Writer...right?

I was visiting with Tree last week and she said something that I may have taken offense at. No, offense is not the correct word. Perhaps, pesky is more apropos. We were talking about therapy assignments and the grating nature of them in-general.  I was saying how a certain journaling assignment was distressing. Her comment “Well C, that’s because you’re not a writer. You're just not very good with words.” Hmm, okay I thought that stung a bit. The thing is she is right. I am not good with words. I am not good with most any kind of words. Does that mean I’m not a writer? I have horrific handwriting. No one could read it even if they wanted to. I have a very hard time with the volume of my voice. I have been told more often than not to be quiet. I struggle with knowing what words are appropriate for any given situation. I can’t spell to save my life. I am horrendous at BOGGLE, scrabble, bananagrams or any other alphabet stringing games. I can’t even finger spell. I nearly had to give up ASL just because when a person is finger spelling I can’t follow. Luckily, for me most deaf folks are forgiving.  I am whole heartedly dyslexic. Numbers are just as bad. Everyone in the room who has dyscalculia and dysgraphia raise your hand. 

However, I love words. I love ideas, etymology, linguistics and how we use them to communicate. We tell stories, legends, history all with words. I find it fascinating and amazing. I love how in some languages they're are words that can’t translate. I am amazed that someone in the beginning of time picked up that first burned stick. Maybe they put their finger in sand, or blood and started to communicate.  I think those first people had so much to share. First in pictures, or hand prints on walls. Then in scratches, lines, suddenly three lines together meant something. On and on until now. Until me, where I am sitting in a room connected to the whole world. With a box that is made up of letters, lines, dashes and dots.  To me that is miraculous. 

I am a reader. I absorb history, fiction, nonfiction, and random facts like a sponge. I was that kid the one who could be found hiding in the stacks for hours. I read the encyclopedias, dictionary, and almanac. It was how I escaped. I had only one true safe place, my mind, my imagination. When my body could not escape my mind took me away. Books were vital. I felt so alone. Stories kept me alive then. They kept me alive through cancer, chronic pain and illness. Books have at times been my only friends.

I believe that stories are important. I believe that all people have stories to tell. Now, I don’t like some people’s stories. I do find though that even people I dislike, find disturbing, disgusting, or that I hate. They do teach me with their stories, their words. I think that as humans we have been given great responsibility in the use of words. They are so powerful. We cannot only use our senses but we can describe them. To use words, to teach, to comfort or to harm.

As a person whose voice was stolen. I want to say that I may not be a writer. I may not be a speller, or an alphabet stringer togetherer. I don’t really want to be a writer, or a grammatical error righter. I want to be storyteller. I want to be a communicator. I want to be a sponger of stories. 

I am changing this blog to that my story.  Some of my story is dark. It is painful to share. I believe though that if I put it out there or here? Into internet land that perhaps I can begin to connect to it. To know that it is mine. No, I don’t journal my every thought. I have never thought anyone would care. That anyone would believe. I now know it isn’t about anyone else. Just me.  I love you Tree, thanks for making me think.  I know that you meant that I have had the same journal for six years. I know that you know me and that I also have more collages in said journal.

Feeling Feels blech.....

