Wait, I did WHAT?! (Maximum Trigger Warning)

This post, it’s the post no one can not be triggered by. So after the little line thing I will be babbling about things and they are scary but ….. yeah I am okay.

 

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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

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.

Little Flickers of the Candle

I mean for this to be a short post though often that is my intention and I have yet to muster one of those. I am listening to Sprite who is so soft and I am in that just woke up from my nap space still. I am making morbid associations that I can normally shunt away, I find it a bit fascinating. These are the little flickers of the mind’s candle. They are the sudden illuminations that can lead to a gasping breath as the ideas start to coalesce or clot together.

I am wondering if Sprite, who doesn’t actually like the traditional pet bed but who at the vet’s office when Nymph’s time came climbed in first, then settled down and waited with the little one actually understood that the bed was for Ny’s comfort? She has had them offered at various vets, and shunned them each time. She has her own of a sorts, it’s a lot more cloud like, a dark color, coated in catnip and she has yet to touch it. Though she was staring at it in her basket with this great look of melancholy. That or the cleaning of the basket and the addition of padding instead of a blanket is no longer “right” because it now holds no scent of the little paws and bright eyes she and I love.

There are now no hidden corners in which she can rest and inhale the warm scents, if now a bit musty, of Nymph. There are now no spaces or places in which to hide, really. Those were either changed, destroyed, or moved. This was necessary so that she can be healthy and whomever comes to live with us too. Yet I see the flickers of sorrow in her at this. Her pain is great. Not that mine isn’t but I feel hers is greater. She has never been this sad to be away from other cats.

Not Thor, whom she had wrapped around her tail and was her loyal male slave like creature. Not a lover, but instead the fetcher of toys and the kneeling footman awaiting instruction with the flick of her tail. She didn’t like his companion Mid-Knight much at all but was sorry he fell ill, Mid-Knight seemed to resent her more than she didn’t care too much about him. It was all her playfulness and rejuvinating his once quiet friend. This darned female had gotten Thor up to running up trees, despite being declawed. I always worried about Thor being allowed outside with his defenses gone, but he was not my cat. I could barely keep her in once we discovered her allergy there.

William Shakespurr, whose perfect owner is now dead as Craigslist displayed while I was companion hunting, he was not mourned for even an hour. The atmosphere was celebratory for both of us. His blundering forcefulness while endearing left us both with literal wounds and literal scars. My nearly dying at the hands of this cat was just too much to bear.

No, it was Nymph who wooed and won us. In fact I was unaware how much her presence had changed me. My doctor’s visit today helped showcase some of that. As she commented on the change and just how much cleaner things were, despite the layers of cat clothes which had been left to dry overnight on every available surface, I told her why there was so much cleaning. In fact the only real thing that needed a good scrub in general was my carpet but it looks so much nicer that it IS worth commenting on. Cat vomit stains are gone. I am doubly sold now on a carpet cleaner for myself. Yes, when I told her she was very sad. Then she looked a bit worried, and told me why she was worried

Nymph had been medicinally good for me. My blood pressure went back to normal, I had quite a long year of moderately high blood pressure. Normal for most people is high for me. I wasn’t as pale and pasty, though I am pasty again it isn’t the loss of Nymph but again, uterine dynamighting. She saw both Sprite and myself “blossom”. We became ourselves, as if the missing piece was found. That’s how it had felt with Nymphy too. That little sadness that is there is a ghost of the flickers of her candle. It’s her shadows, her scent. The ghost isn’t something Sprite or myself wanted gone either. Nymph smelled like chocolate to me. Sprite smells like sugar cookies (gluten free of course).

Thor smelled like grass. Mid-Knight’s scent was very gross, though that may have been the impending illness there waiting to be noticed. William Shakespurr smelled like pee, because he would roll in the litterbox after peeing. Very disgusting cat that one. Yet when I would lay with Sprite and Nymph on me I would smell them both and it was better than eating a chocolate chip cookie (dark chocolate chunks).

