Breakaway

Sometimes, albeit rarely, i play music i kept in my suv when i would drive myself the seven miles to work.  A favorite was Kelly Clarkson’s album, “Breakaway.”  i never made it farther than seven miles for years, but this song became a secret promise to myself.

i needed out and had no idea how.

Somewhere inside me, it’s like i have a small trunk of collected images of my mother in rage at me.  i suppose i just shoved them all in there and locked it tight, the moment it was over.  At night, it comes spilling open.

i taught myself how to lucid dream when i was twelve, the year i started collected medical books for my future clients.  i relied upon that skill until Sir Raven made me take a medicine for fibromyalgia.  It does help, but everything has a trade off.  The trade off to Cymbalta is a rare side effect of extremely vivid dreams, and the loss of lucid dreaming.

Last week, pandora’s box opened in a nightmare-except it was a full memory in black and white.  It’s not as if i forgot being raped at 5 or later.  i did not forget.  However, i was required to tell my mother that it happened later, after his car wreck that gave him permanent brain damage, because it was her “only good marriage.”  The truth-that he was a pedophile-would “destroy her.”  Yes.  Destroy her.  She also ignorantly remarked that i would have died if he had done it at 5.  She was half right, but it was her denial that did that.

i remember a pool party with his relatives years later, after he had already been taken away from us after an exhausting two years of Jeckle/hyde when he would go back and forth between being himself and being a wild eyed, demented, angry, drooling, frothing stranger.  The girls at the pool party had all been sexually abused by him, their aunt was telling my mother, and i pretended to not hear.  My mother whispered in my ear to stay away from the girls, that they had head lice.  It never occurred to me until the other day that this could have been a lie to freak me out and to keep me from talking, because the oldest girl had joined in the conversation.  Even then, my mother insisted i tell her that he hadn’t known what he was doing to me, that it was after the wreck, that nothing really happened.  She would sob, beg me to tell her on demand, and i was an obedient girl.  She would say if it had been true, she would have killed him.  What happened instead, of course, was that we brought him home on my decision.  We went to visit him the day i started my period at school and felt vulnerable and exposed, after i pleaded for us to not go.

Once, in a moment of strength, i told her it had happened.  She went into a rage that lasted two days, ending with her driving me to the bank, telling me she would give me some money and then i would be dead to her.  i couldn’t drive, was under age, had no where to go, and money wouldn’t solve any of that.  That isn’t why i recanted.  i recanted because i figured if we were leaving each other for life, i should protect her first.  i should tell her what she needed to hear to go on with her bizarre idea that she “had it right” once.

i was surprised when she sobbed and thanked me, and i opened my door to go into the bank, hoping she would help me get a hotel room or something in the rural area.  She told me that it wasn’t necessary anymore, for me to be “dead.”  i was her daughter again.

So, this nightmare wasn’t a total surprise to me.  Just that i don’t often have anything come up so clearly, because when it starts i shut it down.  But there it was, the smells of him and fresh cut grass, the van, the quick stabbing pain, and then a drive for kit kats.

i woke up, covered in sweat and thankful that my full bladder had forced me awake.  somewhere inside i was screaming at myself are you okay?

But i was okay.  i am okay.  It doesn’t define me.  None of it does, really.

There are a lot of abusive experiences that i think of as just experiences.  Therapists told me that this was wrong, that i shouldn’t see my life like it was on a movie screen, that i should have feelings for that little girl.  i don’t know what my mother did to me before age five, but she had already taught me to not show terror, and i was clearly afraid of upsetting her in any way.  i know that much.  i don’t think that goes away.  So it is very hard for me to have emotional attachment to these memories, even the rare ones where i can remember feeling terrified or rage at the time.

Things that set my mother off were often benign-setting her laundry basket down of freshly folded clothes too hard, anything that could be construed as me ” standing over her,” the look on my face, my arm touching her arm accidentally in the car, being too affectionate and making her “look like a lesbian,” rejecting in any manner any way she touched me, anything that caused her own memories to surface.  That one was particularly tricky, because it would be just a random set of words or the way we happened to be standing, and once triggered she would act out on me her own abuse as a child.

i was reading recently that many women are misdiagnosed as having bipolar when they are actually DID.  i think that many women who are misdiagnosed as bipolar may have antisocial personality disorder.

Those shopping sprees?  Are they mania or a lack of responding to normal rules and conventions?  Many of the behaviors associated with mania also reek of failure to accept social norms, personal responsibility, and exhibitions of rage.

