Dakota Denise
Bio
Every story I publish is real lived, witnessed, survived, by myself or from others who trusted me to tell the story. Enjoy đ
Stories (66)
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My Uterus Refuses to Retire and I Need to Speak to Management. Content Warning.
Let me explain something to yâall real slow and real clear. I am approaching 48 years old, and my period is still showing up like it owns stock in this body. Not renting. Not visiting. Owning property. At this point, my uterus should be sending postcards from Florida, not threats from inside my abdomen. I have been bleeding since cassette tapes were still a thing. Since people had house phones. Since we had to memorize phone numbers. Since McDonaldâs had ashtrays. WHY ARE WE STILL DOING THIS? Somebody forgot to shut down the factory. And donât let these doctors lie to you with that soft voice either. âOh you might be entering perimenopause.â Might?? MIGHT?? Maâam, I been âmightâ-ing for five years. Either fire the band or start the parade. Pick a struggle. Hereâs how it happens. Ainât no warning. Ainât no gentle arrival. No soft music. No calendar reminder. No email notification. My period does not knock. She kicks the door in like she got a warrant and backup. I be minding my business â peaceful â living my best low-stress, donât-talk-to-me, leave-me-alone life. I might be: cleaning the kitchen rolling something relaxing watching crime shows reorganizing something I already reorganized twice Then suddenly â BOOM. Pain. Not discomfort. Not cramps. Pain with personality. Pain with a mission statement. I drop where I stand like somebody unplugged me. I be folded up on the floor like a broken lawn chair whispering, âOkay Lord⌠I know I asked for transformation but this feels aggressive.â Letâs talk about endometriosis for a minute. Nobody explains this correctly. They say it like itâs a condition. It is not a condition. It is a monthly internal betrayal. It feels like my uterus is in there rearranging furniture with a baseball bat. You ever seen one of them home renovation shows where they just start knocking walls down with no plan? Thatâs whatâs happening inside me. Open concept suffering. And donât let me catch one more man in my comments talking about: âHave you tried drinking water?â Sir. Respectfully. I will drink water at your funeral. Water is not going to stop my reproductive organs from staging a hostile takeover. Now letâs discuss the temperature nonsense. Because what in the hormonal HVAC system is going on? I will be FREEZING. Iâm talking: hoodie sweatpants socks blanket space heater attitude Five minutes later I am stripping like I owe the IRS money. Not cute stripping either. Panicked stripping. Throwing clothes across the room. Yelling at fabrics. âI NEVER LIKED YOU ANYWAY.â My thermostat is possessed. Then come the mood swings. Let me tell you something â my emotions are on shuffle mode. I cried at a commercial. Got irritated at a spoon. Forgave three people from 1998. Got mad again. Ate a snack. Cried again because the snack was good. All in 20 minutes. I almost argued with my microwave because it beeped too aggressively. Donât look at me like that â it knew what it did. And the exhaustion?? Oh my God. This level of tired should require paperwork. Iâm tired in my bones. In my eyelashes. In my passwords. I took a nap the other day and woke up confused about what year it was and who the president might be. My body said: âWe shutting down early. Figure it out.â Letâs talk about the cramps again because they deserve their own documentary. These cramps donât hurt like normal pain. They come with sound effects. My stomach be making noises like an old haunted house. I be sitting there breathing like Iâm in labor with a demon. Inhale â regret. Exhale â negotiation. I be trying to bargain with organs I cannot see. âListen. Listen. We can be cool. We donât have to do all this.â My uterus be like: âOh we absolutely do.â And can we talk about the disrespect of timing? It always shows up when I have plans. Never when Iâm bored. Never when I got nothing to do. Only when I need to function. Important call? â cramps. Event? â cramps. Errand day? â cramps. Cute outfit? â cramps + bloating + betrayal. I put on jeans and my body says: âAbsolutely not. Try again next week.â And let me say this clearly: I am READY for menopause. Bring her here. Send her now. Kick the door in. I will welcome menopause with snacks and a folding chair. People be scared of menopause â not me. Menopause is retirement. Menopause is freedom. Menopause is my uterus clocking out and turning in her badge. Because this current employee is doing too much. And before somebody says, âBe grateful for your womanhoodâŚâ I am. But also â this design needs revision. We need a software patch. A firmware update. A recall. Meanwhile I got heating pads, medication, tea, stretching, breathing, prayer, snacks, cussing, and negotiation â and my uterus still acting like she got tenure. Tenure!! Who approved that?? Let me tell you what really makes it wild though. In between the chaos â I will still be funny. Still cracking jokes. Still talking shit. Still narrating my own suffering like a documentary. âHere we observe the wild hormonal storm in its natural habitat. Notice how she survives entirely on sarcasm and snacks.â Because if I donât laugh, Iâm gonna start writing complaint letters to my organs. So if you see me during this time: Bring chocolate. Bring patience. Bring silence. Do NOT bring: stupid questions loud opinions relationship talks or dry chicken This is a hormone emergency zone. Proceed accordingly. And to my uterus, if you reading this: Your contract has expired. Pack your things. Clock out. Security is on the way.
