Tag Archives: x-post

How do we define ourselves?

I have a yoga class in two hours. Does that make me a “yoga person”? I like it when I get punched. Does that make me the cause of my own abuse? My husband can punch me for hours and all I will do in retaliation is suck his cock and thank him. But some random dude stopped his car to yell at me while I was out cycling and he slapped my hand and I called the police and he was spoken to about assault. My tiny neighbour is exploring boundaries and when you tell her no she is apt to slap you–your face or your hand, whichever she can reach. I picked her up and gently set her outside my studio and said, “No ma’am. You can’t hit me. That’s not ok. I know it is hard to be told no. You feel frustrated and sad and you probably think I’m being mean. I am sorry I have to say no but I don’t have time to pick up all the things in that drawer from the floor today. Another day I will say yes.” She gave me a suspicious look but stopped crying and ran off to play again.

When we try to figure out if we are a good person or not how do we decide which moment to judge?

My best friend, many years ago, was absolutely determined to get into med school. She accepted horrifyingly unsafe living conditions so that she “had time to study” for her exams to get in. She lived with her parents, who were a master class on unsafe and shitty parents. She studied for 8 years as of when I last knew her. Her university GPA was really nothing impressive and she needed a perfect score. I don’t remember what the scale is, I’m going to pretend it is out of 1,000. She needed 900+ to qualify for admission. 8 years in she had never gotten above a 500. The tests are expensive. The study materials are expensive. She ate poorly because she took no time to cook and she had almost no money because she worked the absolute minimum to devote her time to studying. She was sleeping on an RV mattress on concrete blocks. Her back was doing so poorly that she had a gallon size plastic bag full of meds. She was high as a fucking kite at all times and her doctor thought she is heading for surgery as the very best outcome and probably a wheelchair. She would not in any way consider doing anything with her life other than being a doctor.

She came to visit me. She was supposed to help me with my wedding reception (she offered, I did not ask). She couldn’t. She couldn’t stand or sit or focus long enough to actually complete a task. She ended up spending all the prep time hounding me about how I was supposed to take her to a fucking release party for whatever Harry Potter book was coming out. I still had not read any and I was completely uninterested in spending the weekend of my wedding reception hanging out in line to get a fucking children’s book at midnight. Sounded like hell.

These sorts of non-communications passed back and forth for a while. Then I exploded after she told me that she was saving up all her extra money because she wants really fancy earphones for her 2 hour each way commute. I asked her why she isn’t saving money for a decent mattress since she is looking at surgery and a wheelchair because of the damage she is causing to herself. I asked her why she won’t get a reasonable, attainable dream for her since she is killing herself chasing a star she isn’t going to reach. (I am paraphrasing. I don’t actually remember the words I said. I know I told her that she needs a new dream.)

I was a horrible fucking person. Whether or not I was “right” about any of that I shouldn’t have said it. I had no right to pass judgment. It was cruel. It was unkind. I made someone I love deeply cry.

I mean, there are my scene fuck ups too. Once I was overly defensive on the local public mailing list when someone said that I had made their fingers numb during a bondage scene. (Not long-term numb, there was no permanent damage.) I shouldn’t have been a twerp and I was. I was kind of right as well, slight numbness in fingers is not a reason to flip out though it does mean you should probably modify your tie so that it doesn’t continue. Meh.

You say that you are not your trauma (fiiiiiiiiiiiiine Alebeard I will argue with your fucking assertion since you CAME AND TAUNTED ME AS SOON AS I WOKE UP THIS MORNING~) which I can kind of accept, because I think a person is defined more by what they do than what they have done to them. How do you measure the trauma you cause other people? How do you figure out if you are being in the world who you want to be?

I had a dear friend–I’ve lost contact with her. I should look her up. Anyway, I had a dear friend. She was sweet and kind and gentle and one of the more scary bad ass masochists I have ever witnessed in person and that’s saying a lot. I have seen many thousands of people play and I know a lot of extreme edge players. She was special. She was able to recover from levels of physical abuse and say “more please” in a way that is pushing way past the edge of self harm. She also had an eating disorder and she self harmed, so.

We were talking about calling red. I have stopped scenes that crossed explicit boundaries; she had never done so. I asked her how she felt about that. She said it scared her. She said she was afraid that she was going to let someone kill her because she genuinely didn’t care if she walked away from scenes. I asked her if she thought that if she got to red once if she could do it again. She said she thinks so and that’s why she is afraid to do it. Doing it even once is telling herself that she deserves to live. She couldn’t do that.

I asked her if she wanted to red.

She started crying and she looked down for a while but eventually she nodded. We had played together quite a bit and we had long since negotiated physical limits and toy stuff so I could simply ask if she wanted me to make her red. She said she did.

I beat the shit out of her. The whole time I hit her I talked to her about why she is worthy of love. Why she deserves to protect herself. Why she is special and wonderful and strong and pretty and kind without being injured at the same time and why can’t she hear that? Why can’t she believe that she deserves to live?

I don’t know how long it went on. I remember it as being one of those “forever” scenes where you lose time completely and you can go for 3 or 4 hours before dropping in exhaustion. It stopped because at some point I was sitting on her and slapping her in the face over and over telling her that she has to tell me to stop. She has to live. She has to love herself enough to live. She has to say stop. She has to say red.

She broke.

Why is making one friend cry because I said unkind words enough to mean that I am a horrible person but beating someone for hours until she cries and tells me to stop is ok.

She made positive steps in her life after that. The rest of that is not my story to tell.

Sometimes forcing your will on someone is a service and it is desired and welcome and a healthy thing to do. It is negotiated and desired and created and facilitated through an agreement. Sometimes you are a fucking dick.

I have fucked up a lot in this life. If I am not the trauma I experienced in childhood, cool ok, am I the trauma I inflicted in my adulthood? Even you understand that there is a difference between the trauma you inflict with consent and the trauma you inflict without consent. I understand that you (particular, singular you) differentiate hard between people inside your sphere of care and people outside your sphere of care. Think about accidental trauma you inflict on me, or E or the kids. That has happened. All humans fuck up and hurt people. It is part of the process of learning how to exist in this life. We learn a lot more from mistakes than from always doing it right; at least that is what I tell myself to justify how much I have fucked up. I definitely have a bone deep understanding of why I will never speak to someone like that again.

But the real question is: will I ever beat someone like that again? Quite possibly not. I might get beaten like that again. It’s different. There is a very specific experience that comes from giving someone intense catharsis that is absolutely intoxicating. You know it well. Now the freaking yoga class is coming up sooner and I need to eat before I leave.

Was that a good enough argument?

~P.S. I love you, @Alebeard. You are weird as fuck and a troll and kind of mean and you still delight me. I’m not ok with your time on this world ending soon so knock off that line of talk. Too many people have died recently. I am not at all ready to lose more. Go for a fucking walk. I hope you are eating your hippy vegetables. Live long, my friend.

It’s all so mixed.

I know that when I talk about dealing with the hypnotism stuff I did with Noah I am very ambiguous about how I feel. It’s because I have a lot of different emotions. Part of what he was doing was watching me chase women and end up being rejected and feeling destroyed. Even when sex isn’t on the table my relationships with women can be tempestuous. He wanted me to only need him. He saw that as the best way of keeping me safe. I can understand why he felt so convinced.

Noah did things to me that I didn’t always like. He tried to take urges away from me that feel integral to my individuality. Sure, he was selfish and in some lights it was pretty fucked up. In other lights I can see why he was working really hard to keep me safe. He watched me make bad choices. He watched me get attached to people and put up with some incredibly shitty treatment. He wanted to make sure that didn’t happen again. He was going to block me from doing that to myself.

I’m going to get past it. Not all women are going to treat me poorly. Even though I feel bruised emotionally I will keep moving on. I’m not going to quit women any more than I’m willing to quit men.

I am going to hide at home and lick my wounds for a while. I had a crush. I allowed myself to build sandcastles for a while. I had fun dreams. It was nice to get that experience. I can’t be bitter about trying. It turns out it won’t work out.

I am not allowed to depend on anyone too much. They will all go away. In the long run I have me. I know that Gentleman wants to be there for me. I know that my friends love me very much and will do everything they can to support me. Also I will have lots of time when I need to sit in a room alone. I need to remind myself that in the end whoever or whatever I am is stuck in this meat sack. Her Gloriousness Ms Cher tells me that sooner or later we all sleep alone.

I have to be able to keep walking on my own. I can’t need anyone too much and it hurts very badly. This horrible knowledge about the inevitability of my life has been in my heart for a long time. It’s why I usually go hide somewhere to be alone on my birthday. I need to know that I will walk through most of them alone because alone is better than sad. Alone is better than not being able to feel that anyone loves me when I am in a room full of people who love me intensely.

I know that I am loved in a cognitive sort of way. It is a fact that other people experience this sensation in my direction. It has been expressed with enough intensity that I’m not going to argue about it.

I understand why Noah was willing to devote his life to obsessively serving me because he wanted to try to protect me. He wanted so badly to keep me from being hurt anymore because he loved me so much. He was willing to hurt me to keep other people from hurting me. I can’t bring myself to feel regret, not really. I would never trust anyone else in such a position. Noah was as well trained and as focused as such a person could be and he wasn’t enough. It wasn’t his fault. It is not anyone else’s fault that I have this deep well of inadequacy and self hatred. It’s definitely not this recent person’s fault.

This goes back to curling up into a ball to sob when I was 3, the first time I was put in a foster home. Why am I not good enough to be kept? Noah kept me for 18 years. He would have kept me longer. I have to use that knowledge to assuage my soul. Even if I am alone in this room right now. That’s ok. It’s ok to be alone right now. It doesn’t mean I will be alone in every room for the rest of all time. So many things can be true at once.

I am not so bad that no woman could love me without being allowed to abuse me. I can’t believe it. Even if it feels like it is true.

I will get past this. I can. Fuck. I need to sleep. I wish I felt less awake. Go to bed. No good comes from entertaining mean brain hamsters late at night.

Priorities and patience

I haven’t responded to the last email yet but I will. I find myself torn in a lot of different directions. For one thing: I know how hard it sucks to date a breeder. We are selfish fucks who put our kids above other people. That’s hard to deal with. It feels invalidating. It can lead to all kinds of weird jealousy over time spent (that was an issue early in my parenting experience even inside my marriage) and I know people end up feeling left out. It sucks that when a short person has a need that comes over all the wants and needs of the grown ups. I can really understand not feeling ok with that kind of sacrifice when they aren’t even your crotch droppings. I can even more fully being over that kind of limitation when your own children are grown and gone. You are ready to be selfish about your time. Fair!

I am not ready for that. I am not going to be ready for that for a long time. In American terms my kids are level 2 autistic. It means they need quite a lot of support. If I were in California I would know exactly what levers to push to get exactly the appropriate support for my kids to go to school so I could get a break from them. Here in Scotland that support doesn’t exist and I would be laughed at in a meeting if I requested it. I would be told “That’s not how it works here”. I opted out of the schooling system in California because the live shooter drills were a bridge too far. I watched that fuck kids up. I couldn’t let the system do that to my kids. I can’t let my kids fall through the cracks in Scotland even though there aren’t any guns. This means that people who would normally spend many hours a day with specialists are stuck with only having me and I’m not really enough. This is why we go to classes and activities and have regular events at our house so we can build a community. My kids need more than me and I give them as much as I can within a structure where I supply all the extra support they need beyond what “average” kids need.

That means I don’t get a lot of time off and my brain is deeply overwhelmed pretty much all the time.

If you need me to lavish attention on you every day I am going to be a failure for your expectations. I’m not saying you don’t deserve that. You totally deserve that. You are wonderful and shiny and fun and you have earned all the good things you want to get. That doesn’t mean I am in a place to give them to you right now.

When I chose to give birth I was signing myself up to a contract that I take very seriously. I have seen with my own eyes what happens to people when their parents don’t take that contract seriously. It wasn’t pretty. I am going to take this very seriously. I have 9 years 8 months and 2 years to go. Until then all the fun I want to have has to fit in the cracks around my duty to these humans.

That’s going to make me hard to date. It’s going to mean that someone needs to have a lot of patience if they are to survive a relationship with me. I know it is a big ask. I don’t feel owed that patience. I don’t really feel like I deserve it. There is a big part of me that feels like I should listen to the people who tell me to abandon my kids more because “I deserve a life too.”

Thing is: I had a really fantastic single life before I had kids. I fucked all the people. I traveled. I did the fun drugs. I did all the crazy bdsm most people put on their bucket list.

I am not in that season right now. If someone is impatient with me being in the season I am in then we are not a match. It’s ok. No hard feelings about that bit.

I am struggling with having some hard feelings about you deciding that you being upset with me was somehow a proxy indicating that all of my friends are upset with me. That feels manipulative in a way I can’t abide. That feels deeply cruel. I have struggled so hard with feeling like anyone might ever be able to like me at all that attempting to pull that scaffolding out from beneath me is unacceptable. I think that is an awful thing to do. It is hard for me to leave my house sometimes because I am so overwhelmed with anxiety because I feel like exposing people to knowing that I exist is morally questionable. People shouldn’t have to know about me if they don’t want to. People definitely don’t owe me anything. Nobody has to be my friend. No one has to like me.

I know. It’s hard for me to understand how anyone could like me at all most days. I don’t feel worth it.

Coming for my support scaffold like that is cruel. Trying to shake my faith in my friends is pretty abusive. I’m already more socially isolated than is good for me. Don’t tell me that my friends are going to have no compassion for my social issues. That is so mean.

The backlog of email basically started when the last rape happened. I have lost a lot of functionality over the last two years. I have withdrawn from society a lot. My life is 1/5 the size it was 2 years ago.

Don’t tell me that no one will like me on the far side of being in this much pain. Don’t try to take hope away from me. That’s not ok. I started trying to kill myself when I was 7 because I didn’t think there was any point in carrying on because no one could love me. I had already been kicked out of 6 foster homes. I was on my 8th school. I started after the first non-family member rape. I’ve been institutionalised for suicide attempts a few times.

Don’t ever tell me that my friends are going to stop loving me because I’m not good enough.

It’s a good thing I have all these cards from Bailey sitting out. I couldn’t believe that everyone will give up on me if I tried. I wear your backpack every day and I know that even though we can’t be in a close relationship you haven’t stopped loving me. Even though I am so hard and I was awful to you, you still love me.

There are people I can’t date. If you are going to fight dirty the first time you feel a little butthurt we can’t be in a relationship. If you are going to diagnose me with personality disorders when you are mad at me then we can’t be in a relationship. I have worked really hard on my shit. I am fair in arguments. When I start to go too far I back it off real fast. I deescalate. I accept lots of responsibility for my failures.

Yes. I should have tried harder to email more often. That wasn’t very kind of me. It’s true. I told you I wanted to build the relationship in the room. I wasn’t clear enough about what that meant. I wasn’t clear enough about a bunch of things and you were completely not ok with that. Fair enough. I was waiting to talk on our next date. That wasn’t cool of me in this modern world where I am expected to respond to everything instantly no matter what else I’m fucking doing.

I leave my phone in the house while I garden. If you can’t handle waiting that long then it’s a you problem, not a me problem.

I am online a lot. It’s how I cope with how fucking lonely I feel. But I can’t always be in one to one chats with people online. I find them draining and exhausting. I’m constantly trying to gauge tone and what I should or shouldn’t say. It’s super high cognitive load. I think it is fucking great that my boyfriend has a job that makes it hard to chat all day. It’s tiring.

I am in this 24/7 dance of trying to find the balance between being understimulated and being overstimulated by my life. There is no happy medium.

Dealing with me requires a lot of patience. Not everyone has a lot of patience. That’s ok. Dating me means accepting that I already have a really full life. Someone has to be ok with something that has no resemblance to het-monogamy expectations. I’m a free bitch. I’m focused on my life. I want to be in the moment. If you are scheduled to be in this moment with me then I will give you my full attention. If you are not scheduled to be in this moment with me then it is fairly presumptuous to decide I should give up my this moment to write to you alone because you are so special. If you want to fucking learn about me I have written millions of fucking words and it is entitled as shit to expect me to duplicate them for you.

Really. Have you fucking considered as you lecture me about how I should be explaining myself to you in greater detail that you can search by fucking tags on the blog you are reading so that you can learn all fucking about me? I have fucking books about me. You can download them online.

Are you shitting me? You are going to throw a tantrum because I’m not writing you enough emails about myself so you can understand me better?

It’s kind of funny. I like dating people who are older than me because they tend to have a higher maturity level. Apparently 65 isn’t high enough. 65 and still bitching that it isn’t fair you have to go read the source material instead of having it explained to you one tiny bit at a time.

I am livid. Telling me that my friends will abandon me if I don’t get better at email is a real fucking problem. Every single one of the people sitting in my inbox read my fucking blog when I post there. They write me letters and emails in response to the stuff they read. The fact that I don’t get a lot of comments on my blog is because I am a salty bitch who is talking to myself. I don’t want advice and people really can’t help themselves. The long time people all understand this. Don’t fucking throw me pity because I don’t get comments.

I use cool tracking software on my blog. I can see the ISP of people who log in. Over time I have mapped a whole bunch of my friends. I see them checking in. I don’t need comments.

Trying to make me feel insecure about my friends’ love is hitting me super hard the next day.

There is no fair and there is no deserve. Even so, I am not going to put more energy into someone who tells me that my friends are going to stop loving me. That is putting a scorpion on my back and giving it a ride. I feel no call to be that kind of “nice” anymore.

I am worth better treatment than that. I am glad I know that now.

