Category Archives: adult-only

Published in the adult-only category

Pieces of dysfunction

The rare cross post. If you saw this on fetlife, you don’t need to reread it here.

I’ve worked pretty hard on changing my perception of myself over the years. I no longer believe I am worthless. I have substituted the belief that I am an incredibly effective tool. I know how to do a lot of different kinds of work and when I show up to do work… I get a lot done. I have developed quite a bit of pride in how effectively I can get work done over a broad swath of types of work. I’m not a one trick pony.

My family wanted me to perceive myself as stupid but all of the GATE testing when I was a kid and grown ups going “Holy crap this kid is SMART” means that their attempts to make me think I was stupid just kind of failed. I’m brilliant and I’m comfortable with acknowledging that. The rate at which I read complicated non-fiction books helps me not ever succumb to the belief that I might be stupid. But I have to keep working consciously on expanding what I know or I would start chanting this at myself. I view smart as something that has to be constantly worked on or it doesn’t count.

I could go through a long list of specifically triggering things I’ve worked on, but the problem that keeps coming up and I just can’t fucking deal with it in a rational way… is what I was born to be.

Let me explain. My father raped my mother when she knew she was fertile and she didn’t want to have more kids. He wanted to make another kid to rape. He was already raping the children they had. Like a true pedophile, gender wasn’t that important to my father.

So from when I was a tiny baby the story I was told about my existence is that I was made so that men would have more holes to use and how I felt about that really didn’t matter.

This is the problem I keep coming back to. This is the core belief I have not been able to shake or move or change in years of trying. This is what I am here for. It doesn’t really matter if it feels good to me or if I like it or if I want it. That’s why I am here. It is literally why I was made.

I don’t know how to alter these wires in my brain so that I stop giving a shit what my father’s intentions were and start feeling like I get to define what I am here for.

This piece is just sticky as hell and I have not figured out how to change it. This is what brings me to my knees over and over sobbing and feeling like I need to die to get away from the terrible burden of being responsible for taking more and more and more pain inside my body.

Even when my partners (my husband most of all) have tried to figure out how to fuck me without hurting me we always run up against this strong limitation that I can’t really talk in the moment about sex hurting my cunt. I dissociate away from that so fast I am literally physically incapable of talking when it happens. Even though I’ve done decades of work on trying to fix this.

I’ve fixed a lot of pieces of this. But this spot still persists and I have not yet figured out how to rewire this in my brain.

I can write about it when it’s not happening. I can barely speak out loud about this topic without melting down into tears or screaming swear words like FUCK YOU FOR HURTING ME. Which is not all that productive.

I continue to be impressed with my husband’s persistence in wanting to help me deal with my laundry list of problems.

I sabotage efforts to make sex not hurt me. Because I have this internal motivation that I have to be providing a lot of sex, even if it is damaging me and I have to initiate even when I’m in pain and….

I know I create a lot of this problem with my utter unwillingness to act like pain in my cunt is worthy of acknowledgment in the moment. There were a few times when I was very young when I mentioned that it hurt to partners and the response was a solid wall of “So?” and I just completely lost the ability.

The kinds of 25 year olds who like to fuck 12 year olds really don’t care.

This internal belief, that fucking is literally why I exist, is why I push so hard for sex with so many people. I have an internal programming that dictates that I must ask for sex. Because this is why I exist. To give this experience to people who want it.

This has gotten more complicated as my partner has gone through a shift from actively wanting polyamory when we met to very actively wanting mainly monogamy with very rare occasions of group sex.

Fitting into the expectations that are currently held for me takes a lot of work. I’ve adapted as best I can. It’s not always easy. But the good I get from being part of this family is so breathtaking. I get to belong somewhere. People care when I’m crying. People care about me in this house. I am important to them. It’s worth a lot of pain and suffering to try and deal with more layers of my mental illness to try and stay here for more of this.

Recently I went through a multiple month period where I genuinely didn’t want to die. That is the longest I can remember feeling like that in my entire life. I have always wanted to die. That has been the drumbeat chasing me through life for just about 30 years now. “I should die because this hurts too fucking much.” I want more of the not-wanting-to-die feeling. And I have to change this belief to get there.

This is tricky because I partially married my husband because he has the highest sex drive of anyone I ever seriously dated. He’s been the only one who wanted to keep up with what I wanted to initiate.

But a lot of what I initiate hurts me. And then there are waves of consequences.

This is so unfair.

It is desperately unfair to my husband and frankly it isn’t fucking fair to me either. It is fucking shitty being in my head and in my body. It isn’t anyone’s fault at this point that it sucks so much to be inside of me… but it’s a fact.

One of my buddies idly mused that I get a lot of self esteem from my interactions with my children.

Children are the only people I know how to interact with without feeling like I am failing in not offering sex. That’s the only time I feel like it is completely appropriate for me to not be offering sex. It’s safe in a way nothing and no adult ever is.

I don’t ask everyone for sex all the time for a variety of reasons (I’m pretty sure you don’t want to be asked, I’m pretty sure my husband would flip out, etc) but I have had to grow up and work on my boundaries to get to this point. It took a fair bit of maturing before I understood that my father was lying and not everyone wanted that from me.

Thanks to all the folks who have skillfully and tactfully turned me down over the years. I’m glad you didn’t follow that up with refusing to know me because I was so rude/tactless/gross/insert word of choice.

I’ve tried to grow up as fast as I have been able. I’m a lot closer to my goal of “grown upness” than I actually believed I would make it to… but I’m not there yet. I’m hoping I manage around the time my 9 year old makes it to adulthood.

What am I here for?

That’s this huge existential question, right? I’m super partial to the work of Viktor Frankl, a psychotherapist who went through the Holocaust. He wrote the book _Man’s Search For Meaning_. His general hypothesis is that folks can survive any horror in life if they have something they believe in and it doesn’t matter what it is. It could be “I want to see my wife/husband again”. That kind of belief is enough. If you believe that your love for someone else is your reason for continuing to be alive then you can make it enough to see you through anything.

I can’t control why I was made. I can’t control the intentions behind my makers.

But why do I stay alive?

Maybe that needs to be the focus of the next stage of work. I can’t change what I was made for or whether I did my best to live up to that for the first few decades of my life.

But why now?

I feel really guilty that a lot of why I’m staying alive at this point is a science experiment. Will I be a good enough mother that my children will want to know me when they are adults? Am I capable of treating them in a way that will cause them to want to know me?

I feel guilty about this because I feel like I “should” pick something that is more oriented towards my husband and… that’s different. It’s really complicated that I already feel like I have failed at being a good wife and I feel like there is no walking back from that. He’s not leaving because I’m better than nothing but I will never make it to good. I can’t hang my hat on that in this life.

Ok, so “I am bad” and “I am a monster” are strongly tied in with what is causing me these eternal problems.

It is hard because my husband is having a hard time with how much the shift into being a mother has derailed a lot of the hypersexuality and a lot of my strong need to be hit so much. I’m boring now.

I feel like I am bad for even trying to work towards a future where my cunt will hurt less because that will mean I am not meeting his expectations for how often he wants to get laid.

And the cycle continues.

The critical fizzing danger is past for this week, I think.

I don’t feel like I’m about to rip off my skin suit. That’s a good sign in terms of me doing something drastic. That feeling is so awful. It feels like I am a bubbling, swirling cauldron waiting to overflow. I still have pockets of sadness but I don’t feel frantic. I don’t feel like I HAVE to DO something right now about how horrible I feel. It’s ok to just sit and look at the sadness again.

I am still sad.

I am also now prepared in terms of baby clothes. I took the whole family to Outrageous Outgrowns last night. It’s a consignment sale event in San Jose. We split up with the list and were there for 2.5 hours. We didn’t find leggings for the big kids (in the bigger sizes they wear out before they can be sold for cheap… seems legit) but we got almost everything else they need in the next size for the winter. We filled in the gaps I had in baby clothes up to size 9 months. My lovely friend who has given me a bunch of baby stuff just… skipped the 9 month size (a reasonable choice) so I filled in that gap and added in the 3 and 6 month stuff I didn’t have yet. I’m quite partial to sleeper sets. My kids live in them because I’m too lazy to put on complicated adult looking outfits on a tiny baby. I’m always afraid I’ll hurt the kid dressing them in stiff jeans.

We found a Johnny Jump Up even. That sucker was used all the time in our house. Our first two kids loved it. (The swing seat that hangs in a doorway. I don’t know what you call it. I call it what my mama called it.)

I don’t need any more clothes. I would say my need list at this point is for diapers, and an additional baby carrier. I really want a ring sling that is water compatible because that’s how I wash babies best. (Not in the first 2-3 months, obviously. Before neck control this wouldn’t go so hot…) And a travel sized wet bag for the diaper bag. I don’t have one and gosh that sucker will be crucial. It gets kind of irritating using Ziplock bags for this purpose. I’ve done it, but they break at inopportune moments and that’s just nasty.

My whole family was super nice and helpful last night. It was lovely not having to carry all the shit alone. We spent around $500 and bought 91 items. Given that it included a car seat in really good condition and maternity clothes and kid clothes for both big kids and all the baby gear including a Boppy and… I feel we made out like bandits. Only Noah didn’t get anything because they don’t really sell much in his size. Ha.

I feel justified in my desire to give each big kid a warm dress for Christmas. Both of them asked for dresses and couldn’t find a warm dress at the sale. I’m glad there are already Christmas presents in the closet. I think we are about 8 pairs of leggings away from set for the winter.

Which is good. I’m going to hibernate this winter and if you need something and don’t have it your ass can do without.

It continues to fascinate me that my little girl is getting increasingly butch and my delightful little Enby is outrageously femme. What does gender mean anyway? Do whatever makes you happy. I’ll smile when I look at you no matter what you wear.

I rarely participate on the Gender Spectrum forum because mostly as the parent of a gender non-conforming kid I think my role is support and not… being the center of something? So I watch threads and I comment once in a while. Yesterday a mom was having a hard time coping with how their kid dresses so I talked about how I handled it. I hope she feels less alone. I hope she feels like it’s ok for her to accept her kid doing whatever. Another young trans kid was expressing worry about whether they might detransition later in life and does that make their current feelings wrong or a lie?

