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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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I Need Ice…

Hello.  It’s been a minute since I have written.  I apologize for my vacancy, but, trust me, it was well worth the time away.  I spent most of the summer in hospitals.  That is a whole other story.  Truth be told, it began in April/May of this year, and ended in September.  So half my year was spent in a hospital.  I actually lost 35 pounds, only to gain it all back.  Thank you steroid shots in my Osteonecrotic knees!  But, I digress…

April and May, were spent in a mental hospital.  I was discharged, then was re-admitted- for ECT.  Yes, “shock therapy”.  Electroconvulsive therapy.  Don’t get all Cuckoo’s Nest on me.  Although lately I have been wanting, “My cigarettes, Nurse Ratchett!!!”  ECT is actually the gold standard for those people who suffer from treatment resistant depression. Which, I fucking qualify for, seeing as I had been suicidal since 2014.  Which no one knew or could tell; people could suspect, and did, but no one ever asked me if I was okay.  They saw me carrying on through life, as a normal person, albeit one with serious dents in her soul, but a person nonetheless.  So, yeah.  I had 11 sessions of bilateral ECT.  Was in the hospital for like, 4 or 6 weeks.  ECT gives you the sometime valuable gift of memory loss right before the treatments and directly during and even after.  So, you combine that with the memory loss that accompanies DID, I’m lucky I remembered my passwords to accounts due to severe memory loss.  But, I remembered who my tribe was, and that is really all that matters, I guess.

So, July 11th, 2016.  Crap day.  Why?  I had enough.  I had ECT brain, recalibrate med brain and stress brain.  I had kept going, kept dusting myself off, getting up again, begin to walk again only to be kicked in the teeth by someone or something again.  July 11th, I’d had enough.  See, the thing with ECT is this:  You have to give it a chance to work.  The shock from the electricity floods your brain with neurotransmitters- good and bad.  Until they recalibrate, even themselves out so to speak, don’t do a damn thing.  I kept doing things, instead of being gentle with myself and healing.  So, I attempted suicide.  Feel free to read that over gain, as many times as necessary, cuz this is where it gets intense.

I took one of those ginormously, supersize bottles of a benzo, tossed some neuroleptics in there and threw a few Motrin in there to sleep.  I wanted to die. Some people who attempt suicide don’t want to die, that is not their deep intention, they just crave relief.  My pain was physical, mental, emotional and spiritual.  The traumas had impacted every core, nook and cranny of my soul.  There were some crevices affected as well.  But, I had been on mental health road to recovery since 1999/2000.  It was 2016.  Shouldn’t I get a fucking reprieve sometime?  I mean, it just kept getting worse!  It never fucking ended.  Being a grown up is  not an easy task, but having emotional and psychological bullshit, Like, oh, I don’t know, finding out you were a sexual rag doll and sacrifice candidate at age 4, is a lil much.  I had enough.  And fuck anybody who says, “Depression is just anger turned inward.’  Okay, sparky, sometimes yeah.  Self-pity can go a long way, but my depression is in my DNA and my psyche.  My Major Depressive Disorder, Bipolar Depression, PTSD depression and DID Depression is more than anyone can bear for an extended point in time.  I’d been carrying it for 16 years- OVER IT!!!  DONE!!  FUCK YOU!

