The first brush I had with the Toilet Wars and who should go where, (pun intended) was a status on FB comment about the focus on girls being molested but no similar concern for boys.
She supports Cruz’s comments. She thinks if we let a transwoman who hasnt undergone surgery, into a girls bathroom, they can molest girls. Says it matters less with boys being molested because they can’t get pregnant. Part of me is repulsed by this. But, part of me “gets” it. – Old Country logic, to carry the child of molestation carries infinitely more social scorn than that of “just” molestation.
Anyway, here’s a good post on using public bathrooms.
On Restrooms, Gender, and Fear – http://wp.me/p14ihb-1wL
There is something special and remarkable about opening up to someone new, someone who appears mostly well adjusted and normal.
It is bittersweet when they say “confide in me. Trust me. I won’t let you fall.” Here’s why, it’s hard to deal with someone with depression, or anxiety. I know. I live in my head. I have friends, cherished ones, who have depression and terrifying panic attacks. When they’re in that awful, dark place, me looking on, I often feel overwhelmed and helpless.
It is exhausting being drawn into another person’s maelstrom; to be caught in the blustering hurricane winds with nothing to grab onto, unsure of what to do or say. Its terrifying not knowing if the comments will make things better or worse. But it’s even worse for the person at the centre fighting desperately to come through.
And I hate to be a burden on people and pull them into my storm, for the same reason. Why would I ask anyone to sit through a storm that I see is killing me.
I’d rather they focus on the sunset.
I grow bruises the way some people grow flowers.
Every flower has a meaning,
Each colour a reason,
And bruises never go out of season.
No is like a Court Order.
It’s only worth something if you can enforce it.
Within the division of labour in my house, ironing is jealously guarded by my mother. I don’t question it much. However, my mother is too attached to the 80s. This means my trousers invariably end up with pleats.
So, about 18months ago, I bought an iron to combat pleats. It was on sale. I kept the iron and ironed on my table with a towel across it. Something happened to the iron my mother was using and my iron was promoted to head iron.
My iron died last week.
I knew there was an iron in a box in my room. – I don’t know how it got there, but that’s not unusual for my room. I handed up this iron as a substitute for the newly departed.
My mother reliably informs me that this iron I have brought forth as tribute is broken.
Why are we keeping a broken iron?
I get a new iron.
My mother directs that the two dead irons be put into storage. I storage I find a third iron. I ask why we are keeping broken irons.
“Its just the fuse that needs changing.”
How long has that iron been sitting in the pantry collecting dust, waiting for that moment when the plug fuse will be changed?
Why are we collecting broken irons?
“Tell me something interesting about yourself.”
That statement looms large, terrifying in its endless possibilities and simultaneously limited options.
Interesting? Interesting to who – me, or you? Why would you want to know something I find interesting about myself? What are you trying to figure out – what’s interesting or what I find interesting? Why are you asking? What do you want?
I said something I find interesting about me. You were quiet. Was it not interesting? Did I make a social gaff? How can you ask me that?
I’m not interesting. I don’t have interesting stories, not really. I don’t get involved with people if I can avoid it.
People are heavy, cloying and distracting when they get too close. They ask things like, “Tell me something interesting about yourself?”
Sometimes, I think life is like a relay race. I’m putting in effort now to hand over to the next person or generation. My effort is only a part of a longer journey and I’m not the one to reach the finish line.
I have never truly planned ahead. Five year life plans are alien to me. I don’t ever see myself living that long and then I’m surprised to find myself five years on, alive and convincing the world that I’ve got this adulting thing down.
But, in the short term I try to lend my will to others, to help where I can. I want to transfer whatever will and resolve I have to those closest to me so they can carry on – that is my passing of the baton.
What am I blithering on about?