Monthly Archives: May 2013

Make art.

-In the next month I will be painting a fence belonging to a fairly random neighbor.

-I asked my daughters swim school if I could bring in sketches for a mural in their space and they are enthusiastic.

-I am working on a logo for the new Hayward Hackspace because I was asked to make it.

-I want to repaint my kitchen. It is bugging me. I have a weird thing on my ceiling post-light replacement so I need to fix it. I will probably redo the whole kitchen because it was never finished last time. I have a lot of ideas.

And to think about five years ago I would have sworn up and down that I am not creative.

For the record

My abdominal pain has remained pretty static over the last few months. I took up running again this week. (I desperately need some kind of stress relief that doesn’t involve mutilating my body. Running sucks but it is *something*.) All of a sudden my abdominal pain has jumped to spikey and sharp and it takes my breath away and I have to stop and focus in order to process.

I made an appointment with my doctor. I spent pretty much my entire last therapy appointment talking about how convenient it would be if I could just die of some disease. Then I won’t have to traumatize everyone by killing myself. It would be great. It’s probably time to see a doctor and stop fucking around.

Harm Reduction means actively eliminating harm when you understand it. The pain is getting worse. I can’t keep ignoring it forever.

more questions

From Resurrection After Rape: 

How often do you think about your rape, and do you ever feel like you have thoughts about it that you can’t stop?

It varies a lot over time. I can make myself busy enough that I don’t think about rape for weeks or even months at a time. But there is a physical price tag to staying busy enough. Usually after such a stretch I get ill and have a lot more flashbacks than usual for a while.

Mostly as I go through life I have a few days a week where I can’t stop thinking about rape. It is in some corner of my mind churning and churning. Why? What is all this “rape is about power” bullshit about? I think about Noah raping. I think about what that means a lot. I think about that kid Jeremy. The 17 year old who sodomized me. That seems more clearly about power. With my dad I think it is safe to say it was about power. With my brother Tommy it was very much about power.

I think about poor Michael. He didn’t want to have sex with me. He did it because he would suffer if he didn’t. Was his cousin really the rapist? Why don’t I think of his cousin as a rapist? He fucked my mouth until he came. I think that qualifies as rape when the female involved is a crying seven year old.

Yeah, I think about this a lot. Being around children constantly makes me think, “When I was your age I was ______”; “When I was your size someone _______.”

Tonight I had a conversation with my shaman. We talked about whether or not children should be afraid of their mothers. I told him that I believe that mothers have a moral imperative to consciously try to be not scary to their children. Mothers certainly are able to scare their children but they should consciously choose the opposite. Unless there is a damn good reason then go full bore and scare the ever loving shit out of them. No half measures. Don’t dick around at the edges. Have a god damn good reason for what you do.

I don’t know how to stop the thoughts about rape. A lot of them are not thoughts so much as random spasms of pain. It isn’t real pain it’s a weird phantom pain. It is the memory of pain. All of a sudden some stupid little neuron in my brain misfires and I feel suddenly as if I am being raped again and it hurts. It really fucking hurts. But it doesn’t really hurt. I’m just crazy.

I think a lot about being almost seven years rape free. I say it to myself a lot. More than six years. Almost seven years. This is a good trend. I want this to continue. No more rape. How do you stop being raped? Have I really stopped? Did I just lengthen the time between rapes? Oh god.

I’m scared of the travel I want to do in the future. So scared I sometimes have brief ideas of killing myself rather than facing the danger. Not really. That sounds way the hell worse than I mean it.

This whole depersonalization thing is hard to explain. I spend a lot of time feeling like I’m not really fully alive. The idea of dying is very comforting and easing and like it would be a positive step. Relief. When I am really scared I know that the only way to stop being afraid is to die. I will be afraid until I die. I believe that and weep with the knowledge.

I don’t kill myself every time I am afraid though. I think about it. I see it in my head. I watch movies about how it would happen. The rape is very much tied up in this. The physical somatic sensations generally trigger a whole bloodbath in my head.

And I can’t talk about this. I don’t talk about this. Pretty impressive, eh? Only I slip sometimes. Then I’m reminded that I’m BAD BAD BAD. I have traumatized someone! I am abusive! What a fucking monster. I should be… whatever. Moving on.

What kinds of nightmares or memories do you have about your rape?

Whoa. Not a good question to ask me. That’s a flood. I have a lot of memories. Thanks to THC I don’t dream any more and I haven’t in a long time. I consider that a blessing. I used to have terrible nightmares. I have a variety of different memories about the rapes. Some of them I have what I think of as a “movie” in my head. I watch those experiences from a very third person point of view. I was older and better able to dissociate at will. I don’t have very many physical memories of those experiences but I can tell you uncanny details about the physical spaces.

I have a lot of physical memories of the early rapes–the stuff with my dad. I feel like there isn’t enough steel wool on the whole god damn planet to wipe the feel of his touch off of me.

Michael is one of the most real to me of all the rapes. That was a transitional one. I was seven. That was the first vaginal rape with a penis. I had a serious crush on him and I had been following him around for a couple of months. I wanted him to like me so much. I have a lot of very intense memories of the entire relationship. It’s vivid as pictures and sounds and smells and I can feel him in a way I can’t with almost any other rape. I’m not sure why that one imprinted so much more than anything else. It’s not like I can remember every aspect of being seven that clearly.

