On Mother’s Day, no one is going to send me flowers or a card. I will not be awakened by sweet, giggling toddlers bearing a tray of breakfast in their chubby hands or receive an awkward but heartfelt hug from a gangly teenage son or end a phone call with a teary, dorm-bound daughter saying, “I love you, Mom.” I am no one’s mother, and I never will be.
This is not by accident, a case of insurmountable physical challenges, an unwilling partner or prioritizing career over children. At age 39, the window of my fertility is sliding shut, but I feel no sense of dread, panic or regret. I have known since I was a child myself that I didn’t want to have any of my own. It’s simply astonishing to me how frequently people — strangers, especially — have felt that I should answer to them for that.
“
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—I am nobody’s mother and I never will be, by Kat Kinsman
I’m really happy that this was published. As Mother’s Day approaches, I am certainly grateful to my mother, and equally certain that I would not make the same choices that she did. I will never have children - I have no desire to have them and never have. And that’s okay! We all choose our own paths in life, it’s time to stop judging the choices that other women make about the reproductive aspect of their lives.
(via stfusexists)
I am right there with you. I have no desire, never did and get tired of people telling me I will change my mind. It makes dating even more difficult- I tell guys up front so as not to waste their time. When they try to argue to change my mind, it never ends well between us. Why can’t my personal decision be respected? Why?
(via dearsocietywtf)
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I will never be friends with an Anti Choicer
fortheloveof-whores:
This is a personal post, but feel free to reblog it if it also applies to you or even if you just want others to read it.
“Baw what’s wrong with you? That’s so mean and prejudiced - “
No. Shut the fuck up.
If I ever get pregnant, I am getting an abortion. There is no question about that. I don’t care how old I am, I don’t care what my relationship status is, I don’t care about my financial stability, I don’t care about my mental and physical health, I don’t care how I got pregnant - I am having an abortion. I never want children - and don’t you dare fucking tell me “you’ll change your mind when you’re older”.
And if I ever am in the position where I need to get an abortion, which I hope will never happen, I will need friend who will support me and be there for me during that tough time. I will need friends I can talk to and confide in, friends who will love me and take me to the clinic and hold my hand through the procedure or stay over my house while I take the pill.
What I don’t need is a ‘friend’ who will tell me I should have kept my legs closed. What I don’t need is a ‘friend’ who will pray that I change my mind. What I don’t need is a ‘friend’ who will show me inaccurate pictures of aborted embryos-fetuses and false pictures of teh horribul procedures. What I don’t need is a ‘friend’ who will tell me I’ll regret it and it’ll be the worst mistake of my life. What I don’t need is a ‘friend’ who will try to convince me I’m going to bleed out and be in agonizing pain. What I don’t need is a ‘friend’ who will tell me I’m a murderer. What I don’t need is a ‘friend’ who would eagerly force me through moths of grueling pregnancy and the pain of childbirth. What I don’t need is a ‘friend’ who will shame me. What I don’t need is a friend who values an embryo/fetus over me.
What I don’t need is a ‘friend’ who would be absolutely gleeful at the prospect of me having to resort to back alley or do it yourself abortions - or out right fucking suicide. If you want abortion to be illegal, this is what you want. If you want abortion to be illegal, you don’t give a single flying fucking shit about the pregnant individual.
Read More
There are the occasions that men—intellectual men, clever men, engaged men—insist on playing devil’s advocate, desirous of a debate on some aspect of feminist theory or reproductive rights or some other subject generally filed under the heading: Women’s Issues. These intellectual, clever, engaged men want to endlessly probe my argument for weaknesses, want to wrestle over details, want to argue just for fun—and they wonder, these intellectual, clever, engaged men, why my voice keeps raising and why my face is flushed and why, after an hour of fighting my corner, hot tears burn the corners of my eyes. Why do you have to take this stuff so personally? ask the intellectual, clever, and engaged men, who have never considered that the content of the abstract exercise that’s so much fun for them is the stuff of my life.
“
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Melissa McEwan, of course, on the terrible bargain. My life as a woman, as a queer person, as a fat person, is not your thought experiment. (via sanitywatchers)
This really struck a chord. Even my boyfriend, feminist that he is, can have this reaction when I’m in tears after an NPR story. This is my fucking life. Excuse me if I can’t remove the personal.
(via curiousgeorgiana)
I reblogged this before, but I like it a lot so I’m reblogging it again.
This whole thing is the reason why confrontations with people that I consider friends always leaves me crying. Like, I get so angry and so flustered because it’s not just some stupid game to me, like it is to them. It’s something that’s real and personal.
(via liquidiousfleshbag)
I will always reblog this.
(via loveintheshadowsistheonlykind)
Oh gosh, this.
(via rambunctiously)
Which is why I don’t argue with my family anymore. Same-sex marriage, abortion, reproductive rights, equal pay, etc. are not just some political talking point, they affect my life.
(via historicalslut)
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I always cheer up immensely if an attack is particularly wounding because I think, well, if they attack one personally, it means they have not a single political argument left.
