It’s Purple Sequin Beret Time!!!!

Okay.  I know I’m OB- Over blogging, but I just got to this shit out of me.  I tell…I was supposed to go to IN this weekend,  For a MASSIVE Tri-State Antique show with my mom.  But since the wheels are falling off the bus, quite rapidly, I might add, it’s time to get a bed reservation.  Which I have already done.  I see safe today at 3.  We may not war after all.  IDK.  You know you have found a good mental health team when they all have the same hospital privileges, are all asking you rhetorical questions to bring out the answer in you so you speak your own truth, and they DON’T TELL YOU WHAT TO DO!!!!!!  OI!  That is so important!  They bring it out of you, not from you.  Crazy talk.  Crazy people.  IDK.

IDK why I’m OB. I’m just kinda proud of myself for not letting my self slide deeper into a hole, for recognizing I needed help, and, most importantly, seeking the help, asking for the help and following through on the help.

I feel really bad for my mom though.  She’s really sad.  I know why.  I told her though, it’s gonna be at least five more years before I don’t Have Spa Relapses.  I can only do so much. Dr. Ross said a year and a half and I’d be okay.  Well, it’s been a year and a half, and I’m down to Sheila and her system of seven, Vicky and her part, Veronica, Phylis- the executive, Matthew- massive, major league protector, Sylvia, whom I don’t know that much about,  and two, that are twins- fraternal, that won’t tell me their names and I didn’t know existed.  I have to do a new map.  The one I put up here, was just of Sheila’s subsystem.  Not my entire system.  So, I have to redo a couple of maps.  But, such is the way with DID.  You know with DID recovery work, it is just that, recovery.

You recover the parts of yourself that have split off to protect and help you manage your life.  Which is why it’s not so great to have Sheila and Veronica up front, because they’re teenagers.  They can’t even begin to fathom what it’s like to be a 41 year old woman, living alone, with HIV, chronic pain and mental Illness in a community that does nothing to foster diversity, but does a lot, albeit covertly to maintain homogenous circumstances.  So, it’s difficult.  Really.  Idk.  So, I’m giving myself five years to recover.  Five year plan, five year business plan, blah x 3.  To integrate, because that is my goal.  To integrate.  To become a cohesive, fully formed, grown ass woman.  I wasn’t born with DID, I acquired it due to adaption to shitty situations. What else was I supposed to do?  Roll over and let them win?  “These are not my bad acts.  These are not my bad deeds”.

I just feel so bad for my mom.  And my dad.  Even in his little turtle-lipped way, I know he’s upset and loves me more than his dog, well, that’s probably going too far. LOL!!!  But, the best thing I can do, is go and get my poop in a group today, get the house ready, send all things I have done, out, cancel appointments- oh yeah.  When you have DID, it’s like doing a hard drug- LSD, Shrooms, something, any drug- Soma- that requires you clear your schedule.

So, until next time (Beatrix) Kiddos,

zu

Acceptance is the first step…

I have a very good friend, he has begun a new journey of recovery from a different beast.  I will have seven years of sobriety in August.  Acceptance.  For me, acceptance is a process.

When I was dx in 1989 with BiPolar type I disorder, Posttraumatic Stress Dx, and addiction, I had no idea, not a frickin nanaoclue of the ride I was in for.  I was just told, “When you get on the right meds, find the right psychiatrist and get a good therapist, everything will fall into place.”  LIES.  VICIOUS, ANNOTATED LIES!!!!!!!!

There is no magic pill or bullet, you change shrinks and you hire and fire your mental health professionals a hundred times over, until you find the ones that you want on your team, playing with your toys, in your own sandbox.  I have been blessed with some amazing and also, some downright shady, criminal mugs that I have worked with, all leading me to being flooded with a flashback all.  week.  long.

