Min Ven.

night horse

A Toast
from one dead soldier,
to another –
cheers
from one dawning sun,
to the moonlight –
let’s get fucked up tonight;
this life’s been hard,
hard as fuck to survive,
skål
let the tears fall,
my friend –
we’ve been
through it all;
fighting back to back,
through the fires
of living Hell…
seën
to all of our times alive,
to our many defeated
victories stacked up high;
velsigne dig
a key that we found
in the enemy’s pocket,
a while back –
we both knew what it unlocked,
and so it was tossed
into a well as we passed;
min ven:
Moenie bang wees nie,
this too, shall pass us by –
like the many storms weathered
between you and I,
you will keep walking,
right here at my side,
and I shall abide.

day horse

“Life Goes On”.

Way back when I was just barely thirteen
and Death stole my father quite suddenly
a stinger stuck in and burrowed beneath
I learned something then that never left me
how during the stages of trauma and grief
people say the stupidest words robotically
How “Life will go on” or how “Time will ease“,
Such a blow to a child’s sense of stability…

I recall the way all tried to describe so emptily
how things wouldn’t feel as unreal for eternity
how things would settle back into normalcy
how the grief-stricken child would heal eventually
And each had been right about just one thing
in the context of my quickly evolving reality
each time they grasped straws in my comforting
by telling me ‘Life would go on’ still, for me…

I wonder if there was even the slightest inkling
behind such words that I heard rather constantly
that the thirteen-year-old was, indeed, listening
to the messages shone through such faked sympathy
this was how I learned the lesson of superficiality
by being forced to listen to such hollow human beings
the loss of my only parent had marred me spiritually
scarred my soul, shut down parts of my heart permanently…

Yet, in the eyes of those outside my immediate family
I recognized that element that darkens all humanity
that need to keep the world painted in a happy scene
at the expense of those whose former world is darkening
and so, today, if I am faced with a friend in like mourning
I will never offer empty words in attempt to ease the suffering
I remember all too well: the affect that such bullshit had on me
when my present, past, and future were stripped away so suddenly.

Parallel.

There’s no visible end
to this line
that you and I
continue to wait in
for the knowledge
some enlightenment
behind the puzzlement
by which and within
our lives are woven
a waste of time it is
both of our hearts know this
let’s duck out of line
while there’s still time
to sneak away from this

All My Dirt.

I am randomly typpling (type babbling), yes, I know this… my personal Microsoft Word screen seriously could fuck me with all the secrets and truths it has seen at my hand, fuck it though…transparency is the new thing isn’t it?

I have given up my appearance altogether, I suppose…couldn’t tell you when the last time I looked in a mirror at myself…hmmmm…the possible causes behind this fact aren’t lost on me, either…
Something is happening inside of me again; although I couldn’t possibly describe any of what those “somethings” may actually be in the big picture of things; and I am not trying to find any way to describe it – there’s just a slew of mental data on upload at present; and my mental data down-link seems to be broken, too. There’s just a fuck-ton of shit coming in, and nothing moving aside to make room for it; if that even makes sense to anyone reading this.

Failure:
Failure is something has come to define my every moment of each passing day for me; it began slowly when Boo was put into “residential treatment” almost a decade ago and only snowballed from that point on. The many things that have subsequently gone horribly awry since then have accumulated into a vast and freezing cold tomb; each instance of my own perceived failings stacking up against the previous until the room shrinks. Failure has been something that I struggle with regularly, and I often lose the fight with it because of its overwhelming and constant presence. I go to a psychiatrist based on this failure (and its many facets and faces); he repeatedly instructs me to “just let it go”…
Abandonment:
Abandonment is another key element that is deeply embedded in my marred psychological profile; this element is born of my inability to “just let it go” when it came to my inter-personal relationships with parents during infancy and childhood (most notably a then ever-absent mother). It has mutated the human being that I was born as into a different version of who I might have been in a “healthy and/or intact family setting”; over time, it has warped my perception of others who I feel any closeness to – a mechanism of the emotionally fearful and unstable. I am extremely insecure inter-personally, and it only becomes an exacerbated symptom when I give two shits about the other person involved. I am afraid of people in general; not in a physically cowed way though…I am terrified of interacting with others because of the emotional traumas that inevitably attach themselves to each and every experience with closeness to another human being (or the socially mutated versions of one).

