Four

To my dear, sweet, son:

I have been obsessing about this post, and dreading this post, for a few months now. I have tried to start it more than once--to at least start a bullet-point list of the things I want to say. To make a list of all the things I don't want to forget.

Tomorrow is your fourth birthday. The first birthday you can count to. The first birthday when you understand the age that came before and the age that will come after. (Please stop reminding me that you will be five-years-old after you are four-years-old. It's giving me panic attacks.)

I have been dreading this post because I know that words do not do justice to who you are.

Hello up there

Deep thoughts. Strange goo.

Or who we are.

Red River Zoo
(I love this zoo. The animals seem very happy and have a lot of space.)

Zoo in Wahpeton. (Bad zoo. Ugly cages. Sad animals)

Superheroes

Or who you are becoming.

Zoo in Wahpeton
(I hated that zoo. Even the monkeys were depressed.
But the colors were pretty.)

Fort Abercrombie

I am afraid that I can never truly capture the joy you have brought me. You have made my heart grow and swell, the same way my body grew and swelled while pregnant with you. My heart expands to the point that I am sure it will explode. But it doesn't. And then it stretches a little more.

First day of preschool

You had a hard time going back to preschool last September. For several months, over the summer, you often climbed into our bed in the middle of the night, and I never turned you away. You were home with me all day, every day, in July and most of August. When you went back to school, it wasn't easy for either of us. I mean, sure, it was nice some of the time, but not 30-hours-a-week of the time.

One night, you asked to go to sleep in the big bed. I thought it would be for a night. Maybe a few nights.

You haven't slept in your bed for even an hour since.

It's okay, because it turns out that it's easier this way. You go to bed more quickly. You sleep more soundly. You sleep MUCH later in the morning. We hadn't coslept regularly before because I thought that it robbed me of sleep. True, you sometimes kick me in the face. Or ribs. Or cough in my face. Or get drool on my pillow. But I don't have to get out of bed to soothe you if you wake up crying. In fact, you rarely wake up. You talk in your sleep, but you rarely seem to have nightmares. Sometimes, you wake up and can't get back to sleep, but it's rare.

I was not opposed to cosleeping. I just thought it wasn't "for us". I wanted you to go to sleep in your own bed, even if that meant that you crawled into bed with us later. Turns out that it's easier for me to just let you fall asleep in the big bed. And it turns out that for some reason--maybe due to some extra boost of night time oxytocin--I have more patience with you. I always felt I needed that "break" from you and that sleeping separately allowed for this. I find that I like you more. This may be, in part, due to the fact that we are away from each other for several hours a week. Whatever the reason, I have grown to love the "family bed". It makes me sad to think of a day when you will sleep in your own bed again.

To be perfectly honest, I often let you watch cartoons in bed for 30 minutes to an hour before turning on your rain sounds (white noise) and telling you to go to sleep (if you aren't asleep already). But you don't fight going to bed. You don't fight going to sleep. Occasionally you will say you need a snack. Most of the time you actually eat it :0)

Also, if I am perfectly honest, you watch a lot of TV. Not really TV--we don't have cable. You watch DVDs or Netflix videos. Thus, we are not subjected to advertisements. You also play video games. Some of it is not age-appropriate--it's geared for children who are a few years older than you. I had a lot of guilt about this, but you're not having nightmares or hitting other children, so I'm just going to let it go. There's a long list of things I said I'd never do as a parent that I turned out to be totally wrong about. This is just one more thing.

You rode your first carnival rides this summer by yourself:

You got your first fishing pole and went fishing. We didn't catch anything, but had fun anyway.

Turtle River

You are funny. In the last few months, you've started to sing and dance. Many of your dances are best categorized as dramatic interpretations. I say this, because they are a combination of goofy, muppet-like dance moves and play-fighting choreography.

You are sweet. You are kind. When I am sick or have hurt myself, you stroke my face and say, oh honey, are you okay? It will be okay.


You are inquisitive. You and your dad went to AZ for a few days last May. While there, your dad stopped to visit his brother's grave (the uncle for whom you are named). He tried to explain that F was dead. You said, Oh, F is dead? It's okay. We can go to the store and get a new F. You said this because when a battery is dead, we buy a new one. (Well, we try to recharge it, but some batteries don't have rechargeable versions.) If only human batteries were so easily replaced...

You had your first "very own" pet this year. It was a beta fish. You named him "Moinxie". He died about 10 days after we bought him. This was a few months after the visit to F's grave. I'd like to think that this taught you about death, but I know that you are still too young to really understand.

You want to be a "cooker" when you grow up.

You learned to ride the neighbor-boy's mini-quad.

You learned to ride a bike. You are learning to catch a ball. You are learning to ice skate.

You planted a flower garden. Your flowers were beautiful. And so are you.

You like to eat fresh peas out of a pod that have just been picked from the garden. You like to eat summer squash, zucchini, carrots, broccoli, and tomatoes straight from the garden. You won't get near any of these vegetables once they are cooked. One more reason to garden.

You like fish oil capsules; you chew them up and swallow them. You like sardines; you eat them straight from the can.

You build things. Fantastic things. Cities.

 

Robots.

Play-doh monsters. This one is from last summer. The most recent ones have several arms. Or tentacles. Or eyes. Or heads. The lighting in this photo is terrible, but your expression is adorable.

Bristle-block aliens.

You had your first "real" Halloween this year. As in, you picked your costume. You joined a trick-or-treating mob. You trick-or-treated until you could barely stand up. You are the Wall-E in the middle.

Beware: Child-mob ahead

This year, we had the first Christmas that was "our" Christmas. We stayed home. We didn't visit family. It was the first year that we bought and decorated a tree.

You had been asking for this robot since last May. Santa brought it to you for Christmas.

You starting drawing things in September. It has been the single best thing that has come from your preschool experience. At a few points during the school day, you have the option of doing "books, puzzles, or journals". Essentially, it is semi-structured free time. At first, you didn't want to draw, because you couldn't make things "perfect". Now, you draw all the time. I don't want you to be a perfectionist. It is a crippling trait. It makes you afraid to try new things. I hope you grow up thirsty to try new things.

You are also learning about yoga at preschool. I love your teacher so much for that.

First, your drawings were heads with legs and arms coming out of them. Then, robots (but not humans) had bodies. And very long fingers. You drew a robot for Santa. The stuff in the body is all of his doodle-oodle-oop, which I think translates to buttons.

You built your first ice-cave-slash-igloo this year.

You had your first dentist appointment this year. You liked it so much, you wanted to go with me when I had to go back in to get a filling.

You had your first round of antibiotics. It was for a sinus infection. Then you had another round of antibiotics for a nasty case of strep throat that involved puking up mucus and a full-on scarlet fever rash.

You can put away your own clothes in the right drawers. You can pick out your clothes for school. You can mostly dress yourself now.

You had your first school "performance" last spring. I was worried that you would cooperate when it was time for your class to be on (the little, only slightly elevated) stage. I was worried that you would just stand off in a corner and/or pout. Boy, WAS I WRONG. You stood right up there in the middle and sang and danced. You were a total ham. Pure awesomeness.

You gave up naps this year. At least, you gave them up at home. You still take them at school, sometimes. And every once in awhile, you'll let your guard down and fall asleep during the day.

You started using the potty this year. We used a token economy because I am, at the end of the day, a behaviorist at heart. To be a behaviorist is to believe that we are all unique individuals and that change is always possible.

