Monthly Archives: December 2011

OO money and other opportunities

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I haven’t heard back from anyone in a while.  I get the impression things are in flux.  That’s ok.  I was approached about an opportunity this week which will use up a lot of the money.  It will be a community building way to spend the money, but a very different community.  I’m not going to say specifics yet, but I’m excited.

I don’t do very well with trying to join groups unless I have a reason.  I need a job.  I need a role.  I know that’s fairly common.  I’m trying to find a way back into a world I miss.  I’m not sure what I want to get from the experience, exactly.  I want to serve.  That’s part of it.  Tonight someone laughed and told me I want status.  Not really.  I mean, yes, of course.  I do love my status.  But I want the chance to be able to be effective.  I want influence more than I want status for the influence.  I’m not sure I’m explaining well.

I will never be a big part of the public face of this opportunity.  I will be back end.  But that means I get to decide things about the back end.  This is me rubbing my fingers together.  What things to I want to see?  Am I right about my priorities?  I might get to find out.  I have spent a lot of years sitting in the cheap seats watching other people try and have various success with their efforts.  I don’t know what all I am going to do in life, yet.  But it will involve taking as many opportunities as I can.

Why do I want to do this?  Because it’s an opportunity that won’t come again.  Something that will make for great stories for the rest of my life.  Something that irrevocably slams that closet door wide open.  I like that.  I like doing that now in one fell swoop.  I don’t know yet who or what role I will really have in the community.  I’m looking forward to finding out.

Time to move on

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Saturday night we held a surprise dinner party for a friend’s birthday.  She seemed pretty excited about being the center of attention finally.  I think everyone should get the limelight on their birthday.  It was one of the best parties I’ve ever hosted.  I think it was a raging success.  An awful lot of the reason for that is I didn’t feel any pressure to be “on”.  People weren’t there to see me.  Maybe the secret is to invite other peoples’ friends over.
It was neat partially because this was a bdsm crowd of type I don’t hang out with much.  This was a Master/slave sort of gathering.  And Daddy energy.  Lots of Daddy energy.  I got to talk about my opinions about those sorts of relationships.  I got to talk about my experiences with people I have seen around in the scene for over a decade but never before have they noticed me.  It was a weird kind of arriving moment.  It was interesting.  
I really enjoyed getting to explain some of my opinions.  I don’t get asked about these topics much any more.  I have a lot of opinions.  The M/s portion of my relationship with Tom was the middle two years out of four.  So we had a year to ramp up and a year to ramp down.  I have a lot of perspective on that situation at this point. 
And after they left Noah and I had crazy hot sex where he explained what he would like from our relationship in the future.  I’m considering his words very carefully.  It’s a lot more complicated for me to change the nature of my relationships now that I have young children and a marriage and a mortgage to consider.  I’m not just thinking about what I want and what will feel good.  I have to seriously stop and think about whether or not any given set of choices is sustainable for me.  Without sustainability there is no future for any set of behaviors.
Last night in the middle of that crazy hot sex we had to stop for a while because I was crying too hard.  I was crying because it has cost me a lot to maintain training that Tom gave me.  It is humiliating to have to explain to random pick up partners that they have to give me permission to orgasm.  Not only do they have to give me permission they have to kind of do it in a certain way.  Most people guess close enough, but some people say things that make it so that I can’t.  Or they think it is funny to tell me no.  I feel like I don’t get the final say on what happens to my body and that really bothers me.  I am tired of having no choice but to submit this ownership of my body to anyone who touches me.  I’m tired of being unable to have a private sexual experience inside my brain.  I’m tired of constantly having to offer up my desire to someone else.  Someone who doesn’t even understand what this gift costs me.
I am a slave without an Owner.  I’m kind of tired of it.  It is starting to feel demeaning.  It is starting to make me feel like this enormous pearl is being cast before swine.  They do not understand or appreciate and I feel cheapened by the experience.  I want to figure out how to not need permission any more.
I’m 30 years old.  I have not had control of my right to orgasm since I was 19.  Maybe it’s time.  I had a brief period where I started to figure out how to turn this off.  It lasted a couple of months.  Then Noah came back.  It’s one of his favorite party tricks.  It’s hard to tell him I don’t want to give this to him any more.  I am tired of having to feel subjugated to new partners.  It makes the barrier of sex very different.  It’s a lot of why I sleep with assholes.
Assholes know how to use this.  They don’t need me to stop and give an explanation of how I became so broken.  They just want to play with it as a toy.  Let’s press the button and see what happens!  I’m tired of having my right to pleasure be out of my control.  It feels like part of the larger patterns of me doing sex constantly for some perceived exterior motivation. 
I want to have some idea of what sex is like for other women. 
I told Noah last night that I can’t tell if part of me is breaking or mending.  I don’t know what it means that I feel so strongly about getting rid of this now.  I want my freedom, damn it.  I’m tired of having to explain to every vanilla person about my former Owner training.  I can never tell the story right in the moment.  It always feels rushed and I’m trying to change gears and be a different person and it doesn’t feel like a good conversation to have. 
How many other people have to stop and tell the story of their sex life going back to when they were 19 forever?  I wonder how much this feeds my inability to get over Tom.  I’m reminded of him every single time I have sex.  I know this was done for him.  I could never forget it.  This is such a huge part of my body and my life.  He caused this change in me.  What am I like without Tom’s training?  I don’t know.  I’ve never been able to find out.  It’s time.

