vacantuterus

More Burdens

My grandfather's brother died today.  He was ready but still, it's hard on all of us, especially my mother.  If you think of it, keep her in your thoughts and prayers (if you pray.)

My dad wrote this about Uncle Walt:

I walked with Sorrow today.
All was fine until she spoke.
Then I stumbled and could not go on.
She did not help me up.
She stroked my head and wept with me.
Her hand was as frail and trembling as my heart.
It took all my strength to step.
If only I had been walking with Walter.

Mothers

Check out this great story on the origins of Mother's Day over at Are We There Yet?  It made me feel better about the whole thing, anyway.

Speaking of moms, mine called a few weeks ago to announce that she needed to have (drum roll please) a sonohystogram!  "Heh" I replied.  "I can tell you ALL about that!" 

"I know" she said.  "That's why I'm calling."

So she had it done and lucky her, she has a normal cervix and they didn't have any trouble getting the catheter in at all.  So much for my expert advice.  ("Tell them to bend it like a hockey stick!")  And because the doctor (!) did her procedure, she got her results right away.  She has two polyps.  She needs to have hysteroscopy.

So now we know where THAT came from.

She laughed when she told me about the diagnosis.  "I can't make any of this (meaning infertility) easier for you, baby.  But I can know a little of what you're going through!" she said.  I told her she was the coolest IVF mom around and that I hoped she didn't get an infection or become allergic to her antibiotics. 

Honestly, I'm not glad my mom has polyps and has to have surgery.  But it makes me want to cry in the very best way that she's so excited to be going through all this testing and yuck just to be able to empathize with me more.  I know she'd have a baby for me tomorrow if she could.  She'd do IVF for me in a heartbeat.  The fact that she can't breaks her heart.  But she can do this and has to anyway.  She's making everything better just by being in that space with me.  If you have to do something scary, it's always good to have your mom along for the ride.   

I'm so tired.

Well, it turns out the attacker/stalker is not officially banned after all because no official report has been filed against him.  We were told by the county that we could not ban him or suspend his privileges in any way or we will open ourselves up to a civil suit.  So he can come by any time he wants to.  And there is nothing I can do about it. 

One of my closest friends at work has been helping me handle these situations as they arise.  She was the one who sheltered A. back in the offices on Monday afternoon and walked her halfway home.  She said that A. didn't exhibit any fear when she was told that her attacker was in the library and asked (verbatim) "Do you think I should call my mom?"  We both found that a little odd.  I don't know what to make of it.  I also don't know what to make of the fact that her mom let her come back to the library alone, only a week after it all happened.  Or why no charges have been filed. 

It occurs to me that I do not have a good interpretive lens for any of this.  I'm seeing the whole situation through my own past experience and I cannot be impartial or objective.  It makes my head hurt to think of any of this.  I don't feel brave or compassionate or smart or any of the other nice things that you have said about me.  I feel like a raw bundle of nerve endings with a perpetual migraine.  I feel frayed at the edges, worn out in a way that sleeping can't fix.

Speaking of sleeping, I've managed to stop having nightmares.  I've gone back to sleeping very, very lightly, awake at the slightest sound despite earplugs but I am at least getting a few hours of deep unconsciousness a night.  It's obvious that I'm not sleeping well; I've got hollow bruises around my eyes and my work friends keep wrinkling their brows and asking me "Are you okay?  You don't look so good."  I'm blaming it on the BCP switch, which is also a legitimate culprit--I am not feeling so fresh these days on that count either.

Speaking of migraines, I guess even Top.amax Miracle Drug Rx can't stand up to what stress does to my head and neck.  Tuesday I couldn't see out of my right eye for most of the day.

I was commended by the county bigwigs for my handling of the situation.  So now they know who I am and they like me.

And I scored well on my oral boards: I ranked 7th place out of 29 applicants.  Seventh is very good for a first-timer.  If they open a Specialist position at my library, I should get the job with no sweat.   

I'm meeting with my own (read: NOT county) counselor next Thursday.  I'm still not thrilled with the idea of talking about everything (I talk to you guys, isn't that enough?) but it seemed like a good idea considering the sleep issues.  And this is a guy I trust, who knows me and is familiar with my life story.  I won't be telling him my background from scratch. 

It's going to get better.  I keep telling myself that.

He came back.

He came back.  The dirty bastard came back.

