I had an attack of silly so I posted to my tmi filter. Do you know about it?

The lovely boy from okcupid is too busy, but he sounds sorry about it.  I’ll take what boost I can get from that.  We went out last night and tried to hunt.  Both of us came up empty.  I don’t know how to do this any more.

I feel like this is such a stupid waste of time.  Ugh.  I mean, Noah fucked me three times last night.  Why do I need to hunt?  It’s just adding angst as I get rejected.  It is feeling increasingly like rejection is the only option.  I have past the point where I am interesting to new people.  I’m too complicated.  Or maybe it’s just time to realize that only damaged people are interested in having sex in the first five minutes of conversation and given that I’m avoiding those folks I should probably change my approach.

I feel like I should stop talking.  I had a couple of weird interactions with people last night.  I’m energetically off.  I’m too invasive, I guess.  I guess I’m not supposed to ask people for verbal confirmation of the emotions I am reading on their face.  It’s intrusive.

I feel too broken.  I feel too weird.  I feel like people either need to be in my life already and willing to put up with how awful I am or I am doomed.  I no longer know how to be a normal or nice person.  I feel alienated and alienating.

I know that I am capable of finding no shortage of people who want to tell me that it is fucked up that I want to have sex with people I don’t know.  The thing is, I’m not sure it is.  If someone is willing to trust me enough to have sex with me right away then I feel like they have opened the floodgates for as much intensity as I need to unleash.  When someone is afraid to have sex with me fairly quickly (err, I specifically mean at *play parties* where people are ostensibly open to such queries) I feel like it means that I am … I don’t know.  Untouchable?

In most of my life I am not ok with people touching me.  I have too many startle issues.  I get my touch needs met through sex and cuddling my kids.  That is how I can touch people.  Otherwise I have to sit on the other side of the room.  I don’t like it.  I can barely stand to have a conversation with most people I know because I feel so uncomfortable.  I feel ashamed of that.  I feel ashamed that I so badly want to have sex with someone because I want someone to touch me.  I want to feel like there are still new people in the world who don’t think I am too dirty to touch.  I feel so scared.

I want to have sex with new to me people who are nice and gentle because I want to have some freaking memories of people being nice to me during sex.  I want to think that people might be interested in me even if they can’t hurt me.  So far I’m not seeing that as likely.  Well, obviously I have friends who do not have sex with me who are perfectly fine with not causing me physical pain.

I was taught from when I was a toddler that if I loved people I was supposed to have sex with them and that they were going to hurt me while they did it.  When people turn me down for sex it feels to me like they are rejecting the primary thing *I* am supposed to offer as a human being.  Not everyone.  Me.  Because this is what I was trained for.  This is my skill.  But it’s a useless skill.  No, not useless.  Thank god for Noah.

Today it feels like the part of me that yearns for this should be packed away.  This is too hard.  Too scary.  Too intense.  I want this too much.  It hurts too much that I am not wanted.  It means too much to me to be told no.  That means this is too much of a risk.  I hate feeling this needy.  I hate having this kind of need that is dependent on other people.  There is nothing I can do with this ache other than ignore it and pray it fades quickly.  I will eventually be able to kill this wanting.  At least for a while.  Until I can’t help but beat my head against this wall again.

I think the real answer is to go to a lot of events and make some new friends.  Stop asking for sex.  Some day someone will be interested.  I’m not good at being a pursuer.  I act desperate.

“There are two major ways you deviate from the norm.”  Heh.  Bullshit.  I think there are way more than two.  Hell, you can’t take one fucking look at me and know I deviate from the norm?  And that I’m pretty obviously not trying to fit back in?  By the way, we are buying bleach this weekend.  I still haven’t been told no so just in case I manage to stumble into an awesome affair magically… well hey.  I wouldn’t want a couple of inches of roots across the top of my head… I guess?  I’m never actually sure why that matters.  It’s not like my hair looks natural anyway.  I think the only reason I care is because of a girl I knew in high school.  She had white blonde hair but she dyed it black because she was a goth.  But she could only afford hair dye every 4-6 months.  She looked like a skunk; it was really funny looking.

Why do you have sex?  I have sex for a lot of reasons.  Sometimes I have sex becauseI have a physical ache inside of me and I don’t know another way of dealing with it.  Sometimes I want to make someone else happy.  Sometimes I want to bond.  Sometimes I want to be the one telling someone that they are desirable and an awesome human being.  I want to give them something warm to think about on lonely nights.  I try hard to be so awesome that they can’t forget me.

