Dear Dave,

Ernest Hemingway said, “Write clear and hard about what hurts.”  Ok.  I will.  I’m always one to take advice and guidance from the greats…

Chiron is in Pisces. Chiron was discovered in 1977.  It is a mini planet; it is the, “Wounded Warrior”.  Makes sense it is ending it’s 50 year cycle now at the New Moon (Feb 5, 2018), and January’s eclipse season.  Chiron, especially in Piscses, makes all our old wounds come up.  And since we are at the end of it’s cycle, all our hidden wounds are coming out to be healed and forgiven and released.

Dear Dave,

As Lady Gaga sings as Ally in A Star is Born, “I would have broke my heart in two if I knew I could have saved a piece of you.”  I would of.  No questions asked.  I don’t even know where or if you are buried, because I never had a chance to say goodbye.  And to tell you that I finally forgive you.

You were not bad.  Born bad.  Your parents met at a foster home, fell in love, and in their youthful, piss amped up dreams, decided to foster children.  You, My dear, darling, Immortal Beloved, were their first foster child.  Red, ginger, curly hair and brown eyes.  Dimples, a goofy grin and a bubble laugh stole their hearts- as well as mine.  They adopted you in Lansing.  And you were the beginning of their very dysfunctional family.  They brought in more boys.  Boys that sexually abused you, because you were the white, “wanted” one.  So, they tortured you every chance they could get.  Which was every day.  We had such similarities, you and I.

Then, you would walk Kalamazoo Ave on your way to Henry Hill High School in Lansing, Mi.  Where the teenage boys would circle you, hijack you and physically and sexually assault you all over agin.  All before 8 am.  Monday through Friday.  Your abuse came before school, and during the night, in your bedroom in your own home, while mine was M-F, 3:30-6 pm.  And sometimes weekends, la la la la.

You had two daughters.  Breanna.  I spoke with her when you would call her.  Before my overdose, we were all going to go to Cedar Point before the end of the summer.  Because you knew she and I both loved roller coasters.  And, you wanted us to be happy.  Because you loved us.  And I believe, even in that courtroom, when I stared you down, and you deigned not look at me, I knew you loved me then.

On 12/23/12, you sent me that infamous text.  About how you were going to the police to stop, because you couldn’t and there were too many bodies already.  I rolled my eyes, and thought,  “shoot up some more, Dave”.  12/24/12, I think, the cops did call me down to the station…You only gave them my name and number.  Not Amber’s, Not your three Ashleigh’s-including your meth whore, Ash.  Tattoo her name on your heart in Arabic.  You did, and you made sure I’d see it and know what it meant.  I hated you for so many things, Dave.  But that one…really was a knife through my heart.

After I tested positive for HIV, I went to your house two days later.  I left you a note that I had HIV and that you and whoever you were fucking better get tested.  You see, I knew.  I pieced it all together.  The stories about your youth and your mother, San Diego, your wife, getting involved in Meth, going to rehab when they still put toilet seats around people’s heads.  Traveling from San Diego to Baton Rouge.  Your trips to NOLA.  Up North to Lansing, then landing in Grand Rapids.  I found out after you left me, after I got sober, that whore Ashleigh told me.  Told me that you had been to bareback parties in GR, Kalamazoo, Lansing, Detroit.  I knew you had been positive for a long time and that you had gotten HIV from shooting up Meth.  Sex drug.  But I was too naive to know that, and you knew it.

When I went to the Infectious Disease (ID) social worker, I told him.  I told him you contracted HIV in California and that you had been spreading g it far and wide, male and female, on your cross country extravaganza home.  I told the social worker- “He’s killing People!  He needs to be stopped, or he’ll keep killing!”  Instead?  The social worker muttered about how it would be impossible to prove, subpoena medical records, and that people who become HIV+ together, try to find a way to stay together, and work it out.

Okay.  I forgave you then.  Because of the HIV.  Not because you broke my heart and destroyed my world.  I was 2 and half hours away from home.  I knew virtually no one, and I had just got sober, just got diagnosed with DID, then three months and three days sober, get diagnosed as HIV+.

