Castration. That is a term with negative connotations, for the most part. It’s something we threaten to do to pedophiles and rapists. We may also forget that this is what having a pet “fixed” is. Men tend to think of injury to their testicles. The word castration makes men instantly cover their junk.

So for the past month I have grappled with the fact that I was about to be castrated. That is, my reproductive organs, including ovaries and cervix, were to be removed. It should not have been a surprise, really. I’ve had so many problems with my reproductive system from day 1. and at the age of 45, I have kept my reproductive system the longest among the maternal line of my family tree, going back at least 3 generations. Several years ago I had an ablation to deal with irregular, frequent bleeding. Even then, it was said that the other option was hysterectomy. But we didn’t go that route, we went with ablation, even though I had questions and reservations.

My questions included, “If I haven’t had cycles for years, and that’s bad, then why is it good that I have no cycle after an ablation?,” and “If there’s no bleeding, how do we know the rest of the system is working?” And despite the cavalier attitude of my doctor and several nurses, the ablation was NOT a walk in the park. Not for me. I’m a redhead. Upon being awakened in recovery, I immediately balled up into a giant cramp, howling, and then throwing up, and then wetting myself wretching and howling… a shot of Demerol and a barf bag in hand, they shoveled me into the car to work it out at home. That was several years ago.

Last February, I was having some recurring pelvic discomfort I couldn’t explain away. Since my mother passed away of ovarian cancer in 2008, I have been pro-active about checking in on my reproductive system. That said, I have been putting off pelvic exams and mammograms (because the official recommendation is not to go every year and the Dr’s offices always try to get you to go every year). Instead, I had an agreement with my GP to do a CA-125 every year, and not to do an ultrasound unless the CA-125 came back saying it needed to be looked at further. By February, it had been over a year since the last check in with my GP (Dr. Love). So I got an appt. with a PA and complained about this discomfort. Kind of crampy, but not intestinal, no bleeding. Not terrible pain, just… uncomfortable. So she has me lie back and she’s pressing on my lower abdomen and ouch!  Very uncomfortable on the right side. The left side is the side that typically has cysts, and painful ovulation, etc. I wasn’t aware of anything on the right until she pressed on it.

The follow-up, because of the family history, goes to a CAT scan, MRI with dye and then CA-125 before a follow-up referral to a new OB/GYN (the one who did the ablation had retired). It was summer by the time all the tests were done, including another ultrasound, and then I saw the OB/GYN. There is a large cyst, they said. I told them over the years, my experience with cysts had always been to take a round of progesterone, followed by an ultrasound. Always this had cleared the cyst. I said I thought all of the tests that had been run were excessive. So the OB/GYN agreed to try to pills and a follow-up ultrasound. We waited a few months. It was fall when I had a visit with the OB/GYN again. He says not only had the cyst not cleared, it had gotten 50% larger. It was the size of a grapefruit, he said.

Unbeknownst to me, this is the same OB/GYN who had seen my mother before her terminal diagnosis. Perhaps because of that, he said he felt the cyst should be removed surgically by a cancer specialist. Even though it appeared to be a simple cyst, to be safe, he wanted to refer me to a team who could treat me, if necessary, for cancer, if things took a turn. Okaaaay… so we’re talking about having a cyst removed by experts. I’m ok with that, let’s go!

So I go to the specialist before Christmas. The surgeon walks in. He says he’s read my chart and thinks he knows why I’m there but he wants me to tell him. I said I have a large cyst and because of my family history, it’s safer for him to remove it, just in case. He asks me about something I wrote on the entry questionnaire. They asked about my last cycle. Well, I’d had an ablation 6 years before, so for 6 years no cycle, except that I had bled for a few days each, 3 times in the prior 6 weeks. I attributed that to the round of progesterone. He said no, that was too long before. He explained that it meant that the ablation was not 100% successful on all of the uterine tissue and that meant that the scar tissue was preventing unscarred tissue from being checked, and the unscarred tissue was at risk of becoming cancerous. I needed a hysterectomy.

