Monthly Archives: February 2013

Plants are personal.

Not eating sugar is hard. There is hidden, extra sugar in freakin everything. I’m trying. And I’m not being a fascist with the kids. When other people hand them sugar when we are out I don’t say anything.

Today is a gardening day. And my friend’s husband is coming tonight. I’m going to get a whole bunch of work done. I can feel my heart go pitter patter. It is hilarious how happy getting work done makes me. Slowing the inevitable decline of my house makes me feel better about living in it. It’s a thing.

I’ve been doing a lot of gardening. I really want to put up pictures of my yard. If I’m good I may do it today. I’ve made a lot of progress lately. I will be putting out word that I have more starts than I need pretty soon. The lavender is taking off. I’m going to have almost a dozen plants out of this batch. I’m going to have 40+ tomato plants. Over a dozen chard plants. Those are the ones I have massively popping up so far. I think the parsley is taking off. Lots of carrots are coming up outside. The celery looks happy. Artichokes are doing great. We pulled the flowers off the blueberry bush because you shouldn’t let it fruit the first year.

Lots going on in the yard. I would really like showing off. But I’m bad at taking pictures so I dislike posting what I take. Oh well. Get over it.

I need to write the Easter egg hunt email. I’m thoroughly excited about this year. This is our fourth hunt. I think this will be the first one with a lot of kids. I’ve been hoping that one of these years we would hit critical mass. The hunt is the day after I drive back from Portland. I think this year will be pot luck. And I have to have the house completely ready before we leave. The only thing I will have to do is get up Sunday morning and hide the eggs. You can’t do that in advance anyway. It’ll be fun.

I feel like I live my life preparing for events. That’s how I structure my time. “X event is in Y days so I should do Z work so I am ready.” I check in with my calendar multiple times of day. I keep long task lists for separate areas of endeavor (yard, cleaning, crafty-schtuff, cooking, etc) and I move back and forth between the lists as my priorities shift. Sometimes, when I’m feeling lonely I think about taking pictures of alllll the lists next to one another because it amuses me. But I feel weird about it so I don’t.

Which is to say: I live in an era of over-exposure and I know that everything I put into the world becomes part of how people judge me. How much of my insanity do I want to reveal? Shaping an identity comes in inches. I think it is funny that I have considerably less compunction about writing graphic sexual stories than I have about posting pictures of my gardening.

My gardening is actually personal. I am slowly working towards an image in my mind. I have plans. I am creating something. I am creating something that I want to see for the sole reason that I want to see it. I am being very selfish. I am using a tremendous amount of time and energy.

It feels really good. I will get to hide here for the rest of my life. And I will make it beautiful. That is personal.

Most of the time when I have fucked people it hasn’t been very personal. Probably 80% of my partners were fewer than four uhm occasions. Around 60% were once. I didn’t know them. They don’t know me. They don’t want to know me. I have had sex with somewhere between 120-130 people.

Sex is a physical need. Also, I have spent a lot of my life trying to get through one more night. I grew up with the belief that I should be constantly searching for a sex partner and tolerating inappropriate contact from men. Being married and having kids means that I have the “acceptable model” to kind of default into. It does happen to be a relatively healthy model.

I’m not interested in spending all of my time out being entertained. That sounds like a lot of work and a lot of money to me. I don’t want my children to look at the environment around them as owing them entertainment. They need to create their own entertainment. That’s life. You have to create what you want to see in the world. How are you going to do that? My kids do some really cool things with play silks. They have a lot of time to fill.

I’m excited about the idea of charter school money. I know what the standards are. I know how to measure them. I know how to introduce concepts. It doesn’t require curriculum. It can just happen.

And I forgot to hit post again. That’s ok. Tomorrow will be festive as well. Tomorrow is my last day of incest support group. I’m relieved.

Suicidal ideation

I love getting eight hours of sleep by 3am. It makes my whole day better. It makes my whole life better. Then I am more cheerful and enthusiastic about what I have to do. I consider it the first thing I must do in a day in order to have a good day. The second thing I must do in order to have a good day is get more than 75% of my chores done by 9am. I have a thing in my head.

I participate in a variety of online support groups–or rather I have over the years, not so much at this second–and it has been a fairly big thing for me over the past ten years “I am more productive by 9am than a great many people are all day.” It’s a thing in my head. I work very hard on it. That way I feel I have the freedom to do with the rest of the day as I please.

Pretty much every online support group has strict rules about talking about suicide. Really, pretty much everyone everywhere believes it isn’t ok to talk about–especially if you are seriously thinking about it.

My furnace dries out the air terribly. I’ve spent all winter coughing and hacking and feeling unhappy about it since I moved into this house. Now my kids join me. So they’ve been waking up a lot at night. It means I have a lot of time in the middle of the night to think about them and to think about suicide and for me to think about what happiness means.

There are a lot of parenting books on the market that will tell you that you are bad bad doomed if you have children because you want to give yourself a reason to live. BAD. DON’T DO THAT! That’s what the books say.

To that I say: becoming a parent is always a selfish decision. Why is my selfish decision worse than yours? I have promised myself and my kids that I will absolutely not kill myself until they are adults because they require care and I am the one who has to give it. I have to say that it gets easier by the year. I’m learning what happiness feels like.

I know a lot of people who work very hard to ensure that they don’t have to “deal with” their kids in the middle of the night. Gosh that is my favorite time. I love feeling like my mere presence keeps the monsters at bay. Because I do. In Calli’s mind and in Shanna’s mind if I am in the room then they are safe and life is good. That’s just the end of the debate.

That feeling is better than every drug I have ever taken and I’ve tried a really lot of drugs. A lot. A really lot. Ha. But I did the vast majority of my drug taking (other than this stoner thing)  in under two years after I was a college graduate. Let me get on my pulpit for a second to lecture anyone younger than me about how you should wait until your brain is done forming before you use drugs. Wait until your brain decides which connections it wants before you break sections. Just do. I’m serious. You have a long fucking life in front of you. You don’t need to try everything in the first twenty years. Good grief.

I have never believed that I had a long life ahead of me. I have wanted to die since I was seven years old. For the past twenty-four years I have wanted to be dead more than I have wanted to be alive. Well, I would say that the percentages kind of rock back and forth staying in the 40’s and 50’s. I wanted to die a lot and I didn’t want to live very much but actually killing yourself is harder than it looks sometimes. I did not overdose as a teenager as a cry for help. I simply vomited up the drugs and was found before I could finish dying. Different.

Now I’m really glad I’m not dead. I feel like getting to sleep with my little girls, with their faces pressed to mine as they mumble over and over while falling asleep, “Mommy love you so much. So much. Sooooooooo much” this is the reason that people live. This feeling of love and happiness. This is why people stay alive. The hope of this. The belief that some day they will get to have this feeling. This is the increased joy that parents have that non-parents don’t get. That is one of those things they find in studies. Over a lifetime parents have more joy than non-parents–a shitload more stress too… but it’s worth it.

I never thought I would actually experience having someone love me like this. I believed this would always be for someone else. I’m very concerned that I not alienate my children… ever. I have to behave appropriately in order to deserve a relationship with them. But I’m not very good at acting appropriately.

Sometimes I feel like the biggest fucking hypocrite in the world when I get mad at my kids for breaking rules. Ha.

I told Shanna, about the stealing candy thing, it is my job to teach you the rules of society. I get angry because I feel afraid. If you steal as an adult there are serious consequences. I have to teach you that it is not a good thing to steal or the rest of your life will be harder and you will have a lot of very unpleasant experiences. I don’t want you to suffer. How can we work on you not doing this? I told her that I really don’t know “how this should be taught” because when I was a child the way I was taught was to be hit. I don’t want to hit her and I’m not really sure what the other options are and I feel kind of overwhelmed sometimes as I try to deal with it. I’m sorry I scream so much. I know it is annoying or scary depending on the day.

I asked her if she knew that how much I love her is completely unaffected by whether or not she perfectly follows the rules. I do not perfectly follow the rules and I hope she will always love me. She told me that somewhere else there are kids who always do exactly what their mothers say and they never break rules. I laughed and said those must be the most boring, uncurious children on the planet and how sad for their mothers’. She looked very confused.

I have not thought about killing myself in a bit. Certainly weeks. But I was asked to reaffirm that I understand and will follow the rules of forums and I WILL NEVER POST THAT I AM FEELING SUICIDAL. Thus I am thinking about the concept though I am not experiencing it. I have felt shamed and bad for being suicidal for pretty much my entire life. I’m aware that people are uncomfortable with the fact that I feel this way and their discomfort is the most important thing here.

Talking about it, or not, has not even slightly increased my self-harming behaviors. Over time my self-harming behaviors have kind of melted away. I’m not hurting myself anymore, I’m really not. It was a process I had to go through. I had to be whiny and angsty and I had to really process how much I wanted to die. This process is simply part of being alive for me. I understand that other people don’t like it. I feel very uncomfortable about being told over and over and over and over that because I make other people feel uncomfortable when I talk about it I shouldn’t talk about it.

Well, how much do you enjoy being surprised by someone offing themself? Wouldn’t you have preferred a warning? Dude, seriously.

P!nk has a song on her new album about drinking and doing drugs and running away and I feel suicide is strongly implied. I really appreciate it when people admit in public that this struggle is part of their life. The song is The Great Escape and I listen to it a lot right now. I’ve been thinking about how I understand this whole “creation of something new” thing now that I didn’t understand before. I have a family now. I have never had one before. Oh wow. This is how they are supposed to look? I’ve been thinking about having something to live for.

It’s really interesting watching how the percentages change. Feeling suicidal vs. wanting to live. That’s a ratio I’ve been actively tracking for most of my life. I have visualized it a lot of different ways over time. These days I think wanting to die falls into the teens. I’m very happy about that. That’s a ridiculous amount of progress for me.

But I’m not supposed to talk about it. I’m not supposed to be graphic about my ongoing struggles to not kill myself. Someone else might feel uncomfortable. Welcome to my sandbox, motherfucker. Here the rules are that I get to talk about whatever gets me through the night. If I am sitting here and writing something then I am not cutting. I am not hitting my body against a large blunt object. I am not soliciting some piece of shit to hurt me. I am not offering up sex to people I don’t know just to get through the night without having to be alone.

I’m not alone. I really love that my kids need me in the middle of the night because I need them in the middle of the night. I need to feel love in the middle of the night. I need to feel wanted. I need to feel like it matters that I not die.

The passion and the pain are going to keep you alive someday. I honestly don’t know how someone in my position would work through this without children. I can understand putting off the decision to die because you still have things you want to do–that is more or less the path I was on pre-kids. I made deals with myself, “I want to do ____. ____. and ____ then it doesn’t matter.” I was very selfish and random about the deals over the years and that’s ok. It was a deal with me about how much pain I have to endure.

That’s the plain and simple reality behind my suicidal ideation. Do I or don’t I get to decide how much pain I have to be in? Am I or am I not in charge of this decision? I think this is where I make the jump to atheism entirely.

I want to be the one who decides when my pain ends. I hold that right. I consider it one of my basic rights. Other animals do the same thing. It is natural just like infanticide is natural. It exists in every species. In America there are approximately thirty seven children killed by their parents every week. You don’t see headlines very often. Every fucking week.

Parenting is hard but I fucking guarantee you that no part of this journey has been remotely as difficult as what came before it so I’m still coasting. My second labor was nine days long followed by a blood hemorrhage that left me unable to walk to the bathroom for weeks. I crawled. Otherwise I simply did not leave my bed. But my friend K delivered enough food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for three weeks. It was a calm but peaceful period. I learned my baby. I didn’t mind the work. It was nice.

Life is about work. Life is about creating and the things you want to do. I freakin love Richard Scarry. Everyone is a worker. All the work must be done. Some of the work is not more honorable than anything else. There is a hierarchy in pay–that tends to exist because some jobs can be done by many people and some jobs can be done by smaller and smaller groups of people and when you have to compete for the talents of a small group… you have to pay a lot of money.

You have to think about those people. The ones who are so selfish. Wait… that’s my husband. He has spent our entire marriage working his ass off to increase his income. Isn’t that selfish? He didn’t do it until he had a reason to. He didn’t care enough to bother. He wasn’t driven by love of acquisition on its own. But now he has this wife with really expensive travel interests and uhm he has decided that he wants to provide for me. He knew that was who I wanted to be before we married.

He doesn’t want me to spend time wanting to die. He wants me to have a list of things I want to do that is really long and complex and it’s ok if it is also expensive–he knows I am overall frugal and I am providing for our long-term safety before I take travel money out. It’s cool. He told me so. Explicitly. He reminds me every few months. It’s weird but really cool. I appreciate how explicitly my husband wants me to be happy.

He wants to keep me. He thinks that the likelihood is higher if I have a sandbox where I can say whatever I want and not get kicked off a support forum for it. He gives me resources I don’t have to have in my head.

I feel like both of us really changed when we got married. We have someone to work for and that is a powerful motivator for both of us. It has been interesting to see as a progression. We get better and better at not hurting one another as we make mistakes and learn how to talk about them. We really don’t keep making the same mistakes over and over.  We make new ones! heh

So, to continue on the P!nk trend: Slut Like You is fun. When you are looking to ensure that you don’t have to be alone tonight it dramatically changes how you act. The stakes are different. You’ll worry about tomorrow tomorrow. You have to get through tonight in order to get there.

I’m trying to figure out what mental hurdle I have to working on the books right now. I know I’m overwhelmed by life. I think that I’m just too tired to think. I need to have some reason for a deadline so I can plan around it. I’ll figure it out. I need to decide how much I want to have done by December so I can backwards plan.

I need to feel like I am moving towards what I want to be moving towards. Right now I feel pretty out of control of my schedule. I’m not sure how to change that. Well no. That’s a big fat lie. I know how to change it. I am changing it. This is a process. The schedule will be back to being shaped how I need it to be shaped in about another two weeks. Then we leave town for a week. See how this goes? Oh man.

Portland, we are practically doing a drive-by. March 25th we drive north towards Eugene. We are sleeping there because the kids will be sick of the car. We are aiming to arrive at Dad’s house at 6pm on Tuesday the 26th. We are spending the day with Aunt Cookie, a truly delightful woman. I have an intense interest in hearing stories about Noah’s family. They shape my story now. I don’t have many sources of information.

Wednesday during the day we don’t have plans and we will probably want to go do something fun. Not sure what yet. Wednesday we should hang out with Dad. Thursday and Friday we are hanging out with A. Ha. I haven’t even emailed her to confirm that yet. But she offered it to me. I’m taking it. (pause. email sent.) We will spend Thursday and Friday nights walking around Dad’s neighborhood talking to him and playing with kids. On Saturday we drive allllllll the way home. With four kids who have had a long week and who will not be happy about being in the car. Thank goodness for iPads. Ha.

What we ask of our children is not natural. How we have to deal with the constraints of their lives is not natural. But beating them isn’t a better option. Sometimes you can’t let them have the pace of travel that is appropriate for them. You have to just get there. It is hard but life is that way sometimes.

Once upon a time travel involved physical exertion… even sitting in a wagon is fairly labor intensive compared to a car. We provide these children padded worlds of strapped in boredom. I am not capable of being entertaining for a twelve hour drive. Not even in shifts because then my “off” shift would be driving and I would have a stroke from road rage. That is not in anyone’s best interests. No, my kids can’t entertain themselves for that long. I understand that this is a tragic failing. Never the less… we are going to use them. They can’t use them for the whole trip so there will be other entertainment involved. It’ll work out. It will be one long day of our lives. No big deal. I’m trying to psych myself up for the trip. I’m trying to lay out in advance how much energy I am going to need for various stages. I’m trying to figure out how I will do it without getting punchy about having to teach my kids new situational manners over and over and over for a week solid. It’s a pain but worth it in the long run.