So as I wake up, via writing, I am left with the rest of the thoughts of her visit. She doesn’t think I am any more depressed than I was a few months ago. Grieving? Yes. Depressed? No. I am always a bit depressed but I didn’t lose any ability to the depression except that one hour a few months ago, before Nymph, when I had to choose to get out of bed because laying there was just being depressive and I didn’t let me. I’ve felt consistently good. Most of the time I am happy. I am death obsessed but, that’s par for the course given my life. My doctor says so. The amount of death I have dealt with outweighs most average US Citizen’s experiences. I think those studies (she could cite them, it was funny) are a bit focused on middle class white people but I could be wrong.

My exhaustion is definately a side effect of the gouts of blood. My blood tests show I actually have been cycling. My uterus is trying to WORK. My ovaries too. Damn them. She was relieved I refused birth control, and having had an anaphalactic response to Yazmin, I plan to continue to do so. That won’t stop this kind of bleeding as my blood is blood not a mix of fleshy bits that pass for blood to the unaware mind and eye. The color is wrong, there is no fade in or fade out as my body tries to get “things done”. I don’t have Cushings Disease, as was a concern for a long time. Yay, no need for Brain Surgery.

The thing is, she also is worried that my current doctor is ignoring the issue. She recommended I sue and move to … California! The fact that my best medical option is moving out of state irks me to a degree. She doesn’t think a hysterectomy is the right answer for me, sure it will fix the bleeding issue but it doesn’t tell us why I am bleeding, is invasive, potentially deadly especially in my case, and could screw me up if I don’t have an answer. It could be cancer but she still thinks, as I have said myself, that it isn’t likely. Not because I don’t have a higher risk or symptoms but because there are less deadly scary things that could be wrong. My hypothesis about Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome causing tears is the most likely. In that case, I have no clue what the treatment will be but I have guesses.

It was good to affirm what I already knew. I am fine, in fact I am hardly a flickering candle most of the time and feeling this weak is very annoying. I am not sure I am able to sue at this moment because of lawyers fees etc but I do like that she has some similar ideas on California’s climate. SHe specified LA, which is my aimed at city. I have a fantastic doctor.

I also started the process for a cat interview with Sprite, so maybe by Monday there will be another cat living here. The cat is a bit older than Ny, but then I thought Ny was too young. I am not going to age discriminate against cats at all. I just hope this set up works out. If not, then the cat’s previous owner/mother will regain property of said feline and that will be that. We’ll just try again. Sprite’s gotten down to sulking most hours because she is lonely and sad. I think another cat around to at least fight with a bit will do her wonders.

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.

Reasonable Fear (Trigger Warning)

I have been reminded in the last year a great deal that fear is never reasonable, except… I was wrong to tell myself this. Fear is most often quite reasonable and is a rather rational emotion. It is our reaction to fear that tends to be irrational. It is the flight or fight response that I have personally been taught to ignore. I didn’t put this together fully yet but I feel it.

I am very much in a bubble at times and in looking at places of California, trying to fathom living where there are more people in one town than in the entirety of my state I noticed the palm trees. My brain did it’s meta data response and I realized, Palm Trees have coconuts. My imagination made a three dimensional build up of a variety of coconut related cataclysms. These included death by coconut during earth quakes to random car accidents, and then they lost some sense of reality. So I asked if they grew coconuts, a logical question given that I wasn’t really sure about the biology of palm trees. I am still trying to resist the urge to read everything I can find about palm trees to stay my fears.

M my dear friend who lives beneath these Palm Trees of Doom assured me that they are sterile palms ordered specifically because of this. My mind now sees the city of Los Angeles as a fan of disabled palm trees, after all palms are generally used for food and that is how the trees reproduce. So, they are unable to fulfil most of their tree related daily living tasks. I am not sure why I went there in my brain but M being M assures me it is cute and he can see why this is a reasonable fear.

How could I avoid the trees? I am also afraid of fires and earth quakes and mudslides, all of which do occur in California. He has been through earthquakes without noticing them, something that I just cannot concieve of. Yet, my fear, despite the amusing mental images of Hollywood disaster movies with coconuts as the disaster and the myriad of things that could go wrong because of the coconuts, including them actually being bowling balls courtesy of the Flintstones and my allergies to coconuts are reasonable fears. They are in my mind because I either am vulnerable to them or I don’t know how to stop such things and everyone is vulnerable to the flaming coconuts being rained down from the firey palm trees.

