Posted on by histrionicabutterfly · 2 Comments

The Long, Slow Road to Somewhere

NOTE: Content warning for my history with suicide. No references to methods.
These are excerpts from another blog i keep.

Don’t take no shit
Yeah, you deal with it
And you rise above it all

Before you run
Yeah, you gotta walk
And to start you gotta crawl

~ Love Love Love, My Morning Jacket

I’ve been in and out of the hospital twice in as many weeks.

I was close to a commitment situation. The status of my marriage, and the stage i’m at in therapy, had me stretched to my limit. I’d had a plan for some time, but that wasn’t too concerning — it’s the way my brain has worked since first contemplating suicide at age four. (Yes, that’s early for memories and early for such thoughts. It’s emblazoned on my mind, and i know how old i was based on where i lived.) I was every axiom there is regarding being at my absolute limit.

My entire system was in full panic mode. I’ve had decent control for several years now, i’ve put in thousands of hours of work to be able to parent the broken children that live inside my brain. Many of them, perhaps even most, trusted me to be in the face and relied on me to take care of them and keep them safe. As my hold on myself weakened, i wobbled in my resolve to continue along this path i’ve been walking. I got tired — no — i was exhausted, and i hit complete overwhelm.

It was too hard to resist the desire to get away from it. In the veritable blink of my mind’s eye, i was lost. I let my system take over. I switched, and i was gone. So then, chaos for me and those who live with me. Regardless of the age they present, they are traumatised children born of a traumatised child. They think and act as children do when they are hurt and frightened.

But i left my family to cope with their various messes. Shitty of me, i know.

I have never wanted to die, which would seem dichotomous to the number of times i have attempted to end my life. But the thing is, if i’d truly wanted to do that, i certainly could have accomplished it. And i am still here, which gives lie to the actions. It wasn’t a purposeful lie; there was no intention to do so. I only wanted whatever i was suffering at the time to stop, and that, along with parts of my system that some of my worst abusers programmed to end things if it got too much, were the driving forces behind my suicidal behaviours. I hadn’t the awareness, the maturity, or the tools to do anything besides what i did.

So, the plan that was beckoning me?
It was a flashing neon sign that came with its own air raid siren.
And while it didn’t keep me from losing time, it seemed to keep me from disappearing altogether. I wasn’t gone for as long as i could have been.
I thumped back into the face once they’d gotten hurt.

I’m standing there staring at myself in the mirror, which is a frequent take-off and landing pad for switching when i’m in a highly dissociative state. I reemerged black-eyed, bruised, and bloody. They’d stepped on my laptop and cracked my phone screen. I’d missed plans and commitments with two friends. My son was upset, and my husband was worried and probably as tired as i was.

But that neon sign and siren demanded my immediate attention.
And i didn’t do all this work for nothin’. I did it precisely for these moments. All the pain and the plodding along, all the falling down and the getting back up, all the suggestions from my therapist that i took, even as i rolled my eyes and scoffed…

I knew shit was coming down the pike two years ago. Something good, something IMPORTANT, was coming my way. A small light i kept burning inside me. Hope. I had hope.

As i lay on the couch in agony, detoxing from all the poison my system had funnelled into my body, even the throbbing in my head couldn’t banish my thoughts. They were shrouded in fog and pain, but my introspective nature wouldn’t, couldn’t let it be.

I’ve endeavoured to know who i am underneath all the coping behaviours and “alternate personalities.” It’s been years of learning to identify when i’m dissociating/dissociated, and taken intense effort, concentration and practise to get control of my system. More time and effort still to get myself to a place where i can choose not to dissociate. Slowly, i’ve learned that other people not liking me or disapproving of how i live my life will not kill me nor need it result in any abuse.

Turning off the reflex of being who i think i’m supposed to be and instead, tapping into my core personality has been worth all the work. I’ve found that place inside me where it’s YES, this is right, and NO, this is wrong. YES, this is me, and NO, this isn’t me. It’s a foreign, wonderful feeling.

And as i’m staring in the mirror, assessing the damage to my face and shaking off the last vestiges of days of lost time, that feeling floods in, filling me with a surety of what i want and don’t want, what i can do and what i can’t. WON’T.

Dealing with the worst part of what happened to me when i was little is what’s in my face, literally and figuratively — right now. It’s every breath i take and it clings to me like a second skin. It won’t be ignored, and i tried. To ignore it might cost me, well, everything. It might cost me my life.

But that little light of hope inside me was on. It kept on glowing in that moment when i am looking at myself and seeing who i am. And it is not a looking back and realising. It is not a lightning bolt epiphany. I looked, and i just saw what was there.

You’re staring at the sun
You’re standing in the sea
Your mouth is open wide
You’re trying hard to breath
The water’s at your neck
There’s lightning in your teeth
Your body’s over me

Staring at the Sun, TV On The Radio

The choice is obvious

I will put all my effort into therapy.

Once i decided, the plan faded. It’s still there, but it is no longer a (somewhat) attractive option. The little ones that live in my head are no longer demanding to be let out. Well, there are still a couple, but they’ve always been that way. What can i tell you? DID is complex, man. I continue to be neck-deep in the most disgusting memories of my life; these are the details that i refused to look at because i didn’t have what it takes to process them.

But now i do, and so i will.

I want this post to show how i changed my situation by not much more than keeping going and doing what was in front of me if i was able. I know of people that have survived worse than i have, but i will tell you that i do not know of many who have not done so by stuffing it down, ignoring it, numbing it, or covering it over with other things.

I couldn’t do that — that’s not who i am.
I don’t judge those that have survived their traumas in other ways — that they did at all is enough.

I’m moving out of survival and into functionality. The next part of it for me is thriving, and i fully intend to get there, married or divorced.

I haven’t gotten here through any life-changing experiences or epiphanies or massive output of effort. I barely had the energy to manage marriage and children with the way my brain works. All i’ve been able to do this entire time is put one foot in front of the other and take baby steps forward. And when i fell, which was repeatedly, most of the time i’d lay there on the ground for a while before i could get up again.

It wasn’t fancy work, nor romantic. It hasn’t been like a movie where the heroine triumphs over insurmountable odds and your heart is full and soaring as the credits roll. It’s been messy and frustrating and painful and seemingly interminable. I’ve walked away from family and lost dear friends.

But i am sitting here and writing this and i know who i am.
I’ll plod through this filth as slowly as i must. I am not special or so incredibly unique. I’m not this strong because surviving made me so — i am this strong in spite of the cost of survival.

And if i can do this, maybe you can walk your path, too.
I hope you can.
I’ll keep a little light on for you.