Yessir, it started Monday Morning at 2 am, and it has not left me since.  In the 7 years of having DID, I called my therapist at two in the morning.  She called me back at 6:52 am.  I’d and still am, have been up since 1:30 this morning.  So, whatever this last flashback of Veronica’s and Sheila’s is- A. It ain’t finished, and B.  It crescendo-ed at one in the morning.  That is when I have been waking up and staying up.  This one am bullshit.  They were all so loud this morning!  All having their say and talking over one another, I had to literally yell-in my head- SHUT UP!!!  SHUT UP!  SHUT UP!!  Go in your rooms and leave me be!   They all went in their rooms.  Sheila forgot Marshall (?).  he’s four years old and cries ALLLL the time, poor lil guy.  So, I scooped him up- in my head- handed him to sheila and said, “Don’t forget Marshall.  Especially Marshall!”  Poor lil guy.  He’s a part of me, that just cries and cries.  Which is all I’ve done for the past four years practically every night.  Because if I ain’t doing grief work, I’m going thru something, and if I’m not grieving, going through something, it’s a flashback.  Which is why I’m terrified my shrink is going to throw me in the spa.  My therapist asked, “Do you think you need to go somewhere?”  I’m not homicidal and I’m not suicidal, I’m just going through a really rough time right now, internally.  So, I see my Doc at three today. You damn sho nuff know those two be talking to each other.  What did you do?  What are you gonna do?  Did you know this?  No, she did what?  OMG.  They’re like little mental health teenage girls talking about a boy.  Je- SAS!

So, I emailed the flash back to my therapist.  I do not get into details, especially since it is Satanic Ritual Abuse (SRA), and as a courtesy to human kind we don’t get into details.  But let’s just say, sex, sacrifice, and satan were involved, I was 5- an “Official”, Bride of Satan.  And then, the mother rescued me, the daughter/lure/childhood friend stroked my arm through the wool blanket and I remember thinking to myself, at age 5!!!!:  I never want to be touched again ever in my life.

Which has led me to this new revelation- yes, I am slow.  My first love, first everything was just that…a thing.  I was a thing to him.  I was an experiment in love, sex, and relationships.  Once I kissed another boy, he turned into automatic douche king pin, de-flowerer of women and girls, and all around play douche.  And why the hell is I like em all- my men- I am so attracted to their anal structure and smarts and I LISTEN! to how good THEY are, while They NEVER ask how I am.  Pft.  I spit on your family tree.  May it forever be barren and dead.  Yes.  I just gypsy cursed people in cyber space and fuck ya if ya got a problem with it- that is why Google is your friend.  Beyotch.

It’s 9:40 am, EST.  I have a DBT therapy appointment at 11.  Safe- my shrink- is at 3.  He used to be an internal med doc at Henry Ford in Detroit.  Fuckin badass.  And he spoke Pharsi to me.   Damn right, I’m special.  He native tongued me!!   Oh!  That would be a great pick up line for the bar!  You are welcome!!

So, it only took me 7 years of being diagnosed (dx) with DID to accept what my life is:  a long line of singledom, med changes, doc appointments, therapy appointments, heavy emotional lifting, spa visits, relationships that are constantly in flux, and changing relationships all the time.  I’m okay with it now, today, but we’ll see.  It morphs- acceptance=process. But once the switch gets flipped, it never gets flipped off.  There’s a couple of people I’d like to flip off, since we’re on the subject.

But I have to go.  I actually am ready to get in the shower.  I’m ready to look and feel like a woman.  I’m tired.  I think the worst of this flashback is over.  But it never touched on the sexual assault, I just know I was attacked by a bunch of doped up, frenzied Satanists. Fucking Awesome.  And I was 5 fucking years old.  Suck it.

Piercing the Veil

So, I knew it was coming, right?  Something’s going to break loose, right?  I knew it, and this morning about 2 am ish, the memory/flashback occurred.

I was basically abused by a neighborhood family, who masqueraded as good southern Methodist folk.  The people who actually abused me were many.  However, the main culprits were a mother, a father, and their son.  The father being the biggest, baddest, sickest Sadist I have ever come across.  The mother, who, well, both the mother and father practiced the ideology of incest with their biological children, and then anybody else they could get their greasy paws on.  The mother had a system, like me, or else she was really Borderline and in a horrifically abusive marriage, but she was a perp too.  Just as guilty as the father and their son.

The Satanic Ritual Abuse (SRA) occurred at a funeral home in the town I grew up.  Heading north out of town, it was on the West side of the road.  All ritual activity happened in the basement.  The memory was seeing a blonde girl, about 17, with flowers in her hair-no shit-a white dress and her being lifted up by the cloaked cult members.  Next memory/flashback, I was sitting in the back of the “Hush Money” 78 Ford Silver Grenada with the mother wrapping me up in a wool blanket, and throwing me in the back seat.  The daughter, who was the lure, was sitting in the passenger back seat, and she was stroking my arm as I sat there dumbfounded, but distinctly remembering not wanting to ever be touched again.  And that’s all I got for now.

