Christmas Fire

I am cozy in my bed, Christmas lights twinkling, music....tears. They are neither tears of sadness nor are they tears of joy. These are tears of fire.

When someone has a "fire in their eyes" they are passionate about something - feelings are deep and strong and connected to their thoughts and beliefs so that they result in a visible soul as seen through the eyes. I am reminded of a story I heard, Hindu, maybe? A god was lonely, so she took the one large flame that was her soul and scattered it into many little fires on earth, which became living beings. I love that story.

My tears of fire are about life. I know that sometimes my feelings of deep emptiness and the beliefs that ride their shirttails subside into strong feelings of joy and appreciation and connection to the people I love. Those feelings of joy likewise subside and I am left empty. It is because of the emptiness that I recognize the joy. It is because of the joy that I recognize the emptiness. Without each, I might not know. Today I have a rare moment of both emptiness and joy - and I believe this is the fullness of life I am feeling. It's as if some kernel of fire deep within remembers the fullness of being one flame, and the emptiness of being only one.

This Christmas will be full of joy and empty. I can tell. There is a stronger than ever undercurrent of love in my family that resulted from the death of my nephew. It's as if the extinguishing of a flame has caused us to burn more intensely. Is fire like that? As we open presents, eat, and laugh together we will be so connected to each other, feeling the life we have so joyfully, life and love burning more intensely because we so recently felt the sorrow of death.

We've all lost fathers and mothers, Siblings, Children. The emptiness of loss and the sorrow in our tears can be remembered in our fullness of this Christmas celebration and the Joy we have. Our laughter and our love doesn't negate the sorrow or cheapen it. Our joy makes it possible to feel the emptiness and sorrow just as our sorrow makes it possible to feel the joy.

I miss you, nephew and dad.

Who do you miss?

A White Lady, Ferguson, and Trauma

Wendi asked me what I thought of Ferguson. Well, she asked what my black friend thought of Ferguson.....but I'd rather he tell her what he thinks.....Once a person listens, even if they listen carefully, I'm afraid their own perspective colors the message. Since I'm white, I suppose my perspective would fuck up his message a lot.

So I told her what I thought. 

I started by telling her a phrase I learned from an Anishinaabe woman who was trying to help me be a better teacher - 'historical trauma.' She explained that the Anishanaabeg and other First Nations had been through a historical trauma, which hasn't yet healed. I thought of Black Americans, who also have experienced historical trauma and to this day face institutional racism. We haven't healed as a nation. I thought of my own trauma. 

I have, in the past, hit Luke. There have been times we fought, perhaps he pushed my buttons, and Prowler raged. Perhaps Luke came into my room without permission, perhaps he banged his fist on the table, perhaps he walked out of the house in anger - all things that will terrify me if I am emotionally vulnerable or tired or worse - both. I am flooded with shame about these incidences - I believe violence is abuse and I have abused him. I have wondered if ever he thought of calling the police. I would be arrested, charged with domestic abuse. It would be justified. Part of why I work so hard to get better - to heal - to learn to cope with rage and pain and terror - is so that I don't hurt him. I have learned that part of this healing involves accepting that I have raged, why I rage. Part of this healing has been Luke understanding dissociation, understanding why I rage in dissociation, what my buttons are, and how to support me when I need him. He has swallowed his anger many times, has walked away from my verbal abuse instead of getting sucked in, has accepted and loved and listened so that I no longer hit. I have learned other coping skills, I have felt the pain of my trauma in bits and pieces as I am able, My parts and even Prowler have recognized, even in the midst of rageful feelings, that Luke is not a threat despite the fact I feel deeply threatened. I could not have healed without him. I also don't shame myself as much for the rage. I understand it exists for a reason. My feelings are valid. It is only counter-productive to desconstruct these rageful events detail by detail to determine if the intense rage is justified or if Luke's anger is justified or 'who is at fault.' Now I understand that my rage is justified, even if to the outside world it might seem ridiculous for a married woman to rage at her husband for entering her room without permission. You see, I'm not really raging at Luke, I'm raging at the violation of our mutually agreed upon boundary - the rageful feelings an echo of the past violations to my body imposed by evil men. Trauma. 

