Pileated and Harbor...oh, yes and Torquemada.

today is better. Saw a pileated woodpecker fly by, always majestic. Saw three harbor porpoises go by, a nice gift. Sadly I give more weight to the mean man and his unfortunate dog. I get the lows, but these moderate any potential highs. Another bad sleep, 3rd day on higher dose of effexor, perhaps it's an adjustment phase. When I'm tired it really overshadows - hello understatement - the day. I wonder if I could sleep in a sensory deprivation chamber - channel an inner Michael Jackson - and I should really use my little foam earplugs of which I have several.
death is with me, quietly clearing its throat, little taps on the shoulder, showing me things, my little companion. so I try to look up and around, to see who or what else might be with me. people suggest I do things to help others, I've tried doing this my whole life, but if there is a way to do it altruistically perhaps it's what I've been missing. don't I have the right to a happy life? I think everyone else has this right so why do I feel I should be denied this? why do I feel like I instead deserve only punishment? What have I done that is so bad? it's really mystifying in my head I know I'm not a bad person but there is another voice, more convinced, more certain, more insistent, so confident that I am bad and so this - this existence of feeling bad - is simply what I have coming to me. Was I Torquemada in a previous life? Must have been.
Thanks to all the kind people who try to help.

worst day I've had in a long time. black hole. inertia. zombie. made it through. so what really. hopefully tomorrow will be better. better would be nice.

Feeling so lost and empty. Space where there should be something, some feelings?? Other than the lost kind. Empty places where there should be hope, energy, love, inspiration. Emptiness. Someone one said that the only thing worse than being hated was being ignored. Convinced of my uselessness, it's so strong. Staring inside from a great distance. Quizzical, puzzled, inhuman. Tired all the time. Mired in nothingness, what is restraining me? Acting as if. Don't want to act. Want to be. Whatever Hamlet. I don't feel noble. I don't feel heroic. Just nothing. Wanted to help, couldn't do it. Can't help myself, it's a slow death of many little cuts. Nothing breaks into the numbness.

Scarlet Pimpernel

I seek it everywhere, everyday. My own Scarlet Pimpernel, the message, the armot-piercing bullet that passses through my kevlar defense - love, you are worthy Kelly, you can feel peace, you can feel happiness. So far, no response, a voice and ear straining for the slightest sound. I fear it is too late, kind words made me saddder, praise slides off unabsorbed. My kevlar - undeterred - thickens. I feel bad.

I need just to plug into this thing and have it identify, assess, translate all these feelings, it's a big mess in there, anger, sadness, despair, hate, for starters. but not love, just ugliness. My spirit rises only to be crushed under a tiny, ridiculous bootheel. For a few moments there was happiness, a sense of accomplishment, som hope, hey it's gonna be ok. No as it turns out.  it will never be.

Talisman

It's been a stormy stormy day here on the east coast of Vancouver Island. It's been even stormier inside my head. Years ago I opened a fortune cookie and read "your path will be long and difficult but you will be greatly rewarded".

Silly I guess, but I held on to it for years, kept on my various desk blotters, even since Victoria I think. It came with me to Petawawa and back to Comox. I  saw it as a beacon of hope, a talisman to keep me grounded I suppose.  For so long now the first part of it has proved true so I reasoned the second shall eventually come to fruition as well. Hence the hopeful bit.

I often think about what a "great reward" could be, what it might entail. I know my desire forf ame is in fact my desire to feel worthy of this life I have been given. There are many kinds of rewards: the obvious ones money, job satisfaction, a thank you, a smile. There are as many things that feel rewarding as there are people on this planet I suppose. Many guises, ones that are obvious and ones that reveal themselves later.

I have recently experienced a disappointment of  spirit-crushing potential and am trying very hard to see through to the second part of it as well. It's very challenging. And it's about all I can say for now.

Creeping Forward

A nice morning, frosty, slippery on the deck. Gto some firewood, fed the dog. He has had his morning in and out puts. He's 13 months (almost) but increasingly dog vice puppylike in his shape, demeanour, maturity, it's encouraging. I still fear him but then that is no surprise as I fear most things.We're going to Vancouver this weekend to install my commission finally and I am very nervous, it woke me up early pondering various things. I hope it goes well, I hope I don't get all angsty but I probably will. I hope I come up with other ideas too. I liked school for it's creative atmosphere, sparking off one another, perhaps a class would help. I am isolating myself, telling myself it's the dog, feeling even guiltier if I leave my husband to it. Hoping I'm moving, creeping forward. It's all I can ask really.  To live my dream, be an artist, notice the world. Show the world my version of it.

7 Billion Weak

There's so much hate in the world, it's a poisonous noxious substance permeating everything , I think perhaps the worst poison afflicting our environment, the most harmful to our ecosystem(s), because of quiescence hatred incites, the wilful ignorance, the hurt at the root of all this malice and ignor-ing. We are all capable of acts of viciousness and equally of breathtaking compassion. Some say it is harder to choose to be kind, but someone recently suggested to me that the harder path is to respond in hatred because of the long-term impact and deleterious health consequences. That gave me pause. Yet still we go to what we know, and if our lives have been infused with lethal words and acts, vice love, there really is no surprise what many of us choose. We most often go with the immediate gratification, or at least it seems to me, the action, the behaviour that gets us what we want in that split second, it is in the rest of the second that our remorse sets in and if the remorse is too big, then in justification and hatred seeps and is nourished and nurtured and blossoms. And today the earth is 7 billion weak.

