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plaid's Blog


Boston Bomb... Why???????????

I don't understand.  I just don't understand.

The Boston Marathon, one of the biggest events for runners, for all of Boston was today.  And somebody felt the need to bomb it.

Well, we don't have official confirmation that there was a bomb.  But eyewitnesses heard explosions and a lot of people are hurt.

I don't understand.What drives a person to set off a bomb in such a populated area?  There is no possible way for a bomb to explode at the finish line of the Boston Marathon and not hurt anybody.  And I don't understand why. 

What is it about causing harm, violence, wreaking havoc that is so attractive to people?  What is the payoff?

We hear about some religions' violent bent, how those who die in an attack are rewarded in Paradise...I don't understand.  It's a given that folks from the Middle East will be under the microscope for the next weeks; like it or lump it, the US is kind of paranoid about that kind of thing.  But there's a bigger chance (IMHO) that the person/people who did this are as American as apple pie.  Chances are the person/people that did this have no ties whatsoever to overseas terrorists.  Even if they did, my question still stands.

Why?????

What is the draw, what is the payoff?  What makes it feel like a good idea for somebody to detonate a bomb in the middle of a massive crowd?  Why?

I don't know.  Maybe I'm just so much of a peacemaker that I'm blinded to the violence in others.  Maybe my own need to heal blocks my ability to see the desire to harm. 

I don't know.  Maybe I don't wanna know.  I'm not sure I want to understand the mindset of somebody who is intent on destroying life.  It hurts.

Somebody blew up a bomb in Boston and I don't understand.  Why do people want to kill each other like that???

*clenches jaw, breathes deep, relaxes*

I don' t know, but I'll do what I can do.  I can pray, send vibes.  I can surround myself in an aura of love, and extend it to all who I touch.  To all who I see and hear on TV. 

I'm a Healer.

It's time to work.
My mood: very dismayed

Updating my poor, neglected blog

Wow am I ever behind.  Oh well, life happens.

Yesterday I had an intake interview with the Sexual Assault Center in my town.  Teacher had given me a HUGE push that direction, and as she's a survivor as well, I trust her judgement.  At this moment, I trust her judgement more than I do mine.  So I went.

Now, I know myself to be extremely strong, and I know I've got great stamina.  I've walked through situations that would leave most people on the floor and kept on going.  This intake interview left me a shaking, exhausted mess.

I'll hear from them soon.  Of course there's a waiting list, but the gal I talked to said it would only be 4 weeks or so.  After that I'll be having therapy every week and probably going to groups from time to time.  Not sure about the whole group T thing...it's too easy for me to be unkind when I'm feeling raw and vulnerable.  Groups may have to wait until I'm a little more stable.

On the massive plus side, this place specializes entirely in sexual trauma.  The lady who interviewed me is the first psych-type ever to have understood my symptoms.  In fact a couple times she said things that I've thought for years.  Stuff like "Well how could you have stabilized if you were still living with your abuser?" and "A lot of times people with PTSD are misdiagnosed as being bipolar because they're so disconnected from their emotions..."

According to the questionnaire she helped me fill out, every single psych symptom I have ever presented with can be traced back to PTSD.

And now I'm in a place where I can start working with and through them.

Now, I know that PTSD is a chronic thing.  It's not likely to go away.  I'm okay with that.  I just need to get it under control.  And to do that...  *sigh*

Little as I like it, now is the time for me to start processing all the horrible things that happened to me as a child.  The memories are coming back, I'm in a safe place and there's next to no chance that my abusers will ever find me.

It's time to get working.

It's time to heal.


Hurts So Good

I somehow managed to go from normal to full-blown ED land in the space of a couple days.  Okay, if I'm gonna be honest, hours.  Not sure what about talking to Teacher triggered it, but I was more-or-less fine (eating wise, anyhow) before I walked into that session at 10.  By the time I got home around 2 I was in full-blown restricting mode.

That was Wednesday.  Today is Friday.  I've freaked out over every meal since then, and have struggled to keep said meals down.  Pill time is NOT fun! 

I guess it's a good thing that I take meds twice a day that demand food.  And I guess it's a good thing that I've trained myself to always keep medicine down.  Those two facts are the only reasons I've eaten these past two days.  I do not like that fact.

I like the fact that the ED voice is getting louder even less.

I keep thinking ahead, planning how to handle food-related situations.  What will I do at church on Sunday when faced with the normal nibbles?  I guess if I delay my AM meds I could justify eating something after church.  And I've got that class; it was tough enough the past few weeks WITH food; I'm not sure I am willing to tackle it empty.  But still...

Damn it.  I hate this. 

Damn it.  I love this.

It feels so good to embrace this pattern again.  I have missed the counting and...I don't have the words to say what it is that I like so much.  But something feels so good and it's a homecoming to embrace it.

