New Life

You know that voice I was talking about a few weeks ago? It might be getting stronger. And I recognize it but I still fear it and sometimes think I don't deserve it. The uncomfortableness of using it and then not taking it back is my current struggle. As in, I voice an opinion or a thought that's not well received and I immediately take it back because *gasp* someone might not LIKE ME and most definitely LEAVE ME if I stick to it.

Because that's what I did with The Dead Guy. When things started getting bad, he didn't want to hear anything I had to say anymore - my concerns, my thoughts, my opinions. Heck, he didn't even want to hear the facts. All I could do was remember those conversations that I loved so much when we were both well. The ones where we didn't have to agree and talked late into the night about everything under the sun because it was so exciting. Challenging each other. Dreaming together. Solving the world's problems. Gone. Replaced with someone who would cut me off at every pass because everything I said turned into a threat to him. I understand now that he couldn't stand how sad I had gotten and couldn't look at the part he played in that sadness without losing that shredded thread of his reality that allowed him to ignore it. Had he looked at it, he would have been destroyed.

I'm worried about you.
I never asked you to.

Living this far away from our families makes me sad sometimes.
Then go back.

Can you stay sober this morning to come with me to the doctor?
What? You think I can't?

I can't pay our electric bill this month.
Leave me, Kate. Just leave me.

So I stopped talking because the original thoughts I shared never got discussed and the answers deflected back to me somehow twisted each statement into something that became my fault and my responsibility to fix. Consequently, I crawled into myself and stopped saying anything to him except that I loved him and that I would never leave him, which is really all he wanted to hear. And no matter the delusioned monster I got during the day, the little boy inside of him soaked that love in and would come out at night and clutch my hand while he slept because he was so scared of who he had become.

In the meantime, all those thoughts that could no longer come out of my mouth started clamoring in my head and piling up on each other, getting entwined and distorted and blacker and more dense until I couldn't think straight anymore. And that's when I really started losing it. My sense of reality had gotten so twisted by his inability to respond to anything tangible, that I started to believe I was going insane because my reality and his reality were so dichotomous, I couldn't see what was true and what was false anymore. So I let go of my reality and grasped onto his because that's the only way I could continue to be with him. And I desperately loved that frightened little boy I knew he was in his heart, and somehow, that made it all okay.

And it's been a long time coming that I know what's real and what's not today. How many days have I sat on Carolyn's couch telling her what I am thinking while she says, "You know that's not true, right?" And I look at her quizzically and she explains to me how that thought got so mixed up and I try on the new idea for awhile and then start to believe her. On to the next one. Hours and hours, she has spent undoing that tangled mess of his reality that I either had to accept or truly go insane. And now I know how to straighten out my thoughts by myself most of the time. But most importantly, I have people I can tell ALL my thoughts to, no matter how silly they are because NOT saying them keeps them locked up with the ability to confuse me at any moment.

So today, when someone doesn't like what I have to say? I cringe. And I hurriedly take my inventory to see if my motives are in the right place, if I'm acting on reality and whether or not I have the "right" to say what I'm thinking. Carolyn tells me that I don't have to do that anymore, but I can't help it. I spend so much time with people who take their own inventory on a daily, if not hourly basis, that when I come across someone who won't or can't, I'm actually physically taken aback. When I feel that someone is deflecting something back onto me that's not mine to own? It makes me topsy turvy, so I have to check it out with everyone and his dog to make sure I'm not off my rocker, because I could so easily slip right back into that pattern of profuse apology and please-don't-leave-mes. So if the consensus is that it's not mine to own, I don't back down. I want to. Holy. Do I want to, but I don't. Because they tell me that it will get easier if I keep practicing. So for today, I think I'm going to hold with the voice that I know to be true and real, because I am beginning to trust it.

We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to tell you that I got some real swing dance shoes yesterday. They have slippy suede bottoms and they're fancy pants! Miss M told me if I ever show up wearing them with tapered leg jeans, she'll call the fashion police. But no matter, this is skirt summer where I refuse to wear shorts, so I don't think that will happen anytime soon. They are lovely, lovely. And I can't wait to try them out again on Wednesday.

