Healing From Childhood Sexual Abuse

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10 Things About Aspergers Syndrome You May Not Know

Holiday Sadness, Grief, Aspergers

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Location:Holiday Grief and Having Aspergers

What is christmas

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Location:Christmas is

Survivor Snowglobe

Rebuilding Bridges

Sometimes I burn a bridge in a day. Now I'm trying to rebuild. If only I could find the right tools.

Aspergers and asking for help

Question

Therapy...feeling exhausted

Actually, I feel beaten up....hit by a truck..therapys like that sometimes. It seems when long-buried, traumatic memories get released, the body hurts bad. I think part of it is the sheer stress of holding onto it for so long and then releasing. Kinda like holding a bag of garbage, in one outstretched hand for forty years and letting it drop. That poor arm hurts. My arms are the parts of me that feel the worst.
 Therapy was Intense with a capital "I". I spoke, in the thrall of a gushing waterfall, of the most hideous, disgusting, graphic memory to date...I think. I'm guessing the cellular/ emotional (same thing really) location was my arms. I sincerely feel "beat up". Every time I look at my bare arms I expect to see bruises, but there are none.
I sleep and rest, as much as possible, take Rescue Remedy, a homeopathic destresser and drink tons of water to help recover.
 Definitely have reached a new level, a greater depth, in therapy. In a way I'm happy because this particular memory cannot haunt me from the shadows anymore. In a way it's sad...because I am aware of the memory, what happened....and it was veryvery sad. I don't think that anyone can comprehend it, cept therapist and maybe others who have gone through something similar.
 I'm feel beaten, and at the same time uplifted. Seems I continue to find reservoirs of strength and courage I never thought I had. And, yeah, I'm sore and exhausted, but this too, shall pass.
The warrior will regain her strength to fight on.


Be well.

Fed Up, last week sucked

Every day last week, some unexpected event happened that threw me into chaos. On Monday, therapy revealed new and upsetting circumstances. Monday afternoon, I took LittleGuy to the dentist for his first cavity fill. They gave him nitrous oxide, automatically without asking me or explaining.  Tuesday, I spent processing Mondays events. Wednesday, I went to the dentist for a routine cleaning. My teeth were very sensitive due to the new retainers and I had to get assertive and ask for breaks a few times. I also spoke up when I'd had enough of the damn irritating ultrasonic cleaner from hell. Then, Mr. Dentist comes in and proceeds to spend five minutes chiseling away at a tartar spot. Again, I had to stop him a few times because of discomfort. Yikes. Came home for a Xanax cocktail.
 Wednesday afternoon, I went to LittleGuy therapy appt with him for the first time since I had walked out when she upset my son and I. I went voluntarily and with an agenda. I wanted her to know exactly why I had taken LittleGuy and left early that session a couple months back. The conversation went something like this:
 Never in my twenty years of therapy, had I ever seen a therapist irritate the piss out of someone like that. What the hell was that about? You (to sons therapist) were irritating, hurting him with your words. I could feel his frustration and pain and I couldn't save him or me. I couldn't say anything or just leave because I didn't want to disrespect you(therapist) in front of my son because he would have copied me.
  She said, "I appreciate that."
And you just kept at it and I couldn't, excuse me, get you to shut the fuck up. I was trapped. He was trapped and I couldn't figure out how to make you stop badgering him.
 That was the general thinking that I presented to her with the " I couldn't get you to shut the fuck up" being my favorite line.
 She apologized saying that she was very sorry and hadn't intended to hurt us.
"I imagine", my only reply.
 She said, "I can't tell you how much I appreciate you speaking to me and letting me know."
Yeah, right.
A few more minutes of chatter. As I went to leave she extended a hand and averted her eyes down. Yeah, I shook it.
I maintained eye contact throughout my dissertation. I could feel my facial expression was angry, intense and controlled. I surprised myself with how well I made my presentation. It felt good.
Was she sorry? Probably, yeah. I don't think she intended to cause us distress. She looked quite sorry and maybe a little emotional.
So, that was Wednesday.
Thursday through Sunday was one long stress filled event, for another post.
Today, Sunday....something else, very upsetting happened and I can't talk about it or I'll cry.
Next week, some scheduled appointments, meetings that will, once again, test my speaking out, assertive skills.
Not feelin warm and fuzzy, fer sure.

Totally Unfit

Dealing with flashbacks, PTSD

In a way, flashbacks have gotten easier to deal with...in another way, they are more emotionally intense and more painful. It seems that the first ten years of intense therapy, I spent that time just learning about my DID/ MPD and getting quasi-functional.


 In the past two years with the new therapist, the first six months were devoted to checking therapist out, building a little trust and learning each others communication methods. Then the DID emerged, as well as the memories.
 We have been working on a memory...seems like 9 sessions out of 10. The flashbacks started out as rather "simple" and have been systematically moving into more intensity, more emotion and much more somatic, physical. The memories are downright brutal, at times. While I realize the process, I visually see the mem, my body feels it, the emotions emerge, then we take it to therapy and talk about it.....they are more painful. They also are briefer, few linger longer than the therapy session, and I can semi-contain the mems so my everyday life is much more functional.
 I'm no longer consumed by the flashbacks for extended periods of time.
 I've noticed that they have become much more difficult to verbalize. A majority of my newest memories revolve around the pre-5 age range. I'm sure that has something to do with it. Try putting words to unspeakable acts with a three year olds vocabulary. Yeah, right.
 I, also, have...less control or preconceived ideas about what will get discussed in therapy. It's like, I used to have a list on my internal bulletin aboard about items to be discussed. Well, the board has been torn down and is no where to be found. I'm not quite used to the lack of control. I basically have no idea which direction, or what will be talked about in therapy. And things happen quicker. I seem to switch on a dime and fly off into the great unknown. I'm still trying to adjust to that. Have to trust the system more...and therapist.


 Geez, I didn't realize how much Has changed in therapy these past two months, until I started writing.
 I experience new physical symptoms. I didn't realize I had the ability to dissociate single body parts. There are times I can't feel my foot or hand. Quite unsettling. Seems bad memories get isolated in body parts, so that part is dissociated so it doesn't feel the awful memory.  At some point...yeah, right, in order to be whole....I'm going to have to feel that awfulness.  Must not be ready yet.
 I've accepted that I just have to go through, talk about and reexperience the traumas. It's logically what has to be done. It's the only way to heal. After working on healing the past couple years, it's somewhat of a warped routine. The only way out. The only way to heal. I get that, now. Don't make it any easier. Doesn't matter if I like it or don't....it is what it is. I choose to move forward.
  Sigh. It's not a boring, predictable life. Each day is a new adventure. Thanks for reading.

An Incest Survivor Speaks Out

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lI5t0VPUfVc&feature=youtube_gdata_player

Learning to take care of myself

I've started some new habits, routines, in a concerted effort to be nice to myself. Yup, it's all new. Most of it is simple, little things, but it has big implications.


