Monthly Archives: August 2012

18 miles

I packed my water bag with food and blister pads already. My clothes are lying out so that I can get up, take some Exedrin Migraine (that shit's amazing first thing in the morning before a run) and go. I bet it will still be dark when I leave.

If I am very lucky this will be the third longest run I ever do in my life. The second longest will be in two weeks. The very longest is in five weeks. Time just keeps slipping away. 37 days. 176.2 miles left till I'm done with this goal. It doesn't sound that bad since I know I had to do like 450 miles this year.

I'm hoping for under five hours because I am not going to rush. We'll see how it goes. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee. Bill's Cafe in Willow Glen. I will have hollandaise sauce. Mmmmmm hollandaise.

Haunted

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Running is getting harder. There are a few things going on. For one thing I am dealing with the cumulative of suddenly doing massive amounts of exercise when I have never done so before. It’s an experience. But mostly I am struggling because of how my body is changing. As I lose weight/change shape/harden/whatever I can feel the bones of my brother Tommy coming through in my face.

This is weird and hard to describe. The more time I spend looking at Calli and the more time I spend running the more conscious I am of how my skull resembles my brother. And my running gait is embarrassingly like his. Embarrassing because Tommy had a severe traumatic brain injury. He didn’t run. He lurched. He looked awkward and weird. It was a miracle he walked at all so folks considered it a real big deal.

One year, in Apple Valley, he was on a disabled kids sports team, softball. I remember how Tommy looked running the bases. I move like that. I feel weird when I run. I lurch awkwardly to the side. I have trouble figuring out how to balance my weight. I almost trip a lot. I kind of go back and forth on the side walk.

Except for sometimes when I hit my stride just right and I feel like I am flying. Then I feel Tommy. Then I remember how he would smile the few times he really managed to get going quickly. That wild ebullition on his face. I feel that way when I am running really fast.

I often wonder what my life would have been like if I had lived in one place. If someone had looked at me as a small child and said, “Running quickly makes you feel good. Let’s work with this.” I was told to go to my room with a book and shut up. So I’m pretty awkward when I run. I have run more this year than the entire rest of my life combined.

Tommy hated me. Before the accident he was nasty and mean, “No one wanted you. Why were you born? Can’t you die already?” After the accident he was brutal and vicious.

Tommy’s speech was very difficult to understand. He had trouble enunciating and an average sentence would take multiple breaths and minutes to deliver. He hated me because I could hear the first three words and finish his sentences. “You rude, stupid bitch.” He hit me a lot. A really lot. When I think of myself as “not being all that physically abused” what I mean is my mom gave me four really memorable beatings and that’s it. My siblings hurt me all the time. That “didn’t count.”

Once, Tommy was screaming at me. I don’t remember what I did. Maybe nothing. Maybe something. I don’t know. He got as far as, “You are” and I finished, “a stupid worthless bitch, yeah I know” and I didn’t even look up from my book.

I remember the sound of inhaled breath. Then I don’t remember anything until I woke up on the floor. He hit me in the head. I don’t know how long I was unconscious. No one paid attention or cared. I don’t think I was unconscious very long. I think I managed to scramble up and away before he managed the physical dexterity to kick me. Either that or he did it once before I was awake. Regardless I got away just as he was trying to deliver a hard kick. He fell down. He crawled after me screaming that he was going to kill me. He wasn’t going to deal with such a stupid bitch any longer. He should have killed me a long time ago.

That was why I spent a lot of time in the willow tree in the yard. He didn’t have the arm strength to climb any more. I love climbing trees. I still love climbing trees.

That was Tuesday.

Essentially what I’m saying is: having running be a constant reminder of my brother is a mixed thing. I kind of wish I knew what Jimmy looks like when he runs. I’m not sure I have ever seen him run. In high school he was a state finalist. He was quite good.

Running fast is a gene. You have it or you don’t. (Based on what I’ve read.) I don’t know if I truly have it or not but I know I have never tried. It’s not until you are an adult many years later that you can admit to yourself that as a kid you never tried. You never really gave it a go. You have to be honest with yourself.

The only time I ran was when someone was chasing me. I rarely got away. Usually I was caught and had the shit beat out of me.

I think I am afraid of Shanna getting older. She is so like me. I’m afraid she is going to be a lightning rod for people who want to beat the hell out of her as well. I hope not.

When I was nineteen I asked Tom to crucify me. We used rope instead of nails (I’m not that hard core) and we built a padded back board with a cross piece together. Even if you are just tied to a board, being suspended in that position with all of your weight hanging is rather intense. Especially if you stay up for a long time. I certainly got to the point of hallucination from insufficient air and blood circulation.

I saw Tommy and I saw my dad. At that point they had been dead for about three years. The hallucinations didn’t talk to me at all. They just looked at me kind of dispassionately. I am not theirs but I don’t belong to any one else. When I was nineteen I felt it was pretty clear that I was good for one thing–being hurt a lot. That was the one currency I had to buy affection. I can take a lot of pain. I can take a lot of degradation. It just feels normal to me.

I’m having this weird body experience as I run. I can tell where my body is going to start siphoning energy from fat stores. I’ve watched the various fat pockets on my body (I have a lot of them) over this year. As I run the fat jiggles, quite a bit–really. On a scale of 1-10, 1 being you can barely feel it and 10 being “cut my leg off because it hurts so much” then my fat jiggling is normally in the 2-3 range. I can feel it but it doesn’t hurt. Except when my body is nursing from a given area. I can’t find a better way of thinking about it. We are actively stealing from that spot right now. When I can feel my body stealing from a spot that fat pocket starts hurting at more like the 4-5 level. It starts to feel like pain. Then a week or so later I notice that it is a lot smaller. It’s kind of weird. I didn’t know bodies did this.

I am doing a lot of compensatory eating. I’m a little more than ten pounds heavier than I was in March for the half marathon. I’m very depressed. I’m eating a lot of sugar and crying while I do it. I don’t want my body to be smaller. I hate that I feel more and more like Tommy. Fuck that. I’ll eat ice cream. There’s a lot of ice cream in this world. I don’t have to fucking feel Tommy’s bones coming through. Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him.

Yesterday was an eight mile run then the girls and I did a round trip three mile walk for the park. I’m sore and tired. But I’ll do five miles today. And eighteen miles on Saturday.

I’m not going to let Tommy take this away from me. I’m pretty sure he has hurt me enough for one life.

More whining. I’m sorry I woke up so early.

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I’ve been staring at Mint for half an hour. I play with columns. The Sarah experiment was expensive. Not because of anything malicious on her part or anything like that. Life costs money. I’m ok with that. I’ve been slowly trying to dig myself out of that hole all year. This month is the first month I am not over the food budget. I will remain in the green as long as I don’t spend any money on food in the next three days. Good thing I’m well stocked. And if nothing else I have a yard full of tomatoes and carrots. Shanna may hate me, but we’ll have tomatoes for days.

I have felt ashamed of the fact that supporting me requires work for as long as I have known it was true. My father and mother would talk about what I owed them for supporting me. My mom has always felt guilty about how much work she has added to Auntie and that guilt has made her act out in some weird ways. I feel terrible about needing someone else to go work for me. I’m a lazy piece of shit. I can’t fucking support myself what good am I? I’m being terrible at the whore thing this month. I don’t really want to be touched right now. So, what fucking good am I?

Noah’s book is priced a lot higher than mine. He has made a lot more money at that than I have. It feels… appropriate. Everything about who and what he is dictates that he be paid a lot for what he has to offer the world. I give people free downloads. Because I know I am not really worth anything. Nothing that I have to give could possibly be worth anything.

I’m still selling copies. One or so a week. Heh. Maybe if I did something resembling promotion it would help. Those are pretty much random finds. Holy shit. Random complete strangers on the internet (it is an e-book) want to read about me. I get lovely emails sometimes.

I feel angry with Noah because he has worth and I don’t. But I don’t particularly want to go get a job. The idea of missing this part of my childrens lives makes me feel sick. No. I need every minute of intense love I can get. I need to be loved. I need to have my day full of people who genuinely like me and want to be near me. I may never get this feeling again. They will be adults before much longer. Maybe I’ll work some day. I don’t know what I’ll do, but certainly not now.

So I have nothing that the world values. That’s part of simple market economics. And I don’t really have much time to make things that could potentially be judged as valuable or not because I am busy being loved. And I feel like making that choice means that I am choosing to be nothing. I am something that only has worth and value for a short time. Then I cease to matter at all. In some horrifying ways I feel like more than other people I know that the support a mother gives is a one way obligation. I don’t expect much of anything from my kids as adults.

Which means I spend all day every day feeling like I am pouring all of myself, all of my energy, all that I have to give to the world into two people who will leave me. I feel scared all the time. I know that I am using all this energy–all of these resources in ways that will long term not serve me. I expect to have my fifties to look forward to while feeling like I have done nothing with my life but want love.

Even a cursory glance at my life makes it fairly apparent that for me it is true that no one stays. Noah says he will. I’m crossing my fingers because I don’t really believe him. I think that all I have to do is be a little meaner and he will understand how bad I am and he will go. I just need to show him who I am. Don’t worry, he will go. Everyone does.

I’m really struggling with how alone I feel. If it weren’t for my kids needing me to wait on them hand and foot I don’t think I would make it through today. I don’t want to. But I have to stop crying soon. I have to put this feeling in a box. It doesn’t matter what I want. I made a commitment. It doesn’t matter if they will leave one day. I made the decision to bring two people into the world who require care. I have sixteen more years of duty. I don’t get to shirk that. They really and truly need me. Even though neither of them are nursing. Even though they aren’t really “babies” any more. They need me.

Shanna needs someone who can deal with her intensity. She reminds me so much of me. I was beaten and shamed and told I was disgusting and annoying for being like Shanna. No one but me is going to want to love her so much. I really don’t think other people would have as much patience for her quirks. I can be gentle with her and forgive myself for being punished. I know she isn’t worthless. I know that this investment of time and energy and love will be good for her. I don’t know how it will work out for me long term, but I know that she will go off into the world knowing that it is good for her to yearn and do and be. Calli is quite clear that she wants me. Mama mama mama. If I am out of her sight for an hour there are a lot of tears. I can’t leave her.

I’m really sad. I’m really scared. I’m really lonely. There isn’t really anything I can do about these feelings. It’s time to go run. I have a race in 38 days with a very good friend.

It’s not that I think I don’t have friends or people who love me. But I spend fifteen to twenty hours a month with adults other than Noah who know me and like me. I don’t count the home schooling group because I go there and keep my fat mouth shut. It’s isolating and hard. I feel bad all the time. Like *I* am bad. With my kids. With people I associate with for my kids. It’s hard. It’s really hard.

Not being nice to Noah.

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Sometimes when I am having a hard time at “life” I end up very angry with Noah. It’s not particularly fair to him. It’s actually a lot of the reason I originally wanted Sarah to move in. I thought she could help fill the aching hole I have because Noah is gone all the time. It didn’t work. She wouldn’t come out of her room. I was still alone all the time only I had another person to clean up after. I couldn’t do it.

I know I “should” have a better control over my temper but I don’t. I can (barely) keep it off the kids. As a result when an adult walks in the door they become the lightning rod for all the emotions I was not allowed to express at the kids. Sarah really didn’t appreciate being the person on whom I dumped my anger. I don’t blame her. I don’t blame Sarah for hiding from my frequent anger eruptions. She has every right to do that. She had every right in the whole world to not want to be my punching bag. Truly. I am not upset with her for avoiding me. I just couldn’t live with it. I couldn’t handle living with another person I had to be really nice to. I am too selfish. I am too much of a bitch. It leaves Noah by himself as the person I can get angry at.

It’s not really fun being the one person I can safely get angry at. Noah deals with. Noah understands that I really don’t have many outlets. He is the adult in my life I can talk to about the hard things. That means he gets all the hard things. Including when I am angry with him and blame him for not supporting me enough.

Before we got married I was quite cruel to Noah about how “lazy” he was. It took several years of him ramping up work stuff more and more before I understood that all the staring at a glowing box he does is “work”. And it directly leads to money that supports me. I have tried hard to get rid of my attitude but it’s hard. I was taught, specifically and deliberately, that mental work doesn’t “count” and doing a lot of it without doing physical work makes you a piece of shit. You are a lazy piece of shit. You are shiftless. You are nothing. I didn’t grow up with a family who values academia to say the least.

