Love and Betrayal

Yesterday, well, first, let me say this:  I have been sick.  As of Wednesday, November 20, 2016, I have been sick for two MONTHS.  Yes, acute/chronic bronchitis.  So, I am finally on the mend.  However, Friday night, I had a night terror/flashback dream.

There I was, 6 years old, hands locked in vice grips, duct taped for extra measure, legs duct taped down, nude, sitting on a plywood board. Mr. Roach manning a circular saw ripping the wood, towards my crotch.  My mouth had been duct taped, so I could barely breath.  I mean, who is going to hear a little girl’s screams over ripping wood in half with a Sears circular saw?  So, my parts and I have been up every night since.  From 10/11 pm to 4/5 am, we patrol.  I tell them we’re safe.  It’s 2016.  No matter.

I had about 12/13 main alters, all with systems of their own.  Yes, each parts had parts, in fact, a whole system with parts, parts of parts and poly fragments of their own. I am now down to Mark’s system, Phylis’ system and my system.  All told?  About ten parts left.  Not bad. From about 80-90 to about ten in 8 years time.  New therapist is working out great, by the way.  Ought to be on the mend here in about a year and a half.  I am about to undergo some of the roughest, toughest stuff- the torture bits now.  I hope I will be able to sleep sometimes this winter.  August through May is the worst.  Was the school year.  My parents were teaching school, and I was left with the monsters.  And school itself was no picnic for me.  My childhood could have been much worse.  God gave me just enough reprieves and supports to keep me somewhat moored in sanity.  And above ground.

So, yesterday, Casino Royale, the 007 movie was on Showtime or some such. Yes, I finally got cable.  Waited till after the presidential shit show to do so.  So, Casino Royale is Ian Fleming’s first Bond novel.  Craig’s Bond.  The tormented, orphaned, eros/thanatos driven, just this side of a martyr psychopath, lovable cad.  The Bond I would find irresistible.  Love tormented souls…more about that later.  So, Vesper Lind.  Bond’s true love.  The one and only woman he choose over his Queen, Country, and M.  The true love, who ultimately betrays him.  As most true loves do.  Or, so I have learned.  The true love, who barters her soul for his.  The true love, who he tries desperately, in an underwater rescue to save, as she willingly commits suicide in front of him.  Rather than never to be with him again.  But to Bond, as, to me, it wouldn’t have mattered.  But it does.  It does indeed.

I learned yesterday, the reason I have been stubbornly, and just plain unmovable in my root chakra- the safety chakra. The, “I am” chakra.  The opposite of fear chakra.  Why have I been enmeshed in this chakra?  The answer- on the surface is easy- my childhood torture/trauma.  Most people who have gone through what, miraculously, I lived through to tell the story of, would be non verbal and smearing poo on a wall in a state institution somewhere.  But I?  And this is where the HP of my understanding is a sort of Marine:  he brought me to it and led me through it.  I lived.  Through my childhood.  Through hundreds of Near Death experiences, to today.  Yesterday.  As I sat, in a tense, heart foreshadowed grief, knowing full well that Vesper commits suicide in front of Bond, blindly cheering him on to save the love, the betrayal of his life.

You see, Bond knows full well she has betrayed him.  Then, as Bond, underwater, with Vesper in an ancient, elevator shaft, locked in, Bond fiercely trying to pry open the jaws of the shaft- a moment so pure, she looks at him with shame, grief filled eyes and rips the key- the key that could save her life and their relationship, nay, their future together- out of the lock and throws it into the current of the sinking shaft.  Knowing full well, that she just locked herself in, sealed her fate, and his, Bond tries harder to open the shaft.  Vesper retreats to the rear of the shaft, reaches out her left (love) hand, and swallows water, thereby killing herself in front of Bond.

By this time, having watched this scene three times, I am gasping and sobbing, not just for Bond, but for me.  Why?  We all have secrets.  Mine are wrapped in betrayal as well.  Some public, some very private.  But, my epiphany is this:  To me, Betrayal and Love are inseparable.   You cannot have one without the other.  They are one in the same.  Betrayal, love.   Love, betrayal.  I can no longer tell the difference.

