Monthly Archives: June 2016

Things I have learned about myself this year.

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In no particular order:

  • I like generic penetrative sex a lot more than most folks in the bdsm community so hunting there is always going to be mixed.
  • I like topping more than I think but I still feel weird about being “dominant”. I like topping because I like taking people on journeys.
  • As was just phrased by someone wiser than me: I need to feel worshipped.
  • I cannot sustain monogamy forever.
  • I think I want a balance of casual sex and real relationships with people other than Noah because… I’m a needy mother fucker.
  • I need to be kissed a lot. If someone doesn’t spontaneously just do that whenever it could be arguably appropriate I’m going to spend a lot of time feeling anxious about the entire relationship. I need that validation/response/feedback.
  • I have learned that Gabapentin joins a long list of meds that don’t work. And Klonopin.
  • I can have solid poop on a regular basis if I eat how I have learned to eat. Mostly protein and vegetables with a fair bit of fruit. Minimal carbs but I can have them and kind doesn’t matter. HFCS is the devil.
  • I am a very different place with grief than I’ve ever been before.
  • It is a lot harder to avoid asking for permission for orgasms now than it was.
  • I learned that I am going to, like magic, be allowed to have another baby. I thought that dream was impossible.
  • We will not be going on the WWOOF year. Even after all these years of planning and hoping and longing… younger kids would make it not work. I can live with losing this dream. We will still travel, but not in the same way. It’ll be ok.
  • I’ve learned that I am a god damn genius for having a good lawyer on speed dial.
  • I have learned that I can do fantastic things on very little rest. I don’t think that was as true before. I’m hardening as I get older.
  • I’ve learned that once in a while someone will say, “Wow. You are high maintenance. I can help with that.”
  • I’ve learned a lot about my relationship with my mama. But that goes into letters you don’t get to read.
  • I’ve learned that I need to have a list of people who are genuinely ok with texts/calls at weird/unpredictable times if I want to deal with my self harming. It’s like 12-step sponsorship. I self harm because I because I believe in that moment it is not ok for me to inflict the feelings I have on anyone and I don’t have a better way of stuffing. I should write names and numbers on the blackboard wall where I medicate so I can’t pretend people don’t want to know.

 

I am too tired to think any more. That’s enough.

What does “dating” mean anyway.

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I kinda had this epiphany yesterday.

“Hey Noah. Have you passed up chances to play with Beautiful?”

“Not really.”

“Meaning you take them any time they come up.”

“Yeah.”

“And that’s been happening for eight years. Yeah. You’re dating.”

But not dating in a way that scares the shit out of me and causes me to have panic attacks and freak out. Because it’s very low key.

It was just funny to think about. Because if I’m dating my submissive… I have only had like two more dates with him than Noah has had with Beautiful and I’m definitely dating him.

WHY DO WE HAVE TO USE THESE WORDS. FUCK ALL THE EVERYTHING.

But I don’t think this idea that Noah isn’t going to date is tenable. It’s a nice idea. But yeah. It’s not going to be uhhh accurate. Right now the person he is dating is comfortable with it being at the whim of my mental health (thank you, thank you, thank you) but that’s a messy thing. I don’t want to be the weather vane controlling everyone’s lives as I go up and down the roller coaster.

Oh fuck everything.

The more honest with ourselves we are about what we are doing the less likely it is to blow up.

WE AREN’T DATING WE ARE JUST VERY GOOD FRIENDS WHO HAVE VERY INTIMATE CONTACT. FOR YEARS AND YEARS AND YEARS AND YEARS.

Yeah. You just tell yourself whatever the fuck you need to say to get through today. The truth will still be sitting there.

Dating.

What does dating mean anyway? I used to get so mad at my Owner when he would say he hadn’t dated someone. I was all, “You had a three month period where they were at your house three nights a week. You dated for a brief period.” “Oh but it wasn’t serious dating so it’s not dating.” That conversation made me want to break glass.

Thing is, Beautiful is mostly happy with group dates where they just split off to play for a while and otherwise we are together. I like that. I like that a lot and I’d like to see if anyone could fit into a similar sort of role in my life. If these people want to come hang out with us when I am pregnant and miserable or in the babymoon year…

I wouldn’t be alone this time.

I mean, I’m not going to be alone this time. I have the big kids and Noah works from home. It is going to be different from top to bottom. But the kids aren’t company and… Noah still has to ignore me for a large chunk of the day. That’s fine. I miss talking to more people.

Ironically one of our children said, “We should name the child (Beautiful’s real name) because that is a beautiful name.” I think this person is in our life. Ya’know…

I loved working retail. I was good at connecting with people all day long one right after another. Being home is…. hard.

And begging friends for play dates is hard work. Mostly everyone is too busy. Or they only want to get together under some narrow parameters outside the house because they don’t want me in their house so they feel uncomfortable coming to my house. Sigh. I’m totally ok with always hosting. I don’t feel imposed upon. I feel catered to.

I feel really really guilty asking people to drive to me all the time. The road goes both ways and I should offer to reciprocate. But I really don’t want to. So I’m asking people less. Because I’m feeling bad about asking.

What is dating? Dating is an extra layer of “It is ok to inconvenience me as you ask me for something.”

Why do I think things with Beautiful aren’t just casual play partners? Cause when I ask if things will escalate when I’m pregnant and not interested he does that head duck thing where he doesn’t want to admit I’m right.

I guess it is good I haven’t managed to chase off every woman who was interested in Noah. Sigh. I swear I wasn’t trying.

I wonder if ADD meds would help with my urge to self harm. A quick search says it is inconclusive. I’d be happy to give it a go.

I don’t know if I want to continue Abilify. I still am not convinced it is doing enough positive. An inch of improvement isn’t worth it. And the kids say I’m getting crankier.

Ok, here’s some blatant honesty. One reason I have always harshly rejected the label of poly is because I have known some extraordinarily bad parents who happened to be poly. It is more important to me that I nail being a good parent than that I nail any other role. If I’m a bad wife, girlfriend, friend, whatever. I can live with that.

I don’t think I could live with myself if I really believed I was a bad mother. I’m a harsh critic. I work really hard on my behavior for my kids.

I’ve seen people do poly really wrong. I’ve seen it hurt kids a lot. I’m scared of that. I’m really really really scared of that.

I like nonmonogamy. It means that our lives aren’t just sexually exclusive. It doesn’t really make any promises about the size or shape or definition of what anything inside of that means. It can mean a lot of different things and a lot of different levels of friendship and love.

What does love mean anyway?

It means I want Noah to be happy and not depressed. That means that when my body goes completely to shit when I’m pregnant… either I encourage him to see Beautiful more (he slept with a different friend during other pregnancies) or I deal with him getting increasingly depressed. These are the options. We’ve been through this dance. I know what the choices are.

But what about the absolute freaking out I do when he comes home? Meh. Even that is muted when I’m pregnant. I don’t give a shit about much other than how much pain I’m in. Bitch come here and rub my back. And my arms. And my feet. Just don’t stop rubbing till tomorrow, ok?

My shrink said she didn’t know if I could get over my fear of Noah dating in this lifetime. But if it has already been kinda happening for eight years… (I actually have a specific brain hack plan in place for how to deal with moving through some of this fear and we have a phone called scheduled on Friday to find out if we will be able to do it.)

Where is the threat?

What is the threat?

What is there to be afraid of. Other than that he will be too god damn enthusiastic when biting my neck.

OW

When I come out of feeling asleep from the breeding period, I wake up with a vengeance. Noah doesn’t do that. If he falls asleep again… waking up would be hard. He’s going to get very habituated to his depressed habits and that doesn’t suit my lifetime goals.

Where is my enlightened self interest here?

I woke up after 6 hours of sleep, and ended up painting by candle light starting at 3am. I’m tired. But I think well in this kind of tired. I read that is an ADD thing too. Deliberately exhausting yourself before you can focus. If this is a lot of what the problem is… I’m going to be so bitter it hasn’t come up before now.

I’m almost 35 fucking years old. I had problems all the way through school because I was a disruptive little snot. Why didn’t anyone ever suggest this?

Ugh. Anyway.

I’m going to add to the data form for the Stanford folk that I think Eldest Child has it. Both she and I only skip one to two markers per person. Different markers. We both kinda scream it. If you sit and read books about case studies that is. That whole super high needs baby thing? Yeah.

Eldest Child doesn’t look like me but she has a lot of my personality and physical weirdness. A lot of extreme sensitivities and fussiness about needing things to be just so. She gets overwhelmed, but I manage her overwhelm so well that it is practically invisible at this point. I would not want her on medication. She is learning to cope with her body and she’s doing great for the life she has now.

But I bet I could learn some tricks to help both of us.

And you know what? Adding people into our lives will be adding people who might know more about this disorder than I do. People who can help me so that I don’t have to be the expert on everything.

I’d be ok deferring expert status on a whole lot of shit. I don’t need to know everything in the world. Ain’t my job. I have enough jobs. I’m tired.

I’m told it isn’t my job to meet everyone’s needs. Believe me I know. But I still feel like what I have to offer is so very inadequate. I am so high maintenance. What do I offer that is worthy of such effort?

And Noah speaks

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I asked Noah for a guest post. So. Instead of my projecting all over him. Here is what he thinks:

 