I am also afraid to go somewhere expensive. I am looking at the cost of living and with housing, it isn’t worse. The food I need is less expensive, the housing is far nicer. I am just afraid of change in general. I have never really been anywhere with so many people. That and Venice appears to be a place where all the side walks are actually flat not standing on end or so broken up that you choose streets or sidewalks that end randomly with no way down and that’s if you are bipedal. I am afraid of going somewhere else, because I know that I will no longer be one of the smartest (okay that one may not be true) I will no longer seem worldly or cultured to the surrounding people, and their minds are open. Not just comparitively but despite a lot of flaws in general US citizens, California was the start of the independent living movement. I am effected by the actions of the open minded and willful who live and have lived there.

I am afraid of not being hungry, though literally I am full there are more options there for me to consume. There are more ways for me to be. There are things to do. I could go to a museum without it being dramatic. I am afraid of not being isolated by who I am anymore. I have never lived in any other place except this poverty driven world where all the bad things that happen to me are called fantasy. I am afraid that in this place so far from the evil I know, the evils I do not know are as bad or worse.

I am afraid of being so near the people I care about. What if I don’t meet their expectations? Distance has buffered them some of my horribleness. I am a great person but I am also capable of being cranky and raw. I am also able to hide a lot of my pain via distance. At least I think I do. That may be untrue which scares me too. M comments sometimes that every picture I have my eyes are full of things, secrets, pain, and the unspeakable things I have seen are there. He sees other things. He sees the softness I try to hide at all costs, he sees my hopes and dreams there, and he sees fear. He sees mostly heartbreak and he says strength.

I am afraid all of that will go away. I am also afraid that once I see the ocean I will stop yearning to stretch my wings and fly. All of these fears are reasonable. It is very reasonable for me to look at this life changing decision I have made that I keep remaking, and feel fear. Yet, why should I live somewhere that I am unhappy with just because somewhere looks expensive on the surface? The math is showing me that California is a valuable investment. The housing is better, the cities are cleaner in a physical sense albiet more polluted and populated, and instead of being near people I am terrified will find me who want me dead in plural as well as my mother who thinks she loves me but acts out of fear and hate…. I will be near a woman who is like a sister to me, my god children, and M.

M who I love so much that sometimes I cry out of fear of that love. M who didn’t let me give up. M who loves me too. I will be somewhere that I don’t have to hide every piece of myself when I go outside. I am afraid most of all of trying to live without the masks that New Mexico requires. It is ahborrent here, and I am terrified of this hope I feel when I think of living in California.

Yes it rains more there than it has in the last four years, yes it is sunny. It is not as hot as here, which is better and I have a theory that the rain being more than a rarity will make the disabling effects go away. Not the water allergy but, that’s what long sleeves are for. Plus, if I go to California, I can stop crying when I think about how much I want to be there. Even if the palm trees had grown coconuts. It would be worth it just to take the risk of being happy more than sad.

The only unreasonable fear is the fear denied, the fear that you let paralyze you into a mental, physical, or emotional death. Fear is a catalyst for change most often, it is the fear we treat as if it is an outsider that hurts us. So I embrace my fear today, and start to lay the plans into the great and wild unknown. I have taken on many burdens, and perhaps it is time to take on one that actually has benefits that I can see and account instead of guessing at the possibility of mere survival. Besides, I think Sprite would love the beach. She likes to roll in the sand here, and an endless swath of sand? She’d be in heaven.

Sleep Actions

Somatization is something I dislike, I prefer my subconscious to just tell my conscious what’s wrong. Usually this is how my brain works, something is bothering me, I think on it. Then I can fix it. I however sometimes reach one of those moments of such overwhelming crap in life when I cannot filter it fast enough to fix it and miss something vital. This leads to things like sleep walking, which I am not sure how I manage but I do. Then there are other things once I am upright and walking like a drunken zombie.

