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