Saying NO to bullying by birds

It began one day when A was drying clothes in the balcony and I was giving him moral support out there. We were discussing how some of our t-shirts and tops were missing, when suddenly he noticed my Anokhi (this detail is relevant, trust me) top on a tree nearby. Without the height advantage, I had to lean out of the balcony on my toes to see the tree and that’s when this eagle swooped and clawed my head before flying away.

I ran inside and kneeled in sharp pain and saw A right next to me also kneeled, but doubled in laughter. Given that this was an unprecedented situation (and A wasn’t done laughing), I called my mom to ask for a home remedy for eagle scratches.

Me: Amma, an eagle attacked me and I have scratches on my head! What to do?

Amma: What did you do to the eagle? (Notice how even in this situation, my mom gives the benefit of the doubt to an unknown bird.)

Me: I didn’t do anything! My Anokhi top is on a tree and I was just seeing how I could get it back.

Amma: Anokhi va? Isn’t that the shop where simple cotton tops cost some 1000 rupees?

Me: (Mumbling in silence)

Amma: Appo ve I told you, 1000 rupees for a simple cotton top is too much, now see what happened.

Clearly, I was getting nowhere with Amma so I googled for “what to do when attacked by an eagle”. The few results that came up referenced babies or other small animals and all of them suggested calling a local sheriff. By then I knew if I have to get somewhere with this, it has to be Quora where all the crazy is. I was right and found a group of falconers from Dubai who suggested I get a tetanus shot. A and I drove to the doctor while I was figuring out if I had intentionally ever wronged birds. The clinic was shut and I really didn’t want to explain over phone why I am asking for tetanus shot for an angry bird scratch. So we dropped the plan and went home.

A few weeks later, I was in Bombay at home when I noticed an eagle staring into my room. I immediately took a picture, drew a red circle around the clearly visible eagle (Times Now style) and sent it to D (the best friend) as well as A. I wasn’t delusional to believe that the same eagle followed me from Bangalore but this clearly this wasn’t normal. While A responded with his usual LOLs, D was the one who took me seriously and suggested I could be under surveillance by a national network of eagles.

Over the next few months, I saw eagles perched on different trees around my house. I began limiting my visits to the balcony and as any woman, who has been stalked before, wondered what I had done to cause this nonsense.

I visited Delhi last month and was having lunch outdoors with a friend when I noticed some eagles being unduly aggressive. I naively chalked it up to Delhi and let that be.

Two days ago, I went to soak some sun in my balcony (Bangalore is cold you guys!) and an eagle swooped real close with no respect for my personal space. I ran back in and shut the balcony door. This was all the pigeons needed to decide I was easy and they began to get comfortable in my balcony. That was it. Something in me snapped and I decided I was no longer putting up with bullying by pigeons or eagles.

I went screaming into the balcony with a newspaper in my hand and scared the living daylights out of the pigeons (and possibly the uncle in the opposite house who was standing on the terrace for a smoke).

This is it. I am now reclaiming my home, my balcony, my space. Enough is enough, birds. Your time’s up.

Advertisements
Tagged , ,

Not being treated like an adult because you are not a parent

One of the things that drives me bat shit crazy is how it is assumed that the husband and I just sit around on large wads of cash, doing absolutely nothing other than sipping on wine and watching Netflix. If you are suspicious about how an imaginary scenario can be so specific, it is simply because I basically strung together everything that has ever been asked about us simply because we don’t have kids.

It may come as a surprise, but we still have full-time jobs, bills to pay, taxes to worry about, medical appointments and other “fun” adulting things to do even though we don’t have to care for a tiny human. Whether it is at work or with extended family or with friends, there is always this awkward conversation where people try and guess what we do with all our “free” time or why do we need time off since we anyway don’t have “serious commitments”  like children.

The expectation to stay on longer at work, to show up for family stuff you didn’t sign up for, to cover for family friends is sometimes flattering, I mean who doesn’t like feeling wanted?! But the assumption that either of us are twiddling thumbs or don’t need to consciously carve out personal time is infuriating.

Statements like “You won’t understand, you do not have kids” or “you don’t know exhaustion until you have had sleepless nights with a baby” are simply exclusionary. Yes, I may not have the life experience of raising a human but neither am I sitting to watch paint dry. I am not taking away from the hard work that goes into parenting but when you look around you will see that everyone is trying. Working moms/dads, stay-at-home moms/dads, people with aging/ailing parents, people trying to pay off medical bills, people straddled with loans working different jobs, you name it. Some struggles are just less apparent than others.

