Category Archives: Uncategorized

Angels

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It’s been 92 days since my mom died.   I often wonder where she is now.   Where does her soul reside?  I could feel it quietly slip away that night at her bedside.    Mom was more than a good woman, she was the very best.   Gone are the constructs of my childhood, the black and white of what the afterlife looks  like.   The conceptual part of heaven no longer works for me.   I was taught a utopia, free of pain and where all experience only pure love and joy.

It sounds like something I’ve been aching for all along.  I’ve  only caught short-lived glimpses, here and there, like scattered leaves blowing through my life.    The promise of Jesus and of eternal life in heaven?  of resting with His angels is the only hope I have.   I intuitively know I will not find that love here in this world.

Most of my adult life I’ve had a fear which grips me, that I’m damned. So it is only a fleeting hope for me, to join my mom.

“5 Now hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts by the Holy Spirit who was given to“

Romans 5:5 New King James Version (NKJV)

Mom, you are where the angels soar now, whatever that place is.

This one is for you ❤️

 

 

#missingyou


I could have dated Charles Manson

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I was watching an old interview with Manson in prison where he was singing.  It was more rare footage.  I have to say that is charismatic, enigmatic, energetic, articulate, intelligent, artistic, and philosophical.  He possesses just about every quality that captivates me.    He has a pretty good voice too.  There is this way he drew me in even watching him on the TV screen.  Hell, I was enjoying watching him how fucked up is that?  He is supposed to be a villain.  A devil.  Evil incarnate….

 

 

I can see how a girl of 19 could have been easy prey for him.   Not even 5 minutes into watching the interview I was so engaged and taken by his charm I had almost forgotten that he was responsible for the murderous rampage of the Sharon Tate and her unborn baby.   Which made me shudder.

But then I ponder….. just as sociopaths find their prey in a crowd, seeking out the weak ones.   The reciprocal must also be true.   Prey seemingly seek out their predators……sometimes consciously, sometimes not. 

It would explain so much of why I’ve ended up with the men I’ve been with in my lifetime.

Nothing happens by chance, especially not when it happens repeatedly.  That is why it is called a pattern of behavior.


It Works if You Work It

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The first time I ever thought about sharing anything in Alcoholics Anonymous was at an open discussion meeting and there were two topics.  I have no recall what the first topic was but I sure remember the second which was, “having a hard time sitting with feelings.”

It wasn’t a round robin style meeting so I sheepishly raised my hand, which was the hardest thing to do being riddled with social anxiety.   However, the desire to get this out of me was stronger than the fear of whatever people might have thought after I spoke.

I began speaking.  I told everyone in that room that I did not know how to live life without trying to change the attenuation of my emotions, be it trying to intensify them or tone them down. Still other times I was flagrantly running away from them through multiple substances and behaviors.

Then I began listing them one by one trying to be as honest as I could:

I’ve self-medicated using alcohol, marijuana, food, sex, relationships, compulsive cleaning, compulsive shopping, compulsive exercising, workaholism, surfing the internet,   rocking out to loud music, speeding in fast cars and last but not least when all else failed isolating from people.”

Then I noticed the room was so quiet I could hear a pin drop.  I wondered if I had shared too much.  I felt my face feeling red and hot. My mind raced like it always does projecting what people may be negatively thinking about me. I wanted to crawl out of there.

I closed out with “thank you.”  It wasn’t until the next person began sharing that my face stopped feeling as hot.  I felt more honest that day, as if I had released a giant weight. It’s one thing to unburden oneself in the privacy of a therapist’s office and have them normalize my behavior but it felt like a more genuine process in front of peers.  You never know if you can trust a shrink, after all they are getting a paycheck.  I wasn’t sure the response I would get, if any.

After the meeting ended 5 people approached me to shake my hand and thank me for my share. I was taken aback. One of them, who later became my fiancé said,” thank you so much for your share, you just shared my exact story.

I’ll never forget that day. That was the day I felt like I wasn’t the only leper anymore.


The ruler

Nearly every morning for as long as I can remember, I have stepped on a scale to measure how much I weigh.

and the number that is displayed ends up dictating my self-worth.