Truth:
Truth is another crucial piece of who I am from one moment to the next; it has come to burn in my veins like molten lava these days, and growing increasingly more important to every nano-thought in my head. Acceptance of truth is part of this element; and as painful as this aspect often is for me, in my own experiences, the truth carries weight that is undeniably addictive to my heart, spirit and mind somehow…
Perhaps after all, “the truth shall set me free”.

Boo Who?

“…she really almost died, was closer than not to death…because they had no qualms over torturing her to death…”
(a statement made by a detective to me over the phone this morning about Boo…)

It was times such these that prompted the creation of my blog to begin with…because I have ZERO support in the harsh real-time of everyday Real Life and was at my wit’s well tattered end, and desperate to relate to somebody (ANYBODY!) in regard to my tragic experiences in motherhood. So…with that being out of the way and written, I am once again: thrown abruptly into that very desperation for support.
My daughter has been hospitalized in Arizona; with injuries and occurrences that proved newsworthy (see previously posted article here). She had surgery this morning on her arm (broken in two places) and remains in the ICU at the hospital at present. The most heartbreaking part about her current status of “safety” is that it is as good as wasted on her; she will disappear once more from trauma recovery in the hospital – she ALWAYS does…it will not be long before she finds herself in a newly created but eerily similar situation – it NEVER is when she is left to her own devices, whatever those may consist of, anyway.
For ME – a surviving victim of a near-death throat slashing that ended years of sadistic torture and domestic captivity, intentionally CHOOSING to return to an environment that even holds the slightest possibility for the unfolding of oppressive or violent events is unfathomable and incomprehensible. When removed from the role of her fierce and worried mother, the lack of any lessons learned from handfuls of horrible circumstances Boo has miraculously survived so far becomes haunting. My inability to relate to her thinking or motivations grows by the day and, in turn, so does my dislike for the character she owns. I was almost murdered by her father – I came very close to being murdered successfully by his own hand…but, this was the crux of many unspeakable physical injuries and sexual assaults that I had endured throughout our marriage – it was my own boiling point that is inevitable for any “battered woman” who is hostage to a violent sadist. I saw it coming. I knew it had been looming overhead when it was. I had various emotional attachment elements that I allowed to narrow my thinking and ability…Boo knew her most recent abuser just a few days…
And again, here I am right back at that loss for any figment or thread of understanding…my chest feels hollowed out anew…my struggles feel so in vain…my only child defines a testimonial mockery of my own survival and ongoing recovery from torturous violence and evil (who so happened to be Boo’s father). The contrast between Boo and I in the presence of any self-preservative behaviors is so starkly sharpened that I wait for it bleed me dry.

Beckoning Support for the Bear Trainer.

She didn’t tell anyone, because she’s just like that…(she only shares her burdens when she feels like there is no other way), but the Bear Trainer is in major surgery today.

I shouldn’t be airing her laundry like this either – but I feel like EVERY last person who sends her positive energy will make a difference for her outcome. I won’t get too personal with this, other to say that her condition is very serious and life threatening at present; and I ask any of my readers to keep the Bear Trainer in every possible thought towards the upswing until I hear from her.

https://amalijaamalie.wordpress.com

Please keep her in your strongest of thoughts today. Thanks, everyone.

Min Ven.

A Toast
from one dead soldier,
to another –
cheers
from one dawning sun,
to the moonlight –
let’s get fucked up tonight;
this life’s been hard,
hard as fuck to survive,
skål
let the tears fall,
my friend –
we’ve been
through it all;
fighting back to back,
through the fires
of living Hell…
seën
to all of our times alive,
to our many defeated
victories stacked up high;
velsigne dig
a key that we found
in the enemy’s pocket,
a while back –
we both knew what it unlocked,
and so it was tossed
into a well as we passed;
min ven:
Moenie bang wees nie,
this too, shall pass us by –
like the many storms weathered
between you and I,
you will keep walking,
right here at my side,
and I shall abide.

Spun Too Long.

Moonlit terrain,
sand grain,
foamy kisses
between
seas and shores,
blue-green,
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,
dangerously
here where the
shores kiss the seas,
do not leave
in the absence
of my trailing feet.
Memories overlaid,
delusions overplayed,
broken
like a record
the turntable
spun too long
until the sound
fell silently away.

