Daily Archives: September 12, 2015

whiny crappy people barfing

I’m about to get all 100 days of gratitude on your asses. Shrink Two, who is CBT-ing my ass on the way to her becoming a fully fledged shrink, and this, of course, is CBT homework. Despite my absolute loathing of shiny mindfulness, I’ve been keeping a mental gratitude list for a little over two…

Foggy Exhausted Stability

I’d planned to hit a yard sale or two today because one had clothes in Spook’s size and this kid has no pants. The weather has turned cold fast and I am freaking out…But alas, I spent so much time running around the dish last week, I’ve hit my functionality wall. My brain is cloudy. My body and mind are exhausted.

The mood, oddly, is “stable”. I am neither up, nor down. In fact, other than feeling hazy and tired…I feel nothing. It’s sad that mood stabilizers take away the bipolar rage/tear/manic monster yet you wind up feeling flat.

Nerves are frayed, as usual. I’m buried under the housework again. My kid’s being noisy with her kid’s bop music. She’s already had a meltdown today, kicking me and hitting me, waving her fist at me. It amazes me how she switches from sweet to rage like a switch being thrown. It reminds me a lot of bipolar though in kids, it can also be a sign of ADHD. Unfortunately, the pediatrician insists the school fill out the paperwork to determine if she needs to be assessed. I guess as long as she doesn’t channel satan in their presence, I’m just making it all up.

I’ve not received a call to help with the clean up and move yet. I don’t have a pick up truck to haul and I have a kid to watch so I guess I’m not the best option. Fair enough. I offered to wash laundry, cook some hot meals, help however I can. Cramming four people into a one bedroom place (nephew is staying with his girlfriend due to the lack of space) is gonna be uncomfortable for them but a roof overhead is a roof. Not fond that it’s only a couple of streets down from me. Now I will be expected to visit more often with Spook and being in a sardine can with a hyper child is just a panic attack waiting to happen.

On a sad note…Rocky, the cat that had survived and was doing better at the vet’s clinic, had to be euthanized. He had feline HIV and herpes and his immune system was never going to be able to handle it. Sis decided to let him rest rather than suffer. I get that. Think that brought the total to nine cats and two ferrets lost.

I spent yesterday running around town for mom procuring them a storage locker. Stopped by the shop because R wanted me to call a guy about his 65 inch TV repair estimate and for whatever reason, the higher cost ones seem to say yes to me as opposed to him. Maybe because I don’t get paid, I have no stake in it. It’s their choice. No pressure cos either way, I’m gaining and losing nothing. Apathy- all the cool kids are doing it. Though Kenny says it’s because I have a “porn operator” voice that convinces them to spend the money. Ha. This week I’ve sounded like Kermit the frog after tonsil removal.

I’ve been going to several stores I normally don’t go to unless I am in that area. Mainly looking at the Halloween stuff as a way to cheer myself with “look but don’t buy” retail therapy. The supply is pathetic. Utter disappointment in the selection. My punishment for looking forward to something.

I can’t believe how flat I feel today. No emotion is worse than too much. I should feel something. I’m fond of anger cos it’s fuel. You can run on rage. Sensitivity and mooshy feelings aren’t so useful. I think I met my yearly tear quota last week anyway. I want my anger back. I have little doubt a trip into the dish of petri will return it in no time at all. Got no patience for stupid.

The new TV season will be starting soon, kinda looking forward to that. Hopefully it won’t be a total let down. I am trying to find any sliver of sunshine I can, so much bad shit has happened in the course of a week. Then I feel guilty for feeling shitty cos hey, least my house didn’t catch fire.

Maybe today’s apathy and flat affect are my brain’s way of giving me a break from feeling sad and mournful and guilty. I don’t know, this bipolar shit is a doubledecker suck bus ride from hades.

Even my writing has been affected. For awhile I was churning out focused topic specific posts. Now I am back to random drivel. But I didn’t start this blog for kudos. It was my venting, my therapy, and I only ever gave the link to one person. Every follower I have has found me on their own. So if my writing subpar, least I’m remaining true to the original intent with this spewage. It’s for me. If others relate, excellent. If not…Exit to your left, watch your step, and have a nice day.

Ok. Back to watching Sons Of Anarchy. It will drown out my kid’s bubblegum audio/video spewage. Maybe my will to clean the place up will return. Not likely, but it could happen.

