Why I Use “Latinx”

You might have come across the word “Latinx” (pronounced Lah-Teen-Ex) and thought, “TYPO!” But you would be incorrect.

latinalatinx

Random Definitions of Latinx

From the Huffington Post:

Latinx is the gender-neutral alternative to Latino, Latina and even Latin@. Used by scholars, activists and an increasing number of journalists, Latinx is quickly gaining popularity among the general public. It’s part of a “linguistic revolution“ that aims to move beyond gender binaries and is inclusive of the intersecting identities of Latin American descendants. In addition to men and women from all racial backgrounds, Latinx also makes room for people who are trans, queer, agender, non-binary, gender non-conforming or gender fluid.

From Latina:

The “x” makes Latino, a masculine identifier, gender-neutral. It also moves beyond Latin@ – which has been used in the past to include both masculine and feminine identities – to encompass genders outside of that limiting man-woman binary.

Latinx, pronounced “La-teen-ex,” includes the numerous people of Latin American descent whose gender identities fluctuate along different points of the spectrum, from agender or nonbinary to gender non-conforming, genderqueer and genderfluid.

latinx

How I Got to “Latinx”

It took a lot of thought for me to get to the point of using Latinx in my verbal and written language.

I’ve identified as a Latina (Anglo-Cuban) for 55 years. And then my former partner Zack, my Beloved, came out trans and transitioned from female to male at the end of our marriage. I’ve been in the LGBT community since I was 17 years old, quite aware of the transfolks from drag queens (and yes, I know many do not include drag queens in the trans community), crossdressers, sissies and transitioning women, but hadn’t considered the dilemma of the gendered language of Spanish until quite recently.

I struggle with some LGBT PC issues, getting cranky at times with all the changes/additions of words for gender differences. Really had a hard time with the they-them-their pronoun discussions, but have chilled and found a place of peace with it as time has passed.

It is in my own acceptance, not even grudgingly, of the they-them-their pronouns that I chose to begin using Latinx instead of more gendered Latina and Latino.

LATINX
“GeNerd” is not a typo.

Thoughts About the Arguments Against Latinx

The Phoenix articulates the common arguments quite well.

Under the “degenderization” of Spanish advocated by proponents of words such as “Latinx” words such as latinos, hermanos, and niños would be converted into latinxs, hermanxs, and niñxs respectively. This is a blatant form of linguistic imperialism — the forcing of U.S. ideals upon a language in a way that does not grammatically or orally correspond with it.

I don’t anticipate my changing all the female and male pronouns when I speak Spanish, just the Latinx, but feel the linguistic imperialism moves in the other direction, actually re-writing, re-claiming the creation of language instead of using the language of the conquistadoran invaders from Spain… those who committed genocide of millions of people and wiping out hundreds of indigenous languages. I believe grabbing even a small bit of our heritage before the “conquest” of the Spaniards can only be a good thing.

latinxa

Latinx It Is

So, as you read in my blog, you will my using Latinx. It’s a personal political statement I can make on behalf of the LGBTQ and Latinx community.

The Cunt Coloring Book (and other feminist memories)

This book was integral to my beginnings of loving my body as well as understanding the vulva in midwifery.

Tee Corrine was an artist in the 1960’s, 70’s and 80’s. I learned of her around 1988 when I moved to San Diego from Frankfurt. I was a newly out dyke and Zack was still in the Army in Frankfurt (but was being separated for being lesbian) and I attended Lesbian Support Group meetings at the LGBT Center in downtown Hillcrest.

The Cunt Coloring Book, published initially in 1975, was extremely controversial, even when I first saw it in the late 1980’s. Older lesbians told the story of how difficult it was to get published and some enterprising dykes published it on their kitchen tables to start. It was shared in an underground fashion, passed quietly from woman to woman (ha! the spelling of “woman” at the time was “womyn”… couldn’t have the letters “men” anywhere around a vulva), sometimes one woman coloring a page and having the next in line color the next one.

Lesbian Mothers

There were very few lesbian mothers at the time and I knew of no gay fathers at all. We moms eventually formed a Lesbian Mother Support Group and it was awesome. I loved meeting other moms who understood the secrecy needed when sending our kids to school… how the Emergency Contact was a “friend” who happened to live with us.