Forgiveness

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I’m sitting here thinking about my mother.  Doing that makes me cry.  The dinner party I gave last night was for my Leather mom.  She turned 57.  Her actual birthday is on the 6th, but it was better to do the party on Saturday, obviously.  The 6th is also my biological mother’s birthday.  The only thing I am going to do to acknowledge it is cry.  My mother is turning 61.  I obviously missed her 60th birthday as well.  And.  And.  And.
I am about to put a book out into the public that says very bad things about her.  I talk extensively about why I cannot forgive her.  I just can’t give her that gift in this life time.  That’s the consequence of her actions.  It’s hard that actions can have unintended consequences, but it is part of life.  You have to deal with them.
I will never know if my mother forgives me or not.  I hope she does.  As much as I feel bad for wanting this, I want my mommy to forgive me.  I want my mommy to be able to take the high road for once in her fucking life.  I want her to really and truly understand how badly I was hurt by what happened to me.  I want her to forgive me even though I can’t forgive her.
The song that is on is I’m Moving On by Rascal Flatts.  I have these on random, I swear.  Well, ok now I put this one on repeat for a few minutes while I write this entry.  I’m meditating on this song.  I did imagine that home would be a place I wouldn’t belong.
Maybe some day I’ll find forgiveness somewhere on down the road.  From when I was a teenager I would write the word forgive over and over and over again.  I used to write it all over my pants.  My mother got so angry with me.  I’ve never been sure who I am supposed to forgive.  What does it mean to forgive? 
I put a huge tattoo on my back of me reaching for forgiveness.  It’s what I want more than anything else.  I want forgiveness for the hurt I have caused.  I was trying to save my life.  I swear I didn’t use excessive force.  I just wanted to save me.  I’m sorry for all the unintended consequences.  I’m so so so so so sorry.  I cannot express how sorry I am that Tommy is dead and my dad is dead.  I wish that Tommy was somewhere getting the treatment he needs without my involvement.  I wish that my father was rotting in a jail cell.
I want forgiveness for being unable to forgive my mother for marrying that  abusive son of a bitch.  I can’t forgive her for telling me that I made my bed now I have to lie in when he was raping me.  I can’t.  I didn’t make that bed.  She did.  She chose him for my father, not me.  She let me stay in his house unsupervised.  I was a child.  I wasn’t responsible.  She was.
Ok, so she didn’t know she was doing it.  So what?  It was still her responsibility and she failed.  And instead of supporting me after it happened she shamed me and silenced me and punished me and acted like it was my fault.  I can’t forgive her for doing that to me.  I can’t.  I deserve better treatment than that.  A fucking dog deserves better than that.
Grieving hurts.  Part of what hurts so much is having to acknowledge my disgusting hypocrisy on this topic.  I hate that I want other people to do things I am completely unwilling to do myself.  I think it is a massive character flaw.
But sometimes agreements are asymmetrical.  No matter what happens in this life I will always have to forgive my children.  They will not have to forgive me.  It makes me wary about parts of our relationship.  I don’t take it for granted that they will want to have a relationship with me.  I know I need to earn it.  Earning it is hard.  I don’t have good models for how to be the kind of parent someone would want to keep knowing. 
What does it mean to forgive anyway?

