Cats in Pants (Trigger Warning)

William decided the best place to curl up and rest today was in my Pants. I was wearing them at the time. This is my concequence for preferring my clothing be loose. If I wear pants they must be two sizes too large and soft. I was sitting in a comfortable position, that would probably look weird if that sort of thing mattered and my arms just wouldn’t hold his fifteen pounds. He promptly curled up to take a nap, which caused me to laugh for half an hour, even though the end result was that my cat pantsed me. He reminded me that I need to laugh more. I usually laugh once a day but for the last few weeks I have fought depression.

William Shakespurr curled up in my pants, he is black and white. The pants are black velvet.

William Shakespurr curled up in my pants, he is black and white. The pants are black velvet.

The post I recently wrote about my worst secret should’ve left me reeling. Past experience tells me that addressing that issue in anyway debilitates me for weeks. I think I was finally ready. That readiness doesn’t  make writing any easier on the topic of healing. My distractions and triggers are still persistently here.

I am not sure what left me ready to write that post. I am not sure it was readiness so much as a desperate need to communicate the pain. I was telegraphing communications, and the conflicts I was facing because of my silence were too great. Perhaps it was the need to survive. I still cannot say the words that make up the events outloud.

A part of that is required censorship by my abuser. The threats of violence echo in my mind even when I type. He is dead but the fear isn’t. A part of it is the censorship that is required to protect my mother and siblings who need to be protected. Why do I feel they are so vulnerable? They have never left the battles behind. I see them as more haunted, more sensitive, and more fragile. This is partly because of the very messages they gave in response to my first attempts to address the abuse.

Another part of this is a physical memory that comes forward as part of my PTSD. Those hands on my throat, they make the words vanish. The third part is my fear of being judged. I am not sure how rape is ever the fault of an eight year old child or any other child or even adult man or woman but that fear is there. The fear of being told you deserved it.

There is so much poison in this world. It took me years to learn to hug, to smile. Now hugging is unbearably painful. I feel the loss of those hugs greatly. Still, the strangest things happen and the smallest reason to laugh is good enough. I can laugh at my cat in my pants. I can take pictures of my cat in my pants. That is a huge difference in who I used to be.

My default expression is a smile. I am always smiling, unless I need to cry or if anger and sorrow are what I really feel. I no longer wear a mask to hide who I am. I see the world in music and hear it in color. I am free. I hope you enjoy seeing my cat in pants.

Find your own moment with a cat in pants, with anything to smile over. Maybe it will be your sleeping child, maybe it will be a butterfly on a newly blossomed spring flower. Maybe it will be slapstick comedy. As I write this, I am watching my two cats bathe one another. It is a sweetness that makes my smile grow.

A smile is like a flower. It must be fed happiness, watered with tears of sorrow, ferilized with life, and tended. A smile is a flower that can always be in blossom.

Aftermath (Trigger Warning)

After I wrote the post last night I cried for an hour, I tried to talk with my Person and wound up just asking him to read the post. He understood a bit before, but after he read my words he could not argue with my need to have him seek out the words. I was so drained that I could barely keep my eyes open. I was almost asleep when I shifted and felt something under me. I shifted to try and get off of it, I thought it was a pen, as I often lose them in my blankets and do my work from my bed when I have to.

I couldn’t find the pen. Moving around had woken me up enough to help me realise I had to pee, if I hadn’t then I would’ve been awake in two hours and more off balance. So, I went to the bathroom. My body had a somatic reaction to the memories combined with an existing abcess due to the Hidradenitis Supprativa. To explain, I must add to the details of last night. Part of what I left out was the mention of genital mutilation. My father used my vagina as an ash tray. I have scars from both the HS and his gridning out lighted cigarettes in my flesh. I don’t know if I screamed but if not it was only because I couldn’t physically.

The pen I felt was an abscess that ran the length of my canal and was as wide as one half of my vagina. The size means it was there for a while, but the stress or perhaps the freedom triggered it coming to a head. It hurt. I called my person and asked for medical supplies, then I started trying to figure out what it was. It felt like dough with a liquid center. I ran my fingers up the length of it and at the head the abscess filled my hand. It didn’t burst the first time, but there was blood on the gauze. I did it again, and the mass got bigger. This time it burst.