I have read many articles such as this one or this one – some more kind than the others but most in a similar vein. Across many cultures where busyness is now a status symbol, it is hard for me to not see what you do as taking a moral high ground simply by being a parent. Feel free to vent and cry, I want to be there for you. But don’t pinch my cheeks and sigh when I offer help. Not advice – actual help. If someone is just offering you advice, feel free to kick them in their most vulnerable area.

Parenting is the most non-secret, secret club. Not being able to break into this club sucks big time and many times is bloody lonely. I love hearing about your kids, seeing their pictures – truly. I sympathize with your pregnancy struggles – really do. But I have been in enough situations where not being a member of this club keeps me out of so many conversations. I am not saying don’t have conversations on birth plans, how much/how little sleep your little one is getting or about switching from breastfeeding to formula or preschool selections or arranging for childcare. They are important to you, you are important to me therefore they are important to me. I am not blaming anyone at the slightest but for the sake of other women like me; I want to also say that many of us feel left out beyond a point. Also, it sucks when you chuckle or patronizingly smile when we share something from work or about struggling relationships.

All I want to say is that I may never understand what you are going through but I want to, and I am working on it. All I am asking for are two things:

1) Please return the favour and respect my life experiences as well

2) Allow and trust me to help you so that I can be/do better

#Endofrant

 

Tagged , ,

Damn, Daniel

When the husband and I went through the battery of tests before starting treatments, we both got all reports as normal. Wait, let me rephrase that – all my reports were normal and his were spectacular! It was like the difference between our CAT scores – I scored enough to make the cut while he was above and beyond.

Side note: I have a serious issue when it comes to diagnostic tests, not just the ones related to fertility but generally for any medical procedure.  I believe the best value for money is either if I get a positive result (even if it means I have some life-threatening disease) or if I score spectacularly well across the range column typically given in the right side of the report. This whole being mid-range makes me feel mediocre and I refuse to pay good money to put myself down.

But I digress. This isn’t about me.

So as you may (or may not) know, for the IUI procedure I need to prepare by taking drugs during the entire cycle and he needs to prepare by being ready to offer a sample in a container. He once had the unfortunate experience of providing the sample in a bathroom where he could hear the guttural sounds of pigeons through a broken window. To prevent any further scarring, for this cycle we decided we will be getting the sample from home. We were told to be there at the clinic at 5:30 pm sharp because Daniel will be present to help prepare the sample.  The instructions for being on time were repeated a few times because Daniel is incredibly busy and we should not be wasting his time.

Taking these instructions seriously, we left home at 4:45 pm. It was tense because we planned to leave at 4:30 but didn’t know how best to carry the container with the sample. After a lot of back and forth, we narrowed down on a Nalli bag and off we went. As soon as we sat in the car, there was the choice between lowering windows and putting the AC on. I was fine with the windows solution since I feel cold with air conditioning irrespective of the time of the year but he was worried about pollution and general humidity. Since they were his swimmers, he won this round – we put the AC on full blast and drove at the top speed possible on Kanakpura Road (10 kmph).  I sat perfectly still holding the Nalli bag in front of one of the air vents and regularly turning it for all-around cooling which apparently is important as per so many refrigerator ads.

We reached at 5:30 pm sharp but as luck would have it, Daniel was stuck in traffic. So we waited – me with my Kindle, him with his book and his swimmers holding onto their dear lives. Soon a motorbike pulled up and Daniel rushed in. His client engagement game was on point, because he asked for our names and shook our hands while apologizing for the delay. I felt reassured that someone this well-mannered would be handling what goes inside of me (okay… that came out wrong). Taking the container off our hands, he was off to do what he does best.

After about 30 minutes, he called the husband into the lab. By then I was wrecked with nervousness wondering if the AC killed the swimmers (they are originally from Chennai and it was cold!). Within a minute, the husband came out looking both gray and unable to suppress his laughter. Daniel followed and asked, “Ma’am would you…” and before he could finish, the husband jumped in screaming NO! Daniel looked surprised and said, “The sample is super ma’am! Very good quality!” The husband by then took Daniel’s hands, thanked him profusely and tried sending him off. But Daniel being Daniel, took his time to thank me, wished me luck and as he was leaving reminded me again how sir’s sample was super.

