Sunday, December 29, 2013

Day 31 Was Much More Fun

It's 20 til 10 and I'm ready to nod off.  And that's a good thing.
Yesterday was crap, but today ran a much better course.  I think getting some decent sleep, aided by a bit of Xanax and a beach towel over the window, was a huge help.

I spent all day on the couch, glued to the computer, but for a good cause.  I've been putting together some flyers, business cards, and a website to promote my business.  More on that later. 


I think there is a light at the end of this tunnel.  Depression might be a lying bastard, but I'll kick him in the teeth just yet.

Saturday, December 28, 2013

30 Days: Worse For the Wear

30 days in.  No weight loss.  More weight gain.  Why?

Here's the answer
  • cookies (gluten free doesn't make them calorie free)
  • eggnog (can't handle diary well, but doesn't stop me from imbibing.  Mmmmmhhhhh, noggy goodness)
  • depression 
  • butternut squash mac and cheese (Swiss instead of cheddar makes its betta)
  • anxieties 
  • scones (they're not really that good, but does it stop me.  No!)
  • little sleep (Because nothing says Christmas like 3 5' snowmen on a 2 ft lawn, just outside my bedroom window)
  • rock through the car windshield which cancelled Christmas plans
I'm not the person I want to be.  I want to be so much more.  And right now my head is spinning with all the things I want to do, like map out my novel, clean my room, do some yoga, visit the library, and yet I want to curl up in bed and sleep for three days.

Maybe a good night's sleep and a cry would help.  Maybe I should sleep on the couch tonight, which is dark and tomb-like.  Maybe I'll feel better in the morning.

Monday, December 2, 2013

Four of Hearts

The scale seems to indicate that I lost weight, however I don't feel that I have. To tell you the truth I don't even remember what I weighed last week. All I know is that right now I feel really depressed and stressed about where I am.
Last week I had a blast on Thanksgiving. I met some new friends, I laughed really hard, learn some new references for MST 3K, and inhaled all sorts of yummy food. But when the hostess of Thanksgiving posted a picture today on FB, my immediate reaction was "I look like a fat cow."
I'm super stressed now more than ever. My Christmas plans have changed and I'm now guilt-tripping down to Florida for Christmas. So now not only am I worried that I can't financially afford this, I'm worried about the reception my weight will get. When I was down over the summer picking my son up from his summer vacation in Florida, I was rudely informed that I was fat and unhealthy.
Which comes as no surprise to me, both that the person acted that way and also, I know I'm overweight. Like all the women in my family I'm stress eater, and I tend to have a lot of stress in my life. Raising a son on my own and working full time isn't easy. I don't have the luxury to exercise whenever the mood strikes and my diet can be pretty shitty from being on the run all the time.
The problem is the people who point out my weight remember that as child and a teenager I was really active. I played soccer for 13 years, in addition to every other sport on the face of this earth. so when I was easily running 3 miles at each practice, it was no problem keeping the weight off.
But I'm not 16 anymore I'm going on 33. And yes I realize that I do need to get healthier. But its not going to make me feel more motivated to get in shape when it's pointed out that I'm fat.

Friday, November 29, 2013

Day One, Not Fun

Started the day with the best of intentions. Packed a balanced, nutritious lunch. And then got yelled at by the geriatric, female Scrooge I currently with for.  In front of my child.

Not. Cool.

So what was my response? Yell back? Risk an assault charge and punch her face? Grab my son's hand and peel rubber down the driveway?

The answer was none of the above. I spoke calmly but internally I ragged all damn day.

And being an emotional eater, I decided to dull my anger temporarily by eating an entire medium size veggie pizza for dinner. And now i'm angry at myself, not just her.

Hope day 2 goes better.

Thursday, November 28, 2013

This Turkey is Stuffed

Today's feast was hosted by a lovely friend.  It was a memorable time; I drank some very yummy spiced wines, ate far too much pork/lamb sausage cornbread dressing, and lost count of how many times I laughed.

It was fantastic. I wish I could have stock-piled the leftovers, but I can't/didn't. If i'm going to be serious about getting rid of my excess giblets, pardon the pun, I've got to go cold turkey.

