After having my teeth chatter all day yesterday (nerves) I didn’t sleep very well (Noah was up working and it was too warm). But Noah did his bat-like-ears thing this morning and we had a nice cuddle (no euphemism) and chat.

I sometimes really consciously limit things at cuddling if I’m really emotionally volatile. Those are the days I dissociate really early and I’m just taking one for the team. I’m trying to do less of that. If I don’t want to get off I shouldn’t have sex.

(Side note complaint about The West Wing. How would it be possible for someone to accidentally get GHB when they mean to get ecstasy? I mean, I get why Zoe didn’t know something was in her drink. But the French royalty boyfriend is retarded to such a degree that he shouldn’t be able to tie his shoes if he didn’t know the difference in those drugs. GHB is a snotty salty liquid. Ecstasy comes in powder or pills. HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW THAT YOU ARE GIVING YOUR GIRLFRIEND THE WRONG DRUG?! Fucking idiot. Having consumed more than my fair share of both drugs I feel qualified to speak.)

Speaking of fucking. I screwed up yesterday. We didn’t make it to National Night Out. Calli insisted on riding bikes. Then she didn’t want to ride, she wanted me to hold the bike and push it the whole way. That makes my back hurt really badly so I was pretty grumpy before we got halfway down the block.

On the way home (we literally only went past four houses) both kids were screaming at the top of their lungs at me about how terrible I am and I kinda lost it.

I screamed: “I am not fucking taking anyone to any fucking party. You are fucking crazy if you fucking think I will give you fucking ice cream after you fucking scream at me. I am not taking you fucking kids anywhere.”

I think that was the whole rant. It’s really not good.

We brushed teeth and I put the kids in bed. I didn’t yell again. Well, from the garage I yelled, “Go back to bed” once or twice but I didn’t yell it loud–just enough to be heard through the door.

After an hour or so the kids were still up and I was calm. I went in to lay down with them and snuggle. Shanna was very specific that it was not ok to call them “fucking kids” and she asked me to explain what “fucking” means anyway.

That was hilarious and awkward.

I told her that it is one of those words that has more than one meaning. We’ve been talking about idioms a lot lately. So I started with saying, “Mostly it is an idiom that means ‘I’m frustrated’. When people say fucking it is just a way of saying out loud that they are frustrated about something.”

She said that next time I should just say I’m frustrated because it isn’t ok to call them fucking kids.

I said that she was right. Then I paused and tried not to be awkward as I said, “There is a second meaning. The second meaning is why people say it is a “bad word”. You know how (babysitter) tells you that ‘stupid’ is a bad word? Well… fucking is like 50 million bazillion times worse. Because fucking is also a word for sexual intercourse. You know, having sex? Making babies? Putting a penis in a vagina? You have books about this.”

She kind of startled, looked at me with wide eyes and said, “Mother. How could you call us that?!”

I said, “Well to be fair.. that is how you were made.”

She fell over laughing. She giggled and said, “We are fucking kids!” And then she laughed until she snorted.

She asked why people think fucking is a bad word. I told her that people think it is bad because most people feel uncomfortable with any word that makes them think of sex because most people think sex is COMPLETELY PRIVATE and talking about it is bad.

She asked me if I think talking about sex is bad. I snorted and said, “Of course not. If you notice… I don’t tell you not to say ‘bad words’ I say pick where you use them carefully. Just because some people don’t want to hear something that doesn’t mean you never get to say it. Just find someone who is ok with you talking about it.”

So not cool and hilarious and awkward all in one story. I don’t think Calli followed the whole conversation but she was very sure that I needed to apologize profusely to both of them for being so mean. So I did.

They apologized for screaming at me. They said that next time they will make a different choice because they are sad about missing the event. I said, “Me too.”

I think I write these things down because I am afraid I will forget. I want to remember the whole arc, not just a piece of it. Yes, I fucked up. I will probably do so again.

I spent a while reading a book about mothers with Borderline Personality Disorder last night. My amateur armchair diagnosis says, “Nope. Not my issue.” So I’m glad I sat down with the book. Maybe I’ll let go of some of my guilty paranoia around that one. I’ve got issues, but that isn’t one of them.

I am predictable for my children. I don’t blame my emotions on them. They are very secure. My kids trust me and we all handle separation pretty well. I don’t feel like I’m doing the clingy attachment stuff. I let them go do their things. I smile and cheerfully wave and tell them that I will be right here when they need me again.

We are supposed to go to Aqua Adventure today. We are having dinner with my favorite former students. (Since they had me perform their wedding that title is now official.) I get to see their darling little nine month old.

I want to hurt myself because I believe that I hurt people and I must be punished for doing so. At least partially, there is a lot going on there.

