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?!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

Bad Ass Bitch

Howdy!

I have been a hot fucking mess lately.  This is the time of year for Halloween and all things reminiscent of the cult.  I am EXTREMELY hypervigilant now and sleep one night on, two nights off.  Why do you think I used to take 16 Klonopin, 4 Xanax, Choral Hydrate and Oxi Contin, AND drink?  And my shrink wonders why I think about the sister fellowship.  *eye roll*

Anyways.  Sundays, worst days of the week for me, aside from 3-6 pm everyday.  So, this last Sunday, Matthew decides to integrate.  Just is like- you got this.  I tell him I do- now, see?  I can talk to my system in my head and my system and the safe place and their rooms, and common areas, etc. are all in my head.  I suppose, I could draw it out, but after chair position for five plus minutes this morning, stairs are not my friend.  However, Matthew is like, “you got this”?  Yeah.  Open the door.  “You serious?”  Yeah, open the door.  He does.  For the first time since I can ever, EVER remember, he is not wearing his overcoat, his trench, dig?  His fedora, all that.  He’s in a white t-shirt and black trousers, and all the littles, like five of em, boys and girls, just tackle him to the ground and smother him with love.

In my safe place for my parts, I have a waterfall, lake/salt free Ocean, with dolphins.  Happy, no predator stuff.  So, Matthew dives in and goes swimming with the Dolphin.  And breathes.  For the first time, ever, Matthew inhaled, and let it go.  He’s been waiting to exhale for a long time.  No pun intended.  And if I would look good in Orange, yes, I would have set fire to Dave’s truck.  Hellz yeah.  Nero, bitch.  But, I digress…

So, ever since Sunday, I’ve had no sleep, on and off.  Like I said, one day on, two off, bitchy fucking people, mean fucking people.  All coming at me.  It’s like they know I’m on my own- get to that in a minute- and I’m like, fair fucking game.  It’s crazY!!!  Absolute bonkers, yeah!  I unfriended two long-time- whom I thought- were friends.  One was not.  Hadn’t been a friend since she got wrapped up with a guy, the other chose her husband.  Totally understand both, but the first?  She was like, rubbing my face in it?  Why?  Cuz you’re engaged with no ring, guaranteed to be miserable ever after?  YUCK!!!!

No thanks.

So, me and my labels?  Which are as removable as they are applicable, will be over here, trying to figure out who we are under all these AXIS dx.  Fuckers.  Strengths perspective.  No, you’re an Axis !, and that’s WHAT, WHO, and ALL you are to them.  The DSM was invented to treat, but mainly to classify, disseminate, and label for insurance purposes so people could get paid, yo.  Straight.  You’re not a strength, you’re a file.  A “Patient”.  You’re not human, you’re a number, an insurance claim.  Quality of life in mental health is zero.  They could give a fuck.  Too bad you’re a female with psychosis and the only neuroleptics (anti-psychotics) that work are Zyprexa and Seroquel and you have somnabulism (sleep eating) and crave sweets, lack energy and get fat.  But you’re clock radio is quiet now, isn’t it?  Fuck you.

Anyways, sometimes, being in recovery with the Axis that I have, DID, is the worst thing.  Then, HIV?  HOLY FUCK.  There is truth to the stereotypes, to the diagnoses.  Otherwise we wouldn’t receive treatment.  Appropriate treatment.  And I’ve had two different rounds of nine treatments of ECT.

I was walking by the grocery line today and Drew Barrymore is on the cover of Star or some shit, with the headline quote: “I’ve had the weirdest life ever”.  Ever?  Really.  Swim in my water, punkin.  Swim in some of my friend’s pools.  There’s 31 flavors of fucked up that you won’t experience anywhere, even if your gene pool is Barrymore.

