Improving, decompensating, or a bad day?

Oh God.  I cannot listen to this Blackstar album anymore.  When you can hear Bowie struggle for breath, it’s painful.  Just breaks my heart.

I’m really funky.  I’m setting up boundaries and I don’t expect people to obey by my rules, but dammit!  I mean, you can’t be mad at the snake when it kills you, because it is a snake after all…I just feel like I have been bit a lot lately.  I’m sick, which never helps matters; and the sickness is like…stress induced viral thingey that no one can understand or fix and I refuse to lay still.  I hate the fact that I have to be chill, both for my cold/flu and for my knees, and I’m terrified to be still, because then I might hear the truth, and Jesus!  Wouldn’t that be a homewrecker!!!  I don’t know.  Shit needs to change.  But, just because I change, doesn’t mean everyone else is going to roll with the changes.  Mobile.  Just like John Bradshaw says- you touch one part of the mobile and everything else moves.  Nature abhors a vacuum.  I’m moving and changing, as is everyone else around me.  Well, no one is on the same timeline.  Not even my parts.  There’s like 5 of us left.

 

Which is a miracle.  Hey man, when I began this journey in 2008, I had upwards of 80.  Not, “That’s how crazy you are”, but that’s how awful ages 4-8 were.  That I had to split myself, into pieces-read: parts, 84 fucking times.  No wonder I’m 42 and I suck at adulting.  I never got to be a kid, let alone figure out how to take care of myself.  If I focused on others, or kept myself busy with triflin’ bullshit, I’d never have to sit down, and feel 84 pieces of emotions, memories, etc. No wonder I’m tired and overweight.  But I did.  And up till I got the pain pills after my surgery in October, I was sober and clean.  Stayed drink free, but man, ate all those pills even after the pain subsided, and damn near licked the bottle.  Then I was ducking and dodging the fact that, Hello!!!!  What did Bette say when I was 16?  If it’s addictable, you’ll become addicted, so stay away from it.

Don fucking up and died.  I know people who read this are like, you weren’t that close or blah blah.  Whatever.  I didn’t know David Bowie or Lemmy and Bowie still fucks me up.  It’s not the quantity, it’s the fucking quality.  We get so hung up on how long, and tenure et al.  What about the quality of the relationship, how deeply did s/he impact your life?  Did you impact theirs- at all?  I’m a sensitive, maudlin, romantic, sentimental little monkey.  I remember things. About others and things they did or said that got me through the day, or the time period.  I mean, when you have a genuine moment with someone or something or some place, you never forget it.  Even if that person, place or thing leaves your life, by whatever way, you never forget them.

I’ve been in love three times.  And was loved in return by those three men.  All three, aside of loving me, had one, other little personality trait in common:  they were all murdering bastards.  No, I’m not joking or being histrionic.  The best ways we knew how, with the circumstances we were in, with what little tools we had, we loved.  And I would never, ever take those back in a million years.  Never.  My life would never be the same with or without those men.  But I may be a mess, a red hot mess, and quick to shoot a guy to the fucking ground, but, dammit!

16 years ago, my childhood- of which I had only one memory and pictures, hence why so many pictures, threw up all in my face, all over me and all over anybody and anything I came into contact.  Why?  Because it was fucking horrific!  I never knew when I walked across the threshold to either their home or church or anywhere they took me, if I was going to live or die.  What were you doing at 4, 5, 6?  Because that is what I was doing.  Surviving.  And I have been dancing as fast as I can ever since.

It’s exhausting.  So, no, my home is not spic and span, my car gets cleaned out weekly, my bills and records are scattered from hell to breakfast, and I’m trying to pick up a life that was blown asunder.  I mean, it’s insanity.  And I know it is.  I’m doing the best I can, with the tools I have, for what all I have been through for 42 years.  Let alone the last 5.  That is a whole other blog post.

I suck at relationships.  I suck at communication.  Especially now.  I’ve been in a dark and twisted place going through weird and downright, made for tv movie shit.  I don’t know how to have a normal conversation.  The bank teller asked me how I was doing.  I gave her the thumbs up, beamed a huge smile and said, “Super Fantastic!” as the blizzard drove snow and wind between us.  She said, “Well, at least you’re better than the weather!”  I looked at her, smiling my smile, square in the eye and said, “I’m lying, but I’m trying!”.

That’s my motto.  I’m fakin it, but god damn it, I’m gonna make it…probably into an early grave if I don’t chill the fuck down.  Or get quiet and be still and know.

Word.

 

 

 

Drop that bitch!