Animals shake, we jackhammer

what to write. Probably need to, probably in one of those cemented states that needs a little emotional jackhammering to loosen things up. Animals shake after heavy stress aka just escaped the predator, so  that explains why exercise, of the vigorous nature does the trick. dancing, jumping running, fast walking, had a faster walk this morning courtesy of a neighbour who is becoming friendlier towards me, trust builds slowly sometimes, if at all. Me, I remain uncertain as to whether I trust anyone, not completely, I don't think that's a reality (or should be) for anyone, or maybe that's just a sad statement about me. I was breached far too early and far too completely to trust I think. Then when the steady erosion continues what is there left, a loss of trust in myself. I don't trust myself, emotions when I let myself register them are suspect. Who I am drawn to, suspect, just like Groucho Marx, it's amazing how powerful, how innate it seems, just like breath, except that I breathhold, and didn't know it for so long, discovered only when I learned to scuba dive when i kept returning from dives with so much more air left in my tanks, that it stood out. Then I met another breathholder and voila mutual validation. That was at the same workshop wherein I learned that my boundaries were so rigid I didn't allow anyone even close, I kept people not just at bay but an entire ocean's worth away. I still do. This morning a fellow dog owner invited me to join a group on a trip to a nice local beach , a place Strider loves to go (I do too in fact) my first response, of course, fear, and an internal silent scream - no, don't ask me. Is it the fear of expectations? Not just fearing I'll not live up to them (that seems to me a given, that I am disappointment perpetuity personified), but fearing there just might be some, of me. Yeesh. Fear of fear of fear really after all.

Writing helps, I say again, writing helps (old radio lingo habit, cause "repeat" means to fire again).

Effexor still ok, also believe the new vitamin regimen is assisting.

Wait, there's more! New Med (to me)

So Effexor, 2 days now. Was getting desperate as it were. Saw more dolphins - an s-load - and a humpback whale, maybe some gifts from the ocean to say: stick around, there is so much we have yet to show you. Ok. Bring it on.

I know I want to stick around, I just get to feeling pretty stuck, trapped, so sad. Cemented in sadness. But still trying.

why is it just so hard.I'm not doimg anything except breahting, can't look after a dog, let alone myself, I havent brushed my teeth for months, I havent showered in days, I jus=t want to destroy everything around me, and nin manby ways i hgave and now have no one I feel I can call, I want to scream my fucking head off pull down walls, throw rocks, smash smashsmashm then of course it the feeling of  stupidity, futility, shame. I remember feelingn like this when I WAS A TEENAGER, WHERE DOES TH9IS RAGE COME FORM, IT's awful.fuck.

Rest In Peace

She died in the night. She would have chosen life. A remarkable woman of kindness, grace and humour. Love and peace to you Jane M.

How low can I go

I hate being depressed. Whenever anyone notices (or decided they have figured out something they can say) why do they always seems surprised to hear I am having a bad day? Hello. This is depression , it's not whimsical (ok, well we can debate that) it isn't something I have"once in a while", it doesn't go into  remission. It is there the whole time. Pretty much everyday is a bad day, with the odd element of niceness.Yes, I am always depressed. Every fucking day is a fight, the only difference, aka when i might seem different, is when I happen to be managing/hiding it better that particular moment.

I have a family friend dying of cancer. We're all fairly certain she's not going to live much longer. I too live with a possibly fatal illness but that doesn't get openly acknowledged as such. People are too afraid to say anything (that is the generous outlook - the not so generous outlook is where I just think no one gives a rat's ass and/or has difficulty believing it's not my fault).

I do not want to be depressed.

I do not want PTSD. I am jumpy, suspicious, want to hide all the time, can't focus, memory is swiss-cheesy, have really nasty thoughts and dreams.

My friend doesn't want  cancer. I'll take her cancer. She wants to live. I'm not sure most days. People will be better off with her in the world. I'm fairly certain at least some people would be much happier if I was not around - so long as they are being honest.

I woke up - again, feeling so lonely and horrible. Then I finally get to the pain of it. Being sad all of the time really hurts a lot. Feeling like a bad person hurts. I hurt all of the time, And I feel very small and cheap right now because I don't have cancer. People say things, meaning well poor things, like "there is always someone worse off". That doesn't help, was it supposed to? Now I feel worse for being small enough to feel sad  - for myself [and for whatever other effing reasons I feel sad] - when someone is dying of cancer. I guess I'm supposedly that much better off. I guess.

But here's the thing(s): people don't get mad at her for having cancer, people don't blame her, or suggest there is something defective about her, or hint that perhaps she deserves it or couldn't cut it or suggest I go find some volunteer work somewhere??????? Although when cancer was first being talked about, apparently people did say those kind of shitty things.

I have no idea what I need or want, except to not feel depressed and to not live with PTSD.

I like to work, I'm a hard worker, it's just that now I'm pretty much unreliable and it's shameful and embarrassing (or does that mean the same thing? I forget).

I'm glad to write, that is important to me, to get through the stagnation, the bottlenecking, to release. This helps.

Perky

Sometimes  there's nothing else but writing. I am at a loss and am drawn back here to say whatever is passing through, just to empty out the empty thought. I wrestle with the blatant self-centredness of this, if I really wanted just to write  to purge, then I would erase, delete,etc. But then I read over old posts, sometimes I see things I didn't before or weren't there before, hmmmmm) but it's part of proving I am not a specter, that I do exist. Something concrete (that's funny, this is the ether after all)In some manner. This becomes a repository (not the kind where bumped up NOT assassins might lurk, but where my thoughts can go, to be examined at a later date, or not).

I seem to be doing better, calmer, the rage is not so quick (yet remains). I am getting up most mornings and staying up, walking the dog (we still struggle), actually had people over to the house for thanksgiving, cooked the big meal and everything, so wonder of wonders. Sadness is misting everywhere, like the 200 names for snow is this sadness inside.

