Diarrhea of the mouth.

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Here’s to hoping that the stunned expressions at book club were not from shock or horror. I will find out soon if I am excommunicated. Ha. I’m really not good at being in the closet any more.

The topic of hitting came up. I clarified some of my positions. Like: I don’t hit my kids and in my culture I have no plans to ever hit my kids. I think there is the distinct possibility that at some point in time we will be in a different enough culture where I will believe that hitting a kid in order to make them be quiet and safe until we have the ability to go aside privately and talk about the problem is ok. Does that mean that I think that I will automatically hit my kids when we travel? Of course not. Shanna has been to four foreign countries and nary a slap to her credit.

I understand that sometimes parents hit their kids as a way of showing extreme boundaries. “I do this so you learn from this experience and don’t die.”

In the book Outlander there is a scene where the 18th century guy tells the 20th century chick not to wander off or he will beat her. She wanders off and incurs major risk and badness for lots of people. Her husband beat her. After it was over they negotiated that it won’t happen again.

But I get why it happened. I don’t feel upset with him for living according to the rules of the culture he was raised with. She risked lives. She needs to feel how god damn serious that is.

If we were in an Islamic country and one of my daughters wanted to mouth off I would silence her. I do not know how much risk we are taking by different behaviors. I don’t know what will result in my daughter getting seriously harmed by people who disapprove of her existing. I know that there is actual serious risk involved. (Much like Jaime did in the book I would warn my kids about the consequence in advance–we are traveling and the rules are different. This is how and this is why.)

In the process of discussing it someone asked me about how I can process something like that quickly. How can I read books as fast as I do–don’t I have to stop and think about them?

Specifically I was asked how I could just take in a man beating his wife and not have to stop and think about it.

It was in context so I weighed the consequences for like twenty seconds (obviously I am ready to be ostracized if it is going to happen) and said that I don’t particularly have to stop and think about him beating her all that much. I just accept it as the story and keep going. I don’t get hung up on things like that partially because when I became an adult I went straight into the bdsm community and spent two years as a 24/7 slave. The idea of being hit just isn’t something I have to think about much. It happens. Ok.

We didn’t stay on the book much. We wandered into a lot of third world travel situations and how crossing cultures works. We talked about internal vs. external locus of control. I don’t even remember all of what we talked about. I had fun.

The fantasy faire was great; I look forward to it next year. They had a *wonderful* game section with a wide variety of board games and good games for small children. Calli and I spent a lot of time tossing stuffed frogs into a bowl. It was more fun than it sounds. They got their faces painted (unicorns) and I got a bodice so that I can go to Ren Faire again someday. The one I had before today is from a friend and she has much wider shoulders than me so it just didn’t fit. The rest of the garb is more flexible and easy to make work. A bodice must fit.

I’m glad today went well. I feel like we all needed that. I feel really good about my interactions with the kids today. Boundaries are good. Not yelling is good. Talking about  responsibility is good.

I’m glad I got to spend today with my children. I’m very lucky to know them.

GAD sucks.

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I need to leave in forty-five minutes. Book club. We read Outlander by Diana Gabaldon. Woo! One of my favorites. I’m excited.

Then I will come home and get the girls and go to a fantasy faire. So like a Renaissance Faire (has anyone ever told these people that the Renaissance mostly took place in Italy?) but even more obviously based on people just liking the clothes. Fairy tales and princesses and pirates. It’ll be fun.

I ran. 5.85 miles in 80 minutes. I will be more enthusiastic at the race because I will be trying not to hold my friend back so I think it will be fine. *cross fingers*

My inadequacy is trying to drown me lately. Every playful jab feels like a slap in the face and a refresher of the idea that people don’t like me. People aren’t trying to hurt my feelings. I’m just over sensitive don’tyouknow? I don’t feel likable. I feel like the cracks about, “Wow. You’ve got some issues to work out” just don’t really seem necessary. I want to turn around and snap, “What’s your fucking point? Just because you don’t want to work hard that doesn’t mean you should fucking mock me for doing so.” (Err, we were weeding at an apple tree orchard. It was an off-hand comment. No one meant any harm. I shut my mouth and put my head down. I didn’t say a word.)

No one ever seems to mean their harm. So if you are harmed shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up.

I can see myself hiding in a lot of corners. I am worried about people being behind me. I feel unsafe. I feel like people are going to talk badly about me. I hate feeling like walking into a room is going to result in a rush of whispering as people talk shit about me. I understand that at this stage of life a lot of this is paranoia. But it isn’t all paranoia. I piss people off.

And they don’t ever have the fucking balls to talk to me about it. I hear about it through back channels and gossip. It insults the fucking shit out of me. It makes me feel much less happy about seeing people at all.

If everyone expects me to yell at them all the time I feel like there isn’t really a point in showing up. Obviously my company can’t be much of a pleasure. I’ll stay home and not inflict my unpleasant nature on anyone.

I’m sorry I exist.

I know I’m too loud. I know I’m too harsh. Why do you think I consciously identify as white trash? I’m explaining to you that I do not share your middle class values. I do not think I should be quiet. I do not think my household should be quiet as people tiptoe around trying to “not bother” anyone.

If someone is fucking bothered they either need to god damn deal with it or not snidely fucking imply that I should fucking share their culture. I don’t. I don’t know your fucking culture and I couldn’t fucking conform to it if I wanted to. I don’t have the instincts. I will never have the instincts. I don’t want them.

I don’t want to be like you.

It’s not because I think there is something in particular wrong with you. You are fine and all. But I can’t be you. If I tried to be like you I would have to sit down and consciously think all the time about how I had to behave. I would have to work really hard for months or years on learning to modulate my voice–all activities you did in your culture in the first five years or so of your life.

I learned that I had to yell or I would be hurt really badly. I learned that I had to make some fucking noise. I have to be obnoxious and pushy and difficult and demanding. I have to or I will die. That is what I learned.

It’s interesting as I study child development and as I watch my kids and as I think about my own life.

I won’t ever be like you–whoever you are. I can’t. I don’t have your culture. That has to be ok. It has to be. I can’t change it.

fast check in

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I called to schedule physical therapy two days after the rec expired. I’m so slick. I emailed my doctor. I sent out at least ten other scheduling emails. I’m booked until June unless people want to come visit while I do yard work. Or come to dinner. That’s ok. But I think I have my leaving-the-house-plans.

I don’t believe I deserve a community. But it seems to me like people look around and see that they could form community with me or have less community so maybe I’m tolerable. I’ll take it.

I know I’m volatile. I try to keep most of it online. (Except for when I show up at the park and someones kid is on top of my car in under two minutes. Then I yell.)

I have been talking to Shanna about the locking food up issue. I am having intense internal conflict around this. I haven’t installed the locks yet. In a basic moral way it offends me. But I’m afraid that if I don’t put locks on the cabinet I am going to lose it and slap her in the face one of these times. That seems like a non-acceptable possibility. Locks seem so much better compared to that. My control is not perfect and is not endless.

I know they’ll grow up. This stage has ups and downs. They all do. The locks aren’t permanent. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.

Self control sounds hard

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What I know about my father is: he was tall, 6’7″. He liked to read science fiction books. (If you want the real reason I avoided sci fi for most of my life… knowing he liked them was enough.) He liked taking baths. He was a printer. He was from Pasadena. He was mean. He liked to rape his children.

I was reading about Buddhist meditation retreats. I’m not sure how I would handle having to sit around and just be still. I would spend a lot of time thinking about my dad. Watching my husband with our kids is like the bitter mixed with the sweet. I feel over and over every day, why didn’t I deserve to be loved? I keep wondering when people are going to realize they should stop. I don’t deserve any positive emotions from anyone. It has always been true.

I feel like a fucking asshole because I got angry about not being loved and I ripped the whole fucking house down. I prosecuted my father and I divorced my mother after loudly and publicly humiliating and shaming her.

Don’t fuck with me.

Ok, I don’t do that to everyone. I haven’t been quite so hostile with all of the people who have hurt me and not loved me. Usually I just put my head down, accept it as the natural order of things, and start walking.

It is very scary trying to be emotionally attached to my children. Every part of me screams not to. Don’t invest. They will just leave you and hurt you. Families are bullshit. No one really gives a shit about anyone but themselves.