You still wear a pull-up at night time. We tried just wearing underwear, but one night you had an accident and quietly changed your underwear and pajama pants and climbed into my bed. You didn't tell me you'd had an accident, and seemed embarrassed the next morning when I found the underwear. I decided pull-ups were better than feeling bad about wetting the bed. You just aren't ready yet.

You had your first boba tea in Fargo one day after we went to the (incredibly charming, non-stifling, animals-seem-geniunely-happy) Red River Zoo. You still remember the names of the men working in the tea shop. Now, every time I mention going to Fargo, you want to go to the tea shop. When winter is officially over, I will totally make that happen for you.

When I asked you what kind of cake you wanted for your birthday, you said raspberry. Not strawberry. Or cherry. Or chocolate. Or vanilla. Raspberry. With chocolate frosting. I asked if you wanted a train cake like last year, or a heart cake. I was hoping you would say heart, because the train cake takes a LONG time to decorate. Also, I don't think I have many years left before someone convinces you that hearts are "for girls". You said you wanted a love-you cake. You like to refer to hearts as love-you's.

(Psssst...The cake was actually vanilla butter cake, but there was raspberry jam in the middle, and those are real raspberries around the edges. Raspberries that have been rolled around in sugar. The cake and frosting were made from scratch. And oh yes, that pink frosting is chock full of red dye. You only live once.)

People say I'm crazy for making the whole cake from scratch. What they don't understand is that the whole time I was making it, I was meditating on the day we found out you were coming to join us. And the day you were born. And the days that fell between. And all the days that have come since.

Happy 4th birthday, my sweet little boy. Every day, you make me want to be a better person than I was the day before. I am so glad you are my son.

I love you,
Mama

Moment

December 3 – Moment. Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors). 

We had a garden last summer. A big garden, and half of it did well...the summer squash and green beans went crazy. I had no idea how satisfying it would be do grow our own food and eat it immediately. Admittedly, my husband did most of the growing and tending, but I cooked what he harvested.

At one point during the summer, I was also house-sitting for two friends who had a garden. I harvested a few tomatoes while I was over there watering, and they had an amazing mess of herbs growing on the patio. I grabbed some thyme, basil, oregano, and marjoram from their herb garden to accompany the tomatoes. The only herbs we were growing were basil and cilantro. The cilantro grew with gusto. The basil not so much.

We had some summer squash, zucchini, and green peppers from our garden, as well as two tiny heirloom eggplants and a few more tomatoes. We also had onions and garlic on hand (not from our garden, but grown locally and purchased at the farmers market). Thus, I had a pile of vegetables, most of which had been harvested within the last 24 hours, and they were the perfect pile to make ratatouille.

Have you seen the movie Ratatouille? If you love food, you should see it. If you have already watched it, you should be familiar with the scene that my husband and I refer to as "The Ratatouille Moment," wherein the bitter food critic bites into the lovingly crafted dish and is immediately transported back to his mother's kitchen from his childhood. It makes me cry every time. Every time.

I decided to make ratatouille, which I had never made before. I sauteed the onions, added the garlic and peppers, then the squash and eggplant, and finally the tomatoes and herbs (except for half of the basil that went in right before serving). I let it stew for about 20-30 minutes and added a generous drizzle of olive oil, a splash of balsamic vinegar, and a sprinkling of salt and pepper when I plated it. I served it with crusty olive bread from a local bread shop. The mix of colors on the plate was beautiful. The smell was divine.

When I took that first bite, it was a flavor explosion. I was overcome with bliss. I was filled with such joy that this perfect dish in front of me--a little taste of heaven--came from our humble garden and the garden of friends.

All that energy, captured in this lovely, simple creation. It filled my soul to the brim. It made my pagan heart sing.

It was a plate full of summer. A plate full of childhood. A plate full of hope. A plate full of love.

It tasted just like the sun. It tasted like life.

Writing

December 2 – Writing. What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you eliminate it? (Author: Leo Babauta)

The thing that I do each day that doesn't contribute to my personal writing (i.e. this blog) is that I spend a lot of time aimlessly trolling Facebook and obsessively checking email. I have ideas that I'd like to write about, but they seem overwhelming and like it would take too much time to write them "perfectly". One thing that I am doing to overcome this is using prompts to focus my topics and my energy. I also worry that no one is reading and that I am wasting my time. I have to remind myself that the process is what matters and that I should be writing first and foremost for myself.

With regards to my professional writing, I fail to stick to a schedule. When it comes to writing journal articles and technical papers, "inspiration" is far less important than perspiration. The best way to get writing done is to make a schedule and stick to it, and not let other people steal this time. I get caught up in meetings and talking with colleagues and students when I should be writing. I had a schedule last semester, and was very productive for the three weeks I actually stuck to it. I have put a schedule into my calendar for this semester, and I AM GOING TO STICK TO IT. I will close my office door and write. I'm going to guard this time as if it was class time. I always find time to teach. I don't fail to show up to lecture because I got distracted by something else. I don't miss meetings. I need to be as committed to my writing time as I am to the time I have committed to others. I am sitting on piles of data from several studies that no one will ever know about it if I don't write the articles. Doing research is fun. I've learned to love analyzing data as well. The writing part is not fun for me, but the rule in academia is publish or perish. I'd rather not perish.

One Word

I started and then dropped the ball on Reverb 10. I also didn't realize that I was supposed to sign up to participate. Oops. However, I like the idea and the prompts so much that I'm going to start with the December 1st prompt and (eventually) work my way through them, even if it's a little late and takes far longer than a month.

Prompt (December 1st):

One Word. Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you’re choosing that word. Now, imagine it’s one year from today, what would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you? (Author: Gwen Bell)

The first word that came to mind was change but then I reconsidered. There have been many years in the last decade that brought with them more change than 2010. There was the year I got divorced, started graduate school, and moved four times during my first four months as a graduate student (2002). There was the year I met my dear husband and my doggie soul mate died (2003). There was the year I got married and then cared for a friend who moved in with me after she was left disabled in car accident on her way to my wedding (2005). For the record, that was a disaster and it ruined our friendship. Sometimes, trying to do the right thing turns out to be the wrong thing for everyone involved.

There was the year that the disabled friend went home (and we were no longer friends), I got a Master's Degree, I got pregnant, we bought a house, my father got in a motorcycle accident and spent 6 weeks in the hospital (and we didn't think he was "coming back") and my brother-in-law committed suicide (2006). There was the year I had my first (and currently only) child (2007). There was the year I finished my dissertation, moved to North Dakota, and started my first real job (2009). Compared to these other years, 2010 doesn't seem to be very filled with change.

I thought about other words to describe the last year: Turmoil. Anguish. Relief. Acceptance. Awe. Community. Satisfaction. Contentment.

Turmoil and anguish when I thought my marriage might end. Relief than my marriage didn't end. Acceptance of my husband for who he is, my career for what it is, my family for who they/we are, my son for who he is, and myself for how I mother. Awe that I could fall in love again--with my husband, my child, my career. Awe that I could trust--other people and myself.

