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I am married. My life is super. Dog, spouse, opportunities. Future seeming promising.

Also, I am very busy and very overwhelmed and very much struggling to feel like I am capable and worthy.
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Alex's ma (future in-law wut?) is coming Wednesday.

Nana is not speaking to me.

I have flashy spots in my vision.

I have so much to do.

Wedding! Writing vows! Writing intro!

Grading papers! Student conferences! Classes! Homework!
 Coverletter! Funding! FAFSA? In State Residency?

I will not accomplish it all.

I will get high often.
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Alison motherfucking man-eating, gender-sexuality-fluxuating, rage against the machine dont-try-to -tie-me-down Berreman is going to become Alison Lee Johnson.

It's much more simple.
and also much more complicated.

I am changing my name for two primary reasons.
1. Because changing my name is symbolic of turning a new leaf. While of course I am still the same person, I am also not at all, and that is partially because of, and partially an enabling element of, loving Alex.
2. Because it's a symbolic statement that we are family. That we're a unit. A team. That I am fucking committed and I want the world to see it.

Basically, I think that names are super important. And I get the whole feminist thing, obviously. And I get the whole desire to symbolically state that "I am still an individual," but I don't feel like I need to say those things. Those things have always been true and will always be true. This though, this is a shift. And the shift merits representation.
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Last weekend we got in a blow out fight worse than any other, worse than any fight I've ever been in. It was terrifying. I was full of rage and hurt. A peice of me broke, I think.

But now we're okay. We're as good as ever. I know we can go through things like that and make it out okay.

It was grief and shame and indignance and beer. A nasty combination. Makes for excedingly poor communication.

This week I am very busy. Too busy to feel much, except for stress, which even that is at a minimum, caught up in haste.

I'm doing better as a teacher, but still not enough. I'm behind on grading. I'll catch up eventually. Not too worried about it. I've read so much, thought so much, talked not as much. I need to learn to shut the fuck up sometimes.

Tomorrow I'm gonna try to box with Kat and Maggie and August. I don't know whether or not I truly have it in me, but I think I will like the pain. Physical pain as catharsis for mental. Like how soreness after fucking myself up on the climbing wall makes me feel good.
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Still I am crying almost every day, but not every day, and now I can usually choke it back and shove it down and wipe away the tears before they overcome my face.

I remember DBC and for how a short period I felt like I belonged, even if I don't remember anymore what it stood for. I remember feeling like my skeletons were allowed out of the closet and that they were understood. I guess all of those skeletons are still real, but they're covered up with six years of crafting my life how I want it so that they hardly seem relevent anymore and no one around me really has any idea who I used to be or the things I experienced or did, and it doesn't really seem to matter anymore who that person was (that person who is still inside of me).

I remember Rainshadow and feeling like I was alone in a close knit community. I remember feeling invisible and small, even though even the biggest burnouts and losers were accepted and loved. I remember being so excited that my best friend was coming to Rainshadow and then half the time skipping classes to get high and having panic attacks in the middle of class and leaving, and hardly spending time with her at all. I remember how she used to hate weed and I remember feeling so guilty when I looked at her and I was stoned. I remember smoking weed with her mom and how she scolded me for not ghosting the hit - it was a waste of weed. I remember the first time I got high, which was the first time she got high. I remember hiding in the back seat of my Golf together under a blanket for a half an hour certain that the cops were going to come after us after I was so obviously high at the gas station.

I think it's funny that two of the few pictures we have are taken in North Valleys fast food restaurants, even though I'm pretty sure we were both vegan at the time. I have no idea why I was dressed like an old man, or her like an old woman, but I love this because I do remember feeling like the fact that we had corresponding outfits meant that I was somehow more connected to her than I normally would allow myself to be, and how I felt less like I was on the outside. I now think this is embarrassing and ridiculous, but sometimes feel similarly when people tell me I look like Hannah, especially because Hannah reminds me of her (not only because Hannah is bald).

By my eighteenth birthday I had two friends. Her and Roger. Sometimes I counted more perifrial people as friends to make myself feel better, but from a more objective standpoint, the truth is that by that time I had completely removed myself from the social world because of my anxiety. Even her. By this point our hangouts were irregular and most of the time I was probably just getting high with Roger, even though I didnt like him near as much as I ever did her (which is fucked, because he was a great human being that I seriously mistreated).

I remember being a terrible person to so many people because I was so weak in myself. I remember the last times I saw her and being so distant and weird and feeling so uncool and so alienated and like I didn't belong. I was so ashamed of treating her badly and of being so boring and so - lacking - that I gave up to avoid the issue.

I am just so heartachey for a friendship with a person who I was close to for only a couple years and then abandon. I can't really justify it. But in my world, in my life where I feel so separate and apart and disconnected and disassociated, that friendship meant more to me than maybe it seems like it should have and I go round and round the thoughts and feelings every day at the slightest provocation.  
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