I was on desk maybe half an hour when last Monday's attacker came slouching in, wanting to renew his books.  I stared at him, sure it was him, not sure what I should do about it.  I renewed the books because I had no choice and in the time it took me to do so, he stared down the length of library, licking his lips, looking at his second victim who had also come back to the library for the first time since the incident.  I cleared my throat and told him he had a fine.  Startled, he noticed me noticing him staring at A.  He tossed two dollars at me and hurried out. 

I pulled my coworker aside and explained what had just happened.  We called the police and noticed that he was still hanging around the front entrance to the building, occasionally bouncing to the back if he thought we might be coming out to look for him again.

He was still there when A. started to leave.  We asked her if she had to go home right then, asked her if she maybe could stay just a little longer as a favor to us.  Rightly freaked out, she wanted to know what was going on.  I had Kim take her back to Staff and explain.  We called her mother and it turns out she lives within sight of the library so Kim walked her halfway and her mother met her so there was someone with her at all times.

The police came and took my statement.  The attacker was long gone at that point.  He's officially banned from the library but we have no way to back that up.  This kid easily outwieghs me by 20 pounds, if not more.  I can refuse to serve him but I can't make him leave.  He's already been violent once.  What might he do next?

And what about A.?  He obviously knew where she'd be and when she'd leave.  He showed up fifteen minutes before she tried to walk out the door.  He was obviously itching for some sort of confrontation, if he wasn't outright stalking her. 

The whole thing rattled my cage.  I don't think this kid would ever go after me.  I don't think I've got anything to fear.  But the psychology of it, of him showing up again, a mere week after the first attack, the way he licked his lips as he looked at A., as though she were dinner and he couldn't wait to sink his demented teeth into her...it made me shudder.  It frightens me.  It's the underlying attitude more than anything else that makes me so scared.  The idea that women are prey, or toys to be used in subtle games.  The manipulation that comes through fear brings me further back than I want to go.

I'm telling myself that this is silly; none of this is even about me.  I'm associating my past with a current event that is not in any way related.  But I see A. and I think too close.  I know these patterns.  I want to protect her and I know that I can't and it's not my job.  She has parents and the police for that.  But she's vulnerable and I'm helpless and I don't know what else to do. 

So much for that

The $66 birth control isn't doing it's job, so back to El Cheapo I go.  Frankly, the morale boost is amazing.  I don't know why it makes me so cheerful; birth control is birth control.  I guess I resented shelling out the money more than I thought.  My pharmacy was very nice and refunded the money I paid for the two unopened packs I had left.  I wasn't expecting the answer to be yes when I asked but sometimes living in a small town and being nice to the people who wait on you helps.

What was NOT morale boosting, however, was the call to the clinic.  "Well when's your IVF?" asked Nurse Helpful.  "Uh, we are doing an FET with donor embryos and we don't even have embryos yet so who knows?" I replied.  "Could be June, could be next year some time."  There was a significant pause on the other end of the line.  I've only been a patient there a few months, I don't think they expected this level of cynical.  "Well, you need to take a week's break before you switch and that can't happen around your FET." she explained.  "So the earliest you'd be able to cycle is June.  If you get embryos tomorrow, you'll have to wait a month."  I felt like laughing at the idea that we'd get embryos tomorrow or that four more weeks of waiting would even make a dent.  After five years, what's another four weeks?

I'm not thrilled with taking a week off of bcps mainly because I am a whiny little baby who is going to have to have a peeeeriooood.  Waaah!  It'll be my first official period since the surgery.  My periods were HORRIBLE before the surgery and I'm not expecting that too much has changed.  Sure, Jimmy and the Goodpolyps are all gone so I guess that'll help.  But the cramps that make me feel like my midsection is on fire?  The backache that feels like an army of demented squirrels are chiseling their way out of my pelvis with tiny hammers and awls?  The nausea?  The diarrhea?  I don't expect any of that to have gone anywhere. 

I warned my job in general sort of way that I was switching meds and would probably feel horrible.  I have a professional conference on Thursday of this week so I'm hoping the worst will be over by then.  More concerning to me is the fact that I'm going change ringing for the first time on Tuesday night and I really, really do not want to miss that. 

At least now I know: cheap or bust.  My body is not designed for the finer things. 

Things I am not.

Predictably, last night I had nightmares.  That'll show me for blithely writing about not having any for years.  I know that last night's incident stirred up my mind, brought everything to the fore.  I woke up wheezing at 3 AM, scream-whispering a painful "NO!" at the top of my lungs.