It's June 28th, and the weather has been crappy pretty much every weekend so far this summer. But we've been banking on this one since we heard the weather report on Monday. Today was beach day. And holy. Was it ever! Cowgirl's husband has lots of awesome friends. One of whom happens to own this. I think besides the pristine waters of the BWCA, this was hands down the most incredible water I've ever spent time on.

It's an old quarry. I chose not to think about the fact that these things are as deep as a football field is long. That's a little creepy. However, you could see down about 12 feet, watch your feet kick and the fish skitter away. That was worth ignoring the sinking depth that could suck me down and drown me. Can you tell it still freaks me out? I didn't go off the ledge without a floatie. No way.

You know when there's clouds high, high up in the sky and then there's lower clouds down below and the ones down below are moving faster or in a different direction than the ones up above? I could lay relaxed in the grass and watch that all day. It makes my heart happy.

I spent about an hour looking for a strapless bra this morning. Did you know that if you require anything more than a 36C, the bra prices go up astronomically? The same bra, same style, same everything. For more money.

Dirty Ben called early this morning with a little problem all over his legs and back. Fingernail polish remover will take tar off the skin. Make up remover will not. And it's much more fun to remove listening to Dirty Deeds, Done Dirt Cheap than to flamenco music.

After playing at Tallgrass all day in the sun, as soon as we had dinner, the breeze shifted and cooler air started whipping around us. Us South Dakotans? Didn't matter that it felt like 100 degrees in the shade when we left our homes this morning, we all went to our cars and grabbed wool sweaters or heavy sweatshirts. We just seem to keep them with us.

There's nothing like watching the sun go down as the storm clouds are rolling it. It's wicked looking.

And people really seem to smile when they see us swing dance on the street. Especially the older ones. It's like they're transported back to some previous memory in their life. It makes them happy. And it makes me happy, too. It makes me wish I never had to stop.

These are a million years old, but they're squishy and comfortable. And they show my toe rings, of which I am very fond. Look how veiny my feet are. Weirdness.

I guess I'm back to posting my melodramatic thoughts. I can't stay away. In an email from a dear reader she stated that, "Whether you write them or not, you're still having your thoughts. I'll listen if you don't want to post it." You know who you are, and I love you dearly, darling. Last week's meltdown is largely over, but it still smarts. I've discovered that the longer I stay sober, the more work I have to do with The Dead Guy; the more I realize how much I missed out on in life during my drinking career and how much more work I have to do to learn to be okay most of the time. I went to the cemetary several times last week and hashed some things out. I don't know why I go there. He's not really there, but it's at least a place to go where I feel safe talking to him and not crazy. Miss M told me last summer that "Nothing's weird at the cemetary. You do what you have to do. Everyone who is here is doing their own thing and they recognize pain." So last Wednesday night, I laid my cheek on his headstone and I talked. And talked and talked. And told him what I was mad about and what I was glad for and what made me so very sad. And I cried. He and I cried alot together. So that at least, seems normal in a way.

More importantly, I came to the conclusion that I really am no longer an emergency. I THINK things are an emergency. I make rapid phone calls - trying to reach SOMEONE just to spread the pain around. Just last night when I was crying, I got Miss M on the phone and I hiccupped into the receiver and she didn't have to say a word. She knows that I just need to share it in order to get through it. And when I'd calmed down enough I told her goodnight and we both went to sleep. Not much passed between us but the sobbing through the phone line and her witness of my tears. But not everyone is willing to put up with that kind of pain. So they either don't pick up the phone or they find a reason to get off. These people aren't bad or flawed in any way, they just don't have the capacity to manage it and be okay themselves.

I'm glad I'm someone that will share your sadness with you today. Because I've been on the other side of it, I'll listen and cry with you if need be. I know how important that is. Just to be there. I don't need someone to "fix" anything today, I just need someone to be present with me in person, on the phone, in my thoughts - whatever. It is how it is. And I've discovered that I give as much of that as I take. And that? That's a reason to rejoice.

I'm obsessed with my garden. I gaze at it longingly every night. I pluck a few weeds here and there. I take pictures of it. I commune with it for God's sake! I've been obsessed with worse things, believe you me. I'm going to take this as a sign that I believe life can grow anew and that it's worth watching. Remember when I said I got "way too many" tomato plants because they were on sale due to their "distressed" state? They are no longer distressed. In fact, I have 15 tomato plants flourishing in a space that should probably only house about three. Six yellow tomatoes and nine red. Miss M is growing Romas, so mine are all of the canning and pizza sauce variety. What am I going to DO with all of them? Three of the yellow ones already have flowers on them! I've googled roasted tomatoes, sun dried tomatoes, tomato juice, stewed tomatoes, pizza sauce and spaghetti sauce. What else do you do with tomatoes? Help me with suggestions, okay?

