Iacta Alea Est

17 Aug

I might stop writing this blog. I feel like its kind of evolved into something I am not sure if I like. I have shared a lot and I do not know if I am going to continue to do so. I have asked myself, “what would you write about if you didn’t write about trauma?”

I don’t know if I can write about something other than trauma. I feel that I need to assess that because I am a bit unnerved by that at the moment. I have known trauma longer than anything else. That will change eventually. Until then, I feel like I’m just kind of bitching and complaining.

Left Handed Compliments.

17 Aug

I have had limited mobility the last few weeks. It makes me feel like I’m going a little crazy a few times, but I have learned to distract myself when I feel that way. I have not had an interest in doing things that I feel need to be done. I get really fucking avoidant of those things like laundry and dishes when I feel hindered. I wish I could say I have not been avoidant of things I enjoy as well, but I have. I have been avoiding my garden somewhat. I think that could also be due in part to my upstairs neighbor triggering me, and I don’t want to be in a situation where I may have to see him.

I saw a doctor because of my arm and limited mobility, and in doing so I began seeing a new physician. I was already aware of the need to cut my former physician loose so I finally did it. I had to do it because after my last visit I realized the dynamic between myself and the doctor was reminiscent of the dynamic with my mother. Without going into tons of unnecessary detail, the relationship was abusive. It had been a while since I had seen this doctor, and when I did, I was very aware of how the relationship was not equitable for me at all. I had been her patient for over 10 years. I feel as though the last vestige of that old life is crumbling. I think it will be completely gone when my arm is healed?

I find it interesting that the issue with my arm seems to stem from a nerve in my neck, and simultaneously I have been taking too much medication for my thyroid gland, which is also in my neck. I guess I have to save my own neck. I have been on a lower dosage (thankfully) for about ten days. It may as well be ten years, because my sense of time is so fucked up right now. I feel much better than I did, and I guess because of that I am not always aware of the fact that I am still adjusting to new medication.

I have felt as though I am disassembling a lot of the things that I was not able examine before. There is a feeling of some clarity? I feel less and less compelled to measure myself against some set of criteria formed by our narcissistic culture. I still do to some extent, as we all do unless you are living isolated from all media.I am able to process the pain when it surfaces I suppose.

I am processing some now. As I think about my neck, I have to shed a few tears and as I do I think of the sibling and the fear I felt. I then think back to one of my recent sessions with my therapist and how I told her I felt that what the sibling did was a sliver on the whole spectrum of the trauma I experienced, whereas what the mother did was like a fucking yardstick.

I wonder why I have found myself having difficulty wrapping up the story surrounding the mother. It still hurts like fuck. I am beginning to feel compassion but it is conflicted. I feel as though she had some duty to me as her child, but in fact she did not. Ideally, yes, perhaps she has a duty. However, that only serves to confuse me at this point. After the simplest of my needs was met, everything else was a bonus with her. I was resented from the day I was born and partially because of the day I was born.

I remember regularly hearing hushed voices talking in a nearby room. I recognized them, and as I followed the sound I would hear a pronoun that was referring to me or my name. When I would enter the room the talking would stop, and I would be looked at and then addressed with a question. It was usually “what do you want,” or “what are you doing here?” This recounting makes me think of hearing my friend David talking about how I have a habit of apologizing. I think I felt inclined to apologize for a lot of things with which I had nothing to do.

My birthday is coming and I am happy that I can celebrate the day and not factor in a bunch of unwanted shit. I had a moment when I realized one reason why I have disliked my birthday for so long: it was never my day. It was constantly referred to as my father’s birthday, and since everyone hated him, everyone hated that day. Because of me, they had to celebrate it. I had to call my father every year and wish him a happy birthday. If I didn’t call, I would not hear him say it back. He didn’t call me. Period.

This year as I turn 43, I am thrilled to be able to celebrate my birthday. I say that because I am celebrating the gift of being alive, and I don’t have to do it with any assholes.

Indie Revolver Exclusive: Possible Images of the Knights of Ren From ‘Star Wars: The Force Awakens’

14 Aug

Indie Revolver Exclusive: Possible Images of the Knights of Ren From ‘Star Wars: The Force Awakens’.

Tourniquet. (Trigger Warning. Explicit.)

5 Aug

I am the colossal failure of your influence

What you fed me I ate

and vomited forth

I feed on the acids left behind

I am the symbol of hope through adversity

And you fucking hate it.

I am the symbol of all your dirty secrets

The reminder of how much pain you inflicted

How much you failed and how much you destroyed

I am here to make sure you don’t forget

“We will never forget.”

Take your feeble body and drag yourself through

Your last days here

Without the fanfare and the parades

At the end of the day you are still alone,

completely unremarkable and mediocre.

Years I asked myself what to do

To make you love me

Was it my hair, my teeth, my eyes?

Was it my voice?

I remember trying to piece together what you wanted from me

I took all the pieces

I assembled them

I learned to mimic and make you laugh

My attempts were ineffective

It never changed who I was, and who you saw

I have been battling lately, and you better pay attention to this one

What will the outcome be?