Forgiveness

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I’m sitting here thinking about my mother.  Doing that makes me cry.  The dinner party I gave last night was for my Leather mom.  She turned 57.  Her actual birthday is on the 6th, but it was better to do the party on Saturday, obviously.  The 6th is also my biological mother’s birthday.  The only thing I am going to do to acknowledge it is cry.  My mother is turning 61.  I obviously missed her 60th birthday as well.  And.  And.  And.
I am about to put a book out into the public that says very bad things about her.  I talk extensively about why I cannot forgive her.  I just can’t give her that gift in this life time.  That’s the consequence of her actions.  It’s hard that actions can have unintended consequences, but it is part of life.  You have to deal with them.
I will never know if my mother forgives me or not.  I hope she does.  As much as I feel bad for wanting this, I want my mommy to forgive me.  I want my mommy to be able to take the high road for once in her fucking life.  I want her to really and truly understand how badly I was hurt by what happened to me.  I want her to forgive me even though I can’t forgive her.
The song that is on is I’m Moving On by Rascal Flatts.  I have these on random, I swear.  Well, ok now I put this one on repeat for a few minutes while I write this entry.  I’m meditating on this song.  I did imagine that home would be a place I wouldn’t belong.
Maybe some day I’ll find forgiveness somewhere on down the road.  From when I was a teenager I would write the word forgive over and over and over again.  I used to write it all over my pants.  My mother got so angry with me.  I’ve never been sure who I am supposed to forgive.  What does it mean to forgive? 
I put a huge tattoo on my back of me reaching for forgiveness.  It’s what I want more than anything else.  I want forgiveness for the hurt I have caused.  I was trying to save my life.  I swear I didn’t use excessive force.  I just wanted to save me.  I’m sorry for all the unintended consequences.  I’m so so so so so sorry.  I cannot express how sorry I am that Tommy is dead and my dad is dead.  I wish that Tommy was somewhere getting the treatment he needs without my involvement.  I wish that my father was rotting in a jail cell.
I want forgiveness for being unable to forgive my mother for marrying abusive son of a bitch.  I can’t forgive her for telling me that I made my bed now I have to lie in when he was raping me.  I can’t.  I didn’t make that bed.  She did.  She chose him for my father, not me.  She let me stay in house unsupervised.  I was a child.  I wasn’t responsible.  She was.
Ok, so she didn’t know she was doing it.  So what?  It was still her responsibility and she failed.  And instead of supporting me after it happened she shamed me and silenced me and punished me and acted like it was my fault.  I can’t forgive her for doing that to me.  I can’t.  I deserve better treatment than that.  A fucking dog deserves better than that.
Grieving hurts.  Part of what hurts so much is having to acknowledge my disgusting hypocrisy on this topic.  I hate that I want other people to do things I am completely unwilling to do myself.  I think it is a massive character flaw.
But sometimes agreements are asymmetrical.  No matter what happens in this life I will always have to forgive my children.  They will not have to forgive me.  It makes me wary about parts of our relationship.  I don’t take it for granted that they will want to have a relationship with me.  I know I need to earn it.  Earning it is hard.  I don’t have good models for how to be the kind of parent someone would want to keep knowing. 
What does it mean to forgive anyway?

The only thing that stays the same is that everything changes. Sex version

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Noah and I seem to be rediscovering one another.  My mild frustration with the hunting has resulted in our sex life dramatically changing.  In the first year of our marriage we averaged sex ten times a week.  Then I got pregnant.  I am one of those don’t even look at me let alone think about sex with me pregnant women.  I was really hoping to be one of the nymphomaniac kinds.  Oh well.  I’m never doing that misery again so it doesn’t matter any more.

