I probably shouldn't post this...
I’m thinking again and that can never be a good thing. It’s a tangled murky snarl inside my head that draws me in a quicksandy kind of way, with thoughts a twin for great white sharks roaming freely looking for chinks in the distractions I’ve chosen to use to help with the swim.
Introspecting is such a dangerous thing to do, especially for me, especially when I lose control of where I want the herded cats to meander. Relationships in particular are something best left alone. I cause my own degrading infinity loop if I start to think about them, predominantly the one that shattered my own realities so very badly.
I’m my own rock, relied on myself for my own support, always have done. Born out of a protective necessity, I was my own strength, sense of self; I did not define who I was, what I believed or any of those other inexpressible bits that make up the complicated mess I am by anyone else’s definitions or opinions and am usually reasonably content with being such an individual.
It’s because it’s May. At least I think that’s what it is, although there could be a million (ok more like thousands) of reasons or provocations causing this. Including ones I’m refusing to talk/think about at the moment.
So what happens when that stability that is you, shatters into infinitesimal pieces, when that sole core of you that you’ve so determinedly protected and built and fiercely believed in; when you chose to do the mind-fuckingly difficult and risky part of throwing yourself off a cliff. Deciding that the person you’re jumping for; you can actually trust to catch you, accept you; cracks, duct tape, super glue and all the complex little facets. How do you figure it out when your rock doesn’t fall to the ground but is scooped up, tossed into the air for batting practice and slammed to the bottom of the well with a sledge hammer?
It’s not even the money that was stolen that haunts me when I get like this, nor the loss of belongings. And no matter how much it still aches the lies, manipulation and being tossed aside still don’t amount to much, mistakes and bullshit happened on both sides of the equation.
Of course when someone manipulates another person into accusing you of rape it’s going to fuck you up a great deal.
The venom in a voice belonging to one of the people you fell in love with saying things like you little fucking bitch, you know what you did, you raped her, you aren’t worth shit and should be in jail. All the while sitting bewildered wanting to look at the phone to make sure it’s the person you think it is on the phone. And a growing sense of horror scalding its way down your body, as if you’ve been opened and boiling water poured along the inside of your skin. In a slow determined methodology, horror that not only have you been accused of doing such a abhorrent thing to someone you love more than just about anything and of abuse as well, but that the cherished and poisonous voice on the phone of believes the accusations. Believes that you somehow did these things to the person both of you love.
The Vikings had this thing known as the walk, where a condemned man hooked his intestines to a bloody great rock and walked around and around until he died, the longer he walked the more honor restored. Walking step by excruciating step feeling your insides slip and slide against one another, the tug as they go past muscle and skin meant to protect and contain fragile organs from the harshness of the world. The scream of nerve endings raw and exposed stretched to breaking points and beyond. Yeah it kinda felt a lot like that.
In 2005 my hand fasting was performed, on Beltane to someone I loved whole heartedly, stubborn as a mule, (you couldn’t teach/tell her something she had to beat her head against the wall till she figured it out), quick tempered (she used to dent walls, and her precious car when pissed off), jealous (something I mistakenly thought we’d sort out as time went on), goofy, had a love of all things involving fire, explosions and dragons, and far more survivor’s guilt then anyone knew (assuming it wasn’t a lie). She’d tell me I was her rock and I’d try to explain why that freaked me out, that it wasn’t fair to either of us, she needed to find her own strength and only look for extra support. (I was 24, she was 31) I pulled at and dismantled bits of my armour I thought were no longer necessary since they seemed to get in the way. We talked about more subjects then I can remember. I adjusted things I did, stepped back with things I normally wouldn’t have, thinking that it would help ease the fears that had been created with the damage from her past. (I was an idiot.)
I’ve never found out how much I got told were lies on either one of their parts, (I’m not blameless but I didn’t do some of the shit they did), I did find out there were a great deal more lies then I ever knew of, things said, stories told.
The elusive thing known as closure on the other hand I’ve never gotten. I did get a gut-wrenching pseudo message at one point years ago while I was still in Minnesota throwing me so bad it took me a while to decide what to do about it, before I responded in kind with the same blank message. (You could’ve knocked me down with a look when I got a thank you for the birthday wish messaged back.) The coward on the other hand has never said anything else nor attempted anything else, and although I’d dearly love to have the money stolen from my child back since it was to be used to set up a college fund for her. A chance to talk, or at the very least have the confirmation that I really don’t give a flying fuck about either of them anymore beyond a love of someone from the past, and a deep affection for a son I was learning how to call mine.
