My kids then my bowels then my racing thoughts have other plans for me. Screw you, body. I should have taken a sleeping pill. I meant to take a sleeping pill. Getting less than five hours tonight will be inconvenient. I can’t take a sleeping pill tomorrow (tonight?) because I have to wake up and drive so I can’t be groggy. Weeeeeeee.

It’ll be ok. It’ll all work out.

Some folks posted full medical studies about cannabis on the ptsd forum that I read. Apparently there are a fair number of psychiatrists in the world who believe that cannabis is the go to medication for PTSD. I don’t think I was aware of that. Nice to hear though.

PTSD slowly wears your body down. You can’t eat or sleep properly and losing those two functions is a sure fire way to lose your mind. You will die if you cannot eat or sleep. That’s just part of being an animal. Cannabis is particularly good at encouraging people to eat (I generally smoke before breakfast and before dinner or I can’t eat because my stomach is in knots and I want to vomit from the pain) and I have some right before bed because it increases the likelihood I will sleep through the night.

I certainly get far more sleep stoned than I get sober. Stoned I usually get 5-7 hours. Sober usually 2-3 hours.

“My body forgot how to feel not-scared.”

There are a hand full of men and women on the forum with early childhood sexual assault. We have distinct similarities in our adult lives. Honestly the part that fascinates me is the people who developed PTSD from like medical trauma. Those folks have an interestingly overlapping but very different journey. When I read the other CSA (childhood sexual assault) people I feel like my experience might be relevant. When I read about people losing their lives because of fear of medical procedures…

Wow. I don’t know what to say. I have issues with doctors–but not like that. I feel utterly useless. How do you get over that much terror around the idea of your body betraying you? That sounds ridiculously hard. The combat folks I get and I don’t know what to tell them either. It’s just different.

Extreme early child abuse prevents a person from learning normal life coping mechanisms. Someone who has a good life but who undergoes horrifying medical procedures and treatments has coping methods for most things but then their body is entirely out of their control. That’s different. It is really interesting for me to try to wrap my head around the idea of having these coping methods for life and having them gradually either lose effectiveness or just blow up in your face.

For most of my life in my head I was sexually abused but not physically abused. I wasn’t covered in bruises and I didn’t get broken bones in the family (though my brother telling someone to throw me off the monkey bars is a bit sketchy) so I wasn’t physically abused. Being slapped constantly didn’t count. I wasn’t slapped daily but I was slapped at least a couple of times a week until I was thirteen and I slapped my mom back. I was taller than her and heavier than her. I was fucking done.

I need to change my techniques with Calli. Last night bedtime was late (we went on a walk to see a light show at a church a mile from our house–it was pretty nice) and Calli was overtired and worn out. She did not want to put her jammies on. I told her that she had to pick or I would. I think that is going to be the last time this lifetime I force her into clothing. Oh man the screaming.

Then once she was in the jammies she hit me over and over. Fair enough. She didn’t want to wear them. In order to contain the screaming and the hitting we put her in her playroom for a minute. Her response was to strip naked and stretch out on the floor crying. I didn’t yell at her. I said, “You feel that strongly, huh? Then you really do need to pick out a different pair. It’s too cold to go to bed naked.”

She sobbed and picked out different jammies and let me help her put them on. I need to not do that again. She’s too big and her will is too strongly developed. It’s not worth it. If it was less cold (or if she didn’t run cold all the time) I wouldn’t even fight her for jammies. I don’t with Shanna. If Shanna wants to sleep naked she can. She wakes up in the middle of the night and takes her jammies off if I force her to put them on. I remember doing that. I did it all through my childhood. I went to bed with jammies on and woke up naked.

I’m about done with this battle. I don’t have babies any more. I don’t need to care that much about their temperature. They are good at determining for themselves. Time to let go of feeling control over this. It’s going to be weird.

While I was lying in bed trying to sleep I counted my blessings.

I feel ridiculously lucky to have Noah. He talks to me and listens to me and supports me absolutely to the best of his ability. He gives me more support and love than I ever believed I would have. I didn’t know that a man could respect me and be nice to me the way he is.

I feel so blessed in having Shanna. Our personalities are so very compatible. We get along so well. Even her difficult days are more delightful than not. I feel so lucky that I get to spend all day every day around someone who makes me so happy. I know things will change and I hope that I give her enough space through adolescence that we manage to continue having a good relationship. I try not to bank on it, but I hope for it. I’m trying to give her a respectful relationship she will want to continue.