I couldn't wait to tell you about the conversation that happened in my office this morning. The good doctor is from Pakistan, so whether I'm interested or not, I get apprised of pretty much anything that happens over there. Pakistan won the world Cricket championship this weekend, which is pretty amazing. Have you ever watched Cricket? It's a fascinating sport. We watched the second to the last game on Friday when he and I were alone in the office. This is what they pay me to do, right? And might also contribute to the sinking feeling that my brain is melting every moment I continue to stay here.

Anyway, he was showing us video of the street celebrations this morning; the fireworks, people dancing and acting silly, the slapping of backs, the shouting and mayhem. It looked like fun. But I noticed there was something missing so I said, "Where are the women?" And the response was, "They are not allowed outside that time of night. Plus, if they went outside, they might get bred." To which I responded, "You mean raped." And got the usual, "No, no." And I said, "Yes, yes." And he said, "You don't understand." Really? "I think I understand more than you know."End of conversation, because whenever I talk to him about human rights, especially women's rights, he gets too upset to even hear me. I want to believe that someday, he will.

I got to dance under the stars last night. It was glorious.

I'm going to take a break. I can't do it anymore. It hurts too much and the path is too thorny. Carry on, good people. Carry on.

I got an assignment in therapy this morning. She doesn't usually give me anything to do inbetween time. An hour a week is enough torture, believe me. But this one involves other people. And in your case, audience participation! The game show that is my life is entertaining, no? There aren't prizes, though. Sorry. Just me making it through another day.

Today was a "review" day. When we go back and look at where I was and where I'm at now and all the crap that transpired inbetween. When I started therapy (with a different therapist) in November of 2001, I had two major issues with myself. First, I could no longer look at the future with any sort of hope. Today? I just don't look at it. That works. (Ha!) And second, that I was sick of being a different person in each venue of my life. Work Kate, friend Kate, daughter Kate, sister Kate, academic Kate? They were all different incarnations of myself and I couldn't live with it anymore. Being consistent in who I am is very important to me today. So, Carolyn asked me to name three ways that I know I'm living that way. I could only come up with two. I'm genuine and don't hide much anymore (in other words, I'm not ashamed to be me most of the time) and I'm considerate. Which she took me to task for, because I'm mostly too considerate (ie. pansy-assed and refuse to stand up for myself) and that means I let people walk all over me. Here's an example, which plays out on a daily basis at my job.

Me: "I was thinking that ....." (notice I don't even get to finish)
The good doctor: "What? You started thinking again? Who said you could do that?"

Hrmph. Then she proceeded to tell me that I'm stuck somewhere and she can't quite figure out where. Hands down, I'm stuck career-wise. I am very aware that I need to do something about that, but we'll get to it when I figure out what the intense fear of accepting greater responsibility at my work place is all about. I think it's mostly that I'll get overwhelmed and start drinking again, but that's kind of irrational - one of the thoughts that I beat with a stick every so often.

She asked me if I would ever consider relocating, if I really and truly want to be in a significant relationship, if I was bored with recovery meetings, why I won't take on debt to go back to school. And I couldn't answer any of those questions definitively. I looked at her with a blank stare and tears behind my eyes, and said simply, "It's fear. It's all fear. All the TIME it's fear."

So, rockstars. Here's the assignment. I am to ask five people who are close to me where they think I'm stuck. I already know who they are. They're all in my rock family. But I want to ask you, too. Because if there's a place that I'm the most genuine. It's here. So have at it. I'm curious. Because the hell if I know what my problem is.

A quote from my favorite book. The one my mom used to read to me whenever I'd threaten to run away. (Frequent. I was a horrid child. Really. Go figure.) She'd sit down on the floor and start reading a new chapter as I was packing my bag. By the time five pages were done, I was mesmerized and had forgotten why my dolly was in a backpack.

