Archeology of Truth (Trigger Warning)

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. THAT DAY. I have had the entire month until today with barely a tickle of my usual PTSD. I’ve had blatant fun. I am a bit fogged and distracted as I write this, drowning my sorrows in mental crap such as bad disney movies, not that there are good ones, kitty snugs, pizza, and talking to people important to me who aren’t traitorous liars. There. I said it.

Once upon a time in 1993, and well before, there was a girl who was lonely. She made a friend who was much like her. This friend was an orphan who lived with her grandmother, and despite being blatantly spoiled was one of the kindest people that the lonely girl had ever met. They played together. The rich girl even bought toys for the lonely girl, but they learned rapidly to leave them with the Rich Girl.

One day, the Rich Girl moved without getting to say goodbye. There were small things left over but as all the things that they had had together except a Best friend’s charm, a few of the prototypes of the miniature food I left behind and some clay as well as a tin of the uncured creations. This clay stays good forever unless you bake it.

Lonely girl was broken like the clay, left in pieces. Lonely girl was told that she had made up Rich Girl, and the proofs were lost.

 

Today, Lonely girl found the small tin of the creations. The proof. In it were the little charm, a small barbie toy, and a few other things. Too was the proof that Dolls belong in her life via some of the small things that she kept from Rose, another friend now lost to her. Lonely Girl is now Amazing Adult, but that does not mean she didn’t cry.

Infact, the clay that still remained anything was cured, and now there are artifacts of Lonely girl’s innocence before the abuse and rape broke her and nearly destroyed her. The cracks that remain of that pain and what was before do not make the entire person of Amazing Adult, but instead remind her of why she is glad to be an adult.

 

Yet still, she cries for the loss of her friend and the sweet things that cannot be published in a public forum for safety that were recollected.

 

Also, I have some Barbie Dream house stuff to paint black and dead all over. I am okay, I am just foggy and hurt.

mutli colored clay creations, mostly roses, from my childhood.

The Artifacts

Advertisements

It was a Dark and Stormy Night… (Horror Story Below)

Hitchcookie Presents: A Christmas Story

By Kat Fury

Dedicated to Denis LaChappelle, Cookie Monster, and Brock Thompson. May you enjoy your dark and stormy night and I hope this is scary enough for you! This story is based on factual events (decorating the tree happened!) and some not so factual events!

She sat in the dark next to her freshly

decorated holiday tree, admiring the way

the white lights contrasted against the

dark foilage, the slight glitter of the

transparent glass. The angelic tree

topper’s wings listed slightly and the

porcelain face held a few cracks. The

pale glass eyes stared sightlessly out

the window. Monica shifted on her couch

and lifted out the last ornament,

hesitating as memories flooded through

her. She closed her eyes as his face

surfaced, the warmth of that first time

they had dated was overshadowed with the

memories of the night she had left him,

the nights that followed where he had

come again. It had been a year.

Glancing out the window she stood up,

the ornament, a silver photograph frame

with the year 2008 emblazoned on it and

his picture slipping back into the box

as she checked her doors and windows

once more, a nightly ritual that brought

her comfort. He was out there. She had

been seeing his face in the crowd, his

car up the street, and now she saw a

shadow as she pulled the blinds down for

the evening.

Taking a breath she checked the locks

and moved towards her bed, pausing to

stare at the wine bottle atop her

fridge. She was always tempted to drink

herself into a stupor. She kept the

bottle to remind herself not to. It

didn’t always work but she had not given

in yet. Someday maybe she would feel

safe being out of control.

She didn’t bother changing for bed, the

idea of cool air on her skin, or the

risk of his eyes finding a crack in her

windows left her too vulnerable. She

pulled the soft quilt back and curled up

under it, wishing for someone else there

now. She always hated being alone but at

night when it was dark and the world was

silent, it was worse. The worst came

always after the nightmares, which she

knew would come. Still, there were no

tears. She had gotten past the point of

crying.

After a time she drifted into a sleep,

it was a sleep full of memories. She was

in her wedding dress standing with him

before their friends, the candles in

hand, his eyes so bright and they both

smiled as the ceremony finished, the

flames merging on the unity candle. It

was snowing then, the snow flakes as

white as her dress, a wish for purity

and a hint of hope. There had been so

much hope then.