It’s quiet on the inside.  I cancelled home health care- they haven’t been here since March and they want to trapse back in here, like nothing ever happened.  I’m sorry.  But this is my abode.  I dwell here.  I say who comes and who cannot and who has to go.  Tough titty, kitty.  “I’m sorry you feel that way”.  Sister, you don’t know the half of it.  I rescheduled my shrink appointment.  It’s taking everything I have to lay here and not let my 80’s popcorn ceiling be too loud for me.  Killin me.  Just killin me.

It’s not over, that was just like, a peek.  Hence, piercing the veil.  I’ve been rapidly unwinding for about two weeks with the mapping and integrating going on and new parts.  And being a grown up on top of that.  And no smoking or drinking, but boy!  Have we been shopping.  All that goes back as well.  I have to eliminate debt.  Unsecured debt.  Not good.

So, I feel like shit  I’m going to take a nerve pill, YES I DO PHARMACEUTICAL DRUGS!!!!!  CUZ I NEED TO!!!!!  or else Ida been dead by now.  And finally begin to read a great book:  “A Path With Heart”, by Jack Kornfield.

So, nah.

Sunday Funday!!!!

So, as my therapist says, “You’re overdue for fun.”  And I’ve been denying myself love and creativity.  Which, in theory, could be the same thing.  So, I turn on a playlist to create by and it’s my celebrity boyfriend, Pitbull, with, Time of our Lives.  Yup, you are so right Pitbull.  I need to go to the Allegan Antique Fair Opening Day, Ballin’.  Hee hee.  That is so ridiculous sounding.  But, it’s true!

I’ve been all work and no play.  I was supposed to go Friday to see a band and their last show in Lansing, Friday.  Potential problems:  From the nineties- i drank that whole decade away, one of my ex-boyfriends used to drum for them, so he would’ve prolly been there, did I mention it would be in a bar?  And yeah, I had been crying all day Friday.  It was a recipe for disaster.  My friend will not speak to me after I told her the deal:  I haven’t slept in three days- I forgot to tell her about my anaphyalactic* reaction to Bactrim- and I had been crying for days and crying that whole day and I had no business being in a bar.  I tried to let her down easy and set boundaries with her:  We’ll listen to the first set, then leave, right?  It was also an hour away.  I’m done.  So, now, she won’t speak to me.  Rightfully so, I did cancel on her, but I gave her plenty of time to find somebody else. She’s not the type to go out on her own, I was kinda hoping she’d do that.  But, I can’t control shit. I just tried to do the right thing, and take care of myself.  That, right there, being the biggest thing:  Taking care of myself.

So, usually my mom and I go to opening of Allegan, but she volunteered for the church garage sale, so I think I’m going to go regardless.  I’ve got some cash, a check book, and a charge if I see anything my little greasy heart cannot live without, I’ve also got an iPod to listen to because I really don’t want to be bothered, it’s colder than a well digger’s you know wut, and it’s great exercise, so I’m up early, and some fresh air leads to fresh perspectives…

Plus, I have been working really hard on my system and this week ain’t going to be fun.  With new maps being drawn up etc.  More dialoging, more uniting, more integration.   I just want to get to the point where I’m at least cohesive enough to work part to full time.  And I’m grieving a lot of relationships.

Like, my first love, after some hinckey shenanigans, he clearly hasn’t changed, so any romantic notions colored by rose tinted glasses were abruptly smashed this week.  Worked through the Greece guy, which was hard.  We actually reunited twenty years later.  About three years ago or so.  He has MS and is a RAGING alcoholic and has PTSD up the yin yang and is one sick puppy, and then, there’s my Issues of Vogue.  Ms. Train wreck waiting in the wings…  So, all in all, I think after this past week’s shit storm, I deserve to go walk the fields of dead people’s stuff (Yes.  There is actually an antique store called, “Dead People’s Stuff”).  So, I have to leave by seven.  It is 6:13 EST here, and I need to shower and prep.  But, my brain droppings are not done, I’m sure.