My mother casually asked me one afternoon if i knew what bipolar was.  Of course.  i listed off all of the criterion from memory.  Nodding, she flattered me, and then told me she needed me to “pull off,” having it.  She had organized a meeting, testing, and we needed the additional check in the house.  That was how it was presented-do this thing, or we can’t financially survive.

i couldn’t imagine that the result would be an acting job that would come with years of forcing me to take lithium and antipsychotics.  i had to actually take it, because you get blood work monthly and they check.  Lithium binds to receptors and creates permanent changes.  It took years to be diagnosed differently, years of meds i didn’t need, meds that kept me unable to feel much and may well have caused outbursts in a person who didn’t need them.

For as much as i try to focus on the good, on gratitude, on a good life and being productive, on my relationship being good for SR, on my education-

there are times i am engulfed by the magnitude of it all.

For one thing, the damages that can’t be fixed in my body was caused by abuse, the pain is from abuse.  The pain i live in.  It is real, now, immediate.  It effects and informs everything in my life.  i can’t get away from it.

i’m finding it really hard to have a sustained focus on anything.  Hopefully, my muscle relaxers i’ve been out of for a week come today and the skull pain calms down.  i can’t even articulate an email to my professors.  what to say?

i am wondering how i can manage the next 4 weeks of these classes.  i am wondering how-even if my Master was behind me-i could possibly get through the required hours of in person intern work, the hours required for licensure.  After that, i could work at home.  But how can i get there now?  i don’t know.

The only thing one of the best doctors in New York can tell me if she might be able to make me “more comfortable.”  That doesn’t bode well.

i’m trying to think of ways to deal with this that don’t piss me off.  i asked Sir Raven about buying a ballet barre, so i can safely work on strengthening my legs and core.  i told her that if i end up not able to walk, which is NOT going to happen, we are going to get an adult sized stroller for me.  A company that makes strollers made an adult sized one for an adult to get inside and get a baby perspective and everyone was happy inside.  Just the idea makes me grin.  But that isn’t going to happen to me, so all i needed was to tell SR that this is what i needed to think of as my “worst case scenario.”

It causes me a lot of unneeded stress to not be able to blow off steam, not turn to fucking and pain to manage the stress.  Of course, it turns those things inward.  There is nothing for me to do but accept.

The weekend before last, i was looking into doctoral programs, possibly social psychology or sociology.  i was trying to find a program that i would do well at, that can be completed online, and that didn’t have a requirement of in person hours except for residencies.  i was trying to think of what work might transfer in case i need to change gears.  i have just a few classes left and then it is really all about the in person hours, internship, and clocking hours for licensure.  My health seems too precarious for that, and i don’t have any idea what to do to handle this.

Dropping out cuts my income in half because we live on student loans, too.  So that isn’t feasible.  Getting a job with my BS degree wouldn’t make much more than i make now between disability and student loans.  It also isn’t sustainable for the long term.  Finishing my Masters degree is taking huge risks without a guaranteed pay off.  Going for a doctorate means more years of school- at least 3, realistically.  Ironically, it seems like the choice that makes the most sense.  i’m trying to move toward acceptance and figure out various plans so Sir Raven can decide the next path for me.

Today, i have a few projects for school to work on.  i fucked up last week totally, and my A slipped to a B.  i finally got the only feedback that wasn’t tersely worded from Professor APA.  i have to pull off some talented work to make up for this, explain myself again.

Sir Raven had a stern talk with me last night, after i was totally disappointed by missing a Spiritual party where my absence was actually noticed and missed, because of how dependable i am at working a kitchen.  Sir Raven went Sunday.  Yesterday, she told me how many people asked about me, and that it was noticed i wasn’t there working.  It felt really surprising to me, but i also felt a humble pride that my Master has a slave who is known by her work and smile.  She told me that i was missed, but that she was right in making me stay home to rest, and noted that her home was back in proper order yesterday because of it.  Granted, she made the trips downstairs with me to supervise me doing laundry because i needed that help.  The house is messy from art projects and stuff out and that is stressing the shit out of me, but i got a lot cleaned up yesterday and everything is clean.  That was her point in the talk, that i should be leery of pushing through the pain, that i should be focused on her only.   i sort of mildly pushed back, skirting willful, until i realized it and quieted myself.  Her tone had changed and i recognize that tone and what it means.  She is right after all.  i miss events so i can rest or get caught up in school and serve her.  i shouldn’t be sad about that.  i am here to serve her.