It took a long while to get it fully drained, but, after the initial pain I felt only relief. Yes, that was a serious infection, and yes I have notified my doctor and we discussed treatment. The treatment is for me to keep it clean. If it fills up again and I can’t keep it drained I will go on antibiotics. We are waiting because of my allergies to all antibiotics, each has a reaction so it has to be worth it for me to take the pills.

While draining this wound I was forced to deal with my femininity directly after reliving the trauma. I never want to be female after, because in my mind it would’ve been somehow better if I was a boy. That justification didn’t hit me, nor did the self hate. I felt sorrow but not hate. I had to love myself to tend my wound. The world didn’t end and I continued to function. We did lock William out of the room due to my flashbacks. He would be in danger. Sprite is able to help me with my PTSD and set right to work once the medical gore was taken care of. She watched from the floor while I cleaned and waited for my Person to shut the door. Even now, she is at my side, resting with me.

There was a dream but it was not a nightmare. I was simply a butterfly fluttering in fields of flowers, the wind playing a song in the trees. Everything was peaceful. I flew up into the sky and there I became the wind and began to sing. Once I blew through the trees I became the tree and I grew. I am an oak and solid, I will be here for generations, I will outlast the injuries and pain. I am rare, I am strong. I then was the acorn, falling to the earth. I turned into a flower seed and fed the butterfly, before I was flying up again, on brightly colored wings. I have some tears that are falling as I share my dream. They are tears of joy. They feel different than the tears I shed in sorrow.

They are soft, and light. They are cleansing. I am looking at my wall, where I have a mural made out of butterfly stickers. They fly up, and up, swirling around a Jonathon Earl Bowser card I was given, around one another. I should finish the mural. I can hang the moon, and they can fly higher. I still feel safe. I feel free. There is more life inside of me than before. The infection is purged. I can keep growing.

I am not afraid to look at myself in the mirror. My person cannot see the scars in my flesh, he only sees the woman that I have become. The child who died that night can finally be laid to her rest. She can finally have her peace. I can finally be whole.

I am not sure when this all happened. Any survivor or victim or victim survivor knows this is a process. I have done this mostly alone, which may have made it harder. The alone was not wise. The alone made it harder. The alone felt safer. I no longer have to be alone. I have so many wonderful things in my life, wonderful people, and it is time to grow.

I have knowledge that is new too. I became a dancer because of that night. I couldn’t bear the stillness. Being injured and paralysed trapped me in fear. I denied the truth, I denied just how afraid I had been of being injured once more. When it happened and I lost everything, I secretly thought he had won. When I saw him after, my terror was not just of him hurting me but of him seeing he had won. He only saw that he had lost. I miss the dancing, but, knowing that I chose that path to spite him I can let it go. Perhaps I will teach someone else to dance, perhaps I will choreograph a dance with women who have survived or who have been victims. To celebrate what we are. It is time to grow.

Sink your roots deep, raise your branches to the sky.

Violence (Trigger Warning)

I keep rewriting this post. Violence is bad. We all know this. Violence is often celebrated in our culture. In the US most of the television shows, even for children, include some sort of violence or attempt to teach children what boys do and what girls do. Girls like fashion, pink, and hair. Boys like to fight, are great leaders, and work. Bull pucky. The media also rarely illustrates that women can be violent.

I am capable of killing. I am not capable of murder. I know that if I had to kill someone to defend myself or the ones I love, I could. I discovered this when I was young. I am very loyal, it is a part of my nature to protect people. This does come from my history with violent abuse. If I could take the pain then I could save my sister or brother. They used to do that as well. Each one of us did our best to be the only one in pain. I am capable of killing, but, I never have.

I have had run ins with so many things, my life sometimes reads like a fiction novel. I never used to think about writing nonfiction, so afraid of being told I had dreamed it all. My biological mother and I talked on the phone today, partially about violence. The violence of doctors.

