This is where I come to waste time – a study in my chosen free time environments

That shouldn’t be plural. We all know it’s only my house. I only leave home when I have to, like for work and the few errands not yet eliminated by the internet.

I’m going to start a blog about how I need to find more time to write my novel. OH WAIT.

I have umpteen faults and all, but being unsatisfied with a mid-level, some would say boring, life is not one of them. I long for lower middle class stability, and a lifetime of running mundane errands with a spouse I love. I guess when you have nothing (emotionally that is, financially we were the people who make themselves poorer and poorer every year living beyond their means, my fathers inability to maintain steady gainful employment also played a role) even just the amount most people cast aside as inadequate because it’s not “spectacular” or whatever…I don’t know. I mean I guess I just think if anything about someone is going to be spectacular, it should be what you create, not your house or your hot, shallow sex life or your car or your soulless unfulfilling job, you know? I mean there’s some brain surgeon who finds deep meaning in their work who would tell me to fuck off if they somehow ever read this.

It’s like in When Their Eyes were Watching God when the granddaughter of a former slave marries an older rich man mostly/only to please her aging grandmother. She explains to her friend that her grandmother grew up a slave, and saw the pinnacle of womanly achievement as being the white woman sitting up on the big house’s porch, not doing a thing. She never would have considered that her granddaughter (Janie, I think her name was? Jeannie? I should Google it but I can’t leave a blog once I start it, you’ve seen what happens when I do) might want something MORE for herself than sitting up on that porch. I’m kind of the grandmother when it comes to like emotional stability and capability for growth. I know that’s probably pretty sad to admit, but it’s also the fucking truth. ALSO – I’m not equating my life experience thus far to slavery. NOT doing that by any means. There are some things that should just be clarified right away.

Like, to clarify, I know that ALL of the fucking time I spend writing these posts I could be writing my other work. And I am painfully aware that now that I’m in the age pocket of “done with college” but haven’t hit “has children” yet, I will NEVER have more free time for this shit than I do now.

I wasn’t kidding when I said I need to do this. Especially now, because I noticed something.
I get these excruciating tension headaches. They’re to the point where if one hits at work, early on enough in the day, I’ll go home at noon. They wake me up if I’m fortunate enough to fall asleep while enduring one. If you don’t know what it’s like, it’s every single muscle in your neck tensing up to the point where it all feels like it’s made of steel that wound too tight. Then that pain radiates up your spine and into your head and makes one or both sides just throb. You can take Excedrin, because that can help if you catch it early on and you can be awake for the next ten hours…but therein end your options.
These headaches almost always coincide the week of my period, IF I haven’t cried recently.

Remember when I wrote about how I know if I need to masturbate because I’ll start doing it in my sleep? It’s like some odd clockwork when my brain’s like “Hey, been awhile without that special rush of chemicals i like…do this now dumb bitch.” I feel like my id must hate me, because I’m repressed in ALL these disturbing ways. Even still. I think about my emotions constantly but I’m still really not able to convey them and sometimes I feel like everyone in my life is in some conspiracy to make me a lunatic.

Well, I think I’m starting to do the same thing with crying. Like….some part of me I can’t reach knows when I need to, and i hate this term for a reason I haven’t told you about yet but I’m sure will at some point, but when I need to release, I will subconsciously make it happen no matter what.

The way to truly test it is to make myself cry a lot the few days before and during my period week.

There were also two tensions headaches within as many weeks. But my mom is having knee replacement surgery tomorrow and we have the world’s most complicated situation – complicated until W is dead, am I right? – and that upsets me.

Also, did you wonder how I’ll make myself cry? Oh, there’s no worries there. I can give myself goosebumps or make tears well in my eyes when I want to. I’m not saying I use this to my advantage, I wouldn’t betray my dark emotions like that, but I know it’s true. I guess there’s a lot of sad shit in my life. And, I don’t want to waste my time writing about it. But I don’t know what else to do.

If I had to pick two words to describe my childhood it would be invasive and lonely. It’s odd having a parent who’s checked out and lazy but still somehow controlling? Then another who just…the picture of passivity, to say the least.