By Dakota Denise 16 days ago in Confessions
The Day We Terrorized the Grocery Store (With Laughter)
My brother and I are not allowed to go to the grocery store together unsupervised. Iâm convinced of this. There should be a sign at the entrance that says: âWarning: If These Two Enter Together, Productivity Will Drop and Laughter Will Increase.â
By Dakota Denise 19 days ago in Families
The Last Quiet Seat. Content Warning.
By the time Mara noticed the rule, it had already saved her life. The bus arrived at 6:12 every morning, sighing at the curb like it had been running for miles before it ever reached her. The doors folded open. People stepped off. People stepped on. Coins clinked. Cards beeped. No one spoke. Mara boarded, as she always did, and took the second seat on the right, halfway down the aisle. No one ever sat in the first seat. It wasnât marked. No tape, no sign, no warning scrawled in Sharpie. The vinyl cushion was the same faded blue as the others, split at the seams, stuffing visible like a secret that had lost its urgency. The metal pole beside it was dulled by thousands of hands. But no one sat there. Not the elderly woman with the oxygen tank who rode three stops and got off breathing hard. Not the construction workers who boarded in muddy boots and filled the back with the smell of sweat and concrete dust. Not the teenagers who pretended not to see anything, ever. When the bus was fullâwhen people stood shoulder to shoulder in the aisle, gripping straps, swaying with every stopâthe seat remained empty. Mara noticed because she was tired. Because she had slept badly. Because she had woken up already bracing herself for the day ahead, for the fluorescent lights and the hum of machinery and the way time seemed to congeal at work. She noticed because she thought, for one brief, stupid moment: Thatâs odd. The thought slid away as quickly as it came. The bus pulled off. The city passed by in gray slices. Someone coughed. Someone else scrolled on their phone with the sound off. No one looked at the empty seat. At the third stop, a man got on who didnât belong. Mara couldnât say how she knew that. He wore the right clothesâwork boots, jacket, a knit cap pulled low. He paid his fare. He nodded once at the driver. But he hesitated. Just a fraction of a second too long. His eyes flicked to the empty seat. Mara felt it then, a tightening in her chest, like when you miss a step on the stairs but donât fall. Her fingers curled around her bag strap. The man stepped into the aisle. And sat down. The bus did not lurch. It did not brake. Nothing dramatic happened. The world did not end or even noticeably pause. What changed was the people. The woman standing nearest the seat shifted away, her shoulder brushing Maraâs arm as she moved. A man across the aisle suddenly found the floor fascinating. Someone near the back muttered something sharp and low, not quite words. The driverâs eyes met Maraâs in the mirror. Just for a second. They widened. The man in the seat smiled, as if pleased with himself. âFinally,â he said, loud enough to be heard. âBeen wondering how long youâd all keep this up.â No one answered. The bus rolled on. Maraâs heartbeat thudded in her ears. She could feel it in her throat, her wrists. She told herself she was overreacting, that this was nothing, that she was projecting meaning onto coincidence. The man leaned back. The vinyl creaked beneath him. âYou know,â he continued, conversational, âI almost thought there wasnât a rule. Thought maybe you were all just being polite.â A woman near the front pressed the stop request cord. The bell dinged. The driver didnât slow. The man laughed softly. âOh. Thatâs not how it works.â Mara stood. She didnât know why she did it. Later, she would tell herself it was instinct, or courage, or stupidity. In truth, it was something simpler: the certainty that if she didnât move now, she wouldnât be able to later. âSir,â she said. Her voice sounded strange to her own earsâtoo loud, too steady. âYou need to get up.â He turned his head toward her slowly, like a predator deciding whether something was worth the effort. âAnd why would I do that?