I found community where I least expected it, and for the first time in my life feel truly connected to the people who live within a 5 mile radius of me. I specify the distance because I feel connected to other women for sure--you crunchy mamas and besties know who you are--but all were/are so spread out from each other that it's hard to physically connect. Here, we've had spontaneous potlucks with neighbors. Last summer, there were several days where we just threw together whatever we all had to contribute to dinner and we ate at the picnic table that sits between our front yards. I have people to watch my son in a pinch that I trust and they live on my street. We spent Christmas dinner at a friend's house. She and her husband are (were?) journalists and their son is grown. Theirs is the same house where we celebrated Thanksgiving. She was delighted that I brought the boy to Christmas dinner in his pajamas, and that she had a little boy and a grown boy at the same table. I was delighted to feel like I have a soul family here. I go out with the people in my department because we genuinely like each other. We go to drag shows some nights and have research meetings (with wine!) other nights.  One of my good friends and mentors is a (gasp) Republican, but I respect him because he's neither crazy nor mean-spirited (i.e. fiscal conservative, social liberal) and we can have conversations about politics that actually make sense where I feel like I've learned something. Plus, we both LOVE to cook and talk about food and we bring in leftovers to work to share with each other now and then. The person who is probably my best friend is a single mother and colleague who I thought hated me until I realized she was just reserved...until you get to know her. We go to drag shows together and write papers together. Our sons have birthdays two weeks apart (her son is actually a leap-year baby born on February 29th and mine is a Valentine's baby), and we're having a joint birthday party this year. I am totally stoked!

My father and his girlfriend came to visit and I actually introduced them to some of my friends, instead of being ashamed of my roots. This community looks nothing like the community I envisioned when I was younger. That community involved lots of property and trees and free-spirits (and pot! lots of pot!) and people with ideas and opinions just like mine. I know that I am not the only one thinking about community and what it is and isn't what we thought it could and would and should be. This community is made of people who disagree with one another but still respect each other. It is neighbors clearing snow for each other. It's neighbors coming over, literally, to borrow a cup of milk or sugar. It's a neighbor who is watching my son texting me to tell me stay out with my husband as late as we want and the boy can just sleep at her house since he's watching Muppet Babies with her kids and half asleep on the couch already. I never lived in a real neighborhood growing up. My parents didn't have regular friends that came over. We were very closed off from other people. This life, my neighbors, this town, is what I saw on TV when I was younger and wondered why I didn't have it. I actually get choked up about it sometimes.

I gain satisfaction through the work I do and the students I teach. I am content because this family my husband and I have created is not without its quirks and challenges, but it is beautiful and fun and crazy and we laugh a lot and sometimes yell and I have learned so much more about myself than I ever thought possible. I have loved so much more than I ever thought possible.

Perhaps the word that best sums up this year, for me, is change after all. Not because there were big external changes like jobs and moves and marriages. Not because there were changes that would be noticed by an outside observer. This was a year of change for me because I changed on the inside. I worked, for real this time, to cast away old relationship patterns (though they sneak up sometimes), to cast away old grudges (for the most part) and to cast away the notion that I can "fix" other people. I stopped feeling guilty for being happy and I cast away the burdens of what an "ideal" mother does. It feels good.

I've got dogs, and I'm not afraid to use them...

The end of this post made me laugh, because I can so see myself doing the same thing. In fact, I did something similar last March. At least, I think it was March because there was still snow on the ground.

Hym got up early to go to work. His shift usually starts at 5 AM, and I heard him get up and then I fell back asleep. I woke up again a few minutes later because I heard him talking on the phone about, two guys...yes, they're across the street...one is yelling...I don't know...our address is..., etc. I realized he was on the phone with the cops, and then I heard him go back downstairs.

I laid there for a few minutes in a semi-alert fog, but figured if it was anything serious he would wake me up. I heard the garage door open and close, and I assumed he had left for work. But now I couldn't sleep. I got up and looked out of the bedroom window that faces our street, and saw that there were two guys across the street and one of them was yelling at the other, who was on the ground. In the snow. Knowing that the police had already been called, I laid back down and waited. Frankly, I was kind of shocked that he had left for work with some sort of situation going on this close to our home.

As I lay there in the dark, I heard a sound come from one of my dogs. We keep them downstairs behind a gate at night because one of them is the kind of dog who likes to get into shit just because she can. Now, I am accustomed to a whole host of sounds from my dogs, but this particular growl from a particular dog freaked me out. I got up and ran down the stairs, and all three of my dogs were standing at the glass door in the dining room. Growling. Not barking, which is their default noise,  but growling those kinds of growls that get under your skin.

A smarter person would have not moved towards the door. I, however, went to the glass door and looked outside. I could see a light to my right. I didn't even have time to process what was going on, but figured it was either a cop or not-a-cop, and if it was not-a-cop, I was turning the dogs loose. I did what any sane, responsible, person would do--I opened the door, with the dogs behind me, and said, WHAT THE FUCK?

I didn't say who's there? or get out of my yard or I have big dogs and I'm not afraid to use them. I said, WHAT THE FUCK? 

The answer was, Police officer ma'am. Please close the door and go back inside. I'm sure he was pleased that I was precariously holding back three large dogs with my foot.

They had a guy, in my back yard, cuffed. Before I had a chance to close the door, the other cop said, wait, do you have a gate?

Yes, but it's locked and I don't remember the combination. Let me call my husband. 

While I was looking for my phone, I heard the garage door open. I went outside, and Hym was there. I said we need to open the gate. 

He'd been there the whole time and had already talked to the cops in the front and was opening the garage door to the backyard to bring the guy through that way.

Here's what happened. Hym was getting ready to leave for work, and he sees these two guys across the street. One is on the ground, and the other is yelling at him to get up. He called the cops. Then he went ahead and pulled his car out of the driveway, and parked at the end of the street to watch what was going on. He hadn't left for work after all. That's what I get for doubting him.

When the cops showed up, the guy who was standing tried to flee. He hopped my back fence. When we told the neighbors this story, they all said, oh, it's too bad Shotu wasn't in your backyard. Shotu is the dog who was making that sound. He is a chow. He is a big fluffy sweetheart to those who know him, but I wouldn't try to flee into his territory.

Turns out that the guys had wallets and stuff from a few streets over. They'd robbed a few houses. There was a third guy, but he had already disappeared by the time Hym saw the other two outside. The guy who was on the ground apparently passed out drunk, but then had to be taken to the hospital because his friend had beaten on him trying to wake him up.

There were cops on our street for the next two hours combing the neighborhood for clues about the third guy and/or stuff that had been stolen from other houses. None of the neighbors even woke up! The police were incredibly thorough. Of course, they probably didn't have anything better to do on a Sunday morning in Grand Forks, ND.

After the fact, I wondered, what the hell was I thinking opening the door? What if that had been a really bad person on the other side?

The point is, I wasn't thinking. I wanted to know who the hell was in my yard. I was used to this kind of tomfoolery in Phoenix, but I would have never opened the door like that. Here, it was so out of the ordinary that I was just plain pissed off that someone would have the audacity to hop my fence. Plus, I have three big dogs. I feel safe with dogs, and am sure that at least one of them could be a badass if necessary. Dogs will fight for the ones they love. It's their most admirable quality. I can't imagine living without one.

So I completely understand where Mani was coming from, and I laughed out loud even though I'm not sure it was meant to be funny. I think we may have the same kind of temper...and apparently we don't like our sleep disturbed by assholes!

New Name

Prompt for December 23: New name. Let's meet again, for the first time. If you could introduce yourself to strangers by another name for just one day, what would it be and why?

I like my name and think it suits me. But there is another name that I adore.