WHAT?! What about the cysts? The ovaries are bad too and also need to come out, he said. I was stunned. I asked about endometriosis and the impact if there was any tissue someplace hiding. He explained the laparoscopic, robotic-assisted procedure. He explained it again in the consultation room with my daughter. I asked about spironolactone, how it works and what it does in the body, because I have been taking it for years and felt sure it was doing more than purging water and preventing hair growth. He agreed, it was also dumping excess androgens. He said I could keep taking it after surgery. In all, I was just surprised. No other feelings. I went there to plan to have a cyst removed and now we’re talking about hysterectomy. I went to my office and told my boss, very matter-of-factly. I told family about it as a matter of course. For about 2 weeks it felt like nothing but something I was having done.

Then I had a bunch of nagging questions in my mind. Endometrial tissue will DIE without ovaries? Will it really die? Or just sit there and become cancerous? What will happen to me if I have no ovaries and no hormone replacement at all? OMG I’m already a sweaty bitch! Then I looked for my surgeon online. His ratings were poor. Oh no. One site allowed you to read individual ratings, and he had good reviews before 2010, and all bad ones after 2010. And people said you would get thrown out of the practice if you wanted a different surgeon. Ohhhh… so the anxiety started to build. I researched the effects of hysterectomy. Low libido, I expected. Vaginal dryness I knew about. But the idea of orgasms not being possible, clitoral and nipple sensitivity being reduced, atrophying sexual organs, prolapsed bladder and/or bowel, depression and sad, grey sex lives on shriveled, brittle, man-ified forms just about gave me a nervous breakdown.

The anti-hysterectomy sites (there are many) are sure to point out that this is female castration. Men would not be so quick to remove reproductive organs on other men to resolve a host of issues as they are to remove female reproductive organs. I agree with that. And when I looked into PCOS, and knowing it so intimately, I know it is caused by hormone imbalances. Fix the imbalances and you fix the organ functions, weight issues, and other 1000 things that mark PCOS and those who suffer with it. I followed the breadcrumb trail to try to find a possible *new* solution, perhaps something more recently linked to the disorder (the “latest” innovation I found was from my 1999 quest for information and cure). But no. I literally came back to a site that said exercise more/eat less, which is where my PCOS journey started when I was 12 years old in 1983. And that is certainly NOT the answer.

So since I found nothing new, I resigned myself to the procedure. I went for pre-op testing on December 29th. I saw a new PA at Dr. Love’s office. I told her some of my concerns and started to get upset. She said it sounded like I had been talking to Dr. Google. I asked, how can I advocate for myself if I don’t have information? I actually had 2 people in health industry positions telling me things about the procedure itself as well. She said I needed to call the surgeon’s office because it sounded like they hadn’t prepared me for this at all. No, they hadn’t. She did address my concerns in many areas. She said she thought I probably wouldn’t even notice the difference, sexually, and that prolapsed bladder has more to do with age than hysterectomy. She said sex might even be better than before because of all the PCOS problems I’ve had. Then she casually mentioned that I had fibroids. Nobody had told me that! Geezum. For some reason knowing I also had fibroids made it feel very necessary to have the procedure.

Finally, I went to my chiropractor. There were 3 things I wanted to do before going under the knife; 1) a new hairdo, 2) a pedicure and 3) a chiropractic adjustment. I talked to Dr. Hochman and told him what was going on. I want to say he was helpful, but he kind of said his wife became a bitch and never stopped. I said “I’m already a bitch, what is going to happen?” I was upset. I wasn’t ready for this. At least he was re-assuring in that this will prevent major issues in the future (like my mother’s), and this is a well-known surgery. Nothing too tricky or new. And my surgeon does many of these a year, he’s neither young nor elderly. It should be routine.

I ended up making peace with the idea and just hoping for the best. I never did call the surgeon’s office. I got my new hairdo and toenails done, and on January 16th, Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, 2017, I had a hysterectomy. By the time I went under the knife, the large cyst had grown to the size of a small head of lettuce, which was removed, drained and is being examined in pathology. Early tests look clear of anything suspicious. The left ovary had a small cyst which was removed with no problem. Everything was removed, everything else in the area looked good, he said. No driving for 2 weeks, stairs are ok, absolutely no lifting or straining, see you at follow-up on the 31st.

I’ll blog again about the procedure itself and my recovery sometime soon. Thanks for reading.


I’m Fat.