 If I'm tired, I sleep as much as I can. No feeling guilty, or dragging myself up. I honor my body and it's need for rest. Some days it is twenty hours, other days five. I just listen to what my body needs.
 I've been working on detoxing. Not from drugs or alcohol, just from the build up in my system from the Lyme, long term meds, environmental and food toxins. I am taking activated charcoal capsules (100% safe, no side effects) daily. I drink a detox tea. 3 or 4 nights a week, I soak my feet in hot water and a healthy dose of apple cider vinegar. Then I spend an hour or two massaging my feet and hands.
 I need to get out and walk more. The weather has turned, so I'm less inclined to walk in the snow, but I'd like to walk more, or at least get back on the treadmill or exercise bike.
 I've started reading books. I finished one and am currently oscillating between a couple. I read a study that talked about how the brain has to work and interconnect to read. I've often had difficulty reading...just seemed too taxing and it was hard for me to sit still. Now, I try and read for at least thirty minutes every day.
 I've been uncluttering the house of all the unneccessary, unused garbage stuff. I'd like to get three or four grocery bags of garbage or goods out of the house each week. The usable stuff gets donated. The garbage goes in the can and resellable stuff I list on eBay. I think I've hit my goal the past two weeks. It's a positive start.
  I started listening to "audioentrainment" videos on YouTube. It's a series of videos with various sound frequencies that claim to help activate, clear and align ones energy. Let me tell ya, They Work. I can feel, sense the energy moving and clearing. I listen to the vids for about an hour each day. Very calming and healing. I highly recommend it.
 Somehow this fits in...I've been working with my kids on the importance of R&R, responsibility and respect. I talk to Younglink every single day about the importance. And I help him understand what R&R means, by my actions and through my words. I think I have tolerated his insolence much too long. I am patiently, vehemently addressing this with him. It still bothers me when he is rude and inconsiderate. I must continue to work very closely with him to modify his behavior.
 I'm working on being kinder and more considerate, myself. Overall, I rank pretty good there, but I believe I can improve.
 I'm keeping up with therapy. Grabbing hugs when I can. Exchanging smies and warm greetings whenever possible.
 I think I'm starting to like myself more. I'm realize that I am a good and caring person. I'm starting to believe in me:)
  Be well, my friends

Uncensored

Much
I see the mass of people and I know I do not want to be like them. Mindless, bubbleheaded, Empty, carefree and striding to the nearest billboard to find out what they want and who they are. Hands full of empty straws. Unable to touch each other, for fear they might have to feel and think for themselves. Often, it really appears, that they are nothing but a surface, minor reflection of who someone told them they are.
 I fill with pity for they. As I plumb my depths with hook, line, sinker, flashlights and prods.
What I want, you cannot buy.
Who I am, you cannot fathom.
Water, ether, fire, rain, sky, clouds over
Been interesting.
Calmed down much after mon therapy. Not sure why, how that works, anyway.
Took a dollar bill and ripped it up, metaphorically, visually, I get discouraged this time of year, watching the race for pacifying baubles...if you loved me, you'd buy me....this. As if....
Word searching. Lost the internal censor whereby I would play, run through words to say before Id say them. I'm living on a new edge.
It was a trap, the censor, made to question, doubt, second-guess, what's in my heart, (taps chest) and in my head (taps forehead lightly). Lack of self-confidence, a closed heart and handfuls of family fed doubts, taught me to misbelieve in Meself.
Tons of internal energy, light moving, opening, touching dark recesses, filling long-empty voids.
 It's felt ok to just spout, say whatever, without forethought. It be strange, and i watch the faces to see if my words are in line with a semblance of normal. Feels ok. Looks ok. Feels strange, not having to have my own permission to speak. Not doubting myself...new.
 Yup, words are some what disarrayed now. Makes sense, they flow now...instead of stopping to be filtered through a few times. Times...many times...not sure what to say. Silence, gaps, not awkward.
Sometimes no answer. Ha, other times words raw, irreverent, lots of funny, harsh...all from the new revealing.
 I know. Me write funny:) I could either take my time and try and write like others...or, I can write how it sounds in my head, which I prefer. I prefer my way, what feels right to me, than trying to ft in and do it your way so you feel good and don't beat me.
 I can repeat things if I want. I don't necessarily need to work so hard to mentally track every conversation I had ever had.
 Writing keeps being interspersed with images....hands examining keys....
That's funny, I have my retainer in, so in my inner voice, that I'm dictating from, I hear me "talking" with my wicked retainer lisp. That also explains why I write different now.
So much has transpired. Much I cannot share, put words to, really.
I do get quite....frustrated, sad, at the overt consumerism, materialism, choke full ads and needy greedy babies, and what is actually important......what gets lst under the pretty paper and the bows....people just need other people to care. Children are starving, men are homeless, women beaten in shelters, animals cold, hungry and homeless....it's so thoughtless, what the tv and radio and newspapers are promoting. So empty. It's like a disease....I want this and I want that and I need to buy uncle this and auntie has to have that.....so empty (head down sad).
Just smile at someone, just talk nice polite respectful. Put money in the red can with bells. Care about someone other than yourself. Bake a cookie. Give an impish wink. Buy a toy, donate. You see someone in need, help. Be nice. There needs to be more of that. Stop wanting what you don't need to try and fill the emptiness. You just need more love, attention, self care, friends, spirit.
Unfiltered, I seem more like myself. It's okay to say what's in your heart (gently touches chest).....it's okay:)

Dam

This has been a quiet, uneventful week, overall. I enjoy mundanity in all it's greatness. It really is a pleasure. No stress of traveling, hanging with relatives, hopeless attempts at small talk and finding ways to evade eating unlikeable food, and talking about myself.
 My biggest, solo issue has been therapy...rather, holding up the dam so the memories don't come crashing down and flooding the place. I don't usually have a hair trigger, like this. It takes an enormous amount of effort to channel my thoughts away from that damn memory, and in safe, calm waters. It's almost like I left therapy half-done, if that makes any sense at all. It's a time of high inner, hidden struggle that no one can see or is aware of.
 I can't even touch, hint or write anything about the memory. It's just tooo damn close.
 Spent today playing outdoors and putting up some Christmas lights.


This is just the beginning of the outdoor lighting....we usually put together a really good spread. I'll work on getting better pics.
Hoping tomorrow to go on a date with my honey. Movie and together time. Looking forward it.
Managed to keep my vow to not shop on thanksgiving and black Friday. Consumerism and blind spending are no longer appealing to me...rather I find it appalling. I'm gonna keep working on emptying the excess junk out of my house. I have tons of things that I have no use for or will never get around to using. Seems people, ideas, creativity, doing things, mean more to me than objects that cost and clutter. I'm really changing my ideals, turning my focus on what really does matter. Lots of stuff I bought just because I could or I might need it in the future. I've been pretty thoughtless. Time to change.
Asking the fam to just make a Christmas list with two items. I've already got one of mine picked out. I want presents to be something that matter And something they will remember and really want. What did I "get" last year? Don't even know.
We've got a lot of snow to play in. Maybe a snow fort will materialize in the next few days.
Outside,all is calm. Inside, all is...well...Dam.