There are the occasions that men—intellectual men, clever men, engaged men—insist on playing devil’s advocate, desirous of a debate on some aspect of feminist theory or reproductive rights or some other subject generally filed under the heading: Women’s Issues. These intellectual, clever, engaged men want to endlessly probe my argument for weaknesses, want to wrestle over details, want to argue just for fun—and they wonder, these intellectual, clever, engaged men, why my voice keeps raising and why my face is flushed and why, after an hour of fighting my corner, hot tears burn the corners of my eyes. Why do you have to take this stuff so personally? ask the intellectual, clever, and engaged men, who have never considered that the content of the abstract exercise that’s so much fun for them is the stuff of my life.
“
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Melissa McEwan, of course, on the terrible bargain. My life as a woman, as a queer person, as a fat person, is not your thought experiment. (via sanitywatchers)
This really struck a chord. Even my boyfriend, feminist that he is, can have this reaction when I’m in tears after an NPR story. This is my fucking life. Excuse me if I can’t remove the personal.
(via curiousgeorgiana)
I reblogged this before, but I like it a lot so I’m reblogging it again.
This whole thing is the reason why confrontations with people that I consider friends always leaves me crying. Like, I get so angry and so flustered because it’s not just some stupid game to me, like it is to them. It’s something that’s real and personal.
(via liquidiousfleshbag)
I will always reblog this.
(via loveintheshadowsistheonlykind)
Oh gosh, this.
(via rambunctiously)
Which is why I don’t argue with my family anymore. Same-sex marriage, abortion, reproductive rights, equal pay, etc. are not just some political talking point, they affect my life.
(via feministhistorian)
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There are the occasions that men—intellectual men, clever men, engaged men—insist on playing devil’s advocate, desirous of a debate on some aspect of feminist theory or reproductive rights or some other subject generally filed under the heading: Women’s Issues. These intellectual, clever, engaged men want to endlessly probe my argument for weaknesses, want to wrestle over details, want to argue just for fun—and they wonder, these intellectual, clever, engaged men, why my voice keeps raising and why my face is flushed and why, after an hour of fighting my corner, hot tears burn the corners of my eyes. Why do you have to take this stuff so personally? ask the intellectual, clever, and engaged men, who have never considered that the content of the abstract exercise that’s so much fun for them is the stuff of my life.
One of the things I will talk about that no president has talked about before is the dangers of contraception in this country, the whole sexual libertine idea… It’s not okay because it’s a license to do things in the sexual realm that is counter to how things are supposed to be. They’re supposed to be within marriage, for purposes that are, yes, conjugal… but also procreative.
That’s the perfect way that a sexual union should happen. We take any part of that out, we diminish the act… And all of a sudden, it becomes deconstructed to the point where it’s simply pleasure. And that’s certainly a part of it—and it’s an important part of it, don’t get me wrong—but there’s a lot of things we do for pleasure, and this is special, and it needs to be seen as special. Again, I know most presidents don’t talk about those things, and maybe people don’t want us to talk about those things, but I think it’s important that you are who you are… I’m not running for pastor, but these are important public policy issues.
“
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Rick Santorum, giving an odd interview back in October to CaffeinatedThoughts.com
Ahem. An open letter to Rick Santorum:
Dear Rick,
I can call you Rick, right? You seem to want to get to know me on an awfully personal level. Well, I have something to say about that: Please get the hell out of my vagina. I did not invite you up in there. Nor did I invite you to poke around my uterus and ovaries, or anywhere else in my bathing suit area.
I think it’s important that people “are who they are” too, which is why I don’t care what two (or more) consenting adults want to do to get freaky. I don’t care if you and Karen do it twice a year with the lights out, socks on, and magic sweater vest flung on the floor. I don’t care if you have a secret furry fetish involving My Little Pony and jars of marshmallow fluff.
I. DON’T. CARE. ABOUT. YOUR. SEX. LIFE. Is that clear?
In exchange, it would be super cool if you stopped giving a fuck about mine. It’s getting creepy. You look out from the TV screen like we’re just pals, chatting about “intimacy” and making sure I’m barefoot, pregnant, and making men sandwiches because Jesus said reasons.
Let’s get one thing straight, mmmkay?
Go have some sex for pleasure, Rick. I bet you’ll have fun, Karen will be shocked, and your litter o’ kidlets will wonder if daddy and mommy are demonically possessed because they’ve NEVER heard those kinds of noises.
Cheers,
Meg
(via cognitivedissonance)
THIS!! ^^^
(via catieissomethingcreative)
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moon-caalf:
intj weaknesses
if that doesn’t hit the nail on the head…
INTJs:
teaandbbc:
- INTJs may appear to be good at everything, but only because they won’t allow themselves to be observed doing anything until they have become highly skilled at.
- INTJs will rarely participate in emotionally volatile confrontations and may dissociate as a means of self-preservation.
- INTJs are highly selective when it comes to people they respect or trust.
- INTJs don’t like head games. They won’t play them and they resent being played.
WHAT IS YOUR EARLIEST HUMAN MEMORY?
From when I was 3 to when I was 6, I went to a kindergarten run by nuns. I remember a continuous battle between myself and the nun and assistant for the group over eating. The salads were horrible, and I remember Sister Edyta used to mix it together with the potatoes, mashing them in the process, so that she ruined them as well. I was about 4 or 5, I suppose, because then the assistant changed to the one who always took the upper year.
Other than that, we had these playhouses, I guess. Around the same age, two boys and I used to go to one by the sandpit and lift our tops/dress up, and just sit there like that, watching.