Somewhere, inside something, there is a rush of greatness
Who knows what stands in front of our lives

Let the Sunshine In (Audience During Sunday Rainstorm), Galt MacDermot

Posted on by histrionicabutterfly · 2 Comments

Offal Stew

Honestly, i don’t know what to tell you. Life is hard and it sucks right now, but it also doesn’t. I want to give you something good, something you can think of when you’re low and it’ll make you feel a little less so. Some bit of experience where you can see yourself and hang on because hey, i am, and i’m a total fuckup… So why can’t you?

But my head is throbbing and i can’t find any interesting words swimming around up there at the moment. I’ve got a headache every goddamn day these last weeks. It is the soup of madness and chaos bubbling and spitting hot broth when i give it a stir. There are those who live in my brain who NEED me to do this work that’s in front of me and there are others whose very ephemeral and esoteric existence is built exclusively around STOPPING me from doing this work.

That probably makes no sense.

Parts of my system are allied with my abusers. That is a sad and scary fact. They drank the kool-aid. They believe i was born for a special purpose. They are searching for the man i called Daddy, and his right hand man, and all the rest of his compatriots and co-conspirators. That sounds romantic, doesn’t it? But that’s just the way i like to write. What those fucks were, were a bunch of predators; perverts and paedophiles who shared information on how to be the BEST child rapist, i.e. how not to get caught and have access to as many children as possible!

This is ugly writing here, and i try not to do any of that anymore. I’m trying to make my story consumable; spicy, but not so hot as to be unpalatable. Your guts might hate you for an hour or 2 and we won’t talk about the burn that awaits your butthole, but the dish was cooked, seasoned and served in such a way that you’d never have guessed you’re eating offal stew.

Today i’m serving up something that’s raw and still squirming.
Today i have no panache.
Today i am a wall of stone-muscles and magma-guts.
Today i cannot hang on to time.

That’s the “suck” part.

The not-suck is that i know i wouldn’t be here if i weren’t progressing. These fail-safes in my brain can’t be triggered by just sitting on the curb watching the parade go by.

I’m in this. I’m not even in the fucking weeds yet and it’s a LOT.
I have to go in and grab my babies away from the terrible men and women that have held them captive all these years.
And holy shit, do i not want to.
But you better believe i will.
The thought of touching them makes my head throb so badly i’ve shut all the light i can out of the house and i’m playing elevator jazz on volume level 4 and i’m wearing sunglasses to be able to look at this bloody keyboard i’m clacking away on, and if i retch one more godforsaken time i think my head might actually explode like that motherfucker in the movie Scanners…

But you better believe i will.

I’ll try to be a bit less… whatever-this-is tomorrow.


IMAGE: Kai-Chieh Chan

Posted on by histrionicabutterfly

Push-Start

I’m pushing myself because i can. Maybe i could have before if i’d tried harder. I certainly tried, but maybe i could have done more. I couldn’t do much. I could barely keep the house together and get my family fed. My hygiene was… Okay.
But i wasn’t writing anything publishable.
And i wasn’t walking.

Those 2 things are the most important to me, the ones i’d immediately rattle off if i were asked what was vital to managing my mental health.

I don’t know what, if anything, has changed. I think it’s more that i’ve gotten sick and tired of being sick and tired. I’m in a corner and i don’t take kindly to being cornered — even if i’m the one who’s done it.

I started back walking this week. Just 2km, that’s it. My headphones weren’t working, and i hadn’t set up my new Fit band, but i went. My brain really wanted to use those things as excuses not to go, but it was easy to see them for what they were, so i went. I walked. And then, with that tiny bit of momentum, i walked in the door, sat down in front of the laptop, and i wrote.

Here on my WP blog, i can be a little less demanding and a little less perfect when it comes to the content i post. I’m not trying to be legit, make money, attract the algorithm gods’ attention, or win kudos from top writers and their publications. This is my diary. This is where i let people see who i am and how i figure shit out.

Over the last few days, i have sorted my music and Fit band situations. I’m walking more, and thanks to this blog, i am writing more. I’m not yet creating fantastic new content on my other platform, but i’ve resumed going back over my old WP blog posts and commenting on them and how i’ve progressed since writing them.

They’re like a reaction video on YT, heh. I’m reacting to my own stuff. It’s not terribly original, but it’s keeping me in the game. The added benefit is that i can see how far i’ve come since i began writing. This place got me to admit that i love writing and i want to be a writer. That admission was challenging and a long time coming. I can see what i’ve learned and how i’ve grown, all of which help me through this dratted depression i’m currently in.

This is the easiest that writing has come in a couple of months.

My new Fit band is sending me messages that i’ve been sitting too long. Maybe that wouldn’t have be,en good for me a couple of weeks ago. Now, it’s okay. I’m using it to get myself up and do something, no matter how small. I’ve walked my dog around our yard, done a couple of loads of dishes, scrubbed the tub and tiles, and vacuumed the living room. Yesterday i made 2 carrot cakes. Tomorrow i’ll be preparing for my grandchildren to come for an overnight visit and getting ready for a family Thanksgiving celebration on Sunday.

I got some poetry written. I checked my analytics on the other site, and i’ve got an idea i’ve been sitting on for a publication where i always get good engagement. I’m gonna move into my office and make writing more intentional. Sitting at my desk feels official and grown up. I probably need a bit of that right now.

What i have to do next in my therapy journey looms large on the horizon. I’m now able to think of other things, and i’m no longer frozen with dread and terror. But it is still paramount in my mind because i understand what i’m about to do, and i know it will suck a truckload of shit. What it’s costing me to avoid the work has become untenable. I’ve backed myself into a corner here, too.

ZOOMing with my therapist tomorrow.
Tomorrow’s blog entry might be interesting.
I guess we’ll see.





IMAGE: Mitchell Orr

Posted on by histrionicabutterfly

I’ve Fallen and I Can’t Get Up

Depression has kicked my ass so hard i’m having trouble doing much of anything.

My house, yard, body, and relationships are basically okay, meaning clean enough, not cluttered or in disrepair, but that’s it.
I’m having a shit of a time writing.
My fibro pain is so bad i’m dissociating to get away from it.
I struggle in conversation; i can participate, but on the inside, i am freaking. out.
My system is banging around in my head so hard that i have a constant headache. The only time i’m not aware of it is when i’m sleeping.

Speaking of sleeping, it’s the only thing that’s going well in my life, which makes me wonder if i got sucked into an alternate universe where it’s Spongebob’s opposite day, every day. Because sleep is always a crapshoot for me. Maybe i’m finally on the right mix of meds? The only problem remains dreaming. I dream all night long, flowing from one dream into another and then another. I wake up to use the bathroom, and as soon as i’m back to sleep, my dream picks back up where it left off. They’re not nightmares, they’re not even particularly disturbing, but they are exhausting. They’re the kind of dreams i have when my stress level is too high.