It’s been a gradual process as I try to discover how to live with someone who lives and works in his head. Tom wasn’t like Noah. Tom also had the hard streak of “must work with hands in order to not look ‘lazy'” and he would do things like build furniture on the weekend. It felt like, sure he does namby pamby brain work during the week but he is still a man. He can fix my computer, my car, and when I say, “I’m tired of having an electric oven. I would like gas” he did all the work to convert the kitchen for me. He just did it. Like that. No big deal. Err, Noah doesn’t do that.

If Noah does a house chore he always leaves parts for me. If he had to use tools they are left out until I put them away. I can wait for fucking weeks and look at the big shop vac he left out after cleaning the hot tub and it won’t go anywhere until I put it away. (Thank you for cleaning the hot tub. That is a huge, shitty job and I didn’t want to do it. I’m really appreciative.)

In many of the worlds I have lived in, Noah would be a worthless piece of shit. But he really isn’t. He isn’t. He isn’t. He isn’t. He works very hard. He does a lot of chores. He spends as much time with the kids as he can. He pays as much attention to me as he possibly can. He works at things that are very difficult to him from when he wakes up until he passes out. I know that. I can see it.

But I get angry with him for not instinctively filling all the roles I kind of assign him in my head. I get mad that supporting our family creeps slowly into filling more and more and more hours. I get mad because I want more support. I thought I would have support. All those people at my baby shower and Noah promised me I would have more support. People are liars.

You aren’t supposed to say that though. I have gotten support. I have a lot of people I can call out of the blue for help. They will be happy to help if I specifically ask and chase them down. But frankly, most of them don’t pursue relationships with my kids so I have let it fall away. I can’t chase people down and beg them to have a relationship with my kids. Most people don’t really give a shit. I have to let it go. I have to not try to force it and create it. Then my kids will turn into me. They will have to get used to trying to form relationships only to observe that once they stop doing all the work and travel… they just don’t see people any more. It’s not worth it. It’s really not.

It’s not worth it *to me* to try and form community. I’m so tired of being lied to. I don’t trust people. I hate people. And Noah has to live with me. And I feel so bad. I’m sorry I don’t trust Noah. I’m sorry I bite his head off. I’m sorry that he has to bear the brunt of what a fucking asshole I am. I really feel like that is probably a bad deal for him. I’m not sure he should do it. But the alternatives are really bad for me so I try not to encourage them too much.

Whether I try hard at it or not I drive people away. When I try to get close to them it just means that I am opening myself up to more hurt. I’m not sure how much more I can bear.

I feel terrible when I yell at Noah. For days I feel this hanging cloud over me. He’s going to get sick of me being an asshole too. He is going to leave, just like everyone else. He has been kind of avoiding me lately. Out alone time is full of me being a bitch. I don’t blame him. I wish I could avoid a bitch like me too.

It’s scheduling stuff. That’s all.

It’s not helping that as the days go by I hate running more and more. I don’t want to do it. It’s physically uncomfortable (not painful, but I am clearly straining my body). I’m god damn exhausted All.The.Fucking.Time. It doesn’t really feel like relaxing alone time. The only time I have to relax and be quiet is when I am smoking pot. I may never stop at this rate. I’m developing a Pavlovian response that I am only allowed to sit down, I am only allowed to write, I am only allowed to read the fucking internet when I am smoking. That’s when I sit down. That is the closest I have to rest. And I type furiously in a bad posture the whole time and my arms hate me. I think I should look into arm braces.

Noah isn’t doing anything terrible to me. He really isn’t. He’s not being selfish. He’s not being excessive about the time he needs, not really. It’s not his fault that I am so alone. It’s really not. I can’t expect him to be everything to me. He can’t be. It’s not fair. Some year I am going to have to realize that not everyone in the world is alone, but I always will be. I need to stop resenting it. I need to stop feeling angry with Noah for abandoning me–he’s not. It’s not his fault that I have driven everyone else away. I can’t expect him to make up for everyone else.

I go back and forth between believing I live a life of utter pointlessness–I feel like a complete waste of oxygen–and believing I must have lived through my childhood for a reason. Please, please, please let there be some kind of plan. Please, let me be useful. Please, let there be something I can do that is worth doing. That is worth going through hell for. What I am doing isn’t. What I am doing means that going through hell should kill you. There is no reason to survive for more of this.

In choosing to not die today I feel like what I am doing is dooming Noah. I will hurt him over and over. Yes, I wake up in the morning and sob and cry for hours because I believe Noah would be better off if he didn’t live with a disgusting bully like me. He says I’m not that bad. Yeah, my tone of voice isn’t great but I’m not that bad. I don’t believe him. Because he will change his mind one of these days. Everyone does. I’m not worth putting up with. I really want to die today. I don’t want to fucking run. I want to die. I don’t want to do today.

But I have to run nine miles. And one of the home schooling moms invited us to walk to our local park today and meet her at 10. (Her son is kind of obsessed with Shanna and vice versa.) I try not to speak very much around her. She seems nice. I don’t want to drive her away. So I’m very quiet. The only way for me to earn a grudging entry into the group, I feel, is for me to be as silent as possible. The only thing me speaking does is earn me a swift kick in the backside. I can’t do that to my kids. So I’ll shut up. Just shut up, Kristine. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. No one wants to hear your stupid, fucking mouth. You stupid, mean, little bitch.

Stupidly defensive.

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I feel strangely guilty for liking Disneyland as much as I do. I really do. I’m not alone. This is a grand passion that many people share. But I feel vaguely ashamed of being part of the cult. I’m even part of the time share. Cue jokes about lame people.

When I go down for the marathon I am getting an annual pass with Shanna. This is the last year Calli is free. Shanna and I will go four times if I get my way. I think I will. With an annual pass and a time share the only unusual expense is gas. And I have a fund for that. It’s less than $100 round trip in the blue car. I put about $40 extra every month into a fund for Disneyland travel. I don’t feel too guilty.

Disneyland is pretty much the only place I feel like I can trust people to be really nice to me. I spend my life on edge waiting for people to snap at me. That’s part of why Disneyland Paris is so awful. You go there expecting, you know… Disneyland and instead you get France. Fuck yourself very much.

I haven’t had an annual pass since before my parents divorced. I had one when I was three. That’s not true! I have the vague memory of buying one on the Christmas Day I spent there with friends after Tom and I broke up. I didn’t actually make it back to Disneyland that year–unsurprising I was busy figuring out being a teacher–but I bought one as a self-comfort thing. This time I have three sets of reservations so far. The fourth will be easy.

I am going to be there for the anniversary of my father’s suicide. I’ll be there on my father’s birthday (missing my mom’s birthday by three days). I will be there for Shanna’s birthday and I think I will go again for the fourth trip for my birthday. I have given other people trips to Disneyland for their birthday but I haven’t been for my birthday… ever. I really should stop giving other people things I want. People always leave me. Then I get to remember that I will go through great effort for other people and it’s not reciprocated. Fuck them. I should save my energy for me.

All told that will be nineteen days of travel. Noah will be there for the marathon and I suspect he will come down for my birthday. The other two trips I will be alone with my little girls. I can’t wait. I like traveling with them. I pare down my needs until we can move at the same pace. It’s a lot of fun. Watching Shanna and Calli navigate new situations and people are some of my greatest joys in life. Seeing them exist makes me feel very good about the world. See, I did make it a better place.

I like watching their joy and eagerness. I like watching Shanna run until she is so tired she can’t walk any more and she must be carried. I like watching Calli be brave and fearless… as long as she is standing behind me. Otherwise she is cautious around new people. I like watching my solemn, intense little girl light up like a roman candle when I walk into sight. I like being loved. I like watching how my children believe that love is absolutely limitless. Shanna goes back and forth between which kid she is going to grow up and marry. So far she is not picky between boys and girls. Sometimes she talks frankly about how she is going to have a wedding with one person and a hand fasting with someone else. (Thanks to Grandpa J, his wife C and his hand-fasted partner D.)

Shanna likes people of all races and physical abilities. If you will sit still and talk to her she likes you. Sometimes she seems to disconcert the large black men on BART. I beam benignly from behind her. The conversations are great. “Does your mother know you are talking to me?” “Yes.” “She doesn’t mind?” “Why would she? Are you a bad person I shouldn’t be talking to?” Then they blink in kind of confused/bemused horror. Then they just talk to her. It’s great.

I used to think Shanna was extremely physical. It turns out I was a first time mom who had never been around a baby. Who knew? From birth Shanna was obviously trying to pattern off of me. She wants to be like me. Calli wants to be like Shanna. Only she’s hitting milestones a lot faster than Shanna. If it weren’t for the difference in leg length I don’t think Shanna could catch Calli. Calli is starting to get mad if I don’t let her practice running with the group. “Me hurry!” Of course with emphatic scowl and pointing to the ground. Yes ma’am.

That’s one of the things that I think makes the biggest difference in how my kids speak on a regular basis. I say “Yes ma’am” to things. I use a lot of weird speech patterns, basically on purpose. I like playing with accents. It makes me happy. I use funny accents because then I consciously think about what I am saying and how I am saying it. Then I don’t snap. I’m not nasty. I use a lot of polite words in theatrical, emphatic ways.

I’ve never understood why other people think I am as rude as they seem to. I try. I really do.

I think people who are on the fence shouldn’t have kids. It’s a huge commitment. It’s a lot of work. If I didn’t feel like I was alive for this very purpose I don’t think I could do this. I would hate them and hate my life. But this is the life I want. So I’m trying to figure out how it goes.

I’m struggling with finding the last granules of patience I have left in me for a baby. Calli is still a baby. She gets a while longer. I told her that milk will be all gone on Tuesday on her birthday. Even though she is potty trained, even though I can’t handle nursing her any more… she really does still feel like a baby. It’s funny, when Shanna was that age I marveled at how kid-like she felt. Now that I have a kid I look at two and think, “Baby!”

I’m basing this intense belief on different developmental stuff I’ve read about. Kids’ brains work one way before three. It’s a large developmental stage. Then three to six is another big period. I’m not going to get into it. If you are interested there is a lot of research.

I’m thinking about pacing of the day and learning activities, that may not be obvious. I have a hard time with baby-pace. I don’t like it much. But I follow it. It’s not like I run my home like a daycare or anything like that but I consciously think about what kinds of interactions and reactions are appropriate. I can say things to Shanna I just can’t say to Calli yet. I feel like it requires intense concentration in my mind to censor things to an appropriate baby-place.

I am a volatile person. It has been very difficult for me to be mostly level and calm and happy for more than four years running with my babies. I freak out on the internet because this is the only place I have to put those feelings, those words, that part of my existence. People who watch me interact with my children who do not read my writing have no idea that I am depressed and suicidal unless I tell them. When I have told people (seriously, I think part of the way I am handling my mental illness is building up the responsibility to my community to not die) they are shocked and surprised. They never would have guessed! I think people aren’t very observant.

Everyone is motivated by different things. Part of what I like about staying at the Disney time share is the way it will push the kids into a foreign environment and they will get to find out which parts of their lives and routine is place dependent and which things are all-the-time-required. Like brushing your teeth. You do that no matter where you sleep. You have to eat no matter what. But things like clean clothes? Well… it varies. How you wash. If you wash. How dirty you get. There is a lot of variation possible in life. How do you roll with differences? How do you learn how to observe local customs and adapt to be like the natives? Even things like how do you learn how to use different versions of what you have–like a dishwasher.

When we are alone and going at their pace my kids can do at least half and sometimes all of the work to feed themselves. They can deal with a lot of minor cooking stuff (ok, Calli isn’t there yet–Shanna makes enough for two) and it’s easy to get them to do other cleaning stuff if everything is kept simple and slow. Calli sets the table while Shanna makes food. I think about how I learned to do things. I think about what it is they need to learn.

I think my kids will know how to cook more at five than I knew how to cook at eighteen. That is really kind of weird to me. I knew how to make ramen. I could open cans and microwave things. I could follow the directions on the back of a tv dinner. You can hand Shanna a (small) pile of vegetables and she’ll fucking make you soup. It feels weird to me that these things are so important to me. My kids will know how to handle food. My kids will know how to make a meal plan and go to the grocery store and come back with ingredients instead of boxes and make food. I learned it slowly over time as an adult. It’s been hard. It’s been embarrassing.

