Flashing

Flashing? Not like showing my naked body. More like showing you my naked mind. Also as in "flashback" I guess, but I'm not even sure. I just know it happened..... like this.....

He was petting the dog on my lap and his hand brushed my breast. I became upset, compounded, because it's stupid to get upset over my husband's hand brusing over my breast. Upset as I was, I went to my room to relax. I cried instead, and he didn't know so he went out to the garage to do man stuff. My brain kept saying "He touched me, then left. He touched me, then left." I argued with the intense feelings of molestation followed by abandonment, but feelings sometimes cannot be argued with. My mouth began to scream. Up from my chest came the sounds, animal-like, expressing the sadness and fear and confusion. As much as I tried to argue with those fucking feelings, they kept on coming and the argument only added additional confusion. In the middle of being lost in time and space and emotion and logic I saw clearly that what happened back then stripped me of a normal sexuality, stripped me of a normal marriage, stripped me of a normal emotional life. Sadness and fear and confusion multiplied. One part of my brain understood what was happening and another part was screaming from being raped and another part was kicking the shit out myself mentally for not getting a grip and another part was grieving for paradise lost. Lost. I got lost in the screams. I needed to pee and I was terrified of getting up out of my bed in my own fucking home to go pee because I wasn't sure I was in my home. My brain told me I was safe. It also explained that indeed I was touched without permission by a man who was supposed to love me and then that man left. That happened. When I was little and today. No amount of argument could stop the screaming and no amount of argument could get my entire self to understand that it was seriously no big deal today, not like it was a big fucking deal when I was little. I couldn't separate the two, not totally, like the two experiences shared neural pathways, crossed wires, black on red when it's supposed to be black on black and red on red and BOOM! the brain explodes in firey fucked up-ness.

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.