It sounds insane.  Maybe I am.

But it still feels good.

Name-Brain

I've been thinking this for a while now, but hesitated to post anywhere.  I really don't want to become troll fodder...but I need to say this.  It's public because it needs said.  By the same token, nobody's forcing you to read this post. 

Now, on to what I need to say.

USE YOUR BRAIN WHEN YOU CHOOSE YOUR USERNAME!!!!!

Time and time again I see posts howling about perv-trolls harassing people.  Just today I read one where the writer was going to block any and everyone of a certain type.  (I'm being vague to protect the essentially innocent.  By "certain type" I'm talking gender, orientation, race...something like that.)  Why block a huge chunk of the EP population?  Because the writer of said piece was inundated with unwanted and unwelcome sexual PMs.  The post I read howled in frustration, not comprehending why all these people were sending messages to him.

*sigh*  I once knew a man who was an ordained minister in the United Methodist church.  Rev. Bill was a good egg, law-abiding to the point of being annoying.  He was the guy who stopped at yellow lights and got a total of 1 traffic ticket in the 30 years I knew him.  Why do I bring him up?  Because Rev. Bill made a BIG mistake when he first chose a username.

Now this wasn't on EP, but the site was similar, essentially a message board for players of a certain game.  The mistake that Bill made was choosing the name "MethRev".

To him, it meant that he was a Methodist Reverend.  Until one day a colleague pulled him aside and asked about his meth habit.

"Huh???"  said the always eloquent Reverend Bill.

"Your screen name on *game site*.  MethRev, right?  That is you, isn't it?"

"Yeah.."

"It's concerning to see that you're revving up on meth, Bill.  Do you need help?"

See?  What one person saw as a simple reference to his calling and occupation was seen by others as a drug issue.  I've seen people on here try to express a fondness for cigarettes by using names like (so far as I know I'm making these up, sorry if I use someone's actual handle here!) LotsofButts or TooManyButts.  And then they wonder why they get PM'd by people into anal sex!  Same goes for any name containing the words "balls" or any of the million and three euphemisms for human mammaries. 

From what I've seen, there's a lot of people out there who just look for keywords.  "3Balls2Strikes" would probably be a baseball fan...but s/he would probably be up to their neck in indecent proposals having to do with testicle torture.

So think about it, folks.  Try to think of how someone ELSE would see your username.  Is it really an innocent splice of the words Methodist Reverend?  Is that what somebody else is going to see?  Or are they more likely to assume you're revving on meth?

Just had to say that.  Use your brain when you choose your name.

Please!


/end rant

Commercial Complaint

I just sent the following comment to Hormel, the makers of Dinty Moore beef stew.  It takes a lot to offend me...and this was bad enough I felt I had to write to the company.

This comment is in regards to current radio advertisements for Dinty Moore Beef Stew.  Simply put, I find them very offensive.  In these radio ads, a female voice speaks as if she is conducting a survey and/or taste test.  A male with a high-pitched voice and effeminate manner speaks of enjoying an activity such as reading romance novels or riding a bicycle.  He is given something to taste, such as a "Vegetarian tofu wrap" and describe it.  He is then given the advertised product.  Describing the product, the man's voice drops in pitch and he begins to talk about doing "manly" things such as "filling the saddlebags of his chopper [with beef stew]"  In one commercial, he then comments on how the female researcher would look in leather.  

I cannot say how offensive this is to me.  It perpetuates the stereotype that men are carnivorous brutes, while ridiculing men who do not fit the testosterone-riddled stereotype.  It also comes across as vaguely homophobic as if it is unacceptable for a man to have a high voice and enjoy tofu.  I understand that both of the male voices are intended to be taken with a grain of salt.  They are clearly caricatures.  Having said that, I still turn off the radio when I hear one of those commercials come on.  Yes, I will think of that ad campaign when I see Dinty Moore products in the future.  And I will shudder and purchase something else.  Dinty Moore as a brand and Hormel as a company can do better than trite gender stereotypes and sexist remarks.  I like your products, and Dinty Moore is one of the better canned beef stews I have eaten.  But this ad campaign is not acceptable.  You will have to work very hard to earn back my respect after this one.

Cutting (trigger: self-harm)

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Mom

When I think of my mom when I was a kid, I always see the back of her head.  I see her sitting at the big, boxy CCTV that allowed her to read college textbooks.  I remember her learning to use the thing.  In retrospect it's kind of odd.  Granted, she had too much vision to be comfortable reading Braille.  And textbooks on tape (though she had them) had to be a pain in the azz.  But still.  I know how little vision she has.  It ain't much.

So all of my childhood memories of her prominently feature the back of her head while she pores over some textbook. 

"How can you flunk third grade math when your mother aced college Statistics fucking blind?"

