I am pleased to report that the evil gunk I am coughing up from my lungs is a nice pale green with no black at all. The more I read about chronic bronchitis the more I think I am just screwed. My mom was a really heavy smoker. I have had coughing problems all winter from the first sign of cold for as long as I can remember and I didn’t smoke pot for that long. (roughly four years of consistent smoking in my late twenties into thirties) I’ve been off smoking for a while and the black stuff in my lungs has cleared out. But I am probably never going to stop coughing all winter.

Did you know that chronic bronchitis can kill you? I am curious what I will die of some day. Suicide has its down sides, but it also assigns a certain dignity compared to dying because my airways just close. Enh. We’ll see.

I’ve been thinking a lot about suicidal ideation as a concept as opposed to having suicidal ideation. What function does that hold for me? Is it relief? Is it company? Is it safety?

If I believe that at the end of the day *I* get to decide if I have to face tomorrow… that’s some power. It is most of the power I have ever felt a had.

At this point, whereas it is hard to control, I can manage to switch some of the tracks of my brain to other things so I can still “function” even while the imagery is happening. Earlier in my life that wasn’t true. On days when the multi-plex went live I just had to hide in a closet to avoid getting in trouble because I would inevitably get in a lot of trouble those days. I don’t value myself or my body so I pick fights. I’m just looking for the next person who will hurt me. I assume that is the only reason I am here anyway. Someone has to be at the bottom of the shit hill.

A friend asked me how I was doing yesterday. Other than hacking up a lung I don’t have a lot of room for complaint. I mean, could I talk about things that are bothering me? Sure. Could I list all my stress and anxiety? Sure.

I am exactly where I want to be doing exactly what I want to do. I have so much privilege it blows my fucking mind. I get to be independent and secure because I have a provider. It’s… kind of weird.

Most people developed their early sense of security from their parents. Mine couldn’t take care of me. Not in any way. My mom sent me off to live with other people who could take care of me and my father said that providing support for me wasn’t a worthy enough thing to do–he needed trade in the form of sex with my mother or I didn’t deserve support. Even after the divorce.

I haven’t had sex with Noah in a while. I’m not sure what all is going on. July we went slightly over quota. But for the last week I have felt numb. I just can’t have sex right now. I can’t open my legs and provide the trade that keeps a roof over my head. I can’t. I can’t believe that is the only reason I am allowed to stay.

Noah didn’t really know what he was getting into. To be fair, neither did I.

I don’t know how to tell Part 2. I don’t want it to be a continuation of the first book, exactly. I’m doing plot outlining and thinking about the evolution of my relationship with my Owner. Am I telling a story about being trained as a slave? About becoming an adult? About the bdsm community? About the psychopathology of sadists? I’m not really sure. Figuring that out will determine a lot about the book. And how graphic should it be? It’s not like I actually had all that much sex with my Owner. He wasn’t interested. I will need to describe the bdsm and that is graphic enough. “Then he placed the noose around my neck. He said, ‘Well I hope you don’t die’ then he walked over to the pulley system and tugged on the rope that lifted me off my feet while I tried to relax and go limp so it would hurt less. Then I waited to find out if he would kill me or not.”

I mean, is that x rated? It is uhm… festive? I don’t know.

The suicide book also wants more work. Sigh.

I spent an hour and a half working on curriculum for sex ed for home schoolers. Yes yes, I’m “unschooling” my kids and all. Sorta? Maybe? Am I even physically capable of thinking about things as an unschooler? So what I’m doing is putting together what I think they should know and why. Then I’m trying to figure out how to present the information.

I won’t provide them with a one-size-fits-all curriculum. I know all the kids I have been approached about teaching. (Moms have asked at the park. Ok, some moms have also explicitly said “You won’t be teaching MY kids.” Ok, not a problem. It isn’t as if I am so desperate for things to do that I need to chase down other peoples kids for more work.)

I feel weird about putting this together. I was asked to. By multiple people. Other people emphatically don’t want me near their kids. Uhm, ok? That’s fine?

I hear Davy Crockett. Be sure you are right and go ahead. I believe that sex education is important. I believe that all human beings should have access to sex education. I also believe that parents have the right to set culture for their own children. That means that “sex education” will be done in a variety of ways by a variety of people. For example, I will not a teach a sex ed that says, “Boys have a penis and girls have a vagina.” I will say, “People are usually born with genitals. Most of the time people grow up believing that they have the right set of genitals for them and they are happy with who they are. Sometimes people feel like they do not feel comfortable with what they were born with in some way. Some people grow up and reject being called a man or a woman and choose no gender. All while having a penis or a vagina. So it isn’t as simple as it might appear.”

It is ok with me that some people do not want their children hearing this message. I believe that parents have a right to shelter their children. I just do. I believe that whether or not a parent wants to shelter his/her child is ok in as far as that parent does not try to pretend that the outside world and the different opinions in it are ALL BAD. I like “They are fine like that, we just aren’t like that.”

-It will probably take me a week or two to put together the sex ed curriculum with materials. (Estimate 15-30 hours [I’m not shitting you. Being a teacher is work.]) Not sure I will get to this before the birthday parties.

-Must grade and set syllabus for remaining English classes at Hindi temple. (Estimate three hours of work)

-Must clean house and yards for upcoming birthday parties. (Estimated 40 hours. Let’s be real here. It may go up from there. I will cap it at 50 hours because then I will just be crying.)

-Decorate for parties (including figuring out treasure hunt. I was told there MUST be a treasure hunt. Sigh.) I should AT LEAST put the invitations in the mail tomorrow. (Estimated 15 hours)

-Must get over being sick, thus should consciously choose reduced work load. Shit. Really should limit body to six hours of WORK per day. (No pretending that “writing isn’t work” or “taking care of kids isn’t work”.)

-There are more Home Depot trips in my future. Sand. Glorious sand. (2 hours at least.)

-Not to mention reading to the kids, taking them to the water park, taking them to home school outings, not to mention swim classes, and not to mention cooking. Because I can’t wrap my head around the timing of all of this.

 

For the record, I do not judge when other parents have messy homes because keeping my home clean is a full time job and I don’t expect people with other full time jobs to be able to also do the same full time job I do. And acting like it should be easy for someone to do what I do in addition to a job is highly insulting to me. I work my fucking ass off and my house is nothing resembling spotless. Cleaning is work.

I think I spend too much of my life preparing for parties. They occupy a huge space in my brain. They are my way of trying to build community. They are pretty much the only way I get into a group of people without being convinced that more than half the people would merely step over my corpse if I dropped dead. So I like hosting. When I host I know the people are there because they like ME ME ME. It’s a good thing.

 

I wrote this yesterday and didn’t finish. I can’t reread it with helpful folk around. The end.