Struggling, Beating the Lesser

It's a struggle. This sinus infection is causing widespread lethargy, aches and pains, moodiness and frequent sleep. Round two of antibiotics started yesterday.
Met my new doctor for the second time. I think I like her as a human. She doesn't seem as robotic and distant as at our first encounter. However, there are these inane list of rules that I signed to get my anti-anxiety meds. A three page retort that I neglected to read when first handed to me. My high ethical standards cringed and broke down into tears when I thoroughly read this "contract" whereby I agreed to bring my meds in every month for a count; agreed to only one month at a time; agreed to possible drug testing..the list goes on. My fragile sensibilities and unwillingness to give up my dignity will probably prompt me to rescind this toilet paper and go without meds rather than denigrate myself by monthly med count checks. I'm appalled and outraged that, once again, those in need are forced to lower themselves to get their most basic of human needs met. Sad. And a fight I will not win. Another no win situation, akin to the recently receive heating bill that cannot be paid because rates doubled from last month. No win.
I am quite sad.
I realize I need to adjust my lifestyle to the barest of bones, as it's still a mighty step up from living in the emotionally, caring less living I endured six months ago.
I'm wagering whether or not my son will summer away from me. I explained clearly that this is home now and he needs to fully understand that I am his parent and my wishes and whims are law. If he fails to understand this, he will not travel.
Having full knowledge of the deceit, lies and manipulation of Guy the dick, I'm not at all comfortable with son being in the presence of such a sometime cruel, lying influence. Lots to contemplate.

Perspective, contemplating the latest Neo sighting in which no words were exchanged

He saw the edges of things,
Frames, corners, red rugs
Not fuzzy but sharp
Like ironed twill
Observing the rose
Petals had dropped
Leaving bare, stark
The hopefulness
That had walked into the room.

Entering with an empty head
Sullen arms
And a heavy door shut

Nothing exchanged
Not even the stuffed air
Arms arrived empty
And left emptier

The Struggle is Real, Depression, Loneliness, Autism, CPTSD

Each Day, Every Day, The Struggle is Real

I ❤ the Willamette Valley

House Afire

My family's house was a deathtrap. If those walls could talk....I'm astounding anyone can walk into that place without having to cover their ears for the cries and screams of the hungry, beaten, raped children that lived there.
Those walls always felt impenetrable, thick, like razor wire wound so tight that even air could not escape out. Windows were my only refuge. Looking out made me forget, took me away for moments, hours at a stretch from the unbarable stench that I had to call my everyday waking life.
There was never a break. If I wasn't hungry I was trying to stay out of dad's grasp and away from mom's hurling, spewing, cutting words. Daytime meant fighting for clean clothes, food, milk and attention. Nighttime meant dealing with dad's needs, fighting over blankets and bed space with my two sisters and frustratingly, incessant, cold sweat insomnia.
Nightmares were day and night.
I continue to race with anxiety just thinking about what a single day was like back then.
Yeah, my childhood haunts me. Seems like I'm allowed only brief respites here and there where I'm not jostling the baggage of my youth.
I want to cry. I want to scream. I want a break. It all feels like to much...bitterness like acid rain knowing I've been singled out, someway, somehow, into dealing with the tragic trauma called my life. Really.
I look at all I've exposed and revealed in therapy....and I'm astounded. How could anyone live through that without an army of dedicated soldiers of the highest caliber?
And then, I get glimpses of the swampy quagmires, the thickened brambles that I still have to slog through. It'd be so easy to throw up my hands and call me beaten, give it all up. But, that's not for me.
I know...how hard..this next segment of therapy may very well be. Sure, part of me wants to pull the plug and stop it all right here but...the system, my intuitive path propels me forward much to my distress.
I stand alond. I walk alone. This is my battle. Oh, I'll allow therapist along for the ride. The journey wouldn't be doable without her.

