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.

 

 

 

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!!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

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!

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!!!!!

Fueled by Monster and Sam Kinison

Good Morning, Gang!  I am out of the spa, clearly.  Was released into the wild Friday.  I went in two weeks ago Wednesday.  The head of the trauma program at the spa left Thursday for job unknown.  So, there’s like, no leader.  I get a case manager Monday who is the temporary (?) head of Trauma and he promises to see me three times a week.  Okay, first rule of trauma- NEVER promise anything to a trauma survivor you can’t follow through on.  This fucking piece of shit, I see him Monday and I didn’t see him again till Yesterday when I was at Partial Hospital.  WTF???!!!!  Thanks, ass hat.  Thanks ass.  Can you say, Recipient Rights Violation?  I think we can.

So, Tuesday is Anger- to those of us before the new regime came and went and changed it to- “Feel your Feelings”.  Which was like, the mantra of trauma program- “Feel ypour feelings and stay safe”.  Now, it’s a clusterfuck.  So, I step up to throw some clay balls against the backboard to relieve myself of pent up rage towards my main perpetrator.  Cuz, the act of feeling the anger, and chucking a clay ball- hard- overhand at a board and hearing that SMACK!!! while you’re getting your feelings out is very cathartic.  Ice cubes in the sink work when nothing else is acceptable or available.  So, I switched.  I started with My main Perpetrator, by my thrid word, my protector and all around motherfucker part, Matthew (he holds my rage), came out.  The last thing I remember was throwing a clay ball up above the board and denting a ceiling vent above and to the right of the board.

The next thing I remember was moving closer and closer to the board in a rage fueled frenzy.  Then, at the end, I remember saying, “Why don’t you move down in FL to the Everglades *smack*, sit down *smack* put chicken around your neck *smack* and send me a picture.  I walked it off myself.  Calmed my system down myself.  Scared the other two patients.  Cuz I think, if I remember correctly, I got into details which your not supposed to do.  But I was so enraged that you really- let’s just say:Telling Matthew or myself to reel it in at that point is a REALLY bad idea.  So, went about my day.  This was Tuesday.  Took till Thursday for my arm not to twinge with pain.  Now I know how baseball pitchers feel- OI!!!

But, come Wednesday- No case manager.  No debriefing.  Okay.  This is fucked up.  So I’m left to bleed out and process this emotional violent hairball by myself because the teacher of the class is fucking burned out and I got no case manager?  REALLY?!!!  Then this chick bounces up to me like Tigger Wednesday telling me my case manager is gone and we’ll  be working on my Master Treatment Plan.  WTF, OVER???!!!!  Uh, o fucking kay.  Fuck you.

Thursday- still no case manager.  Friday- my stalker shows up.  This chick, like two years ago tried to seduce me, and I don’t play for that team.  I had female abusers.  When the rubber hits the road in a sexual way with a female, I got nothing.  You’re on your own.  Too much baggage.  I’ve done it, but that was before the flashbacks.  Anyways, so on top of all this emotion, on top of no case manager, I got someone stalking me in the psych hospital.  Who is there INVOLUNTARILY!  WTF???!!  I feel like I’m beyond Nurse Ratchett- cuz 98% of the staff at the View are Saints in training- takes a special person to work with the mentally ill.  I’m beginning to feel like ‘m in a Salvador Dali painting.  Nah, Escher.  But, Friday I left.

I felt like an Escher painting because I was healing. And I was around a bunch of actively sick people.  Gets on your damn nerve.

So, I d/c Friday.  That was a circus.  But, I’m out and doing really well.  Went to Indy for the weekend.  Visited a friend.  Was just what I needed.  A break from the same ol same ol.  And Mother’s Day was good.

But yesterday I had a major revelation in a trauma class.  Major.  Shook my foundation.

