Me: "People are trying to put me in charge of you again. 'Keep him out of trouble.' I don't know who looks at me and thinks THAT'S my job."
Him : "Sadly, you are beautiful, and therefore judged competent."
Me: "Excuse me???"
Me: "I don't think I like you any more. "
Him: *laughs hysterically *
Him: "You're amazing."
Me: "Really? How?"
Him: "You aren't strangling me in my sleep."
Me: "How would you know? You aren't asleep yet."
First of all, I am diabetic. This is a chronic illness and is considered a disability. It interferes in my life in significant ways, though I am not sufficiently impaired to get any kind of assistance (story of my damn life). I also have some cognitive issues which are leftovers from that time I almost died when my son was born. They include memory weirdness and aphasia. The combination of these two things somehow also interferes with my ability to actually speak, and sometimes brings back my tendency to stutter that I was given speech therapy for in fourth grade.
It brings up a lot of old emotional stuff for me because I was sick a lot as a child (chronic allergies and upper respiratory tract infections, kidney infection at four, scarlet fever at seven, salmonella) plus I got kicked in the face by a horse when I was eight. Basically, I am hard to kill, because a number of diseases and accidents have tried. I have lifelong immune system weirdness and seem to keep developing more numerous and annoying allergies as I get older. Eventually I will have to live in a bubble and subsist off only lettuce and resentment.
Also, admitting weakness brings out the vicious side in some people. Most especially people who think of themselves as full of peace and love, but not only them. There is no trouble or pain I have ever described that someone hasn't found a way to hold over my head later. "Stop whining about your mother being dead" is the all-time champion asshole thing ever said to me by someone I had considered a friend, but its epic nastiness is only as exemplar of a genre, not because of its uniqueness. On the less obvious end, "helping" gives someone a measure of control over you and your life which you may have to fight to regain. Almost inevitably will. Even from people who are otherwise reasonable and kind. Talking about the craziness of my childhood and other life experiences seems to make people certain I must be mentally ill, because obviously, even though I've been to therapists twice in my life who basically said I had mild depression and anxiety in response to circumstances at the time but otherwise had nothing fundamentally wrong with me. Here's some visualization exercises, come see me until your insurance runs out. But the stigma of mental illness is mighty, even among people who should definitely know better. There is no easier way to delegitimize someone...character assassination, ableism, and misogyny, all wrapped up together in a shit burrito. This, incidentally, is in no way unique to me whatsoever, and is a significant reason why people don't talk about their troubles even though it would probably help them to do so. Some days, humanity, you just suck.
The down side of not talking, of course, is that when you drop the ball and you don't explain because you don't want to be considered a whiner or an excuse-maker, people think you're just doing it because you're a jerk. Sometimes I am a jerk. I don't want to be, but it's occasionally the least shitty option among the choices available to me. I would honestly rather people thought I was a jerk than feel sorry for me. Pity is next door to meanness.
So. My Honey Love was talking to me about the fact that he had a zit on his ear and wanted to pierce his ear so he could get the pus out.
I'm all, "That is an extraordinarily bad idea. Nothing is worse than an infected ear piercing."
"Because don't. My point is, ear pus is not sexy. Neither are your bowels. YOU NEED TO BE SEXY FOR ME. I will share my feminist analysis with you. The reason women are supposed to act like delicate ethereal beings who have no actual bodily functions but men are under no such restraints is that men's desire is considered important and women's is not."
"Let me put this a different way. Do you ever want to have sex with me again? Do you want to retain your breast-fondling privileges?"
"DO YOU WANT TO HEAR ABOUT MY BOOGERS???"
*heavy sigh* "Go ahead."
"NO. NO NO NO NO NO."
This conversation was frequently interrupted by us laughing so hard we couldn't talk.
Had a long weird dream. In one part I was watching a movie about black women in the Civil Rights movement. Then there were octopi, starfish, and octopi mermaids out in the lobby, one of whom turned into a black woman who was super excited about the fact that all of the movies showing in the theater were similarly oriented towards her interests. I was talking about how the movie showed different aspects of how things went than the usual focus on heroic figures, more about organization and the support network. And quoted something I heard in real life, "If the little old church ladies stop doing things, we're in trouble." She kept using words I didn't know but could infer from context.
Then I was someone else, a young woman a road trip with two men, one young, one middle-aged and cranky, in a 1960s Lincoln convertible which got trashed in the process. We turned it in at a car dealership and were given an orange Beetle which the young man wasn't very good at driving as we set out across the desert.
We wound up at the Taj Mahal only not really, and played chess. I didn't much want to play chess but it was a thing people did so I agreed. I played in my usual Klingon aggressive style because, I said, the Moghuls were warriors. Then I was alone and the place wasn't really India, people were wearing sarongs and yelling at me in a language I didn't understand but I somehow knew they were disapproving of my shorts. I wasn't angry or embarrassed, I just thought, "come on, don't they know I haven't had time to change?"
And then I woke up.