For the second time in my life folks have decided it is wise if I have a place of my own to go to. The first time there were 12 of us living in a 5 bedroom house. I was 12-13. No one wanted to share a room with me so I got my own. Let me tell you, everyone made a big deal out of the fact how that was the one room in the house where I ought to be.

This time Noah and the kids are not real happy about the fact that I’m climbing into my closet to hide under the clothes to cry because there isn’t any where else in the house where it is appropriate for me to do so. I’m probably always going to cry. I don’t know how to make that stop. I’m a whiny, immature, ridiculous baby and I need to cry. I’m sorry.

So we moved stuff. Again. I’m so sick of moving shit in my house. And the dining room/kitchen have plastic sheeting up for walls so that dehumidifiers can remove water from the walls after a hose burst.

I WANT TO STOP LIVING IN A HOUSE THAT IS SHIFTING AND UNDER GOD DAMN CONSTRUCTION.

So we put the bunk beds in the sleeping room. We also moved the kid dresser and book shelf into there. One of the smaller dressers we had previously had in there stayed for Noah’s clothes. The other two dressers went into what was the kid bedroom/long time ago former office.

I get an office/clothes storage room. I’m going to get a damn door and I’m going to put a lock on it.

I’m going to have my bondage picture up on the wall and keep kids out.

Noah has taken over the garage (that was kinda my office for a long time but with him working at home… I got squeezed out). The kids still have a play room and beds they can be alone in. We do permit children to say they need alone time in the play room.

I have in the van, to get rid of, 5 bags of toys from the play room. The play room is really not a little bit empty. But maybe they can put stuff away now. Except for stuff that is too big (baseball bat, weapons, giant chess set) their toys now fit in the pull out drawers against the wall. The playroom feels really nice. It feels useable and not over stuffed. I have no idea how long this will last. I cringe to consider it.

But all the doll house stuff and all the play kitchen stuff fit in bins. Cleaning up that room can be done lickity split. I pray it lasts a week. Sob.

In the move to a new room I asked Noah if I could steal one of his GIANT monitors. He let me. Now I have a screen that is genuinely in a place that is good for my neck and a keyboard at the right height. This feels miraculous. It’s still not an ideal keyboard, but it’s better than I’ve ever done before. Progress.

I want to get back to working on books and that is going to take some space in my life and some infrastructure. I’m almost there. I’m going to finish painting the kitchen this week. (Beloved submissive, I am going to be boooooooooooring and leave it a palm tree instead of a banana tree because I’m at the point of hysterics thinking about 15-20 hours of painting. I’m going to finish the damn cabinets that are white and stop. I’m so tired.)

Dad comes to visit next week for Eldest Child’s birthday. We are all looking forward to seeing him and I don’t want to do this work when he’s here. Noah’s birthday is the weekend after that and I promised Noah he could get rid of my paint for his birthday present.

Hey, don’t judge my marriage.

I still haven’t heard from any of the dudes who are fixing our water damage yet today. I really don’t want to track them down.

I hate owning a house.

Right now I feel like I’m in an amusing position. I spend a lot of time bitching about how I’m not ok with needing a teacher in order to be a thing.

I started working with a personal trainer. He’s really positive, encouraging, and gentle. I feel lucky to gain access to someone who can stare at me and say, “Ok you are tightening this muscle group and not this other muscle group. Try again.” I need that.

Noah and I have a great dance instructor. He’s super perky and chatty and encouraging. I like him a lot.

Relentless forward progress, indeed.

How much time can you think about a person? I think about Noah all the time. I think about what he wants. I think about what he likes. I do things to accommodate his preferences all day and all night. Noah is the center of my world.

But I’m not the sex crazed maniac with him any more and that’s hurting him. I seem to be mostly drawn to having that reaction to people early on and it fades. I’m not spending a lot of time lusting after my lovers. I’m not spending much time thinking about sex. I’m working. I’m tired. I hurt.

I feel like I have allowed myself to get into a place where I have agreed to a workload where I am literally too tired to be a sexy person. I’m not blaming Noah for this any more than I’m blaming Noah for me evicting myself from having space. I’m stupid about how I manage things.

