The Best Revenge Being Success

I haven’t done a cliche of the day this year, yet. So today’s cliche is:

The Best Revenge Is Success

I like this one.very much & feel that there’s a lot of truth in it. Especially as a woman. There is so much bullshit that we have to put up with – all the revenge tropes I know are focused on women “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”, for example. It doesn’t match up to the realities that I’ve seen. I’ve never taken revenge on an ex, for example. But a few have taken revenge on me. 

I see bitterness, anger & vengeance as more ‘male’ (not really, but in terms of conditioning) traits. I see revenge by way of success, as something that I’ve seen more women do, than men. Revenge by way of success, is surely the sweetest of all? Showing that in spite  of whatever it is that has upset you, you can do well is a very satisfying thing.

 

A strange post… My imaginary circumcision

So, this has been something that has been bothering me for awhile. And it’s going to sound crazy to every other human being out there, but I’m going to write it anyway (even if as I write this, am being niggled by anxiety & a feeling of profound stupidity).

So…

I…

Arrghh…

How do I say this? I have no idea whether a part of my clitoris has been cut off, or whether I am imagining it. If I have imagined it, I may be the first human to imaginarily (I don’t know if that is a word or not, but it feels right) circumcise myself.

So, I am of mixed heritage. A part of that heritage is in a country where 90%+ (apparantly) of girls and women have had some sort of circumcision. I spent a LOT of time there as a small girl, I’d get sent back for all of my school holidays. I have no distinct memory of this happening. I haven’t got that many memories at all of that time, to be honest. 

Now, there are many types of circumcision. In my opinion, they are all child abuse, unless they are required for medical reasons, as sometimes boys need. Taking a knife to a kid’s body is not okay, there’s no excuse, I don’t care whether it’s a ‘cultural’ tradition or not, fuck it – it’s abuse.

Anyway, back to the point. For females, there are many types of this abuse. They are all on a continuum of mysogynistic horror. There’s the type where they slice everything off and then sew it all back together again – to be opened by knife, or by cock – whatever the means, it’s bloody evil. 

Now, how do I get to my mid-thirties & suddenly think this? Surely a quick glance in the mirror should be all I need to know? Well, I’m not so sure, I have looked & looked & looked & the more I look, the less I’m sure. I think the tip of my clitoris has been cut off. I’ve had orgasms for much of my life, but they’ve been harder to come by than I imagine for most. The Boy has pointed out several times about it, which means I can’t orgasm with him, as I have a little complex. It’s still a lot of fun, but he’s also pointed out I don’t look exactly the same. If I had been cut as a kid, it would explain a lot! I love sex, but find clitoral stimulation painful much of the time.

I spoke to a friend of mine, someone who has similar mixed heritage to mine. To my eternal shock, surprise & horror, she said she’d been worried about the same thing, but hadn’t ever spoken to anyone about it! She’s just ditched her husband, as I did awhile ago, and she told me that she’s just had her first orgasm. She’s also in her thirties. 

I have an appointment on Friday to get it all checked out. Not sure whether I’m more anxious about finding out that I had been cut as a kid, and the betrayal & rage that that will bring – or the embarrassment of finding out I haven’t and feeling VERY SILLY INDEED. 

See, I told you this was all going to sound a little crazy. 

I still don’t get why there’s so much hatred and fear of womens’ sexuality, that they (whoever ‘they’ might be) would seek to destroy it in such a brutal and bloody fashion. I mean, the cutting off of the clitoris was done in the UK, Europe & the US too, until after the mid-twentieth century (as a cure for ‘hysteria’ or other imagined bullshit) (Freud has a lot to answer for) (I’m liking my brackets today). Fuck all that shit.

Sigh… 

Death Becomes Her: A Mortician’s Response

Such a fascinating read. I guess even when we die, there’s no escape from objectification.

The Chick and the Dead

I call myself a ‘Mortician’ for want of a more succinct term in the UK for my profession, but the real job title is Anatomical Pathology Technologist. In my eight years assisting pathologists with autopsies (post-mortems) I saw every possible face of death, and  none could really be considered ‘beautiful’. I looked upon death every day: some days with grim determination and a sense of duty to grieving families, but other days with a sense of horror or outrage at man’s inhumanity to man, or just their sheer bad luck. Some days I’d be sated with a valuable sense of being needed at this last point in a patient’s journey, other days I’d shower long and hard to remove death’s cold touch from my flesh, drink wine to remove death’s bitter aftertaste and wash my clothes twice to remove death’s hideous, cloying presence. So when I read this recent…

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Ups and Downs

It’s been awhile. What awhile. 

