Tag Archives: fear

For the team

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This job was a good and a hard experience.  I’ve been wondering why I put up with sexual harrassment.  First it was a whistle in the hall.  Then it was winking.  Then he paced outside my office a couple times trying to get eye contact-which I refused to give him.  Then the last time in the coffee room, I was standing next to the coffee maker and he wanted next to the creamer and he (I guess) shimmied me out of the way. But it was a full body side contact that was excruciatingly uncomfortable.

I confronted him a million times in my head, actually I did every morning on my drive to work.  I thought about how I would say it.  I didn’t feel like I could go to my boss without confronting him first, because I’m a “big girl” and I should be able to fight my own fights.

The other problem was logistical.  We rarely ran into each other.  So, I would be ready, and then ready, and then ready and then finally relax and then he would be there.  Since it was both of our jobs to be out of the office pretty much, we rarely crossed paths so when we did it was an issue.  You just couldn’t time it.

I was retisent to confront because at every corporate job I have ever had, I have dealt with sexual harrassment.  And since I am obviously the common denominator, I wanted to know if there was something in me that attracted this.  But, should I start lopping off parts of my personality?

Last night, I was thinking about it and there were like 40 guys there and three women.  The guys had this great comaraderie.  I didn’t want to spoil it.  I knew that if I told that it would be a big deal, there would be paperwork and drama.  And I didn’t want to be the new girl who changes the culture.  The feminist in me was having a rally and trying to burn my own bra in protest, it was itchy.

I thought about all the women empowerment speeches I’ve given and I felt really ashamed.  I sure feel powerful when I have a microphone, where is my voice without one?

I realized how much I had emotionally invested in keeping the peace amomg the men-folk, at my own risk.  I realized how much punishment I still take (self imposed) to keep peace, even when there shouldn’t be peace.

There shouldn’t have been peace.  I didn’t need to get bothered at work because I’m female and then not talk about it and be nervous and hypervigilant about it because I’m me.

Next time, and I’m sure there will be a next time.  I’ll just try to tell the truth.  But the truth makes me wanna hurl, I’d rather just take the cathartic beating and get the confrontation over with.

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.

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.

That didn’t go well at all

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Two and a half hours of a complete inventory of my traumas.  A description of trauma highlights, it’s more fun if you imagine it in slow motion replays with John Madden doing the voice overs.  Then the inventory of all of my coping mechanisms and self medication strategies as well as other random psych questions.

I tried to describe my PTSD to her and I described the dissociative state where people are talking and it’s like I’m underwater and I can’t hear them.  I try to pierce through the water.

I think my open mindedness got me in a few places…  She asked if I see and hear things other people don’t and I said, “how should I know?”

She said I was going to be monitored for a couple of really scary diagnosis.  And I started to cry, a lot.  She told me to let go of the stigma and to work with her.  And I told her that those were the diagnosis I feared the most.  Basically this is a nightmare coming true moment.

She said that she wasn’t diagnosing me, just monitoring me.  At this point, I don’t want to go back.  I want to kick her in the shins and run away and maybe knife her tires.  But that’s not polite in the south.

I came home and cried for a very long time.  I didn’t want to tell E about what she said.  But I trusted us and did.  So it was good.  All of the behaviors that may look like the other diagnosis are also a part of PTSD.

But she is right.  What’s more important?  Recovery and proper treatment or ego?  I’ll do treatment as long as I’m sure I’ve got the right diagnosis.

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.

Thar be pirates

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Ye Swarthy Jack Asses

Ye Swarthy Jack Asses

A month ago we packed all of our belongings from Oakland, CA and set sail to Raleigh, NC.  OK well, we didn’t pack all of our belongings and we drove.  E was (appropriately) nervous about professional movers from the start.  He devised a system: we pack the stuff that we would be devastated if lost with us in the car. The stuff that it would be really bad we UPS’d to my brother who lives near our destination.  Everything else that is just stuff, even though we love it (like our bed and art, kitchen, most of our clothes, bikes, etc…) would be packed with the movers.  I thought this was a great idea.

I called many movers, I had a spreadsheet.  I filled out many online forms requesting online estimates.  I talked to many and gave inventories.  We researched: checked Yelp, the Department of Transportation, the Better Business Bureau.  It was thorough, thoroughly exhausting and thoroughly lame.  The one we chose specialized in cross country moves, so they had a good price for it.

I had a good rapport with the sales person and she said that since we had such a small space that a phone estimate would be fine.  I gave her an inventory of all of the stuff we had in our wee little studio.  She said that the 2,000 pound package should be fine. We did some more research, called her back and then signed up. The contract came with a free month of storage as well.

