Monthly Archives: January 2023

Every day is a school day

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Today I learned that while 3C feels brisk and chilly but nice for a run 2C feels like my lips are going to fall off and I was in pain at first. I am also noticing the inherent challenge in the location of my house. In Fremont I had to be going well over 5 miles in the day before I went up a big hill. I always had over a mile and a half to warm up before I started the uphill slog. That big hill had ~305′ of elevation in a bit over a mile. BUT AFTER CLOSE TO 2 MILES OF WARM UP.

Now I walk out of my front door and start climbing because even my damn driveway is sunk compared to the road. Just to get to the top of my road before doing anything else it’s a mile and the elevation climb is ~375′. That’s my fucking warm up.

Oh my goodness. My road is harder than running up Washington Blvd to get to Mission. I’m going to cry and feel sorry for myself for a minute here.

Ok, now I’m over it. I am actually feeling absolutely elated about how quickly my legs are picking up muscle. I tried to start running when we moved here, not long after the surgery on my back that healed very poorly. I did not do well. I felt empty. I fell and got hurt a couple of times and I just went limp and quit trying. Then I got busy with my million other projects and I just went about my life using my bike and having to walk places.

I feel strong again. I feel like I am clearly increasing muscle mass. My calves are already pretty rock hard and I have missed that so much. I love that if I grab at my thighs there is some padding on them, but mostly they are getting solid too. I suspect next month is when I will start seeing change in fat location on my body. Not that I expect things to shift massively. I suspect that this round of marathon training will not have my body shift as drastically as the previous round. I’d be surprised if I ever see 150lbs again. I’m currently hovering around 200. I need to lose about 6″ around my waist if I want to get my corsets on. Rats. I feel like I am racing the clock before menopause kicks my ass.

This is kinda my last chance to get to a different baseline before the next time my body heads into a whole new stage of loving belly fat. Sigh.

Part of wanting to train for a marathon again is that I won’t maintain an exercise regime for shorter distances. I just won’t. They aren’t hard enough. I could walk a half marathon tomorrow and be ok. I wouldn’t force myself to run for that distance and the running is where I can feel my body shift.

I keep feeling surprised that every time I hit a flat space I drop into a steady 12 minute mile pace. I feel like a metronome sometimes. My body likes the passage of time very much. I expected to have my overall average time for the runs be closer to 17 minutes because of the hill and instead it is under 16 minutes. I’m gaining good speed on the flat bits to make up for how challenging the incline is. I am looking forward very much to when my entire 3 mile run can be done in under 40 minutes. That’s a fantastic feeling when I get there. The last two days were 47/48 minutes. I feel absolutely no worry about my ability to gain back those 8-9ish minutes. Even the hill is going to get easier.

I can do this.

Commit, then follow through.

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I have my eye on the Loch Ness Marathon; it’s the first weekend of October. I’ve been starting to improve fitness on the treadmill during the icy spells but today was a balmy 3C so I went outside for my 3 miles. Only 15 min/mile which isn’t fast yet but I have 35 weeks to go. I can work on fast over the next few months. It’s the uphill start that is really killing me.

This time I downloaded the Hal Higdon app since I have used his training plans for years but I did it with pen/paper and this time I don’t want to spend the time organising. Also the app gives feedback on your training and recommends workouts that will help with trying to meet intermediate goals. This is a good thing. I am going to work towards actually having a race pace this time: I want 13 minute miles. I am aware that barely qualifies as “running” and I don’t give a shit. I am going for faster than “I barely made it before they closed the finish line” this time.

I like that the app asks me to rate my effort and how tired I feel afterwards. I was really pleased that I wasn’t exhausted at the end today. I have that lovely rush of adrenaline and endorphins. I feel great.

I love my body.

But which past behavior?

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I was reading this article about relationships (vanilla/romantic primarily) and one sentence really made me think.

“‘I often end up saying the strongest predictor of future behaviour is past behaviour.’” The author of the article is sharing what his coworker, a clinical psychologist, usually says to people who are stuck and unable to get out of a bad relationship. Not necessarily abusive bad, just unsatisfying/not meeting your needs sorta bad for the most part.

I had to meet a new psychiatric doctor yesterday. I was nervous because meeting new doctors is a crap shoot. Will they be older men who tell me that all of my testable, long-term health problems are all in my head? Naw, it was a young masculine appearing person who looked like they would fit right in at any party I would throw. I instantly felt comfortable. I was meeting him for the purpose of handing over the management of my ADHD and I needed to explain my history with medication, my other assorted neurological/mental health issues, a VERY brief summary of my physical health history, and about a 20 second primer on my history with assault so that I could explain how I came to cannabis in the first place and please for the love of god don’t tell me to go off it.

In the course of this conversation I came upon the challenge of how to explain that I am both consistent and inconsistent. My “past behavior” is all over the map on a variety of different axis. I managed to complete my bachelors and my teaching credential but I failed out of grad school at the very last minute because I just couldn’t do more of what I had been doing. We’ve lost a lot of money over the years because I fuck things up regularly. I fuck up in every relationship. I am incredibly variable in how intense/defensive/aggressive I am and if you come talk to me on the wrong day or at exactly the wrong minute on an otherwise good day I might react like a complete dick. That’s consistent.

What is also consistent is that I show up when people are having an emergency. I help people fix problems. I am gentle when I really need to be. My kids have figured out a trick. If they tell me, “I need to tell you something and I’m scared to because this is the sort of thing you might get mad over. I need you to not get mad.” Then I take a moment to pause every other single thing going on; I fully focus my mind and my energy on being calm and I say, “Ok I am ready to hear it.” Or I say: “I am not capable of listening until x” where x might be a time or the end of a current activity and then we go through the rest of it like normal. Then we fix whatever is going on.

I know that when they say that they are asking me to put myself aside and just be support. I can’t do that 24/7–it will grind me into dust. It is very high cost to put yourself aside like that. I don’t know how therapists do it. Maybe it helps because they usually aren’t having to do that in their personal lives? Dinno.

Anyway, the reason I put this here instead of my blog is because this idea that past behavior is the strongest indicator of future behavior is both useful and problematic. I started dating Noah when we were 22/26. If you were to look at the first four years of our knowing each other you would think that we would still be doing almost exclusively slightly rough penetrative sex and nothing else. That’s not at all what our relationship is like at this point. Neither of us have the physical energy or the time to have sex 2-4 times a day every day. That’s just not something we can manage in our life. Putting that much energy into sex requires you to not put it into other things (children, work, other hobbies) and we just can’t do that anymore. We made commitments. Commitments to be consistent. Oh, shit.

This is something I’m thinking about as I’m trying to learn how to deal with my body in the late-stage motherhood zone I’m in. I may have up to 10 more years until I pass into being a crone (a phase of life I am absolutely ecstatic about getting to because long story I’m not going to write here) and I need to figure out how to manage my body in the meantime.

I have PMDD along with all of my other things. Basically what that means is that I am exquisitely sensitive to every hormonal variation in my body. I think of my menstrual cycle like riding a dragon. There are times when it is wild and bumpy and I hold on to functionality with my fingernails and there are times when it is placid and easy and there are times when it takes every ounce of self control I have not to go get in trouble. I really like getting in trouble, except when I don’t.

A lot of the PMDD extremes were dulled by the postpartum period. It is amazing to me how much difference there is in inhabiting my body when I am not still reeling from the influences of parasites who would have been happy to kill me. Did you know that embryos/fetuses colonize the host body? There is a theory that it happened that way because it is a way for the first fetus to have influence over the future of the parent that will care for them. My body was not real interested in having another baby for most of the last four years. I don’t want another child but right now my body is telling me that the only important thing in the world is getting pregnant. At other times in my life when I did not want a child but my body said, “Hey let’s make a baby” that’s when I would go get into trouble.

You would think this would be a bonanza for Noah. He isn’t in his 20’s anymore and he’s had a lot of years of consciously dampening his sex drive because we just couldn’t do much about it even at the rare times I was even a tiny bit interested. Mostly I wasn’t interested and the idea was appalling.

So which past behavior should we look at to decide what I am going to do in the future? Yeah, that’s tricky shit. I mean, if I look at how Noah was behaving from 26-35 I should think he isn’t capable of getting up every day like clockwork and making breakfast for the family. He wasn’t a regular sleeper/riser at other points in his life. He chose to learn how to do that.

