Normal

My husband asked yesterday if I ever thought I would be normal in regards to certain things.  I told him that I didn't know what normal looks like but that my goal is to be healthy.  He looked at me weird but he does that a lot when I actually get out of my head and talk.

Those certain things that he's referring to are my incredible sexual hang ups.  I came home from therapy the other night with a list of things that he cannot do and the reasons why.  He was told all of those things by my counselor before we got married so that we were hopefully on the same page.

Problem was, when he did any one of those things that bothered me, I never said anything to him. 

My counselor originally wrote the list as I talked about what things bothered me.  But I decided to I hand write it again so that he knew that it was coming from me.  I gave it to him and initially he looked surprised and confused.  Then he said that he needed some time and I was positive that he was really mad at me. 

Turns out that he was mad at himself for hurting me.  He thought those rules were my therapist's rules and not my own.  I confirmed that thinking when I never said anything when he did something that hurt me.

I won't get into the details of the list because it was awful to talk about and write.  But I think that what upset me the most was the fact that I had no good answers for why I let him do things that hurt, bother or upset me.  All I knew was that I was the same person with him that I have been in the past with all the other men and I felt so ashamed for that.

My EX-husband, among other things, had a rape fantasy.  So guess what he did every few months?  I still have a hard time walking into my own dark house even though it's not the same one he and I lived in together.  And forget about hiding around a corner to scare me.  That's a cardinal sin in our home and everyone knows it.

My father... my best bet was to look like I enjoyed it.  If I showed pain it only made it worse.  Same for his friends.  But then there were the times where I couldn't muster anything close to a look of pleasure because kids aren't made to do those kinds of things.  Those were the worst times.

My husband isn't anything close to being like the other men.  If I told them not to do something because it hurt me, they did that thing even more.  My husband isn't like that and I don't understand why I would think that of of him.  But I do. 

I also think that says more about my own condition than his state or that of our marriage.

Now I'm not going to lie.  I'm scared to death now that he knows the things that can hurt me and bother me the most.  I trust him but then I don't because really, I don't fully trust anyone.  I feel extremely vulnerable.  I don't know the things that could bring him to a mental stand-still or break him down yet he knows some of my deepest and exacting issues.

It's hard enough growing up the way I did.  But then I grow up and once again find myself in a disadvantaged position in my own marriage with the man that I love.  I hate that.

I guess the good thing is that he hasn't gone anywhere in 6 years.  And he's still here even after me bringing home a list of do's and don'ts.   So even though I don't know what normal is; I guess this might be our own normal.  He still doesn't understand my differentiation between normal and healthy and that's probably because healthy is normal to him.  I guess that makes sense for someone who isn't as fucked up as I am.

I feel childish in this thinking but it's what I want.  I don't care about normal but I want to be healthy.  Normal can mean so many different things but healthy seems like a much more concise goal.  I just read my last few sentences and I realized that I just said something that I want.  I don't ever do that so I'm hoping that is a step in the right direction of healthy.

Blocks

Silence.  It sings when perfectly still.  With the constant banter in my mind it is hard to find a silent spot.  But when I do, I find the warmth in being all alone. 

Sleeping well evades me as I roam our home.  In the dark I am listening for that silent tune where there is no fear.  No screams.  No pain.  No awakened anguish.  These times when I'm all alone are few.  I cherish them and hope for the next time not so far away.

As a child I loved to be alone.  These were moments when I was safe.  I could play in my room for hours; always in a corner facing out but alone and content.   Even found in a closet, darkness and pieces of air could be a symphony.  The whispers of my friends were welcome but even they learned to listen to the music.

Much more pain and many more shattered friends later; the silence has all but disappeared.   Each chance to be alone I embrace.  I hope that in this time I will hear that peace I loved so much. 

But then the chatter starts and builds block upon block.  There is no safety in numbers as the distractions are so great.  Angry at the peace they have obstructed, I swing to topple those blocks.  But as they crash the sounds only grow more intense.  I stop and look at what I've done.  The damage I myself have created. 

