Cabin Fever

It's a good time to blog.

Here's the thing.  Every now and then... I go into heat.  I'm not a cat, obviously.  But it's sorta like that.

I get restless.  I get fidgety.  I start thinking about all the things I miss doing in my life.  I get to feeling like the walls in this house are just closing in on me, like my life is winding down, and I don't have anything left.  Like my bones are going to burst out of my skin and go screaming down the street looking for pussy, booze, and cigarettes.

I miss, in no particular order:

• Eyeliner
• Live metal shows
• Band shirts
• Smokes
• Whiskey
• Half-laced boots
• Having my hair grabbed
• Biting
• Kissing
• Car sex
• Bars
• Talking to and laughing with strangers
• Sleeping wherever I ended up
• Being in new places
• Having my hair stroked by new fingers
• Girls in jackets with cigarettes between their fingers
• Eating pussy
• Did I mention live music

I miss all these things and more.  I miss flitting around from town to town, meeting new people I never had to trust, and lighting smokes for incredible women who were never, ever boring.

Not that I know women who are boring - I don't.

There is something inside of me scratching at the walls and going batshit up in here.

I need to howl at the proverbial moon.

I need to prove I can be 18 again.  Even though I will never be 18 again.

To do any howling right now would probably wake up the toddler and imprint upon him some internal and deep-rooted fear of night-howling.  He'd end up growing up to live somewhere urban with no wildlife and jumping away from the neighbor's dogs.

I mean that would just be bad parenting.

Help me, Jesus, I have cabin fever inside of my own house and my own head.

Am I ever going to be me again?

Halloween's My Favorite Day

Not Christmas.  Not Easter.  Not my birthday.

Halloween.


Except for a little anxiety about when to put together a costume, I love every single thing about it.  I love pumpkins, pumpkin carving, pumpkin patches, pumpkin painting, pumpkin gutting.  I love trick or treating.  I love dressing up and dressing others up.  I love candy.  I love horror flicks.  I love horror games.  I love answering the door and seeing all the little outfits.  I love the decorations, the skulls, the lights, the candles, the spiderwebs.  I love the black nail polish and lipstick.  I love the feel of brisk, perfect fall weather.

I.  Love.  Halloween.

And usually I have this awful habit of ruining the things I love because I don't think I deserve them, or I don't want to make a fuss.  Usually there's this little voice in my head that says, "you know you've never been purposely invited to Halloween party, and you know you're going to stay home and pretend it's a normal day."  And on any other major day, I'd give in and listen.  But on Halloween - fuck your parties, I am going to have a rockin' good time regardless!

And I really tried this year.

Right until I went to bed at 3 AM next to my baby who refused to go back to sleep, I put forward full effort.

Moving ran late and the truck + energy and food supplies sapped all of my strength, consciousness, and money.  We had planned on finishing with the truck by 3, but by that time, we had just finished loading what would end up being our only trip due to outrageous mileage costs and constrained space.  Someone packed my vape charger and the thing died.  We hurried to unload, clean, and install.  At 6:30 pm we finished moving over a friend's mattress with the uhaul truck.  We returned the truck at 7:30 after gassing it up and cleaning it out.  We ran to the old house to let the dogs outside, collect necessary supplies that hadn't come over in boxes (food, pan, toiletries, Halloween candy, sweaters, etc.), and raced as fast as we could back to the new house so we could take little dude trick-or-treating in his adorable Curious George costume he picked out himself.  Even though we forgot to get Dad a yellow hat.

Little dude fell asleep and was absolutely un-wake-able.

So we spent half an hour building his crib so we could lay him down.  During that time, every trick or treater we would see for the evening (except one infant unicorn who appeared much later), came and was treated by the fellow who had helped us move.  Since I was watching the kiddo.  One of them smushed my pie pumpkin on accident.

The fellow helping us move invited over a person (without asking at all) who I am not particularly fond of to hang out until late in the evening, talk over my game, and eat my food and candy.

We packed a wine bottle, but forgot cups.

They took a turn on the PS4 and played PT.  Which has one of my really, really serious triggers in it (fetus).  Thankfully my husband made them switch games.

After I accidentally fell asleep on my husband on the couch, my friend finally came over, bringing a movie which...also had that trigger in it.

But she knew and we talked over that part.

Really, things improved after she came over.  I can't complain about that part at all.  We had a lot of fun.

But we had a lot of fun despite me missing:
Dressing up
Dressing my son up
Family pumpkin-painting
Trick-or-treating
Passing out candy to trick-or-treaters
Hanging up about half of our usual decorations (I did get to put some out, though!)

At least next year we'll be in this neighborhood, where people DO trick-or-treat, and we'll already be moved in.  Next year is going to rule.

I'm not letting this streak of awful continue.  Tomorrow will be fun if it kills me.

ADD: The Story of a Lazy Slob

I know two things.

Thing One
ADD/ADHD people are not stupid, lazy, unmotivated, uninterested, or uninspired.

There was, maybe is, a prevalent opinion that children (or adults) diagnosed with ADD/ADHD were misdiagnosed, and were actually experiencing (or rather, since this is from the unaffected observer's POV, were exhibiting) unrelated, sub-disordered behavioral problems.  A child with ADD is clearly just over-sugared, under-disciplined, and poorly parented.  An adult with ADD is clearly maladapted to living as an adult, and is egocentric in thinking that things should fall into their laps and people should clean up after them.