Teachers.

your-best-teacher-last-mistake-life-quotes-sayings-pictures

The Misidentified:
a Blood Eagle Rite;
a person who hides
behind
an opaque web of lies.

The Egotistical:
a Wolf in Sheep’s wool;
a person who is cruel
a fool
that never learned in school.

The Dishonest:
a Forged Document;
a person who spreads
darkness
and vomits resentment.
The Opportunist:
Never a Chance missed;
a person waiting in secret
focused
on the potential stumble in a step.

The Self-Designated:
the Power and the Glory, faded;
a person who is motivated
over-rated
by a harem blindly cultivated.

The Self-Assured:
The Most Boring Tale Ever Heard;
a person who is falsely secured
by words
as solid as the bridges burned.

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 http://rememberhowtofly.com.

Damages.

gandhi_just causeThey have already officially tried to block me from the courthouse today; they are using the ol’ “she does not cooperate under the code of the law” bullshit…which is true, I do not cooperate with their destructive plan to ruin Boo’s life, and never will. Despite the fact that there is not a shred of evidence that would back the pathetic social worker’s attempt at keeping me out, there have already been red flags raised up over my presumed parking spot, downtown, across from the courthouse where Boo is as I type this.
I will go anyway, and I will park there anyway, and I will get out by myself and walk into the courthouse like it’s my job, because it is.
They cannot keep me from a public courthouse or courtroom unless I am held in contempt; which hasn’t even come close to happening yet…
All of my friends and cyber family:
TODAY is a BIG BIG DAY for Americana and Boo, please send us your good energies and/or prayers. WE NEED THEM.
Here goes nothin’….

Postcards From Freedom! *A Population Study*

POPULATION:     Not Enough.

POPULATION:
Not Enough.

Safety Meeting.

96AYTZjDRB

YOU know who YOU are:
I am speaking to YOU – Little Soldier…

YOU have no choice now, besides to trudge through; you have made it to the clearing, now all we have to do is get you across without incident and you, my friend, will finally be FREE.
You might have to suck up a few difficult things to swallow, though…none of the things that you possess matter, when it comes down to your LIFE. None of your huge and vast collections of things from the thirteen long years in between now and the last time that you were FREE make a fucking difference anymore, I hate to say…I struggled so hard and stupidly, blindly – – – with this factor when all was said and done and I look back in honesty at myself and why I never had what it took to get FREE. I was accidentally, on total fluke of nature, FREED, as a result of the tragic ending that YOU can foresee all too easily for yourself. I know that YOU can.
You “admire me”…my “strength and courage” and “bravery”…
Then HEAR ME when I say to you that you have the chance right now to be someone even more admirable than I could ever be: YOU can FREE yourself without being almost killed (any more than you already have been, at least). YOU can be the one who WALKS HERSELF OUT, UNINJURED to safety, to a FREE place where others can admire and look up to you for inspiration. It will be tenfold of anything that you think I stand for in the world of FREEDOM that you’ll shine brighter and longer, with a beam that reaches further.
THIS is MY plea to YOU, soldier…
DO NOT ALLOW THE THINGS YOU OWN TO OWN YOU…
Not a single one of those things is a fair trade for your survival, you are loved and supported and understood and appreciated out in the FREE WORLD already…that’s ALL YOU NEED to get up on your feet on the other side. I hope this message reaches you in your most open and willing state of mind…I hope you will let go of everything and anything that you need to let go of in order to come out and be FREE soon.
WE LOVE YOU.

Innocent.

“One day…

you’ll have to let it go,

you’ll have to let it go…

One day…

and stand up on your own,

yeah stand up on your own…

Remember losing hope,

Remember feeling low,

Remember all the feelings,

and the day they stopped.”

D is for Dissociation.