I turn my back on them as if they have no voice.  But their tiny words pierce my mind.  I hold my head.  I pound with my fists.  I take a pill.  Nothing works to drown them out. 

In desperation I pick up a block and I see it for what it is.  A tiny piece of a careful wall constructed all around me.  Protection from the worst. 

I listen as the block begins to speak; not a scream yet not a whisper either.  I want to throw it back into the pile but instead I pick up another.  The more I listen, I realize what I always knew.

These blocks were once the safest corner in which I played.  And then he destroyed that protective angle in which I fit so perfectly.  Devastation as my childish hands picked up the bits and block by block a wall began to form.

A small stack of blocks behind me show a tiny bit of progress.  Many more blocks are scattered.  One block.  Two blocks.  Another and another.  Some are heavy.  Some are sharp and jagged.  Some are big; the cornerstones.  And then the tiniest of pieces; shattered as they bore the worst.

As I ask to listen their weight lessens.  And a painful yet simple I'm sorry smooths away their exposed rawness.  With that they are ready to find their spot in a new and wholly constructed wall.

And my strength is reinforced.

Letdown

You know.  It's the feeling that you get right after Christmas.  All that work and then it's all over in a matter of hours and you wonder why the hell you worked so hard in the first place.

I spent the long weekend with overwhelming times of letdown.  Not all the time because that's dumb.  But some of the time when I had a moment to think and reflect; my letdown was laughing at me. 

I've worked really hard in the past month or so.  I've cleaned out mental closets.  I've faced some huge fears.  I've unpacked long overdue boxes.  I have said some very difficult goodbyes.  I have even been good, for the most part, about taking my meds.

After all that I thought I would feel better.  Even happy.  I looked forward to this long weekend.  I kept telling myself keep going, it will be so nice to have a happy and peaceful weekend.

It wasn't a terrible time.  I had the tiniest moments of happiness.  But it certainly was not what I expected.  What a letdown.  That's when disappointment set in like a black cloud.

That black cloud?  A close neighbor to my standard issued rain cloud of depression.  Mix in some thundering anxiety and some lightening strikes of pain and I have the perfect storm of mental illness once again.

I waffle between stupidity and embarassment.  How stupid of me to expect happiness.  Embarassment over that expectation of more than a passing relief.

It's hard to not be disappointed.  Why the fuck would I work so hard while expecting some relief?  I have very little to show for that work and that borders on pathetic.  I guess it's time to lower my expectations before I get hurt again.

Ummm...

So, I'll just start out by saying that I'm not a very good blogger.  I get busy.  I get tired.  I get overwhelmed.  Or in this case I just do my best to ignore it hoping that it will just go away.

But it doesn't go away. 

What started as ignoring turned into not giving a fuck.  And then not giving a fuck turned into the worst depression I have wandered into in more than 7 years.  And then that turned into some tears followed by a near trip to the hospital.

In all my mess I've had one absolute no and that is a no to ever going inpatient.  I don't like hospitals; especially the kind that my mother spent time in.  But last week I was one car ride away from crossing that last no off my list.  It's like a genetic bucket list for me.  Crazy... check  Medication... check  Self harm... check... Breakdown... check  Hospital... check.

Why am I here now?  Honestly I'm not really sure.  I still feel awful but I feel better than I did.  Because I finally got some help.  You see, I skipped out on therapy for nearly a month.  All my fault.

I'm the master of shutting people out.  I turn inward and if given enough time I can easily get lost in my weird little world.  But in shutting caring people out I also keep secrets.  To me that is no big deal considering how I grew up.  But now the secrets are hurting me.

Probably my biggest secret; I went off my meds.  All of them.  We have had some financial struggles as of late and I determined I was not worth the cost of the Dr. appointments or the medications themselves.  The money could be spent for better things that did not include myself.  I told no one of my decision and I told everyone inside of me to shut up.

Are you amazed at my stupidity?  I certainly am. 

