a great video...to poop on

giving birth to ghosts in my sleep...

I've been dreaming a lot of trauma. I don't know how to phrase that any better. Uh...I seem to be processing things in my sleep and then when I wake up I feel...unable to shake them. I can't cut the cord, so to speak.

I've been a wreck today. Yesterday. A lot of days.

I keep trying to act like I'm ok. Sometimes I think that I am. Sometimes I suddenly spiral...or sink...I don't know. This morning I felt like I was doing ok, and then *WHAM* I just wanted to puke and sleep and scream and cry and throw things violently.

Last night my husband and I got in some wretched discussion about sex and porn, right as we were in bed. I was so tired, so was he. Neither of us meant to be having some heavy ass discussion right then, but there we were, and then I couldn't stop crying, sobbing long after he turned off the light, just sobbing and sobbing silently until I started doing that weird herky jerky muscle thing that physical therapy makes me do.

I dreamed my husband was a total alcoholic, and that somehow I didn't know. I dreamed that everyone else around us knew and when I flipped out and started screaming hysterically, everyone rolled their eyes like, "What a fucking moron, she didn't SEE that? Please." I told him I was divorcing him, but I couldn't get my rings off. Then he morphed into my ex (the psychic stalker abusive asshole), and the rest of the dream was me trying to escape him. I remember looking at pictures of myself. There were two piles of pictures, one was the me that I wanted to pretend I was (i.e.: ok), and the other pile was the pictures I didn't want anyone to see (the me that is not ok).

In real life, my photos are actually split up this way, I should note. The things that bring me joy to look at, and the things that cause me sorrow.

Anyway, the last thing I remember in the dream is that I was in my grandparent's living room, sitting on the couch. I knew they didn't live there anymore, but it is a safe place in my dreams. My mothers house, in contrast, is almost always a place where bad things happen. The beginning of the dream started there. So at the end, I was sitting on the couch, and noticing that there were items missing from the room, and knowing, in a lucid dreaming sort of way, that they didn't really live there anymore, someone else does, but maybe some of the magic of the comfort that place represents would still be usable. I pulled the afgan down and just held it, leaning over onto a pillow, looking like a person having a nervous breakdown, and stared at the way the light came through the curtains.

That was when I woke up. I was moaning. My husband asked me what was wrong and I could only explain, "I'm in the wrong position," meaning, I've fucked up my neck/back from this sleeping position, help me. He moved me around and started pushing down on my right shoulder. My shoulders were up near my ears, tense as a motherfucker, and I started to cry. "Is this good? Is this bad? I can't tell..." he said, and I told him, "It's good." He pushed for a moment until that shoulder went down, and when he left the room I reached over and instinctually rubbed the side of that shoulder. I sat up, felt like the world was coming to a sudden halt, and laid back down again instead, holding that shoulder and sobbing. I suddenly remembered that the first time the psycho ex punched me was in that shoulder, and I had been dreaming about him.

So I just laid there and cried until I felt better. Well, a little better anyway. Then I came out in the living room and my husband held me while I sobbed into his chest.

This shit is fucking weird. My trauma is surfacing, and sometimes it comes up out of my dreams, pouring out into real life. The thing is, it IS real life. It is MY life. It is MY life that I chose not to feel at the time, and even though it's many years later, I am feeling it as if it were NOW and it's fucking WEIRD.

I don't know what else to say about it. I mean, how to describe it, anyway.

I've had a lot of weird dreams lately, and I've been meaning to write them down so I can chronicle them, tie things together before I forget. In a lot of dreams, my husband becomes an ex boyfriend, and I relive the trauma with a searing fresh pain, not the pain of a memory, but the pain of a current heartbreak. What could be worse than the man I feel has been my healer suddenly turning into the man who subjected me to the pains of my past all over again? It's brilliant, really, my subconcious. It knows I won't truly feel it, just to remember, but to take my own loving husband and make HIM the doer of evil, now THAT, THAT is some tricky shit. THAT will make me flip my freaking lid and the anguish comes tearing out of me like that alien baby in the movie I would never have the balls to see, thank you very much.

What I don't like, besides, you know, not living in my handy world of denial, is that the feeling trails behind me all day, as if little wisps and tendrils cling to me, stuck into my being with barbs that don't just dissapate with the opening of eyes and the rising of the sun, no. And so I go about my day, trying to act normal, but with a feeling of dread and vague hysteria. Sometimes I am ok, sometimes I am not. Sometimes I feel like a nut, sometimes I don't.

Mostly...I do.

There have been other dreams...in one I was trying to save my mother from a car in a flood (which is particularly strange, because that is HER fear of dying, in real life), in another my stepfather was screaming at me that I was a "lazy hippo" (how bizarre) and I was frantically looking around my bedroom (I was a teenager again) and trying to find things that might be of value or useful since I had to run away (this was an actual experiance, many times, minus the weird hippo comment). In another dream Daisy and I were running from the law after she held up a restaurant, and I told her to turn one way, but the cops were there. She was furious at me for leading me straight to the cops, and I defending myself by saying, "Look- I've never HELD UP a place, all I ever stole was petty little shit, ok?" Which is true, a lot of my days on the streets as a teen where spent fine tuning my abilities to steal things, but I don't know why Daisy would be there, or be the bad guy in my dream (sorry, Daisy!).

There's so much more, but I don't remember now...I'm sure there will be more to come.

*sigh*

May I recommend that anyone living in denial stop doing so before thirty two years worth of shit pile up? Because, it is in my esteemed opinion, dealing with thirty two years of trauma at once TOTALLY FUCKING BLOWS.

Sometimes I feel like a nut. Sometimes I am.

I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head

I had so many thoughts earlier about all this mental glump in my head (yes Ijust invented the word, deal with it), but now I am back from physical therapy and I am beaten down to a pulp.

It started with a dream I had about my husband leaving me, and when I woke up I was so freaked out I didn't even want to breath, so I decided it would be a good idea to go back to bed and just cry. So I did.

I thought about my dad, and what if I actually said to him all the things that he's done to hurt me, and how horrible that would be, but how weirdly relieving it was to think of, and then how guilty I would feel to find out he'd shot himself later. Well, it's a valid fear. I know my dad, too well.

I thought about how much better it would have been if I could have found a way to bond with my step dad and how good it would have felt to crawl into his lap and sob and ask him why my daddy can't be there for me, and why is he the way he is? And I cried.

I thought about how my mom told me that my dad really only talked to his mom, and after she died he didn't talk to anyone about his problems, and that's when he got that bleeding ulcer and everything went to shit and my mom divorced him. I thought about how horrible it must have been for my mom, to watch the man she loved slip farther and farther away, to try to be there for him but be denied, while trying to take care of two small children. I thought about how my dad only released his fears to his own mother, the same woman he valiantly tried to protect from his own alcoholic abusive father, and how losing her must have felt like losing his own life itself. I thought about my mom and how cold she is, and how cold her mother is, and what wretched alcoholics THEY were, even when I was growing up. God knows how horrible my grandmother was to my own mother, she was cruel to me, I know that. I thought about how my grandmother hated sex, and so probably never talked about it to my mom, who in turn never talked about it to me, and if she had, how would my life have turned out differently?

I thought of all these things and cried, and cried.

I've been reading a book about PTSD and the section on grieving has been...the most useful...because I don't understand how to do it. I'm getting the hang of it. And it came out in a flood, until my son woke up and I did my damnedest to stuff it back down, to not freak him out, although I started sobbing again thinking about what a fucked up dad HE has and how he will grieve a lot of the things that I do, as well.

I got up. I went to the bathroom to blow my nose. I noticed that when I lay on my back and cry, my tears usually end up running down the sides of my face and into my ears, and I suddenly remembered a poem by Shel Silverstein. I had to pull the book out of my son's bookshelf so I could tell you:

Rain

I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said-
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.

Shel Silverstein, Where The Sidewalk Ends

I *heart* shaving

Oh bloody hell.

A few weeks ago I got the bright idea of trying waxing again. I haven't tried to wax anything at all since I tried it one time, one single strip, when I was about sixteen. I figured, well, it's probably come a long way since then, right?

Also, because I am frequently too stiff to WANT to shave (with the physical therapy and all) I figured this was a fabulous time to try waxing again. I could do it once, not worry about it for almost two months, then do it again. And with the muscle relaxers and pain killers they have me on, hell, if I can't do it now, I can't damn do it.

Summary: I can't damn do it."

I got through the legs ok. I will admit making some horrible faces, an occasion light screech, but nothing too bad. Then I moved on to the armpits. A tender delicate area, but considering I was going to move on to the full Brazillian afterwards, I thought it would be a good warm up.

Let me tell you- doing my legs took me over two hours. I'm sure I would get faster as I got more practice, and would get better at it, too. I came out with rough patches that felt like I didn't wax, but instead just shaved badly. And after two weeks of being a freaking Wooly Mammoth, I wasn't content with "just shaving badly". I wanted total smoothness like I had never experienced before. Quite possibly a professional salon could have delivered that result, but I sure as shit can't.

After two hours I had two not hairy but slightly scratchy legs, covered in red irritated marks, despite that cream they give you with the waxing kit that's supposed to make it better, and my hands were shaking uncontrollably.

Right. So that was when I got to Armpit Number One.

There is no Armpit Number Two. Don't hold your breath.

I yanked that strip down, just like the legs, ok, here we go...and howled in pain. I'm guessing either the neighbors are out or I should be ready to serve the police tea and cookies when they arrive. So far they aren't here, and that is good.

I tried it again, not one to give up so easily. Same result. That result, by the way, was as useful as trying to remove body hair with Scotch tape, but with the pain of a hornets nest stuffed up under your arm. I removed maybe ten hairs, and that's being optimistic.

Seriously pissed off, I placed one strip on the side of my "bikini area", just to find out. I wasn't going out without a fight, and I needed to know if it hurt MORE or less than an armpit did. In my opinion, it is less, but that didn't change my mind.

I washed off the wax, shaved my beastly pits and put off shaving the rest of me till later today. Shaking hands plus razor plus genitalia equals not good, you know?

I am sad. I was really excited to be one of those chicks who can wax. I wanted to join the elite ranks of hairless-for-weeks-women, and thrill my husband to no end. Sorry honey. Ain't going to happen.

On the upside, I have developed a whole new appreciation for shaving. I was bitching about it being difficult! HA! What the crap was I talking about?

Razor, I love you. Please forgive me. I might stray again, I can't promise you I won't because I am curious (and also lazy), but for now we are super best friends, okay?

And for anyone suggesting that a professional salon is MUCH less painful, oh I know, I know, but unless you're paying...
Yah. Me and razor will be here.