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Cauda Equina and conus medullaris syndrome and other funsies

So, basically, i have a rare neurological condition where i have nerve roots being pushed on and spinal fluid blocked in my neck and in my back.  It could lead to a lot of bad things-namely paralysis and not being able to control my own peeing.  Apparently, i should have been someone’s baby.  Like a person who wants a baby in diapers and stuff.  Heh.

So i wrote, then thought i’d add the science in, because it was actually pretty damn cool investigating myself what all of the medical stuff means.  It was a lot to absorb, but that is how i deal with things.  i need to understand a thing to make peace with it.

i think that since i have survived years since the last major head/neck injury and am still walking around, that i will be able to keep walking.  It just might involve extra pain (which feels like being stabbed with something very hot) and legs that fall asleep.  My hands and arms do too, which is a real pain in the ass since i need them to do stuff like cook and type and clean.  But whatever.  i can deal.  The skull pain is extremely hard, as in my entire skull hurts, and its been going on since the ride back from Atlanta.  That is-evidently-just a coincidence that probably pushed more on nerves that were already under pressure.  The good thing is it means we have more information.

Now for the faith part-

Sir Raven went back to making art, and made the most beautiful little girl. She gave my fairy wings, from a coloring page i did, which is awesome.  She still uses art as another way to love me.  That is precious beyond measure.  i’m still her babygirl and her slave-i can do this one step at a time.

i’m so thankful that i have this home on the page, and also that i have made amazing friends, who i believe our souls were just meant to cross this lifetime.  It meant i didn’t have to sit with the news alone, didn’t have to figure it out and be a medical detective alone, and knew for sure someone was sending me love and care while understanding-emotionally and physically-this is a very big deal.

Thank you.  Words cannot convey how thankful i am for that.  ❤

Now, i’m going to try and get a picture of my babygirl art and serve her meal.

Disconnected

i’ve had a bit of a difficult week.  Big ups and downs, for sure.  i’m trying to be brave and steady, but it is harder than it should be.

i got to go for tea with Karida this week, the day before my big doctor appointment.  It was really nice to relax, enjoy tea and scones, not think too much about what was coming next.

i went to my doctor all alone, and she carefully avoided medical jargon but told me the MRI was “very bad” and “very serious” repeating it slowly, until it seemed to sink in.  She is sending me back to the neurosurgeon for additional testing.  i wandered around Manhattan, just slowly walking around for an hour or so after i left.  i understood that she was serious, that the situation was serious, that she would expect me to live in constant pain from the 4 pages of reports she handed me, and that the next set of testing will include sticking needles into my arms and legs to determine the extent of the nerve damages.

There is nothing to be done, really.

i sat there, my head down, quietly thinking of the time that i was on the surgery table and had gotten the IV to put me to sleep.  They call it “twilight.”  i had blurted, “abuse did this to me,” as i was drifting off and wasn’t aware of this until she told me.  She was worried.  i tried to wave it off with a friendly smile, assure her it was long ago, that i was just fine.

i asked her about the possibility of a new use of an old vaccine for fibromyalgia, and she waved it away as non important, sharing that i would have widespread pain from the two different areas that my spinal cord is compressed, the herniated and bulging discs in various locations, some pieces maybe broken.

i quietly said, “but if there is no fibro, that means there is no cure.”

She was silent, letting it fill the room, letting me sit with the idea.  No cure.  Nothing.  This will always be my life, and now i have a new normal to adjust to, with legs that fall asleep and a skull that hurts.

Finally, she tells me she can resume shots, some different epidurals, that can help me be “more comfortable.”  i quietly wondered if my bones looked like abuse.  i figured they do.  That is what i got hung on in the following days, that abuse did this to me, that i have to live with it, and no one else does.

It feels like everything slowed down, on a cellular level.  My urge is to sort of float around my body, like i used to, when i would be on the ceiling as things were happening to my body in the bed.

The left side of my skull hurts, nearly constantly.  i try to calm it with moist heat, take a double dose of pain meds to get a small break, do chores slowly and crawl back to bed to rest.

