here's a post that shows the true depths of my confusion.

when someone is overtaken by any kind of addiction, they become false. They might phrase that state differently. "my demon." "my worst side." "my evil twin." whatever you wanna call it, it's a false self, a false life, driven by something so removed from who we truly are. that's the definition of fake- living a life where i didn't hold the reins. repeatedly letting people do horrible things to me, and lying about all of it, so i could keep up a facade. when the justifications and rationalizations and suppressed feelings were exposed, the pain of the truth nearly killed me, a couple times over. but i chose that path, because i wanted to be honest. i wanted to be real.

and recovery is about being real. being honest, getting to the heart of the matter, being yourself. no more lies, no more stories to have to keep track of. no more incongruence between words and actions. there are many beautiful things about this process, but a lot of shitty parts too. . . and sometimes i think it's too awful to be worth it. alternately too painful, too boring, too neutered. . . it doesn't feel right. when i think of being "real", i remember moments of feeling electrified by life and my existence. listening to music, a first kiss or touch, certain textures, bright colors, rebellion, the beauty of nature, the shock of a beautiful voice. i guess i think life should be a rock and roll ride through the countryside that makes tears pop into your eyes every so often because you're fucking happy. and yeah bad shit happens, but you can navigate through. you will be ok because you're "really living." you're dealing with shit as it happens, and not hiding from it. and it becomes part of the journey.

true reality and life feels stifled and trapped, afraid and lost. but on the other hand, i don't think i've had a moment of true peace in my entire life without the aid of drugs and/or alcohol and/or sex. so how the hell would i know what is real? it is all perception? is it about appreciating the fucking "little things" in life, or is that just a distraction from how miserable i am?

my recovery from a lifetime of abuse, mental illness, and trauma is exhausting, even all these years later. i'm tearing apart the meaning of words like "real" in a fucking blog. i'm trying to live the best i can, but i feel so fragmented. i think it's because i did everything i was supposed to. i got a good job, a good man, a nice home. all things i wanted and still want. but i think i was so committed to leaving behind the old life that i lost some pieces of myself that were still pure and still me. thus why i feel so fucking fragmented. the battle in my brain is endless and makes me laugh sometimes.
leave/stay.

there's so much to live for/off yourself.

run away/work harder.

think about the difference you are making in the world/think about your fucking self and have fun.

don't go to work today/be reliable.

and my heart screams, be who you are. such a fucking useless cacophony that consumes me.
the truth is, one of the only times i know who i really am is at a punk show. i feel free, i feel excited, i feel happy. i feel appreciative of my life. i feel motivated, connected, and whole. and when the show is over, i ride that high for a while. and then comes the crash down to earth. yet in the past shows were a huge part of my life, so i wouldn't have to wait too long till the next high kicked in. now, i don't get much exposure to punk shows. albuquerque isn't really all that for shows. losing my music feels like an empty hole in my life.
i went to the punk rock bowling festival in las vegas this past weekend. i had such a good time, i felt everything i just described to you. afterwards, i didn't keep it going with any of those vices i used to. i just got tired and went to sleep. i almost felt robbed of the richness of my experience because i didn't annihilate myself (there's that lovely nihilistic brain talking again!). there was drinking, yes, but i kept it in check. i didn't want to get sick and ruin the whole weekend. i played the tape all the way through. i have been waiting for that weekend for so long- a little island of hope in my otherwise responsible and dutiful life. it was wonderful. it was so fun living so much sound again.

i saw rancid, one of my all time favorite bands. i remember hanging posters of tim and lars in my room in high school. they inspired me, they spoke to me and they made me feel like i would escape one day. they made me want to pursue a strange and exciting existence. every time i see them live it's a revelation, and i feel as passionate as i did 15 years ago listening to them in my bedroom all night, clinging to their voices for comfort when the walls would close in on me. in vegas, they looked exactly the same, their music was as beautiful as ever. i screamed and danced and jumped up and down. i felt the rush. and now i've crashed down to earth. physically i have a sore throat from a weekend of smoking, and i still haven't caught up on my sleep. mentally i feel alone and disconnected from everyone.
i kinda feel like my life has been a series of crashes. i don't feel like i belong on this earth, but i'm stuck here. i want to live, but i can't figure out how to live in this world. i still have that pit in my stomach that probably should have dissolved when i first hit the ground and popped outta my spaceship. maybe that feeling is always going to be present if i choose to live real. so do i accept it, or do i fight it? i'll let you know when i decide.