So, in a recovery program, steps 5, 6, & 7 teach you how to own up.  Steps 6 & 7 are the ones where you look at your character defects- your seven deadlies and how you act out upon them- show them to the world, you little pot-stirrer, you!-and ask your HP to remove them- Humbly ask.  So, there’s a book designed for steps 6 & 7- Drop The Rock.  I highly suggest to ANYONE who wishes to improve his/her life.  It’s just damned good.

Everyday, I have an app I subscribe to: The Leo King.  It describes the astrology for the day, planet energy and a tarot card for the day et al.  Today was the 7 of Pentacles reversed.  Why are you raking up dead leaves?  Why are you tending are garden that needs to be left fallow- there’s a word for you!  Let that shit go- DROP THAT BITCH!!!!!

So, last night in therapy, I come up with the term, Drop that Bitch!  Drop it!  No longer serves you?  Let it go to the wayside.  “Leave it”, as you would tell your dogs.  “Wrecking Ball”…intersante.  So, show of hands- how many people had a shitshow for Christmas?  That’s what I thought.  I had three people come out of the woodwork.  One is irrelevant.  Two was an ex-friend.  And three was the kinky Scotsman.  WTF, over?  So far, I’ve blown off two of the three.  The one I’m obsessing over is the irrelevant one.  Drop that Bitch! Let it go.  Just not that into you…Remember that one?  If they want to spend time with you, they will move mountains.  And not hesitate to do so.  Here’s another secret- you are/I am worth a mountain, or 12.

So, I talked to my tattoo artist yesterday.  Yes.  It’s time.  I’ve turned another corner.  My knees ain’t getting any better neither.  As a matter of fact, they are getting worse.  I have a four hour window where I am good, then I am useless and pained for the rest of my waking hours.  Oh, if only I had known.  But hindsight is 20/20.  So don’t put glasses on your ass and look back!  Drop That Bitch!!!

So, I’m down to, like 4-ish parts.  From 84.  to 4.  Since 2008.  7 years.  I’ve worked my ASS off.  Dropped that bitch/bitches.  I was cleaning out my desk and found the piece of paper that had my hep C cysts imaging on it, before I began Interferon in 2012.  During Dave’s trial.  Stone cold sober.  Bitches.

Oh yeah, my house has a ghost that likes mischief/gremlins.  My bipap machine stopped two times last night.  MM hmm.  My teacher is coming over to smudge next Tuesday.  All over that shit.

So, 2015 was an interesting year.  Dave’s gone.  Drop That, Bitch!!!!!  WOOO HOOOOO!!!!!  Not my fucking problem, anymore.  Went back to whence he came.  My neighbors all think I’m crazy.  Sweet.  Stay away.  And maybe I am nuts, I’m also an artist.  Fine line.  Friends with the monster…Drop them bitches!

So, today the advice is- if it’s making you crazy, restless and discontent- Drop it.  Just let it go.  You can only control you and your reactions.  Today has the potential for emotional volatility, so think before you speak.  Yes.  I just said that.  And for God’s sake:  DROP THAT BITCH!!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Stand up or sit down…

August 12th, 2015, I was admitted to the spa- the View.  I had to go for medical clearance first.  My part/parts come at 1 pm, and stay till 2 pm.  They make me sleepy, slurry, nodding out, it’s like I’m overdosing.  See?  It’s a quarter to two, and I feel better.  I can’t quite crack that one.  I’m working on it.

So, I go in, don’t do trauma.  Because it’s about time I learn how to do normal living skills.  I think it’s safe to say, after 7 years, I’ve graduated from Forest View’s Trauma Program.  Maybe not trauma, per se, but definitely time to take on some new healing modalities.

Over the weekend, from Saturday afternoon till Saturday night, I have constant flashbacks- flooding.  And because the flashbacks are so foul, I puke that whole time.  My poor roomie!  So, remember the first, “Eddie Hamilton”?  The one who I saw hanging from his closet- oxford had a lot of old homes- high ceilings.  Anyways, The High Priestess, whose name is Esther, closest I can recall, is holding my hand and hissing in me ear:  You can run this town.  You can call the shots here.  You can have all the power to make the decisions here.  She died later 1978, in the apartments by Huntoon.  Cancer.  COPD.  Something with her lungs.

Anyways, she requests to be left alone with, “Eddie” and I.  She instructs me to cut out his penis, and instructs me to suck all the blood out of it.  While I’m doing this-she had BIG guards that helped her.  Not guards.  Guards are helpful.  Henchmen.  Definitely henchmen.  She’s lying on the floor, diddling herself.  Whatever.  She didn’t hurt me.  That’s my thought process at 4.  She’s okay, she didn’t throw me to the wolves, try to rape me (?!!!), or beat me.

