Happy

I am completely and utterly dissocaied now.  and I dont care, wich is coool.  so I am letting this go out as it is.   because this is the truth.   the truth is messy and gross and incorect grammaticallly.   I am watching Girls and I am very happy about the seond season.   They are telling the truth about class and fame and whoring and the lines that blur between them.  I love it. love it. love it.  i am so fcking out of it right now that ovviouadsly i cant type for shit.  but i am safe.  i am in my pretty apt with green grass and sunlight and a hammock.   Safe.  And we paid the rent and made sure there was enough money in the account for the check to clear even though it wont cleear for like a week and a half.  He always takes forever to cash the check.  but that is cool, becuasue the point is when you write the check, you have the money. DONE. via GABRIEL.

Also we own the internet at this place now.  Whooot!!!!!!!!!! We fucking rock!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  We did the thing Nancy does on Weeds.  We did what Jessa does on Girls.  We just took what was ours and were fari about it and 1YATTYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY.  And fuck them if they try to fuck with us. Chesire Grin

Man, I got caught.

I am forcing myself to sit and write this.  This is like when J says she has to do things bit by bit, dragging herself inch by inch to do them.  This is that.  I don't want to write about this, mostly because I am not use to it, it is stretching, it is uncomfortable.  But it has to be done.  Now is the time.  It is time to write about stuff, when I am not fucked up.

I got caught on the phone last night with a new butterfly friend named E.  We were talking, doing the therapy story swap when she asked if I was high.  I immediately snapped as back to reality as I could, and said "there is absolutely nothing wrong with me."  So I lied.  Panic, then immediate shut down about that topic set in.  She let it go, so I guess she believed me, or she didn't and she just allowed me to lie.  But that is not OK.  She is also a trauma survivor and I cannot lie to her about reality.  It is absolutely unethical.  So I am going to tell her the truth today when we meet for the first time for dinner.  Yay, great.  I am a fucking asshole.

I've been mulling this over in my head every spare moment since it happened, and that's why I'm writing, because I need to process this BEFORE I talk to E, not WITH E.  I don't know her that well yet, and it would be innapropriate and unfair, and immediately fuck up our new friendship boundaries, and I don't want to do that.  So maybe I'm not the right friend for her right now.  And if she decides that, that would be fine, I have to be fine with it.  It does not mean I am a bad person, but just not healthy enough for her.  And I don't want to be perpetrating my crap on her.  It is not fair to her.

I'm also almost gleeful that somebody FINALLY fucking caught me.  I didn't know this, but I was waiting to be caught.  And this is where this stuff gets personal and vulnerable.  I think I am using DXM to test dissociation vs reality?  Like, if I can handle everything on DXM, then I can handle anything?  Or maybe, if I can handle life while on DXM, I can allow myself to dissociate in real life (in safe supportive setting)?  That's it.  I am so fucking afraid of appearing "crazy" or "out of control" or "not rational" that I have a major steel fucking door on anything that seemed irrational, which included allowing voices in my head telepathically telling me something.  So I shut that shit DOWN.  And I learned to concentrate.  CONCENTRATE. To the point of a laser beam.  So nothing could distract me.  And for the most part on the surface at least, nothing ever did distract me.  It worked.  Welcome physicist Civil Engineer.

But now through 3.5 fucking years of INTENSE fucking therapy with many different people, but mainly L, I have learned it is safe to let go.  If you learn when it's safe, when it's the right time.  Because it isn't always the right time.  But my problem was more that I NEVER let go, rather than letting go in the wrong places, which seems to be what is the problem for most other butterflies I've met.

And with DXM it is so easy to get to that open, creative sweet spot.  Without it I have to....  what .... I guess I have to concentrate, hah.  I have to let go.  I have to allow myself to be silly and make intuitive leaps that may not seem normal or rational.  And it is not being crazy.  It is being creatively co-consciously altered.  It is being a healthy butterfly.  Without drugs, and without being crazy.  It is NOT crazy.  People may look at me weird, but that's because they don't understand.  And I think that has been what I've been doing in therapy, learning exactly what dissociation is and isn't, completely and thoroughly, enough so that I could teach it to someone else.  And that someone else I was teaching was me. 



Wow.  OKay, so back to E. What is the gameplan?  What is enough and appropriate to tell her and what is a boundary violation to a new friendship?  OK. 1. Tell her she was right about me being high.  Validate reality.  2. Apologize that you lied to her, because you understand that invalidating a trauma survivors reality is extremely wrong.  3. Tell her you are working on it, and promise never to talk to her high again without telling her.  4. Tell her you are working on the problem, that you take it seriously, but it is not completely under control yet.  5. So, with this info if she thinks its not safe to be around me, I perfectly understand.  I am see-sawing trying to figure healthy out, and I'm going to even out eventually, I'm just not totally there yet.