Dad yelled that at me.  My grades were terrible.  She got all A's.  It sucks to be a child forced into competition with your own mother.

In a way, the best times with her were in Nebraska.  Before she got the transplant, and then after, when she'd lost her vision but before we moved to Missouri.  Before the transplant she was really sick, but always had time to read to me.  Well, kind of.  She still had to do all the stuff to be a Perfect Pastor's Wife.  So a lot of those memories are of the back of her head, too.  Studying and preparing Sunday School lessons, or preparing for some Bible study.

But after she went blind, after the transplant and after the virus that nearly killed her claimed as it's fee her eyes, there were good times there.  She needed me.  She needed my help because she didn't yet know how to manage blind.

I was six.

And seven.  We moved to Missouri when I was seven.  But she lost her eyesight when I was six.  She couldn't read to me anymore, but I got a little more attention.  A little more affection.  I got to read to her; a nice reversal of roles.

Even after she'd graduated, I saw the back of her head a lot.  Or nothing at all.  She'd got mobility the way some people get religion.  That white cane freed her like nothing else ever could.  She'd walk so fast that the metal tip drew sparks from the pavement.

But I still never saw her.  At home she was too wiped to talk.  Or we'd play cards but the games got so competitive that it wasn't really mom-daughter time.

So yeah.  How pathetic is it that the only time I really had full and complete access to my mother is when she was deathly ill?

Here I go again

It is a really, really good thing that I take meds that demand food.  Better yet that I take them morning and night.  That means I pretty much have to eat at least twice a day.

I just realized that I haven't eaten since forcing down a bagel this morning.  Feeding the pills. 

It's almost 1 PM.  My body is telling me to eat. 

It's not gonna happen.

It's all about time for me.  Always has been.  Control, and how long I can go.  How far can I push this miserable sack of meat, how long can I force it to keep going without food before it collapses?

My meds help me.  I know this.  And sometimes, like now, I hate them.  I hate the fact that if I intend to take said medication, I have no choice.  I have to eat. 

I tried to do otherwise once.  Once.  Took 'em on a dead-empty stomach...and within an annoyingly short time was doubled over in agony.  I may not be the sharpest pencil in the box, but I know better than to try THAT again!

But that doesn't mean that I can't push as far as I can. 

And so I sit, pleasantly dizzy, comfortably foggy.  My body isn't used to going long periods without food anymore.  It takes less time to get to this point.  It used to take a full day, at least but now 6 hours and I'm feeling it.  I guess that's a good thing.  That my body starts throwing warning flags at me after such a short fast. 

I'm not sure I like it. 

Oh sure.  My rational mind is having seven kinds of shit fits over this.  Howling that this is not wise, that I need to eat.  Shrieking that bodies need food and I am no exception.  *SMACK* Shut up already, rational mind.

I'll eat when I'm good and ready.  Or when it's time to take my bedtime meds.

Whichever.

I hate September

It's that time of year again.  Damn, but I hate September!

Twice in the past couple weeks I've found myself doubled over, struggling to breathe around a wound that Time is doing little to fade.  I don't normally walk in a welter of grief...but September is holds the anniversary of her passing.  And from the tail end of August 'till the first week in October the pain erupts out of nowhere, swamping me and wrapping my chest in iron ribbons.

I don't dwell, really I don't.  Not anymore, anyway.  The first couple years I was hard pressed to go more than a few days without a crying jag.  The surprise reminders of her came hard and fast back then, and all I could do was sit still and wait for the pain to pass.

It's not that bad anymore.

Barring the month of September, most of the times I think of her now make me smile.  Her humor, her silliness, her willingness to try anything.  That obnoxiously bright hat. 

That she saw how badly wounded I was, and loved me anyway. 

That she broke the rules to make sure I was allright.

That... dammit.  I'm crying.

Sixteen years this month my Julie has been gone.  Most of the time the grief rests lightly on me.  Sixteen years is, after all, a very long time.  Most of the time I'm fine.  Most of the time I can see her on some celestial plane, causing trouble and singing in the choir. 

I can even see her sticking her head out and hollering at me to hurry my butt up, that they need another soprano.

But this is September.  And for all I want her happy and whole and healthy, for all I don't want her to suffer...  damnitall it hurts.  I want her here.

I effing hate September.

Scared to Sleep

I'm exhausted, been pushing myself far too hard again.  But I am afraid to sleep.

The weird dreams don't bug me.  That's normal.  The nightmares are bad, but I can cope.  So I guess I'm not so much scared to sleep as I am of going to sleep.

I'm afraid of what will happen if/when I let my mind go lax, afraid of that moment of knowing that I'm falling into unconsciousness...and have no way to control the fall.