My body is at the breaking point.

I saw the doctor last week to chat about my last round of blood work. My organs are functioning well, and my weight loss continues. My headaches have become debilitating, so she gave me a neurological exam.

When she was through, she said, “You are the tensest person i’ve ever examined.”

She thinks the problem might be stress, and i’m inclined to agree. The band around my forehead began tightening as soon as i started typing this post, and it’s already at the point where i’m having trouble concentrating. I’ve decided to cut this post short, but i will continue it tomorrow. It might be the only way i can produce consistently for this blog.

Some people in my brain do not want me to do this work i’m doing with my therapist. I was never supposed to talk about what happened to me, let alone survive this long. I’m coming up against some parts of my system that are allied with my abusers. I’ve spent years cleaning out the horde in my brain, and they don’t like it. I’m integrating (becoming fully co-conscious with my system), and some of the bits that split off when i was little have been… I don’t know what to call it. Reabsorbed?

It’s hard to describe; it’s all so esoteric.

I’ll elaborate tomorrow.

IMAGE: Caleb Woods

Posted on by histrionicabutterfly · 8 Comments

What I Was Pretending Not to Know

I’m trying to write on my other platform, and i can’t. Well i can. I can still write poetry, but prose creeps along like molasses in January. I also have a couple of serious essays i’ve been working on that have ground to a halt.

I don’t have writer’s block. I have lots of ideas and several pieces in various stages of development that i like, i enjoy writing them, and i think (hope) they’ll be good. I’ve popped out some new writing along the lines of humorous commentary, which i’m pleased about. I have a wry sense of humour that i’ve been attempting to find a place for on my other platform, and getting accepted as a writer for a couple of the publications i enjoy has boosted my self-esteem. Which, if you follow my blog, you might realise was needed, or at least desired.

But i’m having trouble writing. Like, slipping into that bashedy-bash-bash flow that feels like free chocolate and new kicks were delivered to my door. Or when it’s so good, i feel like Snow White in the forest with all the forest creatures gathering around… It’s missing. I can sit at the laptop, pull up a piece, read what i’ve written so far, edit a bit and add another paragraph or 2… And i’m done. My brain seizes up. My Bits N’ Pieces infernal racket plays a part in that for sure, but also i just feel stuck, somehow.

Well, after my last time loss, my husband insisted i get back to therapy. He didn’t have to push, though, i wanted to talk to her. I’d cancelled an appointment as i was finished detoxing, and i wasn’t sure why. I hadn’t gotten into too much trouble drink-wise, and i was feeling okay to talk. But i still ducked it.

Being as dissociative as i can be, means knowing something while not knowing it can be on a whole other level. I think we can all ignore the truth that’s in front of us sometimes. I think feigning ignorance is a way to avoid any number of things that we might not want to face. Me, i do that shit like so many other folks, but Dissociative Identity Disorder can make it harder to be aware that i’m doing it because i have deeper and darker places to hide the knowledge. It can be kept from me by other personalities, some of whom have a great deal of power in who i am and how i operate, most of whom are difficult and crafty.

I saw my therapist yesterday. I told her frankly that i’m struggling with suicidality, and i told her my plan. She looked at me for a few seconds -long ones- and asked me a couple of pointed questions:
When is your birthday?
How old are you now?
How did you feel about this spring?

Asking those questions might seem weird. My therapist knows these things, at least approximately. She was asking me to access information that she knew i already had. Things i know that i’m pretending not to.

I was born into servitude. My mother had me to satisfy her own selfish desires. She wanted unconditional love and a vessel into which she could pour all the feelings she didn’t want to house in her own body, like shame, rejection, fear, and especially anger. It didn’t stop there, though. I don’t know how, although i could hazard a guess, but she came across people who wanted what she had — specifically, me. Men who would give her their attention, along with gifts and money. For me.

As open and vulnerable as i’ve been about my childhood trauma, i’m rarely literal in how i refer to specifics, especially the sexual abuse. I prefer to imply, allude to it, and use euphemisms and metaphors. What happened to me was brutal and ugly and horrific. It took years for me to use the words that tell what happened to me in the most simple and succinct language. Words like grooming and indoctrination. Words like trafficking and rape.

I was taught to lie, hide, and deny. I was told i was dreaming, that i had an overactive imagination, that i was a compulsive liar, overly dramatic, and an attention-seeker. I did what i was told, and i believed their lies and internalized their abuse.

Their lies.
Their abuse.

All these years i’ve just been dealing with my mother. I told myself it would be enough, because she was at the root of it all. It was hard to admit my mother was an abuser. It flies in the face of all my programming — all her programming. It was hard to accept my DID diagnosis. Not just because it’s fantastic and controversial. Not only because television and movies portray multiples using harmful and inaccurate tropes.

It’s also because my mother knew i was a multiple, and she knew because the men she trafficked me to, knew.

And now i’m going to write about what i don’t write about: the paedophiles that used my mother to get at me.

Don’t misunderstand me here, please. I’m a skeptic. I’m not a conspiracy theorist.
Some things about my childhood are provable, but some i’ll never know for certain. If it cannot be proven, i put it on a continuum of likelihood. I look for patterns of behaviour. I use what i’ve learned about other victims and their stories, again looking for patterns and probabilities. I try to state regularly the things that i’m not sure of and what i’m only guessing at.

So, consider this fully caveated.

It is my belief, although i do not know (knowledge is a subset of beliefs), that there are very “successful” paedophiles out there. They learn from each other, and yes, i believe there are some that form groups. I’m not talking about some massive worldwide cabal, but it is my personal, lived experience that some hang out together, and even abuse, together. Some paedophiles know about dissociatives like me. They look for qualities that might make a child more susceptible to dissociation, like long-term, preexisting trauma. Children like i was are the paedophile’s unicorn.

I was already shattered when they found me. I was already on the far end of the dissociative spectrum; i had alters. And they knew how to make more. So they did. They made alters in me to hide what was happening. More than that, though, they made them complicit in the abuse. They made parts that would ally themselves with them — my abusers.

I know that this is some whackadoo territory, so let me reiterate: i don’t know this, i only suspect it’s true. I have a therapist who is tops in her field, who confirms my suspicions based on her treatment of others who’ve been through similar extremes. I also have memories that back this up, although i know very well the unreliable nature of such, and the danger of confirmation bias that ever-looms over my interpretations.

So when my therapist asked me those questions, i stopped ignoring what i knew.
I thought i could get away with just dealing with my mother. But i can’t.
I’m going to have to deal with the men, especially the man i called “Daddy” and his best friend. There were other men, and some other women too, and i’ll work through what and whomever else i must.

