Spin Me I Pulsate.

Sometimes, the world is this nasty ass piece of work, you know? People throw their kids off a balcony, rip others off, act terrible, and generally make the 16 year old in me stamp her feet and want to yell IT'S NOT FAIR!!

Sometimes, as I sit here with a full belly after making the spaghetti MY way, and listening to my children giggle and run circles around themselves in my backyard, I think about how bloody lucky I am.

If you had asked me 10 years ago if this would be what I had, if you had told me that I'd be happy and married and the mother to 2 incredible little girls, I would have told you to stuff it. My future didn't include a family. It included cats and a suicide pact.

I couldn't see a future. My present at that point was so bloody painful that imagining 30 wasn't possible. I couldn't see that far-it was just black. I couldn't imagine anyone wanting me enough to have babies anyway. I really didn't want babies. All my life I'd had people leaving me, hurting my, breaking my heart a little further all the time. How could I love something, someone else? How would I ever survive if something happened to them?

10 years later, and I can see, with a light that only life, experience and maturity can bring. The world didn't end because my mother died when I was 11. The world didn't end because my neighbor like to put his hands down my pants when I was 7. The world didn't end because my father became the alcoholic he had spent his life running from. The world didn't end because one sad little girl wanted to die. I was brave enough to hope that the future would be better. I said all the time, if 30 was as bleak as my life had been, I'd end it all.

Oh time, you fickle creature, what have you done to me? I'm almost happy, despite the waves of moods I ride. I've found this odd peace with myself, and with being happy. Cause you know, for a long time, I didn't feel like I deserved it. How could someone so broken ever dare to find fulfillment, happiness?

About a month before I delivered Rosalyn, my husband and I took a night walk in the snow and cold, one of those nights where your breath hangs in the air but it's not that cold, just cold enough to feel it. I talked to him about feeling that finally, I had found that one thing I was actually good, actually meant to do. I talked about how complete it made me, and how conflicted I was with this, I who never ever wanted children. And yet how there was no escape, no way around the fact that this somehow made me whole, and had shown me that yes, you can be loved, you can safely love.

It's a pretty incredible thing, when you stop and think about it. I, who never felt allowed to have the things everyone else had, never even felt like I had permission to dream about them, finally had all of them. A loving, warm, kick ass husband. 2 amazing, stubborn, smart beautiful children. A house that needs TLC, but backs on to what seems like paradise. I'm living a life that many people want.

I'm happy with my life. 10 years ago, I was ready to try and end it again. It's amazing what a little time will give.

Posted by thordora at 7:14 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Gentle turning, I've awoken
to a place that has prodded
awake in me this moment
this sovereign gesture

I can look no further alone.

There are memories, and there are
instances, places we
can no longer get at
roads washed out
paths long grown over

stand strong we must. Stand
forever and guardian before
bramble and brimstone.

I will not fail you. I will not
hold fast in a dying light my
heart will not be seared my
breath will not be taken

I will not fold my self around me,
I've only this chrysalis to defend me
a cushion made of myself.

Gentle turning I've
awoken to a spring I thought
I lost all claim to long ago.

Posted by thordora at 8:17 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

In an effort to get away from the boring ass blogger template, yet not pay anyone to make me a template, I'm trying to do it myself.

The results are mixed, as you can tell.

I'd like to set the backround image to stretch instead of repeat, but I'm not sure if I can. Any suggestions? And I'm trying to set a picture on the header (all you're getting is the sippy cup right now) and I can't get it. I know Owl told me awhile back what to try, but I forgot.

I'm trying to learn, really! It's better than paying someone else, right?!?!

And be flattered. I HATE asking for help.

Posted by thordora at 12:50 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I'm a little icked out.

Someone occasionally searches for "vomit sex" and winds up at my site.

Now, I'm down with a LOT of odd sexual practices, and mostly, I don't give a crap. But there are two things that totally ick me out, and I cannot even attempt to understand.

Scat is one of those things. The other is anything to do with puking. I mean, what possible attraction could someone have for a waste product. (although that does explain a guy I dated once). And it got me wondering-is the attraction to puking DURING sex? Being puked on? Lying in puke? Puking on someone else?

Is it chunky puke? Just bile? Does there need to be a lot of puke, or just a little?

And most importantly, who holds her hair?!?!?

Posted by thordora at 4:32 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I want another kid.

Yeah, back THAT truck the fuck up, right? Little miss PPD wants another child? okey hokey...

I don't want to push another child out of my koosh, although I will admit to some slight wistfulness when I imagine I won't be having anymore children from my body. There's this weird feeling I can't name, or shake. Most of it seems to relate to wanting a "do-over" for the first time. Hindsight is 20-20, and I want to go back and appreciate the first time. But I can't-and I accept that.

