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.

Do you even pay attention? (Trigger Warning)

Kowalski from Here There Be Dragons sent this link via Facebook. The link is horrible. It’s bad. It’s extremely triggering. Here it is. http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=343012788940&ref=nf I will let you find out the title there if you can handle such hate. It’s a hate group against Children with Downsyndrome. The title specifies this. They are called monsters. I ran into an old friend this weekend who happens to have Downs. She was my wake up call to the reality of the disabled.

J had a job, she can out work me now actually. We worked together for a while. She turned out to have the best sense of humor. She also was prideful, beautiful, and enchanting. I do not honestly remember everyone I know’s name. Names are rarely important. I remember her. I enjoyed talking with her. She was not a monster.

I am asking for everyone to report this. I did so on my facebook page and to my horror people turned around and … joined. So now I am posting here. Do they even pay attention to what this means? What if someone with Downs comes across that page? Adult or child it does not matter. The hate there is damaging to ME and I do not happen to have that particular condition. Just knowing it is there, festering away. I feel ill.

Updates time!

Soon I will be updating my links, because boy do I have a ton of those…

For now I want to point you to the Music page! Click on About, then Music. You can click on the sub pages from there. Right now the Coffin Song is the only song updated but I am working on transcribing the lyrics for the others. I do not plan for all my songs to be so sad, but, that song is a piece of advocacy wrapped in a shroud.

Stranded (Also International Women’s Day)

Today I was stranded. I knew it would happen eventually, when the expensive repairs I still had to pay for did nothing with my chair’s working. I absolutely knew someday I would be stranded in my chair. I had plans in place in case this happened and every single one fell through. It was frightening. I was alone in this swirling mass of people. I knew I shouldn’t go out too but I felt pulled and it was WONDERFUL, up until my wheelchair stopped moving permanently… in a street with cars moving zip zip zip. I grabbed a man’s arm, and asked him to help me, explaining the chair was dead. He asked if I had a way home after we worked as a team to get me out of the street. His daughter called him Superman. He really was to me. I am still having images of pancakes shaped like me dancing in my head.

I was left with no recourse but to call my Mother. Mom maybe, today she was a mom. I saw that she is changing. Just as I am returning to who I am at my best. This day was full of sparks of potential. It all started when I woke up with energy for the first time in what feels like my entire life. I wanted to go out but it was too cold, so I fiddled online. I almost wrote something about that tug to go do, then checked the temperature. Twenty degrees warmer and I was out the door. There were no hesitancies in the chair like usually come before a death, it was smooth. It was beautiful. I went to the fleamarket, which is close enough that I only have to cross the street a few times, at least a major street where cars actually are an issue. This street is big, and I always scream my way across “I am going to die I am going to die I am going to die oh gods oh gods I am going to die please don’t let me get smushed” on repeat until I hit the other side of the street and merge into the slower traffic that leads into the flea market. pedestrians and cars comingle there. This is not the fleamarket that is at our fair grounds but is a smaller one, which means it is less diverse but still fun.

I just met with a new friend, who has an interesting past and felt connected to me because I looked him in the chin (fake eye contact is a go) and treated him like a person, being that he is one. He is from Jordan, and we met when he was struggling with acceptance in this country. He sells jewelry and I have been saving for this pair of earrings he made. I can wear them with my headset on even, they are the most comfortable pair of earrings I have ever had. They are solid silver with a silver cat’s eye. He charged me the cost of making them, and held them for me for a month. All I had to do was treat him like a person consistently. I promised him I would come to the fleamarket whenever I could and would say hello. It was there at his booth that I heard two people talking about a convention in a small building not far from where we were. The entire building was full of women celebrating International Women’s Day. I couldn’t believe it. I could go! Enroute to the proper exit that would spit me out right across another street to this event I even found another booth. There I bought $500 worth of Star Trek Geek Paraphenelia for $4. That’s right. The deal of the century.