I should get to bed before my food baby settles and I decide that, yes I can find some room in my overstuffed stomach for some Halloween candy.

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Why Weight

Things I am sick of
  • The current Administration
  • The cost of gas
  • The drug/flop house across the street
  • My weight
  • Christmas shopping traffic on Rt. 3
  • The mouse that keeps out outwitting every trap and poison I set out.  He shat a ring around the last trap.
  • My feet being cold all winter long.  I wear 2 pairs of socks with my shoes, nuthin doing son. 
And I realize and admit that the only damn thing I can control is my weight.  I mean, if I were worth my weight in gold, I'd be checking myself into the bank right away.

So here I am on the eve of the eve of Thanksgiving, the mother of all holidays.  I love to eat.  The kitchen was the focal point in my Gonga's house, as it is at my mom's.  We loved to cook and loved to eat even more.  I have so many happy childhood memories of spending the two days preceding Thanksgiving staying at my grandmother's house and cooking, which began just after breakfast and lasted way past dinner. 

Me, age 12, mixing cornbread dressing in cooler.  Because there isn't a bowl big enough.
Mounds of celery and onion simmering in sticks of butter for the multiple pans of dressing.  The food processor pulsating whole cranberries to bits.  Mince meat and pumpkin pies cooling on top of the washer and dryer.  If I concentrate hard enough, I can still smell the leftover pie crusts, slather with butter, cinnamon, and sugar baking in the oven.

I shudder to think of the amount of glorious calories I'll be inhaling as I feast on honey-brined turkey, pumpkin pie, cranberry relish, marshmallow salad, and stuffing.

But I can't take it any longer.  When I blew out my knee in '08, I knew I was going to have problems with it every winter.  And it's only been coldish weather for 3 weeks and I'm already popping ibuprofen like House pops Vicodin.  I know if I don't get my weight down and my body back in shape I'll be limping along on my cane like I was five years ago.  (And it won't be the cool limp that lands me a flatmate, ala Watson running through the streets with Sherlock).

It's all fun and games the next two days.  Friday, the bitching begins.

Monday, November 25, 2013

Wibley Wobbley Timey Wimey Stuff

It was 14 years ago this week.  That's a long time.

Why did I remember it today?  What triggered my mind to flashback to that night?

The night I thought I was going to dieThe night I was attacked assaulted raped.

And when I didn't die that night, I wanted to kill myself.

Why did my brain have to go there today?  All day I've been reminding myself to "stay present," that I'm not trapped in a car on a freezing cold November night 14 years ago.

Today has been a struggle.

Time is not linear.  Especially when you have PTSD.

Source: H.P.Holo






Saturday, September 14, 2013

F.R.I.E.N.D.S

I've got a neat group of friends.  Every conversation is one of a kind, totally random, and unexpected.  Sometimes we don't see each other for months or sometimes we'll talk several times in one day.

I've known some of them for over 10 years, while others I have known for a few weeks.

There's A.  She's got everything figured out.  She can cook, wrangle kids, take care of our sick friend, likes Pad Thai, and is fiercely protective of those she loves.  I love that A will level with me and put me in my place when I start to get overwhelmed.  She assures me that I'm not responsible for fixing our sick friend.

There's V,who cracks me up.  She's the teenager in group.  Seriously, she's 16, maybe 17.  I never remember and her age is dependent on what day of the week or hour it might be.  I love to tease her that she'll be shopping for Depends with me in the future, which she flat out refuses to acknowledge.  She loves pink nail polish and is a great baby-sitter.

I recently met S and although I don't know her that well, I do love her artistic talent.  She draws really pretty flowers.  

D is another friend I met just a few weeks ago.  Our first exchange was through text messages.  She can't spell well, but one can't expect much from a 4 year old.  I gave her a candy flavored lip-balm as a gift shortly after we met and the joyful look on her face could have lit up a stadium.  

I've hung out with OG once or twice.  She doesn't like to talk much, but when I tell her about the summer days I spent at the Florida beaches as a child, she listens.  Once we painted our nails blue like the ocean.

EJ and I hung out in college, but she left about 6 months ago and I haven't heard from her since.  She had an eating disorder but my friends and I didn't know how to help her.  I hope she's at peace.

