Sunday, August 20, 2017

About That

Although summer isn't officially over until the autumn equinox on September 22, with the new school year starting tomorrow, today is pretty much the end of it for me. I won't say I'm happy about going back to work--because that would be insane--but I can't earnestly complain about the summer coming to an end because I can honestly say with one hundred percent certainty that the summer of 2017 was the worst summer of my life. From the day before school ended right up until yesterday, very little of it has been fun, and in the spirit of complaining, I say just like we looked at The Summer of Run when it came to a close, we take a look back at the events that comprised the Summer of Suck as well.


As you already know, my summer started with Keifer being Baker Acted, and that pretty much set the summer's whole tone. Not only was I frustrated from not being able to do anything about his being locked up, misdiagnosed, and wrongly medicated, I was depressed that my son was so depressed and also anxious and frazzled from having to go back and forth from my house to University Pavilion at least once, sometimes two times a day for six days. As if that wasn't bad enough, it was while Keifer was in the hospital that I got into that crazy fight with Griffin, the one that caused him to leave and me to feel more depressed than I've felt in almost my entire adult life, and while certainly not worse but almost as bad, because of my depression over the situations with Griffin and Keifer, I let things happen with a friend I never would have let happen if I'd been in a not so utterly dejected frame of mind, and that friend then took advantage of what I let happen and made something else happen that not only did I absolutely not say could happen but point blank said repeatedly could not happen, and when he left that night, in addition to being depressed over Griffin and Keifer, I had something else to add to my reasons-to-kill-myself list.

Not long after that incident I try to forget happened (which hasn't been as hard as you'd think since right after it happened my super good friend who I talked to and hung out with all the time completely disappeared from my life, and thus, I don't have to be reminded of it on a regular basis), things actually started to look up. Keifer's properly diagnosed medication started kicking in plus he started dating the girl he's had a thing for since starting high school; Griffin and I reconciled bit by bit; and shock of all shocks, I met a guy, and not just any guy, a guy who fit my almost-abandoned criteria for a guy nearly one-hundred percent (in case you're curious: 1. smart 2. tall 3. musical 4. not fat 5. liberal 6. atheist (this is where the nearly comes in. Said guy is agnostic, not atheist, but really. I may be picky, but I'm not insane)) and seemed to be, like Mary Poppins, practically perfect in every way...for about three weeks, which while admittedly isn't exactly a super long amount of time is definitely, at least for hyper emotional emo me, long enough to fall in love, so yeah, moping and sadness and crying ensued and the summer I thought was looking up needed just the slightest of pushes to be facing down.

I'm a trooper, though, and I tried to see the good with the bad. Yes, I was heartbroken over Alexander, but my relationship with him did do some good things. One, it finally, for fuck's sake, hallelujah, god be the glory, got me completely over C. For the first time in I don't know how many years, he wasn't constantly on my mind, and that, I have to say, is a beautiful thing. It also made me realize that I shouldn't abandon my almost-abandoned criteria because people who fit it really are out there, and I shouldn't settle for someone else, and oh my God, I'm realizing right now that not only did he seem practically perfect like Mary Poppins, but also like Mary was conjured after a list with specific criteria was ripped up and thrown away, Alexander sort of was, too, and holy moly, how crazy is that? But I'm drifting. The point here is that I tried to be positive, but when you're lying around crying, missing someone, and thinking about every good attribute a person possesses, it's not the easiest thing to do. Our relationship was short, though, as you can attest, so as bad as it was for a short period of time, I'm happy to say that with the demise of the summer goes the demise of that particular sad.

But don't worry! A new sad has come along. A sad that usurps the others or at least seems to since it's the sadness of the day. It's a sad I knew was coming, a sad that isn't unique to me, but it's still a sad, and neither of those things makes my having moved Griffin into his dorm in Orlando yesterday any easier for me. Now, I won't sit here and say that when he came over and packed on Thursday night I sobbed against his chest like a crazy person and told him he was the love of my life while he held me or that I cried all over again when I said goodbye to him in his dorm, but if you believe in lies by omission, forget a party in my pants--they'd be in flames.

I know. I'm overreacting. UCF isn't that far. Griffin will be home often. I'll see him when I go to concerts in Orlando. True. Every single one. But still. My love story is gone, and it's going to take a while for me to get past it, just like the whole entire crapfest known from this blog forth as the Summer of Suck.

But I will because as you guys know, that's what I do. 

