Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Queen of Extrapolation

So, I'm unemployed.  Well.  I'm employed in taking care of my kids, which for most of the day only means my three year old son, as my six year old daughter is being taken care of by the school.  Supposedly.  Anywhoo, my son is only in preschool for six hours a week, so by and large, it's me.

And, since it's Christmas time, I've been spending a whole lotta money getting gifts, decorating the house and whatnot.  Sure, it's fun.  I think I'll be at a loss when I have no more gifts to buy (which is soon, I think).  I'll have to wean myself off the purchasing.

These two things are related, in that, my private (or not so private) little fantasy, is that one day, I could write for a living.  Like, be paid to write.  Wouldn't that be something?

I haven't earned a paycheck in ages (almost seven years, actually) and even then I never earned a big one.  Never one that would cover much more than the childcare that I would need to do said job.  And even then, at this moment, due to my fatigue and cognitive difficulties on account of ma MS (Thanks, MS!  Fucker.), I'm not even sure I could get any job.  Or keep it.  I guess when my son's in Kindergarden full time, we'll see, but I'm not sure of anything really.

I'm extremely lucky in my patient and smart and responsible husband.  He's kind too.  And sexy.  And I love him.  And I don't want to stress him out more.  I want to help him.  And honestly, the one thing I think I could maybe do (if I ever got over my basic gut-wrenching fear of writing) is write.  Maybe.

Here's the thing, though.  Phebe lost three babies.  And I really have no no no idea what that would feel like.  Not really.  I think I'm naive enough to believe that I can extrapolate it, though.  (Quite a sentence there.)  I say that because I know how it felt to have my son spew disgusting fluids out of his mouth and anus onto me constantly for a week last spring and for him to have to be hospitalized for dehydration because of it.  But that was one week.  And, more importantly, he was fine.

I really have no idea what Phebe went through.  Or what someone who was raped went through.  Or even something milder, like being cheated on.  I think I have an idea because of small tiny little episodes in my life that somewhat relate.  Like, when I was a teenager and out at the Junior Prom with my date, who was my boyfriend, but who I wasn't attracted to at all, and how I didn't, couldn't, stop him when we parked.  I know what that felt like.  And he got to second base, tops.  But he didn't use force, just subtle pressure.  I knew I should want it, and I did, just not with him, so I went along with it.  It felt horrible and the next day I broke up with him - the next morning, actually - and then my mother overheard me and told me to call that boy back up and take it back. "He took you to prom."

I have that experience and I believe I can extrapolate it to having to go through something much much worse, but then I have this horrible fear that doing so would insult someone who went through something so horrible.  That it would belittle them.  And then I want to write nothing at all.

I also know, from having children, that some things simply must be experienced.  The feeling you get when your child issues that first cry in the delivery room...blah blah blah.  But it's true.  That feeling is corny and overworked, but I will never forget it.  That sound went straight to the goddamned core of my stupid fucking soul.  And when or if I ever thought of it before having children, I rolled my eyes.  And when people are too tired to deal with their children and younger, childless people get annoyed, I realize that that was me too, being annoyed.  Not understanding.

Oh and old people!  Now that I'm unofficially an old person (many days I feel about 70 years old), I get a lot more things than before.  But still, not really.  I don't know what it's like to have cancer, for instance.  I don't know what it's like to watch my spouse have cancer either.

Shit.  You know who's fucked me up?  Well.  Besides my mom, of course.  Christina Aguilera, is who.  Surprising, right?  She was on one of the first Behind the Music produced by VH1 or MTV (back when they concerned themselves with music) in the 90's.  She said, and it was the tagline for the series, I think, "You think you know, but you have no idea."  And this from a girl who's big hit was a thinly veiled song about clitoral stimulation.  A teenage girl.  In any case, it fucked me up, because it's true.

But I still want to write about Phebe.  And I still do want to write and get paid for it somehow.  And I do want to understand.  I hope that's enough?

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