I need my kids to understand how to evaluate for situational manners. I need to consciously talk about how I am evaluating everything around me for clues about how I should behave. I do this every time we travel. It’s a lot easier at Disneyland because there are a lot of “let loose” places. We are going to be moving between environments that will have wildly different “grown up” rules that are going to feel unfair or inappropriately constricting because they aren’t used to those rules. I’m going to be tested over and over. It’s going to be fun.

But this is the whole process of life. I want to teach them how to do this while smiling. I want this trip to be a happy and joyful memory. Shanna is probably going to actually remember this trip for a long time. We will take pictures. She may eventually remember the pictures more than the day but she will have the same kind of connection to these people that I have to Brittney, the little girl who was born four months before me across the street from my family. I was set in my baby carrier next to her in her baby carrier. I have pictures of us when we are two and three and four and seven and and…

I want my kids to have that. I hope they never lose it.

I didn’t think I would lose Brittney. It is hard finding out how unforgivable existing is. Oh, that’s not true I would be told. I am allowed to exist. But I must be silent so no one ever has to actually find out the specifics because oh man that is over the line. The book. The fucking book. I’m having trouble going back through and editing. This is why I paid an editor. Unfortunately after reading the Kindle edition I am entirely unsatisfied with the job she did and I feel fairly back at square one. I thought I was getting an editor but what I got was a copyeditor and that’s a different job.

I wanted technical editing. I wanted someone to give me feedback on flow and let me know where I am being vague and random. I wanted someone to look at it as a work of art to be made better with a few tweaks. Ahhhhh. I get it now. I did get that. That’s what I asked for. She didn’t make many suggestions for changes. She treated it like it was sacrosanct as a poor incest victims story. It was allowed to ramble and be weird.

Ack. But then people don’t want to buy it and it isn’t actually telling the story I want to tell. I can’t always see when I’m doing that without this ridiculous analytical reading that is really hard to do. A page takes me multiple hours. Actually reading something and dealing with the errors is god damn fucking hard work. Why do you think the overall production values of everything in the everything has gone down? (And why I make no promises about my blog entries. These are not polished pieces, yo.)

But the book was supposed to be. And it so clearly isn’t. I feel kind of morally offended by that. In order to motivate that kind of interest you either need a True Fan or someone who is going to make money off the writing. I had neither. Such is life. I’m slowly progressing on editing. It’s hard. I need to set specific goals and plow through it though. Bleh. Yuck. Bleh.

I am running. I’m tired and I’m switching my days for workouts around like crazy but I’m getting through everything. I have a 10k at the end of April. So far my standard for 5ks has been “I pray for under forty minutes”. I’m hoping to do the 10k in eighty minutes.

That means maintaining a standard pace just barely faster than 1km in eight minutes. That means .62 miles in eight minutes. That means I’ll have to run at least 11:50 through the whole damn race. That is way way way faster than I did the marathon. (My marathon average was 15:40/mile. I’m serious when I say I walked a marathon. I’m still hella proud.)

This pace is going to be a huge stretch for me. My race partner may have a different set of goals and staying together is more important than time to me. Additionally: I’m all for wimping out at mile five and crawling the last mile if I feel bad. Flexibility.

What is the goal: the method or the result? Let’s be clear that when it comes to crossing six miles of distance speed vs. just reaching the finish line is a very different set of goals. I no longer fear not reaching the finish line physically… unless I push myself too hard. I am not in amazing physical shape. I’m in good shape. But I’m not an experienced athlete. I have ramped up at a pretty reasonable rate all things considered.

Every body is where it is. You can’t be too hard-lined about “goals” because progress not perfection kind of trumps any stuck on points. It is quite possible I’m not physically capable of running that fast for that long… yet. I may have to work longer before I reach that goal. I sure as fuck would not have been able to do the marathon at that pace. Not given the conditions (high eighties in temperature, high eighties in humidity, really terrible air quality, I started my period at mile thirteen along with horrible cramps). I just couldn’t expect different from myself that day.

I have to still be alive tomorrow to try again. I have to make it to today. If the pace is more important than anything else I might injure myself and then there won’t ever be another try no matter what. And maybe the rest of my life will be a lot harder. Because I was stupid and careless because I don’t care very much if I continue to stay alive.

I really can’t do that any more. Not if I want to be here for more nights of “I love you soooo much”. I want that more than I want anything else. So I will learn how to be good to my body. So I can have as many of those nights as I can.

The passion and the pain are going to keep you alive some day.

I should probably go start breakfast.

No one ever knows the long-term value of what they do. That knowledge is given to no creature. If I want to be a character that has existed then there must be record of that. Only I care to create that record. Noah is invested in supporting this branch of growth on his family tree. He sees it as vital to his long-term success. I’m not sure how I snow balled him.

I think that talking about suicide is something I need to be able to do. My grandmother killed herself. She overdosed. She had been trying for decades. My mother has stories of cleaning up blood after she got home from school because her mother was cutting her wrists again. My brother killed himself. He left the residential care facility where he lived because he had a severe brain injury and would never be able to care for himself again. He walked to a gas station and bought a can of gasoline. He went behind a local grocery store and lit himself on fire. My father sat in the garage with the motor running.

Have I mentioned that I have turned my garage into a really nice room? Ok, technically I have done nothing permanent because city ordinance says it must be able to hold a car at all times and my response would be “give me three minutes and a person to help me move furniture”. That’s not a permanent room. But it’s a really nice place to hang out. There are not likely to be cars in here.

Harm Reduction means being honest about the patterns of behavior in your life. It means setting specific goals and working to reduce the harm you are inflicting on yourself. Usually you are inflicting the harm (hair pulling, cutting, biting your nails, drinking alcohol, picking at scabs, doing most recreational drugs including pot, any obsessive repetitive damage to your body really) because you are trying to relieve stress from some other place in your life.

Noah said he read an article claiming that the first person likely to live over a thousand years is probably alive today. Think about mortality. It’s changing. The brackets are shifting. Where do I want to be on that scale? I don’t want to live a thousand years. That sounds like work. I would rather just live. But I have a rather lot of decades of work in front of me.

What am I going to do when I grow up? I will probably experience an unprecedented to my species amount of freedom after my children are adults. I will still be married to this guy who thinks I am the best thing since sliced bread. I know the deall: there is some travel he wants to do and otherwise I have to do it alone and not be gone too long or too often. Too long is going to be tested a lot over the years as we figure out what that means.

Statistically speaking I am extremely likely to die by my own choice. Sometimes just sitting with that in the pit of my stomach is very hard. You know what they say about statistics? There are lies, damn lies, and statistics.

I believe in self-fulfilling prophesies. I believe the only thing that ever can or has changed the world is someone deciding they want to do it. Yes, of course coalitions are awesome and all… but it takes individuals having a specific vision. A dream, if you will. Otherwise there is no call to exit one’s torpor and do anything. If you are not living up to your vision of yourself… what are you doing instead? Why is there a discrepancy? Are you realistically going to change your life?

Then either change or decide to be happy, right? Happiness isn’t about getting what you want it’s about enjoying what you have. I think I saw that on Pinterest recently.

I want security. I want to have roots. I want a place to come back to. I want community. I want to be allowed to exist without carefully following the rules about what I am or am not allowed to talk about. I like fully informed opt-in relationships.

Now I’m just procrastinating. It was nice to write. I haven’t spent this much time on it in a while. Sometimes it is funny to me the way that writing is one of the most purely satisfying activities I do. I have thought. There. Evidence. Ha. Take that Universe. I have taken up space. In a technological world I have taken up a space smaller than a pin head. Whoop.

But we never know what our impact will be. We have to just exist. And get out of our houses. That’s important whether you like it or not. To be honest I don’t like it very much but I try hard not to take my dislike out on the people who are randomly unlucky and happen to be standing next to me. It isn’t dislike of the people. It is dislike of being out of my house.

It took me a long time to understand that and really fully feel it. I enjoy my work here. I enjoy feeling like I am doing things to work towards my long-term happiness. I am enjoying the physical work and when I am older and less able to work hard I will get to sit in my garden in the shade and enjoy a lifetime of work. Hopefully while babysitting for grandkids who will visit a lot so that I get to know other children deeply.

Now I get it. Now a lot more things make sense to me.

But I have other things I need to do first. Like breakfast. Ugh.

I want to believe that most parents have vague expectations/hopes/dreams about how this process of parenting will go because then I don’t feel like an asshole. I don’t have hard core expectations of my kids like “You will grow up and be a lawyer” but for most of my life I kind of fantasized about stroking my little girl’s hair and helping her fall asleep. Cue birth of first daughter. From about three months of age little S has been slapping my hand and glaring at me if I stroked her hair. I feel a degree of sadness about this that is entirely out of proportion but there it is. Then I had C. She loves having her hair stroked. I’m so glad I had two daughters so I could spread out my expectations and not ask too much of either one of them individually.

We are off sugar. It doesn’t effect the kids but I’m also off caffeine and alcohol till Easter. I think that harm springs from excess. Moderation is very important in life–moderation in everything! Even moderation. Which means that I am bad at keeping things like sugar/alcohol/caffeine as a sometimes treat and they start creeping in more and more. So I periodically take a while off then I try to go slow when I start again. Then things get out of hand and I take a break. I’m not sure it is “ideal” but it is how I get through. My kids hate me. My husband isn’t too sure about me. Why did I make everyone else do it with me? Because sugar is literally a drug. If you look at studies of what it does to your brain it’s not a joke. I want my kids to grow up knowing that you have to consciously look at your consumption of things that are bad for you and take breaks. Your body needs them. It’s not about punishment. This is a big part of my food religion.

I am too mean and nasty to be a vegan. I honestly don’t care enough about animal rights to do it. I am, however, not a big fan of factory farming or most of our current system of producing goods. I’m not a vegetarian because my diet is not diverse enough to provide me the nutrients I honest to dawg need so I eat meat to fill in the gaps. It’s not a perfect system but it has obviously worked for many species for a long time. I don’t need perfect–I need to not be dead. And when I read things about how consumption of quinoa is probably going to contribute to the destruction of a Latin American country I can’t help but be reaffirmed in my belief that if it doesn’t grow within 100 miles of my home I probably shouldn’t eat it.

But that springs from my hubris. I live in Northern California. More food grows here than anywhere else. The only thing I would have to give up from my regular diet in order to eat entirely locally is bananas. Whoopie. Most of the people in the entire world can’t have my hubris.

Ok. So my food religion doesn’t actually scale. Or make sense at all for large populations. If you look at pretty much every religion of every kind I feel that way about it. They don’t scale. They make sense for whoever they make sense for and not at all for the rest of the world. That’s kind of how things work.

My food religion partially springs from the fact that I live in a place where this is possible. It is disgusting, ethically, to be completely aware of all of my resources and make different choices. In my entirely judgmental opinion. But I know almost no one who has my degree of resources in this area. So it gets trickier almost immediately.

Understanding what privilege means, what having money means, what having resources really means is this constant slow-dawning process for me. What things are actually secure for me and which things aren’t.

I have been participating in an incest support group. Next week is our last meeting. They aren’t a bad group of women but I can’t deal with a support group that far away. It takes too much of my life to participate. In order to spend six hours a month with them I have to spend $240 and spend eight hours driving in miserable traffic. I don’t get enough out of it to balance the cost. Not when I also have to arrange child care and deal with stress around that. My friend who has been watching them is quite sick. I don’t feel ok asking her for this as a permanent favor. She can’t truly commit to doing it and I don’t want to get into the situation of being mad at her because her body is doing what it is doing. That would make me a serious asshole.

I did that with my former housemate. I thought I was agreeing to a trade of work. But I had an expectation level that was higher than her body could provide. Not because she didn’t want to. Not because she wasn’t trying. Bodies betray us. And I was an asshole. So I lost my friend over it. I can’t keep doing that in my life. I will end up totally alone. So I can’t ask too much of anyone.

I also participate in an online ptsd support forum. That is, uhm, more at my participation level and spoon level. I can do it in my garage at 4am and not trouble anyone at all. It’s fucking great.

But both groups function to scare the ever loving shit out of me. Given my level of trauma I am unbelievably productive and functional. At least that is how it appears to my judgmental eye. That’s… kind of scary for me.

Am I just in a good period? Am I going to crash like they did? Many of them didn’t truly lose control of their lives until they were in their 40’s or 50’s. I’m not past falling yet. I was reading today about why a woman became homeless at 49. I’m not past that yet. I can’t lose vigilance.

I live with extreme mental illness. I have studied the field enough to be utterly confident that the devils chasing me are much larger than most people deal with. I’m able to put that mental illness in a box and study it from the outside. I’m able to see where my behavior is broken and just decide that I have to alter that pattern. The mental illness is still there but the behavior is corrected.

I’m able to consciously try and see from other peoples perspectives. It’s empathy. My shaman laughed at me and told me that I act autistic but I don’t know that he is right. I make a logical decision… sorta. But I’m acting from the ability to guess what someone in that position would want. I’m kind of mind reading. I’m going through my film rolodex in my head, “What do I know about this person. Play entire film of life in fast forward. Go.”

What would someone who had that life want? I fucking guarantee you it is different from what I want. From what the monsters in my head are screaming at me to do. Doing this is very tiring. If I don’t do this in full detail with each person as an individual I fall prey to stereotypes and then I offend the shit out of people so I have to be careful not to do that. Or to blatantly say, “So if I were to treat you like person of _______ group the answer would be _______ but obviously you’ve had personal life experience that differs from your group. What do you say?”

I’ve fallen into Pinterest since I ditched Facebook and Mothering. I still feel that is a good decision. But I’ve been a bit more bored. I’ve also been rewatching The West Wing during break time. It’s less diverting. And less connecting. But I’ve been thinking about me more. So who knows.

Winter will always be a fallow period for me. I think I’m actually categorically ok with the idea that as an animal I want to take some time off from my most tiring work in the winter when my body aches and I’m stiff and uncomfortable all the god damn time.

So I was reading an article that was adamantly about Self-Reliance as opposed to Survivalist in nature and hanging my head in shame. I’m that kind of nutcase. I totally am. My uhh future planning is increasingly of the self-reliant nature. And travel. I want to root firmly then run away and know I can come back. It will always be here for me. I don’t know why I need to do this. I just do. I have to see things. I have to experience them myself. I don’t learn enough from reading about them.

I want to talk to people in a lower stakes environment. The thing that is hardest for me about my life is the degree of censoring what I say I have to do. Have I mentioned the extreme mental illness part?

My kids know that sometimes their mom is sad and cries. They know that a long time ago bad stuff happened but we are all safe now. They know we don’t have contact with my family because they are not nice people. That’s all they know.

I need to travel because I need to have the experience of being able to reinvent myself as new and interesting over and over. It is comfortable and safe. It makes me feel better about myself. I know how to do that. I have finally gotten good at it.

I have been thinking almost constantly about how I got good at that specifically because I was training myself for prostitution. When I first saw the movie Pretty Woman and Julia Roberts said something about how no little girl wants to grow up and do that I consciously thought, “Well I will charge more than you.”

I absolutely expected I would end up a prostitute until I was 19. Then I met a prostitute. One of the high charging kind. Ok, she wasn’t still a call girl by the time I met her. She was a pro domme. But she had done every kind of sex work there was and I ended up in her house over and over again. That sounds kind of funny. My boyfriend was best friends with her boyfriend and we visited them from out of state. So we had kind of an interesting relationship. Not exactly friends

She explained to me what was necessary for a girl to keep herself safe. She talked about a kind of trusting your instincts that I don’t have. I literally am not physically capable of doing what she talked about. I am specifically drawn to people who will damage me instead of people who will honor agreements.

That is a lot of why it has scared me so bad when Noah had done things that have pushed boundaries. Life is very scary. I am very dependent.