I spent yesterday with a friend eating Thai food.  Thai iced Tea is the best.  I don’t care who you think you are, that stuff is the bomb.  I’m a lil worried about her with this guy she is dating.  I did voice my concerns.  She has the same ones, but I told her: three months and the warts come out.  Meaning:  The ugly patterns, insecurities, etc come out.  They raise their ugly heads.  Both people think their comfortable, so they let the facade slip.  And if you’re not careful, vigilant and mindful, all those red flags that were and have been unfurling can wrap around you tight, and next thing you know, you’re trapped.  Trust me.  Ms. Queen of unhealthy relationships over here knows what not to do.  I have no idea what to do, but I definitely know what not to do.

Sometimes, I like to think that when I integrate and learn to love myself fully, learn to be my own hero, I’ll have a healthy relationship.  Like, I’ll get a happy ending, you know?  But I know life doesn’t work like that.  I can’t wait for anything or anyone.  They aren’t waiting for me, so wtf?  I have HIV.  I have an ex who qualifies as a serial killer/infector.   He’s notorious.  I’ll always have a part of him in my body.  You know, like a constant reminder of him.  The five Stairsteps.  God, I hope so.  Cuz this shit is getting old.  I had to detox myself from men and especially unhealthy people/men.  I’m still detoxing.  I need to purge my system.  My other friend is going through the same thing.  It’s hard to admit you’re codependent.  Or, as I like to call it, CO- D- P!  and make the hand/gang symbols of the letters.  I’m silly.  But it’s hard when your whole life you have been programmed to save people, diffuse volatile situations, soothe ruffled feathers all so you don’t have to look at your own shit.  Then I just feel depleted and resentful.  But it sure can be easier than looking at your own shit.  Nice diversionary tactic.  Doesn’t work very well, for very long.  Because I grew up in chaotic environments on all fronts, this detoxing is scary as hell, as well as doing parts work.  My friend found some CODA meetings.  I think that would be a good place for me to start. Mmmm, “Secrets” by Mary Lambert.  Good stuff.  I looooove this song.  So over it.  I don’t care if the world knows what my secrets are- sing it girl!  Preach and Testify!!!!!  Yup.  Lay it all out there.  Our secrets keep us sick.  I’m tired of being sick.

The ENT asked me how old I was when my nose was broken: 6 years old.  What happened?  They busted it with a 2 x 4.  They both cringe,  Sorry!  My truth is fucked up.  But it’s got to come out.  People may not believe in DID or want to accept the concept because they cannot and WILL NOT accept the etiology of DID.  Yes, I was four years old watching people and children and babies be sacrificed.  I went to the police with the one sacrifice I remember- have I heard from the cop?  Nope.  Okay.  I’ll go to the county tomorrow.  Because that family needs relief and answers.  My Shrink asked me what we did with the bodies- cannibalism?!  Destroy the evidence.  We held the rituals in the basement of a funeral home in the town I grew up in, and all the big wigs of the town were Satanists in the cult.  I was supposed to kill myself when I reached 40.  I was a potential, “Bride of Satan”.  Do you seriously think anyone wants to really: A.  Believe Satanism exists in this day and age?  B.  That barbarism like that can exist in the 20th and 21st century?  C.  That children are utilized in the rituals and the adults in charge of these children let it happen?!  It’s jaw-dropping, stomach turning, revolting!!! NO!  NO ONE wants to accept how people like me- Survivors of SRA- can walk around and walk and talk AND Chew gum.  No One wants to admit that this kind of disgusting and vile shit exists.  Well, yeah, it do.  And I’m living proof it do.

Inhale.  Exhale.  Do a little four square breathing.  it’s 6:45 am.  I need to shower and get my ass to the antique show.  DAMMIT!

Sundays are the worst days for me, especially between 3-6 pm.  That’s when I spent the most time with my abusers after the SRA.  When they took over the Methodist church.  I just wish there was enough bleach for my eyes and brain and there isn’t.  I live with this shit everyday.  People don’t like it, so, naturally, they don’t like me.  It’s my reality.  For now.  In due time, it will change and grow.  But for today, it’s my reality.  So looking at dead people’s stuff doesn’t bother me.  I’ve been around a lot of dead people.  And no, they don’t taste like chicken.