Living with Gay Boyfriend has some serious advantages. I have my own apartment completely separate from him, but I'm also a part of the household. It's the best of both worlds. I'm alone, but I don't have to be. Plus, I have a whole backyard that's all mine! He doesn't much care for the great outdoors, so the swing and the firepit, the grill and the lawn are usually all mine. AND, I found out that the previous owners used to have a garden along the fence. I've dreamed of a garden for years now. Apartment dwelling with it's inherent container gardening has taken it's toll on me. I made my dad dig a garden up at the parish house I lived in one year, but I was mostly drunk, so nothing much grew. This year, despite the rain and the cold of early summer, I got my garden.
Mom and dad came to visit on Saturday, and when the day dawned warm and sunny, I calculated my plan. By the time they got out of the car, I was shouting, "Hurry! We've got work to do! Places to go! Plants to buy! Mud to play in!" And we were off. An hour later, having visited Campbell's, Lowe's and Home Depot, with a stop in at Ruby Tuesdays for lunch, we dug in.

I'm surprised these haven't been featured before. They are my go-to shoes. They've been around for almost ten years. Hence, the scruffy exterior that occasionally my dad will polish up for me, because I'm lazy and for some wanked out reason, he likes to polish shoes. And don't look too closely at the paint job on my toenails. I have no patience for such things, and about two seconds after I painted them, I decided I wanted to go sit in the backyard swing. So I did. Apparently, that's not a good idea. Obviously, I do not care.

Guess what time of the month it is?! It's time for your monthly public health announcement! (Seriously, would I be this excited to tell you I have PMS? No. I would not.) The South Dakota Public Health Bulletin arrived yesterday to my intense glee and delight. The clap? It is a-clappening at a 13% increase, but gonorrhea? There's something going on, because it's up by 57%. Yuck. So in this case, I am NOT going to implore you to wear condoms, I'm going to tell you to stop having sex until the epidemic is over. Good Lord. And something called cryptosporidiosis is up by 116%. Whatever it is, it sounds disgusting. So there you have it, kids. There wasn't anything about rabies, so it was kind of a disappointment this time.

It's raining. That can stop at any moment. My parents have decided to grace me with their presence tomorrow. I have to let them come; they've been clamoring about not having seen me for two months. Like I don't exist if they don't validate my presence on the earth with their eyes. I'm such a good daughter. No?

It may not surprise anyone that I am considered somewhat of a Bible scholar - having worked for the church for 10 years. I'm a smarty pants, so it interests me to know the backwards, forwards and inside out versions of what I'm teaching. I read all kinds of literature that explained meaning and historical significance. I did research on translations, I took classes in the Old and New Testaments - always the heckler in the front row. Because I can never take anything at face value. Don't tell me something's what it is unless you've got the information to back it up. If you can't prove to me that the sky really is blue, then don't bother telling me.

But that wasn't enough. It's never enough. I decided that I wanted to make my own meaning. I got tired of a bunch of old guys with beards telling me what the Bible meant. So it began. Hebrew lessons. Right to left squigglies that I learned to recognize and write. And I was thrilled. Absolutely thrilled that I could finally decide on my own what the Bible meant to me. Hebrew is made up of picture words. One "word" can encapsulate an entire phrase. And it's up to the translator to figure out which phrase the original word intentioned. Liberated! My OWN meaning! It was going to change my world!

And then about two years later, it dawned like the piercing light of a bad, bad hangover morning, that the person who teaches you Hebrew? It's their fucking worldview that you're learning. And guess who all the Hebrew scholars are? Old men with beards. It crushed me. So I never bothered taking the Greek necessary to translate the New Testament. I figured the old dudes were going to win, no matter what I tried. And there went just a little bit of my spirit.

See? I'm curious. I'm curious about so many things. That's why it was so painful to pick a major for my undergraduate degree. I wanted to learn everything. I started out as a Biology major. I LOVED IT. Physiology, Chemistry (Which was all the more interesting because I could light things on fire during lab. Yes. I did that. I was THAT student.) Plus, I adore electrons. But I couldn't handle Physics. Nope. My brain couldn't go there. Trains coming from Timbuktu at the speed of light and cars coming the opposite direction at 40 miles an hour? When will they crash? Um. In my world? Never. On to the next thing. History! But that's a bunch of old dudes with beards pretending that the Native Americans are perfectly okay with being on reservations. So, no. When I graduated, I had enough credits to be a music major, but I didn't want to give a recital. So - forget THAT. Plus, music is my hobby. If it became my job, it would cease to amuse me. Somehow, I knew that.

