Ernesto, the party pooper

I'll be in and out, but most likely out the next few days. This tropical storm-depression-possible hurricane Ernesto is rolling through and starting to rain hamsters (cats and dogs are next). The computer may be unplugged for quite a bit of this, unless Ernesto stops being such a party pooper and takes his hamsters elsewhere.

Really, we could use the rain. I'm not complaining.

Ernesto, the party pooper

I'll be in and out, but most likely out the next few days. This tropical storm-depression-possible hurricane Ernesto is rolling through and starting to rain hamsters (cats and dogs are next). The computer may be unplugged for quite a bit of this, unless Ernesto stops being such a party pooper and takes his hamsters elsewhere.

Really, we could use the rain. I'm not complaining.

religious nuts

I got this goofy joke in my e-mail, but I'm way too stressed to write, so here ya go. It even made ME laugh, and that's not easy right now.

There were four country churches in a small Texas town: The Presbyterian Church, the Baptist Church, the Methodist Church and the Catholic Church. Each church was overrun with pesky squirrels.

One day, the Presbyterian Church called a meeting to decide what to do about the squirrels. After much prayer and consideration they determined that the squirrels were predestined to be there and they shouldn't interfere with God's divine will.

In the Baptist Church the squirrels had taken up habitation in the baptistery. The deacons met and decided to put a cover on the baptistery and drown the squirrels in it. The squirrels escaped somehow and there were twice as many there the next week.

The Methodist Church got together and decided that they were not in a position to harm any of God's creation. So, they humanely trapped the Squirrels and set them free a few miles outside of town. Three days later, the squirrels were back.

But -- The Catholic Church came up with the best and most effective solution. They baptized the squirrels and registered them as members of the church. Now they only see them on Christmas and Easter.

Masturbate-a-thon

You fabulous Britons. You can always be counted on to come up with a brilliant idea, and even have your police okay it.

Wow.

bzzz bzzz busy bee

I'm here. Stuff is going on. Yah. I'll be back. In the meantime, I'm finally getting a chance to read some of YOUR blogs.

Crazy, I know.

sex, check. writing, uh.....

I'm still here my lovelies, and still getting hot and bothered, oh yes indeed. I just haven't had much energy to write about it. I keep trying to throw some scraps your way, just so you know I haven't dropped off the face of the Earth, although some days it does feel like it.

For now, you'll just have to imagine.

stuff in the news

How can your penis keep you out of jail?

Liar, liar, lack of pants on fire on eBay.

When porn makes women crazy.

Anyone else have a sudden urge to go to Holland? If so, watch out for the stinging nettles.

Be careful what you pack in your luggage while traveling with your mother. At least come up with a good excuse, geez.

My personal favorite:


Barbie finally gets to live out her plastic fantasies, only to have Mattel try to shoot them down. For shame, Mattel. She's 46, let her have some fun, you bastards.

...And more proof that the Royal Navy is brilliant.

'Admiral Johns was speaking at a conference held by Stonewall, the gay rights activist group. He said that the inclusion of all sexual orientations in the Navy had not been agreed merely to appear politically correct. The ban on homosexuals serving in the Armed Forces was lifted in January 2000. He said: “We came to realise that sexual orientation was not something that could just be put to one side, because there is potentially a direct impact on operational efficiency.

“When people can’t give 100 per cent to their job because they are being intimidated or they are scared or they are preoccupied with hiding their true identities rather than playing a full part in the team, operational efficiency is degraded.�'

All kinds of fascinating developments for sex workers the world over:

Personally, I applaud the Danes. If it were me, I'd want the help!

German women are helping the unemployed.

Craigslist might find you an apartment in New York in exchange for some love to show your appreciation for a man's generosity.

Russian grandfathers can be mistakenly become porn stars, if you don't mind the smell of garlic.

German sex workers are being offered training as geriatric nurses.

Frustrated German woman decides that a career change is in order. An added income, and less tension in the marriage, what a novel idea!

And last but certainly not least, China cracks down on strippers at funerals, leaving many Chinese feeling far less honoured in the afterlife.

Oh! Tangible love!

I received not one but TWO, count them TWO articles of love in my mailbox today!

One is from my sweetest minty yum yum, the other from my prettiest pony EVER.

I would ask you if you could possibly have had better timing, but the answer is a resounding no. On top of my usual pained crappery, I have a migraine flowering what feels like spiked and bloody tendrils into the recesses of my brain. Yah. I can manage a poetic description of THAT, you bet your sweet asses. Other than that, I'm about as brilliant as a piece of toast over here.

So, I have ideas on how to thank you both properly, which of course involves ridiculous and completely over the top displays of my affection and gratitude, but can't manage much more than these few paragraphs for the time being.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. There is a pile of gooey mush, but it's behind the knifey thing in my brain and unaccessable right now. Just know that I love you.

Thank you.

"Muthafuckin' Snakes On a Muthafuckin' Plane!"

For those of you wondering WHY OH WHY Samuel L. Jackson would be in a movie that looks as completely crappy as "Snakes On A Plane", you need only to see his interview on The Daily Show to understand why.



I must add, since this interview they have been making random "Snakes On A Plane" jokes on both The Daily Show and even The Colbert Report.

My husband was revolted by the mere THOUGHT of this movie until we saw this interview, and now we laugh uproariously every time someone mentions it. Mr. Jackson, you rock.

here in my head

I am rather fragmented right now, but I'll see if I can give you some idea of what's going on.

As I've mentioned before, I'm undergoing intensive physical therapy in the form of myofascial release. I don't entirely understand it, and I've been reading like mad trying to learn as much as possible about it. I have found answers and a whole lot more questions. It's frustrating.

One of the things that I've been reading about is how trauma can become locked in the actual tissue of the body, because humans do not typically release shock and stress in the way that animals do in the wild. That is why you rarely see a traumatized gazelle, despite the amount of lions it has escaped from. If not, the wild would be be full of OCD animals, and if I had a sense of humor right now I would crack some great joke about obsessive compulsive zebra traits, but you'll have to imagine them for yourselves.

This locking the trauma in the body issue comes from "freezing". There's the whole "fight or flight" thing, and then there is "freezing and thawing". Sometimes when an animal knows it is in danger, it freezes, plays dead if you will. When it "thaws" it begins to shake and that's part of the natural release mechanism for the nervous system. Without the thawing, the freeze becomes locked in.

*mumbles to self, "Focus, focus, focus..."*

Humans tend to disallow themselves the thawing process. When we fall down, we usually act as if we're ok, even when we're not. When we are hurt, we put on a brave face. Rarely, if ever, do we allow ourselves to just freak out and tremble, sob and release the fear. And if not, it becomes energy that is locked into the body, causing stiffness and a whole myriad of other symptoms, ulcers, migraines, the like.

Ok. *focus* (deep breath) So, during the process of myofascial release, areas that are stiff and have locked in trauma are being manipulated and the trauma is being activated. Conciously or not, it is there and it comes to the surface.

I might think it was a bunch of hooey except I have already experienced it firsthand. Also, during quite a few of my treatments I shook and trembled semi-violently afterwards, so much so that I was a little freaked out that my therapist had done something to send me into shock. And in way, she had. I was releasing tension that I didn't even know was there. There have been a few nights where she has done work on me and I have gone to bed only to awaken with bizarre leg spasms, moaning and thrashing in my sleep (like last night). I wouldn't find it so odd if she were working on my legs or even lower back, but she's working on my neck. Why, then, are my legs tweaking out? From what I've been reading, it's part of the "thawing" process.

While that is great and all, it's igniting all kinds of things in my head. My legs feel weak, a lot. I wobble a lot. A large part of that is due to me learning my new center of gravity. It's taking a huge toll on muscles that aren't used to being used in the way that they are now. To an extent, it's just exhaustion. My therapist said that I underestimate how incredibly invasive this therapy is, simply because we haven't broken the skin, and that my body may be drained from the toll of healing some days.

I had to laugh a bit at that- when my son was born I had a C-section, and the surgeon had to come in and have a talk with me about taking the painkillers. I didn't want them, and he said, "You seem to be underestimating how invasive a C-section is. This wasn't a simple slice and sew- we took your uterus OUT (not common) and put it back IN. We sewed all the layers between that and your skin. TAKE YOUR MEDICINE."

Hell, if I underestimate major surgery, it seems natural that I would underestimate an excrutiatingly painful massage, right? And I do.

My therapist is learning me very well. She knows now that I am far too stoic for my own good, and can read my body language like a pro. The other day she did something that hurt like bloody hell and once I could breath again I made some joke about something or other...she just sighed and said, "Let it out." Just deadpan, stop your damn joking and cry already. And she is training me well. As soon as she said that I burst into tears. And I shook, and I shook...

I told my husband, "I never realized how much I STUFF. You know, how much feelings I deny myself. I thought with all the writing I do, and all the talking I do, that surely I am a person deeply in touch with her own emotions. Being in this therapy is making me acutely aware that I am NOT."

It's true. And it is no surprise to me that I have suffered from hives and migraines and ulcers and panic attacks, etc, etc, etc all of these years.

And now...now I am afraid. I am genuinely frightened of how much is stuffed away, and how much is going to be ripped out of me during this process. I have already noticed the impact it's had on me, psychologically. All the "tweaks" that I've worked so hard on ridding myself of, and honestly felt that I had nearly lost, are quickly regaining their hold.

What tweaks, Jill? Oh, I hate to admit it, but I'll tell you. My long time blog readers know of them anyway... (deep sigh)

When I am nervous about things, I scratch. Sometimes here, sometimes there, but I tend to scratch until I bleed, and even that won't stop me. My husband will try to swat my arms away but I'll just start scratching something else on the sly. It's relieving, somehow. I don't know why. It's self destructive, and it's the most embarrassing tweak I have.

I've always had a thing about wearing big shoes. Although Jack doesn't allow me those big clunky manly shoes (think Doc Martens, etc) anymore, I had actually gotten to the point of being able to wear FLIP FLOPS. They are the most uncomforting shoe that exists, I might add. You can't run in them, kick someone, they are virtually useless in the art of protecting yourself. I can't punch, and my legs are wickedly strong. It makes sense that I would want to arm my feet when I am frightened, see? I had made it all the way to flip flops, and now I won't leave the house in anything less than tennis shoes. Even the Converse are flimsy, but they do stay strapped on and I can run in them. They have traction. It's better than nothing.

Covering my legs- besides being two easy scratching posts, I hate the feel of most textures on my legs. Carpet, car seats, the edges of chairs, really just about anything other than smooth and soft cotton. Even the seams in my pants can drive me into a nervous scratching fit and make me change clothes. As you might imagine, this can be a big problem when you live somewhere hot as hell. I don't like to wear shorts, I don't like the fear of things touching my legs, I don't even like the feeling of wind blowing across them, shaving them is hellish and don't even make me talk about the feel of pointy, pointy GRASS. *shudder* Since therapy started, I have rarely ever worn shorts, preferring to stay in my air conditioned home with the super comfy cotton yoga pants on all day long. Cotton shirts. If I can get away with it, socks and a fucking sweater, too. Right now the sun is beating in the window and the sweater is off. Soon I'll have to go to the shrink's and I'll have to dress in a tank top to counter the heat of wearing blue jeans. I'll try not to scratch the shit out of my arms in the process.

