A Surprisingly Sane Blog

Ten years ago today, I went to my Wednesday classes during the first semester of my sophomore year in college. I went home, stuffed some food in my face, went to Jujitsu for a good hour and a half of ass-kicking, sped home, showered, dressed in a pair of gray pants and a black sleeveless shirt, grabbed my dance shoes, and drove my ‘88 obnoxiously noisy Ford Taurus all the way back to the University of Arizona. I parked my car in the mountain garage on the second floor, then quickly made my way to one of the ballrooms of the old student union.

The Swing Cat’s Club dance had already started, and I walked in to see James already out on the dance floor, charming every girl he greeted with his huge smile, bad acne, and confidence but warm personality. He was wearing a muted green Hawaiian shirt over a white tank top with his greenish-khaki pants that he probably hadn’t washed in at least a month. I’m still amazed by the fact that they didn’t stink.

Shortly after that picture was taken, the dance was over. James did a few of his president-of-the-club duties, closed up, then walked me out to my car. We’d been out together dancing or doing martial nearly every night of that previous week, and it was pretty clear we were really into each other.

Once we were at my car, he pulled me into his arms for a hug. I started to pull away when I thought the hug was concluding, but he didn’t let go. Before I knew it, I was pressed back up against him and he was kissing me.

There was no fireworks or lightening like the previous guy I dated. That guy shot butterflies to my toes and back, but he also managed to rape me shortly thereafter, so I was concerned about a kiss that had too much attached.

Nope, this kiss was perfect. It felt warm and firm and gentle and sincere, like I’d been kissing him for ages already, and neither of us wanted to stop. And with that, those two nineteen-year-old college kids fell madly in love.

With James, it wasn’t a dramatic start. There was no drinking at a frat party that led to a while romp in the sack and a mini-James nine months later, or a bunch of self portraits of us sucking face and baby talk to try to prove our cuteness. There was no dramatic arguments where we would fight hard and fuck harder to make up. It was, quite simply, a very easy relationship free of any major conflicts for years and days full of several-hour-long conversations and laughter, dancing, and kicking each other’s butts in Jujitsu. In many ways, it was perfect.

Eventually, we went through a period where we were arguing and running into conflicts that we weren’t sure we’d ever get past. We fell victim to attraction to other people, fought a decent amount of temptation, and finally realized that we were indeed meant for each other. After three years of dating, James proposed to me under the full moon down in the the Grand Canyon with sincere, lovesick eyes wearing nothing but a pajama top and his tidy-whities. It was perfect, just like that first kiss.

Ten years later, here we are. We have gone through shit with our own brand name stamped into it, survived dead serious divorce threats, and gone through probably several thousand dollars of therapy. It hasn’t been easy, but I think we are still as incredibly cute as we were when we first started dating all those years ago. Though we still aren’t much for self portraits of saliva-swapping and we’ve still never done that baby-talking thing that makes me want to barf. It just isn’t our style.

But, it’s all been worth it. The last ten years have been amazing, and  I am so lucky and blessed to have found my sweet husband.

Happy dating anniversary to us!

Current Mood: Happy & Flirtatious

James’ balls are black and blue. A little sore and swollen, but not bad, and he’s pretty much able to do everything he normally does again.

OH YES, I’M GOING THERE!

I didn’t think I would feel bad about the vasectomy, but I was wrong. He was such a great sport about the whole thing- making jokes about it, in a really good mood while waiting at the clinic, that sort of thing. Then there was the moment they called his name, and he trotted off toward his testicle’s doom, pausing for a short moment to look at me one last time before making his way down the hall.

Twenty minutes later, the doctor came to the waiting room, shook my hand, and introduced himself. I had a moment of, Oh shit, he’s going to say, ‘Congratulations! It’s a girl!’ right before he said the procedure went well, no complications… but James was feeling a bit dizzy, so he was lying down before he’d be ready to leave the clinic.

Yes, my goofy husband, who was 100% for elective sterilization and great about the whole thing, started to faint partway through the big snippity-snip. Poor guy. He was immensely pale and pretty out of it when he returned from the no-scalpel-no-needle procedure, and he spend the next two days with a pack of frozen peas holding his manhood in place. Luckily, my parents were in town to help with the kids.

As simple as the vasectomy was, though, my heart kind of hurt for him knowing that he’d gone through it. He assured me that watching me birth two kids was way more traumatizing to the human body… but I still felt bad.

Now, for the record, ejaculation during the first week following the whole ordeal can lead to complications, so I had every intention of making damn sure my boy didn’t pop a woody and bust through the cauterization or something during this week. Nature had other plans. So much for a vasectomy demasculinizing (shut up, spellchecker, that is TOO a word!) its victim. That boy is freaking hornier than ever and can’t seem to keep his hands off of me. He still has to wait another two days before ejaculation is allowed, and I’m a little concerned his penis is going to shoot like a fire hose and bust clean through the snip sites.