I have weird issues around food. If that’s not obvious by now. I feel very differently about what I/we eat when Noah is home than I do when he isn’t home. Taking his preferences into account messes me up. I have to think a lot harder about food and process because I’m trying to take a lot of different things into account.

When I’m alone with the kids I let Shanna do the best she can for as long as she can. She generally finishes enough for her and Calli. Sometimes I finish Calli’s share. Then I do mine. I don’t have to think about mine. It’s automatic and easy. I get territorial about feeding Noah. And if I have to take the time to do two adult portions it is a lot faster and easier for me to do basically three adult portions and call it a day rather than let Shanna slowly and ponderously do everything she wants to do. (cutting, cleaning veggies, breaking things up, assembling plates, whatever food task) Calli helps as she can. Mostly she sets the table and yells “Me do!” without being able to figure out which side of the plastic knife is sharp. It’s a process.

I’m looking forward to being alone with the girls for a few days. I’m looking forward to sleeping with them in the big hotel bed. I’m looking forward to simple foods Shanna and Calli can get on their own. I won’t bother too cook meat while we are gone. I may not cook much at all. We like fruit and raw vegetables with dip and bread and cheese and lunch meat and cereal. That sounds like a vacation to me. A glorious vacation. If I put a bowl of fruit on the table my kids would eat it. No matter how big the bowl was.

Abrupt topic switch: Noah timing stuff and my complaints about losing a year. I was told that bit was unclear. A while ago Noah and I sat down and fleshed out what he would like to do career wise over the next few years. Where would he like to end up. What is our plan for retirement (says she who doesn’t work)? If you are going to be my provider forever then we need a god damn plan because things don’t always work out just for hoping. If you want to get somewhere it’s probably a good idea to make sure you take steps in that direction.

For all that I am so rebellious and anti-authoritarian… I do have a high school diploma (this was complicated to get and I am the only one of my siblings with one–I am the youngest of four), BA, and teaching credential. I failed the MA, but I can jump through hoops. I usually don’t want to.

What path are we on? Where is this hand basket going and who is driving? So we made a plan. Then Noah had someone bring up an interesting idea. But it takes a year away from me. And leaves me standing with a year left in the baby stage and only a couple of drips of patience left and my husband about to make me a work widow. Apparently my response to this is, “Fuck you then I’m running away to Disneyland.” It’s ok. I’ll come back. I think it will be fun.

I think I will slowly replace my memories of my mother in Disneyland with memories of my daughters. It will be good. I will get to share my good memories. Shanna asks me a lot if I used to do ___________ with my mom when we are doing stuff. I try to answer simply and honestly without a lot of detail when it is bad. “No, doing this with my mom wasn’t a lot of fun. She didn’t have patience left by the time she got to me so it was hard to learn. I got in trouble every time I did anything even slightly wrong. I hope you feel like this is going better.” Said after Shanna had dropped about 1/2 a cup of flour on the counter, step stool, and floor. My mother raged. My mother screamed at me and told me I was a disgusting brat.

When Shanna has mastered a skill I feel a relief of fear. I no longer feel tensed up waiting for a blow. I feel like I am waiting for her to grow up without being abused before I can really trust that it can happen at all. I’m waiting for the abuser to show up. I’m waiting to get in trouble for her mistakes. I’m waiting to be told that obviously my daughter is a loser like me. Only it isn’t coming. I got us away. We can hide away and do things at her pace and move slowly and feel safe. It’s really nice. We can learn things at the pace we learn them instead of trying to hurry up or slow down on someone else’s agenda.

I think this last year of babyhood will be the last year that Calli is less capable than Shanna physically. I think that when her proportions lengthen out she will be a force to be reckoned with. I’m looking forward to it. I want them to run with me. I want them to challenge me to work harder. I want to learn how to run from joy instead of fear. I have spent my whole life running away. I don’t want to run away any more. I want to stay here. Except for trips to Disneyland. That’s just going home for a few days (as they like to say–it’s awesome).

My kids have to learn how to stand in line politely. They have to learn how to look at a barrage of options and make a choice. We live in the world we live in. Disneyland is not the world. But it’s a very safe testing ground of a lot of basic skills for very young children. I can relax and not worry about the assholes who feel inconvenienced by me having young children out in public. Shanna’s friendliness bothers people sometimes. They chew her (and me) out for it. I think she needs to learn how to deal with those assholes, yes, but man it will be nice to be in Disneyland. It really will be magical for my kids. I can. Why not? Why do I feel defensive? Because I don’t approve of all of the everything associated with the Cult of Disney™? I’m not even sure. I know it is wasteful of resources. It’s clearly a first world evasion of stress.

I don’t live in poverty any more. Why do I feel so ashamed of that? Why do I feel bad about being secure and having things? I feel absolutely required to believe that my preferences are wrong and bad. What other people want is more important. More relevant. More… just more. I don’t know. I am less. I should shut up. I should stay home and not spend money. Between the annual passes and gas Disneyland is going to be ~ $1,000 for the year of going. (Uhm, on top of paying the time share. Musn’t Forget That. It will probably not be fully paid off this year. It almost certainly will be paid off next year.) I get $100/month to spend on anything I want. We also have a $100/month “entertainment” fund. And Shanna’s spending money comes from her allowance. She has been saving up. She’s really proud of herself. I can afford this. It is within my means as a hobby. Why does it feel so much more extravagant than other things? I don’t know but it’s silly. I have small children. It’s a fucking great hobby.

Whatever. I should go start breakfast.

On guns

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I can’t remember the first time I saw a gun. I am pretty sure I can remember my first time shooting. My father took me out to the desert with my brothers. I was four or five. My brothers were five and eight years older than me. Old enough that I thought my brothers were basically already grown ups. I didn’t think of the as kids like me. When they told me to do stuff I had to jump or get hit–same as the grown ups.

I remember my father taking great care as he showed me how to line up the sight on the rifle. I remember the thrill of knocking cans over. I knocked the can off a rock from twenty feet away. It was like magic.

I don’t remember seeing a gun again until I was nine or ten. I can’t remember which. Even when I try to write my whole life out I don’t remember for sure when this happened. The next time I remember seeing a gun was when my father set a hand gun on the couch next to him before he made me suck his cock. When he was done he picked up the large, shiny revolver and he held it to my head. He asked me if I deserved to live. I shook and cried.

When I was sixteen the middle college program I was in made everyone do aptitude tests. Over and over I was told I should go into the military. I am well suited. I would always turn to the teacher and say, “I’d have to touch guns, right? Then–no.”

All of the gun sightings in the rest of my childhood were benign: through shop windows and the like. When I started dating Tom at eighteen there was a sticky issue. He sleeps with a loaded gun right next to his head. If I was going to be sleeping with a loaded gun less than three feet from my head I should probably know how to handle it safely.

When I think of Tom as my Daddy this is the kind of thing I remember. This is part of why I loved him so much. Tom didn’t entirely understand my gun issues. He knew “something bad happened”. Tom didn’t want to know my story. He actively discouraged me spilling all the details. But he took me to the shooting range. He helped me learn safe gun handling and firing. He taught me how to check to see if a gun is loaded. You never touch a gun unless you know for sure if it is loaded or not. My Daddy would make me practice safe handling methods until I was shaking with fear so hard I could no longer physically grasp anything. Then he would take me outside and hold me while I calmed down. Then he would bring me back inside and switch to rifles.

I do fine with rifles. I’m a good shot with a .22 rifle. Quite accurate. It’s the hand guns I can’t handle. It’s the hand guns that make me quake with fear and unable to think coherently or rationally. I believe that human beings have the right to live even if that means we must kill other animals and eat them. I’m ok with being up the food chain. Hunting makes sense to me. Rifles make sense to me.

Hand guns scare the ever-loving-shit out of me. In another year or so I am going to find a gun safety course for Shanna. Calli will have to wait a few years then she will do the same process. My kids will re-up every few years. Guns are tools. I want my children to understand and respect them. They don’t have a Daddy who will teach them. I will have to find a way. I thought Uncle A would do it. But he’s gone now. That happens.

Sometimes I feel daunted by the things I don’t know that I want my children to know. How can I teach them to move through the world without being paralyzed by fear? How can I teach them to be safe without also triggering them learning my ridiculous panic? I don’t know. So far the explanation is, “I know I’m over reacting to this but it’s not necessary. This is one of those places where my brain is being broken. Crying is not mandatory at this stage.”

I’m trying to get to the point where I believe in my gut that the point isn’t about whether you cry or not while you do things–the point is that you do them. I do. I do things over and over. I do things that are very hard for me. I don’t deserve a medal. I do deserve to keep living.

If I ever own a gun it is likely to be a big shot gun. I won’t buy ammunition. I’ll just buy it to practice cleaning about three months before my daughters start dating. I think it is really weird that I have any impulse to laugh and agree with this sort of behavior. Why do I think it is good to threaten teenage boys? Because in general my life experience tells me that boys will be nice and respectful towards a girl if they believe there will be extreme negative consequences for ill behavior. Otherwise they are abusive and terrible.

One of these days I’m going to have to have different life experiences so I can stop hating everyone in the whole world. I hear there are nice people out there. Somewhere.

trying to figure out the pieces.

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I hasten to say they aren’t real “voices” properly but be careful what you say to your kids. Your voice will become their inner voice.

Today will be busy. There is a Signing Time concert and then Calli’s birthday dinner. Her birthday isn’t technically until Tuesday. She wanted an orange castle. Sure, no problem. It was kind of nice having to make it. Shanna didn’t want me to make her birthday cake. The godmamas were better. I tried to just feel gratitude. This was fun. The girls and I made a huge mess together and had a blast in the process. Shanna can ice multiple cupcakes without feeling the need to eat them immediately already. That’s big progress. Calli eats more than she ices. I figure it is her birthday. Why not. I bake with an eye towards expected windfall.

Yesterday’s run was good. I ran out to the very edge of town. I passed very few people, mostly elderly Asian couples wandering together. Perfect. When I quickly get passed by male runners most of them take the time to wave and give me a thumbs up and tell me I’m doing great. The hecklers are certainly in the minority. It’s part of why I feel so angry about being told to drive somewhere else. I don’t want to cede ground. This is my home. Near as I can tell I may never leave Fremont. If I don’t get to be here then I don’t get to be anywhere. I’m much more interested in signing up for martial arts. It’s always been on my “some day” agenda. I think right now Plan A is to find somewhere I can go with Shanna when she turns five. A lot is waiting for her to turn five.

I feel kind of weirdly guilty because I have so little interest in “stimulating” my babies. I think they don’t need classes or lessons. I think they need to play with me. So we play. I want to be done with this phase. I want to move outward. I’m bored and out of patience. I’m not sure how I am going to handle reading We’re Going on a Bear Hunt another four hundred times. I refuse to read books more than once a day. House rule. I spend at least an hour reading a day. I could not handle rereading the same books over and over.

I should do scheduling. I have been procrastinating for a week. Don’t wanna. I still don’t feel caught up. I’m not ready to move into the steady phase yet. I’m still running. I’m so tired and it’s hard to predict. I need to get started for the kids. Urg. They like routine. This way they are constantly whining for the iPad and it’s hard to be nice to them. Stop all the gosh darn whining. “Try again.” I say it a lot. Shanna has the hutzpah to remind me if I sound whiny or too loud. I want her to be my inside voice.

Sometimes our interactions remind me of Francesca, my friend who died when I was pregnant. Shanna is not my boss and she is not wise in the ways of the world. What she is, is an individual with strong preferences. She is good at taking up space. I like standing near her. I feel comfortable. I am obviously there because she wants me there. When she doesn’t she either politely asks me to move or she kicks me. Either way I get the point. I feel like I can trust Shanna. I smile a lot during the day. I feel safe.

My bad memories are fleeting things. Ghosts that stand on the periphery. Whispers that pop up when I feel stress. When I suddenly find a huge mess. When I walk in and find out that the next two hours of my day will be devoted to scrubbing something on my knees. I cry. I hear “worthless” over and over in my head.

