Ebbs and Flows

Ebbs and Flows




Baby’s Girls thoughts turned cobalt, then translucent. As she sits admiring sassafras sand and the cranberry ocean watching balmy waves, something inside shifts, left becomes more center, noises lift and separate like silver apparitions, until she only hears crashing sea tides and her purring heart. Baker Beach was a refuge, no an oasis, a place, a moment where she feels safe, and yet, twenty minutes East, and she was in the thick of concrete jungles merging with a cacophony of others. She called them others in that those people, those aliens, did not inhabit her world and universe. What had happened the night previous? The Tuxedo had delivered her, the rose, to her door, had scotched lips against the nape of her neck, had begged earnestly, like some silly school boy who had pulled her hair, to come up to her quarters, to sweep her to her bed, make love to her harmoniously, tilting the crescent moon on its ear. She acquiesced. The truth – she had wanted his custard love to fill her, like helium in a balloon, to make her walk on air unafraid and unashamed. So “yes” she had said, her rose lipstick caressing his mouth, his cheeks, wherever, he would allow her to roam. And inside, inside where it was hot and sticky, creamy and floating, inside was where he was granted permission, his passion merciless, she gave in, allowing someone else to steer. And so it had been, and so he had slipped out, after cerulean promises and insincere affectations, slipped away while her silken auburn hair enveloped her in her sleep, slipped away into a shadow, into a parallel world, one where she had not been invited, not been included, where she had simply been shut out. The tide ebbs and flows, stealing the sand as it leaves, returning to tumble abandoned sand castles, and depositing fragmented shells, battered and bruised, leaving her right where Tuxedo had left her the night previous, completely, devastatingly alone to sift through amber winds, citrus heat, and granite thoughts, a place she knows better than most, a place that cost her much, a place that failed to leave the most meager of tips, and one that sold her soul to black market thieves.

Why They Call It Falling

Why They Call It Falling

Someone please push me, so I gain momentum. What
has appeared to be so effortless, that “something” that
has developed between you and me, protons reacting
to electrons, that makes the you and me, the we.
It’s magical, fantastical, an elixir for love, filled with
all of love’s complexities and love’s frailties. I watch as we
fall into a feather bed, ether if you will, supporting us
so we become aware of both inner and outer worlds.
I feel both calm and fluttery, living in shades of silver layers
and translucent dreams, a reluctance for being accepted and loved.
Nagging tapes play in the back of my head, the ones
that are no longer pertinent, the ones pushing buttons,
pulling me down just below the surface, the undertow,
lying to the world again, again, again, revealing sordid, rancid
past remembrances, so I think, as to why I will never will be
good enough, so much so, that although my head truth knows
better, my heart truth grows wary.

“You never were good enough, so you will never be good enough.
You’re diseased. Recovery is an impossibility from the trauma
that was chosen for you. Just for you!”

So my face smacks down hard against harsh pavement, everything
growing grey. It’s almost best to start over than try and fix what is
dilapidated. Damaged goods sear my soul. I try to cascade
upon a safe netting, that soft, secure, that sanctuary. I still cannot
fully accept with an entirely open heart, that appreciation
has been earned. I return to “I’m sorry”, aware that
each time I say it, no matter how many times I mean it,
it lacks the same amount of sincerity, punch, as it did previously.
And I do mean it. Besides, who am I apologizing to anyway? That I can’t
give you more? That I am paralyzed in fear? These shards
undermine what is true.

Time to suck up, return to bat, line up over first plate, and allow that
first pitch to hit in the winning run. For a time that works. That works.
Just fine.

Lydia (Racoon's Mother) From Baby Girl series

Lydia



She just wasn’t cut out to be a Mother. True, she had gotten pregnant by Stan before her nuptials, had told Charles that the unborn child was his, all the while knowing that this was an end of an era, her independence squandered, the dependence of the child growing inside of her, causing her body to change, causing her to feel woozy one minute, ravenous the next, someone she did not even recognize, and then the dependence on Charles, for now she would be limited to bed rest, her doctor had told her. She wasn’t naturally built to carry a child, and the birth would be excruciatingly painful, a laborious process, so much so, that she began to loathe and detest the seed that was spawning. At what point did it actually become a living soul, she often wondered, as if there were any reasonable recourse for her.



There was a point in time, when she was a young girl, fair haired, wearing a yellow cotton sundress, hair pulled back into a ponytail, when she would carry her dolls, her babies she would call them, her babies, babies just like her, when she would fantasize about becoming a Mother, changing diapers, feeding, loving unconditionally these babies, the children she would someday have.



But something somehow had changed her, she had changed, and all she felt was a seething hostility at the boy she would be forced to raise mostly by herself, because Charles was always busy for work. Charles was busy at a rotary meeting, the Boy Scouts Club, or at a fundraiser. And she was left to feed and clothe Wayne, Wayne who also loved to play with his dolls the way she did, that faggot sissy boy. She used to watch him as he would say, “When I have my baby, I will dress you up in pretty dresses and bows,” just like she had done, and she felt repulsed and ashamed of him. It wasn’t as if she was religious and had a problem with whether Wayne would grow to like boys instead of girls. It wasn’t that she had a problem with the boy who would later apply mascara and go to school, the little freak boy who would get teased, pushed, and bullied by the other kids. It was the fact that she would have to come over to the school when they would call. “Please come pick Wayne up. There has been some trouble,” and Lydia would have to stop in the middle of putting groceries away or stopping right in the middle of preparing dinner, which would no doubt be ruined, to clean up his mess, his fucking mess. Always disgraced she was, and Wayne knew that his Mother was angry at him, no not angry, that she hated him, and that somehow made her even angrier. And that is how her life was stolen from her, an indiscretion with a handsome young man before her forthcoming wedding, producing a bastard child whom she despised that looked nothing like Charles. She remembered when she first called him Raccoon, an animal she thought, eyes lined with what appeared to be coal, something that made him appear soft and a target for ridicule, and how he had adopted the name for himself in mockery, humiliating her. All this work, this damned work she was doing for every fucking else, and nothing to show for it.