I was.  Fucking.  Terrified.  I NEVER HAD ANY CONFIDENTIALITY OR ANONYMITY about my HIV status.  I told one person at the Alano club.  BOOM!!!  Damn near the whole recovery community knew!  I only disclosed cuz I was riding with her, and if we got in an accident, I didn’t want to infect her.  Michigan law.  I didn’t have a choice.  But her big jaws flapped it all over the Alano club.  And you broke up with ME, after you ran back to Ash, thinking I had died that night in August.  I remember coming to, seeing you and I  could tell your mind was gone.  You couldn’t save me.  You thought you had killed me- and I was one of the people at that time, you didn’t want to kill!

Damn you.  I hate you so much when I think of the early days.  You caused me so much fucking anguish and heartbreak.  And you destroyed my ego, my self confidence.  Cuz, boy!  Once those AA boys knew I was positive, they backed right down.  And if someone new came into their clique that fancied me, that dude was put on notice.

I haven’t had sex since you went to the cops in 2011.  I feel like such a circus freak!   And I gave an interview to the news-they didn’t put my voice through the harmonizer, so everybody watched the news at 6 the night before.  So, I go to a mtg, open my mouth?  The whole room gasps and stared at me.

I’m terrified of men.  “So, what was your last relationship like?”  “oh, he was The AIDS Killer”.  Perhaps you’ve heard of him:  David Dean Smith.  He was a serial killer who used HIV to kill people.  What’s that, you say?  HIV can’t kill a person.  *Laughter*.  Of course not, silly!  How very woke of you.  But when you have unprotected sex with men and women and DON’T TELL THEM YOUR STATUS, they don’t know, infect others, and unless they catch it, they will die.  Get it?  Shall we split the check?”  Thanks, asshole.  A whole glob of pain, all before dessert.  I can’t even tell them, “Which one?  The Serial Killer or the Secret Service agent?”  I’ve been both sides of the tracks honey.  You don’t scare me.  Neither does you petty ante bullshit.  As for you Dave, you don’t scare me anymore either.

I saw you a month before you died, waiting at the bus stop on Lake Eastbrook Blvd, between the hotels and ADVENTURE LAND.  You smiled.  That fucking goofy grin.  And you looked so happy.  But you were so thin.  So very thin.  And all I could selfishly think was “OMG.  Now he knows what I drive.”  A month later, I called your PO, and he said, “Well, I don’t think Dave will be giving you anymore trouble.  He died earlier this week.”  But, but I just saw him month ago!  That was the chance The Source gave me to say Fuck you and Goodbye.  You fucked my life.  Fuck you.  Go Die.  And you did.

Some tímes?  I miss you much.  Our good times.  Because if I focus on the crap, I become crap, act like crap, and I don’t want to remember you that way.  Chiron is in Pisces.  At the end of it’s 50 year run.  I’m at my end.  It’s the end of our run.  In the 90’s, When the song, “Truly, Madly, Deeply” came out, believe it or not, I was living and working in Lansing.  Going to school too.  And I would lay in the tub and think, “I want someone to love me that much.  If just once.”  You were definitely My Savage Garden.  You definitely loved me truly, madly, deeply.  You only gave the cops my name and my number, because you knew I would stop you from killing any more people.  You finally…that’s when I knew.  7 Years of bullshit.  That’s when I knew you loved me.  More importantly, that you trusted me.  And I couldn’t tell anyone.  Because they would think I was delusional.  Hell, some people still will.  But nothing is black and white, good or bad, you taught me that.

We were each others Immortal Beloved.  And we will always be each other’s Immortal Beloved.  Between “A Star is Born”, and the People magazine article about the girl who found out her dad was the BTK Killer, I knew I had to come to peace with this…and you.  It’s going to hurt, letting you go.  I’m not good at relationships.  The fact that you were constantly in my orbit for 7 years is amazing.  And a miracle.  You and I know I have barely scratched the surface of our story.  But I want you to know- I forgive you.  I forgive you for every cruel thing you said or did to me, because they were all cries for help, and I missed every one.  I knew you were suffering and wanted to die.  I knew you were miserable.  I knew you were scared to live and scared to die, so I helped you any way and anytime I could.  Hell, you were/are my immortal beloved, my Savage Garden, my Truly, Madly, Deeply.