Vagueposting

It’s a lot harder to figure out my feelings without Noah to talk to. I used to dump thousands of words on his lap and he’d sort them out and figure out what I was really trying to say. I am doing some of that with Gentleman but mostly he stares at me with big eyes waiting. Sometimes he asks questions. Rarely there is a comment. Then I start crying and he hugs me. It’s different. It’s good. I’m not complaining in any way shape or form. It’s really helpful at this stage.

There are things I’m going to have to sort on my own though. He can’t be handed all of my thoughts so that he can explain them to me. He hasn’t studied me for decades. That’s not a reasonable expectation. The hugging is good.

I try hard to be fair about the fact that a given behaviour isn’t necessarily a red flag for all people. It might be yellow or even green for someone else. There are things that I should pay a lot of attention to. I have a limited amount of precious time in this life. There are specific things that are going to be a problem for me. It’s good for me to think of them very specifically.

I can’t have lovers or friends or play partners who spend a lot of time negatively judging me as a parent without knowing my children. If someone watches me parent and thinks I’m doing something wrong I am shockingly willing to discuss my methodology. I fucking promise that I have put more thought into everything I do as a parent than almost everyone (or possibly literally everyone) you have ever met. I can tell you why I’m doing everything I’m doing. I have a motive, a method, and I can break down which theorists I am basing my principles on. I studied child development and education for 10 years before having kids. I was in therapy for over 20 years before I had kids. I did a lot to prepare for this gig. If you are in my house watching and you think I am doing something poorly, uhm sure. Share your feelings. If you aren’t in my house, and especially if you have never been in my house I don’t actually want to hear your opinion. I don’t. You don’t get to evaluate me. You have never watched me work. You don’t have anything to base your opinion on. It’s worthless. Don’t share it. There are reasons I get my kids in front of professionals for evaluation on a regular basis to see if I’m fucking up. I’m scared as hell I’m not going to do as well as these people need. I don’t need to have a relationship with someone who is going to run their mouth and insult me as a mother.

I struggle with feeling like I am judged on a large scale basis. I make a lot of unconventional life choices. I am different. People let me know that there is something wrong with me on a regular basis. It’s always weird how they think I don’t know that I’m different from them. They have to tell me. I’m existing wrong. If you want to tell me that you don’t like what I’m doing that’s fine. If you need to tell me how much other people don’t like what I’m doing then I have an issue. That’s not your place. Who the fuck elected you the speaker for the choir? I don’t recall any time when you would have been in a room with the people you are presuming to speak for. How in the fuck do you know their opinions?

If I am trying to explain the ways that my disabled ass is FUCKING DISABLED I am not going to be super patient if you tell me that everyone has to triage and I should get a notepad to help me remember things. Implying that I should take a biscuit and a coffee and get back to work is not going to be something I respond well to. I’m just fucking saying. That kind of implication is going to mean that I need to treat you as an active hostile force. Your advice could severely damage me. Your demands could cause me to harm myself in a way that harms my life. That’s not ok. That’s asking too much. That is not showing any respect for me at all.

Yeah, I am a picky bitch. I am fucking demanding. I need to be seen. I need to only have relationships with people who can fucking remember that they can’t have standard expectations for me. I’m not saying your standards for me always need to be low. Sometimes I’m pretty great. Just not in every way and not on bad days. Telling me to eat a fucking biscuit and get back to work is callous and destructive and hostile but oh you didn’t mean it that way. I’m over reacting.

I’ve played this game before. I know how this one goes.

Combine all that with the comments about obesity…

I think that’s a mast full of red flags. I think that’s incompatibility. If the first time you get upset and feel neglected you read me for filth I need to walk on. You deserve someone who can pay attention to you all day every day. I deserve someone who won’t make me cry and feel shitty about myself.

“Date a queer,” they said. “It’ll be better,” they said. “It’s way less work and way more reward to date someone who isn’t a cis het white guy” they said.

I dinno. Maybe mileage can vary.

It’s ok for us to each have deal breakers. Fatphobia isn’t something I want in my life. If you make those kinds of comments I don’t think I can be in a room with you on purpose for any kind of intimacy. If you make scathing comments about how impossible it is to have sex with someone who is obese I think you are a terrible lover and probably not a great person.

I have to think very carefully about who I bring into my house. I need to think about what kinds of off hand comments they are going to make. What kinds of jokes will spring out? Is there a tendency towards demeaning people or shaming them when there is a disagreement or rupture? These are things I do not allow in my home. If you do them you can walk the fuck out. My kids simply are not allowed. You can have an argument or disagreement without demeaning or shaming anyone. We do it all the fucking time. I know it is possible.

When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.

This is why I don’t say I will show up very often. I will come when I can and it won’t be much. If that’s not good enough for a relationship with you no hard feelings. I am one of those selfish asshole breeders and my life revolves around my kids. It’s going to stay true. Implications that I am doing this wrong are not going to win you points. If I feel sad and upset and shaky after interactions that is bad for my day job.

I can only have net positive relationship right now, fair or not. I don’t need anyone to be perfect but hoo boy. That’s a lot of flags.

Happy masochism, submission, and being degraded.

I am a flavourful woman. What can I say. I have more flavours than Baskin Robbins but I’m going to limit myself to discussing three of them today. (Many people have said that dating me is getting all the upsides of dating someone with multiple personalities. I’ve always cocked my head to the side when I hear that. Hrm.)

I’m feeling really excited about the beatings I’ve received recently. Two in the last three months! Look at me hitting warp speed over here. Once upon a time I was beaten multiple days a week but life evolves. Seasons change.

I like being a happy masochist. I will cheerfully direct you from the bottom how to hit me and where for me to get the most sexual enjoyment out of the experience. In my broad and storied existence this goes best with a service top, not a sadist. Even though this is the part of me most commonly paired linguistically as masochist/sadist it’s not actually a match. Being a happy masochist means that I enjoy the pain and I don’t suffer. Sadists, by and large, are not that interested in such a dynamic. Service tops love me though. They get to beat on me and grin while I get off. It’s very entertaining, I’m told. This is feeling like the bottomy part of myself that I have the most access to right now. It feels like a joyful reunion in myself.

Submission is different. Submission is giving up my will. I am a lot more passive. I don’t direct what is happening; I endure. I have mixed feelings about this right now at this point in my life. I recognise that a lot of it is literally just me using dissociation to barely be mentally or emotionally present in the room. I am a meat sack that will do whatever you want. I can take a really brutal beating this way. I will cry at some point but there won’t be orgasms. I’m not there to enjoy anything and I know it. I am there to be pleasing and I will accept whatever is poured into me. It’s not possible to kick this off then revert to happy masochist. I have to make a decision. Submission involves a lot of depersonalising. I am just a thing to work/be used.

Being degraded is very strongly related to the intense dark age play I do but it’s not always the same thing. It involves a lot of spelunking down into the layers of my psyche where I feel the most pain. Physical pain is such a constant part of my life that managing it isn’t that complicated in some ways. I am up for it or I am not depending on how my body is manifesting. Being degraded is different. It doesn’t line up with physical pain limitations. Being degraded is complicated. It’s psychological in a way the other two kinds of being on the right side of the slash aren’t for me. I need to be triggered into these negative emotional states to experience catharsis. I have to do it in a way that is sharp and pointed and impactful but has no lingering trails into my life. I have to find a way to not be overwhelmed enough to kick into frantic efforts to reduce psychological pain when I get back to my regular day job. That’s dangerous for me. Playing with the lower levels of this is my bread and butter of play. This is available to me when physical masochism isn’t safe. Dehumanising me, experiencing me as a thing to be hurt and used is very different from submitting. Submission doesn’t make me feel subhuman. Submission brings my soul with it to the dissociated place because only my meat sack is being set out for abuse. With degradation my soul is being hammered. What am I really worth? How could anyone love or respect something as disgusting as me?

This is a lot of why I insist on my long term relationships being with folks who very seriously treat me like a princess. They take care of me and adore me and make sure my life is as soft and fun as they can. They know I have suffered a lot in this life and they try to make sure the time I spend with them is better than the times when I have been alone or with people who didn’t love me at all.

I have learned a lot from Black women about what it means to crave a soft life. I eschewed such things for myself for years because I didn’t want to be like the awful rich white bitches I knew. Black women talked to me about how when you are this deeply traumatised it isn’t the same kind of entitlement. It’s allowing yourself to feel deserving of rest. I am not trying to get my softness through cruelty to other people or taking far more than my share and rubbing peoples noses in it. I have watched white women defend their soft lives with cruelty, entitlement, and avaricious selfishness. I want no part of being like them.

I want enough softness that when my battered and bruised body finally stops working I get to rest somewhere that has my pillow fort set up so I can support my fucked up joints as they repair. No, I don’t care about getting my hair or nails done. I don’t need fancy bags. I do have some nice dresses, but they are not from expensive shops. I’m a cheap bastard.

I have so much lingering resentment and rage for the wealthy. It makes my life surreal. I’m not asking for softness because I am better than other people. I’m asking for softness because my body is a few sharp taps with a mallet away from shattering. I want to feel like my partners believe I am a precious resource they desperately want to keep.

I have different levels of access to these three different flavours at this stage of my life. I’m really loving being a happy masochist. It’s so much fun. It feels like freedom and joy and being replete. I feel validated.

Submission is really hard. I think I would be able to access this in a limited way with one person at a time. I think I am past the part in my life where I can offer blanket submission to a group even for so long as a weekend. I think I can’t do that now. I am too hard to play with. I have too many small injuries and areas of deep trauma. I can’t put me to the side now and only give people what they want in a broad way. I would be able to pull off a one to one scene, maybe, but I haven’t tested it and I am afraid to. I sure as fuck will not be a pass around toy like this anymore. It’s not safe and I’m done carrying the damage for other peoples fun. My body is too fragile.

Degradation was the form of play Noah liked the most. He didn’t have to worry about hurting my meat sack and he could cause emotional torment with very little effort. The epitome of a lazy top. I say that without rancor. He inflicted a lot of emotional pain on me during sex. I get off on it like a race horse so I’m not actually complaining. I also don’t know how deep I want to go into this well with other people. It was safe with Noah because he knew my trauma mapping better than I did. His knowledge didn’t depend on state dependent memory. No one else is ever going to know me the way he did. It’s going to be a more dangerous game now. I suspect that this is the flame I will not be able to keep my moth self away from.

Submission is not all that appealing to me at this stage. I am in service 24/7 and it’s exhausting. I don’t want to give my fragile meat sack to someone who knows very little about it and let them do whatever they want to me. I am too fragile. The potential risks are so high for me and the people who will pay the price are the people I cannot take care of.

Being a happy masochist makes my day job easier for quite a while. It’s a lot of joy and energy for me. It’s like tapping a main water pipe when I need a glass of water. It’s so much energy.

Being degraded allows me to wade through the swamp of my brain and get the surges of fear/anxiety/lack of worth in a contained way that doesn’t blow up my life. My brain formed in a terrible soup of abuse and lack of worth. I don’t live there full time anymore but my brain will always find those ruts comfortable and home-like. It lets me siphon off some of the frantic energy that could otherwise fuck up my life. I think of this kind of play as harm reduction. I pretend I am being hurt by a very bad person so that I can avoid ever actually going to find a very bad person.

This is where Good Trouble last year was a risk. He wanted to step into degrading me without having a container. He thought me being good after the sex was me being silent and watching bad tv with him while he shushed me and told me not to talk. He didn’t know me. He asked for Daddy/daughter incest the first time we played and he didn’t ask me what such a thing might mean for me. He put me in a position that makes me feel nauseous from the start. He wanted the daughter to be intensely trying to “steal” daddy from mommy. Oh, and he wanted to meet my kids after 2 weeks of fucking.

I ran like my tampon string was on fire. That was not a good risk. That was a bad risk.

I am trying to be cautious. Mostly this means not doing all that much. It feels like a season for not pushing limits. It seems like a time to assume fragility and need for support at a level rarely inhabited.

I have to survive so I can’t be stupid. No risky choices.

Who in the fuck even am I?

Masturbation thoughts

I worry about increasing exercise because lately when I masturbate (a lot because I am going kind of nuts) I keep thinking about really awful mean sex with someone I don’t really know.

I want to show up at his house with the expectation of having to strip at the door and drop to my knees. I’m never allowed to stand up in his house. A few times, in my fervid fantasies, he has been a gay man who won’t touch my cunt. Until my asshole is sufficiently stretched to be used he will only use my mouth. Please assume that my frantic rubbing is accompanied by a litany of filthy words and insults. In at least one of these fantasies he gives me threats that one of the next few times I come over he is going to do horrible things. I keep coming back until he delivers. Once he brought over his bisexual boyfriend so they can alternate between DPing me vaginally/anally and keeping me airtight. In this fantasy I have a blindfold on so I never get to see the boyfriend. While they are fucking me they alternate between beating my ass, thighs, back, and face. Every so often when I am gagging really hard they ask me to tell them again how much I want them to use me. I am supposed to beg around the cock in my mouth. Bonus points for them both pissing on me in the back garden after they are done fucking me.

Sometimes she calls me her little bitch and she tries to get me to do tricks and when I make a mistake she beats me. Sometimes she straps me into something that keeps me locked on all fours. I get to service her while someone I can’t see fucks me from behind. She tells me that little bitches get used by the neighbourhood studs with the strong implication a dog is fucking me. (No actual animals are used. This is wank material. Don’t come for me you uptight twits.)

Sometimes my job is to show up and clean a couple up after they finish with each other. That’s it. I don’t get to have any more contact. They kick me out after I suck them both off.

Sometimes I am going to visit a mean uncle who tells me that if I don’t do the gross/violent/degrading things he demands he is going to do much worse to my younger sister. (I don’t have a younger sibling.)

I am very horny and I no longer have a Noah to tell me no when it comes to doing bad things. Now I have to manufacture my own self control. Let’s merely say that I understand why my children have impulse control issues.

I want to do very bad things.

Demisexuality again, or, I can’t help but stick my foot in my mouth.

Statuses suck. Sometimes I don’t have the spoons to flesh out a thought. On those days I struggle to stick with light topics. I should though.

First: demisexuality is valid. I am not disputing that.

Second: the nuance that is impossible in a status (and perhaps I figured this out after having my ass handed to me) is that I experience people using demisexuality not solely as a subset of asexuality, but rather as a spectrum that is dropped on top of the allosexual to asexuality spectrum. I’m willing to accept that other people still think I’m wrong and an asshole.

In my experience, and I’m not the authority on anything here so give that very little weight, people who are demisexual can be incredibly strong in spontaneous desire once they unlock the key with the right person. Asexuals, as I understand the term, are people who never have that spontaneous desire no matter how much they love someone. They might still have sex because it’s a useful act for relationship maintenance and such but they don’t want it for themselves.

My understanding of demisexuality is that the desire is picky and selective and possibly incredibly rare.

I would venture to say that most allosexuals overlap with demisexuality. The majority of humans who are capable of feeling spontaneous desire don’t do so randomly with strangers very often. They have to get to know someone first. There is the generic thirst conversations about hot famous people but those are fairly theoretical and people don’t tend to actually follow up.

I am one of the sluttiest people I have ever met. I look for other ravenous sluts as hard as I can. People like us are a very small piece of the population.

I wrote the status the other day because I keep running into circumstances where people apologise for not being able to walk into a room and have sex with anyone there.

Why in the fuck are you apologising?

You are entitled to own your own attraction pattern. You don’t owe anyone lust. You definitely don’t owe anyone rapid access to your body sexually. It makes me feel really fucking upset when I see people using demisexual as a label mixed in with apology. I feel this towering rage and I want to cry. How fucking dare society make you feel like there is something wrong with you. You aren’t broken. It is good that your body gives you a pause before you make stupid decisions with strangers. You don’t have anything to apologise for and I am furious that life has made you feel like you should.

I am not angry with people for being demisexual. I am not angry with people for using the label. It is a logical and sensible thing to know about oneself. What I failed to communicate in the status is that I am very upset that so many people seem to see demisexuality as inferior or something to feel bad about or a way of being defective.

It’s not any of those things. It’s a healthy way for your brain to keep your body safe from harm. I wish I had more of it. You aren’t a freak or bad or wrong because your body waits to feel safe before you feel desire. That is positive. That’s good for you.

I am angry that the popular representation is such that needing safety before desire is described as being a “lack” of desire. Well, some people do have less desire than they would prefer. That’s reasonable for a person to decide on their own for their body. Some demisexuals are really close to the ace end of the experience and their desire is incredibly rare and genuinely isn’t something to be counted on, of course. Even that should not be pathologised. If you don’t like how close your body is to being fully asexual, that’s one thing. Fair. We all get stuck with things in our bodies that are annoying and frustrating. Asexuality is still part of the range of normal for human beings. It’s not anything like as rare as hypersexuality. Way more people aren’t having sex than are having lots of sex.

Hypersexuals are loud mouthed assholes who like to make themselves the centre of attention.

Hi. In this moment I feel comfortable speaking for my people.

The loudness of hypersexuals means that we get a lot of press and attention and we seem like a bigger percentage of the population than we are. It’s kind of like how if you pay attention to the number of news stories about transgender folk they must be way more than 1% of the population, right? No. They are a tiny minority who are getting more press time than their share of the demographic would otherwise indicate as reasonable.

If you put 100 people in a room more of them will be demisexual than either hypersexual or asexual. Probably there will be more demisexuals than there are hypersexuals and asexuals put together.

My loves, you never have anything to apologise for. If someone is pressuring you then they are a dick. You aren’t defective. They are being unfair. They are out of pocket. They are the problem, not you.

A status is a poor way to communicate.

For the demisexuals who are really far on the ace end, I can absolutely see how spontaneous desire seems really far away. I’m not trying to argue with that in any way. There are so many aspects of being demisexual that I can’t speak to because I am incapable of experiencing anything like that in my body. I don’t know the frustrations of living in a body like that. I know the frustrations of living in a hypersexual body.