Shall I transmute to a grand serpent

slithering into your bed to sink my venom into your throat

Or a Siren constantly singing in your ear

Songs of betrayal and agony

Perhaps a mighty wave am I

To pummel your little boat

into a million little bits

until it resembles what you did to my fucking heart

Maybe there will be no shapeshifting

I stand waiting for any attempt

So I can have a reason

To blast you with pain

You won’t see some snake or siren

Just me, with the same eyes

Rebuking you.

Don’t think for a moment you have been forgotten.

None of you have.

I have my weapons mounted for you

I think you know that finally.

To reach for me would be to amputate your hand.

I would advise against it,

but you never took me seriously.

Just have a tourniquet handy.

Caius Martius. (Trigger Warning)

3 Aug

The sun is finally gracing me with its presence today. It’s needed. The clouds and rain that have been filling the sky every morning have felt oppressive. I could never live in the British Isles. Maybe that is why Ralph Fiennes often looks depressed. I have a nerve in my shoulder that is pinched by muscle tension, and the nerve affects my right arm and hand, at times causing it to be numb. This is painful, but it’s personally troubling as I have a phobia about losing the use of my hands. I no doubt have this fear because I am afraid of losing the ability to write. I have used writing as a way to express myself when I was not allowed to speak for fear of being physically struck. Now I have been harboring this fear that I may lose the use of my dominant hand, which is total bullshit. However, it is the type of fear that manifests when I am highly triggered.

Due to the effects of PTSD, my memory is like a block of Swiss cheese. Some of the drugs I use for anxiety sometimes have an effect on my memory as well, and the occasional effects of dissociation do, too. This plays into another fear that I have, the fear of some disease like Alzheimer’s or dementia attacking my mind; the fear that after all the things my mind has endured, it would collapse in on itself once it could rest.

As it stands I have some indication that my brain development was affected by the conditions in which I was raised. I have difficulty with spatial relations. I think things will fit where they won’t and I have difficulty with abstract concepts of volume. Basically, when I put away leftovers, I often pick containers that are too small because I have difficulty surmising the volume. Sometimes it makes me sad. Most of the time I don’t care.

I’m watching Coriolanus, a film based on one of Shakespeare’s least common plays. I am sympathetic to Caius Martius, the main character. It takes place in Rome, and Caius Martius is a war hero. He’s not just a war hero, he’s THE war hero. He lives and breathes war. He’s banished by his own people because they perceive him as too proud and calloused. In fact, he is lost without conflict, and when asked to play the role of the smiling, medal wielding, dress uniform wearing glory boy, he refuses. He feels it is his duty to defend Rome, and that showing off his medals and battle scars is arrogance. He exists to defend Rome, and to bask in some sort of glory is unnecessary and akin to gloating. He wants to circumvent the pomp and circumstance and get back to war. He is perceived as if he is snubbing the people’s voices. He wants no praise, he only wants action. He is then cast out of the country for which he lived and fought.

Caius decides that as he has been banished, he banishes THEM. There is no love lost, for he has lived for the purpose of defending them, and now they can face fears and foes without his defense. He decides that the place he once lived and fought for, the thing he would have died for, is now his enemy. The ferocity with which he defended Rome will now be turned against it.

I’m very empathetic to Caius. I suppose sympathetic also. I was protective of the biological group with which I was raised. The loyalty I had for them was not reciprocated. It is similar to the dynamic of Caius Martius. I have struggled in my earlier years to keep the beast of hatred at bay. I find I still battle these feelings when I find myself triggered. I battle the urge to give in to my hatred when I am triggered by lecherous fools, men who look at me as though I am a thing, and when memories of the poisoned milk of the mother come back.

I hope each one of them overcomes suffering. For all intensive purposes, they are all dead.

Crying with Cary.

28 Jul

It is morning, and I have coffee, sunlight, and my kitten. I actually have all the laundry clean (put away is another task altogether, don’t judge me!! Haha!!) and the home is not a cluttered mess. As the anniversary of one year at this address is coming, I am happy with my progress. Things have been unpacked, put in place, arranged, and rearranged. I have decorated and been able to create an environment for us that is calm and restorative. I finally get to put fucking butterflies and flowers everywhere. I feel safe here. I haven’t experienced feeling safe in a home for some time. The last place we lived was an exercise in tolerance and learning boundaries, and feeling forgotten. It still makes me angry thinking about it. I suspect that it is on my mind because it felt like abandonment of another kind and I have been processing that a lot lately.

I watched a documentary about Winston Churchill yesterday, and the man was just brilliant. He openly wept. I love that he was open with his showing of emotion because Churchill is considered a paragon of the British Empire, and the British are not known for showing their feelings. He was a remarkable man that found himself restless in peace time. That breaks my heart, because I wonder if he ever felt peace within himself. He did so much to keep others safe and restore peace, but did he ever get the chance to appreciate what he achieved?

