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.

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.

A Moment in Meow.

I usually start my writing by setting out the images of what I want to write in the title. Sometimes I go back and change it but not really. I can’t put a title on what just happened. A friend of mine hereto after known as the Shoe Goddess and I have been talking. If she wants her name associated with this that’s cool with me but I always want to offer that respect. She and I talked about PTSD recently, and I explained it to her because she asked. She thinks I should write a book and I have been naysaying in my head, I agreed but I haven’t set out to do it but have shied away. I know why. Before I go into the why I will say, I am going to write the book. During the week I am going to outline what I think needs to be covered, and then I will break it into chapters, the same way that I write for my blog. I am also writing a letter to survivors of rape so between the hospital, my body failing to fail the way I am used to, and the usual crap I come pre triggered.

I watched the Temple Grandin Biopic. At first I was angry at Temple, at least that’s what my brain took the feelings as. I even posted on facebook about finding the movie annoying. After about a half an hour I started to understand what had me so upset, at least another layer of it. The Nuerotypicals making the film made it so noisy that I was in pain. It wasn’t the person or the story that had me upset it was the constant noise over noises that they couldn’t hear. It was painful, and I reacted to that pain with anger. I find I have a lot in common with Miss Grandin, which startled me. It shouldn’t should it? The things in common are all autistic things. I also found myself suddenly burning with anger. I spent a good half an hour having a melt down after the credits rolled. It went like this. Credits roll, pills, go to bed stand beside it and start to scream because I can’t take it anymore and a car just went by with loud music which made Sprite run under the bed.

I tried to just go to bed but then my jaw snapped wrong and I got spit on my pillow. Which lead to more screaming. I hate spit on my pillow, partly because even my own saliva burns me. My tears burn me. My face is very red and sore because I cried. Sprite came to see what was wrong, as she always does when I am not okay and I realized what it is that calms me about her. I had a moment. I also just titled this post. The panic was still there, the pain, the sounds but I could think the instant I buried my hands in her fur and hugged her against me. She wriggled a bit because I was not wearing any clothing and missed the blanket. She dislikes the feeling of flesh. I try to respect that.

I petted her, she purred though because she was not comfortable it wasn’t a lot of purr. Then I clicked, I am stimming when I pet my cat. That’s why when I hurt I want her. When I feel the pain of being, because of all the things I think see and hear? I want her fur. Nymphs fur isn’t the right texture. Sprite is like petting a silken being, her fur is something I have never found a match for. So soft and yet it isn’t so soft it hurts. Sprite is in a word perfect, except for where she is not. She let me cry into her, her fur took the wet away so the burning hurt less.

I feel calm again, I can think again and she is bathing to get rid of the icky tears. I say they are icky, she just says wet. So, the PTSD trigger related to Temple Grandin is love. Love for me, witnessing other people who have things that I want, such as love, can set me off. I haven’t let anyone see me go off for years. I go away instead. Her mother tried. Her aunt tried. She had teachers. She had opportunity. She had education. She was seen as different but equal. I have never had that. That is part of why I am afraid to start writing. There is this moment when I get ready to write even my blog when I see every instance where my writing was destroyed. Even a few moments when I did it to myself because I thought I was bad and undeserving of writing. For me writing is painting a picture but the picture has a thousand little pictures. Each letter and word is a part of the image. When I write I don’t look at my fingers to hunt and peck out the letters but I usually close my eyes and imagine the shapes I want, the sounds, and the sensations.

I look at Sprite, and I look at Nymph who was very frightened but also came and curled up with me. I feel a bit guilty for not noticing her until after the fact though this tends to happen a lot. In the mornings she ends up lost in my blanket because I throw it off and roll thinking she isn’t there but she was tucked up against me all along and was what made the warm spot. I swear, she is warmer than Sprite to the touch and the feel. She weighs at most a pound, and when that pound is not on me completely I don’t pick it up. Then again I have a lot less feeling in my legs since the cramping started.