From this position what I was trying to say was: turning people down is not a mean or harsh thing to do. In grad school I propositioned a lovely friend of mine. In many ways a lot of people would say he was kind of crazy. I was hella fit, slutty, and a very good time. He is morbidly obese and timid and had never dated anyone. Wasn’t I doing him a favor? (No. I wasn’t. I was attracted to him because he’s an amazing human.) He told me no. He told me that he is not capable of feeling desire until he knows someone is fully picking him and not just using him for a good time. We are still friends. His wife is great.

He didn’t hurt me by telling me no. He gave me a space where I could love and trust him even more. I knew he would say no when he needed to. I knew he was co-creating a relationship container in which we both knew the rules for being good for each other. He was showing me love as a friend.

He’s just one of a great many people who have turned me down. He’s one of the first that comes to mind though. That no was sacred. That no was holy. It was part of him respecting himself and me enough to be real instead of performing a script assigned by society.

Now, I totally see where it can be a lot more complicated to go to bdsm/kink spaces as a demisexual because it’s a hunting ground for hypersexuals to a really large degree. That’s a level of complicated social pressure that I can’t even begin to fully unpack today. My hands are getting done fast.

When I say that demisexuality doesn’t make you a freak what I’m really saying is that demisexuality is not statistically rare. Complete asexuality is rare, as I understand it, but I still wouldn’t say that being asexual makes you a freak. It does make you more of a statistical outlier.

Still less of an outlier than me.

It’s weird sitting in this place on the bell curve. As I age this is going to be interesting because my sexuality is going to continue to narrow as more and more humans are technically available but don’t turn my crank. It feels very different to be owning this hypersexuality now as a 44 year old than it did as an 18 year old. At 18 I didn’t prefer 20+ years older than me but it happened. Now I cannot conceive of touching someone 20 years younger than me. The thought makes me feel physically repulsed. I’m sorry, darlings. It’s not you; it’s me.

I wish people didn’t feel like they owed anyone anything. I wish people felt more entitled to want what they want. Of course this gets complicated when there is a mismatch either internally or within a relationship.

I am thinking about this a lot as I move forward with my life. Demisexuality honestly sounds great. I wish that I didn’t feel desire until I was closer to people. I wish I felt less desire in general because I’m tired of thinking about sex. It is an obsessive track in my brain.

You are not broken because you get to have peace in your brain (at least about this topic) more than I do.

I wasn’t trying to invalidate demisexuality in any way. I was trying to say that it is real and it is important and you deserve to be treated with respect on the path you are taking. If someone tries to challenge you or disrespects your need to accommodate your body’s timeline for sex they are in the wrong.

Go as slowly as you need to. Sex is not better when it is rushed while you are uncomfortable. That’s silly. That’s selfishness, not connection. As a hypersexual I have to think about this as I approach people. I can’t be selfish with them. I need to reach for genuine connection or what I am doing is fucked up. I have to work hard to find my brake.

None of you demisexuals owe assholes like me anything, not your body, not your time, and not your dignity. You don’t ever have to apologise for saying no. No is a complete sentence. You don’t need to JADE (justify, argue, defend, or excuse).

You may wish you had different stuff going on in your body. That’s fair! Most of us have that experience while being alive. The thing is, you are part of normal. We all are. Even the really rare statistical outiers are still part of the range of normal in the sense that we appear in nature. We happen. There is no way to prevent us from existing.

Someone like you is supposed to exist. You don’t have to like that you are the one getting stuck with it, fair enough. We need all of us to save us. We need all of us to understand how complex humans are. We need the differences and the similarities.

I need you. It’s super great when you can say “no” to things at important times. That lets me love you with greater respect. If someone chooses not to love you with greater respect, maybe that human is not good for you. Moving on is very hard and painful; I know. You are worth defending. You are worth protecting. You are good enough as you are.

He is a gift to me/Raise your standards

Noah liked to say that even when I couldn’t articulate the reason why I did something I usually had an intensely accurate perception of my needs. I am going to spend the rest of my life recycling Noah’s words to me and reinterpreting them in different circumstances. I will see his beautiful benevolent face in my mind as I try to forgive myself for not dying with him.

I was right that I needed to lock down sex. That has been the main thing that has improved my mood over the past 17 months. First the thrill of the hunt (which I get a lot out of) and then the gradual experience of someone growing past the box I wanted to put him in. When I met Gentleman it’s not unfair to say I was looking for a human dildo. I needed someone to get me off and it is less scary for me to approach cis men for casual sex.

Then the months went by and he kept doing more and offering more and he learned my bizarre maze of rules and regulations. He doesn’t have to be told things twice. When I say that something is out of bounds he may ask clarifying questions so he can be as respectful as possible but he never needs to be told twice.

I have a shitty memory. Noah was an asshole who took boundary assertions as dares. It’s fucking amazing to date someone who only needs to be told no once. No kidding, this feels shocking and confusing to me on a regular basis.

I stayed home from yoga and the munch today. I couldn’t. I am trying to be ok with my vast limitations. Gentleman came over afterwards and we had a really lovely date. He played with my daughter in the garden while I did some weeding. We picked up new wheels for my wheelbarrows. We had really lovely sex. I’m definitely less frantic than I was this morning. I am very much an addict when it comes to sex. Withdrawals aren’t pretty. It’s been an awkward last whole week and change so sex has been challenging to arrange. Today he laid me out like a pillow princess. He made me flood a small village. It was a good time.

Mostly though he listened to me talk/cry for a couple of hours. He held me while I cried. He gives me space to have feelings. I’m still so terribly unable to let loose like this with most of my friends here. I am scared to stress test the relationship like that. I need these friends very much. They are important to me. I won’t always be this hard and I need them to still be around later. I don’t have a massive pond of people to burn through here. I have to carefully cultivate the only options available.

I’m not sad about the friends I have made here. I have met some really neato people and I feel lucky to know them. I’m not saying that they are the bottom of the barrel or anything. I found some really great candidates of open minded folks who have a big Krissy shaped hole in their lives.

Gentleman is one of them. He unfolds like a flower in my life, slowly and carefully. I was pessimistic about our chances starting in week two. I kept expecting him to blow up at me or judge me or be nasty to me and so far… no sign of any of the above. Instead he shows up and listens to me cry about how overwhelmed I feel and he responds with, “What I’m getting from this is I need to not wait to be asked. I will come over and do things.”

And they say men don’t listen.

I feel like a lot of what is making this relationship go so well is that we aren’t super stress testing it. We haven’t jumped into the deep end with both feet. We have not had that many overnights yet. We both arrived at this relationship believing we didn’t want to live with a partner again. We both want freedom and companionship. It’s a great match. He appreciates that I’m not the only one in my house who has long term plans around him sticking around. We like him. We’d like to keep him. Not because he sweeps the floors (though that is fucking awesome) but mostly because he comes in and he asks all of us questions. He treats us as interesting people with stories to tell. He contributes and doesn’t expect us to be serfs while he lounges.

It took over a year for the first serious scene. I think that was so smart. We got to know each other first. We waited to see how we got along outside of the chemical storm of play. Also he is pretty dang good at topping. I am excited about the play we will do down the line. I feel like we are going to have fun discovering what we like together.

I needed to lock down sex. I did not expect to find someone so remarkably compatible and kind that quickly and easily on a swinger site. I did not expect to find someone who would slowly drift further into my life a little more with every month. Someday we will probably find the “just right” amount. I don’t think we have hit it yet. We are still building. That feels right. That feels appropriate. It feels safe and respectful. I feel like it continues to be the right path for me to set the hurdles high for entry into my life. People who want me have to put effort into it. I will not push myself on anyone. I am too horrified about the implications of that. People have to actively choose me. I am going to do my best to not let anyone accidentally opt into something that is outside their ability to cope with. I’m a lot.

I don’t think I’m too much. That’s a different thing. That’s a value judgment. I’m not making a value judgment in this moment. I’m simply acknowledging the shape and size of personality I have. It’s a lot. Like Alaska joined up with Russia a lot. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Space isn’t all bad. Maintaining a bond with something that huge is work and people should be allowed to choose it knowingly or opt out.

I like that he wants to be my sustenance. He wants to be my food, not my candy.

That makes me feel really happy because I desperately need a lot of vegetables and not much candy. I can’t take the inflammation.

I feel so incredibly lucky that he is in my life. He is being incredibly kind and thoughtful about slowly building a very conscious relationship. I feel like everyone in my house is being given a chance to slowly get to know him and develop affection on their own time scale. This feels so healthy and positive.

I have been a rusher for most of my life. Now that feels terrifying in an existential way. I can’t survive a lot of extra turbulence right now. I am skating on very thin ice. All the fucking metaphors.

He makes my body feel better. He makes me feel like I have good things to look forward to. I have fun short, medium, and long term plans with him. I like that he lets me take care of him and I like that he takes care of me.

I feel sort of guilty that he will calm me down enough to go talk to Pretty Lady. That’s a squidgy thing. People who are already poly can appreciate that desire sparks desire. It can feel harder when you are first leaving monogamy. I am so worried about all of the things I want from my future.

I want them so much I feel like my hands are seething flames of need. I need violence so very much. I need to give it. I need to receive it. I need to be able to love and adore a woman as much as I want without getting in trouble for it. I need to be able to be selfish.

It really feels like asking for all this is too much. It’s not fair. Surely someone wouldn’t put up with me when this is the deal.

I’m pretty sure I’m going to see him again tomorrow, even if only for a little while. If we don’t see each other we will still talk.

I believe him. I am finding him to be a consistent person who cares a lot about maintaining things and keeping them in good trim. He does the relationship maintenance work. He’s been briefed to a degree that seems reasonably fair. I haven’t told him every detail because we will probably never have those conversations. It doesn’t feel necessary.

Do you know how weird that feels to me? In my in person life I may never again have a relationship where I talk in gritty details about my past. Most of what I needed to talk through… I talked to Noah. If Noah was here we would have talked about that stuff forever. He would have dug ever deeper into my earliest trauma. He wanted to be able to shove knives into my trauma with ever greater precision. When he hypnotised me and told me to react like I was 3 or 4 or 5 he wanted to know what stage of trauma I was physically experiencing again.

I don’t think I want anyone else to know those things. I think, maybe, it is time for me to stop being reharmed in the same few spots. I’m allowed to close the door on that trauma and leave it alone. Maybe, just maybe, the scab will heal if I stop picking at it.

Maybe it is ok for me to do the kind of bdsm that Vicki loved. Maybe I don’t have to keep contorting myself into being Noah’s victim.

Maybe it is ok for me to have higher standards. Maybe I don’t have to buy acceptance and love with my willingness to let someone hurt me as much as they want. Maybe I am good enough without that.

Maybe.

I really like him. He’s a great boyfriend.

(I want you to know that I flinched over each usage of “just” but they felt necessary.)

The weight of it takes my breath away

Content note: discussion of suicide, brief reference to incest, hell I don’t know what else. I write rough shit in with my nice shit.

The other day I was talking to one of my old friends/lovers. He is going through some difficulties in his marriage. Pieces of it feel like echoes of stuff that I have dealt with in my marriage and it was fascinating to me how I felt about his description of being on his side of similar-but-not-the-same challenges. Then he said that he had been talking to one of his (adult) children about mutual coaching of one another towards being better/happier people and he shared that they have a mutual agreement/understanding that if “this” waves hands broadly gets too hard they will both understand and completely forgive if the other has to check out.

The first time I remember specifically thinking that I wanted to die was when I was 7 after a sexual assault followed by a beating by my mother–she didn’t know about the rape. She just knew I was running through the Texas trailer park screaming profanity at the top of my lungs as I tried to get those boys to leave me alone. She was going to teach me a lesson–I was going to stop having a potty mouth.

I swear so fucking much. I know people judge me for it. I don’t give a flying fuck and you can kiss my fucking ass. I have earned the right to speak as I want. I have paid for these words with beatings and blood.

But that’s not the story today. A couple of years ago I realized I had not wanted to die in…. I wasn’t exactly sure. I know I was suicidal well into my early 30’s but somewhere in my mid-30’s I did a bunch of very intensive trauma therapy (including MDMA with a therapist) and then I stopped tracking it and I didn’t notice the precise timing of the shift. But I don’t want to die anymore. I want to live.

But when my friend mentioned that he has this agreement with his children I lost it. I started ugly crying. I had to go hide in the bathroom and run the shower so my kid wouldn’t freak out. I don’t get to commit suicide. I made a commitment when I had kids that I would not take that path. Well, aside from really extreme cancer or super aggressive dementia where I am going to be gone really soon no matter what I have no right to shorten my life. That’s the deal.

Amusingly my friend proved that he has never been a blog reader because when I talked to him about this crying session later in the day he was kind of surprised. He didn’t understand why it was this intense for me. My grandmother (maternal), father, and brother all committed suicide. Suicide is a god damn family tradition. Suicide has been there as the comforting exit for my whole life. I have attempted several times with the in-patient experience that goes with being caught before you finish. So to be slapped in the face all of a sudden with “I do not have an out available to me” was pretty jarring and shocking for my system. When random people/strangers talk about their relationship with the concept of suicide I don’t take it very personally but this is my friend. This is someone who has been inside me and he is someone who has been clear for going on 20 years now that he is very sad that he was not a candidate for co-parenting with me because he loves me very much. So the idea of his possible loss is personal.

I was thinking about this partly because @SkinS mentioned that starting from scratch increases in exercise/fitness are interesting topics sometimes. I don’t particularly exercise because I care about how I look or because it increases the number of people willing to fuck me; if someone won’t fuck me happily when I’m fat I am not interested in fucking them when I am fit. But I have a bunch of stupid health complications. I have to dance along a tightrope–if I manage to maintain a high level of fitness I can decrease how much pain I am in and I can control my IBS and both of these factors dramatically improve my mental health and make me easier to live with. I have to be careful not to over-train or be casual/cocky about how I wear this meat sack because if I get injured I get into this shitty cycle of hurting myself over and over and over and it tends to take 6 months or a year or more before I can do any kind of exercise without more damage. Which makes my body hurt. Which makes me overindulge in comfort foods that are bad for my intestinal tract. Which makes me kinda a raging bitch.

I’m not over here trying to make my kids or husband think “Did she really live a long time or did it just feel like a long time?

I made a commitment to live as long as I can so that I can be there for these three people in the ways no one is there for me. I don’t actually get to decide what I get to have in terms of time but I have an obligation to monitor my health with vigor and evaluate choices and actions in terms of “is this going to help or hurt my ability to fulfill the promise I made?”

I think about that promise in so many ways. It is one of the reasons I am shoring up a house big enough for my children to share as adults with everyone having adequate private space. I put a 100 year roof on this bitch. I put in fruit and nut trees and I am doing what I can to set up a regenerative food forest. A lot of what I build and make is designed to last long enough for them to be ok after me.

They might stay. They might leave. I don’t get to have any control over that. I don’t want control over that. But I want them to have a home that they can come back to. The weight of the promise I made feels so encompassing and overwhelming that I feel like it is a weight that will swamp me.

Hell. I really have to take it seriously that I have to keep having a good sex life because otherwise I will be one nasty old biddy. I need to keep up my friendships because they fill up my bucket and I can’t pour with an empty bucket. The older I get the more I think finding a balance is necessary for me to be able to sustain the stamina necessary for fulfilling this promise. I want to be here and be physically and mentally well so I can continue to be capable of giving what I promised to give.

It’s all tied up. Wanting to know better and do better in many places in my life are all about trying to deserve a place in their lives in years to come. I don’t understand why it is as important to me to have a specific kinky life and a kinky self that I keep very specifically and deliberately under wraps but it is. I need to feel in myself that I am a complicated person with clearly defined boundaries. I don’t make many jokes about my sex life. I don’t give details beyond “I had a lot of fun and dated a lot of people before I got married because I wanted to figure out who I was and what I liked. It worked. I like who I am and I am happy in my marriage.” That’s the whole damn story.

Well, every so often they will figure out that of course some old friend is someone I dated. Once, years ago they had a conversation that went something like “What do you mean x is someone mom dated?” “Dude, probably every person who comes to the Christmas party is someone mom dated. Well… or dad.” It wasn’t literally true but it sticks in my mind as “Oh wow, that’s what they’ve picked up. Ok.”

The boundaries are important. “If you ever decide to go read my blog I strongly suggest browsing by tags so you don’t see things you really will wish you could bleach your eyes after seeing. But really you will be happier if you don’t read my blog.” So far they believe me. And thus I carry on feeling like I am managing to enact boundaries. After multiple generations of incest I have broken the family tradition. I figured out how to be from my family and still appropriate. It’s a miracle.

So I put a lot of focus on thinking about exercise and I talk about it. I am not worried about my waist line or my weight or my BMI but I am worried about how my heart reacts to stress tests and I do better with a much higher level of exercise. I worry about whether or not I will be exhausted and hurting all the time. I worry about my ability to be patient and kind and gentle. I worry about being strong enough to do all the things. Other than my husband I don’t have anyone who will rescue me if I have a problem.

I didn’t have people who loved me and brought me up with attention and encouragement. But I have to give that. Sometimes the weight of it feels like it will drown me. Sometimes out of the blue I am reminded that no matter how hard this gets I have to just get stronger and keep doing it. No, I won’t get help. No, I won’t have anyone I can call. Instead I have to find ways to build that for myself. I say I build the things I build for the kids. But really it is for me. What I am building is going to perpetuate itself for at least as long as I will live. Even if I fuck up a lot on money stuff I will be ok. I will be able to supplement myself with things that build my body up and help me feel better.