Back to Ferguson. Was Michael Brown a criminal? Was Officer Wilson a racist? Was Officer Wilson justified in shooting Brown? This matters to those who love these men in a very personal way. I extend my condolences to the family of Michael Brown. As a white lady in a northern town, what also matters to me is the validity of the rage. I think it's possible that justice was served in this incident - perhaps Wilson was threatened and justified in shooting and the Grand Jury decided wisely. I also believe it's possible Wilson is guilty as hell of treating Michael Brown differently as a black youth, that justice wasn't served. I know for sure the rage of the Black American community is justified. I think, as a white lady, they rage because of the historical trauma that has been perpetuated upon their community starting with slavery and continuing with covert and overt racism right into today where in America there exists, without a doubt, institutionalized racism and white people, whether they will acknowledge it or not, have white privilege and are to varying degrees racist. 

I do not know for certain whether or not the Black American experience of rage is anything like the rage I feel. I don't know if I can accurately draw parallels between my personal trauma and the historical trauma of Black Americans. I am guessing. As a white lady, I'll not get caught up in trying to determine justice in this particular incident. I will, however, NOT judge and shame the protestors or the violence. What use in healing is that? I know that if Luke pointed out my verbal or physical abuse as evidence that I was somehow attempting to justify an inner criminal and if he didn't move on from my rages and if he didn't listen to me when I explained to him how he could possibly change his behavior to be more supportive and NOT push my buttons then I'd never have healed as much as I have. I learned to trust him, to some extent, and so now he has more leeway but there are certain things I need in order to trust him and some things I need in order to heal....Because he cares he does these things or avoids doing things whether they are 'fair' or not. I know he doesn't really understand some of it, and who can blame him? He's male and he's never experienced sexual trauma. And he's not me. So he cares and does what he can to be supportive and I do what I can to cope and heal. We have come a long. So that's what this white lady is going to try to do for her black friends, black students, and Black Americans. I will listen, I will understand what I can. I will not get in the way of protests even if they turn violent (though I don't condone violence- but I understand violence- I have sadly learned that violence serves a purpose- I have learned that there are other ways to cope- I have learned that shaming myself serves no purpose and hinders the healing). I will examine my own behaviors, my thoughts, my racism, my white privilege and  my society so that I can change what I can change as I can change it. 

Should the people of Ferguson burn down a store in protest? I suppose not, not any more than I should rage at my husband. Yet what purpose does my condemnation of their actions or condemnation of my own rage serve? Should violent protestors be arrested? Perhaps, as I should have been. (side note- I was once arrested for kicking an officer. He was in my home, trying to stop me from killing myself, and once I was handcuffed and the loaded gun taken from me I drop kicked him. I was in a rage, he was a threat. I was about to be sentenced, and an angel in the courtroom asked for a minute to interview me, I suppose because the facts of the case didn't make sense. Teacher? Suicidal? Assaulting an officer? Huh? I told her about my dissociation, my sexual trauma, my rage, the fact that the officer was trying to restrain me and I fought back ..... my sentence was stayed. The court had mercy. Was that justice?) So yeah, let our system do what it can to keep the peace. But it is high time the system recognize the institutionalized racism, the historical trauma, the validity of the rage. It is high time angels stop and listen. The burning of Ferguson is a message that needs to be heard, and though my white ears are open my white brain has trouble comprehending. I try to make up for that with a red heart - hoping to heal - because our hearts beat with Life and Life is universal and the trauma that broke my heart is a trauma upon my marriage and the trauma that breaks the heart of Black America is America's trauma and we all bleed red....whether we fully understand the wound or not. 

So those are my thoughts on Ferguson. 

The Power of Space

My room, my sauna, my body, my soul.....I strive to create boundaries and protect them, an effort to feel safe. I was angry the other night, rageful, and stood in my living room screaming at Luke for entering my room without permission - a space I hold sacred and 'permission' an attempt to create a boundary. This error of his the last in a night full of errors and exhaustion. This night the last in a month of stress related to the appearance of a family member moving in, who happens to look/act/smell like the man who defiled me as a toddler. This month the last in years of searching for safety. This rage the result.

I begged myself to stop raging. I asked why I was raging. I answered "I'm in danger, and there is no where to run to so I fight." I asked myself where the danger was. "Him." But we knew he wasn't dangerous. But my feelings told me he was. So I froze and cried and screamed.

I have progressed now, and I didn't pee my pants.

I forced myself to take a sauna last weekend and it was difficult - the family member/rapist look-alike had used that space. We tried to reason with each other inside the sauna but L.A. was terrified and no amount of reason would calm her. Our sauna, now devoid of the family member/rapist look-alike, he has moved out, can be ours once again. But since he used the sauna space I can barely make myself go into that space. This doesn't even make sense to me. I KNOW he has left. I KNOW he isn't the rapist. I KNOW I am safe....but even just saying this has caused my heart to beat faster and my head to hurt because I am not actually sure it is true though I cannot find a logical reason why it wouldn't be true.

