Stonewalling and Collars

I have the bad habit of stonewalling. It’s not like I sit there thinking, “I’m going to sabotage my husband by clamming up and refusing to interact with him” — I really don’t intend to misbehave. Whenever I get emotional, my throat constricts and hurts, I can’t seem to think of what to say, and I can’t push the words out anyway. I have a major problem with my throat chakra.

I’ve been working on it for years. I have made progress, but not enough yet to stop myself from stonewalling.

One of the things that I liked about wearing a collar was that it felt like a shield around my throat. It was a symbol of Him, protecting the most sensitive and delicate part of me: my voice. For obvious reasons, I no longer wear my old collar from our BDSM days, and while we’ve talked about getting a new one, we just haven’t prioritized it high enough to get it done in between everything else that we’ve been up to.

I’ve loved the idea of collars since I was very young, and since BDSM does not control the market on ownership and possession (despite what some might think), there’s absolutely nothing to stop me from getting one for TiH. Especially with how freaking hot I look while wearing a collar. We just need to get around to it.

And maybe, with that protective shield around my throat again, I’ll stop feeling pain when I need to speak, and I’ll stop stonewalling.


I woke up and realized that the children’s costume party is on Saturday, and that I haven’t done anything to prepare for Halloween. I said to my husband, “This is probably silly and feminine of me, but I want to prioritize costumes above working on the house.” He gave me his blessing, and after some quick browsing on the internet, I packed up the babies and went to the craft store.

I’ve decided to crochet a costume, since my sewing machine is somewhere in the garage, and I can’t stomach buying one. It’s the snobby dressmaker in me, but most commercial costumes are way overpriced for crappy fabric that was crappily sewn together and look absolutely crappy. Hopefully I’ll be able to finish this project before Saturday.

The poor baby is going to have to make do with a hand-me-down, provided that I can find the toddler’s old costumes.

It feels like the days are flying by at lightning speed.


I’ve decided to call her Sage on this blog. My reasons are probably silly and difficult to explain, but when I saw the sage plant growing in our backyard, I knew that’s what I wanted to call her here.

Sage lives on our street, and has a son who’s age is halfway between my two daughters. I think that the most exciting thing about her is that she’s so excited about us. It’s easy to believe that she had been wishing for a friend, and when she saw me with my babies, she realized that I was an answered prayer. At least, it’s fun to think that.

She told us that she wants to be a doula, and I almost commented that she could help me when I have more babies, then second-guessed myself and became too shy to say it. I’m sure it will come up again in the future though.

The toddler loves Sage, and chattered away when we had dinner at her house — I’ve never seen the toddler take to a new person like that.

We’re going to a movie with Sage and her husband tonight. We’re totally BFFs, lol.


Early yesterday morning, my husband said that my whole approach to moving was “narrow and wrong,” and took over the project. Later he explained that he had meant to say “feminine,” but that happened after a great deal of yelling and crying. Then he oversaw moving, I put together a snack table that no one touched, and that was the end of that. We haven’t had any proper conversations since.

I imagined that buying a house would be exciting and romantic, but instead it’s brought out some thoroughly unpleasant parts of my husband, and in response I’ve been avoidant and evasive. I worry that this will continue for as long as we’re working on our renovations.

I worry that I’m the one who’s orchestrating all of the stress and tension. At some point, I came to believe that if I could take all the blame for everything, then I would be the one with all the power to fix it — I wouldn’t be helpless at the whims of others. The idea has stuck hard, and metastasized to the notion that I’m unconsciously doing things that I’m not aware of, and that’s why my efforts to improve situations often fail.

It’s fully possible that he’s not handling the stress well and being unreasonably grouchy towards me, but that places the blame outside of my hands. I need that blame — it’s the most control I have over my life.

Work, work, work!

My husband told me that his work was throwing a donut party, but as it turns out, it was a full-blown Fall festival complete with a corn maze. We showed up woefully underprepared. In all the chaos that fills our lives at the moment, I forgot to grab coats for the children, and it was pretty chilly. We ended up safety-pinning a blanket around the toddler’s shoulders like a cape, then set her loose in the corn pit — she loved it.

We had almost skipped out on going, and I’m very glad that we didn’t. It was nice to be around so many people and activities.

I need to get the rental packed up as much as possible today, for when we have our big official move tomorrow. I convinced my husband to let me be in charge of it, after I pointed out that he was juggling renovations and big projects at work, both of which are keeping him up late and waking him up early. He made arrangements with our friends to do the heavy lifting, but other than that it’s all up to me. I plan on indulging in a nice cup (or two) of tea, then working my butt off to get this done.

I wasn’t taking my supplements while we were on vacation, and we think that’s why I was hit with fatigue. I’m back on them, and already feeling much better. The lesson learned: When I feel like I don’t have the time to bother with them, is when I need my vitamins and tryptophan the most.



Fatigue has hit me today. I want to cry, because I’m too young to feel this way, because I have so much to get done before Saturday. I wish that I could work hard all day, every day, and not feel any effects, but my body just wasn’t designed for that sort of thing. I wish that I could blame it on being homeless, but I know all too well that I had started my deterioration before that, when I had severely overworked myself at my retail job. If only I could push myself that hard again.

Time is ticking away.

And how did I end up with so many social events to attend when I’m supposed to be an introvert?

Part of me keeps thinking that if I pray REALLY HARD, I’ll get a magical burst of energy that will speed me through these next few days — God, better than espresso. There’s nothing wrong with praying for strength, but I don’t think that religion is supposed to work as a caffeine substitute.

I think that all I can do is my best, then hope that the Universe will help make up for everything else.

Layers and Layers

We’ve started tearing the new house apart, and we’ve discovered that the walls are coated with layers and layers of wallpaper, each one more tacky than the last — I’m pretty certain the previous owners never once removed anything, and just simply covered it up with a new layer.

My husband has already ripped out a lot of carpet, and while we were removing sharp pokeys, he commented that whoever had installed it had used unreasonably thick nails that were difficult to pull out. I couldn’t help myself, and replied that maybe they had expected us to simply put more carpet over it, instead of removing it.

One of the outlets exploded, so my husband is redoing the wiring for the house. He’s annoyed at the inspector for not catching it a few weeks ago.

The neighborhood is definitely full of cats.

There’s another young couple living on the street, and the wife has already invited us over for dinner. I haven’t been this excited about meeting someone new since Natalia (my husband excepted, but ‘love at first sight’ is a different category). Maybe it’s premature to start daydreaming about becoming BFFs, but my first impressions are usually right.

My hands are very sore from pulling staples out of the floor. I really wasn’t built for manual labor.