I can't wait to shave later. For real.

fo shizzle

I don't know if this one will stay working, so better get it quick.
Just giving you this reality check, that I haven't lost my sense of humor, and I may be in all kinds of pain, but I am still completely intact.

There once was a hill in AssHatsville

My lovelies, this is a guest blog by a dear old friend of mine.
You could not possibly cherish it as much as I do, but too bad. This is history.

Jill and Roger used to climb a hill. The hill was an old garbage dump,
covered over, but a stinky mess nevertheless.

The hill is now a golf course. Roger knew that the hill was
now a golf course, but had yet to visit said new permutation of the hill.

Roger, while attending a very boring couple of softball games at the
softball fields near the hill, decided to visit the hill. It has been
at least 10 years since Roger has visited the hill. Probably more.

Roger, being the ever adept trespasser, knew that simply hopping the
fence to gain entrance to the golf course was not the best plan of
action. The lights from the ball fields was casting a fierce shadow on
the fence line next to the ball fields. A Roger hoping the fence would
be easily seen. Golf courses, especially ones in AssHatsville,
probably are more than happy to call the
AssHatsville Police on trespassers.

Roger walked along the fence line separating the golf course
from the nearby buildings. The fence did not possess a top bar
and merely a wire to hold the fence up. High School Roger may
have been able to hop this fence, but not current out of shape Roger.
Round is a shape! (note: Roger is not round. But round is indeed a shape.)
Roger progressed along the fence line knowing that he would not be beaten by
The Fence! Roger found a section of the fence where even he could
easily squeeze under the fence and gain entrance to the golf course.

Squeezing under the fence, Roger entered the golf course.
He had to cross the beginnings of a small water filled ditch, but this
was no challenge for outdoor-adventure Roger, who was fondly recalling
all of the mis-adventures he had in the past in this very area.
Adeptly crossing on some rocks and a fallen log, he quickly found
himself on Golf Course Grass.

Roger then realized that he was casting a shadow
(note: Jill suddenly pictures Roger as a groundhog and laughs)
and ran to the nearest convenient shadow. Roger quickly ran out of breath.
Roger then understood that he no longer has the body he once had.
Years of fast food and couch-potato-ing will do that to a guy.

Being the ever paranoid guy that he is, Roger thought back to his years
of trespassing on that hill and decided that to reach the top of the
hill, his best plan was to walk to the dark side of the hill and to
climb the hill from that direction.

The ground was much more hilly than it was in the past. Small little
hills dotted the landscape, obviously beautification hills designed to
hide the fact that the LARGE hill was an old garbage dump. Numerous
vent pipes dotted the golf course, dressed up with wooden slat-work and
round metal vents. Roger knew that there is NO freaking way that the
area cannot smell like the dump that it was. He was quickly rewarded
with a whiff of the Hill Smell. Ahhhhhh, memories!

The land was now alternating well kept golf course grass, wild areas
and asphalt paved roads for the golf carts. In some spots, the old
ground could be seen and it was the same old debris filled, rock strewn
ground that he remembered. Nothing ever seemed to really like to grow
in that ground, just little sprouts that never seemed to flourish.

Breathing heavily, he realized that he was climbing the Old Hill of
Yore, Roger reminded himself to concentrate on being stealthy! He was
just clomping through the grass and brush like some kind of tourist.
Adjusting his walk, he made much less noise and began to start
scanning around like one should when on a misadventure. Roger was then
halfway up the hill when he spooked the heck out of something. His
night-blind eyes from the softball field lights couldn't tell what it was,
but he guessed that it might be a deer! Roger recalled seeing deer in
the fields in the long long ago, but never on the hill.
Interesting.
(note: Jill is quite glad it was not a skunk.)

Reaching the top of the hill, Roger was careful to not cast a shadow as
he approached the small building that the golf course people erected
on top of the hill. There was apparently a tee-off on top of the hill.
Sweet! The building seemed to have no purpose, and looked empty.
There are a couple of pipes still on the hill,
but do not look as flammable as they did in the past...

Roger took a moment to survey the land from the top of the hill.
Where was his old house? Where was Jill's old house? Hmmm, there was the
old neighborhood, looking like someone was home at Jill's old house.
Maybe those AssHatted Parental Units!

He went to see if the golf course had consumed the woods that once housed
The Shack. NOPE! It looked like the woods that were once home to The
Shack were still standing. The Shack had long fallen into disrepair and
been ripped apart, but he bet the remains were still there.
That will be for another day to find out.
(note: Jill reminds Roger there is probably an old can of Speghetti-O's
and to watch out for used condoms,
the former belonging to Jill and Roger, the latter not.)

There were now small rolling hills where the Pit used to be. They were
wild looking, at least for a golf course, Roger thought it likely that the golf
course people would frown on teenagers having fires there now!
At least it wasn't a freaking subdivision!
(note: remember when that cop car got stuck on a small mound of dirt?
If you don't, I must tell that story, oh me oh my!)

Enough reminiscing, it was now time for Roger to descend the hill. He
took the easy way and walked down a nice paved path. He giggled to
himself about how he once wiped out when sledding on that part of the
hill and Jill applied many many bandages to his neck in an attempt to
stop the bleeding!

What was this, ahhhhhhh, more hill smell. He wondered how the golf course
explained it? Oh, that is the smell of, uhhh, nature, yes, nature. This is
the city and you aren't used to smelling it!

Yup, the smell still
made your throat go a little funny, as if your body knew that what
it was smelling was not a good thing.

Roger decided that since he had successfully climbed the hill and seen
no one in hot pursuit of him, he could simply follow the nicely paved
path back to the easily hopped fence at the softball fields. And he
did, he walked back, hopped the fence
and smiled about his visit to
The Hill.

Thank you, my friend. You have done a Jill proud. Stay tuned for more adventures of the zany adventures of Jill and Roger in full teenage angst mode! It's ludicrous! It's ridiculous! It's fucking wonderful! Huzzah!

fucking weird

Did you have have one of those weird days where you're standing in line at the grocery store, waiting to buy some soymilk, and you suddenly realize your bellybutton is itchy and bleeding?

No, neither had I. Until today.

What caused it? I don't know. Today shall be known as The Bleeding Bellybutton Day Of Mystery, henceforth.

a man after my own damn heart

When angry, count four; when very angry, swear.
- Mark Twain

finding the path

There was a vampire in the room. He looked tired, as well as ragged and filthy. My vampire looked tired. I took my hands off the railing so I could go back into the shadows to Con. I reached out to touch him, twisted my hands away from him at the last moment. But he took my hands by the wrists, and kissed the back of each fist, turned them over and waited, patiently, till the fingers relaxed, and kissed each palm. It was a strange sensation. It felt less like being kissed than it felt like a doctor applying a salve. Or a priest last rites. "There is nothing wrong with your hands," he said. "The touch of evil poisons by the idea of it. Reject the idea and you have rejected the evil."

excerpt from the book Sunshine, by Robin McKinley

Wanted: Husband Who Blogs And Lets Wife Sleep/Read/Look Other Direction Without Becoming Cranky

This morning my darling Adderall-riddled husband came into the bedroom where I was laying in a puddle of pain on the bed. He mentioned some commercial. I said something, something of seemingly no consequence, and Jack went off on a long speech about the powers of corporations. Corporations, which have powers, although they are not actually anyONE or anyTHING, almost an entity unto themselves, of which no one can be held accountable for (think: Enron), and blibbibidy blabbady bloo.

When he stopped talking I said, "You need a blog. Bad. Then we could get rid of all these damn soap boxes laying around the house."

The rest of you secret soap box stander-onners, I'm looking at YOU. And I ain't smiling. That's what a blog is for. Leave your family out of it. Trust me, I speak from experience: No one wants to hear every freaking thought that goes through your fucking head. Get a blog, dammit. I don't force you to come in here and read, that's your own little chunk of crazy desire and I won't own it, ok? Are we clear? This is passive, on my part. And since this is my own soap box, lets me clearly state:

The world would be better if we all owned blogs.

Now shooshy. I'm trying to read.

thoughts on myofascial therapy

Back to the therapist yesterday. She did something painful, a few more something painfuls and then started pushing down on my back like she was trying to crack it. She did. And it was really weird. Not only did it feel like she managed to crack things that hadn't cracked in years, but it filled me with a sudden and complete terror.

Terror.

The pressure she was making was pressing up against the bone near the top of my neck, the one that seems to cause me so much fucking pain. And something about that pressure just made me flip the fuck out, and I started sobbing. She didn't notice at first because I was face down, and all should could see was my back heaving as I silently gasped. Then she noticed and leaned down fast and said, "Jill? Are you ok?" She's used to me breathing ragged when things hurt, so I could see why it didn't register as quickly, but before she finished speaking I let out a wail of pain/terror.

I have to say, the woman is good. I mean, she knows how to handle it, but also, she moves FAST. She whipped around and said, "What's-going-on-tell-me!" as if it were one word, like, "OH SHIT! WHAT IS IT?" which of course she wouldn't say. She is G-rated. Maybe the occasion PG, and she manages to handle my R and occasionally X rated expletives rather well.

I howled, "That HURT!" I flung my arm behind my back in a way that it is not supposed to go, especially while having therapy done, that's just STUPID, but expressing my horror was far more important. I pointed, arm bent up behind my back, to my neck. "The THING! The THING THAT ALWAYS HURTS! You pressed (pause for a hitching breath and another howl) on my back and it pressed on that THING! You SCARED ME!" I screeched.

Like a rock, this woman, I swear. She calmly said, "Oh, that. Yes, I bet it did. But it's ok." She just gave me a quick reassuring pat and walked out of the room, telling one of the assistants to get heat on me right away. They came, asked if I wouldn't be more comfortable rolling over, and I said, "No. I'm not moving."

One, I was scared shitless, but two, I didn't want anyone watching me cry. If I was face down they couldn't see it, thank you very much. And cry, I did. It hurt, yes, but it was more just terror.

I lay there, heat soaking in and starting to take the pain away and silently wept into the towel rolled up under my eyes. I could feel a panic attack trying to grab hold and forcibly I pushed it away, breath, breath, breath, it's ok. I reminded myself that my PT was right there, all the assistants were right there, if that hideous thing in my neck just tweaked the fuck out I didn't have to bother ringing the bell, I could just fucking scream if I wanted to. To hell with my ego.

It felt better and no bell ringing or screaming was necessary, but I felt jittery and frightened still, and spent an extra bit of time doing my exercises, just to be around the people who could fix me if I suddenly broke. The thought of driving home like that was frightening.

