Testing

1,2,3

It's not fair.

The child woke me up cause she'd had a bad dream. I couldn't get back to sleep. The man was flopsy, too. We could SO be having early early morning sex right now. But he's running on low low sleep cause of some work he had to do over the weekend AND he's getting a cold. :( Whine.

A moment of grace:
hummingbird takes flight as the
school bus pulls away

Mediocrity

Well, my final gpa for law school is a 2.948. Mediocrity at its finest, people! I feel like I should care more... and also less. Oh well, done is done.

Leave my mental health alone, thank you very much.

It's not at all unexpected, but today I got a letter from the Washington State Bar Association telling me they couldn't process my application any further until they received information from my shrink as to myBPD2 diagnosis and prognosis. Basically they need my doc to tell them that this condition won't interfere with my practice of law.

I knew that they'd want this info, especially since I was moderately snarky about it on the application. But I really, really, really hate the fact that they get to ask me for this information. It's an invasion of privacy - albeit a sanctioned one - and it feels REALLY, REALLY shitty. I managed to get through MORE than half of law school (as a single mother in the process of a divorce, mind you) with neither a diagnosis nor treatment of BPD2. It wasn't easy, and I wasn't the most stable person ever, but I did it, and I did it competently.

So I really want to say FUCK YOU to the WSBA. But I can't, since the practice of law is "a privilege."

Life sucks.

There aren't enough synonyms for fear and stress to describe what I see in the next 8 weeks of my life.

I am studying for the Washington State Bar exam. This involves 3 to 4 hours of prep classes per day followed by an additional 4 to 6 hours of individual studying on top of that. On days where I have no classes, I still have to put in 8 hours of studying. I think the prep course has penciled in a day or two off around July 4th, but I'm pretty sure I'll be using those as make up days, not as free time. I get to do this for the next 8 weeks, at the end of which I have to take an exam which runs for 2 & 1/2 days and tests 18 subjects. Good times.

I keep being told that it's just a marathon. And that's true. It is. But in addition I have to actually memorize the rules for 21 subjects (we don't know which 18 will be tested). I also have to learn to write these rules in essay form which is not as easy as it sounds.

I HATE THIS. I HATE THIS SO MUCH. I have to pass. I can't afford to do this again, either financially or psychologically.

I ping pong back and forth between abject fear and feeling like I can do this. I suppose this is normal. Of course everyone around me starts in with "You'll ace it" and "Don't worry, you can do it" comments which are nice but unhelpful. I KNOW that people more stupid and dull than I have passed this, but that doesn't help either. I know I sound ungrateful, but I DON'T know that I can do this. I can't concentrate. I don't know how to study. I don't know how to memorize. There's no curve to save my ass: it's either pass or fail.

I am already seeing myself stressing and unstressing, stressing and unstressing. I'm really trying to take this one day at a time, but it's so very hard. I'm really trying not to future fuck myself, but it's so very hard. I'm really trying not to be so tough on myself, but it's so very hard. I'm really trying not to be closed off and pinched with the people around me, but it's so so so very hard. They have NO IDEA. Really. That sounds terribly self important, but it's true. They have NO POSSIBLE CLUE what I am facing right now. What every law student faces. It's so easy to say "just take it one step at a time, and you'll do fine." NO! It's really possible I won't. Do you think that the 20-30% of law students who fail the bar just fucked around? They studied hard, too. But they just didn't get the points. That could be me in two months.

On top of this, I still have a life. One that I can't simply let slide. I have to buy and prepare healthy food for my daughter. I need to have clean laundry for her and a relatively tidy house. I have to deal with the garbage, and doing dishes, and really slim finances. I have to get my girlie to school each day, and give her time at night when I pick her up. She still needs to have her teeth brushed, her hair shampooed, bedtime stories, and cuddles. I don't have the luxury of foregoing these obligations for 2 months.

Yes, one way or the other, this too shall pass. But man, it really really sucks right now. I'm tired and I want out.

Wish

If I could have anything right now, it would be a lap to lay my head in and someone to stroke my hair and tell me it will be alright.

Oh, for the love of...