It’s remarkable to me the degree to which housework is a complex hostile force in my life. Only losers clean. Pissy Krissy. Prissy Krissy. I like finding systems. I like making order out of chaos. It has always seemed to me that other people specifically find joy in fucking up my systems for me. Chaos scares me. Chaos in the form of a messy house looks like mental illness to me. I’m sure there are a myriad of reasons for it but I can’t see anything else. I’m locked in my experience of the world. All the messy houses I have dealt with a lot have had major mental illness issues. Sometimes alcohol abuse. Sometimes physical or sexual abuse of children. I feel like I live on the fringe of society. I am only invited into the darkness.

Right now I am pretty sure that I don’t always feel like this. I’m having a hard time because Shanna is so like me. I think of how my mother treated me. Hell, I even think of how my mother would treat Shanna. I even feel angry because I know my mother would treat Shanna far better than she treated me. My mother is telling the truth when she says it would be different. But not different enough. There would still be all those broken promises. And I would still have to keep my mouth shut.

No matter how it worked out for other people my experience would still be different. I would feel like I had no choice but to close my eyes and my mouth and put up with it. I can’t. I can’t. I would rather die. It is that important to me. I can not continue to be who they want me to be.

Why do I feel so unable to exist while people have strong expectations of me that run contrary to my nature? Self-preservation? Most people in my life want nothing from me. In terms of numerical representation in my life. It’s nice to have people out at arms length. They can have what they have and do what they do and it has nothing to do with me. It feels safe.

Doesn’t everyone hear voices?

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Everyone is sleeping. I’m sitting in the living room. It feels really weird. The sun is coming up. It’s 6:34. Where is everyone? I could go wake Noah up–he wouldn’t mind. I figure he needs the sleep. I ate a blueberry muffin. Not exactly a breakfast of champions. I’m going to run twelve miles today.

Someone on the internet told me that if I was being harassed in my neighborhood I should drive to a better neighborhood so I can run there. That made me feel really angry. I felt insulted and disgusted by the suggestion. Noah asked me if I was looking for sympathy or advice. I thought about it really hard. I was pretty sure I wanted advice but not that fucking advice.

Then I got several other pieces of advice. I understand that other people feel comfortable with hand guns, but I’ve had one pointed at my head. I don’t think there are any circumstances under which I could really handle having a gun on my person. I don’t like the options it gives me. I was thrilled when someone suggested changing time of day, wearing a loud whistle, carrying mace, borrowing a dog to run with, or finding running buddies.

Ok. Now that’s a god damn list of suggestions that doesn’t bother me. It was a really strikingly different set of reactions from me. This is why I used to be fanatical that I didn’t want advice. Because I don’t have a lot of control over how strong my emotional reaction will be. When it’s generic people on the internet I will maybe/probably never meet it doesn’t matter. As long as I’m not a dick it doesn’t matter how I feel. That’s convenient.

People react to things based on a long list of complex factors. Everyone has a different life. I have a hard time when people suggest things that aren’t a good fit. I feel enraged by the suggestion that I should be a different kind of person. I do not want to be someone who runs away from difficult situations. If things got worse I might run with a big stick. I’m ok with the consequences of having that taken away from me and used against me. Unless someone is highly trained in martial arts they are unlikely to hit me any harder than my boyfriends.

I think a lot about why “women like me” don’t survive. I feel like my desire to do things in a way different from the herd makes me defective. But I’m doing the best I can. What is an acceptable life?

I’ve been yelling too much lately. Shanna is trying hard to learn to sneak. That’s a process I am struggling with. I used to do it. I feel kind of thrilled by having this mini-me in the house. I get to be so much nicer than I had.

Even though I feel like I am yelling more than I want to be yelling I have these tapes in my head that play over and over. I’m not like that. I don’t go on tirades. I make my point and I move on. I try to. I think I do. Am I ever allowed to be secure about this? Would it ever be ok for me to feel complacent on this subject? I don’t think so. So I am constantly wary. I must not go on tirades at my children. I must not go on tirades at my children.

I hear them in my head. When Shanna does stuff that I have done I hear my mother. I hear her screaming. I hear her choking and crying as she hit me and screamed at me that I was bad and stupid and how dare I and and and.

I’m having a hard time lately. I feel like a big part of the reason I want to block out this period of their childhood and be with them all the time is so I can experience what it is like to have a whole childhood that is safe. I don’t know. I have these terrible voices in my head. I am so afraid of being like my mother.

I am already too critical. I feel harsh lately. Overly judgmental. Really I feel like I should just shut my stupid mouth. When Shanna smarts off at me I smile at her and try to gently lead her tone and words in the direction I want them. In my head I hear, “You stupid little bitch”. Sometimes I honestly wonder about schizophrenia. When I was a teenager one of the meds they put me on caused me to be “borderline schizophrenic” according to the psychiatrist I was working with at Kaiser. I hear a lot of things that are not going on a lot of the time. It is very hard to not have multiple memory tracks going at once in my head. Sometimes it makes it hard to hear what someone is actually saying to me. I know it makes me sound sharp and harsh. Someone is always being nasty to me in my head. But it’s not an excuse.

That’s why I speak gently to my children. They won’t learn how to treat me unless I model it. I want them to be polite and gentle with me. So I am with them. It feels important. I am not going to be a hypocrite in that way. I am not going to yell at them and hit them for “talking smart”.

I hear stirring.

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Today is a leisurely twelve miles. Ha.

You bring it on yourself.

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“Some people believe that when you think about things like rape and assault you bring it into your world.”

Yeah. I know. People have been telling me that they have different lives than me so it must be all my fault I have the experiences I have for my whole life. I must have brought it on myself. I bring everything on myself.

I understand why my brother used to beat his head into windows. After a while they made him wear a helmet full time because they got tired of repairing the scalp wounds.

Nothing bad is happening. Today has been mellow and easy so far. But I really want to shove my head through a window. I want to break someones bones. I don’t really care who. I want someone to lie on the ground in front of me heavily bleeding while I kick them for a while.

Then I will tell them to “get over it” and “you brought it on yourself, you know. You must have at some point been afraid this would happen. You thought of it. It’s your fault.”

I guess I’ll go clean the bathroom. Folks like me are good for that kind of thing. And the window in that room is small and would be a difficult target.

(For the record: not mad at the person who said it. I uhhh have a lot of previous pissiness with such phrases. You weren’t being a jerk even remotely. I can still HAVE FEELINGS because I’m like that.)

sticks and stones

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People tell me to just get over being afraid. But when I leave my house I have people yell that I am a dyke, a lesbian, a bitch, and a whore. People who have never met me and who know nothing about me. I have been raped a lot. I’ve never had a violent attack from a stranger, though. These days that feels like the biggest threat left in my life.

Given that I have boys yelling insults and put downs while following me home on bicycles (they were riding in the same direction anyway, I’m sure) I’m not really sure how it would be rational or reasonable for me to feel safe. I’m supposed to just shrug it off. Given my life experiences that is death. No. I can’t just brush off people threatening me. I fucking can’t. So I’m told to “drive to better neighborhoods so I can be safe”.

There aren’t safe places for me. I can’t drive to anywhere that is safe for me. Such a place doesn’t exist. Today that scares the ever-loving-shit out of me.

Do I think I was actually in danger from those teenage boys? I don’t know. Teenage boys are about as safe as a pack of rabid dogs in my experience. And I was just about to be in front of the house of the people who don’t want to know me any more. I don’t really feel I could have expected help. I would have been alone. Was I actually in danger? Things happen. They probably know where I live now.

That scares me. That scares me a lot.

Today isn’t starting well.

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I would call this morning a comedy of errors but that would imply that I thought some of it was funny. I’m not laughing. I hate how one fuck up has long-reaching consequences.

So my washing machine broke. I ended up having to bring clothes to a laundromat. I lost a load, apparently. I don’t fucking know how. So I don’t have the blanket for my bed or a few pieces of other random clothes and a bunch of towels. One of the pieces of clothing were my best pair of running pants. By “best pair” I mean the most comfortable. They had many holes in the seems. The only reason they stayed up was because of a sturdy draw string. BUT THEY HAD POCKETS.

So today I need to run eight miles. Noah is having a hard time in a variety of ways so I stayed in bed with him until past my normal running time which means the kids came in with us. One thing lead to another and I wasn’t starting out to run until I had been awake for more than three hours. I haven’t eaten anything. I’m starting to get jittery and psycho.

And the only god damn pair of clean fucking pants are my painting pants. They are yoga pants that are about seven years old, a size too big, and they’ve been through two full pregnancies with me. By the fourth step they are completely down around my hips. By the sixth step they are starting to try to be below my bottom.

And I forgot to charge my phone last night because the kids were on a roll. It was a very long and busy day. So I wasn’t going to be able to listen to any music on this pity party death march. But I brought my phone anyway to see if the mapping program would work. I had to wear the water backpack in order to have a place to carry the phone.

I uhhh apparently didn’t seal the bag properly. So me and my phone got completely soaked within the first block. I walked back to my house threw the bag violently against the house and gently set my phone down on the kitchen counter to try again. I got a mile before I sat down on a neighbors driveway to cry. No. I can’t run like this.

My phone is becoming a frequent problem on runs. The battery won’t last through a four hour run. It goes completely dead just after three hours. Not to mention that my Android phone has decided it no longer needs to load Google mail or Google talk.

All of these are stupid, small problems that can be solved with a little bit of time and/or money. Neither of which I have before going running this morning. So I’m not going running this morning. Hopefully I will find time later today to run. I am not up for this fucking death march of sobbing this morning. God damn ridiculous. With pants that won’t fucking stay up. I’m about to just start running in jeans. At least they fucking fit.

My penultimate pair of running shoes (I had to replace the Stem’s. Apparently that company changed names. I don’t like them as much now) were a switch from the strictly “running” Vibrams to “multi-sport” because they were $40 less. They tore my feet to shreds. I have horrible burst open blisters and these deep weirdly ridged callouses. After two weeks.

Running is getting harder and harder. 45 days. I’m not very good at shoving myself out of bed in the still-dark to go run in the mornings. I feel bitter and angry and pissy. I want to hit things and scream. I don’t. fucking. want. to. But Noah’s work schedule has been harder lately. And when push comes to shove I have to be the flexible one. Which means I have to god damn suck it up and I should probably be out running at 5:30 so that I get it done before I am shaking with hunger and hating everyone in the whole fucking world.

I feel really resentful right now. I was supposed to have till the youngest kid was three. Well, fuck me. That was too long to ask for.

I’m grateful someone asked me if she could take my kids to the zoo today. Yes. Yes. Yes. I need a fucking break. I need to do laundry. And clean the disgusting bathroom. And cry without having to be polite about it.

Fuck everything.

Sex.

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I feel like a cheater when I let my kids watch the iPad while I take a break. I can hear it through the garage door: an episode of Bo, an episode of Busytown. Then mom has to get off her ass. Usually it happens once a day. Sometimes twice.

Our schedule is out of whack. I’m feeling discombobulated. I’m not used to going out on Mondays. That is almost always a stay at home and rest day for me. I do chores. When I leave the house at 8:15 and don’t come home until 5:30 I feel like I want to lay down and die. Holy crap that wears me out. Don’t wanna.

It’s weird being a pet. Only I’m not. I think that is the part of being a kept woman I never really understood properly. You are not supposed to have to do heavy manual labor along with your sex work. Kept women are not maids. Why do I confuse the two?

Because I don’t know who I want to be when I grow up. I’ve never been sure if I wanted to be a whore or not. It’s a family tradition. Both my father and my brother told me to. Literally. Before I even hit puberty. My mother told me that if you get married you have to be prepared to be a whore for that man. I was verrrrrry careful to check out the sexual abilities of people before I decided if I wanted to get emotionally involved with them. Boring sex forever would be a deal breaker.

Which is part of why I am so confused by the not-orgasming thing. I really like sex with Noah. We have a lot of it. It’s part of the deal. Deliberately and clearly stated. That’s the deal: lots of sex. If I am truly uninterested I am getting better about saying no. It’s still hard for me. In the core of my being I have a hard time believing it is ok to say no. I grew up reading The Clan of the Cave Bear. That was one of my first exposures to a more adult idea of sex. Clearly it was not the civilized view of adult behavior.

But I am Other. In ways large and small. Hell I even have type O blood. I am a bloody Neanderthal. It’s not that no woman gets to say no to sex. It’s that people like me don’t get to say no to sex. I know the other women when I meet them. We have a way of sizing people up. “Would I fuck you?” It’s hard to miss.