Buying Clothes and other little mundane dilemmas that drive me batcrap crazy

Woke up with much consternation. LittleGuy needed to get to church and I couldn't find "appropriate" attire to wear. It's winter now, and last years sweatshirts and shirts have been whittled down to a sparse few that are "worthy" and fit "right." Arrrggghhh. I spent fifteen minutes staring at the clothes in the closet, nothing really clicked. I feel that I may have to try and purchase new clothing. Aaaarrrggggghhhhhh.
 All these darn little things that are such Big challenges irk me. A five-year old can probably dress quicker than me. One reason I tend to get most clothes from secondhand stores, is price. I'd hate to buy something that ended up being "wrong", uncomfortable, didn't fit right and didn't feel right, after a few wearings. That's just a waste of good cash. So, if I go to the secondhand store, I'm losing less money if I pick wrong. But there, I have to check for wear and tear and what it feels like and will it fit and can I adjust to a new item. It sounds trivial, simplistic even, but countless hours are spent solving these little problems my Aspie brain cannot grasp easily.
It's like, either way, it's an uphill battle. I can't win, I can only try and take the shortest path. Hate feeling stuck...looking in that closet and having to think so much. Life really should be easier than this. Trying to find a way to make it so.
  Problem #2
 The garage door won't shut. After eyeing the attempts to close, it appears that the problem is within the door itself. Maybe this recent surge of cold weather has jibed something amiss. I'm not sure who to call about this. Who is the new garage door repairman? Is there anything else I should try to fix it? Can I attempt to fix it Without breaking something further or more extensively?
 I hate the unprotectedness, the feel of overexposure...and cold of having that door
stuck open. There is that word again...stuck. Hate feeling stuck, trapped, unable to figure out the correct course of action. 
 There is "floundering" and there is getting oneself trapped between the rock and the surging waves. Floundering doesn't feel so bad.
 Yikes. Just too much today. Racing,racing, avoiding, putting on a helmet and running into walls.
Yesterday was so calm. Today, is obviously, a different day. Sigh

She dare not

Some nights

She dare not

Close her eyes

Fearing the sights

She is sure to see

Sitting along the smooth, sandy bank

The water flows in small bubbling urps

Her skin has turned to pebbles

Remnants of the walls

Broke up

Risen to her surface

To be picked off

Examined

And tossed

Into the placid stream

Sunlight touches

Ever so gently caresses

The very top of her head

Warming her toes

And heart

Blood red feet

The pulse of the Earth

Hands turn emerald

With healing

The spot

Circle center

In her forehead

Beats blue

A soft, gentle azure

With delicate

Golden rim

It's getting clearer

The road becoming more straight

Pretty soon

She'll be able

To get around that narrow bend

She wishes more people would pray and cry, for her

She wishes more could see...how very extraordinary and strong she has been..and is

She cannot share the details of the crimes...or surely, they would know what a marvelous wonder, she truly is

Speaking from the heart

Namaste

A Hard Week...Cleaning Out

There was a lot of activity this week. Moments of sheer panic mixed with overwhelm, alongside peaceful river streams and quasi-meditative states. A fairly even mix of hard and soft, too much and just right. Finding myself more....the words on the pages aren't so blurry.
  Recognizing triggers and possible panic situations. Also discovering calm, activities that I enjoy and relax me.
 Really bothered by the clutter. I went down stairs and the place is just full, chock full of stuff. The closets, cupboards and drawers all share the same fate. We are gluttonous acquirers. We have tons and tons of stuff that we will probably never use in our lifetimes. I spent a couple hours cleaning out 2, count them 2 drawers. It's ridiculous how little we let go of stuff we haven't sed in fifteen years, but we still hold on to. Time to purge all the expired coupons, receipts and broken parts of whoknowswhat. It's embarrassing. The accumulation of stuff to collect dust. Maybe tomorrow, I'll go through the cupboards and throw out all the expired food. Not proud.
I've made poor, split-second decisions to buy.....and it never gets used. Time to put a little more forethought into what I spend money on. What is essential? Not, how much money can I spend? Or, maybe I'll use this in a couple months. It really is quite shameful waste.
  Lots of feelings about this....hard to put it all into words. Need to clean-up, clean-out and get conscientious.

 

I Do Feel Love...just not for myself

Big revelation, here. I have no doubt that I do love, my kids, partner, friends. I definitely feel that they love me. The big, sad thing is...I can feel no love for myself.  It reminds me, so much, of my friend K. She loved her family, loved me, loved caring for others, but she could never love herself. Same situation as mine...if your own parents cannot love you...how can you find a way to love you?
 I think self-forgiveness is a big part of this picture, too. Whatever I did or didn't do, whatever I did to "cause" them to withhold the mandatory, usually inherent love of parents for their children, I blame myself. I haven't forgiven myself.


 Children blame themselves, always. It sounds ludicrous, even writing, but the child within takes all the blame and responsibility for parents who are cold and cruel.
 Somehow, someway, I have to find it within myself to forgive me, assign the blame where it belongs and figure out how to love me. The box that was never opened, self love.
  Knowing, being aware of the majority of my childhood...it is amazing that I have lived through it. I've grown...at ease, almost, talking about the horrendous, hideous events that regularly happened. I'm learning all about identifying and sharing my much stuffed, surpressed emotions. I wasn't allowed to feel, or talk, or think for myself, or say No, or Stop....I ...just...took it ...all in. Like the junk closet that finally overflows with a door that refuses to stay shut....that's where I'm at.
 Dealing with emotions..is...such suck work. Emotions are these physical manifestations, tears, shakes, nauseating, achy, uncontrollable....aaarrrggghhh. Very tough to deal with.  It's like they are part verbal and visual memory, part physical sensation. Once emotion surfaces....it can't be stuffed back inthe closet.
 I don't know...I guess, in a way, releasing past emotion is similar to just learning to verbalize the unspoken, taboo memories. It's reallyreally tough at first, but after awhile, it becomes easier. Never pleasant, never welcome or looked forward to, but it's healing. It's the only way to heal.
I can't stay trapped with all these strong, vibrant, awakening emotions in this poor, beleaguered body that gets sicker and less able to hold it all in.
 Yikes. That's just my life. Guess I'm trying to convince myself that it's okay to start clearing out this emotional baggage. Maybe then, I can forgive myself....maybe then, I'll actually be able to touch, feel God, thus miraculous, enlightening, powerful love thingy that I've heard about.
 The journey just started uphill....again. Pray for me, if you are so inclined. The mountain is steep.

Living with PTSD

 People with PTSD avoid certain places, situations, if they are consciously aware that such a location or situation can potentially trigger a flashback, panic attack or, in my case, an overwhelming desire to run. I wasn't aware, or had temporarily forgotten, that empty or near empty office buildings freak me out. I get sweaty, nervous, shake, frantic and want to run. Even writing about it, hours later, brings all the feelings right back to me. It's unnerving.


 In my situation...my dad was a store manager. One of his duties was locking up the A&P store for the night. And he often brought five-year old me and my older brother along. So, basically, very bad things happen when the lights start going out, doors start locking and no one else is around. Dad also worked supervising a produce warehouse. I tend to freak out at warehouse-like stores, such as Sams Club and Costco. Same reasons.
  There are only a few ways, that I know of, to not fly into panic mode in these situations. One, I can write about it exhaustively, reliving the memory alone. Two, Avoid, Avoid, Avoid the triggering situations. Three, take anti-anxiety meds beforehand and bring another adult with me. Or Four, the method I usually employ, talk it out with my therapist. All methods work, to some degree. The last one has the greatest potential for the most healing. It has something to do with my Dissociative Identity Disorder and addressing specific parts of my psyche. Writing about it can work....I just have to have alone time, be in a safe place and incredibly brave:) Some days, yeah.
 Doors shutting, not even locking, just shutting deliberately, seems to be a most reoccurring trigger. Door locking and slamming also rank in there as triggers depending on my mood. That door theme has been very strong for the past few weeks. Have to remember to get working on that one....figuring it out and diffusing.
  Anyway, I just wanted to write a little about my PTSD and the triggering events of my day. Writing helps me remember it's a trigger, avoid, medication, talk about it, work it out.
 Stay strong:)
Thanks for reading

I will not run from death..

When I see that bright white light, I'm a running towards it. I know there is no fear in dying, Grandma taught me that. It's probably only then...that I will no longer be afraid and the weeping will stop. 

  I know the three people, who will meet me at heavens gate: Grandma, my dear friend Karon, the first friend who loved and cared for me; and Joe, my closeclose childhood friend. 