During the Battle of Britain he went for a walk every night in a nearby park while he stayed at 10 Downing Street. His bodyguard apparently expressed some anxiety over Churchill’s evening walks and Churchill told his bodyguard that he was protected by something larger and pointed to the sky. He felt he had a destiny to fulfill and he was determined to do it.

As I watch Cary Grant, I’m ready to cry again. I cry every day, I think. I used to wonder if something was wrong with me, but I don’t give a shit anymore if I cry. I had to spend a lot of time holding my tears inside for my safety. I am done doing that. There are certain things I cannot seem to tolerate anymore. My birthday is coming soon, and it seems within the weeks leading up to it, I get some sort of “life lesson.” The one that I think I am learning is that I don’t need to tolerate my boundaries being violated, and I can say something about it. I don’t have to be quiet anymore, I don’t have to fear for my life if I speak, or if I cry.

Damn, Cary Grant is the most charming man on the screen. I think there are some charming men in our midst today, but there will never be another Cary Grant. NEVER. To quote Rose Nylund (Golden Girls if you aren’t familiar), “hubba hubba, zing zing! Baby, he’s got EVERYTHING!” I mean, he even did LSD. He wanted to overcome the things that had been hindrances in his life psychologically. That takes courage for anyone, especially a man who had his status. The part of the movie where he feels heartbroken is on the screen right now. It is time for a box of tissues. I’m going to cry, because I can.


27 Jul

There is no feeling quite like abandonment. That feeling is one that has been indelibly etched into my memory. To explain it to someone that is not familiar with it seems like it would be impossible. It seems like we have all experienced it on some level, at some time in our lives or it wouldn’t be an issue maintained by our society. However, it is, and that is indicative of its largesse.

Many of us felt it perhaps as children, and carry it over into adulthood because that is what we learned. I felt it a great deal as a child and I have in the past set up scenarios as an adult to reinforce that belief. Vesting my time and interest into something or someone that was obviously unable to reciprocate or offer equitability. Equitable seems to be the best thing to use when I am assessing something and trying to figure out if it is good or bad for me. I cannot rely on cultural norms to tell me. My culture does not comply with reality. My culture celebrates Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, and those are not things that I can do. I suppose it is not accurate then to say it is “my” culture, but it is rather the culture in which I live. Because I cannot rely on that culture and I cannot rely on what I was shown in my developmental years, I have to approach things that feel shitty with some kind of model to get some sort of clarity.

It seems that since I have been familiar with abandonment since I can remember, in some way it felt like that was what was normal. That was what I experienced consistently with each biological family member, so I speculate that my child mind was processing that as a natural event in a relationship. As an adult, this has led to a host of pain and depression. Trying to forge relationships while expecting them to fail is incongruent at best.

I am reflecting (or ruminating?) on abandonment today as I feel slighted by my kitten. She’s not really a kitten anymore, but she is too petite and pretty in my opinion to call her a “cat,” and because I dote on her, I feel like kitten still works. She has been moody because she hasn’t been neutered yet (I know, it has to be done, and I’m making the fucking appointment today), and now that her “cycle” has wrapped up, she’s not responding to my affection like she was before it began. This creature means so much to me. Her happiness is paramount (which is another reason she is going to be neutered). She was a feral cat when we adopted her, and she seems to be enacting that behavior somewhat. Today is the first day she has spent time near me. This whole fucking sequence of events has triggered the feeling of abandonment.

The feeling of putting all your emotional cash into a bank account that suddenly bounces a check is akin to what I am experiencing. It seems that if I take an abstract concept and find some analogy or metaphor that makes it a tangible thing I can start to digest it? I don’t know for certain. Maybe that is why I love poetry so much. So much metaphor, so much use of language in unconventional methods to describe FEELINGS, the things I was not allowed to have if I wanted to be safe. Feeling abandoned by my kitten over the last few days has sparked a shitload of things. I keep asking myself if I am experiencing hormonal discord because I keep crying, but I am not. I am triggered because I want to feel my kitty nearby and she wants nothing to do with me. It doesn’t matter that she is not human, it doesn’t matter if it is not a personal choice, and it doesn’t matter if it seems silly. I feel abandoned by her. I gladly give her anything I can and she has been reciprocal mostly, but she isn’t now. She is opposed to my company, and it hurts badly because I cannot find what to do to make her want to be with me. There is nothing to do, because she has free will regarding whether or not to love me. She has to love me of her own volition. Obviously there’s a lot going on here besides the cat situation.

Abandonment sucks. I am not being abandoned by my cat, but it seems that way to me because of the way my mind processed so much trauma. I WAS abandoned when I should not have been, that is clear. I do not have to engage in relationships that leave me feeling abandoned. I write this to myself because I was not taught this, and now that I have learned this I want to remember it. I can choose to participate in relationships that are equitable, and so I do.

She is sitting across from me now, sleeping. :)

Enrique Grossmann Lauria

"Knowledge is power"- Francis Bacon

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The value of those societies in which the capitalist mode of production prevails, present itself as "an immense accumulation of commodities", its unit being a single commodity --- Karl Marx


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