BOOM!

That’s street for, “yer world is about to get rocked”.  Prepare to be amazed…or disgusted.  At this point, I don’t really care which.

I am on a med known as Prazoscin, or minipress.  It’s many side effects suppresses night terrors.  It was like finding the Fountain of youth.  Although after several years of taking it, two weeks ago yesterday, I had my first night terror/flashback.

I was four and holding the hand of the High Priestess of the Oakland County Sect of The Brides of Satan.  She was four foot nothing, frosted blonde hair and the teeth- the fucking teeth of the satanist/cannibal.  Filed to a point, stained with blood, cigarettes, et al, and yellow.  Yellow, grey and red near the gums.  They use dentures to cover their cult teeth.  She was holding my hand- 4 years old mind you- and we were at a murder/suicide site on the East side of Washington Street in Oxford.  The East side of main street was the other side of the tracks.  Lots of rentals, Harleys-gang type riders and guns and coke- well, an 18 year old named, “Eddie Hamilton” had hung himself?  Apparently.  I was there with the High Priestess to disseminate the scene, and to make decisions.  See, the plan was to kill my makers and my parents and have me slide in the hooves of the High Priestess.  But, no.  God had other plans.  Alotta other plans for me and them.

So, it was decided.  “Eddie” would be dismembered (Chopped up) and covered in egregious amounts of lime and put to rot under the church in the village that had rebuked their advances.  “Eddie” was to rot under the now, UCC church’s bell tower.  Three days later in August, all that remained of, “Eddie Hamilton” were some of his teeth and some half rotted bones.  So, that was settled.

10th grade. 1989.  Miscreant.  Flurry of cause and effect.  New Kid.  Lasted three months.  Loved Elvis. Disappeared after three months and was never heard from again.  The kid’s name?  Eddie Hamilton.

So, that has been haunting me for two weeks.  Today, my rock and her daughter are driving to WA to begin a new life.  I have a sponsor who makes time to be a recovery coach, buy a recovery house, candle her mans ear, but not sponsor me.  So, in a few weeks, I’ll have seven years.  I did it with God, cuz these last three sponsors I had were the most hands off, except one, bat  shit crazy mugs I ever had.  7th step says- is your shit working for ya?

I had a dream about My Greek love-Joshua last night.  Why? I have no idea except that God wants to torture me.  Three, four years ago, Joshua was in Kzoo.  I had not seen him since he departed for Jerusalem in 1992.  We were to meet up in a year and I was to join him in Israel, happily blah x 3. When I came home from Greece, after recovering from Greek Chicken Pox, I told my father I had to return to Greece and then to move to Israel to be with Joshua.  My father had lived and taught in Kenya in the 60’s.  Israel and Western Africa were rumbling towards war.  I had no idea.  He denied me.   I sobbed and drank harder.  Twenty some odd years later in a home west of Kzoo.  Joshua was in the Israel military as a Tank Commander and had been a POW twice.  He had been married, had a beautiful boy named David, and was living with a white girl from IA who was his enabler.  He had turned into a 24/7 drunk with either MS or ALS.  Either way he has managed to take his enabler all over the world for several years.  But he was going to replace her soon.  MM hmm.  I walked out on him and ran like the wind.  They tried to catch me.  No no, Roma disappear, seely boy.  So, I had a dream we were back on Spetses and it was Christmas and it was frosty.  We stayed at the boys school there.  Where The Magus was filmed and the guy who wrote the Magus taught at the boys school.  Something about retsina, a roof, a full moon, gravel in his ass, and teradactyl doves the next morning.  But alas, that one was not meant to be.