I was a colicky baby. I was sick. Threw up my formula constantly. The doctor, in his wisdom, suggested that my mother spoon-feed me water. He stabbed at my chubbs with his finger. “All milk fat.”

Thus began 30 some-odd years of restricted diets, crash diets, medical and commercial diets, endless hours of strenuous exercise and self-hatred. Oh and pour on top of that horrendous, non-stop bullying from 1st grade to 11th grade. The result was not weight loss, but suicidal ideations, crippling depression, and complete lack of faith in myself. It hurts to look at yourself and see beauty, but when you leave your room, you never stop hearing how repulsive you are. To this day, different as I am from my high school-self, I still look at myself and think I look pretty good, but am awash in fear of how others will see me. All. The. Time.

Going to college helped, some. Going to a more urban environment, I met people of different races and cultures. They had very different ideas of beauty than what I grew up with. Even my family was cruel. So many rude statements, so much unfair treatment. So much shame. For a while, I gloried in new-found attention from men at the college. Even other girls were suddenly nice to me there, nicer than I was used to, by far. I took 3 of those 4 years to unpack, and to a degree, re-pack my baggage.

Understand between ages 30 and 45, I have done a tremendous amount of work on myself inside. When fixing my outsides failed to produce results, I started a similarly manic marathon of self-help. Counseling, groups, retreats, body and energy work, and EMDR. It has helped to a degree, but obviously I’m not all the way where I need to go. I love the fat acceptance movement. I just wish it happened when I was 14 or 16, and not in my 40s. This Pavlov’s dog is already programmed, I’m afraid.

I had a revelation in maybe the last year. In my head, I heard, “Do I have value, if I’m not attractive?” Attractive is not the same as beautiful. Attractive has to do with attraction – another’s perception of you. And this is where I’ve felt most vulnerable – being judged by others. If others are repulsed and not attracted, do I have value? It’s well known that jobs will absolutely discriminate against people of size or who are otherwise less attractive, and fat people have depressed wages as well. Does anyone care about my value as a person? As a being? For my contributions? Is everything I know and do and contribute worthless if I am also not attractive? You know I’m not speaking from reason here. Or am I? Men don’t face these same challenges. Not to the degree women do. This should not be a question, says my rational brain. But my practical brain observes that this is the reality I live in.

And within the past week I’ve had the thought, “How much has my life been damaged by the way fat is treated in this part of this country in my lifetime?” More specifically, how has my life been damaged, my potential hampered by not just my weight, but my specific shape? Within the broader issues of fatness, there are sub-categories. Some fat shapes are more acceptable than others. Some are even desireable (visualize Jessica Rabbit vs. Ursula the octopus). Mine, however, is not one of those desireable shapes. If I were thin, or had a shape people found more acceptable, would I have had the confidence to pursue a career of my choice instead of being crippled by debilitating anxiety? Would I have gotten different job offers, or been able to advance in my career instead of going from bottom rung to bottom rung? Would I have achieved the greatness I originally envisioned for myself? Would I have held out for and/or had a shot at a better spouse??

I sobbed at these thoughts. I’ve been wondering what to do with my life. Again as a next thought to my previous post, for decades I’ve felt adrift, and it’s been a kind of crooked path farther and farther away from what I originally saw for myself. And how much has my fatness factored into it? And why, WHY am I CURSED with this? No amount of exercise or meal-skipping has cured me. I can’t pray it away or sweat it off. And I can’t walk through this world without the stigma of being what I am. I’m fat.

This is a podcast from This American Life that deals so completely with this topic. It really hits home for me in so many areas. Take a listen. My experience is real and women everywhere are experiencing it just the way I have.


How do you answer?

I have felt like I’m wandering around in the woods of life since I was a Junior in college (more than a few years ago [24]). I was confused coming out of the shoot really even in high school. I had studied music very seriously from 4th grade on. I was a cellist and singer. I imagined myself a professional cellist. I was working toward that goal. I was taking private lessons from an elderly man from Vienna each week, playing music I can’t even comprehend now. As you wind down your Junior year, you begin looking at colleges and auditioning if you’re going into music in any way.