There was something in her dream then,

that frightened her. It twisted, as it

always did, down into the darkness. It

was that night when he had changed. She

had wished he had been truthful with her

about what he wanted, and still as she

relived the memory in her dream she

wished she knew. “No!” She cried out,

the echo of reality and dream twisting

together as she ran in the stairs of her

mind, her husband coming after her with

a knife. The gleaming blade dripped with

blood, leaving a trail on the white

carpet staining it’s virginal pelt. She

could not run fast enough, far enough.

She would never escape him. He said

nothing and made no sounds as she tried

to get the back door open, he had barred

it. She was cornered. He smiled, the

smile never reaching his eyes, which

held no sign of love but a cold

emptiness.

“Why Rodrick? Why?”

“There is no reason.” He whispered this

as he ran the blade over her cheek, the

skin splitting and pain rippling through

her body. She didn’t even feel the hot

blood that dripped with her tears down

her face as he cut her clothing away.

She did not move, she had no way out. He

stared at her naked body and sneared, “I

never found you attractive, you’re too

heavy.” She looked down at her body with

it’s soft curves, the dimpled flesh on

her thighs with cellulite, and the tan

lines from her work outside in the

summer. She looked up at him as he

smiled wider, enjoying tormenting her.

She woke then, the nightmare revoked by

the sound of tinkling glass. Sitting up

she crept out of bed, wishing she had

fought him then. The scars on her body

betrayed her wish sometimes, when it was

cold and they ached. She withdrew the

mace from her bedside table and crept

towards the living room. Peaking arond

the corner she saw him there, placing

the ornament on the tree.

He ran his finger lovingly over the

shape of the frame and then kissed her

picture before he turned towards the

kitchen. She moved for the cellphone she

had left on her couch by the TV remote,

trying to remain unseen. There was no

creaking floorboard, there was no sound

until she dialed emergency. The soft

beep of the buttons brought him right to

her.

she saw his face only illuminated by the

white lights of the tree and the dial of

her phone. He was tired looking, but was

much the same. He smiled, a cold smile

that was more vicious. “Hello Monica…


She said nothing, they could both hear

the voice on the other end of the phone,

“Nine One One, What is your emergency?

Hello?” She dropped the phone and

stepped backwards, the ornaments on the

tree jangling softly as she said, “You

can’t be here. The restraining order I

have protects me.” The paper was there,

her present to herself under the tree.

She threw it at him even as he laughed.

“This is your weapon? A piece of paper?

Very useful.”

She lunged to run past him screaming as

she felt a stinging pain, she had not

seen the knife in the darkness, but he

had caught her with it. Terror filled

her and adrenaline fueled her motions as

she turned on him, clawing at his body.

She went quiet, no longer caring about

the why. He had hurt her enough. She was

tired of this pain, she was tiref of

being afrad, and he was correct, a

restraining order had not saved the day.

She pulled the tree down on his head,

the glass shattering around them. There

were sparks and the crackle of flames

told her that she would have to put out

a fire soon.

She felt her nails tearing as she tried

to claw his eyes out, her mind entering

a feral space where all she wanted was

his blood. The years of love, their year

of marraige, and the year of her living

alone and in hiding had ended tonight.

She would either die or live free of his

terror. As a nail snapped off in his

flesh and he sank the knife into her

shoulder again she heard him laughing.

“I never knew you had this in you…

such a shame. Maybe I would have loved

you then.”

She ignored his words, she knew better.

If he had not found her attractive even

if it was as some prey he would have

passed her over. If it was meant to be

that she would die at his hands there

was proof and he would die in jail. If

not he would die tonight. She let out a

feral scream even as sirens began to

rise from the darkness outside of her

house.

The bright flames licked up the curtains

that had hidden her from the world, in

the light she could see him clearly. He

knocked her onto her back and knelt on

her chest and held the knife to her

throat once more. Tears streamed down

his face as he forced a kiss upon her,

the taste of his blood mingling with the

sour flavor of his unwashed mouth, she

gagged and kicked trying to get him off

of her. It was hard to breathe between

the chest compression and the smoke.

“Why?” She choked out, finally asking

once more the question.

He smiled and shifted back slightly, she

coughed and gasped for air, staring up

at the first man she had ever loved.

