I’m ranting and raving this morning. I’m being a fucking asshole. Youngest Child is feeling fussy and particular and I’m… not being nice. I’m trying to vacuum the house, cause folks are coming over and my house is gross. And the kids are standing around watching me or fighting instead of picking up their stuff so I’m yelling. This sucks.

So I’m coming out to the garage cause it’s only 9am and I’m not ok.

I’m kinda sick of “Pick up the floor” being interpreted as “Move one or two big things and pick up none of the little things.”

I can’t vacuum up all these beads, bracelets, slippers, play money, pencils, and hair bands. Pick.Them.Up.

I’m such a mom.

And today I’m an asshole mom.

I keep wondering why it is so important that I get off the medication that works and has a very low side effect profile so that I can get on something that doesn’t work, makes me sick, and has a ridiculous side effect profile of damaging my brain forever.

WHY?!?!?!!?

Because it is illegal in many places, that’s why.

I had dinner with a friend last night and she really wanted to help me brainstorm how to sneak pot on my trip. I finally yelled, “I have no interest in ending up in a Caribbean fucking prison can we change the god damn subject!”

She meant well.

Cannabis is not more legal if it is in a pill or a brownie or oil.

I have now smoked my first bowl of the day. Do I feel better yet? Not really. Sad face. If one bowl could do it, I’d feel ok with my usage during pregnancy.

Ok, I got up and walked around the house and finished vacuuming since the kids finished. Maybe this is more impact than I think. I think that means one more will be enough. That’s not bad for me.

And frankly… the kids actually didn’t take that long. They needed four reminders, but… I think that’s the same kind of lack of spatial awareness their dad has.

Their dad can’t find things in the refrigerator. Even if it is on the right shelf if it isn’t in the exact quadrant he expects. This happened again like a week ago. Literally, it was 5″ from where he expected it to be and he couldn’t find it.

So maybe my kids come by it honestly.

This is what I like about pot. I go from “WHY THE FUCK ISN’T THIS DONE?!?!?!?!?!?!111111” to “Ok, you missed a few things but you are making progress. Well done.”

Anti-psychotics don’t make me feel this way.

I feel sad that I have to hurt myself in order to hopefully stop feeling like I can stop hurting myself.

I got almost nine hours of sleep. I declare allergy medication to be a miracle. I think I’m going to ask for allergy testing. I am pretty sure… I have allergies. Like whoa. All of a sudden I can breathe. I’m not even waking up to pee until 8 hours of sleep. That’s a miracle.

Noah is going to take the kids to martial arts. I’m going to stay home and clean. Maybe it will help my cranky. I feel so cranky in a messy house. Messy houses = work waiting to crash on my head. I dislike messy. It makes me anxious. It’s like having 100 unread emails in my inbox. That’s overwhelming. Have I mentioned that my whole house is messy because of the remodel and it has been since February and I’m about to lose my mind?

But! The plan revision is finally appropriate and at the city. Once I get it back I can submit the new contractors information to the city and start work again. Right as we are leaving. So really it should wait till we get back. *beat head on ground*

September 12th will hopefully be the start date then. And I get to pray it is done by Christmas. I hope that means the roof will be finished in September. I will have to consult with the contractor and the roofer. I hope the roofing can start on September 26th. I sent an email to that effect. To both folks.

Oh boy. Being a grown up is lame.

Second bowl is done. I feel… better but not good. Sigh. I’m going to go do more cleaning. Meh. Fuss. Whine. Folks are coming over in two hours.

I have way more thoughts about my leaky bucket. But my house won’t clean itself.

I’m so tired. I’m so tired I have managed to nap today. Yay? BaGG was wonderful. My friends embraced me to their pervy bosoms and nurtured my slutty nature. Thank you for loving me and tolerating my come and go nature.

I asked Noah for permission to play a little since my month isn’t really over. I said I would keep it light. I did. I played for like 15 minutes with a person I met at a party recently. It was fun but not real intense or in depth. I also spent a lot of time flirting/kissing/dancing/rubbing on a variety of other friends. Some of whom are previous lovers/play partners.

The kissing stayed light and not intense. The play never got sexual. Ok, rubbing my butt on people while dancing was sexual but that was the most of it.

I feel bad that I haven’t been better at keeping things at this level. This would not have hurt Noah so much.

One of my former lovers/play partners actually asked me if I wanted to leave the club and go to a motel for a few hours. I said thank you, but no.

