A Postcard from The Single (Mom) Life

Megan DaGata

I am not having a good day; it has been trying to say the least. There is still not much to do at work, so its always quiet. Which is a problem for someone whose mind is always on...I am constantly left to my thoughts. It makes the days long.

The nights are so short though, and I don't get to think. I get home at 7 pm, and I try to get the kids in bed by 9. I am not happy. I only get to spend 2 hours a day with my boys. No sir I'm not happy! A mother's place is raising her kids, and I don't get to do that. Right now I am paying someone more than half my salary to raise them, and get frustrated when things aren't done the way that I would do them. I say something and it's like I haven't said a word, which only pisses me off more.

Maintaining a Sex Life While Co-Sleeping

Bess Bedell

Bess Bedell has agreed to share her experiences maintaining a sex life while co-sleeping (children sleeping in the same bed as the parent/s).  She's shared her experience and offers advice to fellow parents interested in the topic. 

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Being a parent is hard. Being a parent and having a gratifying sexual life can sometimes feel impossible. And when you throw a baby in the middle of the bed, smack center between you and your spouse - sex can become a rare commodity. The number one concern of many parents is: If they co-sleep with their baby, how will they ever have sex? As a co-sleeping mom who has had 1-2 children in the bed with her every night for the past 2 ½ years, I can help you with that question.

*I* Was "The Other Woman"

For almost two years, I was "The Other Woman."  The man was divine in my eyes.  The wife was a crazy person, and theirs was a loveless marriage.  He stayed married to her because, where he came from, divorced fathers weren't fathers, and come hell or high water, he was going to be a good father. Even if that meant staying in a marriage where neither person had a single word to say to one another outside of "Excuse me" or "Did you pay the electricity bill?"

We began as friends, and I didn't even know he was married until after I was hooked -- He didn't wear a ring, and spoke only of his children (i.e. not his wife, ever), so I assumed that there simply wasn't a wife.  It wasn't until a third party told me that he was married that the concept crossed my mind.  I didn't believe it, but  I asked him anyway.

The look of surprise on his face told me in that instant that he assumed I knew.  By that time it was too late . . . Even after the hours of talking that followed, in which he told me the details of his loveless marriage, I couldn't walk away knowing that he wanted me to stay.

In hindsight, I don't think he'd ever fallen in love before he fell in love with me.  A confident and self-sufficient person, he didn't understand what loneliness was until he was separated from me while on a trip.  Our affair was inflammatory, and our conviction epic.

My Adoption Experience



Joan M Bunney

Giving up my newborn  baby boy for adoption  in 1967 was the single most impacting event of my life. As unwed mothers in that era, we wore the proverbial scarlet letter on our sleeves. We were marked, judged harshly by everyone -- society, our family, even some of our friends.

For a period of 32 years until my son and I were reunited, every imaginable lesson,  positive and negative,  made me who I am today.  I wrestled with weight gains, depression, and most of all a devastating guilt for what I'd done.

Last year, at 64, I wrote a book to bare my soul and share what I've learned and applied with other women. Shattering the dogma and changing perceptions is my passion.  As women we share a common bond and the time has come for us to step into our magnificence . Life is just beginning at 65. Oh Joy!

~Joan M Bunney
  JoanBunney@hotmail.com
  Sexy in Your 60s

Indian Woman, 70, Gives Birth via IVF

The Washington Post brings us news of a growing trend in India: Elderly women birthing IVF children.  One woman, Rajo Devi Lohan, recently gave birth through IVF in her 70s.

In the past 18 months, the doctors at this [single rural] clinic have helped 100 women older than 50 become pregnant. About 60 were able to carry those pregnancies to full term. Some of the women received eggs donated by younger relatives. Their husbands' sperm was used to fertilize the eggs in a lab, and the embryos were then inserted into the women's wombs.

Rajo Devi Lohan, 72, and Naveen, 18 months
(photo by Emily Wax/the Washington Post)

Not everyone is excited about the IVF trend. 

With 1.2 billion people, India is still growing rapidly, and there are few efforts to control population growth, in sharp contrast to China's one-child policy. Some planning advocates argue that India's population is stalling development, adding to unemployment, and overwhelming roads, schools, water supplies and other basic infrastructure needs.

Cultural components, though, will likely make curbing population growth difficult.

"The women come to us and say, 'Even if I die, at least I won't face the stigma of being barren,' " said Anurag Bishnoi, the center's lead IVF specialist. "These women are like soldiers:, They are on the front lines for their family, their country. They may die, but their family and country will live."

