Oh good grief

Guess what? My house is a construction zone. I am… how do they say… less than pleased. Only I’m consumed with gratitude that I can pay to fix this. A hose broke under the sink in the kitchen. It damaged the walls. To fix this we need: a plumber, a restoration specialist (to dry out and repair the walls), an asbestos (I spelled that wrong earlier… ha!) investigator, then a general contractor to put everything back. This will take at least a week. The kitchen and dining room are behind plastic sheeting. Cooking is… not going to be much fun.

So that’s festive.

I went to a different chiropractor today because my massage therapist told me to and she’s bossy as fuck and I take orders from people who deliver great service. She doesn’t know my chiropractor and she didn’t know if she should trust his work. Her guy does do much more extensive testing than my guy, so ok. At the end of his evaluation (and querying me about alllllllllll my medical treatments) he told me that in his opinion I am already doing everything that can be done. He’s impressed by how I’m managing. He says I am unusually strong in a variety of ways. My hands may burn like a motherfucker ALL THE TIME but I can do stuff with them. I am a twatwaffle who is overly pleased by evaluations that determine that I’m strong. Stupid shit like he couldn’t pull my fingers apart and he expected to do so without much force. I have done manual labor for a lot of my life. It has an impact.

I’m bleeding. I did ovulate this month, but Noah was out of state. I’m grateful that my body seems to be getting back online… slowly.

I am way down in pot usage. For a while there I was at 200-250mg/day. Today I’ve used less than 50mg. I am doing all I can to make my body a more habitable space for a fetus.

I’m exercising more. Lots of bike rides, which is HUGE for me. I’m so scared of bikes. The fact that I’m getting out there and doing it is a big deal. I’m going to call and make an appointment at the recumbent bike shop in Alameda for a week or so from now. Riding a standard bike is hard on my back and arms. We need another bike in the family because right now Noah can’t come with us. He can use the bike I have now if I change over. Noah and I even went on an almost two mile run today. By “run” I mean I probably ran for a whole minute out of every five. I’m really out of shape, but I can fix that.

I am… having waves of apprehension about pregnancy. I have so many conflicting feelings. The dominant feeling at the top of the pile is I WANT A BABY so that makes all the other difficult feelings kind of hard. I want to talk about the conflict I feel and I don’t want to make it sound like that conflict means we shouldn’t do it. I’m scared. Being pregnant has not been a fun experience for me. My body suffers. Not Noah. Me. Labor has been literally a near death experience. I’m scared. I’m scared of losing control of my body to nursing again and I really couldn’t bear the extra work of formula feeding. If I had to get up in the middle of the night and make a bottle I would lose my shit. Nursing is easier. And harder. It’s complicated.

I sent off a check today I… probably maybe shouldn’t have sent because my bank balance isn’t that flush. But my friend is unable to get into a home on her own and I’m not going to let her be homeless. It’s a loan. It’ll come back. But… I am not in the best month ever for sending out a big loan. But my friend’s need won’t wait. You know what? I’ll live with the anxiety of not having the bank balance I want. My friend needs a home. She’s been my friend for a very long time. If I don’t step up then I’m a piece of shit. Folks like us need to help one another because there isn’t another soul available to just help her. Most folks who grow up as poor as we were never get access to people with this deep of a pocket. I have to help.

I take comfort from knowing that the money I have loaned out so far has come back in full, before the expected fulfillment date. Gifts are different. I pick good people to loan to. That’s a piece of shit thing to say. I pick people to loan money to who are having temporary cash flow problems but they will have the money. They just don’t this minute. Have faith in them.

I wasn’t viewed as a good risk for a long time. But I really am a good risk for money. My bank balance may not be where I want it to be because I like having a $60k buffer and I’m nowhere near that. But I have a hair shy of $770,000 invested. I’m doing fine.

Noah likes to tease me because I adamantly insist that the money he earns is his and I don’t have money. He points out that depending on how old we get, we may spend more years living off the money I have invested than living off his salary. So whose money is it? His. His. His.

Nyah

Noah has been so forking nice lately. He’s clearly frustrated. He’s clearly having a hard time. But he digs deep and he finds patience for me and the kids. I am continually impressed with how Noah takes all of my horrible stereotypical judgments about men and sets them on their ear. That’s wonderful and slightly irritating.

I spend a lot of time thinking about how Noah deserves better than me. But I’m not sure I’m capable of living up to what he deserves. I feel like if I’m not about as good as I’m going to get the peak isn’t that far away. I’m afraid I don’t have many more times in my life I can just say, “Well work harder and be better.” I’ve done it to myself a lot in my life. That is how I have gotten here. It doesn’t matter if I’m in pain or exhausted. Work harder; be better.

That’s how a lot of parenting has worked. It doesn’t matter if I feel like I can’t. Do it anyway. Work harder; be better. I have managed to push myself through a fantastic amount of improvement this way. I’m afraid I’m reaching the end of the utility of this tool.

I’ve been borrowing spoons from a future I didn’t believe I would have. Paying the piper for this hurts.

I should be sleeping but my arms hurt. My hips hurt. My neck hurts. My back hurts. My shoulders hurt. Instead I watch Rihanna videos and think about one of the most beautiful women alive. She’s talented. I don’t know why I like watching her as much as I do.

Why do Americans like black culture and hate black people. Do I hate black people? I sure hope not. I haven’t acted like I do. I don’t think that me not hating black people is enough. We have an entire world steeped in antiblackness. What have I done to eradicate that? Well, I have sure as shit talked to my children about it. I have educated classrooms full of kids about it. That’s not enough.