Your wife may be fine with it. My husband would have feelings and I need to care about that right now. But thank you for the offer. You are aging wicked hot (God damn) and I feel quite flattered by your offer.

Noah keeps telling me that I’ll never run out of tempting offers. He’s probably right.

I have to say, knowing that I’m 10 weeks out from trying to conceive (that means we’ll get started trying right after a bleeding cycle ends–convenient) means I’m less tempted to push hard on new partners or renewing a partnership that hasn’t been acted upon in more than ten  years.

If Deity flirted hard saying no would be much harder.

Sigh.

The music wasn’t great… but honestly that’s typical. Oh well. I did get to help demonstrate that a polka can be done in an incredibly constrained space.

When I got home Noah was waiting up because he doesn’t sleep without me. That makes sense. I don’t sleep without him either.

I have been binging on season 5 of Call the Midwife. I like the examinations of families and interactions and burdens and joys. This season is brutal and sad. I wouldn’t recommend coming in at this point to anyone. It would not grab the heart in the same way. But it is informative as to history still. And beloved characters are carrying on. I like seeing what that means even though most of it is sad.

I understand that mostly, life is sad.

My beloved submissive is going to come watch me paint so that I feel a little more motivated to get done. My neighbor wants me to come over so we can have more girl talk. Friends will drop by this weekend.

I hate how not talking to people all day long on the internet means I feel lonely. It is an existential feeling that I hate. I don’t deserve to feel lonely. My life is full to bursting. This is misperception. This is broken.

I’m not alone. I am loved and cared for. I do not know how it would be possible to end up with more/better than I have. Not for someone like me. Why don’t I appreciate it more? Why don’t I just sit with the gratitude I feel?

Where does all this pissiness come from?

It isn’t that I think I should have more or I should get more. That’s not it at all.

My sweet loves have cuddled me for a lot of today. I’m afraid this oxytocin rush is going to have to come from them. I won’t be able to kiss my friends to get it. I just get to love my children.

Wife and mother.

Be that.

Why doesn’t it feel like more?

I am more? Does it matter? Does any of it matter at all?

I don’t know. But that’s enough typing for today. Ow.

Thank you, Beautiful, for the ride. I had a great time. I’m glad I get to be friends with you.

I’m asking Noah over and over: why more kids? He says he didn’t know how good we would be at parenting (fair, that was hard to evaluate with a 28 month old and a 6 week old and that’s when he got snipped) and he didn’t know that we would adapt and have so much fun. He says he waited until I got to the point of saying that I will accept a lot of medical management so I don’t die.

I’m definitely ok with signing up for whatever support I need so I don’t die. I know this will be complicated.

Why do I want more? I never didn’t. I have cried through every period I’ve had in about the last five years since I started bleeding again. I always wanted more kids. Why? Biology is a bitch. I like breeding. I like my kids. I hate being pregnant–I’m a miserable pregnant person. But at the end I get this baby. I can put up with nine months of anything.

Baby.

And my babies have turned into little people I like and respect who behave in ways I’m frankly quite proud of. My kids aren’t perfect. They are assholes just like their parents. But they are trying. They care about how their behavior impacts people and when they hurt someone they apologize and try to make it right. I respect them. They try so hard to be good people.

The struggle is real.

I’m going to have one bowl this morning. That’s uhm, barely using any pot for me. The Bonus Kids are here and hopefully this will be enough for me to get through breakfast without fuss and I need to start managing my mood more sober. Fuck. Shit. UGH.

It’ll be great. All four of these kids make my socks roll up and down with joy.

I uhh start off most days with 6-10 bowls. So 1 is a huge taper. Like whoa.

In my opinion if I could get my usage down to less than 5 bowls in 24 hours… that’s a level I won’t hate myself for during pregnancy. Less/none would be best. But… I use a lot. I don’t want to think about how much because my tolerance level is so ridiculous. It took me a lot of years of gradually increasing to get where I am. I haven’t had a month off since we went to Europe. Ha.

I didn’t sleep for the first 8 days of that trip. I need to not experience that again.

Noah’s vasectomy reversal is 6 weeks and 2 days away. We leave for the trip in 3 weeks and 2 days. So we can start trying for a baby in 10 weeks.

Holy crap.

This is Noah’s 35th birthday present to me. Surgery.

So I can have a baby. Baby. Baby. He keeps saying things that are freaking me out. He doesn’t think we’ll stop after one more. I HAVE SAID THREE FROM DAY ONE. NOW HE’S TALKING FOUR OR FIVE.