It was easier to obsess about Noah and be excited when I saw him when he wasn’t in the house 24/7. It was easier to think about him and plan for him. He’s been home for about a year now. It’s hard. I don’t have any space from him any more. I am with him all the time which means that I just can’t sustain a lot of energy to give him. I’m so tired. This is hurting him a lot and I don’t know how to change it.

I’m really struggling with the comics and the video games. I have grudgingly adapted to reading a few comics over the years so that I can have something to talk about with the people in my house. I am inundated with the action of people playing video games or talking about video games approximately 900% more than I want to be. I feel irritated. It would be like if Noah moved into a house with people obsessed with sports who never shut the fuck up about it. He wouldn’t like that at all.

I don’t like video games and I never get away from them. I haven’t in over a decade. Even though I don’t like them and being around them (and the constant conversation) is irritating as shit. Fine, yes, there are a few video games I have played. I don’t even kill zombies anymore because my hands hurt, the iPad is broken, and I’m so sick of video game conversation I’m not interested in fixing the iPad so I can play it again.

At this point in time I am pushing back hard to get space for people in my life who don’t live in this house. People who will talk to me about other things.

I feel like an asshole because I don’t want to shame Noah or the kids for liking video games any more than I want to shame people for liking golf. It’s just not my thing. But I hear it every day. I’ve heard it every day for years and years and years and years and years.

It’s alienating. It’s not fair of me to be so pissy about it. No one is trying to be bothersome to me. They try hard to be tactful and not have that be their ENTIRE conversation. But my kids wish that approximately 70% of their time was spent discussing comics and video games. I’m not saying it is even mostly Noah at this point.

It is that I spend all my life feeling like I’m supposed to be excited and affectionate while people talk about stuff that make me want to rip my hair out.

I spend so much time feeling like I am defending my right to not be interested with a machete. I don’t have to be interested in everything you are interested in. No one in this house is ever going to care about most of the things I care about. I don’t make y’all listen to hours of conversation about things you don’t care about every day.

But I should work. And smile. And be encouraging when people talk excitedly about what they are interested. And I should shut up about the things I’m interested in because it is a distraction from the focus of the house.

Noah wants me to focus more on him. I feel like it means I either need to get it up for sex I’m not physically up for or I have to get into video games.

It’s not fair. Noah has been awesome about dancing lately. Noah has read one or two books from my childhood so he can understand some of my thinking better. What am I bitching about?

I feel stepped on all the time. I feel like an entitled bitch.

I feel like I am supposed to get better at dissociating so I don’t even hear the conversation about video games. I’m supposed to spend that time somehow getting my body interested in sex for later.

ugh

I understand that video games have value. I get that some of them have neat stories. I get that there are interesting game mechanics and art and music and…

I don’t care.

I could point out how much work goes into professional sports, too. I don’t care.

I’m not saying that what I’m interested in is better. I’m saying it is what I’m interested in.

I feel like there are limits to the value of enmeshment in my marriage. I like Noah more when I’m not forced to be part of everything I don’t like. But then I’m abandoning him and not caring about him and not paying attention to him and that’s wrong. I’m supposed to be there. Adoring. Smiling. Telling him how clever and wonderful he is.

He is clever. He is wonderful. I do smile at him. But I’m tired and cranky and I’m ready to break things when I hear about video games.

I don’t know what to do to create space for Noah and the kids where their interests are fine but I don’t have to hear about it.

Because guess what? I don’t want to hear about the video games. But telling them they can’t ever talk about what they like is an asshole thing to do. I’ve never done it and I don’t think I will. Clearly Noah avoids the topic sometimes when I’m super turbo cranky to start with. He will wave off the kids sometimes “This isn’t a good time.” Then I feel like a really bad person because I don’t let them have fun.

Our life, as it stands, isn’t sustainable in the way Noah wants it to be. I’m too tired. So much of my life requires pouring out energy in the form of work or self control. I am not a nice person. But I don’t call people names much anymore. I don’t hit people. I don’t tell people all the mean as shit things I think and see. I have made progress on controlling what an asshole I am. But I’m still an asshole.

Since I was a little kid I carved out space for myself by wandering from my “home” and finding sex. Doing so last year is going to have aftershocks that last for years. I hurt Noah so much. And I’m not really making it up to him. I’m still working and exhausted and cranky as fuck.