To Krissy’s various beaus, suitors, sweeties and/or flings of the present, and possibly of the future,
I am asked for a guest post on why I am recommending a Mardi Gras month, nearly free of rules, for Krissy. To explain will require me to write a fair bit, including things I should have explained to all of you before. It is a great opportunity for me and an honor, and really past time. So: yes, and here you are.
I am specifically writing to those gentlemen (and occasionally ladies) joining me in the grand project of making Krissy happy in a lifetime-sustainable way, mostly through romantic means. I have made it a large part of my life’s work, and I’m honored to serve alongside other people doing the same. Some of the things I say here may sound a bit distressing, but understand I hold each of you in the highest esteem. I shall try to keep your distress in reading to a reasonable minimum… As long as I successfully describe the difficulties, anyway.
And let me say to those of you I have met that I’m impressed with all of you. Krissy has managed to find people with good boundaries, with a genuine interest in being good to our marriage, with a genuine interest in supporting her. Please do not take anything I say here as reflecting badly on you. You are all very clearly good people, coming to this with the very best of intentions. And if I were to chase you away for that, I would not enjoy the qualities of your successors nearly so much. I appreciate you, individually and collectively.
Those of you I’ve met are wonderful. Those of you in the future will still have been selected by Krissy, and her taste is excellent.
So: some background.
Krissy and I are easy-going, fun, sex-positive people with our flings and secondaries… And dramatic, possessive and intense with each other. This has all the obvious problems with non-monogamy that you’d expect. We were both vigorously, happily polyamorous when we got together, and after a few years of trying that while married, we shut it down and went monogamous — as much to avoid drama with each other as for any other reason.
We still spend a *huge* amount of time focusing on each other, resonating off each other, and generally having the sort of extremely enmeshed, codependent marriage that every therapist will tell you isn’t healthy. We love it, naturally. And we’d like to keep all that. It’s been a great ten-plus years.
We’re both very sensitive to our spouse being full of “energy that’s not for us.” When I come home jazzed from a date, Krissy doesn’t want to *touch* me — that’s “somebody else” energy. My reaction to her is often similar, if less intense. But the more she “glows” after a date, the more she’s unable to focus on me, so instead we do a bunch of talking through the date with the other person, and generally focusing on her and them. That’s what she’s up for at that point.
I’m more okay with that than she is — that is, she wants to leave the room and sob when I come home like that. I’m okay with some glowing, but me talking through how much she likes you gets old, as a way to spend her-and-me time. In large amounts it gets threatening, because we’ve been together over ten years — she does not, as a rule, glow like that after a date with me. The glow is about novelty, and after ten years I don’t compete well on “novelty.” Which is all as it should be. I can compete very successfully on things like “safety” and “reliability” — it was a very conscious tradeoff. Again, all as it should be.
There’s also another variation on that: sometimes she has a *bad* date and comes home vibrating with other-person energy. She didn’t get what she wanted and I’m no help with that, or something went wrong and they said something stupid, or… So, the “glowing” thing isn’t the only kind of “focused on other people, even when she’s with me” going on.
As a rule, it lasts about an evening. If she comes home from a date, it’s usually gone by morning unless it was an unusually good or bad date. Even then, it’s rarely more than a day or two.
Right now, novelty is feeling very important to Krissy. This makes a lot of sense after a few years of highly-constrained, drama-prone poly early in our marriage, followed by years of monogamy, followed by a very rocky start to the current non-monogamy.
Ah, the *current* non-monogamy…
Right now, Krissy is dating individually and I am not. Remember that bit about her being Very Not Okay with me coming home feeling like somebody else’s energy? There is absolutely no way for me to date and enjoy it much without some of that happening. More to the point, I won’t know when it *will* happen.
She has made it clear how bad that is for her. I need to at least try hard to not date individually, essentially indefinitely, to avoid an Unacceptable Outcome. Am I going to be able to be upbeat, constantly-supportive and so on about her having something I would also really like and can’t have, while simultaneously losing a bunch of my own support? We’ll see, won’t we?
(“Losing a bunch of my own support?” Yeah, when she’s glowing/moping about you guys, she’s a lot less into me — fair. It means I’m supporting *her* a lot more because bad dates need it, and a lot of my “I can do anything because the woman of my dreams is way into me” energy is out to lunch either way. I run a *lot* of my life on “Krissy likes me” energy. Again, see that enmeshed/codependent thing that we do and prefer.)
We also go out together to events/parties/etc. For a bit, that was “she’ll play with me and then maybe other people”, but at this point it’s generally that she’ll play with somebody else and I’ll play with Beautiful, who feels very non-threatening to Krissy (hey, Beautiful!) Or, in some cases, I don’t play. And that mostly needs to be how it goes. Me picking up somebody new, clicking well, coming home glowing and wanting to find ways to do more of that would be… destabilizing, in a not-okay way.
(Wait, “not dating”, but also a specific partner I play with repeatedly? Yeah, assume I’m playing fast and loose with the word “dating” here.)
She also wants to see a lot of you folks more socially, which makes sense. That’s mixed for me — it means increasingly often, I’ll be dealing with “not about me” in my house. Like, not just “not centered on me”, but often “I need to back off from Krissy” and “me being too assertive is a problem and I need to not do it.” That’s all the obvious kinds of complicated.
I’ll plead a bit of bias on this one as well because last week had three successive days with a play event that didn’t go well, followed by a dinner at our house where she didn’t get other-people energy she wanted, followed by an long-planned-ahead playdate with extensive work and negotiation, and then sleeping apart.
We don’t sleep apart well. *I* don’t handle Krissy being disconnected from me that way well, and three days in a row is really hard. And she wants things that seem to lead inevitably to more of that, including a lot more having her lovers in our house.
Couldn’t we just *stop* this and go back to monogamy? No. Krissy has done the whole “being off with just me and platonic friends” thing quite extensively. That turns out to lead to another Unacceptable Outcome. No, as wonderfully selfish as that sounds to me right now, it’s cutting off my nose to spite my face. Or, more likely, cutting off my head to spite my nose.
Which leads to the question, if this is causing me distress, why am I suggesting a Mardi Gras month? Why am I advocating *more* of this?
Krissy says it’s to prove to myself that she’s an asshole when she’s seeing a lot of other people. And hey, maybe we’ll get some idea of how much of her seeing other people is okay with me. Hard to say.
A lot of it is trying to make this style of nonmonogamy work for the long term. The attempt may work, it may not. But I’m going to do everything I can to give it a fair shake, and I think a Mardi Gras month is going to be required for that.
I want to know how much of “novelty wins over me” is because Krissy is deprived of that novelty. Right now, it’s a *really* distinct and obvious thing. Even somebody who’s not otherwise particularly attractive is suddenly very attractive compared to time with me, because Krissy wants that and has been deprived of it for so long.
I think that highly-restricted novelty isn’t doing much to reset the clock on that. I think that having more time and fewer restrictions will help.
I also think that the disconnection will become more obvious to *her* when there’s more of it, more consistently. So that’s probably the closest to what she means when she says I just want to prove she’s an asshole.
Right now it’s hard for her to see the disconnection, because when she comes home and we mostly talk about how great her other boy is for a day or two, it feels plenty connected to *her*. She’s getting perfectly reasonable support.
But there are limits on how much of that I can do. If it happens twice a month, we’re well within my limits. If it happens twice a week, I’m going to be providing a lot less support per time; I don’t have four times as much to give, so she doesn’t get four times as much.
So perhaps it’s also to show that *I’m* an asshole when she’s constantly vibrating with other-people energy.
She’d say she already knows that. Given that I haven’t said, “look, I don’t want to hear any more about (boy)” even once during this whole thing, I’m thinking we’re both wound up about small stuff. It’s hard to have good perspective on being nasty to each other since we’re usually so over-the-top awesome. I don’t know that either of us got to the “asshole” point as most married people would measure it, not at any point in this whole business.
Well, okay. There are some particular things that I could easily paint that way. But in context it’s mostly not true.
I want Krissy to get more of a feel for getting more support from other people *instead of me*, because that’s more like the tradeoff we’re talking about. I want me to get more of a feel for what it will be like to have her lovers as a major part of our socializing — I need to figure out if *I* can do this longer-term, too. When Krissy is specifically trying for other-person energy, I have to take a big step back or she doesn’t usually get it. Having regular social gatherings at our house that work like that is… new.
I want to reset the clock on novelty, somewhat. For her to feel less restricted so that new-person sex is just less appealing. Not *un*appealing — I get it, new-person sex is awesome. But right now it’s getting an enormous boost from long deprivation. I think the boost would be smaller if it weren’t so long since she could find lovers without all the restrictions.
An unrestricted month is a chance for Krissy to maybe get some of what she’s been cut off from — at least, a little more. And it’s a chance for me to figure out how often we *can* reconnect. We figured out how to reconnect when she’s sad or angry, but not when it’s over a lover. Maybe it will get easier to do it even after she’s seen somebody else? It hasn’t before, but we haven’t tried hard. This would be a reason to try hard.
And maybe it turns out that I’m allergic to having her lovers over two days a week and I explode. That would be… sub-optimal, but this would be a much better time to learn than six or ten or twelve months from now. I truly don’t know how I’m going to respond to this being a regular, constant drumbeat in our life. But we expect Unacceptable Outcomes if we just nix it.
So… Questions from the audience?

Inclinations

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I’m running into a problem in my sex life. I’m closer to a vanilla bottom a lot of the time and that’s some serious mixed signals in my little world. I like sex. I don’t need it to be that harsh. I don’t need to be hit all the time. I really totally don’t fucking need to get pinched a bunch. My body lives in a lot of pain a lot of the time. I spend a lot of time trying to manage my pain levels. Getting hit is complicated.

But I’m a masochist. I really am. Sometimes it is the best thing ever.

I’m not that much of a sadist either. I have times when I get really super duper in that mood and when I’m in that mood absolutely nothing else will do…

But if you look at the last 15 years… I’m not a serious sadist. Lots of years involve no sadism and only a little bit of missing it.

And I’m heading back into another breeding period. My masochism and my sadism went on walkabout last time. I still like sex. And I want kissing like I want air. I want lots of gentle touch because my whole body is going to fucking hurt for nine months. I am not an easy pregnant person.

I’m even more weepy and sad and isolated feeling. I want my mother and I can’t have her and that hole in my heart eats at me so badly when I’m pregnant.

It has been hard for me my whole life that when I feel worst I am the most isolated. It happens over and over. If I’m sick… I’m usually alone.

I’m looking forward to a pregnancy with a work-at-home partner and older children. I hope it won’t feel so sad. I’m kinda hoping that we can find a way to have people come over that isn’t a problem.

I don’t know what the future will hold and I’m feeling like a huge selfish asshole. I’m worrying about my needs and I’m being really ungracious and fussy about other peoples needs. I’m not being generous or loving. I’m such a fucking asshole.

Part of the problem is I have a very long list of people who want me to consider their needs and feelings. They conflict–I promise you. I have to kinda prioritize and then where in the hell do I fit in?

I don’t know. But I’m sharp and difficult when I say no because I hate saying no. I feel like such an asshole. “Hey you are being brave and wonderful and asking me for this thing that is really important to you. OH MY GOD DO YOU KNOW HOW FUCKING TIRED I AM!?”

I can’t remember the last time I got more than six hours of sleep in a night. It’s been a bit. I’m dealing with 2-4 hours a lot of nights. What can be done about it? Well I see a whole bunch of doctors and I try what they tell me to try and…. here I am.

My shrink wants me tested for ADD because in her opinion it is not fucking normal to go on 2-4 hours of sleep a night, hold together (mostly) my normal life and have sex for an hour or more most days of the week. She says that is an excessive amount of energy. Really outside the range of normal.

I wouldn’t fucking know.

I am not as toppy during sex as some folks would like.

The other night with Sweet Boy he really wanted me to top all the sex. I could for a few minutes then I untied him and said, “No I can’t do this anymore.”

I don’t like running the fuck very much. I really don’t like it much past the first or second time of having sex together. I get it the first time… I’m weird to fuck. Past that, I’m seriously a bottom when it comes to sex. And that passivity goes on turbo when I’m pregnant. I’m receptive but initiating feels so awful.

And if I have to tell you what to do and how to do it? Shit. I’d rather pick my nose.

No offense. It’s not about you. It’s about me.

When I quit my job when I was pregnant with Eldest Child I had severe nausea (I was puking multiple times a day) and I was falling asleep at work, in traffic… everywhere. I could not stay awake. A friend who was a nurse asked me what job I would go get instead because “gestating isn’t a job.”

Many other friends were… happy to share with me their opinion that pregnancy isn’t a disability and I should buck up.

You know what, motherfuckers? If you don’t live in my body…. shuddup. I god damn start out disabled. Pregnancy is a nightmare.

Pregnancy is horrible. And I’m looking at it again. I was kinda thrilled by the idea of never being pregnant again.

But baby.

I want the baby. I want the baby of my body. But I hate pregnancy. I am so sick when I’m pregnant. I am in so much pain. It is such a difficult process. According to natural selection I should already be dead from this.

But fuck natural selection. Science.

When I started looking for people to date I wanted play partners. For very sadomasochistic sex. Then Noah changed his mind about a baby.

That’s seeming like a dumb thing to hunt for at this point. I can’t live up to that. I… will really not be able to live up to that starting in a few months and it will probably be years before I’m back up to speed again. Shit. Shit. Shit.

I feel like I’m jerking people around and being a terrible person.

I went and had lunch with Daddy James. I wanted to touch base with him in a I’m-not-just-in-your-life-to-use-you-for-sex way. He told me it was ok to keep changing what I’m negotiating for because life keeps changing what I have to offer. Thank you Daddy. He also told me it is ok that I am difficult to put up with. People get other things in trade and it is worthwhile for them.

I don’t see how what I have for trade that could possibly be enough to justify putting up with me.

Especially as I’m about to revoke a lot of what makes me a fun toy. I’m not so fun when I’m not up for play. I’m… a lot more boring. Hey, let’s garden or watch Netflix. woo.

Noah wants me to take a month and date as much as I want so that he can experience the full terror and find out just how bad it is going to be. The kids are asking for us to be home 4-5 days/week with no visitors.

How the fuck do I balance that? I’ve got easily dozens of people I’d like to see who’d like to see me. Some of the activities they want to see me for are high energy and some are low energy and I’m kinda flipping out about both kinds equally. “Hey drive to my house and sit around” is just as intimidating as “Let’s do x super high intensity activity.”

OH MY GOD I CAN’T RIGHT NOW.

I want to I want to I want to but I haven’t got it to give.

What I have to give is very narrow and particular and time limited. Like, why in the fuck am I up at this time of night? Because three hours of sleep is enough, apparently. Fuck.

I feel so sad that I am so inadequate to meet the needs of the people I love.

I am inadequate. It’s funny how nonmonogamy is just a chance for me to feel inadequate with more people. Wheeeeeee

I can’t do/be what Noah wants and I can’t for anyone else either. I’m feeling really sad about that right now. I can’t ever be good enough. I can’t ever do enough. I will never be able to satisfy people or make them happy. I will never be enough.

I feel like I’m in a weird transition. I thought I was transitioning out of intensive parenting into more independence and abruptly… I’m in reverse going back into the most restrictive part of this job and lengthening my time of indentured service. What the fuck am I thinking signing up for thirty god damn years of home schooling.

Twenty years sounded awful enough.

Holy shit.

I was really enjoying the expanded freedom of the Bonus Family. That’s not really a thing for a few years again. I hope I will still get my Bonus Kids sometimes. I hope that maybe the older kids can go for a night or two a month still just a way of having “their” time and space away from being in baby-land. But I won’t want or need a couple of weekends. I’m sitting here with a baby anyway. I’d rather have all my babies around more.