We've talked before about wanting to possibly/maybe adopt a child in a few years, NOT a baby, but a kid. I think we've done pretty good with our kids so far, and I'd like to someday, expand on this.

If you know me at all, you'd know what a headfuck this is for me.

I've never liked kids. They smell, they're annoying, they do things that....you know, stick things up their noses, eat dirt, bring bugs in the house. They're kids. I didn't get along with kids when I was one. But I love my girls to death, and I love how much fun I have with them. And for some reason, I want to share that with another child. I want a boy in our family some day. I want more.

I never imagined I'd feel like this because frankly, I don't think I'm all that maternal. But I've wondered if it might have more to do with my dislike for other people. With kids, I don't have to worry about offending them, or scaring them off by joking around, or any of the multitude of things that people are so bloody sensitive to now. I can just BE with my kids, I can sing at the top of my lungs in public, I can wear pull ups on my head, and they love me. They don't give me that look, you know, the one you gave your Mom at 15 when she wore that pair of shorts?

I know it won't last. Someday, I'll get that look. But I love the fact that my kids are MINE. They have MY last name, they look like me. That's pretty cool when you're adopted. But I think I also want to adopt so I can give back in the same way my parents took me in. And sometimes, I just feel like I have so much to give that I can't spread it around enough.

The Dorf got that uncomfortable feeling talking about this, like when you bring up vasectomy. He didn't say no, but he worries about money. And I know that we can't do this if we can't afford it, and if in 5 years, we still can't do it, I'll likely have to put the kibosh on my wants. But I think we're good parents, and that we can give a home to someone who doesn't quite have one. Money doesn't heal hearts after all.

Posted by thordora at 9:11 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

No, this isn't going to be some dorky Star Trek post (ever since the movie with the whale, I just can't be a trekkie)

I want a delurking post. I have a feeling I have a few regulars that I don't know about, and I'm sick of hoping for a good blog to appear on various traffic generators. So say HEY!, tell me about you and leave me your address. I need to know if I gots peeps!

Posted by thordora at 6:07 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

When I was 15, going on 16, I lost my virgnity.

OK, so I didn't lose it so much as wave it around a few times, heave back and throw it as far away from me as possible. I was done with it. I was glad to be rid of it.

Didn't anyone else find it to be like this big black hood that weighed heavy on you, like a big sign everyone could see? I couldn't see around it, and I wondered what was on the other side. It was bothersome, it was boring, and well, I wanted to be wanted.

Steve and I screwed around periodically. It was nothing we ever discussed, we were only friends at school, ok friends, we'd joke around, eat lunch, but that was amoung a group of people, all friends. We were all friends together the way a group of people with nothing in common except tormenting religon and french teachers together can be. But when we'd all get drunk on the weekend, Steve and I would inevitably hook up.

I don't remember feeling any type of lust or even attraction towards this guy normally. He was nice, a super nice guy, but not super attractive. He was "a friend". So why we came together like a moth to a flame when drunk, I don't know. Perhaps it was just because we were there. Perhaps we both felt like "friends" so often that it made sense to go off together.

It was nice, in it's own way. And yeah, I'm sure there are some Mom type people, horrified at the thought of their daughters having seemingly useless, promiscious fooling around with someone they aren't romantically entangled with.

But you know what-THAT is exactly what I liked about it, and why to this day, I think so fondly about Steve. There was never any pressure, no need to "DO" the deed, no need to hit this base, or make out for X amount of hours. We simply enjoyed the pleasure of eachother, and our bodies. We made no commitments to eachother, never had to say "I Love You", never had to pretend it was something other than it was.

The night I finally said "to hell with this" and said yes to his subtle, but continued prodding, I had drank WAY more Southern Comfort than any girl should, really. But I don't remember feeling very drunk. I do remember the excited look in his eye when I said I was ready, the loud "WHOOP!" he made when he jumped off the bed and ran out to a friends room looking for a condom. He genuinely wanted me, genuinely wanted to be close. He couldn't have faked the look in his eyes.

He never pushed me to it. He always asked, in much the same way you might ask if someone wanted tea-not really expecting them to say yes, but offering just the same. He never pushed beyond asking that once most nights, and even if he repeated himself, I could still say no and not feel any less of a person in his eyes. He wanted it, but he knew he'd have to wait for it, if it happened at all.

When he returned, and it started, I'll admit, I was scared. I was scared, stupid scared, and even with a condom, I wouldn't let him stay inside very long. And it hurt, but likely because I was so bloody tense with the unknown. Scared that I was loosing something, scared because I was becoming something else. But his eyes never wavered from mine, and I never saw anything but fondness, affection and pleasure in them.