And I would have.  I would have broke my heart in two if it would’ve saved you.  In a way, I don’t want to feel another’s kiss or touch or start another fire with a stranger, because it won’t, and will never be you again.  But, my wounded warrior-and I’m not just talking about you, here, clearly-our time is nearing a close.  And I just want you to know, don’t forget that we were happy, deliriously so.  I’m probably one of the few girls you took to meet your parents.  And you’re the last man I took to meet mine.  Starting over is difficult, but now we both have a clean slate.

I will love you forever.  My immortal beloved, Double D.  May you finafuckingly rest in peace.

All My Love,

Zuzu

 

David Dean Smith.  10/18/1960-9/11/2015

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Did You Hear That Noise?!

So, my poor Baba.  He has an infection behind his incision.  They have’nt put him on antibiotics.  Why not?  My best hypothesis is that they are drooling morons.  His care has been beyond reprehensible.  In this day and age of medical care, you MUST be your own advocate.  That includes getting bitchy, making calls, complaining, being proactive, rattling the tree.  My parents, God bless them, are from the generation that the doctor is God, and you don’t complain.  No matter what.  It has taken nurses that have helped me, vouch for me in front of my parents for my parents to get that I am competent.  Absofuckinglutely frustrating.  But, they have some appointment this morning.  I mean his wound vac was all fucked up, let’s put it this way: if anything can go wrong, it has.  My poor father has just been so sick.  I played him Churchill’s speech from WWII.  The one that Iron Maiden plays in their Live Before Death concert album?  “We shall fight in the fields, we shall fight on the land, we shall find on the sea, in the fields.  We will never give up and never surrender!”  Or, as my father taught me a British saying, “Keep your pecker up.”  That’s my personal favorite.  It used to be, “Keep Calm and Carry on”, and Churchill’s, “If you’re going through hell, keep going.”  Either way, the basic message is that even though things suck ass, this too shall pass, but fight as if your life depends on it-because it does.

So, I had a bunch of epiphanies yesterday.  And yes.  You will read about all of them.  So suck it up, buttercup.  Isn’t this why you’re reading this in the first place?  So, I started my day yesterday at Midnight.  Yes, I woke up at the Witching Hour.  And I stayed awake until 4-4:30 pm.  It was a big day.  But, if I haven’t mentioned this before, and I’m breaking a rule, but I am in recovery from alcohol and pills.  8/15/08 is my sobriety date.  This year will be ten years.  Pretty fucking incredible if you knew what I was like before, but I digress.  I was at a recovery meeting, and I said, “I used to give rides, I got my three year coin in Cheshire, CT (Which is true), but something happened and I don’t know what, but I changed.  I have horrible social anxiety, and after outings, I have to go be alone, and be quiet and lay down.” It bothered me.  Cuz I used to be so gung-ho recovery.  I couldn’t figure out what had changed.

I came to my rents house.  I had thought about going out of town for a day trip by myself to the lakeshore.  I asked my dad for some cash, because my cash is so fucking tight, and he gave me $40.  Perfect.  Gas, drinks, food and a chotchke.  So, I go to this national park by the lake.  You had to climb this huge hill to get to the beach.  I started up the hill, now, keep in mind, I’ve ballooned to 300+ pounds, and am incredibly out of shape.  I am also a former smoker and have a rescue inhaler for when I start wheezing.  Yes, the fat, wheezing kid.  Anyways, I started up this steep ass hill, started wheezing, got half-way up, didn’t have my inhaler, nowhere to sit down, didn’t want to sit down because there was a sign warning of ticks-no thank you-so I turned around.  Felt completely defeated and ashamed and embarrassed. Went and sat at this picnic table by this old-fashioned water pump, and sat.  I was resting, and I said to myself: That’s not you.  You would’ve scaled that in three minutes.  What have you let yourself become?  What have you done to yourself?  Why?  What the fuck happened?  Then I had to pee.  Went to a park outhouse.  Can you say dry heaves?  But I hopped in my car and drove to the town.

