Tag Archives: body

Saturday Morning

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A quiet moment at the end of the day, I had hoped for it to turn out differently.  I work up happy and well rested.  I knock out a few chores and made some delicious coffee and then sat down to enjoy some quiet, alone time with a book.  I am re-reading a book on nutrition and working on revamping my food plan.  Now that I’ve kept to my New Year resolution of quitting chocolate – I am ready to move on to phase 2.

I leisurely let the cats out of the apartment to have their morning romp and sat back down to slurp my joe.  Settled back in and comfortable, there is a knock at the door.  I get up, thinking that someone had found one of the cats.  And I open the door and there is a father and his cute three year old daughter and another older man.

They start asking me about religion.  Do I know about it?  Am I a believer?  Nope.  An atheist?  Nope.  (I used to identify as an atheist but now I don’t.  I just don’t really want to be in a category.  I am not into the statements or stigmas that each label implies.  Don’t put me in a box.   It makes me uncomfortable and itchy.)

The little girl was so cute and they were so nice.  I invited them in.  I opened a tub and pulled out my collection of plush finger puppets and she was playing with tiny fish and squid finger puppets and laughing.  The adults spoke about the scriptures, they asked me if I had read them and I said yes.  I told them some of my experience with religion and they looked uncomfortable.  I made some gestures, with some of my many finger puppets on my hand.  Might have made it more surreal.

We talked about interpretation about the scripture, they said they just could.  And so I asked them about how they can be sure that the scripture they are reading is god’s word.  Since there were so many books that weren’t included in the Bible or are in some versions of the Bible that aren’t in others.  Because as the Christians wanted to get more coverts they started to add books that were canonized and talked more about Jesus’s interaction with the sinners and the gentiles so that outsiders could be welcome.  With word that could be divinely inspired, then being repeatedly transcribed and then filtered depending on the survival/recruitment needs of the church in the year 367.

I was trying to be nice.  But then he got angry when I said I was excited about the book of Judas being preserved and restored.  Because I think Judas made the greatest sacrifice.  That really upset him.  We tried to get nice and he pulled out this Jesus menu and asked if any of these questions had ever upset me.  And I knew his answers for them and the sales technique he was using.  The older man said we’re not trying to sell anything; I looked up at him and said, really?

I said that I was starting to get triggered.  I didn’t want their god or their book.  And the tears started to pour out of my face.  So embarrassing.  I thanked them for the polite conversation, but asked them to leave.  The tiny little girl took the finger puppets off and gave me a hug.

They left.  E was woken up by the raised voices during the Judas conversation.  I grabbed my coffee.  E has spent the last 4 days with both hands painfully swollen and in an amazing amount of pain from the constant unpacking.  He’s been mostly in bed ice packing his hands.  His pain has been pretty intolerable, but that’s one of the prices you pay for being in three combat zones.  Your 20 year old body writes checks that your body has to cash forever.

They might as well have been selling crack door to door.  This is my addiction, trying to be understood by Christians.  This is where I am developmentally stuck and I don’t know where I thought I was going to get this morning.

I just wanted a nice morning: coffee, a book, smooching my hot fiancé.  But I let my ptsd in, invited it in.  When E asked me why, I just cried and said “they had a little girl”.  Part of me also thought it would be funny, but that humor isn’t for me anymore.  It’s far too expensive in my heart and mind.

base

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My oldest nephew has reminded me about “base”.  Nothing can get you at “base”.  Base is perhaps the most important thing.  And I’m really glad that in play, kids have something to run to where all of the scariness stops and they are control.  When they are on base, they stop the world and process the chase, the overstimulation of the craziness and then when its time to go again they re-enter the game.

The sufferer of ptsd (I’m trying not to capitalize it, I think that’s great advice.  Thanks, A!) frequently feels chased.  I’ve got a thing or twelve on my emotional plate right now.  I have about 4 family relationships I am working on right now.  We still don’t have our stuff from the pirates and that is winding down, I hope we may have our stuff by Christmas.  My new job is great and not easy.

E and I continually work to connect to be “base”.  It is so good.  It’s really hard right now.  The pirates have our bed.  This weekend in a hotel was the first time we’ve slept together in a bed since 9/25.  And we are working so hard to keep our emotional connection sweet.  I’m really lucky, because the air mattresses and other sleeping arrangements have led us both to a lot of back pain through this ordeal and it’s not getting us down.  We’re just taking care of each other.