Diane, we need to get to work on those hybrid helper animals. Those dishes aren’t gonna wash themselves. <3


You Will Have a Long, Happy Life…In Bed


It’s been almost eleven months since my separation and divorce, and I’ve maintained an unintentional but instructive celibacy.  No vows, no shaving my head, no mendicancy (though my bank account might suggest that by the end of the month).  Just a stepping back from the entanglement of bodies, needs, and wants.  A tangible way to take my own measure.  Every relationship that I’ve been in since I was fourteen began with boozy (okay, drunk) fumblings that usually went farther than I regretfully wanted the next morning.  My first boyfriend dumped me via a note slipped through the slats in my locker.  He wrote, “You just don’t know how to be a girlfriend.”  What he meant was I didn’t really know how to kiss, didn’t grind my hips against his when we rolled around on the basement floor, didn’t slip my hand into his pants.  A failure to perform. 
That assessment, immature and thoughtless as it was, has dogged me my whole life.  It is my default mode of thinking about my sexual performance—and I say performance, because I might as well be on stage, consumed with self-consciousness, trying to slip into the expected character.  For a while, alcohol helped, allowing me to strut around my college boyfriend’s fraternity house bedroom in one of those porn star, G-string teddies; to kiss back, suck back, fuck back; to forget when I agreed to humiliating acts.  All of it in deference to being desired and holding that desire in place.  Alone with a Rabbit paying attention to what feels good only for me?  To take and take and take and not have to give back the expected, grateful returns?  Unimaginable.  I needed someone else to want me, and only me, and sustaining that required work and effort and blowjobs.

In “The Sex Myth,” reviewed yesterday in the New York Times, journalist Rachel Hills argues that we tie our holistic value to sexual desirability and performance which leaves us writhing in shame and self-loathing.  If we’re not having mind-blowing, sky-diving, perfect 69 sex all the time, and at all spontaneous hours, not just in the 10-11 pm window of perfunctory surrender, then we believe something is wrong with us.  I believed this, was told in several different ways by several different men that I wasn’t good enough.  Timid, lacking in advanced skills, defective libido, and though I know my vagina is perfectly fine, that it was too big to get him off (this before I ever pushed out two babies and could show him how big it could really get.  Eee gads!).  All the worrying and shame over whether I was good enough, desirable enough took its toll.  How could it not?  In bed with my partner, I was unable to concentrate on sensation because I was arranging my body in pleasing, attractive positions: maybe if I keep one leg up it will look skinnier…maybe if I suck in my stomach…maybe if I swallow…maybe if I turn out the lights I will be wanted more.
And then I found anorexia.  At first, a way to move towards perfection—regulation and order could work against the chaotic feelings of a self unable to feel whole and enough.  Follow the rules and you can quiet the unruly bits of your body, can stop worrying about how it looks under lights or another’s gaze because it is only a very few pounds in weight so you must, finally, be thin enough.  (Of course, anorexia’s end point is death—enough will only be when the body ceases to exist).  But anorexia, in a strange way, temporarily solved the problem of being enough—it allowed me to be undesirable.  No breasts, no body to hold onto, all physical intimacy eschewed.  Like alcohol, it numbs sensation and blots out shame, decimating true intimacy in its wake.

And so I wonder, as I feel the stirrings of desire again (not focused, merely the awakening), what it will be like to enter a sexual relationship knowing that I am enough.  It’s what this past year has taught me.  I don’t have to perform and contort myself into acrobatic shapes, nor obsess about my shortfalls in frequency comparisons, nor be the aggressive vamp nor the reticent submissive.  Intuitive intimacy born of integrity.  No vodka shots to help me out.  But as I’ve learned in recovery, no shame to hold me back.  The judges hovering at the mattress sidelines, have been (mostly) banished from the field of play.  Play.  Good enough sex.  The strength of vulnerability instead of the desperation of concealment.  I think I know how to be a girlfriend now.  And, I might add, what kind of boyfriend I need.