Rihanna has a song–Unfaithful–about cheating. It’s interesting to me. “I don’t want to be a murderer.” Is sex really all that? I’ve definitely left relationships because of sex. But am I a murderer if I cheat on someone? Complicated. Noah has given up more of himself for our relationship than I have. Our lawyer commented that our relationship doesn’t have a similar level of public disclosure. I blog. He doesn’t. That’s ok. I get something from blogging that he doesn’t. He doesn’t feel affirmed from screaming into the void the way that I do. Noah doesn’t get the same thing from defining himself that  get. That’s ok.

We live in a world that says that men are strong and women are weak. But what is strength?

I regularly have the experience of having men be surprised by what I am physically capable of doing. Stop underestimating me.

Do you know who doesn’t underestimate me? Noah. Noah is the person in my life who has consistently believed I am capable of the most. Does that mean Noah is weak? Naw. If I have a jar to open I hand it to him.

Goodness. The song “Hate That I Love You”. Goodness.

“That’s how much I love you
That’s how much I need you
And I can’t stand you
Must everything you do make me wanna smile
Can I not like you for awhile? (No)” Rihanna – Hate That I Love You Lyrics | MetroLyrics

Sometimes I feel like it would be nice to not like Noah for a while. But then I’m away from him for a few seconds and I want him to tell me a stupid joke. The closer I am the more I want distance the further I am the more I want closeness. I feel like we need to create some sort of distance so I am longing for him. I do long for him. I miss him sometimes even when I’m out for the day at appointments. Five hours are entirely too many to be away from him and yet sometimes five minutes are too many to be together. No. That’s not true. Sometimes I want him in the room and quiet.

I don’t know that I ever really want him not in the room.

Maybe when I’m feeling embarrassed about what I’m doing. Like nitrous. I’m weird. It’s not like he cares. But he doesn’t indulge in my vices the way I do. Sometimes I feel really ashamed. I don’t like smoking in front of him. He isn’t gross like me. He doesn’t do things to alter his body in order to stand being alive.

I feel so bad that I want chemical assistance to be ok being alive. I should just be grateful he is here making it better. But I hurt so much.

Nitrous fucking helps.

I don’t do it all the time. I can’t afford it. But man. There are nights.

Random aside: how does Rihanna manage to look like she has small breasts and curvaceous mountains IN THE SAME DAMN VIDEO. (different song)

optical illusions are so cool.

Anyway.

What is the difference between appreciation and appropriation? I don’t know.

But send out more money. Stay home. Don’t take more for yourself. Maybe, hopefully that can be enough.

The funny thing is, I expect money to be the most forward facing part of me in the future. I will send a lot of money out into the world and I’ll stay home. I’ll hide in Wonderland. I’ll pretend the world is comfortable and predictable. I’ll pretend that “sustainable workload” isn’t hysterical. I’ll figure out which plants I won’t kill. It’ll work out.

Or nothing will work out. And in 100 years I will have been dead for a long time and I won’t matter. Who knows.

I want to matter. I want to matter. I want to matter.

I want to matter even though I was conceived in violence and resistance. My mother resisted making me. She didn’t want me. I shouldn’t be here.

I want to matter anyway.

Maybe rapists are motivated by hearing the siren call of the children who desperately need to be born. Puke. Retch. Vomit. fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck that. Maybe even the most unwanted piece of shit in the whole universe can still grow a beautiful plant and that isn’t about anything else.

Sometimes shit produces the most beautiful flowers.

What is shit but refuse? That which is rejected. The body cannot absorb some pieces so it sends those back out into the world.

Am I that which my mother and father could not digest so they sent me off into the world? Hiiiiiiii.

I don’t think so. I think my presence on this planet is a demonstration that violence sometimes overcomes.

Only he’s dead now.

Who am I?

Am I this flesh bag? Am I these words on a screen? Am I the emotions inside the meat bag? Am I a concept inside your head? Am I a real person or am I an idea? I’m not sure I know. But I will keep creating me, year after year.

Do you know what I am? I am not a victim. I have had bad shit happen to me, yes. But I am not a victim. I am instead a recipient of shittiness. A victim is a person duped. A person tricked. A person killed for sacrifice. A person injured or killed as a result of an accident or crime or event. I am not a victim. A victim is a person who is harmed, you say. But what is harm? hey the internet says harm is physical damage. Like the damage in my body? Shit.

I’m pretty sure there are people out there who believe I have caused them pain.

If you have caused pain does your pain matter?

If you have caused more pain than you have experienced does it matter? How do you measure? How does one evaluate?

I don’t know.

I know that I need to turn to Noah. That’s a thing. Even when I’m in pain, Noah is who I have chosen as the person I turn to. Even when he irritates me, Noah is who I need to process how god damn annoying Noah is. That’s not fair. What is fair? I don’t know. But I know that I’m grateful for Noah. I’m grateful every day.

It’s not the money.

It’s not even the cooking.

It’s not the sex.

It’s the listening. It’s the looking. I feel like Noah looks at me like no human being has ever cared to look at me. I exist in Noah’s eyes in a way I don’t otherwise.

If I am a piece of shit, then with Noah I create the most beautiful flowers. Our children astound me. Even as they irritate the shit out of me. They are real people who need to make their own mistakes. They cannot absorb mine.

This is all so complicated.

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