But it worked out, I left, and today I woke up without any pain. I was like, "Whoa! She fixed me!" I didn't even take my Darvocet. That turned out to be a bad plan, as the pain kicked in within twenty minutes of me walking around and I took the Darvocet after all. I've spent most of the morning in bed, sleeping and trying not to move into any incorrect position.

I feel very panicky today, and I sure as hell did last night. It took a few Xanax to get me through the evening, and to get me to go to sleep. I noticed it again this morning, first thing, although I haven't taken any Xanax for it, I'm trying to just ride it out. When I sat down at the table and my husband was on the computer, I was suddenly overwhelmed with paranoia and was certain he was cheating on me. I told him about my feelings, but toned it way down so as not to offend the hell out of him, and it was grim. I don't think he understood, not that I blame him, but I wished that he would. I wanted to explain that it's just another trauma, and a bad one at that, and maybe she...cracked my paranoia oh-god-you're-cheating-on-me vertabrae? I don't know.

*sigh* I don't know.

When I had first gotten there, I told her I had two questions, which she answered. (This has gotten to be a joke between us because I constantly ask her questions. This shit is weird as hell and I want to understand it.) The first one was that I had read I was supposed to be drinking an additional gallon of water a day while undergoing this kind of therapy, and was that true? She said yes, although good old liquid would do, it didn't need to be water. myofascial release therapy not only releases myofascia, it releases the locked parts, which are filled with crap the body considers toxic and needs to be flushed out, as well as the electrical (if you will) impulses of the trauma that put it there in the first place. Ugh.

My second question had to do with the amount of rape flashback crap I have going on, and I want to know why I spontaneously feel like a teenager, a small child, suicidal, and sometimes incapable of even expressing emotions. I had read that trauma is released during this kind of work, and I wanted to know: does it happen at the time of the work being done, or can it come up later? She actually laughed, not in a happy way, but in a "Oh shit, girlfriend" kind of way. She said, "It can happen at any time. When I'm working on you, that's one thing, but when you leave, the myofascial tissue continues unwinding. Yes, it can happen at any time. Hours, days, whenever later. It continues long after you leave my office."

Fuck. I was kind of relieved, because that explained a whole HELL of a lot of the crazy ass shit that's been popping up in my head, but also NOT relieved, because that meant I could feel anything, anytime, who the hell knows?

However, it also explains why I never know how I'm going feel, physically, from one moment to the next. One minute I can be dandy, the next curled up in pain crying. I just don't know. It makes life really interesting. For example, I have to go to the store. I'm putting it off, because who the fuck knows if I'll get there and be unable to walk without looking like Frankenstein, or if I'll have a nervous breakdown right there in the frozen food aisle? I can lift a gallon of soymilk one minute and be unable to lift a can of pears the next. It's fucking ridiculous.

Like one of my books says, "Myofascial release therapy is like not like healing in a straight line. It's more like a roller coaster, but don't let that discourage you. You ARE making progress, even on the days it doesn't seem like it."

How true. There have been many days where I would have opted for falling back down those stairs again, instead of therapy and Darvocet. And that says a whole hell of a lot, you know? There are days where I would rather somersault down concrete steps, smash my head repeatedly, land head first on the concrete and lay there in a fetal position, too stunned to move or open my eyes, while my arms bleeds...than have someone push on my back while I get to take piles of drugs that would make most people feel happy as hell.

That's a jagged little pill of truth to swallow. But it's mine. *Gulp* Down the hatch. There's a good girl. Eyes on the prize.

I don't know how (more thoughts).

(To catch up to the contents of this post, I recommend reading porn, porn, go away and I don't know how first. Both are from the sex blog, but during this crisis, the pictures have been ripped out on the links, in case that sort of thing bothers you...)

I spent a lot of time thinking last night. I bet you already knew that. Jack and I talked a bit, here and there, about what's going on my head. I say "here and there" because I didn't want to keep a conversation going for any length of time, lest I get swallowed up by my own emotion and go off the deep end again. Once is plenty enough for one day, thanks. So I kept it to tidbits, but even that was difficult.

He told me he was aware that something was wrong, and had been, but didn't know what it was. He read the post I wrote yesterday and looked absolutely freaked out, and horribly, horribly sad. "You...wouldn't...kill yourself....would you?" he asked. I told him honestly, no. I pointed out that what I had written was my mind was filled with images of me killing myself, not that I was planning on it. He said that was very hard to read. I told him it was very hard to write- it's not something I like to admit. But, it is true. And if I'm going to face whatever this is, I can only do so by being completely honest with my feelings.

I told him that I think I underestimated the impact this physical therapy would have. I laughed a bit; it seems like I've been underestimated a lot of things lately. When I had read that myofascial release tends to unlock trauma stored in the body, I took note of that. With as many issues as I have, it's good to know what I'm in for, you know? The bitch of it, the part I underestimated, was WHEN that would occur. I have been able to find little to no information about WHEN it might occur, and I realize now that I thought it would happen during the treatments themselves, not afterwards. I thought it would be a sort of lightning bolt epiphany kind of moment, not the sort of shadowy lurking ghosts that I've been experiencing.

You learn something new everyday, they say. Hmph.

(I keep stopping and distracting myself with other things. This could take all day to write. Avoidance, avoidance..)

Um. Ok. Here's what we're looking at, folks. This is the stuff I remember. There are lots of things that were smaller trauma that I feel isn't as important, although I could be wrong. But these are my biggies:

Earliest memory of sexually traumatic anything-
I used to lock myself in the bathroom when I was about 4 or 5 and turn off the lights, pull down my pants and make myself bend over the hamper. I would put cold things on my butt, usually a little hand held mirror. There was no insertion or anything genital, just fantasies of being forced to bend over and be subjected to unpleasant (i.e. cold) things touching me. Why I did this, I don't have any idea at all. It does make me wonder if there is something buried before that, though, I can tell you that. If there is, I don't remember it.

Second memory of sexually traumatic things-
I as sleeping at my friends house, typical little kid sleepover. I was maybe seven. We were both sleeping on the two couches in the living room and I woke up to see someone looming over me in the dark, and they had pulled my nightgown up to my belly and were pulling my panties down. I woke up and said, "(the name of the friends brother)?" The person then spun around and crouched behind the huge coffee table. I said his name a few times, and said, "I know you're there..." but they didn't move and din't answer me. It was too fucking weird, and I didn't want to get up and go over there, it just seemed like a very bad idea. Eventually I fell back asleep. When I woke up, I never mentioned it to anyone. It was icky. I didn't want to talk about the thing that made me feel icky. Who it was, I don't know. What they did, I don't know. DId they do more than that? I don't know. Did that happen on more than one occasion, but I happened to wake up that time? I don't know.

Third memory:
When my mom married my step dad I was about eight. He thought it was cute to bend me over backwards and give me these pretend movie star kisses. You know, long, romantic. It grossed me out, even then. He never stuck his tongue in my mouth or anything, and I don't remember him even moving his lips. It may very well have been innocent and silly and pretend, but it grossed me out so much that I told my mom to tell him to stop, and that I didn't like it. He stopped, but I was always scared of him after that. I thought he might molest me.

Fourth:
Being raped at thirteen by my then-boyfriend. I've written about it before, I'm in no mood to do it again. It wasn't particularly violent, just forceful and absolutely, postively disgusting. The whole event was just the grossest thing I had ever experienced. It happened twice, maybe three times that week, and what I remember most is feeling disgusting. Icky. Gross. I couldn't wait to come home and take the hottest shower I could, but that doesn't make it go away.

Fifth:
Finding my step dads porn. I was already scared of him, and had never had a real conversation with my mother about sex. The only sex I had experienced was rape and being molested, and I was hitting puberty with a vengeance. The pictures thrilled me, I would steal them away upstairs, read, look, masturbate and hide them again. Sometimes it was the movies, and I would sit in our living room and pray no one came home and caught me masturbating to the movies. The fact that they were my step dads was gross, and the fact that I knew of them because my older brother SHOWED me where they were was gross, too. All around, yuck. But even writing about it is making me hot, because I remember the electrifying hotness of touching myself and knowing I might be caught. But the people who might catch me would have been my brother or my step dad, and that's gross. I became afraid of them both.

Sixth:
Some friends of mine thought it was hilarious to rent some B grade movie called "Gore Gore Girls", a take on go-go girls, but it mixed sex with really revolting and badly done horror movie stuff. I don't know why they loved that movie, but they did. We would watch it tripping on acid sometimes. I always felt totally freaked about sitting in a room with a group of older guys (me being the only girl, usually) and watching a porn/horror movie. Fucking WEIRD. I swear, boys are so fucking WEIRD!

Seventh:
For the next ten years after I was raped, I had sex with pretty much anyone who was insistent enough. Even if it meant cheating on a boyfriend, even one I was really attached to, I would do it anyway. I felt that it was my fault, so if they really thought we were supposed to have sex, I must have done something to make them think that, and it was my duty to see it through, no matter how much I didn't want to. You may have guessed: it was the equivalent of raping myself, or at least, letting myself be raped repeatedly. For ten years. This is where the worst damage to my psyche happened, I believe. Not only was I being re-raped, I then had the consequence of fessing up to a boyfriend who would call me a whore and I couldn't blame them at all. Yes. Yes, I must be. Somehow I managed to get myself into situations where a guy expected me to have sex with him, and I never seemed to see it coming, and I never seemed to learn, so it must be my fault, I must like it. I must like the pain. I don't know. I just knew it kept happening, over and over and over again. And always, the feeling of YUCK. I felt like a dirty, filthy, horrible person who deserved exactly what she got. When nice boys wanted to date me, I was terrified, because I knew how it would end. It always ended the same way. And I was always guilty.

Eighth:
Smaller, but still noteworthy. I got molested at a Grateful Dead show, of all the fucking places. I was eighteen, tripping balls, and had managed to scoot and weave my way to within thirty feet of the stage. We were packed in like sardines, and so the first time I felt someone touching my butt it didn't even register. Then I realized that someone was sliding their hand all over my ass, and slowly moving down lower between my legs. I whipped around, and all I could see was what looked like a row of about six very large (I'm five foot ten, come on!) fraternity looking dudes behind me, and all of them were looking at me and GRINNING ear to ear. I panicked, realizing that I couldn't move, and I was being molested at a Grateful Dead show, for fucks sake! One of the oddest moments happened right then. Some guy about ten feet in front of me suddenly spun around, raised up his arm and smiled hugely, waving me up like I was his long lost friend. I looked around, but no, he was waving at ME. He motioned for the crowd to move, and they did, like magic. I got up next to him and he put his arm around me. I stared at him, totally blown away and asked him if he even knew what he just did. He just smiled down at me, put a finger over his lips in a "shh" sign and tightened his arm around my shoulder. We watched the rest of the show right in front of the stage, while I thanked God for my guardian angel, and I never found out his name. When it was over, I had to go find my friends, and all I know is that he has a tattoo of the Canadian flag over his heart. Whoever you are, I will never, NEVER forget you.