I told them I have known trans people who have floated up and down the spectrum in terms of presentation throughout their lives for a variety of factors including physical and political safety or even just emotional safety. They are still who they are inside… they just have to adapt to changing environments. It’s ok to manifest yourself how you feel you are safe today and it’s ok for that to change in the future. That doesn’t make any of what you do wrong or a lie, you are totally telling the truth on any given day. You are just keeping yourself safe within your truth and anyone who will attack you and claim you aren’t being “real” isn’t respecting your right to be safe. Only you can decide what presentation is safe for you and that doesn’t change who you are inside.

I hope that I said the right thing to that kid. It’s the truth I have absorbed from talking to 50-70 something year old trans folk.

It’s kind of funny how dealing with Aunt Candy makes me feel really protective of little trans kids. Many of them don’t have a parent like me who will come back like a viper defending them. I wish everyone had the solid wall of support my kid has. That would make for a much better planet.

For all the shit I’m doing wrong in this life and if I started listing those things I’d never stop… I think I am supporting my wonderful Enby pretty well. Of all the things they doubt about themselves (and there is plenty) they don’t doubt that they are non-binary and that’s just ok. They have strategies in their pocket for arguing with people who tell them they don’t exist. They feel supported and seen. I’m not doing everything wrong. (They bought a few very butch pairs of pants for winter. I was kind of shocked. That’s not their normal style but I said not a word. Ok, I said “Are you sure you want to advertise for this sports team?” and that’s all I said.)

They were excited to support their local sports ball team. Uhhh swell. Sure, why not. Sweat pants are sweat pants.

I still feel like I’m walking uphill through a river of molasses. But my brain isn’t fizzing. If that’s the best I can get just now, ok.

I feel like taking three doses of pot a day is helping a little. I am staying more in the placid, “I don’t need to react with drastic measures” state. That’s helpful. I can see the unhappiness and not freak out about it.

Instead I have acid reflux like a motherfucker. Awesome.

Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday of this week have been lower in appointment quantity than usual. I’m so grateful. Only the one trip to Outrageous Outgrowns in San Jose for out of town driving. I’m so exhausted.

I’m feeling really guilty and kind of ashamed of myself for asking for a schedule shift with Sarah. She’s drowning in work right now and she has to attend to that. It’s not any kind of personal rejection and I know that. I completely support her making this career jump and I think she’s doing stuff that is important to her life. But she needs to reschedule the Skype calls a fair bit and that’s feeling so hard for me. I’m in such a horrible place emotionally to be flexible and I’m afraid if I keep myself in the position where I need to be plucky and cheerful about shifting timing… I’m going to put myself in a position where I throw a tantrum at some point and that would be so awful. It’s not that I want to stop talking to her. I just… I need it to be more flexible in my head right now. I need it to be a “We will try and see when it works” instead of “I will be there unless something comes up” because that framing makes me feel like I’m always the least important thing. I don’t think it is true that I am one of the least important things in her life. I hope I handled this right. She’s really busy and I’m tweaking on hating myself. It’s a dangerous combo for me doing something rash. I hope this way I won’t blow up at her because of my inappropriate expectations.

Managing my expectations sometimes feels like a job.

I talked to Pam yesterday. I’m really glad. It’s been a couple of months because she’s busy. It’s hard that two out of my three Most Important People that I cling to like a fucking limpet are really busy with important life transition stuff. I support them doing it. I think both of them are doing stuff they really need to do right now. I’m trying as hard as I can not to bitch about the reduction in attention I’m experiencing. It’s not about me. It’s about them being who they want to be in life and that’s IMPORTANT. It’s hard being supportive of their separation and their running off to pursue their dreams when I’m this depressed. But find some god damn support or shut your stupid mouth. They have both supported me through so much. It’s important I get this right. This time in their lives is not forever. If I want to have the right to spend more glorious time with them when this is over… I have to be nice now.

And that includes not blowing up at people because I have asshole-entitled expectations.

They are my friends. Friends give you what they have to spare and you say thank you. If my friends have nothing to give to me then I’d better give to them and get through the gap in time where they have nothing to give. It’s ok. They have carried me in the past.

I’m feeling a lot of anxiety about every one and every thing… but I still feel gratitude for my friendships. The less deeply enmeshed layers of my friendship life are doing a really fabulous job of trying to carry me lately. Make new friends, but keep the old. You need them both.

But talking to Pam yesterday was one of those conversations that reminded me what the difference is for someone who has spent probably tens or hundreds of thousands of hours listening to me talk about myself. I can switch topics and people so fast and she follows every jump of my misbegotten brain. I feel so seen when she’s on her game and I can spew everything I think about every single person and situation in my life and just kind of go “Waaaaaaaaaaa” and she nods and points out some connection I hadn’t noticed or she points out a minor tweak that would make things better.

She’s on my side and she’s not afraid to tell me I’m fucking up and I need to change something. I love this woman so much I feel like I could explode.

And she shares her beautiful family with me. Her parents are great and I love her baby sister. I even get along with the extended family members I see more rarely. It sounds like she is going to need to start going back to Taiwan more often to see elderly relatives so that’ll be hella convenient if we can manage to meet up with her there when Lightning does their first trip abroad. I’m already saving up. When my kids are around 9 months old, they go on their first big trip. It does a lot to set the stage for how mellow my kids are about travel. I don’t know why I need them to be adaptable in these ways but I need it. I’m sure I could manage it with domestic travel, but we learn so much about life this way.

Pam has been telling me about how beautiful her country is for almost 20 years. I’ve seen pictures. It would be glorious to see in person.

And hey I can talk to her mom a bunch more. That always makes my day. I think her mom finds me a bit odd, but she’s super nice. I’ll take it. Pam’s parents are shockingly open minded given stereotypes about Asian parents. They’ve supported their kids through some meandering career choices. Pam worked in theatre for decades and her parents were totally cool with that. Most of my friends who are Asian have told me there is a trifecta: engineer/doctor/lawyer. Pick one or you will be expelled from the family. Pam’s family isn’t like that at all. They are really pretty chill and loving. I want to be at least a little bit like them. Probably with slightly less Buddhism because that feels appropriative to me.

I find parents to inspire me everywhere.

I’m not entirely sure why I’m feeling the need to post stuff on fetlife. I think because I’m trying to fuck with my boundaries and most of what I know about stating boundaries I learned through the bdsm community. They are my teachers. So as I stumble through trying to figure out what this is going to mean to me… I want to talk to my teachers. But I know that the answer is unlikely to come from a rich old white guy. I appreciated him telling me he wishes he had the answer any way… but yeah. I didn’t expect *you* to have the answer for me, sweetheart.

He’s still one of the only people who has sexually assaulted me who apologized. This is such a wacky world we live in. I remain in contact with a bizarre list of people… Sure he apologized ten years later when I sat him down to tell him my story in context and then he felt bad… but it felt really fucking validating. At least one person who assaulted me recognized how badly they fucked up and they saw how much they hurt me and they wanted to apologize. That was a really big deal to me.

He was a jerk and he crossed a stated boundary and that blows chunks. But he did apologize. With my history, can I ask for anything else?

It’s so complicated.

Future tripping keeps me moving. I think we want one more out-of-the-house Christmas event in December. Maybe lights in the park or city lights down in San Jose? That way we do one out of the house event per week up to Christmas. I’m not hosting a Christmas party. I mostly feel like no one cares any way so why should I put so much effort into it?

I’m feeling really pathetic and like no one gives a shit about me and I can’t deal with proving if it is true or not and it doesn’t matter and I just can’t. So I’m skipping a Christmas party. I always feel like I’m doing a mean thing by forcing busy people to acknowledge me and I can’t cope with that feeling this year.

I feel sad and disconnected. If it weren’t for worrying about my children I think this would be an ideal time to die. I feel so very done. But I can’t take my burden off and give it to my kids. That isn’t how this is supposed to work. I need to carry this burden until its journey is done and it doesn’t have to be passed on. The layers of generational trauma have to stop at me. It really doesn’t matter that much how much it hurts me. This is my job. This is my place in this dynamic.

This is justice.

This is how I feel about racial reparations too. It isn’t that important that my generation feel guilty about the shit sandwich that our ancestors made. It is important that we eat it instead of passing it down to the next generation because that is taking responsibility for it existing. I didn’t make it and it isn’t my fault it is here. But I can make sure you don’t have to eat it. Responsibility, not guilt. Guilt doesn’t help anyone.

It doesn’t help my kids for me to feel guilty about handing them a load of trauma. It helps my kids for me to put my big kid panties on and carry my trauma instead of passing it along to them to lighten my load. That’s just fucked up. I get why people do it…

I have to do something different.

I owe my kids in a way that other people might not owe their kids. My kids were very conscious creations even given the layers of generational trauma I know they will inherit and I know I will have to walk them through processing. My kids were born needing help existing in their bodies because our family is fucked up. I picked that reality for them. If I walk into that with full knowing and mindfulness… I don’t get the excuse of “Well I did my best.” I have to give them what they need… not my best. Fuck my best. Get it right.

Do you know how fucking hard it is to center their needs like this? I’m a selfish bitch and I’d really rather care more about my pain than theirs. But I made them. I made them out of nothing. Out of a sex act. They came from the cells of my body.

I need to do this. I need to put my mental illness and pain aside and be what they need. Even if it hurts and it is hard and it involves strain and pain and learning I never even imagined.

Even if it means I have to figure out how to shift my core beliefs about who and what I am and what I am here for.

I am not just here for people to hurt. Sure, I take pain rather than handing it to my kids but that is so different from being a hole for someone to come in.

I told my daughter recently that if my tone of voice sounds harsh or mean it isn’t because I’m upset with her. It’s because this topic is very important and I have to respond right. This response is part of what will decide in the long run if I am a good parent to her or not and I’m scared I’m going to mess up–so yes my voice sounds harsh. Because I’m worried and feeling harsh with myself because I Have To Do This Right. I have to support you. I have to meet this need and I’m afraid I will fail and that makes me sound harsh. I need to do this for you. You matter. You are important.

