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the end of birthday month.

the beautiful thing about birthday month, is its final day, is moko #3’s birthday.

she turned 10 today.

& she reminds me of everything the is good in the world.

everything that is right. just. perfect. bold. strong.

“happy birthday beautiful xx”


for me, this month has been full of learning curves. some were pretty sharp. some a little more subtle.

its quite something to be in control, & i mean real control, of yourself.

for some peeps, that’d be a given.

for someone like me: who has spent her life running from being controlled, its a very new thing, to be in control of myself.

i’ve spent years being numb. disassociated ‘they’ call it. & i haven’t disliked it @ at. in fact, it was my saving grace.

the head fuck came when i tried to return to the land of the ‘feels’.

& let me just say here: if you know someone who spends a tonne of time being disassociated – or You are that way … leave it be! there’s a fucking good reason your body & mind has tapped out. but believe me … You are still there … you’re just resting.

& thats a huge thing to realise, embrace, & then let go of.

being in control of Me: my body, my mind … my soul … is quite fucking liberating. full of head fucks left right & centre … but liberating none-the-less.

so, this is what birthday month has been a trial run of.

& i’ll be repeating it next year, fo’sure!!

but i’ve decided to blend some of what i gained … the confidence … the breath … the doing exactly what i want … into the rest of my year: the rest of my life.

i don’t know if i’ve explained it adequately but oh well. i’m kinda winging it.

so, Cheers … & see you on the flip side ;)


kpm © : ig @kpm-artist


 

heaven and earth moving …

The ground has been shaking again – more like big ass jolts – just enough to make you wanna piss yourself but not quite enough to roar into a full on panic.

My reaction – I’m getting angry.

Is that a normal response? Fuck Knows … it is what it is I guess …

I’m beginning to realise a few things though …

My go to response for most things that I am afraid of .. which has been generally on point thus far … Is to Run … Disappear …. Not be Here.

I’ve managed to do that in various ways throughout my life and is an A typical response from a victim of child sexual assault … blah blah blah.

I’ve known this – in my head. I understand the theory and the concept and the actioning of it.

I’ve dis-associated myself, removed myself, anesthetized myself to Run from things. That has been my form of ‘fight and flight’.

When you’ve been to small to literally Run or Fight, and to small to figuratively or intellectually Run or Fight, these things are your only options. And the mind and body are really quite marvellous things. They protect us / our psyches from some unreal shit.

But now I’m an adult. A big person. And I’m still running … its like my go too. And a lot of times, there’s a freedom in making a choice … to be able to choose a response. Which is why I respond to nearly everything and anything that fucks me off – that makes me feel trapped or without a choice.

But this … this round … is some new kind of fuckery … which I know with my head, I’ll be better off for, when I get the gist of it all.

You see … the earth moves … that’s natural … it does what it wants. Theres no predicting that shit. You can plan for it but you can’t predict it. It happens when its ready. Similar to a predator.

With PTS(D), the adrenalin is always pumping, readying for the ‘unpredictable’ … always watching, always taking note – taking notice …

But this is a threat, not from a person; not from a sickness … but from mother nature herself. And I can’t do a god damn thing about it. Even running is not a validated response … Run to where? It’ll still be shaking there!

It was last night after jolt number 2, I realised Running / Disappearing, is what I do. I do it emotionally, physically, mentally … I disconnect and disappear.

That response is not serving me well this time.

Thats whats making me angry.

What the fuck am I supposed to do if I can’t Run? If I can’t disconnect?

Fight?

Fight what??

What are you supposed to do in the interim? Enjoy life?

I know if I can get some kind of understanding around this it’ll help with the panic attacks and not wanting to be certain places … it’s all connected to shit being unpredictable and Me being trapped.

Grrr. Fuckery, I tell yah!


kpm ©


 

first session & i’ve got issues with it

did my first session of EMDR on Saturday. good old shrink comes to me instead of me going to her…its not worth the stress, for me…don’t know about her though…oh well, she gets paid well.