Friday, July 28, 2017

Party in My Pants, and You're Not Invited

What I don't understand is why it is that men seem to think that women owe them something. I have an on-and-off again guy friend who I was talking to last night, and it came up, not for the first time, that he thinks I'm a shitty person. When I told him I try to be good to all people and want what's best for everyone, he told me that wasn't true and that what I want is what's good for Kelly. When pressed for an explanation, it was this: 

We've done this before and the last time you didn't listen to a word I said but then I had to hear about some guy you just met and you're calling him master (which never happened btw) and doing everything he wants (that part may have happened) and all I wanted was for you to listen. Has nothing to do with sex. Been there. Done that. Nothing changed towards me.

A Little Bit of History

During the six or seven years that this guy and I have been friends, he's let it be known that he's interested in being more than friends with me, and I've let him know that I don't feel the same (part of the time, I was married, so those years are a moot point anyway). We stayed friends regardless because, call me crazy, I don't think friendship should be contingent on whether or not people want to have sex with each other. During our friendship, I did what normal people do when they're friends with someone: I talked about guys I liked and guys I was sleeping with and because we've always been so open, I was pretty detailed with a lot of it. As you can see, this was problematic, not because he was jealous but because, and here's where the problem comes in--both his with me and mine with men in general--my choosing to have some type of intimate relationship with these other guys instead of him makes me shitty and selfish and only interested in what Kelly wants. So this person is basing his opinion of my basic character on the fact that I wanted other guys instead of him, and that's so far from okay, I don't even know how to argue with someone who has a viewpoint like this. 

Another guy friend of mine, this one as close to me as anyone ever has been (except for people I've had sex with because that's a kind of close we've never been), a good person who's not chauvinistic at all, once told me resentfully that he feels like there's a party in my pants and he's not invited. I can't say that he was angry about it or accused me of being a bad person because of it, but he was definitely petulant and felt slighted by my choices.

The thought process of these two men is something I just don't understand. I've listened to plenty of guy friends I've been attracted to over the years go on and on about girls they like, girls they've fucked, and girls they've wanted to fuck, the whole time wishing they were wanting to fuck me, but never in my life has it made me angry or indignant. Envious of the other girls, sure, but the feeling that these guys owed me something just because I wanted it never once crossed my mind. If only I were skinnier and prettier is much more likely the thought that crossed it, and I'm willing to bet that, at least in the case of the first friend I wrote about it, the thought that he was inferior never occurred. To this friend, it was in no way about something wrong with him, only about something being wrong with me.

None of this would matter, it's true, if I didn't care what people think. I do, though. I hate when people think bad things of me--not all people, of course; if I don't care about someone, that person can think anything s/he wants about me; it's why I never address the crazy things my ex-Glenn's told his camp about me; I'm one-hundred percent of the mind that what people I don't care about think of me is none of my concern--or things about me with which I wholeheartedly disagree. The idea that this guy who knows me so well thinks I'm selfish and not a good person makes me...well, it makes me upset enough to justify my actions--or inactions if you want to get technical--in a blog, and I have to say, if I were a guy, I think I'd feel the need to do no such thing. 

Thursday, June 22, 2017

The Day My Music Died


As I was walking my dogs tonight, the friendly neighborhood drug dealer passed me as he often does. Unlike the normal scenario where my dogs bark and he keeps walking in silence, though, after we'd both continued to walk ten to fifteen feet in our respective directions, he called to me. I turned, and he yelled something I could barely hear, something that after about a minute of repeated yelling back and forth, a lot of questioning on my part, and a bit of pantomime on his, I finally understood. After all this time, he said, we both look exactly the same.

The drug dealer, who I've been passing on the streets of my townhouse complex for probably about ten years (save for an absence of a year or so when he mysteriously disappeared), was right. Save for my ever changing hair colors, neither of us really looks any different from how we looked when we first "met."

When we first walked past each other, the drug dealer and me, I was in my early to mid thirties. At the time, Griffin and I were closer than I knew a mother and son could be. Ever Friday we had an after-school coffee date that neither of us would miss for anything. One Friday, Griffin actually got in a fight (semi-fight?) with the singer of his band because he wouldn't miss coffee to go to practice. Those coffee dates lasted for years, maybe five of them, from middle school to early eleventh grade.