The husband walked in sheepishly and confessed, “He made me see them and wanted you there as well! For what it’s worth they are moving superfast!  But what idiots, putting in so much hard work without realizing that the eggs are sitting in the other room!”

We both started laughing incredibly hard (think snorting, spit bubbles and on the floor) and were immeasurably judged by the receptionist.

We both couldn’t figure out why Daniel had to invite us individually to view the sample. The husband was however glad because he felt we would have offended Daniel if I had broken into my laughter fit. Maybe he is right…though I would never do anything to hurt Daniel’s feelings. He truly must love his job to express that kind of enthusiasm and I will not be the cloud that rains on his parade.

Damn, Daniel (at the risk of being so 2016) you are now inextricably tied to our lives!

index

Tagged , ,

Temples, faith and dissonance

We were on this road trip with our parents to this temple called the Garbharakshambika literally translating into the Goddess who is the protector of the womb. It is located near Thanjavur in Tamil Nadu and believe it or not, is very easy to find using Google Maps.

Flashback: We have fielded many suggestions around applying some kumkum from some temple to wearing some thread on the left hand. A visit to this temple was something that came up over and over from relatives and it was something we never acted on. I was able to park it aside with the excuse of undergoing treatments and therefore not wanting to do road trips. But once we decided to stop all treatments, we lost that excuse and it was hard to ignore the plea of “there is no harm in trying”.  So off we went with a seething husband waiting to connect his fist to the face that made this suggestion in the first place.

What is strange about this temple is how new-age it is. There is a dedicated website (feel free to look it up. I have no intention of ruining my day with sponsored ads by posting the link here) explaining the history, instructions on how to consume the prasad and most importantly, how it can be couriered with blessing to U.S, UK, Canada etc. There are also testimonials but again all by NRIs as though domestic clientele is not worth bragging about.

As we were entering the temple, the lady selling flowers on the other side of the entrance, yelled out saying buying flowers as an offering is great for putrabhaagyam (fortune of having a son). That got the ball rolling.

Outside the administration room (where one goes to pay for the rituals and prasad) there is a board in Tamil explaining how there is no need to stop on-going medical treatments in order to make an offering at the temple. In fact, it strongly encouraged continuing with medical treatments.

Walk further in, there are cows grazing and women in three clear categories:

  • Category 1: Women here to pray to have a baby
  • Category 2: Heavily pregnant women who are praying for a safe birthing experience
  • Category 3: Women with babies who have come back to offer thanks

As everyone stands to look at the deity, the main priest offering prayers inside the sanctum summons the Category 1 women to line up with the ticket bought, a 5-rupee coin, a small bottle of nei/ghee (clarified butter) and a coconut. This isn’t some discrete announcement or a tacit understanding but more like an angry man bellowing at a room of about 50-60 people.

Then in groups of 4, we were asked to sit at the threshold of the sanctum and the priest took the stuff from our hands to rest it at the feet of the deity. Sitting there it is hard to not notice things like the palpable sadness in the women around me, the fact that our husbands are not expected to sit alongside us, that the priest is churlish to a point that makes me wonder if he is mad at us for not being able to do the one thing that is expected of us.

I was also incredibly conscious that I was basically sitting at a threshold of a temple asking for absolution. As a feminist, was I disrespecting the way paved for me by all the work done in the past? As an educated woman, did I fight hard enough against this? As an educator, am I no longer a role model for my students when I preach rationality? But what if this works, would I become a statistic on the website in the favour of this ritual? Was I going crazy thinking this would work?

The four of us were then asked to put some kolam on the threshold of the sanctum and place the 5-rupee coin on the design. Now the other three women drew a star with two intersecting triangles and in my head, I was like everyone obviously has seen/read the Da Vinci Code. But I cannot draw straight lines with a pencil let alone rice powder so I drew a basic flower imagining that I could place the 5-rupee coin at the centre. Clearly, I didn’t meet the brief since the priest scowled, redrew a star on top of my flower and placed the coin on top of it, not trusting me with anymore tasks.

