Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids

Reason #297: A Funeral, A Ritual, Something to Mark this Time

Last week, I told my therapist that in a week my ex-husband is shedding his/her male identity entirely, and going full-time female. (She began her new life as an outwardly-appearing female today, though she has understood herself as a female for about a year and a half now.)  Yes, we are still living together.

I thought I was past the grief, but I guess no matter how much you anticipate a punch, it still hurts. So I have been crying over the loss of what I thought was a man who loved me. The only man who ever loved me, who ever waited long enough to let me work up to sex with him, the only man who I was ever able to trust as a lover. Of course, it all makes sense now that I was able to trust him as a lover – he was actually a she inside. If you believe the prevailing theories, which I do, then you believe that transsexuals are people who have the body of one gender, but the brain of the other one. So, in the case of my husband, while she has the body of a male, she has the brain of a female.

Anyway, my therapist said “Have you thought about having a funeral for him? For the husband you have lost?”

I like the idea of it. I like the idea of rituals, certainly. I remember once I took a class called “Women and Judaism”, and it was taught by a female rabbi. She said that sometimes incest survivors like to ‘claim their body back’ as their own, and they do a cleansing ritual called a ‘mikvah’. (The mikvah looks strikingly similar to the Christian practice of baptism, in that they both involve water.) When the Rabbi told us about that idea, I liked it. I like rituals that validate the things we experience in life.

The thing about my kind of loss is that it’s not quite as ‘real’ a loss as everyone else can see. I mean, for instance, my mother in law lost her husband to cancer two weeks before I lost mine to another gender, and everyone came to her house and ate with her and passed the horrible shitty time where it was all raw and the loss was so bad. It was like that for me, all raw and shitty, for like 7 months or so. From the time she told me she’s a she to a month or two after I almost died in the hospital.  The thing is though, where my mother in law has had the world acknowledge her loss, I have had mine hidden for the most part.  With each new person that my ex ‘comes out’ to, it’s kind of a coming out for me too.  But even then, the focus is on her (as it should be).  With each ‘coming out’, I was reminded of what I had lost.

While I still ‘have’ my ex in human form, I have lost my marriage, my future with this man, and any dreams/plans that came along with that.  I am suddenly in the process of divorce and single, and worst of all, shunned by a lot of idiots who can’t seem to deal with a male-looking person appearing as a female in front of them.  We went to the restaurant the other day, and the waiter stared at us for so long and hard, I wasn’t sure if he was actually going to take our order or not.  It was pretty pathetic.

But definitely one of the worst parts is the fact that she doesn’t seem to want me anymore.  She is very focused on herself and her trajectory towards femaleness, in physical, emotional, and social spirit. She is exactly where she should be, in terms of her life path.  I am dust in the wind now, someone that she used to love in the way that two people in love can love each other.

In thinking about a ceremony, I wonder what kind of ceremony is appropriate. In a terrible way, she is actually yet another person who gained my trust and then set about breaking it. And then broke me in the process.  I feel as though I cannot trust what anyone is telling me.  It’s not her fault; I mean, she says she didn’t know that she was a woman until a year and a half ago.  But the effect on me is the same. In a way, this whole thing is so similar to surviving incest.  There’s so much loss and grief that goes along with surviving it, and yet no one grieves with you.  No one comes over and brings a casserole and just sits with you because they know you have lost something and are sad and hopeless about life.  Surviving incest needs a freaking ceremony too.  A funeral for who we were, the innocent child that has died.  A ritual for all that we have lost.  And a celebration that we survived and all the great things we will accomplish because of the adversity we have suffered.

I wish I did have the courage to bury ‘him’ and this relationship along with it.  I wish I had the courage to walk free and break free of my own chains.  I wish I had the courage to even just be my best self. Fuck, I wish I had the courage just to walk out my own front door without overwhelming fear and panic.

I don’t feel ready to bury him. I suppose no one is ever ready for death though.  I feel like an idiot even discussing this.  The actual person is alive just in a totally different form that includes wigs, dresses, a lot of time spent with make-up in front of the mirror, and constant “Do I look alright?” questions.  The superstitious part of me is afraid of even talking about this, lest G-d take the human too instead of just the man.