I have to get this right.

Even if no one ever got it right for me or thought they needed to do this for me. That’s old news. Live in the now.

All I can do today is take responsibility for where I’m standing and the shit sandwich on the table. I won’t make you eat it.

All my life I was told that shit rolls downhill so too bad for me I’m at the bottom of the heap. You know what? I’ll stay here at the bottom. I’m not going to roll my shit onto another person.

I don’t want to.

I love how you shine and I do not want to dull you. I want to polish you up and set you to glitter in the sun. You like doing that. You feel good that way. I’m just glad I get to look at you and stand near you. And sometimes you hug me.

That’s better than passing on the shit sandwich.

I spent a while on the phone with my cousin last night because she is freaking out about stuff in her life. She’s not freaking out about small stuff. Her life is complicated and hard in a way my life will never be again. She doesn’t have the support network I have in any way shape or form. She doesn’t have the kind friends or a partner to help her. That’s really sad. She was expressing some bitterness about my niece (my sister’s daughter) having a huge network of friends she leans on. I get why my niece built that network of friends–it’s not like she will have support from her bio family.

I heard some very sad news about my niece. She’s going through some extreme pain right now and I’m very sorry for her. I hope things get better for her. She made an incredibly hard choice and I respect her for that. Sometimes hard choices are the right choice. I don’t know if she made the right choice, but I respect that she did the absolute best thing she could see to do. I’m sorry she’s hurting. Even with Auntie and Uncle Bob trying to give her stability she had a bad early life.

All of us did.

And look how broken we are.

No more shit rolling down hill. No more.

Not in my house.

Nobody gets what they deserve–not for good nor for ill. Really there is no such thing as deserve. There’s just what you get and what you don’t get. There is no fair.

Life fucking sucks.

Next project

Cause I always have a project. Identify core beliefs and figure out how to change them. This is going to be super woo intensive because therapy hasn’t moved these bitches in 3 decades.

I anticipate this kind of sucking. But maybe the far side will suck less.

I have to figure out how to change this belief that I only exist to absorb pain. I am not a god damn anguisette.

I need to figure out how to frame my story in my head so it doesn’t matter what my father wanted me to be or what he thought I was. I need to stop thinking about what my mother said and believed.

I was not born to be a whore. I did not get married to be a whore.

Maybe Sobonfu was born to carry the stories of her tribe and to be a healer… but that doesn’t mean that the pronouncements made at the birth of every child work out. It worked out for her and that was a really tremendous thing.

I don’t have to care what I was told I was going to be.

And I don’t really know how to change this yet. This is going to be hard.

Apparently it depends on how you phrase things.

The sleep doctor wrote a long impassioned plea to the insurance company about why she believes I REALLY NEED to try a CPAP machine given my constellation of problems and she explained in great detail how trying this is cheaper than all of the other tests and follow up stuff she is going to ask for if they turn down paying for a CPAP.

They are paying for me to try a machine.

I feel stunned by the medical system not being the biggest douchebag possible.

I go in for that fitting next week. I’ll try just about anything to see if it helps. It’s not that I’m unwilling to look for solutions. It is that so many of them fail.

Swirls of emotion

I feel like I am always surprised when an intense suicidal jag comes up. Why so intense? Why now? It’s not like things have actually hit a fever pitch of bad in my life… why now? I don’t know. Because these are the cycles I live with.

Lightning spends all day and most of the night whacking me telling me that more life is coming and death is…

I don’t even know. But good grief this kid is lively. It’s hard to sit around and think about offing yourself when you have something this alive inside of you. I’m capable of doing it because I can multi-task like a boss… but it’s kind of weird.

I don’t really want to kill Lightning. They clearly are ready to be born and to make an impact. Probably with their fist or foot. Ow. Some of these feel like out and out head butts.

In that way I have of not really acknowledging “now” and instead focusing on future tripping so that I’m constantly preparing for a future I may not have… Noah is really encouraging me to do baby prep. There’s a big piece of me that feels like I’m being ridiculous for buying anything for this baby. In this minute I still feel like I shouldn’t be here in four months.

But I made a list of all the shit I probably ought to get at the consignment sale anyway. Because if I don’t off myself… I’ll need this shit. And if I do off myself getting rid of that crap will be the least of Noah’s problems.

Oh, hey K… did you hear that there is a new fire in the Santa Cruz Mountains near Boulder Creek? There is an evacuation center at Lakeside and somehow that feels so close and scary and like it is part of my story even though I don’t live there now. Bear Creek Road is shut down and that’s… that’s so close to where we grew up. My family is still there in the mountains. My family’s home is risking being burned down. My bio-family should probably be looking into evacuation. My extended, very disabled, very poor family should be looking into evacuation. I feel like a monster because I’m not calling Auntie.

But I’m not calling.

Auntie and all three of her kids and one of their partners and probably my mom are living less than 10 miles from this fire.

And I’m not calling to offer help. Even though they kept me alive as a kid.

I’m sorry, mama.

Yesterday my kids asked me if my mama was pretty. It was kind of funny because I wanted to say no, but I say yes too. I think she started out a pretty woman and then life was really unfair and the tracks of her life walk right across her face.

You can’t fake or hide grief lines very well. There are these deep gauges that folks get in their face, lines that go from the corners of the mouth up to the nose. The deeper those marks go the more grief you have carried. The more time you’ve spent crying or trying not to. It’s not really mistakable. When I notice that someone has them I feel this wave of compassion and comradeship–I understand.

I wear my life on my face too. No amount of moisturizer will cover these lines and tracks.

We had a family therapy session yesterday. We walked out with some ideas of how to handle some issues we’ve been having. I feel it was a fairly productive situation. I have endless appreciation for the fact that my kids are willing to be honest and frank about what they are doing and why. “Sure I smacked so and so. I was feeling X and it seemed like the right thing to do.”

*blink* Well… at least we can talk about it…

I grew up with so much denial. Why do I write down all of this awful roller coaster of emotion? So that later I can never ever deny that it happened. Yup, I was genuinely that difficult.

Things are hard but feel like there are whiffs of more positive with Noah. We’ve tried some different ways of having sexual contact and it went better than normal. But we are both so raw and untrusting that every step and every attempt at anything is complicated. We are clinging to each other in that lost child way we have. But it feels like the wounds are still actively aching.

How in the fuck do we make this work? I need for my cunt to not be hurt anymore. Even if the cost is that I am the shittiest wife on the planet who will not meet her husband’s needs. I’m feeling better every day about my desire to fire the therapist who spent 5 years telling me I needed to compromise and put out because Noah does so much for me I owe him.

I don’t need more of that god damn voice in my ear telling me that I owe anyone my cunt.

I’m not opposed to touching Noah’s body. I’m not opposed to being part of his sexual life. But I need that to not mean that I am required to submit to burning pain as part of the deal. This has to change because I am not physically nor emotionally capable of continuing to do that and be ok in other areas of my life. I will have to blow things up in very bad ways in order to cope with that and that’s going to create other problems. If I have that much pain brought into my life all the time… I have to cope however I have to fucking cope and I don’t give a flying fuck if you like it.

And Noah’s really opposed to some of my coping methods because they hurt him a lot. Fair. So let’s stop damaging me, m’kay?

I can’t pull off the amount of boring and staid I pull off and be constantly pushed into dysregulation by pain like that. The amount of pain I deal with from my body in general is bad enough. I can cope with back and hip and neck and arm and shoulder and head pain with just being surly. It’s a deeper ache that I process differently. The burning active injury feel inside my cunt is different and activating in a very different way. I have to either face it head on and do as much sexual activity as I can to cause the area to go mostly numb so I can step into a dissociative state to deal with it or I need the god damn pain to stop.

Because this pain is something I can’t cope with and pull off this mommy-act I play all day.

This pain means I’m just a worthless whore and if that is all I am then I need to be that with a vengeance.

It’s complicated.

I like the role I’ve been playing for years now. I like the way my kids look at me. I like that when they are having big feelings a lot of how that manifests is for both of them to literally fall out of their beds because they are reaching for me because they need the physical contact to reestablish connection.

We fall asleep differently when Noah is around. Noah requires silence and stillness in the pre-bed ritual. When he’s gone the rest of us wiggle and flop back and forth like a fish dumped into a boat. We talk for 20-40 minutes about the stuff that’s bothering us and we talk about how to cope with our big feelings. Noah doesn’t love this period. It’s distracting and bothersome for him. I call it getting out the wiggles and it helps me and the kids. Last night I told Noah to chill and let us do it when he asked us to shush.

The kids needed the extra snuggling and talking really a lot. They are struggling to make their own sense of living with a depressed mother and their parents are fighting about something and they are transitioning away from their beloved babysitter still and they are adjusting to this school having OUTRAGEOUS REQUIREMENTS LIKE TURNING IN TWO ASSIGNMENTS PER MONTH PER SUBJECT, OH THE INDIGNITY and a variety of other such factors. They are taking a lot in and trying to figure out what it means to them. A lot of how they do that is to lay on top of me and talk about how they are trying to put the pieces together.

I feel so honored to be part of this process. I love you.

I don’t want to hurt them. And leaving would hurt them so much. Noah would try to be as emotionally supportive as I am…. but I think he’s not even aware of just how much emotional support and scaffolding I provide.

My kids have never really had to struggle with hard feelings on their own. They have had me around their entire lives to go to, “This one is super hard huh? Yeah. Getting through the big hard feelings hurts and it’s a struggle and you don’t have to be alone for it.”

It was funny having the family therapist kind of nod in agreement/appreciation of how I take myself away from the children to go cry. Adults have to manage their own shit; it’s not ok to ask a child for support. I mean… that’s such a funny weird line to walk. I actually did allow the children to comfort me/grieve with me over my cat dying. That was a very appropriate kind of grief to share.

My horrible crying that goes on and on and on year after year… it would be wrong to share.