People were too busy, or all they talked about was themselves and their problems, and?  I let them.  Because what, why?  Who the fuck wants ro hear at age four I was forced to eat human flesh and that is why I can no longer eat Raw Salmon sushi?  Who in the right zip code of normal wants to hear that?  They’re just pissed at their man.  Or stressed due to life.  I have HIV, a serial killer for an ex, haven’t been laid in an eon because people are terrified to even kiss me, drink out of my glass.  Forget kissing.  Nope.  Even though in the fucking 80’s/early 90’s it had been determined the HIV could NOT be transmitted through saliva.  But whatever.  The things I miss and don’t have are things other people take for granted and are a necessary part of being human.  But whatever.  You’re just crazy Zu.  Get to a meeting.  Get out of the house.  Get out of your head.  Well, you know what?  Being outside with the human race is fucking scary.  Y’all ever seen Rosemary’s Baby?  That was my life.  Fuck!  That was my childhood.  That shit is real.  Who in the fuck wants to hear about that?  Who in the fuck wants to hear about Dave?  It’s not that easy  to just let shit go, just let it go.  I can’t.  I know what damage and how evil and disgusting and terrifying humans can be.  We are the worst specimens of depravity.  We’re horrible.  The evil men can accomplish.  Plus, I’m mentally ill, so that discredits me right there.  “Oh”, they say, “She’s just crazy”, or “She’s just having a bad day”.  No, thank you very little, I’ve had a bad life.  I finally asked my therapist if it was fair and not in the victim role, for me to say, fairly, “people have been excessively cruel to me.”  Trust me, I know what damage man can do.  Evil man, fucking some evil, hated shit.

And I get to keep that.  That’s always in the back of my mind.  When I got through Meijer- Oops!  Yes, I live in the lovely mid/central west.  Right in the buckle of the Northern Bible Belt.  But, I look at people and think, “What’s their story?”  “What evil has man done to them, or they to someone else?”  There is no Stranger Danger.  It’s your fucking neighbor, your coach, your minister, your teacher, the babysitter.  Whoever has the closest access to you, is most likely to fuck your world up big time.  Because they have access to you, they’re closer to you than anyone else.  And they’re going to take advantage of it, and you.

But, July 11th.  So I swallow a ton of pills, kiss the cat, and prepare for take off.  I wake up in a hospital bed.  With my infectious disease doctor at my bedside. I called her name, reached for her, then fell back.  Next thing, I know, my HIV case manager is at the foot of my bed.  Later, the next day, apparently, both my doctor and my case manager were at the foot of my bed.  The next thing I know, my eye are fluttering and this handsome ass, bald, black man says, “let’s go”.   I fall back into bed.  I come to in a hospital bed in a hospital room.  But it’s fucking LOUD!!!!  I grab a phone, start calling people.  Trying to piece together how in the fuck I wound up in this place, whatever the fuck this place was.  I knew it was part of a hospital, but it wasn’t at the same time.

My voice was squeaky and gravelly.  They had had to intibate me.  I look down in my hospital gown, my left boob, over my heart, has a big, black/purple bruise on it.  WTF, over?!  I was paddled?  What the Fuck is Going The Fuck on?!

In walks Brigid.  My psych PA.  Who the fuck are you, what the fuck is this place, what the fuck happened?  Somebody, please tell me what the fuck is going on?!  I felt like Chris Penn in Resevoir Dogs when shit goes down at the end of the movie.  But, Brigid and her lackey- who was very sweet, began to tell me that they decimated my, “polypharmacy”, because she didn’t like it.  They treated me like an addict.  Like I had taken all the drugs because I OD for a high, not to close the curtain.  I was told to go to IOP when I got out.  I had to call Brighton Hospital and put my name on the bed list.  In a month, and August 15th, because it was only like, July 18th, I celebrated 8 years of continuous sobriety.  Yes, I thought I had relapsed.  No.  I didn’t. I used a medication after a surgery to relieve pain.  It was prescribed for a legitimate medical emergency/reason, I did not abuse it, I did not sell it, I did not pawn my shit to go buy more or prostitute myself for more Oxy.  I didn’t.  I had been strung out on Oxy back from 2005-2007.  I detoxed myself off the Oxy like any good addict/alkie would.  With Benzos and more Booze.  So I didn’t go into A-Fib.  I survived, I kicked Oxy.  But the fact that I was using it to deal, or not deal with my post surgical pain, scary the everloving fuck out of me. And I panicked.