After a really hard week, A texts me….  She simply says, “I bet you look beautiful and your hair smells like strawberries”.   I laugh because she was close, 3000 miles away and my hair smelled like pumpkins.  My best friend is the master of sweet understatement, she can say better in 9 words what I was trying to tell you in 1,200.  And she smells like caramel, but she doesn’t have to put stuff in her hair to create a scent like I do.  A is “base”.  A is bass to my melody.

I am “base”.  I keep the motion and the flow in my life.  I swim the channel of shadows toward the light.  I love and forgive and connect and sting when I harm people and get pissed off when I have to do the right things and it’s hard.  I try to stop when I can’t and I try to go when I should.  And I learn from my little wild guru nephew about base and safe and stop.

Spiritual Self Abuse?

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A lot of veterans with PTSD can’t stop watching war movies.  It is very common for people with PTSD to have trouble avoiding media that involves the subject of their trauma.  If I see a documentary on cults or religion or bible history, I will watch it obsessively.  I can’t watch movies like “Passion of the Christ” because I can’t watch violence without becoming seriously upset inside for hours.  So, I generally stick to documentaries, etc.

This is compulsive behavior for me, and since I got dealt OCD from my PTSD and have been living in a lot of stress with a new job and no stuff…  It’s been acting up.  Like my eating disorder and trichotillomania (2 not 1 for those keeping track at home) have been acting up.  I’ve been really angry for this mess of wiring in my head, and I’m still hunting for a good fit in a therapist.

“Well, you’re in the Bible belt”, is something I hear a lot at work.  And I need to learn to not let my compulsions out of my mouth via words at work.  Because one of the most successful industries here is the “church industry”, and I have been tasked with a project involving the “church industry”.  I could have turned it down in the beginning, but I didn’t want to and I was so intrigued.  But it would have been the most self-loving thing to do.

While working on this project, it’s brought a lot of churchy energy around me.  People see me working with media and iconography.  I am really into it, because I am marketing to churches and I can’t wait to see if it works.  I am so fascinated by this challenge, you know and nauseated.  People come into my work space and talk and then they talk to me about their faith.  I should probably put up some kind of boundary, but I don’t because I am sickly fascinated by how every one of them has translated and integrated a book differently.  It’s so interesting.

Yesterday was a hard day though.  I got whistled at in the hall.  I believe this was meant as a compliment.  I almost lost my shit.  To me it feels like.  Don’t forget that someone is always watching you.  Even when you think you are alone in a hallway, someone is watching you and sexualizing you.  Don’t forget you are never safe.  I told my coworker and he said that was an awesome compliment and he wishes he would get whistled at.  So that sucked.  Yesterday when this coworker said, “well you’re in the Bible belt…”  I told him that I never wanted suspenders so bad.

Then when wrapping up phase 1 of my project (yay I get a break!!!).  Someone was talking to me about their beliefs and it was ok.  He’s an animated talker.  I was sitting, he was standing.  He was talking about how people think that god the father will punish us forever in hell.  Then he said, “would a father punish a child forever?”  When he said that he was moving his arm for dramatic effect, his arm was over my head and I was looking up.  This had the effect of making me very small feeling.  His arm was coming down repeatedly (like ten times) and his hand was in the exactly grip that Pastor’s was when he was holding the PVC pipe.

I didn’t cry.

I talked to him about his loving views.  He smiled and went away.  Defense systems passed the test and all was well.  I came home about 5 hours later and lost my shit.  It was a bad day at work.  I didn’t want to go to bed, because we can’t sleep together and I really wanted to snuggle up.  So I’m up after 4.5 hours sleep ready to bang out the last day of the work week.  Tired, fragile.

back in the saddle

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The scene: A restaurant in North Carolina: women are gathering for a business networking event.  FeistyBoots enters feeling confident and comfortable, she knows this world.  It is this Leo’s domain.

The women sit to introduce themselves and talk.  FB is not accustomed to the format, but revels in not being in charge (mostly).  They perform an exercise where they are taught to create a speakers bio and FB finds this to be valuable because she hasn’t had to define herself professionally in a long time and now is as good a time as any.

FB has written hers and she thinks she’s quite clever, she usually thinks she is.  She’s ready to shine her humor on the group when someone raises their hand to go first.  They stand and read their bio.  They are a marriage and family therapist.  They specialize in loss, trauma and PTSD.  Her bio is warm but clinical, she’s got a lot of certifications to say and that can be hard while keeping an audiences interest.

She sits.

The therapist gets constructive criticism.  “Can you add more punch?  Like have YOU suffered from TRAUMA?”  “Does anyone you know have PTSD?”  Who in your family has died?

