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.

Advocacy and Pain

Today, after finding out that the worst person I have ever known died I had to do some internal evaluation. You see, by advocating for the rights of the ill, the disabled, and the person in need I advocated for the rights of the worst person I have ever met. I questioned why I do it. It turns out, it doesn’t matter. When I say I will advocate for anyone, I really do mean everyone. After the initial shock of realizing I had helped him, I felt a mix of emotions and realized, I cannot let his actions endanger the person I am.

When you become better than what you were told you couldĀ  be, it feels good. Often you have to fight to retain awareness of why you are the way you are. Sometimes it looks easier to revert to basic training. This means you try and force yourself back into the role of victim. This means you try and become the abuser. Feeling the urge to hole up and let the world have it’s way with my Civil Rights, hurts.

When you choose to become an advocate, you might help someone you do not want to. Dealing with that awareness is also painful. I do not want to make the life of a child rapist better. You never know who might benefit from your actions beyond the faces you see daily. Dealing with the struggle means you must get past this.

No matter what your main cause is, I say main because I do not believe in discrimination from a single facet, you must accept that people who are not necessarily the people you want in your cause, may benefit. It is not wrong to help them. I felt like I did something wrong by helping my father. This is ludicrous and this is thinking that can poison the movement.

To advocate means to risk facing people who could hurt you. Many people run into this daily. The advocate is the person who takes an extra strain, so that the innocent people of this world can be uplifted. My father suffered in his final days, but his Widow, who loves him and is in emotional agony, did not suffer as much because he recieved proper care.

So, as you advocate for your self and others, be aware, sometimes you might help someone, and the benefit is not always just for the good or the bad.

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