But amazed isn't really the correct word.  I'm ashamed.  I'm embarrassed.  I'm angry at myself.  I'm frustrated because I can't just be better.  I'm scared to ask for the help I need when I need it.  And then I'm back to being ashamed because I had to ask for help.

I have taken some steps in the right direction.  I went to therapy and I'll go again this week.  I  said no to something that wanted to conflict with this week's appointment... I feel guilty about that.  I called to make an appointment to see a shrink.  I've stopped keeping recent secrets.

Small steps but steps nonetheless.  So read while you can; it's not often that you get a glimpse of me un-medicated.

Lump

I find myself tangled in the lump of my throat.  Trapped somewhere between my mind of logic and my twisted and aching heart I am dizzy with conflict.  I am worth something.  I am worth nothing.  I am worth more than words can offer.

That familiar lump squeezes and twists my weary emotions as I grasp for a momentary breath of logic.  A thought that reassures what kindness says; an understanding that I am so much more than what they said.  But in that moment their words, their actions; they come crashing down on me as the lump threatens to engulf me.

Pain and bitter bile wash over me and the choices seem so non-existent.  Why else would their hatred spiral?  Why else would a child so young bear such deep and burdened scars?

It must be because I am worth so little.

The secrets that we shared.  The secrets that I keep.  These are the fuel to ignite a burning lump of torture.  I struggle to move on and I struggle to let go while the lump clutches its tiny treasure.  How do I feel my worth when all I feel is the pain wiping away even the smallest doubt that they might have been wrong?

I want to breathe.  I want to feel the full capacity of worth expand until that lump of disbelief is pushed aside for good.  I want to exhale until I know that they were wrong.

Integration

This past week has not been an easy one.  Not that most of my weeks are easy but this one was a greater struggle. 

Part of my healing process involves the integrating of my various personalities or "parts".  The easiest way to describe it is in watching a certain part step behind the shadows in my mind; no longer distinguished by a look or a voice.  Ever present and audible but as me instead of them.  Small fingers lace between my grownup fingers.  I squeeze a fragile hand and watch it melt into my own.

As the parts converge I often see a blending of colors.  My color is blue.  Other times I see numbers and the sum of the parts come together to equal a new whole.  But along with these hues and figures also come the tactile memories. Worn and aching to them; fresh and raw to me. 

I am flooded with these thoughts of the past and they become my present.  Feel the floor beneath my feet.  Touch the couch that I am sinking in.  I only wish these things beneath me would pull me in and past the hurting surface.  A crying child is in the corner.  A broken baby alone on the floor.  A dirty face is frozen with terror.  And he is pulling at my legs as he creeps up to control me.

These desperate children slide behind me as their pain is lifted away.  Their stories become my own; a painful anthem no one wants to hear.

Feel the couch and focus on a familiar face.  It is not real.  Just a memory.  But it is real.

Hurt

Miserable.  I don't deserve to be miserable.  This has been my mantra over the past several weeks.

I was stopped dead in my tracks shortly after my last post.  I went to therapy, minding my own business like I always do, and my therapist told me he had a possible solution for handling my vices.  Or addictions as they should be more accurately described.

REHAB

Are you fucking kidding me?  Turns out he wasn't.  And that was a sobering moment.  To come to the point in my life where I'm told that I am essentially out of control and I need to be locked up to gain control is probably enough to get most anyone's attention. 

I am all about control so coming to the reality that control is not something in my arsenal; well, that one is a tough one for me.  I came here and had nothing to say.  Perhaps out of embarrassment.  Perhaps out of fear.  Perhaps I was wordless.  And so I was quiet.

Back to the rehab thing; I used my daughter as a reason... excuse... and asked for a month to get my shit together.  I then went home, armed with a list written by my therapist for my husband.  And I actually gave the list to him and did a lot of explaining.

I've left my husband in the dark about a lot.  Especially when it comes to the food and cutting problems.  When I told him that I still cut his response was, "but that's what fucked up people do". 

