Sanguine Dreams & Nightmares

I am channeling those books I’ve read. The ones I gave away at the end of Women’s Studies part I. I remember reading , acknowledging, hell in that happy hippy way affirming that the moon cycle was to be honored and contemplated and that instead of working against nature the way we are taught to –instead of medicating and cutting and slicing and ignoring–that we should stop and listen to what our bodies are telling us they need and act accordingly.

Which works fine when you have no obligations to anyone but one’s self. Doesn’t work so well when one is employed, a mother, a wife, a writer.

I think about hiding out in a cave, but I miss my friends and family. I think about sheltering them from my wounded-animal-will-bite-if-approached demeanor but then at the same time I need hugs.

I think about the ways the patriarchy has to solve these problems and how to most of the waking world, these aren’t problems at all? Uterus is complaining? Just have it cut out. They use words like ‘lacerate.’ Pain? Take some drugs. Curettage and comatose we are to get through middle life.

I know I look like an idiot for wanting to find another way. For wanting to find my way back to listening to my body. For wanting to be able to walk through the fire.  I am weak right now in body and mind and spirit.

But I have this crazy idea that this is the trial to make me stronger.

About Margaret Elysia Garcia

Margaret Elysia Garcia primarily writes fiction, essays and poetry from a remote corner of the Sierra Nevada. She's currently working on a non-fiction book regarding body positivity through plus-sized alternative modeling .She blogs here and at Throwing Chanclas. And is the co-founder of Pachuca Productions a Latina owned microtheatre in Plumas County, California
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1 Response to Sanguine Dreams & Nightmares

  1. Jocelyn Cote says:

    I recall watching my long-suffering mother standing at the sink doing dishes with the sweat pouring down her face. I asked her what was wrong, and she said these two words, “Hot flash.” I had no idea what hellfire that was until I understood some thirty-five years later.

    I didn’t die of menopause, actually, once the fire was out, life was pretty cool, and I mean that in every sense of the word.

    Now I watch my peri=menopausal daughters “sweating it out”, andI tell them, “his too, will pass.”

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