The first year after having a kid we didn’t have a lot of sex.  I am definitely a wait six weeks for it to be comfortable kind of girl.  That’s some serious friction, yo.  Healing time was my friend.  With Shanna once a month after that for a few months was as much as we could figure out.  With Calli I think we were close to once a week pretty quickly.  Well, ok we were probably two or three times a month.  Not really once a week.

It changes in dramatic ways after a year.  And after Shanna at right around eighteen months I started feeling a strong sudden interest in doing bdsm again.  But I got pregnant immediately and didn’t follow through much.  Calli is fifteen months old.

For almost two months we’ve been having sex pretty close to daily.  In the past couple of weeks it has been twice a day as often as not.  I really like my husband.  Sex is a big deal to Noah.  I’m absolutely up front about the fact that at this point a lot of our sex is for him and I’m there being a team player.  I’m there because it builds him up to have sex.  When he is having a lot of sex he has the energy and patience to put up with my shit.  Ok, we can have a lot of sex.

But I’m in kind of a unique position.  Should I be having sex I’m enh about?  Given my history?  I could find a long list of feminazi’s who would tell me no.  I think a lot about the idea of consent.  What does it mean to consent?  It’s kind of a fuzzy thing sometimes.

What does it mean to want sex?  Do I always have to want the same kind of sex?  Do I always have to feel the same minimal level of desire before I get started?  That seems kind of silly.  I think part of the reason I married Noah is because he is so overwhelmingly enthusiastic about me talking about and having sex pretty much as often as possible.  No matter how conflicted I feel about it.

There is this little benefit that’s not something feminazi’s like to hear about.  When I’m not having sex all of the time I have lower self esteem.  I know that I am failing in the task to which I was brought up.  I was apprenticed in sex if anyone ever was.  I wanted this to be something I was good at and did a lot of. So I do a lot of it.

I’m trying to figure out what that means to me at this stage of my life.  I have this voracious need for sex. I literally get off on the fact that Noah and I treat it as part of my job that I am supposed to be available for sex.  (Uh, after that one time he listens to my actual “no’s” and I do give them.)  We like figuring out what we should be doing at other times of the day to ensure that I will be up for it later.  We treat having sex like it is a goal.  Something we want to do and be good at.

I feel weird about being this person and being a parent.  Like this should have been shut off.  Like all of a sudden it is kind of a problem that I am so obsessed with sex.  But I’m not sure why it is a problem.  I just feel like I am bad for liking it.  For wanting it.  For prioritizing it in ways that would be a problem for other people.  I don’t feel exploited.  I feel like I am being seen for who and what I am and appreciated for the fairly unusual set of skills I have.

I like that for the first time in my life I have a partner who wants to have sex as much or more than me.  I didn’t know that could happen.  I have usually ended up begging for sex after a while and feeling humiliated and rejected all the time.  I’m fucking thrilled that I don’t have to deal with Noah rejecting me for sex.  I think he’s up to about a dozen “no’s” in the seven years I’ve known him.  That’s an acceptable rate for me.  I’m really glad he wants me so much.

I’m glad and it’s intimidating.  It’s intimidating because I have a physiological response when he makes it clear he wants sex.  I feel compelled to participate.  I feel uncomfortable about the fact that I react even when I’m not “in the mood”.  It’s not that I’m going to get off.  I don’t do that how I used to.  It’s really sad.  I hope that comes back.  But saying no to sex is usually not something I have any interest in doing. Regardless of whether or not I have interest in sex.  They are different decisions for me.  The default answer to “Do you want sex?” is “YES!” even when my body is saying “meh”.  I want sex to be more interesting all the time.  I want to better figure out how to orgasm from different kinds of stimulation.  The Master/slave relationship I was in taught me a very specific flavor of orgasming on command and I haven’t played with that.  I would like for my sexual response to be less tied to pain.

Maybe I should figure out how to get my husband-with-hypnotism-training thinking about this.  I’m sure we can figure something out.  I married the best man in the whole fucking world.  He is so absolutely perfect for me.  I’m so glad I found him.