And I feel really scared about the fact that he’s this upset about not being centered… and he wants me to have another baby. Guess what I don’t do for years when I have a new baby. I don’t center Noah. The baby comes first. Noah starts being more important around 18 months of age. He gets really sad and withdrawn.

I don’t blame Noah for being sad and withdrawn. He’s allowed. He’s permitted all the feelings that exist. He wanted to grow up and be the center of an intense love story forever. And I’m bad at keeping focus on him the way he keeps focus on me.

I’ll point out that his body isn’t on the roller coaster ride from hell. He isn’t managing the same variables. But I’m supposed to be the same kind of consistent as I morph into a host animal. I can’t.

I feel like my marriage is a long series of me failing my husband because I just don’t have enough to give.

I’m supposed to care about Noah, and our kids, and our house in that order. Other people and interests are supposed to come later.

As I live in a world that tells me that people who live like that are completely worthless. Ok, I have great value for Noah if I do that. Complicated.

It’s frustrating that I do have interest in sex with Noah, but never at the times that work out. Not when it is convenient for him. It’s at times when it is impossible and then when it is possible I’m exhausted. It sucks. I haven’t run out of desire. I have run out of timing.

The funny thing is: a family bedroom isn’t really going to cut into it that much. When I want sex it is rarely sleeping time anyway.

And we have a bed in the garage. Where the sound is noticeably dampened so I feel less creepy. With a lock on the door.

I want more sex. I want more bdsm. I don’t know how to arrange it.

I have felt like an asshole for over a decade now because I struggle to be in the same place as Noah with bdsm. It isn’t that he’s wrong. It is that either I have to talk him through doing what I want or I have to accept something I don’t necessarily want that much. I don’t know why I have had a hard time being in the same place as him but I do. I have since the beginning. Even when things are at their absolute best this is still a struggle.

We do more generic sex really well together. That’s easy to get in the same head space. Noah hurting me is complicated. It’s always too much or too little. I’m always frustrated. It’s not fair of me.

I get through my life by programming sets of rules for different roles I fulfill. And right now… I have no space in my life where I’m not in a role. It’s exhausting.

I am a bad adoring wife. I have been bad for a while now.

I’m grateful Noah is encouraging me to come exercise with him more. We have always bonded well while moving together. He initially caught my interest because he was willing to be a consistent gym buddy when other people wouldn’t.

I’m not saying I would like Noah more if he gave up video games and only cared about what I care about. I’m really not. I don’t think that would be positive or healthy. Noah needs space for his brain to unwind and video games are his thing. I don’t want to take that away.

But how can there be space between us so that we can have separate interests without choking one another on it? Can there still be enmeshment if I don’t have to hear about video games every day? I hope so.

I’ve been thinking about Noah’s various suggestions for how to carve space for me in the house. I’m cranky as fuck about doing the work… I really don’t want to… but I think it probably would be smart. I need space where I can do my thing without having to stomp away into more common area where I feel like I’m not allowed to set boundaries about conversation. I don’t want to tell the people in my house they can’t talk about their shared obsessive interests. That’s shitty. The kids and Noah get a lot out of bonding together over stuff. I don’t want to fuck that up. It’s a really important thing for the three of them.

I would encourage my kids to play team sports if they had inclination. Doesn’t mean I would enjoy hearing about it.

I’m absolutely convinced that Noah underestimates how much time and energy I spend thinking about him and trying to be a good partner. This is kind of the crux of my life. I can pour energy out and still suck. I’m sorry. I know I am pathetic. I wish I were better at showing you how much I like you.

Lately Noah has been sitting outside with me more. I really like it. I have worked so hard on making a pretty yard. I like enjoying it. I like all the colors and variety of flowers and plants. I like that the kids feel like they live in a jungle.

Noah has been going to dance classes with me and I’m having a lot of fun. It’s really nice. But I come home and pass out. (Or I stay up fussing and angsting and I don’t want to wreck his sleep) So I don’t think Noah feels as appreciated for it as he would like. It isn’t turning into lots of sex for him and that’s hard.

I don’t feel like a lot of the early sex we had was “bonding” per se. It was sex I like to have. A lot of the sex I have really isn’t about bonding. At this point we are so bonded you’d need a crowbar to separate us and that makes sense different, hard.