No, Lydia was not cut out to be a Mom. She knew it, just had she known the moment she had had sex with Stan in the heat of his car, throwing away her future, lying to Charles, telling him lie after lie after lie from that point forward. Like, when she told Wayne that she loved him, she had felt so disconnected and unrelated to this beast, that she actually gasped, this beast that was part of her, born of her, and who might someday grow to be just like her. Lydia, Lydia. How had it all gone so wrong, gotten so fucked up? Lydia, Lydia, Lydia. She lit a cigarette and exhaled slowly, blindly watching the serial on the television.

Lightning

This was a ten minute write in my writer's group and thought I would share it will all of you for good or bad! :)




Lightning


Lightning strikes
Telling me lies
Lies illuminated
Manipulated
As lights go out
Downstairs
A memory flashes
Bright
In the corner room
It was the night you came
To my bedside
Your tears
Flowing like clear streams
Your breathing
Rapid
Increasing
As you profess
To apologize
For what
For what
You can’t say why
Except that you love me
But there has been an indiscretion
An err in judgment
You never meant to hurt
Me
You
Him
Us
Mostly you
It won’t happen again you say
Haley’s comet is only seen
Every seventy-six years
Too long to wait
Lightning flashes
When storms brew
Sometimes when Realization
Blends with the truth
That indicates that it might
Just might happen again
I mean
It did happen
Last night
As you slipped into to door
Tripping over your own shadow
As if I was unaware
Of your absence
But then the phone rang
And I answered
There was a hesitation
A wounded wolf
So I asked
Whom was calling
Knowing full well who it was
And he said
Paul just Paul
Lightening struck for the last time
As the caller confessed
That I was a fool
Made a fool
A fool who trusted
Believed
A liar’s breath
A liar’s tears
A liar’s explanation
Of the distorted truth
A truth of sorts
You can always find where the lie unravels
If you listen carefully enough
It was an indiscretion
Yes it was
And it won’t happen again
He told me
And it won’t of course
Because I will see to it
See to it
Like honey to a bee

Innocene - Raccoon

Innocence (Raccoon)


As he reached down to pick up the jeweled scallop shell, flawless, almost as if from a mold, the symmetry breathtaking in its perfection, I watched his hand, his beautiful hand and wished he was holding mine. His hair, flaxen, bangs almost obscuring one eye: his eyes, like rare jade, piercing. I felt my heart flutter knowing that his man, handsome, unaware that my eyes coveted him, had little idea that I wanted him to hole me close.


I did not know him, but as he stood back up, he saw me out of the corner of his eye, and grinned self consciously, yet slightly flirtatiously, and said “Hey.” Just hey. No introduction, nothing complicated, just hey. And all that was required of me was to say hay back.


“Hey,” I said, as I blinked, then looked down for just a half second before I looked at him again, studying him, his muscular calves, evenly tanned skin, his tight abs, and developed chest, square jaw, that smile, bedeviling, disarming, and his dancing eyes. All of this was captured in a snapshot, so quickly that perhaps he hadn’t noticed my awe. His eyes still held mine as I returned to his face, his face that had gained some intensity, or was it tension. No, it was intensity for he did not look away to even flinch, relaxed.


I felt confused, like my knees were about to cave, buckle, leaving me in a pile of bones, but I tried not to show just how nervous I was, my smile just a little too tight.


“I’m Robert,” he said.


“Wayne,” I uttered in response.


“Where are you visiting from?”


It was summer break and out-of-towners and tourists were en masse.


“Asheville.” And then “North Carolina I mean,” I mustered, as if this was not obvious.


“I know where that is. I go to college at Wake.”


“What are you majoring in?” I inquired clumsily, trying to sound natural, get my bearings, understanding that without the eye liner I felt naked, embarrassed.


“Pharmacology,” he replied, without a hint if feeling flustered.


“Cool,” I summoned. “I might apply to Wake next year. I don’t know. Unless I move to California that is…” trying to show just how brave a move like that could be. Bravado.


He nodded. Something still, yet understood, passed between us, an apparition or a shadow, something unseen, unheard, yet you knew it was present.


“Cool,” he stated matter-of-factly. Just cool. No elaboration. I felt trapped for words in that moment, trying to find anything to say.


“That’s a beautiful shell, “I stammered. I almost picked it up first.”


“Yeah. Take a look.” And as he held it out to me and I reached to grab it, careful not to actually touch him, his fingers lingered just a slight second. I flushed, thankful I had been out in the heat for a few hours.


“Well,” he said, “I am staying at the cottage just up the beach, the blue one on stilts.

“Really?” I replied a beat too soon, my heart pounding like a bass drum, feeling as if I had fallen down a well, or as if the undertow might smother me. “I’m staying just a few houses down – the yellow one.”


He smiled. “Cool.” Yeah, cool I thought. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”


And with that, he turned and walked up the beach, leaving me with that beautiful scallop, a remembrance, and possibly a hint at what a future might be like with someone you adored, who equally adored you. It was the first time I had felt a certain amount of awareness, a certain amount what it might be to be an adult, not quite comprehending that my idealization was still very childlike in general. And it was the first time I felt I knew who I was for just a few moments, moments that would eventually flood me like ocean waves or pockets of rain.

