The High Speed Wobbles.

Anybody who suffers from an “anxiety disorder” will know the wobbles well, most likely.

It happens to the very best of the best of us; no matter how far into ‘recovery’ and/or treatment we may be – it never completely leaves us for good, it always returns to remind us again…we have no control. It happens on a good day, a bad day, a day you never even make it out of bed at all.

For me, the wobbles tend to come out of nowhere, typically blindsiding me into submission to an emotional tsunami of anxiety, malcontent and paranoid fear. This seems to truly wash over everything – the thoughts in my head and heart, the feelings I harbor in general, my level of energy, my attention span, any motivational element in my life at a given time; I become consumed very quickly and completely by the anxiousness when this occurs. I become paranoid of my surroundings and the people in them; I lose any sense of reason. In turn, what usually happens, is that I trigger my own reflexive fight or flight response through the sudden increase of adrenaline and serotonin coursing through my body – and I react as if I were being attacked in a corner.

I know, it’s fucking disturbing…but true.

I have a roommate, I’ve written about him and his lack of understanding surrounding the details of the things that I struggle with from day to day, in regard to constant fear and perpetual edginess; he likes to scare me. He finds it amusing, which in all honesty, makes him NO DIFFERENT from 9 out 10 dudes that I know, unfortunately.He likes to hide in the shrub near the front door and wait for me to walk passed in the dark after work…he likes to pop out of random closets and spaces that I’d never be expecting him to pop out of. It’s unfortunate.

AS, IT’S DOES NOT AMUSE ME.

When I am startled by someone, in the moment, I do not see. I do not recognize you in the slightest, in spite of being only inches from your face and looking dead at you, I do not see you. I am not there. Somebody else must be; because it is during this slice of time after being startled by someone that my subconscious should recognize but doesn’t communicate such to my conscious mind, that my body honestly seems to just take over and do what it thinks I need to be doing in the moment that I get startled. As my roommate is learning  slowly, but ever-more surely – my typical reaction to being startled isn’t to run, after all…shocker! I’m a fighter! And apparently, I go for the eyeballs and face…we are mapping a pattern.

He doesn’t (and by all rights really couldn’t, anyway) get angry with me for physically assaulting him when this happens, he didn’t even hold a grudge four times back – when I pepper sprayed him, reflexively…

He cannot say that I haven’t warned him, and he cannot say that at this stage of things either – that he doesn’t have a good idea of what he’s looking to get into every time he shimmies himself between the shrub and the drainpipe when he hears my car alarm beep beep…so, I no longer feel in the least bad when I have to eat across the table from him when he bears a smeared nose or scratch marks into the corners of either eye. He asked for it.

Mushy.

I’ve sat down so many times –

to write to you, to your heart –

to get through,

to tourniquet the bloody parts…

A curse of mine that you’ve come to

so well-define – in the dark,

a partner in crime

painted in timeless hue

fucked-from-the-start

in every lifetime…

But, I’m still blessed –

through a curse, every time

by my bond to you;

So when I try

to sit down and describe –

with any words

or piece of alter-ego art,

exactly what it is,

that’s happening inside of the wound

from which I pulled your dart…

The words do not come

in accordance to

any drawing or poem

or hardcore theme song –

and I’m always brought back

to the sentimental fact,

that you couldn’t have known,

but you’ve always known

everything, all along.

Shark Shack.

Farallon Islands Breaker 2014

Farallon Islands Breaker 2014

My heartbeat

pumps so wearily

with you gone,

trembling hands

twisting short,

locks of blonde;

I’m not sure

not seeing clearly

you’ve swam beyond,

clock-work strokes

faring close,

swimming strong;

My limbs

pumping furiously

with you ahead,

burning eyes

fading heavily,

a water’s tread;

The undertow

frenzied spinning

no looking back

no duck to the dive,

lean in,

shark shack.