That one is coming up more as the kids in the home schooling group are all heading for that age range. I have a lot of troubling thoughts when I see them. I keep my mouth shut. I keep my fucking mouth shut.

How does thinking about rape make you feel and why?

Scared. Angry. Those are my two main emotions. Scared because I genuinely feel like my life experiences are such that it is stupid to believe I am actually post-rape. I feel like there is a very low chance I will never be raped again in my life. I feel with every fiber of my being that the only way I can ensure I am never raped again is to be dead. That makes me very angry and makes me feel very scared.

How hard is it for you to talk about your rape?

Well I can write all night long. I don’t speak about it well. My throat closes. Or I go emotionally flat lined and I can say anything shocking I want. I won’t get emotionally invested because I know that I have to be monitoring the people in the room and pull back on my commentary any second now or I will get in a lot of trouble for being bad.

I don’t actually get in a lot of trouble any more. Well, I lose a high number of friendships. I suppose that counts.

What, if anything, makes you afraid to talk about rape?

I’m afraid of being abandoned more. I’m afraid of being told that I am boring. I am afraid of being told that I say the same thing over and over and no one gives a shit. I’m afraid of being told that I am stupid and it was all my fault.

Who have you told about your rape and why did you tell them?

Err, everyone on the internet. Why: because we like you! Err, because I feel like my head will explode from how much it hurts to have all of these things in my head and not be allowed to talk about them. I am not allowed to talk about them. If I talk about them I will be abusing people. I just have to shut up shut up shut up shut up. But I can’t seem to still my fingers. It is one of those weeks. I was on good behavior last week. It has a toll.

What did they say or do about it?

Err, not much. I mean, some people have been more or less supportive in conversations. But what is anyone going to do about it? (Besides go leave a review for my book. Seriously people.)

How did your rape make you feel about yourself as a person?

That I’m a worthless white trash whore and I had better fucking get used to it.

How is your rape affecting you as a person right now?

Well I have serious worries about the stress load on my internal organs. Being inside my body is not fun.

What thoughts do you sometimes have about yourself because of the rape?

Well if I had never been raped the likelihood of decades of suicidal ideation was lower.

What do you wish people knew or understood about the rape so they could help you now?

This one really is the kicker, isn’t it? What do I want from people? What do I want them to understand about being assaulted? Well, I want to be allowed to exist as a really damaged person without being shamed. I want to be worthy of consideration. What help can people give me now? I honestly don’t know. The folks who visit are really awesome.

What is the scariest part of writing about the rape?

I have never received a death threat due to my writing. I sometimes wonder if it is only a matter of time.


There are a bunch more but I’m tired. Goodnight.

Suicidal ideation

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.

writing prompt

From “Resurrection After Rape”–you are supposed to be writing a letter to yourself the day before the rape.

Dear Krissy,

Tomorrow something will happen to you that will change your life. What I want you to know about it is…

It won’t be one tomorrow. It will be many tomorrows. You won’t be raped once. You will be raped a lot. You will have a hard time learning how to stop being raped. I want you to know that you were taught. At some point it becomes your fault if something happens to you–at some point you must recognize your role in it. You did finally learn how to make it stop.

I want you to know that none of the men who raped you were actually very powerful in the scope of the world. It really sucks that they had enough power to do that to you.

I want you to know that maybe with some of them fighting would have helped but it wouldn’t have with all of them. With some of them if you had fought you would have been hurt badly. You had no way of guessing who was whom at the time. You made the right choice. You are still alive.

I need you to understand that being alone is often the safest way to be. It is hard, I know. I know how much you hate being alone. You really need to learn how to embrace it. The only safe way of not making someone angry with you is to be alone. It’s ok to be alone a lot.

I want you to know that you will always feel weird. When people say “trigger” they probably don’t understand what that means for you. Be patient with them. They mean “feel uncomfortable” you mean “full body flashback of being raped”. It’s ok to be self absorbed. You have to deal with your physical experience of being in the world even if you are irritating to other people. Even if they wish you would just shut the fuck up already.

See, that’s why the alone thing is so nice. You can care for your needs without being bad for having them.

Within every person there is an ageless essence. It is there on your first day and is the same on your last. There is part of your personality and core self that stays the same. That part of you can not be touched by anything that any one says or does to you. It is yours. You may spend your whole life crying because you don’t believe you can make up for being bad but that part of you isn’t bad. That part is ok. That part that makes you you isn’t bad. Really.

Even good days will often involve crying. Don’t feel guilty. Don’t feel ashamed of yourself. It just is. You didn’t pick this body you were put into–it’s just walking meat. It cries. So what? It has been through a lot.

Run earlier. It is, apparently, good for you. Try harder to drink water. It is also, apparently, good for you.

Keep reading. People will compliment you on your prodigious vocabulary for the rest of your life.

Love, me.

Opting out is awesome.

Today my neighbors told me that despite having come to the blog they will not be coming back. It’s too intense for them. But they followed that with multiple attempts to arrange more in-person time.

I think that is totally appropriate and good. If my writing is upsetting, don’t read it. Truly. If what I say is upsetting, don’t talk to me. Truly.

I’m glad when people take care of themselves. It gives me more belief that it is ok for me to do the same.

