You go see a therapist when you are stuck in some way and you can’t change by yourself. Otherwise you just change by yourself and save the money. Therapy is expensive, yo.
Who do I want to be when I grow up? What patterns am I actually stuck in and which patterns can I change if I think about them? What is a happy life? What do I want to do with my time and my life? That really is the crux of it, isn’t it? The way you spend your hours is the way you spend your years. I think I am saying it wrong but someone had something like that as a sig line on MDC. Where is my Zen place? What is it that I should be doing for my spirit to be in alignment with my body? (By the way I don’t use the word Zen in a way that is associated with any actual definition or official usage. I am a co-opting piece of shit.)
I told Noah this morning that I don’t feel like I am having sex for me and I don’t like that feeling any more. I am having sex so that I can continue to be this construct in my head. I am not really getting off much these days. That’s a big change. Sorta? It started with pregnancy. It kind of came back and then it seems to be gone again. I can get close and I have all these nifty hypnosis tricks in place so I can trigger muscle spasms in the appropriate way such that I suppose it feels like an orgasm, kinda. It’s like eating soft serve. It’s just not ice cream even if it looks like and is presented as the same thing. Even with sprinkles. It’s not ice cream.
You aren’t supposed to say that on the internet, right? The way we are having sex isn’t working for me. I don’t want to be this right now. I’m not saying never again. I am saying I need something other than what I have right now. This is hard to write about because I am trying very hard to not represent what Noah wants. I don’t think I really know or understand what Noah wants. It’s not his fault, but I think we are operating with a lot of unspoken assumptions and I should only speak for me.
I’m sitting here thinking and thinking and thinking. In these arguments I always get stuck with this huge load of rage and I scream that I don’t want to spend the rest of my life doing laundry. Dude. The rest of my life will involve laundry. Shut the fuck up already. Why does this become such a sticking point? I could dissect it. I could start having the other adults in the house do the laundry; they would if I required it. Really and truly, they would. But it would require reminding and fussing and then I would never be satisfied with the results. They would fold the damn shirts wrong.
This isn’t about laundry.
I don’t have very many pictures of my mother. But in several she’s doing laundry. I remember the sighs. The long tirades about how much she hated having to clean up after me. I remember her bitterness at having to go out and earn money and come home to the messes I made It’s honestly one reason I don’t want to have a job. If I had a job I would resent the ever loving shit out of my children for having the audacity to live in the house and make a mess when I wasn’t there. It offends my dignity. Oh God help someone who breaks a dish when I’m not home. I’m completely unreasonable. But if I’m standing in the room and not the one who does it? My reaction is, “Thank God it wasn’t me!” And I’m not mad. Mistakes happen.
I don’t forgive slights that are done when I’m out of sight. I’m not sure what is up with that. Hunh. Ok, that’s actually a big one. I’m going to have to think about that one for a long time. I resent having to be a support network for a life and for happiness I won’t get to share. It really bothers me. It makes me feel angry that I spend ‘x’ hours of week doing extra work so that Noah gets to have ‘y’ hours of time completely alone. Because the hours aren’t equal. Not in my head.
There is a tally. He doesn’t understand it or track it. It is totally invisible to him if I do it right. Sex is part of the tally. Part of the things I “have to do”. The tally that “should be” invisible to him. Which means the cost should be invisible as well. I’m having trouble writing a coherent sentence about this. If I don’t explain the tally system he can’t change his behavior based on the different costs.
For the whole rest of my life Noah will have more effect on me than anyone. Dealing with him is effort because he is a human being and that’s just life. That’s ok. That’s more than ok. I want to put a lot of effort into him because I like him sooooooooooo much. If he doesn’t understand where I am putting effort and why… it’s kind of silly, you know? I don’t know that I am using my effort to good effect. I don’t know where I am spinning my wheels and trying to do things to please dead people.
Who do I want to be when I grow up? What would I be like if I had grown up believing that my body is mine and people should only do things to me that I want them to do? I wonder if she is more or less fierce than I am?
Obedience. What is it? Obedience to what? To blind ideals? To stupid short-sighted goals? To instant gratification with a high opportunity cost? What cost can I bear? Honestly–a high cost. I really can. But where should the cost be spent? I don’t think that decision should be made in a vacuum. Years ago Noah offered me an abusive relationship with off-switch. What does it mean to be off? What does it mean when it is turned on? I’m not afraid of Noah, not really. Noah told me flat out this morning that he doesn’t believe me when I say I won’t leave. He’s a smartie, that one. The part that I don’t think he understands is I wouldn’t be able to stay gone. I can never actually walk away from him. He is the father of my children. Until his death he will be in my life. That is complicated. Noah doesn’t actually know what it means to talk about a broken home. I do. I want a home.
Even if it is soft serve, it’s home. That sounds terrible. Even if I am nothing exciting you will still stay. Even if I am a poor imitation of what a wife should be. Even if I am not anything like advertised. I feel like I am ruining Noah’s life by being so conflicted about sex. I don’t think Noah’s sexual performance has suddenly gone down hill.
Who do I want to be when I grow up? I don’t think a therapist can just fix me. I need to figure out who I want to be. No one else can tell me that. What would I be like if I could move through the world without the sure knowledge that if someone asked me for sex I am essentially required to say yes, or at least only say no to a very small number of people in specific categories. Anyone in category A should be good enough.
People are not interchangeable. They really aren’t. And I don’t fucking owe anyone anything. The Embargo is not my fault. It really doesn’t matter what my father told me. I don’t have a cunt so that I can get as many dicks as possible.