The rest of that night goes down in a drunken blur. Everyone else knew, and later, congratulated us for doing it. For finally "popping the cherry". It was a big deal, and it felt like I had finally been initiated into some new club, I had finally become a woman, because I had chosen my time, and I was at peace with when and who I lost it to. I had made my choice, and I am forever indebted to Steve for making that moment in my life something that will always put a sly, quiet smile on my face. Steve made me realize at a very important time, that I was a wonderful, beautiful creature worthy of him, worthy of many, and most importantly, worthy of myself.

Now if only I could forgive him for the red bikini underwear he had on.

Posted by thordora at 2:05 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

It's pissing rain, I'm bleeding so much that I feel faint and I'm pale (which is saying something for me). And it's cold. AND it's a Monday.

BUT the Dorf just went to the store to get me some chocolate, which I've been craving for 3 days like MAD.

That's love isn't it? Riding in the cold rain to get your wife some cramps killing chocolate.

Posted by thordora at 1:31 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

You Americans are a funny bunch...you really are. And I totally dig some of you, but there are other days when I just can't stop shaking my head.

My current job is administering a survey for the company I work for. It's kinda cool sometimes, hearing about how nice our employees have been, how we've helped a customer, etc, etc. But then there are a different type of "message" that I hear a lot lately, which on one hand amuses the hell out of me, and on the other, irritates me to no end.

"I am american and I do not want to have to CHOOSE english. It should be automatic, with spanish as the option."

That's the tame version.

Now, to clarify, I live in Canada. Land of the free, true north, toque and maple syrup wearing peaceniks. We have this thing called "Two Official Languages".

That's right. Two groups of people who speak two languages, coexist relatively peacefully. Hell, there's a whole province full of them, 2 if you count half of New Brunswick...actually, that's not real french, as discussed previously.

But as a country, we get along quite fine with two languages. I'll admit, it can be irritating at times, but all and all, it makes for a richer culture and country. Many things that I love are french, many places are french, many people I like, are french. They aren't that different from me, other than the fact that they didn't win a few hundred years ago, and they keep threatening to separate. (To which most of Canada generally responds, "Jesus, just DO it already and shut up about it.")

So when I hear, repeatedly over the course of a week older southern sounding men, (which it inevitably always seems to be) whining about having to push "1" for English, I get annoyed. Why is he so special? Why does he have some god given right to have his language handed to him on a silver platter? Why does he not realize that the face of his country is changing, and he cannot control it.

A few years back, if people would have stood up against NAFTA as I believed they should have, maybe he would have stood a chance. But you have a group of people staring at what looks like paradise, a paradise created moreso because you stole their jobs with 'free trade". Said people want a piece of the action, they want what anyone wants. A future for their children. And really, if Canada suddenly started paying you 3 times what you make for the same job, you wouldn't haul ass across the border? Especially if all your jobs started to disappear up here? Please....

These men, and seemingly a few others seem to labour under this delusion that the world does not change, that society should remain stagnant and never change. That he can cherry pick from the culture-I'm sure he has no issue with running to a mexican resturant and having his favorite lunch. Just don't try to get him to order in Spanish. Both our countries have been created and built by outsiders. We aren't a land of native english speakers, we've become this. (or in our case, native bilingualism). We live in countries that grow by change, that shift and alter on a daily basis, dependant on the new people coming to our borders, wanting a piece. Without them, our countries would begin to disappear-we don't have enough babies.

And I don't have a real answer to the border issue. Both sides are shitty, and this problem began years ago, not just yesterday. People on both sides of the fence are hurting on this. You live in the states, in a border state, you don't want your resources tapped, you don't want the also inevitable wave of crime and poverty to come with the good people. You want to retain "the good life".

But those people are there, have been there for awhile. They pick your fruit, clean your schools, waash your cars, and even sometimes maybe answer your phones if you press 2 for spanish. If you really didn't want this to happen, you would have said NO to dirt cheap labour and goods. You would force your corporations to pay a living wage to the people legally on your soil. YOU would pay more for the goods and services you take for granted.

But that wouldn't be very much fun would it? Then where would you get the money to put gas in your H2?

And you wouldn't want to come to Canada either. We ALWAYS have to press "1" for English.

Posted by thordora at 9:42 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

One of the more.....interesting things with this bipolar/I'm crazy/whatever the hell it is cycling is the increased sex drive during manic periods, now that I'm off the pill.

My lord, I could conquer Tokyo I swear.

Normally, I'm not very driven. Ok, not at all, aside from a few choice days, or under the influence of much rum. But suddenly, I've been tiring the Dorf out. Imagine, tiring out a man. But add in a dose of rapid cycling bipolar (or whatever-I'm labelling it that until I find out otherwise) and I swear, I'm turning into a Nympho. Not that he seems to mind.