Sir Raven regards this as….mainly old news.  She doesn’t want to see the MRIs, reminds me we will not do surgery no matter what.  That is comforting, that something is definite.  She tells me to think of this like a flare, that it won’t last forever, that the swelling on my spinal cord causing the pain will come back down at some point.  She tells me to have faith, and goes about life like everything is normal, encouraging me to do the same.

i am behind in everything for school this week.  i don’t know how to focus through this pain, this overwhelming sense of disconnection.  i try to do what i can to make myself comfortable, it takes me days to just get a shower and wash my hair and look like me again.

i came home from getting her wine, asked SR something about beauty and love, and made her feel bad when i challenged her answer.  i meant to be playful, chide her gently, and it didn’t go over well.  i asked what i could do, acknowledged that i felt disconnected and made her feel that way too, and she said there is nothing i can do.  so i’m sitting here quietly on my slave mat with pillows and my new sherpa blanket, trying to make myself calm and silent inside.

i’ve been asking for the things i need to reconnect, the same things i always need-touch, sm, pain, love, soothing.  And then i go and ruin any possibility.  sigh.

SR has been producing an amazing amount of art, and i’m happy to see her happily engaged in something.  i just wish i was the something sometimes.  i want her to loose herself in me, and its been such a long time for us, to go over the holy edge together.

i point out how i started asking in July, the other day, in a quietly matter-of-fact way.  i thought i’d never get through all of the stress back to back to back.  But we did it all, and now i need to figure out how to hold on through this.

Faith.  My Master says to focus on faith.  i’m trying, i really am.  Faith that this will just stay as is, be a situation that is maybe frustrating, but we will get through it.

i asked her this week if she regrets choosing me as hers, and she just said she wasn’t answering that.  To my mind, that was an answer.

So-yes-faith is where my focus needs to be.  We will get through it.  i’m going to try and cook her a nice meal of salmon and roasted vegetables and be silent inside and outside for her.

Until next time….<3

My Beloved

i wrote this morning and then turned my attention to try and deal with the extremely high physical pain of the day.

In the class on forgiveness and grief work, i had asked if we could consider that a person had forgiven abuse or abusers, even if they were unable to find forgiveness for the ongoing physical pain or neurological function caused by the abuse.  Luckily, when the professor asked the class to generate a list of reasons clients may seek us out to deal with trauma, forgiveness, and grief, child abuse was top on the list.

We talked about it, determining that forgiveness was achieved when the client no longer felt like directing anger at the abusers and wishing them harm in return.  That forgiveness implied that we did not wish that our path had been anything but what is was.

i don’t wish my path had been different.  Sometimes, i have a momentary sense of wondering how different i may have turned out with any kind of love that wasn’t possessive in childhood.  i don’t think being abused made me who i am deep down, and i don’t harbor a belief that i’m the dented can in the supermarket anymore.  i think that it created patterns, made me extremely sensitive toward others, very inclined to obey without thought, stuff like that.  i certainly didn’t allow it to destroy my goodness, optimism, love for humanity, intellect, determination.

My entire life, i have been described with two words-intelligent and charming.  Or charming and intelligent.  The order of those words told me what i needed to do, generally try really hard to disarm people and hide my brilliance until it was beaten out.

Today has been a meditation on these things, work in getting the house ready for the weekend for my beautiful Master.  i bought extra wine yesterday, made a giant pitcher of hibiscus tea, have a frig full of home made food, changed the sheets, made sure everything was clean and comfortable.  i wanted to fit laundry in there somewhere, but couldn’t.

i played some meditations while i worked.  i kept the tv off all day, worked on a long paper, two shorter papers, and took a test.  i couldn’t nap, despite exhaustion.  i realized i was getting a migraine and took my meds for that around 4.  Kids playing in the warm sunlight in the alley were having fun, and i generally love the sounds of them, but it was becoming too much.  Finally, i got into the shower and had just finished shaving when i heard a hysterical, gutteral scream from the hallway.

A woman was repeatedly screaming, “oh my God, my baby.  She’s dead. She’s dead.”  So I wrapped myself in a towel, went to the door, and asked if she needed help.  i know there is a woman on our floor with a one year old baby, and with the hysteria i thought maybe something happened to her baby.  The woman responded by punching and smashing at my door and trying to get in, continuing to screech and inarticulately ramble.  Then, she was stomping around banging on all of our doors on our floor, maybe 8 of us in all.  A neighbor said he was calling the police.

Unsure of when Sir Raven was coming home, and not wanting her to walk into this shitshow or-worse- the NYPD, i tried her cell and then called her work line until i could talk to her.  i briefly let her know that something had been going on for 40 minutes at this point, no police yet, that i would text her when it was all done.

