Let It Go

I should be showering for a 12 step meeting, but I have an itch…for a spew.

So, yesterday, being Friday the 13th, and me, being a Satanic Ritual Abuse survivor-how the hell that ever happened, Allah only knows, but it was an anniversary.  EVERY Friday the 13th from September through May is an anniversary.  Apparently, it is a HUGE day in the Satanic calendar.  Whatever.  Freedom of religion, I guess.  Except when you murder people in front of children and it’s not war- that’s my values, I guess.  ANYWAYS, yesterday was tough.  With most anniversaries, it lasts about three days, two days prior, and the day of said anniversary.  Ok.  So, I made it through.  I bought a black out curtain for my bedroom.  So Myself and my neighborhood would have some privacy.  I don’t recommend them if you battle depression.  They make the room like a cave…of despair.  It’s good, cuz they cut out noise and light- for migraines.  But not for like, being happy and productive.

Okay, flaky part of me emerges, there were five planets retrograde.  Now, we are only down to four, Mercury going direct in like, a week.  But everything damn near is in Taurus and that means money, home, things that grow, stability- all things I struggle with.  I have been troubled because of the damn anniversary and I didn’t even know why-until, duh!  Friday the 13th.  I learned early on, if I was to survive and get though high school and make it out of that godforsaken town, I had to reframe 13 as lucky- which esoterically speaking, it is.  BUT!   I digress!  Surprise, I know.

So, This Taurus thing has been highlighting what you want to materialize on this mortal plane, dig?  Erstwhile, I have been trying to figure out what my next chapter/career/adventure for my forties is going to be, and how to get through.  One thing I know for sure?  I sure as hell don’t want to be sick anymore.  I shore as hell don’t want to be anchored to my past.  I’ve been sick with DID since I was 5,6,7 and so on.  Been disabled since 2002; and sick, physically, mentally, spiritually, and emotionally since 2000.  I don’t want anymore!!!  I want to live!!!  I want to travel!!  Fuck!  I won a vacation a year ago!  My parents will be married 50 fucking years this July.  I planned the vaca around the time they got engaged in November, to their/our favorite vacation destination- Charleston.  It’s a timeshare thing, but they never got their golf shack when they retired in 2000, because why?  Me.  And they made a choice.  They could have put me in a home and walked away, but they didn’t.  And if y’all don’t think I don’t have gratitude every. single. fucking. day for that and them, and part of the reason I work my ass off so hard, is so they can enjoy their golden years, sonny?  You need to put down the drugs and delusions and check in.  So, basically, twice around the barn to get to the house- now is not the time for black out curtains and checking out.  Now is the time to hustle and manifest on the material plane.

So, there’s this guy I know.  Been sober for like, a million years.  Wise as shit.  He’s like a little 1970’s Buddha/Artist/Tao Wizard/Classic Rock groovy dude.  One day, he says; “How do you let it go?  You just let it go.”  Fuck you.  Because at that point, I was still a’ wrestling with some serious demons.  But the only person holding on to my past, I mean, I’m down to one part, I think, is me.  Because that has been my identity for 16 years.  That’s a huge paradigm shift.

So, while laying in my den of misery, I’ve been asking myself a question, okay, questionsssss- What do you want?  Who do you want to be?  What do you want to accomplish- Fuck!  Do you want to accomplish anything.  I’ve come full circle.  I want to be an antique freak.  Just have a booth, in a mall, just for starters, and then eventually, expand.  My mom has been warming up to the idea.  It’s real part time.  Like, some antique malls you go and work, some you don’t, some you pay rent, some you just work there a couple times for booth rent.  I mean, the trips to shows would be write offs…I love looking at Dead People’s Stuff- NOT MINE- There is an actual antique store named Dead People’s Stuff.  Personally, with my macabre ass, I think it’s fucking hysterical.  I also thought about writing a one woman show with a bunch of monologues, that are certain slices of my life.  All the characters, etc.  Florida.  Greece.  Detroit.  Ypsi.  GR.  Men.  The last 16 years.  The Lazarus Club.  NAMI.  All of it.  Just my life in monologues.  There’s a theatre here I can rent to do my show.  I’d need a chair, some lighting, and audience, and about 5 angels. But, just some ideas I’m tossing around.  I’m tossing around a lot.  I loooooooooove to travel.  I love to perform.  But I gotta get a routine down.