Anyways, Brigid slashed my meds to nothing.  Nothing for my psychosis, nothing for my nerves, nothing for sleep.  I basically never slept during my whole stay in PsychLab.  Yup, PsychLab.  6th floor of St. Mary’s Hospital.  Psychiatric Jail.  My mom had petitioned me.  As well she should have, she was the one who fucking found me.  Yup.  Christmas came early for my mom, courtesy of me.  Yeah.  Not a proud moment at all.  So, she petitioned me.  Turns out, e’erybody up in PsychLab had been petitioned and had medical problems.  So we were all nuts and physically ill.  There was a dude there who had just left prison- where he spent most of his time in solitary- I forgot what it is called now.  It’s not called solitary anymore, I think it is called Isolation or some such shit.  But he was put in solitary, because in the main population, he would’ve been kilt.  It was for his safety.  To keep him alive and safe.  Fo reals.  Anyways, my roommate was an older woman named Claire.  She was a Sundowner.  She had early onset Alzheimer’s.  The kind where you hallucinate.  She had kept me up for several nights.  I told Brigid she was in bad shape and she was a danger to herself and she didn’t  belong there.  But, I was just an addict.  What the fuck did I know?  So, one night, not long after I told em she was in trouble, she wakes up in the middle of the night and starts pulling the divider curtain down.  Like she’s climbing.  I’m hitting the fucking nurse button like my life depends on it.  Three of em come busting in the room, catch her in the act of tearing the curtains down- thank sweet baby Jesus- and move her into a private room.  Turns out there is a whole crew of Sundowners up there.  There was no segregation, no special treatment.  You were sick physically and mentally, and you had endangered yourself- or someone(s) else, and you get tossed into PsychLab.  Or, as I called it- The isle of misfit nut jobs.  That place was awful.  Not that it is supposed to be the four seasons.  Psych hospitals are not nice places.  You would think, “Oh they need to heal and recuperate in a calm and healing/soothing atmosphere.  So, let’s paint it green and cream and let em fend for themselves.  The social worker was a see you next Tuesday as well.  Didn’t want to hear about my continuous sobriety, or my PTSD or that I needed antipsychotics for my bipolar or PTSD or – forget DID.  It didn’t exist there or any of the damn fucking shitholes I frequented after.  Just wait. It gets better.

So, I saw my mom since I attempted.  Me with Coma, ECT and fucking OD Brain does the brilliant thing of putting it on social media.  I know, I know.  Trust me, I know.  But, she tells me I had been in a coma in Critical Care for four days- ICU- and there was a chance, a good one, that I would come out of the coma.  I am so grateful I never finished my advance Directive, because I would not be writing this.  I would cease to be.  Looking back, I realize I had been planning on exiting the scene for some time.  I made my mom my Legacy Contact for my Facebook account.  Was giving away shit hand over fist.  It was ridiculous.  I had been planning this for at least a year.  Made my world so small.  I only talked to like, two people.  Not including my therapist.  I mean, I figured no one would notice.  No one ever called, or emailed or text or IM me.  So, I figure I had made myself so unremarkable, no one would notice.  You know how shit never turns out the way we think it will?  How our perception totally does not reflect reality?  Yeah.  I’ve been dealing with that.  It’s September and my mom still has all my psych meds.  And I fucking let her because I fucking fucked up.  I screwed a big, ole pooch, big time.  I pissed off and hurt so many people.  I felt like dog shit.  Lower than a snake’s nuts, I did.  But PsychLab was interesting.

