Stitched Into Me.

“To spare oneself from grief at all cost can be achieved only at the price of total detachment, which excludes the ability to experience happiness.”     – Erich Fromm

“Detachment is not about refusing to feel or not caring or turning away from those you love. Detachment is profoundly honest, grounded firmly in the truth of what is.”      – Sharon Salzberg

“A heinous history of emotional, psychological and sexual abuse at the hands of trusted partners or caregivers, sometimes leads to the suffering from complex PTSD. This manifestation of Traumatic Shock is more complicated than “simple” PTSD, as it pertains to the chronic assaults on one’s personal integrity and sense of safety, as opposed to a single acute traumatic episode. Such chronic tyranny of abuse results in a constellation of symptoms, which impact personality structure and development.
The symptom clusters for C-PTSD are:
     Alterations in Regulation of Affect and Impulses
    Changes in Relationship with others
    Somatic Symptoms
    Changes in Meaning
    Changes in the perception of Self
    Changes in Attention and Consciousness
 Fragmentation of the personality occurs because the capacity to integrate what is happening to the self is insufficient. The survival mechanism of dissociation kicks in to protect the central organizing ego from breaking from reality and disintegrating into psychosis. Hence, fragmented dissociated parts of the personality carry the traumatic experience and memory, while other dissociated parts function in daily life. Consequentially, profound symptoms of depersonalization and dissociation linked to c-ptsd manifest.
Dissociative disorders are conditions that involve disruptions or breakdowns of memory, awareness, identity or perception. In the context of severe chronic abuse the reliance on disassociation is adaptive as it succeeds in reducing unbearable distress, and warding off the threat of psychological annihilation. The dissociative disorders survivors of chronic trauma represent vary widely, and are inclusive of: dissociative identity disorder (formerly multiple personality disorder), dissociative amnesia, dissociative fugue, and depersonalization disorder. Identify confusion is also deemed a by-product of dissociation and is linked to fugue states when the traumatized person loses memory of their past and concomitantly, a tangible sense of their personal identity.
The treatment process for those afflicted with c-ptsd and attendant dissociative disorders is extensive and comprehensive. Depending on the severity of the repetitious traumas, even in progressed stages of recovery a client may find himself grappling with persistent feelings of detachment and derealization. Given that the brains mediation of psychological functions is dramatically compromised by the impact of chronic trauma, this neurobiological impact may be a strong contributing factor regarding lingering dissociative symptoms in survivors of c-ptsd.  Integrating and reclaiming dissociated and disowned aspects of the personality is largely dependent on constructing a cohesive narrative which allows for the assimilation of emotional, cognitive, and physiological realities. And finally when fight/flight responses diminish and an enhanced sense of hope and love for self and others results from years of courageous pain staking hard work, the survivor reaps the rewards of this capricious and harrowing journey; one’s True Self.”

Spun Too Long.

Moonlit terrain,
sand grain,
foamy kisses
seas and shores,
manzanita whispers
the bellow
traveling lazily
from a distant
skipper’s fog horn.
Sharpness of pain,
to spy you again,
like a familiar
and haunting
rhythmic cleanse,
dance with me,
here where the
shores kiss the seas,
do not leave
in the absence
of my trailing feet.
Memories overlaid,
delusions overplayed,
like a record
the turntable
spun too long
until the sound
fell silently away.

Ver Batim.

Two statements made to me today that feel compelled to share for whatever reasons:

#1 –

“Nobody ever notices the teeth of a beautiful soul…”

He doesn’t keep a blog…but I become more and more convinced all the time that he needs to start…his thoughts are often just stunningly expressed between him and me. I’ve written numerous times in reference to my beloved friend who I call the “Shepherd” or “B” or the “Boondock Saint” on my blog; he is someone who is a stationary fixture in my world these days. I treasure our friendship deeply because he is a real-life saint, and not just in the context of me and our friendship – he is a saintly human being who cultivates the gentleness and understanding a “feeler” as well as the logic and comprehension of a “thinker”. These are all parts of his personality, no doubt, as a result of his own lifetime of hardship and traumas stacked up on top of one another; which made this delayed sentiment about my crumbling teeth that he sent to me via text message late last night – all the more heartwarming to me. It’s just a small ray of sunshine that I wanted to share because it was rather profound in my opinion, as the Boondock tends to be.

#2 –

“Survivors unite, together we stand, facing our demons and…. something that rhymes with stand. (I’m not nearly as talented as you are with rhymes, LOL!)”