  I've been blessed with two wonderful boys and been fortune to have found two caring, loving partners. And two, above average humans, therapist who have helped me immensely. They could listen and help the most severly damaged, painful parts of me. I thank you all. 

  I have done my very best. Of that I am most assured. I have forgiven all that have hurt me and caused me great pain. I have endured and sometimes I feel that I have suffered quite enough.

 To the detractors, who feel I didn't fight enough to live, you simply wouldn't understand. My friend, Karon, helped reinforce my belief that each life is an individual story. No one else can fully comprehend. The battle is a solo one and sometimes we have a say in when and how we go. None can feel or experience what another is struggling with. We have no right to impose our will and beliefs on another. The pit of sorrow is sometimes too deep to continue to climb.

 Few will understand my words. I have no plans to hasten my death and this is another topic/ taboo that I freely speak out about. If it's a month, two years, three decades, when I die, so be it. I have no regrets.

 My funeral matters to me not. It is for the survivors to decide. The number of mourners, likewise doesn't matter. Sinead O'Conners song, I do not want what I haven't got, springs to mind. Dress me in blue jeans, an oxford and suit coat, otherwise no one will recognize me...make sure I have big hair.

 I've been so fortune these past two decades. It's mind blowing how far I have come and grown. Don't know how many of the scars of my youth I will still carry. How many wounds will have closed. 

 This lifetime, I believe, I have fulfilled any and all karmic debt. I'm confident the next life will be less challenging. It has to be. Can't think of anything that could hurt as much as my first twenty years. Really, seriously can't. 

 I look forward to an end to suffering, confusion, loneliness, torment and hunger. That shit wears on you after awhile. 

 I've enjoyed the moments of happiness, with children and partners. I wasn't gifted with the capacity to feel positive emotions freely and frequently, but my close family has brought me great joys. My happy memories always involve them.

  No, I'm definitely not suicidal, but thank you for caring. If you know me, you know I am compelled to speak what is on my mind and in my heart. Today's subject matter is thus. 

  I am an honest person. I am extraordinary in my strength, determination, intelligence and survival skills. I say what needs to be said and it's always my truth.

  I'm just sayin'

Amidst Darkness

I carry a torch into the mouth of the cave, not knowing its depths, or the secrets it holds. I am here, alone. Unsure and scared. Do I enter? Or do I wait, right here at the entrance, and see what emerges?
Hesitation. A long breathe. Checking if my feet are still there. Will they carry me as far as I need to go?
 Turning around. Longingly eyeing the valley below.
 "No one even knows that I have left."   The thought strikes deeply. Live or die, it's my choice. My solo, soul journey. I don't even know who I am. What sayeth my intuition, want, inkling and desire? What is the best choice, I say to myself, a thought so loud it bounces off the stony walls.
  Caves often appear like wombs...or tunnels to hell...or heaven...or just a good place to get lost in when you are unsure of who you are and what is happening around you. Primitive cave dweller. Wanting nothing more then a warm fire and roasted nuts. Ah, for warmth, solitude and security.
 I am not forced to take action. This is my vision. Time is irrelevant. Maybe I'll just sit here awhile, staring at the stars....contemplating the fate I hold within my hand.

Yellow

The walls were forever weeping
Inside the doorless room
Thick puddle
Drip, drip, drip
Upon her feet
Of clay
One window
Stood alone
A silent sentry
Belaying the prison

A single bench
Under the sill
Slosh, slosh
Pacing in circles
Fingers interlocked
Listen
To the water
To the wall
Pensive waiting
She knew he would come

Sitting up straight
Solid, naked
wood bench
The only support
Only comfort
She would ever
Know

Any second now
She knew
He'd come pounding
Flying through
The wall
For her
He always did

The room shook
With the vibration
Of the footsteps
The pounding
On the wall
Grew louder
More angry
More wanton
Desperate

She quivered
Inside at first
Turned to trembles
Wave upon
Enlarging wave
Until
She was encased
Within a shivering mass
Of flesh
And bone

Waiting
Shaking
She knew
He would come

What is the Soul? In simple terms

The Soul is a white, energetic, "body" similar in shape to our physical body, but more slender. It resides in the center of our physical being, a smaller version of our physical stature, extending to within an inch or two of our outer, physical skin.
   Lately, I see my Soul as this brilliant white stardust form,  standing with right hand over the heart chakra, within the hand, underneath, is a bright pink pair of wings, softly fluttering.
 The Soul can best be described as an opaque, quasi stable, not fluid, not solid, more of a solid-ethereal solution. Each one is unique, yet all come from the same Divine source. It's as if each Soul is a "teardrop" sized, piece of the Universe, God, the Divine.
   I searched for information regarding the Soul, but nothing made any sense to me, so I decided to write about what I know, in my attempt to understand it better and maybe as a helpful aid to others.
I have always been gifted with the ability to feel and see energy. After practicing Reiki daily, for the past couple of weeks, my awareness and "sight" increase everyday.
 I've read that I am a Spiritual Being having a Human Experience, and I believe that. I've been seeking information and I will write strictly as I interpet, not the words or ideas of others. They really make no sense to me.
  Our Soul has experienced many lifetimes and contains within information learned from those lives.
The knowledge of the Universe, "Wisdom of the Ages", if you will, are all contained within our Soul.
It's our higher, no, highest expression of self, of spirit. Being in touch with one's Soul is immediately calming, as if all the scattered puzzle fragments come miraculously together. It's the singularity that holds us all together, physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually.
 The Soul asks nothing of us. It simply observes in contented silence.
I am just beginning to learn how to put these ethereal sights and observations, into words.


This picture reminded me of the thinness and overall shape of the white Soul shape.









This latest picture reminds me of the influence of the Soul. It seems to originate, or rather resonate, from the heart chakra.
More later. Be well

Attached to Suffering, Adult Survivor

I read my "Hatred" post, to my therapist, yesterday. Yikes! It was so much more insightful and painful, to say aloud. I realized that as an adult survivor of incest/ childhood sexual abuse, I have firmly believed that I was put on this earth to suffer. Suffering is my main identity. If I'm not suffering, something is wrong. If I feel even an ounce of happiness, I am sure I must be at deaths door because that is how I understood heaven....happiness was only to be found in heaven.
 This miserable, mistreated, little catholic girl, at ten years of age, looked around her, saw that her life was vastly different than her classmates and determined that Gods plan for her was constant suffering.
  Sigh. Oh, how the minds of children tick and tock.
 Suffering is like a tentacled, green octopus, heartily attached to my chest in half a dozen places. Once I made peace, at ten, with the misbelief that I was born to suffer, I practically embraced the sea beast and pulled it close, holding, snuggling, ever so tightly to what I believed was my birth rite and the way it was always..always going to be. It was what separated me from the kids around me. Being autistic, I like the uniqueness that separates me from others.
  Fast forward forty years...hard to think that I subconsciously chose to live in a bottle with such a beast...that I wrap tentacle after tentacle around me, tightly, for comfort and security. OMG, who am I without suffering?
  I have nothing against Catholics, except for the bad ones who beat and rape their own children. My religious parents taught me blind obedience and the church proclaimed utter obedience to my parents. I was taught not to question anything my parents did. I believed I was born full of sin and deserved everything my parents dished out. My childish beliefs have kept me ensconced in suffering and self-hatred.
I am clueless as to what I am without suffering, some constant pain of sorts.
I have worn this garb so long. But, maybe, it's time to get naked, release the old, odd, harmful beliefs that have served me in getting this far. I have been walking in a dense, dark cloud, but maybe it's time for me to let this go and step into some light...light-hearted, away from the congested....leave the toxic, thick cloud of unhealthy beliefs.
I will not die. It won't be angels coming for me when I feel...good about myself or entertain a stray ray of happiness. Maybe God wants me to feel good about myself. Maybe love and happiness is an inherent human right. Maybe my maltreatment threw me into the dark side and it's time to find the door and leave. Just like I threw off the suffocating, sick, dysfunctional bonds of my family....now it's time to throw off the tentacles of suffering that have kept me ensnared.
Hmmmmmmmmm

