Tag Archives: Recovery

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.


Puppet

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I try and pinpoint the exact moment when I realised that my emotional movement was being controlled by his dark choreography.   I wasn’t aware until the merciless incessant tugging, left me tangled in the cords, unable to move.

It was then I knew, I was dancing for the Devil.

Liberation first begins with the realization one is captive.

I cut the strings.

I am bound no more.

To all the girls and boys out there who have become insidiously ensnared.

Freedom is within your reach….it always has been.


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.


Flashback

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3…..2…..1….. 

 

heart races

stomach drops

blood runs cold

it’s happening again!

eyes shut tight

paralyzed with terror.

please not here, not now.

 

I’m teetering

400 miles up

on this tight rope

I’m walking.

no one

can hear me scream

but me. 

 

1…..2…..3……

 

don’t say a word

just breathe

in and out.

act normally

open your eyes

touch the ground

it’s not happening.

 

Ghosts look so very real.

Hard to discern

no imminent harm

in pursuit of me.

After all these years,

they still besiege me,

unexpextedly.

 

 


In plain sight

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I stand there before You,
aching for Your
love.

Your affection.

Your approval.

i can’t believe after all this time,
You’ve
never looked at me.

in my pig tails and patent leather
shoes
,
standing in the doorway
wistful and willing.

but You cannot see me.

for i am hiding behind the wallpaper
where all
little girls hide,
the ones who survived.

layers upon layers cover me
redecorated as
years pass,
yet i remain forever unchanged.

frozen in time
beneath this woman
veneer.
waiting and hoping,
will you take me home?


Speed

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Volume blaring

wind kissed skin

motor runs high

I’m free again.

Out stretched road

with miles of driving

no boys in blue

feel like I’m flying.

Push down the pedal

a little more

on a lonesome highway

my spirit soars.

 

photo:  mine,  I-91N Deerfield, MA


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.’


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.

 

 


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

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

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.

 

 

 

 


Of Mice and Monsters VIIII

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The last thing I asked him as I carried my belongings to my car from his house was,

” So you would rather choose a life of paying for prostitutes, going to gangbangs, having NSA sex with people from craigslist, and swinging,  than being with me?

To which he answered,

” well I’m not sure I’d phrase it that way but yes .”

I’m not sure how many weeks it was after I pulled out of his driveway that I just couldn’t get him off my mind.  Good, bad, or worse you don’t spend five years with someone and then have it end just in a blink without being in a crap ton of pain.  It’s a loss.  Even if it was fake on his end, all the feelings had been real on mine.

He hadn’t called me, hadn’t emailed me, hadn’t texted me.  It was like I had never even existed. It was like all the ‘I love you’s he had told me was a lie. My mind could understand but my heart wouldn’t accept the truth.

I wanted answers as to why….closure, I desperately needed closure so I sent him an email. I asked him if he missed me and if he ever thought about me.

He did respond and said he would always love me but that I just didn’t fit into his life at this time.

I wrote back again asking if we could just be friends. If I would be able to just clean his house? Mow his lawn? I couldn’t imagine not having some small piece of him . The gaping hole in my heart that he occupied was just too deep. I didn’t feel strong enough to survive the loss.

He answered without hesitation, no.

When I wrote back insisting that I must mean something to him? He wrote back that I was becoming a nuisance and that if I ever contacted him again that he would call the police.

I was horrified.  Felt betrayed.  Five years of caring for him.  What happened to him hanging on my every word so early on? What happened to him teaching me every sexual move I knew?

At first I went numb.  Then after weeks of just lying round in my pajamas like a uniform, I did a google search for support groups for women who had been victims of abuse. I put in keywords silence, crazy, mood swings, abuse, sex addiction and found Narcissism.

Then I dig further and found online support groups through Facebook and joined. They don’t show up in your public groups list so your friends and family don’t know your in them.  There forums you can read others stories or situations anonymously or also comment and give feedback.  You can also write your own story and/ or situation and receive feedback.  I felt so much less isolated.

I also joined phone line support groups. This proved invaluable. I phoned into meetings a few times a week.  Talking with other women who experienced the same thing.  Different keypads on the phone muted and un-muted the phone and the meetings were highly structured so that one person spoke at a time.  At the end everyone got a chance to speak.

Every woman that I grew to know on those phone lines told me that he would come back for me one day. They said, “they all do.” They all used their term “Hoover.”

 Hoovering is a technique that is named after the Hoover vacuum cleaner, and is used by Narcissists (and other manipulative people) in order to “suck” their victims back into a relationship with them. Hoovering is often done after the silent treatment is given or the victim has left them.

I protested,” not this one he threatened the police on me and apparently made good on it, my local police notified me that although I wasn’t in any trouble, I was asked not to contact him again. That it wasn’t a restraining order but that it would be considered harassment if I did.

The women all insisted, “he’ll be back.”

And they were right.

_______________________________

A year and a half later,  it was Valentines Day evening.  I wasn’t doing much.  Watching TV,  when I heard a knock at the door.  I pulled the door open and there he stood.

My heart dropped.

I never ever expected to see him again.  He had a box of chocolates and a card in hand.  I had done a ton of recovery work but nothing had prepared me for this.

Well aren’t you going to invite me in?”

As if reflexively, by some unseen force  I opened the door.  It felt that way, because I felt afraid and yet I also felt hypnotized by him, unable to stop myself from opening the door.   There’s something powerful that is created in these trauma bonds they work so hard that form with you in the beginning.

Trauma bond was a term first created by Patrick Carnes used to describe “the misuse of fear, excitement, sexual feelings, and sexual physiology to entangle another person.”

A simpler and more encompassing definition is that traumatic bonding is: 

“a strong emotional attachment between an abused person and his or her abuser, formed as a result of the cycle of violence.”

I’m pretty sure that  Dracula was a supernatural Narcissist who used trauma bonds on his bitches too.

After I let him in, he initially hugged me but quickly his hands fell and tried to put the moves on me and I realized what he had come for.  All the recovery work was not lost.  I quickly led him to the door, thanked him for the chocolate, and shut and locked it after he left.  He looked quite surprised.  I even surprised myself.  I threw the chocolate out later.   My body did respond to him that night but I never said a thing and I never have.

Body Betrayal

When people survive repeated sexual assault or abuse, their body often betrays them by responding to their abuser by getting aroused and/or with an orgasm.  Researchers David Finkelhor and Kersti Yllo found that some women in their study reported that they had experienced pleasure during the rapes, particularly in cases of repeated rape. They write that this appears to be an “adaptive response” that makes repeated rape more survivable (1985 photo pg  125).

Asking him to leave, rather than falling for the trap of thinking that because my body was responding that it meant somehow we were “meant to be.” This was a huge moment of success for me.  I had ushered out the monster and ushered in, the infancy of self-care.