There isn’t really room for longing for it. There isn’t room in my life to want connection. I have so much connection it is choking me.

I am talking to more of my people who are far away. I’m on the phone a lot lately. Folks in Kentucky, New Hampshire, Scotland, New York, I’m going to Alaska…

I think this trip to Alaska might be the last trip of my cat’s life. She needs so much medication and attention. I would have to pay someone with a lot of cat experience and my super awesome babysitter is leaving the state. I’d trust her to medicate my cat. Her family has fostered for years and she takes responsible to a whole new level. I need to chill the fuck out for Puff.

She’s worth it. 19 years of companionship and love.

If I talk to people on the phone then Noah doesn’t fear that I’m more interested in them than him. None of these are friends I bang much (or at all) and that’s a conscious choice right now. It seems… wise.

I am still talking to my lovers occasionally. They are important people in my story. But they are less dominant in my life at the moment. I have so many subtle variations of seasons. I love these people a lot. Looks like Deity landed the cool job in Ohio. I’m really happy for him. I hope he manages to find the two wives he’d like to have.

I’m here. Being Noah’s wife. I like being Noah’s wife. I like Noah. Not because he sometimes doesn’t talk about video games. Because he is kind, thoughtful, generous, loving, attentive, wicked smart, he has the perfect cock, and I genuinely believe that he is going to stick around and be my family forever if I let him.

I think our enmeshment would be well served by some separation. Not tons. But some. Some space for me.

I need to feel like I’m chasing people to some degree. My beloved Noah isn’t a creature I must chase. Instead he pursues me a la Pepe le Pew. How can I chase him if he is always in pursuit?

Today I’m not out of hope. It’s day two of my cycle. That’s often a good day.

Guess what? My house is a construction zone. I am… how do they say… less than pleased. Only I’m consumed with gratitude that I can pay to fix this. A hose broke under the sink in the kitchen. It damaged the walls. To fix this we need: a plumber, a restoration specialist (to dry out and repair the walls), an asbestos (I spelled that wrong earlier… ha!) investigator, then a general contractor to put everything back. This will take at least a week. The kitchen and dining room are behind plastic sheeting. Cooking is… not going to be much fun.

So that’s festive.

I went to a different chiropractor today because my massage therapist told me to and she’s bossy as fuck and I take orders from people who deliver great service. She doesn’t know my chiropractor and she didn’t know if she should trust his work. Her guy does do much more extensive testing than my guy, so ok. At the end of his evaluation (and querying me about alllllllllll my medical treatments) he told me that in his opinion I am already doing everything that can be done. He’s impressed by how I’m managing. He says I am unusually strong in a variety of ways. My hands may burn like a motherfucker ALL THE TIME but I can do stuff with them. I am a twatwaffle who is overly pleased by evaluations that determine that I’m strong. Stupid shit like he couldn’t pull my fingers apart and he expected to do so without much force. I have done manual labor for a lot of my life. It has an impact.

I’m bleeding. I did ovulate this month, but Noah was out of state. I’m grateful that my body seems to be getting back online… slowly.

I am way down in pot usage. For a while there I was at 200-250mg/day. Today I’ve used less than 50mg. I am doing all I can to make my body a more habitable space for a fetus.

I’m exercising more. Lots of bike rides, which is HUGE for me. I’m so scared of bikes. The fact that I’m getting out there and doing it is a big deal. I’m going to call and make an appointment at the recumbent bike shop in Alameda for a week or so from now. Riding a standard bike is hard on my back and arms. We need another bike in the family because right now Noah can’t come with us. He can use the bike I have now if I change over. Noah and I even went on an almost two mile run today. By “run” I mean I probably ran for a whole minute out of every five. I’m really out of shape, but I can fix that.

I am… having waves of apprehension about pregnancy. I have so many conflicting feelings. The dominant feeling at the top of the pile is I WANT A BABY so that makes all the other difficult feelings kind of hard. I want to talk about the conflict I feel and I don’t want to make it sound like that conflict means we shouldn’t do it. I’m scared. Being pregnant has not been a fun experience for me. My body suffers. Not Noah. Me. Labor has been literally a near death experience. I’m scared. I’m scared of losing control of my body to nursing again and I really couldn’t bear the extra work of formula feeding. If I had to get up in the middle of the night and make a bottle I would lose my shit. Nursing is easier. And harder. It’s complicated.