But it's caught me off guard, and I feel like a teenager, or at least, the way I should have felt as a teenager. I think about sex all the freaking time now. Sitting tabulating data, creating graphs, eating soup. It's like a toothache I can't remedy.

Of course it doesn't sound annoying, but it kinda is. It's like when you're craving something, and you don't know exactly what it is, so you eat a little bit of everthing, and you STILL want more. I can't satisfy it, and I'm not used to it.

Again though, the Dorf isn't complaining one bit. And we're nicer to eachother this way, so really, what was I complaining about again?

(and yes, if this is bipolar, I am currently rapid cycling. On the pill, I'd cycle through in a day or so, or faster. Now, I seem to be cycling mainly on manic periods with short depressed ones. I wish it would settle on one pattern)

I also wish I knew why it suddenly became so prevalent.

Posted by thordora at 11:52 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I hate this.

I don't even know what it is, but I hate it.

They tell me it's likely bipolar, that I likely just came off a manic cycle. They tell me that the manic cycle is likely the source of my blowing over 300.00 in a day or so. I don't care what it is. I hate it. It makes me feel rotten, like some festering onion in a drawer, and no matter how much you peel back, it's still got this one rotten spot that you can either cut out, or throw out completely.

I hate how angry it makes the Dorf. I hate trying to explain that I cannot control it, that I am trying. I hate trying to explain why I'll give my bank card over, and manipulate it back. I can feel it happening. I have trouble stopping it. I hate how it makes me feel, how it makes the people around me feel. I hate the fact that in the midst of the only happy period, this lies underneath in wait. I hate feeling so at odds with myself. I hate having to feel like a child who can't be trusted with her own money. I hate that I can't be trusted.

I hate this.

Posted by thordora at 1:28 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

You know....the only thing worse than a rainy day is a rainy day with two kids who have shit constantly all fricken day long......

Posted by thordora at 5:19 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

My backyard, today, in all it's spring wasp infested glory. Wait 2 weeks. It's like we live in the woods. I LOVE it.
Miss Thang. Rosalyn is turning into quite a ham, and has just learned how to get herself up on the couch by herself. She's strong and willed and tenacious. I have NO idea where she gets that from.
Ever look at one of your kids and realize, my god, they're a PERSON now, and, gee, she's actually attractive? Not that I was expecting ugly kids, but Vivian just seems....pretty. And old. I can't believe she'll be 3 soon. Sigh...

Both kids napping. It's a blissful 23C outside, in the shade.

The only bothersome thing is the HUGE number of wasps all around my house. (If anyone has some helpful advice, NOW would be a GREAT time to share it. I'm fucking terrified, and trying to gibber quietly is NOT easy).

I'm serious about the gibbering.

Posted by thordora at 2:20 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

It's Mother's Day. Woo. Wee.

The Dorf did get me a nice gift, albeit one that made little sense, until he admitted he hadn't really looked at it. It's the ready made scrapbook that says "All about Her" on it. Meaning, I'm supposed to populate it with pictures of myself.

ahem.

So I'm focusing on the thought, because it was really sweet and he thought it was a baby one. I'm always bitching about him not having the right thought, and this time he did.

But today also brought a realization crashing in on my head. I don't really have any friends. I have friends, people I hang out with, talk to, but no one I really click with. I click with my friend Stace, but she's 18 hours away, and living a completely different life than I. And I miss her, lord I miss her lately. I miss the way she can chastise me for being lazy and not doing anything about the crap I bitch about. I miss our little in jokes. I miss feeling comfortable sitting with her and not saying a word.

I don't make friends easily. I'm not very social, and the first impression I give is "Fuck off" in most instances. I have trouble tolerating the little quirks people have. I have trouble finding a common ground with many people, not because I feel superior (although that does happen) but because my field of reference is so different. Maybe I do take life, and myself, far to seriously.

It made me sad, to tell you the truth. Then I flip through a magazine and see an article of "girls only trips" and see groups of 8 women together and I wonder how on earth you can have that many friends, and what it must be like. It seems like it must be nice, to not feel like you have to be an island.

Perhaps that is the worst part about losing my mother. I lost the ability to relate to other women, to just be a woman around them. I feel so insecure and sometimes, like a failure, and other women just amplify that. My mother didn't have many friends, but she had friends. I don't know how to be that way, mostly because I don't remember her friends being anything but patronizing to me.

Funny what you can dredge up huh? I guess this is the long way of saying in real life, I'm a fucking loser. Or at least that's how I feel sometimes. I wish I could create a machine that would let people see how other's really see them.

Then again, I don't really want to know.

Posted by thordora at 7:56 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I can't remember the name of the Sophie. B. Hawkins song that line is from, but I'll always adore the song.