Dissociation:
The word, alone, conjures up images of schizophrenic women huddling in corners, whispering to themselves, insane – completely detached from any reality that any observer may live inside of…I always default back to the book I read during my time in the Girls’ Ranch when I was fourteen about a survivor of ritualistic childhood trauma, the only way this creature was able to survive at all was through dissociation – to the point of losing herself somewhere within its comforts along the way.
I am not a childhood trauma survivor; I cannot emphasize enough – my unwavering admiration and respect and awe of this type of survivor, though it deeply hurts my heart that they even exist at all as a face of Survival…
Children…Children = whatever hope we have left as a species…the cycle of abusing them is in dire need of a screeching halt caused by our own feet sticking firmly in the ground and demanding it. The damage it causes is creating an unseen evolution in our entire species – RECOGNIZE.
Dissociation is a psychological coping mechanism that is often utilized by children in traumatizing situations from which they are unable to physically escape to safety. It is also commonly seen in “battered women” with the same inability. I became very intimately familiar with this form of mental escapism as a means of physical survival during my marriage to a psychopathic murderer; it was, in my opinion, the very most important tool that I used throughout the entirety of my living nightmare – it enabled me to survive.
Despite my very personal experiences with dissociation and the execution of its use in my own past, over the decade in between then and now, I have been successful in learning to keep its use from creeping so far into my daily existence that it throttles out the original “me” with traits that define the “me” who I essentially created back then to be stronger, to be the protector, to be the survivor, to be the primordial. I believe this has ONLY been possible for me due to the fact that dissociation did not become a mechanism of mine until I was a young adult in a tragic situation; I am also able to see very clearly: the hairline fractures left in my soul from its presence in my life for a short time. It’s as a direct result of my own experiences with dissociation, that I am able to readily bleed for anyone who I happen upon that continues to dissociate as an adult – man or woman. The root cause of this psychological affect is so horrible and full of helplessness and hopelessness that it’s difficult to even put into words – what must cause an adult to retract into la-la land as a means self-preservation…I can tell you whatever it is, will be anything but a simple “fix”.
The purpose behind this post is not to sway any opinions by any means, if you are a judgmental ass – I can’t change you…but it really bothers me when I am reading things that are spilled out of a heart belonging to someone who has obviously been through some serious shit – only to follow it up by reading mean-spirited and heartless bullshit in the comments section left from some jackass douche-bag with a quarter brain cell. When you have the capacity to go out of your way to talk shit to a stranger in obvious emotional turmoil, what does that say about what the fuck you REALLY are at the end of the day? Chew on that, please. I’m sorry that you have an emotionally unstable and troubled ex-girlfriend who happened to manifest her own demons by fucking your friends behind your weaselly back, but that doesn’t automatically chalk up the word dissociation with her and her behaviors that you experienced. DO SOME HOMEWORK before you publicize your complete lack of knowledge and//or humanity, if such is not your intention. You reek of stupidity and weakness. Seriously, I’m embarrassed for you upon reading such garbage you see fit to leave scattered across places of healing energy. You should be ashamed of yourselves, every last one of you. Let me ask you – any of you shallow mother fuckers that troll to talk shit:

Does anyone here actually believe that an adult would purposely or intentionally CHOOSE to have to escape reality in order to deal with it? REALLY???

This is what’s wrong with everything, you blind fucks!!! YOU.

Anni

It never goes very long without a reminder; a bottle to the forehead…a wake-up refresher course in “Domestic Captivity”; there are too many of us out there for it to ever stop being revisited, even by Survivors like me, who hasn’t felt a physical blow for a decade now. Today, I want to introduce my readers to someone “new” to my crew…although to call her “new” at this would be a lie – she is a front line soldier of 13 years in the War on Domestic Violence and Captivity. My new friend is, unfortunately, a veteran at receiving cruelty at the hands of the man she once trusted loved and married – in a blinded state of being. Anni, who has some strikingly similar history to mine, however, the thing is – Anni’s isn’t history as of yet…she still resides in Domestic Captivity from one day to the next – walking on egg shells from one step to the next – surviving on the most basic of things: HOPE.
When I see her appear in my comment s section, I am always washed over by relief that she has returned again, alive and engaged, to seek what little support for her grueling circumstances that she can get – no matter how minimal it may be from the blogosphere. I am always shaken to tear after reading her frank and totally honest posts about her life with her own Monster, just like The Ripper…eerily like The Ripper. These are the details surrounding Anni that terrify me for her ongoing survival – she remains in the grips of a man who I imagine as having The Ripper’s face – based on his characteristic traits and behaviors toward her. The patterns she describes are so identical to his leading up to the day he cut my throat, that it’s truly difficult for me to NOT take action of my own in this particular situation, as I genuinely fear he will eventually kill her, or at least try his damndest to. Anni and I are kindred souls, also…having been cosmically connected from day one, in addition to our similarities in experience; we are born of the same stock of Survivor, obviously. I don’t know her in real life…I have never seen her face or nursed her wounds…I have never stood in between her and her monster to protect her from being hurt anymore…but I would gladly do any of the above, if given the opportunity. I mean that.
I suppose the point behind my writing this post is because it is important for EVERYONE to know how REAL and ALIVE the Monsters are to those of us who are held captive by their grip over our very livelihood…from day to day. I feel that as a human being, a survivor of a sadistic and inhumane Terrorist Husband, but most importantly: as someone who gives a fuck about her outcome, it’s important for ALL OF US to help her keep her HOPE alive until she is safely away and doesn’t need it anymore. It could mean all the difference between whether she continues to get back up or stays on the floor, and that’s truth. Someone like Anni needs all of the support she can get right now…Just like Tee did before she finally got out and away to lasting safety. Tee says that she never could have made it a reality without her crew here as a means of support, and I believe her. Things may have gone much more smoothly for me had blogs been a thing back when I was in captivity…I think about this often.