It's like I don't have a concept of where my body ends and the physical space around me begins.....

Healing

To heal the wound I walk among the pines
Sometimes the wheat field
Each softly whispers.
When Winter comes
She weeps snow upon my cheeks,
Cold and fresh
Reminding me I am changed.

Drugs

I feel the need to trace my drug history. 

To make things clear, severe depression and dissociation, perhaps even ptsd, have existed since early childhood.

I started drinking and using marijuana around '83 in an effort to self-medicate. 

Between '85 and '92 I tried all sorts of drugs, including meth (a lot) and acid (a few times).

Around '92 I moved into a more manageable alcoholism, with the addition of an SSRI.

With increased alcohol consumption, I really broke psychologically and was, I think, periodically psychotic to the point of stopping the alcohol use in 2001. Then came an increased dose of SSRI and off and on Risperdahl.

From about 2006, maybe, I experienced possible syptoms of narcolepsy. Extreme sleepiness.....as well as trying a drug typically used for bi polar and epilepsy....depakote. I also started another anti-psychotic whose name escapes me. I took them for 6 months and then stopped as I felt psychologically and physically TERRIBLE.

From 2007 or so until 2010 or so, I was off and on with seroquel, abilify, ambien and an SSRI. I started Nuvigil for the sleepiness. In 2012 or so I started Xyrem. Since 2012 I consistently take seroquel, ambien, Nuvigil, abilify, and Xyrem. 

The psychological problems are definitely persistent from childhood and are not caused by drug use. I have developed a host of coping skills for these problems. I question how much my use of street drugs and prescribed medication interfere presently with my ability to cope with my psychological problems. In essence, do the the drugs I take now keep me sick or help me cope? Have I permanently damaged my neurological functioning with street drugs and prescribed medication? Does it matter at my age? 

Life, Death, and In-between

I am grieving the loss of my nephew - a sudden, death of a young man. I am coming out of the deep darkness of a months long depression, a time when my own hold on life was precarious, and I pause to ponder the tragedy and gift that is humanity. He and I went a few times to some NA meetings, and had meaningful conversations before and after. I don't know yet if his death is related to chemicals, but I know we shared something in our personalities that revolves around using. He is gone, and I am here, and I don't know why some people 'make it' and others simply don't. Death has nothing to do with who deserves it, as I can point to many who deserve death and live long lives.

During my own depression I spent much time debating with myself whether or not death was a viable option. Logically it seemed like a reasonable choice. One of my doctors once said to me "sometimes medicine is a good choice, especially if it lessens the chance of suicide. Suicide certainly isn't of use." I looked her straight in the eye and said "suicide is an effective means to end the suffering." And I can't argue with that even when I feel good. But death affects the living. Death rips a hole in the fabric of a family. Death leaves a circle of friends incomplete. Death is the loss of a meaningful life, no matter whose life, no matter how the meaning is formed. So I grieve my nephew and watch his mother and father weep, his siblings weep, and feel an emptiness where his presence was in our lives.

I know the meaning of my own life in some contexts - mostly in relation to others. I do not understand the meaning of my life in relation to me. I know I used every coping skill I have developed over the past 30 years of therapy and perhaps I kept myself alive, with the help of all the supports in my life, but suffered nonetheless. And suffered deeply. So deeply I stand in amazement at me - and a little sadness - because I have worked so hard to create a meaningful life and the price I pay for being who I am is almost insane. My nephew suffered, I know from our talks, and his approach was to be simple and carefree. He lived a life of unrealistic hope and optimism, never working terribly hard to overcome his 'situation' and instead just played a lot of Xbox and drank. I think in a way I envy him that, as I contrast his coping with my own - unrealistic hopelessness that propels me into constant personal growth and change. He was loved deeply by all the same people that love me deeply. I wonder if he understood the meaning of his own life, or simply accepted, or lived in denial. I knew him well, but there are some aspects of our lives that others are never privy to.

No one will ever 'get' the suffering I experience, or the relief I feel when 'it' is over and I can laugh and think and live without impediment. No one will ever understand how deeply satisfying and pleasurable it is to walk in the woods those first weeks out of the shadow of depression. Our lives are so very personal, and the meaning we construct and the way we build that meaning and the very paths we walk so unique and individual.....yet there is something we share. I know we share it when we laugh together, or exchange an eye-to-eye look, or when there is death. Sometimes what we share is most poignant in it's absence.