OK, so the fact that Mother Catholicism doesn't WANT gays among her shepherds is no great news. But yesterday the the Vatican issued a directive which explicitly says that spiritual directors and confessors in seminaries "have the duty to dissuade" any candidates "who show deep-seated homosexual tendencies" from joining the priesthood.

Really.

What exactly ARE deep-seated homosexual tendencies, hmm? Liking Judy Garland too much? A lisp? Never having had a girlfriend? Seriously, what constitutes a "deep-seated" homosexual tendency? And how does that differ from a shallow homosexual tendency? Is that someone who's only a little bit gay? Maybe someone who's donated to HRC, or who's attended a pride parade (but of course never marched in one...)? Someone who had a little guy on guy fling but has "gotten past it"? Maybe it's someone who's Bi?

I think the real issue, though is in "the duty to dissuade." Isn't the call to serve God one of those things that isn't for man to interfere with? Y'know, "not my will, but God's will"? And doesn't the Church revere saints who fought against the odds, and even died, to serve God? Yeah, I thought so.

Well, apparently that's not good enough for Mother Catholicism. It seems the Church thinks that homosexual priests "find themselves in a situation that seriously obstructs them from properly relating to men and women." HUH?! How in the WORLD does a celibate GAY man relate less well to men and women than a celibate STRAIGHT man? I mean, most women I know would say that, on a non-sexual basis, gay men relate to them FAR better than straight guys do. Doesn't that tell you something?

Maybe the Church's really problem is a fear that the gay priests won't be able to do the celibacy thing. After all, those gayboys, they're MANIMALS! They just won't be able to keep themselves from hitting the bathhouses and turnpike reststops. But here's my thinkin': the guys who go for gloryholes, are NOT the kind of guys that become priests, y'know? Anymore than straight guys who hit the bars and pick up chicks are the guys that become priests.

Moreover, priests know about the celibacy thing when they sign on the dotted line; it's not like it's some big surprise. Anyone signing up knows that what's expected of them. So where's the problem? If he ain't gettin any ANYWAY, what does it matter that he fantasizes about men instead of women? Is it OK that straight priests jack off to thoughts of women (and yes, they DO jack off)? Even if you DO think fantasies of gay sex are wrong, isn't that really between the priest and God?

Earlier this fall, in anticipation of the publication of the Directive, the Vatican ordered a year long inspection of seminaries and theological schools in the U.S. to look for "evidence of homosexuality" and for faculty members who dissent from church teachings. Apparently it reflects the concern some higher ups had about the church's child-molestation scandal.

Now let's analyze this last paragraph shall we? OK, so we got a year long inspection of seminaries to look for evidence of gays in the ranks. Hm. Whaddya suppose they're looking for? Copies of 'Out"? Anal lube? Or is it just that they're going to talk to people, and suss out the gays that way? Y'know..."Welllll Fr. Fredrick over there seems a bit mincy and whenever Stone Phillips is on he gets a faraway look in his eye..."? Seems REALLY McCarthy-esque. Or, perhaps more a propos - inquisitionesque.

THEN we have them looking for evidence of homosexuality IN THE U.S. Because, dontcha know, gayness only happens in America. We are loose, LOOSE people, we Americans. Except that in terms of acceptance of homosexuality, America is near the bottom of the list of the industrialized nations.

Finally, they're weeding out gays as a response to the pedophilia scandals. OK, is there anyone who doesn't know that taking gays out of the picture won't do a goddamned thing about the child-gropers? Seriously, raise your hands! Because every legitimate fucking study of child molestation says two things: one, it's most likely to be done by a family member, and two, the perpetrators are overwhelmingly straight men . But, hey, research be damned! You gotta have SOMEONE to blame, right? And honestly, this keeps the Church from having to deal with selecting out the pedophiles.

Damn. Just when you think the world is taking a few steps forward, it jumps a half mile back.

And people wonder why I left the Church.

Abortion Soapbox

It is a common view among the anti-choice crowd that women seek abortions because pregnancy and parenthood are "inconvenient."

I recently had a discussion about this with a guy I know, as we were driving down the highway. He said, "I'll be fine with abortion when I am allowed to kill someone simply because they inconvenience me. That guy who just cut me off? He inconvenienced me. I should be allowed to kill him."