Boy Girl

Boy Girl

Baby Girl was often lonely but seldom alone.
This shallow feeling had persisted for oh what,
some thirty years, back as early as grade school,
as early as when she knew the difference between
boys and girls. The boys teased her endlessly,
as boys will often do, for not being like them,
acting like them, being them. She remembered
letting the captain of the football team cheat off
her exam in Earth Science, an exam about conifers,
tall pines that produced seeds that grew into
cones. In exchange, he agreed to protect her
from those monsters that lurked around the corners
of hallways, a maze she would have to navigate
in order to arrive safely to her next class. Having
a guardian was a lesson she carried with her
even today. Looking back at that boy, she could
still relate to him, the one with the recessive gene,
that freak of nature and science, a mistake,
an aberration, the last to be picked for basketball.
Instead, a new woman had been born on
Her eighteenth birthday, and she never looked back.
These lessons, lessons learned, necessary lessons,
would serve her well, and who she became, the woman
who had arrived, survived, would have knocked
all those childhood bullies down with one punch,
one solid punch. None of her friends, except Raccoon,
knew that Robin was her real name, a name that could
have just as easily been born a girl rather than a boy.
She had been reborn Baby Girl, even if her driver’s
license picture reflected those childhood taunts. But
no one presently knew of this boy, and she kept him
hidden, out of sight, Still reflecting, she sat in the
center of a party in her honor, smiling, feeling completely
and utterly alone.

There Was Always One Night

There Was Always One Night

There was always one evening a week, her evening,
where Baby Girl would dress up in a smart purple suit,
popping it with some green pumps and a yellow clutch,
her hair twisted into a chignon, appearing like a lady of leisure.
It was just another cornflower day. There was always
one evening a week, where Baby Girl would take a seat
at Frenchy’s, while Max poured liberal potencies of Bombay gin,
extra dry, dry as a bone, dry like her humor, two olives please,
one onion, and usually, the lounge was deader than the
fogged over moon, with the exception of a few stray cats,
hissing and meowing to each other as if in heat, unembarrassed
and unaware of being watched, scrutinized, usually no one
that interested her. While the jukebox wailed “I Fall To Pieces,”
she would sit distantly, observing the frail man tearing up,
liquid salt pouring into his chardonnay. There was always
one evening a week, where Baby Girl would sit distantly,
apart from the jarring action, the jarring emotions of others,
owning these moments, some of the few that she allowed
to be present with herself by herself. Max, was great company.
He made her laugh, and she needed to laugh more at life’s
fickleness, and she even wondered if Max liked women like her.
No matter. Max held coveted secrets, as she did his, allies
against the sycophants that usually surrounded her, whom she
dismissed with a smile or bat of an eye. Four martinis,
three cigarettes, and then onward home to her small, bright,
quiet apartment, the silence palpable, nearly unbearably so,
alone with her cat, Sam, and the crazy neighbor across the hall,
a place she had consciously chosen for herself. There was always
one evening a week when she acquiesced to routine, without
giving it another thought.

Carrie Prejean -- Fraud

Carrie Prejean -- Who's the Boob Now?
Posted May 11th 2009 3:00AM by TMZ Staff

Those topless photos of Miss USA California Carrie Prejean were taken after she turned 18, according to one of her former pageant sponsors. This contradicts Carrie's position that she posed for the pics when she was only 17.We obtained an email sent by the sponsor (we were asked not to use his name) and he says Carrie sent him one of the topless photos after January 6, 2009, asking "if she was in good enough shape for the Miss USA Pageant." The date is significant, because that's the day Carrie got a boob job. The former sponsor says the pic was post boob job and she was well over 18.TMZ obtained 4 topless photos a week ago. Her rep contacted us and said Carrie's position was that she was naive at the time she posed. Then we got a second email stating she was only 17. As a result we did not publish the photos. But the sponsor says he's positive they were taken when Carrie was a full-grown adult.

Carrie Prejean -- Phone Whore
Posted May 11th 2009 2:24AM by TMZ Staff

If your phone rings and there's a voice recording asking you to donate money and sign a petition against gay marriage, you can draw comfort from the fact that the person who recorded the message is really hot.We found out Miss California USA Carrie Prejean recorded that message for the National Organization for Marriage (NOM) during a recent trip to Washington D.C. She's certainly accessible to NOM, but she's been like the topless version of Phantom of the Opera for the folks at Miss California... she will only communicate with pageant officials through her publicist -- the same dude who was the publicist for Billy Graham.By the way, the pictures that we did not post showing a topless Carrie... even though her lawyer says she was 17 when the photos were taken, we obtained an email from a former pageant sponsor of hers, who says on or after January 6, 2009, Carrie sent him the photo (posted on thedirty.com) asking if she was in good enough shape for the Miss USA Pageant. The upshot -- the sponsor says he knows "for a fact" she was not 17 in that picture.

Miss California Carrie Prejean -- Take it Down!
Posted May 10th 2009 12:07PM by TMZ Staff

Miss California Carrie Prejean wants to put a lid on those nude photos that have been posted on the Internet -- stat.We've obtained a cease and desist letter fired off from Carrie's lawyer to thedirty.com, demanding that the site take down two photos, showing a topless Carrie posing for the cam.In the letter, her lawyer says, "One of the displayed images of Ms. Prejean was illegally taken under false pretenses when she was a 17-year-old minor and unable to consent to its creation." The letter goes on: "The other image depicts Ms. Prejean's likeness but is not an actual photograph. It is an electronic manipulation ["photoshopped'] of her image created without her consent."The response from thedirty.com: "Your client's publicity rights are substantially inferior to the right of the public to consider, discuss, agree and/or disagree with Ms. Prejean's actions and views. This is not conduct for which your client's consent is required." Translation -- go pound sand.

