It's an old tattoo. Wake up at 2:42, mind racing, with an insistent body ache. Shift, adjust, crack as necessary, try for 20 minutes, fail for 20 minutes, take pain medication, and vaguely hope. Inevitably, it's then an unsatisfying session of masturbation to get the kinks out. That helps slightly. We rarely have sex anymore. Not for lack of love, just ceaseless parenting, breastfeeding, and wanting to squirrel away personal time as much as possible.

If I'm lucky, I'm up for an hour, then back to sleep until the cat scratching at the door wakes me up at 6:30 or the boy does.

My head is a goddamned mess recently. I love my new position. I love being able to pursue whatever fanciful scientific nonsense that catches my attention. But it really is just you out on an island, floating in an ocean of potential failures, trying to slowly terraform and make your own nation-state. It's overwhelming at times. There's being responsible for the future careers of students. There's realizing that there aren't enough hours in the day, and you want to do the minimum necessary to not be a terrible parent or a shitty spouse.

There are doubts everywhere. I know my wife loves me, but it's significantly different from what we had before. There's a degree of contempt more often than not. I'm prone to being forgetful, or inward focused, and she sometimes wants me to be more hands-on. Our son overwhelming prefers her in obvious and subtle ways. That itself I do not mind. After a long day, sure, I enjoy playing with him, but having that or reading or watching a movie be the sole content of my free time is unbearable. He was still not tired tonight, and putting together puzzles, while Julia gave him encouragement as Thomas the Tank Engine, and the only thing I could think about was the stipulations I needed to answer for the IRB. I was seething. I wasn't even sure why.

Anger and regret are handmaids of the corner rooms. I read about others nurturing secrets. And I am wondering if this is all there is, if it's supposed to be, and if I am a terrible person for wanting other things. For wanting a daughter, even though I am sick of being a parent and want my current child to be much more independent. For wanting quiet times where no one speaks to me, I hear nothing, and I can focus on a story, a thought process, or the simple act of being alone. For wanting a type of interaction that my wife clearly would not favor. To take control, with consent. To play out harmless kinks. PVC, nipple piercings, D/s with little to none of the SM part. For wanting to feel like I'm not just completely alone and living some life half-heartedly, and wondering when I get to do the stuff I enjoyed again.

I am not a good person.

I haven't been a good person for years. I have lied to myself so often that it's difficult to gauge what is reality and fabrication. And it will just continue, because I have responsibilities, obligations, and sense enough to not fuck up my own life that I carefully constructed. I keep telling myself it will get better. And it will. And it won't. And I need to be okay with that. And I need to keep repeating it over, and over, and over.

Time to try bed again.

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