There’s so much more about how i got to this place and why i believe these things, but i don’t know if, when, or how i’m going to write about them. This is quite enough for now. It’s taken me days to write this much — there is powerful programming coming up against me. I’ll be thinking about it and processing it with my therapist, making sure it’s the right thing for me to do and setting up solid, safe boundaries before i go any further with this part of my story. No matter what i decide, i’ll keep writing about the journey.

I feel like Michael Corleone, fuuuuck.

I hope this greases the wheels a bit and can get me writing more smoothly again.

Y’all hang in there. I’m doing my damnedest.
Love and Peace,
~H~

IMAGE: K8

Posted on by histrionicabutterfly

Fatigue

Today i spoke with my therapist. She called me last week at the same time, but i’d forgotten we had an appointment and had scheduled something else that i couldn’t easily cancel. Fortunately she cut me a break and moved it to today with no penalty. Phew. I knew last week as soon as i heard her voice that i needed to talk to her. I felt it so keenly i had a little cry about it when i hung up the phone. I wanted to talk to her about what’s going on with me. I needed to know if what i’m feeling and where i’m at is okay.

I mean, it is okay, whatever it is, but sometimes i need her stamp of approval. I just do.

So she asks me how i’m doing and i say, Well, i’m alive, so that’s something.
That sounds rather dire, so i quickly add, There’s nothing wrong exactly, but i am tired and my mood is so low. My ass is draggin’, and i have to make myself get out of bed or off the couch to accomplish anything. I went over my check list with her:
– my house is clean,
– i’m clean,
– meals are prepared,
– the dogs are walked,
– i’m writing,
– i’m meeting small goals around eating and exercise.

She asks, “What would happen if you did nothing?”

I’d drown in a sea of guilt and self-hatred.

See, i know i can do these things. I might not be capable of much more at the moment, but i can do these things. I just feel heavy and cranky and out of sorts.
I’m in fibro flareup due to my return to exercise, but i expected that, and i can get through it. I can weather that little pain-storm. I can cut back on some household chores. I can slow down on the gardening. And i can ask for help. I live with 2 grown men who can pick up some slack.

As we’re talking about these things she suddenly asks me, “Do you feel restless?”
YES, i answer, without even thinking. YES!
I want to get out there and start testing myself; this new, mindful grownup that i’ve become.
I’m looking for people i can connect with and learn from.
I want to know people that will challenge me to be better.
I want to contribute to my community.
I’ve done a lot of growing inwards – i’m ready to grow outwards, now.
I think.
You know, tentatively go for a walk in these spiffy new shoes and see where they take me.

Yes, i have pandemic fatigue. I am typical, much to my chagrin.
I can find solace and even some encouragement in that, though.
If i’m this sick of it all, it must mean i’ve been doing it right, right?
I’m excited to get back out there and experience life as a fully present human!
As someone who doesn’t care nearly so much what other people think.
As someone who has good boundaries and will enforce them.
As someone who won’t let old fears keep me from doing things.
As someone who has plenty to contribute to the world around me.

I’m growing up, finally. And some of this is growing pains. It’s probably a big part of the reason why i’m so tired. This is all new to me. I would fade in and out of various levels of dissociation all day, every day. It takes a great deal of energy for me to stay present and mindful. I’ve got to manage my physical issues, my mental ones, my relationships, the day-to-days of running a household… All while trying to learn and grow, set and meet goals, prepare for the future, and expand my sphere of associations.
It’s a lot, and i have admiration and respect for anyone who does all of this.

That’s all i can do, today. My brain is tired and it’s shutting down the write-y/thinky parts. Heh.

Gonna jump on the treadmill and listen to some tunes.
Y’all hang in there as best you can.

Love and Peace,
~H~

IMAGE: Misho Tektumanidze

Posted on by histrionicabutterfly · 4 Comments

Dream Shifts

This post might only be for me, but i’m sharing it just in case. I’ll put it in a new category, labelled Dream Journal. It’s weird, but what’s new?

So, i guess i’m dream-journalling again:

Been struggling with insomnia, and when i can sleep, it’s either for 8, 10, 12hrs, which is uncharacteristic, or frustrated tossing about and cursing, punctuated by brief, unsatisfying dozes.

And always whatever sleep is filled with dreaming, and the days, with headaches. The headaches can be mild, like an ache in the base of my skull that spreads cloudy pain in a band around my forehead. An asteroid belt orbiting my brain. There are worse ones though, and they’ve been more frequent. The band tightens and makes my brain feel like it’s swelling inside my skull, there are screws of intensity at my temples. These days those are near-constant. I can feel my eyeballs, 2 hot stones that bounce around and make my sockets radiate ache.
Plus, my dreams are escalating.

After weeks of struggle, i’m thinking my dreams are telling me they have something to tell me. Maybe they’re trying to get my attention. Weird, not-my-usual sort of dreams have been happening. I’m remembering a lot more of them too, when for years, outside of maybe a dozen or so a year, they were like trying to grab wisps of smoke upon waking.

I spoke of my dreams just a few posts ago, in “Mindful Dreaming”, so this journal will only include mention of dreams or fragments of, that i’ve had since.

Dream #1:

– Husband and i are at the neighbours to pick up something i left the last time i was there. They are wealthy, hospitable people, and invite us to stay for a cool drink by their pool. Hubby obliges with the man of the house, poolside, and i proceed to the kitchen with the lady. She’s kind, petite, elegant, the epitome of gentility and graciousness. We speak as those who don’t know each other well, but like each other much. We bring a plate of snacks out to the men, whose number has grown to 3. I sit beside the one that’s mine, who’s got a 6-pack of beer at his feet, and is tucking into his second. Odd, because he rarely drinks, and when he does, it’s only a couple, enjoyed slowly.

I’m looking around at all the lovely things they have, so tastefully decorated and well-maintained. Then i’m talking to a few other women and we are no longer by the pool, we are in a gorgeous living room. It’s sunken, with deep pile white carpeting. There are banisters providing a broken border on 3 sides. One side provides entrance to a luxe dining area. There are tables laden with an incredible array of desserts, including what look like driftwood logs that have split open long ago and spilled their contents. But the logs are made of chocolate, and what spills out are dozens and dozens of the most delectable looking chocolates – a veritable chocolaterie. And there are exquisite tea cakes of every imagining, served on tiered plates made of fine china and gold. I make a note to GTF over there and get me some as soon as this person stops chattering at me.