Sometimes the desire to scream and yell about it still manifests, but it’s grown weaker with age and disgust. Love tempered (yes I’m still that stupid, I was thinking love was a forever thing, not an “until I get pissed off at you” thing) but not completely gone, and I’ve mostly learned to accept it.
What drives me insane are the aftereffects. A fair few of which already existed, but have since been exacerbated greatly. A painful shyness I ruthlessly shove away since it gets in my way, unfortunately it’s a sneaky bastard and trips me up at the strangest times. A skittishness that gopher’s itself in and out of my sub-conscious just enough to irritate me for being so stupid, when I catch myself wondering what I’ve done wrong when I don’t hear from someone I’m starting to take a shine for. Pain also, and wanting to cry which just pisses me off all over again.
I like anger, I’m comfortable with it, I understand it, I can use it for the most part; that being said it’d be nice to get rid of a good portion of it. Tears just drive me nuts, I don’t quite know what to do with them, especially when the only one I can grab and hold for comfort, isn’t even eight yet and I won’t do that to her. Tears are also really fucking hard to stop. I’m a control freak so sue me; given the personality traits in my family I’m very certain it’s a genetic trait.
I have learned or at least gotten into the habit of informing people as brutally and upfront as possible that I’m extremely complicated and that I don’t know what I’m going to do next, that I almost never fit in just one little box and it’s their own bloody fault if I do something outside of the list they thought I was pegged in. I’m even more careful, probably coming off as callous more often than not, when I don’t display compassion for those who need help. I feel the desire to help more than a few of them, it’s just I’m not in a position to do so, and I cannot risk my own health for their own good. They just don’t matter as much as my own child, who needs me intact, sane and healthy enough to keep bumbling through being the only parent she has, the one main constant.
I don’t like the tears and memories I can’t control or change. I’m learning to accept them but I doubt very much I’m really going to ever like the sensation. I’m going to continue to withdraw into my own head to deal with my crap, it’s mine, and quite frankly it’s probably better that I do it this way, I can’t blame anyone else. I do firmly believe I need to hunt down a new therapist, one who likes clients who are “intense”, “complicated” and having PTSS/PTSD whatever the hell its currently being called I’m smart and self aware not trained in technical crazy terms (which I’m still not sold on) and who is most likely an undiagnosed ADHD adult. If only so I can get that oh so odd sensation of mixed !relief! and !dammit! sensations that something really is going on in my head and it’s not my imagination which would actually be its own problem and I’m going to stop that right now…
I’m not even sure why I’m writing this, or where the hell I mean to go with it, I sure as hell didn’t think it would last this long. I stopped writing things down a long time ago, if it wasn’t written it wasn’t real, it also couldn’t be found and read. I didn’t write much in school, avoided homework until I couldn’t hid myself as much as I could with my work half worried someone perceptive enough would pick up on something in my assignment and I’d be sent yet again to some fuckwit who’d tell me to spread paint on a page fold it and tell them what I saw. (I was in third grade and told her it looked like one of those tests they make you take to see how you think because I couldn’t remember the name Rorschach, strangely that was the last time I went too.) I was so much of a cynic and so very jaded at 12, 13, and up that I wasn’t willing to trust any of them not to fuck up or betray me.
I got a little too good at it. A half assed attempt here and there pretty much assured me of that when what I’m thinking is an obviously clue is just glossed over. Writing a “story” in a class with a teacher who was new enough to not realize I didn’t write fictional stories, especially not with details that could give chills. By then I was a senior and just kinda rolled my eyes and kept moving, it’s what I do, truth be told this was the same halfwit (she nearly got killed flashing gang symbols in Chicago and used to do handstands in class, ten years isn’t going to change my opinion) who walked up one day and said I had a dream about you, I dreamed you wrote a book and became famous, Pulitzer, New York Times best-seller and all. (I told you she was half nutters, she’d taught in the bush for a while I think the frostbite went to her brain.)
My totem is the beaver, (okay fine, jokes out of your system now, cuz I know I went there and would be disappointed if no one else did.) And forgive me for going a little poetic or any other less flattering term, but when I poke at my damn dam (couldn’t resist) things seem to flood a bit. (With a current word count at over two thousand that should be obvious) If this happens when I do, and given how much I hate to admit I cry let alone ever let anyone else see me do it, and my worship at the idol of Spock’s control buoyed by a lifetime X-files philosophy club card holder. Does anyone every really wonder why half the time I put inane bullshit in my blog? At least that crap is easy to understand, saves me from questions I may not want to answer, and saves my fingers, mental processes and your eyes from complete exhaustion and myself from my own disgust at being lousy company.
