Noah and I were slightly reminiscing about this scene last night. I’m not sure how much I’ve written about it. It was uhhh significant for us.
I could not even begin to list all the scenes I’ve done in my life. I couldn’t even begin to tell you how many people or the names of the people I’ve done bdsm play with. I truly haven’t tracked it. But there are a few scenes that feel defining. One in particular Noah and I did a few years back. We think it was after our Eldest Child was born, but before Youngest Child? We can’t remember for sure.
We went to a now defunct play space. We separated when we got there so that he could set up and I could “arrive”.
We love a good role play.
The basic set up was that I was a teenage girl who was sent by her father to try to appease the drug dealer because my father is way behind on paying for his stuff and he has no money.
Which means that my mindset going into this was that it was probably going to be degrading sex with some pain.
Holy shit I underestimated Noah.
There have not been very many times in my life where someone made sure that playing with me was horrible. Every time something kinda sorta started to feel good or I started to act sexually responsive he would hurt me until I was screaming like an animal in a trap then he would have more sexual fun. It was… overwhelming and intense.
This is definitely in my top five brutal scenes.
I have never before or since had someone who was that sure they wanted to fuck me and they didn’t want me to enjoy it even a little bit, not even at all.
I could barely walk out of the building. It was not even remotely fun while it was happening. I’ve beaten off to that memory more times than I could count.
I don’t think today will be brutal like that. Daddy has never ever been nasty and vicious the way the drug dealer was. Holy shit.
But he can be mean. Sigh. Yay.
I shouldn’t say funny. I have read a few articles by white women who are completely offended by the song (potentially triggering video because of torture) Bitch Better Have My Money because a white woman is tortured in proxy for the sins of a white man.
I just… can’t agree with them. I should like an asshole today.
I’m smoking so I can eat dinner. I hate that cycle. I’m way too far gone in sleep dep land.
While I do this… I’ll tell you about my playlist. Cause why not. These are some (probably not all) of the songs I listened to driving to and from the dispensary.
The Harold Song by Ke$ha
The Edge of Glory by Lady Gaga
Dance with the Devil by Immortal Technique
Girl in a Country Song by Maddie and Tae
Not Ready to Make Nice by The Dixie Chicks
Last Goodbye by Ke$ha
Fly by Nicki Minaj and Rihanna
Darling Nikki by Prince (He must have good lawyers. He’s not on youtube.)
Fancy by Reba McEntire
GUY by Lady Gaga
The Fear of Being Along by Reba McEntire
Fireball by Willow Smith
Unpretty by TLC
Trap Queen by Fetty Wap
Waterfalls by TLC
Mollena by James Hunter
George by The Wet Spots
The Right Kind of Wrong by LeeAnn Rimes
I think that’s all I heard tonight.
Yesterday was a moderately challenging therapy session. I didn’t cry or anything so it doesn’t get to the level of “hard” per se. My therapist was uhhh “kind” enough to tell me about another support group in Oakland. No, actually, having to drive to Oakland more often would not lower my stress. Sorry.
My shrink and I talked about the difficulty driving. When I am alone in the car I distract myself from my irrational desire to drive the car into dangerous situations by playing music very loudly and I sing along at the very top of my lungs. Frequently when I arrive places I’m hoarse from all the screeching. My kids get kind of pissy with me when I play loud music or scream along with the radio so I don’t do it when they are in the car. Which actually makes driving with them harder than driving alone.
I wish that I didn’t have suicidal ideation so often. I wish that I could make the decisions about my life without factoring in, “Well, how many hours of self-harm thoughts can I entertain today without slipping?” I’m a lot better than I used to be. There is definite improvement. I’m not “all better”. Driving is still really hard. Most of my slipping these days comes in the form of massive dissociation so I have no idea what is going on with my body so I am constantly covered in bruises I have no idea how I received. It’s pretty minor compared to the cutting so this is a big step up. But man all the bruises have been hurting more lately. I’m getting old. Ha.