I pray for a positive end to this suffering, to the nights spent in terror and the days spent in hopelessness.

I thought about cutting myself the other day, for the first time in 10 years.  I hate myself so much for ever trusting him, for marrying him, for being so fucking stupid about all of this.



Reason # 281: Caterpillars and Butterflies
February 20, 2012, 5:48 pm
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A few months ago, I went to a craft fair and I saw this sign: ‎”If you want to be a butterfly, you must be willing to stop being a caterpillar.”

As my regular readers know, I call myself ‘Butterfly’ on here because I believe that child sexual abuse survivors (and really any trauma or adversity survivors) are kind of like butterflies.  When we were getting abused, we had to hole up in our cocoons and hide.  Then we spend a great deal of time afterwards hiding in our cocoon because we become so afraid of the world.  We begin to believe that since one person (or in my case, three people) abused us, the whole world will also be abusive.

I want to be a butterfly.  I really do.  But I can see that I am still in caterpillar mode most of the time.

Last month marked a year since my husband began the process of figuring out that h/she was transgendered, and next month it will be a year since h/she told me that she is a girl.  Next month will be a full year since my heart was shattered.

I have put an ad on a dating website online.  I’m not sure what to think about that.  Now that I am beginning to conceptualize myself as a woman who is back in the dating world, I can’t help but think about the potential dudes that I would want to date or who would date me.  Honestly, they all scare the fucking crap out of me.  Hence my caterpillarness.  I was afraid of them before I married my husband, and now that my heart has been broken in such a unique way, I feel afraid of new dudes in both the ‘he will rape me or beat me’ way and also the ‘he doesn’t know himself and he will figure it out by being with me’ way. And, of course, I am also terrified that some new dude would be looking to get into a relationship with me as a way to fuck my kid.

I am not sure what the future holds for me though.  In my butterfly moments, I look forward to the future with hope.  Hope of healing and being a whole Butterfly all by myself, and then being able to share my whole Butterfly self with some new guy.  In my more familiar and regular caterpillar thoughts though, I scare myself silly with the ‘what if’ game.  I play out the scenario of dating.  We meet at a restaurant, a nice safe public place.  Things go well.  We go on a second date, also in a public place.  We date for a few months.  He seems really nice.  Maybe we are a good fit, I think to myself. I lower my guard a bit, and I finally invite him into my room to make out.  I trust him enough to date him. We begin to fall in love. We date for a while. We get married.  One night I see him in my son’s bedroom when we are all supposed to be sleeping.  He sees me seeing him and tries to explain, but I know what the fuck I am looking at.  I WAS the child in that bed over 30 years ago, no explanation is necessary…

See how quickly this thought process turns into an abusive scenario?  I don’t know how to change the mantra, and I sure as shit don’t know how to trust some new dude.  I don’t even really know if I should be open to trusting some new dude.  (Mind you, right now there is no actual new dude; all of this is pure conjecture.)

This brings me to my next bit of caterpillarness.  When I am not sitting here worrying about some predator preying on my son or me, I sit here and worry about the possibility of me being alone from here on out.  I try to tell myself it will be okay.  When I was happily married, I would imagine our marriage breaking for a hundred different reasons (like us not fucking each other, for instance), and I would tell myself I would be okay.  It’s all such a lie though, you know?  I mean, I guess I am okay, if by okay you actually mean ‘alive’.  I am alive.  I am existing.  I am back to work.  I am caring for my son.  I am overeating and throwing up a lot.  I am spending great deals of time at night not sleeping and that makes me tired during the day.  I spend a lot of time talking myself down from panic attacks, and general anxiety.  And I cry a lot.

I want to be a butterfly; I am just not sure how to get there.




Not a Reason – But a Topic we need to discuss re: Transgender issues
February 16, 2012, 5:43 pm
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*** Please note – this discussion will be triggering to the trans community and supporters of the trans community. ***

So, we need to talk.  A few weeks ago, my blog generated some discussion about the fact that I am “cissexist”.  I didn’t even know what the word meant, but here’s my understanding of it: Cisgender means ‘anyone who is not transgendered’.  So, when people call me cissexist, they probably mean that I am not giving trans people the rights and respects that they are entitled to.

