FB Rants 07/01/17

This isn't my rant, these aren't my words, this isn't my personal experience.  But it could be ranted by so many women, it is so many women's words, it is so many women's personal experience.  We are every woman and these words are very important. 

I recently had a client come in requesting pelvic work because of injuries from her first birth.
In her words, she had torn significantly, and had been stitched... badly - she described something I’ve heard about from several other clients, the ‘husband stitch’, in which a doctor stitches the vaginal opening too tightly closed in order to supposedly make future sex with the birthing woman more pleasurable to an imaginary future male sex partner.
Which, alone, makes me want to punch these particular doctors in the nads. Hard.
Because - does this really need to be said? Sure seems like it does:
WOMEN’S BODIES DO NOT EXIST TO PLEASE MEN.
EVER. UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.
This practice, like so many others, is a vestige of a dark age in which women were the property of men.
Please observe, dear reader: WE DO NOT FUCKING LIVE IN THOSE DARK AGES ANYMORE. Not here. Not now. And any doctor acting as though we do should lose his or her license to practice medicine IMMEDIATELY.
Birthing women are generally not asked about this: “Would you like this dodgy procedure?” It is just done to them - in a supremely vulnerable moment, I might add. Sometimes with a grody wink to the male partner in the room. Or so I am told.
But back to the story.
This client tore again with baby #2, and was attended to by a different doctor, who was shocked by the terrible work of the first doctor, and stitched her properly.
She had been in pain for several years with the husband-stitch, and then was no longer in pain. But she felt that the tone of her pelvic floor had suffered, and she wanted to work on her “tightness”.
Upon actually meeting this woman, she further revealed that her husband had been cheating on her, that she was fairly sure they would be separated within the year, and that her desire for a tighter vagina had to do with being able to keep a future male partner. She attributed the cheating to her vagina not being tight enough to please him.
This made me turn some colors. The room is thankfully dim enough that I had some cover.
Once I had recovered my wits, I told her quite precisely the following three things. Mark them well, women of my heart.
1) Your vagina is not a sheath for anybody’s cock.
It is the core of your body, the powerhouse of your pleasure, the holy portal through which you have, like a god, pushed two human beings into the world. It is not a fucking sheath for a DICK. So please, take the checkout magazine stands full of 1980s Cosmos that apparently line the aisles of your mind, and set them on fire, because that is a bunch of fucking nonsense.
2) If your husband is a cheater, I GUARANTEE YOU that it has fuck all to do with the tone of your pussy. If he is cheating, it’s because he is a cheater. Please give credit where credit is due. If the sex you have been having with him has suffered since your first birth, perhaps that is because you were in excruciating pain whenever you did it, seeing as some idiot with diplomas on his wall gave you an unconscionable injury by stitching you badly and playing into this 1980s Cosmo complex you’re harboring. But please understand: cheating is not about vaginal tone. Cheating - sleeping with someone else and lying about it - is about being an asshole.
3) You do not want a tight vagina.
That is a myth.
When we use tight as a descriptor, we are discussing the pussy as a sheath. We are centering our entire experience in the pleasure of a male partner. And while we, of course, care very much about the experiences of our lovers, their perspectives are not more important than our own, and we do not take responsibility for anybody else's good time. Please keep your eye on the proverbial ball here.
What you want is a strong vagina.
A vagina that can grip, control, pulsate, and fully release a penetrating object at will - a cock, or otherwise - with a full range of sensation. A muscular vagina. A free vagina.
If you do not have this experience, it is very likely because you - like many many many of the other women who come to me for pelvic bodywork - are, in fact, too tight. Your pelvic floor is hypertonic - it is in a perpetual state of spasm, and doesn’t remember how to release.
Much like a hand, a vagina has to be able to both grasp and let go in order to do much for you.
If it is hypotonic, it is like a hand that is floppy and cannot grasp. If it is hypertonic, it is like a perpetually clenched fist.
Far more of the women I meet under these circumstances come to me in the latter category than the former.
A tight vagina is a PROBLEM. As a physical reality, and as a concept.
Get with me on this. Strength is the key. Across the board. Change your language and change your life. Please. Inhabit your body like you are the boss of it, like your experience is important, like you are the one steering your world, like your pleasure matters. Because it FUCKING DOES. Female pleasure is raucously, explosively powerful. It is what brings women of all ages and races and sizes and abilities and orientations home into our own blessed bodies. It is the lever which moves the world. Its power is such a treasure that billion dollar industries have arisen to manipulate women, throwing a glamour around our gaze that divorces us from our own sensations, focusing our sense of worth on our looks and throwing our lived physical reality under the bus.
It is up to us to STOP FALLING FOR IT.
We are not owned. We are not beholden. And our bodies are utterly magnificent, exactly as they are.
Please start fucking acting like it.
Love,
PCWS

