Tag Archives: Recovery


My therapist Lee, is on vacation.  I didn’t I think it would bother me really not seeing as I have so many walls up and don’t share a whole lot of my feelings in my sessions.  I tend to speak about mundane things and not dig too deep.   I mean, I do talk about my mom and my grief and how hard it is to have my son gone.    I keep my feelings safely bottled up behind walls because of what happened before.  You may read that about that here:

Yer Fired!  

I sometimes feel like the floodwaters of emotions have risen too high inside me and the dam will break soon.  So many feelings have been percolating in her absence.   I must have felt some degree of safety in just sitting in her bland and  non-descript office.

I found myself walking through WalMart mindlessly going up and down each aisle looking for something to buy, even though I didn’t really need anything.   Just to I’m not sure, maybe get my mind off of my feelings? Like that one magic item could bring me a piece of transient joy, if only for a moment.  But search as I may it remained elusive.  It felt like I was shopping for comfort.  As if there is a hole in me, a friend I have lost who was dear to me has left a space I cannot fill and I was trying to fill it with a purchase?  How strange yet true.

Well just slip me in a straight jacket now.  So many losses makes me want to insulate more! So I can’t get close to anybody, then I can’t lose anyone anymore.

The last time I can remember feeling happy I was six years old.   First grade.   It was my second year of school following kindergarten  and I was so excited to learn.


Photo:  me first grade 

Things in my home began declining from then on.  Other than short periods of calm or transient periods of fun,  I haven’t been truly happy since around this age.  It feels like it’s been a three-ring-shit show ever since.

All I know is, deep down inside of me there is a burgeoning sense of change.  Of self-love.   It is never too late to start over.  It’s never too late to be the person you could have been.  It’s not too late for me!!!



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….







Yer Fired!


A few years ago I had a horrible experience with a therapist I had been working with for 2 years.    It created such a breach of trust which still impacts me to this day in my current psychotherapy and work I’m trying to do with my therapist, Lee.  Learning to trust again after it has been broken by so many is one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do.

There was nothing fun about sitting with my shrink and have her stare at me while I tried to cough up my feelings that were too painful and shameful to utter aloud.  So instead I put on a good persona and artfully tried to dodge the elephant sitting on my heart that I wished I had the balls to say, but I was way too much of a pussy.  I knew if I did I would risk looking like an asshole.  I had learned early on to hide vulnerable feelings so the hungry ones wouldn’t devour me.

It took me weeks to get to the point of even mustering “it” up.  The emotions carried that much shame for me to say.

It took me awhile to get the courage up to spit out what I was hemming and hawing about saying for that 40 minute session.

The thing I said well, it made me feel weak, embarrassed, vulnerable, powerless.   All feelings I HATE.  All feelings I don’t have skills to tolerate very well.

But I did finally spit it out, because I wanted to get healthier and I thought that puking up what’s hard to do, would get me there.  I needed to tell the shrink that there is a fractured part of me; a splintered, inner-child like piece to me, who I can sense at times, is stuck chronologically at the age a lot of my child  abuse occurred.  The embarrassment for me, was that this child-like part of me seemed really attached to the therapist.  Who was younger than me.

I breathed in quickly after saying all this to her as it took all the courage to muster to say.  So I braced and waited, hopeful for a good outcome.


I was totally  blindsided by her response.

The therapist began laughing out loud saying, “you don’t really feel that way, do you?”

Then I felt my face burn beat red, humiliated on top of the existing shame.  Mother fucker.   I wanted to bolt out the room and never come back. But instead I found my legs wouldn’t move, frozen like a deer in headlights.

I “present so well” and hide my emotions, I’ve been it doing for so long.  I had created a seamless veneer simultaneously as the abuse was happening in childhood.  To protect me so that no one could “see”  how ugly I was.   Some primitive defense mechanism to be sure.

The therapist was oblivious to my dual nature despite a factual understanding of the complex trauma and rather largish case file containing my trauma history.  She denied my inner fragility and vulnerability at the expense of making a chiding remark , and was unmoved by what I had shared.  She began booking next weeks appointment.


Sitting there in that chair in her office feeling ashamed, my brain flooded with similar events from my past, I had try to  bury long ago.

Especially the young, impish, fractured, splintered off part of myself I thought I could seal behind a wall and bury alive.

But that girl’s muffled voice broke through from behind the bricks that day  choking back her pitiful fucking tears.


There she was again, from behind the woman veneer.   Stirring somewhere from latent consciousness.  Crystallized and I’m still paralyzed.

I seem to walk through life, reflexively, a continuous loop of internal thought patterns,  “I am bad. unlikable,  unwanted,  unacceptable….. I am un-lovable.”


When I told my shrink how I felt about her, she scoffed that I must be wrong.  It stung.   Walls went up.