I always get good deals at the fleamarket. I look for quality, I bring a limited amount of money, and I only haggle on items that I know are worth it. I also tend to know what I am looking at. There is an antique set of glasses that I want to get but thirty dollars is a lot despite their actual value. I am saving and hoping no one else sees them for what they are. Then, I ran into a friend who moved away years ago. Her son is actually double his size, and the DVD I never returned to her? I still have it. It was amazing. I felt almost high from the warm sun (not on my skin but the AIR was warm enough I didn’t need my coat for most of my day)

I made it to the celebration. I actually attended and performed at the first celebration Albuquerque had on this day. I stood up and read a poem. I remember trying to focus on not fainting, I remember though how good it felt to be a woman. To celebrate that. The celebration has grown. The building was actually a warehouse that is the size of an entire city block, and once inside I had to pay an entry fee (the exact amount of money I had left). The women at the door asked if i was allergic to the stamp AND the ink. The stamp was a silicon base and the ink is natural dyes which for me is a better shot than chemical. I wasn’t required to get stamped but I went for it. I will wear this turtley shape for about a week. It may be a sea monster? I am not sure. I started to explore. I talked, I advocated, there was plenty of advocating to do.

I spoke with women at a Domestic Violence Awareness Booth, and helped a young woman decide to get some counceling and potentially leave her abusive boyfriend. It was accidental. It was unplanned. She felt safer talking to me than the actual people at the counter. They supported this, and I let her talk. I am possibly going to give a speech at some of the local high schools now. The key that lead to this was my obvious first hand experience and the fact that I am recovering. I admitted to her it takes a long time.

From there I went around to another booth, I was given some pretty roses, which I have one of on display. The other I sent with my mom, she loves flowers and she did rescue me. Besides, the roses were planted a year ago in honor of Women, and she IS a woman! There were a lot of booths. I am going to work with a breast cancer group and we are going to create a FREE seminar for women with disabilities, the seminar topic? How to adapt to the self exam. I also was given a great history lesson by the Census worker. She thought it was interesting I wanted to know the history as no one seems to ask that. Women did not used to be counted in the census, and in my state this is the first year SINGLE women (divorced, single moms etc) will be tallied. Last year the census estimates we were shorted by over 1 million people because of this “oversight”. I wish I could work with them more, but, no matter where you live get counted in the census. If you are low income, this will effect funding for local programs like foodstamps or even your transport system. This is a big deal.

Most of what went on swirled around me. I had brought my MP3 player, as sometimes crossing the street panics me and I need the music to calm down. So I used it as needed. I left Sprite at home, as I was only going for a few hours right? Right? (I was so wrong) I wanted to bring her but she wasn’t feeling as good as I was this morning. She’s fine now, and is clinging to me.

Advocacy I had abandoned was revived today. I did not abandon it because my passion was gone but because I could not advocate. The orphan goal did mature on it’s own. Accessible Mammography. When I needed a mammogram a year ago (I am due for another one this year oh “joy”.) I had to first fight for one based on age, then I had to find one where I would not be forced to stand, as you must stay still. It was unpleasant and at that point there was only ONE accessible mammogram machine. Now one of the hospitals I called has several mammography machines and… they went further. My concern was small as I had to start small to be heard. They have an MRI machine now, that is larger for the larger bodied person, and is a sitting/standing MRI! If you cannot lie flat, you can NOW get an MRI in my state without being in the very long list at the VA.

There’s more. There is a van, with a portable ACCESSIBLE mammography set up that will go to the low income neighborhoods and give FREE mammograms. That’s right. Free mammograms to the poor who cannot go to a doctor. I am sure that this was a long term goal to a degree for them but, this was what I was advocating for when things went badly and my life was ground to dust. Access for all. My heart is singing. Even the BMI and weight loss booths couldn’t bring me down.

I did something a bit horrible to the BMI guys. They were men, first of all. Second of all they were telling people they are fat with the BMI, which is not scientifically proven. It ignores things like breasts, bone density, hip and buttock size. It ignores genetics. It ignores a lot. they also were trying to get people to stand and walk in this really awkward way then telling them they needed the gym. I found out about this because they made someone cry. She’s very thin, and they called her fat. I went over and started laying out scientific facts, I blocked their booth with fact. People could come and go but I spread the word and listed my sources. Some still went but, before I left people were talking. Big impact there? Teenagers were excited by the idea that they don’t need to lose weight. I heard someone say “So, I am really okay the way I am. No one ever said anything like that to me before.”

Today I played pebble in the pond. it was beautiful. There were more moments. Every single moment was something impactful. I admit I avoided the rape crisis center booth. They were exuding sorrow. The women running the booth looked depressed, and sad. This was something I couldn’t face. I don’t feel the same stabbing pain in my chest when I say rape most of the time, but, they were breathing it. No one stopped there. I did a drive by snatch and grab of a business card but I couldn’t talk to them. Penetrating sorrow is just not my thing.