Okay. So Daily Grace is one of my new favorite youtbers.  She is teaching me to cook. Yeah so shout out there. All righty down to business. I am in a confusing, odd duckish, emo place, right now. I have told all of you folks that stop by here. (Yes, I know nobody stops here) So, maybe I'm talking to all of my crazy mofo personalities. Wow, could this get anymore stream of consious off topic dumb? Yep I'm sure it can.
       So yes, I started EMDR. I fucking hate it. It sucks. I am wondering if stiring the witches cauldron of feels that I have been avoiding since my "trauma" officially stopped, is worth it.  Having said that I by no means want to give the impression that the cauldron hasn't been a roiling boil since then. I just avoided it more effectively with ineffective behaviors. Wow,  that sounds crazy.  I don't understand why it is so important to deal with it. Is than not what life is? Do we as humans ever not have to deal with it. Whatever it maybe. So I deal with feeling sad, shame, guilt, fear, and all other feel adverbs/adjectives by starving, puking, cutting, dissociating, sarcasm, and incongruent facial expressions. Why is that bad? Why is hurting myself not okay? I get that it's different. I can understand that my actions frighten others. Well, their crying, wailing, apologizing, and communication. Freak me out.  So can we just agree that these weird feelers god or mother nature( whoever/however you got here.) gave us are stupid?  I can say with my brain that I was raped, abused, tortured, brutalized, and all those horrifying things that so many people endure in this world. My brain gets it. I remember. It is not a secret. So, how do I convince the screaming child deep in my heart that it is OVER. Stop yelling! Just stop please, please, pretty please. Please, take your secrets, pain and memories and move out. Leave me alone. This body is not yours anymore. You died. They killed you over and over again. You became me. I know this is not who you wanted to be. I get it. However, making me crazy is doing either of us any good. Furthermore, taking away my voice these last few months, is hurting us both. We are the same. I am you. You were me. Maybe you still are me, is that why you scream? Why don't you have any words. Where are your words? I hate you and your feelings. I can understand words and ideas. You have none. I want to feel peace, joy, love, humor. I want to remember feeling loved and wanted. I want to remember christmas and my birthdays. Where are those memories? You are just pain. You are hate. You are horror. You are reality.  I feel only confusion.
That is all that comes to mind after my first EMDR session. In other contradictory news. I got my Temple date, January 2, 2014 I will be an endowed member of The Church Of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. I know most people are weirded out by mormons. If you weren't weirded out before now this should be a tiny wierd. For some people it is a deal breaker though. So if that is you. That's cool no hard feelings here. No Judgment either, Just because something works for one doesn't mean it works for all. The reason I brought it up though is because in making this commitment and covenant with My Father in heaven is on the flip side of this coin.  The feeling that goes with it is excitement, self worth, and mastery. How do I reconcile feelings? Good, bad, ugly or amazing.

Name Change????

I need to rename this blog so... I'm thinking something more catchy and less depressing. Ok so This Blog is officially under construction.

Seeds of doubt

 So here we are again.  Friday. I hate Friday. I'm usually alone. I'm remembering. I hate feelings. I hate memories. I tried so hard to forget. They refuse to stay buried. 

      I had an experience this last month with members of my family telling me that my mind is playing tricks on me. I hope. It would be so nice to be able to say I made this all up. That I do not remember being raped. I don't remember being tied down and violated. I made it all up. That my family was there at all times protecting me. I am so relieved to know that I was safe. I'm super grateful that the feelings of self hate, disgust and shame are all pretend. That all the times I was cut myself up. That whenever I shove my fingers down my gullet, or fast for days on end. That really that was all in vain. What a crock of shit. They were not there.  They did not come when I screamed. They did not protect me. I do Hate myself. I feel disgust and shame. Huge amounts of it. The physical scars, not just my self inflicted ones. They are real. I taught myself to forget. I taught myself to be nothing.  Nothing. 

   I want to disappear. I want to fade away. 

 I am discovering that I never really grew up.

I just grew layers of shame.  I grew inches of solid black around my heart. I locked up my childhood in a prison of filth. I forced that small child to carry all of her pain in silence. I hated her too. She never ran fast enough. She was never quiet enough. I am still doing it. I'm supposed to be an adult. I would never hurt a child. I would never force a little girl to carry a heart full of pain and abuse alone. I would never starve a child.  How could they make me. Why didn't they see? Where were they? They still want me to carry it alone. How? How do I carry something that almost killed me the first time? I'm so full of doubt. I'm still here somewhere right?????

When I was a kid we used to chant this stupid little rhyme about the weather.
Rain, rain, go away.
Come again another day.
It has so many versions, different people use it in songs.  It came to me last night that it is something I used to say to myself to dissociate but it went like this. Brain Brain, go away. don't come back today. I must have used this chant quite a bit because while trying to distract my self from the pain in my face. I could hear myself chanting pain pain go away. I can not deal with you today.  Over and over in my head. when suddenly it changed to the little brain rhyme.  I wonder how often I chanted away my brain? My face feels like it might explode. I'm wondering about pulling my tooth out with a pair of pliers.  I am fantasizing about shoving a knitting needle into my ear. Anything to get some proper pain relief. So no, I will just take more fucking drugs. They can't be any worse right? maybe if I drug myself into an oblivion I won't have to eat. I won't have to munch.  I can just be empty. empty minded empty souled.
Tomorrow I begin to see the trauma doc regularly. I hope he can help me because I can't shut it off. I can't make my brain go away lately and I used to be pretty damn good at that trick.  Good lord what is happening to me

Someone. Anyone,

Kill me. Please.