My new roommate after Claire was a straight up addict.  I know I can’t say that, because I don’t know and we never talked, because she was passed out all the time.  I mean, when you’re on Oxy, Norco and Valium, and you take all your blood pressure pills to attempt suicide, you’re in for some harsh fucking reality.  And I wanted to beat this bitch’s ass, so fucking bad.  She had a loving husband, who knew the pills were the problem, she had, like a couple of beautiful children, her husband was doting and devoted.  Things I would fucking eat a heart for, and she’s pissing it away for synthetic heroin.  Now, don’t get me wrong.  She was beyond active in her addiction, she was fucking thriving in it.  Because her disease of addiction was so entrenched and heavy, none of the other shit mattered.  I had to save her one night from a predator.  He saw her passed out on her belly.  Started mumbling about something he, “wanted to Show her”, and left the room to go get whatever the fuck it was.  Then, one of the Napalm Nurses- cuz the nursing staff there was tough as nails.  They were some of the best fucking Nurses I have EVER had the privilege of working/being treated by.  Those fucking Nurses.  My God, with the crowd in there? They should all be awarded the highest nursing honors in their field.  They were fucking tough.  I called em the Napalm Nurses.  If they liked you, which they liked me, the staff liked me, I liked the staff.  The nurses and staff were good to you and for you.  If you were a special flavor of fucked up, they could make your life a living hell.  I saw em do it.  The Internal Med doc was awesome.  I mean the staff there are five-star, top shelf, all aces human beings.  They were remarkable.  My only bitch?  They d/c ed me with only a seven day supply of meds- by the book according to the mental health code, but the problem was?  I wasn’t seeing a psychiatrist for another 28 days.  I had no benzos for my anxiety, no anti-psychotics for my PTSD and Bipolar.  I hadn’t slept but four hours every other night being there.  So, that was affecting my damn Bipolar.  My stomach was coleslaw.  I’m still taking prilosec.  But, it was a cool, neat little floor.  One of my friends tried to find me.  She teaches a physical wellness class at the hospital.  Her and the staff person couldn’t find me.  I wasn’t even listed in the computer- I was totally cloaked, totally not even on the radar.  Non existent.  But, Dr. Krause was the fucking bomb.

My last day there? I had this fucking, piece of shit, MA come in to take my blood sugar.  Now they have to poke my fucking finger to do this.  He is gloved, protected above and beyond Universal Precautions, doesn’t touch me, throws, Yes.  The fucking bastard threw the bandaid at me.  Everyone else put it on me, but he fucking shoves it at me, I take it and he snatches his hand away.  First of fucking all, I’m undetectable.  What does that mean?  I have less than 18 copies of the HIV Virus in my body, it is damn near scientifically and physically impossible for me to transmit HIV.  So, unless we pulled a blood brothers thing, he was just a piece of shit.  So I ratted on him.  I told Dr. Krause, that little fucker’s HIV Etiquette sucks, he’s lawsuit material.  If you don’t, somebody else will.  I’m just telling you that whole five minute exchange between me and the MA was fucking degrading, humiliating, and completely disrespectful and unecessary.  Dr. Krause was all over it.  Bless that man.  Dr. Bell was there too.  He’s bat shit crazy.  Dr. Frankenstein.  I begged him to be sent home.  I begged Brigid to be sent home.  I couldn’t fix my life and get better in there.  So NOT therapeutic.  Everything I need to get better was outside the hospital.  There was no AA in there.  There was no sponsor.  There was zero mental health care.  I needed to get out so I could get on.  Dig?