Found a great parking spot.  Threw my purse crossways over my body, and began to walk along this Lake Michigan, bay, tourist town.  Walked into the first boutique.  OMG.  SOOOOOOO overpriced, and not that great.  Then I went into one of those little, cheap tourist shops.  Found a beautiful hand fan with butterflies on it-perfect for my smudging.  The Asian lady said, “That’s a fan”.  I replied, “I know!  I’ve been looking for one of these!”  She got all excited.  She was really cool.  A lot of snooty people.  Saugatuck used to be a very LGBTQ town.  I don’t know if it still is; I saw a few same-sex couples, but it was like the rich heterosexuals invaded and brought their Bed and Breakfasts with them, it was horrible.  But, I found a little bar/cafe thing.  It had an outdoor cafe section, so I sat there.  My waitress had the best tattoos.  The Tat Cave in Chicago- Anita Perone.  Amazing work. Absolutely amazing.  I’m thinking of finishing up my right arm as a sleeve.  To my mother’s dismay.  But, I walked along some more, until my hips ached and I had a second asthma attack.  Jesus.

So, I’m driving back, and it’s sunny, the clouds are fluffy, got Medwyn Goodall on the stereo, and it hits me.  Like an NCIS Gibbs smack in the back of the head.  Three years sober was 2011.  The trial was 2012.  Remember?  The Dave trial that made China Mail and The Huffington Post and the world knew who you were, that you lived with HIV, that Dave was the one who shared it with you, and that you corroborated his confession, and put him in prison.  Then Forrest- your animal Siamese familiar died.  Then 2013 was Hepatitis C from a tattoo and Interferon- which about drove you mad.  2014 you said goodbye to like 4 friends.  2015 Dave died and you were well on your way to being a social shut-in.  2016 was ECT and the suicide attempt.  2017 was rebuilding, and the last 6 months of 2018, you’ve had health problems (Gallbladder surgery 6/20), Hepatitis C is on the rise again and your sugar is up.  You’ve been shunned from your old recovery social group, shunned from one of the recovery clubs, you haven’t been able to nail down a sponsor because you don’t know yourself-NO FUCKING WONDER YOU’VE TURNED INTO A 300LB SHUT IN!!!!!!!  JESUS!!  Anybody who has been through what I have been through the last 6 years?  They would too.  And the funny thing?  I don’t think anyone would blame them.  I mean, hell, my road to recovery started in a psych unit with the diagnosis of Dissociative IDentity DIsorder-By the way?  Roseanne Barr is a multiple, not blaming her racism and Trump loving on that, but it explains a lot.  Then I get dumped by Dave, start IOP rehab, then three months after my last drink-8/15/08, on 11/18/08, I get diagnosed with HIV.  Excuse me while I just shoot myself in the head.

So, for the last ten years, life has been less than easy.  But I have been trying to Keep Calm and Carry On.  If you’re going through hell, keep going.  And I did.  I kept going, right till yesterday when it all became crystal clear on I96 North.  So, when I came home, I told my mom.  She was like, “Yeah”, like, Hello!!!  When you’re in the brush, it’s hard to see the enemy sometimes.  Sometimes, you’re the enemy.

But, I came home, took all my meds, alarmed the house-that helps me not be a nocturnal shopper with my group of Night Littles-and I fell asleep at 4:30 pm in the afternoon.  Woke up at 2 am, but didn’t really wake up till 3.

Robin Williams, I believe, said, “If you wouldn’t let an asshole stay in your house, why would you let an asshole stay in your head.”  So, today is the first day of my new life.  I’ve been gone too long.  I’ve been depressed for too long.  I’ve been fat and single and sad and scared for too long.  Dave is dead and The Roaches?  I could eat their hearts right out of their chest if I had to, bottom line.