We were then given back our small bottles of nei/ghee and sent on our way with instructions on consuming it for 48 days.  As I walked back to my family, I was struck by how even though I come from incredible privilege (caste, colour of my skin, ableness, education, economic background, access to medical care, voice, you name it) in this temple I shrunk my presence without being explicitly asked to do so. I walked slower, with lowered shoulders, I struggled to find my voice when the priest barked something at me and most importantly, I experienced guilt.

Fast forward: The 48-day thing didn’t work. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t hurt. The rational part of me, of course, didn’t think it would work. But clearly miracles happened to someone right?  I was just hoping it could have been me.

Other things I noticed:

  • This temple is dedicated to a goddess who is dedicated to solving only the women’s problems. There is another section in the temple with another god for men but guess what, that God deals with “general health problems”
  • There is an ecosystem around the temple where there are flowers to please the goddess and chappal stands. BUT there are also a few stores on the parallel street to the temple selling porn. Loving how this “ecosystem” is committed to the whole experience
  • All the paintings in the temple explaining the story have incredibly fair skinned people. Because you know, if you are dark-skinned and struggling with infertility then even God cannot save you
  • How the word “luck” was thrown around so many times and most of the women in Category 3 came with twins. Awfully coincidental?

temple-clipart-kovil-5

Tagged , ,

Immaculate conception during wedding season

When in teens, sex was all about the sheer quantity – how much are you getting. Then came the 20s where it was about the mood, the ambience, the planned spontaneity (my favourite kind) and needless to say the quality. At some point towards the end of 20s and early 30s, IF procreation is on the cards there begins an unspoken scheduling  and then verbalized scheduling based on apps and/or pee sticks. Post which comes a time when the dates for sex are on a prescription alongside the different medicines that need to be paired with it. While sex by itself is great, when accompanied by a calendar and a cocktail of hormone stimulating drugs it does little for either parties involved.

Along with this angst, add a houseful of people and the madness of an Indian wedding – even a platonic hug seems like a chore. Typically when I whine about weddings, it is because they are a great place for anyone to be more inappropriate than usual. Not only do people shamelessly try and arrange the next wedding by pairing up unassuming souls, there is brazen questioning of anyone’s child-free status. In at least two cases in the last year or so, I have been asked about why I didn’t bring my non-existent child to the wedding. I think this is the latest strategy of the aunty network – ask with so much conviction that the person is shamed into at least renting a child for the next wedding if not making one on their own.

But there is more than just the random accosting by strangers during the ceremonies. Weddings also mean cohabitating with family from far and near. Families with great heart but also Vulcan hearing, x-ray vision and enough curiosity to kill any feline.

Case in point:

Me (gulping the water down with my drug cocktail in the kitchen thinking everyone is in bed): Ohh..hi!

Aunty: What is wrong? Do you have a headache?

Me: No, no…I am fine

Aunty (eyes narrowing): Then? Why tablet and all? Are you still on the pill?

Me: What?! No, no…just some vitamins for good health

Aunty: Oh good, so you are trying. Nice nice… Give me also one vitamin tablet.  So much work in this wedding, I could do with some health.

Me: Ummmmm

Other problems include: How do you escape for a couple of hours to go for a scan between the mehendi and the sangeet? How do you get out of people giving a mile-long shopping list when you lie about going to the market? Or worse, ask to accompany you or be dropped off somewhere on the way to the market you weren’t going to in the first place?

But the most difficult to tackle is ovulation and prescribed sex.

With people camped in every room, walking in and out at all odd times and gendered, hostel-style sleeping arrangements; making a dash for the narrow window of ovulation is hard. Forget the stress-free ambience or the mood, there often is little room to get the basic mechanics right.

That leads to shady projects like trying to get people out of the house for at least an hour by suggesting movies, shopping or even a chaat visit. But no – every project will be met with either disinterest or worse, extra kindness where you get pulled into the amazing plan you made to get rid of people in the first place.

That’s when even an agnostic such as myself turns to all the possible gods to get tips on how exactly does one manage to make a baby without really doing it. Does one try pulling a Kunti from Mahabharata – glaring at the sun while chanting some prayers and risking blindness? There is the Mary-Joseph route, but if I actually had a barn to myself I could make this work without needing divine intervention. I also considered the birth of a child like Aphrodite from the foam of the sea on Marina beach in Chennai but knew deep within that there is no way the husband will willingly throw his testicles into the ocean.

For the sheer number of examples I could pull up, I realized that these stories were not just folklore – they were clear messages pointing in one direction.

