500 feet? Not anymore.

So, I’m detoxing off of Norco.  They gave it to me to combat my Chronic Pain.  It lasts for three hours, made my tummy upset and itch.  Great drug!  No, really.  Keep people who are miserable in even more misery!  So, it’s 3:30 AM EST.  I slept for seven hours/maybe 8.  My stomach is upset.  I feel like my bowels are going to unleash holy hell at any moment, and I had a horrible realization…

Dave is now reporting in Lansing.  That means the 500 feet stay away from me, as mandated by his parole supervisions is null and void, unless I stop him, before shit goes south.  Great.  I never took a restraining order out on him- yes, thank you.  I know I’m a moron.  But, I never knew if it would make it worse or better.  The day he was released from prison, he showed up at my house, whistling Darryl Hannah from Kill Bill Vol. I, and high as a kite.  This is my past, present and future.  So, Monday, I’m calling his old parole officer and say, cough it up where he stays at, cuz I’m terrified of him.

Yeah, you all know what was told on the news and the police documents, but did you live with him?  Did you plan to get married together? Were you there through the all the ups and downs- mostly downs-and the only highs being when he was?  You don’t know finding his works in the closet, or the priest costume in the closet.  Never knowing this person you lived with, who loved little girls? 20 ish was pushing it for him.  I was old for him, he even told me that.

It’s fucked up.  “So, What was/how did your last relationship end?”  “Publicly and it involved the prison system.  What was yours?  She kept half?  He took my life- and my sex life and any chance of a relationship ever happening.  Are we done, here?”

My knee is worse.  Still fluid on it, but because I walked around the casino yesterday for ZZ Top yesterday, I can’t fucking walk.  I need help.  I don’t know how to ask for help still.

Had a great time at ZZ.  I’m infatuated with my friend’s son.  I could be his mother.  He’s funny and a good guy.  My age?  There aren’t any.  They’re like me- all jaded and bitter or just want sex.  You know what I get?  Emails from guys who can’t remember what psych hospital he met me at and all he wants to do is fuck.  Great.  Super.  Wasn’t even subtle about it, not smooth. I know I have no game.  I know this.  I just don’t have time for it anymore.  But you need it, I guess.  No one wants to be like this dude- Superman shirt wearing motherfucker.

So, my friend, the one whose son makes me giddy, DUMB ASS!  Anyways, she says:  When’s your manuscript going to be ready?  I don’t know. I don’t know how to write, I dangle participles and end with prepositions. I’m chill in my writing.  I’m not a good detail oriented, paint a picture motherfucker. I’ll give you details, but if you have no imagination, you have no business reading my shit.  So, BOOM!

Ed Sheeran.  One.  Always think of my true love.  It happened early.  Never happen again.  So, I get goofy over my friend’s 25 year old son.  What kind of a piece of shit am I?

Don’t answer that.  I just did.  I want to do laundry and shit.  I gotta go to my consignment shop.  Time for winter time!

Well, my stomach is lurching again.  Better eat cracker jack and drink my diet Pepsi.  Detox cure all.  I got off Oxi with benzos and booze- the 70’s rehab, old fashioned way!

Have a great day!

Stand up or sit down…

August 12th, 2015, I was admitted to the spa- the View.  I had to go for medical clearance first.  My part/parts come at 1 pm, and stay till 2 pm.  They make me sleepy, slurry, nodding out, it’s like I’m overdosing.  See?  It’s a quarter to two, and I feel better.  I can’t quite crack that one.  I’m working on it.

So, I go in, don’t do trauma.  Because it’s about time I learn how to do normal living skills.  I think it’s safe to say, after 7 years, I’ve graduated from Forest View’s Trauma Program.  Maybe not trauma, per se, but definitely time to take on some new healing modalities.

Over the weekend, from Saturday afternoon till Saturday night, I have constant flashbacks- flooding.  And because the flashbacks are so foul, I puke that whole time.  My poor roomie!  So, remember the first, “Eddie Hamilton”?  The one who I saw hanging from his closet- oxford had a lot of old homes- high ceilings.  Anyways, The High Priestess, whose name is Esther, closest I can recall, is holding my hand and hissing in me ear:  You can run this town.  You can call the shots here.  You can have all the power to make the decisions here.  She died later 1978, in the apartments by Huntoon.  Cancer.  COPD.  Something with her lungs.