We go through phases. We go through stages. Noah wooed me by telling me that if you can’t look back on yourself 18 months ago and say, “Wow I really sucked” then you aren’t trying hard enough.

So now we have to figure out how to transition into how to ride out the next phase. We can’t run off for weekends together to break rules together to do wildly-inappropriate-for-children activities for hours and hours. We get a three hour date a week in a space that isn’t perfectly soundproof. We can have sex at night before going to sleep knowing that we need to be really really really quiet because you can hear freaking everything through the walls in this house. It’s a real buzzkill when it starts getting good and you hear a knock on the door and, “I need you; I can’t sleep without you.” Sigh. This is not forever.

Don’t have kids unless you believe you will never be ok without them because this shit is a lot.

There are lessons here I need to learn. Lessons about patience and being consistent enough and forgiveness and love and what it looks like to accept that you have to make mistake after mistake after mistake after mistake if you want to get good at something.

I want to learn what it means to be in a happy family, this is my one shot.

So how do I figure out how to manage the part of the dragon ride where all I want is to make decisions other people would view as “bad”. I’m not in that life phase anymore. I can’t go to a Burner party and do drugs with my friends and hunt for interesting prey. I can’t do a lot of things. I get to behave. I get to be a good role model. This shit is boring, y’all. I’m like a zoo animal. I hurt myself when I get bored.

You know how I have 97 projects going at once… most of which I will finish… eventually… I am not a person who stays bored.

But I have to. I have to figure out how to make furtive sex happen. I need to find a way to inspire Noah to continue on this road to queering our sex. Sex is not dependent on a hard cock. There are a lot of reasons that a 40-something dad who hasn’t been having a lot of sex for a decade and a half is not going to be able to get and stay hard for 3-5 hours a day.

It’s not fair to say that what a person has done is the only thing they will ever do. Our sex life once upon a time was tremendously centered around a hard cock and now it isn’t. If I am going to stay out of trouble then our sex life needs to be a much more diverse experience. That’s not a lot of fun when you have to be almost completely silent.

And I was paged for breakfast

Gendered threats

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I’m seeing lots of posts about whether men or women are more intimidating. (I am going to ignore the glaring issue in binary thinking about gender for a short period of time.)

My kids are now old enough to voice opinions. Not too long ago this sort of conversation happened at dinner. My kids said that their dad is more physically intimidating and when he’s angry they feel a level of physical threat they don’t feel when I am angry. Even though I outweigh him and could probably hurt them as much as he could.

Instead they said I inspire existential terror. It’s not that they are afraid I will hit them; they are afraid I will say things that will make them feel absolutely devastated and like they are the worst person to ever exist.

I mean, that’s kind of the thing–right? Mothers build you up or destroy your sense of self. You learn to project that same sort of expectation/bullshit on other women. I definitely do it. There are a number of women in the scene I’ve had intense relationships with and I put them on that pedestal. They didn’t ask for it. Well, one of them did and then her life got complicated and I was never a priority again. Holy shit that hurt. That felt like a stab through the heart that I am still not fucking over. I can’t be friends with her on Facebook because she talks about her daughter and them spending time together and I feel like I want to die.

But I worry that men might hit me. I worry that men might sexually assault me. I worry that men might rape me.

Both fears seem pretty valid to me.

It’s not about you

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We have played around with hypnosis a couple of times recently. The first time the induction was, in my experience as a bottom to this type of play, not particularly deep given how long it has been since we have played with going under. Given that most of the verbal dialogue was along the line of how we had been playing anyway it made stuff a little more intense but it didn’t feel like being hypnotised

I told him I thought we needed a more intense induction the next time because I didn’t really go down. So a couple of nights later we got to talking about how we were feeling and he mentioned that he kind of misses what we used to do with taking sleeping pills. I said I’d be happy to grab 2 pills and head to bed immediately. I suggested that the going to sleep part might be a good time to practice induction.

He did. One of the things that is interesting to me about hypnosis is how you can remember and not remember it. Like, I know what happened but I could not tell you what he was repeating rhythmically to me. I don’t know exactly what he was suggesting; I just have to trust him.

He asked me how it was for me and I said “It was a better induction, I felt more limp/unable to move around much. I felt like there was a lot of room for more of a goal/story. I know it was very sudden and you didn’t have time to think it out.

I am not sure what/how we should change something to make it easier for you to stay hard.

I also think that if you want me to actually go to sleep for it I will take M first then 3 L instead of 2. I have such a strong metabolism for sedatives. **

We should probably also aim to get started on that as close to 10 as possible.
Perhaps part of doing such play better involve you sending me to prepare for bed earlier so that I am already in bed and sleepy when you arrive.”

What he told me after that when we were lying in bed was quite instructive. He had not particularly wanted to be more hard. He wanted the gentle rubbing–that was for something inside of him. Something young and yearning and almost healing. It made him happy in a quiet way deep inside that it’s ok for him to use an immobilised woman to just rub on the way he has always wanted to. He isn’t bad for wanting it and in this context he isn’t even bad for doing it.

Oh shit, dude. My whiny selfish whore self had been thinking, “Enh it was alright but I didn’t really get fucked enough.” How very embarrassing. I have never been one for denial–people who try to withhold sex/orgasms as a way of making me interested usually find out I just don’t come back. But this is Noah and he gets to do whatever he wants and sometimes not fucking me is better for him.

Oh, shit.

So the thing is: if I want to transition from egalitarian into power imbalanced I have to find a new normal around this. I have to reframe what makes something a successful encounter. I didn’t need to get off. I was there for his use.

If he got to do something he has always wanted to do and he feels like this was a deeply satisfying experience… then it was wildly successful and I need to work on how I feel about it when it is happening and afterwards. I need to take pride in work well done, not feel cranky I didn’t get off. I can masturbate the next day. Well, until he tells me I can’t. Ugh.

Ok. I can work with that.

** For nosey people: my sleep medication usage is necessary for long term health concerns and without the play aspect there are times when I double or triple up. My doctor is aware and is comfortable with the number of pills I ingest on an annual basis.

My safeword is “Long-term trauma’, bitch

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I keep getting comments from complete strangers, which is still slightly surprising to me. I write about myself and I had extensive and varied trauma as a young person. It comes up as I try to figure out how to handle situations in my life as an adult. I function best, as a person who is autistic and has PTSD, by writing out the things that I am having big feelings about rather than trying to talk about these things in real time. My side of the conversation is too big. I like to play in ways that will upset sensitive people. I encourage you to take care of yourself and not read my writing.

Lately we have been having to have the kinds of serious talks that fucked up people need to have before they go wading into the murky morass. Things like: it is ok to harm me if you are doing it on one axis at a time and it isn’t ok to stack traumas because I can’t process my way out of that fast enough to be appropriate with the kids.

My life is still incredibly structured around my ability to be level through my day to day life. I’m homeschooling my kids and I have over a decade to go before I’m done and that requires a high level of emotional regulation from me. (Not debating this choice here.) But this is the rock around which my life is built.

I have a lot of experience with complex trauma. Lucky me? I am a bit of a tight ass and I define trauma in my personal life as circumstances in which my survival has been in question and ongoing issues where my brain is not capable of telling a situation apart from things that might kill me. Being uncomfortable or stressed out is not a trauma in my personal nomenclature. Brains can be difficult. If something was a threat to your survival at a formative time in your life and it continues happening past the point where it can threaten your survival sometimes your brain struggles to turn off the “Oh shit I am going to die” part.

This is relevant because my father liked to tell me that I exist to get men off. I am the product of rape. Like, those fucked up incest stories? That was literally my childhood. He would tell me, from when I was a toddler, that if I am not pleasing there is no point in him continuing to let me be alive. That means that for the rest of my whole life sex is wrapped up in Do I deserve to be alive? Am I going to fail at getting this man off and then he is going to kill me? Or should I kill myself out of shame. That part was a lot less clear.

Noah is getting older. There are biological factors at play that influence when he can come a lot more than I can be the force that decides his orgasm. But if you tell me that I’m not getting you off that I’m just not quite good enough combined with putting your hand on my neck*? That is a singular layer of trauma for me that I can process and internalise and enjoy the mind-fuckery. I know Noah is actually very happy to be married to me and orgasm or not he is absolutely thrilled to fuck me for the rest of his life. He has demonstrated the absolute commitment he has to me not dying–I can deal with that.