I care. I take care of them because I love them. Not because they do anything for me. Well, they hug me. That’s nice.

Apparently my father pestered my mother for a threesome for many years. I wonder if she had given in to that would he have left her daughters alone? There is no way of knowing and no sense in blaming. I doubt he would have left us alone.

My experience of men who rape and men who hurt little children is that they are deeply wounded. They feel small and weak. They do not know that they are so strong they can crush the person with one hand. In their minds that transformation never happened. They believe they are still weak like I believe I do not deserve love. Most of them believe they do not deserve love either. Most of them understand that they should shut their mouths and look down and never expect anyone to love them but everyone gets sick of doing that.

So when someone shows signs of love it is hard to stop. It is hard to keep from pushing harder and harder in your excitement. Oh my goodness this person loves me. If the recipient decides to say “no” and pull away… that’s dangerous and bad. No. They are just kidding. They want to love me. See, they do. They are still here. They want me to be happy. This is what will make me happy.

One of the hardest parts of all day every day is balancing all of the needs in my head. I have to be important–I can’t be a martyr. But I have to look really hard at the people around me and meet their needs. Often when they can’t express the need on their own.

It is hard to not be selfish. It is hard to not take. It is hard to not be self-centered. But I can’t be. That’s what fucks kids up. I have to fucking care about my children and their needs. No one else will unless I do. If I don’t treat them like people of status it is unlikely someone else will.

People get the treatment they expect. People get the treatment they accept.

I don’t know how to defend myself without being angry. I don’t know how to take up space and be allowed to be without setting fire to earth and eliminating every one and every thing near me. That’s not a useful skill right now in my life. It is kind of the opposite of useful, really.

If you don’t like the paths you know go find a new one. What would it be like to not be angry? I haven’t had very many days in the past twenty years when I haven’t felt simmering rage. It kind of blows my mind.

What I know about my father is that he was angry and entitled. I worry about myself. I don’t want to act entitled. I’m not. I worry about the men I know who rape. They are angry and entitled.

You can’t persuade someone to change by yelling at them. Not really. You can cause them to cower and lie and cover up. But that’s not what I want. I want people to understand how big and strong and powerful they are… and to consciously choose to not hurt people. I don’t think that is something I am going to be able to do by being nasty.

I’m really scared of not being angry any more. I know that has to be part of the next step. But I’m afraid that without it I will die. I’m afraid that anger will kill me. (Yes, that was a contradiction.) Being angry is a tremendous load on the body. It is slow suicide. Being this angry allthefuckingtime is a way of killing yourself. But being angry is what motivates me to defend myself.

What is the point of living in preparation for death? Death is part of every life. I’m not sure that anyone should focus on that being the whole point of every day.

I have a lot to do today. I’m feeling overwhelmed already. Weeding, make lunch, park day (there seems to be more and more drama-I think I will do a lot of Shiny Change of Topic), reply to about ten emails with scheduling foo, make phone calls (I am going to schedule physical therapy. I am going to schedule physical therapy. I am going to schedule physical therapy. soyouknowhowmydoctortoldmetodothisinJanuary?YeahI’mbroken.

Make dinner. I’m already in progress on (yet more fucking) laundry. I’ll be happy when younger daughter outgrows the four-outfits-a-day stage. Older daughter has. But then again they have different body temperatures. Younger daughter changes her many layers of clothing as often as I do. We’re in trouble.

When I think about why I am doing things (cleaning the house, weeding, whatever) I think that I want my children to say, “My mom likes to work.” That’s a description I will have to fucking earn. It will be harder given that I don’t have a tidy outside job to at which to point. Lots of people claim to work hard while doing less in a day than I do in most hours. It’s kind of perplexing to me. I could not handle a job where I sat around kind of waiting for something to happen. Not even the kind of waiting/work firefighters do. I have to work more than that. Nervous energy.

It is weird trying to appreciate the difference between mental and physical labor. They are both serious effort. Many people are capable of one but not the other. I’m trying as hard as I can to walk down the middle of the aisle. I want to learn things today that I did not know yesterday. I want that to be true every day. I want to have moved my body around and improved the nature of something pretty much every day. (Ok, I understand that some people don’t consider cleaning to be improving the nature of things and yet those people seem to get pissy about not being able to find things.)

I like resetting the space. In our home there is a place for everything and I can get everything in its place. It all comes down just about every day because living is like that. But I can reset. I can get to baseline. I don’t do it over and over all day. Ok, I skip days of cleaning my kitchen when I am enmeshed in projects elsewhere. It gets gross.

But as long as it is in disorder I can physically feel it and it bothers me. So I don’t leave things messy for long. The idea of going out and buying nail clippers over and over because you can never find them turns my stomach. I have no idea why but that is a little microcosm of first world consumptive waste for me. No. I just can’t be part of it. Clean up your fucking house and you will be able to keep track of your belongings. If you can’t keep track of your belongings clearly you have too many.

I think this makes me a “minimalist”. But I don’t even feel like a minimalist. I have too much shit for that.

Wow this got rambly. This is all connected for me. This is what I fear facing in meditation. I only face this flow of thoughts for a few hours of writing a day. It’s kind of intimidating to think of going at this speed for a day.

The retreat center spoke of accessing your wisdom. To me that clearly means “people shouldn’t come until they are over fifty”. The internet tells me: “Wisdom is the judicious study and application of knowledge. It is a deep understanding and realization of people, things, events or situations, resulting in the ability to apply perceptions, judgments and actions in keeping with this understanding. It often requires control of one’s emotional reactions (the “passions“) so that universal principles, reason and knowledge prevail to determine one’s actions. Wisdom is also the comprehension of what is true coupled with optimum judgment as to action. Synonyms include: sagacity, discernment, or insight.”

I’m in that needing control stage. Shit. I hate this part.

Busy but standing still.

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Woke up at 4am. For the first few hours I wasn’t real productive. I read. I blabbed on the ptsd support site. Then was breakfast. Then I made dinner (yay crockpot). Then I started laundry. Then I did the first round of dishes. I watered the front and back yards.

After that I scooped the cat box and gave her new food and water. Then I took out the garbage and recycling. After that I got to settle in for two hours of weeding.

Lots of kid drama and screaming. I feel like a big asshole but I also feel like OH MY FUCKING GOD DO WE HAVE TO DO THIS EVERY DAY?!

Then I rotated laundry. Then I made lunch. Lots of bitching at me over lunch.

Then we slowly cleaned up the living room and got the kids redressed (Calli was on her fourth g-d outfit) and switched laundry again.

Then we walked to Home Depot for hasps so that I can lock the fucking food cabinets. (There are foods you can eat all you want of and there are foods you need to eat in moderation. Any time Shanna is out of sight of an adult she is sneaking into foods she knows she isn’t supposed to free-feed. I can’t take the screaming and she shows no sign of being interested in stopping.)

Then we walked to dance class. This walk was three miles to get from our house to this point. Calli and I hung out during class and did ok. After class we got to walk another 1.7 miles home (up the big darn hill). Then I got to finish making dinner.

After dinner I folded three loads of laundry, brushed/flossed Shanna, did thirty minutes of kitchen cleanup (more fucking dishes). I made new soda water bottles for tomorrow.

It’s weird how I feel like I do a lot yet feel like I don’t do anything. I don’t feel useful. It’s going to take at least another one hundred hours before the yard is properly weeded. I’m about eight hours in. I want to cry. Instead I will work. Before and after engagements for the next couple of weeks. I would like to get some seeds in the ground (I’d really like corn this year) so I need to get my ass in gear. I need everything in the ground and ready to go before we go camping or I will miss the growing season. So that’s three weeks. Good thing the girls go to visit their Godmamas this week. I may spend the entire time weeding.

I’m tired.

I can’t help thinking that the best part of my day comes in the middle of the night. Post-kids I have to wake up for the bathroom multiple times a night. When I come back to bed Noah grabs me like I am his security blanket and makes soothing sounds and starts massaging me basically in his sleep. I feel wanted and loved and secure. I feel so lucky to be married to him.

