Life By Committee

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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…

 

 

 

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…

 

 

 

 

Is this thing on? Testing, Testing 1, 2..Check.

Well, I have no idea why the screen is black and my words are white.  I could make an Old Glory comment, but I digress…

I also haven’t posted since, probably May?  I got out of the Spa May 8th, and then went through a week of partial.  Then, I made a couple of decisions.

1st and foremost- get a new frickin’ sponsor and jump start my program.  I went to the fourth of July party like I do, and someone who I used to- every year, mind you- talking the whole party, ignored, avoided, and insulted me.  All because they think I slept with a dude who is, at least, 25 years older than me.  And they never bothered to ask me.  Hmm, no gender bias there, cha!  So, yesterday I was really down, but having a great physical day.  So physically great, mentally, off my square.  NBD.  I’m used to that. I never have one day where all cylinders are firing at once.  It’s either physical pain, mental pain, or both.  So, I killed my kitchen yesterday.  Just scrubbed the hell out of it.  Took out a lot of aggression.  It’s like, 5 o’clock here, and it feels like ten a.m.  But, I finally touched base with my sponsor.  She said, “Ask yourself this:  What kind of program are they working?”  Ding! Ding!!!  Oh yeah, I forgot- it’s not always, everything is my fault.  There are two people on the plane and there are exits on both sides of the plane for said persons.

BTW, you know there is going to be a Blue Moon this month, here in North America, right?  I mean, Tom Cruise is ditching Scientology to be with his daughter, they’re checking out Pluto- all kinds of weird shit is going on!!!

For example, me?  Where have I been?  Well, I got out of the hospital, and adjusted.  Made a plan, like a five year plan.  I’m looking to get back into acting, I would like to take an Interior Design course or two and meld it with Feng Shui.  My sponsor and her husband are buying an old farm house to turn into a recovery house for women.  Don’t think I’m going to be all up in that, cuz, Damn Skippy!  I am.

I went to The Reverend Horton Heat by myself for my 42nd Birthday-by myself.  I went, July 8, to Comerica park to see The Rolling Stones again.  They were- both concerts were fucking a mazing!!  And I went by Myself.  I’ve started a diet.  I can’t walk a long pace everyday, but if my Fibro doesn’t have me down, I’m doing stuff.  I start Yoga in August.  I have to price out Masseuses. I saw a pain doc for my fibro, and they don’t treat fibro with Narcotics.  Movement is the best cure…except when you go batshit Like I did yesterday, and do too much.

I am seeing ZZ Top in August with my Sponsor and Possibly, Crue/Alice Cooper, with a really great, stand the test of time, friend.  I’m getting my house together.  I’m pulling it all together.

My system…I’ve been trying to live life to the fullest, so they can see what we’ve been missing.  I made a deal with one of the twins, Lily and Sophie.  Sophie is apparently a self injurer, although I have never participated in that behavior.  I have five, huge tattoos, but no mas.  So, I told Sophie, she let herself be known at the last hospitalization, that if she didn’t hurt us, we would get a sleeve done to finish out our right arm.  She was giddy.  So, I also found out I only have 9 Medicare, free standing psych hospital days covered, and then it flips to Medicaid.  So, if by some weird thing happens, and I’m traveling abroad with my ole HIV, and I have a psych meltdown, I’ve basically got to hoard those days like Return of the Jedi.  I gots to be an ewok fighting fucker, mother fucker!!!!

So, what else…Saw Dave walking to the Bus, on his way home from work.  He looked ECSTATIC, HAPPY, and OVERJOYED to see me.  I shit you not.  I just thought, “Fuck.  Now he knows I drive a different car.”  Got a security system for the house.  It’s loud and it works!!!

I’m trying really hard to be happy.  To make a conscious choice to be happy.  All the shit that went down, it’s gone.  It’s happened-It’s OVER!  They can’t hurt me/us anymore.  Dave can try, but he will not succeed in hurting me anymore.  A lot of people can bring me down, knock me off my square, but compared to what I have been through, taint nothing.  Ain’t no thang, but a g-string.

My best friend and my god daughter are moving to Seattle the end of this month.  They just lost their Aunt. Crushing blow for the whole family.  And then, she’s gone.  Next week and a half.  So, yeah.  That has been hard and a whole new way to adapt.  But, I’ve got a life waiting for me.  It’s been calling to me.  I’ve just not heard it until this summer.  My mom told me:  Don’t depend on others, because they will let you down.  I spent my entire 20’s trying to prove her wrong, my 30’s was the time I thought I turned into Wonder Woman, and then, at 35?  I got sober and had to restart my heart.

So, I’ve been a little busy, been fighting this damned fibro, been fighting period.  Good news?  I have grieved my past lovers- that I truly did love, and will always love, and even coming to terms with loving Dave.  That’s a trauma bond.  That one’s going to take a little longer and a little more work.

Okay, my fingers are barking.