Medically speaking I am better. The bleeding stopped and the clots are disappearing. I don’t have to wear underwear at least for now. I am not expecting this to last for more than a day but I have blisters from the latex that no one else ever seems to react to in underwear. My skin burns constantly and I am still cramping. There is also a new and constant pain, so I know something is very wrong. This displeases me because I know I am going to have to fight for anyone to take this seriously, well anyone at this facility. I am still waiting on the appointment for the CT scan on my jaw as well. If I cannot lose myself, which does happen without my control, and do so without injury then there is a problem. I spent years mastering how to handle my freak outs. No one had guided me.

So I am jealous of Temple Grandin. It’s a white hot jealousy that is about things we were both born with. Family. I also want education but I cannot get there right now. I don’t learn things in classrooms and the set up for correspondence schooling is all wrong for me. I am going to self educate but suddenly I want a piece of paper. I want to see my name. I want to not have people react with shock when they find out I am not educated. I never liked that, some of these folks immediately presume I failed my way through the educational school brilliantly because I wanted to stun people with my mind. I think those people are a bit stupid and if any read my blog, well I think you are stupid for presuming anyone would want less opportunity just to impress people.

I don’t know if the piece of paper would let me write this book. I only think it is the excuse I am using now because my first thought each time I think on it is, how am I qualified to write about disability and PTSD? How am I qualified? I want to make it clear I know I am qualified and Dr.Not Autistic isn’t. Dr.PTSD is false but I write about it to make life harder isn’t. I know I am probably the most qualified person I know of to sit down and write about these issues, especially because I do so every single day. There are things I don’t publish but if I can write I do. I have given up many things but I will always find a way to get the fluid images into word.

I am still angry that people presume autistics don’t have imagination and that this is a symptom. This was the other thing that overwhelmed me, I connect thoughts in a way that is so similar to the visuals used that I am breathless but I imagine. I imagine constantly. I just don’t imagine like other people. It took imagination for Grandin to see what the cows see. It wasn’t a formulaic thought at all but something special. It takes imagination for me to do anything. I use my different mind to navigate the world. My memory of everything I have ever read, that comes into play when I am advocating.

So no more excuses. I am probably going to have to make Sprite wear a rain coat but even as I am dealing with this latest medical drama, I am going to start this book. A chapter a day, excluding days when I have appointments. Doctor’s appointments screw with my energy and writing does burn it off in the best of ways. There will be another post in a few minutes, I have been procrastinating about a topic as well.

I Have Rotten Lemons, Want Lemonade? (Trigger Warning)

I regret opening my email after my nap. I have spent the last two hours in a frenetic search to verify facts and details. I have foregone my evening blog read because I was introduced to the existence of Sharron Angle. Before I continue in my writing of this article I want to state explicitly that every link I give on this page will have something triggering on the other side.

The first thing I saw was the subject line, “Angle tells incest survivors “If you have lemons make lemonade.” I clicked the subject already confounded, but I had to know who this person was and what the lemons are. Lemons are fetuses. The Lemonade is teenage pregnancy without abortion even if your father or brother raped you. Let me be upfront, the things I read after this shocked me even further.

It seems that this woman has counseled incest survivors, she was a teacher at one point and is an elected official. This woman is now running to be Nevada’s senator. Her idea of counseling children seems to be convincing them it’s a great idea to risk their lives, when they do not want to, and that it is God’s plan to have them raped.

Sharron Angle is a white woman with red hair, she is wearing a blue shirt and is put before a blue background. She is thin.

Just like I was told. It is clear to me at this point that this, my second actual attempt at writing this, will still contain the personal. This woman wants little girls to forgive their fathers, to love them, and accept them. She has helped one girl get adopted away from her rapist father but of course the rest of us who no one listened to? Well we have to suffer it out. This woman also thinks the ObamaCare plan is a bad idea, that ERs should be able to turn people away if they are uninsured, and with her antiabortion status being so far to the extreme that I suspect some of her conservative counterparts raise a brow I think she just wants the underprivileged to up and die.