Those conversations with her are really why I never got into sex work. I was asked. I actually think that I gained so much weight because I was trying to avoid that fate. The last thing I wanted was to be attractive and stand near the people my boyfriend knew. As a fat girl I was invisible and left alone. I saw what happened to the thinner and more attractive women. I saw how they were rotated in and out of the community if they were bottoms. Only the tops survived.

I didn’t want to do that to people. So I got fat. Then I got out.

I’ve had a lot of time lately to think about my relationship with my body. I kind of wish I hadn’t let the doctors office weigh me. Going off sugar is letting me see my emotional pattern with regard to eating lately. If I’m hungry enough to eat some nuts then I do. Mostly I’ve just been eating a lot less and feeling fine.

Since I went to the doctor I’ve been eating a really lot. I thought I weighed more than ten pounds more than that and by golly before I go and see the bastard again I will weigh what I think I weigh. I will have the body I think I have.

It’s really kind of weird. I’m pretty afraid of being thin. I’ve been looking at my therapist and feeling twitchy lately. She is uhm a stones throw from my body. She is my body if I never had kids and I had exercised more starting earlier. So yeah. So I eat. And miss my old therapist who was a motherly alternating warm and stern black woman with a full figure and a rich laugh. When I was being stupid she called me on it. When I was doing well she was really enthusiastic and told me why I should feel good about myself.

I don’t have that kind of relationship with my current therapist. I don’t feel warm. I feel defensive. I feel like she is very agressive in pursuing her agenda. I’m having a hard time with therapist directed therapy. Ha.

I’ve been reading a lot of therapy comparison stuff lately and man are people against folks having a “paid friend”. I kind of think that is what I want. I miss Traci so much. I think Traci would be delighted with how my life is going.

I’m going to visit Dad soon. He has another new girlfriend. I was just getting to know the last one. I miss Francesca. I’m so sad that she doesn’t get to know my children. I think they would have filled a big void in her life. She had so much love to give. Grandkids who visited every other year? She would have been thrilled. She liked sending me presents every year as his “daughter”. My relationship was an entangled mess between both of them.

Traci was my therapist for seven years. She died of a heroin overdose just about five years ago. Francesca was Dad’s wife. I knew her from when I was nineteen. I met her long before they were married. Before they were even solidly together. She overdosed five years ago. Pain medication for cancer. She had gotten addicted while treating her mom. It looked like an accident. Kind of. But she was a recovered heroin addict.

Traci and Francesca were two of the people I looked to for a lot of support. They both died right around Shanna’s birth. I totally enmeshed with Shanna as a result in that first year. I tried reconciling with my family because I was lonely and needy. I paid for Conflict Mediation and was soundly manipulated.

I didn’t divorce my family until Uncle Bob died. Not until my sister asked me in a condescending voice if anyone close to me had ever died before. Because my brother and my father don’t count.

I feel like every relationship in my life has a shelf life. Brittney left at thirty years. Her family is angry about the book. Ok.

I look at Noah and my kids and I feel throat wrenching fear. I feel like I have a fifteen year year of reprieve and then oh holy hell what is going to happen to me? Sometimes I feel very ashamed that I “pull of normal” such that people are surprised at how broken I am. It’s complicated. I contribute to the invisibility of “people like me”. I feel a lot of pressure to maintain a specific front for the benefit of everyone but me. It feels invalidating all of the time.

Sometimes I just like staying home for a while. That way the level of censoring is automatic. We talk about what they want to talk about and it all works out. Other grown ups bring up topics. I spend a lot of time in my head. I have strong opinions loosely held. I’m ridiculously picky about how I am challenged though.

I’m starting to look at who is good at challenging me and getting me to actually change. That’s useful data for me to have. I like pushy people. Holy potato do I like me some pushy people. I combine that with requiring them to recognize specific “I’m done” signals and being willing to go with “Shiny Change Of Topic Please”. That’s a hard combination.

It’s kind of funny watching The West Wing. I have a lot of authority issues. I neither want to be the President nor serve anyone else. I don’t want responsibility for other people and I don’t want them to have responsibility for me. I want things exchanged to be gifts. But I’m really not into Burning Man. I think that is pretention not a gift economy. I need to travel. In other places they have gift economies. Yes, I will read about them before I go so I won’t be too gauche. I hope. I’m sure I will be. But I will be able to apologize for living in the native language.

I want to meet people who are nothing like me. I want to hear as many stories as I can hear. It is hard maintaining relationships with people who live near me. I feel afraid of the eventual brush off. I really need to travel.

I’ve been feeling a lot of guilt because the kind of travel I want is just not something Noah is interested in. And it will make this monogamy stuff more complicated. We also have stern agreements about celibacy. Complicated.

I’m dependent so I want to run away so I can prove that I’m not really in a cage. I am still free. Or some stupid shit like that. Or I want macro scale view on my country. I want to actually understand it better. And other countries. I want to talk to people. I need to. I need to hear their stories. I need to hear what life is like for other people. I need other models in my head. I need alternatives to what I know.

What I know isn’t good enough. I need to know more. I don’t learn as well from reading or from taking classes in school. I like talking to people. I want to know about them.

It feels like looking at the future destruction of my life. How far will I run? How many people will I hurt in the process?

I don’t know how I am going to balance everyones needs but I’m going to have to figure it out.

For a while there I was looking in the mirror a lot. I enjoyed watching my hair grow–I shit you not. I’m past that phase, mostly. Now when I look in the mirror I feel dismay at being untidy. But if I try to fix it I’ll make it worse; I promise. Curly hair is just like that. So I’m not looking at myself again.

And we come back to body issues. It’s just been that sort of week. I’ve been thinking. How am I going to wreck my life? My health? My relationships?

Participating on a ptsd support website and being in a support group for incest survivors is giving me a dizzying array of options to work with. Many/most of the issues being accidents because man do we not have control of our bodies. We just don’t.

I have a pretty ridiculous amount of control near as I can tell. I’m not sure why. I just do. I know that this role requires this behavior for this amount of time and you just fucking do it.

Two of my potential biggest supporters through this phase of my life were taken from me right at the beginning of the journey. I’m one quarter of the way through the expected time of specific duty. I’m doing ok. I’m trying to not be demanding or too taxing on any source of support but that balance often makes people feel unwanted or unappreciated or something.

I feel like I understand why I am taking winter off of people. I am not going out much. It is a good thing. Spring is coming. I have busy times coming. Lots of work to do. I won’t be able to sit around in my head. I want to seriously produce this year. I need to. I need to root. I have mother-in-law money set aside for it.

It will be fun.

Privilege. Responsibility. Curiosity. Sustainability. I don’t have any answers. I am, however, a wasteful American. I look at my habits and I think about what it will be like to live differently at this point.

I have been homeless. We lived in our car so I have not had the experience of living on the street. I have been sent to sleep on the floor or the couch in a series of homes of people I didn’t know. I was often not with family for extended periods. Given what I have read about attachment theory I cry for the child I was. No wonder I fucked everything that moved. Please, please love me. But I ran away right after the sex was over because I made sure that no one could leave me ever again.

Puppy did me a huge favor by being the only boyfriend I’ve ever had  as an adult who has broken up with me. He wasn’t a good fit and he recognized it. He could have been more gracious–I’m just saying. But that needed severing and I’m glad he did. Things are certainly working out really well.

And breakfast is ready.

Perspective is everything

7am: What a glorious, loving day. I’m so glad I’m here.

8am: Weird SMS conversation with a kinda friend/former play partner from the east coast. His phone accidentally merged my account information with someone else who has a similar name. Whoops. It was reiterated that now that I do the mom thing I no longer have “adventures” and my life is boring. He has been going to the same events for the past twenty-five years. The only thing that changes is the identity of the women he is tying up on any given day. They stay the same age. I don’t go to bdsm conferences or pick up casual sex. My life is boring, obviously. In the past five years I have spent a month in Scotland (including some time in England and France), almost three weeks in new Zealand, wrote a book, had two kids, been out of town on some kind of travel more than forty times… I’ve learned to garden. I’ve remodeled my house–mostly while alone with my kids. (I get help on crucial days. I have a whole crew of wonderful friends.) And I’m the boring one? Really? Ok then.

9am: Sitting around talking to K. Anxiety starts creeping in. K’s life is not so smooth as mine. I WANT TO FIX IT. I can’t fix anything. I can feel guilty about making her life harder and not easier. But that is where I am. I’m trying to reduce how much I ask of her. Good grief her life is harder than mine.

10am: Well, shit. At least my father didn’t knock me up as a teenager. I suppose no matter how bad my life was some blessings went past my door without knocking. And my mom isn’t still living with my rapist. That’s something. That’s a big something. I’m even lucky enough to have my dad be dead and I’m the only one in the room and that’s kind of weird because I am by far the youngest.

11am: Please please please can we stop talking about the Pervasive Societal Myth That Most People Who Claim Memories of Incest Had Them Implanted By Some Malicious Person. Yes. I am aware that lots of people think this. I’ve seen this myth running around all by myself. Yes, I’ve already seen and heard such imprecations. So what? What is the point of this elaborate conversation–ah yes. To tell us that despite lots of people saying it we shouldn’t believe it. Here’s a list of out-of-date studies to convince us we shouldn’t believe it. Uhm, there are several much better much more recent studies. Maybe you could update your hand out. I should probably start a bibliography page one of these days.

12pm: Holyfuckingshit what is in your freaking mouth?!?!?!?!! I didn’t phrase it like that. Almost. We need to work on rules about taking things at other peoples houses. Oh man. I would have been screamed at and hit. I did minimal screaming and losing the iPad for one day seems so… stupid. Ugh. And a lecture.

1pm: Oh lunch. Lunch is sooooo awesome right now. I love you both sooooo much while there is a delicious sandwich in my mouth.

2pm: I like sitting. I don’t like the internet. Maybe I should do something else. Wander off.

2:45pm: Oops. I forgot to hit post.

Or maybe you wake up feeling different.

Within half an hour of waking up the girls started stirring. I went in and hung out with them. I was ever so politely asked, “Mommy will you please fetch me a handkerchief? I can’t breathe.” My baby cuddled up and breathed her disgusting first-thing-in-the-morning breath right in my nose and said, “Me love you more than ice cream.”

Then they both cuddled me. By “cuddle” I mean shoved every part of their body as far into my body as they could get traction. They smile at me.

Today I feel lucky to be alive. If I had died before I would never have found out what this feels like. I am so grateful that I get to have this life.

And three of my tomato starts have green things coming up and the rainbow chard so far. I have more than twenty other seeds that could germinate in the next 10-ish days. We’ll see how it goes.

At swimming.

I have approximately twenty minutes until I am back on duty. I haven’t been productive today. I have hung out with the kids. It’s interesting trying to determine how much work I “have” to do before I “deserve” rest. And what is the difference between working at a slow pace and not working at all?

Forward progress. Always forward progress.

I’ve been busy and seeing people. It is making it so I am not really in my head even though I am in my head. I can’t complete my thoughts. I can’t figure out why I’m in a specific mood. I have to just ride it out.

I didn’t think about Monday being my brother’s birthday until 2/3 of the way through the day. Then I felt like I got punched in the chest. 36. Happy Birthday Tommy.

I am not supporting Noah how I should. I feel a lot of guilt about that. I feel like I have nothing more to give. I know he needs support. I know he needs more direct affection. I just feel like I am choking and gasping and going under the water for the third time.

I don’t even feel exactly sad. I feel flat lined. I feel like a heavy weight is sitting on my chest. I feel like I am swimming through molasses. I think this is “depression” but what it feels like is wearing a 50 lb. baby in an awkward carrier in front of you. It’s terrible for your back and balance but it’s not impossible.

I don’t feel sad exactly. I feel so grateful that I get to spend my days the way I do. I’m so grateful that I get to see Shanna and Calli all day and watch them grow in slow motion. I’m glad I get to play and worry about food and make a box house and that’s all I have to do in a day. (We are getting around to building with the boxes we have been given. The structure grows daily.)

I feel like I am on pause. I am waiting for life to start. I don’t know what I should be doing. I don’t know what I should be saying. I just know I’m going to do it wrong so I feel paralyzed with fear. I don’t know how to take the first step–won’t I break everything? Won’t that be the end?

But I’m gardening. I want to paint. I don’t even know what. I want to work on a book and I don’t have time.

Time. Time. Time.

I feel like I chase time. Up the stairs down the stairs out the back door and down the mountain. Time, get your ass back here. Do I need to count? 1. 2. 3. Fine you get time out.

It doesn’t work that way.

I exist in between. I am neither this nor that. I am neither here nor there. I am in limbo. I am just a mom. I am nothing on my own. I am a support structure. I am scaffolding. I am hollow. I am stronger than I look. Like hollow steel tubing. It’s bad ass stuff.

I feel weak and I feel strong. I feel like this feeling of hollow is my entire body and mind and soul waiting for whatever is going to come next. The past two years have been intense. Come May it will have been two years since Uncle Bob died. This period of freak out is just about over–right?

What’s next?

What grief is next?

What will I stare at next?

What will I do? What will I make? What will I say? Will it matter? Will anyone listen? Will anyone give a shit?

I don’t know. I have to matter to me even if I don’t matter to anyone else. That’s the first step and I’m having a bitch of a time making it. I get mattering to other people. I get trying to fulfill obligations to other people. How do I act worthy of me.

How do I decide that I deserve the things I have in my life now? How do I settle in and get comfortable with my overwhelming privilege? How do I learn to feel like this is really my life and no one is going to drag me out of the house by the hair soon. No one will throw me out. I get to be here. I’m allowed.

The next couple of rounds of EMDR I want to focus on two things: feeling more permission to live in my house. It has been the home of my family longer than it has been anything else in the memory of anyone I know. Can I let go of the ghosts of the girls who came before me? Because I still feel like if they wanted to come back I would have to go and give them back their place. Even though Noah sure as shit doesn’t feel that way. I do. I feel like it isn’t my place. Still no. I’m trying.

I seriously need to do work on my birthday. I asked a friend to go with me. Then she had the audacity to go and get pregnant. Whatever. Luckily I have this other friend who is not breeding and she is available to come with me instead. It was hard asking one person and harder asking a second person. I’m glad I asked both people. I would have had fun with the first person and I’m actually glad she is getting the child she wants. I’m always thrilled to pieces about more wanted children. But I’m glad I have another friend who has more time. That’s hella convenient and all.

I know I matter to people. Kind of–I know it abstractly. I wish I felt it. I wish I felt like it was ok to ask people to do things with me. I’ve been trying really hard to put myself “out there” and I have solicited a lot of socialization recently. The turn around is I spend a lot of time crying hysterically when no one is around. Whoo.

Ok, that was 18 minutes and she’s about to get out of the pool. Time to stop writing.

I’m coming to Portland. I’m looking forward to seeing people. It’s weird trying to understand that people really and truly do like me. I can’t see why.

So many tears

Sometimes I am afraid that one day I will start crying and never be able to stop again. I will cry while I eat, while I sleep, while I shit. I have always deeply identified with Latin American magical realism books. Strange things just happen to me. Fantastic things. And one day I will flood a town. My tears will wash everything away.

I feel like I am floating away. I feel disembodied. I haven’t been sad in the past few days. I’ve been busy. Maybe it is the rain. Rain often makes me cry.

My arms hurt too much to pontificate on why. But I’m still here. I don’t actually feel lonely exactly–I would have to be alone more to enable that. I just feel disconnected, invisible, silent.

Still not dead.

Playing house and thinking about destiny

I have to say that typing my name into the url spot feels good. It’s like I finally have an online home. It’s my god damn sand pit. Excellent.

I have been enormously busy. In the past two days I finished the play house (well, I haven’t attached the planters and I haven’t got climbing plants established–but wood is done), built and mostly installed a raised bed. Started 36 plants indoors and I have a few new food plants coming up in front from the seed spread a few weeks ago. I never label when I do that so I have no forking clue what is growing until it’s done. It’s SCIENCE!