I met his remark with a smile and a raised eyebrow and said, "yeah".

So I'm doing what fucked up people do.  I'm talking; not in my head but with audible words for real humans to hear.  I'm trying to express my feelings better.  I'm being honest about my habits.  And I'm letting people help me.  All novel concepts. 

To keep busy, I'm also quilting and sewing everything in my path.  I made two quilts in a week.  My husband is worried that he is going to wake up and find himself quilted to the bed.  I told him that if it keeps me sober then perhaps he should pick out some fabrics that he likes.

I'm doing better.  I am thinking before I eat, drink, or hurt myself. 

And politely speaking, really all of this has just been one form or another of hurting myself.  Impolitely, I have been self-destructing or fucking myself up.  Whatever it is, I don't deserve it. 

I've been hurt enough.

Surprise

Sitting on a small couch last night, I felt as if I was sitting on the corner of some cosmic world.  Alone.  Completely alone.  And this particular world was not round; rather it was square.  Square because there is no circular justice.  Not unless you count being tortured and murdered as some sort of redemptive revenge.

And then I felt injustice pressing squarely behind my tired eyes.  What has happened is not just.  Nor is it fair because they have made their exits and I have survived.

Everyone is dead... that keeps ringing in my head.  I know that is not the precise case but in my own twisted world, everyone is, in fact, dead.

So now I sit week after week, even moment after moment, left to deal with their abuse, their hatred, their woundings, and their deaths.  Then there are my scars, my memories, my terrors, and all the collateral damage that comes with being a member of this disappearing family.  Theirs and Mine: two separate and fancy walk-in closets full of skeletons and ghosts tucked away in every nook and custom built drawer specifically designed for keeping the best and most wrenching secrets.  What an inheritance.

All this while their ashes stir peacefully in the smallest pockets of square cosmic spaces.

Death let them off the hook.  And now I feel that I am on the hook for the lion's share of the damage.  This hurts deeply; deeper than I ever imagined.  This surprises me.  I knew and yes, I fantasized, that this day would come.  And here it is and I writhe alone. 

But with this pain I have also discovered a considerable peace.  I can sleep.  Really sleep.  I have never slept well, even as a married adult sleeping in a safe environment.  From the day he fled I held my breath dreading his return.  Checking on my daughter five times a night was nothing strange.  I had to know that he was not in her room.  And with that knowledge I stole another hour of sleep.  So now I sleep surprised, soundly and deeply. 

While I always knew this day would arrive, I never believed it would. We are no longer looking over our collective shoulder. 

And that freedom is a complete, yet lost, surprise.

C-r-a-z-y

Sometimes the case of the letter makes all the difference.  God or god.  An important personal I or a misplaced letter i.  Summer the girl or summer the season.  The uppercase letter delineates between importance and the ordinary.

Perfectionism is a haunt of mine.  It is a ghost that follows me and does not stop no matter what I'm doing.   It kills a day in a blink.  It turns anxiety inside/out.  It takes away my care for something good; even the smallest of outcomes.

Fuck it.

That is perfectionism in two simple words.  If I cannot do it right then I refuse to do it at all.  How dangerous is that?  Or rather... how stupid is that?

I see my world in black and white.  Absolutes.  You are either right or wrong.  Good or bad.  Smart or stupid.  I have a ridiculously logical brain.  Logic is the glue that holds the shards of me together.  Without this reason, I probably would have landed in the crazy house a long time ago.  Logic is my reality.  If I can reason it; it exists.  If I cannot; it must not be.

And there is the problem.  There is nothing logical about my past.  Although it seems that abusers have a handbook; the logic chapter is always found to be ripped out, shredded, and burned.   They left that part of it up to us to figure out; to understand their evil.  That is what makes us crazy in the first place.

So the harder I try to understand; the crazier I get.  Literally.  I cannot reason what was done to me and so sets in denial.  I can't understand it; I can't make it right.  So fuck it.