Of course if you HAVE medical care, are not disabled, are white, have not been raped by your father, and have not forcibly had an unwanted pregnancy you are going to be fine with these policies. Actually that isn’t true, many people do use their brains and know better. Though with her being elected I am struggling with that idea right now. Angle aka the Queen of Poovlidge USA wants to remove Medicare. She seems to think Social Security is Welfare, and I am surmising this part, I would expect she also thinks all of us with disabilities have families who can take care of us. If not well who cares right? We’re just people who get mentioned so that she can make her antiabortion policy seem less about her need to control everyone else and more about how much she loves people, especially us poor wittle ickle broken folks.

My body is responding to my PTSD right now. I can’t shake it off. I am queasy and I feel my father raping me again and again. I feel his fingers tearing open my vaginal walls. I feel his penis doing the same. I feel pain. The thing is, I feel that pain whenever I have vaginal sex or most stimulation. I feel reduced to a hole for my father and his friends to fuck again. I feel inconsequential. This woman’s idea that you can make lemonade by having an unwanted child at great risk has shaken me and made me feel two again.

I get that the girls in question are no longer two, but, having survived abuse I also know that the odds are against the rape that caused the pregnancy being the only one. In fact, rape is likely far from the only abuse they suffered. This woman has managed to dehumanize people with her words, bringing more than just the rape victim down.

I had to look into her to see who this Senator is. Be sure and read Senator with as much venom in the tone as possible, that is how it is written but there is no way I can show how snarly I feel in the text. Senator Angle. Should sound like the way Lex Luthor says Superman.

In attempting to read what used to be her personal website I find it inaccessible
. This woman that states she loves everyone regardless of ability has summarily cut off people with vision issues from accessing her site. She loves us disabled folk sooo much. My magnifier couldn’t help me much with the site either, the text is tiny on my screen even with the control + function and the magnifier that stretches across the top of my screen enabling my ability to compensate for my poor vision with most sites.

Her new site, made safer for her political aspirations is just as wonky, but readable. Even what is left up says quite a lot about this woman. Still there isn’t enough there so I keep looking, i go to news sites, I go to wikipedia, and I read.

This woman has a spokesperson that seems to constantly contradict what she says, as if by using the old “No I really meant…” will fix it all. She doesn’t want pot, alcohol, or drugs. Which is fine except we already tried prohibition. She thinks God has a plan for everything. She doesn’t believe in the educational system, despite being a teacher.

She also supports Bush, which influences me away from her yet a lot of people do. I feel shaken, as I stare at the words before me. All I can think of is lemons… my lemons are rotten. Is that God’s plan? Does your god converse with my pantheon? What ever happened to the separation of Church and State? I get it, everywhere has their issues yet using God to excuse your bad behavior, your lying in stating you value all life when legally mandating all pregnancies even at the cost of the mother’s life be carried out? Come on Sharron…

Lets talk woman to woman here. You don’t really like poor people. You don’t really think the disabled have any value. In fact you secretly think that these girls must have done something to deserve being raped. Why else would it be God’s plan right? Just between us girls now. You have never had to fight for every meal, you have never had to look at the money you have each month and wish you had enough for a pair of pants at walmart off their clearance rack, you have never been raped. I wasn’t sure I should state this definitively but my instincts and common sense tell me that if you had been raped especially by your father you wouldn’t call it lemons.

I do not sit here crying every day because I was raped, I am still living, but that does not erase the consequences. A baby would not have made my life better, even if it was adopted. Adoption isn’t a magic bullet, and the physical consequences of rape? Well those can be made worse IF the teen lives. Their bodies are still growing and aren’t ready for children. Then again you also think that a marraige is between only a man and a woman and that people only have two genders when there is plenty of evidence to the contrary.

I want to rail. I want to call you names, but I suspect that you will dig your own political hole. I wish that this sort of depravity you display was isolated only to one political party, and though your own republicans will call you an extremist they still vote for you.The Democrats will gasp in horror but they won’t do anything to definitely stop your ridiculous policies.

Sharron Angle for Senate, because dehumanization is a political win!