But I cannot cope with that if I am already overwhelmingly upset or feeling suicidal for other reasons. This is part of why I cannot play like this if I am not writing. I have to tell you where my brain is so you can make decisions about what is safe.

This is why I don’t play with safewords. It’s not because I’m so bad ass. It’s not because I think someone should read my mind. It’s because either my play is so light that “Hm that’s kinda pinching” is the same as “red” or because I am doing play so intense that “red” isn’t a word I am going to come up with under pressure. I just won’t. My brain isn’t going to go there. I will be unable to use that as a word to help myself.

In the fourth month of our marriage he raped me. I don’t mean we did a rape scene I mean I was hysterically sobbing because I had spent the day talking to CPS about what my sister was doing to her kids and that was an extremely upsetting situation. I was not fucking ok and I felt like I was about to break into a thousand pieces. I have been raped quite a few times in my life. Every other time my brain has coped by freezing. That day with Noah I was completely unhinged and I fought him. I fought him until we were both bleeding. I lost. That had reverberations for years. I was scared of him and I flinched when he tried to touch me. That was before we had children. There was no reason in the world why I should have stayed.

Except I am pretty sure I could not be married to someone if they will not hurt me like that. I am pretty sure I could not maintain interest in a singular person who was not willing to do that to me.

So yeah, we are talking about the role of rape in our life going forward. I am someone who has spent decades teetering on the edge of committing suicide. It is kinda a family tradition: maternal grandmother, father, brother. It’s just there as an option, always.

I am 8 years younger than my father was when he quit. But hey, nobody is going to send me to prison for raping them as a child so I guess I don’t have his good reason to wuss out.

Anyway. When it comes to raping me that’s a topic of some delicacy. We have talked about the fact that what he wants is not a rape scene on a pre-negotiated day… where is the trauma in that? We are discussing ways to upset me/pick a shitty day that isn’t too shitty. As a recent example of oh-god-no: if he had decided to rape me on the day I got the news about Andrew dying I would not have been ok. I would not bounce back from that in a way that would be acceptable for the parameters of my life. The absolute best case scenario is I would get out of bed 10 or so months later and be maybe ok with trying to avoid dying.

So strategy is important.

But like, I’ve started running again. I haven’t paid the fee yet but right now I’m thinking my self-masochistic act of physical pain for my birthday this year is running another marathon. If he were, say, to wait until I am tired and focused and all I want to be thinking about is the race to absolutely insist and piss me off and hurt me so that I have to feel that while I’m running?

Oh yeah I could still behave how I am supposed to behave in my day to day life. That is a reminder that my body isn’t mine. I have accepted that I like having times when my inconsiderate asshole of a husband lets me feel pain and additional physical burden outside of my usual standard chronic pain because I’m a lucky whore.

I know that there are a lot of feminists who would be extremely unhappy about the fact that I need my marriage to involve explicit sexual violence as the trade for my comfy rich bitch life. I would say that I am a lady of leisure if I ever stopped working. The working won’t stop because it is ingrained into my bones that you work until you die and that rest is for other people. But mixed in with that is constant gratitude that I get to choose my work and I get to choose the scale of my projects with almost no limitations.

Hi newish people. I grew up in really deep poverty. I didn’t have a “permanent address” until I got married. I moved every few months–more than 50 times before I was 18 and then 9 more times in the 7 years of being an adult before I got married. I went through more than a dozen different foster homes and when I was with my mom things were often bad enough that I stole food in order to eat. I mostly crawled out of that poverty thanks to a dog bite settlement. It’s why I am fervently in favour of universal basic income. My lawyer set me up so that the settlement could pay for college. Without it I would not have gone; there was no chance.

So marrying a trust fund baby has been weird. It wasn’t a big trustfund by such standards but he was able to buy a house in his mid 20’s in California in an intense housing market. He was able to go to a good school without loans and he has had a really blessed career in tech.

I get to do what I want. I get to focus on what I want. He lets me control a lot of pieces of our life and I get to decide how money is spent and how it is saved and invested. It blows my tiny little mind that I do the things I do on a daily basis. I was not fucking trained for this shit. I feel wildly out of my depth. I feel incompetent in the extreme even as according to all metrics that can be validated by outside professional sources I am doing extremely well. It feels like a farce. It feels like the house of cards will collapse at any minute.

Now that’s kinda a loophole you can drive a truck through. Because that’s not existentialist trauma. Fucking with me around those insecurities? Oh yeah, that’ll be fine.

Fucking me when I’m sick and I feel terrible and I am not going to enjoy any bit of it at all? I mean… not like cancer sick–don’t be ridiculous. (I’ve already had cancer twice so it’s a reasonable part of the conversation.) But a bad cold? The flu? Oh sure. Mock the fuck out of me. Great time to shove my face in a pillow so you don’t catch anything.

I have heard from other people with PMDD that they too have times of the month, every month, when they don’t have any interest in sex and it is very repellant. For the past almost decade and a half of having small children it’s been very questionable fucking with me when I’m on the low end of that cycle. I’m less stable if you do and the level of stable I have needed has been pretty difficult for me. I am not naturally a stable person. I have no useful training in stability.

Things are changing. I don’t have super little kids anymore. I have support in the day for me to duck in and out for a few minutes so I can take breaks and have time alone in my brain–I have literally never had this like it is now before we moved to Scotland. The way our life is set up now feels like an utter fucking miracle. This is beyond my wildest dreams.

Noah is nervous that this is a short uptick and it won’t continue. That’s a reasonable worry. The little kids part of our life has been hard on both of us. It has been hard to trust that there is a far side that will be fun. (If you do not feel in your bones that you must have children or your life will be incomplete don’t fucking do it. This shit is exhausting and frustrating and steals all your fucking time.)

The thing is: I have been in the bdsm community looking for people to do mean things to me from as soon as it was legal. I was desperately masturbating thinking about it and hurting myself before that. I think that being at a low ebb while I am going through the intensity of early parenting is reasonable. I’m just been fucking surviving. I don’t think that having kids is going to turn me vanilla in the long run of my life. I like it when people are crying way too much. I don’t care if it is me or someone else–if we are fucking someone should be crying. And bleeding at the same time is even better.

I miss you D. I will love you forever and I wish you only happiness.

Just like the growing tightness in my legs feels like carving off a layer of shell I don’t need anymore–a return to who I have been. My legs feel like I have been running. My legs feel like I have been bouncing up and down like I am dancing. I miss dancing so much. I used to dance 5 nights a week doing a wide variety of styles–most of which were extremely energetic. I’d go running at lunchtime.

I want that back. I tried to start running not long after we moved but I think it was too close to the more recent cancer and the house repair has been really demanding. I’m just to the point where it feels like I can.

I feel like that with sex. I feel like that with needing Noah to hurt me. I think there were reasons I could never walk away from the scene. I think there are reasons I started making friends before I was even playing again. I am a shark and I like swimming near other scary creatures.

Also: fucking terrified of the ocean. I am completely convinced I am going to be eaten in the ocean. It is not rational. FUCK MY OLDER SIBLINGS.

Anyway. I think I have followed this train of thought far enough. mwah

  • = Don’t even come for me about breath play. I didn’t say he choked me. He can’t choke me. I have had a significant number of brain injuries and I am at high risk for stroke. He is deeply invested in keeping me for a long time and that means I can’t be choked anymore. I miss it.

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Most mornings I wake up and Noah has a hand or a knee on top of me and Shortie has shoved one hand under me and the other is clinging to me so hard I can barely roll over. This is a bit of a quandary as I am both an incredibly active sleeper and I need to wake up to use the toilet long before them. Getting out of the bed is a very delicate procedure.

I love this feeling. My middle child really doesn’t like to get out of bed unless I come and kiss them awake. They will lie in bed and tell me that their alarm was the gate to waking up but they can’t open it until they get a kiss from me because the kiss is the key.

We are noticing that we can’t get all of our stuff done if we try to do it after 9am breakfast. It’s just not working. So today we are getting up earlier. I have been waking up between 6:45 and and 7:15 for the past few weeks so I said let’s do 7:30. I set an alarm to make sure I can come kiss them awake. What time did I wake up? FUCKING 4:15!! My body is a shit. But it means I spent time medicating and talking to myself. I will be in a much better frame of mind for patiently guiding along my not so little partner. This kid is coming for me in size.