So, this is me, today, June 4, 2018.  8 days before I turn 45.  Pretty fucking amazing.  All it took was some negative Ions from the water, and some getting away by myself.  Tomorrow I have a Pre-Op appointment in the morning. Then I’m heading to the Lakeshore.  Like a beach.  Where I can just walk on it, not climb a cliff, and have an asthma attack.  I’m having lunch with a friend today-Indian Food.  I’ve had Indian Food like twice in my life.  I’m thinning out all the crap in my house.  I learned from AJ Dibble, that you don’t need excess to be elegant.  I used to be elegant.  It’s my time now.  Watch out, bitches!

I Stand Alone

That’s what happens when you are going to a Shinedown/Godsmack concert, and you are binge listening to Godsmack.  Plus, it’s just how I feel right now at 2:29 am on Monday, May 21, 2018.

Well, part of the reason we- yes, I am trying to use more DID friendly language-haven’t had an entry is really a myriad of factors.  My dad had bladder cancer.  He was diagnosed in August of 2017, started Chemo, which didn’t agree with him, then in March, he had a radical Urostomy- google it.  He is older (79), so he is healing much slower.  He has a 3 cm hole in his gut.  He has two above it, but the bottom one finally got a wound vac, and the top two are healing nicely.

My mother has been waiting on him hand and foot, and the dog.  She had grey bags under her eyes.  I said, “Enough”. Take a day off and just fucking rest.  I have tried to stay out of their hair.  So much so, that my meds need to be recalibrated.  My shrink suggested partial hospital, I, of course, assumed he was wrong, and proceeded with my own plan.  The other psych hospital in this town was linked in with a hospital here.  Since I have used up all my private Medicare days, and all their beds are no longer hospital beds, but private beds, I’m screwed.  I’d have to go a half hour, 45 minutes or an hour and a half away.  So, today I will call partial and get scheduled in for Tuesday.  Besides, that hospital believes in DID, the other one does not.  WTF, over?!??!  But, today is a new day.  My friends and family were grateful I didn’t go inpatient.  I am too, because psych hospitals suck.

So, damn near every morning, I snuggle up to my laptop, click on notes, and whoever comes forward, comes forward.  So far, I’ve learned there’s Phylis-she’s the executive, knows all, but trusts me enough to deal with the day to day responsibilities.  Then, I have four protectors: Richard, Matthew, Vicky, and Matilde.

Richard-very OCD, micromanager, self harmer, wanted to kill me by my 40th birthday because that was when the cult/Roaches said I had to die.  But, all the organizers are under him.  The organizers, micromanagers, anxious, hypervigilant parts are underneath Richard.

Matthew- The rage, the anger, the antagonist, the fighter, the revenge fantasy, the baseball bat, the lion spear carrying part.

Vicky- SHe’s my sassy girl.  Holds a lot, if not all of my sexuality.  Lil hypomanic, fashion, basically all things girly.  Flirtatious, light, you get the idea.  I hope.

Matilde- she guards/protects most of the fully formed littles.  She protects and guards a lot of the littles.

There are many parts of each protector.  I work daily with morning meetings communicating with all the parts.  My therapist taught me a new term: Rolodexing.  It means you’re a couple parts active at once, kinda stacked up on the psychological tarmac, waiting to come forward.  She told me that, and I was all, “I’m four or five deep all the time!!!”  On it.  But we have Three-inch Binders for each protector, then all the part communication from that protector-their parts- gets put in their binder. I have four pieces of posterboard to complete the visual map.  It’s a lot to do in the morning, plus AA meetings, and readings and meditations.  S’lot.  But, my therapist seems to think that by December, I’ll be a little more cohesive as a system, so I might be able to volunteer or get a lil job.  One can hope.

Well, I need to go to bed.  It’s 3:01 am on Monday.  Girl needs her rest!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

Valentine’s Day Massacre

No, I’m not talking about the Lakeland Shooting.  Although, that was one for the record books.  This morning, a bunch of HUGE corporations decided to cut ties with the NRA.  Thank Goddess someone higher up has sense.