Born to Run, Cosmic Patterns

So, a thousand atoms were standing around the ball room. Unpartnered, each danced to its own rhythm, in quiet harmony. External events, a stranger enters the room, a negative phrase, overbearing influence...let's call them X. X strides in and grabs atom 1, removing it from the waltz, dragging it into darkened corner. No one really notices the slight shift until X, another, another and another parade in, capturing, sequestering and overpowering atom after atom till only a fraction of the original, undisturbed atomic group remains.
Ha, it's like walking into a hall and having someone steal your clothes, one thread at a time until you are standing there, naked, shivering and so desperate for warmth that you start stealing threads from the X's. This exchange continues slowly, day after day, till you realize you have no idea of who you are because you are clothed in everything but who you started out with.
The ballroom, once full of innocent, fluffy sheep has turned into a sheep or two surrounded by snarling, drooling wolves.
I was born to run. I've been trying, with varying amounts of success, to leave this earthly, painful body ever since I can remember. Mostly, I found the magical mastery of dissociation, withdrawing deeply into my own inner sanctum of psyche to escape a world of grabbing, invasive hands, objects being thrown at me and words that cut and made me bleed.
I've never found any sense of sanctuary or safety in someone else's arms. My ability to form even the simplest of friendships, is severely compromised. I get that. I haven't the means or resources to change that. Forgive Me For Who I Am And What I'm Made Of...a phrase no one should have to utter...or admit.
There are the exemplary 4. Those select few who have been given invites into my inner world, my sanctum. Three be therapists and one be Dearest Friend. I treasure/ treasured these for inquiring, proving trustworthiness and entering my domain, the only place I am truly safe and myself.
It's like...what percentage of you, is you? I think of all the events that shaped/ warped/ stole/ changed me. Is there even a small percentage still salvageable?
All the times I stopped being me to not get hurt. The jokes I laughed at, that I didn't agree with. The words directed at me that I deflected or silently absorbed, pretending they didn't hurt. All the things I agreed to do willingly, because being forced caused the wound to deepen. The events I went to because I felt obligated only to end up crying and wounded on the inside, never knowing Exactly what was wrong but dealing with the uncomfortable, unpleasant feelings anyway because I couldn't put words to my distress....and I felt obligation like a spike, held by an anvil and my, the hammer striking myself....a deep, moral sense of obligation to be places and do things for others and the depths of confusion and self-loathing at why I felt so...bad and sad that I was unable to do the simplest things with anything resembling ease.
These crazy people around me who can Easily, Without thought; walk out the door, go to a restaurant, see a movie, talk with strangers, clerks, cashiers and friends, shop at the store, drive in traffic, attend appointments and deal with the unexpected....I will never understand.
The only people I can relate to are the ones crying into their pillows at night, standing alone beating their proverbial heads against the wall and those carrying around the overwhelming pain of a thousand hurts. I Get Those People.
I guess I'm sensing all the unhealthy patterns that I've subscribed to.
I just want to find out who Me is, you know?

