It was the night before christmas and the Kreiks all over australia were tucked up in their burrows.
Thad bad blondnen grinch who thought christmas was horrible said "hah, I have a plan!"
he,he,he if I can't find a reindeer, why don't I make one with my pet stolen kreik. If I can't find a santa suit why don't I make one. Moterman and I were sound asleep when we heard the sound of hee hee ha ha ha. My brother slept on but me and moterman got up and took our flashlights and lightsabers.
Hee hee ha ha ha i'm going to wreck christmas forever cackled the bad Blondnen. I jumped right outside with my warm jacket on and saw him with his sled and pretend reindeer which was just his own little Kreik. Then we got in a battle. Then I pretended to give in and handed him both ends of the electric christmas light strings. I yelled to Motorman "hey turn on the electricity" just as Bad blondnen connected them.
Zeeeooouuuch!!!! He cried and fell down on his slay.
"owe that hurt! he said.
Then I said, it was my plan all along.
Fine, he said. You win. I'll give you the pet Kreik!
So I kicked Blondnen out of the house with a "bye, bye, bye". And tucking the Kreikling into my covers, to sleep until santa had left our presents, even a little one for the Kreikling and my own pet, Susana.
Words by Tousled
Transcribed by Kaja
Saturday, December 17, 2016
It was a prehistoric christmas eve!
It was christmas eve, not even my pet compsignathus named clover was stirring. The stockings were hung with care in hopes that Saint Velociraptor would soon be there. The children were snuggled all up in their beds while visions of dinosaurs danced in their heads. My brother and I had just climbed into our bunks when out on the lawn there arose such a racket of roars I climbed as quick as a cheetah down the rungs of my ladder. I pulled on my dino robe and looked over the balcony to see what it was.
There I saw...
St. Velociraptor and 10 dromeosauruses down on the driveway. He called out their names while giving directions. on Dasher, on Dancer, on prancer and vixen. On cupid, on comit! Rudolf show me the way! Lazer, scan the area for anything large like giganotosaurus! They flew up to the top of the house like microraptors! And there light as a raptor leaping out of a tree St. Velociraptor jumped from his little dino-sled and into the chimney.
He zoomed down like the velociraptor he is. He stuffed the stockings as quickly as a microraptor can glide, with dino claws and toy dino tooth swards.
I looked out the window to see T-rex, Dromiosaurus, Giganotosaurus and Triceritops crossing the hill toward our house! Little clover my pet compsidnathus dashed to my side and told me in dino, I think we're in trouble! I leaned over and whispered into her tiny dino ear, "Don't be so worried! I'm sure St. Velociraptor has it all under control, OK!"
Sure enough, with a wink he lept back up the chimney and called to all the dino's "It's time to put on a show!"
Suddenly all the dino's were dancing, in each their own way, even little clover, down by my feet.
Too soon it was over and off they all dashed leaving nothing but the many dino tracks in the snow.
I went back to bed where little clover curled up on my stomach as she always does and fell asleep to the sound of distant dino rawring!
Words and pictures by Brown Eyes
Transcribed by Kaja
There I saw...
St. Velociraptor and 10 dromeosauruses down on the driveway. He called out their names while giving directions. on Dasher, on Dancer, on prancer and vixen. On cupid, on comit! Rudolf show me the way! Lazer, scan the area for anything large like giganotosaurus! They flew up to the top of the house like microraptors! And there light as a raptor leaping out of a tree St. Velociraptor jumped from his little dino-sled and into the chimney.
He zoomed down like the velociraptor he is. He stuffed the stockings as quickly as a microraptor can glide, with dino claws and toy dino tooth swards.
I looked out the window to see T-rex, Dromiosaurus, Giganotosaurus and Triceritops crossing the hill toward our house! Little clover my pet compsidnathus dashed to my side and told me in dino, I think we're in trouble! I leaned over and whispered into her tiny dino ear, "Don't be so worried! I'm sure St. Velociraptor has it all under control, OK!"
Sure enough, with a wink he lept back up the chimney and called to all the dino's "It's time to put on a show!"
Suddenly all the dino's were dancing, in each their own way, even little clover, down by my feet.
Too soon it was over and off they all dashed leaving nothing but the many dino tracks in the snow.
I went back to bed where little clover curled up on my stomach as she always does and fell asleep to the sound of distant dino rawring!
Words and pictures by Brown Eyes
Transcribed by Kaja
Thursday, November 24, 2016
Why I can't Thanks this Giving
It's thanksgiving day.
but I am not thankful.
I am sick, angry and isolated.
Isolated by my anger.
by my pain.
by my fear.
by the past. which has made me angry.
I am not always an angry person.
but give me this one.
give me this day.
I am angry because protests (peaceful or not always so) by indigenous americans and allies for their water (and ours) their land, and their sovereignty are being met with brutality, greed and indifference. STILL. In 2016. In my country. By my people. And I am doing nothing. (or very little... signed a few petitions, share what I can...) http://www.motherjones.com/environment/2016/09/dakota-access-pipeline-protest-timeline-sioux-standing-rock-jill-stein
Because Native women have the highest rates of rape and murder. (And no, it's not by Indigenous men). http://www.amnestyusa.org/our-work/issues/women-s-rights/violence-against-women/maze-of-injustice
Because so many people blindly distrusting "the media" gobble up lies that suit their preferences without seeking any verification, then go on to blame any legitimate or otherwise for not also "reporting" things which agree with their own thinking. People who do not know better and are being taken advantage of by for profit "journalism" and scammers and people who should know better, but chose the easy way out. http://www.journalism.org/2016/05/26/news-use-across-social-media-platforms-2016/
Because a minority of Americans voted for an illegitimate president (I know those are strong words. But I'm not here to change the minds of Trump supporters.), in the name of change, for the hope of restoring something lost, lost jobs, lost privileges, lost pride. But, it is not change, and it restores no one. Hatred begets hatred. Trump is not new, and he is not a do-over. He is a pathological liar who will say anything he thinks folks want to hear to accomplish his own interests, mainly faim and fortune. And, MORE IMPORTANTLY, most americans DIDN'T VOTE. So no, while I take issue with this angry minority, I don't blame them. I blame the rest of us. I blame the ones of us who can't be bothered, don't have the time or the energy to stand for the right things when the stakes are not high enough or we don't have a clear, squeaky clean hero. Newsflash (they don't exist. have you ever met a perfect person? so where would a perfect hero come from?) Sometimes you just have to wade into the mess. The local politics. The "locker room" conversations you overhear, the family member quoting lies they've been heard passed off as statistics or posting "news" which any quick check of google or snopes would discount as completely phony. I'm not saying argue with people. I'm just saying question what you hear. "Where did you hear that? It's very different from what I have heard, let's look it up and make sure we are both getting accurate information. I would hate to agree or disagree with you based on a false premise." Most of us have phones that have put hundreds of generations of knowledge and research all across the world within our fingertips on a moments notice. Lets use that. Let's not keep our worlds small because we are tired, overwhelmed... I am too. And chances are good, I've survived at least as much as you have in my life. Maybe different things. But far too much for 100 years, yet alone 32.
Yes, I am angry. I am angry for what my 32 years have been filled with. I am angry for the world I live in.
But I have not given up caring. My anger is caring. Caring for what I have survived. Caring for what police officers are being asked to do and for what they are doing. Caring for water protectors, including the few making decisions which may end in more harm than good when pushed up against the impossible events of all the combined histories leading to the events of today. If you have not survived trauma like that. Don't judge. And if you have. Dont judge. Hear the message, people. Hear each other. We, are all we have left. When this world goes up in flame for our follies (and it will be for our follies, the greed of the few powered by the silence of the many) all we will have had is our love for each other. Or not.
I will have loved. If nothing else. And I pity no person more than the unloving dying unloved. Pity and sorry may not turn my heart toward them, but I can at least see, even their suffering, and have compassion, if not redemption, and this is what makes me human. Stay human hearts. For if I can, perhaps you can. And if you can, perhaps I can. By the strength of our wills and the love we will carry to our graves.
So yes, even though it is from afar, and even though it is not enough, from my original pillager's heart to yours, this Viking stands with Standing Rock.
but I am not thankful.
I am sick, angry and isolated.
Isolated by my anger.
by my pain.
by my fear.
by the past. which has made me angry.
I am not always an angry person.
but give me this one.
give me this day.
I am angry because protests (peaceful or not always so) by indigenous americans and allies for their water (and ours) their land, and their sovereignty are being met with brutality, greed and indifference. STILL. In 2016. In my country. By my people. And I am doing nothing. (or very little... signed a few petitions, share what I can...) http://www.motherjones.com/environment/2016/09/dakota-access-pipeline-protest-timeline-sioux-standing-rock-jill-stein
Because Native women have the highest rates of rape and murder. (And no, it's not by Indigenous men). http://www.amnestyusa.org/our-work/issues/women-s-rights/violence-against-women/maze-of-injustice
Because so many people blindly distrusting "the media" gobble up lies that suit their preferences without seeking any verification, then go on to blame any legitimate or otherwise for not also "reporting" things which agree with their own thinking. People who do not know better and are being taken advantage of by for profit "journalism" and scammers and people who should know better, but chose the easy way out. http://www.journalism.org/2016/05/26/news-use-across-social-media-platforms-2016/
Because a minority of Americans voted for an illegitimate president (I know those are strong words. But I'm not here to change the minds of Trump supporters.), in the name of change, for the hope of restoring something lost, lost jobs, lost privileges, lost pride. But, it is not change, and it restores no one. Hatred begets hatred. Trump is not new, and he is not a do-over. He is a pathological liar who will say anything he thinks folks want to hear to accomplish his own interests, mainly faim and fortune. And, MORE IMPORTANTLY, most americans DIDN'T VOTE. So no, while I take issue with this angry minority, I don't blame them. I blame the rest of us. I blame the ones of us who can't be bothered, don't have the time or the energy to stand for the right things when the stakes are not high enough or we don't have a clear, squeaky clean hero. Newsflash (they don't exist. have you ever met a perfect person? so where would a perfect hero come from?) Sometimes you just have to wade into the mess. The local politics. The "locker room" conversations you overhear, the family member quoting lies they've been heard passed off as statistics or posting "news" which any quick check of google or snopes would discount as completely phony. I'm not saying argue with people. I'm just saying question what you hear. "Where did you hear that? It's very different from what I have heard, let's look it up and make sure we are both getting accurate information. I would hate to agree or disagree with you based on a false premise." Most of us have phones that have put hundreds of generations of knowledge and research all across the world within our fingertips on a moments notice. Lets use that. Let's not keep our worlds small because we are tired, overwhelmed... I am too. And chances are good, I've survived at least as much as you have in my life. Maybe different things. But far too much for 100 years, yet alone 32.
Yes, I am angry. I am angry for what my 32 years have been filled with. I am angry for the world I live in.
