Tag Archives: Recovery

Bad

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Some  days I wish I was back getting whipped by my Daddy Dom, tied to a tree ball gagged and blind folded wearing nothing but a pair of stilettos.

Why?

Things seemed easier, everything was so clearly defined.  I didn’t have to make too many decisions.   If I overate, there were immediate consequences; he beat me so hard I couldn’t stand.  He was like a sadistic drill instructor that was up my ass   24/7.   He probably wasn’t helping to manage my eating disorder out of genuine caring; it was self-serving because he wanted me to remain in a slender body .  After all, he was superficial and shallow and had I gained weight he would have dumped me in a heartbeat.

He told me he loved me but I knew somewhere deep inside me that it was a lie.   I hurt but I ended up being okay with it because on some core level I didn’t feel deserving of love.

So the relationship ended up being based almost entirely upon sex.  Which wasn’t all bad.  Right? I mean sex is good.  Even bad sex is good.  Well, until he started telling me his fantasies were about wanting to abduct teenage girls and torture them.  Yeah, that kinda ruined things.   It’s kinda that oh shit moment where you realize it’s a lot bigger than just your relationship going belly up or the loss of your integrity.

My fiancé is sober almost 3 years from alcohol.  He doesn’t beat me for overeating.  He’s not a Daddy dominant.   He doesn’t tie me to trees and cane my tits til their purple.  When I met him he didn’t even know what “rimming” was.    We are a vanilla couple.  He tells me he loves me but deep down I don’t know if I believe it because at that same core level I still don’t believe I am deserving of love.

What is the old saying, you can take the girl out of the city; but you can never really take the city out of the girl.

It seems like whether I am paired with a sociopathic pig or with a decent man the end result is the same, my feelings about myself have not changed over time.  My long-standing operating belief system says “You are bad”.   It is preventing me from any real chance at intimacy.

While I with the ex-Dom I knew that he was a bad man.  I felt bad about myself and suffered a great deal at his hands but I longed for something better.  However,  I figured this was as good as it gets for someone who is broken like me.  In the end I resigned myself that we were just better paired for each together because we were both broken.  He in his sociopathy and I in my victimization.

At present, that the proverbial good guy is finally in my life and I can’t shake off this feeling that I am still not good enough.  Which makes me throw walls up, I don’t want him to get too close.  It’s like I don’t want to infect him with my “broken” poison.   At times when my walls aren’t strong enough to keep him out, I resort to direct self-sabotage methods which are more aggressive,   Mostly verbal attacks.  This causes him to emotionally distance and pull away.   He doesn’t know it’s because I fear he will somehow get contaminated just by being involved with me too closely.

It all started so far back in childhood.  This brokenness.   The feeling unlovable, like I was just “bad.”  I suppose it was a product of the incest, physical abuse, emotional abuse, and verbal abuse.  How much does one have to rehash this shit in therapy before they can be “done”?

I’m just so done with seeing a shrink.   There’s only so much you can tell, the same horror stories without them becoming too activating and re-traumatizing.

I’m coming to the conclusion that maybe some people like me, just stay broken.  I mean, maybe we just do.  Or maybe I just need to take a flight out of the country and just need a geographical break from my life.  Like that movie,” Eat, Pray, Love”.    

Okay.  First pay off  $30,000 in credit card debt.  Then travel abroad.  Then get unbroken.  Find spiritual peace.  In that order.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


From the whip to the Word

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“Do not love the world or anything in the world. If anyone loves the world, love for the Father is not in them. For everything in the world—the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life—comes not from the Father but from the world. The world and it’s desires pass away, but the man who does the will of God lives forever.”

1 John 2: 15-17 NIV

 

I’ve been watching “A&E’s “Leah Remini: Scientology and the Aftermath” for the past 3 seasons.  Although I’ve never belonged to a formal established cult per se, I understand about Stockholm syndrome, brainwashing, love-bombing, gas-lighting and other techniques that are employed by cults.  Remini frequently talks on the show about how when she was in Scientology she truly believed in it, and also thought that people on the outside weren’t as evolved.   This had much to do with being submersed in a subculture that is insular in nature, designed to promote itself and keep its members in.

