Monthly Archives: August 2011

Do cats even *have* orgasms? Anyway. I’m really relaxed.


I did a totally decadent thing recently.

(No.  I didn’t have a multi-million dollar wanna-be “royal” wedding/festival of gaudiness.  That was the other Kim.)

I had a two-hour massage.


When I went into the massage, my right shoulder-blade was on fire, my right elbow had been aching for days and I was having shooting pains from my shoulder to my forearm. 

Oh, and I wanted to cry on account of the pain.

Two hours later I was a total noodle.

I don’t even really remember the end of the massage.  I just remember somehow finding my way to the dressing room and being somewhat amused by the fact that I looked positively post-coital — messy hair, pink cheeks, bemused smile.

You know how cats get all relaxed and sprawl out and purr and you’re kind of embarrassed to even look at them because it seems pretty obvious that they just had an orgasm?

I felt like that. 

Except do cats even have orgasms?

And how would we know if they did? 

They look like they totally have orgasms.  All the time.


Part of the reason why this massage was so good is because of my new Favorite Person, John the Architect turned Massage Guy.  Turns out John was fresh out of massage school and was super-excited to explain to me how my back muscles work, etc.

I didn’t really understand all the fancy medical terms.

Then he actually looked at/messed around with my shoulder/arm and said “Wow.  This is totally jacked up!”

I understood that medical term.

I also understood that John was a little too excited about the fact that I seemed to have an actual problem with my shoulder/arm.  I’m pretty sure I saw him rubbing his hands together with glee. 

Then he used them to simultaneously torture me and make me groan with pleasure.

(No, I’m not becoming an erotica writer.)

(As far as you know.)

(And I did not have sex with the masseuse.)

(Although he is the only man who has touched my bare skin since the dawn of time, practically.  So there’s that. He is also 32, short and not into girls.)

It was just a really good massage. 

Note to self for the next time I have a male masseuse:

  • Shave your legs, Kim.  Honestly.
  • Don’t wear granny panties.  It’s horrifying when the masseuse turns down the blanket and tries to tuck it in at your waist but can’t because your panties come up about 2 inches above your waist.
  • Maybe don’t moan out loud with pleasure.
  • Also, grunting is not cool.
  • Try not to get excited when the masseuse whispers to you; he’s not sex talking you.



p.s.  i’m pretty sure this is what they call “phoning it in”… sorry!  this is all i could squeak past my multiple Dreadifuss Beasts.  i promise a real post is coming soon.  i think.  i hope.



Filed under My Big Book of Me

I’ve got nothing. Except my earthquake story. And PTSD.

I went to Washington DC and came back with two hats, a t-shirt, invaluable Segway driving experience and earthquake-related PTSD.

I am completely unable to write anything meaningful at this time.

(I am, however, able to mess around on, hence the picture above.)

I don’t think my writer’s block (or whatever it is) is solely related to the earthquake, but it didn’t help.

It also didn’t help that, after the earthquake + the earthquake-related travel issues yesterday, Mom woke up this morning and accidentally took her “nighttime” medicines. 

Very.  Long.  Stressful.  Day.


I’m fine.



p.s.  the “son going to college” thing went fine.  he’s having a blast and i hardly ever cry…. (just kidding, i cry all the time)  (JUST KIDDING!)

p.s.s.  yes, there was an earthquake, but the trip to washington dc was amazing.  more later.


August 24, 2011 · 8:36 pm

To be honest, I’m an emotional wreck, have no idea what I’m writing, and should probably just start drinking.

Let me preface this by saying that my son is going to college tomorrow.


(the sweetest little sweet pea, ever)


(dorm room + fraternity rush + slutty college girls + God only knows what else)


(practically today)

I’m a little emotional.

After not being able to write anything for a week, I’ve written at least five (5) long, rambling, sentimental, mushy posts in the last few hours.

