Guess what you get today? Video! Previously Buddy was featured finding creative ways to share my tea: one and two.

This is the game Mitsy plays with me when I sit at my desk. I’ll touch her on the front side, then reach around to a spot of fur poking out under the shelf in the back, and she flops and rolls around feigning great surprise and indignation, mewing at me — then flopping back around and staring expectantly for me to continue. This goes on til my arm gets tired reaching up, and she’ll keep rolling and flopping for some time, staring down and meowing at me.

And pictures.

Mitsy cuddling on my lap.

Both of them on my desk, stirring up trouble.

Buddy is a big huge bully. Often he will fight his sister out of whatever spot she occupies — on the wide open floor, in a box, on a chair, or in this case, on top of my desk — and either take over, or just wander off. Bully, I tell you.

I am going back to tag all my photos. I have wanted to get my collection organized for over a year now.

Of course, this means going back through all my photos before I moved out here, too. From March 2004 through December 2006. It felt much longer than it seems, typed out like that. Feeling trapped. Controlled. Cut in half, the only person who loved me 2500 miles away. My friends, so loving, but my social circle so wrapped up with my family that I have not been able to keep up those beautiful relationships since the move.

It hurts. The good things hurt. The bad things aren’t documented, with few exceptions (me staring glassy-eyed at the camera with a distressed smile, forced to pose with my family at the church event celebrating my class’ graduation, where my family threw a fit because I spent some of my time with my friends and their families, and they felt betrayed). But I remember them immediately when I see the smiles. Because the happiness was never unfettered. The happiness was desparate, tenuous, fragile, aware of its own brevity. There was no such thing as a moment of happiness that was free from all the pain. It was all baked together, inseparable, each a part of the other. I could never have happiness without knowing it would bring even worse pain as soon as it ended, and knowing how soon it was set to end…

And now here I am, cut off from the life I had, no contact with anyone except the occasional email to my mother (though she seeks me out daily, by email, calls to my husband’s phone, invitations to myspace and twitter and facebook, finding my accounts by association with my friends) living a totally different life, much calmer, freer, and finally now able to feel happiness… unguarded.

I had to have my shield, then, and it had to be strong, and always ready. My self, the person I truly was, was holed up in a fortress deep inside, very small, restricted, not allowed to explore, grow; too dangerous. I was saving it, unable to nurture it, but protecting it for the day when I might be free from the constant assault, safe.

Here I am. I don’t need a shield here. I have, in fact, grown accustomed to living  without the weight of the armor, always protecting. Grown accustomed to just living, just doing, just being what I am, and enjoying it.

But whenever I dip into my past, I find that I am vulnerable again. I have to fumble for that shield. Shit, I forgot it. Shit shit shit shit. Overwhelmed, crushed under the weight of everything rushing back.

I lose touch with the world I sit in, right now, in this chair with the windows open and streaming in light and noise from outside, the locusts foreign to me when I moved here, my cat sleeping comfortably on the floor, the kitchen in a mess as we reorganize where we keep the spices and the dishes. The kitchen where I can cook, now, without fear that I will be yelled at, guilt-tripped, physically pushed aside, my work taken over, can’t even put a pot of water on to boil without it being changed, always wrong, never able to do anything and have it just be mine.

This kitchen now, where I enter, I pour my tea from my refrigerator, I put my pot of water on to boil, I take my box of pasta down from the cabinet over the sink, I clear the dishes out of the drainer and put them away. And that’s that. No one behind me to move everything I set down, chastise me, ensure I am never allowed to do a single, small, petty little thing for myself.

I am caught up in the old kitchen. Where my hand is grabbed as I fry up the pork for tacos, held, and another hand does the same thing I was just doing, while telling me that I was doing it all wrong. Where I find my pot of water mysteriously moved, set on different heat, on a different burner, after having been yelled at from the living room about doing it wrong. The laundry in the back, where I am instructed on how to operate the washer as I try to set a load of clothes to wash, even though I have capably done my own laundry many times, I am assumed to never know, never understand, never be capable, never be self-reliant, always someone else’s burdensome extension.