I digress.  Ever since I was 6, I get sick on Valentines Day.  As I grew older, they just sucked, and as much of a romantic that I am, hope ran out, but this year, hope was restored.  Couldn’t figure out why I thought I was getting better-which I am so I didn’t question the phenomenon.

Turns out the part, Angela who belongs to Matilde’s system is ghostwriting this blog.  She also apparently holds the memory of the Valentine’s Day incident.  I knew I had to write a blog about the flashback.  I’ve been putting it off since I had the flashback, two weeks ago.  But, yesterday and today, I have been filled with a terrible sadness.  A grief that will not abate.  The only way the grief will lessen is if I process the flashback the ‘ole Bessel Van Der Kolk way.  Write it all out, feelings, sights, smells, everything, and it’s essentially pronking.  What is pronking, you ask?

When an antelope or any other animal in the wild escapes the jaws of a leopard or tiger or whatever, they jump around-pronking.  It gets the high levels of cortisol and other neurotransmitters out of the high range by pronking, it gets the attack and neurotransmitters from settling in the muscles-muscle memory.  Animals don’t have PTSD.  Because of their survival instincts kick in (Pronking), it jars the memory out of the muscles.  So, they don’t have flashbacks.  Humans, however, don’t get to pronk until later.  Sometimes decades later, if at all.  And, we have all that fun shame and guilt and fear.  Hence why when you become angry after a flashback, tennis racquet on a pillow or ice cubes chucked in the sink, all the while yelling and screaming at the top of your lungs.  The human equivalent of pronking.  This website is yet another avenue for me to pronk.

I’m not quite sure what to do at this point.  I’m tired.  Basically, I was 7 years old-TRIGGER WARNING-in my Valentine’s romper (White with red hearts) and I was at home, by myself, cuz I was sick.  My parents couldn’t afford to take the day off school/work, so I just stayed home.  The Roaches knew.  They sent over their good buddy with the leather motorcycle jacket and a jean vest over the jacket to pay me a visit.  He had long, stringy black hair, and he knocked on my bedroom doorjamb.  yes, this fucker was sent over by the Roaches to have his way with me.  The Roaches weren’t selfish, they shared me with all their friends.  As my stomach turns just saying that and remembering all the things that others have done to me because of the courtesy of them.

So this son of a bitch gives me a 6-inch leather strap to bite on.  I even took off my own romper, bit down on the strap and rolled on my stomach.  I had become so conditioned by the abuse, I just caved.  It was easier to go along with the abuses because fighting got me nowhere or just more abuse.  So, greasy pedophile zipped up, took the strap-I knew I was not the first and not the last-and left my house.  I took all evidence of the assault down to the basement and put it all through the laundry.  When my parents came home, they were none the wiser.  I was sick, so it was no big deal that I went and hid out in my bedroom.

I feel terrible for that little girl.  For me.  I feel, for the first time, a genuine and deep sadness that I have never felt before.  I’m gonna go pronk.

 

 

“Blue Ain’t Your Color”

I’m sick.  So, I have time to stare at the ceiling.  When you’re positive, colds, flu, and illness kick your dick in the dirt ten times harder than someone that isn’t poz.  By the way, the name I chose for this blog entry is a Keith Urban song from his album, Ripcord.  I highly recommend hi, it.  Jeez!

I have been going through a dark night’s journey of the soul lately.  Blame it on Saturn in Capricorn, but it’s been happening and shaking me to my core.  I feel like I need to watch some Daniel Craig Bond.  Tortured, tormented, but ultimately successful-but at what cost?  I posted a pic on IG the other night, you know how you want to cry, but can’t?  Tore up from the floor up, and you can’t squeeze a drop-not even a whimper?  Yeah.  That was me.  So, my friend calls me and says, honey, you look miserable.  Miserable.  Because I am, Jillene.  Because I am.

There was a fork in the road about Monday, Tuesday.  It had been brewing all weekend.  I”ve been asking myself some hellatious and deep questions.  What I expect and will tolerate from myself, what I will expect and tolerate from others.  Most importantly, shit I will not tolerate from myself, shit I will no longer pull, et al.