(and there’s kleenex everywhere to prove it…)

None of which are fit to print, at least not anywhere my son might find them before he’s too old to be embarrassed by me. (Which is probably never, I guess.)

There is a common theme running through everything I’ve written today:

“What the fuck just happened?”


“I wish I were a kangaroo mom.”


“Being a mother is sweet, prolonged agony, pretty much.”

Heavy sigh.

Here’s the rub of motherhood:

First you’re in charge of ensuring the very survival of a brand-new human being, which is fucking terrifying:

Me:  You’re discharging me from the hospital and I’m supposed to *take* this newborn baby with me?  Out of the hospital?” 

Evil Nurse:  Yes.  That baby cries more than any newborn I’ve ever seen.  Good luck.”

Then, even if your kid sleeps (and mine didn’t….) you never get another good night’s sleep.  Ever.

(first you’re hovering over his bassinette, gently rubbing his cheek to make sure he’s still breathing and swallowing the lump in your throat that you get every time you look at him, then you read to him and sing him to sleep, while you learn how to half-sleep and then slide yourself out of his bed without making a peep and you go to your own bed, but you’re still only half-sleeping because what if he cries out for you? plus you’re just waiting for the pitter-patter of his little feet running to you in the middle of the night because he’s scared and should probably just spend the rest of the night in your bed, and you know you should take him back to his bed, but you love watching him sleep — which is all you can do, because  getting any sleep yourself is out of the question with him sprawled at impossible angles across your bed — and then you’re hovering outside his bedroom door to make sure he turns off the PlayStation/TV/cell phone and goes to bed at a reasonable hour and, when the coast is clear, you sneak in and take the controller/remote/phone out of his hand and you smooth his hair (because you’re not allowed to touch it when he’s awake) and you kiss his forehead and you swallow the lump in your throat again because how did you get to be so lucky? and then you wait up at night when you know he’s out and you try not to watch the clock but you do, and you’re waiting for his call to let you know he’s safe and sometimes you pretend to be asleep when he comes in the door, but you’re not and you swallow the lump in your throat because he’s such a good kid, and even if you don’t usually talk to God, you find yourself saying “thank you God, thank you for bringing him home safe tonight” and sometimes when it’s late and you don’t know where he is, you check facebook to see if he’s “checked in” anywhere and then you’re all “thank GOD for facebook…”)

Then, on top of the “no-sleep-ever-again” deal, it turns out that your entire job is to love him with every fiber of your being and to prepare him to not need you.

(Dramatic?  Yes.  I told you I’m an emotional wreck tonight….)


I am excited for my son.  I know he’s on the brink of a grand adventure.  I want him to enjoy every minute of his college experience.



The thing is that I know this whole dramatic “mood” of mine doesn’t even really make sense given our circumstances.

I’ve shared custody of my son with his Dad since he was two. (Bummer.) When he was 16, he decided he was tired of splitting his life between two houses and has lived primarily with his Dad since. (Understandable and Ouch!) And he was a camp counsellor this summer, so I only saw him a couple of times all summer. (Yuck.)

So, it’s not like this is the first time he is leaving “the nest”, or “my nest”, anyway.

Why does this feel so different/awful/huge/sad?

Partly because, even though he hasn’t always been with me the past 19 years, I’ve known, for the most part (and please don’t tell me any scary stories about all the times that he wasn’t where I thought he was…. I’m already on the verge) where he was and who he was with and/or who was responsible for him.

And now he is responsible for himself and I trust him.

(and I’m not just saying that, I do trust him.)

It’s just that the world seems very big and very dangerous to me tonight.

And the lump in my throat feels too big to swallow away. 

Wish me (and, mostly, him) luck tomorrow!




Filed under Uncategorized

I’m feeling totally bitchy anyway, so I decided that today I am three.

I don’t even really have the vocabulary to explain how downright bitchy I’ve been feeling (and, ummmm, acting) the past few days.

“Super fucking bitchy” come close.