When I was finishing up my dissertation, I was so overwhelmed and out of my mind that I couldn't write at home. I couldn't write in my office either. Both of these places had become triggers for waves of anxiety that I couldn't overcome. So I wrote in a coffee shop. Not just any coffee shop. Certainly not a coffee shop that was close to my house. I wrote at my favorite coffee shop: Lux. I used to live a short walk from Lux when I first met my dear husband, so it is a place of great memories for me. It was a 30+ minute drive from my house in Mesa, but it was conveniently located next door to what may be the best sandwich shop in Phoenix (Pane Bianco). My mother took a few weeks off from her job to come to Arizona and watch the boy so that I could successfully achieve the impossible. I would go to the coffee shop early in the morning, find a spot, and plant myself there for several hours. Thus, the final days of my dissertating were fueled by outstanding lattes, delicious sandwiches, and fresh baked delights.

Those final days were also fueled by music. I liked writing there because the music was typically LOUD, which would normally be a distraction. In this case, it was loud enough to suppress my crazy so that I could work. Notably, the album that seemed to be a big favorite with the baristas at the time was a Rolling Stones best hits album that included Mother's Little Helper. This was significant to me, because I was bombed out of my mind on the Little Helper's more modern cousin, clonazaSHAZAM!.

One of the baristas kept calling me by a particular name. At first I didn't correct her, but then I finally smiled and told her what my name actually is. She was shocked, because she so thought that this other name was a perfect fit. I asked her how she would spell it.

Aeryn.

What a delightful name! I couldn't see myself as an Erin, but by golly, Aeryn was a different story altogether. Very elfin. Very magical.

I would never take this name for myself, though, because if I ever have a daughter, this name belongs to her. This would be especially meaningful since my brother's middle name (that he chose for himself when he was 7 or 8) is Aaron.

I hope I get to bestow this name some day.

Travel

I just started the Reverb 10 writing prompt "online initiative." They send a writing prompt every day, and you write about it. I found out about it through Sweet and Salty's blog.

The prompt for December 22 is:

Travel. How did you travel in 2010? How and/or where would you like to travel next year? 

I'm not sure how to define "travel"? Is it only travel if I sleep somewhere else for a night? Or perhaps if it would have been advisable to sleep somewhere else for a night? Is there a certain distance from my house that counts as travel? I'm not sure. We drove to Fargo to go to the charming Red River Valley zoo several times during the summer and early fall. Does that count? Feels like a road trip--an hour on the highway. But I feel like the threshold for "travel" should be higher, though I have to tell you that I LOVE those trips to the zoo and they feel like an adventure because we get to go to the (very small but relatively large compared to Grand Forks) CITY of Fargo. We'd go down a little early in the day to hit the Mexican market that serves chorizo and egg, or potato and egg, or egg and cilantro and tomato tacos. We'd sit out front of the store and scarf them down, and then head to the zoo. I call the weekends "Family Days" with the boy to set them apart from school days as something special. And to remind myself that they are something special.

With regards to more travel-ish travels, I flew to Las Vegas in January for the Society of Personality and Social Psychology conference. It's the big conference for my field. It was nice because I got to see many of my friends from graduate school--both those who graduated before me and those who were still students. Vegas, however, was overwhelming. Next time (if ever) I visit there, I need a firm plan for what to do with my time, otherwise I just walk around confused. It doesn't help that I was trapped in bit of an existential funk while I was there. And five days may be a tish too long for me to spend in Vegas. A three-day max is probably advisable.

A few things really stand out about that trip. First of all, my husband and I were having some serious problems at that time (i.e. he was being a moody prick), and I was having a complete and total (self-absorbed, melodramatic) identity crisis. While in Vegas, over drinks and cigarettes with my friend Steph, I told her about everything that was going on and that I was thinking about seeing a therapist. She said, "do it," and then proceeded to tell me about how she almost lost her shit one year in grad school, saw a psychiatrist, took meds for awhile, stopped the meds when she was better, stopped seeing the shrink a little later, and now she's fine. She said it was really nice to talk to someone. End of story.

Y'all know I have a degree in psychology, right? I mean, not a clinical degree (I can't counsel people, nor would I really want to). I don't deal with disorders, and I'm not going to analyze you (any more than I would have analyzed you before I got a degree, anyway). I'm more interested in how people's thoughts, feelings, and behavior are influenced by other people, and how we navigate our social worlds. Rather than making me more likely to seek help, my psychology background actually makes me incredibly distrustful of the profession. I am not a therapy virgin--I saw a psychologist several years ago, and it was largely unproductive. That was largely due to the fact that I didn't want to change.

When I went bonkers during my dissertation, I saw another psychologist (who I LOVED LOVED LOVED) for a few visits. I wish I could have kept seeing her, but 1) we were moving and 2) she works for the university and her role is really to be a short-term crisis intervention specialist.

As I said, I was not a therapy virgin, but to go and talk about my marriage? And really talk about me? And be truthful? And really try to change the maladaptive behaviors that had become so familiar (and suffocating)? To talk about my father and alcohol (because alcohol was fueling many of our problems and my personal problems)? THAT was an entirely different story.

But because of Steph, when I got home, I called our Employee Assistance Program and went to see a counselor. She had a degree in social work. She briefly mentioned Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing as an option for my anxiety, and I forgave her for it. (There is no empirical evidence that it is any more effective than other, less pyramid-schemey types of therapy and it's essentially just a fancified version of exposure therapy; I may not be a therapist but I know what good science is.) I didn't even tell her that EMDR is bullshit because I liked her. She was a good listener and she asked good questions and I felt good, or at least better, when I left her office.

Here's a dirty little secret about therapy--most forms of therapy are about as effective as any other type of therapy. Within reason. Some of it's just total bullshit, of course. Sometimes the therapy is solid but the therapist sucks. Sometimes you're going to feel better after time passes, regardless of whether you get therapy. For serious disorders some treatments are ABSOLUTELY better than others. Schizophrenics don't respond well to talk-therapy, but many DO respond to drugs well enough to be functional. For most existential crises and relationship snafus, however, it's generally the showing up that matters. It's the telling your story and hearing it fall from your lips to a stranger who asks hard questions that matters. It's the FINDING your story and finding your PLACE in the story that matters.

After a few visits, I hauled my husband and I into a different counselor's office (because you can't see the same counselor as a couple that you see solo) and we went for two visits and that was really all it took to get us back on track. It wasn't a magic fix, but it was the little bit of elbow-grease we needed to get unstuck.

The Vegas trip was also noteworthy because as I was flying out of Vegas, I could see the desert landscape, dusted with snow in the high altitudes, and I started crying. I was so homesick for the desert. Even now, that memory takes my breath away. I kicked myself for not renting a car and getting OUT into the desert for a day while I had the chance.

The third reason that the trip was meaningful is because I was socializing with my grad school friends from the other side of the glass. That invisible barrier that separates grad students from faculty was made real for the first time. Their worries about the unknown land of JOBS were not my worries, and I felt relieved to be on the other side. I still have plenty to worry about, and I worry about jobby stuff all the time. But I've actually been through the interview process and I have actually worked as a professor and no one has figured out I'm an impostor yet. Or if they have figured it out, they don't say anything because they are all impostors too :)  I have one less unknown to obsess about.

The next further-away-than-Fargo trip I took was to drive to Minneapolis in April. I left home early in the morning, drove to Minneapolis, spent $400+ at Trader Joe's, packed it all into the car, and drove home. I count this as travel even though it was not an overnight trip. You may say THAT'S CRAZY and tell me that my shopping trip was "expensive". I am here to tell you that even with the gas money and car maintenance costs, it was still fiscally responsible because food is kind of pricey here, and good food is either non-existent or ridiculously expensive. Also, you cannot put a price on the joy that comes from a pantry full of TJ's goodies. The JoJo's cookies were almost worth the trip by themselves. God I love those things. I also bought $100 in soy milk that would have cost closer to $200 here. I don't drink soy milk anymore, but it was a big win at the time.