When I was eight I began to see a psychologist. After the first meeting they handed my mother a prescription for Zoloft. The pills made me sleepy. I hated taking them, because I couldn’t think. My father was still around, and taking the pills at his house always meant more pain. My reflexes were already slow, how could I fight back? I mentioned this to my doctor and the threat came. “If you do not take your pills you will be locked up with the other worthless children.” This doctor was a man, I remember falling silent, wishing to tell my mother. He threatened too that if I told her that she would be sent away, abandoning the others. I took the pills.

This man is no longer a doctor, he tried this on a competent adult a few years ago. There was a scandal, it made the papers. This was just after I fired him. He was the first doctor I fired. I spent years after that taking more and more pills. At one time I was on six antidepressants, an anti psychotic, an anti epileptic medication that they thought would make me not depressed, birth control pills to try and force my body to have a period, and a few other things.

When I threw up, I had to take a second dose. Doctor’s orders. There are chunks of my life lost not just to suppressed memories but to my brain shutting down from the constant overdose. Most of the medications I was on were not approved for children, just adults over the age of eighteen. I reacted to most of them. Being allergic to so much, that is no surprise. Throwing up, bleeding with each dose, and hallucinations weren’t big enough side effects to be taken off of the drugs.

I was more violent during that time, as they tried to fix a chemical imbalance that did not exist, due to the drugs. They are not the only reason I lashed out at the world. Abuse does that, it teaches people to strike before they get hurt. I barely remember assaulting my best friend in High School. She touched my sandwich and teased me for it. I remember the anger and seeing her on the floor but not the act of hitting her in the head with a chunk of wood.

This was caught on film, there were witnesses. I went into a psychotic rage over food. I have some serious food issues, and I thought she was going to take my food. The fear of being deprived was so strong, that I had to protect myself. This was what I knew, I never knew people could share. I was a beast, primal in my reactions. She did not suffer permanent damage but was hospitalized for it. This lead to the only psychiatric hospitalization that benefited me. Hospital hiding the institution, feeding on itself and drugging children. Teaching them first hand who Nurse Ratchet was.

The reason being I finally needed help. I was shunted around the state, with my history and diagnoses no one wanted to treat me. It feels familiar at times with doctors, sending needles into my heart. I was misdiagnosed with mental health conditions. One to explain every disability. I was accused of things, such as self mutilation that came from my disabilities. I was lazy, I was stupid, I was just not good enough. Years of that, a decade in fact, of being told how worthless I was by doctors and I did not trust them.

I was sent to an experimental facility. The Ranch, as my family calls it, was a peer support program. We did see therapists, and we did have medication given to us but we lived in a boarding school environment. The program depended on it’s recipients to function. This made a difference, as I found people my age I could talk to. This was a first. I also learned I was not alone. At the other facilities you were shoved in until you behaved for three days or so, then went home. In and out like a yo yo.

Each of the children at the Ranch had been in and out as well. Most were not from New Mexico, but a few of us were granted access to keep diversity up. There was violence there, though there was also nature. The Ranch is the only place I have ever been able to drink the water. The water came straight out of the ground. The first thing the doctors did was take me off all of my meds. They gave me two months before they started me on another. They came so close to freeing me from my shackles of medication. The medicine they put me on did change things, it seemed to reverse some of the damage to my brain from the drugs that came before. I stopped losing my hair, I gained some weight and lost some girth. I even began to smile sometimes.

I also met horses. I was one with nature there. There was silence at times, and there was bonding. That was where I learned I could love. The fact is, my father was a diagnosed psychopath. Even knowing this these “great” doctors did not seem to consider that my behavior was environmental. The ranch is where I learned about PTSD. It is also where I learned that flashbacks were not just my burden.

One of the other dorms, full of boys, found a dog. I was triggered when the dog came to us bleeding. The flashback lasted for six hours. I relieved my father killing people’s pets because I liked them. I still cannot go into detail on those horrors without triggering myself. This poor dog was hungry, lost in the middle of no where, and then was assaulted. When he came to our dorm, my brain left. I woke up, and found that the world had for once stopped for me.