There was one other thing, I found something for me. There is a program for the disabled in my city, to socialize us. To get us out there. They provide transport, safe food if you want, activities, and the thing that they do is… they offer this to people with mental health issues, physical disabilities, developmental delays, and more. This company, as they do take insurance but do not discriminate on the cost of poorness itself (IE it’s free if you can’t pay) they saw the need for more than just children to have access to programs. There is a special program for Autism AND one for the depressed. The woman said often these groups overlap, and the company does not see Autism as a disability, but a different type of mind where at times things may be disabling. I am calling on Monday to find out what services I can get. this includes therapy. Therapy. At long last, the help I need for my depression GEARED for the person who has physical challenge and pain. Therapy… amazing, like fresh water from the earth, the idea flows over me, it refreshes me.

Normally this much would exhaust me, I was a bit sore but had enough energy. I checked my battery. It read a full charge. Actually it still reads a mostly full charge right now, so we know it’s not the battery that left me stranded… I heard it, as I was about to leave. This music from my past. The dancing twitch hit me, and I followed it. I got to stand (well sit) with the dancers, as this was the access area. I was far from the only person in a chair as well. It was beautiful. There were Irish Step Dancers. I left before the belly dancers went on. It was a bittersweet expierience. These women, 3 years old to 53 were dancing. I could feel the music. I rememebered every step. They were flawless. Even the one who fell (the stage moved, it wasn’t her fault) got up and fell right back into step. She was far from adult but had the perfection of skill of the adults. Even the three year old was moving as if born to it. Likely she was. The pain was from my memories so I tried my best to shut them out. I got to thank the dancers, and that was when I left.

After things like suggesting planned parenthood give out latex free condoms (just an idea, and they did ask) on through finding out my victories, I was satiated in ways I have not felt in what has been a year, but a year that encompassed a life time. I left, the music swirling in me. I went back through the fleamarket and just as it was safe to enter the street I zipped out then… WHAM… a hard stop. My chair was completely dead. The light was changing color, as I would have been across. A man was about to cross and I grabbed his arm. I hate that, but I was desperate. “I need your help.” He looked startled. This man wasn’t exactly approachable. Given the type of people who frequent this market, I would call social cast offs, non typical, and sometimes scary (but only in cliche ways, not actually dangerous). I think as he looked at me he was just stunned. No one asks for help here. It was help or die.

I told him how to put my chair into freewheelmode, an idea that he said was the best invention ever. He offered to push me home. It was too dangerous, and too far. I considered it. He made sure I was safe and I put into action my plans. Plural plans. No one was home, no one answered, and one is highly contagious. I called my Mom. I explained what was going on and we brain stormed. We found a way and she drove the two hours to get me home, then raced back to get my stepdad to one of his mandatory do this or go to jail things.

The man I stopped for help was so wonderful and kind. I love my neighborhood because I feel safe here. On the outside it looks like a horrid place with violence and gangs but, appearances lie. It is like a small town in the big city. The man’s wife and kids were going to wait for the next light, he was showing his daughter how to cross the street. I did not know this as my chant had begun. His daughter said the most amazing thing. “Daddy, that was just like superman!” It was too. He saved my life. Cars were coming, it took a moment of choice, and he chose what i would say is the right thing without batting an eye.

I rested and ate, and Sprite yelled at me for a while for being out so long. She was really loud, so it was definately yelling. She then forgave me and won’t leave my side. I cannot go out until I get my new chair, but, man waas it worth it.

Forever Home

There was horror today, a horror I had not expected. I had entered a cycle of pain with my cat William. Not mine, he found a home. William has hurt me, then earned my forgiveness by being cute and gentle. Then he has hurt me. The hurting was rare at first then faster and faster. The more he hurts me the less I can play with him. The less I can play the more he hurts me. Today he nearly hospitalized me, and I could not wait any longer. At the time of this writing William just met his new owner, and he leaves us tomorrow morning.

I was terrified of him today, all it took was him jumping on me at all and there it was, the blinding pain. I did manage to shower but because of his damage to my skin, the bruises and all of the other places he has left his mark are more plentiful than the clear skin/my normal skin. There are a few places that got infected from my almost shower days before. I took a huge risk in the shower but I had to choose the pain and potential fainting in the shower for my mental health. After a certain point on the dirty scale, I have to fight to do anything constructive.

I excused his behavior because a lot of it is normal just amplified in size. I ignored the pain this caused me. When his being out of a locked room sends me into a flashback, there is a problem. It is not his fault, he just was in the wrong home. Then there was the challenge of finding him a home. I did not want him to be abused, I wanted him to be safe. His challenges also came into play. Then, there was a sudden stigma.