Inside the house I have kept up with the kitchen (doing so requires 2+ hours of work/day between cooking and cleaning), washed and/or folded seven loads of laundry. Cleaned up the whole floor so I could vacuum. I swept the kitchen and the kids scrubbed the linoleum for me (their idea–I swear) and after wiping up the big puddles with a towel the floor is as clean as with mopping so I’m happy.

I also took Shanna to dance class and I have spent 3-4 hours reading aloud over the past two days. I’ve watched three episodes of The West Wing and an interesting documentary called Whore’s Glory (it’s available instant on Netflix–this is how I get movies). If you don’t think white privilege exists go look at what it means to be a woman of color. They don’t have the same options for getting out.

In this country and in Europe prostitution can be a choice. The kinds of scenarios that exist in other countries isn’t enacted here in the same way.

White prostitutes by and large choose it. They may not make the choice with happiness and glee… but it’s a choice.

My great- grandmother was a prostitute and had an illegitimate daughter. My grandmother got “out” of that profession and into a marriage because she was able to blend into society and not be tarred by the brush of her mother.

In some countries if you are a whore you are locked into a ghetto. You are not allowed to leave that slum. Your children are raised there and aren’t really allowed to leave either. None of you have enough money to go anywhere anyway.

My mother was knocked up in high school. She graduated pregnant. She found someone to marry her weeks before the baby was born so that she wouldn’t really be a bastard. Even by 1969 it wasn’t a great situation. Much better than in the 1920’s when my great-grandmother did it.

My sister got married at seventeen had a baby at nineteen was divorced at twenty. Then she had another baby at twenty-two with “guy of the moment” because she didn’t want her kids spaced too far apart and she didn’t want just one. Then she was strongly admonished that she “should” have her tubes tied and she consented. No one in the hospital told her that the procedure wasn’t covered by the state medical plan. It took her more than ten years to pay for that surgery. My understanding is the main benefit has been that she has been able to have a lot of unsafe sex.

People do what they are taught and what they are allowed to do.

I was born into a family where I was not allowed to say no to sexual contact. It was beaten into me.

I am trying to create a family where no one has to do things they don’t want within reason. Like, if Shanna has ballet… sorry Calli you have to go too. Even though you don’t wanna. I understand. I’d like to stay home too.

So there has to be some compromising. But I want them to learn how to be very conscious and deliberate about those compromises. Your opinion matters and the only person who can advocate for you is you.

But there are a lot of boundaries. If you want to scream, that’s fine. Go outside or in the playroom with the door shut. You are not allowed to hurt me by screaming in my face.

It’s weird. I feel like I am negotiating all the time. And I constantly have to put a pause on the whole maelstrom in my head to go mediate some dispute and I have to act completely calm and fair and not scream and be matter of fact and… bleh.

But being able to deliver that consistently… that’s what the pot does.

I don’t know how to describe what it feels like to live in constant heart stopping terror as I go about my daily life because I don’t really think I have ever consistently not felt this way enough to tell the differences.

Sober I have many panic attacks in an average day. I can slow my heart rate through sheer force of will and breath control if I concentrate on it really hard but it makes me seem spacey and kind of dazed. I have to be really selfish and think about my body and it makes me snappy and impatient with everyone else. I often am heard to say “Just leave me alone” even though I know it’s not a good one. I need to develop a better script there but managing panic attacks is really fucking hard. They usually happen out in public where I have none of my usual coping methods.

My kids don’t need to have to learn to live their life around my agonizing stomach cramps. It doesn’t matter to them that I may vomit any minute if I’m not careful. I swallow a lot of bile because I don’t want to admit what is happening. Long-term it’s just not their problem.

The noise is a lot of it. When they get older we can have different discussions about noise but I’m really worried. Our house is loud all the time. We all like to talk. Hilariously, sometimes all four people will be in separate rooms shouting to be heard. I am having a really hard time with how we handle noise. And yet when I lower my voice Noah gets louder and I cringe more and my stomach hurts more and… ugh. It goes better if I try to match his excessive volume.

And the kids are very young and their volume control issues are normal and they are progressing in a completely normal developmental fashion and I need to just be nice about it. This is why people like the part about handing their kid off to another caretaker for most of the day. The noise is unbearable. Sometimes I make my children play out back. We live in California. Even in winter this is a reasonable thing to just go do in underwear. Vitamin D is good for you. And no I don’t put sunblock on any of us. I haven’t in years and I think I can count the number of times I’ve put sunblock on my kids on my fingers. Most of them in New Zealand for playing in the pool. That was necessary, dangit.

And last night I ran 2.67 miles in 31:08. I felt pretty happy about that. I am training for a 10k with my running buddy. We don’t live near one another so a lot of this training is separate but we will be able to practice together a few times. I’m looking forward to it.

I like feeling like getting and being stronger is something that I just do. So our 5k this month was 39 minutes. That means for our 10k we probably should pray we can <80 minutes. But it would be really fun to do it in <70 minutes. That would take actual work towards getting faster. Something I have traditionally been (ironically) steadfastly against. But the goal is different. We have ten weeks. That’s not shaving off a lot of time. If we took it seriously we could.

But it would mean treating out bodies like racing animals. It would mean meal planning for optimal nutrition. It would mean spacing out our exercising as it feels right for our body not for our schedule and hahahaha we will get it in when we can. It means consciously getting stronger alongside the running. Something I struggle with.

And it’s not like I have anything else on my mind at all. Or anything else to do. Why the hell not. Let’s just go with OCD thinking about my body again. CAUSE THAT LEADS TO LIFE BALANCE. Excuse me while I hack up a hair ball.

And my friend? She’s the kind of busy that makes it kind of seem like, “Hey stay at home mom… what is it you…do… all day?” Not that she is like that. But her life is very busy. She has a lot of balls in the air. Way more than I can handle. That’s ok! She’s not me. So it feels kind of extra special that I am getting so much of her attention for this period. Muahaha. I monopolize you for exercise motivation. I’m only kind of a loner. I get lonely.

I get to see Tay today. It’s going to be a great day. I have a life of ease and luxury. It is an accident that I have it this good. I really like having multiple days in a row where I don’t have to drive. I feel so much more physically relaxed. Being in the car is such a high stress load that it really doesn’t leave me with much on the other end. That feels pathetic. But I’ve gotten to stay home. I haven’t been in a car in over twenty four hours! It’s like a miracle. And I have worked. Things came into the house. They are finally resettling again. I get the general impression other people don’t get rid of things at the rate of 2-5 large garbage bags every month. It isn’t because I buy so much. We have generous grandparents. And a lot of old stuff. And figuring out how things work is a gradual process.

Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by the stuff in my life. Why do I have any of it again? If I ask myself too often things disappear really fast. February is already a two bag month and I’m looking at things that are on top of the book shelves because I have nowhere else to put them and I’m feeling fussy. I don’t like looking at all the crap. Grrr Waaa kerflumph.

Tay is coming today and we have swimming. We might walk depending on how moods are going. And we aren’t going anywhere tomorrow. We might get to have three full days without the car in a row. It is really weird to think about. Children and adults need to exercise. The only reason to drive to swim practice is because it’s about 1.8 miles away and sometimes I don’t leave enough time to let the kids walk there. I really should just always plan my day around walking. That’s what their body needs. Mine too if I’m honest.

I have two choices right now. I can either be at the nursery when it opens and get work done before Tay arrives. Or I can take advantage of Noah being home and go to the gym for a dance workout class thing. I honestly think I will be happier with the dirt. Is that weird? This is why I don’t identify as a dancer. I do actually really joyfully describe myself as a gardner these days. I find it kind of ironic that in terms of time spent gardening is probably going to outpace theatre in a few months. I have already been semi-serious about gardening longer than I was really active in the bdsm community. I wonder how many years it will be before I have spent more hours of my life gardening than having sex. I think that will take a while longer. I’m actually looking forward to it.

I’m looking forward to being on the other side of a lot of these little clocks in my head. I am not quite counting the months until my father has been dead for more of my life than he was alive but almost. In three more years it will balance.

I think I’m going to go get myself some dirt. I’m feeling pretty grateful for my mother-in-law money right now. I just deposited one last Christmas check from my grandmother-in-law. $300. Today is the day I’m buying yellow roses. I have today and tomorrow to get them planted. It’s going to be a wonderful day.

I’m almost ready to take pictures. Almost. I’m not sure why I’m feeling so vulnerable about sharing but I am. My house is increasingly beautiful to me. Even the problems are things that I am looking at differently than other people. And I know what I will get to do round about the time I hit fifty if everything goes according to plan. And you know how life is about shit like that.

I don’t care if my words are judged. If anyone says anything mean about my house I will cry.

Hypocrisy, money, and the future

One of the things I feel the worst about is the level of my hypocrisy. I react more or less with violence when people give me advice but I give unsolicited advice all day long.

I try very hard to always say, “In your situation I would do _____ but I don’t know that it is the right thing for you. That is what I would do.” I don’t always but I try.

I have quite a few friends from whom I solicit advice. Under those circumstances I really and truly welcome people saying, “I think you should” because I asked them what they thought. But I’m fucking nasty to people who give me unsolicited bad advice.

I specifically wish I was better at handling this. I get why I react the way that I do. During my lifetime it has been exceptionally important that I am willing to march to the beat of my own drummer. But I could be more civil on the way.

I think this is part of the reason I don’t get along all that well with people who prioritize “nice” over “the full nasty truth” because I’m not a good enough liar. If you are giving me bad advice I don’t want I’m not so good at saying, “Well thank you for your advice I will take it under consideration” while just ignoring them. That smacks of lying or at least consciously misleading people.

I don’t have to want the same things as other people and I don’t have to care about what they want. Only I do if I want to have ongoing relationships. So I hear. My relationships seem to have a maximum lifespan so maybe this crucial failing isn’t that important. I need to maintain a relationship with exactly three people: my two kids and my husband. Past that if I’m not interested I suck at feigning interest.

I feel bad for being self-absorbed until I realize everyone is equally self-absorbed and other people aren’t thinking about me the way I feel I should think about them. I hate shoulds.

Today somewhere between zero and five families might drop by to play in the yard with Shanna. I’m pessimistic but willing to offer when I see people. I want to finish building the playhouse and probably make a raised bed in my back yard. I doubt I will have time for anything else. Tomorrow I want to go through and do all the inside “starts” on vegetables. This year will be another tomato-madness year if I have my say.

I feel a little weird about how different I am from my friends. My friends are not nearly as concerned as I am about having a place to live that is as close to free as is possible in this era. (I’ll always have property taxes and homeowners insurance–but that’s under $4,000 annually.) I planted trees on purpose. I’m building more ways to grow food. I have more ideas for the future.

By the time I am an old woman I will have chickens in the back and probably rabbits. The chickens will get to live long enough to make eggs then I will be non-squeemish and kill them for food. I suspect that the rabbits will be a lot of our meat. I hope to produce more than 50% of what we eat by the time Noah can retire. That’s not something that I can arrange if I move.

I am working very hard on my plan for life. My “plan” for safety. Is it neurotic? Yes. My friends are instead investing in “marketable skills” and making money. That seems like a more sure bet to them.

I don’t think I have ever really “gotten” the American monetary climate. I think first I was too poor and then I had too much guilt about using money I didn’t fucking earn. It’s not that we don’t spend an outrageous amount of money–I totally manage that. (I gotta say: first class trains up and down the UK is going to be one of the things I am happiest about having spent a lot of money on for the rest of my life.)

I want to not have to pay for my home because then I will have more money for travel.

What is funny about me is that I have no interest in going full-on and trying to do the homesteader thing. That sounds like work. I’m fucking lazy. I need to have a good twenty years to set up a yard for what I want.

I’m not afraid of the future. I’m trying to make it so the future will be easier no matter what happens. Given Noah’s model for life I’m reasonably certain that he will not leave me, cheat on me, or abuse me. We do have a consensual bdsm relationship. He has never tried to intimidate me outside of pre-arranged sexual situations. Seems like a win to me. When I first met him and I was trying to explain what kind of relationship I wanted I said, “I want an abusive relationship with an off-switch.” I want to be able to control exactly when and how I am abused.

It’s really funny how life goes. Our play at this point is what I once would have mockingly called sensual play. I don’t really want to be hurt anymore. So I’m not hurt. But we mess around.

Once upon a time I seriously chased pain. I’ve had grown men kick the shit out of me with heavy boots many times. I like to find guys who are specifically not attracted to me and ask them about playing. They are a lot more brutal. Like when they successfully manage to kick me enough that I am wounded and collapsed on the floor and then they grind my face into the floor with the boot… brutal.

I used to like that a lot. Being able to continue having the shit kicked out of me like I had it happen my entire life gave me a sense of mastering my experience of the world. I was tough. I could take it. I could take more than other people. I wanted more pain and pain and pain like a river to fill this aching hole of need.

It didn’t work. And regardless of what gets me off I know what I am not fucking modeling for my kids so that’s kind of that. “My Life As a Former Masochist”

My experience of life is such that I want, pretty desperately, to have a very cheap, easy to maintain and clean, food-producing house. Where I can hide when I can’t be tough. When I have nothing to give. I can stay here and meet my own needs. I don’t need to fake being all nice and shit and figure out the fucking political situation in some company.

But I only have this because Noah is willing to give it to me. So maybe my friends are a lot smarter than me because they are figuring out how to provide their own long-term safety on their own and I am ensuring eternal dependence. I have to bank pretty much everything on this partnership working out. Or I’m totally fucking screwed.

So when I look at my friend’s lives I understand that my advice probably sucks. I can’t ever walk a mile in someone else’s shoes.

Part of what makes my childhood as weird as it was is the simple fact that I’m white. When I think about what doors were opened to me because I had been admitted to the right homes and seen modeled appropriate behavior so even though I had not conformed in the moment I remembered and practiced in secret and was able to produce it in a different environment.

Everyone figures out behavior through modeling to some degree or another. Usually you adopt the mannerism of a friend unconsciously and usually I do it consciously. That’s part of my weirdness. I have learned that it is best to not actually do this mimicry in front of the person you are mimicking. It freaks people out. Which basically means my entire survival method depends on always being on the move through new friends where I only reveal a small part of myself.

I really feel I will need to have a place where I have to just be because these people are always near me if I want them or not. I want to know my community. I want to live here and talk to the people and have them notice changes. People are nosey bastards. They want to connect. If they see me year after year they will want to ask questions. If I’m nice. If I feign interest in them.

Rats.

I suppose I’m not really feigning interest. I am interested. I like that I am starting to know the stories behind the cars on my street. I am starting to know names and faces and we have conversations that have actual ongoing relevance.

It’s weird. I’ve been in this house for six and a half years. It’s kind of funny that I want to have a block party for the anniversary of the seventh year I’ve lived in this neighborhood. This summer I will have lived in this house twice as long as the longest I have ever lived anywhere in my life.

It is really emotionally intense to plant trees that will feed me in twenty years. That’s a level of commitment that is difficult for me to describe. I have been having oral sex for nearly as long as I have been alive–at least twenty seven years with people outside my family. Twenty years ago I was eleven. That means I have been having intercourse piv sex for nineteen years by choice.  I have just about known Jenny and Grant that long. Brittney is gone. She didn’t appreciate the book.

So those are the only things in my life that approach twenty years of continual mirroring/behavior influencing things. That’s weird. I’m thirty one. I don’t have other people in my life from that long ago. I don’t have parents. I don’t have siblings. I don’t have aunts or uncles.

But I can’t make friends by sleeping with people ever again. And it means I have to get a lot better about saying no early and hard. And it means I really should take self-defense courses. It also means I only spend time with a very few men who are safe for fairly specific reasons.

I wish I had a crystal ball so I could look at the future and see what will happen. Who will I be when I have had relationships for twenty years? When I have had to be consistent with people that long? What am I solidifying towards being?

