This may be even weirder than a lot of what I write. Also: my keyboard is sticking obnoxiously.

How do I manage to feel like I belong here? I don’t know. I don’t belong anywhere. I have long felt like “mother” was the only club that I’m allowed to be in that I would actually join. I love the easy camaraderie that is mothers talking about their children. “Us” and “them”. Every other version of that has resulted in me hissing.

But I love being a mother.

I will not discuss my local sports team vs your local sports team, but the endless variety that our beautiful progeny demonstrate? That I can discuss all day. Yours isn’t better. Mine isn’t better. They are all amazing.

Mothering is probably the only activity I engage in where I would be ok with competing if it didn’t mean that people who aren’t me were measured. Everything else I do: art, dance, writing… I know I’m not shit. I’m not great. I’m not wonderful. But I think I really deliver on the mothering skills pretty damn well. If someone could have a way of measuring attentiveness and I liked the prize, I might consent to be judged. But I don’t care to earn money for other displays of possible skill. I don’t know if I’ve ever had that kind of potential–but I know I shoved it away from me with great force.

Do you know that my house is set up the way it is because of child protective services and not because of what I want? I want to ensure I won’t have people knocking on my door accusing me of mistreating my children. So I go to ridiculous lengths to center my children to the degree that sometimes I feel like I cease to exist in my house.

Which is hilarious. Because my presence oozes from all the strangely painted surfaces.

I fear that Noah and I both fear to exist in this house.

Neither of us want this to be “my” house. We both backflip and somersault to say no! I am leaving it to you!

All families should have such strife.

No really, this is complicated. Who owns this house? Both of us. Only not me. Only Noah gets upset with me because he’s done everything he can to gift it to me.

I didn’t earn it. I don’t deserve it. I didn’t pick it.

But I sure as hell did change it.

I think Noah could move out and I would still channel this as Noah’s house in perpetuity. It cannot belong to me because it has had his name on it.

I have heard people deny responsibility for ownership in similar ways, but usually people ascribe the ownership they refuse to gods.

I could name the person who lived here before us and for whom mail still rarely comes but that’s kinda silly. It isn’t my house. It will never be my house. This is practically a religious observation.

Sometimes I wonder about the purpose of procreation. Are they just… pawns? Are they individual creations with minds of their own? Does that mean I’m a God?

Yo, if every Mama thought of herself as a Goddess that might explain some of the conversations I’ve been having.

But I truly don’t feel like that has been happening.

Yet I wonder what would happen if there was space for me.

I fucking hate that in my head this ENTIRE THING has been read with a Jamaican accent. WHY ARE PEOPLE WITH AN ACCENT INHERENTLY MORE SAGE AND EXPERIENCED.WHY WHY WHY.

What would happen if there were space for me to grow up? Space for me to blossom? Space for me to be free?

I’ve had my own room for a lot of my life. Ok, that’s a lie. I haven’t. But I had my own room intermittently as a child. It was always punishment. Since I was small, being alone has always been something I have perceived as “You do not deserve unity. Go.”

I was born from rape. My very existence was experienced as a sundering. A break. A rift. A chasm in connection. I was born blue.

When Noah suggests that we should reorder the house to make space for me, to make a room for me, he is motivated by love and consideration and caring.

Break; rip; tear; shove.

I will crawl into that room and die.

All space made for me is space made for nothingness. Made for the heft between forces. Made for the absence of legitimate force.

When I freak out it isn’t about you being inconsiderately or inadequately just.

No creature can be other than what it was made to be.

I am not wanted.

I was created in violence. In erasure of self. In force of self upon other. I am the erasure of the other. I am the force the begats the violence then violence forces the situation. It’s all perfectly natural.

I am a rapist. I will never be anything but. I am the daughter and sister of rapists. We are what we are. We cannot change.

We are.

What is?

Is my sister a rapist? Am I? Are her children rapists? Are mine? Can they ever be anything else? Honestly this question is on the list of reasons I don’t talk to my sister’s children. I just… can’t know.

Other people seem to believe that “knowing someone” means they can’t be a violent rapist. I think that me knowing someone increases the odds they might be.

I’m afraid. I’m afraid I’m evil and I’m afraid I’m less evil than average.

What would happen if I opened my mind to the idea that I could have a lair in this house.

I don’t know. It might be interesting. It might be diabolical. It might be trite and boring as shit.

That’s me for you.

In an alternative universe a Fox newsroom might say that I’ve resigned.

It is of utmost importance to point out that I do not think Noah is responsible for me feeling like this isn’t my house. He’s done a lot of stuff to try and help that happen. He put my name on every thing he legally owns. He has done everything that can be done in any forum to make me half owner of everything he has.

It isn’t Noah’s fault.

This is about me.

This is about the fact that I don’t feel like I fit. This about half of Noah not feeling like my birthright.

I may be brilliant. I may be accomplished. But I ain’t shit. I ain’t never gonna be shit.

I don’t deserve half of Noah’s wealth. I can’t. No human being can deserve that. He sure as shit doesn’t deserve it, but he gets it.

I don’t know how to make sense of these things.

I have more than I need but I don’t have enough. What I want is my mother. I think I could have been ok being poor forever if she loved me but I’m not that lucky so I make due. I have other comforts. Some of them are more material than others.

I hate my mother. I love my mother. I hate my mother. I love my mother. I hate my mother. I love my mother.

Does my father even occur as a blip? I don’t know. Some fathers are everything. My father…

I am a product of creation. You are a product of creation. Does that mean that we are all part of the great story of creation? If so, who is the author? Who gets the byline? Is it God? Do I believe in God? Do you? Do I care?

Are you my God? Do you want to be?

