is doing nothing catching up with me?

Technically, I haven’t been doing nothing. I’ve barely had energy to write. But I haven’t been paying full attention. I could work 24 hours a day and still I’d be behind.

The systems for the business are not at all close to being set up. Carlos was doing inventory of the linens, something we kept meaning to do before crunch time each year, but which always ended up being done in the ‘just in time’ model. When Jason was working for us he did inventory the linens before we actually needed them, but he kept track of it manually, so having a working spreadsheet wasn’t part of it. The way Carlos did it is about halfway there. And when I look at the other version of the spreadsheet that someone else made, me or Jason probably, it’s missing information too. I find it frustrating and annoying that Carlos doesn’t understand already the basic functionality you want out of a spreadsheet, like the ability to add up columns easily and computational benefits of using a computer algorithm to reduce human error. While I have also struggled to put together spreadsheets, I’m usually doing it super fast and not putting much effort in. He is really working at it, and not getting it right. But that’s the way it is.

I am very changeable emotionally right now. I know it must be hard on my employees. The last few days were pretty stressful for me.

First I had a tax issue I had to deal with, where it appeared I owed about $15,000 dollars but it was really just that I had neglected to file some paperwork because since I knew it was zero I thought I didn’t have to file it. This was back in 2014 and 2015. Clearly I was wrong. It seems I got that sorted out, but it took a few hours.

Then I was trying to help Ex find a new house to move to where the kids can each have their own bedroom. There’s a house just three doors down that’s empty. Too pricey, and a very separated living room, kitchen, dining room layout but otherwise a pretty great space. I’d been negotiating with the owner via email on Ex’s behalf. Meeting the owner in person was annoying. I clearly laid out in the email what terms would need to be in place: ability to install a mini-kitchen in the basement and rent it to a student, ability to rent out the upstairs for a few weeks at a time while Ex is travelling, and ability to have my miniature poodles visit sometimes. The owner in person was objecting to all these things, which was just infuriating since he’d indicated he was open to it over email. Then he made a comment that the drum kit I’ve recently bought for the kids is a ‘nightmare.’ He knows where I live and he lives close by, closer than I thought, it turns out. I laughed and tried to brush off his comment, saying, ‘Well, kids need their music lessons,’ and he repeated again ‘It’s a nightmare,’ and cited the other neighbours saying it’s a nightmare. I kept trying to move on and he just wouldn’t give up. So Ex said, there won’t be drum kit at this house, but I was like, what’s the point. The owner clearly is a wealthy asshole, who has had a perfectly good house sitting empty for six months because he is so difficult and also won’t lower the price for his house that’s a hundred years old and last updated in the eighties. I don’t take kindly to insults to my parenting, my lifestyle, or my kids. So I’ve told the kids to practice the drums longer and louder.

Then in the early afternoon I had a dispute resolution phone call with the residential tenancy branch and a vile owner and her lawyer about a house we vacated in September. I walked away because they were so conflict oriented, and basically just decided not to pursue getting my deposit back just so I wouldn’t have to deal with them. Despite how they treated us, we left the house in good condition. They wanted us out because we had nine students living in the house and their property manager had promised them a family. Fucking ridiculous.

There’s a whole backstory, including some terms we tried to negotiate with them for a September 2018 move out (we had a right to occupy the house through to Nov 2019) which involved us paying less rent to leave early. None of which they agreed to. They didn’t cash our rent cheques for four months because they were disputing the validity of the tenancy. This was basically what I’d proposed for a September move out, that we not pay rent for the four months. So I figured it was all even; they had accepted our proposal in this backhanded way so that they hadn’t signed their name to anything. I told them in writing that I would cancel all the cheques on Aug 15, 2018. Which I did. But the bank made an error and when they tried to cash the cheques on Sep 17, 2018 (after we had moved out) they were able to cash one. I followed up with the bank about the error, and while they wanted to try to get the funds back from the owner I said absolutely no way, there was a reason I cancelled the cheques and I didn’t want to have to deal with them again, so the bank should make it right. Which they did. I was reimbursed the $4,000 by the bank. But the owners claimed I still owed them $12,000 in unpaid rent for the other cheques they couldn’t cash. Which they tried to cash after I had moved out. Again, fucking ridiculous.

And on top of claiming damages for the house, which we left in good condition, they also were claiming the legal fees, to the tune of over $7,000, their lawyer charged them. I won’t get into it all, but my defense against that was pretty solid. My defense against all of it was solid. But arbitrators are arbitrary. What made me most angry though was listening to their white, baby boomer, male lawyer go on in his grandstanding way for forty-five minutes. Literally torture. I don’t like being forced to do things, and I felt I was forced to sit there and listen to this guy who was smarmy and long-winded. I might be starting to hate men.

Then today I went very optimistically to look at a house that I’d been offered twice before, and they had never followed through and signed a contract with me. I drove out to the property manager’s office, talked with her for half an hour, and thought that all was good. She did bring up a change from the original agreement, which is the owner (a development company) won’t repair anything in the house, including the plumbing and the roof. The rent is really low and I know the potential costs of things that can go wrong, so I was willing to agree to that. Then she told me the house had been broken into and the front door is damaged. Okay. She gave me the keys and said I should look at the house and let her know if I want to sign the contract. The last time they contacted me this is what I had asked for, so okay.

I entered through the back door, and the first thing I see is ceiling tiles on the floor covered in mud, pieces of drywall on the floor, and pink insulation strewn around. It took me a few minutes to figure out what I was looking at. A thief, a desperate person, had broken in, torn open parts of the wall and ceilings, found copper pipe, and cut it and ripped it out of the wall. I haven’t seen anything like that before. But clearly you can’t use the plumbing in the house. And I have no idea if the gas lines are affected too, but I bet they are.

What a waste of my time. This property management company has completely wasted my time twice now. I was ready to sign the contract a month ago, they said it was in motion, then everything stopped. So that was a big disappointment and very frustrating. I’ve also had very little sleep. I let Hazel sleep in my bed last night, and she kicked and tossed all night. At 3:30 am I finally left and slept somewhere else. But I was pretty worked up about the drum kit comments and some criticisms Nathan had for the kids yesterday, so I don’t think I got to sleep until after 4:30 am. Woke up just before 8 am to get kids off to school.

And I’m now almost a week past ovulation, so on the great hormonal decline into PMS. With five kids in the house. And one extra, the ten year old daughter of someone I’ve literally hung out with I think two times, maybe three max. She contacted me out of the blue to let her daughter stay overnight. I’ve never met her daughter before. It’s a bit strange, but when all the kids are here it’s actually not a problem to add more kids. If there were no kids here I would have said no.

My elbows are starting to hurt typing this. And my wrist. Which pisses me off. Why can’t I at least write without barriers? I suppose my lot is to be voiceless because it hurts too much to have a voice. Pessimism.

I had a great day last Saturday. It was spring day warm and sunny. Nathan and I went for a bike ride. I think that might be our first bike ride together. We just went out and had fun and had an actual day off. The exercise felt really good. I ovulated that day, maybe due to the exercise. So I was feeling pretty great. Now not so much.