Fuck. This is a huge change. This is a massive upheaval. Why are we doing this?

Because I can deal with transitioning back into the world in ten more years. If the IDB (incest data base) takes me a little longer… oh fucking well.

I want this baby. And Noah keeps saying, “Two?” I don’t know. I can’t commit to that till I get through a third pregnancy. But more than likely if Noah asks me in two years if I want another baby he won’t be able to keep me off of him.

Because yeah. I get quiverful. I get wanting more babies. I get it. I get it. I get it.

I’ve already had one person who is not-breeding say it’s ok if I replace them in the population. Anyone else want to volunteer as well to justify my second kid?

I’m not even joking very much.

Parenting is the one thing I genuinely feel like I am excelling at doing. I’m far from perfect but I adapt and I grow quickly. I see problems and I address them.

I think I could handle four kids just fine. I think it would be wonderful. No Pam, I don’t want to hear your negative Nancy shit. I’m aware that you are now a voice of dissent. Ok. Heard. Now don’t bring it up again.

I feel like such an asshole for being mixed when a friend told me she wanted a fourth baby years ago. Fuck. See, the ways in which I am an asshole always come back to bite me in the ass.

I should have said, “I support you.” I’m sorry. I did that wrong.

I know there will be problems. There will be problems with or without another baby. I asked the magic 8 ball and it is never wrong.

There will be problems with or without two more babies. That fucker was consistent in its answers.

Yes.

“Will there be problems if we have a baby?” Yes.

“Will there be problems if we don’t have a baby?” Yes.

“Will there be problems if we have two babies?” Yes.

I’m telling you. The magic 8 ball knows.

I don’t feel confident in the choices I’m making. A lot of what I can see is that each of my choices hurt other people for a cascading list of reasons. I’m not going to be available for what they want…. and I don’t even know how to say what I need.

I don’t know how this is going to work. I don’t know how any of this will balance out. Between the kids, Noah, me, and all the god damn people I care about how is this going to balance?

WHY DO SO MANY OF YOU BASTARDS KEEP LATE HOURS. THIS WOULD BE EASIER IF Y’ALL WERE AVAILABLE AT MORE LIKE 7-10AM!

Ahem.

Why isn’t everything all about me? Because it isn’t and it shouldn’t be. Even if I am the main character in my story… I’m not the center of anyone else’s story. Not even Noah’s. Not really. I’m his wife. That’s an accessory to his life and story not the point of the story.

I gotta be honest with y’all. When I think of what I’d like it’s not that much one on one date time. I’d like more people around and carefully managing people one to one… is a job. Especially within the framework of 4-5 days/week are just not options I wish that there were a bunch of people who said, “X day works for me. Are you free?” And it’s ok for me to say yes to three or four people because… quite frankly… that means that there is a lot of kinds of attention to give and get all at the same time.

That feels like Auntie’s house when I was a kid. Only no one checked if it was ok to come over in advance. They called and said, “You home?” then they came over. Auntie knew a lot of people. I loved my Auntie and of the people in my family she’s the only one I’d want to be even a little bit like.

She’s honorable. She takes care of people. She gets shit done.

She’s enabling as fuck and that’s something I struggle with emulating too much.

I’d like to have open houses on Friday’s. Some people can bring their kids with laptops and sleeping bags and the kids can have a LAN party before going to sleep. The adults can talk or play games. I’d like to not have to be careful about managing invites or treating it like a “party”.

I like to keep the house company-ready just as a matter of course so that having people over isn’t extra work. Then it is less stressful. Cleaning up for people feels bad.

It’s interesting reading this book on ADD my shrink gave me. Driven to Distraction. Reading it is making me cry because it sounds so much like me. Bits and pieces and here and there. But… it would make a lot of sense. My list of flame outs is long and inglorious. My self esteem is shit (at least in part) because I spent my whole life being told I was bad for the ways I deviated from normal.

My shrink is calling my psych to say, “Instead of an SSRI (which has a proven problem history) how about trying a stimulant?”

I’m excited to have someone case managing me like this. She’s known me for years and her feedback feels very useful when dealing with a prescribing person. I’ve always wanted a case manager.

Really I’ve always wanted a knowledgable pushy mother. Kinda like I am. Deep sigh.

Go be what you want to see in the world.

This biology shit is hard core. I want to be a parent. It’s the most important thing I do. I learn the most from it. I grow the most because of it. I have to or I will be a shitty parent.

I don’t want to be one more shitty parent.

I owe them more than that. Because I made them out of pure selfishness. I owe them every ounce of work I can put into being a good parent.

And I have a lot of work in me. How do I focus it more? What do I want to focus it on? My kids. For a lot of years to come they get the lion’s share. They deserve more than I have to give. That’s a lot of why I want to add other adults.

Beautiful tells me she will feel more free to invite herself over. Fuck yes.

I guess I did something right for once.

The Quiet One is an increasing factor. I don’t know what the fuck. But not saying anything here at all feels like lying because this is part of how I keep accountable with Noah. Fuck. I feel like this miraculous available during the week day, local, oriented towards care taking of children person just fell out of the clear blue sky and I don’t know what the fuck.

I really don’t. Because he has some boundaries that are going to make him tricky as heck to negotiate with in particular ways. It is none of the internet’s business because he’s going to be one who doesn’t want to be written about in the same way as a lot of other people I see. Some folks ask for more explicit reports. Some folks believe they deserve privacy. But there is a balance for me.

I don’t want to be a liar about what I’m doing. For good or for bad.

That road is straight to hell.

Kisses. More kisses. More kisses.

I go through waves of needing to not be hit because I need to not think I deserve to be hit. It’s complicated.

If you couldn’t hurt me I wouldn’t be interested. Danger. Danger. Danger.

Scheduling complication

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Several people have reached out to me in the past two days to try and schedule stuff and I’m not being graceful.

The kids asked that we spend five days a week at home this summer with no guests. And one night a week (usually) we have the Bonus Kids. That means that my socializing opportunities just… shrunk.

And managing this will be hard. I’m going to not be nice to everyone. I can’t. I’m sorry.

I need to respect the kids asking for this. So I’m going to have very limited time when I can go out.

What a lovely scene

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I spent four hours with a lovely man on Saturday night. Sweet Boy made it onto my calendar again. I really like suspension. He is… really interested in being suspended. No one else I’m dating has asked. Ok then.

He had trouble finding parking so he was quite tardy. I was mellow and spent my time watching Noah and Beautiful play. I am doing what I can to desensitize myself to Noah not being monogamous. It helps that Beautiful is a kind and generous friend and good golly I’m glad to see her out and about having fun. From a community resources sharing point of view, I’m really glad she’s having fun.

I didn’t even get fussy. Once my scene got started the only suspension point was practically right on top of Noah. That was weird then not a big deal. I think we should try to do that on purpose. I think we should probably also stop and kiss sometimes just cause we should. Cause everyone involved is ok with that and it would make Noah happier.

*note to self*

Ok, back to my evening. I was sitting around watching. Then he arrived. Oh good golly he looks young. He isn’t. He’s like two years younger than me. But he could get carded. For cigarettes.

This is not my type.

But there is something about him. He has this shining self. I have greatly enjoyed both dates. For this night, I picked looking at how beautiful he is and talking about that. Because we all know folks love that, right?

It was hard for him at times. But mostly he tried to hear me. I was being very sincere. I was focusing on what seemed to be the most important part of this particular interaction. You are beautiful and I’m grateful you are letting me do this to you. This is so much fun. I wasn’t real mean or fierce. But I was taunting and teasing. I hit him enough to let him know that I was there. And he is there. And holy crap is he beautiful.

I suspended him face up first then I flipped him and suspended him face down. I wanted to play with the tensions and the angles of different points on the various tie points. I wanted to remind myself of how the physics of bodies work. What a joyous experiment that was. Thank you for the gift of practicing on your beautiful body.

I took all of his clothes off this time. He was nekkid as a jaybird. I have incredibly complimentary things to say about his body.

I’m going to say very quietly and hope I don’t offend too many of my lovers… oh what a joy a foreskin is.

yesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyes

I was in my happy place.

There are just… so many things you can do with them and they make all kinds of manual, oral, and vaginal sex just feel so very very very nice.

I hear that “many women” aesthetically prefer cut cocks. Ok. I… I accept whatever it is. But I do love a foreskin.

Happy sigh.

So when I say manual, oral and vaginal sex… that’s because all of that happened. Oh it was glorious. At different stages and in different ways.

I know that a lot of guys are really self conscious about not getting hard the instant all sexual contact starts and staying hard forever. You know what? Soft cocks are fun to play with. Oh god especially with a foreskin. But I’ll take whatever I get. I’m just saying.

So while Sweet Boy was suspended face down he didn’t spend a lot of time particularly erect. It’s a distracting bunch of sensations all over your body. Blood flow is kinda constricted. Totally cool.

So I had myself a glorious time playing with and sucking on his cock while kneeling under him. Yeah. I’m the “top”.

In between hitting him and running my nails all over him and talking to him of course.

The suspension scene took almost two hours before he was done and starting to hurt. Boy has stamina. I’m impressed. I’m not sure I have such stamina anymore. I used to… back in my younger days… but I’m talking about Sweet Boy not me.

When I untied him I asked him if he would like to be done, if he would like more bondage, more hitting, more sex… he smiled so big his face glowed like the sun and said, “All of it. More please.”

So.Fucking.Beautiful.

So I found a convenient place to lay him on his back and tie him down. I didn’t do elaborate bondage. Instead I hit the front of him for a long time and alternated kissing him and touching his glorious cock. Punching, slapping, raking with nails. What gets a reaction. I’m here to make you squirm.

Oh he’s so adorable when he’s tickled. Oh oh oh yes.

I had a very good time giving him a handjob. Saliva plus a foreskin. It’s like awesome in a sauce.

Eventually I wanted to have him inside me. So I asked for permission to put a condom on him. Because active consent is important at multiple stages of a scene when you are playing with someone new and you should not make assumptions.

I rode him until I was… just kinda done topping. So I untied him and told him to fuck me. He did.

He got kinda toppy. It was hot and sexy and I came like a rocket. It was great.

Two thumbs up, would fuck again.

Part of what I like so much about him is the kissing and kissing and kissing and kissing. I told him I was feeling like I needed to kiss a lot and he told me that was ok. So I kissed him a lot. A lot a lot.

I’m not sorry.

Eventually we parted ways and I slept on my friend’s floor. I slept for two hours and wanted Noah so bad I hurt. I stared at the ceiling for two more hours then went down to Market street to make friends with the homeless folk. Like I do.

For a complete change of channel: baby

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We saw the vasectomy reversal doctor today. He is as nerdy and fabulous as Noah told me. I’ve gotta say: if you are going to let someone cut up your junk then stitch it back together… pick this guy. His statistics are amazing. If I had a dick I’d let him cut into it.

“A vasectomy is the new condom because they are so reversible.” Holy shit.

It was a much more hopeful conversation than I anticipated. Now I need to get all my medical records together and go meet an ob. That’s the scary part.

Noah is talking about two more. He says he isn’t going to insist. But he keeps saying two more. Two more. Two more.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

I can’t say the idea doesn’t fill me with overwhelming joy. I might get to be blessed with four of his babies? This child rearing thing is going well. Our genes mix well. We make god damn awesome kids.

But but population problem. Bad person.

But babies. But my babymoon years have been the happiest, most peaceful years of my life. Even with the stress of an infant.

You don’t understand the stress of my normal life. Having to just be with someone who is adjusting to the cold (or too hot) cruel world? Oh, my precious love. I can’t fix everything. But I’ll be here with you. I will love you. I promise. No matter what. No matter who you become or what you do. I will love you with every speck of me.

That can’t be taken back.

And I say it over and over for a whole year.

I tell my children that they are wanted here. We really really really wanted to know you and we are so grateful you are here now. We need you to be whole. We love you. Thank you for picking this family. We are so honored by your presence.

And that’s what I spend a year doing.

It feels so good.

I don’t go out more than absolutely necessary. And I can make it not very necessary. I’m fine with delivery lots of stuff.

All of you’s out in the web… you are grown ups. You have time perspective. You can wait. This one can’t. This one has needs that are right fucking now what the hell are you waiting for?!

I get it, sweetheart. I’ll work harder. I know I’m too slow. Ok, which need is it again? Let’s go through the list.

You are the most important one in the room this year. We will all help you as much as we can.

Even though I’ve always said that I would hate having my kids be little mamas I’m looking forward to seeing my kids be older siblings. They are caretakers and nurturers. This will be lovely.