Put me out of this misery.

Now, would be the perfect time to blow, an aneurysm.

Wow, that almost rhymes. The thing is I am not trying to be poetic. I am merely trying to convince myself that continuing to breathe will be worth it.  Its eerie how fast I can see my own end hurtling down on me.

Now what

I feel so ill.  If I start to cry will it ever stop. Will the voice that is screaming ever quit.  I remember, I remember screaming, screaming. I remember the leash. I remember. Please god. Make me not remember. I don't want to remember the green walls and the dark. I am so scared of the dark. I don't want to go there. I promise I never told. I never told.  They promised. I never told.

Baby Steps??????

 

I hope you're right. The new T is okay. I think I spilled a little too much. I am starting to doubt myself. I'm wondering if it's possible to truly have lived my life.  Is it conceivable to have lived the life I have and still be alive?  I wonder if some people survive through sheer proof that we humans are in products of god. So, that god can say, " do you see? I am here. Aware of all of you.  You did not climb from ooze." 

   I am in no way saying that my existence is more deserving of god's proof. Oh, fuck it maybe I am. I have just noticed that when I talk people's eyebrows start to climb towards their scalp. 

"oh, sure, sure you survived cancer. You were in a coma ?? How many people sexually abused you??? Wait you have what kind of illness. trigeminal neuralgia? no that's not possible. You have autonomic neuropathy too. Sweetie, I'm pretty sure you're fucking delusional." Yes, I know.  I have never even thought about how much I have done that to other people.  I'm sorry about that. I get it now. 

  I asked the new T what the pros to EMDR are. He said things like, it's fast, its not triggering (as much), you stay grounded. Then he said that the processing happens on the inside.  Whaaaa ??? Hang on. I'm pretty sure the whole reason why I'm in a shit storm right now is because I can not process this inside my head.  I need to talk about it. I need to tell. I need to tell more than" oh hey I was sexually abused."  I have tried that move on fast bullshit. The whole "R, we don't need all the minutiae." " Can't we talk about something else?"  

  Now, I do not want to talk about everything. I do not need to describe every tiny detail. I do need to get some history straight. I do want  to say hey fuckers that douche bag raped me.  Maybe that's wrong. Maybe the platform for that discussion has disappeared. I don't care.  I DON'T CARE got it.  I don't  I wish I had the words before but I didn't. I do now.  I am hoping that is a step in the right direction. I hope that is my first step. I am pretty sure I have taken many first steps in the wrong direction. I don't really know how much more I have. 

Broken thoughts

 Wilkie asked me to make a list of what I wanted to be. Who the girl could have become.  She asked me if I knew. I don't know. I am so tired of people telling me that it was so long ago. Is that supposed to help? Am I supposed to know why I feel more broken today than a year ago?  I lost that so long ago. Now I'm supposed to walk into a new therapist? I'm supposed to tell him that so long ago someone ripped out my heart and ground it up. Could you please find it and put it back??? I feel so confused. I wrote this in my journal because everyone keeps telling me that I have to move on. That I have to find something to live for. I don't really know that I exist. So maybe its not about me.