This past week I’ve twice walked down the big hill and then back up with a few small sprints that got my breath up. I felt really good about myself for exercising. It helps me think less too. But lack of sleep makes me grouchy and miserable. I haven’t been sleeping well at all the past ten days or so. And now even though I did my best to get pregnant, including not smoking pot and cutting out my one cup of black tea and taking coenzyme Q10, now I’m thinking that having a baby would be a big mistake. I can’t feel this way every day. That would just be horrible. I know from experience that babies don’t let you sleep. They wake you up, one way or another.

When I’m tired like this I just feel like I want to quit everything, in particular the business. I’ve tried, and it just doesn’t work. I have to make money, for one thing. I can’t just ignore it all. Now things are starting to pile up, tasks that need to get done before the summer vacation rentals. I honestly don’t know if I’m up to it. Managing other people, even. Especially. I know that I’m good at getting things set up, visioning and starting things. I really don’t do well with the ongoing daily slog. Which is what this is now. Sorting out Costco cards and juggling finances and reviewing spreadsheets and replying to emails and telling people what needs to get done.

I’m so tired. I should go to sleep now.

depression: an instagram post

This is the face of depression. Me fighting depression. SADD is especially hard for me when the seasons change. I had a really hard day yesterday, crying and full of despair. During the winter I go into hibernation mode, which means I’m slower and less productive, and have more general irritability. I put a lot of energy into managing my irritability so I’m also more tired. This is one aspect of my depression, but I find it manageable.

Cannabis helps take the edge off my irritability, but it does dull my ability to do logical tasks, so I’ve generally used it in the evening this winter so I can work during the day. It may also contribute to my tiredness and draggyness during the day, or that may be the depression. When the sun starts shining but it’s not yet warm enough to take off my clothes, my spring depression kicks in. I find everything too hard. I start to really suffer emotionally. So I started buproprion again yesterday. I’ve avoided it because it can make me feel anxious, but I definitely feel better today.

Trying to find the perfect cocktail of medicinal drugs for my brain, over the year, is an ongoing process. SSRIs don’t work well for me because I feel more lethargic and less like having sex, which is one of my chief enjoyments even when I don’t feel like doing much of anything. Cannabis allows me to still want and enjoy sex.

On top of my seasonal depression, I had a neck injury last April that I am still recovering from. It is getting better, but surprises me sometimes. On top of that, my hormone cycles really kick me to the curb.

I’ve also been going through some difficult times with my relationship with my mom, because of how she treated my transgender daughter and then me. I tried to talk to her about it. Twice. She treated me with contempt and defensiveness and rage each time. I’m trying to find the balance between my progressive values of compassion/understanding/grace and drawing emotional boundaries. On the one hand, I get that she’s a woman with her own lived experience of patriarchy and her own mental health issues. And on the other hand, I can’t let others treat me like that. So that’s been ongoing since October.

And of course there’s my emotionally absive ex to deal with on a regular basis. He’s the dad of my kids so we are in a co-parenting situation. I tell him like it is and I lecture him and I don’t let him pull the bullshit that used to work, but it’s exhausting. I had to talk to him yesterday. Part of my meltdown.

I’m so thankful for my supportive spouse who holds me while I cry and tells me I can just be sad and depressed. Tells me he has no expectations of how I have to feel or behave. Even though I’m in charge of running the business that keeps us able to pay rent and live in this city with our blended family of five kids. I’m thankful for my employees too. They keep things running while I’m sick.

Today I’m getting as much sun as I can without being cold. The sun helps me, buproprion seems to be helping me, and my supportive partner helps me. Hanging out with my kids in our yard and trying to enjoy their spring break with them.

wishing i was more poetic

Every time I think
I think of something new
I find out a man has thought of it before me
And this is not what I want to say
That a man has thought of first my original thoughts
Has more knowledge than me
Has read more books than me
Has written more books than me
Has had more opportunities than me
Has been more intelligent than me
I do not want to say this
I do not admit this
I believe in my capacity for original thought
My ability to make connections
Between disparate things
In my ability to see differently because of who I am and where I’ve come from
Even if despite my best efforts I only put one toe outside these system walls
I will try and try and try
To my utmost intelligence
Compassion
Critical thinking competence
Creative expression
And I will observe these feelings of jealousy for those who understood so much sooner than I did
My inward weeping for years lost and years gained
There is nothing so familiar and unyielding as time

I wish I was more poetic
Time, like what?
How can I explain time in an image?
What else never stops?
Everything else stops.
And so I think of an idea thought of by a man
Time is like a globe
There is a boundary but there is no end to the boundary if you are on the surface of the globe.
I look down, there is dirt and planks and around me bushes and trees in the dark
The street below the gravel driveway lit by streetlights
I’m on a globe
I can’t see it
But I can imagine it

And in that moment of imagination
I realize this style of poetry is just
My lazy way of writing when I don’t want to use punctuation
Good for me
Fuck punctuation
I punctuated the fuck out of high school.
Fucking patriarchal punctuation.
Every goddam thing is patriarchal.
School?
Founded by men, preparing children for factory work so the powers that be can get richer. Which translates to more powerful. Which equals men continually in power.
Patriarchal.
Jobs?
Paying people to do your work for you so you can get richer. Only if you’re a man and usually white, until about fifty years ago. Invented by men for men circa ten thousand years ago.
Patriarchal.
Cities?
By men for men. Destroying the environment. Urban sprawl. Imagine a city designed for babies to crawl in the streets. Imagine that. Imagine design by women if we started at the beginning.
Children?

They better not be patriarchal! I’ve poured over half my life into children. My younger siblings, my friends’ children, the children of strangers, my own children. I am going to say no to this one because the answer can’t be yes. Children are matriarchal. I am one hundred percent certain and I would bet my own life that my children are genetically mine. I gave birth, I was there.

Imagine matriarchal jobs
The care of children would be integrated into the work force…

Imagine matriarchal schools
Independent learning, multiple adults and teens teaching in groups, not alone in a classroom…

I hope I’m different
I lament I’m different

I want intelligent, original thought
Creative, original expression
That resonates and unifies people
And they respect and admire me
I am afraid I can’t accomplish this
Fear is the mind killer
A man wrote that too, dammit
And it’s true.
I would have written it
I’ve lived in defiance of fear
My mind is alive

So here is the one thing I’m trying to tell you
I am brave
I am being brave
In the midst of agony that I’m not good enough
The angst that I may not prove the worthiness of women
The recognition of my own laziness that holds me back
In a world designed by men for the glory of men
My flaws that make it almost impossible for my work to resonate enough to change the song worldwide
Because let’s face it, my inadequacies are my fault and I need to take responsibility
Not blame it on the patriarchy
What a cop out when I have such a rich life
I am laughing behind my hand, then removing my hand and lol
This poem could have been written by a feminist in the ’70s
How unoriginal
I am being brave
I am banging the gong anyway

porn star and anthropology expert dreams

In the past two days I’ve had two different epiphanies.