I will say that it is very funny to me how often people apologize to me for having boundaries with me. It’s ok. I swear. I don’t actually explode at people and scream at them without significant provocation. Probably more provocation than I endure from anyone I am not related to.

How does your garden grow?

If I’m feeling blue I just need to think about what I am growing. For edibles I have (in no particular order): tomato, celery, spinach, mustard, sweet peppers, chard, potatoes, sweet potatoes, apple tree, cherry tree, plum tree, orange tree, grapes, blackberries, blueberries, strawberries, artichoke, asparagus, corn, parsley, oregano, basil, sage, rosemary.

Today I added pumpkin and carrot and cucumber and watermelon seeds.

In the non-eating realm I have blue potato vine, seven different kinds of roses, jasmine, marigolds, mums, japanese lanterns (that’s what I’ve been told to call them), several kind of lily’s, geraniums, many cacti, and a few I can’t remember the names for them. I have a few other trees and a privet hedge.

I don’t live on a big piece of land. I just use what I have.

I don’t feel capable of figuring out human relationships very well. So I will grow things. I’m not good at keeping house plants alive but I like to grow food. Maybe I will get into house plants once my kids are bigger and less likely to throw all the dirt on the floor. We’ll see. Life is long.

Things are growing well here in Wonderland. It is hard to keep that in mind sometimes. Despite my emotional turmoil and tumultuousness–my life is going really well. I like my house more by the year. I may forgo a trip to Portland and stay home this summer and paint my house. Going to Disneyland reminded me that if you want things to look pretty good all you need to do is refresh the paint.

I feel like I am constructing my nest. I am constructing my frame. If I am going to exist in the world I want there to be a place that exemplifies me. I was here. I touched things. I changed them. Maybe I made them better. I don’t want to be easy to wipe away.

When my uncle died I bet it took them at least six full dump truck loads to get rid of all his shit. But once you finish the dump truck loads it is like he was never there. He didn’t make anything. He just held on to stuff for a while. None of it was his, really. His stuff owned him.

If you want to get rid of all the impact I have on the world all you will need is a few coats of paint and/or a bulldozer. But I hope that the first impulse people have is not to haul away all the crap.

I hope that when I die people will be glad to have well established food plants and a piece of property that was lovingly maintained. I hope that someone values what I have done with my effort.

If I get to write the story that is how it will go. I will live in this house until I am a very old woman. I will change it. When I either die or decide I don’t want to cook ever again I hope that a young family will buy this house. I hope that children will eat the blackberries and blueberries and be glad that I planted them.

That is what I hope.

My children are enjoying the food in the meantime. I’m trying to talk them into letting the berries ripen but so far stuff isn’t making it full to ripe. There is much joy to be had in any case.

We have lots things to do. Lots of plants to plant. I’m totally not using my yard efficiently. Give me a few decades. I’m not done yet. When I close my eyes I know what it will look like when I am old. I’m working for that. This feels like the only thing I get to decide to HAVE CONTROL OVER in this lifetime. I don’t get to decide much about anything else–I’m just along for the ride.

My garden is more beautiful by the year. Time. Effort. I have those to give. I have at least fifteen more years of being in the house a lot. I really hope I am mostly done planting by then. Or at least I will know the schedule well. It will be in my bones.

I want that feeling. I want it as bad as I’ve ever wanted anything. I want to feel that connection to a place progressing through the fullness of time.

I will have it, damnit.

Using people as models

I don’t mean in the photography or drawing sense. I mean as in patterning behavior off of people. I do a lot of this. I do a lot of this but I consciously do not do it in order to “blend in” or become “like” other people. I pick a behavior that I like and I try to copy it. I don’t pick up associated beliefs or qualifications because I don’t understand what they are.

For a few days Noah and I have been talking about why I don’t try harder to blend in. I would probably be capable–step one would be no longer telling people I am white trash. But that would eliminate a bunch of useful safety mechanisms for me.

This morning I read a random internet article about how much people hate the Google commute busses. Apparently people would like to firebomb them as symbols of hating people “with power”.

I don’t feel it would be particularly a good idea for me to try to blend in with the upper classes. I don’t understand them. I don’t have their support systems in place. I would be in a lot of trouble if I tried. As long as I announce periodically who and what I am then people have expectations I can meet.

I offend people. Heck I did it at Disneyland. We hooked up with a random home schooling family (yay internet!) and I had the audacity to hotly defend adult men liking movies/television programming “designed for children”. This mother absolutely would not permit any possibility that adult men watching these shows was a reasonable situation. At one point I said, “You are standing in Disneyland! How in the world can you believe that only children should be allowed in?!” She said, “But Disney stuff is for children of all ages. My Little Ponies is not for children of all ages.”

I had to restrain myself from hitting my head on the brick wall.

I did not say, “Can you hear how mentally deficient you sound?” I have tact! See!  I HAS TACT!

A few minutes later she told me that her daughter has been molested. That’s why adult men should not watch childrens television shows. Because there are pedophiles and obviously the only kind of men who would watch such shows are pedophiles.

My daddy didn’t watch childrens shows. I’m just sayin’.

Noah asked me why I don’t grease the path for myself. I’m a good mimic. It’s not like random people actually give a shit about me. I could easily go through life playing roles and not get push-back. I could lie and fake being acceptable if I just STOPPED FUCKING TALKING.

