“Blue Ain’t Your Color”

I’m sick.  So, I have time to stare at the ceiling.  When you’re positive, colds, flu, and illness kick your dick in the dirt ten times harder than someone that isn’t poz.  By the way, the name I chose for this blog entry is a Keith Urban song from his album, Ripcord.  I highly recommend hi, it.  Jeez!

I have been going through a dark night’s journey of the soul lately.  Blame it on Saturn in Capricorn, but it’s been happening and shaking me to my core.  I feel like I need to watch some Daniel Craig Bond.  Tortured, tormented, but ultimately successful-but at what cost?  I posted a pic on IG the other night, you know how you want to cry, but can’t?  Tore up from the floor up, and you can’t squeeze a drop-not even a whimper?  Yeah.  That was me.  So, my friend calls me and says, honey, you look miserable.  Miserable.  Because I am, Jillene.  Because I am.

There was a fork in the road about Monday, Tuesday.  It had been brewing all weekend.  I”ve been asking myself some hellatious and deep questions.  What I expect and will tolerate from myself, what I will expect and tolerate from others.  Most importantly, shit I will not tolerate from myself, shit I will no longer pull, et al.

We’re back on the DID wagon.  In acting, as in life, you must commit to the thing, emotion, prop, whatever, just commit to it.  And go big or go home.  At least that’s what I do.  But I’ve always had trouble committing.  To a simple theatrical feeling, motivation, or even bigger, a person, a career.  Why? Besides the fact that I am split into 400+ parts, I have virtually zero self-esteem.  It’s all bravado, darling.  Smoke and Mirrors.  Good name for the play.

Yes darling, the play.  I’ve got to do something.  What makes me happy?  Theatre.  How much?  A Lot.  Telling my story, honoring my truth, explaining a phenomenon to a world that doesn’t want it, read want you, that is freedom.  Will it be easy?  Hell no.  Will it be taxing?  Fuckin A.  Will I want to quit?  You bet.  But then I think of all my friends with DID, and I’d feel like I was letting them all down.  I’m open.  About my HIV, about Dave, about my DID.  Because I have no shame.  Why should I absorb someone else’s bad acts, how they transmuted their shame, and splayed it all out on me- why the fuck should I hold on to their shit?  Child, please.  I got enough shit going on, okay?  I have enough shame for my body tricking me while they were abusing me.  I have enough.  I’m not absorbing any more of their bad acts or keeping quiet about their bad deeds.

And how about that piece of shit Nassar?  What a fuck.  They’re all fucks, and I’m tired of being quiet.  Boom



Take 5

So, it has come to my attention, (thank you 6 planets in Capricorn) that I have some mighty, mighty character flaws that impede my relationships greatly.  I have become That Friend.  You know, the one that always has some drama going on?  The one who can’t see past her own nose?  The one who is in a constant state of turmoil?  Apparently, that is me.

I’ve asked myself why.  I’ve asked myself a million questions over the past several days, and the answer is the same.  Get out, get some friends, maybe not friends, but meet some people, do stuff.  You’ve got a whole artists studio in your house, you’re tired of writing in a journal, start drawing in a journal.  I have some serious and deep owies I need to acknowledge and get out.  Another factor?  I’ve been doing ECT, and not seeing my therapist on a regular basis.  When you have DID, you should always be in therapy.

I haven’t been making it to my meetings either.  The ECT schedule has really screwed up my sleep schedule and just fml in general.  Right now, I feel too weird for recovery, and too far behind in therapy.  I had three friends basically tell me, don’t have time for you.  Okay.  I appreciate the honesty, I appreciate the candor and frankness with which you spoke.  Duly noted.

We went through the stages of grief.  Shock and denial, we’ve bargained, but not a lot, sadness came yesterday, sadness and anger, at me, are on today’s menu.  I accept I’ve been that friend.  Too weird to live, too rare to die (Thompson).  A friend I knew once said, “And the but of it is”, I don’t have to be that needy and drama filled friend.  A.  There’s no need for it.  I need to up my self-reg and self-soothing skills.  B.  It shouldn’t have evolved this far, and like the rest of this snafu, it’s my fault.  I’m not communicating well with my therapist.  I’m not communicating well with myself.  I’m not being as honest as I can and should be with myself and my therapist.  That is a huge problem right there.  Acceptance.  A lot of acceptance has to happen so changes can be made.  This is a thorny problem.  On a lot of levels.

December 15th is an anniversary for me.  I was raped under the Christmas tree in 1978.  So every Christmas/Month of December, it is a trauma-filled festival.  I act out, this year I spent a gob of money I didn’t have, I saw my therapist once.  I start back 2x a week this week.  Everything they tell you to do in DID recovery work- go slow, be patient, be gentle, self-soothe, take breaks, be kind to yourself?  Haven’t been doing.  The ECT has dominated my landscape.  My depression has been raging.  The ECT is the only thing keeping me together, and I’m held together by a thread.

Don’t get me wrong, I know why people don’t come around.  I’ve got a lot of shit going on, and I need to be more responsible regarding my emotional pain.   I wasn’t doing the shit I needed to do, and when you half-ass it, the wheels fall off the bus.

I need AAA for the soul, please?



