Yesterday, two of my room-mates' three holiday guests decided to use me as maid service and generally treat me as subhuman. (The third guest is kind of strange and mostly just sat in one place grinning and not saying much... But at least he didn't demand that I make him a slice of ham, or loudly announce that he'd once slept with my boyfriend...)
But after everyone had left, I finished making dinner (turkey, gravy, steamed green beans with ham, and mashed potatoes -- it was quite a nice feast), and then Neil and I went out to see the moon on the longest night of the year. We stood in a little field (giggling over which of us could more accurately locate the EXACT center of the field...), playing and laughing and kissing and telling stories about meeting people who had never seen snow... And somehow that seemed to erase everything lousy that had happened all day. For a little while, everything was very, very good.
I ended up staying up all night because I had an appointment at eight in the stupid morning, which meant I had to be awake by six-thirty anyway. The appointment was with the WIC program, which had repeatedly promised to help me out with some sort of transportation services from my present town of residence to Olympia where my doctor is located. But, in order to do that, they had to sign me up for some other program, and then THAT program would call the transportation people and then THEY would hook me up.
Exhausted nearly to the point of stumbling, I took the eerie seven o' clock bus to the WIC office. It was still dark. When I got to the office, some crackhead woman -- very pretty and obviously intelligent, but TOTALLY off her gourd -- badgered me into some small talk and we discovered that her daughter has the same first name as MY daughter's middle name. That was cool. It's not exactly a common name.
(On a completely tangential note... In the interest of the safety of the baby, her name will not be published in Wet Cleanup. She will be known as Bean, as in "Coffee Bean." Mostly just because it's cute...)
Anyway, they had me wait in their stupid lobby for twenty minutes, trying desperately not to fall asleep on the shoulder of the crackhead. And then they called me in. And berated me for not having found a doctor here in THIS town. "Well, NOW we're going to have to find you somebody HERE..." they were saying to me. They got all kinds of skeptical when I told them about all the reassurance I'd gotten that I'd be able to keep seeing my own doctor in Olympia. As if I'd freaking made it up. As if I wouldn't have found myself another doctor -- a little more locally -- when I moved here, if I'd freaking KNOWN these people were going to flake out on me... As if it's FUN for me to be on busses all damned day to get to a doctor's office when that doctor isn't even going to be able to deliver my baby. I've spent a freaking fortune on trips up to Olympia, and NOW they think to tell me there's no point to any of it...? And treat ME like I'm the foolish one?
Oh yeah, and did I take a childbirth class? Well, no, I didn't, because by the time anybody told me I ought to sign up for one, there was only ONE available class in the area, and it was full. Shit, *I* don't know when you're supposed to take a childbirth class. What, like I have babies every ten minutes and ought to know by now? All these nice helpful government agencies and social workers and nurses and whomever, tell me eight billion times over how great it is to breastfeed, as if it weren't anatomically obvious that women are generally designed to do so. But they can't tell me it's imperative to take a childbirth class until a week before the ONLY one in the area is going to take place?
Well, since I hadn't taken a childbirth class, they were going to have a to send a nurse out to my home.
What the fuck? I asked for a fucking ride, not for some silly bitch to come over to my HOUSE. Oh, well, you're going to NEED that, Helena, because otherwise you're not going to know how to breastfeed or take care of your baby.
So they put in an emergency request for a nurse to come to my apartment. What the fuck? I didn't ask for this. I didn't authorize this. I asked for help, and they decided I was completely helpless and needed somebody to come over to inspect my home and teach a little class about my tits. THESE people don't even know what services they offer, or what programs they're affiliated with. THESE people answer the phone with a giggle and say they don't KNOW so-and-so whom I'm tryig to reach. THESE people stand around in their office at seven-thirty in the morning, milling about and reading to each other from some book of jokes that you're supposed to keep in your bathroom. THESE people ask me my original weight (111 pounds), then weigh me (158 pounds), and then ask me, "so... you've gained about forty-seven pounds, would you say?" THESE people tell me to sign a paper stating that they'd given me a copy of the HIPAA laws pertaining to my privacy -- only, they hadn't given me any such thing... And then they've got the nerve to act all indignant that I actually ASKED for a copy, because they weren't really sure they had any, so why didn't I just sign the paper? THESE people want to come to my home and pass judgment on ME? THESE people think they know what it takes to take care of a child? Shit, maybe I will make a really awful mother, and maybe I'll have a hell of a time breastfeeding... but I SURE as shit don't want THESE fucking morons at my house telling me what to do. I mean, they can't subtract 158 minus 111 without ASKING ME what the fucking answer is! I'm sorry, but I don't like the idea of STUPID PEOPLE -- particularly very unprofessional stupid people -- telling ME I don't know what's going on.
They called half a dozen numbers, and explained my situation to half a dozen people. "Yeah, and NOW she's asking us to find her a medical provider... Yeah, I KNOW it's incredibly short notice and it's the holidays, but there's nothing WE could have done about it, because she only decided NOW to come in..." Fucking BULLSHIT. And, to each agency that they called -- some of the names of which they didn't tell me -- they gave my address, phone number, and social security number. Fucking HELL, people, it's in the record that's RIGHT in front of you that I have some reason --however big or small -- to fear for my safety and the safety of my child if my ex-boyfriend knew where I was living. (Technically, it's not so much that I have fears about safety; it's that I have a morbid fear that he'll find some mean, nasty CPS folks to declare me a bad mother or some shit... I mean, when somebody threatens to have custody taken from you, you take that seriously, you know?) You'd THINK that this would mean they wouldn't call every fucking number in the book and give out my personal information... They sat there and LIED on the telephone to half a dozen organizations about how they didn't know about my situation before -- shifting all of the responsibility for THEIR stupidity onto ME...