Neither was the quarter mexican super duper special agent.  Neither was the biracial Emmy nominee comedian that I was engaged to a million years ago.  Discovered I was pregnant.  My Pediatrician told me the pregnancy was ectopic.  So I had a D & C.  Dusting and Cleaning as they are treated.  “Living room’s Done!”.  Then, I was ferried off at 19 to MN, for my first in patient psych visit.  That was where I saw DID- in a DUDE- up close and personal for the first time.  Mine was playing euchre or something.  My king picked me up with my folks with a bouquet of daises.  We went to the Wisconsin Dells, on the way home.  1999, after I lost touch with my king, heard he got married and was well on his way to a life of well deserved and earned success, I was at an OB/GYN.  Did the usual questions- how many children?  How many live births? The humiliating ones.  I told the RN my pregnancy-choke-was ectopic.  So she had me lift my shirt to see the scar.  I was uber confused.  Oh, there it is, she said.  No.  That’s from my belly piercing that didn’t work.  Well, then an argument of sorts developed.  Well, if it was ectopic, they went in through your belly button!  Nurse Ratchett hollered.  They did a D&C I said- that’s it.  Then, she thought I was trying to lie to her or some sick shit, I’m beginning to realize my doc lied to me and I could have had Jonathan Micheal, and this bitch is picking a fight with me!  So I- as graciously as I could, through gritted teeth, said something to the effect of you’re the nurse, you’re the goddamned expert, you should know!

The bitch walked out.  I’m fucking devastated, heart in the third level of this building and my doc comes in.  Oh, those years of acting and hiding the unnamed pain.  Smiled through the tears.  You alright?  She asks.  Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine.  When I left in 2007, to come to GR?  On Mother’s Day, I planted a Rose of Sharon for Jonathan Micheal.  It’s still blooming.

Well, I feel like curling up in the fetal position and shutting off my heart and brain.  How bout you?

Sunday Funday!!!!

So, as my therapist says, “You’re overdue for fun.”  And I’ve been denying myself love and creativity.  Which, in theory, could be the same thing.  So, I turn on a playlist to create by and it’s my celebrity boyfriend, Pitbull, with, Time of our Lives.  Yup, you are so right Pitbull.  I need to go to the Allegan Antique Fair Opening Day, Ballin’.  Hee hee.  That is so ridiculous sounding.  But, it’s true!

I’ve been all work and no play.  I was supposed to go Friday to see a band and their last show in Lansing, Friday.  Potential problems:  From the nineties- i drank that whole decade away, one of my ex-boyfriends used to drum for them, so he would’ve prolly been there, did I mention it would be in a bar?  And yeah, I had been crying all day Friday.  It was a recipe for disaster.  My friend will not speak to me after I told her the deal:  I haven’t slept in three days- I forgot to tell her about my anaphyalactic* reaction to Bactrim- and I had been crying for days and crying that whole day and I had no business being in a bar.  I tried to let her down easy and set boundaries with her:  We’ll listen to the first set, then leave, right?  It was also an hour away.  I’m done.  So, now, she won’t speak to me.  Rightfully so, I did cancel on her, but I gave her plenty of time to find somebody else. She’s not the type to go out on her own, I was kinda hoping she’d do that.  But, I can’t control shit. I just tried to do the right thing, and take care of myself.  That, right there, being the biggest thing:  Taking care of myself.

So, usually my mom and I go to opening of Allegan, but she volunteered for the church garage sale, so I think I’m going to go regardless.  I’ve got some cash, a check book, and a charge if I see anything my little greasy heart cannot live without, I’ve also got an iPod to listen to because I really don’t want to be bothered, it’s colder than a well digger’s you know wut, and it’s great exercise, so I’m up early, and some fresh air leads to fresh perspectives…

Plus, I have been working really hard on my system and this week ain’t going to be fun.  With new maps being drawn up etc.  More dialoging, more uniting, more integration.   I just want to get to the point where I’m at least cohesive enough to work part to full time.  And I’m grieving a lot of relationships.

Like, my first love, after some hinckey shenanigans, he clearly hasn’t changed, so any romantic notions colored by rose tinted glasses were abruptly smashed this week.  Worked through the Greece guy, which was hard.  We actually reunited twenty years later.  About three years ago or so.  He has MS and is a RAGING alcoholic and has PTSD up the yin yang and is one sick puppy, and then, there’s my Issues of Vogue.  Ms. Train wreck waiting in the wings…  So, all in all, I think after this past week’s shit storm, I deserve to go walk the fields of dead people’s stuff (Yes.  There is actually an antique store called, “Dead People’s Stuff”).  So, I have to leave by seven.  It is 6:13 EST here, and I need to shower and prep.  But, my brain droppings are not done, I’m sure.