Sometimes my kids look at me with these shining eyes and they tell me that they really appreciate that they have never had to be alone.

One of my children talked yesterday about how they are struggling to deal with half an hour separations from the family because it feels like it will stretch into YEARS OF BEING ALONE. I understand that feeling so well, but it’s really kind of hilarious in the context of our little family. I gently teased about the YEARS part and they stepped it down to MONTHS and then got to WEEKS… and I said, “It really does feel like that, doesn’t it? And that feeling is so hard to live with because even five minutes starts to feel like a whole lifetime.” They nodded in this sad and heart broken way.

They are so real and so honest and so present with everything they feel. I love being near them.

EC is ready to start doing the pre-teen pull away thing and FMC is flipping the fuck out. FMC is feeling abandoned by their sister and by me because a baby is coming. EC wants more time on her own to be quiet and contemplative and to be thinking about what being a teenager means. FMC is all “What do you mean you don’t want to play dolls with me forever?!”

This is such a normal milestone to have to work through. It’s hilariously ordinary and that is just… whoa. This isn’t trauma, this is life.

But life hurts too.

Both kids are finally talking about their anxiety about how things are going to change when the baby comes. It is sinking in that they will get less direct attention from me and they are both clinging to me like a life raft. FMC is saying that they need LOTS of dates in the last few months here because they need to fill their bucket up until it is overflowing to help them get through the drought.

EC is in this point where she feels she should be trying to be an adult and I’m ragging on her to stay a kid for a few more years. “This time passes so quickly and you never get it back! Be a little kid for EVERY MOMENT YOU CAN.” She wants to be responsible and a good example. I told her she can do that by being the best little kid she can be and not striving for being an adult before it is time. She gave me that funny “I see what you are doing there, mom” look. I love that look. It’s like I’m gazing into my future at all the times when she is going to get sick of my bossing. I can’t wait. “I can handle it, mom”. Yes ma’am. I know you can. I was just… helping.

I want to die because carrying the burden of being the source of pain for so many hurts. And I’m a coward. I don’t want to hurt like this anymore.

I want to live because people look at me in the most beautiful ways I can imagine and I’m really not done being looked at like that.

Life hurts.

Suicide watch

Thank you very much for reaching out to let me know that you care about me and you want to support me. It is incredibly kind. It is thoughtful. It is loving.

I’m not reaching back because I’m still in that place where I would manage to turn the most innocuous statements into proof that you hate me and you think I should die. I don’t really think you believe that so I’m just not getting into that conversation. Because I don’t want to do that to you. I’m holding my breath and waiting for the wave to finish passing by. I don’t want to damage my relationship with you just because my brain is being a complete asshole right now.

I don’t document these kinds of ups and downs because I want to distress you or ruin your day. I can tell you are worried. I’m sorry I’m scaring you. I document these sorts of dips in my psyche partially because someday my children might say, “Remember when I was x years old and you flipped out? What happened?” I will be able to go look in my archive and answer that question.

I asked my kids if they have heard me swear at their father much, this was in context of a conversation on contempt, and they sat there and thought hard and counted on their fingers and said they can remember 7 times. So those are 7 times in their whole life when I have been disrespectful enough in your presence to call him a name. That’s not good. But you notice how I don’t do that casually? We have a fight every so often and I have this incredibly bad habit that there are things I can’t say out loud until I’m screaming them with a curse word. It’s really bad. But I don’t refer to your father that way casually or very often because I don’t want to demonstrate contempt. I don’t want to feel contempt either… but you don’t call people names all the time. It should be rare or never. I mean, it would be best if I could grow the fuck up and fight without yelling swear words…

I’ve come a long way…

With Noah holding the key to all the stuff in the house that is lethal I’m pretty sure you can go back to checking my blog once a day. I made it hard for me to off myself.

It isn’t that I feel better. It’s that I’m thinking long and hard about the impact on my children and I’m not viewing my pain as equally as important. My baby is struggling so hard to become an emotionally regulated person. I can’t do this to them. They are struggling hard with impulse control and they are terrified that having less than perfect impulse control means they are a terrible person who is beyond redemption.

If I went now… they would assume blame forever. And baby it’s not you.

Oh it’s never you.

I can’t make my baby feel like me.

It’s really weird knowing that as much as I feel like I am poisoning everyone around me… my kid will listen to me telling them that they made a mistake and now they need to shake it off and try again because that’s just life. They listen when I tell them that it’s not good to internalize that mistakes make you a failure. Mistakes give you chances to learn. They are valuable. Mistakes are necessary and important and that means they really can’t prove that you are bad. Don’t make some of the truly heinous mistakes more than once… but once… you know…

You have to learn.

My kids believe in me more than folks believe in Moses. My word is law. It’s the weirdest fucking phenomena. I don’t think I ever felt like that about anyone as a child. Even though my kids know I’m wrong sometimes and I make mistakes… they view me as just about perfect.

It’s the fucking weirdest thing.

I may be a shitty wife… but my kids look at me like I’m the best thing ever. I don’t want to hurt them like that.

Even if that means I keep hurting Noah.

Only 4 days this week of leaving town. I’m so fucking tired.

How much pain can I absorb in this life? I don’t know. Are my kids going to keep looking at me while I do it? Because I’m kind of a macho show off. If I think I’m impressing them I can go pretty far.

My wonderful, beloved friends… I do appreciate that you reach out. But the thing about chronic long-term mental illness is… I can’t treat everything as a crisis. I know there is terrible advice out there telling people “Every time you feel suicidal, go to the ER!” No. Don’t do that. Well, if that is what you feel you need to do to get through a night… you do you. I will never do that. Never ever ever ever ever.

I will never risk having an authority figure strap me down because I have the unfortunate tendency towards having emotions they do not want me to have. Not again in this life. I can’t.

I will not risk being shot up with drugs I do not consent to. I have no rights in this country as a mentally ill person. The minute I enter the system they can do any abusive thing they want to me and I have no recourse.

No. That’s not a way to “get better” and if you try to force me through that… you aren’t a good person. I don’t care what you tell yourself. That’s terrifying and abusive and just plain wrong. Even the fucking UN believes I deserve better than I can get in my country.

I got to meet one of the lawyers who helped draft their position. What a beautiful and inspiring person.

I feel less frantic. Frankly I’m in the danger zone. Because this is the kind of mind set where I have enough energy going spare that I could get up out of the house and get it done. I still believe it might be the right decision. Except for my kids.

My kids…

I know what suicide does to a kid.

I’m not sure my pain is that important. Maybe when they are in their 20’s or 30’s and they can understand chronic conditions… but they won’t ever get over it right now.

That’s a choke chain if ever there was one. Last night my baby wanted to have one of our bed time chats where they ask me about tremendously serious, ethical, philosophical matters. They need me. They need someone to sit there and talk through how to think about boundaries and consent and limits and showing love. They need someone who will compassionately say, “Yeah, we all screw up. This is how we do better.”

They need someone who is invested in seeing them as someone with potential.

That’s supposed to be your mother.

And the waterworks start again on cue.

It just occurred to me that I’ve been friends with my former students for about half of their lives at this point. They come back because I look at them as someone with potential and they want to see that reflection.

I get it.

I see so much in you and you and you and you. I am sorry I am harsh in how I phrase my criticisms. I’m much harsher with myself. You do get the gentled down version of how I look at the world. I see you as so capable and I’m an asshole about how I prod that. I’m sorry. You deserve better.

I don’t know that I have better to give… but you clearly deserve better.

That’s so complicated.

The thing about suicide is… if you prevent me on a given day you will only increase the horrible lethality of the method I will choose on another day. This is not a “temporary mood problem” I have where you just need to lock me in a box until it is over. This is a long term chronic problem that isn’t going to go away until I am dead. I mean… maybe it could… but I’m not holding my breath on that.

*You* can’t panic and give up pieces of your life when I fall to pieces. If I am in a place where I need you to be a physical/emotional/spiritual place to block me from killing myself… I’ll ask. I really appreciate the offers of support, but sometimes I’m not in a place to take the support because I will twist it and turn it into more poison. I’m good at that. When my uncle died and I did not believe I was capable of taking care of myself well enough to survive the week alone… I asked for help. I wasn’t alone for over a week. I do recognize different plateaus of coping…..

Even that week I didn’t want to talk much. I just needed an adult in the house to watch me and the kids.

One week out of the 9 years I’ve been a parent. I don’t need that kind of support much. Mostly I have to put my head down and get to my life.

I have to pull the meaning from where I am standing… or I’m not going to last very long. I have to pull the will to live from what I’m doing or I’m in trouble.

But I love you. And I’m glad you love me.

I don’t want to be a monster.

I really struggle with what it means to be human. I struggle with what it means to be allowed to defend yourself. What does it mean to be allowed to assert yourself even when others don’t like it.

I hurt Noah a lot last year. I think I will flinch when someone says “2016” for the rest of my life. I hurt him emotionally for several months. Yup. That happened. I did that. I did that in large part because I was trying to cope with the physical damage that was happening to my body.

I don’t think Noah was damaging me on purpose. That wasn’t his “goal”. His goal was connection and he was seeking it in the best way he knew how. But I showed up in this relationship broken.

I wrote in my first fucking users guide I think in 2004 that I have extensive scarring damage in my cunt. Vaginal sex hurts me. I keep having it because I like it even though it hurts me. There are times when it doesn’t hurt that much and there are times when I feel like I will go out of my mind from the pain. Because it is so deep inside me I can’t get away from it. I feel like I want to scratch my skin off to get away from that fucking pain. I want to reach inside me and yank my cunt and uterus out and never have anyone use me like that again. Sew the fucking hole closed.

I have been trying to talk about this for years. I have been writing down that it was an active problem for at least 13 years. It is not news.

I have never treated it like a problem my partners need to care about. I have been incredibly callous about it. But if you had been taught that you were going to have a problem your whole life starting when you were a baby and it was a problem for the next 30 years you might be kind of callous in how you deal with it too.

