Category Archives: post therapy

post-therapy

Yesterday was a moderately challenging therapy session. I didn’t cry or anything so it doesn’t get to the level of “hard” per se. My therapist was uhhh “kind” enough to tell me about another support group in Oakland. No, actually, having to drive to Oakland more often would not lower my stress. Sorry.

My shrink and I talked about the difficulty driving. When I am alone in the car I distract myself from my irrational desire to drive the car into dangerous situations by playing music very loudly and I sing along at the very top of my lungs. Frequently when I arrive places I’m hoarse from all the screeching. My kids get kind of pissy with me when I play loud music or scream along with the radio so I don’t do it when they are in the car. Which actually makes driving with them harder than driving alone.

I wish that I didn’t have suicidal ideation so often. I wish that I could make the decisions about my life without factoring in, “Well, how many hours of self-harm thoughts can I entertain today without slipping?” I’m a lot better than I used to be. There is definite improvement. I’m not “all better”. Driving is still really hard. Most of my slipping these days comes in the form of massive dissociation so I have no idea what is going on with my body so I am constantly covered in bruises I have no idea how I received. It’s pretty minor compared to the cutting so this is a big step up. But man all the bruises have been hurting more lately. I’m getting old. Ha.

We did EMDR on the driving ideation issues. The phrase that kept coming up (sometimes I get word phrases sometimes I get picture associations) was “terrible trouble”. As I’m driving places my stomach shreds itself because I am afraid of the trouble I am going to get into on the other side of the drive. I get it going to the grocery store so it’s not all social anxiety I can kinda sorta justify. It’s just associated with driving,

I was really in trouble all the fucking time as a kid. I’m not over it. Sometimes that feels pretty pathetic.

We talked about the whole “getting in trouble for vomiting” thing in the form of the demanded apology. (I heard back from the woman who wanted one. I think she accepted my apology. I still have some mixed feelings about needing to give one for… vomiting. Not like I picked the activity of the night on purpose to fuck over her life.)

I am so delighted that when I get in trouble these days… it’s really not a big deal. If the two women who were mad at me continue being mad at me till the day I die…. that’s really not that big of a deal. Ok, one seems to be over it, the other has already hated me since I was 19. If she keeps hating me it isn’t a loss. Really if she hates me that may be a badge of honor proving that I am making correct choices in life.

That happens you know. People disliking you is sometimes a really good sign.

Depends on whether you want people like that to like you. If you don’t particularly respect someone it can be a particularly good thing for them to dislike you. I’m just sayin’.

When I walked into my therapists office she said, “Wow. You look exhausted.” That can’t be a good sign. Yes, I am. Notice how I haven’t been writing? I’ve been sleeping in lately. Even with getting several hours of extra sleep each night for a while… I still look like shit. I’m not sure if I’m sick or what. My stomach was really off yesterday. Eating at all was awful. But no food no fuel so I have to eat even when it hurts.

I don’t have “cold or flu” symptoms. Just stomach pain, exhaustion, and general pain. Maybe that is a flu like symptom. But I still don’t know that I have the flu. and I am officially not allowed to get sick for at least five days. Damnit.

I’m struggling with my outsiders view on another persons marriage. I’m experiencing a lot of anxiety about situations I can’t control. Terrible Trouble. It’s coming. Always. Always. Always coming.

I feel scared, helpless, worthless, and stupid. I don’t know the right thing to say or do. So it must be because I am defective.

I feel weary.

In therapy we talked about my latest efforts to be hypervigilant about my hypervigilance. Maybe this is why I am so fucking tired. I am trying to stop counting people in a room. I’m trying to only check for exits when I arrive in a new place instead of checking every few minutes like an OCD routine. I am not made more safe by checking that the exit door is still there every three minutes. I am probably made more unsafe by obsessing over whether the door is still fucking there. Really, genius? The fucking door is going to move? No. I’m afraid I will get disoriented and lose the direction. It’s not that the door will move. It is that I spent a very high percentage of my life dizzy. I’m always afraid I will lose my inner compass and not be able to make it out. Yay vertigo.

I do wonder if that is a lot of what is wearing me down. Being that conscious of my nearly sub-conscious obsessive checking is really hard. Restraining myself from counting the people in the room over and over and over is a lot harder on me than just doing the fucking counting. I’m trying to extinguish this behavior on the slim hope that some day I won’t have to obsessively concentrate on my nearly sub-conscious behavior. Hopefully some day I will have the energy back from the obsessive counting and the monitoring of the counting and I will be back in the net positive. Hopefully this is saving long-term effort.

But those gambles only sometimes work out. The deficit of exhaustion in the meantime is really rough.

I wrote to Noah’s family yesterday. That always increases the shitty I feel. I miss my mom. Why do I only get to talk about my kids with these people who don’t like me anyway? It’s really hard to keep trying when I know his mother doesn’t actually have any affection for me at all.

But she loves my kids. And my kids deserve all the love they can get. And Noah isn’t going to facilitate a relationship because he doesn’t care or understand what a complete lack of family can do to you. So it is up to me. I understand the scope of the problem and I’m not as personally repelled by the situation. I get why he ran away and didn’t come back. But that attitude will hurt my kids and I can’t let that be their entire experience of life.

Noah’s mom may not win prizes for being perfect but she is being a great mail order grandmother. I should not denigrate that. The kids appreciate that she thinks about them and makes effort. I need to respond. I wish it weren’t so fucking hard.

I’m doing one of those cycles where I don’t understand why I try so hard for relationships when people don’t really like me anyway they tolerate me as an alternative to being completely alone.

I can find ways to minimize the amount I believe anyone might like me. It’s a super power. Or something. Even though people come over. Even though I can tell you that it is irrational.

Irrational feelings happen anyway and they are very tiring. Exhausting. Trying to argue with your brain all day that people don’t actually hate you is really hard.

My arms hurt. I’m so tired I keep randomly crying because I can’t force myself to not cry. It’s too hard to not-cry.

Ain’t we always looking for a silver lining?

What am I grateful for? Noah. Always Noah. Shanna. Calli.

How come my “what” I’m grateful for always comes down to a “who”? Because outside of having access to a non-shitty keyboard I can live without pretty much every what. Ok, I need food/shelter/booze like they tell you in Yakitat. But really what do I feel grateful for? My garden. That’s a what.

It’s not about what. It’s who. I get to spend all day figuring out how to be nice. We talk about how sometimes folks put their meanie-pants on. That doesn’t mean they are necessarily ALWAYS mean. Everyone has bad days. Bullying is quite the discussion here. Just because someone has done something you dislike that doesn’t automatically make them a bully. Pleasing you is not a mandatory part of life. Being mean to you is different than doing things you don’t like. And even your best friends will have days when they put their meanie-pants on. The meanest of people will have good days.

What makes someone a monster?

If I’m not qualified to judge who the fuck is?

Calli and I went to sleep talking about how my teddy bear, Ted. T. Bear, is very good at scaring off creepy crawly night monsters. He’s nice to his humans and super fierce with night monsters. Sometimes the best of creatures have to be scary sometimes. Sometimes being scary is part of being able to survive.

For the whole rest of my life I am going to treasure the memories I have of my children. There will be no more relationships in my life that represent such perfect trust.

I am so sorry, mommy.

I wonder how long my kids will like me. My therapist wants me to believe that the people I know are all aberrations. I think I can count on my fingers the number of people I know who like their parents and who actively want relationships with their families. My shrink tells me this is because I broadcast a wavelength that scares the shit out of people who like their families and they don’t really want to hang out with me. That doesn’t mean they don’t exist. It is possible that I will come out the far side with children who like me.

If I make it to a natural death that is a win on my life. Sometimes I feel so sad that it is true. When I drive I feel scared that I don’t want to be alive bad enough. Some day my lack of burning desire to be alive is going to be a problem. It’s not just that I have to deal with the “want to die” urge. I need to find some way to actively want to live. I don’t think I do. I don’t want to hurt people. Is that a good enough reason to stay alive? If that is all I have it has to be good enough for today.

Calli and Shanna and Noah. That has to be enough. I don’t want to hurt them. I’ll just cry. That doesn’t hurt anyone.

I don’t even know for sure why I’m crying. I don’t know if this is just exhaustion. I can’t even tell if I’m sad. I’m just crying and crying.

I feel bitter right this minute that smoking pot is the most effective means of getting it into my system if it weren’t for my pre-fucked up lungs. Thanks for all the chain smoking, mom. Chronic bronchitis. If that kills me it will be kind of ironic. It can, you know. Stupid pills aren’t very effective. Well, they are kind of effective. They make me tired as fuck. Which does slow down the anxiety. But in a less useful way.

I’m clearly trying to avoid smoking. Otherwise I would just write about how awesome it is a medication. Instead I will grumble.

Hey, that’s a ‘what’ I’m grateful for. Pot. Pot provides more than 60% of my ability to stop feeling scared and instead feel calm and happy with what I’m doing. How sad is that? Well it would be way the fuck more sad if my state still had this medication banned. *phew* So I’m glad that this medication exists. I’m grateful for all the lovely official dispensaries that will give me medication IN THE FORM OF CANDY. Oh man. The candy is awesome but a bit more expensive than the pills. Everything is a trade off.

Not to mention that I try to avoid eating a lot of medicated candy in front of my kids. That spells trouble.

They are very clear on the appearance of medicated candy and that they must not eat it. We have looked at the medication specifically and talked about how it looks like candy but it is really medicine and it will make you feel terrible if you take it when you don’t need it.

We talk a lot about appropriate doses of things. I eat more food than them. I drink more water in a day. I take more medication. These things are body-weight dependent activities and I am bigger. Trying to take in more than you need is really bad for you and lets go over the list of why until you can rattle it off as fast or faster than I can.

Don’t eat food, drink water, or take medication above what you actually need or it is bad for you. Just seems kind of logical.

Uhm, I base the “don’t eat too much food” on my childhood where I went through periods of forcing myself to eat long past the point of hunger… sometimes cause I had nothing else to do. When I was in eighth grade I hit this stage where one package of ramen just didn’t quite fill me up. (Now as an adult I would say “add an egg for protein then” as a kid… I would neither have thought of that nor been willing to actually consider it if I did think of it. Eggs come one way: scrambled hard.) So I forced myself to learn to eat two because I didn’t want to throw away some noodles.

I’ve got some issues around food and money and stuff. Like you do.

As much as I love Pam I’m kinda glad she’s busy tonight. I’m annoyed with myself for adding an extra dinner guest to the week on Thursday. Friday night Noah and I have a babysitter scheduled so we can go on a date. If I can fucking stay awake. Pathetic. But the extra dinner guest is a friend going through a really hard break up. I could be selfish and say I’m tired. He’s so sad though. Really all I’m going to give him is 2-3 hours of attention. I’m not so tired I can’t get it up for that.

At the end of your life you will not be remembered for how you felt. You will be remembered for how you make other people feel. I can cough up 2-3 hours of talking to a grieving person. It lightens the load. It really and truly does. If I thought it “did nothing” I wouldn’t bother but it does a lot.

I’ve read too many cases of near-suicide. “Someone surprised me by paying attention to me and convincing me that I still had worth.”

I can see worth in just about anybody. I can sit down and explain the worth I see in you if you want. If it will make you feel better I’d be thrilled to help you see how you fit into the kaleidoscope of life. You have worth. You matter? Want me to point out the spokes in your life? I can show you who you touch and how. You matter. You do.

Why is it so much easier to see for other people than myself? Don’t know but it is. Well, I can see my worth. I just don’t always feel like I have the strength to keep on keepin on. My worth is mostly in my ability to lighten the load for other people. I’m really good at it. It is a particular talent.

I used to think that my only “talent” was speed reading. You can’t go to a talent competition and win a prize for it so of course I thought I was a loser as a child. Now I think I have always underestimated the value of my brain.

Now I think my strongest talent is empathy. It’s a super power. At least occasionally.

But I’m tired. So very tired.

Unusual session.

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I don’t cry much during therapy. It’s just not part of the process for me, mainly. I don’t cry in front of people very well. Today I probably cried for half the session. Partially as a result of that and partially just because well duh she sent me home with a book. The Cannabis Health Index. It is an examination of all the published medical studies about cannabis. It is meticulously footnoted and researched. If you want citation, this is the book for you.

PTSD is not one of the best studied issues in the book. Only three published studies and whereas they are hopeful/positive they aren’t strongly conclusive. Fair enough.

One of the things I like about the book so far is he says that cannabis is not dangerous but it isn’t harmless. There are demographics and populations who really shouldn’t be using pot; there is harm to come from misusing any medication. But when you compare it to the tens of thousands of people who die from medical prescription issues or the combined hundreds of thousands of people who die from alcohol and tobacco… it’s not dangerous.

A lot of what he (Uwe Blesching, the author) talks about is how cannabis allows you to change your mental state so that you can begin to unravel the problems in your mind which are manifesting in your body. He’s very specific and detailed as he examines how it can often allow you to be positive and think through the things that are hurting you. Often we hurt ourselves by being unable/unwilling to change patterns in our lives. He proposes that pot is a way to build a bridge between the mind and the body.

We all have confirmation bias, right?

I’ll point out that he is pretty serious about using the lowest dose medically appropriate and being on it for the shortest period of time possible. He wants people to use it as a medication to allow them to heal and then move on.

I’ve heard from a lot of people that alcohol more or less worked that way. They “outgrew” the need they had for alcohol even though for some period of time they were dependent on it.

A lot of my problem is that I am emotionally retarded. I do not mean stupid or any similar derogatory meaning. I mean underdeveloped. I mean immature. I mean held back. I mean less advanced than is typical or expected for someone my age. Like, literally emotionally retarded and not “I’m so laaaaaaaame.” (Yes, I’m defensive and worried about being misconstrued.)

So, I’m emotionally retarded and I feel a lot of shame around that. Pot allows me to stop feeling mired in the intense self belief I have that I am inherently bad and unlovable. Pot allows me to stop feeling like I should be punished for hurting the people I have hurt in my life (my mother is one of the main people). Good golly I want to be a martyr.

Pot allows me to be patient with myself as I try to work out how to have emotional regulation so that I can on-the-spot teach it to my children. I believe that my job is to teach my children emotional self-regulation. The primary way that children learn is through modeling. With pot I can manage emotional self-regulation. I can respond more “appropriately” to different stimuli instead of going into gut-level flight or fight response.

