Life By Committee

So, this site should probably be called:  did monthly, instead of did daily, cuz I have huge gaping holes in my blogs.  The last blog I wrote, about kissing my ass?  Elizabeth wrote that, not I.  That is why it sounded like a whiny teenager.  Cuz Elizabeth is 16, and angry, and sad.  As am I.  She is my alter/part/personality that holds some memories and the feelings associated with those memories.  I’ve got a lot of grieving to do, kids.  A lot.  Apparently, that is part of the DID healing process.  Grief work.  Yuk.  But, if I want to have some semblance of peace and happiness, I gotta grieve.  Not looking forward to that day.  Not yet.  Cuz I’m not quite there, yet.  I’ve got a long way to go, apparently.

So, the morning of 12/31/16, I fell like a mother in my bathroom.  I fell asleep on the toilet, then took a header into the door, the bowl, and my slate floor.  From a TBI perspective, I’m okay.  Except for my ataxia or aphasia, whichever that is when you can’t pull up the names of things, frustrating is what I call it.  Wasn’t allowed to drive.  I come from Detroit- you must have a car, or you perish.  So, nice blesson (blessing + lesson).  My head finally stopped hurting everyday about a week ago.  Headaches.  Woof.  I woke up 1/1/17, and my head felt like a soccer ball that had been used in The World Cup.  The bitch?  I was stone, cold sober.  It’s suspect af, but I just celebrated 8 and a half years drink and unprescribed drugs free.  And I don’t take narcotics.  I have an appointment with the pain clinic on Friday, but I’m on a benzo.  I tried to wean myself off like my shrink said, but I kept having Horrific nightmares about The Roaches.  It was awful.  I think I was hollering in my sleep.  I hate that.  I don’t mean to, but what can I do?

My therapist has been on vacation all month.  So, I’ve been emailing, texting, phone calls to keep all my shit together.  Hasn’t been easy.  Apparently, the buried rage I/we feel towards at my folks-who are fucking saints-for abandoning me and basically appointing the Roaches as my babysitters, is going to be a life long process of unfolding.  I feel like shit about it.  Talk about mixed emotions.  Fuck.  Lower than a snake’s nuts, I tell ya.

Anyways, my therapist tells me that because I have a part system, I now have to live Life by Committee.  I have/must have a morning meeting with my parts.  I got way far away from doing that.  Because I was just going through way too much life.  I couldn’t even walk or think, let alone talk to them.  I was so enraged for so long, at living with DID, having parts.  So much rage and shame.  My last therapist didn’t really encourage acceptance and foster a positive relationship with my system.  Really shame based and judgmental.  But, we know that by the way she axed me out of her practice.  Betrayal.   Fucking sucks.  But, can’t have the good without the bad.  If she didn’t force me out to force my hand, I wouldn’t have my current therapist.   Who teaches me that it is not my fault, I am not bad, it happened To me, not Because of me.  It was not my fault.  Wasn’t my parents fault.  Was their fault.

But, every morning, and this is my process, other people have other ways, I get out the notebook, and I write good morning.  Then I hear however many voices- different voices, different genders, different ages, answer.  And I do a role call, most pressing issue of ours first.  Address it, and then go down the list.  This can take anywhere from 5 minutes, to 45 minutes.  With breaks, of course.  But, this is how I have to live my life.  Checking in all throughout the day to make sure everyone is okay and no one is going to act out.  Cuz that shit is no bueno.  So, then I have to do my recovery readings and stuff of that nature, which, sometime, I save till later.  Pray and meditate too.  Some people get up and run/ walk 2 miles, I jog in my head.  Not because I like living there, cuz I don’t, but because I have to make sure all the “kids” are alright, otherwise who knows what could happen that day.

And then throughout the day, I have to check in.  If I start to have some random, odd feeling that I don’t understand where it came from or it came on out of nowhere, I have to sit down, and ask who is feeling this, what is going on, how can we deal this.  A common theme in DID recovery is we have to Reparent ourselves.  Because we never got authentic, basic parenting needs met.  Don’t get me wrong- I had food, clothing, shelter, an education, a married couple, loving family, but in-between was a living hell.  School was hell too.  I was the poor kid at a wealthy, private school.  I was a bully’s wet dream.  Then I was alone most of the day, because my parents worked (Thank God they had jobs, and didn’t drink, or gamble, or whatever, they are just mentally ill.  Depression/PTSD and Bipolar/Anxiety on the other side) and then I’d go to the Roaches, come home fucking exhausted, eat dinner, sleep.  Then I’d wake up at about ten pm and help my mom with costumes-she was a drama teacher on steroids, amazing.  Untouchable.  Iconic. That was how I got to see my mom.  I stay up till about 12;30-2, fall back asleep, wake up at 5:50 and hell would begin again.