I have made some interesting connections lately, meeting some like minded folk (women really) either of the arty kind, or mental health kind or both. Makes me wonder about the chemistry of beings, the magnetic fields and attractors (detractors too). So many things are so puzzling to me, the cruelty of the world, the narrow fields of vision scanned by most, what's most important most often remains unscanned, unexplored, unventured. Fear dominates I think. Fear  that drives us to avoid, to hide, to narrow, to be wilfully blind to others' suffering "What can one person do?". A great deal, as it turns out. Simple kindnesses everyday will colour your immediate area with light, light your sphere of influence, a little bit here a little there. Kindness is so powerful. I just wish I could think more kindly towards myself. Being kind to others (unless I'm in the throes of the - horrors- trigger) is not hard, in fact it feels good. Being asked to do something compassionate often brings about a feeling of being threatened, but what I have found instead is that when kindness prevails, no one loses, there is no realised threat. Kindness is kind of logarithmic. But then so is meanness.

How I do ramble. This entry feels kind of perky. What the hell.

Love to everyone okay?

We're all Alternating Currents

feeling bad
why dress it up with adjectives
they get misused all the time anyway
we've maxed out our hyperbole
just listen to the news  - we're crying out for new words
need another Latin
have we truly mined all that is Sanskrit yet?
surely we could give that a good belittling?

so many of us, all trying to  be unique all trying to fit in
it's the crux: should I stay or go?

we're all AC
pushing pulling trapped
not sure there are better alternatives

not sure there are walls to this hole
just that it's dark (ah here they come, the tears) and scary and achingly lonely but I send people away, I don't reach out and don't want to don't want to hurt anyone else, don't want to spoil someone's nice day, just want a nice one for myself, just want to stop longing for end

no words for this

several actually,, but all inadequate to the  cause, I think  perhaps just screaming and wailing and moaning, pre-verbal, ante-verbal and then post-verbal, cycling, spiralling around words, because they've always fallen short. we want new words to speak, new  accurate ways to describe our experience, yet we want to be understood

at least I do, I crave it, must speak in "I". I'm only one, in this sea of voices (someone else said this first) drowning, too distressed to see the ones next to /all around us, hold on, can we really save ourselves? Or is it through helping/holding onto others that I can get out of danger?

Sadly. the barrier is so dense, so obscured, so clever, so many steps ahead. And beside and behind. Surrounded by steps, mired in their midst.

Don't be alarmed - in the event of a real emergency, etc.

Why suicide "note"? Isn't it an immediate pass to "Take this seriously"Does it not earn the magnitude of the moniker "Letter", "Manifesto"?

"Note" sounds casual, like it's less dangerous, less worthy of note (sorry), like calling violence in relationships "domestic", like you could buy a 25 pack at the card store. That'd be something. "This is our new suicide section" "Do you have something in suicides?""Thought of you while drowning/falling/jumping/cutting"

Did they leave a note? Yeah. F#. Or maybe that's just a bad key.

Sadly, been imagining what I might say. Something like: Thank you for loving me, sorry I didn't share your good opinion of me.

Bad mornings - too many in a row. Observing myself from a safe distance. Not even the 500+ dolphins made a dent but thanks anyway universe for trying.

Something please register, other than sad things I mean.
I've been imagining really horrific accidents, involving people/dogs I love. I think I'm looking for a concrete "excuse" for what I am feeling, because nothing is making sense. But then, what does?

Really difficult to imagine what use this can all be.

again. fuck.

As Karma is to Caramel

i've been eating my feelings all day, alone working on my project, feeling entirely inhuman. No one to call, of my own doing. what would I talk about: sorry I have completely alienated you  but now I need someone to lean on so give over? this strange numbness, the physical shit going on that's part withdrawal and part just my weird health state. some say i need to talk about some things but I'm unclear about what, so i guess I need to typographically dig through this layer of top"soil" (I thought soil had mostly good connotations). I know the sadness is there, always, lurking, and I can feel it more and more as I type, but it's just so very odd feeling, beyond description, except for the heavy emptiness about it. Disconnected, lonely, so lonely,(ok here come the tears) so weird, so freaky, just wrong, just bad, just "off".  Here in the ether dwell genuine kind hearts, truly caring, but it doesn't connect to me. I don't even know where or how to begin to feel human, I don't know what that means, what it might look like, I feel like I just was born faking it. No desire to do anything, mystified by this no desire: shouldn't I feel something strong (or ok weak) for anything, why so much nothing? Is this just simply coping with what life was handing me? Did I just decide I needed to cope and switched into full-on cope mode? Did I come into the world screaming and never stop? Did no one hear this screaming and wonder why and decide to help? Was I not worth listening to (more tear, flood flood). Apparently I've screamed myself silent, I guess that's what happens when you think no one hears or worse, cares to hear. It happened today, I got a call from someone, they asked how I was  'No, really" so I sort of said in a way I thought they could manage and they then proceeded to talk about themselves. The loneliness is horrible . The agony of being with others is horrible. I don't know which is worse. Feeling my pain or someone else's. Ironically, it's all my own, I just keep channelling myself through others. My tear ducts needed some cleaning, I've been holding a lot in, afraid of what really saying would do. So afraid. So convinced of pending doom. So convinced of my innate wrongness. My entire blog is redundant, what does being heard mean? Does having a witness to my own stuff (that I believe - how's that for messed up?) end up making any difference, does being seen/heard heal me? Am I healable? What did I do to bring this on anyway, must have been a bad move karma-kly (Karmally? Karmal? Caramel?).
Nothing like some random mind stream of write to get me some crying done.

withdrawal continues

body aches several days now
multiple bms (although lessening overall)
morning nausea
tiredness
waking up in the night (ok that's been happening for years)
unsteady on my feet (several recent spectacular falls with bruising and small bloodletting)
dizzy
confusion
really having trouble focussing compared to what I know I have been capable of
more memory issues
pondering suicide by lightning (aka dying by choice in a way that no one feels guilty about afterwards and can say "It was just a terrible accident"


How do others stay motivated? What keeps people going? Are there really people in this world who feel ok most days? Are there people who sleep well?

I'm trying to gather evidence that I am not just not trying hard enough, that I do have real barriers against functioning. It's hard to believe and yet not.