Usually, I reject me before anyone else can hurt me.    Well, I fucked up.


I am ashamed….of me.  Ashamed there is a child in me so needy and desperate for love.

I am realizing that shame is a bigger part of my emotional make-up than I ever knew. It’s inescapable presence envelops me like a blanket.

If I don’t deal with “it”,  I will continue to live in misery.  How can I deal with it if I’m not even being believed.  That Mickey Mouse post-secondary degree douchebag clinician that attended a cut-rate graduate school whose clinical skills were on par with a third grader, doesn’t know shit-from-shinola about incest,  complex trauma, or the presentation of dissociation! She fucked me over!

Before that session I might have passed for an average girl, walking with a seeming look of purpose, unfettered by any stress. And in some ways, I guess that would have been true.

I left however, restricting my gaze downward to the cobblestone street, tears staining my cheeks, reflecting the ugliness I still hold inside.  Ugliness from which I haven’t been yet able to wriggle free.

I later called her and told her that laughing at me and not believing me at a most vulnerable moment was too shaming and unacceptable.  That I was done, I won’t be coming back, that she, she was fired.


BDSM and bondage isn’t about rope and and submission for me any more, for I’m out of the lifestyle.

The riskiest scenes take place on the inside, with the chains that bind my very soul.



The Manchurian Candidate

“Do you realize, Comrade, the implications of the weapon that has been placed at your disposal?……His brain has not only been washed, as they say, it’s been dry-cleaned.”
Doctor Yen Lo
The Manchurian Candidate (1962)
It had always been the thrill of the chase where I got my adrenaline rush.  If I could have easily attracted a man, I didn’t want him. It was always that forbidden fruit, the one that was just out of reach was the one I wanted.  The distant, distracted, “hard-to-get”, down right disinterested guy.  Now that was my candidate.  That’s where I used to set my sights.
A man’s intellectual complexity always  piques my interest, however it’s the power exchange that kept it.  How boring indeed would it be to color neatly in the lines, follow all the rules.   Ah, but to attempt a coup d’etat! To usurp the power.  And that’s what I always had done.
Our brain is the largest sex organ we own.
The mind fuck had been at the center of what drew me to D/s.  It needs to be stated that for my mind to be tapped into, I knew I would need to find a worthy adversary.  A Dominant I surmised, that could perhaps surpass my own intellect and psychological savoir faire.  A Napalm lover that had the power to blow my fucking mind with the possibility of me sustaining damage drew me like a moth to a flame.
Back when I was living the lifestyle, I was surrounded by a community of people who believed that BDSM was some kind of higher evolution.  That the lifestyle was a more evolved way of being.  Practically proclaiming to be near the pinnacle of Maslow’s hierarchy of self-actualization for fucks sake.   That through the lifestyle, a “deeper” level of intimacy and trust can be achieved; a richer bonding experience takes place than in a standard “vanilla” relationship can possibly bring to fruition.   Almost sounded cult-y if you weren’t already entrenched in it.
It took me a few years on a therapist couch to discover that most of these blokes are re-enacting their own trauma histories, myself included.   Most of the Dominants  I find, have childhoods riddled with victimization of merciless bullying at the hands of their peers and/or sadistic caregivers.  I also found that most Dominants have major control issues which is why they need to be the one in the position of power wielding the crop, cane, flogger, or paddle.  You won’t find them being hog-tied, bound, or otherwise put into a position where they will be made vulnerable.  Submissives paradoxically, are the ones who are more inherently dominant, they are the ones who are more risk takers, able to be bound, caged, suspended, lit on fire, clamped, whipped et cetera.   It’s not about trust, they have brass balls.
But knowing all this information is useless.
Recently at 3:00 AM on a quiet evening while watching TV, I received an unexpected text on my social media account from my ex-Dom years after he dumped me.   “ How about passing the time by playing a little solitaire?
Although his question differed it  activated me in the same way as Raymond Shaw.  Hypnotically,  I began to pinch my nipples hard and tug at them over and over, the way he used to, until my pussy was dripping wet.  When I could bear no more I grabbed my dildo and in doing so  I instantly became his whore once again.  Screaming in pain, screaming in bliss, screaming to no one but the empty space around me as I came, just as he taught me to do.
Maybe my brain has been dry cleaned.
Where are those dudes who grab you in the middle of the night and throw you in a van to an undisclosed location to de-program you?  Oh yeah, that was the 70’s.  Nowadays you go and talk to a therapist about your feelings and sit with the distress and Linehan your way through life.
Shit, nothing says lovin’ like hired goons.   And it sounds so much fucking easier than sitting with this shame.

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.


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”.





