Monthly Archives: November 2019

Too many thoughts.

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I am having trouble falling asleep again. I am thinking about gardening and book shelves and how very stressful it is having our things on the boat still. By the time they arrive it will have taken over four months. I don’t have perfect recollection of what is on the boat and I am at the point where I really don’t want to buy duplicates of things because that is a waste of money so I just kind of… fuss because I don’t even know what I am waiting for but I can’t buy things to fill my needs. It feels horrible.

Deficient: (in something) not having enough of something, especially something that is essential; not good enough

Retarded: less developed mentally than is normal for a particular age

I am having a lot of feelings about both of those words. Anger. Rage. Fury. Sadness. Despondency. Anxiety. Frustration. Defensive.

There is a strong idea that home schooling harms children. That it makes them unable to develop “normally”. This idea doesn’t come from one person or one place, it comes from many places. I find it utterly infuriating and enraging to have to deal with this idea. I’m not feeling very rational about it. If it were coming from one place or one person I think I could cope. I think I could parse my feelings down into a little bucket and figure out how to talk about them. But it isn’t coming from one place it is coming from many and I feel like instead of being able to process it with any of those places I am engulfed in a tidal wave of upset and I utterly cannot engage with why this is such a motherfucking insulting concept.

I need to find a way to wrap my brain around useful words though. My kids need me to. They need me to be able to advocate for them in a way that does not include just saying “Fuck off” to authority figures. I have to find eloquent words to go through why it is utterly unacceptable to use such words and I am failing. I am fucking failing.

Because those words are a contemptuous indictment of me as much or more than my children. Because I home schooled them and if they are deficient it is my fault. That was literally the point of home schooling. There is no one to blame but me. But are they deficient or are they different in a way that would have been true no matter how they were schooled? Are they struggling more or less than they would have if they were put in school when they really didn’t want to go and it would have been a daily fight? I have no crystal ball. All I have is documentation from Stanford that the way I home schooled is the ideal learning environment.

But in Scotland all home schooling is termed interrupted learning as if home educating means that all learning was interrupted.

My kids were going to be weird no matter what. Look at their parents.

Be bitchy nice. That was the advice of the mom I talked to on the playground. Demand that the school change the words they use. My experience is that schools are abusive and the only thing you can do about it is leave. Take your football and go home. But I don’t want to yank my kids out because of one fucking cunt. I need to find words that are effective and clear and commanding.

Don’t. Insult. Children.

If you cannot talk about children without using insulting, rude language do not work with them or discuss them at all. Your nasty opinion is utterly unhelpful and can in fact be damaging.

Children can have areas where they struggle. Children can have areas where they need extra help. Children can require extra support to be successful.

THAT DOESN’T MAKE THEM FUCKING DEFICIENT YOU PIECE OF SHIT MOTHERFUCKER.

Not good enough.

Go straight to hell you presumptuous cow.

Clearly something is going on and clearly I am not going to be direct about it. BUT I’M HAVING A LOT OF GOD DAMN FEELINGS.

My children are articulate, self-aware, sensitive to the emotions of others, expressive, have incredibly large vocabularies, can figure out how to play with people across social classes, can eat at fancy restaurants around the world with perfect table manners (no matter what table manners mean for that country), and they have unreal memories for data. But yes, they have things they aren’t perfect at. So. Fucking. What.

I am so angry I could spit nails. And I have no choice but to deal with this. I have to be the adult. I have to advocate. I have to ask for meetings and use my big girl words and not swear at all. Even though I want to say a lot of incredibly rude words. Even though I want to break things.

I would much rather think about gardening.

For the record: I am only interested in discussing difficulties in communicating with professional educators if you are in fact a professional educator. I have no desire to speak to other parents about this whatsoever. There are a myriad of reasons for having this boundary. I don’t need to share them all. Or any.

I still fucking hate school.

And yet I consider going back to university. I would like to work with kids who have emotional problems. I want to research incest. I think it will require more schooling. My ass is going to be in the special needs office saying, “Hi I’m Autistic, I have ADHD, PTSD, GAD, and arthritis. I absolutely require the use of a computer; it is abusive to require me to hand write.”

Fuck hand writing. Fuck hand writing being the fucking measure of someone’s motherfucking intelligence. Why don’t you fuck yourself with a fucking chain saw.

Maybe my kids need to be allowed to type as well.

Maybe it is time to find a game that teaches touch typing.

