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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Where Did I Put My Big Girl Panties?!!!

I’m having a really rough day.  Not intentionally.  When you compare mental illness to Cancer or Hunger or Homelessness or, HIV, people put mental illness on the back burner.  Akin to HIV, it is your fault and of your own making.  Not a genetic, organic disorder of the brain, which receives a horrid rap because it affects my behavior.  Because if I act screwy, in our American, Western culture, I am defective.  If someone goes in for Chemo, because of the BRACA (sp) gene, you don’t see them getting blamed for her/his breast Cancer.  Yes, men get breast cancer, hard to believe, but they qualify too.  They get a ribbon, a race, a drive, pink EVERYTHING, and those of us with mental illness, get blamed, shunned and silenced.

Listen, about a month ago, I wanted to make out with a .45.  Not because I was having a pity party, or because I wanted attention or some such bullshit.  As a matter of fact, I carried on like nothing was wrong.  No one had a clue.  I don’t let but two people in my home, so no one could see how I was successfully NOT managing day to day life.  I suited up, I showed up, I was there for my family, and then I had enough.  I 911 called my therapist, and bless her soul, she proceeded to talk me off the ledge for 45 minutes, until I was calm enough and rational enough and wanted to live enough to see the next day.  April 2, I went inpatient.  NOT to the spa, where I usually go; because all my Free Standing Psychiatric Hospital Days from Medicare had been exhausted- for life.  So, God Forbid, I’m out somewhere traveling, have an episode, and there are no psych units attached to a medical facility.  I’ll be stuck with a ginormous bill, or have to, pray to God, my medicaid will buy me enough time to get back on my feet.

Now, most/three of you that read this blog, know my abuse was forced participation in a satanic cult, ritual abuse, religious abuse, and general overall physical, sexual, mental and emotional torture.  Hence the DID and PTSD.  NEITHER of which I asked for, nor had much of a choice about and was a child, so I was completely powerless.  My Bipolar, clinical Depression, ADHD- all genetic.  Had no say in those either.  Just like people with Cancer don’t get much of a say in their illness, or birth defects, etc.  Sometimes, you’re just dealt a farmer’s hand.  And you play your cards the best way you can, till you get a better hand.  Unless you’re stuck with the 6 of Diamonds or 8 of clubs and you’re playing euchre.  Then, you just gotta pray for your partner to get a loner, or “Partner’s Best”.  Even then?  No guarantees.  But, twice around the barn to get to the house- people with Mental Illness, even PTSD and DID, we don’t or didn’t have any say so in our diseases/disorders.  Mental illness has a HUGE stigma, and because it is a “behavioral” problem, not an organic brain illness, we are among the marginalized, discriminated, shunned, et al.  “My last girlfriend was a total psycho.  She was totally Bipolar”.  And what the hell were you to A.  Stay with her, B.  Make her stress worse so her Bipolar episodes were more frequent, and C.  you’re about a empathetic and compassionate as a ball peen hammer in the face.  Subtle, jerk off, real subtle.