Anger management

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I’m very excited to report that my evil mood didn’t last twelve hours. I “ran” six miles (no that wasn’t the “schedule” but I did it anyway) but I was slower than a turtle. I’m nervous about the 10k coming up. I haven’t really been training. I’ll get through it but I believe I will hold my partner back and I feel guilty about that. I’m not honoring her commitment.

I’m not working on a book and I feel guilty about that. I haven’t emailed off No Secrets to the friend who will edit.

I haven’t weeded much. My garden is over run. I feel discouraged by losing sixty starts. I’m having a hard time motivating myself to work even though I will be grateful in the long run.

I haven’t been working on Spanish or French or ASL in the past month or so. The very idea makes me want to cry.

I have been a tremendous flaky asshole with the home schooling group lately. I’m not showing up. I am not feeling competent. It isn’t about anyone but me.

I haven’t been cooking much. I just don’t want to. I feel angry and trapped and frustrated instantly at the very idea.

Luckily the kids go to visit their Godmamas this week. I have every intention of hiding in my house for a few days and not talking to anyone. It sounds divine. Maybe I can catch up on my chores and stop hating the universe for not allowing me to get through my list of tasks.

So yesterday when I decided to go for a run first I had to find socks. That required digging through laundry. On the trip to get stuff out of the dryer I discovered that the kids (in that charming way they have every time I’m in a bad mood) dumped several dozen crackers on the floor and crunched them. Mess ~ 4′ wide by 4′ wide. Cue fury. They got put in time out. And I screeched (it wasn’t pretty) THIS IS THE LAST TIME. IF THIS EVER HAPPENS AGAIN I AM PUTTING PADLOCKS ON EVERY CUPBOARD IN THE KITCHEN AND YOU WILL GET BREAKFAST LUNCH AND DINNER AND YOU NO LONGER GET SNACKS.

Then I got out to the garage only to discover that the cat needed food and water and and… it just kept going.

When I start out wanting to go for a run and it turns into having to do a bunch of laundry and care for the cat and the kids make a huge mess (Noah actually cleaned up the crackers–God bless him) I lose my shit.

What does losing my shit mean? It means I want to hurt someone. I’m not too particular. My favorite target is, of course, myself. Yesterday I wanted to beat my head so badly I couldn’t think of much else. I wanted to drown out all of the other sounds. If I beat my head hard enough I am not capable of thinking about all of the things that I am “supposed” to be doing. It drowns out all of the noise in my brain.

It doesn’t help that both of my kids TALK NONSTOP AT THE TOP OF THEIR VOICES ALL GOD DAMN DAY EVERY GOD DAMN DAY. Sometimes it feels like my ears will fall off. Silence. Goodness I miss silence.

The thing that is hardest for me lately is: when I am angry it is about things inside me. It is not reasonable to expect other people to conform to my moods.

I can’t expect people to cater to my moods. But man I am looking forward to my kids being older. I’m looking forward to being able to say, “I am in an evil mood. It’s not your fault. I’m going to put my headset on and please pretend I’m not here.” Right now my sweet babies just can’t handle that. It’s hard on all of us.

Time passes. Things will change. I’m glad that evil moods don’t come as often as they used to. I didn’t kick a hole in the wall. I didn’t do irreparable damage to any relationships. I didn’t break anything. I cried while I was running. I was just so mad. I feel impatient, frustrated, trapped, inconsequential.

No biblical hell could ever be worse than a state of perpetual inconsequence.

I’m having trouble with scale. Right now is marathon-style terrible preparation work. Where is my instant gratification? But I’m so bogged down with marathon-scale prep work that I cannot even vaguely imagine taking a break for instant gratification. I would fall into an exhausted ball on the floor and cry. Just can’t. Not right now.

This is where I used to go pick someone up. That’s instant gratification. I bet that’s why I went to the bar. But I can’t pick someone up. Sex with Noah just… isn’t the same kind of thing. I feel bad about that. He would like it if it was the same. I love him. Sex with him is different.

Most recently I was reading about sexual dysfunction for PTSD and looking at how the brain operates with arousal/numbness. Ah. That’s why I like one night stands and people who beat the shit out of me. That’s why the nice bunny sex in the dark is not so orgasmic. I’m safe. Safe=not aroused.

The problem is, most of my brain arousal manifests as anger. I can’t use it as fuel for finding sex partners. Fuck, fight or flee. I can’t really do any of the above. Sex with Noah isn’t really fucking lately. I’m happy about that. If he tried I might smack him in the face. I don’t have patience for that from him right now. What we are doing is ok.

This is new. Well, I suppose other people have been managing not having these options for  most of their lives. Ha. That must be very frustrating. But I see the value in learning it during childhood so that your mistakes have less lasting impact. Err, not that I’m going to let my children learn during childhood. Wait, all the modifiers in this paragraph are confusing.

The whole fuck/fight/flee thing is instinctual for everyone. Most people are not really permitted to follow these urges during childhood. They have to suppress them. I didn’t learn most of the normal coping methods. It’s weird feeling so immature. The ridiculous impulsivity. But I can learn it. Everyone else learned it. Other people make mistakes like cheating on their spouses as adults. Ha.

Ack. Breakfast.

I want to start a fight.

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I’m in a mood. I want to be aggressive and nasty and mean. I hate asking for something and being told no. And I’ve had multiple people (who have all been pestering me for social engagements) all cancel/say no already today. (The events weren’t all for today.) They have lives. Things come up. I’m not supposed to have feelings about them canceling. It’s like rude or something.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the people who actually show up. Where. When. Why? Oh god why. I don’t think I could properly evaluate them if I sat down and said: “This person has a 75% flake rate. This person has a 95% flake rate. This person has a 15% flake rate.” I’d be wrong. I misjudge people all the time.

I’m really surprised by who shows up. I’m a flaky bastard so I’m not throwing stones. Flaking is a way of saying, “My needs are the only ones I need to consider and your experience/feelings/whatever are your problem.” Yup, I’m flaky. Sometimes I can’t give a shit about someone else wanting to see me.

I’m feeling defensive. And like I need to work harder on building my citadel. This is my space. People will rarely be invited into it unless I know I can trust you and you won’t treat me like I don’t matter. We have to find a way of bonding before I will make plans with you. If I’m not at least somewhat bonded I will ensure I never become bonded if you flake on me.

I think my last big experience with that was enough for this lifetime. If you can’t make agreements and keep them then I can’t need you. I have to ensure that my needs (emotional safety and predictability are high on this list) are met and I just can’t be someone who meets your needs. Reciprocation is weird. I don’t have a reciprocal relationship with my kids. It isn’t supposed to be reciprocal. Friendships are. Often all that is reciprocated is time spent and respect. I don’t need money, help cleaning my house, or even babysitting. I’ll make it through. Would my life be easier if I had more support? Maybe.

Near as I can tell “support” isn’t worth the cost. In order to get thirty minutes of support I need to trade four hours of effort. That’s a losing situation.

You aren’t supposed to think about your friends like this. It makes you an asshole.

The best thing about having moved over and over in my life is I don’t really have much of a sense of responsibility towards anyone. If you are upset it isn’t my problem. You have to deal with it. Can I feel empathy and sometimes want to help? Sure. But it’s on my schedule and as my energy allows. I’m not on fucking tap.

I need to stop bitching about specific social situations in my life. It’s not perfect but I choose it. Venting isn’t going to make anything better and I have no better options available. So I need to suck it and just deal. It’s ok that people don’t do what I do. Really.

Man I have judgment. As long as it stays in my head no one needs to be hurt or give a shit.

I really and truly don’t think other people “should” be like me. I don’t think it would be especially healthy for most people. I still struggle with watching people make decisions that have AN OBVIOUS FUCKING END POINT. They have to walk that road alone.

I’m not always right. My predictions work out a large percentage of the time, but not always. Free will and that shit.

Be alone. Be content with being alone. That’s a lot of where I am right now. Wanting to be with other people means having to conform to all of their little petty wants and needs and I’m busy with my own petty wants and needs.

I think I’m partially feeling emotionally volatile because I’ve read a lot of incest stuff this week. Two memoirs in book form(I need to record), a clinical book, and a bunch of websites and online abstracts from studies.