But mostly on the inside, because I’m 46.  And 46 year olds aren’t allowed to act as bitchy on the outside as they feel on the inside.

Unlike three year olds, who can let it all out under the guise of “age appropriate behavior”….


I was reminded of this fun fact of life at the (normally quiet) cafe where I go to write sometimes. 

There I was, just sitting in my booth, minding my own business and slamming my head against the table trying to force myself to write when this band of unruly and seemingly terroristic three year olds arrived.

(There were only two of them.  But they were frightening, in very different ways.)

And all hell broke loose.

First, they were wearing sparkly tutus — with boots — in the middle of the business day. 

Which made me think “have they no sense of decorum?” and “fuck you little kids who get to do whatever you want all the time.”

Then they start fucking singing, for no apparent reason.

It was downhill from there:

Noooooo!  Stop singing!  I’m singing, you can’t sing. Moooooooommmmmyyyy, she’s singing and I’m the one who sings, not her!  STOP IT HANNAH — Don’t touch my napkin! (shrieking) I WANT A NEW NAPKIN (sobbing)  shetouchedmynapkinandthat’snotfairmommy I HATE YOU, Hannah.



Nice/Patient/Medicated Mommy:  “Jessie, do you want lemonade or milk with your lunch?”

Jessie:  “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” (falling apart)

Hannah:  (sweetly) “I love lemonade!”

Nice/Patient/Medicated Mommy:  “Honey, I gave you a choice, lemonade or milk.”

Jessie:  (still crying/shrieking) “I HATE YOU, MOMMY!  I don’t want that.”

Hannah:  (smiling sweetly at her mommy, who is probably also medicated) “We never say we hate people, do we mommy?”

Hanah’s medicated mommy: (smoothing little Hannah’s perfectly coiffed hair)  “No, sweetheart, we don’t”

Nice/Patient/Medicated Mommy:  (unnaturally calm) “Jessie, I’m not understanding why you are upset, honey, I’m giving you a choice of drinks with your lunch – lemonade or milk.”

Jessie:  (takes it up another notch)  “NONONONONO I hate LEMONADE I hate lemonade I hate it…”  (falls out of booth onto the floor, writhing in pain at the torture being inflicted upon her)

Hannah:  (continuing to suck up) “That isn’t good restaurant behavior, is it, Mommy?”

Hannah’s medicated mommy:  (a grim/concerned look on her face) “No, pumpkin, it isn’t.  I’m glad you’re making better choices.”

Nice/Patient/Medicated Mommy:  (losing a little of her calm) “Jessie, you need to pick your body up off the floor and sit down in the booth.  If you don’t want lemonade, you can have milk.”

Jessie:  (doing the breastroke on the floor and kicking one of her boots off)(enraged) “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO  I hate you!  I hate lemonade!  I hate milk!  I hate this place!  I hate lunch and I’m NOT taking a nap, MOMMY.  Because I DON’T CARE what you say to me.  LEAVE ME ALONE and I’m NEVER going to be in that booth because Hannah is mean to me and I hate her.”

Hannah:  (flaunting her superior emotional control)  “Jessie thinks she hates me, Mommy, but we know she is just having a hard time, right?”

Hannah’s medicated mommy:  (barely concealing her feelings of superiority at this point) “Yes, dear, Jessie is having a very hard time.”

Nice/Patient/Medicated Mommy:  (deciding to use physical intervention, like a normal person)  “Jessie…’re so tired…..let Mommy hold you and then you can calm down and eat lunch…. I know you don’t hate me and you don’t hate Hannah.  It’s ok, sweetie, let Mommy hold you.”

Jessie:  “DON’T TOUCH ME!  I do too hate you and I hate Hannah and I hate lunch and you’re mean to me and I DON’T CARE!!!!  (shriek, shriek, shriek) YOU’RE HURTING ME WITH YOUR HANDS, MOTHER.  OUCH!  STOP IT! HELP!”