Noah can’t blend in as well as I can when I want to. I think he feels some envy. But I can’t really do it forever. I will do it for a while and then something will slip. I will say something inappropriate. Then after a year or three or seven years of being on my best behavior I’m bad and someone doesn’t want to know me any more.

I don’t see a point in trying very hard for people. I try for Noah. I try for my kids. Beyond them I sincerely doubt that anyone will be in my life long enough for me to worry about them. If they don’t like me, fine–go. If you do like me, fine–stay. I can’t be invested. You will do as you like.

I won’t abandon considering myself white trash because I still get a cheap thrill when I see how people react. Because in that moment of repulsion I find out what that person will actually think of someone like me.

I’m told “Oh but you aren’t white trash” occasionally. I do not have all the obvious visible markers these days. All you have to do is cherry pick through my life and you can either decide that I am or am not white trash. As long as I cannot erase my past I will just claim it.

The alternative is trying to come up with alternative “safe” stories to tell in basically every and any situation. That sounds like a lot of work and like it would be hard to keep straight. I don’t wanna. That’s too hard.

After thirty years of being repulsive I think I will just stick with being who I am. I’m used to it. I’m used to how to manage my issues. I’m used to how to manage people no longer wanting to know me. Believe me I am good at understanding how not-important to everyone around me. I will just disappear. I understand that people like me are uncomfortable to have around. I will go. I will not remind you that not everyone has a life like you. I’ll shut up.

Or I won’t. Depends on the day and what I feel like. Some days I really don’t give a shit that you dislike me because I’m not like you. I don’t particularly like you either. I dislike that you do ____ and _______ and ______ and I’m not going to model off those behaviors because frankly I think you are a fucking asshole. I don’t want to be like you.

I’d rather be like me. It’s more comfortable. I’m an asshole too. I’m not pretending otherwise.

Let me be clear that there is no sense of superiority. I’m not better. I’m just me. I’m an asshole. You’re an asshole. You are a different kind of asshole that I can’t be. The reason you are that kind of asshole and I am this kind of asshole is because we have had very different life stress. We have very different support systems.

I like casual relationships. In casual relationships people don’t expect much from me. I don’t expect much from them.

Why don’t I try harder to act normal? Because I’m not normal. And if I try really hard I will sometimes fail. Then I will face ostracism and humiliation after doing everything I can to make other people happy. There really isn’t an upside that makes up for the inevitable ending.

I’m very happy that today I get to stay home and garden. I won’t talk very much. It will be ok that I am broken and difficult. It won’t impact anyones life. No one will be mad at me. I won’t have failed before I even open my stupid mouth.

If a plant dies no one gives a shit. My failures are limited in scope. The farmers market guy told me to stop watering my jasmine so much. That’s the kind of scope of failure I’m looking at right now. It’s pretty comfy and benign.

I understand hating the elite. Believe me I do. I understand feeling like they live in a walled and gated community designed to keep out the lesser people. I will never be interviewed at let alone work at some place like Google. People who know the things I know are not really …. err useful?

I live with someone who probably could scale that ladder if he chose to. He’s weird though. And he has trouble dealing with people so that will always hold him back. We fit so well. We do well enough.

I think we need to change the tax code in this country. I should probably be paying higher taxes. I absolutely know without a doubt that most of my friends who earn tons of money could absorb more taxes. Would they like it? Of course not. They would whine about how the government is stealing from them and it isn’t faiiiiiiiiiiir.

I have different interpretations of fair. As long as children in my neighborhood starve and get an inadequate education because that’s just the breaks then I don’t give a flying fuck if you think you should be able to live in an elite private home with a really expensive car and travel and eating out every night and and and. Bite my ass. We don’t live in a pure capitalist society. If we do then your ass should be paying back the free public education you got. I sincerely doubt that YOUR parents actually paid for it.

We all give and we all take. I’m not all the way to socialism. But I think we have all the resources to make sure that children don’t starve. And we don’t care enough to fix this problem.

We are too busy whining about how not fair it is that you can only live in a 2,000 sq ft home by yourself. It isn’t fair that studio apartments are sooooo expensive.

How do you think the people who don’t have an expensively trained brain feel about it? I can count on one hand the people I know who have done well in the tech industry without going to an expensive college.

All of this succeeding took someone helping you a long time ago. Help that most people don’t get. Yes, I get why people hate you.

Living with Noah has caused me to look very differently at the rich. I’m glad he didn’t tell me he was rich until after he asked me to marry him. I probably would have ran. I still kind of want to run. I don’t want to stand next to this much responsibility. I have not been trained in how to manage it properly–I feel a fraud.

It doesn’t matter. Near as I can tell we are all frauds. We are all playing one game or another. Some people play games on purpose and some people think this is real. I’m not sure what is wrong with them. If you want to change the rules all you have to do is change where you are standing. I promise you that the “elite” in Dayton Ohio bear little resemblance to the elite in San Francisco. Ha.

Why don’t I just try to change so that my life can be easier, better, people like me more… etc? Because I will inevitably change where I am standing soon and then all the rules will change anyway. The only reason to conform like that is if you will still know the same people in five, ten, twenty years and you will benefit from bending your neck to the weight of their expectations.

I sincerely doubt I will know the same people in twenty years. I don’t see a point in bending my neck to the yoke of expectations I do not want to bear. I don’t get the benefit only the downside. Just the neck pain and back pain and knowledge that I didn’t get to act how I wanted to act. What is the upside?