We did EMDR on the driving ideation issues. The phrase that kept coming up (sometimes I get word phrases sometimes I get picture associations) was “terrible trouble”. As I’m driving places my stomach shreds itself because I am afraid of the trouble I am going to get into on the other side of the drive. I get it going to the grocery store so it’s not all social anxiety I can kinda sorta justify. It’s just associated with driving,
I was really in trouble all the fucking time as a kid. I’m not over it. Sometimes that feels pretty pathetic.
We talked about the whole “getting in trouble for vomiting” thing in the form of the demanded apology. (I heard back from the woman who wanted one. I think she accepted my apology. I still have some mixed feelings about needing to give one for… vomiting. Not like I picked the activity of the night on purpose to fuck over her life.)
I am so delighted that when I get in trouble these days… it’s really not a big deal. If the two women who were mad at me continue being mad at me till the day I die…. that’s really not that big of a deal. Ok, one seems to be over it, the other has already hated me since I was 19. If she keeps hating me it isn’t a loss. Really if she hates me that may be a badge of honor proving that I am making correct choices in life.
That happens you know. People disliking you is sometimes a really good sign.
Depends on whether you want people like that to like you. If you don’t particularly respect someone it can be a particularly good thing for them to dislike you. I’m just sayin’.
When I walked into my therapists office she said, “Wow. You look exhausted.” That can’t be a good sign. Yes, I am. Notice how I haven’t been writing? I’ve been sleeping in lately. Even with getting several hours of extra sleep each night for a while… I still look like shit. I’m not sure if I’m sick or what. My stomach was really off yesterday. Eating at all was awful. But no food no fuel so I have to eat even when it hurts.
I don’t have “cold or flu” symptoms. Just stomach pain, exhaustion, and general pain. Maybe that is a flu like symptom. But I still don’t know that I have the flu. and I am officially not allowed to get sick for at least five days. Damnit.
I’m struggling with my outsiders view on another persons marriage. I’m experiencing a lot of anxiety about situations I can’t control. Terrible Trouble. It’s coming. Always. Always. Always coming.
I feel scared, helpless, worthless, and stupid. I don’t know the right thing to say or do. So it must be because I am defective.
I feel weary.
In therapy we talked about my latest efforts to be hypervigilant about my hypervigilance. Maybe this is why I am so fucking tired. I am trying to stop counting people in a room. I’m trying to only check for exits when I arrive in a new place instead of checking every few minutes like an OCD routine. I am not made more safe by checking that the exit door is still there every three minutes. I am probably made more unsafe by obsessing over whether the door is still fucking there. Really, genius? The fucking door is going to move? No. I’m afraid I will get disoriented and lose the direction. It’s not that the door will move. It is that I spent a very high percentage of my life dizzy. I’m always afraid I will lose my inner compass and not be able to make it out. Yay vertigo.
I do wonder if that is a lot of what is wearing me down. Being that conscious of my nearly sub-conscious obsessive checking is really hard. Restraining myself from counting the people in the room over and over and over is a lot harder on me than just doing the fucking counting. I’m trying to extinguish this behavior on the slim hope that some day I won’t have to obsessively concentrate on my nearly sub-conscious behavior. Hopefully some day I will have the energy back from the obsessive counting and the monitoring of the counting and I will be back in the net positive. Hopefully this is saving long-term effort.
But those gambles only sometimes work out. The deficit of exhaustion in the meantime is really rough.
I wrote to Noah’s family yesterday. That always increases the shitty I feel. I miss my mom. Why do I only get to talk about my kids with these people who don’t like me anyway? It’s really hard to keep trying when I know his mother doesn’t actually have any affection for me at all.
But she loves my kids. And my kids deserve all the love they can get. And Noah isn’t going to facilitate a relationship because he doesn’t care or understand what a complete lack of family can do to you. So it is up to me. I understand the scope of the problem and I’m not as personally repelled by the situation. I get why he ran away and didn’t come back. But that attitude will hurt my kids and I can’t let that be their entire experience of life.