By this point, i had gone from thinking the woman had a dead baby.  Then i thought maybe she had come home and discovered someone dead in the apartment.  Seeing a dead body is frankly extremely traumatizing in real life.  She wasn’t behaving like someone in shock anymore, and she wasn’t trying to get help in any way by her reactions at me.

The police came, all TEN of them, and i talked softly to one.  He said she had shot up, and i told him that she was clearly mentally in need of assessment and help, and to my great surprise, they were actually extremely gentle and calm.  To be clear, i have never had any interaction of any kind with the police here that i would describe as either calm or gentle.

One of our neighbors who creepily hangs around the front door a lot told me that she and a man had been sleeping on the roof, sleeping in the basement, and he had seen her with a baby before.  i had encountered the man in the basement several times, but thought he was a building helper, because he was always by the huge deep sink by the washers.

When Sir Raven got home, i asked her to just sit and breathe and have her wine, and then let me know when she wanted to hear the whole thing.  i left out how i had already felt bad from being stuck in the MRI, the fear around my numb legs, the inability to practice any of my skills for grounding because you can’t even breathe deeply in that damn thing without messing up the pictures.  i left out how scared i am of police, because she already knows that.  i left out how shitty it felt to be in a towel, with a going numb leg, trying to assess what to do and how to help, and have a totally hysterical woman hit the door.  i thought she was going to hit me or bust in.  i just needed to tell her what was most important, and i wanted her to just sit and relax for a few minutes, have wine and just be.

So, i went to finish some work in the bedroom to just have something quiet to complete so she had maybe 20 minutes of calm.  When i poured her more wine, i thanked her for providing a home where it is tremendously unusual to have drama and hysterics around me, that i know she would pay attention and listen to me if i had told her it wasn’t safe to come home or go to work that day or whatever.  i’m thankful that we have enough peace in our lives that i can hear my own intuition clearly and constantly, and responded to my feeling to close the windows every night.  That could have resulted in the drugged and homeless couple coming into our home from the fire escape, as we live on the top floor.  i thanked her for her trust in me.

She thanked me for making this a home, her sanctuary, and i kissed her lips in reply.

i told her about all of the options for dinner-homemade minestrone soup and fresh salad, tortellini and summer sauce from scratch, turkey meatloaf with garlic mashed potatoes, or french toast from the bread i had gone out after the chaos to get for my Beloved.  None of them sounded like what she wanted, so we went out together for Chinese.  It was amazing.  i was happy she insisted on coming with me, holding my hand, helping me make plates.  Chinese food and kisses fixed a lot.

It felt really great when we got home with the food, the door opened, our home felt calm and peaceful and was clean.  It smells fresh, from the lavender cleaner i use.  Despite the chaos of the day, the demands on my time, the physical pain, the amount of work i had to do-everything in the home feels right and good.  She is my Beloved, and i love she knows that my work is to create a sanctuary for her.  i know in crazed moments, she is aware and thankful for the work i do to keep the energy of the home light and sweet and welcoming-even today.

i feel really sad for the woman, the incredible pain she was in, real or “imagined”-pain is pain.  i hope she has a home one day, that she takes all of the intense pain inside to become determined for a better life.  i will keep her in my meditations, because her screams and animal sounds are familiar to me, having made them myself in life.  Whatever else may have happened, including drugs, i feel very confident she is no stranger to the trauma dance.

i’m so very thankful that i never gave up.

A blessing and a curse

Empathy, in the way i have it, is both a blessing and a curse.  It allows me to see deep down into people without words, it informs my life in a myriad of ways, and it gives me the ability to see many points of view simultaneously.

Sometimes, seeing someone suffering made me think i was responsible to do something about that.  i have learned that suffering can be useful, can be a teaching tool, is a part of the human condition, is a part of every life contract.

Sometimes, i have over identified with my captors.  Yes, of course, stockholm syndrome.  Certainly.  But also empathy played a role.  i have had to sift through things carefully sometimes to examine what should have been obvious.

Here is an example-

One bright blue sky morning, a week or two after i had returned to care for my first child from a few weeks of needing to be away, i felt deep in my bones that something was wrong with my baby.  i had already made the calls to get someone asap to evaluate him for abuse, had already dealt with my mother assuring me that the professionals would blame me (they did!), and was absolutely committed to figuring out what had happened and how i needed to protect him from.  This evidence gathering was not to prove what i already knew to be true as a mother, but to get quality help and to make a case for getting custody.

