Fragility

I try to never admit that there are parts of me that are fragile, to myself. To you? Sure. There are very few things that I don’t write about, and the few things that I do not write about are either things that could endanger my safety or things that scare me too much to think about. Fragility is the only one that fits into that last category, at least when I admit the full grasp of the depths of broken that go along with my upbringing. I do not know how to mourn. I feel like something cracked deep down inside, it feels like an old wound and it is just there.

I know a huge contributor is my tears, they burn me. Why would I want to cry if it could end with me having blisters and no skin? It is unpleasant and yet I do cry sometimes. I am crying now. I amtrying to not cry infront of Ny because I don’t want her to be sad. Sprite is doing the same, a sort of clownish over playfulness that turns off the minute Nymph curls up in the bathroom or in bed. I told her flat out when we got home and I have never seen Sprite look so sad except for twice. When I was sick and almost gave up on living a year ago, just before I found my current home and when she was electrocuted and was on the edge of dying. Both are very good reasons to be sad.

Sprite is the only reason I didn’t kill myself and instead called just one more number. I had held the knife to my wrist and she let out this sad meow. It was so quiet I almost didn’t hear it but she didn’t say no, she didn’t say please, she said love. Sprite loves Nymph. I love Nymph. I want to be strong for Sprite and I don’t know that I can.

I am emotionally fragile. I talk about the whys a lot but not the actual inability to handle emotions. This is PTSD not Autism. I know that my actual processes if they were normal would be different but with PTSD there aren’t processes for emotions. There is numb and then this internal scream that won’t stop once numb goes away. When the scream stops, the emotions like grief are not really gone but they are smaller and the other emotions hide them.

This is why my mother told me I was a monster for obeying my grandfather and not crying for him after he died. His last words to me were, “Always sing, it makes everyone happy even if they lie and say they hate it, and never cry for me. I want to die, because I hurt and there is nothing left for me to do in my life.” He had cancer, and he did die of natural causes. I wanted the doctors to die too, I was so angry and I was told all grieving is are tears in public when everyone else dresses like a Goth.

I know better now, but I don’t have any real tools. I almost lost my cool today because I cried in public. I couldn’t hold the tears back until alone time, partly because the vet was on the verge of tears. This says nothing about their professionalism and everything about how amazing my cat is. She had the entire office wrapped around her tailtip with in minutes of our first visit. In fact, I felt safe enough to cry there and that is my vet’s office, forever and ever. Until I move like I always have sworn I will at least. Eventually I am going to write about palliative care and animals, because animals and the disabled get a short end of the stick on medical care. The very fact that the first thing my vet said to me was, “Okay, lets talk about how we can make her comfortable,” instead of the usual FIP line of, “Well nothing to do now, let’s euthanise” shows the very real difference in care that these people have.

Nymph has days to live, and yet I will always love her. This also confuses me. It always has. The first cat I felt this strongly for died from FIP, I was not home and I have to say I don’t know if my mother lied to me because the cat was symptom free, and she didn’t tell me for years what killed him. I still think an abusive husband did it to punish me for talking to the cats like a “weirdo”. He didn’t seem to understand that this cat, a wild cat that came to us with his sister both of whom despite being my sibling’s pets officially only played with me was my friend not just a pet.

This sense of fragility, to describe it in my head the image is antique glass. A thin sheet of glass with the bubbles in it, it can warp the outside view slightly, making everything softer but it’s too thin and once it cracks you cannot repair it. It is in a house that has various repair, a good strong foundation but this glass is in every window, and every window is cracked and for some reason it cannot be repaired. IT just cracks further each time there is great pain in my heart. My heart is not the same as this glass, though it is similar. My heart has recovered from so much pain it is more like a statue that no one ever finishes, but it beats and moves. I think the glass house with the cracks is haunted too. It’s haunted by all the love I wasn’t allowed and all the feelings I had to put away. No one lives there, it’s an empty space that holds screaming. I don’t like this house. I don’t like fragility.