Integrity

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My therapist asked me today why I am so much stronger than other people.  Why I have been able to do things that other people can’t.  She said she thinks of it as integrity, but it’s more than that.

I told her that I did a lot more things before I was 18 than most people do in a lifetime.  And I did them in weird bursts with new people.  Then I, inevitably, was chased away because people didn’t like me.  I was too different.  Too weird.  Too… something.  Then I had months or years to sit around and think about what I did and what other people did and look at patterns.  I was always a reader, so I knew that other people didn’t have lives that looked like mine.

I don’t think that most people who are abused as intensely as I was have the same kind of boom and bust cycles.  I think that most people stay in one place with one pattern and they live it over and over again.  I’ve had so many patterns I can’t name them all.  Yeah, yeah, I’ve always been hyper-sexual.  But it’s different now.  I no longer fall into bed with people who obviously dislike me and are just interested in getting off.  I have higher standards than that.  My patterns have changed a lot over time.

I don’t think most people are given the time and space to do that.  To reinvent themselves over and over for more than twenty years.  I had a lot of opportunities to try things out and decide they didn’t work for me.  I would never see these people again, what did it matter?

I’m stronger because the only person I have ever had to look at for a long time is me.  And I can’t live with myself if I behave any other way.  Why in the fuck should I worry about making anyone else feel good about themselves and their shitty behavior?  If it makes me feel bad, I’m the only one I have to worry about.  You are your problem.  That is a mixed thing.  But it means that yes, I have a lot of integrity.  I am up front about everything I do, everything I am.  I wouldn’t have it any other way.  If it drives other people off… well… that’s just business as usual for my life.  It’s not scary.  I know what that means.  I will always be able to find new people.

It means that when I look at Shanna and Calli I have to think really hard about what relationship I want to have with them.  I’m pre-scripting my permitted behavior over the next twenty years.  If I don’t write the script now I will ad lib.  I’m not a person who can be trusted to ad lib.  They are the first people ever in my life where I feel responsible for the effect of my behavior on them.  Everyone else is on their own.

This is really intense.

Why I date assholes

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If you look at Noah, Stephen, and Tom the main thing they have in common is that they are all very silly, very into juvenile humor, and they were all intensely motivated by the things they liked to the point where they were inconsiderate to the people around them.  When I talk about my assholes, I generally mean the casual, shorter relationships.  Stephen was emotionally available, but he had absolutely no idea where I was coming from, not really, and he did not know how to deal with my life circumstances.  I can’t hate him for that.  I didn’t know that my life circumstances were that much different from other people then so I didn’t know how to translate.

Tom loved me.  I think Tom loved me to the extent he can love someone.  He just didn’t want the same things from life that I did, so I had to keep looking for someone who did.  If I had been willing to spend the rest of my life doing exactly the same thing I did for the four years we were together, it would have been a permanent relationship.  I wanted to change and he didn’t.  That’s ok.

Noah is my chameleon.  He is alternately one of the biggest assholes I have ever met and probably the sweetest and most considerate.  He loves me enough to try to intuit my moods and give me what I need on a given day.  It’s been a while since I wanted him to be an asshole.  We are trying to figure out the vanilla thing.  He’s doing a good job.

What I mean by asshole: someone who wants what they want so much that they don’t pay much attention to what the people around them want.  This is useful because I have really intense desires and I want to be able to say just a few words to get someone else going and have them run the fuck.

Do you know how hard it is to get a nice guy to run a fuck?  I always have to do it.  I don’t want to.  I sleep with assholes because they are the ones with developed enough interests that they can direct me.  I really like being directed.  The problem is that the assholes tend to be motivated by how much pain they can inflict before I tap out.  That’s what I’m done with.

I’m really glad that I’m married.  I’m really glad that I’m set with a partner who likes me.  Hunting is hard.  Hunting means being vulnerable about the fact that I’m a very particular taste.  Not many people are really going to like me much or feel comfortable with me.  Once you have this kind of life, and you tell people about it, they pull back.  They know they aren’t like me.  I don’t really want to spend my life only with people who set the far edge of the bell curve on abuse.  It’s rather lonely.