tears

today i cried a lot. more than i have in a long time. it was that kind of really ugly but cathartic gasping sobbing just tearing out of your chest. it was triggered by my boss leaving our agency. i am very attached to her. she's been a mentor and a friend, and we are kindred spirits. i have had so many wonderful conversations with her about our clients, our dedication to the work we do, and how we can continue to improve our agency. we have had even more conversations about our lives- i have felt total freedom to discuss my mental health issues, my past, and my struggles with her. the thought of not having her in the office next to me really breaks my heart. i guess i just don't do well with loss. another unnamed co worker said, "i don't get why everyone is crying. it's not like i'm never going to see her again." because it's going to be different now. and we don't want it to be different. i couldn't sit in while the clients and staff told my boss how they felt about her. i was in full on sob mood, and didn't want everyone to see me and my broken heart on my sleeve. but i always remind myself- try to think of your tears with pride. i cried all the time growing up. i was afraid of my father, and my life, and basically everything. my father screamed more when i cried, so i tried to suppress it. over time, that fear morphed into self hatred, and bitterness, and nihilism. sometimes i would cry during my panic attacks. i learned that the tears stopped when i sliced my skin open with razorblades, letter openers- whatever was sharp and could make me bleed. i was a raw nerve, violently exposed, screaming fuck you. the years i was with my ex, i didn't cry. i was brimming with fear and rage, but i held everything in. or it came out through methods like drinking, or cutting, or drugs. he would get angry when i cried, so i never did. i was in so much pain, but simultaneously so numb. i missed the old rawness that had shaped my feelings for so long. one time i remember crying was when we couldn't get the gas turned back on in our apartment. We had a huge back balance from some other place he and these other kids had lived-i stupidly and regularly offered up my precious social security number for whatever he needed- plus whatever bill we had racked up on the current place. so anyway, it was 20 degrees outside. here was no hot water, and i could see my breath all th time. we bundled the dogs up in my sweaters during the day. at night, me, the boyfriend, and the 3 dogs would pile onto a twin mattress and huddle for warmth. this had been going on for a while, and i was desperate. so that day of tears, we went to apply for a utility assistance program. i was ready to ask for help. and then the blow fell. the case worker told me our balance was too large, and i had to come up with $700. i had been waiting there all day, allowing myself to hope, and i just lost it. i burst into tears in front of everyone, and staggered out of the building. i didn't know what to do and all i could think was "i'm so fucking cold." the tears shocked my boyfriend, who didn't get angry this time, but told me he was going to fix everything. i knew better than that. amazingly, this piece of my story had a happy ending. the 5 ladies i worked with, who were my pittsburgh moms, pooled their money and got my gas turned on. i'm still blown away by it. i was so lucky to be around such angelic and good people, trying to dig me from the hole i had buried myself in. i will forever be grateful for the kindness shown to me by the people i have worked with. thus, many tears today. yet every tear i cry now is brilliant and radiant to me, like tiny diamonds hidden away in my lost heart. Whether from happiness or sadness, or just the ache of living - the fact i can cry, and show emotion, means i am living free.

survivor

"As Scurfield (1985), describing his work with adult survivors of various traumas, suggests the final step in the stress recovery process is in the integration of all aspects of the trauma experience, both positive and negative, with the survivor's notion of who he or she was before, during, and after the trauma experience."

good therapy.

today i had a really awesome therapy session. i have been in therapy on and off since i was 18, and have cried three times in total.

1) 2003-The first time I cried was when my therapist asked me to imagine my life in 5 years. I saw nothing except despair and misery. I literally visualized black. When I say cried, I mean teared up profusely, but would not let myself fully cry.
2) 2004- saying goodbye to above therapist. He changed my life, and I will always be grateful to that wonderful dude.
3) Today, 2012- I told my therapist something really awful that happened to me, in like 2002. I guess I'll tell you too. it was something i remembered after watching this adorable and lovely movie called neo ned. in this movie, the chick wets her bed after having a dream about the man who molested her.