The panic attacks are getting worse, enough so that I'm going to have to tell my shrink I need her to up the dosage of Xanax again. I had gotten down to one a day, and sometimes none. Shit, not anymore. Even taking the amphetimines for ADD, which I was sure was going to make me a basket case, didn't bother me a bit until I went into physical therapy.

~huge sigh~

My issues with Jack watching porn blew up. My fear of leaving the house has blown up. Everytime I start the car, I'm afraid THAT'S going to blow up, for fuck's sake. I'm a jittery nervous mess.

Why?

I'm convinced it's the physical therapy. Although I may not have flashbacks or any concious thought about traumatic events whatsoever, it's all there. And last night, I finally got the perfect way to describe it.

I was curled up with my son in bed, too exhausted to move, too exhausted to even talk to my husband about my feelings. He probably thought the world was going to end or something when I told him that. Instead, I just wanted to curl up with my son, holding him tight and not TRY to think about anything at all. And while I lay there, falling asleep next to him, I found myself imagining what is a perfect description of how I feel.

I was imagining myself standing up and looking down past my own feet, but what I was standing on was hundreds of layers of very thin glass, each with a picture of some traumatic moment in my life. Some were large traumas, some were very small, all imprinted on sheets of glass. The sheets of glass were moving, constantly shifting, so that sometimes I could see something close up, only to have it move and see down through layers and layers, viewing things barely visible in the darkness but still (stops to scratch shoulder relentlessly for a moment) very frightening. I had a strange sense of vertigo as things moved from close up to far away, looking through the transparent and fragile vision of my own inner world, which was all that was supporting me.

I thought to myself, "Fuck. No wonder I'm freaking out." And, "I want some shoes on right now."

It wasn't a matter of crawling into Jack's arms and having him comfort me, nor could I talk about it. Some images were fleeting, some were things he already knows about, things I've talked to death already.

One of the most important things about the image is that it clearly portrays one of my biggest problems right now: I am afraid there is just too MUCH.

While I've been going to physical therapy, talking to my shrink, writing, talking to friends, talking to my husband, whatever...the whole time I've been becoming more and more afraid at how much trauma is IN here.

When I realized that I opt for stoicism instead of release, I realized that I am in very deep shit. I have been thinking that all my years of therapy and introspection have gotten me really far down the road of recovery. When I discovered that the body locks in the stuff that isn't released (and just talking about doesn't always release it, as anyone who has spent years in therapy can tell you), I started doing an inventory of the things that I have disassociated instead. I have been thinking about the millions of moments that I did not protect myself from the harm of others, either mentally, emotionally, physically or sexually, and instead chose to shut down and go to my happy place. And following the happy place, I went immedietely into denial and just moved on, unwilling to allow myself to feel the pain of what happened.

The entire two years spent with my son's father. A vast amount of the five year relationship with my last ex, the drunk. The ten years of sexual activity that followed being raped. Being molested, being stalked, being homeless, being terrified and alone as a child, there's so much stuffed down there...

I'm completely overwhelmed.

On top of that, I'm heartbroken to realize that my son has learned this from me, and the signs of trauma and the ability to disassociate are shockingly clear. It's easy to see as an observer. In the post, when I asked, "I wonder if my son's ability to heal will help me?" I was referring to the fact that we are seeking psychological intervention for him as well, and he has so much less trauma in his nine years than I do in my thirty-two years...I wonder if watching him work through his own crap and learn the ability to stop the disassociative process will give me the courage to face my own overwhelming task.

Some days I am struck down and think it's too much. Some days I have moments of hopefulness. Mostly I am both looking forward to and dreading the days ahead when my son is back in school during the day, and I will have the time and space to allow myself release. I am afraid to allow myself a full blown sobfest in front of him, for fear it will only traumatize him more. I am also afraid that he would want me to stop and I might not be able to. I've had nervous breakdowns before, and I know damn well that I am sitting on the teeter-totter of one right now, with a sadistic little bully sitting on the other end, waiting for just the right moment to jump off and let me crash.

And in that way, I am standing in the way of my own healing, sitting here as stoically as possible day after day in the company of my child.
I don't really see a way around it, and I'm not even sure that I want to. Because I am afraid.

Afraid of what? I don't even know.

And that's exactly it. I don't even know. There is so much healing to do, and I don't know how to do it. I don't even know about some of the things that need to be healed. Things from my past seem to pop out of nowhere, and my dreams are filled with bizarre situations and people I knew.

It helps when I have a metaphor to work with, an image to guide me. The only thing I can think of is to drop something heavy down on the vision of the moving images on the glass. It all breaks, it's all freed, but I fall through splintered glass on the way down. I don't know.

I'm fucking exhausted.

( a pile of shit) here in my head

I am rather fragmented right now, but I'll see if I can give you some idea of what's going on.

As I've mentioned before, I'm undergoing intensive physical therapy in the form of myofascial release. I don't entirely understand it, and I've been reading like mad trying to learn as much as possible about it. I have found answers and a whole lot more questions. It's frustrating.

One of the things that I've been reading about is how trauma can become locked in the actual tissue of the body, because humans do not typically release shock and stress in the way that animals do in the wild. That is why you rarely see a traumatized gazelle, despite the amount of lions it has escaped from. If not, the wild would be be full of OCD animals, and if I had a sense of humor right now I would crack some great joke about obsessive compulsive zebra traits, but you'll have to imagine them for yourselves.

This locking the trauma in the body issue comes from "freezing". There's the whole "fight or flight" thing, and then there is "freezing and thawing". Sometimes when an animal knows it is in danger, it freezes, plays dead if you will. When it "thaws" it begins to shake and that's part of the natural release mechanism for the nervous system. Without the thawing, the freeze becomes locked in.

*mumbles to self, "Focus, focus, focus..."*

Humans tend to disallow themselves the thawing process. When we fall down, we usually act as if we're ok, even when we're not. When we are hurt, we put on a brave face. Rarely, if ever, do we allow ourselves to just freak out and tremble, sob and release the fear. And if not, it becomes energy that is locked into the body, causing stiffness and a whole myriad of other symptoms, ulcers, migraines, the like.

Ok. *focus* (deep breath) So, during the process of myofascial release, areas that are stiff and have locked in trauma are being manipulated and the trauma is being activated. Consciously or not, it is there and it comes to the surface.

I might think it was a bunch of hooey except I have already experienced it firsthand. Also, during quite a few of my treatments I shook and trembled semi-violently afterwards, so much so that I was a little freaked out that my therapist had done something to send me into shock. And in way, she had. I was releasing tension that I didn't even know was there. There have been a few nights where she has done work on me and I have gone to bed only to awaken with bizarre leg spasms, moaning and thrashing in my sleep (like last night). I wouldn't find it so odd if she were working on my legs or even lower back, but she's working on my neck. Why, then, are my legs tweaking out? From what I've been reading, it's part of the "thawing" process.

While that is great and all, it's igniting all kinds of things in my head. My legs feel weak, a lot. I wobble a lot. A large part of that is due to me learning my new center of gravity. It's taking a huge toll on muscles that aren't used to being used in the way that they are now. To an extent, it's just exhaustion. My therapist said that I underestimate how incredibly invasive this therapy is, simply because we haven't broken the skin, and that my body may be drained from the toll of healing some days.

I had to laugh a bit at that- when my son was born I had a C-section, and the surgeon had to come in and have a talk with me about taking the painkillers. I didn't want them, and he said, "You seem to be underestimating how invasive a C-section is. This wasn't a simple slice and sew- we took your uterus OUT (not common) and put it back IN. We sewed all the layers between that and your skin. TAKE YOUR MEDICINE."

Hell, if I underestimate major surgery, it seems natural that I would underestimate an excruciatingly painful massage, right? And I do.

My therapist is learning me very well. She knows now that I am far too stoic for my own good, and can read my body language like a pro. The other day she did something that hurt like bloody hell and once I could breath again I made some joke about something or other...she just sighed and said, "Let it out." Just deadpan, stop your damn joking and cry already. And she is training me well. As soon as she said that I burst into tears. And I shook, and I shook...

I told my husband, "I never realized how much I STUFF. You know, how much feelings I deny myself. I thought with all the writing I do, and all the talking I do, that surely I am a person deeply in touch with her own emotions. Being in this therapy is making me acutely aware that I am NOT."

It's true. And it is no surprise to me that I have suffered from hives and migraines and ulcers and panic attacks, etc, etc, etc all of these years.

And now...now I am afraid. I am genuinely frightened of how much is stuffed away, and how much is going to be ripped out of me during this process. I have already noticed the impact it's had on me, psychologically. All the "tweaks" that I've worked so hard on ridding myself of, and honestly felt that I had nearly lost, are quickly regaining their hold.

What tweaks, Jill? Oh, I hate to admit it, but I'll tell you. My long time blog readers know of them anyway... (deep sigh)

When I am nervous about things, I scratch. Sometimes here, sometimes there, but I tend to scratch until I bleed, and even that won't stop me. My husband will try to swat my arms away but I'll just start scratching something else on the sly. It's relieving, somehow. I don't know why. It's self destructive, and it's the most embarrassing tweak I have.

I've always had a thing about wearing big shoes. Although Jack doesn't allow me those big clunky manly shoes (think Doc Martens, etc) anymore, I had actually gotten to the point of being able to wear FLIP FLOPS. They are the most uncomfortable shoe that exists, I might add. You can't run in them, kick someone, they are virtually useless in the art of protecting yourself. I can't punch, and my legs are wickedly strong. It makes sense that I would want to arm my feet when I am frightened, see? I had made it all the way to flip flops, and now I won't leave the house in anything less than tennis shoes. Even the Converse are flimsy, but they do stay strapped on and I can run in them. They have traction. It's better than nothing.

Covering my legs- besides being two easy scratching posts, I hate the feel of most textures on my legs. Carpet, car seats, the edges of chairs, really just about anything other than smooth and soft cotton. Even the seams in my pants can drive me into a nervous scratching fit and make me change clothes. As you might imagine, this can be a big problem when you live somewhere hot as hell. I don't like to wear shorts, I don't like the fear of things touching my legs, I don't even like the feeling of wind blowing across them, shaving them is hellish and don't even make me talk about the feel of pointy, pointy GRASS. *shudder* Since therapy started, I have rarely ever worn shorts, preferring to stay in my air conditioned home with the super comfy cotton yoga pants on all day long. Cotton shirts. If I can get away with it, socks and a fucking sweater, too. Right now the sun is beating in the window and the sweater is off. Soon I'll have to go to the shrink's and I'll have to dress in a tank top to counter the heat of wearing blue jeans. I'll try not to scratch the shit out of my arms in the process.