I am five years post-rape. In a twenty three year period I was raped by twelve people and that’s a deliberately low number because I can’t bear to really number them.

I started using pot to deal with my constant underlying fear three and a half years ago. About when the honeymoon period of mothering ended and the screaming/hitting me part started.

I told a friend that I was interested in taking the girls to the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival some day and she kind of wrinkled her nose. She isn’t interested in women-exclusive space. I laughed and said of course not because she isn’t interested in sex with dykes. But it isn’t really that.

I am very unlikely to ever take my children to a mixed gender event like that alone. I would be too afraid. I want to go to a womens only space (sorry the y bugs the shit out of me) because even if one of those women would otherwise be very interested in pressing her luck I would have a lot of support in defending the space of my children in that environment. I do not place any faith in getting the necessary support in a men inclusive space.

I know that hurts the feelings of some of my friends. My experience is that if there is a problem and I speak up about it women are initially sympathetic but then they have to deal  with their guy so they wander off because he wants to be entertained. It’s the whole clannish thing. I am not part of a clan. So no one gives a shit about me in a conflict–I am the expected loser.

Why didn’t I ever stay involved in a community long enough to try and become a clan? First it wasn’t my choice. Then I didn’t know how. If you make friends by sleeping with people then you only end up with friends who are willing to sleep with people on the first date. It influences how the world works.

Now I’m just not willing to drive the amount required to really belong to any of the communities on offer right now. I’m staying in the homeschool group (of course) but I need to dial back our involvement for a little while. My kids aren’t ready and pushing them to do these things is just ridiculous.

Maybe I can go back to sleep now. I haven’t cried tonight. I suppose that counts as some kind of progress.

If you build it, they will come.

I think I’m figuring out what I want to do. February is a bust. I’m going to survive it and get on with my life.

I’m going to keep seeing my therapist every other week and I am not going to continue the group. I don’t have it in me to try and guide them towards being a semblance of support for me. Right now they aren’t. It isn’t their fault. It’s that whole GU(Geographically Undesireable) thing.

I like where I live. I want to build community here. I am trying. I am working hard on that. There are a few projects I have in my head. One involves asking my next door neighbor and probably Tay if they will donate a few hours of labor towards building a play structure in the back yard. I know what I want. It isn’t that complicated. They both have more tools and experience doing what I want to do. They won’t do it for me but they will guide me through doing it. But that’s in the summer when my neighbor has more time. He is drowning right now.

What I can do right now, is go talk to my other neighbor. I don’t know her name yet and I’m going to have to figure out how to memorize it. I may ask her to write it down for me and I will call Pam and ask her to help me practice so I can be not-insulting when I try to speak to and about her. I want to talk to her because her fence faces the elementary school and is a regular target of graffiti. I would like to talk to her about painting some kind of mural there. I will pay for all of the materials.

Let me break the plan down more. If the woman agrees to that I would like to walk across the street to the elementary school and conveniently talk to my next door neighbor (who is a lovely woman–we exchange a lot of food through the year because of gardening) who works at the front desk. I will tell her I would like to put forth a contest open to every child in the school. The best design for the fence will be painted on the fence and the say… top three best drawings otherwise get to help me paint it on the fence.

The parameters are: the picture needs to be simple and clear. I’m not good at fancy shading or anything you can do with a pencil. This will be done in fairly simple paint. Unless you are that good with spraypaint–which I’ve never used so I would hesitate to use it for a project like this. So it has to be something that will handle the transfer of medium. There have to be clear lines.

I would like it to be about living around here. What are the things you like to do that people can walk to. Why is living here fun. Why do you want people to like it and be nice to our neighborhood?

I’m still working on the exact phrasing of that. It has to be something where potentially a kindergardener could produce something workable or it isn’t fair.

We will do the painting as it can be scheduled with the kids sometime around April or May when it is dry enough to let the paint dry. I have no idea what would be best in terms of the school schedule. Maybe they have a week of minimum days at some point and this would be a great time for a project like this?

I think it is bad advice to always tell people to run away from their problems and only be around people who make your life easier. It isn’t anyone else’s job to make my life easier. I don’t live in a culture who grants that to women in my position. Sometimes I seriously wish I was Chinese. My close friend is Taiwanese and when she talks about her family I feel a lot of envy. I wish there were people in the world who love me the way she is loved by her family.

But I compare my envy of that and my relative position with articles like this one about lynching in America. It is very weird thinking that the right to grow up and walk away from all the terrible evil shit from my childhood is a right I have because of my face. Watch the music video at the bottom of that article.

There are a lot of people in my neighborhood who don’t look like me. I could choose to feel uncomfortable about that or I could work to meet their children through community projects and get to know them as human beings.

I’m going to ask permission to use the school parking lot for a block party after graduation (not the same day. obviously.) because I want the parents to meet one another. I like that so many kids in my neighborhood ride bikes outside in the afternoon. I wave at a lot of runners.

I want to live here. I want to keep getting ridiculously unhealthy frugal advice from the dear lady a few blocks away. She lives on a very fixed income so she tells me about every deal. I thank her. And bring her oranges.

I think I feel mortally offended by the idea of leaving the trees I planted. I want to eat that god damn fruit. Some mother fucker would buy this house, chop the trees, level out the dirt and put in a god damn lawn.

No. Those are my roots. I planted them. If I want community it has to be near me. It has to come to me. Sorry. That’s just how life works out sometimes. It’s not a personal affront. I just find I don’t enjoy travel much. It takes a really lot to justify it. I need to believe that and make a choice. It’s not that I will never visit anyone or that I will never leave my house except on foot.

I need to act like staying home is a conscious priority. It’s a choice. It’s something that dramatically makes my life better. If I am not home I can not do my work. If I can not do my work I feel rather bad about myself as a person. LIfe is not meant to be a long string of tiring days spent “entertaining” myself or my children.

I have a few painting projects in the house I’ve been thinking about. Doing them will make me happy. I have to be home in order to do that. I have to choose to not have engagements.

I need to not blow with the winds of change. Change needs to happen in the world around me. I need to keep to my work. I need to make measurable progress in my own estimation or I won’t respect myself as a person.

My daughter is right on the very cusp of being able to go run around playing out front basically unsupervised. She’s not quite trustworthy enough. She’s close though. I don’t taunt her with this difference I just think about it. It’s time for me to get my head out of my ass and meet the neighbors.

The awesome thing is we have a family to model off of who live (depending how you count)  three or four perpendicular blocks away from us who have behaved the same way. They have already talked to the city about this kind of organization stuff.

I need to start building more community where I am. You were right K. I need a project.

I don’t think group therapy is working out.

My kids are 2.5 and 4.5. Saying that they frustrate me sometimes is like saying, “Hey! They’re still breathing!” They are very developmentally appropriate–I read lots of books to check. I am extremely clear that my anger over their behavior is about control not really about them. And for a couple of months here I have managed to over schedule us. It was an accident–I swear. We will ride it out and change our approach after February.

The first thing to go will be group therapy that I have to drive a cumulative more than two hours for. I don’t need to spend $50 and I don’t know how much on gas so I can listen to three people talk about their lives in that kind of detail. Yesterday I listened to a twenty minute recital of the fertility history of this woman’s dentist. I watched the god damn clock. I understand that she was trying to place context on how this story overlapped with her life and all but man. I’m an asshole and I don’t give a shit how many times your dentist has done IVF and how many failed adoptions have happened. I mean, in the vague sense of the ether “I’m sorry and that sucks” but I don’t need the specifics.

And we had another twenty minute digression about whether the extra-sexin lover of one of the group members should tell her new boyfriend that she is lovers with the group member now that she is *pregnant*. So far the plan was for the boyfriend to just not know that the good friends who hang out together three times a week are…. just friends. They don’t have sex regularly what’s the big deal?

I flat said, “This woman is now pregnant with this guy. She will know him for the rest of her life. This kind of thing comes out. The only ethical option is to tell him now and deal with it. Otherwise your friend is a lying liar.” I don’t think you are obligated to tell every fling about every other fling in your life. Once you are procreating the rules change. If you don’t like that maybe you shouldn’t be having such risky sex.

The kicker was when I got to my turn and I relayed a few of my frustrations with parenting that have been keeping me on edge lately. The advice was obviously well meaning. A lot of it was “Hey! You should use ______________ service!” that does not exist within a thirty minute drive of my house. If I have to drive more than an hour round trip it’s no longer a good resource because my stress from driving outweighs the half hour of not really being “off” I would get in trade for the discount childcare.

If I lived in Oakland or Hayward I would be closer to my networks of support. I would have a lot more other resources as well. So my therapist said, “I know you have painted the walls and all but why don’t you just sell the house and move.”

That was the point when my neck muscles locked and I literally screamed, “This is not up for a fucking committee consensus.”

As if moving is that easy. From the word “go” moving would cost us around $70k in realtors fees. Do I have an extra $70k sitting around I don’t mind losing? Not so much. I kind of have a life plan. Being $70k behind all of a sudden would put rather a big crimp in my plans. That’s a lot of forking money to come up with all of a sudden. That’s *if* we could find a house in our price range to make a lateral move. I doubt it. Given how small and unimpressive our house is I don’t anticipate us being able to buy a better property for cheaper so we are going more into debt either way.

No. No. No. No. That interferes with pretty much all of my plans. And I’m furious with the therapist for acting so off-hand about it. I miss my last therapist so much. She is no longer listed as being involved with any organization I can find online. I’m not sure this therapist is working out.

She isn’t interested in encouraging me into working things out on my own. She wants me to bring my life to the committee so they can vote on which approaches they feel are most appropriate. Half of the group has DID. The remaining woman is extremely non-functional in life. They are nice people. I like them. But I honest to god don’t want to be like them. I am not going to be fifty and still chasing the next easy lay.

They keep telling me what I “should” do as if they had any idea of what would be best for me. Fuck them. Fuck them with a fucking two by four. How in the god damn hell do you think you are even vaguely capable of advising me. How do you dare to have such hubris as to feel you understand what is best for me. You don’t fucking know me.

And as we were walking out I was invited to walk the lake with them. It’s four miles around–a nice distance. Usually I would say yes. But I wore the wrong shoes. I looked down and said, “Enh, I can’t. If I try to walk long distances in these shoes I will limp for three days because my knee will hurt.” And the fucking response was “Oh come on. It will be fine.”

Cue head explosion.

I’m ok with saying, “I’m too big of an asshole for group therapy.” I can live with that if it is true. I have lived with knowing much worse things about myself. I get the general impression that the group facilitator is trying to turn the women in this group into a family because they are all very lonely and isolated. I am not going to move to Oakland so I can start hanging out with them. That isn’t going to make my life better.

And someone acting like the six years of hard labor I have put into my house and yard are no big deal? Oh man. I feel pretty insulted. I shouldn’t feel any attachment to the fact that I have put so much of my time and energy and soul into my property. It doesn’t matter right–it’s just a house. Move on.

I have moved and moved and moved and moved and moved and fucking moved. Don’t try to fucking tell me what moving is like. This is the house where my children were conceived. My daughter was born here. I have painted several murals so far. I intend to paint more. I have planted trees. We have a heavily fruiting orange and young apple, cherry, and plum. I have a blackberry tangle to make you weep with jealousy. I have grapes. I’m starting asparagus amongst other wonderful additions in the front yard. I do a lot of cooking with the sage and rosemary in the yard.

“I know you have painted the walls and all but why don’t you just sell the house and move.”

*explode*

This is my home. This is the home my husband gave to me. He has worked very hard to pay for it. He has been very supportive every step of the way with me changing it to suit me. Sure, it isn’t all that large but such is life. It’s a size I can keep clean. It’s a size of yard that keeps me busy but doesn’t overwhelm me.

Just up and sell my fucking house. Maybe I should get a shotgun so I can stand around declaring “Over my cold dead body.”

I’m not sure when it happened. When did this go from being Noah’s house that I am camping out in to someplace that I mortally offended when someone tells me to treat it casually. This isn’t just where I live. This is the first place in my life where it has been ok for me to behave how I want. This is the first place I have been safe. I have lived in this house longer than I have lived anywhere in my life. When I am an old woman my yard will be wonderfully fruitful and I won’t have to do a lot of work any more. But I will get to look out at the things I find beautiful forever.

I think I will always have weird niggles of feelings about the ghosts in the walls–the ghosts of time before me. But by the day that time recedes further and further into the past. I’m just left with all the wonderful memories I make every day.

“Gud mownin! I mithed you. I wuv you.” I need to get a video made of her speech impediment. It is the cutest fucking thing in the history of ever. She is currently lying next to me. I’m not sure why Noah is sleeping on the couch (we aren’t fighting or anything) so Calli asked if she could climb in next to me. Of course baby. I’d be happy to feel you heavy against my side while you sleep. I don’t think there is much in the world that can make me happier.

I was told I need more down time. Tell me something else new. This phase of life is not forever. I feel like that was a lot of the problem with the group. Never once was I asked why I have arrived at the bizarre combination of factors I have right now that is freaking me out. They just jumped straight to telling me what I “should” do instead of what I am doing. Because of course there isn’t a careful thought process behind what I’m doing. I should just up and change so that I can be more suitable to them.

Geez. Why am I so resistant to change.

February is non-stop.

Life has been feeling too busy to even stop and catch my breath. Leaving the house with the kids uses up a very large amount of my daily “oomph”. Kids resist putting on clothing, they scream and hit me and tell me they don’t want to leave, they resist putting on carseats (while screaming directly in my face and trying as hard as possible to kick me in the face).

Leaving the house is something that I figure we will do more of once my kids are older and have an interest in where we are going. Only I’ve been feeling a lot of internal pressure to “get involved” and I don’t actually think I am doing us favors. So far in February we haven’t had a day at home and I cancelled on next week’s park day because if I don’t then we won’t have a day at home until my dead-brother’s-birthday. And even on that day we still have to leave the house for ballet.

I’m freaking out and feeling brittle. Someone commented both, “You look like you’ve had a hard morning” and later, “Oh you found your smile!” My terse responses of, “Yes.” and “I know what is fucking expected of me whether I like it or not.” Her third response was, “OOOOkay…”

Being nice to people is hard. I understand it is for most people. I get so scared. I know if I’m in a bad mood I’m going to say the wrong thing. I am tired of making people hate me. But I can’t be “engaged in the community” if I am silent. It’s a Catch 22–even though I’ve never read the book.

I would love to spend more time stoned. That would help a lot. But leaving the house every day means that my pot consumption has dropped massively. I can only smoke a little at the end of the day (lately I’ve only been getting twenty minutes before the pounding on the door and “I need you” starts) so I’ve been very sober this month.

Let me recount the reasons I wish I was stoned. Why, at 3:43 am I would really like to go get absolutely hammered. I have time! I have freedom! I have… therapy in a few hours in Oakland and I have to drive. Shit.

My stomach hurts. I keep crying because I’m just waiting for everyone to hate me. I don’t know how to stop feeling so anxious. A lot of it is that I am in an unprecedented part of my life experience. I have never gone this long without being hit or sexually assaulted in the rest of my life. My body knows that relaxing is dangerous and stupid. But it isn’t. Normal people don’t get assaulted as often as I do. I don’t have to be afraid all the time.

But then I would lose my pattern recognition skills-right? I have learned skills that kept me alive. Maintaining them is killing me.

Right now this feels tied to how much I am going out of the house. Every morning I wake up with a cup of patience. If I have to take the kids out of the house I have to strongly limit how many other things I ask of them or I will end up angry in a way I can’t get back from. Well, not till the next day when my patience re-ups.

I know that “normal” people have jobs and get their kids out of the house 5+ days a week without whining like me. I don’t think I could do it and be a nice person. I could do it–but I think I would be a very harsh and demanding figure as opposed to my current laissez faire approach to life.

