The Part That Came In From The Cold

So, if you’re familiar with the, “Thanks, Obama” bullshit, I would like to express my sarcastically tinged homage to Trump.  Apparently, Nominee Trump is under yet another lawsuit, this one criminal, for repeatedly raping a 13 year old girl. The article, brought to me by The Huffington Post, also described a marital rape that Ivana- remember her?  Survived during her marriage to Trump in the 1980’s.  Some sexual assaults are covert.  Very subtle, not overtly violent, so much so, I never realized I had been sexually assaulted until the ordeal was done and behind me.  However, due to the violent nature of sex offenders, pedophiles and sexual predators, most, if not 99% of sexual assaults/torture and rapes are very much overtly violent in nature.  They are most often committed by someone the survivor knows very well.  They would have to, most of the time, because how do you gain that much access and control over another human being without being held accountable?

I remember the rape that Ivana testified to during the divorce proceedings.  Trump forced himself violently on her, and while raping her, pulled out her hair.  Trump had some hair or scalp damage due to a cosmetic scalp procedure that Ivana arranged.  Instead of taking out his ire on the cosmetic surgeon, the violent misogynist raped his wife and assaulted her.  I’m not even touching the whole Pussy shit storm that began the unravelling of Trump.  It’s not locker room talk.  It’s sexual assault, criminal talk.  He belongs in Prison not as a Predator Nominee for the highest office in this land.

But, after reading the Huffington Post article, I fell asleep.  To three hours of flashback sleep terrors.  I wish to be clear- flashbacks are memories with a twist.  You literally lose touch with the here and now, and are catapulted back to the memory being reenacted in your psyche, right down to the sights, sounds, tactile sensations, smells, temperatures, all your senses are engaged.  It’s not a bad memory.  It’s a full on recreation right down to the tactile sensations, tastes, etc of the experience being fully recreated in your sphere of sensations.  And you can’t escape, think about something else, distract etc.  Your ANS is holding you hostage all over again.  The only way you can understand a flashback is to have had one.  I’m sorry.  You can have as much sympathy for the survivor as Mother Teresa, but unless you have had flashbacks and can empathize?  Save your sympathy for the dictionary between shit and syphilis.  Cuz it does nothing. Not a damn thing.

So, because I fell ill yesterday with the flu, and I slept for three hours yesterday, I was having flashback dream terrors.  Being back in there cold, wet basement of 7 Crawford.  Age 7.  Hands tied behind back by Navy knots- cuz Mr. Roach was in the Navy, as was his son following dutifully in his wake.  In my orange/peach underwear, being whipped by a brown electrical cord.  While Mr. Roach sexually assaulted my mouth in-between beatings.  This is why I hate the fucking Navy, brown extension cords, damp basements, basements, being tied up-even if for pleasure, cuz its not pleasureful for me anymore after the torture in the basement at age 7.  You see, first was the cult- ages 4 and 5.  Then it mellowed-for a minute.  Age 6 was the sexual assault and sexual torture/slavery/human sex toy.  Age 7 was physical, mental and sexual torture in the basement because they were running out of ideas, and age 8 was when I ran and never looked back.  So excuse me if I correct you when you confuse a bad memory with a flashback.  Or don’t understand why from the second week of October through May I go into hiding.  Because I am not fit to be around human consumption.

I forgot to mention, age 6 and 7 was sodomy time.  They never vaginally raped me.  But they had their way with me.  And they’re off scot free, racking up more victims in Lakeland, Florida and I’m left to pick up the pieces.  I had one therapist-useless- write a note to my current and steadfast therapist-“I don’t think Suzanne has tapped into her anger yet.”  Bitch please!  It ain’t “anger”.  Anger is something that happens and then fades away.  Try murderous rage.  That would be more accurate assessment of my “anger”. I almost killed someone in 2nd grade from my rage.  Definitely not, “anger”.  Anger is for amateurs, I’m one, pissed off professional.

So, when I hear of Ivana’s brutal marital rape right before I fall asleep-and I remember her testifying to that rape.  I knew she was telling the truth.  I heard the fear and rage and terror in her voice.  Because I know what that is, what those feelings sound like when voiced, and the anguish you go through when you let out secrets because you’re sick and tired of being sick, miserable and quiet.  You know the consequences to speaking your truth.  Trust and believe we know the harsh reality of people avoiding us, judging US, the victims/survivors, leveling their uneducated and unwarranted opinions they lob at US instead of our perpetrators, because God Forbid, our trauma makes other people uncomfortable.  Bitch, please!  We survived that shit and we are not being silent anymore- punish the victim, not the perp.  Welcome to rape culture.  But, when I read and recall that memory of her testimony, then I fall asleep, and Mark comes out to play.