When I first entered into a relationship with my ex, who I later discovered was a sociopath and sexual sadist, he convinced me to “try out” BDSM.   The way he introduced the concept was cunning.  He said that of course he would be my Dominant and the one in charge and that I would be his submissive and the one responsible for attending to his needs. That was never off-putting as I am a very caring person and it’s in my nature to want to be a care-taker.  The thing that he pitched to me is that I would have complete control over what we did.  The ever so clever ‘illusion of control’.  Nothing would happen that I didn’t want.

This, as I would later find out was a flagrant lie.   As time pressed forward he never respected my no.   I would come to find out I didn’t even have one.   He did as he pleased.   Think “50 shades of Gray” but with Ted Bundy cast in the leading  role.

I don’t think I would have entered into it at all, save for the fact that I was desperate to feel loved.  He was saying all the right things at just the right time.  I was in an extremely vulnerable place.  I had just come out of a very physically and emotionally abusive relationship.  My son’s father had been cheating on me which had paralleled nearly our entire relationship, I lost part of my cervix due to his cheating.  He had beaten me so badly once, my tooth had gone through my lip.  He had locked me in rooms and refused to let me out to use the bathroom. He had locked me out of the house in the winter in freezing temperatures without a coat.   He threw a razor at my head leaving me bleeding, crawling out of the house searching for help from passing cars on the street.  I ended up with staples in my head to suture the wound.

Looking back when I left my son’s father, it was as if I was swimming in shark infested waters with a fresh wound. I was a beacon for a sociopath like the sadist narc with whom I became involved. .

Somewhere during my relationship with my son’s father is when I had stopped going to church and praying.  I felt so lost.   I felt so abandoned.  When I met the narcopath I was like a deer in headlights.  He appealed to my intellect as he told me, “this may sound crazy but an alternative relationship when done right can,  because of the risky situations it entails,  actually forge a stronger and closer bond between a man and a woman than a typical “vanilla” relationship ever could.”  It sounded so good! Closer I thought? Well slap me silly then sign me up for that.  Me the girl who has been starving for love and attention her whole life.  It almost sounded like the promise of coming home.   He encouraged me to do my research online.  I did.   It seemed like it may actually work at the theoretical level.

Boy was I wrong.   I will have to repost the horror show of what happened during that relationship at another time.

Like Leah Remini while she was in Scientology, when I was living the BDSM “lifestyle” via this D/s relationship I believed that it was a more self-actualized way of being.   A small part of me actually felt superior to others.   That I had discovered that by giving into hedonism, and accepting carnal, visceral pleasures that I had reached a higher plane of understanding somehow.   That I had let go of the entrapment and bondage of guilt and shame that my Catholic upbringing had pummeled into me.

It has taken 7 years of distance from that BDSM D/s lifestyle, therapy, emptiness and utter despair to realize some things:

One, the so called bondage I thought I was leaving behind of shame and guilt,  I ended up trading for actual leather straps being chained to this sicko’s bed getting whipped, caned, spanked, or otherwise beaten so that he could get an erection.  He was sexually impotent without the use of violence as he was a sexual predator.

The truth is the guilt and shame was always there in me because the goodness of God had never left me and I felt ashamed about what I was doing as I knew God would be disappointed.  I was also disappointed in myself.   I secretly wanted a better life but never believed I deserved it.

Secondly, I was not better than vanilla and/ or God fearing people.  Quite the opposite, I was falling deeper into sin and sexual immorality but just could not see it at that time.  Many in that subculture are atheists, agnostics or living very compartmentalized lives; it is my belief they don’t see themselves as sinning.   A sort of denial I guess.

Finally,  the good news isn’t too good to be true.   Even a sinner like me can change.   That sound of the promise of coming home?  That has to do with salvation.  No one but God knows who will be saved but Scripture is pretty clear on one fact:

”Jesus answered, I am the way and the truth and the life.  No one comes to the Father except through me. “ 

John 14:6 NIV 

It has taken a long time for me to see more clearly, I am beginning to see more clearly.  I have a long long way to go.  What I find ironic is that I was partly on the right track.  I should have been on my knees, but in prayer.  I should have been being a submissive, but to the Lord Jesus Christ.  Jesus can save me from despair, He can heal me from my sorrow, He can show me an enduring love like no one here in this world can.  Reconciling and restoring the strong relationship with Christ that I once had is the best decision I have decided to make.

