It's so weird how some people never change. They have some bad childhood and just stay stuck in the past forever. They never get over the bad shit that happened to them as children so they keep doing self-sabotaging, self-defeating behaviors over and over again. Every once in a while, I do a web search for my ex-boyfriend from when I was 19, Evil. As you can imagine, someone named Evil might have some issues. He was a short, tan, blue-eyed white guy who affiliated with Mexican gang members. He had all the Mexican gang tattoos, like the comedy/tragedy masks, girls with big boobs and clown faces, the teardrop tattoo under the corner of his eye (which apparently is only given in prison for murdering someone), and "Evil One" in Olde English tattooed across his swollen junkie stomach. He was addicted to meth and used to shoot it up into his dick because he had a good vein there. He was a meth cook (at least that's what he claimed, although even with a meth lab, I never saw him produce anything usable). Our relationship was all about drugs, sex, and fighting. We would fight, fuck, and get high, and that was all we did. Our relationship was chaotic and dangerous and he was one of the most abusive, frightening people I have ever been with. He would hold me in places against my will and threaten to kill me, he would force me to spend money on my credit card to get him motel rooms, he once gave my car keys to a mentally retarded meth addict who called himself "God" (the guy was seriously mentally retarded - the state gave him money and an apartment because he was too stupid to work). He cheated on me with God's girlfriend, a heroin whore, some other prostitute named Freedom who I never met, and I'm sure countless others. He kidnapped me, he choked me, hit my head against walls, and punched me in the face so hard that I had two black eyes, a fat lip, a bloody nose, and a concussion that sent me to the ER. We were together for nine months, although I left him several times during that nine months. The day I finally left for good was the day he punched me in the face. I was on the phone with my mom, telling her I wanted to leave, and he cut the fucking phone cord! Then I tried to run out the sliding glass door and he grabbed me, so I dug my long fingernails into his sides. That's when he beat me up. I moved into a domestic violence shelter for a couple months and met a girl there who I became fast friends with named JM. I had been there only a few hours, and she arrived a little later on the same day. She and I and several other girls were sitting out at the smoking table and the first thing she said was, "So, who else got dragged through the front yard this weekend?" It was so fucked up that I had to laugh, and from that moment forward, she and I were inseparable, just cracking each other up all day, every day. Unfortunately, one day she was on the phone with her abuser (the father of their two children) and the conversation was really upsetting. That night she got drunk and started hopping from picnic table to picnic table, telling one of the female counselors that she had a crush on her. The next day she got kicked out. I left a few days later because it just wasn't the same without her. I moved in with JM, her abuser, and their two young children, a boy, 4, and a girl, just barely 2 years old. That's a whole other story, though, and I'm not trying to write my memoir right this second. My point is Evil, and how some people never change. See, when Evil was a child, his father sexually abused him in the most horrific ways. He forced him to peform oral sex, and raped him repeatedly, I think for several years. His uncle's did, too. His mom married this scumbag when she was only 15 years old, and I'm sure she came from a fucked up family as well. So she knew that this stuff was going on and did nothing about it. In my opinion, little is worse than that. No one I know has ever told me such horrific stories of childhood abuse. Evil's was the worst story I ever heard and probably ever will hear (because I don't hang with people like that anymore). So he grew up, became a male stripper, and got addicted to meth, went to prison, and joined a Mexican gang. When I met him, he was 31 years old. It's been over ten years since I left that relationship (thank god), and I have since quit doing drugs, quit hanging out on the streets with dope fiends and whores, quit being an irresponsible loser, fucking whoever, snorting and smoking whatever, and generally not giving a fuck about myself. Granted, no one raped me as a child, no one (as far as I remember) ever molested me, so I can't say that I know what's that feels like because I don't. But what I do know is, I had traumatic shit happen to me when I was young, and before I knew any better, I coped with it by hurting myself, doing things to numb the pain of a fucked up childhood. But at some point, I feel like you really have to stop feeling sorry for yourself and move on. Drugs are actually quite lame, and life is far more of a high. Prison, from what I've heard, is not a good time, and being homeless blows for sure. At some point, you have to realize that you're continuing to make life such far past the point that it needs to suck. As soon as you're able to start making your own decisions for your life, as soon as you're old enough to make your own money and get your own place to live and food to eat, you have the option to move on. I didn't move on right away. It took me several more years of punishing myself with bad relationships and chemicals before I finally got it that I don't have to, and don't want to, live that way. But some people just go on like that 'til their early death. Evil is 42, and just booked again in July of this year for a felony. I saw his mugshot (which I could create a link to, but I won't because I'm too embarrassed) and he has the meth lesions all over his face and neck, he's all sucked up, his eyes are shut, and he's just fucked! 