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