The problem is that I feel intense guilt about spending the money on pot. That’s one of the biggest problems I have. Krissy you are rolling in money. Get the fuck over it. (Ok, I’m not “rich” by the standards of the people I know. Which freaks me out. I’ve been in more than one $10 million home.) Only I can think of a million and one things that I believe are “more worthwhile” than me being relieved of torture in my brain. I’m much more inherently comfortable with the idea that I should be suffering than just about any other possible life result for me. This is kind of a problem.

I felt immediately defensive when the author suggested that maybe I don’t actually want to get over PTSD because it feels more safe/comfortable/whatever. If I feel immediately angry and defensive… I should probably examine whether something is accurate. Because I’m like that.

Cannabis is the only medication I have ever taken that produces significant positive, measurable, real difference in my life and mood. But it’s not cheap. And I feel enormous shame and guilt about being such an expensive pet.

Noah doesn’t begrudge me. Not at all. I don’t get push back from Noah about money. So far he says he is very happy about what I do with the money he earns. He specifically praises me and expresses gratitude.

I still feel ashamed.

That euphoric-ish feeling of not hating myself pretty much only comes with being pretty stoned.

Ok. I ordered some. I’m going to make tincture. I’ve been doing ok with what I have tried of it. I’ll cross my fingers that it lasts me long enough to be cost effective. *choke*

I think it is pretty miraculous that I got to pause in the middle of writing this and spend an hour researching strains before ordering from my local delivery service. Talk about luxury. I can have my pot delivered to my house after my doctor gives me the recommendation. God Bless America.

The book stresses that one of the benefits of the medication is that it allows you to feel at peace with being where you are. If I were to paraphrase his message I would say: pot allows you to not feel guilty about the number of spoons you have and it helps you cheerfully decide how to spend them. It’s not that pot increases your spoons by that much. But feeling guilty and feeling a lot of shame over having the number of spoons you have does actively decrease your spoons further. So pot sorta seems like a way to raise spoons.

Does that make sense?

I’m not far into the actual guide. I intend to read all of it. My head is going to be bursting with things that are hard for me to recite accurately. Oh man. Apparently Multiple Sclerosis is the most focused on area of study by far. I look forward to what I will learn. So far I’m just through the introduction (all 72 forking pages of it) and the sections on Aging (the first) and PTSD. Cause, duh.

Yeah. Feelings. Nearly time for sleep.

lying

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(I’ll get back to that longer piece.)

My therapist said to me yesterday, “When people make a commitment to you they *completely mean it* in the moment. They aren’t lying. They truly mean that they want to support you. But later as they go through life they want to keep all of their options open, regardless of commitments to you. That’s not lying. It’s like an astrological difference. To *you* if you make a commitment it means you are stuck with it. Not everyone works that way.”

Yeah. Some people say they will do something and mean it. Some people don’t. I shouldn’t perceive it as “lying” because they “meant well”.

*snort* If at the end of the day I’m carrying a load by myself that other people swore up and down they would help me carry I can’t perceive that in a positive way. I think that if I try to give them the benefit of the doubt at my own expense then I’m a stupid piece of shit with absolutely no self-worth.

Maybe I shouldn’t be so “dramatic”. Whatever.

The only conclusion that I can draw from this is I am a stupid fucking moron if I *ever* believe anything that people say to me.

post-therapy

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Today my therapist didn’t make me happy. I told her about being awake all night long because I am crying for my mom. She said, “You know that will never stop, right?” Today my therapist is a big meanie-head.

I have managed to not scream or even really yell much in a month. Instead my jaw is permanently clenched. I hurt.

Sometimes I wonder what the future will bring.

Not so good at the whole “boundaries” thing.

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Intense EMDR therapy session today. My therapist commented, “It sounds like you are having a hard time keeping your boundaries up when other people are having feelings.” Why yes, that is a very accurate description. I feel that other people having feelings automatically trumps anything I might say or do. That’s part of the whole worthless thing. So of course when people start telling me that I am making them feel bad I agree that it is because I am a terrible person who should be driven out of all society. Not really a helpful response.

I think I should back off of the ptsd forum. I’m kind of tired of having people yell at me that they know “all about trauma” and “obviously I am making bad choices” and my problem is that I can’t “stop re-enacting trauma with untrustworthy people”. That whole set of rants in relationship to meeting someone in a coffee shop. Because obviously meeting up with a guy to say, “Hey something you said bothered me” is the same as putting myself in a position to be raped again. Same damn thing. I’m too stupid to be able to evaluate which situations are safe. I should just stay home or only talk to people who never make mistakes.

Oh, and of course anyone who is part of the bdsm community should just be shunned. They are all Bad People.

You know what, lady? I think I am going to take my experiences of the bdsm community over yours. There are decent people who happen to get off on bdsm. There are assholes and predators and rapists who are not in the bdsm community. I don’t really feel that deciding that a demographic of people is terrible is the way to have a happy life.

Of course she wants me to start with all men and move on from there. All men are dogs, don’t you know. (Ok, technically it was a man in the thread who said, “I hate to say this because I am a man… but all men are dogs.”) No, they aren’t. And fuck you while we are at it.

I don’t want to pretend all men are terrible. I don’t want to believe that all _______ whatever are terrible. The reality is that some percentage sucks and a large percentage is neutral and another percentage is great.

Why would I want to talk to men like him? Why in the hell would I want to talk to men who have experiences in the same ball park as me? Oh… maybe because when I talk to men who have known me for more than 1/3 of my life and I tell them some things about my childhood they can say, “That explains so much of your behavior for the entire time I have known you. I wish I had known earlier. Our entire relationship would have been different.”

I want to be seen. I want to matter. I want to be a full person to the people who know me. I want my story to be in the heads of people who look at me.

I don’t want to just be some chick at a party with a lot of secrets. That isn’t what I want.

I don’t think my life is well served by staying home and crying about how terrible all men are. If I do that I will miss out on a lot of joy. Many of my closest and dearest friends are men. I have no plans to abandon them–even if they say things I don’t like sometimes. I look for patterns of behavior and I have no problem with walking away from relationships that don’t work for me. I have done so over and over and over.

No one has a crystal ball. No one knows how things will play out.

My willingness to share my story has meant that I have gotten to find out the life stories of some incredibly complex and amazing people. I sincerely doubt they would have started sharing if I hadn’t brought things up. I have a list of people I can call in the middle of the night. I have a list of people who say, “If you are freaking out call and babble on my voicemail and I will call you back the second I can.” Many of them are men. Some of them are survivors of some really horrifying things.

Why do I trust them? Do I trust them? Well I will be honest and say that there are some of them I don’t plan to be alone in a room with. But I will sure as fuck call them. We have a great phone relationship. Do I actually think anything bad would happen if I was alone in a room with them? No. But I still don’t think I could do it. I don’t trust all men enough for that. I don’t even trust the men I trust enough for that. Well, maybe alone in a room if people were just on the other side of a door and I was able to scream.

I don’t want to give up on the men I have in my life. Even if other women with ptsd are absolutely certain that my talking to men is self-destructive and stupid. I disagree. And my opinion is the only one that matters about my behavior and life.

I went and talked to this guy and that other guy in the scene after fairly carefully weighing the downsides.

When that asshole Paul who raped me offered to meet to talk with me “even though he didn’t remember” I didn’t take him up on it. There was no upside for me. That would have been straight masochism. So I didn’t go.

I *do* actually try to weigh risk. My life will never be risk-free. I’m not that kind of girl. Harm Reduction not Elimination. Life involves both the risk and the certainty of harm.

I read an interesting article on misogyny in activist spaces. I cannot count how many groups I have left because of men who were extremely aggressive. I just assume they are more interesting to know than I am. That’s why they are kept around.

I feel torn between wanting to isolate myself because I don’t seem to be very good at having relationships and wanting to go out a lot and make a bunch of new connections. I offend people. I make them feel like I think they are bad. I’m not trying to but it happens anyway. Maybe they are better off not knowing me. Maybe I shouldn’t be allowed to speak any more. If I went out and made new connections (new connections are easy) then I could just walk away from my current problems.

Only my problems follow me. I am the cause of my problems, not someone else. It’s really hard to get away from being me.

I left therapy feeling pretty positive. I had a nice visit with a friend afterwards. Now I’m starting to crash emotionally again. I know that I have people who say I can call. But I don’t call much. I rarely call anyone. I assume they don’t actually want to hear from me and they are just telling me I can call because it is an empty gesture. I don’t trust that people actually like me, ever. I think I have fairly good reasons to think that people don’t like me.

But some people do. They come here and visit. Maybe I should do more of that hermit-only-talk-to-people-who-will-jump-my-hurdles thing. At least when people get sick of me and stop coming it isn’t as jarring as no longer being welcome in some space.

I like people. I like being around people. I like socializing. I just don’t feel very comfortable going almost anywhere. Some guy will say some thing and I will be “too sensitive”. Some woman won’t like me and I will spend my time there crying because I am so sorry that I am such a bad person and she doesn’t like me.

Gosh I like my house.

Progress report.

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So.Forking.Off.Schedule.

I did five hours of unexpected painting today. Now I think this will be a forty to fifty hour project. Oh man. I don’t think I booked enough time over the next month. I don’t know how this is going to work.

Well, no way to get through it but to just up and do it. This too shall pass.

I am always much happier about the idea of being done with a project than I am about the work. I was bitchy for over an hour of painting. Then I finally relaxed.

I had a lovely chat with the lady who lives there. She thanked me repeatedly for painting her fence and gave me three little tomato sprouts. I thanked her. I’m shocked she is letting me do this. So far she likes it. That’s good.

The old guy down the road wasn’t avoiding me. My paranoia can end. *Phew* He was just super busy and then out of town. I got to hear all about his travels to I-de-ho recently. He is getting bawdier and bawdier and he swears more and more as he talks to me. He is starting to think of me as One Of The Guys. I can tell. It is always a funny shift when older men realize they can’t shock me.

Today I feel so glad that I get to have this life. My therapist wants me to walk around my house with a video camera looking at the pictures on the wall. She wants me to tell a story with them. She thinks it will be good for me.

I told her that I put the pictures up because I have a hard time reminding myself that anyone would care if I died. I largely put the pictures up so I can’t walk through my house and pretend I don’t matter. There are a lot of pictures on the wall of people who would be very upset and hurt if I died. I need to remember that.

I tell my kids that I put them up so that the kids will learn who their family is. That’s a much better story for them.

I appreciate that my therapist validates me as a parent so much. I mean, I think I am doing a good job of meeting the goals I am setting for myself as a parent and as a person. I really and truly have gotten my temper under control. I don’t rant and scream. I don’t hit. I don’t terrorize my children. I just don’t. I have a very mellow relationship with them. We are all working hard on life together.

We have one more Hindi class before two 1.5 hour oral exams. Oof. I need to study more.

I start teaching English on Thursday. I need to copy the short story. I need to pick the short story. And put together questions. And decide what I’m going to teach. And, err, basically every other aspect of teaching. No big deal, right? It’s only in 36 hours. No rush or anything.

Enh, ten kids for two hours. No big deal.

I’m really grateful for my friends. I know some good people.

I had a raunchy good time at a sex party this weekend. My husband puts out very well. Yay! I continue to have mixed feelings about how much better sex is when someone is watching. That would be exhibitionism, ma’am. I feel quite grateful that I found a partner who is so sexually compatible. *swoon* I no longer need to find many men for a night. Ha. He’s enough.

I’m not actually that off-schedule. Just a bit. But I’m going to need to up how much I plan to paint this week. Oy. It will all work out. The work, it will get done. I will it so.

I feel weird about how much I feel like most of the effort of my hands “doesn’t matter” and “isn’t important” and “has no value”. How much of that perception is tied to my internalized misogyny and devaluation of womens work?

Today I told a (female) friend that I am glad that my daughters are growing up in a little bubble where most movies/tv/books pass the Bechdel test (1. It has to have at least two [named] women in it. 2. Who talk to each other. 3. About something besides a man)

My friend said that sounded exhausting after we talked about the three movies she recently watched in one weekend all of which fail the Bechdel test. I kind of blinked. Exhausting? I think that my world is wonderful and comfy and carefully constructed over many years. I feel like I finally get to relax for the first time in my life. No one here is going to tell me that I can’t do _____ because I’m a girl. Noah assumes I am more generally competent at most of the butch tasks in our house… because I am.

I don’t live in a world of female side kicks. I’m not going to fucking be one. I don’t need women to be the only characters but it is very rare for me to watch an all male movie. (Big exception for Shawshank Redemption.)

I look at the world created in mainstream media and don’t see a place for me. So it isn’t part of my life. I don’t miss it. I don’t feel sad about not participating. I don’t see why that would be exhausting. It’s a good thing everyone gets to be different.

I want to learn about the wisdom of women. I have no grandmother to learn from. I read books and watch movies. What lessons have women learned before me? Which wheels do I not bloody need to reinvent? I don’t find those same lessons in male-oriented movies.

Given that I am not allowed to punch people randomly in the face when I’m in a bad mood I don’t find action flicks enjoyable. It raises that “want to punch people” feeling. It isn’t that fun to suppress.

August needs to be slower. Ugh. We have another wedding coming up. (I’m not the officiant but it will be great!) Lots to look forward to. Lots to do. I can’t die yet.

Day one of painting

And the storm passes.

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Yesterday I felt sad and drained by the suicidal ideation slowed down. In the afternoon I talked to one of my favorite men in the world. He helps me gain perspective on life. We talked about shame and pain and being a problem vs. having a problem. We talked about what it means to be trying to change. We talked about how very hard it is to change.

This friend has dealt with a lot of suicide. Three people in the last two years. Now his dad is talking suicide in the “threatening” sort of way. My friend called the police. He told his father that either his father start a) going to therapy, b) seeing a psychiatrist to discuss medication, and c) find some sort of peer support group that my friend will have his father declared incompetent and he will sue for guardianship. That’s kind of intense to hear from my friend.

I asked him how he feels about me talking about my suicidal ideation. He said, “Do you see a therapist?” Yes. “Do you see a doctor for medication?” Yes. “Do you have peer support?” Well… the support group didn’t work out but I have very close friends some of whom I speak to daily and I can call them in any crisis. “Then you ARE DOING what you are supposed to be doing. You are allowed to talk about how it is going.”

He pointed out that I’m not threatening to do it. I’m saying that I want to but know I can’t. I absolutely never fucking ever say, “If you (whoever) do/do not do ___________ then I will kill myself.”

That’s not the point. I don’t think that any one else needs to change what they are doing. I feel like a chicken shit for whining about being in pain. Isn’t every one in pain? Well, why do we act like everyone must suffer all the time? Why?