I am not going to say I “feel well”. I could list all the joints that are screaming right now but they don’t matter. I feel a lot better than I did. I will continue to make progress… until my next injury. Hopefully this time I will be smart enough to be more patient through the first recovery because being taken down for half a year is awful. Yes, yes, yes, maybe you can work through injuries without being a raging cunt but I can’t. And it is not fair for me to inflict that on folks.

At this point I should declare this circle of thought complete and go find that nice old dude in the house and ask him to bang me before I go to sleep. I would like the chemical high.

Shards and training

It is funny to me how the ravenous cavern of emptiness inside of me feels different now. I notice that there has been a qualitative change in me in this AN time period. (After Noah, of course.) I’m at 15 months AN. It’s such a short time, really. Progress when measured in reverse is pretty shocking. We are doing ok. I am doing ok. No, I don’t feel “all better” but I can see where I am headed. I can see that I am doing what I need to be doing. More importantly, I can see that I really do need to chill on some pieces of impulsive joy even though I want to say yes to all of it.

I keep dating people who want to go to loud places with me. Why do I do this? Why am I picking loud musicians right now? Where are my Cheese damned priorities? I can’t hear. No, this is not a venue for deep conversation. So we will look at each for a few hours in an overwhelmingly loud space. Ok. This is happening. Also, I am too fucking old to make out in a pub.

It is really funny watching these layers of inhibition unfold within me. I can feel in my body how a younger me would have acted. No, I can’t do that anymore. No, I can’t ignore the whole audience and do whatever I want. No. The audience is desperately important. This is why I want to go to sex inclusive bdsm parties the most. That is literally the only environment where I don’t have to feel fucking paranoid about squelching shit I acted out for 25 years. I know how inappropriate I used to be. I have learned. It took a lot of researching child development for me to fully understand why I was so horrifying as a foster child. Right. That’s why they kicked me out. I was uhm, acting out in age inappropriate ways. I didn’t have much internal inhibition about sexual behaviour of any kind.

I’m 6 weeks away from having seen a whole healthy childhood. That’s been fucking wild. I have learned a lot of inhibition in service to being able to provide this to someone else.

My kids asked who I was going on a date with. I appreciated the wide eyes and big gasp before “Niiiiiiiiiiiiice.”

The show we attended involved a lot of the performers being there with their whole families in attendance. No, I was not going to make out. No matter how much that clearly would have been fine with Pretty Lady. She’s past caring. I am not. If I want to be useful as an ambassador for weird I am going to have to keep a lot of it behind closed doors.

When I was 21 I would have had my fingers up her skirt. When I was 23 I had been teaching long enough that I would have limited myself to making out with hands only around her waist. Now I could feel a shock in my body and I recoiled from her intense kissing. It felt out of place and wrong. That’s interesting and I should pay attention to that. It’s not that I’m opposed to the idea of kissing her, not even a little bit.

There are an interesting large number of power dynamic differences in this relationship. I am trying to pay attention to where I need to manage shit with a tight hand or it isn’t going to be sustainable to me. She has more ability to function on less sleep than I do. I suffer physically for days when I fuck up my sleep schedule. It’s why my pain levels are as bad as they are right now. My sleep keeps getting fucked up. I’m having too many late nights.

As much as I want to be all “Say yes!” I think I am hurting myself in stupid and predictable ways and it’s becoming a choice. I don’t love this form of self harm. It is really uhh crappy. Like, if I could cut and get a jolt of energy and power through my life with good cheer that would be a very small cost to me. Sleep deprivation makes every single aspect of being alive hard.

While the musicians were nice and all I need to say no next time. I need to be having one or two late nights in a whole month not one a week. This is getting really stupid. I am hurting myself and the amount of backlash in my body is exceeding coping methods. I’m struggling with exercise over the last few days. I’m having patches of numbness. Normal tasks are taking longer because I’m physically depleted and I’m dropping important bits of information out of my head.

I can’t keep impulsively adding late night joy. I am doing lots of planning around my body being able to handle specific events. I need to stick to those long term plans if I don’t want to get sick. I’m being stupid.

Saying no is hard. Saying yes is far harder on me.

My therapist asked me who is feeding me yesterday. They noted that I opt in to a lot of mentor type relationships, I offer help for parents who are overwhelmed, and I deliver food to neighbours who are going through tough times. All of this has pretty much resumed a close to normal pace on my calendar. I have a lot of relationships with people who need me to give. It was really nice that I could immediately rattle off a lot of people who are there for me near and far.

I want to get my sleep schedule back on track because it being fucked up means I miss the monthly check in call with my Elders. I don’t like doing that. It means that I don’t get to nurture that connection and it is important to me. It’s important to me that these people love me and believe in me and really want to continue being support to me throughout my life. They have been there through a lot of things.

I think I am messing up the balance and it’s not sustainable. New is good. Old is also very important. The thing about the long term friendships is the way we are witnesses to the arcs of our lives. Being impressed is not based on glamour it is based on experience and earned esteem. It’s like time with Bestie. The people who have known me the longest give me constant verbal affirmation about how far I have come. They saw the story happen. I don’t have to say anything or ask for anything from them. We talk about what has been happening for us each month and they stare at me with overwhelming intensity because I can see them playing the story arc out in their heads. They tell me I am doing so good and I can believe them because they saw how fucking hard I had to work to get to this moment.

I don’t have any scale for evaluating the evaluations of new people. When they give me compliments mostly I shrug. I don’t know how to hear them and understand them. I don’t accept any compliment without thinking really hard about it. I mean, in the moment I say, “Thank you” or if I’m feeling saucy, “I know.” The thing is, I know that each of these opinions is subjective and people vary in how they assign value.

I’m sorry to be so blunt about it, but compliments are part of positive behaviour modification. It’s a really common way that people train the folk around them. It’s usually utterly unconscious. I don’t think most people are trying really hard to be manipulative with a plan. I mean, I do but it’s because I’m super fucking autistic and I have learned that I need a detailed plan or I just don’t leave the fucking house. I have to know what is expected and what will be acceptable from me in a given environment. I no longer like places with fuzzy attitudes about behaviour. I have fucking learned the Social Contract like I want to stay out of jail. I will always err on the side of not drawing attention.

Wow. I really am scared in a way I’m not paying enough attention to. I think it is funny that three different woo fuckers have observed that I have a lot of blocked root chakra energy in the last two weeks. My life is hilarious. Yeah. Sure. Why not? Frankly, is that a worse thing to say than Generalised Anxiety Disorder? Enh? It’s funny how much more explanatory root chakra descriptions are than the DSM ones. It talks about where in my body I am experiencing different forms of stress around existing in the world. These things are often common among people. It’s kinda like how I can clock ECSA people by their bathroom habits. If you are raped a lot as a little kid you often have bathroom issues for the whole of your life. “Fun” fact.

I think that this kind of fucking around with my schedule because I want to please people is why I’m going to need to stick really hard with solo poly shit. I need to give people appointment slots. I can perform the kind of behaviour you want from me between these hours. During these other hours, should we be in the same space, I will be fucking sleeping. You can enjoy listening to live music without me. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.

I’m torn because I want to support local artists. Also I feel like starting at 8pm is fucking insane and painful and cruel. Who the fuck are you people? How in the world are you fucking moving around and trying to be engaging at bedtime? What is wrong with you?

This is why I stopped doing theatre at 19. That was not a good career match for my body. I prefer jobs that start between 5 and 7am. I think this is partly because early afternoon is my preferred time for sex. Always has been. Noah and I literally built our life around making sure we spent as much of that time having sex as possible. Nights and mornings were more chancy because of vagaries of the day.

I’m going to have to be better about asserting my limits if I am going to date this woman. It’s on me. It’s fine that she asked. I should have said no. I made a bad choice. I’m not entirely sorry. It was nice to be asked. It was fun to dress up and catch at least 15 of the words she said all night. It was a high cost activity though and I am finding myself starting Saturday in spoon deficit. This was not smart. I am going to be limited in what I accomplish today. That’s not what I wanted for the day.

It’s my day to go make the big sweet breakfast for Saturday. I really don’t want to. That sounds vaguely like torture. It’s going to be the kind of day where I either get a burn or cut myself. Woo. I love days when I feel this bad and have no adult in the house to take over. Woo.

I miss Noah. Also, I see what I did to him by over-extending myself a lot more clearly. I see why he got increasingly picky about what I was allowed to do as our life went on. He had to pick up the pieces. I get it. Literally he was devoting his whole life to figuring out how to get me to rest more for the last 4 or so years. He was trying so hard to be a container the size and shape that would force me into healthier patterns. Of course that means there was behaviour other people interpret as abusive, duh. We were weirdos. We needed things other people don’t and we negotiated about them very directly.

Now I have to be an adult and carefully negotiate tiny pieces of interdependence over very long term periods. Itty bitty. Absolutely nothing is mandatory ever. Every step has to be explicitly agreed to. Every breech of decorum and assertion of an aberrant need must be explicit.

I am going to need to write a letter to talk to her. I need it to not sound like a rebuke because it isn’t. I am going to have to find a tone of explaining my needs that doesn’t sound like negative judgment about her. She is in an exciting period of her life. I get that she is going to be impulsive like a teenager. My whole life is dealing with what it means to live with impulsive teenagers. I feel really lucky that the main big impulsive things in my house are cooking, baking, writing, making or otherwise creating something.

Ack. I am summoned.

You can’t get to yes without risking no.

Damn. I don’t even know how I want to start this. I don’t know what the frame is for this. I mean, a dude shared https://www.psychologytoday.com/intl/blog/the-state-of-our-unions/202302/why-are-so-many-young-men-single-and-sexless?amp and this article is making it hard to go to sleep.

So this will involve heavy trauma random mentions but I’m not talking about my pain or my victimisation–that really isn’t the point. It’s just for context.

More than 60% of American men under 30 are single and are probably very rarely having sex during their single life. Holy shit. I had more sex than these men before I was 15. I don’t mean the rapes. When you have an exceptionally early introduction to rape it is fairly common to translate that into an exceptionally early introduction to sex. I have spent a lot of time in therapy working through my feelings about whether or not I raped the children who said yes when I asked if they wanted to play. We were the same age. But my play was not age appropriate. Lots of mothers didn’t let their children near me again.

I’m not going to turn this into a dirty story. Lots of kids said no. I refined my approach. Lots of people said no. I refined my approach. Score.

Before I was a freshman in high school I had slept with more people than most people do in their whole lives. In order to get a body count that high I was told no over and over and over and over. This was all made much easier by the fact that I moved approximately 45ish times by that age. I had been to 20 different schools. I had so many prey opportunities and I am a pretty damn good hunter. It helps that I consider gender fairly irrelevant.

I learned the most from the people who told me no. There are some good fucking men in this world who will recoil with horror when a child asks for sex. Good for you, dudes. I wish you were less unusual.

But anyway. The point is that in order to figure out who you are and what you want you need to put effort in to having something to offer. I’m autistic and my special interest was sex through early childhood. I had a really fucked up/healthy boundaries on their part experience of being ostracised over and over and over and over and over.

My kid told me he felt like everyone in the world hated him when a couple of kids bullied him at one school.

God I had to try hard not to giggle. Oh baby. I wish I knew what it felt like to have four people not liking you feel like the whole world. Fuck.

So I really and truly do know how hard it is to ask people for sex and be rejected over and over. The thing is: do you want sex or do you want a relationship? Because if you just want sex then you really should pay a sex worker and be ok with that. It’s a dandy occupation for folks who choose it without any other coercion beyond living in a late capitalist hellscape.

If you want sex in an ongoing way as an adult then you have to make learning how to be a fun person to have sex with a priority. You need to learn how to have skills that make you good to have around. These are broad. Not every man has to have any particular specific skill–you are fully entitled to areas of weakness. I had to focus less on what I needed from someone else and more on what I can offer.

I married the guy who did the most classes. I don’t mean university. He took massage classes. He took dance classes (but holy shit don’t ever ask him to dance unless you want to hear a long rant about how much he hates all dance instructors 😂). He got a motorcycle. He took classes in hypnosis and NLP. He did tantra classes. He went to fucking spirituality weekend retreats all by his own damn self. He constantly reads books on how to be more effective at whatever new task he is about to add at his job. He went to a lot of kink classes. He went to sex classes. We still have all the damn handouts.

He knew that if he wanted to attract attention he needed to differentiate himself. When he arrived in adulthood he did not seem that interesting. He said that his dad told him that he better go learn how to have something to give because no one likes boys and young men.

Ouch. Yeah. I don’t think you could pay me to go through life as a boy. I was treated like shit. I knew beyond the shadow of doubt that I was white trash and every single one of the mother fuckers throwing dog shit at me would be delighted if I were to die. It happened in city after city after city after city. For years.

Fuck no. I don’t want to be a boy. That sounds really rough. How in the hell can people learn how to ask if the question is always wrong? How can there be a way of just magically knowing the right way? You I learn by making mistakes; I’ve made some fucking whoppers. My husband has made big mistakes.

I don’t know how to settle my brain around the limits of this small town. I think it is the best motherfucking thing in the world that I have a choke chain on.

The coping methods that served me well enough to create an extended network of friends and Leather Family really don’t work the same if I am never going to play with or have sex with anyone.

Throughout my life before moving here every single close friend I have had from early childhood has been a sex or bdsm partner. Now I’m just supposed to figure out how to do this thing I really don’t fucking know how to do. It’s terrifying and hard.

I have to go be told no over and over and over. I’m a polarising fucking figure. For every hour I spend trying to develop a friendship relationship with someone I probably get rejected for 15 overtures in a row. That’s not all with the same person. You can’t do that. It’s weird. People don’t like it. But if you wait a few months and try again it’s ok. Three no’s mean you stop asking forever.

Yes I am autistic and I like my fucking rules, ‘kay?

You can’t put all your eggs in one basket. You have to put a small amount of energy in a lot of directions. And it’s exhausting. IT IS FUCKING EXHAUSTING. Then I read about how little effort many men are putting into figuring out how to get laid. SEX IS FUCKING AWESOME AND I DON’T KNOW WHY YOU AREN’T WILLING TO DO THINGS TO GET IT. I mean, I gotta work pretty fucking hard these days for platonic friendships and you won’t put in this much effort for SEX. Buddy, these days I get laid any time I go to bed in a nightgown. He even calls me names and hurts me. He knows exactly where to fuck with my deep seated trauma issues.

He also cooks breakfast 6 days a week. He reads to our family and he does the best voices. Girl Genius comic books are fantastic to read out loud to anyone and I will die on this hill. He was a really tremendously shitty labour partner for our first two kids. So our friend’s mom came with us to the third birth and she told him what to do. You can always go find ways to get support to learn how to do what you need to do to be a better partner.

He doesn’t ask me to teach him how to get better for me. I don’t ask him to teach me how to get better for him. If I can’t tell when my behavior and attitude please him after this many years and this many thousands of hours of conversation then I want my money back this program sucks.

I try to keep a sense of humor about how much it sucks to have to force my face back into that carefully practiced in the mirror face that projects just the right amount of “I would be cheerful if you talked to me.” Fuck this shit. I don’t want to need community. I want to live alone in a box in the woods.

Who am I kidding. I’d die.

I want people in my life so much. I don’t know what shape I want that to take. I have no idea what my relationships with people will look like going forward. I have no internal map for this. Even more fun: I am now going on 4 years out of therapy after being in therapy on and off for my whole life because a lot of shit went down.

I think all these men want people as much as I do. I don’t know what any of them need to do because the penalties for mistakes are so hard.

I know that when I get the same feedback from three people all of whom I already respect that I need to spend some very serious time looking at what larger truth they are seeing that I am not seeing. If I get a bunch of no’s to offers I just need to try again at a different time and get busy living my own life in the meantime.

I do not understand being unwilling to change to get people to like you. I feel like it has been a highly abrasive 30 year process of getting me to anything like socially acceptable behaviour. I have had to learn many things and I have worked really hard.

It is weird feeling all the iterations of personality. All of the mistakes I have made have made an indelible impression.

You never forget the first time someone throws dog shit at you because you were stupid enough to say you liked them. I was 7.

When someone tells me they are too scared to ask for time with someone, a relationship of some sort I marvel. What would it be like to have a place in which it was safe to hide and be safe? I mean. I have it now?

It’s really fucking weird. Sometimes it is almost itchy.

Ah, I know why I am up at 2am writing this when usually I would go to sleep and not think that much about the plight of all these men who aren’t getting laid. Tonight my teenager and I went and took a course out in the vanilla world to possibly learn an activity. Details are unimportant. The point was the man running the presentation spent about 60%-70% of the night talking to me. I know he is roughly 30 years my senior.

That was a man who cheats on his wife anytime he can. It’s like blood in the water. There is a way of really staring. Holy shit have I practiced and practiced and practiced and practiced how to settle my eyes on someone or bounce from person to person to carefully not raise hackles. I got to do it when I was young enough to not earn significant punishments.

I learned it because the kinds of men who will have sex with children are very good at that kind of intense attention.

These are very messy things.

On the ride home we talked about it. He had never seen that happen to me before. The mantle of white motherhood is a fucking thing. Now he’s taller than me so I don’t get as much halo from his presence. He was absolutely incensed. To him this was grotesquely inappropriate.

Oh my god. What would it be like to live in a brain that believes it has the right to say no to the male gaze and have that matter? Whoa. Wait. How are people who like to have affairs supposed to find each other if EVEN LOOKING AT PEOPLE ISN’T OK?!?!?! Like, holy cheesetoast that’s a fucking tight rope to walk. Wait, isn’t the fact that you are someone who will break the rules part of the reason for the intrusive eye contact? Fucking a. Why am I assuming that he would actually end up being successful prey? Maybe the signals aren’t the same and I don’t know shit.