I’ve been looking for love in all the wrong places.   God was always there ready and willing to love me.

 

 

 


The Jig Is Up

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Okay. So I totally blew the diet. I’ve been freebasing flour and sugar for like a month now, easily.

I’m not sure I have the wherewithal to try again to get back on the proverbial wagon.

I’ve noticed a few changes.  I mean other than the obvious weight gain one would expect.  I have also noticed my mood could best be described as “bitch” on steroids.   I have a short list of at least 5 people with which I’d like to take a bat to their head like a piñata.

I’m pretty sure this isn’t good thing.

Oh and salad? Yeah all the shit to make one putrefied at the back of the fridge 3 weeks ago.  I ate pumpkin pie for breakfast and dinner today.   I think I need a fucking intervention but it doesn’t look good for me.  Not with the bat and all….


Vegetables taste like ass

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So for me to regain a normal relationship to and with food again,  I need to eat in a very specific way.  My meal plan requires 3 weighed and measured meals per day.   No flour, no sugar or artificial sweeteners, nothing in between meals except for water.   The amounts of protein and vegetables are the same at every meal.

I cannot have starchy vegetables like potatoes, corn, squash, peas.   Rather it must be non-starchy veggies like spinach, green beans, broccoli, or asparagus for example.

Did I mention that I hate most non-starchy vegetables?

Also, in relapse I would binge on sugar, fat, starchy food combos in calorie amounts that would leave most people ready to hurl.

Why? It was never about eating for satiety anymore than the alcoholic was drinking for thirst.  It was for the effects.  The why of how it hit my brain and made everything right as rain? I’m not exactly sure. There is a science to it and it has to do with a neurotransmitter called dopamine being released after a huge binge of those high calorie high fat/sugar foods.  But I’m not a scientist.

All I know is that taking away yummy binge foods, causes not only a physical withdrawal but also a mental obsession about them.

My brain has had enough of a ride on the tasteless vegetable train of hell and it’s only been 3 days.

You’ll get used to the vegetables, they said. It’s good for you,  they said.  You’ll feel better in no time, they said.

“I’d pick binging on a big ass plate of Brussels sprouts over cake, said no one ever,” I said.

Time to pray again….


Addiction

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Photo:  my rosary beads 

Anyone who has ever struggled with addiction knows all too well the viscous cycle of it all.

Every fiber of you craves the thing to which you are addicted.   Your brain tells you quietly that it will kill you, yet the voice of the addiction is louder yelling at you to give in.

Every attempt to stop leaves you  struggling in a brutal tug of war.  The internal voice is always telling you to give in:

“You know you will feel better if you do it” 

“You deserve a break.”

”You know it’s gonna be so good…”

There’s a seductive quality to addiction.  I believe that there is perhaps an evil force which belies the whole process.   Trying to ensnare victims back in.

If for some reason you give in and relapse, you tell yourself:

”Its okay, you can just start over tomorrow,” as a way to assuage your guilt.

If you manage to to relapse in the middle of a week, you tell yourself,

”its okay, you can make a fresh start on Monday.”

Then you get so deep into it, you start telling yourself stuff like,”I’ll start over next month.”  

Then comes the realization when you can’t stop after a whole month after really trying several times, “I just haven’t  tried hard enough or I have to work up to it and get into the recovery mindset.”

Then after total agonizing defeat, still a persistent denial busts in that,”I could quit if I want to, I just don’t want to right now, I like what I am doing.” 

What the fuck?!

Did I just hear my thoughts right.  Yup.  I could quit if I want to but I don’t want to?  Buddy, my ass has been done whooped by this addiction but not I’m “ready?”  That’s precious.

I think only a true addict can indentify with these insane thoughts.

I’ve been living with addiction and relapse for a decade at least.  I’m in this shit up to my eye balls.

It occurred to me today That the one huge part I’ve been leaving out of the mix is steps 1, 2, and 3.  Ha!