But I have not given up caring. My anger is caring. Caring for what I have survived. Caring for what police officers are being asked to do and for what they are doing. Caring for water protectors, including the few making decisions which may end in more harm than good when pushed up against the impossible events of all the combined histories leading to the events of today. If you have not survived trauma like that. Don't judge. And if you have. Dont judge. Hear the message, people. Hear each other. We, are all we have left. When this world goes up in flame for our follies (and it will be for our follies, the greed of the few powered by the silence of the many) all we will have had is our love for each other. Or not.
I will have loved. If nothing else. And I pity no person more than the unloving dying unloved. Pity and sorry may not turn my heart toward them, but I can at least see, even their suffering, and have compassion, if not redemption, and this is what makes me human. Stay human hearts. For if I can, perhaps you can. And if you can, perhaps I can. By the strength of our wills and the love we will carry to our graves.
So yes, even though it is from afar, and even though it is not enough, from my original pillager's heart to yours, this Viking stands with Standing Rock.
Monday, October 24, 2016
father's be good to your daughters.
I have this craven need to belong coupled with an intense mistrust of closeness and any sense of belonging which I may have. My sense is that coaxing me into trusting (under desperate circumstances) followed by a dramatic breach of that fragile trust is one of the tactics my abusers used to keep me under their control. It was brilliant, really. By creating in me such a profound disillusionment in the trustworthiness of apparently trustworthy folk, they effectively blocked the only safe escape route any abused child has : that of placing their confidence in an outsider.
I entered adulthood with an emotional backdrop of intensely coaxed and horribly abused trust, fake help ever more persistently offered with the express intent of achieving some slight trust to then break. The result a deeply ingrained belief that trust will be followed by betrayal, onto which was painted the additional false starts and gains followed by losses experienced by any former foster child. Family is as family does. Family does not need you as much as you need it. People say family when they love you, but really mean friend. They are just saying family because they see the need in you for them to say it, without truly understanding that they do not, in fact, mean it, at least not the way you want them to.
Which is why I was able to harbor enough mistrust for the family who wanted to adopt me (and believe me, who I most certainly and desperately wanted to belong with) at 17, to disappear the first time I really disagreed with my would be dad about what was or wasn't good for me. Naturally I was right (no big surprise there, I was 18 or 19 at the time and as many of you must know, all teenagers are by default correct in any/all assumptions, particularly those in opposition to their parents guidance.) I don't regret not getting involved in the venture he was proposing although I doubt it would have brought about the complete personal demise I envisioned. Likely I would have tried it, my misgivings/discomfort leading to less than perfect results and ultimately a break with it at some point rather than total moral degradation. It's funny, I'm 31 years old at the writing and it is only just now dawning on me that it would not have killed me to have tried my hand at it. My parents thought it would be a good way for me to make some much needed money, maybe buy a car. I thought it was a cult. Funnily enough my college room mate (read best friend) and her fiance sold cutco for a summer to save up money for their wedding. They hated it, but it did help with the bills... I imagine something similar would have happened with this. I may or may not have made enough for that car, but maybe a few flights home (my parents moved from CA to AZ my first year of college). I understand the depth of my misgivings now, in a way that none of us could have at the time. I had just escaped a cult (though I wouldn't put it together, much less call it like it was for many years). In retrospect it's not surprising that a pyramid model business venture would have made me profoundly uncomfortable.
When we finally did reconnect I said to my dad that I don't think I'd had any concept that our disagreement didn't mean they were done loving me. I don't think it ever occurred to me you would still love me if I didn't give in. His response was along the lines of "and it never would have occurred to us that disagreeing would have any impact on our love for you". And yet, I don't remember ever speaking to them again. I had become afraid, certain they had never really loved me, certain their only interest in me was as one more anonymous notch in the stick, rung on the ladder, cog in the gear (or whatever phrase actually makes sense here). My brain had no use for any input to the contrary. A burn victim exposed to a match, I recoiled and never looked back to see the encompassing flames that weren't. They had used me, they hadn't intended well for me. They had given bad (I thought at the time) dating advice to a friend of mine - obviously they could not love or have ever loved me.
My math was bad. I was putting the wrong numbers into the wrong equation without ever questioning the result. After all, it was the outcome I had always secretly expected. Hadn't I always been waiting for the other shoe to drop and this sure looked liked a falling shoe to me. Sure the input was faulty, but I had no way of knowing this. I was a creature of instinct, believing in myself above all else. The infallible authority on all things personal: me. Even today my capacity for trust quickly wavers under duress.
But writing this has had an unexpected outcome. I think I finally see my dad's pressing me to join their venture for what it was. Something I would have survived. And more importantly simply something my dad thought I should do that I did not want to do. I wish I could have known that refusing, even under some amount of continuing pressure didn't have to be the end. I wish I could have known that my dad pushing me to do something I didn't want to do wasn't the same as my dad raping me. But sadly, I did not.
And because I did not, my father was not at my wedding. My father was not there to welcome his first (and later second) grandson into the world. My mother never got to help me into my wedding dress or watch me becoming a mother or dance a tiny newborn around the maternity ward. My parents never got to shuttle boxes into our first home or see my boyfriend turn fiance fall in love with me and me him, shake his hand or tell him not to break my heart. Instead they got it all thrust upon them at one time when they said "yes" to me, again. An extra grown daughter, family in tow, popping up out of nowhere. Son-in-law and grandsons strangers to them and everyone they are close to now. Only those who knew them two states and almost 10 years ago ever knew who I was, and then simply as a quiet, troubled teen who kept popping up around them. And truthfully, I don't know if they grieve these things for themselves. They have two other daughters, after all, one other son-in-law. But I know they missed it all. That we missed it all. And I grieve. It is hard to know how much I missed out on by my own choice. And yet, I can hardly blame myself for being the gun shy person I was and am. No one can. It served me well and saved me from much.
The funny thing about finally having what I wanted for so long is that just beneath the gratitude, which is abundant, is a profound loss.
And don't even get me started on the beloved and adoring little sisters I lost...
People should not rape, brainwash and torture their children. It really fucks them up, even for the best of what's still in store for them.
I entered adulthood with an emotional backdrop of intensely coaxed and horribly abused trust, fake help ever more persistently offered with the express intent of achieving some slight trust to then break. The result a deeply ingrained belief that trust will be followed by betrayal, onto which was painted the additional false starts and gains followed by losses experienced by any former foster child. Family is as family does. Family does not need you as much as you need it. People say family when they love you, but really mean friend. They are just saying family because they see the need in you for them to say it, without truly understanding that they do not, in fact, mean it, at least not the way you want them to.
Which is why I was able to harbor enough mistrust for the family who wanted to adopt me (and believe me, who I most certainly and desperately wanted to belong with) at 17, to disappear the first time I really disagreed with my would be dad about what was or wasn't good for me. Naturally I was right (no big surprise there, I was 18 or 19 at the time and as many of you must know, all teenagers are by default correct in any/all assumptions, particularly those in opposition to their parents guidance.) I don't regret not getting involved in the venture he was proposing although I doubt it would have brought about the complete personal demise I envisioned. Likely I would have tried it, my misgivings/discomfort leading to less than perfect results and ultimately a break with it at some point rather than total moral degradation. It's funny, I'm 31 years old at the writing and it is only just now dawning on me that it would not have killed me to have tried my hand at it. My parents thought it would be a good way for me to make some much needed money, maybe buy a car. I thought it was a cult. Funnily enough my college room mate (read best friend) and her fiance sold cutco for a summer to save up money for their wedding. They hated it, but it did help with the bills... I imagine something similar would have happened with this. I may or may not have made enough for that car, but maybe a few flights home (my parents moved from CA to AZ my first year of college). I understand the depth of my misgivings now, in a way that none of us could have at the time. I had just escaped a cult (though I wouldn't put it together, much less call it like it was for many years). In retrospect it's not surprising that a pyramid model business venture would have made me profoundly uncomfortable.
When we finally did reconnect I said to my dad that I don't think I'd had any concept that our disagreement didn't mean they were done loving me. I don't think it ever occurred to me you would still love me if I didn't give in. His response was along the lines of "and it never would have occurred to us that disagreeing would have any impact on our love for you". And yet, I don't remember ever speaking to them again. I had become afraid, certain they had never really loved me, certain their only interest in me was as one more anonymous notch in the stick, rung on the ladder, cog in the gear (or whatever phrase actually makes sense here). My brain had no use for any input to the contrary. A burn victim exposed to a match, I recoiled and never looked back to see the encompassing flames that weren't. They had used me, they hadn't intended well for me. They had given bad (I thought at the time) dating advice to a friend of mine - obviously they could not love or have ever loved me.
My math was bad. I was putting the wrong numbers into the wrong equation without ever questioning the result. After all, it was the outcome I had always secretly expected. Hadn't I always been waiting for the other shoe to drop and this sure looked liked a falling shoe to me. Sure the input was faulty, but I had no way of knowing this. I was a creature of instinct, believing in myself above all else. The infallible authority on all things personal: me. Even today my capacity for trust quickly wavers under duress.
But writing this has had an unexpected outcome. I think I finally see my dad's pressing me to join their venture for what it was. Something I would have survived. And more importantly simply something my dad thought I should do that I did not want to do. I wish I could have known that refusing, even under some amount of continuing pressure didn't have to be the end. I wish I could have known that my dad pushing me to do something I didn't want to do wasn't the same as my dad raping me. But sadly, I did not.
And because I did not, my father was not at my wedding. My father was not there to welcome his first (and later second) grandson into the world. My mother never got to help me into my wedding dress or watch me becoming a mother or dance a tiny newborn around the maternity ward. My parents never got to shuttle boxes into our first home or see my boyfriend turn fiance fall in love with me and me him, shake his hand or tell him not to break my heart. Instead they got it all thrust upon them at one time when they said "yes" to me, again. An extra grown daughter, family in tow, popping up out of nowhere. Son-in-law and grandsons strangers to them and everyone they are close to now. Only those who knew them two states and almost 10 years ago ever knew who I was, and then simply as a quiet, troubled teen who kept popping up around them. And truthfully, I don't know if they grieve these things for themselves. They have two other daughters, after all, one other son-in-law. But I know they missed it all. That we missed it all. And I grieve. It is hard to know how much I missed out on by my own choice. And yet, I can hardly blame myself for being the gun shy person I was and am. No one can. It served me well and saved me from much.
The funny thing about finally having what I wanted for so long is that just beneath the gratitude, which is abundant, is a profound loss.
And don't even get me started on the beloved and adoring little sisters I lost...
People should not rape, brainwash and torture their children. It really fucks them up, even for the best of what's still in store for them.
