Read Online Cunt by Betty Dodson Inga Muscio - Free Book Online
Authors: Betty Dodson Inga Muscio
Ads: Link
for which we ladies
fight tooth and nail: the choice to get my insides ruthlessly sucked by some inhuman
shitpile, not invented by my foremothers, but by someone who would never, ever in
a million years have that tube jammed up his dickhole and turned on full blast, slurping
everything in its path.
Abortion #2 took place in a clinic that was under so much political pressure, I wasn’t
even allowed to recuperate. Twenty minutes after the vacuum cleaner was out of my
body, I was dressed and walking home.
Felt like a piece of shit.
On one of Olympia’s main thoroughfares is an abortion clinic. I passed it every day
on my way to and from school. Almost always, there were old women, young girls and
duck hunters standing on the corner outside the clinic, holding signs in their hands
showing you pictures of a dead fetuses with some words underneath to the effect that
this may have been the next president of the United States of America.
Whenever I saw those people out there, especially the young girls, I’d see myself
yanking the bus cord—in all probability, snapping it in two—vaulting off the bus,
crossing the street and morphing into a walking killing machine, kicking in faces,
stomping on hands. There were times when I gripped my wrist so I wouldn’t yank that
cord.
At this point in my life, I’d begun to study different kinds of medicines and healing
methods. One thing I learned in college was that knowledge helps me transcend anger.
Upon examining my desire to physically assault individuals whose convictions were
in direct opposition to mine, I delved into histories and applications of medicines
far and wide. At the same time, I was hanging around with a group of women who were
asking a lot of compelling questions about our reproductive systems. We found many
of the readily available answers to be thoroughly unsatisfactory, and started discovering
our own.
In this research, we found one constant: healing starts from within. It appeared to
be some kind of law. No, more than a law. Is breathing a law? Is waking up every morning
a law? If so, maybe the notion of healing coming from within is a law as well.
I had never been comfortable with the idea that healing comes from the physician or
his bag of tricks, because I learned years before, when I had my own health challenge
with polio that healing has only one source. The doctor can aid the body by removing
foreign particles, injecting chemicals, setting and realigning bones, but that does
not mean the body will heal. In fact, I am certain, there has never been a doctor
anywhere, at any time, in any country, at any period in history who ever healed anything.
Each person’s healer is within. The doctor is at best one who has recognized an individual
talent, developed it and is privileged enough to be able to serve the community by
doing what he does best and loves doing. (Morgan, 1991, 91)
This concept is completely alien, even deviant, in our culture.
In this society, we look to the outside for just about everything: love, entertainment,
well-being, self-worth and health. We stare into the TV set instead of speaking of
our own dreams, wait for a vacation instead of appreciating each day, watch the clock
rather than listen to our hearts. Every livelong day we are bombarded with realities
from the outside world, seemingly nonstop. Phones, car alarms, pills, coffee, beepers,
ads, radios, elevator music, fax machines, gunshots, bright lights, fast cars, airplanes
overhead, computer screens, sirens, alcohol, newspapers. One hardly has the opportunity
to look inside for love and peace and other nice things like that.
Western medicine, that smelly, deaf dog who farts across the house and that we just
don’t have the heart to put out of its misery, is based on a law opposed to the one
the rest of the universe seems to go by, namely: Healing Has Nothing to Do with You,
Just Follow the
fight tooth and nail: the choice to get my insides ruthlessly sucked by some inhuman
shitpile, not invented by my foremothers, but by someone who would never, ever in
a million years have that tube jammed up his dickhole and turned on full blast, slurping
everything in its path.
Abortion #2 took place in a clinic that was under so much political pressure, I wasn’t
even allowed to recuperate. Twenty minutes after the vacuum cleaner was out of my
body, I was dressed and walking home.
Felt like a piece of shit.
On one of Olympia’s main thoroughfares is an abortion clinic. I passed it every day
on my way to and from school. Almost always, there were old women, young girls and
duck hunters standing on the corner outside the clinic, holding signs in their hands
showing you pictures of a dead fetuses with some words underneath to the effect that
this may have been the next president of the United States of America.
Whenever I saw those people out there, especially the young girls, I’d see myself
yanking the bus cord—in all probability, snapping it in two—vaulting off the bus,
crossing the street and morphing into a walking killing machine, kicking in faces,
stomping on hands. There were times when I gripped my wrist so I wouldn’t yank that
cord.
At this point in my life, I’d begun to study different kinds of medicines and healing
methods. One thing I learned in college was that knowledge helps me transcend anger.
Upon examining my desire to physically assault individuals whose convictions were
in direct opposition to mine, I delved into histories and applications of medicines
far and wide. At the same time, I was hanging around with a group of women who were
asking a lot of compelling questions about our reproductive systems. We found many
of the readily available answers to be thoroughly unsatisfactory, and started discovering
our own.
In this research, we found one constant: healing starts from within. It appeared to
be some kind of law. No, more than a law. Is breathing a law? Is waking up every morning
a law? If so, maybe the notion of healing coming from within is a law as well.
I had never been comfortable with the idea that healing comes from the physician or
his bag of tricks, because I learned years before, when I had my own health challenge
with polio that healing has only one source. The doctor can aid the body by removing
foreign particles, injecting chemicals, setting and realigning bones, but that does
not mean the body will heal. In fact, I am certain, there has never been a doctor
anywhere, at any time, in any country, at any period in history who ever healed anything.
Each person’s healer is within. The doctor is at best one who has recognized an individual
talent, developed it and is privileged enough to be able to serve the community by
doing what he does best and loves doing. (Morgan, 1991, 91)
This concept is completely alien, even deviant, in our culture.
In this society, we look to the outside for just about everything: love, entertainment,
well-being, self-worth and health. We stare into the TV set instead of speaking of
our own dreams, wait for a vacation instead of appreciating each day, watch the clock
rather than listen to our hearts. Every livelong day we are bombarded with realities
from the outside world, seemingly nonstop. Phones, car alarms, pills, coffee, beepers,
ads, radios, elevator music, fax machines, gunshots, bright lights, fast cars, airplanes
overhead, computer screens, sirens, alcohol, newspapers. One hardly has the opportunity
to look inside for love and peace and other nice things like that.
Western medicine, that smelly, deaf dog who farts across the house and that we just
don’t have the heart to put out of its misery, is based on a law opposed to the one
the rest of the universe seems to go by, namely: Healing Has Nothing to Do with You,
Just Follow the
Similar Books