Back to the point, Matthew integrated and has been very quiet and away.  Gone.  Weird.  Explains the hypervigilince(sp) at night.  Who is going to protect me?  Who is going to keep me safe?  WTF, over?!  I’m terrified.  My fiercest, bad ass, warrior, protector, who stood up to Dave, and Dave hated since cuz from what I remember when I switched to Matthew?  Told Dave right the fuck off and called his shit, OUT!!!  Where is that fierce protector?  That loyal dude?  FUCK!!

He’s in my heart, safe.  My part is no longer splintered, separate from my core, but part of me again.  Just like when I was three before all the shit went down.  I was/am a creative, smart kid/woman.  Matthew had always been a part of me, but when the shit hit the fan, I created him into an imaginary friend type, almost?  I could pull him out like Spiderman, put him on, kick ass, then have Alfred help me through the crisis and fallout the following days from fighting the evil in my head.  The evil that Matthew and I, us, we…me saw and experienced and felt and smelled and tasted and saw, and heard screams, and physical pain and terror, and recoil, and just abject fucking terror and no one to protect 4 -year -old me from monsters and atrocities against God and man.  So, I created Matthew to protect me.

Follow?

Now, he’s gone, and I’m closer to integration- complete.  Everyday, every experience, every interaction, I am extremely hyper critical of myself and how I re-act and react and reenact.

I’m hungry.  no.  I don’t want a fucking taco!

New Day, New Dawn, Am I feeling Good?!

New Map made this morning. Haven't made a map since April. Check out,
New Map made this morning. Haven’t made a map since April. Check out, “WTF is a map?” to see the difference.

Good Morning.  My Great Grandmother, Faith, mother of my 100 year old Grandma Mary came through the light this morning.  What that means is:  When the lights flicker, or, like this morning, just turn on when the lamp is off, it’s Grandma Faith telling me to do something, or that she is proud of me, or some message.  So, tomorrow, I am heading up to Big Rapids, to see my grandma Mary- who, incidentally, because of her Macular Degeneration- is listening to Tu-Pacs’ audio autobiography.  My father does not approve.  Oh well.  He’s not her parent, he’s my parent.  Remind me to tell you about Grandma Faith’s story about the gypsies that would camp near the Strange school in Grand Ledge.

So, I slept like a rock.  I had a dream I was supposed to go to jail.  In my dreams lately, I’ve been sticking up for myself.  A lot.  To some pretty tough characters that my brain makes up, or has met before.

My windows are going to be looked at today!!!  I swear, I’m the last person in my condo complex who has the old windows.  And yes,my screens are on the outside of my window.  Surprise Bitch!!!!

So, I don’t feel a lot of sadness.  I don’t feel his presence a lot or that often, like I used to, so I feel like I have moved on and as a result, so has he.  And that is a true blessing.  I feel like I can go back home, take a shower, get ready, clean my house, smudge, cuz the New moon is popping, and do what I have to do.  I have to go to the pharmacy today.  That is my only errand.  And get gas.  Woo Hoo!!!  But?  Am I blessed enough to do those things?  You betcha.

So, I did a new map.  Zachary, the part of Vicky, who is a part of Vickie, who is, apparently, under construction still, has a door with a hook latch.  Behind this door are more cult memories.  My therapist has been on medical leave, so there’s a lot of work I cannot do unsupervised.  I need her guidance and experience.  And it’s behind this door.  Daphne, the 15 year old?  Never heard of her.  Never met her till this morning.  However, I have noticed me being more adolescent/teenage like.  It has been very frustrating for me.  So, that waits.

Scrubbed the rug yesterday with mom.  Did more grief work, but that has been read.  Today, hopefully, will be a normal, life day.  How bout that?

Here’s hopin’.  Have a great day!

Sanctuary! Sanctuary!!!

So, I’m lonely.  HIV, DID, and being overweight leads you- oh yeah, along with low self esteem-drops you right at the feet of being lonely.  So, I got on Tindr.  Wanted to see if I could get my, uh, needs met.  Also, to see what all the hubub was about.  Well, I swiped right, and so did Anthony.