I sent off a check today I… probably maybe shouldn’t have sent because my bank balance isn’t that flush. But my friend is unable to get into a home on her own and I’m not going to let her be homeless. It’s a loan. It’ll come back. But… I am not in the best month ever for sending out a big loan. But my friend’s need won’t wait. You know what? I’ll live with the anxiety of not having the bank balance I want. My friend needs a home. She’s been my friend for a very long time. If I don’t step up then I’m a piece of shit. Folks like us need to help one another because there isn’t another soul available to just help her. Most folks who grow up as poor as we were never get access to people with this deep of a pocket. I have to help.

I take comfort from knowing that the money I have loaned out so far has come back in full, before the expected fulfillment date. Gifts are different. I pick good people to loan to. That’s a piece of shit thing to say. I pick people to loan money to who are having temporary cash flow problems but they will have the money. They just don’t this minute. Have faith in them.

I wasn’t viewed as a good risk for a long time. But I really am a good risk for money. My bank balance may not be where I want it to be because I like having a $60k buffer and I’m nowhere near that. But I have a hair shy of $770,000 invested. I’m doing fine.

Noah likes to tease me because I adamantly insist that the money he earns is his and I don’t have money. He points out that depending on how old we get, we may spend more years living off the money I have invested than living off his salary. So whose money is it? His. His. His.

Nyah

Noah has been so forking nice lately. He’s clearly frustrated. He’s clearly having a hard time. But he digs deep and he finds patience for me and the kids. I am continually impressed with how Noah takes all of my horrible stereotypical judgments about men and sets them on their ear. That’s wonderful and slightly irritating.

I spend a lot of time thinking about how Noah deserves better than me. But I’m not sure I’m capable of living up to what he deserves. I feel like if I’m not about as good as I’m going to get the peak isn’t that far away. I’m afraid I don’t have many more times in my life I can just say, “Well work harder and be better.” I’ve done it to myself a lot in my life. That is how I have gotten here. It doesn’t matter if I’m in pain or exhausted. Work harder; be better.

That’s how a lot of parenting has worked. It doesn’t matter if I feel like I can’t. Do it anyway. Work harder; be better. I have managed to push myself through a fantastic amount of improvement this way. I’m afraid I’m reaching the end of the utility of this tool.

I’ve been borrowing spoons from a future I didn’t believe I would have. Paying the piper for this hurts.

I should be sleeping but my arms hurt. My hips hurt. My neck hurts. My back hurts. My shoulders hurt. Instead I watch Rihanna videos and think about one of the most beautiful women alive. She’s talented. I don’t know why I like watching her as much as I do.

Why do Americans like black culture and hate black people. Do I hate black people? I sure hope not. I haven’t acted like I do. I don’t think that me not hating black people is enough. We have an entire world steeped in antiblackness. What have I done to eradicate that? Well, I have sure as shit talked to my children about it. I have educated classrooms full of kids about it. That’s not enough.

Rihanna has a song–Unfaithful–about cheating. It’s interesting to me. “I don’t want to be a murderer.” Is sex really all that? I’ve definitely left relationships because of sex. But am I a murderer if I cheat on someone? Complicated. Noah has given up more of himself for our relationship than I have. Our lawyer commented that our relationship doesn’t have a similar level of public disclosure. I blog. He doesn’t. That’s ok. I get something from blogging that he doesn’t. He doesn’t feel affirmed from screaming into the void the way that I do. Noah doesn’t get the same thing from defining himself that  get. That’s ok.

We live in a world that says that men are strong and women are weak. But what is strength?

I regularly have the experience of having men be surprised by what I am physically capable of doing. Stop underestimating me.

Do you know who doesn’t underestimate me? Noah. Noah is the person in my life who has consistently believed I am capable of the most. Does that mean Noah is weak? Naw. If I have a jar to open I hand it to him.

Goodness. The song “Hate That I Love You”. Goodness.