Strange I know, that a number should have that sort of power over me.

I have friends whose net worth equals their self-worth and I often tell them, that they are so much more beyond their possessions, their material things.

I preach about how the intangibles in life:  health, family and good friends have the most value.

But I feel like a charlatan, because there I am allowing a scale to control me.

****

Most days, in one way or another I am obsessing about food.  How to avoid it or how to get rid of it.  Food is on my mind in a really screwed up way.

Devising ways I won’t binge.  Getting rid of food that I consumed if I do.  Wishing I could eat and then feeling guilty for wanting to.  Feeling really good when I am not eating.  Feeling in control, clean, like the world is right.  Figuring out calorie exchanges.  Feeling desperate and despairing when I am in the food.  Feeling bad, dirty, out of control, ashamed, like nothing will ever be right again.

It’s insanity.

I wonder what it’s like to be normal.

****

Then when I am out in the world I am constantly looking at other women.   Comparing myself to every woman I see and how I measure up.

But I never do, as the case usually is.

How my outsides are not good enough.

The obsession is so gripping and powerful.

I hate it.

I don’t know life any other way.   My crazy thoughts are all I’ve ever known.

****

Why must this blasted scale be the ruler, a way to measure if I am good or bad? If my day will be a good one or a bad once based on the number that I see.   I have been this way since I was around 13 years old.

I am fortunate that I have only been hospitalized once for this.  The eating disorder itself has morphed over the years.   From anorexia in adolescence to bulimerexia by my twenties.  Somewhere in between I had picked up a new thing this CHSP, Chewing and spitting my food out.

I have never known life with a healthy reltionship to food.

I have extreme body dysmorphia.   The mirror still is my enemy.  No matter what other people see, when I look in the mirror I see every flaw, imperfection, amplified ten thousand times.  Be it cellulite or acne, a hair out of place.   I remember changing outfits  several times because everything just looked bad.  I looked bad.  This makes me want to just isolate.  Which I often do.

Its not to do with being a vain person.  It’s  to do with feeling so inadequate and disgusting that I can’t stand how I look. When I look into the mirror it’s like a fun house mirror which distorts how I look to me.  I’m not sure if it’s neurological or what,  but it makes me see things that others don’t.

Every eating plan I get on is a struggle because my perfectionist ways interfere and if I deviate from the plan, it sends me into a spiral.  I can teeter into punitive self-punishing behaviors.

The only other thing about having an eating disorder is the shame and isolation that keeps me silent about it.   It’s painful.

Some days are better than others.   I want to believe that one day I will find acceptance with my outsides.  I have a hunch it has a lot to do with my trauma past.    I probably need to tell Lee about this too.  Just one more thing to work on….

Some days it just feels hopeless.

 


Miss Scarlet, in the Library, getting f***ed with the revolver

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Clue, don’t cha know.   I should get a clue by now.  That fantasy is way better than reality.  Always.

I have been in a relationship with a vanilla man for 5 years now.  I know that it’s “healthy” for me.   But I’d be a liar to say I don’t miss the intensity of what I had living the D/s lifestyle.   I was never in a 24/7 TPE.  Pfffft.  I was too feisty to submit beyond the bedroom.   I have pangs to return to kink from time to time, especially when I read others’ blogs. It brings back memories. Some good, some not.  I still make my pilgrimage back to my blog on alt.com to see what my buddies are up to, even if they don’t see me looking.

I think the most fucked up thing I ever let my Dominant do was to shove his Walther PPK .32 caliber handgun in my pussy.

When I showed Lee the photos of that, she didn’t even blink.  She was more interested in how I felt about sharing this  with her.  Typical. It’s always ‘how do I feel’.  Hell I don’t have feelings much these days, I feel empty.

What’s to feel about it? It’s a photo.  I have many more in the same vein.    She asks the wrong sorts of questions, it seems.  Or maybe I’m the one just not saying  enough.   For instance I never told her that I recently called my former Dominant.

Two steps forward and ten-thousand light years back……least that’s how it feels tonight.