I tried to explain that women don't seek abortions on the basis of convenience: many don't have health insurance, are not psychologically or financially prepared to become a parent, are in abusive relationships, are in school. He said, "Inconvenience. Inconvenience. Inconvenience." You get the idea.

Losing your car keys is "inconvenient." Having your hot water heater die is "inconvenient." Having to go to three different stores in order to get the item you want is "inconvenient."

But a situation that requires you to alter your eating, sleeping, and movement habits for nearly a year, that requires you to face the very real risk of physical harm and possible risk of death, that permanently alters your body, and that irreversibly changes your life is a good bit more than "inconvenient." It's pretty damn momentous, and to suggest that it's anything less evidences a total disregard for the experience of childbearing, not to mention a chilling distain for women.

February 14th , 2003

I was willing to try. Up until that night, I was willing to try. I would have gone to counseling, tried to work things out with him, given it my best efforts. And it would have succeeded - at least for a few years. But it all died for me that night.

Two weeks earlier - February 2nd - I had just gotten home from a dinner out with my mama-friends, when he confronted me, saying he knew about C & me. It was dark in the kitchen where we were sitting; there was a small stove light on, and some light from the spots in the back yard, but that was it. But I could see his face clearly. He looked squarely at me, with very little emotion showing.

My first thought upon hearing this was, "Duh... of course you did." My second thought was "You've got to be kidding me. You HAD to know." My third thought was, "Oh shit, you DIDN'T know." What I said was, "Oh." That night lasted forever, and most of the details have been lost in the weary mess that is my brain. I do recall saying that I would go to counseling with him, if that's what he wanted; that I would do whatever it took to fix this. In retrospect, there was no fixing it; leaving was the only solution. But of course I didn't know that then.

So for the next two weeks, we sat. We talked. We cried. We yelled. We tried to figure out what to do. I had been serious about seeing a counselor, but things in our house never moved quickly -- always so much analysis before doing ANYTHING - so no referrals were ever gotten, no appointments ever made.

Still, I was making an effort. I think he was, too. It was tense and painful, but I hadn't lost hope. And then came Valentine's Day.

It fell on a Friday that year. I knew that it was going to be low key. After all, this was the worst pain our relationship had ever seen, and even in good years, Valentine's Day was never a big deal (I tried to believe that, anyway). And we didn't have a lot of money, so even HAD things BEEN good between us, it still wouldn't have amounted to much. It's not like he ever thought to save up to surprise me, or anything. BUt that's another story. So yeah, I wasn't expecting much. I wanted to do SOMETHING, though - if only to mark the fact that it was also the anniversary of when we started dating. That Valentine's Day made it 14 years.

So I planned dinner for us: Coquilles St.Jacques, bread and salad. Wine. Something for dessert. I made sure that everything was done in advance, so that when he came home, I wasn't up to my elbows in breadcrumbs and vermouth. All I had to do was pop the dish in the oven. I also made sure there weren't a bunch of dishes for him to have to do afterward. I got the house cleaned. I had the kiddo in bed. It wasn't a romantic overture, although I did put candles on the table. I t was just that I wanted to show him I was making an effort.

Everything was ready by 6:3o or so, and I got the girl to bed right around 7, the time he usually got home by. Then I sat down to wait. The TV was off. The house was quiet. There was neither chaos, nor coldness. At 7:15, I poured myself a glass of wine. At 7:30, I thought, "OK, Friday night rush hour, busses get tied up. Not unusual. And maybe he stopped to get flowers."

He walked in right before 8. He put his coat and umbrella down, took off his shoes, and said "Sorry, the freeway was a mess." And that was it. Nothing else.

We ate. He made small talk. I think he made some comment about all the men in his building getting hosed by buying flowers from the expensive florist in his building's lobby. I felt smaller and smaller.

At some point he asked me what was wrong. So I told him. I felt like an ass for making the dinner, for putting out candles, for even trying. He told me I shouldn't, that the dinner was fine, and he appreciated it.