So, ducks in a row, i tried to proceed with our normal Wednesday “Art Day” plans and then a picnic lunch at the beach.  My brother had come with us, and i had just got everything set up for lunch, when my boy started whining about his sandwich and yelling at me.  That isn’t how we treated each other.

With all of the fear, distrust, sense of failure, exhaustion, and opening myself up to investigation-inside i felt a flash of rage.  i had been holding a sandwich for him to quit his behavior and take a bite, when i thought for a second about smushing the sandwich at him.  Surprised at such a devious thought and my flash anger, i set the sandwich down and very calmly told my brother to watch him, and stepped away for a few minutes.

i realized in the moment that this flash rage was what happened to my mother on the regular.  i empathized with her, how overwhelming it felt.  i told her about it, and i apologized for judging her for acting out her rages.  It became a story in my head-and my mothers-about how i was no different inside.

“The Bologna Sandwich Day,” is it became known, was a faulty story.

The fact is, under extraordinary stress, i had the same moment of wild anger that most mothers-good mothers-feel as a normal part of the demands of parenting.  i didn’t raise my voice, let alone grab anything around me and start beating my child like my mother did.  i stepped maybe five steps away, took a deep breathe, and returned to lunch with my boy never aware of what had gone on inside me.

i didn’t have some monster inside me, like i thought.  Instead of my mother telling me it was normal, and asking me how in the hell i had made it through four years of parenting alone and never once felt angry at my child-she would use it as a reminder to me.  i let that happen.

This is my first child’s birth month and i always think of him the first week of October.  i am okay with knowing i won’t ever see him again in this lifetime, and thankful beyond measure that my last memory of him is so beautiful and complete.  i went to bring him birthday gifts, and when he saw me he picked me up off the ground in a tight hug.  It was breathtaking to take in this young man, the strength of him and the gentleness.  The same child i carried in my arms, held close to me, adored.

Perhaps it is because i saw him to emerging manhood that i don’t feel a mother’s grief or loss around him.  i don’t know.  i grieved not being able to get custody and get him out of the crazy while i was raising him, and so there was 16 years there to be ready for the pain of not being a part of his life.

Maybe i will reach a point on my grief journey with my nephews that will be similar one day.  i don’t know.  i think that because they were still babies, both under age 5, it is an conscious effort to remind myself that there are not babies now.  It sort of doesn’t seem real, even when i finally saw pictures.  i have to believe that i laid the groundwork on a neurobiological level, influenced their personalities for life, and that it might be enough.

i can still feel them around me on a soul level, and sometimes that is another blessing and a curse.  Everything inside me wants to reach out and hold them, and of course, that will never happen again.

i believe love is the great healer.

i believe in love.

Today, i’m going to write again, make some art, take a walk, mop my floors, light more sage and show myself some love through these actions.  i’m really hurting inside some, but i needed the tears and the release from the late night writing.

Friends, you honor my journey by bearing witness.

Thank you.

Lost

i’m feeling a bit overwhelmed, and lost.  i’ve just finished adulting for the day.  i don’t know how in the world the day unravelled on me.

i’m having some difficult thoughts, ones that i don’t think i can manage to put into english.  And the ones that i could put into some cohesive thought, well, it just isn’t something i’d put in writing.  It isn’t something i will act on, just a quiet voice inside that keeps coming up-just defeated.

Last week, my jackass of a professor sent me a private note that explained that i only get one extra day per disability department-and that he is sorry to understand i’m having health problems-but i get one day.  He signed off with, “Did I miss anything?”

i wanted to reach through the screen and punch him in the face.

And then i went and bought more cigarettes because it seemed as if me continuing quitting could be hazardous to others.

Another failure.

i’m feeling a bit broken-physically, emotionally.

Today, i got told off by someone who i had been very close with for years.  Someone who was so invested in her vicious gossiping about me one day that she neglected to note i was standing right there hearing it.  Today, finally, after she wore me down to rage over her refusal to simply mail me a credit card which was inadvertently sent to her address, i reminded her that i know her.  i know the nasty person she actually is inside.  So this petty shit wasn’t even necessary to add on to it.  i pretty calmly pointed out all i was asking for was the cost of a stamp, and her putting an envelop in the mail, so i wouldn’t have one more damn thing to try and focus on and deal with.  She actually told me off for mail getting sent to her house which she never told me was going to her house.  She had insisted on using her address on a few things for me in the past, and she ought to be capable of understanding why i need to continue to hide.