42 years old and still up to the same old tricks, never to be happy, never to move on, stuck in the pain forever. I wonder if he even knows he has a choice? Maybe he doesn't. Maybe I don't know what I'm talking about at all. Maybe being raped by your dad really is something that you can never get over. Maybe karma is a real thing, and in his past life he was Hitler, or some other horrible dictator, and his current life is his punishment for his last life. I don't know. I just feel like it's such a waste of a life, a waste of space on the planet to live an entire life in misery. I think he's also turned into a pedophile, but like I said, there's little information on the crimes committed, since he's only been booked and not charged. But I know he's attracted to young children...there were little signs here and there that I ignored at the time, but I just know. God, that gives me the shivers just thinking about it. Anyway, I have this uncanny ability to forgive, and maybe that's why I'm able to move on and so many addicts aren't. But I forgive him for what he did to me, and I forgive everyone else, too. Life is too short to stay mad. Staying mad doesn't do anything to the people I'm mad at, it only does something to me, and that is, make my life suck. And since I forgive him, I hope he finds some peace. I hope everyone finds peace. I believe everyone deserves it.

I'm at work right now and I have to write from work because HAM and I will hopefully be spending time together once I'm off. Today I went to counseling in the morning and the gym on my lunch break. I love productive days like this where I get shit done in the morning so by the time I'm done with work I don't have anything else to do. I bought a protein bar and a salad at Whole Foods and ate the protein bar, then got an Americano after the gym. Still haven't eaten the salad yet. Today in counseling (as you know, since you were there) we talked about fat/ looks and why it is so important to me. That possibly I believe the only way people will like me is if I am beautiful and thin. I know there is more to people than looks. Obviously! I have dated various guys (and even married a guy) who lack a complete set of teeth. My ex-fiance had something he called "dick-do". That's when your belly sticks out further than your dick do. My husband was bald on top - he only had hair around the sides of his head (just like my grandpa). But the issue, of course, isn't the people I have had relationships with - it's me and my ridiculously high standards for myself. But it's not just looks that matter to me. I also want to be smart and funny and accomplished. I want to do something worthwhile with my life. And be beautiful. But why is so overwhelmingly important and obsessive to be beautiful? Am I just a product of my culture? Apparently not. Apparently, it has more to do with feeling like I can't control anything in my life, that I am ineffectual (is that how you spell it?) and so I use my weight/ food/ looks because it's all I am able to control. Damn, that's some deep shit. Why would I have such a strong desire to control anything? Maybe because people have always been controlling me and making decisions for my life. Like ALL, he controlled every move I made. And my ex-husband, RC. After college I was hoping to go to grad school or at least get a good job, but he moved me out to the mountains where I couldn't get a job and was totally isolated. There were plenty other boyfriends - paranoid, delusional, controlling boyfriends who kept tabs on every fucking thing I did, every male friend, every time I went out without them. I had one boyfriend who was so delusional that when I came home wearing one of my Dad's shirts, he accused me of having an incestuous relationship with him. I had one boyfriend kidnap me and keep me against my will until I finally escaped. I actually had to run for my life, jump over fences, and hide in a fucking bush to escape this maniac. Even my Dad - he has so much power over me that all he has to do is dislike something I want to do, and before I know it, I have given up. He's the reason I had an abortion (the most recent one anyway). There's always some dude pulling my strings from behind a curtain. I'm this pretty little puppet, just moving about the way I'm told. So yeah, that gets old. When I was with ALL, I was at my most perfect weight. My body was rock solid and I weighed about 110. I looked amazing. But my exercise routine was unreal. I spent 2 1/2 hours at the gym every time I went. And I even had to fight him for that time at the gym. It became a major source of tension in our relationship because when we were doing the long-distance thing, he didn't like not being able to contact me for those 2 1/2 hours, and when I was living with him, he didn't want to spend that long at the gym. He controlled everything in my life, so I controlled my body. But now I'm with HAM and he doesn't control anything. I am free to do whatever the fuck I want and he doesn't ever tell me what to do or try to influence me to do what he wants or thinks is right. The only thing he wants