Processing — A Couples Journey of Recovery from Sex Addiction

We hear a lot about processing, but what does this mean in terms of infidelity? It means: Sitting in the pain and allowing yourself to really feel it (but please don’t stay too long) Thinking about the acts and visualizing what they did Looking at your partner in disgust Looking at your partner with compassion […]

via Processing — A Couples Journey of Recovery from Sex Addiction

This blog blew me away because I went through every single thing she has listed when I was processing the trauma of the multiple infidelities I have been through.  Brilliant post!!! Many thanks to Spouse of a Sex Addict ❤️

North 7

***Trigger warning: Content contains description of inpatient psychiatric stay***


Image:  One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest

So after grandpa dumped me.  Yes you heard right.  I caught the 70 year old man hiding his ex-girlfriend’s name under a man’s name (one of the oldest tricks in the book by the way, for philandering men)  I called him out on it, he did not like being confronted with anything.  He was some kind of “alpha male” allegedly, so he asked me to leave.   That, and too many months of me asking too many questions.  Some men, like a stepford type of woman.  That was it.   Curtain closed.  It was a blessing.  No more knee-humping for me….thank God.  The Battle of Wounded Knee Admittedly, my mom was freaked out that I had been dating someone her exact age.

Since grandpa and his butterscotch pudding was all I had for a year and I was pretty isolated from my family since they live in other states,  I fell into a deep depression. I had never really processed the trauma from the sexual sadist narcopath,  Of Mice and Monsters and that whole mess. Then after getting dumped by grandpa I felt like I had hit bottom; so I had some heavy duty grieving to do.  I mean if you think about it what’s a girl like me still young and vibrant doing with Father Time,  it doesn’t get much worse than that.  I dunno.   But it all hit me like a ton of bricks, which is why felt like hanging myself with my belt on my bedroom closet door.

Now, I’m no Hugh Hefner bunny by any stretch but I still think I could’ve done better than Rip Van Winkle.  But that’s the story of my life. “Train wreck”, “issues”are two catch phrases that come to mind.  Here is a photo of me at the time I was with grandpa:


It all hit me at once. I started having really strong intense thoughts of suicide.  I didn’t want to act on them because I had my son and being a single mom I did the only thing I thought I should do which was to call my mom, ask her to care of him, and check myself in to nut-ward aka, a psychiatric hospital.

It was called North 7, a wing of a regular medical hospital.   The plan was to get me started on an anti-depressant fast and hopefully decrease the suicidal ideations I was having.

Tbey slapped me on Prozac faster than you can say “serotonin” and it made me felt pretty jittery each time I took a dose but Dr. I don’t-give-a-shit did just as her name implied.   She only came in once a week, asked me how I was doing and then left.  The whole visit couldn’t have lasted more than three minutes tops.

Well into this warehouse,  walks a familiar face. I had met him in AA over a year ago and his name was Calvin.  He was married then but this time he did not have a ring on .     He asked me if I remembered him and I said,  “of course your name is Calvin from the 10 PM meeting in downtown Springfield.”

We exchanged some pleasantries and then got down and dirty with why each other was there.    He said his wife had filed for divorce after 22 years of marriage.   I told him that I was feeling suicidal after a one year relationship with old man river that ended.  I felt ashamed.   Why couldn’t I get my shit together I thought?Calvin denied feeling suicidal but said that his wife had “framed” him saying that he was.

Over the course of the next three weeks, there was nothing to do in this shit hole but talk.    If you’ve never been a nut ward then you wouldn’t know that.  There are pretty much two camps of people: some mentally ill people who are in an acute part of their illness that are less stable upon admission and there are mentally ill people who are acutely ill but are more stable upon admission.     The less ill people try to stick together and pass the time in between the groups that are forced on you.

Groups like EFT which stands for “someone let me out of this fucking place now!!!” This was one bat-shit crazy class for an hour we had to do.  You tap on your face and tell yourself you can get through your problems.  I remember whispering to Calvin and an Indian man, “do either of you feel like this is doing anything or is it just me that think this teacher should be a patient?” They both laughed and said “exactly.”


Anyhow , there are always the general meetings where you have to sit in a big circle and say your first name and why you are there.  For example: for depression, PTSD, anxiety, seeing things/ hearing voices, that sort of thing and what your goal is for the day.  Pffft….which is ridiculous because there is nothing to do there except color on pieces of paper in your bedroom or find someone who is relatively sane and talk with them.   If you choose the latter you’re reprimamded by staff and told to  “focus on yourself.”   So it’s a catch 22.