Not only is childbearing itself important, the pressure to have a male heir is crushing.

More than 40 years ago, Rohtash gave birth to five daughters and one son. But seven years ago, her son died in a car accident. Now she wants to try again for a male heir, a powerful cultural preference in India that many population experts say contributes to women having babies until a son is born.  "The risk for a son and a balanced family is my destiny," she said. "I consider this place to be God."

The cultural imperatives are enabled by the relatively low cost of IVF procedures.

One IVF attempt at this clinic costs about $2,500, while in the United States it can run up to $15,000. Although the fees in India are high for middle-class families earning a typical $15,000 to $20,000 a year, they are often able to get money from relatives or a bank loan. Rohtash's family of farmers did both.  

I honestly can't imagine living in such a culture. 

~Riot.Jane

The Taker of Innocence

She stepped on the grass, still moist from the morning dew, the dried leaves beneath her feet made small crunching noises with every step she took. The sky was a majestic blue with a few white clouds and the sun peeking through offering the beginning of the heat that would permeate throughout the day. Dressed in a white and yellow dress, ruffled socks and black patent leather shoes, her hair swept up in two ponytails tied with ribbon, she was the vision of innocence. Led by the hand they continued their walk to their secret place, a place where he would sit her down and tell her how special she was.

His name was Sam and he was her uncle, everyone’s favorite son, brother and best friend. Sam had a charisma about him that melted everyone he met, he could do no wrong and his touch was truly recognized as golden. Nieces and nephews, brothers and sisters, they all adored him and always poured the accolades his way. A sharp dressed man, a connoisseur of all that could be considered the finest, a collector, a giver and a taker.

He took her innocence, that little girl with the ponytails and the wide eyes. Her desire to be loved and shown affection was her downfall. He preyed upon her, showered her with little tokens; he was the big bear of men that always was ready for a hug, a tussling around on the floor, a piggy back ride, a game of hide and seek.

Her mind blocked the beginning of time; she had no recollection as to when it started, but the memory of being under the covers with him as they lay on the sofa in a seemingly adult pose. Like spoons in a drawer they laid side by side, he stroked her hair, her shoulder; slowly his hands moved under the covers and found their way between her legs.

At the age of five she had the knowledge that what was happening was wrong, it felt good, the touching, the closeness, the sweet nothings whispered in her ears. She was beautiful, she was special, she was his favorite, he knew what he was doing, was she his first victim, was someone else before her in the same spot as she was, hearing the same words, being told she was the one, the special one.

As they continued to lay there under the covers they were interrupted, her look at the intruder was one with a plea of help from her round big tear filled eyes. He was commanded to stop and let the girl out from under the covers. SHE knew what HE was doing. SHE knew. And just like that she was rescued from HIM.

A couple of years passed, a call in the middle of the night came with the news that Sam had been killed. That little girl felt a sense of sadness, but beneath that sadness came another feeling, a much stronger feeling. Relief, relief that he would no longer be able to touch her, touch anyone else. That little girl knew she wasn’t the only one; there were other little girls younger than her. She often wondered who else he touched in that special and loving way. She would never know, that was their untold secret.

Her joy at his death cost her dearly, a price she gladly paid with tears. When she was unable or unwilling to show the proper emotion of sadness at his passing she was punished. That big leather strap came at her, not once, not twice, but many times, each time it came in contact with her bottom she was commanded to shed tears, the tears finally came, but not because she was sad. The tears came from the pain being inflicted upon her. And just like that her walk along life as a victim would begin.

~Ruby Cantu

Loss of Life

This is the first part of a series of articles about my life as a survivor of domestic abuse. I want to share my story but writing it takes a lot out of me emotionally. Therefore I will be submiting in segements. My hope is to show the stages in which my abuse happened so that even one person out there can understand how and why this happens to women. The stigma that the abused suffer is just another blow.

Black-haired Jane

When you smiled at me that night with that fox's face I believed that you were the man who truly understood me. I believed you were a man. It was your wit and easy smile that lured me in. All these years later people still ask what I saw in you and its taken me all of these years to sort through the dust and remember that. I was very young and I was searching for something I didn't even know I sought. I wanted to belong, to be secure, to be loved by a man who didn't want my body or my sex or just to be seen with me. I was attracted to the fact that you were confident in yourself and that you didn't seem to notice my breasts or my youth. You spoke to my eyes and seemed to appreciate the intellect that I prided so much in myself. The people around you seemed to appreciate you and I never thought that just under that calm facade lay a beast, waiting to strike...

