Dang, it’s been quite a while since I blogged. Not that anyone except my amazingly awesome sister Elizabeth will read this. But I guess I’m not writing this for anyone else.
I have Bipolar II — also referred to as Bipolar Depression. It’s really not fun, trust me. Four or five years ago I successfully got off all the medications and was doing really well. Lost a lot of weight, left the Mormon church, and ferociously defended my beliefs and passions against people (okay, a person) who thought, and still thinks, that there is one path to god and tried to get me to go back.
Since that time, we began divorce proceedings, I was having some money issues, and other assorted crap in my life. When the day came that I ran a hot bubble bath and soaked in the tub, only to find that I couldn’t even generate enough energy or will power or whatever it was to get myself out of the tub. I either called or texted my sister, don’t remember which, and she told me she was going to be at my house in 15 minutes.
I wouldn’t like my worst enemy to have to see me naked, so I got out of the tub, dressed, and listed to what would be several much-needed come to Jesus talks. I had to face it that my depression had become overpowering, and it was time to get back on medicine for the bipolar. The thing with bipolar depression is that you have to have more than just an anti-depressant. You also need some mood stabilizers, I think that’s what they are, and the medications work together to get me stable. I’m also on a metric fucktonne of other medications to help control my back and knee pain. And right now I have what I think is tendonitis in my left arm. It just keeps coming and coming. I’m a weeble. I’ve definitely been wobbly and fear that if things don’t change soon, I won’t be a weeble anymore. I’ll fall down and not get back up.
I said all that to say this: one of the symptoms of bipolar depression is that you get fixated on something, and that’s all you do, until one day you get up and don’t care about that anymore, and you’ve got another object of obsession. I have ADD in addition to being bipolar, so I usually juggle 2 or 3 obsessions, and if you don’t think that’s nuts, try it and see.
Lately one of my obsessions is Les Miserables. I’ve been listening to various cast recordings on repeat at work, and must look quite the idiot, sitting there with my earbuds on and working away, whilst simultaneously silently singing, “2! 4! 6! 0! 1!” I’ve also watched the unsatisfactory movie a few times, and yes it’s on right now, and I was delighted to find out that Les Miz is on the Bass 2018-19 season, and I will be there.
Watching the scenes and listening to the scenes where Fantine is forced into prostitution after being kicked out of Valjean’s factory infuriated me. I hate how the men take it as their prerogative to fuck anyone they want to, but the person they fuck may as well be a blow-up doll. The women are not allowed to say no to someone they don’t want to have sex with. When Fantine defended herself against an obnoxious wealthy man, she ended up scratching his face, he lied to Javert about what happened, and if Valjean hadn’t been at the right place at the right time, Fantine would have died in prison before her trial, and if not there, she’d have died afterward.
I really, REALLY hate this double standard. Men are not vilified for frequenting prostitutes nearly as much as the prostitutes. That’s wrong. If it is acceptable for a man (or woman, of course) to hire a prostitute, then the prostitute shouldn’t be treated like scum. So many prostitutes become addicted to drugs as a way to live with the conditions they’re forced to live in. Violence against prostitutes is incredible. Think about Gary Ridgeway and how many prostitutes he murdered. Of the 90 that he is presumed to have killed, many were prostitutes and sex workers. And despite what some really horrible people have said, a prostitute can be raped. It’s rape. It’s not “theft of services,” which isn’t even a funny joke.
Why not make prostitution legal? Take it out of the dark corners of the world. Recognize that people who are prostitutes are humans and deserve basic human rights. Give them health insurance, regular screening for STD’s and condoms and other protection against pregnancy and disease. Take the stigma away from it. Because let’s face it–prostitute isn’t called the world’s oldest profession for nothing.
This is already longer than I meant it to be. So I’ll breeze through the rest of this.
Javert is such a tragic character because he looks through spectacles showing absolute black and absolute white. He’s determined to overcome the circumstances of his birth and tellingly reveals that he was born in a jail and comes from the gutter, just like Valjean. But he thinks that once a sinner, always a sinner. He refuses to even consider that people can change. When Valjean shows over and over and over how he has changed, all Javert sees is a convict who broke parole and must again be imprisoned, this time for the rest of his life. His rigidity leads him to reject Valjean’s gift of life and he killed himself. He could not bear the thought that 24601 was a good man and who did a lot of good. He loved Monsieur Le Mayor until he found out that he was indeed Valjean.
I detest the love at first sight between Cosette and Marius, because how can you love someone at first sight? You can be attracted, but love takes a little bit more time.
OK. It’s bedtime. Peace out. I’ll try to write more often. I’m actually working on a book, so it may be sporadic here. You know, like it wasn’t already horrifically sporadic.