theres a time
for everything …
so they say.
whens My time?
theres a time
for everything …
so they say.
whens My time?
Fate whispers to the warrior “You cannot withstand the storm”, and the warrior whispers back – “I am the storm”.
when someone rings
and the first thing
out of their mouths
“i don’t want to alarm you”.
guess what happens?
As the title suggests, this is a spontaneous and unedited ramble, of sorts … there’ll be plenty of mistakes no doubt and no particular flow … so hang in there 😉
I’m listening to Angie Stone, again … loving her stuff at the moment …
I was scrolling through my FB newsfeed this evening and came across a friends lovely little post with pictures, of him and his wife at a wedding in Australia somewhere.
Now my mate has had vertigo on and off, like myself, but other than that he’s pretty healthy. His last vertigo bout came when he last travelled to Australia and seems to think it had something to do with the flu and the altitude.
Anyways … as I’m looking at this awesome pic of him and his wife, a thought crossed my mind … “how on earth did you get back on a plane after the last bout of vertigo???”
Which if course set Me off on a train of thought that I’m still grasping at:
The last time I got on a plane I had a panic attack and just before the doors shut I jumped up and got off that plane as fast as I could. It wasn’t a pleasant experience and neither was waiting at the airport for 5 hours for someone to pick Me up!
But I’ve never got on a plane again.
The same thing has happened with driving … or going places … or certain people … or occasions … if theres been an inkling of panic I don’t go back.
Enter … The WHY?
And as I’m pondering all the adjustments I’ve made to my life so I can have some semblance of ‘normality’ and functionality … I’m wondering Why I can’t just go back and do what I used too …
Train of thought goes immediately to a little girl stuck in a room where she can’t reach the door handle so she can get out … where she can’t yell cos she can’t breath properly and feels like she’s suffocating … where theres no-one coming to get her … where theres no way Out …
and the only source of survival that she can muster, is her witts.
She negotiates … she pleads .. but not to much because that brings a different kind of fuckery if it goes wrong … she tries to ‘change the subject’, like a diversionary tactic …
And … I’ve been doing this Ever Since!
It’s not just avoidance. It’s survival.
Survival of the fucking fittest.
You see, people are predictable in their own fucked up unpredictable ways.
Just ask the social scientists!
And I had variables … reasons … things to avoid … things to move and remove … faces to employ and a way to breath so as not to appear too frightened … I was able to predict the unpredictable until it became to unpredictable.
And this is Me.
This is what I do … I don’t move for fear of moving and what it may ’cause’ … the repercussions.
Even as a fucking adult, my muscles tense and my heart pounds way to fast … my breathing will slow and I’ll remain quiet … so I can hear ‘whats happening’ … whats happening in the undercurrents … what the ‘feels’ are … whether there is danger or if it’s just a passing noise …
And that whole fucking sensation is built in and no amount of ‘I have pts(d) and I am recovering’ makes that tense sensation subside.
The only fucking thing that works are mind / feeling numbing drugs!
It used to be alcohol and fuck do I wish I could drink like I used too! If anything it was numbing … there was no panic and ‘over watching’ … and I don’t give 2 fucks what anyone says, if the fucking alcohol works that drink that son of bitch till it doesn’t!
I can slow my breathing down … but it’s still intense … and that intense sensation doesn’t subside until my personage feels like it … feels like its ok.
And this is my fucking life. And at times it’s mind fuckingly fucked! When my head aches and my muscles won’t relax and I can’t focus and want to run but theres nowhere to go … because all those demons, are In Me … they never went anywhere. Sometimes they subside and let Me breathe … sometimes they choke the life out of Me.
Why can’t I, I, I get on a plane again and go to Australia and have pretty little photographs with my partner and kids and mokos and smile like the sun is shining out of my happy little ass???
Sometimes … a lot of times actually … even though I try and try again …
I am nothing more than a frightened little girl standing in a dark damp room trying really hard to breathe, hoping that the needle he’s just injected will kill him and someone will come to the door, whilst scanning the room for something to hide in or stand on so I can reach the door handle … if Only I was just a little bit taller …
Sometimes, I am nothing more, nothing less, than that little being, in that moment.
And that fucking sucks ass.
Homai to Aroha
A #photograph of my sandy feet was not exactly what I was going for re awesomely mindful photograph – However the triumph that is these little tootsies, is the realisation that not one little inch of anxiety hindered the mid-morning swim in our beautiful ocean with my beautiful Mokos.
We had Fun! And I learnt a very valuable lesson:
Moko #2 conquered her fear of the waves and I got to help and watch her defeat her fear first hand. Do you know how utterly gorgeous it is to watch fears be conquered?
It is very gangstah indeed.