What does it mean to belong somewhere? How do you learn to feel comfortable? How does someone feel like they have the right to be somewhere?

How do I find home?

Over time I keep thinking “Maybe if I change things to suit me then it’ll feel like mine.” Then all of a sudden I feel like I covered in wiggling snakes of shame. This isn’t my home and it can’t be. I have never had and I will never have a real home.

What makes a real home?

Somewhere it is ok for me to spend a little while talking to my friends without being told that I don’t deserve the space for doing so. I didn’t ask for silence; I asked that people not crack distracting jokes. But that’s not ok to ask for.

All the space here is allocated. I don’t get any of it.

Sure! When we get to that point it’s fine to say that it’s my fault I haven’t properly allocated already. But where?

If we give up on having a separate *bedroom* for the kids we risk CPS backlash. I can’t do that. If we put all the toys in the bedroom the children seem to be physically incapable of picking up.

So here we are.

My space is… the back yard I guess.

I know I’m a whiny, petulant baby. I know that I “should” just be secure and stop being so difficult. It’s not Noah’s fault I’m so damaged. It isn’t ok for me to talk about how I don’t belong here and I feel like I should leave. I feel like I did a great job of setting up a house for Noah and his kids. Now I should go because I am the problem.

I talked to my cousin yesterday after I was already freaking out. Apparently she told her mother (my actual first cousin, since the gal I’m talking to is my first cousin once removed–it’s kind of fun knowing the specific label) that she’s talking to me. My actual first cousin responded with” Why would you talk to her? She isn’t nice to her mother.”

The cousin I’m talking to defended me. She said, “You know what happened to her. No one has to be nice after that happens. She’s the only person in this family who wants to call regularly just to check on me. In years of being out here none of you have.”

Now my actual first cousin and the Auntie who raised me are calling her to check in. To reestablish the dominance of their ties.

I don’t deserve any love.

I am not nice enough to my mother. I should crawl into a hole and die for the shame of it.

I’m sleeping better with everyone in one room.  Not quite 8 hours, but between 6 and 7. It’s not amazing, but it’s better than the week before.

Shame. Sleep. Worth. Home.

I’m scared because the more I feel like I’m not supposed to be here the harder it is to engage with other peoples emotional needs. I’m too busy paying attention to the pain in my belly to focus on the human in front of me. I’m bad and I should go.

I will never ever stop being bad and I should go before I hurt these people more.

The dude in the head shop spent a while evangelizing to me yesterday. He wanted me to know that no matter what I am a liar and a thief and a sinner if I’ve ever done any lying or stealing at all–no matter how young I was.

See, I am a rapist. It can’t be changed. It happened. I am that disgusting piece of shit and there is no redemption.

BUT JESUS DIED FOR ME AND THAT MAKES IT ALL OK.

No. No it doesn’t. Can I please just buy what I came here for and leave to feel like a dirty piece of shit at home instead of having you lecture me about how bad I am?

Because guess what, A, (his name started with an A) you may KNOW that Jesus exists because you made stupid life choices and you survived them so clearly a higher power has a plan for you. Because you tried to drink yourself to death and you survived alcohol poisoning. You walked away from car crashes without a scratch. Clearly you are special.

I didn’t walk away from my father raping me without a scratch. I didn’t walk through my life path doing just ducky with the results of my stupid choices. I carry the pain every day. I’m not saved for some higher purpose.

I’m just still here. Because the good die young and I’m a piece of shit so I might live to be 100.

I know that Noah has gone to great effort to help me feel like I belong here. I know. It isn’t his fault that I don’t feel like this is my house. This is his house. This is the house he bought for hunting. This is his.

I’m just… the prey living in the cage.

I mean, yes and no.

He’s made sure I should be financially stable for the rest of my life with or without this house.

I’m so sad. It’s also day 33 of my cycle. That doesn’t help.

My head has been swirling with thoughts about worthiness. How do you deserve life?

****************************************************

I was born in pain and fear.

I was born blue and struggling to live.

I was born.

Now what?

*****************************************************

That’s kinda like a poem. I’ve had it stuck in my head for days. Normally I don’t even come that close to poetry so it’s a little weird to me that I keep getting fragments in my head.

I’m not going to tell you about my big feelings though. Too much typing for ouchie arms. But I just reconciled Mint. We…. we need to be more conservative with money for the rest of the year. The bathroom remodel ended up being a good $80-$90k more than we wanted it to be, including lawyer’s fees. Which sucks! But I will crawl out of this debt.

Because life isn’t fair. Because I can. Because it will just take me a little time because I’m one of the few lucky people in my generation.

Why do most people think they “deserve” the good things they get and the bad things are accidents/unlucky/random? I run into this over and over and over as a mindset and I don’t get it. The fact that I am not dead is pure dumb luck. The fact that I have reached financial safety isn’t really through efforts of my own–it was luck. My failures are mine. My failures happen because I lack access to a resource or I fail to plan.

Why in the hell don’t other people think like this? It makes you feel a whole lot more responsible for helping other people stumble onto good luck. I think it helps keep me more humble.

I do not have good things because I deserve them or because I am better than people who don’t have them. I’m a piece of shit. I’m not better than anyone. But life is completely and totally unfair.

Life isn’t fair. There is no fair. There is no deserve. The wheel has turned and I’m currently up on top. I won’t be here forever.

I talk to my massage therapist a lot about her mother. Her mother has dementia. Her daughter gave up the last five years of her life to care for her mother before cracking and having so many health problems of her own that she had to put her mother into a nursing facility.

I will get old. I will lose what dignity I have managed to shore up. My body will fail. My mind may fail. What I have now… it is fleeting.

By golly I’m going to enjoy it while I have it.