The abundance of fuck its has really slowed me down.  Nearly to a halt and I'm not just talking about my mental healing.  This is my real life too.  Housekeeping, taking care of myself, dieting, exercise, blah blah blah... you get the picture.  If I can't do it right and perfect; then I won't do it at all. 

All great thoughts to live by.

This thinking is not something easy to change.  It is a deep part of who I am.   It is also something that makes me feel normal.  Normal exactly long enough until I realize that normal people don't do math and physics problems for fun.  But I digress because my weirdness belongs in a whole other post. 

I have steps to take.  One at a time.  Crying just one time worked for me.  And then I did it again.  Getting up early once led to me getting up early again AND working out.  It doesn't have to be all or nothing and sometimes it's alright to be somewhere and in between.   I don't have to be completely healed or entirely wounded. 

I'm still crazy; even with the steps towards tears and feeling.  But I have progress now because I have downgraded letters; even if it is just one.  Now I'm just crazy.

crazy with a little "c"...

Tears

Dear Tears,

How very sorry I am for what you have lived with.  You and I have not spent much time together.  I avoid you because I despise crying.  You avoid me because we are not supposed to cry.

So other than objectives, we have not known much about one another.  Sure, I've squeezed out a few tears here and there; but a sob?  Not really.  And those times that I have needed to cry, you stood by and fought a deluge at much cost to yourself.

Over the past few days I have cried.  And when I say cry, I mean real and bitter tears.  Tears stockpiled over years of pain.  Tears we both did not believe to exist.  As this happened I watched you through my blurry eyes, shaking in a corner.  You were waiting for him and he did not come.  We were both surprised.

No one hit us until we stopped crying.  No one fucked us until there were no more tears to cry.  Not once was the blood running faster than the tears.  In fact, there was no blood at all. 

Each tear, it did hurt.  Like crying razor blades.  But it was a healing kind of hurt.  To borrow a thought... it hurts a lot less to rip a band-aid off quickly than slowly.  Or not at all.  So I sit in my car and cry while I peel the neglected, crusty bandages of abuse away.  I do this while I worry about keeping you safe.  It's a role reversal of sorts.

Watching you with intent, I see that you are small.  You are a skinny boy younger than my own daughter.  She's six.  And now I am not seeing you through the haze of my own pain.   Without the need to dodge his fists, I see that you have glasses and blonde hair.  Your glasses are broken and behind the cracks you have no eyes.  No eyes that cry no tears.

No wonder. 

I can cry your tears now.  And it's OK if you never shed one of your own; that is not your job.   It's mine now and you know, tears are not that bad.

And neither are you.  So go and rest.

Your friend,

Shattered

Flat

So today is a new day and I'm trying again.  I must sound like a wreck because when readers start asking me if I have a therapist, it's then that I realize how bad I sound.  And for my newer readers, yes, I do have a therapist who I have been seeing for quite some time.  At least once a week.

Reading over my post from yesterday, I did sound depressed and I was.  I still am.  And once again I am at the point of retreating to the hills of my head or sticking with the present.  I am learning that this is a choice.  It is a hard choice too. 

But in making that choice I am learning a lot about myself.  I don't do stress.  I don't do pain.  "Flat" was the word that kept coming up in therapy yesterday evening.  I've given it a lot of thought between then and now because I argued last night that flat was easier than feeling. 

I was wrong.

Flat really is hard.  Exhausting.  And I think I create a lot more stress and pain, the very things I try to avoid, for myself in trying to be flat.  I really thought that this was how people wanted me to be.  However, as I look at my emotional responses to others, I can see that my flat response was the last thing they needed or even wanted. 

I do not know how to change this overnight.  Flat used to my safe.  If I showed no emotion, the chances of being hit a lot or worse went down.  Flat let me mirror the emotions around me and let me remain invisible.  I focused on other's feelings instead of my own.  I thought this was safe.  But in doing so I added layer upon layer on my own pain which seems to fester into depression.