With research and imaging available to us which fully debunks this idea, with the squashing of dismissive claims that doctors clearly just over diagnose, with studies and extensive personal confessions of those affected, this should be thoroughly out of date.

But for those of us that grew up in households where ADD was either not known, not understood, or even simply ignored, that thought is completely embedded in our perceptions and evaluations of ourselves.

I KNOW that ADD people fight an uphill battle every day to do the simplest of things.  I KNOW that ADD people cannot simply "do it."  I KNOW that ADD people are not "easily distracted," but are actually focusing on multiple things at once and have difficulty narrowing focus down to just one of those ongoing processes.  I KNOW that many ADD medications come with tolerances, so most cannot stay on one dose nonstop and it still be effective; therefore I also know that many ADD people self medicate successfully with similar things like caffeine, alcohol, etc.  I KNOW that ADD people typically come with a host of comorbid disorders weighing on their life and complicating their struggles.

Thing Two
I am ADD, diagnosed, imaged, confirmed multiple times, and medicated.

I am fucking impossible.

Maybe it's the voice in the back of my head, the memories from childhood to 14 or 15 when I finally was allowed to try my brother's Concerta, the voice of my mother screaming at me to just get it done. Maybe it's the time she got so frustrated that I couldn't comprehend her charades at six in the morning while trying to complete my homework, that she yanked me by the hair up from my chair, slamming my knees into the desk bottom, threw me down in the hallway and kicked me, telling me afterward never to tell anyone or I'd be taken away.  Maybe it's the science fair project that wasn't laid out right after multiple sleepless nights.  Maybe it's the night, after night, after night, my entire middle school experience, looking at the clock that read 3 or 4 am, looking down at my agenda that was filled with seven or eight major pieces of homework that I just couldn't get moving on.  Maybe it's my first year at college, when I wrote eleven papers in two nights because I'd put them all off (judged by a peer to be a typical Freshman mistake of poor planning).  Maybe it's my third year of college when I couldn't walk into the classroom or get on the bus because my panic disorder controlled my life.  Maybe it's my fourth and fifth years, when I'd walk out of a classroom mid-lecture because I'd missed something they said while I was daydreaming and now my notes would be forever out of order.

Maybe it's ME, after YEARS of telling myself I was, indeed, lazy.  A poor time budgeter.  An unmotivated slob who had no excuses to hide behind because even the fucking hungover idiot with his daddy's Porsche could manage to complete the goddamn homework.  I don't believe in excuses.

Lazy, stupid, an endless cycle of promises that will never be filled.



I have spent the entire day, the ENTIRE day, pumping up on energy drinks, ritalin, and smaller than normal doses of xanax so that I can tackle the kitchen.  The kitchen filled with horrors.  The kitchen with fruit fly casings, spilled cat food, trash, dirty dishes, mildew.

The kitchen that my landlord's appraiser CANNOT see in its current state.

Why push today?  Why not sleep and handle it tomorrow?

Oh, because in four hours I make a 3 hour drive out of town to my old teacher's charity.  I draw for three hours, then I make the same drive back so I can be at work by 2pm.  Then I work until 11pm.

She gets here while I'm at work.



I ate pizza.  I didn't count calories.  Because who cares, right?  I'm going to burn plenty cleaning up, I'm going to need all the fuel I can get.

Except I NEVER CLEANED.

Because this pattern will NEVER STOP.



I'm so angry at myself, at my husband for having an equally difficult time but blaming me and going to bed while I sit up and worry.  I'm angry at this slower than a snail's pace move.  I'm angry at my asinine schedule.  I'm angry that people still expect me to be peppy.  I'm angry that after everything I have gone through, people still have the BALLS to set their problems in my lap and expect me to fix them.

You know what?

Take your cloud of negativity the fuck AWAY from me.  Take your judgments and your hatred and your bigotry to someone else's world.  Stop making me feel this way.  Just fucking stop.

When do I get the luxury of giving up?  When do I get to say, hey, I'm going to bed, the elves can handle this?



This is a bad time.

She's dead.  She's dying.  He's raging.  He's crying all night.  She's controlling my life.  He's screwing over my client and friend.  She's fucking trying to rape me.  Everyone, and everything, is hungry.  Everyone is broke.

Let one more person remind me I'm a failure in my life.  Let one more person tell me not to be happy.




She's right, though.  No one would forgive me, if I wanted to have another baby.



I am alone.

Yes, Things Are Hard

I've been keeping my chin up.  I've been powering through.  I've been telling myself that my luck has to change eventually.

I think it's time to admit to myself, really understand, that yes, right now, things are very hard.  And that's okay.

I've had a TFH and a tragus walk out today because we didn't order the jewelry quickly enough.  My friend whose cat I am watching is pushing back her move (when she can take her cats back) at least ten days.  My mom called to let me know my aunt's lung/pancreatic/brain cancer has overcome her, she can't recognize anyone except one of her sisters, and she will not eat or accept nutrition through IV.  They guess she has four days left, tops.

And Saturday night, my boss's wife tried to sexually assault me.

Let's just...let's discuss that.


The only way that situation makes sense to me is if I view it as though it happened to someone else.  If it's me, I don't understand it.  If it's me, I don't know how to feel.  But if it's someone else, I know exactly how wrong this was.

I don't want to write it all out and describe it right now.