I wish I had the nerve to cherry pick people from groups (I would rotate so I can get to know everyone) and reduce how often I go out of the house to three days a week and have one day a week when our house is “open” and folks can come play. Then I could have a socialization without the surrounding unpleasant.

But I don’t feel comfortable doing it. I don’t know why. I worry about offending people. I worry about finding out that people won’t come. I feel like it is ridiculous the way I want people to come to me but I don’t want to reciprocate. I feel like a user. There are things I would like to do, simple things. I don’t think anyone would be mad at me. But I’m too scared to ask. Knowing people is so hard. I don’t understand what they want.

Part of it is, other people seem to be very different about their houses. We don’t get invited to peoples houses much (my kids want to touch everything) and it feels rude to want to be the one who doesn’t have to travel.

In the bay area who is willing to travel where is a big thing. I have a huge chip on my shoulder after decades of having people in San Francisco or Oakland tell me that it isn’t worth going to my house–I should come to their house. I have had a lot of relationships that required me to do a minimum of forty-five minutes of driving each way. With how my kids feel about driving I would rather shove rusty nails in my veins than continue to maintain these relationships. As far as I can tell–none of those folks actually give a shit about me. The journey is too hard in my direction but it is somehow magically easier in their direction?

So I don’t invite people over often. I feel like it isn’t a good idea. It’s selfish. It’s stupid. It’s presumptuous and self-involved. No one else with kids gets the advantage of home court so I should have to deal with the fucking park like everyone else.

Why can’t I just be a weird recluse and people have to come to me? I know that historically such people exist. But doing that requires either the balls to just be alone all the time or the ability to usefully invite people over. I’m scared. I don’t think I have enough social capital to be interesting enough to travel for. Thus I work on my house. I’m not interesting but if you are under eleven my house is pretty rad. I have a wide variety of plans to make it more interesting. I just need to stay god damn home in order to build it all.

Leaving the house like this means I make no useful progress on writing. My brain is too full of petty idiocy.

What do I want my life to look like? I may have to clamp down again. I have to say no to things. Even though I fear that every turned down invitation is a closed door that will prevent people from ever being able to like me.

Too much going on. I keep crying. And I really can’t handle sex. I’m kind of trying because that’s one of the long-list of things I’m “supposed” to do. I feel so empty. I don’t want to have sex with Noah when I feel like a worthless whore. I don’t want to have sex with him when I feel like I can be all but unconscious and he doesn’t care–a hole is a hole. I don’t like feeling this way. I don’t know how to change it today. I’m acting like I don’t believe it is true. But mostly when I’m home I’m watching re-runs of The West Wing because I’m too tired to be working hard at home and dealing with going out. It’s one or the other. I wish I felt more competent.

Homeschooling and hubris and motherhood is not a career

I’ve had several prods recently to think about why we are homeschooling. Oh my goodness. The reasons are so many and varied. First and foremost we homeschool because I decided when I was seventeen that I wanted to homeschool my kids. Let’s be honest here.

Because I have always known that I wanted to homeschool my kids I got a BA in literature and a teaching credential and went to graduate school (no degree there). I wanted to feel like I knew enough. I desperately wanted to feel qualified. This is a fairly unusual route to take towards homeschooling. I have seen some mention in writing that “former teacher” is one of the fastest growing segments of the home schooling community. I don’t know if that is true or not. Even when I talk to other former-teachers they didn’t start out teaching in order to homeschool. They move to hoomeschooling because they feel their child needs something that isn’t otherwise available and they are trying to meet the needs of their family.

I have more hubris than that. I want my children to be unschooled while they are young. I want them to think learning is an amorphous non-linear process that happens in weird spurts and starts because that is how brains operate. Very few people really learn best lock step rote memorization. I live in California. I can promise you that lock step rote memorization is a big part of the educational philosophy. It’s the best way to baby-sit a bunch of potentially unruly kids.

When I was a teacher I handled unruly kids by giving them Legos and Play-Doh in class and I kept them after school for academic detention and we sat down and figured out where the holes in their knowledge was. Many of my teacher peers were quite frustrated with me. I was teaching these little brats that they get to run the show and demand an endless amount of my time and I should respect myself more than that.

No, I was teaching them that some people need to be physically moving in order to access their brain and that is ok. I was teaching them that some people take a little longer to pick up concepts and that is not shameful it is just something to accommodate.

I decided to homeschool my kids because my own public school experience was so overwhelmingly awful. I do understand that my children are not me and will have their own experiences–but big parts of the experience don’t change.

When you are bored in class you are expected to stare straight at the teacher and feign attention and not allow yourself to get distracted. You are not allowed to go actually learn anything–you have to pay attention to the teacher because (s)he is talking. Being in public school dramatically slowed down the rate at which I learned. I went in and out of twenty-five schools and really got to experience what it means to be educated in California. I wasn’t around long enough to experience much long-term benefit. Maybe if I had learned to feign boredom better I would have had a better experience.

My experiences outside of California involved me being beaten at least weekly and usually more like daily. My attitude sucks. I’m distracted. My handwriting is terrible. Obviously the best way to educate children is to make sure they are so afraid they cannot dare move or wiggle during class.

Regardless of the fact that I hear there are excellent teachers in the system (I’ve even seen a few) they are in the dramatic minority in my experience.

When I read people say, “I can’t make my kid learn anything so we can’t homeschool” I want to respond, “So your child is still lying prone in a crib somewhere unable to move or walk or talk or eat food or use the toilet?”

make my kids be polite. Past that I don’t make them learn a whole lot. They learn how to clean up after themselves because I model it. I don’t force them. I talk about the process and why we engage in it. I did the work until my kids hit a level of competence where they wanted to do it for themselves and now I don’t do it. It’s great.

Shanna is counting higher and higher by the day. Occasionally I will correct one prononciation out of the 50+ numbers and she almost always skips one or two somewhere and I don’t say anything about that. Sometimes she makes it to seventy. She has almost entirely taught herself to read. She has actively rejected any vague attempts to help her. She wants me to read to her and not slow down to be didactic. It’s annoying. Ok.

My kids have high motivation to read. I spend many hours every day reading. I read books to them, books to myself, and the computer every day. I talk to them about what I am reading and why. Now that I am not on facebook or mothering.com at all I am spending about four hours out of every day reading actively-informational books/websites. I’m learning. I’m getting up and using what I learn. I’m talking about broad connections between different areas of our lives.

I’m not worried about my kids learning math. I’m about to get up the courage to build a big play structure in the back yard because that is the only way to get a slide to our property. I have all the technical knowledge for how to do this. I have a next door neighbor who owns all the equipment and is happy to help me for a few hours as I get started–the rest I will do with my kids. They really do help.

I talk about geometry and force. I will talk about why you need cross-braces under the platform. I will talk about distribution of weight (a frequent topic in this house anyway) and I will talk about the benefits of screws and nails and I will talk about treated and untreated wood. It will be an edu-tainment because they will always know that they helped build it. That they are competent people who can just do stuff because that has always been true. That has simply been what they have done with all the days of their lives.

Can people do similar projects with their kids and go to public school at the same time? Sure. Of course. But your kid is spending 6+ hours a day having to stare forward with at least a faked expression of interest. Man. What a waste of a life.

I hear that time spent in school is really important. But I also hear that if you subtract for transition time, recess, and discipline there is somewhere between forty-five minutes and ninety minutes of actual honest-to-dawg instructions in a full day.

And on the socialization front–it has not been the norm in our species for children to spend all day every day locked in a room with twenty to thirty people their age and only their age for more than about one hundred and fifty years. I have not been convinced that this grand sociological experiment worked out the way folks hoped it would. I mean–I don’t think it is actively evil… mostly… but I get why people use it.

I so get why people don’t want to do what I am doing. I absolutely get that. This is hard. Trying to figure out what to go learn next so I can model learning is hard. It requires a specific way of thinking that is extremely high energy intensive. I feel very overwhelmed by how hard it is and I have reason to believe that this specific sort of thinking is much easier for me than it is for most people. That’s not a snooty statement–it’s what people have told me repeatedly and emphatically.

I specifically went through a lot of training so I could understand the real eventual goal of education. What does it really mean to expose children to information and expect them to become “educated”? I’ve tried as hard as I can and I’ve worked for more than ten years to find out what breadth and depth of knowledge is actually expected out in the world. Did I go out and actually learn all of it? No. But I have worked very hard to create a model in my head of how information flows. What knowledge leads to what. When you talk to extremely smart people–what got them started. Where did their passion begin? How were they exposed?

My kids may grow up to be a hairdresser and a burlesque dancer, respectively. They may grow up to be scientists or mathematicians. Or writers or carpenters. My kids will almost certainly know how to program–maybe they will just stay there. I don’t know. I don’t have a very accurate crystal ball.

But in homeschooling my children I am committing to expose them to the depth and breadth of life experiences. They need to find out what their options are. I feel that one of the potential worst experiences of the hubris involved in homeschooling is that in modeling so strongly one way of life–how will our children really understand how it is ok to live? They don’t need to grow up like me.

Other than having a kind of adorably off-beat sense of style they are both experiencing a life that is about as far from everything I knew as a life can be. They won’t want to grow up to be me. That is not only acceptable it is wonderful.

I have to teach them how to wonder and explore and how to evaluate if the consequences for being caught breaking a rule outweigh the awesomeness you will get if you break the rule.

Seriously–that’s one of the biggest life lessons I will consciously teach. There are a lot of rules in society. Some of them you can break basically penalty-free and some of them have catastrophic results. How do you decide which sets of only annoying penalties you want to put up with?

Everyone should teach their children that. That is part of the process of deciding how many homework assignments you can blow off and still get the grade you want.

That is what I don’t want. I don’t want my kids to care about working for a grade. Once you finish school they stop handing out those grades. It’s been hard to figure out if I am really learning or if I deserve to be allowed to speak on topics I have read about if I don’t have a degree proving I have read those books and gotten passing grades on the tests.

What is this fucking bullshit. Wake up America. Socrates did not have to pass a god damn written exam before he was allowed to teach. I’m just g-d sayin’.

Not that I’m Socrates–nothing of the sort. But this is a very weird very modern American invented way of thinking. It wasn’t long ago that most medical doctors never went to college. They apprenticed. Or they just read some books and started doing it.

That is what “pulling yourself up by your bootstraps” partially means. It means thinking, “I want to do _____; ok what do I have to do to get there?” And then you independently educate yourself. We live in the era of the internet and free public libraries. There is no excuse for ignorance.

Well, that age old excuse “I don’t have time.” I… Yeah. I make the time. My life is about that time. I think it is very important. If other people do not do it do I care? No. But I agree with them that they probably shouldn’t homeschool. Which I never suggested or thought or tried to imply that they should but I am often defensively told why other people could never do it.

Here’s this: I believe you. But guess what? I can.

That’s the hubris. It’s a flat statement of competence. Ok, you may not be competent at this–I am. I am very good at it, in fact. So far. I don’t have a strong agenda for most of their lives. I have extremely strong backed-up-by-research opinions on why I absolutely do not want them in a formal schooling environment until after age ten or so and then I will listen to them. They will have options and I will be supportive. I want them to set their own educational goals. It’s not my life to lead.

But it is my job to teach them how to learn and how to actively work really hard towards creating new things in the world. I want them to think of themselves as Makers. I want them to believe that they are strong and smart and competent because they can point at things they had to struggle to make, but look they did it.

I don’t want my children to waste their childhood staring straight ahead in a class room. I want them to be out running for miles with me talking about the plants we see–which ones are edible and which ones are not. We pick up garbage in our neighborhood (I need to do this more often because I write about it and then feel guilty that I haven’t done it all that recently). My children are learning what the rest of their lives will look like. They are training to be an adult. When adults have time they have to fill it. My children are learning how to fill that time, fill that hole in life. How do you spend your days?

My children are basically never bored. If they are bored I say, “Excellent! Time to get dressed and go into the back yard!” We don’t stay bored long. There is always a long list of things to do. Keeping a home is work. Having a pretty yard is work. Getting to look at lovely flowers is work. Growing food is work. They participate and help and grow more competent constantly. They are learning fine motor coordination. We have so forking many tea parties it’s unbelievable. Sometimes like six a day. They move around the house. The children are almost entirely capable of making a real one by themselves.

By the time my eldest is six and the youngest is four I anticipate that they will be able to create nearly all of the food and set the table for a large group of people. They practice over and over. They handle more steps each time. They want to. Because if all the work is dumped on me they don’t get a tea party. I get tired. It tends to mean a third or fourth time making a mess in the kitchen in a day.

I need them to understand what it means to keep your workspace clear so that you can continue to work on it later. I need them to have an investment in that state of being. We all help clean up after all of us. We are a helpful family. I say that over and over. So they do it.

I feel like I spent my late teens and early twenties studying how to be a truly great governess. It was a specific course of study. At this point in time we are unschoolers. Not Radical Unschoolers. We have limits here. But I don’t introduce academic book work artificially. I do a lot of specifically educational speaking but it is as I narrate what I’m doing anyway. I’ve been doing exactly the same kind of speaking to my kids since the day they were born.

I have taught my kids how to drink from an open cup, how to use a toilet, how to get dressed. From the day they were born I have been talking to them about their surroundings and experiences all day every day.

A great many stay at home mothers have the experience that when their children are very young getting out of the house is often an unsurmountable task. They spend a lot of days just kind of stuck at home bound by nap schedules. I remodeled my house and did extensive gardening. I couldn’t really go anywhere and I was bored.

I have slowed down on the rate of home improvement in the last year. Instead we have been venturing out more and more into the homeschooling community. My kids will have friends. They will grow up running in a band of kids. They will have ups and downs and trials and tribulations. They won’t always have a good time. Good. That’s how life is supposed to work.

I really and truly understand the arguments against homeschooling. The one that has the most merit, in my opinion, is the notion that people like me are the ones with the passion to change the system. To that I say–maybe. But in the meantime my kids would suffer through years of what is the worst education ever offered in the history of my country. Oh dear G-d no. I know those standards well. I’ve taught them. They have very little to do with learning except in a round-about back-hand way.

Opting out is a position of ridiculous privilege. Having someone available with my work background and education is extremely unusual. I get that. Not everyone knows that they have to raise themselves as they raise their kids and that it will take a lot of time and a lot of not-formally-structured consistent time. We have a very consistent life but we don’t have much formal structure. We do not live by the clock much.

One of those hard facts of life is that my desire to homeschool my kids intersects with the fact that I have a rather lot of psychological problems. I have PTSD and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I experience depression and suicidal thoughts with great frequency and I have been a self mutilator since I was a young child.

Raising my children really and truly is the only way I can see forward to really raise myself. I’m trying to do so in a way that is off-screen for them. Time will tell if I am successful or not.  It is hard having patience and giving myself room to be imperfect while still truly progressing forward at a rate of development that exceeds theirs. It’s… an experience. I don’t get the impression this is the standard approach to home schooling.

One of the best things about being an American is that you have the right to live a life of which other people disapprove. You’re just allowed. It’s in our Constitution. We have the right to pursue happiness. No one promised you’d get it–but you are allowed to pursue it. You are allowed to structure your life around pursuing happiness.

The way I see forward to maximize my lifetime happiness is to take this opportunity to appreciate the time I am privileged to have. Not everyone has this much time during the day. Most of the people who have the time during the day have worries that simply do not trouble my mind. That is a burden I do not share so I don’t get to judge how hard it is to carry. I’m a fucking lucky bitch.

I get to spend the next fifteen years playing and building and learning. Then I get to decide what I want to do when I grow up. This is part of why I do not think mothering is a career. Mothering is about learning how to see the world as an experience that must be past on. I know it is work but it is the work of life. It is the work of becoming a whole, individuated person.

I say this is the journey of mothering because it my journey as a mother. I do not know how it might be similar or different for fathers. I feel like I have had a profound life changing experience where I understand exactly how and why I am a product of the abuse I endured and I have had to consciously teach myself new behaviors at every stage of their development in order to appropriately parent them.