Hannah:  (shaking her head in disappointment) “Look, Mommy, Jessie’s mommy is putting her hands on Jessie.  We don’t do that, do we Mommy, we use our words.”

Hannah’s medicated/superior mommy:  (also shaking her superior head) “We never put our hands on other people…”

Nice/Patient/Medicated Mommy:  (finally overcoming the medication) “Fuck you Hannah.  You don’t have better behavior, you’re just slow and everyone knows it!  And fuck you, Jessie.  Stay on the floor, see if I care.  Hopefully one of the people staring at you while you writhe around on the floor will want to adopt a bratty and ungrateful three year old who is covered in glitter and god-knows-what kind of shit from the floor and who can’t even fucking decide between having a lemonade or milk with her lunch.  But I’m keeping that damn tutu, Jessie– you can go live with the strangers, but I get the tutu.


I made up that last part, but wouldn’t that be kind of awesome?

My point is this:  That little kid Jessie gets to wear a sparkly tutu — with boots — and throw a major fucking fit in public, but because she is three, other people are all “I wish that kid would shut up, but what can you do?  She’s three.”  And the other little kid, Hannah, gets to wear a  sparkly tutu with boots and be a TOTAL BITCH and act all superior and totally manipulate the adults around her and, even though it’s sickening, everyone kind of nods and smiles because, you know, she’s three.

I’m totally bitchy and superior enough to be three, dammit.

Here’s how my day might have played out, if I were three and/or not pretending to be a non-bitchy 46 year old:

  • I would have worn my magenta tulle skirt with my comfy lesbian shoes and maybe a baseball cap and my sparkly bangle bracelets.
  • When my Mom came crashing into my room at 2:30 a.m. looking for the narcotics (she has cancer, you know, and sometimes forgets that she already took the  pain meds and then wakes up and thinks “yay! more pain meds!” even when it’s not time yet) I would’ve said “WTF?  Go back to bed, drug seeker!” instead of “Mommy, it’s only 2:30, what is going on?  Are you in pain?  Let me put you back to bed.”
  • When I walked out to my car this morning and was reminded of it’s utter crappiness by the duct tape around the brake light and the passenger side mirror I would’ve thrown my shit down on the ground and screamed/cried “What is going ON with this car??  It’s not fair!  I hate this.  I can’t afford this.  I don’t want to deal with it and I WANT MY DAD and why does my Mom have to have cancer and why is my kid ignoring me????  WAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH I’m not moving from this spot until things fucking change, dammit!”  Instead of, “Fuck…”
  • When the lady at the car repair shop started talking about how they needed to check my timing belt I would’ve screamed “What?  I came here to get a new fucking brake light and side mirror, how does that even relate to my timing belt you crook?  I knew I couldn’t trust you, I hate car repair people!  All of you!  You’re just mean!  Don’t you fucking come near my engine, bitch, I will make your life HELL.”  Instead of, “My funds are really limited right now and I just need to get the brake light/side mirror fixed at the moment, thanks.”
  • When the teenager at the cafe brought me my croissant sandwich that was so over-toasted that it literally crumbled apart when I picked it up (therefore I was holding onto the egg and cheese directly with no “sandwich” around it) I would’ve just slid to the ground and started crying, loudly, “God. Damn. It. that’s. not. a. sandwich.” and “I hate you, stupid teenager who doesn’t give a shit about the food he serves” and “all I wanted was a sandwich, is that so wrong?” Instead of “excuse me, sir, this seems a little over-cooked, would you mind very much redoing it?


I think I am going to spend the rest of the day embracing my inner three year old.

Oh look, I just got a message from the car repair place, it’s probably the estimate…..

This should be interesting.



*i found that cute picture on and the “source” is listed as

** don’t worry, i’m not going to unleash the three year old on my poor mother, if i can help it.


Filed under The Great Anti-Antidepressant Experiment of 2011, Uncategorized

Parade of Horribles + Rain, naturally.