I have one assignment for the next week.  Cry.  And cry some more.  When I am in the car I am supposed to cry.  That is a long way from flat and I am scared.  What if people don't like my emotions?  My trademarks are levelheaded, calm, logical, a rock... all a nice version of flat. 

My next step: call my shrink and tell her that I don't have any of my meds nor have I been taking them because "someone" threw them away.  I've been too embarrassed to make that call but I need to.  I also need to do some housekeeping in here and figure out "who" threw them out.  And after that...

Cry some more.

Past

My past is my present. Or more accurately; their past is my present. D.I.D. is a complex coping mechanism where the file cabinets of my past contain dusty files that are old by years but new to me. These files are pulled out and opened in a number of ways.

I have a flashback. Something triggers a file cabinet to open; a smell, a touch, a glance, a sound. A drawer flies open, a dusty file is shoved in my face, and I am in the exact moment. I can feel him grabbing me, I can smell his aftershave, I can see the hate in his eyes, and I can hear the sound of his footsteps. I am there. Yes, this is just a memory but it feels all too real and many times it is new to me. This can happen anywhere and anytime; at home, at work, in a car.

I have a nightmare while sleeping. It seems that these occur more frequently when I neglect the other "parts" of me. It's the same as a flashback; the sensations are real and in the present. It unnerves my husband when I wake up screaming, punching, kicking, terrified and it takes a moment to return to the present.

An alter and I have a conversation. We discuss, matter of fact, their past and it infringes on my present. Suppose you learn that an old friend passed away a few years back. Are you less sad to hear of their death just because time has passed? Probably not. Perhaps you even have a greater sadness because you missed hearing the news and grieving when it happened. So despite the time that has passed, many files are new to me and the feelings, the abuse, and the grief are lived in real time.

I spent years pretending that nothing happened. I thought it normal that I could remember few events of my childhood. I thought it normal to have voices in my mind and an unbelievably poor memory because I missed hours, even days because I was dissociated and someone else was running the show. I ignored the physical scars that covered my body. It wasn't until I was forced to have a c-section because physically I could not give birth to my daughter naturally because of such extensive scar tissue that I began to unravel and participate in my past.

So here I dissect their past and merge it with my own present. In therapy I talk, re-live, feel, and give credit to their work of protecting me. It is a bitch of a process. I get frustrated because I don't feel that I am making any progress. I feel stuck. In the past. However, in my frustration I am learning to see that re-living, acknowledging, and embracing the past is the quickest route to the present.

And even the future.

Relief

A year or so ago, in my city, a young girl was strangled by her stepfather.  After she died the truth came out.  She had been abused for years by this man and there were records to attest to her pain.  In talking with my therapist, he asked me how I thought this girl was probably feeling.  In her life I imagined that she felt sad, alone, hurt, etc.  And in the end, I didn't even have to think.  I knew.  She felt relief.

I am in kindergarten and I love my teacher.  She says I'm good at reading and she gives me stickers.  She doesn't know that I am really a bad little girl.  I am bad and if she knew she would probably take away my stickers.

My mom is sad.  She looks like she will be mad if I keep doing bad things.  I am taking a bath and she is in the other room.  I have bubbles.  I love bubbles.  I can take the bubbles and cover my body up; I can hide my face with them and no one will know who I am.  I can be a man with a beard.  A man with a beard is much safer than I am.

I have to wash my hair.  I have very long hair and I hate when we have to wash it.  So does my mom.  She hates my hair.  She also hates me. 

I am going to help her; I am going to wash my hair myself.  The shampoo runs out of the bottle like honey.  I capture most of it with my chubby hands.  I lean my head back and rub my hands through my hair.  I am doing it right; my mom is going to be happy.  The bubbles grow in my hair and I hear the shampoo crackle in my ears.  My hair will be really clean and my mom will be happy.

But now the shampoo is running down my forehead and into my eyes.