Or am I? Do I enjoy anything? Or do I make myself so miserable I’m not capable of enjoying things. I’m kinda ridiculous.

My sleep cycle is shit this week. THIS IS WHEN I WANT THE GOD DAMN SLEEPING PILLS, YOU PIECE OF SHIT DOCTORS WHO REFUSE TO LET ME HAVE TWO SLEEPING PILLS IN A MONTH.

I spend a ridiculous amount of time feeling so angry I want to explode in a ball of fire. Why is it that if my husband said, “I have difficulty sleeping a few days a month. I want 2-3 sleeping pills” he would be given them without any push back.

But I can’t get them for love or money.

Maybe I should consider the black market.

I don’t want a lot. I want 2-3/month. It’s not excessive. It’s not unhealthy. But I’m mentally ill! So I have to be under 100% compliance or I get no help! Because when you are mentally ill you deserve to be punished by withholding care because you cannot possibly be a reliable witness to your own life experiences!

This article makes me so angry I want to break all the walls and windows in my house. I’m not going to because ow. But holy fuck. I hate the medical system. I hate the medical system. I hate the medical system. I hate the medical system. I hate the medical system. I hate the medical system. I hate the medical system. I hate the medical system. I hate the medical system. I hate the medical system.

This being abuse is NOT IN MY HEAD.

I’m doing that thing again where I wake up earlier and earlier. It sucks. 5, 4, 3. Eventually I will kind of reset but it will hurt for a while. Especially because I do not deserve help sleeping, according to doctors.

I’m so angry.

I’m tired of knowing what I need and I’m not allowed to have it because someone in authority thinks I don’t deserve it.

I hate your fucking authority. I hate doctors.  I hate teachers. I hate police officers. I hate the entire concept of fucking society.

I know I don’t get to opt out of society. But I don’t think I can stop hating it either.

I just noticed that I paid for therapy in May… but I didn’t schedule any. Whoops.

I should try to go back to sleep.

All I need to do today is sit on the kids to make them do their chores and put two blueberry bushes in the ground. Oh, and hang out with my neighbor for a couple of hours. Super chill day.

I spent a while looking at Mint. We need to remember what it is like to live when you aren’t a super rich person or we are going to get ourselves in trouble. The rest of this whole year…. isn’t going to be super thrilling. That’s ok. I have a fantastic bathroom to sit in so that I can console myself.

I’m kinda glad the babysitter is moving away. She’s seriously breaking my budget. Childcare is so expensive. She won’t be replaced any year soon here.

Like, we shouldn’t eat out again this month other than ECs birthday. Not because we are in financial distress, because we have overspent our budget in every area and we need to stop. During the remodel I couldn’t stop the hemorrhage if I tried. Now I have to. I did manage to stop the flow of spending while we still have a reasonable buffer in cash. We aren’t in trouble. We have investments we could tap if we wanted to. We are not in trouble. But we are not going to hit the goals I’d like to hit unless we change.

That’s a ridiculously good feeling. I’m not in trouble. I just have priorities.

That’s about as lucky as a person can get.

Today we dropped Noah off at the airport. He is off to a work conference. The kids and I did a whole bunch of house chores. And I rode my bike almost seven miles round trip to grocery shop. That felt like such an accomplishment. Then I went on an almost two mile walk with another buddy. All in all I spend over two hours exercising today. I feel gloriously worn out. That was even after having sex this morning.

I did some weeding too.

I’m tired. I’ve read a lot of Battle Magic because I’m on a reread spree again. I like the comfort of visiting friends.

Ok, I shouldn’t be typing. My arms hurt. But I’m frantically repeating stuff in my head and I won’t be able to put it down until I do.

I’m worried about things with my cousin because of my tendency to jump into relationships with both feet and enmesh as much as is permitted. It’s complicated with my actual family as opposed to a friend I’m just meeting, but complicated doesn’t mean all good.

This specific family member is on the outs with the entire rest of my family because she’s got super fierce boundaries and she don’t take no shit off of nobody. If you have to stand in a room with my sister that will lead to fireworks. Most of my family is on my abusive, rapist sister’s side of everything for reasons I will never understand. So folks like me and the cousin who won’t genuflect and kiss the Godfather’s ring are… not popular.

I don’t play that kind of game with abusive bullies. Ask me about a friendship that went south last year. Or not.

She’s 7 years younger than me. I’ve known her for almost all of my life. We have only ever sporadically spent time together but we get along well when we do. I can’t recall us ever having a big flaming fight even though both of us have done so with every other member of the family. (This might be convenient memory… but I don’t think so.)

This has the potential to fill the hole that I have tried so desperately to fill for so many years with friends. The thing about friends is, they share what they have going spare and then they go back to their families. That’s not wrong. I’m not saying I’m angry at them.

I’m saying that for most of my life when it is time to go have family time that meant I was alone or finding some person to fuck me for a night because no one wanted more from me than that.

My life is so different now. I am cherished. I am appreciated. I am loved. I am cared for. My husband is a god damn miracle.

Oh hey, there’s something else I need to write down because it is eating me from the inside. I haven’t written the accolades that Noah deserves to receive. For the past year and some since I cheated, Noah buckled down. He didn’t reject me. He didn’t long-term punish me. He didn’t continue lashing out and making my life miserable even though I hurt him quite a bit.

Instead Noah spent some months pulling into himself a little more and then he turned to me like a flower seed getting water after a long drought. He has stepped up his game in basically every area. He is doing more household chores, more scheduling of day to day stuff. He has pretty much entirely taken over date planning (after I complained bitterly that I did it for years) and he’s so much better at it than me. He gives me menus of options for dates. He asks what I’m physically and emotionally up for.