So, I have to go and get ready for partial now.  There’s too much that happened.  But, I actually remembered my friend’s schedule.  Three days later- Cohesion is coming.  Dr. Ross is coming to the hospital Thursday.  I’m hoping I can get a one on one with him.  I saw people and babies sacrificed.  I need to debrief.  I dented a ceiling fan.  I am in dire need of debriefing.

I hope you all have a great day and be grateful.  Gratitude for even the smallest of things that we overlook in this first world country is underrated.

Namaste, Beyotches!

Guess Who? Whom? Who cares…Here we go again!

Yup.  Sheila integrated 7 of her 16 parts from her own sub system.  Now, I’ve got an old part, Vicky, who has a split off part named Veronica.  Apparently, Veronica likes Van Halen, Live from the Tokyo Dome, black nail polish, girly things and is about 16 years old.  She claims that she is the part my first love wanted me to be.  I explained to her that a whole lotta too bad happened to us and that if my love and I had been meant to be, we would have been already.  Sometimes a, “no”, means an even more amazing “yes” is going to occur.  Try telling that to a teenager.

So, I’m guessing from what I’m learning from Veronica and how my interests are changing, a little more rock music, a whole lotta wardrobe changes, and a cleaner environment.  She’s a little anal.  Well, between you, me and the world wide web.

So, all that sleep I got from Sunday morning to yesterday afternoon is gone.  Yes!  Parts work is exhausting.  Putting Humpty Dumpty back together again takes a lot of work.  And time and effort, and, and and…

Yes, I’m pissed a bit.  I spent my time busting ass with Sheila and only got her halfway through and now another one wants to play.  Dammit.  It’s frustrating, this thing called parts work.  You go three steps forward and two steps back.  Some of it can be fun and rewarding, and other times painful and emotionally excruciating.  I have a feeling between VIcky and her part/leaf, Veronica (she hates that), I’m gonna wind up in the hospital again.  I usually come out during or around my birthday.  So don’t like going to the spa.  I hate it.  If I’m not wearing my sequined purple beret, or as my friend coined it: “My couples and backward skaters only” hat, the hospital workers- who, most of them, 95%+ are a fucking mazing people, ask me:  “What’s wrong?”  Um…I’m in the hospital?  Again?  But they know my purple sequined beret, is one of my coping skills.  That and my red lipstick.  Yeah.  See?  It’s not like The Cuckoo”s Nest.  Some places are, but the spa ain’t.

My doc don’t like me to do the trauma track.  He says I get worse.  Well, yeah.  When I’m going over my past with a fine-toothed comb, so I can pull myself together- literally- I fall apart a little bit.  A part, get it, of me doesn’t die, but integrates.  This Tokyo Dome record is like, I’m not sure, David Lee Roth is not like, singing all the words to the songs and now in, “Dance The Night Away”, he’s calling the band, “Chicken Shits”.  Okay.  Weird.  Or?  It could truly be me.  There is a George Bernard Shaw quote which is amazing.  It’s to the effect, if someone knows your weaknesses, and uses them against you (Gaslights you), that is truly the devil’s work.  I hate it when people have done that to me.  Mostly boyfriends.  They knew how sick I was and totally used it against me to their advantage.  Lovers?  Not so much.  But the relationships?  Awful.

My therapist asked me if I had known I had a system.  Nope.  Not till Dr. Ross diagnosed me in 2008.  I was like the Kay Redfield Jamison of DID.  I researched it, presented on it, studied it, read up on it, but never knew I had a system.  My therapist had this like, “How in the fuck could you not know?” look on her face.  I said, “I was raised in the theatre, I’m eccentric, I drank a lot before I got sober, I have three closed head injuries, I thought I had a poor memory and was just extravagant.  I chalked it up to a lot of variables.

I have to stop.  I’m beginning to paint myself into an ugly corner that I don’t want to be in.  It’s time to get er done as well.  Veronica apparently has an internal clock.

Have a great day…wish me luck and energy?

Zu