PTSD enters the restaurant.  I shudder.

I speak up.  I say as I try not to shake, “Well, this is a delicate situation, because you are talking to an anonymous group of people.  And you never know who has experienced trauma, loss or who has PTSD.  And you don’t want the effect of your introduction and marketing effort to be triggering.”  Professions like yours walk a pretty fine line.

I hear several “Oh, that makes senses, etc”.

“FB did you want to go next?”

“Sure”

I do my intro, it was not the angelic aria of awesome that I was expecting because I was feeling feelings but it came out great.

Afterwards she thanked me for my input and said it felt spot on.  I didn’t tell her I had PTSD.  I told her someone close to me was a therapist and I had had that conversation before.  I didn’t want to tell her because she had her event hat on.

And I used to hate it at events when someone who wasn’t a client would start explaining computer problems to me…  “How come when I right click my screen turns purple?”

Cause you are clicking a paint ball gun?

know what sucks

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My mom was here for 9 days and although I love her dearly, it was so hard. She’s been gone almost 2 weeks and I am still taking the big panic attack drugs. I can’t calm down. E touches me and I jump.

My brain isn’t a safe place to be. I cry at the drop of a hat. And I haven’t allowed myself to blog because I’m scared it will hurt her feelings.

But this is mine. And I have to be here. I have a flag.

Please don’t drop a hat.

Nervous

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I am supposed to be getting ready for a doctor’s appointment right now. A new doctor in a new state in a totally new culture. I need to get my brain meds renewed.

Will they believe me? Will they think I’m a drug chaser? It took a long time to find this combination that works for me and I found a really trusting doctor.

So, I get to walk into an office and give the whole ….PTSD…cult…beaten with PVC pipes…blah blah blah… fucking crazy at times…night terrors.

I don’t need to be committed, I just need these meds and I am working on finding a new therapist. Don’t commit me. Give me the drugs. I mean I don’t need them, but if I don’t get them I’ll be crying for a week and unable to move.

Dependence and addiction are different, and there’s a fine line. I’m off to walk a tight rope of perception. Wish me luck.

Here’s a new feeling

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Rage.

I have to say that I’ve done a lot of work to peel off the whys of abuse.  I’ve walked many paths.  I’ve marveled at so many people’s rage.  I didn’t get it.  Now I do.  In the last month, starting in the middle of the road trip, I do.

Rage.

So many friends have had rage because they couldn’t protect me.  I said it was fine.  But from a different vantage, from this different angle, I see different pathways and how history that I thought I knew – form different pictures.  I want to throw up.

Now I know more and can see patterns and history and a much larger picture is coming together.  And this picture is not redeeming: I am learning how some families struggle with certain demons for generations.

The more I speak out, the more I can see back and am aware of what created the environment that makes a family susceptible to a cult.  A family is taught shame and secrets.  A family is taught that they are so flawed that there is no hope for them.  I want to know where this dark mythology started in my blood.

I have deep compassion.  But I have rage.  Because these lies have scarred just about everybody I love.  And now that I see the patterns, now that I am 3,000 miles away – I can see clearly.

Rage.  It took a lot of therapy to find mine.  And it was hard to name, but I drew a straight line to it in a cliche shower epiphany this morning.  Now that I know it, I can’t unknow it.  I’m straight up pissed off.

It’s not just why me and why my family.  It’s why anyone.  I want to start with me and mine.  Only love and compassion will fight this.  This is beyond morality and judgement, they doesn’t exist in this level.  There is only love, non-judgement and compassion.

I have to dig deeper, ask questions, publicly gut myself and write about it.  I have to be someone who sheds light and helps it stop.

Demons are coming out to play

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I moved away.  My therapist is 3,000 miles away and the demons are coming out to play.  Dissociation is rampant and the harpies are swirling, I am trying not to feel like I’ve fallen two years into the past.  I miss my therapist.  She would ask a question that would piss me off and then the world would reknit together in a new blanket that would carry me again.

Working with her was such a great experience.  I am struggling to find a therapist here who meets my criteria:  works with expressive arts, PTSD specialist, eating disorder specialist.  I am coming to terms with the sexual abuse I’ve dealt with: covert and overt so maybe that goes on the list.  But so many of the therapists here advertise as Christian and that really triggers me, since I am recovering from spiritual abuse at the hands of a Christian cult.