Noah is so miraculous to me. The way Noah loves me isn’t really about filling my needs, though it does. He loves me this way to fill a hole in himself and I am just lucky enough to get to be the beneficiary. Noah decided that in this life he is going to be a good husband and a good father and he is going to do whatever the fuck he needs to do to be those things.

I feel in awe of him. I work hard. I change myself to be better at having relationships. Noah blows my god damn mind.

If you had asked me before we got married if I thought Noah would end up doing this much for me I would have laughed so hard I would have fallen out of a chair.

And now he treats me like I am the most precious thing he has ever been lucky enough to touch. Even though I’m frustrating and difficult and so expensive… he loves me.

I have said for a long time that I wondered if I would feel the frantic searching need for more sex partners if I had adult women family members. Phew. I guess we are going to find out.

My cousin has expressed several times that she would really like it if I contacted her basically daily. She doesn’t have anyone checking in on her except for her housemate who is a friend from middle school.

(Don’t knock those middle school friends. Those people are the fucking rocks that you build your world on.)

Talking to my cousin is interesting because on one hand I feel this soaring feeling in my chest. I feel so lucky and happy and loved and this is beautiful. She knows me. She knows my family. She knows our history. And she loves me. I also feel very small. Because my cousin has most of my problems and none of my support.

Where the fuck is her Noah?

Almost no one on this whole planet is lucky enough to find a partner who is as supportive as mine. And I don’t treat him as well as he deserves.

I really need to work on that. Just like he has worked so hard on treating me how I want to be treated.

Even if he is a white man, he’s worth it.

I’m euphoric. I had a magnificent day. I helped a nice person feel better about difficult things that are happening in their life and I helped them figure out what steps they need to take to help their child. Then I got paid for doing that.

Holy shit being paid for helping people is AWESOME.

Do you know what I did the minute the money hit my paypal account? I rolled all of it right back out to one of the women I send money to every month. The comment I got in my inbox was “Oh my god. You don’t know what you just did. I have no food at all in my house and I was crying because I didn’t know how I was going to get through this week. Thank you. Now I will eat.”

Then I talked to my cousin for another hour.

I napped.

I took a super long, relaxing bath with Noah and I washed him and we watched a fun dancing movie together. (Shall We Dance–the Japanese version.)

Now I need to go jump my super hot, awesome, generous, sweet, giving husband before he picks the kids up from gymnastics.

When I was a kid my mom wasn’t very happy about the size of her breasts. Her bra size was 32AA. I internalized that smaller breasts were bad. As I hit puberty and early adulthood I spent  a lot of time being upset about how small my boobs were. While wearing a D cup. Then I took birth control and I swelled to an E cup. Then I got pregnant and swelled to probably an F. Then I nursed for years. I now wear a DD/E depending on brand (if I bother to wear a bra at all–which I very rarely do) and I no longer wish for larger breasts. I’m big enough, damnit. I have to buy fucking specialty bras. It’s a pain in the ass. But in my head… I still don’t have particularly large breasts. Because we imprint in funny ways.

Except for periodic walks, bike rides, or dance class… I have been a slug since the Easter party. I helped take down the outside decorations that would get ruined in rain. Pretty much all the other clean up… Noah has done. I’m sitting around and reading and resting. I’m told this is good for me.

I am delighted to report that in terms of pain… most of my big injury spots are being well behaved. I haven’t seriously injured myself again in the past month or more. Yay! But I have a lot of nerve/joint pain. Boo. I would say I have areas that are spiking to 4/5 in pain but most of my body is hanging out around 2/3. That’s not bad for me.

Everything is relative.

And… I won’t be writing the and stuff. Never mind. Got busy!

But, before I hit post, I talked to my cousin on the phone. It went really really really really well.

I’m mad at my shrink again. That happens. Today we get to have one of those Come To Jesus talks about whether or not we will continue working together. I suspect we will… I don’t have any promising leads to replace her at bat and it’s not like flying solo without a psychiatrist. My shrink helps me. Psychiatrists… have honestly never helped me. They suck.

Let’s go back to that bit where we work on processing my emotions and integrating my new experiences, m’kay? That’s better than trying to find some asshole to drug me. I’m tired of arguing about what drugs I should be taking.

I’m rereading The Body Keeps The Score and The Body Remembers and I’m taking notes.

I hit plateaus in my development. Getting to the next level usually requires a period of concentrated study and effort and work. Maybe that is what the next year or two should be about.

I don’t do so good without a Thing That I’m Doing to keep me out of trouble. Sure, I’m home schooling and gardening and wifing and all that shit, but I have a lot of capacity. I could do all that and find trouble too.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m going to get back to Outrunning Suicide.

But I feel like I need to have a trauma management component too.

I’m trying to figure out how I can wedge in enough stimulation and specific obligations in my house to not get bored and become a problem. I’m kind of like a super intelligent dog where if you leave them alone in your house they will rip up your flooring just for entertainment. I used to know a dog who did that for real.

I’m trouble.

Noah has managed to buckle down and get serious on organizing a tremendous amount of shit because he feels the stakes are high enough: if he manages he will get what he always wanted. He hopes.

What are the stakes for me?

I’d like to be in less pain. I’d like to physically feel the emotional connection I believe is already in place with many people. I love people. They love me. I know it intellectually. I can see the demonstrations of it and I document this shit obsessively so I can never claim that people don’t love me.

I know that people love me. But mostly I don’t feel it. Mostly I feel this keening vacuum in my chest. I need more demonstration. More intensity. More people.

Only that doesn’t actually help it just causes trouble. Shit shit shit shit.