Just like when any moms get together, there are going to be different parenting styles, but blessedly, they, for the most part, didn’t spank. I was already in the Natural Birth and Parenting Communities, a La Leche League leader (who I also had to hide my sexuality from) and had been a doula for around 6 years. There was one mom who talked about “seeing red” when she got mad at her kids and she thought we all did, that that was perfectly normal. I remember an intervention, of sorts, where we discussed what was discipline and what was abuse… a topic hardly ever mentioned back then. We encouraged her to find a therapist and deal with the anger instead of taking it out on her kids.

Lesbian Separatists

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lesbian separatists closing ranks

My first experience with a Lesbian Separatist was when Zack and I were still in Germany. A woman in our Gay Support Group, Friends of Dorothy, was quite proud of telling us about how she was so Separatist that when she gave birth to a boy, she was disgusted and gave him to his father, never to be acknowledged again. I am still as horrified now as I was then.

The lesbian community in San Diego was quite polarized in 1988, the Separatist faction wanting nothing to do with men. At. All. I had a boy child (and co-parented Zack’s son as well) and was not welcome in Separatist spaces. Even if I didn’t go with my kids, I was snubbed and usually left because no one would talk to me. I refused to pretend my son didn’t exist, so soon learned where to, and where not, to go.

The most vocal group (that I knew about) regarding Separatism was the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival as they fought to limit attendance to “womyn-born-womyn.” The last Fest was in 2015 and speculation continues about whether the growing distress and anger about the exclusion of transwomen was the cause of their demise.

While there have been transgender folks since the beginning of time, there seemed to be so few back then… public… except in bars, usually as drag queens doing lip synch shows. Goddess forbid a lesbian come out trans; he was ridiculed and the venom flowed that he had joined The Enemy and just wanted to be part of The Establishment instead of remaining an oppressed dyke. I admit I shared that sentiment, finding transmen to be the most confusing aspects of the LGBT community. Little did I know I would be confronting it head-on in 20 more years.

Blessedly, the Lesbian Separatist Movement seems to have faded into the recesses of history.

San Diego Lesbian Press

At this time, the late 80’s, is when the term Politically Correct was just coming into vogue; it wasn’t a negative term yet. The words became a frequently used phrase when I worked at the San Diego Lesbian Press as a writer.

SDLP

“The first issue of the San Diego Lesbian Press is published in October (1987), just six months after a group of women meet to discuss the need for such a publication and form a collective to make it happen.”

A “Collective” being the operative word. The SDLP operated on the “consensus” method of making decisions. (Or rather, NOT making decisions!)

Consensus

Consensus is a process for group decision-making. It is a method by which an entire group of people can come to an agreement. The input and ideas of all participants are gathered and synthesized to arrive at a final decision acceptable to all. Through consensus, we are not only working to achieve better solutions, but also to promote the growth of community and trust.

In other words, consensus is a group of people who argue for WEEKS on end about trivial shit and rarely, if ever, get anything done because everyone in the group is an Alpha Female and refuses to concede to a different position/belief/idea.

Clearly, I hate consensus. It started with the SDLP, but has continued in other, mainly lesbian or women-prominent spaces.

One SDLP argument:

It was a Separatist newspaper, but was always on the verge of dying because of lack of funds. One time, a man (gasp!) wanted to advertise in the paper… something benign like a lesbian bar. But he owned the club and the money would come from him. So several women had hairy cows over the issue of whether to accept the money or not. I am not exaggerating when I tell you the “discussion” went on for weeks… 3 meetings a week… for at least 4 weeks. “What if the check was written on his wife’s account? Can we do that?” “What if he ‘donated’ the money. Then could we accept it?” “We can’t take it for any reason… on principle.”

I got so sick of it; that was when I left.

My Early Published Writings

I wrote some good pieces while I was at SDLP, though. Looking back, well…. I wrote a piece about admiring Indian (from India) women’s “costumes” after going to a parade and there were many women in sparkly harem outfits. I asked myself if the women were hiding behind the veil and did I find them “mysterious…” or did they really represent oppression? I asked if I was I admiring the oppression of women in another culture? I barely had a glimmer of recognizing oppression of other cultures by flaunting them. That would grow over time.

I wrote a very long and very well-received article on how BDSM is one of the most vile and sub-culturally-accepted forms of physical abuse against women. I insisted there could never be consensuality and both submissives and Dominants were deluded in their belief that it was acceptable behavior to be hit/hit, that no one EVER deserves to be hit. For any reason.