Having sex with multiple people changes how my body operates. It’s like switching a car’s gears. For one major factor: it is so much easier to dissociate. I enjoy the sex way more when I’m only sorta physically/emotionally present. Which is fucked up. The more numb my cunt is the less I am aware of how much it hurts but I have to have a really freaky amount of sex to get there. I have to be wearing out a bunch of people before I get to this state. When I access this mode of existence… it’s just different. My body hardens itself against what I am forcing it to put up with.

Which isn’t a slam on the lovely people who fuck me. Y’all ain’t doing a bad thing.

I can show up for the kind of sex I have perceived Noah as wanting without feeling emotionally battered by it when my body is in that mode.

I have really struggled with matching Noah’s sex drive over the years. I have done my absolute best to carry that god damn quota even when I was in a lot of physical pain and I really should have loved myself enough to say that I wasn’t up for sex. But I don’t really love myself so protecting myself seems like such a stupid waste of time.

I’m a waste person. Might as well use me up and discard me instead of take care of me.

So I’ve grit my teeth and shut my eyes and I’ve had a lot of very painful sex. All in the name of “connection” and “showing love”.

Do you know how degrading it feels to have someone tell you over and over that they are showing you love by reaching up inside you and damaging your insides?

I have tried to talk to Noah about this pain over the years and I have not found words that got the message across. I have failed to explain why this is a problem and how I need it to change. So last year I hit a boiling point in my ability to cope and given that I’m not supposed to be mutilating myself to cope I had to find something else in my bag of tricks that would let me carry the burden farther. I went with an old trusty standby–promiscuity.

In many literal ways promiscuity kept me alive for decades. It kept me trying again when it came to reaching out to people. It kept me in a mindset where I could put my head down and just work at the things I needed to work at because I was dissociating hard from the pain in my body. I am a very effective tool when I am not paying attention to myself. Promiscuity aids me in that.

Noah perceives it as an existential threat to our relationship. I view it as giving me the ability to cope with things I can’t cope with. I get that I can’t ever date again and keep Noah. Any and all sex I have with anyone until Noah dies needs to include Noah. I get that. I get that Noah can’t handle me going off the rails like that because it ties into Noah’s core wounding from when he was a kid.

But what in the hell are we going to do about my cunt and the fact that trying to be in less pain, trying to cope with the pain I am in makes me bad and an abuser because I’m hurting him.

How come it is so easy to label me as abusive when I am trying to insist on less damage happening to my body?

A friend posted a review of the movie Bladerunner the other day. I’ve never seen the movie and I never want to. The review was incredibly triggering to me. It explained the movie as being about A.I. slaves who are only allowed to live for four years and they are killed if they rebel. Creatures that are created to be sex slaves are killed if they ever assert their right to say no.

I can’t watch that movie. That’s not entertainment. That feels like my life.

Ok, not really. But too fucking close for comfort.

I am bad because I hurt Noah. I hurt Noah so bad that he believes that no reasonable person could hear his story and think he should be married to someone as abusive as I am.


I am really struggling with what it means to exist in my body. Flailing through insisting that I have the right to exist without constant pain means I’m bad. Insisting on less damage to my body means I’m bad because I’m “withholding sex”.

I think I wanted to fire my last therapist as badly as I did because she spent a lot of time telling me how I have to care about Noah’s needs and marriage means I need to have sex with him. She was so hard on #TeamNoah that I felt like I was an expendable piece of the puzzle.

That’s a shitty dynamic with someone I’m paying $180/hour to help me feel better.

How much pain am I required to be in in order to be “good”?

I can’t keep this cycle up. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

I cannot act like my cunt is an acceptable expendable part of my anatomy in service of other people getting to feel good and it’s ok if it makes me want to die.

And if I’m a bad person and a monster because I flip out as this is happening then maybe it is better that I just go ahead and die now because I just cannot continue this dynamic. It is better to be dead.

I have no more ability to absorb damage. I’m done. I’m tapped out. I know that makes me a bad wife and a bad person. Fine. I can be out of the picture then.

I would much rather be the horrible wife who killed herself to get away than be the monster who sat here hurting him decade after decade. Isn’t one decade enough?

But the problem is one of my kids is… really kind of in a crisis point. I’m not going to write about it because this isn’t my story to tell at this point but if I died any time soon my child would believe for the rest of their life that I did it because they were bad.

I feel the weight of that like an anvil on my head.

I really don’t want to hurt my baby like that. I know that dealing with my suicide would be hard enough. This timing would be catastrophic for life.

But I can’t wait until Lightning is here. That’s really not ok.

I understand the mothers who kill their kids when they kill themselves. Not that I have any plans to kill Eldest Child or Future Middle Child. I really don’t. I can’t handle slapping or spanking them… I really wouldn’t be able to talk myself into killing them unless there were horrifying extenuating circumstances like they were about to be killed in a slow brutal way by a bad person so I do it quick. Something ridiculous and dramatic that is never going to come up.

So yeah. Can’t wait till the third kid is here. That gets too complicated.

But if I feel like I’m a bad person for hurting Noah by cheating on him that’s nothing compared to the damage I would do if I killed myself right now. My babies would not get over it. I think FMC would be a basket case for life. I think EC would kind of hold it together but she would feel hollow inside forever.

I don’t want to hurt either of them like that.

It feels so selfish to want to be done. It is selfish. I know.

If being good means letting people hurt me inside my body forever so they can feel good…

I’m not sure I care that much about being good either. Who is selfish here?

People have been telling me for almost 20 years that sex is supposed to feel good and make you feel connected to people. Excuse me while I laugh until I need supplemental oxygen.

Sex is alienating and degrading and painful. Sure, I get off on it. I’m a masochist. But that doesn’t change the poison I carry around inside me.

Noah is kind of bitter about the times when he asks me about connecting physically and it turns into him rubbing me and I fall asleep. To him that feels like him not being allowed to get what he wants. That’s not sex. That’s not connection.

The only thing that counts is the thing that hurts me. So sex isn’t about connecting with me. It’s about using my orifices until you are done. Can we stop fucking pretending that this is about emotional connection then?

If sex was about us connecting emotionally and about my body feeling good… those times that start out as a massage and that’s how far it goes… would count.

But they don’t. And I am bad every time that happens. So sex is not about me feeling good.

Me feeling good is the opposite of the point of sex.

And I’m supposed to cope with that by shutting up and opening my legs. Or I’m bad. I’m not allowed to fuck other people to make it easier… that makes me bad. I can’t say “no” because then I’m bad. I can’t…

I can’t exist in this dynamic and be good. There is no good for me in this set up.

And I guess it is my fault. Because I haven’t managed to negotiate in a way that meets his needs and allows me humanity. I’m bad. I’m hurting him. He should leave me because I am so bad. Any person who cares about him would tell him to leave me because I am so bad.

That’s what he believes.

Being me really kind of sucks.

Should I be permanently investing in lidocaine so I can stop feeling my cunt and I can stop acknowledging that the pain matters at all? Is that really what I should be doing.

That is sure as shit what I walked away from my therapist thinking she believes I should do.

“Marriage involves compromise, Krissy. You need to meet his needs.”

Or I need to die. That could work too.

I have fucking tried to talk about these problems. Have I done a good job? Well no. I don’t have good language for all of this. This is the water I swim in, how do you describe it? I have sex that doesn’t hurt… occasionally… it’s kind of random and I can’t predict it very well… So how in the fuck do I say “more like that”? Mostly it god damn hurts.

And I’ve been shutting off my brain when that happens for more than 30 years. If you have similar experience I’d love to talk about it and if you don’t I don’t fucking care what you think and you can shove your fucking opinion where the sun doesn’t shine.

Side note: I can’t remember if EC and FMC were as active in utero as Lightning. This kid is a tornado. Constant barrel rolls inside me. This is a very alive creature. I fear this child will be born running.

And I’m so tired.

Sometimes it feels like the kid is actively protesting my depression and my thoughts of killing myself and thus my parasite. “NO. I AM HERE. THAT IS NOT OK. I HAVE SHIT TO DO. LET ME OUT.”

I’m going to add a third dose of pot for a bit. I’m crashing too hard in between doses and I don’t care if some medical providers want to hysterically wave their hands and talk about “But oh no! We don’t have adequate safety testing!” Yeah but it’s safer than anything you want to replace it with so shut up.

If you ever 5150 me you are fucking dead to me. Do not think about calling the police for a safety check. If you report me as suicidal then they may or may not find my body. Don’t do it. Is it scary for you to read that I’m having big feelings? Put your big kid panties on and cope or stop reading my blog. I am documenting the ups and downs of mental illness. If that roller coaster is too much for you, then you are allowed to step off. I am not allowed to step off no matter what. When I hide what I am feeling so that people do not punish me for my feelings things get worse. If you 5150 me you will be punishing me for daring to talk about something you find scary. The hospital will not help me in any way shape or form.

Do you know what is a lot more helpful? My friends letting me know that they love me and if I need them they will do whatever they can. I probably won’t ask for anything. Mostly I’ll say “thanks” and just walk right past the offer. If I don’t say thanks I’m sorry for that–I should.

This is not a journey you can change for me. This is not a journey that would be helped by more people in authority showing me that I don’t matter and hurting my body to make me more convenient for them to manage.

I am long term chronically mentally ill. That means I can’t act like everything is a crisis. I have to be moderate in my response to my brain freaking out. As K points out, I document the waves and ride them and mostly that’s what I’ve got. More drugs don’t make things better–I’ve tried over 30 psych meds. I’m on the most effective one and it’s far from perfect. More therapy isn’t that helpful at this stage. I still go to therapy… but it’s not a silver bullet. It’s not going to magically fix me.


Just because you are doing the All The Things to manage mental illness that doesn’t change the fact that it is a shitty ride.

Ok, that’s pithy and wonderful. I love that sentence. ha.

*pat self on back for clever line*

Noah is talking to Pam. Noah doesn’t feel he can lean on his friends because he believes it will turn his friends against me and they will all be constantly telling him to leave me and he doesn’t want to hear it so he’s talking to my best friend of 20 years. He thinks I’m mad at him for this. Mad really isn’t the word.