"Gee thanks," I said. "I go to the trouble of doing this, and you walk in late, no flowers, not even a card. I see I'm not worth the expensive flowers from the florist in your building, but for God's sake, there's a fucking grocery store across the street. "

He replied that he COULDN'T have gotten me any flowers because - get this - I told him not to use the debit card until the 15th - when his check was direct deposited. I just stared at him. He knew full fucking well that when the 1st and 15th fell on weekends, his checks were deposited on the friday before. And since he saw all those men getting hosed for flowers, he knew it that Friday was the 14th.

I asked him if he'd even thought using his credit card. He hadn't. But I knew that, already. I wasn't worth the thought. I wasn't worth planning ahead for.

After that night, I withdrew from him almost completely. We barely spoke a word to each other until the night, two weeks later, when I told him I didn't think there was any progress to be made.

Would flowers have saved my marriage? For a time. But it was inevitable, our break-up. What I needed, it never occurred to him to give - he was unable or unwilling to see outside himself that way. And I felt so guilty about what I needed that I couldn't just ask.

Fucked up, huh?

Tired.

My shrink wants me to up my Lamictal dosage. She says I sound depressed.

SIGH.

Dammit, I don't want to be depressed anymore. I don't want to have bipolar anymore. I want to be normal. I'm really tired of feeling low. Yes, on a minute to minute basis, I'm OK. But shit falls in my path, and i don't skip over it any more. I stand and contemplate it, trying to figure out why it fell in my path. Did I do something to cause it to fall? Then I look behind me and see all the other things that have been in my path, and I suddenly feel tired and resentful that there is YET another thing to deal with. And I poke and prod at it, trying to move it outta my way, trying to push it off to the side so I don't have to deal with it, trying to deconstruct it so that it's just dust. In the end, I just edge around it. It would be so much easier if I could just climb without thinking, like I used to.

Yeah I'm tired. And sad. And tired of being sad. Tired of feeling like I never get cut a break. Tired of never being able to cut myself a break. Tired of feeling like a shitty parent. Tired of feeling like a shitty student. Tired of feeling like a shitty girlfriend, and sister, and daughter, and friend. Tired of feeling old and fat. Tired of having to put on a happy face. Tired of recursive thinking. Tired of PMS. Tired of the pain in my body.

Dammit, I was doing SO well for a while.

And I have no one I can share this with. Over the past year or so, I've laid too much on the people who care about me, and I can't afford to see my regular therapist. My shrink is mostly for meds recommended by my therapist. The one (non-paid) person I could share this with is tired, too.

Oh well. This is how it goes. Maybe the boost in meds will help.

A Spear Through My Heart

The other night, my beautiful, smart, amazing four year-old daughter, sat crying on her bed after a time out. As she sobbed, she told me that she's always "just bad," that she'll "never fit in anywhere," and that she doesn't "belong here in this world."

Oh. God.

I cannot describe the pain and dread I felt when she said that. Obviously I tried to reassure her that she is wonderful and that she DOES belong in this world and that she WILL fit in, but she didn't seem to believe me. I'd chalk it up to melodrama and hystrionics, but with my history of depression-heavy bipolar disorder, complete with those very same albeit unspoken feelings, I can't bring myself to just dismiss it.

My heart is breaking right now and I don't know what to do.

Things to Remember

When I have PMS, I will not:

• Read about the aftereffects of massive hurricanes which devastate cities, paying special attention to NOT reading about: the foot-draging, racist inefficiency of the government; the smarmy, disingenous, classist tripe that comes out of a CLEARLY incompetant president's mouth; the obnoxiously overprivileged statements of victims who had the really bad fortune of being holed up in 3 to 5 star hotels, complete with food, water, and beds with relatively clean linens; frankly feral actions of some of the victims, who are so base as to express their anger by firing weapons at aid workers; and the religious fanatics who believe that the residents of the city brought this down upon themselves because gawd wanted to wipe the city clean of sinners.

• Go see movies which involve the brutal death of both main characters at the hands of thugs hired to prevent them from telling the truth about a pharmaceutical company using Africans as human subjects for drug trials.