This message is brought to you by my indignation, PSTD, and lemonade! It is paid for my the tears of women and children being raped by their fathers everywhere.

Never Ends Tomorrow (Trigger Warning)

Never ends tomorrow, the little bird sang.
The girl was curious but turned away to the shadows.
The morning came.
The girl was dead.
The bird moved on it’s flying path.
Never ends tomorrow, the black bird cried.
The boy turned back to the shadows blood on his hands
The morning came
The boy was dead.
Never ends tomorrow, the raven screamed
The sun did not rise for the town
All were dead
Dead
Dead.
Never ends tomorrow.
Never ends tomorrow
Tomorrow comes today
The dawn brings blood and sorrow.
So on flew the raven, around the world.
It had grown up carrying this baleful message.
Never ends tomorrow.
Sorrow made the wings of the raven heavy
Sorrow made his voice coarse
Sorrow nearly silenced his warning
Then he saw below him one more to warn.
Never ends tomorrow, the little bird screamed.
The girl turned from the shadows.
She looked at the bird.
The bird stared at her.
Never ends tomorrow, the little bird sobbed.
The girl nodded and stepped out of the shadows.
The morning came.
But not yet was it tomorrow
The raven followed the girl
The girl danced in the sun
Morning came again and again
Her hair turned grey
Her eyes went dim
Never ended this morning
Not on someone else’s whim
Never ended when it was time
When she was grey and it was past the Raven Time
Never Ends Tomorrow.

Sirens made me cry. I felt for a moment that despair that I have worked so hard to shake. The despair came a day late? It only lasted a few moments but I cried. For that split second I wanted something, there are no words for the want. Perhaps there are, but I do not know them. I sit in silence, my tears shaking my world, and I hear the words that I whispered every year after that one.

Never Ends Tomorrow.

Each year I had meant to kill myself. This year, I mean to live. Perhaps this is the tomorrow, and never turns out to be a bad thing? I do not know. All I know is this, Never ends tomorrow so I am going to live and fight today. Tooth and nail, heart and claw.

Mental Gluttony and a Year Like No Other. (Trigger Warning)

Today I expected to not function. I couldn’t sleep last night until so late that the sun had started to rise, but this is very normal for me. I woke up a bit early and I felt… refreshed. I knew I would still have to nap a bit extra today so I dealt with things. My caregiver called in sick, and I am telling myself she’s just hung over because I worry about people. The agency failed to send a replacement which means my home is filthy. Normally this level of mess makes me feel a panicking sensation in my gut, because I know it will never end. I know I cannot fix it. I am going to die with half eaten pizza and cat toys all around and no one will love me. I am wo- and that’s where things are different this time. I am not a worthless being that is going to die, but I am me.

Maybe it was my discovery and consumption of Claymore alternated with Full Metal Alchemist Brotherhood. Maybe it was the fact that for the first time in my life I let myself do something that I know is only wasteful, no ifs ands or buts about that, and I have no regrets and found the waste is far less than I anticipated. Maybe it is because I spent time to prepare mentally for today and focused on reminding myself that this is MY indepedance day. However many years ago I was eight, I said No for the first time. I stood between a little boy and a person that is also the monster in all of my dreams.

I was willing to die so that someone else could live, I was so terrified, and today, I am alive and I feel peace. I am crying as I write this but I think these tears are tears of happiness. I do not remember most of the previous years experiences with today or yesterday (The Fourth of July). I just have a mush of gray fog and all of the pain of my childhood on all these days. There is even a bodily symbol that was unexpected, as my mental chains are broken.

Even though I can remember the pain, I remembered something that bothers me more than pain. A moment of true love from my mother. A moment where my father in his rage that his possessions were injured let his true face show to the entire church, street, and a moment where I was aware for a split second that someone outside my family knew he was not right.

The boy was older than me, he was as old as I would be when I said no. I think he may have been seven instead of eight. I know now from the adult perspective, something else that PTSD often prevents me from using, that he was jealous of my ability to spell. He was jealous that I had both my mother and father in my life, because all children should percieve all parents as good. His father I think had died, but it may have been a divorce. I just know he was “a big fat meany head” as the echoes of my childhood state. I feel myself forgiving him as I write this. He was my best friend’s older brother, our brothers had the same name too.