I feel lonely.  Even with Noah and Sarah and Shanna and Calli.  I feel like I should give up on going out of my house forever.  I will always be wrong for people.  The more of my story I tell the more people are going to recoil from me.  Except Noah.  Thank God for Noah.  He can read my story and still look at me.  He doesn’t look at me with pity or horror or disgust.  He just loves me.

What am I even hunting for.  I like getting to know people.  I like feeling interesting.  I like feeling desired.  I’m kind of tired of the rut I am in with assholes.  I’m tired of being hurt.  But other people tell me they aren’t assholes, so they won’t work for me.

What would it be like if a “nice guy” had the nerve to really pursue me.  I think the closest I ever came was Stephen.  And he was too conformist.  He wanted me to become like him.  I can’t meld into anyone else’s culture at this point.  Too late.  I feel like I should stop hunting.  I don’t have the confidence.  I don’t think I am interesting enough.  Well, I’m only interesting to a small segment of people I’m not sure I want any more.  This is really frustrating.  This is why people are monogamous.

I love country music.

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I was feeling mopey thinking about my early childhood and I had the Dixie Chick’s song So Hard on in the background.  It’s nominally about fertility problems.  It’s not hard to ignore about three lines and generalize it to other topics.  I’m just saying.  I’m having a hard time with this whole parenting gig sometimes.  I know my reactions are wrong.  I know when I sound like my mother.  I don’t know who else to sound like.  I don’t have very many people I feel comfortable around.  People make me feel tense.  I get edgy.  And bitchy.  And shit still rolls down hill.  I’m minor compared to everything I knew.  I know that.  But this isn’t who I wanted to be when I grew up.

If I’m not satisfied with my behavior I need to change it.  It’s hard right now because Calli is in the last throes of babyhood before becoming a talking person.  I’m having a very hard time waiting for that jump.  It came so early with Shanna.  I’m not a fan of the pre-verbal phase.  I still think Arwyn said it best.  I feel triggered when I spend a lot of time with my kids if I have to do anything else at the same time.  As long as I can be idle and just focused on them I can handle them.  They are not too much stimulus under those circumstances.  The problem comes when I am trying to get something done (like making breakfast) and it isn’t happening fast enough for Calli.  She starts screeching and it hurts my ears.  I start feeling anger.  It’s hard to tamp it down.  I have so much anger rolling around in me right now.

Reading through the whole story yesterday made me see spots where I have new perspective on why my mom and sister acted the ways they did.  Being a parent changes my point of view.  Funny, that.  But writing my story down means I can’t retreat to the sanctity of the parents point of view, either.  I stand there feeling bad for Calli that life is so hard.  She really and truly can’t have what she wants very much of the time.  She wants to be able to touch me any time she wants any way she wants.  She feels like she needs that from me.  But I can’t take how rough she is.  Oh gosh she is rough with me.  I get really angry.  I’m tired of being hurt.  I’m so. fucking. tired. of. being. hurt.  It’s so hard.

But she’s in the last throes of babyhood.  Soon it will be gone forever.  I don’t want my kids to remember me being angry all the time.  That is not what I want them to have as their story.  I don’t want them to remember me retreating with dramatic explosions.  Even though I’m not insulting any one.  Even though I’m just stomping my feet and huffing.  I don’t want to be that person.  How do you just decide to be someone else?  I was someone else with Shanna.  I narrowed my world to just her.  I gave her every single scrap and ounce of patience I had for any and everything in the whole world.  It was a nice year.  I couldn’t do that with Calli.  It’s so hard being a younger child.  You never ever get your needs fully met. You are short changed from birth.  Says the self-pitying youngest of four.