But I have these people who persist in being in my life year after year when they have no reason to do so beyond desire for my company.

It is hard to be as self-hating as I am with this many people loving you. It takes work. It is really lame.

All I want for my birthday is pictures of people who love me. Despite my raging irrationality…. even I can’t argue with all the smiling faces I see on the walls around me.

I can understand why some religions were unhappy about the idea of capturing a likeness of people. You do capture part of their soul. And it comes and lives with me here in my house. And it tells me that they would be marked forever if I killed myself. So don’t do it.

It is hard sometimes to feel connection. I like visual reminders so much. I have so many people who love me. I am so lucky.

Maybe the kids and I will fill the morning with selecting pictures to print at Costco. We haven’t done a print run since last year. I was emailed a few pictures for the purpose of putting on the wall. I haven’t printed them yet. I should do that.

Right this minute I don’t want to hurt myself. That has to be enough for right now.

I should also hang the punching bag today. I really do need to hit.

The best part of growing up is being able to sit through a day or days of intense desire to hurt myself knowing that the feeling will end. Even though it feels like it lasts millions of years while it is happening.

Even if I feel ok right now, that feeling will end too. Nothing is permanent.

But I have a husband who loves me a lot. He demonstrates this with kind words and gentle touch and physical labor to make my life easier after lots of mental work to make money. I have a husband who, instead of protecting himself from me financially when we got married, put his separate property into a joint legal trust because he wanted to make sure I knew I was always taken care of.

Even if at some point we hate one another. There is no going back from this joint union of assets and help. It could be ripped entirely asunder but no one is going to just go back to how things were.

I hope we continue to like and respect one another. I hope I can continue to manifest being the kind of partner he wants to have. It’s not just the sex. I do a lot of things. Noah gives me more credit for them than I do. I notice that his life is more streamlined than it used to be, but I tend to under rate how much credit I should get for that.

He doesn’t stint in his praise.

I won the jackpot. I don’t know how I ended up with someone who likes me this much. I don’t know how I managed to find a partner who is willing to try so hard to make my life better. The listening and support and encouragement are the most important parts.

If Noah made this much money and tore me down I would not be ok right now. It’s not the money that makes things work. I think we would be ok with far less money. I think if he made less money but encouraged me the way he does I would probably work harder on figuring out how to get paid for writing. If I’m going to destroy my body for this task I might as well make it money earning. Geez.

Instead I’m an expensive pet writing for my ideal reader. (That would be Noah.) The more I write the better he is at treating me how I want to be treated. It’s a win for us.

I think it isn’t fair that I don’t get similar pointers, but life isn’t always fair. I’m expected to do way more mind reading. Good thing his mind is easier to track. Food. Sex. Comics. Games. Programming. Pretty much in that order.

I think I have multiplied my lifetime reading of comics by about a million since meeting him. I have never been a comics person. Now I even go buy them on my own. Damn him.

Even Noah has his downsides. (This is my attempt at being “funny”. Since people often fail to notice how funny I am I thought I would point it out to you.)

I can really appreciate a man whose main downside is that he is obsessed with comics. It is remarkably benign. He giggles a lot.

I hate the phrase “cry for help”. It carried innate shaming within it. Like you shouldn’t need the help. You shouldn’t be bothering people.

When I feel a lot of emotional distress it makes sense to me to ask for help with it. I’ve read a lot of books over a lot of years that tell me it is “healthy”. In fact all those books tell me that not asking for help is a problem.

So I talk about my self-harm urges and my suicidal ideation. Even though I’m also told that talking about those things is traumatic for other people and I shouldn’t do it.

These things are real problems for me. Dealing with them is hard. I have been trying to make progress on my self-loathing and self-harm for decades.

I’m better than I was. Am I better than I was 18 months ago? January of 2013? 2012 was a bad year. 2013 was a good year. January was the beginning of an upswing but I was probably still reeling from Christmas. Christmas is awesome. Christmas sucks golf balls through a garden hose.

I have another book I need to figure out how to publish. Lots more money. Less debt. I like my yard more. I like my house more. I like my kids more. I like my husband more. Do I like myself more? Am *I* better than I was?

I’m not sure I know what that means.

I have definitely learned things I am glad I have learned. I have not hurt myself on purpose in that whole time frame. I’ve ready more than 120 books since then, many of them new to me. Almost half. And then I read them a second time to make sure I got enough out of them.

I haven’t made nearly enough language progress. That’s kind of embarrassing. I’m having trouble keeping that high on the priority list for time spent. It isn’t feeling pressing yet. When it feels pressing I will curse my lack of forethought. I really need to develop some habits in my life.

Given that Noah hasn’t started breakfast yet I should go run. That’s a habit I need.

Ok. Bye.