I did not use my baby sister's shampoo and now my eyes are burning.  I am a stupid kid.  I splash water in my eyes; water with more bubbles in it.  My eyes are burning more and I am splashing lots of water.  My mom hears me.

She walks into the bathroom and sees me.  I have made her mad.  She kneels down next to the bathtub and I tell her what is wrong.  She is going to help me.  She leans me back to get the soap away from my eyes.

My head is underwater.  Soapy water rushes into my mouth and nose.  My eyes burn less but I am scared.  Even underwater, I can hear my mother's muffled screams. 

Rotten... miserable... stupid... hateful... ugly... wish you were dead... child.

I try to sit up and I cannot.  Her mommy hands are on my chest.  I lurch forward again and this time I steal a breath.  I can see in color again.

Dead... dead... dead...!

She screams louder and louder.  Color becomes black and white and screams are muffled once again.  I feel my body move with the water and there is peace.  I do not struggle.  I rest.  I relax.

I feel relief.  All I hear is the water and it is a peaceful sound.  Relief means that the pain will stop.  Relief means that I am no longer bad.  Relief is murky bathwater pouring in.  Relief envelops me.  Relief means that my teacher will miss me at school.

My mouth is open and fresh air is invading into my lungs.  The water is cold and the bubbles are gone.  My mother is sobbing in the corner of the bathroom.  My eyes no longer burn.  I shiver but I dare not move.  I feel cold but I feel so much more.

I am alive and I feel despair.

Beauty

There are times where beauty surrounds us.  And there are more times where there is little beauty to be found.  I grew up in a cold, dark, and ugly museum.  Those who know me and know even a snippet of my past seem surprised that I grew up in a wealthy family.  For some reason, abuse is often perceived as a lower class problem.  Child Protective Services visited my family on a few occasions and they were met with a facade of beauty. 

Abuse could not be happening here... not in such a beautiful home... not with such a beautiful family.

Bullshit.  It was happening and I believe that our money made it worse.  There was a perception of beauty; a deceitful view.  Beauty really is skin deep.

There is false beauty and there is true beauty.  True beauty is hard fought.  It is foraged from ruins; from devastation.  When beauty does not surround you, you become creative.  You are forced to.  Some of the most gifted and creative people came from despaired lives.  They were forced to become creative; a compensation to survive.

I have a hidden talent.  I am creative.  People are always surprised when they find this out.  See, I am logical and analytical.  So much so that I solve math problems for fun.  Yeah, I know.  But I have a whole other side to me; a side that draws, sews, quilts, crochets, etc.

I discovered my love for quilting a few years ago.  There is something fascinating and soothing in taking fabric, cutting it into pieces, piecing a quilt top, quilting it, and then making something useful out of previously cut apart fabric.  I create my own beauty.  I have had to do this my entire life; previously out of necessity and now because I love it. 

Much like a quilt, I have been cut to pieces.  I will never be the original fabric I was created to be.  But now I have the chance to piece my life into something beautiful and useful.  It is an amazing opportunity.  Quilting is a painful process; needle pricks, calluses, and punching through multiple layers make the process hard.  It takes patience.  And love.  The thread pulls and holds everything together and what else could that be other than love?  My thread is those in my life who love me, contribute, stabilize, encourage, inspire, and create a beautiful and intricate quilting design. 

I could not do this without my thread.

Writing

It is interesting what a life of its own this blog has taken on.  I originally began writing here because my husband continually found my written journals in the house, read them, and then became very angry over the content.  Anger is not something I handle well. 

So here I began to write.

I have taken a few breaks here.  Once because it became too hard to spell this shit out; it hurt too much.  And another break because of some internal conflicts I had within myself.  Those conflicts led me to this conclusion of honesty.

Writing from an honest place has been very freeing.  Some of the secrets I have held  close, I have shared here.  Those held even closer, I have not.  Yet.  When I write I am writing from raw place. There is no order, rhyme or reason to my posts. It just is. I do not see that I am any sort of writer simply because I sensor and edit what I write very little. I write for myself; to purge the poison I feel inside.