I hope my readers have had a good start to the year. My good start was a little delayed, due to the boob incident, the burglary, a bungling-drunken-meltdown and Boy-related mortification, and other things beginning with B, mostly the Blues. But… all things pass… the end of my world was not nigh, as I’d catastrophised. I’d even written my will (leaving it all to the cats, sisters & nieces/nephews).

Sometimes, all a girl needs when the world is caving in is some hiding time, so I hibernated in the cat-cave, and licked my wounds for a bit. My true friends gave me my space, but came to the cat-cave to commiserate (& watch sci-fi with me, and feed me chocolate). I suppose it sometimes takes a shock to the system like your potential impending demise to make you contemplate your life with a new perspective, but it’s taken awhile to sink in. The drunken meltdown I had (which, thankfully I don’t remember), I let it all out, the stuff that had been bothering me, I think it was my subconscious telling me to stop pretending that everything was ok, when it wasn’t. I’ve never been very good at that, it is a saving grace of mine. Cognitive dissonance is the worst thing in the world for me. It was reassuring to let myself be grumpy, and funnily enough, it’s why I’m back to being my normal cheery self. So, time to start tackling this year head-on. Get this degree out of the way, get laid more, get on with it all. But first, a glass of wine

Boobie Prize

Ah, be still my beating breast… My beautiful beating betraying breast.

Which has a lump in. A small lump, but it’s size is entirely disproportionate to the amount of anxiety it has awakened within me. I keep telling myself, this shock could ultimately be a good thing, that it might be the kick up the backside I need to figure out what I want to do in life & to go for it – make the most of it, more often. But mostly, my mind is filled with fear, and betrayal, by my own body.

On Christmas Eve, I’ll be at the hospital while I have my boobie poked & prodded by clinical strangers, something necessary that I absolutely hate. I feel alienated by my own body & I know it’s about to be violated, even if it is for my own good. For some reason, I can’t shake this sense of self-violation – especially after having my home burgled a couple of weeks ago. First, my home violated, now my body will be too. Not sure what to do to shake this feeling, I want my autonomy back.

I feel strangely proprietorial over my own flesh, too. If they take some of the lump out, what will they do with it? I want it back. Strange to think that there’s a living part of me that will be extracted. A small part of me will be dead. A small part of what it’s suppose to be to be a woman. Will I be diminished in some way. Will I miss it? I already feel haunted by this phantom bit of my now-still-living breast.

Still Another Friday the Thirteenth

Reposting this because I’ve been reading a lot about prostitutes recently and am quite disgusted at the hypocritical ways in which society seems to target & treat as less than human my fellow humans. The more I think about it, the more I think we should all stand in solidarity with those who are being blamed for societies’ ills – whether or not you agree with prostitution, there’s no need to stand by when they are being robbed of the rights we all get to enjoy as citizens. If we don’t, what hope is there any of us?

The Honest Courtesan

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were;  any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.  –  John Donne, Meditation XVII

London red umbrellaIt’s Friday the 13th again, and since the last one was so recent and the next sex worker rights occasion (the Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers) is this coming Tuesday, I think it would be a bit much to subject y’all to another entire column on the subject; so, I’m going to do something a little different this…

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Violation

Last night I went to meet an old family friend at the local station. Arrived back home to find burglars smashing into the back of my house. It sounded like a bomb made of glass went off, an explosive smashing (they were strengthened glass, so they had put quite a bit of effort into it).

Had the police, the forensics people and a friend over, but can’t shake this feeling of violation & anxiety. Even though they didn’t get anything. Can’t stop thinking ‘what if’. A minute later & we’d have been trapped inside with the burglars. What about if I’d have been alone & it happened? My home is my sanctuary & it’s been violated. Where do I feel safe now? Is living on my own such a good idea?

The Boy came & stayed with me. Told me that I don’t have to act all tough all the time. Kept him awake with ‘what was that?’, ‘did you hear that?’, ‘where’s the hammer?’ as well as tossing & turning. He said he should come back tonight, I think so too. The Boy really is very lovely. I’m terrible at asking for help, but he’s really been quite wonderful.

I don’t want bars on all of my windows (they got through double glazed, locked, reinforced windows). I don’t want to capitulate to whoever did this & live in what will feel like a prison. My home doesn’t feel like my home right now, I don’t know what it feels like. Am so sad inside

No Place To Go

I went to see this show a little while ago & I heartily recommend it.

It’s part jazz/blues, part social commentary, part universal story of those who might lose their jobs & get made redundant – full of anxiety, fear, hope, opportunity & loss. I enjoyed it a lot (& I usually don’t enjoy ‘musicals’).

Also, the saxophonist was very hot. I was sat close to him & was having very inappropriate thoughts as he wet the tip of the saxophone before blowing into it.