When I was coming out in the BDSM community in 1995, I had to overcome that long-held belief. Apparently, I did. Completely. laughing

I was privileged to attend several really cool lesbian concerts and shows and, because I wrote reviews, I got in free (I was way poor at the time). Jamie Anderson, Tret Fure, Cris Williamson and the Indigo Girls long, long before they were as well-known as they are now. There were also lesbian comedians: Lea DeLaria (now famous in Orange is the New Black), Kate Clinton and Lynn Lavner all gave me great interviews. It was hilarious hearing about our (lesbian) lives through their comedy. Decades before Ellen. Both the singers and comedians generally alluded to the lesbian community… except Lea DeLaria who was screamingly out. We were more used to reading between the lines and, in the case of songs, changing the gender from “him” to “her.” (I think lesbians and gay men still do this!)

My Own Early Activism

Below is a picture of me marching in the Gay Pride Parade (what they were called back then) about 1989.

It was very challenging being a lesbian mom back then. Many of my friends lost their kids to their former husbands when they came out. I was one of the very few lucky enough to march.

Besides lesbian issues being important to me back then, fat issues were also important. That will be a post all on its own, but I needed to make a comment here about my marching 3+ miles as a fat woman. I did it. Easily. I was also 28 years old. The fat activists of today are in their 20’s. I will share, in other posts, what exactly fat does to a body’s mobility as the years pass. And I’ll discuss fat and health issues as well. I believe that, because I spent a great deal of time speaking and writing about fat activist issues… the importance of not fat-shaming (a relatively new term)… that I am uniquely able to talk about fat as an older woman and the hobbling effect it has had on me. Anyway, as I said… other posts.

Okay, moving on to another topic. Writing as fast as I can.

Mama Learns the Word “Genderqueer”

My mom worked at Disney for 41 years, retiring a couple of years ago. She has felt rather useless since, applying here and there for server jobs, but when they see how she teeters while walking, they tell her “Thanks, but no thanks.” This inevitably leads to tears, my comforting her that she is not worthless and she will find something. Something that helps others, not just herself.

pulse

As we know, on June 12, 2016, the horrific slaughter happened at Pulse Nightclub here in Orlando. As dawn presented herself on that Sunday morning, the LGBT Center opened its doors as hoards of terrified and in-shock community members flooded in for companionship in their grief.

I’d called my mom about 3am and we watched as the terror unfolded, sick to our stomachs and our hearts breaking more with each passing moment.

When we heard The Center had opened, she got herself dressed and headed over. She spent the next twelve hours, holding, crying and touching hands with complete strangers, yet precious hurting humans. While mama isn’t on the LGBTQ spectrum herself, I am a Dyke, my niece a lesbian and one of my daughters is bi. She felt these people in front of her were, quite literally, family.

Over the next three weeks, she went to The Center several times, not sure what she could do, but always finding someone needing her grandmotherly love and attention. I could not be more proud.

Filling Out the Application

colourful-volunteer-vector

Without telling me, mom applied to volunteer at The Center. When she told me, I am sure I squealed with delight. She said, with tears in her eyes, “I think this is what I have been waiting for, to be with the LGBT community.” I beamed a smile and said I absolutely agreed.

She didn’t hear from them for several days, but she kept going down there anyway. She mentioned they hadn’t called and I thought it kind of odd, so asked what she’d said on the application. She said when it asked, “Why do you want to volunteer at The Center?” she answered, “Because I’m bored.” My eyes bugged out of my head. “WHAT?!? Did you, perhaps, mention the number of Dykes in your family?!” Blankly she looked at me and said, “No, should I have?” (Such innocence.)

I marched her down to The Center myself and met with the Volunteer Coordinator who had mom fill out one of the extensive applications as we talked. On the app is a list of skills you can offer The Center. I could see her out of the corner of my eye that she was not having fun with this part. I asked what was going on and she stammered, “I can’t do anything!” I said that was bullshit, that she had so much compassion to offer, just write in capital letters at the bottom: LOVE.

The Volunteer Coordinator said, “You start Monday.”

