Wreckage (Trigger Warning)

Tonught’s Trigger Warning is not necessarily PTSD related, at least I don’t know for sure if it is yet but I do know that the emotions I am about to describe can trigger the same sort of tiredness when I read about them.

My wheelchair is so dead it doesn’t even power on enough to turn on the lights. I can get the battery meter to tell me it has a full charge and then nothing. The chair is in free wheel mode so it won’t roll but the lights come on. I feel as fried as the circuits in the chair. I have to jump through a million hoops to get what I need and now the one way I had to jump them all is not working.

I cannot get to the doctor’s office without my chair. The policies in my area state explitictly that a caregiver may not attend appointments with a patient. Therefore no manual chair. A transport person may not push a wheelchair. Therefore no transport. I cannot get to the door or the vehicle then to the office anyway. It’s out of reach. It is time for my annual gynecological visit, I am due for another visit to the pain specialist, I was so close to getting therapy. I had hope. Why did I hope? I have to be evaluated by a physical therapist and no one can come to me because they don’t take my insurance. Apparently no one in the entire state takes this insurance for glasses, dentistry or physical therapy. I can’t even find one I could maybe go see.

I feel broken. I feel trapped. I feel cornered.

My lovely home, which it is lovely. I have been putting up my art, and without William there isn’t a certain minimal level of destruction. Today Jo and I got everything DONE. My chair is sitting there, and I feel mocked. The blue and black seat cover with the flames seems silly today. It also looks strange as I expect the sunshade but we removed that for transport. I know this is part of my autism but spacially it is a constant shock that it is gone and I cannot put it up or get the words to formulate into sounds correctly to have someone else do it.

I feel caged. I have spent the day trying to bat that emotion aside while calling doctor’s and begging them to not charge me for rescheduling, not drop me off of their patients lists again, and also to please oh please give me my meds. I want to go to the doctor for my hand, since I caught a lamp today as it fell towards my head and everything dislocated. It feels WRONG and I can’t fix it and neither can sprite. My pointer finger is bending the wrong direction when I use it so I am trying to not use it. It’s also the only finger that I use for 90% of my daily activities because the others aren’t strong enough.

I am trying to use the mental technique that has helped me to not kill myself these last few months but, today I looked at a picture of myself that was taken the day I got married. My hair is so bright, not dulled by hunger. Starvation makes your hair lose it’s sheen, color, and texture. My eyes are bright. My face is rounder, and I can see obvious signs of sick. I looked at the stills of my videos made when I had just escaped. I could see the black eye hidden under make up from the falling. My skin looked so lumpy. Neither matches the me today.

I am different. There is a softness missing in my face. My eyes are not kind. They are not cruel but instead there is something there when I look into them that makes me wonder. What is that? Is that the stripped raw aspect of my soul? Is that the pain? Is that the strength that is all I have left of the who I was and is the seed of the who I am/will be? Is it a fracture in my soul? Is it healing? What is this look I have. It is foreign to me and this is MY face.

My legs are starting to lose a bit of tone. I discovered I walk a lot less with a broken chair. I know my endurance is limited, and I choose a spot and stay as long as I can, as still as i can. I can’t tell you or myself even when the twitching is damaged nerves, ADHD, Boredom, or just stiff. I know I should move but moving is dangerous and if I get tired can I go pee when I need to? I haven’t wet myself in 9 months, and I haven’t admitted it to ANYONE before this. I don’t want to do that again. I can’t breathe when I think of sitting in my own filfth. My body is as healed as it is going to get. The pain in my right arm is never going away. It’s a sharp pain, that is way worse right now. Something snapped when I was surviving.

The pain in my back will only get worse. My feet will hurt more and more. I want to move. I also do not want to fall. I am tired of being bruised, battered and tired. That hope I carried with me from Saturday has run down to normal, a bit lower because I cannot help but feel trapped. I may not go out all that often but, having no choice but to stay inside? It’s madness. It feels like HE found me. FatherHusbandBrotherMonster. FHBM is not welcome here but the shadows are there. I want out. I feel like screaming.

I am trying to not be angry at my mother. The goal is forgiveness or at least not raging every time I think of her. Not wanting to cry every time we talk. So far this is good but I am still angry at her. She admitted finally that she has known all along I am Autistic and BLOCKED a Diagnosis. She gave an excuse I know is valid for once. Usually she just says “So you didn’t let this idea of limitation go to your head.” Limitation. I was tortured into function. LIMITATION?!