Going through these pictures of the good moments, the fun, the smiles and sun streaming, this is where I am, caught up, again guarded.

And suddenly I start, and wake up. And realize that the person I am waiting for to come home is not my mother, but my husband. That it has been a year since I have seen my mother, and a year and a half before that. I have not set foot in California in two and a half years — now the same amount of time between when I finally got my first digital camera and when I packed all my belongings in flimsy cardboard with layers of packing tape and stepped on to my much-anticipated one way flight from LAX to PIT.

I am sitting here as the locusts make their locust-noises, I hear the rhythmic hum of the ceiling fan in the downstairs neighbors’ bedroom, I see my cat sleeping peacefully on the unvacuumed carpet and the bucket of cleaning supplies ahead of me. I realize that I have a bed not fifteen feet from where I sit, a nice queen size bed with a memory foam topper, in which I sleep every night, happy and secure, with my husband. Happy. And secure. Unguarded.

It’s a hard transition.

I survived the lumpectomy. There is some pain, but I’m used to that. Right now I’m just curious to see how it is once the breast has healed. It looks like my surgeon did an excellent job; actually not much externally-visible change in the breast, and he made sure to make the incision far enough back to (most likely) preserve the ability to breastfeed later. (There is some question whether I’ll be able to just due to the pain and sensitivity, but I didn’t want to kill my chances before I could even try.)

Have some kitty pictures.

Buddy makes a mess on my desk.

One of his favorite toys is my nail file. Yes, I know. If I can’t sit there and play with him (giving him the blunted handle end, not the tip) I have to hide it, because he finds it every damn time. Why he can’t just play with the stuff that’s meant to be a cat toy, I don’t know — he prefers nail files, twist ties and hair bands.

Of obvious interest to readers of this blog. Check it out, forward it around. It’s only ten total questions, along with the usual demographics (age/sex/race/marital status).

It’s important to get perspectives from people who aren’t necessarily connected (having it themselves, or having a close friend/family member with it) so don’t feel like it’s irrelevant if the people you know don’t know a whole lot about it. That’s the point!

WASHINGTON, Aug. 18 /PRNewswire-USNewswire/ — Men’s Health Network (MHN) has launched an online survey to gauge awareness, knowledge, and willingness of men to take action when faced with the signs and symptoms of fibromyalgia. MHN is collaborating with the American Pain Foundation and National Fibromyalgia Association to encourage men, women and families nationwide to participate in the survey effort.

An estimated 10 million Americans suffer from this debilitating chronic pain syndrome, which impacts women and men physically, mentally and socially. The condition primarily affects women and has long been labeled a “woman’s disease.” However, men suffer from the condition as both patients and as caregivers for the women and loved ones in their lives.

“This survey will help us understand what men know, or more importantly don’t know, about fibromyalgia, its symptoms, and a man’s willingness to discuss any pain, discomfort, fatigue and other signs of the condition with his physician. Men are raised to believe that big boys don’t cry. They are told to ’shake it off’ and to ‘take it like a man.’ Showing pain is showing weakness for many men,” says Scott Williams, Vice President, Men’s Health Network.

Male sufferers are often reluctant to admit experiencing severe pain or discomfort, and as a result, may report milder symptoms then they actually have, making it difficult for healthcare providers to accurately diagnose fibromyalgia.

“Fibromyalgia, though very common, is a misunderstood and very under-diagnosed disease. It has a reputation of affecting more women than men, but I am certain that the disease is far more prevalent in men than is reported in the data. It’s a perfect disease to stay under the radar for men since men are saddled with the harmful belief that pain is something to endure and not report,” said Will Rowe, Chief Executive Officer, American Pain Foundation.