We would have to move. Probably out of the bay area because we won’t be able to afford a bigger house here. I mean, we could if we gave up the kind of travel we do. That’s hella expensive. But I don’t want to. Hell, it’s going to be even more expensive with more bodies. We are jumping from one to two hotel rooms in a lot of places. Eeek.

This is how I will have a family. I do not have sisters or brothers or aunts or uncles or parents or cousins who want to know me. I get to have children. With Noah. That’s the only family I am ever going to have.

Yeah. I’m ok with more. This is going so well.

My kids radiate joy and love. That has been their whole life. Yes, I’d sign up for more of this. We are so much more patient and loving than I expected.

I think that for me, parenting and teaching are all mixed up. This is the relationship in which I am allowed to be my best self. I am allowed to give the things I have that are the most valuable and worthy. I don’t have to slice down my offerings to be what someone else wants to hear in their brief 15 minutes of listening to me in this whole lifetime. I suck like that.

My children get to see what I do habitually, what habits I actually prioritize, how I behave all the time so they know the difference between doing well and failing.

They get a pretty uncensored picture. I mean, I don’t tell them all my feelings or thoughts but my children have witnessed the vast majority of my behavior for years. They know where I’m a hypocrite (I’m such a fucking whiner) and where I walk my talk.

Mostly I do walk my talk. I am consistent even if I can’t do it in the ways other people want from me. That’s ok. I may not be the person who can get the kids to the library story time like clockwork every week for years but I am the person who will show up to help, whenever necessary and I’ll do whatever is necessary.

I am not good at being a community member. I’m a top notch foul weather friend.

I am not the kind of person most people want to spend lots of time with. I’m abrasive and challenging and stubborn and controlling. But god damn I’m great in a crisis.

I have to believe it takes all kinds. There is a need for lots of kinds of people. I have to believe there is a place for me.

Someone has to be willing to talk to the incest cohort. I was reading through more studies recently. WHY DO MOST OF THESE “STUDIES” MAX OUT AT 50 PARTICIPANTS. I’d put money on these populations being homogenous. UGH. THIS IS NOT USEFUL INFORMATION. GOD DAMNIT.

There are millions of people who have experienced incest. You couldn’t find them? Shit. I’ve met more people in my lifetime who have talked to me about their incest experiences than these god damn researchers can find.

I think you need to be able to smell them. And I can. It’s remarkable how often I sidle up to a complete stranger and start talking and in under two hours they’ve told me that they were raped by a family member too.

We are everywhere. If you can’t find us… you aren’t looking.

That’s the only piece of sad I have about more babies now. That’s setting back my research by 10-15 years.

I guess I will have to stay alive longer if I want to really do this. I want to compile information on the incest cohort. I’m trying to find language for this that works for me.

Tribe is out. Victim is out. Survivor is out. Sufferer is out.

Why?

Because all four of those words will alienate a lot of the people I want to talk to for complicated reasons. I need to find language that will generalize and be ok.

How do I talk about incest without implying from the get go that someone is always hurt? It… isn’t true. Some of us have been hurt quite badly *raise hand* but a large number…… weren’t hurt. Either because they were perpetrators (and god damn I want to talk to them) or because… they didn’t feel hurt. That happens. It’s normal and ok for someone to have that set of responses.

I need to not alienate those people if I want to understand incest. They are a big part of the picture. They are what my father wanted from his incestuous acts. I don’t think he truly wanted to kill the souls of his children. I think he was looking for connection in the fucked up way he knew how.

I want to talk to people who manage to connect that way and have positive results. I want to hear all the details they are willing to share. I sincerely hope that when it happens I get to be a balm to their souls because they haven’t ever been able to be honest with anyone else about it.

Truth is freeing.

Tell the truth and shame the devil.

I write as much as I can about what I think because for good or bad… I am. I exist. I am here. I am complicated and good and bad and… that’s life. That’s what being a person means. No one is all good. No one is all bad. We are all trying, in our stunted ways, to reach for the light.

Most people who deal with the kinds of racing thoughts and mixed feelings and experiences I have don’t ever find a voice. They live with this cacophony trapped inside their brain.

I am so sorry. It is much easier when you can pull a thread out of the melody and release it into the world… somehow.