First, I want to feature in a professionally made, by women, for women, porn video. I really enjoy sex, I enjoy being sexual, I like having sex in front of other people, I like having sex with various attractive people, and I’d be quite happy if there was a record of me having sex that was filmed in an erotic and beautiful way. So that’s a new life goal. I may look into participating in an Erika Lust film.

Second, I want to formally study again at university. I want to discuss these ideas I’m having about cultural evolution as a human species; about origins of civilization and patriarchy; about the reproductive biology of women and it’s impact on our cultural development and our pathway through patriarchy; about the role of religion, gods, deities, spirits as an essential activity in meaning making along the evolutionary path; and the rise of science out of the froth of mythology, violence, patriarchy, and religious beliefs as a way to make sense of and order the world. I’m interested in making distinctions using evolutionary biology along with anthropology between the levels of human happiness, meaning, and suffering of hunter gatherer type societies compared to our modern day societies of the developed world.

I want to ask and explore questions like, “Are we better off as a species now versus fifteen thousand years ago, before we evolved into agriculture, religion, science, and technology?” and, “What is the nature of humans, on the whole, compared to other animals? Are we more dominant, violent, uncompromising, curious, dissatisfied as a species? What drives these traits in our environment and in our genes? Now that we are aware of our own evolution, how will our consciousness of our evolution shape that evolution? How has consciousness driven us in the past towards stories, religion, meaning, understanding, order, cooperation, relationships, social networks, independent and original thought? How is original thought laddered on and spiderwebbed throughout cultures? What is our collective unconsciousness valuing at the present moment? Where do we collectively, as a human species, see ourselves ideally in the future? What values do we all share now, regardless of nationality, culture, subculture? How will these values and our consciousness of them shape our future? How will we use technology to shape our evolution? Is there any limit to what humans should explore? What are the roles of those who want to push forward into all new discoveries without boundaries and those who want to hold back and hold on to past traditions and understandings? How does patriarchy play into this? Is there a place for holding back, or is the story of humanity that leads us here, to not only equal rights, which arguably may have existed in a very different but possibly recognizable version in pre-agriculture humanity, but also to an abundance and flourishing of human life through technology, the story of pushing forward to the new idea, the new way, and abandoning the old along the way? Is this the way forward, or now that we are conscious of our history, is it more conducive to our collective values and the ideal of humanity we wish for to balance these two elements, to hold on to the traditions that gave us meaning while pushing forward to the future?

I want to explore the connection between patriarchy and resistance to social media. Explore the possibilities of social media as an antidote to the patriarchy; women finally have an equal voice to men, and the opportunities to think, write, and publish are equal for men and women on facebook, instagram, and twitter. Anonymity also makes it easier for women to share their thoughts without direct judgement; it is easier to brush off a stranger’s replies than to dismiss the disapproval of someone you know. We can say what we think, now. How is the female voice directing the trajectory of evolution compared to the past fifteen thousand years? The #metoo movement is a massive mobilisation of women on behalf of themselves, made possible through social media. I want to explore the connections between religion and social media; the networks created via religion and how they acted similarly to the networks we are now creating on social media. Whether social media is replacing religion, in terms of our ability to hold onto large networks of people and consider them part of our ‘tribe’ even though we have never met them and our brains can’t track that number of social connections.

We have these two directions pushing at the same time, those who want to hold on to the past and those who push forward into the future. They are pushing in two different directions.

What are our shared human values and ideals for ourselves as a species and how can we use our awareness of these values and ideals along with our awareness of our previous evolution and history as a species to shape ourselves in a process that optimizes human health and happiness?

I would like to be part of shaping the future of humanity by exploring these ideas.

I’m not sure what discipline encapsulates these ideas. I’m thinking anthropology, but I really may be looking at an interdisciplinary program of some sort.

terrified either way

I’m terrified I’m pregnant and terrified I’m not. But what I feel is anger. I know that under the anger is this terror, this sense that either option is full of dangers, and that neither will be exactly what I want, but I don’t actually know how to feel terror, so I feel anger.

I’m terrified of having another baby. I’m really, really frightened. It’s as scary as thinking of having a baby. Like, that should be a saying. Because I’ve done it, and I know. My life will change. There will be a demand that won’t go away for another, what, ten years? I have no idea what time frame to put on this idea of ‘demand’. I know how much my kids demand of me now, but they go to their dad’s half the time. So even though they would demand all my time and attention they can’t because they’re not here for half of it. At the same time, I do get hours in a row of uninterrupted time even when they’re here, so I think ten years is a reasonable time frame.

So a demand every two minutes for the next five to ten years. Or something like that. Lots of demands.

Then I remind myself: Nathan will be the child’s parent too. Not step-parent. Parent. But I find it hard to believe that a child will really want their dad as much as their mom. There is something about being the mom, and I do understand my children very well and so they turn to me. Hazel turned to me about her gender, not to Ex. And because I understand this new child and care about them, I’ll want to be there for them as well. So even if the child isn’t demanding then I’ll be demanding of myself.

It sounds exhausting. Because it is.

I’m also terrified I’m not pregnant. Then I have to go through the whole cycle of watching my fertility signs and timing sex and figuring out if I’ve ovulated, again. It kind of stresses me out. I don’t know why. I guess because I’m worried that my age is affecting my fertility. I can admit that and it’s still awkward to look at it. I don’t want to worry about it too much, so what else is there to do other than admit it and move on? Maybe my age is affecting my fertility. I don’t know.

But every month I’m not pregnant means I have to keep paying attention to my cycle and having my cycle. The day I ovulate is awesome. The rest of it kind of sucks. I want that kind of estrogen every day, though. I am going to go talk to my doctor about estrogen treatments for depression. I would just love to feel that good every day. Without cannabis. Or SSRIs. Or Welbutrin. Because I hate the side effects of all of them.

And every month I’m not pregnant I have to keep making the decision to try to get pregnant. I just want the decision to be made. While there is no pregnancy I could still change my mind to no.

Once there’s a pregnancy, then it’s a yes and I can’t change my mind. Which is my whole logic for trying to get truly, terrifyingly, pregnant.

I change my mind. I stick with an idea or a plan and really commit to it for as long as I’m actually doing it, but once I change my mind I go 180 degrees. And I’ve done it a few times with the topic of having another baby, and it’s really hard to keep going back and forth. I don’t know if I can describe how or why it’s hard. It just feels hard. A shift in dreams each time. Wrench my plans this way. Wrench that way. Uncertainty is just hard, I guess.

Being pregnant is a certainty. Being not pregnant is uncertainty. Because once I have a child, I can’t go back. There is a certain future. A dream path. So I’m in this limbo state right now, and it feels really hard. I keep reminding myself it’s also winter, to be easy on myself, to let myself off the hook for feeling kind of down and flat and grouchy for no apparent reason.

Everything is good. I’ll be the owner of three investment properties on March 1. I’m achieving my financial goals so I can retire in plenty and fund my life now. My business is doing well. I have good employees. My kids are in good health and doing well. I mean, they all have their issues, but overall, they’re fine.