I believe pretty seriously that at this point in time the only thing that is going to change this is if I find some ritualistic way to slowly increase how many minutes a day I feel connection. It’s not true that I never ever ever feel connection. It is that then I stop touching the person or stop seeing them or stop being in the room with them and I feel like I stepped into an abyss of loneliness that will never stop.

I will never be with someone again,

Even if I’m only going to be alone for an hour. It’s ridiculous; I know.

Dysregulated thinking. Hi. Brain trauma is fun.

But I’m so much better than I used to be! Now I actually enjoy alone time sometimes!

There is also this balance problem around the fact that I just can’t physically stand the stimulation of really being with people and accepting stimulation 24/7. My kids and Noah are a bit overwhelming sometimes. We are together something like 22/7. It’s intense. Even when the babysitter comes over usually that just means another body is in the house and happy to help the kids with their art projects. We are together and together and together and together and together.

So it isn’t sheer contact that is going to solve my problem.

To be fair, since Noah got this job at home I have been working like a demon. Him being home has been difficult because he wants me to turn and give him a lot of attention and… I’ve been working to the point where I’m not paying the necessary-for-survival level of attention to my own body and I’m hurting myself badly and he feels sad if he’s ignored and my kids want attention and….

We need a different dynamic.

I can’t stand this dynamic where I’m in a room alone doing my thing and people yell at me from across the house expecting me to suddenly have room in my brain to be straining to hear them (I don’t hear so good) and mentally blocking out other stimulation so I can respond. That’s irritating as shit. Literally, I don’t hear very well. Background noise prevents me from having any idea what is happening. DO YOU KNOW HOW OFTEN MY HOUSE IS COMPLETELY QUIET?! PRACTICALLY NEVER. So I’m almost always trying to listen over noise. It’s a miracle I hear anything.

But I pass hearing tests.

I don’t know.

I get confused and angry with a lot of background noise. I can’t pick out the thread of voice that I’m supposed to be following. It blends in with clicking and banging and hissing and whatever the fuck else is happening. Our current dishwasher may be much more quiet but it still distracts me.

I’m sure I do the same annoying thing.

But I’m also trying to get into the habit of asking permission before I enter the kid bedroom. Just because you have crossed a boundary in the past doesn’t mean you need to keep crossing it forever.

I had kind of an awkward conversation with EC yesterday as we walked back from dropping YC off at camp. We talked about religion. We talked about why her dad is so interested in finding some sort of spiritual connection at this stage so he’s bringing stuff up. We talked about why I pull away from religion like it is a horse fly about to bite me.

It’s one more thing that is not for me.

How come asshole people are allowed to speak for God and tell little children that they aren’t wanted so that little children imprint on that belief and can’t shake the feeling for the rest of their lives that even God doesn’t want them.

My religion is you. You are all I have. Even if you don’t want me.

How do I learn to feel like I am connected? How do I learn how to feel like it is ok that people love me. It isn’t a violation of the natural order of things.

It isn’t like those weird people who are obsessed with vampires and werewolves. It’s ok for people to like me. It doesn’t take a suicidal bent in your brain. Truly. I swear. I pray.

Today is day 12 of my cycle. As of yesterday I still haven’t ovulated in over a month. Not too surprising I guess. But I was kind of hoping. Even as I feel dread and fear at the thought of another pregnancy oh dear god another birth…

I really want to meet this person.

I can’t explain it. This biological compulsion, this urge, this drive… I want to meet this person.

If there is honesty in my soul (which I doubt)…..

I want to meet my son.

All those god damn dreams about my son.

My Youngest Child, my sweet non-binary baby, I feel like sometimes they kind of wish they were the son I talk about. Baby you are perfect. I wanted to know you too. I think you are great. You teach me new things and I love you and you give me the opportunity to grow and be better. I love you so much.

I want to meet my son.

Yes, I know I could end up with another daughter or another non-binary kid (technically the odds of this are lower–but still possible! I’d be down) and I’d have to smile and never ever indicate anything but complete pleasure and joy. I know. Believe me I know.

But it’s there. It’s deep inside of me. That longing is there.

I won’t fuck him or anything gross like that. It’s not that kind of longing. I want to have a completely non-sexual in every way shape and form relationship with a boy of my blood. I want it. I’ve never had that before.

I feel so sad that I’ve never had that before. I mean, my oldest brother never molested me, but there was always this poisoning to our relationship. Our father told me he had the right to have sex with me whenever he wanted. Our relationship was poisoned.

I feel like people throw around “toxic” and “abusive” all the time these days. But it was fucked up with a side of nauseating and disgusting to grow up with parents who specifically instructed children to fuck each other. I’m sorry, but “My parents looked at me wrong and that made me feel small so they are toxic” is not where I’m going with this.

I want more evidence that someone like me can be in a relationship without making it gross and bad and wrong.

Is it nature or is it nurture or fate or what?

I have sex with everyone, right? Or maybe only some people? Maybe only (mostly) appropriate grown ups who aren’t related to me who aren’t going to be damaged by the experience?

But that makes me just like my father in some way. I don’t know. I don’t know I don’t know.

And now my daughter is awake and talking to me full speed ahead. She jumped from one rug to another rug. I have to hear where her elbow was, where both feet were, why she wobbled, why she’s proud of herself for the good save…

My children literally narrate their lives as if there is a video camera watching them at all time. They think they are creating a full speed documentary about themselves. I feel like I will lose my cheese sometimes because THERE ARE ALWAYS VOICES IN MY EARS NARRATING SHIT I DON’T WANT TO PAY ATTENTION TO THIS EXACT SECOND NOW WHILE I’M TRYING TO CONCENTRATE ON SOMETHING ELSE. Sigh.

And she’s doing it from an adjacent room. So she’s raising her voice a lot to make sure I hear her. Which might wake up the sleeping Youngest Child and then there will be Hell To Pay.