Sometimes the price of admission is too high.  I know that I have an inappropriate interest in emotionally uhm damaged men.  It’s pretty rare for an emotionally healthy guy to be interested in dealing with me.  I think Noah is the healthiest partner I’ve had.  This is probably because mostly the people who are interested in instant sex have some issues.  But that’s really not the point.

The point is that the friend I slept with yesterday has some issues.  As a result he’s a boundary pusher.  He’s one of my assholes.  God love ’em.  I don’t know why I love my assholes so much.  I don’t know why I let them get away with the stuff I tolerate.  Whenever I am complimented on my boundaries I want to laugh.  The problem is, I can easily deflect the people who aren’t a threat.  I spent too many years advertising that I was a bad ass masochist.  I’m now having to deal with the consequence that many of my lovers are only interested in a kind of sex that is physically damaging to me.

I’m not saying it’s bad.  It feels great in the moment.  I came dozens, maybe a hundred times.  It was fucking awesome.  But over and over again I had to stop what was happening by angrily yelling, “I said STOP GOD DAMNIT.”  His response was always, “Oh, you’re serious?”  Then he would stop.  I feel really upset about how many times I had to feel violent anger in defense of my body.  I don’t want that from sex any more.  I don’t want to be hurt any more.

I don’t know how to screen for sex any more.  I don’t even know what my limits are.  But they aren’t where they used to be.  I’m going to be in pain for a long time.  As hot as the sex was (and ohmyfuckinggod) it’s not worth this much pain.  It’s not worth the cost of admission.  This is going to impact my life for a while.

So, uhh,  after looking at pictures online I can say he leaned a lot too hard on my clavicle and sternum and there is unpleasant bruising on the bone.  Not on the skin.  But touching any part of my chest over there hurts.  It sucks while nursing.  Or cuddling with Shanna.  Once upon a time I viewed such pain as proof of good sex.  I feel like someone ran a cheese grater over my perineum.  Why in the fuck is that erotic?  Once upon a time, for me, that was proof that I had … I don’t know… performed enough to satisfy someone?  If it didn’t hurt I hadn’t worked hard enough.

It doesn’t help that my husband really wishes I could get over my issues and go back to wanting him to beat the shit out of me while raping me.  Our favorite game is for him to hurt me enough that the fucking feels bad and if the fucking starts feeling good… he hurts me more until it can’t feel good again.  The goal is for him to be able to fuck me as long as possible without me enjoying any of it.

And then I go fuck my friend.  You know, I think I’m done.  I’m not a masochist.  I submit to pain because it gives someone pleasure to hurt me.  I think I need to go find a way to make people want to be nice to me.  I’m really really upset about the fact that everyone who loves me seems to want to see me experience more pain.  I feel so angry about the kids hurting me more than usual right now.  They aren’t trying to hurt me.  But my body already hurts and they are always rough with me.

Right now I’m sitting very still and I’ve medicated.  Because I feel angry.  I am so fucking tired of being in fucking pain.  I’m god damn tired of people thinking it is sexy that I feel like shit.  No, I was never in an abusive romantic relationship as an adult.  I didn’t bother.  I went and found the bdsm community and had a Master/slave relationship instead.  It was strangely much more healthy.  He stopped beating me after a while because he could tell I was not enjoying it and I got him into positions where he was supposed to “punish” me instead.  Way more healthy.  So he ended the M/s portion of our life together.  And I never trusted him again because he didn’t want to beat me like that any more.

I don’t think I would have been ok with Noah stopping the night he raped me.  If he had stopped I think I would have held it against him.  That he was weak.  It honestly scares the shit out of me that he knows that.  I think I need to back away from being hurt during sex for a bit.  I think this is a bad space for me.

Why do I feel

Well, I didn’t paint the pantry.  And I did get laid.  I’m very sore.  Yeah, I have a type.  I think it is interesting that I am only managing to follow through with people I have already slept with.  I’m not increasing my body count.  I’m just feeling exciting.  Hm.  And sore.  And exhausted.

I don’t feel guilty now.  I will later.

I didn’t paint the pantry today.  Instead, I got laid.  It was glorious.  So I have this ‘top five’ list among the folks I’ve slept with.  One of them is in town for two weeks.  We had a really excellent afternoon together.  He picked me up and we grabbed sandwiches on our way to a hotel room.  It was an appropriately skeazy hotel.  I don’t think we were there five minutes before we started.