• Think about how all my friends have interned, or have jobs, or have family in the field, whereas I am just floating along, with no relevant experience, no networking skills, and a graduation date looming in the not too distant;

• Talk to my friend about a mutual friend's hunt for a wedding dress, which I was not invited to assist;

• Look in the mirror;
  

• Think about how I am, once again, close to flat broke due to my inability to maintain a budget;

• Discuss the fact that my boyfriend slept with someone not me, in an attempt to assuage the skin hunger stemming from the 3000 miles between us;

• Look at my grades for the summer which, while not bad by any means, are not what I'd hoped they'd be;

• Think about how my best friends went camping and I couldn't go;

• Admit my fear that said boyfriend is subconsciously dragging his feet about moving out here;

• Think about the fact that my mother has withdrawn from me over the years;

• Look at or think about the dime-sized, red-edged scaly patch on my leg, which appeared out of nowhere and which I think might be a sqamous cell carcinoma;
  

• Think about how badly I may be screwing up my daughter with my anger and control issues;

• Think about how I can't afford to see my therapist.
  

Mama Done a Bad, Bad Thing

I slapped my child this morning.

For no good reason other than not being able to shut her mouth and listen, I slapped her. On the back of the head as she was about to descend into a full bore tantrum. There is no excuse for this; I should have been more patient with her.

I immediately broke down into tears and apologized.

I don't know what to do about my lack of patience, I really don't. Sure, there are circumstances - her father was sick this weekend, so she was with me the whole time, AND her day care is closed so I'll have to manage her AND studying. My personal life is crap right now, and I've been drinking too much at night to deal with it. I have no job, no prospects for one, and no money to speak of. I'm still managing my depression and that's not easily done. I can't afford therapy right now, and I have no one to talk to about all this - at least not without having to explain and explain and explain. Or maybe the truth of that last statement is that I don't really trust anyone with my vulnerability. Dunno.

Regardless, this is really affecting my ability to be a loving, patient, effective parent. I do NOT know what to do; I don't know how to cope with this. The last time it was this bad, I left my husband and it got better. Can't do that now. I really fear the example I'm setting for her, but I don't know how to change course.

I love her so much, so very very much, but I can't seem to let go of my need to control. I forget she's 4. I forget that she doesn't have foresight and self -control. I forget that she's just learning. I want to be a good mama...to help her grow and become the cool human being I know she is. I have to remember that her argumentativeness and sass and in-your-face knowitallness is her nature: she is my child and I was just like that. I can't have it both ways...I can't raise a smart, strong, self-assured, independent girl who takes no shit if I expect her to be compliant and perfectly controlled with me. I just don't want her to be a beast-child, because I hate kids like that, and I don't want to be one of those mothers who overlooks their child's horrific behavior because I hate them too.

Oh, this is going to be a looooong.....life. And I gotta figure out how to ride it through without breaking her or me.

The faith of the Faithless

I want this smoothed out. I want to feel secure again. I want it done. But it's never done, is it? There's always more to come.

I want him to be able to reach into my mind and know what it is I am trying to communicate. I want him to reach in there and see my truth, to understand me, to know my heart. And there's the rub: you can't reach the heart through the brain, can you?

I am terrified that my penchant for over analyzing is going to drive a wedge between us. And I'm terrified that my terror of this is going to make this a self fulfilling prophecy. I'm terrified that he won't trust me because I still trust him. I'm terrified that my lack of anger at him is going to drive him away. I'm terrified that he's going to walk away from me because of some stupid idea that he is going to let me down, when the only way he'll let me down is if he walks away from me.

My ability to get mired in negative recursive thinking is amazing, isn't it?

I'm just so tired of this. I'm tired of working things through long distance. I'm tired of not being able to communicate with eyes, touch, smiles. I'm tired of being scared. I'm tired of the extremes of intense communication and silence for lack of a topic. I'm tired of waiting.

All I fucking want is a normal relationship with him.

But I can't have that right now. And now is all I have. So I have to sit with the abnormality and the insecurity and the exhaustion, and just be with it, not blocking it off or pushing it away or acting out because of it. It. Will. Change. And so knowing, I can and must let it be.