http://embodyworkla.com/blog/

They Just Don't Know

I had an interaction with my oldest offspring the other day.  I was dropping him off at a festival with some friends and he wouldn't be home until late.  And, being his mother, I couldn't help myself to remind him to be careful.  I believe it went something like this:

Me:  What time will you be home?

Him:  Probably around 10.

Me:  Okay.  Be careful.

Him:  Yup.  (Rolls eyes.) 

Me:  No, seriously.  It's a festival, there is a crowd.  Statistically crime rates go up in heat waves and it's been really hot -

Him:  (interrupting)  BYE! 

I drove away feeling the sting that I usually feel when one of my offsprings shuts me down, seems to shut me out or doesn't pander to my desire to prattle on about how they should live their lives so that I can be comfortable and feel that they are safe. 

Because they just don't know.

They don't know that I worry.  They don't care because they don't worry.
They don't know that, every time they leave, I question whether I've prepared them adequately enough to face whatever they will be facing while away from me.  They don't care because they are only thinking of packing as many experiences into their adolescence as they can.
They don't know that if something happened to them to cause pain, permanent damage or death, that I would be shattered into too many pieces to ever be able to be put back together again into anything that resembles human.  They don't care because they are invincible. 

Being a parent is finding a precarious balance between being unbelievably brave and terrifyingly fragile.  Every.  Single.  Day.  It is heroically rising in the morning, not knowing what each day will hold, but consciously living with the reality that large pieces of our hearts reside outside of our bodies and inside of these other beings.  LARGE pieces. 

All of the pieces.

...And they just don't know.

Things That Just Aren't Real, Part 2: The "Need" to Evangelize

I am soooooooooooo tired of people in my life trying to evangelize me.  And my kids.  Ugh! 

Being raised in an extremely fucked up microcosm of a severely off-track Baptist church I completely understand that one of the Christian imperatives is to "win souls", share the word of god and perpetuate one's faith to others.  But, fucking christ.  It's old.  It's rude.  I'm tired of hearing it.  I'm tired of my kids being seen as an unclaimed soul that is prime for influence into the MLM of chistiandom. 

The best evangelizing is a decent person living a good life.  If you happen to be this person and your personal belief system includes a deity, let people come to you and ask.  Don't assume that they want to know or need to know.  When I see someone living a good life I do not assume that they are doing so because of a god.  Don't be an asshole and assume that your good life is somehow a billboard advertisement for an other dimensional being who needs help recruiting more followers.  A good life is a testament all its own.



Your beliefs don't make you a better person.  Your behaviour does. 

Things That Just Aren't Real, Part 1: The "Walk of Shame"

It is another summer weekend here in southwestern Ontario.  If you were out in a big city at all on Saturday or Sunday morning you might think that you saw something.  But you didn't.  Because what you thought you saw, doesn't exist.  It isn't true, it is not a real thing and if you imagined that you saw it that just proves that you are a misogynistic, sexist, damaging-myth perpetuating asshole.
This thing that doesn't exist is...

The "walk of shame".

Nope.  If you think you saw a person performing this act, what you actually saw was an abominable snow man, a yeti, or perhaps the Loch Ness Monster.  <----  This one would be true especially if you were by water.

This cultural stigma is almost always aimed at women.  Because there is a presumption of shame if it is suspected that a woman has - gasp! -  consented to sexual relations.  This is suspected when an asshole person sees a woman making her way back to her dorm room, waiting at a bus stop in the city, walking some city blocks, all in clothing that indicates that she wore them out to party the night before and is now making her way back home.  I am positive that we all pass a lot of the male species performing this presumed shameful walk, we just don't recognize it because they look like regular people, like their regular selves.  (This opens this discussion up to another conversation about society's pressure and expectations on women to look a certain way when "going out".  To present a certain level of aesthetically pleasing, appearance effort.  After all, a vagina comes with a requirement to look like you care about yourself, goddammit.  Pretty is the rent women pay to exist.
......................That should be a conversation in another post, because I could digress all.  day.  long.)  And these male species that we pass performing this certain walk?  Well, they don't even know they should be ashamed at all.  Because society hasn't told them that they should.