We are working on increasing fitness together. We are not buying a car. We have to be able to easily and casually get around this city and it will always be difficult if we aren’t more fit than we are. We have been consistent about doing it for a bit and I think it will continue until the trip in February quite easily. I need to find a way to have it extend past then because they have to be able to easily get back and forth to town a few times a day. That should be no big deal. It’s not even a full 15 minutes if I ride fairly casually. Just biking is not getting me to where I want to be in my body. I have to run.

And so does my kid. I’m going to make a rule though: we can’t process intense family matters. This is practice for compartmentalisation. You have to be able to talk about things sometimes and not at other times. It is part of how you live in the world. It is part of how you build relationships over time with gradual increases in intimacy. If you walk around sharing every negative thought loudly with every person who walks past they don’t want to help you or be your friend they want to move away from you. That is a simple reality. You have to learn how to choose when and how you share different parts of what you are thinking. We all do. Learning that has been really hard.

This not so little one still needs a lot of support and it has to be separate from everyone else. Alright then. I don’t care that you really want to stay up late and sleep late. I can’t do that. I will be a nasty fucking cunt. I can’t. So. Hey baby. Here is your key to larkdom. Three minutes and counting till the countdown to the need for the key. I better hit post.

Just keep swimming

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Last night Noah was being a sensitive new age guy and he checked in if the current level of increase in meanness/friction on my cunt is a problem. He said he knows it is a lot compared to what had been happening and he just wants to make sure I’m ok.

I said, “Well I did tell you I’d be ok with you fucking me pretty much whenever and I’m still mostly initiating all of our sex. So mostly I’m thinking that you aren’t fucking me enough…. loser.” (We are having sex pretty much every day lately.)

He threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Well! Ok then!” Then he ripped his pajamas off real fast and started poking at my clothes. So I undressed and we, like the fully mature people we are, proceeded to spend about 40 minutes rolling back and forth naked telling stupid jokes and not getting around to having sex.

Finally I said, “This is my downfall. I am too funny. You can’t bear the seriousness of fucking someone as funny as me–it might ruin the mood.”

Really it just felt like we were young again and we had all the time in the world to just enjoy being naked together and of course eventually we will get around to sex.. it’s inevitable. Also inevitable: when we did it was of course very fucked up roleplay about how to manipulate a child into not having the right vocabulary for even reporting sexual abuse. After all, he is just having me pray every night and giving me a relaxing massage.

I met Noah when he was 26, we spent his 27th birthday together. I was 22 when we met. On one hand I felt so very worldly when we met but now I look back on it and I giggle. What does it mean to be worldly anyway? I was in such a rush to gain “experience” as if that would somehow make my life better. In some ways it was a good thing.

I have friends who settled down permanently with the first or second person they ever dated or had sex with. Most of them have told me that they have mixed feelings about the fact that they have little or no sexual experience outside of this primary relationship. They feel like they don’t know as much about what they do or don’t like.

I’m sure there are people who are completely content with their one lifetime partner, but those folks don’t talk to me about it.

I have never had a moment of pause where I have thought “Oh no if only I had more experience with other people.” Sometimes I miss the hunt because I was good at it and it was fun, but that’s not the same thing. Really I’m not even sure if I would hunt the same way going forward in any case. My life is so different and the Jenga tower is somewhat precarious. I don’t have much time to give anyone and the community in Scotland is so small that hunting with my normal voraciousness would very quickly create a challenging situation. Even if you are being honest and up front, not as many people are happy to be part of a truly extensive network as you think.

It’s a rare person who appreciates the sort of woman who can cheerfully pick up 8 new partners in a weekend. Daddy James you are always and forever the best first date of my whole life. I love you so much.

When you are fucking a lot of people you find out very intimately about peoples’ prejudices. I firmly believe that anyone gets to dislike whatever they want. Depending on how you say that people often assume that you end up on the side of disliking something they are on and they freely explain in great detail.

I asked about whether the older people I know remember a time when things were less judgmental because I saw a comment on a buddy’s post from someone I don’t know (who is ironically, younger than me) who said that they are old enough to remember a time when people in the community didn’t judge and they accepted everyone.

People judge whores. People judge women who use the word whore for themself in complicated ways. I remain grateful for the sex workers in my life who were close friends when I was working through some of my really intense trauma who told me that whatever associations other people have with that word are not my problem. My experiences are mine and no one can take them away from me or say that I am not allowed to experience the world as I am. It’s really weird that my biological father gave me that gift. Apparently whore is a title that a man is allowed to gift to a small child and she can keep it absolutely forever no matter what anyone else thinks.

I think about the judgment that people pass because despite the press releases that the bdsm community likes to put out about how people in the bdsm community tend to have slightly higher than average EQ and they are not significantly more traumatized than the normal population…

I am a traumatized motherfucker. Much of what drives me to seek out predatory and vicious partners is not some abstract “I was born this way”; I was shaped by a monster. When I was young and in the scene I would occasionally hear outlandish stories about how the younger you were when you started being inculcated into “slave life” the better you will be for the rest of your life. There was a woman who claimed her family sold her into a bdsm slave family at 14. This was treated like a hot/good thing?

Yet in reality if the core of your sexuality is formed around extreme trauma and abuse and, frankly, brainwashing you make people fucking uncomfortable. The average person (even in the scene) you want to go play with and fuck is not able to handle even being too aware of the extent of extreme abuse that people like me live through. Because yeah I do want you to act that out with me. Yeah. I do want you to be that fucking evil.

My biological father held a gun to my head while raping me. If Noah wanted to do that we would have to do the scene on top of a Princess and the Pea pile of towels to catch the river of squirting I would do.

Because to be clear if you do to me what I like having done to me… you are going to have to sit real hard with the idea of whether or not you are a bad person. You are going to have to be ok doing fucked up shit to someone who has a documented police record of having incredibly fucked up shit done to them. You have to face it head on. You have to embrace it and really own it and be ok with the fact that other people are absolutely going to judge the fuck out of you if they find out what you do.

I am trickling out stories, yo. I know I have a new audience and I know that is pressure. I know that the Scottish people will get to know what I put out there in writing far faster than they will get to know me in person because I don’t leave the house that often. Nobody sees me week after week at a munch to get used to me slowly over time. I am going to be very much on the fringe for a long time, perhaps forever. Will I ever play publicly here? I don’t know.

I don’t particularly enjoy playing in the safe zone that I used to specifically inhabit in public play spaces. Well, I enjoyed it a lot more in the past but I don’t think I could get back to that headspace. I want to play for me now, not for advertising for the maximum number of potential partners. And I am fucked up.

I watch the age players defend that it isn’t about sex. Oh. Well sometimes it is. And sometimes it is about specifically degrading a little and making it very bad for them.

I watch pet play folks get upset about people bringing up bestiality. Oh. Well… I don’t think I could cross the line with an actual animal for all kinds of very good reasons but the stories are fucking hot. Roleplaying it? Fuck yeah. The more humiliating and disgusting the better.

Rand went down a list of things that most people would reject and it was a challenge for me to find a true hard limit on any of it. Much of it I want to be verbal/roleplay–there are no actual children involved in my sex life and there hasn’t been since I was the child and there never will be again.

I remember saying, “No children, no animals, no dead people other than that let’s talk.” But really if you want to roleplay any of those scenarios… ok.

I don’t find bodies off putting. I don’t find bodily functions to be deal breakers. I don’t have many limits or reasons I will tell someone to stop something in the abstract. There are days when I can’t do a certain thing for a transient reason and there are tons of obstacles to my having space and safety for most of them but that’s not the same thing.

When people get very upset about wanting to get rid of all predators in the scene I can’t help but wonder… but do you really want to? If you do then who are people like me going to play with?

Neither Noah nor I would be as good at crossing social more lines and being degrading and violent and vile as we are if we had never gone too far.