But somewhere along the way, one of my liberal arts requirements - Interpersonal Communication - struck my fancy. And it was born. Rhetoric and Critical Thought. Race and Rhetoric. Hermeneutics and The Other. Derrida and Michel Foucault (Discipline and Punish remains one of my top five books even after all these years), Post Modern theory and my brain was on fire. Burning. And that was that. Critical thought was born. Taught by whom? Old men with beards.

And it all boiled down to a conversation I had with a co-conspirator that I graduated with, a year after the fact. "Kate, did it ever occur to you that we learned nothing about how to live in the real world when we were in college?" To which I answered, "Of course we didn't. We learned how to tear things apart and reduce them to meaninglessness and concluded that no one will ever truly understand another human being because no two people's words are informed by the same experiences. How's THAT for entertainment?" So I quit tearing things apart and started trying to "play by the rules" of the world. The rules of the old men with beards. And my spirit died just a little bit more.

But guess what? That is SO not fun. Not fun at all. So the rule breaker? She's coming out to play. With her skirt flying and skinned knees, her pigtails and mud. She'll go screeching by on her bike, crashing through forests chasing foxes and slipping into the creek to corral the tadpoles. Because that girl? That's ALL me. She's tired of living in the world of old men with beards. It exhausts her to be polite and sit still and look pretty. In fact, I may not even shower tomorrow. THAT'S how exhausted I've gotten with the trappings of this world. Hrmph.

I got an interesting email from a reader yesterday and because of that, I'd like to clarify something about my blog.

There is no hidden meaning. I'm not trying to tell you something in code. I do not take the time to craft and hone my posts. What I think simply comes out my fingers. Sometimes I take the paths through my brain late at night which should not be walked alone, but I do it anyway because I'm melodramatic like that and those things show up on here as well.

Call it the vomit blog. You know, that hot faced feeling and watery mouth right before you spew? It's like that. I have a compulsion to say something, so I say it. Simple. Kind of like when Miss M gave me a knife set for Christmas because I was lamenting the state of what I owned and she couldn't help but say, "These are not going to be used to slice up your arms, right?" Because it had to be said.

And I would like to apologize to anyone who thought otherwise, but I write for me. Not for some agenda. Not to get you to stop drinking or hate the church. For me. It really is that simple.

And I would like to state for the record that I had a glorious night's sleep last night. GLORIOUS. I would like ten more of those in a row pleaseandthankyouverymuch.

I'm pretty sure this post will be completely discombobulated and confused, but it is what it is. That's where my brain is. I've been introduced to several feminist blogs lately. And I am reading them voraciously. Sickeningly so. Glued to them. Trying to learn (or unlearn) and process and put into perspective where I'm at today. It is at once, exhausting and exhilarating.

Somewhere along the way, I lost my voice. The woman that at one time took on a 30 person church council and told them they were full of misogynistic shit and didn't think anything of it to a trembling being who couldn't even express a simple desire for fountain diet coke and not the kind that came in a twist off cap bottle. How did that happen and how am I supposed to get that back?

I've had glimpses of that girl. I attended a women's Bible Study at the Dead Guy's dad's church for almost six months after he died. It was at once healing and suffocating. It was a one pastor (male, of course) church where I at least felt welcome in my grief. Until we started really STUDYING. At which point, my brain engaged and spewed forth the opinions of the heretic woman I used to know. Reading a passage from James and discussing it and hearing one matriarch say, "We better ask Pastor so and so what he thinks it means." finally broke me to say such things as, "This is a women's Bible study. What makes you think that men have the ultimate say in what it means? We are here to discuss what it means to US, not what it means to THEM!" And the heretic was reborn. They were frightened and at the same time emboldened by my fervor. And I hope that they don't forget that moment.

I get flashes of this woman every once in awhile. She's begging to reappear. That self-confident woman that has opinions and thoughts and moxie. I used to cherish my moxie. That part of me that wouldn't take the crap of the paternalistic society I live in. I used to fight it. And she might become reborn. I'm frightened of her, but I think she is the true me. It's just a matter of time before she takes over. And I like her, too. But I'm confused and uncomfortable with her anymore.

