Flipping Out, Disturbed and Unsure…

(To a love affair that didn’t happen except inside my head. I wish I didn’t fck it up by wanting it so bad that I tried to wish it into existence. What’s wrong with me that I can imagine something so strong without even knowing someone? I’m so angry because I know better. Do I move on? Give it up without even starting anything? I can’t even ask for help since there was nothing there in the first place.)

So I’m doing things, seeing people, joining activities without an agenda. Of course this is not true, right? I want to get better, I want a partner, I want to stay fit, I don’t want to be depressed again, I want to stay here, I want sex with a man, I want a small sense of normality. I would really like to sound normal when I talk to “normal” people. All these things color the background of my activities and my encounters with other people nuero-divergent or not.

Yesterday I was on the chat site of the MI website for dating. A very young guy 21 came on and was bemoaning the fact that he would never get a woman. One of the people on there, a long term member tried to help him out. Give him some pointers if you will. I went to his profile later to find some disturbing beliefs about women. The member trying to help him must have flipped to his profile for after some conversation the member backed off. Told him he couldn’t be helped. Which was truthful but other people were taking it as a joke and making fun of this kid.

It was awful. The kid was upset. People were making snide remarks. I asked 2 times for people to stop it; it wasn’t funny. The kid had some serious brain defect. His corpus callosum was not connected. There was something seriously wrong with him. I was not effective in dealing with the issue.

Now I feel weird about going back to the chat room. I was going to write a short thank you note to the guy that tried to help this messed up kid out. But I think I burned him by writing a very personal note to him a few days before. I am very attracted to him. But this is online. Everything is warped. Nothing is real. It doesn’t mean anything. I am attracted and intimidated by him in turns. It’s uncomfortable. I want to touch him but he’s not even in the same state as me. I’ve seen his picture but who knows? I just want to lay down with him. Nothing dirty. I need a little comfort. I like his brain. I like his banter.

But I have to get it into my head. He doesn’t know me. I don’t know him. We’ve never met. We may never meet. It makes me tired and sad. Then I become insecure. I start to think I’m not good looking. That I am unworthy of love. His attention (because he can’t possibly love me.) My mind has a field day at my expense. The BED kicks in. I cram food inside me. Make myself nauseous. Regret consumption. Deep inside of you. Tear my mind away.

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The Sun Is Out But The Storm Rages On…

It has been a while since I wrote anything. I sit in this broken down recliner that is so old, shivering because of fear. I don’t care to be here and hiding. I just don’t know what else to do when I’ve exposed myself and the MI reveals my ignorance and lack of restraint.

You know when someone tells you they love you it doesn’t mean that they are in love with you. My mind automatically translates it that way though. It takes me some distance to weed that out. And when I do and know I’ve been seen for the desperate loser I am. I hate that. I don’t want to be weak. Weakness has always gotten me used and hurt. A story that has been played again and again. I’d rather hurt myself. I know I love myself and will be there for the fall.

So all this rambling is an introduction to my entry into dating again. A guy from fb, not even a friend contacted me. And I got into it with him very fast. One day and it was over. I don’t even know if I cared. That disturbs me. Like a one night stand. But there was no intercourse. There was no love. There was touching and I question why? Did I need comfort? Did I need to feel like I was sexy?

See I had surgery about a year and 2 months ago. I lost 130 lbs. in 2 years. Great. But  even though I feel good mentally and physically it doesn’t change how I deal with people and life.

I went on a mental illness dating website. I joined a few weeks back. I talked to one guy and we got into it pretty fast. Luckily enough we don’t live close so nothing physical happened. Now he’s not talking to me. That doesn’t really bother me. I’m kind of embarrassed I was so graphic with him. I just wish I could reverse it, turn it around or something so I could get back to getting to know him. I told myself I just wanted to get to know guys. Make friends. Not screw. And I betray myself every time. DBT isn’t working out for me. Yeah, I get it, use my wise mind. Blah, blah, blah. My sexual mind laughs at that. and it’s got the power to turn it out on it’s @ss.