TWO?!

Oh my.

I think that the bed frame we bought to celebrate the end of co sleeping will go away. That’s kind of a bummer. It’s nice. Instead we will go back to having mattress on the floor. I might be a nice mama and let the big kids move back in. I think Eldest Child will be a sometimes companion and (current) Youngest Child will be a usual companion for a few more years. I think it might be a reason for (current) Youngest Child to become really happy about being promoted to Middle Child. Sleep bonding is the best bonding. I love it so much. I’m thinking multiple mattresses so that Noah can be mostly away from all the restless folk.

Some folks are born into a family. Some folks find a family. Some folks choose a family. Some folks marry into a family. Some folks adopt a family.

Some folks make their family with their body because that is how they can do it.

I’m really looking forward to doing this again. I’m scared, but I’m excited. How will this play in with the fact that I just kind of exploded out of mommy-mode?

I don’t know and I don’t care. Babies. That will resolve itself eventually. They won’t always be babies and I won’t always make more of them. But I’m going to make these ones. Fuck yes biology.

I feel like I don’t know about the fourth child. That’s complicated for so many reasons. I had my heart set on a third baby. I find it funny that my friend is now kinda extolling all the positives to a fourth so the third doesn’t feel lonely and and and.

Oh my god. Am I going to get a lot of “go for four?”

That’s… not the reaction I expected. I expected recoils of horror. More lectures about how I really shouldn’t be bringing children into the world. But my children are so wonderful. How on earth can you not want more children this cool?

I really want to see what they do as they grow up. Maybe that will be my bulwark against suicide. Maybe I’ve been looking at this all wrong.

Maybe it isn’t that any one person ever has to be enough to make me feel little enough pain that I can promise I won’t off myself.

I don’t think that is a situation that can happen. Not for anyone. I can’t tell a person I promise that. Fuck you.

But maybe, just maybe, if it isn’t a person it is an idea, it is a whole group, it is a position where I really want to be able to help guide these people for a fucking long time because they are so incredible already and clearly it is in part because I am a fucking good guide.

I want more of this feeling.

My children are my motivation in life. Even if I don’t want them to define my whole identity. And on that note… I should go hang out with them.

Blatantly stealing without consent.

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Noah said this:

“Another thing I said, and should say again: I know you feel like you’ve been restricted to being just a wife and mother. But between writing two books and running a marathon, you have done several bucket-list-level things that other people usually never manage, while being a world-class wife and mother. You’re amazing. (And the road trip! Which I didn’t mention, but is also bucket-list-level, though less distinct from the “mother” role the way you did it.)”

Sadomasochism, mental health, chronic pain and calibration.

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I am a hard fucking pet to own. Noah and I discuss this in detail. He has spent ten years trying to learn how to properly feed me, exercise me, get me to sleep, and take care of me better than ever before. It’s been hard for both of us.

I am an emotional and physical masochist. Does it turn me on when my back hurts? No. What that means is I have learned how to eroticize kinds of sensation (physical and emotional) that other people don’t experience as sexual. This is good and bad.

Within certain contexts I enjoy being hit fairly hard in the scheme of things. Within certain contexts being degraded will make me orgasm like a geyser. But these are not all the time fun things for me. In the wrong times these sensations can be highly damaging. Only the right people get to tell me I’m a good whore. Preferably after role play when their cock (bio or not) is inside me. Then, it works great. If someone random brings that up… the fur’s gonna fly.

I have been suicidal and self harming for almost thirty years. When I talk about my problems, they are not in reaction to my current life. They did not form in context to what is happening now, but I have to deal with them now. PTSD, for me, means that I have a hard time telling what is past tense and what is current tense and what is future tense a lot of the time. I’m just… trying to be a version of me that won’t be too problematic in all times. That’s rough because what was needed from me as a child is different from now.

I don’t think it is possible to over state the impact of my early childhood sexual abuse on my personality formation. I know I lived with my father until I was three. I know the abuse was frequent before he was kicked out. I know it was every time I saw him after that until about twelve.

My father telling me over and over that I exist to get men off and I don’t have the right to say no…

That has absolutely shaped my life.

Noah and I were talking tonight about “What he can get away with” now vs when we got married. I’ve learned to say no. I used to not say no to anything he wanted no matter how much pain it caused me. It really never seemed important that I was in pain. I was going to hurt anyway. He might as well be getting what he wants.

Fibromyalgia fucks all of this up too. I’m in pain a lot of the time. As I age my joints are on fire more days of the month. PMDD complicates my life. (That’s premenstrual dysphoric disorder for those who don’t know.) It means that for roughly 3-10 days a month my brain would kind of like to kill me. I feel useless, worthless, and like I should die. I feel like I am bad. I feel like I hurt people by existing.

This isn’t about reality or rational thinking. This is pure hormonal/chemical hell. And I’ve done everything that I can do about it. I keep trying new things. It does improve over time. But it is pure shit when it is happening.

I live in a kind of chemical soup that doesn’t want me to be alive very much. I live in a chemical state that doesn’t see much purpose for me.

But then there are the happy chemicals. Oxytocin. Endorphins. Serotonin. I can get them. But it’s hard hard hard hard hard.

Something that is complicated and hard and not fair…

I can do the spike up and down thing pretty easily. Ecstasy and despair are easy for me. It’s being ok I suck at. Noah has helped me make more progress on being ok than anything and everything else in my life. But doing so has worked a lot like a standard antidepressant in that it makes the ecstasy part harder. Not impossible, but more complicated.

Noah and I have very deeply connected sex. There’s a lot of “I see you as a whole person with flaws and merits and I love you for being more than one thing.” It is wonderful and life affirming. It helps me feel like I can climb into a box and be safe. Desafortunadamente (why is this word so much better in Spanish?) that box isn’t able to be everything.

Why do I need more?

Why does a Porsche need more maintenance than a Toyota? It is the result of engineering.

Why am I so complicated? Why am I so hard? Engineering.

I need a lot of connection with people. I need lots of people in a way that is hard for Noah to understand. I think Noah is an actual introvert and I am actual extrovert who behaves like an introvert because of trauma and avoidance.

I fucking need people. I need to talk to them. The kissing and sexing is awesome, but I’d say they are part of less than 1% of my relationships. I need connection. Mostly it isn’t sexual. But good golly the sexual connection is so good at making all of those chemicals I suck at making on my own.

Why do I want to date? Because I want massive injections of oxytocin. Because I want to see you and feel so excited you are alive. Because I want you to look at me the same way. Because I need to see that look on your face because there will probably be minutes between this time and next time I see you when it is very hard for me to remember at all that anyone is ever happy to see me.

What I feel right now is what I have always felt and will always feel. Until it changes. Then that is what I feel and have always felt.

You can see how I might try to stack the deck with experiences that land me squarely in the happy brain chemicals column because when I’m there I don’t have to deal with the depressive and anxious symptoms in the same way. It’s like they went on vacation and forgot to write.

So I had multiple possible kissing opportunities go by without kisses. Internally my narrative around this is melodramatic, stupid, and whiny. “See. They’re done.”

I feel like I should stop bothering them.

I feel like what I am is a bother.

Incidentally: shiny change of topic to drop a cryptic comment at someone from yesterday. When I say that someone is giving me “reminders” I don’t mean that in any kind of negative way. My kids and I give each other reminders. It is a way of noticing someone and saying, “Hey do you remember this thing you want to remember?” Because…. most people suck at that. It is a loving thing to do, in my mind. Let me remind you about who you want to be because that makes it easier to stay on track. Let me remind you that I see you and what you are doing is real and has impact on the world so I remind you of what you need to be thinking about.

I sure didn’t mean it as a complaint or as a criticism or an attack or anything negative. Reminders are intensely positive in my life. But I had two hours of sleep and my ability to explain is uhm compromised at such times.

End of shiny change of topic.

I like to be hit. I crave it like other people crave… whatever the fuck they crave. It’s a powerful force in my life. My absolute favorite is hitting with hands. Punching is such a vicious, visceral, vivacious connection that I feel like it makes me more alive. Punching helps me stop dissociating. Punching helps me feel the muscles and the tendons and the bones in my body. Punching helps me feel alive.

I can enjoy being hit with toys but it is a lot more difficult for me. I don’t process it as connection. It tends to increase my dissociation because mostly it hurts more in a way that I have to escape my body in order to tolerate very much of it. I don’t feel connected that way. I feel like I am a thing that a tool is doing a thing to. Sometimes that is hot too. Sometimes I do want to be beaten until I go away. It is like a vacation from the tyranny of living in a brain that hates me this much.

It feels like atonement for being so bad all the god damn time.

But atonement needs to be a sometimes treat or it means that I am shit and I should spend all my time apologizing for being shit.

Constant atonement means I am constantly bad enough that I need to atone.

That hurts.

That hurts my soul as much as it hurts my body.

I don’t always need to atone. Mostly I need to connect with people who want me to be alive and who aren’t shy about telling me so. Because I’m not so sure I want to be alive. But I don’t want to hurt people in this web more than I want to stop being in pain. Right now the balance is very much on the side that my pain doesn’t matter. I need more reason to believe that. And I need less pain.

The happy chemicals make me feel less pain. Less emotional pain and less physical pain. It’s a virtuous cycle.

I feel so very guilty that even when I’m having sex with Noah basically every day and sometimes several times a day… that isn’t enough chemical in the soup to push me over the rim of the pot and out of the boiling water that wants to kill me.

But adding more people… well… it’s variable… but it does more than anything else.

I have managed to long since get the soup down to a simmer from a hard boil, but I haven’t been able to get out of the pot.

Thank you Noah. That is mostly because of you. It is because of the children you have given me. It is because of the life you have given me.

But yeah. I need more relationships. I need people I can talk to and connect with and feel like I matter to them.

Because being a wife and a mother is not enough for me.

Do you know why I think that sport fucking isn’t going to work out for me the way it used to? Because these days even when I fuck someone at a swing party and intend to not really see them again (and hell they gave me a fake name anyway)…

They end up telling me their real name and coming over for lunch with their whole family so we can talk about life balance and problems and how to deal with different life issues and… we are turning into friends.

Noah I know I kinda wanted to just be fuck buddies with people. I went out looking for that.

FUCK ALL OF YOU FOR BEING SO AWESOME.

But I feel small and scared and ashamed. Because asking for support, asking for connection with these other people feels like it is almost specifically designed to be about hurting Noah. I don’t want to hurt Nah. He is the air I breathe. No, he isn’t every ounce of chemical I need… but he is the basis. He is the start. He is safety. He is the love that reminds me to take care of myself when I am failing at doing so.

I feel ashamed of how much I need him. I would be willing to sacrifice other parts of myself for that safety. But I’ll be down in the simmering soup forever. That’s just… true. One of these days the soup is going to finish boiling me and I will die.

I need more chemicals to raise the water line and get the fuck out of the pot.

I am so sorry I need an amount one person can’t supply. I have no idea what is enough.

I am feeling really scared. I want to reach out and I don’t. I am so weary of being a bother. I feel so much like people “put up with” me.

I’m so sorry that I am so horrible.

I want to be good. I want to be just a source of happiness. But the truth is I’m not. I’m full of sadness I don’t know what to do with. Mostly I try to get enough when I feel it is ok to touch people and can access more of those fucking chemicals I can’t produce on my own.

If I walk in wearing makeup and I walk out with a bare face that means I removed it all because I didn’t want it to be obvious I was crying. Part of the reason I have been wearing more makeup is because I’m trying to control the crying. I know I can’t cry without it being obvious and that’s too public for me. I can cry without people seeing with a bare face. I do it a lot.

I want to stop crying some year. Stop crying. Stop crying. Stop crying you fucking baby.

Why do I want to date? Because I had to marry someone as broken as me. I had to marry someone who has so many pieces chopped out of him that he has huge gaping wounds where we can grow together and meld and heal into a new shape that is one thing instead of two broken things.

But how in the mother fuck do we teach our kids about a happy or healthy or normal childhood? By saying “Be grateful you aren’t getting what we got?” Oh goodness no. So I go date (in very small part) because that way I can find people who aren’t broken in the same ways and ask question after question after question. I get the impression people think I’m weird. Tell me how you turned out the way you did. I like you just fine and if I could manage to interact with a mini human to help them turn out like you… that would be a positive in this world.

I can’t make babies with everyone. But I can take the example of what kind of life experiences someone would bring to parenting and try to bastardize that onto my life. It is variably successful piece by piece. Overall it has been wildly successful.