Tomorrow is apparently BirthMother Day, the day after Mother's Day.

Ah, to have so many issues surrounding both. And to have neither mother with me. To have one mother dead, the other seemingly disapproving and distant.

Sometimes I wish I never found my birth mother, never had the crashing reality around me. It was easier when I could dream about the person she must be, when I could pretend she was a person I could love and respect. I wish I didn't constantly wonder where my half sister is, what she thinks of me. Does she hate me? What was she told after I disappeared from her life, after telling me she always wanted a sister, and never seeing me again?

I wish my birthmother wasn't such, well, a bitch. I wish it would have been easier to like her. I wish it didn't hurt so fucking much to watch her cuddle my then 11 year old sister, while I stood in the doorway, unsure where to place my eyes. I wish it didn't hurt to look at my wedding pictures, and see her looking so unhappy.

But I'm ok this year, for once. Mother's Day isn't filling me with the sense of dread I've come to associate with the day. Ok, I'm a little weepy, but nothing new there. But this year feels different. It feels like I finally cast off, to some degree, the grief that I couldn't cause to relent. It's like breathing again. It's nice. It's nice to think of a day and not immediately constrict in a few places. It's nice to be able to not care.

I miss my mother. I miss her more than I with ever be able to express. I miss this things other people take for granted-meddling, getting in arguments. I miss that I never had the chance to know my mother as a person. I miss her never getting to know her grandchildren.

But this year, I think I'm ok with it.

Posted by thordora at 3:33 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

My coworker was looking for a phone number, and didn't know where to look. I reminded her of the website she was looking for.

And it stuck me, my kids will never know what life is like before the internet. It will always be there. And so my definition of childhood, playing and research are pretty much obsolete. My idea of sitting in front of a TV even, is drastically changed.

I remember watching a movie once, and seeing the character stopping and starting a cassette tape in order to figure out the lyrics. She continued to do it for awhile, and I caught myself saying "Jesus, just go check on the internet!"

Problem being, it was an eighties movie. There was no internet. I shook myself, and felt very very old.

I remember when we were first using the internet in school. I remember sitting at my friends house using the internet for the first times on her mom's mac. I remember being astounded at the sheer amount of knowledge. I also remember my history teacher being at a loss for how I should represent items taken from the internet in my source notes. The internet made research a breeze.

It all seems so normal now, but remember, only 15 years ago, it was more of a geek thing. EVERYONE was on dial up. Remember dialup? That sound....

Much as I grew up just being used to cars and TV, my children will never know a world that does not include cell phones and internet. How do I explain that at one time, you had to find a pay phone and hope you had a quarter? That people were not always available. That porn wasn't everywhere. That people only worried about strangers in the backyard, not on the monitor.

Oh brave new world! I'm glad these things are available to my children, but at the same time, I worry about their ability to shut down, shut off. I have a LOT of trouble doing that sometimes, endlessly searching for stuff I don't really need to know or see. Feeling connected to people who aren't totally real. Getting lost in worlds that are imaginary, but not created in their heads. Are we making things too easy for them? I spent hours in my backyard playing by myself as a child, creating my own little worlds. Will my children do the same? I've argued with my father before about it being a different world from when I was a child, how being computer literate is necessary in the new world.

I only half believe it. I still want my daughters to save the planet with sticks in the backyard.

I also want the internet to remain free as it is now. I'm not American, but to anyone who is, THIS is very important. Save the internet. Don't let corporations take knowledge and accessiblity away from the people it's meant to serve. From their website:

Congress is pushing a law that would abandon the Internet's First Amendment -- a principle called Network Neutrality that prevents companies like AT&T, Verizon and Comcast from deciding which Web sites work best for you -- based on what site pays them the most. Your local library shouldn’t have to outbid Barnes & Noble for the right to have its Web site open quickly on your computer.

If you're american, take the time to contact your political representatives to make sure your voice is heard. All of our children have the right to enjoy their new world freely.

Posted by thordora at 9:50 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

CRUSH.

SQUISHY SQUISHY want...I'd love this for my birthday if anyone cares....

And Eagles of Death Metal fucking RULE.

Posted by thordora at 12:19 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Life off the pill is WONDERFUL.


I've stopped taking it before, and the change was never this drastic. But for some reason, this time, it's been night and day.

When your husband turns to you in Wal-Mart of all places and says, "Have you noticed that we actually get along now that you're off the pill?", it's a big deal.

I don't feel the need to get pissed off at him every four seconds. The rage feeling in my chest is gone. I actually went outside for a walk with the girls today, and just enjoyed the moment. I made cookies yesterday (oatmeal coconut raisin, and oatmeal chocolate chip, in case you wondered) and I'm making bread to go with ham and potatoes tonight. I'm becoming positively Marthaish.