It feels really hard emotionally to sit still with how unbiased I will have to be in order to gather the data I want to gather about incest. I will have to be able to be compassionate towards perpetrators. I will have to be nonjudgmental. I will have to be neutral. I will have to act like my story is just one story and this picture is bigger than me and I can’t judge people through my lens.

It is a kind of being invisible again. Not mattering. The plural of anecdote is not data.

Only it is if you are serious enough. I need to start deciding the form and shape of the data I want to gather. I think those notes will have to be long-hand. What questions do I want answers to?

I’m feeling insecure and like I don’t have the right to talk about this subject because I am not “officially/formally trained”. No one with Actual Authority is giving me their Stamp of Approval. I’m going to have to just do it because I want it. That’s scary.

I’m feeling massively overwhelmed by how much I want to get done in this lifetime. I feel like I am instead spending time on things and people that don’t matter. I’m wasting what time I have.

What value does “being entertained” have? Everyone needs to rest–sure. And I’m primarily homeschooling for the next decade or so. How should time be spent?

Priorities. Time to look at ye olde priority list again. I’m not finding self-discipline. I’m not finding drive. I just feel scared and paralyzed.

I got into a nasty argument on my ptsd forum. The rabid AA-sobriety-is-the-only-path people are telling me that if I hold anything other than an abstinence-only policy it will be my fault people die from alcohol/drug problems. I had no idea I was so powerful. I CONTROL ALLLLLLL THE PEOPLE.

Or something.

Are there addicts who must be 100% sober in order to not die young and miserable and weighing 74 pounds after subsisting on only rot-gut whiskey? Probably. Is that absolutely standard and true for every person who can fall under the label of “addict”? No. Absolutely unequivocally no. Give me a fucking break.

I really hate all humans some days. Not in a personal way. Like, I won’t be nasty to Noah or the kids. But I don’t like humanity some days. I’m frustrated.

Get over it, Krissy. You don’t actually want to be alone. People will frustrate you. People will do things you don’t like. Staple your fucking mouth shut and keep walking. You don’t hate everything they do. Heck, you don’t even hate a large percentage of what they do. You are just in a bad mood. Don’t fuck anything up today.

Tomorrow will be a different day. Tomorrow you will miss people and think, “Oh well… even if they have a 95% flake rate… I still get them 5% of the time! That’s better than being alone 100% of the time!”

My tolerance depends on how needy I feel. Today I don’t feel needy. I will again. Don’t blow anything up. Damnit.

When I really think about it the fact that multiple friends have already been sexually assaulted this year isn’t helping my mood either. I’m glad they can talk to me about it. There is so much pain in this world. Sometimes I feel buried.

My ego: wanna stroke it?

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I went out. To a munch at a bar. It was made clear to me that I could have gone home with at least three people. Apparently folks missed me. I was offered beatings and cuddles and kisses and bondage. I could really have an ego if I wanted one. It’s kind of mind boggling how I maintain such low self esteem.

I’ve been having a rabid argument on my ptsd support site today. Can someone “heal” while using drugs or must they be completely sober before the journey can begin. Discuss. I have strong views. I am not on AAs side.

I have been reading a lot more about men hating women. You know, stuff written by men. It’s like visiting crazy town. I think I understand a bit more about why they don’t like me though.

I’ve been reading about consensual incest because it occurs to me that if I am going to try and collect real stories and serious data I will have to be completely accepting of whatever I get. And people are going to have a very serious range of backgrounds.

Tonight, at the munch, as I was on my way out a woman asked me for advice on how to handle advances from men. How do you deflect attention you don’t want? What things do you say? How do you deal with them? I told her I have a nasty history of sexual assault so I’m not sure my advice is the best. And then I told the story about being humiliated on the beach.

So, years ago I was brought into an extended part of the Burning Man community. I participated in a particular local burn every month. I never went out to the playa–I’m not a dusty girl. The one year I bought a ticket I gave it to my friend Mo and ran off to marry Noah instead. That was the right choice.

Long before I married Noah, right after I left my Owner (I literally moved my stuff from my Owner’s house on a Thursday and left on Friday for my first camp out with the group) I went on my first date with someone and spent the weekend doing ecstasy and nitrous for the first time and drinking a rather lot of alcohol. In the first weekend I fucked six people. I liked that group a lot.

After I had been part of that group for a year or so there started to be increasing problems with men being overly aggressive with women. The burns had gotten more popular and it was held at a nude beach so things got heated. This was in the height of the tribe.net days. Oh I miss tribe. It was decided that there would be a workshop on how to deal with sexual advances.

The woman who ran it pulled me out in front of the group and identified me by name. In the next few minutes she said explicitly that it was possible to have boundaries without being a bitch like me.

So tonight when I was asked for advice on how to handle unwanted advances I had feelings. Mostly how I handle them now is by holding up my big shiny ring and saying, “Monogamous!”

But before that. What did I do?

First, think about it from the male point of view. He is experiencing chemistry with you. He is in an at least mildly heightened arousal. And men are socialized to know that if they don’t push aggressively for sex they probably won’t get any. Any sign of equivocation or hesitation is a signal that you are just hoping that he’ll try harder.

So you need to be very clear. Never apologize. Acknowledge and be polite. “I’m not hunting. I’m really not looking for anything but friends.” You don’t need to feel responsible if he gets butt-hurt. That’s part of his growing process. Everyone gets rejected sometimes. I have kind of a ridiculous success rate (err, historically) and I get rejected tons.

It’s ok for guys to ask. It’s ok to not be interested and just say no. Don’t apologize. Never apologize for not wanting to have sex with someone. It is not their right. It is not something they have a basic set of permissions to access.

It was hard tonight to figure out the right mix of behavior. I flirted. I flirted with people I have a very long history with (my wonderful Daddy was there or I wouldn’t have gone) and I felt safe. I felt pretty and fun. I don’t feel fun very often. Usually I feel boring or bad. I kind of alternate between them.

I feel like my stories are all sad and full of woe. I feel like I am pathetic and uninteresting. When people ask me what I have been up to I know they only want the highlights so I go with: “Gardening and home schooling my kids and painting murals in my house.” That certainly isn’t lying. I don’t mention the book much. That’s a downer. WHICH IS WHY IT DOESN’T SELL. Silly girl. Ack.

But it was nice going out to the munch. It reminded me that there is a critical lack of mentor-like people who are without agendas in my community. My community is primarily a place where people go to hunt and hunt hard. There are monogamous people but they are kind of weird.

I think we are good for the community. I think it is good to understand that you can have boundaries and closeness. You don’t have to fuck everyone you love.

That’s kind of a weirdly intense thing for me. You don’t have to fuck everyone you love. I was supposed to fuck my brother. I was supposed to fuck my dad. But you don’t have to fuck everyone you love.

It’s ok to leave doors closed. I know this shouldn’t be epiphany territory. Maybe you aren’t compulsively sexual.

And also:

“Compulsivity model of hypersexuality

Compulsions are behaviors a person performs in order to reduce feelings of anxiety or tension. According to this explanation of hypersexuality, persons engage in whatever sexual behavior in order to reduce feelings of tension, instead of to express sexual desire. Because engaging in the behavior can worsen the situation causing the tension, the person experiences a longer-term increase in tension, despite the shorter-term relief, resulting in a self-perpetuating cycle.”

Yeah, that’s me.

Part of the reason that I “rape easy” is because I have a lot of compassion specifically for men who are very frustrated by sexual rejection. I find the sex addicts. I understand why they feel like someone like me should exist. It was really intense for me when I read the Kushiel series. I have felt like I was required to take in the pain of other people since I was a small child. For a long time I felt like it was more or less my duty to make their lives better.

It doesn’t hurt me to have sex with lonely, frustrated men. And it makes them so happy. Don’t I owe them that happiness since it is so easy for me to give and they want it so badly?

It feels weird when people ask me for advice on how to handle men. What the fuck do I know? How to get raped over and over. Because I am stupid and I keep standing near dangerous people. I stand near them because they understand the game and for most of my life I needed to have someone acknowledge to me that the game existed. (I don’t mean you lost the game. That’s different.)

Life presents you with teachers in the right times and in the right places. I have learned from prostitutes and drag queens. I have learned from old leather fags and rednecks. I have learned from WASPs and the projects.