That night I had taken my boyfriend to a party with me. I never knew what self he would show to people. He might be charming and goofy, he might be sullen and aloof, he might be angry and flip a table over. What a dreamboat, right?! Yikes. So anyway, we went to a party. I was working at the library at my university, and the guys I worked with had become my bros. The party was great. My ex and his friend Nomad went with me and for the most part behaved themselves. My library bros were like. . They are really nice but kind of scary! My guys were punks with boots and braces and spikes and alcoholism. And I was all, they are just a bunch of teddy bears. It's all good.
And it really was.
We walked over to the bus stop on Carson and 18th. I was living on the slopes then in a rundown piece of shit house, on a street where my neighbor fed his pit bull gun powder. The alcohol must have finally hit my ex for real, cause he suddenly flipped on me. He called me a bitch and a whore, blah blah, lifetime movie, blah blah. This was all in front of like 20 people. Poor Nomad, who died of a heroin OD a couple years ago, didn't know what to do. He tried to calm my ex down, but I coulda told him there was no calming him down once he got started.
So we got on the bus- they sat in the back and I sat in the front. I wanted to be close to the bus driver, who looked kinda gnarly and maybe would try to help me if something went down. My ex screamed at me from the back of the bus. I had tears pouring down my face, but I stared calmly ahead of me. trying to disassociate, instead connecting even deeper to the terror i was feeling.
And then we got off the bus, and started walking home. it was a winding road that seemed endless, as I walked as fast as possible, desperate to get home. My boyfriend screamed at me while I raced forward. Across the street, a young black man called out to me. "Are you ok? Do you need help?"
"I'm ok" I choked out. My entire body was shaking from fear. My boyfriend really showed off his stellar personhood then, and began taunting me to "go fuck that n*"(I'm not typing it out, you know what i mean) and other equally sick shit.
we got home and for some reason we had a red bulb in our porch light. everything i remember is hazed in red. he said he was going to leave, he was sick of this, sick of me, etc. i can see his face, tinged with red like the anger that made him such a monster.
and i BEGGED him to stay. red like a valentine. red like lipstick all over my face.
thinking of that broken girl still kills me inside. i cried myself to sleep that night on the couch. when i woke up, i had pissed myself.
secondary enuresis, brought on by trauma, but i call it one of the most fucking brutal reality checks of my life. it was like a punch in the face, trying to wake me up from my nightmare.
i chose to soldier on, but the bruise remained for years, and i never forgot it.

so today i told my therapist about it, and i cried. and i said how awful it was that it happened to me, and how sad i feel for the person i was (and still am). and i breathed a little easier today.

PTSD. punk rock remembrances

You and me

“Now here I go,
Hope I don't break down,
I won't take anything, I don't need anything,
Don't want to exist, I can't persist,
Please stop before I do it again,
Just talk about nothing, let's talk about nothing,
Let's talk about no one, please talk about no one, someone, anyone

You and me have a disease,
You affect me, you infect me,
I'm afflicted, you're addicted,
You and me, you and me

I'm on the edge,
Get against the wall,
I'm so distracted,
I love to strike you,
Here's my confession,
You learned your lesson,
Stop me before I do it again

You're clear - as a heavy lead curtain want to drill you - like an ocean,
We can work it out, I've been running out, now I'm running out

Don't be mad about it baby,
You and me, you and me,
I want to tie you, crucify you,
Kneel before you, revile your body,
You and me, we're made in heaven,
I want to take you, I want to break you,
Supplicate you, with thorny roses,
I want to bathe you in holy water I want to kill you,
Upon the altar, you and me, you and me”
- bad religion

DC and I live in a dollhouse framed by a garden of beer cans and weeds. We’ve lived here for almost a year. The last place we lived in was so infested . . .

Roaches used to crawl over me at night in my bed, so I didn’t sleep much. I couldn’t take it anymore. We found our dollhouse, and made plans to leave.

That last night, we came home and flicked the kitchen light on. roaches fucking POURED out of the outlets and cracks. I stood frozen, watching them as my heart pounded so loudly. We hurriedly finished packing, and left at midnight with our shit and our dogs.

Keys had died a few days before of an overdose, and after his funeral DC got jumped by drug dealers he owed money to. I screamed as they put a hole in his face and stared at his blood on the Burger King sidewalk.

The only problems we have at this place are of our own invention.