Hold, please…

I have been both a Vesper and a Bond.  In more than one love relationship, in order for my partner to live, to succeed, to be happy or to be punished, I have had to make decisions, decisions most people only read about or see on tv.  I have never expected anyone to understand my life.  When I was diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder, that is when Dave left me, while I was still in the hospital, for his other meth sex slave.  I naively thought Dave would be with me, to help me through this, this monumental task of piecing me back together again when I was released.  He did get me to the hospital August 15, 2008 after an all day drinking binge, and a Valium pig out.  They shot me with Narcan, pulled the curtain and que sera sera.  So, he saved my life.  It wasn’t until October 18, 2008, I found he had given me HIV on June 6, 2008.  He had already  taken my life.  Why save it?  Only to leave me for another?  And another?  And another?  And another?  Love makes you blind.  Low self esteem makes you desperate.  Combine the two, and it is a living hell.  Hence why I understand why Bond, who loved Vesper more than his duty, tried to save her.  That was Bond.

Vesper came first.  Before all others.  It was sweet.  Innocent.  Friendly.  A mentorship.  If you read the book, Love, by Toni Morrison, it shatters your preconceived notions as to what love is…or can be…or should be.  Even when I was very young, I had only one memory of The Roaches.  It was the son, Ron, trying to get me to do something I didn’t want to do, what else is new, story as old as time.  But, this one September afternoon, I hit the ground running.  Threw up by the huge tree by 5 Crawford (which is now gone) and ran home and never, ever looked back.  Up until the year 2000, when I was 27, I’m 43 now.  Almost half my life has been tirelessly devoted to unearthing my past.  But, I only had the one memory.  They never came after me.  They let me live.  They “Had destroyed” me, “So I could never turn on them ever” again.  So, in 1989, when I met, my first soul mate?  Best Friend?  First Love?  No.  So far, the closest thing to a true love I have ever had…I told him about Ron.  But I knew.  I knew there was more.  I knew it was far worse; much worse than he or I could ever concoct together.  And we were very creative.  We were.  But, I knew.  I pulled a Vesper to his Daniel Craig/Ian Fleming Bond.  I pushed him away so hard, so fast, so furiously, because he wanted a beautiful, wonderful, exciting, rich life.  I could not, nor could I ever give that to him.  The decision I made at 15, at 16, at 19, at 29 to leave No Doubt in his mind that I did not want him, was, at 31, successful.  He has a rich, wonderful, exciting and full life.  I knew he could.  I knew I was a liability.  I knew my past would tear us apart.  So, Vesper I became.

Now?  I look at Facebook.  I see my friends and their husbands.  Their children.  Their jobs. Their side hustles.  Their Emmy successes.  And I smile. Because it brings me great joy that at one point, they helped me in my life, by merely acknowledging my existence.  Because those relationships, those moldy oldie relationships, their successes, their heartbreaks, their families, their careers, their travels, they give me hope.  All 323 of them.  Some are cops, none are, currently, myself included, criminals.  Some are God Fearing, some are Wiccan.  All are loving.  All are caring.  All are gentle souls.

Some people go to church or temple on Sunday.  I begin the unravelling process; the untying of love and betrayal.  I am proud, and honored, and humble to say I have loved and been loved just as fiercely in return.  I have betrayed, and been betrayed viciously in return as well.

Now, I must begin the unravelling of the Algerian Love Knot in my soul.  The separation of Bond and Vesper.  I never want to be Vesper again.  I never want to be Bond again.  I want to love again.  And be loved more in return.

Have a blessed day.

 

 

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Gratitude is a Verb

Good Morning, this United States of Trump.  A misogynistic pedophile is our new president.  Excuse me while I swallow some bile.  A fucking pedophile.  My favorite kind of piece of shit.

I just got done writing an email to my Namaslayer.  My Yogi.  There are so many things whirling through my brain, because I have had a lot of A ha ha moments in the past week, it’s hard to tease them all out, but here goes:

I have been sick since the second week of October.  So, what is that?  A month?  Anyways, I have the HIV from Dave.  That is all too well known and all to well documented in this blog.  I had a Diet Mountain Dew for him yesterday.  He was actually a Democrat.  I know he would been with her.  Hell I was.  Had to cancel my extended family’s votes out.  But, I digress.

When you are on your ass, sick, and you can’t do shit but breathing treatments every four hours and small things around your house here and there, you have waaaay too much time to think.  I have bronchitis and a sinus infection.  My doc just put me on a short course of Prednisone.  I now want to eat my cat and anything else I can get my grimy, hungry paws on.  It sucks.  Because it is colder now, my pain has jumped up about 60 notches.  Nothing can be done.  Nothing.  But asymptomatic remedies.  And since I am an alcoholic, and had a bout with Oxi Contin, no narcotics for me.  That and the massive crackdown on pain pills.  Which is fine by me, they were prescribing those drugs like tic tacs.  And they’re not fucking tic tacs.  They’re some fucking dangerous drugs.  And you don’t poop, but whatever.  So, I think a lot.