One of the most important bits is stay away from anyone who makes you nervous. That’s where I get hosed. The ones who make me nervous intrigue me. I’m stupid. Let me tell you the rapes were uninventive enough that I mourn for their other partners. They wouldn’t be fun to stand next to for long.

But I feel bad for them. Because they so obviously feel pain. I want to help. Codependent dumbass. I want to be liked. That was what was on offer.

It is nice knowing that I don’t have to hope anyone else will like me every again. I get to just exist. But how am I going to deal with advances? You don’t have to be a perfect ten in my community in order to be considered interesting–it’s an awesome community.

It is all so complicated. How does one develop an actual clear way of managing oneself? I can’t pretend I’m not hot (I totally am) just because not every person on the whole planet wants to have sex with me. But I have self esteem issues. (Not body issues exactly.)

I will say that it was kind of weird having people plot porn out on the table in front of me. Other than my recent foray into tumblr I don’t look at a lot of visual porn anymore. I stopped that when I stopped having partners who were aggressively interested in porn. I presume that Noah looks at porn occasionally but I know for a fact he doesn’t have time to do much of it.

I was reminded what world I was in. I was repulsed and comforted simultaneously. I will note that the people in the pictures represented a fabulous array of sizes, shapes, and skin tones.

Oh yeah. I forgot. People are really beautiful. I haven’t looked at them like this in a long time.

I think I will go out wearing red lipstick again. I liked the reaction. It was really nice not feeling invisible. And it was nice being with friends. And, let’s be honest, it was nice feeling like I could crook my little finger and disappear with any number of people.

Ok. I think my libido is starting to reappear. This life business is going to be interesting. Monogamy is a conscious choice for me. It is a decision I make over and over and over like I make the decision to stay married and I make the decision to not run away from home and take my kids and start over somewhere new. Not because Noah has done anything wrong–I’m just crazy.

Being in love is, in my opinion, largely a choice. I could choose to nurture resentment. Instead I choose to be grateful that I have an exceptionally giving partner and I know I won’t find better. Sure, I could find someone to fuck me or hit me… Noah loves me. Noah loves me enough to give me his name and his babies and all of his spare time and mountains of money and all of the property he didn’t have to share because it was from an inheritance.

Should money matter? Enh, it’s not the money. If I left I would leave with little more than the clothes on my back and I would laugh at his attempts to give me money. I wouldn’t starve my kids but I’d get independent real fast and I’d stop cashing checks. I’m like that.

It’s the trust. It’s the commitment to making me safe. It’s the commitment for seriously investing in me.

Whoa. Holy fucking shit. How did I inspire that? I know that people get married all the time. I’ve spent enough time on the internet reading about dysfunctional relationships to understand how good I have it. Noah is probably glad that I no longer troll single parenting forums obsessively reading threads like “What do you wish you had known before you negotiated for custody?”

Ok, I think the caffeine has worn off. I wanted to make sure I could drive home safely. Woof. Tomorrow will be interesting.

Usually when I get this little sleep it isn’t because I was having fun. I think I will be able to smile tomorrow. I will remember watching the very pretty women doing terrible things to one another and I’ll smile. No one will need to know why.

Book #17

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Betrayal of Innocence: Incest and it’s Devastation by Susan Forward, MSW and Craig Buck.

Well. This wasn’t one of the more cheerful books I’ve read lately. It was interesting looking at the different dynamics between father/daughter, father/son, mother/daughter, mother/son, grandparent/grandkid (often mirrors parents but with a few key differences that often seem to be age related).

This is a subject that can be really understood. I don’t think the current books on the topic really do it. But I think it is possible. A few hundred case studies aren’t enough. If you look at statistics there are probably multiple hundreds of millions of people who have survived incest. A few studies of a few hundred or even a couple thousand just isn’t good enough.

Threads.

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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 asked my ex if he still had our slave contract.

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He said yes. How nice of him. 😀 I really picked an awesome boyfriend.

Slave Contract

This contract is between T-, herein referred to as Master, and Krissy
Archer, herein referred to as Slave. This contract is being entered into in order
to specify the boundaries and desires of each party and to clearly state how they
want their life to be structured. It represents a purely consensual agreement
between the parties.

Section One: The Master’s Role

The Master’s accepts the responsibility of owning his Slave. The Master agrees
to care for the Slave, to arrange for the safety and well being of the Slave, for as
long as he owns the Slave. The master also accepts the commitment to treat the
Slave properly, to train the Slave, punish the Slave, love the Slave, and use the
Slave.

Section Two: The Slave’s Role

The Slave’s role under this agreement is to work to facilitate the life of her
Master. The Slave will also strive to continually improve herself, both in terms of
skills needed for her own life as well as skills that facilitate the Master’s life.

Section Three: Alteration of Contract

This contract may only be altered with the consent of both parties. In the event
of an alteration, the new contract will be drafted, and when adopted older
contracts will be void.

Section Four: Termination of Contract

This contract may only be terminated after both parties agree that irreconcilable
differences in the relationship have been reached. All avenues of recourse to
repair the relationship must be investigated fully to both parties satisfaction
before termination.

Section Five: Code of Conduct: Master

The Master will treat the Slave with respect and love at all times. The Master will
strive at all times to keep the Slave informed of the happenings in their lives and
to consider the effect upon the Slave. The Master reserves the right to arrange
surprises.

Section Five: Code of Conduct: Slave

The slave is to try to contribute positively to the relationship and submit to
commands as they are issued.

Section Six: Agreements between Master and Slave (Normal Protocol):

1. The Slave will do her best to behave in the spirit of her position when
specific guidance is not provided.

2. When the Master arrives at the home, the Slave will be waiting for him,
kneeling in the hall. The Master agrees to provide adequate warning of
arrival.

3. The Master agrees to request an accounting of the Slave’s duties for the
day. The Slave agrees to provide an honest accounting when requested.

4. The Slave is expected to maintain an adequate stocking of household
supplies and groceries.

5. The Slave is expected to maintain the home in a state of cleanliness. The
Slave is to report to the Master any items requiring attention or repair and
to maintain a list of the same.

6. The Slave is expected to launder the household’s clothing and linen. The
Slave is forbidden to store clothing or linens on the banister.

7. The Slave is expected to fetch the mail daily.

8. The Slave is forbidden from operating a vehicle door in the Master’s
presence.

Section Six: Agreements between Master and Slave (Strict Protocol):

1. The Slave will obey without hesitation when the Master commands.

2. The Slave will address the Master using “Sir” or “Master” at all times.

3. In the Master’s presence, the Slave will await permission to begin eating.

4. The Slave will request permission before leaving the Master’s presence.

5. The Slave is required to ask permission to use furniture.

6. When in public, the Slave will take care to ensure that the Master can
garner her attention whenever desired.

7. If the Slave needs to bring an issue to attention, she must request
permission to speak freely first.

Section Seven: Hard Limits

The following is a list of hard limits both Master and Slave agree upon. This
section may be added to or subtracted from upon the agreement of both Master
and Slave.

1. Scat play

2. Needle play

Section Eight: Slave’s Signature

By her signature below, the Slave agrees to carry out the terms of this contract to
the best of her ability at all times.

Signature: ______________________________________ Date: _______________

Section Nine: Master’s Signature

By his signature below, the Master agrees to carry out the terms of this contract
to the best of his ability at all times.

Signature: ______________________________________ Date: _______________

Emotional dysregulation for the lose.

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Today I am angry. I am so angry I want to punch holes in walls. I am sad. I am so sad that I want to crawl under my bed and stay there for days sobbing until I am completely dehydrated.

I can’t do either.

I feel bad. I feel bad about myself for being someone who has these emotions. I feel angry with myself for being so petty and pathetic and stupid and hateful. God I feel hateful. I don’t even know who I hate. But I hate someone–anyone–everyone.

I want to cut. I want to cut so much it hurts already.

Yesterday we had a really great party. The weather cooperated. Everyone had a good time. I feel like a fucking asshole because I made comments to people about things that are none of my fucking business.

Hell, last night friends called me wanting advice on labor/delivery stuff. That’s flattering. Obviously other people don’t think I am a piece of shit. I do.

