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.

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

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. 

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!

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 ...

...and now I want to kill him. 

If you will draw your attention to the collective locations of hand, pencil and homework sheet

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.

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.

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.

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,

(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

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.

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.

My father's antidote

As it turns out. I was his a vessel. 

as an infant i sucked his dick, because that's what he gave me. 

not a pacifier. 

sometimes my finger. 

when he was horny, his penis. 

And i swallowed. 

try remembering that on for size. 

but I loved,
 too.
Still.

because it is human nature to love. 

yes to love. 

being, his soul was long on life support
he saw my love as a weakness to exploit. 

my weakness
to me exploit.

but the joke is on him 

because I'm still loved today.

and he is dead.
and unloved.

the cancer killed him dead when they pulled the plug on his soul. 

spite will turn on you like that. 

which is why i forgive.

and why I know love.
why I am loved.
yes loved. 

Yes!
Loved. 

for as they say,

... to love is to be loved...

to love is to be

human.

Plus, you never know

perhaps choking on his semen, 

was really just me choking on his soul

giving me a taste for soul; my perfect compass 

early immunity to the venom of lust and hate

the antidote.
to embrace my humanity:
no matter the cost
for as it turns out
it's what freed me, 
in the end