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?!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

Real Deal

Fuckin’ Hell.  I’m over it.  My new issue of Real Simple came and it said something like:  “The year devoted to you”.  Yeah.  It’s high time I made amends to myself, quit apologizing for my journey and existence, stop making an ass of myself, and groveling for affection.  Or, trying to get affection from people who see me as an option instead of a muthafunkin priority.  Which, this year?  Starting today?  I am.

Was at my therapists last night.  We’re exploring negative self esteem and the negative core beliefs that I operate from…Holy Fuck!  No wonder!  Jesus.  A little time out for Zuzu, goes a long fucking way.  I mean, I’m sneaking out tomorrow about three to go see Spectre and then Star Wars.  Yes, I pre-ordered my ticket.  But, I’m going to be in fantasy land, phone turned off for, like 8 hours.  Crazy!  When I was a kid, I used to escape my reality by reading.  I told my therapist:  I am super uncomfortable reading.  I feel as if I should be doing something.  Fuck!  I’ve turned into a human doing instead of a human being.  Suck ass.  For realz, yo.  I mean, I have books coming out my ears- like the Roman Empire’s library.  I’ve read 10% of them because I feel so guilty taking time out for me.  I mean, wow.  Super unhealthy.  I don’t even have kids.  I do, down to 10 parts, a lot of them littles, and I’m just like, totally overwhelmed.

December 1, 2015 was (and is, every year) World AIDS Day.  I asked my mom if she would like to go to a celebration/remembrance for WAD.  No.  Okay, why?  I had just, finally, viewed Dallas Buyers Club, and I was all jazzed, and she says, “No.  I will never support you in anything HIV/AIDS related.”  Okay, so when I die from shit from my HIV, like, I don’t know, Cancer, you wouldn’t take me to chemo?  She’s all I would’ve made a different choice, and it wasn’t my choice to make and I’m just not there yet.  All like five hours before the WAD ceremony.  Okay.  If I had known he was a lying fucking sociopath, dontcha think I would’ve pulled an Iron Maiden and Run to the Hills?  Woulda, coulda, shoulda, doesn’t really do me a whole lot of good right now.  One thing about my mom- I know where I fucking stand.  So, whatever…

January 4th, I start my Improv class and the 6th is volunteer orientation for HIV/AIDS organization here in town.  I’ll perform, make people laugh, hone a craft I adore, and then reach out and impact others.  Yes, Dave passing helped tremendously.  I feel a helluva lot more free.  Will there be romance in 2016?  I think so.  It’s way over due.  And it’s romance, not bullshit.

Speaking of bullshit, I found out that my first love, that I made amends to a million years ago, is married, was married, has someone.  Awesome.  The piece of shit has NEVER acknowledged he received the amends letter.  No, I’m married.  No, lose my everything.  Nothing.  Just, typical, you ripped my heart out, abandoned me, I’m going to humiliate you.  Kissed his friend in high school- way after we had broken up for the second time?  Walks behind me and says just loud enough for me to hear, “Whore”.  What about your fucking soul brother?  He’s just as fucking guilty.  But, no, fuck you too, ass wipe.

This is why I’m being 100% totally selfish and spoiling the fuck out of myself in 2016.  It starts now.  Went to my HIV case manager.  Made arrangements.  Bought myself some healing crystals and a Star Wars ticket;  Going to see my shrink.  Fuck all y’all.  I’ve been killing myself trying to be all things to all people and make everyone else happy before me.  Well, that fucking never works.  I understand, eat, pray, love now.  Walked into the crystal shop, sign in the breezeway- “eat, pray, love”.  Got it.  Done fucking deal.  I’ve never really acted like the only child I am, but fuck you, now?  Game on.  It’s all about me.

I saw someone speak about their experience, strength and hope a couple of weeks ago.  She remarked when she first sobered up, she didn’t even know what her favourite colour was.  Well, I don’t know what I like to do and how I like to treat and be treated.  I know, for a motherfucking fact, not being my authentic self, and putting everyone and everything and all their shit before my own?  I’m a fucking angry, bitter mess.  But I’m HALTing it.  Before I go off or some shit.  You know what?  I don’t exist to you?  Sweet, now I know where I stand and I don’t have to try to prove myself and sell you on the idea of me because my self esteem is so fucking low.  I think of myself as an ends to a means.  Not a means to an end.  I’m the problem, but I’m also the solution.  So, watch out bitches.