So, today?   All is well.  It is Sunday.  A major trigger day for me this time of year, especially between 3-6.  So, I take precautions.  You know, be kind to myself.  Reparent.  Which I have no idea how to do. But I am learning.  We are all learning.  Life is a tough school.  Sometimes I don’t want to get out of bed, but it’s automatic.  I get up.  I wake up, and I go.  Maybe not really far somedays- hell, yesterday I left my house once for 15 minutes.  Today is glorious and the New Moon.  So, there’s smudging to be done.  So, yeah.

Be kind to each other.  Easy to say, hard to do.  I can’t even be kind to myself.  But I keep trying.

 

 

 

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…

 

 

 

Maslows Hierarchy of Insufficient Life Funds

So, not a big rah-rah, Oprah girl, but I dig and have an immense amount of respect for the woman.  This month, and for the next two moths, she’s highlighting mental illness.  Awesome.  Our hats are off to her!!!  This months was a lady who had been suffering- and I do not use that term lightly- perimenopause.

I had a hysterectomy in 2005ish.  I was 32 ish.  I had two TIA’s (Transient Ischemic Attacks)- baby strokes because I had smoked and still took HRT.  Well, after my TIA’s, I quit smoking in July of 2014, and have not smoked since.  I see an OB GYN in the beginning of February.  I’m also on Abilify.  All two factors contributing to weight gain.  Don’t get me wrong, but the weight gain is influenced by more than meds and perimenopause and lack of estrogen and testosterone and progesterone.  I’m a big girl. No secret.  I make horrid food choices.  I was going to try a hypno lap band.  But with DID, it’s a case by case basis as to whether hypnosis works.  Personally, I don’t think it would work and after briefly, and I mean briefly talking to my therapist, I know it won’t work.  So, onto Plan B.  Another program, like Atkins, which cuts out all processed food and sugar.  I think at least Atkins would be a start, but the sugar kicks my ass.  I don’t know if it is because I’m an addict that I crave sugar, but if I have processed, not necessarily natural sugar, I eat sugar for the rest of the day.

But, I digress…in the Oprah feature, they had Maslows Hierarchy of Needs.  Basic?  Food, water, sex and shelter.  Then safety- financial and physical and, I think in my case, mental.  Well, that’s why I have my holistic therapist/yogi.  We’re working on the Root Chakra.  Which is more than just sex.  It is safety, your history, where you came from- which, on my mother’s side, is a guess at best- security, financial et al, being grounded, ie Earthing.  Those kind of basic root activities.  There are eating root foods, certain crystals and essential oils that help as well.  I’m doing all these things.  And recovery and balancing a home life and family.  I just slipped in my recovery.  And by slipping, I mean not only did I pick up and use, Sobriety Lost It’s Importance.  So, I’m trying to get better, really feel better, and I’ll never make it to level III of Maslows RPG of life, if I keep scattering my energies.

I heard that the road to recovery was only 24 inches long.  It is the link between your head and heart and hooking up the two, connecting and learning to communicate the connections.  Ok.  Well, I suck at feelings and communication…let’s start there.

How do I feel?  Tired, sick, worn out, sad, malasical, physically pained, but okay and ready to soldier through another day.  Do I want to lie in bed and pull the covers over my head and cry and rest?  HEllz  YeaH!  Can I?  Sure.  Do I want to?  Kinda.  But I know it won’t help with anything.  It would be totally counter productive to my healing and bustling up the hierarchy.  So, what do I do?  Ah yes, the mantra of the spa~ “Feel your feelings and stay safe”.  No acting in or acting out.  No eating or attention grabbing, and no stuffing feelings and keeping everything held in.

So, February 5th is the OB Gyn.  Today is the 21st.  I’ve gone this long, what’s three weeks?  Saw my shrink yesterday.  He wants to lower my meds.  I told him.  I’m barely hanging on.  Didn’t hear a word of it. Okay.  That means quityerbitching.

I’m learning.  I got leveled.  Each time I tried to pull myself up, I’d get served.  “Sometimes when they knock you down and out, it’s best to stay there.”  Like in boxing- stay down, stay down.  Because it’s more than pride.  If you don’t take care of yourself first and foremost, you could get the life knocked out of you.  Then Maslow and everything I was dancing on, doesn’t seem so important.  Be kind to yourself.  Be nice to yourself.  Be gentle with yourself…and others.