And it dawned upon Me-ith that the encouragement and love I showed her as she manoeuvred her way through her fear; the questions she asked and I answered to the best of my ability; the tentatively tip-toeing in, with her hand in mine, and then the running out screaming at the top of her lungs; hand still in mine; then her turning round to face those waves again with a gritty look on her little face and doing that all over again … Until …
She decided to do it alone, past waist deep, under the watchful eye of Me, and rode those waves on her boogie board and screeched with pure delight!
You could see the sheer victory on her face … and that was glorious!
What she taught Me, was sometimes you need someone to hold your hand as you Fight Fight Fight.
they say the boogie mans not real.
he’s the stuff of the imagination.
of horror movies; made up.
but i do wonder,
if those horror movies aren’t based
just a little bitty bit
on factual imaginations.
the kind that got you hiding
under the covers,
under the bed,
in big boxes in the corner of the room.
and everywhere you turn,
there he is.
Theres been plenty of shizz weighing on my person for the last little while … and I’m trying not to over dwell or over analyse … not 2 things I’m exceptionally good at I might add.
But over my morning coffee, I was watching these little critters.
Now without going into too much of a back story: a. these aren’t our kittens and b. they’re probably the equivalent to Jim’s ‘Wingless Dragons’ aka squirrels, as far a pests go.
But what I noticed about these little critters (and this 2 of 3), is the little one sitting down, kept falling asleep in this position and tilting sideways; then she’d wake up, have look around for her siblings and doze off again. She did this for over half an hour while her siblings played happily in the long grass.
It got Me thinking about the “Watchers”.
Those in the pack or the family, that do the watching and the protecting. Whether this role just fell on them because they were first out of the womb or whether it was part of their make up / character, I’m unsure.
But how many “Watchers” do you know? How many ‘watchers’ have I watched because I am a watcher too?
The “Watchers” tend to get overlooked, because they’re not cute and cuddly; they’re not playful or over friendly … they’re not particularly likeable.
Because they’re the ones doing the Watching.
So today I tilt my make believe glass to all the “Watchers” and protectors and guiders and alerters, who get overlooked and forgotten.
Here’s too Us!
It’s been a hard few hours, days … weeks … as I try to re-cap. I think I’m still recovering from the doctors fuckery last wednesday … I can be a bit of a slow processor when it comes to that sort of shit … Yah know, when the senses and feels and emotions have been assaulted … inadvertently; and no cunt gives a shit really.
Wah wah wah …
But since then … I had a process and an un-fold but that tight knot is still in the pitt of my gutt …
After Wednesday, besides the obvious, I still have this gnawing feeling in my gutt. Close to anxiety (which I’ve been sedating with the medication I use; not the shit the fuckwit doctor thinks ‘is the miracle cure’), but tighter … like the verge of a panic attack, but not quite.
I’m trying … good lord I’ma trying.
But you know that feeling like your missing something quite obvious?
Yeah, well thats been lingering around the fringes too.
Everything feels Unsafe. And I guess for Me thats one of the responses to being assaulted. It’s a reality. Some would say it’s not a reality anymore and is just a pts(d) glitch that needs some serious meditation to remedy. Maybe they’re right … fuck knows really.
But this Unsafe feeling has been escalating of late.
And I thought it should be getting better.
My house is ‘logically’ safe: I am ‘logically’ safe: But everything in Me is still screaming: “Run Bitch … Run”.
Of course, I don’t run, well not literally anyways.
So a couple of things enlightened my fuckery:
We watched a random movie the other night … mainly cos I couldn’t find anything else to watch … it was called “Rebel in the Rye”.
Long story short, dude was a writer; goes to War and comes back with pts(d), of course. It completely changed him, of course. But the movie goes through his writings, rejections, struggle with the ‘unknown’ sickness at that time, the attitudes of those around him, his reclusiveness, his flashbacks … his struggles to balance the entire fuckery.
I got it.
What astounded Me the most was the lack of ‘listening’ those around him did. He fought hard to remain true to himself … but they didn’t listen. I could see the damage it was having on his family and his relationships: but I could completely and utterly dig what he was trying to do: SURVIVE.
So this whole thing knotted my gutt a bit more … I didn’t ponder too hard about it, figuring: I gotta be ok for Christmas day and we’ll figure this shit out later.
Entrance: A few weeks of partner silence as he does what he does. My beef being: I don’t like being touched. Don’t touch Me randomly. Ever.
I get that this hurts his feelings. I get that he is affectionate. I get all that. But I can’t do it. I can’t do random touching. It completely throws Me into a mind and body fuck that can last for days.