I mean, I don’t know shit.

I’m really good at finding people to fuck, though. I started with the only standard being “will say yes when I ask”. When you ask people that indiscriminately there is this whole cascade of complications. I doubt I would have gotten laid if everyone had phones. Thank god I’m hella old.

I am praying for you fellas. I hope you figure it out. I don’t think anyone else will do everything just like I did and that’s a good thing. Surely there is a happy medium?

Growing up with transition

I have long wondered if the concentration of folks who are trans in my life is as high as it is because I am autistic and many of them are autistic so we are drawn to one another like magnets. I am not sure. But hoo boy there has been glorious wave after wave after wave of their arrivals in my life.

It started when I was a young teenager. There were people in my middle school who asked for social transition. It was the 90’s. Not as many people knew as much and the “correct language” of that era would get me punched now. Ok, cool. I will use whatever words you tell me to use until you tell me to stop using them. If someone else wants different words I will do my absolute best to accommodate that as smoothly as I am able.

I mean, I had to learn how to be tolerant of friends who were joining churches and who wanted my language around them to shift. Changing words for gender description is really less invasive in terms of my vocabulary. Not a problem.

Over and over I look at my gender and think it would be an awful lot of work to do anything to shift it and I am very tired. Cool. I’m cis.

That doesn’t mean I align with behavior expected of people in my assigned gender. I regularly get told off for being too bold, aggressive, assertive, domineering, insistent on my right to set the terms of my fucking reality, thank you very much. Sometimes when men have called me a bitch in an argument I ask them if they would call a man who was arguing as passionately as I am a bitch or an asshole. They have grudgingly admitted that they wouldn’t–they would just think I was passionate about a topic. And these were “friends”.

When my children were born I developed the ability to change the words of a book at full speed. All of our “get to know your body” books suddenly had things like “Most boys have a penis, but not all. Every boy has a good enough body. Most girls have a vulva, but not all. Every girl has a good enough body. Enbies can have any kind of body and they are always a good enough body.” I do that at absolute full speed with no pauses or hesitations. That is the party line. End of story in my house.

As the kids get older we talk about how everyone’s body is always good enough but sometimes people want to change things just because they do. When a person decides that they need changes then doctors should help them because that is what should happen when a person needs help. Only the person living in the body knows if it is working well enough in the right ways for them and from the outside we don’t get to have an opinion if we agree that they need it or not. That’s not our job. We love and support people getting where they need to go. Period.

My kids have known people at various stages of transition as long as they have been alive. There has never been a time when we haven’t had newly transitioning folks in our community. We have watched together as people talk about and reason through their own desire for change.

What is the party line in my house? If you need surgery to feel ok then you need surgery. Cool. If you don’t need surgery to feel ok then that is equally as fine because having surgery isn’t what makes you trans. It may be something that you want as part of your journey with gender but people don’t have to need surgery.

It’s kinda like how everyone doesn’t need to have a nose job but some people elect to. If someone feels very strongly about having a nose job we will support them and help them how we can and then they will go on with their life. All other changes to the body are equally as case by case and not needed for every single person.

When I have to talk about health care needs that some people think of as gendered I tend to say, “If you are inflicted with a uterus then there are things you need to know how to manage. There are choices to make. If you are not inflicted with a uterus your choices are different. Let’s talk about the two sets of choices.”

Having a uterus does not make someone a gender. The uterus is not the magic key that unlocks the gender. It’s just one more squishy thing in the middle of a meat sack. Meat sack shape ≠ gender.

And as a result so far 2/3 of my children are not cis and I have a lot of wonder as I deal with youngest. There are some mixed signals at this point. I make a guess at birth (I don’t raise children “genderless”.) I tell them from when they are tiny children that I am guessing about their gender but I am not the authority–only they are. Hoo boy they have some strong damn feelings by 2/3.

Amusingly my son tells me often that he wants to be like me when he grows up. He wants to be strong and intense and independent and willing to go do things that other people tell him he can’t. He does not associate being like me with sharing my gender. He does not think about most manifestations of behavior as being gendered. He thinks people just are what they are and then they go do what they do.

I feel sad when I see so many people in the world insisting that people be shoved into preconceived holes based on their assigned gender. You are allowing yourself to be hobbled. You are allowing yourself to view the world as small and limited and constrained by stupid rules.

When you could just go live. You could be free of most of the expectations of you based on your gender. Behaviors, body shapes, adornment, hair length… all of these things are gender neutral. You can do whatever you want with any of them. You have the body you have and you can use this gift in whatever way you want going forward.

Of course, if you were inflicted with a uterus there are some choices to make about managing that. There are some processes you need to manage. During your life you will have a variety of ways of managing. If you want help researching the options I am a damn good researcher.

But the decision will not be mine. It isn’t my body. It isn’t my life. You are the only person who has to wake up every day and face you in a mirror. Do what you have to do to be ok with what you see looking back at you. Fuck other peoples’ feelings about your body.

You have to be ok with you.

Problematic people

Oh man my RSD is on turbo lately. (That’s Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria if you aren’t familiar with the acronym.) I learned about this facet of neurodiversity in later years and it was like “Huh. Ok so that’s been most of my life. I just thought I had low self esteem.” Which is why I often feel weirdly haunted by the memory of a therapist who laughed so hard she almost fell off her chair when I said I had low self esteem. She said I had the highest self esteem of any client she had worked with in over 20 years.

Right.

What does self esteem mean then? I don’t think I really understand. I have aspects of my self-hood that I have confidence in: I can giggle off aspersions about my intellect because I am ridiculously confident in my intelligence and I laugh about people implying that no one would ever fuck me because holy hell is that inaccurate.

But I doubt whether I am actually doing enough good in the world to justify how many resources are needed to keep me functional. I have a shitty, high maintenance body. I doubt whether people will really accept me with all of my fierce outbursts and intensity.

So as a result I really like a lot of folks who are publicly derided as “problematic people”. I prefer assholes because they will tell me off and compliment me in equal measure and I can lean in and rest my head on their chest and hear the authenticity of their love in their level heartbeat.

“What’s Wrong With Krissy” is, after all, one of my most frequent games.

This ties in strongly with why I pursue friendships with folks in the scene with such intensity. There are an awful lot of assholes around here. YAY!!!!

Hell, even the people I know who have mostly done the right things in life and followed all the choices they were expected to make are still people who get in trouble regularly for being overly direct. I think of them as assholes with extra class. They will still tell you off but they will do it in a way that no one is allowed to tell them to stop because it all just sounds so true and reasonable.

It is harder to find assholes around here (physical here not fetlife-here; I come to fetlife so much these days because I can smile and watch assholes). A lot more “taking the piss” and a lot less “I am going to tell you why every single thing you have done in the last 15 years is wrong. I have citations.” One of my old buddies had to leave the bay because of health issues. Now the trouble is that they are used to friendships that are super intense where folks act like mutual coaches to one another. This is a really common dynamic I have had in many of my friendships in California as everyone is striving super hard to learn new skills and hobbies and interests all the damn time. My buddy is really struggling because no one in small town New Mexico wants to do that with her. People A) don’t want to spend that much time together and B) are not interested in that dynamic because they aren’t relentlessly focused on learning new stuff and C) find it more than a little creepy that my buddy is so intense.

I feel that in my bones.

I feel overwhelmed almost every single minute that I am with folks that I need to be trying as absolutely hard as I can to hold back and not be too intense. My entire selfhood is wrong at full strength and I need to be letting it out 3%-5% at a time or I am a monster. It is additionally challenging that many of the ways I have traditionally talked people into having more tolerance for me are prohibited by agreements I have made. Also: I don’t think they would work so well at this point.

I am a Problematic Person. What do I do that is problematic? Talk too much. Not moderate eye contact sufficiently (holy shit this is a whole thing here and I’ve had immigrants bring it up with me and tell me that I need to knock it off because they get in trouble for staring too). That one is really hilarious because I had to be taught to make/keep eye contact and now I’m in trouble for doing too much of it because PEOPLE ARE NOT CONSISTENT FROM CULTURE TO CULTURE.

So, when you are instructing that autistic person on how to act to “not be offensive” what culture are you acclimating them to and how did you develop the fucking audacity to decide that whichever one you are enforcing is The Right One? Anyway.

How close am I supposed to stand to someone to look friendly but not be creepy? How do I manage the fact that my fucking tinnitus is so bad that half the time I am trying to understand people with about 70% of the words making it through to my brain? It is why I love to type. How much follow up when they are not responding is persistent and appropriate friend making behavior but when do I become a stalker? I have no fucking social credit here. I have not earned forbearance because of my long usefulness. I am a difficult outsider with a lot of demands in order to facilitate my entry.

Yeah… basically I don’t see much reason to assume that dealing with me is worth peoples time so I minimise how much I interact with people because I do not want to unfairly drain them. I have been told for years that it is not ok to give any kind of social or energetic labor with any expectation of getting anything in return. You need to just give because you have extra and probably nothing will come back to you and that needs to be ok. I have to be ok if I never get anything from anyone.

And so I sit at home and I make detailed calendars and lists of tasks for maintaining my body and whatever shred of mental health I clutch to and I pray that no one asks me for too much because I am running a surplus… barely. I am after scraping and working and hoarding and conserving and doing without. And there is this knot of worry in my stomach all the time because I am trying to put small amounts of effort into different places and people because I have to be ok if this person/group does not want to know me in three years.

There will always be people who don’t want to know me. No matter how much of my personality I saw off. They will see the mistakes I so profligately make in my haphazard pursuit of new understandings and they will not know about any of the previous history of doing exactly that before succeeding at very hard things that many people said I was not going to be able to do.

I am nobody. I am a stranger. I have no value. I have no perceived social status.

I mean, I did pick this on purpose. I made the conscious choice to pick up and move very far away to be a small fish in a small pond because I did not enjoy being a small fish in the great big ocean. They were going to eat me.

I chose to move very far away to a place where I have exactly one embedded social contact and her world has been fairly limited in her time here. I have to try and find a new place in the community. I have to find a way to have people see me as worthy of their time and effort and accommodation because you would have to fucking lobotomize me to make me easy to be around.

So mostly I just don’t go. (I am loving the fuck out of the fact that someone ranted about starting sentences with “so” and I absolutely know I am doing it extra right now just to be EXTRA.) I am a problematic person. I am an asshole. I am high effort and what I have to give is very small so it isn’t worth much. Which ends in feeling like I am not worth very much. Then I talk to people less and less. I hide and stay home and keep myself busy trying to add to any surplus of energy I might have so maybe I can have more to give and be less of a waste.

That cycle rarely goes well. It doesn’t work. The ball of tension in my stomach eats away at the surplus making it smaller and smaller until I make myself sick and then spoon deficit is days away.

So yeah. If you are ever wondering if I dislike you and that is why I don’t initiate more conversations… probably not. I’m too busy contorting myself into awkward positions around the pain in my belly to notice enough to dislike. When I dislike someone it is pretty dramatic. You won’t wonder. It’ll be public. It is part and parcel of a thing that has been repeated at me for almost 30 years now in a wide variety of settings: “You know it wouldn’t kill you to try to be friendly with (person I dislike). “But it might. Best not to try it.” Mostly I don’t bother to dislike people that much. I have conflicting feelings about people. Sometimes I detect signs of patterns that freak me out but it’s usually combined with other random positive traits and I have no idea if my gut feelings are real or if I’m just a dick. In that case I will be consistent in public and private. I will tell you how I feel about you. Often even when you don’t want to know.

Yup. A problematic person. Hard to know. I know how many thousands of hours I put into my extended community in California. In the next 20 years of my life I will not be able to come close to matching any of the similar time spans in California. I’m older. I don’t have a job. I don’t go to school. The social community up here is very different and my ability to access what exists is almost nil. I don’t drive here and I drove all the forking time in California maintaining a network of relationship that spanned thousands of miles on a regular basis. Now I very seldom get more than 5 miles from my house. I don’t go farther than 5 miles from my house in every month. I had very few days in California where I didn’t go farther than 10 miles from my house throughout my entire 38 years living there. We were car people. That’s life.

I can’t anymore. My thumbs are jacked. I can’t grip a steering wheel without overwhelmingly agonising pain. I swear I am not just a pussy. I can’t do it. I know people are surprised that I can do all of the other things I do with my hands, but I have no more connective tissue left at the base of one thumb and very little left in the other hand. It’s bone on bone. Gripping things in different ways doesn’t use my thumb and the rest of my hand is fine. When I say I can carry something I’m not usually doing so at risk of strain to my existing problems. I am strong in many ways. But I can’t drive. I can’t create a wider social community by visiting people. The train takes a whole day. It’s hard to take whole days away on a regular basis. That is not how my life is shaped.

So I am putting drips and drabs and tiny bits of effort towards trying to exist in the wider water network around me but mostly I am in my tiny pond swimming around. The little tributaries that occasionally erupt that might allow me to move around are a little scary.

Being problematic is a complicated thing. Why don’t people just act right. Why can’t you just give more. Why can’t you just complain less. Why can’t you just need less. Why can’t you act happier.

Because because because….. because of the wonderful things I does. (Leave it alone. I did it on purpose. Don’t point it out. Requiring verb agreement in order to “understand” is elitist. Don’t be a brat.)

It’s all about rhetorical effect, isn’t it? There are times and places to insist on really precise language and phrasing. It’s taught when you go to school for that thing. I mean, I did teach English grammar as an English teacher. I was also correcting the other more senior teachers on staff because apparently I actually learned what was drilled into my head at university and when I am writing an MLA standard paper I will trot that shit right out.

This is not a space governed by the MLA. I am looking to communicate. I am looking to communicate with the kind of people who like and appreciate who and what I am and my native language is typing. It is the only one that taps into what I am really thinking and feeling and I have never found a way that works in anything like an equivalent manner with my voice. I feel stupid all the fucking time because I just cannot word. I am trying to analyse all the time whether or not I am doing something “right” for the setting I am in and I feel like I am going to hyperventilate because of course I am fucking wrong and that’s why people don’t like me and fuck.

Why did I even leave the fucking house.

Because that little do-si-do around the fucking topic of grammar is exactly the kind of tiny little thing I feel in my head all day long. HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO BE FUCKING CONFORMING TO SOME STUPID BULLSHIT RULE THAT I HAVE NEVER FUCKING HEARD OF NOW.

WOULD YOU LIKE SOME MORE FULL STOPS WITH THAT………???????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Phew. I think I have been having some feelings. As stupid and immature as it sounds I feel strangely better. I didn’t go start a stupid argument and dump my feelings on someone. I did stand in my sandbox and I had a stupid feeling. I’m not hurting anyone.

This stupid calculus is involved in everything I say and do all day long. With my kids. With my spouse. With my neighbors. With people in the scene. With people on fetlife. With my actual blog I write with a slightly different “ideal listener” focus in my mind… it’s hard to explain. Well, not really. On my blog everyone is expected to know what Noah knows and here I don’t do that. Writing there is joining the stream full force and I have been feeling incredibly unconfident about doing that for a while. It’s a much larger thing to walk that deep into my brain.

Here I do try to keep the word count down. I swear to cheese. I try to pick a topic. I try to bring it full circle and actually find a little closure with it. It’s an essay, kinda, not just me thinking and planning and existing into the ether the way I do in my longer form writing.

The point of this essay was to demonstrate a fairly small fraction of just how much can go into being a problematic person. Maybe 5% landed here? So much censoring and picking careful examples that won’t repel the target audience by maybe sounding too close to home and thus like a preconceived dislike thus they should avoid me.

My personal ad was something like 15 pages long and I didn’t respond unless it was fucking clear you read the whole thing. I think my standards are getting more reasonable with time…

Understanding masculinity

I have been thinking about social dynamics I’m seeing as I manage to be around real-live people in Scotland more often and as a weirdo autistic person a lot of how I figure out what I know and make it coherent in my brain is by writing it out. But that gets super socially tricky! So how can I check if my assumptions/understandings are even vaguely close to reality? Can’t ask people directly because they will lie ~75%* of the time. So I like a long ramble about stuff that is associated in my brain. Is it kink related? Sometimes and often in a challenging to perceive way without a great deal of context. It’s part of why I am so long-winded. In order to understand A you have to hear about B and C and in order to understand B you have to know about D and E and F and… I’m like a Star Trek language.

I moved a lot of times as a child and young person but I often reference the aunt and uncle who raised me. It gives the shape of the relationship a casual reference frame that other people will understand but it’s also misleading. They didn’t get to raise me, not really. Sometimes my mother and I lived with them and sometimes I lived there alone in between other housing. I rarely was in their house for longer than a few months and when I was my mom was there.

I think of them as the people who raised me in large part because they both had incredibly strong personalities and they were the most frequent cultural touchstones of my early life. Until I was in high school they were the people I had spent the most time with including school peers because I changed schools so often. I didn’t watch people go through phases and change and grow and develop.

I watched my auntie and my uncle. And the two of them are very interesting models for me as I go on through my life and I deal with other people. Before I describe them in more detail I am going to say that I love them very deeply. I know that they were often the only reason I was not in a violent or dangerous situation. When I describe them I will use words that are very blunt and will be read as denigrating and negatively judging them. I’m not trying to be hateful. I am talking about my people and where I come from. I am honest about what it was. I am reporting what I was told. I am repeating what I was told to believe. I am just not using the same words they used because people lie all the fucking time.

My uncle was basically a walking stereotype. He was a redneck with a bad temper and a giant entitlement complex. He never got enough to feel satisfied with his life. Not in his work life, not in his children, not in his marriage, not in his house, not in his hobbies, not in his electronics, not in the travel he did, not in the vehicles he bought.

