To My Lovely Gentlemen Readers:
You know I love you guys and this IS NOT a clown or jab in the direction of the male persuasion that comes from a mean spirit; it’s all in TRUTHFULLY told, good, clean, fun…and weed….lots and lots of weed.
Maybe I’m just super stoned again tonight…we’ll see I guess…
Okay, so, is it just me, or…
Is the willingness to commit when it comes to conversation between a man and woman VASTLY weakened, in comparison to his willingness to commit to another man (not in a romantic or sexual way)? A lifelong friend of my roommate Dice stopped by tonight after work for a visit. It’s been a while since we saw this particular guy, as he has been buried by the project of a DIY home remodel – a huge project, indeed. Dice is single (something that his mama doesn’t appreciate as she is itching for grandkids) and as long as I have known Dice, his intention of remaining “single” for the most part has remained unchanged; he is just the kind of guy who answers to nobody and recognizes that relationships just aren’t his thing, I guess.
I have heard this man argue any and every valid (or invalid) point behind his lack of any desire to commit himself to any ONE woman; he even ended a relationship he had been in for several years because the grip kept tightening in his perception. I feel that I can fairly make the statement of:
“Dice is no friend to commitment when it comes to any exclusive inter-personal relationships with others.”
Tell me why it is then, that within a matter of moments after sitting down with his friend to catch up on the construction of his home, the word “we” is being thrown around like a fucking cheap hooker. I swear to the Gods, it was as if Dice has had a hidden mouse in his pocket all day or is suddenly in a second person narrative! It was shocking to me, seriously…and yes, I was possibly over-stoney and reading too much into things, but damn…
“We might also wanna think about…”
“We could look into building up from beneath…”
“If we fill in the ditch, we will have plenty of room to…”
I mean this is the same guy who won’t even collectively chip in on household products with me because it feels too much like a binding to him somehow for Christ’s sake! Yet, when it came to construction (or, last weekend, the stripping down of an ancient Land Cruiser belonging to a different male friend of his)…it was pretty profound in my own pothead opinion.
“SPIDERS ARE EIGHT-LEGGED TERRORISTS.” – Americana Injustica
My CPTSD is in abstract form; surprise, surprise…”complex” is an understatement, at best. An “absolutely unreasonable” fear of spiders woke up with me in the hospital after I survived the Ripper; a strange manifestation indeed. It made me sick with myself; I remember how disgusted I felt by my own feelings and behaviors surrounding the fear I SUDDENLY felt of arachnoids. I didn’t understand it, couldn’t find a way to understand it, it just simply took over entire areas of my persona without my having a say in it. The arachnophobia took over my existence at first; and I found myself reshaping that existence to fit around the presence of the affected fear. I began to worry constantly about spiders falling into my hair from ceilings; I boycotted going outside, altogether. I even put a mosquito net up over my hospital bed for a while because it somehow offered me comfort (though, in hindsight – a mosquito net only could’ve translated into a huge, prefabricated home to any eight-legged creep lol).
Point here is:
I did things, felt things and perceived things very differently from the way I had before the traumatic event/injury. I mean, I earned my stripes at age 6 by hatcheting a baby rattler snake to bits while it was still inside the bottom of my sleeping bag – reflexively. I was never afraid of nature, like I should have been – until my do-over. And then, suddenly – I was lying awake at night on the lookout for Daddy Long Legs. Therapy didn’t help much at first, either…the therapist was a hippie, and preferred to go outside to the lawn for most sessions…I eventually stopped going at all and allowed myself to become rather incorrigible to the nursing staff upstairs. They likely had the BIGGEST party imaginable when I was finally released to leave. If I were any of them, I would have undoubtedly found a bag of spiders into the “goodbye” gift bag that they assembled for me – to begin with. So time went on and I went “home”.
The spider thing became an instant family favorite with my brothers and friends, none of them comprehended that I was truly terrified beyond of description of them now. Prior to this experience, I had never actually been stricken by the inability to move my feet when I was hit with fear; after I woke up in the hospital however, I was dumbfounded to learn that such fear DOES exist – as well as to regularly experience the associated “lock-up” pretty much on a daily basis. Being too afraid to move is a terrible, terrible thing: it humbles you beyond comparison; it limits your entire perceptive realm down to a teeny hole that you have to lean close to in order to press an eye against to see anything. It not only immobilizes your body – but your brain also chokes and defaults to idle; the only thing that is there is the fear.