Anyways, she requests to be left alone with, “Eddie” and I.  She instructs me to cut out his penis, and instructs me to suck all the blood out of it.  While I’m doing this-she had BIG guards that helped her.  Not guards.  Guards are helpful.  Henchmen.  Definitely henchmen.  She’s lying on the floor, diddling herself.  Whatever.  She didn’t hurt me.  That’s my thought process at 4.  She’s okay, she didn’t throw me to the wolves, try to rape me (?!!!), or beat me.

So, I remember the man in the blue robe.  The leader with the dark hair and grey eyes.  He’s Irish and Italian.  Big dude.  Curly hair.  Brownish/grey eyes.  He was arrested at Beltane in 1978.  He was discovered with two human skulls and various human limb bones.  He went for life.

So, this are the things that I’m flashing to in the spa.  I saw Katy Tuesday.  I told her about the 17 year old, six month pregnant left handed Bride of Satan, that was killed, her baby sacrificed, and how they ate her small intestine.  I told Katy that.  She finally shut up.  I think she wasn’t believing me with 79 parts and down to 5.  Cuz I had stalled in recovery.  I was living life.  I work on this from now till May.  I have from May till the end of August to live it up and pretend I am a normal human being,  I hate doing this.  Putting all this negativity into the world.  I hate it.  But what am I supposed to do?  Keep it all in?  Go mad because I’m afraid?  I challenged the cult’s biggest lie:  If you don’t join us, we will kill you or you must be killed or kill your self by 40/45.  So I made it through 40.  Now, I have a lot of time to work through before age 45.  I hope I can sail  through it.  Halloween is always so difficult.  That is the anniversary of the end of the cult and the beginning of the torture by the Roaches.  I remember hearing Mr. Roach say: “Well, we just have to ruin her.  Destroy her so she can’t finger us.  Kill her.”  And Lord, did they try.

I started having flashbacks in 2001.  About two weeks after the Roaches sold their house and moved off the block, you know, moved on the other side of Oxford, I began to have these horrendous flashbacks.  Sundays were the worst.  I can finally listen to church bells without freaking out.  We went back to the Oxford UCC church in the village where, “Eddie Hamilton” was covered in Lime.  All that remained were pieces of bone and teeth.  Esther said: Build the tower.  Bell tower.  It’s awful.  I can’t go back to Oxford.  I really can’t.  It’s too upsetting.  Too many fucked up memories.  Twisted.

I twisted my knee.  Fluid on my knee and they found more arthritis in my right knee.  We’re going to ZZ Top tomorrow night.  I saw them in high school.  They are amazing.  Dave- has been moved to Lansing.  I got no notice or anything.  I don’t know why I feel hinckey about that.  Why did they move him?  Why didn’t I get a notice/  WTF is going on, over?

I celebrated seven years drink free Saturday, August 15th in the spa.  They gave me Norco for my Chronic pain, mid August.  I saw the Addictionologist to step me down.  I’m thinking of switching programs.  I was addicted to Oxi-Contin.  For two years.  Awful.  So bad.  Chloral Hydrate, Valium, Xanax, Actiq pops.  Fuck, how and why am I still alive?

I found some emails from Dave.  Bat shit crazy.  Simple but difficult abuse-gas lighting.  I knew it was bullshit back then, I, “It’s not worth my soul to lie to you”?  Really, Dave?  Really?  What about lying to 1000-3000+ people?  Is that worth your soul?  No.  And you know why?  Because you don’t have one.  Never did.  Bastard.

“Someone in Heaven”-The Reverend Horton Heat

Well, I made it to the spa.  I have no more lifetime Medicare, Free Standing Psych Hospital days left over.  So, not only will I never go back inpatient to Forest View (since 8/16/08), I get to go to Kalamazoo to Bronson.  So, that was sad.  But, now that I can no longer go there, God invented Facebook…Hypothetically.