My brain is currently host to a highly energetic Parade of Horribles.


As usual, there are 76 trombones.  All being played by the uber-talented What’s The Point monster.  He’s got a lot of mouths.  It’s not an attractive sight.

Close behind him are 110 coronets being played by his ugly cousins from Everything is Totally Out of Control-ville.

All the Dreadifuss Beasts have turned out in their finest frippery and fun-loving fury. They are in charge of creating and driving the ever-popular (and ever-changing) “Worst-Case Scenario”  (a/k/a “Vignettes of Inescapable Doom”) floats-made-entirely-of-not-flowers, of course.

Bringing up the rear is the award-winning drum corps, “Drums of Doom” marching in a perfectly depressing formation and playing some kind of funeral march in an entirely unnecessarily cheerful manner.  It’s nothing if not unseemly.

Except nothing is moving.  Because of the baton twirlers.

The baton twirlers are an interesting bunch. 

They look very professional with their sparkly outfits and white boots but they seem to be, ummmm, totally confused + paralyzed and the whole horrible parade is sort of bunched up behind them.

Turns out that just a few minutes into their routine they threw their batons up into the air (as planned), did a few cartwheels and flippy-skirt turns (in order to make catching the batons look practically death defying, of course) and then, horror of horrors, the batons didn’t come back down

True story. 

Every damn sparkly baton is up in the air. Floating just out of reach and apparently entirely uninterested in coming back down.

No one knows what to make of it, particularly the twirler girls.

And it’s raining.

(Which means that the balloon handler-monsters are panicking because the massive “You’re A Horrible Mother/Daughter/Person!” heart-shaped balloon is losing steam and threatening to crumple onto the whole entire parade…)

So pretty much the Parade of Horribles isn’t even parading, it’s just hanging out making a shitload of clangy-chaos-noise and concocting new Vignettes of Inescapable Doom while everyone waits for the batons to remember about the laws of gravity and come back down.

The only *good* news is that the “You’re A Horrible Mother/Daughter/Person!” balloon is so big that it can shelter most of the other horrible things from the rain.  So they can continue to be horrible instead of packing up and going back to wherever they came from.

Always look on the bright side, that’s my mantra.



I guess my “theme” for today is that Nothing Is Moving because Everything Is Up In The Air and What’s the Point in Moving Anyway as long as everything is overshadowed by You’re A Horrible Mother/Daughter/Person.


This is depressing.

Even when the parade isn’t moving, I can hear it and it is pretty horrible.  I mean really horrible.  You’ve been warned:

what’s the point?  everything is up in the air, you can’t do anything because nothing matters and whatever you start you will have to stop because something completely out of your control will happen and then you have to drop everything, again, and you can not have anything – no relationship, no job, no parenting, no home, no control over your own time because everything is up in the air, plus you have no money because you suck and you can’t make any money because you can’t get a job because you have a job taking care of your mom and how can you make any time commitments to anything else when your mom needs you but you might as well because you are a sucky caregiver and she’s probably better off alone than with you and everyone knows (especially the RRLM) she doesn’t need you *that* much and you’re just lazy and if you’re not going to have a real job you should at least have everything else under control and not get all moody/distressed about having no control over your time/life because you don’t really have the right to complain, given your complete lack of worth + money.  oh and don’t forget that your son is all grown up now and you suck because you can’t write a check for him to go to college so by definition you’ve failed and he’s entirely too busy to even have a conversation with you, so you must not have made any kind of impact on his life beyond traumatizing him and putting your mom’s needs ahead of his and now you are on the brink of doing it again (but not really because he doesn’t need you Now just like he didn’t need you Then) and you probably will because you think you don’t have a choice because you don’t have any money and you can’t get any because everything is up in the air and out of control.  what’s the point?

I told you it was horrible.

And that is just an excerpt.

The worst part about it is that it is all just Me being awful to Me.