I agree.  Calling my husband “he/she” or “huz/wife” can certainly be seen as offensive, and I am not trying to offend the trans community or supporters of the trans community.  Here is the situation: While I was married to my husband, she viewed herself as a he.  So he thought he was a he for the entirety of our dating and married life (9 years).  Literally, I married a ‘he’ and was married to a man who thought he was a man.  However, just as literally, it turns out I was married to a ‘she’ in a ‘he’ body.  Now, since he identified as ‘he’ during our marriage, when I refer to him in the past tense, I will continue to refer to him as he.  That was what he thought he was, that was what I was married to, and that is what she calls herself in the past tense.  Anything other than that makes me start to think I am crazy and that I imagined my whole marriage to a man.  It is something I am still working on with both my husband and my therapist, both of whom assure me I was married to a man while we were married.

We are still living together, and truly, he is my best friend. Currently, he is still presenting as ‘he’ for 95% of the time, so I am still referring to him as he in the present tense.  This is what we have agreed to call him while he presents in male mode.  However, in order to keep it straight with my readers, I call him ‘he/she’ so that they understand that his orientation as transgendered has not changed, he is still a she inside.  Now, unfortunately, the term ‘he/she’ is offensive because in this case he is actually a ‘she’, not half of one and half of the other, especially since he does not identify as gender-queer.  For purposes of this blog though, I am not sure how to refer to him without using the pronouns ‘he/she’ without confusing my readers any further.  Trans community and supporters, I need your help.

I need for my non-regular readers to know that I was married to a man.  I also need for them to know he feels like a woman on the inside, looks like a man on the outside the vast majority of the time, and is working on looking like a woman on the outside the vast majority of the time.  This involves a lot of mixed pronouns and he/she type language.  How can I proceed with offending the least amount of people possible?  What language do you suggest I use?

May I also suggest the following, with all due respect to the trans community?  I understand that this is an upsetting issue.  But just like the word ‘fuck’, we can choose to get upset about the terminology, or we can take back the words and own them.  We can choose to get upset that I use the word fuck a lot, or we can choose to get upset that people fuck kids.  In the same vein, we can choose to get upset that I use the words he/she (with no disrespect intended), or we can choose to get upset at people who force us into a binary system of he/she in the first place and don’t want to pass GENDA laws or accept the presence of a third gender (transgenders).  Do you see what I mean?

My ex husband/wife is not upset at my usage of mixed pronouns.  She has her own blog now, which I would give you a link to, but she has her picture up there and I am trying to remain anonymous in my blog.  She feels that we have real issues to get upset about in society, and political correctness is not a hot button issue for her.  As a survivor of incest and child sexual abuse, I feel a little differently.  I would not want someone making light of my pain by using offensive language like ‘fondling’.  However, if a fellow survivor or well-wisher used it with no offense intended, I would be okay with it.  Does this make sense?

Anyway, if the trans community and supporters can think of a way for me to refer to the huz/wife when I reference our our unique situation, then I welcome suggestions and dialogue around this issue.

Reason #268: I’m losing my hair
November 30, 2011, 12:31 pm
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I am losing my hair.  This started happening to me a few months ago, during my second hospitalization for gall bladder surgery.  I figured it was a part of the illness.  But it’s been two months, and I am still losing handfuls of hair every day.  I asked the huz/wife if the hair loss is visible, and he/she said no.  But then I visited my hairdresser for a trim, and the first thing she said to me was “My goodness, I can see a lot of your scalp.  You are losing hair.  Are you under a lot of stress right now?”

Am I under stress right now?  Well, eight months ago my husband told me he is a girl.  We made the painful decision to end our marriage shortly after that.  We are still living together until it gets too shitty or uncomfortable to live together.  I have had two major hospitalizations and during the first one I almost died.  And through it all, I am still experiencing all the effects that come with having survived child sexual abuse.

Now, someone reading this might think to themselves “So what?  What does losing your hair have to do with surviving child sexual abuse?” and you’d be right, kind of.  Lots of people lose their hair, and generally speaking, it would have nothing to do with surviving abuse. But I am losing my hair because I am under a great deal of stress right now because my husband is transitioning to femalehood.  I feel like I am living under the gun.  I married him because he never pushed my sexual boundaries, because three people used my body against my will when I was a child.  This marriage was a direct result of the child abuse I survived.  Consequently, I am losing my hair.  That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason #267: That was a really shitty thing You did
November 27, 2011, 11:05 pm
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I have been listening To Rihanna’s song: We Found Love (In A Hopeless Place). I have been thinking that this is what happened to me. I found love in a hopeless place, with a man who turned out to be a woman.