Fibromyalgia can cause absenteeism and presenteeism issues in the workplace, relationship/family troubles at home, and struggles with pain, fatigue, GI disorders, and headaches, etc.

“The National Fibromyalgia Association welcomes this opportunity to collaborate with Men’s Health Network on the survey effort. Although 10 to 20 percent of fibromyalgia patients are males, few scientific studies have been done in this population,” said Lynne Matallana, President and Founder, National Fibromyalgia Association.

To learn more and to participate in the online survey please visit: www.menshealthnetwork.org/fmsurvey.php.

A year and a half ago, my gynecologist discovered two distinct lumps in my left breast during my annual examination. The ultrasound found six more — totaling seven lumps in the left, one in the right.

They are fibroadenomas, which are benign lumps formed by a combination of glandular and fibrous tissue in the breast. There is some evidence they are either formed or fed by estrogen in the body — much like the endometrial implants in my pelvis. I guess I’m just too woman-y for my own good. Anybody need some spare estrogen?

The largest one, at one o’clock on the left, was 2.2cm at my last ultrasound (I am supposed to return every six months, indefinitely, to monitor their size/location to make sure nothing suspicious is going on). It is now 3.2cm, and causing enough pain that it is difficult to lie with any pressure on the breasts (on my stomach or too far to my side) or wear my normal bras.

So it’s coming out. On Wednesday.

I’m nervous. To say the least. Partly for pure vanity. There are very few areas of the body that I unequivocally like. This is one of them. More than likely, the most I’ll end up with is another scar (got plenty of those, don’t particularly care) and possibly a small dent.

I’m both moderately anxious and morbidly curious as to how this is going to turn out.

The cats helped me paint a couple of frames for the cyanotypes we made on our May vacation.

And then they took a break.

Buddy may have been better named Dusty.

From the O-R: Khalil Young, 13, and his sisters Kiara, 9, and Khammeelah, 4, tend to their patch of tomatoes this afternoon at (the garden)… Khalil also is a garden guardian who waters all of the plants on a regular basis.

Look familiar? My thoughts are conflicted in that post, about the real root (so to speak) of our modern issues with connection to our earth, but make no mistake: this garden is an unequivocal positive for the people who use it, and it makes me inordinately happy that it is here.

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Right-leaning media outfits are making a big deal out of this picture. “Who’s helping whom? Obama couldn’t care less”… Obama wasn’t being a “gentleman”…

There are two things going on here:

* Professor Gates, who has a cane so that he can move independently, could probably have made it down the stairs on his own. That’s not to say without pain or difficulty — but he wasn’t helpless. The reaction to this photo presupposes that the crippled man must be completely unable to help his own damn self, and that it is noble when the able-bodied officer presumes to “help” him. Do you see what this does? It removes Prof. Gates as an agent; it makes him, instead, an agency-less object, existing for the purpose of the able-bodied man: this time, as a signifier of character (taking on that noble burden).

* Speaking of noble burdens: the race of the men involved cannot be ignored. Sgt. Crowley is a white man helping a crippled man. In the right wing’s reading of this photo, Sgt. Crowley becomes a symbol of whiteness: an example of the way in which white men are Good, in which Good is defined as the way white men do things. Think boot straps: this fantastical myth is all about the inherent goodness of the white man, who does things the right way, in contrast with the minorities, who are too lazy, selfish, etc. to bother. Sgt. Crowley presuming to help Prof. Gates stands in contrast with President Obama, who is walking ahead, minding his own business. This shouldn’t be an issue, but it is seen directly in front of the white man taking on the noble burden, and thus becomes an indictment on the character of the shiftless, self-absorbed black man.

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And speaking of that beer summit:

Who was it for?

Of course it was reported as a sort of reconciliation: a way to help Prof. Gates and Sgt. Crowley make up. But that wasn’t what it was.