But the alternative is that my life continues on as is. I will be lonely a lot. I will be sad a lot. The thing is, I can’t make other people want to be tolerant of me. I can’t make other people adapt to me.

Noah says I require people to go through a very long process of acculturating to me. He thinks I expect from other people what I am unwilling to do. He’s right and he’s not. I do bend a little to other people. I don’t really expect other people to bend to me. I expect them to leave. I’m going to be as difficult as possible and let you see how hard I am as fast as I can so that you will leave as early as possible so I won’t be stupid enough to spend years and years and years trying hard to be good enough for you. Only to find out that I’m not good enough.

I can’t work hard enough to deserve you. So I have to be alone. It’s all my fault for not conforming enough. For not being tolerant enough. For not being willing to do enough. For not shutting my stupid bitch mouth enough. Don’t I know that no one gives a shit about my opinion?

I’ve been thinking about my mom a lot. Disneyland is like that. I know which benches she likes to sit on and watch the crowds. I sat there with my children eating beignets and I cried. Thankfully the sunglasses hide a lot of that. I’m sorry mommy. I’m sorry I can’t be good enough for you. I’m sorry that I hurt you so much.

Really after you destroy your mother the way I destroyed mine there isn’t a lot of redemption left this lifetime. I don’t have it in me to try to be nice to other people. I know what I did to my mother. I am not going to act like other people deserve better than my mother. Fuck all of you. You do not deserve more effort from me than my mother.

But she doesn’t deserve much. So I end up in this pickle.

Hatred and entitlement and ignorance. Deserving and getting and suffering.

Sometimes when I watch how people interact I think, “What has happened in your life to allow you the scaffolding to get to that behavior? That isn’t a first level behavior. You had to have support in order to get there. How did that happen?”

I don’t ask. It doesn’t matter what they got it isn’t available to me.

Why won’t I stop identifying as white trash? Because I spent my first two decades of life actively prepared to fight at pretty much any minute of the night or day. I am still hostile and nasty. Because I would much rather be mean to you than try to understand where you are coming from. I try not to actually be mean…. but man it is easier.

I try to understand where people are coming from. It is hard because I have this huge chip on my shoulder. I think almost everyone had it better than me and then they want to come and tell me about how haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaard it was. I’m supposed to be nice and supportive and such. I am supposed to bite a fucking hole in my tongue rather than say that I would kill or die to have 1/10 the support they had. It doesn’t matter.

I had some support. I had Auntie. My sister was support when she wasn’t on drugs or engaging in promiscuous sex or telling me how to go out and find sex pre-puberty. My mom was support sometimes when she could manage. Not much.

Today I feel very self-pitying. Why? I think I’m having one of those resent-my-children days. Sometimes I have a hard time with their entitlement and demanding ways. I’m creating these little creatures so I try not to lash out at them.

I am teaching them that they are entitled to being treated well. As a result sometimes they demand better treatment than I strictly speaking want to give them that minute. It’s an interesting dynamic.

I have to support them. I have to give to them. I have to just keep on doing it. I have to meet their needs all day every day. Even if in my head there are all these evil voices whispering about how no one gave a shit about me. No one needs to give a shit about these little brats. Obviously our species doesn’t require as much as these little assholes ask for.

They aren’t brats and they aren’t assholes. They are so polite. They are so kind. They are so gentle. For the life of me I don’t understand where they came from. They are so nice to me. They are kids so they have their moments–but they are genuinely nice to me.

I don’t feel like I deserve their love. Even though I give them love all day every day. I give them all the love I have in my body to give. All the love I couldn’t give my mother or my sister or my brothers or my father. The consequences of my behavior all of a sudden matter.

I don’t have a lot left to give to anyone else. The kids take all I have spare and more.

I can’t pretend to be what I am not with what I have left. There is too little left. I feel worn down to the bone. All I have left is the structure of myself. I am white trash. I am violent. I am mean-spirited. I am harsh. I have an entitlement complex and an asshole because of it. I don’t understand the scope of my own ignorance very well. I’m trying to understand it better, ok that isn’t very white trash. White trash is willful stupidity–not just ignorance.

Do I expect people to change for me? I don’t know. Noah says I do. I think I expect people to just leave. I don’t expect people to change. I expect them to think I am not worth the effort. I sure as fuck don’t think they are worth the effort to completely change for.

I have to make it through my life. I have the coping methods I have because they allow me to keep moving. Everyone is different. I don’t have to make it through anyone else’s life. As much as I don’t expect other people to be in my life other people would be wise not to expect much from me either. I’m not promising anything.

I promise two people that I will be in their lives for another fifteen years. I will get them raised. That is all I can promise. I may be married but I am not sure I actually believe it is permanent. I hope it will be, but I’m not stupid enough to assume. I sure like him. I know it doesn’t matter how much I like people. I like my mom, too.

Time to go move a mini-fridge before I start gardening. Today is a day full of self-serving work. I will be made happier by everything I do. I have a good life. In this space I do not have to pretend I am anything but what I am. I can just exist without artifice or effort. It’s nice.

Can’t complain

In the past week I have had good moments and bad. The good has so significantly outnumbered and outweighed the bad that I don’t want to record my done-me-wrongs. I am lucky and happy to have the life I have right now.