I met N about a year ago.  We hung out for about 20 minutes, but in that short time I learned that she loved to spin in circles and play with dolls.  She told me that her mother took away all her dolls when she was about 6 telling her 'only babies play with dolls.'

Shortly after meeting N I met C.  I found her curled up on the kitchen floor, crying and shaking.  She was scared and convinced that there was a terrible man lurking just outside the house.  

There are several other friends I have met, but some are so shy that they haven't properly introduced themselves.   

And then there's H, the most important one of this group.  She is amazingly strong, funny, loving, zany, and intelligent.  We've had so many adventures, near misses, and countless laugh-until-we-can't-breathe moments.  She flew to Florida when my wedding was cancelled and held me when I was inconsolable.  I couldn't imagine another woman who has more endurance and strength to overcome the most awful circumstances.

All these wonderful friends of mine, all these different people with their own sets of likes, handwriting, hobbies, and tastes in coffee share the same body.

They share the same body.

They were born to take care of my friend H when she was unable to take care of herself.

They protected and still protect her.

They share the same body. 

And I love everyone of them.


(Image credit: iStockphoto.com)
Dissociative Identity Disorder was once labeled as Multiple Personality Disorder.  People hear that and immediately think of United States of Tara or Sybil, the former a bastard-Hollywood version, the later a bit closer to the truth.

DID generally occurs when a child under the age four experiences HORRIFIC abuse.  Not your run of the mill 'being-smacked-around-by-alcholic-parents' or 'bullied-by-siblings' abuse.  


Think of every horror/psuedo-sexual slasher movie you've ever seen advertized and then multiply that by 20.

And then forget that. . . .Because the abuse suffered by person who lives with DID is not quantifiable.

In an attempt to cope with the trauma and abuse that is happening the brain shatters like a dropped mirror.  Each piece reflects the victim but in a different manner, at a different angle.  Each piece of the mirror become a new person, an alter.  Someone who shares the same body of the victim, who comes into being to help the victim cope.  These alters are a testament to the mind's capacity to struggle to survive.

I've listened to the stories and I've read the dairies of my friends, these alters.  Everyone has their own tales and memories of horrifying, unspeakable, unbelievable events.  
Sometimes I've wept; at times I have gotten physically sick; other times I've felt pure hatred and anger course through my veins.  

I yearn to take away the pain and suffering H has dealt with since she was 2, but I can't.  I can only love and support her.  Listen to her when she needs to talk, laugh at our shared history, sneek a cigarette when our kids aren't looking, and hang out with her alters when she needs a break.  I can't thank these friends enough for taking care of H when she couldn't do it herself.  

And I couldn't ask for a better set of friends.  
~
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Coming Apart: Trauma and the Fragmentation of the Self is a good article if you would like to learn a little more about DID. 


Tuesday, August 13, 2013

Amuse Me

Apparently back in March of 2012, I wrote this post, but never published it.  Rather than dumping it into the delete folder, I'm publishing it.  Because at that time, this amused the shit out of me.

Today’s Ronnie Dunn-free post is brought to you by the letters Q,U,E, and the number of Pi squared. This mediocre blogger is still unable to spell February without the aid of spell-check and is a big fan of profanity. Please direct all rabid comments or winning African lotto tickets towards The Diatribest.

Since December I’ve fallen into the terrible habit of sleeping until the last possible minute before I have to wake up The Kiddo for school. Prior to the never-ending-Niagara-SnotFalls-fest at Christmas, I would get my ass up in time to mainline 2 cups of coffee while watching reruns of Angel.* Now I’ve gotten too lazy to get back into a decent sleep schedule so most mornings I run around the house, working harder than a hooker on dollar hand job day to find a matching pair of sock and shirt that doesn’t look like it was washed and dried on rocks.

I’m lucky if I can get ½ a cup down before I jump in the car, cursing as I realize that the travel mug of coffee will be waiting for me on the kitchen counter when I return. So when I get back and nuke the now cold coffee, I will flip on the TV to drown out the noises of the neighbors next door. This morning the Flintstones were not so loud that I heard the bi-speckled TV grandfather clearly announce: “I use catheters; do you?”

