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.

 

 

 

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…

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Well, if you won’t, I will.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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