for me is for me to do what I want and to be happy. And to love him. And it's easy to love him. I wonder if he reads this? If he does he probably hates how much I talk about my exes, but it's therapeutic. I need to write about them to get them out of my system. I remember when ALL started telling me not to get too muscular because he wouldn't be attracted to me. I didn't understand this, since he always said he would still love me and think I was hot if I got fat...but not extremely fit? So of course I started lifting heavier weights and doing less reps. I started working on my upper body a lot, doing pull-ups and dips, flys and bicep curls. Then after we broke up I got even more intense about it because I was pissed. I wanted to run fast, workout hard, be big and strong and look like you better not fuck with me. But the thing about it is, it's really addictive. Once you start getting big, even though it looks a little scary on a girl, it feels good. Looking in the mirror and seeing all that definition, those giant biceps, cut up traps and lats. It feels good to be strong. And maybe I wouldn't be able to take on a 220 pound ex-con with a DV problem, but at least I look like you better not fuck with me. So yeah, control. I control my body. But no one is controlling me anymore. I can do what I want now. So does that mean that my obsession with weight and looks means something other than needing to control something in my life, or is it residual shit left over from a past of violent and controlling men? I guess I've been doing the whole weight-crazy thing since around the time my parents were in the process of divorce. I was eight then, so of course I had no control over my parents relationship. Maybe it all goes back to that. But seriously, I'm really over it! That was so long ago! I love my parents, they're still friends, everyone has moved on. I don't hold grudges and I don't hold on to the past. I'm way more of a future-tripper than I past-obsesser. I guess the reality is that I don't know why I'm such a freak about my physical appearance. I know it doesn't feel good to put this much pressure on myself, but I'm afraid to/ don't know how to stop. Oh well, I guess this is a to-be-continued situation.

I was going to write about having kids and how I always joke that if I were to have two children, I already have their nams picked out: Resentment and Dream Killer. I was talking with HAM the other day about how I just can't imagine that there would ever be a good time in our lives for children, and that I really love dogs, but have never really loved humans. Especially whiny, selfish ones who I could easily beat up. I was never really one of those types of girls who fantasized about her wedding day and subsequent children. Not to say I've always been against the idea. I wanted to have a baby once. I did a lot of research on it. I was going to be one of those controversial parents who let their baby sleep in bed with them, despite warning that you could roll over and suffocate your baby in the night. The facts are that this doesn't happen. If you have the right kind of pillow to keep the baby from falling off the bed (which is much more likely) then you're golden. And that whole thing about leaving the baby crying in another room so they can learn to self-soothe - I think that's bullshit. My parents did that with me and how did I learn to self-soothe? Cake. I'd rather be overly dependent on my mom than overly dependent on cake. And I was going to have a waterbirth, free of epidurals, doctors, and hospitals. I was either going to go to a birthing center, or rent a tub and have my baby at home, in a birthing tub filled with warm water. I was going to hire a midwife and only use doctors and ex-rays when absolutely necessary, but I wasn't going to do what so many women are doing these days: scheduling their due date. It's so freaky! As if the sterile hospital setting with the poor mother-to-be spread-eagle on a hospital bed, strung out on opiates and being told to "push" wasn't disturbing enough, now women can choose to just "go under", get cut open, and wake up with a baby. That is just so wrong I can't even express my disgust for it. Doesn't anyone do anything naturally anymore? I mean, I'm all for a good boob-job (saving up for mine) but seriously - shouldn't birth be sacred? Isn't it an experience that will forever bond mother and baby? Why would a woman choose to be completely checked out of that experience. Your baby is entering the world and her very first experience is that her mother is not present, not there for her. She is zonked out under anesthesia and the baby is ripped from her stomach and taken away to be cleaned and snipped and who knows what else, and then mom comes to later to a nice, cleaned up, trimmed up baby. Fuck that. Anyway, my point is, I did quite a bit of research. I was going to teach my baby sign language so it would be able to communicate with me before it learned it form words, therefore lessening certain instances of colic. I was going to play soothing music against my growing belly for the baby to listen to in utero. I was going to feed my baby a vegan, organic diet so it wouldn't be subjected to the hormones in dairy and chemicals in conventional foods. I started taking prenatal vitamins, had my IUD taken out, and got off anti-depressants while my fiance was still in jail just to prepare for his release. And the they he got out we started trying to get pregnant. It took about eight months and I finally had a positive test. It