If she wants to know what I think about it:
I think I can be a good friend to her.  I can watch my boundaries.  I will utmostly respect her path to getting better.  But I honestly don't know.  That's the truth, I don't know what's right.

What I don't need to tell her about:  why I do DXM.  My personal science experiment with DXM.  No talking about the creative sweet spot with her.  No talking about dissociation too much with her.  I can later, but not today.  We don't have enough intimacy yet.  We ARE NOT IN THERAPY together.  There is a difference, although right now I am having a hard time figuring out what that difference is.  She does not need to know every thought that is in your head.  You are not lying if you are not telling her every thought in your head.  That is not deceit.  That is technique.  Your insightlfulness can hurt people, including yourself, if wielded at the wrong time, just as if you were carrying around a sword, an epee.  Very useful tool, but you can't just slash it around like you've been doing.  Which is Ok, you are learning.   But really, you seem to have a talent that others either don't have or don't admit to having, and just like if you were an X-men, you have to learn to wield your power correctly.  Really, it is just like the laser beam eye guy.  Except you have to build your own glasses to control the beam yourself.  And you are.  Yay.  Cool, in this metaphor, L is Dr. X.  I'll have to tell her. :)

I'm doing therapy when I do DXM

That's pretty much it.  I am toooooooooooooooooooooooooooo scared of this shit in regular chemical land, so I go to DXM land to do it.  But it is becoming absurd.  Because I know what I'm doing, the curtain is pulled back, the wizard is revealed.   You use drugs to think about things you don't want to think about when your brain is normal.  You are afraid you will die, I guess?  Or that you won't get it right?  We have to

 I N T E G R A T E

Trauma world with the fucking real world.  Integrate Trauma world with real world. integrate trauma world with the real world.  then we would not need DXM, but we are being a little bit of a chickenshit and will not do this without the fucking drug.  you need to be fuckind dead fucking sober and call your mother out.  Not to her face.  But to yourself.  And mayber your therapist, and a friend.  Because DXM land is possible in the real world.  its called facing the truth.  Serioulsy, I think thats what we've been doing this whole time.  We've been fucking frankenstein manhattan projecting this shit, trying to chemically get our brain in the right frame, the right ecology to understand and believe these truths.  Because we are a scientist first, (slowly changing to scientist/poet, but whatever) we fucking experimented with ourselves to cushion the blow?  It's not that simple.  We were not capable of hearing it any other way, or else we would have done it that way.  This is the way we found.  It's  not perfect.  By a long fucking shot, thank you Gina,Brian, Michele, Jeanette, Chris, etc.  But it is a workable solution right now, and I guess thats why I'm not stopping.


WHOAH

Fuck. I am not stopping.   BECAUSE IT FUCKING WORKS. i can access things very much more easily than when i'm regular.  When I'm sober, to get in the same state I have to feel safe and free.  Hah.  So... That means that I have to be alone in the woods but knowing support is available, with sunlight and privacy, and no shame.  I have to be able to do or say or dance or speak or type or fart or whatever I need to do with no shame... 

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiitttttt.  I just called myself out.  I don't need a big 3 fucking ring circus.  I need time, privacy, support, aloneness, nature, basic needs (ie food, shelter, in a nice way, etc), sunshine, growing things, water, and time.   And then more time to record what I just went through.  Record the thoughts.  Write them., sing them, dance them? :), whatever.  So. again. Support. Green beautiful nature. Aloneness. Privacy, no shame. Time. Share with someone, that's it!  Even if it's sharing with yourself.  Share it.  Shout it. Dance it Scream it.  It is the truth and it loves when it's spoken.  The evil is washed out when you say its name.   ......           ......           .....            ....     


That's fucking it.  That's all I need. How did it take this damn long to get here?  I'm joking but not? I had to take every step I took, but it's funny that in the end, it's so simple. 

OK, so I'm peaking on Dxm, and I want to go enjoy it and it's not good for writing anyway.  or maybe itis?  I want Brian to read all of this, if he could continue to be my therapist.  Otherwise I guess, theres not enough time.  It's all coming down tomorrow Yay.  Tellin him everything.