I was thinking about everything that led to me marrying my huz/wife. From the multiple molestations by three different abusers to me being afraid of sex, to me falling in love with the one guy who didn’t push me on the sex issue to him asking me to marry him and me saying yes, to our beautiful wedding, to moving in together, to having a beautiful son together, to him telling me he is a female inside.

G-d knew all along about who he/she was inside, knew this ending would come. And even though these three abusers molested me, He still let this newest betrayal happen without even a hint of what was to come.

I said to G-d today “That was a really shitty thing you did.”. And for the first time ever, didn’t feel guilty for saying that to G-d.

There was this episode of Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman where the white people killed all the Native Americans off but one man, Cloud Dancing. Cloud Dancing having seen his wife, child, and all of his tribe killed off, was obviously upset with G-d (whom he called “The Spirits”). Dr. Quinn said, “I can’t say if your spirits exist or not. I’m not even sure how I feel about my own G-d anymore.” Cloud Dancing replied, “Just because we are angry with them does not mean they will go away.”.

I say that to myself whenever I dare to express my anger at G-d. Just because I am mad at Him doesn’t mean He will go away.

Reason #263: I’m not a risk taker

Now that my health is restored to its pre-hospitalization equillibrium (for the most part), I have time to concentrate on the heartbreak that is the end of my marriage.  All weekend I tried to talk to the huz/wife about his/her upcoming transition.  Right now he is still dressed as a male about 90% of the time, and still appears to others as a male.  But he has started taking a very low dose of estrogen, and he is thinking that he will transition to being a full-time female somewhere in January.  (In other words, he will dress like a female so that his insides match his outsides.)  We have agreed that while he is in ‘male mode’, I will continue to call him ‘he’, and when he makes the transition, I will call her ‘she’.

For my non-transgendered survivor readers – I’m sure it’s all somewhat confusing to read about if you are not already familiar with transgendered lives.  I have now had quite the education since I am living with it, obviously.  Feel free to ask questions, and I will try to answer them as best I can.

Anyhow, it’s my blog, so back to me…

I am scared shitless of this transition.  It’s been 8 months since I found out he feels he is a girl inside, so enough time has passed such that I am no longer in raw grief about losing him.  It still makes me cry, but not nearly as often.  Still though, it definitely sucks shit.  But that’s life, as I understand it.  It’s full of surprises, some good, some bad.

So I kept trying to talk to the huz/wife about the transition, but every time we’d start talking about it, my stomach would lose its mind and I would end up in terrible pain.  I’m not someone who can let things go though, so I kept bringing it up.  Finally, last night, we were able to get to the root cause of my fear about this upcoming transition.

I said “I’ve lived my life in a very low risk way.  After getting molested by three different people in childhood, I have been afraid of everything.  Consequently, I live my life in such a way that is the least possible risk of harm to me.  I don’t go out at night alone.  I check under the bed and in the closet every night, etc.  I married the safest man in America who would never push me on sex.  And now, literally, you are the safest man because you are actually a woman.”

He nodded and acknowledged the truth of this, so I continued. “You are moving from being a white Catholic male – the least possible risk in this country – to being a transgendered female – a very high risk place.  The way I have been handling this is by helping myself understand what is to come.  You and I both know that transgenders get killed just for being transgendered, because we live in a country full of idiots.  So I have been telling myself I probably only have you for another few years until you are murdered, and after that I will have lost you.”

At this point, he was staring at me, and he said “Is this what you really think?”  I said “Yes.  Absolutely.  You don’t think this?”

Then he said “You believe the world is filled with people that will kill me for being myself, and that just by leaving the house as myself I will be murdered.  I don’t have that belief system.  I think the world is filled with people, mostly good, and most of the people in the world are busy with their own lives and couldn’t give a shit about me being a transgendered female.”

