Hubbs got home at noon friday afternoon, we headed to G&C's, dropped the bit off, and went to eat at the same restaurant that Kirsti & Terry & I had all gone to earlier in the week. (this place has yummy food!)

After way too much delicious dinner, we grabbed the leftovers and headed off to the hotel. We got a room (it was a suite, actually) on the very top floor and spent the evening watching tv (this is a luxury since we don't have access at home), talking, making love, snuggling, laughing, & getting late night snacks from Dominoes (hot wings & breadsticks).

It was pouring most of the day/night and I love the rain so I was very happy. I confess my lack of tolerance for southern california drivers, however, who consider themselves capable of being the same assholes in very bad weather as they are in typical southern california sun/surf/sand weather. I found myself driving mommy-style, as if the bit were still in the back seat--pissed off & threatened by people who would run over my daughter without a backward glance. I want to take 79% of the california driving population and smack them around. Hard.

I didn't have any ritualistic anniversary reactions (at least none I was aware of), and that is a first for me as a birthday. Usually I end up huddled under a table or desk or curled in the bathtub sucking my thumb, and nothing like that occurred. Perhaps it was because we were in a hotel room and I knew my father has no idea where (who) I am, perhaps it was because of the work that we did with Spug last monday, but it went well. For the first time. And that was an excellent thing.

Then Saturday we slept in, picked up my contact lens & drove back to G&Cs. Reunited with the bit, we had lunch, opened presents (G has his bday on Feb. 10 so it was a mutual party for us both with hubbs' family), played mahjong & had a long and spirited philisophical,religious,environmental,social conversation.

The wonder & joy of the weekend, of the visit with kirsti & terry, the thrill of my birthday--it has faded and left me in a denim blue sadness. A hole.

The pain of my past lurks in the corners of my mind. It waits for me. I know that sounds melodramatic, but it is true. Somewhere through the years it happened upon me that I didn't deserve to be treated well. I didn't deserve to be loved, I didn't deserve to be respected and I most certainly didn't deserve to be happy.

Even though I have been in focused, intensive therapy for almost 6 years, I cannot overcome those primitive assumptions. And what do I do? I punish myself for my joy. I trace the scars on my body, play with blades, am careless with fire. I must somehow make retribution for the good feelings that I experienced.

I must push the people who love me away. I must hurt the part of my body that enjoyed being touched. I must invent an argument with the ones closest to my soul, those who bring me comfort and safety. I must walk the razors edge, balance on the wire stretched over the chasm, leap off the ladder into the flames.

I don't want to do this. I don't. I do not want to live this way.

But somewhere inside my Selves I am completely aware that if I do not surrender to the consequences--if I do not punish myself for my mistakes--those around me will die. I will lose that which I love so dearly. It will go away. And then I will never have another chance for happiness again.

. . . I am publically acknowledging my bisexuality.

This is a difficult thing for me, because some part of me reverberates with the condemnation of my father, the Church, the things I grew up being forced to swallow.

Funny thing how this realisation and admission came about.

I was talking to Hubbs & I said quite matter-of-factly: "If you were to die, I could/would never fall in love with another man again. you were an exception ... " He turned to me and quietly said, "I know."

My eyebrows raised as he continued--"I've always known you are bisexual."

I blushed...Sometimes we're the last to know, eh? sheeyit.

I am happy with this recognition, grateful to Hubbs for his honesty & perceptiveness, relieved to have confessed something I have hid from myself for years. Why did I hide it? Because I was afraid. Afraid of the power of my own passion, afraid of the selves-condemnation and the unthinkable lust in my heart.

But it feels good to admit it, good to accept it, and I am comfortable knowing that it is true. No fear, no shame, just a small contentment with the way things are.

I deserve to live a life free of selves-punishment and accusation.

White morning flows into the mirror.
Her eye, still old with sleep,
meets itself like a sister.
How they slept last night,
the dream that caged them back to back,
was nothing new.

Last words, tears, most often
come wrapped as the 
everyday familiar failure.

Now, pulling the comb slowly 
through her loosened hair
She tries to find the parting;

it must come out after all:
hidden in all that tangle
there is a way.

The bit had an enormous poop that squirted out her diaper and all over her clothes. As I was changing her, I was vomiting, but I couldn't leave her and I ended up swallowing it. It was an extremely disgusting morning.

C most likely has Hodgkins disease. This has been a hideous year for our family (1997), and we had hoped that '98 would be different. It's not looking like it. Things like this make me want to hide under the bed for the rest of my life. I am so tired of finding love and losing it. I wonder if it is worth the risk, the pain, the loss, the incredible ache. I have my selves. And ... if therapy progresses according to "goal," I will also lose them. Selves Murder. Integration. Death.

Fuck.

You know that old saying--"It's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all" ? I don't believe it. I think it is full of shit. I would rather know the nothingness. I know how to live without love. I know how to self-comfort, to fill in the loneliness and isolation, to wrap myself up in my own arms and rock. I know how to compensate for not being cared for. But I don't know how to let go. I don't know how to watch someone leave, watch someone die. I don't know how to go on.