 

 

 

 

Stand up or sit down…

August 12th, 2015, I was admitted to the spa- the View.  I had to go for medical clearance first.  My part/parts come at 1 pm, and stay till 2 pm.  They make me sleepy, slurry, nodding out, it’s like I’m overdosing.  See?  It’s a quarter to two, and I feel better.  I can’t quite crack that one.  I’m working on it.

So, I go in, don’t do trauma.  Because it’s about time I learn how to do normal living skills.  I think it’s safe to say, after 7 years, I’ve graduated from Forest View’s Trauma Program.  Maybe not trauma, per se, but definitely time to take on some new healing modalities.

Over the weekend, from Saturday afternoon till Saturday night, I have constant flashbacks- flooding.  And because the flashbacks are so foul, I puke that whole time.  My poor roomie!  So, remember the first, “Eddie Hamilton”?  The one who I saw hanging from his closet- oxford had a lot of old homes- high ceilings.  Anyways, The High Priestess, whose name is Esther, closest I can recall, is holding my hand and hissing in me ear:  You can run this town.  You can call the shots here.  You can have all the power to make the decisions here.  She died later 1978, in the apartments by Huntoon.  Cancer.  COPD.  Something with her lungs.

Anyways, she requests to be left alone with, “Eddie” and I.  She instructs me to cut out his penis, and instructs me to suck all the blood out of it.  While I’m doing this-she had BIG guards that helped her.  Not guards.  Guards are helpful.  Henchmen.  Definitely henchmen.  She’s lying on the floor, diddling herself.  Whatever.  She didn’t hurt me.  That’s my thought process at 4.  She’s okay, she didn’t throw me to the wolves, try to rape me (?!!!), or beat me.

So, I remember the man in the blue robe.  The leader with the dark hair and grey eyes.  He’s Irish and Italian.  Big dude.  Curly hair.  Brownish/grey eyes.  He was arrested at Beltane in 1978.  He was discovered with two human skulls and various human limb bones.  He went for life.

So, this are the things that I’m flashing to in the spa.  I saw Katy Tuesday.  I told her about the 17 year old, six month pregnant left handed Bride of Satan, that was killed, her baby sacrificed, and how they ate her small intestine.  I told Katy that.  She finally shut up.  I think she wasn’t believing me with 79 parts and down to 5.  Cuz I had stalled in recovery.  I was living life.  I work on this from now till May.  I have from May till the end of August to live it up and pretend I am a normal human being,  I hate doing this.  Putting all this negativity into the world.  I hate it.  But what am I supposed to do?  Keep it all in?  Go mad because I’m afraid?  I challenged the cult’s biggest lie:  If you don’t join us, we will kill you or you must be killed or kill your self by 40/45.  So I made it through 40.  Now, I have a lot of time to work through before age 45.  I hope I can sail  through it.  Halloween is always so difficult.  That is the anniversary of the end of the cult and the beginning of the torture by the Roaches.  I remember hearing Mr. Roach say: “Well, we just have to ruin her.  Destroy her so she can’t finger us.  Kill her.”  And Lord, did they try.

I started having flashbacks in 2001.  About two weeks after the Roaches sold their house and moved off the block, you know, moved on the other side of Oxford, I began to have these horrendous flashbacks.  Sundays were the worst.  I can finally listen to church bells without freaking out.  We went back to the Oxford UCC church in the village where, “Eddie Hamilton” was covered in Lime.  All that remained were pieces of bone and teeth.  Esther said: Build the tower.  Bell tower.  It’s awful.  I can’t go back to Oxford.  I really can’t.  It’s too upsetting.  Too many fucked up memories.  Twisted.

I twisted my knee.  Fluid on my knee and they found more arthritis in my right knee.  We’re going to ZZ Top tomorrow night.  I saw them in high school.  They are amazing.  Dave- has been moved to Lansing.  I got no notice or anything.  I don’t know why I feel hinckey about that.  Why did they move him?  Why didn’t I get a notice/  WTF is going on, over?

I celebrated seven years drink free Saturday, August 15th in the spa.  They gave me Norco for my Chronic pain, mid August.  I saw the Addictionologist to step me down.  I’m thinking of switching programs.  I was addicted to Oxi-Contin.  For two years.  Awful.  So bad.  Chloral Hydrate, Valium, Xanax, Actiq pops.  Fuck, how and why am I still alive?

I found some emails from Dave.  Bat shit crazy.  Simple but difficult abuse-gas lighting.  I knew it was bullshit back then, I, “It’s not worth my soul to lie to you”?  Really, Dave?  Really?  What about lying to 1000-3000+ people?  Is that worth your soul?  No.  And you know why?  Because you don’t have one.  Never did.  Bastard.