Anthony and I talked for four hours the first night.  He came over and we talked for for four more. One small problem- Anthony would be homeless by today and had a SCRAM bracelet on and had just been let out of his halfway house into renting a room.  Now, here’s an interesting fact:  Ever since I started to have memories and flashbacks way back in 99/2000-2001, I have been madly attracted to Sociopaths.  Can’t shake em.

Cliff, Scott, Dave and Magic, and now Anthony.  So, I offer for him to stay here.  WTF?!  He had read me so well, I was hooked.  Sociopaths do that.  They can read a mark so well, know exactly what to say, and get under your skin.  So, Anthony grew up on the East side of Detroit. 7-8 mile near Gratiot, on the streets, “because nobody wanted” him.  He was a car thief, and at 12, was in Maxey by Ann Arbor.  So, I knew he had some shit.  And it wasn’t just an attachment disorder.  Three days.

I offered him up the chance to come correct with me. No way can they do that.  He told me he had a Domestic- a misdemeanor.  I laughed. Went to OTIS- 6 years for intimate Assault and Battery, which being his third time in- automatic habitual offender.  Dropped him like a bad habit.

So, Tuesday, I go to my therapist- that’s when I dropped him.  We talked.  We’re going to do a workbook- Mindfulness for Prolonged Grief.  And work on my cognitive errors. My story ended Sunday.  I need to begin a new life/story.  I need to return to the program.  I need, I need…I need to do.

The reason I finally didn’t act impulsively, was that I- my house is my sanctuary. It’s where my healing happens, for the most part.  I have a part system to keep safe.  If I don’t act like a responsible adult, my system will not trust me, and will take over.  Can’t have that.  I had to protect not only myself, but my system- which are one in the same.  That was the whole purpose of this blog.  If you want to heal from your trauma and integrate, you gotta act like a protective adult. The parents wee never had, the ones that were supposed to protect us and soothe us and love us.  If we don’t step up and take steps to protect ourselves, which includes our systems, we’re never going to heal.  We’ll never integrate.  Letting yet another Sociopath into my home and my life- I’d be dead within two weeks.  Whether by his fists, or my drinking- he was a drinker too- real winner. One of my mom’s coworkers told her- she’s not going to bring home an accountant.  Wouldn’t it be a hoot if I did?  I’d invite her to the wedding to just be a bitch.

But, I’ve been dope sick.  Quit the Norco.  Had a cold/stomach flu on top of the dope sickness.  That’ll teach me.  That’ll learn me, as I really like to say.  I had a dream about an Octopus.  Octopus medicine is very powerful and very fitting-clearly, or the Octopus would not have come to me- for what I am about to embark on.

You ready?

I am.

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.

Shocker! And not the good kind…LOL!!!!

Well, I added a theme and some new websites I found.  Please let me know if it translates well.  I really do appreciate feedback, because I love different perceptions.  Really, that is what life is made up of-different perceptions.

So, I’ve been doing Partial Hospital, which is like IOP- 6 hours a day of groups and then I get to LEAVE!!!!  WOO HOO!  But, Thursday, one of those financial people came to see me.  *Bitch* *Cough*  Informed me that I only have 9, yes, 9 more Medicare days left- FOR LIFE- at a Free Standing Psychiatric Hospital.  That’s it.  That’s all I got.  So, I took a deep breath, walked outside, sipped my monster and brain stormed.  Okay, because I have an additional Medigap policy supplemental to my Medi/Medi benefits which pays for my therapists.  Yes, “s”.  Plural.  I’m not going over why again.  If you’re new to me and this blog, re-read the previous chapters.  Trust me, there’ll be a test, there always is…Anyways, I call my newly discovered case manager thru my PPO.  She started poking around, and I started researching when I got home.  Because, If I could find a psych unit attached to a regular Medical Hospital, like U of M, say, I’d be covered and cool.  And this is where the learning curve came in.

