Well. That was something.

I wonder if you’ll ever see me in a good mood. It’s hard to write about upsetting topics when you’re in a good mood, because (I feel like it’s obvious) they’re upsetting to write about. Like, that’s one of the reasons I never talk about any of this, how does on casually say things like I don’t speak to my parents? My childhood was simultaneously miserable and stolen from me. There just isn’t a way. It just makes people so obviously uncomfortable, you just don’t do it after awhile. You’ll get this “sorry I asked” look with someone who probes. They’ll learn how barbed you are soon enough.

At the same rate, now that I know for certain at least part of my life is becoming a concrete narrative every day, in the sense that I’ve been writing frequently enough to start to make actual progress with telling someone ABOUT me. Which, to me, includes a great many things. I’ve been trying to refrain from lists, because I don’t know there’s no real stream-of-consciousness feel to a list no matter how haphazardly you write it.

I just read an article about the Mother Wound. I swear to you that this is the first time I’m hearing about this. Which, considering my background, that’s fucking insane. It seems like it must be a sham, having evaded my knowledge for this long. I’m not being full of myself, when you’ve paid (borrowed) what I’ve paid (in-debted myself) you feel a little entitled to certain things. Not because I should just be handed these sorts of bits of wisdom, but because I worked very hard to get through graduate school. The fact that I went to grad school more or less for funsies, and was always pretty open about that, that’s irrelevant. What if I’d gone with the certain sure impression I’d get a full-time teaching gig with insurance that paid more than a shitty retail manager position (which I had by the way the entire I was in grad school, and undergrad)? Would that somehow make me more respectable in your eyes? I’ve literally never been disillusioned by anything before in my life. I mean I got my hopes up about things, but like…I also secretly also always expected horrible disaster. I guess if there’s one thing my family prepared me for…it was that.

That’s the thing, there’s odd benefits. I don’t talk about them much, because 1) talking about them makes you seem like you’re protesting too much, if you get my reference, 2) they tend to make people want to point out times that wasn’t the case. I don’t deal well with being argued with. I know it’s not like…the normal people’s faults…but…it happens none the less. I avoid a lot of it by just staying quiet about things, it’s tremendously easier that way. Except Sea World. And circuses. And the ivory trade. FUCK those guys. The dickweeds who think tiger parts will make them virile too.

For one, I’ve made my peace with the after affects of smoking this much pot. It’s not my fault I need drugs to be happy, and I refuse to believe weed is any worse than an anti-depressant, it’s just a different kind if you ask me, so no hate to pill-takers, I just don’t want to be in that group. I’ve never been in that group. I mean I did Adderall in college, a few times for fun but mostly to stay up all night to get homework done because that was literally the one option open to me when i worked full time at my retail job, went to college full time, managed my boyfriend’s/my apartment/lives, worked a part time pet sitting job on the side. That was hard to fucking manage at times. But my now husband then boyfriend and I got into some pretty nasty fights when we were on that, coming off that. Not anything physical, but just out of control things being yelled back and forth. Stuff that’s pretty scaring in and of itself. I mean you kind of have to write all that off, when you’re both at fault. It almost makes it a relief, when you’re both at fault for something really bad, because then one of you doesn’t feel forced to be the all-forgiving, all-graceful, always-grinning-and-bearing-it being all the time.

Given how guilty I feel, felt, about the whole situation, I wouldn’t be surprised if deep down that wasn’t a big motivator for my…let’s say excursion into keeping a mistress. Like….when I think about….ugh. Yesterday I stopped before I’d concluded my original thought because I felt guilty, I didn’t want to keep writing, I wanted to go cuddle with my husband, so I did as much as I could. That’s all. Because like no matter how much I talk about how fucked up I am, what’s possibly the most fucked up part is how I also know how normal some of my needs are. Like I really do have feelings, and I really do want other people to love and accept me. If that doesn’t sound important to you, you’ve probably never lived with people who wouldn’t be able to say that in earnest. That’s all.

 

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