Hug yourself, and keep your loved ones close.  There’s no telling.

Love,

Zu

My Brain is in a Wheelchair.

Yup.  That about sums it up.  If I hear one more person in the mental health field say: “You have a mental Illness”, I will act like the mentally Ill are portrayed on tv.  Which is bad, erroneous, false, not reliable and sooooo not valid.  But, anyways.

So, yeah.  I’m having a, “Mental Health Day”, respite with a full heaping, helping of Acceptance.  Acceptance of what gypsyzu?  For you are so balanced and wise, you may query…

Of my faults.  Of my deficits.  Of where I fall terribly short.  Where others fall terribly short, and then so I don’t feel icky-avoid those feelings at all costs- I make up for it by rescuing, saving and generally people pleasing myself into a deep, depressive hole.  I dreamt of Spetses last night.  That’s Spetses, Greece, folks.  That’s where, at the tender age of 19, I ran past the imaginary line of substance abuse into full-blown alcoholism.  I dreamt of the love of my life.  His betrayal.  The betrayal of his lovers, my “Friends”.  God.  Being naive and hopeful can be such a fucking slut.  I also dreamt my professor died and I beat a Tiger Shark to death.  Yeah.  The night before, discovered I had an allergic reaction to sulfate antibiotics.  Like, throat swelling shut, reaction.  Miracle kiddo here, pulled through another brush with the Dark Lord.  I’m done.  I got no more lives left.  Pray to God I don’t need anymore.  Was supposed to go to a bar tonight for a final show from a band of like, four lives ago.  I have no business going to a bar.  I have no business trying to be all things to most people who truly could give a shit.  Newsflash:  80% shit, and 20% awesome.  Most people today and in this world, do NOT give one flying fuck about you and yours, not because they are cruel Douche Lords, but because they got their own shit. That’s the shitty part of being a grown up.

The good part?  Not today.  I used up all my responses, answers, phone a friends and lifelines by ten a.m.  I’m fucking dun.  I can’t do no more.  I got like, my system bugging me and I’m like, holy shit, they’re taking up all my time, I got no balance.  No good.  So, mental health day.  And acceptance.  Oh yeah, and my fibro is acting up.  Solution, Zu, solution.  Come on, it can’t shit storm any harder, can it?!

And when you say things like that, that question the existence of all things holy and far bigger than you, that yes, indeed.  It can shit storm harder.

So, on that note, my shingle is being removed from beside the building and the next one, well, the next one is on me.  Literally.  I’m learning how to love myself and prove Joseph Campbell right for the umpteenth time, that yes, you too can be the hero of your own story.

Just last night, I told my therapist, I said, “If the blog reaches one person, somebody I don’t know, I’ve accomplished my goal.”  Now, this morning?  Whaddya Know?  Somebody I have no idea, no clue, never seen before in my life, liked my last blog.  Somebody never heard or seen before.  Now, I can die happy and content.  But first, I have to learn to love myself and be my own rescuer.

Wish me luck,

Zu

Guess Who? Whom? Who cares…Here we go again!

Yup.  Sheila integrated 7 of her 16 parts from her own sub system.  Now, I’ve got an old part, Vicky, who has a split off part named Veronica.  Apparently, Veronica likes Van Halen, Live from the Tokyo Dome, black nail polish, girly things and is about 16 years old.  She claims that she is the part my first love wanted me to be.  I explained to her that a whole lotta too bad happened to us and that if my love and I had been meant to be, we would have been already.  Sometimes a, “no”, means an even more amazing “yes” is going to occur.  Try telling that to a teenager.

So, I’m guessing from what I’m learning from Veronica and how my interests are changing, a little more rock music, a whole lotta wardrobe changes, and a cleaner environment.  She’s a little anal.  Well, between you, me and the world wide web.