I've had at least one flashback on each of the past three days.  Yesterday it hit in public, so I had to shove it aside, push it away, mute it...anything to keep my few remaining wits together.  Shoving aside a FB is hard, but I can do it.  I'm very good at it.  But it carries a massive cost in energy, and yesterday I didn't have any energy to spare.

Yesterday and today, I've woken up and found weird stuff had happened.  Any one of these things (well, almost) could be chalked up to be being forgetful or scatterbrained or just plain clumsy.  But all?  No.  And it's effing weird.

Stuff like my books stacked in a different order than usual, or stuff on top of my journal (journal always goes on top of the stack so I can get to it easily).  Some stuff I'd hand-washed hung to dry...but not where I usually put it.  Yesterday, my broom was missing.  I eventually found it...but still.

The weirdest thing has to do with my artist's model, who I (being me and being silly) nicknamed Woody.  He's one of those little jointed wooden people that artists use to help them draw human figures.  Normally he stands on top of my clock radio.  I had him in a running pose.

Yesterday, when I woke up, Woody had moved off the clock.  And he had been completely repositioned.  Now his arms were spread, and his head and torso were angled back, legs positioned in a dancer's leap.

Um.  WTF???

I put Woody back where he belongs.  Using him to express that moment, I straightened his legs and put his arms in a shrugging position.

This morning, not only had Woody been moved, but now he's holding a flower made of red tissue paper and green twist ties!  I have made flowers similar to that before...but not quite that way. 

I haven't moved him yet.  I'm kind of scared to.

I know I've been losing time lately.  Sometimes a few minutes.  Sometimes hours.  I've gotten on the bus, chatted with the driver...and next thing I'm aware of, it's 20 minutes later and I'm downtown at my stop.  That happens more than I care to admit, even to myself.  Last night I lost an hour.  One minute I was writing in my journal.  The next I was almost done with my bedtime routine...except that my books weren't where they belonged, the radio was off (I almost always have it on) and my phone (with it's nearly full battery) was on the charger.

I'm trying to log all this stuff.  But it sound so nuts! 

And even when I do sleep, I wake up more tired than I went to bed.

Nurse nonsense and ED rubbish

Today was my regular shrink appointment. I like Doc a lot. He's a good egg. My problem is that he recently got a new nurse. I don't know if it's a matter of not liking her, or that I'm just not used to her yet...either way, coping with her is stressful.

Bad enough that I was more than half disassociated on the ride in. Worse that the waiting room was a zoo. Granted, this is something one can expect at a facility that caters to the mental health needs of the lowest possible income levels in a given area. But it was so loud...

Then the worst part. Nurse calls me back and tells me to get on the scale.

Now, I know that nobody likes being weighed in. I also understand that some psych meds are calibrated by weight. But I was feeling jittery this time. I knew from how my body felt that the scale-number had gone up. And I was seriously spazzing over that fact. Glancing at the scale was a mistake, but I did it anyway. I saw that it was up, but did not let myself do the math to see how much.

So I get down and Nurse does all the normal crap. She asks all the normal questions and gets 1-word answers. Pulse and blood pressure and all that garbage...and then as she's entering stuff into her computer, she mutters those numbers: pulse, BP..."and you gained two pounds..."

Uh, hello? Spaz out time! Never mind that I knew it already (just not the number). Never mind that I'd isolated what in my diet had changed and already dealt with it. Never mind that 2 lbs is nothing in the grand scope of things. It was bad enough to know that I'd gained. Knowing the exact amount made it a thousand times worse.

And hours later I'm still feeling awful. Still feeling that urge to restrict 'till I [fill in your choice of bad restriction symptoms]. I know how irrational it is. That doesn't change the fact I feel it, that the urge, the need is worse than it's been in over a year.

I know that Nurse didn't do anything hurtful on purpose. She even gave me a very nice compliment on my way out. And I know full well that an ED is not in my formal list of diagnoses. The closest I ever came was "undetermined eating disorder" and I'm pretty sure that Dx never migrated to my charts here.

So I'm not upset with Nurse. She was just doing her job. I know from prior visits (this is maybe the 4th or 5th time I've seen her) that she always mutters as she types. Even though I'm still not really comfortable with her, I know that she meant me no harm.

The person I am upset with is me. For feeling this way. For half-seriously planning tomorrow's grocery trip around the kind of calorie count I used to adhere to. (Numbers don't matter; suffice it to say it was waaaaaaaay too low.) A huge part of me wants to go back to scripting every mouthful. That same part of me is freaking out over the more-or-less normal portion of dinner I had.

I hate this. I hate feeling this way.

And I hate me.

Body memories....uggggggh

Had an awful body memory today.  On the bus, no less!  I felt it sneaking up on me before I boarded, but thought I'd shaken it off.  I was wrong.