This is something that one of peeps here on WordPress wrote today in a comment response she made to me on her blog; she is so adorable – open, honest, and die-hard in her own recovery. She inspires me often and has since…well, I’m not really sure who followed who or how long ago it was, but at least since the beginning of last summer. It was so endearing when I read it, because it is HER in a nutshell: she doesn’t necessarily even have to think prior to jumping in to offer supportive information to a fellow survivor – that’s just how she rolls. Anyway, I just wanted to share this little morsel of absolute goodness because it totally made me chuckle when I read it…
You can go check out her blog also at



“I have your answer.” he says through the satellites;
The answer – to a question…that I asked him tonight;
A tickle to his Wizard brain –
A thought, one driving me insane;
He is the winner playing on this field;
He breaks the records, he owns the game;
of my bullheaded difficulty, against his grain.
“Look inside of You.” And his words ring true – to my bones;
“This is me, is this you?” heartache gone…Let’s go home;
A tickle to my inner-ear –
A touch, a truth, I long to hear;
His are the hands that carry gently,
my evidently beating heart, he knows my name;
he holds the stones and feathers of the home from which I came.
“There’s nothing broken about you.” He’s all business in his tone;
Over and over and over…until the message starts hitting home.

That AWESOME moment when:

The weakened spirit stands up with a surfboard shoved under his arm and declares that “he doesn’t feel like replying right now”…

Horror Movies

“The difference between Terror and Horror is the difference between awful apprehension and sickening realization: between the smell of death and stumbling against a corpse.”

–          Devendra Varma, The Gothic Flame


People often ask me about my ex-husband – and then are horrified and wish that they hadn’t asked; and in all honesty I think about “Mr. Americano” quite often, too. Even now – almost fifteen years later, when I think about my ex-husband I must admit that I have the tendency also: to become horrified by my own recollections. I feel horrified by the realities that swim like invisible, but heavy sea-lions around my life. I can get overwhelmed with horror and shock when I recount my own history – many of the people embedded in my past, included.

Horror, so they say, is a safe place to look at ugliness from…a fortress existing in a time and place after the awful experience of one’s recollections.

Terror, they claim, is the anticipation and knowledge – of expectation of the horror to come, the dread and anxiety attached to fearful emotions prior to the awful memory. Terror is no longer allowed here, so that horse is dead and buried for me. I can honestly say that today, here and now, in the present moment – I could stand in front my ex with no weapon on my hip or big brother behind me – and regardless of the circumstances or outcome – terror would not have a place in my perspective of it. I have forgiven Mr. Americano for what he did to me, truly. He is a product of his own horror-filled environment, like the rest of us, and I pity him for being a monster. He doesn’t want to be, but he is. Sucks to be him…

So I run with that theory;

 …and I said, “fuck it”: Then I proceeded to let the horror out – however, wherever, whenever – I can.

Turns out, my best type of “therapy”, always came naturally and in its most raw and pure forms when I was mothering my child on my own, as a single parent to a Hellion with the face of an angel and the voice sounding like it originated from a helium tank. I was “yard duty” at her school; I was “classroom Mom”; I brought fuckloads of craft shit to her classroom every Mother’s Day and would spend weeks with the kids, making stuff for moms and stepmoms, grandmas and surrogates. On April fool’s Day when Boo was in elementary school still, I went into her class and instructed thirty-seven 9 year olds how to dump glitter and glue all over the carpet (the carpets were being torn out that evening and replaced, and the teacher was in on it with me) but damn, the kids all loved it and even now – once in a while, I’ll bump into one of my daughter’s grown up schoolmates –  they always tell me nice things they remember about me from back then. The horror here is definitely in retrospect, indeed from a safe place – years away from the memories of which I am describing – realizing that my own kid surely doesn’t have those nice things to say about me, certainly doesn’t even have the ability to recall such minor details of the childhood stolen away from her so long ago. Horror is definitely what I feel when I realize her losses; when I admit to myself: the role that I play in the movies on her mental reel; when I imagine how she must perceive me in stark contrast to who I am and always have been. Horror comes along with every fleeting thought, miniscule in its own right, of my deepest, most embittered fear:

That despite my stand against her father and the reconstructed existences for me and Boo in a safe place, the Horror that haunts Boo, in her case, confines her to an existence – most unsafe.

Regardless of how much I work at re-wiring my brain into that of a non-hostage’s, to remold myself into living within a freedom-based state-of-being and thinking; as strong as I may be when it comes to standing my ground atop the things that I believe are rightful and just – there is one element that I still can’t truthfully say that I’ve recovered from my ex-husband’s former lair inside of my head –Horror.