Acknowledging, Writing and Talking Are the Only Things That Will Save Me

Because I've lived with the screaming silence so long. You know, the place where all the unspoken things have been shoved, walled up and locked away. Maybe, certainly I will offend and expose as I routinely put everyone's feelings above my own. For I am but a pawn in a game where everyone else is king.
Maybe I'll just write in whispers that only attentive listeners can hear.
Maybe no one's reading these rants anyway but I cannot sit comfortably with all these unsaids.
Lest I offend, I have failed miserably as a mother. When your kid ends up in prison and no longer speaks to you, clearly I have  not been the most virtuous or able bodied, sound minded parent.
It's lies when we think we are self-made when 18 years have been spent indoctrinated overtly, subtly, falsely with whatever beliefs our parents lived by.
I learned to become a thief. Stealing a glass of water while pretending to not be thirsty, for if they knew my real motive, they would have taken it from me for want, for...dare I say need, was a weapon, a tool, a threat and bargaining chip.
We read about wars, famine and animal abuses and our eyes tear up as we outrage but I do not. For I was the beaten, hungry dog in the street and there were no ads or posts moving others to help.
The injustices you revolt against...I lived. Forgive me for a heart hardened by personal suffering and torture. I am somewhat blind to these newsworthy maladies. No one tried to save me thus all my energy goes in to saving myself.
I'm too broken, beaten and damaged to give a tinker's damn about anything other then my selfish desire to figure out how to forgive, like myself and regain an ounce of self-worth within a body that spent years being raped and within a mind being tormented.
I wasn't allowed the gift of having the basic needs of a secure, safe home, enough to eat and a loving adult, so I'm a bit parched inside...and I'm always thirsty and pretending not to be.
I don't know if it will ever come to pass that my needs will even be marginally fulfilled. I've denied them so long, denying they exist that I'm guessing my first order of business would be daring to acknowledge that I have any. Inaudible, loud gasp. Not sure I can do that.
Based on experience, if I reach out seeking like, I'll be ostracized and pushed away into a corner. How does one undo the routines that were repeated daily? Weekly? How to change the emotional patterns and controls that were so vehemently drilled into my brain? How can I ever ask for anything when I was taught I deserved nothing? How do I pick myself off the floor when boots drag their heels on my head? When offenders still feel such righteous indignation that I would dare to question my use as their doormat.
There have never been apologies because I have always deserved their boots. I'm a liar for calling the mighty kettle black and no amount of words will ever allow me to be seen as a real person. They call me a liar, a manipulator, an attention seeker when all I've asked for is common respect, an opportunity to be heard and seen. My words are fodder for deaf ears, so I write hoping someone hears or cares..
I'm alone within these walls. I'm alone with all the events that took place because no one has ever been willing to hear. I've been reluctant to speak for fear of damaging the listener...I laugh because no one even hesitated to damage me. I've been the tinker's damn. I've been giving courtesy to heathens. I've been such a fool.
Enough with this keeping shit inside.
God, I wished someone had cared about me. I had like 10 aunts and uncles...why couldn't just one of them taken a special interest in the withdrawn, quiet, kind child? Really? Not one? So much for family always being there for you. And they wonder why I left. I felt unwanted and quite hurt.
See, I'm sure someone loves the fact that I hurt...twisted family thinking rears it's ugly head. Oh, how they loved to pick on and make fun of someone. Always in need of a scapegoat...baahhhh.
Taught that I deserved pain and suffering...for what? Being alive, breathing and Don and Sharon's daughter. The two of them carried so much pain and torment of their own that they really needed to offload onto someone. Does the fact that they had suffered given them any right to inflict on me? How is it I can see, understand and forgive then when I can't forgive myself? Why am I so goddamn nice, respectful and forgiving that I no longer hate them? How can I absorb both their pain and mine...and still be breathing?
How can I be such a good person
Yet be so alone, untouchable and unloved
I haven't made any friends here yet, but to clarify, I've only been here 5 months.
Processing...
It's got to be kind of amazing, right? that I'm like taking the high road with people that tied me to railroad tracks and drove the engine full tilt.
I don't know. Sometimes I feel like I deserve a crowd of applause, angels singing and the heavens opening up, giving me abundance because I'm still fucking standing, forgiving and so goddamn fucking kind.
Maybe that's why I'm here
I keep wanting my life to not be what it is. I want love, happiness, rainbows and I'm just a storm girl, you know?
I'd probably burn in the sun. I wouldn't recognize love if it hit me in the heart. Rainbows are illusions, fog and mirrors.
You know...this is just what I am...battling soldier trying to find the barbed wire to crawl under that will make me bleed the least.
I need to stop running from my fate
I need to stop wishing for things meant only for others.
It seems so twisted yet calming to say. This is just me.

Sitting at urgent care

Trying to decide if getting my painful, dizzying sinus infection is worth it as I listen to all these people flu coughing like death. Ugh. Decisions

Sinus infection

I figured out why I've been feeling so miserable, cold and exceptionally tired. I have a roaring sinus infection. I feel better knowing the reason instead of just attributing it to memories and autistic hypersensitivities.
So, I've dragged out my neti pot and bathrobe. I'm downing motrin and taking it easy. Hopefully in a few days I'll be feeling somewhat normal. If not, I'll give my doctor a call and meet her for the second time.