Easy to cry  - comme toujours (I am Canadian after all).

eh?

Saturday night treat night

does anyone else wander around feeling like a complete alien? I just walked through a very  crowded campground full of parents and children and pets and singing and laughing and other camping/regular human activities.

I don't feel like I belong anywhere. Even my recent family related travel extravaganza went extravagantly bad.

there was an open mike at the camp ground with this kind of country fiddle, etc band but I knew if I had tried to sing I would have just cried. So many things hurt, and it's so bewildering

I want to fit in and I am terrified of being close.

Short-winded Clonazepam Experimentation Saga-ette

Previous 2 nights 1.0 clonazepam
& prev 2 mornings migraines with a generous side of nausea
& 222s
& constipation
 = .5 pam and hope for no migraine

being tired beats being tired and migranular.

I have impressively inrageous (not righteous) anger - it does not flare, it lashes out like a cobra.

How It Happens (aka subject change)

Tiredness sucks light out of everything. Tiredness digs deep, dark, slippery-sided holes. Not tunnels, tunnels imply a way out or through. Holes.

Tiredness increases vulnerability leaves only tight spaces for choices. Vision impairs and gets impaired. Dubious behaviours.

Hard choices are harder, sliding away appeals.
My crying makes everything that much more slippery.

Doom likes to keep its options open.

too tired to capitalise

Trigger trigger what's NOT a trigger

Hectares ( ok maybe just acres) of emotional minefields

It's impressive/depressing how fast my dominant emotion can change. I guess therein lays the provenance of "emotional roulette" (with a generous underpinning of the Russian kind, woohoo, triple entendre!). Wheel                 of              

I'm so fucking tired right now. I need to sleep, why won't my effing brain let me just sleep, just one night for a change. The only med I still take is (insert opening salvo here) -pam and for all the good is does me...

I think pharmaceutical companies are focussed on numbing people out (aka silencing them) instead of actually developing truly curative aka beneficial drugs. Cheaper to go for the numbing I guess. Our world is such an unholy mess, massive racism once again at the fore as the horn of Africa is dealt yet another (still) drought, another1/2 million children goners. Holocausts every 6 months really. Are people just too tired to care? Or is that too generous a sentiment? How about: people do not care.

I know I'm all over the place but it's just that I'm all over the place. Can't conjure up some poemy thing tonight. Just tired.

Took 1.0 of ____ pam. We'll see.

Bits and Jack Layton

Back from a  walk, have been wanting to write all the time, just let stuff out, get it out. I am sad to hear that one of our best and brightest Canadians died this morning from cancer, Jack Layton, what a loss - there needs to be another word for loss. I hope his family has a lot of support around them and I hope people learn from his very fine examples.

Wake Up

Morning again

just once to feel rested
just once to feel light it seems too much  to ask
I have food
I have water

I have love             from others
I have shelter

I have things
but sadness always wins
sadness is on top
again

morning

Manipulative Me

guilt
what do I own
what is owned by others
suspecting some inevitable crossover

shame
I said how I felt to ease my own  snarl and others noticed and loved
I felt power and shame
shame that I scare people
shame that people worry for me
power that what i said caused someone to notice
shame rinses away the love
shame is the straightener
shame cuts and hones itself

worry and love
either skims over treacherous airs and waters
i the perfect skipping stone
i miss (escape?)  purchase
i elude capture
capture could prove better
but is clearly chance-ridden

so elusion and ill-usion remain

I'm just water

this is too hard, rage pain so sad, so many tears, i thought I cried a lot before, everything is wounding me scabs have no time to form everywhere i turn is pain, someone else's mine i don't know where mine comes from it just hurts raw, raw can't take too much more don
t want to go home  just want to pick fights don't want to hurt anyone else don't want anyone else to hurt cause i just hurt more i feel like some sort of pain barometer, i register it around me i can't defend myself i can't stop it

no words

salt
water
core feelings akin to species provenance

salt
water
born in it drowning in it

i'm just water flowing pushed around hiding in the low spaces stepped in stepped on frozen

i'm just water

i want to boil myself all away

Some day asking for what I want will not lead to internal torture.

I just "caught" my company smoking in our house. I said "That's not good" and "Please don't smoke in the house". My husband said "Go to bed Kelly". Nice. I just spent an hour listening to entirely inappropriate jokes, did not laugh (they weren't funny) and now for some reason it's ok for him to smoke in my house. Doesn't matter that I've asked my husband not to, I thought it was a reasonable assumption that he would respect my wishes.

So they're all mad and I am no doubt the bitch - sometime  i just fucking hate the entitlement of men. I said "There is a great big yard outside for you to smoke in". So now, the part I really hate, the part where I buy into the "I'm a bitch".

I feel like I am three and I just disagreed with my angry dad. I feel afraid, I feel unjust. And I didn't do anything wrong.

Fuck I wish I was more assertive. This is small small shit and I feel devastated. This is the kind of shit that sends me reeling into bad scary trap-laden places.

So Far (with nods to CSNY - NOT CSI NY)

Difficulty forming words, wrong word usage.
inability to focus.
Extreme and immediate rage.
Intolerance.
Overall rotten feeling.
No censor.
Frequent crying.