When I married you it seemed no one was happy. It made it easy for you to villanize the people closest to me and push them from my life. They didn't understand our love and if they didn't love you, I shouldn't love them. The ones who loved me most and tried the hardest to make me see the truth were the first on the chopping block. I easily fell in line with your plans to dominate my life. I believed myself to be a strong and worldly woman, I could never do something I didn't want to do. You decided we would move away from the bad influences in my life and I was the farthest I had ever been away from my family and friends. My loved ones were out of the picture, all that was left was the two of us. My ideals were slowly being stripped away, my deepest most heartfelt beliefs; belittled, crushed, maimed and eventually, lost. As the months passed you took many things from me, even the little things were deeply felt but I was so lost and scared and now isolated from the people who cared for me I simply gave in. You burned my "inapropriate" clothes, threw out my makeup; you took my books. I was forbidden to read my writings to anyone but you.

I became pregnant.

Children added a whole new demention to my loneliness. I was so broken that being a mother to them was something I was incapable of. Knowing I was a bad mother further pushed me into depression. You had become distant and cold and your rules were absolute. Visits with my family were limited when I was able to go. I had a set time to see them and when I was there I was so anxious and worried about going over my time my stomach would do backflips and I would always leave early. They worried about me because they could see the damage this life was doing to me. I was pale with dark circles under my eyes, my hair was falling out, I was severely overweight, unkempt, I had unexplained bleeding episodes, blood from my nose, blood up from my throat. I was slowly dying and the instinct to save myself had long since abandoned me.

Eventually there was pushing when things didn't go your way. You would roughly shove me in arguments. Into walls, over furniture, onto the floor, once down a flight of stairs. "It's not like I hit you". But, you did, didn't you? Day after day, week after week, year after year, I became a worthless nothing. I was stupid, naive, ugly, a bad mother, a worthless wife. I was crumbling.

...

Eventually, I got away. That's a story for another time but know there is always hope.

People often say things of abused woman like "She deserves that treatement if she chooses to stay". I hope to show them that NO ONE chooses a life like mine was. Abuse is almost always a systematic breakdown of one's true self. Your self-preservation instincts are ground down, your self-confidence is stripped away. You are left in a place you could never had imagined you would be. No one meets a man and thinks to themself "Wow, he's completely insane and hateful towards me. It's love!"

Woman "Not Guilty" should Son Rise from the Dead

Baltimore, MD -- A former religious cult member has agreed to an unheard-of plea deal: She has plead guilty and will testify against four others in the starving death of her 1-year-old son but reserves the right to rescind her plea if her son rises from the dead.

Ria Ramkissoon, 22, a native of Trinidad, is the prime witness in the Maryland's case against Queen Antoinette, 40, who purportedly lead the now-disbanded One Mind Ministries religious cult out of a Baltimore row house. Prosecutors allege that Antoinette instructed cult members, including Ramkissoon, to deny the child, Javon Thompson, food and water as punishment for the child not saying "Amen."

Prosecutors allege that Antoinette, believing that Ramkissoon would be weak and feed the child or give him water, instructed Javon be given to another cult member who followed her food-and-water-denial instructions. After the eventual death of the child, the cult members prayed over the body and the mother danced around it. When that didn't succeed in raising the child from the dead, two cult members purchased a wheeled suitcase in which to carry the child. Ramkissoon's attorney said that the cult believed that the child could be raised from the dead at a later date if they could carry the body with them. The cult moved to Philadelphia and asked a men they'd befriended there to store their luggage, and police found the body in a shed behind the man's house.

Javon's father, Robert Thompson, did not attend the plea agreement hearing due to illness, and is reported to have been incarcerated at the time of Javon's birth. Court documents indicate that Ramkissoon joined One Mind Ministries after Javon's birth. Ramkissoon left her parent's home with her 7-month old son, joined the cult, and moved into their house at the age of 19 because (according to her attorney) she didn't want to work or go to school but wanted to raise her son full-time, in Christianity, and the cult offered her this opportunity. At the time that Ramkissoon joined the cult, it had approximately a dozen members. Reportedly within the cult, cell 'phones and discussion of one's family were banned and marijuana smoking was common.

Prosecutors are charging Antoinette and three other cult members with child abuse resulting in death and first-degree murder. In a March 30 hearing, Ramkissoon plead guilty to the first charge (abuse/death) and agreed that she will testify truthfully against the other four. Should this occur, the prosecutor's office will recommend sentencing comprised of release from jail, a suspended 20-year sentence, five years probation requiring mental health assistance (including "deprogramming" treatment with a specialist in cult behavior). Sentencing is currently sheduled for August 11.