Ninth:
When I moved away from home I would have dreams about having sex with my brother, a LOT. In the dreams, he was always coercing me, and I was telling him it was wrong, but we would always end up doing it. Doing something, anyway. I don't know why I had those dreams. I had them regularly for almost a year and then they stopped, except for once in a very great while I'll have one again. They flipped me out, and I practically don't talk to my brother anymore. I am afraid of him.

Tenth:
When I moved to Asheville I lived close to downtown, so even though I had a car, I used to just walk the 1/2 mile or so into town. I was nineteen at that time. It was an easy walk, but a little sketchy because there were still a lot of prostitutes working that part of the street back then. I was always polite to them, and they to me (the ones not strung out on crack anyway). The problem was that if you were a woman walking on that street, dumbasses got the wrong idea. Men would constantly slow down and ask me if I "needed a ride". I would try to smile nicely and say, "No thanks!" but it was always insulting, like, do I LOOK like a whore to you, asshole? (Note: some whores are gorgeous. The ones working that street at that time were NOT. Most of them were white trash rednecks missing teeth, ok? Wearing spandex. Ratted out hair. We did NOT look alike. Ugh.)
One day I was walking back to my house and some guy walked up the street and said, "Isn't it a beautiful day?!" I stopped and said, "Yah! It is!" because by golly, it was. It was spring and gorgeous and Southern people are just like that, they'll just stop and marvel at the weather. I didn't think anything of it...until I turned my head and realized I had three MORE guys surrounding me, one of them standing behind me, and there is no reason you should carry on a conversation with someone while standing behind them. Before the warning bells could quit screaming in my head, the friendly weather guy reached out and grabbed my tits, and just kind of mashed them in his hands. I flipped and stared wildly around. It was mid day! There were cars driving by not forty feet away! Could no one see what was happening? Would no one help me? He said something about how he wanted to lick me all over and I told him no and slapped his hand away, shoving my way through the four guys and took off running. He came after me, yelling how much he would be willing to pay me, and I just ran. I ran the wrong way home so he couldn't follow me, but the wrong way home was uphill and maybe that worked for me, I don't know, he quit chasing me. I cut through people's yards and hopped fences, finally coming to my house where I flew inside and slammed the door shut, locked it, and closed all the curtains. My housemate, who was gorgeous and psycho, a sexual trauma case herself, asked me what was wrong. I told her. I was shaking, terrified, but she just walked into her bedroom and pulled out a baseball bat and pulled me out the door. "Fuck that!" she said as she floored her Jeep out into traffic. "You show me who the fuck this guy is!" We drove back there, but there was no one there. I was so releived. I didn't want to see them, and I didn't want to tell her it was some guy if it turned out to be the wrong guy. She might have beat him to death. I honestly didn't remember anything except that he was black. The guy right behind me was huge and white. And that was it. I was busy looking for help, not memorizing his face for a line up or a psycho housemate who might want to kill him. Still, I loved her for it.


There is more. Many smaller moments of bosses sexually harrassing me, and total strangers for that matter, many moments of YUCK along the way. Hell, I flipped out a few weeks ago when some guy in Flikr put a note on one of my ass shots (now all removed) that said, "I'm going to rip that tight asshole open with my cock," or something like that. Oh. Um. I don't think I told my husband about that.

See, I tend to push those things away. I erased the note, the picture, and chose to just forget about it. What else can I do? My other option, as I see it, is to freak the fuck out and think about stalkers, rapists, and all the other things that go bump in the night (and in my head).

No. Push it away. Go away. I can't stand any more, don't you get it? I can't take it! NO. So I erased him, he doesn't exist.

But he does, doesn't he? They all do. They all stay in my head. Ignoring them doesn't make them go away.

*sigh*

I must say, putting all that in a list is...ah...gruesome. (laughs bitterly) And that's just the rough sketch. I mean, if I were to list every one of the smaller (but no less traumatizing) events, I don't know that I could. The only reason I remember a lot of the people I've had sex with is because I wrote them down. It's a long list. But I don't judge myself by that number, because I simply can't. I cannot add guilt to my trauma. I can't and I won't.

Um...Jack and I talked about some other things. I told him about being nineteen, when I was REALLY digging all this shit out of me. I was reading "The Courage To Heal" and anything else I could get my hands on that had to do with rape therapy and sexual abuse. I was RIPPING it out, do you hear me? I couldn't hold down a job because I was so busy performing emotional open heart surgery on myself. Some days I would just sit on my back porch in the sunshine and cry all day. It was...very consuming.

One night I had the most beautiful vision while driving home. At that point I lived thirty minutes outside of Asheville, and had plenty of time to think. I tried to imagine what I looked like inside. I mean, what I REALLY looked like, not this "me" that is a trauma case, not the "me" that pretends she's ok when she's not, but who is the real girl inside? If I could throw off the shackles of trauma, what would I see?

And an image came to me, of me opening a small pirates chest, dark on the outside, maybe ancient. Something that had been locked shut for a very VERY long time. As I cracked it open, golden light burst out and shone straight up into the heavens, as if I were looking at the very essense of God. And I knew: THIS is who I am. And I OWNED it, do you understand? I felt it in every twirling molecule of my being, THIS IS WHO I AM. And I cried tears of joy and happiness, even though I knew I couldn't keep the box open. I wasn't ready. I knew that. I still don't know if I am, thirteen years later. But I looked. That was the important part. I looked, and I knew. And knowing what's in there keeps me going. The part that confuses me is: what would I do with that me? She's completely alien. Beautiful, but alien. I do not know how to be her. I know how to be me, traumatized and beautiful in my own way, but I do not know how to be free of trauma. I don't know how to free myself, and I don't know how to BE a person that doesn't secretly fear everything, even her own healing.

I told Jack about the boyfriend I had then, and what a (oh, how do I say this nicely?) total wuss he was. There was a massive problem. The partner I had at the time was unable to deal with the amount and the extreme emotions I was having. What happened is that I would make some major leap and he would freak out. He would freak out so hard, in fact, that I would have to shut myself down, emotionally, and comfort HIM.

Let me give you the clearest example:

One night we went to go see the movie Rob Roy. Well, there's a rape scene in the movie, which of course, they don't mention on the ads for it, right? So I had no idea going into it. When the rape scene came up, I was mortified. I wasn't just watching a movie, I was watching a woman being raped, right in front of me, on a huge screen, and there was nothing I could do. The actress who played that part was AMAZING. She had the look of disassociation down so well I am still convinced to this day that she must have been experienced in making that expression, and we'll leave it at that.

Well, the rape scene happens, and she then walks outside, stoically but *tweak* psychotically, and walks straight down to the water, with all of her clothes on, and starts scrubbing herself betwen her legs, just staring off into space while the rapist and his gang of whoever they are's all laugh at her while they row away. I think I must have cracked at that point, but didn't realize it till the movie was over.

At the end, the rapist and her husband battle, and the rapist nearly kills him, but at the last second her husband kills him, instead. The audience gasped.

I stood up and screamed, "KILL HIM AGAIN!!!"

Yes. I did. I wasn't even aware of it, until my boyfriend yanked on my arm to get me to sit down and stared at me, bug eyed. The movie soon ended, and I couldn't walk. I was shaking all over, and he had to help me out to the car. As soon as we got in the car, I started crying hysterically.

Ok. The boyfriend knew I had been raped, and knew I was reading all this rape therapy stuff, you'd think maybe he could put two and two together and just be there for me, right? No. Instead, he starts trembling and says, "You're really freaking me out!" and HE starts crying.

Hi. Having a breakthrough here? Could you please stop being a pussy and let me finish? No? No. I thought not. Goddamn it.

And so, like so many times in the past, I stuffed my emotions back down, down, down, and calmed down enough to soothe HIM.

*pauses for one extremely annoyed expression*

I do believe, since then, I have not even tried to pull this shit up again. My experience was: if you have emotions, they will overwhelm you. You may act like a lunatic. People around you may freak the fuck out. Do not express these emotions, thank you.

I realize now that it was one very limited experience, with one very weak hearted individual. As I said to Jack, "You are not that boyfriend, and I am not the girl I was then." It was an affirmation that this is NOT the same situation and that maybe I CAN allow myself to feel these emotions.

There is more, of course, but now I must go to therapy. I've been writing this all morning. I'm really hoping that my current emotional state doesn't come pouring out in there. Maybe that's holding back my healing, I don't know. I suspect it is. But like the experience with the ex-boyfriend, I don't trust other people with the full extent of my emotions. Imagine the box full of golden light. That's how I see myself. Now imagine I unexpectedly open that pointing right in your face. Only right now it's not just light, there are still the demons and dark little spirits of trauma spinning around the edges.

What I'm saying is, so far I only feel safe exploring it here, alone, for now.

I leave you with two bits of songs I was listening to this morning that really pried me open enough to sit down and right this.

"It's like I can't breathe
It's like I can't see anything
Nothing but you
I'm addicted to you
It's like I can't think
Without you interrupting me
In my thoughts
In my dreams
You've taken over me
It's like I'm not me
It's like I'm not me

It's like I'm lost
It's like I'm giving up slowly
It's like you're a ghost that's haunting me
Leave me alone
And I know these voices in my head
Are mine alone
And I know I'll never change my ways
If I don't give you up now..."

~Kelly Clarkson, Addicted

"Grew up in a small town
And when the rain would fall down
I just stared out my window
Dreaming of a could-be
And if I'd end up happy
I would pray

Trying not to reach out
But when I'd try to speak out
Felt like no one could hear me
Wanted to belong here
But something felt so wrong here
So I pray
I could break away

I'll spread my wings and I'll learn how to fly
I'll do what it takes til' I touch the sky
I'll make a wish
Take a chance
Make a change
And break away
Out of the darkness and into the sun
But I won't forget all the ones that I loved
I'll take a risk
Take a chance
Make a change
And break away..."

~Kelly Clarkson, Breakaway

a moment of levity

Q: How many surrealists does it take to change a light bulb?