Inner Work in Progress

shed

The LGBTQ world has shifted a lot in the last decade, and at ever increasing speeds. I’ve found myself, a lifelong Dyke, struggling with my own inner homo/trans-phobia. When I learned about them/they pronouns, I was really unhappy. Angry is a more apt description. My partner of over 2 decades transitioned from female to male, me gritting my teeth the whole time, begrudgingly supportive and gradually dissolving all tenderness about the situation. And the idea that someone could wake up one gender and go to bed another completely baffled me.

I’m not really proud to say these things out loud, but there you have it.

I’m working on it.

It is with this knowledge that I felt I should try and get mom up-to-speed with lingo lest she find herself talking to someone whose gender doesn’t “match” the outside trappings or she constantly discounts that she heard no pronouns at all.

“Gender… What?”

 

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I prefaced the lesson with what I shared above, that it was all confusing even to me, so not to feel she has to learn everything immediately or worry if she makes mistakes or even has to ask for help or clarification several times. I also let her know that definitions can shift depending on who was speaking and that all the words people shared were valid and right.

When it comes to asking personal questions… “What is your birth sex?” “Have you had any surgeries?” “Are you a boy or a girl”… are incredibly invasive and inappropriate. So while I encourage asking questions, there are, most assuredly, some that need to remain unasked.

I, most especially, let her know that I am a neophyte with the Non-Binary community and that these words/concepts I share are a mere outline of the scope of language and identities out there, so to please know I am not the best educator… that those that claim/use the words are the leaders and guides. Once again encouraged her to ask for help and clarifications any time she wanted/needed to.

language

question

Genderqueer – gen·der·queer – ˈjendərˌkwi(ə)r/

adjective
1. denoting or relating to a person who does not subscribe to conventional gender distinctions but identifies with neither, both, or a combination of male and female genders.
noun
1. a person who does not subscribe to conventional gender distinctions but identifies with neither, both, or a combination of male and female genders.
  1. “a younger generation of self-proclaimed genderqueers explicitly reject ‘transgender’ as an identifier”

Genderfluid – “Gender fluid is a gender identity which refers to a gender which varies over time. A gender fluid person may at any time identify as male, female, neutrois, or any other non-binary identity, or some combination of identities. Their gender can also vary at random or vary in response to different circumstances. Gender fluid people may also identify as multigender, non-binary and/or transgender.”

They/them pronouns – “What is a gender-neutral pronoun? What does English need a new pronoun for, anyway? Many people have expressed the need for a singular gender-neutral third-person pronoun: that is, a pronoun to use when someone’s gender is unknown or when the individual is neither male or female. Such instances occur when addressing transgender and genderqueer people who don’t feel comfortable being addressed with masculine or feminine pronouns, computers or robots with artificial intelligence, sexless fictional creatures, angels, and the God of many monotheistic religions. ‘He,’ ‘she,’ or ‘it’ won’t do, ‘one’ doesn’t work when speaking of a specific person, e.g. ‘Samus washed one’s dishes,’ and in some cases even a singular ‘they’ just won’t work – specifically when a name is used, e.g. ‘Charlie tied their shoes’ or ‘Sam thought they were late to the party.'”

“Hello, my name is Linda. I use she/her pronouns. What about you?” – I explained this can be tricky, but listening is the first step with figuring out the pronouns one is using. When in doubt, introduce yourself with your preferred pronouns and they will probably follow the introduction with their own.

Proud-Ally

My mama… a very, very proud… and wonderful… ally.

And I am oh-so-proud of her.

 

My First Gay Bar Experience

Most of you know I identify as lesbian. Really, the words are “femme Dyke“… a more political, descriptive explanation of how I walk in the LGBTQ+ community.

Buzzfeed recently asked folks to share their first gay bar experiences as a way to express the good and bad of the atmosphere in what used to be seen as a safe space. I wrote mine out and wanted to share it here as well, especially since my babies have asked me to write my life here on the blog.

There is so, so much more to the story, but here is the outline of my life at the Parliament House in Orlando.

Parliament House Motor Inn, 410 North Orange Blossom Trial Orlando
Parliament House, circa 1979

What Gay Bars Mean to Me

I was 17-years old in 1979 when my gay boyfriend and I ventured to the Parliament House in Orlando, Florida. It was like walking into Wonderland; an alternate Universe I never knew existed. For once, being a fat girl didn’t make any difference… I was embraced and accepted for all that I was. In fact, I found myself in the midst of brilliant, eccentric, artistic and whirling-twirling misfits that pulled me into the middle of their all-male fold.