Sunday, October 23, 2016
the thing about me is
i'm fragile.
from surviving.
because what's true is
what doesn't break you
... does actually.
yes, I'm strong.
but in all the wrong doses.
i'm battle strong,
not every day strong.
molded to withstand torture
more than imperfect love.
my vulnerability,
invincibility.
my greatest flaw
infallibility.
false of course.
the grown up
who was never allowed to out-grow
the childish protection of of egocentrism...
until it was all but too late, anyway...
oh heart!
my heart!
broken battered shards of heart
precious all that's left of heart,
perhaps to fragile to find healing heart
find comfort,
learn comfort,
please, oh please,
take comfort!
from surviving.
because what's true is
what doesn't break you
... does actually.
yes, I'm strong.
but in all the wrong doses.
i'm battle strong,
not every day strong.
molded to withstand torture
more than imperfect love.
my vulnerability,
invincibility.
my greatest flaw
infallibility.
false of course.
the grown up
who was never allowed to out-grow
the childish protection of of egocentrism...
until it was all but too late, anyway...
oh heart!
my heart!
broken battered shards of heart
precious all that's left of heart,
perhaps to fragile to find healing heart
find comfort,
learn comfort,
please, oh please,
take comfort!
Thursday, October 13, 2016
Mirror mirror on the wall who is the fairest of them all
There is no one me
Only one of them.
This me or the other
Today's me or another
Sometimes just the was me.
Tomorrow could be, new me
Flavour of the month me
The good one or the bad.
The hopeful or the sad one.
The one who dreams
The one who means...
no harm. yes harm.
Stab you with my knife arm.
Hold me in your arms me.
Broken me. Not whole me.
Never. Never. All of me.
Monday, August 29, 2016
The bracelet
I wear a small bit of my soul on my wrist
In the form of a gift
A lost wish..
A dandelion kissed with the breath of a never hoped hope
A never dreamt dream
Caught by a man with a father's heart
Who saw a lost daughter
Too broken to desire her deepest desires
Mine.
One restored
With engraved wings,
freed to soar.
Monday, August 22, 2016
Seeking the perpetual whirlwind: when the calm after the storm becomes the calm before the storm
I want to write, but I need caffeine.
and to cry.
and to learn to be content.
to let calm catch up with me.
instead of seeking the perpetual whirlwind.
I think I learned to survive by running headfirst.
You see, I couldn't run AWAY.
Away from what? They were drugging me, I'd learned to dissociate at a very young age (possibly from infancy) so I wasn't recording the worst of the memories. My body was feeling, and fearing and despairing but cognitively accounting for why would have left me insane. Never mind the grooming, coaching and outright brainwashing.
I lived my life on high alert never missing a thing, except THE things. I've been all but told there were neurosurgeons among them. If a neurosurgeon didn't want you remembering something, do you think you would stand a chance? How about when you were 3, 6, 15?
If you want to be in my shoes try imagining this scenario.
I couldn't run AWAY because I didn't know where or what the trouble was? My birth-family and other perpetrators were experts in dismissing and demeaning us, for the littlest things. I remember being lined up between my brother's after my bio father had found and unfinished apple core in the yard, with our mouths open, so he could determine who's mouth the bite marks fit, and therefor had waisted the apple y not finishing it and be "punished." When I thought of this as an adult it seemed to me an absurd way to determine guilt, until it hit me that it was never about punishment or wrongdoing. It was about instilling fear and establishing dominance.
So I ran TO. things. Experiences, changes, places. When I was beaten, drugged, raped, tortured, I didn't... respond to it. I couldn't. For two reasons. 1.) It was my norm, and had been since birth and 2.) I didn't remember that anything had happened. I couldn't say "I'm not safe at night, my father comes in and rapes me." Instead, I spent hours praying and dabbing "holy oil" on the walls, doorways and windows to keep the demons out. The demons came to me in the form of the incomprehensible (given that we had no indoor cats) sensation of a cat jumping onto my bed when I was asleep, or falling asleep. A sensation that scared me terribly, but never caused me to turn around and look at where the cat wasn't. Instead, I, for reason's my mind never required me to articulate, snuck out at night to leave and sleep in my neighbors carpeted storage shed. This I did with such regularity that he began to leave blankets and pillows there under the desk for whenever they were needed. Instead, I searched the yellow pages (remember those) for the numbers of, and cold called women's shelter's, without ever being able say more than "I think I need help, do you take kids?" They didn't, so I panicked and refused to answer any follow up questions. I couldn't, after all. I did not know what I was running from. So instead I ran to. I ran to school, to church, to friends houses (one's so regularly that they kept a bed ready for me). I ran to anyone who would give me the time of day. Instead, I ran to anyone or anyplace I thought could hide me, or keep me away or buffer the possibility of being hurt for a little while, at least.
The result of all that running TO, is that, now (only just now) am I realizing that my habit of running to is, at it's core, also a running FROM. Calm scares me. I crave it. Until I have it. And then, I always discover there is something just beyond the horizon begging me to come running. Let's have a kid, adopt a kid, become porn stars, move to another country, go back to school, go back to school again, hey, we never adopted a kid yet, that person looks like they need a place to live - we still have one unoccupied room in the house, let's move to China, let's get a divorce, No, I really like you, let's finally adopt that kid, I need a different kind of job, I need to go back to school, I really can't live with you anymore, the furniture needs to be rearranged, I'm a lesbian, I'm an artist, I want to go back to school, Let's adopt a kid...
All of those things, I genuinely feel. Feel so strongly. But what's driving the urgency is that when things slow down my brain says "warning! warning! warning!". Because of a little thing called the cycle of violence, in which intimate violence is enacted in repeating phases of calm (called honeymoon) and escalating tensions (called tension building) to outbursts of acute violence (called explosion). What you will often see (remember I'm a social worker as well as a survivor) is this cycle spiraling in on itself with extended exposure such that the honeymoon period shrinks or becomes almost non-existent or only appears intermittently (such as after more extreme outbursts or external influences intruding into the cycle like medical or legal attention, a partner leaving and returning, a relative visiting etc...) and you left with little more than the tension building phase followed by explosion followed by the tensions building into the next explosion of violence.
Perpetrators of such violence are expert at intimidating their victims into believing the violence, rather than being a barometer of their internal workings, is caused by their failings. Add to that a child's developmentally appropriate egocentrism (the belief that the world revolves around, and can therefore be influenced by, the child) and you often get a child who's only mechanism of self protection is the illusion of control. The chid may not be able to stop the violence from happening, but they may be able to bring it on, and in doing so create an illusion of predictability. Translation: Kaja's brain has been trained to interpret calm, even relative calm as a signal of violence to come. And, given my lack of viable options for most of the time of my abuse, what I learned to do in the face of that treat, is to enact chaos. I learned calm is the unpredictable time in which, not knowing where or what the next violence will come from or be, that I must run. Not away (from what, remember?) but TO. To something, anything. If it's a good thing, all the better.
The long and short of it is that now, when calm means I can sit down and do homework with my Brown-eyes or hunt Krëiks with Tousled: when calm means eating dinner together and catching up on paying bills; when calm means finishing that book or running errands so that Handsome and I can sustain the kind of life we have worked so hard to build for ourselves and our children, I must learn to fight the overwhelming desire to make it the time paint the living room, buy a dog, start a new company based on some great idea I know nothing about...
When things begin to settle down, for a change, and my heart begins to pound and my mind begins to race,
I need to write, put the kettle on.
Have a good cry.
I need to learn to be content.
to let calm catch up with me.
instead of seeking the perpetual whirlwind.
I must learn to believe in the calm after the storm, too.
and to cry.
and to learn to be content.
to let calm catch up with me.
instead of seeking the perpetual whirlwind.
I think I learned to survive by running headfirst.
You see, I couldn't run AWAY.
Away from what? They were drugging me, I'd learned to dissociate at a very young age (possibly from infancy) so I wasn't recording the worst of the memories. My body was feeling, and fearing and despairing but cognitively accounting for why would have left me insane. Never mind the grooming, coaching and outright brainwashing.
I lived my life on high alert never missing a thing, except THE things. I've been all but told there were neurosurgeons among them. If a neurosurgeon didn't want you remembering something, do you think you would stand a chance? How about when you were 3, 6, 15?
If you want to be in my shoes try imagining this scenario.
I couldn't run AWAY because I didn't know where or what the trouble was? My birth-family and other perpetrators were experts in dismissing and demeaning us, for the littlest things. I remember being lined up between my brother's after my bio father had found and unfinished apple core in the yard, with our mouths open, so he could determine who's mouth the bite marks fit, and therefor had waisted the apple y not finishing it and be "punished." When I thought of this as an adult it seemed to me an absurd way to determine guilt, until it hit me that it was never about punishment or wrongdoing. It was about instilling fear and establishing dominance.
So I ran TO. things. Experiences, changes, places. When I was beaten, drugged, raped, tortured, I didn't... respond to it. I couldn't. For two reasons. 1.) It was my norm, and had been since birth and 2.) I didn't remember that anything had happened. I couldn't say "I'm not safe at night, my father comes in and rapes me." Instead, I spent hours praying and dabbing "holy oil" on the walls, doorways and windows to keep the demons out. The demons came to me in the form of the incomprehensible (given that we had no indoor cats) sensation of a cat jumping onto my bed when I was asleep, or falling asleep. A sensation that scared me terribly, but never caused me to turn around and look at where the cat wasn't. Instead, I, for reason's my mind never required me to articulate, snuck out at night to leave and sleep in my neighbors carpeted storage shed. This I did with such regularity that he began to leave blankets and pillows there under the desk for whenever they were needed. Instead, I searched the yellow pages (remember those) for the numbers of, and cold called women's shelter's, without ever being able say more than "I think I need help, do you take kids?" They didn't, so I panicked and refused to answer any follow up questions. I couldn't, after all. I did not know what I was running from. So instead I ran to. I ran to school, to church, to friends houses (one's so regularly that they kept a bed ready for me). I ran to anyone who would give me the time of day. Instead, I ran to anyone or anyplace I thought could hide me, or keep me away or buffer the possibility of being hurt for a little while, at least.
The result of all that running TO, is that, now (only just now) am I realizing that my habit of running to is, at it's core, also a running FROM. Calm scares me. I crave it. Until I have it. And then, I always discover there is something just beyond the horizon begging me to come running. Let's have a kid, adopt a kid, become porn stars, move to another country, go back to school, go back to school again, hey, we never adopted a kid yet, that person looks like they need a place to live - we still have one unoccupied room in the house, let's move to China, let's get a divorce, No, I really like you, let's finally adopt that kid, I need a different kind of job, I need to go back to school, I really can't live with you anymore, the furniture needs to be rearranged, I'm a lesbian, I'm an artist, I want to go back to school, Let's adopt a kid...
All of those things, I genuinely feel. Feel so strongly. But what's driving the urgency is that when things slow down my brain says "warning! warning! warning!". Because of a little thing called the cycle of violence, in which intimate violence is enacted in repeating phases of calm (called honeymoon) and escalating tensions (called tension building) to outbursts of acute violence (called explosion). What you will often see (remember I'm a social worker as well as a survivor) is this cycle spiraling in on itself with extended exposure such that the honeymoon period shrinks or becomes almost non-existent or only appears intermittently (such as after more extreme outbursts or external influences intruding into the cycle like medical or legal attention, a partner leaving and returning, a relative visiting etc...) and you left with little more than the tension building phase followed by explosion followed by the tensions building into the next explosion of violence.