I’m kind of hoping that a lot of my response change is due to still breastfeeding. I think I am dry though. I’ve never been able to tell when I am ovulating. I cycle but it is getting farther and father apart with the running so if nothing else the running is probably suppressing ovulation. My body doesn’t think it’s a good idea to make a baby right now. It is so fucking right.

It is weird to discover what other people must get from sex. Most of the sex I have had has not been what you might call loving and bonding. When I hunt I look specifically for highly aggressive men. To wit: I look for rapists. I try to hurry up and say yes in the first few minutes. Then even if I ever change my mind I will keep my stupid mouth shut. Because I’m not entitled to say no.

I have tried to say no a few times. I don’t drink or do heavy drugs like that around people any more. I am terrified of getting drunk around anyone unsafe ever again. Dan handed me drinks and told me to drink drink drink long after I said, “I think I’m drunk enough.” But I wanted him to like me. So I woke up with a sticky wet cunt and an empty bed at 2am. I had told him in advance that I didn’t have unprotected sex with new partners. Oh well, right?

I’m fighting the idea of getting involved with communities again. There are too many Dan’s. I’m afraid to go if Noah isn’t with me and Noah doesn’t share pretty much any of my interests. And soon he will have far less time for me. My eighteen months aren’t going to happen. He wants to get started in January. He has someone to work with. They are both very fired up and eager. I’m god damn requiring that I get through Christmas this year. I have been a work widow. I’m very sad about doing it with a two and a four year old. Calli is just… not… quite… old enough. It’s going to be hard. And I’m not supposed to spend money. I feel like I am seeing all of the ways to get my needs met ripped away from me. The only way I will be able to live through that and be a nice person is if I reduce my needs. That is going to be very hard.

I’m not sure if I am being a martyr–I don’t think so. I’m making a conscious choice to invest in our future together. If it works then I will be very glad I did it. If it doesn’t, well… that happens. I’m scared though.

I’m not sure how to come out of this without being bitter. I have to. For all of us. Because this is all I have. I can’t fuck this up. I truly can’t. This is the highest stakes task I will have this lifetime. Will I do a good job raising my kids? Will they want to have relationships with me when they are adults? Will they make it through to adulthood happy and healthy and ready to be adults?

My crystal ball is busted. Do you have one?

Lately I’ve been doing a lot of telling myself, “I want to be here. I want this.” It’s complicated. I’m really looking forward to the marathon. Forty six days to go. Then things can settle down with my body. I can stop looking ahead to something and fussing over that and giving a lot of myself over to it.

I need to not look forward for a while. I need to just be. I’m not particularly good at that. I think that will help me with feeling frustrated all the time. I have a few more house project things to do. I finally went and bought a damn ceiling fan and light replacement for the play room. It’s been broken for over a year. With one thing and another it has just never made it to the top of the list. It is currently at the top of the list. Now I need to find spare energy. I also need to do dishes, pack lunch, and hurry my sorry ass up because park day is going to start in an hour in Alameda. Gotta go.

(Although before I do I will say that it worked today when I let Noah fuck me for a while then I pushed him off and got myself off with a vibrator. Then I let him fuck me again and I came during the sex. I’ll be doing that again.)

I don’t think that getting over my anger is the point.

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“Get busy living or get busy dying.”- Shawshank Redemption.

Sometimes it feels like life is about learning how to come to grips with your wasted potential. I could do _______ if only ___________. It’s a long series of conversations with yourself as you narrow down possibilities in life until the only path you could possibly take is completely obvious. Look, you’ve been working towards this all along. You did ______ and then you did _____ so obviously ______.

But believing that requires some underlying belief in a greater plan. Things are not inevitable. Things are changeable right up until the second they happen. It’s random. It has to be.

It has to be for me because otherwise there would have to be some specific reason I was picked out of a hat to suffer far more than other people. I’m sorry, there is no Kushiel looking out for my well being. I’ve read the Bible. I’ve read big parts of the Book of Mormon. I’ve read books by Martin Buber and St. Thomas (Aquinas, of course) and Sr. Thomas More and and. I did all the classes required for a masters degree in English. I got good grades. I read. I studied. I didn’t know I was supposed to be practicing handwriting. Whoops. Anyway.

I am educated. I have read what the masters think of the world. Sometimes I agree with them but often I don’t. I have had significant personal experience that disagrees with their beliefs.

I have two ways I can handle that. I can decide that they are right or I can decide that I am right.

Now, I like to hedge my bets. I have strong opinions but I’m willing to reconsider them given reason. It’s very rare that I bother to try, I am human after all. But when something challenges my belief structure I have to think about it very hard. I know I am not always right (really, D).

I kind of feel like I should stay off social networking sites for a while. I am feeling too many “shoulds”. I need to do what I am going to do and not worry about whether other people approve or not. Of course there are lots of people who don’t. Will I let that stop me? No. Then why let it bother me?

Because when people I love reject me in harsh ways it bothers me. When people I love tell people they think I am dangerous it bothers me.

Are they right?

I’m told I need to get over my anger. I’m not sure that it is anger I need to get over. I need to get over wanting things from other people. I need to really and truly not give a shit if a given person likes me or not. I know who my friends are.

As the legal next-of-kin I think I feel very reasonable about treating the God-Mamas as family. They take the kids every month. They have a very serious on-going relationship. They are invested and serious about it. That’s the last time I am going to do that to my kids. My family unit is closed. I can care about me. I can care about Noah. I can care about Shanna. I can care about Calli. I should not try to make sure there is stuff left for other people. Maybe there will be and maybe there won’t. My friends understand. They really don’t have high expectations of me–which should be depressing only it isn’t. They like me anyway.

Anger and anxiety are both emotions that are about energy flow. (In my opinion. I’m going to babble even more whacko than usual tonight. Sorry. It’s been a very long and very sober day and I’ve had time to sit with my anger more than I usually do.) I have a lot of energy. I have spent my entire life feeling like I am sitting with a burning wire of energy in the middle of my body. It churns my stomach. It constricts my throat and my lungs.

People are monolithic for me in a way that I don’t think most people understand. My life has always changed a lot. Every so often I up and move either geographically or in social sphere. As I age there is more and more overlap in communities. I’m having a harder and harder time going out. It’s scarier than I like admitting.

If I had been funneling my whole life towards what I am doing now the path would have looked different, don’t you think? It all depends on how you frame it. I’m a stay at home mom. I used to be a high school teacher. I’ve been married for nearly six years (anniversary is in a couple of weeks). I live less than twenty-eight miles away from my elementary school (well, one of them). My middle and high schools (at least five of them) are slightly closer to me than that. I’m a hippie. I dress very conservatively most of the time. I don’t have a television or watch anything approximating television programming on a computer. I garden a lot. I homeschool. I do building projects.

I am angry. I stay home a lot because I am afraid and I am fucking angry that I am afraid. Today we went to the post office. It went fine. The kids started to get into things but were easily distracted. Nevertheless I spent the whole time feeling very anxious. I was afraid my kids would get yelled at. I was afraid I would get yelled at. I was afraid the woman helping me would be mean. Good freakin grief. It’s ridiculous. I started crying and hyperventilating and the woman helping me told me it would be ok. That’s god damn embarrassing. I’m a fucking adult.

You want to tell me I should just get over it again? Oh fuck off. But the whole episode was under a minute. It’s not like it is a big deal. Only it hurts. It hurts my stomach. It hurts my heart. It hurts my throat. It hurts my head. It hurts my lungs. I feel like I am dying. If I could just stop it I would. There is no magic drug for me. The only thing I can do is dope myself to get the panic to stop. Look at any psych drug on the market. That’s what they do. They do it in different ways, but whatever.

I don’t really see a point in trying to live a long life if I am going to spend a lot of time every day in pain because my brain doesn’t understand that I am not in danger. It’s not like she had the power to prevent me from sending my packages. If she was really bitchy I could have gone to UPS. (But I’ll say: the gruffness from the ladies in the Mountain View USPS is just a front. They are softies.) She had no power to hurt me. Someone feeling irritated by my kids in the fifteen minutes we are in the post office is really not my problem. Why do I care?

Oh wait. That’s called trauma. Sort of. Kind of. I’m not sure. At some point I have to get it through my fool head that there are assholes in the world who are going to be rude to me and mine. It’s not about anything I’ve done. Well, not necessarily. For an awful lot of people I just have to exist. I have to have the god damn audacity to open my white trash mouth. I am offensive.

People like it when you are afraid of them. It makes them feel protective. It makes them feel big. It makes them feel powerful. People like it. I have spent a lot of time afraid and I can see how people react.

I feel like I am searching, always searching, for what I supposed to be doing. How am I wasting my potential? I don’t know. I look for seeds in my life to help me tell the future but unfortunately the future hasn’t been written yet. I have to write it.

It means I’m not looking at right now. It means I’m scared. I’m angry because a lot of people want to tell me things that all boil down to being raped is a womans own fault because the only logical conclusion I can come to is those people believe I deserve to be raped. I cannot put my mind around that. No. I can’t. It’s not possible. No one is born to be raped. Just because I have a cunt that does not decide my destiny.

I am a stay at home mom. I am a stay-at-home-a-lot mom. Well, I like taking BART on outings. Then we can take the bus and I can be stoned all day. I can be calm. I can let the children go at their pace. I don’t feel anxious about being in other peoples way. I don’t feel guilty that I am sitting when obviously this more deserving person (like a guy in his 50’s) should be sitting. No. I have two squirming kids. I should be fucking sitting. Otherwise they will fall and hurt themselves. That’s just stupid.

But I worry. I worry about offending people. I worry about making other people feel annoyed by my physical presence. You’d never guess by how I write, would you? In the privacy of a room by myself I have the biggest cojones of them all. Please join me in a derisive snicker, right?

I have nothing to offer the world to justify the worth of my opinions. I am fairly unlikely to pursue further academic studies. At this moment in time that sounds like hell on earth. Which unfortunately may mean I do it some day. I’m stupid like that. Next time I will practice my handwriting. And it won’t be English. Fuck English.

I don’t think that I need to get over my anger. I need to find a way to use it. I have a lot of energy. When I decide to get going on a project I work like a demon. I get a very large amount done in a short period of time. But I’m a woman. It’s fairly unlikely to ever be noticed. It helps that I pick lame menial jobs because I think that is what someone like me should be doing. I think I never noticed that I stopped working at Boston Market. I still think I am an ignorant fool who cannot be right. Look, all these people tell me I am wrong.

Well, fuck them. I don’t like their system. There is no way for me to win in their system; I was born damned.

Before you tell me to stop being angry let me hit you as many times as I have been hit. Let me rape you as many times as I have been raped. Then I will put you into a culture that tells you it is all your fucking fault that it happened. Then we can talk about anger.

What else did you expect to have happen? Do you know how many people in uniform I’ve had sneer that at me when something inappropriate and illegal happens to me? I can’t really remember. For a while there I was put on drugs against my will when I was a teenager and I can’t remember that period so an exact number is truly beyond me.

I have been told to sit down and shut up and don’t get angry all my life. I don’t think that is a message I should listen to. I think that is a message that seals my doom. I’m not saying that everyone has to be angry with me. I’m saying that once you are marked as prey–once you are truly afraid they smell you. If I am angry enough I can drive them away. I no longer look like easy prey even though they know what I am. I finally got close enough to the herd to not be the weakest link.

And now that I am closer to the herd the mother fuckers around me are going, “Oh shit, who let her show up?” It’s interesting to watch. I just piss people off. I don’t even have to try. I just have to say what I think. I make people angry. Even if I wasn’t angry to start with. It’s interesting.

I make people angry when I speak to them. Maybe I should just stop speaking to them. I don’t mean become selectively mute, that’s a bit extreme. I mean that maybe I should stop setting the bar so god damn low on who I try to become friends with. I should act like I’m worth jumping through some hoops. People do it. They really do. It’s kind of weird.