I think he is completely wrong, and I told him as much. Then I said “You know, we have had very different lives, sweetie.  I feel it is proven that people will hurt the vulnerable among us.  I was a child and three different people saw that as an opportunity to harm me, and took the advantage of their power and size over me.  They got the timing just right and as soon as no one was watching, they molested me.  You grew up in a world where you were nurtured and loved and no one betrayed you in such terrible ways.”

My husband is transitioning into femalehood, and I am scared with all of my being that he will be killed for that.  Not only that, I think I’m right and that he’s crazy for not being as scared as I am of this.  This is what happens when you fuck kids.  We believe the world is bad, filled with bad opportunistic people who are waiting for the right time to harm us.  We believe that any risk is all risk, and all risk is too much.

I’m not a risk taker.  Even risks I should be taking, like going out at night for my job or sleeping in my own bedroom without looking under the bed (thus risking surprise attack).  This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason #261: I lost him anyway
October 24, 2011, 5:31 pm
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I was watching a re-run of Glee the other day.  In that episode, a character with severe obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) went to see a therapist for the first time in her life.  The therapist said “You have obsessive-compulsive disorder. Therapy can help you.”

The OCD character replied “I’m not sure I want to lay on a couch and tell some stranger my secrets. And I don’t want to start popping pills just so I can turn into someone that other people want me to be.  This is how I am. This is who I’m supposed to be.”

The therapist said “Your illness is not who you are supposed to be.  It’s keeping you from who you’re supposed to be.”

I wonder who I am supposed to be, or who I was supposed to be.  I have spent time in my life grieving the Butterfly I might have been had I not suffered the abuse.  I spent a great deal of time thinking about who I might have become if I weren’t afraid of every fucking thing there is to be afraid of.  If I could be okay at night, who knows what my potential was???

When I started dating my husband/wife, I started to exhibit incredible OCD behaviors.  I would only walk into rooms with my right foot.  This later expanded into stepping onto different surfaces with only my right foot.  Then I began only reaching for things with my right arm.  Only taking things with my right hand.  Opening doors with my right hand.  Stepping into and out of my home with my right foot.  Et cetera.

My thought process through all of this was that he was the only good thing that has ever happened in my life, and I didn’t want to do anything that might jinx it.  I felt that if I could perform these obsessive-compulsive actions, I could ward off evil, and then maybe he would stay in my life.  If I did these OCD things, I wouldn’t lose the only good thing in my life.  I kept trying to ward off evil, and I knew exactly what kind of evil I was warding off, having already experienced it with three different abusers.

I did all these things for these last nine years and I lost him anyway.

Reason #257: It Takes Time to Learn My Power

Another ant appeared in our hallway.  I was immediately afraid, and then I remembered that I have power over the ant.  I remembered what the therapist said about how from now on I will always think about ants differently.  I want that to be true so badly that I keep reminding myself that she said that about me.  I keep telling myself that if I find an ant in my room, or if one crawls on me while I sleep (G-d forbid), I will just kill it. 

I fell asleep and within an hour, I woke up in a panic.  I thought an ant was on my bed.  I breathed heavy, checked my surroundings, and calmed down.  I reminded myself of my power.  There was no ant on my bed; it was my own panic manifesting itself in the middle of the night.  Middle of the night stuff is one of the hard parts of surviving child sexual abuse.

Fear is a learned thing, just like hatred.  Babies aren’t born fearing the ants.  Babies aren’t born with hatred in their heart.  Those things have to be taught to them.

I was thinking last night about a time when I was five years old.  I remember PLAYING with the ants.  Playing with them.  Can you believe that?  There was a time when I was so unafraid of bugs that I played with them.  I wasn’t afraid of them and I didn’t have to learn to have power over them.  I played with them.

That was my life before the babysitter.  After she did those things to my brother and I, we were both afraid of the world around us, of the dark, of being alone.  We both had trouble sleeping after that, and we were both afraid of being anywhere our mom was not.

It’s been over 30 years since she hurt my brother and I.  We’ve both had suicidality, panic disorder, been in gay relationships when neither of us identify ourselves as gay, and we both are afraid of intimacy.  And I entered into a marriage (that ultimately failed) with someone because he never pushed me about sex.

