Diary of a Sex-Starved Pseudo-Mennonite, Part 13

This blog is my baby. She wakes me in the middle of the night to feed her and just keeps crying if I don't tend to her needs. I keep reminding the baby that I am the fucking Grandma Moses of blogging. Conventional wisdom says I'm too old for a baby. Or a blog. Yet here I am, dictating her cries and warming a bottle.

I have tried a number of things in the past 30 hours or so to not feel like I am dying of a broken heart. Pray to God for help, strength, an end to the pain. Block people on social media who might not be for me who I have left the door open for. When I did the blocking, the heart pain got worse. I couldn't sleep. Then when I finally did, Daisy and I were awakened by a humdinger of a Midwest storm. But I live in the high desert. Pounding rain. Lightening so bright it lit up my house. Thunder that makes you think earthquake. The last time I experienced storms like this, I was visiting lifelong friends in Minneapolis. The storms showed up each evening for my sleep. Or not sleep. Then I came home and 2 days later, my husband left. Then 2 weeks after that, during or possibly after a terrible thunderous, lightening-cracking storm in Minneapolis, 1 of those friend's partner died. In front of him. He lost her. Then I lost him. That same day, another close friend's town in Iowa experienced a hurricane. Florida storm devastation on the prairie. (Both of these friends are Scorpios. God only knows what they did to deserve it.) Then 2 days after that, we found out my stepdad had Stage 4 lung cancer. Then 2 weeks after that, my hopes of having a baby the Amish way were stillborn in a super specialist's office. He didn't even examine me. He's like "Bitch, you too old to even put in the stirrups. I bill by the hour." Then 3 weeks after that, my stepdad died.

Then the holidays, which let me tell you, in this context with the divorce proceedings added in, not to mention the awakening to my own abuse, well, the holidays were fucking great. Labor Day. Not for you, Old Eggs. Halloween. I usually give out full-sized candy bars and count the Trick or Treaters. I looked forward to it every year. I believe my record is 126 costumed kiddos. COVID Halloween, lights out, no treats. Thanksgiving. That was me, too. Alone. Trying to be cheerful. I drove my puppy to Portland for Christmas and New Years just to not be alone. Then felt alone anyway. Valentines Day? I may have burned my wedding dress in the fireplace. My birthday, my friends made it really special long distance with well wishes and a celebrity cameo, and I took a walk with a friend and had lunch out. So that seemed like progress. Easter was also alone, 15 minutes occupied with installing a new toilet seat. Memorial Day? Jack shit. For the 4th of July, I will be with my family in the Midwest. I extended my trip just so I wouldn't be alone on another holiday. It's not that I am scared of it anymore. It's my new normal. But it's just fucking unfulfilling. 

I keep thinking my sorrow continues because I am not trying hard enough. Which is probably marriage programming. I literally cannot try any harder. I am so exhausted that it hurts to breathe. And I am too sad to meditate. I meditated for at least 20 minutes virtually every day from MLK Day 2020 until I went to Minneapolis in later July. It helped me a lot. It drove a toxic motherfucker out of my life. He would try to disturb my meditation on purpose, like a toddler or my puppy. How dare I dedicate 20 minutes to myself. Or my non-self.

I sit quietly virtually all of the time that I am not with other people. Which is most of the time. I also walk quietly on occasion. I am telling myself that is meditation. But I don't feel calm. Inside I feel like that storm that woke me in the middle of the night.

The tarot keeps telling me I need to release something. Which I am resisting. It's hard to release another thing when you feel like all you have done all year is been stripped naked and left for dead. So I tried to do what I thought I was supposed to do. I engaged in some very light interwebs blocking. Which I guess I mistook for releasing. And the sky ripped apart.

I don't know what's next. It seems like I can't go back to being Amish. I mean, I have a blog. I'm apparently more single than even Daisy, despite my much-maligned efforts. A pit bull showed up at my back door tonight, crying for Daisy's company. Why doesn't that happen for me? But a solid dude instead of a pit bull? I was in my robe and texted the neighbors that I was too unwell to bring their dog home. They came to get her. Apparently Daisy is a lesbian. (Should I text Freddy, so he can note this in his sociopath sex ledger?) And Bobbi found her friend with benefits. So I don't expect we'll meet.

I am hoping coming home will help me somehow figure out what's next. What I should do. Move? Join a cult? Do the most terrifying thing, which is try to be still on the inside? At the very least, coming home might help me forget about these heavy things. I can just sleep and not work and have fun and live in the moment. I am hoping for an epiphany on my holiday. A white Hallelujah light of ancestral healing that suddenly makes everything clear and brings a sense of peace instead of alternating between feeling joyful, stagnant and psycho. Does everyone feel like this? Is it just me? Let me know in the comments. This blog isn't dirty. I won't tell anyone you read it.

Until Next Time, Sweeties!

Ness Sweet Ness