I'm also positively happy, and it's really really ODD.

I'm sure this is just in conjunction with an up cycle. I've come to grips with the fact that I am most likely bi-polar, and I'll need to live with this for the rest of my life. To some degree, I've come to accept that in some ways, I'm at the mercy of my brain chemistry. But BOY, the difference not taking those goddammed pills. It's like opening the window in a public bathroom. The difference between gagging until you puke, and sweet fresh air.

I will also say that I'm enjoying having an actual libido for once in my life. Although the Dorf is getting a wee bit tired. It's also opening a can of worms sexually for me, in terms of my preferences, but I don't really want to get into that here. I'm having enough trouble coming to terms with it myself. So some other post.

So my confession today is, it's a beautiful day, and I'm quite content, Despite stepping on a rusty nail while exploring the woods behind the house with the girls (Tetnus shots last ten years, right?)

So nothing depressing, or thought provoking or stupid or whiny today. Just...hold your loveys a little closer today. Enjoy the very moments you could sit in forever.

Posted by thordora at 1:43 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I was about 5'7 when I was 13, and I'm built like a linebacker. I became a tomboy almost in defense. You can't be girly at my size. My few attempts were laughed at and ridiculed. (Looking back, I can't say I blame anyone on that one.)

I felt so huge and cumbersome then. Who wears a C cup in grade school? It it took me years to realize what I had in the sisters. I was like a giant bull in a china shop. Ever tried to be that giant chick in school? I played it up like I didn't care, that I was above all that, didn't need it.

I wish that was true.

I spent my early years as a teenager secretly wishing I was thin and pretty like Stephanie in Grade 8, who seemed so willowy and mysterious. She had amazing red hair, and boys who always wanted her. I wanted to wear Esprit and Jacob Girl too, I wanted Benetton. I wanted Vuarnet.

I wanted to be a girl, not someone stuck between the fence we call gender. I don't fall evenly on either side, and that's a bit of an issue in grade school. I hadn't grown enough at the point to say "fuck y'all bitches" and not care. I CARED. I cared more than I have ever, ever let on. I wanted to be girly for my mother. I wanted to be accepted in the "club" I wanted to wear my hair in those retarded banana clips just to be the same as everyone else. Lord, I just wanted to be wanted for once.

At some point some "friends" who were boys noticed the sisters, and undertook what I think was a bit of a competition to see who could get into my pants first. I think I knew what was going on, even then, but wanted the attention so badly I didn't much care. I can still feel those clammy, young boy hands on me. I always remembered thinking I was so much bigger than them.

When one of them coerced/forced/begged me into going farther than I wanted, I didn't feel big at all. I felt used, and dirty, and sad. I didn't say no, but I didn't want it. But I wanted to be wanted, so I went along, stared at the stars, felt cold grass and concrete under my skin. I let him walk me home. After that, when we saw eachother, it was a wary stare, and he'd say something disgusting while I felt like shit. Eventually, I learned to tell him to go fuck himself.

I should hate them really. I don't. I could have put the kibosh on it at any time, and I didn't for awhile. On some levels, I liked it. On most levels, I would have rathered they been strangers. The one thing that has always really bothered me was the thought of them talking to eachother about it. Laughing. Plotting.

The other guy was a little more ineffectual. He never frightened me. But the other, the would be rapist, on some level he did scare me. We'd been friends for a few years, so I knew what he might do. And I could never understand why I, someone who felt so strong and impenetrable most of the time, felt like a cowering little girl around him. Why did I become that fragile image at the worst possible time? Why could I never see that void in his eyes and just walk away first?

It only solidified my inability to BE a girl, to be fragile and to need people sometimes. It cemeted a wall that I still hold, that prevents me from asking for help. It kept me, and keeps me still, from accepting any compliment at face value. There must be a catch. No one is nice to me for no reason. No one wants me, or loves me, or lusts for me. All because two bastard 14 year olds had what I'm sure they considered to be some fun.

It took me another 7 years to see that people did lust for me, did want to love me. If I'd let them.

I eventually got the Vuarnet. I never got that night back though.

Posted by thordora at 6:22 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Get your minds out of the gutter you pigs. That was the other night. snicker

My ass hurts because as a non smoker, I rarely ever get up. I nibble on things when I feel the need, whereas I used to get up, walk outside, have a puff, and a little break. But now that I don't smoke, I find you get weird looks from other people when you're just sitting there resting your eyes, or walking around a bit. Why is it ok for a smoker to take tons of breaks, but not me?