But then the song changed.  Best Days of Your Life by Kellie Pickler.  And I got a very nice email.  Right that minute.  My chest exploded with this moment of Oh My Fucking God.  When I’m feeling upbeat and I think about my life once I became an adult… well.  I’m pretty fucking cool.  I’ve done a lot of really neat things.  And I’m going to do a lot more.  As much as I possibly can.  And part of that is going to involve me figuring out how to be the person I want to be.  I will make mistakes and I will have bitchy days.  But when I do I tell my kids, “God I know my tone of voice sucks.  I’m really sorry.  It’s not you honey, I’m fussy about other things.”  I don’t think I was ever once told that.  Every bad mood that happened within a three block radius was my.fucking.fault.

Maybe I have already changed.  It’s hard on days when the kids want to test to see if I love them.  I do.  But I also have limited patience these days.  It’s time for the pendulum to swing back to them.  I think we should go out and play today.  And I’ll play the upbeat country songs.  The ones that make me feel like hot shit.  Because I rock like that.

I finished

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I finished around 2pm.  58,048 words.  That means it’s not epic.  Good.  It’s too intense to be epic.  It’s too long as it is.  It’s hard to read.  I read through the whole thing yesterday and it is really brutal and nasty.  My life was shit.  It’s going to be interesting to hear peoples reactions.  I let Noah have it already because I couldn’t not let Noah have it.  I need him to know this story.  He got up to the beginning of 1988.  He has a long way to go yet.

I spent most of yesterday angry.  Reading the book through in a day reminds me that I have very good reasons to be angry.  So angry that flames come out the top of my head.  But I don’t want to be angry.  Being angry doesn’t feel good.  That book is closed now.  Those chapters are over.  Noah will finish reading the book by this weekend.  Probably Sarah, too.  They are quick like that.

Then I’m going to wait till next year to do anything else.  But I want them to know.  I’m not writing this book because I want to make money on the story.  I’m writing this because I cannot continue to live with people not knowing this story.  I can’t even handle waiting until I get a final draft before showing it to the people who claim they want to build a life with me.  They claim they want to know me.  Well here the fuck I am.  It hurts my soul that this is my story.  This should be fiction.  No one should have a life like that.  But I did.

And I’m pretty awesome.  No, I’m not always tactful.  That’s a small sin in the scheme of things.  Really. It is.

I have this weird feeling in my chest.  I feel empty and hollow.  I did my very best to bring up all the major threads that wove through my childhood.  I didn’t give any of them a lot of individual face time.  There were too many.  I don’t think people could handle a book that explicated all of them intensely.  It’s too sad and painful.  Yes, yes, a few people could.  But I’m not trying to write a book that is only for the biggest bad asses.  I’m just trying to be seen.

I wrote this as simply and directly as I could.  I tried to do it without excessive anger.  I tried to present people in a balanced way.  I tried to just tell the truth.  As simply and plainly as I can.  I used simple words and simple sentences.  I used almost no dialogue.  This is something I had to just say and get off my chest.  And now it’s off my chest and on my hard drive.  I have emailed copies to two people.  I am saving it on Google Docs.  I might put it in Noah’s Drop Box just so that I don’t lose it.  I want back ups.  I’m half tempted to sit here and print it right now just so that I have it.  So that I can see what this looks like on a page.

I want to be seen.  And that means I have to deal with the fact that people are going to have very different reactions.  Be sure that you’re right, then go ahead.  I’m just telling the truth.  This is my story.  I didn’t embellish it.  I didn’t make it more melodramatic than it is.  It is a hard story to read.  I don’t think that certain people understand what they meant to me.  What their place was in my life.

In three months I am going to publish it as an e-book.  Noah is going to help me figure that out.  I’m not going to deal with shopping around for a publisher right now.  That’s not the point.  The point is to get it out.  I’m not doing this because I want to make money off this story.  I just want to be seen.

I don’t want anyone to try to edit it before Christmas because this is already an emotionally intense time of year.  Old trauma can sit on a shelf and wait for a bit.

It’s time to shift gears.  I have to get my house ready.  I’m doing something really fun this weekend.

I had a lovely meet-up-for-coffee yesterday.  I like being able to sit down and talk with an attractive man about statistical analysis.  It means he thinks I can understand it.  It means he thinks I’m smart.  Oh that’s hot.  That made me want to sit on his lap.  I didn’t.  But I thought about it and smiled.  I really like intelligent men.