Sigh.

I love you all. Even when you yell.

I love them so much I feel like my heart will explode. Now she’s repeating the full story again as if I didn’t hear it the first time because she is so concerned that I know EVERY SINGLE THING THAT HAPPENS TO HER. It’s really kinda cool in an overwhelming way.

Let me tell you, these children are not ok with the idea of separation between us. How can I not feel connected? What is wrong with me?

I just finally said, “Can I finish typing and pooping in peace? Can I talk about your body when I finish focusing on my body for the morning? I’ll hear all about your miraculous jump from floor mat to floor mat for the fourth time then. Ok?”

She stood up and said, “Oh! Hey! Yeah! That’s a good idea” and ran out of the room. I will be required to listen for a fourth time. I can tell.

I don’t actually mind. But please wait till I stop typing.

Don’t worry, I won’t type much longer. My arms are getting sore and I feel about done pooping. You wanted to know that, right? Hahahahahaha

In pooping news: I’m just about done with this round of “cleanse” from my woo nutritionist and things are going really well in the poop department! Well formed, solid but not hard, light brown, once maybe twice a day…. That’s perfect. I get occasional stabs of belly pain from the “Oh my god my body hates having actual solid matter in my intestine” but it’s just a few seconds and then it doesn’t hurt to poop. I think I just have trouble sometimes as things round a bend inside of me.

Since everyone really wants to hear about the progression of my IBS, right?

The thing is, poop news are big news. Serotonin forms in the gut. Happiness is tied to how well you digest. Contentment, security, safety… these feelings are tied to how you digest food. So it seems like it’s kinda of wacky and it seems like it is exactly the damn point. My body is a whole and complete system and I can’t fix one part when another part is completely out of whack.

I’ve had a couple of non-crisis years in my life. A few. Not many. Maybe it is time to have a few more and work on integration.

I feel like the road trip was a big deal. I proved to Noah that I will come back. Our bond was sorely tested but it remained. I like him so much. I like being around him. I like how he treats me and looks at me and thinks about me.

I like how he makes me feel.

People don’t care how you feel. People care how you make them feel.

Do I know how I make Noah feel?

I like that I make Noah feel like he is wonderful. He hasn’t had a whole lot of that in his life either.

Have I mentioned that Noah’s dancing is coming along quite a bit? I feel like I did a really smart thing on not pushing Noah to dance. I ask for the occasional dance to a song at a wedding or something like that and I haven’t otherwise pushed Noah to be a more serious dancer. I’m happy to lead during the rare dances I pull him through. As a result he didn’t build up this defensive wall with me around dancing. I didn’t try to make him do it. So after lots of years he decided to be nice to me and work on his issues around this activity.

Hey, I read comic books. It seems fair.

But I didn’t ask for it. I think it mattered a lot that I didn’t ask.

I’m really grateful that Noah is stepping outside his comfort zone to be more fun for me. We do struggle with finding activities other than “staring at a computer” that we like to do together. We like to eat.

Noah wormed his way into my life being my gym buddy. He was the first friend who seriously exercised with me on a regular basis.

Noah has been such a big part of all the healthy steps in my life. I don’t know where I’d be without Noah.

It’s probably time to let Noah help me through the next step. He sure would be happy to.

I don’t think I need more drugs. I need to figure out how to feel the connection that is already there.

I love my friends even if we aren’t doing ecstasy or nitrous or having sex together. I promise. Those shared activities allow me to feel the love back. I need to find a way to feel it that doesn’t involve manually over riding my brain.

I don’t do ecstasy as often as I write about it. I think about it and how worthwhile it is or isn’t. I feel I am pretty firmly of the opinion that I will never ever ever do mdma in a large group again. It’s powerful medicine and that’s not an appropriate way for *me* to use it. With 1-3 other people it can be a tool of powerful working. More than that… it’s not a tool it’s an idiotic thing to do to my brain.

But I had to find that out. The same way I had to find out that Prozac is not a magic drug that will solve my problems. Only one of those drugs I tried with a doctor who told me that a drug will be the magical key to all my problems and one of those drugs I tried with people who told me, “I don’t know what will happen. Try it.”

I trust one of those introductions to drugs more than I trust the other. One is open to the idea that a drug will fail me and not solve my problems. The other claims that a drug must be the answer.

Life is funny.

In just under two hours it is time to head up to Oakland. I should probably get started on the morning snuggle part of the day.

Well, I’m going to be typing this puppy slowly with my left hand. My right arm isn’t working well. Elbow says fuck the whole world. Tens unit now, ice soon. Then bath.

Why do I do the things I do? It’s complicated. Which things? Which time?

I don’t want to be in pain any more.

I think that right there is the root of a lot of my suicidal ideation and impulses. I want to stop being in pain and my experience of being alive is that there is no end to pain.

I enjoyed the party more than I thought I would. Noah observed that we had a really high cancellation/flake rate (those are different actions: thank you to people who cancel, I know that shit happens) but we probably ended up with about the right number of kids.

The family with teenagers showed up about half an hour late and that was kind of perfect. Her big kids found all the remaining eggs (to the best of my ability to determine). I wanted to stagger the start time anyway.

I had several really pleasant interactions with children of friends who hadn’t previously warmed to me. That was nice.

My smile wasn’t fake all day. I did feel joy. I just also hurt really really really badly. Articles like this neatly encapsulate part of why it doesn’t feel safe to be honest about how my body is doing. I am abusing people.

I am a monster no matter what I do.

What is a monster?

There is a minister in San Francisco I need to find a way to have a chat with. She gave an excellent presentation on monsters and I’d really like to talk to her in more depth. I should look her up. I bet she’s open to that kind of thing sometimes. It is part of her profession.