It was...bad.  Never mind that I'm an adult; it felt like someone was shaking me.  Like someone had one thumb in the notch in my collarbone and the other one in the middle of my ribcage.  And like that same someone had hoisted me off the ground and was shaking me from side to side.

I think there were several memories squashed into this; the finger/thumb placement changes from time to time.  And sometimes I'm being shaken side to side, others it's front to back.  Others it's up and down.

I can especially feel it in my big joints, my hips and shoulders.

Yeah, this was a bad 'un.  Worse, it doesn't want to let go.  The slightest nudge will send me back into it, back to where my reality is that of being a small child being shaken, shaken, shaken. 

I think I disassociated on the bus.  I know that I clearly remember passing the Stockyard restaurant, but much beyond that is a blur.  I remember talking to Steve at the Co-Op.  I think I talked to my nurse.  I know I talked to someone at the pharmacy, because I have a fresh supply of meds.  But those are brief glimpses.  I can see the clinic waiting room plain as day, but was that today or a memory from other days?  In this memory I was sitting in my preferred chair, so that tells me nothing.

I don't really come clear-clear until I'm somewhere on the 60.  I fade in to watch a pack of middle-school kids horsing around on the bus.  The world comes into full-focus as I'm walking up the Arcade.  Words came all the way back as I browsed Dollar General.  I definitely remember racing down the side of MCC, hoping and praying that I'd get to my stop before my bus left.  (I did.)

I'm clear all the way home, even though I was tired enough to collapse.  After that though, I'm not totally sure.  I keep fading in and out.

This sucks.  I hate coming and going in and out of this disassociated state.  I want to stay 'here' but keep fading in and out.  I want to stay present, but I keep slipping away.  Want to hold on, but there's nothing to hold on to.

I hate this feeling.

Awkward great-bargian moment

Through little fault of my own, I have a wound on my leg that is healing with glacial slowness.  Not many in my real life circle is aware of this.  They are, however, aware of my cutting problem.  I can understand this.  The leg wound is almost always covered, so nobody sees it.  On the other hand, my cutting scars march up my right forearm.  They're kinda hard to miss.

Thing is, even when I'm not cutting, I still need paper tape to treat the leg wound.  And here lies the awkwardness.  It was 90 degrees outside today, so no way in hell was I going to wear long sleeves.  But I always feel awkward buying wound care supplies with my arms bared. 

So today I hit Walgreen's in search of tape.  And I found an amazing bargain, four rolls for not much more than one roll of a different brand.  It was even cheaper than the Walgreen's generic brand.

So on the one hand, I was all excited 'cause I'd found an amazing deal.  On the other hand, I couldn't very well call Goldie or someone, bragging about the great price I'd found on paper tape!  At best I'd have got a suspicious "Are you sure it's just for your leg?  That's a lot of tape..."

Oh well.  Even if I can't brag to any of my real life friends about this, I'll do it on EP.  'Cause 4 rolls of paper tape for $4.99 is a damn good price in my area!
My mood: very tired

Now that's depressing!

I was wandering through experiences (mine and others') and realized something.

Many learned behaviors I have are there because of my miserable excuse for a childhood.

A group about having excellent peripheral vision?  Sure, I'll join.  But wait.  I developed that extra-wide visual field to help me stay aware of where the grown-ups were.  An adult out of my line of sight was a danger.  So I learned to use every scrap of vision, with or without my glasses!

"I Know Life Isn't Fair"  Do I even have to address this one?

"I Was Beaten As A Child"  Another one I don't need to speak to!

"I Believe Castration Is The Best Punishment For Rapists"  Okay, I agree.  But there is so much personal experience on that one...I'd trigger myself seven ways to Sunday before I got the story half wrote!  And... *sigh* never mind.  I can't go there without risking a FB, and I can't afford it tonight.

"I Hate To See Others Unhappy"  Yes I do...and writing the story would hurt so bad.  'Cause nobody saw my unhappiness, or at least nobody tried to fix it.  That group makes me wonder how come nobody questioned the bruises and disassociation and all the rest.

"I Try To Blend In"  That one was a pure survival skill.  If they didn't see me, they (probably) wouldn't hurt me.  I still instinctively go into invisible mode when I feel threatened!
 
"I Have Arthritis"  Yes I do.  Why?  Because of my mother's fondness for cracking wooden spoons across my knuckles.  Next question?

Almost any liking food group...yeesh.  Anyone who's been starved is going to like a LOT of foods 'cause it isn't safe to not like them!  But then I go to write the story, and all I can think of is being denied the food in question, or being punished for eating it.

"I Am Used To Being Ignored"  Another one that's an automatic for an adult neglected child.  And I'm slow to write the story 'cause it would hurt too much.