It was hard to communicate about the things I needed to communicate about.  Yes, I would love some really harsh anal sex but ever since having children I’ve been having this little problem with hemorrhoids.  It’s not sexy.  I promise.  But I have to talk about it.  If you can’t talk about your body you shouldn’t be having sex with it.  In my opinion.  And don’t touch my nipples.  Really.  Ugh.

It’s hard to talk about bodily functions.  It feels… impolite? Gross?  Although given what we were doing considerations of ‘gross’ seem slightly out of place.  Oh it wa

So I was watching the Steve Jobs Ted Talk and it occurred to me that I should spend some serious time thinking about why I am a stay at home mom.  I’ve been having internal pushback towards my decision making process lately and I think I need more clarity.

I view parenting as accompanying your child through an apprenticeship to adulthood.  One that my mother failed at.  My mother gave me adult responsibilities when I was very young.  I had to be responsible for myself in a way that was not appropriate or fair.  And I failed often.  The result was that I got hurt often.  I don’t instinctively know what skills a child would have to avoid problematic people.  I don’t want to teach my children to be just like me.

I don’t think my aggression is an ideal life attitude.  And I want my kids to be allowed to be them.  I don’t know how to do that without looking at them all day long.  I don’t know how to bond in a shorter time span than that.  I believe that working mothers love their children just as much as I do.  I don’t know how they find time in the day to deal with that much emotion.  I can’t.  It overloads me.  Having to be patient and interactive with them is incredibly difficult.  If I had other things adding stress to my life (like a job) I would be nasty and mean and vicious pretty much all the time.  It is hard for me to be nice and I find that embarrassing.

I only know how to get through the bad days by having a lot of control over every single solitary thing I say and do all day.  You can’t do that and have a job.  So really, I just don’t want to have a job.  No.  That’s not true.  I do not believe I am capable of managing the stress of a job and the stress of children.  I would not be pleasant, ever.  Dealing with my mental health takes up too much time, honestly.

And I am getting to discover what it is like to unfold in a safe, gradually expanding environment.  I am watching how Shanna changes.  It’s amazing to me to look at her in all of her grumpy glory and think, “That is in absence of any external stress whatsoever.  Hunh.  How does that jive with what I remember doing/being/saying?”

“Why do you call yourself specifically *white* trash? It can sound weird and off-putting to people of color to hear that, because it carries the implication that just plain trash would of course refer to someone non-white. Obviously a life of rape and welfare fraud and Nice People not looking you in the eye isn’t something that happens solely to white people. Is the part of your identity that includes your family’s antagonism toward black people and a black girl’s antagonism toward you sufficiently important that “white trash” is the right label?

I don’t normally comment anonymously but from everything you’ve said about your rage, I think that might be the way to go. What you’re saying is interesting and that’s why I’ve commented, but after having someone tell me on Facebook that my opinion on something didn’t count because I can’t trace my family back to the Mayflower like she can, I’m a little wary of setting off white girls who know my name. “

I think that is a fucking awesome comment and I thank you for leaving it.  🙂

I don’t know how to answer that.  I want to.  There is an answer in there.  I’ve been trying to find it for a while.  There is something there for me in the intersection of how my privilege and my lack of privilege has existed that has specifically felt different from the people I have known who were not-white but also poor.  (That’s been a lot of people.)  There is something about the hick, cracker, redneck, weird mountain people…

I’m not sure what it is.  I want to be able to explain it right.

I know it sounds off putting on a racial front.  I know it offends the shit out of my friends for me to say it.  That’s part of why it feels right.  Because I feel like I am that kind of offensive.  It’s like “Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist Sometimes”.

Of course I’m not special.  I don’t think that anything that has happened to me has been unique to me.  However the combination seems to be unusual.  It’s something in the combination that becomes a specific category.

Ok, here is an example: the word ghetto.

A part of a city, esp. a slum area, occupied by a minority group or groups.
The Jewish quarter in a city: “the Warsaw Ghetto”.

Uhh.  Is that how people in the US use it?  No.  They mean poor and usually black, but possibly hispanic.  It’s a denotation connotation difference.

For me there is a difference in some part of the connotation.  So there is this song by Confederate Railroad (country music–see, hick shit) called I Like My Women A Little On The Trashy Side.  It epitomizes, for me, a lot of how I feel about the idea of being trashy.  I like the song because it is upbeat and enthusiastic.  People like what they like in an unabashed heartfelt way that appeals to me.  They are raw.  They have no class.  And they like being that way, thankyouverymuch.