I lost Don, Dave and a few other people.  Some through my HP’s will, some through my own will.  Some just cause.  Maybe, I actually outgrew them, or saw their fucking horseshit games, and said, “enough”.  No wonder I relapsed.  I was living on empty, shallow, surviving instead of thriving.  I bought myself a necklace.  An old therapist said I needed a Badge of Honor.  The necklace is a semi colon necklace.  “All warr;ors have scars”.  Fucking a we do.  And you know what?  If you tip toed through my mental tulips, you’d freak the fuck out.  I’m fucked up.  If you had been and seen and lived through what I have- it’s a fucking MIRACLE I’m not nonverbal.  So stop pushing for more than I can give.  When I set my boundary and say, “enough”?  I mean that shit.  And fuck boy first love assholemonger?  As Don would’ve said, “Put that sonofabitch on extinction.”  And you know what?  My degree is in Sociology, not Anthropology.  Extinction, not excavation.

The only fucking thing I will be excavating in 2016, is my soul, heart, and mind.  My spirit was shmushed.  Just extinguished due to too many high winds and not enough fuel.

So, put your own fucking O2 mask on first- no fucking bullshit analogy there.  Cuz if you can’t breathe, you’re fucking dying, little by little.  Last time I checked, dead people couldn’t help nobody.  Even, obviously, their damn selves.  So breathe, mother fuckers, breathe. I know I am.

 

 

 

 

 

The Trifecta of Therapy

It is done.  The Trifecta in the big therapists office in the sky is complete.  Donald Eric Arvidson passed away on Sunday, December 6, 2015.

I got my period at age 12.  In the spring.  That summer, something changed.  I morphed into a depressed, sullen kid who had trouble with the simplest things.  I told my mom, “Something’s wrong with me.  I think I need help.”  She never looked up from her computer work, “You’re fine.  There’s nothing wrong with you.”  That fall, I tried a feeble suicide attempt because, oh I don’t know- I was stealing my parents wine, drinking it on the bus to school, and taking very long hall passes while sneaking pulls of wine that I had stashed in my leather jacket sleeve in my locker during class.  The police came, the ambulance came, they heard it on the very small town police scanner.  So, the next day at school, thank God, more people were concerned with treating me with kindness and compassion more than scorn.

So, I, naturally, started to see Mrs. Chrichton, the school’s best counselor.  I’d get a hall pass to go see her and I would go down and try to talk to her.  Hmm, no wonder I can’t sleep.  High winds and today was Don’s memorial.  I digress.  Mrs. Chricton could relate to me.  She was a wonderful, tough, and loving woman, who, ultimately, recommended me to Don.

I was terrified.  I’m going to see a shrink?  I’m 14! I must really be screwed up!  So, I go to Rochester.  And I met, ugh, a man of smallish stature, blonde hair, blue eyes and a great smile.  But I loved his smile, his openness, and his matter of fact, nonchalance.  He also dismissed my parental unit.  It was love at first session.

I came to know Don through his office changes, his relationship changes and my life teenage changes.  I told him about the drinking.  He introduced me to Nathaniel Branden- Romantic Love- and that not only did my secret, greasy heart desire it, it required and deserved some romantic love.  He thought I might be Bipolar, but was hesitant to label me at such a tender age, so he sent me to Bette.

Enter Bette.  I met her at her office in Birmingham.  She laid out the MMPI for me.  A week later, in her electric blue suit with leopard print go go boots, she gave me the results of my test.  And I quote: “You see this peak right here?  The one that goes off the page?  That’s PTSD.”  What’s that, I asked, horrified.  “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  You have the stress of a Vietnam Vet in a POW camp.  It was something that happened to you at a young age.  Figure it out.  This second peak?  The one that almost goes off the page, but not as bad as the PTSD?  That’s addictive personality.  If it’s addictable, you’ll become addicted to it, so stay away from it.  Oh yeah, and you’re bipolar.”  She then turned on her heeled leopard print ankle booties, blonde, coiffed mane held high, and probably went to catch a nooner with Albert Ellis.  No shit.  She fucked REBT man.  That’s what a bad ass Bette was.  Don knew how much I idolized her, and on one of my visits to him, he gave me some of her books, mixed in with some of his.  As soon as I returned home, the books went on the shelf, and have not left.

Mrs. Chricton passed from Breast cancer in the early double odds.  Bette passed somewhere in between, and now Don.

I’d known Don for 20+ years.  He was my father, friend, confidante, mentor and teacher.  He taught me the value of loving kindness for not only yourself, but your fellow man, compassion, boundaries, that it was okay to be where you were at- as long as you were authentic about it, and that it was okay to be awkward.  As long as you were authentic about it.  No walls, open heart, big Leo.  Big Grin.  Big hugs.

No one will call me kiddo again.  No one will give me heart to heart, soul to soul hugs.  No more Don.   But he went peacefully, quietly and with dignity and grace.  Tough till the end.  That was our don.  We are going to, and do, miss him very much.

We last spoke in March.  It was the last time we spoke.  I knew it would be the last time I spoke with him ever.  I found a picture of him Saturday.  He was in his usual state- high on Valium.  I tore up the picture.  The one and only photo of Don I had, I didn’t want to remember him high.  I wanted to remember the impish grin, the slitty eyes, the guffaw, the quiet soothing tone of his voice.