Yes, the part/alter that would not tell me his name for months.  When I did maps, he wouldn’t share his name.  Just his age and his job.  His sister- yes, my alters have alters who then have what are known as, “poly fragments”.  Not fully formed alters.  These alters have systems of their own in addition to the initial system I have.  I had 89 alters.  Including my parts parts.  When Rabbit Howls- a great fucking book about DID, she had, I believe 84 parts, which was unprecedented.  Her father was her perp.  Not surprising what all I went through, in combination with other social and familial factors, that I produced 89 invisible friends/parts/alters.  Sometimes I call my parts my invisible friends.  Not just to dumb down a very complex subject, but also because my split off bits of ego saved my sanity and life time and time again.  They saved my life.  But when I hear these things, I am sick and out of commission, Mark, who calls himself, “The Smart Part” because, hell, I’m sick, I’m down, what better time to unload some brutal ass flashbacks, so I can sort through them because all I can do is lay in bed, sick?  Two birds with one stone!  Genius.  Better than hijacking me before a presentation- which has happened numerous times, and I pulled off the damn presentations with no one the wiser.  Boom!

So, three hours Mark held me hostage, flooding me with flashbacks.  I couldn’t wake up.  I couldn’t even move, scream or cry out or beg for mercy in my dreamtime.  Nightmare.  Fucking nightmare.  Ron Jr’s red hair and crisp, blue eyes.  The camper we all used to hide out in.  Three look out points in the blinds, each one in accordance with our height.  Things that we, as incredibly confused children would do in the camper.  Mainly hide.  But the son, Ron Jr preyed on me and his sister.  Yeah, incest was not a foreign concept in this family.  I remember numerous times the son and Mrs. Roach having sex in the next room, while I was terrified and confused watching Becky zone into the TV.  WTF, over?!  Violent shit man.

The last time, and I do mean the very last time I was at the spa, they do a psychosocial on you.  Of course they ask about past abuse, but one of the new questions they’ve added is, “have you ever seen anyone killed?’  Deep inhale, then exhale.  Yes.  Several times.  When I was 4.  Most kids play at the park, I was watching people being murdered for thrills in the name of Satan in the basement of a small town funeral home.  So, yeah.  There’s very little I haven’t seen, heard or experienced unfortunately.

Do I not want to get better because this happens every year?  Am I dwelling?  Am I faking?  No, no and hell no.  I was a child, being subjected to adult situations with no support.  No siblings to commiserate with.  Couldn’t tell my parents, because if I told em, we were all dead.  Why?  I know what that man was capable of.  I saw it with my own eyes, and experienced it with all my senses.

So, yeah, when someone says something so fucked and twisted- it’s true.  It’s real.  Because they didn’t sit up and dream it up, it’s too fucked up to be violently raped and have a hunk of your hair ripped out because your husband is, “angry” at you.  We still blame the victim.  We live in a rape culture, where it is permitted, dismissed, and, worst of all, tolerated.  When I hear a Trumpette shouting that we libtards went in the corner and cried about Trump’s hot mic tape because they really believe we are upset because he said, “Pussy”.  No.  NO NO NO!  We’re pissed and enraged that he is commiserating with a fellow misogynist about committing SEXUAL ASSAULT.  Not a word.  Bitch, please.  You want to twist that so you can sleep at night and enable a sexual predator, go for it.  I feel horrible for your daughters.  Nice example.  When I see an egregious crime and criminal, I’m not going to be quiet about it.

True.  There are wrongs in this world I see daily and can do little to nothing about it.  But, when something egregious comes along, that I can stop or prevent,i.e. Dave or filling out a DA form about the Roaches to get them on the tolling law as well, I’ll fucking do it.  There will always be hatred and crime.  But if you do nothing, or don’t vote, or don’t volunteer or take any positive action towards a solution, you are the problem.  You are a perpetrator.  You are aiding and abetting criminal acts in this country.  Yup, Hillary’s actions ended lives.  Trump’s actions destroyed lives.  When you’re dead, you got no problems.  You’re free.  When you’re a survivor of any trauma- war, natural disaster, racism, sexism, sexual assault, torture ad infinitum, you live with that horrible thing, people or persons on the daily.  Day in and day out.  You get up every morning, knowing full well that at any point, any any time, anything can show up and fucking destroy you.  It’s three steps forward, two steps back.  Every.  Damn.  Day.

I’m a fighter.  I couldn’t have children.  No one wants to date me except freaks who need a leash.  I don’t give too big a damn.  Because, somedays, are like yesterday.  Going fucking awesome.  Read a triggering article and BOOM!  Out comes a part that holds more answers to your healing, and yes it’s fucking horrible.  But if I don’t go through it, I’ll never see the other side of it.  I’m afraid of very little.  I’ve seen and know too much to stop now.