A: Two, one to hold the giraffe, and the other to fill the bathtub with brightly colored machine tools.

blasted

My physical therapist did something today that felt like nothing. I told her I had had a migraine all weekend and to please not do anything migraine producing, thank you. Okey dokey. So she did something that was incredibly tame compared to the thrashing I've been getting lately. I really don't know how else to describe them. And two hours later, I was out of my freaking head in pain, right as my son came home from school. Bad timing. Took my Darvocet. Muscle relaxers. Even Ibuprofen (bad girl).

Holy crap on a toaster, Batman. How does she DO that?

On the upside, my migraine was gone this morning.

So much to write, but don't have the energy. For those of you waiting for e-mail replies, please hang in there. Sometimes remembering to eat and pee is all I can do, for real.

Migraine

You'd think with amount of medication they've got me on, my usual PMS migraine wouldn't make it through, oh but it did, but it did.

I had to send hubby out to get me some Motrin. I'm not supposed to take it, but it's the only thing that works for me, oddly enough. Although, to be fair I must admit I never had tried any prescription migraine medication.

So my darling pookie is at the store, getting me Motrin. I love that man.

off the cuff reminders to self:

I had so much running though my mind all day, and now it's 10:30 at night and I'm beyond exhausted. SO much so that I don't have the energy to write about them.

I will mention it briefly, so that I can remember to do so when I have time. Think of it as my own Post-It note for Monday morning.

1) Alcoholics- is everyone? Why is it that I seem to attract them? Especially since I despise it, I view it as a character flaw.

2) Loneliness- lots of it. Hello. PMS magnifies emotions, but I know getting blown off when I see it. And I see it.

3) Reaching out- goes with the loneliness theme. Wanting to reach out, but afraid of being burned any more. Or finding more alcoholics.

4) I am a robot- or at least, I feel like one. I feel like my days (since being unzombified with pain) are filled with tasks, tasks, must remember this, must do that, and I'm never going to catch up, I can't possibly remember it all. I feel like my family are robots, and the sound of their ever loving voices are like nails on a freakin' chalkboard in my brain, which brings me to...

5) Confusion- I'm lonely, I desperately want to feel connected. Yet my son and my husband seem to be yapping incessantly, and I don't want to take part in their talks. Then there is no room for me, or time for me. I pull away. This sends a mixed message. What the hell DO I want? It seems like...

6) Upheavel- I like to have the household running smoothly, and damn it all if it seems like every time I have it mastered and things are running like clockwork some whacked out new element is introduced and I'm forced to rethink and replan and reEVERYTHING all over again.

I've been totally moody all day, weeping at my lack of friends, really wanting to feel close to my husband but not wanting to stress HIM out anymore. He seems stressed to hell. I feel like I got more attention and support when I was in total pain, and now that I can focus beyond the pain, I feel he's pulling away. Maybe he's relieved that the crisis stage has passed and wants to get some of his own stuff done, but the crisis for me isn't just physical pain, it's the emotional dredging that this therapy is doing, and now that I can carry on a conversation I feel I'm being pushed aside. Again, could be the hormones. I don't know.

All these things and more we shall explore, same bat time, same fucking batty channel.

Bright note of day: I've lost 18 pounds since...whenever. A couple of months ago. Amazing for barely moving, huh?

nipple clamps use #4,032: fucking The Crazy out of your wife

I had myself a little freak out last night, and went to bed with a million things clamoring for my attention, one of which was my husband. It's about That Time of the Month, and hubby wanted to make sure he could slide in *cough* before the deadline.

I was so not in the mood. I was exasperated, frustrated, irritated and completely unable to focus. I wanted to. His dick looked marvelous. His lips were soft and inviting. And then my mind would wander off into cranky land, and I'd have to yank it back again. Even THAT started to piss me off.

Finally, my brain caught up with itself and said, "Hey, stupid, how about some nipple clamps?"

>insert screeching of full brakes here<

Oooooooh. Hey, you're brilliant! Thank you, I try.

So Jack applied the agonizing nipple clamps, gloves off, oh yes. Full alligator clips pinching tightly into your nipples gives you AMAZING powers of concentration. I don't know how well that would work during a college exam, say, but it works really well in bed with your husband, that I know.

Whatever the hell I was thinking about was long gone, I was wincing and trying not to screech while my husband propped my ass up high in the air and pounded the hell out of me, hard enough so that my breasts (and clamps) would shake and rattle.

I came with one deliriously long wrought out orgasm and enjoyed a few more while he finished himself. This time, he was smart enough to pull the clamps off BEFORE he pulled out, and that was the perfect distraction, but still- it's two P.M. the next day and I STILL have on my very tight sports bra (can you say ow?)

Before we fell asleep, I thanked him for "fucking the crazy out of me" and we fell asleep like we usually do, holding hands, feet touching, and I whispered, "super best friends" (ala the Blaintology episode of South Park) as we drifted off to sleep.

If I could mimic Cartman, I so totally would, saying, "Nipple clamps, you're so totally awesome."

what the hell?

After being so stupified with pain for so long, I'm having a bit of a freak out over here. Now that the doctors have given me Darvocet to deal with the pain of physical therapy, I feel like I've woken up after a season of zombification.

At first I was elated, but then some more of the fog cleared and I suddenly realized I have so many things to do, so many things are piled up over my head I'm, quite frankly, flipping out and trying to clean up the mess.

Ah, but I forget. I am in no better shape than I was a week ago when I couldn't notice the mess. I am still exhausted from walking my son to the bus stop. The only difference is that I am not blinded with pain.

So. Now I have to learn how to deal with the fact that I simply cannot do all the things I feel I must do, whereas before I didn't notice. It's hard, quite honestly. I've been pushing myself all week, trying to do a little bit more, a little bit more...and today I just crashed and took a nap. I looked at my list of things I want to do (no longer referred to as my list of things to do), and just passed out.

I need to get my head back on straight. In this case, it refers to me realizing that I still cannot do everything, but will have to come up with creative ways around the things I can't get done, instead of just flip out like I did last night.

Now I'm going to do some things. And after that, I'm guessing...mmm, probably another nap. We'll see.

It's Friday

Let the silly walks begin!




But really, this is a pretty close impersonation of how I've been walking for a while now. So, you know, fuggit. Don't let Saturday stop you. Just keep up the good work, there's a good lad, cheerio.

what it's like to live in our house

My first words this morning, as I was staring into the cupboard and trying desperately to remember why I was looking in there:

"Brain: Activate! Form of: Thoughts!"

My husband laughed, and I remembered that I needed a bowl for cereal. He can laugh if he wants, but it so totally worked.

For Cerise...

...she knows why.

And yes, these are things that really are on my fridge. I didn't even make them for you. You wait till I start making ones JUST for YOU...then it's gonna get all kinds of weird up in here.








"










And even one compliments of the little monkey:

I smell a rat

There's no way around this one, so I'll just spit it out: someone from my old high school found my out about my blog and went yammering about it to whoever she decided to blab it to.

Who she told is not important. Who she is is not important. How she found out is not important. What is important to me is how she responded to it.

It's not just that she told other people about what is supposed to be, and I hope remains, an anonymous blog. Or that she chose to compromise my safety by opening the doorway to stalkers by throwing my identity around to make herself feel important. What really throws me for a complete and total loop is that my blogs are filled with more honesty than you will normally find in humans, other than the fact that it's anonymous. I've spilled my guts, ripped open old wounds, told my tales of heartache and woe, spent endless hours typing away the introspective thoughts I have about human nature, mostly my own, even when it's godawful embarrassing to do so, all in the hopes that my honesty can not only help me but help others find the answers they need. I see my words as having a great value, not because they are genius, but because they are REAL. Alas, when I found out she had told people about my blogs, I heard the same thing, "Did you know Jill has nekkid pictures of herself on the internet?"

For those of you reading this post in the regular blog, the sex blog is chock full of them, yes. They aren't porn, some are cute, some are a little trashy, some are even downright slutteriffic, but the fact is they were taken, each and every one, as a psychological experiment for ME. They are photos of a woman in a monogamous marriage, not a porn star. I'm not making any money off of them. They are for ME. I'm fully aware that people come in and masturbate to them, and I prefer not to think about it. If they tell me about it, I thank them and tell them they're welcome for enjoying the photos so much, but that isn't why the pictures are there.

If the rat had bothered to read the WORDS she would know that. Perhaps she did. Perhaps she didn't care. Her thoughts, at this point, are now irrelevant.

My thoughts, however, are spinning at the revelation that someone who actually knows me would see so little. Obviously, yes, she doesn't know me.

Naked, shmaked... my ass is propped in the air with slap marks from my husband spanking me. And...what? I like getting my butt spanked from time to time. I think it's great fun to do role play. That's not the point. The point is that I LIKE SEX!

Hello? Rape? Trauma? I hated sex for ten years? The important part is that I have managed to heal enough of my wounds to not only enjoy sex, but actually find ways to express myself sexually, without fear!

Granted, the fact that it is done anonymously on the internet does say that I have a way to go still. The fact that I am afraid of men on the street or wearing skirts or shorts most of the time says that I have a lot of work left to do.

She's missing the miracle. And in case anyone else is missing it, let me state this very clearly:

I AM HEALING.

In my own way, in my own time, I am HEALING. The amount of bravery that it took for me to post my very first words about sex was monumental. The leap into photography was something that should have registered worldwide on the Richter scale. Each new tale, each new confession of weakness, it's all a celebration of forward movement.

To have it trivialized made me so incredibly angry! So angry, in fact, I've had difficulty writing about anything at all, because this feeling has been stuffed in my head, taking up space, instead of ending up where all my thoughts do: written down. I call it "blogstipated".

At first I decided I just wouldn't write about it because now I know she's in here. Congrats, rat. You now have access to all the secrets of my heart, my past, my marriage, and my healing, and you treated that privilege with total disregard. It is your actions that made me choose not to befriend you back in high school, and that still stands today. I see I made the right choice.

And yet still... I hope she finds her way. I can't say I'm holding my breath, but her actions do not change who I am. I wouldn't write a nasty post in a fit of anger and betrayal. That's not who I am. I know all sorts of dirty laundry about her, as I know about a great many of you, because you chose to tell me. You chose to tell me because you know I am a safe place, a vault, someone you can trust to keep your secrets, someone to confide in. You all know so much of what I hold dear to me, what I fear, what I cherish, and to all my loyal blog readers, I say:

Thank you.

You help me up when I am down, you cheer me on, you tease, you seduce, you support, you even send me birthday presents! Books! I mean, sheesh, I would continue to blog even if the only person reading this were a rabid gerbil, but you all sure know how to show a girl some love.

And it is because of all of you that I didn't just erase the blog, or at least make it invisible to everyone but me (easy enough to do), but I'll tell you, I thought about it. When I first found out, I sat here sobbing, and I thought about it.