“I can.” That was all he said. He smiled

again, looking as pleased with himself

as he had when he had figured out how to

fix the car one day when it had broken

down. He laughed gleefully, ” No one can

stop me, and so I decided to kill you. I

killed my first wife too, when I

realized the same thing, and I will ki-”

His words cut off with a gurgle, and

even as his blood sprayed across her

face, hot and sticky, she continued to

stab him. While he had been so pleased

with his freedom to kill, she had picked

up a broken ornament, his throat slit

with the grinning face of Santa Claus.
He fell to the side and stared at her

mouthing something. She rolled to her

feet, picked up the restraining order

and the knife he had taken from her

kitchen and stabbed him in the chest

with it, panting softly,

“Justice is served.”

With that she stumbled for the door, out

into the snowy night. Looking up at the

white flakes she watched them fall, the

police arrived piling out of their cars,

too little too late. They had been too

little too late last time. There had

been no why. There was no why. She began

to sob softly, the terror clinging to

the fringes of her mind, she would be

forever left to wonder why the man she

loved had decided to kill. The real

reason could not be so simple as the

idea that he could get away with

anything… could it? Continue reading

Scissors in the Hair (poem)

The crinkling sound of my hair against my ears

The familiar tickle as the air plays with fingers over it

Dancing on shoulders

I sit quiet and still

I wait for that first sound

The hiss through the air as the blade lowers down

The scraping of metal over metal

The click the moment each hair is severed

Weight falls away

Air moves to my throat

A gentle embrace

I shake my head free

My hair is shorter

The ends look clean

There they lay on the floor

Red strands saying goodbye to me

I feel free

I feel pretty.

 

(In otherwords, I had a hair cut today!)

Off Switch (Trigger Warning)

I am rolling through a house, looking up a flight of stairs when a friend of mine is shoved through the wall, I had not seen them in the hall but the wiring of the house has entered them, turning them into a macabre marionette. I feel the loss as I wake, and it takes me two hours to get back to sleep. Sprite and Sylvani shared the bed last night, something they only do when worried over me. Vani likes to sleep in the window so he can see everything, Sprite sleeps at my feet unless I need her.

I woke up ever hour with an adrenaline kick last night that cost me more energy than sleeping was worth but I was too tired to stay awake. I can barely keep my eyes open now though I will push myself today. I do not want to shut down. I spent October being quiet on my blog because I was having fun, and a part of that was the headlong rush to have as much fun as I can before I spend a month trying to function.

The pervasive sense of dread started early this year, though there was a trigger and an actual reason to be fearful I kept going and doing. This meant I had too much fun, or just enough, on Halloween and made it through the third where I can talk, I can look at people and I can go out. It’s more frightening today and yet I am fighting with the off switch in my brain. If I let it shut off from the annual PTSDathon I miss things. I miss people, I miss being able to go and enjoy the last warmth in the air while it starts to get that crispness that I associate with apples. I miss so much.

I have never made it this far into November without the off switch being flipped. It’s never with my consent now. I am not sure it ever was but I had no choice for so long. Turn off, stay off, and let the pain be over there. Be distant from it just to survive. I needed a reminder of this yesterday as I am in the mode of taking this one day at a time. There is no other way to survive November.

A catalogue of my current PTSD symptoms would be as follows: Physical sensations based on memories not reality IE I feel my father’s hands in places that no father’s hands belong, Nightmares that actually scare me, a bit of a fog in my head making it hard to follow the passage of time, a pervasive sense of dread as if the world will end, the razor’s edge of panic in my chest, the urge to run as far as I can, and something that I have more trouble with at this time of year is my temper. I am on edge, I am wanting to push everyone away and hide.

The mental image of myself when I touch on the fear isn’t me now either, it’s the small child I used to be. It’s the bed in the house where I was five hiding with my dog. It’s the past. There is not much I can do right now. I am wearing the birdskull necklace M gave me, because I have found it very comforting, I am wearing my batman shirt, and Sprite is hovering. I am going out without her today. She isn’t quite recovered and I think I can do this. This is the last day this month I am likely to be able to go out.

The off switch is something I have to hold up into the on position. It’s the weight of the world, I am a failing atlas as my grip slips. I must remind myself, I once could never lift it. I wasn’t strong enough at first. I spent a decade in the dark before I found it. Then I spent years learning how to keep the switch up. It only grows heavy for a month now. By December 9th I will be fine. Maybe sooner. Maybe I will not shut down at all.