You must know, I was not a sporty kid. I could have been athletic, but power lifting or shotput or something would have been my sport. Running, jumping, climbing – not so much. Combine this with the fact that I had been bullied for about 10 years straight by then and you may understand that when gym class happened every other day, it was pretty much torture. It was team handball time. It was 20 degrees out. We were not supposed to go out when it was that cold, so nobody was prepared, but out we went in shorts and tee-shirts. I had, at least, a pair of white, vintage, leather ladies dress gloves with me. I volunteered for goalie. I was much more effective at blocking the smallish goal than I was at running the field. We were playing with volleyballs. I recall that. And in the frigid weather they were like concrete.

I had blocked every shot on our team’s goal, which was pretty amazing because my team sucked and the other team was shooting at me a lot. There was this girl on the other team, she was kind of like the sea hag from Popeye, built weirdly and muscular but not in a body-builder kind of way. What she lacked in speed she made up for in strength. Now, understand, the rules of this game, as we were reminded at the beginning of the class that day, were that you cannot shoot at a goalie’s head. But the sea hag shot for my head, this concrete-like, frozen leather ball.

Instinctually I raised my left hand to block my face, and was successful. Just one problem. A *snap* inside my glove and instant flame-like pain. I yowled loudly, but at the same time, the ball had bounced off me and rolled out of the goalie box where the sea hag was waiting, scooped it up and shot it exactly the same way – straight at my face. Again without the chance to think, my hand deflected to ball from my face, hitting my hand again. Another crunch, more searing pain. I stomped on that ball so it couldn’t roll. I screamed for TIME OUT! Coach was on the other end of the field talking to a student, oblivious to my injury and the infraction of rules.

Now trembling uncontrollably, I peeled the glove off the injured hand. The end of my left pinky finger was the size of my thumb, purple, and bloody under the nail. The coach mosied down and looked, after, I suppose, other kids alerted her to something happening that stopped the game. She told me to go to the nurse. The nurse. Ms. Rozell. This woman was the same nurse who had been in my elementary school who was far more interested in listening to elevator music and chatting up the art teacher than dealing with actual sick children. She was awful! I walked in to her office. She said, annoyed, “What?” I held up my hands with the 2 pinkies side-by-side. One obviously hugely swollen and discolored. She handed me an ice pack and sent me back to gym.

I went back to gym. I sat in the locker room crying. My hand felt like it was on fire and no ice pack was going to stop that. So I went to the main office. I told the secretary what happened and she called my mother to see if I could go home. My house was about 6 houses away and my mother was home. She said I could go but I had to walk. So I walked home. My mother was about as concerned as the nurse. Gave me a Tylenol and got a finger splint and basically told me to suck it up. The next day my father took me to the doctor because I had been in non-stop pain. Of course it was broken. And misaligned in 2 different directions. The doctor said he would have to snap it again to put it back together again and I don’t remember if my father and the doctor decided not to bother or if I said no, but it didn’t happen. Home I went with a note, excusing me from gym for 6 weeks.

Do you think I was actually excused? NO WAY! Now it was President’s Physical Fitness testing preparation, which meant indoor obstacle course. I couldn’t do any of it, so they had me spotting the uneven bar mats. That is holding the mat handles while kids jumped on them to climb over. Sounds like an activity that requires hands, right? That’s right! Really, were there any rational adults anywhere??? Naturally, since the left hand is the fingering hand for a cellist and my insanely difficult music for auditions required really 6 fully-functioning fingers on the left hand, I certainly needed at least the normal 4 to be functional. So for 6 weeks, no practicing. I continued to play in normal orchestra with 3 fingers, because the music was very easy. I thought I would just pick up where I left off when the finger was healed. I was wrong.

After the 6 weeks were up, my finger still hurt to apply that kind of pressure, and I had significantly lost strength. The tip of a cellist’s pinky has to be strong to press on those thick strings and to create vibrato. My finger was no longer strong enough. So without the ability to play my piece or to audition with it, I changed gears. Maybe I’ll go for voice. I had been in choir since middle school, had sung solos and been in a working wedding/party band for 4 years. Certainly I would love to sing and was very strong in that area. I approached my choir teacher about it. He had coached a student who had graduated the year before to help her get through auditions. I told him my plan and he said, “Ok.” End of story. My family didn’t know what one should do to audition in voice. Recommendations? What kind of music to do? So, I thought, maybe I’ll go for art.