Our house is filled with piss and shit, and memories of wounded dogs slinking along the bloodstained walls. Broken glass lies on the dirty carpet like snowflakes. Music is always blaring, and it sounds so far away to me. It means nothing to me. DC’s band practices here sometimes and he screams along with the three chord guitar mess. I imagine him becoming the next henry Rollins. My pit bull lays next to the amp and taps her tail. DC’s dog lives in the basement, where she cries until he decides to give her some semblance of care.

I cried every day the first 6 months here. Now I just go blank.

We have left our damaged imprint here.

We only have 1 neighbor, Mr. R. I barely ever see him, but I hear him welding things in his workshop every day. I wish he would talk to me.

I wonder if he ever hears me screaming.

I know he heard us once. That morning I ran out the door in my pajamas, clutching a handful of meds. DC chased me and threw me on the ground. I stumbled and hit my head on the front stoop as I fell. My fist opened and the little blue pills spilled out, mixing with dirt and gravel. i could feel every tiny pebble under my pajamas. DC yelled at me to get up and get in the house. I started to go blank. But I looked up, and everything was blue.

It had been so long since I had simply looked up.

It was painful to see what I had been missing.

I glimpsed Mr. R watching us, just for second. Then he left me, again.

I should have shoved the pills in my mouth like salvation.

*

DC has been locked in the bathroom for the past hour. He went in with a piece of broken mirror and his needle, and hasn’t made a sound for a while. I pound on the door and beg him to let me in. my heart is thumping in my chest, and I don’t know what to do. I feel this way most of the time, that ache in my throat and the sinking in my stomach. Sometimes in passing I contemplate if I have an ulcer.

I pick up my phone and tentatively dial 911. I know he’ll kill me if I hit dial. I press the phone to my stomach and will an imaginary person on the other end of the line to save him, to save me. I haven’t gone blank yet.

The door flies open and DC storms out, pushing me out of the way. he screams at me to fuck off. I follow him like a beaten down dog, and tell him I’m sorry. He shoves me into a wall. He tells me

“you are the reason I want to die.”

He holds his arms out to me, as if he wants to hold me, and starts laughing.

He has carved “HATE” into his arms, the jagged letters still bleeding. I taste puke in my mouth. He stares at me until I look down, shamefully. He’s still laughing as he turns and walks back into the bathroom. blood drips into the sink as he starts to brush his teeth.

I sit on the couch and shake. I could leave right now. I could run out the door to the welders workshop, and ask Mr.R to help me. He might wrap me in a blanket and carry me to his car. He might take me to the hospital, where I can sleep. They will station a police man outside my door, and I will never see DC again.

I could run out the door to the welders workshop, and Mr. R might take my crooked spine and weld it to his front gate as a warning, or a prize.

I know there is no one that hears me; I go blank.

*

I remember the shards of glass in the corner from last week when DC threw a picture frame at me, and missed. I’ve left them in the corner, carefully covered with a torn sheet. The frame used to hold a picture of my sister and me. He set it on fire in the trash can. The dogs and I cried together for a few minutes, and then I went blank. I go blank every time he fucks me. Some people might call it rape. I probably would too, if it wasn’t me.

I take a piece of glass and cut my thighs, two times on each.

The last time I cut was my first year of college, in the bedroom of the boy I was in love with. He and his friends had just snorted lines of oxycontin off his math book. I lounged in his bed and watched adoringly. He talked to me for hours, his words rambling and beautiful. I told him how I used to cut myself so deeply that I would bleed for hours. I told him how in the Georgia summers I was the only girl wearing a long sleeved shirt. I had to, to hide my cuts. i would feel the fabric rubbing against the raised lines etched in my skin, itchy and raw. It hurt so much.

He asked me if I still was a cutter. I told him no. but I had to show off and I grabbed the razor off his desk. I made 2 small cuts on my wrist and looked at him for approval, or love, or something. He smirked at me and rolled over to sleep. I could see the boredom etched in his skin, in the lovely curve of his back.

I hear him coming out of the bathroom and I pull my tee shirt down to my knees. He looks at me. and he knows. He asks if I cut myself. I tell him no and pray he believes me. He shakes his head in disbelief. Then a smile crosses over his face, a genuine one. “I’m sorry. Let’s get some lunch. You want to get some pizza baby?” I nod carefully. I’m hungry, I know we have a few dollars, I know my forgiveness keeps our spines intertwined.