I don’t know. I just know I made it further than last year. I also have more mental resources than last year. I am not fighting with a bad carer, I am not fresh off of abuse, I am not starved and though I am still physically weak I am not as weak as I was. I am never going to be as strong physically as I want but I am strong mentally. I know the nightmares will be robbing me of my sleep, but I also know that I can count on my caregiver, my service animal, my caseworker, and even my apartment manager. I can call on my friends if I need to, though right now I couldn’t let them in the door so we shall see if that happens.

I am fighting. Knowing I am fighting has restored a bit of my strength. Even as Sprite creeps up onto me and tells me to go rest, I know I can’t. I lay down right now and I am not getting up.

This month holds suicidal thoughts, depression, and a whole lot of pain. I will not give in. I am planning to write specific chapters of the PTSD book this month based on what I am doing in the moment. The things I cannot write without being up against the mental wall. When I can’t hold the switch up anymore or when the burden eases, I will also say so here. I am okay. It may not be the okay I want but I am safe. I am loved. I may want for things but I want for no needs. This is a first in my life. I have always needed the basic necessities and they have been just out of reach. Sometimes I could nearly grasp them but I am fantastic compared to any year before.

I will relive being raped countless times this month, I will relive the worst parenting ever, and I will know it is not my fault. There is no sense of guilt in me for the first time. I am just very sad. I mourn for the child I was and I wish I could save her. In some ways she has always been someone else to me. Perhaps the light switch will stay on once I can own the essence of her identity. Though this is a part of PTSD. I am separate from what came before the most traumatic moment in my life. It broke me and I rebuilt myself. In fact that was what my father wanted. He wanted to break his willful child. He made me more willful. He set up the biggest victories in my life by trying make me submissive.

If he had tried other ways I would not be me. Can I fathom living any other way? No. So I must work for it so that the way I live is 12 months a year not 11 or less. It’s my damned year. I am going to take it back.

A Year After Survival (Trigger Warning)

It was a year ago that I was sitting in that place, full of filth and disease. It was a year ago that Anthrax threatened my flesh and my mind was as damaged. It has been a year since in desperation I misdialed the number that lead me to finding my current apartment where I met my case manager who shares my name, where I escaped not just the first but the second bad carer, and where I began to heal. It has been a year.

It has been a year of utter devastation in some other ways. It has been a year of great loss. Death has haunted me my entire life from being forced to help my father kill on to the loss of every pet Grandma ever took in to shelter for us or my mother helped rehome, the death of my best friend, the death of Nymph, and the deaths that I felt uncomfortable mentioning. That would be the deaths of allies in advocacy, some of my heroes, but death has been here. In some moments I feel death is mocking me for living by taking everything that is important to me. I think that’s grief. I know it isn’t the actual facts as death is merely a part of life but my feelings do make it ache.

It has been a year of distance. I have started to step away from people that would perpetuate the year of Torture, people that do not understand this is not normal or healthy. Or family that does not respect that I damned well have a right to live in peace without being treated like a monstrosity for not doing things their way.

It has been a year of tears. I have cried more in the last year than I have in most of my life, yet this is a wonderful thing. Though it means I am wounded and grieving, when have I not been? I cannot remember any moments without pain until the last few years of my life and this year has held a majority of good.

It has been a year where I have admitted I am in love with someone. I have been for a very long time, albiet against my will. I love myself. I love Sprite. I love Rose. Still. Death doesn’t cancel out love. I adored and loved my little Nymph friend. I love M my friend. I love. I love. I love.

It has been a year of hope. I started to dream again, not the literal way but the hopes and dreams of a life beyond struggling to make ends meet, a life beyond this desolate place where I have never been able to leave. I hate New Mexico, and I always have. it has been a year of great achievements. Partly because I am still here and kicking.

My 26th Birthday is approaching and I am going to have people over to celebrate. I feel strong enough. I feel safe enough. I still want to flee this place. Yes it has been a very hard year. What year isn’t going to be hard? I have a laundry list of illnesses and disabilities, I have a mind that just won’t shut up, and I honestly cannot imagine life without a challenge. I truly think it would be boring.

This year I have learned some things about myself…

1. I have a very interesting life. More so than many people have. My life could be a great work of fiction, it would make a great movie series because each year holds enough action to make Harry Potter wish he had my level of danger, daring, and doing. I would still not wish this life on anyone but I also wouldn’t change it. My life has never been boring. I cannot say I haven’t been bored, but it’s been a very long time and that’s why I stopped enjoying school that first year.