If you don’t hear from me on Saturday, you’ll know why.

So yeah, despite the whole bruising thing (which James assured me isn’t painful, just kind of not-so-attractive) the vasectomy hasn’t been a big deal at all. We’re both looking forward to getting the clear on sperm-free semen. Condoms just kind of suck, even the best ones, so it’ll be nice to not have to worry about getting knocked up and getting the full feel-good that sex brings.

Ha ha… how was that for too much info?

Current Mood: Cool

Summing up the last couple days since my announcement that I told James I would like a divorce:

Tears. Please don’t leave me. I love you. You’re an amazing person, why can’t you see that? Please, let’s wait to discuss this with Dr. [Insert therapist's name]. When was the last time you ate something? Sleeping in guest room. No energy. Come home, please, your kids are making me crazy. When was the last time you ate something? Look, I love you, please let’s work this out. Drive to Wendy’s. Stayed in car while family ate. Went to Target. Stayed in car. Pharmacy closes at seven. Shit, I’m out of Prozac. Fall asleep in guest room. Please wake up mommy. Honey, when was the last time you ate something? Two days ago. Falling asleep. Walgreen’s is going to give you enough Prozac to get through tomorrow, and I’m getting you some food. Nightmares. Food. Mind-blowing sex. Sleep. Early ass-kicking with Will Ferrell. I know you have two kids and all, but you look like you’re eighteen. Thirty minutes of the Stair Master. Stupid germ-phobic crap on the TV. Target. Exhausted. Hours of yard work. Planting a Japanese Flowering Magnolia tree. James came home. Shopping. Pizza. Cleaning the messy house. Late-night talking. Waking up early. Appointment with marriage counselor/therapist. Tamra is severely depressed. No shit, Sherlock. I’d like you to attend a day-long workshop this weekend by yourself, Tamra. Starbucks dark cherry mocha. Drop James off at work. Stop by nursery to pick up flowers. Found another flowering tree I have to plant.

I am still married. James is taking me to dinner in an hour. Must get ready.

Everything is going to be alright. I think.

If you missed it last night, I wrote a blog that was downright mean about my husband.  It painted him in a not-so-pretty light and I blurted out some major flaws that he has and managed to ridicule him as far as our sex life is concerned. All of it was true, but hurtful, and he was rightfully pretty offended when he saw it a few hours after I posted it. Out of respect, I hid it from the public eye. However, I am not going to brush over the issue like it never happened because I already put it out there for the world to see and I feel like it would be dishonest of me to pretend I never said it.

I told James I want a divorce last night.

I even told him the truth: It’s not what you do, it’s just who you are. Harsh, I know, but World, this is not a new issue with us. This is not the first time I’ve told him that I want out of our relationship. However, this was the first time that I felt very settled in my decision to leave him for sure.

We are the perfect match in some ways- excellent business partners, roommates, dance partners, parents, best friends- and a toxic, lethal match in others. We bring out the worst in each other in a very damaging way for both of us, and there are issues in our marriage that I no longer believe to be possible to resolve.

The fact is, he is too perfect, and I am tired of living in his perfect shadow that magnifies every single one of my imperfections to the point where all I see is a fucked-up mental case covered in stretch marks, acne, and fat bulges. I feel like I am nothing but his stupid trophy wife who looks hot with enough makeup and sexy clothes and dances well. And yet, I don’t doubt that people look at us and wonder what the hell he’s doing with me when he could have someone just as perfect as him. I hate feeling that way, and I shouldn’t have to.

James swears it’s my own perception of myself that is creating these feelings, but it’s not just that. It’s also the way he has treated me over the last decade that we’ve been together. His belief that he is entitled to more because he is so amazing. The emotional cheating. The constant strive for perfection when he’s married to such an imperfect partner.

I told him last night that I really can’t do it anymore. He’s been trying so hard since we’ve moved to make this work because he no longer feels like I am a weight holding him back from achieving his dreams, but after so many years of me being the one putting in the majority of the effort, I am weary of continuing to fight for us. And besides, who wants to be with someone that has seen you as the factor holding you back from all the things you want in life? That’s who I’ve been to him for most of these years, and no amount of “I don’t feel that way anymore” is going to change that fact.

While I tried to talk about the logistics of how this is going to work- custody of the kids, that I don’t want spousal support, and I want to make this as painless as possible for both of us- James asked if there is any way I would be willing to give him another chance. This was his other chance. I feel like the irreparable damage to our relationship and my own personal sense of self may be too much for what we have to ever suddenly morph into a positive companionship. I was not the self-conscious, self-loathing person that I am today when I met him… it is something that has developed over the years that we’ve been together as a result of the constant reminder that I am so far below him in every sense of the word. I married out of my league, and I am outclassed.