Everyone knows Miss Scarlet was a whore and everyone knows Professor Plum was doing her.


My name is “No”

1A7E9E33-5E9D-4E91-88AD-0AA32703F629.jpegDon’t ask me for my number.

Don’t ask me to call you sometime.

Don’t ask me if I like Shibari.

Don’t ask me if I’ll send you a nude pic

Don’t ask me to sext with you at work.

Don’t ask me to phone you at 3 am and call you Daddy, with my panties pulled down as I touch myself.

Don’t wonder to yourself if I’m thinking about you as I type these words.

‘Cause my former self jumped off that blue bridge over the Connecticut River that night and ended things in the icy waters below.

Nice to meet you, my name is ‘No.’


Drawn to Illicit Sex

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World English Dictionary
illicit (ɪˈlɪsɪt)

— adj
1. another word for illegal
2. not approved by common custom, rule, or standard: illicit sexual relations
For the purposes of this post I am using the latter definition.

The incest I had endured as a child left me so terrified of my own sexuality and of men that it left me completely disconnected with and at times dissociated from my body. When I finally began to sexually awaken as a late bloomer at around age 24, I ended up dating nearly all abusive men, active substance using men, and narcissistic men. It seemed strange that over and over it was the wrong guys. Bad luck I thought at first, I could never seem to get it right

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Why couldn’t I have been the girl who got asked out by some nice fellow and progressed in a slow and steady fashion within a relationship? Maybe have worn his Varsity Letterman jacket. Held hands and felt all warm and fuzzy inside, which is what I am really after in the first place.  Maybe got real edgy and snuck behind the bleachers and got to first or second base. Then after a few weeks went parking at “the point” and maybe if I was really super daring, hit third base. Somewhere in the future, got engaged and then on my honeymoon he would have popped my cherry?

I’ll tell you why I could have never been the girl who dated the Varsity jacket guy. Because I was a victim of incest at the hands of my brother and it had been going on since I was 8 and it didn’t end until I was in the middle of high school. And by then I wanted to commit suicide.

So when I grew up, all screwed up as I was, I had become THAT girl. You know the one that tells my date my entire life story over a few drinks in under ten minutes and then let’s him finger fuck me underneath the table at the restaurant, while telling him as he is doing this, that I want to take things slow.

Or maybe I have a guy friend who says he’s hoping my recovery moves more quickly because he’d like to screw me. After a tongue lashing from me, on how I value our friendship, and we’ve been friends for so long and how can he do this? I climb up on his lap, straddle him, kiss him, cock tease him, while my body betrays me and I get wet all over his jeans..

Oh wait, here comes the shame again, along with guilt. Why couldn’t I have just tongue lashed him and left it there? What’s wrong with me. After restaurant guy, I hid in my apartment for weeks every time he rang my buzzer. So much shame. Eventually he didn’t come around anymore, Thank God. When you couple shame and guilt, this wedding along with a lack of ability to dialogue about your emotions… You spend your life either running or hiding. Building thicker walls to keep people out so you don’t get hurt again.

My shrink says lots of people with C-PTSD especially who are incest survivors and victims of childhood emotional and physical abuse and neglect are at higher risk for developing sexual problems and problems with setting adequate boundaries overall.

When your body is not your own as a child, because your brother has access to you 24/7 you don’t ever have a “no,” to his sexual advances. You can never escape. As an adult it was quite an easy transition to slide into the world of BDSM, fetish, and kink . At least it was for me. I did not recognize it at first, but it replicated exactly what took place in my childhood. My body became controlled by a Dominant and just like in childhood I do not have a “no” to his sexual advances either.

I was too busy figuring out how to stay alive amidst trauma in childhood and adolescence and I never learned the healthy boundaries needed to navigate adulthood. So the cycle repeated.  Early childhood sexual abuse leaves its victims susceptible to sexual exploitation later on in adulthood.

I’m a walking talking paradox. I really DO want to be the girl who goes slow and have healthy boundaries AND also, I don’t. I crave that which is taboo, I recoil from that which is taboo.