I’m drinking tea and eating the last of the pecan pie Noah made for our friend’s birthday. He found a recipe with no corn syrup for me because he loves me.

Noah does so so so so so so much because he loves me. That is a man who is motivated by love.

What am I motivated by?

I want to be in less pain.

The new research on addiction stuff shows… duh duh duh… the problem is connection.

Is connection the answer to my pain?

This is complicated. I have some interesting books on neuroplasticity after trauma I’m rereading. I’ve read them before. I’ll probably read them more times after this time. I can’t recite the shit in my sleep yet.

I absorb it in layers as I am at different developmental plateaus. I can see (with the awesomeness of hindsight and obsessive documentation) how I understand things differently over time.

I do change. I do grow.

Do I feel less pain?

What an interesting question.

Setting up for parties is enormously stressful. I often kinda melt down. I spent a lot of time beating my head on concrete in between setting up for my 30th birthday party, where I later did ecstasy with friends and spent most of the party on the couch having panic attack because I couldn’t believe that anyone actually liked me.

I don’t much like being in my body.

Or my brain. I would even deal with the body if I could just get a shiny new brain.

Noah tells me that what he is researching is interesting to him because of the emphasis around getting to exist without shame.

I wouldn’t know what it was like to not feel shame. I wouldn’t know what it was like to feel comfortable. I wouldn’t know what it was like to not feel pain.

Let me put that more plainly: I have always felt ashamed. I have always felt uncomfortable. I have always felt pain.

It moves around. Sometimes it is more emotional. Sometimes it is more mental. How do I distinguish? There is a difference between crying and being unable to remember numbers during math.

There were extensive periods of my childhood where I was literally incapable of remembering a series of digits. So clearly I was stupid.

I went to 25 schools. No teacher saw me for very long. How I presented in the first two days decided how I was treated and it went well and it went very very very poorly.

Some teachers recommended that I be tested for special ed because clearly I was retarded. Some teachers recommended that I be tested for GATE because clearly I was a genius.

More than one thing can be true.

And I’m 35 fucking years old and I still think about this and cry. Because I don’t know what I am. Because I can’t narrow it down. I’m too retarded to belong with the smart people. I’m too “high functioning” to need more services than basic therapy to help make sure I don’t end up the kind of person who climbs to the top of a bell tower with a gun. Cheers.

That’s not entirely true either. They’ve tried lots of meds. I’m told that at around a dozen I’ve barely seen the tip of the ice burg and I should keep trying! There is a wonder med out there for me! And in the process I need to lose more months of my life to feeling so bad I want to die and be told that the correct response to the medical community giving me drugs that make me want to die is to put myself inpatient so they can give me more drugs and cut me off from the only community and the only positive connection I’ve ever had.

Tell me more about how you have my best interests at heart.

In the state of California’s mind the fact that I reached adulthood passionately convinced I should never own a gun is a win. Cheers. Therapy Worked. Patient Is Cleared For Society.

Everyone is biased. Everyone is wrong. But I have to walk around feeling the effects of the wrong decisions that happen in my body, not you.

Don’t act like there are equal stakes here when you are trying to avoid a malpractice lawsuit for not following the letter of the rules exactly the same for each patient.

I mean, I get it. I think it’s totally appropriate to have that stance. But I need to act like how I feel is more important than going through a process.

Is the result the point or is the process the point?

It matters.

I learned that lesson very well as a slave. There were times when shortcuts were absolutely the right decision. Save a dime or save time and it was a good plan. There were times when shortcuts resulted in severe punishment. I had a couple of doozies.

I remember when my mom met my Owner. She looked at him and she leaned over to me and whispers. “You do what he says? Really? Why?”

Yeah. I know.

But I did. I took my punishments and I learned which processes to god damn follow. He had been in the military and there were some things where the process was the entire point. Oh. Ok. Sure. Whatever.

That was a man with good boundaries. I’ll say that for him. He told you what he wanted to give in a relationship and what he wanted to get and he didn’t really move from where he started.

I’m not like that. I change.

And then I change again.

And then I change again.

Poor Noah.

Well, I’m in a lot more physical pain than I used to be in… But I don’t think I’m in as much emotional pain as I was. I know that I still write about the ups and downs and they still sound extreme… but I have a lot of intrusive memories interacting with my kids. Yay PTSD is fun. I mean, they are present in one of the back channels of my mind.

My child is about to turn nine. When I was about to turn nine… oh god. It wasn’t good, yo. Not typing that shit today.

My child is leaning close on turning seven. When I look at my sweet, emotional, sensitive, nobody-loves-me-everybody-hates-me-I-guess-I’ll-go-eat-worms child I think “And this is with people telling you all day long that we love you and being patient with your shit. Wow. No wonder I completely flipped out.”

If my Eldest Child shows me a picture of what I wish I could have been like if everything were perfect? Well… I think my Youngest Child shows me a more realistic picture of what I could have been like under best case scenario. That baby needs a lot of love and approval and building up. There’s a leaky hole in them. They struggle to know they are as wanted and loved.

And that’s with drowning the kid in affection since birth. I mean good grief.

I have one child who pluckily declares that her parents almost never get mad unless they have a very good reason and another who is afraid that they aren’t as good as everyone around them. Oh baby. How did we do this?

It’s a stage. I know. Deep breath. Keep doing what you’re doing. Everyone has moments of self doubt. Everyone has times when they feel like they aren’t enough. But you are all you are. Keep working on learning new skills and learning new facts and learning new processes and you’ll figure out what you need to know for life.

Life means so many different things to so many different people. And every single way is right.