I logged 10 hours of driving that day. Totally worth it. And I actually love to drive, so it was really nice to just be by myself, in the car, with my music, for an entire day. Spring was springing and it was a nice adventure. Plus, TRADER JOE'S, folks...We don't have one here. Oh, you have no idea how much I miss it.

In June, I traveled to my friend Sean's wedding. Sean was one of my best friends through high school and into college. We met at band camp and both loved jazz. He played guitar, and he was good at it. Hell, we both loved music, period. At band camp, we would sneak off to smoke cigarettes together. Once we got to college, we smoked pot together. A lot of it. We *may* have tried other things too. Maybe. I won't admit to anything, but I might wink at you.

We used to get stoned and drive out on backroads in his jeep listening to Bob Marley. I used to stay at his parents house on Wednesday nights because he and I had an early morning class and I lived 45 minutes away.  He took Women's Studies courses in college before he dropped out. He loved that class. We would talk and laugh our asses off hours into the night. I think he was in love with me, but I didn't realize it until years later. I loved him too, but thought we weren't really compatible. I now realize we totally were, but I just didn't know what was really important at the time.

I hated his fiance--now his wife. I hate his life. I visited him a couple of summers ago and was appalled by his lifestyle. People coming in and out all hours of the night. Too much beer. Too much heavy metal music. Too much of her histrionic personality. Too little ambition. I felt a little guilty, because I wondered if he might have been something "more" if we'd become something more. I wanted to visit him again, especially since I was in Phoenix and he was in Prescott and that's a nice little day trip. But honestly, I didn't want to ever be in a room with his lady friend ever again if I could help it.

When he told me he was getting married, my heart sunk. But I bought a plane ticket and went because I love him.

The wedding was at her parents house (a trailer, but to be fair it was a nice trailer on a large plot of land) and featured guests with white power tattoos, someone in a top hat who I think may have been schizophrenic, a lot of canned beer, Led Zeppelin wedding vows, a bunch of religious stuff even though I have NEVER heard him say a word about Jesus Christ in our 17 years of friendship, a potluck, and no soap in the bathroom for washing hands. Seriously? How do you not make sure that there is soap in the bathroom for a wedding? I didn't stay for the potluck.

When I arrived, I felt out of place because I didn't know anyone. Soon, I felt out of place because I didn't WANT to know anyone. I couldn't wait to get out of there. I felt lucky that I escaped to something better. It sounds snobby, but it's how I felt. Lucky.

As I watched him, I realized he was happy and that he loved her. I realized he was happy with his life. I was happy that he was happy and also relieved that he wasn't really "trapped" in any way. She has a son by someone else, and I had worried that maybe he was doing this out of some sense of duty. Nope.

His happiness also made me feel terribly sad because I knew that the fact that he was happy with this and with her meant that we lived in totally different worlds now. I cried when I drove away (after lying about having to return the rental car that night so that I could leave immediately without feeling bad). I cried because I didn't know if I'd ever have a reason to see him again. And I cried because it's true--you can't go home again. I've known this for years, but it felt like the final link to my adolescence was severed.

We debated traveling for Christmas this year, but I really wanted to be in our home for Christmas. This will be the first year that we didn't spend Christmas morning with my in-laws. I love them. Truly, truly, love them. And Christmas at their house is AWESOME especially when all of Hym's siblings come home. I come from a small family that was always grouchy on Christmas, so experiencing Christmas at their house makes me feel like a kid again. But the boy is almost four and I really wanted to do our own thing this year. I looked into flights that would be before or after Christmas (we are blessed to have an Allegiant route from here to there), but they weren't nearly as cheap as the flights that would have kept us there over Christmas.

I am homesick and I miss my family and I miss the desert. But I am also joyous that we will have our own little family Christmas this year, to start our own traditions and celebrate our beautiful life here. It's the first year that we've gotten a tree, and every time I look at it I am filled with comfort and delight. It smells good. There is snow here. I don't think I've ever had a white Christmas... What a treat!

I didn't address the second part of the question about travel in the upcoming year. I'm okay with that.

Food on Your Face

When winter started sneaking up on us this year, my hands suffered badly. No matter how many times I put on lotion, they still end up red and speckled and cracked. I mentioned this to my Introduction to Psychology course, with a request for suggestions on how to win the battle between my hands and the cruel winter air (and I know, it would help if I actually wore my gloves all the time, but the Vitamin D has to leak in SOMEWHERE).

A student emailed me today with a few questions about our most recent study guide, and she also sent me a link to Crunchy Betty. I think I am in love. Here is a post about dry hands, and by golly, it gives me hope! She's got skin care suggestions, household cleaning suggestions, etc. I especially love the subtitle of the site: You've Got Food on Your Face.

This recent post made me laugh, in addition to providing some general advice to live your life by:

Sometimes You Have to Pee In the Snow, Just to See What Happens.

Indeed.

I want to meet Betty some day.

F*ck You, TSA

I feel physically ill after watching this. There may be another side to this, but what appears here seems like a clear case of harassment, especially all the time that she was left to wait for a 30 second pat down, and the fact that she couldn't touch her belongings even after they had been screened. It is appalling that TSA doesn't know its own guidelines. I'm one of the people who thought the body-scanner thing might be blown out of proportion (I haven't decided yet), but this is simply inexcusable. It made me well up with tears.

Our New Safety Overlords - Megan McArdle - National - The Atlantic

UPDATE: After doing a few more searches on this, the incident apparently occurred in February. That doesn't make it any better, but hopefully there was some disciplinary action. I can't seem to find any further info.

Birth and Death and Ear Movies of Snow

Peter "Sleazy" Christopherson died this morning at the age of 55. He was, in my opinion, on of the most influential artists of the last few decades. The contribution he made to experimental music, sampling, and general f*cking around with sound cannot be overstated. I don't usually get choked up about celebrity deaths, but this made me feel like someone had just head butted me in the chest, and then I started crying.

Sleazy was a member of the bands Throbbing Gristle and Coil, and an early member of Psychic TV, and contributed to several other musical projects. Additionally, he was a music video director and an artist. I have a special connection to the music that Sleazy produced as part of Coil. First of all, I think the albums that he and John Balance created were freaking brilliant, though sometimes challenging to listen to. Some have referred to their work as "ear movies" and I think this is an great description. Peter himself said that said that he composed Coil songs visually rather than muscially:

"As long as I can remember, I've approached music from a visual point of view. Any technique that you can apply to a film, you can also apply to a piece of music. Our tunes that start off with a sort of film script or filmic picture are much more successful than the songs that start with a riff or bass line or conventional musical cue."

His music blew my mind and expanded the boundaries of what I now like to call "auditory art". When we think about visual art, we have film, paint, sculpture (although that can be tactile as well), etc. But most people only think of music as music, rather than the potential for something more.

The Snow was one of the albums on my birthing playlist, and it happened to be the album that the boy was born to. He was born towards the end of the album, and it was actually a great album for that particular point in time because the last half an hour or so of labor was hard for me to get through. Had I not been so caught up in GETTING A BABY OUT, I probably would have asked someone to skip past it when it came on, because I would have thought it "unbirthy". We were in the bedroom, and the music was playing in the living room, and I was at a point where there was NO WAY that I would have asked anyone in the room at that time to leave my side for even a second. The album is upbeat and electronic, and I was dimly aware of it playing in between contractions, but not bothered by it. It was exactly what I needed to find the energy required in those last minutes. Something more ambient and dreamy would not have been quite so effective.