15 minutes later we are laughing at the pizza joint down the street, eating cheesy sausage slices. We stuff our faces and drink our pop and walk home, holding hands blissfully. We stroll down lorigan street as the sun sets and we disappear into our nothing, the weeds parting to welcome us back to our sanctuary.

This is me, this is my love, this is all I know. We are all we have. We will do anything to get rid of our emptiness. We fill our mouths with poison and spit it at each other. I think I hate him, and I sleep on top of him at night on a twin mattress.

Eat. Sleep. Fight. Fuck.

I live for those brief moments in between the binge eating the nightmarish sleep the endless fighting the cold fucking.

The in between- those moments when I hurt but it’s real, and it’s mine.

Sometimes I even see the sky.

all my exes live in . . . new mexico?

last night i took a particularly hard call on my rape crisis center shift. they are all hard calls. but this one lasted more than an hour, and was so parallel to some of my own experiences, that it hurt me deeply. . . it invaded my dreams. she said that she'll never be the same. she's dead and he killed her. i know.
i see his face on a lot of people. every couple of weeks i will freak out and think that he's found me and lives in albuquerque. i'll search the internet trying to find a trace of him. i'll panic and cry and deal, and forget. then he pops up again, and i'm back where i started. i've learned to shelve away my reaction when this happens. it's PTSD, and it's a fuckin bitch, but i can't flip out everytime i think i see a man that looks even remotely similar to him. this morning anna and i were walking to the grower's market, and a yellow vw van drove by slow as hell, and the guy in there was staring at me. i thought it was him, for sure, this time.
but i brushed it off and we cracked hilarious hippie jokes and continued on, and had a really wonderful day. we went to the grower's market, picking up fresh garlic and shallots and potatoes. i got this amazing goat cheese, and a loaf of moist, delicious bread from my client's friend's french bakery. we went to the library and picked out photography books for the art group i will be starting in august. we looked through vogue pattern books and i got a library card-FINALLY.
my heart was racing from my morning iced java and lack of sleep, so i cleaned all day.
i made little cheesecake mini bites. i had a ham and cheese wrap from punk rock pizza for dinner.
vic and i watched "night of the creeps".
and then i remembered. vic suggested i look him up on the metro court web site. nothing. i looked him up on the district court site. fuck. my heart slammed around in my chest, and i couldn't breathe for a few seconds.
he's in las cruces, dudes. . . he's here.
i'm terrified.
vic asked me gently, what i thought would happen if i saw him. he brought up good points, like how long it's been since we were together, and that maybe nothing would come of it.
his charge is a felony for drug trafficking. last month. nothing's changed.
i knew it, i KNEW i had seen him somewhere. i have felt him, like i felt him at my grad school commencement 2 weeks after he had almost killed me.
and it's not even that he is still in love with me, or anything like that. it's not about that. it's about control- it's about his totally fractured state of mind- and it's about the fact that he probably wouldn't be able to handle seeing me, just like i can't handle seeing him. two different reasonings behind that, but it's a shared truth.
he could be a sober, married, religious, and fucking reborn man, and i would still be terrified. that is what someone takes away from you, when they violate you and abuse you in ways you would never tell ANYONE about- your freedom, your ability to walk down the street without fucking flinching at the thought of them. . . i wonder if i will look over my shoulder for the rest of my life.
i hope it wasn't him. i hope i will never see him again, and i'll abandon my treatment over incarceration stance temporarily so that he rots in jail, for a long time. the heart of me knows that he needs medication and serious mental help, but it's not my fucking problem. i just want to be in my house and marry my boyfriend and LIVE. for years i have quietly believed that he would kill me one day. most women who come out of similar situations live with that dread lurking in the back of their minds, putting a damper on the happiest days; it resurfaces so forcefully sometimes. i'm a fucking survivor and it's going to take a lot to bring me down. but it's always possible.
they move on to the next victim, the next girl they will treat like garbage and defile and destroy. they lock up the precious memory of us in their box of filth and remember us when they want to- maybe to relive a particularly memorable moment we shared. WE don't have that luxury.
we always remember. and we're never gonna be the same.