Perpetrators of such violence are expert at intimidating their victims into believing the violence, rather than being a barometer of their internal workings, is caused by their failings. Add to that a child's developmentally appropriate egocentrism (the belief that the world revolves around, and can therefore be influenced by, the child) and you often get a child who's only mechanism of self protection is the illusion of control. The chid may not be able to stop the violence from happening, but they may be able to bring it on, and in doing so create an illusion of predictability. Translation: Kaja's brain has been trained to interpret calm, even relative calm as a signal of violence to come. And, given my lack of viable options for most of the time of my abuse, what I learned to do in the face of that treat, is to enact chaos. I learned calm is the unpredictable time in which, not knowing where or what the next violence will come from or be, that I must run. Not away (from what, remember?) but TO. To something, anything. If it's a good thing, all the better.
The long and short of it is that now, when calm means I can sit down and do homework with my Brown-eyes or hunt Krëiks with Tousled: when calm means eating dinner together and catching up on paying bills; when calm means finishing that book or running errands so that Handsome and I can sustain the kind of life we have worked so hard to build for ourselves and our children, I must learn to fight the overwhelming desire to make it the time paint the living room, buy a dog, start a new company based on some great idea I know nothing about...
When things begin to settle down, for a change, and my heart begins to pound and my mind begins to race,
I need to write, put the kettle on.
Have a good cry.
I need to learn to be content.
to let calm catch up with me.
instead of seeking the perpetual whirlwind.
I must learn to believe in the calm after the storm, too.
Seeking the whirlwind: when the calm after the storm becomes the calm before the storm
I want to write, but I need caffeine.
and to cry.
and to learn to be content.
to let calm catch up with me.
instead of seeking the perpetual whirlwind.
I think I learned to survive by running headfirst.
You see, I couldn't run AWAY.
Away from what? They were drugging me, I'd learned to dissociate at a very young age (possibly from infancy) so I wasn't recording the worst of the memories. My body was feeling, and fearing and despairing but cognitively accounting for why would have left me insane. Never mind the grooming, coaching and outright brainwashing.
I lived my life on high alert never missing a thing, except THE things. I've been all but told there were neurosurgeons among them. If a neurosurgeon didn't want you remembering something, do you think you would stand a chance? How about when you were 3, 6, 15?
If you want to be in my shoes try imagining this scenario.
I couldn't run AWAY because I didn't know where or what the trouble was? My birth-family and other perpetrators were experts in dismissing and demeaning us, for the littlest things. I remember being lined up between my brother's after my bio father had found and unfinished apple core in the yard, with our mouths open, so he could determine who's mouth the bite marks fit, and therefor had waisted the apple y not finishing it and be "punished." When I thought of this as an adult it seemed to me an absurd way to determine guilt, until it hit me that it was never about punishment or wrongdoing. It was about instilling fear and establishing dominance.
So I ran TO. things. Experiences, changes, places. When I was beaten, drugged, raped, tortured, I didn't... respond to it. I couldn't. For two reasons. 1.) It was my norm, and had been since birth and 2.) I didn't remember that anything had happened. I couldn't say "I'm not safe at night, my father comes in and rapes me." Instead, I spent hours praying and dabbing "holy oil" on the walls, doorways and windows to keep the demons out. The demons came to me in the form of the incomprehensible (given that we had no indoor cats) sensation of a cat jumping onto my bed when I was asleep, or falling asleep. A sensation that scared me terribly, but never caused me to turn around and look at where the cat wasn't. Instead, I, for reason's my mind never required me to articulate, snuck out at night to leave and sleep in my neighbors carpeted storage shed. This I did with such regularity that he began to leave blankets and pillows there under the desk for whenever they were needed. Instead, I searched the yellow pages (remember those) for the numbers of, and cold called women's shelter's, without ever being able say more than "I think I need help, do you take kids?" They didn't, so I panicked and refused to answer any follow up questions. I couldn't, after all. I did not know what I was running from. So instead I ran to. I ran to school, to church, to friends houses (one's so regularly that they kept a bed ready for me). I ran to anyone who would give me the time of day. Instead, I ran to anyone or anyplace I thought could hide me, or keep me away or buffer the possibility of being hurt for a little while, at least.
The result of all that running TO, is that, now (only just now) am I realizing that my habit of running to is, at it's core, also a running FROM. Calm scares me. I crave it. Until I have it. And then, I always discover there is something just beyond the horizon begging me to come running. Let's have a kid, adopt a kid, become porn stars, move to another country, go back to school, go back to school again, hey, we never adopted a kid yet, that person looks like they need a place to live - we still have one unoccupied room in the house, let's move to China, let's get a divorce, No, I really like you, let's finally adopt that kid, I need a different kind of job, I need to go back to school, I really can't live with you anymore, the furniture needs to be rearranged, I'm a lesbian, I'm an artist, I want to go back to school, Let's adopt a kid...
All of those things, I genuinely feel. Feel so strongly. But what's driving the urgency is that when things slow down my brain says "warning! warning! warning!". Because of a little thing called the cycle of violence, in which intimate violence is enacted in repeating phases of calm (called honeymoon) and escalating tensions (called tension building) to outbursts of acute violence (called explosion). What you will often see (remember I'm a social worker as well as a survivor) is this cycle spiraling in on itself with extended exposure such that the honeymoon period shrinks or becomes almost non-existent or only appears intermittently (such as after more extreme outbursts or external influences intruding into the cycle like medical or legal attention, a partner leaving and returning, a relative visiting etc...) and you left with little more than the tension building phase followed by explosion followed by the tensions building into the next explosion of violence.
Perpetrators of such violence are expert at intimidating their victims into believing the violence, rather than being a barometer of their internal workings, is caused by their failings. Add to that a child's developmentally appropriate egocentrism (the belief that the world revolves around, and can therefore be influenced by, the child) and you often get a child who's only mechanism of self protection is the illusion of control. The chid may not be able to stop the violence from happening, but they may be able to bring it on, and in doing so create an illusion of predictability. Translation: Kaja's brain has been trained to interpret calm, even relative calm as a signal of violence to come. And, given my lack of viable options for most of the time of my abuse, what I learned to do in the face of that treat, is to enact chaos. I learned calm is the unpredictable time in which, not knowing where or what the next violence will come from or be, that I must run. Not away (from what, remember?) but TO. To something, anything. If it's a good thing, all the better.
The long and short of it is that now, when calm means I can sit down and do homework with my Brown-eyes or hunt Krëiks with Tousled: when calm means eating dinner together and catching up on paying bills; when calm means finishing that book or running errands so that Handsome and I can sustain the kind of life we have worked so hard to build for ourselves and our children, I must learn to fight the overwhelming desire to make it the time paint the living room, buy a dog, start a new company based on some great idea I know nothing about...
When things begin to settle down, for a change, and my heart begins to pound and my mind begins to race,
I need to write, put the kettle on.
Have a good cry.
I need to learn to be content.
to let calm catch up with me.
instead of seeking the perpetual whirlwind.
I must learn to believe in the calm after the storm, too.
and to cry.
and to learn to be content.
to let calm catch up with me.
instead of seeking the perpetual whirlwind.
I think I learned to survive by running headfirst.
You see, I couldn't run AWAY.
Away from what? They were drugging me, I'd learned to dissociate at a very young age (possibly from infancy) so I wasn't recording the worst of the memories. My body was feeling, and fearing and despairing but cognitively accounting for why would have left me insane. Never mind the grooming, coaching and outright brainwashing.
I lived my life on high alert never missing a thing, except THE things. I've been all but told there were neurosurgeons among them. If a neurosurgeon didn't want you remembering something, do you think you would stand a chance? How about when you were 3, 6, 15?
If you want to be in my shoes try imagining this scenario.
I couldn't run AWAY because I didn't know where or what the trouble was? My birth-family and other perpetrators were experts in dismissing and demeaning us, for the littlest things. I remember being lined up between my brother's after my bio father had found and unfinished apple core in the yard, with our mouths open, so he could determine who's mouth the bite marks fit, and therefor had waisted the apple y not finishing it and be "punished." When I thought of this as an adult it seemed to me an absurd way to determine guilt, until it hit me that it was never about punishment or wrongdoing. It was about instilling fear and establishing dominance.
So I ran TO. things. Experiences, changes, places. When I was beaten, drugged, raped, tortured, I didn't... respond to it. I couldn't. For two reasons. 1.) It was my norm, and had been since birth and 2.) I didn't remember that anything had happened. I couldn't say "I'm not safe at night, my father comes in and rapes me." Instead, I spent hours praying and dabbing "holy oil" on the walls, doorways and windows to keep the demons out. The demons came to me in the form of the incomprehensible (given that we had no indoor cats) sensation of a cat jumping onto my bed when I was asleep, or falling asleep. A sensation that scared me terribly, but never caused me to turn around and look at where the cat wasn't. Instead, I, for reason's my mind never required me to articulate, snuck out at night to leave and sleep in my neighbors carpeted storage shed. This I did with such regularity that he began to leave blankets and pillows there under the desk for whenever they were needed. Instead, I searched the yellow pages (remember those) for the numbers of, and cold called women's shelter's, without ever being able say more than "I think I need help, do you take kids?" They didn't, so I panicked and refused to answer any follow up questions. I couldn't, after all. I did not know what I was running from. So instead I ran to. I ran to school, to church, to friends houses (one's so regularly that they kept a bed ready for me). I ran to anyone who would give me the time of day. Instead, I ran to anyone or anyplace I thought could hide me, or keep me away or buffer the possibility of being hurt for a little while, at least.
The result of all that running TO, is that, now (only just now) am I realizing that my habit of running to is, at it's core, also a running FROM. Calm scares me. I crave it. Until I have it. And then, I always discover there is something just beyond the horizon begging me to come running. Let's have a kid, adopt a kid, become porn stars, move to another country, go back to school, go back to school again, hey, we never adopted a kid yet, that person looks like they need a place to live - we still have one unoccupied room in the house, let's move to China, let's get a divorce, No, I really like you, let's finally adopt that kid, I need a different kind of job, I need to go back to school, I really can't live with you anymore, the furniture needs to be rearranged, I'm a lesbian, I'm an artist, I want to go back to school, Let's adopt a kid...
All of those things, I genuinely feel. Feel so strongly. But what's driving the urgency is that when things slow down my brain says "warning! warning! warning!". Because of a little thing called the cycle of violence, in which intimate violence is enacted in repeating phases of calm (called honeymoon) and escalating tensions (called tension building) to outbursts of acute violence (called explosion). What you will often see (remember I'm a social worker as well as a survivor) is this cycle spiraling in on itself with extended exposure such that the honeymoon period shrinks or becomes almost non-existent or only appears intermittently (such as after more extreme outbursts or external influences intruding into the cycle like medical or legal attention, a partner leaving and returning, a relative visiting etc...) and you left with little more than the tension building phase followed by explosion followed by the tensions building into the next explosion of violence.