Today I met with a county big-wig who wanted to hear the incident from my mouth.  She was kind to me and I was honest with her, though reserved in my demeanor.  I can't help it, reserved is my default mode for confrontations like this.  I get quiet, my voice gets soft and I sit very still.  It's not like me; usually I'm laughing and boisterous.  But this is too much, too serious.  It feels better to hold my emotion back, to be contained.  She thanked me for my "leadership and strength."  She told me a I did a great job and that she felt personally responsible for the lack of security in the building.  She told me she was meeting with the owners of the building to try and implement more security measures.  I told her that I trusted her to do what was right for us.  That was calculated on my part; I could see that she felt bad and pressing the issue wouldn't help my staff at all.  Guilt was the way to go.  A staffer representing hurting victims, placing her trust in the only person who can save us--that will get results.  I can't bring myself to feel bad about it.  Something needs to change where I work. 

My past came out in the interview.  I don't know what's wrong with me; for years I didn't tell anyone.  My family has no idea.  (Beth, please don't tell Mom and Dad.  I know Dad doesn't read here anymore.  Don't tell Josh unless he can handle the information without losing it.)  I don't love the fact that so many people now know this about me.  I toyed with the idea of taking the previous post down but all of you were so kind that I couldn't bear to bury your comments as though they didn't mean anything.  I don't want anyone else to know, though.  I want to stop talking about it.

What bothers me the most is this: I tried for so long to forget that I actually did a good job.  I can't remember a lot, just the fact that I shouldn't try too hard.  So I don't.  All of that was buried.  I was happy.  It was gone.  I didn't think about it.  Now it's all stirred up again and my head isn't safe anymore.  I want to forget again, to leave it alone. 

But my job has mandated that I see their counselor because of the incident.  It's not just me, everyone who was involved has to go because of the nature of the incident.  But me especially because of my past.

I. do. NOT. want. to. go.

I don't want to go back there, try to tell the whole story again.  I don't want to remember.  That year isn't even clear in my mind anymore.  And I am not that person anymore!  I know who I am and who I am does not include "victim."  I am not helpless or naive or a poor decision-maker anymore.  I WAS all of that, nearly nine years ago.  I made some really, really bad decisions and I paid for them.  But now?  I've survived multiple surgeries, my husband's brain injury, two miscarriages, my grandmother's death and my brother's two tours of Iraq.  I know exactly who I am.  I am flawed, extremely so, but strong.  I'm living my life, owning every second of my pain and acknowledging every equally deep moment of joy.  I'm surrounded by family and friends who love and support me.  This swirling vortex of darkness is my PAST, not my present.  I left it behind.  I want it to stay there.

Walking back into my library today was hard.  I shook and I teared up.  It didn't expect that.  I felt calm right up until I walked into the staff room, whereupon I lost it.  But later, I walked through every aisle, running my fingers along the spines of the books in each stack.  This is my library, I told myself.  My home.  I work here with my friends.  Together we'll make it safe.  I'm not 21 anymore and I'm not a victim, either.  I know who I am.  I'm the librarian.

And then I helped a patron find a book. 

More depression, brought to you courtesy of the public and my sordid past.

I don't generally think about safety where I work.  It's a tiny library, in what is still in many ways a farming community.  Which is why tonight, when a teenager asked to use the phone to call her mom and she seemed upset, I didn't think much more than "Boy, she looks tired.  I wonder if she's okay?"  We had a flood of patrons and she was sitting in my plain sight with her mom on the way, so I didn't ask her anything.

But it turns out that she was being harassed by a gang of boys while sitting at her computer terminal.  Too scared to think straight, she tried to leave but they followed her outside to the parking lot.  She came back in, called her mom and parked herself in front of the circulation desk until her little brother arrived.  She sent the brother back outside to get her mom and only then would she get up from her chair.

I'm ashamed that I didn't have the presence of mind to ask a question before then but I asked it when I saw her start to cry.  "Are you guys okay?  Can I do something for you?"  And then she told me.  She hadn't told anyone before, she didn't know why it hadn't occured to her.  I looked her in the eyes and said softy "If this ever happens again, come and tell any librarian that you see that you are being harassed.  It's not okay for you to be treated this way; you should be safe when you come here, okay?  I am really sorry this happened to you."  I gave her some tissues and took the matter up higher. 

And couldn't forget the frightened and helpless way the tears poured down her face, or how her braids trembled around her dark eyes as she hugged herself and nodded. 

