Potty Humor: Gender Stereotyping in Bathroom Propriety

Women have you ever used the men's bathroom when the women's was taken or flooded? You never know how many refuse to lift the lid in a men's restroom though and miss the hole, since it supplies their only chance to leave it down or up without fear of spousal abuse later, so you wipe the seat and just hover while you pee. Somehow men's restrooms tend to feel filthier and less inviting. Public restrooms in deserted areas are easier to get away with sneaking in and out of because no one would notice your breech of societal rules. But what about busy places like grocery stores for instance? Is it forgivable to rebel against segregated bathrooms when really one size fits all? Often the only differentiation between the two rooms is about four inches of white paint depicting a skirt. Some do have urinals, yes and I find it amusing that so many women in our country have never seen one. A urinal for a woman is a taboo. We have all wondered about them, but never dispute that we are essentially forbidden by gender rules to explore them. I mean explore in the most basic of actions, using sight to observe detail and construct an understanding in one's mind. My question is, what purpose does it serve to have separate bathrooms? In most small businesses and in our homes there is one bathroom for everyone. If there is a constant flow of squatters (heh heh..) like at airports than I can somewhat understand the need to respect different cultural gender proprieties. More importantly how is it that some are so insistant that only that gender uses their designated restroom. So what about queers and transgenders, drag queens, transvestites, bisexuals, where do the rest of us fit in that black and white equation.

Curse of a Caregiving Personality

A week has come and gone. I drove my little sister Michelle back to our parent's, back to her reality. My boyfriend joined us so we could visit his family. After arriving, I pried my littlest sister downstairs to greet me. She had something for me: a gold pen with my name engraved on the cap and the words "an attractive and considerate person" on the box. It surprised me somehow to know that she does think of me, and that I am a positive influence in her life no matter how far away I am. The tears caught in my throat, which she gathered as I was explaining how meaningful it was to receive something tangible back from her. I couldn't remember the last time we exposed our tears to one another. She covered her eyes and turned away shyly. Emotionality is a contagion in a family of sensitive women.
She interjected my emotional appraisal of the pen, "You'll still have me for the summer won't you?"
Pondering the sudden topic change, I nodded reassuringly. "Of course." I would take you back with me now but that is unfair to Jim and I need a few weeks to catch my breath. "Do you think you hold out until then?" I needed to know how desperate she was.
"Yeah. I can wait." Her voice seemed relaxed enough, verifying her words.
"Well if not, just call me." I hugged her again.
"I love you."
My heart drove into my brain. I wanted to pick her up and wisk her away right then. Required all my strength, faith in her resiliency and ability to survive to shove that protective urge down into a knot of weight in my chest where it would stir until I could release it safely.
Wait, just a little longer baby. "I love you too."

The Beauty of Grief

For days my sister has been staying with me, as a zombie, forcing herself to move through each hour denying the corroding pain yet to be tended. Frustration. Sensitivity to criticism. I felt the stalking presence of a sorrow desperate to be unleashed, and for days I have been waiting.
Before I left my parents I decided to dismiss the burden of being caregiver and counselor to her. I would simply provide an environment of respect and freedom for her to do with as she pleases. If I created an atmosphere where she could feel safe, maybe whatever processing or knowledge she needed would be made clear without my tampering. I hoped the visit would at least supply her with a different perspective on how one can live (without constant yelling, away from the physical reminders that triggered her breakdown).
We came home from a visit with a friend. She mentioned having stomach pains and headed for the next room to hide. Noticing her desire to escape, I jumped at the opportunity to finally talk with her alone. I walked unexpectedly into a hug when I entered the doorway. I asked what was wrong. She described the pains in her stomach. Anxiety. The last time she had an attack around me she utilized distraction as her method of coping. Her attempts to push her feelings aside were vocalized by a distinct monotone moan that only proved her efforts were not amounting to any relief. The moment I heard those same moans begin during this incident, I defaulted to my grief training. I encouraged her to embrace those feelings rather than continue to suppress them.
Little by little, sobs echoed in my ear. Still locked in embrace, she acknowledged the feelings that were rising to the surface by name: frustration, anxiety, sadness. At last! I thought. She’s finally crying. I wasn’t necessarily waiting for her to cry, but rather to be honest with herself about what she was experiencing. In my experience supporting others, this was a major indication of progress (however that might be defined when referring to a process that tends to be cyclical).
I continued to encourage her to just allow the tears to flow, to try not to hold back as she rested on my shoulder. She explained how difficult it has been dealing with the overwhelming fear of “losing it.” A common symptom of panic disorder is a fear of losing control or subsequent attacks. For her, this fear was stifling her need to grieve. When I say grief, I mean a process in which the individual allows whatever they are feeling to be expressed freely for the purpose of releasing energy, sharing, arriving at any conclusions, coping with the loss, and questioning what causes the concerning behavior: the manifestations of the pain or fear that exists at the core of the problem. For her, guilt and betrayal weighed heavily on her conscious.
As we discussed her fears and hesitations about talking to others (particularly counselors or professionals), she unfolded the story that landed her in the hospital. She spoke about the pain of being betrayed by her most trusted support system. She spoke of desperation and shame about how the situation erupted out of her control. She spoke of isolation. Yet she didn’t know she would do anything differently, pitted against herself by her own understanding for those involved. Dying for justice.
All at once she exploded into a rage-induced sob, dropping to the floor by my feet. Droning wails spilled out, self-accepting humility. No holding back. She simply roared.
I caressed her back while she sat bowed against the floor in prayer pose to reassure her that it was okay to exist exactly as she was in that moment. But my heart crumbled for my little sister. Her cries of pain stung what I could imagine being my very soul. The tension aroused by my protective urges melted away to sheer empathy. I felt the betrayal and guilt familiarized by my own experiences and joined in her grief. It was a beautiful exchange. At long last, I had met my little sister.

Being Bipolar

Bipolar is one of those psychological disorders (by ‘one’ I mean all of them) that is often misunderstood. Here is my attempt at explaining it based on my current mixed manic-depressive mood. Subject (and almost guaranteed) to change (see actual definition of bipolar).
Bipolar is an experience where each manic phase comes with an epiphany that is followed by a low that makes you realize how dumb your epiphany was. Wash, rince, repeat. Then years of diary entries later testify that you’ve rediscovered the same answers to the same problems countless times throughout your life. Like 50 first dates, except in this case you don’t get to forget the terrible thing that happened, you repeat it at every crossroad, doomed to forever re-experience the same cyclical torture. Like marriage. Yeah. Being bipolar is sort of like being in a bad marriage. Without the sex. Apparently you can take pills for that too. Sex I mean.