Long Talk with my Bro

My brother and I have been talking for the past coupla months.  Which is a big deal.  Because of the way our mother manipulated us, we have stayed pretty seperate as adults.  So Jem (my bro) has had a helluva month.  He basically has had a trauma breakdown.  And we talk/have talked a lot lately about our childhood and our mother and her behavior.  There is so much I want to say about Jem, but right now, I just need to get down some points that came up in this convo.

1. Mom sat with Jem at a table and said "You have to become a lawyer, it is like a license to steal."  This may not seem like a big deal, who cares.  But it is huge.  Because the mother I know would never say something like that.  So our mother talks to us in different ways.  Meaning she is manipulating us, and is fully aware of doing so.  The Allison/Mother connection would never think "a license to steal" is a good career choice.  We are all about nobility and truth and working hard and making money that way.  And doing good, and being ethical and trustworthy.  So basically, MY MOTHER IS A LIAR, AND QUITE PROBABLY A SOCIOPATH. A PSYCHOPATH, SINCE I NOW KNOW THEY ARE THE SAME THING.  Not just a narcissist, a psychopath.

2.  I found out about yet another time when my mother did not tell me that Jem was sick and had had a suicide attempt.  She has never told me that Jem's problems were that serious, and thus I was never able to support him.  I had NO IDEA how bad it was for him.  NONE.  And I think my Mom deliberately kept the information from me.  She never visited Jem in the hospital, never comforted him.  Nothing.  Angry, anger starting.

3.  Jem just found out that 15 or so years ago, when he was in a relationship with a girl I'll call Mary that Mom did some fucked up stuff.  Mary sent a letter to Jem that she was pregnant, and Mom got her hands on it and Jem never saw it.  Mom then proceeded to attack this young woman (maybe 19) and call her white trash and a gold digger and that she was making it up to get money from Jem.  Mom then paid Mary some amount of money to go away and never talk to Jem again.  16 year old Jem had no idea any of this happened, all he knew was his girlfriend went away and never talked to him again.  He was heartbroken and depressed and started smoking weed.  Which I now understand, probably made mom very happy in her fucked up head.  So fast forward to now (a few months ago), and Mary and Jem connect via Facebook.  Mary asks Jem, what was that all about with your mother? Jem has no idea what she's talking about.  Mary thinks Jem is bsing her, pretending not to know to not take responsiblity, and it takes four or five conversations before the truth becomes clear- the Jem had no idea, and that mom is a monster.

I am very specifically writing these things down so I can take them to my therapist tomorrow.  I am so disgusted and angry that I think I am in intellectualization mode and am numb.  But actually, it may be just acceptance.  My mother is a monster.  I am lucky to have survived.  I hope Jem survives this breakdown part of the trauma fucking path.  I can only suggest to him what I did, which is to cocoon yourself and GO TO THERAPY. He is a different person, so his path will differ.  duh.  I just want him to know that he is lucky to be alive, and that he should pat himself on the back for surviving not only our childhood, but also the past month of shenanigans he has self-harmed hisself through. (I am fully aware of my atrocious grammar).

OK, now I am going to fucking be dark and angry and usefully vengeful and watch "Men Who Hate Women" Swedish version, with the amazing kick ass Noomi Rapace.  GRRRRRRRRRRRR

"Unsolicited Advice to Adolescent Girls with Crooked Teeth and Pink Hair...

DXM and Guitar

I think I'm going to get fucked up this weekend.  I want to do DXM so that I can feel.  Uh oh.  That's no good.

But being high is the time I feel safest to feel.  I don't have to stand guard at the gate, ushering in or blocking out my thoughts.  I can just let go.  And I'm happy.  I'm happy to die.  Life is good, I'm good, all is good when I'm high on DXM.  Maybe I can write a song.

I think I've also decided to write a short story about abuse.  Not sure what.  Childhood maybe?  Now?  I don't have enough of a fucking clue of what's going on with me now to write about it intelligently.  Or maybe I do.

I just finished reading Dr. Jack's book- the first part, the story part.  It triggered the urge to write.  His story begins with a woman in the car on the way to a  hospital.   I'm thinking I might start in the same place- a woman (me, but not me) driving herself to inpatient, as I did.  A nice fat five hour drive.  It was like liberation and fear at the same moment- driving myself to what?  The lady or the tiger??  It sure as fuck feels like the tiger a lot of the time.  And I'm not sure I want the lady even if she showed up. 

So yeah, a rumination on my/her ride down here.  But through it, there'll be remembrances of how she got to that point.  Not serious trauma, because hell, I don't have that.  I just hate myself.  But somehow let the fear, the excitement, the hope, the crushing depression and self hatred come through.  But show 'em, don't tell 'em, as old Samuel Clemens was wont to say.  What the fuck is with all my cute folksie-isms.  I'm about ready to make myself puke.