So, I go to the Christian Mental Health Hospital 4/2 on my 5 month clean date.  I had my own room. My own shower, my own toilet, my own everything.  WHAT THE FUCK, OVER?  I’ve been in some shit holes when it comes to psych hospitals.  Roommates throwing their urine sample in my face when I’m sleeping, no shower curtains on the showers, people coming into your room in the middle of the night, just wandering around going through your shit.  On the same unit with prisoners, sexual predators; for a while they were putting the Dementia/Alzheimer’s patients in with Bipolars, Schizophrenics.  That changed pretty quick.  Now people who are violent, or volatile, are classified as, are you ready?  “Reactive”.  They do ECT at the Christian Place.  Fuck, I should call it the fucking Ritz Carlton, cuz that is what it was.  Actual Psych nurses who immediately answered your requests and addressed your needs.  If you needed to talk to someone, Boom!  They made time.  Even the techs had human heads.  It was very chill.  I should have stayed longer, as I am going back into their partial program on Monday.  The wheels are falling off the bus.  Not in the DID sense- although Easter week was pretty much the driving me over the edge factor due to heavy Christian calendar rotation and anniversary memories.  I mean, when I quit drinking and drugging 8.15.08, my DID system had 89 parts.  I have used up all my psych hospital days, twice a week therapy sessions, 12 step programs, DBT sessions, yoga, and now I’m all but down to 3 parts.  All of which, I am co-conscious with.  But it sucked.  It was hard work.  I lost friends.  Alienated people.  Being in a relationship, friend or intimate with someone who has a serious and persistent mental illness is a drain.  Just like caring for an aging parent or a sick spouse- I burned people out and turned people off.  All the while trying to maintain regular participation in 12 step program.  Which, even though all mental illness receives is a brief acknowledgment, a nodding glance, if you will, in 12 step programs, you’re there to talk about the reason for the 12 step group-whatever it may be.  The fact that I have, as a doctor put it, “A lot of internal triggers” (Just what the fuck does that mean doc?), means my thinking is awful.  Well no shit!  You needed a degree and a job to tell me that?  FUCK!  I had NO idea!!!!  Fuck you.  If you were forced to eat human flesh, watch people murdered/sacrificed, almost die umpteen million times over, get tortured, raped etc all from age 4 to age 8, what would you do?  Your ass wouldn’t be alive, motherfucker.  Don’t tell me I have, “internal triggers”.  I have horrific, intrusive, incredibly inconvenient, inconsistent, not friendly, not nice memories that plague me daily.  Sometimes they are louder, sometimes they stuff for the day, but let me make one thing crystal fucking clear:  The ONLY reason I have “Internal Triggers” is because some fucking douchebag grown up decided to torture an innocent child and not give two shits about my welfare and if I lived or died, because they were hard fucking core psychopaths.  CLEAR?!

So, yes, when I have days like today where I wake up to what feels like boundary ambush, I immediately, I mean, without even thinking go into automatic survival, fight, flight, freeze or play dead mode.  I don’t get a choice.  With my ex, and my HIV status, I had a choice.  I chose wrong.  But, he also didn’t have to run around giving everyone HIV without their knowledge, consent and lying to you while looking your dead in the eye while saying, “No, I’m okay.  I don’t know how, but I’m okay.”  I’ll own my part in that shit show.  But, for the most part, homeboy had a homicidal mission.  Much like the dick wads that tortured me as a child.  I used to call them, “People”, but human beings would not do anything like that to a child.  Monsters?  Yes.  People?  No.

So, I digress.  Obviously.  But I have been in fight or flight mode all day.  It’s not fun.  I would way rather be doing anything else than this, and thinking and feeling this way.  Because, honestly?  It feels like I never get a break.  I need a fucking vacation.  I mean to like Bali or some fucking where.  Where I don’t have to think or do or heal, I can just snorkel.  Fuck.

So, I’m clearly angry and clearly pumping quarters in the ass kicking machine and clearly forcing myself out of the nest waaaaaaaayyyy before I am ready to fly.  I’ve had enough bad days.  I need a few good days.  I don’t know how to have fun.  I only thought I had fun drinking.  I have yet to discover consistent sober fun.  And that’s on me.  That’s my fault.  But when all you’re doing is in and out of psych hospitals and constantly being told how sick you are and being rejected by the opposite sex because of this or that label, it makes me want to, say, make out with a .45.  It’s like give me a fucking break.  Just a small break. A reprieve from terror and fear and stress and intensity.  Joy.  Where the fuck is the joy?  I know I make it all happen by small steps.  Cleaning my sink, making my bed, but when you are constantly feeling hunted, those things aren’t real high priorities.  House keeping is important, for many obvious reasons, but who you’re fearing for your life and you rationally know there is no logical reason why you are terrified and hyper vigilant, and can hear an art fart across your home in your basement, a clean sink loses.  Every single fucking time.  Then you have the drudgery of housework.  On top of depression.