So, all that sleep I got from Sunday morning to yesterday afternoon is gone.  Yes!  Parts work is exhausting.  Putting Humpty Dumpty back together again takes a lot of work.  And time and effort, and, and and…

Yes, I’m pissed a bit.  I spent my time busting ass with Sheila and only got her halfway through and now another one wants to play.  Dammit.  It’s frustrating, this thing called parts work.  You go three steps forward and two steps back.  Some of it can be fun and rewarding, and other times painful and emotionally excruciating.  I have a feeling between VIcky and her part/leaf, Veronica (she hates that), I’m gonna wind up in the hospital again.  I usually come out during or around my birthday.  So don’t like going to the spa.  I hate it.  If I’m not wearing my sequined purple beret, or as my friend coined it: “My couples and backward skaters only” hat, the hospital workers- who, most of them, 95%+ are a fucking mazing people, ask me:  “What’s wrong?”  Um…I’m in the hospital?  Again?  But they know my purple sequined beret, is one of my coping skills.  That and my red lipstick.  Yeah.  See?  It’s not like The Cuckoo”s Nest.  Some places are, but the spa ain’t.

My doc don’t like me to do the trauma track.  He says I get worse.  Well, yeah.  When I’m going over my past with a fine-toothed comb, so I can pull myself together- literally- I fall apart a little bit.  A part, get it, of me doesn’t die, but integrates.  This Tokyo Dome record is like, I’m not sure, David Lee Roth is not like, singing all the words to the songs and now in, “Dance The Night Away”, he’s calling the band, “Chicken Shits”.  Okay.  Weird.  Or?  It could truly be me.  There is a George Bernard Shaw quote which is amazing.  It’s to the effect, if someone knows your weaknesses, and uses them against you (Gaslights you), that is truly the devil’s work.  I hate it when people have done that to me.  Mostly boyfriends.  They knew how sick I was and totally used it against me to their advantage.  Lovers?  Not so much.  But the relationships?  Awful.

My therapist asked me if I had known I had a system.  Nope.  Not till Dr. Ross diagnosed me in 2008.  I was like the Kay Redfield Jamison of DID.  I researched it, presented on it, studied it, read up on it, but never knew I had a system.  My therapist had this like, “How in the fuck could you not know?” look on her face.  I said, “I was raised in the theatre, I’m eccentric, I drank a lot before I got sober, I have three closed head injuries, I thought I had a poor memory and was just extravagant.  I chalked it up to a lot of variables.

I have to stop.  I’m beginning to paint myself into an ugly corner that I don’t want to be in.  It’s time to get er done as well.  Veronica apparently has an internal clock.

Have a great day…wish me luck and energy?

Zu

I’ll have a Valium Salt-Lick, Puhleeze.

It’s a joke I’ve had for most of my life- when things get overwhelming or very tough- I need a salt-lick of Valium.  Pop our pills out of a Pez Dispenser, whatever.

Today was a big day.  As I write this at 11:45 pm on Sunday eve into Monday morning…I got up early, Like at quarter to four am.  When you are heavy duty into parts work, your sleep schedule is sca-rewed!!!!  But I woke up, tottered around my house, took my meds and fell back asleep.  Woke up at about quarter to eight.  I was feeling pretty good, so I had decided and told people I was going to church that morning.  I never know if I can handle being in church until I get there, so I always drive separately.  I was abused in the church too.  My female babysitter had a female lover who was also deaf and they would force me to watch them get it on in the Janitor’s closet during Sunday School.  Some people were learning about the disciples, i was learning about how, I don’t know.  There’s a joke in there somewhere, I just can’t pull it out right now.  Maybe that was the joke.  *shudder*

Anyways, yesterday morning, meaning Saturday morning, I called a Psychic Line.  Don’t giggle or roll your eyes. I can hear it over here.  Well,  I use a particular psychic service because they guarantee their readings.  Saturday morning’s reading sucked.  NOT because he didn’t tell me what I wanted to hear or some such petty bullshit like that, it was because he was trying to hurry me off the line way before my time was up.  Not cool.

So, this morning I called and made a complaint.  Which is very difficult for me- a trauma survivor- to ask for what I need and or want.  So, they gave me another reading with another psychic. Good.  Went well.  She nailed a lot and helped me to put a lot of things to rest.  So, needless to say, I was feeling very tough this morning.  Despite the cacophony in my head.

Drive out to church.  Walking into church, there is a Hawk, riding the air currents, so close to me, I could of reached out and touched him.  Hawks are the messenger.  They bring you the messenger from the Eagle, who receives the message from The Great Spirit in Native American Medicine.  The Crow then caws the message into “law”.  Anyways, that was all the church I needed.  I knew it.  But I went in anyway.  I sat in my emergency row.  Opened the program, and said, “Nope”.  Got up, and walked out.