I know why I am so f*ed up when it comes to sex. That’s no mystery. I just don’t understand why I can’t seem to control it or learn some way to deal with it so I can deal with men when my libido rages. I love it, crave it, want it and it burns me every time.

February, The Worst Month Of The Year…

It’s no surprise to me that I don’t feel well. I have been going down for a few weeks now. I’m at the point where I believe I’m all the bad things my brain calls me. And no one really wants to talk to me about it and I don’t want to hear from other people any way. I don’t trust others, I don’t trust myself. It’s hard to continue with my plan of keeping myself busy so that I can keep my brain working.

I think I come off as needy. Maybe I am needy. I just want to communicate that I’m not doing well. If I can get help, I’d appreciate it but at this moment I just want to bear through this time until I get to a better point in time. No medication. No doctors. No “help” that’s not helpful, just mental forgiveness.

Beyond that I want to write about the past but there’s so much that I regret but also see as things I couldn’t avoid. I’m trying to deal with that now because my brain thinks it’s funny to bring it up and continually ask me why? Why? Why? And then tell me I should have, could have but didn’t do this or that.

So I’m up and down. I was okay with messaging K on fb about meeting the W family in Alaska. No response, which is probably a good thing. Still I would like to just touch base with someone from the family but I don’t feel I have the right to. I could understand why they wouldn’t want to deal with me. I have been avoiding them. At the same time it’s not like they’ve ever come to RI to visit me. N is dead and L won’t talk to me (which is not a problem for me.) I regret not seeing N and I guess I should have taken it as a sign that my connection with the W’s family was cut for good. I wanted C to meet the ones I knew. Maybe meet the ones I didn’t know in a neutral place and way.  I guess it’s too late. And I’m too old to hate anymore.

Screw this, it’s boring.

The Time Between Living Then And Now…

Am I getting on with it or am I wasting time until the next moment that doesn’t suck? For all intents and purposes I am in a “safe” place. Mentally, no. I am screaming inside again, panic attacks ride my mental vision. Let me go get my coffee now. It might help the migraine, okay? No matter that yesterday I got to sleep at 7 am. Or later, I can’t remember.

Why am I really here? I’m driving myself to distraction writing mental letters to a man child I never really had a relationship with.

My sister told me that we are/should plan that trip to Alaska that we were suppose to plan back in 2015. And she’s right. I’ve been holding of on thinking about it because it breaks my #1 rule about the past.

#1 Leave the past alone.

To go to Alaska means I will be confronting a part of my past that was not only years ago and far away but the beginning of my bipolar episodes. Up until I went to Alaska I only had depressions.

I want a cigarette so bad right now. Tyler Durden is smoking and blowing.

Well in preparation of visiting Alaska I decided I’d contact the only person who might not consider me persona nongrata.  K. W., my son’s uncle. My son has never met any of his father’s family before. None of them. Ever. His father was around for about 1 year, less of his life. I sent his father off, told him don’t come back. Told him go to Job Corp where you came from originally, learn a trade, find another woman. Originally he went to the Washington Yakima Job Corp but Maine had one, that was closest. We needed to not be together anymore. I was beginning to hate him. I wanted him dead. It sucks to love someone and want them to change and find out that that will never happened. I could change. I did change. That never changed his desire to fuck any living female that would have him. The thought of him giving me a dirty disease made me disgusted and sick. My jealousy raged. My anger was a driving energy. I figured he could go back to Job Corp and get work, maybe fuck his way through his own libido and forget about me and C. I was sick of working 3 jobs to come home to his inert body, drunk on the mattress amid cockroach shit, balled up sheets too drunk to hear C cry for food or to be changed. I didn’t mind being a “modern woman” (ha, ha,) and bringing in the dough. I did mind finding out about his sexual pursuits, his botched drug buys and his lack of healthy interaction with our son. I didn’t go through 9 months of hormones and weight changes and labor to have a child just so he could leave him in his crib all day as he drank the rest of the time away.