I was also- I know right, when is this shit going to end-sexually assaulted in the shower as a child.  So, me and showers, not the closest.  THAT is precisely when I know I don’t want to play ball anymore.  When my self care and hygiene are so shitty, I can’t even stand me, I know I’m in trouble.  And that is where I’m at.  I want to fetal and, I’m just tired.  I’m exhausted.

I met someone from a dating site.  That was how I met Dave.  They auto renewed my account so, I have to deactivate it, but this guy wants to Skype tonight.  I think that is the long distance equivalent of “Netflix and Chill”.  Sorry dude.  I ain’t got time for kindergarten games.  And I ain’t your bitch.

Well, my internet blog troll/rant is over.  I feel better.  Not better, alleviated.  I still want to hide under the covers and I have no idea why.  It’s super easy for me to spew this shit to a faceless computer and a nameless internet.  I can’t tell anyone this shit anyways and expect to keep people in my life.  It’s fucking horrific.  But, this is my life. “Pathetic and sad”, but my life.  Right now, I’m in a low, meantime point.  This too shall pass, my grandfather used to say.  I learned today that, “Grandpas don’t lie”.  Mine never did.  The Captain is on The Ship, and His Eye is on the Sparrow.

I’ll search for my big girl panties tomorrow.  It’s a whole new day, right?!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Drop that bitch!

So, in a recovery program, steps 5, 6, & 7 teach you how to own up.  Steps 6 & 7 are the ones where you look at your character defects- your seven deadlies and how you act out upon them- show them to the world, you little pot-stirrer, you!-and ask your HP to remove them- Humbly ask.  So, there’s a book designed for steps 6 & 7- Drop The Rock.  I highly suggest to ANYONE who wishes to improve his/her life.  It’s just damned good.

Everyday, I have an app I subscribe to: The Leo King.  It describes the astrology for the day, planet energy and a tarot card for the day et al.  Today was the 7 of Pentacles reversed.  Why are you raking up dead leaves?  Why are you tending are garden that needs to be left fallow- there’s a word for you!  Let that shit go- DROP THAT BITCH!!!!!

So, last night in therapy, I come up with the term, Drop that Bitch!  Drop it!  No longer serves you?  Let it go to the wayside.  “Leave it”, as you would tell your dogs.  “Wrecking Ball”…intersante.  So, show of hands- how many people had a shitshow for Christmas?  That’s what I thought.  I had three people come out of the woodwork.  One is irrelevant.  Two was an ex-friend.  And three was the kinky Scotsman.  WTF, over?  So far, I’ve blown off two of the three.  The one I’m obsessing over is the irrelevant one.  Drop that Bitch! Let it go.  Just not that into you…Remember that one?  If they want to spend time with you, they will move mountains.  And not hesitate to do so.  Here’s another secret- you are/I am worth a mountain, or 12.

So, I talked to my tattoo artist yesterday.  Yes.  It’s time.  I’ve turned another corner.  My knees ain’t getting any better neither.  As a matter of fact, they are getting worse.  I have a four hour window where I am good, then I am useless and pained for the rest of my waking hours.  Oh, if only I had known.  But hindsight is 20/20.  So don’t put glasses on your ass and look back!  Drop That Bitch!!!

So, I’m down to, like 4-ish parts.  From 84.  to 4.  Since 2008.  7 years.  I’ve worked my ASS off.  Dropped that bitch/bitches.  I was cleaning out my desk and found the piece of paper that had my hep C cysts imaging on it, before I began Interferon in 2012.  During Dave’s trial.  Stone cold sober.  Bitches.

Oh yeah, my house has a ghost that likes mischief/gremlins.  My bipap machine stopped two times last night.  MM hmm.  My teacher is coming over to smudge next Tuesday.  All over that shit.

So, 2015 was an interesting year.  Dave’s gone.  Drop That, Bitch!!!!!  WOOO HOOOOO!!!!!  Not my fucking problem, anymore.  Went back to whence he came.  My neighbors all think I’m crazy.  Sweet.  Stay away.  And maybe I am nuts, I’m also an artist.  Fine line.  Friends with the monster…Drop them bitches!