Good-bye, nephew. I will plant flowers around the hole you left in the fabric of my life and every now and then when I hear an AC/DC song or run into a foolishly optimistic soul, I'll visit the hole and wonder about you.

Raw

It seems to me no place is psychologically or physically safe. Anyone, anytime can say mean words that are razor blades to my heart, or leave me to cry so hard I lose touch with reality and only know being alone in terror. Anyone, anytime can rape me or kill me or cut me or touch my hand. Safety is a farce. I don't understand how people can live in this world, know this, and just set it aside while they love and play and work and create. I don't know how I have done it in the past. I don't know how I do it now - how I create a story with my words while I breathe in and out knowing I am not safe either inside or outside my flesh. I guess most people can set it aside, this terrible knowledge, because they either don't realize how much rape or complete abandonment hurts or if they do they have learned how to cope and know they will cope again. I lost myself in the aloneness of terror last night and it broke something in my soul. I'm left today with poignant memories of L.A. (myself) screaming in the darkness, knowing no one would come to help, and having no place to go and no skills to self soothe. I broke. I'm left with echoes of a conversation Prowler (myself) had with Rae (myself) and Sarah (myself) about survival. We were raging, about to be incredibly mean with our words, and Sarah begged Prowler to stop. Prowler asked if anyone knew how to survive without rage. Panicked, we tried to think of something. We reasoned  that if we weren't in physical danger, we would indeed survive without rage. But Prowler was wise and pointed out that suicide was a real possibility. So we reasoned that if we stopped the rage and went back to the aloneness and terror, eventually the body would tire and we would survive. Prowler was wise and said that any more terror and we would fragment even more. More fragmentation might be permanent or bring suicide. So we reasoned out that we could take 3 sleep aids, they were prescribed to be taken that way and although the med hangover would be difficult and uncomfortable the body would likely sleep. Prowler agreed. It worked and today I am afraid I truly already fragmented in a most horrible way - fragmentation with awareness. A number of times I have told my therapist, myself, my husband that I can NEVER go back to that alone terror place. It is psychologically dangerous. It is physically dangerous. My room is supposed to be a safe place where I can perhaps self soothe to avoid the alone terror. But no longer. It doesn't matter what the rules of the room are, rules are broken and forgotten and vague and up for interpretation and at best a false safety that can be breached by mean words and aloneness. Safety is a farce. My soul has been broken. My system, a facade of personal safety itself, has broken down so that I can see L.A. and Prowler and Sarah and Rae and ...... and I know who they are and I know what they feel and the "I" is ego - self- fragments of chemical and electrical brain function communicating across neural pathways to my destruction or salvation or simple survival. "Self" a facade, screaming in the darkness, alone and terrified, the only reality. Tell me, what is safe?