...And then they gave me some coupons for free milk.
These stupid fucking CUNTRAGS. I feel like I've sold my soul to STUPID CUNTRAGS for free milk.
I don't trust anybody anymore who claims they can "help" me. DSHS wants my fucking soul and my sanity in exchange for a few piddly dollars a month, and a hundred bucks in food stamps -- in order to receive those, I was SUPPOSED to be attending domestic violence support group meetings. The social worker at my doctor's office told me I had an eating problem and was dangerously thin, posing serious risk to my child -- when I'd come to her to tell her that her office had been calling my ex-boyfriend's parents and giving them medical information about me... And these stupid WIC bitches sit there calling me irresponsible and telling me I need a home-visit with a nurse -- all for free milk.
I'm a college graduate with a relatively high IQ. I've been able to live on my own and take care of myself for a number of years without running into any major problems. I have a stable, loving relationship with an incredible man. I can cook for myself (even more substantial meals than TV dinners), I know how much laundry detergent to put into the washing machine, I've got a decent job history and resumé, and I actually manage to drink at least eight glasses of fluid per day. I've done pretty fucking well for myself. Why does everybody INSIST that I'm a moron just because I happen to be poor and pregnant?
I left the WIC office trying not to cry. Someday I will have no need for free milk. Shit, one of these days I'll just walk to a fucking dairy farm, steal over the fence in the middle of the night, and milk myself a cow. And write, in black Sharpie on the cow's back, "thanks, Elsie, for helping me escape from STUPID CUNTRAGS. Love and gratitude always, Helena."
A dude was standing at the bus stop when I got there. He took a long, long look at me. And spat. In my general direction. Then he walked to the end of the block and stood there waiting for the bus, as though I might fucking contaminate him somehow. When the bus came into sight, he walked slowly back over to the stop, but still didn't come within twenty feet of me until he was actually on the bus.
And everyone on the bus was staring at me... I checked my clothing to see if I'd remembered to wear a shirt. I checked to see if I had accidentally grown an extra arm, or shaved my head bald without realizing it. Even this old lady with a google eye kept staring at me. First one eye would stare at me, and then the other. Sometimes she closed the fucked up one, and just stared at me with the good one.
When I got off the bus, a guy at an intersection honked at me repeatedly. I gave him the East Coast signal for, "you talkin' to me?" He screamed at me that he was going to fuck me, and that I should suck his dick. Despite being in front of his car, at a busy intersection, I flipped him off. Did I put myself in danger? Maybe a little bit. I guess he could have shot me or something -- he couldn't have hit me because I was walking a little too fast... Did I put my baby in danger? Yes and no. I swear, the real danger of this world is losing one's dignity, hanging one's head, and just taking that kind of shit from everybody. I WILL NOT have her learning that it's okay for people to tell her to suck their dicks at intersections. My kid deserves a better life than one of a head hung low and a set of fear-tightened slumped shoulders. The dude in the car started laughing at me, rolled down his passenger side window, and began screaming at me in a language I don't speak.
Before I made it home, some woman in her mid-thirties started honking incessantly at me, and making these weird faces at me. Complete with her tongue sticking out in a somewhat obscene manner. This woman was in her THIRTIES, for gahd's sake. There was at least one passenger in the front seat of her SUV, and at LEAST two kids sitting in the back. What kind of fucked up world IS this, anyway?
By the time I got home, I was crying and vowing never to leave the apartment again during the daytime.
...And then Neil held me. And made me tea. And told me that despite everything, magic IS real. And held me. And lay down next to me, and held me. And, infuriated and scared and despondent, I knew that magic IS real. And everything was better. Not perfect, but better.
I woke up to the sound of the phone ringing. I didn't answer it.
I woke up again to a loud clattering sound. D. was standing there knocking something over.
"I couldn't think of what to get you for Christmas," he said, sounding pissed off. "So here's ten bucks. Just get whatever you want." He opened his wallet, peeled two fives out of it, and threw them on a chair. You'd think that the air resistance of paper would make it difficult to actually THROW currency with any real indication of anger, but somehow, D. managed it. I hadn't even gotten a "thank you" out, when D. stormed off, slamming the door.
I think I will give him his stupid ten dollars back. I didn't ASK him for a Christmas present. Frankly, I wasn't expecting a Christmas present from him. Generally, I don't expect presents from anybody, although I'm happy to be surprised. But if he's going to be all bratty because he felt obligated to get me something, then I don't fucking want it. It doesn't matter how much ten dollars means to me right now. I'd rather surreptitiously steal milk from a dairy farm than be indebted to the stupid WIC people in ANY way. And I'd rather be ten dollars poorer than have D. act like I forced him into giving me money.
My grandmother sent me a package for Christmas. It contained some baby stuff, a four-cup coffee-maker, and a black sweatshirt, among a couple of other things. It was really cool, and really nice. And she'd included a present for Neil, and one for Bean, both wrapped.
And, at the bottom, she'd enclosed a self-addressed, stamped envelope, complete with ugly pink paper inside, so that I could send her a thank-you.
...Which almost completely killed the effect of the gifts. I mean, I would have written a thank-you note. I always have written them before, at least in the past couple of years, although it occasionally takes me a few weeks. What the hell? If somebody sends me a freaking gift, they'd better be sending it because they actually want me to have it, not because they want thanks and praises.
Also enclosed? A "Dear Abby" column about sending thank-you notes.
Gahd that's insulting.
My sweet Neil is still asleep. He stayed up all night with me last night. I'm just listening to the sound of his breathing, and somehow it's all the reason I could ever need not to absolutely despise this world for its nasty little incidents of meanness.
Gonna go get some leftover turkey.
~Helena*