It was something we'd been planning for months; everytime we get together at a larger family function, we always huddle in a group and say, "you know we really should get together soon ..." and it's always a bunch of shit; just a lot of words.

So a few weeks ago, after Brooke integrated (she always had a crush on my brother-in-law), we phoned them to tell them the news and made a date for this evening.

The chickenpox thwarted our plans. Even though the bit has had a vaccination, I told hubby that I didn't even want to  risk her getting sick; that I was certain that something such as the chicken pox would send me completely over the edge.

The latest news from the financial guy is that we 1) are not going to be paid any back money and 2) we're going to have to take  yet another partial.

This is becoming a trend that is quite disturbing.

Since my entry last night, I've been trying to think of active ways that I can let go of some of the enormous responsibility I feel. The thing that I keep returning to is that it takes a lot of self-talk, and confidence. Undoing the damage takes a long time, but the prevention of more damage is in my power; I don't have to feel guilty anymore for those things which I cannot control. I say that to myself a zillion times an hour, it seems -- when hubby talked to the financial guy at work and discovered how badly things were going; when the baby had another bout of excruciating abdominal pain; when the modem was disconnecting every 3 seconds and crawling along the 'net.

It's a fine line between taking mature responsibility for what is within my capability, and letting go of that which is not my fault. Polarization is easy. Too easy to make everything in relation to me, or to blame everyone else but myself when I fuck up my life.

We're making difficult decisions now as a family; as a couple; as parents. We're having to choose whether or not staying with a company that is running into the ground is worth the potential benefit of being bought out or making it. We're having to determine what is the best way to spend our together time, and prioritize our computer time. We're having to decide whether to move back to San Diego proper, or stay hovering on the outskirts as we have been.

I had a lousy, awful, horrible, very negative conversation with C yesterday. It has been so long since it has been like this, that I've forgotten how it really is. In my pain and tear-induced hysteria, I have given her far too much ammunition, and I was getting blasted with every ounce of it over the lines.

We covered dissociation (psychobabble), possible bit retardation (even if she is, know she is just who god wants you to have), misunderstanding of childhood abuse (You could move to X, or X, and be far enough away from your father/family of origin), and unacceptance (you have to force yourself to be okay; you don't have the luxury of not being well).

I wanted to scream when I hung up, and as soon as hubby walked in the door I dug into him with all of the leftover frustration and hatred I felt inside of me. After I'd calmed down (and we'd had a few good fights), I told him about the phone call and he cooed and held me and said, "oh honey, that's awful ... why didn't you tell me about it sooner?"

I am so tired.

I am tired of standing on a rectangle balanced on a triangle -- dangling from the strings and the mindfucks of the people that my husband works with. I'm tired of them treating us as if we are the ingrates who take everything and leave them nothing. I'm fucking sick and tired of the martyrdom complex -- their choice to not take paychecks used as emotional blackmail and artillery against what we may want, or think.

I'm tired of fighting for my right to exist as a human being in my head. I'm tired of explaining myself to alters who don't understand anything going on, but who feel they have the right to judge me in spite of their lack of knowledge. I'm tired of being without Spug, but I also know that I can never go back, and I'm tired of that, too.

I sat in the bathtub last night for a very long time, until the bubbles had all popped and the water had gotten cold. I sat with the curtain drawn, bent over, my hair undone and trickling in the water, and I cried.

I cried and I cried and I cried.

It felt so good.

I swirled my hair around and thought of my drowning imagery; I thought of the way it would feel to be swallowed up by the darkness. I thought of suicide. I thought of divorce. I thought of the "luxury" of insanity.

When it was over, I wrapped myself in a big white fluffy towel, french-braided my hair, checked my email, and was reminded again that who I am is not entirely defined by any of my roles.