Coffee dates, of course, weren't the extent of our relationship; they just typified it. I used to barely get through teaching a class without a text from Griffin: memes, photos, song lyrics, random facts (are you aware a kangaroo has three vaginas, everyone?), trivial conversation. Griffin used to never leave me alone. We did makeovers and took walks and went out to eat. Once we even drove to Savannah on a whim to see the spot where they filmed one of his favorite movies, Forrest Gump. I protected him from his dad (even when, admittedly, he probably didn't need protecting), and he protected me from his dad, too.

I believe I even have a blog post where I write something akin to, Regarding Griffin, can I just say soulmate? Nothing else to see, move it along.

I'm thinking your inference skills are probably good enough to have realized by now that between me and Griffin, something's gone wrong. Two years ago, things started to change. Saying no to hanging out with Alex wasn't as desirable as saying no to practicing with his band, nor was bringing her along like we did in their beginning, and our coffee Friday dates stopped. That was really the start. In that time, our relationship has deteriorated hopefully not to beyond repair, but in truth I'm not so sure.

I won't go into all the details, not for the sake of privacy or propriety because we all know I care for neither of those things but for the sake of space. There are just so many details, and in the end, do they matter at all? We're both to blame in different ways (in addition to quite a bit of help from some outside forces, and far be it for me to be one to name names, but if yours either starts and ends with an A and has an X in the middle and you used to have pink hair but now maybe sport a faded shade of blue or you're someone who runs a couple thousands miles a year or at least you used to, I happen to be talking about you).

Tonight when I pulled up a few hours and one day after a fight during which, among other things, shampoo was squirted all over the bathroom and the hallway; posters were taken off of communal walls; toiletries were hidden in a car; someone was forcefully chest bumped, grabbed by the wrist, and thrown into the hallway in addition to being called one of two emotionally abusive and horrible parents, a fucking idiot, and insane; and another person was called trash and his ex-girlfriend called a whore, I saw a box peeking over the wall in front of my house. Upon walking up, I saw a crate full of records, a guitar, a record player, and other things that escape me now.

Even though I knew, I had to ask when I opened the door. What's going on? 

I'm gonna go stay at my Dad's house.

I was afraid of the answer, so afraid of the answer, I didn't want to ask, didn't want to know:

Forever? 

He didn't know.

***

That friendly neighborhood drug dealer thinks I look the same because he can only see me on the outside. If he could see me on the inside, he'd know I don't look the same at all.

Sunday, June 11, 2017

Mess

Summer's started, and like the past two summers before this one, I should be settling into my hotel, getting ready for a week of reading AP exams along with thousands of other teachers, college professors, and instructors. I'm not, though. Despite having a hotel reservation, a roommate who requested me, numerous confirmation e-mails, and I'm sure a name badge that annoyingly says Miramar High School AND Miami Dade College on it because when I applied to be a reader, I didn't realize the submitted text would be transcribed verbatim and no matter how many times I've tried to change it because it makes me feel like an ass, be assigned to me for the rest of my AP reader life, I'm not there. Instead, I'm sitting at my sticker-covered table writing this blog, losing over $1300, and waiting for a phone call that apparently I'm not going to get tonight from a nurse at a  psychiatric hospital saying that I can come get my son.

In what seems to have become a matrilineal tradition now being transferred to the males of what I guess would properly be referred to as the Weinstein line, Keifer, like me, my sister, my mother, and my aunt, was Baker Acted. On Wednesday afternoon, I sat with him in a psychiatrist's office while he talked about his suicidal ideations and his willingness to act on them and then watched while despite his not having a plan, which is supposed to be a factor in being involuntarily committed, an officer frisked him against a police car, sat him in the back, and drove him to the nearest mental institution where he now resides with, among other people, a little boy who hears voices and stupid teenage girls who think cutting themselves is the thing to do. And now I can't seem to bring him home.

As if that's not bad enough, Kei being in a mental institution where he definitely doesn't belong because I promise you, that kid was not about to commit suicide this weekend, he's definitely been misdiagnosed, and instead of being treated for the depression he should be being treated for, he's being forced to pop Adderall two times a day for the ADHD he doesn't have even though Adderall, a drug that's banned in many countries because it's so dangerous, is one of the most addictive drugs around and people with drug issues aren't supposed to take it, and I keep telling his doctor and the doctor's PA and anybody I see in scrubs that Keifer has a drug problem and nobody will listen to me even though right now, right this very second, there's a text on the lock screen of Keifer's phone that says, keifer do you have OC, nobody at this godforsaken hospital will listen to me because Keifer says it isn't true and because he has absolutely no fat cells and a metabolism that enables him to be 5'10" and weigh 117 pounds his drug test came up negative (it's a thing, I promise), and what the fuck kind of psychiatric personnel listens to a fifteen-year-old who's in a fucking mental institution and gives him more drugs to add to his motherfucking potential-addiction list?