On the plus side: I'm coming out of a fog

Blog Rage...oh yeah, and DON'T PANIC

WHY IS IT THAT WHEN I ACTUALLY TELL SOMEONE WHO LOVES ME, SOMEONE WHO SAYS, CALL ME, TALK TO ME, TELL ME WHAT'S GOING ON, WHEN I REALLY TELL THEM ABOUT THE BAD TIMES, THEY SAY I AM WALLOWING.
FUCK
So people don't really want to hear. THEY CAN'T HANDLE IT! I don't need another voice telling me I am wallowing,  I'm not wallowing, I'm fucking drowning in sadness, in my own tears, how is this wallowing? Isn't wallowing supposed to fell good??? I feel trapped, I talk, people freak out, I ask for help, people freak out. I actually called the provincial healthline and the person was panicking, and I just wanted to talk, I was scared, I thought I maybe needed some medical attention and just wanted some  guidance, I was hoping the person wouldn't panic. Can't people just fucking listen for a fucking change? I don't want anyone to take over and fix everything (well, ok if this was possible then yes, please, sign me up) DON'T fucking panic, DON'T offer to send an ambulance, I didn't ask for one, I just wanted to know if I should see someone, as I had clearly demonstrated my ability to make a phone call, and clearly demonstrated my ability to self-assess, (hence the call for help) just ask me what's going on, ask me what I think will help, DON'T FUCKING PANIC.


So the upshot of all of this is  - in addition to feeling so sad - I now feel stripped of dignity and that Yes it is my fault I am a) not trying hard enough; b) fundamentally flawed; c) even MORE reluctant to ask for help. NOW, I'm not going to tell anyone when it's really hard because everyone I spoke to  did not want to hear.

I spent years listening to others, trying to understand trying to hear between the lines, trying to accompany them to the scene of their agony, trying to help them feel less alone. I know how hard it was for me, I guess a little empathy for my frightened loved ones is in order, but when does it ever really get to be ok to have compassion for myself without fear of it ricocheting tenfold.
I know they are scared, I am scared too, I am terrified, when will someone just be brave for me? I am so very tired of being brave.

Medication Is Moot

I need to stop reading other peoples' posts, it's so heartbreaking and it triggers so much shame, inadequacy, loneliness. I have no business responding to others', what I want is to take away everyone's pain, it's unbelievably brutal to read/hear history  after history of women who were brutalised  so young (and continue to be) and how instead of being loved and supported they were further derided and humiliated and traumatised, instead of protected, defended, comforted, loved.  I know it is true, I never doubt, it rings true with me on so many ancient levels. I am so raw, bleeding, toxic, how can this continue, be in this world where so much good should be/ is (I imagine secretly) possible? How can it be that so many still get hurt? And the tv schedule is full of more stories of women being  brutalised in physical, psychological and societal forms. There is always this undercurrent of blame the victim. I swear it romanticises being an abuser, it's so  so sick and I cannot see things getting any better here, but then I read/hear the hundreds/thousands/millions of accounts of courage in the face of this universal brutalisation of women and children. Women fighting back through the abuse-inflicted wreckage. Scrapping back, despite the terror infusing us all. Fighting just to believe their own truth. Such suffering is everywhere. I cannot bear it.  I have no  business responding to others' accounts, at best I can witness and validatePain is everywhere and I have no escape. Indeed I have no right to escape, I am trying to retain some measure of moral courage. but it is so very hard.

It is this hard when I am on medication, so the medication is moot. I want to feel, feelings cannot harm me.

Thank you , thank you to those who have the courage to question.

No animals will be harmed

If my skin can heal - so can my brain. if my bones can heal, so can my brain. I saw my dad's heart in 1999, it was building new arteries and veins all by itself to create its own bypass. Fuck the psychiatrists and their fucking drugs. This is my TED talk. Move over woman who healed herself from a massive stroke (ok good for you and way to go, etc) - I'm making myself a project, I am testing my own theory. I am conducting my own research - participant observation. I will not test on animals, this is my ethical standard. I believe my brain can heal itself, and it can do it better without SSRIs and SNRIs to tell it to shut down any of its NATURAL processes. Clearly that has not worked, and has not worked so successfully that I have deteriorated, so I am trying something new (something old). I have to detox first to  get the pharmaceutical shit out of my system and then I am moving on. I am not going to wait for some genius to "scientifically" (Bullshit) prove that I am right. I know I'm right. It is going to work. There. Catch up later geniuses.

Fuck the medication

I'm sick of feeling numb and being a phantom. I have stopped the celexa and welbutrin. I was off the clonazepam for a couple days but decided I needed to sleep. So I took it last night, but everything else - fuck it. I was getting worse. So here's to getting better.

Apologise to our soldiers.

The morning starts with a wash of guilt,  a recital of shortcomings, tears are there in less than 30 mins. Fuck. I'm retreating further and further inside. Seeking safety? Cowering? It's all the same to me. I'm all out of courage. I want to thank the soldiers too on this day, as we near 150 years of nationhood. But how can we thank them, we should apologise instead.

We're sorry we lied to you. There is no honour. There will not be any honour. Only despair. Only death. Only your love for your comrades. Then a flag draped over you, the attention finally for you, but too late to the dance. And a "waterfall of...weeping" (Pete Townsend). A surge of patriotism on parade. Perhaps we should seek out matriotism instead. way to go! Way to die you poor (and poor) bastards! Way to believe the lies.

Don't thank our soldiers. Apologise to them. Don't let your children go to the recruiting centers. Don't. Help them find what they seek within themselves. Help them heal before you add more scar tissue.

Do not contribute to the lie. Please.

Thin Veneer

The veneer is very thin today, capable of osmosis. Tiredness seriously degrades any coping/avoidance. I walk, my mind is empty - deliberately so. There is movement below, but I stifle it. How much do I stifle everyday. A great deal methinks. Sadness lurking. Anonymous sadness - too many contributors. it's not one trauma - it's many many. My artists' mind conjuring vivid horrors. Hearing the screams of people directly facing the nightmare that is not a nightmare. It's true. "My father's face is gone!". "I don't know how many people I killed". "He tied me up for three days". "Everything's so much better, we communicate so well, he broke my wrist last week. we're doing do much better". "He shot himself in the head right beside me". "I buried him by driving over and over his body, pressing him into the sand". Then my brain kicks in to shut it all off, no more, that's enough. So I'll sleep.

