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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

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…

 

 

 

Round II

Well, this is the second installment of As The Meds Compound.  Actually, it is 2:39 am on Friday morning.  I slept for four hours yesterday, from 4-8:30.  Fell back asleep at 11, just woke up.  Yesterday was a bad day.  My parts came out to play.  They have been coming out to play since July.  But, when I switch, it has always been so seamless, it’s always very hard to tell.  These last parts of my system, are very stubborn, and they come forward so seamlessly and quietly, it’s hard to know when I’m not all here or all me.

Yesterday it was pretty obvious that something was going on.  I was compulsively online shopping, negative thinking, hopelessly stuck in victim thinking.  Didn’t get out of bed, had no desire to get out of bed, it was just bad.  Then, about 2:30, I realized I forgot my anti-depressant.  So I took it, and finally had a little relief.  Great, I got a cat fight on my hands too.  Grover came back to stay.  Siouxsie has been less than hospitable.  It’s okay.  They have to work it out.  Let them sort it out naturally.

But, before I get to Wednesday’s shitshow, I need to cover partial hospital at the View.  I wasn’t there long, but long enough. So, my shrink wanted me to do the PHP.  Fine, no problem.  Well, Partial Hospital had been taken over by a benevolent despot named Alex.  Ex-Military.  He wore combat boots for chrissakes.  The therapist they had found to replace Katy was a TLLP- Temporary Limited Licensed Psychologist.  She had a tail.  Yeah, the hair that was in a string down your back?  So painful.  The whole experience was just painful.  They didn’t put my DID down on my Master Treatment Plan, instead they put ADD.  I’m like okay, kiddos.  No trauma programming.  None at all.  And there were people who needed some trauma intervention.  Bad.  I actually met another cult abuse survivor.  We bonded cuz we’re such odd ducks and not all that common.  You usually don’t get out of cults, it’s kind of like gangs.  You don’t make it out alive.  And if you do, you’re terrified and broken most of the time.

So, I don’t remember much, cuz it was so unremarkable and had changed so much, it left me with a really bad impression.  He- Alex- was like, hadn’t discovered bedside manner, his professional persona yet.  Not really warm, and I in no way, shape or form, trusted him.  At all.  But we did this one exercise, where we sent someone a post card that we wouldn’t send, but it was a closure exercise.  So I chose someone I knew had been haunting me for a long time, and I knew I would never get closure from, and it worked.  Cried the whole hour.  It was really powerful.  It helped ease the pain a lot.  I felt a lot better after the exercise, and I now feel, shaky about it, but on a whole lot more solid ground than I ever had before in regards to this person.  I just feel a lot better.  Huge burden off me.  Huge chunk of shit off my mind and heart.

They do a physical assessment of you.  When I was inpatient, I gave a urine specimen to Amir.  Why?  Because, for Amir, I would pee in a cup.  Well, the nurse takes me back, and says, “your urine specimen came back positive.”  I’m thinking to myself,”FOR WHAT?!!”  I’ve already got the mother of STD’s?!  WTF could I possibly have now?!!  Bladder infection.  From when they took the catheter out at PsychLab.  And poor hygiene, cuz I was on such high alert, with lack of sleep.  Man, getting naked and wet in the shower, getting that vulnerable in those two environments, hell to the nah.  So, I was on horse pill antibiotics.  I was super sick. I had lost 35 pounds and my BP was back to normal.  So, I got a prednisone shot about a month ago for my knees.  Gained back 11 pounds, fucked with my mood, and my hair started thinning and falling out.  So, long story-not really, I wasn’t in Partial that long-short?  The inpatient hospital is still really good for trauma and DID.  Outpatient Partial Hospital- they don’t believe in any trauma or DID whatsoever.  That was my first experience, well, second, experience with someone who thought DID was bullshit.  Which is too bad, but it’s so rare, and so unbelievable that much horrible shit could happen to one person, especially a child, that it’s just repugnant to think of insofar as that is concerned, and then the fact that DID is a creative coping skill for the child to deal with the trauma, it’s too much for the Spock brain to deal with.  Which is too bad.  Most of people with DID I have met are highly intelligent, incredible artistically gifted, very sweet, but very sad and broken.  Including me.  SO, i got discharged from there via mail, and haven’t looked back.

So my next adventure was to interview at Pine Rest for IOP.  Remember, they treated me like an addict, not a mental health patient, so it was IOP.  SO, I went to the Treatment Center out there eon 68th, saw Kevin, and he recommended DBT, not IOP.  I agreed.  So I got in to see someone for IOP.  I had already been to see safe, clearly, so the meds were working and I was doing well.  DBT- long and short of that intake interview?  I would have to give up my primary therapist, that I have worked with for 8 years, integrated all but these last parts with, been through hell in a hand basket with, for a year to work with a chick who was all too willing to label me Borderline PD, told me I would be, “hers”, and wouldn’t look me int eh eye the whole appointment.  Yeah, not so much.  No thanks.  I’ll pass.  And how.  So, I’m back to working with Katy one day a week.  After yesterday, we’re going to have to step it up.  Cuz the parts are popping out all over the place and all the time.