Rhetorical Questions

Was she thinner than me? Was she prettier? Sexier? Was she single? Does she have kids, or is her body unsullied? Is she young? Was she smarter than me? Funnier? More interesting? Could you talk with her about things I can't? Did you kiss her first? Did you take her hand and lead her to your bed? Was it fumbling and urgent or did you take your time and savor her skin? Did she ask you go down on her or did you make that choice? Did you kneel before her in worship? Did she taste better than me? Did you make her come? Did she buck her hips against your mouth? Did it satisfy you? Did you take her nipples between your teeth and make her breath hitch with the sting? Did she suck your cock? Did she wrap her mouth around you and suck you dry? Did she look up at you as you pounded the back of her throat? Did her tongue find the darkness in you? When you fucked her, did she talk to you? Did she tell you she liked it? That she wanted it? Was her pussy tight? Did she grip you hard? Did you look into her eyes or did you fuck her from behind? Did you fuck her in the ass? Did you want to? Did you talk afterward? Laugh? Did she stay the night? Was she a goddess or did you settle for less?

I don't want answers. I just wanted to ask the questions. I actually know that it doesn't matter. What matters is that you shared an intimacy with someone that I was not a party to. You've said you wouldn't fuck someone else even with my permission, even if I wanted you to because it would turn me on. But you'll take someone else without me.

Is this unfair? You bet. This is only one moment in time, surrounded by a million others in which you've shone like the sun. And in the end, this ain't gonna matter. It doesn't really matter now. But here, I don't have to be fair. I can just be hurt.

Weaning off of brain drugs makes me feel all wonky. Ugh.

3L

So odd for school to be nearly over. Two years of my life past, another half year to go before I graduate. So much time, so little time.

Normally I get to school around 5 and go straight into the classroom and hang out in the quiet, but today, I was there early in order to review an exam from last semester. So rather than go into the classroom at 4 and sit for 2 hours, I chose to sit in the open cafe area for a while and get a little sunlight. Some summer-start 1Ls were sitting at the table next to me, studying - HA! - criminal law.

As I was putzing around on the net, killing time, I was listening to their conversation drift past. It's so funny how cool they think they are. I say this not to be snotty, nor to suggest that they're being snotty. They're not. They're just in awe of themselves for even getting here, and, because they're only taking a single summer class, they're thinking that it isn't so bad. Oh, somewhere deep down, they realize that fall will be more difficult because they'll have more classes, but they haven't quite internalized that; they've still got the dream that they might actually be at the top of their class. Heh.

Come September that will change. Sort of. For the first few weeks of the semester, as they get used to their new class sections, they'll be riding high on adrenaline and fear. Just learning the language will be challenging. Then somewhere around the fifth week of the semester, they'll go back to thinking "Gee, this isn't so bad." Because it won't be. For a while. They do ease you in at this school -- they don't just drop you in the deep and and expect you to breaststroke. Only the 1Ls don't know that. They've heard the horror stories and they're on tenterhooks because of it. But at the same time, they're wondering if indeed they aren't better at this than they expected.

And then October arrives, and the first of the legal writing assignments is due. Suddenly, there are far more grim faces than cocky ones. And it will stay that way through the rest of the year, only they don't know yet. They don't know about the hell of the reading period and the first slate of exams. They don't know about the February slump -- where everyone goes through a bad patch because they're taking the same classes with the same people in the same seats, and it feels like they never even got a Christmas break.

What's worse, though, is that in May of next year, they'll think they're awesome again, for having gotten through the first year. And they are; no doubt about it. It's no small achievement. But the 1L year is nothing compared to the 2L year. And nothing - NOTHING - can prepare them for that.

There's a saying in the law school world: First year they scare you to death, second year they work you to death, third year they bore you to death. I can unequivocally say that the first two are accurate to a letter. The 2L year is a MASS amount of work, and even the best students feel as if they are perennially behind. It really does make the first year look easy.

I'm glad to be on the other side of both of those. One more semester to go. One more PACKED semester, but that's it. Then the final hurdle -- the bar. It's nice to be the one who is so close to being finished, rather than the one looking at the 3Ls with wistful envy.

Knots

I realized today - with gut churning certainty - that I am utterly unprepared for the day I find out that my ex is dating again. It will happen, eventually, and I want to be ready. But I ain't gonna be. It's gonna sneak up on me and slap me so hard that I won't be able to breathe, and I will be down for the count -- at least for a while. And everyone in my life will suffer alongside me because of it.