I always say that you learn more from mistakes than you do from always doing things right. I have made a lot of mistakes. A tremendous number of mistakes. I am sure that there are at least a couple of people who think of me and feel really bad sometimes. I know Noah has at least one woman who saw him in her nightmares. She came to me to process it because that is exactly the sort of thing that someone would do, right? I told her that I would support her in any way I could. She was entitled to say or do anything she needed to do to communicate to Noah how badly he fucked up. If she wanted him to pay for her therapy that would be completely legitimate. She wrote some very intense letters. I read them with Noah because he needed to understand fully how he fucked up. I am still friends with her and she says things are much better now. She’s happy.

You learn more from mistakes than you do from always doing it right. I know how badly I can hurt someone. Noah knows how badly he can hurt someone. Hell, he knows how badly he can hurt me. He fucked up really badly in the first six months of being married by the choice of when to rape me. It caused an extra layer of trauma that had to be unpacked.

Do you know how hard it makes me come when he hurts me and tells me that he is so glad that he gets to rape me decade after decade? It is literally completely fucked up. This is vanilla-land “You should run, not walk away from this man.”

Instead I am no longer allowed to say “Jesus Christ” because the only God I am allowed to worship is Noah so it has to be his name I say.

“The difference is consent” except when there is no consent and sometimes that is far better.

“We evaluate the risks to make safe choices” except when we totally fucking don’t and we flail and we hurt people and we traumatize them and then we put our finger on that trauma and push down a little harder because the bruise was starting to fade and we can’t have that.

I don’t do safe things. I do things that any reasonable therapist would tell me is a bad fucking idea and I am totally risking cracking my psyche wide open. Yes. The best orgasms live there.

Bdsm is not therapy. Bdsm is a place where fucked up people can do very fucked up things. I treat the bdsm community like the sea and I am a shark looking for a bigger shark. When I encountered stingrays and eels and angler fish I wished them well and kept looking until I found someone who could appreciate the kind of fucked up I am. Someone with just enough training in mental health to be able to properly enjoy fucking with someone who is as damaged as I am. I found a megalodon; just think of all the nice people I am keeping safe by keeping him off the market.

Noah didn’t pick someone who compulsively cannot say no to sex even when I really should because of physical damage by accident. He is a fucked up person. I mean that in the very best of ways. He is brilliant and he can hold many contradictory truths in his mind at the same time. He deeply respects me and he wants me to be a big person in the world taking up space. He is the reason I have most of the self confidence I have to just go do whatever I want. I used to doubt myself so much. I don’t have time anymore. He also wants to hurt me emotionally in ways I won’t shake off. He wants to specifically drill down on damage created by my father.

I can’t wait until he can go back to cutting on me.

In many ways it is much better for everyone that Noah put the choke chain on me. Scotland is a small sea and we are very big sharks.

Running in parallel

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I don’t understand the connection between wanting to have sex and writing. I see the connection between writing and medicating way more clearly. It is fascinating feeling like I have my brain back after 3 years of not feeling connected to myself in this way. This narration feels like more of my true self than any amount of being in a room with me can reveal because I will always do my best to mislead you in person.

I know the difference between being allowed to write what I am thinking and feeling and being allowed to act out how I am feeling or what I am thinking. The world doesn’t care how I feel it cares how I act. But I care what I feel. If you want to have the ability to crawl around in my head and fuck with me then you must care. I could just write to Noah, if I were actually more afraid of the consequences I would probably do that. I am getting comfortable and I’m not sure if that is good or not.

It is weird to me that I now live in a country where well actually the police might care what kind of consensual sex I have with my spouse. There are rules here that were not part of the background noise of being a Californian. I am unlikely to change enough to really be what they wish I was. The thing is, if neither I nor my husband ever complain then nobody actually knows what we are doing to one another so it’s kind of a moot point.

Side note: IT IS NOT A MUTE POINT. NOT EVER. FUCKING FORUM PEOPLE.

I do find that I am putting the more explicit stuff over on that site because it feels a little less like courting danger. I just want to gain citizenship so I can sit over here and garden and mind my business. La la la.

But I can’t. I have literally had my blog used against me in a legal mediation already. I was not a reliable witness about the things that were happening with my roof because of the swinger parties I went to. Super charming. If that, if the threat of getting in even more trouble isn’t enough to shut me up is that pathological?

I believe with my whole heart that I am not doing anything wrong. I am enjoying my sex life with my legal spouse. Hell, I’m not even poly. I do believe I should have the right to sit over here with my pot and my husband and my kids doing our weird things. Obviously the kids are not involved in the sex weirdness. And that is the point. I have a very strict filter between which people are allowed to see what and when. I mean, my children could find my blog–they know it exists. It’s my legal damn name… I’m not being secretive. I have told my children over and over since they were small children that once they read my blog they can’t unknow the things about me that they will learn and I’m pretty sure it will freak them out. Given the questions that I will answer simply and directly my children are smart enough to know that when I say, “Are you sure you want to know that” that they probably don’t.

I will off-handedly give answers that make them want to rinse their ears out with bleach. If I suggest you don’t want to know something… I’m probably not being over cautious. I am not over cautious about generic information that might influence their lives in some way going forward. I believe in boundaries and privacy. I don’t have secrets because if I will spew them on the public internet it doesn’t count as a secret. I have things that I do not tell all people in all settings. Do you understand how much time and money I spent on therapy to learn how to compartmentalise like this? Decades. Personally I have paid many tens of thousands of dollars for therapy and the state of California has probably paid at least a quarter of a million if you count the times I was in institutions.

My children do not overlap with my sex life.

For some reason I still absolutely compulsively need to write about it. This is the exhibitionist part. I think that is something I dramatically underrated about my life in the bay. A lot of what I did in the bdsm and kink communities was massively spurred on by the fact that people were watching. From when I was 18, from the second time I went to the Power Exchange the energetic interaction with the crowd was absolutely integral to the experience of being kinky.

And yet when I went to Sydney I felt really weird about the fact that the only public play spaces were performance spaces on stage in front of a dance club. That felt different for some reason? Why didn’t it just feel like BaGG? People there referred to their play as performance. At the munch I was asked, “How long have you been performing” and I twitched.

Now it seems to me like the difference between “nae bother” and “all good” and “it’s no trouble”. They are just different colloquialisms. I mean, there are nuances of difference between play and perform but most of them are about structural differences in the locations. People moving between the two locations will mostly seamlessly move between the slight differences in behavior.

When I was younger there was this really sharp divide between sex and bdsm with a lot of my friends. My friends were people who liked public bdsm spaces (I’m including house parties) and most of them do not allow sex either through explicit rules or implicit culture. Having sex is mostly off screen. Although, how do you define sex, right?

It’s all muddy in my head right now. It’s like a dam bursting and things are coming through all at once instead of in a neat stream. I don’t think I like the lisdexamfetamine. I have not been able to access this many streams of thought at once since I have been on it. I mean, I think it is useful. If my new provider (I was switched people and I meet the new one in 2 weeks) is ok with me having a much lower dose and using it as needed then I think it would have a ton of utility. But not all day and not every day. It makes me hate sex. It makes me not want to write. It makes me feel flat emotionally and unable to orgasm. I can work like a demon but that’s not all good.

I can feel in my body how I acted when my big kids were small when I use cannabis. It literally feels like my entire body relaxes and I can access all of the lanes of the superhighway that is my brain to track being a patient mother and a creative teacher and a considerate friend and a person dedicated to fitness and a person who is drawn to eating the foods that actually best fuel physical activity instead of numbing emotional and physical pain and a filthy fucking whore.

More than one thing can be true. I have nothing to be ashamed of so why should I act like what I am doing should be a secret? There is a difference between secrets and boundaries and privacy.

I am talking in circles this morning. I can feel that spiral thing happening but I don’t have time to explore it. Breakfast will be on the table in 10 minutes because that is what Noah does. He does it because I asked him to. I owe him the respect of showing up on time.

It’s kind of funny

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How come I can beg him to do all kinds of vile things to me and that’s just fun and games but if he mildly observes that he can hear which vibrator I am using from his room because the flooring is thin… I am all of a sudden totally embarrassed and I feel like I should never masturbate again.

Ridiculous.

How do you measure progress?

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“I think I am a better writer than I thought.”
“What leads you to draw this conclusion?”
“The sad story I posted has had over 1,000 hits in two days. It’s the first work I’ve posted!”
“Wait, I thought you had been posting for a long time?”
“Oh, that was back on Wattpad, this is my first AO3 post.”
“Ok, and how does this jump make you feel better about yourself?”
“Well, people on AO3 are more literate and have better grammar and spelling and in general the characters aren’t so simplistic.”
“Ah. You have gone from the middle school board to the high school board?”
“Basically, yes.”