     It's about her. It is not about how bad it was or how long it has been it is about her. A small girl's spirit that was broken and crushed time after time. It's about how the world went on without her. How her body grew and her mind. How her family never even suspected. It's not about therapy and its not about justice. Not about revenge. It's not about how bad it was or if it is still bad. It is not about growing up it isn't about how her body betrayed her over and over. It isn't about taking back my life. It isn't about moving forward. It isn't about who I am know or who I can choose to be. It isn't about watching her friends grow up and her sisters too. It isn't about being believed. It isn't about staying a child. It isn't about being alone. It's about a little girl with all her hopes and dreams. A pretty little girl who loves to twirl and laugh. A girl who had never felt unsafe. A child full of promise. An innocent baby. Brand new to this world. She was real. She really lived. I see her. I can almost catch a glimpse of her if I turn real fast. All of that gone in a moment. In a quick hard grasp, fingers with dirty nails, pulling and pushing. Ripping her clothes then her body. That was all it took she was gone. Her eyes went dark she held her breath and disappeared. She buried herself deep inside the darkest hole she could. She told herself that there was no hope, or beauty. That dreaming was dangerous. Worst of all she told herself that she was bad. That god made her bad. That he sent her to earth to be punished. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I don't know how to fix this.

Anyway, I start EMDR today.  What do I say to him? Uhh yeah hello. I'm your new fucked up trauma client.  I hope this isn't too much...  Wow, I can't even face myself in the mirror. Why is it when your doing something for the first time that you really really don't want to do your body grows 14 sizes? please god shoot me now

Bad week

I was so unique 

Now I feel skin deep 

I count on the make-up to cover it all 

Crying myself to sleep cause I cannot keep their attention 

I thought I could be strong 

But it's killing me 

Does someone hear my cry? 

I'm dying for new life 

[Chorus]

I want to be beautiful 

Make you stand in awe 

Look inside my heart, 

and be amazed 

I want to hear you say 

Who I am is quite enough 

Just want to be worthy of love 

And beautiful 

Sometimes I wish I was someone other than me 

Fighting to make the mirror happy 

Trying to find whatever is missing 

Won't you help me back to glory 

[Chorus]

You make me beautiful 

You make me stand in awe 

You step inside my heart, and I am amazed 

I love to hear You say 

Who I am is quite enough 

You make me worthy of love and beautiful

I was trying so hard to be more consistent in writing.  My life feels like it has been put on hold this past couple of weeks.  Okay, my life has been put on hold for years.  I'll just say its been pretty crappy.  

     I don't know very much about the spectrum of dissociation disorders. I do not even know if there is one.  I do know that I have struggled with it in the past. I seem to have a pretty big disconnect from my body. I think I also have one from my "identity".  However I don't really have any clue who I am right this second.  Where that fits into my identity, I have no clue. Here is what I do know.

    I know that I have sexual trauma in my past. I know that I have bullying and emotional abuse in my past. I know that I am scared.  I am terrified. There is not a word big enough for what I am.

    So, what's with the lyrics?  Sometimes I can't find the words, or arrange them to mean what I want to say.  Music helps me to do that.  this song is Called Beautiful.  Its sung by Bethany Dillion.  When I heard it it touched my lost soul. The part of me that remembers what I could have become.  When I say that, I don't really mean a different person/personality.   I mean that deep inside my spirit, my heart, remembers what I felt like before.  My terror started young.  I don't really have many conscience memories of the "first time".  I have always said I died. The real me. That she was murdered. That she became my screamer.  I remember when that happened. Is it a true linear memory, no, probably not. It is vivid though.  The screamer is also clear as glass. I can see her and hear her. Sometimes she gets very loud. Like right now.  She remembers being unique. She remembers having to die. I remember. I remember locking her away. Trying so hard to keep her safe.  I wanted her to go away.  It is her I see in the mirror. 

     Wilkie wants me to do EMDR. I think I have frightened her.  I have said way too much. which is just like me (blah,blah, blah,...) I don't really know.  I wish this would go away. I do not know why it refuses to stay buried. I wish someone could help. I wish. I wish.  Wishing doesn't work.   There is no one coming to save me. They were always right about that.  

     Wilkie asked me. Rissa, after all you have told me, about the illnesses, the abuse, the rapes. Could there possibly be anything worse? She said, maybe this feeling is a shift in thinking. Maybe the long held beliefs that you hold on to are changing.  That would feel very frightening.  It would be a very normal reaction to be apprehensive about being okay.  Damn, skippity, she is right about that. She is so very wrong about the storm that is coming her way.  

