleavage for money, and I’m convinced she’s going to start succeeding any damn day now. (With those assets, how could she not?) (I meant her writing.)

And, y’know, all of that has me angsting just a HUGE FUCKING TON little, over what I do, and what to do next, and, uh, can I get paid for this too? Because that would be nice.

Because while capitalism sucks non-consensual donkey dong, having none in a capitalistic state sucks syphilitic donkey dong. (I totally stole that line.)

Of course, I don’t have none.

I have lots, comparatively. (And lots of debt, but who’s counting?) (Other than our creditors.)

Which the white cis heterosexual male I live with earns while I sit on my arse and Tweet and write and angst and neglect, mostly benignly, our Boychick.

He also gets Social Security credits. I do not.

(To those following along at home in less sadistic countries, Social Security works like this: when you earn money, the federal government decides that you are a worthwhile human being, deserving in your old age of support and food and a roof and occasionally even some heat if the gas prices aren’t too high. The more money you earn over your life, thereby allowing you to possibly put away a little for retirement and the less, consequently, you need to rely on outside assistance, the more they decide you’re worth. If you don’t earn enough money, or don’t earn money often enough, perhaps because you’re busy taking care of said old people and sharing your roof and your food and your heat with them, or new people, ditto, or are unable to work for pay but unable to prove you can’t work, or maybe both (hi!), then your Social is Screwed rather than Secured, and the government decides you are worth bubkis and you get exactly that.

Unless you marry money, or a man who can earn it. Which is a whole ‘nother can of botulistic cow feces.)

Where was I? Oh right, angst and greed.

Ooo, greed. The sin that conservative Christians and liberal social justice activists have in common. Supposedly, anyway.

The thing is, I’d kinda like to get paid for my writing. Sometime. Eventually. A bit, at least.

Partly, it’s because while I hate capitalism, I kinda like money, and the things, like food and cars that don’t burn oil, that money can get one in a capitalistic system. Partly, it’s because money is the scorekeeper in our society, and I’m broken enough to want to beg for some of that recognition. Partly, it’s because of aforementioned debt, and the desire to be rid of its tarry grip. Partly, it’s because I’m a bit squicked out by the work women do — and this woman in particular does — once again being unpaid, unacknowledged, unofficial, and unsupported by society at large. Even if said society is FUBARed.

Partly, it’s because a friend just bought a house, and I am not above envy. Green looks good on me.

Green would look good in my wallet, too.

But, how to actually do something about that? I can’t help but feel that ads are tacky capitalistic and kyriarchal, I don’t do reviews, sponsored or otherwise, and submitting to print publications takes a fuckload of spoons and practice and rejection slips. Also contacts and networking and skills and know-how and determination and lots of other things I lack in abundance. (I lack them, but I lack them a lot. Surely that counts for something?)

This is what I think about at 2am, while my lover and my child sleep, after I come home from yet another unrewarding and emotionally stressful (don’t ask) Pathology class so I can maybe one day make a bit of money performing personal yet professional services for rich folk who can afford it and don’t need it near as bad as those who can’t.

Here’s a start: I’ve made an official Raising My Boychick Wish List at the evil Amazon (see? compromising values for compensation), which anyone who cares to can click through to order me whatever I put on there.

I haven’t put anything on it.

This sums me up.

7 Comments | Posted on 18 November 2009 by Arwyn | Category: Body, Kyriarchy, Life, the Universe, and Everything | Tags: domesticity, Gender, gender roles, Mental Health, Meta, Pay Me, Privilege, self-indulgent introspection, USA

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Are you there, blog? It’s me, Arwyn

I think if I could focus on one thing for just an hour, I could do anything. The number of half-finished posts sitting in my queue is staggering. The number of further ideas I’ve had is uncountable (I lose count anyway, but then, if I could focus for an hour, I probably wouldn’t).