One side of the room steps up and opens to a door leading to a hallway, which i know leads to other apartments like this one, although none of the rest have a pool, and this couple has the best apartment of all. (We don’t live there, we live in our own, much more humble home next door.) The door suddenly opens, and this guy comes in, looking like he just walked in from a retirement community in Florida. He’s very animated and blustery, and he emotes to the whole room about how he’s confessing that he’s the one who stole from Mister’s humidor. Further, he states that he’s not sorry, and proceeds to steal another box of cigars and runs back out, giggling gleefully. Mister laughs and says to the group of us, which has become more like a crowd, that he isn’t going to bother himself with that.
At which point, conversations and indulgences resume.

I then hear a voice coming from my right, and i cringe immediately because i know who it is. My mother is sitting in a chair above the sunken area, at one of the openings. I can’t remember exactly what she said, but i know it was bemoaning her life. I see she’s settling in to a speech: she sighs dramatically and stretches back. Her legs open, exposing her panties, and her gathered top comes undone, but she only pays it the barest attention. As she’s sighing deeply and fixing her soulful eyes on us, she makes a half-assed attempt to hold it up with her hand, but it falls open on one side, exposing her breast.
I said something like, This didn’t last long, and get up and head over to “handle” her. I’m burning with embarrassment.

Suddenly Missus gets my attention and hands me a beautiful piece of clothing. Taking it from her and turning it about in my hands i see it’s old fashioned type knickers, but the kind we wore in the 80s, that have a frilly sleeveless top attached. These aren’t ridiculous though, they’re perfectly stitched, frothy perfection. She tells me they’re a bit big for her and she thought that i might like them. I chuckle at her and say, A bit? and Thank you! Then she hands me a piece my own lingerie that i recognise immediately. I wondered aloud how the heck she found them, but that got lost as she handed me more lingerie, all in a rosegold satin pouch. I thought it contained one thing, but it was a complete matching outfit. Tasteful, well made, and obviously expensive. Then i saw there was another one, and another. Every time i finished looking at one, there would be another underneath it. They were all as exquisite and detailed as everything else, and i still remember many, incredibly minute details, which is odd for a dream, i think. I mark as of this writing, that while every outfit i saw was of a different colour: white, cream, gold and black, only one mostly white set, had any red, and that was merely a few stripes along with some black ones. There was nothing aggressively sexual – it was more like the wedding trousseau of a lady of some means.
I also mark that everything was a very average size, and i wasn’t worried about any of it fitting me, which has been the case for most of my life – whether asleep or awake.

I’m holding them up for the assemblage, and a beautiful woman who’s standing over a sofa filled with other ladies and talking animatedly with them, oohs and ahs, and comes for a closer look. It’s Reese Witherspoon, and she’s a dear friend of the lady of the house, and a minor one of mine.

I wake up.

Comments, Thoughts, Meanderings, Ponderings*:

– There is a quality in many of my dreams that particularly stands out in this one. I often have a tonne of backstory with both the people in interact with, and the places i go. I don’t know if it’s like that with other people, as i’ve never asked. In fact, i don’t think i’ve told anyone this before. There are long histories that are very clear and intricate, and well-known to me while dreaming, that mostly fade upon waking. Lately though, i’m starting to remember them, as i have here, although not quite as intense.

For instance, there are 2 trailer parks i’ve visited repeatedly: 1 is my own childhood home, but the other is an old, rundown, and vaguely sinister one with only a few, set far apart, with large, equally unkempt bits of land, where once were kept chickens, maybe rabbits, definitely sad, old dogs on chains in the hot sun. I’ve been there countless times, but never in my waking life.
Thankfully.
I don’t care to visit my childhood one at all, either.
Brains, huh?

– I think it’s obvious all the clothing is significant.

For one, the fact that i don’t fret about my size or the size of the clothes, which are obviously NOT plus-size, speaks volumes to me. It confirms that my image of myself IS changing. The last time i lost a lot of weight, i couldn’t see it. I still had what i now refer to as “fat eyes”. It’s like how i see other friends looking at pictures of themselves from years ago and saying God, i thought i was so fat back then, but i sure wish i was that weight now. Poor self-image, coupled with eating, food, and body/sex issues, made sure i basically couldn’t see myself realistically.
Screw lousy parents, and screw mean girls and bully boys, too.
Just sayin’.

For another, i think it’s significant that everything is tasteful and demure (as far as lingerie goes, heh) and beautifully made, and very expensive. Except the panties of mine that she found. They were more bold, say? Some might say bawdy. This lovely, sweet and elegant lady that everyone liked, was giving me something of hers, and then an incredibly generous gift of so much more. As i stated some time back in my piece about my husband’s and my relationship regarding intimacy (it wasn’t a big TMI, it was more vague references and euphemisms, also heh), we have stripped ourselves back to our beginnings, to figure out what we like/want, and don’t like/want; that includes as sexual beings. I won’t get too personal here, except to say i’m experiencing myself in a way expressed by those pretty, frilly, softly coloured, luxurious items.
I think it speaks both to who i am, and what i’m worth.

– Next, what about the barging in, rude dude?

About this, i have no clear inclination. I’ll have to marinate in all the questions i have for a bit. It’s like no one was put out by his loudness, or brashness, or confession, or his continued inappropriate behaviour. Well now, writing that out certainly gave me some ideas.
That’s why i’m doing this.
Is it me, and that no one minds my mental illness, my strange ways of behaving, my quirks and oddities?
I’m also reminded now that no one reacted to my mother at all.

– Let me tell you about my mother.

Just kidding. I’ve probably shared way too much for anyone’s level of comfortability or interest about my mother, but her appearance in this dream is significant, regardless.
It’s one of her rare appearances where she’s not the size she was when she died, around 500lbs. She was more of her size when i was 6 or 7, i’d guess around 170 or 180 (for 5’8″), which is not much over, in my opinion. She was younger and still had her looks. She was a pretty woman, before what was inside her began rotting her outsides.

She was removed from the rest of us.
She was above us.
She didn’t look at me or address me directly.

I was embarrassed, yes, but it wasn’t like in my childhood. The feeling i had was more like how one might feel when a sick relative who can’t help themselves does something. Like when i’ve been in full mania, walked up to random people, and asked them to score drugs for me. I wasn’t angry, either. She usually pisses me right off in my dreams of late – and i tell her so, which has been therapeutic as heck. But no, i was more resigned to the fact that my afternoon fun was over because i had to get her out of there and take care of her.
Weird.
Weirder still, but easier for me to ken, was the interference of the lady of the house.

Does the first mean that my rage and pain are finally dulling some? I mean, they have faded over years of therapy, but this new work i’m doing has brought the feelings back. It can feel fresh and intense at times. Am i letting go of things? Is my brain doing that, or my body, or both? And if it’s both, is it because i AM mending the connection between them? Something to ponder.