Well crap I need another few words to make it to 2,200. The preceding rambling narrative is meant to be taken however you feel like and if you’ve actually read this far, thanks I think, but also are you flaming nuts?
Introspecting is such a dangerous thing to do, especially for me, especially when I lose control of where I want the herded cats to meander. Relationships in particular are something best left alone. I cause my own degrading infinity loop if I start to think about them, predominantly the one that shattered my own realities so very badly.
I’m my own rock, relied on myself for my own support, always have done. Born out of a protective necessity, I was my own strength, sense of self; I did not define who I was, what I believed or any of those other inexpressible bits that make up the complicated mess I am by anyone else’s definitions or opinions and am usually reasonably content with being such an individual.
It’s because it’s May. At least I think that’s what it is, although there could be a million (ok more like thousands) of reasons or provocations causing this. Including ones I’m refusing to talk/think about at the moment.
So what happens when that stability that is you, shatters into infinitesimal pieces, when that sole core of you that you’ve so determinedly protected and built and fiercely believed in; when you chose to do the mind-fuckingly difficult and risky part of throwing yourself off a cliff. Deciding that the person you’re jumping for; you can actually trust to catch you, accept you; cracks, duct tape, super glue and all the complex little facets. How do you figure it out when your rock doesn’t fall to the ground but is scooped up, tossed into the air for batting practice and slammed to the bottom of the well with a sledge hammer?
It’s not even the money that was stolen that haunts me when I get like this, nor the loss of belongings. And no matter how much it still aches the lies, manipulation and being tossed aside still don’t amount to much, mistakes and bullshit happened on both sides of the equation.
Of course when someone manipulates another person into accusing you of rape it’s going to fuck you up a great deal.
The venom in a voice belonging to one of the people you fell in love with saying things like you little fucking bitch, you know what you did, you raped her, you aren’t worth shit and should be in jail. All the while sitting bewildered wanting to look at the phone to make sure it’s the person you think it is on the phone. And a growing sense of horror scalding its way down your body, as if you’ve been opened and boiling water poured along the inside of your skin. In a slow determined methodology, horror that not only have you been accused of doing such a abhorrent thing to someone you love more than just about anything and of abuse as well, but that the cherished and poisonous voice on the phone of believes the accusations. Believes that you somehow did these things to the person both of you love.
The Vikings had this thing known as the walk, where a condemned man hooked his intestines to a bloody great rock and walked around and around until he died, the longer he walked the more honor restored. Walking step by excruciating step feeling your insides slip and slide against one another, the tug as they go past muscle and skin meant to protect and contain fragile organs from the harshness of the world. The scream of nerve endings raw and exposed stretched to breaking points and beyond. Yeah it kinda felt a lot like that.
In 2005 my hand fasting was performed, on Beltane to someone I loved whole heartedly, stubborn as a mule, (you couldn’t teach/tell her something she had to beat her head against the wall till she figured it out), quick tempered (she used to dent walls, and her precious car when pissed off), jealous (something I mistakenly thought we’d sort out as time went on), goofy, had a love of all things involving fire, explosions and dragons, and far more survivor’s guilt then anyone knew (assuming it wasn’t a lie). She’d tell me I was her rock and I’d try to explain why that freaked me out, that it wasn’t fair to either of us, she needed to find her own strength and only look for extra support. (I was 24, she was 31) I pulled at and dismantled bits of my armour I thought were no longer necessary since they seemed to get in the way. We talked about more subjects then I can remember. I adjusted things I did, stepped back with things I normally wouldn’t have, thinking that it would help ease the fears that had been created with the damage from her past. (I was an idiot.)
I’ve never found out how much I got told were lies on either one of their parts, (I’m not blameless but I didn’t do some of the shit they did), I did find out there were a great deal more lies then I ever knew of, things said, stories told.
The elusive thing known as closure on the other hand I’ve never gotten. I did get a gut-wrenching pseudo message at one point years ago while I was still in Minnesota throwing me so bad it took me a while to decide what to do about it, before I responded in kind with the same blank message. (You could’ve knocked me down with a look when I got a thank you for the birthday wish messaged back.) The coward on the other hand has never said anything else nor attempted anything else, and although I’d dearly love to have the money stolen from my child back since it was to be used to set up a college fund for her. A chance to talk, or at the very least have the confirmation that I really don’t give a flying fuck about either of them anymore beyond a love of someone from the past, and a deep affection for a son I was learning how to call mine.
Sometimes the desire to scream and yell about it still manifests, but it’s grown weaker with age and disgust. Love tempered (yes I’m still that stupid, I was thinking love was a forever thing, not an “until I get pissed off at you” thing) but not completely gone, and I’ve mostly learned to accept it.
