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.”


When every single face becomes
just a reason to divert my eyes
and every carbon-based “human”
alerts my nerves to stand on high
when every time that I try to break ahead
just enough to finish this looking alive
a backpedal finds me a crack in my head
and then I stupidly struggle to survive
where progression is stunted by stagnancy
and my clothes are all pocket-less
the place between strength and subjectivity
where I stand without answers to this
And every day brings another slap to the face
every night finds me hollow and numb
each decision that I’m left unable to dominate
every turn of the screws in my thumbs
where I’m hungry often but hardly ever eat
and my shades stay drawn all year round
there’s no word for such charged irritability
every day becomes just a target to take down
I am overly tired and I am deeply annoyed
there is a train wreck surging through my veins
I’m living in the body of a fabricated android
being taunted by the distant cries of a runaway.


If I were more like a tree
I could spread my roots deeply
I could sway every day in the forgiving breeze
I could grow old and die in solitary
If I were more like everybody
Life would not hurt quite as badly
Because I don’t find the same kind of misery
In any of the other creatures that I see
If I were more like I was meant to be
I’d do a better job at fixing everything
Things wouldn’t be toppled all around me
I could climb from the hole in which I’ve been buried
If I had been any easier to lead
Around by a tether and bound hands and feet
Id understand better the rest of the sheep
And be happy to forget my own individuality
If I were more of the woman I set out to be
Life might feel more like a warm homecoming
As it is, I stumble and struggle endlessly
Not to stray too far away from the ilk that shames me

Hum In The Air.

Traveling swiftly,
along in between,
the shuffling feet,
dropping and lifting,
to static frequencies,
over the threshold,
off of the streets,
into the bustling,
and humming,
of a million machines,
the very needs,
of broken human beings…
over the sounds,
of the technology,
tubes and dressings,
Hallmark blessings,
I hear her breathing,
in the darkness,
over the chorus,
of the ticks, clacks,
hisses and beeps,
she breathes her way,
through the night,
to see another day,
that she’d preferably,
rather not even see,
which is sadly telling,
told by the many injuries,
outside and within,
the broken bones and skin,
all of the gods damned,
technologies and,
cures known to man,
won’t change anything,
the hand,
she’s been given,
the Hell,
that she must live in…
this was once my baby,
and she will,
always be,
worth so much more,
than what she perceives,
as reality,
no hope anymore,
of something in store,
hidden from the sight of me,
I hold my breath in,
if I fail to register,
rhythmic machines,
over it all,
the patients in the halls,
the button to call…
the sound I faintly hear,
here and there,
along a stream-flow,
of the hospital air,
it’s dull and low,
but a sound I know,
all too well,
it’s the rewound,
haunting sound,
voice to the face,
of my baby,
saying things like,
“Mommy please help me.”

“The Apologetic Puckerface”.

Dr. Quackenfuck has coined a new term for my “I’m Sorry” face; since he says he sees it appear so often;

“You know…? For someone who’d always be the very last one to go out of your way to hurt anybody, you sure do say ‘I’m sorry’ a lot.”

“Yeah, yeah – I know…it’s some fucked up default mechanism I have apparently acquired in more recent years; thanks for the highlight though, dude.”

2015-02-18_14.03.01-1(1)I say “I’m sorry” more than any other phrase or statement – by a landslide. It’s similar to the way we, as human beings (especially the more mutated versions of the species), have cultivated the habit of robotically responding to questions such as, “How are you?” with “Good” or “Fine”, or any other variation of such meaningless syllables. We have evolved within our spoken and written languages worldwide in this way: to carry less and less meaning on the wings of our words.
My tendency to spit out the phrase “I’m sorry” has only become annoyingly predominant within the past decade, yes – it was born into the “Post Ripper Era” with the current-day ‘me’. It seems to be a reflexive response that I execute most commonly, as a knee-jerk response to the things that are going on around me – with particular emphasis on things that I feel like I have no control over. For instance, 1) when my girlfriend tells me she lost her purse and everything in it: I tell her that I’m sorry; 2) when a client mentions the hardship that he or she is having financially: I respond my saying that I’m sorry; 3) when the clerk at the grocery store dumps a handful of coins as she hurriedly tries to punch them into my palm at the register: my reaction is to apologize to her for her lack of grace. It is something that comes up time and again between me and my family/friends, also; everybody always seems to be asking me what I am sorry about.
Most of the time, as soon as I say it, I think to myself:

‘What the fuck are YOU even sorry for, Bambi?’