The panic attacks are getting worse, enough so that I'm going to have to tell my shrink I need her to up the dosage of Xanax again. I had gotten down to one a day, and sometimes none. Shit, not anymore. Even taking the amphetamines for ADD, which I was sure was going to make me a basket case, didn't bother me a bit until I went into physical therapy.

~huge sigh~

My issues with Jack watching porn blew up. My fear of leaving the house has blown up. Every time I start the car, I'm afraid THAT'S going to blow up, for fuck's sake. I'm a jittery nervous mess.

Why?

I'm convinced it's the physical therapy. Although I may not have flashbacks or any conscious thought about traumatic events whatsoever, it's all there. And last night, I finally got the perfect way to describe it.

I was curled up with my son in bed, too exhausted to move, too exhausted to even talk to my husband about my feelings. He probably thought the world was going to end or something when I told him that. Instead, I just wanted to curl up with my son, holding him tight and not TRYING to think about anything at all. And while I lay there, falling asleep next to him, I found myself imagining what is a perfect description of how I feel.

I was imagining myself standing up and looking down past my own feet, but what I was standing on was hundreds of layers of very thin glass, each with a picture of some traumatic moment in my life. Some were large traumas, some were very small, all imprinted on sheets of glass. The sheets of glass were moving, constantly shifting, so that sometimes I could see something close up, only to have it move and see down through layers and layers, viewing things barely visible in the darkness but still (stops to scratch shoulder relentlessly for a moment) very frightening. I had a strange sense of vertigo as things moved from close up to far away, looking through the transparent and fragile vision of my own inner world, which was all that was supporting me.

I thought to myself, "Fuck. No wonder I'm freaking out." And, "I want some shoes on right now."

It wasn't a matter of crawling into Jack's arms and having him comfort me, nor could I talk about it. Some images were fleeting, some were things he already knows about, things I've talked to death already.

One of the most important things about the image is that it clearly portrays one of my biggest problems right now: I am afraid there is just too MUCH.

While I've been going to physical therapy, talking to my shrink, writing, talking to friends, talking to my husband, whatever...the whole time I've been becoming more and more afraid at how much trauma is IN here.

When I realized that I opt for stoicism instead of release, I realized that I am in very deep shit. I have been thinking that all my years of therapy and introspection have gotten me really far down the road of recovery. When I discovered that the body locks in the stuff that isn't released (and just talking about doesn't always release it, as anyone who has spent years in therapy can tell you), I started doing an inventory of the things that I have disassociated instead. I have been thinking about the millions of moments that I did not protect myself from the harm of others, either mentally, emotionally, physically or sexually, and instead chose to shut down and go to my happy place. And following the happy place, I went immediately into denial and just moved on, unwilling to allow myself to feel the pain of what happened.

The entire two years spent with my son's father. A vast amount of the five year relationship with my last ex, the drunk. The ten years of sexual activity that followed being raped. Being molested, being stalked, being homeless, being terrified and alone as a child, there's so much stuffed down there...

I'm completely overwhelmed.

On top of that, I'm heartbroken to realize that my son has learned this from me, and the signs of trauma and the ability to disassociate are shockingly clear. It's easy to see as an observer. In the post, when I asked, "I wonder if my son's ability to heal will help me?" I was referring to the fact that we are seeking psychological intervention for him as well, and he has so much less trauma in his nine years than I do in my thirty-two years...I wonder if watching him work through his own crap and learn the ability to stop the dissociative process will give me the courage to face my own overwhelming task.

Some days I am struck down and think it's too much. Some days I have moments of hopefulness. Mostly I am both looking forward to and dreading the days ahead when my son is back in school during the day, and I will have the time and space to allow myself release. I am afraid to allow myself a full blown sobfest in front of him, for fear it will only traumatize him more. I am also afraid that he would want me to stop and I might not be able to. I've had nervous breakdowns before, and I know damn well that I am sitting on the teeter-totter of one right now, with a sadistic little bully sitting on the other end, waiting for just the right moment to jump off and let me crash.

And in that way, I am standing in the way of my own healing, sitting here as stoically as possible day after day in the company of my child.
I don't really see a way around it, and I'm not even sure that I want to. Because I am afraid.

Afraid of what? I don't even know.

And that's exactly it. I don't even know. There is so much healing to do, and I don't know how to do it. I don't even know about some of the things that need to be healed. Things from my past seem to pop out of nowhere, and my dreams are filled with bizarre situations and people I knew.

It helps when I have a metaphor to work with, an image to guide me. The only thing I can think of is to drop something heavy down on the vision of the moving images on the glass. It all breaks, it's all freed, but I fall through splintered glass on the way down. I don't know.

I'm fucking exhausted.

a cloudy me

I'm having a day of retrospect and a lot of emotional crap simmering to the surface.

I started playing with pictures and they just seem apt.

glad I've never liked Red hots

Feeling completely out of whack with physical therapy, I've been perusing other blogs.

When I came across this one I just couldn't let it slip by. It's fucking priceless.

Try not to snarf on the monitor, ok?

(For some reason, the link isn't working. See below for story...)

how to guard a child when the guard is mortally wounded?

I'd love to write about something cheerful, I really would, but no. I don't have it in me. Try back later.

Yesterday The SpermDonor called. He hasn't called his child in months, didn't bother acknowledging his sons message that he left him on Father's Day (like he deserves shit, no, actually, he DOES deserve shit) and then just calls up out of the blue, as always, yesterday.

I need caller ID, dammit.

I thought it would be a friend of mine and answered the phone expectantly, only to be punched in the gut by the sound of his idiot voice saying, "What are you doing?"

This is always how he starts conversations with me, no matter how long it's been since we've spoken, no matter how much I wish he was dead, no matter how little he actually gives a flying fuck what it is that I'm actually doing. "What're you doing?"

I wasn't in the mood. As a matter of fact, I've been thinking about him a lot lately, about what an asshole he is, what an asshole he's always been, and how much I hate him. I suspect this is due in very large part to the physical therapy I've been in. Myofascial release is said to unlock trauma in the body, and son of a bitch if he wasn't a source of a whole hell of a lot of it in my life. And worse, in my child's life.

I think this is why I cannot "get over it", I cannot let it go, because even though I rarely talk to him anymore, he just keeps reappearing, doing more damage, then disappearing again, back to his selfish and completely self absorbed existence.

Usually, about once a year or so, I snap. I call him up and just rip him a new asshole, making sure he very clearly understands that he is a crappy father and the myriad of reasons why. I explain to him the many ways he hurts his son, and he tells me I'm ridiculous and a bitch.

A bitch, yes, but ridiculous, no.

My son has grown up with this pathetic and passive abuse from his father, his father's total lack of interest in his sons life- at least until he decides he has some time or maybe his guilt gets too much, I don't know. I honestly don't know why he calls at all. But when he does, he wants to do all these things, he suddenly wants to be Super Dad and make up for all the time he doesn't give a shit. That's how it seems to me, anyway.

And my son, well, he's a kid. He doesn't really get it, but he likes the attention (when he gets it), his dad buys him a bunch of toys and does fun stuff with him, takes him to Chuck E. Cheese or a carnival or whatever, and my son comes back with stars in his eyes, thinking he's loved.

It makes me sick.

It is only until the last few years that I have started to clue my son in to small bits of the truth about his father. I have never wanted to scar him any further, but nor do I want to have him grow up thinking that this behavior is ok. It is NOT.

Therein lies the problem. When you grow up with bullshit, you think it's normal. My son doesn't see a problem with it, or at least, he didn't used to. We didn't talk about it any more than necessary, because I tried to shield him from as much of it as I could. Now he's nine. He's starting to catch on, but doesn't know what to think about it. He doesn't know how to feel. Like any child, he does not want to begrudge the attention; he's desperate for it.

But...

(takes a deep slow breath and exhales it slowly)

I notice that he responds very strangely to his father. When he talks to him on the phone, he uses a silly little kid voice, and talks very quietly. When he hangs up, I ask him what they talked about and he tells me some short thing and changes the subject, and as quickly as possible leaves the room entirely, busying himself in some activity.

When I ask him about his dad, he responds with nearly blank statements, as if there were no feeling at all, or as if he is replying with what he assumes must be the correct feeling to have, but the disassociation is CLEAR on his face.

After dealing with the trauma of knowing this man for ten years, there is no way in hell I am letting him fuck up MY child, yes I said MY child, the way he fucked up me.

And this therapy...in whatever way it does it (and I still don't really understand), it's been bringing all the crap in my life back up to the surface. All the hurt and trauma and pain is just bubbling up, seeping out of cracks I tried to plug years ago, sometimes bursting through in a torrent of pain and indignation. The years spent with SpermDonor were the worst years of my life, without a doubt. What that man did to my mind in two years is mind numbing, literally. What I am realizing is that as mind numbing as it may have been, my body stored it all away, every hurt and slight and scream, every night alone, every lie, every argument, every feeling of desolate isolation at the hands of a sadistic manipulator, every bit of that is coming back up and I can't stop it.

Oh, sometimes I want to. It's weak, but it's true. I don't want to think about it. I don't want to think about those years with him. I escaped him and tried so hard to never look back, and I've really never had the chance to do it anyway. Since we are tied together with a child, I have never been able to shake his emotional abuse for long enough to feel that I have a safe place to look back and heal. And so, it is buried, pain on top of pain, and it's feeling like a volcano about to blow. I AM the island. There is nowhere to go.

On top of the lifetime of other traumas I've endured, it's more than I'm willing to take on right now.

So there he was, stupidly asking me, "What're you doing?" and I just couldn't give him the usual glazed over response of feigned politeness. I just blinked and was silent for a moment, and he asked me again, thinking maybe I didn't hear him. I finally said, "What? When? Right now? Are you asking what I am currently doing RIGHT NOW, or would you like to know what I have been doing for the last four or five months?"

That threw him, but he bounced back with another stupid question, "So, did you get the money?" Again, I was silent with the sheer weight of his moronic questions. I said, "What money are you talking about? Did I get WHAT money? Are you referring to the child support check I got in July, because if so, yes. I got that."

Child support finally caught up with his ass and pulled a month out of his paycheck. A whopping $300, whoopdeefucking do. He hasn't paid child support in years, and even at the meager $300 a month I agreed to let him pay (I could have gotten a lot more, but agreed to let him pay less in the hopes that he might actually be able to achieve that little bit- NO), he hasn't bothered to pay it. He owes me tens of thousands of dollars and has a warrant out for his arrest.

"Oh, good," he says, his voice full of satisfaction, as if that $300 somehow redeemed him and gave him the right to act noble. The fact is, he didn't offer it up. They FOUND him. There's a big fucking difference, you fucking asshole.

I dug right in before he could open his stupid fucking pie hole again and said, "Did you get (your son's) message? He called you on Father's Day." His reply: "Oh, yah." I said, "You never called him back. That was totally rude." He backpedaled and said, "Well, I think I did. I mean, I don't know! I probably had to work all day. I work ALL the time." Fucking moron. I said, "Right. Always working. So, when you get home, you still get messages, right? At the end of the day, when ALL THE WORK is done, you would STILL get the message, right?"