It’s always white knuckling.  Who wants to admit defeat? Be powerless, And then surrender?  Not a lot signing up for that shit.  We do it because we get sick and tired of being of being sick and tired.

Time to get on my knees again and ask for God’s help.

 

 

 


She let herself go

 

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Want to know how a woman goes from looking sexy and shaving her pussy, getting her brows waxed, nails done; to packing on a shit ton of weight, wearing a pair of sweatpants like skin, and wandering through life with no make-up?

Too easy.

Its because….she gave up.

“There are some things worse than being alone,” my step-dad once told me, “and one of them is being in a bad relationship.” ‘Course I didn’t believe him at that time.

I’ve got an update for him now, if he were here for me to tell.   But he’s gone the bastard.  My step-dad disowned me when my mom told him his son had molested me as a child.  The truth hurts, some run.

I’d tell him,  “There are some thing worse than being dead and one of them is staying in a relationship once it’s already on life-support instead of just pulling the plug.”

Watching yourself slip away a little at a time after your partner slipped away.   When you finally “come to”, you are old and ugly and barely recognizable in the mirror.   Worse still, your soul feels marred and there is a disconnect from the only Higher Power that can pull you from the black place you find yourself in.

You are now a mere shadow of who you once were.  Not caring if you are physically dead some days, because you already feel dead on the inside.  The urge to pull the wheel to the embankment at 80 mph on the freeway creeps in more than it should.

“She let herself go”, you hear them say, and you don’t even care anymore.  It’s true because you did.  So fucking what.

You have bigger fish to fry now, than a to maintain that trim waistline and to try and look sexy for any superficial jerk-off liar who objectifies women.

Newsflash bitches.  Your cocks aren’t a higher power.  They never were.   And for all the women ensnared by abusive asshole men who exploited our kindness and love? I’ll raise you a fuck off to your “ISO a submissive” racket.

Stop acting out your own victimization under the pretense of helping to guide, shape, or otherwise better women.

Oh she let herself go alright, and that may have been a blessing in disguise.   Because  now maybe she can go inward and create the person she should have been.

 

 

 

 


Requiem

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Invisible child seen, not heard

given something to cry about.

sought your own switches

received many stitches

you’re no good, you know

Never had a “no”

~~~~~

His fast hand was

life’s quicksand

given a slipknot lifeline

a lynching of the heart

tightening each time

lies proliferated

~~~~~

Secrets oathed in darkened rooms

hiding the profane

innocence corrupted

silent rage erupted

love lies bleeding

Life is receding….

 

 

 

 

 

 


I’m a Marketing Dream

It occurred to me the other day as I stared blankly out of the window, not wanting to get out of bed, just like every other day, I am in the Bell Jar.  

So many of the commercials on TV for medications to treat depression are so fake.  They depict people suffering with it having a seemingly mild case of the doldrums. Just moving as if stuck in molasses.

They never show you what depression really looks like.

I am willing to let a pharmaceutical company film me to get a more accurate depiction.  It would look something like this…..

Voice over of announcer: “Depression robs a person of their energy.”

Camera pans to me sitting in the middle of my living room with a mountain of dirty laundry staring at it like the woman from Close Encounters of a Third Kind.  Saying, “I know I should wash you” and then just shaking my head no and finally collapsing back into the cushion and saying “fuck it.”  I am down to one pair of clean panties this is now my “edge play.”

Voice of announcer:  “Depression feels physical.” 

Camera lens catches me glancing outside at the morning school bus through the window .  I move to the kitchen and stare at the heaping pile of dishes that has amassed in the sink and repeat “fuck it” as I then head to the bed and proceed to pull the blinds and dive in to the sheets.  (Time elapses)   I rise in my pajamas in a haze hearing the afternoon school bus pulls around the block again.

Voice of announcer:  “Depression causes changes in appetite.”

Last scene too fucking easy.  Like a vampire rising from the mist I awake from bed to eat a box of Girl Scout  cookies.  Because anyone knows that if doesn’t come out of a package or ready-to-eat microvave box, then food isn’t consumed.  Camera fades with me on the couch with said cookies in the middle of the night swearing at the Girl Scouts, blaming them for peddling their crack.