They keep changing the damn target on me. I get a handle on one kind of difficulty and then it changes and isn’t difficult any more. I see more and more of my control issues. I see more of my frustration and helplessness. I see more of my inability to control anything or anyone.

I’m sure there are other life experiences that teach similar types of humility but I don’t have experience with them and I’ve never even heard them spoken about in real life. When you are responsible for the 24/7 needs of a child for year after year after year it’s an endurance test. We were meant to raise children in communities. We were meant to have a grandparent living in the house who could walk the baby while mom rested some nights.

Right now I feel like mothering is the journey towards understanding your place in the scheme of things. Ok. In history I am daughter of _____ wife of Noah. Mother of Shanna and Calli. Sister of. Cousin of. I actually have a large family when you look at it all written down on paper.

And I can’t give them that community. It does not exist to them as a resource because of something that happened long before they were born and is not about them. That feels like an unfair burden. The result has been that I have cared for them mostly alone for years.

I get more help by the year. I trust more. I know that my children require a family to go to who would love and accept them no matter what so they visit their Godmamas. It’s kind of like a shared custody agreement. For the rest of their lives they will have had these years of being cared for by gentle, loving women. Both of whom have conflicting feelings about never having children of their own but it is highly unlikely they will. Life choices are complicated. And they love my daughters. They have extensively remodeled their guest room to be a kid room. It’s a really beautiful set up. They live in the mountains and they go for long hikes and learn about the flora and fauna of my childhood. They are only a few miles away from where I lived for most of my childhood, in the house where they all still live. I sometimes drive almost right past it. I do drive by other houses we used to live in. There are a bunch.

On the direction without the kids I drive a route past a former home and I sit and think really hard about how my life looked when I lived there. How old was I? Where did I go to school? How was my mother currently behaving?

I catalogue these things endlessly. It helps that we moved a lot so there are a lot of places to pull over for a think.

I have to think about what I was taught and unlearn it. I have to consciously go figure out what the correct response should have been. I have to say it to myself.

I have to. No one else is ever going to. No one else gives a shit. Not really. Not to the degree that a mother is supposed to care for her children.

Sometimes I think of things done right and I try to add them to my toolbox. My mother was not a complete fail. No one is.

This conscious choice of deciding who and what you want to be is the real work of motherhood. It is becoming the person you actually want to look at in the mirror. Does every woman have to become a mother in order to go through such change? Oh of course not. Don’t be silly. But motherhood is a slap in the face that can’t be ignored. There are mothers who choose to ignore this process. They neglect their kids. I don’t think they will be able to read four thousand words to get pissed off by me insulting them.

I’m not saying that there is anything terrible about daycare. There isn’t. But it isn’t what I want for my kids. I don’t want them to be peer centric. That is a specific lifestyle choice I don’t want to make. I don’t think it is wrong or bad, but I have a lot of privilege to decide and I don’t want to do that. I have never wanted to be separated from my young children.

I will be the one packing the suitcase when they are seventeen years and eleven months though. Not really. But I will start charging rent. And board. I’m serious. I am trying to train adults. If you are not able to be an adult then I have failed and we need to get moving on fixing this fast.

I can’t promise to always be available. I won’t promise to always take care of my kids. I have seen that go extremely badly. My entire life experience makes me absolutely gut level terrified of creating dependent adults. But I treat my babies and young children like they are totally dependent. The shift starts happening around puberty. Then they get to start deciding the course of their life. Until then it is my job to keep them safe and protect them. No one else will care as much as me. No one else will want it with the fierce intensity that I want it. My children will not be victimized as children.

You’d never know I was so paranoid if you met me in person. My children walk up to every single person they walk by and say, “Want to play?” or “Hi, my name is (name of the day). What’s yours?”

They are not sheltered. They are escorted. They talk to obviously on drugs people because those folks just live in our neighborhood and have to walk to get to the bus. I don’t mind. When Shanna snuck out every house on her route ratted on her. It was great. They made sure to tell me that she stayed on the side walk like she was supposed to. It was hilarious how they didn’t want me to get mad at her.

Kids are supposed to try to test the limits of their parents. That is the whole nature of their life experience. And parents are supposed to grow and change over and over and over and over as they define who and what they really are.

This is the work of every truly-lived-life. I obviously have strong specific philosophical roots. Only the examined life is worth living. Only that isn’t even it.

I need to have a safe place to grow up. I’ve never had it before. I understand that other people had it while they were children but I didn’t. I’m doing my work here, but give me a break. Yeah it takes a while. It’s hard. It hurts. Yes, it is a river of self-pity. Someone has to have pity for me. Even if it is only me.

I need to have the whole experience of a life that happens without terror and horror and shame and blame and guilt. I need it. I know it is selfish of me to keep my kids home so I can see theirs. I’m not trying to co-opt their life. I’m not forcing them to be like me. I’m educating them. In actually traditional ways instead of in the manner of the current fad in public education. I only feel a little guilt. I only feel that guilt because this is such a wonderful experience–of course I should be denying it to myself because I don’t deserve it. I should be trying to force them to be just like their age and location cohort. Gosh. Aren’t I terrible and selfish.

No life is without bumps or course corrections. No one is born a finished product. I knew before I got a fake high school diploma (in my opinion getting a high school diploma after three semesters of attendance is a joke) that I wanted my children to have a life that was more consistent with the lives I read about in books. Those people seemed to turn out better.

Maybe they are all right. Maybe the answer is that women shouldn’t be allowed to read. Before you know it they get ideas and they start thinking and then we get uppity women who don’t do what they are told.

The whole world might explode.

Poverty, religion, and community building

The last article I read on HuffPo was about how atheists should care more about poverty. In my head that lead to this whole leapfrog experience of thoughts about things that have been happening in my life lately. A bunch of things happening off-line mostly to other people. So I can kind of comment in person but writing about other peoples lives is rather rude. See, I do have tact.

Recently I was reminded that one of the big upsides of Catholicism over the Protestant approach is that Catholics believe you are not saved by faith alone–you have to do good works. I feel like telling the Protestants that they don’t need to behave like Jesus, just believe in him, was one of those crucial “missing the point” movements in history.

At this stage of my life I am standing very near the cliff of atheism. I think that if someone is as angry at G-d as I am can’t really fall off that cliff. It’s like having an airplane cable around my waist as I try to jump off the cliff. I won’t get far enough and it’s going to fucking hurt trying.

And by the way, if you have ever said, “Catholic or Christian” then you can picture me screeching at you with great fervor for at least half an hour about how ignorant and stupid that sounds. Just sayin’. You believe in and follow Christ? Christian. Moving on.

I believe that nothing and no one is going to save me. No one is watching me and giving a shit. If someone had been watching me through my whole life with dispassion I would have a nice big scythe with that persons name on it. My life is, in my opinion, proof that there could not be a compassionate all knowing G-d. It’s enough proof for me at least.

That means I am left in this position of not being good for my big invisible sky friend. Why should I be good? Who defines good? Ah… now we get to the crux of the question. Most people live according to moral structures they have never really thought about. What does being good mean anyway?

I will say that I know profoundly ethical sex workers. I believe they are good people providing a service human-kind needs. If it weren’t such a needed field it wouldn’t have existed for all time. Give me a break.

I know people who are “good” in my estimation who regularly break the law. The law does not define good for me. The law is a codefied way of protecting assets not a way of ensuring that people are nice to each or that we each have a minimum amount to survive. The law protects people who already have power and mostly screws over people at the bottom. I don’t have that much respect for the law.

The law cares way more about the rights of rapists than rape victims. And everyone you can talk to about this will tell you that it should. It must. Otherwise there would be a complete breakdown of law and order. We have to assume innocence. But we must not protect the innocence of young girls and boys who are raped. They are on their own.

We will blame their parents for not cloistering them. We will blame co-ed education. We won’t blame the completely idiotic school system that will not allow adults to talk frankly about sex. We won’t actually teach these children the difference between consensual sex and rape. We won’t talk to the girls and teach them, “If you don’t want it you really and truly have to say NO because he won’t understand on his own. You will be thinking, ‘Can’t he see that I don’t want this?’ and you will cry later because no he won’t see. What he sees is that his dick might get wet. You don’t really matter. If you want to matter you have to matter to you first and you have to defend yourself. Start by saying ‘no’.”

Why don’t people say this to young girls? Why don’t people sit and talk to children for years and years beforehand about consent? Why don’t we talk about self-sovereignty? Oh. Because then we might give the children the idea to have sex–right? They won’t come up with it on their own. Whatever.

When I was younger, before I knew my sister had raped our brother or her children, when her kids were in the 7-11ish range I started pulling the kids aside and talking to them about consent and sex. I showed my nephew how to put condoms on a banana and I made him practice till he could do it without faltering. I told him I’d be happy to give him boxes to use while masturbating so he could continue practicing and get proficient so he doesn’t feel silly once he has a partner. He said no thanks and looked freaked out.

My understanding is his step-father raped him within six months of that conversation. Based on my memories and the stories I was told. I guess he didn’t need to worry about being awkward with his first partner. That was all awkward.

My sister’s loud public attitude was that “there should be a veil between the knowledge of parents and children. In the mind of a parent every child should die a virgin.” But she raped her children. The public discourse and the private actions don’t line up even slightly. Honestly, to me this kind of attitude is pretty much what I hear when I hear Protestants talk about the poor. When I hear my atheist friends talk about the poor.

“The government shouldn’t steal my money.” Because it is better for you to have a second fancy sports car than for some kids to eat. Right.

There has been wealth distribution since the dawn of time. There have always been rich people and there have always been poor people. But in some eras the difference is less stark.

We have more wasteful shit in our lives than was ever fucking possible at any other point in history. What do we do with this wonderful excess? We hoard it. We are stingy and selfish. We are short-sighted.

I get the short-sighted self-absorbed attitude on the parts of my atheist child-free friends. In very specific ways they are only kind of part of the human race. They are an end point. They are not part of the future and they know it. Why should they care?

I don’t get it from parents. I don’t at all. Your children will have better lives if there is less distribution of wealth. Not if they have more and more and more compared to those around them. Their lives will become increasingly a slice of humanity. You can’t associate with people who are too socio-economically different from you. That’s scary. People in different classes behave differently.

I like living in a not-great neighborhood. I like that my kids are meeting a very wide range of people. Our neighborhood is definitely *not* primarily white. Some of the folks around here are comfortable financially but they are in the minority. We have a lot of vacant foreclosed houses. We have a lot of derelict houses kind of falling apart. We talk to everyone. My kids are learning how to behave with as many people in the world as I can possibly expose them to.

I want my children to have an in-their-gut understanding that having “things” is not because of entitlement or privilege. You don’t automatically get these things in life. Some people make the choice to prioritize having things–that’s a choice not a right. And if they don’t get it–that’s the breaks. There are no guarantees. There are no promises. And Paris Hilton no more “deserves” what she has than I deserved to be raped over and over.

It’s a lottery. It’s not about deserve. Things just happen.

I have to believe this. This is the entire foundation upon which I build my survival. I don’t deserve things. If I have them it is an accident. If I have knowledge within my head that could make someone else’s life better and it’s doing nothing for me–isn’t it selfish nearly to being criminal to withhold it?

I believe that we are social animals. We are a social species. We need community. We need to belong. Unfortunately people usually choose “people who feel like me” without ever really examining what that is founded on. Are you saying you only want to know people who were fortunate to have parents who were born into a certain class? How un-American of you.

It’s funny sitting near geek culture. I’m not really a geek. I’ve lived in the Silicon Valley my whole life and I’m only quasi-participating in making my first website. Mostly I’m making my husband do it. But I have watched this culture emerge. I have seen it from the outside since I was twelve.

I hear the Oppression Olympics a lot. When geeks get together the subject of childhood bullying comes up constantly. No one remembers the times when they were taunting people because they were smarter and they weren’t going to be stuck being losers like those other kids. I remember hearing that. The geeks who got beat up used to sneer when tests were handed back. See, here’s proof that even if you can beat me up I am better than you and I will be through my whole life. So that childhood bullying, that largely grew out of the rage of frustrated children, is carried forward in life. Only who is on top changed.

In America we are very careful about Might Makes Right at this stage. We want it for the police–thus we are increasingly militarizing them. That’s the wrong direction. People listen to rules that feel fair, not to things that are imposed under military guard. We like having our rights, motherfuckers.

I watch my kids moving through our neighborhood and I wonder what kind of adults they will be. Will they be selfish? There is no way to predict. Will they feel this terrible compulsion to build community? Will they already have that community?

I spend a lot of time trying to figure out what I should do to find a way to fit into the community I have more. I don’t mean the people I know. I live somewhere. I live in a place and a time. How do I fit in this? If you restrict your friends to only people who are like you and you spend all your time in the car going from very carefully selected place to place… that’s not community.

Community is the weird neighbor we always have long conversations with as we walk to and from the store or park. He gives my kids advice and talks to them about what it was like to work for PG&E as it was really spreading through the state. He’s in his 70’s and he worked for them for decades. He has great stories.

Months ago the topic of suicide came up kind of randomly. I was blunt, as I am wont to be. Since then he makes a point of saying, “Gosh I’m glad you are still here so I can talk to you. And your babies still need you. Keep going.”

That’s community. I don’t have to go out of my way to see him. I don’t have to laboriously schedule around our “activities”. We just see him in our life. It feels good. I’m trying to get to know more neighbors. I think that at some point I may offer tutoring at the elementary school across the street. It would be fun. It would be a really nice way of getting to know more of the neighborhood kids. My children will need to know those kids whether they go to school with them or not.

Everyone is on a different path. I understand that everyone has a different load to carry. Different things they could share. Different needs and wants. I do understand that. But everyone has something that they could give to make someone else’s life better. Not in a codependent way. I’m not recommending one more poly enmeshed hysterical relationship.

There are people in this world who are almost certainly actually suffering because they do not have a piece of information that is in your head. Is that your responsibility? Only if you want it to be. Only if you want to be part of something bigger than yourself. Only if you want to be humble about the fact that maybe all you have to give is that scrap of information and you can’t construct an identity around helping people all the time.

Anger, frustration, entitlement, privilege–I believe they are all so entwined it is almost impossible to take them apart.

Privilege, in my parlance, is the lucky accidents in your life. Maybe you are white. Maybe you were born to wealthy parents. Maybe you were raised in an area with excellent public schools. Maybe your parents could afford to put you through college.

Can you see how these things don’t just happen to everyone? That makes having them double plus awesome. Only if you were handed a huge bag of candy when you were five and you refused to ever share it you would be kind of an asshole. Privilege is like that bag of candy. You can share it. I’m not saying give up on having things or benefiting.

I own a house–well, there is still a mortgage. It will be paid off in less than ten years. Someday I will own a house. Because my husband bought it and paid for it and lets me live in it. I don’t really feel like I should get too cocky about this.

Humility. I didn’t do it. Taking too much pride in it–as if it were my accomplishment–would be ridiculous. This will be Noah’s accomplishment. I can be proud of him and I can be grateful I benefit but I can’t act like it is my right or just or natural that I get this.

Most of my anger displays come at the heels of feeling thwarted. My need for control is interrupted and the fireworks inside my skull are fantastic. I’m not trying to claim that I am superior or above these things.

But what do I do once I feel like that? When my privilege feels attacked? When I feel like I’m not getting something I feel entitled to?

That is what decides what kind of human being I am. I don’t think that all child-free people are dead ends in the human race. I believe that a great many of the most important people throughout all time were child-free. But they made a choice to be part of something. Something that actually makes the world a better place.

I’ve been watching Burning Man for years. It makes me feel sick to my stomach to think about how many millions of dollars have been spent on a temporary city that damages the natural environment and is basically just about distraction.