Part of my problem is with this DID and being knocked off my square, there are some times, I need to just curl up and huddle up, you know.  Self preservation.  But, there are also times, when, I need to live life fully.  Just rip the marrow out of the skeleton of life.  And savor life.  Not be afraid all the time.  When Dave died, so much fell away.  So much left.  I finally wasn’t looking over my should all the fucking time.  What a relief!!!  My God. I knew it would take his death for me to finally be free.  I know the priest he confessed his sins to on his death bed, is probably still drunk.  Seriously.  He was a bad dude.  More than you could ever imagine.  And my dysfunctional ass loved him.  A part of him.  Do I think he had DID?  I used to.  Now I know he was just a murdering basterd.  Oh!  That would be another monologue- all three loves, that actually loved me in return, were all murdering bastards.  Whether for country, war or thrill, they were all murderers.  I now have 15 minutes to get to my meeting.  Crunch.  Okay.

So, long and short of it.  How do you let it go?  You just let it go.  I have decided I don’t want to be that person anymore.  I don’t want to remember her at all.  I don’t want any part of her at all anymore.  She was sick, hurting, miserable, and sad.  And LONELY.  AND SCARED- of EVERYTHING!!!!  It’s time to live again. It’s time to reach up and out.  To push through the dirt and bloom.

“It’s Not Your Fault”.  “You like apples?  How bout these apples?”  Yeah, it’s possible.  Anything is possible.  But sitting on your hands and wishing for disney or pixar or whoever, or prince charming – if you have seen Into the Woods, you know Prince Charming was a douche-to come and scale your castle walls.  Unh uh.  Ain’t never going to happen.  Gotta hustle and flow, baby.  Hustle and flow.

 

 

 

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?!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m Done

I’m done.  Totally over it.  I’m done with politics, St. Francis, Facebook, all social media…I’m sick and tired of bullshit.  And it’s me I’m sick and tired of.

You take PTSD, DID, and bipolar type I, put em together and what do you get?  Someone whose behavior mimics Borderline Personality Disorder.  But my Axis II is always deferred.  When your one abusers middle name is Chester- and my last name is an alcohol?  God shore has a great sense of humour.

I’ve also come to the conclusion that people hate living in reality.  They like fantasy.  They don’t want to live in the cold and ugly and mean truth.  Brutal honesty is for cromags, tact is in…

My God, I have been through so fucking much. I swear, people keep telling me to do more, be more.  I’m lucky I’m not fucking nonverbal okay, assholes?  I’ll probably never get married and I’m totally okay with that.  I don’t know why, but I’m okay with that.  They can come and go as they and I please.  I just know Dave made me a woman, he taught me  better way of life.  He’s teaching me how to live and how to, as someone I adore greatly said, “Find what makes me happy.”  Another person I admire greatly had a meme up, with Buddha’s picture and a caption that read:  Suffering comes from giving too many fucks. Attachment is the root of all suffering. Yupo.

I’m frustrated.  I see people who were pretty fucked up a few years ago, healing and ,moving on, and I’m like, WTF, over?  And my mom doesn’t want to come over to my place because I am a cluster/clutter fuck.  Well, I got a fucking bachelor’s and half a MSW.  I’d say for someone who was fucking put through hell and splintered into 79-82 or however many little pieces of a whole, that’s pretty fucking good.  Sorry you don’t understand me, just like I don’t understand you, but I’m a loyal fucking person.  I don’t turn on a dime, unless shit happens.

I’m over all of it.  Just am.  Sick of it all.  Great band, by the way.  At least their name is great.  I’m uber frustrated.  I’m in a great deal of pain.  My knee is all fuct up.  I have-my fucking cartilage in my right knee is flaking off.  And floating around my knee.  No matter what, I’m gonna have to have surgery.

I also started asanas in yoga.  Held plank for not a consecutive, but total five minutes. Oh Dear Ganesh, am I sore!!!  I wail like a yenta, but with Hinduism.  No wonder people don’t get me, I’m a blend.   Herbie said, “31 flavors of fucked up.”  I like to think, 31 flavors of collaborated bullshit.  But, Let’s try being nicer to me, shall we?  How about, 31 flavors of awesome sauce?  I like that.  31 levels of awesomenessoisty.  I make the fuck up out of word, so let’s go.