And further, who is the lady of the house?
That will require some time and more writing still, methinks.

Every single night
I endure the flight
Of little wings of white-flamed
Butterflies in my brain
… every single night’s alight with my brain
~ Fiona Apple, Every Single Night

*I’ve titled that as i did, because it’s what my therapist, the wonderful Ms T, asks me at the end of every session. Seems apropos.

 

 

Posted on by histrionicabutterfly · 2 Comments

Love Goggles

I think i’m having an epiphany.
Are you allowed to have those when you’re down a rabbit hole and swimming around in a bottle?

I don’t know, but my inclination is No. It’s not legitimate. You are in your cups and so you cannot trust any thought or feeling you have.

No, there is too much. Let me sum up.
~ Inigo Montoya

This has been the hardest year of my adult life. No, really. I went back to therapy, and BAM! my beloved Ms T tells me i’m looking for homeostasis, in other words, a return to what i was meant to be under ideal circumstances. The word some might use is integration, but for me it isn’t that. That word means an end to the split off parts of me that saved my life. They made a childhood full of torture, survivable. Yes, they make me (diagnosably) crazy and frustrated and put me in embarrassing situations and make messes i have to clean up. Yes, they drive me nuts (diagnosed). But they stepped in, when i was a child, and took unspeakable, excruciatingly painful, evil things so that i didn’t have to. I owe them a debt i can never fully repay. Yes, i know they are me. I don’t mean to sound arrogant or superior here, but in all my efforts to communicate my experiences, i’ve come to believe that no one can fully understand what it’s like to be a multiple unless you are one. (And thank you, for every bit that you do get, and/or at least extend yourself in the effort.)

Homeostasis means healthy, to me. My body and my mind working at peak capacity. So, my Bits N’ Pieces will still be a part of me, but no longer able to take over the face and cause difficulties. No more lost time. No more reflexive disappearing. I will still feel them and maybe even hear them in my brain, but they will just be for me. No one else will have to encounter them, or deal with them. I am not in danger anymore. I’m in a safe, good, healthy place. I want them to know and feel that, and i want to take good care of them, like my children (they are), for the rest of my life.

It’s a lot of work, and it’s constant. The choice to be present and feel my feelings, experience my physical sensations, and think my thoughts in real time, is all the time. It never ends. I’m always exhausted. I struggle with insomnia, but when i can sleep, i can sleep for 8,10,12hrs straight. I have to commit and recommit to what i’m doing every day, all day.

And then this pandemic hits.
It engages me on every level i’m working on. I’m trying to be a better, kinder, healthier human, and it challenges me at every point.
People not thinking what i think they should think.
People not doing what i think they should do.
Trying to escape from religious and tribalistic thinking confronts me at every turn.

A couple of posts ago i talked about seeing people through love-goggles. It’s been seeping into me ever since. As i do the work in front of me, i’m learning who i am as a person. Shucking off all the protective measures that are like reflex. This isn’t just about my system, it’s about every breath i’ve ever taken. I had to fight for my life from before i could walk or speak. This stuff is ingrained. It’s my skin. My armour is my skin, my breath, my heartbeat, my blood. Every minute of every day, for almost 2yrs now, i choose to let go. To trust. To believe. To aspire for better and actively work towards it. To see myself for who i am and acknowledge it to others.

And this pandemic, now. FFS.
It has neon-signed every issue i have. It has Sisyphused all my burdens. I’m in constant crisis.

I’ve found the blessing in it. I had to. I want to live, and more than that, i want as much quality of life as i can get. Yes, i dare it. I want more, and more, and better. And this is what i’ve learned from doing the work. There is more, and better, and i can have it.
But it requires great effort and intention.

So, the pandemic. Yes, it highlighted all my issues and exacerbated the stress i was already under. And i backslid into old ways of thinking and acting. I was angry –enraged, even– at everyone who wasn’t doing what i thought they should do. I lashed out, with provable justification, at everyone who wasn’t behaving correctly. And every time i did, i felt like a bag of shit. Then i’d chide myself, because i was clearly in the right, so i was doing/saying what people needed. I was being brave.
But i kept feeling awful about it. So awful.

But i’d written this piece about love-goggling, and i kept thinking about it. I kept thinking about my son who believes things that i know are dangerous and provably wrong. I kept thinking about my friends who are taking terrible risks that i would not take. I kept thinking about how, when my mental illness overtook me, how those friends were the ones that were there for me, in the flesh, to help me when i could not help myself.

I asked myself: Is my rage helping me, or anyone else?
Is the fact that i can prove my rage is justified making me feel any better?
Does my tsk-tsking and finger-shaking make me feel good?
The answers were No. No, and Only for a very short time.
And that is when my mind and heart turned to love-goggling.
How am i going to be in a good relationship with my son when he believes things that actively put his family and others in danger? Love goggles.
How am i going to live in a community that largely believes in and supports political viewpoints that i find abhorrent? Love goggles.
How am i going to engage with an online audience that seems consistently arrogant, cruel, judgmental, and tribalistic? Love goggles.

I may be a Pollyanna. I may be a Milquetoast.
Maybe.
But today i can live in my own skin and i can give a shit about everybody.
Every. single. body.
And that feels good and right to me.

Posted on by histrionicabutterfly · 2 Comments

The Drop

I’ve got the key to my castle in the air, but whether I can unlock the door remains to be seen.
~ Louisa May Alcott, Little Women

After my dear Ms T (i talk about my therapist so much, let’s give her a name) checks in with my current state, she goes over how i was switched and hung up on her during our last phone session. She asks me who i thought it might be that swatted the Little who was talking to her away, and then yelled at her and hung up.
She doesn’t usually ask me who was in the face in my absence.

For one, i often have no idea, and for another, none of us are inclined to give their names. We do so exceedingly rarely, and it tends to be delivered with not a little hostility. Even when i’m talking with my husband, who knows them all, i’ll use their role/job, rather than their names. It makes something twist up inside me to use their proper names. Like guitar feedback – and not the cool Jesus-and-Mary-Chain kind. It’s more like when your 12yr old is jamming with his friends in your garage.

I tell her i don’t know.
She asks me if i’d be willing to share with her what popped into my head when she asked me. I told her, but no name, only her role. I won’t be sharing either here, but i will say she is the #1 in the system: most developed, most power, most functional… most like me.