To sum: Prof. Gates arrived home after a long and tiring flight, and couldn’t get in his house. Someone called the police, thinking that a stranger was breaking into his home. Police arrive when Prof. Gates was already in his home and calling a locksmith. Prof. Gates shows ID to Sgt. Crowley proving this is his home, may have been “belligerent” in doing so. Sgt. Crowley responds by luring him to his front porch, where he is handcuffed and arrested for disorderly conduct. Outrage ensues; charges are dropped. (Police insist the original caller reported that black men were breaking in; recordings prove that she said nothing about race at all.)

Journalist asks Obama about this during a health care press conference. Obama says a few predictable, innocuous things, then says that it is obvious that the police “acted stupidly” in arresting Prof. Gates in his own home for no crime committed, then makes a simple comment about the inarguable history of racial profiling in this country.

Sgt. Crowley objects loudly, saying the President is “way off base.” Sgt. Crowley is obviously very upset, and the police force is standing in solidarity with him. The country is beginning to criticize Obama for admitting the troublesome racial aspects of the story; the conventional wisdom is becoming that Obama bit off more than he could chew in “bringing race into this” — and white America will make sure that he is taken down a notch for it.

So Obama invites the two men to the White House for a beer. The country reacts with mild derision — but the attacks begin to fade. The issue is neutralized.

See what’s going on here? White man does something unfair to black man. Black man protests that this was unfair. White man’s sensibilities are offended at the accusation that he could ever be An Unfair-ist, makes this into an argument about whether or not he is a Good Man (being unfair would necessitate that he is a Bad Man). All his friends know that he is, in fact, a Good Man, and they stand up to say as much. Black man looks around, realizes that the numbers are not on his side. That everyone has ignored the unfair way he was treated, and his family and friends have been treated throughout history. That there is unrest among them, and he may face very real consequences if he presses the issue any further.

So the black man backs down. Makes conciliatory noises. To soothe the white man’s feelings. So that the white man won’t cause him any more trouble.

What was this beer summit about? Did Obama really think he was going to solve the issue of racial profiling and police officers behaving unethically by inviting two men out for a beer? Of course he didn’t. That wasn’t the purpose.

The purpose was to get the offended white man (and his white friends) to shut up and stop causing the black men trouble.

And I don’t blame him.

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Quick, think of a disease or condition that affects only men and is considered by a large portion of the population to be fake, created by the pharmaceutical industry, or psychosomatic.  *Sound of crickets.*

An excellent look at the gendered construction of medical conditions at the Women’s Sports Blog.

Most of the language about credulous patients being duped by Big Pharma is directed at women and conditions they suffer from disproportionately.  Women are, after all, emotional and have the ability to create amazing physical symptoms solely from their minds.  At the same time, women’s bodies are considered to be in a constant state of abnormality relative to men’s bodies.  The word ‘hysteria’ is etymologically related to the Latin word for uterus, which was long considered to be the site of women’s mental health problems, and hence its removal is called a hysterectomy [...]

‘Just get out and exercise’ or ‘just change your diet’ is fairly lousy advice for anyone who hasn’t been able to get out of bed. But as a society we still maintain the illusion that changes in hormones, brain chemistry, or the like are failures of self-control or willpower.

She also discusses the disproportionate burden laid on mothers of disabled children. Read the whole thing.

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Written originally for my stint at Feministe at the beginning of July; been working on it bit by bit ever since, but suddenly it has become topical again.

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Part I: The Personal

Note: I’m going somewhere with this. Please keep your mind open as you read, because I will be coming back in Part II with a concept that may seem to conflict with your initial reading of Part I. Thanks.

Understanding my background is essential to understanding my understanding of these things. And so we go.

My brothers and sister, between them, share two diagnoses of bipolar disorder, one of schizophrenia, two of those with psychosis, and all three have severe depression and/or generalized anxiety disorder. That is only what has been diagnosed by mental health professionals — D* was only diagnosed by way of being taken to prison and has not seen a doctor otherwise in decades.