After the boy was born, I wrote to Sleazy and told him my son had been born to his album. He responded and seemed delighted. I was touched that he had replied.

It was only months later when Hym and I were listening to the album again that I realized that the second to last song--the song that was playing while the boy was stuck and then likely still playing when he came flying out--was Answers Come in Dreams II. 

Because the music was playing in another room and because I was deep inside birthland, I didn't hear these words that are spoken more than once in the song:

Get ready to be delivered, and delivered in a hurry.

Indeed. What could be a more appropriate song for the end of a hard labor that culminated in a shoulder dystocia?


It was only tonight, as I listened to the song again, that I took notice of these other words, spoken only once:

Man has given a false importance to death. Every animal, plant, or man that dies adds to nature's compost heap.

RIP Sleazy. You gave us so much while you were alive, and now you'll return to the earth. Thank you.

Recent phone pictures

Heaven in a glass:

It's a layered iced americano, using Peet's Espresso Forte blend (or maybe Major Dickason's--I can't remember). I have Peet's shipped once every 6 weeks or so for a treat, even though my husband gets free pounds from Starbucks. I use some of the Starbucks coffee, but we also give it away.

We have a home espresso maker--a good one--and it have saved us a lot of money, especially since I can't seem to find a really good coffee shop in this town. I mixed a shot with some vanilla sugar (i.e. sugar that has vanilla beans hanging out in it), added a tish of water, added the ice, poured some half n' half slowly, and then added the last two shots by pouring them gently over the back of the spoon. It's similar to the way you make a layered latte. I can't say that it tasted any different than if I'd just mixed it all together in the first place, but I felt like I'd given myself a real treat.



Boy as Wall-E:

This was boy's Halloween costume. He knew exactly what he wanted to be this year, and I think he looks adorable.


Autumn on campus (it turns out that leaves really do change into colors other than green, less green, and brown):

Friends Thanksgiving

A group of us who met on the 2009 new faculty bus tour have continued to get together on a regular basis since then. In fact, we've been such a tight-knit group that some folks at the university referred to us as the "first year mafia" last year--a term that we wholeheartedly embraced. Academia is a strange world, and I think we've provided a great social support network for each other. It's nice to have friends outside of your department who are as terrified as you are.

Last year, we had a "friends" Thanksgiving potluck dinner. That was the day that I realized that I had found a little family of great folks here in the Nodak. I wasn't going to attend the dinner, because I didn't have a sitter and Hyrum was working and I was so accustomed to events and gatherings that were not kid friendly that I didn't even want to try to take Albie with me. A few hours before dinner was supposed to start, the host realized I wasn't coming and that it was because I didn't have a sitter, but she didn't have my number. She called someone who called me, and the relayed message was essentially WTF are you thinking? Get your butt over here. Of course your child is welcome. I actually teared up I was so touched that a) people realized I had a child, b) my child was welcome, and c) I would be missed if I didn't attend.

Well, we're doing it again this year. There will be 20 of us. How exciting! It's like a family holiday without all of the family drama. What more could you ask for?

I volunteered to bring the turkey. Well, I'm actually going to prep the turkey and then take it to the hosts' house around 11:30 and just shove it in the oven, and then they'll tend to it until supper time.

I'm not obligated to bring anything else on top of the turkey, but I decided to make this Cranberry-Citrus Relish with Pomegranate and TEQUILA! as well, because we made it one year and it's just fantastic.

I'm thinking that after this big dinner on Sunday, I'm not going to do the whole dinner thing for the three of us on the official day. I'm thinking I'll bring home the turkey carcass and make some kind of soup...

How I (didn't really) learn to stop worrying and love the bomb (in a creepy, dark, fetish kind of way)

I was fascinated with atomic bombs as a child. Terrified and fascinated. When I was 8, I wanted to write a letter to the President to express my concerns. My mother convinced me to write a letter about some national scholars program, but I wasn't happy about it.

I watched movies about the bomb. I watched news footage from WWII about the bomb. I listened to audio documentaries about the bomb.

Did anyone else see the movie Nightbreaker? I LOVED IT. I wish it were available on DVD because I just can't bring myself to order VHS tapes that may or may not work. After I (repeatedly) watched that movie, I had a whole new fascination with nuclear testing and the conspiracies lies and abuses associated with it. I dreamed about nuclear testing--that I was hiding, running, whatever. These weren't nightmares. I wasn't scared, just fascinated. Eerily fascinated. I was kind of a strange girl anyway--I frequently had dreams of being in wars, war games, war simulations, etc.

I still can't look away from footage of bombs, even though it makes me queasy. All of that RAW POWER. We did that. Humans did that. It's amazing. Of course it's horrifying. Of course its an abomination. Of course its blasphemy against nature. But it's also unbelievable. We split nature in two. Wow.

My (step) Grandpa was a physicist back in the day and worked with nuclear stuff. I'm not sure exactly what he researched and if he was a part of all the testing that went on. I don't know if the things he knew were things he learned from being directly involved or things he learned from being a voracious reader. He once told me that pigs were used for nuclear tests because their organ structure was similar to ours and their skin, in particular, is remarkably similar. He told me about tests where they would put pigs in mailboxes and different types of shelters and set off bombs. For years, I thought maybe he was exaggerating or just plain crazy (you never could tell with him). Now, I can read about it on Wikipedia or elsewhere. I found this video online, which is fascinating, but not for the faint of heart. This quote is from a website about nuclear testing in Nevada:

"Experiments on mice, dogs, and other animals were conducted during atmospheric testing. The animals were subjected to the atomic blasts and then analyzed by biologists, veterinarians, and medical personnel. In 1957, for the Plumbbob series, pens were built near the Mercury highway to keep 1,200 swine that would be used for various experiments. They had been specially bred due to the similarities in pig and human physiology. For some experiments, pigs were outfitted in various types of clothing material, including military uniforms. For the thirty-seven-kiloton Priscilla test on June 24, 1957, more than seven hundred anesthetized pigs were placed in stations at various distances from ground zero to better understand the effects of atomic weapons on human beings."

I wish Grandpa were alive today so I could ask him more questions. At the time, I didn't know what else to ask. Today, I wouldn't know where to stop.


Because of this sordid fascination with evil, I was admittedly excited when I found out that I would be visiting a decommissioned missile alert facility as part of the new faculty bus tour this year. I mean, I was already stoked that my hubbie could come with me this year, but husband + nukes = uberexcitement.

Did you know that at the height of the Cold War, North Dakota was the 3rd largest nuclear power in the world? Or so the tour guide gold us. Russia and the United States (minus North Dakota) were #1 and #2 (though I'm not sure which was first and which was second) and then there was the state of North Dakota.

North Dakota had two missile fields with 150 missiles in each. If I remember correctly, each of the fields contained 15 missile alert facilities, so that each alert facility controlled 10 missiles. We toured the Oscar-Zero Missile Alert Facility (now named the Ronald Reagan Minutemen Missile Site). It was part of the Grand Forks Missile Field. Do you remember the movie War Games? Grand Forks was one of the first targets in the game. Um, yeah. That's where I live now. Voted one of the best places to raise your kids. Minus the nukes of course. Why so many nukes in the Nodak? I have heard a few different reasons. First of all, the big target when these silos were built was Russia, and the shortest distance to many Russian cities was over the arctic circle. Second, since it's landlocked, it could be harder for weapons to be stolen, or accessed in the first place. Third, land was cheap and the population scarce, so there were less people to object to having nukes in their backyard. The fourth reason seems to be simple math. The current population of the entire state is 646,850. This means less collateral damage. If the missile fields were attacked, fewer people would be killed than if the fields were located elsewhere.