I don’t suffer all the time. I am in some kind of pain basically every minute of every day but I don’t think about it. I try to ignore it. That isn’t the focus of my life. I’m also breathing air and pumping blood and blinking my eyes and producing saliva. So what?

I don’t always have the standing-in-the-center-of-a-bunch-of-movie-screens feeling in my head. That just isn’t here today. Today it is pretty quiet upstairs. I wouldn’t say I feel “relaxed” but I have more or less decided that given how much I was screamed at today I’m not jumping through hoops to entertain my kids so I don’t have a lot to worry about.

I don’t have a big terrible anniversary looming. Not till October. I have Calli’s birthday and my birthday to get through before then.

Last night my therapist and I talked about my compulsive sexuality. She hasn’t had a lot of details outside of what is in the book. I’ve only been seeing her since October 2012. She has only known me as monogamously married. Hell, she thought we started monogamy at the beginning of the marriage. Snort.

No, actually not following the guy home from the grocery store is brand spanking new. For basically the first twenty-five years of my life I would have. I said yes all the time because saying no frequently resulted in my being raped and that process is pretty terrible so if a guy hints that he wants to have sex it is just a better idea in every way to say yes. Saying no is just flat dangerous.

I only want to be beaten when I ask nicely and say please. In any and all other circumstances I’m not ok with it.

My big girl came in to put her head on my chest while I type. Not a great angle for my arm. But gosh this is good for my heart.

I want to see what they are like as adults. I want to find out if they are going to be slutty or very monogamous. I don’t want to tell them to do either. I want to find out what they want for themselves.

My therapist asked me why I stopped being promiscuous. I told her I didn’t want to model it for my children. I don’t want to teach my kids that they should spend their entire lives hunting for sex. They can learn that lesson from someone else, not me. That’s not my role.

It is really fascinating listening to other people talk about their marriages and sex lives. I feel so grateful that I found someone who is extremely sexually compatible with me. I feel like that alignment isn’t actually common. This is why I test-drove so many people. Ha.

I should get dressed and water the yards and finish sanding the fence. Then I can bring some pencils over and start sketching. I bet I could get a lot of the layout done today and tomorrow if I tried hard. Then I would have next week while Shanna is in day camp to paint. I’ll have to think about how to entertain Calli. I’m not thrilled with the idea of just bringing the iPad but I might. She will have a hard time keeping herself busy without Shanna for three days. Stuff to ponder.

I was lying in bed the other night, crying–of course. I was thinking about how my entire life has involved crying myself to sleep while rehearsing all of the memories other people tell me to forget. Other people want me to pretend that my life never happened. They want me to swallow all of the poison down deep inside of me so that it is buried in the darkness of my belly. There they are safe from the poison. It only hurts me and that is not their problem.

I wonder if that is why my abdomen hurts. It is all the secrets I am not allowed to tell because they are too shameful. I eat them. I swallow the poison as fast as I can but it isn’t fast enough. I don’t do it completely enough. I am not able to do it while smiling and making other people feel good about themselves.

I am a failure.

I am supposed to take all of the suffering away from other people. It is not their responsibility to hurt. I should hurt.

But then I stop and think, “What a self absorbed stupid bitch.”

I haven’t spent more time crying about my friends miscarriages than they have. Who in the hell am I to think I am taking pain away from any one else? I don’t take anyones pain away. I wallow in my own.

I sit and wallow in shit and misery. Because I am too stupid to understand that I am in the pig pen. All I have to do is get up and climb over the fence and take a shower–right?

But this is the only home I’ve ever known.

My friend told me (and my therapist said she was so happy he told me this) I am changing my brain when I parent the way I do. I am creating the possibility of a different future for myself and my children. I am changing the pattern of my family.

My parents both had really bad childhoods. My mother cleaned up after her mother’s suicide attempts after school. My father had a violent, abusive alcoholic in the house. My mother was the youngest child and her older siblings were contemptuous and vicious to her. My father raped his sister.

What the hell happened to my grandparents that they would produce children who would act in such a way? One grandmother was the illegitimate daughter of a prostitute. One was the descendent of Mayflower Pilgrims. (My sister claims she saw records as a kid before my parents divorced.) One grandfather was a second generation immigrant born on a Mennonite colony. One grandfather was a Catholic printer from LA. His family had been in the printing business and in the military as long as anyone could remember.

For my children three our of four of their grandparents are mentally ill though I doubt my mother in law would like me saying so. My children have a great grandparent, grandparent, and uncle who have all committed suicide. They don’t need a parent too.

If I manage to have a happy sixtieth birthday that will be absolutely miraculous by the standards of my family.

And Noah would be really nice to me for all of the years in between. It’s nice to think about.

Suicidal ideation

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My therapist asked me to think about what things make me not want to kill myself. She’s kind of worried about this fifteen years of bought time thing.

I don’t know. What made me get through the first twenty five years? I suppose that I just didn’t want to die bad enough to overcome the hurdles. It can be harder than you think.

I don’t know why I stay alive. I don’t believe in anything. I want to do things. I put off dying until after I do ____ because I just kind of want to see it. They are all selfish things.

I don’t know why the suicidal urges hit so hard during otherwise good and sunny periods. I mean, I do. Because my brain thinks that for me to feel good is a problem. That means something is wrong. I have to fix it. I have to stop feeling that way. That isn’t for me.

It is hard to tell people that you spend a lot of time thinking about killing yourself. It breaks the social contract. You aren’t as invested in them as you should be. It means they can’t depend on you–which is true. I can’t be depended on.

My therapist is being pushy about dealing with the abdominal pain stuff. She is trying to get me to understand the scope of damage it does to young children to lose a beloved parent early. She wants me to take my health seriously.

I just keep coming back to thinking that it will fuck them up less to lose me to a disease than to lose me to suicide once they are adults. That would feel like a slap in the face. Dying while they were little would get to just be a tragedy instead of an insult.

Stop crying stop crying stop crying.

I don’t die because I have obligations to fulfill and I am not selfish enough to abandon those obligations. I try really hard not to break my word.

I do break my word though. I break promises big and small. I don’t perfectly follow through on the things I wish I could do. I despise my frailty as much as anyone.

I think, sometimes, about the Mad Woman In The Attic. It’s a literary trope. It’s a way of handling them there women folk. Was the woman mad before she was put in the attic? Did being in the attic make her mad? It’s never all that clear. I don’t have an attic. Can I still be mad?

I feel like I am going eighty miles an hour and there is a brick wall right in front of me. My stomach feels like it is in my throat. Things get hazy sometimes. Everything is seen at a distance and it is difficult to touch. I feel kind of how Frodo does when he puts on the ring. I’m not really in this world.

I know I am not the only person who feels these things. Depersonalization, derealization, dissociation. These are studied and all. I go through all of them in various degrees. These are my good days. These are the days when I don’t end up crying or freaking out or yelling at anyone.

I understand that no one gives a shit what is going on inside my brain and I have an obligation to be polite to people at all times. I get the social construct. I just can’t always opt in to it.

Why do I not kill myself? How did I make it this far? Sometimes, a lot of times, by doing a lot of damage to myself physically so that I can feel “ok” again. I really do need to feel pain in order to feel ok.

Feeling good is scary. Feeling good feels wrong. It feels like I am about to be punished. I am about to get in trouble. I am about to have it all taken away again. I should not get used to a good living place or people around me or food or anything. I am stupid if I get used to it. If I believe that just because someone has been consistently involved with me for a while they will continue to do so. That’s not how it works. I’m an asshole so people leave. That’s how it works.

People create their own reality. That’s what they tell me. I believe that I am safest when I don’t have needs. Asking people for help is stupid. It just gives them a reason to reject me or tell me no.

I know that I should just “stop thinking about myself” and go “care about something other than myself”. I don’t think I will stay alive very long that way. I don’t think that is an option for me. I have a lot of unconscious responses to things that will prevent that from working out. Whether they are unconscious or not they will still be my fault.

Mostly I just try to ignore my symptoms. I try to pretend I am normal. Fake it till you make it! Or something.

How do you not die? You give away your scalpels so you don’t slip on accident while cutting. You stop driving alone at night after therapy while sobbing hysterically. You don’t do drugs and drive. You be careful how you have sex even if you do it with a lot of people.

Mitigate the risks. Lower them. Really that’s enough. That will get you through not-dying for a long time. You can risk it all you want and still miss it.

I’m not dead because I haven’t put my mind to it. I’m scared that some day I will. I’m scared that this little friend sitting on my shoulder will always be my dearest and closest companion. This self that is not myself that hates me so much. That knows that the only right way for me to be an object in this world is to be an object on the floor with blood spilling out of me.

I wish I could get a brain transplant.

I love my children and I love my husband. Why can’t they be enough? Because I am an object. An object that isn’t particularly valued and needs to be thrown in the garbage one of these days. That is just how it goes.

Sometimes I think I will kill myself just because that is the only way to shut me up. I’m tired of listening to the whining as much or more than anyone else is.

Just keep swimming

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I saw my therapist yesterday. I told her, “This won’t be a deep processing session because a lot has happened and I don’t have the bandwidth to get emotional about any of it right now.” I asked her if my reaction qualified as mania. She asked a few questions and confirmed that I’m not manic. I didn’t think so but I am not always sure. She said, “Hyper-productive coping methods” and I’m comfortable with that.

I got through several big things on my to-do list yesterday with a bunch of big things left today. The kids and I have our work cut out for us today. Lots to do to prepare for camping this weekend.

My therapist patted me on the head and told me it was a good idea for me to bring books and require myself to sit and read. It’s all calming and shit. I will get through. Hopefully I won’t alienate anyone by being an asshole on this camping trip. Luckily we are all responsible for our own families. That way I have no reason to feel anxious because of responsibility for other people. I am less likely to be nasty. Two more days.

The wedding is in nine days. I am going to spend the next few days reading my speech over and over. I need to work on pauses and breath because I will have to project a lot and I am out of practice. I’ve spent the last few years trying to be less loud. Oh well. Maybe I’ll just end up a yeller again. I’m not good at moderating my voice level overall–no wonder my kids are so loud.

Ten days till a kid weekend at the Godmamas. Nineteen days till Disneyland. The Amanda Fucking Palmer concert date was announced–luckily Noah’s parents don’t want to go to Disneyland in December so we probably won’t go either. May and September will be enough for this year. Then I can save those points and use them later. I can save enough to go during a school vacation next year with friends. I haven’t been getting much traction on going during the school year. It’s like the state of California will take you to court if your kid misses school or something. Oh wait. They do.

I’m trying to figure out when I can get to Portland. Not sure. I’m already very booked through June. I’m not sure how I got this busy. It trickled in. Today will be busy. Yesterday was very happy. Dress shopping will probably be stressful. At least it will be fun with Shanna and Calli. They will tell me extravagantly how beautiful I am. I won’t believe a word of it but I will let them take pictures of me and email them to Noah.

I think that losing friends will hurt less from now on. I feel like I have a protective bubble of love. It doesn’t really matter if anyone else likes me. Noah likes me. My kids feel they are getting a good deal. They don’t have a choice about being here yet but they will. So far all they want from life is lots of time with me and access to having fun. I do that.

This is what I’m doing with my life. This is what I want to be doing. I’m doing it well. I am meeting my obligations. I’ve been sleeping better. I ran out of sleeping pills over a month ago and I haven’t refilled it. I haven’t needed them.

I am mid-way through season seven of The West Wing. This is my fourth run through of the show. I think I partially don’t watch television because I have a violent hatred of watching random thirty minute snippets of peoples lives once a week. I like this show because it has a whole story arc and point and when it is over it is over. I don’t want in medias res for my brain candy. I want to learn about people and love them. I don’t know Seinfeld even though I have seen a bunch of it.

Time to go snuggle.

Oh man. I spend my life waiting for the next person to be mad at me. When it happens I experience a big surge of emotional reaction but the anxiety goes down. That’s predictable. I wonder if I should start tracking my anxiety in comparison to when that kind of thing feels looming. Probably not. Go snuggle.

Thank you, hormones, that’s better.

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I participate on a support forum for PTSD. I was just refreshing my memory of how PTSD effects body stress levels and coping. It is hard not to feel ashamed of being broken in the ways I am. It isn’t my fault though.

I haven’t thought about killing myself in over twelve hours. I track these things not to make other people nervous but rather because I have to believe there is enough of a pattern that I can make sense of it over time even if it never makes sense to anyone else.

My friend K has talked me through some blow ups with the kids over the past few days. She came and spent Wednesday with us because she was worried about me. I appreciate her a lot. She talked to me about how it is actually ok to have consequences with your kids and I’m not a meanie head. Life has consequences. Not punishments–that’s a horse of a different color–but there are sometimes unfortunate results to your actions. Bummer.

Having to be the heavy significantly depresses me. It is a fat load of stress and it feels terrible. I prefer it when my kids just kind of go along and do as they are told. Ha. Specifically at 9am the house was clean and I said, “Ok, remember that when you play with stuff you have to put it away when you are done. We are leaving in about three hours for an event and I do want the living room neat when we go.” I went to take a shower in the last half hour. Apparently Barbie needed a pixie cut. And some confetti. And and and and and and and. When I walked out and nearly had a heart attack my dear daughter smirked at me and said, “This is too much for me to clean up. I guess you are going to have to do it.”

We didn’t go to the event. Once she had the consequence and we talked about it and I had the few minutes of being mad while I did indeed clean up the mess we talked about responsibility and consequences we had a better day. It was like we needed to have a blow up. Then we got along. I don’t mean she did what I said for the rest of the day. (Cue hysterical laughter.) I mean that getting to say, “No. If you ignore your responsibilities there are consequences” made me more patient with the other boundary incursions all day. I got to put up one brick wall. This is a line. I WILL DEFEND IT. Then I felt better for the rest of the day. I could be more gentle.

We were sad to miss our friends. I think that was actually a lot of why the day went well after that. We did a lot of commiserating about how much we miss our friends and how sad it was that we didn’t get to visit with them yesterday. We were “on the same team” about being sad about not going. We had another chat about who is responsible for doing what in this house. “No actually it isn’t my job to follow you around all day picking up after you. It is your responsibility to clean up after your stuff. If you can’t clean up your stuff clearly you have too much and we should get rid of a bunch of it. What would you like to start with?” I do a lot. And often I am happy to help with stuff that isn’t “my job” just because I’m a nice lady–do not take advantage of me. I won’t be real friendly.

