A t-break is a tolerance break. It is taking time off from using cannabis to let the cannabinoid receptors in your brain take a break so you lower how much you need. Reading up on this phenomena is hilarious because… we haven’t ever been allowed to really study marijuana so no one truly knows what they are talking about.

Most folks believe that if you are a heavy user (I am) you should take a break of several months. I can’t do that. I am not a recreational user. I use this medication to manage my debilitating psychological and physical symptoms. I’ve barely slept or eaten. I’m not getting a meal worth of calories in a day because if I try to force myself to eat more I throw up. How do I know? Ask my poor, sore throat. It’s kinda tired of stomach acid.

Not to mention that my mood fluctuation is truly not acceptable.

Another recommendation I’ve seen is to take a week off every three months. That sounds more realistic for me than multiple months off.

I’m not trying to lower my tolerance so I can get high. I’m trying to lower my tolerance so it isn’t quite so expensive. At this point in time I don’t get high. Instead what I get is normal feelings of hunger and the ability to eat. I gain the ability to control my racing thoughts. I gain the ability to pause after something happens and decide how I want to react. Without pot I lack that pause. I react instantly. Usually in a wrong fashion.

I only had one really bad hour yesterday. But it sucked and it isn’t fair to my kids.

I mean, I wasn’t screaming at them or punishing them or anything like that. But I was crying and going on and on about how terrible and bad I am. That’s… not ok.

I have to be able to control my raging self hatred around my children. I cannot model that for them. I have not ever found a way to like myself. But with pot I am more apathetic about everything so my self-hatred gets turned down many notches and I don’t verbally spew it on other people.

Yes, it still comes here. To this nice safe container. I love you, internet.

Yesterday I was told I blog because I want to feel victimized by people reading my writing. I find that hilarious. Especially because my stated complaint was, “Go ahead and read but don’t go congregate in a specific place and throw up a link to my blog so you can gather like chickens to talk about what a piece of shit I am.”

I don’t give a shit about people reading. I give a shit about groups gathering to talk about how shitty I am.

If you can’t tell the difference between those things… well… you are the reason I can now block IP addresses and referrer sites. Thank you for teaching me new skills.

It’s kind of funny how the rising panic I had is abated. If I start seeing a surge from a place I can block it. That feels great.

And then anyone else who wants to read is still totally welcome. Everyone else didn’t walk in and shit on my couch.

I don’t reject people for existing. I reject people for acting like assholes. If you don’t have the nuance for that… I’m better off without you.

I find it interesting how people like to shame the mentally ill. “You are going to ruin your childrens’ lives if you talk about these things publicly.” Oh really? You think that admitting things publicly is what ruins lives? In my experience keeping secrets ruins as many or more lives. But what do I know. I’ve only been reading medical textbooks on treating trauma for decades.

Given that the vast majority of what I write that is really objectionable are about ways I was victimized… bite me.

I honestly believe that my children are best served by me trying to work this shit out. I’ve been in therapy for 31 + years and doing my processing in private at $150/hour is… not enough for me. I have to talk to myself. That is most of how I work shit out. And writing publicly has ensured that my children have a fantastically well educated safety net.

I’m ridiculously defensive. I think it is stupid of me.

Yesterday a nice woman told me that it is ok for me to believe in myself. But I don’t. I mean, I’m not Santa Claus. I exist. But I don’t have much faith in myself. My shrink tells me I have enormous faith in myself or I wouldn’t be where I am. I’m not sure I agree. I don’t think you have to believe in yourself in order to put your head down and just keep moving. I’m big on picking a direction and going that way whether I think it’ll work or not. Sometimes it does and sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes I run headfirst into a glass door and it hurts like a motherfucker. So I rub my head, turn, and run in a different direction.

Not because I believe in myself. But because I am running blind from the demons behind me. I don’t know where I’m going. I’m not operating on faith. I’m just running.

I suppose you can say that when I sat down and outlined my marathon training plan I was having faith in myself. Not really. I didn’t know if I could do it or not. But if I put something on the damn calendar I do it.

That’s why stretching is on the calendar. It has to be or I won’t do it.

Moving 50 times before you are 18 teaches you to keep moving. Even if you don’t know where you are going.

It is a little weird being back in Wonderland yet it feels… so comfortable. I look out the picture window in the living room to see the play structure and arbor and plants. I did that. Ok, not all of it. My friend’s husband did most of the construction. (I will feel eternal gratitude.) I painted the rainbow on the play structure. I put the plants in the ground. I had the ideas. I designed stuff. I just didn’t do 100% of the execution on my own.

Is that like having faith?

The kids and I were talking about climate change yesterday. Rising ocean levels and such. They asked if we would need to move. We all expressed how hard it would be to leave Wonderland. Eldest Child said, “Well… maybe we could move to a bigger house somewhere when it is time for me to have kids. That might solve the problem of having to add a second story.”

I am eternally amused by them.

I said, “Maybe we could instead wait and see where you two want to go to college and we could all move.”

So far they think that sounds like an ideal plan. I sure like this “liking your parents” stage.

I wonder how long we can keep it up.

I wonder if we will move some day. I wonder if I will die here. So far my crystal ball doesn’t know.

I tell you one thing, if I don’t get back on pot the dying will be sooner than later. This is not sustainable for me. I feel guilty and ashamed but it is true. I use pot to manage so many problems and I just can’t handle the weight of them alone.

I am not enough.

Today I have an acupuncture appointment and a chiropractic appointment. I feel guilty for cheating on my two acupuncturist friends. But I can’t drive to Alameda or San Pablo right now. I just can’t. I found a local person I’m trying.

Only six hours to go.

Just breathe Krissy.

Want to know something funny? I loathe my name and I always have. Krissy is pissy. But I hate Kristine more. It has always felt like accurate branding. Pissy, pompous douchebag. That’s me. I fucking hate my name.

I’ve always wondered how much that is an extension of just being angry I was born at all. I shouldn’t have been born. I wasn’t wanted. So they stuck me with a shitty name.

Yeah, yeah other people like it and I’m not knocking other people having it. (I really mean to cast no aspersions upon my beloved niece who was named after me.)

The only thing I want to do right now is go in my bathroom, lock the door, and sit down with my scalpel.

Instead I finished my banana. I’m eating mandarins and string cheese and whining on the internet. God my fucking arms burn.

I feel like some stranger telling me that if I don’t password lock my journal I deserve any bad thing I get is the same thing as saying you can’t rape a sex worker. You have a tragic understanding of consent and violence.

Me existing in a way that people can see me is not consent for them to do anything they like to me.

I need to stop typing.

(Know why I’m using ‘i don’t have time to tag’ so much? The extra presses of check boxes hurt my hands.)