The facility was closed as part of the Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty (START) of 1991, and then opened a few years later for tours. Touring the facility was simultaneously anti-climatic and overwhelming. It really looked like the props that would be used in a 70's sci-fi movie, but it was real. I actually have a picture of myself in that chair, but I got in trouble for it. Turns out, you're not supposed to sit there, and I wasn't listening when the tour guide told us that. I was too busy taking pictures and tripping out. She could have confiscated my camera, but instead made me promise not to post it online somewhere. I took a lot of pictures that I will upload another time.

The Minot AFB Minuteman Missile Field is still active. It is composed of 150 Minutemen III missiles. Each of these missile has three warheads, hence the III as part of the name. From Wikipedia, "The current Minuteman force consists of 450 Minuteman III missiles^[1] in missile silos around F.E. Warren AFB, Wyoming; Malmstrom AFB, Montana; and Minot AFB, North Dakota." That means that there are 450 nuclear warheads in North Dakota, and 1350 warheads total among these three states. I don't know what else to say after that.

The Story

I have attended two plays in the last year that dealt with heavy issues like women's sexuality, violence, coercion, etc. These plays were based on women's stories and their pain, and they have affected me deeply.

I thought I didn't have any stories. Not any good stories. By good, I mean really bad, traumatic, worthy-of-sharing, stories. I told myself that nothing really bad ever happened to me. So many have had it so much worse. I was never molested. I've never been physically forced to have sex. I've never been really beaten up by a partner. I told myself that anything "bad" that happened to me, that I couldn't let go, was just me feeling sorry for myself. That I was just being melodramatic.

When I tell stories, I put a spin on them. I make them funny. I end with a joke, or I make them into something else. I gloss over the meat. I gloss over the pain. I avoid the discomfort. Mine or otherwise.

I tell stories that are caricatures of stories. I like these stories, and they have their place.

But I want to try telling other stories. I want to tell the truth. The uncomfortable truth.

I can start with a story I've never told. I have told little pieces to a few people, but I have never told the whole story. To anyone. 

I had just started college at ASU. I had a friend, a crush really, who lived across town. We'll call him K. K was recently sober after a short romance with crystal meth. He had been attending Narcotics Anonymous (NA) meetings. 

He was really cute. We'd met at band camp (how cliche!), made out a few times (even more cliche!), and I'd visited him in Phoenix once or twice before moving down there for college. 

I picked him up on the other side of town after an NA meeting. He invited me over to a friend's house. I was disappointed, because I really liked K and had hoped we could just go out and do something together, even if it was just coffee. I'd thought this would be just us doing something, but I guess not. He and his buddies were going to drink LOTS of coffee and stay up all night, because this was the closest thing they had to a good buzz. The rush from all the coffee and the sleep deprivation was kind of like being high. There was an actual term for it, but I don't remember what it was. I wish I could remember. Forgetting that little term, and the degree to which this forgetting bothers me, is such a microcosm for the rest of the story.

At that time, I had a sort of relationship with a guy we'll call P. I'd hooked up with him (in other words, had a two-night stand with him) right before I moved to Phoenix and we were maybe going to see each other or whatever, but we weren't officially dating. Or at least I didn't think so. I figured he wasn't interested in an actual relationship with me.

After the two-night stand with P, I had been reflecting on my casual sexual encounters over the past few years. Those are stories for another time, but I was kind of concerned that I was a sex addict. I now know that really, I wouldn't have met the criteria. Not even close. But it was a hot term at that time and I really wanted some kind of label for myself and my dysfunction. Sex addiction was kind of glamorous, as opposed to a more accurate label like "child of alcoholic starved for male attention". I mentioned this to K--that I thought I might have a problem with sex. He suggested that I go to NA meetings or AA meetings or whatever, and the program was still the same.

We arrived at his friend's house--we'll call him D for douchebag because I don't remember his real name and douchebag is appropriate--and the coffee consumption began. I didn't drink much of it. D encouraged me to drink more, but I didn't. I'll return to this point later. 

We ended up watching some porn. The me I am now is confused about how this could have seemed like a normal activity, but I was not the me I am now.

I should clarify that at that time in my life, third-wave feminist (though I didn't call myself a feminist) that I was, I had watched porn with friends before. We were young adults. It was taboo. We were liberated. We liked to show that we were so cool we could watch porn and it was no big deal. I had watched porn with my best friend (and roommate) and sometimes we had other friends there and no, we didn't end up making out and we didn't have orgies and it was just...watching porn. Because we were old enough to rent it now! And we were cool. 

But these guys didn't know this. This hadn't been discussed. It was just, hey let's watch some porn, and I was so cool that I said sure. Whatever. Maybe D even asked if I was okay with it, and I of course said yes.

I should also clarify, before you read further, that this night did not end in some kind gang bang or forced sex.

This was 15 years ago. I'm sorry, 16 years ago, so my memory is kind of fuzzy. I was sitting in a dark living room, in a room with three young men. I wasn't sitting next to any of them so I must have been in a different chair. Trying to not react. Trying to be cool. You would think that I would be like, I'm out of here. But I didn't do that. Because I prided myself on being "one of the guys". Most of my close friends in high school, except my very best friend, were guys. I didn't trust women--girls had caused me so much pain throughout my childhood that I was really distrustful of them. Men, on the other hand...they didn't, generally, have the same finesse in being able to destroy you by using your friendships against you. They lacked the same power of social ostracism. By and large, I'd never even had a guy start rumors about me, even those I'd had sex with. They were friends, sometimes sexual partners, but our relationships were pretty straightforward. In my mind, I was just being one of the guys. I knew from other conversations with adolescent boys that sometimes, they watched porn together. Is this normal? I don't know. Maybe I just grew up in some fucked up hick corner of the universe.

So, back to the porn. Or the circle jerk. Like I said, the details are fuzzy, but I could swear it was a circle jerk. Maybe they just talked about circle jerk. I think D actually brought it up and asked if I knew what it was, and if I minded if either he or they beat off. I don't think they all did, because I think I would have REALLY noticed or tried to NOT NOTICE if K had whipped out his dick. So it was probably D and maybe the other guy who I haven't assigned an initial to. I could have said, hey I really have to get going but that seemed like so much effort. It seemed like it would have been a monumentally impossible task to actually get up out of the chair I was in and walk out of the room.

At some point, it's early morning, and I'm fucking tired. I don't know if I said I was tired and heading home, or if I actually asked if there was somewhere I could lay down. The guy who lived there, D for dickhead or douchebag or whatever else you want to say about him, offered that I could sleep in his parents bed. It was his parents house and they were out of town. Awesome, I think, I have a bed to myself. They were still up watching heavy metal videos or something equally obnoxious, and D specifically said that I could close the door and it would be quiet and I could have privacy. What a nice guy, I thought. I figured I could sleep for a few hours, and then head back an hour across town. Looking back, I probably said I was heading home and then he offered, but this may be revisionist history.