I may not feel connection exactly from sharing my words but I definitely feel like I am solidifying who I am. I feel like I am making sense of a terrible enigma. I am figuring out why I am doing what I’m doing. Sometimes it is biological compulsion. Sometimes there is even less sense than that.

People suck.

Done with the one bowl. I’ve been writing for an hour. Get off the computer. (Hey, I took breaks! I went slow! Yeah… your hands suck. Stop it.)

I must say: this Afrin nose spray is heavenly. I’m getting 7-8 hours of sleep a night. I want to fall down and kiss the feet of the doctor who suggested this. I am definitely bringing some on the cruise. Maybe allergy pills are worth exploring? I should ask. Or maybe just god damn try something over the counter and skip a doctor.

Breathing is kinda miraculous, you know?

I see my med doctor in 10 days. I’m scared she will want to put me on something extreme again.

Can we please please please stop treating my body as if it has schizophrenia? That is going quite poorly for me.

I need something different. I don’t know what it is yet. But not to be treated like I have schizophrenia.

I come from a family with PTSD. I get the impression it has been around for generations. We have a lot of stories of neglect and depression and self harm and suicide. Over time my opinion of the depression I have felt and the depression I see in my family has changed. I’m not sure I see it as something bad that must be avoided at all costs. I see it as something that sometimes makes sense. I’m not saying depression is logical. I’m saying it makes sense. That’s not really the same thing.

I’ve had more than one period of my life where intense depressions are probably the reason I stayed out of jail. Maybe it wasn’t so terrible.

Complicated.

I have reached an important conclusion about myself as a bdsm player. I will never again play without a safeword. Because that’s the difference between setting myself up for trauma and being able to protect myself. I need a way to say stop hurting me.

Or I can’t do bdsm at all.

Because the difference between bdsm and abuse is the ability to stop it when it is a problem. I couldn’t stop Noah from “doing a scene” on a day that already overwhelmingly traumatic and it has had consequences for our marriage and my body for ten years.

I can’t let that happen again. I need to be able to say, “Not now. Motherfucker.”

Hell, maybe that should be my safeword.

If I get to the point of saying that…. back away….

ha

I don’t defend myself unless there is some very good reason to. At this point my reason to is because I don’t want my children to see me not defend myself.

I do a lot of things now because I want my children to see someone who does them.

I know that is part of why Noah was so surprised by me going off leash. It seems so out of character.

It is and it isn’t. My character has many facets. I worry about being in the closet. I worry about being perceived as a liar later.

I missed Dore Alley. Will I miss Folsom too? Sigh.

I miss my friends. I miss the person they accept me as.

I keep thinking it would be fun to write up a class called Rape, Rape Play and what I’ve learned.

It would be offensive as fuck, I’m sure.

Ok I’m done.

Today I was reading a post about rape and there was a comment about marital rape in the 80’s. That made me think about something I’ve probably never considered before. I’m pretty sure my father raped my mother on his birthday. The timing fits. It fits exactly. I’ve never thought about it before though. Fuck.

I also read this post. It’s about ways to commit rape you probably don’t think of as rape.

I spent a while today talking to a woman who is dealing with some pretty extreme domestic violence.

I wonder often if Noah is a boogieman or a monster. Has he hurt people? Yes. Not like that. Perspective.

I’m worried about Noah flipping out if I push him too far. That’s not what other people deal with.

A friend said to me today that we marry the person we think we deserve. Maybe. I’ve spent most of my marriage wondering how I talked someone so far up the ladder into marrying me. Sucker.

I got to talk to my Pam today. She says someone should write a story about her. Ok. I’ll make it happen. Not in the next month.

Noah is working really hard lately. He is… showing up for stuff he’s never shown up for before. He’s trying so hard. He’s always been a good husband. These days I feel like a towering pile of shit who does not deserve him.

We are trying to figure out how to get the pain-during-sex to stop. We have a few approaches we are trying. They depend upon him having more self control than ever and me having more initiative to say no than ever. Wish us luck.

I feel terrified of not writing down something about our dark side. I’m terrified of presenting this false Leave It To Beaver front.

But mostly things are good. So good I don’t think I belong here. I should be killed off so my understudy can step in. She will be more deserving and worthy.

Fuck.

I could point at dozens of women who are more deserving than me. They aren’t violent pieces of shit. They aren’t monsters who have to struggle every fucking day to control themselves.

They just… don’t have this ravening monster inside them.

I am unworthy of what I have.

I know.

Sometimes folks ask me why I don’t like myself.