So, I remember the man in the blue robe.  The leader with the dark hair and grey eyes.  He’s Irish and Italian.  Big dude.  Curly hair.  Brownish/grey eyes.  He was arrested at Beltane in 1978.  He was discovered with two human skulls and various human limb bones.  He went for life.

So, this are the things that I’m flashing to in the spa.  I saw Katy Tuesday.  I told her about the 17 year old, six month pregnant left handed Bride of Satan, that was killed, her baby sacrificed, and how they ate her small intestine.  I told Katy that.  She finally shut up.  I think she wasn’t believing me with 79 parts and down to 5.  Cuz I had stalled in recovery.  I was living life.  I work on this from now till May.  I have from May till the end of August to live it up and pretend I am a normal human being,  I hate doing this.  Putting all this negativity into the world.  I hate it.  But what am I supposed to do?  Keep it all in?  Go mad because I’m afraid?  I challenged the cult’s biggest lie:  If you don’t join us, we will kill you or you must be killed or kill your self by 40/45.  So I made it through 40.  Now, I have a lot of time to work through before age 45.  I hope I can sail  through it.  Halloween is always so difficult.  That is the anniversary of the end of the cult and the beginning of the torture by the Roaches.  I remember hearing Mr. Roach say: “Well, we just have to ruin her.  Destroy her so she can’t finger us.  Kill her.”  And Lord, did they try.

I started having flashbacks in 2001.  About two weeks after the Roaches sold their house and moved off the block, you know, moved on the other side of Oxford, I began to have these horrendous flashbacks.  Sundays were the worst.  I can finally listen to church bells without freaking out.  We went back to the Oxford UCC church in the village where, “Eddie Hamilton” was covered in Lime.  All that remained were pieces of bone and teeth.  Esther said: Build the tower.  Bell tower.  It’s awful.  I can’t go back to Oxford.  I really can’t.  It’s too upsetting.  Too many fucked up memories.  Twisted.

I twisted my knee.  Fluid on my knee and they found more arthritis in my right knee.  We’re going to ZZ Top tomorrow night.  I saw them in high school.  They are amazing.  Dave- has been moved to Lansing.  I got no notice or anything.  I don’t know why I feel hinckey about that.  Why did they move him?  Why didn’t I get a notice/  WTF is going on, over?

I celebrated seven years drink free Saturday, August 15th in the spa.  They gave me Norco for my Chronic pain, mid August.  I saw the Addictionologist to step me down.  I’m thinking of switching programs.  I was addicted to Oxi-Contin.  For two years.  Awful.  So bad.  Chloral Hydrate, Valium, Xanax, Actiq pops.  Fuck, how and why am I still alive?

I found some emails from Dave.  Bat shit crazy.  Simple but difficult abuse-gas lighting.  I knew it was bullshit back then, I, “It’s not worth my soul to lie to you”?  Really, Dave?  Really?  What about lying to 1000-3000+ people?  Is that worth your soul?  No.  And you know why?  Because you don’t have one.  Never did.  Bastard.

“Someone in Heaven”-The Reverend Horton Heat

Well, I made it to the spa.  I have no more lifetime Medicare, Free Standing Psych Hospital days left over.  So, not only will I never go back inpatient to Forest View (since 8/16/08), I get to go to Kalamazoo to Bronson.  So, that was sad.  But, now that I can no longer go there, God invented Facebook…Hypothetically.

Well, I have a new part.  New to me.  His name is Jaz, and he is 32.  Protector, as that is all I am left with.  He likes to fight with me around one pm for dominance.  So, I look like I’m ODing.  Slurring, slitty eyes, the whole thing.  But Jaz holds the things the cult- The Brides of Satan- told me.

I was flooded with memories while I was in there from Saturday to Sunday.

Remember “Eddie Hamilton?”  Well, after the High Priestess has told everybody what to do and how to do it, she leaned into me, holding my right hand with her left and said to me, “I can make you run this town, Suzy.  You can own this town; call the shots. Would you like that?” I must’ve said “yes” or something because here’s this guy hanging with this four foot nothing woman with filed, stained teeth hissing dominance in my ear…What would you do?  Easy to say…

So High Priestess (HP), tells me to tongue the dead guy- she graciously and ever so thoughtfully lifted me up to help me kiss, “Eddie”.  Then she gave me a sacrificial Chris knife and told me to cut around his dick, and suck the blood out of his dick, while she diddled herself on the floor.  Charming.