I had never seen a sparkler before, I think I was four, and I saw the other children writing their names by flicking them in the air, or bad words. I wrote out my then full and legal name and then my firework died out. I dropped it because the sudden change startled me. He told me if I picked up the end that was glowing red I could relight the other end. I believed him because at this point I had yet to concieve of a lie. In my mind a lie was just reality changing it’s mind, because of course everything still feels sentient to me. I think this is the effect of Autism, I treasure everyone and everything because they are all alive to me. So I picked up the hot end and my pointer finger and thumb burned.

I remember trying to hold it and trying to not scream. I remember the look on this boy’s face when he saw I hadn’t dropped it. I don’t know who screamed first. Probably me. My mother made me let it go. My fingers released but my skin was gone, my hand hurt. I remember thinking, “Why does something else hurt? Only daddy makes things feel like this.” I felt like my world had cracked apart and I screamed.

The boy screamed, and he ran for help. He didn’t run away. He went and got every adult and told the truth immediately. I remember wondering why he didn’t lie. I didn’t understand lying until that moment, because he was in serious trouble. I thought he was going to die. It was that same feeling that surged up in me when my father attacked my step brother those years later. His face held that same wrath. There was that same crispness in the air.

I tried to lie and say I was okay, because I didn’t want the bully hurt. I remember a moment of silence from everyone before he put the mask back on, but the mask had cracked. With in the next year everything would change. He was going to go to a mental hospital, he was going to be divorcing my mother, and I would be set on my path towards saying No.

I have taken for granted that this No came with in a few short months after he raped me on Thanksgiving. I have taken for granted that he had torn my soul out or at least tried, and that I had yet to find myself. It was a moment that I cannot regret. I never have regretted saying no but I have been unable to escape, until this year, reliving every moment of terror associated with fireworks, associated with my father, and the smell of hotdogs. I think they smell like burning hair, which brings up other threads.

I looked at my hands yesterday when the second big shake came. It was when I first woke up, there was one Friday and I called M thinking it was yesterday. Time was really weird then but I was pulled back. Once I was aware that the thunder and the fireworks sounds were real I was okay. I studied my hands, because my hands have always born the scars of my choices, the scars that bother me the most, and my hands have always felt the most pain through my childhood. It wasn’t until a handful of years ago when I broke my back that my back began to hurt so much that I needed to acknowledge it. However every day of my life my hands have felt like stiff claws and have hurt. I think physical abuse and forcing my body to work did them in. My hands are still working

My hands are capable. I saw this instead of the scars. In fact, the burn scar from that first moment with fireworks, which has lead me to fear them for a long time, a reasonable fear that I do not think should be changed as fireworks are explosives and therefore I really shouldn’t play with them. I could drop one in my lap or something, and have other burns. It isn’t paranoia, my hands aren’t good at holding things anymore. Yet the brown marks of skin burned so deeply that it took on color for somewhere around twenty four years? Those are gone.

I looked at my hands the same way last year. I look at my hands a lot when I am trying to find something to grab onto mentally to help me not get sucked up in a mental tornado. In November, that brown line was on each my finger and my thumb. It has faded away. I don’t know when, which is a good sign as my hands have changed a lot in recent months and if I didn’t notice this going away I am doing much better with my PTSD. The spot is now white. It’s not a bright white where others will notice it but it is there where I will.

The pain is also gone from the burn spots. I have always felt a pain since my hand was declared healed when using my finger tips. My thumb and forefinger are the most used fingers of each hand, it was unavoidable. The pain is gone. Maybe it is lost in the other pains of arthritis, damaged tissues and strain but I don’t think so. I think finally as my mind has healed my body was able to heal as well. I didn’t let go, I healed.