More Lies From Miss California Carrie Prejean And Her Camp
Access Hollywood: TheDirty.com, which posted the first racy photo of the beauty queen on Monday, has posted another shot of a woman posing in just her underwear covering her chest with her arm, which they claim is Prejean.
But a rep for Prejean told Access Hollywood the photo is not her. The rep acknowledged that photo shows Prejean’s head, but that “it appears to have been Photoshopped.”
The rep went on to say that Prejean maintains that one photo was taken during that session, “as far as she can remember.” Her rep noted that the photo was taken four years ago and “her memory might be faulty.”
Prejean’s rep also told Access the photo was taken by a friend of Prejean’s, who sent it to an agent, but that she “can’t remember his name.” The rep said they believe the agent might be responsible for releasing the photo to TheDirty.com.
According to her rep, Prejean has contacted the Web site and asked them to stop using her photo.

Click Here To Read Full Article
Carrie, your lips are flapping and all you keep doing is lying and making everything worse! You and your “rep”? Isn’t it stated in your agreement with the pageant that you are not allowed to even have your own PR rep.? You have not tried once to get in touch with me or anyone here at TheDirty.com. The image is NOT photoshopped and an agent did not release these images to me. As for your statement, “can’t remember his name” that is the funniest thing I have ever heard. Carrie, TheDirty Army and I will pray for you.
Exodis 20:16
Ephhesians 4:24-25
Carrie, I am sure you skipped over those passages. I decided.- nik

Visitation

Visitation


Every time I approach that hill, the one that leads to that monstrous fortress, the cold institution where those intakes caused my heart to pound, my palms to sweat in dread, the panic rises and I hold my breath. I hold my breath forgetting to breathe deeply. But, I had already reconciled myself to the fact that it was important to give feedback about the intake process, how everyone did their part, that the clinicians were excellent and caring, but that the communication on the team failed, and as a result, I was forced to retell and relive the trauma again and again without the tools necessary to do a little harm reduction as far as symptoms are concerned. I had to give the feedback because, like most of us, we believe that we are not allowed to actually participate in our own healthcare, whether it is physical or emotional. Doctors cure. I also know that doctors are constantly learning, and though their intentions are honorable, they are human. Researchers especially are cogs in the machine, so the fact that reports are produced, does not necessarily mean that they actually talk to each other about the patients, or treat each individual case uniquely.


I had already decided that I would probably drop out of this study after I had delivered my feedback to Dr. Marmar. For those who are not familiar with Dr. Marmar he is Vice Chair and Professor of Psychiatry at the University of California, San Francisco. He is also Associate Chief of Staff for Mental Health, San Francisco VA Medical Center. Dr. Marmar’s current studies include a five-year prospective study of posttraumatic stress. His research has been supported by the NIMH, Veterans Administration, and Upjohn, Solvay and Forest Pharmaceuticals. With the use of Cognitive Behavior Therapy, Dr. Marmar has had a high success rate in treating PTSD survivors since the mid seventies.


So, this man, this doctor, this amazing opportunity – was I going to give the feedback and just leave, knowing I had a great therapist who supports me, who thinks I am doing FABULOUSLY anyway? Or was I going to be open to the possibility. It is interesting how you think you have a plan, and yet you know you will try and be open for anything that might give you a way to get in or out. And that is what happened. Dr. Marmar told me that the intake process should have never occurred in the manner it did. There should have never been a seven hour intake. There was no reason to relive trauma three separate occasions, followed by a startle study that would produce said symptoms, before the actual treatment had even began. The feedback he said was useful, and I was assured that if I was willing to trust him, trust the process, to make associations that did to create pain and anxiety, with the help of tools, and techniques which would be given to me, and that if I did the homework each week, I would benefit from the treatment. If I received the medication or if I received the placebo, we would not know as it would be randomly assigned. But regardless, he would help. And so, I took a leap of faith, and decided to not give up just yet, and to do the best I could, and if it did not work, then I could make an informed decision. He also gave me the much needed self-esteem boost by telling me that he could tell I had already done my research that I was already working hard, and that I was well along my way as it was. So, I feel grateful, and I am shedding skin, and I am happier, because I am open. Being open. That is what it is about. And now I do not have to look up that hill and see the facility as something to be feared. I can look at it has a refuge, each time I visit.

Heat Rises -- A Fluff Poem

Heat Rises


This was a class write tonight that we needed to complete in four minutes. Thought I would share. The prompt was “Heat Rises.”