James begged that I give it some more time. Last night I fell asleep in the guest room and slept harder and less stressed than I can remember in ages.

I am not sure what another chance will do for us. Delay the inevitable? Miraculously fix all our problems? Give me the strength to live in his perfect shadow for the rest of my life?

Sorry, James, this is one way you are completely imperfect: You have been a shitty husband for the majority of our relationship, and no amount of kind internet words can ever repair that damage and all you have put me through. I have tried so hard to make this work, and I have given up. You can have your chance, but I honestly don’t know if there’s a damn thing you can do to patch all these holes. It’s not what you’ve done, it’s just who you are. Perfect. And you deserve someone as perfect as you. I’m not that girl.

Current Mood: Sad

While I was in Tucson last week, I had a bit of an epiphany.

I am done having kids.

As in, this baby factory is CLOSED. Forever and ever. Amen.

You see, despite everything I have been through mentally and physically as a result of pregnancy, childbirth, and motherhood, I have been struggling to emotionally accept a fact that I know logically: I cannot handle bearing any more babies.

I’ve said time and time again that I have no desire to have another one. I mean, shit, for awhile I was pretty set on having no children whatsoever, but then life happened. However, in the back of my twisted mind, I have always felt some sort of obligation to have more than just two children. An obligation to whom, you ask? To God, my family, my husband, and even to myself.

As part of my Catholic wedding vows, I promised before my parish priest, family, friends, and James that I would willingly and lovingly accept as many children as God asks of me. I took that vow to heart, and as a couple, James and I agreed to to follow the Catholic beliefs and practices of natural family planning. I truly believed that with enough Faith, I would have a wonderful life raising three or four (or maybe even five) little humans while selflessly practicing abstinence during fertile times if a pregnancy was not desirable in our immediate future.

Well, um, that lifestyle and practice was a huge freaking joke for us. Maybe we just don’t have enough Faith, or perhaps the Catholic beliefs regarding family planning are just a bunch of controlling bullshit (*cough*), but for whatever the reason, we failed miserably at fulfilling those vows the way they were intentionally meant in just about every way possible.

And when I say failed, I kind of mean we ate, threw up, shot the remains, hosted a wild sex party on top of, and threw birth control at all while laughing at the Catholic beliefs on making babies.

Sadly, it wasn’t for a lack of trying. I prayed like crazy, went to church every week, and devoutly volunteered my time in teaching and practicing the Catechism. I mean, not only did I attend Catholic school for eight years, but I was one of my parish’s first female alter servers, the youngest person to be elected onto the Parish Council, served seven years on said council- the last one as vice-president, taught Vacation Bible School and Sunday School for years, served on a couple other ministries, took part in a young adult faith-sharing group, and loved every moment I spent as a Eucharistic Minister.

But you know what? My religion didn’t take into consideration things like severe mental illness when interpreting the Word of God’s thoughts on birth control. Or the physical trauma I experienced when I ripped in half while birthing my first and all the prolapse I suffered after birthing my second behemoth-sized munchkin. Sure, I am as disgustingly fertile as women appear to possibly come, but the truth is, my body would probably only sustain extreme damage with birthing another one of my husband’s huge babies, and I honestly don’t think I would survive another bout of postpartum depression. I am terrified that it would be full-blown psychosis and I’d drive my car off a bridge without ever knowing I hit the ice-cold water, or that I’d be so far over the edge that I’d be nearly comatose while trying to raise three kids.

It’s just not worth the risk. For me, but even more so for my husband and kids.

Well, up until this last week, I still had this idea in my head that maybe, just maybe, I might someday be able to fulfill my wedding vows and pop out thirty-six kids like that special family you see on TV. I’m not knocking them. Each to their own. But seriously? There’s a point when you just gotta ask yourself… does God REALLY want me to just keep pooping babies out of my hoo-haw, or did He give me a brain that can handle reasoning, common sense, and logical thinking FOR A REASON?

And that’s when it dawned on me: maybe God really wouldn’t be angry with me for only having as many as I can handle. Sure, for that one family, one-hundred-thirteen kids is something they can handle just fine. For me, um, well, smart people made Prozac for a reason.

I was unable to accept that idea for a long time. The family and religious values run deep in my veins, despite what a heathen I’ve become in the past year.

But something happened this week while I was away.

I realized that I really am done having kids, and I am perfectly happy with just my two beautiful, incredible girls. I am best off not putting my body through anymore pregnancies or postpartum roller coasters both physically and mentally, and it’s healthiest for my husband and children for me to be on this earth, mentally well, and able to function. Chancing ruining their lives just so I can fulfill some unspoken and possibly unsaid obligation to God and everyone around me just doesn’t sound like something that a loving, kind God would ask of me. If some religion says otherwise, then it can just suck my prolapsed pussy.