2. Love. I has it. (Imagine a lolcat saying that if you would please.) I have always been capable of great love, like all my emotions when I love someone animal or human it is with all of me. There is only a set of extremes inside of me, so my love is extreme and comes with a side package of loyalty and trust. You can of course get rid of parts of this but I will always love you once I did before. I love my father. The evil bastard. I am still glad he is dead. I love my mother. The pathetic damsel in self imposed constant distress. I am still not going to invite her in, as that’s the rule with vampires of all varities. I don’t love my grandmother. I never have. She has always been a caricature of torment to me, even when torment was normal and acceptable in my world of Hitler fanatic parents and abuse. She’s always been worse than my father. I will sadly always love my exhusband. The thing is, I will love who he appeared t be not who he is. I will love the love of my life who knows who they are. There are no caveats there. I will love them and there is nothing anyone can do to stop that, even myself. I did try… I will love Sprite forever. I find the idea that she is my furry wife or soulmate, the wife thing starting as a joke about the supposed women’s duties which she does. She feeds me, clothes me, holds me and satisfies most of my needs but not the carnal ones is accurate. I glanced at her just now sitting in my new wingback chair and she looks so sad right now, and we both are because… I will always love Nymph. Even though she is gone and even though I had to let her die, I will always love her. I will probably always love the next companion Sprite gets. That happens sometime this month.

Yes, a year of love. I will always love myself. I didn’t used to. Even through the years of survival and struggle, even being “better” than the text books tell you someone with my level of PTSD, disabling, even with Autism, even with taught body hatred (fat, not blond, not able enough, just not good enough for anyone (Thanks Mom!)). Yes, Even then I never quite got the hang of looking at myself and seeing a person of value. I came close, a few years ago I started to get there most days. For the majority of this year I have loved myself. When puking from pain and or illness? Check. When unable to shower for two weeks because it hurt too much so I ended up wanting to claw my skin off to make myself clean? Check, that’s why I didn’t let myself lose my flesh to my fingers. Even when I felt it was my fault irrationally and that somehow I deserved being penned in a room and starved and raped? Yep. I still felt beautiful and at peace. That one really threw me for a loop. I haven’t felt that the abuse is my fault for most of the time since this started. The nifty side effect is, I don’t see ugly people anymore. The majority of people outside my door or online or people who aren’t movie stars are all stunning to me. Movie stars hate themselves usually, they abuse themselves and that does uglify them to me. Self hate isn’t pretty.

I love.

This has been a year of food. On my birthday I am going to make (with my carer) a food I haven’t let myself have for three years. The last time I ate it was when my ex was a fiancee. Penne Rosa. This decadent dish is my favorite. It pwns lasagne. I didn’t even notice I had deprived myself of it. I did so out of anger with myself, so I must forgive and eat the deliciousness. It’s expensive to make and very rich food. It’s something I learned about when I was a chef. Yet despite depriving myself of Penne Rosa without acknowledging it subconsciously I have eaten very well this year. This last year has the advent of Meat Cake into my life, the flavor is very rich, it’s not salty but it isn’t plain. It’s meat cakey. It is the most delicious savory food I have had in a while. I consider pasta’s sweet. I have reclaimed the Quesadilla. Despite living on them for a year, two months ago I found they no longer make me want to puke. So snake food is a go. I have had the advent of the Dilly Bar into my life. Butterscotch or cherry please? Some of the changes are based on the local area discovering Gluten Free, so I now can have bread or pizza at my whim (and ten dollars total ingredient cost, not twenty for cardboard). I also started only eating food that tastes good. THis happened in January.

This has been a year of the evolution of appearance. I stopped hiding under horrible black hair. Black hair is great on other people, and I can pull of the sickly goth look with it but despite being Goth, looking like I am dying isn’t something that feels right. I like being on fire, not literally since we’ve been there before, but with my red hair, my fierceness showing in my eyes and rich red lipstick. I figured out that anything I wear is goth. I am a goth. I am wearing it. Still not a fan of blue though. My war against only wearing black was lost. I feel comfortable there, I feel sexy. I still do wear other colors, mostly reds and greens. Still. Despite trying to listen to what other people said my fashion identity won out. Some of the evolution is the loss of ballgown length skirts. Wheelchairs don’t like them. They like to eat them. So I must streamline my tastes. Alas. Alack. It’s a bit fun actually. I also started wearing black eyeshadow more often. I am still waiting on that corset, it apparently was lost in the mail and the company I am working with is not getting repeat business. That’s been going on for over a year now. When I get it, I still want to take those sexy photos. Unshaven lets are sexy.