The things I feel were wrong:

• Despite saying no, clearly, multiple times, she still proceeded to climb on top of me, crowd me, try to kiss me, try to pull my face to hers
• Despite saying no, clearly, multiple times, she unbuttoned my pants without my permission or consent
• She intimidated me, talking about her gun multiple times and threatening to shoot me with it if I told anyone about a secret she had shared earlier in the night
• She used the fact that we had kissed before to prove it was acceptable to kiss again, and to fuck
• She told me I had to know I was attractive, like that was the reason it was happening
• She held my arms and told me that my struggling, when I pushed or kicked her off of me, was sexy.  She actually said, "It makes it hotter when you struggle."
• She congratulated me for continuing to say no, stating that most people didn't have the ability to hold their ground.  And I was DRUNK.
• The only way I could convince her to stop, after trying physically pushing her off, playing the Laci Green youtube video on consent (we are both fans of her videos), repeating no in no uncertain terms without qualifiers, was to let her snuggle my tits through my shirt.  I wasn't comfortable with it, but I yielded so I would not be RAPED IN MY OWN HOME.
• She called me as I was going to bed, after she had gotten home safely, to confirm that we were doing this "every weekend now."  I never, ever suggested that, and I said no, but she wouldn't take that no any more than my previous ones.
• When she left, she took my sweater with her, refusing to give it back.  She agreed to leave it at the shop, but hasn't yet.
• The fact that this occurred after we had both been drinking
• The fact that this occurred after she sent her male friend home
• The fact that this occurred with someone who is married to my employer and holds sway over my job

The things that make me question my guilt:

• Before she told me that her husband insisted on knowing about or participating in their relationships with girls, I let her kiss me when she asked and we were pouring drinks.  I don't think much of kisses, but looking back now, I feel as though this kiss meant I owed her physical activity after the fact, as well.  Were this someone else, I would say no, you can change your mind at any time and never have to justify it.
• Before I understood the dynamic between her and her husband, I did lightly make mention that I found her attractive, and that if the situation were different (my boss disliking it) I might be open to something progressing.  I feel that this statement removed the validity of my future "no"s because I had already stated that I would sexually participate with her.  Were this someone else, I would say no, you can change your mind at any time and never have to justify it.
• I'm not good at understanding when I am flirting.  I tend to be a friendly and complimentary person, and submissive by nature.  I pour drinks, I light cigarettes, I tell people they are attractive.  I enjoy making people feel good about themselves.  I feel that this was misinterpreted, and that I led her on.  I feel that by being friendly I sent signals to continue pursuing me, when this was not what I wanted.  Were this someone else, I would say no, you can say no at any time and it be respected.
• I had offered, before she became aggressive or coercive, to let her sleep over if she ended up drinking too much to drive safely.  I feel this was a misinterpreted offer, and that even though I specifically stated having one of us sleep on the couch or pillow-walling it, she thought this meant I was open to sex.  Were this someone else, I would say no, you have the right to say no at any time and it be respected!

It was not respected.

It was NOT respected.

Now I have an armed Domme trying to force herself on me, into my home every weekend, and keeping my sweater.  I mean what is that all about.  Is she huffing it?  What the fuck.  Hey, guess what?  Just because we're both pansexual polyamorous people, doesn't mean my vagina is just open season over here.  THAT'S NOT HOW IT WORKS.

Fuck.

She Coo

I spent the day at work yesterday teaching my boss's wife to be the counter girl. She was actually freaking awesome, and we have a ton in common.

Still frustrating to have someone else talking to the customers and filling out the paperwork, though. I've been doing it for two and a half years. I'm pretty used to it.

She mentioned something about if I wanted to work full-time. Dude. I would LOVE to work full-time!

Also last night, at closing a girl came in for a birthday nose piercing and I did it despite the time. She ended up screaming with glee as she left the building and tagging me on Instagram saying the sweetest things... I will look at those each time I feel sucky.

Anyhoo, just checking in.

K.

Bye.

Smoke 'Em If You Got 'Em

My great aunt's cancer has spread not only from her lungs to her liver, but now her brain.

I'm so angry at the world right now for telling her to go die in peace, when a month or so ago she was fighting with all her strength.

I'm just so...so pissed.  So tired, so upset, so confused, and so pissed.

Did You Take a Bitch Pill

I watched a documentary last night.  It made me think on a lot of things.  It made me think about the rights we give women to choose how they live their lives.  It made me think about the worth of a life and when it is summed up.  It made me wonder...what value is there in what we do, from how it is viewed or judged, to how we view and judge ourselves, to that refreshing feeling when we have finished a long life of doing the right thing and making a difference...or not.

In twenty six years I have repeatedly flipped back and forth between a driving passion that has both validated me in retrospect and also left me without time to dwell on my insecurities, my inferiority... and an overwhelming realization when things slow down that, well, it wasn't worth anything.  That no one is better off.

It's hard to say which, if either, makes me feel...happy.

There's a value in keeping busy.  There's a numerical value in seeing an extensive checklist scratched off, top to bottom, daily.  There's an emotional value in seeing a difference made in another life, be it a smile or something grandiose and life changing.  There's a mental value in hiding from one's self-evaluation by never leaving time for it.

There is also a certain value in stepping back, checking in with a quiet reality, and scanning over one's purpose in the world.  There's a humbling value in seeing a broader perspective.  There's a value in bettering oneself by noting that one has not been bettered at all.  There's a social value in checking one's positive or negative impact on those one cares about.