The bell rings
Ring the bell
Heat rises
The smell of
Brandy carrots
Pork tenderloin
Jasmine rice
I can taste it
The heat rising
Coming to a head
My hunger palapable
Unmanageable
The bell rings
Ring the bell
Stop the alasm
The brandy carrots
Pork tenderloin
Jasmine rice
And don’t forget
Luscious chocolate brownies
Served warm
Over vanilla bewan ice cream
Rich fudge sauce
Heat
Heat rises
My tongue anticipating
Savory gifts galore
Satisfying and filling
Urgent anxiety
Comfort food
Settling
Settling
Filling that hole
That massive hole

Glue -- A Poem

Glue


The three of us make quite a pair
Me, the third wheel and the glue that solidifies this treacherous partnership
I look at Chase, catch his eye, share a private moment
All the while Lloyd stares at me as if I am a Thanksgiving turkey
He wants to carve my wings
Only I keep him at arm’s lengthHis sharp fangs unable to puncture my neck
Suck my blood, the little parasite
Lloyd and Chase live together in a state of confusion and betrayal
Unable to free themselves of their death grip
I come along
I am the glue
I hold everything together with delicate balancing
Gracefully managing the balance beam
With the perfect dismount
It’s a secret Chase and I share
He’s loyal and kind
Aware of Lloyd’s deceits and insecurities
Endangering trust by taking, takingForging new bonds, he thinks, with someone like me
Or Tim, or Paul, or Kevin, or Whomever
Alliances are tricky
But I am the glue
I keep Lloyd at a safe, not quite respectful distance
For that is a two way street
And he is unaware how cheap and disposable he makes me feel
Like a newspaper barely read, facts unremembered, thrown into the trash
I do not internalize this
I say what I think of him — outright, teasingly
Loathing and enjoying him simultaneously
Because I am the glue
He’s stuck to me, and still I push his paws away
I pledge allegiance
Forbidden kisses, later feeling ashamed, only slight regret
Sometimes I cannot even meet his eyes
Fearing disloyalty I have already committed, easily hurt
Chase, he cares about
Mysterious, subconscious feelings
Yet
It’s Lloyd and Chase
Bonded in their seething hostility and love
Neither one trusting the otherBoth loyal to me, undeservedly
I am the glueI know the full story
Keeping their not so secret desires and platitudes
Within
Under lock and key

Heartbeat

My heart pounds, pounds, pounds, not that of a man who has been defeated, not one whose pulse is fading in such a way that you cannot tell if the man has lost the battle, or the ghost has won. It's not like that. Things cannot always be wrapped in peppermint bows and almond kisses. I wish that it were so, but it isn't.

Another day at the VA. For those who don't know, the VA hospital is off 42nd Avenue by the ocean, up a hill. The cold cement structure has a pulse of its own, and I can feel it as my stomach turns inside out as I walk up to my appointment. This was supposed to be meet and greet with the physician I would be working with and for, but as I approached the office, I was also informed that I had agreed to participate in a starle study after meeting with the man. So, first I go to meet the doctor. He tells me what I want to hear -- the course of treatment will be at the patient's pace, and there would and will be no pressure to deal with anyting in a certain way. If the treatment does not work for "the patient," then we would explore other options. His office is immaculae and looks over the ocean, and I am reminded that I do not want to associate the therapy with the beautiful water each week when I come and visit. He talkes about "nuts" and "bolts," and we talk about placebos, contriol groups, D-cycloserine, PTSD, cognitive behavior therapy, and the benefits of just being in a "supportive" environment with the doctor regardless if I receive the placebo or the medication. I look out at the water, feel myself start to drown a bit as he, the doc, stops talking, and sits quietly staring at me. I know this approach. The patient will invariably break the tension by talking about their anxiety. It worked, even though I knew the strategy, but his explaining things in widgets and then going silent leeaves me cold, even though he has had experience he says in treating PTSD since the seventies. We shake hands, politely. He gives me his card with an appointment date for next week.

I am then ushered into an office for the "startle" survey, and electrodes are applied to measure how much I perspire and how much my heart pounds, as I listen to a series of sharp noises while staring at a screen with a black "X" and keeping my arms and legs still. The experiment begins. The sounds are jolting, like the needle of a turntable when you forget to put the record on -- a nasty scratching noise. I jump, yes, startled, and think, why am I doing tis when this only triggers symptoms, like each intake caused symptoms since I had to reveal trauma to three different doctors up until this point, as a fourth, who can help me, waits in the wings? I make it through. Then the clinician says that the next part of the experiment will involve noises again at different intervals and some will have an electric shock. That's it. I am out of therre. I tell the researcher that the "experiment" is over, and I am told that many people refuse to go through this, not just me. My only problem with this news is the lack of disclosure of this information prior to my involvement. A project manager comes in, very empathic and allows me the time I need before leaving.

I had therapy with my therapist, my regular one, later that afternoon. Somehow, setting boundaries help me relax and I think how relieved I did not allow this to go further. Yes, I plan on returning to the VA, and I plan to give this a shot, but with a healthy dose of feedback for the research team. They are all excellent practitoners. I just feel sometimes it is easier to focus on the actual research and forget the individual, just slighly, more that there was a lack of anticipation, much like putting a bandaid on a wound after you get burned. It isn't over, not by a long shot. I am here, and anxiety or not, I plan to make it work, study or ot, one way or another. Progress was made. And my heart is still beating.

Huge News

So this is the deal. I could walk blearily through a storm, my hood pulled over my head, freezing out the cold, my scarf securely intact. I could do this alone. Or, maybe, just maybe, I could enlist the help of a friend, who would hold my hand, make it warm, sit with me side-by-side on a train as the cold is blocked out without so much of an effort. Why is it that when you look at things this way, it seems clearer than day?

And so the past two days went, and I found an ally in someone from my past, a time that took me back to when the abuse all started, but someone who gave me a respite from the trauma that exists. And nether of us had any idea our worlds would collide, and they we are coexisting, and supporting each other with tender, tough words, and love. And that is exactly what happened.

