I had one last fuck... and then I didn't

Stop.

All those things you're thinking right now, give them a minute. Let them gather, let them cluster at the gate. Look them in the eye, say hello for what they are, but mostly, oh please, mostly, own them, for they are surely yours.

Ready? Good.

I have not been in a car accident. There is nothing wrong with me. What you're looking at is meant to be in as much as I did some research, made some choices, and coughed up a shit ton of privileged cash. Today I made a thoroughly tasteless joke when speaking with my daughter's boyfriend because he had no idea what I'd done because nobody told him (why not?). I said I'd recently spent 6 hours under GA and come out looking like a fifteen-year-old pornstar. I don't think he's going to recover. I was explaining why I couldn't just get in my car and drive five hours south because I hadn't been cleared to travel. Not yet. 

I took a deep breath and decided not to bother cleaning it up. Sometimes it's best just to let people deal with their own shit. You can give a person sixty-eight reasons and it really won't matter - which is why we're here today, in public and all that shit.

Couple years ago I wrote very clearly and frankly about suicide. That, hands down, is the hardest thing I've written about and I chose to make it public hoping that I might open some eyes. I don't think I did a very good job, based on results, but that doesn't mean I should throw in the towel. After all, I laid out some pretty profound statements and beliefs. If you can't get past your stuff to the information at hand, well, OK. But I think some of you heard me and I have this ridiculous fantasy that the next time one or two of you are presented with the opportunity to make a difference that you might just do that and somebody might just get a life back. You know, one worth living. 

Sooooo.... having done that, I balk at this?! Really?! Really. Clearly, I am more vested in your opinions on my face than your opinions on my choice to live or not to live. 

Can you just read that again and give it a sec to marinate? That would be what I like to think of as a holy fuck moment.

All set? Good.

I'm going start by telling you that it's none of your business. I mean, really, NONE of your business. The problem is you think it is. The problem is, I think it is because I worry about this shit. Or I did. For a hot minute. I don't think I'd have given it more than a day or two of airspace in my head if it hadn't been for all the photographs. See, there's something really cool happening right now and I am seriously fascinated. 

Did you know that you can cut up, slice and dice, rearrange blah blah blah a relatively healthy adult body and if you follow the instructions, that mother fucker will put itself back together again! Like magic! 

Every day I take at least two pictures. I want to know what's happening, and also I would like to continue to believe that eventually I will stop looking like I went ten rounds with Evander Holyfield. The first couple of days were hard. It was bad. Seriously. It was bad. But then it started to get better and I started to think about what was happening with my body. Not just my face and head, my whole body is involved because it has to be. 

I wanted to talk about it specifically because we do NOT talk about it and then I wanted to talk about that part and then I got mad. Really mad, which brings me to my actual point (you thought I was going to talk about something as personal as cosmetic surgery? ha! I may be short on fucks but I'm not stupid).

Here's what I want to talk about:

The red pill and the blue pill.

In the Red Pill world there's a 'reason' most people can get behind a woman choosing to alter her body. In the Blue Pill world there is not. 

Think.... keep doing that....

When I was fourteen I fell off a horse and shattered my face. For real. I was a hot mess. They stuck a metal bar up my nose and I still remember the crunch as the entire mass was shifted back to the center of my face.

When I was twenty-eight (because I'd used up my deductible having a baby) I had a thing called a septo and a rhinoplasty to put some of that shit back together. I was mortified. I didn't want a 'nose job' but that's what I got. I went so far as to show the surgeon a photograph of my fourteen-year-old nose and asked if he might give it back. He did! Know what that got me? Off the hook. I never had to say to anyone that I chose to alter my face. That was an AWESOME Red pill.

This year I made a choice and here's where it get's mushy. I could tell you about the red pill. That would just explain everything, wouldn't it? Except I don't want to because that's the part where it's actually none of your business and the reason I would make it your business would be to avoid the giant letter A I should have on my forehead. A is for a lot of things but mostly it's the world Adultery which is the word Nathanial Hawthorne used to anchor the problem of Hester Prynne. And my goodness, that woman sure did have the audacity to... (fill it in).

And my goodness, Heather Jefferies sure does have the audacity to...

You bet I do.

I work with mostly younger people these days. They all seem to be exactly twenty-nine years old and they have all lived many lives and have much to say. I could (and should) write many posts about two of them specifically because they are that sort of wonderful but I'm going to tell you briefly about Susana. 

Me:    Susana, I need to do this thing and I'm really struggling.

Susana:    Oh! That's cool, want help?

Me:    Nah, I gotta get a doc up here but thanks!

Susana:    Let me know if I can help.

Me:    You can.

Susana:    OK. How?

Me:    I'm feeling really bad about this, like the reason just isn't good enough.

Susana:    You need a reason?

Me:    Well, yeh. Don't I?

Susana:    wft is wrong with you people?

(I don't know if she means older people, Americans or both)

Me:    wha?

Susana: This is really easy.

Me:    Dude. It's not.

Susana:    Dude. It is.

Me:    OK?

Susana:    IT'S YOUR BODY AND YOU DO WHAT YOU WANT WITH IT AND YOU EXPLAIN NOTHING.

Me:    Whoa.

Susana:    Right?