He knew I was pissed. Not my usual polite chit chat, I just reached in and started pulling him across the coals. And the asshole deserved it.

He changed the subject and started talking about how he got a new job, went back to Asheville, how he's been so busy, blah blah blah, just trying to distract me, trying to derail the train of my anger with chit chat. I wasn't having it.

HE GOT A NEW JOB. Yah, did you catch that? I certainly fucking did. In other words, child support caught up with him once again, and once again he suddenly got a new job! What a fucking coincidence! No, really, it's not, he's done this over and over and over and over for eight fucking years.

Immediately I lowered my tone and said, "Oh, really? Where at?" That fucker damn near fell for it and said, "Oh, at the...this...uh... It's a restaurant. I got the job back when I lived in Ridgecrest, and..." He rambled on again, trying to derail me once more. If I found out where he works, I could just call child support again... Then he would have to find a new job, wouldn't he?

He asked, "Is (my son) back in school yet?" I told him no, but made a mental note that he had talked big about (my son) staying with him for weeks over the summer, and gee whiz, waited until he was sure summer vacation was over before he called! Coincidence, only if you're stupid.

He quickly asked, "Can I talk to (my son)?"

"Yah," I said, "sure."

My son ran in and talked to him in that weird baby voice, then handed the phone back to me after all of a minute. I could tell his dad had asked him about what he had been doing over the summer.

Then SpermDonor asks me, "I wanted to know if (my son) could come stay with us over Labor Day weekend. What do you think?"

What do I think? What do I think? My mind raced around that and the million things I could tell him that I THINK but finally focused on the calendar. He waited till a week or two before to ask me? Knowing full well we'd have already planned something, or couldn't make a last minute change, but so that he could look like at least he TRIED, you know? That's his deal. He does that- waits till he's pretty sure there's no way it could work out, then he can later say, "But I tried to see him on Labor Day, but you wouldn't let him come!" so that I can be the bad guy.

What he doesn't realize is that I have no problem being the bad guy. The less time my son spends around that stupid manipulating ego centric asshole, the better off he'll be. And that is a fact. I don't care if it IS his father, his father is an emotionally abusive asshole, who is so fucking self centered he doesn't even KNOW he's abusive. That's the fucked up part. He really thinks he's doing good. And after ten years of dealing with his insanity, I can safely assume that it's NOT fixable. God knows I tried, and it nearly killed me. Really.

I told him that I didn't think that there would be time before school started and that also, "I can't drive. You would have to drive the whole way." (He lives about four hours away.) "Oh, is your car still fucked up?" he asked. "No," I said, "I've been in physical therapy. I can't drive that far. I've been doing this most of the summer and will be doing it for months. I've basically had to learn how to walk all over again," I told him, knowing that he didn't give a rats ass about the details but making it clear that I can't drive.

I was right. He didn't even ask what was wrong, just said, "Oh, that sucks." There was as much concern in his voice as if he were discussing the weather. Thanks, asshole. And then, his voice resumed, but I know the asshole for who he is and I could hear the relief that he was trying to cover up, "Oh, well, ok. I'll call in a couple days to see what's up. Can I talk to (my son) and say goodbye?"

"Yah. Sure." God I hate him.

I handed the phone back to my son who heard his dad say goodbye but my son interrupted him. "Don't you want to talk about anything else?" he said. I was dumbfounded. He was nailing him, gently, but still. He asked again, "Don't you want to talk about anything else?" There was a pause and then, "Ok, goodbye."

I tried to ask him about it but he just put on his 'This Does Not Bother Me' face and went back to playing on his computer.

I sat here for a long time, growing more and more sullen and despondent as the minutes went by. I thought about the time SpermDonor and I were together, and the million moments of trauma that occurred during that time. I wondered how I would ever be able to work through that. I wondered how much of that stress had my son picked up in the womb, and how traumatized he was as a baby, hearing his mother cry all day and occasionally (when his father came home) hearing his parents scream, only to go back to his mother crying.

I thought about how he learned that face from me, how he adapted my ability to disassociate from watching me interact with other people, while inside I felt like a dead shell of a person, devoid of hope.

I thought about the kind of damage his relationship (if you can call it that) with his father is doing to him right now, and what could I do about it? Something has to be done, because the signs of trauma are there, and they aren't being dealt with.

I wondered how in the hell could I possibly help my son heal when I can't heal myself?

I wondered how much of my current day responses to his father are past trauma talking, and how could I ever be able to think about him without a total bias?

By the time my husband came in, I was broken.

I started to tell him about it and cracked. I sobbed. I said to him, "I just can't take it. I can't. I can't take it. Not on top of everything else right now. I can't do it."

As I've said throughout the physical therapy, the physical pain is enough to drive me to madness, or in this case, weakness. But the emotional pain that it's dredging up is overwhelming. Maybe it's overwhelming because of the physical pain. I don't know.

We decided to get (my son) to talk about it. He came out for dinner and we started to talk. He immediately shut down and didn't want to talk. Soon he was staring at the wall with his eyes full of tears. All we were asking him was how he felt about the conversation with his dad, and if it hurt his feelings at all that his dad rarely ever called him.

It was brutal to watch. He dodged every question, and when we asked him why he was so upset he said, "I'm just cranky!" The avoidance was so glaringly obvious we knew we had to push him, because dropping it would just let it fester. After a few minutes, he was crying, and when I said, "I think we should go to a safer place to talk more," my husband nodded. He scooped up the little guy, who threw his arms around my husbands neck and started bawling.

It was heartbreaking. I know what a nerve feels like when it's pinched (both literally and figuratively) and I could see it happening.

We all cuddled up in our bed, with (my son) in the middle. I pulled the snuggly comforter up and we got in close and cuddly. He cried and cried, and my husband gently asked him to talk about his feelings, and told him that we weren't leaving until he did, that feelings bottled up inside can hurt you, and I gave him various examples from my own life about that (the ulcer, migraines, panic attacks, etc). We talked about how I am learning to express my emotions, too, and I that I know how hard it is. We talked about our parents, as both Jack and I have been dissed and abandoned by a parent, and we know how it feels. We know the conflict that goes on in a child's mind.

Finally he started talking, and after a while he stopped crying and shaking and calmed down. He was, I have to note, almost BUOYANT the rest of the night.

I feel like a page has turned, at least in my son's ability to heal. I've made an appointment to talk to his shrink, who wants me to update him on what's going on before my son can come in on his own.

I wonder if my son's ability to heal will help me? That is to say, part of my pain with his father has been that he keeps hurting me, yes, but that he is hurting MY CHILD, and I feel helpless to stop it because he IS his father. I cannot keep him from him, unless we file to have his parental rights stripped from him. It's a battle he would almost certainly lose due to his lack of involvement, lack of support, unstable life, and history of drug use, drinking and driving, dealing, jail time, work history, the list goes on. It's a thought, but one I've never pursued because I've never had the strength to fight it. He WOULD fight it, and it would be very ugly indeed.

But I wonder if it's not the only choice left? The man has not changed. More so, he doesn't even comprehend the damage he does. It's not intentional! That's the bitch of it all. He's just so fucked up he fucks up everything and everyone around him.

I would not feel helpless if he were cut off and contact was entirely up to us (including my son, yes). It would certainly turn the table, now wouldn't it?

But how can I make a decision like that? I am so biased. And around I go...
Or do I?

(moody girl changes subject)

A rambling mush-fest note to Jack from years ago.

Date: Wed, 9 Jun 2004

I love it when you send me mush. Then, when it's 12:44 AM and I should be sleeping but I'm not (I'm actually sitting here thinking about you and how phenomenal you are) I can open some bit of mush you sent and feel the love..... I think of you asleep in your bed, so far away, and how I'm here thinking of you and feeling like my mind will just blow completely out if I stop to ponder you any more....

I'll look at your picture and moan a happy, little, slightly pained moan (I try to cut off that thought process as soon as it starts before I pitch a complete and utter fit)....

Seriously, when I think about you sometimes I just can't even wrap my mind around it. I cannot possibly grasp with my limited mortal intellect how wonderful, intelligent, patient, understanding, sexy, funny, intuitive, and downright perfect you are. No, no, I wasn't forgetting HOT HOT HOT, oh......(moaning, must stop that).....

~sigh~

I've never felt at a loss for words to describe the way I've ever felt about any man.

I can only describe it in emotional metaphors:

My love for you feels like an underwater electrical storm, through which I have the incomprehensible ability to soar.

It's light, it's dark, it's shocking and soothing and life altering.

Oh, maybe that's what it is: knowing you and our union has caused me to grow, to change, to awaken....and it's a nearly tangible change taking place. I feel like me, but different every day. As if you are some wonder drug that causes me to discover who I really am, and thus I am better able to see the beauty in the world around me.

You electrify me.

I love you,
J

"Who you calling a bitch?"

The sound quality sucks, but it's a great song. It's on my MySpace profile currently, as a matter of fact.

Right now I am suffering from a wicked bad case of PMS fueled rage, and quite a few of my friends are going through some major crap with men. Together, that is not a good combination, unless we're talking about ganging up and kicking some ass. Frankly, it sounds pretty good, although the best I could do right now would be to lacerate them to death with a razor sharp tongue. Or help plan their demise- I'm damn good at that, lots of experience; it's good for something.



"Instinct leads me to another flow
Everytime I hear a brother call a girl a bitch or a ho
Trying to make a sister feel low
You know all of that gots to go
Now everybody knows there's exceptions to this rule
Now don't be getting mad, when we playing, it's cool
But don't you be calling out my name
I bring wrath to those who disrespect me like a dame."

Queen Latifah, U.N.I.T.Y.

I like being called a whore, by my husband or when one of my friends are joking around. "When we're playing, it's cool." Otherwise, expect a nice solid beat down. I'm in no mood, you lying, cheating, abusing bastards of this world.

It takes a lot to get me pissed, and once that happens, it's too late. You won't see me coming. I promise you that.

intentional or not, it's still rude

Oh, look! I've gone crazy again!

PMS has snuck in and made me insecure, jealous, angry, suspicious and vengeful.

Currently, it is in the form of suspicion, specifically other people's intent.

I went to Friendster. I clicked on the profile of my husband's ex. I don't have her e-mail, and although I could wait till he gets home and ask (or just sign in under his screen name and find out) I thought I would just go through Friendster.

I need to contact her, you see, but it's not terribly important. Hubby has a huge pile of pictures of her that he says he needs to mail back to her. Some of them are childhood photographs, and I understand. I don't care if he keeps pictures of his ex to remember her, but keeping an ex's childhood pictures is not kosher. I don't mean it would piss me off, I mean I think once you break up, you should give those back. That is THEIR childhood, you know? If you didn't know them then, they aren't yours to keep.