TO MY AMAZINGLY SUPPORTIVE READERS:
MEET ANNI, go say hello to her and offer her whatever you have to offer her as a means of getting her through, if you’d be so kind…what goes around comes around…and she deserves to find some real support.

http://anni6290.wordpress.com/

Let’s Go Home.

lets go home

Ode to a Laughmaker

I was strolling through darkness;
A place high in the woods;
I was feeling lonely,
No bone in my body felt good.

I was thinking of resigning;
Had the towel ready to throw in,
That was when I came across a wolf;
Surrounded by female wolves that adored him.

Each one of them was beautiful;
And worked hard to keep his stare,
But his eyes were burning holes through me;
As he howled and sniffed the air.

I wasn’t sure if I should try to outrun him,
There were no words I thought to say;
That was when the wolf ran up to my feet,
With a face that simply wanted to play.

I let my guard down and got down on the ground,
I let the wolf tickle me and wrestle me around;
And the forest was filled with the happiest sound:
Laughter encompassed, and the sunshine poured down.

THANK YOU MARCUS.

Postcards from Freedom – Smile Again Someday.

Smile Again.

Re-Recovery.

cut throat as it comes

As a survivor, I can say that the word “recovery” gets thrown around an awful lot in the medical community, be it in regard to surgery, mental instability and/or impairment, a plethora of varying ailments and illnesses, and of course – alcohol and illegal drug addiction; we hear the word used to describe our economic status from time to time; we hear “recovery” used as a term to describe what occurs during police raids and hostage situations – in the context of anything from tangible assets, to living, breathing human beings. We hear the word used mostly in a productive element, as opposed to a dark or terrifyingly surreal one; the sound of the word “recovery” evokes a sense of upward motion or a confirmation of something’s very existence.
For me, hearing the word so often created a void of meaning, in the human context, at least. I’ve met too many “recovered” individuals that give me nightmares to believe in the idea of “recovery” being a universal one; I’m very keen to the fact that my recovery might not look a god damned thing like the next guy’s form of it – I know from personal and painful experience also, that the next guy’s version of being “fully recovered” might only slightly resemble one of my own first stages of the notion of fully recovering.

DOES THE TYPE OF RECOVERY MAKE A DIFFERENCE?
Well, duh….
Granted, the basic concept of “recovery” can be stitched loosely and tie together many types of circumstances and people who would otherwise have NOTHING as a common thread; however, the struggles and challenges of recovery that define a person who is recovering from a tonsillectomy for example, as opposed to a person in the grips of a recovery surrounding something along the lines of say: a traumatic injury, a behavioral or mood disorder, or a recent round of Chemo-therapy, forge a line in the dirt between two separate parts of reality. There are vast differences in the goals and time-frames that represent the recovery process of a post-op maintenance knee surgery patient, in stark contrast to the goals and time-frames in question for someone that’s also in medical/psychological recovery, and continues to suffer from the additional challenges presented by ongoing manifestations of anxiety or post-traumatic stress disorder – resultant of violently traumatic physical injury.
For example, let’s compare:
someone who is lying comfortably within the drug-induced haze of a post-op ward after a routinely performed surgical knee or back or shoulder repair procedure – one that had been scheduled by a specialist months ahead of time, having had plenty of associated information exchanged between healthcare providers and patient as a means of mentally preparing the patient as much as possible prior to surgery and, in turn, “recovery”. This patient will be detailed a strict rehabilitation schedule upon leaving the hospital, typically complete with a slew of exercise class and various physical rehabilitators that will ensure the complete and accurate recovery process.
TO…
someone who is in the drug-induced haze of a trauma ward or I.C.U. – post-op for an unknown length of time, enveloped by physical shock and acutely aware of the ease at which another individual is capable of harming her at will; unable to process the trauma that she has just endured and survived through somehow – unable to trust the safety that continues to be promised to her by the strange people she must depend upon to keep her alive from one long, pain filled day to the next. This patient does not know her surgeons, she does not know what they are performing the up close and very personal surgeries on her for, and this patient is confused, afraid and forlorn. There is no outline set forth for “recovery” upon the release of this patient from the hospital; she will be on her own to forge through the turbulence that awaits any victim of violent trauma.