He and I purged some furniture and our bed frame as well as many books and clothes leading up to the move. We had so little, we knew that would make a difference. We wanted to come under the 2,000 and also we knew some of his furniture would serve his family better than it would serve us so we gave it to them. And the only furniture I have is a red dresser and a little table (less than 10 pounds).  We didn’t tell the movers we had less, since they were going to weigh everything and charge us if it was over-I didn’t think an itemized list mattered anymore. On 9/12/11, they arrived. As soon as the mover walked in he said it would be way over 2,000LBs.  doom

They loaded everything into a 16foot truck. Our goods took up half of it, or less. We had been told originally that we would need to pay 70% of the contract of at pickup. He said that since the amount weighed more that we should pay more and pressured me into signing a contract with a blank amount and walked away with a check from us for more than the original contract amount. Our stuff was on the truck and he told me that if I didn’t sign it he would be fired.   I hate that I caved in, but I was so tired and overwhelmed.  I still genuinely thought it would be sorted out properly when weighed.  Most of this stuff had previously fit in a 5×5 storage unit and been moved in a 10 foot truck.  Not a lot of stuff…

He said we would be called the next day with a weight and a new contract price. We then got in our car to drive across the country. He said they were supposed to do two more moves in that truck and then drive back to LA to weigh our items. When they called us on 9/14, the general manager told me that our items weighed 6,200 LBS and that our new remaining total was now $4377.00 more than we had already paid.  And that we needed to pay $2487.90 to complete the down payment for our stuff to even leave LA and we owe another $1709.10 once our items are delivered in North Carolina. I was in shock. He asked me over the phone what my plan was. I asked him what other clients did when this happened to them. He said he didn’t know. I said surely in his company’s history, this had happened before. What were his client’s options? He said I needed to come up with a plan to pay him. I said he needed to prove to me that my items weighed 6,200 pounds. I told him to email me a list of weights; I had to know what weighed so much. And since we were at this point driving through the desert of Nevada on fumes already stressed about running out of gas in the dark, I needed to see it in writing.

I emailed him back that I wanted them weighed again with a witness of mine there. He said he would reweigh it but never addressed that I wanted a witness. I called and he told me to pay him. I said he had to prove that my goods could weigh so much. I remembered that our goods were picked up in a 16 foot budget truck and I looked up the specs and saw that a 16 foot budget truck could only carry a max payload of 3,400 pounds. When I confronted him with that, he told me that it was a 24. It wasn’t. That wouldn’t have fit on my street and the lift that was on the back of that truck isn’t on the 24s. Now, they just refuse to return my calls. My message is the same. Prove to me that my items weigh that much. If you could weigh it once, you should be able to weigh it again with a witness. Or deliver my items for the amount of the original contract we signed. I opened a BBB complaint. They are supposedly working on it. However, we drove across the country for two weeks and now we have been living on the floor of a beautiful apartment in North Carolina for two and a half weeks. Thankfully we thought ahead and packed an air mattress.

There is no way we have three tons of stuff.  I called other moving companies and asked that if they were required to move 6,200 pounds of stuff how big of a space would you think I had?  I got one answer of a two bedroom house with a garage and another answer of a three bedroom house.  My sister in law found the bill of lading from her cross country move and their three bedroom place (with some pretty big furniture) and three kids and it was less than 6,000 pounds.

Since then we filed a complaint with the Department of Transportation and since they are so out of line, they are assigning us a hostage expert to investigate our case.

Now we blow up our air mattress every night, stretch in the morning and try to keep the process along.  We have a skillet and a sauce pan. We have our laptops and phones.  We have the things that we packed in case anything went wrong with the movers.  We have the cats.  I’ve had a couple job interviews and had to shop before each one.

It’s been exactly a month and we are still doing what we can do to get it back.  We shall see.

Pirates are dicks.

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.

outside talking to the outside looking inside

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Recently, I had a phone conversation with somebody who is the best friend of one of the people from the church.  (You found my blog online.  Now you are in it… Hope you don’t mind…)

But she’s been friends with the woman from the church since before the church.  And she knew all of these things that had happened.  She knew people, names, had socialized with some of us.  She knew my mom.  I heard what it was like for her to be the best friend of someone in a cult.

How scary, it must have been for her.  She walked a delicate balance because she didn’t want to drive her friend away.  She was a delicate anchor.

It made me think of the person I met before I left the church who told me that what I was experiencing might be abuse.  She was very gentle.  She knew that if she came at me passionately that I was freak out and shut down and run away.  I am forever grateful for her intuition that helped me find a way out of the church.

It was amazing to hear her talk about it.  Validating in a lot of ways, because what happened was so weird.  And sometimes it feels like a bizarre dream that took up the first half of my life and haunts the second half.  She talked about the cult de sac where so many people from the church lived and how some realtor listed it as hot property because it always sold so fast.  They didn’t know all of the demand was driven  by a cult trying to buy into the same area, and that once the church was gone the demand dried up as the families dispersed.

She talked about one of the women in the church, who has a very special place in my heart.  But she saw a completely opposite side of her.  And of course she would.  Because she doesn’t know that that woman was my very first dance teacher when I was five years old and she’s the one that gave me the keys to my soul’s freedom.  She was also my brother’s first art teacher and although the Army crushed my brother’s arm, he’s still an amazing artist.

There was anger in her voice and that made sense too.  The same anger that is in the voice of a lot of my friends.  The anger of “WHY DID THIS HAPPEN TO SOMEONE I LOVE”.

It was a good talk.  It was a hard talk.  I was proud of myself because when it got too triggery, I set a boundery and we moved on.  That for me is progress.   But, it really opened my eyes to the damage of the church.  The friends and family that were cut off from loved ones because of this cult.  Because of the spiritual abuse and the forced isolation.

I still have so much trouble reaching out to my blood family, because I see them as a them and not a me.  I am trying so hard to change that in me.  That and something called ambivalent attachment disorder, which is something you get when the people who are supposed to keep you safe do so only some of the time so it’s not reliable.