Perpetrators of such violence are expert at intimidating their victims into believing the violence, rather than being a barometer of their internal workings, is caused by their failings. Add to that a child's developmentally appropriate egocentrism (the belief that the world revolves around, and can therefore be influenced by, the child) and you often get a child who's only mechanism of self protection is the illusion of control. The chid may not be able to stop the violence from happening, but they may be able to bring it on, and in doing so create an illusion of predictability. Translation: Kaja's brain has been trained to interpret calm, even relative calm as a signal of violence to come. And, given my lack of viable options for most of the time of my abuse, what I learned to do in the face of that treat, is to enact chaos. I learned calm is the unpredictable time in which, not knowing where or what the next violence will come from or be, that I must run. Not away (from what, remember?) but TO. To something, anything. If it's a good thing, all the better.
The long and short of it is that now, when calm means I can sit down and do homework with my Brown-eyes or hunt Krëiks with Tousled: when calm means eating dinner together and catching up on paying bills; when calm means finishing that book or running errands so that Handsome and I can sustain the kind of life we have worked so hard to build for ourselves and our children, I must learn to fight the overwhelming desire to make it the time paint the living room, buy a dog, start a new company based on some great idea I know nothing about...
When things begin to settle down, for a change, and my heart begins to pound and my mind begins to race,
I need to write, put the kettle on.
Have a good cry.
I need to learn to be content.
to let calm catch up with me.
instead of seeking the perpetual whirlwind.
I must learn to believe in the calm after the storm, too.
Thursday, August 18, 2016
Walking in my shoes : an exercise in insight and compassion.
Imagine...
You go to your Dr. and are told you have growth that will need surgery. It's benign but it should be removed and studied just to be on the safe side. They refer you to a surgeon, say you'll be in good hands. You meet the surgeon, he seems knowledgable, compassionate. On the day of surgery you sign all the waivers and consents, get changed, are hooked up to the IV with assurances of being well cared for and what to expect when you come to. You may be groggy and confused, but we will be here to help orient you, and in a few hours you'll be sore, but doing much better.
Then, right as you begin to feel the effects of the anesthetic taking over, your surgeon closes the door, leans over and says,
I'm going to fuck you so hard you're not going to know what hit you, and the best part is, you're not going to remember a thing.
The lights flicker, a machine beeps, a nurse laughs... you try to say something, move an arm. nothing. nothing. nothing.
You're dreaming. Someone's dropping boulders on you, but just as you begin to feel their true weight they burst into cloth water balloons leaking warm water all over your abdomen, sex and legs. You're at a park... at night for some reason. Or is it day but dark out? A truck rumbles past. Now you're on the truck laying in the back of it swaying with it's motion. It's definitely night and the air is cold. You're feet are cold. You hurt everywhere, especially in the stomach and between the thighs. You are in a mostly white room. Someone is talking to you. Patting your shoulder. You are crying. Another voice says, "Here (s)he is."
The surgeon's face appears. His features are calm and at once reassuring and confusing. "Hi there" he says.
"Did you have a bad dream?"
He pat's your shoulder again. "Well, everything went well. I think we got everything cleaned out. The cyst looks benign, but of course we'll send it to the lab, just to be sure and see if we can find a cause. I'll be back in a few hours when you are feeling a bit better, and keep you updated."
He taps the nurse on the arm with a file, presumably yours, "These guys will take good care of you" and walks out.
You can not keep your eyes open. You struggle to, but everything goes black anyway.
The next time you wake it is to the quiet beeping of your monitors, you're partner is quietly reading on their phone next to the hospital bed. You are wearing a differently colored gown. You hurt. Your mouth is dry. You hear the muffled evidence of the nurses going about there work out in the hall, caring for other patients.
What happened?
Indeed.
The proof is in the following hours, days, weeks, months and years. The evidence is within you, if not within your body, within your soul. For you to acknowledge or laugh off as a strong reaction to the anesthetics and narcotics. The truth is in your recovery and what it takes, in what works and doesn't work.
Who would you tell? Who wouldn't you tell? How hard would you insist if you were told over, and over again, that your experience is common and what you say happened is impossible? That there would be evidence, but there isn't. Would you request a rape kit? What if it came back negative? No one's DNA anywhere inside of you? Security camera footage was not on you much of the time, but also show's nothing suspicious. What do you do the next time you go to your Dr.'s? Was he/she in on it? Was it a dream? What do you do the next time you are told you need anesthesia (of any kind)? What do you do with your new obsession with sleeping with everything that walks? Or your total disinterest in your partner?
How do you proceed with living life?
You go to your Dr. and are told you have growth that will need surgery. It's benign but it should be removed and studied just to be on the safe side. They refer you to a surgeon, say you'll be in good hands. You meet the surgeon, he seems knowledgable, compassionate. On the day of surgery you sign all the waivers and consents, get changed, are hooked up to the IV with assurances of being well cared for and what to expect when you come to. You may be groggy and confused, but we will be here to help orient you, and in a few hours you'll be sore, but doing much better.
Then, right as you begin to feel the effects of the anesthetic taking over, your surgeon closes the door, leans over and says,
I'm going to fuck you so hard you're not going to know what hit you, and the best part is, you're not going to remember a thing.
The lights flicker, a machine beeps, a nurse laughs... you try to say something, move an arm. nothing. nothing. nothing.
You're dreaming. Someone's dropping boulders on you, but just as you begin to feel their true weight they burst into cloth water balloons leaking warm water all over your abdomen, sex and legs. You're at a park... at night for some reason. Or is it day but dark out? A truck rumbles past. Now you're on the truck laying in the back of it swaying with it's motion. It's definitely night and the air is cold. You're feet are cold. You hurt everywhere, especially in the stomach and between the thighs. You are in a mostly white room. Someone is talking to you. Patting your shoulder. You are crying. Another voice says, "Here (s)he is."
The surgeon's face appears. His features are calm and at once reassuring and confusing. "Hi there" he says.
"Did you have a bad dream?"
He pat's your shoulder again. "Well, everything went well. I think we got everything cleaned out. The cyst looks benign, but of course we'll send it to the lab, just to be sure and see if we can find a cause. I'll be back in a few hours when you are feeling a bit better, and keep you updated."
He taps the nurse on the arm with a file, presumably yours, "These guys will take good care of you" and walks out.
You can not keep your eyes open. You struggle to, but everything goes black anyway.
The next time you wake it is to the quiet beeping of your monitors, you're partner is quietly reading on their phone next to the hospital bed. You are wearing a differently colored gown. You hurt. Your mouth is dry. You hear the muffled evidence of the nurses going about there work out in the hall, caring for other patients.
What happened?
Indeed.
The proof is in the following hours, days, weeks, months and years. The evidence is within you, if not within your body, within your soul. For you to acknowledge or laugh off as a strong reaction to the anesthetics and narcotics. The truth is in your recovery and what it takes, in what works and doesn't work.
Who would you tell? Who wouldn't you tell? How hard would you insist if you were told over, and over again, that your experience is common and what you say happened is impossible? That there would be evidence, but there isn't. Would you request a rape kit? What if it came back negative? No one's DNA anywhere inside of you? Security camera footage was not on you much of the time, but also show's nothing suspicious. What do you do the next time you go to your Dr.'s? Was he/she in on it? Was it a dream? What do you do the next time you are told you need anesthesia (of any kind)? What do you do with your new obsession with sleeping with everything that walks? Or your total disinterest in your partner?
How do you proceed with living life?
Tuesday, June 21, 2016
Therapy : two years in (for the truly broken among us)
I'm learning...
i mean, i still fight back
but I stay.
I cry, I beg you to stop talking
I jiggle my arms and legs and arch my back
I hold my hands to my head and rock
and argue
of course
but I stay.
I stay with you.
I think you're telling me that I'm bad
to feel ashamed
and I do.
I hear the yelling louder an louder inside me.
just no, no. no!
my yelling.
but i hear something else too,
which is you.
I hear you over everything,
I hear you caring and seeing me,
even though i'm overwhelmed by all the past terror fusing into this moment,
even though you're about to kick me out for no one to hold
(not that i can tolerate being held anyway... i wish...)
so i stay.
I stay and feel what's to much to feel.
I don't exactly slam your door when I burst out of my seat.
because it's time. it's time.
not because i'm angry,
even though I am,
but because anger at you for kicking me out is the only way to leave
the only way to leave so.
much.
pain.
in your hands.
but that's learning, right?
I mean,
you remember
incredibly.
how much worse i used to be?
i mean, i still fight back
but I stay.
I cry, I beg you to stop talking
I jiggle my arms and legs and arch my back
I hold my hands to my head and rock
and argue
of course
but I stay.
I stay with you.
I think you're telling me that I'm bad
to feel ashamed
and I do.
I hear the yelling louder an louder inside me.
just no, no. no!
my yelling.
but i hear something else too,
which is you.
I hear you over everything,
I hear you caring and seeing me,
even though i'm overwhelmed by all the past terror fusing into this moment,
even though you're about to kick me out for no one to hold
(not that i can tolerate being held anyway... i wish...)
so i stay.
I stay and feel what's to much to feel.
I don't exactly slam your door when I burst out of my seat.
because it's time. it's time.
not because i'm angry,
even though I am,
but because anger at you for kicking me out is the only way to leave
the only way to leave so.
much.
pain.
in your hands.
but that's learning, right?
I mean,
you remember
incredibly.
how much worse i used to be?
Tuesday, June 14, 2016
what will you sacrifice?
I know it doesn't matter. I know I've nothing new to say. I know my words hold no special power by virtue of celebrity, or connections to the named previous tragedies (no more than any American). I know it's worse in a war zone. I know someone's said it louder and better and clearer and certainly many, many times before.
But I don't care. Because I'm angry.
and frankly
I'd rather not be next.
see the next
to lose a child
a boss
a friend
a mother
neighbor
or stranger who looks just like ( I swear) my sister's boyfriend's daughter.
I'm tired of watching it get closer
and closer
to home.
So here is what I'm willing to sacrifice
in the pursuit of
#nomoreshootings
1. My stock belief that a men's rights activist is almost certain to be profoundly misguided
tell me sir, what you bring to the table.
2. My anger over the scapegoating of the mentally ill, which I'm certain is "othering" at it's core, but
let's put it on the table, for the sake of even one less death.
3. My certainty that the NRA is trading lives for profit in the currency of fear.
certainly there is room for you to prove me wrong.
4. My dismissal of anyone who has ever posted a meme about a gun not managing to run off and shoot someone on it's own.
sure. point made. But now let's take it to the next level. let's please conversate
5. My inaction. I get it. preaching at facebook, crying to my husband, holding my children closer. all have done precisely nothing to stop the onward march of this perfectly preventable pandemic of violence and complacency.
Let's please be the next voice calling to #makeitstop
after all...