hadn't been more than a few weeks since we learned of my pregnancy that we were going to visit his grandpa in Mendocino County, about a two hour drive from where we were living in San Rafael. He still wasn't officially living with me - he was living at the SLE down the street, Marin Services for Men. He went back to his place to get ready and I stayed at my place to get ready. Since it was August and we were going to Willits, which was guaranteed to be hot as hell, I wanted to shave my legs so I could wear a little skirt. I did my normal shower routine plus shaving and then got out and started drying my hair. ALL came back over and was ready to go. When he saw that I wasn't ready, he started fuming, asking why I was wasn't ready and yelling about how he didn't have much time. I told him that I shaved my legs so it was taking me a little longer than usual to get ready and that enraged him. Before I knew it, he had pulled me out of the bathroom and was yelling in my face. He grabbed me by the throat and threatened to choke me to death. We were now in the hallway of my apartment, his hands around my neck, his wide mouth open showing his missing bottom tooth, his forehead creased, his eyes filled with hatred. He squeezed tighter around my neck and I was pissed. I reached up and squeezed my hand around his neck. I figured, even though I couldn't hurt a 220-pound ex-con with a woman-beating problem, I at least wasn't going to bitch out. I was mad, too. All I did was shave my fucking legs! Of course, when I squeezed his neck, that made him go from enraged to blackout insane. He squeezed my neck so hard that I felt myself fading fast. I couldn't breathe and I went limp. After that I'm not sure exactly what happened, but I woke up on the floor, against the wall, in another room. Immediately, I started shouting, "You choked me until I passed out! You could've killed me! I'm pregnant!" He said, "I didn't do shit to you, get up." I wouldn't let it go. I was horrified by this. All the violence that had happened before was bad, but it all of it happened to me and me alone. This time, he wasn't just hurting me - he was hurting my baby. This was unacceptable. So I played along with him, let him try to make it up to me by taking me on a trip to the coast, cooking me breakfast, blah, blah, blah, all that bullshit abusers like to do to suck you back into their insanity so they can abuse you again. But secretly, I didn't pay rent that month. I stuck the money ($1000) inside a sock in my sock drawer and waited. He wouldn't let me out of his sight for days because he knew I might try to escape, but he finally felt secure enough that I wouldn't leave him, and he had to go back to the SLE or he would get kicked out, which would fuck up his probation, so he went back. That night, I called my mom and told her what was going on and she convinced me to leave. So I packed up my $1000, a picture of my dead dog, a framed serenity prayer painting, and a laundry basket full of clothes, and took off in the middle of the night. There's a lot more to this story, I ended up staying with ALL for another year in a long-distance relationship, and eventually moved back to San Rafael to be with him again (it only lasted two weeks after I arrived - then I had to escape from the bastard again) but for now, I'll just talk about the baby situation. I came home to Bellevue, to my Dad's house. He thought my best option would be to abort the baby. I went along with it, even though I wanted the baby and had planned for the baby, researched the birth, my diet, the sleeping arrangements, etc. I had the abortion, and I suppose it was for the best, but ever since then I've felt pretty anti-baby again. That was my one decent into baby-craziness and it ended pretty fucked up. So, now I'm older, I've got a great guy who I love, who loves me, who would NEVER hurt me. He's brilliant, stunningly beautiful, responsible, sweet, just a damn good guy, and I think - why would I want to screw this up with kids? That's what kids do. They make happy couples want to murder eachother. They turn hot chicks into short-haired soccer moms. They are the wedge between the man and the woman and they cause divorce more often than not. I like being thin and beautiful, I like having sex every day, sometimes twice a day. I like being able to get my hair done when I want, go to the gym when I want, not having to orchestrate my job and my appointments around a child. Besides, the world is overpopulated. That's not just something people say to justify not having children, either. That shit is real. There are too many of us here all breathing the same polluted air and driving on the same congested roads, eating the same contaminated food, and attending the same broken public schools. (This is the one area of my life where I become a Republican - if I ever did have children, you can bet your ass they'd be in private school.) Maybe adopting dogs would keep my relationship intact (and my thighs), save the planet of one more parasite sucking off of it, and it would allow me to pick names other than Resentment and Dream Killer. I've already named my new computer David Lee Roth and my external hard drive Eddie Van Halen, so this could take some time. Maybe Jerry and Pig Pen. But thinking about having children is definitely good for counting my current blessings. When I think about how awful life could be if it revolved around someone other than me, my current situation seems pretty damn sweet. No resentments, dreams in reach, and  stretch mark free.