A year ago I was upset by noises for the entire week of the fourth. There was no time without someone shouting, explosions, or sirens. People were throwing fireworks at my apartment. I was also in mortal danger of my life. I remember most of it. I remember learning I could call the police for fireworks. I remember barely making it through but last year was an improvement. This year has gone so well that maybe next year I will socialize before the food is cooked.

I was invited to several BBQs this year. The people that I expect to stop inviting me to holiday events never do. My friends always show me they care. My neighbors too. I have a friend who lives here and she came specifically to make sure I at least had food. R was disappointed when I told her I couldn’t eat the food, but I did also tell her I was glad to see her. I like conversing with her and I find, in this place my fears are not so abnormal that even if I need to leave a gathering early it is okay.

I always want to move, I think no matter where I land that is the case. Perhaps it is my need to learn. I am wondering if I do move, will I be able to be satisfied? When I think of moving, I do not see myself planting roots. When I think ofthis home, I see that for the first time I have roots. I may loathe my state, but I don’t think I could leave it for many reasons, financial ones especially. Yet in this neighborhood I belong. I belong. No, I don’t just belong, I am wanted.

I also found a goal yesterday. I know I will not be able to do work in the traditional method. I know that I will also never be able to stop learning. I found myself wanting something. I always like poison jewelry. I dislike the name although I enjoy my mother’s reaction when I ooh and ahh over a poison ring or bracelet. There is something fascinating to me about the compartment. I actually have a poison ring, it is so heavy however that it damages me to wear it.

I decided to see how affordable a bracelet is. The answer is, nope. The ones that I would actually wear out of the tiny selection I found are all expensive. Actually, all of them are expensive. I began to wonder, could I make one? Could I find the pieces and do this myself? I have wanted to learn silverwork for a long time, and I decided to see if there was a class. There happens to be a class. There is also a secondary follow up class for the more advanced students.

My goal is to save up for the tuition next year. I am going to take these classes. Between here and there I have to confront my fear of solder. This means I must resume building things. I love to do so. I found myself starving for school yesterday. I know I will not take the normal classes of a college student, because those classes do not suit me. I will however take part in furthering myself through art classes. Perhaps I will also reach a point where I feel I can teach. I noticed that the classes I desire are taught by experts outside of the college standard.

What class would I teach? It would be about Gluten Free cooking. I would teach others how to modify their meals. I am not sure I could really do this, but it is a goal. At the worst I can write a book about gluten free cooking without everything being from scratch. I haven’t let myself want anything that was an obligation or an expectation for a long time. I slowly began to build towards this over the last year. I think my giving in and composing music helped. I feel ready. I also feel afraid.

In one year by living alone and not letting any of my needs fall through the cracks, by asking for help from others, by fighting for my medication, and most of all by living I have changed. I can turn and look in the past and the image I see is not one that mirrors my heart today. I can go outside. I can enjoy my food. I can enjoy. I am alive.

I let myself sleep today and the first thing I have done is write this post. Once the sunsets on July 5th I tend to be pretty darned good. Today, I did not have a flashback. I had the warning signs, I had the extra irritability, and I let myself. I thought it would mean giving up all these years, if I allowed myself to flow. Yet that is the very thing I do during a flash back. I try and move with it, staying with in a boat of thought. Once a flashback hits I float. I have found this works for many things and today I decided it would be okay.

I put Nymph in the bathroom, because sometimes I punch and kick during flashbacks and she was wanting attention. It wouldn’t take much for her to be hurt and I would regret that. So I tossed her toys in and closed the door after she pounced them. She didn’t notice she was trapped for at least five or ten minutes, and by then I had laid down in my bed, closed my eyes and gave myself permission to go.

Time went weird, but this time there was silence, darkness, I was just breathing in that place outside of time and space where I haunt myself. It lasted for a half an hour or so, my watch said about fourty five minutes had passed. I was exhausted so I went and prepared for a nap, I nabbed Nymph from the basket of underwear and socks which I have incase the need is worth the lack of skin, and she curled against me warm, soft, and purring.