As I was picking up our daughter from his house this afternoon, I noticed a wood and bead bracelet on his wrist. It was clearly not something the kiddo made, and it's utterly unlike him to randomly wear "jewelry." I asked him if it was a mala (Tibetan Buddhist prayer beads), though I knew it wasn't because I wanted to know where it came from. Of course it wasn't my business, but I wanted to know precisely because it's odd for him to wear adornments of any kind, and my first thought was that it was a gift. He said it was just a thing...a little Pike Place Market thingy.

This would have caused my radar to start pinging like crazy, except that his mother was in town not two weeks ago, and they had gone to Pike Place Market. Given that, it seems unlikely that it was a gift from a female friend. Of course my darker being immediately thought that maybe he WAS dating someone and he was introducing her to his mom already!! Nothing like the voice of paranoia to make a girl feel fresh and confident.

I banished those thoughts immediately, but the fact that they were there, loud and clear, tells me that I have to deal with this sooner or later, and I am totally unready. The thing is, I want him to date. I want him to move on. I want to know that he's healing, and that he won't be alone for the rest of his life. Except, of course, I don't, and therein lies the conflict. Some part of me wants him to forever pine away for me. I want to be irreplaceable. Who doesn't?

My own guilt is all wrapped up in this like fat, juicy fly in a web. I want him to find someone so I know that my leaving him for someone else (to his eyes, anyway) didn't leaving him forever gutted. If he's happy and partnered, then my guilt at my own happiness without him is less piquant, less sharp. I want to know that perhaps the fact that I tore his family asunder has led to something as good or better than what he had.

The flip side is as I said above: I don't want him to find anyone else, because I want him to pine away for me, missing me because I am the best thing he ever had. I want him thinking he should have done more to keep me. I want him to see his role in the events that led to my departure from our marriage. And then there's the whole weirdness wrapped up with the idea that some woman I don't know will be involved in our child's life. No, I'm not worried about his eventual choice -- he'll choose wisely. I have no fear of that. Nor am I afraid of being replaced, really. It's more the idea that my daughter will have a relationship with another adult woman and I'll have no say in the formation and development of that relationship. I won't be able to guide it; I'll have to trust him to do that, which I do, but it still leaves me feeling squidgy.

I know that everything I feel when the time comes will only be a reflection of what I've put my ex through. He's had to silently deal with me having a relationship with a man I never could stop loving - a man I loved before I even knew my ex. He's had to suffer the pain and humiliation of finding out that he was never my first choice - that he was second best in my heart. He's had to watch as I moved out, moved on, took his daughter from his daily life, and lived for myself. He's had to hear his daughter mention the man that I love, hear her say how much she likes him.

Every time I think of how I'd feel if someone told me that I was their second choice - that they'd 'settled' for me -my insides twist up and I feel like dying. And yet that's what I did to him, and dammit, he didn't deserve it. For all his flaws and inconsistencies, he did not deserve it.

The karma on this one is gonna be a bitch. Even now, after two years, I wish I could go hug him and cry on his shoulder and tell him how sorry I am. I wish there was some way for him to know that I didn't want things to happen this way, that I tried, and that I wish things could have been different. I wish there was some way I could make up for it.

As it is, the best I can do is hope that someone out there will make him first in their heart.

I Want a Do-Over

I admit some sadness about the fact that I will never again have a baby resting against my shoulder. I won't be able to nuzzle the back of an infant's neck, or smell the top of its head. I actually think I'll miss snuggling a tiny body in the crook of my arm.

So much internal conflict. I know I'll never have another child, and while I'm glad of that, I also regret it. Depression cheated me out of enjoying the first two years of of my daughter's life. There were some nice times, I'm sure, but I don't remember them. My life was a grey fog, punctuated by periods of internal screaming. I flat out hated it. Not her, never her. But the immensity and overwhelming nature of it all; the sheer, unceasing marathon. It was like walking through wet, knee high concrete.

It is only now, with a proper mental health diagnosis, a divorce, and some recognition that time passes and children actually become functioning, self-aware human beings, that I am actually starting to wish I could do it again. Not because I think there's some ideal waiting for me, but to at least give my self a chance to remember the earliest days of my child's life with something other than abject horror.