Yesterday my bed was vibrating and shaking and my alarm clock was on iPod and making AM radio noises.  I smudged, white candles, gave it back, all that shit.  Banish x53, so mote it be.  I hereby banish hate, fear and loathing from myself, a process which has already begun, let it continue on, until the burning of the sun.  So mote it be.  ABOVE ALL-KEN-HARM NONE!!!!

Oh dear Lord.  There’s that 31 flavors of blended awesome sauce.  Jesus H.  OoP!  There’s another flavor!

Okay.  I need to clean.  And banish.  I have Feng Shui smudge I’m going to get busy with. Usually about this time, I’m fading, but now, I am coming alive.  I swear, I got 13 fucking hours of sleep last night.  Slept right through an obligation.  Damn.  But, I feel better,  With Grief it is either feast or famine.  Fall makes me happy.  Going up north to see the colors change, would be awesome.  Maybe I’ll scoot out after the 8th, and go to some places I have never been before.  That would be wicked cool.  Sleep in cheap motels, yeah…  I’m digging it.  I likey.

I’m over it all.  Just over it all.  Not going drink, not going to do drugs, not gonna any of that shit.  Just need to free my soul.  Re-new, re-member, re-knew again.

And…scene.

My Brain is in a Wheelchair.

Yup.  That about sums it up.  If I hear one more person in the mental health field say: “You have a mental Illness”, I will act like the mentally Ill are portrayed on tv.  Which is bad, erroneous, false, not reliable and sooooo not valid.  But, anyways.

So, yeah.  I’m having a, “Mental Health Day”, respite with a full heaping, helping of Acceptance.  Acceptance of what gypsyzu?  For you are so balanced and wise, you may query…

Of my faults.  Of my deficits.  Of where I fall terribly short.  Where others fall terribly short, and then so I don’t feel icky-avoid those feelings at all costs- I make up for it by rescuing, saving and generally people pleasing myself into a deep, depressive hole.  I dreamt of Spetses last night.  That’s Spetses, Greece, folks.  That’s where, at the tender age of 19, I ran past the imaginary line of substance abuse into full-blown alcoholism.  I dreamt of the love of my life.  His betrayal.  The betrayal of his lovers, my “Friends”.  God.  Being naive and hopeful can be such a fucking slut.  I also dreamt my professor died and I beat a Tiger Shark to death.  Yeah.  The night before, discovered I had an allergic reaction to sulfate antibiotics.  Like, throat swelling shut, reaction.  Miracle kiddo here, pulled through another brush with the Dark Lord.  I’m done.  I got no more lives left.  Pray to God I don’t need anymore.  Was supposed to go to a bar tonight for a final show from a band of like, four lives ago.  I have no business going to a bar.  I have no business trying to be all things to most people who truly could give a shit.  Newsflash:  80% shit, and 20% awesome.  Most people today and in this world, do NOT give one flying fuck about you and yours, not because they are cruel Douche Lords, but because they got their own shit. That’s the shitty part of being a grown up.

The good part?  Not today.  I used up all my responses, answers, phone a friends and lifelines by ten a.m.  I’m fucking dun.  I can’t do no more.  I got like, my system bugging me and I’m like, holy shit, they’re taking up all my time, I got no balance.  No good.  So, mental health day.  And acceptance.  Oh yeah, and my fibro is acting up.  Solution, Zu, solution.  Come on, it can’t shit storm any harder, can it?!

And when you say things like that, that question the existence of all things holy and far bigger than you, that yes, indeed.  It can shit storm harder.

So, on that note, my shingle is being removed from beside the building and the next one, well, the next one is on me.  Literally.  I’m learning how to love myself and prove Joseph Campbell right for the umpteenth time, that yes, you too can be the hero of your own story.

Just last night, I told my therapist, I said, “If the blog reaches one person, somebody I don’t know, I’ve accomplished my goal.”  Now, this morning?  Whaddya Know?  Somebody I have no idea, no clue, never seen before in my life, liked my last blog.  Somebody never heard or seen before.  Now, I can die happy and content.  But first, I have to learn to love myself and be my own rescuer.

Wish me luck,

Zu