First of all, this began a few weeks back when I started seeing my new therapist. He told me that if I told him the name of someone who had molested me, and that person still had contact with children, he would have to report it. Most of you who read this saw the blog I wrote. But then, an amazing, unexpected course of events happened. My friend J. contacted me and asked me if that same teacher was teaching at the high school I attended and what his name was. She has a daughter there. And so I told her the story, and gave her the name(s), and we started chatting. And then her husband said that the same vile, the same that had attacked me, also had meant him feel uncomfortable, though nothing so traumatic occurred. And so the conversation went back and forth until we located a possible suspect in Ohio that was incarcerated, who looked like him, and had a birthday close to his. So she showed her husband. And I sat there as my chest pounded, beating like a locomotive, and my mouth went dry, and I thought about karma. And justice, not really for me, because what has happened is beyond the statue of limitations. But, for all those abused afterward, because child offenders never really stop unless caught, I thought maybe I could do something, anything. And then I tried to sleep, fidgeted sleep, and awoke tired, but not as tired as before.

I checked my email that morning, and was surprised to learn that J.'s husband had told her this is not the same man, since that man, who became a teacher, and lived across from him, could not be the man in the picture. So, I felt deflated. But lo and behold, J.'s husband did a search, and found the f**ker, and he lives in another state, has taught third grade all his life, is well respected, and his resume, along with his alias (yes, he changed his name), along with his email, home address and phone number, AND picture, were all on the website. It was then suggested that I contact him and confront him, but instead, I sent the information to my therapist, called the jurisdiction where he lives, and was advised to pursue it in the jurisdiction where I went to high school. and is there where it is. I will not contact this man, for fear that he will bolt, and leave us all in the dust freeze.

Today I have felt lighter than I have in many, many years. I know it is temporary, and strong feelings will come up again, and I will feel overwhelmed and lost, but I feel closer, closer, to a resolution. For now, can't I rest a minute and let someone else hold the reins? Let karma please exist in this world once and for all?

Much Love!

M.

So Why Do I Write, And What Is The Story?

So, I feel a need to talk a little about what has been mostly musings as of late. Why do I write, and why should you care? I have no idea what the answer is to the second question, but I began writing for myself, and I created a MySpace page and decided to blog. That evolved into my participation in a class after about a year after talking about returning school, and then not taking action, and I had such a warm, positive experience. In fact, I am still writing with four of the same writers from that beginning class. And there were only eleven I bellieve. My writer's group has become an extension of my life, and it truly is a vassel in which I can explore topics which I never thought I could write about, and topics that were also very personal in nature. What began as a personal narrative style evolved into prose, and then poetry, much of what is fiction. You can always tell what is true in my writing, and what is fiction. If I don't clarify or qualify my writing, you can always be certain it is mainly fiction. Poetry can be tricky though, and some of it is personal. I usually do not explain my poems as far as whether or not they are actually about my life, or the lives I have created. If you know me well, you will probably know, and if you are unsure, please ask and do not assume that the narrator in the work is based on my life. This has all led into my applying and being accepted into graduate studies at San Francisco State University for Creative Writing.

As far as the story I have begun here, well the Baby Girl poems are obviously not about me. So here is one instance that I am not talking about myself, but the events around PTSD are indeed true. Now this is where I feel the need to explain. Although there is a lot of stuff going on for me, it is not all Gloomy Guss or Debbie Downer material. Those in between moments I am smiling, even laughing along with my friends or family, or something silly I just read or heard. My outgoing persona is usually pretty obvious -- I am more of a dog than I cat. I wear my feelings. But, besides the PTSD stuff, I am pretty much just living and trying to enjoy those moments with others. The pieces I have been writing about, as far as PTSD, I feel the need to talk about. Why? Well, for one, I can't be the only one dealing with post traumatic stress. But also, it is a chance for me to write creatively, and to explore feelings. I *hope* it is useful and interesting for all of you. I know it is not light reading.

So what happened? Well, and this is the part that is sad. I was molested by two seperate teachers in high school. I will not go into detail, except to say, I have written about one experience and not the other. I will also say that that it was not the only trauma. But, I hope that in my writing, I can continue to explore my feelings and learn from them, and I hope others can too. WE ARE ALL CONENCTED IN SOME WAY! So, unfortunately, the PTSD symptoms had been there quite a while under a masqued duagnosis of anxiety and some depression at times, starting out as an internal process, and then manifesting itself to the point I decided to empower myself and take control of it, which is why I decided to apply for this study. Personally, this study scares the living Hell out of me, but it is also a fascinating learning process too. So there is the back story in a nutshell, and I am sure I will talk about it again if you appreciate it!

Thanks for all of your support, and thanks for allowing me a venue to do this. You have no idea what this experience has meant to me.

What Flower Are You? Just for fun!

I am a Snapdragon What Flower Are You?

"Mischief is your middle name, but your first is friend. You are quite the prankster that loves to make other people laugh."

Hissing

Imagine a helium filled balloon full of air, and then the pressure as you slowly release the balloon’s contents, that tension in the hiss, as air escapes, finding freedom tentative, the balloon needing the air to sustain, and yet the air panting slowly, as it finds its way to safety. Now imagine me as the balloon, and the air that escapes, the same air I breathe, as the shallowness of breaths become a slow hiss, my heart pounding harder, and my mind re-minding me that I need to slow down, breathe more deeply, take care of me, instead of the ripping tension that the shallowness creates. I glide through these internal terrains, smokes and mirrors everywhere, but when I look at my own reflection, inside, there are no lies, just a short dose of panic and reality, and a reminder that this too shall pass. It will. I swear it will.