I developed sudden hysterical deafness but not before hearing that Brand X “is so silky and smooth.” While I searched in vain for the clicker (which I had been sitting on) I willed myself not to vomit or think of Sally Field’s Sybil. If I could have I would have brushed my ears with Clorax and a Brillo pad.

Here’s the thing. I have such a sailor mouth that during labor I said words that the attending doctor had never even heard. I have no problem laughing at a penis joke. But please, for the love of Kentucky Friend Chicken, DO NOT tell me about your (un)sexy crotch problems. 

Ever since the world was informed that Raymond’s constipation was eased by a dose of Milk of Magnesia, we’ve been bombarded with commercials about jock itch, vaginal dryness, droopy dicks, feminine odors, and leaky bladders. I’m sorry that John and Joan Q. Pubic are having below the belt problems, but shouldn’t that be something you tell your doctor or maybe discuss with your best friend and not me?

Tomorrows coffee will be accompanied by the second book in the Hunger Games series. Katniss might have to brutally kill several more people, but she won’t inform me on their bits and pieces.

*(PS-David Boreanaz? Is my TV crush! I looooooove you!)  

**(Yes, I know he’s married and no, Rachel, he does not have a huge forehead!)

Monday, July 29, 2013

Ramblings From a "Different" Point of View

I love my family.  Really I do.  With all the crazy ups and downs, laughter filled dinners, cold stoney after-fight silences, hugs and rough-housing, raucous cheering at sport events, and quite admiration at award ceremonies.

But they don't always get me.  And after years of feeling so out of place, black sheepish, anger at myself, I've arrived at a place in my life where I can say with confidence that my family may not always get me, but I'm okay with that.  I'm not ashamed to be me because I am different.

And that's what I think my mother has come to accept in my too.

I've been childless for the past month as The Growing Boy has been down in Fl visiting the bevy of aunts and uncles.  I know he's been having a blast and missing me at the same time.  I can't wait to pick him up later this week.  I've missed him so much more than I ever could have imagined. 

I was filled with much trepidation and anxiety last month, waiting for my mother to show up for a week long visit before she would fly back to Fl with The Growing Boy.  I was half prepared to drink or Xanax myself to sleep every night, frustrated and exhausted from her disapproval and judgement.

But something happened on the third night she was here.  We stayed up until 3AM talking about everything under the sun.  Mental Illness.  Child rearing.  Diet.  Love of food.  Life decisions.  Relationships.  And it finally clicked for the both of us when we started talking about defiance.

One of my younger sisters is going through a difficult time right now.  She feels lonely and friendless, out of place and angry, mixed up with adolescent emotions and dreams of her future.  My mother said to me that my little sister was "defiant."

I challenged her to look at my sister as different, rather than defiant.  Mom countered that she thinks I'm defiant because I have blue hair and that I hold onto the silly idea that I should be loved for my individuality, when in reality life would be a lot easier for me if I did more to fit in with the mainstream, rather than fight it.

When she said that, a bulb went off in my head.  Everything I've read about every wonderful, crazy, intelligent, emotionally wounded, talented person came to mind.  And I realized that I fit there, too.

"I don't see myself as defiant.  I'm just different.  To me defiant is the Russian rock band Pussy Riot that climbed up on the alter of an Orthodox Church for an impromptu performance, calling for the ousting of Putin."

I continued, "Look at all the lovely works of art that have been created over the ages.  The music played, the stories written.  All that came from artists.  Artists who were considered weird, who didn't fit in with society.  And some of them were kinda bastards that no one wanted to hang out with.  Sometimes with one side of their brain being open to such creativity, their social side was crap.  Michelangelo was not a really fun person to hang out with.  But out of his differentness, came amazing beauty.  Look at Van Gogh.  That man was a tortured, mentally-ill nut case.  He died penniless, yet The Starry Night, painted from his asylum window is one of the most recognizable works."

So as we continued to talk, late into the early morning hours, my mother got to know me a bit better.  And I got to know my place in the world a bit better.

And I'm so happy.  Happy knowing that the imagination I have, the dancing in the aisles of Wegman's, the bursting laughter, the blue hair, that's all me.  I am different from the next door neighbor.  Not the same mother as the mom from karate class.  And as I work hard to raise a wonderful, scary intelligent, Tourette tickish, loving and lovable little boy, I can take pleasure that my differentness, my weirdness, my individuality is a strength.  Not a defect.