If I had to pick two words to describe what worries me about my adult life, it’s pointless and infuriating. I mean, the idea that I’m almost 30 and I haven’t even begun to think of having kids and the only thing I have to show for my life is a FUCK ton of student loan debt and my marriage has had….just some DISTURBING lows and honestly not enough highs to balance it out and we just talked about how my tolerance is fucking low for that sort of thing. I haven’t written anything of note. I’m too busy being worried I’ll never have time to write. See when I was in school all those years I could tell myself that it was because of the school taking all my time. So, if I do give in to convention and have kids, I’ll just say it’s them. Then I’ll have all these unsorted issues that I’ll take out on my kids. I mean really the only thing I ever actually worry about in life is being a thing like W, bearing even a slight resemblance. I mean physically you can’t help it, I certainly didn’t get my mother’s eyes, but I mean behaviorally. I’ve already told you about the few times, whilst plastered and in that MEAN drunk mode, my husband has told me I’m acting like my father’s daughter. Truly few things make me hate him more. I’m not saying I actually hate my husband, but that THAT is what he’s like when he’s fucked the fuck up…it’s just so not encouraging.
As for the infuriating, well I think it should be clear how angry I am.
I don’t want to be. Really, deep down, I actually am this laid back person who wants to be happy and not around a lot of people all at once. But see this bad shit happens. Because when I was a child, I was taught a few things about my feelings, from my mom and dad, my brother, my Grandma, my teachers, the other kids at school, any boys I would life pre-husband, it’s like they all had a goddamn meeting and were like yes let’s definitely drive these points home to that deserving little cunt:
Your feelings, Cassie, they:
1) DO NOT MATTER
2) Are always going to be so put off and neglected and ignored you won’t feel like last place you’ll feel like you weren’t even told there was a race to begin with
3) Are of the LEAST concern
4) DO NOT MATTER
5) NO ONE CARES HOW YOU FEEL
6) You have to be worth something for your feelings to matter
7) COUNT FOR NOTHING
Why? Why did they make me feel like this? Well, Lutheran school teachers are garbage. God knows how many of them are sexual predators but I bet it beats the national average for public school. But I mean, a lot of kids have an awful time at school, for a full bevy of reasons. But home? Like that was an escape? As a kid I couldn’t keep money in my piggy bank, because if my dad needed some he would take it and leave and IOU that, weeks later and after much aggravated nagging on my part, my mom would have to pay back. If we took a two hour long nap on a Sunday as teenagers he was rifling through our rooms for the drugs we must be on. Despite that he naps 4-5 hours a day EVERY day. Something to break up the television watching and toilet-sitting/vodka drinking that he does with the rest of his time. Lucky for me he was either too stupid or too lazy to go through the Word files on my computer. Boy he would’ve had a problem with most of that content.
That my novel – being as….well idk I have a ton of gay characters, they just ended up gay, like some people do and its a genetically tiny sample of people to begin with so it makes sense that some traits like homosexuality could get ‘trapped’ say on an island no one is allowed to leave? Does that make sense? Am I deliberately writing something that says being gay is genetic? I mean I guess that’s what happened. But I mean, before I start seeming like some appropriating fuckwad we must also appreciate that my work would have to be categorized as fantasy. Which is honestly a genre I fucking hate besides the Sookie Stackhouse novels….. it would enrage my dad. My mom is open-minded, when it comes to that at least, but she is one of those white people who doesn’t realize they’re racist (example, why do you have to comment on how ‘clean’ the black boyfriend of your coworker’s daughter is? why would that be a thing you mention?). But of course my novel isn’t about him, it just would have all these excellent fringe benefits, like enraging my piece of shit dad with its rhetoric. It’s AGENDA, which is what they’d call it.

Did any of this help or make me feel better? Well yeah. See, remember how I was saying that I was taught constantly and by everyone in my life that my feelings didn’t matter? Even my poor mother, she did her best but she was causing so much damage when she used me as her sounding board for her life’s many, many woes. And, I didn’t get to have feelings, or if I did they were secondary. I was to be cheerful, and upbeat, and happy, and high-achieving and cheerful, I was there to make everyone else happy, to make THEIR lives matter. My life and ME, we certainly didn’t matter. So if I don’t count at all, why the fuck would my feelings even register as existent?

And why is that shit so damaging? Because it teaches you to hold everything in. Think of it like a sarcophagus. It’s made of stone and sealed shut forever with an embalmed corpse inside, and boy what a perfect metaphor for my psyche back then. I guess you could call my eventual ability to self-soothe my very own necromancy. God, can I even follow that metaphor….

So, sure, keeping your feelings hidden because you aren’t EVER allowed to acknowledge them, much less work through any, seems nice, but it’s not. Because that sarcophagus…it leaks a little. Not enough to let YOU out, but people can smell something rotten about you. You’re mean. You wait for EVERY opportunity to undermine or hurt someone else because that’s how you fucking get treated. You maintain no long-lasting or fulfilling relationships of any kind. Your inability to express yourself in any kind of healthy way follows you through high school, making dating COMPLETELY impossible. When you’re out of high school it makes you date fucking scum that’s so fucking beneath you. I mean they could’ve been worse but honestly on a mental level I’m appalled at how low I sunk. They were all attractive enough but my life taught me that that alone isn’t enough to get you by. At least not on my level. I’m sure there are those way above me who are completely terrible assholes in every way and also aren’t good at anything. We all know that sort.

So these awful fringes of your true feelings are visible, but that’s it. And that just makes you seem like an uptight hostile bitch, or something. When all you wish you could do was have friends and date like everyone else. Then that resentment compounds on itself and you get all “Well, why should I care then?” about it. I CANNOT imagine going through this being unattractive. How bitter must those people be?

Great it’s almost 7. So basically, repressing feelings is bad and will actually cause lifelong damage if done too much as a child but sometimes self preservation is necessary, so eh. I am almost 30 and am nowhere near even a remote solution. But also, eh. A lot of people never “get better” I’m just grateful I’m healthy and I’m at least with someone whom i would like to be with, given we don’t….ugh…head down the shrubbery maze…so to speak. Because even for me that shit was WAY too dark.

Anyway, need to cook dinner.

~Cass