by Kelly, Hazel
I mean, if it was, then my “parents” had not only lied to me my whole life, but they just sat there while I watched my real Mom die without telling me. And it meant I didn’t even know who my real Dad was.
Sure there were times I felt like I was adopted because my Mom and I didn’t have much in common. But that was because I was a teenager. Not because she was my Aunt! No one was ever really switched at birth!
And what about the things Dawn talked to me about? Masturbation? Birth control? Nobody’s mom talks to them about that stuff.
And what about Chris? I had a brother. If my parents couldn’t have kids how did he get here? He was like them, too. Anyone could see that.
Most of all, it couldn’t be true because I had enough problems. I didn’t need some Jerry Springer paternity scandal dropped on my head when I was trying to graduate, trying to get into college, trying to keep my food down, and trying to figure out where I stood with Kevin.
I looked back at the picture of Dawn at my age. There was no denying that she looked like me. Or I looked like her. But if it was true, it would mean that I’d lost my Mom without realizing it, that my Mom had died and I hadn’t even shed a tear.
My eyes began to water as I marched to where my “parents” were sitting. I stood in front of them- so anxious I could barely speak- and held the picture and the letter in the air.
“Is this for real?” I asked, looking back and forth between them.
My Mom looked smaller than ever and as usual, my Dad looked at her to figure out what he should do.
“She was my Mom?” I choked. “And you didn’t fucking tell me?”
“She didn’t want you to know,” Carol said. “She said she didn’t want to lose you again.”
“Lose me again! She gave me away!”
Carol shook her head. “It wasn’t like that. It was for the best.”
“Was it?” I cried. “Was it really? Because it feels like I’m a fucking orphan!”
“You’re not an orphan, Kate,” my Dad said. “You’re our daughter.”
“What are you saying?” I was ready to pull my hair out. “You’re not even my Dad! I don’t even know who my Dad is!”
“Dawn said she wanted to explain everythin-”
“Explain everything?!” I felt lightheaded from the vodka and the shouting. “Explain Chris! If you couldn’t get pregnant where did he come from?”
My Mom shrugged. “He was a surprise.” She looked at my Dad so guiltily I thought she’d pissed herself.
“You mean he was a miracle?!”
“It happens to lots of couples,” my Dad said softly.
“A real miracle child. Wow,” I said. “You know what? That does make sense. Everything makes a lot of sense now.”
“Kate,” my Mom said as I started up the stairs.
I spun around and tried to stare straight into her lying eyes, but I was so angry she looked blurry. “Don’t,” I said. “Just don’t.”
I went back up to my room, pulled the vodka out of my closet, and took a throat burning gulp. Then I sat on the edge of my bed and took another right away. The second made my nose burn and my eyes water.
A crazy, desperate energy was coursing through my veins as I put my trainers on. Then I ran out of the house before anyone could stop me or ask where I was going. I was able to run down the driveway and about three houses down until I decided that I was too drunk and out of breath to keep running.
So I walked.
And when it started to hail, I kept walking, letting the small biting pellets of ice nick at me. I remember wondering how far I would have to walk before the rubber soles on my shoes would wear out and whether everything would make sense by the time that happened. And the farther I walked, the more lost I felt. Even though I knew where I was.
Unfortunately, the hail didn’t last long before it turned to hard rain and lightning. That’s when I turned back. I was cold within minutes and knew it wouldn’t be long before I was frozen and soaked through. So I took a short cut back through the soccer field at my elementary school.
Soon the lightening was cracking across the sky and the thunder was so loud it sounded like I was right inside it. So when I got to the field I did what I’d wanted to do since I read the letter.
I screamed.
I screamed as loud as I could into the sky until my lungs were empty and then I fell to my knees in the mud. And then I kept screaming until my cries turned into whimpers. Then I leaned forward and banged my fist against the ground so hard that mud splashed up all around it.
At first I was frightened by my strength. But in the next moment I was weak again and panting on all fours. Finally, I took a shallow breath, sat back on my feet, and looked up at the dark clouds.
And as the rain streamed down my face, I cried for my dead Mother.
Chapter 4: Dawn
Nothing like finding out you’re about to die makes you cling to life.
But nobody lives forever. The closest a person can get is to leave something worthwhile behind like inventions or art or life changing ideas. I wish I could leave something like that behind. Something really amazing. Like the secret to getting cats to empty their own litter boxes. Or the secret to storing clutter in black holes. Or even just a way to make flossing less tedious. But I ran out of time.
And unfortunately, most of the practical knowledge I have is available to anyone with a GED and internet access. So it came down to recording my thoughts on the only thing I’m equally passionate and qualified to write about: the topic of female sexuality. More specifically, I want to share what I think makes a woman a woman, how to love, and who I think every woman should sleep with... Assuming they aren’t Mormon, Amish, oppressed, uncreative, or uncurious.