 (Side note, I am a firm believer in hate-free, freedom of speech, and public protest, but storming the alter at a church whether it be Catholic, Christian, Muslim, Jewish, or Buddhist is just wrong.  Wrong time, wrong place, wrong audience.  If you are going for shock value, you aren't going to convince your enemies that you argue is valid.  If anything, it will solidify your opponents believe that you are a total douche bag.)


Monday, July 8, 2013

More of Chapter 1

Within moments Bod had consumed the plate piled high eggs and tomatoes.  As he turned his attention to the bangers and mash, a small burp escaped from his lips. 

A pig-tailed toddler across the car giggled.  The child's mother tried to shush her all the while proclaiming with a loud, self-righteous scold that, "Some people are born with manners and others aren't."

Blissfully unaware of the sneering woman, Bod returned to the food table and served himself another steaming bowl of porridge.  He drowned the hot mash in heavy cream and sugar.  The taste was so sweet and satisfying he felt like a little child sneaking cookies from the cupboard before dinner. 

A young woman wearing an apron with a matching cap stopped by his table.  "Good morning, young Master.  Are you enjoying all your breakfast?"

When Bod looked up, the wind was knocked out of his lungs.  The girl, this girl, was it Liza Hempstock?  Where those the same dancing grey eyes that bewitched him?  Had she followed him out of the graveyard?  Surely she wasn't bound to the graveyard as she wasn't buried on consecrated ground, but how did she get so far?  And how could he see her so well, for at the height of his Freedom of the Graveyard, his ability to see her clearly was like seeing a gray cat walking in the shadows of early night.

"Liza?  How did you find me?"

"No, I'm sorry.  My name is Melody.  I work the morning shifts on the food car to London, but I think there is a girl named Lilly that works the evening shifts.  Is that who you are looking for?"

A lump formed in Bod's throat and he swallowed hard.
"No.
Sorry.
No.
You looked like a friend of mine.  I was just so surprised, so excited," Bod trailed off, unsure of how to explain that moments before he had mistake this girl for the gray-eyed witch.

Melody smiled.  "Is there anything I can get you?  You seem to have eaten your fill but would you like a glass of juice, coffee or a cuppa tea?"

"Oh yes, that would be marvelous!"

"Alright, so which would you like?"

"All of them."  And then seeing the puzzled look on the girl's face, Bod wondered if he made a mistake.  "Uhhhhh, if that's allowed."

"That's quite alright.  I shouldn't be staring.  You are welcome to anything you'd like.  I've just never heard of anyone wanting all three drinks at once," she chuckled.

"Well, I've never seen so many different food and smelled so many odors.  And they're all good.  Except that stuff labeled haggis.  Looks a fright.  But I keep smelling something pointy and I must have it.  Can you bring me the pointy thing?"

"I'm not sure what Young Master wants, but I will bring the drinks round."

"Please, don't call me Master." Remembering the Sleer had told him to find his name, he said proudly, "I'm Nobody.  Nobody Owens.  Bod for short." 

"Okay, Mister Nobody Owens, I'll see if we can find this pointy thing for you."

With a wink and a turn on her heel Melody strode away from the table.  

Sunday, July 7, 2013

Bod's Travels Chapter 1: Pointy*

Not too long ago, the boy named Bod packed his bag and left the graveyard.  With money in his pocket, a passport in his hand, the boy called Nobody Owens boarded a train and traveled far into the night. 

The train rumbled across a weathered trestle, down through valleys, and as sun peeped through the widow curtains Bod awoke with a start.  He was hungry.  This was the first morning Bod had ever spent away from the graveyard.  Years of the cool comfort, the dampness, the wizened inhabitants, the old that was the graveyard.

Silas had always provided food for Bod but it had always been packaged food, items with a long shelf life, mechanically wrapped away from the elements.  When Miss Lupescu visited she brought food that she had cooked, but the smell was never pleasant and the taste was even worse.  Foods she called borscht, tripe, and sauerkraut.

But no.  These smells were different from what Bod had ever experienced in his 18 years in the graveyard.  It smelled sharp and pointy.