I have a five year old now. She takes my breath away. My younger child will only be a baby for five more minutes. Then I will never have a baby again.

I try hard to stop every day and look at them and feel gratitude. I get to be with them. I get to love them. This is what I always wanted. I just wanted to love like this.

All the other stuff seems less important right now. I am so very lucky.

Book catch up

Book #19: Mindstorms by Seymour Papert

Book #20: The Resiliency Advantage by Al Siebert, PhD

Book #21: A Study in Scarlet by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Book #22: Escape from Childhood by John Holt

Book #23: Dry by Augusten Burroughs

Book #24: Magical Thinking by Augusten Burroughs

Book #25: The Fellowship of the Ring by JRR Tolkien (technically Noah read me this one aloud but it was new to me so I am counting it.)

I’m starting to get very sick of reading.

Find some gratitute

Today I had a lovely day with my family. I got to see friends and meet a new person.

I have wonderful people who visit me and give me a follow up call, “By the way… my kid puked.” I swear to dawg I am fucking thrilled to be notified when someone is sick after visiting me. It makes me happy. Very Very Happy.

I have a husband who will make dinner for me after a long day. Because he is just that nice. I have to do all the clean up and packing for the food portion of the trip after dinner.

I get to go to Disneyland tomorrow.

I have a beautiful and improving and TASTY garden.

I have a family who loves me. I have all the hugs and kisses I can stand. I am loved.

I have a husband who practically salivates at the sight of me. And he makes me dinner. And he rubs my back. I know that I am lucky.

At Maker Faire they had a “mind map truck” where people put post-it notes of whatever they were thinking. I put “Consent is SEXY!” Keepin it real.

The guilt eats me

I’m having a lot of conflicting emotions. My throat is tight. My abdomen has been hurting. I feel tense and on the verge of yelling. I don’t think I have been, but I feel like I will start. I feel ungrateful.

I’ve had a good few days. I’m just very awake and my throat hurts. Don’t get sick, Krissy. Too much is happening in the next week. Life is going too fast. Maybe that is why I keep getting sick. I feel like I am not doing enough but I feel like I have a pace I can’t sustain.

My therapist keeps asking why I haven’t started another book. Because every time I think about it I cry. When? With what energy?

I feel very glad I have the people I have in my life. I have been very glad that I get to hide behind Noah and Shanna and Calli. It doesn’t really need to matter if anyone else likes me. I have been nice enough to those people to buy their love. That may be all I have in me.

I am less stressed since I stopped reading facebook and I’m lonely. I’m spending too much time on the ptsd forum and fetlife and twitter as a result. Luckily those three places aren’t very welcoming to me so spending too much time there means random browsing and almost no typing. I know before I arrive that mostly my opinion isn’t actually wanted.

It’s kind of funny reading fetlife. I’m not who they want any more. I’m not credulous. I’m not amenable to being pushed or cajoled. I’m not interested in having someone “test my limits”. If you come close to testing my limits you will find out what the back of my fucking hand feels like on your face. I found my limits a long fucking time ago, buddy. I’m good. I get too butt hurt over the periodic “Oh man how dare this woman say she was raped doesn’t she know that ISN’T FAIR TO THE MAN”. I get very upset over the ongoing rhetoric around, “If you don’t report your rape to the police it doesn’t count.”

Do you have no understanding of how the police treat rape victims? Oh man. As much as I have kind of wished that I could drag a few women to the police station by their fucking hair if I had to so they could report… I know what the police do to people. I know how bad it is. I know how terrible it feels to even have them on your side. They still aren’t nice.

Prosecuting rape is horrible. Horrible. Horrible. I have never “successfully” done so. It isn’t my fault the fucker killed himself the day the trial was to begin.

I’m in one of those places where it feels like I spin my wheels really hard and I don’t go anywhere… I just dig the hole deeper. I went up to a friend’s house yesterday to help her clean because usually when I do so we attack a large area and I leave feeling like visual progress happened and I WAS SUCCESSFUL. It’s a weird thing for me. But her house has come a long way in the years I have known her. Now the cleaning sessions are about small targeted areas and it is a lot of shifting around. It isn’t as visually satisfying.

It didn’t give me that addict-satisfaction. I hope I was vaguely skillful at indicating that it wasn’t meeting my addict-satisfaction and I was only there for a few hours.

I kind of wish I could go visit and not feel like I have to clean so that I get antsy and anxious and fussy because WHY WON’T PEOPLE LET ME THROW AWAY MORE OF THEIR STUFF?! Err, because people other than me feel attachment to things. Get the fuck over it. Geez.

I don’t actually think that people should just let me throw their stuff away. And I probably should consciously schedule the next two or three visits as visit only. Not because my friend is asking for help (she didn’t) not because I dislike doing the work (I don’t) but because I am getting overly attached to the outcome. It isn’t my house. I don’t have to live in it. It has to please the people who live there–not me. I don’t feel they are doing anything wrong by being attached to more things than me. I get into a weird hybrid state where I feel anxiously responsible for a mess then I get mad at people for making the mess. No bueno.

I have blown up a lot of relationships this way. Self awareness would be smart. It would be smart for me to back off. It isn’t like my help is being actively solicited in this way any more. At one point in time I was asked, but that was many hours of cleaning ago. I should probably stop acting like it is my responsibility.