Noah’s mom may not win prizes for being perfect but she is being a great mail order grandmother. I should not denigrate that. The kids appreciate that she thinks about them and makes effort. I need to respond. I wish it weren’t so fucking hard.
I’m doing one of those cycles where I don’t understand why I try so hard for relationships when people don’t really like me anyway they tolerate me as an alternative to being completely alone.
I can find ways to minimize the amount I believe anyone might like me. It’s a super power. Or something. Even though people come over. Even though I can tell you that it is irrational.
Irrational feelings happen anyway and they are very tiring. Exhausting. Trying to argue with your brain all day that people don’t actually hate you is really hard.
My arms hurt. I’m so tired I keep randomly crying because I can’t force myself to not cry. It’s too hard to not-cry.
What am I grateful for? Noah. Always Noah. Shanna. Calli.
How come my “what” I’m grateful for always comes down to a “who”? Because outside of having access to a non-shitty keyboard I can live without pretty much every what. Ok, I need food/shelter/booze like they tell you in Yakitat. But really what do I feel grateful for? My garden. That’s a what.
It’s not about what. It’s who. I get to spend all day figuring out how to be nice. We talk about how sometimes folks put their meanie-pants on. That doesn’t mean they are necessarily ALWAYS mean. Everyone has bad days. Bullying is quite the discussion here. Just because someone has done something you dislike that doesn’t automatically make them a bully. Pleasing you is not a mandatory part of life. Being mean to you is different than doing things you don’t like. And even your best friends will have days when they put their meanie-pants on. The meanest of people will have good days.
What makes someone a monster?
If I’m not qualified to judge who the fuck is?
Calli and I went to sleep talking about how my teddy bear, Ted. T. Bear, is very good at scaring off creepy crawly night monsters. He’s nice to his humans and super fierce with night monsters. Sometimes the best of creatures have to be scary sometimes. Sometimes being scary is part of being able to survive.
For the whole rest of my life I am going to treasure the memories I have of my children. There will be no more relationships in my life that represent such perfect trust.
I am so sorry, mommy.
I wonder how long my kids will like me. My therapist wants me to believe that the people I know are all aberrations. I think I can count on my fingers the number of people I know who like their parents and who actively want relationships with their families. My shrink tells me this is because I broadcast a wavelength that scares the shit out of people who like their families and they don’t really want to hang out with me. That doesn’t mean they don’t exist. It is possible that I will come out the far side with children who like me.
If I make it to a natural death that is a win on my life. Sometimes I feel so sad that it is true. When I drive I feel scared that I don’t want to be alive bad enough. Some day my lack of burning desire to be alive is going to be a problem. It’s not just that I have to deal with the “want to die” urge. I need to find some way to actively want to live. I don’t think I do. I don’t want to hurt people. Is that a good enough reason to stay alive? If that is all I have it has to be good enough for today.
Calli and Shanna and Noah. That has to be enough. I don’t want to hurt them. I’ll just cry. That doesn’t hurt anyone.
I don’t even know for sure why I’m crying. I don’t know if this is just exhaustion. I can’t even tell if I’m sad. I’m just crying and crying.
I feel bitter right this minute that smoking pot is the most effective means of getting it into my system if it weren’t for my pre-fucked up lungs. Thanks for all the chain smoking, mom. Chronic bronchitis. If that kills me it will be kind of ironic. It can, you know. Stupid pills aren’t very effective. Well, they are kind of effective. They make me tired as fuck. Which does slow down the anxiety. But in a less useful way.
I’m clearly trying to avoid smoking. Otherwise I would just write about how awesome it is a medication. Instead I will grumble.
Hey, that’s a ‘what’ I’m grateful for. Pot. Pot provides more than 60% of my ability to stop feeling scared and instead feel calm and happy with what I’m doing. How sad is that? Well it would be way the fuck more sad if my state still had this medication banned. *phew* So I’m glad that this medication exists. I’m grateful for all the lovely official dispensaries that will give me medication IN THE FORM OF CANDY. Oh man. The candy is awesome but a bit more expensive than the pills. Everything is a trade off.