I went to the art room and gathered up all of my best work and put it into a paper portfolio. I had some art I had done at home too. We visited a couple of schools. 2 in particular were for portfolio review. I was guaranteed acceptance on the spot from both of them. I picked the one I liked the best and applied early decision. The rest is history. So you see, I was already working my Plan C by the time I arrived at college. As my Junior year rolled around, I was looking ahead. My parents had separated. Westchester County, where I went to college, was a very expensive place to live on one’s own. So when I was proposed to, I said yes, and got married that summer before my Senior year.

I finished my degree, graduated with honors, and attempted to find work. I went into NYC for several interviews, but was not chosen. In desperation, I took administrative work, the kind of work I had done as a student in college on campus – data entry, desktop publishing, phones, etc. I ended up doing that kind of work, being deeply, deeply depressed, making practically no money, all the way up until my first child was born. I took 4 years out to raise children. That ended abruptly when I divorced my children’s father. Thrust back into the working world, I went back to office work, then social work, which I did enjoy, then non-profits. I was laid off 3 times from significant positions, 3 jobs where I busted my butt and kicked ass, where I was holding the world together. And my world came crashing down three times.

I decided after the 3rd lay-off, to do some soul-searching. What am I killing myself for? When can I make personal gains? When can I make fair wages for my mountain of talent and experience? Piggy-backing on my last blog, chasing money is not fulfilling. How can I catch fire? How can I begin to love my life? How can I start to dream big again? When can my life become beautiful? I decided I needed to get more skills in the area that I love. I went back to school for another art degree. Crazy, right? Double-crazy because I didn’t get a Masters to work toward a teaching position or something. No, I went for an AAS in Media Arts. I decided I needed digital art skills. I didn’t even care about the degree. I wanted to learn as much as I could as fast as I could so I could jump into a great job in my field making decent money for the first time.

It was then that I remembered my love for higher ed. My thirst for that environment was overwhelming. I was a rock star in every class. I mastered every tool immediately. I started tutoring other students, and was hired by the school to create promotional material post-graduation. I worked multiple part-time jobs, including a 20+ hour/week internship, and packed a 2-year degree into a dense 12 months. I graduated Summa Cum Laude in May of this year. I was wound so tight, and my confidence was so high, I was ready to be launched. But I finished the degree in December, and winter is a tough time for job seeking. My internship was supposed to have become a f/t position, but the company decided not to use interns anymore, and hired someone full-time to replace me just 8 weeks before I would have finished my program. I had been out of f/t work for 18 months, my unemployment was about to end, and I was so broke, it wasn’t even funny. I began to get desperate.

I signed up to temp. My first temp assignment was at a company I had applied to for a social media position a month or 2 earlier. I thought once they saw my work, they would perhaps slide me over into the other position. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. I was never asked about my years of professional social media experience. There was never a discussion about the position or how it might fit me, or visa versa. They hired someone else. And the temp position was exactly the kind of work I had done in my 20s: data entry, correspondence, data analysis. The money was okay, but still short of my target wage. I was disappointed, but just resolved to look for my dream job really diligently for the rest of my temping assignment. I did have 1 or 2 interviews, but not great fits. The company asked me repeatedly to consider taking the temp job permanently because I was so qualified and great to work with.

Not gonna lie, I cried. Right in the office, I cried. And I turned them down. I was never shy about the fact that I just went back to school so I can work in my field, and they understood. But that job didn’t come. A steady paycheck was something I desperately needed. So on the third discussion of me taking the position, closer to the end of the 13 weeks, I agreed. We discussed that they would not chain me up, they said they knew it was not my dream job. They would try to make the job more interesting for me by letting me customize some of the tasks. They also picked me up for freelance work on the side, which has been great. I mean, it’s an honest environment, which is so refreshing. No dress code, people curse, we have essential oil diffusers and birthday lunches, and my co-workers are really great. Is it wrong that I am still disappointed?

