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That's Not Important, now.

oh, moment is over.

Oh, poo… I’ve already failed my half-assed goal of writing every day. Alas, I haven’t really felt like writing. I don’t know what to write about, to be honest but I guess that’s not a surprise because I’m boring.
In the last few days a couple developments have come up. The day after we got here hubs’ co-worker messaged him and told him that he will indeed be deploying soon. At first I was super excited, because I would be able to visit him because it’s not a combat deployment. But that made me feel immediately depressed and guilty, especially because he may still have to recruit when he gets back. It’s so fucking awful and sad. He hated recruiting, as did I, and him having to go back to it is so upsetting. I’m also dealing with him leaving again. I’m full of guilt for all the anger and resentment that I’ve had towards him the last couple of months. I do love him, a lot, and to have him leave again fills me with fear and anxiety.
I don’t even know what to say with him leaving again. I feel like holding him close and panicking. I’m afraid to be alone again. Luckily I’ll have to come back out here in a couple months, when I can, because I need to finish my Wonder Woman tattoo.
Five freakin’ hours of tattooing and it’s not done. It’s looking amazing though and I’m really grateful to my artist for being awesome. Funny enough, for me the worst of the whole tattoo is that I’m dismayed because I should have tipped him more than I did. I hate that feeling, not tipping enough. I wish I was better at tipping but my first inclination is to be cheap and try to do the math quickly in my head but I’m also kinda bad at math.
*sigh* I hate being cheap. So, in true me fashion, I laid in bed, on my stomach, thinking about how I’m a shitty person for tipping less than I think I should have. I didn’t tip less than 15% but I should have done A LOT more. I fully intend to compensate when I get back with a larger tip but I don’t know if it will matter. I feel so guilty and he was really good to me with the tattoo and being really talented.
Do other people do this? Do they agonize over stuff like that? I feel like a crap person because it was a lot tattoo and he undercharged me and I should have tipped generously. I did this with my hair too! When I got it cut and didn’t do the math quick enough and tipped less than I’m normally into. Agh! I hate feeling like this. I wonder how many times I’ll be cheap and feel bad after before I stop being a cheap-shit.
Fun story, because the tattoo is located on my back, I wasn’t able to wash it myself so I had the husband do it. So, even though I was fine all the way through the tattoo, the cleaning took me out. Standing there, while the husband was washing off my tattoo, my hearing started to crackle and sound muffled, my vision tunneled, and my stomach dropped- I was beginning to pass out. I’m not unfamiliar with the signs of passing out, unfortunately as I’ve either passed out or felt the early symptoms of it a few times in the last few years, so I knew it when I experienced it. I felt myself “going down” and told the husband as much, who stepped out of the way, as I slowly lowered to my knees, then my hands, then my butt and eventually to my stomach because the tile felt cold against my face. 0/10, I would not recommend laying on an unfamiliar bathroom floor.
A half a glass of water and an orange later, I was able to get up and lay on the bed while he finished cleaning it and the applying the ointment. I nearly passed out again last night when my shirt attached itself to the tattoo, freakin’ plastic wrap moved while I was shifting in my sleep, and I pulled the shirt off the spot and it hurt so much I got dizzy. Today was a ton better and I hope it heals well… as I have a plane ride to look forward to on Thursday.
Not a lot of action going on in my life, just spending time with the family and hanging out. I feel like I should be active and doing stuff, which is just who I am. I always feel like I need to be working and moving or doing something. Even just sitting and watching TV makes me anxious.

Today I ate trash. Read nothing.