Alright, confession time. I left the room where the kids were and I put another dent in the drywall yesterday after I came out and saw the Barbie hair everywhere. (Really child. If you are going to give a haircut STAND STILL AND DON’T WALK AROUND THE WHOLE LIVING ROOM WHILE YOU DO IT.) I didn’t mean to. I was barefoot and I didn’t actually feel like I was kicking with force.

We went to Home Desperate and got drywall patch. I fixed the new one and the hole that has been in the wall for about five years now. While I fixed the holes I talked to Shanna about consequences. See, I have consequences for my bad behavior too. I have to fix the holes. It is a very bad idea to put holes in your wall. I am not being very responsible when I do it. I have to fix them now and that is annoying and inconvenient. But–better walls than people. Walls are easier to fix. You never never never kick a person when you are angry. Or hit a person. Walls don’t have feelings. It isn’t good to hit or kick them but better than a person. I waked into the wrong room.

I have been trying not to walk into the garage every time I get upset. The punching bag is in the garage. Unfortunately pot is also in the garage and the associate me going in the garage with smoking and I don’t want them to think that every single time I get upset I smoke. I don’t. It’s hard having this feel like an image problem.

I think that having kind of a scene was what broke the suicidal ideation this time. I don’t like that as a pattern. I don’t need to blow up at my kids in order to convince myself that I shouldn’t die. To be fair I don’t think it is a major pattern at this point. That hasn’t happened many times–specifically blowing up at the kids to deal with being suicidal, I mean.

But I do need some kind of stress-clear-the-air thing sometimes. How can I do that and preserve my relationship with the kids? So far they don’t hold a grudge against me for getting angry. It doesn’t happen all that often and it always blows over quickly and I don’t hold a grudge against them. I don’t stay angry with my kids. That’s a big thing for me.

Right before dinner I asked if the kids were upset with me for not going out. I was told that they missed their friends but they weren’t upset with me. Consequences happen. Both of them said it. I understand that they are at an age where sucking up to me is a survival trait. I hope I am not teaching them to squash their anger or upset because only I am allowed to have feelings. I comforted them when they were sad about not seeing their friends. We talked about when we will get to see them soon. We talked about how to ensure that we don’t have to miss out on seeing our friends again.

I also didn’t let them have the screen. We did have dessert and all other privileges. I don’t want to be too over-kill. But if you get in so much trouble you can’t go play with your friends I’m not going to give you the iPad to distract you with. Hell no. I talked about how I have to create my own entertainment and so does their dad. They have to learn how as well.

I don’t feel ashamed of how I handled it overall. That’s good. No, I’m not perfect. There is always room for improvement but I did ok. I have to understand that given how hysterical I was on Tuesday during the EMDR that my mood on Wednesday and Thursday was close to unavoidable. It will happen again. Welcome to deep trauma work. It has consequences.

How do I apply the principles of harm reduction to this new stress? Well, I’m only seeing my shrink twice a month because I can’t handle more. I feel like doing as much EMDR and as much group work as we have done is causing me to feel really emotionally guarded with my shrink. I feel besieged. I am very used to client directed talk therapy. Therapist directed EMDR heavy therapy is… different. I’m having a hard time adjusting to this whole, “Here. We’ll do this EMDR on you for basically all of our time together because that is a magic button that will fix you even though we don’t have a relationship.” It feels a lot like a fuck buddy, really. Here, let’s get together to do ____ together because even though _____ is fun on your own it is more fun with someone else! Now go away because I don’t actually want to talk to you afterwards. Err, maybe I don’t think about processing like other people do.

Just keep swimming, right? I’m busy. I’m keeping very busy. Only a few people have RSVPed for the Easter party even though I have had a lot more people get excited in person. I don’t know if people are coming or not. Maybe we will end up with ten pounds of sugar for five kids. That would be scary. Could be up to thirty kids. I guess I’ll find out the morning after a hellish drive. Ha. I’m pretty stupid. (Yes, 1/3 of a pound of sugar per kid is still a lot but I figure the parents will steal some as well.)

Today is my last full work day at home before I go to Portland and before the Easter party. That’s kind of intimidating. I am technically capable of doing work on days when I have other obligations but if I want to be nice to my kids I keep it to a bare minimum. It will all work out.

Drywall patching. Laundry. Clean the kitchen. Put out Easter decorations. Make lunch and dinner. Fill eggs with candy. Clean bathroom (really). And I’m sure my kids will want me to read to them and play with them and snuggle them. That sounds like a full day. I’m already tired. I haven’t slept well all week. I feel bad when my discombobulated cycles coincide with Noah having a rockin sort of week (he was interviewed by this internet business guru guy and he’s selling a lot of books) because then he feels guilty.

I don’t want Noah to feel bad about being successful because I am a loser. That’s not a healthy dynamic. I specifically and directly benefit from him maximizing his awesome. I don’t want that to be a fuzzy thing.

And all of a sudden I am having a full stream of words in my head for the wedding ceremony in May. I’m going to close this window and go work on that.

Post-EMDR: birthday edition

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When I try to think backwards in time about my birthdays mostly I think of crying. I have cried through most of my birthdays. Today I was specifically asked if any of them were good and I can come up with my 21st birthday (400+ perverts sang to me in a sneak preview of The Secretary which is pretty much the perfect movie to release on my birthday) and that’s the absolute highlight. 23 wasn’t bad. Tom threw a party for me three weeks after I broke up with him. The most attention he paid to my birthday in our years together. 30 was pretty good. My party was both good and very weird.

But let me tell you I arranged to go to the movie when I was 21 and I arranged the party when I was 30.

As far back as I can remember my birthday is a reminder of the fact that I’m not particularly likable. People (my “friends” who were invited) have decided that my birthday party is a great time to sit down and tell me everything they dislike about me. It’s happened over and over. I tried to change that with 30. It was such a weird night. And then the creating a household thing exploded. So it’s kind of a mixed bag.

This year I am going to Disneyland with my kids and a friend. I’m not inviting Noah. Like, specifically if he asked to come (which I anticipate snowballs falling in hell before he asks to come with me on a trip) this time I would say no.

If I’m not going to be the special pretty princess at least I don’t want my face rubbed in it. I will never be the special-center-of-attention. That’s not a role I get this lifetime. I understand that most people don’t get it.

For most of my birthdays I remember things like my mom getting me chocolate cakes because no one else wants to get stuck eating vanilla even though that is my favorite flavor. No one else likes it so it isn’t coming into the house.

On other peoples birthdays I try hard to pay attention to them. I want them to know that I am grateful that they exist. I want to buy their love–let’s be frank. I want people to know that I think they are worth buying love from. It’s kind of nice to experience, you know?

My birthdays feel like a reminder that I was never wanted. I am the product of rape. If my mother hadn’t been Catholic she would have aborted me. Happy Fucking Birthday. I don’t know how to feel wanted. Mostly I understand that it isn’t anyone else’s problem to deal with my insecurities so I try to not talk about them.

I’m actually pretty good these days at not actively bribing people to come pay attention to me. I get enough that I no longer value myself and my time so little that I am willing to beg people for their attention. It happens or it doesn’t. I have to consciously stop myself from grilling people about why do you want to talk to me? Don’t you find me unpleasant? I think I’d give just about anything to not have to be with me for a day. I find me incredibly unpleasant.

Sometimes it is kind of weird knowing that I could train myself to be nicer. It’s just behavioral conditioning–no big deal. I have the wrong instincts to get through the world safely as a “nice” person. I gravitate towards people who need boundaries expressed with hurling knives. I like them. I just plain do. And way more than I like them I want them to like me so I have traditionally just not said no.

My therapist, like everyone else who knows me and Noah, after listening to me talk about birthday stuff for a few minutes said, “Wait… isn’t that unusually inconsiderate from him?” “Yup.” “Hunh. Why is this a thing? What kind of trauma does he have around birthdays?” “None that I know of in particular.” “Hunh. Weird.” “Yup.”

That’s how discussing birthdays goes with everyone. Why is Noah really excellent at being considerate about almost everything else but has uhm not prioritized my birthday? How the fuck should I know. I’ve asked and haven’t gotten a great answer.

I think it’s the pressure. He’s nice to me all the time because he wants what it gets him. On my birthday the pressure is kind of insane. Failing to act is at least on a different scale from doing “something” that I find disappointing. I can be honest and say that on occasion I have been disappointed in gifts in my lifetime. He’s probably noticed. I’m sure that’s not his favorite thing to deal with.

I really think that part of it is about him not wanting to feel like he has to jump through hoops. He cooks breakfast every day because logistically it is a really great thing for him to do. My birthday probably has less obvious benefits.

I don’t think that one session of EMDR made this issue resolve in my head. I have a long life of birthdays ahead of me. I’m feeling very frightened by the idea of ending up spending my birthday alone every year once my kids are a bit older. Once I’m no longer so interesting and all.

I’m not going to be willing to wake up on my birthday and have everyone in my house act like it is every other day. I can’t do that any more. I’m tired of not fucking mattering. I’m not going to coax and beg my kids to pay attention to me. The only other adult in their life with such influence is going to teach them that my birthday doesn’t matter. I need to not be here while it happens.

This is the kind of thing that makes me not want a long life. I generally start crying about my birthday in August (my birthday is in September) and do it pretty solidly until November. Noah not doing anything last year hit me harder than normal and I’m still crying about it in March. That feels pathetic.

He married me. He had children with me. He works like a dog for me. He cooks me breakfast every day. He stopped sleeping with other people. What more does he bloody need to do to prove that he likes me? I don’t know.

This ache isn’t about him. I don’t know what could fill it. I don’t know if he would be able to if he wanted to but he doesn’t want to so it doesn’t matter. Every year my birthday feels like a reminder that my mother never wanted me. That my father was a monster. That I was just born to be a worthless whore.

I’m really glad that I never actually did sex work. I think that for me that would have been emotionally problematic. As a sex worker you can be an expensive well treated one or you can be a badly treated poorly treated one. Guess which one I would have headed for?

This whole birthday thing is not about getting stuff. I’m really not looking for more crap in my house. I’m not especially materialistic and I have all of my needs met and then some. I absolutely know the extent of my privilege. I am not acting like my husband is inadequate at providing. He’s a fantastic provider. No complaints there.

I want to feel special. Most every day I feel like my presence is in large part tolerated because I am willing to do enormous amounts of work in exchange for people tolerating my presence. I know I owe people something for putting up with me. They sure as shit aren’t doing it for the pleasure of my company.

People who don’t want anything from me confuse me. So I avoid them. Right now I have nothing to give so I avoid the people who want something from me too. I don’t go out as much as I did in the past.

I feel like a selfish piece of shit. I am seriously only hanging out with people who have something specific they are offering me. They come and find me and ask to hang out with me. And I’m still fucking whining on the internet and crying for more than 1/3 of a year because I feel unwanted and unlikable.

That’s broken. I don’t know how to fix that. I see the parameters of what is broken and where but I don’t know how to fix it yet.

Ok, it’s not true that I only use people. Hyperbole is my friend and all. I have highly reciprocal relationships with some people. Mostly though I’m a using bitch. I feel bad about it. I have never been this friend before and I remain quite confident that once I get through this small children phase I will no longer be a using bitch. I anticipate me doing a lot of kid-care for other people in the future.

I don’t feel like my being here on the planet matters very much. My birthday is kind of the chance to say that I am special and every year I am slapped really hard in the face with the fact that I’m really not very important.

Let me throw into this rant the many odd feelings I’m having because Noah’s parents send us so many gifts. In terms of adding random novelty and beauty to my house really they have me covered for the year. Ok, some of their stuff isn’t a hit. Mostly their taste has improved to the point where I write long gushing thank you letters detailing how I’m using all the presents.

So this weird birthday thing really isn’t about being mad about not getting presents. Presents aren’t the point.

I don’t know how to experience my birthday and think, “It’s a good thing I’m alive”. I go through each one knowing that I shouldn’t be here. It’s kind of like permanently living in It’s a Wonderful Life. I feel like I am always kind of simultaneously viewing both options at the same time: I am alive and I am having this life where clearly people do love me–I did manage to find people vs. I was not wanted from the moment of my conception in every way. How can someone conceived in such hate and rage and violence and anger and humiliation ever be worthy of anything else?

That’s what EMDR helps me put into words. This separation of where the emotion is evolving towards vs. what the trigger is about.

I don’t know what will change how I feel about myself. I don’t know if I will ever stop wanting to hurt myself. I don’t know if I will ever be able to stop hating myself.

I tattooed on my back that the thing I want the most is forgiveness. I think that something more akin to an exorcism would be necessary to get rid of how much hate I feel for myself.

I don’t remember what I was watching but the adult child of an incest survivor was speaking about what it was like growing up with his mother. He said something like, “The thing I remember the most about my mother was that she was always just a little sad. She would stand off to the side in every gathering and watch like she wished she was invited but she never felt she could join.”

I’m scared my kids will say that about me.

I kind of feel like life is a party I wasn’t invited to. I kind of heard by word of mouth that it was happening and some people not connected with hosting have said, “You should come!” but I wasn’t actually invited… you know?

But no one is invited. Well, my kids have been. Holy tomato. I work hard at that. It’s very funny hearing the lectures I give them.

My kids don’t know that I’m roiling in self-hatred. It’s completely outside of their scope of the universe and it’s going to gosh darn stay that way. Well, till they can read at any rate.

I want… I want… I want.

I want to stop hurting like this. I want to know how to actually feel valued and loved given that I have a number of relatively sane non-user people working really hard to ensure that my company is desired. And I’m only having sex with one of them. It’s pretty weird. I don’t really know how to handle this.

It is very weird trying to psychologically get my head around the fact that the internet is permanent. Well, until an energy crisis. But let’s assume it’ll last my lifetime. I think it will. Why is that in this post? I’m starting to think about mortality differently. I have never before seriously entertained the idea of living into my 70’s, 80’s, or beyond. Given my life experiences I am unlikely to make it that long. But I will almost certainly make it into my 60’s.

That’s a lot of birthdays to worry about facing. I try to tell myself that the only thing that stays the same is that everything changes. I won’t always feel how I feel right now. Right now I am very deep in that miasma of shitty feeling. I feel stupid and immature for wanting to talk about these things in public. I feel like I should hit delete and walk away because I am wasting peoples time by writing this inane drivel. And I go on and on and on. Shut the fuck up already.

Geez inside voice, I haven’t even hit 2500 words–what got stuck in your craw? (Have I mentioned that I am in love with WordPress telling me word count as I go?)