I know I cannot take endless amounts of pain, at least not more. Pain has been a life long companion. Pain is the big sister to my Depression and Rage. Those are the triad of emotions that I know best. I can handle pain. It is the sense of overwhelming sadness, or love, or hope that throw me off. Hope is the worst thing I have ever experienced. Yet I want more. I say I don’t but I do. It’s soft, like Sprite and Nymph and it purrs. Hope is a feline emotion. It’s that first moment when I wake up and I feel the heat of the cats against my back, it is when Sprite head butts my chest and climbs up to lay on my shoulder, or when she makes me laugh by playing Farmville by herself. Something I haven’t been able to let her do since my couch broke but we’re working on that because it makes her happy. It’s the best feeling besides love, which I often say I don’t want because it overwhelms me and it cracks that glass when who I love is lost. Rose cracked the glass. Nymph cracked the glass the moment I met her. I looked at her and I loved her and that terrified me.

What happens when this glass, which I know is related to my endurance, cracks all the way? I am very much afraid of that. I can hear it cracking. It isn’t the same as the ice that cracks under my feet in my head with this. I am surrounded by shattering. I don’t know if I can take more loss. I am now terrified and a part of me wants to run to my mother and grandmother and let them destroy me because I might regret this once I lose them. It is the self beneath the ice, which is the numbness come to think of it, that knows better. I am not drowned under the ice but there I am in that space which terrifies me mentally. It is a dark space but it is the space which I am most comfortable. It is my face under the ice which makes it scary. I am crying there. I can see my eyes, so blue through the ice. I can see my face. I am that pale in reality, but for some reason I fear the ice breaking. What is under the ice is where I put the anger that scares people, and me. My anger has always been demonized, and I can handle it but can I handle it if the ice and the windows are gone? A house with no mirrors made of glass that is shattering slowly and ice that is cracking.

It is a house built by a child long ago. It is a house with a memory I don’t want to come out. In reality that is what scares me the most about my fragility. It has always been there and I have shattered twice before. What comes out when I shatter? I never remember. Each time I have shattered I look at it is as if I have died and been reborn but this time maybe it is healing to break the windows? I cannot know until they break and I don’t like this feeling.

I dreamed of Rose, telling me she would take Nymph’s pain. I dreamed of this the night I woke up and Nymph was so cold, her fever was gone and she was finally resting well. I woke up and there it was. Hope. That was when the cracking started. I was so afraid to actually hope and this is why. I knew on Monday she wasn’t going to live but I wanted to be wrong. I am tired of knowing things. I am tired of having so much knowledge that I cannot help but be right about facts in the worst of times. Fact doesn’t always let you hope, and for someone who is not very good at feeling anything, fact is easy to hide behind. Still. I cannot change the broken glass, and there it is. A part of me honestly hopes that when the windows shatter and those ghosts come out, one of them includes forgiving myself for the sins I did not commit, and when the ice melts I pray that I find it was me all along, and though that image of myself scares me it is likely similar to why a lot of people cringe when I am angry, especially when I am quiet in my anger, and that it was me all along and nothing changes except that maybe, I buy new windows and live in the house. A part of me wants this victorian manner to be a safe place. Maybe it used to be. Maybe it is the house that innocence built and hate made empty. I will find out. I do know that when Nymph is gone, I will be forever changed.

I was forever changed the moment I met her. I was forever changed the moment I felt her temperature. I was forever changed by every moment between. Every choice. Frankly, I have never had an experience where I felt so supported by so many people before, perhaps the ice is melting on that loneliness I don’t ever talk about, because it has been there for as long as I can remember. Nymph and people like her, those fleeting moments of people that change you, the people who once you meet them are gone once they do whatever loving they can? Like my sensei, like some of my teachers, like everyone I have ever loved, each of them does the loving they can and then we part, they are the best people I know. Not all of them are human but frankly, my cats are better than many humans ever could dream of. How many people can say they have a cat that teaches them french? Sprite of course.

The fragile part of me that is breaking it is not all of me, it is my core. It has broken before and I am still here. It has been burned, it has been beaten, until it shattered. This time, with the pain no one outside of me is hurting me. It is merely a part of life. I have decided several things, first and foremost if any of the research labs locally want to use Nymph’s remains to help find a cure for FIP then that is what will occur with her body. My belief is for cremation so that is the second choice. Nymph doesn’t care, she said so. The nurses at the vet’s office were shocked when I asked if they could contact these places for me, one said she hadn’t ever thought anyone would think of that. They ask sometimes but not always. The second thing is in Spring I will plant two trees or permanent type plants. One will be a rose bush, the other I don’t know yet. These will live here and whereever I eventually move to, because I will I promised Nymph someday I will live in a state that makes me happy, I also promised Rose that, she demanded it one day, I will plant the same plants there wherever I end up permanently. If no place is permanent then there will be a lot of plants. I think Ny’s may be a butterfly bush.