But what is MY value?

At the end of the day, at the end of my life, what value do I have, and who tallies it?

If there is the smallest chance that the value of my self worth, my self evaluation, my opinion, is of miniscule proportion to the world close and distant, then it must be counted by someone else.

So who is that someone else?

Is it my husband?  My son?  My mother?  My friends?  My boss or my coworkers?  Who judges me when my years run out and determine if I was a success?  If I had more to do?  If I did too much, and never LIVED my life?



I look to music.  When I have to face myself - when it's too late at night, or there isn't anything else I can force myself to do, I find my introspection and my perspective in music.  Maybe the music is judging me, but if it is, I have a lot to learn from it.

I hear, "When they put me in the ground, I'll start pounding the lid, saying I haven't finished yet."

I hear, "What if I've always been good enough in my skin?"

I hear, "I'm getting tired and I need someone to rely on."

I hear, "They don't know who I really am, and they don't know what I've been through."

I hear, "I'll be fine in a minute."



Music lays me down.  Music embraces me closely and keeps me warm.  Music knows me better than you do, and when it's dark, when you've gone to bed, when I am alone once again, music helps me to cry, helps me to breathe, helps me to face what I have lost.

On those nights, when I realize that I stopped living in April of 2012, music reminds me that we all have loss, we all have grief, we all have hope and love and fatigue and anger and a long, long way still to walk.

When we stop walking

When we stop breathing

Music sings and cries over our bodies

And to those we leave behind, it helps them discover in themselves a way to grieve, to hope, to love...to keep walking.  To keep breathing.

Second Baby?

I've been jokingly pestering Sir with frequent requests for "second baby?"

It's joking.  It is.  Because that's how I deal with pain - I joke about it.  You say something really obscene to me, something so terrible you'd think it was written in a book, not said out loud, and I'll probably smile.  I think these things are hilarious.

They're hilarious because who SAYS that?  They're hilarious because something so awful, someone so bitter, can't really exist.  If it were in a movie we'd all chuckle.  If I had a writer he'd be shitting on my book.

So it's funny.

I have OCD.  One of my many things is a thing about numbers, as typical as that may sound.  I like even numbers.  I like 2, 6, and 12.  I always felt like I had to love 4 because it was 2x2, but that's a total of three numbers, and let's face it, 4 just doesn't feel right.  8 gets married in simply because of the 2 and 4, which brings it even again.

I always wanted 2 or 4 children.

I would prefer 4.

I certainly didn't think my only full pregnancy would be filled with regret, distress, or resentment.  I didn't think I would move through it with grief and cold dismissal.  I didn't predict taking months to connect with my baby after he was born.  I didn't anticipate how long it would take to love a baby that was not my first lost pregnancy.

And now how do you count?

When people ask how many children you have, you say one.

But really, REALLY, it's two.  Two pregnancies.  Uneven.  Uneven pregnancies.  One dead, one live.  Not right.

This is one of those situations you can't fix.  Like when you step on one foot harder than the other, and there is no way to quantify that - you will always have feet that have been stepped on unevenly.  Have another baby, you will still have an odd number of pregnancies.  Have an even number of pregnancies, you will have an odd number of babies.

So I try not to think about it.

I try to focus on the fact that I WANT another baby.  I WANT a normal, love-filled pregnancy, in a normal, spotless house.  I want to fold clothes and put them away in a baby's room.  I want to film the drive to the delivery room.  I want to smile at my husband and breathe slowly and ask him to text all of our friends.  I want our friends to know and be included this time.  I want another little burrito of baby happiness (and crying and pooping and colic and everything) in my home, in my life, in my time.

It isn't that I want to do it right this time.  That's not what I mean.  We have done just fine with Jack.  We continue to do fine with him, and I get better at it every day.  I don't want to forget about him.

But I do want to experience it all again.  I don't think there's anything wrong with that.  We could wait until we could afford it, but I won't be able to get pregnant forever, and we could also face the fact that we will NEVER afford it.  I'd love to adopt in the future, but this...I want this, too.

Sir thinks only children, like he was, get more presents.  He thinks siblings fight.  He thinks second babies cost too much, get less, and he's already stretched too thin.

He hasn't said no, he'll never say no, but he's made the answer clear.



So I laugh about it.

Because I'll never, ever have that moment with him when "we" decide to get pregnant.  It'll always be bartering.  It will always be guilt.  It will always be coercion.  So it just...won't.

Now I have two babies to grieve.

Maybe it will happen after all, but that isn't where my head is.  My head is just laughing at how easy it is to look forward through every 24 hour cycle and wait patiently, quietly for the next one to roll around.

One day you're waiting for the next day to get here.  Then the next paycheck.  Then the next season.  Then five years from now.

One day you're waiting for your turn on the big blue and green ball to be up so you can just be done waiting for time to pass.



I am so deeply unhappy that laughing is all I can do.  I'm so unhappy, wouldn't you think I'd make a great mom of two?  Second baby?  Yeah, haha, it'd be perfect.  It'd be ideal.  It's just what we need.  Look at how alone I am.  Look at how sad.  Look at me, crying and laughing, every day, just waiting for everything to be over.

My writer is fucking hilarious.

Thief

I didn't play the other ones.  Sorry.