Baba is Arabic for Daddy.  This is what I call my father.  Today, right now, as a matter of fact, my mom and Baba are downtown looking over the results of my father’s PET scan.  My father has/had Bladder Cancer, stage II.  He didn’t finish chemo, physically he couldn’t.  My father is 78, will be 79 on the 28th of this month, January.

I’m terrified.  When my dad began this journey, he was going to teach me about financial advising,  So I could be armed and dangerous after he had gone.  I am renewing that pledge today.  I am praying for a good PET scan, but I am also preparing for a tough scan as well.  Cancer is a motherfucker.  I’ve survived a lot of shit, even been through Interferon, but never had Cancer.  Got damn near everything else, but there is nothing on this planet like Cancer.  I hate Cancer.  I hate how it erodes people’s spirits and wills to live; turns them funny greyish colors and makes their skin look waxy.  Turns their whole aura grey.  As someone who loves someone with Cancer, it is the most helpless, God awful feeling on this planet.  Watching someone you love succumb to this motherfucker of an illness.

My parts are cycling.  I’ve practically bit a hole through my lip.  I didn’t have ECT today because of the PET scan, but I will on Wednesday.  Since being diagnosed as mentally ill in 1989, I’ve finally found that ECT can work, and is replacing meds.  I will need maintenance ECT and how that happens, what that looks like, I have to call and find out, because of course, I’ve forgotten.  I haven’t been able to go and do therapy.  I’m sneaking in a session today.  I need to focus more on my faulty beliefs and not integration so much as cooperation.  I’m shattered into 452 pieces/people/parts.  Putting Humpty Dumpty back together again is impossible.  I am learning to accept that I will never be whole and that by the end of 2018, it could very well be just my mom and I.  How scary is that?  Very scary to me.  I keep trying not to think about it, but then Erma Bombeck’s final essay when she had Cancer, about burning the fancy candle keeps whirling through my mind.

I just accept that today is not going to be easy, simple or, “up”.  It is what it is, and that remains to be seen.


Listening to the Red Hot Chili Peppers…one of the best concerts, twice, I have ever seen.  Highly recommended,

So, I’ve been MIA since Halloween.  About spring of 2016, I went to the Christian Psych Hospital, because I am all out of private Medicare days, and this hospital-Pine Rest-does ECT.  I have Major Depressive Disorder, Bipolar Depression, ADHD Depression and PTSD Depression.  I hit the serotonin jackpot.  Not.  But I had 2 courses of 9 ECT treatments in the late 90’s.  The first course lasted about as long as this one- 1.5 years.  The second course, didn’t last a day.  But, we all know why that happened, cough, DID, cough.  So, right before Christmas, I was admitted inpatient, denied my swearing coloring books, but a small price to pay, and was set up for a course of 9 unilateral ECT sessions.  The last time I had ECT at Pine Rest they did an acute, 12 session, bilateral sequence.  I wound up with a brain the consistency of gruel, and a suicide attempt which landed me in a coma in ICU back in 2016.  So, about every year, I’ll have to go get ECT.  Small price to pay.  It works.

I asked the shrink this morning; “How much wattage goes through me?”  He said you know one of this little 25 watt Christmas bulbs?  Yes.  That’s what goes through you.  Huh.  For some reason I had like Frankenstein size wattage going through me.

So, I got discharged from the hospital so I could spend Christmas with my family.  My dad has Cancer, Frankly, I don’t know if this will be my last Christmas with my dad or not.  I made it a priority.  The hospital did too.  Which I appreciate.

Today was no. 6.  The world gets a bit brighter every time I get zapped- that is what I call it.  You get nono juice, anesthetic.  Bite guard, very humane.  And it works.

We had a super Christmas.  It’s always different when you’re playing for keeps.  Like Eminem says, that one shot.  Dad’s PET scan was yesterday.  He has Bladder Cancer, which can travel to his lungs.  But I say nay.  Nay nay fluffy.  Not getting my dad’s lungs.

When I was in the hospital, I realized hand sewing, embroidering, soothes me.  And you get fruits of your labors.  I’m not supposed to drive today, but I may go to Joann’s and get some hanky supplies.  Make a couple of hankies for dad’s birthday and Valentines day.

I called the bariatric surgery place again.  I don’t care if I have to start all over, but my bariatric surgeon calling me, “Fat”, more than once?  Not acceptable.  You no longer get the privilege to cut on this body.  And if you had a boss, but since you’re a doctor, you’re equal to God, so no boss…

My parts have been active, but quiet,  December 15th went by relatively smoothly.  I haven’t been troubled by any memories, flashbacks, just overwhelming depression.

Daily living activities- I changed my sheets today, I’m eyeballing the shower, and this room, let alone this house, it’s a mess.  This is what depression looks like.  A mess.  A fucking mess.

I’m not calling myself a mess, I’m depressed.  There’s a difference.  Because I’m not a mess, i’m actually a little more together than your average bear, but I’m still depressed, so I won’t be winning any house frau awards.  Or any other awards for that matter.  But that’s okay, i’m not motivated by awards.  Hell, i’m barely motivated…guess I’ll go back to the swearing coloring book.  I’m coloring the word, “Asshole” for one of the nurses.  I gave her my Wonder Woman punching Trump t shirt.  She collects Swatches.  Remember those?  I always want a fancy watch, but I short them out, maybe Swatch is the way to go…