What followed is a bit on the hazy side, which is what happens when Ms T hits on something close to someone in my system. What i mean is, i tend to stay on track with my therapy sessions unless someone else who lives in my brain is triggered. If that happens, i feel myself getting pulled back, and i know someone is trying to pass me along the way, to get in the face. It’s like in a scary movie when the woman finally realises it’s the person she’s with, that she’s trusted the most, that’s killing everyone. When the camera pulls back for a long and wide shot – who knows, maybe i’m even wearing the same expression of dawning horror. /jk

It’s one way to describe how it initially feels during all the levels of dissociation that occur for me, as a multiple. First, there’s the initial receding, and then the numb and floaty feeling that comes with basic dissociation. I’m in a dopey, dreamy state here. Then there’s what i call sliding, where i’m not quite switched, but parts of my system are in the face, and i’m watching what’s happening without being able to affect my own actions. It’s a little like being the new baby at a family gathering – i get tossed around a bit. A full switch is where i can feel a violent pull back. It’d be like if the ocean of space inside my brain where all of them manifest were a pregnant woman. I feel a hard tug, right where my baby’s joined to me. I can share this weird analogy because my first son shot out of me like a football. The doctors weren’t anticipating a first timer to be done in 4hrs, so they were on the other side of the room, talking.

My doc said, OMG, the baby’s head is crowning! and ran over to catch. She did, but the fact that the umbilical cord was wrapped around my son’s neck and shoulders might have helped. I felt a pull on the inside so hard and strange; i could almost hear the boi-yoi-YOING! sound. Like if we were joined by a bungee cord.
You’re welcome for that image.
I’m saying switching comes from the baby-feeding belly-tube of my momma-brain.
K, i’m done. RLY.
Heh.

Back to my hazy recollection of my therapist and i discussing who flicked the wee one away and took her place.
I’ve been working on cutting down on the amount of time between her questions and my answers. There’s pressure to keep my mouth shut from many directions, but i have enough power to push up against it harder than before, i think. Like the football player in training pushing that sled just a little further each time.
I have a leftover impression of pressing myself to speak the answer as soon as i have it.
I’m not a fan of speaking without thought. It’s been my personal experience (so, not necessarily yours) that that can lead to a lack of proper skepticism. I’ve also seen the practise used overwhelmingly by those to whom i’d never go for help/healing.
I’m referring to practitioners of pop psychology (subjective), and to the religious (objective), and i mean no offense.
This is just life as me, making the best choices i can based on who i am, my life experiences, and what i want.
Your mileage will vary.

Having some trouble getting to my point today.
There’s a bit of a kerfuffle going on in this old noggin since that session 4days ago.
I’ll stop writing cute analogies, and just write what i know. It’ll be choppy, without my typical smooth transitions.
You may snort here.

This part of my system we talked about is basically my Number One. She’s task-driven, intimidating, sarcastic, grouchy, gruff and take charge. She’s the most protective over me, and when pushed, her words are nothing short of caustic. As i’ve written about though, she and i have both retired our ninjamouth ways. Still, i would have described her as one tough customer.

And then Ms T asks if it’s occurred to me that she’s probably somewhere around 6yrs old.
I remember it feeling a bit like looking down at a glass floor when you’re standing in a tower. It felt like i was going to slide back further (fall), but i didn’t.
I looked down and i saw HER, and i saw that she is a child.
And then it was like a drop tower at an amusement park.
I saw that they are all children, regardless of the age they affect.
They were all born when i was very small; how could they be anything but? They’re reflections of whatever age they claim to be; merely a manifestation of what i thought a rebellious teenager or provocative twentysomething or kind uncle or hardworking mother would be like.

I’m the only real grownup who lives in my brain.
All of the rest of me are children.

I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship.

Happy Sunday,
~H~

Posted on by histrionicabutterfly · 5 Comments

In My Cups

I’ve been avoiding writing about this for years. Over the last year or so though, i’ve mentioned it in a somewhat ancillary fashion. I think i’ve been testing the waters. If i’m going to share how my brain works and how i pursue the life i want, while juggling my particular set of issues, however, i would be remiss if i didn’t address it. It would be a lie by omission, and i do try to avoid those, here on my blog.

My addictive nature, and how that’s manifested in my life in general, and in my journey through mental illness and being neuroatypical particularly.

<insertdeepsighhere>

This will be a rough one for me.
I was raised to keep things hidden.
It was modeled for me that one doesn’t acknowledge one’s flaws, let alone talk about them. If one did, then various religions were the answer.

What i have learned though, is that people know anyway. Despite our best efforts, if we hang around with people for either long enough, or at the right moments – they’ll figure it out. (Not the biggest reason i became a hermit, but not a small one, either.) They may not know exactly what it is, but they’ll smell it on us. Something not quite right. Something’s gone off, and it’s rotting away inside.

For addiction, i have both nature and nurture. My mother ate her way up so high there was no scale at the time to weigh her. We’ve figured out ways in our current society to do so, but we’ve had to, because so many are afflicted with the problem. When my mom was super-morbidly obese, she was the fattest person anyone had ever seen in real life, everywhere we went. She’d always held food over me as a reward, and withheld it from me as punishment, and also due to neglect.

So i learned to comfort myself with food. I used it to numb out pain. It was a drug that filled me with a false and fleeting happiness. After a long and checkered history, i’ve learned enough about myself and nutrition to have found a way to handle my food issues.
Oh, but i have addictive behaviours, plural, and my relationship with food, eating, weight, and body image are well-documented in this blog already.

Food wasn’t the only thing that was used to control me as a child.
When you want her to like you, you start out with ice cream and candy.
When you want her to relax and lie still, you use alcohol and pills.

Abusers used pills, i was on pills to control my epilepsy, and when i was diagnosed with fibromyalgia as an adult, more pills. That was when i began using the non-prescription codeine to help me cope with the constant pain. By the time i was diagnosed bipolar, i was going through a 250 count bottle of the stuff in less than a week. At one point, i was on 6 different medications at the same time to try and regulate me, and oh, did i mention that i’d started drinking?

For years drinking wasn’t a problem. Then i had weight loss surgery, lost over 300lbs, and slammed into my first full blown mania. The weight loss got me lots of sexual attention and a job in the entertainment industry. More social interactions with me as the centre of everything than i’d had to deal with since my school and church years in plays and vocal performances. I was dealing with no impulse control and sexual and social anxiety through the roof. I didn’t want to eat because i was thin and i loved the way people were treating me… I worked mostly in bars, so i drank.

Between booze and the male gaze, my mania became so severe i lost my job. Mania didn’t just amp me up, either. Between it, the weight loss, and problematic drinking, my DID became a cyclone. And then came the years of psych wards, detox facilities, recovery centres, an actual mental hospital, and LOTS of religion.