I learn things from Cupid and Deity about a quieter happiness than I have known. They are very different men but they both come from backgrounds they are basically happy about. Do you know how fucking weird that is in my life? Dating them is almost like getting to have a koala bear accidentally fall out of a tree on your head and so see you’ve proven drop bears exist.

Whoa

My submissive inspires me with his passionate devotion to things. He has picked just a few people in his life to pour devotion into and I admire him. I both love and struggle with the fact that his core kinks are around degradation and “dirty” things. I absolufuckinglutely love that I get to do these things… I wish they weren’t degrading or dirty. I think they are fun. I do them from love. I do them out of service because you want to be treated this way and so ok I’m happy to be in that role for you.

So where does the sadism come into all of this? I am a sadist… but I am more of a service top. I do things because I think the person I am playing with wants/needs to experience them. I like being a guide on a journey. Even more I love being lead on a journey but with every passing year I intimidate people more and I get fewer offers.

The sadists are going to be happier with the people who aren’t physically and emotionally damaged at the beginning. I can’t take what a lot of people like to do on a regular basis. I can take it sometimes. I can take it when I’m doing well. Then I can’t for a while.

And the bubbling of the soup has a huge impact. The more emotionally dysregulated I am the more my entire nervous system flares up.

That’s why I want the kissing so much. It calms my central nervous system down. It distracts it from feeling pain.

And when there are chances to do the kissing and someone doesn’t want to… that feels really super out of proportion huge for me. I’m not saying anyone is obligated to make out with me for hours. Hell. I’m not saying you have to spend fifteen minutes kissing me.

But if you tell me you are romantically interested in me and you have a chance to kiss me and you’d rather not….

I feel that in my body and I feel it for days and I feel so sad.

All of this is complicated by the fact that we can’t kiss in front of my kids. So if we see each other a few times when kisses were possible but didn’t happen and then we see each other around my kids… that’s complicated torture. That’s a complicated thing that feels a lot like how I couldn’t hug or kiss or be affectionate around the kids when they were very small. I could do some but I would freak out if I heard them. It took a long time before I decided it was more appropriate for them to see that folks do those things when they like each other.

I have been good about slowly developing these boundaries and I’m going to keep being good about them. That’s important to me. I came from a place of severe inappropriate connection. I have inched my way towards letting my kids see different actions. But my kids have always seen me hug my friends. That’s just a standard thing. Even long hugs. So whereas kissing feels like it is a big boundary for me… my kids aren’t dumb. They will figure things out.

All of this is also complicated by my general problem with time distortion. I mentioned that in a few ways up-post: living in more than one time at once, feeling like how I feel in this moment is how I feel in all moments… but there is also the problem that when I’m really happy, time flies. I feel like I am getting so much input I can barely take it in. I struggle with feeling like hard packed clay soil. If you dump a deluge on me, it’s mostly going to just run off and not impact the plants. When I am depressed and/or anxious time drags on and on and on and on. It feels like there will never ever be a cessation of pain and god I can’t do this.

I have seriously been hurting most of my life. It’s hard to keep carrying that load.

But I have so much good that sometimes I am able to just sling all that hurt into a rucksack, toss it on my back and say, “It doesn’t matter how you feel it matters what you do.”

I think it is a problem that I associate not wearing makeup with a need to hide crying.

When I’m riding high in the pot and I feel relatively happy for me, then I want to beg someone to hurt me.

Why was it at such a sharp edge when I started hunting? Because I have been so safe for so long. I need the sharp and the soft. I got so much soft. I know it wasn’t fair that I didn’t know how to talk to Noah about being the sharp.

But it’s getting better pretty quickly, I think.

I need to not do anything melodramatic around this kissing thing. But I need to have some conversations. I need to talk about some pieces of this in real time with people.

The not kissing when the kids are around: kosher. The not kissing when the kids aren’t around? No. Not ok. I can’t think of you as someone I want to be kissing and deal with feeling like you don’t want to kiss me.

I had to turn off thinking about the Professor like that. He feels whatever he feels and I have no window into that but his behavior is that we had opportunities and there were no kisses and I need to treat that like “We are not people who will be kissing” and move on with my life. I have to compartmentalize like that or I get my feelings hurt.

He’s still my friend though. I still like him a lot. I will… poke at him less for a while because I’m still in the sticky he doesn’t like me that much stage.

I’ll get over that bit. I always do. It’s ok for people to like me how much they like me. But sometimes I have some sad that I am only liked as much as I am. I need to deal with that sad. I need to stay friends. Because that’s dealing with your shit. Because good grief I’m dealing with a lot of people and if I got bitter about everyone who doesn’t want to kiss me I’d have a shitty life. It’s ok.

But I’ll poke the Professor at a slower rate for a bit. I’m not going away;I enjoy the conversation too much. I just need to do some self management.

Even if I stop feeling like I have the right to look for kisses… I don’t want to stop being friends. I went hunting for friends with benefits. I want friends. I want benefits. Largely, apparently, in the form of kissing.

Wouldn’t it have been god damn handy if I could have phrased it that way in like March.

I’m going as fast as I can.

I want more hitting and I want more being hurt. But I want it in between kisses from someone who very much likes me. That’s complicated.

And I want to write about Sweet Boy. Because that was awesome. But I’m closing in on four thousand words and my arms need me to stop soon. He’ll be a lengthy story.

In three and a half hours we leave to go see the doctor about Noah’s vasectomy reversal. Holy shit.

How is this all going to work? Fuck if I know. But I guess we’ll figure it out. It’s that or die and I’m not ready. Even if I want to. I’m not ready. There is so much left to do. I’m not one to sit around when there is work to be done.

Do you know what is the part of our family culture that I am proudest of? “We are workers not shirkers.” When my kids say this, when Noah models it and repeats it… oh my soul glows. Yes. I read this hilarious book called How to Raise the Perfect Children Through Guilt and Manipulation and it is as much a memoir about her childhood as it is written by a parent about parenting. I don’t want to do anything how the sports-fanatic-Catholic author does things in her life…. but I do want to set a strong family culture the way she talks about. I do want to indoctrinate with my ideals the way she talks about. Yeah. Like that. Only something different.

Cause that’s what I am. Like you. Only something different.

Today is the 18th anniversary of Tommy’s suicide. I can’t say I miss you. I am glad you don’t have to be hurting any more. Self immolation. What a way to go.

Whyyyyyyyy

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Why do I persist in bringing up super hard topics on two hours of sleep. WTF? I have 20 minutes to write. I need to make a few notes.

Needs, wants, desires, obsessions, compulsions, religion, kissing, pain, masochism, dominance, sex, circumcision.

I’m not interested in being dominant with people because I have a specific place I want to go. I want to hear about the person I’m playing with and pick a thing and work around that.

Does it have to be troubled? When I date someone do they have to be troubled? I don’t think so. I’m dating some remarkably stable folks.

Noah keeps saying how much I need this. That not having this is going to shorten my life. He uses very different words. It’s an intense sobbing conversation and I’m not going to recount it here.

Do I really need this so much? I think I do. I think the kissing is part of it. I think that I do this because I need fairly specific kinds of demonstrations of approval on a regular basis from other people because I just don’t know how to manufacture that feeling within myself on my own. I need it from a lot of people and I need it in a lot of ways. Sex and kissing is part of that. I need to feel like people want to kiss me. I spend a lot of time being very afraid people are kinda humoring me because there is some reason they don’t want to hurt my feelings.

That would be me projecting because I’ve had an awful lot of sex for that reason.

I don’t need to be someone’s pity fuck. I’ve got it at home. I fucking need that feeling of being wanted or it is really hard to stay in a plucky fucking mood all the god damn time.

I’ve made this life where I have to be plucky. Almost 24/7 minus babysitting. The babysitting is adding up these days. It’s still nothing like if my kids went to school… but it’s improving! I’m gaining independence!

And…. we want a baby.

Yeah. We both do. We both want a baby so bad we ache.

And we have to figure out the nonmonogamy thing. Noah points out that a big part of what I really want … is to have the checking in on life between dates. I want the kissing. I don’t really need to just be a fuck buddy. That’s something I’ve done a lot of. I can have a few dates and then stop if I don’t get much in between… but I am not good at sustaining contact with folks who want access to sex without talking to me much in between.

I just… yeah. No. I’m here for the approval because I need it like I need oxygen. It’s not like I need constant attention. But when I start feeling guilty and ashamed and like I’m bothering you when I want to talk to you because jesus christ straightening your stereo wires would be a better usage of time than talking to me…

I don’t pull away because I don’t want you. I pull away because I don’t deserve you and I’m afraid of asking and asking and asking and asking and hurting people again.

It hurt so much when I called my friend every day for a very long time and then she started ducking my calls because she needed a break. She didn’t tell me. She just started not answering the phone.

That broke my fucking heart and I’ve had to work to get past it. But I’ll never be able to call her like that again. I’ll never be able to ask for that kind of contact from her again.

And even though I want to have people want to talk to me every day… I don’t think I deserve it. I am too hard. I need to be a sometimes influence.

And I feel like I have to manage that by pulling away. And when someone doesn’t do much chasing… that means I should go.

It’s time to back the fuck off and expect this to be a once in a great while thing. Because I blew it. I was too high maintenance again.

When Noah says that he thinks I need this or I’m going to die…

I’m afraid he’s right.

Not having a family eats at me. The fact that so many people have told me that they were my “chosen family” and in reality they were friends for a little while as it was convenient and then I’ve never heard from them again…

Only Jenny and K said they had to be there at the cruise to be there as my family. And Dad is going on sixteen fucking years of help and support and comfort and approval–with and without the sex.

So I hate chosen family and I need them so much. I think the problem is that I’m partially learning that my chosen family still isn’t perfect. Those fuckers still aren’t available very often. None of them have that much to give me and distance is a huge factor.

But people who like to fuck me are uhm a more attainable resource.

Let me just say Thank You Very Much for that.

Five minutes to go.

The date with Sweet Boy made my socks roll up and down and I don’t have time to write about it.

My husband is the reason I want to get up in the morning and stay alive and do things with my life so that he will keep looking at me like he is proud of me. His approval is fucking everything. And yeah, this transition is hurting us both.

I’m a masochist, yeah… but a masochist with massive chronic pain problems and a boat load of mental health problems. That means I can’t show up once a week to be hit. I need to be hit sometimes and I need a lot of other things the rest of the time. Mostly lots of kissing. Because, quite frankly… then I hurt less.

All three layers of the dresses I was wearing this weekend have big holes in them but if I layer them you can’t tell. Ha.

It was very hard to hold the dresses up without a corset and by the end of the parade with the standing and the not eating much and sleeping two hours on the floor…

Yeah. I was glad when a float tossed me a tshirt. Ok dinner. Family time. Board games and Noah reading. Sounds great.

Touching without consent.

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Hey y’all, I want to talk about a subject that is near and dear to my heart. Touching.

I had one of those shitty childhoods. (I even wrote a fucking book about it. Thousands of people have read it and concur: yup a shitty childhood.)

Being touched is complicated for me. I like touch. I need touch a great deal more than average because I was pretty severely neglected as a young child. I was not touched appropriately and it has damaged me. What touch I got was often sexual abuse. Which complicates all kinds of touching in a sexualized setting.

I came into the bdsm community at 18 years old. I found the local munches, local private parties, public scene, and I found myself an experienced top pronto.

When other people talk about their college life experiences I cock my head to one side and listen because I wonder what it would be like to be normal. I do have a college degree, but I lived with my Dominant/Daddy/Owner. For two years of college I was a 24/7 slave.

I just don’t identify with the “college” experience people talk about. When I graduated I knew the names of three of my classmates.

I personally knew the folks who taught bdsm from coast to coast. I’d slept in many of their houses and played with them.

Now that I’m at the ripe old age of 34, almost 35 and I’ve been in the bdsm community for almost 16 of those years…

Touching is weird for me. I have expectations about boundaries. My expectations are different when I’m out in the normal world. Yes, I know that little old ladies in the grocery store touch me without my consent all the fucking time and I can’t explode with anger and tell them it ISN’T FUCKING OK TO TOUCH ME.

I know.

But I found a safe place. I found a place where the rule is don’t touch anyone or anything without explicitly asking for consent. It’s posted all over the damn place. If you didn’t learn that rule in kindergarden (you fucking should have) we will supplement your education until you get it.

Don’t. Touch. People. Without. Asking.