Telling people about Incest

Hatred...not for the faint of heart

I am full of hatred and deserve a slow and painful death. I've denied, denied, denied that the emotion of hate consumes me, inside and out. It was always wrong, a sin to hate anything or anyone, but the truth is I have great hatred.
 I hate that people say and think, "it happened so long ago, why don't you just get over it?", "everyone had a lousey childhood, so what? Move on", "why do you keep bringing up the same shit over and over and over again?", "why don't you love your mother and father...what's wrong with you?"
 I hate that most don't understand my wretched pain. I hate that I have worked so fucking hard to keep it hidden inside. I hate that I believed hate was wrong and that I was evil for secretly harboring hateful thoughts All These Years.
  I hated life for days upon days and years upon years. I hated waking up still fucking alive, knowing full well what each day would bring. I hate the people that I mistakenly believed loved me. It was all lies...but I believed it, everyone around me wanted me to believe them, mom and dad were so fucking sure they loved me and I was fucking sure they were wrong and I fucking hated them, their every breath, an insult, I wanted them dead so very badly. I wanted to wake up to shotgun blasts and find them murdered/ suicided downstairs in the living room. It was my only hope of freedom, that they would off each other in a murderous rage. And it fucking never happened and I hated myself for harboring such ill will.
 I hated that my siblings professed to love them. I hated that other amity members loved them, that anyone thought well or highly of them...I hated that, cause they didn't know, didn't know what they did in their own house, to their own kids and I so wanted to set the record straight and I could never find a way to tell them, to say the truth. I hate that I was a secret, deviant pleasure that was used as an outward expression of how much they hated their own piddley lives. I hate that I was a fucking punching bag, child sex toy and the embodiment, the target of every ouch of anger and hatred they had ever experienced.
  I hate how much they hated me with every fucking fiber of their being, with their eyes, stares, angry, spittle flying mouths and venom filled words. While professing such deep, abiding love for their children, they looked at me with lust and hate.
 I hated living every day. I hated breathing, being hungry and never being fed. I hated craving affection only to find it in dark basements. I hated the needs my body had, it needed, wanted, craved so much..denied, denied, denied. Why on earth was I fucking put here to suffer so? I didn't get it. Some fucked up sick joke. I hated being born over and over and over.
I hated walking amongst people and kids who looked happy, content, loved and fed whose biggest worry was trying to get an A in class, or a date for the prom. I hated that I had to constantly try and find ways to steal money to but food, think of ways to dissuade parents from hitting me, and of not being caught alone with my dad.
I hated the fucking secrets, secrets and lies. I had to always say that everything was fine, I wasnt hungry, I wasn't hurting, i wasn't being forced to have sex with my dad.
I have such hatred, jealousy, anger at no one for fucking helping me. No one. No one. Not a single soul. So I figured I must have deserved it all. This was my lot in life, nothing more. I became thoroughly attached to that identity. Fully believing I need to suffer to be alive. This my karmic truth. Didn't know what it was Not to suffer. Not suffering is kinda confusing when it was all that I knew and experienced and no one wanted to hear it, acknowledge it, but pretend it didn't exist. Who lives in a fantasy word now? Let's not believe what she says...it's too painful and heart breaking to truly know how much pain she is in and how much she really suffered.
I sometimes hate that I didn't off myself a long, long time ago. Hate that I got weak when opportunities arose.
I really hate that no one loved me. I do really hate that.
Childish thoughts..I hate I wasn't good enough, pretty enough, worthy enough to someone earn love. Hate that I always thought their actions were a direct result of something I did or didn't do, which was never the case. Hate that I was such an easy target, victim, autistic, quiet, loyal.
Hate that no one....listened to my silence.
No one saw the truth in my eyes....the frail, sickly little bruised body.
Felt life deceived me, was always tricking me, hope was a stupid, absolutely absurd word. I had no hope.
Hated living like an animal, with dirty hole-filled clothes, eating small scraps and stealing food when I could. Relegated to a very subpar station in life and seeing all around me the opulence of normality, of the non-animals who had warm beds and full bellies.
Hate that my adult life is a day to day struggle to heal my broken childhood...and few people can really understand it.
Hate that I think I still hold on to that need to suffer because I was bad, because I lived it so long. Hate that I thought god hated me along with every body else. Hate that I thought I needed punishment, suffering, malady after malady because it's what I deserved.
Probably always hate that they didn't, couldn't love me....need to get over that...outside their capabilities.
Wonder if under all these heaps of hatred...if I can ever love myself....and forgive. I wonder.
Maybe I'll stop hating myself.
Maybe I'll stop lying to myself and continue to be honest about my feelings good and bad.
Therapys a Bitch! And kind, caring people continue to befuddle me with their extremely strange behaviour.
Deserve it...yeah, working on accepting this new breed of people surrounding me.
Not gonna beat myself up for beating dead horses, for repeating old lines, for rehashing things that bother me.
Heart chakra issues....releasing hatred trying to find ways to love myself, genuinely, for the first time.
Acknowledging, letting go of so veryvery much hatred that I've kept hidden inside, afraid to offend anyone with my truth.
Time to let go of hating myself, my thoughts and feelings. It's just me.

Defining Myself

As I was talking to a friend at church, I overheard myself describe me:
I don't wear a mask. What you see is what you get.
I don't give a crap about what anyone else thinks.
I'm a recluse.
I'm autistic.
I'm an incest survivor with PTSD (yup, I let everyone know, whenever appropriate. And, yup, her eyebrows went up just a bit because she didn't know this)
Everyone needs someone to talk to.
Being an artist, is my passion.
I need a lot of time alone. I stay up half the night, after everyone's gone to sleep, just for alone time.
Funny, how who I am can be said in ten sentences and about two minutes.
I speak and live my truth.

I wonder...

Remembering a childhood gone bad

Memories of my parents house and backyard. So surprised that the neighbors never called the police or child protective services, what with the daily screaming, children crying, adults yelling...I don't get it. Apathy? Not wanting to get involved? It was a small house, on a city street with but ten feet till each neighbors door. No one heard anything that raised red flags? No ones heart ached at the sound of the crying children?
 Being chased. Remembering the times parents would chase, hunt me down for whatever physical punishment I "deserved". I wasn't the only one to run. Brothers and sisters, too, once old enough to realize that they only grab the slowest one they can catch, ran. There wasn't such a thing as justice or "punishing" the one who did the deed...it was whomever they could catch first.