Maybe I should just think about gardening instead. I want a subscription to the lovely gardening magazine Jenny gave me a bunch of old copies of. That thing is detailed and fantastic. Over the winter I am going to sit down and start planning all the things I can do once I’m allowed to plant. I can get started in September! There’s lots to plant in September! Given the budget we want to follow next year we are going to be doing basically everything in cash. So at the end of the month I will be able to put the money I save from the hoped for budget into a jar for gardening. That’s my gardening budget. I’m not in California anymore with a tech salary. I can only buy things as I can afford them on a fairly tight income. I am choosing to make my budget much tighter than I think we will fully maintain. Hm. That sounds not-right. I always budget as if we have far less money than we do. Because I will fuck up and go over my plans. I am aiming for a really really low figure. Much lower than I think we will manage. Because then when I go over it I am still at a reasonable level. And I am going to do this partly by limiting myself to cash. Easier to say “We have no cash in the envelope” than “I don’t want to use the credit card”.

Gardening is not going to be a big part of the budget. I am probably going to become that lady who asks if I can take clippings. I only get to buy plants/hard scaping stuff once I have saved up enough money. I’m not planning to travel any time soon. Well, we have to go to Edinburgh for official stuff. But the whole trip is going to be in the neighborhood of £300. Lodging and train are costing £140 and I plan to bring snacks/meals for the train. We aren’t staying long. We aren’t going to fancy restaurants nor Do All The Things. We will get passports taken care of and notarize the sale papers for DVC. Then we will come home.

We will only be awake and available for entertainment for like 9 hours total in the city anyway.

I’m tired. I don’t want to hang out. I really don’t.

I’m tired so why the fuck can’t I sleep? Because I have to be bitchy nice with officials and the idea makes my stomach hurt. I feel sick.

Gardening. Gardening is fun to think about. Book shelves will be paid for out of DVC profits. After the book shelves are paid for the rest goes into investments.

Paint will have to be saved up for.

It occurs to me that I don’t want to get rid of all the cardboard boxes. I want them for gardening and painting. Hm. For gardening: it will be a great way to kill a bunch of the lawn so I can plant more interesting things there. For painting: tarps ain’t free and if I can put cardboard several layers deep over the carpet I don’t need tarps. Hmmmm. Ok. I convinced myself.

Before I kill lawn I need to see where things come up in the spring. I hear there are bulbs out there. I will have to mark the lawn somehow to protect the bulbs when I rip out grass. I’ll figure that out.

We’ve gone out and done some winter pruning as a family. It was really fun. I love how much my kids love working with me. I love watching them take pride in their growing abilities. They are quite competent at a wide array of skills.

NOT GOOD ENOUGH MY AUNT FANNY.

Fuck petty educators.

Gardening. Book shelves. Stop ranting in your head, Krissy. It won’t help.

I am scared I won’t be able to help.

I feel bad about myself.

I feel like I must be a shitty teacher. Only I know I am not. Only I feel like I am. All home schoolers have experienced “interrupted learning”. I want to puke. I am so fucking mad.

Dogma. Fuck your fucking dogma.

Just keep swimming.

Draw a picture or some shit.

Writing is creation

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When I don’t write for a while I get super agitated. It’s complicated. There are many layers of things going on and I can’t write about a bunch of them and that’s really bothering me. I’m contemplating picking people I can write letters to because that at least allows me to talk to someone about what I’m thinking, but that feels loaded too. There are so many things happening. On one finger: I write because it helps me organize my thoughts and feelings. On another finger (because this is way the fuck more than two hands, yo): I write because I am leaving this documentation in the ether for my children. On another finger: I write because it helps me connect with really interesting people. On another finger: I write because it is so much better than self mutilation. On another finger: I like doing it. Writing about myself allows me to create who I want to be.

I am absolutely brimming with feelings because moving here allows all of us a fresh start. In so many ways we are leaving behind who we were and we are becoming something different. I like something different. But Noah and I created selves in the bay with great effort and work over many many years. Leaving all of that behind to start again is incredibly hard. I don’t get to walk into a room and have my reputation precede me. I have to introduce myself. I have to decide what I will say about myself.

I went to a fantastic lecture the other day about migrants and boundaries and borders. I said thank you to the speaker and she asked me a little about myself. I said her lecture was making me think a million thoughts about my own experience of moving 60+ times in the US before traveling the world and landing here. It made me think about all of the things I saw in immigrant neighborhoods in California. It made me think about all of the people I know who have crossed borders. She asked me to email her so we can continue the conversation. I haven’t yet, I was cooking and then flopping in exhaustion in between medical appointments.

I saw some really interesting looking ink at a craft fair and while I was browsing and trying to decide if I wanted to buy any I heard the creator telling another customer about how obsessed she is with painting trees. Me too.

I met a nice young man at the local shop. We got to talking and it turns out he is into D&D and he’s a literature major at the university and we exchanged phone numbers and we’ve been talking about books and comics and things.

I have been to the local munch a couple of times. I have met some really interesting people there. I am saying loudly and clearly when cute people flirt with me NOT POLY. CAN’T DATE. PROBABLY NOT EVER. I am not available, no matter how my stories about the past make me sound.