My health is okay, although I’ve had some chest pain lately. Since I missed my cardiologist appointment back in November, when I decided to do nothing, I don’t know what the results of the scan are. Attending Heather’s partner’s memorial may have been stressful, or a few facebook comment conversations I had were higher conflict. Or maybe it’s partly that the temperature dropped below zero, so it’s colder out. But I’ve had that intermittent chest pain that comes and goes for a few days. When they’ve tested there’s been no heart damage, so I guess I will just keep telling myself I’m fine. And maybe call the cardiologist’s office and see what I can find out.

My chest pain makes me start wondering if my body is really going to be able to handle being pregnant again. And then I feel angry that the only way for Nathan and I to have a baby together, without involving anyone else, is for me to get pregnant. I just wish he could get pregnant. It’s so unfair that I have to be drained of my resources and physically uncomfortable and maybe even sick. But it’s the only way.

I’m thinking about all this because it’s around implantation time. I feel fragile and yet strong. I worry that anything I do might cause implantation not to happen, and I also believe that nothing I do will really have an effect, since there is no placenta or maternal attachment yet. I have been trying to ignore my cycle since the third temperature after ovulation. I stopped taking my temperature every morning after this because it was stressing me out. My heart would start racing as soon as I thought about getting the thermometer. But of course it’s there in the back of my mind.

And part of me wonders what the fuck I’ve done. What if I can’t do everything I want to do with my own life and have a baby?

And yet, I also know I can do it. But fuck, it might be very hard.

And I’m terrified either way.

performance

I performed this evening with Davers and the Band at the Main St. Bistro. We practiced my four songs together for two weeks in a row, so it is starting to sound pretty good. Davers is actually an amazing guitarist and performer.

I’m lying in my cabin now writing this, and my elderly miniature poodle smells so bad. It’s her breath. Basically her teeth are rotting but I already had them pulled a few years ago and it was expensive. It’s so stinky though I have to move her to the foot of the bed.

I’m listening to Beatles: Remastered Songs on Google Play. I haven’t really listened to much Beatles. I didn’t grow up listening to the same music as everyone else. I know Christian songs by Christian artists from the ’80s and ’90s, a limited selection, and also hymns and worship songs. I feel regret that I didn’t get to listen to and learn these songs in my childhood and early adulthood. They would have been ingrained in the groove of my life.

Like singing my own songs because I can’t sing them wrong. Since I didn’t grow up listening to secular music (what we called it) I’m not that confident about my renditions of popular songs, since I don’t know them that well.

I have a beautiful voice but I find it hard to learn music really well if I haven’t listened to it many times, sung along with it, and spent time with it. I just haven’t made time as an adult to listen to music. In my teens and early twenties I listened to Sarah McLaughlan and a few ’90s bands, but I didn’t explore and wasn’t exposed to other music except through shopping malls and waiting rooms.

Performing tonight was fun. I was very tired and didn’t really want to do it, but I told myself it would be fun. I drank some black tea before, and once I was there I also got into it.

The audience was actually quite attentive. There weren’t that many people there, most of them known to Davers. It seemed to me that people really appreciated my performance. I thought my voice sounded pretty great and I actually performed the songs, instead of just singing them. This is because I wasn’t playing guitar, so I was freed up to focus on the singing and performance aspect. I had a lot of fun with it.

post conversation with my mom

I’ve been awake since 5 am, and I usually don’t even begin to open my eyes until 8 am.

I decided to talk to my mom. We went on a walk yesterday evening after dinner. I gave the kids screen time. Nathan was in the Other City with his kids. My mom and I walked and then sat in the park and talked for two hours. I’m still processing.

I started by expressing to her that I’m still feeling upset by what happened in the Other City when she confronted Hazel about being transgender. She immediately became defensive and started attacking me. She had a very reactive tone and as I engaged with her she became more ranty and wouldn’t back down. I expressed that her tone wasn’t working for me. She had a lot of contempt in her voice and said that well, she’s not as skilled as me so I would just have to deal with her talking to me like this. I guess she doesn’t realize that relationships really can be broken and not repaired, unless she puts in the work. I told her that I understand that dad lets her get away with talking to him like this, but that it doesn’t work for me. She said, “Oh, dad lets me get away with, lets me get away with it, now you’re commenting on my relationship with dad. Just because he sits there like a lump and doesn’t say anything.” I took a deep breath and really, really tried hard to stay calm. I was feeling very angry. She also said that she’s not used to walking and talking, so I said, okay, the next place to sit down is at the park a few blocks away, so let’s just walk in silence until then.

Before we got to the park she started talking again, in a calmer voice. I don’t remember everything that was said, but she completely mocked me, alluded to wanting to criticize my parenting although she didn’t actually start in on the criticisms, and then tried to get me to talk to her about what it means to be transgender. I tried to engage her in good faith, and I kept quite calm, although I did get angry at one point and used ‘fucking’ in a sentence, although I don’t remember exactly what I said. She was resistant again to my education on believing that someone is transgender.

I felt quite lost but also quite resolved. She accused me of being stubborn and strong willed and I accepted that I am those things. I kept asking her not to yell or rant. At one point she said, “Tell me what to do, then, tell me what to do! Should I do this?” and she got up off the bench at the picnic table we were sitting at and lay down prostrate on the grass near me. “Oh queen, what should I do?” she asked snidely. I just stared her. I saw what was happening but I didn’t know how to react, so I just stayed calm and waited for her to finish her theatrical performance.

“You just want everything your own way!” she accused me. I agreed that I like to have things my way, and in part that’s because it usually works out very well for me and for those around me. “But not always,” she spat back.

“I’m not perfect,” I acknowledged. I hate this phrase, “I’m not perfect.” There is an expectation of God in it. That I have to admit I’m not perfect because I think there’s the possibility I am. And also it’s an excuse. I’m not perfect so whatever I do to you can be explained away by my imperfections, instead of taking responsibility for the behaviours and attitudes that have hurt you. I wave my hand and say, “I’m not perfect.” As if anyone is or could be. We don’t even know what perfection is. Or we each have our version of how others could be perfect to us. Which is completely unrealistic. Where do we get these ideas? How did we invent the idea of perfection in another human or in a god?

I’m a leader in my own small way. I make decisions that alter the course of how things work for my family and for the people who I do business with. I take pride in my decision making skills. And what’s interesting is that she was mocking me for it. Perhaps she doesn’t understand what being a good leader really means. I try to think about the best interest of everyone, not just myself, and I project into the future the potential consequences of my decisions. My forecasting is pretty good, although not completely accurate, and sometimes I overlook important data, although not often.

I think she is in some way threatened by my own sense of my authority. A part of that is that I’m willing to walk away. I’ve loved and I’ve lost and I’ve worked through my shit over and over and over again, and I know what I’m willing to live with and what I’m not. I draw lines, and I also offer people grace and compassion. But they can’t treat me badly. And she may be my mom but she can’t treat me badly. I understand that she has been depressed and that she has not worked on having the same skills I have and that realistically, she may not be as intelligent as I am, whether because that’s her genetics or because of all the cannabis she smoked when she was less than twenty-five, but either way, she really is not as mature and wise at 65 as I am at 40.