So, I was discharged July 28th.  I saw my old shrink two days later.  Didn’t sleep. My sleep has been erratic at best.  I have insomnia now like a mother.  So my shrink throws me into the View.  I finafuckingly slept.  I slept for 18 hours.  18 motherfucking hours.  My roommate was a Schizoaffective anorexic with a factitious disorder of MCS.  My mom cannot smell.  Her olfactory was knocked out the  she was a kid due to a fever.  She’s asomic.  So, this fucking bitch of a roommate claims my laundry smell is so overpowering, she was FORCED to stay up all night because it was affecting her “MCS”.  She kept the whole wing up that night crying at her wailing wall with her fucking Bible asking God to  help her, kill her, what the fuck ever.  Amir comes in- another Napalm Nurse, but a kinder, gentler Napalm Nurse at the View, comes in to give me my blood sugar and pee cup.  He says something about her (my roommate Stacy), and her, “shenanigans”.  Now Amir is a Lebanese (Arab) sexy young thing from the Bronx.  So try to imagine an Arab dialect combined with the Bronx, combined with a midwest dialect and you have Amir.  Or Amiree, as I called him.  Which is arabic for, “My Amir”.  You put the ya after a name, and it means mine.  It’s like the word Habibi- which means my love et al.  Term of endearment.  Anyways, Stacy was in the bathroom and Amir, in his dialect blasts out shenanigans I’m silently screaming and pointing to the bathroom.  He says, “Ah well, Fuck it”.  This is why I love Amir.  And Lord would I love to love me some Amir.  But I was in the View from the 30th (Friday?!) to Monday.  I used my last free standing, private hospital Medicare days at the view.  I will miss the people, the staff, the trauma program, Dr. Ross, the lunch ladies, who knew I was leaving and could never come back unless I married someone with fucking titties and beer mental health insurance and a phat paycheck, made, on my truly, last day there, no bake chocolate cookies for me.  I mean, From tough love PsychLab, to soft, gentle place to fall, Forest View.  I mean, man.  I’m going to miss them and that place and all the healing I did there. I was diagnosed with DID there in August of 2008 by Dr. Ross.  89 parts down to 4 parts in 8 years.  Suck on that!

But, Stacy was bitching about my laundry and blah blah.  I rolled over, pointed at her, and barked, “You bust on my mama’s laundry, I’m gonna bust on you!  We clear?” rolled back over and told myself she wasn’t worth going back to the eighth ring of hell for trauma patients, PsychLab.  Or prison, because I wasn’t the only one who wanted to beat her ass.  And I’ll be even more brutally honest- I haven’t wanted to kick someone’s ass since I went to jail in 99 for a domestic.  And I beat him down too.  Pierce of shit.  But anyways.  I’m freaking out because it’s three grand a day at the view without insurance.  It’s fucking expensive.  I don’t have the money.  My folks don’t have the money.  My doc wants me to stay another day.  I was in such a state of panic, he literally said he would pay for my stay if I had a bill.  He was going to make sure I didn’t have a bill and was making sure I was in good physical and mental health.  He used to be an Internal Med doc.  He gets it.  Apparently, I wasn’t the first patient for him to afford that much generosity to.  He does that from time to time if people need care and cannot afford to stay.  He’s a fucking top shelf, awesome, stand up guy.  He’s my Iranian father figure.  Love him.  Cancelled the other shrink.  Fuck him.  Seven days worth of meds.  I’m Dual Diagnosis/ Co-Occurring Disordered.  I’m nuts and an addict.  Get with the program.  I have to work mental health and substance abuse recovery programs.  I have to be vigilant with both or I’m completely fucked!!!  Completely.  But, whatever.  So I get out of there on Monday the 30th to start Partial Hospital on Tuesday.

This is where I end.  So much has happened, one blog ain’t going to cut it.  I really wanted to explain the whole PsychLab experience in further detail, but my computer has been down, it got a virus and crashed and I had to replace it just this week.  My laptop is also MIA.  So, I have been technology deprived.  I had my phone, but can you imagine me typing all this on a smartphone?  HELL NA.  So, I have to get ready for my women’s meeting, spell and grammar check this, and be there by 7:15 am.  It’s 5:29 am.  EST.  So, yeah.  There will be another few installments.  Shit has been popping, trust me.  This is the tip of the iceberg, fo reals.