I have been stigmatized in a lot of ways, and thankfully not everyone did this but a few people chose to mock me instead of help me and it took a toll. I am emotionally exhausted and my entire left side is still burning from his crushing weight. Even thinking about it sends me into a state that feels like a prelude to a flashback. I am no wilting flower, but, the constant pain from abusers and then his version of love has left a mark.

William is the antithesis to the desirable cat. Most people want a small cat, dainty, young and of course playful. William is playful, powerfully built. He is a master predator without the ability to hold back. He is not good with children, other cats, dogs, and has to be indoors when he is the size of a rather small to medium dog. He is beautiful. Oh, I always find him beautiful. His golden tiger eyes peering out at the world hunting for a toy. He is sleek. Yet, he is too old for the shelters to truly home (so they say) and his disability plays a factor.

I had given up. I was crying. Then Barry my Landlord came over, he had heard from all the neighbors in our community/neighborhood that I was trying to find him a home right now or bust. He has a friend who has been looking for a special cat. She wants a cat that is big, not tiny and graceful but big. She wants a cat that plays for HOURS on end. She wants a cat that is already fixed, microchipped but couldn’t care if he has shots yet, she can do that. So he mentioned William. She works right around the corner.

William likes to go out on the scooter. He has never been outside after dark with me before, but we went and we met L. She looked at him, asked all the right questions. She asked about his favorite type of toy, how much he plays. I mentioned his special needs, and she smiled. “He’s absolutely perfect.” I almost cried. Funny thing is, while I was waiting for her to have a minute to come meet him, another couple asked about him, and they were willing to take him as well. The man was proud to state he has learned to function despite his own Traumatic Brain Injury. William had a choice of homes. The couple decided that since he fears dogs it would be best to let him go to L. My fear that no one would want him, as if I do not want him then who could? That was unfounded.

I have called everyone who was trying to find him a home, I have updated the facebook and still, I want to make sure everyone who was hoping, praying, and searching with me for his home knows, William has a forever home. Not only will he never be too big for this woman, she was excited he is not done growing yet, but she also looks forward to his pouncing her feet. She LIKES that. To me this is strange, but it is just what he needs.

No More William

Below is a vent. William is going to find a new home before I sleep tonight. There is no option for him. He hurt me, dislocating several ribs. He then clawed up my feet when I was preparing to go shower and ruined a $200 dollar suit jacket. I cannot ever replace said item. He also attempted to ruin my formal gown, but the suit jacket saved that. So, I am calling everyone I know, anyone without small children want a  cat? He is guilty of also triggering my PTSD constantly. I found myself reacting to him as I would a human abuser, and that means he has no place here.

Screaming rage ensued this morning in a small apartment located somewhere on this planet. It appears that the culprit, William Shakespurr was sentenced to re-homing or else as a result of his nearly killing his owner. The cat is a very large, very heavy mixed breed with a questionable history. Although William did not intend to cause his human harm, he dislocated two of her ribs and destroyed a great deal of her irreplaceable items. William was given a warning a few months ago and was put on probation pending finding him “the right home.”

William Shakespurr

It appears that William, as seen in the photo above, often uses his soft cat fur and a gentle purr in order to remind the people in his life that he is more than a destructive little monster, as his current human put it. When asked why she wanted him gone Kat Fury had this to say, “If he doesn’t go, I will. If I keep him, I will be hurt again, and again.” It appears that William has begun to hurt her often enough that he has prevented her from bathing for fear of passing out more than once this week as well.

When William was asked what he thought of this he replied coolly, “Meow, mrow mew mew mew.” He then nuzzled at any nearby hands before he was locked in the holding cell. His holding cell is of course rather large, as it is rare that such a creature needs to be confined. Until his sentence can be carried out William Shakespurr will not be a threat to society any longer.

Sprite, his long time roommate seemed rather pleased with the arrangement, curling up with her human and taking a nap that included snoring and kitty drool. More on this breaking news story as it happens!

That Fear (Trigger Warning)

I felt the fear, the fear that comes with speaking out against someone. I felt the fear, the fear that comes when they reply to silence you. I haven’t replied yet, to this person. I called ableism, someone else spoke up and the fear did not go away. I felt utterly terrified to see what was said in my reply. They said something that erased my existance and experience, and refused to see that there is the potential for us to both be right, since the matter is subjective and personal.