It ‘s been a long fucking day and I’m tired, so very tired. I hate traveling, the sitting, the people, the feeling trapped. It just takes so much out of me and it’s so much worse considering that we woke up at 1:40am to get to the airport at 5 something. I haven’t napped but I have ingested copious amounts of caffeine to keep on my feet by as it’s 10 pm, I’m hurting.
It’s always weird returning home. I don’t hate being here, per-say, but I do prefer being in my own space. I like being home, being safe, and being comfortable.  And something strange has happened since the last time I was here. My sister’s divorce, the pain she’s been through, as brought my family closer and it’s sorta left me out. It’s weird to watch. It’s weird to feel so distant, to hear the way they talk to each other and see how close it is, as a family should be but never the family we’ve ever been. Now I feel like I’m the bad one, the broken one… the perpetually left-out one. It’s doing nothing for the lingering effects of depression for me.
The worst, maybe outside of the knee pain on the plane, was sitting in the car listening to my mother, sister, and sister-in-law discuss and joke about sex. I’m not capable of that, sex is a shameful thing for me. I’m broken, more broken than I have been in a long time, and listening to these other women talk it made me feel even worse. I couldn’t participate and I wouldn’t tell them the truth, because I’m wrong and not normal. In the moment it was painful and alienating. In day of getting only 2 hours of sleep, a uncomfortable plane ride, and 10 degree weather, this was the worst of it.
I feel like I’m ever at the mercy of my feelings/ emotions/ and hormones concerning my sexual desires… when I even have them. I know that there is no “normal” when it comes to frequency but this isn’t what I want and I don’t know how to get better. I don’t know what to do to be able to. I just feel so broken and afraid. Afraid I’ll never been normal or always feel abnormal. That I will feel like I’m not doing something that nearly the whole rest of the wold has done.
I fear tonight’s post won’t be very long. I don’t have much to talk about, the day was mostly comprised of traveling and feeling awkward. I now just want to sleep and pretend I’m someone I’m not.

Today I finished WicDiv vol 4, Black Canary vol 1, Green Arrow #13 and Green Arrow #14. I had too much pizza, coffee, a couple breakfast sammys, and a chicken sandwich.

Today felt better. It really did. I worked hard to be working hard. Got up at a decent time, got the blog updated, did some social media work, and sent out the newsletter that I forgot to do last week. I feel like I’m always failing at my blog/ crocheting and all that. I just don’t know what to do to be better, where to go. But I guess I’ll still keep plugging away.

After getting next week’s pattern photographed, written, and the blog updated so I can do it from my mom’s house, I tried to work on the kitchen counters. It turns out that the great idea that I had, no not the one to do the counters in the first place, the one about putting coconut oil on the counters to make them all the same color – well that might be the reason that the poly isn’t adhering. I was literally flaking it off in chunks with the sander. It was devastating, to see all that hard work and money just flake off… again. I feel like such a failure, a complete fuck up, for even deciding to do this shitty project. The cabinets still look like shit. Hell, 2 of the doors have been sitting on the floor in the living room since I realized I couldn’t just wipe off the excess easily. Now I have to sand those too so I can clean them up before covering them in poly also.
I hope that works.
I’m just guessing with all this shit, because every time I search the internet I feel like I get more fucking info but it’s different and that’s not helpful at all.

I’m so tired of it all. I feel like I can do anything wrong. After discovering that I will, indeed, be doing the counters all over again, including sanding the whole fucking kitchen down, I just stood in the kitchen and cried. Husband stood there, asking if he could help, and looking at me. He didn’t offer reassurance or anything. Didn’t correct me when I said I’m a fuck up. I don’t know what that’s about and it didn’t sit well with me but I didn’t necessarily say it to hear him tell me I’m not. Or did I? I’m not sure. I know I need the validation from him that I don’t suck at everything but then, also, I don’t know. I never fucking know.

So I said fuck it, took a shower (after cleaning the bathroom a little bit because I felt in capable of doing the simplest of tasks and it made me feel better while finally getting someone to clean the bathroom). I cried in the shower like a fuck sitcom mom.
I’m ok now. I drank 4 beers, had some shitty pizza and read more. I’m ready to get home from Utah already.