– only to come up empty once again, in regard to an acceptable answer as to why the hell I am so fucking sorry all the time, about everything.
The over-caffeinated tree-squirrel (my shrink) says that this likely stems from my “Survivor’s Guilt”; that lovely term some moron psychiatrist coined to describe that emotional/mental anchor that I drag from my ankles, when it comes to any guilt I continue to harbor from my previous existence before that last, major injury. He seems to think that I subconsciously believe that apologizing to others about totally unrelated events will bring me comfort and closure somehow…I seem to think that he is a full-blown crackhead if he honestly believes that I am so fucking dense. I mean – c’mon…I think I deserve a little more cred on the self-awareness front than to actually have my shrink entertaining such miserably pathetic ideas about where my head is at. Damn!
I’m not sure, as there are admittedly many aspects surrounding my do-over life that I do not fully comprehend at this point of things, but I would venture to say that I say I’m sorry so often because I feel like I am sorry pretty often…duh. When my cousin totals her car on the interstate and gets arrested for DUI and tries to call me for bail money: I am sorry when I tell her I’m sorry; same goes for most of the various instances in which I can be found spitting out apologies for things that I did not necessarily have any hand in causing or creating – I can feel sorry that bad things to other people, I can offer apologies for how fucked up the world is becoming in general. I am truly sorry for the things that many of us are forced to endure throughout life and death and everything in between.
And, it turns out, upon closer introspection on this topic – the root trigger to my compelling need to say that I am sorry is exactly what I am constantly apologizing for: IT IS THE COLLECTIVE UGLINESS OF MY FELLOW HUMAN SPECIES. Most of the times that I say “I’m sorry” to somebody when I have done nothing to warrant a personal apology, it is due to my own disgust with the things that people unfailingly do to others – no more, no less.



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.

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:

Gone Again…

I just got the call that has been Déjà vu’d into my existence like some horror-esque Groundhog Day – my daughter has gone missing from the private hospital in which she has been recovery from her last disappearance; she has opted to leave once again by her own free will. And just like that, she’s gone into the unknown (and known to a terrifying degree) without a trace or a second thought about her own safety or livelihood.  She doesn’t understand the mathematics of her situation, the power of equation – probability and finite conclusions.

I am old enough to know that we are each going through life as a dollar bill in the pocket of a manic gambler in a casino, drink in hand; we will play anywhere from one to a bazillion times before we run out of luck and are gone to the masses of dollar bills inside the machine that was the swallower of the gambler hopes and dreams. I am able to recognize the fact that the odds are already stacked against this situation; and with the gambler carelessly spinning wheel of chance time and again, her odds are quickly thinning. I can see how the mathematics of probability declare the eventuality of her luck running out and the wheel stopping at a very unhappy ending.

I’ve told her this, I have explained that one day, she is going to hitch a ride with the WRONG man and she will lose the ability to decide when and how to come home again when she’s ready; I’ve told her that she is gambling with her very life when she impulsively disappears from sanity like this…she doesn’t care.

I knew it was just a matter of time before I received a call from yet another detective on a newly filed missing person’s case on my only child; and I know it’s just a matter of time before other horrible calls come at the rate my daughter is at with her self-worth in the world. It baffles me, truly…I don’t really do the praying thing but anyone out there who does please pray for my daughter’s safety in the days to come.

Damn it, these are the days when surviving is the most depressing thing that I’ve done for myself.