And I am afraid of ants.  But I am learning to have courage in the face of this fear.  I am learning about my own power in this situation, and I am learning to use it.  It is taking me some time to learn my power in this situation.  That is why you shouldn’t fuck kids. Because if I hadn’t experienced powerlessness in a terrible situation, maybe I would still be playing with the ants instead of using great courage in plotting to kill them.

Reason #252: The ant is back
July 27, 2011, 12:38 pm
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Last year around this time, we celebrated Independence Day, went to bed, and then an ant fell on my head while I slept.  That ended my safety for months.

The fucking ant is back.  The motherfucking G-ddamned shithead of an ant.

Yesterday, the huz/wife/ex/for Christ’s sake and I went to marital counseling.  The therapist prattled on about me taking steps to be less dependent on the huz.  She talked some shit about me feeling empowered or whatever.

In the car on the way home – already exhausted from weeks of survivor sleep, and days of fear-of-the-ant-falling-on-my-head-again sleep – I said to the huz “She keeps talking to me about power.  Why does she keep doing that?  I have no power!  I’ve proven that I have no power.  I married a man, and even in this, you are turning into a woman.  I have no power.  I am afraid of a little ant. That little fucking ant has more power than I do!”

And then, as I have done for the last several days, I started to cry.  It’s like the tears are always at the base of my throat, and all they need is the slightest hint and they come rolling out of my fucking eyes.  And now I get to play the part of the needy fucked up jilted fat wife, while he plays an equally shitty part of turning into a woman and having everyone stare at him for the rest of his life because people are idiots.  All of this while ants roam around above us, waiting to fall on our fucking heads.

I understand that theoretically I have more power than that ant.  But I don’t feel that power at all; that ant still controls me, a year after the original ant appeared.  The reason I feel no power over that ant is that all power was stolen from me the day that babysitter first appeared in my life and fucked my brother and I.  Power over one’s own body is the most intrinsic power that a person has, and when a person is molested, that most basic power is taken. 

I decide who touches me.  I decide when, where, how, and whom.  It is a power I was forced to give up when that babysitter touched me, when my brother touched me, and when my father touched me.  And it feels like I don’t get to decide when even that ant touches me, because it falls on my head when I am asleep, unable to give consent to this touch.

I am a grown woman, and something as little as an ant royally fucks me.  That is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason #247: Changing my Mantra

I keep catching myself thinking “I wish I were dead”.  Generally, this thought happens when I am faced with other thoughts about my present situation.  Like when I think about my husband turning into a woman.  Or when I think about my upcoming move into the guest bedroom.  (Mom and I spent the last week putting new wallpaper up in that bedroom, so that I won’t be as depressed when I move in there.) Or when I think about checking under the bed and in the closet of my new bedroom, every night.  Or when I think about waking up in the middle of the night, scared and alone in my new room, like I used to in every room I have lived in before I met my husband, ever since that babysitter showed my brother and I that evil exists in the world.

The thing is, I am not suicidal.  I used to be suicidal, and I feel that this thought – the “I wish I were dead” thought – is not accurate.  It’s almost disingenous, and in a way, I feel it is disrespectful to the me I used to be, the one who wished for death so badly that when I was asked by my best friend what I wanted for my 21st birthday, I said “Death.”

I don’t wish I were dead right now.  So I thought long and hard about what it is that I really want when I think that horrible thought.  I think what I am really seeking is an end to this terrible pain.

This past weekend, my mom was talking about the kind of torment my husband must have suffered all his life, trying to live in a body that wasn’t genuine to who he really is.  He is really a she inside, and having to push that down constantly, and keep that sort of a secret (even from himself) all these years must have been torture.  My mom was contemplating his pain, and then she thought about my sex abuse, and she said “Of course, it’s not trauma though.  You’ve been traumatized.”

I do that too.  I keep comparing my current terrible pain – heartbreak, betrayal, sadness over my failed marriage – to my other terrible pain – experiencing and surviving childhood sexual abuse.  I really shouldn’t compare pains, I suppose, since all pain is real. But maybe it is natural to compare pain, to seek some sort of level for all this, to try and make it familiar?  If Mom is doing it, and I am doing it, maybe everyone is doing it?  Who knows. 

When I find myself thinking “I wish I were dead”, I try to immediately stop that thought where it is, and change it to “I wish this pain would end.”

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