*sigh*  I better stop.  It's bloody depressing to see how many of my experiences I can only claim because of the abuse. 

Oh well.  That's life.  My life, anyway.

Awful

Evening has come around again...and once again I'm triggered.  What the hell?  Why do I keep wobbling on the edge of flashback-land in the evening?

Is it because I just ate?  Is this just another manifestation of my ever-present food trigger?  Were there enough bad things that happened just after the evening meal to make the act of eating supper a trigger?  Gods know, I could rattle off shit that happened in that time frame...and was all in active memory.  I wouldn't even need to get into the recovered stuff.

But I'm sitting here, queasy.  Puking feels like a very real possibility.  I had a mammoth FB last night, bad enough that I don't even remember going to bed.  First I was sitting on the edge of the bed, debating what to eat for my bedtime snack.  Then I was on the floor, curled in a shaking ball.  My whole body felt like it had been beaten.  Maybe it had been.  But I don't remember anything until waking up this morning.  My PM meds are gone, so I assume I took them.  I can't be sure of anything else.

What the hell?

I know I can "short out" a looming FB by cutting...but that really isn't a good option.  If nothing else, I see my T in a few days, and I really want to be able to say I went the whole three weeks between sessions without cutting.

But I feel sick and like there's a FB sitting just out of sight.  Part of me wants to hit the trigger as hard as I can, to deliberately set off the flashback.  Usually, once I've had one, I don't flash on it again.  Usually.  A HUGE part of me wants to cut myself to hell and gone.  Or beat my head 'till I see stars.  Anything to divert the pain into a different course.  Or make/let myself puke my guts (and dinner) out. 

That last one is kind of a backwards kind of rebellion, come to think of it.  Denied food much of the time, vomiting was a punishable offense.  A severely punishable offense.  So to do so deliberately was (and still is?) an act of defiance.

I gotta get off that subject before my body decides for me.

This whole situation sucks.  I'm doubting everything.  My basic 5 senses.  Senses 6-12 that not everyone has access to.  My memory.  The things my body tells me.

It feels awful.

Mother's Day

Random pieces
Memory bits
I don't know what to say
I looked at a panda and wept
I looked at a panda and smiled
And wondered if your collection has taken over yet

Mother's Day hurts
When you don't have a mom
Or worse, she's still alive
But estranged

I've been bleeding all day
Mother's Day

I left, it was my choice.
Staying hurt too much
Every time I saw you
I came away bleeding
Gods, your tongue is sharp!
And I curled in a ball and cried

I've been bleeding all day
Mother's Day

I hope he takes you out to lunch
And that he got you something sparkly
Another ring, perhaps
Sapphire or ruby or emerald
Whatever it is, you chose it
Watching home shopping channels;
He's not good at gift giving.

I hope you showed it off to your friends
The bauble he bought you
Maybe more than one this year
The second year I've been gone
Today, of all days, I know you've thought of me.

I've been bleeding all day,
Mother's Day

I wish there could be peace between us
But that's not possible
Wherever the truth lies, you'll stand by him
And insist that your actions were justified.
I am, after all, your crazy daughter.

So I stand at a distance
And gaze sadly west
Despite all the pain I love you still.
And my heart bled.

Have you been bleeding all day?
Mother's Day?
My mood: very pensive

Not really here...

I'm not really here.  I glanced at my notifications, but after writing this I will prolly depart again.  Just need to get this out, in a place where I'm not really alone.  My survivor site is not the place.  Not for this.

So I came here.

I'm scared.  And I feel like I may be sick.  (Can't do that, can't be sick for any reason other than actual physical illness.  Can't let myself go down that road.)  I'm shaking with adrenaline, my body is humming with fight-flee-freeze but I have nowhere to physically go.

Oh, I'm safe enough.  Physically.  For that matter, I know that I'm in no danger of any sort.  Except for the sludge my mind may choose to dredge up.  THAT scares the fuck out of me.

Anyone here who's read many of my stories knows that I survived some pretty extreme abuse.  I haven't put the whole story anywhere here.  I may not ever.  That's irrelevant.  (To this entry at least)

I'm kind of triggered.  My mind feels like jelly wiggling inside my skull; that sensation often comes right before a flashback.  More to the point, this sensation goes with a FB of new material, stuff that I hadn't remembered before. 

I'm afraid.

I'm afraid of what this jelly-brain heralds. 

I'm afraid to sleep. 

I'm thinking about cutting, just to transmute this horrible emotional state into simple physical pain.

I hurt, I feel sick.

I don't dare start my normal night routine 'cause I'm afraid that as soon as I relax my mind into sleep the FB will slam into me.  I'd take a couple of the sleeping pills Doc gave me...no.  I learned from experience that unless I take more than is prescribed (dangerous with any drug, much more so with sleep aids) I'll fight the drug.  I'll panic every time it tries to pull me under. 