The people along the way during the process will make an important difference in the overall outcome for each recovering patient, as well. Those with heart and humanity are the silent saints that have been scattered throughout the healthcare industry to somehow balance out the presence of those that represent the polar opposite of such kindness and compassion – and there are more than enough of that type.
For me, my experiences with “recovery” from the Ripper and my traumatic injury would have undoubtedly been defined much differently, had I not been pitied by the specific people who pitied me and in turn, offered me the gift of their attention. When I look back on the long and harrowing process of “recovery” from a near-fatal marriage that ended violently in a gore-fest that could have easily been ripped out of a low-budget horror film, and I recognize the alternate routes that it could have taken – based solely on the influences of outside stimuli that I was constantly exposed to during such a crucial time in my own physical, spiritual and psychological battle of “recovery”.

I am still far from fully “recovered” from my own experience fifteen years ago; it’s been a perpetually domino affected chain of events that have followed the day that I was finally released from the Hot House (the local ICU burn unit) – the day that I was technically deemed as being “recovered” and well enough to go “home”. Little did the prescribing doctors and specialists realize, I had no home anymore – and so the road to TRUE recovery likely began sometime around then, when I was faced with an overwhelmingly unwelcome reality that left me more or less speechless for months on end. Those days are the days that I consider to have been the bulkiest loads carried through my own recovery process so far – the days when I wasn’t sure what I was doing or why, just waking up and shuffling my feet for ten hours before falling back to sleep fitfully.
I had the blessing of motherhood back then; and somehow, I also had the ability, desire and presence of mind to appreciate such a gift – my only thing in the world that made sense and gave me purpose. Being a mom motivated me to carry on for something, it enabled me to escape my own world of confusion and the unknown; it healed me better than any of the days in the ICU ever could have healed me. I feel 110% certain that had I not had Boo and her existence to dive completely into like I did at the time of my “recovery”,

I wouldn’t have made it through the darkness and pain – I wouldn’t have even tried, I wouldn’t have wanted to.
Recovery has come and gone in varying fashion and multifaceted manifestations since the earliest days of my Cut-Throat Survivor’s birth; there are times when I feel so far from “recovered” that I laugh out loud at the prospect of considering myself a “survivor”; other days, I feel like I could mow down an entire task force with my saliva if I spit in that direction; it’s a relative to the current state of my own being, I suppose. I spent a lot of years in trying to fit into some type of “recovery” category or phase, to fall in line with some pre-defined step in a book of instructions on how to recover; I traveled into high and quiet places in attempt to clear my own mind and focus myself better; I’ve gone to prayer groups and spoken at huge seminars on domestic violence and chaired board meetings to outline legislative plans of action against child sexual assault. These things have each played a small part in my overall picture of “recovery”; but not one thing anywhere can ever be the solution in itself – for anyone.

The Recoverors.

The Recoverers.

RECOVERY is a path, a road to something better, whatever that might be for a given individual. RECOVERY is a haven for the souls lost to the torment of emotional shock; RECOVERY is a step in any direction when you haven’t been able to walk for a while; RECOVERY is the solution to the things that keep us lying awake at night, unable to rest our minds.
RECOVERY is yours, and it is mine – and it will NOT look the same on my plate as it does on yours.
And…that is okay…we can still digest the contents of it together.