Calli astounds me more by the day. I think that her facial expressions are harder for me to read and she often looks kind of grumpy even when she is in a perfectly fine mood so we have a less steady relationship. We are both kind of anxious about trying to please one another. It feels amazing to me that progression into language seems to be mostly about being able to say, “Actually mom you have to sit right next to me” rather than asking for other things. I had no idea she liked me this much. I think I mistook her willingness to tolerate being put down for a preference for it. She was not a limpet as a tiny baby but she is turning into one now. I try very hard to meet her needs for touching me. She is getting more specific about it by the day. It isn’t even just lots of asking to be picked up. She comes and gets me and asks me to do what she is doing. That’s new for her. She helps with all kinds of work because she wants to be close to me. Because it is happening simultaneously with her losing most of the difficult “baby work” it feels like such a blessing. I feel so happy to have her company. She is funny and smart. I’m really enjoying getting to know her.

I am very lucky in my friends. In my experience most people are good. They want to help. They do want the world to be a better place. I am very lucky that I have people in my life who love and support me. I’m going through my mental list. I don’t really understand why you all try so hard. I am not easy to love. I make it just about impossible. Some of you have probably had to tolerate far more shit than you should. I’m very grateful.

I have done a lot of really interesting things with good people as an adult. Since I turned 18 I can probably number the worst things that have happened on my fingers.

Dan raping me.
Paul raping me.
Kevin sexually assaulting me.
Noah raping me.
Miscarriage.
Miscarriage.
Almost dying during childbirth.
Uncle Bob dying.

Family divorces, romantic breakups and losing friends just aren’t on that list. It’s different.

Dan, Paul, and Kevin all assaulted me in the short period of time I lived alone in San Jose in between breaking up with Puppy and Noah asking me to marry him. So between December and March. They all were men who knew about my childhood issues in vague handwavey ways and had been “supportive”. They all went through long conversations in which I was ridiculously explicit about what I wanted. This was at the height of my slut period. I fucking negotiated hard. But Dan got me drunk and Paul knew I was on GHB and Kevin did it during a massage.

So as long as I am never around anyone other than Noah while I drink or do do drugs I should be ok and my current massage therapist is the most professional person possible. And my kids are in the room. That makes me feel way more secure, honestly.

I have had the good fortune to have security. Noah makes me feel safe. Noah is working himself like a dog trying to provide me with a home I own free and clear because that is so important to me. Things happen. He may not always be able to work. Right now I could not support our family. I just can’t make enough money. That feels humiliating and degrading. I have in the past. In the first year of our marriage we lived on my salary and his whole salary went to paying off debt. I wouldn’t be a stay at home mom with extraneous debt. I would be too scared the whole time.

I want to be able to take care of my family. In about seven years I will be able to meet our financial needs without a problem regardless of what happens to Noah. If everything goes according to plan. This is when you cue the laugh track.

I want to denigrate this plan because then I don’t look like I’m taking it seriously. If I don’t look like I’m taking it seriously no one else will bother to take the time to explain in a friendly way how I shouldn’t try because it is too hard or not a good idea because your mortgage is a tax write off. My priority is very specific: lower monthly expenses. Telling me that my minimum of $25,000/year mortgage is a tax write off doesn’t get me nearer my goal of lower monthly expenses. That’s a god damn substantial chunk of change. (I say minimum because we overpay by a lot because I am trying to pay it off early.)

This is money that would probably otherwise go towards fairly “lifestyle” upgrades that are just not requirements. They aren’t things that would make me happier.

Noah gets what this means for me. He has goals of his own that do not include working a shitty job at a shitty company for the rest of his life because he has to earn a ridiculous salary to support our lifestyle. Things may become more volatile in a few years.

Six more years. Then our financial needs will be much lower. Like, less than half of what they are now. If I put my head down and follow my plan six years will feel like nothing. A blink.

I only have about seven more years until I need to be full speed ahead preparing for the trip abroad. This is the time to get ready. I am working on Spanish. I need to figure out how I want to tackle French. We are also working on ASL. In seven years I would like to be able to have a conversation in all three of these languages.

Oh shit. I need to start working.

I feel so lucky that I get to have this life. I get to have this life because of Noah. He’s my backer. Sometimes it is a little weird to me that he is frank about his ardent support of my artistic endeavors/writing/travel. I’m not entirely sure I believe that anyone is entitled to the kind of freedom I have let alone me.

Hm. Given how late the kids went to bed I bet they will sleep in. I should go have sex with him. Bye.