Christmas morning and I’m trying to get on with it … chirpy and trying to remain positive. I’ve done my slightly sarcastic but witty posts: I’ve done our food: I’ve enjoyed those simple things:
Partner is sulking cos I’m ‘Un-affectionate”, and today, Christmas morning, seems like the appropriate time to bring it all up:
I had a big ass, slightly drawn out Flashback, that still hasn’t quite dissipated.
And all I could muster through my heaves of tears was:
“I hate fucking christmas. I’m trying: but I hate fucking
And heres what I had forgotten: well not entirely forgotten; but hadn’t ‘felt’ at all.
Christmas day: and the days before hand and at least a week after. But Christmas day mainly. Sitting in the same room as the pedo cunt: ‘feeling’ him making a menace of himself and physiologically torture everyone in his presence. He was usually high as a kite: erratic: abusive: explosive.
And I had to watch it unfold, every year. Never quite knowing what ‘exactly’ was going to happen … but hoping he’d eventually piss off and go fuck with someone elses feng shui.
Now this is ‘normal’ for families all over the world.
The pedo cunt was a torturous cunt. A self professed ‘bad bastard’ and I never met a person who wasn’t afraid of him. Imagine freddy kruger mixed with IT and that fear that happens when the music is getting all suspenseful … yeah well that was the tension he could produce in Everyone. I’ve seen Police look afraid; strangers, big bastards that could knock yah teeth out with one blow … they ALL looked as if they were quietly pissing their panties in the presence of said pedo cunt.
So imagine that around small children and a family that thought ‘loving’ him no matter what, would be the solution to all his ‘issues’.
But he was a pure and utter cunt. Not sure if that is biological; psychological; a random act of nature or a large helping of nurture. Who knows.
But his cunt plagued every single christmas. And every single christmas, I dreaded …un-knowingly really …
But that tight feeling in my gutt … came with the flashback.
The flashback came with a ‘feeling’ or thought:
No-one was ‘un-scared’ enough … had enough fortitude … or fight … or resistance … or foresight … to realise, that this cunt was not the type of cunt that should be in the company of anyone let alone the company of a child.
The christmas morning flashback was that: split scenes of dumb founded silence as everyone ‘pretended’ that his behaviour was ‘normal’ and if we just smile and get on with it it’ll all ‘come out in the wash’.
Guess what: It may have ‘come out in the wash’ for others, but for Me, that fear of not being heard – Ever; not being considered – Ever; not being put first – Ever; not being protected – Ever … when it came to that cunt, is still prevalent in my being.
I’m not sure of how to exorcise it.
And I’m not blaming those that were around Me at that time, anymore. Been there, done that, and I get it now. They were all afraid of him, just as much as I was.
But how do I get rid of that feeling … the ‘not being heard’ feeling? The feeling ‘un-safe’ feeling – anywhere, any time, especially with fake ass bitches that are too self absorbed with themselves and pleasing everyone else … to even notice the simple things – like a frightened child.
I hope it doesn’t take to long to process this one … cos it hurts like fuck and it’s fucking with Me feng shui, Hard!
I Don’t Like It.
It Is Not
It freaks Me
the fuck out.
How many ways
do you need Me
to explain it?
It’s that time of year where the expectations shoot through the roof.
What do I mean – other than the usual …’buy me’, ‘try me’ thing?
Pts(d) has a few quirks to it. They aren’t excuses or slight difficulties; they are what make the diagnosis PTS fucking D.
Breaking it down for the simple-tons:
Theres the “P” for ‘Post’ … meaning: Past or after.
Theres the “T” for ‘Traumatic’ … meaning: so mind fucking, body bending, make and shake You fuckery that it completely fucks over your mind, body and soul.
Theres the “S” for ‘Stress’ … meaning: weight … big old weight on the body and mind that doesn’t go away with a little R&R. It stays; sets up camp and feeds on your soul.
Theres the “D” for ‘Disorder’ … and although I beg to argue this tag, it means: It’s a mental illness because it messes with yah feng shui.
Yes these are the typical “Me” translations, but you get my drift ay.
So what this bitch does to the body and mind and soul, are managed and battled on the, D for daily!
And then comes these glorious times of year, where yah breathing and trying stay calm and go with the flow that you’ve been practicing all year round …
And then some cunt rings and wants you to “come to a family outing” in like an hour. And as you respectfully ask for details and say you’ll have a little think on it but will probably decline the invitation … there is that Tone that happens.
That heave in the voice of the caller … that Tone that says without saying it:
“Oh for fucks sake, its christmas, can’t you just stop being a self fish dramatic bitch and suck it up for the afternoon???”
Well, actually …. No. I. Can’t.
And this is just one of the merry little reasons christmas makes Me want to curl up in a ball and roll the fuck away.