I think back to Stanley Kubrick’s film, A Clockwork Orange. If I’m wired to respond sexually in a maladaptive and deviant way for so long, what are the odds I can re-wire now? There is a saying that once a cucumber has become a pickle, it can never go back to being a cucumber again.

What if I am that pickle?

What if that person just said that cucumber shit to sound deep like they could wax philosophical?

(They could have just been really really stoned)

What if there is hope for all of us for redemption?


Compass Rose

It’s still the same I suppose. Every spring as Easter approaches. I drive past the various Churches, with their steeples acting like beacons, sending their Celestial signal up towards the heavens. I pass there aching to go inside.

The ache rises in my chest as I pass, and then my heart sinks as I sit glued in my seat. My blood runs cold as I nervously think that ‘maybe I am unforgivable’.  How dirty I feel. Less than. Not quite good enough to stand next to any of the people donning their Sunday best.

I ache for closeness with Him like I once had. The only One who ever deserved my whole heart, who ever deserved my obedience and love.   He was the only One who would never betray me.

I can’t remember when I had stopped talking to Him.   Some call it praying.  But it was more than that to me.  It wasn’t rattling off a bunch of rote prayers, though that was how I had begun.  We were close back then.  It was like a friend that was sitting at the foot of my bed, just as real as you are reading this now.  I’d talk about everything.  Then listen.   Oh yes, He would answer.   He spoke through my intuition, I believe.  Sometimes I would ask for a sign.  Sometimes He would give me one:  a gentle cool breeze on a hot night or a small butterfly dancing at my window just as I would ask.

I had stopped going to church.  No one particular reason really and not in anger either.  Then a few years later I had stopped praying.   Other things had seemed to take precedence.  It was like one day He was just gone.  You see, it wasn’t an event, rather it was more of a process. Like most good things in life that slip away.

When I tried praying again?  it felt empty and perfunctory like I was running through mathematical computations.  Something was severed.   And I knew it hadn’t been severed by Him.   That pain of knowing what I lost has been unbearable.  The emptiness, nothing thus far can fill.

A thousand miles I have strayed off that chosen path on which I should have tread, maybe more.  It is easy to get lost out there in the darkness. Still easier to stay lost.

I don’t know how I will get back to Him.   I’m so far off course and a compass rose made only of hope in my grip.   I hope that He finds it in His heart, to forgive me.   Hope that this prodigal daughter can come home.   Hope that lost Faith will be found.

 

 


Toxic Shame

0E6185B6-ADF6-490A-9675-B1E2F5FD549EComplex trauma has left a wound on me that I don’t know will ever heal.  Or maybe it’s that there’s so much scar tissue I just need to get used to that “new normal” of who I’ve  become.

Complex trauma is still a relatively new field of psychology. Complex post-traumatic stress disorder.  (C-PTSD) results from enduring complex trauma.

Complex trauma is ongoing or repeated interpersonal trauma, where the victim is traumatized in captivity, and where there is no perceived way to escape. Ongoing child abuse is captivity abuse because the child cannot escape. Domestic violence is another example. Forced prostitution/sex trafficking is another.

In my particular case, I was a victim of childhood incest.  It is the hardest thing to type that sentence, harder still to say it out loud.  I want to delete the sentence and delete “it” from my history.  Additionally, there was heavy-handed corporal punishment which by today’s standards would be considered physical abuse.   There was definite emotional abuse and at times neglect.  Continual domestic violence pervaded my childhood home.  My home did not often feel like the safe place it should.

Later in adulthood, I was the victim of domestic violence within my two major long-terms relationships.   I don’t know that I even recognized it happening as such it seemed so familiar.  If that makes sense.

All of my life I have struggled with low self-esteem.   Underneath my low self-esteem  belies a  darker feeling .   There is this deep sense of shame I have carried since as long as I can remember.

Unlike ordinary shame, “internalized shame” lingers and changes our self-image. It’s shame that has become “toxic.

When a person is ruled by toxic shame it interferes with their ability to accept positive regard.   For in childhood they internalized the belief of not being worthy of being loved or given any attention.

It dawned on me today as I couldn’t look into the mirror, that I just hate myself because I’m ashamed of me.