I don’t see much to like. I’m a fucking selfish asshole.

I’m sorta terrified what my med-doctor will suggest when I see her on the 16th. I’m on my own till then.

Whyyyyyyyyy can’t I have a sleeping pill?!

Nope. Anti-psychotics for you, motherfucker.

Great.

I’m too dysregulated.

Sigh. Can we please not treat my dysregulation like it is an extreme crisis? Can we act like, “Alright. Let’s see how to turn the nozzles down a notch or two” instead of “OMG IT ISN’T OK TO FEEL LIKE THAT IT HAS TO STOP LET’S GIVE YOU THE STRONGEST DRUGS THAT EXIST.”

Ya know… I haven’t found this approach to work at all.

Maybe I’m depressed because shitty things happen and being well adjusted to them would be fucked up.

I would like to made a radical suggestion at my next appointment. I played ball and tried four drugs I didn’t want to try because I have to prove I “trust” the med-doc. Ok, how about if you try trusting me a little. What I want is a sleeping pill. Not a silver bullet. I want something to help me catch up on sleep because I’ve been functioning with a level of sleep that qualifies as torture for years because I am physically unable to sleep. Can we fucking address this symptom and see what happens? I’m cool with trying the appetite stimulant faux-pot thing to see if that would solve part of my need for pot.

Can we start there for a few months? Please? For the love of Crisco.

My body does not tolerate extreme medications like antipsychotics and ssri’s without going fucking ballistic.

HAVE I PROVEN IT TO YOUR SATISFACTION YET?!

Or do I have to suffer more for your amusement? This is why I’m all for the UN’s proposed rights for the survivors and users of the psychiatric system. GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER USA. BRAZIL IS MORE HUMANE. WTF.

Stupid congress. Go fuck yourselves.

I should stop typing. But I’m very lonely without Twitter. If I’m not on Twitter or Facebook it is like my friends… fade away.

That’s not entirely true. I love you IM buddies. You are a balm to my soul.

I feel like the last few years have created kind of a perfect storm of needing to deal with my thoughts about violence. Who am I in relationship to it? How do I want to react to it? How do I feel about it?

I feel like it started with the kick to the throat before I left on the road trip. When it happened I physically withdrew instead of attacking and tried to talk to the mother after the fact when I was calm. Ok, it blew up to hell and back and ended up with me on the outs with the group because I am dangerously angry… uhm… ok. Whatever. Fuck all y’all. I’m proud of how I fucking handled that. I did well in my opinion.

This year more than one person has threatened to hurt Noah. In one of those circumstances I wasn’t standing there and I just get to decide how I feel about having someone in my life who will casually threaten to break my husband’s legs. Easy choice: I will never set foot in your house (your turf) again and I’m going to be distantly polite in public. We will never be friendly again and if that means I lose a relationship with your wife… so be it. I don’t like it but that’s the choice I need to make.

We don’t always get choices we like.

Someone else got up and threatened to punch Noah. Fists were waving. It was loud and threatening. I inserted myself between the person and Noah and deescalated the situation. I did not end up with a friend, but if someone is going to do that to Noah… they weren’t going to be my friend anyway.

I’m proud of the fact that I can deescalate when someone else desperately wants to escalate. I am proud that when I am hurt I no longer blindly react.

This is fantastic progress for me.

My kids have been a bit slap happy lately. When one child struck another child yesterday we had a Very Long Chat About Hitting.

It went something like: “Ok, if you keep hitting your sibling does this mean you think it is ok for us to hit you?”

“Yes. I deserve it. I’ve been hitting.”

“Oh baby. That’s not what I believe. I believe none of us deserve to be hit. I believe that if one of us hits someone else it is a loss of control and we need to fix it. I believe that I do not want my babies to ever believe they deserve being hit. So I’m not going to ever ever ever hit one of you again. I fucked up *once* and that’s the fuck up I get in this life. Oh baby. You don’t deserve being hit.”

Followed by a kid sobbing and clutching on me and thanking me.

If you are hitting too often then we will have a chat with your martial arts instructor a bit more about reminding folks in class not to use moves on siblings. I may censor the videos you are watching a lot more carefully because you are having trouble managing the images and impulses that are coming into your brain.

But if I hit you to teach you that hitting is wrong I have failed. I have taught nothing except that I am yet another bully.

I know I can be a bully. I actively seek to suppress that instinct every single day. I know I can. I don’t want to be though. I reject that paradigm.

