The Journey Begins…

Good Morning, or whatever time you’re reading this entry.  It’s time.  It’s beyond time.

My last drink was 8.15.08, the next morning, after a shot of Narcan and a higher will, I awoke in 2 point restraints in a hospital bed.  At the end of my bed, was a social worker who said wryly, “You think you need some psychiatric help?”  I looked at her and said, “Ya think?”  I had my choice of psychiatric hospitals, which freaked me out, because in Detroit, all the Psych units are the top level of the medical hospitals.  But these were Free Standing Psych Hospitals.  She told me Forest View had better food, so I said there.  What she didn’t tell me was that they had a Trauma Program, headed by Dr. Colin Ross, and some of the finest clinicians I have ever met.

So, I sobered up at Forest View- on LIbrium and B Vitamins.  The next thing I know, I’m attending Trauma classes.  Attachment to the Perpetrator, Locus of Control Shift, Shame, Spectrum Of Emotions.  All things that blew my mind, because they all made horrible sense.

Dr.Ross came to the hospital, as he is wont to do to see a few, special cases.  I was one of those cases.  After sitting with him and being fully cognizant of what, “switching” was and meant, I received a diagnosis of Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID).  My ex had pretty much moved on, but kept of the show of the dutiful boyfriend.  We all know who he was and what and who he turned out to be in the scheme of things.

So I got a therapist, Katy.  And for the next 9 years, used up all my private medicare days at Forest View, had my therapist basically do everything she could so she wouldn’t have to deal with my alters or us integrating.  Her favorite line- and I think her only line when we were in crisis was: “It’s April 8th, 20 blah blah”.  That was it.  No other coping skills.  I don’t self injure.  Never have.  Just was terminally suicidal.

So, working with my new therapist after the old one squeezed me out of her practice, still want to call The State Licensing department on her, but we’ll see.  I gotta pick my battles. The new therapist and I have got it down to four n alters, all with their own, individual systems.

Richard- OCD, Micromanager, Has tried to kill me on numerous occasions, high anxiety, that’s all I know so far.  He has a system of about 30, and I’m sure they have systems too.  Just the nature of my system.

Vicky-Hypersexual, 19, inner party girl.  Likes makeup, fashion, l;ooking good; very flirtatious.  Has about 19 parts, but they all have systems as well.

Matilde-She is in charge of all or most pof the littles.  Too many to count at the present moment.

Matthew- Rage, anger, holds all the rage.  Against lots of different people.  45 parts, some systems.  Violent.  When I get into fights, richard comes out and takes care of business.

So, this is how my system basically and loosely breaks down.  My therapist and I are going to get four binders-she actually got them already, I have the notebook paper, and every morning I have a morning meeting.  Mostly on the laptop, and then I email my therapist a copy.  I’d still do morning meetings, but any additional communications that occur, I write in the corresponding notebook.  I morphed the idea from one of my DID friends.  Then, I’m going to get 4 pieces of foamcore, cover it in craft paper and start to map.  It’s all going to be revised quite regularly, but this is the best way I have found to map my system and dialogue with my parts.

So, now that I am exhausted, I hope maybe this helps somebody.  Take it, morph on the design, use it to help you map your system and become more integrated.  I was informed, that I’ll never have integration, just cooperation.  I’m okay with that.

 

 

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?!

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Back To Life (ish)

Good Morning!  It’s a Monday.  Slept for eleven hours from Saturday to Sunday, which means I only sleep six the following night.  So, I just made breakfast, pounding soda, and I just felt the need to write.  Don’t know why, just something needs to come out to play!

I forgot to mention, my see you next Tuesday/Cuntasaurus Rex of a neighbor was blasting Pink Floyd’s, “Lunatic is on the Grass” song after I got out of the View before partial.  I punched the wall, cuz I figured it would have been better than her throat.  So, yeah, Love thy Neighbor, not.  I’ve said loud enough so she can hear me- we share a wall, yes, it sucks-that if she was bleeding out, I’d call 911, but go about my business.  Mom was like, “That’s not good”, or right or fair or some such horse shit, and I said, “She wouldn’t do the same for me.”  So, turnabout is fair play.  I think she’s back to going to church and shit like that.  That’s her pattern.  She’ll screw half the county, then when she gets her ass handed to her, she buttons up and tries to repent or some such bullshit.  Bless her, change me.  I can’t wait till she leaves.  Even my cat growls at her.