The word disaster is so overused that people don't realize the severity of one, but this whole experience has been a disaster in the most severe way. Not only is Keifer practically in prison being turned into a drug addict as we speak, but now he's completely distrustful of the entire mental health process and wants nothing to do with it. Whereas he previously wanted to see a therapist and get help because he was so tired of feeling hopeless, he's now afraid to ever again tell a mental health professional how he really feels, something that for someone with deep depression and anxiety could lead to the worst outcome possible.

At this point, I'm impotent. There's absolutely nothing I could do but wait for these people to let Keifer out of the hospital and complain (and what better way to do that than via this blog?), and I have to tell you, as a mother, it's plaguing me that I can't do more.


Sunday, February 19, 2017

Sick of Always Sorting Me Out

I'm a bit on the neurotic side. If you know me in real life, you probably know that. Even if you only know me from here, there's a good chance you know that, too. I'm animated with a tendency to overdramatize situations. You know how Buffy is a metaphor for the way teenagers feel like everything is the end of the world? Well, make me an honorary Scooby because I'm still in that developmental phase. Several years ago I was called hyperemotional and much more recently told I was draining with an overwhelming personality.

Although the person who told me I was draining with an overwhelming personality was Griffin and it's probably pretty normal for a seventeen-year-old to feel that way about his mom, the accusation initially upset me. When I mentioned it to my ex-Glenn a few days later, he didn't say anything about the draining part, but the overwhelming part he got right behind. He's obviously not rolling in the credibility when it comes to clear judgment of me, though, so I text a friend of mine, told her what Griffin said, and asked her if she agreed. She responded that I sometimes have bad anxiety and that leads to a somewhat draining experience at times and if she had to say yes or no, she'd say yes. She then told me I could change if I really wanted to and that by my questioning her, I was actually draining her right then. A few days later she sent me a link titled "You (and Your Therapist) Can Change Your Personality--Science of Us," which she admitted she only skimmed when after reading it, I found that it said inherent personality can't actually be changed at all.

I felt bad about the exchange, bad enough to complain about it to a friend I had brunch with last weekend, and obviously bad enough to write about it right now although feeling bad isn't really the reason I'm writing but rather because of the marked difference in an exchange I had with someone else today. One of the things my friend who agreed I was draining mentioned was my body obsession. Now, admittedly, I'm a little on the crazy side when it comes to my weight, but that's a disorder. Obsession with my weight was ingrained in me starting when I was about two, and it's going nowhere anytime soon. About that, she wrote this: "Even if you want to ask me if you look fat for the 17th time in a 2 hour period [which is a gross exaggeration btw; in fact, I haven't asked her anything about looking fat since January 15 when she told me she would 'no longer be participating in body critiques'], work on looking in the mirror and telling yourself you look great so you don't feel the urge to do that. Cause that shit is draining."

So now for what happened today. I was messaging back and forth with someone who I've probably talked to about the same thing five thousand times and when, at the end, I thanked her for putting up with my craziness, she responded that she didn't mind at all and thanked me for putting up with hers, too, to which I responded pretty much the same. Although she's not crazy at all, I responded that way because even if she were, I wouldn't care. Even if she called or text me every single day at the same time with the same question/issue/fear, I wouldn't mind because that's what people who care about people are supposed to do. They're supposed to put up with the neurosis, the drama, the issues, the fears. They're not supposed to say they're all about being supportive or empathetic but only to a certain degree because after having told someone something once or twice if that person doesn't take their advice, that's the person's own fault.

That's just not how friendship works.
It's also not empathetic at all.

Now, I'm not saying this person isn't my friend. She's been my friend for a long time, and I'm not looking to put our relationship out. I'm just noticing a self-centered trend that I have absolutely no desire to be a part of. I will never tell a friend I won't participate in his or her ___________ anymore because I think s/he shouldn't be that way. I will never think somebody else's feelings aren't as valid as mine.

Incidentally, in the past couple of weeks since the being called overwhelming thing and the text telling me how I could change, I've thought about it a lot, and I mean, a lot, a lot--neurotic, remember?--and I've decided that if I'm overwhelming then I'm overwhelming. Just like I took the hyperemotional thing as a sort of compliment--because my God, who doesn't want to feel?--I'm taking that as one, too.