 I can't count the times I raced, got caught, arms grabbed, clothing ripped, hair pulled. Whatever mom and dad could grab was fair game. Reminds me of calf roping...they ran around with the rope, didn't matter if it grabbed a leg or a neck, they took you down. It was hard not to feel like an animal. Running, chasing, grabbing, punching in the head (no bruises there for anyone to see)...the pull that stopped the run and brought one face to face with angry, spittle mouths spewing about the wretched evil of little children innocently playing, or knocking over a lamp, or teasing little brother or not cleaning the kitchen. Being held, yelled at, belittled, hurt. Don't like being grabbed or having to run. Hate being chased, hate being caught. Head punches and slaps hurt to. Ringing ears and headaches. Deafening.
  So many different types of abuse. Today, remembering the physical. Body hurting stuff. I'm very attached to my body, so it hurt emotionally to have it beaten and damaged so. Never deserved it. Never.
 Always trying to escape..them, the anticipatory blows, the pain and hurt. Hard to be trapped like that.
 Another reason I thought the neighbors might call...children running out doors being chased and in fear. Funny, as we kids got older, we realized how much the parents were afraid of getting caught. So, when we could, we would run out the fron door because parents wouldn't chase us where others could see. But, if the only possible escape route was into the backyard...well, our odds were not so good. Could get caught, yelled at and hit where no one could see.
 Interesting how neighbors were so quick to build fences...not wanting to see, when one phone call could have saved the children.
 I've never returned to that house, since I left in the late eighties. Oh, I did a couple drivebys but I never set foot in, nor walked into that backyard. When I say it was a house of horrors, I say it in the truest sense of the phrase.


  Such misery....should not be felt and lived by innocent children. No, not ever.
  I am the sole survivor, in a way, a survivor that remembers and reveals all that others want hidden and denied. I heal in the telling, the sharing.
  Thanks for reading.

Having a moment...the next day

Rough night, as if you couldn't have guessed that. The memories refused to stop. Much more intimate details and feelings than I knew what to do with. Not public blog fodder.

 Ended up taking enough of my prescribed medication, in appropriate dosage, to attempt to quiet my rampant flashbacks. Kind of worked. Drowsy until I drifted off for a few hours.

 Up in the morn to get LittleGuy on the bus. Then straight back to bed where I didn't stir until 2 in the afternoon. Could have slept more but family obligations first. 

 Somewhat functional with overwhelming bouts of extreme sleepiness, to the point I have to lay down and close my eyes. And it isn't from last nights meds or lack of sleep. My body and mind are working on processing copious amounts if new information, organizing it into cohesivivd form. Hope to make it manageable to talk about, in small bits, at therapy.

 Emotional and mental overload with minor physical distress thrown in.

 Only thing that sounds good is curling under heavy, warm blankets and nibbling snickers or toast. Every outer movement requires effort.

 Looking forward to sleep. Although, maybe last nights "films" will continue. The memories, literally would not stop last night. Don't want to be up all night writing again, but a survivors gotta do what a survivor needs to do. I only posted less than half what I experienced. Hopefully, I'm too exhausted for a repeat. 

Therapy is early in the week. I'm looking forward to off-burdening, debriefing, letting this garbage go.

 Doing what I can around the house and with the kids. It's not much but it's my best. Hard to explain...how it all feels to learn so much about myself and my abuse in one night. Horrid doesn't really describe it and I'm too exhausted to find the more appropriate words.

 I know many of you understand. 

Thank you for reading

Be well

Having a moment...

Where my past...feels like my past. Its a DID thing, you wouldn't understand.
That's the danger in therapy and silence and anti-trauma. It's like my life is flashing before my eyes. Hitting me like bugs, lots of little to medium sized bugs, on a windshield. And I'm driving the car. It's a clear day.
 I see a lot of running, trying to get away from angry, violent parents. I see siblings, little siblings, laughing, kicking and making fun of me. My now dead sister, talking to me. Her face as clear as this print. My brother, sullen and turned within, away. Swing sets of dissociative folly. It's easy to get lost inside, on a swing. The crowded living room, vying for a seat. Dad in his corner, smoking, reading, scratching his back, white t-shirts. The smell. Guessing games. Knowing secretive looks. The gestures that meant time to find a place away from everyone. Sounds...don't go there. Sweat. Tears. He often cried after doing bad deeds. Never understood why, back then. He knew he was wrong.
Mother calling everyone to the hell known as the dinner table. Te smell of the too dark brown kitchen with five coats of paint. The fatty chuck steak, Lima beans, fighting over the last glass of milk.
 The empty cupboard with dry spaghetti for hungry sister and brother. Burning spaghetti, for fun, on the gas stove.
Moms knowing looks. She always knew. Her whispers of support and silence. Her helpless, hapless screeching...not so loud that the neighbors would hear. The frantic pace of people running in and out the door. The front door always felt like a prison gate. Dangerous to open. Hide n seek, in the yard, until te bruises haled. Mom applying makeup to cover. Whispering how dad didn't mean to do it and I shouldn't have angered him so. Her vehemently defending his actions. Hitting kids was the arenas tress reliever, that and..
 The basement cloaked many secrets, corners, nooks, places where you could hear someone coming and stop what illegality you were doing and make it look all nice. Ah, I was his onfidante, the trusted one, eye could tell all his secrets and troubles to. How mom didn't understand him and what he needed. The things his mother did to him. Best buddies. Yeah, right.
 Beating during daylight and remorse and...at night. Confusion. But it was my norm. It's how it was. There were weird patterns, I'm a good Aspie, I tried figuring out te chaotic patterns, for a little more predictability. It was the sudden, the unexpected, the furies that arose without warning that hurt the most.


 The pummeling on the living room floor, in front of everyone. The one where he beat me within inches of my life. I'd tried defending myself as best I could. Ha, my mother had to pull him off me.
 Oh, so any clandestine meetings, hush, hush,whispers and non noise making daliences. Ways to keep things quiet. Only the sound of his heavy breathing. And those sounds men make. You don't even want to now how often he.."needed" me.
Being much younger...holding out my arms begging for someone...who never came. Remember thinking, "I'll never do that again" feeling dejected. Jammies with footies and little flower print. Eating cereal, only wanting cereal, for days on end.
Put in the coat closet, amongst the boots. Checking out the wood floor with spaces in the slats, playing, bidding time, preferring the locked darkness to mother in the daylight. Finding scraps to pick at and eat off the floor.
The cutting, the banging, slamming, self-injurious times. The apartment, pale yellow walls, deciding my fate before I left it all. Driving in the dark, leaving my world-till-that-point behind. Knowing they were all gone now, forever, the family.
Wedgewood street, the broken glass, cut foot. Ice cream truck. One of the few times mom was soft, kind voice, helped me. The school in Saginaw, smelled funny, stale. Two teachers, casual dress, daring me to spread a mat and take a nap. Boy, we're they deluded. Like I'd ever lose my eyes in a strange place amongst prone children and two wandering adults. Remember one teacher now, for the first time. Bobbed black hair, sweater, always trying to get me to lay down and close my eyes. Relief when we moved and I didn't have to go back there.
The new school...terrifying. Long sidewalk felt like each step I was closer to doom. Past the older kids classes, two playgrounds, could never think withal the noise and constant fast, unpredictable movements of dozens of kids...all a blur. I was dizzy, disoriented. I was five.
Playing at the park, in summer. The cement wading pool with adult park leaders of different colors. One explained she wasn't black, but more of a brown. Blue shirted leaders. Crafts, flat football, four square, basketball, the basketball pole where that girl ran into it and busted her glasses and had to go to the hospital. The ice rink in winter time. Steamy, benches, too many people sitting too close, lots of movement, tying laces, hot cocoa. Sledding down the hill
Smacking the fence. Stunned, like my chest had collapsed. Two big girls helped me get home. So scared.
Playing tennis. Me against the wall, for hours and hours, whenever I could get away. The unruly teen parties in the parking lot across the street. Dad losing his mind in anger, grabbed bat, ran over.
The bee sting on my foot, once, twice in the clover. Forts in the hawthorns, making fairy weapons and beds, forever hiding. Dirt, wood chips, branches, acorns.
Never wanting to go back home. Not wanting to acknowledge hunger, tired or thirst, but, upon having no choice, amid the hollering of my name, once, twice, thrice...it was futile. I had nowhere else to go.
Just scraps of memory that feel like mine. Integrative flashbacks and awareness.
Thats all
I'm ok