I'm almost asleep. D comes in and lays down. This is weird, I think, but he doesn't try anything. At first. I don't know how it started. I didn't like this guy. I wasn't attracted to this guy. 

Oh my god, I just remembered how it started. He was actually laying in bed beating off. I was just trying to ignore it. I was trying to pretend I was asleep. I don't know how I got involved, aside from being in the bed in the first place. SO STUPID. I WAS SO STUPID.

I know that I resisted. I'm pretty sure that he started touching me, stroking me, and I just tried to pretend I was asleep. Then it was let's just kiss. It's likely that I was asked to "help him out". I felt so tired. My head was so foggy. I didn't really want to. I wanted to sleep. I hoped that I could just do enough to get by so he would leave me alone so I could sleep. I said no to each increased advance. I know I said no. I said it more than once. He just kept persisting. I could have gotten up and left, but I knew that the other guys were in the house. I was so embarrassed. They knew I'd gone up to sleep. How could I tell them I was leaving because your friend won't leave me alone? Did they know he was up here? Did they all just think I was easy? Was that why I was here in the first place?

And it seemed like so much effort. Seemed like it was so much easier to just let him kiss me for a few minutes and then maybe he would go away. I was so naive. I was so tired. I couldn't make myself get out of the bed. I could not get out of the bed. I was so

DRUGGED?

It took me years to consider that possibility, because any time I did, I told myself I'd just been tired and lazy and easy anyway and that I was just trying to find an excuse. But seriously, this was not the first time I'd been up all night and I'd never had so much trouble functioning. I wonder now if that's why he kept trying to get me to drink more coffee. I wonder now if they were all in on it. I wonder now if K told them I was a "sex addict".

And I'd been trying to turn a new leaf. I'd told myself I wasn't going to fuck someone for the sake of fucking someone any more. I told him this, in fact. I told him that I thought I had a problem with sex, and didn't want to have sex with someone I'd just met. That's why I kept saying no, I really can't. And then it ended with him begging over and over to eat me out. And I kept saying no. But he "just wanted to go down on me to pleasure me". It was all about me. We didn't need to have sex. It wouldn't be sex. And finally I just said whatever. 

What happened next is kind of foggy. I think I faked an orgasm, and then he wanted to hold me, and I was kind of disgusted, but I just wanted to go to sleep. I'm 97% sure that this is what happened.

When I woke up next, K was in the bed. He was awake. I think he smiled at me. He might have then rolled over and gone to sleep. Was he in the bed because he hoped to get lucky? If he was, he didn't try anything. At least, I don't remember him trying anything. I mean, this is the guy that I would have kind of liked to try something. I had a crush on him, remember? Did he hope I would try something? I have a vague memory that I asked where D was, and K said he'd gone to work. Maybe he was simply in the bed because he was tired and it was a place to sleep now that D was gone.

I don't remember how I left. I don't remember if K was asleep or awake. I think he did roll over, with his back to me, and when he fell asleep I left. I was ashamed. I, of course, assumed that D had told K everything. In retrospect, I don't think he told him anything.

At the time, I felt victorious because I hadn't banged the guy. In my mind, this was a victory because I hadn't given in to fucking someone for the sake of fucking someone. Even though I felt sick about the whole thing, I had WON. Right?

I said that I never told whole story. I want to tell you about what happened the first time I told part of  the story. P--the two-night stand I assumed would never really follow up with me--came to visit me. I told him that I'd made out someone. I just wanted to be honest if we were going to become a thing. He was kind of annoyed, but I told him that I hadn't thought I'd actually hear from him again. I didn't tell him everything else. Long story short, P ended up being my boyfriend. This led to a whole host of poor decisions in that first year of college, culminating in me dropping out, moving to the woods, getting pregnant while doing a lot of drugs, begging my mother to rescue me, and me having an abortion. My stories about P are stories for another time. Except this one.

About 6 months after the D incident, I had horrible abdominal pains. I went to the emergency room. I had a nasty virus and they gave me painkillers. GOOOOOD painkillers. P and me and our roommate were drinking hard liquor. Because I had far less sense than I have now.

I don't know how the hell it came up. I don't know if it was a slip. I don't know if it was a confession. I think it may have actually been a "hey, I love you so much, and there's only one thing I have hidden from you and I want you to know about it" scenario. Somehow, the conversation turned to the fact that D had gone down on me. 

P was furious. 

It was one thing to have "made out" with D, but THIS. THIS!

Of course, I'd never told him I'd been potentially drugged. I didn't tell him I'd been coerced. I didn't tell him that this was either borderline date rape or outright date rape. These were terms I didn't have words for back then. Remember, I'd walked away from the D situation feeling VICTORIOUS. As if.

So P said he would never do that on me/for me/to me again. I know now that this is classic abusive behavior. Withholding affection. At the time, I apologized. I cried. I pleaded. I felt like I was a horrible person. I should have told you. I thought I told you. It doesn't matter. What's the difference? It's in the past. I'm so sorry.

  

I don't know exactly what I said. All I knew is that someone who I (naively) thought I would spend my life with was taking away something. Forever. Because I was bad. Because I was a slut.

Fast forward a few weeks later. P had been out of town for a week. When he returned, we were making out, leading up to sex. He said he had a really special surprise gift for me. I thought it might be an engagement ring. Instead, he started to go down on me.

Instead of feeling happy, I just felt sick. Dirty. Manipulated. Insulted. And then I pushed all those feelings away, hid my disappointment, and fucked him anyway.

I ran into K about 18 months later. P and I had broken up long before then, and I'd moved on to an even more abusive relationship. K looked great when I saw him. Sober. Healthy. Kind. I could tell he really was doing well. 

We chatted for a few minutes. I asked him if he was still friends with D. I think I wanted to tell him what happened, or try to figure out if he knew. He said D was serving time in jail for raping a girl. I could tell from the rest of our conversation that he didn't know what happened. I don't think he told his friends that night that I was a "sex addict". I don't think, if I was drugged, that he knew about it. I think that he was a genuinely good guy.

And I wished then that I had told him, either that night or soon thereafter. And I felt bad because maybe if I'd said something, someone else would not have been raped. And selfishly, I also felt relieved. If D had "really" raped some other woman, maybe it wasn't all my fault after all.

I know that what he did was wrong, but I still feel so ashamed. So dirty. Ashamed that I just sat there while they watched porn. Ashamed that I didn't leave. Ashamed that I tried to sleep there. Ashamed that I didn't leave when D came upstairs. Ashamed that I gave in because it was easier than not giving in. I don't know if I was actually drugged with something, and it shouldn't really matter. I said no. Just because he didn't have to hold me down doesn't make it okay. I tell myself that thinking I might have been drugged is just a way to let myself off the hook. Off the hook for what? I know, rationally, that I should not feel ashamed, but I do.

And the worst part. THE WORST part, was not the night with D. It was the way P treated me. As if him giving back affection that should have never been withheld was a "gift". A GIFT. And even though I knew that it wasn't right, I let him give this "gift" to me. I accepted it. And now, even though I know that he was an asshole, I feel so embarrassed. I don''t want to tell anyone because it will show that I was so stupid. That I am dirty. That I was a slut. That I am a bad person. That I am dishonest. You will say that I had it coming. I got what I deserved.

But even if you think all these things, I still have to tell this story. And other stories. They are eating me alive from the inside out.

I don't want your sympathy. I don't want you to tell me that none of it was my fault, because I know I won't believe you.

I want you to know this, and still be my friend anyway. I want to know that you think no less of me.