Well, that was after Alaska anyway. Before I “dated” R, his brother, K his other brother then L within a year and a half (I think, my memory is fuzzy.) I met R at the cinema I worked at. I worked with his sister who became my best friend. R was a homeless junky. I loved him. It was that hero type of love that morphed out of a “you paid attention to me I will always be loyal to you” type of neediness that comes from a childhood past raised by neglectful parents. I loved to f^ck. He was more chaste than me but I’d pretend I wasn’t into sex. More likely he was seriously into drugs and that hampered his desire for flesh. First time I had hash was in the basement apartment I had lying on my mattress on the floor with R. The ball of muck pricked to the top of a pin. It hit me hard. I’d had pot before but it was just skank weed. I wasn’t innocent of soft drugs but I wasn’t serious about taking them or the hard stuff. R. did everything, anything had different stuff each time I saw him. I took christmas trees and caffeine pills but that’s about as serious as it ever got. I never got into the speed even though I liked the affect. The acne I wound up with when I came off it was painful and nasty. My first experience with staying away from a drug because the side effects were worse than the “help”.
In between I would run with N their sister who was about my age. She was the youngest of 11 surviving children. That’s how I met K. At some point R stopped coming around. He was doing rehab or some such, he was in Anchorage. Wrote me a letter that I should stop seeing him, he was no good for me, I guess a Dear Jane letter. I was heart broken and I was pissed. I got involved with K as much as I could. He was rarely around so I worked and I roved when I didn’t see him. I had to keep busy, my mind was running.
N, seeing what was going on after a particularly bad encounter between K and I told me that I had to drop K and leave him alone. I should never go out with him, he didn’t respect women, I’d get hurt. I respected N and stopped dealing, seeking K out. L had come into town. N recommended I go out with him. At the time it was a good idea. L had returned from Job Corp and looked like he was taking life seriously compared to some of N’s other brothers.

Now think about this. 3 brothers, within 2 years. I was on a quest. I can see that. What was it? Who really knows. Love? Family? Sex? Multiculturalism? Independence? Making my parents angry? I think a lot of it was pushing it until I could reach a start.

At this point in time L is not talking to me anymore. I broke contact with him when he started his religion chant about 10-15 years ago after another of his rehab gigs. Which is fine with me. As far as I know he’s on his second marriage and still has no children other than C. I’ve been able to come to the point where I can admit that I loved him. I am glad for C. And I don’t want to ever be involved with L again. He’s a junky, a thief and his idea of life is very far from mine. Logic doesn’t seem to obey any of his rules of reality. Hey, whatever floats your boat. I don’t want to deal with it. Plus he has denied C any rights as a Native because he’s legally denied him paternity. So f^ck him.

K isn’t responding to my initial contact with him on fb. My mind is running on about why, why, why. Really though it doesn’t matter. Obviously he has issues with it, me, C or the family. I just don’t want to care. I haven’t seen him in more than 30 years so there’s really nothing there. Truly, I have rules about men I will get involved with. No current relationships, no kids, no drugs, no religion that’s close to cultism and no turning back. When men are involved with something they can’t be involved with you.

I’m left here wondering if I should just leave this as it is. C doesn’t have any interest in seeing them. I have to admit that I care about the family even now. At the same time I’m ambivalent about whether or not I should care. It’s not like they’ve shown much interest in me or C. I’ve sent pictures to them of C as a child. They’ve contacted him on line. Not me. Not that I’m bitter. I’m not really anything.

I guess it just spells itself out.

Alaska 1. W family 0.

There are other things to do.

It will just take some mind adjustments. Here comes the pain. Here comes the change.

ponderous mirth burden or no one believes me when I cough……

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I wanted to add a video that was either relevant or one I liked. I got nothing people.

I was having one of those conversations inside my head talking to my Mother’s friends. I was trying to explain to them why I haven’t gotten back in touch with them even though I look like I’m doing nothing. I can’t explain to normal human beings why I act the way I do. It’s not acceptable to bring out uncomfortable issues in public. I don’t like being by myself all the time the way I usually am. I just know it’s safer. I hate seeing confusion and disappointment on other people’s faces especially people I like. I am an exposed nerve walking around without flesh to protect myself from speaking the truth.