The fear makes me angry. I dislike it. It “smells” like my father. Her words sounded like his. The general brush off was as if I was a child. I am a woman damn it. I am an adult. I am as close to self sufficient as my body allows. I felt it, that shame creeping in with the fear. I spoke. I reacted. I know the cause. This was a trigger.

The fear is not really fear from now but is fear leaking in from my past. The question I replied to had to do with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I always feel the fear when I talk about that. Sometimes I cannot make sounds with my mouth in regards to PTSD. Sometimes, I am enforced into silence because of the fear. If I let the fear go on, and sometimes I cannot stop it next I feel like I am being strangled. I can hear his wheezy laugh. He was laughing at my suffering. It’s a flash back in a way. The visual element is not there but even as I write this the fear is there, I feel it burning on my neck. The burning is from the time he put a hot thing there because I sneezed in church. The hot thing left no permanent marks, visibly but it is there. The burning stops only when I put my hand on it, and only for a split second.

Next my hands hurt. Mostly my right hand, which was always hurt as punishment. There is a somatic reaction. Somatic means physical from the mind. The mind body connection. my hand is burned, twisted, mangled. The knuckles are swelling and my hand is red. My reynauds is flairing from the stress. I am calm however. My body is in a storm but as I focus on what is real I find that inner calm. The fear is washing away. The stimulated senses will tingle and burn for a while, yet the fear is fading.

This was small, this time. I dislike the fear. I hate it. The fear does not obey rational thought. The fear does not let the music in. My world is made of music, I live in my own Broadway show. Every sound is music. Every breath is song. Every sensation is a note. Sometimes they are dark and discordant and other times they are soft, timid. Still the fear makes them silent.

This is Post Traumatic Stress. This is what it is to be triggered. Some of you know this. Some of you may not. Being triggered also happens in degrees or on a spectrum. This was a minor episode. For the major, my world disappears for days and I am lost in my childhood. That unhappy place.

It’s Okay to Cry over Spilt tea!

I just dropped an entire glass of tea. I made the journey to the bathroom first, because a primary rule when you are mobility challenged is pee whenever you are near the bathroom. This way if you can’t go later it isn’t as bad. I am sure not everyone has this rule but it is one of mine. Another is only drink as much as you think you can make it to the bathroom. IE See rule number 1. I did not break the glass, but the entire glass of tea is now on my electrical cords, purse, and a few other things on t he floor. I see some saturated mail too. Woops. Sometimes when this happens I just burst into tears from the frustration. I cannot currently go and get another glass of tea. It takes so much effort and getting there will make me thirstier than sitting. No wonder my doctor always goes “You are too dehydrated drink more.” I have even told her, I will drink more when I know I will not be making a mess of my sitting space because i drank soo much liquid.

At least the tea tastes like crap? One of the tea bags was off, maybe a little old or not, but dang this pitcher is biiiiiitter. I did not cry this time, because I am in a very good space and it will take a lot to bring me down. This is day two in a row however when not enough around the house has gotten finished, which means that tomorrow if things aren’t better it’s time to call the office and say “HEY, caregiver failing.” My newest caregiver is doing a fantastic job, I need to state this. It has been made apparent however that her mind is somewhere behind pluto right now. If I make that call she gets a warning not fired.

I dislike breaking new people in so that helps too. Still the tea reminds me of how much frustration can be had trying to do it alone. If you are, it’s okay to cry when you spill your tea. It’s okay to let it soak into the carpet. It’s okay to just ignore it and try again later. This goes for anything. It’s all going to be okay. Take it one task at a time. I recorded my lines for the Audio show I got a really teensy role in. The character is teensy, and I had fun. I will make sure to link to that episode when it is released but if you listen to Star Wars Blue Harvest, I am coming. (Insert ominous music there) I am coming, and I will be in your ears.

For those of you who cannot hear the role, I am going to try and get a drawing of the character I am playing saying my line, probably the cuteness will make you spill your tea! I also recorded a few auditions for another role but it is so wrong for me. The role is just no where in the Kat that exists or has existed. I may be a tough girl, but my voice does not carry that, and any accenting to make it tough felt wrong. So I am letting that role go. I already have another role in a British commercial for a space thingy, and then another in a video game as the computer. I get to pretend to be a hot female Hal 9000! Wooh? Maybe?

Additionally, I recorded some music related to my ability and disability. I am going to make a music page soon, and I will make a transcription of the songs. They just sort of happened. So, does anyone have a towel I can borrow?