I've also never seen Singin' in the Rain.  Shoot me.

So anyways, I played through the plotline of Thief.  I have some good things, and some bad things, to say about it.  I am sure they will be riveting.  One of them is not graphics.

I played it on the PS4.  It's easy enough to go Youtube the graphics.

I don't really play enough games to call myself any kind of expert on them.  So take this from that standpoint - a casual, everyday gamer.  I hate shooters, I like smashing things, and I love being scared out of my wits (I've played Outlast more times than you've seen the Titanic).

I don't usually play stealth games, but when I saw that Thief tracks the percentage of loot items lifted, I had to play it.  Because completion is kind of my thing.  I played DMC recently and I hated (and loved) every fucking minute of it because it was designed for you to go back and replay missions once new weapons or moves had been unlocked - I do not like replaying areas.  I do not like the focus being so strongly cut scenes and storyline, and then being told I can't even complete an area before moving on.  Hate.

So when a friend wanted to play it and didn't have a PS4, I traded time on my platform for being able to bum it when she wasn't here.  Which is really mostly my benefit, because I also get to have a friend over gaming with me, which is kinda the dream.

I found the controls to be clunky at best.  I hear there are ways to adjust the touchpad menu to be on the d-pad instead, but I just adapted.  As long as I wasn't playing anything else in between, I managed okay.  For how scripted interactions with the environment are, it seemed the controls layout was unnecessarily complicated.  Learnable, but not if you pick the controller up once a week like my friend does.  Not intuitive.  Functional, but not great.

My biggest beef, though, was the layout.  It took me at least three hours into the game before I understood the function of the map.  Can we have one map, please?  We have a plot fairy (the linear direction pointer with distance from selected goal), the pop-up map of the immediate area, and the most annoyingly difficult to access full map which is confusing as fuck until you realize the highlighted areas are the height you're at.  As soon as you get that, then it just gets too simple.  I mean navigation is still a bitch unless you go the predator route, but I really don't need three functions directing me while I listen to Sir Whistles-Too-Much.

And really.  Why you gotta make the main map the bottom of the list.  Is there a button that takes me straight to my map that I just missed, that isn't in the menu?  There has to be.

BUT THEN THERE WOULD BE FOUR FUCKING WAYS TO NAVIGATE.

But honestly, I spent far too much gameplay time saying out loud "I don't even know where I'm going."  Because even with a map, the urge to make ABSOLUTELY POSITIVE you're going anti-plot first to explore all areas and open all drawers is overwhelming with this one.

And don't even get me started on getting pitched back to the clocktower after every chapter.  Look, maybe I wanted to replay a mission, but after having a couple of moments to myself.  What I didn't want to do?  Trek all the way across two or three areas past Sir Fucking-Stop-Talking-About-Whore-Smells just to get back to the asylum.

The asylum.

Mmmmmmmmmm.

Can't get away from Outlast, even when I try.  This is the best part of the game, aside from the end scenes.  The slow wind-up is tolerable if you can just make it to the asylum and play it with the lights out.  YOUR lights.  Go flip the switch on the wall and play to the gentle glow of the spooky fucking game.  Soak it all in.  It's a game within a game.

So let's move on to the goods, which the Asylum absolutely is.

This game has you half-convinced you're crazy.  I like that.  I like crazy.  I like wondering if my fairly apathetic character is genuinely losing touch, or is being guided by something that does not fit into the established storyline thus far.  You should wonder, too.  Play it, set yourself in this Plague-riddled world with nothing to look forward to except soylent green, and wonder... do you follow your hallucinations?

It takes a turn, and I like turns.  I thought I was playing a rogue in Skyrim, but suddenly I needed to know what was going on.  Suddenly I was playing a less confident amnesiac following fucking POPPIES to find my answers.

I like.

Looking back, the game was clearly a trip.  And the ending, basically just pay attention and let yourself get involved in everything from getting on the boat onward.  Be Garrett for a little while.  Do you really care about her?  Are you just curious about yourself?  Is she salvageable?  Will you "help?"

It's creepy, it's beautiful, it's even a little haunting.  The final face-off could have been more challenging, but I think it was really more of a courtesy if nothing else.



Looking back, it's just a poppy trip.  Looking back, I didn't care about Garrett at all, and I never thought Garrett cared about Erin.  What I thought was - Erin is compelling.  Erin is bratty, careless, tortured, omniscient, resigned, vulnerable, and still plotting.  Erin is poppies, Erin is a ghost, Erin is a goddess.



I guess what I have to say is...clunky controls.  Annoying layout with annoying guards.  Beautiful, interesting cut scenes with no real heroes.  Emerging story which freshens up the game and gives it a creepy factor.

And god fucking dammit now I have to go replay everything and get 100% loot

BECAUSE

THAT

IS WHAT I FUCKING

DO.

-Wednesday
(shouldn't write while on xanax)

I Don't Need Validation Anymore, Except for Parking

Somewhere along the line, I learned that other people have motives and opinions and judgements, and I stopped caring about them.

Instead, I evaluated myself.  Sometimes a little too harshly, sometimes a little too conservatively.  I am confident in myself.  I know things about myself.  I know things about myself that no one else knows, needs to know, wants to know, or should know.

I'm happy with that.

My one downfall, if I had to figure it, is intelligence.