We’re back on the DID wagon.  In acting, as in life, you must commit to the thing, emotion, prop, whatever, just commit to it.  And go big or go home.  At least that’s what I do.  But I’ve always had trouble committing.  To a simple theatrical feeling, motivation, or even bigger, a person, a career.  Why? Besides the fact that I am split into 400+ parts, I have virtually zero self-esteem.  It’s all bravado, darling.  Smoke and Mirrors.  Good name for the play.

Yes darling, the play.  I’ve got to do something.  What makes me happy?  Theatre.  How much?  A Lot.  Telling my story, honoring my truth, explaining a phenomenon to a world that doesn’t want it, read want you, that is freedom.  Will it be easy?  Hell no.  Will it be taxing?  Fuckin A.  Will I want to quit?  You bet.  But then I think of all my friends with DID, and I’d feel like I was letting them all down.  I’m open.  About my HIV, about Dave, about my DID.  Because I have no shame.  Why should I absorb someone else’s bad acts, how they transmuted their shame, and splayed it all out on me- why the fuck should I hold on to their shit?  Child, please.  I got enough shit going on, okay?  I have enough shame for my body tricking me while they were abusing me.  I have enough.  I’m not absorbing any more of their bad acts or keeping quiet about their bad deeds.

And how about that piece of shit Nassar?  What a fuck.  They’re all fucks, and I’m tired of being quiet.  Boom

 

 

Take 5

So, it has come to my attention, (thank you 6 planets in Capricorn) that I have some mighty, mighty character flaws that impede my relationships greatly.  I have become That Friend.  You know, the one that always has some drama going on?  The one who can’t see past her own nose?  The one who is in a constant state of turmoil?  Apparently, that is me.

I’ve asked myself why.  I’ve asked myself a million questions over the past several days, and the answer is the same.  Get out, get some friends, maybe not friends, but meet some people, do stuff.  You’ve got a whole artists studio in your house, you’re tired of writing in a journal, start drawing in a journal.  I have some serious and deep owies I need to acknowledge and get out.  Another factor?  I’ve been doing ECT, and not seeing my therapist on a regular basis.  When you have DID, you should always be in therapy.

I haven’t been making it to my meetings either.  The ECT schedule has really screwed up my sleep schedule and just fml in general.  Right now, I feel too weird for recovery, and too far behind in therapy.  I had three friends basically tell me, don’t have time for you.  Okay.  I appreciate the honesty, I appreciate the candor and frankness with which you spoke.  Duly noted.

We went through the stages of grief.  Shock and denial, we’ve bargained, but not a lot, sadness came yesterday, sadness and anger, at me, are on today’s menu.  I accept I’ve been that friend.  Too weird to live, too rare to die (Thompson).  A friend I knew once said, “And the but of it is”, I don’t have to be that needy and drama filled friend.  A.  There’s no need for it.  I need to up my self-reg and self-soothing skills.  B.  It shouldn’t have evolved this far, and like the rest of this snafu, it’s my fault.  I’m not communicating well with my therapist.  I’m not communicating well with myself.  I’m not being as honest as I can and should be with myself and my therapist.  That is a huge problem right there.  Acceptance.  A lot of acceptance has to happen so changes can be made.  This is a thorny problem.  On a lot of levels.

December 15th is an anniversary for me.  I was raped under the Christmas tree in 1978.  So every Christmas/Month of December, it is a trauma-filled festival.  I act out, this year I spent a gob of money I didn’t have, I saw my therapist once.  I start back 2x a week this week.  Everything they tell you to do in DID recovery work- go slow, be patient, be gentle, self-soothe, take breaks, be kind to yourself?  Haven’t been doing.  The ECT has dominated my landscape.  My depression has been raging.  The ECT is the only thing keeping me together, and I’m held together by a thread.

Don’t get me wrong, I know why people don’t come around.  I’ve got a lot of shit going on, and I need to be more responsible regarding my emotional pain.   I wasn’t doing the shit I needed to do, and when you half-ass it, the wheels fall off the bus.

I need AAA for the soul, please?