“That’s how much I love you
That’s how much I need you
And I can’t stand you
Must everything you do make me wanna smile
Can I not like you for awhile? (No)” Rihanna – Hate That I Love You Lyrics | MetroLyrics

Sometimes I feel like it would be nice to not like Noah for a while. But then I’m away from him for a few seconds and I want him to tell me a stupid joke. The closer I am the more I want distance the further I am the more I want closeness. I feel like we need to create some sort of distance so I am longing for him. I do long for him. I miss him sometimes even when I’m out for the day at appointments. Five hours are entirely too many to be away from him and yet sometimes five minutes are too many to be together. No. That’s not true. Sometimes I want him in the room and quiet.

I don’t know that I ever really want him not in the room.

Maybe when I’m feeling embarrassed about what I’m doing. Like nitrous. I’m weird. It’s not like he cares. But he doesn’t indulge in my vices the way I do. Sometimes I feel really ashamed. I don’t like smoking in front of him. He isn’t gross like me. He doesn’t do things to alter his body in order to stand being alive.

I feel so bad that I want chemical assistance to be ok being alive. I should just be grateful he is here making it better. But I hurt so much.

Nitrous fucking helps.

I don’t do it all the time. I can’t afford it. But man. There are nights.

Random aside: how does Rihanna manage to look like she has small breasts and curvaceous mountains IN THE SAME DAMN VIDEO. (different song)

optical illusions are so cool.

Anyway.

What is the difference between appreciation and appropriation? I don’t know.

But send out more money. Stay home. Don’t take more for yourself. Maybe, hopefully that can be enough.

The funny thing is, I expect money to be the most forward facing part of me in the future. I will send a lot of money out into the world and I’ll stay home. I’ll hide in Wonderland. I’ll pretend the world is comfortable and predictable. I’ll pretend that “sustainable workload” isn’t hysterical. I’ll figure out which plants I won’t kill. It’ll work out.

Or nothing will work out. And in 100 years I will have been dead for a long time and I won’t matter. Who knows.

I want to matter. I want to matter. I want to matter.

I want to matter even though I was conceived in violence and resistance. My mother resisted making me. She didn’t want me. I shouldn’t be here.

I want to matter anyway.

Maybe rapists are motivated by hearing the siren call of the children who desperately need to be born. Puke. Retch. Vomit. fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck that. Maybe even the most unwanted piece of shit in the whole universe can still grow a beautiful plant and that isn’t about anything else.

Sometimes shit produces the most beautiful flowers.

What is shit but refuse? That which is rejected. The body cannot absorb some pieces so it sends those back out into the world.

Am I that which my mother and father could not digest so they sent me off into the world? Hiiiiiiii.

I don’t think so. I think my presence on this planet is a demonstration that violence sometimes overcomes.

Only he’s dead now.

Who am I?

Am I this flesh bag? Am I these words on a screen? Am I the emotions inside the meat bag? Am I a concept inside your head? Am I a real person or am I an idea? I’m not sure I know. But I will keep creating me, year after year.

Do you know what I am? I am not a victim. I have had bad shit happen to me, yes. But I am not a victim. I am instead a recipient of shittiness. A victim is a person duped. A person tricked. A person killed for sacrifice. A person injured or killed as a result of an accident or crime or event. I am not a victim. A victim is a person who is harmed, you say. But what is harm? hey the internet says harm is physical damage. Like the damage in my body? Shit.

I’m pretty sure there are people out there who believe I have caused them pain.

If you have caused pain does your pain matter?

If you have caused more pain than you have experienced does it matter? How do you measure? How does one evaluate?

I don’t know.

I know that I need to turn to Noah. That’s a thing. Even when I’m in pain, Noah is who I have chosen as the person I turn to. Even when he irritates me, Noah is who I need to process how god damn annoying Noah is. That’s not fair. What is fair? I don’t know. But I know that I’m grateful for Noah. I’m grateful every day.

It’s not the money.

It’s not even the cooking.

It’s not the sex.

It’s the listening. It’s the looking. I feel like Noah looks at me like no human being has ever cared to look at me. I exist in Noah’s eyes in a way I don’t otherwise.

If I am a piece of shit, then with Noah I create the most beautiful flowers. Our children astound me. Even as they irritate the shit out of me. They are real people who need to make their own mistakes. They cannot absorb mine.

This is all so complicated.

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.