A prosecutor's office spokeswoman said that, regarding the child rising from the dead, the fine print of the plea agreement states, "This would need to be a Jesus-like resurrection. It cannot be a reincarnation in another object or animal."

"She [Ramkissoon] certainly recognizes that her omissions caused the death of her son," Ramkissoon's attorney said. "To this day, she believes it was God's will and he will be resurrected and this will all take care of itself. She realizes if she's wrong, then everyone has to take responsibility ... and if she's wrong, then she's a failure as a mother and the worst thing imaginable has happened. I don't think that, mentally, she's ready to accept that."

Ramkissoon's attorney also said,

"On one level, she certainly is competent to stand trial, because she does recognize that as far as her legal entanglements are concerned, this is a grand-slam resolution for her. On the other hand, she's still brainwashed, she's still delusional as far as the teachings and influence of this cult, and she certainly is going to benefit with professional help and deprogramming."

The current disposition of the four other charged cult members: (Leader) Antoinette, Trevia Williams, and Marcus Cobbs are currently incarcerated without bail. Steven Bynum is, for some reason, free on his own recognizance.

Source documents available for review.

~Riot.Jane

Immigration Group: Hospital/DHS "Stealing Immigrants' Babies"

On November 16, 2008, Ruby Cruz was born to Mexican Cirila Baltazar Cruz in a Pascagoula, MI hospital. Two days later, hospital staff filed a report with the state Department of Human Services regarding the Cruz child's situation.

Included in the hospital report to DHS are allegations of neglect supported by the mother's exchanging sex for housing, the mother's inability to communicate in any laguage besides the indigenous language Chantino, the mother's illegal immigrant status, and mother's plans for giving the child up for adoption.

"After thoroughly investigating Ms. Cruz's situation, we are very confident that our employees acted appropriately in all phases of her care," said a Singing River Hospital spokeman. "We reported her case . . . as we are bound to do by law, and DHS, after its own investigation, made the decision regarding Ms. Cruz and her baby."

Court records indicate that the legal charges of neglect include the tidbits that, due to her only language being Chantino, she "was unable to call for assistance for transportation to the hospital" in order to give birth, that "she has failed to learn the English language," and that this situation has "placed her unborn child in danger and will place the baby in danger in the future."

The Mississippi Immigrant Rights Alliance alleges that Singing River Hospital and the Mississippi DHS are "stealing immigrants' babies" by the hospital only providing a Spanish translator and then DHS charging the mother with neglect as a result of the hospital's error.

The Southern Poverty Law Center is assisting in the Cruz defense.

Additional reading.

~Riot.Jane

Mother in the Wild

This is a poem written by me several years ago. It details a year of experiences with my mother who was in the throws of a terrible addiction and living on the streets at the time. This was a difficult time for me as a daughter and as someone who very much loved and admired her. The poem is actually a difficult one for me to share with an audience but I feel that maybe someone, somewhere could read it and identify, either as myself, the daughter or other loved one or as the person addicted, needing love and help.

MellissaY

Mother in the Wild

You shake like a leaf in the dying Autumn orange and red and gold and I see your eyes wild looking everywhere for you savior. Save me. You say save me from the space in my mind in the dark because it’s so lost now. Daughter. Where did I put it? Hands like a child but the skin in shriveled and yellow and you bite your fingers where the nail used to be and you say “Where did the blood come from?” Brush your hair when I come to see to you and you can’t help the smell of sweat and dirt and have you showered these past days? Mother. Pacing the parking lot. You pace the dirt and the streets and the fix is always a breath away. It comes from the man on the corner or the woman in the house that falls down, falls down, but always it stays up. Cursed house in the neighborhood. Chilly breezes of the virgin winter and you shiver in shorts but you don’t notice the cold. Do you need a jacket and you sheepish and confidant you say, “I would sell it.” Looking for the fix again in the night air, you prowl in the alleys and the motel rooms and the eyes are always watching you. You say they track you to the store and the toilet and the corner across the street. Sweet breath of spring and you sit on the curb, convulsing from drugs in you and it’s taken over now. Moments like spasms and no conversation. Just slur and yell and awful faces and I say “Where are you?” “In Hell”, you say in this high pitched sing song scream. So come home…Dirty shoes and lifeless socks on your skinny legs and feet. Picking at scabs and chewing on some invisible thing. I wonder…what does it taste like? Salty summer sweat and you hang around the cars in this parking lot, this chill is on you like a natural movement. Like the graceful way you used to smoke your Dunhills or the curl of your pinky finger as you sipped champagne and I say “Do you need anything?” “Give me money and I’ll feel so much better”. Kicking up dirt as you walk away this raspy voice from your throat and I know there is no saving you for now. Maybe in the Autumn I can come again.