Which is why, an hour later, I jumped up off my chair when a second girl approached me, shifting uncomfortably and said "I need to talk to you in private."  I took her into the staff room and listened as she described being coerced into the elevator in our building, going to the unoccupied fourth floor and being asked over and over to perform acts she'd rather not.  It's unclear to me what the end result was--I *think* she got away unscathed.  But she was threatened, intimidated, told to go home.  And her attacker, the same one who terrorized the other girl, stayed in the library until he saw me open the door of the staff room and look at him as he browsed the stacks.

We called the police together.  I held her hand, told her it wasn't her fault.  Later, she asked what would happen at the hospital.  I explained that they would check her over, make sure she was okay, probably run some tests.  I said that they would have her talk to someone who could help her to stop feeling so scared and ashamed.  That person would probably be able to talk to her beyond just tonight.  I looked her in the eyes and said softly "This isn't your fault.  This isn't your fault."  I kept repeating it.

I didn't tell her that once, a long time ago, it wasn't my fault either.

*************************

I called Sarge after we called the police.  I used the secret codeword we have set up for trouble so that I wouldn't have to say anything more in front of the line of patrons I had.  He came over and patrolled the halls, rode the elevator and checked the unused floors.  For an hour and a half, he made a continuous loop around the building, checking the stacks, the hall, the elevator, all of us.  He looks like any regular guy off the street but we all felt safer with him there.  It's tempting to think of my husband as a slightly chubby computer geek but times like this, I see all his military training come out.  I know he will quickly and efficiently take down anyone who tries to hurt me.

My boss said I handled things well, especially the second victim who was alone for most of the evening until we could reach her mom.  I was reassuring and calm.  When I got home, I collapsed into the mess I'd been inside from the very second the first victim stood before me.

"We could move far away, to Utah." said Sarge, putting his arms around me.  "With all those crazy polygamists?!" I asked.  "Okay, North Dakota." he replied, stroking my hair.  "How about North Dakota?  No polygamists there."

The problem, I explained, is that my past will go with us no matter where I go.  The nightmares are much better now; I haven't had one in years.  I feel safe.  Felt safe.  I remember when they came almost every night, though.  One in particular, I've never managed to forget: I am waylaid into a forest clearing, tied onto a stone table and someone uses his fist to break my jaw so that I cannot scream.  And then I am gang raped.  In another, I am trapped in a house, wearing my black boots.  I can see my car from the window, I make a break for it.  I run, run, run, never looking back.  I have to get in the car, get out before he knows I'm gone and just go anywhere that is AWAY.  The last was a variation: my best friend from high school is tied to chair in the house, wearing the cotton nightie she always wore.  Pilgrim pajamas, we used to tease.  I am trying to get her free; she is in depsair.  She won't run, won't work to free herself.  She's given up.  Our abuser comes home and I stand over her with the broken chair, ready to fight.

It's been a long time, as I said.  And it was never anything clear-cut enough to call rape.  Manipulation, yes.  Emotional abuse, most certainly.  And the bounds of my body were always insubstantial, not determined by me.  If a mood struck him, he would coerce, beg, get angry, whatever worked until I did what he wanted.  I honestly don't know if that's rape or not.  I could have left at any time.  Did, eventually.  Felt afraid doing it.  But he never came after me and there were never any repercussions.  So was it all in my head, how bad I remember it?  The flashbacks I had for years?  The therpaist I saw for a while said no.  I just try not to think about it anymore.  I don't have any answers.

This is the first time I've talked about any of this outside of therapy since college.  One night after the breakup, I told my college roomate.  She had a similar story.  We never brought it up again; too much pain, too many unanswered questions.  I'm happy now, married to a man who is always gentle and loving and kind; never manipulative or cold or coercive.  I know that he will protect me, will put my interests above his own, does on a daily basis.  It took me a long time but I finally feel secure that my ex is not looking for me and probably never was.  The nightmares have stopped. 

But I still don't talk about it.  I don't know why I am now, except that everything from tonight had to go somewhere and I don't seem to be able to keep this part of the story behind, no matter how I try. 

 

Running toward home.

My dad's CT scan came back, in his words, "negatory."  Apparently whatever they saw on the x-ray disappeared in the two weeks it took for him to get the CT scan.  I feel like I can breathe again.

