My Bio

Ginger Hamilton Caudill is a college student who lives and writes in the Plantation State of West Virginia. Her work has been published in Mountain Voices: Illuminating the Character of West Virginia; HerStory: What I Learned in My Bathtub and More; Cup of Comfort books; Horror Library, Volume 2; StorySouth; The Front Porch, and dozens of other publications. She was the grand prize winner of The Binnacle Third Annual International Ultra-Short Story competition. Hamilton Caudill is, of course, working on a novel -- like the rest of the Free World. You can follow her at (blog) or (Facebook)

Pain Sucks

The worst part about unmitigated pain is, of course, the pain itself. The loneliness, loss of dignity, and nausea are just cherries on the tortured sundae of endurance.~~GHC

Bayer Birth Control Fail

Wanna see some fun in a few months? Watch this: Since the "government" has now "approved" aspirin as contraception, aspiring manufacturers will be forced to re-label their product to avoid liability. In other words, if some woman gets pregnant and claims she used the ole aspirin-between-the-knees defense and the product wasn't labeled to disclaim a certain percentage of "fail rate" and such, then the aspirin manufacturer would be liable for damages. Chew on that and when it happens, remember I said it first. ~~GHC

The End of the Shamrock as We Know It

You know, I only today learned the whole "driving snakes out of Ireland" thing was a metaphor. Once that's common knowledge in the U.S., can the "sanctity" of the shamrock be far behind? Then there will be great consternation and controversy from grade school teachers who will be forced to stop compelling schoolchildren to laboriously cut out shamrocks and decorate the walls and boards with them. American Greetings and Hallmark will bankrupt from the post-Christmas slump and subsequent falloff in spring shamrock-themed sales. McDonald's Shamrock shake sales will plummet as the propaganda machine churns to a halt and stops promoting artificial green food. Angry mobs will form seeking retribution from witches, and we will have come full circle. Damned trouble-making Pagans! ~~GHC

Note: This is satire, folks. I <3 Pagans!

Comstock Laws

Let's get this term into the national conversation: Comstock Laws.

Although I truly believe conservatives are using contraceptive interference as a red herring to draw away attention from the REAL issue of the economy, damage is still occuring and we need to address it sooner rather than later. Realize that the Supreme Court will likely [eventually] overturn all this nonsense -- consider what we are experiencing as a resurgence of the Comstock Laws. Read. Remind yourself what you learned in history class.

"Since the middle of the nineteenth century a movement of middle-class men, led by doctors, but also including such prominent political figures as Theodore Roosevelt, had sought to inhibit what they believed to be an immoral trend among white, middle-class women to restrict childbearing. Warning of "race suicide," by which they meant the extinction of White-Anglo-Saxon-Protestants, these crusaders fought to ban contraception and abortion. By 1900 doctors and their sympathizers had persuaded Congress to outlaw the dissemination of birth control information through the mails; many states restricted the sale or advertising of contraceptive devices; and the Society for the Suppression of Vice, headed by Anthony Comstock was waging a campaign to enforce these laws. Moreover, every state in the country banned abortion except to save the life of a mother." From http://www.victoriaspast.com/LifeofVictorianWoman/LifeofVictorianWoman.html

Sound familiar?

Apophasis: Love is Blind

I learned a new word today: Apophasis. It means to describe something by not describing it. It reminded me of a flash I wrote six years ago.

Love Is Blind by Ginger Hamilton Caudill

She wasn't a beauty. The bathroom's countertop wasn't congested with small jars of creams. Its cold surface wasn't marred by lipstick stains or smudged with foundation. Her arms weren't slender or long; her fingers didn't flutter like graceful birds when she illustrated a point. Her breasts weren't full and heavy, they didn't threaten to spill out of her brassiere. She hated how her there was no gentle swell below her waist. Her jeans always looked as if they belonged to someone else. Her legs weren't planned in proportion to her pudgy midsection.