Is my life, in the end, going to be a life lived by default? Is everything I do going to be the Plan C version? Earlier, I read an article and the questions it suggests you ponder for success is this: “What pain do you want in your life? What are you willing to struggle for?” Pain? What pain do I want? In addition to the pain of disappointment, loneliness, poverty and despair? Gee, I dunno. What am I willing to struggle for? I guess survival. I’ve been doing that for over 16 years. Would I also struggle for success? Of course. I’m struggling already! Struggle and pain do not automatically ensure success, though. Right now, I’m at that uncomfortable place where I am saying, what makes me come alive?, and can I be successful at that? If so, what are the steps to take? Where do I need to be? Who do I need to talk to? How do I unleash the best of myself?

And do I have the energy, the drive to do it? On this question, I say YES! I know, because when I was in college last year, I was like an olympian of education! I was on fire! I worked tirelessly into the night, and sprung out of bed (as late as possible) each day, excited about what I was going to do that day. I had drive, energy and passion! If anybody will give me a chance, I can do fantastic things! If I feel tired and slow now, it’s just that I am not doing something I love. I am forcing myself to go through the motions of life and wasting time that I could be doing what I was born to do. Can I be sure what I was born to do? So many doubts and misgivings.

So I’ll leave you with that for today. Thanks for reading. ~E

Article I referenced:



Overwhelming… that is a good word to describe this phase of my life. Anxiety, financial crises, missing a child who has recently flown the coop to college, messy house, full-time job, loss of a family pet, ELECTION 2016 happening (UGH!). I have a pretty good job with great co-workers, with an organization doing great work in preserving the environment. But I can’t find my happy place. I can’t even motivate to pamper myself. Hot bath? What’s that? Why? I feel pulled in too many ways. I’m like so many people, muddling along into middle-age. Humph!

I had the thought recently that I’ve spent most of my adulthood chasing money. I’m a slow runner, so I don’t seem to catch much of it. In the generation of my grandparents, you just got a “good job” and stayed with it. It didn’t matter what your passion was in life. Save your passion for nights and weekends. But this was when people had 2 weeks of vacation, pensions, unions making sure they had decent wages. And frankly, there was a time, hard to imagine now, when employers did not or could not wring out their employees for as much as they could, paying bottom dollar. Not so anymore. No job security, 1 person doing the work of many with not enough resources, little or no benefits – this is the modern American workplace. We’re doing worse than our grandparents.

Owning a home, once an expectation for young couple, now is a luxury for people of all ages. Dual income families cannot provide the same things their grandparents had with one bread-winner. We have gadgets, which amuse us and keep us connected, perhaps inform us as well, replacing newspapers and the 6 o’clock news, encyclopedias, calendars, wall-phones, calculators, board games, cameras, radios, notebooks and so much more, for relatively little cost, but we feel like we’re misusing our money to pay for them because somehow they are frivolous – because we like using them. We all have cars where I live, no more 1-car families for the most part. We don’t have mass transit, and we have WAY too much going on to be stranded at home without a vehicle. Who will get the kids, stop at the store, go to the pharmacy, work odd hours, pick up clothes at the cleaners, etc.? I would no longer say it’s a luxury for people outside of urban centers to have cars, not if they have jobs.

Look at fast food – oh, we are berated constantly for eating out, especially fast food. The thing is, if there was a fresh fruit and veggie drive-through, most everyone I know would rather drive through for food there. But that isn’t what is available. I personally know when I drive up to some restaurant, it’s a meal behind the wheel, a necessity for a time crunch and a low budget. I don;t even want what they have but I have to eat something. You can only eat so many protein bars, drink so many Slim-Fast shakes, eat so many Lean Cuisine microwave meals and PB&J sandwiches in a lifetime and I hit my quota about 3 years ago. I gave up! I want variety and I want recently-made food that doesn’t cost a fortune. You know where I end up.

My kids used to watch Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern and it occurred to me, everywhere he went, they had street food. He would talk about people taking their lunch break coming out to grab street food. I see, so you mean in Thailand they are not brown bagging their lunch? Eating leftovers from the previous day’s dinner? Forcing down a wilted, pre-made gas station salad? No, they are buying hot food from a guy cooking on the sidewalk. Oh but we’re gluttons for doing it here. I wish we had chicken skewers on the street instead of McD’s, but be real. Busy people everywhere have to eat. Only puritanical Americans insist on eating crap that makes you want to give up living.