**************

I dreamt that I was running through the woods.  Everything around me was incredibly dark, in a way that ordinary night is not.  The pine trees were tall and menacing; I could feel their ill will.  Eyes peered out at me from the darkness, bears and wolves lurked in the shadows, ready to eat me.  I stuck to the winding dirt path I was running along.  Oddly enough, I wasn't frightened.  I was only five years old, my wispy golden pigtails bouncing with each step.  I was wearing my red rain boots, an item I own now as adult, the ones stamped all over with moose that come up the middle of my shins.  I had on a yellow rain coat and I was dragging a pine tree by its top, holding it like a jacket slung over my shoulder.  It was heavy and I was tired of carrying it but I couldn't put it down.  In spite of the dark, scary forest and the heavy pine tree, I was happy.  I was almost home.

The trees widened and I saw a row of tall pews, like you'd see in church.  They were dark and empty, surrounded by the trees.  At the end of the empty aisle, if I turned left, was a door.  It was the back door to my grandmother's house, leading into her sunny, bright green stairway.  All I had to do was get up the aisle and into that door and I'd be home and the forest would be gone like smoke.  I'd never have to worry about it again.  Best of all, my dad was there.  I started running. 

I was just beginning to notice that the aisle was getting longer or that I wasn't going anywhere and that the pine tree was really cutting into my shoulder when the door banged open.  My father came out, shrugging on an identical yellow rain slicker, carrying a flashlight.  He came striding down the aisle, calling my name.  The aisle stopped misbehaving and the wolves and bears, which had been creeping up, retreated back to the forest.  "Daddy!" I shouted happily.  As I ran to close the few steps between us, my father knelt down and opened his arms to embrace me.  I barreled into him, dropping the heavy pine tree, and I knew I was safe.  He'd carry me back to the house; I didn't have to fight the forest on my own any more.

I woke up on my side, curled around my pillow, one arm still tucked over my shoulder as though I had just dropped the tree.

There's less swearing in this one.

When I was raging last night to Sarge, he confessed that he had read about the "art" earlier in the week and decided not to tell me about it on the grounds that I did not need to know.  I was having a tough enough week already and he knows I don't generally read the news, so he was hoping the furor would die and pass me by.  This is kind of what it's like being married to a spy.  Sometimes information is stopped for my own good. 

I'm not saying the man was wrong.  I think he was totally right.  I wish I could forget.  I wish there was some sort of selective Alzheimer's injection that could erase that specific neuron so that I could go back to the state of mild depression I enjoyed before I read the Yale article. 

I knew when I blogged yesterday that Yale was claiming the project to be a hoax.  And that the "artist" behind the concept was coyly refusing to say.  She'd obviously said what she had to say to the academians at Yale in order to ensure that her project is shown and she is graded and I do firmly believe that if she felt she had to lie in order to preserve her skin, she did so.  But she likes the shock value and her greatest power lies with not telling the whole truth to the press. 

Hoax or not, it doesn't really matter to me.  The damage is done.  Whether her display is fiction or fact, the very idea of it still spits upon all that I hold sacred and painful and private.  She's taken my very most deeply painful experiences and made a mockery of them.  For that, I have no forgiveness.

This is where things get complicated for me and if you're still reading, I applaud.  For me, everything in life relates back to faith and to God.  I believe firmly that everyone, EVERYONE is created in the image of God and is therefore entitled to my respect and love.  It's the only way I can serve the general public on a day-to-day basis, when fully a third of my patrons are angry or bigots or self-entitled narcissists.  So for me, there's an extra dimension to this whole Yale "art" scandal: I have to believe that this woman is created in the image of the God I love.  I have to believe that she's worthy of redemtion and of my kindness and that I could concievably one day be sharing all of eternity with her should she adjust her outlook at some point in life.

I wrestle with that.  God and I talked some more about it: I want JUSTICE! I raged.  I want her to know how much she has hurt me, hurt all of us in the IF community!  I want her to feel every ounce of pain she's caused and I want it now, on my schedule!  And WHY, GOD, WHY CAN'T I HAVE CHILDREN?  HOW MUCH MORE OF THIS SUFFERING, THIS SPIRITUAL PUMMELING DO YOU THINK I CAN TAKE?  I AM DUST BEFORE YOU, GOD!  IS THAT NOT ENOUGH!?