So, today the advice is- if it’s making you crazy, restless and discontent- Drop it.  Just let it go.  You can only control you and your reactions.  Today has the potential for emotional volatility, so think before you speak.  Yes.  I just said that.  And for God’s sake:  DROP THAT BITCH!!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

The Trifecta of Therapy

It is done.  The Trifecta in the big therapists office in the sky is complete.  Donald Eric Arvidson passed away on Sunday, December 6, 2015.

I got my period at age 12.  In the spring.  That summer, something changed.  I morphed into a depressed, sullen kid who had trouble with the simplest things.  I told my mom, “Something’s wrong with me.  I think I need help.”  She never looked up from her computer work, “You’re fine.  There’s nothing wrong with you.”  That fall, I tried a feeble suicide attempt because, oh I don’t know- I was stealing my parents wine, drinking it on the bus to school, and taking very long hall passes while sneaking pulls of wine that I had stashed in my leather jacket sleeve in my locker during class.  The police came, the ambulance came, they heard it on the very small town police scanner.  So, the next day at school, thank God, more people were concerned with treating me with kindness and compassion more than scorn.

So, I, naturally, started to see Mrs. Chrichton, the school’s best counselor.  I’d get a hall pass to go see her and I would go down and try to talk to her.  Hmm, no wonder I can’t sleep.  High winds and today was Don’s memorial.  I digress.  Mrs. Chricton could relate to me.  She was a wonderful, tough, and loving woman, who, ultimately, recommended me to Don.

I was terrified.  I’m going to see a shrink?  I’m 14! I must really be screwed up!  So, I go to Rochester.  And I met, ugh, a man of smallish stature, blonde hair, blue eyes and a great smile.  But I loved his smile, his openness, and his matter of fact, nonchalance.  He also dismissed my parental unit.  It was love at first session.

I came to know Don through his office changes, his relationship changes and my life teenage changes.  I told him about the drinking.  He introduced me to Nathaniel Branden- Romantic Love- and that not only did my secret, greasy heart desire it, it required and deserved some romantic love.  He thought I might be Bipolar, but was hesitant to label me at such a tender age, so he sent me to Bette.

Enter Bette.  I met her at her office in Birmingham.  She laid out the MMPI for me.  A week later, in her electric blue suit with leopard print go go boots, she gave me the results of my test.  And I quote: “You see this peak right here?  The one that goes off the page?  That’s PTSD.”  What’s that, I asked, horrified.  “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  You have the stress of a Vietnam Vet in a POW camp.  It was something that happened to you at a young age.  Figure it out.  This second peak?  The one that almost goes off the page, but not as bad as the PTSD?  That’s addictive personality.  If it’s addictable, you’ll become addicted to it, so stay away from it.  Oh yeah, and you’re bipolar.”  She then turned on her heeled leopard print ankle booties, blonde, coiffed mane held high, and probably went to catch a nooner with Albert Ellis.  No shit.  She fucked REBT man.  That’s what a bad ass Bette was.  Don knew how much I idolized her, and on one of my visits to him, he gave me some of her books, mixed in with some of his.  As soon as I returned home, the books went on the shelf, and have not left.

Mrs. Chricton passed from Breast cancer in the early double odds.  Bette passed somewhere in between, and now Don.

I’d known Don for 20+ years.  He was my father, friend, confidante, mentor and teacher.  He taught me the value of loving kindness for not only yourself, but your fellow man, compassion, boundaries, that it was okay to be where you were at- as long as you were authentic about it, and that it was okay to be awkward.  As long as you were authentic about it.  No walls, open heart, big Leo.  Big Grin.  Big hugs.

No one will call me kiddo again.  No one will give me heart to heart, soul to soul hugs.  No more Don.   But he went peacefully, quietly and with dignity and grace.  Tough till the end.  That was our don.  We are going to, and do, miss him very much.