Either he’s right that anyone he talks to will grow to hate me and believe he should abandon me and I will lose my best friend or he’s wrong and maybe he needs to fucking hear that he isn’t right.

But I’m terrified about this. There are layers here. If he’s right and I deserve to lose my best friend when she hears his side of the story… that will suck but I made my bed and I get to lie in it. If I deserve to be abandoned then I should be. If Pam tells him to divorce me and save the kids… it will be because that is necessary.

I think he needs to talk to someone. If Pam is the only person he feels he can talk to, so be it. I find some irony in the situation for spiteful reasons I won’t write down. But yeah. Talk to someone. If it is Pam, fine.

If I lose another person… I deserve it.

Besides, if I off myself Pam would probably be one of the people who supports Noah the most over the years with the kids so I need to make sure that bridge is well established. They might need it.

I think ahead.

I’m sad and I’m tired and I feel hopeless about the possibility of being in less pain. I feel like I will never never never never never matter enough for that to be enough of a priority to make it happen. It’s too hard. It’s not worth what it would take.

I know Noah has tried over the years to make sex better for me. But if we are starting from me having the mindset that sex hurts and that’s the way it is… that’s only going to be a marginal improvement and I’m going to still flip out sometimes because I can’t cope.

I’m not saying it is his fault. I’m saying I don’t know how to change this.

Sex hurts is a core belief. I believe that sex hurts like I believe that gravity exists. Like other people believe in G-d. It’s just… how it is.

How do I survive this? How do I change this? How do I make it so that I’m not a terrible, horrible person because I am tired of my cunt burning and aching and hurting?

I’m pretty sure that Noah and I don’t fight much where the kids can hear because yesterday we had a doozy and the kids heard and they were both absolutely shocked that they heard us yell swear words at each other. They both commented on how weird it was. “What happened?”

None of your business.

Sometimes people fight.

They are 7 and 9 and they don’t have memory of us screaming at each other before. That’s kind of fucking miraculous to me.

I know we need to not make a habit of this.

You figure out how to fucking have a civilized conversation when all you want to do is put your head through a window. I don’t fucking know how right now.

I am trying to reach out. I am trying to communicate. I am trying to figure out how to change things so that I’m not so freaked out. This is hard.

There is this section in the Rihanna/Drake song “Work” that I really like:

 All that I wanted from you was to gimme
Something that I never had
Something that you’ve never seen
Something that you’ve never been
But I wake up and everything’s wrong

That’s what we are trying to do here. Something I’ve never had or seen, something you’ve never been.

I have friends who identify as women… who don’t have vaginal sex. There are various reasons for this and every case is quite unique. But when I find out this is the reality they live with… I have this shocked attention experience. “Wait. Wut?” It isn’t that I believe that they should. It is that… they have relationships… with people who have penises… and… they don’t seem to be perceived as bad for having this limit.

How does that work?!

I’m not even saying I want to swear off vaginal sex forever. I do like it. But I’m not allowed to be good and have limits around how often or when… how do you manage to be good and not do it at all?

I don’t understand.

It’s like you just told me you were born with three tongues in your head. How in the fuck does that work?

My cunt has been such a non-negotiable part of my life. I am very curious how it works for other people. What does sex look like when you get to just declare parts of your anatomy a no-go zone? I mean… yeah I’ve read about queer sex. My queer sex involves a lot of strap ons because penetration is…

I don’t really understand sex without penetration. That’s not my reality.

I’m a hole. That’s what I am. That’s what I was made to be. That’s why I was born. I can’t understand being something else.

But it hurts. And I can’t keep hurting like this. Even if I’m bad for insisting that it stop. Even if I’m so bad that I deserve to be alone and unloved forever because I’m not compromising enough.

Ok. I should probably stop before I get onto the 9th page of writing this morning. It’s been a good hour of writing.

I don’t know what to do.

If Noah really believes I hate him this much then I should either divorce him or kill myself because doing this to him is cruel.

It doesn’t seem to matter what I feel. He believes what he believes. And I’m hurting him by staying. I’m wrecking his life. He feels abused. And it’s my fault. He believes that no one could love him and believe he should stay with me.

That really means I should go, one way or another.

Divorcing him with a third child who is a baby seems like a really big problem. Leaving him with two children who can basically care for themselves seems like a much smaller problem. That means I have four months to get it done.


I can’t create safety for other people.

I can’t sleep.

I can’t reach out and ask for support.

I can’t stop thinking that the only way I will stop being bad is to die.

I can’t stop thinking about all the all the all the all the all the fuck ups. I deserve what I get.

I can’t stop being a monster.

I can’t be worthy.

I can’t be good.

I can’t stop crying.

I can’t be on a different path; this is the one in front of me.

I can’t be quiet enough with my crying to be allowed in the bedroom and that’s hard.

I can’t stop thinking that she will hate me now too. Another one bites the dust. I deserve it.

I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

I can’t stop thinking about my mama, about mothers, about how does any mother ever figure out what “good enough” means.

4 so far

Hours of crying, that is. It’s a bad night. I feel like it would be very wise for me to avoid talking to anyone indefinitely because I’m taking everything anyone says, no matter how neutral or positive they mean it, as more sign that I am a disgusting piece of shit who should die. Everything is my fault and I can’t fix anything.

We have to reframe this.

We are having a problem because EC is pushing for more individual space and boundaries. It isn’t a problem because she wants it. It’s a problem because FMC is uhhhh not interested in allowing their sister any space at all.

We have been talking about this in the house for a while. We keep coming back to “We are not willing to escalate punishments to the point that they are more effective and the ways we have tried to punish for this interruption are failing entirely.”

We need to find a way to incentivize instead of punishing away this behavior. I believe in behavior extinguishment… but it’s complicated. Punishing often makes a behavior more entrenched and resistant. (For one thing our “punishments” are pansy ass and we know it. We are not here to hurt or shame our kids.) We need to find a way to make giving someone else space something that gives FMC more of what they want in life. We have to find a way to frame this/phrase this as “Here let us show you how you will get what you want if you go along with this boundary.”

I know that some people don’t like how manipulative I train my children to be. I respect that opinion. But I think my behavior as a human being improved when I learned how to think about my behavior in terms of “Will this help me meet my goals or will this create problems for me?”

I don’t believe in training children to follow rules because they are rules and you must follow rules. That’s bullshit. Some rules need to be broken. Some rules need to change. Some rules just don’t fucking apply to the situation we are in.

Why does this rule exist?

I’m not saying I have to fully agree with every rule in order to follow them… but I am more likely to follow a rule if I understand why the rule exists and I am at least in agreement that following it is in line with who I want to be in the world.

How do we teach FMC that giving their sister space is going to create the relationship they want in the future?

Punishing is not going to teach this.

Heh. Punishing me is a great way to ensure that I’m going to do what you don’t like….. where you can’t see me.

Enlightened self interest babe, how can we teach this to you.

For EC I have been chanting since they were 2 years old, “If you want to have a good relationship with your sibling when you are an adult you need to think about whether or not this action is likely to make your sibling want to know you.” The same chant really hasn’t worked with FMC. When they look up at their sister they see an unfailing flow of love and support and I think they genuinely don’t believe that their sister would stop providing it. They identify less with the fact that I walked away from my family and rejected everyone. EC knows that I refuse to know my big sister and that haunts her. FMC… doesn’t care?

FMC doesn’t believe they have to earn love in the same way. Uhm… I guess that’s good? It’s mixed. Noah and EC and I all act like we have to do a shit ton of work to earn being loved in the long term. It’s questionably healthy. Near as I can tell FMC is the only person in this house who believes in unconditional love. They think we will love them and take care of them and be with them no matter how big of an asshole they are.

I mean… that’s… good…


I feel this terrible existential keening because I think I’m too demanding and boring to deserve friends and I feel like I should stop bothering people because I don’t have enough to offer…

And I live with this fucking kid who believes that them existing is their fucking gift to this world and now what does the world have to offer them.

It’s… weird.

Really weird.


It’s funny how they feel like me and not like me and like my chance to rewrite my history and like an alien and…

I love them so much. I feel bad when I target a specific behavior and assert my will as if I actually know things and I’m right about my judgments. What fucking hubris. Who in the fuck am I to decide that they are not good enough?

I’m their fucking mother and if I say they need to god damn learn how to let their sister have boundaries I’m fucking right and you will motherfucking do as I say.

Only I say it to them with less swearing.

One of the few things my mama said right to me was, “It’s not what you say it’s how you say it.” My mama, for all the bad things I can and do say about her… she only kind of sort of wanted to silence me. She was afraid of me speaking truths that would make her already shitty life harder… but otherwise she encouraged me to speak up. When teachers would complain I was too mouthy my mama would say that they must not be a very good teacher then because I do just fine in a classroom with a good teacher.

My sweet little baby. I don’t want to punish you for crossing boundaries. That makes me feel like shit. It makes you feel like shit. You then proceed to cross the next boundary like clockwork and we start the whole shitty cycle over again.

What can I do to help you believe that following these boundaries is the thing that you want to do?

Because I want to manipulate the shit out of you. I have no pride. I will not dissemble. My sweet love I want to manipulate you until you believe that it is just absolutely the right thing to give people space when they ask.

How can I do this?

This is my next hobby horse to ride. Because if we don’t figure this shit out… I’m afraid you and your sister are going to get into a big bloody fist fight. And frankly… y’all don’t need that.

Even if you might kinda deserve having someone punch you for being so disrespectful of their boundaries. I won’t do it or condone it… but I’m capable of seeing why someone else might think it was the best reaction to your behavior.

God you are so much like me.

I’m sorry kid.

I wish I could have given you easier genetics. Sigh.

How can we teach you without you having to get as many black eyes as I did? Or maybe you just need to get them and I can’t protect you from that. I’ve always needed to learn from experience too.

I hope this hubris I have in believing I know best for you doesn’t fuck up our relationship forever. I try hard to limit my control areas… I know I don’t know best in all areas… just a few.

I love you. I’m trying. I know I’m failing to meet your needs in that way that all mothers fail their children. I hope you can forgive me.