Can smells be pointy? Bod wondered. 

Eager for an answer, the boy pushed open the door to his sleeper car and stepped into the hallways.  He stumbled a bit for he had yet to adjust to the rhythm and sway of the train.  The sensation of having the ground under your feet fly by as you stood still was new and curious.  Bod wondered how long it would take from him to get the hang of this.

He push forward, shoving aside the accordion door and walked into the adjoining car.  A table ran the length of the wall of the car, piled high with foods he had never seen. Had it not been for the small signs in front of each item, he would have never know what to call these things.

Scrambled eggs. Grilled tomatoes and fried mushrooms. French toast. Bangers and mash, beans and oatcakes. Porridge. Hog's pudding and haggis.

The last item Bod stayed clear of.  He wasn't sure what haggis but it look suspiciously like the black sausage Miss Lupescu had tricked him into eating one time.  When she finally admitted to Bod that it was a sausage made with jellied animals blood, the boy had gotten thoroughly sick.  It wasn't so much the taste that had made Odd gag, but the idea that he had chewed up jellied animal blood.

When one plate was piled high with eggs, tomatoes, and mushrooms the boy grabbed a second plate.  Unaware of the curious stares Bod grabbed half a dozen bangers and enough mash to serve a small family.  

What is that pointy thing I keep smelling, Bod wondered.  He looked about the cart but couldn't locate the source.  Disappointed that he was missing something Bod plunked down in a booth and began his feast. 

Smacking his lips, eating fast as if afraid someone would steal the plate away,Bod couldn't help but make little noises of delight with each bite.

Ummm.
Wow.
Yum.
Brilliant.

But as he ate, there was one thing that bothered him.  What was the pointy thing and where could he get it?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 My apologies to Neil Gaiman.  He wrote a wonderful story "The Graveyard Book" which Jeremiah and I listened to in the car at least 6 or 7 times.

As Jeremiah is away for the month, I promised him that I would write little stories for him to read each night.  I decided that the story of Bod's journey outside of the graveyard needs to be told. 

So while it cannot compare to the writing of the fantastic Mr. Gaiman, I hope that I picked up some of his voice.

And thank you to Jenny Lawson who introduced me to him.

Monday, June 24, 2013

Humbled

My phone has been crashing a lot, due to the fact that there is little to none internal storage and I don't feel like hacking the internal memory space to flip files over to the external storage as my phone JUST NOW started reciving and sending picture messages. I'm certain one thing has nothing to do with the other, but it'd be just my luck.

So in order to free up memory space, I un-synced one of my email accounts.  It's usually just filled up with spam so I look at it infrequently.

Nicholas_T via FlickrAnd I noticed today that 6 days ago a wonderful person dropped $100 in my PayPal account. 

And I feel LIKE THE BIGGEST ASSHOLE AROUND!

I've chatted with her, bitched about my life, and not once did she say, "Uhhhhh, why don't you STFU?"

For this I'm so sorry.  And humbled.  And touched. 

I am so grateful and blessed to have people in my life who help me out when things look bleak to me.


Sunday, June 23, 2013

5 Minutes

One friend I made through Band Back Together is Jana.  She lost her son her Charlie on the 24th day of his life, due to Late Onset Group B Strep.  Her story is heartbreaking and powerful.  She is a wonderful woman with strength I wish I had.

Each Sunday she poses a challenge to herself and others to free write for 5 minutes straight.  No filter, just whatever happens as your fingers dance across the keyboard.

I realized today, after the enormity of some news I've gotten, that I need to write through this confusion and pain every day.  Even if it is only five minutes.

Off to set the kitchen timer.

300 Seconds Inside My Brain
I think the bbq I ate for lunch was bad.  My stomach is rolling.

Maybe it's because of the news Jeremiah's shrink gave me the other day.  My son has Tourette Syndrome and GAD aka Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

WTF.

I'm still reelling. I knew things weren't going right back in November, so I started getting help for him.  I knew in the back of my head that he had issues, but when the doctor said these out loud it made it all the more real.

If one person asks me if my son curses uncontrollably i will PUNCH THEM IN THEIR STUPID FACE.

Will I get jail time for that?