I guess the reason I’m so passionate about this topic is because I believe the women of my mother’s generation let me down. I don’t know if they kept me in the dark because they thought their conservative, traditional sex lives weren't interesting enough to talk about or whether they were just too conservative to broach the subject. Regardless, as a professional therapist who’s counselled dozens of couples over the last decade, I know that being Victorian about it isn’t doing anyone any good.
When women allow sexual topics to remain taboo, they only disempower themselves. After all, what kind of signal does it send to young girls when they are bombarded by sexual imagery everywhere they look and encouraged to sexualize their appearance and behavior from a young age, but none of the adult role models in their life are actually comfortable discussing sex and its implications with them?
Surely that sends a mixed message that they must choose between being overtly public about their sexuality or being secretive about it. Is there no middle ground? Do we really all have to choose between getting married and having babies or making a sex tape and posing for playboy? Surely sex can be a priority even if it’s not your career.
My greatest hope is that more women learn to own their sexual history instead of being ashamed of their pursuit and enjoyment of pleasure. Because there is nothing more natural- and potentially transcendent- than sex.
Personally, I have had many great loves and several times as many lovers. And as long as women are behaving responsibly and protecting themselves, I think they ought to have all the unapologetic sex they want. Because there’s nothing worse than missing an opportunity to get to know someone… and I mean that broadly and indelicately.
I pity prudish women who don’t reach out and grab what they want because they’re terrified of being thought a slut. Because no one can make you feel like a slut without your consent. Of course, if you sleep around for no good reason and always feel used afterwards, maybe you are one. And worse, you probably feel empty a lot more than you should.
However, if you sleep around to feel liberated, to enjoy yourself, to open your mind to others, or to gather material for your next album, you’re not a slut. You’re just alive and healthy. And probably really fun to be around.
It’s al
so worth mentioning that, as Aristotle said, “You are what you repeatedly do.”
In other words, one slutty evening doesn’t make you a slut. Not even close. You’re only a slut if you do slutty stuff all the time. Like if you constantly sleep with guys who don’t care about you because you think it will make them like you more. However, if you sleep with some guy and neither of you really care about each other and you’re both fine with it, that’s just a meeting of like minds.
A slut is someone who tries to use sex to get something other than sex. A lot of women who enjoy sex for sex’s sake might be called sluts, but they’re not. Enjoying sex doesn’t make you a slut. It makes you enlightened. And as long as you don’t regret whoever or whatever you’ve done, then you have no reason to be ashamed.
Lord knows I’m not.
However, if you ever do sleep with someone you shouldn’t have, don’t beat yourself up. Everyone makes mistakes. Just put on your chastity belt for a while, watch some chick flicks, remind yourself that you deserve better, and sing until you feel whole again.
Then get back out there.
Because there are no prizes for being lonely.
So when you’re young and single, you might as well party it up and have a good time. After all, the people who are most haunted by their past are those that don’t have one.
On Becoming a Woman
Becoming a woman is the single most traumatic thing that could happen to somebody. I don’t mean bleeding in your panties either. Instead, I’m referring to the confusion and torment of trying to figure out what kind of woman you are and coming to terms with that.
For a long time, I thought everyone was making the transition a lot more easily than I was, but I was kidding myself. Everyone struggles with growing up. Anyone that tells you otherwise is a liar. Or painfully dull.
We all have our demons and insecurities. We all feel like failures sometimes. And when we’ve been successful, we’re all always looking over our shoulder like someone is going to find out we’re an imposter and take our good fortune away.
Anyway, here’s how you know that not only are you a woman, but you have what it takes to be a successful woman. It’s not when you give birth, it’s not when you get your period, lose your virginity, or even get married.
You become a woman when you finally have the confidence to show someone else how to give you an orgasm. It’s not enough to give yourself one. Sure, you can get off that way, but you can’t become wildly successful that way. Not in a bedroom and not in a boardroom.
Let me explain. A sexually liberated woman has a voice she isn’t afraid to use. As a result, she is the master of getting what she wants. She can talk to anyone, ask for anything, and get anything done. Why? Because as soon as you have the guts to raise your voice when you are naked and vulnerable in an intimate setting to ask for what you want, you’ll have the guts to do anything.
Because compared to that, everything else is like asking a stranger for the time.
And the truth is, the sooner you learn to ask for the love and pleasure you deserve, the sooner you’ll get it. Which should help give you the confidence to raise your standards and expectations in every aspect of your life.
After all, the whole idea that women are self-less, maternal, obliging do-gooders is horribly dated. That primitive ideology is why we’ve been cutting, starving, shrinking, hiding, and taking abuse for so long.
To thrive in the modern world, we have to direct our innate compassion towards ourselves for a change. In other words, we have to be more selfish.
Chapter 5: Kate
I was a mess by the time I got home. Sober, but a mess. My clothes were soaked and covered in mud and there was dirt under my finger nails and grass stuck to my shins. Everything down to my socks was as soggy as my mood.