See, if enough people tell you something enough times, this little outside worm of opinion squishes into your brain and makes little baby worms, and nobody likes that.  Nobody enjoys brainworms.

I'm good at shrugging things off, but I once had this opinion of myself as educated, intelligent, and intellectual.  I was driven, still am, and have always been passionate about learning.  Learning anything.  Learning everything.  Not just context, but how to convey it, too.  How to USE it.

So when one person who should know me the best treats me around everyone else as though I am less smart, less capable, less likable for it, it spreads like wildfire.  Suddenly everyone, for years after the fact, treat me like...well, like I don't know what I'm talking about.  Like I can't contribute.  Like I am dumb.  I'm written off before they even hear me.

But it isn't my fault, according to them, because not everyone can be a genius.  The guys, they're geniuses.  The people with graduate degrees, they're geniuses.  The people who fit the program and pay the money - they are geniuses.  Paper makes a brain.

Or maybe it IS my fault, according to these folks, because I could have gone ahead and finished up college, too.  I chose not to.  I pursued a passion instead.  Only idiots do that.

I know the score.  I know the insecurities these elitist behaviors imply.  I know worth isn't calculated from strangers, friends of friends, or even my husband.

But you know what?  After years of it.  Years.  You start to think of yourself as stupid.

Slow.

Unable to keep up.

And when you do speak up, you have that nagging, pulling feeling that you don't belong in the conversation, and you should back out now.  So you apologize.

YOU APOLOGIZE, for having INPUT.  For SPEAKING.

I don't know where I stand anymore, but I suppose the simple fact that I am writing this means that I do, after all.

I know I am smart.

I know I don't have to flex my muscles or spout out big words to prove it to anyone.

I know they would write me off no matter how I spoke.

So yeah, I'll go ahead and shut up.  Because I may not have you to believe me, or my husband, or my friends, or the people I work with.  I may not have anyone to talk to, to explore ideas with, to discuss topics with, I may not have anyone at all.

But I'm still me.

I'm still of above average intelligence - nothing has changed in my brain since I met you.

And your stamp of approval doesn't mean shit to me.

It Was Chaos

Every now and then I have dreams about war.  Vivid, heart-racing, bloody war.

I don't play battle-style video games.  I don't watch documentaries or war movies.  I'm not avoiding them, they just aren't my interest when it comes to leisure.

But now and then, I dream a dream that puts me smack dab in the middle of combat.  Usually scattered, confused, improvised situations, usually taking place in a school or a store converted for the purpose.  Converted to shelter the wounded, converted to provide walls, converted to house supplies and food.  I never know what's going on.

One time I held a friend's hand through a curtain after carrying their broken body into the hallway, and I listened to them scream because anesthetic wasn't available.  One time I watched while my family was gunned down on the other side of the open building while I cowered behind a box, too afraid to defend them, too afraid to move.

Last night, I rushed into the designated house.  I'd never been there before, none of us had.  It was situated on a small lake, with an enemy on the opposite side.  We had no intelligence, no idea when they would rush us or how.  We were still finding the thermostat, the bedrooms, the places we would set up our computers, our weapons, our supplies, our food and water.  We were still laying out blankets and bringing in trucks of medical supplies and radios.

I had my infant with me, because I hadn't had much warning.  No time to prepare.  Anyone who could come came immediately, because we were drastically outnumbered.  I was promised he'd be safe, he'd never leave the house.  They probably wouldn't attack for a few days - I had time to find him a place to go, to be safe.

I was asked to swim out and search for explosives or traps.  The entire edge of the water was so brushy that I had to go to one of the docks to get in, but as soon as I got there, I encountered two bodies impaled and left dead.  They were ours.  The strikes had begun.  A fellow responder helped me pull them inside, back to the makeshift base.  By the time I was in the water it was dark.  I dug through our literal pile of equipment we had all donated, things from our own houses, things from work, until I found a waterproof light source, and I dove.

Soon after beginning, and still near the base, I surfaced and noticed lights, men, coming up the side of the shore.  I tore my way through the watery plantlife, I stepped into the mud.  They were still on the far side of the house.  I crept inside, grabbed my baby, and held him as they reached the door and pushed inside.

It was a standoff.  We had no weapons in hand.  I was holding my family.  The women and men who were there were still trying to set up - we all stood completely still as the men looked at us and thought, or maybe listened, about whether it was right to gun us down or let us surrender.  I hugged him close.  I held on so tightly.

They were in full gear with automatic weapons and we were standing there, sweating and helpless.

I hugged him so tightly, and I woke up.

Look Out. It's the A-word.

***Trigger Warning!***

So I was reading through the Women's Health Protection Act text, and I hit the bit about ectopic pregnancies.  This issue is very close to my heart.  I'm going to rant a bit now, and I hope you will take a deep breath before reading and read it with patience.  I am not trying to disagree with anyone or attack anyone.  I certainly hope that anyone who has been through a traumatic pregnancy does not in ANY way feel that I am making it harder for them by the terminology I use.  This is a personal thing for me, and my entire point, is that it is a personal thing for every woman.  This view I have is a direct result of my loss.  Other women will view it differently.  Other grieving women will view it ENTIRELY differently.  Please be patient with me.



This is a difficult position for me to take.

I believe in women's rights.  I believe in treating pregnant women, mothers, and those who may become mothers (or rather, those who may have children) as human beings, and not livestock.