If you want to make babies during the wedding season, you are better off trying to pull a baby out of the earth, fire, ocean or sky.  There is no bloody way that the conventional, more fun route is getting you anywhere.

kunti

Tagged , , , ,

Not everything starts on a Monday

To set context for this rant, let me begin by stating that I am a bit finicky. No surprise there.

I am someone who will continuously miniaturize my handwriting so that I don’t spill into the next day in my weekly planner. If I had days-of-the-week underwear, I wouldn’t wear them out of order. I organize my To-Do list (when I have a choice) in the decreasing order with most to do on a Monday and then Friday being reasonably chill. I think it is sacrilegious to take a Crocin from the middle of the pack instead of following the line (across or vertical – I am chill and very open like that) or to stack books with only some of the spines visible.

I guess you get the picture.

But coming back to my story/rant –

After multiple cycles of Clomid + Progesterone, I willed myself to start IUI. I showed up at the clinic ready to knock the cycle out of the park but a quick scan revealed that my follicles weren’t looking great and the doctor predicted that the eggs will be of poor quality.

This was infuriating for two reasons:

1) I re-read my emails thrice before sending them out and here my unsupervised follicles were doing a shoddy job.

2) I had pushed back a month of work travel so clearly while I am busy clearing my schedule to make this work, my body was not being a team player.

Anyhoo…the doctor recommended a month of oral contraception and regular scans as a performance improvement plan for my shady follicles. So I went to the chemist armed with a new prescription. Side note – in most parts of India, the chemist bhaiya/anna is an integral part of any journey you are on. If you stop buying pads for two months, he will suggest a Pregasure test when you go to buy Combiflam. So when I went from buying ovulation sticks to progesterone to birth control; his surprise was legit and as a stakeholder in this decision, he did vocalize it. I explained everything and now we are cool. But I digress…

This is the pack and before you yell about its expiration date – it is an image off the internet.

28414-loette-levonorgestrel-ethinyl-estradiol-packaging

Observe closely. This pill is supposed to begin from day 1 of the cycle. The design assumes your cycle would obviously start on a Monday. I mean which woman’s body would dare to be rebellious enough against the very artificial markings of time? Further, scans are prescribed based on the days of the cycle therefore days of the week have little meaning. Now you can tell me that not everyone who is on the pill needs to plan for a scan and I will say, “Excellent point my friend, but would you rather not check your weekends on iCalendar instead?”

Besides, what happens if I need to start on a Wednesday? Do I even then begin from Monday or worse break pack from the middle? *gasp*

I really want to know what could have led to this decision of using days of the week instead of the number of days in the cycle. Is it a “differentiator” that 3 men in a room came up with?

Man 1: Well, everyone has days in numbers on their packaging. We should stand out in the world of contraception and help women calendar their week

Man 2: That’s a great insight!

Man 3: Great! Beers everyone?

Am I being catty? Yes. Am I making assumptions about someone’s gender? Yes. Am I falling back on stereotypes to make a point? Yes. Is it unfair to the men who want to be helpful and actually care? Probably Yes. If you reversed the situation and deployed the same logic, would I be mad? Hell yeah! But who are you kidding? Men willingly using oral contraception? Ha!

But as a valued customer (for the sheer number of times I have had to go on this pill!) I can tell you that it is fucking annoying to see this pack and count the empty blisters to know when to go for a scan!

But for all this ranting, each time I had to start a new strip it HAS been on a Monday. So either my brain is so nitpicky that it willed my body to sync with a poorly designed pack or maybe those three men were onto something.

Hmmm…

P.S: Other thoughts in my head as I stared at this each night – what is with that logo? What pose is it advocating for? Why the pink arrows? Why three arrows from Sunday to Monday when everything else is two? Is it because it feels longer? Sigh…so many more thoughts! Ugh!

Tagged , , ,

Why I won’t be trying IVF

In an ideal world this post would be one sentence long where I would just say “Because I don’t want to” and we could all be on our way. Sadly in real life that is somehow never a good enough answer.

I don’t know much about other parts of the world but there has been a proliferation of infertility clinics here in India (in the big cities at least). There are innumerable hoardings or print ads with white people or incredibly fair skinned Indian couples hugging while looking shyly at the growing pregnant belly with clichés of completing the family or motherhood. With ads taking the place on multiple inside pages or advertorials in business newspapers, every other person now believes they can suggest this medical process like they would suggest you buy a washing machine during the Amazon or Flipkart sale.