But I like acting like things are my responsibility. It lets me feel like I should continue to be involved. If I am not responsible then I am just some irresponsible schmuck who should go away. Or something like that.

I am made happier by owning fewer things. Not everyone is wired like me. I shouldn’t expect it nor require it. It’s a bad litmus test for friendship. I should go visit a few times and remember that I am a guest not a lackluster employee who is going to get in trouble for not taking more initiative. It’s ok.

It is hard to describe why this is such a big part of my personality. Cleaning up after people is the only possible value I have–right? I know I am unpleasant and difficult. I know I get too angry and I know I am overly controlling. But maybe if I work hard enough I am still ok to have around.

I gave up sex as a way of making friends. I don’t feel like I have a lot of other friend-making skills. I want to do work for people. Otherwise what reason is there to tolerate my presence?

I read this article written by a sociopath. I have to say that it sounded good. Lack of remorse sounds awesome from where I am sitting. How can I sign on for that? If I could stop feeling so god damn guilty for breathing I feel like I could do a lot better.

I hate the phrase “triggered”. It pisses me off. I think I hate it the way that my white male friends seem to mostly-universally hate “privileged”.

Rape and power discussions are freaking every where. In order to completely opt-out of them and be unaware I would need to be way the heck more stoned than I currently manage on a day-to-day basis. I have strong emotions one right after another all day long. If I log on to the internet or if I talk to most of my friends I hear about these topics.

I can’t stop thinking about consent and what it means. How very little it means.

I don’t feel sad or depressed, exactly. I don’t feel happy, exactly. I have been feeling flashes of that Zen feeling during the day as I work. This is what I want to be doing and where I want to be doing it and who I want to be doing it with. My life is good. My life is what I wanted and hoped for and planned for and worked towards. I am there.

No one tells you when you are a kid that when you “arrive” in the future it is just as hard and confusing as being a kid.

Doesn’t matter. Hard doesn’t matter.

My yard is coming along. My neighbor commented, “Wow. It looks like you finally learned to water.” I told him that it helps to understand that corn must be planted in rows or it doesn’t fertilize. If the fuckers don’t fertilize you can water forever and the corn doesn’t grow properly. Who knew?

I have a lot of projects in mind in the house. I am basically keeping in budget (err, because I am choosing to pull from some normal sections and we are eating out a bit more lately *cough*). If Noah weren’t so good at making money we probably wouldn’t be within budget. Ok, but part of the reason things are close is because I am sending in more than an extra $1,000 every month on the mortgage. It is worth it in the long run. By the end of this year I will have our mortgage under $200k. That means dropping more than $24k in principle this year. I can do it.

I’ve also started funneling off the money necessary for kid college and WWOOF travel. I am doing it. I will accomplish my goals. So I feel like a terrible person but I am saving at a dramatic rate. If I “counted” the extra mortgage payment as savings then we are getting close to saving $30k for this year. That’s pretty rad. It isn’t 50% of our income. It doesn’t exactly feel like a stellar amount given how much money flows through this house. I could be more self-disciplined. But then I would hate my life and I would be bitter and difficult.

I don’t especially like myself for that set of traits. I can only do so much scrimping before I feel sad and bitter. If I genuinely don’t have money I do ok. I don’t feel like I am playing a stupid Machiavellian game of deprivation. Deprivation games suck. I have been actually deprived enough that I don’t have fun with it.

I’m really glad my kids are so cuddly. I’m glad I get to experience this. I’m glad I get to be touched without having to be scared or in pain.

I think I should probably take a vacation from the internet. The internet keeps reminding me that when bad things happen to me it is all my fault for being so stupid. If I hadn’t been stupid nothing bad would have happened to me. Bad things don’t happen to those other people, those good people, those smart people. Those people who can make good decisions unlike stupid, pathetic me.

You can’t undo your life. You can’t change what has happened to you. I will always and forever more have the list of experiences I have had. I guess that knowing it has happened to me feels kind of threatening–it could happen to other people, maybe.

All I know is that my input isn’t very helpful or wanted. Shut up already you stupid, stupid, stupid cunt.

I don’t even know where this is coming from. I’m not sure why I am up at 2 in the morning wanting to cut. It isn’t any one else’s problem. I make sure of that. I am not any one else’s problem. If I cry alone in a room–does it matter? Does anyone have to yell at me and tell me I am wrong if I am alone? Is it like a tree falling in the forest?

If a man speaks in the forest and there is no woman around to hear him… is he still wrong?

I don’t actually believe that joke–Noah is right more often than I am. But it is the gist of what I mean. Am I still bad and wrong if no one is sitting next to me actively telling me so right now? Is it just simple fact at this point?

Sometimes I read people talking about how folks should “just get over” something or other. I don’t even know what to get over or how to get over it. I cry in the middle of the night and want to kill myself because I believe I am dirty and bad and I will poison people by existing.

How do you just “get over” that? How do you change it?

I can’t be a sociopath. I feel too sorry for existing and hurting people just by existing. I’m sorry that me existing hurts people. I am so sorry I hurt people.

sleep. just sleep. enough crying.

I have a very fun life when you stop and think about it

I’m packing for Disneyland. It is raining so I don’t have to water or garden. Ok, it isn’t raining hard–I could go put seeds in the ground. It would be a great time. But I’m hanging out in the house instead.