Magma of Sadness, Boundary Sine Waves and What's the Big Deal with Crying

I'm just easing out of a large crying jag - spillover desperation and frustration with puppy and triggers abound. I feel so very little sometimes, I think maybe the age i was when I first felt fear and violation. Because I feel so helpless and vulnerable, and my adult self feels so angry at all of this, things that hurt me, things that hurt others, it seems like I just feel it all indiscriminately - must be the wide open/clamped shut boundary sine wave  going on. It's why I stay home and cave it, as a comrade blogger so aptly puts it.


I spent many many years not crying, making myself not cry- no doubt a legacy of the "Don't cry or I'll give you something to cry about" mantra. Thus ensued this stoicism that I carried for years, a shallow toughness, industrial strength on the outside but a magma of sadness (new James Bond movie title) seething (sorry, counter intuitive) beneath. People have told me over and over again how strong I am/appear, I have been placed in leadership roles by volunteer or upsurge. How did they not see the fear? People are mostly feeling their own feelings and too busy worrying about themselves. My stoicism soon deteriorated into numbness. Now, today, all of those obstructed feelings want acknowledgment, and they do not share and do not cooperate. They prefer to exist as a horde.


Sometime I wonder if all these attempts to create community (of 2 or 9 billion) are fruitless, maybe why so many of us feel buttressed with yearning -  a fragile state. Maybe we are just all alone and attempts to share our lives with others are doomed. I feel so alone, so often, I hope others don't feel this way, it's crippling.


OK, I've stopped crying now. Maybe I'll watch some royal wedding, I just care about the outfits.

A Classic Case of PTSD - aka Me.

If anyone doubts the physical impact of emotionally based issues, think about how exhausting a stressful day at work can be, or when traveling, ever been puzzled by how tired you feel when you've been sitting down for a couple hours? It's stress and stress is physically draining. Stress is caused by any change, we need stress in our  lives otherwise we would all be dead - imagine not ducking if a ball gets thrown our way (or, being Canadian, a puck)? If our reptilian brains didn't prompt us to move we wouldn't last long. Or  a car goes through a red light, we (hopefully) stomp on our brakes. The speed at which our brain transmits and receives such warning signals is quite striking (heehee), if it wasn't fast, well we wouldn't be having this (one-sided) conversation. These messages are our stress responses. These are good things to have. It is good that when we are cut that our brains tell our blood to slow down and clot a little, otherwise we would all bleed to death. It is good that our brain feeds our blood oxygen and dumps more energy into our muscles so we can slam on those brakes (or run away from the mean bear), it's good that we get extra adrenalin and cortisol dumped into our systems too, we get stronger and faster. It is good that our pupils dilate when there's trouble so they let in more light, so we can see what the problem is. These are all good things. The problem is that when the trouble (the loss, the scare) is really big our most fundamental brain functions just take over (you girls stay here) and keep control. Instead of responding to the trouble then as the trouble decreases we relax (you know- the crash after the high) we stay in response mode, it's as if the trouble never goes away so we have to keep in response mode. It's like our brains freeze in place, we stay on alert: always wary of, always expecting, always feeling a threat. Always in trouble, always in danger, always afraid. That's me.

Small wonder that when the big hurts happen, we can feel even more wasted. Imagine then if the hurts don't stop, ever, the brain stays on alert. Pretty exhausting and that is how I feel right now. I saw the psychiatrist again yesterday and I am still reacting to the stress of it. It's not  like I was ever in any true danger, but my brain is now hardwired to feel like I am. perpetually. in danger. I get depleted very easily, I don't have any reserves, no back up generator. This is PTSD.  And the brain Dr.  said yesterday I have it and that I represent a classic case.  I was shocked actually, that he stated this with such certainty. such casual conviction. sadness and validation. Sorrow and regret (from the muppet frog prince).

He wants me to find and include more restorative things/actions in to daily life. He thought me watching Family Guy again was a good idea (I laugh very hard). Wants me to cut out the naps since while naps help me rest (mystery that), they don't really replenish. I need replenishment. Wants me to include more people in my life. wants me to - gasp - socialize. Suggests that I volunteer in some sort of artful fashion. Work with kids. I love kids and I love doing art and encouraging imaginative play with children, I just don't trust myself to make (and keep) the commitment. I doubt my ability to be reliable. I guess I can just try, and keep an eye (just the one) on myself so I can tell when I have had enough. You know, listen to my mind and body, recognize the warning signs, respect my boundaries. Tricky stuff this, makes me even more self-centered. Actually, I've always been "other" centered.

It feels good to write, it was the only thing that felt right to do right now, the only thing I felt I could do. So hurray for everything.

Being Seen and Being Heard

Been a long while. I self-censor. Sometimes the shame dictates my actions, tell me to stop wallowing, stop writing, you have nothing new to write, nothing to offer, such harsh judgments. I know, or believe, that I judge myself so nastily as a way to ward off others' potential mean judgments, what I expect from others anyhow. It makes sense to me, a sort of survival mechanism if I am the one who can hurt me most, ipso facto,no one can hurt me, I become impervious to their meanness, except that I don't. Just another in the long line of self-delusion.

I met with the psychiatrist last week, I was terrified, my anxiety just kept building to the extent that by the time I was just walking into the building where his office is, I was shaking then tears ensued. I sat in his office, then just cried. He asked what the tears were about, I wasn't really sure, expect that I was afraid of what would happen, afraid he would decry me as False, faker, fraud. He knows people I know as well as I do, so in part there was a nice (surprising) sense of camaraderie that i have not felt in a very long time. Someone who knew what we were all up against, someone who knew the culture, the language (although Mr Mcluhan said they were one and the same), the acronyms, someone who could read between the lines of my stories. It's good to feel understood, even though there exists a concomitant discomfort with someone understanding so well, seeing me so clearly. Won't be able to hide much from this one.