Disparaging

Very sensitive, to criticism, overt, thinly veiled, unintended, only in my head.
 I sometimes have to wait till midnight to set the alarm for morning wake up because I can't do the math.
 Haven't been lost onto myself in awhile, just haven't had the time. The inclination is there.
I've grown exceedingly tired of this four week, annoying cold with cough, chills, and absolutely zero energy.
  Talking about myself, in a positive light, always feels like bragging or too much ego, narcissism.
 Sometimes I put myself out there too much, make bold, self-defining statements, then recoil, hide, avoid the audience and wait until I can face it. I fear I say too much, I've revealed too much.
 Maybe I'm just vapor, a whisp.
 I feel too much or not enough.
 A water balloon, thin skinned and always ready to pop.
Life is a series of experiences and sensations, than you die, take a break, and come back and do it all over again.
Try not to take this life too seriously. I don't think it was might to.
Cemeteries are good places to get perspective. You live, you die. It's all good.
I think about life, death, meaning often. Deep thinker. Always have been.
Searching for meaning and purpose, when sometimes there isn't any. Sometimes it's just finding creative ways to get thru each hour, each day. Learning more advanced techniques to appear functional and manage mountainous stress.
I have days where I think life is one, ingenious, well-planned play....and other days where I'm positive it's a crap shoot. Leaning more towards the latter, these days.


Haven't really missed friendships, these past few weeks. Between not feeling physically well, school stuff, kids birthday parties, everyday wear, tear, chores, errands...haven't had time to think about it.
Just being in the moment...drifting....small Aspie talk for you

Being afraid

My earliest years were spent being very much afraid, mostly of my mother.
I remember being put in my room, none too gently and having the door click shut. It really wasn't much safer in the room, than out. If I made noise, she'd come flying back in with angry lips and flying hands. Mostly, I sat in silence, frozen, paralytic fear, afraid my breathing might too loud, or my feet might accidentally scuff on the floor.
 I'd listen to her and my brother eating, reading, playing games. I was confused, trying to figure out what they were doing and why they were there and I was in the room. Kinda reminds me of how I've felt all my life....separated by a wall, wanting to join but not being able to. I was surrounded by barriers, real and invisible. Never able to fit in anywhere but alone in my room. Comfortable yet uncomfortable. Conundrum and dichotomy my given names....two words I'm so intimately attached to.
 Of course, any small child, left alone in a locked room, for hours at a time, will find ways to amuse herself. Silently, within, forbidden to whisper or breathe too loud, she turns within.


  I remember what fear feels like physically...it's like wearing a quivering, shaking vest that you can't take off. Trying so hard not to move a single bit. Frozen child, ice poppy, the water balloon that neither tosses nor rolls, just sits, trembling, waiting for the water to slowly leak, ebb away.
 Didn't want to be there. Didn't understand why I was even breathing.mfelt the lostness, heavy heavy unwanted and scorned...Now, this is what dissociation looks like....she would fall backwards in to the darkness within...to save herself. It's kinda like half-dying. But it was better than living with the neglect, hate and the stinging,grabbing hands. Better than the laughter...damn, laughter stings and bites. I was the butt of the jokes. Never understood their sinister smiles. Their smiles were never real. Always fake, poorly made plaster casts that would fall off at a moments notice,when company left or when I'd be alone with her.
 Oh, I inhaled and bought in to every venomous word that viper uttered. Kids do that. It's inherent. I'm not really myself, never have been. I'm all the toxic poison my mom constantly spewed.
I don't know how to find out what I am underneath it all.
I sit alone
In the alley
Watching the empty can
Breathe

Aspergers, a vow of silence

It feels like I was born with an inherent need for deep privacy. It doesn't seem right to talk about myself, much less how I feel and think. Sharing doesn't come easily and certainly doesn't feel natural in any way, shape or form.
 Talking about myself almost feels wrong, like I'm betraying a sacred vow to myself.


  I'm very comfortable in the silence. It's my first home.
 Autism is about autonomy. The not needing or wanting anything or anyone outside of myself. Autism is about self sufficiency. See what I can do, on my own. My thoughts and feelings, opinions are all mine. They are all I have. My personal privacy and seperation from society is relish and gravy. I like it. It's the suit I was born in and I'm quite reluctant to change.
 Nothing is always, but I probably feel this way more often than not.
 Of course I don't fit in. I am a world unto myself.  And I'm okay with that.

D.I.D. And Working with a Therapist

sometimes feels like...

Honesty...a dangerous game

To write how one Honestly feels, is truly a dangerous game. For who amongst us dares such intimacy within ourselves? Dares such revelation and soul bearing? Who sees themselves for who they really are? Minus masks and walls?


 It's a strange, sick game we play, pretending to be what others want of us. Looking into the only mirror we know...the one held by another and slightly slanted, arguably skewed, but we want people to like us, accept us, so we transform ourselves into pretty, little make-believe selves so someone will love us and never see our warts of insecurity.
We portend to be real, to be genuine, but, alas, most are naught.
 Dare I say I no longer care what anyone thinks of me? Of my manner? Of my dress? What kind of tiny minority does that slide me into?
 We deny and hide our hurts, insecurities and fears...so that they may forever loom and grow larger, devouring us in our sleep.
 Ha, and I storm into closets, beat the shit, beat the fears and tears till they run rampant out of the darkness and into the light where I analyze, come face-to-face and yell and scream and beat them into submission, into dust. I deal with my fears and that makes me a threat. I don't deny truth and it is more than most can bear. So, I growl and bear some more.
 My dirty laundry hangs, in my front yard, flapping in the breeze for all to see. Turn away if you must. Walk away so your fears don't grow large and impatient and want to join in the airing.
 I build myself a pedestal, so I can see how far I've come.
 I can look back over the garbage dumps, the fetid sewers, the oozing slime of my youth. I can see over societies well worn road of the mundane, the trivial and their river of denial. The emotionally stunted zombies who walk by as if emotions, feelings and bad childhoods don't exist. They are everywhere.
Everyone walks with pain, some large, some small, most of it invisible to eyes, but it's there.
Society has ass backward rules, looks the other way, as long as you pay your taxes and go to church, you needn't notice the starving and the poor. You needn't open your eyes and see the children suffering with incest, beatings and hunger. Nope, everything is okay here.
 Who ever speaks about how lonely they feel? How much they crave love, affection and someone to listen? Who says aloud how much they hurt?
 Just walking wounded in pretty coats.
 Maybe most are not hurting...but shouldn't they be helping the ones that are?
 Just walk away, carrying your sack lunch and pretend that man on the sidewalk isn't hungry.
 The artist and poet can be all fluff and butter or the truest in their unpretty wretchedness in words and pictures of the unpleasant realities.
 Who doesn't want a pretty, petty, rosy picture? Instead of realizing that the sewer is overflowing and needs to be covered up...again.
 The stench is stifling.
 When I scream at night, it isn't so others will hear me...it is so I can hear some truth. Madness is a casual stroll amongst weeping buildings. If you listen for the deafening sorrow, you just might get real.
 As I pour out my heart, people turn their heads and quicken their step. It must be nice to live in such a fantasy world where bad things don't happen to good, innocent people.
 We are all innocent. We are all our parents prey, there insecurities, flaws and fears. Just some of us wear it better. Some grew up with a flower on the pillow, not sleeping naked on the floor.
 You don't want to hear...how easy it is to make a sad, hurting person feel better. It's too easy, simple and completely out of your reach.
 Smile. Look at someone when they are talking. Ask how you can help. Send a card, a short message, thinking of you, hope you are doing ok. Ask them how they are and don't look for a pat answer. Be willing to hear something other than marshmallow fluff.
Be kind. Be nice. Nicety is sooo underrated. Speak softly and slowly. Dare to talk about how you really feel.
Life hasn't been so kind to some of us. We, like you, just want acceptance and the ability to talk about large parts of our lives that we have been forced to hide and deny. Make it okay for us to speak our truth. Do not judge. Try and understand. Listen.
We seek connections from a very disconnected, confusing place.
I grew up surrounded by people that actively worked to trick and hurt me. Yeah, that left wounds and no clue as to how to trust.
I was told and treated as if I was a liar and a leper. That stings. Listen to me.
I was segregated, pushed away, treated like a pariah. Sit close.
I was routinely told I couldn't do anything right. Nothing was ever good enough. Give me a compliment, even a very small one.
Acknowledge me. Realize I have been severely wounded.
And I am working on healing. I need calm, lots of quiet, tons of rest and time to debrief. Just be there. Give a damn. Listen. Offer to help.
It's quite simple, really.
You wanted honesty.
If you read this whole tirade, I thank thee.