Fuck, this is the best place for my favorite uncle story. So, he really liked camper vans and RVs. He is why I will never buy one. So, once he had a medium-sized camper van so I guess it was around 30′? He decided to buy… something I was unclear on what but he wanted to drive to go buy something and it wouldn’t fit in any of his current vehicles. It couldn’t be attached to the top/back and it wouldn’t fit inside.

So he used a fucking chainsaw to take off the top, sides, and back down to a level where it looked like a child’s crayon drawing of a “truck”.

I wish I had pictures.

Guess what he learned REALLY FUCKING QUICKLY? The right angles at the top angle of the RV are kinda important for the structural integrity of the entire awkward rolling box. Yeah. He held it together with rope. Rope. He tied the fucking thing closed. He managed to get whatever it was home. That RV sat off on a corner of the property until his next open heart surgery when his sons kidnapped it and took it to the dump. I can’t remember if that was the same time when it was a total of 16 giant dumpster truck loads to take away most of his hoard. There was still a lot of shit.

He had a whole bunch of heart surgeries. He tried every kind of heart implant. Single, double, triple, quadruple bypass surgeries. I think he went under the knife six times? They started taking loads away during the second surgery. This war went on for almost 40 years. I think the 16 truck load surgery was number four or five? He retaliated every time and acquired more stuff. He financed his shopping by repeatedly refinancing the house and taking out equity. They bought a $40,000 house in the 1960’s and the last time I spoke with them about their financial life auntie was working full time in her late 70’s because someone has to pay the mortgage and all three of her kids live with her and are disabled.

There was no such thing as enough for him. No one ever respected him enough. No one deferred to him the way he wanted. No one stopped what they were doing to give his words weight when he spoke. He wanted to be deeply respected and obeyed because his edicts were simply right. Because tradition says so. Because the Bible says so. He stopped using the Bible against me when I read the entire fucking thing when I was 13 so I could debate every.single.reference and explain to him why he was fucking wrong.

I was his favorite kid until my niece moved in with them because my sister is a fucking loser. My niece was three and much more susceptible to bribery and being bought so he put all his positive energy into her after that. He had a hierarchy of how he treated people.

1: Princess
2: Himself
3: Women he was flirting with and he wanted the positive attention
4: Men he thought of as high status and he was sucking up to them
5: Men he had no particular use for
6: His wife
7: Most girls
8: Women he had no particular use for
9: Men he actively disliked
10: Women he actively disliked
11: Girls he actively disliked
12: Boys

Let me tell you it was interesting gathering data for that set of understanding as a child. This is all I know of calculus.

That is to say once I was demoted from Princess we had a very different relationship and we showed one another a lot more sharp edges. He wasn’t mean to me most of the time and in terms of how he treated boys he was incredibly gentle and affectionate with me most of the time–definitely while I was Princess. I will absolutely admit that my draw to barrel chested men with a slightly Elvis twist in the front of their hair and strong side burns comes with the equally strong understanding that it is going to be an interaction stuffed full of conflict.

Is this where I am going to be called a man hater? Hey you can’t say I hate men… I married a man! Enh, see what I did there? Yeah. Uncle was absolutely full of ways to weasel out of labels. He wasn’t a racist! There is (name) down the road and he has never called him a (bad word). He really wished I would stop reading so damn many books.

I feel some regret that I didn’t get to thank him one last time for raising me right at the end, but I told him many times before that. He is one more brick in the wall of why I have intense feelings around displays of gratitude.

Relationships are not always simple. They are not “good” or “bad”. People are not “good” or “bad”. I think people do good things and shitty things and striking the balance is hard. I think that there are ways that men have a tough time in the world and I’ve watched some pieces of that pain right up close. I also have a carefully cultivated and culled group of men I am close with–people who have all done their therapy homework before I got there. People who understand their own damage and can figure out how to not be shitty at other people because of their own pain.

Yeah, that pain matters. That pain needs attention and care and support and you need to understand that the focus of attention has to move around a group and it won’t always be you. Not because of a statement about you being less worthy than other people. That’s not the point.

Life is hard all over. Sometimes I am not going to preen and serve the man in the room. Put your big kid panties on and deal with your problem for yourself.

I say this with more flow and force at this point in my life because I have bounced off this dynamic with an awful lot of men who I don’t happen to love deeply and feel enormous gratitude to them for saving my life. Yeah. Conflict. Because even with that deep well of gratitude and love I also said, “You have legs. Why are you asking a woman to go get you a drink? Have you become paralysed since I last stayed in the house?”

Yeah. I didn’t stay the Princess. I was thirteen when my niece moved in. I was not an easy person for a deeply ignorant, bigoted, racist, misogynistic, lazy hoarder person to love.

But holy shit can you see a whole string of hoarders in my friends circle for the rest of my life. I keep some of the traits and challenges. I just can’t handle the whole package anymore.

Cause it’s not about any of these one things. Cause any one of those labels diminishes the person he was very much. He showed up in emergencies and helped neighbors. He was giving and loving in his way. He was often fun. He got me to memorise the lyrics of every song he had on 8-track tapes. We had us some times. He snuck me treats and he cuddled me. He is the only man I have had a completely non-sexual highly tactile relationship with.

Like, that’s a weird thing for me every time I think of it. I have never had another non-sexual highly tactile relationship with a man. Outside of uncle men have fallen into four categories for me: sexual or just some serious flirting relationship of some sort, someone I am assuming is not interested in sex with me so I am tentative and awkward in my interactions and I almost never feel comfortable because I don’t even know what to say, someone I have to actively reject because they are assertive with their interest and I do not feel we are compatible, and rapists.

This is why I have traditionally slept with most of my friends. Now we are in a whole new life phase and I can’t do what worked in the past. I need to learn how to have a different set of categories because the primary way to be in a positive relationship with me historically is no longer available and that is going to be difficult. I know that Scottish men have a whole lot of major differences with the American men I have historically had big conflicts with but that’s ok we will just find slightly refined versions anyway. It’ll be close enough that a hand wave will explain the differences.

Sometimes there are platonic friendships with heavy flirting and there is a “dang can’t because x” exchange every so often and that much engagement lets me feel like I am in the “Ok I am not being problematic in this relationship.”

Uncle was the only person I ever brought my whole ass difficult personality to at the most extreme points in my development through a highly traumatic childhood who was a man who never sexualised me in any way.

Please do not come at me for how clearly I don’t love this man because I am so intolerant. Love is a complicated emotion. Feeling it does not mean that you agree with or share the same views as another person. Loving someone does not mean you have to act like them or justify their behavior. I mean, I could tell you about uncle’s hurts but frankly that’s not the point.

The point is the pattern. The point is the template. The point is the broad strokes. The point is caricature.

I feel like this might turn into a series because it is not as if uncle is the only man who lives larger than life in my brain. Understanding these people is how I have understood masculinity in my life. I am not saying that any one of them represent that whole of mankind or that they have had life trajectories like every other man. I am saying I knew this man. This is what I knew about him. This is how I saw him. This is what I heard from him. This is what I took away from the culmination of our conversations over multiple decades. I put in the time. I did listen.

I don’t even remember which bullshit thing he told me I had to do “because the Bible” that overlapped with my one brief overture into the 7th Day Adventist Church that happened not long after I was demoted from Princess. I took it hard. I tried to find a rule book that would agree with some of his weird extremist views and this was the option I had to immediate hand.

I really did not come out of that year and a half in the church with the set of beliefs that they all wanted me to have. And that was when I completely lost my shit and I tried to kill myself. Uncle did not come when the family visited me in the hospital. He didn’t even look at me for several months after it happened.

He was my one good man I didn’t have to have sex with. And to him I was now a ghost. Yeah. That was tied in with why we moved down to Bakersfield then my dad propositioned me again and I prosecuted and we ended up back in uncle’s house.

He barely spoke to me for the rest of my life. I mean, let’s be clear there were a few little girls and all boys that he was actively more hostile and nasty towards than he was with me because he was a petty, pathetic, loser. I scared him more. I would argue him down about absolutely every stupid thing he said to me so he just stopped talking.

I did love him. I tried to talk to him about neutral things. I would bring up songs. He would derail into his conspiracy theory. I would refuse to listen to the topic and ask him to talk about something else. It would turn into a racist rant. I would opt out of that one too. It went into a misogynistic screed about how I act like this because the feminists ruined me.

Yeah. It was awkward.

I mean, he was never my primary financial provider. My aunt earned more money the whole time I lived there. That’s how she got to over rule him and say that when someone needed a place to go she would always take them in. Because she was the one paying the mortgage. She bought the food.

So he refinanced the house and the hoard grew.

I am not saying I have a definitive view of masculinity but when I think of toxic masculinity I think of uncle. I think of the rage and frustration that was twisted into really toxic places because he didn’t get what he felt entitled to get in life. He was promised more. Who promised? This was not a conversation that ended well any time I pushed. I suspect I would do better now at getting him to admit out loud that he is sad because it turns out life was a trick and he never got rich. He was Willy Fucking Loman. And I lived in his house. And he always snuck me ice cream and treats even when he wasn’t speaking to me.

That’s the thing about the last few years. Our relationship changed. We were no longer able to have conversations but we did spend time in the same room. There would be these eye contact interactions that felt intensely emotional and bonding. One time around when I got married but before I had kids when I was over at the house for a visit. We had one of these moments where I was sitting on the couch as far away from him as I could get because we both didn’t know what to say. Sitting in that spot means you get blasted at top volume because you are right next to the tv. It means we can’t hear each other very well so we can pretend that is the reason we aren’t speaking. We looked at each other for 10-15 minutes while some stupid show played loudly in my ear. He crooked his finger at me like he has done since I was a very little girl. I came over and sat across the arms of his lazy boy like I have done since I was a teenager and I got heavy enough that he couldn’t really handle the pressure on his legs.

He pulled me in and he leaned his head on my shoulder and he put a hand on my back and he gave me a pat. I had this intense full body sob rock through me. I didn’t keep crying. Then he patted me on the back more intensely and nodded his head a few times. He said, “Yeah. I know.” I’m not sure we said more than hello or goodbye after that.

Moving is super fucking weird. When you move around an area you shift your web of people but you don’t entirely destroy it and rebuild from scratch. Changing countries has been a complete rebuild. Under different constraints and with different rules for the whole experience from start to finish.

Lately I have been noticing how hard it is to actively interact some days because my understanding of people and patterns and behaviour expectations are all based on a life lived under circumstances that would seem pretty alien to folks here in many ways. I don’t know the scripts. Learning is a slow and laborious process and it’s intimidating knowing that I have as many mistakes ahead of me as I have behind me and I have absolutely mere remnents and shadows of my history in my head as I try to figure out how I should be acting now.

Sometimes when someone says a thing or makes a hand movement like uncle with the same physical build it feels like I’m looking at a grainy 1980’s Polaroid. But that’s not what is happening. This is a different person and a different time. This person has completely different experiences and views of the world. Maybe? I don’t know. It always feels so difficult to find out. I don’t get the upside anymore. It’s harder to put in the work.

On I trudge. One more day. One more navel gazing.

  • Number made up out of thin air. I have no fucking idea what the percentage is but it’s a very tricky dynamic and will often create massive problems.

I never have to worry again about looking for that.

One of the things that I have always found myself doing is latching onto a certain song and repeating it in my head for weeks. Sometimes it is surprising that I casually catch just a phrase from a song and then I am completely obsessed. Right now it is Taylor Swift’s [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8KpKc3C9V3w](The Archer). My maiden name was Archer so that adds a layer to me, but I only started listening to this song in the past couple of weeks even though the album came out a few years ago.

I’ve been thinking about jaye saying he doesn’t like the capitalist association with “success” when it comes to evaluating the value of a life. It has really lodged in my mind. My story arc is sometimes hard for me to keep perspective on. So like, when I was a kid I played with household budgeting as a hobby. I knew I was going to get an accident settlement monthly starting when I turned 18 and I’d have it till I was 30 to get done what I could. I wanted to go to college. I wanted to not live with my family. I wanted to not need to have anyone say that I owed them for the support they gave me.

I wrote out millions of possible life plans. How I was going to get a teaching degree and buy a house and by the time I hit 65 I would have a paid off house and $250,000 in investments outside my teaching pension. That was my plan. That was what “success” was going to look like for me financially. Well, that and I had to have kids by the time I was 30 or I wasn’t going to bother with the rest of the story arc. My life was rather unpleasant by any measure and if I didn’t find a way to completely change the focus and mandate that I have no choice but to stay so I’d better learn how to be a stable provider.

I know that a lot of people who deal with wanting to die do not manage to make deals with themselves that allow them to stay. I’m not judging that. Everyone writes their own deals with themselves. I could not live up to the deals that other people make–I don’t have their internal resources. I’m different.

I knew what I wanted my arc to look like very young. It was find a way to be part of a family or quit.

Noah and I were talking the other day in our morbid way about the various signs of our mortality that pop up. We’ve had this conversation in an ongoing way for the last 18 years. Oh, and he has this browser extension that shows him the current expected lifespan left for a man who has lived to his current age in a countdown. So every fucking time he opens a new tab he sees that number. We really focus on time.

We have spoken for years about what we would do if we lost one another sometime soon, meaning in five-ish years or less. Obviously it changes as time goes by, as we have different experiences and levels of development together. Do you know why he got his first vasectomy? Because he decided that he was done creating children and I said flat out that if he died in the next five years I would probably see if I could find a different partner and have one more child.

The funny thing is, by the time he had the vasectomy reversal I would not have been willing to add a third child with a different partner at that point. I was too old. I wouldn’t have wanted that kind of gap with a half-sibling. The reality of dating as a single parent is step-kids would probably have been part of the story and I didn’t want yours-mine-ours. I would not want to make anyone feel “left” for a “new family”.

And one of my very deepest core kinks is forced impregnation. So him changing his mind and deciding to have a third kid once I had already accepted it as an impossibility and I’d mostly moved my life onward… he put a choke chain on me. And that’s fucking hot. I could be five years away from being an independent adult instead of taking care of children. Instead it’s thirteen years.

It changes a lot of my story arc going forward. I am grateful for his decision. It deepened our bond in a way I can’t fully express. Combine that with the fact that he has put in thousands of hours asking me deep, probing questions about every facet of my life mean that he has seen me go through deep and massive changes. He has pushed me to grow and change and he has not accepted half-hearted attempts. We are fairly brutal with each other in our gentle way.

So this week we were talking about a mutual friend and how things are going in their life. They are going through a breakup and they are sad about feeling like they have to start over again trying to find someone to be their person. Noah nodded when I was telling him. He said that given that neither of us are likely to die anytime soon and there is absolutely no sign of us wanting to split… and even if we did split up… we have that person. If one of us dies that will not change the fact that in this story of our lives we found that person already. It’s not that we would be celibate for the rest of our lives but they would be temporary companions. We would be kind to them. We would probably love them. But it would be different.

I get to be part of a family. I get to live in a house I own. I have more than $250,000 in the bank. I earned my credential and I taught. I live two miles from my best friend from childhood. I regularly speak to dozens of other friends who have known me for well over 20 years.

Where to go for future success?

Oh, there we come back to all that insecurity and the knowledge that good friendships come out of missteps and corrections and second and third and fourth and fifth chances. But I’m so old and tired and I am really out of fucks. I’m listening to this fucking song over and over and I’m thinking about how many relationships have to have tension and sideways nudges as you figure out how to settle in next to each other on the friend-bench.

Something I’ve learned is that people really like it when they get to do you a favor. But I’ve reached such a place in life where accepting favors feels mixed and complicated and bad. I don’t feel like I deserve help. I have money to hire somebody and I should just be fine with that being good enough. But that’s not how you make friends.

Making friends with new people as an adult with children is hard. Mostly it means leaving the kids at home and going out alone. That feels so exhausting and pointless because 80-90% of the effort won’t lead to a friend. That’s just how the numbers work for me. I’ve played this game a long time. Although the pool is smaller here. I might get a much different percentage since I can’t fuck anyone. It’s a very low percentage of my old friend group that I haven’t fucked. Mostly the straight women and gay men.

It’s not that easy learning how to make friends without using sex. I’ve been doing it since I was a small child. Yes, I realize that it was unhealthy and problematic. I’ve had all the therapy on that topic, thanks for your concern. I’ve had a few years to practice making friends without sex through parenting but that’s a mixed bag. I don’t want all of my friends to be the parents of people my kids hang out with.

So when I say that I know that 80-90% of the effort that goes into making friends is waste its because I have always been someone who earns a fair bit of negative feedback. I don’t always agree with the group consensus and I put forth my view and I am more willing to walk away than compromise a whole lot of the time. I know how I create my own problems. But the thing is: I have limited spoons in my drawer. The biggest thing I can’t get back is time. Time I could have been putting into the projects that are closer to my own heart and my own self-actualisation efforts. I’m a vain asshole. I don’t have to earn money so I build the space that I want to live in. Before I die there won’t be a thing on the house that will need replacing in the next 30 years. I listen Sam Vines and I’m careful about what boots I buy.

I don’t remember if I mentioned this here. But I’m planning to have a 60th birthday party. It will be my first party since 30. Some of my friends will be in their 90’s. I hope that there will be a sizeable number of people from around town who want to come. But I have to earn that. I have to figure out how to create relationships with people such that they are interested in coming and meeting the wonderful cast and characters from all of the stories I’ve told. They will be able to say, “So what happened after that?” I want to have relationships with people that are deep enough for them to care about backstory for one another. I want to meet their families and friends too. I will go first!

Because when I introduce the two of you at the party I want to be able to say, “You two are going to get along like a house on fire. Person A you need to tell how ‘x’ happened and Person B you need to tell how ‘y’ happened. You’ll figure it out from there.” In order to get to know people you have to spend time. Knowing that the vast majority of it will turn into a loose, distant tie, or even an enemy–not a friend.