     What is coming? I don't know. It is going to be bad though, it feels like it might kill me.  I have said so often that I want to find the pieces of my broken soul that have been scattered like trash. I started with my spirituality. That has been a hard piece to find, it was ripped away so early.  I know now know that god didn't abandon me. In those places he could not enter and the times I had to walk alone he gave me a guardian angel to walk beside me.  He gave me a mind that could take me far away. I do not curse god. I only hope to understand. I know someday I will.  You know, I always hate when people get preachy on Facebook and blogs. However, since I'm pretty sure no body reads this blog.  I suppose I don't care.

   On the medical front, there is not much. The Neuroman says the MRI found white matter disease. He also does not think its causing my symptoms. so pretty much he thinks I'm full of shit. So I am taking a whole ton of meds and writhing in pain most of the time.  However, I can see my first 3 ribs so that is a super bonus.  Now if someone could please explain to me how I can have all the symptoms of autonomic dysfunction, and trigeminal neuralgia, but all of my tests are normal ??????? 

     Dear Lord,  please kill me? Please make this stop. If you can't make it stop please let others see it. I could really use someone on my side.  I could also deal a lot better with all of this if you would please make me 74 lbs. Yes, I know I am insane.  If I can't have any of the good please make this pain visible. Please god, Please help me deal with your will. Let me learn these lessons swiftly.  Please carry this.

     Wow, okay this blog post is so out of control. let's bring it back together and just say this. It has been a really hard week.  I am exhausted.  My screaming soul can not contain it anymore.

Free to choose ???????

Wilkie said something that so many people say to me.  " Riss, it seems to me that you fight so hard to keep your body alive." This came after a very long discussion about how I do not identify with this ugly, fat, sick, vessel that my mind and spirit calls home.  I have told her how disconcerting it is to stand in front of a mirror and not recognize who the hell is staring back.  So, I wondered if I should tell the truth about the physical part. I have never, not once told anyone why I am willing to treat the body when it is ill, or in pain. Granted, if I focus on the pain that is caused by living in a diseased body it is so much easier. Easier to admit that I have no fucking clue why my spirit is so ill. I don't have to admit that my mind is ill and torturing me.  Underneath all of that is another reason. One that I said out loud for the first time. I believe that the body god gave me was destroyed. Beaten, raped, and finally deemed used up.   Because even though my mind and soul screamed for relief.  My body refused to obey.  I went back. I didn't run fast enough. I couldn't scream loud enough.  Most of all I could not tell.
I do not know what memories I have made up, exaggerated, or happened to someone else. All I know is that there are huge empty spots of things I should remember. I also know that deep inside me is a small child that stands in a corner of my mind with her eyes screwed shut and her ears clapped hared over her ears, Her mouth open in a scream that only I can hear.  Is she me ? Is she made up ? I don't know. I don't know if it matters.

       So, I told her.  I feel like I earned the right to destroy this body. I feel like in every way conceivable, this body has betrayed me. It remains to do so to this day. In my mind it is comparable to the worst kind of criminal. I feel that I have earned the right to return the favor in kind. It betrayed me it has teased and tormented me, into believing that I might heal, physically, mentally, and even emotionally. Only to be forced to give up dreams, passions, desires, and needs. Now I am at war with myself. I will beat, starve, purge, medicate, and exhaust it.  Because it is my tormentor. Cancer, Pneumonia, coma, hypothyroid, POTS,  those are its weapons. I can only fight with what I know.
     
      The only problem with all of this is my spirituality. My belief in god. I know that somewhere stands beside me a guardian angel. He has done a damn good job of reminding me that my values do not mesh with any of this. That I believe that one day there will be peace.  That if I can get through one more day  I will learn. I will find all of the dreams, the passions, and my deepest desires will be found. So today is one more day that I made it through the pain. Yes I did it with restricting, isolating, and ineffective behaviors. Today I chose another day in hell.  I hope one day I don't

Please let me repeat myself

I can not tell you enough that living with my aging parents is delightful.  However, I  can tell you that there are somethings that if I don't laugh at I think I might just kill all three of us.