Detached (?) Observation

I don't know how to explain "crazy." I imagine it's a very individual experience, personal. I can tell you sort of what it's like. It's like every television in the world turned up to maximum volume inside your head, all with different shows and most of them horror shows. It's knowing you are in grave danger, but not knowing where the danger will come from or what kind of danger it will be - but you know in your heart there is danger and it's terrible and it's imminent. You know because you've been there before, the memory of it is just behind a cloud, and it felt exactly like now. It's a thunderstorm in your head - with lightening bolts crashing through your brain and you think you will certainly die this time but you don't, you hear the thunder and seconds later the lightening flashes again burning grey matter and it's a miracle you don't die from it, because it seems so unbearable. Crazy is emotional torture. It's grief/terror that tells your brain you will never recuperate and your soul believes it. I've heard that people can pass out from extreme physical pain. Crazy is so emotionally painful I pass out from it - dissociation. I had 3 good days recently - I only felt depressed some of the time and the rest of the day was relative contentment with maybe 2 pockets of happiness. On the evening of the third night I felt a migraine coming on - intense pressure screaming at the insides of my eyes and waves of nausea. I remember thinking that I would take a migraine any day rather than the same amount of time spent in crazy. Any time. In fact, being physically sick or hurt is laughable compared to crazy. I have felt some pain - a broken arm, surgery, migraines, child birth... the child birth was pretty painful and minimally comparable to crazy. Imagine painful child birth for months. That's what crazy feels like emotionally. I seriously don't know how I can take it, except that I know I actually can't hence the dissociation. What really fucks with me is that sometimes I'm in crazy and I KNOW the feelings are not based in reality. Sometimes I can literally scream at myself above the noise and my soul hears me and simultaneously I know I am in danger and I know I am safe. No amount of screaming at myself when I'm in crazy can turn down the television noise, end the thunderstorm, or birth the child. I am terrified of my own crazy, and I have explained it here in sensory terms. Crazy is partially sensory, but it is more how you would FEEL if these things were actually happening to you and you knew it. It doesn't physically feel like millions of televisions screaming in your head, crazy emotionally feels how you might feel if you had millions of televisions screaming in your head. Wouldn't you be scared? Confused? Disoriented? Imagine how you would emotionally feel if suddenly there was a thunderstorm in your brain, and you could hear and see the lightening blast your grey matter. How would you feel? Terrified? That's how crazy feels - like the most horrible, terrifying event you can imagine is actually happening, but you know it isn't, but your soul believes it is and your body and brain respond electrically and chemically to that knowledge and you FEEL like you would if it WAS happening because you BELIEVE it is, while KNOWING it isn't. And there's no way to stop it. And it lasts for months so that you forget you were ever happy. You forget how good spaghetti is. You forget how to sing along to the radio. You get so lost in crazy, you tell yourself to feel the warmth of the sun on your face because you know you love the feel of the sun on your face but you can't enjoy anything because the terror/grief is so awesome it eclipses every bit of possibility of actually feeling the sun on your face let alone enjoying it. I challenge you to try to enjoy the sun on your face the next time you have a million screaming horror shows playing in your mind at top volume and lightening scorching your brain.

Eating My Way to the Bottom

Imagine a huge ice cream sundae. Perhaps, if you know the ice cream parlor Bridgeman's, you know of the Lalapalooza Sundae. It's huge and I ate one once. I forget how many scoops of ice cream, but it doesn't even matter because once you are full and driven to continue eating you just simply eat. When I was eating my way to the bottom of that sundae, I lost my sense of taste. I lost my sense of fullness. I just ate because I wanted to be done. It's such a stupid thing to do, yet there are food challenges all over the nation and television shows and obesity. Just because something is stupid and meaningless doesn't mean it doesn't happen.

Depression has no bottom. Just as I think I see the bottom, assume there are only a few painful bites left, the depression expands as if it is eating me and my life and not the other way around. A profound experience unfolds as depression eats my soul; I find my soul is infinite. I'm not about to launch into a philosophical/spiritual discussion of the eternity of the soul. Fuck that. Whether or not I turn to dust, get reincarnated, or enter the pearly gates I find that while alive, life is eternal. As such, depression knows no bounds and the eternity of being eaten alive by this deadly psychological phenomenon is profound. I can only take so much and not take my own life.

But I don't. Instead, I stand on the edge of the bottom looking down farther while I fall until with breathtaking precision my body shuts out the pain and the drive to survive makes me take a few more bites. Empty, stupid, meaningless eating of life in a banquet that has no end. I long, desperately, for an end. I need an end.

Just one more thought. Insanity is sometimes defined as "doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results." I feel like each breath I take is just that - an exercise in insanity. Perhaps all of humanity is insane as we inhale, over and over, with the fullness of expectation only to exhale and there is emptiness. I don't know if this thought is dark or if it is beautiful.

Middle of the day, exhaustion sweeps over me, nap time. Close my eyes, think and feel at the same time, tears. I realized I am in the midst of a great depression, trying to wait it out like a swimmer in a riptide might tread water as they get sucked out to sea. I quit swimming for shore. I'd like to quit treading water but I can float in a salt free lake for as of yet undetermined amount of time so even if I quit randomly moving my legs and arms I'd still be breathing. The ocean is buoyant.

Perhaps I'll realize someday I'm sinking, just like today I realized I'm depressed. Perhaps someday I'll suck in some air and find my lungs filled with stinging sea water. I know what will happen, people don't just drown. They fight. They kick and they flail and they get themselves to the surface with every last ounce of energy they can possibly summon. I am a natural swimmer, and I can seriously float. Once, in South Carolina, I went out to the hotel pool and floated. Wendy came out to have a smoke and thought I had drowned, until she saw me breathing. She watched until she got bored, and I floated until I got bored. I think I fell asleep. Sinking isn't an option.

The thought is depressing.