Sometimes I’m really glad that I have the luxury of not being a mom right now.  I mean, I’ve been pretty miserable to be around.  If I had kids it seems like it would be worse, I know it’s had an effect on E.  How would it effect kids?.  Or would I just get over it faster because there was stuff to do, put on some kind of mom game face?

I think a lot of it has to do with exhaustion from aches and physical pain, it’s been wearing me down…  Why does it hurt so bad?  Because we’ve been sleeping on an air mattress for the last two weeks since we got here.  Because our crap was hijacked by bastard pirates when we moved across the country.  Did I not mention that?

That deserves it’s own blog post.

way back machine 2

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Setting:  I’m 14.  We are in the pastor’s office.  He is in his big chair.  I am on the couch.  I was in trouble because it was found out that I hugged a boy that I was in a play with.

Pastor: So tell me what happened.

Teen Feisty: I saw C after rehearsal and he said, “give me a hug” and I did.

Pastor: That’s it?

Teen Feisty: yes.

Pastor: So, if any guy asks you for any sexual favor you give it to him?

Teen Feisty: What?

Pastor: He demanded a hug.

Teen Feisty: Well, he said it casually.

Pastor: And you gave it to him?

Teen Feisty: Well, yes.

Pastor: And that seems ok to you?

Teen Feisty: yes.  We all hug all the time.

Pastor: He’s different, he’s worldly.  When we hug it’s because of our love of each other and God.

Teen Feisty: Everyone there knows me and wouldn’t hurt me.

Pastor: A hug can be a sexual act.  Think about it, Suzi.  Your breasts were on his chest.  Your breasts were on his chest.  What did it feel like with your breasts on his chest?  Did it feel good?  Did you feel like a woman?

Teen Feisty: I didn’t think about it that way.

Pastor: What did it feel like?

Teen Feisty: Just a hug.

Pastor: You are getting big breasts, and every man that wants to hug you is going to want to feel them.

Teen Feisty:  What?

Pastor: You are not to talk to him again.

Teen Feisty: We’re friends!

Pastor: Better to lose a friend now than to be found unworthy later.

way back machine

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The setting:  I am 11 and I had a rash or something on my thigh.  Our pastor wanted to look at it because he had medical training and it probably didn’t need a doctor’s visit.  I am in the pastors big leather chair wearing a shirt and my underwear and a towel over my underwear.

Pastor: OK, let’s see the rash

(I show him and am careful to keep as much as possible covered because it’s at the top of my inner thigh.  I am really scared.)

Pastor: Hmmmmm.  It doesn’t look too bad.  Is it itchy?

Little Feisty: yeah.

Pastor: WHAT?

Little Feisty: Yes.  Sorry, Sir. Yes.

Pastor: It’s probably from your tights and dancing.  Do you wash them?

Little Feisty: yes

Pastor: Are you clean down there?

Little Feisty: What?

Pastor: Show me how you wipe after you go to the bathroom.

Little Feisty: um….

Pastor: You can show me over the towel.

(I pantomime for him, and it feels awful)

Pastor: OK good, that shouldn’t cause a rash.

Little Feisty: ok

Pastor: You might need to dance without tights for a while and I’ll have your mom sit you in an oatmeal bath.

Little Feisty: ok

Pastor: We need to have a talk.

Little Feisty: About what?

Pastor: Well, you’re in the older school with the older kids.

Little Feisty: yes

Pastor: And you’re the youngest.

Little Feisty: yes (I was very self conscious about being in my underwear and a towel)

Pastor: Do you like any of the boys?

Little Feisty: What?

Pastor: Do you think any of them are handsome?

Little Feisty: (I was silent for a long time, because I had two crushes and I was not sure where this was headed, but I had to come clean once I was asked) yes

Pastor: who?

Little Feisty:   J & B

Pastor: What does it feel like?

Little Feisty: What do you mean?

Pastor: What does it feel like when you are around them?

Little Feisty: I feel happy.

Pastor: What else?

Little Feisty: um…

Pastor: Do you feel it physically?

Little Feisty: I guess?

Pastor: where?

Little Feisty: um…. well (and I started to cry) I feel something in my vagina a little bit.

Pastor: What does it feel like?

Little Feisty: A little warm and tingly.

Pastor: And do you masturbate and think about them?

Little Feisty: NO

Pastor: you don’t?

Little Feisty: no

Pastor: You need to be very careful, you are growing up.  And getting toward a dangerous age.  Masturbation is a terrible sin.

Little Feisty: I don’t do it.  I know it’s a sin and I never have.

Pastor: I’m going to go talk to your mom, put on your pants.

Little Feisty:  ok

Then we went home.