I'd rather not see the next one, be the next one, fuel the next one, resign myself to the next one.
and if I must
I'd rather die trying, even failing, than simply waiting
for the next one
#nonextone
But I don't care. Because I'm angry.
and frankly
I'd rather not be next.
see the next
to lose a child
a boss
a friend
a mother
neighbor
or stranger who looks just like ( I swear) my sister's boyfriend's daughter.
I'm tired of watching it get closer
and closer
to home.
So here is what I'm willing to sacrifice
in the pursuit of
#nomoreshootings
1. My stock belief that a men's rights activist is almost certain to be profoundly misguided
tell me sir, what you bring to the table.
2. My anger over the scapegoating of the mentally ill, which I'm certain is "othering" at it's core, but
let's put it on the table, for the sake of even one less death.
3. My certainty that the NRA is trading lives for profit in the currency of fear.
certainly there is room for you to prove me wrong.
4. My dismissal of anyone who has ever posted a meme about a gun not managing to run off and shoot someone on it's own.
sure. point made. But now let's take it to the next level. let's please conversate
5. My inaction. I get it. preaching at facebook, crying to my husband, holding my children closer. all have done precisely nothing to stop the onward march of this perfectly preventable pandemic of violence and complacency.
Let's please be the next voice calling to #makeitstop
after all...
I'd rather not see the next one, be the next one, fuel the next one, resign myself to the next one.
and if I must
I'd rather die trying, even failing, than simply waiting
for the next one
#nonextone
Tuesday, June 7, 2016
On the topic of expeditions
Essay Poetry written fall of 2000 at the age of 16.
If I were to do an expedition, I would become the wind
I would sweep across the prairies and wage war with the mountain peaks.
Where fires burned I would breath on them and grow bigger and stronger and wilder with the rising heat. I would feel the pull of the moon on the wares and I would whip the froth of foam on every surfer's face.
I would moan and howl and cry out across the desert lands and purge the dunes for the crimes of those in prisons I could not knock down,
I would whip the hair back from the mourners face and streak their tears from their eyes straight to the ears.
I would be the furry for the meek and become silent, cease to be for the furious.
And I would remind myself to leave the lakes inside of roses.
If I were to do an expedition, I would become the wind
I would sweep across the prairies and wage war with the mountain peaks.
Where fires burned I would breath on them and grow bigger and stronger and wilder with the rising heat. I would feel the pull of the moon on the wares and I would whip the froth of foam on every surfer's face.
I would moan and howl and cry out across the desert lands and purge the dunes for the crimes of those in prisons I could not knock down,
I would whip the hair back from the mourners face and streak their tears from their eyes straight to the ears.
I would be the furry for the meek and become silent, cease to be for the furious.
And I would remind myself to leave the lakes inside of roses.
Thursday, May 26, 2016
brothers have nothing on us
Brothers are great...but sisters!
sisters hold you legs while bear new life
sister's have seen when you never had a chance
and sacrificed without ever telling you.
sister's observe your every flaw
and yet forgive your every sin.
Only a sister can speak the harshest truth
in a tone that reassures
or wake you from troubling dreams
without a start.
it is our sisters who restore our faith
in humanity.
surely...
sisterhood is the sanctuary of womanhood
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
Ansiedad (Anxiety)
I watched a movie once
about a girl named ansiedad.
I think she lives in me.
I have known her so well for so long that I hardly even notice she is with me
Like a parent you take for granted
but are always trying to please
until years of counseling later you finally begin to realize just how
bad they've always been for you.
(yeah, that's not where you that I was going, is it)
Except, unlike Ansiedad, you can learn to disentangle yourself from their clutches
or kiss them goodbye with a hug, or a fuck you
(listen, if you knew my parents...)
In theory you can learn Ansiedad's tricks and quiet the force of her voice in your mind
but it takes energy.
Energy to quiet her
Energy to ignore her
Energy just to share your brain with her...
She wears me out.
Much of the time, she just makes it that much harder to think, make decisions, breath
like trying to write a paper or study for a test while someone in the same room as you watches The Walking Dead on a large screen TV with the volume all the way up.
It's doable, but it's hard.
And sometimes she makes me cry.
because of why she's so strong with me,
I can yell at her to "turn it the fuck down, already"
but she know's as well as I do how many times she's saved my life
and that kicking her out might mean I die the next time
about a girl named ansiedad.
I think she lives in me.
I have known her so well for so long that I hardly even notice she is with me
Like a parent you take for granted
but are always trying to please
until years of counseling later you finally begin to realize just how
bad they've always been for you.
(yeah, that's not where you that I was going, is it)
Except, unlike Ansiedad, you can learn to disentangle yourself from their clutches
or kiss them goodbye with a hug, or a fuck you
(listen, if you knew my parents...)
In theory you can learn Ansiedad's tricks and quiet the force of her voice in your mind
but it takes energy.
Energy to quiet her
Energy to ignore her
Energy just to share your brain with her...
She wears me out.
Much of the time, she just makes it that much harder to think, make decisions, breath
like trying to write a paper or study for a test while someone in the same room as you watches The Walking Dead on a large screen TV with the volume all the way up.
It's doable, but it's hard.
And sometimes she makes me cry.
because of why she's so strong with me,
I can yell at her to "turn it the fuck down, already"
but she know's as well as I do how many times she's saved my life
and that kicking her out might mean I die the next time
It's a great movie, though :)
Saturday, April 30, 2016
today i'd give in
Today it burst out of me.
The all alone.
The on my own.
the always have and
always will...
the crazy me
who clearly sees
that no one ever wanted me...
enough.
many people love me
or have loved me
or might love me
but I could make them all leave.
a skill which no one comes by easily
one, by one
by two by two
i could make them follow you
some hurt
some mad
some bad
some just relieved to have...
finally
given up on me
freed themselves from loving me,
so broken,
so confused
so angry and so lost.
so loving
so ragefull
so prone to repeating history
while always maintaining the mystery
and it isn't fair
wouldn't eve be 'meant'
just a slip of the wrist
a trip of the wire
letting the toddler within
pull out the pin
just doing what I was programmed to do
when every lost battle
can be a lost war
for no damage control
can undo the unpinning
of an emotional grenade
18 years in the making
I'd give in,
but I have
and it's no way to win
so i cry and i cry
for the pain still within
and I wish i could wish the unwanting away
The all alone.
The on my own.
the always have and
always will...
the crazy me
who clearly sees
that no one ever wanted me...
enough.
many people love me
or have loved me
or might love me
but I could make them all leave.
a skill which no one comes by easily
one, by one
by two by two
i could make them follow you
some hurt
some mad
some bad
some just relieved to have...
finally
given up on me
freed themselves from loving me,
so broken,
so confused
so angry and so lost.
so loving
so ragefull
so prone to repeating history
while always maintaining the mystery
and it isn't fair
wouldn't eve be 'meant'
just a slip of the wrist
a trip of the wire
letting the toddler within
pull out the pin
just doing what I was programmed to do
when every lost battle
can be a lost war
for no damage control
can undo the unpinning
of an emotional grenade
18 years in the making
I'd give in,
but I have
and it's no way to win
so i cry and i cry
for the pain still within
and I wish i could wish the unwanting away
Tuesday, March 15, 2016
Really. You're fucking "mystified"? (aka: roller coaster ride : Exhibit A)
"I'm mystified," I said.
"mystified," I texted.
"Mystified as to why you would... (insert specific complaint details here)," I wrote.
To you -my housemate, my sister, my chosen family - regarding a mundane parenting decision you made while I was at the zoo with my niece (your daughter) one day."
The snarky, condescending implication very much being "how dare you use your time in that manner (my time in that manner)."
I was irritated. I called Handsome first, to complain about your subpar parenting decisions (basically).
He was non-comital.
So I decided if I was this irritated I should just tell you.
I debated calling you.
But I was tired.
I debated finding more diplomatic or thoughtful wording.
But I was tired.
And Hungry.
I debated letting it go.
But I was tired.
And hungry.
And anxious.
Too irritated and anxious to even fall asleep with the little one's who were passed out from all our fun at the zoo.
You called me immediately.
I declined it.
You followed with a text defensively spelling out your rationale... like I was being an asshole.
(It's weird that you would have taken it that way).
Then I called Handsome, again, for vindication.
It was less than forthcoming.
I wanted him to tell me I was right and you were wrong.
He did not oblige. Never a good sign.
"I guess, if I'm bothered by what Roomie does with her time while I have Rascal then, I'm probably too stressed to be making offer's of watching her."
"That seems reasonable," said Handsome.
"You have to go, don't you?" I asked.
"Kind of," He replied.
When I knew you'd be there to pick Rascal up soon, I hid in the back room...
Paying bills.
...in the bizarre hopes of avoiding you, who I love.
"Go give titi (auntie) a hug," I heard you tell Rascal.
So much for that.
"Bye baby," I said with a kiss.
But you didn't leave.
"Hey," you ventured...
...I take exception to your tone and wording...
...I'm offended that you would assume...
...I don't mind giving you this explanation, even though I don't owe it to you, because of the relationship that we have...
...but...
...I'm hurt...
...You make questionable decisions all the time and I don't judge you for them...
... I value our relationship...
...I care about your opinion..."
you said. (Among other things).
"I know..." I said.
"I'm sorry." I said.
"I guess, it's really about this other (completely unrelated and in no way relevant) thing." I realized.
"That's fair." you said. "I guess I just... ... so call me on that..."
"I know..." I said.
"I'm sorry." I said.
"I love you.
...I'm grateful for you...
...thank you for talking to me...
...I think the real problem is...
...My childhood. And that no one ever took care of me. And now I feel like I need to rescue everyone around me, even when they don't need rescuing. And all this remembering is making me feel lost and I'm probably trying to make people need me so they will love me and they won't leave and I don't know what I"m doing with my life and I feel like I'm a failure and I don't know when it's going to end, and every time things start to get better I go and re-complicate them because I can't handle calm and smooth and working, and then I get frustrated because things are chaotic and I assume it's all everyone else's fault and when i realize it's really just me i stress out because I don't know how to back out of my commitments and embarrassed because I feel flakey and... everything hurts! And I really do love you and i'm sorry and I'm grateful, please keep loving me, Im sorry that I am awful sometimes I really do care about you and the girls and our relationship and the boys relationships with their cousins and sniffle, tear, I want a hug. I'm sorry. have I said that yet? I love you. Also, I'm tired and hungry and... they were so bad to me...
...and WWWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Solution. Solution. Solution. Working things out. Brainstorming. Problem solving. Hug. Hug. Hug.
Welcome to loving and living with someone with Trauma.
The End.
"mystified," I texted.
"Mystified as to why you would... (insert specific complaint details here)," I wrote.
To you -my housemate, my sister, my chosen family - regarding a mundane parenting decision you made while I was at the zoo with my niece (your daughter) one day."
The snarky, condescending implication very much being "how dare you use your time in that manner (my time in that manner)."
I was irritated. I called Handsome first, to complain about your subpar parenting decisions (basically).
He was non-comital.
So I decided if I was this irritated I should just tell you.