Besides dancing to Donna Summer and drinking watered-down gin & tonics, the PH had a Show Bar where Drag Queens performed twice nightly. The Divine Miss P emceed, her biting snark gave me a view into humor I’d never experienced before. There is nothing quite like being the object of a Drag Queen’s dart.

Divine Miss P

For some reason still unknown to me, the Drag Queens took me under their wing. I was not even in the bar legally, must have made a fool of myself with my ignorance of gay culture a hundred times, yet they sat me down in front of the make-up mirror and taught me how to “paint my face.” For years afterwards, I was asked if I was a Drag Queen (although the huge rhinestone brooches and bracelets, the feather boas and glitter in my pink hair might have had something to do with it, too). It took until I had kids that I learned to tone down my make-up enough that strangers didn’t think I was about to lip-sych a song for them.

Being in the bar allowed me to explore my then-fluid sexuality, no one telling me I was disgusting or sinful. I wandered in and out of the closet for another few years before identifying as lesbian after the kids were born. Those early days were a whirlwind of round-robin kissing, casual sex, copious drugs all while struggling to finish high school. A time that was ignorant of the things that would kill us in the not-so-distant future. A time when we would never, ever have remotely thought someone would bring a machine gun into the bar and kill us by the dozens.

37 years ago, here in Orlando, that would have been me in that bar. Instead, it was children of my peers. My heart sobs for the loss of innocence.

Opiate Addiction: the Slide Into Hell

I’m 2 years clean this month from addiction to the opiates Norco and Percocet.

looking at that statement above with amazing pride and happiness

turning-heart-to-the-spiritual-world

How It Began

It’s funny (not haha) that I cannot even recall when I was first prescribed Norco, but I am pretty sure it was around 2005 for back pain. Around 2007, my Primary Care Doc was concerned with my still being on it and ordered an immediate blood test to see if I was abusing them. I was baffled, not even having a clue what she was talking about. I took them exactly as prescribed… never even dawned on me to do otherwise. I was a midwife, for crying out loud. I had to keep my wits about me! Opiate addiction had yet to make headlines.

Then in December 2008, I broke my foot falling off a Wii Fit Board and had surgery to put a pin in it a couple of days later. The Norco wasn’t quite taking care of the pain, so Percocet was added to the mix. I had at least a year of terrible pain as there were 3 surgeries altogether; I remained on the meds throughout, compliant as could be.

I was an active midwife until early 2011 and that is about where I can see I went from use to abuse. Surely I was dependent a lot earlier, but being unaware of the cycle, I bypassed it without notice.

Thoughts & Words

morning pages2

I kept Journals during the abuse years (ugh, years!), doing the encouraged 3 pages a day, Morning Pages, as described in The Artist’s Way. The rhythm of the words went like this:

  1. Contentment for a few days after the prescriptions were filled… writing about going to the Y or some birthy topic or other… what my partner Zack was doing at the time… just chitty-chatting.
  2. Heightening “concern” I might be taking a few too many at a time, but not really caring and continuing to take them anyway… yet the distant knowledge that I was going to have to count as I wound down towards the end of the prescription. Non-drug topics becoming fewer as I wrote.
  3. Starting to get antsy about the middle of the month. Even a tad squirmy. I started counting pills. Shit, I’ve taken that many already? Crap. My words became jittery, talking about running out in 2 weeks.
  4. Finding myself worrying now about how the hell I am going to make the pills last through the end of the month. And what about my pain? What am I going to do about my pain? I’d gone through the gamut of physical therapies trying to fix the pain, I had learned pain coping methods in my life several times, but they escaped me whenever it was convenient to do so.
  5. The last week before the new prescription was ready was the worst. My writing was nothing BUT how worried I was about getting my meds. I wrote about counting, rationing, taking 2 pills a day instead of 16. Tears smeared the ink many days that last week.

norco2

(Writing this, I can feel those feelings all over again. My bowels are in an uproar.)

Oblivious to Stupidity

The Percocet at the time was a medication I had to have a hand-written Rx for (Norco is like that now, too, but at the time, I was given 3 refills at a time) and I had to first: Call the doctor’s office, leaving a message asking for my refill Rx, second: wait for the 5 days before they would have the Rx ready to be picked up, always terrified they wouldn’t fill it in time, or worse, at all… third, if they didn’t call me to tell me the Rx was ready in 5 days (usually 2 days before it was time to be refilled), I would get in the car and go sit at the doctor’s office until it was ready. I learned pretty quickly that the law allows one to fill a prescription 2 days before it is due. That meant I had two fewer days to ration the pills I had left.