I could never be that awful to someone else, nor would I ever stand by and watch someone else be treated this awfully.

(Heavy sigh)

This has got to change.

And soon.

I’m working on it.




Filed under The Great Anti-Antidepressant Experiment of 2011, Uncategorized

There’s something magical about a blanket fort.

I had kind of forgotten about blanket forts until earlier this year when I went to Havi’s playground in Portland, where blanket forts (and force fields and magical elevator shafts and tiny fairy doors) are pretty much par for the course.

Mostly I had forgotten about them as they relate to me vs. me-as-the-mom.

Me-as-the-mom loved to build blanket forts with my (now practically 19 year old) son.

Well, we didn’t actually build them together, much.

Mostly I would be in charge of building the fort and finding all sorts of fun/silly things to put inside it.  I’m not saying my son didn’t have design ideas, he did.  He just enjoyed having construction staff onsite to take care of the dirty work.  It’s a family trait. 


So, I would do most of the building of the fort and the finding of fun/silly things to put into the fort and when all that was finally done, my son would sit inside for a few minutes, then get bored and decide to have a pillow fight with the fort and/or me and then the fort would be destroyed and I would be a little sad and he would be all “Look up here Mom!” from whatever tree he had climbed or light fixture he was swinging from, “I’m on a jungle adventure!”

(God, I love that kid.)


We had some magical mom and boy moments in blanket forts, but I think it is safe to say that blanket forts were way more my thing than his.

When I think of blanket forts all sorts of things come up:

Feelings of being safe in tiny, sweet, places.  Feelings of delight and play and magic and “oohhhh, I have a secret” and “ha ha, you can’t see me!” and “I can do anything I want in here and I don’t have to explain anything.”  Feelings of being content with everything around me, because I have everything I need.  Also, “only my favorite things can be in here with me” and “I might let you come visit if you’re not destructive and you don’t try to change things and you respect my sovereignty in my fort and you bring something sweet to eat.” 

Inside my blanket fort I feel like I have total control over my environment — what qualities it contains and who gets to come in.  Plus I’m in control of the magical trap door that not-nice people go through when they are not-nice.

I’m yearning for all that in my real life, too.

I think that is what this blog is about.

It’s my own virtual blanket fort. 

Which is kind of weird because there’s not a lot of “hiding” or “secrets” going on here.  It’s more like:

“Here I am….. depressed, unemployed, happy, sad, silly, sexually frustrated, bitchy, generous, hormonal, insecure, multiple-personalities, selfish, writer wannabe, sparkly light/fat girl just trying to work some shit out. Wanna play?”

But I guess it is like a blanket fort in that I get to write the stuff, instead of say it out loud and face to face, and then I get to stay hidden behind my computer screen while people read and react to what I’ve written.

And like a real blanket fort I’m pretty much totally in charge — I get to decide what to say and how to say it and when to say it.  I only have to show what I want to show and I don’t have to worry about anyone’s expectations about how my blanket fort blog should be and if someone comes in and tries to boss me around or tell me what to do or start some kind of a fight, I get to expell them through the magic trap door.  Ha!

Also, I’m in charge of the magic and sparklies and the big pillows and the comfort food.

So, yay!  I have a virtual blanket fort!

Thanks for playing nicely, my sassy sweet pea blog friends.



p.s.  I made a page (see above) just for pictures of spaces that invoke blanket fort type feelings in me.  After looking at them, I’m starting to be convinced that I’m actually just a very tall hobbit in real life.


Filed under Uncategorized

Book of Me: On Interacting with the Real Live Monster + Decontamination Plan

Yes, Virginia, there are real fucking monsters in this world.  And, if you’re not careful, you may accidentally invite one into your life and then never be able to un-invite him.

Deal with it. [insert fake smile]


I’ve been doing really well at keeping Oscar and all the other Dreadifuss Beasts at bay lately.

Yay Me!  Yay Sparkly Bangles!  Yay Other Stuff!