Speaking of cats, I got my baby back.  Yes, last Tuesday, when my folks went up North to help my Aunt, I absconded with Grover.  So, my baby is back.  Siouxsie ain’t having none of it, but I just let them sort it out and try to give equal time etc. to both paw-ties.  I’m very happy to have my little bub back.  My sponsor helped me move him.  I still have to get his cat condo, but he’s got his, “Wheel of Death” toy and a big ol bag of catnip.  So he’s happy.  Siouxsie is not, and she may never be, but it’s getting better.  Good days and bad days.

We are going to Artprize today.  I need to find a piece of Art that inspires a design in me and take a picture or card of the expo piece, and then sketch out my design for Wednesday’s class.  I have color squares to finish painting, another assignment I have to finish/revamp, and study for our quiz/test on Wednesday.  Since our career presentation is due the 19th, I have to step up my game x 50, for that little extravaganza.  But, I finally love what I am in school for.  She’s a great professor.  Her passion for design is really inspiring.  I’m thinking of easy careers for me to go into after I do this stint of school.  Something where I am self-employed, can make and design my own hours, flexible schedule, but the insurance!  Pre-existing conditions, I don’t know.  But I would really like a life of something again.  I’d really like to be self-sufficient.  But, one day at a time, that’s how you build and ensure a successful future.  Or, so I have found.

I finally found my niche for volunteering/service work.  I’m so grateful.  It’s anonymous, so I can’t get into it, but let’s just say, I’m very happy with the direction it is going in.

Let’s see, what else…My mom and I cleaned the snot out of my bedroom that I rarely sleep in yesterday.  Washed walls, floors, surfaces, redecorated, smudged, laid down a protective, positive energy barrier between the shared wall with my bitch of a neighbor, and finally!  After living here for six years, I put up two of the most meaningful pieces of art that I have been hankering to put up on a wall.  I finally feel like the house is moving, you know, like the energy is starting to flow.  Hallelu!

I elected not to go to my class reunion this year.  First of all, the official reunion is going to be hosted in a Dave and Buster’s on the East side, along with a private room and a cash bar and a midnight champagne toast.  The night before, there will be a Homecoming football game with an, “afterglow”, at the local drinking hole/bowling alley.  Now, I did a few people’s fair share of drinking at that bowling alley.  There was never an afterglow for me, just a ton of regret. I couldn’t afford the official reunion with a hotel room.  So, I opted to stay at a local friend’s house, which she had graciously opened to me, and has graciously kept open for me, and the football game for $1000, Alex.  Then, the bowling alley decision was made Saturday night/Sunday morning.  I was pissed.  Can’t go, because after the service work I discovered Saturday, that would be a huge step/leap back for me.  And my class likes to party.  Our five year reunion?  Was a Fifth- even the invitation to the reunion was in the shape of a fifth.  No.  It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s that I can’t.  I’m not jeopardizing my sobriety and serenity.  That’s a deal breaker.

So, yeah, that has happened all this past week.  Went over the new map last Wednesday with Katy.  All my parts are all connected to me, I am very large on the map, and three of them are right out in front.  So, we have work to do.  Both Katy and my sponsor will be gone in two weeks time.  Just the right time for the one year anniversary of Dave’s death (the 8th), and the 8 year anniversary I tested positive for HIV (18th).  So that period might be difficult, but as long as I am mindful and diligent, I think I have half a shot of making it through this time period.

Well, that’s about all I can think of for now.  Hopefully, with some time managemnt and getting back on my ADHD med, at a lower dose, I might actually be able to finish projects, instead of leaving them hanging and half done.  What do you know?!

So, until next time…

 

 

 

 

I Need Ice…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, on that note…

 

 

 

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?!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.