Her eyes didn't develop in an exotic almond shape. Her cheeks never flushed; they remained a sickly pale ivory despite either embarrassment or excitement. She couldn't go outside without developing a splash of burnt-orange freckles. Her ears weren't small and delicate like her sister's. Her eyebrows didn't break at the right place, nor did they choose to split in the center like others. Her lips weren't lush and kissable nor even average.

Friends at college had whispered that she'd never marry. "No one will take a second look at her," they said. She hadn't been supposed to hear them, but she couldn't help it. They didn't bother moving away when she drew near.

But she hadn't missed out on love; she'd married a man who couldn't see her shortcomings.

Day Four: No Pop

Day Four: No Pop

Data Observed: I woke up with a brain-splitting headache. Everything annoys me. We’re out of pop.

Conclusion: Pop is evil. ~~GHC

Day 3: No Pop

Day 3 No Pop:

Data Observed: Conservatives are acting like idiots. The litter box is dirty. The car needs washed. Laundry needs folded.

Conclusions: Pop makes politics more tolerable. Pop cleans kitty potties. Pop keeps vehicles clean. Pop folds clothing. Pop is good.~~GHC

In The Summer by Nizar Qabbani

Guest poet at ChickenScratches today.~~GHC

In The Summer

In the summer
I stretch out on the shore
And think of you
Had I told the sea
What I felt for you,
It would have left its shores,
Its shells,
Its fish,
And followed me.

~~by Nizar Qabbani
Translated by B. Frangieh And C. Brown

No Pop: Day Two

Day Two: No pop.

Data Observed: Slept in till 11. Have yawned all day. Thinking is foggy and I’m freezing. It snowed. Have too much homework.

Conclusion: Consuming pop helps one wake up on time and feel more alert. Pop keeps me warm. Pop prevents snow and excessive homework. Pop is good.~~GHC

Karen Carpenter and Stopping Drinking Pop

Karen Carpenter singing acapella - heavenly

Just a little joy for a change. We all need some.

And my latest observations, phrased in fallacious thinking and conclusions in the spirit of modern America. Enjoy. ~~GHC

Stopping Drinking Pop

Day One: No pop.

Data Observed: Feeling irritated and intolerant of others. Laptop is running too slow and is annoying.

Conclusion: Consuming pop makes one happy and tolerant and patient. Pop keeps computers in working order. Pop is a good thing.

The Road to Hell via Good Intentions

Today, the whiteboard in our living room reads “I love you [husband's name]” in big red letters. If you look very very closely, up in the wee lefthand corner, there is a lower case “g”. Yes, it is a message FROM him TO me. Even our daughter thought it was a message from me to him. But he fails to see these things. And what may be the saddest thing of all, is he doesn’t really even love himself.

Sooooo, that is where I am for now. Somewhere between a whiteboard and a hard place. I think my girls realize I am probably nearing the end of this Earthly journey. They are rallying around me, and I find great joy in that. I love my children endlessly.

My husband repeatedly assures me he is “really trying to do things for” me and I think the way he thinks, he truly is well-meaning. It’s not effective and it’s darned sad really, and it isn’t even that his heart is in the right place – it’s that he WANTS his heart to be in the right place. It’s how I think that the “road to Hell is paved with good intentions” saying breaks down to mean. It doesn’t say “good intentions paved the road to Hell.” So it isn’t good intentions that are bad or lead to Hell or add up substantially. And it isn’t failed attempts that pave the road to Hell, either. That’s not what “good intentions” means here.

The operative word, I believe, is “intentions.” He INTENDS for his actions to be good, but fails to follow through and do the work. It’s like as if I INTENDED to fix a bottle for the baby and I really love the baby and I want the baby to live, but I never got around to fixing the bottle and the baby died. My intentions aren’t the problem: my intentions were good. It’s my lack of action that paves the road to Hell, and the consequences of my inactions. It isn’t that I failed in preparing the bottle… if I’d tried, I would have been taking action and probably succeeded in feeding the baby. And if I couldn’t feed the baby, I’d realize I couldn’t and probably taken action to find a way TO feed the baby. It’s by not acting – by INTENDING to act – that the road to Hell was paved.