So, why do we pin all of the shame of a sexual encounter (even a supposed one!) on the female side of the equation?  Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?!?!  Why do we hold women primarily responsible for the sexual morality of everyone in this fucked up Western culture?

STOP IT!  

This mindset is helping to create and perpetuate a horrible phenom that is referred to as 'rape culture'.  This is proving over and over again to be a deadly, dangerous thing for the daughters of our culture.  It is not doing any services to our sons, either.

Here is what we can do about this:  if you are out early on a weekend morning, and you see someone that you suspect is performing this so-called 'walk of shame', recognize that you are judging someone and presuming of their sexual morality solely based on their appearance.  Something that is absolutely none of your business.  Whatsoever.  Like, at all.  Once you've realized what a sexist fuckwit you are, you can do one of two things (or both, if you are really an asshole):  1.  crotch punch yourself and move on with your life, worrying only about your own morals, or, 2.  just move the fuck on with your life.  Drive away.  Walk away.  Carry on with your day exactly as you had planned.  Knowing that what someone may or may not have done the night before with their own genitals has nothing to do with you.  Let someone walk home from wherever they were, in whatever they want, in peace.
Women deserve to be left alone to make their own sexual choices, without the offer of patronizing hand holding from presumed morally superior asshats.  Let a girl walk without shame!




Special shout-out to celebrities that are using their bigger platform to bring awareness to these issues and not wallflower themselves in the face of a frightening culture.  Amber Rose is one that uses her voice for this cause and has started a movement for it.  If you know of others, feel free to post them in the comments.  :)  

  http://www.amberroseslutwalk.com/ 

 

My Sisters

I spent this past weekend with some of the greatest women on the planet...  My sisters.  All 7 of them.  We had a weekend together of celebrating one sister's upcoming nuptials.  We had adventures, alcohol and 2 whole packages of penis straws!  #baloneyb4Mahoney  We slept piled into a way too small hotel room, reminiscent in many ways of our childhood bedroom situations.  (Thanks for not peeing on me, Doodle!)  Ending the night with Daudle sharing a special ritual that she does with her family every evening.  It was beautiful.  We shed tears over our recently passed Aunt Sher, that was a very prominent organizer of all things celebratory in our family.  She would have been very involved in this past weekend.  We miss her presence in our lives.  It is palpable.  We had breakfast together the next morning, after way too little sleep.  We should have planned the whole day to ourselves to lounge and recover from a night on the town (some of us are feeling way too old for this shit!), but some had children and family obligations to get to.  But we were back together the next day for a pool-side bridal shower.  There was lots of food, love and mermaid tails.  Real ones.  (Deal with your jealousy over this.) 

I was reminded how lucky I am to have these women in my life.  We grew up to be very different people, but the bond that was made when we were children is still there.  Still drawing us back to each other.  Still pulsating with a life all of its own.  It is sacred space.  It is sister space.  

Kids might say the damndest things, but mine ask me the weirdest shit

I have 3 teenagers.  They can be weird.  They travel in herds of other teenagers.  They can also be weird.  I openly talk about about masturbation, sex, birth, patriarchy, society being a dangerous twatwaffle - you know, awesome stuff.  I am sure that I am the worst mother to ever embarrass her teenage offspring.  Oh well.  I am over it.  
With my frankness about so many "taboo" topics, my kids often tell their friends to ask me all of their weird questions.  Or, their friends just ask me without any prompting or permission from my womb family.  Sometimes resulting in my dearest rolling their eyes, huffing loudly or physically removing their friends from the same room as me.  "Ugh, don't ask her that!"  "The answer will be so long!"  And, my personal favourite:  "No."  With a hand held in front of my face as I start to spew my magical, knowledgeable words of wisdom.  I am sure that it is in an effort of love, to save me from feeling obligated to carve time out of my super busy life to pander to their friends.  This is what I tell myself anyway.  

I am going to try to preserve (here) some of the bizarre questions that I get from the revolving packs of children that wander their way through my home.  Here are the most recent ones:

I went upstairs to call 3 girls down to dinner (mine + 2 others).  I stood in the doorway of a washroom and was bombarded with this -

"What exact size is a baby's heads when they are born?"