My mother never saw a mental health professional and never will, but she shares most of the symptoms my siblings display, and my own mental health professionals have agreed with me that if there is a diagnosis to give her (with all requisite caveats), it would be borderline personality disorder.

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1.

My brother D* had the worst situation of the family. He was the first to go to jail: when he was taken to court for some sort of licensing issue, he refused to give his name. Wouldn’t speak. And so they put him in jail. And he stayed there for eight months before relenting so that he could just go home.

How long would you stay in jail for a principle?

I will be updating this post as information breaks and coverage progresses.

Last night around 8PM, a man entered the back door of a Bridgeville gym, carrying a duffel bag. He entered the aerobics room, drew out a gun, shut down the lights and opened fire, then turned the gun on himself. As of this writing, three women are dead and up to a dozen more injured.

Scary enough, especially since I live within ten minutes of the place. But today, the man has been identified — leading journalists to his Internet postings. The Observer-Reporter posted a PDF of them; I am reproducing the images here. The text is available at his website (I’m back and forth on linking directly to it).

This man was deeply resentful of women who rejected him, deeply racist (but sadly, his views are not out of the ordinary either in the Pittsburgh area or the country as a whole) and clearly deeply twisted. He reproduced the name and address of a preacher who he claims said that he could kill a bunch of people and still go to heaven, then asserts that it is faith not works that earns entrance to heaven (and thus he is still bound there). It is deeply disturbing.

I really hope, in the coverage to come — and surely the feminist blogosphere will be all over this — that we do not resort to tired and dangerous images of mental illness, and find some way to blame this man’s sick heart on some neuroatypicality. I hope, but I know in my heart I will be proven wrong. Please, don’t do this. Don’t make this worse. Just don’t.

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Continued thoughts:

I really need to get the hell away from this story, but I just can’t. At least three women dead. He watched them on a regular basis. Plotted to kill them. He remarks about watching the “college-age” girls in the area. And masturbating to them. That could be me. Just walking around going about my daily life. He could be one of the random men out there and I would have no idea. What he was thinking or what he was capable of doing because of it. All of a sudden you realize you aren’t necessarily as safe as you want to think you are. These women living next to you are gone. And while most people will not pick up a duffel bag of guns and open fire, the things he thought and expressed are not out-of-the-ordinary. They’re things that a lot of men think, at least occasionally. Looking at you. Thinking that. About you. This isn’t out of the blue. His thoughts are not out of the norm. His actions, maybe. But our society fostered, fed, tended these beliefs. Made him feel safe in them. Make many more people feel safe in them. And when you feel that safety thinking these things? Why wouldn’t you feel safe doing something about it?

Our society told this man what he deserved. And our society told this man that certain methods in obtaining it are acceptable or even encouraged.

Our society tells men that women exist for men’s purposes. Our society tells men that violence is an acceptable means of achieving their goals, asserting their dominance, establishing their identity.

Domestic violence is the prime example: you can’t say it’s just bad apples. Because women die every day because of this entitlement. Women suffer violence every day because of it.

We don’t tell men: “It’s ok to beat a woman.” But we do tell them: “She probably provoked it. She shouldn’t have dressed like that. She shouldn’t have mouthed off. She shouldn’t have rejected you. Who does she think she is? She’s just after your money. Stupid bitch.” And we tell them: “You aren’t a real man if you don’t present as tough. If you aren’t willing to fight. You aren’t a whole person if you aren’t a ‘real man.’ You have to perform violent masculinity if you want to be taken seriously and retain control over your own life.”

And then we act surprised when men take 2+2 and end up with 4.

Most men will never do what this man did. But that doesn’t mean he’s a bad apple, that he’s unusual, that he stands out, he’s not like all those other men. To some extent, yes: he just happens to be the one who really thought the way to react was to open fire on a women’s aerobics class. Most men will never do that. But that doesn’t mean that the use of violence to assert one’s right to women one’s own purposes is not accepted, encouraged, in this society. Because it is. And this man grew from those same poisoned roots. Maybe most branches don’t rot the way he did. But that doesn’t mean they’re clean.