I believe that our current system of restrictions, targeted take-downs, and state legislation is harmful to not only women, but their families.

But mentally, I make very clear definitions for the words abortion, pregnancy, birth.  I know what these mean.  I know what a chemical pregnancy is.  I know what a molar pregnancy is.  I know what an unwanted pregnancy is.  I know what a pregnancy resulting from a rape is.

What I don't know, however, is what makes these different.

I believe that any woman has the right, as does any individual, to decide what happens to their body at any point in time.  We make that decision any time we give birth, we do!  We decide if we want a C-section.  We decide if we want a "natural birth."  We decide if we want to have a baby at home, in a hospital, in a birthing center.

We do NOT lose the right to decide what happens to our bodies and ourselves upon peeing on a stick and seeing a second line.  That is not where womanhood ends.

When a woman is pregnant, she can decide whether or not to drink.  She can decide whether or not to smoke.  She is left with warnings and cautions and allowed to make her own, human decision.  She is given the choice on how to carry and birth her child, and then how or if to raise it.

It's important to remember that.

It is extremely important to remember that, even when a woman is carrying another human being, fetus, embryo, inside her - that human being, fetus, embryo is inside A HUMAN BEING.  A woman.  A person.

Now, with all that said, the difficult part.

I know that there is no difference between aborting a healthy pregnancy and aborting a nonviable one.  Just listen to me.  I know that there is no difference between a baby conceived from consensual sex and a baby conceived by force.  I know that there is no difference between an abortion of a 7 week old infant and the surgical removal of a 7 week old ectopic baby implanted in the fallopian tube.

Not to the baby.

This part, it's black and white.  You cannot make an exception.  Because across the board, methotrexate or a D&C causes any pregnancy to stop.  Any pregnancy.

Loved babies.  Unloved babies.  Babies implanted in the wrong spot.  Babies that aren't babies at all but just masses of rapidly multiplying cells.

You can't make the distinction.  You can't use the excuse.

What this is, is simply discrimination.  You feel for the woman who wanted a baby but would die if she didn't terminate.  You FEEL for the woman who was raped.  You don't even fucking know about the woman whose molar pregnancy destroyed her life and broke her heart.

But the woman, whose job it is to prevent pregnancy, who becomes pregnant on accident, or who became pregnant but cannot afford to stay pregnant, these women, you hate and cannot relate to.

So for them, it's different.

It's not that it's okay for these exceptions, these special cases - it's that it's wrong for the women you dislike.  The women you do not respect.

And to punish them, you will punish all of us.

I don't think you are thinking about the babies at all.  I think you hate the women.  I think you could never put yourself in their shoes, and I hope you never have to.



Just let me tell you.

I had an abortion.

Looking back on the absolute hell I went through after losing it, looking back on the twelve hours at the hospital, the hours before that of all-consuming pain, the months of searching and failing to find support groups, the months of PTSD, panic attacks, depression, the following pregnancy that I denied for months and did not enjoy whatsoever...

Looking back at what I went through, I would go back, and I would have made the choice to take the methotrexate.  Because I would have gone home, curled up in the tub, and held on for all that I am worth.  I wouldn't have taken the shots.  I wouldn't have done anything.  I would have held onto my gut until it killed me.  I would have given her every single ounce of love she deserved before we both died.

I still feel that would have been the right decision for me.

But at the time I decided abortion was right.  And when told I might die otherwise, I pussied out, out of some kind of obligation to life and I don't even understand now.  I had the surgery, and had my ectopic pregnancy removed.

Since then I have been a ghost in my own life.



It's.  An.  Abortion.

Maybe not for any other women who have gone through it, but for me, all of these situations are the same - they are all full of suffering, loss, and heartache.

The last thing any woman needs is to be told that is someone else's call.

Fuck you.

Fuck you, that was my call, and my responsibility to myself, my body, my life, my family, and my baby.

We were both doomed that day.  But it wasn't then and it isn't now your call to make.

Stuck Counting My Steps Again

Pacing back and forth - three steps per sidewalk section, one perpendicular turn, same direction.

Back the other way again.  Three steps.  One perpendicular turn.  Same direction.

Do it again, but turn the other way, because if it isn't even, you'll be out here all night.

...

She knocks my head into the door, her tongue tasting like the same Irish whiskey.  Swirl left, slip the key in, stumble sideways into the room.  The door slams shut again while we float into the bathroom.  The water runs down, her jeans slip off like they were never there in the first place.  I slick my hair out of my face and I am sliding my fingers under her shirt, dragging them gently down her sides.

...

Three steps.  One perpendicular.  Three more.  Go all the way back.

...

I nip at her hip, I kiss down to her inner thighs.  My hands run under her legs and lift up her knees.  Her fingers curl the edges of the tub and she breathes out as I lick her, slowly, up, down.  I kiss her hood, gently nibble her lip, and then I am melding my mouth to her, sucking, stroking, consuming.  She is pushing into my face.  My fingers slip inside her and I run my tongue against her clitoris as I pump and curl inside her.  Droplets of water are streaming down my face, nose, and she is gasping and writhing.  Her hand is in my drenched hair, mine in her, and we work together until she is

...

Walk backwards three steps, one perpendicular.  Hit the foot down again, it wasn't the same pressure as before.  Repeat five more times, even pressure.  Six backwards paces.  How many is that total?  Is it a good number yet?  Stop.  Stare.  Light the

...