Today was better than the previous. I thought it would be a clear one for me, but my roommate had an unexpected case of gout, a painful condition where uric acid crystalizes, causing the joints in your foot or knee to swell with painful irritation and fluid, that makes even putting on a sock sheer agony. And instead of staying within myself, I seek to comfort and nurture, because I am good at that sometimes when it comes to others, and not so good at it when I need to be gentle with me. Being gentle with me. I laugh even now. What’s that??? How do you do that? And so, I dart from m Mom’s condo, to my roommate across the city, picking up a prescription for him along the way, loaning some pain medication with strict directions on how to take it, and putting in a medicet, making him promise to call his doctor and arrange for some medication of his own. And Will, my roommate, is always a delight, always so kind and grateful. We talk. and then I run out to pick up things. What can he eat? Tomato soup, bread, bananas. What else does he need? Epsom salts (he has never heard of this), water, juice, some light reading. And then I run to my doctor to pick my own prescription to replace the one I gave to him.

And then I come back to my Mom’s condo, and for those who do not know, she is blind and can’t walk well, and again, I perform. I perform because I can. and after dinner and throughout, I watch what she wants on tv, spend time with her, because next week she goes back to Michigan, and though it will be hard to say goodbye, it will also be a partial relief. And of course, I come back to me, still panting, the hissing wearing me out. And I have not paid attention all that well, though I am getting better. Better today yes. Tomorrow is tomorrow. The nights, of course, are the worst. The fighting in my sleep to stay asleep, the feelings, the dreams, and oh well. Tomorrow is tomorrow, and though I write it all here. I have hope. I do. I have so much hope. I am still panting a little, hissing some, but I am starting to relax, and not hold my breath, and feel grateful that I can write any of this madness down at all. And tomorrow. Yes. Tomorrow.

Thanks Everyone. I truly am grateful! And it must be hard for those who do not know my goofy, fun side. But it’s there. It is.

Storm

The morning peeped its head out, then disappeared, angry, resentful, not smiling even the remotest of ways, instead, its tongue hanging out, teasing, begging for a different outcome. Then it was 11 a.m. And then, the sun did come out, but the breeze failed to take notice and left me chilled, if desperate. And then it warmed, and cooled again.

And so it is. And so the day was. And so did the assessment at the VA. And again, even though the intake of seven hours produced a report that seemed clear, I had to undergo more interviewing, today with a psychiatrist who would eveluate med interactions, then the trauma itself, the psych history (depression and anxiety). and then blood work, that would include me in the study, and still I was left unsure, after exploring these traumas, and explicit details, whether or not, this was/is the course to take with trauma work. I had spoken to my old therapist, who reminded me, that disassociation can come in many forms — it can be as subtle as feeling scattered or bewildered, not having your feet on the floor straight, or fidgeting, or it come in the forms of things fading out, and then, hearing, but not seeing what is said to you, instead, feeling a plethora of emotions that can run the gamut and leave you feeling weak or scared.

Well, after the evaluation, and before the blood work, I was taken back to the AA who took me to the lab. We discussed my nieces, and San Francisco, and where we were from, and I am in the elevator, and the world began spinning, and I am hearing her, unable to respond, until I come back, just seconds later, and I say, “I heard you, but I couldn’t speak. I feel faint.” And she smiles, takes my hand, and walks me across the parking lot, explaining to me that the buildings at the VA are numbered in the order they were built, and not how they were laid out across the property. I then sat with her, feeling more like myself, but also absorbed in my skin, which was beginning to feel like a leather pelt, my sweat beginning on my forehead, and my anxieties panting on the surface. I completed the bloodwork, but it took hours before I could relax without feeling like a high strung violin wire.

It took hours, but I am better now, and this just proves to me that trauma work is hard, way harder than I expected, and I just have to remind myself of that, and be gentle, and move forward, with caution, but with increasing awareness.

The Calm Before the Storm

So, today has been overall a decent day, and I feel a little calmer. I say that, and yet on one of the message boards I frequent, I, and some of my friends, were attacked mercilessly. But, because I post regularly, these things just don’t freak me out. I guess, I know in that realm, I am respected enough and have the support of other regular board members. But, my point is, that I did not realize I was stressed or tense, until later when I was talking to a friend on the phone. And I do feel a little tense, but so much more relaxed than earlier this week with all that I have had going on. I guess I tend to implode.

Now, that I have said that, I really do feel pretty calm today. Last night I went to dinner with my Mom and Chip, and had an amazing dinner. And the company and conversation were great, along with the fact that I slept pretty well. What I am anticipating, and why I am referring to this as the calm before the storm, is that tomorrow I have my first of three assessments at the VA hospital for the PTSD study I have entered. It will not be a big deal. They are just doing routine bloodwork, and I will complete some forms saying “I-agree-to-signing-my-life-away-amd-use-the-data-in-this-study-to-track-you-the-rest-of-your-life” kind of thing. I am not a veteran at all, but got into this study as an “at large” berth, if you want to look at this like March Madness. It is a little scary. I am not sure if this study is what I need, but after talking to my new therapist, and checking in with my old therapist, I can drop out if I feel too unsafe. That helps me to do the work I need to do in order to deal with trauma. and that means I can explore these issues knowing I have a safety net. WHEW! And hopefully, this work will allow me to write more freely. I hope so.

Anyway, that is the latest. thanks to all of those who have supported me. Next comes the gym again. I am not that out of shape at all. But, to me, and what I expect, I am. Maybe I need to adjust my expectations???

Thanks all!

The Latest

So, the good news is that I got accepted into the PTSD study at the VA hospital. For those who do not know what PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder), I will post information at the end of this blog. The intake was really, really painful -- seven hours of talking about memories in which you are forced to be as explicit as possible. even though I am not a veteran, this study was released to the public, and qualifying was baed on an intake to see if you really do have a PTSD diagnosis. It appears that I do, though I already knew this. The goal of the study is to use Cognitive Behavior Therapy as a means of forcing unconscious and subconscious memories into you consciousness so that you can develop tools in order to deal with trauma. This means that being explicit is necessary. It is scary and intimidating, but I feel that this will only allow me to grow as a person.