I want to be something different. I want to build you up, not tear you down.

It isn’t that I’m 100% opposed to violence. As a sadomasochist I want carefully negotiated violence in my sex life. As a traumatized person I believe I have the right to defend myself from attack up to and including terminating a life if I really must to eliminate a threat. I will not go farther than necessary, but I can come up with many plausible situations where I will do what I must to walk away.

But I don’t hit people who offend me. I’m offended all the god damn time. I don’t hit people who irritate me. I don’t hit people who disgust or bother me.

No. Violence is a big deal. In order to cross the line and hurt another being, human or otherwise, I believe there must be a fucking good reason. I won’t kill an animal for funsies. I would if I needed to eat. Sure. I wouldn’t hesitate. I would probably apologize and say thank you for the sacrifice. Never for fun. I don’t kill insects willy nilly for fun and I yell at people who do. We need the insects too.

I would say that violence isn’t fun, but my sex life is violent as fuck and fun as hell.

Uhm, context matters?

As much pain as I’ve emotionally felt as I’ve solidified these positions for myself… I think it’s going to long term be worth seeing that I have changed. Ten years ago I did hit people when I was bothered, irritated, annoyed, or poked. Ten years ago if a child had kicked me in the throat I probably would have hospitalized the child.

Not now.

I’m proud of the progress. I have worked very hard on having control over my body and my emotions. I am not just an animal blindly reacting any more. I have conscious volition and I am so fucking proud of myself I cannot contain the pride.

This is a big deal for someone like me. I don’t know many people who start out as violent and hateful as me who get it under control. It is a big deal.

I need to recognize that for myself.

*pat self on back*

Switching gears slightly: Rose suggested that I feel like monogamy is killing me by inches. I’m not sure it is the monogamy.

I think sexual violence that I do not consent to is killing me.

A friend made a comment, trying to be joking, about how many times have I been raped in the past ten years. I squinted and said three. He said the last one with Noah didn’t count.

Hooo.

I consented to it in advance. That’s true. I didn’t know what I was getting into. I was stupid and I didn’t know what kind of trauma I was signing on for. I “consented” to something that has fucked me up for years. Something that has made it very hard to trust my husband fully because I god damn know that if I try to fight him off I am going to lose.

So it doesn’t count. But it is a mound of earth over my face in the hole I have dug for myself.

I’m aware it is all my fault. Doesn’t change the fact that it is a loop in the noose about to slip over my neck.

That’s how my problems go. They are mostly all my fault.

I genuinely thought I was going to end up with a “rape scene” like previous ones I have done. This wasn’t like that at all. He picked a day when I was already sobbing and traumatized. I would not have consented to doing something like that on a day like that. I was stupid to not give more parameters. It’s my fault.

I know.

Part of the reason the banging the wall next to my head bothers me so much is that I have had to remove absolutely all signs of tapping Noah in irritation because it feels like hitting him to him and he escalates and hurts me. It feels like I am bounded on several sides by threats of violence. Don’t touch him too hard. Don’t use words that he dislikes. Don’t behave in ways he doesn’t like.

Or the Sword of Damocles is coming down, bitch.

It isn’t the monogamy that is hurting me. It is the fact that I feel like violence is inevitable if I step out of line.

Guess what I’m going to motherfucking do in this life? Yeah that’s right. I’m going to step out of line.

I’m scared and angry.

I am very very angry that I have gotten myself into a situation where I feel terrified of upsetting my partner because he will hurt me and my partner thinks it is fine to “defend himself”. He weighs 50-60 lbs more than me. This is some bullshit.

Sure we are honeymooning right now whilst I am going limp and not pushing a fucking boundary in any way shape or form. How long can that last? I’m fucking angry that I have the threat of violence.

And I feel like there isn’t a lot I can do. I feel helpless and upset.

I don’t think it is the monogamy getting to me.

Why do I think there is violence in my marriage when I step out of line? Because I’ve had the bruises to prove it. Sure, I only got bruises when I “hit” him first. I was thwapping him. He didn’t get a bruise. It was one of those scoffing “Oh you are so annoying” hits. He returned it with force.

“If someone hits me I’m going to make them sorry.”

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

I’m pathetic.

Oh fuck me and what I fucking want.

Does this threat of violence keep me permanently in line? Nope. Cause I’m a right proper stupid bitch.

And then we took a break to have a conversation we needed to have. And now the kids are up. End of train of thought.