Namby-pamby is the last thing I want to be. 

Monday, January 23, 2017

Why Does Everything Fall Apart Even When It's Glued Together?

First, let me start this blog by apologizing to the reader who loves to tell me to die. It's been such a long time since I last posted, you may have thought I actually took your advice. But bubble? Let me introduce you to my pin.

Now that my sincere apology is out of the way, that long time since posting? Let's discuss.

I haven't posted since September 25, by far the longest amount of time I've gone without writing a blog since I started blogging, both here and on the long-since-deleted Hudsy's Girl (and any other blog I may have had that I can't remember now). After the whole getting-spanked thing, I wasn't in the mood to do much other than reflect on my life and the situations I always seem to be getting myself into plus it was right about that time that I picked up a hobby that takes up a ton of my time (which will not be mentioned for reasons you'll soon read), and if I add my wallowing to that hobby and throw in my propensity to waste time doing absolutely nothing, you get just that...absolutely nothing. By Thanksgiving I felt like writing again and totally had plans to sit down and write my annual "Happy Holiday, You Bastard!" post, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. A few weeks later, on Christmas or maybe New Year's, I intended to do it again, but more of the same. I just couldn't make myself write that post, and well, that's what I'm here to discuss: "Happy Holiday, You Bastard!" and why I just can't write it.

For those of you who don't regularly read me, I like to do an annual holiday blog in which I make a list of things for which I'm thankful and then discuss. My last one was full of things for which I'm thankful as was the one before that, similar to a birthday post from last year where I also discuss specific things that make me happy. It's a blog I've always enjoyed writing and like I said, totally wanted to write this year. So why didn't I write it?

You know how people are always telling other people to count their blessings? To be grateful for whatever they have because they don't know when it will be taken away? To appreciate the things they've been given? Well, I've done all of those things, and I have to tell you, as soon as I acknowledge anything good in my life, it pretty much immediately goes bad. You think I'm crazy, I'm sure, and maybe I am (just ask my older son. He'll affirm this for you, I have no doubt) but not because of this. For evidence, though, let's do a little not-so-long-in-the-past investigation.

That birthday post I talked about? From 2016? A copied and pasted excerpt:

In mid December, I started running regularly again, and this year I'm on track to run 600 miles, which is 97 miles more than I ran this one. Here I am writing right this second. I read a book over Christmas break. I lost five pounds.

And from my last "Happy Holiday, You Bastard!"? Let me copy and paste a little more: [I'm thankful for] My car. Mermaid is her name, getting me wherever I want to go is her game. 

Okay. That second copy and paste? Where I talk about being thankful for Mermaid? November (and let the record show that not only did I post about my love for her in that blog, but I talked about her often. I'm keeping her forever, I would say. I never want a car payment again). The first one when I talk about running again and losing five pounds? January 17.

January 19, two days later?

I'm sure you know what I'm about to say because how could you not, but I'll say it anyway. There I was crossing the street in front of my house when a woman made an illegal u-turn right in front of my car which caused me to crash into her, which caused my airbags to inflate, which caused my car to be declared a total loss and my calf to somehow get injured, which caused me to not be able to run, which caused me to get depressed and also to gain that five pounds right back, and I swear to God if I'd never said anything about being thankful for my car, my running, and my five pound weight loss, none of it ever would have happened at all.

Need more convincing? Well, don't worry. More convincing I've got.

To summarize (I'd say for the sake of brevity, but we're long past that), I also, in my last Happy Holiday post, talked about being thankful for my family unit and for Alex because she makes Griffin so happy and blah blah blah, I'd vomit all over if it weren't my table I'd be vomiting on. Not long after that post, Alex and Griffin became Sid and Nancy, and sometimes things are so bad, I'm not kidding when I say that I hope that analogy proves itself wrong, but the other one that comes to mind is Kurt and Courtney, and well, that one is just as bad and in some ways, worse.

And the Happy Holiday post before that when I say "Griffin. Soulmate. Capital S" and express thanks for five years of Friday afternoon coffee dates and joke about following him to college so they can continue? One, those coffee dates didn't need college to come to an end; two, the capital S in soulmate wasn't as big as I thought; and three, please don't even get me started on college if you don't want me to cry.

There's more, of course, but I'm thinking that's enough evidence to prove my point.