We last spoke in March.  It was the last time we spoke.  I knew it would be the last time I spoke with him ever.  I found a picture of him Saturday.  He was in his usual state- high on Valium.  I tore up the picture.  The one and only photo of Don I had, I didn’t want to remember him high.  I wanted to remember the impish grin, the slitty eyes, the guffaw, the quiet soothing tone of his voice.

The trifecta of therapy is now complete.  Heaven, or the cosmos has gained some great clinicians.  Lucky bastards.  I’d like to end with a Don-ism, or something clever.  But it is what it is.  Don was Buddhist.  Light a stick of incense, not just for ones you have lost, but for life and yours as well.  Nam ay oh ho ring gay quo…

 

 

 

 

 

Lower Than A Snake’s Nuts

Yup.  That’s pretty much how I feel.  It’s 4:24 EST.  Can’t sleep again.  Fell asleep at 8:30.  Now, I’m starving, in more ways than physically.

So, my neighbors did NOT fuck with my security system.  The magnet fell out, someone put it on my door, trying to be kind.  Uh HUH!!!!  Who’s the paranoid, hateful, angry, person with Hyper vigilance due to their PTSD?  Yeah.  That would be me.  Hence, why I feel lower than a snake’s nuts.

I sent my ex an email.  One of his friends stalked my Facebook page.  Lame.

Dave lived in Okemos.  I’m thinking of taking a road trip to see where he was staying at.  It even had his email address.  That’s fucking useless.  It was funny.  The address was not as delusional as his others have been.  Definitely.  I miss the man I fell in love with everyday.  He’s gone, and even if there is a funeral, I cannot go.  He’s still listed in the system.  I don’t know what happened.  I don’t know if he’ll be in a grave or cremated.  Doesn’t matter.  He’s gone.  We all end up the same way and sometimes, the same place.

It hurts, and if you have ever loved an addict/alcoholic, you know the pain and heartache we put you through.  Dave was an IDU- Intravenous Drug User- he shot Meth.  By the end, I think he was smoking it.  Hell, I think if he could put it on his food like salt, he would.  He was a really good cook.  Used to be a pastry chef.  He always knew where the great little restaurants were.  He always knew where the good food was.  If he hadn’t been a sociopath, he would have been a, “foodie”.  He would have been posting food porn on Facebook and Instagram.  I really miss him.  Don’t get me wrong, once I found out that it was all true and he was as sick as I had feared, I was terrified of him.  Welcome to my Nightmare…He was my best friend, as best as a Sociopath can get.  There was even a Dave/Zuzu sunset tonight.  He was funny.  He was incredibly disciplined.  Neat.  Groomed.  I always knew when he was going to go on a bender.  He’d get real quiet, real skulky and sulky, go lock himself in the bathroom, shave and everything, and then disappear for 12+ hours.  I hated that.  He’d say, “there’s a meteor shower tonight at three am, I’ll wake you up so we can see it”, okay.  I wake up, there’s a note that says, “I went grocery shopping at Meijer, be right back.”  The Meijer on Plainfield?  Was a twist and turn away from a real trailer park out of a Rob Zombie horror movie.  I mean, kids running around that you can tell there was an incest epidemic in the trailer park.  In other words, a few of those trailers were meth labs.  If they blew, no one would be missed.  It was creepy.  Yeah, I got to go there.  Got stared down.  It was fall.  The leaves hadn’t been raked or blown away in years.  Three feet high around the foundation of these old, seventies trailers.  All in primary, bright chromatic colors.  So fucking creepy.  Dave was very creepy.  I found a priests costume in his closet.  A fake one, not a real one.  But still.  DL, anyone?

Christ.  See?  That’s the double bind?!  I love you, I need/want you, but you keep hurting me. What do I do?!!!  WTF DO I DO NOW THAT YOU ARE GONE YOU FUCKER??????!!!!!!!

“My heart is a Ghost Town…”  Adam Lambert