Flying Coach

Sometimes, I hate it here.

Here being the United States of America, and the current owner of my very own uterus, where the ever-fluctuating laws of the land make it increasingly more dangerous for me and mine.

I had to rip myself away from the dumpster fire that is the internet reporting on SCOTUS, and throw myself elbow-deep into something productive that I could rage stir. So, I browned a wild amount of butter and made a 4x batch of salted chocolate chip cookie dough. I baked half right away in two, six-inch springform pans like little cookie-cake cuties, because I have a pal who could use a boost. So, I dropped some off for them and to be totally transparent, I also “needed” a slice myself as well.

I’m aging the second half for a few days before I plan to bake the whole lot and hand them out to people. I need a fucking happiness hit, yo. It’s hard to care when the people with the power are busy spending time debating the merits of just how many organs it’s acceptable for a child-carrying human to lose before it’s really considered a loss for the country. Most of these “decision makers” have never experienced a: menstrual cycle, pregnancy, abortion, miscarriage, cramps, or have even purchased menstrual blood management products for themselves or anyone else.

How can these fucking clowns look the uterus-owners in their lives in the eye, and tell them without hesitation that they know what’s best for their bodies. It’s actually insane.

In an effort not to throw chairs out of our front glass windows in a fit of horror, I also made a playlist; she is a kinky, popping-off mix of nostalgia and modern love tracks, y’all. Life is a Highway is currently thumping through our whole home audio, while I type and tap my feet in agitation so hard I’m rattling the tablescape scene of: a vase filled with wildflowers, three twisting candles of various coordinated colors, and grey felt Graf Lantz coasters like the basic becky with a lowercase “b”, I can sometimes, be.

Over the course of therapy, I have learned that I do a lot to avoid feelings of anger. I find them not just scary, but totally disempowering. I haven’t figured out how to be angry, but in control of my anger yet. But, I’m working on it, and sadly, I know I will have a lot of practice during this upcoming election season. I am dreading it. Like, wake up sweating in the dead of the night, body vibrating upset. I’m not ready to go back to seeing and hearing people I once cared deeply for, spout narratives that sound like they came straight from the mouth of an 1870’s town crier. I can no longer hear things like, “let’s keep politics out of it”, or “we can disagree and still be polite”. Can we? Honestly, I don’t want to when me keeping silent on “uncomfortable topics”, is just helping the people saying those things get more settled on their high horses.

In case you’re not also many, many months in to a wonderful therapy practice, I’ll share this in case it helps you too:

We are allowed to be angry.

We are allowed to be outraged.

We are allowed to feel disappointed, both by people we know IRL, and strangers in power who refuse to take care of us, despite that being their actual jobs.

We are allowed to rise up.

We are allowed to speak up.

There is no amount of “gentle discourse conversation” that is going to change the mind of someone who feels that their weapons and the unfertilized eggs still hanging out in my very own ovaries, have more rights than my actual functioning human body and brain. Noted with disappointment, but I’m going to keep speaking up, and challenge myself to do something kind for someone else, each and every time I would rather burn it all to the ground. I can only control my own actions. When they go low and continue their quest attempting to dissolve the rights of each and every uterus-owner in this country, by having their quality of life and safety fly coach while they’re busy fist-fighting one another for the window seat in first class, I’m going to reach out to someone I know with an act of generosity, kindness, and/or consideration. Enjoy that front of the aircraft cabin champagne now you monsters, and sleep with one eye towards the door… because we are coming for every one of you at the polls this November.

I’ll keep working on refusing to let it take me under, and I hope you’ll join me even when it feels impossible not to let the rage take you down.

So, grab a slice of this cookie cake, and let the sugar rush fuel us to take the polls, and in doing so, grabbing every last one of our human rights, BACK.