But when someone pulls away, or trusts you enough to tell you the truth, trust and believe, it took a week for them to wrestle with that decision.  And we are fully aware of the consequences of staying silent and speaking up.  I’d rather speak up and out, than to stay quiet and die even more and let those fucking pieces of shit win more every day, while I’m trying to put myself back together as gracefully as I can, clean and sober-no bullshit- cuz if I wasn’t?  This- all this would never happen.  They would win.  Am I angry?  No.  I’m fucking enraged.  And it gets me by.  Because every day I open my eyes, put my feet on the floor and get up and out?  I win and they lose ground.  God detests ugly.  And believe me, they were some of the ugliest motherfuckers put on this planet.  Brought to you live from Satan’s G string.  So- Hillary’s actions caused death.  So does your inaction.  You stay silent, shut up and put up, look the other way, you let another sick fuck make a perfectly good person turn into a statistic, a shadow of who they used to be, or dead.

Hillary may be bad.  Arabs may be bad.  But if you don’t vote, get pissed, change something, do something, you might as well live with a Putin.  In Korea, China, some other country where you have no choices.  I’ve had the wonderful experience of not having any choices.  Trust me.  It sucks animal cock.  So, if you’re down with that, that’s cool.  But my action counteracts your inaction and your chance to have a choice.  You only miss it when it’s gone.  And that’s fucking pathetic.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hurts

Oh dear God.  Today would be my 25th unofficial class reunion, with the official reunion tomorrow.  Too much booze.  My class likes to have a good time.  Our five year reunion was a Fifth, and the invitation was in the shape of a bottle/fifth.  Yeah, was already an alcoholic by the time that one rolled around.  The 20th reunion was very cool.  This one, just…vibes don’t lie. If I have learned anything through this joinery of integration, is vibes don’t lie. Trust your gut; even if you’re switched, and an alter has taken over, trust the gut.  Just too much booze and no safe haven…

Well, slept like crap last night.  Hurts.  Lots of unresolved hurts that I am over feeling guilty about, but have not removed myself from the whipping post yet.  I’m not sure why.  If it goes to it will be too devastating to feel my way through all at once, or who will I be?  What will I leave behind, and how can I deal?

I seem to be running up to that question a lot lately:  Who will I be if I leave this chunk of anguish behind?  A happy, lighter person?!  A person who isn’t chained to her past and all her overdue mistakes?!  A person who will be happy, joyous and free?!  How about that?  How about we try that one on for size?  How about a more integrated, less chunked out human being?  Less pain, more gain?  It’s always going through it that hurts the most.

Problem is I know how much this is going to hurt.  I know how painful and emotionally trying and draining this is going to be, but if I don’t drop it, or shore myself up, I’ll have nights of broken sleep, no weight loss, no peace and no joy.  Who the fuck wants that?

My sponsor and my therapist are leaving for a week and a half.  I need to drop this shit.  If I just sit down and put pen to paper, reach out and use my support systems, I’ll make it through.  But I’m already turtling.  I’m already tucking back into my shell and yanking away from people.  If you read this blog regularly, or take the time to read this blog, y’all know I’ve been scarred.  Not just hurt, but scarred.  Literally and figuratively.  I just, I’m under a lot of stress right now- I know, who the fuck isn’t?  But because of the PTSD, stress freaks me out more.  Instead of being pro-active, I stall and go into freeze mode.  I have a mountain of homework to do, a career presentation, doctor’s appointments, step work, daily responsibilities, and I just am crumbling.  I’m falling apart.  I’m stressed, so hurts hurt more.  We know hurt people hurt people, so I have to be very mindful of that.  Very mindful.  I never realized how stressed I was and why things were hurting the way they did, and why I was beginning to have a bad night sleeping.

I see, grasshopper.  The horizon is more clear than before.  How do you eat an elephant?  One bite at a time…

 

 

 

Real Deal

Fuckin’ Hell.  I’m over it.  My new issue of Real Simple came and it said something like:  “The year devoted to you”.  Yeah.  It’s high time I made amends to myself, quit apologizing for my journey and existence, stop making an ass of myself, and groveling for affection.  Or, trying to get affection from people who see me as an option instead of a muthafunkin priority.  Which, this year?  Starting today?  I am.

Was at my therapists last night.  We’re exploring negative self esteem and the negative core beliefs that I operate from…Holy Fuck!  No wonder!  Jesus.  A little time out for Zuzu, goes a long fucking way.  I mean, I’m sneaking out tomorrow about three to go see Spectre and then Star Wars.  Yes, I pre-ordered my ticket.  But, I’m going to be in fantasy land, phone turned off for, like 8 hours.  Crazy!  When I was a kid, I used to escape my reality by reading.  I told my therapist:  I am super uncomfortable reading.  I feel as if I should be doing something.  Fuck!  I’ve turned into a human doing instead of a human being.  Suck ass.  For realz, yo.  I mean, I have books coming out my ears- like the Roman Empire’s library.  I’ve read 10% of them because I feel so guilty taking time out for me.  I mean, wow.  Super unhealthy.  I don’t even have kids.  I do, down to 10 parts, a lot of them littles, and I’m just like, totally overwhelmed.