I can't think straight.  I'm going a little crazy today.  Yesterday was terrible for him.  He stayed with a friend who was also watching two other kids.  They were girls.  Horrible, obnoxious, brats from the outer rings of Hell.  I think they could annoy Satan.

He was great while he was there, but the moment he got home, all hell broke loose for him.  All the pent up rage and frustration boiled over.  He punched his dummy.  He laid down on the bed and kicked.  Screamed into his pillow.  Threaten to punch himself in the head.

Friday, May 24, 2013

Today. It Sucked.

     "I see you like to color coordinate.  Does the carpet match the drapes?"


   "I like when women say whatever they want.  I might be married but I enjoy 'interesting" conversations."

  "Caroline, LinkedIn thinks you should connect with X (your rapist).

The P in PTSD is post.  As in after.  There is no time limit to how far removed this post situation might be.  It could be 14 years later when a deep-seated fear and hatred is triggered.

You don't expect an inappropriate remark to detonate a well of emotions that leaves you silently crying for 2 hours while you drive up and down I-95, while your child plays Angry Birds, fortunately unaware of the crazy train sitting in the driver's seat.

I don't put much effort into my looks.  Besides coloring my hair blue (which I realized today is nothing but an attempted security blanket), I don't style it very often.  I rarely wear make-up.  Now that the weather is warmer, I'm wearing long, flowy skirts that aren't all that flattering, but I feel comfortable in.

I don't set out with the intent on appearing like I'm sex on a stick.  I don't bathe in milk and honey.  I don't roll in pheromones.  At this point I would be a better spokesperson for The Cheesecake Factory than Abercrombie & Fitch.

Yet, I wind up in situations where complete strangers say the most inappropriate things to me.  And it terrifies me.  It makes me so angry and sad.  Like the only thing this person sees before them is a sexual object.

Once, I was nothing but a sexual object for someone, for 5 miserable months.  "You're incapable of having an intelligent conversation with me, but your body makes up for it."

I've admitted previously that I struggle with self-harm.  One of the reasons why self-harming is such a struggle for me to stop is because I secretly believe that the cuts, welts, and scars will be such a turn-off that if a person is really interested in me, it will be because of my sense of humor, my intelligence, or my inability to laugh silently.

For the love of God, I don't want strangers to assume that I'm comfortable with sexual innuendo because my bra cup overfloweth.

I'm so scared and so low right now that if acid were splashed in my face right now I'd probably be happy.  I feel like I'm 18 all over again, trying to believe that I am more than a hole for someone to fuck.  

I'm trying to tell myself that I'm not a bad person, that I wasn't asking for it then as much as I wasn't asking for it today.  And it's really hard to listen to it.

I can't get a hold of my therapist, so writing it out will have to do.  I haven't hurt myself in the last 2 hours, yea, so there's a win I suppose.

It's gotta be better tomorrow.  Or at least I'll fake it.  My little karate kid is going to test for his yellow belt and mommy's anxieties don't need to overshadow his big day. 

Thursday, May 2, 2013

Socks

The other day I had the following conversation with my mom :

"I saw someone at the store yesterday and when I described her to your father and siblings, everyone had the same reaction.
This woman was wearing a tiara, black and red striped knee socks, and lime green sneakers.
Everyone asked, 'Is Caroline in town?"

"No Mom, I wasn't in town, but I am wearing pink and green knee socks."

Ahhh, it's good to be me. 

Tuesday, January 1, 2013

Happy New Year -- A Year in Pictures

I've come so far during this past year, made so many changes in 2012, that I feel like a new(er) woman.


And looking back on the past 365 days I:
    Packed up my son, sold 93% of my belongings, and moved to VA for a job
Confronted some old demons and finally got the last word
Was able to bring to light my shameful struggles


Said good bye to old friends, made room for the new
Celebrated marriages





Mourned deaths

Held new life
Started "Once Upon A Southern Fairy Tale" to be published this year
Passed on my love of graveyards
And made the most kick ass costume

Rediscovered an old love, that time apart didn't diminish things
     I changed the dynamics within the my relationship with my parents, took better control of my anxieties, and braved through some rotten days.

2012, it was nice knowing ya.  2013 bring it on!