So, for those of you who are wandering in here because a rat told you where I am, yep, it's me. And keep it down, because this is a sacred place. It's MY sacred place. Sit down, enjoy, feast if you like. Just please remember to see me for who I really am: not the person you thought you knew, but a woman who is sharing her journey.

You may call me Jill. Or Introspectre. Just don't call me out, ok? I'd hate to have to start setting out the rat traps. And, yes, I've got them. Just because I show you my ass doesn't mean I don't cover it, too. It's VERY well covered.

Just leave it alone and let a girl get on with her healing, thanks.

I smell a rat

There's no way around this one, so I'll just spit it out: someone from my old high school found my out about my blog and went yammering about it to whoever she decided to blab it to.

Who she told is not important. Who she is not important. How she found out is not important. What is important to me is how she responded to it.

It's not just that she told other people about what is supposed to be, and I hope remains, an anonymous blog. Or that she chose to compromise my safety by opening the doorway to stalkers by throwing my identity around to make herself feel important. What really throws me for a complete and total loop is that my blogs are filled with more honesty than you will normally find in humans, other than the fact that it's anonymous. I've spilled my guts, ripped open old wounds, told my tales of heartache and woe, spent endless hours typing away the introspective thoughts I have about human nature, mostly my own, even when it's godawful embarrassing to do so, all in the hopes that my honesty can not only help me but help others find the answers they need. I see my words as having a great value, not because they are genius, but because they are REAL. Alas, when I found out she had told people about my blogs, I heard the same thing, "Did you know Jill has nekkid pictures of herself on the internet?"

For those of you reading this post in the regular blog, the sex blog is chock full of them, yes. They aren't porn, some are cute, some are a little trashy, some are even downright slutteriffic, but the fact is they were taken, each and every one, as a psychological experiment for ME. They are photos of a woman in a monogamous marriage, not a porn star. I'm not making any money off of them. They are for ME. I'm fully aware that people come in and masturbate to them, and I prefer not to think about it. If they tell me about it, I thank them and tell them they're welcome for enjoying the photos so much, but that isn't why the pictures are there.

If the rat had bothered to read the WORDS she would know that. Perhaps she did. Perhaps she didn't care. Her thoughts, at this point, are now irrelevant.

My thoughts, however, are spinning at the revelation that someone who actually knows me would see so little. Obviously, yes, she doesn't know me.

Naked, shmaked... my ass is propped in the air with slap marks from my husband spanking me. And...what? I like getting my butt spanked from time to time. I think it's great fun to do role play. That's not the point. The point is that I LIKE SEX!

Hello? Rape? Trauma? I hated sex for ten years? The important part is that I have managed to heal enough of my wounds to not only enjoy sex, but actually find ways to express myself sexually, without fear!

Granted, the fact that it is done anonymously on the internet does say that I have a way to go still. The fact that I am afraid of men on the street or wearing skirts or shorts most of the time says that I have a lot of work left to do.

She's missing the miracle. And in case anyone else is missing it, let me state this very clearly:

I AM HEALING.

In my own way, in my own time, I am HEALING. The amount of bravery that it took for me to post my very first words about sex was monumental. The leap into photography was something that should have registered worldwide on the Richter scale. Each new tale, each new confession of weakness, it's all a celebration of forward movement.

To have it trivialized made me so incredibly angry! So angry, in fact, I've had difficulty writing about anything at all, because this feeling has been stuffed in my head, taking up space, instead of ending up where all my thoughts do: written down. I call it "blogstipated".

At first I decided I just wouldn't write about it because now I know she's in here. Congrats, rat. You now have access to all the secrets of my heart, my past, my marriage, and my healing, and you treated that priveledge with total disregard. It is your actions that made me chose not befriend you back in high school, and that still stands today. I see I made the right choice.

And yet still... I hope she finds her way. I can't say I'm holding my breath, but her actions do not change who I am. I wouldn't write a nasty post in a fit of anger and betrayal. That's not who I am. I know all sorts of dirty laundry about her, as I know about a great many of you, because you chose to tell me. You chose to tell me because you know I am a safe place, a vault, someone you can trust to keep your secrets, someone to confide in. You all know so much of what I hold dear to me, what I fear, what I cherish, and to all my loyal blog readers, I say:

Thank you.

You help me up when I am down, you cheer me on, you tease, you seduce, you support, you even send me birthday presents! Books! I mean, sheesh, I would continue to blog even if the only person reading this were a rabid gerbil, but you all sure know how to show a girl some love.

And it is because of all of you that I didn't just erase the blog, or at least make it invisible to everyone but me (easy enough to do), but I'll tell you, I thought about it. When I first found out, I sat here sobbing, and I thought about it.

So, for those of you who are wandering in here because a rat told you where I am, yep, it's me. And keep it down, because this is a sacred place. It's MY sacred place. Sit down, enjoy, feast if you like. Just please remember to see me for who I really am: not the person you thought you knew, but a woman who is sharing her journey.

You may call me Jill. Or Introspectre. Just don't call me out, ok? I'd hate to have to start setting out the rat traps. And, yes, I've got them. Just because I show you my ass doesn't mean I don't cover it, too. It's VERY well covered.

Just leave it alone and let a girl get on with her healing, thanks.

too smart for your own darn good, little mister

The other night my son wouldn't stop talking. Neither, for that matter, would my husband. Although I was happy to see the two of them yippity yapping happily at each other for hours, it grew tiresome, right about the time that my son should have been getting ready for bed and I should have been getting ready to do the things that adults get to do when children are in bed.

*ahem*

Finally, FINALLY, I get him in bed, close the door, and sit down to have the first conversation of the day with my husband. It was, not surprisingly, about how I felt like the bad cop all night, the one who had to keep reminding the little monkey to eat, to brush his teeth, to finish his homework, to get ready for bed, to whatever.

After a few strained minutes of me expressing my exasperation, I had started to relax, only to hear the sound of my son bawling in his room. My husband opened his bedroom door and asked him what was so terribly wrong that he could not open the door and come out to talk to us.

After a moment or two of strained listening, I walked in to find out what was going on.

It turned out that my son was having some kind of late night nine year existential freakout. You heard me. Yes.

What my child was sobbing about was, as much as I could gather in my own sleep deprived state, had something to do with the possibility of reincarnating back into the same family so that we could always be together (we've been discussing religions and faiths recently) and if he could do so, what would happen when the universe expanded to it's largest point and started to contract again (a scientific theory we watched a show about one night). When the Big Bang turned into the Big Crunch, THEN WHAT?

>insert sobbing and weeping and hysteria here<

My husband and I stared at each other and I really couldn't decide if I should laugh at the absurdity of his freakish intelligence getting the best of him, or scream in hopelessness at ever being able to go to bed, because as soon as my son was finished, my husband leapt to the rescue with other plausible scientific possibilities. You know, to soothe little monkey's mind. His exhausted, nerve wracked mind.

They talked about this, that, and I swear I felt as if every word they uttered was like fingernails on the chalkboard of my wakefulness. I finally told my son that I too was terrified of black holes when I was his age, and guess what? I still hadn't been sucked into one so it's time to shut the hell up and go to sleep. Be in the moment, I said. Be here now. Here, now, we are all safe and happy. Here, now, I will lay down next to you and we will cuddle and you will fall asleep. Here, now, I am ending this discussion because otherwise I will go freaking psycho.

Unfortunately, my husband viewed the situation differently. He saw it as a nine year old's first esoteric revelation that should be nurtured with massive piles of scientific hoohaa to help him get a better understanding of the universe. And my husband was NOT pleased when I basically told him the conversation was over, thank you, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, and turn off the light as you leave, please, thanks.

He huffed out.

Little monkey and I lay on the bed and he kept trying to fidget and worry, but I pulled him closer and forced him to keep his fidgety hands wrapped around my arm, feeling his skin on my skin, and kissed his head while I softly told him, "You are right here, with me, in your bed, and I love you," over and over until he fell asleep, which occurred within a whole five minutes, tops.

I wouldn't know exactly, since I fell asleep, too, and didn't wake up until my still irritated husband came in an hour later. I woke up when he walked into the room, and felt relieved that the whole thing was over, right up until my husband opened his mouth and started talking rapid fire about the situation that he had had an hour to stew about by himself.

I remember the wall next to the kitchen looked really inviting to just ram my head through, thinking that it probably was dark and quiet in there. But instead we discussed it till past midnight and finally went to bed.

I told my husband, "If I had woken up sobbing about being sucked into a black hole, do you know what my parents would have told me?" "No, what?" he asked, tired. "Shut the hell up and go to sleep," I answered.

My poor little brainiac. Sometimes it's hard to be so smart.

So many Dr. McAssHats!

I had quite the interesting time at the doctors yeaterday. Yes, indeed.

For those of you following the tale of my physical therapy, you know that I have been in an assload of pain. So much so that it's making me rather psychotic.

I was ready to take down some yelling dude in the library (it's in the sex blog). I've been flipping people off in traffic (all very deserving). Last week I chewed some flake out in our parking lot, through various hand gestures. She was in her car with the window up, pulled up and started wailing on her horn for her friend to come out. OH DEAR GOD how I hate that. The lazy ass horn blowers are way up on my list of pet peeves. If you're handicapped, fine. Have small children in the car, I understand. It's pouring rain, ok, maybe. But this girl was yapping on her cell phone, maybe seventeen years old, and I was standing there waiting for my son's school bus to arrive.

She didn't just honk, no. It was a steady stream of honking that lasted 3 minutes, and she was just laughing and kept looking over at me, even after I motioned at her, "THAT'S ENOUGH!" Finally she looked back at me and I scowled my most evil scowl and gestured the fingers walking, then shoo, as in: walk your lazy ass up the stairs, bitch! I was seconds away from stomping over there and ripping her door open, telling whoever was on the phone that, "The lazy whore has to go now, BYE BYE," and beating her ass in the parking lot.

I was just Not In The Mood.

It's the pain. The pain that has persisted despite the fact that I am in physical therapy AND seeing a "pain specialist" for a whopping chunk of change.

The last time I went to see the pain specialist, I told him the stuff we were doing (Lidoderm patches and muscle relaxers) were NOT cutting it and that I was reaching my breaking point. I can't take a lot of medicines because I have a history of ulcers, so most simple pain management is out of my range of possibilities. So, the guy prescribed Celebrex, I think.

