nccotus

I am trying to work it out about seeing the absence of something you never knew to exist.

Of course that pertains to the mole-wart and the fabulous journey I have been through since June, 2021, when it was taken off my face. There is just no explaining this, except to say that I felt like a small child for a long while and, face-to-face, with everything taken together, I feel like I have the competency of an androgynous 10-year-old girl. With a towering intellect via God, my husband and my son. I have been relinquishing this to return to being controlled by my husband. We had to be ripped apart for a good long time because of the mess Johns Hopkins Hospital made of us in 1994. Although he has another family now, I am asking him to wear two hats for a while. We may be married in the nccotus. We endorse Mormons, for their interplanetary conceptions but also for their wide interpretation of marriage. Anything, anything to stem the tide of sex out of wedlock and abortion. I asked to be lifted up by King Solomon as well as St. Paul and others for this post; Solomon, who had a 1000 wives. And wrote the Song of Songs, so beautiful, about sexual love as it should be.

That is a painful absence for me. Don’t have those parts; but I can appreciate it in others. It took a long time before I figured out what was wrong. I never had the presence of those [sexual] parts, even from early infancy, to know they were missing. I was so painfully puzzled by what others could do that I couldn’t, and felt so guilty and ashamed. I mean, like, how could somebody train for the Olympics? Or get up every day and be a t.v. news host? Or even get up every day and go to a regular job? The shame was a slow burn that I couldn’t really feel; it was the guilt that troubled me the worst. Somehow I escaped notice at a girls’ school on a mountaintop. Finally I reached Harvard University; only to finally understand that I was an embarrassment there; long after that, I wound up at a state hospital not knowing who I was.

Between the broken crotch and the mole-wart I moved invisibly through society for 40 years under the painful cover of the ruse of a diagnosis of schizophrenia, observing people, places, and things, wanting to “be a writer,” ditch Silly Sally and the Advocate undergraduate magazine and be my own person again.

The “older” anti-psychotic meds helped somewhat by numbing the pain of my broken sexuality and the pain from the mole pressing on nerves near my nose. I couldn’t really kiss. Or smile. Or talk well, for instance, at parties.

Then the pressure would build up and I would be forced to stop the meds. Over time, I built up a pattern of reactions going on and off the meds all the time and now I will always have to take them.

If I was schizophrenic it was the least of my problems. I ruled that out Freshman Year in Psych 1A. I was functionally disabled and distorted in the worst way. When I finally got into psych help it was like they treated a temporary situational crisis and ignored a broken leg I had been holding onto all my life in a way that silenced me about it. Forever. Anything at all that I said about myself was held as likely delusional. I became a trapped spirit. Trapped painfully inside the mole-wart/broken person/complex That’s how it felt. And I had to get up and keep walking. Out of that doctor’s office.

I’m seeing something here about retroactive abortion…