One of the reasons that I WAS having a good day is that the new dress arrived, it fits well and looks good, and that made me feel good. I hate that my physical has such a huge role in me feeling good but it is. I does amaze me that my appearance means so much to me and I eat like garbage and rarely exercise. I guess it’s not just as important to me. I don’t know.
I posted a photo of myself, in the dress, on social media. It wasn’t for validation from other people, which I got and it was sure nice, but it was for shoe selection. It’s weird that I’m so hung up on the shoes to accompany this dress. I’m also worried about my hair. I, honestly, don’t know if I like it this color. I think I’ll dye it darker when we get back. Maybe only half of it, though, as I don’t want to waste all the time I put into bleaching it.
Not that it wasn’t a waste of time anyway.

Husband and I talked more today. It wasn’t all that great but it felt better than we’ve been in days. I don’t know what to say to him and he hasn’t asked. I assume he knows I’m sad and just doesn’t want to ask or doesn’t care to ask.

I don’t know. My skin is dry and I need to apply copious amounts of lotion and go to bed. Tomorrow is going to be a long and short day. Thursday is probably going to really fucking suck. Early 3 hour drive to Raleigh and then off to Utah. I think I’m in a middle seat… oh joy.

Read more Postcards From the Edge and ate pizza, grapefruit, instant oatmeal, and the other half of the bag of potato chips I bought yesterday. I’m sickened by myself. Also 4 beers worth of calories.

Here I am again, trying to sick to my “resolution” of writing my thoughts on the semi-daily. I want to get out all the garbage in my head so I’m going to take some time and write. Maybe it will make me a better writer, I’ve always wanted to be a writer but never found the “time” or “energy” or “know what the hell to write about” in the whole thing to go through with it. So, now here I am, laying in bed at 1 in the am on January 3rd, writing.

Husband in in the living room, as he always is. He snores. He decided to sleep on the couch because snoring has made it hard for me to sleep because his snoring is getting worse. Part of me fears for our marriage because he’s been sleeping out there for more than a year now. Or longer. It might be going on 2 years this summer. I didn’t mark it on my calendar so I’m not positive how long it’s been since he stopped sleeping in the bedroom. My sleeping habits haven’t really gotten better but at least he isn’t waking me up snoring.

Today wasn’t better than yesterday. After staying up too late I woke up at 7 this morning and had a hell of a time getting back to sleep. Normally I would just get up and start my day, falling back asleep around 9, but at least the coffee would be made when I woke up again at 10. Today though, because I’m going through a dark place, I laid in bed thinking about how nothing would change if I died. What if I wasn’t here? What if I finally did it? I’ve been thinking about suicide on and off since I was a kid. It makes me feel guilty, because my life was never “that bad.” As my mother constantly reminded me, “your life could be a hell of a lot worse.”
I did, however, lay in bed and start crying thinking about how few people would be affected by my passing. How selfish am I? Thinking that and crying because no one would care.
I’m really depressed and that’s why my brain does to me when I’m like this. When I’m better I can see that people would be sad, not a great many but a few. When I’m well I know it’s not a good idea but right now, it seems like everything. I’ll probably never do it.
In the back of my head, though, I feel a thrill to think… maybe I could. And then I think “that’ll show them, for ignoring me.” Because I’m that shallow and basic that I think my death would prove fucking anything to anyone else. I know it would devastate husband and my mother, who has her own struggles. Writing this I feel guilty about the imagined pain I’d cause my sister, who’s trying to hard to keep it together after a year that’s been garage to her. Notice I didn’t mention my brother – not sure he’d care.
Mostly I want to hurt husband. I feel like the classic neglected wife. The suffering martyr who finally gets her shit together and leave her husband, who then finally realizes he made a mistake and course-corrects, winning her back. I want to get to that place, the part where I don’t feel like his maid/mother/servant and get to be his partner. I don’t think it’s ever been a partnership and I’m afraid no matter what happens, it never will be. It’s probably my fault, most things are.
We barely talked today, that’s my fault too. I got up, later than I wanted to because I turned off my alarm. I went straight to working in the computer/Snake’s room. I made breakfast for us and then went back to working. He didn’t talk much. I don’t know how to feel when he responds to my moods like that. He doesn’t even ask what’s wrong. It makes me feel manipulative but I want to him to want to know what’s wrong. When he doesn’t respond it makes me feel like he doesn’t notice. I’m struggling and hurting and apparently that’s all the same to him. Or it’s not and he’s afraid to know what to say.