But you know what?  God's on His own time.  He always has been.  He has to be; running the universe can't be a democratic thing.  Too many cooks in the kitchen for that one.  So I'm struggling to accept what I know to be true: that there will be justice, just not in my time frame and I may never know about it when it does come.  That I was unworthy once too and God showed me grace even though I didn't deserve it.  (But God, wasn't I worthier than THAT?  What do you mean, there's no sliding scale?  It's an "is" or "isn't" and not a matter of degrees?)  And that if I really, truly believe my own preaching, I should be praying for this girl because my Bible tells me to pray for those I consider my enemies and do good to people who hurt me.  How often do I really do that?  How often does my beautiful, abstract faith actually connect with reality?

Not that often, people.  Like I said, I'm struggling.  I can't pray for her without praying for fire and I know that's not the type of prayer God wants from me.  He's got all that covered.  So I've given up on that temporarily and I'm just praying for myself right now.  Praying that my broken spirit would be bandaged enough to move on, praying that my heart would stop being so full of hate, praying that my faith would grow.  All of this has to be for something; God doesn't waste. 

This is the last time I'll mention this "artist" or her project.  I had a beautiful, kind letter from a lurker this morning suggesting that what this girl wants is attention and that I have given it to her.  And I think that's probably true.  I truly feel that I couldn't have done any differently, though.  I use this space to vent my hurt; it's a safe space for me.  I needed to let all of that rage and pain out and then later to wrestle with the larger implications.  In the end, none of this is really about her anwyay; it's about what this blog has always been about: infertility, loss and pain.

Look away.

If you're coming here from GT, look away.  If you're offended by swearing, look away.  If all caps bothers you or you have a problem with a bitter and angry infertile, look away.  I'm not in a good space right now.  This blog is where I dump the shit when it needs to fly and right now, some serious shit is going to fly.

I had a very busy week last week.  I sat for oral boards at my job so that I can (hopefully, with luck) move to next level (should such a position open at my library, please God.)  There were other details to my week that I won't bore you with, including more work meetings, chopping four inches off my hair and going to bed exhausted every night.  And then the birth control.  Because of all that, lots of blogs didn't get read.  And I spent today catching up.

And in spite of Melissa's warning, even though I NOT in a good space, I read this.  I'm linking to Mel's post about the article for the same reason she didn't send her readers on without warning; it's not for the faint of heart.  I truly thought that I could not feel worse than I have been feeling.  But this monstrosity makes me SO ANGRY.

This is what I wrote in response to Mel's follow-up post.

I WANTED my babies. The single most painful fact of my miscarriage is that I never got a chance to hold or bury my children (because they are children to me) but instead they were flushed down my toilet like the rest of my bodily waste like they didn't matter at all. It makes me vibrate with hurt and anger that something I treasure, something I want so desparately and hold so dear is being treated like common, everyday shit by some clueless teenager who thinks that my experience is about "political discourse." FUCK THAT NOISE. Whether she was ever pregnant or not.

I know that insemination does not a pregnancy make.  No one knows that better than me.  (Insert bitter laughter here.)  But when I think of all the countless hours I have spent WAILING, the trips to commisary spent with tears rolling down my face, or to the fabric store, contemplating my nephew's perfect golden hair and wondering if my child would have had that same hair and I think that she, she had that JUST FOR THE ASKING AND SHE THREW IT AWAY...  I can, for the first time, truly understand what hate means.  I've often said I wouldn't wish infertility on a dog I didn't like but I make an exception now.  I hope she never has children because HOW DARE SHE EVER ASK FOR CHILDREN?  HOW CAN SHE EVER DARE ASK FOR THAT BLESSING AFTER THE MOCKERY SHE HAS MADE OF OUR PAIN?  She is lucky she didn't bleed to death in that tub.  I almost wish she had.

I have screamed my throat hoarse to Sarge and pounded my desk until my palms are stinging red.  I don't feel like I've said all I want to say, even by a long a shot but I just don't have any more words.  I am so VERY, VERY ANGRY.  I feel like I have just lost both my pregnancies again.  If this miserable excuse for an artist wants discourse, she's invited to my house any time.  I've got five years of pain and anger waiting for her review.

**UPDATED**

This is what I wanted to say last night and couldn't think to because I was so angry:

When I was miscarrying, when I was bleeding over my toilet late at night, biting back moans, trying not to wake my husband because really, only one of us needed to be awake for this and he should sleep if he could, when I was helplessly watching my body let go of those much-loved, much-wanted babies IT SURE AS HELL DIDN'T FEEL LIKE ART.  IT DIDN'T FEEL LIKE POLITICAL DISCOURSE.  IT FELT LIKE DEATH.  This "art" project makes a mockery of my children's death and the horrible pain that accompanied it.