Well, if it isn’t right that isn’t because it isn’t the same as what other people do. Maybe folks are doing something what is wrong for them and they ought change that. But that doesn’t mean they need to conform to being just like another person.

That’s never the way.

Do I actually want to die? Or do I just want to be in less pain?

That’s kinda an important question when you are talking about a permanent solution, no?

Or at least people keep telling me.

When I think about many more years with Noah, I want to smile. I will tell Noah that I want a falling star and he will say, “Do you have one in particular in mind or will any one do?”

I’m going to sit in my bath tub and think about how I can be in less pain.

That’s why. The party was pretty darn good given how much I flipped out yesterday. I continue to find it bothersome that if someone I like, who is my friend, asks me how I’m doing I have basically zero interest in answering honestly if I’m not doing well. Lots of folks asked me how I was doing at the party. Ha.

I’m not doing badly for me today. I’m in a lot of pain but I slept well. Once things got going the party was as smooth as butter. I spent a lot of time hugging my people and that was really lovely.

I love you all. Thank you for being part of my life. I wish it were a less bumpy ride.

Why do I like the idea of parties so much? How many of them do I enjoy?

I have so much work left to do.

Why do I do this to myself? I feel so bad.

I feel like I wear a mantle of shame. I don’t do enough to help people. My life is small and selfish and focused on my problems instead of problems that are bigger than me.

Noah told me yesterday about a specific subset of pagans who believe that activism in the political/social arena is the same thing as spirituality. Yeah. That kind of sounds right. My religion is you and I need to serve you in order to be a good supplicant. I try to serve you as best I can. I know I fail more often than I succeed.

But when I feel like I do nothing nothing nothing for humanity… what counts?

I have a complicated relationship with my children. They are me-not-me. Does working for them count as doing something for someone other than myself or is it self serving?

I can’t actually count the number of people who have told me that they have felt inspired or educated or impacted by me. It’s not a small number. I tend to get a handful or so a year. Some years I get more, “I learn so much from you” than other years.

People have told me they are still alive because of me. How does that figure into the count?

Plants help everyone be healthier and better able to breathe. I’ve put a whole bunch in the ground. Does that count as doing something that is bigger than me? I now basically host bird conventions in my yard. I get all the representatives in my neighborhood showing up to fight it out over the bounty of food in my yard.

My actual human neighbors knock on my door to ask for advice and help. I give it when asked. Does that count?

I’m not entirely sure the problem is that I “don’t do anything for anyone but myself” so much as I think I have a difficult time perceiving anything I do as counting towards adding value to the world. Aren’t I just a drain?

I’m really not.

I helped a nice old lady pass her driving test. She hadn’t ever taken it in English before. I helped her study the book and practice what they were asking her. It wasn’t my “job” it was just something my neighbor needed help with. That’s a real thing. That’s helping someone.

I know that in the fullness of my life I want to do more. But I’m not doing nothing.

This is weird and complicated. I want to be a big fish in a very small pond. I’m not interested in trying to be nationally important. I want to be important to a small group of people. Aren’t I already there though? I’m very important to a few dozen people in the world. Isn’t that the right size of pond for me? I don’t know.

I feel ashamed of myself for feeling like I have more help to give than this. It’s a weird feeling. I don’t think I should feel ashamed of this. I fear it is too much like hubris. Too much like being the tallest stalk of grass in the yard so you get cut down fastest.

Is this part of where women feel like staying at home isn’t the same thing as having a job? I would be miserable and feel like I was wilting in the vast majority of jobs out there. I would feel like not spending time with my kids was wasting my life.

Then why do I need to focus away from them so damn bad? What is it already?

I keep reading these impassioned articles from women earnestly explaining why staying at home is the end of a happy life. Oh.

You will never again be treated like you might be good for anything. I’m not sure the problem is with staying at home. I think the problem might be the perception of mothers. We don’t do anything all day, right?

I gotta say: if you are a stay at home mom and your kids believe you “do nothing” then you need to teach those little snot waffles a lesson.

If someone implies that I’m lazy or do nothing my children are all over that like white on rice. “Don’t you call my mother lazy! She never stops working! Be quiet! She should rest more!” That’s right.

Sometimes I feel like a huge asshole because I will not be taken for granted. Nope. If you are going to benefit from my work you are going to hear about how hard I am working. In detail. And you will show appreciation or I will stop doing this work and You Don’t Want That, Now Do You?

Is this the same thing as self esteem?

What counts as doing something for other people? I do some selfish work. I do some self-maintenance work. I do a lot of work for other people. When does it count? When is it enough? When have I bought my right to keep breathing and eating and needing resources?

Maybe figuring out how to change that perception is the kind of thing I could work on in therapy instead of spending that time fighting about how I should take a series of drugs that make me feel like death? Just a suggestion since I’m paying through the nose for the time spent.

Tomorrow is the Easter party. We didn’t max out RSVPs. Phew. Not quite 30 kids. It’ll be great.

Why don’t I mentally count the fun that little kids have at my parties as part of doing something for people? Because really I throw these parties so my inner child can finally be invited to a party.

I am allowed to stand near happy, excited people if I provide enough stimulation, attraction, and diversion.

I’m so happy when my friends tell me that their children bug them for months, “When is Krissy’s party?” I love you too. I’m very happy you want to come. I hope that my surprises for this year are as fun as I think they are. At 10am tomorrow there is a 5% chance of rain. By 1pm it is up to a 65% chance of rain. Hunt fast, children. Ha.

Ok. I have a child laying on the floor tapping her toes at me. She wants me to come look at the horses she transformed into unicorns and this whole “Mom staring at the computer” thing is super annoying, apparently.

I love you all. Even those I don’t.