Called the Mayo Clinic first.  Well, they only treat people from the surrounding states of MN.  And I’d need a referral- fucking DUH!  This ain’t my first rodeo- and of course, how to get there, do they have a bed, what’s their model, blah x3.  So all the rest of the hospitals I called- about ten, I found a Newsmax article about the top ten hospitals that treat DID.  Del Amo, Dr. Ross’ CA hospital was Number Uno, but they were ALL Free standing psych hospitals.  So, I have to covet my days like a mug.  I’ll hop into partial if I feel the blues coming on or I start to flash a lot.

Dr. Ross was there Thursday.  Did I get to see him?  NOOOOOOO!!  The Clinical Supervisor, who was my first case manager there, asked her underling to make it happen that I saw Ross that day.  I overheard her tell the supervisor-her supervisor- make it happen, she said, “I’ll Try”.  WTF?  I’ll try?  FUCK YOU GUYS!!!  I’m finishing partial.  Apparently, God thinks I’ve got plenty of skills and resources to not need to be hospitalized anytime soon.  Which is awesome that God thinks I’m a Bad Ass, my shrink was not listening to a word I said, doesn’t understand how Medicare works and was telling my outpatient therapist that I wasn’t making any sense.  No, motherfucker, you calling me by my childhood name doesn’t make any sense, you fucking pill pushing and taking away doctor motherfucker!

So, I took Friday off.  My 99 year old grandma and my Aunt were coming up to get their hair did and have a Mother’s Day meal.  My grandma went down into the basement to google stuff with my dad while my aunt went shopping for a gift for a person.  Three guesses what my grandma-99 year old- wanted her son to google for her…give?  Her old boyfriends.  I LMFAO at that.  Now I know where I get it from.  Between the two gene pools I come from, it all makes perfect sense.

Yesterday I returned half the shit my part-Sheila-bought.  Made her print out labels, sit back while I drove my mom and myself to the UPS store.  Made her watch the whole process.  Then, we went shoe shopping with my mom. I needed a pair of casually dressy sandals.  I had found a pair when I was at the shoe crack store (DSW) returning a pair that Sheila had bought.  Yeah, her job is to make me happy.  We need to redefine that.  June 10th Rev. Horton Heat is coming to town.  June 12th is my birthday.  I’m busting out my psycho billy gear and have a ball- sober!!!!  But, I took my mom shoe shopping cuz she needed new dog walking kicks.  Got her a sweet pair of navy blue, hot pink and neon green laced Nikes.  I had a ten dollar cert, so I bought that pair of Born sandals.  They fir me the best. They’ve got toe bondage as Dave used to say.  He could find bondage in office supplies.  He used zip ties and diabetic needles to shoot his meth with.  Near the end, he was smoking it.  His teeth were disgusting.  He was disgusting.  UGH!!

So, it’s Sunday.  A huge trigger day for me.  So I’m gonna pick up my bedroom, clean the bathrooms, move a tub of IDK what out of the desk area, and we’re (ma and I) going to move the book nook out of my room and into the front desk area.  Then, we’re going antiquing.  Great store in Hastings called Davall’s.  Used furniture and antiques.  Although, I went to Indy last week to visit my friend, swear to God, just a friend, whatever. He works at a furniture store- Nice furniture and I picked out a chair with leopard print fabric for my desk in my bedroom.  It’s where my creativity comes from and where I work from.  My cat’s all curled up and I’m a typin away on my king size, listening to Linkin Park.

Oh!!!  I met the last two parts- the twins.  The angry, rage filled, self-injurer is Sophie, and the other one is Lily.  Lily is gentle and soft and vulnerable and sweet.  But she only turns her head towards me.  Never looks at me.  Sophie, well, it’s time for a new map anyway.  I see my therapist tomorrow and go back to partial Tuesday.  I’m going to see how much longer I can drag that out.  It really helps.

Well, that is enough for now.  I put up some new links.  I hope they work, and are beneficial.  I finally feel rested.  It’s been quite a ride.  Could use some calm.  Have a good day y’all!!!!!