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.