Understanding

kiss011

Life often throws curve-balls at me when it comes to the stupid choices I make in regard to ‘trust’ and ‘the wrong people’; and so the story goes.

The older I get, the more able I am to take responsibility for my own parts in the bullshit that goes down between myself and others – and the older I get, the less willing I become to even involve the others at all in my existence.

Being online with so many diverse personalities has helped me to learn a lot about the unwillingness I have cultivated over the years; and it has also been my experiences with people online that have helped reaffirm a longstanding sentiment I’ve held when it comes to the people around me:

  1. I do not have to love them.
  2. I do not have to understand them.
  3. I do not even have to give a shit about them.

But my not giving a shit about somebody in whom I foster no love or understanding for should not impede my own sense of morality and/or humanity as a result; and I should never allow it to.

Soon.

bluejaws

Lately, I have contracted my way into a freelance bid that was accepted by a snooty committee; and now I have a job once again – for now, at least.

* Something so-called “productive”, to keep my troubled brain occupied and my body out of jail, or worse.

 Lately, everything I feel and experience is filtered out by a dulling effect that is new to me – my senses seem to have literally left me completely – and I function on a totally strange and detached level than any I’ve lived through in the past.

* I am anything but “present” these days, let me tell you.

 Lately, I was reminded of how very dangerous it is to open myself up to another person with the hopes of reciprocal GOOD at heart; I have been shown this lesson several times before and will likely see it again before I actually LEARN its value in the context of myself; but it’s a lesson that hurts like Hell each time, either way.

* One of these days, I will pack up my shit and move out to the sticks flying solo – then maybe I’ll finally get it.

 Lately, I have noticed that my friends are avoiding me again:

  1. the intense, fixed stare at the television whenever I walk into the room,
  2. the ear-buds permanently in each ear 24-7
  3. the unfailing, but “sudden” need to go to the bathroom whenever I show up to smoke a cigarette in the smoking pit

I can see the writing on the wall, and I don’t blame any of them I guess…I wouldn’t want to be in my company either.

* Just because I’m officially an emotionally resigned, spiritually bitter aging bitch doesn’t mean that all of my friends are riding that same wave; some of them actually have reason to celebrate things.


The last year has been the foggiest out of my entire life somehow, despite the many years I have under my belt from my youth spent under the influence of narcotics or the morphine drip I survived on later on during my “hospital era”; I can honestly say that I have been simply “going through the motions” of everyday with only the goal of the following night in mind.

* When I’m sleeping, I don’t have to cope with reality so much.

 

And that is just how I gotta survive right now; whether I like it or don’t.

 

 

If You’re Going Through Hell…

If You're Gong Through Hell...

Keep Going.
-Winston Churchill

Before, the Trauma, and Afterwards

Image

My therapist says he doesn’t recognize me immediately sometimes upon my entering his creepy, hippie lair on the ninth floor;

“Gee, I didn’t know that was you there, you look different again…” He laughs in a way that I imagine a little, over-caffeinated tree squirrel might laugh, “What’d you do something different to your hair?…”

The spark in his eyes dies down with the shaking of my head and the brisk walk I execute directly toward, frustrated by his ignorance on the topic, as usual.

It’s an ongoing battle for me: nearly impossible at times for me to go out and about without any obvious and public meltdown as a result of the anxiety and self-consciousness…how shallow of me, I know right? Can’t help it though, it’s true and very real – this anxiety driven fear attached to my face and the skin that holds it to my neck, somehow beating to the drum of my very heart; it’s easy to forget that I do not necessarily resemble a grotesque thing these days (bitter, hater exes, not included) in regard to my “first impression” upon others in appearance.

…but let me tell you, there was a time following the injury when this wasn’t the case…

These days, I try my best to blend myself out with the way that I look – not quite wanting to fit in with everyone else in the flock I’m so desperately trying to ditch, but not attention seeking by any means (unsurprisingly, indefinite number’s of surgeons foggily standing around you, above your head with a finger in your face will teach you to sit back and shut the fuck up pretty quickly).

I’m feeling better now, marching taller; but still quite resentful at the drummer for the absolute relentlessness of the beat I must keep up to.

“Hey! I’m busy feeling sorry for myself over here..can you slow down the tempo for once, please, fuckin’ Ringo!”

ImageI’m not really feeling sorry for myself (Ahem!)