"Why does my stomach hurt?"

"If I take an unused condom and fill it with something, like put things inside of it, can I put it inside of me?"  

This is my circus.  These are my monkeys.  Someone please check on me periodically to make sure that some shreds of sanity are still intact.  

Bathroom Wars Put into Perspective (aka, What the fuck is wrong with you, America?)

I'm sure you've heard about it.  The ridiculous, dangerous things happening in America's bathrooms.  Which have nothing to do with transgendered persons using them.  I came across some great words shared on Facebook by a woman named Stephanie Hunter from Denver, Colorado.  It was an epic rant that nailed the idiotic, paranoid, patriarchal panic-induced insanity over pee pee and poo poo rooms, and whose genitals look like what while they are in those rooms.  I shared Stephanie's post to my FB timeline.  Several times.  Because the post kept being reported, taken down for review, put back up, reported, taken down again.  I decided to preserve it here, to hopefully avoid FB's policing of words that need to be seen and my supposition of the kind of person that is doing this continual reporting.  If you are still under the impression that this is actually about bathrooms and who can/cannot use them in public, may I kindly suggest that you get your head out of your ass.  Or out of the sand.  Or out from under that rock.  It's not.  It is so, so not about bathrooms.  
Here are Stephanie's words:

I’ve stayed silent long enough.

Let me break this down for you.  I have a daughter.  She’s 6.  She has the loudest laugh and the spazziest dance moves you’ve ever seen.  I’m not scared by a bathroom.

In just a few years she may develop an eating disorder.  She may be pressured to suck dick, or spread her legs, or sext, or chug booze.  All before she is the age of 13.
Does this shock you?!?  Good.  That’s the point.  Statistically- all are true.  How does this happen???  Every second- every day- she is surrounded by images, songs, commercials, and more that mold her.

I have a 6 year old.  She swims in the bathtub with goggles.  Creates waves that create puddles all over my floor.  I laugh at her joy.  She asks to fall asleep in our bed.  She still snuggles me on the couch, and when she falls asleep I carry her to be bed covered in fairy lights.  She’s scared of the bogeyman.

He’s real.  He’ll rape her while she’s walking to her car.  It will be her fault- she shouldn’t have been walking by herself of course.  He’ll grab her ass while she’s serving him a drink.  She’ll smile and ignore because she needs the tip.  He’ll pay her less than her male counterparts.  He’ll make condescending remarks about how she will make “cute babies”- before he hands her his hotel room keycard.

Again, all statistically true.  Ask the female in your life if she’s ever been scared to walk to her car.  Had to hold her purse a bit closer, keys in hand, lock the door immediately. Ask her how many times she looked over her shoulder.  Ask your sister, or mother, or wife how many promotions she was passed over for, how many men have leered or cat called her, how many small concessions she’s made just to be seen as equal.

My daughter is 6.  She loves ponies, and swimming, and daddy.  She runs like the wind and rides her pink bike for hours.  Begs me for one more cannonball.  One more circling of the block.

She lives in a world that is built for men.  Rewards men.  Glorifies men.  A patriarchal world where men can make statements like “I need to protect my daughter from “freaks” in bathrooms” but that also doesn’t point out the hypocrisy of not protecting them from assault, gender pay gaps, objectification, and abuse.

I hate to break it to you.  Your daughter is less likely to be preyed on in a bathroom by a “freak” and more likely to be viciously raped before the age of 35.

By someone who looks probably a lot like you.  Completely normal.

Scare you?  It should.  It scares me.  My daughter's least worry should be the Target bathroom.

Because she needs to be prepared for the world we’ve made for her.  And it’s a terrifying one.

But by all means- go protest a Target.  Because that’s the real problem right?!?

My daughter is 6.  We have so much to do.  I have to raise a warrior.  To save her.  From you.

*mic drop*

I want to read this all day long!  And I want to scream, and cry, and applaud, and be empowered!  But I am fucking exhausted by it all.  This served as a reminder to me of who we are doing all of this for.  As Stephanie says, we have so much to do.  Still.  After all of these years of doing, and fighting, and changing, and talking, and screaming, and standing up for our rights in the face of the impossible.  We still have so much to do.  To fight for the next generation.  To raise warriors.  To fight for their next generation.  To save themselves.  To save us all.