I can’t stand any more philosophical sh*t right now. You probably have overdosed on it by now. I love you. Thank you for reading.~GHC

Sexless in Seattle; or "No Sex For You"

Warning: Frank discussion about sex life ahead. Feel free to bail if you wish. No body parts mentioned, one act referenced. Would be considered PG at worst, I imagine. ~~GHC

Sexless in Seattle, or “No Sex for You”

I don’t say this is universal truth, just that this is truth in my own life. Desire for sex is closely tied to desire to prepare food. When the type of food I prepare is ridiculed or insulted, I feel much less like having sex. When the food I prepare is disparaged as in “I only eat because I don’t have enough sex” then I am even more unwilling to prepare food. When my worth as a human being and especially as a wife and partner is equated with whether I rise and prepare a hot meal for breakfast and stop what else I’m doing to prepare a hot meal for dinner, I feel much less like giving of myself in either area – food preparation OR sex.

I used to revel in food preparation. I wanted to find new and exciting ways to prepare food, new foods to experiment with. I wanted to share these experiences with him. I wanted to sample new tastes and textures. What I got in return was disgust, rejection, that’s-not-how-mom-makes-it. “I’ve never seen it done THAT way before.” This made me feel shame and embarrassment.

“You’re so nasty.” Hard as I tried to wrap my head around how those words were a good thing, I did try to wrap my head around it somehow even though it went against everything I’d ever thought about myself. That I think was the beginning of the disconnect I came to feel about sex. I didn’t want to feel nasty. I didn’t want to be a bad girl. I didn’t want to be punished. No, thank you, spanking is not sexy to me. I was beaten and abused and horribly punished throughout my life. I don’t equate those experiences to healthy, happy sexuality. I see sex as a positive thing.

I began to see sex as dirty, to see him viewing sex as dirty which made me feel dirty because I didn’t see sex as dirty. Which after a long, full, rich sex life started seeming dirty. Which in turn was confusing.

Sex is a gift. Sex is a trust experience. Sex is me being open and giving and trusting and free and happy. Foreplay is the entire day preceding sex. Hearing how useless what I’m interested in doesn’t make me feel open or giving or trusting or free or happy. Devaluing my experiences doesn’t turn me on. Having my requests ignored – nay, spit on – doesn’t prepare me to have sex. “Please don’t block my side of the couch with objects.” I come home, my side of the couch is blocked with objects. Daily. I come downstairs in the morning after he’s been there. My side of the couch is blocked with objects. I literally have two, possibly three requests I make of him. This is one: Please don’t block my side of the couch with objects. It’s just disrespectful. It is.

Conversely, he has innumerable requests of me. Concerning spaghetti, for instance: Don’t use the whole wheat noodles. Don’t get the meat kind of sauce. Get the garden vegetable sauce. Don’t get Prego, get Ragu even though you prefer Prego. Cook ground beef to include in it even though you don’t eat ground beef in yours. I like it when you add in mushrooms, lots of mushrooms. Make sure you cook the noodles long enough that they are mushy. Be sure to add parmesan cheese. I refuse to eat leftover spaghetti. These, you see, are requests just about spaghetti. I just want to be able to sit down in my place in the living room without having to move six things.

Why does he think it’s a power issue? I don’t want/need/even feel like I hold ultimate power over sex. I am however one of two people necessary to create this sexual being called us. I should have at least equal say in the experience. If I don’t want to participate, then I won’t.

Today I blurted out to him that the reason *I* get to say when we have sex is the same reason why if I want him to eat and try to force-feed him food, that he has a say-so and the right to decline it. It doesn’t matter how much I want him to taste it, or that I made it for him. What I didn’t say is that if I really want him to eat it, maybe I should try to entice him by describing the ingredients or how good it will taste or how much I love him or why it would be good for him, or I dunno, maybe in lieu of manipulation just say that I have something good to eat and see if he’s interested. I imagine if he’s hungry, he’ll come to the table.