My mood has been a lot more stable than it was, so I’m not sure what’s going on, and why I can’t finish anything. I seem to be stuck in a cycle where I stay up to try to work, and get some done, but then realize I’m not going to finish in anything like a time frame that will get me enough sleep to avoid insanity, and set it aside — repeat the next night, but more tired and even less focused this time, and with more ideas from the new day, so there’s even more to choose from. And so on.

And although my mood has stabilized, I’ve been having a lot more migraines in the past month or so, which make it almost impossible for me to think or form coherent sentences. I’m working on fixing this, again, but like my mood regulation, it’s slow going. (It’s possible I might have spent a bit of time swearing at my neurology recently. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. And yet, my brain is my self’s home, that without which my self would not be my self: how can I hate it?)

I still haven’t found a regular way to get time during the day when I can work uninterrupted, either, although possibilities are on the horizon, and we’re exploring options. I don’t want to get into the details right now, and some plans have fallen through (we tried doing a childcare swap: the parents were willing, but the children were… incompatible. which is to say, mine tried to kill hers. alas.), but we’re still looking and still hopeful and trusting that some way, some solution that honors the Boychick and my sanity and our bank account all will be found.

I’ve also been making the choice to be more mindful with the Boychick during the day, rather than fight with him while I try to work. (One of the 3/4 finished posts in my queue is on mindfulness: I couldn’t focus — stay in the moment — long enough to finish it tonight. Ha. Ha.) Which makes my parenting better, and my life less stressful, but doesn’t help get content up — which eventually adds stress as well, because this blog, this project, is something I love and that fuels me, and not adding to it makes me quite unhappy.

And then there’s Twitter. As I said there tonight: “I think Twitter has broken my already-limited ability to focus on a single thing to completion. On the other hand, kick ass convos. Dilemma.” Which is almost true, but not quite there, I think. Twitter, and the remarkably interesting and for the most part lovely people I’ve met there, certainly enables distraction, and gives me somewhere to go when my mind says “ack! do something else!”, but I don’t think it actually creates the urge to defocus, and ultimately it’s that urge that does me in. If it weren’t Twitter, it would be something else — before Twitter, it was something else.

All in all, I’m in this weird limbo place, and I’m not sure what to do about it. But in the immortal words of Monty Python: “I ain’t dead yet!” Nor is the blog. We’re just… stewing. Brewing. Percolating, perhaps. I’m not quite sure what’s coming, but that’s ok. I’m pretty sure it’ll be tasty, and I’ll definitely be sharing.

4 Comments | Posted on 6 November 2009 by Arwyn | Category: Body, Life, the Universe, and Everything | Tags: blogging, Mental Health, Meta, migraine, self-indulgent introspection, sleep

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Previously, on Raising My Boychick

Since I never did do a proper introductory post, how about a review instead?

My name is Arwyn, and I am, among other things, a feminist. As it says on the tin,

I’m a walking contradiction: knitting feminist fulltime parent, Wiccan science-minded woowoo massage student, queer-identified male-partnered monogamist, body-loving healthy-eating fat chick, unmedicated sane and stable bipolar. But it feels all-me.

(although more of my free time these days goes to blogging rather than knitting).

I am pro-choice, and anti crying-it-out.

I wear my baby (when he lets me), and so does my partner — who is known around here as The Man, because he is the proverbial straight white male. We have one child, the eponymous Boychick, who is also probably a straight white male. I breastfeed him, and The Man parents in other ways.

The Man is currently unemployed, I am bipolar, and this sometimes makes for an interesting combination.

I am not a SAHM, and I am not amused. But I am sometimes funny.

I write about independence, attachment parenting, and societal misogyny.

I write about menstruation, and genitals, and sex, and sexuality, and the color of my underwear.

I write about patriarchy and kyriarchy and intersectionalism. I write about the racism and transphobia and sexism and disablism I encounter, both around me and in my own thinking.

I write about trying to raise the Boychick free from limiting gender roles, while teaching him to not be a bad man.

I believe we are not bad moms.

I believe the patriarchy wants us to tell each other we are, and that avoiding that trap can change the world.