I got dressed and ran to the store alone. It was a foggy drive and I felt so invigorated leaving the house. I wish I had somewhere else to go, other than a grocery store. It’s very manipulative, I know, when I’m like this but I can’t offer up what’s going on. It gets stuck in my throat. My stomach turns at the thought of saying, “I’m not ok right now. I, hopefully, will be better soon, but right now I’m not ok.” I know, however, my thoughts will try to make sure I don’t dump on him too much, I’m always aware of how he feels. I feel like I do all the emotional work in this marriage while he gets to do nothing. When I’m angry at him, I have to be calm and measured. I never want to say something I’ll regret, that would make me like my mother.
Another cliche, as long as we’re keeping score, that I can go on to the list. I fear becoming my mother. She’s been diagnosed as bi-polar and I’m trying to understand and be considerate but at other times I can’t forget the selfish person she’s always been. She has said shitty, horrible things to me that still eat my soul, such as “no wonder you don’t have any friends.” She doesn’t remember them, or she does and she thinks she was justified in saying them.
I hold onto too much baggage. But that’s why I’m measured in what I say. I can’t tell my husband that I feel like he doesn’t value me and that in turn makes me value myself less. Actually, I have told him that, just not like that. It didn’t change his behavior. I told him I don’t think I can count on him for anything other than making money. I certainly can’t tell him that I fear for the day when he leaves the Marines because then I don’t know if I can count on him to continue to work when it gets hard.  If he ever brings us to the brink of poverty, I’m gone. I don’t think I can do this and live in poverty again.
Sure, sure, I would get a job at that point – and I’m sure all my working outside the home would result in me working all fucking day long. It’s happened like that in the past. I work a few hours a day or a full day, come home and make dinner and do the dishes. He doesn’t even think to do the dishes. It means nothing to him. I’ve explained that it matters to me and that should be enough for him to care. It seems that kind of logic isn’t enough, though. Oh, and…

You might have heard, I grew up poor as hell. These days, I tell everyone.

Today I read Mother Panic issue 2 and more of Postcards from the Edge. I ate nothing but trash (pizza, potato chips, & a hersey’s sundae pie).


Hi there, new year. I should have probably started this on the 1st. It would have been good, symbolically, to being a new project on a new year… that way I feel bad about how many days I’ve gone without typing out my nonsense thoughts because I can see it in real time. Or if I accomplish a whole year of updates I can look back and see… growth? Who, knows.
I certainly don’t know what I hope to accomplish, starting a new blog, but here is an attempt.
I need to change. I know that, I can see it in myself. There needs to be a change because, I think I’m unhappy. I’m actually pretty worried about myself. I find that each time I go a little dark, veering into my place of depression, I step further into that hole I’m worried one day I won’t walk away from. The length of time I spend in the dark place varies and the triggers are many, so I don’t know what to do other than this.
I mean, sure, I could be talking to someone or dealing with this in a healthy and constructive way but… who has time for that? Not me, I’m still in the state of pretending I’m “ok, for the most part” and I can ignore the problems until I hit a bad patch.
Today, while doing the dishes with a head full of bleach – no joke, it was my hair’s third dousing in 2 days and I feel fine about that – “Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves” came on my phone, a classic song I usually enjoy. Instead of blasting it, as is my normal response, something broke in me. It’s not uncommon for me to cry while doing the dishes, there’s something so painful about doing the dishes and making dinner while my husband sits in the living room playing video games that makes me question my existence. And that’s why I found myself sniffing snot and holding back tears today.
In that moment, of classic domesticity I hated him so much. I feel like his maid, his mother, and his cook and not his wife. Do you know I can’t remember the last time we had sex? That last night, at the stroke of midnight, we didn’t kiss? I fear our marriage is falling apart but I don’t know how to feel about that. Part of me is fine, I’m sick of being his servant but another part of me is terrified because I do love him. And we’ve been together long enough that I don’t know what my life would be like without him. And, of course, there’s the guilt.
I feel bad about being angry at him. I’ve got a good life. I don’t have a “real” job… I write patterns all day and play with yarn. I mean, sure, that takes up like 80 hours a week or something (ok, if I’m being realistic it’s probably about 40) but I like it so it’s not “work” work and I don’t leave the house… and I make shit money. And I’m the only one who cooks, who cleans, and who plans but that’s not really work, that’s just what I do in the house. Ok, see there, I’m being passive aggressive to even myself. I know that I work hard around the house and that I feel like he doesn’t appreciate a damned thing I do. Even when he says “thank you” I scoff at him, as much as a part of me wants to believe him I feel like he is only saying it to keep me from freaking out at him.
I don’t need the words, I want the actions. I don’t like coming home from the rare occasions I do work at BBW and seeing a sink full of dishes. To me, that communicates that its my job, not his. He takes out the trash – after it starts to fester – and the recycling – after it’s so full you can’t put anymore into the can – but everything else is my job. Today he folded the laundry and I mentally whipped myself in penance for assuming he would leave it for me, like he usually does. But he has a job, he works hard and he makes all the money that supports the family while I toil with yarn. It makes me feel guilty. I know you’re not supposed to keep score but I do. Against myself, I keep score. I’ve lost.