I look back at my life and I don’t really know what she was like when I was a teenager. I was a kid, my perspective was different. I was dependent on her. But I know she’s changed again recently, both with the pot she’s been consuming and with her retirement and life transition crisis she’s been going through. I can have compassion for her for all these things, including being less intelligent than me. I do struggle to realize that other people don’t always have the same insights into themselves and into how relationships work that I do. At the same time, I know I don’t have the same insights into various aspects of human relationship that other people do, for instance, I feel quite uncomfortable navigating the corporate or professional world. It’s truly exhausting. But I do know myself. And I know where my boundaries are. And even my mom doesn’t get to cross them. And I think that makes her mad. She wants some special dispensation to cross lines with me. But I won’t give it.

She kept saying that she was hurt by what I said in the Other City. What I said was that my kids were upset by the conversations she was having with them. She claims that she kept trying to tell me that she wasn’t intentionally hurting them and that I was insisting that she was. I think this might be because I kept saying after that fact that she should have known that questioning Hazel about her gender and then questioning Dragon about Hazel’s gender was not appropriate. I do understand that it wasn’t obvious to her. What I don’t understand is her resistance to accepting that it was very upsetting to them–this should have been enough of a sign. And also that she doesn’t see any problem with being high and having had the conversation. She just thought we were all having fun. Except I told her it wasn’t fun, first for Hazel and then the next day for Dragon. When someone says ‘it’s not fun’ that’s a one hundred percent indicator that what you did was not okay.

I did not apologize for the hurt she felt, whether she actually felt it in that moment or constructed it later as a justification for her actions. However, I could see that what she really needed in order to move forward emotionally was some sort of apology from me. So I apologize for possibly taking advantage of her and being selfish in our conversations over the last few years, where I did a lot of talking and didn’t ask much about what was going on with her. This is true, it’s what I did. I needed someone to talk to who I could trust, who I felt would really understand me, and would emotionally support me. She very patiently listened to me and supported me, at least on the surface. And I am sorry that I wasn’t more aware of her as a person. I knew she was just agreeing or at least not disagreeing with me in order to just keep the peace and so that I would continue to call her. I knew that on some level she doesn’t really understand me. But, it didn’t feel bad at the time so I just put the blinders on.

And even while I write this, I am actually okay. I did all my crying on Saturday. I made my decision to let my relationship with her be only exactly what it is. I don’t feel desperate for her to understand me. I actually don’t feel I need her to understand me at all. I understand me. Maybe Nathan understands me; certainly he seems to, usually, although there is no such thing as really fully understanding someone else. He supports me. It’s in his best interest to do so, and he wants to, and he seems okay with his awareness of my flaws while also overlooking my flaws. Maybe I needed someone to feel close to and loved by during those hard years of separation and divorce and uncertainty in my new relationship with Nathan, and now I do feel certain about Nathan so I don’t need to feel the same support from my mom.

sort of divorcing my mom

My mom is visiting and I’m depressed. I’m feeling very tired and irritable, and I’m crying throughout the day. I find her presence stressful, in a deep and resonant way, like the bass in the song, that gets into your bones but you don’t even really hear it or register it. It’s not the melody. The melody is that everything is pretty good.

I have enough of everything: money, time, kids, love, freedom, support. I’ve been exercising regularly the past week, going on walks and riding the indoor bike. I’ve socialized with two women in the past three days. Kids are healthy, just being normal kids with their sibling conflicts and moods. Nathan is very supportive. I’ve been working regularly too, my usual four or so dedicated computer hours and then on the phone for vacation rental responses and email responses other times.

I’ve stopped smoking pot or taking any THC since Monday. Partly because I’m trying to get pregnant and it might interfere with fertility, partly because my throat was starting to feel weird and my lung capacity was reduced, and partly because I didn’t want to smoke with my mom around, since I don’t want her to smoke or take THC. I’m still taking CBD tincture here and there.

My mom is in a seemingly positive mood, but I don’t trust her. I asked her not to be under the influence of THC around the kids, but I don’t know for sure if she is or not. It seems to me she is, given her mood and that she wants to take the bus instead of drive. But then she offered to drive the kids to musical theatre class so I wasn’t sure if I could trust her judgement that she was sober enough. If she is under the influence then I don’t know when she might say something disruptive, and what that something might be. I am just living in the uncertainty, feeling I should protect the kids but not sure what from, exactly. I don’t feel close to her. I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t want to make small talk, or hear about the dance classes she’s attending in town. I am completely uninterested in her as a person. Maybe I feel bad about that. I don’t even know. I just want to avoid her.

Do I owe her anything? I was so loyal to her, my whole life. I believed in her. I believed in her approaches, that that ways she raised me were good. Now I look back and see a long string of bad choices she made for herself and for me and for my siblings. How do I make sense of all the good choices I’ve made in my life, in who I am, looking at her and who she is and what she chose? Isn’t rejecting her the same as rejecting the foundation that built my life?

I recognize she’s a person and she’s trying. But we had this relationship. I feel so utterly betrayed, and I’ve been down similar roads before with other relationships. Sometimes, most times, you can’t get it back. The relationship changes beyond recovery.

I believed in Ex, too. I don’t even like him anymore. That relationship is severed. I believed in and supported my friends, the two Heathers, who each in their own way betrayed me. I betrayed one Heather, through my immaturity and ignorance and religiousity. Kris, who I had to cut off because I was too in love with him and he didn’t want me. The pain of that relationship and rejection reverberated for years on years.

I believed also in the matriarchy, and in particular in my matriarchy. The personal story of my great-grandmother making good decisions for her family, my grandma making good decisions, my mother. But not my mother. But I did. I made good decisions. Why is it so important to me?

I want to be Someone. I want to be Good. I want to be a Success. Recognized. Accomplished. And yet I doubt myself. I doubt my perspectives, my ideas. Because I also don’t want to be Crazy. Too Weird.

My mom is bit Too Weird, on or off cannabis. What she actually needs to do is live in a different culture, where your personal weirdness is just a cultural difference instead of a personal flaw. But whatever about what she does or doesn’t need.

I worry that I encouraged her towards pot too much. I was smoking a lot of it, enjoying it, smoking around the kids, when I was parenting them. I did overdo it sometimes, but I’ve also cultivated good judgement over the last forty years, so I still had good judgement around then even when stoned. And mostly it has just made it easier to relax and have fun, although I do get more permissive, but not in a harmful way, just in a more usual way. Like I allow more ice cream or screen time.

I keep having to realize that other people are not as good at things as me. So what works for me won’t work for most people because they actually don’t have the skills to handle it. And I’ve also got enough life experience now that I can picture myself in a situation that my mom has been in and think, ‘what would I have done in that situation,’ and I have a pretty good idea. And I would have not made the choices she did. She fucked up with my sister Emily, and Emily has suffered for it. A lot. It’s pretty shitty. Emily is an alcoholic and I blame my mom and dad. I saw what they were doing to her when I was in my early twenties, and I called them out on it, and they were furious with me. Allowing her abuser to continue living in the home was absolutely not okay. Allowing an alcoholic woman to live with them while Emily was still in the home was not okay. They said I didn’t have kids of my own, so I couldn’t give them parenting advice. I could and I did. And looking back I was 100% right in advocating for Emily the way I did. And now that I have my own kids I know I would make the choices I told them to make.