I think I am going to stop though. We are going to go out to dinner to celebrate Noah’s last day at his old job. He is starting a shiny new upgraded position at a new company next week. Things are exciting here.

I really have nothing to complain about. My ingratitude is staggering. But there it is.

Perspective is everything

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7am: What a glorious, loving day. I’m so glad I’m here.

8am: Weird SMS conversation with a kinda friend/former play partner from the east coast. His phone accidentally merged my account information with someone else who has a similar name. Whoops. It was reiterated that now that I do the mom thing I no longer have “adventures” and my life is boring. He has been going to the same events for the past twenty-five years. The only thing that changes is the identity of the women he is tying up on any given day. They stay the same age. I don’t go to bdsm conferences or pick up casual sex. My life is boring, obviously. In the past five years I have spent a month in Scotland (including some time in England and France), almost three weeks in new Zealand, wrote a book, had two kids, been out of town on some kind of travel more than forty times… I’ve learned to garden. I’ve remodeled my house–mostly while alone with my kids. (I get help on crucial days. I have a whole crew of wonderful friends.) And I’m the boring one? Really? Ok then.

9am: Sitting around talking to K. Anxiety starts creeping in. K’s life is not so smooth as mine. I WANT TO FIX IT. I can’t fix anything. I can feel guilty about making her life harder and not easier. But that is where I am. I’m trying to reduce how much I ask of her. Good grief her life is harder than mine.

10am: Well, shit. At least my father didn’t knock me up as a teenager. I suppose no matter how bad my life was some blessings went past my door without knocking. And my mom isn’t still living with my rapist. That’s something. That’s a big something. I’m even lucky enough to have my dad be dead and I’m the only one in the room and that’s kind of weird because I am by far the youngest.

11am: Please please please can we stop talking about the Pervasive Societal Myth That Most People Who Claim Memories of Incest Had Them Implanted By Some Malicious Person. Yes. I am aware that lots of people think this. I’ve seen this myth running around all by myself. Yes, I’ve already seen and heard such imprecations. So what? What is the point of this elaborate conversation–ah yes. To tell us that despite lots of people saying it we shouldn’t believe it. Here’s a list of out-of-date studies to convince us we shouldn’t believe it. Uhm, there are several much better much more recent studies. Maybe you could update your hand out. I should probably start a bibliography page one of these days.

12pm: Holyfuckingshit what is in your freaking mouth?!?!?!?!! I didn’t phrase it like that. Almost. We need to work on rules about taking things at other peoples houses. Oh man. I would have been screamed at and hit. I did minimal screaming and losing the iPad for one day seems so… stupid. Ugh. And a lecture.

1pm: Oh lunch. Lunch is sooooo awesome right now. I love you both sooooo much while there is a delicious sandwich in my mouth.

2pm: I like sitting. I don’t like the internet. Maybe I should do something else. Wander off.

2:45pm: Oops. I forgot to hit post.

Post-EMDR

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I should have taken a knee-jerk sleeping pill. I didn’t. I had therapy in the morning and I went to bed at my normal time. I’ve been mostly awake since 12:45. I just wasn’t able to get back to sleep today. That’s ~5 hours of sleep. Not enough but not completely insignificant either.

She asked me about the last time I seriously cried. It was that last post on the parenting book. The one that ended with my self-pity running like the river of my snot. Cause I’m classy. I had to sit and think about the things I was thinking about that day. While I had headphones beeping weirdly into my ears and little gizmos were alternating vibrating in my hands. It’s kind of a weird system. It does work though.

Part of what came up for me while reading the book is how fucking jealous I am of my kids. Why didn’t anyone love me enough to take care of me and keep me safe? Why am I the product of rape and I got to grow up and be raped by my father and everyone else who wanted to take a turn? Why was I not worthy of protecting as a child?

In situations like mine I have seen adults consciously choose that they want their child to understand them so the child needs to be abused too. I don’t want my kids to understand me. I want to be a confusing non-sequitur in their lives. No one is quite like me.

I told my therapist that it’s really hard that in order to feel understood I have to go looking for the people who have been beat on and raped repeatedly. I need to go find the people who have been habitually abused their entire lives. “Normal” people literally cannot wrap their brains around me. There is something wrong with me.

We spent a fair bit of time talking about the point and purpose of confrontation. My therapist enthusiastically agrees with me that I should confront if and only if I feel I need to and not if someone I know who is kind of weirdly overly enmeshed with my life feels I should. That’s not my problem.

I can love people. I can wish that I was good enough for them. I can’t jump through the hoops they put in front of me. I just can’t. Maybe someone less broken could, but I can’t. It is something that would cause me to hate myself more than I do right now. Right now I have a grudging respect for myself. Even I have to admit that I really am doing what I said–and I’m doing it well. I have respect for that.

I respect myself because when I fuck up I say, “Ok, I screwed up by not doing ______. I’m really sorry I made that choice. I can’t fix it this time. But next time I will do ______ so that I don’t hurt you again. I’m sorry I screwed up. I didn’t mean to.”

I don’t immediately start blaming someone else.

We had issues yesterday with the kids. We didn’t make it to Fairyland. We had food issues. It was my fault. I should have packed lunch before we left in the morning. Then we would have done ok. But I didn’t. So we stopped at the store to buy food. It was Whole Foods so the lunch was kind of ridiculously expensive. Then Shanna refused to eat anything because it was “yucky”. After she picked the damn sandwich. I told her that I wasn’t going to take her to Fairyland hungry so she could immediately start whining at me to buy her something–no. I just wasn’t up for being patient with that.

But it was all my fault. I didn’t prepare for the consistent and predictable needs of my children. If Shanna decides to be a bit fussy on a given day that is an annoyance–but it isn’t her fault that I’m unprepared to handle her. I know the drill. I know how things work. If I don’t handle it there is no one to blame.

My children are never to blame for my temper and my ability to handle their needs. If I fail to plan or if things happen that surprise me… they are just being normal kids. It is all part of the deal. I have no choice but sucking it up and coping. Because that is life when you are the god damn grown up.

But sometimes I feel so jealous of my kids. And it’s hard to be nice when I’m feeling that way. Why are you good enough and I’m not?!

I thought about this a lot during EMDR.

By the end of that session I was instead stuck in the thought loop that even though I didn’t get to have it as a child–I do get to have it now. My children give it back to me.

In our house every day starts with hugs and kisses and cuddling and, “Good mownin! I missed you. Did you sleep well?”

My kids greet almost every meal with, “This looks delicious. Thank you!”

I am really nice to them. They don’t see other examples of behavior. I don’t model being an asshole. I am considerate and loving.

And when they are screaming at me that they hate me and I am the biggest stupid ever and they think I am the worst mother on the planet my response is, “It’s fine for you to say you hate me–I did something that made you really upset. But I am not stupid and it is not ok to call me that.”

And I have to do it without screaming or getting fiercely upset. I have to do it in a reasonable voice.

I will admit that I more or less dragged Shanna across the street because she decided to throw a screaming fit just as we were crossing a street. As soon as we got across the street I let go of her hand and apologized for pulling so hard. It’s a short light. We had to hurry.

My self-pity is kind of interesting to navigate. I feel like I constantly come across reminders that at this point my life is ridiculously privileged. I am lucky. I am fortunate. I have an easier life than almost anyone in my age cohort.

So much for me being that fucking loser my whole life.

When the movie The Craft came out the kids at school started calling me Nancy and trying to avoid me. I was “that scary girl on the bus.”

I’m not really friendly or personable. Only I am.

You choose your behavior. You choose what you want to send off into the world. Sometimes I need to be scary. It has been a survival trait. One I don’t know if my kids will ever need so I haven’t taught it yet.

But I am teaching them how to get along. It feels like teaching them to lie. It feels like teaching them that other people matter more than them. I don’t matter more than them.

I tried to explain to Shanna (but she found it scarce comfort) that when we go out for a long time I have to be able to get them both home at the end. If they don’t eat and end up freaking out a long way from the car I can’t physically carry them the whole distance any more. I’m not strong enough. I have to plan around my limits even though that is really inconvenient. It’s ok to get mad that I have these limits. But next time we will pack a backpack with food so Shanna can be responsible for carrying around her own food so I will know she has enough to keep going even if she doesn’t feel like sitting down for a meal.

Dealing with kids is weird. They are semi-rational and increasingly difficult to just manage. You need cooperation. You have to convince them to take care of themselves so that your fuck ups have less impact. “I’m sorry that I planned poorly. In the future we really have to remember to pack a lunch because this isn’t a fight I want to have again.” “That’s right. Next time I will pack my own lunch.” I hope she does. That would be cool. She can make her own pbj, grab an apple, string cheese, and a couple of carrots and call it good. That is entirely within her range of coping. And no one will end up getting screamed at. Life will be better. I don’t enjoy being screamed at.

Why does thinking about my kids make so jealous? My therapist says it is totally normal only most people don’t admit what is going on and instead they are just mean to their kids. I don’t want to be mean to my kids. If I’m mean to my kids they have the right to walk away from me when they are 18 and never speak to me again. I want a relationship. I would like to someday be friends. Not that they will ever be my “support” but I would like to be friends someday. That means we can’t be friends now. I have to be the mom.

I feel completely inadequate to this task. Reading parenting books, especially ones that specifically lay out “If you were wounded during this phase of development you will act out in these ways: x, y, and z” is hard because I can’t really deny how fucked up I am. Oh. That part of being broken is probably related to ______ trauma. Oh. Ok, the next part of being broken is probably related to ______ trauma.

The best this husband/wife team recommends is to become more and more aware of how and why you are broken so you can consciously choose to not pass it on to your kids.

God I’m so broken. So very broken. I am “disrupted” at every god damn stage of development. It is weirdly miraculous that I am so high functioning at all. I shouldn’t be. I should be so broken I can’t see anyone but my own pain. But I don’t actually work that way.

It’s weird to be told so emphatically how and why I am fucked up while being told, “Now just think about it and don’t be broken like that anymore!”

*beat head on wall*

I’d love a good head banging session right now. My lesser demons are outshouting my greater angels. I’d love to beat the noise out of my head. I would like to cut and experience the tunnel of attention–the inability to notice or think about anything else. Pretty much any source of pain would work–I want to stop thinking. I want to be distracted.

Only I don’t. I did that for a long time. It made nothing better and it lowered my opinion of myself.

I have carved out a path for me. It’s slow progress. I haven’t backslid in a long time. I have rather good control of myself these days. I avoid the situations that would make me lose control. My kids can’t be that kind of trigger. They are allowed to exist without my emotional turmoil. I respect myself for that.

I may be someone that other people look down on–I can do nothing about that but I don’t feel particularly ashamed of myself lately. What do I do? I homeschool my kids. I garden. I keep the house tidy and organized and don’t complain about huge messes because that is how the kids learn. I am polite. I am kind. I think really hard about the conflicting needs that exist in my house and I try to meet them in a way that is fair to everyone. I’m not the only important one.

Children do what is modeled for them. My children wake up excited to see me and they hug me and gently stroke my face and tell me they love me. I do get to have this during this lifetime. I didn’t get to have it when I was little but I get to have it now. Some people never get it at all. Some people have never gotten to have the magical experience of having someone tell them day after day that they are loved and wonderful.

I am privileged. I am lucky. Very few people have as much safety and security as I have now. Few people get to just sit around and love on their kids the way I get to. My whole job is watching them grow and exclaiming how wonderful their progress is. It’s a fucking good gig if you can get it.

One of the women in my incest support group looks like my mom. I’m going to have an interesting time with her. She’s the other really angry person. And she wishes that she had children. But she’s 50 and she doesn’t. She’s gay so the kids thing would have been challenging and expensive to arrange. She is really angry and sad because she is as emotionally damaged as I am and there is no one hanging out telling her how beautiful she is all day.

I am one of the lucky ones. It is so weird to look at the intersection of life experiences. Isn’t it kind of weird for me to think of myself as lucky? But I am. I’m lucky that I managed to catch the eye of someone who is a good provider. Noah has basically doubled his income in the six years of our marriage because he takes it very seriously that he has to support us.

I feel so overwhelmed. It’s hard to wrap my brain around how undeserving, how unworthy, how bad I feel while knowing that I am in a position that women of my species have viewed as the the ultimate goal for most of history. I have a provider who is very skilled. I am lucky. I have someone to give me children and give me support and give me love. I am treated very well by my husband.

My husband wakes up every day and makes breakfast for our family. Then he works hard all day. Then he comes home and plays with the kids or reads to them. He isn’t doing anything extra right now. We get to monopolize all of his time. I feel so lucky and so loved.

So feeling jealous of my kids feels kind of extra bad. If I have it so good it makes me a ridiculous asshole to be jealous. They may be having a more secure and loving childhood than I had but that is no guarantee of anything for their future life. Ask me how your childhood is no guarantee of anything about your future. I’ll cheerfully tell you.

My therapist said to expect sleep disturbance and dizziness and fuzziness for a day or two after EMDR. My brain is rewiring. I have to be patient. All this damage happened over a long period of time. Fixing it is hard.

The goal is that some day I can think about my children having it better than me without losing three hours to crying and self-pity. It’s a goal. I haven’t cried more than a few individual tears today. I guess that’s a start.

not so violent after all

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Once I’m crying so hard I shake the whole bed it seems like time to get up for the day. EMDR on Tuesday nights always makes it hard for me to sleep. I didn’t go to bed until midnight on Tuesday. Of course I got up at 4 AM on Wednesday like normal. That’s really not good. I think I slept through part of the visit of some of the homeschooling kids. That’s really embarrassing. By 6 PM last night I was asleep on the floor. At 9 PM Noah woke me up and told me to brush my teeth and go to bed.

This week we were working on my fears about my siblings coming after me. In all honesty those fears are the most irrational in my life. It was really hard working through the visualization process on what I would do if my sister came after me. Ever since I was a little girl I have fantasized about how someday I would be as big or bigger than my sister. She beat me for a really long time. I have nurtured vengeance in my heart. I have spent a really lot of time and effort thinking about exactly how I would beat the ever loving shit out of her so that she could be a bloody pulp on the ground. I hate her a lot.

Unfortunately, a lot of the purpose of working through this kind of therapy is so that you think about the actual results of your actions before you do them. I couldn’t do anything like that if my kids were there. I don’t want my kids to see that. Especially not from me. Which means that I’m back to feeling helpless and scared it like there is nothing that I can do.