What I want is to share my very being, my essence with him. I want to be heard. I want to be felt. I want to -- well -- share. I want to pour out my spirit to the human being I have chosen and who has chosen me to spend our mortal existence with. And when I feel cut off from doing that, when I feel unwelcome and unwanted and unappreciated, when I feel my entire value is how often I spread my legs or give head or cook food, I want nothing less than to spread my legs or give head or cook food.

When instead of asking what’s wrong or listening to what’s wrong or even appearing to CARE what’s wrong, he makes shitty comments like “it’s hard to care when we have sex every ten months” – see, that just reinforces to me that my feelings don’t matter and not only that, the fact we had sex a few weeks back doesn’t matter either because as long as it’s not the way HE wants it to be, it will never be RIGHT so it doesn’t matter. I don’t withhold sex because I can. I withhold sex because I am no longer willing to participate in a one-sided unrewarding activity I am totally disinterested in (and the funny part is that the only sentence in this entire essay that will be understood, retained, and repeated endlessly in the future will be this last one). It won’t matter that I am hurt and feel abandoned and devalued. It won’t matter that I want more than he does to feel passion and love and romance, that I crave acknowledgment, that I beg for attention on a real and deep level. It won’t matter that he could have a raging sexual maniac for a wife if he would only treat me as an equal human being with feelings as valid as his and at least as deep as his.

It won’t matter that he could be experiencing the best sex he’s ever known on a frequent basis, so much sex that’s so good his head would spin from it, if he’d just stop worrying about his damned self all the time and his own needs and feeling so neglected. He is spoiled. And like all spoiled people, he’s lost connection with anyone but himself. I’ve created a monster by not holding him accountable. And for that, I am accountable. And for that, I suffer. Terribly. And for that, I have no answer, no way back from as far as I can see because he refuses to listen to my side of it, to hear how I feel or to look at himself.

So here we sit. Sexless in Seattle, except we aren’t in Seattle. But we are sexless.~~GHC

I apologize for the personal nature as well as the ranting nature of this post. I'm sure you cannot think of a word to say in response to it, and that's okay. I considered not posting it at all, like ten thousand other things I've written, but I decided that SOMEONE SOMEWHERE might benefit from reading it and, for me, that would be enough.

Reach Out, But Not With Rocks

I just wrote the longest, most profound thing of my life and got an error and now it's gone. Trying to recreate.

Sometimes I reach out to others and find I cannot connect, no matter how hard I try. My hand goes right through them, or else suddenly veers to the left or right and misses them completely. And I keep trying until I am weary and sad and then angry. That's when I want to just throw rocks at the others. I mean, what difference does it make, right? The rocks aren't going to connect anyway. But that's the fallacy; the rocks do make contact. The rocks make contact and they hurt the people. And not only do they hurt the people, they anger the people, and cause the people to shut me out on purpose this time instead of incidentally.

And the worst of all is, some people live their entire lives like this, not connecting with others although they desparately try. They are magnets turned the wrong way somehow. They push to connect but are always repelled. And they become hurt and then angry and push harder, are repelled just as hard, and they can't understand why.

There is a rift in the fabric of the Universe that causes these disconnective episodes. I don't pretend to understand the purpose of them; for me, it is enough to know they are temporary and I live in confidence knowing I will eventually connect again. But for some of our brothers and sisters, there is no such assurance. And they throw rocks. So if someone sits and throws rocks at you, instead of throwing rocks back throw Grace if you possibly can. Then be thankful you aren't stuck on the wrong side of the Universal rift. ~~GHC

Note: You do NOT want to Google "throw rocks." *Shudders*

No More Mr. Nice Guy

Living with Mental Illness

The bathroom was dark when I woke up this morning, and I knew it was going to be a bad day. There are no windows in the upstairs hall or bathroom. We keep the bathroom light on 24/7. It serves as a beacon to the stairway and the landing. It functions as a nightlight for the entire upper floor of the apartment. We can all sleep in utter darkness, safe in the knowledge that as soon as we open our bedroom doors, there will be a guiding light to lead us to the bathroom. When I awoke today, the hallway and bathroom were in darkness.