Not very fun

Gosh I’m boring. I don’t keep up with most of the tv people watch. I can’t discuss makeup or hair fun or nails or… any of the things that seem to make the people I like feel like they are more interesting. I can’t really discuss fashion. My fashion statement is mostly sweats and a baggy t-shirt I stole from someone else.

For tv I watch The West WingMadame SecretaryOrange is the New Black, and Call the Midwife; I’ve tried a few others but I don’t really manage to continue. They are interesting but there is a higher barrier to watching so I just don’t bother. That’s not a list of shows that gives me good conversation material with other people.

I feel more and more like discussing children is a way to make people feel bad. I notice that I’m not holding on to mom-friends very well. I don’t think that how I parent is superior to how other people parent… I think I make some weird as shit choices that wouldn’t work for most people. I don’t think my way of being completely enmeshed with my children is the most healthy option available. I think that I’m coming from a family background of severe mental illness and difficulty attaching and that’s why I make the choices I make. They sure as shit aren’t appropriate for everyone.

I don’t feel like I have much of anything to talk about that is fun or light or entertaining. I’m not pretty. I’m not fun. I’m not interesting.

Hi, I’m Debbie Downer and I deliver.

I don’t have interesting hobbies to talk about. My poor plants are barely staying alive because I’m so fucking exhausted I’m not watering like I should.

I feel like I’m failing at everything. I’m failing at being interested enough in my friends. I’m shitty support right now. I feel like I’m boring and stupid.

I feel like I should stop reaching out to people at all because I have nothing to offer and all I am is this boring pit of need.

I’m so tired.

On the upside, this is not a suicidal version of feeling bad. Just… a whiny one. I suppose that’s better than it could be?


I am almost done with Christmas shopping and I seriously don’t want to still be doing this shit come November. Not this fucking year. I just… don’t fucking want to. So I’m doing the annual “What the fuck do I put in Noah’s stocking” hunt. When I go through lists of “recommended for men” stuff for stockings I’m all “Wait… did I marry a man?!?!?!” He isn’t interested in any of the shit they recommend.

I feel like this is awesome. That’s the kinda man I want. The kind who… only fills some boxes off the man checklist. Perfect.

This is like when people used to tell me I wasn’t a woman because I didn’t like chocolate.


owie seks

So yesterday I initiated sex. I was interested. I had been thinking about it. We didn’t have a lot of time in between kid drop off and pick up so I tried to get things going quickly (even though that hasn’t been working well for my body.)

It started hurting. It started hurting in that “Are you fucking me with a sawzall dildo covered in fucking sand paper??!?!?!!” way. (I have in fact been fucked with a dildo on a sawzall. It did not have sand paper on it.)

My first instinct was to slam my eyes shut and grit my teeth and start praying it would end soon.

My second impulse was that I really should let him know it hurt so that he wouldn’t try to draw it out and make it last longer.

My third impulse was, Hey wait… this is hurting in a bad way.

My fourth impulse was, “WAIT! THAT HURTS! I DON’T WANT IT TO.”

He stopped.

That entire first through fourth impulse process probably didn’t have two minutes of time lapse. I’m pretty impressed with myself. Ok, that’s kind of pathetic. But it’s not. This is incredibly hard for me. This is changing a lifetime of specific training.

Noah was really nice about it. He responded as soon as the message reached his brain. He was patient and kind and non-demanding. We both sat there kind of stunned for a minute or two after we paused trying to figure out what it meant.

I told him he could finish… my body just isn’t up for participating. I nuzzled him and encouraged him and he masturbated and I think it was good.

I wasn’t mad at him for the pain. He wasn’t trying to hurt me. I don’t think he messed up at any point.

I think we both had a hard moment when we tried to parse “What do we do about exclamations of ‘It hurts’?” because I’m a masochist fucking a sadist and sometimes that’s the point. But there are very different kinds of pain and we are still trying to tease out what that means.

The cunt hurting pain is…


It’s damage, not fun pain.

I sort of feel like when my cunt hurts like that it is kind of like the equivalent of erectile dysfunction… only mine hurts a lot. It’s a sign the body just says “not today” and that means you need to do something else.

It’s still complicated. But we did well yesterday. Yay us.

Sleep study

I went in and got the results of the sleep study. I’m so pissed that it took years to get a fucking sleep study. I HAVE BEGGED. I don’t have sleep apnea. Well, technically I’m barely clinically in the range because I have slightly more apnea incidents close to REM sleep than is “standard” but pregnancy increases apnea incidences. The apnea scale goes from 0-30 and 0-5 is considered normal. I’m at 5.6. Given that pregnancy increases apnea incidences… I don’t have apnea.

The more important metric is blood oxygen level and I never got below 96% which is great.

So the last several years when doctor after doctor has told me they wouldn’t give me sleeping pills because I might have apnea but they weren’t willing to test me… that was a big fat fuck you.

I need to go through all the medical results I’ve gotten in the past year or two and put into a binder like Sarah has. I’m tired of having debates with doctors about whether I have this condition or that and whether or not I should just get back on Prozac. UGH!!!!

Oh, and my apnea score only qualifies if you look at this amalgam number. If you look at the base apnea number I’m at like a 2.3. (I’m not bothering to look it up this second because Jesus I don’t give a shit.)

So my insurance company will not fund a cpap machine. I’m not clinically impacted. The sleep study place said I still might have some improvement in sleep if I tried a cpap, so why don’t I spend $800 (that I can’t get back) to try out the machine! Sure I have no signs that it would help and I’m ridiculously sensitive to things on my body interrupting my sleep, but WHY NOT spend a whole bunch of money on something that probably won’t help?! DON’T I WANT TO LOOK LIKE I’M TRYING TO GET BETTER?!?!?!?!?!

I fucking hate every doctor.

The sleep doctor said that looking at all the readouts from my study she would guess that I am waking up from a combination of pain (probably fibromyalgia based) and hypervigilance/anxiety. I would probably be helped by a simple sleeping pill or anti-anxiety pill but she hesitates to prescribe anything like that while I’m pregnant because extra sedation on top of the pot is mixed.

So you know how I’ve been BEGGING for lorazepam for YEARS?!?!?! That’s a simple sleep/anti-anxiety pill. I take 10 a month when I get to decide my dosing. BUT OH MY GOD IT’S HORRIBLE FOR ME TO DECIDE THAT I NEED A MEDICATION CLEARLY I MUST BE ON A DAILY PILL THAT RUINS MY LIFE OR I’M NOT TRYING.

I feel rather like I have improved my life and my body against the direct efforts of medical providers for a long time now and that’s confusing and mixed.

I still haven’t gotten my records transferred from the OB practice so I can be permitted in a new practice. That’s 3 weeks now. I should go throw a temper tantrum today because I’m 22 fucking weeks pregnant and going a month without care isn’t acceptable because they don’t fucking feel like sending some god damn paperwork. Walk down stairs. Make a copy. Hand it to me. That’s the end of this discussion.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Noah pointed out something at breakfast. October 6th is the anniversary of my father killing himself. I managed to… miss that it was coming this year. He said he was watching my increasing suicidal fervor and talk about being a worthless whore with one eye to the calendar as he watched that date come up. Within 24 hours of it being over the panic broke like a wave.

He thoughtfully didn’t want me to be aware of the incoming anniversary if I wasn’t bringing it up. He didn’t want to invalidate the feelings I was going through or even sound like he was saying they weren’t real because they were connected to an anniversary.

I’m married to an incredible person.

I find some comfort in knowing that this is a predictable part of my pattern. Oh, yeah. It’s the beginning of October. No wonder I’m flipping the fuck out. For over a decade I basically didn’t eat in October from stress. Oh yeah.

I said, “Oh yeah… and it’s coming up on Sarah’s anniversary of losing her dad…. Ohhhhh….” Noah and I discussed that Sarah and I are doing unusually well this year as we are both in our pits of despair to reach out with occasional messages of “I’m a needy pit of doom. I love you and have no support to offer. I’ll check in again soon.” Neither of us have expressed any feelings of frustration because the other isn’t up to jumping into a codependent neeeeeeed circle. We may or may not be feeling them, but what we are saying to each other is going really well.

Boundaries and understanding your limits are good things.

This is beginning to more strongly resemble what a healthy relationship might look like. Though I will say that I have enjoyed our decade + of codependency very much

I am always going to struggle with my mental health. There will always be times of the year when I kind of… need to crawl under a rock. I think I’m doing better at handling them as the years go by.

I’m a little concerned about the fact that Lightning’s estimated due date is four days before my brother Tommy’s birthday. He’s the dead brother with all the problems. Sigh.

Yet another thing I get to get over.

19 years since Tommy and my father killed themselves. I still feel like a worthless whore. But it’s better than it was.

Things are changing. Sometimes it feels like at a glacial pace, but the change does happen. Will I ever really grow up enough?

Another busy week again. Whyyyyy do I feel my children must participate in so many damn activities?! This week I get to drive to Mountain View, San Jose, Pleasanton, San Pablo, Mountain View, Union City, San Francisco, and San Jose.

I’m so fucking tired. Ok a bunch of those drives are for medical appointments. And a birthday party for the children of former students and a birthday party for a grown up, and visits with grown up friends… so I can’t just blame the kids.

I am blessed to have people who love me. The kids and I are going to have breakfast with one of my ex’s this week. I’m going to see if the kids can sit at a separate table with their academics because after breakfast they are getting a haircut and it’s entirely jacking up academic time for the day. I catch up with him once a year or so. I catch up with most of my ex’s every so often. I date nice people.

Every week is busy for a while here. Basically until I go into confinement. I fucking love confinement. I know that not everyone does it and I know that opinions vary on how necessary it is… but I slow my life down at the end of pregnancy. I will probably basically shut down after Christmas. We won’t do the second semester at the out of town class place because that’s a lot of driving for Noah. It’s not so bad for him to do the driving for all the classes that are within 10 minutes of the house because it is an hour or so of interruption a day if they have multiple classes… but the out of town classes necessitate a four hour or more window of being out of the house and that’s just too much. He has a job.