â No one else spoke. But the silence was no longer neutral. It pressed in, thick and heavy, as if the air itself were waiting. Mara swallowed. âBecause that seat isnât for sitting.â The manâs smile widened. âSays who?â The bus hit a pothole. Someone gasped. The manâs body joltedâbut the seat held him, held him firmly, as if it had been waiting. âEveryone,â Mara said. That was when the bus screamed. Not the engine. Not the brakes. The bus itself. A deep, metallic shriek rippled through the floor and walls, vibrating up through Maraâs bones. The lights flickered. The windows rattled. The man bolted upright, panic finally cracking through his bravado. âWhat the hellââ The seat split. Not the vinylâthe space. The air beneath him tore open like fabric. Something dark and vast yawned where the floor had been. Hands came out. Too many. Too thin. Grasping, pale, jointed wrong. They wrapped around the manâs legs, his waist, his arms. He screamed. A real scream, raw and animal. The bus stopped. The doors opened. No one moved. The driver turned around fully in her seat. Her face was calm, almost gentle. âYou can still let go,â she said to the man. âIf you stand up.â âI canât!â he sobbed. âI canâtâhelp me!â Mara met his eyes. âI tried,â she said, and meant it. The hands pulled. The man vanished. The tear sealed itself with a sound like a held breath being released. The floor was solid again. The seat was empty. The bus was very quiet. Then the driver stood, walked to the seat, and sat down. She exhaled, long and tired. âThank you,â she said to no one in particular. The doors closed. The bus resumed its route. No one screamed. No one cried. A few people wiped their faces. Someone near the back whispered a prayer. The woman with the oxygen tank adjusted her mask with shaking hands. Mara sank back into her seat, legs trembling. The driver glanced at her in the mirror. âYou noticed,â she said. Mara nodded. The driver smiled, small and sad. âWe always hope someone will.â At the next stop, the driver stood and left the bus. A new driver took her place without comment. No one sat in the first seat. Mara rode the rest of the way in silence, the city unfolding as it always had. When she got off, her knees nearly buckled, but she stayed upright. She walked to work. She clocked in. She did her job. The world did not change. The next morning, she boarded the bus at 6:12. The first seat was empty. She did not look at it. She took her usual place, halfway down the aisle. Someone new boarded at the third stop. A woman, this time. She hesitated, just a little. Mara caught her eye and shook her head once. The woman looked away. The rule held. And the bus went on.
By Dakota Denise 21 days ago in Psyche
At Some Point, My Nervous System Fired HR. Content Warning.
At Some Point, My Nervous System Fired HR. I donât remember the exact day it happened, but I know the moment. The moment my nervous system looked at my life, sighed deeply, closed its laptop, and said, âYeah⌠weâre not doing this shit anymore.â
By Dakota Denise 25 days ago in Confessions
I Didnât Lose My Mind â I Outgrew Chaos
For a long time, I thought something was wrong with me. I thought I was overthinking. I thought I was reading too deeply into situations that were meant to be taken at face value. I thought I was emotional, dramatic, sensitiveâevery word people use when they donât want to engage with whatâs actually being said.
By Dakota Denise 25 days ago in Confessions
While Your Case Is Under Review
While Your Case Is Under Review The message arrived almost immediately. I had barely closed the browser window before my phone vibrated. An emailâpolite, efficientâthanked me for submitting my materials and assured me they had been received. It explained that my case was now under review and that I would be contacted if additional information was required.
By Dakota Denise 27 days ago in Journal
I'm 47 and My Sleep is a Threat To Society . Content Warning.
Iâm 47 Years Old and Sleep Is a Threat to Society Let me be very clear about something. I do not sleep. Not because I donât want to. Not because Iâm trying to be productive. But because my brain refuses to shut the fuck down.
By Dakota Denise 27 days ago in Confessions