The Heart Speaks...

....softly, timidly, in hushed whispers
I think we all come in to this world
Believing we will be welcomed
With open arms and love
Like an unspoken promise,
A pinky swear


We come here, expecting to be loved and cared for.  Sometimes that doesn't happen.
I will never know a mothers love towards me. Never felt it. Never will. There are no replacements or stand ins...it just wasn't meant to be. There will always be grief, a sense of loss, of injustice, but it is true. I can't change it. Just accept it. It's ok.
 The heart speaks of wanting to be physically close to others. Yet the price is too high or misunderstood. People that like touch are often ridiculed. I just want someone close, near, warm, tell me that I am really here, that I am not ostracized and alone.
 I live within a very tight, small sense of the world. I don't take up much space. I have like a 12 inch perimeter in which I experience 90% of the world. It's hard for me to reach out past this space. Don't ask me to raise my hand or gesture, much less...spread my arms open wide. I only experience the outside world within this quite short distance.
 The heart wishes for quiet comfort. For people that do not want to take. For someone that can be near, to feel not alone, yet not imposed upon.
 The heart is afraid to speak its dreams and longings because they seem to be so simple, almost childish. Acceptance. Someone to sit alone in the dark without the tangle of words or the scent of sex.
Naive, innocent, not taking, not bearing.
 The heart has been horribly hurt, but is learning how to warily heal.
The words nice and kind are bigger then you know. A genuine smile is more than money.
Should we tell them how much we can read in their eyes? Their words, tones and subtle gestures? Shall we tell them we can sense their disinterest, distraction and apathy? Everyone so wrapped up in themselves, in old, worn out, tightly embedded ideas. Should we tell them all that we see in them?


Dare we mention...the very littlelittle things that can make us happy beyond belief?
Simpletons in a world that thrives on the drama of complications and social mainstreaming.
 The heart wants to sit quietly....and tell its secrets..reveal the wounds of who cut who there, with what and where. The wounds are not pretty. And the telling is likely to hurt everyone in the conversation.
 The heart needs to know....that it's okay to talk now. That it's okay to feel now. That it's okay to let go now. I start talking but it rains a lot. So much has been kept held...imprisoned. I'm gonna get me a key. I'm gonna write and I'm gonna talk. And I'm not a sure exactly where or how this will go. But I move forward. I have a feeling that there is a lot to be said.

Self-Medicating, Dissociative Feelings, Living Aspie

Decisions, decisions, decisions. So many decisions to be contemplated and made each day. I want to make responsible choices and do the right thing, not what would be easiest or feels the best. It would feel best to lay down, covers over my head and hide under the bed...but it wouldn't be the responsible thing to do. Can't remember the last time I had hours to unwind, debrief and walk in the woods.
 Demands, demands, demands are plastered on every wall and constantly tug at my sleeve...and I cannot escape. So, I'm doing the irresponsible, self-saving thing and self-medicating to a higher degree. I feel, feel, feel, this overbearing, heavy jitters, physical stress running torrents through my body. And I can't get er calmed down. I'm very uncomfortable...beyond discomfort and seeking magic pills, or a magic bean, to grow a stalk, for me to climb away.
 Not enough time to dream, fall away and take a break from this grind.
 Then, I get these feelings, emotional sensations that don't pertain to the present. Earlier, I felt the panic like I had done something really wrong, in therapy. Logic told me this was my DID, dissociative identity disorder acting up. But I couldn't shake the feeling that I had deeply offended my therapist. Yeah, I ended up leaving her a message to all me....just so I could calm my butt down, stop panicking over something...displaced and from the past. LOL, you have no idea the unthrill of living with DID and trying to maintain a semi, quasi functional life. It's so funny I could cry.
  Juggling balls of flame, trying not to get burned.
  Sleeping in a noisey, crowded house.
 I have demands Inside, as well as Outside. It's nuts.
I know what I need, what will quiet the din...I just can't get it. The good lord knows I'm trying to take care of myself.


 I even went off line most of last week. It barely made a small dent in the over activity and feel of the weight of the world on mine shoulders.
 A lot of this is being mom, boys in school and such. Started this new family therapy, too. Great idea but about as stressful as a full day with my dysfunctional bio family. I'm like talking to some strange lady, I don't know from Adam, who constantly smiles, laughs loud and I have no idea what she wants, what language she's speaking, what she means by thus and such.
 Being Aspie, each NT is like a separate unknown variable, completely unpredictable.
I'm tired. I'm done. I know, leaving mid thought, but I'm tired. Had enough.
Good night

Autumn Colors in Northern Michigan

I don't believe that I have ever appreciated the colors of Fall until this very day.

Honor thy father and they mother? Uh, NO!!!!

I grew up Catholic. My parents were staunch Catholics. Before I was old enough to memorize this commandment, my father was sexually abusing me and my mother was neglecting me, leaving me in locked rooms, alone, for hours every day.
This commandment, while intended to be a very positive virtue, can be harmful if blindly followed. Overall, I agree with it. However, in my case this rule held me hostage and gave my parents free reign to be cruel.
One of the first questions that I posed to my therapist, when I finally stated the hidden truth of the incest, was "will I go to hell because I'm not honoring my parents? (and the promise to keep secrets and never betray the family?)"
She reassured me that it was within my rights to talk about it and that No, I surely was not going to hell.
I do not believe that the commandment was intended to silence victims or hurt children. I think the honor rule applies to all parents that are honorable. My parents were cruel. I do not honor anyone who believes its okay to sexually abuse children. I do not honor my parents. No victim, no innocent child that is physically and/ or sexually abused need honor their parents.
This is a very important point! Especially those of us who are taught to adhere to religious rules above all else! I kept quiet largely based on this misbegotten principle.
This commandment reminds me of "though shalt not kill". Overall, a worthy commandment, except for soldiers, police and law enforcement who may have to kill in the line of duty.
It is my duty, to loudly proclaim, that "Honor thy father and thy mother" Does Not Apply To Child Molesters or Child Abusers!!!!!!!!!

Sitting in the Dark

On being Autistic