The bay area has such fascinating perspective on how much time is worth spending in a car.

I’m kind of glad that EC is stating with firmness that this is going to be the only year in a charter. She plans to spend next year studying religion and she’s not interested in having to follow the state standards for producing specific items every month. Ok. Sounds good. I know she will do a lot of serious reading. I will assign projects. It’ll be fun. FMC is ready to set fire to the curriculum so yeah. It was an experiment. They are pissed off about being judged. Yeah my kids are going to make fascinating adults.

I’m almost done Christmas shopping. We are sending the library of books about trans folk to Noah’s family and sending to Jenny’s family and giving inside the house and I think that’s about it. We will make food stuff to give as gifts to other people because we like to do that, but I’ll be done shopping and spending money before November I think. We can schedule what date to send the mail to folks and Noah and the kids can do it as an Advent activity. Ha. I’m staying home.

We will probably discuss adding a couple more Advent activities that are out of the house… but our calendar is already about as full as it can get without me being pissy all the time.

We are going on the light train thing on my mother’s birthday. So far we have a massage scheduled for my father’s birthday. We should probably do something fun with the kids that day too. Because I often get weird around these dates I’m thinking ahead.

My life is pretty fun. It is hectic because my children are lucky enough to have a ridiculous number of opportunities in life and I feel like I must provide access to a lot. It’s a job. A job a lot of mother’s do. (And other parents too!) It’s fucking exhausting. Our ancestors did not do this shit. Little Johnny did not get six hours a week of getting driven all the fuck over the place. Fuck this shit.

I’m looking forward to confinement. Hell yeah. My body is more important for a few months. Nyah nyah. You have to wait.

Yeah… I’ll go back to being your bitch. But I get a fucking fourth trimester too. That’s the deal.

Dude…. I start out with fucking health problems. This shit is hard on my body. Recovery is a bitch and if I don’t take it seriously I’ll pay forever. I have to be careful how much damage I deliberately add to my body. I don’t recover fast. It doesn’t matter what other people are capable of. It doesn’t matter what I would do if I had to in order to put food on the table. I’m not in that position and I’m in shitty shape and I’m trying to figure out how to hurt less. I can’t force a quick recovery.

I’m speshul snowflake, mkay?

Time to stop babbling.

Can’t make you feel

Something was occurring to me this morning. I have long accepted that no one can “make me” feel loved. I often don’t feel loved. Not because no one loves me–I think I am incredibly loved. There is a sensor inside of me that is broken.

Maybe Noah is broken too and I can’t fix it. Maybe Noah can’t feel loved because something got broke a long time ago and it’s really not about my broken cunt.

I know that the feeling that your sexual expression is 100% accepted and acceptable and ok at every moment is lovely… but I don’t know a human being who gets that. If it is necessary for you to feel loved…

I can’t fix that.

I feel less shitty about myself right this moment than I have in a few weeks.

This is going to be muddled and non-linear

These issues stack in my brain in weird ways. They combine and intertwine such that my memories are sometimes amalgamations of conversations and impressions and I know that’s not great. But trying to sort it out is the only thing I know to do.

Ok, marital problems.

I don’t think Noah spends a lot of time getting really upset but we’ve had a few conversations over the years that struck me as particularly intense and I’ve latched on to them in memory in ways that bother Noah a lot.

I feel like Noah values me (or at least he valued when he married me) for the fact that my consent is kinda not important. My cunt is just available whether I like it or not. We’ve talked about how monogamy is not celibacy a lot. We’ve talked about how it isn’t ok for me to deny Noah sex for any reason, including medical reasons, on a long term basis. He will give me a grace period of a year and then things are Just Going To Change. That has become a sword of Damocles over my head. My cunt has to be available or I am not worthy of being a wife.

I feel like Noah has some fairly set ideas of what bdsm is and they don’t always overlap with mine. Last night we had a fierce conversation where I asked him what the orgasm control and the denial of personal right to determine masturbation and the degrading sex and the name calling and the hurting me is if it is not bdsm. Because if we have been in an M/s contract for going on a year and you still feel like it is appropriate to yell at me that we will never get around to doing bdsm because I don’t want him enough…. what the fuck do you think bdsm IS?!?! Noah does hurt me sometimes. Not in extreme ways because I haven’t been up for it, but our sex is not pain-free. I submit to a lot of stuff. I bathe him. I’ve followed various other rules for a long time. If absolutely everything I do is devalued and “doesn’t count” towards us having a bdsm relationship… then fine. I guess you are right after all and we will never be doing bdsm. Even though I met a quota for years about having sex ten times a month whether I wanted to or not… nothing counts.

When we first got married I was still very much in a period where I was not comfortable with most casual touch. For the first three or so years we were married if Noah wanted to cuddle… we’d sit on opposite sides of the couch and he could touch my feet. That was what I could bear. It is very hard for me that Noah has repeatedly over the years stated emphatically that sex is what makes him feel loved and the other things don’t count. So I’ve worked very hard on my panic disorder and I’ve learned to cuddle him because he wants it… but it doesn’t count towards making him feel loved. Even though it was incredibly hard for me to learn to do and it literally took years of effort.

Noah used to complain a lot that I didn’t share his interests. So I can discuss most of the comic series he reads and I’ve watched his favorite movies and I listen to him read the books he wants me to know about. I would say that he has only started really trying to do the return favor since the road trip and that’s still… I think I put more effort into sharing his interests but I’m not sure I’m evaluating fairly. And none of this time or effort counts as showing love for him.

Noah talks a lot (fairly and reasonably) about how hard it is for him to be emotionally level for me and that’s a huge gift he gives to me. I agree that it is a huge gift. I do understand that it is a lot of effort for him. It’s visible effort… I know how he struggles with being upbeat and cheerful for my sake so I can sponge off of his good humor. But the thing is… I have put in equally as much work if not more. He may have started off this marriage not being as good natured as he currently behaves… but I started out a basket case who cut myself and isolated myself constantly in between crying jags and screaming at people. I haven’t injured myself in… I don’t know how long. It’s been a long time. That was a multi-decade habitual response to dysregulation. I have replaced it with fucking typing. I used to need full days of hiding alone in my house in order to go manage a two hour munch. Now I am “on” and I have to be cheerful and helpful and loving and physically affectionate…12-14 hours a day every single fucking day and I don’t get breaks. I don’t get an hour off a day to hide in a room and work on my feelings. I have to just fucking show up and act nice and put my shit to the side ALL DAY EVERY DAY.

I don’t feel I get a lot of credit for this. When I am minimizing things that will serve to dysregulate me (like heavy SM scenes) I feel like the response is that I am being mean and taking a toy away from Noah. When I feel like I am trying to be able to show up and do my primary job every day without fucking up.

Would it be more fun for me to have more babysitting and do more dysregulating things with my body? Yes. But my parenting would go downhill faster than an Olympic skier. We have collectively decided that for a few decades here it is more important that I show up for my kids than that I have fun. But I feel like I get punished for sticking to that. Punished isn’t the right word. I feel like I am resented for it. And I was getting to the point where I had more space to be able to do that without being a fucking asshole…

But now I’m pregnant and the whole fucking thing is starting over. I won’t have that much bodily privacy for another five fucking years.

And I feel like that means I am doing something terrible to my husband and I feel incredibly resentful of that. Yes, I want this kid really really badly. But I want this kid fully seeing how shitty it makes my life to have another fucking baby. Babies make my life shitty. I am not the kind of mother who says, “My life barely changes”. EVERYTHING CHANGES when I have a baby. I give up independence and autonomy and I am a fucking life support device. I don’t have bodily privacy. I don’t have space for myself. I am subsumed into the me-not-me who is currently in that state of need. There is no fair here.

I know it isn’t fair to have your sex life derailed from where you want it to be. I know it isn’t fair that when your body is still doing the normal same old same old you don’t get what you want and need under those circumstances. I know that sucks.

But I fucking started this journey with chronic pain and then I exacerbate it in every way. I start out emotionally dysregulated and I stick a fucking rocket launcher on the back of that when I’m pregnant. I can’t fucking sleep well. I can’t eat well. I feel like fucking shit just about every moment of the day.

But I’m so meeeeeeaaaaaaaaan if I don’t want to have sex.

Clearly I don’t love Noah if I’m not having sex.

I kind of want to jump off a bridge.

So I can stop grocery shopping and doing laundry and cleaning and home schooling the kids and putting a death grip on my behavior so that I’m not mean to people around me and I can stop dealing with how hard it is for me to accept casual touch and I’m going to start fucking masturbating three fucking times a day and I’m never asking for permission again and…..

I’m really frustrated.

I feel really sad that I’m a failure as a wife because my cunt is defective and that is all that I am judged by.

I feel desperate and sad and hopeless. I feel like I will never be able to make Noah feel loved so why in the fuck am I beating my head against that rock?

Because I love him so much and I’ve still never had anyone in my life be as nice to me as he is. Even though he is kind of an asshole sometimes. Perspective is a big thing.

Noah does a lot for me. Noah is incredibly helpful and kind to me most of the time.

But I have a hard time with how many of my friends are all #TeamNoah and Krissy should stop being such a bitch to that poor sainted man.

I’m not saying I should be pitied or that Noah should be denigrated to hell and back. I’m not saying that at all. I’m saying that I don’t ever write the Full Story because I can’t. I write my current thoughts and feelings and impressions and that’s fucking limited. I don’t have enough god damn time in the day to write the Full Story.

This. Is. My. Alone. Time.

I have learned how to be regular for this marriage. I have learned how to show up every day and deliver on my promises even when I don’t want to. I take care of my family whether I want to or not. (Noah does too… I’m not saying that I’ve done more than him.) I’m saying that I did not grow up seeing people show up through the hard stuff. I’m making this up out of whole cloth and I’m doing it because of how much I love Noah and how much I want this to work.

When it was very clear that I had to stop fucking around or my marriage was basically over… I stopped on a dime.

I feel like I get all the credit for fucking up and being wrong and no credit for how far I’ve come or how much I do.