I want one

Or two caring arms and a forever hug

No apologies

So my therapist says...

and I've never heard words such as this

Dealing with Grief

I've figured why I've been so depressed and lethargic...yeah, I'm grieving.
In therapy, it was just one waterfall after another. Clearing out old heart chakra debris.
I think I'm feeling so down with the latest revelations, loss of a semblance of childhood, being photographed and used and knowing that the only way to heal it is to accept it and go through it again, the loss of an old friend and a certain family member. Just lots.
I discussed the hazards of being my therapist with said therapist. She seems to comprehend the gravity and severity of starting therapy at this horrific junction with the sexually abused people and without any "light" fluff, parts that weren't seriously hurt. I'm actually incredibly calmed down since the appointment. Kinda miraculous the way that works.
Yeah, pretty sure she's the ideal therapist for us.

Moving to Oregon, Curly Hair Gone Straight

It took me a few months to figure it out, but since I moved here 5 months ago, my hair has gone from crazy curly to straight.
I don't know if it's the weather or location but my hair has definitely gone whackadoodle.
I posted on facebook and a few friends responded that the same thing happened to them when they moved or visited the Pacific coast.
I'm not dismayed, per se...I just don't know what to do with my hair these days. I'm not into high or even mid maintenance so no new products or treatments.
My best recourse is to wear hats and not worry about it.
It is what it is. No big deal, just weirdy. I've never seen myself with straight hair before.

Junction City, Oregon

Junction City is the only other Oregon city, thus far, that I have found to have the same clean, relaxed feel that Corvallis has.
I ventured to Salem again today. It constantly feels rushed and dirty. I'm so glad I wasn't inclined to pick that city to live in.
As I travel more, once Spring rolls around the corner, I will be interested to see if any other cities have a good feel to them.

Yeah

No one ever dies "before their time"

There is no such thing. It's just one of those stupid ass things people say in the throes of grief. Admit it, when someone dies it is intrinsically their time.
I will never unwelcome death. Hell, I've got a personal story that probably traumatizes each person that hears or reads it. For the girl that never wanted to reveal the details, and took 20 years to discover what exactly they were...to what end? This time line, story, the details alllll are the messed up experiences that have impacted and created who I am today....and I can't even tell my own fucking story because it's pure grotesque and hideousness makes people slam the book, avoid the page and close their ears, minds and hearts because it is so fucking painful.
It's like sitting around with an arrow in my chest...pull it out and I die...leave it in and I die a slow, gruesome death having never been heard. It feels like such a no-win clusterfuck.
I've walked around, head down, arms crossed in the mean, unforgiving streets of internal madness only to find the doors out, the open windows, when I could be heard, as I'm willing to tell my truths...it just hurts people.
God, I'm fucking Frankenstein's monster, still trapped deeply within myself as the outlets are barred and blocked. God, yes, there are dozens of disgusting, hideous reasons why my mind fractured. It is so clear....yet, there is no way out of this stinking, fetid, knee-deep pool of life sucking muck...and no one can get past the stench to pull me out by my outstretched hand.
Do you see?...there is no way out. Double-bind. Twice beaten. Heavy whipped. Castigated. Trapped within my own torture inflicted by others.
I was always innocent....never did anything to deserve this plate of massacred memories.
There is no applause, no reward, for each and every day that I have screwed my head on, put on an extra overcoat, strapped on climbing boots, threw opened the door and stumbled into the turbulent storm that forever howls on the outside.
I carry around this pain in fifty pound sacks of bloody nail and beaten barbed wire clutched closely to my chest because it's all me, all I've ever had and no one's ever given a shit or, I don't even think anyone's capable of getting close enough to me without getting burned or wounded or losing their fucking mind. Easy to see why I lost mine. God, Fuck, so easy to see how they destroyed me so thoroughly and viciously.
And maybe someone wonders why I am so sad, angry and despondent when all they have to do is be there to listen but they can't.
This shit, these fucked up series of dozens of highly disturbing incidents wounds even the strongest of caring listeners.
I feel, yet cannot share.
Surely, I shall die alone
And no one will never know the whole story.