           

You Will Have a Long, Happy Life…In Bed


It’s been almost eleven months since my separation and divorce, and I’ve maintained an unintentional but instructive celibacy.  No vows, no shaving my head, no mendicancy (though my bank account might suggest that by the end of the month).  Just a stepping back from the entanglement of bodies, needs, and wants.  A tangible way to take my own measure.  Every relationship that I’ve been in since I was fourteen began with boozy (okay, drunk) fumblings that usually went farther than I regretfully wanted the next morning.  My first boyfriend dumped me via a note slipped through the slats in my locker.  He wrote, “You just don’t know how to be a girlfriend.”  What he meant was I didn’t really know how to kiss, didn’t grind my hips against his when we rolled around on the basement floor, didn’t slip my hand into his pants.  A failure to perform. 
That assessment, immature and thoughtless as it was, has dogged me my whole life.  It is my default mode of thinking about my sexual performance—and I say performance, because I might as well be on stage, consumed with self-consciousness, trying to slip into the expected character.  For a while, alcohol helped, allowing me to strut around my college boyfriend’s fraternity house bedroom in one of those porn star, G-string teddies; to kiss back, suck back, fuck back; to forget when I agreed to humiliating acts.  All of it in deference to being desired and holding that desire in place.  Alone with a Rabbit paying attention to what feels good only for me?  To take and take and take and not have to give back the expected, grateful returns?  Unimaginable.  I needed someone else to want me, and only me, and sustaining that required work and effort and blowjobs.

In “The Sex Myth,” reviewed yesterday in the New York Times, journalist Rachel Hills argues that we tie our holistic value to sexual desirability and performance which leaves us writhing in shame and self-loathing.  If we’re not having mind-blowing, sky-diving, perfect 69 sex all the time, and at all spontaneous hours, not just in the 10-11 pm window of perfunctory surrender, then we believe something is wrong with us.  I believed this, was told in several different ways by several different men that I wasn’t good enough.  Timid, lacking in advanced skills, defective libido, and though I know my vagina is perfectly fine, that it was too big to get him off (this before I ever pushed out two babies and could show him how big it could really get.  Eee gads!).  All the worrying and shame over whether I was good enough, desirable enough took its toll.  How could it not?  In bed with my partner, I was unable to concentrate on sensation because I was arranging my body in pleasing, attractive positions: maybe if I keep one leg up it will look skinnier…maybe if I suck in my stomach…maybe if I swallow…maybe if I turn out the lights I will be wanted more.
And then I found anorexia.  At first, a way to move towards perfection—regulation and order could work against the chaotic feelings of a self unable to feel whole and enough.  Follow the rules and you can quiet the unruly bits of your body, can stop worrying about how it looks under lights or another’s gaze because it is only a very few pounds in weight so you must, finally, be thin enough.  (Of course, anorexia’s end point is death—enough will only be when the body ceases to exist).  But anorexia, in a strange way, temporarily solved the problem of being enough—it allowed me to be undesirable.  No breasts, no body to hold onto, all physical intimacy eschewed.  Like alcohol, it numbs sensation and blots out shame, decimating true intimacy in its wake.

And so I wonder, as I feel the stirrings of desire again (not focused, merely the awakening), what it will be like to enter a sexual relationship knowing that I am enough.  It’s what this past year has taught me.  I don’t have to perform and contort myself into acrobatic shapes, nor obsess about my shortfalls in frequency comparisons, nor be the aggressive vamp nor the reticent submissive.  Intuitive intimacy born of integrity.  No vodka shots to help me out.  But as I’ve learned in recovery, no shame to hold me back.  The judges hovering at the mattress sidelines, have been (mostly) banished from the field of play.  Play.  Good enough sex.  The strength of vulnerability instead of the desperation of concealment.  I think I know how to be a girlfriend now.  And, I might add, what kind of boyfriend I need.


           

What Medication??

so I totally forgot to take my mess for about 3 days!

I’m in New York doing an internship and there was just a slip of my mind. No it doesn’t have anything to do with not wanting to take it anymore, I seriously forgot.

I couldn’t sleep, I was feeling good but tired, a little little edgy, and it was because I totally forgot.

New York is great! I’m running around like a New Yorker, doing shows, learning, feeling like I’m actually helping out my boss, so I feel good!! She is super great but a little stand off ish. I think that just may be her way of dealing with assistants, but I’m trying to change that.

Anyways I got a great You’re Just Like Me coming next week and hopefully more updates on the blog.

But enough about me..

Hey YOU! You doing okay??


That feeling when your toddler pees straight into the potty!

Can I get a yay? or even a middle class whoop whoop? WHOOP WHOOP! I woke up at 9 am today, I lie, read that as 11:30 am. My husband had a work function last night and so I had to delay taking my tablets. That just means me having half a day to do […]