Gone are the days when a delicious home-cooked meal and a tidy home awaited the tired laborer after an honest day’s work. Nobody is home to clean the house or prepare the meal. Whereas mom of the 50s had all day to plan and prepare a meal, today’s mom (mostly moms, not 100% of course) has to not only work all day, pick up the kids from daycare, serve dinner, try to clean up the house, get the kids’ homework done, get everyone into bed, wash dishes, do some laundry – and then she also has to think of the next day’s dinner and prepare it partly so it can be tossed into the crock pot on the way out the door in the morning while she rounds up kids, tries to make some lunches, lets the dog out and in, takes out the trash, and gets to work hopefully on time. Where is dad in all this? Unfortunately in too many homes today there isn’t one. Including in mine.

I’ll save the single parent rap for another day, but one thing I have to insist is that it was so much more efficient having someone home. You save money, believe it or not. Having the luxury of time, means better planning, better quality food, better home life, less stress, more organization. And before you think that I’m a throwback GOP white mom, please know I’m really a left-wing women’s libber. The beauty of women’s liberation was not that we all can run out into the workforce and become CEOs. The beauty of it is supposed to be that if you should desire to go become a CEO, that it is possible to do so, without sexism standing in the way. And on that front we’re not nearly there. The other side of that coin is that if you do NOT want to rush out into the workforce and reject the stereotypical “mom” role of the past that I described before, you should also be able to do that without being derided by men or women.

I was a stay-home mom for about 2 1/2 years when a sudden divorce forced me back into the workforce. I was, honestly, traumatized by it. My children were BABIES! It broke my heart every single day that I had to leave them. I was even more traumatized by savage, brutal work environments and rotten people. I don’t mean physically. I wasn’t taming lions or anything. It was just like being on Survivor or something. All these secret alliances, back-stabbing, drama… I came to work to do a good job. I was oblivious to “office politics.” Boy, was that a mistake. I was bitten more than once for that. And had abusive supervisors multiple times, who even ran afoul of labor law. Each time I internalized what was happening and tried harder to be perfect.  And never really made any money, not enough to pay bills easily. Constantly in debt, fearing financial catastrophe. And when we live hand to mouth, the littlest disruption is catastrophic. To drive that dagger in deeper, three times I was laid off. Little severance pay and unemployment… sprinkle on some nervous breakdown, despair, anxiety. Yummy.

I know this – I love college. I love learning, and I love helping other people learn. I love creating. I have 2 art degrees now. Am I working in the arts? No, I am not. So going back to the idea that once upon a time you got A job and that was it, today this is not plausible. Job change is constant, new skills are needed always. You can’t rest on your previous experience. You have to constantly be retraining, cross-training, adapting, looking for a new employment trend, and networking like your life depends on it. Because it does to a degree. That’s how you chase money. What about the most successful people? I mean the REALLY successful people. They don’t chase money. They follow ideas to fruition. What does that mean? They hear or think of a good idea and they explore it. They take it to its end. If it’s successful, they are successful. If not, they work on something else. Doesn’t mean they are in a vacuum and don’t pay attention to what is going on around them, they are aware of trends. But they don’t read a newspaper article about the top 20 highest-paying jobs and sign up to learn to do one of them.

Today we expect to have aptitude. Some people can be nurses. I – cannot. Ew! Some people love crunching numbers. Maybe accounting is their bag. Sure, if one of those top-grossing jobs is right up your alley of interest, go for it! But it’s a danger to say, I’m going to become an accountant if you hated math in school and think doing math all day would bore you to death. We don’t need more people droning on like zombies in life. You spend half of your waking hours 5 days a week (or more) working for a living usually. If you enjoy your work, it will energize you. If not, it will suck your life out and when you get home, you’ll have nothing left for those things you enjoy. I love this quote:

“Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”

– Howard Thurman

It’s just so true. I have an idea what it would take for me to come alive, but I’m not sure, and I don’t know how to get from point A to point B. In the mean time I’m muddling along and it’s just so uncomfortable. I’m absolutely restless. I’m pretty sure this is why some people drink or do drugs, seriously. Instead I’m blogging. If you’re reading this and you can relate at all, let me know. Until next time, be well. ~E