So, on that note…

 

 

 

Dave is Dead

About a week ago, I found a magnet on my door.  Some fuck nut had put a magnet on my door (private entrance), and it fucked up my security system.  So, all morning, I was on the phone with personal calls and then to the security company.  Well, I didn’t have the proper information.  My father was here when it was installed, because I was probably in the hospital.  Anyways, there was A LOT of information I needed to get clearance that I did not even know I needed.  Communication is weak in my family.  Very weak.  So, my dad is up North watching my 100 year old grandmother.  He’s being a smart ass- cuz, naturally, I thought it was Dave fucking with me.  So, my father blows me off.  Which hurt and caused old wounds to open up- you don’t care, you never protected me, blah x 3.  Then, he calls me back and tries to tell me what to do, he wasn’t hearing what I was saying.  So, we yell and he hangs up on me.  K.  Dee.  (His father)

So, then I call Dave’s old Parole Officer to see where to send the PPO.  The PO calls me back and leaves me a message: “Dave is Dead. He died last week.  Dave is dead.  You don’t have to worry about him bothering you anymore.  Dave’s Dead…”  WTF!!!!!!!

So, after I inhaled, I started to sob.  Belly aching, heart breaking sobs.  I mean, like, the full body sobs?  I’m a mess.  He was a monster.  And why he was a monster and how he became a monster, I’m not 100% sure, but I know some aspects and those are private.  Some things are best left unknown.  Even he deserves some peace. He always tried to seek God.  He tried to be a monk, he tried to go to church.  He tried everything.  Well, God is love as one of my friends told me tonight.  And, as a medium, he did make it to the other side- the light side.

His PO has no idea what he died from, we guess physical problems- HIV, HEP C, Diabetes, IDU Meth Addict.  I think he overdosed on meth as a suicide run.  That’s my bet.  AS his PO said, “doesn’t really matter, we all wind up the same.”  A freaking men.  A freaking men.

So, after I gained my composure, I called the security system company.  Apparently, my system has been in test mode for some time and I have a faulty device.  Really?  Just so happens, the beginning of the year, my neighbors stole my WIFI and changed my password.  I had to change it to something they would never guess.  Then, the magnet on the door, and something else.

And now that Dave is gone and no one knows?  Mm mm.  I gotcha.

SO, now that Dave has passed away, how do I feel?  Torn.  Really torn.  But really glad he’s not in pain and tormented anymore.  Neither are we.  We’re all free.  I think that means I have forgiven him and now I can heal.  Really heal.  Cuz I was never able to heal or grieve constantly looking over my shoulder since 2012. Jesus, what a shitty year that was. Christ!  Lost F Dog, lost Chris, Lost Button, found out I was a SRA survivor, Interferon and Dave’s trial.  Fuck that year.  If I was ever going to drink, that would have been the year.

So, I can’t sleep. I’m starving and all I have is a turkey Lean Cuisine.  Every time I get  up, I get out of breath and my chest hurts.  I don’t know wtf that is about.  I’m tired.  Just tired.  And I got a four year old coming tomorrow morning.  Er, this morning.  Jesus.  I can’t do it.  I can’t do…everyday is a battle.  With PTSD, DID, HIV, alcoholism squirrel brain, war with God, neighbors, no friends, no men, I’ve been sick with a bacterial infection for two weeks.  I was so sick last Friday, I was hallucinating.  Fuct up.  I just can’t do it.  At least, right now, I don’t feel I can do it.  I just feel like I’m almost at the top of the mountain.  Just a little further and I’ll be there, but I’m so fucking tired.

I cut a bunch of fuckers out of my facebook account.  I cut out some really long term friends who have just not been there for me and I haven’t been there for them, insensitivity, circumstances, life.  Just trimming the fat.  Plus, if they don’t give a damn about me when the shit hits the fan in my life, when I’m there for them when the shit hits the fan in their life, wtf am I hanging around for?  Or, I never hear from them?  What’s the fucking point?  None.  Just noisy fuckers.  Fuck em where they eat their eggs.

So, it’s 2:37 am here on the EST.  Usually they’d be coming home, waking me up.  I’m thinking about a food run.  It’d be fast food, but it would be something in my gut.  I need to take care of myself really hard core especially now.  No lip service, action only.

Well, I hope you are all doing well.  Life’s a bitch.  Get a helmet.  Thanks Denis Leary.