I still struggle to put it into words that cast true light on the convoluted nature of the “arachnophobia thing”, all I can say is that you may as well put a rabid and ginormous dog with razor-teeth in front of me when I see a spider…my response is the same either way. I know, I know…it is lame. I have been to psychotherapy, hypnosis, etc. to try and un-fear spiders…to no avail, thus far, at least. But I have, at least, come to harbor a deep understanding of its roots, which in turn has empowered me to some degree.
In my former life, as a perpetually violated female body, I spent a lot of time in semi-consciousness as a result of physical violence; a sad amount of time, if I am being honest here. After a few times of getting my ass handed to me, the numbness began to kick in and I eventually evolved to survive via “dissociation”. I spent the majority of my time alone in solitude and helplessness (outside of the Ripper and my then baby daughter); I was a blank page, so to speak. During this era of my life, I would often awaken somewhere I didn’t fall asleep, or have things turn up missing often (when there was nobody else there to have taken or relocated them). Sometimes, I know it was the Ripper who had moved me while I passed out unconscious; but other times, I know that it hadn’t been him.
During a session of group therapy about two years ago – the memory was resurfaced in a matter of moments, the one that undoubtedly bore my arachnophobia on a subconscious level, so long ago. In the desert, there are all kinds of insects that we NEVER see in the city – ALL KINDS. It was June, a month when you can’t safely open your doors and/or windows, in spite of the insane heat, due to the multiplied masses of newly hatched and hatching generations of bugs from every genus. The Ripper had broken out three of my front teeth and kicked me so hard in the chest that my ribcage was stabbing me from the inside. I recall laboring to breath and the heat and dry air didn’t help. I got my ass kicked again at some point for being hurt, and wound myself up in HIS garage (actually, in a “secret room” he had in the very back of it – shiver).
He wasn’t in there when I woke up, luckily; but I could not move for the entirety of the time I lay there in near darkness. I think I must have either been temporarily paralyzed due to some freak nerve damage, or in physical shock or something…not sure, but I was literally stuck like glue to the dirt floor rolled on my left side. During the therapy ah-ha moment, I remembered that a spider crawled out of my mouth that day, while I was unable to move or scream or even spit. Most likely because of the more pressing and immediate life-threatening circumstance that I was bound to from day to day back then, this instance went right out the window with other “mundane and meaningless bullshit”; only to rear its delayed reaction after I was no longer in immediate danger at the hands of my husband. Just a little food for thought on the issue of PTSD/CPTSD, and it’s ripples…
Some Insight to My Levels of Near-Combustion at Present.
Misery Loves Company, No?
I sent the Orphan to the beach alone twice, no three times in a row last week…he’s not deserving of my current state of shittiness…so I have spared him out of love and respect.
“Why….?”, He wondered the last time I mumbled “Rain-check” to him with my back turned – not wanting to make eye contact at that very moment for my own WHACKED-OUT ANXIETY/PTSD-esque reasons…(he neverpushes); he eventually left for the blue without me again, with a locker-room throwback slug in my arm on his way out the front door; he makes me grin…
I sent him a text message about an hour later that read:
“Idk how else to express myself other than to tell you that I’m trying to spare you, Killer…I feel like I’m gonna explode…”
A statement which is very accurate in description; a lifetime spent in the open spaces – arms reaching upwards towards the Gods in the thunderstorm – demanding that the other shoe be dropped on my fucking head already…’cause I have been on edge, waiting with nervous anticipation for it since I can recall anything about my own sense of anxiety,
I am ashamed of my social and emotional shortcomings when it comes to meaningful relationships with the male persuasion;
I am afraid of most males with whom I share any context of a confined physical space with, reflexively – no matter how hard I fight the fear that swallows me;
Men wonder why I am such a “stuck up bitch” or if I am “on mute” or if I “feel superior somehow” to them, as a result of my misunderstood, standoffish reaction to their fucking pheromones in my environment…
I wonder why I am so broken; and why I’ve been so far: unable to just STOP the anxiousness,fear,paranoia and passive-aggressive rage that has been part of the Survivor Me – The miserable parts of being a Survivor…the mind-fuck, night terror shit you can’t wish on your very worst enemy.
So..does my own Misery Love Company, after all…? I think not.
Misery is a Contagious Disease That I Don’t Wish To Spread.