I think I should stay of social networking sites for a while. Outside of my house there is nothing but bad. Inside my house I live in Wonderland. It’s really nice here. We sing and play games. We dance and should and run around. We paint and cook and garden. We grow up together. We learn how to do things together. We learn how to gently coexist with another human being. When someone slaps you in the face while you are sleeping it is perfectly acceptable to yell, “What the hell are you doing?!” before you are actually awake. (I am very articulate while mostly asleep.) It’s not ok to yell such a thing while fully conscious. We have Rules. No name calling. No hitting. You can’t put anyone down. Everyone deserves to have space but we need to be careful how our space effects other people. Every day involves “I love you” and “I am really glad I know you” and hugs and kisses.

But I know with every day that marches forward that two of these relationships are going to change. They are going to go off into the world. They are not going to stay with me and meet my needs. I have to do that for myself.

Some people can wait until the kids are teenagers to worry about it. My kid is about to turn two. Oh shit. I only have sixteen years to plan. I’m not sure that is long enough. I’m not sure that is long enough for me to finish growing up. I feel guilty because Noah is my provider. Because we have decided that his salary is good for both of. We don’t want another thing pulling from the available energy in our lives–probably ever. I feel like I am wasting my potential. I feel like I am letting down my feminism. I feel like I am setting myself up for a fall. I feel like…

I feel like I am waiting for the inevitable conclusion of the life of a girl like me. What terrible thing will happen next? How will Noah turn on me? Will he wait until a year or two after the kids are gone and say, “I just stayed for the kids.” I don’t think so. I don’t think he could fake that facial expression. He’s a good liar, don’t get me wrong, but not that good. Not with me. I know when that face happens. It isn’t in company. I’ve been watching this man for a while now. I intend to keep watching him. My very survival depends on him.

That’s the bit that is weird and hard to swallow. Basically because it is a crock of shit. Whatever. I wouldn’t necessarily like everything I had to do, but if I had to do it I would.

It’s not that I need to stop being angry. Anger happens. It stops when it stops. But I do really need to stop looking for it. I investigate the candidates before every election and beyond that I need to just live in my little bubble. I feel like we exist outside the modern world with the glaring exception of the glowing box I am staring at. Ok, not really outside the modern world–give me a break. But we do live with a shocking lack of popular culture. Of any kind, really. I suppose we listen to some music but certainly not every day. I would say not every week. Ok, that’s not true for me right now. I listen to music while I run. That’s a new hobby this year. I’m not sure how that will go long term. And my phone battery can’t play music through a whole long run so my phone is now annoying useless on runs. Bummer.

People are going to think I’m a trainwreck. To that I cock my head to the side and say, “Have you ever seen a train wreck?” Things have settled down in my life remarkably over the last few years. Cutting off my family was hard and caused a big bump, yes. I was abused as a child, yes. I haven’t been raped in more than five years? Something like that. That’s the longest stretch of my life. I’m waiting for the next thing that will hurt me. It is very confusing to my brain that I have this nice man in the house.

I would have been fine today if I was able to cut before going to the post office. Because when I start to feel panic I press on the fresh wounds and that keeps me level. It’s more reliable than any drug I’ve ever tried. But people get quite upset with me, so I stopped. I think that really I just don’t want to teach my children to do it. I don’t want them to learn my panic and fear and need for pain.

It’s not that those monolithic “them” are actually all bad. But I have no reason to go fishing to find out. It’s kind of freeing, really. I don’t have to care if people will want to do me ill or not if I don’t give them an opportunity.

What does it feel like to have distant community? I only sort of know. I get it somewhat in the Leather community. I really need some place I can belong with my kids. I’m trying to build places. We are consistent (mostly, barring various events like a washing machine flooding my garage). We have patterns. We have friends. We have relationships.

What is it I am supposed to get over my anger for? What is it that I am supposed to do? Ahhh grasshopper–what I should do is not make people feel uncomfortable. Sorry mate, that ship sailed. I’m going to make you uncomfortable.

I make plans. And I make plans. And I make plans. When you call the suicide hotline one of the first thing they ask you is if you have “a plan”. I laugh. I have plans. I have worked out so many ways to die that I can’t casually list them all. First I do this and then I do that and then I have to look at this and then… I know the dozens of steps involved in any number of ways to die. How accidental can I make it look? Where should I leave the consolidated list of passwords so Noah isn’t screwed? Where… etc.

But the point isn’t to stop being angry. Or really even to stop being afraid. That can’t be the point. If that is the point I will always fail. You can’t decide to stop something. You have to decide to do something else instead. I decide every day over and over. It’s exhausting. It’s hard. I have to sit here all day every day thinking carefully about what I say and what I do. You have read this far in my blog. Surely you think I am a psycho about to fly off the handle any moment now. I’m truly not. I’m pretty quiet. Sometimes I speak unexpectedly sharply. Sometimes my tone of voice is more harsh than seems appropriate to the topic. If I am alone with my family I instantly say, “Oh I’m sorry that came out harsher than I meant it. I’ll try again.” I expect my kids to do the same thing. I say, “Try again.” Shanna says it to me now. It’s interesting to negotiate.

My children are not in charge of me. My children are not responsible for me and they never will be. But they get to have preferences to. How do I sit back and very slowly learn someone like this? I don’t know. I’ve never done very well at close intimate relationships. I just know how to spend a lot of time alone in a room. But I’m trying. I get a couple of hours of sitting alone in a room every day or I feel like I am going to lose my mind.

I didn’t used to be this way. It feels like the anger is the war between my need for people and my terror of them. I don’t want to have any of the feelings I have about people and I can’t make them go away just by wishing and I am fucking angry about it. I hate that I cry over stupid things. I couldn’t figure out a form. It wasn’t a big deal.

The last time it was truly a big deal was when Denise said, “Have you ever had anyone close to you die.” I didn’t let her set the terms of my reality then–she doesn’t get to tell my my father and brother were not close to me–and I don’t think I should let random assholes on the internet. That seems kind of stupid and weak minded, don’t you think?

There is a lot of “you” tonight. I don’t think I do that very often. I don’t even know who I am writing to. I periodically rotate through various people in my head and no one fits. I’m not ranting at anyone. I’m ranting at the unseen you. The one who hurts me. The one whose plan it is. The one I don’t believe in.

I’m very angry at God because I can’t be an atheist. I have known things. I have to believe in my own experiences or I’m fucked. But I don’t think there is a plan. I don’t think it’s the Christian God. I don’t know what it is. But something knows I am here. I’m not sure it cares much one way or another. But it knows something more than me. I don’t know how much more. And it’s probably fallible. Isn’t everything?

I feel like I have no culture to retreat to. I am not Christian. I am currently upper middle class according to my bank balance. In attitude and behavior I am white trash. I don’t know how else to be. I offend people. I have always offended people. I have the audacity to be raped and complain about it. Don’t I know I should shut up?

I live for Sundays.

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On Sundays Noah doesn’t have to work. Ok, that’s not true. But he doesn’t have to leave the house and he doesn’t get as cranky with me wanting to be in the same room distracting him.

I like the way he looks at me. When he looks at me I feel washed clean. I feel like I must be ok or he wouldn’t look at me that way. I feel like I do good in the world. I feel like I am good. I feel loved. I feel important. You don’t look at a pretty flower the way Noah looks at me. You look at things that change your life the way Noah looks at me.

I can feel the panic and the fear quiet down when he looks at me like that. That smile shouts louder than all the evil little voices in my brain. I can’t hear them over him. It’s hard that he doesn’t spend very much time looking at me. He’s busy. He has a lot of things he has to spend his time looking at. I live for those moments when I get his full attention.

Noah holds me together and tells me I am worth knowing. He thinks I should take up more space in the world. He likes being married to a writer. He tells people about it eagerly. He admires me. I inspired him to go write a book. (Then he promptly made far more money than me in far less time. I feel slightly huffy. But my writing isn’t stuff people will pay a lot for.)

It’s hard that I constantly feel reminded of how I am less than him. My labor is worth nothing compared to him. He has value. He is appreciated. He is high status.

I’m that freak crying at home.

I don’t understand why he likes me. Well, I do. He feels distinctly alienated from society as well. Last night he told me, “I never have to worry about you turning to me and saying, ‘Why can’t you be normal?'” I laughed. No. I don’t need you to be normal. If you were normal I’d be waiting for you to fetch a pitch fork and come after me. Normal people all seem to hate me after a while. I do things wrong. I make them feel bad.

When I am with Noah I feel safe. It’s not that he is protective–he isn’t. But he is my provider. He is my helpmate. He cleaned the house while I napped on the couch yesterday because he knows I try to go through and do it every evening and I was too tired. That kind of thing makes me cry. He knows it is important to me to clean up right before bed otherwise I trip in the morning because I walk around in the dark. Technically he trips more often than I do. So it was kind of selfish. But not really.

Noah could scorn the household tasks. He is supporting me in a lavish lifestyle. Noah could look down on me so easily. Noah could think that I owe him. And he doesn’t. Near as I can tell it doesn’t cross his mind. Sure we make jokes about trading sex for heavy lifting and every so often I find something so unpleasant I tell him, “I’ll give you a blow job if you do that.” I feel slightly mixed about it but only slightly. I’d give him a blow job if he hinted he wanted it so it’s not like it is a big bar.

In other news I found my leather ball gown yesterday. The one Noah gave me for my 23rd birthday. I played for a bit with him. He was very excited. I am glad I get to wear it for him.

Shanna woke up. Time to go.

This is why I don’t have friends.

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So someone decided to tell me that I am “too smart” to believe a fairly extreme interpretation of the opinion of the laws of my country. Specifically, that lawmakers who push through anti-abortion laws have more interest in preserving the parental rights of rapists than in protecting me.

I feel so much rage. I would like to punch that man in the face. I don’t think I should be in a room with him for a while. I’m fucking tired of the condescension. This is why I don’t have more friends. I have a hard time suffering fools.

When I was eighteen years old I met a guy online and brought him to a party. He drugged me and raped me. I called the police the next day and told them that I would like to press charges. I had physical evidence. It was soon enough that I probably could have gone to the hospital for a rape kit and to be tested for the drugs he gave me. But I was stupid and I didn’t think of it. I called the police and asked them to help me.

I was told “What did you expect?” The officer refused to press charges. It might harm my rapist’s career in the Coast Guard. There is no doubt in my mind that the Sheriff who told me that I got what I deserved would be on the side of that guy getting to know his kid. I’m really grateful that most of my rapists decided to wear condoms. That bit of magnanimous action is probably the only reason I have not had to have an abortion or be a severely abusive mother. I promise you that if I had a child because someone raped me I wouldn’t be a good mother. It’s not the kid’s fault–of course. But shit rolls down hill.

“Too smart” how condescending, rude, and arrogant. Ah, so I must be smart enough to agree with a man. I see. Well I suppose that means you are giving me undue credit.

I live in a world that goes back and forth between how it treats me. On one hand women should be pure and innocent until they meet the right man. On the other hand men have needs and there should be trashy women they don’t have to care about who are required to meet those needs whenever desired. Try to tell me I am wrong.

I have been the whore no one had to give a shit about for most of my life. I am self-sufficient. My needs are my problem and no one else’s. That has been made very clear to me.

Noah is different. The only reason I understand that not everyone is treated as a hole who is required to serve whom ever when ever is because I read books and I finally found someone who is nice to me. I am so grateful that he is nice to me. He really is. He’s gentle. He tries to be considerate. When he is self-absorbed for a while and I break down crying he doesn’t get mad at me. He apologizes for ignoring me and loves on me. (Not sex.) It’s so weird. Someone cares about me. Someone thinks that me feeling good and safe and loved is important. How very different from the rest of the world.

People are happy to say that they think I should feel good, even that I deserve to feel good and safe and loved. But they won’t do anything about their behavior to help me feel that way. I’m just supposed to magically start feeling that way. I don’t know about other people, but it doesn’t work that way for me.

In order for me to feel safe I have to avoid people who are going to denigrate my intelligence if I have the audacity to have different life experiences. When a man is arguing with me about rape rhetoric it’s not exactly a level playing field. They are trying to argue the ideals and the best possible case scenario so they can look reasonable and logical. I’m telling you what has happened to me. Fuck you. Don’t fucking tell me how our system should work and look down on me because it doesn’t fucking work that way.

The last guy who raped me before Noah showed up to rescue me didn’t use a condom. He got me so drunk I passed out and had unprotected sex with me. I would have been thrilled to have sex with him–with a condom. He didn’t want that so he stacked the deck and had the kind of sex he wanted to have. It’s a good thing I was on birth control. How do you think the Dickens Fair community would have reacted if I had shown up pregnant claiming that one of the popular actors raped me? No one would believe it. I got what I was asking for anyway. And I would have had to share custody.