Not to mention that I try to avoid eating a lot of medicated candy in front of my kids. That spells trouble.
They are very clear on the appearance of medicated candy and that they must not eat it. We have looked at the medication specifically and talked about how it looks like candy but it is really medicine and it will make you feel terrible if you take it when you don’t need it.
We talk a lot about appropriate doses of things. I eat more food than them. I drink more water in a day. I take more medication. These things are body-weight dependent activities and I am bigger. Trying to take in more than you need is really bad for you and lets go over the list of why until you can rattle it off as fast or faster than I can.
Don’t eat food, drink water, or take medication above what you actually need or it is bad for you. Just seems kind of logical.
Uhm, I base the “don’t eat too much food” on my childhood where I went through periods of forcing myself to eat long past the point of hunger… sometimes cause I had nothing else to do. When I was in eighth grade I hit this stage where one package of ramen just didn’t quite fill me up. (Now as an adult I would say “add an egg for protein then” as a kid… I would neither have thought of that nor been willing to actually consider it if I did think of it. Eggs come one way: scrambled hard.) So I forced myself to learn to eat two because I didn’t want to throw away some noodles.
I’ve got some issues around food and money and stuff. Like you do.
As much as I love Pam I’m kinda glad she’s busy tonight. I’m annoyed with myself for adding an extra dinner guest to the week on Thursday. Friday night Noah and I have a babysitter scheduled so we can go on a date. If I can fucking stay awake. Pathetic. But the extra dinner guest is a friend going through a really hard break up. I could be selfish and say I’m tired. He’s so sad though. Really all I’m going to give him is 2-3 hours of attention. I’m not so tired I can’t get it up for that.
At the end of your life you will not be remembered for how you felt. You will be remembered for how you make other people feel. I can cough up 2-3 hours of talking to a grieving person. It lightens the load. It really and truly does. If I thought it “did nothing” I wouldn’t bother but it does a lot.
I’ve read too many cases of near-suicide. “Someone surprised me by paying attention to me and convincing me that I still had worth.”
I can see worth in just about anybody. I can sit down and explain the worth I see in you if you want. If it will make you feel better I’d be thrilled to help you see how you fit into the kaleidoscope of life. You have worth. You matter? Want me to point out the spokes in your life? I can show you who you touch and how. You matter. You do.
Why is it so much easier to see for other people than myself? Don’t know but it is. Well, I can see my worth. I just don’t always feel like I have the strength to keep on keepin on. My worth is mostly in my ability to lighten the load for other people. I’m really good at it. It is a particular talent.
I used to think that my only “talent” was speed reading. You can’t go to a talent competition and win a prize for it so of course I thought I was a loser as a child. Now I think I have always underestimated the value of my brain.
Now I think my strongest talent is empathy. It’s a super power. At least occasionally.
But I’m tired. So very tired.
Yesterday I was hanging out on youtube because what else do you do when you kill your social networking sites? I watched Miranda Lambert (I need to buy more of her albums–I have one but I think she is one of the only actual “country” singers of my generation) and Kelly Clarkson (I don’t need to buy any of her albums) sing Strawberry Wine. (I linked to the original sung by Deanna Carter because it is better.) This song came out when I was thirteen.
I spent weeks crying hysterically when this song came out. I knew that I was not someone who would ever have those memories. At thirteen I had no idea who my “first kiss” was. Those memories are gone.
I can’t remember clearly the first time I felt “loved” in a physical way. I knew long before puberty that I was never going to be the kind of girl who was involved in that kind of love story. I would never be loved like that. I was already dirty.
I thought that I would have a never-ending stream of men and women. I thought there would be no love for me. I thought of myself already as a whore. I didn’t think anyone could love someone like me.