I protect my kids. Yes, I rented out rooms to people and had my children living in the home as well. But as soon as I had even a suspicion that Len was a threat and that I couldn’t trust him I removed myself and the kids from the situation, and got him to move out. Did I know to do that because of my parent’s mistakes? Maybe.

If I’d discovered that someone I had allowed to live with us out of kindness or charity had abused my daughter in the past, I absolutely would have made them leave immediately, whether they were a teenager or not. I don’t know if my parents have ever apologized to Emily for how they dealt with Edward. Or didn’t deal with him, really. Or apologized to her for having an alcoholic woman live with them when Emily was so uncomfortable.

And now my mom has not apologized or taken responsibility for her behaviour towards my kids. Questioning Hazel about her gender, questioning Dragon about Hazel. She just keeps showing up for visits and acting like everything is okay, while stoned. She’s different. Maybe she feels she’s back to her old self, before she became a Christian, but her old self was fucked up and made a lot of mistakes.

She lived with an abusive, alcoholic, thief for the first four years of my childhood. She didn’t have to. Her parents were middle class. My grandma is more pragmatic than warm, but she is generous and she loved me and my brothers and would have supported my mom. Then becoming an overzealous, undereducated Christian, raising us to be completely weird and struggle socially.

There’s a part of me that hates her now. I actually kind of want to engage in an all out screaming rage at her, but I’m also afraid of the consequences. I don’t know what they might be, but it seems scary. And not rational and reasonable, which I pride myself on being. I see myself that way. Rational. Reasonable. Patient with people. Longsuffering. So now I’m suffering. I want her to suffer. She should suffer. She messed up, not me.

She’s in my home, taking up space, and I’m allowing her to be here and I feel so shitty. I went through this same kind of thing with Eric, the detachment, the emotional suffering. I guess I’m divorcing my mom, in a strange way. It’s even more visceral, though.

Ten years ago I went through a process of forgiving her for the mistakes and bad decisions she made in my childhood. I guess it’s not over yet. The wounds are reopened. And now I have all my own parenting experience.

I worry what it means for my relationship with my kids if I reject my mom. Will they reject me? Am I investing all this time and energy into them just to be judged so harshly in the future? I don’t want to be judged harshly. I know I’ve made mistakes and I’m not perfect. But last time she apologized for her mistakes. She hasn’t apologized. She hasn’t recognized the pain she caused.

They’re all out with Nathan right now playing soccer with Cedar’s team. I haven’t been supervising my mom around the kids much. I figure they will tell me if she says anything that really bothers them. So it’s not so much that I feel the kids are actually in any real danger. It’s that I, me, I can’t trust her. I don’t know who she is. She’s not the same mom anymore. She’s someone else. And I don’t trust this new person.

And while I’m recognizing that, I have to acknowledge that it must have been hard for Ex when I wanted to open our relationship, and when I discovered I’m attracted to women, and wanted to have some fun before I got too old. The judgement I’m placing on my mom I also turn around and weigh myself with. Have I placed my kids in situations that were dangerous? And no, I don’t think so, not in the same way. I got them out of a bad situation between me and Ex. And I created a home that is a safe space for them to be themselves, whatever their gender or sexual orientation.

I’m on my own journey, and I’m a human. My mom is on her own journey and she’s a human. But how do I reconcile the differences of what that actually means?

I think the only way forward is to talk to her. But I don’t want to create a situation where she’s yelling and screaming with the kids around again. So I guess I have to take her out of the house to talk to her. And the effort involved in that seems like too much for me right now. I’m going to have a nap while everyone is out. That’s pretty much all I can handle.

What am I doing?

Who am I to think that I can write this work? That I can create a new way of seeing for the world. A new common belief system, with common narratives that draw from our shared experiences. A new religion. Suited to theists and atheists alike. Where are the “she’s” and “hers” who are the focal point, the pronoun, of God, gods, creation, salvation? I must tell their stories. Collect their stories.

I can’t tell if this is a stupid idea or a great idea. I think that’s the way with art. I want to try to do it, though. I want to try to write this great work, a religious work. Can I do it smiling behind my hand, though? I am careful to write only what I actually believe, which is couched in mysticism and poetry. I am not a theist. I am an atheist. But I believe I can write the Divine in a way that represents the best of our understanding of the concept of a Divine from Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Hindhu, and Indigenous religions.

I’ll do it as long as it’s interesting and I want to. If it’s not fun or meaningful or worth it to me I can quit. Remember that I only have to do nothing or what I want to do. There is no pressure to complete or produce anything. I say what I want to say, what it is worth it to me to say. My immortality is no small thing. The effort might be worth it for immortality. The chances are small, but how to calculate an expected value for life beyond death?

At the same time, I think that while I care about human pain and suffering on the individual level, and in particular my own, do I really care if most of humanity is wiped out by climate change due to capitalism, competition, arrogance, and patriarchy? I don’t, unless I think about my children and their children and my great-grand children. Then I care. How human is that? We are so close to the animals. If I am building a legacy to last beyond my lifetime for my children, I don’t want it to disappear in one generation. I want my line to go on. I want my life to mean something. So then I feel I should at least try to save the world. I suppose I have a Messiah complex. On the one hand there is nothing I can do. On the other hand, there is something I can try, full of potential mistakes and flaws, but possibly better than doing nothing, and it might just work. Most likely all it will do is make me a better writer. And hopefully not too much more of a nutcase.

I’m absolutely beautiful

When I look at myself in the mirror or in a photo, I think I am absolutely beautiful. But I know others don’t see me this way. I’m pretty, and if you’re in love with me I’m beautiful. But I’m not classically beautiful, with the large eyes, and model shaped face, thin but busty and curvy with muscle tone, head to hair to torso to leg to foot ratio impeccable; and beautiful, milky skin, dark brows, and mysterious smile. I wouldn’t be in a perfume ad.

And I know this, because I do see myself in mirrors and photos and I know how boys reacted to me when I was younger, and I was not a bombshell. If I was, I would have felt their lust and admiration for me even though I was an evangelical, zealous Christian. I did not put much stock in my appearance, as in, I believed what I heard that looks aren’t everything. The smart ones in the books know this.

I’ve read a lot of books. In movies the most beautiful ones win, even if they lose, because the whole world loves them–because they are beautiful. But in books, the writers win. The smart girls win. Intelligence is rewarded. You imagine the character the way you want her to be. Maybe looking a lot like you. Movies take that away. I can’t imagine myself being Julia Roberts. I can’t imagine myself being an animated character. But when I read a book, I can imagine the face of the characters, and maybe some of them look a lot like me.

This is why having diverse characters in books is so important: everyone needs characters that inspire them that are easy to imagine looking like them. And so you know that looks aren’t everything. You just have to be attractive enough. Having a hunch might be a lot harder than just having glasses, a small head, freckles (which I like), white skin under the freckles, which burns easily but is otherwise smooth and unblemished and not-as-yet particularly wrinkly, and being tall, and relatively thin though a bit straight waisted which seems to be leading to thick waisted, and having a great smile.