I know you don’t mean anything. I know you think it is no big deal to violate consent this way. But in my PTSD ridden body that went through decades of torture…

Actually it is a big deal. I am only able to relax and enjoy this environmentbecause this rule exists. Because I am allowed to be vulnerable and I will have protection around the soft squishy parts of my heart.

I don’t mean that nothing bad will ever happen. I don’t mean that I really think I’ll never get touched without consent. It means that it is safe me to turn around and snarl IT ISN’T FUCKING OK TO TOUCH ME and I’m not bad. This is the one place in the world where it is safe for me to defend myself like that and not get “What a crazy bitch”.

So if it hurts your feelings that this rule exists in the bdsm community, yeah. Maybe it isn’t for you. Because this rule exists for the safety of a lot of people. The right to touch without asking is not something that makes anyone safer. It makes you happier. I don’t care so much about that.

Despite the harshness of this I love you. Even if I don’t know you very well. I think you have a lot to offer.

But don’t. Fucking. Touch. Me.

Boundaries are important for relationships. Because only in the conversation about where those boundaries exist do you get to define the me and the you in the relationship so that you can have real substantial interactions instead of just projections.

I want to know you and I want you to know me. Part of knowing me is knowing that touch is a complicated beast and there are days I’m in agonizing pain and I don’t want a hug. It’s not personal. It’s fibromyalgia.

But you don’t know unless you ask, do you?

Fracturing

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When I talk about my childhood fracturing my personality I mention the moving because it is a handy way of having numbers that people can wrap their head around. It causes problems too because… it wasn’t just the act of moving. During many/most of those moves I was living with people I didn’t know who didn’t like me very much. I spent my childhood moving through households with different rules… and no one but me explains why rules are different very well. I know how because I learned during my childhood. No one else has ever been able to explain rule variations to me in a way that made sense. But I can explain it. Because I lived it.

It wasn’t just the moving. It was that every few months my mom would take all of my toys and give them away because we had to flee and it didn’t matter what anything meant to me. Many of my moves were 1-3 month stays. I was often by myself with families I didn’t know who were distant friend’s of my mother. I was not an easy child. Everyone made sure to tell me how difficult I was all. the. damn. time. I didn’t settle in and feel like I ever had a home. I usually didn’t know my own phone number. Do you know how many people told me I was stupid because I didn’t know my phone number?

When I talk about my early life fracturing me, I’m including the rampant sexual abuse. I was having intense extended sexual contact with children and adults from toddlerhood. That fucked up my personality.

It was watching my mother and sister fuck a series of men as my own live action instructional videos. Why won’t I have other lovers in the house? Because my mom did that.

I was constantly told I was the baby and I was belittled for my incompetencies, but I didn’t get to live with older more competent people. I was raised an only child. Who in the hell was I supposed to learn from? I was locked alone in houses or apartments or bedrooms or garages. My siblings were either grown or living in other, less abusive environments.

My brothers were not abused like I was. My sister… had it very different. More sexual abuse from our father but not the poverty, not the moving, not the rapes outside the family not the not the not the.

Being “appropriate” is a nightmare of a conscious choice for me that it isn’t for other people because I’m trying to make it up as an adult. I have no modeling at all from childhood to depend on. I didn’t know healthy people. I was never taught how to manage my feelings or the trauma that was happening until I was an adult and it was over and I could figure out how to tell a story about the past. No one sat me down and talked about what to do when you are mad other than “get even”.

When I say that my problems make me different from folks in the Tenderloin, one of the things that absolutely fucking wrecks me is that I was never taken away from my family for gross neglect nor abuse. Everyone from the top down acted like my life was just fucking fine. I couldn’t even get support in therapy for how bad it was because my mom was always there saying I was exaggerating for effect or lying.

Even when other parents would go to the school and say I was abused, no one gave a shit.

When I say that other people aren’t like me it is based on decades of experience trying to bond with people “Oh we are alike!” and having them listen for a little bit and nod with enthusiasm and I keep going and then they eventually shove me away energetically and physically and say with great force, “No. Not like that. We are not alike.”

This all leaves me with pervasive feelings that I am bad and I deserve punishment. I do not deserve to have a safe place to live. That’s for other, deserving people. Good people. I am bad. I smell. I am gross. I am not worth wanting. I am a burden.

Pot stinks. Which means that I stink. Which is highly triggering with regards to my experiences around being homeless and abused. I constantly feel like I deserve to be abused because I smell bad and I am gross and that is personally offensive to people. People don’t want to kiss a gross nasty pot smoker. I know.

I had some feelings so I was whining about them to someone. The person told me they would kinda like to rescue me but it was logistically impossible. I told them I wouldn’t let them rescue me anyway.

If I did need to be rescued from something I would rather walk in front of a train than ask for help.

It is more likely to work to solve my problems.

Asking for help just reveals that you are weak and a good target. I’m not that stupid any more.

Only going to see all these damn doctors is a form of trying to get help. Notice how well it usually goes? Usually it is debasing, insulting, and dehumanizing. Someone who has spent less than three hours with me feels very free to tell me that I really shouldn’t have another child because I don’t have the bandwidth. I should go to other professionals so they can tell me no.

It was a really good thing I got to turn around and go see a professional who has known me for years who said I could handle it and it would be wonderful.

When I go see professionals they tell me that my physical problems are because I don’t eat enough Fiber 1 cereal. Actually bitch, my digestion improves when I eat mostly protein and vegetables and fruit and almost entirely skip the cereals. But you are the wise professional and I’m just a dumb bitch. A dumb scary bitch who should be placed under a restraining order because I’m so dangerous.

Oh how I love asking for help.

I’m shocked I’m going to go submit to a high risk ob/gyn. But I have to. Or Noah won’t let me have the baby.

My whole life is about “submit to this authority or suffer”. So my recalcitrance means it is all my fault I suffer. If only I’d submit faster.

When I pull away and hide it is because I am scared. It is because I feel like I am bad. When folks act like yup, that’s where I should be and I should be there alone it feels like they agree that I should feel that way.

And once I lose the top cup off the pile of dishes I’m carrying, soon the whole load will come crashing down.

Dads, adoption, and belonging

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I was just talking to my Dad. The conversation was interesting. I didn’t know my step-mom was adopted. I didn’t know that his current partner was adopted. I didn’t know that his current partner is 38 not 21. Ok, now all of a sudden I object way less.

We talked about the language around adoption we use. Dad has a lot of daughters. He has a biological daughter he raised. He has a series of girlfriends he calls daughters. He has me. I’m the adopted daughter. His girlfriends aren’t adopted in the same way and they don’t stick around in the same way. I’m still here sixteen years later. No one else has made ten years.

Except the bio-kid, of course.

Dad said he has mixed feelings about me being called the adopted daughter because he has so many people in his life who were at-birth-adoptees and “real child” vs “adopted child” is sensitive stuff for them.

I said, “Yeah I hear that. But I was chosen as an adult. It’s different. It matters that you loved me enough to adopt me as an adult. That is worth claiming. That’s a thing.”

I know it makes me different than the other daughters. It makes me different in a way that feels positive. I’m special. He chose me. I’m not someone he’s dating and fucking. I didn’t just happen to come from his body. He met me, got to know me, figured out that dating is not on the table… and he kept me anyway.

And let me tell you, he’s kept me. I’m invited to family stuff. I think only Sarah has invited me to her family like he has. So if I need to get over my hatred of the concept of “chosen family” it is because of these two. Dad treats me like his kid that he can be a little obscene with. But I don’t ever want to fuck him again.

And he keeps me anyway.

Because he adopted me. Because I am special to him. Special enough to keep.

I’m smoking in the side yard listening to Dad talk to the kids in the back yard. He may be reading to them, that’s what the cadence sounds like. He’s really good with them. He’s patient. He’s gentle. He is appropriate and non-sexual.

I know his bio kids. They both assure me that he was always completely appropriate when they were little. When they got older he became more of an asshole about “This is who I am and I have a weird as fuck life.”

But they ignore a lot of it and have good relationships. I admire those relationships. I don’t want a relationship like they have though. I want a different relationship. I want to be the adopted daughter.

Difference doesn’t mean better.

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My psychiatrist told me that she could handle any problem I have/had because she worked in the Tenderloin in San Francisco for years. I think my problems are often not much like those she is going to face in the Tenderloin.

Most people who live in the Tenderloin and seek counseling for drug addiction aren’t there because of fractured personalities from moving so much as a child that they didn’t go through normal personality formation. They may have other developmental problems from moving too much, but I seriously never met a single person who comes close to my moving issues. I’m relatively confident that most people move around within an area and don’t develop the issues I had going from rural desperately poor Oklahoma to Los Gatos, California (rich as fuck) to Compton, California to to to to to.

My instantaneous rejection of things that will not be something I change into is because I’ve been put in so many settings… I know how I adapt.

I have had far more privilege than the average person in the Tenderloin and that’s going to change how we need help. The travel I’ve done. The security I’ve had in the last ten years… these things change the approach a lot.

Other than pot, I don’t consider myself an addict. I don’t bury my problems in cocaine or meth or alcohol. I just do more work or I self harm or I find sex.

Why nonmonogamy? Because I can’t get the intensity of connections I want without it. I need to figure out more about bonding with people. I need more practice figuring out how to love and have boundaries and this is part of that for me. Because I need to learn and this is one of the best vehicles for my education. Because it is so close to my native life experience. It is so primal. It effects so much of my entire nervous system.

Because sex means life. I know I have plenty of sex with Noah. Novelty matters for me.

Because if I wrapped all my tentacles around Noah and said give me attention give me attention give me attention as much as I want attention he’d…not like it as much as he thinks. When I’ve tried it… it was very mixed.

I have a lot of need for intense connection.

If I had a mother I don’t think I would need this. But I don’t. So I need something major to shock my system into believing that yes I do deserve love too. I’m not just bad. This is a life giving act. Even if I’m not making life with the vast majority of my partners, I understand the purpose of sex is to make life. That is why it happens. It feels like creating connection and intimacy and love in the world.

I like it.

If I had a mother I could connect with the way I connect with my kids when I feel insecure I think I would be a different person. But I don’t.

And, being slutty makes me feel cocky and that’s fun. Not much in my life makes me feel cocky. (Hey L–remember when I climbed the tree at the home school park day just because all the moms were flipping out about how dangerous it was? That worked too.)

I don’t feel cocky about my parenting. I strive for humility. Hubris would be fatal. I don’t have it all figured out. I need to live with doubt. I need to live with constant questioning of my motives and my methods.

Why nonmonogamy? Because a fantastically cute boy just emailed me to tell me that he’d like to take it a step further and have sex on Saturday. Oh shit. Excellent. It is tentative. It is maybe. It is we’ll see.

Krissy, Krissy, Krissy what are you doing?

I’m spending time with people. Because I feel like I need it really badly. Because my ability to chase the women in my life is at a very very low ebb. I need to feel loved and I can’t bang on doors to ask for it right now. They are all busy. They mostly have children and jobs or at least just very consuming jobs. It is appropriate. I just… I’m just feeling out of chase. I do that.

Boys… chase.

Why nonmonogamy? Because being slutty makes me feel good in my body better than anything else in the whole world and I spend so much time feeling so bad in my body. Do you want me to live for a long time? I need to feel good in my body sometimes.

I do get it in other ways too. But slutty sex is like a water cannon of joy slamming into me.

I can’t help but feel this is tied in with being “good” in terms of what my biological father taught me. He wanted me to be sex crazed. He’d be proud. I… have feelings about that.

I tell Noah what I do. And Noah doesn’t shame me. So I don’t feel ashamed. I feel confused because it is hard on Noah that this is as good for me as it is. But we put up with other annoying things from one another.

Cause if Sweet Boy is all, “I’d like to take it to the next step” I’m all “Hell fucking yes.” I mean. We’ll see if it happens. Ahem. As the grown up here. I told him we will need to talk in person about limits and absolutely stick to them in scene and we’ll see if sex is really what he wants. If he doesn’t really want it before the scene starts… we aren’t doing it in scene. Because I won’t renegotiate as we go. So lots of talking to go.

Oh I love talking.

Why nonmonogamy? Because I have to learn how to deal with a lot of my deficits. Noah has learned work arounds for many of the ways in which I fail. When I go out into the world and deal with other people… I lose my crutch. I have to grow. Or I will fail.

I was just itching for more suspension. I’ve been wanting to do suspension for a long, long time and no one has seemed interested. So. He asked. That means I get to want it with him. I mean, I know I could go find a generic person to suspend if I advertised. But I’m not really that much of a top and… I don’t know. I’ll top when someone switchy comes to me and asks. And I like my submissive. But he doesn’t like rope.