I have realized many things:

  1.  My root chakra will never be healed unless I  directly, firmly, dance with my trauma, hold the pose, end the dance, and gracefully let it go. One incident at a time.  I FINAFUCKINGLY meet with my new therapist this morning at nine am.  I am ever so grateful.  I have a map made up, I made it upload it.  We’ll see if I can get it loaded up.  But, my remaining 4 or 5 parts, are finally speaking to me.  Apparently, we went shopping.  I didn’t recall buying $800 of shit, but apparently, we did.  I didn’t know until I started get email on my phone thanking me for our capitalism.  Great. After the last bout, I sent them All to their fucking rooms.  Mala, pronounced Malayla, is 13 and is my teen.  One of them. I’ve had a lot of teenagers.  If you don’t know me personally, you might not understand.  But if you know me personally, you’ll understand my behavior sometimes.  So, Mala was complaining (as teens do) that she didn’t have a room.  So, I created one for her- in my head, because for me and my system, except when I am dialoging or making a map, most of the action goes on creatively in my head.  DID is for extremely creative and intelligent critically traumatized people, men and women.  So, a lot of our recovery work, and sometimes our actual paid work demands intelligence and creativity.  So, I digress.  I created a room for Mala with whatever the fuck a 13 year old needs.  It was all pepto bismol pink, with maribou, and feathers, and fluff and stuff.  She was ecstatic.  I called them out there yesterday and told them time out was over.  I still have to have a morning meeting with them.  You hold a meeting- they have decided on a treehouse.  Whatever, I’m way too flexible sometimes, so we will have a meeting in the tree house and I will write it down.  That is how my parts system and my part recovery process work.  So, that is why I wake up so damned early.  I have to wake up, do morning meeting, recovery stuff, meditate, pray, chill, and then start my fucking day.  Life ain’t easy being cheesy.  So, until I figure out and work with these last remaining parts, I will never be free, never lose weight, never feel okay in my body or be able to directly look myself in the mirror.  I’m sure there’s a ICD-10 code for that, but I don’t give a fuck right now.

2.  I am angry. Very, very fucking angry.  The bitch who teaches the trauma program at Forest View here in town, helped me get in touch with my anger about 3 years ago.  It’s not just anger, it’s fucking bile rage.  It’s kind of a big deal.  Cuz I didn’t have just one perpetrator, I lost count as to how many perps I had abuse/assault me.  Men and women.  I have a long way to go on relationships.  So, this winter?  It’s going to be intense, on all fronts.  I’ve been angry all my life.   But being a woman, you can’t get angry.  You aren’t allowed to show, feel, or allow yourself to become angered.  It’s bullshit.  I call bullshit.

3.  I am sick.  Have been since October.  Went to the doctor yesterday.  No good news. I’m on Prednisone which interacts with my ARV drug.  So, short course, but my cat is looking good.  But, I have , whatever.  I mentioned this before.  It really- what?  PISSES ME OFF!!!!  Shocking, I know.

4.  I have only know conditional love, unrequited love, trauma bonds and parental unconditional love.  That’s got to change.  But it has to change with me.  I have to heal my root chakra, balance the energy, and as soon as soon as I can nail that one, I am going to soar.

5.  Another perk to being flat on your back is Pinterest.  I am on Pinterest, if you care at all, all, like 7 of you.  I am gypsyzuzu.  I decided to make a Self Care and Self Esteem board.  Along with the other boards I made. Well yesterday, I printed out my “How to Get My Poop in a Group” board, my Journal board, and my Self Care board.  Only relevant pins.  I printed for a good half hour.  Need a new color cartridge.  But that box o paper I bought for grad school was a super wise investment.  And thank goddess I recycle.  So, I have my three hole punch, a binder and time on my hands today.  Can’t go to class, but I sure can lay in bed and be productive as fuck.  Let the Healing Begin!!!  Whoever said that was a fucking genius, or wrote it.  What the fuck ever.

6.  Is there really a 6?  Does there need to be a six…Oh yeah.  My dad yelled at me earlier this week and swore at me.  So, I had to take a super quick inventory once I finished being childish hurt and mad and realized he wouldn’t have barked, had I not pulled his tail.  Which is the catalyst to what has led me to all of the above.  I tend to work in reverse order.  Top down.  Whatever.  My Scottish Laddie hasn’t emailed me back since I told him I don’t do BDSM anymore.  Kinda had my fill of it.  It’s fun and all, but there are limits and moderation in mostly all things.