And we're back to recovered memories.  'Cause some of this batch seems to involve advanced levels of ritual abuse. 

That's what got this whole thing going, you know.  I know that I panic whenever I hear Alice in Wonderland read out loud.  Last time that happened (by accident; that book always has creeped the hell out of me!) I apparently had a flashback.  I lost an hour or two.  When I came back there was this bizarre journal entry sitting in an open Word document.

The other piece of work that resonates like that is The Wizard of Oz.  The reaction isn't as extreme, but it's still there. 

Tonight I bumbled into a room-escape type game that used Wizard of Oz to drive the plotline.  It was fun...but the soundtrack looped around a tinkly music-box version of Somewhere Over the Rainbow.  I played and played the game, trying desperately trying to escape that room...

Maybe there's more there than I want to see.  'Cause if the fragments I'm remembering are half accurate, wanting/needing to escape makes more than perfect sense.

I'm not willing to poke at those memories.  Not now.  Not alone.  Not without someone physically here to help me keep my balance.  Not without someone here to help me find my way back.

I hate feeling like this.  I hate being this scared.  I hate feeling this alone.

'Cause for all the huge number of people who survived sexual abuse, a fairly small percentage of us came through the hell that is ritual abuse.  I'm glad of this, really.  It means that not many (though even one is too many!!!) had to cope with it.  But it still sucks. 

I'd like to call my local crisis line...but I'm reasonably sure that whoever I wind up talking to won't be up to this mess.

Then again, I might call just to hear a compassionate human voice.  Even if all they say is the "entry level" stuff I've been told a thousand times, the irritation might be worth it.  Maybe I'd feel a little bit less alone.

I dunno.

Dumping all this out here helped a little bit. 

I think I'm going to stay up until my body decides it's time to sleep, my brain be damned.  I was running around outside most of the day, pretty soon my body will start suggesting that rest is a good idea.  When it's not a suggestion but a demand I'll give in.

Anyhow, I am feeling a little better.  Still like crap...but a tiny bit better.

*sigh*  Oh well.  I'm here, I may as well wander around EP land for a bit...

Checking in

Okay, it's been close to a month.  I had to come back.  Damn, this site is addictive!

So how have I been?  Overall, pretty decent.

I've been working on getting out more...and to more places than just my day program.  Been to a couple events here; a Lawn and Garden show with my friend Grey and a Women's Show all by myself!  Also went to my local Earth Day festivities.  I'm really trying to build a network of friends and acquaintances that are NOT involved with mental health care services.

Speaking of mental health stuff... *sigh*  I keep pushing myself too hard.  On the plus side, I think I've finally got my meds balanced.  After one last step up on the Lithium, I think I'm as stable as I'm gonna get.  And on a definite plus, one of my other meds went generic, so my monthly medicine bill went down a few bucks.  Saving money is always good!

Haven't been doing much cutting, so that's a good thing too. 

Flashbacks have been about normal.  I'll go a week or two without any, then have six in three days.  I don't care how often or rare they are, flashbacks suck!!!

I've made a lot of progress on a couple different story lines I'm working on, and got a new song down.  I finished a collage, and will probably be starting another soon.  Also have been working to increase my skill painting left-handed.  I can write lefty just as legibly (and almost identically) to my right, I'm just a bit slower. 

So yeah.  That's about the size of it.  I'm up and down and all around, but consistently making progress forward.

Peace, y'all!
Plaid
My mood: pretty mellow

Stepping away

On March 1 I decided to stick around for one more month, then take a week to evaluate whether or not to stay.

So now that month has passed.  My week of thinking has passed.  And I have come to a conclusion.

I am leaving EP. 

The perv issue hasn't noticeably changed.  The genitals-masquerading-as-avatars are still a problem.  Granted, now they are usually covered by a thin layer of underwear....but who are they kidding?  You can see exactly what is under those undies.  And EP is not responding to my flagging.  The person I cited in my previous blog about leaving is still traipsing around in his tidy whities.  My frequent flagging has made no difference.

The drama has dropped a little, but I think that's just part of the natural ebb and flow of things.  The drama will (probably) return.

What has changed?

There's been a bunch of alterations to the layout and our profile pages.  These are not for the better, IMHO.  Also, suggestions that I and others have made to actually improve functionality on the site have been ignored.  Well, I got a pat-on-the-head from the staffer who does that stuff...but I've yet to see any change.

What change was I suggesting?  I just wanted a more effective way to move through an experience list that numbers in the thousands.  I was told they'd think about it...and nothing.

So between a lack of response from EP staff and far too much adult behavior, I think it's time for me to leave.  I may stick my nose in here from time to time...but it's still time to go.