So now I’m just a 30 year old woman, with vibrant pink hair, trying to figure out where I lost. This isn’t the life I thought I’d live and I’m not sure how to make peace with that. I could talk to someone, I suppose, but we’ll be moving sometime in the coming year and I don’t want to get comfortable only to leave. Or maybe that’s just a convenient excuse. I have lots of those. That’s why I wanted to start writing. I need to express this shit, I think, more than I have been previously. I don’t care if anyone reads it (although, as a Millennial I wouldn’t mind the validation from strangers) but I need to say it. Oh, and it’s my fault we don’t have sex. I have intimacy issues… don’t want to forget to say that. I just want to make it clear I’m no prize and I should consider myself lucky he stays with me. I’ve never had a lot of close friends, people who stick around for more than a couple years, and I never thought I’d get married. Of course, when I had the former thought, I was 15 and then I met my first boyfriend – whom I later married and here we are.

And I’m coming to terms with my sexuality. At a teenager I identified as bi, to a couple of friends and myself. But I got a boyfriend and bought into the idea that, nah I’m just a straight girl. I’ve read, recently, that’s not uncommon and complete bullshit. I don’t know what it means, because part of me feels like I’m acting at it… performing the “cool chick” thing or, as I do so often, identifying my sexuality as it relates to my husband and only him. I’ve said it, a bit, to him and make a joke at BBW the other day about “don’t make me hang it, I don’t I could do anything entirely straight,” so who knows what’s going on with me. Perhaps I need to work through that a bit too.

So, at 2am I think this is a good place to stop. I’m going to go back to reading Postcards From the Edge and brush my teeth before bed. I’ll be back soon, I hope.

she painted her toe-nails pink that day,

then smiled and felt happy,

as she ran out to play.

pink and glitter is what she would choose,

when she was sad and alone,

and couldn’t take more abuse.

strong and mature,

as now a woman grown,

picking colors considered demure.

sometimes where no one can see,

her toe nails are pink,

and inside she is free.

I have a snake for a pet. He’s strange and quite.

He changes his skin a couple times a year. Would that I was like this snake.

He’s wants are simple. His needs are basic.

When met, he’s content.

Far more complex, humans follow no rules.

Save for the ones they make up.

I want to change my skin, I want to shed my rules.

By more and by less, distortion holds.

All new and clean, to begin again.


Will all the new be replaced with old?

Can it take shape, become recognisable?

Don’t let me be the same.


Have you changed your skin?

Snakes don’t share secrets. Will you?

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