It is really hard to explain how much I want to hurt somebody else. It coexists with this really strong desire to not hurt anyone. A lot of years, maybe most of my life, I believed that the route to freedom was in being strong enough to beat them all off of you. In my mind I have been preparing for a really long time what would be necessary in order to damage my sister is much as possible. She has weakened knees. I would start there.

My therapist told me to go home and watch the movie the girl with the Dragon tattoo. So I did. Yes. That kind of violence. I desperately want to hurt someone as badly as I have been hurt.

When I got to the part of the visualization that involved how my children would react I could keep going. I don’t want to be a monster. Not in front of them. But I am so very angry.

Because I started passing out on the floor at 6 PM last night I woke up at 2 AM today. A lot of my friends have been writing year-end summaries. 2012 is like every year for me. It involves me losing major friendships.

I feel bad. Not sick or like I don’t feel well, but guilty. I feel like everything goes away because I’m bad. If I had been stronger, if I had been willing to work harder, if I had more patience, if I didn’t get so angry, if I wasn’t so bad maybe I would deserve more relationships. But you can’t change who you are.

It is interesting to me how my self harming impulses of changed over time. I used to get to cutting and stop there and not really have to think about any other kind of hurting myself. I have so successfully treated cutting like not an option that isn’t nearly as supreme in my thinking is it used to be. Now I focus really hard on wanting to beat my head against things. I feel like I want to beat some sense into my stupid skull. “I never would have agreed to that.” “We spent two hours working on this together and now you say you wouldn’t have agreed to it?”

I can’t get things out of my head. I would like to beat my head against the floor until it hurts so bad that I can’t think of anything but the pain. It’s kind of stupid because my head hurts all the time anyway. I have spent most of my life using pain as a way of keeping my mouth shut. I feel crazy and bad.

When am I going to stop waking up at 2 AM to cry out for hours? Will I ever grow up?

Next week I am scheduled to start the incest support group that meets directly after my therapy session. I think that from now on I should be very careful not to schedule anyone coming over on Wednesdays. I will not be fit for human company.

I feel so broken and useless.

Sometimes it feels like I was created to live in a different world. One with a lot more violence. If what I was supposed to teach my children is how to react as fast as possible with as much violence as possible I think I could be very successful. But instead I’m supposed to treat my children nicely and I’m supposed to teach them manners and how to be polite to people. How in the fuck am I supposed to teach something I don’t know?

I suppose it is a good thing for me to break off relationships with people who tell me I have personality disorders that multiple professionals have said I don’t have. It probably isn’t very nice to tell your friends that they have personality disorders.

Sometimes it feels really disorienting to live in the place of extreme hope and extreme hopelessness. I believe that I can do just about anything I set my mind to–except having relationships.

I have spent a lot of time trying to figure out why other people deserve love more than me. I haven’t come up with an answer yet.

It isn’t that I feel that I am completely unloved– I know that some people love me. I am even vaguely aware that I’m probably loved by far more people than I can even imagine.

I wish I felt less empty.

I’m really tired.

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I’m in a very bad mood. And a lot of people are coming over today. People from the home schooling group. People I am getting to know, not because I am hunting for friends, but because I am trying like fuck to have my kids grow up in a community of people. I can’t be a problem person or people won’t come over.

It doesn’t fucking matter how I feel or what is going on in my head. No one here is to blame and I may not vent my spleen at little kids. Or the parents of little kids. I have to smile. I have to be polite. I have to look relaxed. If you checked my pulse you would get a different story.

It depends on how much pressure I feel to behave around a specific group of people. Sometimes I consciously decide I don’t give a fuck if these people like me I am under stress and I don’t have the extra spoons to hide it.

I can’t do that today. I am in a very bad mood. I think that after the people go home and Noah gets home from work I am going to spend a lot of time crying. This is going to be pretty bad.

I did EMDR on Tuesday (err, obviously with a trained professional). I still can’t figure out what that means or how that works. But I am having a lot of turmoil. I am very edgy and angry. I feel like I always misunderstand trauma. I always get upset by the wrong thing.

I don’t feel all that traumatized by the dog bite. I have gone on to have cautiously good relationships with other pit bulls. I’m not much of a dog person but that’s ok. The settlement for that injury made my entire adulthood possible. I just… yeah. I don’t actually feel traumatized by the dog bite. I feel pragmatically grateful for the lesson in the school of hard knocks.

I feel extremely traumatized by the fact that my mother set a mirror in front of me and told me to look at how disgusting I was. I had to stare at myself so I would learn a lesson. I would never put my face in another dogs face. Actually, I have. More than once. Even with pit bulls. Guess it didn’t work.

But I still think I am disgusting.

I am very careful what I say to my children. I have to be. The inside voices I hear are so fucking mean. I want to be so nasty all the time. That is what I hear. That is what I am already arguing with in my head.

I have to be good today. I have to be good today. I have to be good today. I have to be good today. I have to be good today. I’m not even hitting cut’n’paste. I have to be good today. If you want to learn something you have to use repetition. I have to be good today. I have to be good today. I have to be good today.

My problems are my problem. I have to be good today. I should probably stop writing and start working. I can’t let the tears start until tonight. I should probably have some caffeine. That will make the suppression easier. And it will make me feel more frantic about having the house ready for people to come over in less than seven hours.

I didn’t do anything yesterday after swimming. I sat on the couch. I let the kids have the iPad and I napped. They like sitting on me while they watch so I feel pretty confident that I’ll notice if they take off.

So the house isn’t as clean as usual. I haven’t gotten to cleaning at all this week. That’s part of the exhaustion.

My body is telling me to slow down. My body doesn’t understand that I don’t really care that it is tired. I want this in my life too much. I am not going to be the flakey asshole. I will motherfucking perform. Does it matter? No. Only if I start pulling away now just a little (flaking on hosting the cookie exchange would be pretty nasty–it’s not like I’m sick) then I will feel ashamed and not come back. This isn’t a big deal but it is my task of the day. I do need to do it. That is what being functional means.

I have to be good today. I will be good today. That’s probably better. I will be good today. I will be friendly and polite. I will seem upbeat and cheerful. I can say that my twitching is because of caffeine. They don’t need to know who is screaming at me in my head.

I’m starting to realize that a number of them are in the same boat. It kind of sucks but it is comforting. Maybe I will get friends after all. But they will be real friends online and I will be a good girl in public.

I will be. I need my kids to have a community. I can’t get us kicked out. I can’t pull away because I’m having feelings. That’s not fair. It’s just not.

My kids deserve better than that.

Put your big girl panties on. Have some tea. A lot of tea. I hear they built the British Empire on the shit. It’s got to have some merit.

Exhausted

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Last night we did emdr for a lot of the session. I have slept through a lot of today. I feel so wasted.

Healing isn’t for sissies.

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Last night was a slight change in how we have been doing therapy. I told her I needed to take a break from history because I am struggling with boundaries in a few places in my life and I need help.

About the doctor–she says that I should carefully rehearse exactly what I need to say about this specific stomach pain, “It started right after my second daughter was born about two and a half years ago. It is a very specific sore spot that often feels like it is pulsing. It is usually in the 1-3 range of pain with it being more intense while I lie down. It isn’t majorly painful but it is tender and prevents movement in some directions and it causes me to be stiff and awkward so I don’t twist which is hurting my back. So yes, this spot riiiiiiiiiight here probably needs an ultrasound.”

She said to very consciously and deliberately decide for myself that all of the other parts of my medical history are a distraction to dealing with this problem and I don’t need to mention them until and unless I want that doctors help. She said if they try to shunt me off to psychiatry give them her number and she will deal with them.

I will feel like a deceitful liar but that is the least anxiety-producing way to get through this. I will actively feel like a lying liar but oh well. It will be ok. I can probably live with being a lying liar with people in the medical community.

We talked about friendships and how those are working for me. How I feel very obliged to offer help and assistance and compensation–essentially–in order to beg people to be my friend. I have a bad habit of “giving till it hurts” because I don’t tell people on day one that I can’t do what they really want to have someone do. Everyone needs support. I am not in a good place to support people. Not really in any way. I have to be ok with the cycle of life I am in and not beat myself up for how little I can do for people.

We talked about how when I think about people in my head and I kind of do the weighing and measuring sort of shit that I do I can think I am “higher” on 99 different topics but I will always be able to find some specific thing that makes this person is “better” than me. More essentially valuable or useful. More lovable. More worthy of help and assistance.

If I can’t handle driving I need to not feel like a pathetic person who is unworthy of relationships just because I can’t drive to people. I need to just deal with where I am.

We went through people in my life and made specific lists for her records of “I react to this friend like my sister. I react to this friend like my mother. This friend reminds me of my brother (now deceased). Etc. I did that because I feel like I put people in categories and then I just react to them without examining what I am doing. It’s not positive.

Side note–P, of course you are grandmotherly. You are extremely grandmotherly and wonderful. You are part of a small pool of women who kind of interchangeably provide similar sorts of interactions with my kids. You do it when you have time and space and energy–not when I need it per se. WHICH IS OK! This is what I am trying to figure out how to accept emotionally. My kids don’t have a “grandmother” who is specifically invested in their welfare. They have wonderful and kind women who for whatever reason love me and by extension are nice to my kids–absolutely. We have good and kind people.

There is a difference in actual family and people who are good friends who visit once or a couple of times a year. For one thing, I can’t talk about most of my friends with my kids. I don’t know stories about my friends lives that are appropriate to share with my kids.

My adopted Dad sent me an sms asking what stuff he should send to the kids. I called him back and left him a voicemail saying he isn’t getting the easy way out of this. He needs to talk to me. I’m not sending an sms list.

We had a lovely phone call over the weekend. I told him the best thing he could do for his relationship with my kids is to send them pictures of himself and his life along with little stories explaining the pictures.

The only stories I know about my Dad are stories I can’t tell my kids. They don’t want to hear about how hilarious it was that Dad went to a leather con in Denver Colorado and his biological brother ended up at the same event and found him while he was doing a labial inflation. And his wife was on stage (with me) screaming her fucking head off while I beat on her like a piñata and tried to all but rip her nipples off. It was a heavy scene.

Those are the kinds of things I know about my Dad. I can tell you his entire Leather history start to finish. I can describe who he has played with and what he specifically did. I know his partners and their partners and and and.

Not things I’m telling my kids.

Most of my friends come from sex communities. I have pretty much the same situation with most of them.

P–when I talk about the lack of grandmother I am not trying to demean our friendship nor how kind you are to my children. I am trying to explain that there is still a hole for me. You are good. You are wonderful. I am so grateful that I have you in my life that I would quite cheerfully kiss your feet. Please for the love of shiny green apples don’t decide that I am an ungrateful bastard who is unworthy. It may be so but I hope our relationship is little enough work for you that you can overlook that flaw.

I desperately need what you have to spare in your life. But beyond that I still have this cavern of need. You aren’t available to fill it. That is appropriate. I try very hard not to be bitter or demanding or difficult about the fact that my friends are clearly giving me the limit of what they have to give.

I am at a place where I don’t think any friendship can give me what I need. Having a mother is simply different from having a friend. That does not mean my friends are not doing their jobs. They are wonderful and kind and supportive.

You are still supposed to have a mom. And I don’t. And it hurts a lot. I know my whining gets old. I know that I am over thirty and I’m not supposed to still be whining about how much I miss my mommy. But I do. I started missing my mom when I was three and have never stopped.

I can only do what I can do. I have no one to catch the ball if I drop it. Thus I need to decide for myself what I can and can’t be responsible for. I can’t feel like I owe people things. Not reassurance, not comfort, not support. I don’t have enough reassurance or comfort or support for me. If I turn around and hand off what I have that is actively self-sabotaging myself and that’s not ok for me to do to my kids.

Even though my inability to follow through on relationships feels to me like absolute proof that I am a piece of shit I need to ignore that. I have to leave a lot of run-off room for my kids’ needs. They spike unexpectedly sometimes. I have to just have slack sitting around. I can’t run near capacity all the time. I just can’t.

My therapist and I talked a fair bit about how I value other people for having knowledge but I devalue everything I know. She asked me if I think a professor is a low status position. I laughed and said that I try to give occasional professors respect but mostly I’m not real flattering in their direction.

I read a lot and I know a fairly ridiculous array of things. Sometimes, like yesterday in my kitchen, I get to show off. I am perceptive. I can listen to under two minutes of a conversation other people are having and then go through and fill in the blanks on a whole bunch of behavior patterns in the life of someone I have never met before. That’s kind of cool.

That’s why I talk so much and so loudly about rape and incest and ptsd and all the other things I talk about as loudly as I can. Because I am not actually a special snowflake (Even though Lisa made me a very nice special snowflake ornament to argue with my premise.) because the things I experience are textbook and happen to other people too. And those people rarely have spent as much time reading about it as I have. Not very many people are as dedicated to studying their body as I am without getting into a profession where you settle in to one specialty and become a specialist in how you deal with people and their issues. You narrow down what it is you know.

I’m not a specialist. I can’t dive deep into one subject and immerse myself in the way that true professionals do. I’m not a doctor. I don’t have the memory or attention to detail. I will frankly say that when there are two things that have perhaps vastly different functions but nearly identical names… I’m almost certainly mixing a lot of those up. I’m sure I have mistakes in my brain. I am sure I read so fast that I kinda skim sections and miss important details.

I am not a doctor. I am not a psychologist. I am not any kind of specialist. But I’m good at recognizing my tribe. I can recognize our behavior and smell. I think it kind of weirds people out that I meet them and talk to them for a few minutes and decide, “Ah. You are my tribe. Ok.” because then I speak very familiarly. I make predictions. I talk as if I know things about them. I’m usually right.

I do get it wrong. Not everyone is my tribe. I have shitty luck predicting people who are not my tribe.

I obviously derive a lot of feelings of positive self-esteem from this knowledge. I obviously feel an elevation in worth or value or status because I really and truly can, occasionally, make peoples life better just by talking about things that I like to talk about.

Tell me there isn’t a career somewhere in that.

Bucket List (first draft in this journal)

~~run a marathon~~
~~have kids~~
travel for a year outside the country
live for one year in one place in a foreign country
hike a substantial portion of the Appalachian trail
drive cross country with my kids studying historical sites
do the training to be a first responder
reach at least the penultimate belt in a martial art
someday I want to read a whole new book every day for a year. this will have to be fluffy shorter books, obviously–yay for libraries.
I want to write a novel–like… fiction.
I want to write a graphic novel series. No, I’m not trying to be Neil Gaimon. I see pictures in my head and I want other people to see them and that is probably the best format.
I want to write a childrens book.
stop smoking or needing any anxiety medication–I will fucking shrink my life.
go to the Michigan Womyns Music Festival with my kids
go to all of the Disney parks in one year, err… maybe not Paris again.
go to all 50 states (I have seen 27 so far)

Those are all things I have already told Noah about. Well, I’m not sure he has been told about the hiking part. He has this magnificent coworker who did that after college. She has no idea how much she inspired me. As much as I overall am not in love with Noah’s current employer I have to admit that his coworkers here are way cooler than average.