Cigarettes, the water finally off, the bathroom steaming and smoking.  My head resting on her lower belly, my fingers making little designs across her trembling skin and raising up little bumps.  I slide my face down, give a last kiss, lean back and relax for a moment.

...

At this rate, I'll never stop walking. Walking.

Walking Walking.

At At this this rate rate.  I'll I'll never never stop stop.

Walking Walking.

Just Between You and Me

There is never a time.  Time is just pretend.  Time is an excuse.  There isn't enough of it, or too much of it, or it's in the way somehow and needs to be chopped up into little cubes, spread out across the counter, and scrambled into the right order

But you know, there isn't an order, because there aren't any cubes.

That's stupid.

Time isn't cubes, but time isn't anything, and as such, it's always, always wrong.

6:00 PM and I'm taking the lead.

7:15 PM and I'm discussing contacts and making a mental list.

10:00 PM and I'm running to make a bottle.

10:05 PM I return with the bottle, and he's already asleep.

10:40 PM and the other shouldn't be asleep, he should be up, rushing about and sniffing his work shirt.

Just crunch the numbers until you feel better about it, validated by it, and stand in the cold and smoke for no fucking reason at all.

There's an excuse.  It's the time for it.

I think I'd like to forget about everything in my life and relearn it all.  Or maybe just know it all already and then slowly forget it.  I think I'd like my brain to reorganize, instead of the time.

This is a bust, you know.

Smoke. Xanax. Repeat.

I don't want to be here.

I don't want to have a nice night with you.

I want to go to bed and cook in a two-foot-deep layer of blankets.

I want to brew a cup of black coffee, sit outside in my layer of blankets, smoke.

Fuck optimism, I don't have the energy for it today.

My goal is not to be happy and have a nice night.

You blew it on your computer.

You continued to blow it on your computer no matter how loudly Jack screamed.

You didn't even notice that I wasn't hearing him scream until I finally woke up, because this is how bad I feel, how tired, how freezing cold.

You put him to bed two hours before his bedtime.  Who the fuck is getting up at 5 AM?  Me.

You say "no one will ever love you."  It's a response for you.  It's just something you say when you are pissed off that I am being difficult, or sensible, or both.  You say it like it's one word.

Noonewilleverloveyou.

I know.

I know.

Xanax

Today I started xanax again.  I thought it'd help with the anxiety and the panic attacks, like it used to.

I think I probably shouldn't judge from just one dose after a year and a half of zero medications.

So far, I am:

-Forgetful
-Losing track of time
-Using the wrong words and not noticing because bitchez I don't give a pumpernickle
-Moving much slower (which stresses me out)
-Hyperfocusing on the inconsequential task I am working on and ignoring everything else that might clutter me
-Using dashes instead of bullets
-Not correcting this because bitchez I don't give a can of quarters
-Avoiding urgent tasks
-Smoking less
-Drinking less
-Forgetting things I've already said and saying them again
-Avoiding urgent tasks
-Still having panic attacks
-Eating all the lifesavers by myself because bitchez I don't give an orange fuckin' chair.

I am still panicking though.  But I do feel I have reason.  Having recently switched Spawn to formula, I am running into the new problem of...running out of formula.  If I used some random common formula like Enfamil or something it wouldn't matter, but I'm using the good shit.  The shit that alleviates some of the guilt I feel about not producing enough milk to feed my baby.  The shit that I buy online or have to drive 2 hours away to get and pay half again times the price for if, oh, say...

Cans that I ordered on December 23rd have STILL NOT ARRIVED.

I called Fedex (after trying the nameless tracking number in every shippers site to figure out who they were even going through), and they said yeah, they issued the tracking number, but the company never gave them anything to actually ship after that.  So I call the company, because their email to me says the number is open until 5pm PST.  I live in Central time.  So I call at 5:00 my time, and the message on the machine says they're open until 4pm EASTERN.  FUCK Y'ALL'S EMAIL.  YOU LIEEEE.

LIIIEEEEE.

So I try a few different departments, clicking through, waiting on hold music, before finally getting a machine's recording that they are not there each time.  I even try pressing zero to go straight to a rep.  Finally I leave a message kindly and firmly informing them that I have to feed my baby something and I wanted it to be their formula, would they kindly get back to me as soon as kindly possible, thank you kindly, kindly.  Fucking kindly.

But more eloquently than that.

I love this formula, but this service is driving me bonkers, and the xanax isn't helping like I thought it might.  I mean, you guys have $55 of my money and I have no formula, and your computer thinks it's all done, shipped off, voila.

It's not a Christmas card, y'all.  It's my baby's food.  That...CAN'T happen.

*sigh*

I'm going to go spin because spinning is xanax for the hands, and if my hands are calm, they will stop tearing up my cuticles.

Come on, pills.  Do your thing.  Mama wants to be sane again.

We're All Whores Here

She didn't get the answer she wanted, so she keeps telling us to let her know.  There's nothing I can say, because for the first time in ever, she got me a gift that was actually thoughtful and didn't come out of one of her random shopping sprees.

If I told her to shove it, I'd be ungrateful.

If I told her my family was important to me, too, and that we would be unavailable on her schedule, I'd be ungrateful.

If I told her anything that wasn't yes, I'd be ungrateful.

So I'll be respectfully (or spitefully) silent, instead, because look...we're all whores.

It's polite.