The girls told me that I could pack for them. They expressed preferences for matching beautiful dresses. Luckily we have a week of those. Because they are into that kind of thing. They pick these dresses out. They go into the store and say that they want matching stuff. I don’t push this.

I feel a little weird about how much they want to be like one another. I think I am afraid of doing that.

I get to have a really easy life. I get to have all the wonderful fun stuff I can imagine having in a childhood.

Today, despite anxiety, I’m in a good mood. I love the planning stage.

And I have home made cupcakes. Banana-pecan-chocolate chip cupcakes. We win. It’s the little things, right? My day is going to be very good. Next week will be very good. I’m limiting my life down to what I can do.

And it’s going pretty well.

Keep walking.

I woke up this morning and decided that i wasn’t going to act sad. I had a good day planned and I wasn’t going to waste it with crying. Not today.

We had a nice breakfast out. Then we went to Hindi class. Noah and I spent at least 45 minutes on youtube trying to understand the homework assignment. This is the best video we found for explaining the Gayatri Mantra. In case you were curious. There are some really weird and random non-explanations out there, letmetellyou.

The teacher gave a fourth grade girl the homework assignment of going home and learning what the Gayatri Mantra means and she has to come back and teach our group. Brutal. Noah has been laughing for a while as he repeats (again) “And on week four you must attain Enlightenment.” He thinks he is funny. I do too.

I don’t have a picture book story book life. But my life is good. And there are people who want me.

And I have Godiva chocolate (well, white chocolate truffle and red velvet truffles) for Mother’s Day.

It is really pretty weird that he does nothing for my birthday because he does every other holiday. Relationships are weird, yo. Today is a good day. My husband and I spent time together. We should probably brush our teeth and go to bed. Goodnight internet.

The end of a sprint.

The wedding has happened. It was breath taking and wonderful. I got a lot of compliments on my speech so I guess that went well. The girls were the belles of the ball. They were charming, well behaved, and up for fun at every second.

I wish I didn’t leave weddings sobbing. I wish that I didn’t leave and want to go home to my nice private bathroom with a lock on the door and a nice scalpel. I clearly am not someone who deserves to be loved like they do. Clearly I am someone who deserves to be hated.

Let me tell you, no one is singing made up (really quite good and funny) songs about how happy they are to have me in their life. My brother and sister don’t tell people that I am inspirational and their favorite person. My mother and father don’t cry as they tell me how proud of me they are.

I feel like a petty self absorbed piece of shit. I held it together until I left. They don’t need to see me cry. It isn’t their problem.

I am not anyones problem. Well, Noah. He’s nice to me.

Shanna asked why I was crying. Calli asked if I was sad. I said I was sad. I thought about deflecting and just not answering Shanna. Instead I told her, “Because when I go to weddings and see how much the mommies and daddies love their children I feel sad because I am not loved like that. It’s hard. Luckily you will be loved like that.”

Shanna told me at great length that I am loved. I have her and Calli and Daddy. She loves me enough to make up for them.

I wish. I’m going to go cry now.

It doesn’t seem real.

Today was the rehearsal for the wedding I officiate tomorrow. The bride, groom, and both sets of parents took specific trouble to tell me how grateful they are that I am participating in the wedding. They all told me how important I am in the lives of the bride and groom. The bride went off on how I was the only teacher she has ever felt connected to and I have changed her whole life.

I cried.

Sometimes I stop and think about the fact that most of the “great” men and women in history were serious assholes. For example, Paul Revere was a thief. I doubt they taught you that in elementary school.

Maybe I don’t need to die quite yet. I do some good in the world even if I am a complete dick.

I’m nervous and excited and happy. It will be over fast. I just need to show up and do my part and pretend confidence I don’t have. At the end of the day they will be married. I’m so grateful that they want me to be part of this.

A conversation

“I feel like I have at least two trains of thought going at any point. A central loop and an outer loop. The inside loop is driving much faster. It keeps lapping the outer loop. The inner loop is why I am terrible and people should hate me. The outer loop is, ‘Huh–fancy finger sandwiches for lunch because park day will be a birthday party?'”

“With anxious thoughts sometimes it is good to stop and consider why you have the thought.”

“Well, if I remember as hard as I can that no one will be able to like me long term then I don’t emotionally connect to them. It’s easier when they dump me. I don’t get hurt because things are just working how I predicted.”

“Well that sounds kind of useful.”

“Yup. Thus hard to derail.”

Second cancelled trip this year.

I’m puking again. Not just puking because I have horrifying stomach cramps and uhm my system is *empty*.

I’m not going camping tomorrow. I’m shaking. My knees are shaking. I am not packed for the camping trip and there is zero chance I will be able to pack today even if I wanted to go vomit all over Yosemite.

I’m feeling both inconvenienced and relieved by my body. I wanted to go on the trip but I was feeling scared. I think it would have gone well but now I don’t have to find out. I used to do this as a kid. I don’t know if it is psychosomatic but practically every other family I know has had vomiting in the past two weeks. I don’t think this is just my anxiety being ridiculous.

So all of a sudden I have four unscheduled days in a row. I think I will choose to be grateful. Maybe I will get around to mopping up the paint in the kitchen. Maybe. Maybe I will lay on the couch and whimper.

Just keep swimming

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.