“Congratulations! That’s awesome!”

Never enough time

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I spend a lot of time feeling overwhelmed by how lucky I am. I recognize the gift that is my life. I get to decide how I want to use my time. The vast majority of humans I know get few choices about their time. Most of it is spent on earning money, the rest of their (too little) awake time is a juggling act of mandatory tasks that never get properly finished: cleaning, cooking, laundry, commuting, child care…

I never run out of tasks but I get to pick a lot of them and if I skip others… well my kids and Noah do more with every passing ear. It’s pretty rad. I hope I get to live with competent adult children roommates because they make managing this big house so much easier. They are increasingly capable of just doing a share. Even Shorty is on the road; it took me a while to figure out which chores were best for her at this stage in this house–the Fremont tasks just weren’t right. This house is set up differently.

Shorty told me that on her next birthday (turning 5) we are going to pass along the baby plates/cups/silverware/bowls because she isn’t a baby anymore. It makes me sniffle a bit. I will miss having a baby around. She is already so independent and sassy. We have been letting her do basically anything she wants to do for herself and pushing her towards independence in ways that piss her off. She would strongly prefer to still have us dress her every day; we don’t. She would prefer never to clean and set the table; we insist. It’s a delicate dance. I wonder how I am going to start teaching her that sometimes it doesn’t matter how you feel you have to get it done.

The important thing is to not teach it at home with house chores because that teaches you that rest is not important and that isn’t the goal. But sometimes you are going through airport security and you need to hold your shit together so you don’t draw scrutiny. Sometimes you have to get home even when you are tired and you want to quit. Sometimes you have to shut your mouth and not say what you think and deal with something.

Both of my older children have that in their bones. I am not sure when and how I taught it. I am already noticing that it’s a real problem that Shorty doesn’t have DisneySchool. Did you know that an annual pass to Disney*(whichever) is more effective than a paid for preschool at teaching children how to wait in line patiently so everyone gets a turn? Did you know that Disneyland (the one and only) is the most amazing place in the world for a small child to practice asking for help with meeting their needs? The entire staff is trained to do backflips if necessary to meet any possible request. It teaches an extreme amount of confidence in trying and it’s hard to get that out in the world where most people are mercurial and challenging and hard to predict. As an autistic person Disneyland is the only place on the planet where I believe that I know the price of people being nice to me. I ritualize my understanding of what I have to do to make it more likely people will be nice to me. There is only one place I trust that I know how to do enough. Shorty won’t learn any of this.

Small town life is different. We don’t live in a neighborhood of retirees (we wouldn’t by this point even if we had stayed in California–those folks were selling out and moving really quickly in the couple of years before we left) so Shorty doesn’t get to spend all day practicing conversation skills with all the bored retired people in the neighborhood. She doesn’t have a dozen substitute grandparents. They wouldn’t have been there anyway but it still feels like a way I am letting her down.

There is no such thing as enough time to do all of the things I would like to do with the amount of obligation I have to the kids. They are at such dramatically different stages. It’s interesting to me how much the older kids have shifted such that they do not have similar interests or needs. I used to be able to treat them as more of a block–maybe I was understanding them wrong? I don’t think so. At this point I cannot assume that something is appropriate for both of them it almost never is. Neither of them are adult but they feel like kids who are a lot more than two years apart. EC is squarely teenager and is hilariously low key in terms of what that manifestation means. He occasionally tries to be edgy but I’m his mom so that is a bit weird for all of us. MC is physically heading for puberty but emotionally and mentally they are going to be a late bloomer. I am glad that MC has not been an earlier bloomer because they are not going to handle being hit on by adult men very well.

In a way I feel that Noah and I have done a serious disservice to MC in getting them to stop attacking people verbally or physically. They really struggle with defending themself with folks outside the family and that feels very much my fault. It was hard when the main person MC was physically and verbally aggressive with was EC. We have stopped that. We didn’t mean to stop the ability for all people. Sometimes you have to be able to defend yourself if a stranger is going to perceive you as a woman.

I am having an interesting time trying to figure out how to talk about some things with the kids around gendered language. Until the organs in the body have been surgically altered it is important to pay attention to their health. Having an organ does not mean that you are a gender. Your experienced gender is not always the same thing as your perceived gender by other people and sometimes that matters.

I’ve watched Boys Don’t Cry; I know that my son is going to have to assess safety in environments differently than other boys and men. I have to talk to him about what dietary supplements he needs as a person with the body he has in a way that includes both his EDS and other needs. I have to figure out where and when it is a better choice to hand-make a cocktail of pills because a single multi-vitamin with the wrong word on it feels like an erasing choice. I am grateful that my son remembered his martial arts classes enough to win every fight with every person who came after him in secondary school. I feel incredibly anxious and worried about what we should do to help him maintain his fitness and strength because he may well need it.

My kid is very strongly motivated towards being cute and eye catching. They don’t get more adult attention yet because they still read as so young even though they are just about exactly my height. This trip to London may well be the first time they really catch eyes and that’s going to be a real challenge for them. I worry about how intensely they freeze when they feel intimidated. I feel like I taught this and now I need to unteach it. I am anything but a perfect parent.

I wish there were more hours in the day so I could spend more time with the kids and have more time alone because my hobbies are fun too. Ah well. Be grateful for what you have: I have freedom to choose. I am lucky in a way few people get to be lucky. Sometimes it is challenging trying to figure out how to have a well regulated body. I have to put so much thought into all of my choices. No, my body doesn’t just “do the right thing” automatically no matter what some people want me to think. Unfortunately living on bread/noodle products alone makes me sick. Damnit. That’s what my body wants. Life isn’t fair.

Life isn’t fair and no one gets what they deserve. You get what you get. It isn’t about justice because almost no one gets “justice”, not really. There is chance. There is circumstance of birth. There are a million factors at play and there is no way to get “fair” for everyone like that.

My life is so good. This level of safety and security should be the bare minimum for every human being. Governments could make this happen if they chose to view the planet as a collaborative place that is non-renewable. A safe place to live. Enough food. I can afford to heat my home. I am only called names when I ask very very very nicely. We work together as a family to divide tasks and chores and we work together to maintain the building because there is the serious possibility that my children are maintaining the building they will inherit and you want it to be in good shape so…

This is enlightened self interest, baby.

I think the roads are clear enough for us to walk outside. I am really happy about that. I think Shorty should come with MC and me this time. I am looking forward to the day. Let’s go look at plants.

Finding a new normal is hard

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Ok my morning hour and a half before breakfast now includes blogging, medicating, and walking on the treadmill. Hoo it takes some balance to do this. That’s only for days when it is too icy for us to go walk on the road, not every day. Mostly I want MC training outside. We are both noticing how it is much much much easier going really fast on a treadmill compared to outside. It’s not just about incline, we increase that on the treadmill.

I think it is kind of funny how hard it is to convince my kids that maintaining enough fitness to be able to suddenly go off on an adventure is easy compared to “Oh shit we have to start training really hard RIGHT NOW and then we will still be less fit and have less fun than we would if we didn’t slack off in between.” But then again… I haven’t been forcing time to do it on my own either. I have allowed the kids refusing to go with me to stop me. I shouldn’t have. I am sorry.

Yesterday I was super keen to get off the treadmill quickly so I did more than a mile at 6mph. That’s really fast for me. It felt so good. It’s funny in that part of what feels good about it is the way my back and side fat waddle really hard. My experience as a fat runner turned slightly less fat by running and starting up again as a fat runner is that wherever it is the most jiggly is going to reduce first. It’s not that I stop having pudge there it’s that the edge of it is what is eaten first by increased need for eating fat in exercise and then the bottom layers plump into muscle. I still look fat, but it’s less jiggly and wiggly and bouncy.

That feeling means that soon I will be able to put on my fucking shoes again without panting. I really hate panting while I’m tying my shoes because I have gotten that fat. I need more exercise than I have been getting. Riding my bike isn’t enough. I need to run. I also need the fucking yoga and I should probably be doing more strength training because I am old enough I have to worry about bone loss soon. My bones aren’t starting out fantastically strong as it is.