I personally am very attached to photographs. I am very sentimental. And if I was in love with a guy and gave him cute pictures of me when I was a tot, I would want them back when we broke up. It's just common sense to me. I returned all the pictures I had of ex's when they were young, because maybe some day their future lover might want to coo over them and enjoy them as much as I did. It's just a polite thing to do.

And hubby agrees. However, my husband is being inherantly lazy about ever mailing them back. It's not like he looks at them, they're buried, and I mean buried at the bottom of a chest of stuff. And if he really wanted to keep them I would tell him that I thought it was selfish of him but that it was his choice. However, he says he wants to send them back so I need to get her address because it's obvious he'll never get around to it.

Hence, me signing into Friendster. And going to her profile.

There I was very surprised to see the cute little comment he left on her profile three freaking years ago about how much he loves her and how she's the best, mushy mushy mush. It's like, the second comment down? In three years, she's only gotten one more comment, or is she attached to this show of his affection?

It irritated the fucking crap out of me. It's like returning photos, in a way. Why is the mushy comment he left still on her profile? Why not delete them, in all this time? I would have. If it was a comment about whatever, fine, but the obvious show of very attached affection is totally different.

Then I look on his, and find her three year old comment about mushy mushy moo moo. UGH! At least hers is further down, but still!

What irritates me is that it is a public profile, that he and I are married now, and that other people can see that. The fact that he doesn't leave mushy comments on MY profiles ALSO irritates the fucking shit out of me. It's not like I think they still have a thing for each other, I really don't. I just don't think either of them have given any thought whatsoever to how that might make me feel. At all. Thanks, you're both fucking awesome.

The difference is this: if he keeps old love letters (and he does, so do I) I don't care, not in the slightest. They don't bother me. If they were naked pictures, then yah, there would be a problem, that's something else entirely. But if you want to be sentimental about your ex, how about you do it in a venue that is not PUBLIC and connected to ME, thanks?

I find it publicly humiliating, personally. And now I'm irritated as shit about their little mushy three year old comments, his lack of comments on MY page, and I'm tempted to burn her goddamn pictures since I'm the only one who seems to give a shit about being polite. Fine. Nobody else wants to be polite? Fuck y'all.

Why am I the only one that cares?

intentional or not, it's still rude

Oh, look! I've gone crazy again!

PMS has snuck in and made me insecure, jealous, angry, suspicious and vengeful.

Currently, it is in the form of suspicion, specifically other people's intent.

I went to Friendster. I clicked on the profile of my husband's ex. I don't have her e-mail, and although I could wait till he gets home and ask (or just sign in under his screen name and find out) I thought I would just go through Friendster.

I need to contact her, you see, but it's not terribly important. Hubby has a huge pile of pictures of her that he says he needs to mail back to her. Some of them are childhood photographs, and I understand. I don't care if he keeps pictures of his ex to remember her, but keeping an ex's childhood pictures is not kosher. I don't mean it would piss me off, I mean I think once you break up, you should give those back. That is THEIR childhood, you know? If you didn't know them then, they aren't yours to keep.

I personally am very attached to photographs. I am very sentimental. And if I was in love with a guy and gave him cute pictures of me when I was a tot, I would want them back when we broke up. It's just common sense to me. I returned all the pictures I had of ex's when they were young, because maybe some day their future lover might want to coo over them and enjoy them as much as I did. It's just a polite thing to do.

And hubby agrees. However, my husband is being inherantly lazy about ever mailing them back. It's not like he looks at them, they're buried, and I mean buried at the bottom of a chest of stuff. And if he really wanted to keep them I would tell him that I thought it was selfish of him but that it was his choice. However, he says he wants to send them back so I need to get her address because it's obvious he'll never get around to it.

Hence, me signing into Friendster. And going to her profile.

There I was very surprised to see the cute little comment he left on her profile three freaking years ago about how much he loves her and how she's the best, mushy mushy mush. It's like, the second comment down? In three years, she's only gotten one more comment, or is she attached to this show of his affection?

It irritated the fucking crap out of me. It's like returning photos, in a way. Why is the mushy comment he left still on her profile? Why not delete them, in all this time? I would have. If it was a comment about whatever, fine, but the obvious show of very attached affection is totally different.

Then I look on his, and find her three year old comment about mushy mushy moo moo. UGH! At least hers is further down, but still!

What irritates me is that it is a public profile, that he and I are married now, and that other people can see that. The fact that he doesn't leave mushy comments on MY profiles ALSO irritates the fucking shit out of me. It's not like I think they still have a thing for each other, I really don't. I just don't think either of them have given any thought whatsoever to how that might make me feel. At all. Thanks, you're both fucking awesome.

The difference is this: if he keeps old love letters (and he does, so do I) I don't care, not in the slightest. They don't bother me. If they were naked pictures, then yah, there would be a problem, that's something else entirely. But if you want to be sentimental about your ex, how about you do it in a venue that is not PUBLIC and connected to ME, thanks?

I find it publicly humiliating, personally. And now I'm irritated as shit about their little mushy three year old comments, his lack of comments on MY page, and I'm tempted to burn her goddamn pictures since I'm the only one who seems to give a shit about being polite. Fine. Nobody else wants to be polite? Fuck y'all.

Why am I the only one that cares?

oh, I didn't just say that (yes, I did)

At the risk of embarrassing Jack, I simply have to tell this story:

A few days ago he came into the living room naked. I was sitting on the couch, always as ever working on keeping my neck straight so it wouldn't wobble, but his naked, warm, and still delightfully soft cock was too much. I scooted as far forward as I could and put it in my mouth, but quickly discovered that I couldn't do anything more than run my tongue over it, since I couldn't push my head backwards and forwards to suck him off properly.

I looked up at him sadly and informed him of that fact, and put it back in my mouth anyway. He moved forward and gently held on to the back of my head, using his hands to brace my neck from any movement as he slowly slid himself in and out of my mouth.

That worked fine for all of maybe twenty seconds, till I started laughing and could not stop. And no, you can't laugh with a cock in your mouth, it just doesn't work.

So he pulled back and looked down at me, asking me what was wrong/so funny. By then I was laughing harder, since I didn't have a cock in my mouth, muffling my laughter anymore.

I know it was wrong, but I just couldn't help it. Inbetween peals of laughter I said, "You're holding onto my head! I feel like you're face fucking me, and I'm a handicapped girl!" He burst into laughter, too, because it was far too ridiculous. "You're not HANDICAPPED," he pointed out, but I just kept laughing, "I know, I know....but..." the image was stuck in my head.

We moved to the bedroom and got it on, but no more head holding, thanks. That was just too damn comical. All I needed to make it funnier was an actual neck brace. Actually, that might have worked. Hmmmm......

I just don't know

Once upon a time I had a boyfriend who was also my best friend, for a brief period of my life. Let's call him G.D. since he loved the Grateful Dead ever so much. (He absolutely hated them, I'm just being a brat.)

G.D. came into my life during a period of total and complete upheaval, and for whatever reason, we seemed to fit together like a hand in glove. (Not O.J.'s) G.D. was totally wacky and weird and his lunatic brilliance lit me up like the 4th of July. I don't know what it was, but we melded instantly.

He was one of the few men I had not been afraid of having sex with, and he came along post-rape and pre-pink, so that says quite a lot. He loved me unconditionally, it seemed, and no matter how fucked up I was back then, he didn't bat an eye. I would tell him I had sex with someone else and he would say, "So how do you feel about him?", just genuinely curious. I would break down into hysterical tears of guilt.

You see, there was one major difference between G.D. and I- he was polyamorous, while I was a major fucking trauma unit who was not. If I wanted to sleep with someone else, so be it. It didn't faze him. He just wanted to know where WE stood. I couldn't understand that.

We were together for awhile, how long I don't know. I broke it off, then we got back together, probably a few times. The last time I broke it off was because I just couldn't stand that unconditional love.

Sounds weird? It isn't. I hated myself then. I was full of guilt and shame and remorse about who I was and what my life had been, and seeing someone stare at me with eyes that glittered with the love of "You Can Do No Wrong" just made me want to vomit. The pedestal he put me on, although healing at first, became something I wanted to lay myself upon as a karmic offering of slaughter for my real and perceived transgressions. But he would do me no harm, just be ever patient and understanding. It drove me crazy.

The sex...well, the sex was always crazy good, and by crazy good I mean I wasn't used to sex BEING good, other than the one other not scary ex, and he and I were always very sweet and slow in bed. But G.D was not like that, he was electrified and excited, lusty and unashamed. THAT was a totally new thing for me as well.

We did it against his door so his housemates wouldn't walk in on us. We did it in a room full of people asleep in the dark at a party. We did it in the pouring rain, near the top of a mountain with cars driving by, thunder booming and us just in front of the car where anyone could see. It was crazy! It was insane! It was...liberating.

But, there was that whole "You are Perfect" versus "I am a Monster" thing that I couldn't deal with, and I cut things off between us. He went on to date other girls, I went on to date other guys, and for quite a long time we remained what I thought of as best friends. I knew I could count on him for anything, tell him anything, and always be understood, minus the morbid hatred I would dish upon myself.

One day I was particularly needy. It's a story I don't even want to get into, so I'll skim it for the sake of all parties involved, mostly my own embarrassment at why I was so upset that day.

A girl has to keep SOME secrets. Sheesh.

I saw him at our regular hang out and was so utterly relieved, but he looked tense upon seeing my face. Huh? He had started dating someone new a few weeks before, and like all new budding romances, I hadn't seen him for weeks since they'd been locked together in a naked embrace from the start. That was fine, I certainly understood, but I was glad as hell to finally see him out and about again.

~sigh~

I told him how happy I was to see him and how I needed to talk, but he just backed away nervously. I looked at him like he was insane, what the hell was wrong? He quietly told me his new girlfriend didn't like me and didn't want him to talk to me. At all. Ever again.

I just stared at him, dumbfounded. "So, what, that's it? We aren't even friends? I...I can't talk to you? We can't be friends because she won't let us?" I couldn't understand. Who was this girl, that she could so dazzle him into dismissing my friendship forever, just like that, poof?

I stayed away. He asked me to. I still thought of him as my best friend and so I respected his wishes. I didn't want to make waves, and since I thought it wouldn't last, I was willing to wait.

They got married. They had kids. Shows you what I know, huh?

At one point she and I tried to be friends. It was pretty scary, frankly. Looking back I can see that my intentions were clearly not the best; I wanted to be have her accept me as a friend so I could have my friend back (her husband). If it meant being friends with her, too, I was willing to give it a shot, but I think that was doomed from the beginning. I resented her, and although I found her company fun sometimes, I mostly just psychoanalyzed her, wondering why my best friend would just ditch me for her. It didn't take long for a few really nasty remarks to slip out of my mouth and she hated me more than ever. I don't blame her. I don't even hold it against her. At all. I said the most hateful things I have ever said in my life to that woman. So hateful I am too ashamed to even admit here.

The problem was that her husband would occasionally talk to me. At first I didn't catch on that he wasn't supposed to be, but that he wasn't telling her.