That wasn’t the last hurdle I traversed. Pharmacies have the power to refuse filling any prescription they want to. As my addiction swallowed me up, I would have diarrhea dropping the Rx’s off at the pharmacy, terrified they would not fill my meds. About a year before detoxing, the pharmacy did exactly that, refused to fill my Percocet Rx’s. I remember sobbing at the counter, begging them to explain why? Why were they punishing me when I was just in pain! They were cruel and sadistic.

I changed pharmacies and resumed receiving my drugs.

And the cycle began again, taking 12-20 pills a day for 2 weeks, blah blah blah. (Re-read above to follow along.)

Stupidity_definition

Delusions

What is so very strange is this pattern, including writing in my Morning Pages, really was so predictable… was nearly identical every. single. month. For years. And yet, I was so deep inside the cycle, I couldn’t climb out.

There were times when I completely ran out and began asking family and friends for their extras, “just until mine came in,” then I would pay them back. They gave me what I asked for, too. I got those extras about a dozen times and rarely paid them back when I got mine. One friend told me I needed help. I didn’t call her for a long time, livid she would deny me. If I’d have had money, I would have bought them. I Googled what to take if one needed pain meds and I cannot even tell you the incredible advice out there. Nyquil (did it). Benadryl (took tons). OTC sleep aids (check).

My partner Zack clearly saw what was happening and tried, several times, to help me get control. Near the end, he hid my meds, divvying them out one day at a time. I madly searched out his hiding places and took what I wanted. He began counting them and saw what I was doing so got a lock box and locked them up. After he’d locked them that first time and left the room, I sat staring at it and cried for far too long. Sometimes he would be exasperated and just leave me to my own devices, but eventually locking them back again.

The Pain Specialist

My insurance, after a certain amount of time, too long I know now, required me to see a pain specialist to evaluate my medication usage. When I walked into the office, they handed me a cup to pee in. A random drug test. I broke out in a sweat and thanked the Universe it was at the end of the month so he wouldn’t see the copious amounts of drugs I would be taking in a week. I passed the pee test.

Sitting in front of the doctor, I recounted my injuries, faking limited mobility, vowing to him I was not addicted to the pain meds. It was obvious he didn’t believe one word I said. He said I needed to get off the meds, writing me a prescription for Suboxone. He wanted to see me in a month to see how I was doing. I never went back and stuffed the prescription into a drawer.

Colorless Life

I really thought I had zero side effects of the meds. Nevermind I was on a cornucopia of psych meds at the same time (and each doctor did know my entire medication list!) When I had agoraphobia, I was also prescribed a variety of anti-anxiety meds… known as Benzos… also highly addictive. Luckily I didn’t like how they made me feel, so just had Zack lock them away. I could see taking them when I ran out of the opiates and didn’t want to do that.

Writing was very difficult during these years. I thought I had lost my life-long compulsion to write. I could barely eek out my Morning Pages. My blog suffered mightily. I couldn’t keep complete thoughts formed long enough to type them out. I would feel rushes of desire to write when there were lively reactions to articles on my Navelgazing Midwife Facebook Page, but when I opened a Word Document, it stayed white with a blinking cursor. I just knew I was in the depths of writer’s block, that was all it was.

Losing words was the worst, however. Simple words escaped me. I kept a Thesaurus tab open on the computer so I could search for the words I really wanted to use. I began laughing that I needed to play charades to get a complete thought out. I honestly thought it was just an age thing. shaking my head in disgust

reality

Meghann First

Of course, when I was away, Zack had no control over my use/abuse. It was always a treat to travel.

When my daughter Meghann has her babies, I go to Texas to be her doula, birth and postpartum, staying for about 6 weeks total, helping wherever I could. She had her second baby, her second cesarean, in March 2014 and 36 hours after the birth, she nearly hemorrhaged to death, requiring another, more invasive surgery, to save her life. She was in the ICU for several days. Meggie has her own wonderful blog, Practically Hippie, and she tells her harrowing story in The Rest of Preston’s Birth Story (Part 1).

Once she was home, I was in charge of helping her with her pain meds. Norco. I was meticulous with them.

