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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

BOOM!

That’s street for, “yer world is about to get rocked”.  Prepare to be amazed…or disgusted.  At this point, I don’t really care which.

I am on a med known as Prazoscin, or minipress.  It’s many side effects suppresses night terrors.  It was like finding the Fountain of youth.  Although after several years of taking it, two weeks ago yesterday, I had my first night terror/flashback.

I was four and holding the hand of the High Priestess of the Oakland County Sect of The Brides of Satan.  She was four foot nothing, frosted blonde hair and the teeth- the fucking teeth of the satanist/cannibal.  Filed to a point, stained with blood, cigarettes, et al, and yellow.  Yellow, grey and red near the gums.  They use dentures to cover their cult teeth.  She was holding my hand- 4 years old mind you- and we were at a murder/suicide site on the East side of Washington Street in Oxford.  The East side of main street was the other side of the tracks.  Lots of rentals, Harleys-gang type riders and guns and coke- well, an 18 year old named, “Eddie Hamilton” had hung himself?  Apparently.  I was there with the High Priestess to disseminate the scene, and to make decisions.  See, the plan was to kill my makers and my parents and have me slide in the hooves of the High Priestess.  But, no.  God had other plans.  Alotta other plans for me and them.

So, it was decided.  “Eddie” would be dismembered (Chopped up) and covered in egregious amounts of lime and put to rot under the church in the village that had rebuked their advances.  “Eddie” was to rot under the now, UCC church’s bell tower.  Three days later in August, all that remained of, “Eddie Hamilton” were some of his teeth and some half rotted bones.  So, that was settled.

10th grade. 1989.  Miscreant.  Flurry of cause and effect.  New Kid.  Lasted three months.  Loved Elvis. Disappeared after three months and was never heard from again.  The kid’s name?  Eddie Hamilton.

So, that has been haunting me for two weeks.  Today, my rock and her daughter are driving to WA to begin a new life.  I have a sponsor who makes time to be a recovery coach, buy a recovery house, candle her mans ear, but not sponsor me.  So, in a few weeks, I’ll have seven years.  I did it with God, cuz these last three sponsors I had were the most hands off, except one, bat  shit crazy mugs I ever had.  7th step says- is your shit working for ya?

I had a dream about My Greek love-Joshua last night.  Why? I have no idea except that God wants to torture me.  Three, four years ago, Joshua was in Kzoo.  I had not seen him since he departed for Jerusalem in 1992.  We were to meet up in a year and I was to join him in Israel, happily blah x 3. When I came home from Greece, after recovering from Greek Chicken Pox, I told my father I had to return to Greece and then to move to Israel to be with Joshua.  My father had lived and taught in Kenya in the 60’s.  Israel and Western Africa were rumbling towards war.  I had no idea.  He denied me.   I sobbed and drank harder.  Twenty some odd years later in a home west of Kzoo.  Joshua was in the Israel military as a Tank Commander and had been a POW twice.  He had been married, had a beautiful boy named David, and was living with a white girl from IA who was his enabler.  He had turned into a 24/7 drunk with either MS or ALS.  Either way he has managed to take his enabler all over the world for several years.  But he was going to replace her soon.  MM hmm.  I walked out on him and ran like the wind.  They tried to catch me.  No no, Roma disappear, seely boy.  So, I had a dream we were back on Spetses and it was Christmas and it was frosty.  We stayed at the boys school there.  Where The Magus was filmed and the guy who wrote the Magus taught at the boys school.  Something about retsina, a roof, a full moon, gravel in his ass, and teradactyl doves the next morning.  But alas, that one was not meant to be.

Neither was the quarter mexican super duper special agent.  Neither was the biracial Emmy nominee comedian that I was engaged to a million years ago.  Discovered I was pregnant.  My Pediatrician told me the pregnancy was ectopic.  So I had a D & C.  Dusting and Cleaning as they are treated.  “Living room’s Done!”.  Then, I was ferried off at 19 to MN, for my first in patient psych visit.  That was where I saw DID- in a DUDE- up close and personal for the first time.  Mine was playing euchre or something.  My king picked me up with my folks with a bouquet of daises.  We went to the Wisconsin Dells, on the way home.  1999, after I lost touch with my king, heard he got married and was well on his way to a life of well deserved and earned success, I was at an OB/GYN.  Did the usual questions- how many children?  How many live births? The humiliating ones.  I told the RN my pregnancy-choke-was ectopic.  So she had me lift my shirt to see the scar.  I was uber confused.  Oh, there it is, she said.  No.  That’s from my belly piercing that didn’t work.  Well, then an argument of sorts developed.  Well, if it was ectopic, they went in through your belly button!  Nurse Ratchett hollered.  They did a D&C I said- that’s it.  Then, she thought I was trying to lie to her or some sick shit, I’m beginning to realize my doc lied to me and I could have had Jonathan Micheal, and this bitch is picking a fight with me!  So I- as graciously as I could, through gritted teeth, said something to the effect of you’re the nurse, you’re the goddamned expert, you should know!

The bitch walked out.  I’m fucking devastated, heart in the third level of this building and my doc comes in.  Oh, those years of acting and hiding the unnamed pain.  Smiled through the tears.  You alright?  She asks.  Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine.  When I left in 2007, to come to GR?  On Mother’s Day, I planted a Rose of Sharon for Jonathan Micheal.  It’s still blooming.

Well, I feel like curling up in the fetal position and shutting off my heart and brain.  How bout you?