It wasn't like we were having an affair or even anything longer than a phone call once or twice a year. The occasional thirty minutes of instant messaging, catching up on what was going in each other's lives, and that was it. Sometimes we didn't talk for a year or more.

Then it happened: during one such IM conversation that he mentioned the fact that she would be pissed if she knew we were talking. I responded with something like, "WHAT? She doesn't know? What are you talking about?" and he explained that she was out with some guy that she was dating (him and his whole polyamorous thing) and I realized:

He's talking to ME to get back at her. He's jealous, yes, but I'm being used as some kind of petty revenge tactic!

And I was pissed. Not moments later, she must have come home, because he suddenly disappeared, no signing off, no goodbye. I got the IM equivalent of being hung up on. Talk about insult on top of injury. Then I was REALLY pissed.

I went back to ignoring him like always, other than one night when my b/f and I were at Wal-Mart, and G.D. came around one aisle and saw me. He started talking really fast, so I knew she was close behind. Sure enough, there she came, their daughter in the cart, and when they got up close, she gave me the look of death, but worse- her daughter actually hissed at me. What the fuck? I'm shopping in Wal-Mart and he came up and started talking to ME. Again.

The last time it happened I got some nasty e-mail from her and shot her one back, saying that I was sick and damn tired of taking the blame for some shit that wasn't my fault, and if she wanted him to not talk to me, maybe she should tighten the leash, but it wasn't MY doing. I never sought him out, and I damn well didn't want to take the fall for him ever, ever again.

I did not hear back from her.

I did, years later, hear from him again. Fucking A. I quickly asked if she was ok with us talking, and if not, would he please not contact me again until he was willing to stand up for his friendship with me, because otherwise I didn't really consider it a friendship.

The fact was, it was just a little more heartbreak every time. Each time I thought everything was ok and we could go back to being friends, only to realize that I was still hated by her and he was going behind her back to talk to me. I wasn't willing to invoke her wrath, and his "friendship" wasn't worth that to me. Besides, I said, I support your marriage to this woman. That is your choice. Standing up for me is not. If my friendship isn't worth it, then neither is yours. And until that day comes, leave me the hell out of it.

I haven't heard from him since.

"Say you'll come back when you can
whenever your airplane happens to land.
Maybe I'll be back here, too
it all depends on what's with you.
Hung up waiting for a windy day
kite on ice since the first of February.
Mama keeps saying that the wind might blow,
but standing here I say I just don't know."

Grateful Dead, Cosmic Charley

strive for wiggling achievements

I saw this and thought to myself, this is my goal for therapy. I want to move like this.

fantasy girl NOT available for Halloween

Ah yes. The Wonder Woman costume.

Three years ago, on the day of Halloween, I took a somersault down some concrete steps. No, not out of drunken funnery (I just made that up, thank you), but while I was at work. It was still early in the day, but I did spend the rest of the day in Urgent Care, as you may have guessed.

Alas! I was hurrying because I had planned on getting done early so I could spend the rest of my day making a HawkGirl costume. That was my plan, but it got shot down in a big way. Instead, I spent the day with doctors and didn't leave there until an hour before it was time to pick up my son from YMCA after school care, and that left me about thirty minutes to figure out a costume before he and I went trick or treating.

In desperation, I stopped at The Costume Shoppe and frantically picked through what was left. I was amazed when I saw the Wonder Woman costume, tried it on, decided the bust was meant for Pamela Anderson but fuck it, I didn't have time to be picky. I rented it and left.

For any of you keeping up on the current physical therapy bullshit I'm enduring, yes, this was the same day. The pain hadn't kicked in yet and I didn't really have a clue how badly I was hurt. I even spent the night joking about it, ha ha ha. Fucking hilarious.

I picked up my son, we ate dinner, he got into his Spiderman costume and I put on the Wonder Woman costume. There, uh, wasn't much to it, as you may have guessed.

I walked out of the bathroom and my son stared at me. "THAT is your costume?! You're wearing a BATHING SUIT, Mommy!" I tried to play it off, because I was already self concious about it, and said, "No, there's boots and a cape, too, see?"

We left.

Almost as soon as we hit the street I realized I was indeed walking around town in a bathing suit, heeled boots, red lipstick and it was late October. Yah, it's Halloween, but my mother's prissy upbringing of her daughter told me with each step that I should feel extremely awkward about it. I decided that I had just fallen down a flight of fucking stairs, to hell with it, if I wanted to walk around in a damn Wonder Woman bathing suit with a possible concussion, fuck anyone who had a problem with it, and I strutted my ass on down the street, tiny Spiderman at my side.

I was getting some odd looks, to be sure. But even my concrete mashed head could figure out that they weren't looks of judgment...they were looks of lust. What?

You see, I had no idea, none at all, what a sex symbol Wonder Woman was to the boyhood minds of the opposite sex. Nor did I know that those boyhood minds were still intact, oh yes indeed, and that a 6'1" living, breathing version of their childhood fantasy walking down the street would do some REALLY weird things to them.

One of the houses we went up to was a cute older couple, and the husband asked, "Where are you going tonight, super heros?" to my son and I. I was feeling sassy as hell by then and told him, "Shhh! We're undercover! We are just ordinary trick or treaters, not super hero's out foiling crime!" as if I were informing the nearby super villains to not notice us at all. He smiled, hugely, and said, "Perhaps when you get done NOT fighting crime you would like to come back and..." at which point his wife hit him with something. We all laughed, and I sauntered off.

My son noted, "People seem to be paying more attention to your costume than mine." Oh, dear. He was only six. I told him, "They just aren't used to seeing grown ups in costumes. Not many of the other parents are dressed up, see?" It was true, and he felt better. I felt bad. I certainly wasn't trying to outdo my own kid on Halloween. I just grabbed what I could find and rushed to get him, you know? (sigh)

After awhile, men started getting more and more bold. I think it was because we kept passing them going across the streets, I don't know.
I do know I was nearly mortified when a father with his kids said to me, in front of all of the kids standing there, "Oh God. You are my fantasy come true." He was even breathless. I gaped at him and finally whispered, "I'm not really a fantasy..." and just walked off with my son. I figured I'd let him figure that one out on his own.

More men started commenting, even in front of their wives! I was getting embarrassed and certainly didn't want to start any ruckus. I mean, it's Halloween, it's about the kids, I just grabbed the damn thing because I found it left on the racks after I spent the whole damn day in the emergency room! I wasn't out trying to be super hot bitch of Halloween and make wives smack their stupid open mouthed monkey brained husbands. I'd had enough attention. If I was at an adult party, oh yah, fine. But I'm trick or treating with my kid and these guys were distracting me and my son was getting not so secretly pissed off about it.

In front of one huge crowd at one house, one man opened his mouth and said something. Whatever, I don't know. I just stopped in my tracks, turned around and loudly announced, "This Wonder Woman costume was rented from The Costume Shoppe on Broadway! It will be returned there within three days! At that time, you may go rent it for your girlfriend, wife, whatever, and until then, please keep your fantasies to yourself! THANK YOU!" I smiled hugely as I said it, but really, I had had enough.

No one else said anything more about it. Men smiled, even the wives smiled at that point, realizing, I hoped, that I did not mean to commit any social faux pas, and I did not WANT the attention.

We finished up trick or treating and went to a party afterwards at the YMCA, just for kids. It was a lot of fun, and since I was friends with most of the counselors it was a good time for both my son and I.

I learned quite a lot that night:
One: men are really weird.
Two: they open their mouths too much.
Three: your kid does NOT want your costume to be cooler than theirs. Ever.
Four: if you fall down some stairs, your stupid ass should run about town trick or treating with your son that night, because you won't be doing shit for a long time thereafter.
Five: joking about it will NOT make it better ("I'm wonder woman! I wonder why I fell down those stairs? I wonder why I hurt so bad? I wonder why my dumb ass isn't in bed? I wonder why I'm not in the hospital?" etc)

Most importantly, I learned that if you are seriously injured, you should hurry and doing something really fun with your kid, before the bruising and agony sets in.

Oh- and guys really fucking dig Wonder Woman. Go figure.

fantasy girl NOT available for Halloween

Ah yes. The Wonder Woman costume.



Three years ago, on the day of Halloween, I took a somersault down some concrete steps. No, not out of drunken funnery (I just made that up, thank you), but while I was at work. It was still early in the day, but I did spend the rest of the day in Urgent Care, as you may have guessed.

Alas! I was hurrying because I had planned on getting done early so I could spend the rest of my day making a HawkGirl costume. That was my plan, but it got shot down in a big way. Instead, I spent the day with doctors and didn't leave there until an hour before it was time to pick up my son from YMCA after school care, and that left me about thirty minutes to figure out a costume before he and I went trick or treating.

In desperation, I stopped at The Costume Shoppe and frantically picked through what was left. I was amazed when I saw the Wonder Woman costume, tried it on, decided the bust was meant for Pamela Anderson but fuck it, I didn't have time to be picky. I rented it and left.

For any of you keeping up on the current physical therapy bullshit I'm enduring, yes, this was the same day. The pain hadn't kicked in yet and I didn't really have a clue how badly I was hurt. I even spent the night joking about it, ha ha ha. Fucking hilarious.

I picked up my son, we ate dinner, he got into his Spiderman costume and I put on the Wonder Woman costume. There, uh, wasn't much to it, as you may have guessed.

I walked out of the bathroom and my son stared at me. "THAT is your costume?! You're wearing a BATHING SUIT, Mommy!" I tried to play it off, because I was already self concious about it, and said, "No, there's boots and a cape, too, see?"

We left.

Almost as soon as we hit the street I realized I was indeed walking around town in a bathing suit, heeled boots, red lipstick and it was late October. Yah, it's Halloween, but my mother's prissy upbringing of her daughter told me with each step that I should feel extremely awkward about it. I decided that I had just fallen down a flight of fucking stairs, to hell with it, if I wanted to walk around in a damn Wonder Woman bathing suit with a possible concussion, fuck anyone who had a problem with it, and I strutted my ass on down the street, tiny Spiderman at my side.

I was getting some odd looks, to be sure. But even my concrete mashed head could figure out that they weren't looks of judgement...they were looks of lust. What?

You see, I had no idea, none at all, what a sex symbol Wonder Woman was to the boyhood minds of the opposite sex. Nor did I know that those boyhood minds were still intact, oh yes indeed, and that a 6'1" living, breathing version of their childhood fantasy walking down the street would do some REALLY weird things to them.

One of the houses we went up to was a cute older couple, and the husband asked, "Where are you going tonight, super heros?" to my son and I. I was feeling sassy as hell by then and told him, "Shhh! We're undercover! We are just ordinary trick or treaters, not super hero's out foiling crime!" as if I were informing the nearby super villians to not notice us at all. He smiled, hugely, and said, "Perhaps when you get done NOT fighting crime you would like to come back and..." at which point his wife hit him with something. We all laughed, and I sauntered off.