In my head I told those people I miss my Mother like I miss clean air. I think my Mother would understand what I mean by that. Maybe, Maybe her friends would too, the ones that went out on the ocean on scientific vessels to do their experiments. People who work in Boston but live on the ocean in Rhode Island would understand. Maybe. They might understand the difference but maybe don’t understand what I mean. If you really want to know what I mean go to Alaska for a year and then come back to where ever you live. You’d really understand.

I was thinking today that I hate that I’m white. I’m lucky and I enjoy the privileges that come so easy to being white. There’s more to it like I think the people that I know who are not white probably think I’m luckier than I really am. They probably imagine my life as a “Leave It To Beaver” episode. What’s worse, my children who’s fathers are of other races see me and know that we are not the same. They feel I can’t relate to them and in a way I can’t. And I thought that their beauty, their lovely skin, their exotic eyes, their full heads of hair were gifts. They meant so much to me. It’s the curse of being a parent. I thought they understood my admiration of their fathers’ differences. To them they don’t lack those gifts that I wish I had.

I am never alone  when I am by myself. All the people I’ve known occupy my head. Even friends from childhood. The problem is that all the good and the bad lives in my head. I argue more than I have peaceful conversations. I sometimes have to defend myself from the ugly humans I’ve met. And then there is the unsavory part of me that angers and seethes.

I have been thinking about the trip to Alaska that I am going to take. All the people I loved there are dead or maybe gone. I don’t know who to contact except K and he won’t speak to me. He’s got his family and i told him not to come to RI. His wife would probably think we were still involved. That’s the way it goes with things in Alaska. It’s small and emotions run red.

My sister wants to come and now my niece does too. I intended on going with my Mother and my sons originally so they could see what was a part of my history. My Mother was with me originally when we lived there. My sister and niece have never been there. I wonder if I will become angry with them. They aren’t bad people but this is a personal issue. I have kept my personal issues separated from my sister, never mind my niece. I think for my niece it will be a sight seeing tourist thing. Ugh. For my sister it may be more personal. Ammunition to degrade me? Maybe. A curious lookie-loo into a part of my life and maybe psyche that she’s never seen before? Maybe. Maybe she just wants a tourist trip, I don’t know There are unresolved issues in Alaska that I want to face and I don’t want my raw @ss hanging out for my family to see. Except the boys. They have seen me under duress.

I am careful with people when it comes to showing my strengths and weaknesses. People judge so easily. And people who know you use information like that to hurt you. Actually I try to be careful, sometimes I’m a braggart, that nasty part of my personality that tries to prove I’m not the imbecile my parents believed me to be my whole childhood. I have a hard time trying to contra; that part of me that makes me look like a know-it-all. I have so many flaws and they are a big reason I hide away from other people.

Lately my sister and I have “grown apart”, meaning that she looks for ways not to come over. I guess we were suppose to bond over my Mother’s death but I don’t bond well with people who have f^cked me over in the past. I don’t forgive easily. Especially if I’ve been taught over and over that I am not important enough to not be screwed over. I’ve come to the conclusion that certain people are blind to how they f^ck other people particularly their family members or the ones they supposedly love. My Mother knew Erika was like this and she accepted it. The animals Erika dumped on her. The tools she permanently borrowed from my father. The items around the house she’d give to her friends. And she’d never ask permission.

I realize that it’s a little late to bring this up. Unfortunately I don’t give a sh!t. I can’t turn a blind eye and make pretend it isn’t happening like my Mother did to keep everything on an even keel in the family. I’ve been stewing in it. And I want a good way to deal with it.

Tarlike Tidbits On The Floor Mat Of Futility…

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BUSH : Machinehead

I am close to shutting down. There’s only so much enlightenment one can take.