I struggle with self-esteem; I have very little of it.  I walk around thinking "if they only knew...", positive that "they" would hate me, despise me, be shocked or even disgusted by me.  However, I have learned my lesson here and it is the opposite of what I believed I would learn.  I have not had one hateful comment here or even a single hateful email.  The things that horrified me the most, horrified me for the wrong reasons.  I am not all that horrible.  The kindness shown by others here is amazing to me.  Perhaps it doesn't surprise the average person who believes that generally people are good.  However, that has not been my life experience.  But that is changing now.

The last surprise this blog has revealed is the help and awareness it provides.  Like other survivors, I have asked "why" over and over and never received an answer.  I still do not have a complete answer but I am beginning to believe that what I endured might possibly help another person.  Selfishly, I cannot say that it makes it all worth it though. 

Maybe someday.

So here I write.  I have good days and I have bad days.  Some words are what I think and wrestle with.  Other words are spilling what has happened; previously unspeakable words.  Writing is a way that we all communicate but there is a certain power in the spoken and audible word.  I have been encouraged to read outloud what I write here.  Verbalizing what I write scares me.  But just as writing has been an exercise in freedom; my wish is that speaking these words will take the sting and power out of the tragic while giving life to what is good and hopeful.

Shattered

You could call me shattered. I'm a wife, mother, step-mother, misplaced daughter, confused religious person, and an abuse survivor. My life has been painful and hell, my life is still painful; probably more so now than ever before. I'm learning to feel and it is one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life, next to surviving.

I'm a funny person but it's a dark, wicked kind of funny. I find humor in odd things, in my misfortunes, in my struggles, and in how others relate to me. Despite the humor I find, I deal with, at times, crippling depression. I'm medicated now so I'm fine. "Fine" is my response to any question of how I'm feeling. It's a lie and I have to change that. I envy the person who can answer my question of "how are you?" with honesty. They are honest because they know how they feel and they know the corresponding words. I'm weird, I assign numbers to my feelings and seek to keep a total perfect number which equals "fine". That means that I have to discount, or subtract, certain feelings to maintain the number "fine". I've learned that this is a bad habit; detrimental to my physical and emotional health. It is soul killing.

Fine is no longer an option. I can't teach my daughter to be fine. I want her to live and feel. She's five now but I often watched her toddler expressions of anger, disappointment, happiness, fear, etc with amazement. She knows how to feel; she was born that way. She cried as a baby when she needed something. She laughed at a new discovery. It's an innate part of our human psyche. Somewhere along the way, I dismantled that ability and secretly I know why. I cringe when I hear myself telling my daughter that she's "OK" when she falls and scrapes her knee. She's not "OK". She's crying. I don't tell her that to make her stop crying; it's my way of trying to soothe her. It's the wrong way and is the exact reason that I have to learn my feelings much like a preschooler learns their letters. Elementary? Yes. I'm a grown, intelligent adult but quite stunted in many emotional ways.

So there you have it. Much like a toddler's emotional outbursts, I'm raw and extreme. I may not outwardly express this but on the inside I'm stewing and boiling at a blistering pace. Makes keeping track of my feeling numbers very difficult these days. On the outside, I'm a perfectionist and everything has it's place. It's all or nothing; black and white with me. I'm literal and it drives my husband nuts at times. I'm scared to let what I have on the inside spill out. It's toxic and I love those around me too much to let them get burned. But the very things I'm scared of the most, those feelings both good and bad, are what keeps me from embracing those same people that I love.

At this point, you're probably saying "good grief, this girl needs a therapist". I have one. A good one. I've have had one for nearly 4 years. Thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours later, here's where I'm at. Not impressed? You should be. I was a blob of flesh when I randomly picked a therapist off my insurance list and wandered into his office for the first time. I was a single mother with an 18 month old daughter, newly divorced and a complete wreck. I really am better if you use that term loosely. I encourage you to do that because "better" is different for everyone.