About a month ago, they tried to take over driving.  That was one of the first two cardinal rules I laid down:

  1.  I am the ONLY one who drives, and
  2. No new parts.

So, I’ve been shopping.  A lot.  Not good. So I’m going to have to return somethings.  I’ve been stuffing my feelings.  It’s hard. I never had feelings till I got sober, and I can barely identify them.  Let alone accurately monitor them.  So, I’ve been numbing out and isolating.  I’m also getting ready to do another 4th step.  That really super threatens the leftover parts.  They’re like, “If we get rid of Dave, what and who will be?!”  In other words, if we dump all our pain, and drop the cloak of shame and pain that we have worn so well, for so long, what will become of us?  You can’t convince the die hard parts of your system to enjoy the journey, it just don’t happen.  They’re really not down with that.  Hell, I’m struggling with that, no fucking wonder they are too.  No wonder they are acting out.

My mom doesn’t want anything to do with me and my system.  I switched and was-finally!- co conscious with Alicia, and Mom had told me before, you deal with Katy and Katy alone when you’re like that.  In other words, don’t come to me when you’re not yourself.  It’s a slippery slope.  I had to refresh her memory about babysitting timeline of my childhood.  She didn’t like the truth.  Well, that’s why the truth is inconvenient.  It’s not easy or nice or soft.  But give me truth with tact than a beautiful lie any day.

I made a new map.  It’s, I have two parts that are up front and very active.  They are fraternal twins.  About 14-16 years old.  They each have a system of their own.  Yes, my parts have parts.  Not convenient, but it’s the deal.  So, they’re popping out all over the place.  Not really fun, but what the hell.  They shared a memory with me yesterday.  I have found that if I intensely dislike something or am unreasonably afraid of something, chances are it can be traced back to the abuse.  So, ducks.  I’m afraid, feel sad when I see ducks.  I’m also terrified of them, why?  I have no clue.  Well, I know now.  They made me force feed a duck till it suffocated to death by choking on bread.  then they blamed me for killing the duck.  Not that they weren’t, quite literally, holding a loaded revolver to my head and forcing me to torture this poor, helpless duck and myself.  Fuckers.  OH!  I just burn with anger when I think of all the horrid shit they did to me.  And all the lies I have been telling myself that are so not true.

Like, “You’re not good enough”, “You’re not smart enough”, “you’re not worthy”, “you can’t”, “It’s your fault,  it’s ALL your fault”.  All these cognitive lies they shoved down my throat and into my skull and cognitions and how much it has held me back.  My class at school is a direct result of, “You only live once, so make it good”.  Life is too long to be miserable.”  Don’t get me started on my professor.  She doesn’t return my emails.  Yeah.  Reread that, just in case.  And the guy I got his number, for if I missed and vice versa, hasn’t responded to me either.  I’m realizing we are a very competitive group.  It’s like a low rent version of U of M Law School.  So, I missed Wednesday due to a hellacious migraine.  Do you think they would get back to me seeing as I missed the test review, for our quiz next week?  Hell no. I don’t even want what’s going to be on the test, I just need to know if I need to buy a scantron or my paints or what.  Course, why would that happen? It’s the human thing to do.  In this day and age of social media, who the fuck is congenial and good hearted anymore.  Not many, my friend, not many.

It’s just been a shit day.  Yesterday was a shit day.  My sleep was all broken up.  Sleep has been elusive for me, at best.  Along with all these demons that are beginning to surface and take over if I don’t prune them into submission, I’m going to have a real problem.  So I don’t know.

Today is a new day and I’m going to try to have a routine of some sort down.  It’s going to ne hard since I got a split shift of sleep, but I just need to keep my nose to the grindstone. I need a routine.  I flourish when I have one.  I just have to pencil a lot of stuff in, in a short period of time.  I have a quiz next Wednesday and I have mo idea what to study except everything.  I truly hope she emails me back.  Cuz either I didn’t copy his number down correctly, or he just plum didn’t text me back.  Nada.  Oh well.  I’ve been to grad school.  Even though this is a horse of a different color, it’s still stressful.  Cuz this is when those old tapes get really loud and I cop out/give up.  And I truly don’t want those fucking Roaches to win any more battles and take away anymore from my quality of life.  I’m truly over it.  I only have to change one thing: everything.  So, there.

It’s 3:39 am.  Brand new day.  Let’s make it a good one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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?!