Today it feels like there could be no possible reason that I should stay alive. I am obviously inadequate and pathetic and bad. I kind of understand that this is fleeting. That I don’t always feel this way. I feel like I have nothing to give. And I feel like that means there is no reason for me to be here.

When I was reading the book about survivors it struck me that part of the difference between female survivors and male survivors is they often (not always–of course) women have to put their heads down and shut up and accept an evil overlord sort of presence because that is the only way they can raise their children.

I absolutely believe that the usefulness of my life at this point rests in my ability to turn out progeny who will be better, faster, stronger, and smarter than me. I could have decided to turn my prodigious educational gifts on other peoples children but I am selfish. I know that in the fullness of time I will feel more satisfaction from being able to see the tangible result of my efforts in the form of adult children who are able to go out into life and be successful. I will take it personally if I teach them something else.

Does that mean that I think that all people need to be motivated in the ways I am motivated? No. This is my personal problem. This is my journey. I do not believe that anyone else needs to be on my journey.

I think I am alone. And I feel angry about it. I don’t want to be but I am. I can’t handle what it would take to have people more actively in my life. I can’t handle getting up every day and having to deal with other people. I can’t handle a co-op preschool. I can’t handle doing outings every day with the homeschool group.

I feel brittle and broken and stupid and mean. I feel impatient and nasty. I feel bad.

I know it’s not ok that I place such importance on my children. I’m supposed to care about other things. I don’t know what I should build on. I feel kind of ridiculously angry with myself for fucking up the tomato starts. Stupid stupid stupid mistake. Well, I won’t make it again. Fuck. I can’t particularly base any self esteem on that project this year. Shit. Shit. Shit.

I need to go weed. I’m supposed to let that be enough for today. I’m supposed to let/make the children play outside. I’m too angry to be patient. I’m not angry with them. I can’t stand real close to them right this minute. I radiate anger. It makes them feel upset. It’s not about them.

I’m supposed to be loving. I don’t feel loving. I feel like I am bad. I feel like I have nothing to give. I feel like a defective person who is incapable of loving anyone. I used up a lot of spoons yesterday and I still fucked up repeatedly. I’m really not good at saying the right things. I feel mean-spirited. I don’t mean to be.

This is where the Generalized Anxiety Disorder part kicks in.

I am not being mean to the kids but I am not up for cuddling today. They are feeling pretty upset about that. I have to live with them being upset sometimes. And they have to live with me being upset sometimes. I’m sorry for that. I know this is the downside of this home schooling business. I know that this is the reason folks thinks folks with mental illness shouldn’t be parents. These mood swings are ridiculous.

I told the kids I needed to go sit in the garage and watch a grown up movie. I need to have my break early in the day. I’m watching Double Jeopardy with Ashley Judd and Tommy Lee Jones. Why do people act the way they do? How do people develop their own different obsessions and needs?

I will take my kids out to play and I will make jokes and interact with them. I will snuggle on demand. I will weed and I will be thrilled if they join me and provide a bunch of alternatives so they don’t have to.

It doesn’t matter how I feel. It matters how I act.

It’s ok for me to say, “I’m tired. I put out a lot of energy yesterday and I’m being grumpy with you because of that. I’m sorry I’m snapping. I’m going to go watch a movie and try to relax. After that we will go play.” I put out a plate of snacks. I refilled the water bottles. They are just having the ipad in the morning instead of in the afternoon today. That’s fine.

It doesn’t matter how I feel. It matters how I act. I want to have a relationship with these people. That means I have to be the fucking grown up. I don’t really want to be. But I signed on for this gig. Only fifteen more years until I am off duty. fuuuuuuck.

I will figure out what I want to live for at the end of the term of duty. Until then–time to go be a good example. Or some shit like that.

Dear anonymous person on the internet,

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You challenged me on Twitter. You told me that Occupy was dead and why should you care about some guy being tortured by the Police in Maine–it’s not your government.

Given that we live in a country where part of our civil war was based on the fact that some states were engaging in inappropriate activity and other states decided to stop them… I can’t imagine not feeling like part of the United States. Maine matters to me like California matters to other people.

Do you think that everyone else in the country watched the Rodney King riots and thought, “Good thing it isn’t my government doing this to someone.” Whoa. I can’t understand that thought. The militarization of the domestic police force is of enormous national concern. It quite literally keeps me up at night. How the police act in one city influences how they feel it acceptable to act in all other cities.

I have been thinking for days about how to talk about this subject. I have a strong tendency towards tl;dr so I’ve been struggling to find a pithy argument. It is quite frustrating that someone on the internet argues with me and demands a counter argument but I can’t count on someone to read more than three or four hundred words. That’s not an argument it is an exchange of theme songs.

For me, not caring about the police in Maine is like someone in Germany not caring about the first few train loads of Jews being abducted. I understand that I just lost this argument based on Godwin’s law. I spend my life living as if I am one of the first ones called. I can’t afford to think that the first few groups of people the police harass are acceptable collateral damage. My life won’t let me think of any situation like that.

I have had extremely damaging run-ins with police in my life. White trash whores are not really respected by local police forces–they decided who and what I was before I hit puberty. They were not interested in protecting me from rape or sexual assault from childhood. I live enmeshed in rape culture in a way that very few people can understand because very few people have more rapists than fingers.

I believe that a boy being tortured by the police in Maine matters because I have to believe that I would matter in his place. That it wouldn’t be ok for them to do it to me. I live in a time and a place where I can not have the hubris of saying, “Oh it wouldn’t happen to me so it is ok that they do it to someone else.” If they were going to do it to someone they just might do it to me. It wouldn’t be the first time I have had my rights taken away and I’ve been strapped down by government forces.

I understand that my life experiences are unique and unusual. My opinion intensified by one hundred after having children.

My then three year old marched with the Port Shutdown in Oakland. She remembers Occupy. We talk about it. I was one of the first people at the General Strike port shut down. I watched the thousands of people stream into the port. I watched what happens when people say, “It doesn’t matter that you say this doesn’t effect me and I should shut up–I have a voice and you can not silence me.”

I hear that Occupy is dead. I do not believe this. I believe that Occupy lives in the heart of every person who will not be silenced. This summer I will be painting a mural on a neighborhood fence because some kids keep putting graffiti on it. The elderly lady who owns the property is not up to maintaining a fence free of graffiti. I’m going to use neighborhood children to help me paint.

Occupy is not just about living in tents and existing to annoy city hall. Occupy is about seeing something in your community and trying to fix it. Maybe I would feel less personally connected to the boy in Portland Maine if I had not just mapped out how I would drive there a week before seeing this video clip. I was specifically planning on going to that city. In my country. In my car with my kids. How could I not feel like what happens to him matters to me?

Why should you care? I haven’t been able to figure out how to convince you. I ask that you be polite about my belief. I should get angry when the government tortures people because it is wrong. That is just how the world should work in my head. Ok, that’s as pithy as I can manage. You see why I didn’t respond on Twitter.

Easter fretting.

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It is going to be raining cats and dogs on Easter. That means no outdoor hunt. Which means I will only be able to hide 40-50 eggs. I have over 300 filled. Hm. I’m really not sure how I want to handle this. Although the chance of rain went from 70% to 30% and they are no longer predicting thunder storms during my party window.

I think I’m just going to have a party no matter what and if I have a bunch of eggs left I’ll organize something with the homeschool group in the next week or two.

Ok. That’s a plan.

Now I understand “fuck cancer”

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For most of my life I have been kind of confused by the “fuck cancer” emphasis people have. They seem to be more upset by it than other kinds of death. I’m a death-is-death-how-doesn’t-matter person. Only in the past couple of weeks Kate Bornstein (who is one of the most important voices in gender deconstruction) has had a crowd source fundraising effort because she has cancer–we need her. She has the courage to speak about things that must be spoken about. She is really important.

And another person I know has 6, 4, and 2 year old children. Kate is very likely to survive. She has a very survivable kind of cancer and now the outpouring of love and money she will need to fight for life. His survival chances are in the single digits.

I can’t stop weeping. I “know” my grandmother died from cancer. I don’t know what kind–not breast cancer. I know that much.