I feel bad that I haven’t been going to as many of the baby classes/events but they use half a day and utterly wear me out. I don’t get much else done on days that I go and I have had appointments and deliveries and Noah was gone. I can’t do everything. And just doing the mommy-of-a-toddler thing is… not where I am as much anymore. I am that, clearly. But it’s not my whole identity and I have to actively create a whole new identity again.

I have to be a balanced person. I have to be many things. I have to figure out how to talk to people and ask them questions that don’t revolve around tech and I have to have a self that is not defined by all the communities I have bumped into. I have to be a whole new creature.

I wanted this and I’m doing it.

On the days when I get to go ride my bike through the city I feel intensely alive. I think of Mrs. Whatsit and I have shouted, more than once, “Wild Nights Are My Glory!” No I am not over the rain or the weather. It makes me feel alive. It makes me feel brave and determined and willful. Riding my bike in pouring rain makes me laugh and grin and sing loudly because I am just so happy I get to be out in it. I get to do this. I get to be here. I… do want some waterproof trousers though. I feel a bit awkward sitting places with a soaked bottom.

I love this city of immigrants. I may be in Scotland, but a fair number of people here were not born here. Hm. Ok, I can only find data showing 7.7% of this city was born outside of the UK. A lot of the folks living here are not from Inverness, the city has doubled in ten years and that’s not because of birth rate, but they are not all international migrants. Lots of them are UK internal migrants. The city feels alive and growing. I love that most people I ask tell me their immigrant story and they tell it with great pride. When I find the rare Invernesian who was born here I tell them, “Do you know how lucky you are that you got to be born here?” They always laugh and ask me why. When I start telling them why this is my favorite city in the world the response is always, “Wow–I’ve never thought about it like that. I’ve always just wanted to complain.”

I think about it like that.

I feel lucky to be here, even with the hiccups. Even with the complications. Even with the things that are hard and aren’t going to get easier any time soon.

Life is not easy anywhere, not for anyone. Not really. Life is suffering. Life is a trial and full of tribulations. Life hurts. Life will insult you and knock you down and cause you pain.

But at least here I get water and wonderful walks up the hill where I get to come down and see a glorious hillside so beautiful that I know I am going to paint picture after picture of it before I die.

I am going to be an artist here.

I remember, years ago when we were in Rotorua New Zealand we went into a little art gallery. The artist was present working as he minded the shop. He was from the US. We asked what made him end up there. He said, “I came here on vacation and I couldn’t bring myself to leave.”

I understand, man. I understand.

I love the fog here. I love the cold, crisp air. I love that I am winterizing my garden for the first G-D time in my life. It’s fun. It’s an adventure.

I’m exhausted to the marrow of my bones. I want to do more and I really really need to do less. Noah commented that maybe we should have moved to Edinburgh, there would be more services there like therapists and specialist doctors.

No. I will learn how to manage my mental health here. I have never had solutions for my medical problems, I am just grateful that now I have names for them so I can find peace in my heart with knowing that “Yup. This is a problem. It exists. I’m not making it up. It sucks. Yup. Moving along.”

I don’t want to be in a bigger city. Maybe in 20 years when this city has grown too big for me I will want to move out to an island so I can run from people again. Who knows.

Who knows what the future will bring. Who knows what identities I will get to create. Who knows how I will spend my time or how much functionality my body will still have. I guess we’ll see.

My accent will continue to drift. I will always be a Californian. But I drop a Southern drawl into conversations when it feels fitting. I can pull up a few words that sound Australian. I can confuse people with whether or not I am Canadian, apparently. I’m sure I will pick up Scottish phrasing too.

And all of it will be me. It will never sound like just one thing. I will always be more than one thing. I will always contain multitudes. I will always be influenced by all those dead white guys writing about their walks in the woods.

People keep asking me if I have a job. I say, “Well I do a lot of work. I’m a writer and an artist and a mother of three who is overly fastidious about house work. I garden and read and try to learn as much as I can about a great many subjects. I don’t have a job, but I do have many vocations and I am lucky enough to have a partner who supports me.” Sometimes if I am feeling cheeky I say that I don’t have a job I am a burden on my partner.

My ridiculous partner who thinks of himself as a failure because he is not in the top 1% of absolutely everything he ever tries and does. We match. I know why he worries about money. I am not worried about money. I think we have all the money we require for 2020 in the bank. I think we have most of 2021’s necessary money too. I think that by the end of this contract 2021 will be covered. So in 2020 he will be trying to earn 2022’s income. I’m not worried. Cause for one thing, the bank shares payment we get for 2019 and 2020 and 2021 is probably actually enough to pay for 2022 just on its own. So really he’s shooting for earning more like 2023’s income in 2020.