I want to make someone dance in the air who will appreciate it. It’s been a long time and I think I will get the chance on Sunday. I’m excited. I really want to do this. I don’t know why. To prove to myself that I still can? That I haven’t forgotten the physical techniques? Really I’m being kind of an asshole. I should torture myself with months of floor bondage again first. But I tie knots all the damn time! I’m not out of lashing practice.

Just not with bodies.

(Lashing is when you tie things together.)

I feel cocky when I feel like, “Yup I’m a bad ass who can do this.” But I’m kinda over feeling like, “Well a long time ago I was a bad ass who could do that.”

I want my identity to be present tense. And I want to see what happens to his face while he dances. Oh goodness I want to see. He has such a beautiful face. He’s so shy at first. Then so expressive.

And my cunt is ripped to shreds. If I’m not healed by Saturday I should say no anyway. Sad face. Feck and Drat and Dagnabbit.

Uhm, it doesn’t hurt as much as yesterday? But it’s still not great. AHHHHHHHH No fair. Ok. Off to a day.

Damn cat

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I couldn’t find my cat for about 20 minutes and she was quiet. She’s never fucking quiet. She’s a geriatric Siamese. Sometimes she talks in her damn sleep. But she was quiet tonight. WTF.

I’m medicating to try and lower my adrenaline to go back to sleep. Five hours isn’t enough for the night.

To “calm down” (ha) I’m thinking about what to wear on Saturday. It is rainbow themed, of course. But I’m not sure I have uhh attractive rainbow clothing. Or not much of it. Hm. I have red and black and white for cute stuff. I’m kinda boring. Red and black with rainbow socks. Do I even have rainbow socks or did they get a huge hole? I think they wore out. They were like 12 years old…

Hm. I have no idea. I have a pink skirt and a blue skirt… but they are both long and matronly. The blue one is part of Jenny’s Ren Faire costume that I wear all the time. Like I have since I started borrowing her clothes when we were teenagers. Thank you for leaving them with me when you went. I really wear the skirts a lot. I even wear the other pieces. I think of you. I feel loved.

I could ruck up the blue skirt, wear a purple tank top, red underwear, I’ll wear the most colorful socks I own at this point, and I have to wear a corset. Just have to. Because. Because if I’m going to get pregnant again I want to use these bastards while I have them.

Choices:

  • (least likely) Victorian high back/high front in a beautiful reddish/goldish brocade.
  • (also slightly unlikely) Sweetheart cut (meaning over my boobs but not a high back) in purple with goldish
  • (maybe) White and black leather waist cincher. The few thick black stripes run vertically and provide nice definition
  • (maybe) black leather waist cincher. It has pretty laces for decorations.

I feel like there is one more but I can’t remember. That is how luxurious my life is. Once upon a time I had a fetish wardrobe to knock your damn socks off. These days… I still have bits. I’ve had professional dominants tell me that I have more fetish clothing than them. I felt a little weird about that.

First corset: I got the high back one (it is custom and comfy) for working Dickens Fair. My second oldest. I saved and saved and saved for this. I wanted it so bad.

Second corset: A friend of a friend flew from the east coast out to San Francisco to see Avenue Q with me and my husband. He stayed with us and as a thank you he bought me a corset. As it turned out, I was about two weeks pregnant with Eldest Child and I didn’t know it.

Third corset: The oldest. I’ve had that since I was with my Owner. I bought it (on massive sale) not long before Noah bought me the most beautiful black leather ball gown. So it came into my life in the transition period as I was leaving my Owner. (I don’t know why I care about this kind of chronology… but I do.)

Fourth: I bought this between pregnancies when I ventured out to Folsom Street Fair by myself. I felt pretty in it and I was happy to feel like I had made it and I could just go buy a corset.

The purple shirt just came from target. The pink skirt I mentioned above I bought on a day trip with Sarah. I had a lot of fun.

This is what I mean when I say that I associate things and people very strongly. I have narratives running through my head all day long about how the things I use are connecting me to the people who love me. They are talismans I use to try and deal with my pervasive belief that I am bad and I am only going to hurt people. See, they love me and they left me with this so I wouldn’t forget them.

I don’t want to forget them and I’m very scared I could. I’m scared I could absolutely get to the point where I just couldn’t remember that people loved me if I didn’t have such a constant influx.

Mental illness is a real problem. The reality I perceive and the reality that is are not always the same and they overlap and confuse each other.

The reality I perceive mostly doesn’t have room for people loving me. So I ignore that and I set deliberate intentions around living in a reality where I’m loved and adored and taken care of and I go out and I interact with people and then I sit back and I weigh and measure the fuck out of every interaction.

I lean on the paranoid side. I’m skittish. I’m always looking for signs I should go. But when I get, “No really, come here” I explode with joy.

MY PERCEPTIONS ARE WRONG, MOTHERFUCKER. THIS BRINGS ME GREAT JOY.

Unlike many of my friends (ha ha ha) I’m well aware I’m not rational. But I’m doing the best I can. I mean… I’m sure my friends are doing the best they can too. But I do it while admitting I’m irrational as fuck.

I don’t think I am the only one who is irrational. But those are my judging pants.

/me steps out of her judging pants

Ok.

Oh! Noah and I were really good tonight. I initiated sex because I wanted sex to help get back to sleep after I woke up. We got started and it just hurt. That happens to me. Sometimes I’m torn and it just burns like a mother fucker and it hurts and hurts and hurts and if I keep it up I will hurt all day.

I told him it hurt.

He pulled out just about right away.

That’s… that’s actually a big deal for us. We don’t stop until he’s done. I cry and grit my teeth and get it over with and tell him to hurry. I endure it.

Tonight I didn’t. *pat self on back*

Learning how and what your volition means is hard. I’m trying. So of course we did lots of other fun things and got him off. He told me it was practice for pregnancy. I said it is practice for the rest of our lives because I need to stop having sex when it hurts. I didn’t try to get off. I just… didn’t care by then.

(Then I couldn’t find the cat. Anyway.)

Of course I know that pieces of the volition conversation are my fault. I know I don’t speak up enough. It’s hard. It’s scary. Even now it doesn’t feel that safe. And that’s hard. I’m not sure that it is Noah’s fault I don’t feel safe enough. I think it is me.

Noah told me that in order to make this work going forward he is going to have to trust me a whole lot harder than he has been. Even though I fucked up big. Cause I did. I hurt him. I was really inconsiderate. I was really hurtful. It has been hard to get me to listen to how he really feels because I have preconceived notions about him not being sensitive. Yeah well, he’s sensitive to some fucking things. Especially when it comes to fucking. Makes sense. Me too.

And I need to trust Noah more. I do as my mother taught me. I do what I want because asking for permission means you might get told no. But Noah is a trustworthy partner and he doesn’t tell me no without a good reason. If I tell him I’m hurting in a bad way he isn’t going to get mad and punish me for that. He is going to acknowledge that we’ve had a really tremendous lot of sex lately and that wears me out.

I am a breakable toy.

It is hard to ask someone to stop. I feel guilty for not putting out. I feel very bad about myself for not delivering on sex when someone wants it. I owe sex.

I keep picturing R glowering at me and saying with great heat and force, “You don’t owe him shit.” I needed to have an inside voice telling me that. Thank you so very very very very much for popping up right when you did and saying it how you did, that venom was beautiful. So fierce.

I’ve been talking to a lot of women about their cunts lately. How do you feel about your cunt? It’s interesting having these chats. It is interesting being the kind of person who can just ask such questions.

I’m an asker.

There is this huge conflict in my life. I have a huge, massive, really powerful Reality Distortion Field. I can convince people to believe what I want them to believe, mostly. I mean–I think this is because I pick a version of reality to back up with facts and figures. I research like fuck and then I say, “Ok this is the reality I want to believe in.”

Noah and I get into heated philosophical conversations where we both feel frustrated. He wants to talk about “how the world is” and I want to talk about what the world needs to be and he just… gets frustrated with me.

Reasonable. Notice the disclaimer of irrationality.

I don’t fucking care how hard it is going to be to change. Let’s get on it, motherfuckers. Hard work is what life is all about. At least this is good work.

This is a huge conflict because I have a massive, pervasive believe that I am a toxic piece of shit who poisons people by existing.

I’m one of those dirty stinky homeless people who offend people just by breathing too near them.

God I don’t know how to get past living in more than one time at at time. That has been my life. It’s not a fantasy or a worry or a projection. It is body memory of the shame and horror of being so disgusting to people.

The next time you want to recoil from a dirty, gross person because they smell bad… imagine it is me.

Love and thank you

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Yesterday I started off being passive aggressive. Then I got direct and everything kinda fell into place like magic. Wow.

I sent an email to folks Noah and I are seeing and said “If you are just a friend banging me this isn’t a hoop you need to jump over. But if you are romantically serious…. everyone I’ve ever dated has met my Dad.”

It’s kind of funny to realize. No really my Dad has met most of my even barely serious partners. Usually he’s supportive and sometimes he tells me DTMFA. (He’s always right.)

Wait. Wait. You mean I really did manage to turn this nasty old pervert into a protective father for me?! Because I did. I’m like a hybrid between his normal “daughters” who are perverted girlfriends who do nasty shit around the dynamic and his bio kids.

It’s weird. It’s a little creepy. It is deeply comfortable, loving, and supportive. This relationship has had the boundaries I needed it to have. Thank you. I love you so much, Dad. I love you with the love of an abandoned little kid who didn’t find a Dad until 18. In the Power Exchange. Yelling, “Hey you. Come here. We need bottoms.” Oh my life.

I’m a nasty pervert too.

And much to my surprise the only person who isn’t coming to dinner is someone whose other partner is having surgery. Great reason. That’s so much more important. Take care of her.

This is surprising to me. I didn’t expect to kinda turn to so many people and say, “Are you serious?” and just get a resounding “Yup.” I thought half the group would show up. I absolutely counted on my submissive saying yes. Beyond that I wasn’t sure. Oh how pleasant. I feel positively giddy.

And Sweet Boy emailed me to say he is going to try to go to the Citadel on the 25th because he won’t get another chance to see me any time soon.

I feel… overwhelmed with wonderful, beautiful love.

And I should introduce someone else. Because he’s come over three times now. I’m going to call him Quiet One. Because in my crowd he’s distinctive. I can’t say much about him because I haven’t asked permission. He isn’t interested in group dating and I told him flat out I won’t be dating him solo. I don’t have time. My dates are spoken for. But he’s coming to dinner and over for walks and working on projects. So I dinno. He exists in an interesting vanilla friendship with enormous tension land. I clearly don’t have free time. But he comes over on his own! He suggests it cause he is nearby!

None of my other folks do that. They all live too far away and getting here is arduous and takes specific arranging. So spontaneous just doesn’t happen. How much of relationships are proximity?

Really anyone who will invite themselves to a work party is someone I’m ok knowing. I just am.

What does seriously dating mean anyway? I think for me it won’t need to happen more than four times a year. It’s going to be more about intensity and connection that frequency. Lots of people I see often… I’m not that serious about.

In March I told Noah not to worry about me dating these people because it’s not like I’d still be seeing any of them at the end of the year because they will all lose interest in me.

Uhm, meeting Dad in June because they are kinda serious about still dating me later…

There are a lot of stories I tell myself. I believe them. Noah thinks of them as lies, which seems reasonable. I don’t believe people will want me around for very long. I don’t think people can tolerate my company very long. I think people get sick of me and need huge long breaks from being physically near me in order to intellectually keep knowing me.

These are stories I tell myself.

But then why in the fuck did Sarah come back?

Because she loves me. Because she finds some value in my companionship and company.

Oh.

I was being kind of an asshole last night. I told Noah that it was kinda his fault Deity is turning out so serious. I wanted Deity to be in kind of the same spot Muse was in. I attempted to sorta script that. Noah looked at me. He indicated strongly that he did not think it would have worked out the way it did with Muse. He thinks Deity just would have spurred conversations earlier. Not with how good he is.

I even blushed in acknowledgment of how ridiculous I was. Yeah. God damn he is hot. It wouldn’t have been like Muse. Muse didn’t want me and that’s cool. He has a type. Deity is not like Muse. I don’t know if he has a type as much, but I definitely uhh fall closer to his interests.

So yeah. I tell these lies.

You’re right. If I had sucked Deity’s cock four years ago… he would still be in the top 5 and welcome back any time he asks.

Yeah. You’re right Noah.

Why do I want to perceive these things wrong? Maybe I want to believe I have more loyalty to Noah than I have? Is this about loyalty or disloyalty?