And if you’re still interested in what I have to say, I believe I’d love to hear from you.

10 Comments | Posted on 9 July 2009 by Arwyn | Category: Life, the Universe, and Everything | Tags: blogging, introduction, Links, Meta, self-indulgent introspection

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On breastfeeding and things we don’t talk about

Just in case there was any question, let me state emphatically that I am a breastfeeding supporter, a hard-core breastfeeding advocate, a lactivist (but not a “breastfeeding nazi“, please and thank you):

I’m down with child-led weaning. I call nursing for 2+ years “full-term”, and anything less than that “abbreviated” or “short” or “premature weaning”, and I can’t think of anything I would call “extended breastfeeding”, except maybe being latched on for 8 hours non-stop.

I think feminists must support breastfeeding, and breastfeeding in public (and pumping, and pumping at work and in public), else they fail at one of the fundamental precepts of feminism.

I believe women have the moral right and must have the legal right to expose however much of their breast they and their child deem necessary, for however long they deem necessary, incidental to the act of breastfeeding, and that a woman has the moral right and must have the legal right to breastfeed or pump anywhere she otherwise has the right to be.

I’ve nursed my kid in the dark, at the park, in a plane, on a train, in a car, and over a jar (we did EC), and yes, I pull it down and whip it out and no you don’t have a right not to see it, though you’re more than welcome to avert your gaze.

I’ve never kept track of how many times the Boychick nursed throughout the day or over the course of a night, because he nursed when he was hungry, or thirsty, or tired, or hurt, or bored, or just because, and all of those are perfectly legitimate reasons to breastfeed in my mind.

When asked when I was going to wean, I say that WHO recommends a minimum of 2 years, but I was pretty sure he’d be done before college. I trust Dettwyler’s research showing the natural age of human weaning to be between 2.5-7 years. I told my mom to be prepared for her grandson nursing well into kindergarten, if that’s what he wants, and that I would fight to keep nursing for 2 years, with a minimum goal of 2.5

Yes, I am one of those women.

I tell you this, present to you my lactivist credentials so to speak, because when I say that I hate nursing, I want you to have some idea of what it means. So that when I say I hate nursing, and my 28 month old seems to be coming to an end of breastfeeding, you’ll maybe get it when I say it makes me cry.

I never know how to describe my problematic feelings about breastfeeding. It isn’t the idea of it, obviously. It isn’t a matter of getting “touched out”: I’m a hugely touchy-feely person, and had no problems having the Boychick on or next to my person most of the day (and on his dad’s body the rest of the time). It isn’t a matter of dysphoric milk ejection reflex, it’s not a history of abuse, and it isn’t a chronically painful latch. It’s definitely not a matter of being uncomfortable in my own skin, or disliking the animal nature of it. And it’s obviously nothing so bad that I was unable to continue, or chose to stop, but it’s probably contributing to this (to us) relatively early weaning.

No, it’s that for all the lactivist protestations to the contrary, breastfeeding is sexual, at least for me. Whether through biology or socialization (and I’m inclined, as I often am, to say “both”), feeling the child suckling on my breast — and I should clarify here, it’s primarily dry nursing, or comfort nursing, or the lag between the start of nursing and milk ejection, when there’s little or no milk being transferred — often feels sexual to me. And I really don’t like it.

I usually use words like “uncomfortable” (because it is), or say it drives me crazy (because it does). I usually don’t say I dislike it because it makes my cunt swell and start to throb, because there are all kinds of social stigmas associated with that, above and beyond the usual ignorant bitching about breastfeeding in the first place. Plus, there are people who like that feeling, and not in a pervy “I’m gonna nurse my kids to get my kicks” kind of way (I have met thousands of full-term nursing women, and never, ever have I met one who thought of nursing like that), but just in a happy “hey, this makes my body feel good” kind of way. And I think that’s great, and totally normal and healthy. Actually, I’m envious as hell of those women: I’d do anything to have that kind of feeling about the feelings nursing causes.