. . . Today is my wicked grandmother's birthday. I have no idea how old she is, no idea if she's even still alive. I haven't talked to my family of origin in over 5 years; haven't seen them in as long, haven't had anything to do with them.

They're doing some construction nearby and our idyllic peaceful apartment complex is riddled with the noise of 10 giant yellow trucks backing up: beep-beep-beep-beep-beep! Argh! It is the most annoying thing.

Last night we went for carne asada tacos (with lime, of course) and since we've become regulars at this little hole-in-the-wall Mexican place, one of the women always comes over and admires the bit.

She told us about a friend of hers who's 9 month-old still wakes every 2 hours to snack. (!) I couldn't stand that ... it would drive me crazy. And the woman goes on to say that the father/husband is out at sea and her opinion is that the mother is lonely and using the child to appease her emptiness.

oof.

I used to be much more critical of how people raised their kids--I had total impatience with the crying child at Denny's, rage at the woman who was too exhausted to chase her unruly 2 year old around the mall, and disgust for the mothers who walked around half-dead, hardly caring what they looked like.

I am much more forgiving now.

Certainly not for my family-of-origin because child abuse is NEVER justified, but for those families who are doing the best they can and are imperfect human beings with human frailties and issues of their own.

When I first had the bit I went through a difficult crisis in identification with my (perp)father. Spug & I had long and intense discussions about being frustrated,overwhelmed with an infant vs smacking the hell outta them. Or admiring their little body as a tiny miracle vs raping them because they turn you on.

Parts of me wanted to forgive my father his evil, because after all, raising children was much more difficult than we had ever imagined, and he was after all, helpless, single and young.

But being helpless, single & young never excuses tying up, raping, beating a child...it never excuses deliberate torture, mutilation and manipulative mind fucks. Leaving me to cry in my crib for 15 minutes, that is excusable. Shoving up my nightgown and raping me when I was 2--that is utterly repulsive and wicked.

It takes a tremendous amount of energy for me to leave the house and go into public places. Especially without my child. I have gotten so used to existing around her; to answering questions from strangers about her, to having people comment on her beautiful face, to wanting the grisly birth details and statistics, that I have ceased to exist as my own persons. People don't ask how I am anymore--they say, "how's the baby?"

why,I'm fine, thank you.

I'm sure as I get better at parenting I'll figure out how to co-exist with her, how to take a shower and enjoy it rather than rush to get out because she's wailing, how to let her amuse herself on occasion rather than entertain her every waking minute, and how to integrate her as part of my family rather than the whole of my self.

I had just put the bit down for her morning nap, and decided to phone hubbs at work to send him snuggles & kisses (sappy, I know, but we get off on it). I dialed, connected through the voice mail and just as I dialed the extension, the battery on the cordless phone started to go out. At first I thought it was the channel, so I was changing it in a vain attempt to get rid of the static.

I finally realised it was the battery, so I hung up, put the phone in its cradle and sat on the couch to read a magazine. The thought of going into the bits bedroom and calling Hubbs back was not an option (my morning had been hideous and both the bit & I needed a break from each other).

So ... I was sitting on the couch reading and I heard our garage door open, someone race up our steps and explode into our apartment. It was Hubbs, and he had a panicked,horrified,and worried look on his face.

I burst into laughter.

This was probably not a wise reaction (chalk it up to inappropriate emotion), but it was the only one I could summon up. I sat there laughing hysterically while he explained that he thought that something was wrong, and thought maybe a mute destructive alter was out, or I'd gotten a call-back, or some such other horrible awful very bad thing had happened.

It's important to note at this point that he came home from work one day in response to a suicide attempt I had made. He came home, found me collapsed and semi-conscious in a chair. He said I was begging him to kill himself too, to die with me, and that it was one of the worst days of his life.

When I explained what had happened he was much relived, a little irritated at my uncontrollable laughter, and collapsed next to me in a heap on the couch. I felt guilty for laughing, guilty for attempting suicide a year ago, guilty for needing him enough to make him get so full of fear and panic.

Yet, it also made me feel safe in a weird sort of way. He really is looking out for me and will notice if I'm behaving strangely or am in any danger. Because I'm a multiple, I am quite unaware of my more bizarre actions. It is comforting to know that he is paying attention. I appreciate being noticed.

'tis the day for love, flower stands with tripled prices, chocolate, sweet promises, sex, and red bikini underwear shaped like a rose.

It makes me want to gag.

I could get into a philosophical discussion about love, but I really don't have the energy right now. It all boils down to the point that love is more than the warm spot between your thighs, and passion is more than sweaty bodies intertwined on satin sheets.

Now I'll admit that's the erotic part of love, but its not the entirety of it. And to minimize it to nothing more than a really good lay is to take away the wonder of two people connecting at a soul level. And that is a tragic shame.