EMDR – Eye Movement Desensitisation Reprocessing, seems to be the ‘new kid on the block’ at the moment; for those fucked enough to receive it anyways. i’d asked for Exposure Therapy, but apparently I was too fucked (my words) for that – for the intense shit anyway. so I got the shortened version of it.

our tiny little country sports about a dozen EMDR therapists with about a dozen more in training. it’s all a bit of a stab in the dark by the sounds of it…but i listened to her, and then complied with the process…or processing.

before commencement though, i filled in four sheets of forms…to assess whether i was currently in a dissociative state and whether this therapy could send me into a tail spin and tip-off a top off aka suicide! apparently one can’t be in any way disassociated, medical or mental…hmmm she realises disassociation is my norm ay??

anyway, first we bring up, or remember, a distressing memory…my question was, ‘which one do you want first?’. apparently the earliest i can remember. So wah-lah, i dished up the first and then the questions began.

the questioning bit reminds me of CBT and honestly, i question myself harder than this. but i rolled with it. the idea was to describe the memory, then the feeling associated with the memory. cool.

my question to her was ‘how am I supposed to attach a feeling to a memory for that age?’ (age being 3).

she had prompts.

my beef with prompts and trying to attach a feeling to a memory from that age bracket is…you don’t really have the ability, or language to describe a feeling at that age. remembering my girls at that age, and my mokos, they fell to the floor and had a tantrum if they were upset or pissed off. they screamed if they were in pain, they cringed and hid behind one of us if they were scared.

they didn’t sit up and say ‘excuse me peeps, I’m feeling a deep sense of sadness and loss associated with you taking the fork off me and telling me in a slightly too stern tone, that i am unable to place it in the electricity socket’.

yep, it doesn’t make sense. so to add prompts to an event; or language to an event, when there wouldn’t really have been one … is dodgy to say the least.

so, i told her what my body did at the time of the event, because I can remember that. i told her she could interpret that how ever she sees fit, but i wasn’t going to add-on something that i could not have verbalised at the time.

this continued through 5 other memories. she wanted the ‘big one’ but i’m not going there yet. i don’t really want her mincing through my memories if i’m unsure she actually knows what the fuck she’s doing.

so after number 6 memory, all of them, varying degrees of horrific and fucked up, she moves into the next phase.

she sits next to me, waves her fingers strategically in front of my face and asks me to follow them. i do. i’m then asked to remember something good or ‘safe’. you know, the old ‘safe place’.

now let me digress or divert or whatever.

here’s where I have another problem with this whole therapy thing related to infant sexual assault recipients. (yes, you may have noticed I don’t do the title or the label like the text-book. say it as it is i reckon. i’m not a victim, or a survivor as such. i’m the recipient of some one else’s fucked up-ness. does that make me a victim and then survivor thereafter…probably…but don’t dress up the title with something a bit more palatable…it is what it is.)

my supposed ‘safe place’ is non-existent. i have a safe-ish feeling…sometimes. and quite frankly, if i had a safe place, don’t you think i’d be there? and if i had a sense of safety and security, don’t you think i’d take that with me everywhere and probably wouldn’t be having panic attacks and shit? there is no safe place. reality. fact. i have safe moments as memories…and i’m trying to remember more of them to balance the other stuff out. but the world is a desperately shitty, violent and fucked up place. period.

so, i told her this, and she persisted. so the best i could come up with, was a person that i had spent about 2 hours with, a few years ago, that had made me feel quite safe and protected in the environment that i was in.

that became the ‘safe place’.

so she’s waving her fingers, i’m following with my eyes, trying to ‘feel’ the safe place; and then she asks me to recollect the distressing memory, all the while watching her fingers; and then the safe place.

hey presto – ‘how do I feel now’.

dizzy was my response. so she did it again. how did I feel after that? …tired was my response.

and apparently that’s what I should feel.

and as the distressing memory makes its way from the front of my brain somewhere, to the back…the re-processing bit…i should be okey dokey after that. as I re-process the memory ‘properly’ and trade in the distressing for the safe…i ‘should’ be good.

and thats what i have issue with. the ‘shoulds’. i feel like a guinea pig.


kpm©


 

reality check, self

I’m a 3 shower a day person. If I can’t do that, then 2 at the minimum. I scrubbed myself in the shower, from head to toe, with a pot scrub type thing, for as long as I can remember. I stopped using that when my hair started falling out…pot scrubber on balding head…hurts! According to the sexual abuse therapists, this ‘excessive’ showering thing is pretty normal for someone with ‘my issues’. Pfft.

Ensuing conversation with self:

Do I believe this?

Well aside from the pot scrubber, I don’t think it hurts to be clean.

Am I hurting myself by showering ‘excessively’?

No, I don’t think so.

If I don’t shower 3 times a day, can I function?

Yes.

What about 2 showers?

Ummm.

What about no shower?

No. Definitely not.

So what would happen if I don’t shower in a day?

I’d feel dirty. Unfinished. Unclean.

Ok, so the first and third answers are pretty much the same. Are you really dirty though? Physically?

Yes. It feels like it.

Really?

Ok, probably not. Ok, not.

So what is dirty then?

Me. Ok, not physical me. But, me.

Me, where?