This was my turning point. It wasn’t being threatened with institutionalization in the adult hospital, it wasn’t the new drug. It was coming back to myself and finding that every girl had stopped what they were doing, had sat in a circle around me and the dog to which I was clinging and waited. When I stopped screaming, apparently I had been, my roommate asked what happened. When I told them, no one told me I lied, no one told me it was my fault. The first time in my life, someone hugged me and cried with me. No one punished me for needing help, a first in my life.

I was on the cusp of adulthood when this finally happened. I was about to reach a point of no return, trapped in the system. They saved me from my violence, and I saved them in turn. I love each of those girls still. Someday I may cross their paths again, though I do not plan to admit it to them if I do. We each deserve the right to deny our childhoods to an extent.

I spent my childhood dying daily. I am certain that not every therapist was bad, I do not remember them if they were not. I only remember the incidents of threat, of lies, and of burden. Child psychologists often can get away with crimes and breaking the rules of conduct that their profession has. Not all of them do, but, an adult has power over a child. A psychologist is alone for at least an hour with a child, and some of them abuse this power. I had one who found out I would turn on her like a dog hit one too many times. She spent the sessions telling me about her husband’s erectile dysfunction, and telling me I was fat. The male doctor who gave me the pills threatened me each time with different torments. One of the other psychologists took part in encouraging the children at my school to burn me at the stake.

It is no wonder that I hated the world. Until the ranch only a few teachers had ever shown me adults could manage to not hurt me. Each of them saved a part of my soul, saved a fragment of hope from the violence. My mother did try, but, it seemed hopeless that any of her children would turn out to be a healthy adult. How could we? She wasn’t. We only knew violence.

Perhaps the violence I know tempered me? I doubt it. I believe it was the small bits of love I could find. I do not believe the Ranch did all the work in saving me, I think instead they unburied the ground work set by another.

After Toastmasters I will write of my first Sensei, I will tell you of my time as Little Lotus and how the Batman was my father until I was six. It sounds silly, and the fantasy was. It still held violence but my Sensei taught me ways to thrive, not just survive. I will also write about my experience with hate and nearly being burned as a witch.

We, the subjects of oppression are forbidden anger, we are forbidden violence. Even when it is used against us, violence is often attributed to us. Those with mental health issues, mental disabilities, and physical disabilities are vulnerable to violence in unique ways. When defending ourselves we are demonized. Women who show anger are told to simmer down, they are told that their anger is inappropriate. Some are raped to control their power, to try and punish them for anger. Persons of Color of any gender are also forbidden anger. The stereotypes tell how violent they are, and yet when a man is shot down for his skin color and people get angry, the murdering cops get away with it because the people get angry.

Violence is all around us, it is on the TV, it is in books, it is in my beloved comic books. Violence is in our history. It is sadly in our future. I mourn for all the children and those who once were children who know violence. The kiss of violence is the scar of fear, the spectre of disillusionment, and the taste of bitterness that shatters dreams.

Violence is the most horrifying entity that has ever been introduced into society. Violence is not a part of human nature, it was taught. We learned it from somewhere. Violence is not never ending. The cycle can be broken. I have broken the cycle in my family. Even when attacked I try to protect myself without violence. How do you survive violence? How do you endure?

Anger is violent. Violence is a poison. My antidote for violence is to sing, to write, or to create something. To be violent is to become what you fear. Fear can turn to anger, anger turns into violence. The cycle swirls around. I created this post not just to educate, but to share. I want to share my peace. In order to do that, you must see my pain too. I fear these words most of all, therefore I offer them up to transform and fly into the universe like butterflies, unlocking the caged minds of others. I write these words not with anger, but with sorrow for who I was, mourning for the death of innocence as I knew it, and with love. The love is not just for myself, though I truly love myself. It is Wishing Love, I wish love upon each and every person in this world.

I wish love upon you, for whoever you are you do deserve love. I may know you, I may not. I embrace you with my soul. I offer you a haven of knowledge, a haven of peace, and a haven of change. I am a butterfly. Here you too may learn to fly.

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