When I realized that I felt released of this “obligation” and I felt happy about my choice to stick with just my two cutie-pies, I was ready to do the thing that my sister and I did last week: get a tattoo on my hip/abdomen.

Getting that piece of ink was liberating. A promise to myself and my body: I am done having babies, and I’m not going to worry about birth control anymore because my husband has agreed that is is time to get a vasectomy. Woo hoo! Thank you, James!

Furthermore, I owe my vagina a bit of love, so I have decided that I’m going to get it fixed.

In a perfect world, I could just accept what has happened to the damn thing and move forward. But, the world most certainly is far from perfect, and I’m in even worse shape. And my va-jay-jay… um… well, it’s a scarred, prolapsed battle zone that I know I’ll never be able to accept. Even with all the physical therapy, I will forever have problems and issues related to the prolapse. A feeling of heaviness in my lower abdomen sometimes, and this sensation that my organs are going to fall out of my body if I cough too hard. The cramps during my period are worse than they where pre-babies, and something as simple as using the bathroom is frequently interrupted by the fact that my bladder and rectal prolapse is squeezing off the flow of elimination. As I age, my pelvic floor muscles will only become weaker. Even with the lifestyle changes I’ve made to accommodate the prolapse and the daily exercises I do to keep my pelvic floor muscles in the best shape possible, the prolapse will never be cured and will only get worse with time. While there are risks involved with getting my vagina fixed, there’s a good chance that the outcome would be much, much better than what I have to deal with now.

Are you feeling a bit traumatized yet? Because if not, I AM ABOUT TO GO THERE.

So, in addition to my complaints above, there are the sexual side effects to prolapse. Sex just doesn’t feel right, and I am embarrassed by how it looks down there.  I mean, I suppose it doesn’t look all that bad, but there’s a spot near my perineum where I wasn’t sewn up correctly after my first vaginal birth. The fact that it wasn’t put back together right is something that only a blind person couldn’t see… and some of that tissue has prolapsed beyond the opening. It’s always bothered me because it’s a bit uncomfortable during sex and when I’m, um, wiping down there. Additionally, the sensation of my hoo-haw just kind of sucks now. Organs protruding from where they’re supposed to be are kind of soft and gushy, and even though it’s a nice, snug fit for my husband’s penis… it feels kind of sloppy to me. Like, not loose, just sloppy. Like things aren’t in the right place… because they’re NOT in the right place. My cervix sits low in the canal, my uterus is dropped, and my rectum and bladder are falling inward and down in my hoo-haw. While sex still feels pleasurable and I can orgasm from it, it just doesn’t feel as comfortable or as good as it did before my second vaginal birth. Even with the pelvic floor rehabilitation I went through, there’s still a noticeable difference that I just hate so much. I frequently find sex to be emotionally damaging because I feel so humiliated by what a mess I believe my vagina really is.

Perhaps a lot of other women are in the same shoes I’m in, but I have yet to hear anyone else talk about it, and not a single health professional has told me that what I’ve experienced is all that typical for someone young and healthy like myself. Or maybe everyone DOES feel loose and sloppy after having babies, but somehow they can just accept it and it doesn’t bother them. Yeah, I wish, but that’s just not my experience.

James swears that it feels good in there, but said that instead of feeling like the more rigid canal that it used to be, it feels soft and there’s a lot less friction, even when I’m contracting my PC muscles as hard as I can. That’s probably a gentleman’s way of nicely saying I feel loose and yucky down there, but I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt and try to believe him. Every time I have sex, I realize that while it doesn’t feel like there’s a lot of room diameter-wise in there, it does feels soft like he said. Too much lube equals almost zero sensation, even though I still fit nicely around him. It’s a sucky problem to have, and its humiliating to live with. No amount of reassurance has helped me feel otherwise.

Last night I discussed my desire to get my hoo-haw fixed with James. This is not a new topic coming from me, but it’s the first time I’ve been able to talk about it with a very clear head and with my mind made up that I am done having kids. He agreed that it would be worth getting evaluated to see if I would be a good candidate for a successful surgery, and this morning my therapist gave me a recommendation for a gynecologist that has good results with this sort of thing.

So world, not only do I have a new tattoo, but my husband is going to get his baby batter tubes snipped, AND I’m going to start making appointments to find a doctor I trust to fix the prolapse and broken vagina I’ve been burdened with.

Never in my life have I thought that I would actually consider surgery for something like this, but then again, I never thought I was going to end up on Prozac, either. Funny how that sort of thing works out, eh?

And just to give you fair warning: prepare yourselves for all kinds of TMI moments coming up on my blog in the near future. If you think I’ve been bad before, I can only imagine what kind of shit’s going to hit the computer screen next.

Current Mood: Cool