The amount of nibbling has expanded my butt to the point of wanting to smoke again. And I try everything-I try chewing straws, pens, gum, anything. No help. Drinking water, tea, nothing. I've gained at least 30 pounds in the last 2 or 3 months, and not only is it depressing, it's kind of scary. I'm having trouble breathing. My legs and feet hurt all the time. I can't get moving.

I'm VERY hesitant to go to my doctor, since he ALWAYS basically tells me it's my weight, and that's it. No help. No advice, no "let's check this to be sure." I'm worried because this type of weight gain is VERY odd for me, and has occured even with certain diet alterations that should have at least caused me to maintain. But I don't want to waste my time. I'm sick and tired of having to almost BEG for tests, or for help. I know that I eat like crap sometimes. I also know that I don't eat like crap all the time. I cannot shake the feeling that something is actually wrong.

I'm sick of not fitting into anything anymore. I'm worried that the only answer for my body is NOT eating, period. I don't even want to be some little stick. I just want to be healthy, and I can't seem to get ahead of it. Most days, I eat very well-what do I have to do, go down to 1500 calories a day? And I'm putting at least 30 mins of exercise daily into my life, and still NOTHING.

I fucking hate this feeling. Like my body is rebelling against me.

My ass hurts, and I want a cigarette.

Posted by thordora at 12:37 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Ever have that sneaking feeling that you aren't the fun loving cool person you think you are? I've been having that lately.

It's not just the frum (the front bum, for all you NON breeding folk).

My Dad, for some strange reason, is really into Numerology. It's odd considering when I was interested in Wicca as a young kid, he FREAKED the hell out, muttering something about the devil under his breath. Had the same reaction to a Ouiji board as I recall.

Dad left on Wednesday, leaving me my detailed chart which he had written (after I, for the 400th time, told him my birthday.)

I might add that I don't really believe in this crap, but I figured something about me by my father might have some tidbits that are relevant to how I am, his observations of me. My Dad doesn't really ever say anything like "You're good at this" or any type of feedback period. I always feel like I don't really know him. I always feel distant from him, held at arms length.

There is irony there. Leave it alone.

So I take this bundle into the bathroom with me, and begin to read. Most of it is nothing I don't know. Holds cards close to her chest. Impacted by early loss. Feels responsible for those around her.

Then I notice a recurring theme.

Doesn't know how to have fun. Needs to loosen up. Should have more fun.

I've always thought I was a fun person. Granted, my idea of fun is far removed, and oft-times odd, but I'm fun, right?

This really got me thinking. What if I'm NOT fun. What if I'm actually more boring than I thought? I know I live far too much in my own head, and I prefer my own company to most others. I find contact with other people tiring and sometimes stressful. If I have people over, I always feel like I've forgotten something, I should feed them or....something.

And I'm thinking about this on the bus when the minimum wage women from the local low rental housing get on, sitting next to me and behind me. They look old to me, but likely only in their 30's, working at Tim Hortons. Their enthralling conversation follows:

MWW1: Man, I don't even remember how many drinks I had. How'd I get home?
MWW2: I know man, you were totally hammered. Where was George?
MWW1: I don't know how I got home. I don't know how I opened my door. Where was George, behind me? I gave away 7 beers from a 24, so I guess I drank a lot.
MWW2: Don't forget the shooters! Man, you were so trashed. I started drinking yesterday from 4:30pm, and crawled into bed at 3am

It went on like this for awhile. And while I do NOT think this is fun (not at their age at least) it got me wondering if I'm missing some fun gene or something, if I'm unable to just let go, and hang loose. That very well may be. But not without reason. I've spent my entire life being told, by my father especially, to calm down, be quiet, stop figeting, no, I don't play games, go outside and play by yourself, etc, etc, etc.

So now that I'm quiet and independent and sit still, I should have more fun?

Or is it a comment on my demeanor, being so serious. What does he expect? He acts like I'm guided by my life and it's losses, and to a degree I am. But I also think I'm pretty damn adjusted for all the things in my life, and if that means a fair dose of worry and less levity, that's fine. I also find it amusing that the one person in my life that never did much to help whatever was wrong with me, is the one telling me to lighten up. I've waiting over 10 years for him to be sober, and he only manages that half the year.

I'm sure on some level, he still sees the funloving, free spirit I was as a child, and wishes I could still have that. But I'll never be her again, and it's sad and frustrating to think that he's wishing that after I finally got over it.

Not to mention that no one wants to be called a boring prude.

Posted by thordora at 10:26 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I'm procrastinating and ruminating. I found a book with some old poems in it today, and read through them. Aside from the uncomfortable feeling, not unlike being seen accidentally naked by someone's parents, it also brought me back to my last year of high school.