I think I finally put my finger on it tonight as I was driving to the meeting. I think that since I so supremely fucked up my life that I don't have the "right" to my old thoughts. But I do. I SO do. That's the real me that's screaming to reappear. She's the one that really lived her life. The drunken sot that drank in her closet is NOT me. She was a phase of me. But she's not me. I should be excited that I know that, but I'm mostly afraid.

I ran into a man tonight that I used to worship. He and I got sober together. Him - about two weeks after me. We'd talk late at night on the phone when we were struggling with life. I had a crush on him. A big, big crush, and then suddenly at about a year and a half sober, he started to irritate me and I couldn't figure out why. This was a man that walked the plank with me. But one day, I finally got it. We may have gotten sober together, but he's a fucking male chauvinist pig and I was done making excuses for him. And it was over. He's still a goddamn fucking dick, but I pity him, because he doesn't get it. He has NO idea why I don't enjoy his company anymore. I've told him in so many words why, but his brain is incapable of understanding it. He has no idea how much he hates women and puts them down in every breath he takes. And I won't stand for it.

And I like that I don't stand for it. I like that alot. The heretic is reborn. She may scare me, but she's real. She's so fucking real.

A gratuitous picture of my boobies to tell you what the mood is at Casa de Kate this weekend. It's been rainy and dreary, and I used that as an excuse to actually do some housework. I'm not the world's best housekeeper. I clean only when I have to. Which is usually only when I can't stand it anymore and I'm afraid my mother will drop by and give me The Look. The one that says I'm a failure as a daughter because I don't like to scrub my bathroom.

The summer is all about the beach and camping, so a rainy weekend at the beginning of the season is a good thing! I can get it all done and then not clean for another three months. Right? Of course right.

I ran into The Dead Guy's sister and his daughter this morning. I've only seen Flower Girl three times since he died. She's going into fifth grade next year and she's smart as a whip. As always. She and I always had a shy understanding of one another. Almost like she was complicit in the understanding that her daddy was sick. She knew it and it breaks my heart over and over again that she had to live through that. Kids always know. Sometimes more so than adults.

No one else in his family wanted to believe it. That he was never going to get better. They still tell people that he died from an aneurysm. I don't mince words and just say that he drank himself to death. Because that's the truth and to ignore that seems dishonest. And if you don't tell it like it is, the family secrets continue and make further generations sick, too. And damned if I want Flower Girl to turn into him - or me - or her grandmother, for that matter.

His sisters and his mother blamed me for his death for a long time, not sure if they still do. Because I let him openly drink in front of me - that came out in the police report as they sat there and looked at me slack jawed when I told the policeman how much he'd had to drink that night and that there were pain killers in his bag. I knew he was drinking anyway and it infuriated me that he even tried to hide it, so I told him if he was going to do it, then just do it already and quit with the charade. That, and I spent the last night of his life with him. Somehow they didn't seem to like that very much. I figure he got to go out being held by someone who loved him to death. And to death it was.

But because of that blame, they've kept Flower Girl from seeing me. They made it very clear that I was to have nothing more to do with her. Twice, when she visited her grandpa, he called me and we had dinner together and cuddled on the couch, talking about school and her dog and occasionally about her daddy. And it was a bittersweet joy to see her today. She's growing into a wonderful young lady and I have the feeling she's going to make it. No matter her past. Her mom and step dad love her to pieces and her grandma, grandpa and aunts spend as much time with her as they possibly can. I just miss her. That's all. I miss her.

Yeah for turquoise flip flops! They go with my dress from the wedding. They are not however, good to dance in. One of them may have gone flying across the room when I found out that BBoy knows how to swing dance. He is now in my clutches and will not be set free until he's just as addicted to dancing as I am.

I gave in to the sleeping medicine last night. I ran out of options. Kate and no sleep makes for very bad choices, very volatile emotions and she just plain doesn't look pretty with bags under her eyes. I hate the hungover feeling I get from it, so I only take it when I've got 10-12 hours to sleep. I was out like a light at 8:30 last night and even though I got up several times during the night, I didn't really wake up until six. I finally feel rested. It's an evil cycle, I tell you. Evil.

Here's to a restful weekend. It's not supposed to be sunny. Or warm. So no beach. I think that means I have to clean my house. Phht.