The kind of knowing I want my children to have for me is something that cannot come until they are adults and putting it all together in retrospect. I think that I all of a sudden just received a catapulted stone of fear in my belly. How will his children know him?

He told me just before he found the lump that I had inspired him to start marathon training. That process was more or less how the lump started bothering him. That’s why they found this. I told him to start making videos for his kids. One for each birthday up until they are 25 or 30. They need to know you and get the advice you would give them.

Shanna was asking me about parents yesterday. Kind of the standard kid question kinds of things: do only Mommies take care of babies? Oh dear goodness I hope not or a lot of kids would starve to death. I told her that some babies have only one mommy or only one daddy and some babies have a mommy and a mommy (or mama) and some babies have two daddies and some babies have more than two parents of any possible gender consideration. What matters to a baby is that consistent grown ups hold and care for and love the baby. That is all that is needed to make a parent. Not biology. Not anything else. I said that babies are designed to fall in love with the grown ups who care for them because that is how the baby will ensure survival. Mutual love with a grown up means the grown up becomes invested and puts a lot of time and energy towards the baby.

She said, “So it doesn’t matter if it is a boy or a girl?” I asked her how many times it has mattered whether I have a penis or a vulva while I change diapers. I asked her if she thinks our female friend K is too stupid to figure out how to clean her son’s penis. Shanna laughed. I asked her if her father has ever had trouble wiping her butt. She confirmed that he is a poop wiping expert. I said, “Anuses are universal.”

She asked if girls are supposed to stay home with their babies. The timing on this conversation was just hilarious considering what I have been reading on the internet lately. I said girls are supposed to do the things that make them happy. By being happy in front of their kids they are teaching their kids the right way to live. For some mothers this means staying home and for some mothers this means working outside the home for a company. All mothers work. All mothers do a back breaking amount of work. If a mother has an outside job then the children can either stay with dad (I cited families we know) or if both parents work day care of some kind can be arranged (I explained several different examples we know).

Every family looks different because every family is made up of different people. Different people are made happy by different things. That is what makes life beautiful. If everyone was exactly the same life would be really crappy. Every person is on a completely individualized path through life.

I said that different people have different advantages. I talked to her about money. I talked to her about how some people have large extensive families and that is a different very important kind of support. It gives different life options. For example: single parenting is a very different experience if you are rich than if you are poor. Single parenting is a very different experience if you have a large and involved family than if you have no family support. I went on and on. She asked more questions. It kept going.

I tell my children frequently that while they are children they have a few specific jobs they have to work on. Their primary job is to play with the world. The process of play and exploration is the primary thing that children should be focused on. After that you have to learn how to have relationships with people; you have to learn how to be considerate. But the third thing is: with great privilege comes great responsibility. I tell my children explicitly that they are part of the most privileged cohort that has ever been born. They have more access to information and the ability to learn than any person has ever had at any point in history. And my kids have free access to it all day every day because they are not locked in an institutionalized setting following some bullshit agenda that is the resort of so much compromise nothing real is taught. I expect them to take learning seriously.

I talk about how the world is changing and there are a lot of people in the world who do not have access to information. There are a lot of big problems to be solved. People will have to be exceptionally able to synthesize large amounts of data in order to solve these problems. People will have to learn a bunch of cross-disciplines in order to solve these problems. The only way is to start young and take it seriously. Learn.

I tell my kids that I want them to grow up and be fierce and sure of their opinions. They should not believe they are “always right” because that is hubris–no one is always right. But listen to Davey Crockett: Be sure you’re right and go ahead. Plan at leisure; act with haste. If you hesitate then some someone less qualified will speak first and set the plan. That’s really not a great situation. If you can’t find a way; make a way. You will make mistakes or you will never learn and grow. You must make big mistakes. That is part of life.

Even if I get upset with you over a mistake I will get over it. I love you more than I love breathing. More than I love any thing in the whole world. I will get angry with you. I will shout at you. I will never hit you. I will always love you.

Thinking about cancer makes me feel so very afraid of my children not knowing me. Shanna proudly informed me that she was going to grow up and be a bad ass just like me. I laughed. I told her that would make me very happy. I want to see that. I want to see what she is going to be like. I want to know her. I want that so fucking much.

Getting to see what Shanna will do in the world will be my entertainment and reward for still being alive.

And that’s before I even get to Calli. Calli is a born engineer. She is going to need to have a woman behind her saying, “You can do it” for a great many steps in her life. She is going to live in a “man’s world”. Hell she already wants to be Diego–not Dora. Not Alicia. She’s Diego. She’s the god damn main character who rescues everyone.

They need me. It is so clear. Like my friend’s children need him. And I start weeping again and I understand fuck cancer.

There is no right. There is no should. There is no deserve in this life. There just is.

On April 1st it will be the birthday of one of the awesomest women I know. I’m sorry I won’t be in Portland with her. That would have been wonderful.

In other news I am exchanging books with a friend who is also a writer on April 1st. We are essentially work-shopping one another’s books. You know, a real forking editing job. I’m ridiculously excited. I want No Secrets to be finished and I have stalled. It has been almost a year and a half since I wrote it and it still isn’t in paper. Erf.

In September Noah is officially off the leash and he gets to start being a mostly absentee father/husband while he works on whatever he wants to work on. I’m thinking about treating July like my own personal NaNoWriMo. I want to write Outrunning Suicide before I have a hard time negotiating for time. A lot of the shape of it is working itself out in my head. Stylistically it will not resemble No Secrets. That’s for the best. I’ve been reading reviews of writers differently lately. “What will they bitch about with my content–repetitiveness. I can’t just tell the same stories. Hm. Interesting.”

Sometimes it is kind of convenient that I have been through such a ridiculous variety of kinds of extreme trauma. I always have another fucking story. Ha.

A few times lately I have thought about my mother. I’ve thought about what will happen when Shanna is eighteen. Shanna might want to meet my family. She will be allowed to. I’ll drive her to the house and wait at the bottom of the hill for her. She doesn’t have to share my views on them. She didn’t make my bed; I did.

Shanna asked me if I loved my mommy when I was a little girl. I told her that when I was a little girl I thought my mommy was the best thing in the whole universe. I loved her with my whole heart. She was my sun and my moon. Shanna then pointed out that I don’t feel that way now. I said, “No. I don’t. You will have different opinions when you are in your thirties than you have right now too.” She looked thoughtful.

It is really hard giving space for beliefs that are not your own. If I break the incest chain in my family I have absolutely done a measurable good in the world. I just found a biography from someone in the middle of a six generation chain. My stomach hurts too much to read it right now. At some point in the not-too-distant future I will have read everything easily findable on this topic. That’s a little weird to know. It makes me want to create more data.

Life goals:

I want to deepen and broaden the scope of information known about incestuous families. At some point I will figure out a measurable goal around this topic. I don’t have it yet.

I want to live outside my country of origin for a minimum of five years, preferably in one year chunks. I’ll get homesick bad.

I want to see what Noah can do. He has really impressed me so far. I want to see what he and I can do together.

You outrun suicide by giving yourself full permission to do it, but you keep moving the goal posts. “Ok I can do it. But first I have to do…” It’s on the to do list. But a lot of other things are going to happen first.

I want my children to be adults and to be able to say, “Yeah. I agree. It’s time. I love you. Do what is right for you.” Maybe I will have to move to Oregon once I hit 70. When I get there I will get to be near a friend of mine. She is partnered with one of the people who pushed that law through. I feel so grateful that I get to know people who change the world. They give me the courage to keep trying.

Holy fuck. I just had a thought. What age level is Outrunning Suicide aimed at? If I want a lot of people to be able to read it I have to think about that. My writing is rather obtuse most of the time. Well that will take some thought.

When I was a child there were very few periods of time when I didn’t want to die. I stayed alive mostly because I was too depressed to be expeditious. I didn’t know anything other than pain. I was not permitted to act like I was in pain. That was rude.

My life is different now. I didn’t understand what a life free from pain was. It was a myth. I wouldn’t say that I am exactly pain free at this point but I am probably at the lowest level of pain and the highest level of joy I have ever had. These are the best days of my life. And I know it while I am living them.