I’ve worked on my smile. As a young child, probably around the age of five or six, I learned that a smile was important in gaining people’s attention and affection. I remember at six I felt disappointed that I was no longer cute. I knew I had been cute at four. But six was getting old. Time was already weighing me down. I had my first sense that life was short. Time passes. The moments are gone. I could never be four again.

At some age, primarily through books, I think, I learned that it’s okay to be smart even if other people try to tell you it’s not okay, that relationships with other people are important and that to have good relationships you have to be vulnerable and optimistic and stubborn to a certain degree. I learned from characters and plot lines that honesty is always the best policy and that you should hope for the best but prepare for the worst. So I grit my teeth and I decided that even if it was hard that I would be brave and I would be and do all those things.

I don’t remember actually deciding this. It’s not like I am even one hundred percent sure I even made a decision. I just feel like I did. It’s part of the narrative I tell about myself, I guess. I am brave. I make decisions about myself. I don’t let others tell me what to do. I am also considerate of others and not needlessly dominant. I see through to the reasons why of things, below the surface.

I know this intensely about myself. I can’t explain how convinced I am that I do see and understand things about human behaviour, relationships, and the why of what we do that the average person just doesn’t reflect on, process, or instantly make connections about. I read people very well, and even if that’s not entirely true, I read books and movies and ads and news and facebook and any type of media extremely well, and I pick all the ideas and the ideas under the ideas apart, to get down to the ideas under all those ideas, and then I put them together again.

For instance, I just saw this ad online. It was a text specifically addressed to women that promises to teach them everything they need to know about how to kiss a man and get him to fall in love with you. That seemed kind of outrageous. This was an ad before a YouTube video. I continued watching way past when I usually would have stopped watching, because I wanted to see what they were selling. When I do this, I am very aware that someone is trying to sell me something. I don’t know who they are yet and I don’t know what they’re selling, but for some reason, I’m curious. I don’t know why I’m curious. What am I curious about?

I’m curious about the psychology of it all. What the ad says on the surface. What is says by omission. What it says in the background, or what it takes for granted. What techniques the advertisers are using to try to get me to buy something. This is actually the most powerful and dominant human activity we have ever created. Guns and military work to a certain point, but people eventually get tired and revolt and then you have an unstable population. A better way is to get everyone to do what you want without forcing them; you make them want to do it. You sell them your religion. In this case, profit.

The religion of profit is so powerful that a non-existent entity (a corporation) has the same rights as an individual under the law in many important areas. I’m not sure what they are. Maybe one day I’ll find out. Google it. All religions have been sold from the beginning of religions, this is not new. What profit has on the other ones is that it hits two evolutionary nerves instead of just one. Have lots of resources for me and my offspring and be more independent from these people my genes give me capability to cooperate with, even though I don’t really want to? Sign me up.

I’m not convinced humans are really as social animals as we think. The wealthier we get the lonelier we get. The more our lives improve, the more separate we are. Some lament and hearken back to the days before social media, before the internet, before electricity, before capitalism, back when we lived in caves or maybe a little further forward to small villages, and how connected everyone was and how much happier everyone was. How our society today is so hard for us and hard on us and we are really only evolved to work twenty five hours a week and to socialize and play and rest the remainder of the time. And I look around and I think, we have everything.

I have running water. Electricity, which is odorless, smokeless, harmless, because my government regulates its use and the building I live in has to meet a certain building code, and which is affordable to me, even though I am not considered extremely wealthy in this society. I eat amazing food that grows nowhere near here and which people over a hundred years ago didn’t even have access to. I am very healthy, I have medications I can take and surgeries I can get when I’m sick that pretty much ensure I can live until I’m ninety-five, unless by chance I’m part of the small percent that dies younger, which is very small, compared to most of human history.

We live longer, healthier lives on average, and even if there was a time in history people lived as long and as healthy as we are, they couldn’t save themselves from bacteria and viruses and heart attacks and cancer and all sorts of other things that we have solutions for these days because of technology. We live in an amazing time.

I am so glad that I have only been to one funeral in my life. Just one. I’m forty. At any time in history before this, that had never happened. Women of forty would have attend funerals. At the very least for babies born dead. There are a small percent of babies that die in the perinatal period, even now. The rate would have been higher, I estimate around ten percent, throughout human history. About ninety percent of births these days are low-risk (see footnote), and I don’t have any reason to believe the population evolving in Africa and migrating northwards would have been less functionally healthy than we are, in terms of their diet, their immune systems, their exercise, their access to food during childbearing years. Their rate of death would have been higher due to viruses and bacteria, which remember were evolving alongside humans, and to accidents that were fatal, but the rate of potential deaths from the birth process would have been the same. So ten percent of the babies would have died, and less than ten percent of mothers, although I don’t know all the different permutations on which birth complications are more risky for the mother and most likely to end in death.

Cesarean sections weren’t an option. Sometimes they could save the baby, but they could never save the mother if they had to cut her open. So they wouldn’t. If a midwife thought she could save the baby but the mother was already mostly gone or gone, the midwife would cut the baby out. But if there was any hope for the mother and the baby was most likely already gone, the baby died and the mother lived. I don’t know how all these ratios balanced out, but it would have been around the ten percent mark.

Our death rate for mothers is almost zero. Not actually zero, but so close that as a statistic it looks like zero. That’s amazing. That’s what we have done through technology and equality. But our death rate for babies only seems to be able to go so low. There is just still enough mutation in the genetic code that isn’t survivable, and babies die. People don’t realize this. They think that there is no risk of death, really. But they also fear death, without actually looking at it. So they go to a hospital. It’s a way of not having to think, because other people will do the thinking for you. Sign this. Go here. Sit here. Stand here. Breathe here. Push here. Good girl. Go go go. Tell me he’s okay. Perfectly fine. Relief. All went well. Or. Tell me he’s okay. Is he okay? Tell me he’s okay. Why won’t anyone tell me what’s going on? This part doesn’t seem real. People don’t prepare themselves for this. And there are not many of them, because the rate is very low. But it’s still a statistic that isn’t zero. Look it up.

So as I was saying, I am so happy I am alive in 2019 and not some other time. I don’t go to funerals because no one I know or feel close to has been dying. And this is true for most people in this country. There are some exceptions, but most are not surrounded by death. We live unencumbered. We have our aches and pains and diseases and problems, but for most things there is medication and surgery, as I said before. It’s always shocking when there’s not. Imagine how different it would be if you went back three hundred or three thousand years and did one surgery and handed out one antibiotic. That would be shocking. Now it’s not shocking. It’s not a miracle. It’s medicine. It’s normal. We expect to be saved. Most times we are.