It’s not all bad. Studies say that we get the best referrals from our loose tie network.

It matters to put the time and energy in. It matters to create the opportunities and follow through. That is the absolute bedrock of friendship.

Dude, I slept 11 hours last night. Then this morning I burst into tears because I could not figure out what I could eat fast enough because my brain was moving so slowly. So today I am recognising that I restarted exercise a little fast after the last two weeks of illness. I am resting because otherwise I’ll just bloody hurt myself again and then I’ll fuck up the trip.

Getting older has helped me see these kinds of consequences coming before they punch me in the face.

Life likes to remind me that the countdown is always happening. I don’t know anyone else with my full constellation of physical problems who can be as active as I can. It is a very delicate dance of pushing myself very consistently but with a lot of respect paid to rest.

I have far more than 10 days of reasonable working hours for chores to get done in 5 days. Where do I get this chore list?

Part of it comes from seeing in my mind what I want to look out my windows and doors and see in exactly 18 years, 5 months, and 1 day. I know how long it will take to get a lot of those pieces to look how I want them to look. It is better if I get the manure and compost and munch spread now so I can get back and immediately put out all the seeds right as we hit the average last frost date.

I am not interested in spending a ton of money to have a shiny penny new “thing I bought” to show off. Is it stupid? Sure. Is it not what other people care about? Oh absolutely. I have a whole bunch of other goals tied up with it. Including finding ways to make my not very private garden into a place where kinky motherfuckers can go do fun things outside so long as they are quiet. I will have extra gags if you forgot to bring one.

I live along a public walking path and I am not supposed to build a taller fence but I can grow whatever the fork I want. My neighbors said they wouldn’t mind bamboo (I asked because apparently a lot of lawsuits come up when people plant bamboo and I am a scaredy cat) and I have a bunch of trees already starting that are going to be the perfect height to block view into the garden. I really enjoy playing outside in a bower of flowers. My kids had better fucking move out someday.

I want to have a good spot for 1st of May outdoor fucking even if there is snow on the ground. I want to have completely deniable furniture that can be used for restraining people and times of year when they cannot be seen unless someone comes quite close inside the garden. I have plans.

But it will also be set up so someone can just sit there and find actual quiet away from the steady noise. I want enough of a noise buffer in the physical environment to make it feel actually secluded. This kind of thing takes planning. I will have even more neighbors by then. If I want quiet I have to create it.

If I want relationships I have to create them. I have to spend time. And that’s when I hear FUCKING TAYLOR SWIFT SING “WHO COULD STAY? I’M READY FOR COMBAT” AND JUST UGHGHEW;HADSFK;HSADF;KJSDF;HLDFSjkln;

Kids for 13 years, only 18 years till the party. If I want friends, like people I have an actual deep and complex relationship with, realistically I should be putting in the most effort in the next 8 years. Because to really get to friends it takes 2-5 years of doing things with someone frequently. In my experience.

Time is ticking away. If I don’t need someone to be My Person that is a very specific freeing point. I want to know people. I want to be able to see through them. I want them to be able to see through me. I want shenanigans. I want silliness and doing things.

Did I mention that I am so tired I can barely keep my eyes open? Walking around feels like I am wearing a weighted body suit. I usually spend 3 days of my period hanging out horizontally as much as possible because I’m wiped out. I skipped what should have been day one of that. So today on day two I am drowsy and weary and I want to talk to myself. Because I should not try hard to work on reading right now. I love to learn, but if I want to see right through me and do what I want to do in this life it takes having the strength to do it. If I fuck up my body worse I won’t hit my goals and I will hate myself.

Success is walking the tightrope that is my ability to be a fit and active human. If I were willing to spend 40% of my waking hours resting doctors would be happy with me. They have been telling me to for years. Instead I push and I work when I can barely open my eyes. Sometimes I crawl when I’m doing chores because I do not have the ability to walk.

Does it even fucking matter? Probably not most of it. But some of it does and almost all of it is related to me being able to say what I have done in and with my life and I know I did it to my absolute limit as long as I could. Is it petty and stupid? I don’t know. I hear “Who could stay” and she means who could stay in her life because she is always fighting with everyone.

I need to be able to hold my head up high and say that no matter where I started or what has happened to me, this is what I have done. I did it no matter how many people told me I couldn’t or I shouldn’t or they didn’t agree or they thought I was stupid. I did it because I said I would and I keep my word. It doesn’t matter how I feel while I do it, it matters what I do.

When you are trying to make friends you don’t tell all the stories right up front. You need to leave just a smattering, leaving bread crumbs for the next one but not telling it this time. You can’t do all the talking or you don’t get to know them and it’s not a friendship, it’s a performance. There are all these fucking rules. I’ll figure them out. But probably not today. I think it is time to go to bed. Even though I’ve only been up for eight hours. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day.

I need to fertilise the soil so the trees can grow up so I can have privacy fucking out there. It’s a need to activity.

Being challenged is good.

I’m trying to convince myself so please forgive me for protesting a bit too much right now.

I don’t know how people balance all the roles they play in life. I really struggle with the constant triage of priorities. There is no way for me to have a set list of what order I handle tasks in. My life is too complex.

This week became more complicated because we found out that Noah’s surgery wasn’t just to get the weird screw thing out of his arm it turned out that he had almost completely severed his tendon. Whoops. He can’t use his dominant hand at all for weeks. He is also having a gout outbreak in his left foot and he can barely walk and he can’t stand for long at all. So he literally must be in bed for a lot of the day or in a chair with his foot elevated. The last time he didn’t rest enough the attack went on for four months.

I mean, his job is having to just deal with him going on temporary leave but he also does a fuck ton in the house. Most of it he can’t do… indefinitely. Most of the time he does a lot of covering for my disabled ass. He does a solid half of the cooking. He cleans. He helps with kid-things.

Oh, and I had already scheduled going on a trip with one of my kids through some of the biggest art galleries in Western Europe starting nine days from now. We’ll be gone two weeks. At the end of the trip Noah has to bring our 5 year old to London to meet me because we could not get a passport appointment in Edinburgh in the last 5 months of trying. Yeah. That’s gonna be a fun trip.

My sexy life is really not in my top 10 list of priorities right now. I am tracking so many lists in my brain I feel like I am about to go mad.

I’m also trying to help my friend set up a retreat. She’s had a bunch of health complications and other life frustrations so the process is going slowly and I have to keep circling back around. It is taking up a lot of room in my brain.

The garden work I need to do right now is such a long list that my hands couldn’t sustain the typing. IT’S SPRING, DAMNIT. I can fill absolutely as many hours out there as I am willing to spend. (And all of them make me SO HAPPY.) I think about it so many hours of the day that it is definitely more than a 40 hour/week gig. I have learned so much more about soil biology and now I want to spend all my time figuring out companion groupings for plants. Thinking about other things feels like a serious imposition.

I’m just starting to feel enough better after being sick twice in two weeks that I can re-start running. I haven’t done it yet though. Today has really been the first day when it might have been at all reasonable and I’ve been working since my eyes opened.

The more things I have to do the more I want to type at myself to list it all so I can try to figure out what to do first. But not just a to do list. I need to reflect all the way down on why something is more or less important.

I have been maintaining excellent self discipline about continuing to plow through books. I’m really happy about that. I’m managing about two a week and that feels like a good thing right now since I’m mostly reading books about permaculture and I need to finalise my design layout for this year like yesterday. I’m also working on a couple of other non-fiction topics that I’m happy about. And I have a couple of kink books I have never read that I picked up recently cause they sound neat.

Cause I have a lot of time to think about sex. I drift pass this space mostly so I can be happy that at least someone is out there doing the fun stuff.

In the next week I need to do some batch cooking for the time when I am gone since they are going to be on pure survival mode. I need to write down organised lists of all the stuff that needs to happen. Once I write the list I need to put them in the specific order of most important to least important and I need to just hope that the top 3 things happen without being allowed to be cranky about stuff that is missed. I need to leave everyone with a full drawer of clean pants. It’s fine if their other clothes get gross but everyone needs clean pants for the whole two weeks. Hell, I bought Noah a whole extra week worth today because he will not be up for dealing with the laundry.

Triage, triage, triage.

As much as I like to do celebration cooking I absolutely loathe day-to-day home cooking. It’s boring as shit. I feel stabby. I have to just STFU and do it. So much of it.

I also need to finish the tax paperwork he was supposed to finish because that’s due when I’m leaving anyway. Fun. Paying taxes in two countries is kinda annoying but I’m happy to be here so I’ll keep it up.

Oh yeah–do I have friends? I think I have friends. I suppose I should see people sometimes? Luckily T talks to me every week by video call so it helps me feel less isolated. Which is mixed–I might have to work a lot harder at cultivating local relationships if I couldn’t still cling like a limpet to my Californians.

New people are scary. I’m a lot. I am definitely not everyone’s cup of tea. I am neurotically particular about a great many things. I get RSD like whoa. I was a professional new kid (was a student in 33 schools preschool-grad school) so I’ve met a lot of new people. Most of them just don’t have enough bandwidth in their brain for new people. Some will throw rocks. A few will like me. And then every very very small percentage of the time… I make a friend. I am a lucky woman because I have more than two close friends. That is not promised to anyone in this life. I should not be greedy. Maybe my luck is running out. Who knows. New people are scary. But you can’t get to yes without risking no.

It is hard absorbing the opportunity cost in terms of time and energy lost through connections that are briefly explored before I move on.

Even though I don’t live out in the countryside I act like I do. I live and work on my property most of the time. We are homebodies in a way I never expected. My life has not worked like this in the past. In California there were always so many strong ties, higher ranked priorities, and the fact that getting places in a car is just less effort than riding around so we didn’t stay home much.

I was really enjoying the constant fucking we were doing a few weeks ago. Now it seems like just a dream. Ah well. I’m old enough to know that whatever is happening now will not always happen.

The gurus

They don’t all call themselves gurus, some use teacher, Owner, shaman, tantrika, daka, coach, guide, and memorably one just went by Dragon. That is outside the not-short list of Daddies I have acquired through my time as an adult. They were all men who were absolutely convinced that they knew what I should do to be happier/healthier/sluttier/less slutty/more attractive/more intelligent/less emotional/less crazy… in short what they all had in common was viewing me as a piece of clay that could be molded into their ideal woman.

If I’m at all honest I totally fucking have a type and it definitely extends to people who like having a massive reality distortion bubble around them that intrudes into other people’s sense of self so they could direct the people.

For the purpose of this writing I am going to assume that the controlling person is primarily male, mostly because I have yet to have an enby try to establish this sort of dynamic with me (not saying they never do at all) and very few women try to influence me in the same manner. I have a number of women I look to for advice and guidance and they are all people with extremely strong opinions (FUCKING HAWT 😍) who will tell me what they think then drop the topic and move on. I will listen or not and that isn’t their problem.

The men come back to check if I am obeying. They chastise me. They tell me “you have to ____”. They tell me that if I keep doing x that I will never (whatever they want me to do). They threaten dire outcomes if I don’t fall in line with their direction.

Before you try to go all “Oh look, just another feminist bitch hating on men” I need to point out that I married one of these dudes and many are still in my extended harem (the people I am deeply emotionally attached to who I have fucked or played with in the past), and I even talked to one about how to write this post. Clearly I don’t just hate all these men. I signed on for sucking one of their cocks for the rest of my days. He has no problem at all with my harem of much loved and adored friends. My husband knows that he has a biological family he may not adore but who would show up to rescue him with money and resources if something went sideways in his life. I have my harem, my triad of best friends, and the loose ties I have extending through communities in cities in many countries. He does not begrudge me the only safety net I have in this life. Mommy boards say that I have a lot of emotional affairs. I’m ok with that description.

So when I talk about the feelings I have about my relationships with men who share this personality trait it is not a purely negative topic. When I say that I would not be who I am without these men I’m really not kidding. I’ve done a lot of hypnosis, NLP, conditioning training, improvement plans, slave contracts, affirmation work, and even a fair bit of strait up corporal punishment when I failed to do as I was ordered.

Every time someone gushes about how confident I am about myself I mentally see that meme of an autistic woman accepting her Oscar for how well she masks.

I have a great deal of self doubt, well less than I used to. I have a great deal of suspicion about my own motives and why I am taking the actions that I am taking. I believe that the self I have constructed amongst my friends, mainly through the writing I have done for decades (it all went private when I moved to the UK but once I have citizenship locked down, finger guns I’m sure it will revive) is a binding contract. Old friends tell me that when they are doing things in their life they stop and consciously think about the delineated way I think through why to act the way I want to act when they are evaluating what they need to do in a situation. I feel kind of stunned when they say this. Then I laugh because immediately after they almost 100% feel the need to follow up with “I know what you would do and it would be ____ (sometimes they are right in that guess and sometimes not) but I am just using the PROCESS and I have different values so what I decided was ____.” There is usually this little bit of a funny energy about this exchange that is now emerging with my kids as they get older.

I do the teacher shit fucking hard too. I’m not just dissing on people who like to influence other people.

When you model how to think through a problem without giving a strong “the right answer will always be ‘x'” people can generalise from that into many cases you never considered initially and often there seems to be this little almost foot stamping response of, “Just because you are right about one part of this process that doesn’t make you right about everything! So THERE!

I think this is pretty subconscious for folks most of the time but when I see it over and over and over and over it gets a little hard to keep the smirk off my face. After this many years of parenting, I am getting particularly obnoxious about keeping a serious, slightly concerned face and leaning in a little to say, “So you are saying I win?”

I’ve now said this to a few friends in situ and they are people who have known me long enough to throw their heads back howling in laughter. Just like last night my coach said at the end of the conversation “So you are telling me that after this conversation you feel a lot more comfortable about the fact that you are clear in your purpose and you don’t think there is underlying inappropriate feelings driving your actions? Now you figured out what you are going to do going forward? So what you are really saying is, I win?

But do you know what I am honest with myself about? An awful lot of these men are uhm not people I can wholeheartedly endorse as upstanding gentlemen. Many of them have pushed far too hard and have raped women who did not use a firm enough “no”. I have supported communities in enacting blacklists that blocked these men from attending. I have spoken to the men in question and told them point blank that I was going to reach out to people in the community they just moved to and I am going to tell those people about your history. They usually sigh very deeply and nod. They know that it is not worth a single minute of their time to try and talk me out of it.

Someone recently mentioned the concept of being in an accountability circle with someone. I spent a little bit of time on DuckDuckGo and thought about that concept more specifically. Ok, that’s my husband and my triad and harem and my sisters and mothers in leather. Those are the people who keep me on the path I want to be on. They tell me when I’m an asshole. They tell me when I fucked up. They help me figure out how to fuck up less. Harm Reduction is the goal. They see me clearly in all of my layers of machinations and mixed feelings and need to learn what “healthy” responses are and they are really good at asking me the right questions.

Over and over I say that the purpose of working with a therapist is so that you can have access to someone who will ask you the questions you need to think about in order to figure out the answer. Therapists aren’t magicians and they aren’t priests: they don’t have all the answers. You have the answers for you and I have the answers for me.

I rode out most of the first couple years of the pandemic not talking much with most of my harem, my triad mostly went silent, and most of my sisters and mothers in leather were far too overwhelmed to have much ability to interact regularly. I did make more tentative connections with new people here in Scotland but frankly it is still early days. Bailey taught me that friends come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime and you don’t know who is who until the end.

Over the past year there has been a slow wave building in my life, the ocean is just starting to send the tide in. The people who are still in my life and who reach out daily, weekly, monthly, yearly, or just when they happen to see something that makes them think of me remind me of just how far the road has been. I have not sat still with just a couple of people, needing them to fill all of my needs. I have been privileged to be a comet in a great many lives.

It’s not that I still know everyone I have slept or played with. Many threads have frayed.

Do you know who stayed? The fucking gurus.

But not even all of them. I have kicked a few out of the harem. People who consistently showed me that they did not understand the agreement between us about which parts of my life and selfhood were up for attack.

I mean, I did marry the grand motherfucking prize winner of the game “What is wrong with Krissy.” I’m not opposed to being attacked on a great many fronts. These people I am speaking about get to stay because they have been able to shift their understanding of me over time with great nuance. They understand that the opening gambit of our relationship was not to be indicative of how we would get along forever. They can usually understand that they have crossed a line just by seeing me narrow my eyes.

I might be into providing service, I may be an absolute workaholic if I am given a project that will please someone in that group of people, I might be fully willing to be an owned possession who has limits about what they are allowed to do in big parts of my life, I might fucking live for the opportunity worship people and grovel as I appreciate the opportunity to please them…

That is always within a strong framework of you have to learn my idiosyncratic, difficult to track, highly specific to my life boundaries and not encroach on them. There are limits. I will comment when you have crossed them. I will retreat from you rapidly if you respond inappropriately. There are lots of kinds of inappropriate.

The only real appropriate response is, “I just said something that was not good. May I ask how that went wrong?” I train my people like I train my plants. To be clear I do not expect the appropriate response from anyone early in a relationship. Casual acquaintances and folks I know randomly/socially are absolutely going to 100% of the time have an inappropriate response. That’s totally fine. I get that. I am not mad. But whatever inappropriate response results in some level of gentle correction. I evaluate how gentle to be on a case by case basis.

If you laugh at my correction you are now out of the running for ever making it past “yeah I know that guy”. And you know what? I’m not mad about that. Really, it’s ok. I may feel lonely in a lot of ways because I have a lot of touch hunger for the specific people who have the right to touch my body because we are deep enough and close enough in our relationship. The people who have survived hundreds or thousands of little course corrections after inappropriate responses.