My son noted, "People seem to be paying more attention to your costume than mine." Oh, dear. He was only six. I told him, "They just aren't used to seeing grown ups in costumes. Not many of the other parents are dressed up, see?" It was true, and he felt better. I felt bad. I certainly wasn't trying to outdo my own kid on Halloween. I just grabbed what I could find and rushed to get him, you know? (sigh)

After awhile, men started getting more and more bold. I think it was because we kept passing them going across the streets, I don't know.
I do know I was nearly mortified when a father with his kids said to me, in front of all of the kids standing there, "Oh God. You are my fantasy come true." He was even breathless. I gaped at him and finally whispered, "I'm not really a fantasy..." and just walked off with my son. I figured I'd let him figure that one out on his own.

More men started commenting, even in front of their wives! I was getting embarrassed and certainly didn't want to start any ruckus. I mean, it's Halloween, it's about the kids, I just grabbed the damn thing because I found it left on the racks after I spent the whole damn day in the emergency room! I wasn't out trying to be super hot bitch of Halloween and make wives smack their stupid open mouthed monkey brained husbands. I'd had enough attention. If I was at an adult party, oh yah, fine. But I'm trick or treating with my kid and these guys were distracting me and my son was getting not so secretly pissed off about it.

In front of one huge crowd at one house, one man opened his mouth and said something. Whatever, I don't know. I just stopped in my tracks, turned around and loudly announced, "This Wonder Woman costume was rented from The Costume Shoppe on Broadway! It will be returned there within three days! At that time, you may go rent it for your girlfriend, wife, whatever, and until then, please keep your fantasies to yourself! THANK YOU!" I smiled hugely as I said it, but really, I had had enough.

No one else said anything more about it. Men smiled, even the wives smiled at that point, realizing, I hoped, that I did not mean to commit any social faux pas, and I did not WANT the attention.

We finished up trick or treating and went to a party afterwards at the YMCA, just for kids. It was a lot of fun, and since I was friends with most of the counselors it was a good time for both my son and I.

I learned quite a lot that night:
One: men are really weird.
Two: they open their mouths too much.
Three: your kid does NOT want your costume to be cooler than theirs. Ever.
Four: if you fall down some stairs, your stupid ass should run about town trick or treating with your son that night, because you won't be doing shit for a long time thereafter.
Five: joking about it will NOT make it better ("I'm wonder woman! I wonder why I fell down those stairs? I wonder why I hurt so bad? I wonder why my dumb ass isn't in bed? I wonder why I'm not in the hospital?" etc)

Most importantly, I learned that if you are seriously injured, you should hurry and doing something really fun with your kid, before the bruising and agony sets in.

Oh- and guys really fucking dig Wonder Woman. Go figure.

how to win me over...

More from the old e-mails. For now, I rest a bit, but keep you on your toes with niblets...This one was from Jack, to me. What is not to love about this man, I ask you?

Fri, 21 May 2004

I LOVE FRIDAYS!! I announce:

I am the Maker, flashing rivers from my veins!

I am the Hero, lapping at the heart-blood of slain gods!

I am the "I am", infinite in depth and breadth!

That was all the e-mail said. I totally creamed myself with the unexpected joy and strength and mysticism flowing out of it.

Wait...yes. It still makes me cream myself. Yep, no doubt about it.

bedroom haiku

Found this in an old e-mail to Jack...

Date: Tue, 8 Jun 2004

tangled in bed sheets
pained by love so exquisite
found/lost in your eyes

sleep, perchance to dream....

If you can cultivate wholesome mental states prior to sleep and allow them to continue right into sleep without getting distracted, then sleep itself becomes wholesome.

-His Holiness the Dalai Lama, "Sleeping, Dreaming and Dying"


Good plan. Hey, that reminds me. I got some new crazy muscle relaxer from the doctor. I don't know what it's called, but the generic version is called Tizanidine. I call it funky hallucinogenic evil, because I took it before bed last night and almost fell over at the computer, stumbled down the hall, fell into bed with a non stop panic attack and kept imagining weird circus scenes while my husband laid next to me and kept his hand on my chest, reminding me occasionally to breath, since I seemed to be forgetting. He also could barely feel my pulse.

Yah, you bet your sweet ass I'm calling the doc before, if EVER, I take it again. Holy crap on a toaster, Batman. That was some fucked up shit. And I'm fairly certain it may be the antithesis of what the Dalai Lama was talking about. Although the "Sleeping, Dreaming, and Dying" part sounds kind of similar.

Fuck biscuits. Stupid stupid crap.

depressing morbid me

I have a severe adversion to doing this, but as my shrink told me recently, I have to do the hard things. She was, in particular, referring to a conversation she and I were having about my insecurities, but it seems to be the theme of my life lately, so what the fuck, here goes:

I am falling apart. I am not sure why. It could be the pain of physical therapy. It might be PMS. It could be the emotional whiplash that physical therapy is inducing in oh so many forms. But the fact remains, I am cracking under it.

I like to think I'm strong, and I would like for you to believe that, too. I like to act like I have it all together, no matter what. But I don't. My shit is sliding out of control and although I hate it, it might be a good thing.

Here's an honest look at my reality right now:

I am in more pain than I could express to you.

I frequently don't know what I'm doing or what time it is, what day it is, or why I'm where I am. I had to call my husband the other day from Target because I couldn't remember what I was supposed to get. I just sat on the floor and tried not to burst into tears, totally confused and frightened. I can't remember what I'm supposed to be doing, and so I walk back and forth (ok, hobble back and forth) to the calender to check and make sure I'm not forgetting something, the notebook to see what I wrote down to remind myself, the computer to see if it has some clue to tell me and the clock because my sense of time has disappeared. I can't remember if I've fed my son, myself, or if either of us has taken our medicines. I'm terrified I'll take too much by accident and OD, and I've created neurotic ways of reminding myself (set bottle on this counter for am dosage, THAT counter for PM, then put away).

I've started having panic attacks again and scratching. I used to scratch myself bloody sometimes, just a compulsive habit. I'm scared to go places because I don't know what the hell is going to happen. Driving is terrifying, but sometimes ok.

Sometimes I'm fine. Just...totally fine. That might last for 5 minutes or 5 hours. Ok, ha, never 5 hours. When I have these lucid moments, I try to do everything I can because I know it won't last. I have to communicate with people during this time and do any writing I'm going to do, because otherwise I don't know what the fuck is going to come out. Honestly, I'm about semi-lucid right now. Writing is scary because what if I say our real names or forget about something I'm not supposed to talk about? What if I do something stupid and hurt someone's feelings? (Sigh-already did.)

My husband and son are just along for the ride, and I can't empathize with them at all. It seems to me like it must suck ass to know me right now, to be around me. They have to do SO MUCH for me. They swear they don't mind. I wonder how long that will last. I never know if I'll make sense or be able to move, neither do they. My husband's had a hard day- will he come home to a happy family or a disabled sobbing wife and a son who hasn't had any attention and is also needy? They both usually forage for food, I barely cook anything anymore. I just can't.

I realize I am pushing people away because I am afraid they will grow tired of me. My family, my friends, my husband, my therapist even. I don't know why. Is this because I feel that way about other people? Was I brought up that way (my husband's theory, and since he can think straight I'm going to listen to him) and so it just seems uncouth to be needy?

I told my husband the other day that I just want to pull everyone I know close to me and (*crying*) have them be pillows. I really want somewhere soft to fall, but I am too afraid to ask. What if they say no? Or what if they say yes but grow to hate it? I don't know how long this crazy shit will last.

I am afraid of what else will come out during therapy. According to my insurance, they will only pay for 90 days of therapy on any certain body part. Upper back and lower back are seperate body parts. Right now we're doing upper back, and I'm a sobbing wretched mess. What happens when we get to the bottom half?

I should clarify: myofascial release is known to unlock emotional problems, how exactly I won't pretend to understand, but after my experience last week I have no doubts about that. And since this started I've been more vulnerable and frightened than I could have guessed.

So, when they get to the bottom half, what happens? What of all the rape trauma, that stuff? What's going to happen when that's unlocked?

Ok, yah, healing, but I'm not looking at the light at the end of the tunnel right now. I'm looking at the fucking tunnel, and I'm feeling morbid as shit. There's a lot buried, what if I can't deal? I mean, what if I just can't? I'm overwhelmed already and have moments where I cry and tell my husband, "I can't do it, I can't do it," although I know I can because I have to. There is no choice. It must be done. What am I going to do, stop going to therapy? Because I'm a wuss?

I'm naseaous. And can't spell. Last night my husband had to do the dishes right then because the smell of them was making me retch. They weren't gross, I just was hyper sensitive to the smell. Even the smell of the dishsoap was making me sick.

Speaking of smell...I rarely shower. My skins all broken out. I'm depressed and almost don't care, but each time that I shave I break out in hives. All my old psycho shit is coming back. maybe it will go away again.

I am so exhausted. Sometimes I have those lucid moments where I can accomplish some stuff, but mostly my legs are useless. And honestly, I think the lucid and energetic moments are due soley to the Adderall they have me on. What if I wasn't taking it? Would I even do anything at all, or just sleep all day and forget to do everything else? Who knew amphetamines were so useful, huh? I have a doctors appointment in an hour. Yay, amphetamines. Otherwise I would be sitting here and crying still. Instead I can sit there and cry. I hope they don't give me more shots. But who knows, maybe I do.

I wish I could stay focused for a whole fucking paragraph.

I wish this was over already.

I wish I wasn't terrified and depressed and in so much pain.

But that is my reality. And I get to deal with it.

currently occupied

With some crazy ass shit.
Um, I may be in here later? Tomorrow? A few days? Hell if I know.
I'm pretty sure what planet I'm on, but that's about it.
Leave me some lovin'.
I want it.
I need it.
I hurt.

the Pandora Box of pain

completely unedited. deal with it. I'll get to it...

Yesterdays therapy went really strange. So strange, in fact, that the word "strange" sounds stupid, but I'm really at a loss here.

First, hubby came with me. I suspect his presence was the catalyst. He wanted to ask my therapist some questions on how he could help with my recovery, any excersises he could assist me with, that sort of thing. They talked a bit while she worked on my back, and it was going ok.

I was happy to be face down on the table, my head through the little face hole, so when she did something that hurt and I wanted to cry, I could without anyone seeing me. Sure, they could hear me, but they couldn't see me and that made it easier, somehow. I don't know why.

I am currently way too whacked out to ponder it. I'm just going to relate what happened as best as I can.

She worked on a couple of very painful spots on my shoulders first, with me sitting up. She wanted to see if I could roll my head back yet. I can't. Well, sometimes I can, but usually not. And other times I can roll it back a little, but then I cannot lift it up without using my hands.

~sigh~

She mashed her knuckles into a few spots between my shoulders and said, "Ok, try it now." And again, different spot, "Try it now." After a while of that she said, "You sure you wanna keep going? You got it in you?" I thought of the recent post I made about pain in my sex blog, in a post about nipple clamps and how they were an interesting experiment in pain on MY terms, and how I push myself, etc. I said nothing about that, of course, just kind of laughed and said, "Yah, let's do it..." and kept on, her with her knuckles, me rolling my head back and picking it back up. Fuck. Not fun.