If I had been diagnosed at the age of 5… FIVE YEARS OLD AND SHE KNEW… my father would likely have killed me. Or tried. Like he did over anything else like breathing. What about after she left him? What about all the others? One valid excuse does not erase the damage.

The more I learn, all on my own without her support the angrier I feel. I am crying because I don’t want to be angry or feel like a caged animal. I want to rn free. I want to dance. I want to feel the sun on my skin. I want to plant flowers in my yard and strawberries. I want to make sure my rose bush and tree are watered. I want OUT. I COULD GET OUT IF I HAD KNOWN. I could have gotten away from FHBM if I had had some inkling of what my limitations were mentally and physically. I could have had HELP. Instead a lack of diagnosis and the other actual Diagnosises prevented me from getting out.

The more trapped I feel, the less I want to feel. I can feel it. The yellow brush on my skin. It was a hard plastic, made for scrubbing dishes. It wasn’t anyone in my family hurting me then, but, it was instead the occupational therapist at the school. If I wanted to make jewelry for my fine motor therapy I had to let her brush the skin on me with this thing until I was raw. Not just felt it, I felt that whenever she brought it out. My skin would actually be raw. She then tried to get my mother to do this at home.

I feel a spell of calm focusing on this memory. It was the first time I felt my mother being strong.

The OT showed her what to do and I screamed, as it HURT. The Autism, the Ehlers-Danlos, the fact that I am not a dish? IT HURT. I had said so so often I tried to be quiet but it still hurt. My mother looked angry and I thought I was being bad. I tried harder. The OT slapped the back of my head and said “Stop making a fuss, it doesn’t hurt.”

My mother, her eyes changed. They held this thing mine do now. It was just for a moment for her, mine, it won’t go away. Maybe it is good? She took the brush and grabbed the woman’s arm and ground it into her skin and scrubbed her. “Ow! Hey that hurts! What are you doing?” My mom smiled, and dropped the brush. I remember the bright yellow. I hated it. The yellow was too bright. It should only be that bright on daffodils. It hit the floor with a clunk. The uneven wooden floor. “Well, don’t tell her it doesn’t hurt.”

I went and started to make the earrings. I liked it, it was fun. Plus I got to use ANY beads I wanted. My mother may have told me to go do something or the teacher? Things get fuzzy because of the colors. Or the colors get brighter and forget to be objects because of the fuzzy? That happens a lot when I am upset, things are not things but a swirl of colors. I have to focus for things to be things and not colors every time I want to see now. Sprite is never a thing. I am never a thing. Sometimes people are but the important ones still are people not color drops in my paint bucket. I can paint you because I see how the colors make you.

Vague words made it through my color swirl, and the practice of bead on the needle, no poke the finger, pull it down, go up on the string, soft silk nice silk bead on the needle. “If I ever catch you doing that again…” no poke the finger… no poke the finger. Poked the finger. Black is nice. Bead on the needle, “It’s a common practice, she’s too sensitive.” Poked the finger. Hey bead on the needle looks like blood on the finger. Lick the blood. Not salty. Is blood supposed to be salty? Do vampires like peanuts? Pretty red. “Her skin is raw. She’s upset. I said no. That’s the end of it. If you do this again I will have you fired.” Oh, tie it on to the earpokey thing. Make another. Make them match or it’s the brush.

I don’t know the rest. I had to make them match and it was hard. I never wanted to make them the same. I wanted to feel all the colors and I wanted to keep going forever. Beading, twisting, creating. I have felt ashamed of how I think. If I am not thinking in colors, I am thinking in fragment words. Not fragmented, fragment. Everything I write, or say is built out of fragment words. These words float around and I think them with no actual need often. Then they start to string together. I write fast, I am known as a quick wit, but I keep hanks of fragment words around. (A hank is what a string of beads that has not been turned into jewelry is called, or a group of said strings)

My colors and fragment words usually can come out right but sometimes I can’t make real words. So I describe things as best I can and always feel exposed. It has happened a few times, I can usually pass for normal anyway but I am done with that. This is why I outed myself as an Autistic to the public speaking world. The fragment words are all my words. They aren’t yours. You may not understand mine. That’s why I have no issue with creating new terms. Mansel in Distress, damned man in distress, damsel in distress, damsel sounds so bad and men are bad… the fragments come together and form meaning.

This is also why I babble, as many Auties are wont to do. The fragments won’t stop stringing, and it’s hard to know where to stop.


Leave a comment

No comments yet.

Comments RSS TrackBack Identifier URI

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

  • Polls

  • Ye Olde Archives of Fury

  • Top Rated

  • Top Clicks

    • None