But no, breastfeeding feels sexual, and it feels uncomfortable, and it makes me want to take a cheese grater to my nipples, or cut off my breasts, or crawl out of my skin, or get up and run away and claw my eyes out. And I have resorted to pain as a coping mechanism: biting my hand or pulling my hair or digging nails into my flesh, anything, anything to distract me long enough for him to finish, to calm down, to fall asleep, to get a letdown going, whatever he needs. But I can’t always manage it, and it’s leading to a downward spiral, where I have less milk, so I can’t nurse him as much, so I have less milk, so… And on and on, until he’s falling asleep to The Man reading to him and snuggling him in bed, and I’m out in the livingroom crying because I can’t be the woman I want to be, can’t do the thing I want to do.

I hate breastfeeding, and I hate that I hate it. I hate that, as much as I love the idea of comfort nursing, it is anything but comfortable for me. I hate that the way I want to mother, with breastfeeding a wholly holy joy and there for him whenever he needs or wants it, is not possible for me. I hate that there have been nights both he and I have cried to sleep because I just. couldn’t. do it anymore. I hate that it’s causing our nursing relationship to come to an end so soon. And I hate, I hate, that talking about it like this will make some people think “then what the hell are you still doing it for?”

I’m “still” doing it because I love it. I love snuggling him close to me while his eyes stutter close and roll back in bliss. I love playing stinky feet and having him try not to laugh so he doesn’t delatch. I love the twenty extra minutes I can buy myself in the morning for lounging under the covers and scrolling through Google Reader. I love how he asks to nurse after he gets really hurt because “it makes me better”. I love knowing he’s getting immunological and nutritional substances he wouldn’t get anywhere else. I love everything about breastfeeding — except, more and more though still not always, the actual physical act.

Our nursing relationship is going to come to an end someday, likely sooner rather than later. This is normal, and natural, and has to happen sometime. And almost everyone I know speaks about weaning with ambivalence, so my experience is hardly unique in that respect. But this — being a lactivist who often hates the experience of breastfeeding, mourning an early weaning at 28 months — isn’t something I see talked about much, if ever.

There are so many forces telling me not to publish this post: there’s the patriarchy saying that nursing a 2yo is disgusting, that having genital sensations during breastfeeding is perverted, that nursing should be perfect and lovely and angelic, not messy and complicated and human. There’s lactivism saying I’m just giving fuel to anti-breastfeeders, I shouldn’t talk about the bad times, the hard times, that I’m going to scare people off. There’s feminism saying I should make it all about the kyriarchy (when the truth is I’m too tired and too hurting to think that big right now), and that this is all so much middle class privileged white woman mommy blogging whining, and I should be using my platform to spotlight those with real problems. The lactivism and feminism sides even have good points.

But ultimately, I’m sharing this because I can’t be the only one. I’m not so special or so unique that no one else feels this way. I’m sharing this because women’s stories are important: not just our beautiful stories, not just our predictable stories, not just our uncomplicated damn-the-patriarchy moralistic stories, but all of them, messy and complicated and contradictory and nuanced and ugly and difficult and mundane and human and boring and silly. And it is through sharing our stories and connecting with others leading complicated-human-nuanced lives that we become strong.

And I need strength right now. I needed strength when the Boychick was a mewling newborn, who only knew that suckling was comfort and love and safety and peace, and didn’t know it was discomfort and ugly and painful and hard for me, and I need strength now that he is recognizing I sometimes grimace and pull away and push him away when he seeks the comfort he knows at my breast, and is preempting that pain for both of us by turning elsewhere for his needs.

We’re not meant to do this alone. I don’t regret a moment I’ve spent nursing my child, not even the moments I was crying and hurting myself to cope. But I regret doing it in isolation, with no one to tell me I wasn’t alone, I wasn’t abnormal, and I wasn’t wrong for doing it anyway.

Share your stories. Even your ugly stories, even your hard ones. Someone out there is going through it too, and they need to hear from you. I surely did.