I cannot fathom that there exist people who wake up in the morning feeling good, who want to get out of bed, people who feel happy, it' beyond my scope - I just don't believe it. I think it's part of my  belief that there is nothing wrong with me - except that there is something wrong with me.

well the Doc asked me to come back because after 2 hrs straight talking, he still hadn't finished his VAC assessment. He said he had about 20 more questions to ask, I said why not email them to me, he looked at me and said "No, I want you to come back." I replied that there were other people who needed his time more than me, people who needed (aka deserved) his help more. He said "You deserve to come back, I wouldn't ask if you didn't".  It's difficult to believe, I just don't understand what has happened to me, and yet I do in an academic from a distance/dissociative sense. So tomorrow I'm off to Vancouver once again. It feels very luxurious, event decadent, to have someone listen and really get it. But you see, he was in Rwanda, he disclosed his humanity to me, and it released many inhibitions. It is good to be seen, very vulnerable position though it might be, it is good.

Take care everyone.

Congealed Feelings...Thwarting Myself

Silver Swarm

i walked the dog to the beach this morning, stopped to sit, let myself feel the sadness wash over me. Watched the tugs at a distance, looked across the water, watched the waves crash, still crying, feeling alone, so tiny, angry, insignificant, wondering why it hurt(s) so much. I keep talking about this, maybe i just need to to dissipate the power over me. Like my personal hydro. Trying to let off some of the radioactive steam so I don't melt down, but although i am not a nuclear reactor, I still feel the toxicity of the outlay all around. An utter lack of faith in myself. Thinking only of despair for the future, a future of failure, always looming, waiting for it to come. Or maybe i do try to bring it on myself to ease the limbo of waiting. Our survival instincts are always working, assessing. But I don't see any plan, no way out. Looking up at the birds, a distant curiosity fills me, what for? What the fuck am I doing here? There is no need for me. I just hurt. I'm wasting precious air.

And of course weighing heavily is the issue of abuse and how it gets passed down like some ill conceived heirloom. Children who are beaten, terrorized, berated by their damaged parents for the smallest imagined blunder. Vowing never to be like their parents, but missing the key: they don't know what the alternatives are, and by the time adulthood rolls around, the choice to abuse not only appears to be the only solution, it feels like the right one, the normal one. Then we are confused when our behaviour does not elicit the response we want. We are trapped the angst of disloyalty. Must not speak the truth of it. The cycle continues. Alternatives feel too scary, ancient congealed feelings feel too scary. Do not go there. Punishment lurks. Abandonment lurks. I feel the anger surge inside, the injustice drills in to me, floods in really. All the world a series of injustice. Molecules of injustice as microcosmic clones. and all the while, the tugs tug, the birds fly, oblivion or denial? The former as pinnacle, the latter as waystation.

The neglect by the trusted ones feeds our toxicity, subliminal whispers of how we might seek revenge, doesn't tell us the consequences, lures us with images of payoff,  the empty promise by which we are fooled. The hole in the fence where we hammered in the nail. The hole that remains even should we manage to pry it out. The lesion.  The fence forever altered. Is this what is happening in my brain? Is this the irreparable damage? Is there hope in neural plasticity? Solace in medication? I fear it i too late for me.
I try to understand in a way that is balm. But its homonym surges forward. I don my protective coating and carry on. I continue to hope through the despair, it is all I can do to thwart the lure of the edge.

PSYCH! or rather SNAP!

Just got a call from the clinic, no Dr. Passey in this week, thus my case was not discussed, thus one more week until my "case" is discussed.

Crappity-crap-crap.

I am now blogging for health central, the latest is Anxiety, Depression and PTSD . Guess I'll just go between in an alternating type fashion.

Jane

A very dear family friend, my 5th sister, is extremely ill. The likely not coming back kind of ill. Everyone who knows her is currently going through all manner of shock/grief response. Me, I don't feel anything.I think I'm in serious lockdown mode. I feel like a horrid freak. There is no reason not to feel anything. And I don't think I am in shock or anything like that.

It's not about me.

Please live Jane, we're even not remotely prepared to say goodbye. You are a gracious, hilarious, beautiful woman. Please live.

Happy Lab Rat

Shame has been on my mind a great deal lately. I am a very fortunate person, with many things and people in my life to feel grateful for, but gratitude eludes me. I try to feel grateful, I do. Sometimes there is a fleeting permeation of peace: reassuring yet elusive as w(h)ell. Shame however is, as they say, another story. Persistent. Shame for intervening too late, shame for an ill-judged intervention, shame in my gelid state of cowardice.

In the news people everywhere are fighting to survive. Our planet is markedly void of peace. I believe in our capacity for goodness, believe that goodness is our default state. We are drawn astray. Our childhood deprivations become our internal stealth guides.  We are not aware. We seek power to assuage powerlessness. Wealth to erase neglect. What was externally toxic claims our self. We become our abuse.

I wonder about my drugs. Wonder if I am further crippling my brain. My brain has the capacity to heal itself. I fear the drugs interfe(a)re. HA, a pun of sorts! I want off. before my desire to want out wins.

My Veteran's Affairs Case Manager has suggested I be "assessed" by an OSI Clinic in Vancouver (OSI - Operational Stress Injury - yeesh, why can't the military just use the words already there, talk about reinventing the wheel). I have agreed to it, maybe there are other things to help, maybe acupuncture? Maybe a couple of short laser blasts into my brain? Lick a socket??? Apparently my GP and Psychologist have decreed I meet the criteria for Long Term Disability. LTD - sadly not a fancy car. I want to feel better, although it is fun being a drama queen - LOOKATMELOOKATME!!!!!

I am happy to be a lab rat. I said I would be part of a study if it meant I could undergo some as yet unsanctioned (ideally controversial - so I can achieve my dream of being a superhero) treatment. But I am (no surprise) afraid. Some of the staff at the clinic were military. I fear being found an imposter. Fear that what is wrong with me is a fundamental, genetically flawed state. A factory second. Defect. Marked down for quick sale.

Oh boy.