This has been a year of creative goals. I haven’t been alive enough in recent years to write music, act, create, share. In the last year I have written several audio dramas, some are still in need of work. One is being produced and I have a voice acting role in it. I’ll share when that comes out and it will be free. I am composing a soundtrack for something that should air on most radio stations nationally, potentially internationally. I am writing a book on PTSD. I have had requests for a book on Autism, as I explain both in a way the Nuerotypicals understand, without them thinking (at least supposedly and this is my goal) that everyone with this label is the same. I am writing period. I am considering writing three books at once but for that my head may explode.

This has been a year of discovery. I am discovering it’s okay to not like TV. Sure, I had roommates with TV addictions and that contributed, but TV doesn’t work well with the way my brain works and that’s JUST FINE. I don’t have to be a big TV watcher. I also no longer want to write for TV, because TV and I just aren’t a match. Frankly, that’s a stress relief to admit. There is a reason that after becoming a TV/Movie critic I broke down for a while and had to quit. TV is TORTURE. I get physical pain, and I can’t see for crap so why bother? Audio dramas are more suited to me though some still fall prey to those isms that annoy me, anger me or otherwise fill me with epic disappointment… more often I find that the writers are more independent in their creation, and therefore they get a more “open” piece. The editing work I have faced with mine has been mostly grammatical errors. If there is something that I am told to change because being a wheelchair user who can kick isn’t real, I also learned I can say “I am a wheelchair user and I can kick like a donkey. I just fall over afterwards” and explain the whys, the editor accepts this and lets me know. It’s an open dialogue. Much better than the editors I had when I wrote as a kid. Then again I am an adult now, so there is a lot more respect for me instead of incredulity at my age etc etc etc.

I discovered a wheelchair that fits your needs means if you can walk a bit, you do. I am more physically active with my wheelchair than I was without it. It’s exhilarating. I am also mentally freed of unnecessary pain. I am not sure unnecessary is the right word, perhaps it is treatable pain that isn’t treated? That felt too long and needed qualifications. I have discovered that living alone is best, so even though I am in love and would marry said loved one if it was merely a matter of mind and heart that marraige won’t work unless we get a house with two kitchens and two bedrooms (well… three, Sprite needs one too). I have discovered that people get my jokes, even the bad ones. If I list all my discoveries my word count will be in the millions.

I have discovered that I like my dreams being nightmares for others. Today I dreamed I lived in a sitcom world, in fact I moved in with the family from “Family Matters” though some of them were from “The Fresh Prince of Belaire”… it was great but I was scared. I was scared that they would figure out I wasn’t belonging. I was scared that being not a TV type would get me ousted. I am not sure why my mind selected those shows, perhaps because Will Smith was a childhood crush? Perhaps because Urkle’s awkwardness made it safer? I was still scared and in my dream even wondered if my consideration of what a nightmare is, is different than others. A nightmare means you are terrified. I am not afraid of hoardes of demons but I am afraid of Uncle Phil telling me I am just not good enough. Also stairs but then, I can’t get up them.

I have discovered I dislike most comedy films, as their humor relies on othering people and as an outsider it hurts instead of humors. This of course is well known to many. I have discovered Twilight worries me for the safety of Stephanie Meyer. I suspect she is in an abusive relationship or will be, as her inner soul shows a romanticism of very dangerous things. I have discovered that when Sprite is sad she cries loudly, and I cannot. I don’t “boo hoo”. Just as when I fight physically I am quiet. It’s not ninja as some have accused me of but it is the knowledge that being loud means you get hurt more. I am trying to cry with sound now.

I have discovered that mathmatically based on the sale ads my friends in California have sent me food may be cheaper there than here. Also, the foods I can eat are more plentiful. I secretly dream of fresh strawberries that won’t rot before the week is out. I have also discovered that housing is so expensive there it is beyond my ability to actually comprehend it. There is a literal disconnect in my mind.

In this last year, I have embraced my dreams. I have begun to not fight them, but to let them flow. I learned at a young age to control my dreams, and I wish I had not despite it being fascinating to be aware I am dreaming. I wish I had known I sleep better if I let myself dream about stabbing someone to death. The person is always evil, and I am always saving the defenseless. It is not murder but romanticised heroism. It still scares me, and I wonder what others dream about that they feel is wrong. I have had more sex dreams too. I no longer interrupt those but ride the passions out to see where they go. Usually? Orgasms. It has been a year of sleep. I still face insomnia but I am less tired, less angry, less cranky, and more able to face the world when I sleep and dream.