I debated calling you.
But I was tired.
I debated finding more diplomatic or thoughtful wording.
But I was tired.
And Hungry.
I debated letting it go.
But I was tired.
And hungry.
And anxious.
Too irritated and anxious to even fall asleep with the little one's who were passed out from all our fun at the zoo.
You called me immediately.
I declined it.
You followed with a text defensively spelling out your rationale... like I was being an asshole.
(It's weird that you would have taken it that way).
Then I called Handsome, again, for vindication.
It was less than forthcoming.
I wanted him to tell me I was right and you were wrong.
He did not oblige. Never a good sign.
"I guess, if I'm bothered by what Roomie does with her time while I have Rascal then, I'm probably too stressed to be making offer's of watching her."
"That seems reasonable," said Handsome.
"You have to go, don't you?" I asked.
"Kind of," He replied.
When I knew you'd be there to pick Rascal up soon, I hid in the back room...
Paying bills.
...in the bizarre hopes of avoiding you, who I love.
"Go give titi (auntie) a hug," I heard you tell Rascal.
So much for that.
"Bye baby," I said with a kiss.
But you didn't leave.
"Hey," you ventured...
...I take exception to your tone and wording...
...I'm offended that you would assume...
...I don't mind giving you this explanation, even though I don't owe it to you, because of the relationship that we have...
...but...
...I'm hurt...
...You make questionable decisions all the time and I don't judge you for them...
... I value our relationship...
...I care about your opinion..."
you said. (Among other things).
"I know..." I said.
"I'm sorry." I said.
"I guess, it's really about this other (completely unrelated and in no way relevant) thing." I realized.
"That's fair." you said. "I guess I just... ... so call me on that..."
"I know..." I said.
"I'm sorry." I said.
"I love you.
...I'm grateful for you...
...thank you for talking to me...
...I think the real problem is...
...My childhood. And that no one ever took care of me. And now I feel like I need to rescue everyone around me, even when they don't need rescuing. And all this remembering is making me feel lost and I'm probably trying to make people need me so they will love me and they won't leave and I don't know what I"m doing with my life and I feel like I'm a failure and I don't know when it's going to end, and every time things start to get better I go and re-complicate them because I can't handle calm and smooth and working, and then I get frustrated because things are chaotic and I assume it's all everyone else's fault and when i realize it's really just me i stress out because I don't know how to back out of my commitments and embarrassed because I feel flakey and... everything hurts! And I really do love you and i'm sorry and I'm grateful, please keep loving me, Im sorry that I am awful sometimes I really do care about you and the girls and our relationship and the boys relationships with their cousins and sniffle, tear, I want a hug. I'm sorry. have I said that yet? I love you. Also, I'm tired and hungry and... they were so bad to me...
...and WWWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Solution. Solution. Solution. Working things out. Brainstorming. Problem solving. Hug. Hug. Hug.
Welcome to loving and living with someone with Trauma.
The End.
 |
| Please comment, if you know who deserves credit for this long viral meme. Because, yes, yes, yes! First row all the way! |
Saturday, March 12, 2016
wisdom, do you remember when you were young?
wisdom, do you remember when you were young?
The following was originally posted to one of my journal blogs in September, 2010.
I am resistant. not hesitant. not timid. not shy. a little angry. and a lot more. i am not a follower.I believe that I can make waves, though I rarely do.when I was a small child i dropped a glass jar of peanut butter and the glass, though shattered, kept it’s form - held together by the glue like substance within. terrified I picked it up and put in the refrigerator like I had been told to do. that is the end of my story and the beginning of another. well, it is not the end. It was later discovered by my someone. and my father, who had instructed me to carry it in and put it away, locked me in a dark room until i promised to tell him the "truth" about why I had carried it in. I was terrified of the dark. I snuck out and hid under the bed in my brother's room, which was lighted, until I was discovered and dragged back into the dark, sat on the bed and asked why I was doing this. eventually the softer side of my father resurfaced and he told me not to do it again and let me back into the light with everyone else. I had been forgiven. or he had remembered. i do not know. I was relieved that the monsters were gone, for the moment. but that is the end. except there never really is an end, is there?no story ever ends. no human story anyway. but my other story is that I am that jar. a cohesively shattered jar. held together by the glue like substance within. left in a refrigerator because what is there else to do. because when the world is not a trusting place (and those of you who think it is, i have to tell you that you are wrong. if you believe it is, you have been very lucky, or you have been lied to, or you are lying to yourself, but it is not. the simple truth is that the world is an ugly and horrible place with a lot of love and potential for joy and peace.) little girls are pulled out of themselves by there vaginas and become frozen women, long before they are women at all and have even half a chance to find their voice, or not.and many do not, because it is a much harder, much rougher, much more trying journey than you might think. and it involves dragging beautiful people into the mud with you. and finding beautiful people who want to do this is quite the challenge. there are not enough of them.wisdom. do you remember when you were young?you think i am angry, and I am. but that is not it.you think i am wounded, and I am. but that is not it.you think i need help, and I do. but that is not it.you think i need healing, and I am. but that is not it.you wonder if I am sad, and I am, but you are wrong.If I were more of an artist with brushes than words, I would paint my life a large and beautiful mural full of colors; birds and flowers; waterfalls and lakes; bright tropical fish and snowcapped mountains; laughing faces and weddings, births, friends holding hand; and somewhere in a canyon, almost lost in the shadow between the orange and brown layers under a luminous setting sun a child by herself, surrounded by wolves, a human hand, angry teeth or blood... i do now know. I rarely flush it out. just a small fearful sorrow in the shadow. that you could miss, but must include.
Looking these 5 years back and re-reading these words I accept that I am remembering. I accept that it is all real. This doesn't happen to me anymore. I don't feel lost and invisible anymore. Because, for everything else, I have been seen. I have been seen. Wisdom not only remembers when she was young. But more importantly, because she does, she can see me. And she does. See me. Which was the question I did not know how to ask. For I could not yet see myself. Or know that I was not seeing myself. I just felt (inexplicably, it seemed to me then) invisible. Sometimes, it takes being seen, to see.
Wednesday, March 2, 2016
(probably) bisexual me.
The furthest it went was furtive glances at attractive women who somehow stirred this aura of homosexual desire in me. I never knew quite what to make of it and, unfortunately, never pursued it. I didn't know how to and men presented themselves to me, some of which I felt something for. I dated one young man my junior year of college and though we made out I, as often as not, didn't want him touching me. Sometimes it aroused me. Sometimes that was wanted (I think); often not. I broke up with hime for other reasons. He was a bit hypocritical and we differed widely in our religious and social-political ideologies. I was over him instantly, though he transferred schools in the hopes I would take him back. I was convinced that I was in love with a young man I had deeply resonated with as a junior high and later high school student when we eventually reconnected my senior year of college. Alas, the feeling was not mutual. I suppose it is the sum of those two experiences which caused me to resume an assumption of heterosexuality, to whatever degree that I did, when setting up the online dating profile which ultimately led to... well, marriage and kids. Had it given me the option of being bi-sexual I likely would have chosen that option, but it excluded same sex relationships for some reason...
Handsome has known from the beginning that I believed myself to be bisexual. He has known when my attraction to women flares up, even about the lesbian dating "it's complicated" profile I once created for about a week, a couple of years ago. One of his then favorite passtimes was catching up on the harmless crush I had on a female biologist from one of my kids nature shows "Big Cat Diary". She's cute, smart, and they showed her driving around the Masai Mara barefoot, which I apparently found irresistible.
So it was not entirely without precedent when I stumbled upon a showing of all the 1950's playboy centerfolds last night only to found myself extremely aroused. I couldn't get enough of these women's semi-naked bodies. The way the light played off their nipples, the curves of their buttocks. So much so that, as any good millennial would, I turned to google in a panic. Shit, shit, shit! Is this how I'm 'supposed' to feel about men's bodies? Because I don't. But why? Because men are abjectly terrifying? (well, on a subconscious and sometimes conscious level, they are to me...) or because I'm really just gay? Or because with my latest revelation (more to come on that later), I'm finally finding myself in a good spot again and my trauma formed brain simply can not compute this calm.
I love Handsome more deeply than I have ever loved anyone. I want nothing more than to want an ever deepening, ever gratifying relationship with this beautiful soul. And I think that I do. But, what if that's just not in my nature? What if that is not who I am or who I can be? What if? What if I'm bisexual, which should be no surprise. and me figuring that out means dragging my family and beautiful, wonderful, steady, compassionate, hazel-eyed Handsome through yet another land mine in search of a peace I am incapable of experiencing. I want to close the book. The only, tiny, minuscule problem with closing the book and leaving the ending unknown to me, is that it will only work if I've been right about my bisexuality all along. But... what if I haven't?
As my tears begin to subside, I just want Handsome to hold me in his arms, to feel his heartbeat and I have no idea if that is fair. He reaches for my nipple and I push his hand away. "ooooohhh (dramatically disappointed) ladies are gonna want to touch your nipples too, dear..." Said with a smile and followed up with a kiss to the top of my head.
I adore him.
Is my sexuality just another casualty of a series of despicable men (and women?) Am I doomed to a series of derailments in this only slightly mitigated train wreck I call "making it?" Growth seems to demand growing, but for my part, I want off. At least for today, for this lifetime. Is happy enough the same as happy? Just like "good enough" is supposedly "good enough?" Fuuuuuuuuck!!! fuck! FUCK! fuck!!!!!!
fuck!
Thursday, February 25, 2016
I no longer care if you think I'm a bitch.
I used to. Because my survival depended on your approval; and I was desperate for that. Well, not your's exactly, but in the midst of being taught that not only, must I submit, but that I would be overpowered and taken with or without submission, my brain, in a trauma induced, dissociative fog, struggled to differentiate between you and my abusers. Which (by the way) is no easy task, when you have been brainwashed from birth not to know you are being abused... So I smiled for you, as a reflex, supposing it was my duty to you. Supposing that I owed you something. That you had an innate masculine right to my smile, my space, my body, my self... for that matter. Deep down that was my considerably trained, unconscious, unfathomed, unchallenged belief. So I smiled for you, on command. And I simply looked down when you slime-a-ly told me I had a beautiful smile. (Like no shit, douchebag, of course it is. It's a smile. If it was not pleasing to the eye it would be called a grimace, or a smirk and would hold a very different social connotation). But as healing has happened, I have begun to know, not only my story and who I am, but to recognize and accept, that I also know who you are. And, given my history, given my survival, is it any wonder that my instincts would be spot on? So no, in the age of increasing understanding of the gut brain connection, I do not feel the need to justify my instinctual ability to differentiate between the man who passes of his mindless statement of fact (the sky is blue, the wind is cool, my smile is beautiful) for some gift in-debting me to an interaction with him and the one who, in his wholeness, takes note of a clear sky or the wind on his face or the beauty in the smile of a stranger, or daughter or friend and says "thank you mother earth", "thank you lord", "thank you, stranger, daughter friend... you're smile is beautiful". It's funny where growing takes you... Who could have known that one day I would so honestly, so genuinely not give a fuck what you think about me, smile or bitch or not because the funny thing about that is IT'S unequivocally, irrevocably, unquestionably YOUR PROBLEM! You're anger, your shame, your day ruined... or not. Entirely unrelated to me and mine. For, as it turns out... only some roses are red, and I no longer care, if you think I'm a bitch.