Finally, no matter what happens when the ice cracks, which does mean it is melting because this is very thick ice, no matter what comes out of the house of broken dreams, the house that innocence built, that haunted house in my soul? I will keep on living. I am constantly walking on a knife’s edge of depression and suicide and that has been for my entire life. I feel happiest when I am at my gothiest so I am going to resume showing that on my outside. If it makes me happier, why am I ignoring it? Pushing it away? I remember when I made the choice to try and blend in more for work but I don’t work a traditional job, when I do work well, I can wear whatever the hell I want!

I also will write that book about PTSD, and I think what comes out of that house may be chapters or a segment on how emotions change when you are no longer nuerotypical. I also forgive my mother for something, I feel it. That actually annoys me, because I don’t like forgiving her she’s a horrible mother and screws up constantly. I still do love her but when she does not change the hate and pain she causes, there is no reason for me to forgive. Yet, I forgive her for not knowing how to feel. I realize when her father died from all sorts of lovely genetic conditions her mother who has always been a broken piece of humanity, and in this case the worst of humanity, she didn’t let my mother grieve. My mother stopped growing up at the age of eight. As did a lot of me. I forgive her for not knowing but I will never forgive my grandmother. I already told Grandma Murray that, because she asked me after yet another emotional attack to do so. I will not forgive repeat offenders, but my mother’s offense was ignorance and childishness.

This does not mean I am going to let her into my life en masse, I don’t think she wants that anyway. It would also be very bad for me. I have hopes about what comes out of this space full of cracks, and I really do hope a part of it is my innocence. Who knows, maybe my dreams of demons will fade away and the dreams that are “normal” and “healthy” will suddenly spring up? Though that my scare me too. Whatever comes, I will be here. I promised Nymph. I promised Sprite. I promised myself. That last promise is the most important of all.

If I can figure out how to love, then grieving though not an easy task is one I must learn. It is a part of love. You can only mourn the dead if you love them.

Emotional Agony

So often, I find myself belittling my emotions. This is another practice from childhood, and it can defeat me. It sets me up for failure, infects my heart with discord, and leaves me acting as an Angry Cripple. It is a challenge to fight the urge to tell myself how little my pain matters.

recently I have been displaying some of the life long bits of my soul here, many of which bear bruises and scars. This is painful. There are over 100 posts that have been written but you will never see, because they hurt too deeply. Some have been rewritten, to remove the deepest secrets, hiding them.

I realize this is not something that is unique to me, and is instead very common especially with Women who have disabilities. A disability is anything that interferes with functions of daily living, and therefore I do count mental health issues as disabilities. Not all disabilities are so severe that you alter your life and build it around them, but, that does not mean your reactions to those “minor” disabilities have any less validity.

I am writing this post, because I have heard five times in the last two days, read it twice, and tried to deny a growing anger that these words cause this lovely statement, “Just looking at you, I realize how little my pain matters.” This is crap. This sort of thinking and self devaluement leads you down the path towards self hatred. Self hatred is usually just a mask for inner pain, layered with anger and other poisons. Stop it.

I know, my body is a very good example of what you do not want to live in. My body is not your body, and although my pain is epic to me, there is someone out there who has it worse. I can name names, I know of faces, and there are people who walk, that still have it worse than I do. My pain is equal to yours, not less, not more. Equality in Pain is a concept that I learned about when I met a girl in the mental health ward. I was actually addressing the issues of my sexual abuse, and, she tried to empathize, revealing why she was there.

To me, the reason, not revealed because of confidentiality and respect of this person, is small. It is insignificant in my estimation of abuse. To her, it was earth shattering. Her world exploded. It took me a lot longer than my stay in that facility to understand the concept offered there. What we experience shapes our views. I cannot show you what I see, but I can try and paint a picture for you.

There is no reason to compare experience. Identical Twins rarely share the same outlook in life, every person is as unique as a snowflake or a butterfly. None are identical, despite outward appearance. It is rude to devalue them or yourself based on your own experience. This brings us of course to racism, ableism, and sexism.

When you say that racism does not exist, it is not truth. It is perspective. You deny someone else’s experience and that wounds you both. You might not understand their anger at your words, and they might lose respect for you. They may not understand too a lack of experience. This does not justify your denial of racism, but, the caveat is that you can learn from the responses to such statements.