Then I had to interact with the one, Real-Live Monster in my life.

He has a lot of names, but “Real Live Monster” (RLM) seems to sum him up pretty well.  Dreadifuss Beasts can be horrible and mean, but they are also so ugly they are cute and mostly just scared and acting all big and mean so they can protect me from whatever they are really scared about.  (Shout out to Havi, who taught me this important lesson about monsters/Dreadifuss Beasts)  Those guys come from a place of love. 

The RLM isn’t just a voice in my head (although, I’ve come to realize that quite a few of the Dreadifuss Beasts voices are really just him, in disguise) he is real and he does NOT come from a place of love.  Well, not love for me anyway.  Love to be “RIGHT!”, maybe.  He sees the world like this:  All Good or All Bad (and “all bad = kim and kim = all bad”) and this:  I Deny All Mistakes & I Remember Every Single One of Yours In Vivid Detail and this:  You Think You Can Leave Me?  I’ll Show You and Show You and Show You Again How I’m Still In Control.

I don’t think in terms of “All Bad or All Good”, so I can’t say he is All Bad.**

 The best word to describe him (in relationship to me) is:

He has a  relentless fixation on making sure I know how awful I am at pretty much everything.  Making him my RLM or, more precisely, my RRLM.


Needless to say, our interaction was not a good experience.  And, by the time it was over, I felt like everything I have been working so hard just to fucking maintain in terms of mental health was in the process of crumbling right underneath me. 

I was right back in the oh-so-familiar place of doom and “He’s right, I’m a horrible terrible very bad person and things would be better without me” that I have lived in, off and on, for almost two decades.

Then, sensing weakness, my “What’s the Point” Dreadifuss Beast broke out of his soundproofed enclosure and went absolutely fucking crazy.  He’s an ass.  Like a Tasmanian devil, only not cute at all and entirely hateful.

Here’s what his fit of stupid joy sounded like:

“Ooooooooo, What’s the Point?! Doesn’t matter what you do — no no,  you’ve already fucked up!  No point in even trying now, Kim, you’ve made soooooo many mistakes in your life that you will never recover.  What’s the Point in even trying?  You’re powerless.  Deafeated.  No matter what you do Now, you’ve still got to pay for Then.  Oh, and you’ll never be done paying for Then, because you are unforgiveable.  You’ve disappointed everyone. You can’t be “redeemed”.  What’s the Point?  And here’s the main thing:  Why Try?  Just give up!  GET BACK UNDER THE COVERS AT ONCE!  You suck, just accept it and stop trying to convince anyone (or yourself) otherwise.  What’s the Point?  Nothing Can Change.

You can see why I prefer to keep him locked up in a soundproof room.

To be honest, the tag-team combination of those two — the RRLM and What’s The Point Beast — knocked me completely off my feet for a few days.  For example, I started this post last Thursday (5 whole days ago) and couldn’t finish it because of the crying and the buying in to what they were saying about me and the paralyzing scared-ness that this is how my life is going to be no matter what.  Antidepressants or no antidepressants.

Today I decided that this setback is just unacceptable.  I need to get some procedures in place for dealing with the RRLM (and his cohorts) before, during and after the interactions.

So, I’m writing a chapter in the Book of Me

And to remind myself that (a) I’m funny and (b) I have some power.  I’m starting off my chapter about the RRLM like this:

Ahhhh, if only it were that easy to get rid of the RRLM.


Here’s the thing, sweet pea: He isn’t going away and, more importantly, he isn’t going to change.  You need to stop getting excited about little hints of change because they are just used to lure you into interacting with him and once you do that the result is always the same:  pain and shock that he hasn’t changed.  At all.  And he is still relentless.

Before any interaction:

1.  Manage your expectations — history has shown that regardless of the reason for the interaction (funerals, celebrations) nothing will deter him from his primary objective of making you “bad” and “wrong”.  Stop expecting anything else.