Remember that magical year, when you thought the world would never end, and you could be anyone, anything, when everything just shone, despite your cynicism and depression? A specific note in the book, from my Writer's Craft teacher, reminded me of who I used to be:

"You have a duty to share your gift for poetry...next obvious step is publication."

Vivian came in the room then, and asked what I was doing. I told her that mommy used to be more than just a mommy. I got through one stanza, and she left.

Nice huh?

I started thinking about my friend Stace. We were fairly close my last year of high school, or at least as close as someone can get to me. I'm not exactly verbose in some aspects of my life, and I always feel restrained from the people who know me. It's not safe you see. Stace is, well, she's Stace. She incredibly talented and strong and has a certain burning wit about her. She's also one of the prettiest people I've ever met, though she'd never admit it. She was gonna do film, and I was going to write, we were going to meet our dreams in the future. We talked about living in Toronto, getting out of our shithole little town and living, really living.

We'd sit high on acid in parks, staring at the stars, talking about where we'd go, what we'd do. We didn't have anything, and for some reason, it never really mattered. We just sat in those moments, and waited for tomorrow.

It's been 10 years since we had those silly late night talks, since her and I and Jay sat watching the sunrise flare up over the St Lawrence River, burning out our eyes and our hearts to such a degree, we didn't talk for 20 minutes after it rose. I'll remember that image forever, and the awe it gave us sustains me.

Stace comes home today from 2 months spent in South America. And I'm JEALOUS. SOOOOO insanely jealous. But at the same time, I'm not.

The part of me that's jealous is that little nagging voice that reminds me that I haven't done what I set out to do. I haven't become a published author. I don't have the will or the discipline to write daily, or to set real goals for myself. In some regards I'm aimless and rather vapid with my "talent".

The other part of me reminds me that my children, my house and husband, were never ever part of the life that stretched out before me, and that I took a chance, and walked that road instead of the one that would surely have left me alone in a grungy apartment somewhere. My children inspire me everyday in ways I've never thought possible, and this assures me that my words are not gone, but merely waiting, lurking in the backround.

Stace has a good life, from where I sit. She has friends, a busy job, but I don't think she's always happy with her choices either. Does she worry about who she'll spend her life with? Will she have kids? Because honestly, in my mind, I saw her getting married and having kids before me. She'll be a wonderful mother to her children when they arrive.

But she got off her rump, and made her trip happen, made a life change, because reading her travel journal assures me that her life, her being, has been changed. And it's wonderful. It's incredible for me to still be friends with anyone after all this time. And it's a weird and neat feeling to be proud of them for reaching out, and taking a chance, much the same as I did 8 years ago when I took my husbands hand and started my own trip.

I miss those lazy nights sometimes, and I miss all the talk about "the future". I miss just being, that sense of being alive with no where to burn the time.

But I love where I am right now.

Welcome home Stace.

Posted by thordora at 10:47 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

One of the most difficult parts of going from one to two kids for me was the lack of Mommy.

Mommy it seems, cannot be everywhere.

For instance, if Mommy decides that she wishes to cuddle Child B, Child A will ALWAYS decide that she absolutely, positively MUST be on Mommy's lap or the world will end. And the Child B gets very very upset, and as seen on a previous post, turns into Black Canary. Child B tends to have a very very piercing voice to say the least.

What I find to be difficult is the guilt-when Rosalyn cries and whines and generally makes a pest of herself, I know that it's because I wasn't able to go to her when she needed me all the time as I had with Vivian. I know that some of her pestering if due to the fact that she doesn't feel secure. And there will always be a part of me that will think she knows I wanted to abort her. That same part of me always feels like she'll get cancer or something, and die, just to spite me.

It's horrible though isn't it, the second child issue, the feeling that you cannot possibly devote enough time to either, that you can't give the second born the moments that the first born had. Everything for the second born seems so anticlimatic.

Remember when you're pregnant with the first? People are falling over themselves to help, give you things, they call every day near the due date to ask if you popped yet, then send gifts to the hospital. The in laws can barely stay away.

Announcing the second pregnancy barely got a "whoop!". No one called to see when she was coming. Gifts seemed send out of obligation. Barely any visitors to the hospital. We had to beg our inlaws to come help, before I slit my wrists.

Firsts like solid food and walking are just givens. No one gets excited about them really. You expect the second born to sleep through the night. You've figured out that it's the burping that's causing that messy projectile vomiting issue.

Sometimes I get a brief moment alone with my baby, and she seems so happy to have those few minutes to herself. And I get so sad thinking, this is all she knows. I barely ever have a chance to interact with her one on one. What am I losing? Is she more independant and into her own thing because that's her nature, or did I cause this?

GUILT GUILT GUILT.

It never bloody well ends. I'm sure I'll have all this thrown back in my face at 15 too.

Posted by thordora at 9:09 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

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