It has been a year of thought. I have not stopped thinking in my dreams or awakeness for over a year. I can usually sleep through it but as I wrote about before, sometimes it is so bad I can’t sleep. I have always been this way but I no longer tell myself it means I am crazy. Well, I am but I think it’s a good thing. Non crazy people tend to be very dangerous and terrifying.

It has been a year…

So what will this next year hold for me? Will I die before my next birthday (27)? Every year a doctor tells me I will… so far they’ve been very wrong. Will I go a whole year without someone trying to hurt me? I really hope so. Will I write seventeen novels and leave poverty behind and build a castle outside of LA with two kitchens and a cat kitchen? Probably not. The novels? Okay maybe one or two… The Castle? Give me a few years.

Will I start my band? Yes! We’re up to two other musicians now, which is real progress. Will I make my CD? Yes! Will I keep blogging? Yes! Will I get another cat and love it even though I really don’t want to and didn’t even want to get Ny because I was afraid she would die and am doubly afraid now for Sprite and future cat? Yep. Will the cat die? Probably not. Will I ever have that damned yard sale I have been trying to have for a year? Nope!

Will I survive another year? Yes. In fact, I believe in this next year I will thrive. I know for a fact I will begin making jewelry again. I already have. It’s super slow based on my limits but I will make it. I am learning to make chainmaille, and I will have a chainmaille shirt (not made by me, I want it before I am 70), I will go out after dark sometime too. I will have sex. I will buy a glass dildo. Possibly to use during sex but I may be selfish and not share that toy. I will keep going on and on.

I admit sometimes I wonder if I will even know when I am dead because I haven’t stopped. I am a clockwork humanoid in some ways, ticking on and on. Yet the rest of me is in fragments of my imagination. Sometimes I am a barbarian warrior woman, somewhere between Red Sonja and Xena. Sometimes I am just a princess, with the means to protect the people who don’t have enough and cannot fend for themselves. Sometimes I am a demonic seductress. Sometimes, I am a butterfly. Sometimes I am just myself and I am somewhere else.

When I seek out peace, I find it in my mind again. It has been a recent return to that quiet garden in my mind. Now there are new roses growing and new butterfly bushes too. It is still quiet there, this is the only place a lack of music is not a worry mentally. I have missed my secret garden, and I find though I did not tend it, I never really have. It has always tended me. It is here that my glass hearts grow and often break. It is here that my mind is a mix of vines and flowers, towering trees and hollow logs with new lychen and moss growing over them. It is here that the outside world and inside meet. This is my subconscious and it is where I often look at myself, and I wonder. This is a place where Sprite cannot follow. This is a place where I once mistook Heaven. This is a place I have not had for more than a year, and perhaps it was a memory from never.

In the last year I have unrepressed a hoarde of memories. Perhaps they are the demons I slay each night? I am aware of multiple murders by my father, both very similar. I am aware. I have acted. It is a pain, but this is the necessary pain. If I leave these memories buried they will poison me. The little girl that screamed so long is not screaming anymore. She still cries but she is now sheltered in that garden and at times she laughs and plays with the other people there. All of them are me. The orphan girl. The innocent one. I never really knew her before. I know talking of my past identities this way is also what caused people to try and force me to think I had fractured my mind and was dealing with multiple personalities. I finally understand that doctor’s diagnosis. Even my mother knew it was wrong and argued with her, which speaks volumes. Yet, I am aware that each trauma that locked a part of me away killed the previous identity.

In this last year I have been reborn. You have witnessed this birth through my writings and I am aware now that if any flower represents me it is the lotus with it’s many layers and blossoms. I am on a journey through each of the lotus layers of my life. My sensei told me that once and he said that he could not explain it to me but i would understand it one day, perhaps when I was very old but he hoped that I would do so before I was “ancient as the stones”. Remembering him, I remember why I am who I am. He did not act alone in the previous years to shape me but he set this foundation of fine stone. Without him, there would be no Kateryna Fury. There would be no person here. There would be no memories left. I would be dust and ashes long forgotten or remembered only with my mother’s hatred. There would be tear stains and bloodstains at most, no one would notice I was gone.

a hispanic woman stands naked in a black brace a severing wound goes down her throat and torso revealing an ionic column that is fractured in multiple=

It has been a year of Survival. Yes, I survived. Yes I fought harder and harder than I thought possible. I did not fight alone for the first time in my life. I did not starve. I did not hate myself. For the first time that I can remember I do not feel like Frida Kahlo’s broken column. My pillar is whole. It has been rebuilt, not replaced and not forgotten. It still has cracks, yet it is stronger than it has ever been before. I may live alone, but I am not alone.