So, my sleep has been all kinds of messed up lately. Part of it is because I still have the monkey plague. Going on four weeks now. Since I had meningitis a couple years ago, when I get sick, it just hangs on. Part of it is because I've messed up my routine.

I thrive on routine, people. THRIVE. When I first got sober, I knew exactly what I was going to do every minute of the day and if I got "off," I just called someone who knew my routine and they'd help me get back on. I'm much better now at going with the flow, but when things get a little rocky, I know that going back to basics is the best thing for me.

So, like a good little girl, I left dancing at 10:15 (fifteen minutes longer than I intended, but I wanted to dance. DANCE, people. DANCE.) went home and got into my pajamas, brushed my teeth, washed my face and settled in my chair with a book and a cup of sleepytime tea. NOTHING DOING. I was not asleep until one in the morning and then I woke up at four, like I always do. I know it will take several nights of my routine to get me back in synch, but it's torture. Seriously, they use sleep deprivation to get confessions out of people. I'd say pretty much anything to anyone at this point to get a good night's sleep. Good Lord.

Someone sent me this article yesterday. And I don't know what infuriates me more. The article itself, or the idea that someone thinks it's a good idea for me to read this. I know that most people don't click on links, so I'll post the most offensive part here.

The Court seems to understand this, for it gently and subtly elides the key issue of marriage law when it goes on to say: “Society benefits, for example, from providing same-sex couples a stable framework within which to raise their children . . . just as it does when that framework is provided for opposite-sex couples.” But wait a minute: How in the world does a same-sex couple obtain a child that is “theirs?”

This is precisely the way in which same-sex couples differ from opposite-sex couples. No child is born from a homosexual union. A child born to one of them has another parent who has been quietly escorted into the lab or the backdoor, to make the conception possible. That person is quickly escorted right back out the door, before he can claim any parental rights, or the child can claim any relational rights. Some of us believe that these two people, the child and the opposite-sex parent, require and deserve some protection. But the Court of Iowa does not think them even worth mentioning.

The social purpose of marriage has always been to attach mothers and fathers to their children, and to each other. This universal social purpose does not even make it onto the Iowa Court’s short list. The reason should be obvious: opposite-sex couples and same-sex couples are not similarly situated with respect to that purpose of marriage. If the Court found that attaching children to their parents and parents to one another is a purpose of marriage, they would be unable to sustain their claim that man woman marriage violates the principle of equal protection under the law.

I don't even know where to start. First of all, to even read the article with a half-way open mind, I have to buy the idea that the purpose of marriage is to attach mothers and fathers to their children and each other. All I can picture here is bondage and chains. It presupposes that a couple desiring to get married will have children and that if they don't, then the marriage is essentially purposeless. It assumes that the mother and/or father are capable of caring for the child, that the child will be protected by that parent, not needing protection FROM them.

And by saying that a same sex couple will never have a child that is fully "theirs?" My God. What does that say about adoption? About loving parents who fully adopt a child into their family and treat them as if they were biological? That makes every adoption a sham. Even adoption by heterosexual couples. You can't have the argument go both ways. You simply cannot.

And what does that say about a single, childless woman like myself? I am a second class citizen should I never take part in this great social structure which rules the world? The fact that someone thought I would find this article interesting and was surprised at my response? I'm truly coming out of my self-imposed shell.

I missed Therapy Tuesday last week because reporting on meeting Captain Crab was much more interesting. Believe you me. MUCH.

Apparently, I am not going to graduate from therapy until Carolyn has completed the brainwashing job she's set out to accomplish in the sex department. I'm beginning to regret ever telling her anything about my sex life with the Dead Guy. She'd like to label all of it abusive. Me? Not so much. What's so wrong with liking aggressive sex? I mean sure, I'll admit that some of it went too far. Drunken, disorderly copulation is probably not the ideal. I'll give her that. But seriously, do I have to buy the idea that connecting with someone in bed is all butterflies and rainbows? What's the fun in that? I want dark and I want needy and I want confused breathlessness. I want to open my eyes and not know if I'm right side up or upside down. I want the thunderstorm that clears the air.

She uses words like victim and perpetrator. I HATE those words. And she knows it. So she uses them frequently, if only to get a rise out of me. I told her when I left today, that I thought perhaps I harbored a little hatred toward her in my heart. She laughed and said, "See you next week." Hrmph.