I keep wandering in my head to a Madeleine L’Engle book A Wind in the Door. The mitochondria are in trouble! The farandolae aren’t deepening! I just read Collapse by Jared Diamond. Help! The planet is in trouble! The humans aren’t deepening!

I don’t know. Lots of feelings. Today I don’t want to die. And I weep at the loss of a great mind. I hope he doesn’t read this. My grief is not his problem. I’m glad his wife has a very supportive family. I’m glad they live near her family and not his. I am so sorry it is happening.

I’ve read tragedies for years. I’ve taught units on tragedy. I never really got it before. I’ve never been deep enough into a community to really understand what the loss of a person means before.

He’s going to fight. He’s that kind of guy. My grief is entirely premature and I need to stfu. But this is where I feel.

I have spent most of my life believing very firmly that for me cancer was one of the goalposts. I wouldn’t fight. I would go quietly into the dark night because I’m not interested in more suffering.

Life is pain, highness. Anyone who tells you different is selling something.

Now I don’t know. When I think about the things I want to do. When I think about not seeing my daughters grow up to be fierce and bad ass? (She-Ra is pretty bad ass is a frequent comment around our house. I said it once. Oy.)

There is no right. There is no should. There is no deserve. There is only what is. And what you go do with it. We live in a time of practically preternatural access to science. If you have money. If you want to fight something bad enough we live in a time of honest-to-goodness miracles.

How much do I want to see my daughters at thirty? Forty? Fifty? Sixty? What will they do with their lives? I want to know so very badly. I am curious. I want to know. I want to see what this being I have unleashed on the world will do.

Somehow I don’t envision her walking onto the family compound at eighteen and not coming back. It’s thirteen years away. She’ll be able to evaluate people on her own at that point. She will have had a lot of practice with a lot of different kinds of people. She will be able to read people well. My family isn’t subtle. Even if she does want to get to know them–and why not, they are interesting people–she won’t want to stay.

She will have shit to do. My family has nothing to do but be unhappy. They will sit in one place doing that until they die. I don’t understand why. It’s like a clock that has run down. Poverty, physical health, mental health, and a kind of apathy I don’t understand. An anger about entitlement and responsibility I don’t understand.

I have had such a ridiculous amount of privilege. I’m only starting to understand the shape of it.

I have had the privilege of being able to set the goal post of “I’ll kill myself if” pretty low but I’ve been healthy enough to always meet a really ableist centric attitude. I have been able to be an asshole about independence. I’ve also had a guaranteed income for most of my adult life. I’ve been financially stable without having to have a job. That’s so fucking ridiculous.

I have no safety net though. I don’t have Bank of Mom and Dad. I don’t have emergency reserves beyond those I create. For most of my adult life I was inches above the poverty line living in one of the most expensive places in the world. I have never come close to bankruptcy and my credit score is ridiculous. I did that with a lot of seed capitol. I feel like an asshole for being glad that pit bull attacked me. It made the whole rest of my life better.

Perspective if everything.

I’ve been thinking about my mom. I have been specifically thinking, “I forgive you. I hope you forgive me.” If my kids ever go and meet her I hope my mom understands why I kept them away. My kids will be different. They will not have broken spirits. I hope she will be able to see that and be glad. I hope she will forgive me. I hope she understands wanting to keep your kids safe.

I hope she will forgive me.

I hope she will still be alive so that she will be able to meet my kids some day. I hope my kids want to talk to her a lot for a while. I bet she won’t live long after that but she will die happier than she has been in a long time. They will be like her. They will be able to ask her questions about things she has had great skill at doing. They will think she is an interesting person.

It’s kind of a weird balance. I have to tell the truth to my children. The truth is that no one is all bad. Everyone has good parts. The thing about life is learning how to find the good that balances the bad and evaluating if the value is high enough. In most families people decide that the kin alliance is worth putting up with the bad. That’s normal and right.

When my kids are adults they will not be children who are easy to mold. They will not be instructed in how sex is natural and fine between family members as long as you don’t breed because it is only in breeding too close to the line that you develop problems.

I hope that when my daughters are eighteen they will have the ovaries to say to a biological family member who solicits sexual contact, “You are a disgusting piece of shit and I hope you rot in hell.” Because yeah. That’s the reaction you should have to incest.

But I don’t think my family would dare at that point. And if everyone keeps their britches on, it’s fine… right? Oh fuck. *beat head on wall* Wait. I’m not supposed to do that any more.

Maybe I should get dressed and run. That would be all healthful and crap.

I want to live. I have stuff to do. I’m scared. Fuck cancer. I can’t be strong enough to outrun it. No one can. It just happens. Am I going to instantly stop smoking so I can lessen my risk of lung cancer? No. I wouldn’t be a nice person. (Vaporizer is still impact on the lungs. My lungs will tell you.)

On the way I will eat more Easter candy. My body says: “Hey, I know-instead of crying: sugar rush and endorphins!” Is this ideal? Nope. We recognize two candy-holidays a year in this house. Otherwise I would get in a long of trouble. I didn’t eat candy like this when I was a kid. It’s kind of weird.

Ok, run.

This morning is starting off hard.

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Kids are in a bad mood. It’s going to be a rough day. So I did something out of character. I sent my therapist an email. Usually I am fanatical about “I pay you for x minutes that is all I am taking” but she has been asking and asking for me to check in by email. We don’t see one another as often as she would like and she’s having a hard time with dealing with the flow of information in x minutes. She is asking for more time.

I think that part of it is, I pay absolutely at the top of her scale and that is part of the reason I don’t go very often. I could pay for therapy or I can accelerate my house payment. That’s how I look at money. I look forward to the some day of not having a mortgage. That is going to feel like an awful lot of freedom to me.

So my therapist has been asking me at every session to email her. She’s pestering. Ha. I sent one today.

I’ve been having a lot of intrusive thoughts about my brother trying to rape me and how the fighting him off experience happened. I’m thinking very graphically about what it meant for me to fight him off of me. What did I do? How did I move my body? I didn’t say anything.

I can feel the twisting and contorting in my muscles. I can feel them pull towards re-enacting it over and over.

It started partially when I read the Alanna books. She speaks so graphically about what it means to train your body. You practice that motion over and over until you can do it without thinking about it.

I have been having a lot of intrusive thoughts about my brother. Noah, that’s part of why I have been pulling back from sex. I can feel my muscles reflexively curl into a protective, fighting position. I’m not trying to do it on purpose. It’s just happening. Then I think about why I learned it. Then they feel locked into fighting position. I think that is what is going on with all the weird knots in my muscles lately. I feel physically freaked out and like I’m ready for a fight.

This is not a good mind set heading into a party. I want to punch someone in the face. I need to do something with this. I feel scared. Why am I so scared?

I’m scared in a way that makes me want to fight. That makes me want to defend myself. I don’t feel likable. I feel ready to have to physically deal with people disliking me again. I have been having some friendship conflict. I don’t worry about being attacked. But I feel uncertain of myself. Of my future. I feel uncertain that I will be a good enough person to do the things I want to do. I feel so intensely drawn to doing specific things. I don’t know if I will let me do them though. I worry so about being judged for doing the things I want to do. I worry about being wrong and doing it wrong.

I do stay up nights worrying about this home school thing. Not because I think my children will be behind academically. My children will probably always be above grade level in terms of the state standards. They are mildly inclined to acceleration and they live with me 24/7 and I just talk about things. They are bright and they like to listen to me. They know a lot of stuff already. It’s not that I worry about that.

I worry about the future. I worry about being someone who is worth knowing. I worry that I will not actually be able to help large numbers of people because I am too small and selfish and bad.

I want to start compiling data on incest survivors. To the best of my knowledge all information about them right now is sketchy at best. I want to understand my tribe. I want to know their stories. I am trying to learn enough programming to put together an information gathering tool as a page on my website. No one else has the data I want. I will have to mine for it myself.

If I want to have a tribe I am going to have to build it myself. That scares the shit out of me. I’m not exactly a charismatic leader–I’m a bitch. It’s not even that I want to lead. I just want to get them together so I can hear them speak. I want them to want to hear me speak.

I’m sad that the support group is so far away. Not sad enough to move to Oakland.

Ok. breakfast.