 I have told my father over and over and over. Please, for the love of all that is holy do not, I mean do not touch my clothes while they are in the laundry process.  I must be talking to a brick wall. Yes I know that I have a particular way of washing my clothes. I know that they are not his way of washing clothes. I hate coming home after a long day of doctor's appointments, MRI's, poking and prodding to my favorite shirts. shrunk down to a toddler size that I could no more squeeze my foot into then my big ass belly. Then as I try to vent my frustrations to them and try once to convey that my nice clothes that cost me a bunch can not be dried in the dryer. That bras can not be dried on the highest cotton setting. I get a lecture that reminds me that my dear old dad was trying to help his poor sick daughter. Lighten her load so to say.  Well, pop if you would listen in the first place we could stop having this convo. I mean really how hard is it to just leave it alone.  

Yes, I have OCD. YES I am a basket case. Yes, I am in some pretty severe need of help. NOT with my laundry though. I got that. I don't mind carrying your 25, 50 pound buckets of 30 year old food storage ( sorry Mormon reference ) out of the basement. Even though my sweet ednos, and POT syndrome, and my super fun pain that I can't handle, has me pretty much crawling on the floor. I smiled and said you're welcome. I will say it again Please leave my laundry alone.

Coming Back..... warning Trigger possible

 So this is a recent email to S we were having a discussion about truly being happy or "faking"  I am not a supporter of the fake it until you make it theory. I don't believe it happens that way at all. I believe that faking only produces more faking. I want to be real.  Anyway I am coming back to blogging after a hiatus. Mostly because I have been unsure of what I want this blog to be. I also have been pretty ill.  I want to share my experiences clearly and fully so here is my first entry on the journey. Where to ? I'm not entirely sure.


 I'm hesitant to share this because, I don't want to take away from the skill use and mastery that I have achieved. I'm afraid not just of happiness. I'm terrified that while I look and can act appropriate, that my ineffectiveness will be over looked.  I can always laugh and make jokes. I'm full of interesting tidbits.  Mostly it is all bull shit that I have learned over a lifetime.  I have learned to smile through insurmountable pain. I have learned to laugh and lie all while hating who and what I am. I have learned to cover scars, cuts, burns and bruises. Because that is not what people like to hear. I have always been what other people wanted or needed.  I learned at a very young age that no matter what the pain you stand up brush it off and go on. Because there is always ALWAYS someone worse off than you.  I was taught that I am not just insignificant. But that I will always be unheard. That crying out only brings more pain. That talking about the darkness can bring death. I was groomed and taught to put on a smile because this world doesn't give a shit about what has happened to you. It only cares what you can do for it. I was taught that selfishness is an ultimate sin. Everything I do I do to keep my selfishness in check.  Even in the most desperate of times be it cancer,coma, rape, or flashback.  Anyone can get me to smile. Because I have learned my lesson well. I understand and I can even take into my heart that I have made some progress that I'm feel like I'm coping a bit better.  I will continue to work not because my past or present tells me it gets better ( because for me it tends to get worse) But because my belief is that one day I will get to rest. That somewhere somehow this pain will leave me in peace. I do not believe in "fake it  til you make it". I think that is a fallacy. Because I am fake, and all I have accomplished is fake. That I am still a little girl laying gang raped and alone on a floor. Because people always tell me. Brush it off, smile, your life is not hard, it could be worse you could have been born in Africa, lymphoma isn't that bad. You could have breast cancer.  Hey being sexually abused happens to lots of people and they're happy.  What's wrong with you??  I am so fake that I say all of it to myself. Then I tell it to everyone. All I have made is a mess.  I don't understand how people can say to me that I have all the reasons to be happy.  I am nothing. I am no one. I don't even recognize my own face. I can be happy because there is not even a me. I know that makes no sense.  I wish I could explain it.  Please help me not to give up on me.  I don't know where I lost my soul. I hope that I can find it. I hope that this is what this journey is about. I have to find out. I have to try.  I'm learning slowly that I can use skills to make living easier. That does make me happy. I am learning that this body is really mine not something for the world to use. I hate it. I hate that it is diseased, and disgusting. I hate that I can't abuse it in to submission. No matter how I try. I hate that starving, purging, cutting, and destroying makes me feel so good. Yes, I want to change all of this. I want to accept that being abused over and over is not my fault. I don't really see that because I'm pretty much the only common factor.. But oh well. Sorry I don't really know when this became a novel. It's just how I feel. 
Clarissa