On the train yesterday I was at the part of The Moral Animal where he talks about low self esteem as a survival trait. Ha. It is very probable that this pervasive belief that I am worthless is my way of trying to convince people that they no longer have to kick me to knock me down any pegs. I’m at the bottom. It’s cool. I know. Just leave me alone.

Then I came home from therapy and talked to Noah. I asked him to explain what kind of intimidating I am. Once a student (who was a large football player who dwarfed me) slowly backed away from me and told me that I looked like I was about to rip his head off and piss on his neck. What in the hell do I do that causes people to say things like that to me?!

He told me it isn’t that I am that intimidating looking. But I am very unpredictable and startling. I don’t fall into any of the obvious patterns for people who look like me and I very carefully mask how far off from the norm I am until I explode because I have carefully learned how to mask all the small distress signs. There is no sign whatsoever that I am feeling even slightly off until I am hysterical or screaming or something.

He said it is kind of like if a big guy was kind of vaguely menacing in the direction of a little bitty old lady and she turned around and snarled like a tiger and pulled out a large knife.

Clearly the guy is no longer in control here despite outward appearances of being more intimidating. Now there is no obvious script to follow. Oh shit. He says I’m like that old lady.

I didn’t say thank you.

I am so difficult to predict and when I explode it is so intense that people can’t handle it. They have no coping methods for people like me other than avoidance. And by the time the old lady pulls the knife–should you have been running thirty seconds ago? oh shit.

When I was a child I was literally taught that there is no such thing as a fair fight. If you fight you fight to win. You fight to cause as much injury as possible. You have to escalate with as much force as you are capable of instantly because otherwise someone will want to slowly escalate and walk up the ladder to find out what you are capable of and they will eventually find the ceiling. If you come back with an overwhelming show of force they don’t try again.

I want to learn a martial art because I have been practicing my physical approximation of the movements I will need since I was a child. Stomp their toes. Everyone has weak feet. If you are close enough and the need is dire enough pull your fingers in to make a hard line on your hand and you have to hit really hard to break their nose and hurt them enough to let you get away. Knees are weak.

When I used to walk through the mountains past kids who gave me shit I carried a stout stick. I took out several much bigger kids by hitting their knees.

I’m not trying to make it sound like I won most of the time. I didn’t. I lost. I got the shit beat out of me because there were almost always more of them and they were bigger. But I made sure they fucking hurt.

Now, as an adult, if someone attacked me I would find a way to rake them with my fingernails. That’s DNA. Even if it does result in a more severe beating. No one is getting away with it again. I will have evidence.

Sometimes I don’t like where the rabbit hole goes.

scope

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I told my therapist last night that I feel like what I am struggling with right now is understanding the scope of my life. I want to feel like I really understand kind of “my position” in the realm of trauma.

All of my life I have had people telling me that what happened to me “wasn’t so bad” and I should “quit whining”. First my family and then as an adult people have practically fucking lined up to tell me I am hysterical and I should “just get over” my childhood.

I told my therapist that I feel very self conscious but it feels like the only people who may have some idea of what my childhood was like is people who grew up in war zones. She asked me if I have ever known someone who grew up in a war zone. I said no–that is a lot of my guilt. I’m one of those white American–who in the fuck am I to act like my life has been as bad as someone else.

She said she knows quite a few people personally and professionally who have grown up in war zones. She feels quite confident telling me that any of them would say that hands down my life experiences were out-of-this-world traumatic compared to what they lived through.

How do I assimilate that?

It was hard watching her face as she said it. Like she was breaking bad news to the poor bereavement victim.

She said she knows a Tibetan man who lost his entire family. They were all blown up in one go. She said that she is pretty sure he would feel great compassion and tell me that what he suffered was nothing like what I went through.

He had a community who reached out to him and mourned his loss and grieved with him. He was supported. It was awful but the people around him helped.

I cry alone in a room. I have for my entire life. There is no community support in that. There is no reason for my brain to treat me like someone who should continue living. I am given no data to support the premise that I deserve to live.

It makes a lot of sense that I am suicidal. I am treated like I am disposable in the world I was born into.

Have you ever watched chickens go at each other? I am at the bottom of the pecking order. In almost every other species I would be dead already. It is kind of weird knowing that it is not hyperbole.

I was a high school teacher. I am quite familiar with the depths of despair into which people throw themselves. I hate feeling like that kind of whiner.

No, recovering from trauma is not whining. It is…. wait for it…. recovering from trauma. And sometimes it takes a long time. Sometimes it is impossible to move past. That’s only about 6% of people who end up with PTSD. Only about 20% of people who live through trauma move into PTSD. There is hope.

I have to trick my brain into believing that I should be here despite this many years of evidence that I shouldn’t be.

It is normal for my species to be pack animals. I have to not need that in order to feel worth. It’s kind of weird but I have try and gain a more masculine approach to life. In general (certainly not in all cases across the board) it is more common for men to eschew the societal view of them than women. Women need the herd for safety more than the men.

I feel inadequate to the task of demanding a seat at the banquet of life. I feel like my responsibility is to carry platters so large and heavy that I can’t see past them and accidentally fall down the stairs and break my neck. The big loss will be the meat I’m carrying on the tray. I am more easily replaced.

I think a larger chunk of that feeling than I would prefer to admit comes from my internal misogyny. Especially given that I have now successfully contributed to the gene pool my entire concept of self says that I have no further use. There are people more fit to perform the tasks I perform. Better to cull the herd for the good of the herd.

It’s kind of weird but I have always kind of wished that I felt less comfortable as a girl. This fits. I am absolutely cisgendered. I’m a girl. I’m a chick. I’m a woman. Those fit. Maybe if I were more androgynous, maybe if I wanted to reject this inferior female body and instead I tried to move towards being a man then maybe I would be worthy of respect. Unfortunately that doesn’t seem to work out a lot of the time either. Nothing about me makes sense as a man. I’m just a woman.

I feel actively demeaned by my lack of ambition. It shows how generally low in character I am. I have interest in money only in as much as it is a means to an end. I am pushing my family into excessively frugal living because I prioritize lowering our overall expenses. That is my first, central, and most fiercely held current life beliefs. The only way for us to be safe is to lower our monthly expenses.

We spent over $90k last year. Noah made a lot more than that. (I feel startled by him.) That is not something I can count on forever. In my defense 54% of our spending went towards mortgage/house. I did have to replace the washer/dryer and both heaters this year. If I don’t have as many home repairs I anticipate putting at least $40k towards principal next year. Right now our mortgage is around $230k. About six more years. About two years before we want to go overseas.

For the year we are traveling I want our mandatory unavoidable expenses to be under $1500/month. That’s an amount of money we can just float from savings for a year without it mattering. See, this is why it feels like it is inappropriate for me to talk about any part of my life is hard. Right now I have an easier set up than 99.99999% of all humans for all time. But that wasn’t true when I was a child. How can a person have such completely different life experiences?

I don’t know how to reconcile being at the bottom and at the top. It feels like I am unworthy of being on the top so I should jump off a building and let someone more deserving move into my place.

I feel very weird about so much of my psychological safety coming from Noah providing money. That seems prone to be problematic. I’m trying to play my part and rapidly pay off the mortgage so that the pressure is less extreme. When the mortgage is paid off I can support my family in this home without Noah forever if something bad happens.

I will have reduced my life to a scale appropriate for me. I feel kind of weird about what that means in terms of my life. My status. My right to live and take up space. My right to pursue happiness.

I feel stupid and weird because the things that I want in my life are common things to want. They are common hobbies and past times. But I hold tremendous shame for wanting them because I was told over and over how stupid I was for wanting them.

When I was a kid I would try to get excited about moving. I tried to put plants in a bunch of places we lived. I was mocked and laughed at. My efforts were kicked up or ground into the ground. What the hell did I think I was doing? Stupid bitch go back in the house and shut up.

Why did I read all the time? Because I had to stay in a room silently all the time. If I made noise or a mess or was even seen doing anything other than going to the bathroom or fetching food I was yelled at or mocked or made the butt of some joke.

I’m having a hard time with a lot of my male friends. I don’t particularly like being the butt of the joke. Yes, I’m over-fucking-sensitive. But they want me to know they like me. So they are sure to denigrate me as much as possible as fast as possible.

“Wow! I’m surprised you can get that!”
“Oh I’d better help you. You know how women are.”

No, motherfucker, I don’t know how women are. Why don’t you fucking explain it to me.

But I want to have friends. So I shut my mouth and I bite the insides of my mouth until it bleeds.

I’m really tired of people telling me I have no tact. You have no fucking idea. I want friends. I want friends so badly that I hide for months because I am in a phase where if someone makes me the butt of the joke I am going to hysterically scream at them for an hour straight and possibly have to be pulled off of them as I beat the shit out of them.

I’ll just stay home. I’m over-sensitive and folks are sure to let me know that it is my problem.

But I’m not supposed to talk about having issues with men. It hurts their feelings. All those poor innocent men who have never done anything feel terrible guilt when I talk about this and I am a mean person for hurting them.

I’m sorry I forgot. I wasn’t silent enough. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid me.

Sometimes Noah will lean in and lovingly stroke my face and tell me that he likes that I talk. He likes what I think. No, he isn’t tired of listening to me.

Honestly I think it makes him feel a lot more ok about the level of distrust of men I have because he has raped. He doesn’t get to retreat into the shell of “How dare you say that about me” which makes him a lot more sympathetic to my struggle.

He is at least willing to admit that it happens. Men who have not raped are often not willing to admit that this is even a problem. They point at the fact that they haven’t done anything and that means that people who want to talk about it should shut up because it isn’t their problem and it makes them feel bad.

I think that men who have not raped are aware that the line between having not done so and having done so is not always as clear as one would hope and you don’t always notice when you have done it. Whoops.

So how do you know you are a good person as a man? How do you know you have never raped anyone? I don’t fucking know. I wish I did.

I know that one of my lovers told me this week that I am the only woman who has ever asked for his consent before having sex with him. I feel so sad about that I don’t have the words.

When I was in kindergarden I had a “boyfriend” and I gave him a blowjob–like you do. When we were in sixth grade I moved back to the area to find out he had told all and sundry that I raped him.

I ask for consent before I have sex with people. I need people to tell me that they want to be there. That’s a lot of the reason I haven’t had sex with more women. They aren’t willing to admit they want it. So I don’t fuck them.

I told my friend’s sister this weekend: “You need to go make a lot of mistakes. I get that. But only do the things that you feel drawn to. This 26 year old “Dominant” who is “training you” by making you deep throat him for excessively long periods of time even though you don’t enjoy that activity… he’s not a good person. Ditch him.

These guys who are older than you don’t have the key to the castle. Find out what you like. If you want to have recreational sex it is a lot better to do it with guys near your age. Yes it is annoying to help them through the training wheels stage. But that is how you end up with a good man. The older guys hunting for 18 year olds who won’t tell you anything about themselves but they expect you to show up and enthusiastically suck their dicks? Yeah they aren’t nice men. They never will be. You can have a series of dicks that way and to them you will be just a pussy. Can you live with that?”

I think that people should have the logical results of their actions explained to them in meticulous detail so they can see the pattern emerging and make choices. When I was 18 and I came into the scene and I met up with a 30-something year old woman she introduced me to a series of men (including my shaman) and told me to have sex with them because I would learn. She told me that she appreciated the status bump she gets for bringing them fresh meat.

Can you live with being just a cunt?

There are no take backs. You can never un-live your life.

Last night as I was leaving I walked through the incest support group my therapist runs right after my session. I stopped and told them, “I hear she told you that my book had a nice ending. I don’t know why she lied to you. It has a terrible ending.” Then I laughed. One of the women jumped up and hugged me. She said, “Oh my God! That is you! I can’t write about any of what happened to me. She (pointing) wrote a letter to her abuser and that is the most intense of anyone I have ever heard of. How could you write that book?“

I felt kind of stunned. I write because I can’t not write. For me to not write would be for me to cease to exist. I mean, sometimes I have to give my wrists a break or life gets busy… but writing is how I live. Without writing I do not exist as a whole person. I only exist as fragments because in any given environment such a small part of my life is relevant.

If I look forward into the future, maybe what I really need is a Magic 8 Ball. I would put it on my desk and consult it regularly. Digression!

If I look forward into the future I try to imagine what kind of worth I might have. What good can I do? That is going to play a big part in me not-dying. I will have need to feel like I have work I am unusually well suited for. I need to create a life where I am important. Even though that feels weird and like I shouldn’t say.

I have a very unusual set of life experiences. How can I use them to do good? I don’t know yet. I’m not in the future yet.

It’s kind of weird. When I look at the people I know I don’t resemble any of them much. I don’t have an even vaguely similar life path. How can I find a way to make it safe enough for me to exist even though I break all the norms of the herd?

I think the misogyny is part of it. How do I start valuing myself and other women equally as men even when they do not have the good fortune to be computer geeks. Many years ago a friend (a woman–of course) told me that I should expect to deal with sexism because I wasn’t a geek but she was shocked and appalled that she had it happen to her at work. The strong implication (to me) was that she was obviously so much more on their level…

Yeah. I wonder why I value women less than men. Maybe because I live in silicon valley and even my female friends tell me I should. Unless someone is an engineer they just can’t be all that bright–right. Oh I guess a lawyer would do. Or a doctor. A teacher is a lame person–“Those who can do; those who can’t teach” and a stay at home mom is significantly more of a loser.

Why is the only work worth doing about sitting still and staring at a screen?

I think I want to step outside this hierarchy. I’ve been trying since I was fifteen and fucking the president of the computer club. I SAY AS I STARE AT THE FUCKING SCREEN. My hypocrisy must be lost on no one.

I feel like the path to self-acceptance for me has to be some kind of divorce in my head from the normal rules of status. I need to treat myself as more of a free floating free radical particle. I am potentially destructive to people around me. I just don’t exist inside their system. There isn’t a place for me. I’m just… kinda there.

There is no deserve. There is no should. There is only what is. I’m not dead yet. It feels like there are a lot of good reasons why I should be. But I’m not.

Now what?