Until I ran out of my own. I took just one once. Not so bad, right?

Meghann was no longer taking the Norco after about 3 weeks, taking Ibuprofen instead. So, I rationalized, she didn’t need them. By default, they were mine, right? Standing back and looking at myself, even then, I was disgusted with what I was doing. When she exerted herself, she needed a Norco. I chilled for a few days to make sure she had what she needed. But if she didn’t ask for one for a few days, I helped myself again. She did have a refill on there. I could go get it and she would never know, right?

Zack’s Turn

My partner of decades, transitioned from female-to-male beginning in 2011, culminating in Sex Reassignment Surgery (“bottom surgery”) in early June 2014. (I will write plenty about my experience with his transition, I promise.)

The phalloplasty (when the penis is made) is such an extensive surgery it requires almost complete bedrest for 30 days afterwards and limited mobility for many months still. There are three surgical sites made at the same time: the forearm, where the nerves and veins and arteries are removed and used to form the phallus… an enormous slice of skin off the thigh in order to cover the cavernous arm wound… and, of course, the groin, where 100+ stitches hold the new penis and testicles onto the body. Most of us can barely comprehend the amount of pain this surgery creates.

Zack was prescribed Norco and Percocet for pain.

(You can already see the train wreck coming, can’t you. Sadly, I could not.)

We were in San Francisco for the surgery, staying in an Air B&B condo. We stayed right at a month, but it overlapped with my needing my meds mailed to me. It was a crisis when it was time, a fiasco that sent them to the wrong zip code and a couple of days later, my picking them up at the warehouse.

I’ll just borrow a couple of Zack’s until mine arrive. Hmmm, I’m already out of Percocet? A months’ worth, gone in less than 2 weeks. Crap, what am I going to do? I snuck into Zack’s bottle while he was sleeping 10 feet from me. He’ll never know.

Shockingly, he took the pain meds rarely. He has the pain tolerance of an elephant. Not me. I am a complete wimp. (I thought; I am not anymore!)

We finally got home and Zack was able to move about freely, albeit slowly. I am not kidding when I say the very first thing he did was walk to the counter and count his Norco. Many were missing. Even though he was wounded in many places, he was apoplectic. I was filled with immense shame at what I had done. He nearly cried telling me how sick (addicted) I was to be stealing his meds after the surgery he had just had.

I filled the prescription for the Suboxone that day.

Next up: “Opiate Addiction: Detox

 

Rebirth

On Saturday, July 3, 2004 at 2:44 am, I published my first blog post ever. Entitled “Stumbling Along,” it was the beginning of a (so far) 12-year long blog, Navelgazing Midwife. My first line shares an emotion I experienced many times over the years:

… and it is so scary sometimes.

Where I Was

When I was active in birth work, I had to tiptoe through a hundred (thousand?) landmines, withholding my feelings too many times, wanting to write my beliefs years before I finally did in 2008 in the post, “Midwifery Education (Lite),” the version of an incredibly edited “Midwifery Education” that I stupidly deleted because I was terrorized by the higher-ups in the midwifery community and I feared for my license.

Rightly so.

That post came back to haunt me in 2010 when I was unceremoniously ejected from my midwifery community in San Diego, California. It took awhile, but they succeeded in ending my midwifery career (and gads, do I hate even admitting they had control over it!), sending me back into doula and monitrice work, which I did until I left San Diego on December 20, 2014.

Where I Am

edgeofcliff

The story on why I left San Diego will be told here, along with what I am doing today. Looking back, it’s shocking how many changes have occurred in such a short time! From midwife to sex worker; married lesbian in San Diego, California to happily single dyke in Orlando, Florida. It’s easy to see there’re a whole lot of words needed to fill in those gaps.

I’m not going to censor as much as I did in my midwifery blog. I have nothing to hide anymore.(Well, except for the privacy of my work clients, but I think you’ll understand that, right?) My kids have been asking me for years to write my stories, that posterity thing and all. Amusingly, I have a lot of them to share, too.

Not Stumbling Anymore

woman ballerina ballet dancer dancing silhouette

And so I take my first step here with you today. I am very excited to have changed my name, Navelgazing Midwife, something that is pretty well-known (Google it!), to the Navelgazing Writer. It’s so exciting to be on this adventure… and am thrilled you are here with me as…

…I begin.