The movie Hounddog.  There is a specific culture and mystic to white trash.  It doesn’t look the same when other races enact the same patterns.  There is a flavor difference.  It’s not better.  It’s not worse.  I spend a lot of time looking for movies and books and stories and songs that embody this for me.  I can’t find any parallel that feels right anywhere else.

I don’t know why the violence and the country music and the racist rednecks and their constant belittling of how the women don’t do enough fucking work.  It all ties together for me.  It is all part and parcel of the same willingness to fight.  Fight because you were born feeling less than.  You were born with a fucking chip on your shoulder because the whole god damn world acts like they are fucking better than you and that’s not god damn right.  Because I fucking deserve better.

But I don’t.  No one does.  I don’t see the same hubris in other races.  That sounds… trite?  Stupid?  Like I’m sucking up?  I don’t find examples in poor white culture that I want to emulate properly.  Roseanne was the strongest rolemodel and look what happened to her.

There is some part of being willing to say that I’m not special because I’m white.  I’m white but I’m still trash.  Just because I can wear the right clothes and style my hair the same way and “pass”…there is still this part of me that can’t get over everything that was poured into my head.  All this hate and anger and rage and feeling of injustice.

I don’t think I am special because I am white trash.  I think that actively reminding myself that I have a long way to go before I have the ability to act like a fucking human being around all people in all circumstances without regard to provocation is something that I have to do to me.  I have to deal with the fact that I don’t know how to be appropriate.  It is a problem for me.  It is a problem in my life.

I am white trash because I only find echoes of me in poor white girls in Southern movies despite the fact that I was raised primarily in the bay area in yuppie central.

I don’t know how to speak about my experience without acknowledging that I’m white.  I am.  And I don’t feel like I can speak to the universal poor experience.  Or the universal trash experience.  I can only speak to mine.

And I’m white trash.  It’s a circular logic.

Last night we tried to pick people up from the internet.  It didn’t go as planned.  I’m far more cheerful about it than one might expect.  I had a lot of fun singing karaoke.  And the DJ was way hotter than the guy I was there to meet so eye candy was nice. I felt like a cougar.  The DJ looked barely legal.

I’m not actually sad about it not working out.  I often like the idea more than the actuality.  I felt fun and interesting while only having to commit to sex with Noah.  Yay.  I’m really weird about sex with Noah not being as exciting as sex with… well… just about anyone else.  It’s different.  It’s not that I dislike sex with Noah.  It’s just that it’s different.

Being interested and willing in having sex just for sex is different.  When I’m in that mood, sometimes Noah is perfect and sometimes he’ll do cause he’s here.  I almost think that Noah is thrilled about the days when it really doesn’t matter who the dick belongs to.

“We have named personality type Six The Loyalist because, of all the personality types, Sixes are the most loyal to their friends and to their beliefs. They will “go down with the ship” and hang on to relationships of all kinds far longer than most other types. Sixes are also loyal to ideas, systems, and beliefs—even to the belief that all ideas or authorities should be questioned or defied. Indeed, not all Sixes go along with the “status quo”: their beliefs may be rebellious and anti-authoritarian, even revolutionary. In any case, they will typically fight for their beliefs more fiercely than they will fight for themselves, and they will defend their community or family more tenaciously than they will defend themselves.”

Yup.  I’ll stand up and say that it is right for someone to talk about the things I talk about.  I’m defensive of that idea.  I’m much more likely to do it if I think it is for someone else’s benefit.

This life shit is really tiring.  I have a lot of stuff to do.  Some of it I feel like I can’t talk about.  I can’t talk about it because it involves doing stuff for Sarah and I have this strong internal pushback that talking about it is shaming her in some way.  But it’s not.  I don’t think Sarah should feel bad for needing my help in order to get things done in my time frame.  I have a pretty ridiculous time frame.  Sarah can do these things.  Just not as fast as I want her to.  That’s a very different distinction.  I’m having trouble internalizing it.  I feel like I am creating the problem in talking about the mechanics of life.

Things were different with Tommy.  For a long long time there was very little he could do.  And he hated everyone for it.  It embarrassed him.  You were never to speak about the help you gave him, you were just supposed to shut the fuck up and be there the minute he had the fucking need and just spontaneously do it. Or he got angry and violent.

Maybe it makes a lot of sense that I’m having trouble with dealing with some of my feelings around doing stuff for Sarah.  It’s complicated.  Everything always is.  I think one of the hardest parts is that she needs so much sleep.  And she does.  She has to have that much sleep or she can’t put coherent sentences together.  I believe her.  I still struggle with feeling abandoned with the kids.  She’s a night owl.  My kids are early birds.  An awful lot of their awake period is while she is still sleeping.  Noah is still here for part of it.