Well, I have a new part.  New to me.  His name is Jaz, and he is 32.  Protector, as that is all I am left with.  He likes to fight with me around one pm for dominance.  So, I look like I’m ODing.  Slurring, slitty eyes, the whole thing.  But Jaz holds the things the cult- The Brides of Satan- told me.

I was flooded with memories while I was in there from Saturday to Sunday.

Remember “Eddie Hamilton?”  Well, after the High Priestess has told everybody what to do and how to do it, she leaned into me, holding my right hand with her left and said to me, “I can make you run this town, Suzy.  You can own this town; call the shots. Would you like that?” I must’ve said “yes” or something because here’s this guy hanging with this four foot nothing woman with filed, stained teeth hissing dominance in my ear…What would you do?  Easy to say…

So High Priestess (HP), tells me to tongue the dead guy- she graciously and ever so thoughtfully lifted me up to help me kiss, “Eddie”.  Then she gave me a sacrificial Chris knife and told me to cut around his dick, and suck the blood out of his dick, while she diddled herself on the floor.  Charming.

Next.  The dude with the dark hair in the Blue Velvet robe, who wanted to tear me apart sexually and physically-he was arrested around Beltane in 1978 for procuring two skulls and various body parts for the holiday celebration.  He got life.  Be damned if I can think of his name.  He was tall and thick.  Thick, black curly hair.  Black, Brown, greyish eyes.  But he was the leader.  He tried to tear me apart a couple of times.  They had to pull him off me a couple of times.  That was the most I ever feared for my life.  Ever.

But, cults, regardless brainwash you.  My brainwash was: if you do not join us, you must kill yourself (A reason I was hospitalized at age 40- had to go), or we will find you and kill you.  I’m putting myself at a risk by writing this blog.  But, dammit, the truth must be told.

I was seriously considering ending it.  I was truly on the fence.  Truly.  It was bad.  But, August 15, 2008, at the spa, I celebrated 7 years far away from a drink.  Miracle.

It’s 3:50 am.  My fucking cat would not let me sleep.  She slept on every available part of my face she could.  I think all my neighbors went out to the bar- 2;23, 3:00 am I’m woken up.  I live above the garage.  So the garage doors I hear.  Every.  Single.  Fucking.  Time.

I start Partial Hospital today.  I have more memories.  They’re in my journal.  I’ll look for em, today…

God Damned Selfish, *Click*

That’s what my father told me a couple of days ago.  That I was a, “God damned, selfish”, and I hung up on him.

My Grandmother-his mother-turns 100 August 11th.  So we had a shindig for her this weekend.  I did her hair and nails- like I do every weekend.  I go up to see my Aunt Lizzie and my grandma and spend time with her.  I told her, “Grandma, I have nothing to give you.  No career, no children, never married, no great grand children…”  she said, “You’re my sweetie”.  I still get choked up when I think of that.

My mom and dad for a long time, it was conditional love.  Then my mom realized and did her homework on DID and realized I was doing the best I can for having the cards I was dealt.  My father, has yet to accept or see that I am very limited.  He got pissed because I put up a meme of Buddha with the quote, “try not to be a cunt~Buddha”.  Shortly after, he was a cunt.  So, we’re going out to lunch today to talk about some stuff.  Chiefly, that I am not a God Damned, selfish so and so.  That there are reasons I can only do so much.

I was diagnosed last week with Chronic pain.  It hasn’t been easy finding a med that didn’t leave me itchy, sick, or nodding out.  I found one.  It works pretty good.  I have to go to the pool at my association and jam in that thing.  I have to find a sponsor.  I had one, but she was too busy saving the world to be a sponsor.  I was going to ask someone else last weekend, but they lost their fur baby.  Not really a good time.

I went to a volunteer organization.  I thought it was going to be awesome, you know?  I get there.  I sit down.  All four of the people leading the organization sit down and do their well rehearsed spiel for me and I watch a video.  That was it.  15 minutes of, yeah.  So, that really didn’t feel like a good fit.  But I have to do something.