I set her on the bed and she looked up at me, meowed softly and then curled up on Sprite. I folded myself back under the covers then, and closed my eyes. I did not sleep immediately, but instead was awake long enough to feel the cats together, tucking the blanket around me. Sprite hasn’t tucked all of me in for a long time. I think it was November the last time she did this. I am asleep before they finish. When I wake the sun is setting and I feel them, warm and soft. Nymph is closest to me, tucked into the corner my knee makes when I lay on my side. Sprite is against my thigh, he eyes open and staring into mine over the blanket. I can see her eyes even without my glasses, though I rarely see much else.

I know there is no victory when it comes to PTSD, it is something more potent. When trying for victory that implies that all you have to do is have one day like this where things aren’t as bad as they have been. That is not true. Intead, I would say that this last year has shown me it is more important to forgive myself. I am not angry with myself today. I am not angry with anyone. I have let myself cry. I have let myself be.

In fact, I think I should’ve been triggered by the Anime Claymore, which I watched in the last two days. The central characters are all lost little girls, wounded children turned warrior out of a need for defense, safety, and a need to fight back. Their foes are demons and to do so they become half demon themselves. They can be lost to this demonic self, forever losing their humanity. For a long time I thought I would be lost to the abuse, that I would have to become the abuser to survive.

That’s the thing… I have survived. I have thrived. I am not just alive but I am reaching for more. By letting myself be frivolous, I have let myself be. I own a watch for the first time in many years. My pocket watch is one that if it breaks I will not mind, as every watch I have ever owned has died with in twenty four hours of wear. The record was 72. The record is now four days and six hours. I think my magnetism issue is either solved, or the things I have done to preserve my phone work on watches too. My cellphone is a year old and is working. It looks as good as new. So maybe my watch will last. If not I may just have to get a bunch of others. I like pocket watches. I feel good with them. They don’t have to tug down on my arms, they can be tucked away or shown off.

My pocket watch is the latest release for the Full Metal Alchemist watches. It looks as good as it runs, and it works for costuming if I so desire. Maybe I can learn to make a pocket watch! I am going to feed my mind, it’s hungry for more knowledge and I know where to find some.

A Little Thunder (Trigger warning)

I took my nap, got up, fiddled with my new watch and checked to see if it has broken yet. Gleeful that it has kept the time for six hours straight I tuck it in my pocket, and fiddle with it’s chain. I move to the living room, the crisp sound of wheels on carpet has become a herald of my journeying. The cats await and I greet them before devouring pizza and strawberries.

Then, the explosion occurs. Everything flashes though the flash is inside my mind. I cannot see my home for thirty seconds, but I am in a silent and still image except for the explosions that come after. I cannot tell if they are thunder or fireworks. I already know this is a harbinger of my next few days, but that the moment is still relieves me.

I try to call M, but he’s not availible. I want to make sure I am still real and that my happiness is not the illusion. It works well enough but I am still facing flickers. I may not sleep tonight. There are no more explosions. I check the weather, it says all is clear. I start to eat again. I can’t eat. The food looks like blood on my hands.

I close my eyes and seek answers on how to proceed inside of myself, i consider too the idea of tomorrow. I had planned to go out.I cut things too closely to my quick if I am now hallucenating fireworks. The smell of rain has been present for days, without a drop while I was awake. Just a sprinkling while I slept. The sky has been clear and even now I can see stars. I roll over to the door, and I look outside at the dry side walk, the starry night.

The stars vanish, washed away as the sky is cleansed by rain. It comes quickly, I still see no lightening but the thunder is explosive, crack. Crack. Boom. My soul is shaken again, but reality stays with me. Instead I can smell the differences, I can see them. The cool air on my flesh heralds in reality again.

I am saved by the rain. My fear has melted down to what is normal for today, my heart stopped trying to out run a horse, and I am left to see my cats staring at the rain. Nymph has never seen rain before and is afraid. Sprite shelters her, and looks to me to see if I need sheltering. I am free. I need no shelter but I welcome it. Two soft warm bundles to remind me that, I am free.

(My keywords for this post made a poem: PTSD, Flashback, recovery, pain, rain, cat, free, smell, sky, clean, free)

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