And i hate that-all of it.

i hate that i have a Florida ID still, that my prescriptions say i live in one place, my bank another, my doctors still another PO Box in the address confidentiality program.  It is always in my face.  That i have a mother who sold me to Dawn for a few grand and several fancy gifts.  That i attracted someone who took away my humanity, reduced me to rubble, and i am the only one who was in another MRI to face it alone.

Everyone gets to walk out scott free, but me.

And some miserable woman wants to question me, as if it was all in my head, as if my mother wasn’t drunkenly blubbering with the enemy this year on facebook live.  Shes my baby, don’t hurt her.

My mother listened to me get thrown into walls.  She saw me bruised and battered and everything glass in the house shattered.  She got drunk, got Dawn drunk, told her things to make her angry, and then would leave me to suffer.  i remember begging her to not leave, and that i was desperate to pee, and pleading like a child for her to not leave when i went to the bathroom.  But of course, she was gone.  She was gone and i was there-no way out.

It amazes me that people with perfectly ordinary lives, with mothers who didn’t hate them and fathers who didn’t fuck them and brothers who didn’t try to kill them, manage to be such hate filled human beings.  Everyone gets hurt during childhood-i get that.  You don’t need to have broken bones from your family to have been deeply wounded.  However, if i can manage to walk around this earth and not fuck up other people, not abandon people, not act like i’m doing someone some kind of gigantic fucking favor, not be a selfish cunt-

i expect people who were not continuously traumatized for 33 years to do better than that.

At least to me.

Because-God damn it-i’m one person here.  i’ve shouldered everything.  i don’t complain.  i don’t ask for much.  i don’t even wish anything bad to happen to people who literally tortured me-any of them.

i keep reminding myself-this is a bad day, not a bad life.  And that is true.  i have a life i have fought for, tooth and nail.  i work damn hard for everything i have, but i’m just a little bit tired now, and there is no place for me to turn to when i have needs.

People just keep reminding me exactly why i don’t let many people know me, don’t let people get close to me.  People who knew me for decades know a very teeny fraction of who i am here on this page.

i’m tired of hiding, of knowing i could still be hunted.

i’m tired of feeling like, no matter what i do, everything will always be an uphill battle.  i’m tired of begging for the things i need in life, of eternally getting the message that i’m not worth time or space or intimacy or a fucking stamp.

i accept that i am broken, but broken doesn’t mean that i was made worse.  Those broken bones, they heal.  i’m simply different.  Not worse.

If anything, i am more determined.  i am always working with everything i have, even if its not good enough.  i am always practicing gratitude, being genuinely thankful for everything i have, always trying to let people know i care.

i am still the kid, sifting through rocks for the perfect ones for my mother, wanting to please her, to prove i am not like the rest, won’t hurt her.  i am still the kid who stopped on Main Street at Disney to pray for someone on crutches and in a wheelchair.  i’m still the kid who wanted to be a nun, because it was the most beautiful sacrifice a woman could make-and i just wasn’t good enough for that.  Because i had already been a child whore, at 5.  Because i had already seen my mother rage and destroy.  Because this is all i knew.

In many ways, i am like a person who was released from a cult 7 years ago, and had to learn everything all over again.  And i’m tired.

i just want comfort, to lay me down, to know that when i call-it will be answered with compassion.  i don’t know what else to do but be that for other people, even those who love me the best they can, but are still content to watch me suffer.

 

Sushi

So, i’ve been having some issues since our return trip on the Amtrak from Atlanta.  My pain management doctor insisted i go for a new MRI.  First, she was just going to have a new one of my low back, because that is where most of my pain is.  However, i know that my middle back problem is debilitating, that i very likely received damage from the car wreck my brother caused and then abuse later.  It took my two months of daily chiropractic care to be able to just lay down after the wreck.

What has been going on is my legs will suddenly just go entirely numb.  It’s pretty scary and certainly impacts my quality of life.  It is pretty hard to want to go anywhere alone when i’m worried about falling, and its pretty hard to want to go anywhere with anyone else when i’m going to have to pause lots.  i can’t tell anyone about the car wreck or what really has happened to me but bones don’t lie.

i think i’ve had a few days of some deep depression, because the last MRI showed the damage to my neck and it pushing on my spinal cord.  It was extremely difficult for SR to handle.  i had always thought that maybe a cure for fibromyalgia could come in my lifetime, that we could then have a normal life.