When I get word of them having fucked up in their community I figure out what went wrong and I proceed to talk to them about where and how that went off the rails. I am not gentle or kind but I am forgiving. I am just as fucked up as they are and they forgive me too.

I have gotten much better with practice about understanding when and how someone can be my prey.

I am pretty wordy about figuring it out though. Typing is my native language and I have been sitting on everything I’ve thought over the last few years. Necessary time to hibernate and slow down. You have to close some doors in order to open other doors.

When someone tells me that they are desperately holding on to a person in their life because they feel like they are afraid of the pain of the loss I can’t help but think of all the times when creating an empty space in my life lead to me being able to create a different connection that nurtured me deeply but wouldn’t ultimately be as all consuming. Sometimes the person I thought completely lost turns out to be a comet who can show up for chats every few years. Every time I have that happen I say a blessing for Past Me having the wisdom to smile brightly and wish my friend joy as they severed the tie to run off and grow somewhere else.

It’s funny how much this all feels more and more like a cross between gardening metaphors. Oy. That’s yet another detour.

The point, and the reason I haven’t hurried off the dang computer yet is that I know that if I am writing a contract in my head around my behavior and what I should be doing to continue the arc I have been on for quite some time I might have to say pieces of that out loud again. I can’t get to backstory yet but I will. This stretch of writing is a long time coming and most everyone has even told me it is fine if I just use their names. A few asked for pseudonyms and I go with that.

They are each of them a whole fabulous thread of interactions and course corrections and fucking opportunities for growth. Other people don’t need to care about any of this at all. I write it down simply because that is how I learn what I need to learn. I ask myself the question and then I write until I figure out the answer. I’ve made many of my closest friends through writing. We have arguments and debates and always come again and again to the same end result: we each have our own different right answer and it won’t be the same. This is part of how they taught me to think and I miss it deeply.

I miss letting them in.

Finding space for that writing is hard with running and gardening. There’s this whole web to weave. I don’t know how much of it will end up here, probably just most of the slutty or kinky stuff. But I have to start writing again. I am getting off course. As I was told several times yesterday: I am always at my finest when I am saying what I am thinking so that I don’t get cocky or shitty because I would have to admit that too.

I think fuck ups should be very publicly discussed and analysed. I’m not just saying “boundary crossings” or assaults or anything extreme. I find out who is going to end up closer in or farther out on the extended web with every time I talk about them doing something I don’t like.

I’m not talking about a big deal. I’m talking about noticing “Hey, x thing sucks and it isn’t cool”. There is a lot to be learned when people react to that. A whole lot of people will pick up their football and go home and will speak about me with scathing words. Cool. I’m used to that.

But the people who stay all wiggle into the right place for them. It takes time. Seasonal changes sometimes make waves in that group of folks who are around for reasons that might not be so needed anymore. And some of them fade out except for the occasional fond smile or grimace depending on why they faded out.

But the ones who stay. Well, chef’s kiss they are my kind of predators and I am very happy to recognise that my loving them means that I am choosing to do whatever is in my power to help them only go after prey instead of finding victims. I hope not in a codependent way? I really don’t have time for that much involvement with fucking anyone’s life outside of people I live with. Good grief.

I can only ask questions and hope they are the right ones. I can only tell them where they are fucking up and how. I can ask them to consider why they want to do a thing. I absofuckinglutely will do something to deplatform them as much as possible. Fine. Learn how to be a member of a community who is known as someone to keep an eye on. You don’t get to be the leader. You know how you are wanting to go do x, y, and z? How about if instead of you doing that you look around at who could be doing that even better than you can but they need some kind of support to make that happen. Don’t take the stage.

Cause with these specific predators we have agreements between us. I will call you what you are. You will never in your whole life have to worry if I am just sucking up to you. I will tell you what I think without reservation or softening my tone in any way. You get to find out what the inside of my brain instinctively produces in response to you doing that. And we will talk about this until you motherfucking understand how and why you done wrong and how you are fucking going to make amends.

Maybe not in that same city because you fucked up so bad you have to leave. (Ironic that I say that here. To the best of my knowledge I did not leave the bay area because I fucked up and was driven out of any communities. If anyone disagrees with my assessment feel free to comment below.) So maybe my level of intervention is going to be a bit messy and ridiculous. But I know what you are. I know what you have done. And you can have a redemption arc–that’s great. It will require you not doing the same ol’ same ol’. You have to choose to change. You have to figure out what your answers are. Where is the enlightened self interest in your need to change? What should you change to get what you are currently fucking yourself out of in your impulsive dipshit move?

The people who stay are messy and complicated and I hold no illusions about them. As a deeply flawed person I want to be seen and accepted for the totality of myself. And that has involved a lot of agreements about what had to change.

How in the fuck would someone new just know all that bullshit? For fucks sake. That’s ridiculous and unfair.

I know.

I can never really write it all down but it moves the conversation along by so much when I at least try.

So yeah. I suppose this is my personal ad. This is how I have always hunted. My prey is different for so many reasons but if you are patient with me I will be as explicit as I can. You don’t have to come for the whole ride. You are welcome to come in and out whenever you need.

Cause I’m a wordy bitch.

Little Monster, Big Monster

I have been thinking about this guy who was around the San Francisco scene years ago. I’m going to call him Deep Tissue Dude because one of the ways he made friends was by giving free massages to people, mostly women. He did have professional training and he was extremely technically skilled. It wasn’t his primary job (most folks struggle to survive in the Bay Area on just a massage therapist wage) but when he was in between tech gigs he would take on some clients to fill in the gap.

I met him after I left my Owner. I was 23 and I was going to Burning Man events with folks who were slightly overlapping with the kink community in part because I was trying to find a different community group where I wouldn’t have to see my ex and partly because I was in a weird place with my self harming behavior. I don’t think that extreme promiscuity is always done from a place of self harm but I can say that my own promiscuity is sometimes done from a place of love and connection and sometimes it is based on the fact that I had a sociopathic pedophile as a father who told me I existed in the world because men need a place to put their dicks. I had been in therapy on and off for 20 years at that point but I had not yet met the therapist who really rocked my whole world and made me really make leaps and bounds of progress with my trauma.

I met this guy and he seemed pretty cool. He talked a lot about his parenting and he talked a lot about boundaries and safety and consent and just generally he was good at giving off all the “I’m a good guy–really” signals. I feel it is important to say that he was an incredibly large man; like Samoan large. He was very tall–maybe 6’3″? (That’ll be around 190cm for the rest of you.) He had a gigantic barrel chest; he was fat but that wasn’t the dominant impression he gave. He was just massive. He was careful and deliberate about how he used his size when he interacted with women, and of course he mostly interacted with women. He hung out with men approximately how much he had to in order to pass the “Oh I know him; he’s alright” bar.

He did that thing where he walked and moved with authority so people tended to knee jerk assume that he really knew what he was talking about. He would talk about bodies and anatomy to perverts and sexually adventurous people in a way that established his authority. He was trying hard to be an important someone without actually being in a position of responsibility. He talked constantly about accountability

I’ll be frank and say that at that period of time most of the people I was hanging out with were doing a lot of drugs. MDMA was the big favorite, but GHB, nitrous, and coke were around too. I got the impression that other folks were using additional drugs but I didn’t know as much about that.

So Deep Tissue Dude never explicitly said “If you have sex with me I will give you drugs” and he never said “I will give you free massages if you have sex with me”. He was super careful to never ever be blunt about things. But he would ensure a plentiful supply of drugs for people who chose to hang around him when he was at an event. Much later I talked to other women and he crossed sexual lines during the massages quite frequently and none of us ever felt like we could bring it up. He always had a “Oh I am so sorry, I was misinterpreting your signals. I thought you wanted me to.”

I feel very required to stop at this point and explicitly say that even though I am aware that what he did was sexual assault I do not carry him in my head and in my heart as someone who assaulted me. I mean, he did but it wasn’t a big assault and it never went very far. He put his finger in my cunt once. He leaned over and licked my cunt once. Those happened several months apart and after the second time I never came back for another massage.

Why did I hang out with him at all? Why didn’t I ghost him after the first “slip”? Well, frankly, because I was fucking poor and I have chronic pain issues and he gave me help to ease the pain I was in.

I’ve been thinking about him because I think about the way that he gave me very minor uncomfortable feelings fairly quickly. I noticed that his big talk about how important his kids were in his life… was accompanied by him rarely actually seeing his kids and constantly pleading poverty for why he couldn’t afford to send child support to his “evil” ex. I noticed that he had a revolving door of “super close friends” who were always women, usually women who were under 25 and coming from backgrounds of extreme trauma. I noticed that he would always loudly, verbally set boundaries in really conservative places but then he would cross them regularly and say that he didn’t actually need the boundaries to be so conservative because actually I wasn’t taking advantage of him the way “other people” did.

He did a lot of talking about all the things he was going to do, all the ways he could do cool things for people, all the classes he could teach… and in reality outside of providing drugs he wasn’t stable or consistent or a good source of anything.

For me he was a Little Monster. He did shit he shouldn’t do; things that are literally illegal and he was messy and inappropriate. I don’t feel violated and I don’t feel like a victim.

But there were women for whom he was a Big Monster. There was one girl in particular where he gave her drugs and then he raped her. She went to the police and it was a whole shit show. I don’t know if I am remembering this completely correctly (it has been almost 20 years) but I believe it didn’t get to trial. She was slut shamed into infinity and beyond and she couldn’t handle pushing hard enough to make him pay.

I actually think of that woman, who was more of a girl at the time, quite often. Sometimes people will ask me why I am as conservative as I am with some of my boundaries in my parenting and I think of this girl. Her mother was a pro-domme and active in the scene. This girl had grown up surrounded by perverts. I met her when she was 18 and she told stories about how she had been sitting on the knees of various prominent perverts naked in hot tubs since she was 16.

I think of her every single time I tell my children how to handle nudity and adults who get close to them. (For the record my kids have been to many nudist events and I don’t think naked bodies are in any way a problem or inherently sexual.) I think of her when I tell my kids to beware of people who try really really really hard to seem trustworthy.

Why do they need to try so hard?

I think of that girl when I tell parents in the scene that it’s not a good idea to carry on with your kinky life with your children present. I think of that girl when I tell parents that I don’t think co-ops for babysitting with other kinky parents are a good idea. I mean, she isn’t even the only child of kinky parents I know who has had what seemed to me to be a very brutal entry into adulthood.

Deep Tissue Dude was blacklisted from a few events. He was no longer welcome at the Burning Man parties. Last I heard he had moved to a different city and was an integral part of the scene there.

I know he sexually assaulted at least dozens of women. I am quite certain he raped many–I have no way of guessing the number.

I think of him when I interact with people and they have messy boundaries. I think of him when I interact with people who loudly state why they are an authority and credible over and over again. I think of him when someone makes big promises about all the things they are going to do for other people.

I think of her when I watch people try to figure out how to respond to Monsters both Big and Little. There is so much silencing of discourse “don’t bring drama” and minimising the experiences of people who know something isn’t right but they aren’t sure where the line was crossed.

I know lots of people who cross a line once then they don’t cross it again. I deeply respect them. I know lots of people who cross a line then they make big protestations about how they won’t do something inappropriate again… until the next time.

When my inside voice tells me that I need to stay away from someone, when I notice that someone is inconsistent with their words versus their behavior, when I notice that someone reminds me of Monsters I used to know I listen now. I feel more emboldened to talk about stupid small things that start adding up. If I have a list of 3 or 4 small things that bother me I recognise that as meaning I will not be surprised when I find out that this person, who might be a Little Monster for me, will probably, eventually be a Big Monster for someone else.

I am grateful for the fact that I am no longer in a place in my life where the company of a Little Monster is better than being alone. I have a lot of compassion for the girl I was and the reasons that I made quite a few very poor choices in friends.

Pay attention to the integrity people have around their words. People really like to tell on themselves. When someone says “Oh, I will…” all the time but they don’t actually do it don’t be surprised when they say “Oh, I will never…” and then they do it anyway.

Reasons for monogamy x-post

I had a really funny conversation with my massage therapist. I like her quite a bit. She’s a little more than 10 years older than me and when we get to talking about parenting philosophy or health topics or general views on religion we are like two peas in a pod. I’ve been seeing her for over a year now and she’s quite skilled body worker. She keeps me from locking up too much. She also does a whole bunch of other skills like podiatry and acupuncture because she learns whatever her clients need. She absolutely wants a whole book list from me on Ehlers Danlos treatment. She just needs to finish the 18 month course she has been on the whole time I’ve known her before she can start them. She never stops learning. I really like and admire her. She could be a friend. I have a history of that with my body workers. I like people and if I’m going to spend a lot of time with them professionally I usually start crossing the border to social as well. Or I can’t stay with that professional.

I told her about the classes I am going to help my buddy with because she asked what I’ve been up to and it was a rare child-free visit. I went for it. I explained the types of classes and mostly she just nodded her head and looked mildly scandalized but whatever floats people’s boats. She has been somewhat surprisingly open and frank and detailed about how very much she has enjoyed her marital sex life. I know a lot about their sex life so I’m willing to scandalize her a bit.

She latched on to the word polyamory and she told me that her son’s roommate is like that and she is very confused by it. I told her that I was actually living with a previous partner when I met husband and he had a serious girlfriend. She said, “Ok I guess that is fine for when you are just dating but once you got married surely that all stopped–didn’t it?”

I laughed and laughed. Oh honey, no. I told her about the people we dated while married before we had kids. I told her about the swinger parties. The friends we would occasionally hook up with when it seemed fun.

“But, but, but you were married you are only supposed to want that with your husband!”

I said, “You know how when you get married that doesn’t mean you never want to go see a movie with a friend or play a game of basket ball with friends–right?”

“Yes.”

“Well I don’t really like going to the movies and I suck at basket ball so having sex with them is a lot more fun.” She almost fell over laughing. She asked me if we are doing that since we moved here and I said we are not. I explained what couples privilege is. I asked her if she saw a spot in the life we lead where no one would notice or mind if husband and I started being out the necessary number of hours a week it would take to find quality people to bang.

Once again she laughed hard enough to fall sideways and have to catch herself. I felt like I was on a roll. She asked if I thought we would ever sleep with someone else again and I said we might. Life is long.

Then she told me about one time when she was away at a conference a man tried very hard to pick her up. She was absolutely appalled and horrified that a married man would do that. Then she found out that he usually has a few people on the side at all times because why would anyone want to settle for just one partner for the rest of their lives?

I told her that the horrified feeling she gets at the idea of not being 100% monogamous is entirely absent from my life. I am as naturally monogamous as a cat in heat. I choose monogamy for strategic reasons. She then told me that she learns so very much from our conversations.

Then she asked about the scabs on my arms and I got to explain about the photo shoot we did. Once again she could not work for a bit until she got her laughing under control. She says we are all crazy.

Sure. Why not?

Every time I come in she schedules me extra far out so she can get me in on the pacing I like the best. She says she absolutely cannot wait until our next appointment every time I see her.

I don’t know that it will ever be ok to be as fully out here as I was in California but people who are going to be that close to my body frequently need to be people who can handle going from trauma to injury detail to hilarious sex stories without feeling too freaked out. If you work with my body I’m going to have to talk about my body and it has been through a lot. I can tell you which flinch comes from what thing in the past.

The old friends I would absolutely fuck again if the opportunity arose were there before I knew how to talk about my body. Many of them helped me develop the words because they cared and asked me questions. We put in years of relationship work to get to where “Wanna come over for the weekend to fuck then go home and not see each other for a decade?” feels like the continuing beat of a long ago favorite song. I don’t have the time or ability to go through that process with anyone new and I am not going to any decade soon. And I negotiated away the right to ask for it, anyway. I don’t think I’m going to explain that part to her though. That somehow seems like something that might cross the line from “Aren’t you wacky” to “Are you ok and do you need help getting away from that man?”

Y’all. I used to write about kinky shit on Facebook and my dentist would leave comments. I was out.

Here husband and I had a conversation about the fact that as long as he wants to do the work he does we should not play in public. We are not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

The closet is weird.

Foibles

I feel deeply grateful for the reminder that everyone can do their very best and still fail to communicate clearly. Everyone can mean super well and only have love in their hearts and still sometimes folks feel wounded. Relationships form over a long time and over many different exposures to one another. If you deeply desire community with people who have strong personalities and who act decisively and firmly then there will be times when there will be misunderstandings.

Bumps in the road are not cement walls.

Community is formed through apologies and forgiveness and trying again. If this exact one specific thing doesn’t work out then you keep going. If you care enough to push for it there will be more opportunities.

Tonight I walked up to the top of my road because I had a lot of big feelings in my body and breathing really deeply as I huffed my way up that big hill was good for my body. Some folks, including me, believe that we store grief in our lungs so doing things to force yourself to breathe very deeply when you are working through deep feelings allows you to let the feelings go. When I got to the top I looked out over the city and the firth and I reminded myself that we picked this city out of all the cities in the world. We decided that this was where we are going to put down roots and build community and find a place for ourselves.

Hell, I’ve already planted 15 trees. I’m staying here till I die. I am going to eat that produce, damnit.

I am in this for the long haul. I am not always an easy person and sometimes I fail to figure out how to communicate clearly in the timing that would be best. The good part is that I don’t do a lot of holding grudges. When I can see very clearly that everyone is doing their absolute best in a given moment there is no anger to hold on to. Even if there is disappointment, that will fade.

As I say in my house over and over every day: you learn a lot more from mistakes than you do from getting something right the first time. What did you learn from this mistake? How can you build on this learning moving forward? As long as you are still alive you haven’t run out of chances yet.

I am grateful when I learn how I have failed to communicate clearly. There are lessons to be had in that; every day is a school day.