I say "I think" because my insurance company never Ok'd it, I couldn't get it unless I wanted to pay some crazy ass amount like $200 a bottle for it, and I wasn't even sure if it would WORK. I called the doctors office over and over, asking them what the deal was. They said they had faxed it in to the insurance company and that "these things take time". The insurance company said they weren't willing to pay for that medicine until "other medicines had been tried", meaning the doctors office had to give them a damn good reason WHY they should pay out the ass instead of me.

All the docotrs office had to do was tell them, "She has a history of ulcers." But apparently that was too complicated for them. Or they're just fucking morons.

At any rate, I went into the pain specialist yesterday full of apprehension, because I wasn't about to pay for their expensive services one more goddamn time without them actually relieving my pain. Since, you know, that's what they SPECIALIZE in and all. (Ugh!)

As soon as the doctor (actually, he's the assistant) came in, he just plopped his ass down and asked me when was the next time I was scheduled to see my psychiatrist.

What?!

I told him, "Three weeks. What does that have to do with anything?"

He informed me that he thought I was depressed, that he had talked to my physical therapist and that he beleives that I am depressed, and that my depression is what is causing me to feel as IF I am in so much pain.

I stared at the wall, so fucking furious I couldn't even look at him. I started crying, I was so fucking mad. First, he was wrong. Second, he said he had talked to my physical therapist and that was why he thought I was depressed...? So I wondered what in the bloody fuck had SHE said to him, and if I needed to have a little chat with her as well? And I will, in about thirty minutes...

I spoke slowly, choosing my words carefully, because I was enraged and didn't just want to freak the fuck out on his stupid ass. I explained that I understood that in a lot of scenarios that was very possible. I explained that I could see how he could look at my psychiatric record and assume that depression was a very real possibility. BUT, I told him, his assumption was incorrect because my psychiatrist had ruled out depression. I have tried nearly every anti depressant, and they make me depressed. She decided I have a GABA imbalance, not a serotonin imbalance (in other words, not depression but anxiety disorder). I told him I talk to my counselor every week or two, depending, and that I had told HER all about my pain and apathy and rage, and "Do you know what she sugested?" I asked him. "No, what?" he asked. "She said I should stop physical therapy for awhile to be able to relax and not be in so much pain!" I very nearly yelled in his face.

He was too startled to hide his total shock. "Why...that's...stupid!" he said. "Yah! I know!" I said. "My point is, my shrink knows all about it, doesn't seem to be worried about depression, just about my pain."

Gee whiz, maybe because I'm not depressed?

I backed up my line of reasoning with examples of times that I wasn't in pain and felt fucking dandy. When I took Motrin (which is a complete and utter no no for anyone with a history of ulcers- it can cause stomach bleeding, but dammit, I was desperate) I was fine. I told him I even took the rest of the Darvocet my dad had given me a long time ago, even thought I know it is NOT ok to take meds without a prescription, but it was that or my husband was going to cart my ass off to the emergency room because I was in such agony.

He just sat there and asked, "Did it work?" with his head cocked to the side. That may have been the first time I looked at him. I said, "Yes. As a matter of fact, my husband made a comment about how weird it was that my sense of humor had returned, because he'd gotten kind of used to me being without it."

AssHat said, "Oh, ok, well then how about I write you out a prescription for Darvocet?"

FUCKING DUH YOU DAMNABLE NUTSACK!

"THANK YOU," I said. "That's all I wanted. To be out of pain. That's it." He wrote it out, I left, got it filled, and feel like a million bucks, despite the fact that I'm taking half of what he prescribed. I mean, it IS a narcotic. I have to drive. Hello?

Anyway, that was my day at the doctors. I feel almost human again and hopefully won't be inspired to kill anyone anymore. My shoulders don't feel like they're going to cramp up and fall off when I type, and I can concentrate without the hazy mud of pain that has filled my head for a month and a half.

You know, it's not a good feeling to think you're smarter than your doctor. He didn't even call my shrink! They have all that info. That never occurred to him? I had to tell him what to give me! Jesus on a pogo stick, what a blithering dumbass.

But I feel better. And I am optimistic. And now it is time for me to go get mashed and poked some more. And I'm ok with that.

Finally.

using the super powers of booty for good (not evil)

A most interesting thing happened this weekend at the library.

I had gone in to get the password changed on my library card, since the nincompoop who "fixed" it a few weeks back actually put in the wrong password and I couldn't renew any of my books online, making for a whole shitload of late fees. Damn.

I went in, and noticed that there seemed to be a whole hell of lot of people milling about, and a sense of unease in the air. I walked up to the librarian and started to tell her my tale when I heard a guy behind me yelling, "Y'all are a bunch of fucking pussies!"

Wow. Not your usual library experience, that's for sure. The librarian was obviously angry as hell, and the little old lady that had come in behind me looked very frightened. I scanned the room and noticed a large group of younger black guys all kind of laughing and standing close together, and the one guy who was breaking every cardinal rule of libraries was an older (my age) black guy, waving his arms around and weaving and ducking to avoid the security guard who was trying halfheartedly to escort him out.

To avoid any potential feelings of racism here, let me clarify- I have no problem with black people. I have no problem with black men. I DO have a problem with a drunken asshat yelling obscenities in a public library where children and elderly people are about, causing extreme distress to a whole hell of a lot of people, myself included.

The security guard was a tall white guy who was quite obviously frightened of the man. It was obvious he had issues with black people, because the man himself wasn't being very scary, just a lot of huffing and puffing, doing that thing that all men do when they want to put on a show of bravery- beating their chests and making a lot of noise.

I could take that guy down. For real. Security guard, you are a wuss. I guess that's why you work at the library.

Anyway, he's trying to escort the guy out, but the guy would get outside and then spin around, come back in yelling and the crowd of teenagers would all pack up and laugh at him again. I realized later they were taunting him, but I had missed the whole interaction up to that point.

The librarian did whatever to my card, and I just sat right down next to the show, wanting an easy access seat in case things got out of control. With a "guard" that was worthless, I wanted to be nearby. Yah, I'm severely damaged, but if it came down to that guy randomly smacking people or worse, I was staying close to that little old lady. If he got too close I wouldn't have minded taking his ass out, no matter if it landed me in the hospital with a morphine drip. The pain and agony of the last month have been hellish, and if one unfortunate bastard became the deserving target of my pent up rage and frustration, so be it.

The librarian barked at the guard to get the guy out, and the guard lamely said, "I'm trying, I can't get a hold of him." I don't know who he thought he was fooling, but I'm betting he doesn't have a job anymore. Another guy came out of nowhere, a short stocky Italian looking guy with a Brooklyn accent, walking like a bulldog and told the yelling guy to get the hell out. The guy kept yelling, "Don't you fucking touch me! Don't none of y'all fucking touch me!" and ducking away from them while trying to get closer to the pack of teenage boys.

He finally walked towards the door again. BINGO- I jumped up and followed directly behind him, and just as he got to the doorway he spun around again to come charging back in but instead found himself face to face with a pretty girl.

Me. He nearly walked smack into me. I gave him my biggest, most charming smile ever and said, "Hi," in that coy way that makes all men, regardless of whatever was happening in their brain a second ago, suddenly switch into their primal base urges and think, "I could fuck her." And just like that, he was disarmed.

He startled, smiled, and I kept walking, turning my head to look at him, urging him to walk on with me. And being the predictable man that he was, he grinned and followed me.

We got a few more steps and he stopped. He remembered he was pissed and said, "Did you see that shit?!" He looked back into the library so I reached out my hand and gently touched his arm. "No," I said, wide eyed and supportive, "what happened?" I moved further out the door and he got pulled along, the magic of the gentlest of touches on his arm.

Once we were outside I let go of his arm and said, "I just came in. What happened?" He gave me the story, although I can't say I understood half of what he said. Some of it was the lingo I was unfamiliar with, and some of it was the fact that he was pretty drunk. He was doing the crab side-step that drunks do to maintain balance.

He told me his tale and started getting worked up again, so I once again touched his arm and said, "They're just kids. Nothing is going to happen to them but get kicked out of a library, YOU, however, are a grown man." (He gave a bashful smile) "YOU will end up in jail. The cops are right up the street and I heard them calling them. If you go back in there, they're going to arrest you. Are a bunch of punk assed little kids worth that?"

He looked like maybe he thought they were, and said something about "popping a cap in they ass" and some more macho crapola, and I moved so that he was facing the parking lot, not the doors anymore. Then all he had to look at was me. (laughs) I'm so slick.

Without the reminder of the library, he was suddenly all smiles and started laughing. I talked to him for a good ten minutes, laughed when he started laughing because he realized he was staring at my boobs, and kept being just flirty enough to not be making any sort of promises but enough to keep his attention. I could see the security guard walking around the outside of the building, trying to make it look like he was watching out for ME. Ha. I slyly waved him away. He left.

After a few minutes the guy remembered he was pissed off again and just spun on his heel and went marching back to the doors. I yelled, "DUDE!" He spun again (a good spinner, for a drunk guy) and just stared at me, grinning. "Did you just...call me....dude?" he said. I laughed, because it was important to keep him laughing. He started walking back to me. He started laughing, too. He asked me again, once he was closer. "For real, did you just call me dude?" I just laughed and laughed, oh isn't this a good time we're having, and said, "Well, I mean, DUDE. You were about to walk back INSIDE the library! Where you will get arrested! What else was I supposed to say? Dude."

He laughed and laughed, and I turned to walk towards my car. I smiled over my shoulder, "Just stay out of that library, ok?" and I shook my ass in the way that only girls with ass can do, I swung while I walked even though it caused me excruciating pain to do so, but I did it for the good of the library. It's for the good of the library, damn it! How often can you say you shook your ass for the good of the library and a sweet little old lady? I mean, really? Dude.

"Hey!" he yelled after me. I turned, smiled, and walked back. I knew we weren't done, oh no. He hadn't left the sidewalk yet, so he was still a threat, and I knew seeing the pretty girl shaking her fine ass as she walked away would bring his attention back to where it belonged. My ass. His optimism at getting laid. Most importantly, his brains ability to over rule his own anger and refocus on something it found FAR more important than his ego. The desire for pussy.

I got back up to him and he said, "So, uh...." and grinned like a bashful schoolboy. "Yes?" says I, ever smiling. "So, um, you wanna be friends?" he asks.

I cocked one eyebrow at him saucily and said, "Define....friends." He laughed, and then looked at his feet. Finally he looked up and said, really fast, "You know...." and something about "sexual participants". I cracked up, not at his question, but because he was BLUSHING. It was so cute. The whole fucked up situation aside, it was just so damn cute.

"No can do," I said. He looked hurt. "What, you don't like black guys?" (Oh, leave my fantasies out of this!) I smiled at the thought I wasn't speaking out loud and said, "Oh, I have nooooo problem with black guys. It's that," I held up my left hand and showed him my oh-so-blingy-in-the-sunshine wedding rings, "I'm married."