If you need that kind of display and outlay and expense in order to find your “tribe” then I argue that your tribe is pretty artificial. That is not a sustainable kind of community. That is a mass waste sort of community. Welcome to America.

How many cities or even small poverty-stricken countries could be run for a year on what is spent on Burning Man?

Which isn’t to say that I never entertain myself. I spend money I don’t need to spend. I bought into the freakin Disney time share. That’s elite privilege at its very snootiest if you ask me. I don’t think that everyone who goes to Burning Man is bad. I don’t think that everyone who goes to Disneyland is bad.

But what could we be doing with this time and money that wasn’t so completely selfish? What could we be doing with this time and energy that isn’t just about being entertained for a few days?

I’m not trying to sit on a high horse. I am part of my cohort. I pick up trash and talk to my neighbors. It’s a slow start on building community. I donate a lot of money. I try to help people one-to-one whenever I can.

But I have to have resources to draw from in order to have anything to give. Honestly the trips to Disneyland make me feel more cheerful about the endless amount of giving I have to do in the rest of my life. Burning Man provides a lot of people with massive emotional support–I hear. Or it’s a total flop. Apparently it’s a coin toss year by year. But people still go back–like addicts.

What does caring about the poor mean? What does caring about someone other than yourself mean? Caring doesn’t accomplish a lot. You have to work. What can you do to make the world better?

I keep trying to remind myself that I am not really past the point where I have to be completely focused on my kids. It’s a privilege. It’s a species-preference for children to be intensely cared for in the first few years. My oldest is almost five. My youngest is two and a half. I only have a couple more years before I won’t be nearly as necessary.

What will I do with my time and energy? I don’t think it will involve getting in my car and driving thirty or forty minutes until I get to a white neighborhood so I can feel comfortable. I wouldn’t. I want to find a way to matter where I am. I may not be willing to enroll my kids in the school directly across the street but I want my kids to spout off, “My mom knew she wanted to homeschool her kids from when she was seventeen so please don’t think this is any kind of negative judgment on the school–it’s just a personal choice.” And yes, it is a weird choice. Ask questions about it.

Part of the problem with “helping the poor” is that most of the time there is this tension between helping individual people and helping a systemic problem. The approaches are completely different and going in either direction means that a lot of people fall through the cracks.

What is the road forward?

I was having a chat with some women this weekend. One of the comments that sticks in my mind is a woman was saying that she has evolved in her life to the point where she doesn’t feel like there is much point in being angry about injustice and trying to fight. Just love. Go through your life doing what you think is right and loving people and it will all work out.

I… I don’t think I am capable of believing such hubris. Unless the “all work out” is that we all end up dead. Sure, that I believe. What will the world be like in fifty or a hundred years? I want to influence that. I truly do. And I don’t think that sitting in my house or school in a carefully chosen neighborhood and driving in my car to meet up with carefully pre-selected people is the way to do it.

Chaos theory. Maybe I should study some.

Post-EMDR

I should have taken a knee-jerk sleeping pill. I didn’t. I had therapy in the morning and I went to bed at my normal time. I’ve been mostly awake since 12:45. I just wasn’t able to get back to sleep today. That’s ~5 hours of sleep. Not enough but not completely insignificant either.

She asked me about the last time I seriously cried. It was that last post on the parenting book. The one that ended with my self-pity running like the river of my snot. Cause I’m classy. I had to sit and think about the things I was thinking about that day. While I had headphones beeping weirdly into my ears and little gizmos were alternating vibrating in my hands. It’s kind of a weird system. It does work though.

Part of what came up for me while reading the book is how fucking jealous I am of my kids. Why didn’t anyone love me enough to take care of me and keep me safe? Why am I the product of rape and I got to grow up and be raped by my father and everyone else who wanted to take a turn? Why was I not worthy of protecting as a child?

In situations like mine I have seen adults consciously choose that they want their child to understand them so the child needs to be abused too. I don’t want my kids to understand me. I want to be a confusing non-sequitur in their lives. No one is quite like me.

I told my therapist that it’s really hard that in order to feel understood I have to go looking for the people who have been beat on and raped repeatedly. I need to go find the people who have been habitually abused their entire lives. “Normal” people literally cannot wrap their brains around me. There is something wrong with me.

We spent a fair bit of time talking about the point and purpose of confrontation. My therapist enthusiastically agrees with me that I should confront if and only if I feel I need to and not if someone I know who is kind of weirdly overly enmeshed with my life feels I should. That’s not my problem.

I can love people. I can wish that I was good enough for them. I can’t jump through the hoops they put in front of me. I just can’t. Maybe someone less broken could, but I can’t. It is something that would cause me to hate myself more than I do right now. Right now I have a grudging respect for myself. Even I have to admit that I really am doing what I said–and I’m doing it well. I have respect for that.

I respect myself because when I fuck up I say, “Ok, I screwed up by not doing ______. I’m really sorry I made that choice. I can’t fix it this time. But next time I will do ______ so that I don’t hurt you again. I’m sorry I screwed up. I didn’t mean to.”

I don’t immediately start blaming someone else.

We had issues yesterday with the kids. We didn’t make it to Fairyland. We had food issues. It was my fault. I should have packed lunch before we left in the morning. Then we would have done ok. But I didn’t. So we stopped at the store to buy food. It was Whole Foods so the lunch was kind of ridiculously expensive. Then Shanna refused to eat anything because it was “yucky”. After she picked the damn sandwich. I told her that I wasn’t going to take her to Fairyland hungry so she could immediately start whining at me to buy her something–no. I just wasn’t up for being patient with that.

But it was all my fault. I didn’t prepare for the consistent and predictable needs of my children. If Shanna decides to be a bit fussy on a given day that is an annoyance–but it isn’t her fault that I’m unprepared to handle her. I know the drill. I know how things work. If I don’t handle it there is no one to blame.

My children are never to blame for my temper and my ability to handle their needs. If I fail to plan or if things happen that surprise me… they are just being normal kids. It is all part of the deal. I have no choice but sucking it up and coping. Because that is life when you are the god damn grown up.

But sometimes I feel so jealous of my kids. And it’s hard to be nice when I’m feeling that way. Why are you good enough and I’m not?!

I thought about this a lot during EMDR.

By the end of that session I was instead stuck in the thought loop that even though I didn’t get to have it as a child–I do get to have it now. My children give it back to me.

In our house every day starts with hugs and kisses and cuddling and, “Good mownin! I missed you. Did you sleep well?”

My kids greet almost every meal with, “This looks delicious. Thank you!”

I am really nice to them. They don’t see other examples of behavior. I don’t model being an asshole. I am considerate and loving.

And when they are screaming at me that they hate me and I am the biggest stupid ever and they think I am the worst mother on the planet my response is, “It’s fine for you to say you hate me–I did something that made you really upset. But I am not stupid and it is not ok to call me that.”

And I have to do it without screaming or getting fiercely upset. I have to do it in a reasonable voice.

I will admit that I more or less dragged Shanna across the street because she decided to throw a screaming fit just as we were crossing a street. As soon as we got across the street I let go of her hand and apologized for pulling so hard. It’s a short light. We had to hurry.

My self-pity is kind of interesting to navigate. I feel like I constantly come across reminders that at this point my life is ridiculously privileged. I am lucky. I am fortunate. I have an easier life than almost anyone in my age cohort.

So much for me being that fucking loser my whole life.

When the movie The Craft came out the kids at school started calling me Nancy and trying to avoid me. I was “that scary girl on the bus.”

I’m not really friendly or personable. Only I am.

You choose your behavior. You choose what you want to send off into the world. Sometimes I need to be scary. It has been a survival trait. One I don’t know if my kids will ever need so I haven’t taught it yet.

But I am teaching them how to get along. It feels like teaching them to lie. It feels like teaching them that other people matter more than them. I don’t matter more than them.

I tried to explain to Shanna (but she found it scarce comfort) that when we go out for a long time I have to be able to get them both home at the end. If they don’t eat and end up freaking out a long way from the car I can’t physically carry them the whole distance any more. I’m not strong enough. I have to plan around my limits even though that is really inconvenient. It’s ok to get mad that I have these limits. But next time we will pack a backpack with food so Shanna can be responsible for carrying around her own food so I will know she has enough to keep going even if she doesn’t feel like sitting down for a meal.

Dealing with kids is weird. They are semi-rational and increasingly difficult to just manage. You need cooperation. You have to convince them to take care of themselves so that your fuck ups have less impact. “I’m sorry that I planned poorly. In the future we really have to remember to pack a lunch because this isn’t a fight I want to have again.” “That’s right. Next time I will pack my own lunch.” I hope she does. That would be cool. She can make her own pbj, grab an apple, string cheese, and a couple of carrots and call it good. That is entirely within her range of coping. And no one will end up getting screamed at. Life will be better. I don’t enjoy being screamed at.

Why does thinking about my kids make so jealous? My therapist says it is totally normal only most people don’t admit what is going on and instead they are just mean to their kids. I don’t want to be mean to my kids. If I’m mean to my kids they have the right to walk away from me when they are 18 and never speak to me again. I want a relationship. I would like to someday be friends. Not that they will ever be my “support” but I would like to be friends someday. That means we can’t be friends now. I have to be the mom.

I feel completely inadequate to this task. Reading parenting books, especially ones that specifically lay out “If you were wounded during this phase of development you will act out in these ways: x, y, and z” is hard because I can’t really deny how fucked up I am. Oh. That part of being broken is probably related to ______ trauma. Oh. Ok, the next part of being broken is probably related to ______ trauma. 

The best this husband/wife team recommends is to become more and more aware of how and why you are broken so you can consciously choose to not pass it on to your kids.

God I’m so broken. So very broken. I am “disrupted” at every god damn stage of development. It is weirdly miraculous that I am so high functioning at all. I shouldn’t be. I should be so broken I can’t see anyone but my own pain. But I don’t actually work that way.

It’s weird to be told so emphatically how and why I am fucked up while being told, “Now just think about it and don’t be broken like that anymore!”

*beat head on wall*

I’d love a good head banging session right now. My lesser demons are outshouting my greater angels. I’d love to beat the noise out of my head. I would like to cut and experience the tunnel of attention–the inability to notice or think about anything else. Pretty much any source of pain would work–I want to stop thinking. I want to be distracted.

Only I don’t. I did that for a long time. It made nothing better and it lowered my opinion of myself.

I have carved out a path for me. It’s slow progress. I haven’t backslid in a long time. I have rather good control of myself these days. I avoid the situations that would make me lose control. My kids can’t be that kind of trigger. They are allowed to exist without my emotional turmoil. I respect myself for that.

I may be someone that other people look down on–I can do nothing about that but I don’t feel particularly ashamed of myself lately. What do I do? I homeschool my kids. I garden. I keep the house tidy and organized and don’t complain about huge messes because that is how the kids learn. I am polite. I am kind. I think really hard about the conflicting needs that exist in my house and I try to meet them in a way that is fair to everyone. I’m not the only important one.

Children do what is modeled for them. My children wake up excited to see me and they hug me and gently stroke my face and tell me they love me. I do get to have this during this lifetime. I didn’t get to have it when I was little but I get to have it now. Some people never get it at all. Some people have never gotten to have the magical experience of having someone tell them day after day that they are loved and wonderful.

I am privileged. I am lucky. Very few people have as much safety and security as I have now. Few people get to just sit around and love on their kids the way I get to. My whole job is watching them grow and exclaiming how wonderful their progress is. It’s a fucking good gig if you can get it.

One of the women in my incest support group looks like my mom. I’m going to have an interesting time with her. She’s the other really angry person. And she wishes that she had children. But she’s 50 and she doesn’t. She’s gay so the kids thing would have been challenging and expensive to arrange. She is really angry and sad because she is as emotionally damaged as I am and there is no one hanging out telling her how beautiful she is all day.

I am one of the lucky ones. It is so weird to look at the intersection of life experiences. Isn’t it kind of weird for me to think of myself as lucky? But I am. I’m lucky that I managed to catch the eye of someone who is a good provider. Noah has basically doubled his income in the six years of our marriage because he takes it very seriously that he has to support us.

I feel so overwhelmed. It’s hard to wrap my brain around how undeserving, how unworthy, how bad I feel while knowing that I am in a position that women of my species have viewed as the the ultimate goal for most of history. I have a provider who is very skilled. I am lucky. I have someone to give me children and give me support and give me love. I am treated very well by my husband.

My husband wakes up every day and makes breakfast for our family. Then he works hard all day. Then he comes home and plays with the kids or reads to them. He isn’t doing anything extra right now. We get to monopolize all of his time. I feel so lucky and so loved.

So feeling jealous of my kids feels kind of extra bad. If I have it so good it makes me a ridiculous asshole to be jealous. They may be having a more secure and loving childhood than I had but that is no guarantee of anything for their future life. Ask me how your childhood is no guarantee of anything about your future. I’ll cheerfully tell you.

My therapist said to expect sleep disturbance and dizziness and fuzziness for a day or two after EMDR. My brain is rewiring. I have to be patient. All this damage happened over a long period of time. Fixing it is hard.

The goal is that some day I can think about my children having it better than me without losing three hours to crying and self-pity. It’s a goal. I haven’t cried more than a few individual tears today. I guess that’s a start.

I read. I swear.

Book #5: Over Sea, Under Stone

Book #6: Giving the Love That Heals

Technically #5 is one that Noah read to me. But it’s new to me. 🙂 I’m glad that #6 is over. Woof. It’s a good book–I highly recommend it if you have kids. I promise you that you are doing shit instinctively you shouldn’t be doing and they are constructive about how to handle those situations.

Still readin Mindstorms, Collapse, and I have The Myth of Ability out from the library. That will satisfy February I think.

I am seriously thinking of no longer participating on MDC. I’m tired of getting spanked by moderators because I am jolting. Yeah. I talk about rape. I guess I should learn how to be quieter and more euphemistic so you never have to feel jolted. Or I could just stop posting there and go back to my sandbox and say fuck the fascists. That will feel more satisfying.

Weighing the cost of confrontation.

Whenever someone has their boundaries violated, whether sexually or otherwise, that person (male or female) has to decide whether a confrontation is worthwhile. In my extremely judgmental opinion such confrontations should take place if: a) the victim/survivor/experiencer-of-boundary-violation feels there is value in saying their side of the story OR b) the perpetrator can be stopped through the action of speaking up.

It is hard to get truly accurate statistics no matter what you do. In the areas of rape and sexual assault these numbers are extra fuzzy. There are a few studies but they are small and I feel weird about judging from those studies.

Almost all of the studies about rape and sexual assault I have read (and I’m pretty sure I’ve read every big-name one in existence) involve fewer people-who-have-been-victimized than I have talked to in my lifetime.

I go find these people. It’s not just women. I want to hear their stories. I truly do. So I’ve heard hundreds. Probably a few thousand at this point. Most of them on the internet–I haven’t met all of these people in person. I think about what they tell me with regards to their particular situation. Everyone has a slightly different circumstance to their assault.

Over all, near as I can tell, the number of successfully prosecuted rapes is around 3%. That means that if you have been raped you have around a 97% chance that your rapist’s rights are more important than yours.

Oh gee, why don’t more people try to press charges? I wonder.

I have confronted. I have pressed charges. I have spoken to police officers on multiple occasions. I have chosen to not confront sometimes. I have had people say, “Hey you didn’t want to confront so I went and told this person you have been talking about him so here, now you can talk to him about it!”

Uhm, what is there for me in this potential discussion? Confirmation that this person did a lot of drugs and alcohol so “can’t remember” and thus it isn’t supposed to matter what happened between us. Yeah. That will make me feel better.

I get to choose what I do with my time. I’m pretty sure that I should be doing things that make me feel better about myself and not things that confirm that in the opinions of other people I am a worthless whore who isn’t even worth remembering.

Yeah. I think I would rather shove rusty nails in my veins. But it could be just me.