The trifecta of therapy is now complete.  Heaven, or the cosmos has gained some great clinicians.  Lucky bastards.  I’d like to end with a Don-ism, or something clever.  But it is what it is.  Don was Buddhist.  Light a stick of incense, not just for ones you have lost, but for life and yours as well.  Nam ay oh ho ring gay quo…

 

 

 

 

 

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!

Dave is Dead

About a week ago, I found a magnet on my door.  Some fuck nut had put a magnet on my door (private entrance), and it fucked up my security system.  So, all morning, I was on the phone with personal calls and then to the security company.  Well, I didn’t have the proper information.  My father was here when it was installed, because I was probably in the hospital.  Anyways, there was A LOT of information I needed to get clearance that I did not even know I needed.  Communication is weak in my family.  Very weak.  So, my dad is up North watching my 100 year old grandmother.  He’s being a smart ass- cuz, naturally, I thought it was Dave fucking with me.  So, my father blows me off.  Which hurt and caused old wounds to open up- you don’t care, you never protected me, blah x 3.  Then, he calls me back and tries to tell me what to do, he wasn’t hearing what I was saying.  So, we yell and he hangs up on me.  K.  Dee.  (His father)

So, then I call Dave’s old Parole Officer to see where to send the PPO.  The PO calls me back and leaves me a message: “Dave is Dead. He died last week.  Dave is dead.  You don’t have to worry about him bothering you anymore.  Dave’s Dead…”  WTF!!!!!!!

So, after I inhaled, I started to sob.  Belly aching, heart breaking sobs.  I mean, like, the full body sobs?  I’m a mess.  He was a monster.  And why he was a monster and how he became a monster, I’m not 100% sure, but I know some aspects and those are private.  Some things are best left unknown.  Even he deserves some peace. He always tried to seek God.  He tried to be a monk, he tried to go to church.  He tried everything.  Well, God is love as one of my friends told me tonight.  And, as a medium, he did make it to the other side- the light side.

His PO has no idea what he died from, we guess physical problems- HIV, HEP C, Diabetes, IDU Meth Addict.  I think he overdosed on meth as a suicide run.  That’s my bet.  AS his PO said, “doesn’t really matter, we all wind up the same.”  A freaking men.  A freaking men.

So, after I gained my composure, I called the security system company.  Apparently, my system has been in test mode for some time and I have a faulty device.  Really?  Just so happens, the beginning of the year, my neighbors stole my WIFI and changed my password.  I had to change it to something they would never guess.  Then, the magnet on the door, and something else.

And now that Dave is gone and no one knows?  Mm mm.  I gotcha.

SO, now that Dave has passed away, how do I feel?  Torn.  Really torn.  But really glad he’s not in pain and tormented anymore.  Neither are we.  We’re all free.  I think that means I have forgiven him and now I can heal.  Really heal.  Cuz I was never able to heal or grieve constantly looking over my shoulder since 2012. Jesus, what a shitty year that was. Christ!  Lost F Dog, lost Chris, Lost Button, found out I was a SRA survivor, Interferon and Dave’s trial.  Fuck that year.  If I was ever going to drink, that would have been the year.

So, I can’t sleep. I’m starving and all I have is a turkey Lean Cuisine.  Every time I get  up, I get out of breath and my chest hurts.  I don’t know wtf that is about.  I’m tired.  Just tired.  And I got a four year old coming tomorrow morning.  Er, this morning.  Jesus.  I can’t do it.  I can’t do…everyday is a battle.  With PTSD, DID, HIV, alcoholism squirrel brain, war with God, neighbors, no friends, no men, I’ve been sick with a bacterial infection for two weeks.  I was so sick last Friday, I was hallucinating.  Fuct up.  I just can’t do it.  At least, right now, I don’t feel I can do it.  I just feel like I’m almost at the top of the mountain.  Just a little further and I’ll be there, but I’m so fucking tired.

I cut a bunch of fuckers out of my facebook account.  I cut out some really long term friends who have just not been there for me and I haven’t been there for them, insensitivity, circumstances, life.  Just trimming the fat.  Plus, if they don’t give a damn about me when the shit hits the fan in my life, when I’m there for them when the shit hits the fan in their life, wtf am I hanging around for?  Or, I never hear from them?  What’s the fucking point?  None.  Just noisy fuckers.  Fuck em where they eat their eggs.

So, it’s 2:37 am here on the EST.  Usually they’d be coming home, waking me up.  I’m thinking about a food run.  It’d be fast food, but it would be something in my gut.  I need to take care of myself really hard core especially now.  No lip service, action only.

Well, I hope you are all doing well.  Life’s a bitch.  Get a helmet.  Thanks Denis Leary.