"No you can't contain all of that rain"

 A harder day than expected, I cried in the shower at the gym again, feeling old and fat and stuck in a perpetually failing body.  I did, however, have a weird but interesting conversation with a woman I'd seen there multiple times. We usually choose lockers int he same basic area of the lockerroom, and she has also had a mastectomy, and we give each other sideways glances, so I finally said something to the effect of "I think I'm supposed to give you the secret mastectomy facial expression" and she said "Yeah, same".  

Went to Delight's, picked her and Starchild up, brought them both to Delight's work for baby showing-off.  One building I got to go into and hover awkwardly in the background, the other I got to sit in the lobby and feel strange and exposed and teary.  I told Delight to take as long as she needed, I had a book, it probably would have been okay if the book had been a different book.  (I'm on my third attempt to read Things No One Will Tell Fat Girls, which has made me cry the first two times.  The first time I didn't get past the inscription "For all the fat girls who have no idea they're absolutely perfect".  This time, though, I'm not sure if it gets the credit for the tears, or my exceptionally poor timing cancels out the tears or something.).  I teared up a little in the car on the way home, missing working the littlest bit. Maybe it's something about being seen, or feeling like the only things that I do that are seen aren't really, that the only people who see me nanny are Starchild's parents, and they're better at being Starchild's people than I am, the rest is all housework, cooking and cleaning and even when the boys notice, I feel like I shouldn't need it, it somehow doesn't count, something, something weird and gendered and more about how I fail than how I succeed.

Had a strange conversation with Abundance when he got home, made him feel attacked, made him tell me it wasn't his job to fix his cofounder. Maybe another way I'm bad at poly, because he's not actually my metamour, but he also kind of is. It's hard to be supportive and skeptical, it's hard to want to feel like the connection he and Grizzly Adams have is clear and honest and not be able to micromanage it.  Letting go.  Maybe 2017 is about letting go of things. 

I almost got Emily Dickinson tattooed underneath my collar bone in my early twenties, I don't remember if I wanted "as freezing persons recollect the snow" or "and then the letting go".  I'm pretty sure I've always told things slantwise, but this is closer to times when I wrote on my body with self-wielded razor blades than with tattoo ink applied by professionals, so I probably was more to the point then. It's for the best I didn't, some messages need to be outgrown, but I still come back around to it sometimes.  

This entry has no point, no way to close. I'm going to brush my teeth and go to bed and hope to wake tomorrow in better, more holiday-like spirits.