We will be fine. Yes, yes we should invest some of it which makes the math look different but good grief. That’s not even touching the bank account with US dollars sitting in it (probably another year of run money) nor any investments. We’ll be fine.

That’s what we do. We make things work out. We are tremendously lucky. Noah was born on third base. I have a natural ability with budgeting and saving. We also both work like dogs. We’ll be fine.

That’s one piece of the work I do: I manage a pretty obscene amount of money. We are looking into all of the moving pieces involved in US citizens investing in the UK. We have a bank advisor and a lawyer and an accountant (two accountants, really–including a US one who used to work for the IRS on international tax returns). This shit is complicated. No advice, please. I’m already paying for the advice of quite a few experts.

The amount of money we manage is work and sometimes I feel fussed about how many layers there are… but I’m not afraid we won’t be ok. I am genuinely not. If we took out $50,000/year from investments and didn’t earn another penny we would have at least 20 years of run rate and that’s not even right because things would still grow in the meantime and the bank shares would still come and… We aren’t going to touch the investments for a long while. When we do we will have enough to get old with. We will be fine.

You have taken care of me, Noah. Someday it will be my turn to say, “See what I have done. You are safe forever.” And when we die all the money that is left can be paid forward into the world. I’m not hoarding it for my kids. Sorrynotsorry, kids.

I only had one grandparent who made it into their 80’s. I only had one great grandparent who lived into their 70’s. I am not from a long lived clan. I don’t need another 60 years of run money.

It’s weird to think about. How long do we really have left?

Long enough. And I’ll get to hold Noah’s hand the whole time.

The NHS is pretty rad so far…

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I really like my doctor. She’s pretty rad. I went and saw her again today. We talked about anxiety, sleep, cancer follow up, exercise, and diet recommendations. She is dancing around the hint that she thinks it might improve my general health if I lost some weight but she has not said it directly and I appreciate that. She thinks that heading in a vegan direction has the strong likelihood of improving general inflammation so it might improve pain stuff but she sees no point in it for cancer prevention in my case. She also implied it might make managing my weight easier but she is just hinting.

In this country they don’t like giving Lorazepam for sleep the way I take it, they prefer Diazepam and she stressed that in general any doctor here is going to be very hesitant to give it to me on a long-term basis. Here they dislike any sleep aid for longer than a 2 week period. But given that my problem isn’t staying asleep it is getting my racing thoughts to calm down enough to go to sleep… she sees why I like Lorazepam and she is comfortable bending the rules somewhat in my case. She said “If I had had your life I would have trouble going to sleep too.” (For the Americans, she wants me off Ativan and on to Valium instead.)

She wants to see me again when my medical records arrive so we can discuss my specific drug history and what she might like to try for anti-anxiety going forward. I told her I would be happy to trial drugs that are available here and not in the US once we are able to go over the gene testing report together so we can have a solid idea of what I am likely to have a strong negative reaction to. So far I am really impressed with her. I have gotten far less push back than I do from US doctors. After our next visit she would like me to meet a psychiatrist here but she assumes I won’t be seeing them on a regular basis.

She asked how much I exercise already and said, “That’s really great! It sounds like it might be nice to do some of that in a group so you make friends but you don’t really have to stress about upping the amount.” She has already given me a list of places/organisations for group exercise so I can work on general fitness stuff and community building at the same time. That’s pretty rad. This area has a pretty big focus on trying to increase exercise for general health. She even said she doesn’t think I need to eliminate alcohol. She told me that depriving myself of things is going to super negatively impact my mental health and that will probably be a bigger problem than what damage I will do to my body with alcohol/sugar/meat products. She stressed moderation.

For a 15 minute visit I felt that was about as good as it gets. She gave me a ‘scrip for Diazepam that will probably last me 6 months. She said that if I only need a new ‘scrip every 6-8 months she thinks the NHS will deal with the fact that it is usage that doesn’t follow their general recommendations because I am clearly not abusing it. I just have severe long-term mental health concerns where I do require a level of usage than is different from the “norm”.

I will be calling for an appointment in January because hopefully my records will arrive by them. I see the dermatologist on the 2nd of December. That’s really not a long wait…

Finally paid off.

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I have a lot of “loyalty” points for various travel websites. Tonight I booked two nights in a place in Edinburgh in December for $38. I’m excited. We have to renew kid passports (turns out I couldn’t get it done in the states because [insert long story that isn’t interesting] and now we have to get it done remotely) and get a document notarized so we can sell our Disney time share property. We are getting not quite twice what we paid for it back.

I’m having approximately 9,382 feelings about various things going on in my life. I was thinking, while out walking tonight, how I no longer have the freedom to word-vomit them on my blog without fear of consequences. I wonder if this is a sign I am getting old. Maybe my super-ego is too developed. I fear the consequences of talking about my feelings.