My husband urinates in the bathroom sink. It doesn’t bother me; if I could pee standing up, I would probably do it too. Seems practical to me. The principle is the same: elimination in a porcelain bowl that is washed away with swirling water. But when he falls into the bowels of depression, he can’t bear to look at his own face in the bathroom mirror. He turns off the light so he doesn’t have to – literally – face himself.

I decided to go back to bed for awhile because I figured I needed the extra rest to fortify myself for what I would surely endure later. Eventually, I woke up again and went downstairs. We keep a whiteboard on the front door where we leave messages for one another. When there’s no new message, we just leave the old one there and it remains, sometimes for weeks. Our messages always revolve around our love for each other. The message that had been showing was “I love you, G” in my husband’s handwriting with “For forever” followed by a drawing of a young girl – the last two added by my daughter. The message board had looked like this for several weeks now. This morning, it had been erased. It was blank. The board has never been blank since we bought it several years ago.

So my husband took away his love message, and took away my daughter’s as well. This was symbolically his way of un-loving me, of punishing me, of hurting me. When he’s depressed, I experience a constant barrage of these little slights, these emotional slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, these expressions of his pain and anger. For example, I suffer from near-constant back spasms and it is painful for me to bend forward. Consequently, I have repeatedly asked that no one set anything down in my customary place on the couch. I have also explained – numerous times – that the meaning I make when I go to sit down and my place is blocked is that I am unwelcome. Silly, but it is how I feel. I am meticulous in making sure my husband’s seat is always open. It’s a twist on the idea of setting a place for Elijah.

My seat on the couch was, of course, covered with a blanket, an empty bag of potato chips, and a book this morning. His side was bare.

Last night, he came in after dark. I had made a conscious decision not to turn on the porch light. This will sound petty, and I agree that it is, indeed, a small thing. But so is a head louse and if you’ve ever had one, you know its impact is nothing if not huge. He says, “The porch light was off” or something profound like that, meaning “I noticed you didn’t turn on the porch light.” I looked up from my laptop and replied, “I didn’t turn it on tonight. I have always made a point to turn the light on for you and our daughter, but I’ve noticed that nobody ever turns it on for me. So tonight, I didn’t either.” Obviously sensing something was wrong, he apologized for not turning on the porch light in the past. He immediately associated what I said with himself. Of course, there is a “himself” component to the issue, but there are four I’s and one me in my statement about the porch light, and only one you. I also realize that we filter everything through our own consciousness and weigh things against ourselves. But not everything is about ourselves. Especially in a marital relationship.

When I express sadness, my husband immediately makes the meaning that he has failed me. Then he wallows in HIS sadness and failure, ignoring me. It then becomes incumbent upon me to comfort HIM. His “ME” is so big that he can’t see anyone else. His “ME” hurts so much that he can’t feel anyone else’s . . . anything. He constantly views the world through funhouse-mirror glasses.

See, if it had been me, I would have wondered what made my spouse decide that NOW is the time to stop turning on the porch light. I would have wondered what changed their way of thinking and acting. What suddenly changed a decades-old behavior pattern? What’s wrong with this picture?

There is a difference to the dynamic today, however. See, I decided last night that I have grown tired of forgiving and tired of understanding, tired of the tyrannical petty abuses and insults followed by tearful apologies, texts, IMs and mid-night confessional sessions that never resolve anything. I am tired of the acting out childishly, the horrendous treatment that no one else would ever stand for, that he could not “get away with” in any other situation. In short, Grace is gone. She collapsed last night in a barrage of passive-aggressive bullets. No one knows if she will survive or not. Time will tell. For now, there’s a new kid in town and I don’t know her name.

On a lighter note, it's been sixty days since I last smoked. So far, so good.