I’ve been reading a lot more writing from sex workers lately. I’ve been reading about their issues with the word whore. I don’t know if I will ever be able to stop thinking of myself as a whore. Just like being white trash–this is part of me. It’s part of me that other people tell me I am not allowed to have because it might reflect badly on them.
I don’t know how to feel like people aren’t telling me to stop existing. What they are really saying is, “Create a world in which I feel always comfortable–never do things that bother me.” They aren’t saying I can’t exist. I should just shut the fuck up.
The song doesn’t make me cry anymore. Instead it makes me think of what I did as a teenager. It’s not bittersweet it’s just sad. I’m exactly the kind of girl that boys like to fuck and then never acknowledge again. I got the few cards and letters from Michael–until I scared him off.
Be quiet Krissy. Don’t be crazy. It don’t matter how you feel. It matters how you look. This is why I have no interest in being a lady. No thanks. God that’s a lot of rules. I’ll stick with being white trash. And offensive.
A friend sent me a link to a gofundme campaign for a book I would probably enjoy reading. I’m nervous about it. But it sounds interesting.
One of the things I am enjoying about getting older is how I see that my feelings of alienation are pretty standard. As bad as I think I feel–it’s pretty common. The things that unite us are greater than the things that divide us.
I think that parties make me feel so bad because I notice over and over how other people can casually tell stories about themselves and their lives without having to carefully look around the room and check to see if everyone in the room is of an appropriate age. I feel dirty and gross. I can’t talk about myself or what I have done in my life. I’m just disgusting. I will horrify people if I do it too casually.
I don’t know how to stop feeling bad about that.
I was feeling mopey thinking about my early childhood and I had the Dixie Chick’s song So Hard on in the background. It’s nominally about fertility problems. It’s not hard to ignore about three lines and generalize it to other topics. I’m just saying. I’m having a hard time with this whole parenting gig sometimes. I know my reactions are wrong. I know when I sound like my mother. I don’t know who else to sound like. I don’t have very many people I feel comfortable around. People make me feel tense. I get edgy. And bitchy. And shit still rolls down hill. I’m minor compared to everything I knew. I know that. But this isn’t who I wanted to be when I grew up.
If I’m not satisfied with my behavior I need to change it. It’s hard right now because Calli is in the last throes of babyhood before becoming a talking person. I’m having a very hard time waiting for that jump. It came so early with Shanna. I’m not a fan of the pre-verbal phase. I still think Arwyn said it best. I feel triggered when I spend a lot of time with my kids if I have to do anything else at the same time. As long as I can be idle and just focused on them I can handle them. They are not too much stimulus under those circumstances. The problem comes when I am trying to get something done (like making breakfast) and it isn’t happening fast enough for Calli. She starts screeching and it hurts my ears. I start feeling anger. It’s hard to tamp it down. I have so much anger rolling around in me right now.
Reading through the whole story yesterday made me see spots where I have new perspective on why my mom and sister acted the ways they did. Being a parent changes my point of view. Funny, that. But writing my story down means I can’t retreat to the sanctity of the parents point of view, either. I stand there feeling bad for Calli that life is so hard. She really and truly can’t have what she wants very much of the time. She wants to be able to touch me any time she wants any way she wants. She feels like she needs that from me. But I can’t take how rough she is. Oh gosh she is rough with me. I get really angry. I’m tired of being hurt. I’m so. fucking. tired. of. being. hurt. It’s so hard.
But she’s in the last throes of babyhood. Soon it will be gone forever. I don’t want my kids to remember me being angry all the time. That is not what I want them to have as their story. I don’t want them to remember me retreating with dramatic explosions. Even though I’m not insulting any one. Even though I’m just stomping my feet and huffing. I don’t want to be that person. How do you just decide to be someone else? I was someone else with Shanna. I narrowed my world to just her. I gave her every single scrap and ounce of patience I had for any and everything in the whole world. It was a nice year. I couldn’t do that with Calli. It’s so hard being a younger child. You never ever get your needs fully met. You are short changed from birth. Says the self-pitying youngest of four.