His answer? "Me, too." He laughed. I laughed, although totally repulsed, and said, "Well, obviously you don't take that very seriously. I do." He said, "Oh yah?" and I said, "Yah! I've got a damn good thing, and I'm not about to fuck it up." I leaned it, confidentially, and said quietly, "I am HOOKED UP. I don't even have to work. I've got it MADE, baby." Like, I got me a sugar daddy, see? You see all those rocks? You think you can compete with all that?

He lowered his head, knowing he was beaten, and said, "Well, you can't blame a guy for trying." I smiled, sincerely, and said, "No. No, you can't. Now...stay out of the fucking library, you here?" and turned to walk away.

As I got in the car, I saw another guy come out of the library and grab onto the guys arms, friendly-like, and they walked off down the street.

Oh, yah. Getting to use The Power of Ass for good. It was fucking great. I wanted to go back in and tell the security guard I had something he didn't: ASS. But I didn't.

Nor did I correct the guy every time he called me, "Shorty." I was taller than him by a good three inches at least.

I mean, DUDE.

tickle me and I'll punch you

Those of you who know me well know I don't like to be tickled. Those of you that don't, this is your warning:

Tickle me and I'll punch you.

It happened to a friend of mine years back. She was a tickler. You know, one of those people who think tickling someone is a cute and playful game that makes everyone giggle and be happy. She tried it on me, once.

I froze, rigid. I turned to stare at her with a serious as hell face and said, "Don't." She did it again. I stopped her again and said, "Look, I hate being tickled, I mean REALLY HATE being tickled, and tend to respond violently to it. I'm not kidding." She giggled her aren't-we-having-fun giggle and tickled me again. I punched her and knocked her off the bench we were sitting on.

She did, I must note, stop giggling. She also did not tickle me again. When she got back up and sat down I said, "Look, I tried to warn you. You chose not to listen. I DO NOT LIKE BEING TICKLED." She rubbed her sore shoulder and said, "Yah. I got that. Right."

I do not like it, Sam I Am. I do not like green eggs and ham.

Many boyfriends have made the same mistake, and have been quickly informed. It finally got to the point where I would mention it within the first date or two, just to avoid any possible problems, like them finding out that I am a psychotic tickle-puncher.

What the deal? My dad is the deal. My dad and his idea of fun.

My dad was a tall guy, 6'4" (he's shrunk a bit over the years). I have very clear memories of him hanging my brother and I upside down and tickling our feet. My brother always squealed with laughter, while I would squeal, then start lashing out, then start screaming and crying.

You see, that was back before my mom divorced my dad for being a suicidal drunken mess of a man. So, judging from the time they separated, I must have been about 3-5 years old, max. That was the last time I remember my dad every being healthy and strong enough to do something like that.

Imagine a 6'4" man holding a four year old girl by one foot in the air, arm fully extended, and the other arm tickling the hell out of her foot. I was upside down, dangling helplessly in the air, unable to reach anything to lash out, the floor looking a mile below me, and my dad has a death grip on my ankle, tickling me until I scream. The whole time, he and my brother would laugh and laugh, ha ha ha, isn't this fun?

When he would finally let me down I would run sobbing from the room, their laughter haunting my little self, and I could hear them yelling after me about what a poor sport I was, probably some sexist shit about being girlie (my dad is, to this day, one hell of a sexist pig).

I don't remember after that. I assume I hid somewhere for awhile, but I couldn't really tell you.

Now I'm thirty two years old and looking back, and suddenly realizing how such a small event (although NOT small at the same time) could severely impact a child. So severely, in fact, that this story came out the other night while talking to my husband about some of my quirks, or as I refer to them, "tweaks". You know, the things that set me off and make me feel like I'm going to fucking lose it. Scream, cry, become violent, whatever.

I'm trying to remember now what set that conversation in motion...oh, yes. We were talking about how I don't deal with my anger well. We were discussing the fact that I tend to shut down when I get angry, or else lash out with biting sarcasm. Why the polarity? What's the deal-i-o?

As with most things that I try to think about lately, it was like staring at a pile of mud. Where my emotions used to be clearly visible to me, since I've started physical therapy it seems to be having some bizzare-o effect on my comprehensive skills. Sometimes I can be rather lucid (like now), but sometimes I'm a bumbling idiot. I can't find the words, I can't explain, I don't remember what I was talking about a moment later. And I never know when one phase is going to instantly morph into the other. Sometimes it flips back and forth during a conversation. I don't think I can possibly explain to you how frustrating that is.

Well, we were discussing my anger, my sarcasm, and what sets it all off. My husband suggested that I need to learn to forgive myself for reactions in the past and that would free me up to act differently in the future.

He was talking. I could hear him. At the same time, I could feel this murky poisonous mud bubbling up out of my subconscious. I was trying to have a conversation, but I could barely even speak. All I could do is shake and have these weird images of some kind of demons or something, crawling up out of the darkness of my psyche, and trying to rip through the carefully constructed walls I had built long ago to suppress them.

I sobbed and looked around wildly, like a cornered animal in my own head, trying to find the way to explain the feeling to him. I could barely speak, but I PUSHED. I didn't want to, but he seemed willing to wait for me to find the words, so I pushed at it until bits started to slip out.

I told him about the feelings I was having. I told him it scared me, and that I didn't really WANT to think about it. I told him it made me feel like I did when I was fourteen, when I discovered that the way I had been treated as a child was total fucking bullshit and that I had every right to be angry, and angry I WAS. I was enraged at that age. I wanted an outlet, but found none, and so I stuffed the rage back inside. I felt like I was totally losing my mind, literally, and stopped talking for a long time, afraid that people would catch on and lock my crazy ass away.

I blurted out, "I feel...I feel...like...an enraged little girl! Really young! Totally enraged but unable to do anything about it, so what is the point?!?"

He asked if I could remember ever feeling that way. And after a few moments, I did. I remembered hanging upside down, one foot trapped in the bear trap of my fathers hand, thrashing and screaming but utterly unable to do anything about it. Them laughing. Me running away. And eventually, the scene replaying itself at some later horrible date.

Suddenly the emotions started clicking. "I wonder..." I sobbed, "I wonder if that's what set me up for a lifetime of passivity? A feeling that there is no point in fighting back, so why bother?"

When I was raped at thirteen, I did nothing. I held my legs together and said, "No, no, no..." but never fought back. *ding*

I have always hated being upside down. I tried "anti-gravity" boots once and as soon as I was upside down I was filled with a sense of horror and demanded to be let out of them, immediately. *ding*

My lifetime obsession with having big shoes. Shoes that I can run in, shoes I can kick ass in, but most of all, something that COVERS MY ENTIRE FOOT. *ding*

My legs...maybe? I don't like my legs touched, rubbed, poked, any sensation at all really. Did he tickle my leg? I don't remember.

And then suddenly I looked at my husband, shocked. "Do you remember how I told you about my chiropractor telling me one of my ankles is crooked?" He nodded. Years ago my chiropractor asked me what injury happened to my ankle. I was surprised and said, "Nothing. I've never so much as broken a bone in my life." He told me that my ankle was clearly messed up at some point and had just healed crooked. I've never been able to figure out why. I don't remember even so much as spraining it. Nothing.

I stared at my husband. "Do you think...that's what fucked up my ankle? All that thrashing?"

He just solemnly nodded and said, "It seems likely." And what he followed it with hit me so hard I couldn't even reply. I didn't see it coming. He said, "Especially if he was really drunk. He might not have even noticed that he hurt you."

>insert the sound of a ton of bricks dropping on my fragile heart<

I could only nod. We didn't talk much after that. A bit more here and there, and then I just walked away and laid down in bed, lights off, staring at the ceiling, feeling rather numb. It was just too much. I couldn't feel anymore, thank you, I'm done.

I feel like that a lot lately.

There have been many such revelations lately, the sorts of things that normally I would hop up and blog, but with the pain of physical therapy, this emotional dredging of my muddy psyche is too much. I can't think about them for long. I can't think about them, and then invest the time and energy into thinking about it even MORE by taking the time to write about them. It's too much.

It makes me think of problematic childbirth before C-sections were invented. It feels like that. Either these things are going to get out of me, or they're going to kill me. I have to get them out, but I am so exhausted, and it feels like I've been exhausted for so long I can't clearly remember feeling energetic anymore.

I told my physical therapist about the tickling incident earlier this week. I was glad I did. When I went in yesterday she asked me to pull down to the end of the table, so that my head was completely off the end of the table. She started working on my neck, pushing it backwards and down, and I stopped breathing, trying not to sob. She immediately stopped and said, "What is it?"

Damn it. I don't mind crying in front of her, I've done it so much already, but she had some new assistant in there. Damn it.

I knew there was no way around it and blurted in a strangled sob, "I'm upside down! I'm upside down!" She knew exactly what I was talking about and just held my head still, level with the table, very securely in both hands. She held me securely for a few minutes while I quietly sobbed, and she softly said to me, "You aren't a child now. You are an adult. You can make your own choices. You are in control. You can stop this if you want. We don't have to do any more. This is your choice. No one is going to hurt you here."

She's wonderful, isn't she? I know. The bitch of it is, these positive affirmations are exactly what I need to hear, but exactly what I don't WANT to hear. They touch a primal point in my childhood heart that rips me open further every time, and my instinct is to just shut down emotionally. I can't do that while she says these things. That primal core of me is so starved for those words, and it's healing but healing like molting a skin when the new skin isn't ready yet. The skin beneath is raw and freakishly sensitive, and yet rrrrrrrrrrip the old skin comes off. Over and over and over and over, for just over a month now but god it feels so much longer.

It's gotten to the point that I can't get my bearings before something else comes hurtling at me and I want to curl up in a ball and hide under the bed, but instead I have to give birth.

Ugh. I know the exact metaphor for it but it's morbid as hell and something I haven't even discussed in blog form yet. I'm in no mood to do it now. (groans) Anyway...

I am pained and raw and overwhelmed. And yet, I chose to continue, because I know there is no going back. There is no bed to hide under, and there is no adult that can hold me up by one foot and tickle me without being beaten within an inch of their life anymore.

I'm not a child now.
I make my own choices.
I am in control here.

Those seem like logical statements, but they sure don't feel like it.

Who knows? I may end up liking green eggs and ham after all. The way things are going, I don't even know who I will BE in a month, six months, a year. I might eat them in a box, and I might eat them with a fox.

But if that fox tries to tickle me, I'm knocking his goddamn lights out.