Monday, January 25, 2016
I chose the voices
I said no.
when they asked...
when they asked.
i live with my head in the clouds
while my body relives the past...
relives the past
i've been turned inside out
: been raped in my head
more times than in real life
as if real life weren't bad enough
weren't bad enough
or good enough.
how far can good enough take us?
how much was i loved?
how soon? and by whom?
was it enough?
it was...if I believe them.
they have voices too.
I choose the voices.
and they are beautiful
Monday, January 11, 2016
How do I know you are telling the truth?
I don't even know what to say about this subject. How can I provide context on something so confusing for me? Other than simply to educate those who need it on, trauma...
I can't tell you what is real...What happened the way I remember it, and what may have been quite different. My abusers were skilled, all memory is fluid, I was very likely drugged, definitely brainwashed, and extremely dissociative from an early age.
What I will stand 100% behind is the honesty of my experience and the integrity of my expression of it. It may not be verifiable, for so many reasons, not the least of which being my abusers took great care to make sure it would not be, but it is honest. So... believe me, or don't.
For those who may be genuinely wondering whether things like this really do happen, or if you know me and wonder if it really could have happened to me... do your homework. Read up on the supplementary links I post, or do your own research on pre-verbal trauma, ritualistic abuse, adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse or any other relevant topic. And determine for yourself whether
For what it's worth, I have spent more than enough of my own time and energy wondering whether I'm traumatized or psychotic. To quote my psychiatrist (yes, he's mine, I own him) "well, psychotic follows a pattern, which you don't fit at all, and trauma follows a pattern, which you do very much fit, so... no, you are not crazy. Some version of this, as hard as that is to accept, really did happen."
More importantly than you believing me, is that me believing me is the most organizing thing that has ever happened to me. I'm healthier, happier, more functional, sleeping better, less confused (the list goes on) when I believe me. Out of necessity, I choose to believe me. So, yeah, I'm for real. But like I said, do what you will with that.
I can't tell you what is real...What happened the way I remember it, and what may have been quite different. My abusers were skilled, all memory is fluid, I was very likely drugged, definitely brainwashed, and extremely dissociative from an early age.
What I will stand 100% behind is the honesty of my experience and the integrity of my expression of it. It may not be verifiable, for so many reasons, not the least of which being my abusers took great care to make sure it would not be, but it is honest. So... believe me, or don't.
For those who may be genuinely wondering whether things like this really do happen, or if you know me and wonder if it really could have happened to me... do your homework. Read up on the supplementary links I post, or do your own research on pre-verbal trauma, ritualistic abuse, adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse or any other relevant topic. And determine for yourself whether
For what it's worth, I have spent more than enough of my own time and energy wondering whether I'm traumatized or psychotic. To quote my psychiatrist (yes, he's mine, I own him) "well, psychotic follows a pattern, which you don't fit at all, and trauma follows a pattern, which you do very much fit, so... no, you are not crazy. Some version of this, as hard as that is to accept, really did happen."
More importantly than you believing me, is that me believing me is the most organizing thing that has ever happened to me. I'm healthier, happier, more functional, sleeping better, less confused (the list goes on) when I believe me. Out of necessity, I choose to believe me. So, yeah, I'm for real. But like I said, do what you will with that.
all that stands between me...
the only thing that stands between
me and everything i want to be
is you,
and you and you and you and you
and everything you did to me.
you could have killed me to,
but you were to selfish for that.
death was too compassionate.
murders tend to get investigated
that was not your style.
and you could kill me now,
if i were to find out,
just what it was you did to me...
and if i wished to tell.
but this is my disability.
this story i can't sell,
if no one is disposed to believe.
not with all that distance between me,
and everything I want to be.
oh heart!
if only there could be
just one reality.
only one memory.
no more mystery.
only what I wish to be!
Sunday, January 10, 2016
On not my best day... (or worst), and homework
I took Brown-eyes with me to the coffee shop, because I needed to get out of the house. I needed to write, and he needed to finish his homework.
It was fine for about 5 minutes ...
But that's kind of what getting Brown-eyes to do homework is like any time.
I got through three hours of it last weekend by putting everything else aside and reminding myself (like every 3 seconds) that this is what I wanted. This is what I wanted. this is what I wanted. this is what i wanted... And also, thinking about the kind of parent I wanted to be. One who yelled at my kids to "fucking focus for a second!"or one who says, "good job! next problem."
He's so fun and bright and silly and imaginative. Which also means he lives in his own little universe, with Luke Skywalker and Spinning Shark and most of all BB-8, in which he is a superhero, and a scientist, and nothing anyone else says is as loud as the voices he creates in there. All great things when he's not being asked to focus on something less interesting, like subtraction or picking up his toys.
And, I know. I know, this story is every parent of a creative 6 year old in the history of modern life.
The problem for me, is the constant buzz in my brain. The disquieting white noise of everything that came before this good life. It's not just irritating or frustrating to me. It's triggering. Why? I don't really know. When I think about it with my pre-frontal cortex, the part of my brain that controls logical thought, I do... to some limited extent.
Children have to be taught modulation. And I was not only lacking this modeling and help but also constantly pushed further and further beyond my ability to cope. So my 0-60 on calm to agitation to rage is... almost instantaneous. It's like a baby's. I'm learning not to throw grown ass tantrums in the form of threatening, manipulative, forceful speech, verbal listing of every one of the nearest target (usually Handsome)'s personal flaws , obsessing over mundane tasks that "apparently nobody is capable of handling other than me", picking unrelated fights (and sometimes breaking things or melting down too). But that means tolerating the real problem. Body memory. Physical sensations. Feeling things I don't want to and never should have had to.
I'm trying. I've snapped a couple of times. Taken lots of deep breaths. Gotten Brown-eyes down for 20 jumping jacks after each line of math
breathed in the smell of his shampoo and soaked up the silky feel of his hair during his all to frequent "Brown-eyes needs a hug" breaks. Because those things are grounding, for both of us. In a time, when we are both feeling a bit overwhelmed with the tasks at hand : homework and learning to tolerate body memory while staying in the present.
And of course, engaging that damn cortex by writing all about the process. Feel free to tell me I'm doing a great job! I thrive on encouragement ;) yeah, wink, wink... but no, seriously.
It was fine for about 5 minutes ...
...and now I want to kill him.
 |
| If you will draw your attention to the collective locations of hand, pencil and homework sheet |
I got through three hours of it last weekend by putting everything else aside and reminding myself (like every 3 seconds) that this is what I wanted. This is what I wanted. this is what I wanted. this is what i wanted... And also, thinking about the kind of parent I wanted to be. One who yelled at my kids to "fucking focus for a second!"or one who says, "good job! next problem."
He's so fun and bright and silly and imaginative. Which also means he lives in his own little universe, with Luke Skywalker and Spinning Shark and most of all BB-8, in which he is a superhero, and a scientist, and nothing anyone else says is as loud as the voices he creates in there. All great things when he's not being asked to focus on something less interesting, like subtraction or picking up his toys.
And, I know. I know, this story is every parent of a creative 6 year old in the history of modern life.
The problem for me, is the constant buzz in my brain. The disquieting white noise of everything that came before this good life. It's not just irritating or frustrating to me. It's triggering. Why? I don't really know. When I think about it with my pre-frontal cortex, the part of my brain that controls logical thought, I do... to some limited extent.
Children have to be taught modulation. And I was not only lacking this modeling and help but also constantly pushed further and further beyond my ability to cope. So my 0-60 on calm to agitation to rage is... almost instantaneous. It's like a baby's. I'm learning not to throw grown ass tantrums in the form of threatening, manipulative, forceful speech, verbal listing of every one of the nearest target (usually Handsome)'s personal flaws , obsessing over mundane tasks that "apparently nobody is capable of handling other than me", picking unrelated fights (and sometimes breaking things or melting down too). But that means tolerating the real problem. Body memory. Physical sensations. Feeling things I don't want to and never should have had to.
I'm trying. I've snapped a couple of times. Taken lots of deep breaths. Gotten Brown-eyes down for 20 jumping jacks after each line of math
 |
| granted, it's on out of about 6, but... we celebrate the baby steps around here (like the fact that I haven't slapped my hand on the table in front of his distracted face, even once this study day) |
And of course, engaging that damn cortex by writing all about the process. Feel free to tell me I'm doing a great job! I thrive on encouragement ;) yeah, wink, wink... but no, seriously.
Saturday, January 9, 2016
You are my witness
You are my Witness
You saw me when I was being erased.
Before I knew I was losing,
when I might have still had a chance
at innocence.
at innocence.
They took it,
of course,
and I went missing anyway. But,
thank you for watching me.
For, when I resurfaced,
a lost child,
churning with desperation for reasons, not yet clear to me;
obfuscated by some;
invisible to many;
incomprehensible to most;
you
you recognized me - because you had eyes to see,
you recognized me - because you had eyes to see,
(and you remembered me)
for you had seen me when I was yet being erased.
And when my 13 year old self sent her cry for help out in a bottle
your shore was there to receive it,
though my mother refused the lifeline you sent:
over my silent screams of protest.
and at 16, when my eyes came up for air,
your gaze was already there -
to greet me;
resting with compassion on the fugitive self within,
who I dared not know I harbored,
though her whispers echoed relentlessly about my soul:
Thank you for watching me.
You saw me when I was being systematically erased.
You were my witness.
After the escape, when my story began to unfold
before my unbelieving eyes -
you told me
how to hold myself
together
together
40 minutes at a time;
By day, by day, by day... Thank you for watching me.
For having seen me when I was being erased.
You saw me stubbornly putting the pieces back together.
And when, to my surprise,
I began to thrive,
you celebrated my successes
and my family;
never faltered over my brokenness
and guided me
with a steady hand
through the confusion
of radioactive relationships with my oppressors -
and those tainted by them,
until I was..............................finally!
all the way, free.
(mostly)
Thank you for watching me.
For being the one who had gone before.
For having seen me when I was being erased.
For loving me, because.
When I dared you not to,
after pandora's box I recklessly thru open,
only to see the d h of my scars
e t
p
and my newly happy life come crashing down
around me:
Thank you for watching me.
Thank you for watching me.
For being one of the EXTREMELY few,
I dared risk testing:
acting out a testament to all those erased years;
my remembering.
Thank you for remaining.
for constance
for witness
for belief
& grace
compassion * wisdom * resonance * laughter ........... and Relief
I am so much unfettered suffering
I don't know, what could possibly
be worth it.
whatever reason the r y t h m
Y O U HAVE M A T T E R E D.
your existence h a s comforted my soul.
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