I have done this for the past few decades. Early in my 20’s I decided to get fit because I was on the hunt for new social groups and people to fuck and someone to marry. I started dancing a lot and I ran to get in/keep in shape for that. Early 30’s I wanted to run a marathon with my brother and then that went sideways and beautiful, wonderful Blacksheep saved my ass and proved she is better than my brother in every way. (I mean, duh?) Now I am early in my 40’s and realising that I want more than I am right now.

I want to run a marathon in less than 6 hours. I want 30 mile bike rides to not feel punishing. I want to be able to run faster and longer than my fucking kids because ha ha just because you are taller than me that doesn’t mean you are stronger or fitter. 😛

I want the strength to be basically running a small-holding through my 50’s, 60’s, and maybe even my 70’s.

The neighbor in the giant fancy house decided to stay. I reopened the negotiation for me buying the acre next to mine. I told him “Wouldn’t it be nicer if instead of yet another house being constructed that close to us between us and the 150 home housing estate that is coming up in the field on the other side we had a food forest? I would plant walnut trees cause I can’t have them on my property. I would put so so so much food and you would be welcome to come share any and all of it. I would increase the plant and animal ecosystem around here and give them a place to hide as the city is moving outward. But I can’t pay what you want me to pay for a house-plot. My spouse says my limit is £50k and I can’t pay that much just for the part with the septic system.”

It is really useful being able to blame your spouse for things.

This winter I am doing a self-study course on permaculture design. I ordered all of the course books recommended by the top permaculture education organisations. I am going to increase bio-diversity, damnit.

And let me tell you: if I had an extra acre of land I could definitely feed my family in hard times. Probably a lot more people than that.

I would build a root cellar for storing food outside in the winter for preservation. The ground will keep it stable.

Paused for breakfast. Discovered major flaw in combining treadmill and blogging. I get no count for steps. This suuuuuuucks. Now I am flapping my arm like I’m trying to take flight; I feel stupid. Fixed that. Never came back. Oh well. Time to read those books.

Time to get back on track.

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I really like it when Noah is on vacation. I will like it when Noah is retired. I know more than a few relationships that have ended after lockdowns because people found out they didn’t like each other as much as they thought. I like Noah more with every passing year. I like alone time too, and time with other people. Every single day I am reminded that I am blessed because Noah is my person. He annoys me. He tells absolutely ridiculous jokes. He squicks me on a regular basis but in a way I apparently find incredibly endearing.

No one else in the whole world wants me to be as big as Noah does. Err, Ironically I do mean that in the feeder sense as well as in the spiritual sense. We were talking about some of the ways in which he is socially deferential, to the point that folks in the local bdsm community are assuming our dynamic is very different than it is. People are complicated. Noah wants me to be complicated and he doesn’t mind that it means my needs keep changing.

I am super scattered this morning. I can’t get into a flow. I stayed up too late, mostly through inertia. I need to get into the house a little early this morning. Time for Noah to go back to work and I need to be trying harder for fewer things, more consistently. I have been really needing, and taking, a fair bit of time off but if Noah needs to be working then I need to check back in.

Get ready for the day, wake the big kids, help Shorty with the morning chore, do planners with the kids. It’s time to teach backward planning. If you need to get all of these things done, when should you do them and how are you going to remind yourself? Getting too big for me to be the one who decides and reminds. It’s your turn, darlings.

Easier to do it with a smile on my face after yesterday’s delicious date. I like my husband a whoooooole lot.

Energetic adjustment

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Thanks T! This all because of you. 😘

So my boss at work, Rob, is this serious dick. He gets angry when I take initiate on projects in a way he wouldn’t and he undermines me constantly with my subordinates. I snapped in a meeting and told him that he can go fuck himself so he told me that if I want to come back to work on Monday I need to find a way to relax and not be such a bitch. He even knows a massage therapist–apparently going and getting a massage is now a job requirement. The company will even pay for it.

At first it seemed like a normal massage. We were chatting a little about how “everyone needs to learn their place” and how part of that is every person learning what they are best at providing. It seemed like general woo woo shit. He started on my back and he did a decent job. He asked me questions about myself and my personality. It was nice the way he alternated between penetrating questions and penetrating fingers followed by longer soothing strokes. It started getting a little weird after he asked me to roll over on my back and he pulled the cover sheet down all the way to my knees.

Then I noticed that he had no clothes on. What the fuck? He said he was Esalen trained and he needed to be able to “fully access my energy”. That’s some weird shit. Whatever, but then he started getting a little fresh. I told him to stop. I told him that I was married. He said, “Well, you want to keep your job, right? And you do need an energetic adjustment” then he grabbed my head and shoved his cock in my mouth.

I can’t help but get enthusiastic when a cock is in my mouth and he took that moment to simultaneously shove his fingers in my cunt and pinch my nipple really hard. He told me to come and I couldn’t stop the orgasm from rolling through me. He said he thought I was going to be that kind of girl.

Apparently my boss has a type. He hires girls based on them being mouthy and aggressive but what he really wants is someone who knows that the most important thing she should do when she is called into the bosses office is crawl under his desk and start sucking his cock. He doesn’t actually want to discuss what I should be doing–I’m supposed to get the work done. The reason he is so angry with me is because I am not using my one on one time right–I keep making him talk about how I am doing my job and he really doesn’t care.

What he cares about is that I am not yet getting on my knees to thank him for employing me.

Apparently Dave here trains the girls.

He yanked his cock out of my mouth while I was still shivering from the orgasm and he asked me how I was feeling about my place. I asked him how he was feeling about being a rapist.

He laughed and crawled up on the table to thrust his cock into my cunt. He said he feels great about being a rapist. He told me to come again and I did. He leaned on my chest with his forearm and pinched my nipple savagely and said, “And again” and I couldn’t help it.

He pulled out and sat up on his knees and he asked me if I knew my place yet. I told him to fuck off. He started slapping my pussy really hard. I couldn’t help it, I begged him to let me come and he said yes and I could feel the squirting. He looked at his wet hand and grinned and asked me if I was having a good time yet. I could barely squeak out an “uh huh”. He got up then and I wondered if it was over.

No he was off to get his camera and he took a variety of pictures that could end my marriage or potentially make it so I can’t keep my job.

Fuck.

He told me that he knows that I like to say no first before someone uses my pussy because that is my way of flirting–I probably learned it from my daddy. After all, Rob does have a type. I asked him how he knows about my Daddy and he laughed.

He set the camera down and climbed back up between my spread thighs. He kneeled and started slapping my breasts really hard. Of course this made me arch my cunt up really hard as the pressure started building. I had to beg him again to let me come. He shoved his cock into my cunt before saying yes so that he could feel it happen.

He leaned back and pulled my feet up onto his chest so he could press into me much more deeply. He started explaining that what happens next is up to me. I need this job. I can either keep the job and do what is required of me or I can quit. That will mean having to learn exactly how to sexually service Rob without him ever having to say a single word that could incriminate him in court or I can come back to Dave over and over for training. He grabbed my nipple and twisted it so hard it felt like it might come off and said, “I warn you that the training will get much more severe if you don’t learn quickly.” That made me come again, which was truly mortifying because I had to beg him for permission to come. He laughed and taunted me for a minute with brutal thrusts deep into my cunt before saying yes.

Sometimes I wish my Daddy hadn’t been so good at training me that I am not allowed to have an orgasm unless someone gives me permission. I can’t give myself permission. My body just won’t allow me to have that release. I suppose I should just feel grateful that Dave was happy about this surprise part of breaking in a new toy. It’s never good when someone says no and no and no and I have to ride that edge of agony. I imagine that much more severe training would involve a lot more of him saying no.

Oh no.

After that he laughed softly and pulled out. He spun lower half of my body around and started spanking me. I couldn’t stay quiet and I couldn’t stop the dripping from my cunt. It was so good. He talked a lot about how I had been raised right in some ways and not in others. I understood that it was my job to pretend I get to have boundaries because it is really hot when I spread my legs and accept the inevitable rape like the willing whore that I am. He said that my daddy had missed a few crucial points though. Whores are allowed to backtalk their daddies but never their bosses. Not if we want to stay employed. If we want to keep that job we need to open our holes and say thank you and work hard to never need our boss commenting on our actual job roles. I will know I am a good employee when I am so full of come that my boss never has time to discuss my actual job responsibilities. Rob got to use all of his time in exactly the right way and that is the true goal of my job: to please Rob and allow him to do exactly what he wants, when he wants.