But then the song changed. Best Days of Your Life by Kellie Pickler. And I got a very nice email. Right that minute. My chest exploded with this moment of Oh My Fucking God. When I’m feeling upbeat and I think about my life once I became an adult… well. I’m pretty fucking cool. I’ve done a lot of really neat things. And I’m going to do a lot more. As much as I possibly can. And part of that is going to involve me figuring out how to be the person I want to be. I will make mistakes and I will have bitchy days. But when I do I tell my kids, “God I know my tone of voice sucks. I’m really sorry. It’s not you honey, I’m fussy about other things.” I don’t think I was ever once told that. Every bad mood that happened within a three block radius was my.fucking.fault.
Maybe I have already changed. It’s hard on days when the kids want to test to see if I love them. I do. But I also have limited patience these days. It’s time for the pendulum to swing back to them. I think we should go out and play today. And I’ll play the upbeat country songs. The ones that make me feel like hot shit. Because I rock like that.
I always feel confused when people say I have a lot of triggers. I’m not even sure what that means, exactly. I know that I can be bopping along reading a sweet letter from a mother to a daughter about Santa and burst into tears because all in a flash I think of my mother. I think that my mother didn’t actually get to have visits from Santa when she was a child. The first Christmas stocking my mother ever got in her life she got from me when I was 16. I was absolutely horrified when I understood that she had been filling stockings for her children for 29 years and she had never gotten one herself, ever. My dad was an asshole; he got one every year of their 15 year marriage.
I have been married for five years. Somehow I doubt that their marriage was like mine five years in. For my mom and dad that is when Jimmy was being born. All of my mom’s stories about my dad are tinged with bitterness, so I can’t get a straight answer about anything. He was an addict, I’m sure it was up and down. Noah doesn’t seem to think I am an addict. I suppose that’s good. Things are up and down anyway.
It’s interesting how music is universal. Yes, that’s a topic shift. You can listen to a song and feel identification with it no matter how close your actual life experiences are. At the moment I’ve got Journey, “Don’t Stop Believing” and if ever there was a song that lots of people feel inspired by… even while they know they are drowning in their own cheese. This song is increasingly popular again. And it’s not because it’s a great song. It’s cheesy and pretty silly. But it’s fun and it’s how I find my pleasure. I have a play list called “healing”. I haven’t listened to much else in the past year. Periodically I will hear a song on the radio and add it. It’s four hours long. These are the songs I listen to over and over again. I like songs like Dolly Parton’s “Better Get To Livin'”.
This is a mixed thing because unless I only pick music that has been written in the past ten years… I have associations with my early life with most songs I would pick. I sit back and think of driving with my mom. I must have been six or seven. It was before the accident. We were singing along with the Four Tops on the tape player. Same Old Song. “It’s the same old song, but with a different meaning since you’ve been gone.” I had no negative associations with music then. We were singing along loudly. The windows were down and there was a nice warm breeze.
I remember stretching back in the seat, back in those days six year olds sat in the front seat without a seat belt. Shhh don’t tell anyone. The seat belt law was passed when I was four. I found out about it in school when I was eight. I read my mother the riot act and I started insisting on wearing one. I also made her wear one. That is why the government wants children in public school, just saying.
I looked at my mom while she sang along. She was so cheerful and happy. She was hardly ever happy. She was usually sad. If that song came on the radio while I was on the freeway I might cause an accident because I would cry so hard. I miss my mom.
Recently I sent my friend this article on gaslighting. In further conversation with him I made a point that I realized is the point for me. I’m tired of having to defend my arguments basic validity. Not that I think I shouldn’t have to argue my side of the issue. I’m tired of having to bring in a long list of sources before I am “allowed” to have my side. Before I have proven that my side is an acceptable side for someone to hypothetically have. This.
What does it mean to be triggered? Isn’t everything all connected for everyone?