What drives me insane are the aftereffects. A fair few of which already existed, but have since been exacerbated greatly. A painful shyness I ruthlessly shove away since it gets in my way, unfortunately it’s a sneaky bastard and trips me up at the strangest times. A skittishness that gopher’s itself in and out of my sub-conscious just enough to irritate me for being so stupid, when I catch myself wondering what I’ve done wrong when I don’t hear from someone I’m starting to take a shine for. Pain also, and wanting to cry which just pisses me off all over again.
I like anger, I’m comfortable with it, I understand it, I can use it for the most part; that being said it’d be nice to get rid of a good portion of it. Tears just drive me nuts, I don’t quite know what to do with them, especially when the only one I can grab and hold for comfort, isn’t even eight yet and I won’t do that to her. Tears are also really fucking hard to stop. I’m a control freak so sue me; given the personality traits in my family I’m very certain it’s a genetic trait.
I have learned or at least gotten into the habit of informing people as brutally and upfront as possible that I’m extremely complicated and that I don’t know what I’m going to do next, that I almost never fit in just one little box and it’s their own bloody fault if I do something outside of the list they thought I was pegged in. I’m even more careful, probably coming off as callous more often than not, when I don’t display compassion for those who need help. I feel the desire to help more than a few of them, it’s just I’m not in a position to do so, and I cannot risk my own health for their own good. They just don’t matter as much as my own child, who needs me intact, sane and healthy enough to keep bumbling through being the only parent she has, the one main constant.
I don’t like the tears and memories I can’t control or change. I’m learning to accept them but I doubt very much I’m really going to ever like the sensation. I’m going to continue to withdraw into my own head to deal with my crap, it’s mine, and quite frankly it’s probably better that I do it this way, I can’t blame anyone else. I do firmly believe I need to hunt down a new therapist, one who likes clients who are “intense”, “complicated” and having PTSS/PTSD whatever the hell its currently being called I’m smart and self aware not trained in technical crazy terms (which I’m still not sold on) and who is most likely an undiagnosed ADHD adult. If only so I can get that oh so odd sensation of mixed !relief! and !dammit! sensations that something really is going on in my head and it’s not my imagination which would actually be its own problem and I’m going to stop that right now…
I’m not even sure why I’m writing this, or where the hell I mean to go with it, I sure as hell didn’t think it would last this long. I stopped writing things down a long time ago, if it wasn’t written it wasn’t real, it also couldn’t be found and read. I didn’t write much in school, avoided homework until I couldn’t hid myself as much as I could with my work half worried someone perceptive enough would pick up on something in my assignment and I’d be sent yet again to some fuckwit who’d tell me to spread paint on a page fold it and tell them what I saw. (I was in third grade and told her it looked like one of those tests they make you take to see how you think because I couldn’t remember the name Rorschach, strangely that was the last time I went too.) I was so much of a cynic and so very jaded at 12, 13, and up that I wasn’t willing to trust any of them not to fuck up or betray me.
I got a little too good at it. A half assed attempt here and there pretty much assured me of that when what I’m thinking is an obviously clue is just glossed over. Writing a “story” in a class with a teacher who was new enough to not realize I didn’t write fictional stories, especially not with details that could give chills. By then I was a senior and just kinda rolled my eyes and kept moving, it’s what I do, truth be told this was the same halfwit (she nearly got killed flashing gang symbols in Chicago and used to do handstands in class, ten years isn’t going to change my opinion) who walked up one day and said I had a dream about you, I dreamed you wrote a book and became famous, Pulitzer, New York Times best-seller and all. (I told you she was half nutters, she’d taught in the bush for a while I think the frostbite went to her brain.)
My totem is the beaver, (okay fine, jokes out of your system now, cuz I know I went there and would be disappointed if no one else did.) And forgive me for going a little poetic or any other less flattering term, but when I poke at my damn dam (couldn’t resist) things seem to flood a bit. (With a current word count at over two thousand that should be obvious) If this happens when I do, and given how much I hate to admit I cry let alone ever let anyone else see me do it, and my worship at the idol of Spock’s control buoyed by a lifetime X-files philosophy club card holder. Does anyone every really wonder why half the time I put inane bullshit in my blog? At least that crap is easy to understand, saves me from questions I may not want to answer, and saves my fingers, mental processes and your eyes from complete exhaustion and myself from my own disgust at being lousy company.
Well crap I need another few words to make it to 2,200. The preceding rambling narrative is meant to be taken however you feel like and if you’ve actually read this far, thanks I think, but also are you flaming nuts?