I'm not going to delete.  I've put too much energy into this profile to do that.  I might put it on vacation.  I might just walk away.

Regardless of how, I'm leaving.

Much love to all my friends, circle, and those whose stories I've read, commented on, and learned from.

Plaid

Claiming my vision

Yesterday, in the least-challenging of my art classes, I struggled with inspiration.  That class is for quick working, pieces done in an hour or two.

As most in the class are doing well to color or trace an image, this doesn't matter.  Nothing against them; we all work at the level we're comfortable at.  (Then again if I sat there and colored, Miss N would be running for staff to find out what was wrong with me!)

So I sat there and thought...and thought..and thought.  I stared at the coloring pages Miss N had brought in, sheets I generally use as inspiration.

And it came.

It came so hard that I swayed in my seat.  It was strong enough that I could see it, taste it, smell it. 

Another landscape, done in watercolor pencil like most of my work...but with some subtle differences.  I've grown as an artist, and that vision showed it.

As I gathered my materials, I realized that I couldn't create that landscape.  Not in that class.  I've struggled in the past to explain my work to Miss N, to show her the vision and story behind the work.  This one...no.  To create it in that class would be...no.  Just because I can see it doesn't mean I have the words to explain it.

So I drew something close to what I saw.  I prettied up my vision, and it looked nice. 

But it wasn't what I saw.  It wasn't my vision.

So tonight I gathered my things.  My pencils and colored pencils and watercolor pencils.  My sharpener and eraser and Q-tips and a stack of scratch paper.

I'm reaching for that vision.  I can see it, it's mine.  The dance of light and dark, joy and sorrow.  A song of peace in pain.

It will take a while to finish, by my standards.  I can usually do a watercolor pencil landscape in an hour or two.  This will take at least double that, and maybe triple.  To put what I see onto paper...this one is demanding techniques that I really haven't mastered.  Just from the technical angle it's hard.

It's also intense from the emotional angle.  Because it's so strong in my head, because I can even see it as if I was standing there it's...hard.  Every sense is engaged and I had to stop sooner than I wanted to 'cause I was overloading. 

But by the gods, I'm claiming that vision!

1-20 of 160 Blogs   

Previous Posts
Boston Bomb... Why???????????, posted April 15th, 2013
Updating my poor, neglected blog, posted March 29th, 2013
Hurts So Good, posted January 25th, 2013
Name-Brain, posted December 17th, 2012, 2 comments
Commercial Complaint, posted December 8th, 2012
Cutting (trigger: self-harm), posted November 13th, 2012
Mom, posted November 10th, 2012, 1 comment
Here I go again, posted October 4th, 2012
I hate September, posted September 10th, 2012
Scared to Sleep, posted August 25th, 2012
Nurse nonsense and ED rubbish, posted August 7th, 2012
Body memories....uggggggh, posted June 11th, 2012, 2 comments
Awkward great-bargian moment, posted June 8th, 2012
Now that's depressing!, posted June 6th, 2012
Awful, posted May 27th, 2012, 1 comment
Mother's Day, posted May 13th, 2012, 2 comments
Not really here..., posted May 5th, 2012, 3 comments
Checking in, posted April 28th, 2012
Stepping away, posted April 5th, 2012, 1 comment
Claiming my vision, posted March 17th, 2012
Pride swallowed, posted March 10th, 2012
Contemplating departure, posted March 1st, 2012, 1 comment
Gonna pay for this..., posted February 15th, 2012
Struggling, posted February 12th, 2012
Argh!, posted February 5th, 2012
I'm doing it again..., posted February 4th, 2012
E-freaking-nough already?, posted January 19th, 2012
What the hell....?, posted December 9th, 2011
What a day, posted December 5th, 2011, 2 comments
Getting nervous, posted December 4th, 2011
Progress...I think?, posted December 1st, 2011
Holy Fury IV, posted November 20th, 2011
???????, posted November 17th, 2011, 2 comments
Odd, posted November 16th, 2011
Piecing pieces, posted November 13th, 2011
This is gonna be fun...., posted October 23rd, 2011, 1 comment
Who Heals the Healer?, posted October 18th, 2011, 1 comment
Being good...by being absent, posted October 15th, 2011
Doctor day, posted October 14th, 2011
Blessing Blisters, posted October 12th, 2011
That was...intense, posted October 9th, 2011
Un-triggering myself, posted October 4th, 2011
How do I balance this???, posted October 3rd, 2011
One of THOSE People, posted September 21st, 2011
Therapy thoughts, posted September 16th, 2011
Art Start, posted September 12th, 2011
How the hell am I supposed to do this???, posted September 11th, 2011, 1 comment
Bad, sad Plaid, posted September 10th, 2011
What am I running from?, posted September 8th, 2011, 3 comments
Ramble, posted September 3rd, 2011
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