2.  Define goals for the interaction — what is the purpose of the interaction?  If you’re sharing information write it down and share it, if you’re expecting to receive information make sure what it is you really need to know and ask for it directly and in excruciating detail.

3.  Can this be done via email?  He doesn’t like email because then he has less control over the conversation.  It’s worth a try, but don’t expect to get far before he demands more personal interaction.

4.  Start gathering your force fields around you.  Anticipate the attacks and make sure no part of you (or your force field) will allow them to pierce your armour just because you kind of, sort of believe it might be true.  You know what is true about you, sweet pea, and you take responsibility for those things all the time, you do NOT need to take responsibility for what isn’t yours.

5.  These attacks always come, be prepared:

–  “You screw everything up.”

–  “You are crazy.”

–  “You’re a horrible mother.”

–  “You always put your [dying] mother’s needs ahead of your son.”

–  “Your father would be so disappointed in you.”

–  “I don’t care what is going on in your life, but let me tell you what I KNOW is going on in your life, but I don’t care, it’s none of my business.”

–  “You’re on a “need to know” basis — I will decide what information about our son that you need to know.”

–  “I will bury you like a turd in a sandbox (or some other stupid colorful phrase) if you challenge me.”

–  “Our son always comes first in my life…..

During the Interaction:  FORCE FIELDS!

1.  Remember when the goals of the interaction are and stick with that.

2.  Don’t try to reason with the RRLM – it never works and you end up going down a rabbit-hole of fucked-up logic every time.  Don’t do it.

3.  When the bullying starts, end the conversation.

4.  If you feel yourself feeling like crying and/or screaming, end the conversation.

5.  Don’t respond to the personal attacks.  Let them slide off your force field.

6.  Put him on speakerphone — somehow that makes the hurtful-ness less hurtfull and the crazy-ness more obvious.

7.  Never ever ever ever, no matter what he says that seems vaguely human, never put your guard down.  It’s like inviting a massacre, Kim.  Of you.  It’s a trick, don’t fall for it.  Seriously.  Don’t do it.

After the Interaction:  Decontamination, Recovery & Rebuilding

1.  Breathe.  It’s over.

2.  Don’t ruminate about the crazy.  It’s his crazy.  The more you think about it the more crazy you adopt.

3.  Laugh.

4.  Make sure none of his beliefs/statements about you are remaining in your force fields.  Those are his, you don’t have to entertain them in your space.

5.  Stop trying to figure him out.  Really.  You’ve spent years of your life on this particular project and it’s never been fruitful.

6.  Reality Check!  You know very well, sweet pea, that you aren’t a perfect parent, but you are a good parent.  And a good person.  The fact that the RRLM doesn’t want to let you move past the mistakes you’ve made in the past (ummmm, 10+ years ago, for the ones he mostly wants to harass you about) doesn’t mean YOU can’t move past them. 

Remember this:  He is NEVER GOING TO FORGIVE YOU, Kim.  It isn’t in his nature.  You have to forgive yourself.  And you have to remember the part about being medicated incorrectly — it isn’t an excuse, sweet pea, but it helps you to put it in perspective for yourself.  He is never going to have compassion for you (or, frankly, for anyone) so you need to be sure to have compassion for yourself.

7.  Shake it off.  Really.  You can’t afford to let this get to you, destabilize you and destroy all the progress you’ve made.  That would be crazy.  Don’t be crazy. Move on.



**And because I know things are not All Good or All Bad I am able to see that part of him is scared and scarred and that our relationship/my behavior triggered every bad scary thing that he had ever imagined when he was growing up.  And for that I am sorry.  I truly am.  And as much as he hates me (which is a LOT), he loves our son a billion-trillion-times more + 1.  He is a good father.  And I love that about him, which makes it even harder for me to see him as All Bad.  He isn’t All Bad.


Filed under My Big Book of Me, The Great Anti-Antidepressant Experiment of 2011, Uncategorized