I have been giving just about everyone I meet a little pop quiz, “Do you find it offensive if someone tells you that they are having a terrible day when you ask ‘how are you?'” So far the overwhelming majority says, “If I didn’t want to hear that I shouldn’t have asked.” My faith in humanity is restored. I take it too seriously when someone on the internet says “90% of people who say that will think you are rude if you answer honestly.” My on-the-street pop quiz is finding more like 10%-15% would find it rude. And I am never going to please everyone. That’s alright.

We continue to settle in. I am trying to rest more, with mixed success. What that means is I bought a 1,000 piece puzzle and put together 75% of it in 24 hours. I’m trying to savor the last bit.

The boat stuff isn’t arriving until mid-December. We are going to Edinburgh in mid-December.

I’m still having a lot of feelings about the cancer stuff. I don’t know how much changing my whole life I should do. The majority of cancer risk is genetic and if I went 100% vegan, gave up drinking and sugar entirely, and exercised like a triathlete… I wouldn’t change my risk profile by very much. If I did squeeze out a slight increase in quantity of life it would be at what sort of cost?

I don’t know what to do. I am feeling a little better about having written the book. I know I censored the shit out of myself and I don’t like that part. If I knew I was going to die in six months and I didn’t have to deal with the long-term consequences to some of my friendships… that chapter would be very different. Maybe just maybe I should write a “real one” and keep it in a drawer. Maybe. If I didn’t have to accept the consequences of my actions I would write a lot more about the cost of silencing yourself for the sake of a friendship.

I am a coward.

I don’t want to feel like I am letting other people down but I’m starting to think I need to focus way more on whether or not I am letting me down. Other people need to do what they have to do for their happiness and I need to stop worrying about their happiness over my own. I need to be happy too. I spend an awful lot of time being unhappy and sometimes that is absolutely the result of my choices and I could make different choices.

Recently someone said to me that they aren’t trying to conform to their new environment, they are looking for co-existence. I am not sure I will ever really be Scottish. But I would like to joyously co-exist. A friend likes to say that after living abroad she feels more “American” than she used to. I feel Californian in my bones. I don’t feel American. I have seen enough of the country that I really don’t identify with it as a whole. Part of what I love about the city of Inverness is how much it reminds me of California in some ways. There has been a massive amount of immigration and the basic culture has had to shift to tolerating co-existence in a way that feels good and natural to me.

I do love California. I will always miss California. The necklace you gave me of the state flag hangs on the wall in my room where I can see it every day. I will always miss you. I do love you. Yeah, I think you stalk me too. I haz data.

I don’t know how we will find our place here, but I think it will happen. Piece by piece. We will have to build a new network and we will. I am not complete just coming here with the small bit of threads I carried with me. I need to build a new web.

Sobonfu told me to build my own community. I have rarely had the privilege of knowing a wiser human being than her. I need to listen. That means I have to be brave. I have to put myself out there. I have to not be content with just what I already have. I have to keep trying and growing. Even though it is going to hurt. Even though I am afraid of the consequences of being me and speaking my mind.

Today I got to talk to a lady. After chatting for a while she laughed and said, “I feel like you are me, with children. I am so happy I got to talk to you today.”

When I have given people the pop quiz they always say some variation of, “You glow with wanting to know the real answer.”

I am broken, open.

I will always be a little too raw. A lot too judgmental. Way too intense. Extra. And that’s ok. Not everyone has to understand me or like me or want me.

I don’t have time for everyone anyway. I’m still trying to figure out how to carve out space for myself. I’m still trying to figure out what that means. I am still so very tired.

I am really enjoying watching my third child blossom. She is getting more intense and verbal by the day. She is going to have no trouble keeping up with my chatty little family. She names everything she sees all day long. If she has something she still cries because she wants it and why don’t you give it to her already. She’s passionate and organized. She knows her routines. If I haven’t scooped the kitty litter by bed time she tells me to go do it. She knows what needs to be done.

We are all settling in.

School… well… it turns out that schools in Scotland are schools. But hey, no guns!

I don’t identify as “American” in large part because when I think “America” I think of guns. California has guns but it is not defined by them.

It’s all so complicated.

And so it goes, on and on and on.

Third time, done.

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50,129. I wrote for 90 minutes today and now I need to stop before my wrists explode into flames.

I’m sure I will add more in the future. But I’m walking away from the higher word count goal for right now. There’s a lot more I want to flesh out in some of these chapters but I am declaring NaNo done for the year and I’m going to take another break.

Maybe it will be another multi-year break like the second break. Blurgh.

I love this part

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Whoa. Holy saucebuckets. The new upgrade of WordPress looks weird.

Today we sat down and divided up the weekend so that everyone gets to have one on one date time with each other. I get two hours to work on the book. I might finish NaNo this weekend, I’m close. Today I get to write the chapter on friendships. I may never publish this book if I want to keep my friends.

Procrastination and longing

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I hit 44,000 (and some) words then I haven’t written in two days. I feel overwhelmed and sad. When am I going to hit the point of feeling like “See! I am awesome! I have done all of the things! It’s amazing that I’ve done so well!”

I don’t know.

I feel sad and small and insufficient. I don’t think I should because I’m rather sufficient. Is there any advantage to being amazing or awesome? Sufficient is how I get through. Just barely good enough, that’s me.

The next chapter I write has to be about the screaming. It has to be an abject apology to my children. An admission that it has absolutely never been their fault when I lose control and I am so terribly sorry. I didn’t know how to create better boundaries so that I would have enough space for me so that I would have a more adequate amount to give to you. That was a huge failure on my part and it is entirely my fault. It is never ever ever ever your fault when I scream.

I love you and I am sorry I have failed you. I have.

This is going to be a rough chapter. I’m not writing it for you the readers of the blog; I write it because someday when my children struggle with feeling like the bad parts were all their fault I want them to be able to read it again. No, my darlings. It was not your fault. It was mine. I am deficient and that is a horrible burden you have had to bear.

It was never because I didn’t love you. It was always because I ran out of cope and that is a terrible, horrible truth.

Today Youngest Child demanded outside time as we waited for yet another package to be delivered so we went out in the yard. I took advantage of this time and got about 1/3 of the grass cut. I am a hippy so of course I have a push mower instead of an electric or gas one. I am having fun with it but I’m not sure the lawn looks “neat”. It would not pass muster if one were intent on a uniform lawn. To be fair I think this is either my very first or my second time ever cutting grass and the previous time might have been more than twenty years ago. Learning curves are real. I will improve, but it will take some time.

I am trying to figure out what I am going to do with the yard as I look outside the window. On one hand, I want to put up large trellises to block view and on the other hand, I worry about making the yard feel more closed off. I think that before I am allowed to plant anything I want to get some string and try to limit the walkways through the grass to start playing with how much grass I want to leave for running on. I want to be able to plant food in the yard. I sort of want to put planter boxes covering the driveway area, we don’t want a car after all, but I think I might regret that. I don’t know yet. It will take me a while. I don’t have to decide today. Or even in the next year.

I’m trying to put boundaries in place so I don’t fuck things up in the same way I have in the past. In the process I might just fuck things up in a whole new way.

Life is thrilling.

Ten days till I go in for my next doctor appointment. She probably won’t be the one to cut more out of me, but it’s still important.

Our boat stuff won’t arrive for another month. I am feeling pretty upset. Our Christmas decorations aren’t going to arrive until a week before Christmas. I may leave stuff up until February.

I’m drinking too much. By which I mean I’m having a drink a day. Well, somehow I need to find the self control and never buy another bottle of whisky. Because alcohol contributes to nine kinds of cancer and I have to be here for people.

All the mother fucking feelings. Oh well. Shut up.

Why?

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A few people have asked me what is the point in writing the book given that it increases my stress level and it makes me feel bad about myself in the writing process. Rehashing ones mistakes rarely improves ones self esteem.

Last night my daughter told me that she worries about whether she will be able to find a job when she is older. I said, “Hang on.” I read through the chapter on my work history. Her eyes bugged out. She said, “You’ve done all that! Really?!” Yes. I have.

I may not always have the ability to tell my children about who I am. Frankly, I am extraordinary despite the fact that I am “only a housewife”. It is good for my kids to know it.

Do I feel bad as I rehash my mistakes? Yes. But by the time I am done I will understand myself better. I will understand the arc of my life better. I’m actually at a remarkably good point for examining the past few decades. I am at the dawn of a whole new era.

Yes. It is worth doing.

In this process I look not at what happened to me so much as what I did. I place myself in my story as a character of great changeability and potential and worth.

Yes. It is worth doing.

44,748 words in so far.

I need grace for me too.

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I will definitely finish the 50K words for NaNoWriMo, but my hands hurt a lot. I am not going to die of cancer in the next year. I don’t need to finish the whole book this month. I don’t think trying to do that is good for my mental or physical health right now.

I’m struggling with vulnerability and emotional stability. When I lived in California I struggled with this. These are things I don’t handle well. I am having a hard time with the lack of pot, the knowledge that I really should stop drinking entirely (linked to 9 kinds of cancer), and I’m on duty around the clock with a lot of stress.

The house is a money pit. Once we get everything fixed (it feels like fucking everything) hopefully it will get easier, but it’s really stressful. Getting things here is super stressful. I’ve been waiting ALL FUCKING DAY for the delivery of baby gates to help with boundaries for multiple days but the company just isn’t getting around to me and they tell me I have to be available from 7:30am-9pm just in case they feel like getting to me that day.

If I write about my kids and what is going on with them there is potential judgment there that is a bigger problem than just shutting the fuck up and not getting support.

Boundaries are hard. Where do boundaries need to be placed to preserve relationships and where will boundaries mess up a relationship? I don’t know.

I don’t have a lot of adult contact in my life. There are a bunch of reasons for this and I’m not complaining about it–I’m just noticing that it’s part of the constellation of stress and anxious. I don’t feel very safe reaching out and that’s complicated. I am not blaming anyone else. I am not reaching out. I am not reaching out for eleventybillion reasons. I suspect that a bunch of my friends would be happy to talk to me more, but I feel like a needy burden and that means I need to just shut the fuck up and wait it out until I can listen and be a supportive friend again. I don’t feel ok in any way with needing support.

I found out yesterday that there is a family from Sacramento in our school; they moved here at Easter. We talked about live shooter drills and how much of a problem they were for her kids. She understands why I home schooled there. She said that in her experience there really is zero support or understanding for it here. All home schooling here is termed “interrupted learning”.

I’m feeling a lot of hostility towards the idea that home schooling means that kids are inevitably damaged. As if the fucking kids who go to school are all alright.

The longer period of darkness means my family is sleeping a lot more. That’s good. There is this well of existential exhaustion we are all trying to cope with. It’s good but it means there are fewer hours in the day for us to do our work and that causes anxiety too.

I’m going to start shooting for more like 1,000-1,500 words/day for the rest of the month. I won’t finish the book, but I will rest my hands more. I am so tired and I hurt and I feel bad about myself.

Writing the book is incredibly hard emotionally. It feels like a trip down Krissy-is-a-fuck-up-lane. I have fucked up a lot of relationships. I make a lot of bad decisions. I don’t feel good about myself almost at all. It is really hard to stay present with “I should be making choices that extend my longevity” when it feels like the world would be so much better if I were dead. I’m not feeling suicidal, but it’s hard to think about “I should cut back on meat, dairy, eggs, sugar, eliminate alcohol, watch my exercise very carefully, get frequent full body scans for cancer, cut back on stress (hahahahahaha), etc” all so I can… live longer and spend more time as a shitty person who fucks up all the god damn time.

And Noah is off for nine days. He’s visiting with his besties (this is a great thing!) and going to a conference (this… is important too). I know he needs to go. I support him going. Being alone with the kids is going to feel like a lot. Taking delivery of the boat stuff alone is going to feel like a lot.

Installing the baby gates alone (if I can ever get them delivered) is going to feel like a lot.

Today it is hard to feel hope.

In brighter, money-pit news, the lovely joiner dude who is helping us with stuff looked at my drawings for the book shelves and thinks they look fun to build. He was a little worried at first about cost “I wouldn’t even know how to estimate how long this will take and I’m nervous about the cost of materials.” I said, “Well let me tell you how I did my bathroom. (show pictures–watch eyes bug out) I bought all of the materials and I paid for hours every week. The construction company started out saying ‘It’ll take three months tops!’ I laughed and said it would take a minimum of six months. It took seven months. I paid wages every single week like clockwork. This is my project. I know it is huge and complicated and not something that can be estimated. I will pay for the time it takes. I would prefer if I can count on something like one or two days a week of dedicated labor (you have other clients to take care of on other days, I get that) and it takes how many weeks it takes.”

He said that sounds really neat and he’s looking forward to all the research he will have to do to put this together. He won’t start till the new year, which is great because I’d rather not have the mess during Christmas. We are talking about types of wood, both whether to use treated wood (lumber in the US, timber here), where to use untreated raw wood for aesthetic purposes, hard woods vs soft woods… this is going to be a really fun project.

But exhausting. Whyyyyyyyyy must I do this.

I don’t have forever. If I want to have time to enjoy things, get it done. I am not Pam. I won’t live till I am 100.

They are just mouth noises

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I asked in my online support group about “How are you” and why my child was told that she was rude when she said “terrible”. I was told it is just a substitute for “hello” and being negative in response is indeed rude. People don’t mean it, they are just going through social niceties and answering as if it is a real question is rude and will make people uncomfortable.

I hate the world. That makes me incredibly sad. That feels alienating and awful and it makes me feel like I should stop talking at all. Yes, I’m over reacting. But I’m in a new place with new mores and I just had people from three countries tell me that I am totally inappropriate if I take something as a real question that I have always answered honestly.

I feel horrible. I feel sick to my stomach. I feel like I should not try to make friends. I feel like I should maintain my video chats with people who actually want to talk to me and stop talking to anyone else and I feel so bad for my poor children who are going to have to learn how to navigate this minefield of lies and lack of caring.

If I ask how are you, I want to know the answer. That’s why I really knew my car mechanic and the lady at the dry cleaners and most of my neighbors and and and and.

But I’m wrong. And my behavior is rude, inappropriate, and alienating.

I cried myself to sleep and I am probably going to spend more time crying about this. I feel sick.

As usual I am doing everything wrong.

Deep in my feels.

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If you write about yourself you open yourself up for people interpreting your words however they want. Throwing them back at you however they want.

It’s a lot safer not to think about your behavior. It’s a lot safer not to write about your screw ups. Then you get to pretend you are awesome and you are always right.

It is hard being willing to admit that you fuck up, and not just “Yes of course everyone makes mistakes get over it” but “Oh dear me yes I screw up and let me list all of the ways and then go on to list everything I am trying to do to stop screwing up like that so I can instead make new mistakes.”

Vulnerability is a bitch.

People can love you and still be cruel to you. People judge each other left, right, and center. But what kinds of judgments are equivalent and what kinds are really awful?

What do you let into your life? When do you decide to change patterns? What is enough of a motivation? I don’t know.

I am so tired. I feel really sad and scared. I am not going to blog about all of why. I don’t feel safe enough to do so. I don’t want to face the consequences because I am a fucking chicken shit. So instead I ruminate and make no progress. Walking on eggshells, indeed.

25,040 words and counting.

Report is in.

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Final diagnosis of the original biopsy:

Malignant melanoma, superficial spreading type, invasive to level II and a measured thickness of 0.5mm arising in association with a compound nevus, margins free but close.

Final comment:

This lesion is indeed a fully evolved malignant melanoma, superficial spreading type, invasive multifocally to 0.5mm. The radical growth phase is composed of prominent melanoma cells both spindle and epithelioid. They are present in very large nests and show focal pagetold spread. There is evidence of a pre-existing nevus at the site. There is no evidence of regression, ulceration or mitoses. Re-excision is recommended with a 1.0cm margin. SOX-10 and HMB45 support the above interpretation.

Positive and negative controls for all immunohistochemical stains and/or special stains prepared by the outside laboratory were reviewed, and they are considered appropriate.

From the NHS website:

Around 7 out of 10 (70%) of all melanomas in the UK are superficial spreading melanomas.

They’re more common in people with pale skin and freckles, and much less common in darker skinned people.

They initially tend to grow outwards rather than downwards, so do not pose a problem.

But if they grow downwards into the deeper layers of skin, they can spread to other parts of the body.

From Melanoma International:

Here is an explanation of terms that may appear in your pathology report:

  1. Type: description of the particular variety of melanoma you have—superficial spreading melanoma, lentigo maligna melanoma, nodular melanoma, and so on. The superficial spreading type is the most common.
  2. Growth phase: designation that shows whether the melanoma has reached the step where it can grow as a lump below the epidermis. In the radial growth phase, as we have seen, it is unlikely that the cancer has begun to metastasize. With the vertical growth phase, there is at least some chance that the disease has spread elsewhere in the body.
  3. Mitotic count or mitosis: measure of how many melanoma cells are dividing below the epidermis. Only in the vertical growth phase do cells divide in the dermis. The higher the mitotic count, the more likely the tumor is to have spread.
  4. Tumor-infiltrating lymphocytes: immune system cells (lymphocytes) whose presence in the vertical growth phase are a positive sign. Presumably, lymphocytes show that the immune system has recognized the tumor and is attacking it.
  5. Greatest thickness: the Breslow thickness. A measurement of a millimeter or less is considered thin—and means a favorable prognosis.
  6. Site: location of the melanoma. Patients with a vertical growth phase melanoma located on an extremity have a relatively more favorable prognosis than those on the trunk or head and neck (a subtlety is that a rare subtype of melanoma that, unless the lesion appears on the palms, on the soles of the feet, or under the nails acts like trunk lesions).
  7. Sex: gender of the melanoma patient. For unexplained reasons, women have a better prognosis than men.
  8. Regression: An attribute that may be either absent or present in the radial growth phase (which is adjacent to the vertical growth phase). Regression is evidence of destruction (probably by immune factors) of some of the melanoma cells in the radial growth phase. Immunologically mediated regression of this sort is a weakly negative factor.
  9. Level of Invasion: the Clark level. Mine was a level IV tumor—that is, the melanoma had penetrated to just above the fatty layer of the skin.
  10. Precursor Lesion: Evidence of a pre-existing ordinary, dysplastic, or congenital mole from which the melanoma might have developed. My melanoma came from a dysplastic nevus. Although dysplastic nevi are the most common precursors, common moles and congenital moles may also be culprits. For many melanomas no evidence of a precursor shows up.

So what I’m getting is that I definitely need to have a larger chunk of skin removed, but it probably didn’t get very deep or spread to other areas.

Thank you, Noah for telling me I had to check this out.