December 1, 2015 was (and is, every year) World AIDS Day.  I asked my mom if she would like to go to a celebration/remembrance for WAD.  No.  Okay, why?  I had just, finally, viewed Dallas Buyers Club, and I was all jazzed, and she says, “No.  I will never support you in anything HIV/AIDS related.”  Okay, so when I die from shit from my HIV, like, I don’t know, Cancer, you wouldn’t take me to chemo?  She’s all I would’ve made a different choice, and it wasn’t my choice to make and I’m just not there yet.  All like five hours before the WAD ceremony.  Okay.  If I had known he was a lying fucking sociopath, dontcha think I would’ve pulled an Iron Maiden and Run to the Hills?  Woulda, coulda, shoulda, doesn’t really do me a whole lot of good right now.  One thing about my mom- I know where I fucking stand.  So, whatever…

January 4th, I start my Improv class and the 6th is volunteer orientation for HIV/AIDS organization here in town.  I’ll perform, make people laugh, hone a craft I adore, and then reach out and impact others.  Yes, Dave passing helped tremendously.  I feel a helluva lot more free.  Will there be romance in 2016?  I think so.  It’s way over due.  And it’s romance, not bullshit.

Speaking of bullshit, I found out that my first love, that I made amends to a million years ago, is married, was married, has someone.  Awesome.  The piece of shit has NEVER acknowledged he received the amends letter.  No, I’m married.  No, lose my everything.  Nothing.  Just, typical, you ripped my heart out, abandoned me, I’m going to humiliate you.  Kissed his friend in high school- way after we had broken up for the second time?  Walks behind me and says just loud enough for me to hear, “Whore”.  What about your fucking soul brother?  He’s just as fucking guilty.  But, no, fuck you too, ass wipe.

This is why I’m being 100% totally selfish and spoiling the fuck out of myself in 2016.  It starts now.  Went to my HIV case manager.  Made arrangements.  Bought myself some healing crystals and a Star Wars ticket;  Going to see my shrink.  Fuck all y’all.  I’ve been killing myself trying to be all things to all people and make everyone else happy before me.  Well, that fucking never works.  I understand, eat, pray, love now.  Walked into the crystal shop, sign in the breezeway- “eat, pray, love”.  Got it.  Done fucking deal.  I’ve never really acted like the only child I am, but fuck you, now?  Game on.  It’s all about me.

I saw someone speak about their experience, strength and hope a couple of weeks ago.  She remarked when she first sobered up, she didn’t even know what her favourite colour was.  Well, I don’t know what I like to do and how I like to treat and be treated.  I know, for a motherfucking fact, not being my authentic self, and putting everyone and everything and all their shit before my own?  I’m a fucking angry, bitter mess.  But I’m HALTing it.  Before I go off or some shit.  You know what?  I don’t exist to you?  Sweet, now I know where I stand and I don’t have to try to prove myself and sell you on the idea of me because my self esteem is so fucking low.  I think of myself as an ends to a means.  Not a means to an end.  I’m the problem, but I’m also the solution.  So, watch out bitches.

I lost Don, Dave and a few other people.  Some through my HP’s will, some through my own will.  Some just cause.  Maybe, I actually outgrew them, or saw their fucking horseshit games, and said, “enough”.  No wonder I relapsed.  I was living on empty, shallow, surviving instead of thriving.  I bought myself a necklace.  An old therapist said I needed a Badge of Honor.  The necklace is a semi colon necklace.  “All warr;ors have scars”.  Fucking a we do.  And you know what?  If you tip toed through my mental tulips, you’d freak the fuck out.  I’m fucked up.  If you had been and seen and lived through what I have- it’s a fucking MIRACLE I’m not nonverbal.  So stop pushing for more than I can give.  When I set my boundary and say, “enough”?  I mean that shit.  And fuck boy first love assholemonger?  As Don would’ve said, “Put that sonofabitch on extinction.”  And you know what?  My degree is in Sociology, not Anthropology.  Extinction, not excavation.

The only fucking thing I will be excavating in 2016, is my soul, heart, and mind.  My spirit was shmushed.  Just extinguished due to too many high winds and not enough fuel.

So, put your own fucking O2 mask on first- no fucking bullshit analogy there.  Cuz if you can’t breathe, you’re fucking dying, little by little.  Last time I checked, dead people couldn’t help nobody.  Even, obviously, their damn selves.  So breathe, mother fuckers, breathe. I know I am.