Don’t fucking tell me I am “too smart” to believe that politicians want to actively hurt me. Life has taught me that slowly and painfully. I think I should do some unfriending. It’s really not worth the aggravation.

I think every so often about the fact that if I hadn’t been white I don’t think there is any chance in the world I would be where I am. I would not be safe. I would still be suffering. It feels wildly unfair. I have a lot of survivors guilt.

If I wasn’t white then the lawyer who defended me when I was five wouldn’t have allowed his daughter to be friends with me. I doubt he would have worked for me for cheap. That annuity changed my life. If I wasn’t white I wouldn’t have been interesting to someone like Tom. He helped support me for years and gave me a safe, stable place to attend college from. I doubt I would have finished college without his help. Noah probably wouldn’t have recognized me as being like him if I wasn’t white.

It all feels like an accident. I feel like I got lucky over and over. I only got the help I needed because my outside appearance was pleasing enough. Because men with money want to fuck me and in this country the men with money are mainly white.

I’m not supposed to say that, right?

In this country you have rights if you have enough power and money to fight for them. Poor women of color are rarely in that category. When white men tell me that I am being melodramatic when I interpret laws in the ways that I do I feel so much rage and anger I want to physically attack them. How god damn dare you try to interpret the experiences of people who will never have your advantages. Never have your opportunities. Never have the protection you enjoy under the law.

And when my “friends” start lecturing about how taxes are theft and the government is stealing their money to give it away to unfit people I want to go on a shooting spree. I’m not sure I qualify as a Libertarian any more.

You have enough. You have so much that you have a lot of needless fluff in your life. You have extra money and food and everything else. Why are you such a selfish piece of shit that you think that other people should suffer because you don’t want to share? Welcome to America. If you can get it for yourself then you can have it, no matter how many people you have to step on and hurt in the way. If you want to live a reasonably decent life with dignity you had got damn better pick the right kind of white family to be born into.

I am so angry.

I am angry with myself that I don’t have more energy to work in social justice now. But I can’t. I would do a lot of damage to my kids if I tried. That feels humiliating. I can’t do much to change the world right now. All I can do is talk about how fucked up it is. I can talk about how it has hurt me. Often when I talk about how it has hurt me other women will come talk to me about their stories. They feel less alone. If that is the only gift I have to give at this point then I had better start curling ribbon to put on top.

I don’t hate all white men. Noah doesn’t condescend to me. He doesn’t denigrate my intelligence. He doesn’t insult me. He is fairly unusual among the white men of my experience. He doesn’t act like it takes an act of Congress to force him to apologize when he is accidentally a douche. I didn’t know that men like him existed.

Noah is my first experience with a man who treats me like an equal. The other men I deal with act like I should look up to them and their experience, their wisdom, and respect them. I’d rather eat worms.

I don’t respect people more or less based on their job or their money. I respect people for how they exist in the world. I know a lot of people who are actively working to make the world better. They do it in a wide variety of ways. No one is perfect. One of the most important things you can do to make the world a better place is to stop treating women like they are less than men. A lot of people do. This is not a guy thing. Misogyny is alive and well among women.

I’m also going to take a moment to say that I hate everyone who says, “Pregnancy is not a disability” whether they are men or women. I’m glad you have had that experience. I was enormously sick and incapable. I guess that makes me inferior, pathetic, and bad. I was disabled. I was on bed rest. I had to not walk around or I puked all over the place. I lost 18 pounds by the end of my second trimester because I was so sick.

But I was supposed to shake it off and “act normal” because men don’t go through this period where an alien parasite invades their bodies so obviously I shouldn’t be effected by the experience. If I have issues it is all my mind. I could function if I just wasn’t so lazy.

I really hate people. Yes, I could have kept teaching. Even though it was technically illegal for me to leave the classroom unsupervised to go vomit several times a day. I guess I should have been puking in the trash can. Geez, these lazy women wanting special treatment while they vomit uncontrollably. What the fuck is their problem.

This is all wrapped up for me. When a man tells me I am “too smart” to believe that lawmakers might push things through in a way that is severely problematic and dangerous to me I reference back to my life experience.

I’m always told things will be easy. That I shouldn’t complain. It’s easy for every one else, why am I whining.

I’m sorry I’m not you. And yet, fuck you. No I’m not. You are a fucking asshole and I don’t want to be like you.

I react the way I react based on a life of experiences. Do not insult me. Do not talk down to me. Those are not the only rapes in my life. When I am trying to decide how I feel about rape I have a wide variety of emotions available to me based on a wide variety of circumstances and occasions. I’m sure they are all my fault. What else did I expect?

I expect that people think I am a worthless piece of shit. I am a hole with no value of my own. The only reason to keep me or people like me around is if you want a hole. I should not get much say so about who goes in or who comes out. It’s not my place. I’m just the hole.

Processing

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I’m afraid. That means I have to go do whatever is scaring me, doesn’t it? In this case I have been thinking about PTSD stuff. I’m trying to have patience with myself. I tell other people to be patient with themselves. Life is a process. But I’m impatient.

I was asked today how long I have been suicidal. More than twenty years. I can’t remember not wanting to die. I have good days when I don’t make active plans but I think about how nice it would be to stop. I think about it a lot. Everything is so hard. It has always felt so hard. I am broken. This life is too much.

So I read up on treatment for PTSD in my spare time. It’s comforting and terrifying. Yup my life sucks and it’s gonna. Settle in and figure out how to cope with it. It’s kind of weird reading that whereas some people do successfully “get over” all of their symptoms I am a complex case. The probability I will ever be “normal” is virtually zero.

When I close my eyes and I feel my body and I feel my soul I am not much different from when I was three years old. I’m just me. It’s weird trying to figure out who I am if I am not defined by what I do or what happens to me. I’m just Krissy. I don’t know what that means.

Today I ran sixteen miles. I’m not sure how long it took me because my phone battery died. I’m feeling cranky with my phone. I think it took me ~4:20. Which is ironic and fitting.

I don’t feel like I know who I am. But I know that what I am is bad. I’m waiting for the next round of punishment. I’m waiting for the next big nasty rejection. The next friendship that ends in acrimonious words. I’m a fucking asshole. If the only common element in your problems is you then maybe you are the problem. It’s hard to know how to live as the problem. It’s hard to be silent enough. Invisible enough. It’s hard to ever stop being bad.

If I am the same me as I was then how much of what has happened to me has been my fault because I was bad? Because I was stupid? I don’t honestly feel like my father raping me was my fault. But I feel like I am drowning in wild grief because my family hates me for talking about it.

How can I just “get over it” when watching my children grow up reminds me over and over that I have no idea what I am doing. When I think about what I did at every age my blood goes cold. I hate myself. I hate what I have done. I am a disgusting little piece of shit. How can I teach anyone to be anything other than that?

People don’t give a shit about me. Ok, there are some people who care about me. And there are a lot more people who are willing to profess to caring about me on the internet. But when push comes to shove and it is my needs vs. someone else’s needs… people don’t give a shit about me. I don’t rank that highly. It’s not a pity party. It’s not about whining for attention. It’s a blunt statement of fact. People are serving their needs through our interactions, not mine. I need to remember that more. I certainly mostly interact with people when it serves my needs instead of theirs. When they bring me their needs I hide under the desk and cry because I just can’t bloody do another thing.

Does that mean I don’t give a shit about anyone? It’s a good question. Let’s just say that I limit how much I can let myself care about other people. If I want to be alive tomorrow I have to.

Running is this weird experience for me. On one hand I spend a lot of time crying because I feel undeserving of the people in my life (I really like you, Noah) and on the other hand I am moving relatively slowly through space. I have time to notice my body that I don’t normally have. So I have these weird little, “Oh, I’ll stop with the self-inflicted tirade and do a check. Ok, bottoms of the feet, how are you doing? Toes? Ankles? Give me more information than that, Knees” etc. I haven’t spent a lot of time really feeling my body in a long time. I feel more alive than I usually do.

And as I run along I list the ways of killing myself. I notice which vehicles I could step into. I notice the low height on the freeway overpass railing. I catalog poisonous plants. I look for places with just enough privacy to get the job done. I see appropriate branches and beams on houses and think of hanging. I notice carbon monoxide. I want to die.

Sometimes it almost feels like a fetish. Like something that has been a part of me for so long and now I can’t let it go. I don’t know how to change the habit of hating myself and wanting to die. I’m sure that some of my nerdy friends will lecture me on how I should go about doing so. To put it bluntly, unless you have a lot of training in working with complex PTSD or you are one of the handful of people I have met who have genuinely pulled their lives together after serious trauma I don’t want to hear it. That sounds more hostile than I mean it. Don’t be surprised if I don’t take your advice too seriously. It’s not personal.

I have lived with brain damage before. If I think about the years of extreme stress and trauma as damaging my brain through excessive fight/flight hormones… well… You don’t tell someone who is a paraplegic to go change all the lightbulbs. Unless you have special adaptive equipment, otherwise you are an asshole. If someone gives me well meaning advice that would get someone like me in a lot of trouble then I can’t take it. Even though it makes people feel all ignored and butt hurt.

I don’t tell battered women what to do. I don’t know their situation. Every situation is so complex.

Lately I feel like I should hurry up and change several big parts of my life. I’m feeling dissatisfied. Some of those things are actually changes for Noah and not me. But I have fifty days until I run a marathon. Surely it can wait until I am done driving my body into the ground.

I have limits. I can only do so much.

Where are my limits problematic? I do leave the house. I do socialize occasionally. Just not much. Just a very low amount compared to most of the people I know. Is that actually a problem? Why am I always on the edge of the bell curve? Why do I feel so in danger of being culled from the herd if I am the slightest bit different?

I try to remind myself that I don’t want to die for a long time. Even though it is hard to not die, that’s worth a lot of effort from me. If that takes a lot out of me and I don’t have enough space for other things then that is life. Every choice has a cost.

I think really hard about my choice to be so dependent on Noah. It’s not just about job security stuff. I actually think I would transition back to work and do fine. I’d make it work. I would have to. If I’m pragmatic I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have to work while my kids were little. It would be tight, but there is a lot of insurance coming. I’d be able to last many years on that money. I’m not scared because of money. Regardless of death, desertion, or divorce Noah has insured that I am provided for. I don’t think I have ever had a personal relationship with a man who is that kind of practical and honorable. It’s not just that he can make me that safe. It’s that he wants to. It’s a huge priority for him. Noah chose to be responsible for me.

I struggle with how emotionally dependent on him I am. I feel like it’s not fair. No one should have to carry the burden of being my sole support. That’s unjust and excessive. But there is no one else. I can’t ask my kids to meet my needs. If I can’t do it for myself I can ask him or do without. It’s scary. I’m so scared of what it will mean long-term that I am so wrapped up in him. I lose a lot of sleep worrying about him dying. I know that isn’t healthy either. I sincerely doubt I would try again for something like this. I don’t know how capable I would be of going through a period of intense vulnerability in front of someone.

My suffering is private. I may whine about it on the internet but by and large no one gets to fucking see it. It’s none of your god damn business. It’s not going to alter the course of your life one iota so why should I show you my pathetic gaping maw of need? No. I don’t want to deal with knowing that you know what I need… and you won’t do anything about it. No one will do anything about it.

It doesn’t help that when people offer to do things for me at this stage of my life I snarl at them. I won’t let people do things for me. I would much rather sit here and fester, thanks. I’m tired of being disappointed. I have to not care about the result in order to let someone help me. I usually do care. It’s not worth feeling upset with people who are doing their best. Just do it alone. Just be alone.

For some reason Noah puts up with me. I don’t understand it, but I’m grateful. I’m not alone. The important bit is I’m not alone. Not really. Not actually. Except when he’s at work. That sucks.

found the lost one.

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(I found the post from a few days ago that didn’t post. Woo.)

Drifting. So much time and so little to do. Strike that. Reverse it.

If I had an odometer it would be red lining. Something needs to change. Noah is about to go through a period of intense stress and it’s really important that I support him through this. Supporting him through this will make the next 1-5 years of my life manifestly better. Enough so that it doesn’t matter how tired I am… I have to find it somewhere.