And when I stop and think and look at all this, I realize how actually happy I am. I’m happy that I’m not suffering in a war, or in poverty, or without medicine for my children. My day to day life is boring, and I really like that. I wake up. I eat eggs and toast and drink black tea with honey and milk (in that order, the honey has to melt). I send kids to school if it’s their time with me. I work a bit. Sometimes I take the dogs for a walk in the forest. I eat lunch. I like lunch. It’s my meal that doesn’t have to be a proper meal. I make sure I eat healthy in the morning, including vegetables. Nathan usually stirfries onions, zucchini, and sweet peppers in the morning, with mushrooms if we have them.

I feel like I’ve had a great start to my day and already checked one big important thing off my list: eat vegetables. I try to eat vegetables every day, because it’s one of the best ways to be healthy. Remember I told you I made a decision to be and do certain things, and one of those things was to be healthy. I was a good kid. Like, really, a sweetheart. I really cared and you mattered and being good mattered. That has stuck with me as an essential part of who I am even though I’ve also learned to be a badass and be wicked and be my greatest fears.

I let myself do things that are supposed to be embarrassing, and because I’ve decided to do them knowing full well that I am crossing lines and there are rules and taboos, I also know that I’ve assessed the risks, including the risks of what other people will feel because of my actions. If I believe that I am not really offending people but more doing something they will consider a bit weird, then I will do it. If I think I could offend someone, I won’t do it. I don’t need to dominate others to be myself. I don’t believe that dominating those who are just going about their business is a way to have true power. Sell to those who are just going about their business. Be a bit weird in a way people will admire, or at least not frown at. Win people with confidence. I’m pretty good at it.

Which brings me back to being beautiful. I can read people, and I know that based on their reactions I am attractive but not drop dead gorgeous. When I look in the mirror I look at all my features and each one of them is beautiful to me. I like my forehead. I have a fairly tall forehead, and a nice hairline with a small widow’s peak. My head is quite small so my face is quite small. My eyebrows are nice, a bit bushy and Vulcan in nature according to Nathan, although that seems quite extreme to me. My eyes are almond shaped, brown with some green, they used to be more brown, and now I think maybe they are hazel, but it’s too good be true that I would actually get the eyes I wished for as a child.

How I longed for green eyes. I at least wanted green in my eyes. Just brown was so boring. I now have green in my eyes. I feel very powerful. I know it’s random chance. So, my eyes are beautiful. I’m beginning to get more noticeable lines around my eyes, but they are all smile and squint lines and I’m invested in being an optimistic and intelligent person, so I don’t mind. Sometimes I mind. Then I remind myself intelligent and optimistic, and I don’t mind.

My nose has always been a feature I’ve like best, inspired by Anne of Green Gables. I have a fine, delicate nose, straight but not sharp. My cheeks are round, and my face is kind of between heart shaped and oval. My cheeks are covered in freckles, and I like them. They pale in the winter and you can’t really see them unless you’re up close. I like it when they pop out in the summer. Not everyone has freckles. I look kind of unique.

I like my lips. They are a nice plummy colour, and my top lip sits on a small overbite and has two defined points and a bit of lushness. My bottom lip is also nicely proportioned and just full enough. I like the shape of my chin. The one thing I might have changed is how short the distance from my chin to my neck is. I don’t have a sharp jawline in profile, and I am getting a bit of a double chin, if you take a photo from a bad angle. I have a long neck, though. Long, elegant arms. I still look slim, even though I’m not nearly as thin as I was when I was twenty: five foot eight inches and one hundred and twenty pounds. I probably wasn’t eating enough protein.

But I did eat fairly well. Lots of vegetables. Meat was expensive. Onions and carrots and potatoes are cheap. Now I’m almost one hundred and forty pounds. The extra weight is mostly in my breasts and my butt, with a small amount in my belly and waist. I know I’m fortunate. I’m tall so the weight doesn’t show as much. My bigger breasts are attractive. I still don’t have natural cleavage. I don’t wear a bra, and my nipples are very pointy, so they usually show poking under the fabric.

This is an example of being a bit weird in a way that could be embarrassing for me but which doesn’t offend anyone. When I decide that I don’t need to be embarrassed that I have breasts and that they have nipples, and that men who are looking at my breasts won’t object to seeing nipples, and that women aren’t supposed to let on if they are looking at my breasts anyways (isn’t that funny, that it’s more acceptable to think that man might be looking at a woman’s breasts than it is for another woman, supposedly straight). When I decide, then I’m brave.

The first time, I am embarrassed. But I do it anyway. I make myself do it even though it is hard. The second time it’s either better or worse, depending on the emotional feedback I received from reading people around me. I’ve either decided to be even braver or realized that people don’t care as much as I thought and it’s actually closer to okay than to weird.

I’ve gone without a bra since I was twenty, but I did wear nursing bras, so that was about six years of the twenty. I go out and forget anything to do with what I’m wearing. I walk around, and sometimes I notice men staring at my breasts and I remember, oh yeah, I’m not wearing a bra and my nipples show. Then I get a flick of embarrassment, remind myself I’m always brave, and proceed, usually forgetting about it again.

So my breasts are large and nice as a result of my weight gain. I do miss my little breasts sometimes, though. It would be nice have sets of breasts I could trade on and off myself. I wouldn’t mind having an artificial body that felt exactly like my real one, but that could go back and forth on different features. And I also think I’m beautiful the way I am right now. I look at each feature and I see how beautiful they are individually and next to each other. And I look in the mirror at home and I see myself, and I’m beautiful.

When I go to a retail store or the pool though, things change. The mirrors in the retail store always seem designed to make you look as fat and dumpy as possible. I don’t understand if they are purposely trying to make you feel as bad about yourself as possible, if that somehow leads to people buying more clothes. Not me. I blame the clothes, maybe the lighting. If stores were really smart they would have a filter on their mirrors that sense when you were changing. The mirror would go dark so you couldn’t see your naked flesh struggling to get in and out of clothing as a 2D image even though your struggle was in the 3D world. This dimensional shift creates a certain ugliness to the human way of seeing. The filter would go to some light mixture that complemented your skin tone, automatically sensing it when you first walked in the room.

Anyway, I blame the clothes, the mirrors, and the lighting, go home, look at myself in my mirror and feel good. Totally naked is the best way to feel good about myself. Without underwear lines my belly looks fertile and beautiful. My skin is so soft and pale on my belly. There are pretty much no freckles there. Just some stretch marks stretching vertically in an almost X shape on the skin around the top and bottom of my belly button. I remember my babies growing inside me, and I love my stretch marks too. I know that objectively they are not beautiful. I can’t be a model now that I’m not a hundred and twenty pounds.

I didn’t emphasize my appearance when I was young and it has paid off. I put that time I could have spent on hair and nails and makeup and reading fashion magazines (which I hate) into books, and reading, and sleeping in, and thinking and writing and reading. Lots of reading. And now I’m building this business that is making real money. I have three great kids who will grow up to be decent, if imperfect, human animals. I am married to and in a non-monogamous relationship with a really nice guy who really loves me and supports me in anything I do. So watch out world, ha ha.

I can do anything. I’m a beautiful, confident, intelligent, increasingly wealthy, grateful, attractive, experienced and savvy, yet highly optimistic, woman. I am one of the many who will save you.