I suppose this is why I drank. I still don't understand why I'm not drinking now. Alcohol is a nice lead weight tied to my soul and it would pull me down, down, down and I have no desire to use it. Buoyancy. Big, pint size screwdrivers, half vodka and half orange juice used to go down so easy. Right now, the thought of one is appealing but I lack the energy and the motivation to go get the damn vodka. It all sounds rather acidic, as well, and I think I would substitute 7-up for the orange juice. *body involuntarily remembers puking vodka screwdrivers*

I have a house full of pills, a garage full of guns, all locked up. Buoyancy.
I have friends and family to call, to hold me, to tell me they love me. Buoyancy.
I have doctors - a psychologist, a psychiatrist, a pulmonologist, a gp, a cardiologist - all of whom will do their utmost to better my health. Buoyancy.
I have a job I love to go back to, if only to burn out on and leave, but there it sits and waits. Buoyancy.
I have chihuahuas. Buoyancy.
I have a retirement plan, insurance, a savings, an IRA, a stellar credit score. Buoyancy.

I can't sink and all I want to do is sink because I am so tired of treading water. But even when I stop treading I float. It literally hurts my heart to breathe .... physically because my heart hurts and emotionally because my heart hurts. Yet breathe I do, and another, and another. Buoyancy. This is, no doubt and all irony, Hell.

Wild Child

It began with a trail in the woods. I walked the trail, exploring it, and chasing nothing but looking all the same. It became a labyrinth, and the trail became trails, and I walked them and groomed them until they were tame. Still, I found nothing and looked harder. I branched off into the woods, followed the white pine, and made a nest in the undergrowth. I caught a glimpse of that something I was not looking for, a Wild Child, who sensed me and ran deeper in. I'll branch off again, I suppose, and call her over. I'll build her a fort and knit her a doll. I'll make tea. Tea? To what end, this tea party with dolls in the wood? Wild Child perhaps ought not be tamed, cannot be tamed. Gregarious human nature with social rules and niceties, all to make safe the contact we require, has not been required yet these 47 years by Wild Child. Desired, maybe, not required, for she still runs barefoot in the woods and looks for nothing, having all she needs in wind, earth and rain.

What place have I in society?
What place has L.A.?

Once I saw God's Face

Experiencing suffering that pushes humanity beyond its reasonable limits awakens the soul to reality. When humans experience this reality it's like seeing the face of God. No one really returns once they see the face of God. I know I didn't.  But I live, and because I live I have the opportunity (perhaps the responsibility) to know God. After all, I saw His face. He is a snowflake today, and the fur of my dog, and the kindnes of my husband when he brings me coffee. He is also the salt of my tears and the tremble in my hand. It is my right and it is my responsibility.... and it is my joy as well as my sadness to know Him in these things.

Angry Compassion

"Pain accompanies compassion" I said, and the sentence bounced around in my skull while a hot flash of anger surged through my body literally making my cheeks burn red. I needed to decelerate, but the concepts keep echoing so I also need to explore them.

I'm making a doll for L.A. It's an attempt at connecting with her and showing her some kindness. It's a compassionate act. It's not empathy, because I don't think I can handle feeling her pain. So how is compassion different from empathy? Empathy is feeling the suffering of others, and compassion is the active relative of empathy - it seeks to alleviate the suffering of others in a loving way. Ouch.

Compassion rises out of some very real and primal feelings. I have lacked compassion for myself, and in fact have startled myself on occasion with my callous disregard for my pain. For example, when watching a woman on tv fight off a would-be rapist, I felt disdain for her, thinking "why fuss so much? It's not like he's gonna kill you, it's just sex." Once (or many times) when feeling sad or frustrated because I am too tired to go out, I become outraged with myself for not having the strength to get beyond my petty issues like being forced to eat dog shit after swallowing cum as a toddler. Seriously. That's a distinct lack of compassion. And now suddenly I am faced with the possibility of having compassion upon myself and in fact cognitively recognize the importance of having compassion upon myself and I am outraged....I think because in order to feel the compassion and work to alleviate my own suffering I have to acknowledge the suffering and perhaps even feel it a little. Ouch.

But kicking myself in the ass and telling myself to get the fuck over it is simply ineffective.

Punishing myself for feeling is also ineffective.

Immersing myself in the pain in a muddled empathetic/pity laden decomposition of stability is also ineffective.

Compassion serves to alleviate suffering, and so there is an acknowledgement of suffering and thus I feel pain. The pain is so intense and so deep I ground myself with rage. I suppose this cycle will someday be ineffective, but for now it is the reality I have. My cheeks were burning in anger because I cannot yet feel the pain.