I’m stuck between living and dying and if I don’t find something soon, this winter I will not make it through.  I am planning on taking two classes at the local community college in theatre to get my feet wet. Maybe that’s it.  And get back to meetings.  I’ve missed yoga twice.  Because I haven’t been getting up.  I’ve been over sleeping.  Susan moved to Seattle.  She is so happy.  But that was quite a blow.  And then, because I’ve been in pain in for ten years, and not said word one about it, they treated me like I was drug seeking.  Combined with all that has been going on and my frustration, I folded in my car.  Punched the ceiling, sobbed, wailed.  It was ugly.  Somebody in a black Jetta was next to me and they hung out till I calmed down.  So, somebody in this world does not suck.

I’m listening to the Reverend Horton Heat.  I saw him June 10, 2015.  He told Jimbo, “She’s fat”.  I couldn’t bring myself to hit on him.  I’ve had a crush on him for 20 years.  It’s a sickness.  I really want to date, but I don’t know how.  I met Dave online, so, that terrifies me.  And because I’m a BBW, I can’t get play.  Let’s not even factor in the HIV.  Please.

All those doors, just nothing excites me.  I just want to travel to Greece and live there.  I sent Joshua an IM on the crackbook.  I was grieving and processing.  He never responds anyway.  Well, wouldn’t ya know?  He did.  He’s like, “Love you too.  I treasure those memories.  But you have to stop dreaming about that time.”  Oh, I let him have it.  Then I sent him a meme, that is from Detroit, essentially; If you’re not feeding me, fucking me, or financing me, you have no opinion on how I live my life, so you can fuck off.”  There I go, making my dad proud all over again.  Then I had a dream I bitch slapped the shit out of an ex-boyfriend.  Woke up feeling quite empowered.

My therapist is basically out of the office for half of August and half of September.  My workbook came- When grief is Prolonged.  Looks like I’ll be going through the damn kleenex again.

Sylvia integrated into Sheila.  Veronica’s integrated into Vicky.  So, just Matthew, Phylis, and a spaz.  He won’t tell me who he is.  I’m not in the mood.  So, from August 2008 till 2015, from 79 parts to a handful.  Because people don’t see how hard the work is, they don’t think you’re working.  I got sober, three weeks into sobering up in the hospital, I was diagnosed with DID, then October 18, 2008, diagnosed with HIV.  I need a sobriety do-over.  I really do.  I hope to get it done today.  There’s a women’s mtg at 5.  I’m tired of working on my house, but it’s, as Ms. T would say, “A feng Shui nightmare!”

All work and no play makes Zuzu a dull woman.  And I feel really dull.  I’m going to see ZZ Top August 28th.  On my sobriety birthday, there is a local bar and they are have a pinball extravaganza.  Like, I don’t know how many Pinball machines, and it’s the 15th anniversary- have I mentioned I love Pinball?  It’s a sickness. So, I think I may do that for my birthday.  7 years.  & years without a drink.  Damn.  I loved alcohol.  That’s why I never got married.  I loved my alcohol more than anybody, anything, more than life itself.  I look at some alcohol and beers like ex Lovers/husbands.  What was I going to do?  I couldn’t quit.  I was powerless. I really couldn’t.  I didn’t even try to give up drinking.  It was pointless.  I was licked, as we say.

My brother came to visit a couple weeks ago.  We played putt putt.  Then we went to our folks house and hung out and ate. I love him very much. I was just very sick and had no alcohol to cover it up with.

My sobriety has sucked.  It has not been fun.  I have not been happy, joyous and free.  I’m only learning now what that means.  After I have isolated and alienated anybody who was ever kind to me.  And then they turned on me.  Or vice versa.  I just decided to date myself.  Take myself out places.  Do things with myself.  And just pray I don’t run into Dave.  He gets off parole December 22, 2015.  I feel I’ll have a visit coming on.  And a couple nights in jail.  He’s not crossing my threshold.  I’m not even opening the door for him.  I had to admit I loved him.  And, he, in his own, unique way, loved me the best way he knew how.

Well, better get going on some housework.  Gotta lot to do this week.  But, none of it means anything.  Well, the neuroscience testing.  That’s always a hoot.  They find out the same things every time.  I try to tell them, but those damned doctor egos.  Jesus.  You would have thought they were the father of neuropsychology.

Have a good day.  Don’t get shot.