OK, goodnight.

Rollerskate Skinny

Rollerskate Skinny (Old 97's):

Every other day is a kick in the shins

Every other day it's like the day just wins...

I believe in love

But it don't believe in me...

So, here's my new blog entry.  I'm editing it on Notepad, we'll see how it works.

My newest roomie relapsed today.  That makes 3 in about a week.  WTF.  I guess I'm doing pretty well comparatively.  No relapse.  Or maybe a relapse, I'm not sure.  I took a bunch of one roomie's sedation crap. So I guess that does mean I used.  I don't want to admit it.  But I guess I did.  I didn't even get high though.  Suck.

I'm still a complete mess mentally.   I'm not cutting, but I'm giving up.  I hate myself and my life.  And I'm tired.  Just tired of trying.  

I sick of even writing this.

I still want to have sex with my psychiatrist. But less so.

It's 5:29 AM on Sunday morning and I haven't slept.  This information will have to be reported to  Dr. F.  I almost don't want to tell him because that will make me look like a crazy person.  And no one is attracted to a crazy person.  Except maybe a shrink?  One can dream.

I didn't sleep last night, but then finally passed out around 9am and slept all day.  I then went for an hour walk/run which turned my back into steel cables.  I NEED to go to Bikram Yoga tomorrow, or will be hobbled for the next few days with the added bonus of tight muscle migraines.  Gotta love those.

I have been thinking about my infatuation with F (duh, what else do I do).  I am very embarrassed about the email I sent him through Facebook.  It was overly familiar with a sort of a frat boy slang.  I guess I was trying to be cute and not that serious.  But it comes off as needy and stalkerish.  In my opinion.  I sent it after we already talked about his Facebook page and how I had tried to add him. In session I said, "Hey Dr. F, I tried to add you as a friend on Facebook, did you see that?"  He replied something like, "Oh yeah, I thought I saw something about that."  And that was the end of the conversation.

Like an asshole, I wrote him a day or so later on Facebook (even though he hadn't added me), btw he hasn't added anyone, he has no Facebook friends, so I'm not taking it personally.  In session he was wearing a certain football team's shirt (I'm going to omit which one) and he had explained why he was a fan.  So here's my email:

Hey "Football team" fan, 

Come on dude, you definitely need to add me. I know, I know, you're not into the friend thing, I get it. Just giving you a hard time.

I'm a "type of politics", so at least we have that in common, if not your "other type of gross politics". I just had to come by so I could read their pages again. Seriously funny.

Have a good football day, 
(Name redacted for privacy)

 

Is that email horrifying or not?  The more I look at it, the less I shudder in horror. But it prob is still not great. Oh yeah, I also need to give myself a nome de plume.  Like the good stalker that I am, I went back by his page a few days ago and noticed he made it private.  As I mentioned before, this is a good idea.  But I am wondering how much of that has to do with my asinine email.  Oh well.

And we keep going.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do about F. I want to love him and keep this infatuation going. But I'm afraid it's an exercise in frustration. And I don't want it to be.

I want to have an affair with him. Fuck him in his office. Go over to him, grab his hair and pull his face to mine. I want us to start kissing with the serious energy that we've (I've) been holding back. I want him to unbuckle my belt and yank my jeans down around my hips. I want his hand under there and driving, driving, driving.* 

Screeeeech. Back to reality. I'm sitting 7 or so feet away from him in a damn office chair. ugh.

If he were a normal guy I met at the grocery store or the bar, I could do this. But no, I have to freaking meet him in the office. I know, I know, I wouldn't be so interested in him if I met him at the bar.

In fact, if I heard all the shit he's told me in the office at a bar, I would run screaming away to the bathroom (after I downed the drink he bought me.)

So yeah, he tells me all sorts of shit in the office. I have looked up what constitutes normal behavior (ie ethics) for shrinks, and he is definitely not following the program. He is the poster boy for self-disclosure.

Yay! That means he might go one more step.

When he tells me his private things, it makes me love him. I think that he's telling me because he trusts me and likes me and relates to me and etc. But I have a gnawing fear that that is not true. I fear he tells all his clients these things, and I'm nothing but one more sounding board.

He seems to think I'm funny. That's good I guess.

Why do I have to like him so much?  Why does he not like me so much?  Or does he? I can't tell.  And it's killing me.

*See "Drive" by Melissa Ferrick