I grew up in a family where I was told over and over “You are for me or against me. Period.” You never ever act against the interests of someone if you are on their side. You burn everything down if they tell you to even if you are shooting yourself in the foot. You just do it.

Nuance has come hard and slow and in inches for me. Like, Jenny didn’t post on Twitter for a few days cause she wasn’t feeling well and I freak all the way out.

Nuance is hard.

I expect rejection everywhere, from every source unless people are chasing hard. Then I feel safe. For a few minutes at least.

I expect rejection everywhere from everyone. Which is quite ridiculous at this stage. I get rejected sometimes by some people and all the time by other people. You know what? That strikes me as healthy. No one is universally loved. I am far more loved than I have any right to be.

Here is something that other people offer that Noah doesn’t: making out. Noah doesn’t make out. Noah kisses then fucks. I’m sure he could be taught but it would take energy and we work on so many things that we have frankly never prioritized the making out.

But other people make out with me. Other people think that is all they can get and that the boundary beyond kissing is made out of stone. So there is the opposite of pressure to go further. There is this fantastic relaxing into this is what we are doing.

Oh I love kissing. Oxytocin. Oxytocin. Oxytocin. I love it so much I typed it three times instead of using cut’n’paste like normal. That important.

I feel like if I could make out for a solid hour every day I wouldn’t need so much mood elevating drugs. But it isn’t the same as sex. Sex is different. It does involve oxytocin, sure, but it’s also a lot more strain on my physical system.

Right this minute I’m torn (ha ha) because I sorta want to go back and initiate sex but I hurt. My cunt is so raw still. I need to heal. This is the problem. If I’m not up for sex I physically avoid him and we don’t do the oxytocin exchanges because he feels frustrated by them. I don’t want to initiate sex. I want to snuggle and rub and kiss. But that won’t happen. So either I do nothing or I do everything. This is what I mean by volition problems, Noah. I don’t know how to negotiate this with you. From our first fucking date you’ve treated limits like they are to be pushed on.

Sometimes I just want to snuggle and make out. I don’t always want friction on my delicate parts. I think that was probably always true and I’m just figuring out to say it? Although I feel like this may be one I’ve bitched about before. I’ll check with my shrink.

That’s the advantage to other people. They have no entitlement to my pussy. They think they don’t get to have it unless I say so. When I kiss them they act like they get access to my mouth. Maybe running hands up and down the back or arms. They don’t get more aggressive. It can stay at that level as long as I want it to. That’s allowed to be the whole point.

Oxytocin in my friend.

I’ve never dated someone who would make out. I always date people who say, “You’re kissing me. That means it is sex now.”

Dating while married has, in many ways, the safety of dating from ones parents home… if ones parents give a shit about you. If the people you are dating believe that anyone in the world cares about what happens to you.

It’s different.

The birds are so loud in my yard now. Loud sounds like a derogatory way to describe them but I don’t mean it that way. My yard is becoming home and they talk here. I like it.

I think I’m ready to try to sleep again. I’m tired.

It’s settled.

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Friend-who-plays-with-Noah-but-who-is-mostly-my-friend now has a name. She’s Beautiful. I’ve talked around her a lot. She’s been in my life since before I was pregnant with Eldest Child. But sex complicates things and talking about people is hard.

Now I’ll be able to refer to her slightly more directly.

Busy busy

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I woke up at 3:30 this morning and started painting. I did it by candle light because the breaker in the kitchen is turned off. I need to finish the ceiling today so we can turn the light on and put the fridge back.

I painted behind the fridge first. Both to get it done and so I could practice some techniques. God damn I’ve improved. I’m way the hell better at painting than I used to be. It’s a shame that tree will be covered. It’s gorgeous.

I finished the first layer of ceiling color and stopped at 6:30 for a break. My shoulders ache. This is going to be slooooooooooooooow because I have a lot of work on vines and leaves I want to do. Not to mention that Eldest Child wants me to go back over everything with glitter. We’ll see.

This project is going to take many days. I look forward to it. I want to finish the ceiling today. I want the light back on.

Which means I need to figure out where the trees are coming from on the walls so I can plan animals, and plants around them. Argh. IF ONLY THIS WEREN’T FUN.

With every passing year I like my painting more. The moss is downright eery and pretty.

Combine this with how much yard work I’ve gotten done this year… 2016 is a beautiful year of growth. And houseguests.

I bought the plane tickets for my friend and her kids yesterday. They are coming out for most of July. Originally I had kinda expected them to drive… with all the health problems involved that was a stupid and unsafe thought. I’m so happy she was brave enough to ask for plane tickets. I know it is hard to ask people to spend money on you. It’s hard to feel worthy. But I’m bugging her about coming to visit and there’s no way she can pay. So I bought tickets. I get them for 18 days. Sounds wonderful to me.

I’m just sad the house is in chaos. But oh well. Life is what it is.

Oh crap. I need to clean up the spare room for Dad today. Whoops. That’s kinda important cause he arrives tonight.

It will be fun. Maybe he’ll sit in a chair and talk to me while I paint. I will enjoy that.

Oh crumbs. It is the end of the school year. We need to go through boxes of saved materials for the year and cull for the portfolio. That can wait till I’m done with painting.

Side note: I feel good about life when I can look down and see paint splotches on my hand.

Other random thought: my Dad has met all of my Serious Relationships in the past 12 years. It sorta makes me think I ought to invite folks over for supper this week to meet him. I’d invite you-who-plays-with-Noah too. Cause I’m like that. Tuesday or Friday would work. What do y’all think? I’m only sorta kidding. Not really. I’d do it.

When I say “I’d do it” I really mean “How serious do you consider yourself to be?” Because no really, my Dad has met every even slightly serious relationship I’ve had as an adult since I met him. And he lives in Washington. So. How serious do you consider yourself to be in my life? This might be something worthy of direct conversations instead of passive aggression but whatever.

It’s a bonus that Dad already knows my submissive and Cupid. He’d like Daddy and Deity just find. I need a nickname for you Ms. You, the one I talk to so much in DMs on Twitter. You come up in conversation in our house at least four times a week… so you are totally in need of a blog name. Who do you want to be?

Sarah is just Sarah because she happened long before nicknames for me. And Jenny. And fuck Noah’s privacy. He gave it up with the marriage contract.

Really, if anyone in our sexin-web wanted to come, please do. We obviously want you.

Ahem.

Sometimes I stop and wonder why do I feel alone? I’m not alone anymore. Not emotionally, physically, energetically… not even spiritually. I may not be Dagora, I may not have my ancestors following me around like a flock of crows waiting to hear from me. I may not be a Christian who believes that Jesus will carry me when I falter.

But I have you. That’s enough.

Then why do I still have this keening alone alone alone feeling? Why am I so scared of myself? We are born alone and we die alone and I’m afraid afraid afraid of when I will make myself die. Please, not too soon. Don’t do it until I am completely out of good days.

Why am I so afraid of being alone? Because I’m not very nice to me. Alone means hitting, cutting, burning myself. It means the meanest words I know said over and over and over. Because I believe I deserve that.

But when I am not alone I know that it is not ok with Person X that I do that to myself. They love me and need me to at least pretend I love myself too.

I am so afraid of being alone.

I feel so lucky that I found people who want to be nice to me. I feel so lucky that I found people who, when I explain how I am being hurt by something, work to change problematic behaviors.

It isn’t that this behavior is wrong for all people. It is that it hurts me and I need you to notice that you are interacting with me.

I am not just like everyone else. I fall far outside the standard deviations in almost every metric. I have to be learned.

The trouble is that I do not believe I am worthy of such effort, time, and commitment.

My friends show up for the amount of time, with the amount of effort and commitment they have to give. Thank you. I appreciate your generosity. You don’t owe me the time of day let alone what you actually give me. Thank you.

I know I sound ungrateful. I’m not. I‘m grateful. I‘m grateful. I‘m grateful. I‘m grateful. I‘m grateful. I‘m grateful. 

Please don’t be mad at me for not being grateful enough. I’m trying.

On Wednesday I am leaving the kids home with Grandpa and daddy and I get to go help my friends for a change. Including driving (ugggggggg) I’ll probably take about six hours to go help them with a project that just exploded in their life.

I feel honored to be asked. They don’t ask for help much. They instead offer a lot of help. I am so grateful to not just be sponging off of them. Instead I have something to offer. This feels so good.

It hurts me when I ask people if I can help them with a project and they refuse. It feels like they do not trust me. It feels like I am not worthy. The quality of my work is too poor. I do not deserve to have that time with them.

I am sorry that I insulted you by offering you substandard, inadequate help. I will not trouble you further.

And that globalizes. It becomes hard to ask for other things. I am not good at asking for help. I am good at offering help. I kinda need people to let me help them so that I can get to a place where I am able to accept help in return when someone sorta bossily pushes it on me.

Oh I love bossy people. Love love love.

The satisfaction of people believing that my help is worth something…. that is huge. Whether it is a wood working project, organizing, writing, parenting, bdsm, whatever.

When people act like I hold wisdom and experience that is useful… I feel like my life has value. I should not die. See… I have things left to give. I am still a useful tool.

I need to be useful.

This isn’t a “healthy” part of my makeup but it’s there.

Ok, I’ve been writing for about 40 minutes. 1400ish words. Should I stop now and save spoons for painting? Yes I should. Future me needs these arms. I typed slow so I wouldn’t hurt myself too much. I was careful.

I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art.

Ok. Now I’m ready to stop resting.

Medicated late

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I was reminded why I use pot. We went for a walk. After the breakfast I made and served to Noah in bed because the kids wanted me to. I didn’t have time to smoke.

I was a Negative Nancy. Whine. Bitch. Moan. Complain. Nothing is good enough. I’m never satisfied.

We talked about birthday stuff. For the past three years I’ve just… not been home on my birthday. That way I don’t get mad at Noah for doing nothing. I don’t like getting mad at Noah. I’d rather avoid him on days when I think I’m going to be mad pretty much no matter what he does.

I need to let it go and try again. I’ve really punished Noah long enough.But there were several years in a row of not so much as a card or a flower or a cupcake. Just, “Oh. Happy Birthday.” And that was back before he cooked for me like he does. I bet he’d get more elaborate in his meals now.

I need to try again and not be pissy and not hold on to bitterness. He made some mistakes and he bloody well knows it. I think he’d prefer that I not have a fourth birthday in a row of avoiding him.

  1. Disneyland with the kids 2. Camping by myself (this was great) 3. Road trip–we were with Mitty in Georgia.

It does matter that it is the day of my actual birthday. Doing something on a different day isn’t the same. It isn’t that I need a huge party or anything.

I’m nice to people. Sometimes I stop and recognize that I am nice. And part of my sharp edge is my sadness about the ways in which I have not gotten that back.

The older I get the more I see that it isn’t that folks were that mean to me. Not Noah, not my mom. But I often don’t know how to feel love from them and that is functionally mean in my brain.

And of course I’m crying because today is Father’s Day. I have a lot of Dad’s and Daddy’s that are… I guess nice to me. Noah commented that Dad is proof that I can give someone second chance after second chance after second chance if they really show up for me over the long-run. Dad and I have had some issues. I keep coming back and so does he because of a lot of investment of energy and work and love. I’m not sure what he would have to do to run out of chances. Hurt my children. Beyond that… I’ll figure out how to forgive him because he has loved me when other people really didn’t show much sign of that. He showed up and took care of me when I needed it. He is taking it seriously to be in my children’s lives. He is appropriate with them. There are no grooming behaviors.

But none of these people were part of my life as a child. These are all people with whom I am trying to re-parent/fix damage. So. Much. Damage.

I think I am so fucking pissed at Noah’s parents for not wanting to go because it feels like they could have been my shot at having a family and they are opting out because they don’t give a shit. Because I won’t let them set all the terms. So fuck me.

Come to Texas. Kiss their ass. Or get…what she feels like shipping sometimes as she cleans out her god damn attic.

It’s not about the money they have never had jobs in their lives because they are rich.

So. It’s a choice. It’s a fuck you choice. And I wonder how much I sorta love that and hate that and hold it against Noah and give him brownie points for it at the same time.

Shit.

I am in my feels.

I feel kind of ashamed of myself that I only get motivated to really pursue my friends when I feel some specific “ok” signal is given and interest in sex is the strongest and easiest. It doesn’t have to. Obviously I maintain platonic relationships. But the… length of time in between when I can ask for a visit is long. I feel like I’m imposing and offering little.

I feel like like I have so very little to offer anyone.