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.

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.

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 die.  The 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

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. 

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!)