I spent yesterday with a friend eating Thai food.  Thai iced Tea is the best.  I don’t care who you think you are, that stuff is the bomb.  I’m a lil worried about her with this guy she is dating.  I did voice my concerns.  She has the same ones, but I told her: three months and the warts come out.  Meaning:  The ugly patterns, insecurities, etc come out.  They raise their ugly heads.  Both people think their comfortable, so they let the facade slip.  And if you’re not careful, vigilant and mindful, all those red flags that were and have been unfurling can wrap around you tight, and next thing you know, you’re trapped.  Trust me.  Ms. Queen of unhealthy relationships over here knows what not to do.  I have no idea what to do, but I definitely know what not to do.

Sometimes, I like to think that when I integrate and learn to love myself fully, learn to be my own hero, I’ll have a healthy relationship.  Like, I’ll get a happy ending, you know?  But I know life doesn’t work like that.  I can’t wait for anything or anyone.  They aren’t waiting for me, so wtf?  I have HIV.  I have an ex who qualifies as a serial killer/infector.   He’s notorious.  I’ll always have a part of him in my body.  You know, like a constant reminder of him.  The five Stairsteps.  God, I hope so.  Cuz this shit is getting old.  I had to detox myself from men and especially unhealthy people/men.  I’m still detoxing.  I need to purge my system.  My other friend is going through the same thing.  It’s hard to admit you’re codependent.  Or, as I like to call it, CO- D- P!  and make the hand/gang symbols of the letters.  I’m silly.  But it’s hard when your whole life you have been programmed to save people, diffuse volatile situations, soothe ruffled feathers all so you don’t have to look at your own shit.  Then I just feel depleted and resentful.  But it sure can be easier than looking at your own shit.  Nice diversionary tactic.  Doesn’t work very well, for very long.  Because I grew up in chaotic environments on all fronts, this detoxing is scary as hell, as well as doing parts work.  My friend found some CODA meetings.  I think that would be a good place for me to start. Mmmm, “Secrets” by Mary Lambert.  Good stuff.  I looooove this song.  So over it.  I don’t care if the world knows what my secrets are- sing it girl!  Preach and Testify!!!!!  Yup.  Lay it all out there.  Our secrets keep us sick.  I’m tired of being sick.

The ENT asked me how old I was when my nose was broken: 6 years old.  What happened?  They busted it with a 2 x 4.  They both cringe,  Sorry!  My truth is fucked up.  But it’s got to come out.  People may not believe in DID or want to accept the concept because they cannot and WILL NOT accept the etiology of DID.  Yes, I was four years old watching people and children and babies be sacrificed.  I went to the police with the one sacrifice I remember- have I heard from the cop?  Nope.  Okay.  I’ll go to the county tomorrow.  Because that family needs relief and answers.  My Shrink asked me what we did with the bodies- cannibalism?!  Destroy the evidence.  We held the rituals in the basement of a funeral home in the town I grew up in, and all the big wigs of the town were Satanists in the cult.  I was supposed to kill myself when I reached 40.  I was a potential, “Bride of Satan”.  Do you seriously think anyone wants to really: A.  Believe Satanism exists in this day and age?  B.  That barbarism like that can exist in the 20th and 21st century?  C.  That children are utilized in the rituals and the adults in charge of these children let it happen?!  It’s jaw-dropping, stomach turning, revolting!!! NO!  NO ONE wants to accept how people like me- Survivors of SRA- can walk around and walk and talk AND Chew gum.  No One wants to admit that this kind of disgusting and vile shit exists.  Well, yeah, it do.  And I’m living proof it do.

Inhale.  Exhale.  Do a little four square breathing.  it’s 6:45 am.  I need to shower and get my ass to the antique show.  DAMMIT!

Sundays are the worst days for me, especially between 3-6 pm.  That’s when I spent the most time with my abusers after the SRA.  When they took over the Methodist church.  I just wish there was enough bleach for my eyes and brain and there isn’t.  I live with this shit everyday.  People don’t like it, so, naturally, they don’t like me.  It’s my reality.  For now.  In due time, it will change and grow.  But for today, it’s my reality.  So looking at dead people’s stuff doesn’t bother me.  I’ve been around a lot of dead people.  And no, they don’t taste like chicken.

Hug yourself, and keep your loved ones close.  There’s no telling.

Love,

Zu

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