Equality is in my estimation impossible. I am an idealist however, and fight for the ideal. Someday, I might just be proven wrong. I do not remember the author though I think it was Vonnegut, but I once read a science fiction story where everyone was made equal by devices that made everyone see, hear, and think at equal levels. They even ate the same food, very bland, all people were the same. This world was horrible, everyone was in pain, tormented, and unable to function.

This was normal for those characters, until one could not be contained. He was above average, so far so that the devices could not contain him. He became violent, lashing out to try and wake the people up. It did not end well. I think of this story often when I forget why people are different.

I do not want to be just like you, and you definately do not want to be made physically equal to me. I would not wish this body on anyone. I also wouldn’t trade it for yours. I couldn’t function with another body or mind, this is what I know. Your pain is pain. Your anger is valid. Your tears, your joys, all of them have as much importance as mine.

I have said this outloud to people, before. Trying to make them stop. Sometimes people devalue their pain in an attempt to pity me. I need no pity. I am a brilliant star burning in the sky, and I know it. No person needs pity. Those who pity are merely blind to the simple fact that everyone is valid, necessary, and capable of something important.

Before you protest, stating that people with cognitive disorders cannot be productive in society, let me correct you. Autism counts as a cognitive disorder, though, it makes my world absolutely brilliant and colorful. I couldn’t trade up, just down. Downs Syndrome doesn’t make a person invalid. Every person with Downs I have met experiences more joy than I can comprehend. You point out that those in vegetative states do not add anything, and, I say bunk. What they did before their brains were injured counts. Every living person has a right to fair treatment, health care, and love.

Emotional equality too, prevents the need to debase someone, to be better than they are. It merely exists, as we do. I exist. You have the right to exist. I am angry for those who cannot see it. I mourn, for this knowlege is powerfully freeing. I dance with butterflies, I sing with the birds, I exist merely as I am and can be nothing else.

You are valid. Go love yourself.

The Rape of Innocence (Trigger Warning)

Literal. I lost my innocence, as defined as physical virginity to my father. It was rape. It was never consensual. Incest is bad. Typing these words is extremely difficult but my day has already been one full of tears, therefore, I am going to go with it. His excuse for rape, his reasoning that made it A-Okay to violate, subjugate, and to hurt me sexually was this. “You look just like my mother.” I was four years old. Today I was triggered. This isn’t an easy thing to admit, and I feel uneasy each time I come across things that remind me of him, and at times my PTSD is triggered by a harmful thing. Today I was already in a bad way due to pain, some of it is residual effects of my abusive childhood.

Some of it comes from feeling violated at having to see another doctor, since my service animal makes me unworthy of another. Some of it comes from this post on Feministing.com. I do not care that this game came from Japan originally. That does not make it better. I do not care that their society has a history of subjugating women, so surely all of their rape fetish bull is perfectly acceptable. Not to me. I want to reach out to the women of the world, for an uprising. It is in this moment that I state I am a feminist, in the definition that states I am pro women’s rights and equality, I am pro disabled equality, and I am pro mental health equality. I want to be healthy, I do not want to feel the edges of Victim burning at me again and again when I skim the internet, go outside, or even sometimes when I try and think of a happy moment. It is always there.

I am not the cause of my own rape. How can I be at fault for it? Yet games like this propagate the victim is at fault mentality. I remember when I turned my neighbor in. He was molesting me during the same period when my father decided to rape his mother allegory. I remember being asked by the prosecutor, at the age of five, if I wore short skirts to turn boys on. I didn’t even know what that meant. I remember, however, the after effects. I rejected my body, myself, and I tried to become a boy.

This attempt at maleness included trying to cut off my breasts when I was thirteen, shaving my head repeatedly (and discovering that my head is very lumpy) as well as rejecting my identity. I could not be Rebekah. I had to change my name. I did, as an adult. I found a name that fill sme with the sensation of security, health, and the desire to be happy. I do not cringe when I hear my name anymore. I never out grew the after effects of being raped. I was repeatedly assaulted through my life, and this was also used to overshadow real medical problems.

When I was eight years old my mother and father sent me away for hypochondria and Bulimia. It took adult hood to realize I never was bulimic. I also have a great deal wrong with me, and none of it is in my head, except what neglect and trauma put there.  All of my current illhealth cannot be attributed to the childhood neglect, but, a majority can. I am an advocate for anyone who needs it because there is so much to choose from. How do I choose between mothers and their need for proper nutrition, childhood health awareness, Celiac Awareness, Rape is Bad Mkay awareness, and the awareness that as a wheelchair user I need a door that is wide enough for me to not scrape through.