The scope of prostitution grows

Ah, but the incidents in the neighbors basement, where my father attanged for the men to "visit" has grown. It was not the only occasion where men paid to see me naked and performing.
The new memories so hard to fathom yet the visual flashback so clear that I cannot wish them away as dreams.
The vivid yellow 2 story motel where my father made phone calls and men knocked on the door. The bargaining which took place, the description of prices and acts and me, all of 10 and 11, being photographed. A black and white picture of me that I cannot erase from memory. The hotel room bed, the phone by which dad called soliciting. The knocks at the door. The men wanting photos of their own and more. Making money for groceries so my siblings could eat in the leanest of times. How mom never questioned where the money came from. My dad's lies that it was from kind relatives. No credit for me.
Degrading as I lay naked on the hotel bed performing tasks for foreign cameras or worse, acts of excitement as my father sat in the bathroom monitoring, callously the transactions.
It still seems so blessed unreal and far away yet the vividness counters my denial, messes with my mind and devalues my worth as human.
I was but a child of 10 and 11 as I made money for my family because dad couldn't find a job.
In therapy, 11 felt so strange in clothes, asking therapist if she had given the clothes to her. Some parts of me spent most of their time naked with hands in proactive positions, performing, a puppet being pulled by visible strings and a well trained pimp.
The feelings surrounding are like wagons circling a bonfire with hostile reality trying to weasel in.
I don't know if or when I'll be able to acknowledge and accept these acts as my own or of someone living within me. I wish I could categorically deny it but the pictures, the memory film procludes that.
My therapist is handling the extreme switching and disturbing memories well. Methinks she be another gift from the universe, from God, via the heavens as she doesn't flinch as painful memories are surfaced, spoken and delved.
My emotions regarding this long string of events continues to be stymied and fogged, unable to grasp the gravity of what it feels like for a father to repeatedly, actively prostitute his own daughter.
I sleep rarely, fitfully and with great consternation.
What shall happen to my heart and mind once I integrate, process these experiences.
Oh how it gets worse, the growing litany of egregious actions perpetrated on the children within.
Truth is continually leaking out and I don't know how to handle this foreign, egregious recent twist.

Therapy, a confusing mess

Today resembled last week's session. At the end of the hour and for the rest of the day, therapy doesn't make any sense. It looks like a gowpen sized, messy, oscillating ball of rubber bands. I feel confused as to whether anything useful was accomplished or if we just wasted our and therapist's time.
I'm guessing that, just like last week, each day will bring some sort of clarity so that, by next week's appointment I'll see the usefulness of the bits of information.
I guess I'm kinda like a snowglobe....therapy shakes everything up and it takes a few days to settle.
Yep, just talking to myself again.
Scary thing is...the flashbacks are getting clearer and messing more with reality, kinda. The visual clarity is more then I've experienced before. This sucks. Naw, it's just different and with an increase in awareness.
Not making as much sense as I would like today. Oh, well.

Sign Flyers...Aspie Hell...Unpredictable Variables

One of the new things I've encountered here in Oregon, is the large volume of "sign flyers." In Michigan we called them homeless or, worse yet, beggars. They are men, women, young and old that sit or stand at popular entrances to stores and shops.
Almost everyone carries a sign: "Anything will help", "Spare change", "Dying of cancer", "Hungry Need Food", or something similar. The same individuals occupy the same spots, for the most part.
The Post Office has two entrances. It's the most popular sign flying space in town as both entrances are usually covered.
I'm far from prejudice or judgemental but I'm having anxiety navigating through the sign flyers. Each and every individual is an unknown variable in my autistic world, thus they scare me and I try and avoid. I never know if someone will speak to me, ask a question, offer small talk or let me pass wordlessly on my way.
I've changed plans a number of times, to avoid possible conversations, altercations, or discomfort. There is no way to fix my anxiety except by avoidance.
I'm a really good recluse and I have damn good reasons.
Strangers make me nervous, especially strangers at doorways. Unpredictable variables, sigh.