T is for TRUTH.

The room was becoming smoke filled somehow as the discussion wore on in the background of my conscious awareness.

“…we understand that you’re traumatized, you know that we do…”

I’m encircled by the nodding faces of friends that I know definitely care about me; yet, I am becoming transfixed on the shrub well beyond the furthest face – I am teetering at the ‘Check Out’.

“I guess it’s just hard to understand the time involved in your healing process, Danielle got beat up by her first husband…she was dating someone else within a week and a half of her divorce from the creep…”

“Yeah, well Danielle could get the Pope to smack her in the mouth if she talked long enough…”
I didn’t say it out loud, just thought it.

More affected whispers of agreement from all around me – I don’t even know which one of them was speaking at that point of the conversation; I was beginning to feel my cheeks burn slightly, and I recall sitting forward on the low couch in Darcy’s family room and letting out a big sigh of tension. None of my “click” is empathic by nature; although a few have honed the art of pretending to be well enough to fake their way through an afternoon at a funeral. Lisa is the one out of the group that I am closest to, our kids having gone through grade school together. She must have noticed my state of being because she immediately hushed the rest of our girlfriends at once.

“Enough everyone…she obviously doesn’t want to talk about it…let it go…”

Lisa’s head is swiveling back and forth with bulged eyeballs to emphasize her point to them;

“…Leave it alone…”

T is for TWO THINGS:
TERRORISM and TORTURE

The terror that a terrorist instills in the recesses of his victim’s brain is a key element to the very process, even on a micro-scale, of terrorism. Without the dread, fear, anxiety and negative anticipation of an event, there is no terror involved. There can be fear and/or pain without terror, there can be gore and blood and horror also – without terror. Terror is the piece of a trauma that was foreseen by the traumatized in some sense. When you add terror to a situation, everything changes. As I have written about before, terror changes the way that a human being responds to a tragic event as it plays out; and the same goes for those in domestic captivity from one day to the next.
For a long time, I was even baffled by my affected behaviors; and couldn’t really explain to my girlfriends when we would touch on the topic of my “recovery process” – the terror that I still carried with me everywhere I went – even a decade after the near-death event that ended my own captivity/marriage.

When the man that you have married and have children with tortures your body and terrorizes your mind – and you repeatedly see him enjoying each and every scream you let out in pain and suffering under his hand – the world seems a little less inviting afterward, should you survive.
People can’t grasp the notion that I am well-educated and decent looking yet remain recluse and isolated from social interaction for the most part; granted I am fucked up and anti-social to say the least, but even during my Up Swings with my anxiety, I still continue to struggle with finding any TRUE motivation behind entangling myself with others – especially men. People here on my blog often comment on how long it’s been since I was with the Ripper, or even the fact that he is now dead…why can’t I just move on already and be happy with someone new? Why am I still here groveling about my tragic past and the effect it still has on me?
Well, a good starting point to answer this would be: ME.
I survived a highly bloodthirsty and violent sexual dominant who was also a psychopathic murderer and a torturous sadist – my husband. I became his live-in victim day and night; I was kept alive many times not as a result of anything cunning or savvy on my own part, but because my husband new that someone needed to look after our baby – and it wasn’t going to be him. There were many, many times that I barely survived though, and I remember each and every injury inflicted upon my body at the hand wearing a wedding band that matched my own…the betrayal and degradation attached to those years of my life remain immense, even now.
There is, in actuality, a difference between being smacked around by a genetic retard that had too much to drink – and being ritualistically tortured by the man whose last name you have taken. Neither circumstance is right, but one will undoubtedly be much easier to move forward from. I likely NEVER will trust a man like I had the potential to do prior to such an experience…and that’s just reality for me.

…and You Turn Yourself Around…That’s what it’s All About.

PREFACE:

In my “pack” family growing up, my Dad, my Papa, any immediate uncles and aunts, as well as “The Originals” (my older set of brothers) had a ditty that they used to chant whenever anything involved myself, my younger brother, or my brother who precedes me by 19 months – in combination with our lovely mother – “The Shawnee Mommy” – performed to the tune of the Hokie-Pokie. I am sure you can imagine the verses they came up with for each body part when it came to her (they each disliked her intensely). They would regularly lineup like the fucking Temptations or something and sing shit like:

“You got a Shawnne Mommy,

and she’s comin’ to the house!..

That’s what it’s all about – stomp stomp”


STOMP. STOMP.

On my way home this evening, I dropped by my parents’ house unexpectedly (when I refer to my “parents” in the current context, I am always referring to my mother and step-dad, unless otherwise stated for some whack-ass reason that I cannot conjure up). I needed to speak to my step-dad about some stuff that my mother can not be bothered with, as she continues to grieve the loss of my grandmother very, very deeply and perpetually. For the loss she is struggling so mightily to cope with, I am genuinely saddened for my mother; I know that she and my grandmother were always very close, somehow – despite my mother’s lifelong shortcomings as an unstable individual against a solidly founded Tribe. For whatever reasons though, my mother (Willow) maintained a loyalty and closeness to her Mom, my grandma Joey (NOT of Tannuea ‘s clan – she’s my mother’s paternal grandmother), that stands in stark contrast to ANY and EVERY other relationship throughout her entire time alive. I realize she is mourning and grieving and feeling always without. And like I said, for that, I feel sorry for her, indeed.

Now, before I lose a handful of followers and possibly even a few of my friends by describing the events that followed my surprise appearance at her home earlier today, I could launch into a seminar-style presentation in my own defense regarding the many, many, many forces that drive my love/hate relationship with Willow i.e the time that she chucked a plastic shopping bag of canned peaches at my face while I sat unable to defend myself in my hospital bed of webbed tubing (she did this because Security had asked her to leave due to her shockingly venomous behavior towards a newly relocated patient moved to the trauma/burn unit from ICU) – – – I could emphasize the fact that she actually got sent away to a “Pre-Reagan State Hospital” as an alternative sentence to PRISON for smothering me with my own pillow when I was still an infant in a crib because she

“was tired and I was crying non-stop, and [she] couldn’t find David…”(my father)

I could go into detail about any of my many memories of her Leño’d out, drunken, psychopathic boyfriends chasing her to my Dad’s house – her children’s house – out of diabolically jealous entrapment on her part (Willow is an Oscar-Winning Drama Queen), and wound up creating situations in which any one of my older set of brothers (who were not born to her) or my Dad – interchangeably – were arrested and taken away from me because of her bullshit pot-stirring. I could go on and on about my issues with her, how she slept every one of boyfriends she could get her hands on throughout my late teens, including The Ripper, I am thoroughly convinced and always have been. But fuck it, I won’t bother with the bore of it all. I can sum my mother up pretty well with tonight’s triggering event upon her sending me down her hallway to find her husband at the back of the house, because she was too pre-occupied by doing nothing at the time.

As I was walking down the (admittedly unfamiliar) hallway of of my mother’s house, what did I see in a fucking frame on the wall to my left, hung proudly amongst the photos of my very bloodline, other than this lovely triggering memory hanging in my fucking face like a fucking freshly dead carcass had been framed in silver trim:

(The above photo is purposely lacking in image quality, but the point remains the same) THIS IS THE RIPPER AND I. Circa 1999

(The above photo is purposely lacking in image quality, but the point remains the same)
THIS IS THE RIPPER AND I.
Circa 1999

And so, yes…I blew the fuck up on her – – – once again…

I just can’t understand her thinking, no matter how many times I try, or in what ways, or with what empathy…she is just an unnecessarily antagonistic and cruel creature with no clue of her own influence over a child that she bore…way back when.

Fuck, my mother is so clueless, it hurts me.