Anyhow, once it was decided that i needed the MRI, i went ahead and asked for both.  If shots could be done in my mid back like i used to get in my low back, that could potentially make a big difference.  The mid back keeps me from being more active, from doing yoga or pilates.

i’m also having something strange happen, something that has happened before to me.  There is no way to explain it that doesn’t sound crazy-so here it is.  Around the time of the car wreck, i was almost asleep when i clearly heard a spirit tell me that i was going to die.  And i remember thinking, “I’ll be goddamned if i am going to die in the middle of nowhere, in a life i hate, with people i can’t save.”  In a manner of speaking, i did die from the wreck.  i changed a lot.  i had to.

Maybe this go round its nothing again.  Maybe it is my spiritual acknowledgement that this life sometimes seems to have more in common with the dying than the living.  i never know how i will feel day to day.  i have to rely on my Master to take off my bra, or listen to me shower because i’m afraid my legs will give out and i will fall in there.  i try and plan things carefully to minimize risk.  It is a weight i carry around.

Speaking of which, i’m tired of being big.  i’m tired of having crazed thoughts like wondering if i will fit into the mri machine.  i’m tired of being bigger than i have ever been with Sir Raven, stuffing my anger and sadness with binges and smoking.  i’m making changes.  i don’t deserve to hate the body i’m in.  i’m tired of looking sick, and that i can at least control, even if i have to do drastic things to fix it.

In the MRI machine, i am very tense and determined.  i want to not think, but the second i’m shoved inside it, clausterphobia ensues, and i think of my mother soothing me on rollercoasters by saying to close my eyes and fly away until its over.  Pretend you are flying, she would coax.  It makes me want to cry.  i try to not think of Dawn picking me up and slamming through a solid wooden coffee table so hard the table broke into pieces under the weight of both of us.  It was the second time my middle back went out badly, and i couldn’t get off the floor, couldn’t move.  In the MRI machine, you can’t breathe deep and slow.  You can’t rock or soothe.  You are just there, trying to lay totally still while it makes loud and jarring noises around you.  i’m spasming and frustrated.  i’m exhausted.

After, i decide to invite Sir Raven out to our favorite spot for Sushi.  We haven’t been there in a year or so.  We were having a nice conversation together, talking about how she threw me into the deep end at my first Ocha birthday with her, the largest yet when she had drummers and a double celebration with her Godfather.  i told her that i know this medical stuff is stressful for her, too, and i wanted to treat her.  That i wanted to focus on something other than what was going on in me.  She said i’m always treating her, but this was nice, too.  And then our lovely dinner was pretty much ruined by a very large group with several extremely loud and ill behaved children next to us.  i had just been trying to do something nice for my Beloved.  Ugh.  i love children and am quite tolerant but this isn’t the kind of place i would have brought my young children to at all.  Of course, i would not have let them screech in the Red Lobster either.

i’m feeling lots of sadness around not having children lately.  i don’t know if having more children would have made the other pains less or more bearable.  i’m just aware of it in a different way, because i’m too old now, and too sick.  It is the one thing i want with my whole heart that i have to wait another lifetime for.

It has taken my six years, but i am finally getting better at ordering clothes and understanding that i need to buy things each season.  i’m trying to put more care into how i look, because i’m not feeling very great about myself right now.  A little self pampering needs to be going on in this area.  Sir Raven bought me two new sweaters, and i bought myself a pair of warm winter boots.  In fact, she gave me her GAP card to shop today, but i’m just too exhausted.  It is her late night tonight, so i was hoping that i would perk up some but nope.  i’m thankful that she is providing for me, and that i’m relying on her.

In other news, she is considering letting me try to do a small work-from-home business so we can work on out other goals together.  We really need a vacation, to have a emergency fund, to get glasses for me, to have money set aside for our next move.  It is just something we are talking about now, but it is good news.

i think i’m going to take a shower and go make pasta sauce from scratch.  And maybe color, because Sir Raven says that i need to focus on creativity too.  She wants me to stop thinking of coloring and art to be only something i can do after every single chore is done perfectly-because that doesn’t leave me time or energy to create anything.  We also talked about art journaling, and she may be helping me get started on that.  And she is also encouraging me to read for pleasure again.  i’m thankful she is thinking on these things for me to do, to have some outlet for self expression and relaxation.  In many ways, i am extremely lucky and always have much to feel grateful for.  ❤