Next.  The dude with the dark hair in the Blue Velvet robe, who wanted to tear me apart sexually and physically-he was arrested around Beltane in 1978 for procuring two skulls and various body parts for the holiday celebration.  He got life.  Be damned if I can think of his name.  He was tall and thick.  Thick, black curly hair.  Black, Brown, greyish eyes.  But he was the leader.  He tried to tear me apart a couple of times.  They had to pull him off me a couple of times.  That was the most I ever feared for my life.  Ever.

But, cults, regardless brainwash you.  My brainwash was: if you do not join us, you must kill yourself (A reason I was hospitalized at age 40- had to go), or we will find you and kill you.  I’m putting myself at a risk by writing this blog.  But, dammit, the truth must be told.

I was seriously considering ending it.  I was truly on the fence.  Truly.  It was bad.  But, August 15, 2008, at the spa, I celebrated 7 years far away from a drink.  Miracle.

It’s 3:50 am.  My fucking cat would not let me sleep.  She slept on every available part of my face she could.  I think all my neighbors went out to the bar- 2;23, 3:00 am I’m woken up.  I live above the garage.  So the garage doors I hear.  Every.  Single.  Fucking.  Time.

I start Partial Hospital today.  I have more memories.  They’re in my journal.  I’ll look for em, today…

Well, if you won’t, I will.

So, yesterday I spewed my frustration about the spa.  I filed a recipient rights complaint.  Over the voice mail.  Today, it’s on my list of things to do.  My therapist couldn’t even fit me in yesterday  and I missed her call. I can’t hold all this in.  It’s too much.  I cannot put it here.  I don’t want to trigger or give anyone ideas about what they can do to another person.   But, I don’t know what to do.  I slept for 16 hours yesterday afternoon til 4:00 am this morning.  That’s escapism.  No doubt.  Today I’m gonna make a ghetto scene if I don’t get someone to listen to me and a slot with Doc Ross.  I’m a Mess to quote Ed Sheeran.  I feel like shit.

IDK.  I just feel really hopeless right now.  I feel like I have no one to talk to.  Even my professionals have let me down and they know what a huge deal this is.  It’s frustrating and they’ve got to know that.  One can only handle so much human sacrifice, blood, gore, guts, and sexual assault for so long.  I was a “Bride of Satan”, for chrissakes!  At age 4?  Hello?!  That’s a whole lotta fucked up.  What do I have to do??  Drink?

Had a dream about that last night.  Not drinking, but a person I had a misunderstanding with in the program.  I miss her.  But it’s too late.  It’s been too long.  Besides, I don’t show my face at all the hot spots, they naturally assume I’m out drinking.  Alcoholism is a progressive disease. I left off at Death.  Only the grace of God and Dave (Smith- The AIDS KIller) not wanting to be discovered, was what saved me.  I got sober then, August 15, 2008.  If I were to drink, I’d be dead within 24 hours.  I know what I and my system are capable of.

Speaking of my system, I saw the twins.  One of them, anyway.  I was down to seven- Phylis, thee executive; Matthew, Protector, Sheila and her subsystem; Vicky and her part, Veronica; and then the twins.  They are my self-injurers.  I have never been a self injurer, never.  I have five tats, but no cutting, burning, branding et al.  I made them promise when I was in the hospital, that if they didn’t hurt me, I would turn my upper right arm, and ultimately my right arm into a sleeve.  So I touched base with my tattoo artist.  But I don’t know.  That’s money I don’t have right now.  But I’m working on it.

Fuck, I’m working on everything.  I was in the hospital counseling my friend- who is only my friend when he doesn’t have a girlfriend, and believe you me, that hurts and is not okay.  And yes, I gently broached the subject with him.  But, right now, I need a friend.  “s”.

I’m terribly lonely.  The prospects are nil.  And I am not nearly cohesive enough to be in a relationship.  I can’t even be a FB with anybody because of my HIV.  People have such a bias against…me.  I’m like every ism you can think of- mental illness, HIV, recovering alcoholic/addict, Arabic, Roma, tattooed, single, over forty with cat.  Never married, no children.  Jesus.  I’m the poster child for hate.  Or, is that how I see myself?  I don’t know.  I just feel when I hold the crap in too long, I feel like an alien.  SRA is so lonely.  It’s unbelieveable.  DID is unbeliveable enough on it’s own face value, but when you thrown Satanism in there- you really feel like an enigma. Maybe that is what I am, an enigma.

I know I cannot spell to save my life ever since a few years ago.  I can’t do a lot of things.  It’s fucking freezing out. I know that.  I better be able to get some of this stuff off my chest today or I’m going to explode.  It’s almost 6 am.  Guess I better start my day.  Whatever that means.

I missed Partial yesterday and wound up sleeping 16 hours.  I have a feeling this is the only zen I’m going to find all day.  Yucky.

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