Puppy needs outside.

Warning: Anatomically Correct Memory

My body keeps my oral history. Or better, lingual or (warning overused word approaching) metaphysical??Well. Body memories are dogged, I have worked very hard to dis-connect from my body (or maybe that was just an autopilot thing) but sometimes, they launch. usually in my genital area. I'll never be certain why. I have some ideas, but never certainty. Sometimes its oddly reassuring because if this is what I was dealt as a toddler (for some reason I'm thinking 2-3 yrs) then it explains everything about me. The lack of boundaries, the passiveness, the weak joints (oh yes, I put up as big a struggle as my little self could). Knees, Hips, Shoulders, all have made their presence known over the years. When one is held down, one fights, one fights, one fights...then stops because it doesn't work. Doesn't work. The promiscuity. The LACK OF SELF ESTEEM. The GHOST PRESENCE. I fought - my body confirms I did, but no one noticed = I don't exist, because if I did, someone would have noticed and helped me, right??can't change that. Can't know. can't know in a way I can comprehend and put to rest. My body is trying to help me, I guess. Some sort of reenactment where I get the chance to experience without the danger, a kind of self-EMDR (does this work?). Except that I fight again, i think STOP STOP, I push with all my might, I  remain terrified. Terror is my invisibility cloak. I wear it everyday, no ones sees. It's molten, it's fused to my skin. Physical intimacy fraught with dread. I have been robbed of so much. Many, so many of us, robbed of life before we even know we are alive. There's no pawn shop with serial numbers of our souls. We cannot reclaim.I live with this mystery. It is coloured outside of the lines. So my art is as well. And my alarm system is in on.

A Picture is Worth...etc.

Couldn't recall if I'd posted this before.
A little of me - a little of others.

Weathering Emotional Umbrellas...

Emotions travel in packs. They set upon you from all dimensions. When I was working I called emotions like anger an "umbrella" emotion because there were so many more different feelings wrapped up in it, but anger is the societally accepted label. Frustration is another one, discouragement, sadness, helplessness, etc. Spectrum feelings. No feeling exists in a vacuum. No feeling exists on its own.  It's a sociological phenomenon as well as psychological.

Whatever, I had a thought last night and though I could write about it, I haven't written in a long time. I feel reluctant to write now, I know it helps me detox yet it's a struggle to let myself succumb to writing about them. It's twisted that way, I know I need a ventilation system. So just write Kel, be in the moment and reach inwards, there is always something to say if i just keep at it. it doesn't matter if it is relevant to anyone else, yet I hope it is. I feel so alone, and I self-isolate, so it's an chicken and egg thing too.

We are conceived in a group, we develop inside another person, we don't start out in  this world being alone, we are never alone and yet loneliness can assail us. Neglect, deprivation in all their forms. I get hurt so I stay away. I crave acceptance yet dread the idea of feeling un-special. This is a relentless battle I imagine  everyone struggles with, how do we give our uniqueness and similarities a balance of attention and nourishment??

Treating different people the same ways gets different outcomes. However we are influenced - biologically, organically, socially, etc., equality of opportunity does not guarantee equity. How do I celebrate rather than denigrate my self. What are the real character flaws, which are the imagined ones?

Anyhow, I am feeling uninspired writing wise. Bye.

Puppy Love

Too much traffic in my head. Things darting in and out like angry rabbits, memories, feelings, judgments taking little nips at me then skittering away. Some don't dart, some sink in their damning maws and draw  blood. My puppy is in my head. Not so surprisingly I suppose, he has become a clear window through which to see - even more glaringly - how passive and frightened I am. all the time. Although the intent was for him to be my dog as therapy as nonjudgmental role model for me, but in 3 short wks I am not alpha - K. is -  and I am not assertive enough. I have so much fear, and puppy reads me rather well. I try to be the calm assertive Dog Whisperer advises, but I am neither. It's not his fault. I watch my partner with him and there is this easy strength (although he gets frustrated too), he plays with the dog in a way I realize I have no clue about. I don't know how to play. I feel threatened  and he reads. I feel uncertain and he reads. Such a little scholar. He is beautiful and lovely and likes my company but clearly sees K as the one to go to. So my little lonely self feels abandoned.

Trigger happy. I am in my head rending, churning out as much evidence as it can, elucidating failures. I am feeling rather starkers (yes, naked and raving). There are much worse things in the world than to have a constant reminder of my doormat-self. I'm trying to escape but this overriding (or underpinning - either way I'm surrounded) sense of  doom does tend to shred one. Dispirited are us. I have black and white positions, fear and attack. I just want it to go away, I want to stop feeling so bad inside. I'm becoming more and more convinced that it's just not gonna happen. So bleak so spare this inner terrain,  I am a miracle of lichen surviving under harsh conditions. How does a mind (using the term loosely) get this way, I mean it's a rhetorical question as I believe I have some pretty good ideas about that, but it's crying out from within, I just don't want to hurt anymore, is it too much to ask? I didn't ask for it so someone something please take it away. Have I been so awful that i am meant to feel punished and unliveable, I have not earned a life so it would seem. Yet I am here, awash in this excreta. Increta really, it's inside and it's all been said, felt thought before. I am by no means charting new waters here, and so I feel ashamed to ask for so much. So much. Don't I have enough all ready? But I'm going through some motions, others I am not even trying. I'm not living my own life, someone else should have been given this chance, I appear to be wasting mine away. I wrestle with writing all this down in public, I rationalise by saying I can put my thoughts down quicker and not miss so much in my efforts to houseclean, yet I know I also want to be seen, and loved. I don't love me though. Others profess too but it rolls off like rain over oil. There's nothing worth loving in here I whisper. Give your love where it will do some good.

I pop my pills and there is less edge, but it's still looming out there, very close, willing me to just go, slip over. I'm still here, so something is keeping me going, but I'm not happy about it. Ha. ha.