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Update, 1:25PM Eastern: Here we go. I knew it. Let me repeat: mental illness has been repeatedly shown in scientific studies not to be linked to violence. This association is harmful to mentally ill people who are just trying to live their goddamn everyday lives. Because people will look at them, and their illness, and assume that means they have the capacity to become another Sodini. And mentally ill people face serious consequence because of it. In housing, in employment, in health care access, in their social lives.

It’s not going to do anyone any goddamn good to turn Sodini into a “psychotic” “mentally ill” man. Maybe he was mentally ill. That has no goddamn bearing on this. Mentally ill is not a prerequisite for being violent.

It won’t bring back the dead. It won’t heal the wounded. All it will do is make life even shittier for the mentally ill people who are still here living their lives. Confuckinggratulations, you’re helping so fucking much.

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CAUTION: This content is disturbing.

Quotes from his diary:

Planned to do this in the summer but figure to stick around to see the election outcome. This particular one got so much attention and I was just curious. Not like I give a flying fcuk who won, since this exit plan was already planned. Good luck to Obama! He will be successful. The liberal media LOVES him. Amerika has chosen The Black Man. Good! In light of this I got ideas outside of Obama’s plans for the economy and such. Here it is: Every black man should get a young white girl hoe to hone up on. Kinda a reverse indentured servitude thing. Long ago, many a older white male landowner had a young Negro wench girl for his desires. Bout’ time tables are turned on that shit. Besides, dem young white hoez dig da bruthrs! LOL. More so than they dig the white dudes! Every daddy know when he sends his little girl to college, she be bangin a bruthr real good. I saw it. “Not my little girl”, daddy says! (Yeah right!!) Black dudes have thier choice of best white hoez. You do the math, there are enough young white so all the brothers can each have one for 3 or 6 months or so.

[...]

Just got back from tanning, been doing this for a while. No gym today, my elbow is sore again. I actually look good. I dress good, am clean-shaven, bathe, touch of cologne – yet 30 million women rejected me – over an 18 or 25-year period. That is how I see it.

[...]

[Omitted] Church in Pittsburgh, PA – “Be Ye Holy, even as I have been Ye holy! Thus saith the lord thy God!”, as pastor [omitted] would proclaim. Holy shit, religion is a waste. But this guy teaches (and convinced me) you can commit mass murder then still go to heaven. Ask him. Call him at [omitted]. If no answer there, he should still live at [omitted]. In any case, guilt and fear kept me there 13 long years until Nov 2006. I think his crap did the most damage.

[...]

I guess some of us were simply meant to walk a lonely path. I have slept alone for over 20 years. Last time I slept all night with a girlfriend it was 1982. Proof I am a total malfunction. Girls and women don’t even give me a second look ANYWHERE. There is something BLATANTLY wrong with me that NO goddam person will tell me what it is. Every person just wants to be fucking nice and say nice things to me. Flattery. Oh yeah, I am sure you can get a date anytime. You look good, etc. Pussies.

[...]

[The day before the shooting]

I took off today, Monday, and tomorrow to practice my routine and make sure it is well polished. I need to work out every detail, there is only one shot. Also I need to be completely immersed into something before I can be successful. I haven’t had a drink since Friday at about 2:30. Total effort needed. Tomorrow is the big day.Unfortunately I talked to my neighbor today, who is very positive and upbeat. I need to remain focused and absorbed COMPLETELY. Last time I tried this, in January, I chickened out. Lets see how this new approach works.

Maybe soon, I will see God and Jesus. At least that is what I was told. Eternal life does NOT depend on works. If it did, we will all be in hell. Christ paid for EVERY sin, so how can I or you be judged BY GOD for a sin when the penalty was ALREADY paid. People judge but that does not matter. I was reading the Bible and The Integrity of God beginning yesterday, because soon I will see them.