As i’ve written before, none of it worked. Eventually, as my husband desperately searched for help for me, he found the therapist i’ve been working with ever since. I long ago laid down the pill-popping, but unfortunately, the drinking behaviours remain. Not the partying all the time kind of drinking, which is good. But when i fall down the rabbit hole – i drink. And there are many parts of my system who will naturally gravitate towards alcohol, because it’s familiar. It wasn’t just that it was a part of our regular life.
It’s that it helped, you see.

It’s easier to slide and switch around with alcohol. It greases the wheels, so to speak. And when, in that first real mania, my system decided to properly introduce themselves to me AND return to full duty, so too, did they return to alcohol. I could go without drinking for long periods of time, but then i would switch, and find myself drunk when i was back in the face. Or viciously hungover.

Sometimes in therapy, we touch on something and i know i’m going to drink over it. If i (specifically speaking) didn’t get some, i knew the issue was enough for me to switch, and then they’d just go get it anyway. There were times when someone or something would trigger me HARD, and i knew what was coming. Life would do what life does, and often become too much for me, and i’d fall down the rabbit hole. Crawling out always involves detoxing from a binge. I had to figure out a way to get, and maintain, some kind of control.

My therapist doesn’t really deal with addiction or bipolar stuffs, even. She focuses on my system, and helping me learn how to listen, address my issues, and build the kind of life i want. Problematic use of drugs, alcohol, food, sex, etc. is, let’s say rampant, with multiples. She deals with cause, rather than effects. When i first started seeing her, she would come to my house, because i couldn’t leave it. I’d have a mickey of something stuffed beside me on the couch, because i’d have needed a couple of nips to even be able to let her in the door, and i knew that after she left i’d have a couple more.

The more work i’ve done in therapy the better it’s gotten. I even stopped therapy for a few years because i thought i was done. When i found out i wasn’t, old behaviours began kicking in, like, i can’t control the face as well as i was, and this body work makes everyone want a drink.
Everyone.

I knew i had to figure out a new way to handle things during this time. I’m not going back to square 1. I know i won’t either, because my problem solving skills are rather fantastic. One of the first things i did is i stopped hiding the problem. My husband and my kids already knew, so be honest. Why have this undercurrent of tenseness for my boys, where i act like it’s not happening and they act like they don’t know that it is? Why make my husband complicit in the lie? These things aren’t healthy and they erode the trust and poison the relationships that i have with them, that i’ve worked so freaking hard to build.

Removing the hiddenness immediately calmed my impulsivity. My sons both accepted the behaviour and said it was okay. They understood, and both relayed to me that they’ve seen nothing but improvements in the way i’ve lived my life since my brain fell apart.

Hm. Maybe there’s something here for me to learn.

I told my BFF, and since the beginning of our friendship (it’s a couple of years old, now), she’s been nothing but supportive. I’ve never lied to her, and as our friendship’s grown and trust has built, i’ve let her in like i have never, ever let a friend in before. I can call her up and say, “I’m either gonna have a drink or 2, or i’m hittin’ the highway,” and she will come babysit me until my husband gets home.* I don’t bother hiding from her, because i know i don’t need to.

I’m seeing a pattern here…

I’m down the rabbit hole, right now. At first, i got drunk and stayed that way for a few days. The therapy i’m doing, plus this pandemic situation the world is in, summarily tossed me down there by the seat of my pants.
Down you go H, no choice.
But my kids kept loving me and telling me it was okay.
And my husband did things that he knows will maintain my connection to him.

Ah. I know where this is going.

So this time, my Angries didn’t come out and get belligerent. My highly sexualised parts didn’t come forward and demand more and more booze, until i was blacked out and became a parade of damaged Bits N’ Pieces that are very low functioning and can be quite troublesome (to put it mildly). In fact, i was able to slow down and even sober up for my therapy the other day. I’d been fine for a few days.

When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.
~Tao Te Ching

I was ready when i first met my therapist. She taught me a great many things and then i left, thinking i had moved on. It was not so. I simply wasn’t ready for the next lesson. I humbly returned when i realised the truth, and i’ve been learning ever since. These lessons are more painful than the previous ones, and yet, tired as i am, i see myself listening more readily and learning faster. Now it’s more like, When the student is ready, the lesson will come.

Two weeks ago i connected to my therapist in a way i’ve never connected to another human being ever. I shared grief and pain with her, not with words, but with sounds of suffering that i’ve kept buried deep, deep down inside me, at my most broken place. And i let her hold me through it – something i have never allowed before, in the dozen or more years we’ve been working together to help me.

CONNECTION. A mother’s love in her arms around me, in her voice as she soothed me, in her tears as she cried for me.

I strongly suspect that the other day on the phone with her, i learned my most important lesson yet. I told her that shame is my driving emotion. The one that controls me at every step. Every thought, every action is somewhat shame-driven. She responded that shame isn’t bad; shame is just an emotion, a feeling. She said it’s the body’s response to the human need for connection to another human.
I believe i was ready for this lesson.

Yesterday, i was chatting with my husband after supper, and it just came up out of me. I said, “I think shame is the reason i drink – the reason we all drink.** I think what i really want is to be connected to myself, to be alive so that i can truly connect to another person. To you, to our children, to my friends… ”

I was ashamed to want connection, too. The messages that i internalised as a child were that i was filthy and disgusting and not worthy.
But all the work i’ve done has been slowly taking down this deadly razor-wire that my mother and my upbringing built around me.
It’s going to take more work, but i’m going to listen to what shame is trying to tell me, and i’m going to keep disarming the landmines around me. I will be fully alive and interactive with other human beings. I will be living.

As for the booze, i don’t know. It’s just a symptom, as destructive as it can be, and i live with multiplicity, which means i cannot (at least as of yet) always control what i’m going to do. And that’s okay, today. Sometimes i drink to cope. But it’s nothing at all like it was, and i believe with my whole heart, that it’s possible that someday it won’t be a problem at all. Today i’m neither hungover, nor am i drunk. Tomorrow may be something different.

But i’ll handle it.

I have no wise pronouncements to make on addictive behaviours. I have no solutions save the one i’m working out for myself. I won’t be bashing any of the other ways to handle such issues, because i don’t find it helpful or productive. This is me, and my way only. I share for my own continued healing and growth, but also to maybe give others hope that they can find their own way, too.

Just hang on. It’s the place where i started all this, and it’s where i return as often as needed.

Love and Peace,
~H~

*For those who are new to my blog, i run when i’m stressed or triggered. We live on a farm, and i’ll hit the highway and hitchhike into the city, where i am in immediate danger due to switching. I haven’t hitchhiked in a few years now, but i’ll still angry walk for many kilometres, in any weather, and have been in fairly desperate need of rescue a few times, just due to that.

**We means me and all my parts. My system.