My head. My insides. I don’t know…just, Me.

Logically, is your head and insides really dirty?

Well…no. I get what your doing…and I don’t fucken like it.

Really?

I feel dirty alright. ‘I’…’Me’…I feel dirty…wretchedly filthy.

Do you think that is why you dream of open sores and puss?

Of course it fucken is.

So that’s how you see yourself? Puss filled and contaminated.

YES. And your line of questioning is starting to piss me off.

But, do you see a flaw in your reasoning and the belief that you need to shower not twice bit thrice a bloody day to remain clean?

Yes of course I fucken do. But I like being clean.

But you’re not getting clean. Do you understand that?

Yes. I understand that.

So why do you believe that all those showers will actually get you clean?

Because it makes sense to me. If it’s dirty, then clean it. Like the fucken house and the laundry and anything else that is dirty.

It makes sense that if it was physically dirty, it needs to be cleaned. But you’re describing your insides…your feelings…your being. Why do you think that is dirty?

Because it fucken is.

Why?

It’s filth.

So your filth?

I suppose.

Why do you suppose you are filth then?

You ask a lot of fucking questions you know that.

Yes. So why?

Because…my fucking history tells me fucking so.

Have you ever thought about the fact that your history may be inaccurate?

What is that supposed to mean?

Inaccurate, as in, just because that’s the experience you experienced, doesn’t mean that is YOU.

Hah?

Would I be right is surmising that those who harmed you did so because they were wrong?

I suppose.

Do you believe you did something to bring about that harm?

Ahhh…yes. Yes I do.

How do you suppose you managed that?

I…was to small. To quiet. To vulnerable.

Those aren’t reasons enough to harm someone.

And, what is your fucken point.

They harmed you, not due to anything you did, or are. They harmed you because they could. Because they felt like it and they did.

And that’s supposed to make me feel better is it.

For whatever reasons they had that made them how they were, and do what they did…it wasn’t because of who you are as a person. It wasn’t because of your being.

Really.

And just as showering 3 times a day won’t get you any cleaner than 2 or 1 times a day, so believing that you are filth and brought about the events that occurred to you, are also inaccurate.

Really.

You know this. You could not have changed the event. Nothing you did brought it about. Nothing you did or said during could have changed the outcome. You did not do anything wrong. Nor did you bring about by the essence of your being, the things that happened.

Really.

But there’s more to it than that. Why you can’t let it go.

Really?

You can’t let it go because you would be leaving her there, for a second time.

What?

You heard. You left her there. You didn’t save her. You left her there, frozen and silent while you fucked off to never-never land.

AY

You disassociated fool, and you’ve been doing it ever since. Half of you is in the past, the rest of you is trying to control your future, and you are left here excessively showering and cleaning shit up. Your doing the do. But you’re not here.

I am here.

No you’re not. Your trying to be, but you’re not. Your anxious when your required to be present.

So.

So? That’s not an answer.

So.

You left her for a reason. You want to hear that reason?

Well your on a fucken roll so fire away.

You left to survive. Can you imagine being present for that? Don’t answer. You can’t, you can’t physically be enduring that and be present. Your psyche, your adrenaline, your powers of fucken brilliant insight, told you to remain still and not resist. You survived. But now its time to stop surviving and live for fucks sake.

I’m trying.

Your blogging. Your blogging in your safe little house, with your safe little safe things going on around you.

Yeah, but I am trying.

And yippie to you. Yes it’s all progress its all helping. But no ones going to tell you what I’m telling you. Your fucken alright. You are OK. You haven’t done anything wrong. Your not filthy. You don’t need to shower 3 times a day. You DO need to be on your side. You DO need to use all that intellect of yours again, and figure it out. You didn’t do anything wrong. You think you believe that, but you don’t really. Your actions say otherwise. You are incongruent.

No.

Yes you are. You love congruence. Where the in matches the out. But you are not that.

Ouch.

You believe one thing, really. But say and do another.

I don’t like this.

The point is really, you used to self analyse, properly. But you know your just scratching around the surface and hiding from the truth. Everything you’re doing is positive and it’s helping, but your shrinking away from the core of it. The point of it.

I don’t want to talk anymore.

That’s fine. You shut down. Like you do. Go and nurse your puku.

I will.

But tomorrow, at 1.30pm, you WILL get over it.

Why 1.30?

I can make it 10.30am if you like.

1.30s good.

You will go for a walk, do your breathing, do your raw food and plan your weekend. You will move. You will get up and keep going. You will. Tomorrow at 1.30pm. Alright?

Alright.

And this conversation isn’t over.

Alright.


kpm ©