The noise in my head was increasingly louder- it was Sheila’s subsystem.  Sheila was nowhere to be found.  But Constantine, a part of Michealangelo, who is a part of Sheila, was there.  I stopped at the deli and Walgreens and went back with a journal and pen and began to do parts work, right there in the church parking lot.

Turns out, Michealangelo’s job is to protect me from the church abuse memories.  Constantines job is to make me look fabulous, even when I don’t feel fabulous.  I call my make-up, “war paint” some days, and my jewelry, “Armor”.  But, anyways, journalled with them, picked up mom and headed back to my place to do some work.

Around the beginning of March, I got out of credit consolidation.  Every part needed a card, dontcha know?  So, Sheila and I took it upon ourself to open a bagillion credit cards- one for almost all her parts.  So, money is tight.  Very tight.  Like I want to go see the Stones at Comerica Park on July 8th in Detroit, but it’s gonna take pulling a rabbit outta my ass.  But, anyways, we’re at my house.

We’re putting away clothes and organizing into drawers (keep), Goodwill and consignment piles.  My head is deafening.  It is so loud.  So, mom goes to work in another room, and I close my eyes and start talking.  Like 7 out of Sheila’s 16 parts, not including Sheila integrated.  Wham!  Boom!  And I’m spent.  Exhausted- mentally, physically, just hit a wall.  Well, so had mom.  So, I drove her home.

I ate my horrible attempt at boiled corned beef, but I had a full belly, fresh rain, clean PJs, and the train whistle.  I slept from 6:30 pm till 11:30 pm.  It is now 12:09 am on Monday morning.  I have to leave at 6:30 to go see my homeopathic doc near the lake shore.  Then, off to consignment and a doc appointment later this evening downtown.

But, I am most grateful that I worked reeally hard with Sheila.  Sheila was not always an easy, go with the flow part.  She used to be quite contrary.  Now, she’s kind of in amazement at our age- she was only 15, hence why we could love our first love and have a wonderful experience- but now she is 41, my age.  Her body is like me, much different than us at 15.  But she understands things now, she didn’t before.  I’m not exactly all sure what she understands, I just know we’ve let go of our first love, put him into perspective and now we can move on to new relationships.  Which is a huge relief, to everybody, I’m sure.  I know I’m grateful.

I’m grateful for the coping skill of a parts system.  Not real thrilled about the trauma and abuse and horror I had to get to have a parts system, but grateful for the system.  They definitely keep me, the host, on my toes.

I heard the train whistle before I went to bed, er, fell asleep exhausted.  That is usually a good omen for me.  Same for Hawks, I also heard The Five Stairsteps, “O-O-O-H Child, It’s Gonna Get Easier”, definite good omen.  Not smooth sailing from here on out, but definitely a helluva lot easier.

And now that it is 12:18 am, and I have less than five hours before I have to shower before my trip to the witch doctor, maybe I can knock some of this room out.  It’s my bedroom.  The biggest bedroom I’ve ever had.  My parts could never handle it.  Too scary.  But, the bedroom went from being called the “master bedroom”, to “The Sanctuary”, to it’s final name of, “The Master Suite”.  I dig it, Wooooo!!!

So, I’m exhausted, a little bit- is that even possible?  To be a little exhausted?- but I’m ready to tackle things I need and want to do.  Things I couldn’t do yesterday, due to the integration, I can do now.  My poor neighbors.  They never ask.  But if they ever do, “Ima writah”.  Ha!  Put that in your wooden shoe and clog it!  Hey!  I’m allowed one dig for all the dugs I’ve gracefully taken in stride.  Back off.

Yeah, so integration is intense.  One thing about integration, with my system anyway, the closer the part(s) get to integrating, the more active and reactive they become.  Remind me to tell you about Richard.  It’s like saying, “Beetlejuice”, he’s integrated, but I’m always afraid he’s going to come popping back out at the most inopertune time, naturally.

Well kids, that’s all there is from the biggest little town I’ve ever had the pleasure of dwelling in.  Now, maybe, I can get some work done.  OOOH!  J. LO.  “I Luh Ya Papi”  Bad ass song; Bad ass video!!

Namaste, bitches!!!!!