I also know this is visible to others, though I didn’t think on it or expect that this would be so. I look alive. I no longer am carrying the burdens of forgotten crimes or crimes that i didn’t need to carry. That alone has set me free. Though I am sad at this moment, I am not shattered. My heart is reborn. I am the Lotus. I am the Warrior. I am the Writer. The pen is not mightier than my sword, but it is as double edged and I carry both.

Something Cheery (Book Thing)

I woke up with a brain explosion of words, and then found after writing that piece, which is not published because I dun wanna, I felt up to laying out some potential book chapters. I also touched on some initial writing for the book and even some very bad titles. I don’t think I can title this book like I would others so I will likely never be as happy with PTSD the Book (hmm I kind of like that one) as some of my fantasy work titles. Ah well.

I also realized, because a lot of you my friends/readers/ awesome people I benefit from knowing kept suggesting I do this, you may want to see some of the ideas or may catch something I am missing since I literally am losing sleep here. I want to set up my outline by tomorrow and get started officially. Also, if you want to remain anonymous there are several ways to contact me, you may already have my email, you can comment below under a new account or anonymously and ask for non publishing on this blog, there is a contact form (that is a link, cliiiick it) that sends things straight to my email, and or you may be on my facebook account. That account only lets existing friends message me so you would know who you are.

Finally before I copy and paste some of this brain goop into my blog, there is overlap on the chapters, not a one of these is the formal title, and if you can’t think of more that’s probably a good thing.
These are the proposed chapters/segments of my book on PTSD:

Anatomy of a Flashback, PTSD
Who Has PTSD?
Coping skills, adaptations, facing the world (writing, drawing, screaming at the sky)
I don’t have PTSD, how do I understand?
Someone around you is having a flashback, what do you do?
when do you tell someone?
Triggers
Glossary of Definitions
Potential treatments- Special section on EMDR
Disability and PTSD
PTSD and Autism
What is PTSD
Can I hurt someone I love during a flashback?
Am I responsible for my actions during a flashback?
Will it ever go away/ Will the pain ever stop?
Why isn’t there a one size fits all treatment?
Preface – who I am and why I am writing this book as well as it’s intended use (of being awesomely educational)
Support Groups, Therapy, and Healing- connect with potential treatments
How do you know if you have PTSD? (symptoms, etc)
Why I Can’t Just “Get Over it”, Move beyond the past, or “drop it”
What causes PTSD
Such and Such Trauma isn’t bad enough for PTSD
My trauma is bigger than yours
There is No compare and contrasting trauma
How do I avoid getting PTSD
Only Soldiers get PTSD Right? (No)
Who are the “faces” of PTSD
Can a service animal help?
Dealing with Other People who also have PTSD
Suicide
Resources beyond this book
Grief and Mourning with PTSD

These are the Titles, I like a working title and that’s why I did this. Otherwise I end up with ten million untitled documents on my hands.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
An Owner’s Manual for PTSD
Mapping Trauma: A Map For Surviving Life With someone who has ptsd
When There Is No Moving On:
PTSD Sucks
Hey Look, It’s Another Self Help Book!

So have at it!

All The Things (Poem)

All the little things you have yet to do
I see them laid out before you
Just one step forward and then there’s hope
Just one step forward and then there’s more

I see the shining future
I see your greatness now
I see what worlds you can change
I see what worlds you have

I see the friends you have made
I see the friends still waiting
I see the love that you do offer
and I accept it willingly

So don’t mind my tears
They are for the future
They are for me
For no matter where you go
No matter what you do
You are always going to be shining and sweet

All the things you have yet to do will wait
For the things you do now matter
The love you share
The minds you open
The laughter you cause
The warm unbroken

All the things I want for you
They are here in your heart
I love you
So no matter what
You are in my heart.

  • Polls

  • Ye Olde Archives of Fury

  • Top Rated

  • Top Clicks

    • None