That was when she laid me down and was working on my back, and I was doing ok mostly, just a few tears, and even that I was doing ok with, letting it out, just like she's been training me to do. It was conflicting- my son was there, like always, but didn't bring his Gameboy and headphones like he usually does, so he could actually hear me. Usually he can't, and that is better. I don't like for him to see me in pain. He doesn't either. Better that he is unaware, as I learned last night when he woke up crying and told me he was scared I was going to die. But that is later, and I'm falling out of sequence. Argh. Sorry.

It was better because even though he COULD hear me, my husband was there for him to be comforted by, and to help him assimilate his feelings and work through it. At the same time, I could hear my husband making noises of pity for me when I cried. That made ME feel acknowledged, but couldn't have helped my son feel like it was ok.

Shit, I don't know.

At some point the therapist stood up next to me and started pushing her knuckles down HARD into the muscles next to the spine, and that really got me crying. I would laugh, and then cry, and then make a joke out of it- typical Jill style, really. Haha, it hurts like hell, but I'm still going to try to make you laugh and see that I'm ok...

She finished and asked me if I wanted a hot pack, I said yes. She finished and left so quickly I didn't have time to tell her I felt squashed, meaning, I felt like my spine was compressing itself, and it hurt. Someone came back with the heat thingy and laid it on my neck, and I laid there crying through the hole on the table, just waiting for the pain to subside. But it didn't. It got worse.

There was something in the middle of my back, just below my shoulderblades maybe? It felt like the muscles on either side of a.... (looks through hazy pain fog for word...has to look it up....) vertebrae were spasming together, like...

This is so fucking hard to explain. It sucks to try to write it, but I really need to get this out. Ok.

It felt as if the muscles next to a vertabrae were somehow pulling two vertabrae together and crushing (um) whatever is between them. Whatever that is hurt. very. badly. And it wasn't stopping, it was just a nearly rythmic spasm that crushed, crushed....crushed, crushed...

I lay there crying and tried to explain it to my husband so he could tell them. I know now from experience that sometimes the pain is too much and I can't talk right. Or write, for that matter. I told him to ask them if I could do traction, maybe that would pull this thing loose?

I asked him if he could see a bell. Usually they leave a bell next to me to ring if I need them. I have never needed the bell before, and this time was too much. It was bell time.

My husband found and rang the bell, and asked them if I could do traction. The girl who came went to ask my therapist, during which time my husband (and the girl? I don't know) tried to help me to sit up.

All hell broke loose. I didn't know, really, that you could FEEL hell breaking lose, but you can. And I did.

The weight of my spine as I sat up pushed down on whatever the hell it was in my back, as gravity pushed my big ass heavy head down on it, too, and I FREAKED.

Damn. This is just about...ok, no, it is making me cry telling it. Ok.

Let me explain: when I say FREAKED I don't mean cried harder or, I don't know...I mean I freaked the fuck out. Royally.

I leaned forward and started howling in pain, eye screwed shut and every muscle in my body started to shake. I heard multiple therapists come RUNNING in and mine said to my husband, "Take him out of here, now," referring to my son. They went to the waiting room, and I don't know what happened exactly. I couldn't open my eyes. I just couldn't. Nor could I stop my howling cries, or uncurl from a fetal position, or stop convulsing.

I did hear my therapist say to someone, "She's re-experiencing the fall itself" and something about a sypathetic reaction, or something that sounds like that, anyway. And there were hands on me, holding me, asking me what was happening, urgently insisting I tell them. I got out something about the crushed spot and they asked if I could lay down.

Fuck if I knew. I don't know what I told them. My eyes were still closed and I was still howling, horrified my son could hear me, horrified that every patient in there was getting up and running or hobbling out as fast as they could, away, away from the psycho girl.

It was out of my control. There was no stopping it. All those times my therapist had told me to cry and to not hold it in were then mute, as there was no holding back the flood of my own screaming pain.

The got me on the table. I was on my side, still curled and howling, but I was on the table. I heard them asking if I could lay down on my back. I think I told them something like, "I don't know" and that they would have to push me into place. I had no control. Every muscle shook and I couldn't have done anything except fall on the floor and scream. That actually seemed like a really, and I mean REALLY good idea. It didn't seem to be an option, though.

They got me on the table and my therapist had my head, some other girl had various other parts, moving them, holding my hand, whatever she was doing. I don't know what my therapist was doing, as far as what her hands were doing, but they were under my neck, back, head, somewhere? And she was talking to me.

"Tell me what's going on, tell me what you're feeling, tell me what you see." I hadn't opened my eyes. I tried to tell her I didn't see anything, but what I meant was that I wasn't having some sort of flashback of any kind of visual nature, and that all I could see was this image of the muscles around a vertabrae crushing it, crushing it, that's all, that's all I saw, that's all I felt, that was IT.

I was hysterical, and she was trying to calm me down. Unfortunately, I remember little and can tell you little. That's very frustrating.

Um...she asked if there was anything I wanted her to do. I was totally confused, why was she asking me? I mean, I get it NOW, but not then. She was the doctor person, why was she asking me? I finally blurted, "I want you to pull on my head!" So she did. Slowly. And I started to breathe, to calm down, and I managed to open my eyes.

I looked up at her, and she looked weird. I realize now that she was really freaked out, but I couldn't figure that out at the time. I looked up into her eyes and whispered, "It's....good...to ask...for what...you want." She nodded. "Is that better?" she asked. "Yes....but I can't stop shaking."

That was true, every muscle in my body was still spasming out of control and I was still crying and groaning from the horrible pain of it. I had my knees bent up, and I told her, "My...ass....hurts...." She didn't laugh, just nodded. My ass did hurt, it was being wracked against the table repeatedly with the spasms, but when I tried to get my legs to go down I howled again. Nope, staying up then. Ok.

My hands were balled up into fists near my neck, curled up over my chest and stuck there (spasming). At some point, I asked my therapist, "Um, is now a good time to tell you about the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder stuff?"

It seemed to surprise her, but she said, "If you want to. Whatever you're comfortable with." I nearly laughed. Comfort, HA! But I said, "It's just that...my son is out of the room, so....he won't hear it." He's always been in the room with me, and she's wanted to know what issues I had so she knew what she was working with, or what to expect, or maybe what to be aware of that would set me off. I don't know.

I started to talk. It came out quiet, because I couldn't raise my voice except to howl in pain, and then it would drop again. I felt strangely bad, telling her. I didn't want to burden her. She wasn't my shrink. And I knew she would be sad. She was.

I told her random things, not in any order, and not in any order of importance. The biggest things I didn't even get to, the rape, my dads attempt at suicide, the stuff that really tears me up. I told her small things, and realized through her face that even those were horrible. That was hard.

She asked me about my neck and I immediately started to sob. "What is it?" she asked. I told her I didn't know. I told her I've always been afraid of choking and have slept with blankets or my teddybear clutched to my neck as long as I can remember. "I don't know," I told her, "I just know something is wrong. Why?" I implored, wanting a key to the lock that has eluded me for my lifetime, "Why do you ask?" She said, "You always get very worked up when I get near your neck. You don't like me touching your neck." I closed my eyes again and cried, and told her every bad thing I knew of that DID happen to my neck: an injury on the playground that resulted in a concussion when I was nine (another story in itself), being dragged by my hair across the bed by an abusive boyfriend, "That can't have been good for it," I lamely told her. She agreed.

She poked. "No accidents that weren't accidents? No being pushed by the neck? Falling down stairs? That sort of thing?" No, I told her, the fall down the stairs was just my leg giving out, nothing more, nothing less. I was actually a little shocked, but I realize why she would ask that.

I explained the fall in more detail, about how I was at the top of a small flight of concrete steps just outside of a bank. The steps went across the front of the bank, stupid architectural thing, but there was only a rail on one side. I came out of the double doors on the side without the railing, took my first step down and my leg just dropped out from under me. When my brain realized what was happening, it saw the rail on the other side, a good six feet away, and stupidly went reaching for that.

Well, I can hypothesize till I'm blue in the face, but I suspect that was the worst plan. Had I fallen straight down, I couldn't have flipped more than once. Since I reached sideways, I tumbled on an angle and flipped three times, my head bouncing off the concrete each time, landing with a resounding thud onto the sidewalk at the bottom.

Here's where it gets interesting to me: I lay curled on the sidewalk in a fetal position, unable to open my eyes and howling. I heard people running up to me and saying, "I didn't see you fall, but are you ok?"

I couldn't open my eyes. And when I was in therapy, the same thing happened.

To this day I have no idea who those people were, I just knew I had to push myself up and stop freaking them out. I had to show them I was ok. I don't know why I felt that way, I just did, damn it. And that's what I did. And then I realized I was bleeding and felt the eggs on my head and decided it was time to go to the hospital. My co-worker came around the corner right then and the people told him I had fallen and he took over from there. I never saw them.

Since I knew what happens with concussions, I told him we were going to the urgent care RIGHT NOW and he offered to drive but I refused. Why, who the hell knows? But I did. I got there, they were useless, and I have forever held onto this pain until I started screaming in the therapists office.

I cannot say this strongly enough: I did NOT want to stop screaming. That tells me there is more in there, but she needed me to calm down so she could fix it. Ok.

She asked me if my husband knew about all my trauma and stuff, and I told her proudly and with great love, "Yes. He knows everything." I told her about how he and I joke sometimes that I am his "Little Trauma Unit". I realized the reason she rushed him out wasn't just about my son, but that she knew the emotional dam had burst, and she wanted as much out as possible, and didn't know how much I would say in front of him. "It's not him," I told her, "It's my son. His dad did the worst damage of all. Nothing physical, all emotional. Mental. You know..." to which she replid, "I thought so. And you know, sometimes that is the hardest trauma of all to bear." I agreed.

We finally got me sitting up and the one therapist went to get my husband, who sat there with his arms around me and they explained what was happening. He calmed me to the point I stopped shaking, much better than they could (I say with a little smile, no offense meant to them, of course), and we left.

We got home, ate pizza and I passed out. I did not want to get up this morning and the whole day has been one of me trying to not tense up and not burst into hysterical tears over every little thing.

As I told my husband while we were still in the office, "Do you remember when I was dealing with all my anger issues and I told you I was afraid? I was afraid I would open Pandora's Box and not be able to close it? It cracked. When I sat up, it cracked, and I wasn't in control, and it was terrifying..." I started to cry again. He reminded me that that is indeed a GOOD thing and I am leaps and bounds closer to healing, and also that we should TOTALLY buy my therapist a present when this is done. True, true.. they don't pay her enough, that's for damn sure.

But...I must confess to being in great pain today and being very fearful, too. Now there's this box in the middle of the room, and I know how horribly good it feels to howl in pain, completely out of my fucking mind, and I want to go open it. But I don't know how to deal with the repurcussions.

For now, I think I'll just look at it. I've had enough for now.
Haven't I?
I don't know.