So I’m looking for “new” friends, I figure I have to get out of my old head, old life and try to find people who may be healthier for me. I am very annoyed at acting the second child, side kick, what-ever-you-say-George buddy who shoves my anger down when my friend appropriates my ideas. Or treats me like my opinions don’t mean anything. Or acts like I should blindly follow them. Fuck you, I already lived and dealt with an @sshole like that for years. That’s part of why I’m such a mess. And I still have to deal with her. And she’s still as senseless about her annoying demanding attitude and self-righteous power assumptions as she was when she was a kid. I’m not befriending another overbearing turd so I can bounce between them like a shrunken beach ball.

I know I am no prize as far as personal faults come into play but why make my life misery? Why not change it now that I know some of the awful elements that helped my self esteem shrink?

It has been incredibly difficult getting to this point. Usually when someone treats me the shoddy way I was treated in the past and I realize it my mind blanks out. I black out and the memory of what to look for never gets developed because my mind goes into a closet and entombs itself in fear and pain. When it crawls out I have no memory of what happened. And it’s like I’ve been brainwashed. It took me years to realize what was going on. It hasn’t stopped. I just have gotten better at keeping scraps of the flashbacks in another part of my brain while my present brain goes into shock. After my brain comes out of it’s isolation womb the other part of my brain takes out the slip of memory and whatever else it was able to glean from the current event and put together what happened in the past, who did it to me and how it triggered the current freezeout in my head.

I’ve never told a therapist or psych professional because I know that if the f^cktards from my past could damage my brain like that I should never allow a professional to muck about in my scars. A medical doctor has more chance healing physical damage, you can actually see it and there are machines to help those kinds of professionals do that. Psychiatrists are much less likely to help and are much more likely to continue damaging the patient. They work more on theories than actual observation or somatic effects.

Speaking of professional psychs, I have encountered many peers who are sold heart and soul into the belief that their Psychiatrists can do no wrong and think they shouldn’t question them. These people usually have a sh!tload of medications. Medications on medications: a pill to deal with the voices, a pill to deal with the side affects that come with that pill, a pill that counteracts the affects of the pill that is taken to deal with side affects, and so on and so forth. One friend almost brags that she takes 9 pills in the morning and 20 pills at night. Mentally chemically castrated, they don’t sleep well, they are dopey all day, they barely do anything. In fact the braggart has metal crap in her head, implanted that doesn’t work but because her Psych suggested it she went and had an operation to have it installed. Of course she’s had ECT done in the past. Many many times. It’s horrifying, she’s a medical experiment.

Goodbye Thin White Duke…

David Bowie – TVC 15

 

When I was a kid I was viciously bullied in a way that a viciously bullied kid could only know who lived in a small town. When I look back I realize that I experienced MI symptoms at an earlier age than I had previously thought. I was very paranoid as I believed that everyone (and I mean EVERYONE,) thought I was trash like my bullies treated me. I wouldn’t venture out of the house without a family member for fear that I would be ganged up on. That’s what happened at school, being ganged up on. The remnants of the mental punishment remain today. I sometimes can’t leave the house for fear that people will look at me. It’s like I live in invisible bars. As an adult I would take walks alone only after Midnight. No one was around and even if there were someone I could duck into the shadows and hide until they passed.

Later when I decided as a tool to help me exorcise the mental demons that tortured me constantly I would talk to my Parents and get a reality check to see if they saw life the same as I did at the times I was being bullied. (Remember that my mind bullies me now. Being bullied is societies way of brain washing you to conform to it’s standards and to become a whipping post for ignorant assholes’ fears and anger. It lasts long after the actual bullying stops.) I scrapped talking to my father. He was a sick m0therf^cker. He took it as an acceptable way to tell me his sex fantasies and sick experiences. He didn’t want to hear me, he wanted me to throw up his mind’s f^cked up fantasies onto and try to titillate. It made me hate him more.

My Mother did try to understand and she talked to me. One of the first things she said independently of me questioning her was that my younger brother had talked to her about the bullying I went through. He told her that he felt guilty for not protecting me from my tormenters. He was also being bullied at the time, this I knew. I told my Mother that I was not angry at him. I didn’t expect him to stand up for me. I also knew he was getting his own brand of torture.

I am tired just writing that down.