New therapist

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I feel like part of what I get out of seeing a new therapist is being able to go find someone who specializes in issues like mine and ask, “So have you worked on cases as complicated as mine before?” One therapist one time said, “Oh sure” but then she fired me a couple of months later because actually I freaked her out. This therapist has so far said that she has worked with ritual abuse survivors who have multi-layered trauma like me but they probably still had far fewer traumatic events.

I feel pathetic about my need to play Oppression Olympics. I try not to play it with individual people one on one. I need professionals to pat me on the back and tell me that it *should* be harder for me that it is for most people because my life experiences were worse. Otherwise I feel very pathetic because I don’t feel very functional.

I’ve been thinking very hard about what it means to lead an ordinary versus an extraordinary life. I think that technically it is too late for me to be ordinary. I am just weird.

Resiliency. That is the word people use for me the most often. “Wow. How did you come by such resiliency?” Do you mean why didn’t I lay down and die many years ago? I have shit to do. I seriously think that is why. I have stuff I want to see done in the world and I just can’t bring myself to leave them undone. No one else will fucking do them.

But that is the ordinary struggle of my species. How do I fit into the destruction/creation cycle? Humans tend to like to destroy things or build them–the same person rarely likes to do both. I am an order Muppet. I have a strong need to create and bring patterns out of chaos. The play house in the front yard is coming along and it looks really neat.

I don’t think I will change the world. I don’t think I am that special. But when people who have a lot of experience with trauma meet me they tend to tell me quite quickly, “Have you thought about writing about why you survived?” Yes. I am half-heartedly starting to work on that book right now actually. My husband and the few readers who gave an opinion think it is a better idea to write that one instead of porn next. Boring.

I’m having a hard time figuring out how writing it will look in my life. What shape will my hours take. I’ll figure something out. And I’ll have a mailing list soon. I hope I will feel a wave of energy when that arrives. Why do I want a mailing list? Because I’m going to start asking people to share with me how they have outrun suicide. Blogger’s system rarely allows people to comment. I will be migrating away soon.

I’m not saying much about the first therapist. She is reading my book. She is working hard on learning history right now. I like therapists who want to get a good overall picture before they get into the nitty gritty. I feel weird when therapists want to hear just enough details to talk about one situation and then stop therapy. That’s not how or why I go to therapy.

She wanted to know who Traci and Francesca are. She wanted to hear about Uncle Bob. She wanted me to tell her about my sister and my grandparents. She has read up to 1987 but she still wants more information. So I proceeded to tell her a lot that isn’t in the book. Her eyes go wide a lot. I’m not sure how I will work with that long term. We’ll see. Maybe I’ll stop shocking her.

She asked how I met Noah. And if it was love at first sight. Ha! “I came to his random house party as person A’s date (I was living with person B) but I was really hunting for person C. Person C had shared two previous lovers with person B, whom I was living with. Person C is now living with the woman Noah broke up with to marry me. And person A is married to one of my closest friends. Noah was the creepy guy who was overly aggressive in the kitchen. He barely got a first date and it went questionably. He really barely got a second date. Then I dated him for nine months then dumped him.

No, it was not a foregone conclusion when we met.

Why does it work? Because he is nicer to me than any other person ever. Does that mean he is always nice to me? Hell no. If you haven’t noticed I kind of have low standards for how people treat me. I don’t know how to feel about our relationship. It works for me. I feel weird about how poorly it would fit anyone else. We are both so weird. Whatever. We are happy enough.

What is enough? How do you determine that someone is good enough to keep forever? I think it is a decision to spend time together. I think it is a decision to stay in love.

I feel lonely in a way I can’t explain. I feel empty and unable to try. But I have Noah. I’m trying to figure out how this will work. I feel bad because of how much contact I want with him–but I know of other families that spend far more time together than we do. We are actually fairly low in the time-spent-together column. We don’t see one another much. It has to be enough. It has to.

Whereas it is very nice that Taylor and P come to visit me a lot I can’t sit here and wait like a wound-down clock in between those visits. It isn’t fair to my kids. I feel like I do a lot of waiting to do things. I am waiting until I have company. I’m waiting until I feel safe. It’s hard to explain that part of the reason I don’t go do things by myself is I have legitimate reasons for knowing it isn’t safe for me to be out in the world alone. And I don’t seem to be able to make it work to go with anyone. I didn’t manage to find a partner who wants to do things with me.

Sometimes that feels like exactly what I deserve. Why would he want to do any of the stupid things I find interesting? I don’t know. I think that is a lot of what I was doing with Sarah. On paper she wants to do all the stupid shit I want to do. Unfortunately she is not physically able to keep up with the things she wants to do. And she doesn’t want to deal with what that means for her so she makes promises she can’t keep. And I explode. And I stop trying to do things because it is just too hard. The price is too high. I feel worse because I was stupid enough to persevere instead of better. I feel like the whole thing is an uphill slog and it just isn’t fucking worth it.

My kids are getting better at cleaning. “We aren’t going anywhere unless you do your share” is an effective tool. I’m god damn serious. I’m not your fucking maid. I don’t give them a big share, but they have to help. It’s becoming more automatic and streamlined.

I am looking into doing things with the kids by myself. So far the kids are so much extra work that I have trouble going out. As they are increasingly able to handle their basic needs my scope of support changes. I like going places with them now. It is a lot more fun than going places two years ago. Not having to carry a diaper bag has made my whole life better. I feel less angry about life now that I’m not a pack animal with a sore back all the time.

I feel scared to pull them into the hobbies I like. I find a lot of rapists when I go out into the world. I’m afraid to introduce my kids to people I know. It won’t be many more years before those rapists look at my daughters. I feel like the best defense they have is for people to know that they are my children. It would not be wise to mess with my children. I will end you. And I won’t feel bad about it. But do I even want them to do the things I do?

I’m not talking about bringing them to bdsm clubs. I’m thinking about things like Renaissance Faire and Dickens Fair and dancing. I like doing these things. I know a lot of rapists in these communities. And no one fucking gives a shit. I stopped going out because I couldn’t deal with fending people off. I just find these bastards. How is someone like me supposed to keep little kids safe?

I try to hide behind other mothers. I don’t think that women understand that I am doing this. I use you as a shield. I don’t have to talk to other people in the world if I don’t want to. Having company makes me feel more safe. It makes me feel like if something bad happens and I start kicking and screaming to defend myself someone might notice. Mostly I think people don’t care. Statistically I am right.

I stay home and garden (barely–I don’t have money and I own few tools so my efforts are slow) and try to teach the kids how to handle their own needs. That’s what I do right now.

Maybe some day I will feel less scared and I will be able to go do something more interesting.

Learning and shame

2 Replies

Therapy was unusual last night in some awesome ways. I showed up half an hour early because I wasn’t sure about public transit to the new location and the appointment before me cancelled so she was just sitting around. We could have started early but instead she decided to pick my brain. She moonlights as a guidance counselor at a middle school. The school is more than 60% black and over 30% latino. They have some problems. I don’t think I can explain how good it felt to talk to her about how to handle these children. She is the “emergency” therapist who sees the kids who are in serious crisis Right Now. I had a lot to say. It was interesting how the end of the conversation was quite sad. We had to plainly discuss the fact that there ARE things that can be done for these kids, but how much time and energy do you have? What are the things that you can really sustain doing? It’s hard to evaluate. She took notes on the things I said. I felt so respected. She told me that she is going to strongly consider how she can get me up there to talk to her really at risk kids. She thinks it will be good for them to hear a white person with my history because they don’t believe a white person can understand. I used the fuck out of that misperception when I was teaching. You can’t buy tools as handy as that.

I told her about what an asshole I am being to a friend who is having issues with the public education system. I told her I don’t understand why I still have friends. This directly linked into a lot of my attitudes about education and child rearing which ties into a lot of my feelings about having less worth in society because my earning potential is really quite low. Being a stay at home mom is not a very respected position. Oh well.

We talked about my frustration and confusion that Americans don’t seem to be training their children to be adults. They prepare the kid for preschool so the kid can be prepared for kindergarden so the kid can be prepared for the lower grades, then middle school, then high school, then college, then graduate school, then a PhD program, then a postdoctoral… I suppose we should all be college professors? I suppose some people transition into working in industry. Many companies run a lot like schools. It’s odd. Outside of academia I have worked in food service. I worked in the library and the theatre in college. I have taught. Really those have been my jobs. I feed people and help them learn. I like it–mostly.

I feel a lot of uncertainty about the future. I’m sadly aware that many of the people who are alive and making decisions now care very little about the long-term consequences of what we are doing as a society. I feel like it is ridiculously important that my kids understand that we are animals that require food. What are all the steps involved in arranging for adequate, constant food. My children will probably never know food uncertainty. What can they learn and figure out about how to help other people have the same life experience? What problems are going to crop up in our food supply? I’m quite nervous about this. I want my children to be incredibly practical. One of the up-sides of doing all these home improvement projects by myself with the kids is they are seeing how to do these tasks. Very soon they will be learning how to do them.

I also think my children will need to know how to program. I suspect that will be a mandatory skill for people who want serious job prospects in the future. I want my children to have options. I want them to feel like they are prepared to take the world by storm when they are adults. I want them to know so many things that they feel completely competent to go learn whatever they need but don’t yet know. I want them to see themselves as strong and able to assimilate new information.

I struggle with learning a lot of things. I don’t have the best memory. I read extremely quickly and I can synthesize ideas quickly but I forget things. That’s kind of a problem. I hope my kids get Noah’s memory.

My therapist and I talked extensively about how I feel like the next fifteen years are a gift. I have always wanted to go learn things but I didn’t want to go alone. Soon I will be able to go to dance events with my kids. Soon I will be able to do martial arts classes with my kids. I already practice languages with my kids. I’m discovering that I remember more Spanish than I think. I’m not as incompetent as I assume. It’s nice. I have these wonderful companions to learn with.

Shanna and Calli don’t think I am lame for how little skill I have at gardening. I feel really pretty silly for the intensity of my emotions around gardening. I grew up with people who had no respect for farming as a career and as a result they tried hard to never touch anything growing. My family felt they “got off the farm” and they had no interest in looking back. My family hasn’t farmed in at least three generations on all sides. Why is there so much hostility? Such disdain? We don’t garden.

Only I’m going to have this house paid off in another decade or so and I’m going to be stuck looking out that back window for all the remaining years of my life. I’d like it to be pretty. I feel kind of vain and silly about that. I would like to look at a colorful, interesting yard. I want it so bad I ache with wanting. I want to feel like a stupid, incompetent, worthless person still gets to look at something nice because I have the physical ability to create it.

It’s always harder than I think. I forget to water. I don’t have good weeding technique. I would starve to death if I had to take care of a whole field in order to eat. I feel ashamed of that. I feel weirdly pathetic because I can’t figure out the physical motion that will allow me to do this work quickly. It’s hard. I don’t know what I can do without damaging the plants I want to keep. I’m trying things and experimenting. It’s a slow process.

When I can remove my idiotic self-deprecation from this thought process I find it really kind of wonderful that I am learning all of these things and talking them through with my kids. Calli is too young to really understand yet, but Shanna is picking things up. I am really moving at about the right speed for Shanna. I feel ponderously slow and incompetent. Really I’m just moving at four year old speed. If I went faster she would feel left out. I wouldn’t want to outpace my companion.

It’s a lot of how I think about running. How do you find a pace for running with other people? I worry about it. I have several upcoming opportunities for running with friends. Some who are far more experienced runners than me and at least one who runs less than me. I’m fucking thrilled by the idea of running with someone who runs less than me. I won’t feel like I am slowing her down. I won’t have to feel embarrassed when I need to walk. I’m scared of running with people who are honest to dawg athletes. Standing near them makes me feel like my low status in their world is blinking in neon over my head. LOSER WHO CAN BARELY RUN. Physical Education classes were never kind to me.

It was an odd experience to look around the park on Tuesday and realize that whereas the home school kids will have various “coaches” they won’t have a PE teacher. If they do that position will fall to me. What athletic activities do I think my kids should know how to do? I have to figure out how to teach them or arrange to have someone else teach them. I think I should buy a small soccer ball and bring it. I feel odd about that. I want them to love things I don’t love. I want them to have access to ideas and hobbies I am not actually into.

This was one thing that surprised my therapist last night: how focused I am on trying to figure out what I don’t know that I should be teaching my kids. I feel intense pressure to work constantly on dealing with the extent and damage of my ignorance. I feel crippled by the extent and volume of my ignorance. I am not trying to be a know-it-all. I’m trying to be an actual competent person. The problem is that I value an odd combination of competences. I am extremely specific in what I care about and I totally ignore things I don’t understand or see value in. That’s kind of a problem. I simply can’t limit my children due to my biases. I want them to be competent adults. I want to know in twenty-five years that I have loosed two extremely fucking competent women on the world and they are off building and learning things I can’t wrap my mind around. They took the genesis of information I gave them and went off to do things I can’t understand.

I like being a jill of all trades. I don’t really aspire to master many topics. I’m a generalist. I like and highly value generalists. But like many people like me I feel like my lack of mastery means I am low in status. I’m not the best at basically any task. I notice and have a hard time with that emotionally. I don’t do competitive things because I can’t handle the fact that I’m never fucking going to be first. Do you know what second place is? The first fucking loser. I cried watching people pass me during the half marathon. I’m an idiot.

I want my kids to either be such prolific generalists that they terrify people or able to become masters in something. Other than talking to abused kids, which really… I’m awesome at that, I don’t think I will attain mastery of any subjects in this lifetime. That really kind of bothers me. I’m trying to gain peace with the idea that I will never really take anything to eleven. I will never be the best. Not everyone gets to be. lame.

My wonderful daughter just wandered out to sit on my lap. Today we are going to the redwoods to cut down trees so I can build her a play house. I should really take pictures of this process. I have a vision in my head. I know what I am going to do. It’s going to be really neat. You’ll see. I’m good at taking pictures in my head and turning out a decent approximation. Heck, look at my daughters. This looks like my picture in my head of a family. We are kind to each other. Maybe I do have a reality distortion field.

You just keep going

Do the best you can

Category Archives: post therapy

post-therapy

Unusual session.

lying

post-therapy

Not so good at the whole “boundaries” thing.

Progress report.

And the storm passes.

Suicidal ideation

Just keep swimming

Thank you, hormones, that’s better.

Post-EMDR: birthday edition

Perspective is everything

Post-EMDR

not so violent after all

I’m really tired.

Exhausted

scope

New therapist

Learning and shame