I took all my clothes off in the mud room and left them in an empty laundry basket. Then I wrapped myself in a clean towel from the closet. I could hear that we had company. Some nosy neighbors had arrived in the hope of easing Carol’s pain with a pie and enough pasta salad to feed the neighborhood. When I saw the food laying on the countertop, I swear I felt myself fall off the wagon.
“I was starting to get worried,” Carol said when she saw me, pretending she was my Mom again.
The neighbors didn’t know where to look since I was in a towel.
“Just a bit of rain,” I said, matching her fake politeness. “But I could really use snack and a shower.” I picked up a plate and stepped up to the pasta salad. “May I?”
“Please,” the neighbor couple said in unison.
“Thanks,” I said, piling my plate high. “I’m just going to take this up to my room if that’s okay.”
I didn’t make eye contact with Carol, but the neighbors looked relieved as I walked past them towards the stairs.
When I reached my room, I put the plate of food down on my bed beside the manila envelope that Carol or Tina must have put there after I left. Then I sat cross legged on the bed and ate the food so fast it was a miracle I didn’t swallow the plate. And it was delicious. Or more accurately, it did an adequate job of filling me up.
But it had been weeks since I scarfed something like that, and my shrunken stomach was so full it hurt. Which was weird because the amount of food I’d consumed was barely a fraction of what I used to eat during a binge. Like an eighth if I had to guess.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten so fast or felt so bloated and disgusting. I couldn’t even remember the last time I overrate. With Dawn it was all about “listening to my body” and eating enough “to feed my muscles.”
I mean, nothing kills your appetite like living with someone who’s suffering from cancer and loss of appetite. Dawn even joked about it once. She said losing her appetite made her sad because it was the first time she really felt like she had something in common with dead people.
It would probably also make her sad to see what I’d just done. Maybe she had seen. Oh well.
I wanted to go down and get some ice cream or some milk. I needed to drink something to lubricate my throat so I could bring up what I just ate, especially since I’d barely chewed. But I’d have to make do. I didn’t want to have to see the neighbors again.
Too much exposure might help them come up with a reason to reject me. Like my own mother had. Like I was about to reject their pasta salad. I stared at the manila envelope on the bed. It was thick with paper. Probably some sort of long apology.
I didn’t want to read it though. Not yet. I wasn’t ready.
But I was ready to throw up. Or at least, I had to be so I wouldn’t absorb any calories and be a fat orphan on top of everything else. Plus, as fucked up as it sounds, I thought it might make me feel better to throw up. Because that was my normal, my old reliable. Because I recognized myself when I was doing that. I was in control. Sort of.
I looked in the mirror. My eyes were red and my face was splattered with dried mud. No wonder the neighbors acted weird. I turned on the shower and waited for it to get so hot that steam was rising from the floor.
When I stepped inside, I let it scorch my skin until I was red as the devil all over. After a few minutes, I bent over, removed the plug from the drain, and stuck my finger down my throat.
And then the last thing I ever expected happened.
I gagged.
I hadn’t gagged in years. Not on my finger, not on a cock, not on something I ate. I had no gag reflex. It was gone.
Or so I thought.
Then I felt the most terrifying mix of emotions. I was elated because I must be better if I had a gag reflex again. Of course, that feeling was followed by sheer panic because if I couldn’t throw up anymore, I’d have to digest my food. Always. I wouldn’t be able to lean on my bulimia crutch anymore.
I leaned over and tried again, sticking two fingers so far down my throat my teeth dragged on top of my knuckles.
This time I gagged so hard it forced my eyes closed. It was horrible. Had it been that painful whe
n I’d first started with a spoon all those years ago?
Finally, I choked up a little bit of pasta, but it was a pathetic amount, and it scratched my throat terribly.
I stood back up and considered my options.
If I wanted to take the time, I would eventually be able to expel what I’d eaten. But when I was done, my face and neck would be all puffy, my throat would be raw, and my voice would be hoarse.
The other option was to accept the fact that I’d overeaten, try not to eat for the rest of the day, and hope I’d feel okay by tomorrow. After all, I’d probably burnt a heck of a lot of calories on my long walk.
I sat down in the shower and let the water beat down on me while I shampooed my hair. I just didn’t have it in me to stand anymore. But just before I got out, I squatted over the drain and stuck my finger down my throat one more time just to see if it had been a fluke before.
But I gagged again.
And it really felt like my body was trying to tell me something, something like I don’t want to do this anymore. Which was good. Because I didn’t want to be bulimic anymore either. But it was bad, too. Because I still wished I’d gotten away with it just one more time.
I was at a crossroads. I could either learn to be bulimic again which wouldn’t be too hard because I knew exactly what it took. Or I could stay on the path to getting better which was difficult but far more rewarding.
But I knew better than to promise myself anything. Plus, I was still hurting so bad from the day I’d had that I couldn’t think straight. For the first time in a long time, my eating disorder wasn’t my biggest problem. And I needed to find a way to cope with my shit that didn’t involve treating my mouth like a toilet.
So I called Annie and asked if she had any weed.
Chapter 6: Dawn
6 People You Should Sleep With