Today I heard that David Bowie died Sunday after struggling with cancer. I cried like I didn’t with Mom. I don’t understand that. The more I open myself up to my emotions the less I understand. Bowie’s music helped me through my Alaskan stay. Getting good music up there was a joke. And Bowie’s strange changes were comforting to me. They helped me feel like I was not alone in feeling so weird inside as an adolescent.

The Ear-Flick Sonata…

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Aimee Mann – Wise Up

 

It’s 9:21 am December 4th, a Thursday. I woke up at 7 am. Unusual for me because even though I did go to bed around 4 am I usually wake up around 11 am.

I think something’s different today.

I went downstairs and steamed 13 dumplings before feeding the cats at 8:38. I let Titan out, and outside the door was a cold coastal bright pre-winter morning with crispy green grass and no ripples on the water between the beach and the docks. The house is freezing, almost. I wore the new fingerless “gloves” I got on amazon.com but not the extra long legwarmers. I took the tea tree oil upstairs and diluted it with Jojoba Oil preparing it for my finicky skin. It has a medicinal smell that makes me think of my Grandfather and his Preparation-H ritual that used to leave his bathroom eye wateringly toxic.

When I came downstairs I had the narrator reading a story from my life like it sometimes happens. It was telling me about how much of a crappy Mother I was to my sons and in retrospect I defended myself against it’s unfair judgements. Then clickBAMM. I was seeing myself pregnant again with my second son waiting in a waiting room in St. Anne’s Hospital.

I don’t look to remember the bad from the past. In fact my mind does this tricky little thing and takes a really crappy situation and finds little details that distract me from what was actually going on.

What was going on here was that my new husband had burned my young son enough to put him in the hospital. And I didn’t believe it. I needed support but he was the only person I had at the time. And I really didn’t believe that anyone would burn a child enough to put them in the hospital. It had to be an accident. It had to be a burglar. It had to be a mistake because I got what I wanted after putting up with another man who was an addict and acted like a child. I got a husband and a stable family. And he loved me and wanted me. And everything was suppose to be alright.

I had a really good lasagna in the cafeteria while we were waiting for the social worker. I believed the social worker was there for our benefit and would help us figure out what happened. I was naive at this point, I really had never had any governmental involvement in my life. I was young and I was never going to be “one of them welfare bums” that were worthless and shifty. I remember the whole cafeteria was on one of the higher floors and the sun was brilliantly illuminating the whole dining area. I felt strangely elated. Everything was compartemental. My son was in the pediatric area. The nurses told me that he was a sweet sweet child that never cried (until I came into the room and saw him sitting in his diaper playing with some plastic blocks.)

When I saw him my heart broke. A small sliver hardened and cracked and slid out of the lower quadrant, fell to the bottom of the box that held it in place and shattered. It didn’t go away either. When my mind tiptoes around the past, shards will lodge in my achilles heel. I promised he’d never get hurt again. It was my duty as his only parent (Mr. Addict being too occupied with his own fulfillment,) to protect him and make sure he didn’t get hurt unnecessarily. I had screwed up somehow.

It took me a while to figure it out and be sure about it. I don’t just jump into something because it’s probably the most likely explanation. I was taught to question myself over and over again. I was taught that I am stupid, wrong, inconvenient, worthless. Do you hear this? Over and over? Well you haven’t. Nothing like my life’s background soundtrack of failure and helplessness.

And this where I’m left today. Mental bombed by my own mind. The antiseptic smell of a hospital that was left behind more than 20 years ago coating my sinuses. The sense of failure that I’ve carried for years and has shaped my spine so that mentally I’m hunch-backed. I live in a padded room of Hell that doesn’t get any bigger yet won’t crumble under pressure. Prayer just makes it live larger in my mind. And it takes a trigger to open up all my senses to that day or set of days and my personal dead-loss. Playing over whenever. Why? Is my brain trying to exorcise it out of my head? Am I being punished for remaining the only responsible person who gives a sh!t? I don’t know. I’m left with the feeling that all this crap is made up. I mean if you lie to yourself long enough and you come to believe the lie it makes everything okay. Right? Fake it ’til you make it?

Happy f^cking Holidays.