I said yes, yes. I will do whatever I have to do. I will do whatever you want. I want to be your whore. I want to be Rob’s whore.

He got off the table again and took more photographs of me splayed out lewdly. He put his cock right up next to my face and took another photograph of me sticking out my tongue just to lick the tip. Then he told me that in addition to the photographs he has also been making an audio recording. He said it is really easy for him to edit it to remove the part about rape and make this whole thing sound like something I set up for myself.

He said he’d love to see my husband’s face when he heard me gasping that I want to be his whore and begging him to let me come.

Then he pulled a vibrator out of a drawer and started using it on my pussy while he went back to alternating slapping my breasts with twisting my nipple and telling me to come. He asked me if I felt like my energy was adequately adjusted. Before I could catch my breath to answer he told me to come again.

I am not sure I have ever come so hard in my life. Every muscle in my left leg from the hip to the toe locked in an agonizing cramp from the intensity of the orgasm.

He pulled back and grinned at me. He looked pretty amused by my involuntary full body spasms. When I had almost caught my breath again he started to move towards me again.

I gasped as loud as I could, “Yes! Yes! I am adjusted!!! I AM ADJUSTED!!!”

He smiled and turned the vibrator off. “Right. You can put your clothes back on. I’ll see you again–next week at the same time work for you?”

I could barely manage a nod before he slapped my pussy one last time before walking out of the room.

I don’t know what I am going to tell my husband.

(PS, I’m using “Behavior Modification” because apparently you can’t tag with rape? How very odd.)

Big goals

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I feel bad sometimes when I read other people with EDS/chronic pain talk about their experiences. There are places on my body where if you came up and poked me fairly gently I would drop to my knees from how overwhelmingly it hurt. If I take even the most casual inventory of how my body feels I am always in pain. I just keep doing shit anyway. I show up feeling half dead from exhaustion and I move through sheer force of will. I feel bad because I do not believe that it is healthy that I can do this, exactly, it just hasn’t been very optional for me. I have been in pain since I was a small child and I had shit to do and I had to just get on with it. I don’t know why I feel like I am fueled by rocket fuel.

I am clearly a bad example for my little zebra. Some days he is clearly in intense pain and he gingerly forces himself to keep doing his chores. I ask him why he doesn’t rest when he is in pain. “Well you don’t.”

They do as you do, not as you say.

There are some big goals this year. My big kids asked if we could go on one-on-one fun trips this year. If I am very very very lucky these will be the only big trips of the year. I’m crossing my fingers. One is soon and one is at the end of the year. Both involve me needing to ramp up my fitness in order to manage them while having any kind of a good experience. I am happy that the trip with middle kid is first because they are not starting off with lots more fitness than I have. Phew. I get to pull them along through training work rather than running and feeling half dead and like I can’t keep up. Eldest walks like his dad–they both walk like they are a half breath away from falling into a full sprint. That’s it: they walk like they are doing a run/walk paced run. I don’t walk like that.

MC and I are heading down to London in late February. They want to shop and see some historical sites and pretty parks and maybe a museum. My expectation is that we have to be Disneyland fit in order to have a good time (expect to walk 10 miles a day). I am trying to pull them in the direction of 4mph but frankly 3mph will be plenty fine for actually doing the time in London. When I walk as slow as they prefer my hips get really stiff and I feel like crud so we do have to pick up the pace a little. Luckily they are super motivated and excited. We have drawn up a slowly progressive plan for increasing our mileage and our speed. I am gratefully referencing the book Blacksheep gave me for running training.

I am thrilled about this experience with them, specifically the training, because we are getting to talk a lot about how what we eat and how we sleep dramatically impacts our ability to manage the long walks. I am introducing tracking and talking about evaluating how we feel on different days after different kinds of choices. I’m not controlling all the choices–just requiring reflection on them. They are starting from a place where 5 miles a day is not a lot or extreme so it’s not as much of a moon shot as it seems. Realistically if I asked MC to walk 10 miles today they could; it would just take almost 5 hours. 5 miles is a 2-ish hour walk right now.

Oh hey, it’s snowing again. This year has been so intense for snow–by far the most snow of any of our years here so far. That’s funny because this is our fourth winter and the snow is getting more common and hanging out longer with every passing year. Jenny said it barely ever snowed here! (In her defense the 10 years before we arrived had fairly low historical snow falls.)

As we are training for these… of course we had a big bike wipe out yesterday and MC got a bruise on their backside they are going to be feeling for a very long time. I rubbed them down 3 different kinds of topical analgesics and said we will be doing a lot more on the treadmill until it heals because they will walk awkwardly on the ice and that’s dangerous. Also: no more bike rides unless it is over 5. That sucked.

I love this whole winter hibernation thing. I feel constitutionally suited to having things just shut down for months out of the year so I can work on stuff internally and in my house.

Have I mentioned that I stopped taking the ADHD medication and I feel like my brain is hopping around like a grasshopper on speed?

So MC and I are going to London for a long weekend in February and EC and I are going to Paris, with probable stops in Antwerp, Amsterdam, and probably some city in Germany but I’m not sure which yet. We will be gone around two weeks. Yes I know that these trips seem unfair in terms of size and balance, but EC and I are going to be spending the entire day every single day going from museum to museum (although I suspect the Louvre will be a whole day on its own). He wants to take pictures and notes on as many kinds of art as possible in that time period. To be fair: he knows a fantastic amount about art history and already knows all the periods and most of the masters and who they worked with. He is going because he can already rattle off the names of hundreds of paintings and he wants to see them in person. This is school.

You can see why the kids do not enjoy traveling together very much. After the trip to Texas last year EC vehemently announced, “Remind me never to take a family vacation with any of you people again.” That hurt my feelings. Dude! IT WASN’T A VACATION!!! It was a trip to see a dying relative in a place that our entire family finds overwhelmingly stressful and difficult. There was no way for that trip to go better than it did and realistically it went about 300% better than I expected even with luggage that didn’t arrive for five days. My mother in law was nice for the whole trip. That was outstanding and I can just express gratitude.

Nevertheless there was no part of that journey that was a vacation. Just no.

Between the trip to London and the trip to Paris I am going to be ramping up speed. I will already be in better shape for distance. I’m going to whisper it here first. I want to run the 2023 Loch Ness Marathon. It’s the 1st of October, over 6 weeks before the trip to Paris so I will be nicely recovered after the race. I’ve been working on the treadmill for a few weeks so far in addition to the outside time with MC. I am doing shorter speed work in a controlled environment because I like my knees very much and walking on ice and snow is one thing, running is another.

It’s January now! I am allowed to pull my garden planning information out and plan out my work for the year. I told myself I had to wait out December and just focus on getting through the days. Woo!

I’ve been saying since I got here give me five years before you judge my garden. This is winter number four. I suspect that this coming year’s work is the last of the bones. Of course the deck around the apartment and the balcony off the lounge are both rotting and getting close to dangerous. This house is nonstop. Now I need to leave enough travel space around the house for whoever eventually replaces our windows (many are broken and in bad shape) in the next few years and I can fill in from the edges. In my head I see Noah’s aunt’s property up in Oregon. She has a gorgeous homestead that could probably feed her year round if she didn’t think preserving food was boring and a waste of time. Ha. Instead she feeds the local wildlife. Ok.

My goal in the long run is to be able to walk out of my house and find something to eat every day of the year. Sure a lot of that will be in the polytunnel during the winter but I’m ok with that!

I’ve already added one hazel this year (two other sub-types of hazel are coming but they haven’t arrived yet), two grapes, and a Cherry Silverberry that I am ridiculously excited about. That on top of scores of canes in previous years, a bunch of rhubarb, strawberries, cherries (5 different kinds!)… It’s going to be absolutely amazing. In 4-ish more years I will be able to tell people what kind of produce from my yard will be in season when so they can pick their visit around what they want to eat. That makes my heart soar. I’m doing this.

I may be creaky, in pain, grouchy, and difficult but I am also lucky, hard working, ambitious, determined, and incredibly successful at reaching my goals. I am the luckiest bitch.