Read Online Cunt by Betty Dodson Inga Muscio - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Betty Dodson Inga Muscio
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Directions on the Label.
In America, we don’t (nor are we encouraged to) look inside ourselves for healing,
finding truths or answers. If you want to know something, you find out what the Person
in Charge of This Area says. The weather is not to be discerned by looking at the
sky, the mountains in the distance, or by listening to the song of the wind. You will
find it in the Report of the Meteorologist. And likewise, if you are pregnant and
don’t want to be, you don’t look to yourself and the immediate, personal resources
in your immediate, personal world, you pay a visit to the Abortionist, who will subsequently
predict the climate in your body for two weeks, guaranteed.
And so, la dee dah, once, twice, three times a cuntlovin’ lady, I got pregnant again.
It was the same boyfriend as the other two times only now we were breaking up. It
was the fuckedest one of all because I didn’t want to be with this man and I shouldn’t
have fucked him, but it was his birthday and he was obviously fun to romp with and
blah dee blah blah blah. No force on earth could make me feel like I wanted this child.
Furthermore, I promptly decided there was to be no grotesque waltz with that abhorrent
machine.
So, I started talking to my friends about abortion alternatives. I lived in a small
town with a high population of like-minded cuntlovin’ women, so that was one thing
in my favor right there. Against me was the fact that I was eight weeks along, which
is too advanced for an organically induced miscarriage. According to naturopathic
physician Loraine Harkin, six weeks of pregnancy is the outside limit for herbal abortions.
Since they are effective about 60 percent of the time, she says it’s important to
schedule a surgical abortion since a fetus is most sensitive to the harmful effects
of herbs and drugs in the first eight weeks of pregnancy. I made an appointment at
the women’s clinic (the one with the protesters, who’d since moved on to haunt other
neighborhoods) as a back-up in case my way didn’t work out.
My dear friend Judy, the masseuse and scientist, was my biggest resource. She and
Panacea found some herbal tea recipes a Boston anarchist-feminist group printed. (I
tried to contact this group, but they had evidently disbanded.)
Judy came to my house almost every night and massaged my uterus where you are not
supposed to massage pregnant women who want to keep their babies. She also did reflexology
by rubbing either side of my Achilles tendon on both feet.
I knew a naturopath in Olympia, who was one of my sources of inspiration in learning
about healing from within. She taught me this thing called “imaging.” It may sound
terribly New Age, but through imaging, I got rid of this weird bump I’d had on my
labia all my life. Since imaging goes on in your own head, I can’t tell you how to do it specifically.
The basic idea is: Every night, when you are falling asleep, graphically imagine the part of your body that’s
giving you problems changing. For the bump on my labia, I imagined all this beautiful soft flesh growing over and
absorbing the bump. When I was pregnant, I vividly, consistently (I do believe these are the operative words when imaging) imagined the walls of my
uterus gently shedding.
Eight days passed from when I started inducing miscarriage to the morning my embryo
plopped onto the bathroom floor.
Judy’s daily massages and my continuous imaging of the lining of my uterus shedding
away at every moment of my days, I feel, were the most crucial elements of my success story. I was absolutely focused on miscarrying and I felt Judy’s gentle, yet firm massages prodding things along quite nicely.
It was an incantation.
Me and my women friends did magic.
Esther’s love made magic. She supported me and stayed with me every day. Bridget’s
thoughtfulness made magic. She brought me flowers. Possibly most magical was the
In America, we don’t (nor are we encouraged to) look inside ourselves for healing,
finding truths or answers. If you want to know something, you find out what the Person
in Charge of This Area says. The weather is not to be discerned by looking at the
sky, the mountains in the distance, or by listening to the song of the wind. You will
find it in the Report of the Meteorologist. And likewise, if you are pregnant and
don’t want to be, you don’t look to yourself and the immediate, personal resources
in your immediate, personal world, you pay a visit to the Abortionist, who will subsequently
predict the climate in your body for two weeks, guaranteed.
And so, la dee dah, once, twice, three times a cuntlovin’ lady, I got pregnant again.
It was the same boyfriend as the other two times only now we were breaking up. It
was the fuckedest one of all because I didn’t want to be with this man and I shouldn’t
have fucked him, but it was his birthday and he was obviously fun to romp with and
blah dee blah blah blah. No force on earth could make me feel like I wanted this child.
Furthermore, I promptly decided there was to be no grotesque waltz with that abhorrent
machine.
So, I started talking to my friends about abortion alternatives. I lived in a small
town with a high population of like-minded cuntlovin’ women, so that was one thing
in my favor right there. Against me was the fact that I was eight weeks along, which
is too advanced for an organically induced miscarriage. According to naturopathic
physician Loraine Harkin, six weeks of pregnancy is the outside limit for herbal abortions.
Since they are effective about 60 percent of the time, she says it’s important to
schedule a surgical abortion since a fetus is most sensitive to the harmful effects
of herbs and drugs in the first eight weeks of pregnancy. I made an appointment at
the women’s clinic (the one with the protesters, who’d since moved on to haunt other
neighborhoods) as a back-up in case my way didn’t work out.
My dear friend Judy, the masseuse and scientist, was my biggest resource. She and
Panacea found some herbal tea recipes a Boston anarchist-feminist group printed. (I
tried to contact this group, but they had evidently disbanded.)
Judy came to my house almost every night and massaged my uterus where you are not
supposed to massage pregnant women who want to keep their babies. She also did reflexology
by rubbing either side of my Achilles tendon on both feet.
I knew a naturopath in Olympia, who was one of my sources of inspiration in learning
about healing from within. She taught me this thing called “imaging.” It may sound
terribly New Age, but through imaging, I got rid of this weird bump I’d had on my
labia all my life. Since imaging goes on in your own head, I can’t tell you how to do it specifically.
The basic idea is: Every night, when you are falling asleep, graphically imagine the part of your body that’s
giving you problems changing. For the bump on my labia, I imagined all this beautiful soft flesh growing over and
absorbing the bump. When I was pregnant, I vividly, consistently (I do believe these are the operative words when imaging) imagined the walls of my
uterus gently shedding.
Eight days passed from when I started inducing miscarriage to the morning my embryo
plopped onto the bathroom floor.
Judy’s daily massages and my continuous imaging of the lining of my uterus shedding
away at every moment of my days, I feel, were the most crucial elements of my success story. I was absolutely focused on miscarrying and I felt Judy’s gentle, yet firm massages prodding things along quite nicely.
It was an incantation.
Me and my women friends did magic.
Esther’s love made magic. She supported me and stayed with me every day. Bridget’s
thoughtfulness made magic. She brought me flowers. Possibly most magical was the
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