Not so long as I’m on the ‘Up and Up’, I’m alive and…well, I’m alive – that’s the important part to life.

Seeing Renee

I saw Renee today; all grown up and covered in dark make-up, hair twisting down to her ass in shiny, sleek braids and tresses; she looked beautiful – sixteen and a half years old already and driving her father’s beat up old blue pick-up truck…

Renee and Boo used to be best friends for like – EVER, in the ‘hood. They went to different schools but played every day after homework was done, took each other on family trips and so on. By the time that Boo had to leave home in exchange for a “residential treatment facility” because of her increasingly unruly behavior, the girls had grown apart for the same reason: Renee is a tried and true “angel”, without a mean bone in her body; Boo is natural-born and rightful Hellraiser.

Seeing Renee today, so happy and full of life and promise and bright futures wide open to her, I have to confess I was stricken by some sort of jealousy or envy – CORRECTION – I was nearly consumed by it.

I spoke to her for a few minutes about her dad and dogs and whatever other things I could think up to say as I watched her eyes dart everywhere around us, looking for Boo – searching for Boo with so much hope and excitement barely contained behind her eyes. It always goes this way when I see one of Boo’s friends, or better yet: a parent of one her friends – someone who knows very little about me and my daughter’s trials and tribulations – someone ready to spit venomous and projected judgments at me,

I finally shot out my hand and grabbed Renee’s arm, surprising myself with my own sudden decision, and said,

“Renee, you and Boo might be totally different and worlds apart these days, but she’s been MIA on the run for almost 2 months and just found out that her father died; yeah – her father died, yeah, the one that’s been in prison – he died; she just returned from AWOL yesterday morning to hear that news, and…well, you know how she is…she could probably use a friend, a real friend right now…”

My eyes stared down at the concrete where we stood in front of the donut shop, my grasp still tight on her arm. Her response was almost immediate, and painfully sincere; she said,

“I love Boo and always will, but I guess it’s because of that, well that’s why it’s too hard to be friends with her…you know?…because she hates herself so much…”

I choked up, but covered it beautifully behind my dark sunglasses; I smiled down at her, my grip loosening slowly and gently, so as not to imply any offense or resentment towards her. “I know, Kiddo…” I said, “I understand…”

Cut Throat #6 – Another Beautiful Discovery

 

TS

The sixth official member and the youngest Cut-Throat online so far, a teenaged survivor of domestic abuse and terrorism; a sweet and loving young woman with her whole life ahead of her: Please welcome another survivor of the good fight!

Miss Teen Survivor at:

http://teensurvivorofdomesticviolence.wordpress.com/

 

Today’s Beautiful Discovery

3rd member announcementI’d like to drag an index finger across my fully recovered throat for the most recently discovered Diamond in the Rough, and very celebrated newest member of the growing Cut-Throat Club Online – a place where the spirit of the struggling Survivor is acknowledged in full.

The following is an excerpt is from her blog; in my opinion, this small piece of her written thoughts – this snapshot of her brave struggle – bleeds the essence of the survivor for whom I hold the utmost appreciation and respect. This excerpt is a testament to her status of what I consider to be the epitome of a truly “cut-throat” soldier of the survivor clan – and I’m proud to welcome her talented presence into the club.

The first thing that caught my eye on her blog:

“I have borderline personality disorder, but I am not my diagnosis. I am a loving, sweet and kind person. I want to help others, I want to explore the world and make people happy.”

The piece that sealed her fate as a “Cut-Throat”:

 

“….The few months following her death were a blur, I guess I went to classes, I have the degree to prove I did. My heart wasn’t in it, my head wasn’t in it. I isolated myself, angry at every one. What’s the point of even leaving this bed if every one I love will leave me? I longed to lay down in the dirt where she was left, for two weeks, I longed to somehow drift away into a peaceful death where I could be with her. 

It’s been a little over six months and it’s not easier, but it is different. I ache for her every morning when I wake up. I dream she’s still with me, before my rational brain screams “she’s dead” in my ear and I’m woken up with a jolt. The abandonment is real, there is only loss, but I’m learning to love and cherish the good. I’m learning to use my grief to motivate my own life….”

 

I’m so very glad to welcome:

Miss “Inconsistently Yours”

Surviving like a Soldier over at:

http://inconsistentlyyours.wordpress.com/