There is definite trauma bonding which occurs in the Nut Ward because the less stabilized patients the ones that are floridly psychotic and are either refusing to take their medications or their medications have not reached a therapeutic level yet. These poor souls are “going off” or are just wandering off and cannot take care of themselves.   They are responding to stimuli which are not there having audio and visual hallucinations and also delusions which are cognitive beliefs and thoughts that are untrue coming from a chemical imbalance in their brain.  Violent outbursts are very rare in psychotic people but can happen.  The bain of these people are isolative and mostly have difficulty with socializing because the voices are so intrusive.  When someone does become suddenly explosive or angry whether they are depressed or anxious or psychotic it is not predictable which make the stay more scary for those patients who are more stable.

There was one lady who had to have been around 350 pounds and was lucid one moment and the next she’d  just start screaming at the top of her lungs hysterically.  Lifting  up the metal commercial grade cafeteria lunch tables and overturning them,  ripping phones out of the wall,  throwing artwork off the wall until it shattered. A small group of us ran like hell and huddled into one of the smaller group rooms in hopes that she wouldnt get to us.  We barricaded the door with furniture.  We could hear the staff trying to figure out how to sedate her since she refused to swallow medication orally and ran away.  We theorized they would need to tranquilize her with some kind of poison blow dart gun.   The kind one would find in the deep uncivilized jungle.  She refused any meds again and punched the staff who were trying to dispense them.   We watched in horror through a small window in the door as we were holed up in there,  until hospital security arrived to restrain her to the floor so they could inject her with a needle full of Thorazine.



Images:  Girl Interrupted

There was another patient named Cheryl who was in her mid 60s who every morning at around 4 AM would wake up out of her bed, walk into the hall screaming, “I want my fucking ginger ale!!”  And on and on it would go.  She couldn’t have ginger ale because she was diabetic.  That didn’t stop Cheryl from screaming that she wanted her ginger ale.   And mind you this was after staff had shined their flash light in the doorway,  every 15 minutes to do their “checks” to see if everyone was alive all night long.

Lucky  for me Cheryl would always stand right outside of my room.   What a treat. Calvin’s room was down the other L-shaped hallway so I think he got more sleep than I did; plus he had better meds.    His doctor was not Dr. I don’t give-a-shit, he had a different one.   His doctor was Dr. Dreary,  she looked like she just woke up out of bed and was about ready to go for some ECT therapy herself.    She was more free with a prescription pad and didn’t have a problem prescribing her patients sedatives to help them sleep at night whereas Dr I-don’t-give-a-shit well….you get the idea.

There was the yoga class where this pervy guy told me he liked my white lace bra as I bent over.  Like WTF? I told the staff and she said,” he’s leaving tomorrow we have had this issue with him before.  Try to ignore him if you can. “ Yeah okay…

Ome of the other psychotic patients used to  stand next to my tray at lunch telling me that his lunch was contaminated with blood or it was poisoned by one of the staff,  but that my lunch looked OK.  Totally out of feeling uncomfortable,  and because I genuinely felt bad for him that he was suffering I would just give him most of my lunch because I  do not want him to become too agitated.  He did go off quite a bit.  His going off was limited to yelling and telling the staff that the government had a conspiracy to overthrow the insurance company he worked for.  When he wasn’t going off I had to listen to hid schizophrenic word salad which made no sense.    Each individual line made sense but when put together with other sentences it was like listening to a backwards message on the Beatles White album.  I always smiled and nodded  in agreement and would say “oh that’s interesting“ or “wow”or  “that’s nice. “   This of course was an attempt to placate him and keep a congenial relationship going so he didn’t keep harassing me for my lunch every day.   It seemed to work.

It was here the Calvin and I forged a friendship and learned a few facts about each other.   He was discharged first and I was stuck in that snake pit with Cheryl still screaming but he did call me when he left on the patient Payphone and when I picked up he yelled ,”freedom!” Lol

I think it’s a broken system because I think I gained more trauma by being there.   But it did… save my life.  I have to say, I would not ever want to go back to a nut ward again.  I’ll just take my chances.

#mentalhealth #itsoknottobeok #suicideprevention #endthestigma #suicideawareness


Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows!!!!


Today’s offering comes to you as a rapid departure from my usual vapid slog.  I thought you may want to see some positivity.   So I borrowed some from my good friend Squarepants.

Oh don’t dismay, I’m only suppressing my feelings! As Stuart Smalley would say, you need to practice until you get there; practice liking yourself by sitting in front of a mirror and say,  “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and dog-gone-it people like me.


We all need a day of hotdog filler.  Sometimes the salmon swimming upstream need a break.  It’s a little known fact, as I have studied salmon for the better part of my human service career, that they sometimes drift.

Okay, you got me….that’s a boldface lie, but maybe they should.  Maybe we all should catch the current and just kick back and chillax.

On that note, I’ll  leave you with the lovely sounds of Lesley Gore:






Re-read that again.  And again.   A few times.   Until it becomes real for you.  You’re worth it.  ❤️

Mwah ha ha ha…


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