Hang On.

Hang on.

It has been 1806 days no contact.  

I was sitting down the other day fretting about mine and my partner’s precarious employment situation.  Her company is outsourcing their IT , and mine is operating in a small town in which it has historically struggled to find clients.  it’s not dire, we have a few years before this will become an imminent problem.

But while I was staring at our finances and looking for places to tighten up, I realized that I was feeling ‘normal’ worry.  The worry you feel when you have a  concern and you need to find ways to mitigate the problem.

That’s not the kind of worry I’m used to.

More than anything, the feeling I had was “we’ll handle it.”  I have never thought I could handle anything in my life.

That “gets better” they talk about is worth the shit you’re going through now.  Promise.  

More than one poisoning? Me thinks he doth had it coming.

So I just made a joke that "more women should poison their husbands" to my cool boss and then immediately found out that he got divorced because he was poisoned by his ex-wife

I just tested positive for covid on Tuesday. I'm quadruple vaxxed, with a decent immune system, so I'm rapidly on the mend. But, objectively, it has sucked.

You know what hasn't sucked? Sharing a home with someone who cares for me and wants me to get better. And living with someone like that may never cease to amaze me.

“I know I’ve told this story before, but my abusive ex refused to let me take birth control. I was on the pill until he found them in my purse. I went to the Student Health Center—they were completely unhelpful, choosing to lecture me about the importance of safe sex (recommending condoms) instead of actually listening to my problem. Then I went to Planned Parenthood. The Nurse Practitioner took one look at my fading bruises and stopped the exam. She called in the doctor. The doctor came in and simply asked me: “Are you ready to leave him?” When I denied that I was being abused, she didn’t argue with me. She just asked me what I needed. I said I need a birth control method that my boyfriend couldn’t detect. She recommended a few options and we decided on Depo. When I told her that my boyfriend read my emails and listened to my phone messages and was known to follow me, she suggested to do the Depo injections at off hours when the clinic was normally closed. She made a note in my chart and instructed the front desk never to leave messages for me—instead, she programmed her personal cell phone number into my phone under the name “Nora”. She told me she would call me to schedule my appointments; she wouldn’t leave a message, but I should call her back when I was able to. And that was it. No judgment. No lecture. She walked me to the door and told me to call her day or night if I needed anything. That she lived 5 blocks from campus and would come get me. That I wasn’t alone. That she just wanted me to be safe. I never called her to come to my rescue. But I have no doubt that she would have come if I had called. She kept me on Depo for a year, giving me those monthly injections in secret, helping me prevent a desperately unwanted pregnancy. I cannot thank Planned Parenthood enough for the work they do.”

—

Curious Georgiana (via grrrlstudies)

I know I’ve reblogged this before, but it bears re-reblogging (?).  This is how you respond to abuse, this is how you give people control over their bodies/uteruses, this is how you act as a generally non-judgmental and compassionate person.  I love this story so fucking much.

(via coffeewithants)

January 4th marked 260 weeks no contact. That's 1,820 days or 5 years.

Anger isn't scary. I'm still figuring that one out.

emotionally competent cassowary