As far as the whole drama around Eric, well, he and I have spoken. He is really concerned and takes responsibility for what happened, but I guess what made me a little frustrated was that he put his ex/roommate on the phone to talk to me, and I was told by Larry (ex) that he had a hard time with Eric's decision to be with his new boyfriend because he did not want to see the clues that were already there. Well, fine and dandy, but I never got those clues, because I was still being chatted up. I know Eric feels bad, but trust is just so sacred. How do you go back and reverse the damage? You can't. And even if you can forgive, and I do, how can you learn to trust someone who deceived you over and over again? My theory is that Eric went to England to meet Will, and in the event that it did not work out, I would have been the second choice. Otherwise, why say you still have feelings for me. And the last thing I want to hear right now is how head over heels in love he is with Will. I get it. What I am struggling with are the lies. I don't want to rub this in his face, and at the same time, I don't want to lose a friend, but what was once a special bond has become unraveled, and I am not sure what kind of contact will be helpful at this point. SIGH! Life goes on. At least I am doing the study and getting extra support with my new therapist who has been nothing short of brilliant and says I need to stop blaming myself for what others do, and learn to forgive myself. I know, this is all such psychobabble, but it is what is going on in my life right now, and I guess I need to write about it and get these feelings out. Timing is everything huh?

Thanks to all of you that have offered me nothing but support. Love you guys!

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (nutshell version)

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is a real illness. You can get PTSD after living through or seeing a traumatic event, such as war, a hurricane, rape, physical abuse or a bad accident. PTSD makes you feel stressed and afraid after the danger is over. It affects your life and the people around you. PTSD can cause problems like:

Flashbacks, or feeling like the event is happening again
Trouble sleeping or nightmares
Feeling alone
Angry outbursts
Feeling worried, guilty or sad

PTSD starts at different times for different people. Signs of PTSD may start soon after a frightening event and then continue. Other people develop new or more severe signs months or even years later. PTSD can happen to anyone, even children.Medicines can help you feel less afraid and tense. It might take a few weeks for them to work. Talking to a specially trained doctor or counselor also helps many people with PTSD. This is called talk therapy.

National Institute of Mental Health

Men suck.

So, I have been talking to this guy for many, many months now, and he then professed he had "feelings" for me and even used the "L" word. Well, I knew we had an emotional connection, but I was a little surprised. But, it gave me hope. And I was looking forward to meeting him until I learned he scheduled a trip to England. England? Isn't that more expensive than spending time with me? I asked him if his feelings had changed, and he told me that no, he still felt the same way he always has, and that there was no one in England, that he knew a lot of people over there, and he just wanted to spend his birthday with friends. Of course I knew a few months before that something was different. I just felt it. So then I looked at his Facebook profile. You know they changed the d*%ned profile page, so if you want to know something personal, you have to search for it. And guess what? He now has a partner. To read about it without being told personally, after he told me he loved me -- I mean, OMG! OMG! I mean, I was content to be just friends. We had not met, and I was going to reserve judgment until I met him in person, but he kept pursuing things, and I found myself getting wrapped up emotionally in what was happening. This happened to me twice this year, the previous one being Anthony who basically ignored me after we met, yet told me there was nothing wrong. And then A. told me that he wasn't relationship material, and two weeks later was in a relationship. Again, I found out on Facebook.

What is wrong with being open and honest? Both of these men knew everything about me -- the good and bad. With Eric, I really confronted him good, but then I found out his relationship status had changed over two months ago, and somehow he chose not to tell me, and continue with his amorous feelings. What the Hell is wrong with people? Why not just say, I really like you, but I think we should pursue this as a friendship? Or, I was premature in admitting I had feelings for you. I am sorry. No, I had to confront both jerks. And yes, they are good people, but in this case acted really badly and dishonestly. So, to make matters worse, I had to manage Eric. I had to confront him. and then he stopped responding when I asked the most important question -- why? I know he did not know how to respond to that. But then I gave it a few days for him to think about it, and he did not respond. So I finally had to write/manage once more and told him that I understand the questions may be difficult to talk about, but that I would have more respect for him if he had called me, or at least attempted to write me a note explaining everything (less respect, but saving some grace). I was really just mad, but now I feel hurt. Anthony was the one who really threw me, because we had been talking for a year and a half, and he flew out to meet me, saying he was transitioning out of a job, and moving would be possible. Now, he mentioned San Francisco as well as other places, but he kept those hopes burning. And then he came out, and we had the most romantic night, and then he flew out the next day and blew me off. Anyway, I am at a point where I understand, and of course, I always did know, that pursuing something long distance rarely works. But, you have to have hope and faith, right? And when you are so heavily pursued, you have to want to believe, even when you are a little skeptical that the situation itself may not work because of logistics. Sorry for going on, but I feel so betrayed. But as usual, I will persevere. I have more to write about other stuff, but I will save it for later.

Thanks friends for your support.

First of the First

So here I am, and you are probably wondering why am I blogging and why you should care. Well, you don't have to care (LOL), but I am doing to do my best to post some of my writing for all of you to read, and please feel free to comment on anything you see. Also, from time to time, I will probably just fill you in on something personal, or something that may be happening to a friend or within my community. Maybe I will even get bolder and write controversial things. Who knows? This is the first blog, and I just hope you will continue to support it.

Best,

Michael