I am in tears today from pain, physical and emotional.  I am a woman. I am 24 years ago and it has been 11 years since my father last raped me. I have since seen him and he cowers with fear, he actually pissed himself when he saw me using a walker and fled in terror. I am not someone who causes fear but, I am a survivor. I was a victim and when I tried to say something, when I found out I should, I was denied that right. The district attorney felt that my case was not compelling enough because I was a mere child and had been sent away by my rapist for not being exactly what he wanted. I was denied justice, and I know my assailant is out there.

Knowing he is afraid of me doesn’t take away from being afraid of him. It does not take away from the sensation of the little hope I had being crushed because I wasn’t worthy of the time to take a bad guy off the streets. It doesn’t make it alright.

I hope whoever reads this finds either peace, awareness, and the understanding that if they themselves are a survivor of rape, abuse, or anything at all, that they are worthy. I understand as an adult why so few women report rape, when it is always the Victim’s fault. Eventually I will write more on my experiences with the mental health system as a child. I will write about my diagnosises, and the secrets that I am not sure my biological mother wants shared online. Someday she will google me and will discover that I am not the all accepting child she still perceives me as. I do not take the burdens she places upon me. I leave them behind.

I was about to submit this when I came across this in the comments on Feministing.com, another link. Amazon pulled the english version of the game, though it is still availible elsewhere. I am shaking with relief and rage. How do we protect our children when things like this pervade? What is to stop this from normalizing rape in our world? It might. It might not.

The Wheels on the Butt Go Round and Round…

Today is a busy day, and I hurt enough to make me want to not just crawl under a rock, but to make the rock cry to share my pain. This tactic is not healthy but it is very human, so, I must chant the mantra today that makes me feel the best. “Centered, warmth, healing light, none other shall have to face my plight. I am strong, I am beautiful, I am capable, and my bed waits for me to finish my tasks.” A little long but it helps me get going with a smile. I am eating a delicious breakfast made by my Male Person of Awesomeness, while he showers. The cats are both coming on our adventures today.

This will be our first time taking William Shakespurr out with us. Today’s activities consist of Veterinarian, Bank and the oh so fun Wheelchair Repair Trade off.  The wheels under my butt don’t want to go round and round. Since the first day I got my scooter things have been falling off. Getting it out the door to the house the first time I clipped the wall and lost a chunk of the plastic frame. The second time it was better but I clipped a rock at an SCA event (pebble sized) and lost a bit more. A rattle started a bit later and here we are Six Months into ownership of my own Personal Freedom Mobile, and it is broken.

Man of Awesome loaded it into the van and bumped an empty cardboard box, and the box won. The lights died and now half the time it won’t move. The scooter seems to be defective! What a concept right? It has had power issues the entire time I have dealt with it, but, I had no way of knowing it wasn;’t normal to have it whine, vibrate, jerk about, and rattle. The death rattle grew worse after it stalled out in the new apartment. I hit the wall goooood, and broke the plastic frame, and the entire system died for eight hours. I used the wall as a pillow, since my bed wasn’t home yet and everything else wasn;t here yet. I was the first piece of decoration in our apartment, a wall fixture I might add.

All comedy aside, this experience gave me a new light on the scooter. While it sucks horrible in many ways, those ways are made up for by the fact that I can race someone to the car, and WIN. First time in my life. I don’t have to try and brace my bosom so that they don’t smack me in the face, I don’t have to worry about a dislocated knee, I can zip right out there and not even break a sweat. I also have the freedom of leaving the house by myself for the first time in years. I don’t have to hide in my room if I want privacy and solitude, I merely have to get rolling.

The Maiden of ButtWheel Repair has warned that I might not be able to get this particular chair back, and that I might want to look at other designs. What I truly want is just a wheelchair shaped item, no long nose, just a nice, cushy chair. I would need to add on a few particulars, like a basket for the cat to sit in, and my sunshade, but, after that? I could maybe make it around some of the walls in the apartment, or maybe squish into that store that is barely inaccessible. Scooters add to the inaccessibility issue facing stores and their handicapped customers, though they are great for some people.

I already miss my wheels…

  • Polls

  • Ye Olde Archives of Fury

  • Top Rated

  • Top Clicks