From here on out, if something good happens, do not expect to hear it from me.

Sunday, September 25, 2016

That's a Little Bit More Information Than I Needed, Vince

Warning: This post is going to be more personal than what I usually write--I know, you're wondering how that's even possible, but believe me. It is--personal enough that I questioned if I should even write it, but you know me. No other way to process. Processing isn't the only reason for the post, thought; the incident about which I'm getting ready to write brought me to a realization, and sharing realizations that bring about tolerance, well, that's a good thing. Sharing is caring as everyone knows.

Okay, so, right off the bat, let me just tell you: I've been sleeping with this guy. Not for a super long time, just a few weeks, but we've been friends for almost five years and have made out a few times over the last twoish years since my ex-Glenn and I have no longer been a thing. The point is, this guy is no stranger who just appeared out of nowhere. 

What this guy, however, is, is super into BDSM. I'm not. Like, I hurt and bruise for a week if someone pokes me too hard. With a pinkie. Being hit during sex--definitely not my thing. And this guy knows that. We've talked about it off and on over the years and pretty extensively over the past few weeks, and I think I was pretty unambiguous when I text, and I quote, That's gross. I could never have sex like that and that he got the text and the message when he replied, I know (sad face emoji).

And yet there I was, naked and unsuspecting, when this guy said something like, I just have to do it once. 

And there I was, naked and unsuspecting, when a sound like a firecracker exploded against  the semi-regular dull thud of mattress meeting wall and heat like fire seared my skin.

This guy had spanked me.

Hard..

How hard?

Well, there's a perfect handprint, fingers splayed open, across the left side of my ass (and can I just say, seriously--I knew my butt was big, but the entire imprint of a male hand on just one side? Can that thing be more out of control?) and  although it isn't the blood red color it was last night, it's still vivid enough that I'm pretty sure it's going to leave a bruise.

To be honest, I'm pretty sure he hit me harder than I've ever been hit in my life, hard enough to at first make me mad and at second to make me almost cry, not from physical pain, which I've never cried from, not even during childbirth, but from another kind of pain, a kind of pain that filled my insides with a heat almost as hot as the heat that burned my butt. It was the pain of humiliation, the same kind of pain and humiliation that burned inside me the few times my father spanked me, the kind of pain and humiliation that caused me to use the word "hit" instead of "smacked" just now because really, that's what this guy did, he smacked me--he smacked me--the way a parent smacks a child only I'm not his child, and I didn't do anything wrong, and I didn't ask to be disciplined, and I was naked and unsuspecting, and could anybody do anything worse to a naked and unsuspecting person than smack him or her as if s/he'd done something wrong?

And so after I was mad, I was, to greatly understate and simplify,  sad. I was sad and naked and humiliated, hot with shame, lying in the fetal position trying not to cry, telling this guy how anything that makes me feel parented in any way is completely unacceptable, and then this guy was leaving, and then there I was,, naked and humiliated but now alone, the heat of the shame dissipating somewhat throughout the night but never really going away, and now here I am today unable to think about anything else, sick inside, sick and cold,  and wondering why this incident disturbed me so much and feeling dumb for reacting as strongly as I did.

One of my closest friends told me I'm not overreacting and that since I'd made it clear I wasn't interested in anything associated with pain, what this guy did was borderline abuse. Another very  close friend didn't use the word abuse but confirmed my reaction was not an overly sensitive one, and I have a right to be upset. I came up with something else, which is where my realization comes in, and that's simply that I was, and God, I hate to use this word but it's my realization, that these things actually exist, triggered. For whatever reason, that smack triggered me in a way I never imagined a snack could, and thus far it's a trigger I haven't been able to disengage. I suppose it could have something  to do with my rape although I don't really think it does but more likely it has to do with the resentment I feel toward my parents' control  and as a result, anybody who tries to exert any control over me at all. It really makes perfect sense. One of the running fights I had with my ex-Glenn revolved around what I saw as him acting like my dad instead of my husband and last night before this guy and I had our thing, I stopped talking to another guy because he text me too much and got annoyed when I didn't text back just like my mom.

So where do I go from here? In both my life and in this post? It was, after all, an exercise in processing and introspection, and I suppose that's done, on a superficial level at least. Well, in this post I'll acknowledge that triggers do exist although I still can't get behind so-called safe spaces. We need to be ready for real life and trigger-free, pc places aren't the way to prepare us. And in my life? Therapy, I think. Unlike last night, it couldn't hurt.