Hm.  Problem solving.  Right now I am feeling overwhelmed by how much of the day I am alone with the kids.  Shanna is acting exactly how a three year old should act.  That lovely book I read about three year olds told me that this would happen.  Her advice was as much babysitting/care by other people as you can manage.  Three will be over soon.

Right now our priority is to have Noah home from work as early as possible because I am fried after the long day.  I wonder if it would work better if Noah went into work much later (he is a software engineer, no one would blink) and hung out in the mornings and planned to come home after dinner.  Or we could play with how the kids eat and get them on a four meal a day schedule and he can eat fourth meal as dinner at more like seven.  It’s not unprecedented.  The kids would probably be ok with that adjustment.

I don’t know.  I’m not sure what we should do.  But it’s my blog and I can babble all I want to.  I’m struggling with getting through the mornings until Sarah wakes up.  I feel increasingly bitter and resentful because I am taking care of the kids during the time when I physically can best do the chores around the house.  So I’m constantly yelling at the kids to leave me alone while I clean.  If Noah went to work later in the morning… I could do all the chores before he left.  The girls would love to have that time playing with Daddddddddy.  If Noah waited until a more civilized hour to go into work, it’s only a thirty minute drive.

Even if he still left before Sarah woke up I would be only dealing with the kids and not trying to run around and do chores at the same time.  Who knows.  Maybe.  Maybe it would be better for Noah and the kids to have calm hang-out/play time in the morning rather than fussy evenings.  If I don’t start the day pissed off before 9 am… I have a better day.  I don’t neeeeed Noah by 5 pm.  Sarah is a lot more capable of being consistent with evenings.  It would allow her to get all the sleep she needs.

It means we would have a lot more time when there are two people in the house and a lot less time when there are three adults in the house.  That might work out better.  Sometimes writing about my thinking helps and sometimes it hurts.  Sometimes I get too entrenched and hard to negotiate with.  Often I don’t feel like I get an even amount of thinking/explanation of thinking on the part of my partner and I get pissy.  That’s not real helpful.                                                                                                                      

I want people who went to the DHPs to walk on to my property and say, “Oh my god is this the same house?”  I probably would not have picked this house.  Given that it is exactly the size/shape/layout/everything as one of Noah’s ex girlfriend’s childhood home… it’s a little too standard.  It’s a tract house.  Someone other than me won $55.5 million last night (that was the cash value–actual prize was $113 million).  That means we won’t be remodeling soon.  Rats.

I don’t think I want something that will be easily categorized as a “style” of architecture. x

Sometimes I wonder if I belong in a Surviving Abuse forum. I’m too judgmental. I’m sorry, once a man has escalated to chasing you with knives, beating you while *holding your 12 month old*, trying to throw you down stairs in front of your kids…

I don’t give a shit about your mental health, your needs, your whatever. I honestly kind of think you are a piece of shit if you stay with that and subject your kids to that. I have not been abused like that as an adult and I would sure as shit not let that happen in front of my kids. I have no compassion for the powerful pull to be loyal. I prosecuted my father when I was 16. I just don’t have compassion for adults who who subject children to their problems.

This would be why I moved another adult woman who is more emotionally stable than me into my house. I can’t provide 24/7 stability by myself. Between the three of us we are just about there. And there is almost an adult in the house who is kind of over sensitive from being abused herself so we monitor tone of voice a lot. 😛

Not everyone has my resources, but I honestly think more people should co-house. This kids thing is hard. Doing it alone in a nuclear family? I can’t do it. Truly. It’s just too hard.

But yeah. I think I said my piece. If you continue to subject your children to this behavior you are standing the very real risk that you will lose out on a relationship with your kids. I hate my mother. I think she is a fucking piece of shit. Do you really want your kids to feel about you the way I feel about my mother? Because I’ll tell you flat out that you (chick I’m thinking of) are going through stuff that is just as bad as what I went through as a kid. And you keep your kid there to go through it with you. I can’t be your support. I’m worried about your kids. I kind of wish I had your full name so I could call CPS and tell them to take your fucking children away from you because you are too big of a piece of shit to take care of your kids yourself.

And other things I will never post in that forum because I feel bad for her, kind of. But not enough to act like her behavior is ok. I don’t think I get to sympathize with the mother position over being an abused kid this lifetime.