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Real Depression?

Depression is wearing the same pear of sweat pants and tee-shirts every day like a uniform, and having hygiene fall to the wayside til’ someone has to insist a shower is taken.   Brushing teeth? what’s that? there’s no energy.  Sleeping 16 hours a day feels natural.    Feeling black even when the sun is shining.

Depressions steals a person of their  emotions.  Such that life holds neither joy, nor sorrow, no anger, no pain.  It steals away the ability to imagine, to dream, to hope for a better day.  It is the great equalizer changing healthy,  robust,  thriving people into living, breathing, vacuous zombies pondering their very existence.

*******

Why doesn’t Roche, Pfizer, or GlaxoSmithKline want to show what real depression looks like?  Because their drugs are largely ineffective against severe forms of it.   You will look and feel the same on their drugs as you will off them.    Big Pharma doesn’t want anyone to know that.  If the efficacy of their products aren’t much better than a placebo than Lord have mercy, where would their capitalist enterprise be?

I have tried 13 anti-depressants over my lifetime and only one did something.  Not a great track record for pills as monotherapy.   If you are mildly depressed, pills may snap your serotonin back into shape.  Buddy, if you have a severe case of dysthymia, and some C-PTSD you are not going to have that sort of response.

Millions of people are suffering with depression.   Big Pharma wants to profit from the pills they produce to treat a condition that is largely unresponsive to pharmacological intervention.

The most common reason for people to become depressed is sustaining stress and trauma.  Until we become more pro-active as a society about preventing trauma both in childhood and in adulthood we are destined to fail by looking for a pharmaceutical panacea to remedy the problem.

Learning how to intervene once children and adults have been identified as having been exposed to trauma and getting these individuals trauma informed care, we have the hope of healing them.

People need people.  The broken trust that happens through the process of trauma needs to be repaired.   Pharmaceuticals certainly have their place as an aide.  The way out of depression starts with the desire; the wanting to climb out of the bell jar.  Once that decision has been made to seek help, the human factor, not a pill, will always be a more effective “treatment”.

 

 

 

 


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.

 

 


The Jewelry Box

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It sounded like it was raining all of the time in most of Massachusetts.   Strange, because it wasn’t.   It was them, I was told.   I didn’t really understand you see, I was only eleven at the time and there is only so much you really grasp at the age.  For that matter, want to grasp about what grown-ups tell you.

But I saw them everywhere. Climbing, crawling, moving.  They seemed very busy.

My dad was putting this sticky tape around the base of most of our trees in an attempt to keep more of them from invading.  But it was too late I think.  They were already high up, munching away.

My school friend Kay, my sister, and I used to ride bikes a lot of the day during that fateful summer when they came.

Kids seem to naturally adopt the views of their parents and the larger world around them.  Kay was no exception.   She decided that she would help get rid of them one-at-a time, through beheadings.  Unspokenly, she had decided for us all.  Our method was to take the wheel of our bicycle and ride over their body and watching the various color in the “squish.”

I couldn’t do it.  I averted my wheels last second, they seemed so tiny and defenseless, it  seemed too cruel.  My sister and Kay never noticed, they were too engrossed in their own fun.

Later that day my dad came home from work.  He pulled into the driveway in his light blue Ford pick-up truck.   He approached me and squatted down to ask, “what are you doing with those boxes and the Vaseline and Q-tips honey?

I explained, “I’m trying to put them back together,  I am trying to fix them, dad.  See,  I put a little jelly on ’em.  Then I put them in my jewelry boxes.  Then I come back to check the next day.  If they are not moving, I bury them and give them a little funeral.”

“So looks like you’ve got yourself a gypsy moth caterpillar hospital here. ” my dad determined.

Yup.

*******

I think those caterpillars were the first memory I have of trying to “fix” something.

Maybe I tried to save them because I desperately wanted someone to save me.   Maybe it’s because I’m inherently wired to be caring and compassionate.   Maybe both.  I’ll let my shrink figure that out.

Who knew though that one day  caterpillars would someday metamorphose into men….

 

 

 


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