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.

 

 

 

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Gratitude is a Verb

Good Morning, this United States of Trump.  A misogynistic pedophile is our new president.  Excuse me while I swallow some bile.  A fucking pedophile.  My favorite kind of piece of shit.

I just got done writing an email to my Namaslayer.  My Yogi.  There are so many things whirling through my brain, because I have had a lot of A ha ha moments in the past week, it’s hard to tease them all out, but here goes:

I have been sick since the second week of October.  So, what is that?  A month?  Anyways, I have the HIV from Dave.  That is all too well known and all to well documented in this blog.  I had a Diet Mountain Dew for him yesterday.  He was actually a Democrat.  I know he would been with her.  Hell I was.  Had to cancel my extended family’s votes out.  But, I digress.

When you are on your ass, sick, and you can’t do shit but breathing treatments every four hours and small things around your house here and there, you have waaaay too much time to think.  I have bronchitis and a sinus infection.  My doc just put me on a short course of Prednisone.  I now want to eat my cat and anything else I can get my grimy, hungry paws on.  It sucks.  Because it is colder now, my pain has jumped up about 60 notches.  Nothing can be done.  Nothing.  But asymptomatic remedies.  And since I am an alcoholic, and had a bout with Oxi Contin, no narcotics for me.  That and the massive crackdown on pain pills.  Which is fine by me, they were prescribing those drugs like tic tacs.  And they’re not fucking tic tacs.  They’re some fucking dangerous drugs.  And you don’t poop, but whatever.  So, I think a lot.

I have realized many things:

  1.  My root chakra will never be healed unless I  directly, firmly, dance with my trauma, hold the pose, end the dance, and gracefully let it go. One incident at a time.  I FINAFUCKINGLY meet with my new therapist this morning at nine am.  I am ever so grateful.  I have a map made up, I made it upload it.  We’ll see if I can get it loaded up.  But, my remaining 4 or 5 parts, are finally speaking to me.  Apparently, we went shopping.  I didn’t recall buying $800 of shit, but apparently, we did.  I didn’t know until I started get email on my phone thanking me for our capitalism.  Great. After the last bout, I sent them All to their fucking rooms.  Mala, pronounced Malayla, is 13 and is my teen.  One of them. I’ve had a lot of teenagers.  If you don’t know me personally, you might not understand.  But if you know me personally, you’ll understand my behavior sometimes.  So, Mala was complaining (as teens do) that she didn’t have a room.  So, I created one for her- in my head, because for me and my system, except when I am dialoging or making a map, most of the action goes on creatively in my head.  DID is for extremely creative and intelligent critically traumatized people, men and women.  So, a lot of our recovery work, and sometimes our actual paid work demands intelligence and creativity.  So, I digress.  I created a room for Mala with whatever the fuck a 13 year old needs.  It was all pepto bismol pink, with maribou, and feathers, and fluff and stuff.  She was ecstatic.  I called them out there yesterday and told them time out was over.  I still have to have a morning meeting with them.  You hold a meeting- they have decided on a treehouse.  Whatever, I’m way too flexible sometimes, so we will have a meeting in the tree house and I will write it down.  That is how my parts system and my part recovery process work.  So, that is why I wake up so damned early.  I have to wake up, do morning meeting, recovery stuff, meditate, pray, chill, and then start my fucking day.  Life ain’t easy being cheesy.  So, until I figure out and work with these last remaining parts, I will never be free, never lose weight, never feel okay in my body or be able to directly look myself in the mirror.  I’m sure there’s a ICD-10 code for that, but I don’t give a fuck right now.

2.  I am angry. Very, very fucking angry.  The bitch who teaches the trauma program at Forest View here in town, helped me get in touch with my anger about 3 years ago.  It’s not just anger, it’s fucking bile rage.  It’s kind of a big deal.  Cuz I didn’t have just one perpetrator, I lost count as to how many perps I had abuse/assault me.  Men and women.  I have a long way to go on relationships.  So, this winter?  It’s going to be intense, on all fronts.  I’ve been angry all my life.   But being a woman, you can’t get angry.  You aren’t allowed to show, feel, or allow yourself to become angered.  It’s bullshit.  I call bullshit.

3.  I am sick.  Have been since October.  Went to the doctor yesterday.  No good news. I’m on Prednisone which interacts with my ARV drug.  So, short course, but my cat is looking good.  But, I have , whatever.  I mentioned this before.  It really- what?  PISSES ME OFF!!!!  Shocking, I know.

4.  I have only know conditional love, unrequited love, trauma bonds and parental unconditional love.  That’s got to change.  But it has to change with me.  I have to heal my root chakra, balance the energy, and as soon as soon as I can nail that one, I am going to soar.

5.  Another perk to being flat on your back is Pinterest.  I am on Pinterest, if you care at all, all, like 7 of you.  I am gypsyzuzu.  I decided to make a Self Care and Self Esteem board.  Along with the other boards I made. Well yesterday, I printed out my “How to Get My Poop in a Group” board, my Journal board, and my Self Care board.  Only relevant pins.  I printed for a good half hour.  Need a new color cartridge.  But that box o paper I bought for grad school was a super wise investment.  And thank goddess I recycle.  So, I have my three hole punch, a binder and time on my hands today.  Can’t go to class, but I sure can lay in bed and be productive as fuck.  Let the Healing Begin!!!  Whoever said that was a fucking genius, or wrote it.  What the fuck ever.

6.  Is there really a 6?  Does there need to be a six…Oh yeah.  My dad yelled at me earlier this week and swore at me.  So, I had to take a super quick inventory once I finished being childish hurt and mad and realized he wouldn’t have barked, had I not pulled his tail.  Which is the catalyst to what has led me to all of the above.  I tend to work in reverse order.  Top down.  Whatever.  My Scottish Laddie hasn’t emailed me back since I told him I don’t do BDSM anymore.  Kinda had my fill of it.  It’s fun and all, but there are limits and moderation in mostly all things.

I don’t have any groovy quotes or any wise words of wisdom.  Just a broken soul trying to put back together this shit show of a blessed life I have.  Oh yeah, gratitude is a verb.  I was taught, early in sobriety that it’s all fine and well to be grateful for things.  “Go around the table and say one thing you’re grateful for…”  Yeah, most of us have been there.  That’s when I try not to suffocate myself with the mashed potatoes.  But, don’t fucking tell me you’re grateful- show me you’re grateful. For instance?  This blog.  When I share these secret, greasy little tidbits about my psyche and my life and how I am trying to reclaim what those sonsabitches took away- my late 20’s, all my 30’s, and hopefully half my 40’s, I am being grateful. Honest, open dialogue is a great way to be grateful.  Because, right now? Even though a pedophile Cheeto is our president (OMFG), I am grateful that my coughing seems to have chilled out.  I am grateful that I can sit upright, in my messy, but beautiful, cozy little shack, type out my game plan, share it honestly and openly with whomever, and be on my merry way.  Even though I have to wear a mask when I go out in public, I’m fucking grateful.  And no, that is not a sarcastic fucking grateful.

I hope you all have a good day.  Color, do whatever makes your spirit soar.  And I will try to load the latest, and greatest pic of my map.  Y’all take care now, ya hear?!