I had milk, you see. We had just gotten a half a gallon of milk for baking, I had just enough milk left over for pizza or bread after Ny’s death. That night I went to bed, looking at the cereal a moment and decided I would wait till tomorrow to eat the cereal. My craving wasn’t there in the morning and I didn’t note that I had eaten about a pound of cereal (I had two, now I have one) and the milk. I had dreamed about how delicious it was, the coolness of the milk in my throat. I even put back the empty jug.

When this was discovered yesterday, not the day of the occurance no I was alone that day to grieve and so it was missed that I had been up and about, I had been hurting more and I also had a horrible stomach ache. For obvious reasons. That’s a lot more food than I usually eat. I worried over this for a bit but mostly was amused by it. M my dear friend turned out to hold the key, it was in his question of “Why didn’t you get a stomach ache?” When I replied I did, but I wrote it off as grief it all snapped into place, because the day that Nymph was laid to rest overlaps the first anniversary of my not dying at the hands of Him.

That day when he was ousted from that hell hole he had built, his nest of putrid starvation overlapped the day that I made the choice that I thought would crush my soul. I missed PTSD triggers, and I didn’t eat enough that day because I don’t really eat when sad. So my body thought it was a year ago, my physical memories took over. The PTSD for starvation never stops, food itself is a trigger, being hungry is a trigger, and constant food cravings as well as having dealt with Bulimia Nervosa means I can’t always win. I guess I should say I am dealing with Bulimia Nervosa though lately my body image has been very good and it hasn’t been a challenge to eat for psychological reasons, financial reasons, or cooking reasons. Chewing reasons are another story but my jaw is in process.

M had been about to go to bed but he let me have the moment of flashbabbles where my brain essentially explodes and it all makes sense, except when it fails to make sense of course. Indeed, he couldn’t keep up but neither can I, I just ride the wave of thought. There is no stopping it, and it can be physically painful. The revelations though unpleasant were a relief. I was worried I might do it again, but now I know how to stop this, and I will admit I did this a year ago too. When I had the abusive carer before I was with the good agency.

I also have slept done stuff before when I tried Ambien, which was the first time. I don’t know why I kept it up but then again I am the child who used to sing opera arias in her sleep so my deep sleep has always been a bit off. I also don’t get to the point of sleeping that deeply unless I have exhausted all other options physically.

I know these paragraphs are short, I am thinking in star bursts still. I can’t stop it, and I stopped trying a long time ago, but usually the transitions are smoother. My haunted house, I have identified the building I think. Though I can’t pull up an actual memory of the house in Estancia where my family lived and I grew through the most painful years of puberty, At the very least the haunted house’s contents are mostly inventoried. It seems I locked away mostly good memories, though I was afraid of them because I didn’t have them. It’s small things, big things, and a huge number of sad things. All of them are beautiful to me, these antiques and artifacts of my life. I have fewer black holes in my memory. Also though my brain doesn’t have a time line but instead file folders of similar things, such as a door connecting them all etc, I can sense more memories there. This house needed it’s windows broken, it was suffocating not knowing some of this.

Things and people I forgot, the creation of the pet cemetary outside of my bedroom when we lost enough pets to make rows of graves in such a short time. Three years. 1o graves or more. All the flowers planted. The secret space in the trees. All the animals that I knew and kept hidden. All the times that Goldie would wake me, Goldie the yellow lab that was my first service animal even if no one knew about it. The way I felt when she committed suicide (someday I may write about that). This house is haunted by the ghosts of feelings never felt. My fear of this house was based on the fear of feeling, something that I battle daily.

So as I look at my black eye, it’s not noticable at all, and realize I must have done this while sleep walking I laugh at the image in my head and I find myself a bit worried that I was so overwhelmed with all the things I deal with day in day out that I forgot to celebrate survival. I am also relieved.

My actions in my sleep have reminded me that it’s okay to move on, it’s okay even if you don’t feel healed to risk the risks. It’s okay to trust M the Carer, M the friend, and myself. The Three Ms? Muskateers perhaps? Both M the Carer and M my friend have let me be a bit quixotic in my quest for living and my style of life. Both protect me and care for me, and neither one makes it feel like work. If I go for a jog in my sleep though I might get arrested. I sleep nude.

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