I wonder if this shame will ever leave.  I’ve got a new shrink I’ve been seeing for about 9 months.   I’ll call her Lee.  One can’t help but feel disillusioned after 20 years in/out of therapy.   I’ve ditched seeing Lee the past month.  Made up some excuse or other.  I mean everyone needs a mental health day from the mental health provider.   Oh wait this can’t be treatment resistance this soon can it?  I am feeling vulnerable because we are past the point of rapport building, and she’s a quick study.  She sees through my best defense mechanisms, and is trying to dig deeper and I’m running like hell.

There’s no shame in investing in a sturdy paper bag to wear over my head to hide myself, right?  Wearing bags are so much easier than facing your own demons.  ‘Cause Lord knows I’m hoping for a loophole.

 

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Us and Them

 

D7EDA5C8-A2DA-46A9-8884-35C41A35A051I often have fancied that they have some sort of secret union, though I know it’s impossible.   There are certain rules to they must uphold as well:

1. You must use union approved brown corrugated cardboard with black lettering

2. You must use either fantastical yarns  or absolute truth on said cardboard

3. You must be able to stand for long amounts of time on your feet

4. Working in inclement weather is a must

5. You must wear tattered, ripped, holy, or frayed clothing on the job

6. A sad or dispondent look is recommended although a managing a smile and thank you when earnings are received is a must

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Amherst, MA Used to be a conservative  town years ago, but not anymore.    Perhaps that is why it is a boon for so many panhandlers and why they flock here.  The bleeding heart liberals see contributing towards the less fortunates as helping the social justice movement.

On any given day the same folks stand on their designated corner donning signs:

”Tent collapsed.  Anything helps.  God Bless”

”Today’s my birthday, out of work. Out of luck. “

”Homeless vet, down on my luck.  God Bless”

”I’m not going to lie, I just need a beer”

”Tent blew away, need help, Thank you.”

**************

Now mind you, it was the middle of February in New England and it occurred to me that with all these recent tent collapses and blow always happening, maybe they could pool their resources  together and go in on a new tent, that’s more sturdy.

Birthday boy, well it seems as though everyday is his birthday because he keeps holding onto that sign day after day. Now I feel bad in his case,  as he just can’t seem to remember when he was born, poor thing.

The homeless vet really gets to me because we have a bus system that can drive him to the VA Hospital in nearby Leeds, MA for $1.50 where a social worker could help him get housing, medical care, the works.

Which leads me to our last fellow the man saying he wants money to buy beer.  Addiction of any kind brings shame upon its victims.   Until we start recognizing that all of the people profiles listed above  are most likely suffering with addiction and/or mental health issues we will not begin to address the problem.   Driving by and stuffing money in their hand is bringing them closer to death.

You see, I used to be afraid when my car stopped next to a panhandler.  I felt awkward and avoided making eye contact with them through ny window pane of glass that separated us.  Instead, I averted my eyes down at the brake pedals or at my cell phone, the radio, anywhere but their face.  Because it triggered an awkward feeling in me.  Why had they fallen in this situation? Why would anyone want to stand here for 8 hours in the harsh elements begging instead of having assured income with the security of a job?  Because they have to.  They have fallen that far down the rabbit hole.

The day that awkwardness disappeared in me, was the day I recognized them as my equal.  I could just as easily be them, given the right conditions.  From that moment I began to roll my window down and talk.  In those short conversations I have gotten to know a few people.  We smile now and we wish each other well.

I don’t have all the answers.  Maybe safe needle exchanges are in order.  Maybe more drug courts.  More access to long-term treatment programs.  Meanwhile,  I will treat people with kindness and dignity.  I will buy someone a gift card to McDonalds.  I won’t give them money knowing it could go to heroin, meth, or alcohol.  Enabling will only serve to help kill people.

There is no us and them.  We are the same. They ARE somebody.  Someone’s son or daughter.  Someone’s husband or wife.  Somebody’s mom or Dad.  Struggling and in the grips of a powerful addiction.  A disease that will kill them if they don’t receive help.  Let’s not forget before they were panhandling, they had great lives too.