DUH, Bambi…

How bad of a thing is it that the most therapeutic thing I can think of whenever I am in the company of my “therapist” is head-butting him until he’s totally unconscious?…like, unconscious for a long time?
I mean, I guess I know by now that he’s NOT necessarily holding a recording device behind his back with every greeting (my own paranoia), or staging a bust with the local psychiatric ward upon my arrival to his office (my own paranoia), or that he is going to “dump me” out of nowhere (my own abandonment issues), or that he is going to force me to sign a contract that holds me liable to see him every other day (my own commitment issues), or that his tiny, too-high-off-the-ground office is eventually gonna swallow me whole (my own agoraphobia and anxiety in enclosed spaces, especially with men). Lastly, I know by now that he poses no physical threat to me whatsoever, but it’s been eight years off and on with him already.
None of these things seem to be able to keep me from wanting to take a chunk out his face with my teeth upon him pointing something that should’ve been plainly obvious to me, in retrospect…I hate when he does that!
Any of my readers know about my longstanding Mommy issues, well – you know as much about them as I do, I should say…my Mom has been acting passive-aggressive again lately to me, and it hurts me when she does that, even still, somehow. Despite all I’ve learned and admitted and accepted – she still has the keen ability to just trample my heart in a very unique manner.
This morning, “Dr. Cluckenquack” said to me in a disgusted tone, “Why do you even allow her close enough to you to hurt you this way?”, as if he were asking me why I hadn’t worn rain boots to his office today (in the rain). I wanted to chop him in his throat right then and there for stating the apparent reality of the circumstance so plainly like that, but didn’t even respond in a snotty way when I stated: “She is my mother, she gave birth to me…she’s my Mom…”
I was spacing out already from the session’s emotionally painful content, so I don’t know why I was so passive in the moment but maybe that’s why…because when I got to work afterwards, I was fuming and super pissed for at least a good hour…wtf??? Therapy???

The Cut-Throat Club

cut throat badge

The (All-New) Cut-Throat Club Award

This is a brand new award created by me, given away by me and, hopefully passed along to other bloggers who belong to this club.

This is an award for the SURVIVOR of life and living.

This is in celebration of someone who is currently surviving a traumatic experience and pushing on, renewing an almost lost existence among us.

This award is intended to be given in recognition of the struggle that is all-too-often silently involved in making that survival a continuing reality.

This is an award meant to acknowledge those of us here who have displayed the ability, desire and strength to get back up and fight, despite the anticipation of the worst possible outcome and effect.

Survivors appear at all ages and in all forms and descriptions – you do not have to be the literal survivor of a sliced throat, such as Yours Truly… you just have to foster the essence of a surviving human being up against tough odds.

I would like to acknowledge more cut-throat members publicly and am soon adding a page to my blog strictly for our stories; I believe it is a piece of our survival to connect and heal. I strongly encourage the support of my readers in this award and its distribution around WordPress and abroad.

Food for thought:

Being a survivor of traumatic or violent injury isn’t a happily-ended “wrap”; in fact, the survived incident is the easy part of becoming a true survivor. The aftermath of physically surviving is the harrowing and daunting part of the survivor’s status. Nothing is as it was prior to becoming a “survivor” in a former life that seems obscure and often wastefully spent. The regular trials and tribulations of everyday life are still there, born anew each day for each of us – everyone, even those who aren’t cut-throats – and these trivial elements of living can weigh heavily atop a pyramid of questionable concepts to the cut-throat mind. As most of you know, I am a survivor myself, one who tastes gratefulness with each inhaled breath of oxygen that I get since my own survived, very near-fatal assault, sometimes I have days when surviving feels like it was a mistake on my part, even now. It’s impossible to convey with clarity – the way I sometimes find myself resentful for having been made into a Freak of Nature for two years out of my survivor life, unrecognizable to family and friends and the reflection in the mirror, the way I used to just lie there and wish with all my might that the morning just wouldn’t come once the meds TKO’d me. There were times that my appearance literally instilled the fear of God in children at a convenience store or the gas station, and I would be overcome with some strange form of jealousy of them, because they had a mommy to run and hide behind to block out my maimed face from view. How could they have known my gig though? That I had once been Homecoming Princess AND Queen consecutively; they couldn’t be aware of the fact that I used to have “the most infectious smile humanly possible!” according to a news anchor who interviewed the non-maimed childhood Me on the local news. Back then during the reconstruction phase of my cut-throat membership, there were honestly more days than not that I spent wishing for death, wishing to be done with this torturous aftermath of surviving the injury of having my throat violently sliced open…wishing NOT to survive after all.

It is because of these reasons, that this “award” and its acknowledgements are so meaningful to me; because I am fully aware of the anchor to the ankle – the second thoughts, the macabre curiosities associated with the other possible outcome of that life-altering day when I became a cut-throat, the day my survivor was born. If I hadn’t survived, what would that make me?

Most certainly NOT who I am.