The Storm

My Storm
By: Megan DaGata

The last time the hint of the storm brewed, I buried my heart in the clouds,
My mind in the waters, and my soul in the thunderous noise.
I became one with the storm and one with the madness.
My mind ceases to hear any thought and closes to all emotion.
Like a late season hurricane it builds and builds, and lasts for months.
Building from the hint of suggestion and follows the ebb and flow of my emotions.

The heat of my rage builds level upon level of insanity
Until one day without warning - the grief, pain, and fury crash upon me
As if it were a cat 5 hurricane meeting the shore.

The pain of losing those we love is not something that we consider,
Our parents are young and our friends are healthy,
We don't think of the storm that could be building.
Friday night I received a phone call that made time stand still for the next three days...

I am not sure if the clock has started up yet.
But I felt my hurricane start to build.
In the ten minutes between ordering my first drink at the club and before it was consumed
I received a call from my brother- in- law,
He informed me that my father was in a car accident and that he had not regained consciousness.
Crash - Bang - Thunder and lightening...
The cacophony of noise that echoed in my ears was deafening.
I heard nothing else.
I picked up the phone with shaking hands and called my mother.
"What happened? I will be there in three hours."

I just know I need to get there. Hurry...drive as carefully as possible, but hurry."
"I will be there in three hours...”
The storm was building as I walked out the doors and down the steps.
The fury and rage were instantaneous. Who would do this?
How could they do it?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Why is God sending the men I love to such tragedy?!

Time literally seemed to speed up.
We were at my apartment minutes later.
I grabbed my things and threw them into my car.
I didn't know what I would need, this storm would last for days, but what do you bring?!
As fast as I could… don't remember a turn or stop light.

We drove from Houston to Austin in just under 3 hours,
Arriving at the hospital at 2 am.
As we drove up, we saw my dad's best friend, Mike.
He explained to us what the doctors had said to the family..…
That my father had never regained brain function.
I felt like I was in the eye of the storm, pulling and tugging in every direction.
I looked in the window at my sister, she hadn't heard it all, but she had heard enough.
She was bracing herself for what she was about to have to endure.
The walk down the long corridor to the ICU, was the longest walk of my life.

I saw an old woman walking down the hall.
Her shoulders were hunched forward, her gray hair limp on her down-turned head.
She walked so slowly, that I not in a million years would I have seen her as my mother.
When she turned to us,
I knew there was nothing that could be done.

But how could I make next 30 feet?
My mom reached for my dad's hand, and said,
"Sweetie, the girls are here.
They have come to see you, so you have to wake up.”

My heart broke, my body broke,
My skin pulled itself from my body and left me bleeding.
The hurricane had reached cat 5 strength but it was still a thousand miles away.
We all stood in silence as we heard the machines beep and the respirator breath for our father.
He had at least twenty different IV bags hanging, trying to rouse him back to life.
One was to raise his blood pressure and another to keep it low.
Bags of blood - to replenish his dwindling supply.

I stood speechless for a few minutes, staring into his vacant eyes.
The eyes of the kindest man I had known since my grandfather's death.
His eyes were now empty.
Those empty eyes still haunt me.

We sat and waited.
We talked a little, but mostly we cried.
I laid down on the floor,
My head on the bag, which contained his torn clothes.
I wept.


The storm of my soul was crashing onto the shore.
Seeing him lying there and then seeing my mother so fragile.
The next 40 hours passed in a storm of fury.
Being thrown to and fro, hoping for the activity to return to his brain,
By the time the papers were signed for the organ donation,
The whole family was present, and we were trying to figure out how to get home.

The eye of my storm hit.
I have been calm ever since.
I haven't cried,
I haven't felt.
My skin is still dangling removed from my body.
The storm is still looming over head.
The rage is still following the ebb and the flow.
Someday the eye of the storm will pass and I will feel again.
I will be able to cry with the remorse I feel in my soul.
I will be able to reach out and hug the ones I love again.
Until then, I will sit and I will write, and I will pray to God,
That the storm which still looms, will soon pass.