The process of IVF includes multiple ultrasound procedures, followed by follicle stimulating injections, harvesting the eggs on specific dates and another procedure of putting the fertilized eggs (yes multiple!) back in. This could be further supplemented by more injections and pills to support implantation.

But this just tells you the half of what really happens. What I describe below is an IUI, it is when they fail that an IVF is recommended by the doctors.

The scans (TVS) typically happen on every alternate day to check the growth of follicles so every other day you are sitting in a crowded clinic for about two hours to be told of a half millimeter growth in your follicle size. Alongside begin the injections. Now US based websites and YouTube videos will have you believe that your spouse/partner can inject these drugs into you after practicing a few times on an orange. In India we have too much manpower and we do not place this level of responsibility or pressure on our spouses/partners, therefore you visit your doctor’s clinic and the nurse there will give you the injections. These injections are typically oil-based making the needles thick and rookie nurses will struggle. You will develop a strange sense of empathy towards the aforementioned orange.

With each passing day, your back will hurt and so will your stomach. You will put on about 4 kgs in 3-5 days and your boobs will hurt like they are taking revenge for every bra worn. You will burst into tears seeing a cover slide of a presentation template because it has pictures of kids on it. You will experience rage when you realise your jeans no longer fit. In that fit of anger, you will go shop for clothes that are one size too big and justify to yourself that you will grow into them when you get pregnant. You will feel sadness when someone asks you if you are already pregnant because your face looks puffy and you are wearing loose clothes.

You will yell at your partner for not having to contribute anything beyond a sperm. You will then cringe knowing who is being the real pain here. There will be awkwardness because there are days for prescribed sex and abstinence. You will be embarrassed when you realise that sex is the last thing on your mind and then be struck by the irony of this situation. You will say mean things to people you love even when you know you shouldn’t.

You will go to the clinic with hope on the day of implantation/insemination. You will feel wistful about how it needn’t have been this way – you on the bed of a clinic and him in some grimy bathroom with a broken window sill. You will squeeze your doctor’s hand for a second longer than needed when she wishes you luck. You laugh the hollow laugh when she says it could even be twins while secretly being terrified. You will get off the bed as though there is a seed of hope you are already carrying. You will be sore and crampy and convince yourself that you should be prepared in case this is how the next nine months are going to be. You will wipe after every pee and look for traces of blood. This will become a habit that will stick with you for much longer than you’d like to acknowledge. You will start being nicer to your partner and without saying it you both will stop planning for holidays in the following year.

You will go for a HCG blood test and not know what you could have done better when you get a negative result. You will get angry when you watch the Mothers’ Horlicks ad because the bitch had it so easy (and which fucking clinic gives you a report with POSITIVE written in such a large font size). You will cry for something you never had and will find it hard to explain the loss. You will not know what to say when the doctor says you can always try again but the success rate is less than 10%. You will be crushed when you get your period because there was some forum where one person posted in 2012 about how her HCG levels were reported wrong and you held on to that as the last hope.

The decision to stop fertility treatments is a tough one. Which handbook tells you how many attempts are good enough? Who can quell the voice in your head that wonders about if you are being a quitter? How do you say with confidence that you are not passing up on a chance every time someone suggests something new? How do you explain to friends and family that you are tired of trying? How do you truly know that your partner is okay with this choice and not saying it to save you the trouble?

When people constantly told me it would all be worth it in the end, I didn’t have the courage to tell them that I think otherwise. I am doing it now. I am placing myself and my most precious relationship over this pressure to procreate. I am intentionally choosing to not put myself and those around me through the cycles of hope and rejection. I have immense respect for women who are able to do otherwise. I don’t pretend to understand what motivates them but I don’t lie about wanting to be them either. When I am told I will forget all of this when I hold that little bundle in my arms, I struggle to explain how I am not that magnanimous and know that I can be resentful. I find it hard to place myself at the center of these struggles month after month when there is so much worse happening in the world around me. Whether it is biological or not, I find this level of self-centeredness after a point, distasteful.

Sanity doesn’t come easy. Sometimes it’s a choice and therefore I choose.

Tagged , ,
%d bloggers like this: