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.