I feel like I spend life going between periods of limbo where I am unsure what direction to start off in.

“Get over it and let your kids be friends.” I wake up and go to sleep thinking, “I would like to die.” I’m really glad for people who can just “get over things” but I can’t. I’m sorry. I have to work through things slowly and sometimes that isn’t a speed other people like. It feels like every thought I have has to slowly bubble up through the lake of depression. “What should I do today? Who should I talk to? How should I spend my time?” People who take a lot of energy from me in order to bear their presence are not a good trade. If I want to make it to tomorrow I have to carry about that energy load even though no one else gives a shit.

It sounds so melodramatic. I feel like a whiner. I feel like an incompetent piece of shit. In seven weeks I will be an incompetent piece of shit who completes a marathon. I really don’t have the extra energy to burn right now.

Things that are hard for me are easy for other people. Things that are easy for me are hard or even impossible for other people. People are asynchronous.

I have a lot of anger. I have to live with it. I have to control it. I have to. Some days it is easier than others. Some days it takes everything I have and I have nothing left to give to assholes who are rude to me. I have to live with that.

Near as I can tell I don’t owe anyone anything. Not even my husband. Not even my kids. If I truly don’t want to do something then I shouldn’t do it. I don’t actually hate most of the activities I do. I do, however, wish that I had more help and that I had to do slightly less of them. I believe this will change. I believe that my children will learn the pattern of life from me.

I think that every day that I live I am showing my kids what it looks like to live and be a person. This is what being a grown up looks like. You have to put your own oxygen mask on. I tell my kids pretty frankly that sometimes we don’t go to events because I am not up for dealing with the people. I wish I had a larger capacity but I don’t. That’s life. I can be upset with myself for being who I am or we can have fun at home. Which sounds better?

I’ll admit that being almost finished with the garage is a huge weight off my mind. It really and truly looks how I envisioned it in my head a year and a half ago. I’m really excited. I feel so much relief. I think I am glad the washing machine broke.

I have bits and pieces I will change here and there but the structural work is done for many years. Probably most of my childrens’ childhood. I did the work until it was done. Now I can stop. I feel relieved in a way I can’t put words to. I want to cry with relief. Yes. I did what I said I would do. I don’t have to feel driven and anxious and terrible all the time about how pathetic I am for not being done. It’s quite a relief.

Now I can finish the play house. Ha.

There are plans that are sprints and there are things that have to be part of the marathon of life. Gardening stuff has to be done slowly in phases over many years. It is teaching me patience. And science. I didn’t know science was this interesting.

I feel like I have been trying to settle my house down so that it is the appropriate kind of place for the activities I want to do. I want to homeschool my kids. I want to set up a life around learning. I want a “yes” environment. I suck at babyhood. I’ll be honest. This has been a very hard stretch of time but it is almost over. I’m very much looking forward to home schooling. We get to “play school” all day every day. I think that sounds like so much fun that I want to cry. How could I possibly be lucky enough to get to have this life?

Nothing is ever as good or as bad as it seems. My life is very good. My life is very blessed. But I have limitations. I’m very clear about which limitations are mine and which belong to other people. I talk to Shanna about how right now she is limited to having the kind of environment I feel comfortable in and I like staying home. As she gets older she won’t need me for direct supervision as much and she will be allowed to stray further and further from home and she will get to find out what kinds of environments make her most comfortable. Every bit of exploration will happen when it is the appropriate time for it to happen. You don’t have to do everything before you are ten. It’s ok to wait on a few things. Life is long.

I think a lot about rural living situations. I think about historical lives. I think about how bizarre it is that I feel pressured to put my kid into group classes so she can “learn about children her age” when I’m not sure that is historically or evolutionarily necessary. She does hang out with kids. But she does a lot better in mixed age settings. Sometimes she plays with the babies, sometimes the other 3-5 year olds, sometimes the 11 year old. It all depends on which game they want to play that minute. I don’t see how it benefits her to be pushed into being lock-step with people “her age”. It’s such an odd idea to me. I feel resentful about the idea.

I was always highly asynchronous. I am forking thrilled to let Shanna develop a friendship with a girl who is seven years older than her who is quiet and shy and reserved and timid. That’s a lot better than the sexually active, drug-using children I hung out with. Perspective is an interesting experience.

Shanna is mad at me because I am pulling back on screen time. They are both getting grabby and demanding and rude about the ipad and to me that means it’s time for a break. If you bloody scream at me that you want that NOW I am categorically going to deny you whatever it is you wanted. I don’t scream at you like that and I’m not going to god damn let you do it to me. I feel like it is important. I feel like it is mandatory socialization. I don’t know how to do this when other people are around. I tolerate or don’t tolerate different behaviors and it is confusing to me and the kids. It’s stressful and hard to remember.

I should start working. My back is sore. Maybe it’s time for some vitamin I.

I wake up and go to sleep thinking I would like to die. But then I see Noah lying next to me. Not yet.

neeeeeeedy

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I wanted to write about fifteen miles while it was fresh in my mind. I didn’t. It was euphoric and triumphant. Tomorrow morning I am going to do sixteen miles. I’m changing directions slightly for the early part and adding hill. I’m a little nervous. I’m hoping to once again make it in four hours. That’s cocky. That’s really cocky. We are meeting at the same place. Mmmm rewarding noodles.

It’s hard knowing that it is probably smart for people to keep me out at arms length. If you keep me out at arms length I never start to have expectations of you. I won’t let myself feel like I need something from you. For me to have needs in the direction of people is usually the kiss of death. Noah is the last man standing.

Does that make me straight?

I think about that a lot lately. I think about self-identity. What is the point? The point is that if someone wants to know what the difference is between having sex with someone who is transgendered, transvestite, or a butch dyke I can describe it in great detail from personal experience. It was all fun.

Sometimes I look at Noah and feel kind of weird. It’s sort of ironic that I married someone from a small Texas town who had some kind of semi-status from inherited position there. Given my history I mean. And together we are very cis-gendered.

What does being queer mean, anyway?

What does being a “runner” mean? If I walk sixteen miles tomorrow because I am tired am I a “runner”?

I have endurance. I am persistant to the limits I can achieve with my body. I’m not naturally athletic or gifted. I’m stubborn. I’m angry. I’m sad. I have so much grief. I want to prove to myself that I am as good as my brother. No, I’m not as fast as him. I hope he has matured to the point where he wouldn’t be an asshole about that. I think so.

I’m scared to see him and I’m scared not to see him. He despises me. He despises what I have done and who I am and that I had the utter gall to talk about it in public. But I’m going to drive my husband nuts with having to accomodate me as I train for a marathon on my brother’s turf.

Fuck you. You can’t tell me that I am weak. I am here. And at the end I will still be standing.

Lately I feel very weak. I have a lot of needs that are going unmet. I’m getting brittle. It’s hard because I can only handle asking someone to meet a need of mine if I am very ok with the answer being “no”. If I can’t take a no then I can’t ask. If I ask when I can’t afford to be told no and I don’t get help I will turn my frustration and rage on my unsuspecting friend. That’s not fair. I don’t do that.

Right now there is a towering avalanche of need. But I am so afraid of saying the wrong thing or offending people or being disappointed that I don’t know how to deal with any of it. There are a lot of different things going on right now I can’t talk about in writing. That’s hard for me. That feels silencing. That makes me feel angry on top of whatever I’m feeling anyway.

I’m sure some rational person would say, “Well why don’t you just write it and keep it private then”.

I don’t know. I learned a long time ago that I don’t write for me, exactly. I can only write if I believe someone is reading it. I have never been able to consistently maintain a paper journal but if someone speaks up and says, “By the way I read your blog every day. I care about you.” Motherfucker I’ll write every day. I’ll find the time. I will conjure it out of thin air.

It feels sick. This need in me to be seen. I started crying earlier when I realized I treat that ridiculous random validation as the closest thing I will ever have to a mother checking in on me. I feel so alone in the world. Multiple people asked me if I was ok.

It’s kind of hard for me when people notice me. I feel like Eeyore. I used to play games with not posting on my blog for months at a stretch and people didn’t notice. I took that as validation that people wouldn’t notice or be particularly impacted if I died. It actually made me feel better. Because suicide was an option that would be far less selfish for me than most people. Before I got married. Before I had kids.

I don’t have anyone in my life other than Noah with whom I have an intense on-going relationship. Ok, Shanna and Calli. Every other person in my life spends very few hours with me during the course of a year.

If I don’t write on the internet, do I exist?

If I don’t write on the internet I am surely invisible. My pragmatic self says that if I don’t write on the internet people only know the handful of sentences we exchange in person. That isn’t knowing me even slightly. From that I will decide I should be invisible. I will always believe that is just and right and the natural order of things. People like me are born bad. We should suffer in silence. If we talk about what is going on in our minds then we are traumatizing people and we don’t have the right to do that.

I’m scared of the hunt for a new therapist. During my last search I had a few one time only visits. Including with someone who told me point blank that I should never participate in group therapy or write about my experiences in a public way because that is abusive and traumatizing to the people who hear or read about my life. I don’t have the right to do that.

I have to be very careful who I allow to be an authority in my life. I have done too many things that make me already damned in the eyes of many. For a great many people I am already beyond redemption. If you think I am exaggerating then you have lead a very privileged life. I have to be careful who I allow to judge me. Well, I have to be careful if I am going to care about that judgment.

So when people tell me to just “get over” my experiences. Well, despite the fact that it makes me feel pathetic I may well be in therapy the rest of my life. They are going to always be the longest running relationships in my life outside of Noah and the kids. I need to have something. It’s very easy to deem this need pathetic if you have ways of getting your needs met that are simply not available to me.

I don’t know who are what I am defending myself against. The voices in my head. The reasons my throat feels choked all the time. I should be silent. Just shut up. Just listen. Nothing you have to say is interesting any way. Stop. Fucking. Whining.

I go to bed and wake up thinking that I want to die. I want to stop feeling this way. It hurts to move. It hurts all the time. And I don’t know what to do other than wait it out. That’s what I’ve always done. But this time I can’t do any of the impulsive things I have always done. It’s really hard. I feel like I am vibrating with tension. My muscles radiate.

I need to stretch more. I need to sleep more. I need to rest more. I need.. I need a mommy I can call and say, “Come love my babies for me so I can sleep.” But I don’t have one. And that’s just life.

I have to believe that my grief matters. Whether any one else does or not. I have to. I miss my mother. The price I pay for being allowed to go about my life without being abused is that aching hole inside me. There is a cost to everything. I miss my mother. I miss my mother like I would miss an amputated limb. I reach for her. I smell her. I see her in the mirror and in my children.

I want my mother so much I feel like I am going to explode. But contacting her would be the worst thing in the world. For everyone. For me. For my kids. For my mom. Because if I yo-yo back and forth and ask them to make it up to me I am setting myself up in the power position. I’m saying I want to be the next abuser. No. No. No.

There is a lot more I want to say. There isn’t much more I can dance around with anything resembling eloquence. And besides, I have to get up and walk (I will jog!) sixteen miles.

I will be able to call myself a marathoner. I’ll be crafty and specific. I didn’t saying “running”. That way I deal with no assholes and I still make my point.

It feels pathetic to want to figure out who I am. I am nothing. I came from nothing that should be. Nothing I can claim. I am nothing on my own in the world. I exist in relationship to three people.

I’m telling you people, my family had better not die in a freak crash without me. I won’t make it through the day. I’m only a little paranoid about them dying. But I do cry if the word comes through my head. I can’t lose them. They are all I have.

I need sleep. Sleep. Go to sleep. Stop crying. Sleep. Stretch first. It’ll be ok. Really. It’s always ok in the end. If it’s not ok yet, it’s not the end. If you’re going through hell, etc.

Mental illness is a liar.

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The Band wants to hear about what I have to say about teens and mental health.

You just keep going

Do the best you can

Monthly Archives: August 2012

18 miles

Haunted

More whining. I’m sorry I woke up so early.

Not being nice to Noah.

Stupidly defensive.

On guns

trying to figure out the pieces.

Doesn’t everyone hear voices?

You bring it on yourself.

sticks and stones

Today isn’t starting well.

Sex.

I don’t think that getting over my anger is the point.

I live for Sundays.

This is why I don’t have friends.

Processing

found the lost one.

neeeeeeedy