I don’t have any groovy quotes or any wise words of wisdom.  Just a broken soul trying to put back together this shit show of a blessed life I have.  Oh yeah, gratitude is a verb.  I was taught, early in sobriety that it’s all fine and well to be grateful for things.  “Go around the table and say one thing you’re grateful for…”  Yeah, most of us have been there.  That’s when I try not to suffocate myself with the mashed potatoes.  But, don’t fucking tell me you’re grateful- show me you’re grateful. For instance?  This blog.  When I share these secret, greasy little tidbits about my psyche and my life and how I am trying to reclaim what those sonsabitches took away- my late 20’s, all my 30’s, and hopefully half my 40’s, I am being grateful. Honest, open dialogue is a great way to be grateful.  Because, right now? Even though a pedophile Cheeto is our president (OMFG), I am grateful that my coughing seems to have chilled out.  I am grateful that I can sit upright, in my messy, but beautiful, cozy little shack, type out my game plan, share it honestly and openly with whomever, and be on my merry way.  Even though I have to wear a mask when I go out in public, I’m fucking grateful.  And no, that is not a sarcastic fucking grateful.

I hope you all have a good day.  Color, do whatever makes your spirit soar.  And I will try to load the latest, and greatest pic of my map.  Y’all take care now, ya hear?!

 

 

 

My HP Knows No Boundaries

As a trauma survivor, I was taught the reason I have piss poor boundaries, is because I was taught through the abuse, that I didn’t have any, didn’t deserve boundaries, etc.  So, why do I limit my Higher Power (HP)?

I left my old therapist.  She was only in the office one day a week, I had repeatedly expressed the fact I needed a second session with her; I even suggested Skype or FaceTime. She said she would look into it, did she?  Nope. Every excuse in the book.  So I ended it, rogue style.  No safety net, no other therapist but a DBT therapist lined up-which got screwed up-so I began my search.

I went to the other trauma specialists in town.  The lady I contacted, who used to head up the trauma program at Forest View didn’t take Medicare, but she recommended someone else.  I didn’t recognize this new therapists last name, but I recognized her first name, and I hypothesized it was the same woman.

So, I had an appointment on Wednesday of this week lined up.  But first, I had to go to Urgent Care.  I was sick again.  Turns out, I have two viruses attacking my already compromised, HIV positive system.  No bueno.  So, a chest X ray and a breathing treatment later, I walk out with an antibiotic, an inhaler, a cough pearl, and NyQuil for nighttime.  And LOTS of fluids and rest.  But, before this shit show happened, I made a part map and actually was able to journal with my system.  I did it so the new therapist could have a visual, and a foothold.

So, I learned a lot.  I have a long way to go.  I’m down to five parts.  From 89 in 8 years, that’s pretty sweet.  Couldn’t have done it without the old therapist, but it’s time.  Time, and frankly?  I think she didn’t believe me anymore.  As soon as I told her about the cult memories, and the sacrifice and the murders, and blood orgies, and all that experience, she shut down.  She retired from the hospital too.  She always told me she was a lot older than I thought.  Okay.  Still- Not. My. Problem.  But when she “wish you luck”, then tries to call and email me, trying to dialogue because I said I was open to it, that was before she wished me luck.  And, in the same breath said she would help me transition to the new therapist.  Bitch, please!  Not if you was the laaaast trauma therapist  on Earth, Honey!  Then she suggested a closing session for us.  Bitch!  Hell nah.  No way.  Your true colors showed, and your bitch flag flew high, why on God’s green Earth would I want to EVAH see your cracker ass again.  And the bitch of it all?  I had found a birthday card from her the day before she wished me luck.  I sent her a very pointed email.  Using facts, logic, reason tempered emotion.  That’s when she got the clue.  I told her shit I never told ANYONE.  Even a professional.  She was the first professional I trusted.  But not the last.

So, I had to cancel with the new therapist because I was so ill.  She actually called me, and left me a voicemail, saying she was happy/excited to work with me and was looking forward to it.  Word travels fast in small circles.  Bitch dropped a huge ball.  I told her.  A person with DID needs a solid relationship with their therapist.  It is as imperative as medication.  But she was, what the fuck ever she was.  Her loss.

But the new therapist, C., is exactly whom I thought she was.  WAVES OF RELIEF!!!!!   WAVES!!!  So, I feel much better.

Been working with the parts.  Have to close my PayPal account.  Have to acknowledge my mother and father didn’t know, therefore they could do nothing, but they love me regardless, and they are here for me now.  And that is what is important.  The now.

“Oh, now, now, now, the only now, and above all now, and there is no other now but thou now and now is thy prophet.”  Ernest Hemingway, For Whom The Bell Tolls.

So, excuse me while I go eat something, take a rest, and enjoy the Time Out my HP put me in, so I can enjoy the now…