A couple things have come up, neither new, One of the "but everyone has problems" approach to "Helping" was is supposed to make me feel better, this externally enforced epiphany that "I'm not the only one you know" For the record: I get it, ok? Then there was the inadvertant triggering ensuing from someone unhidden kindnesses, equals floodgates open! The vicious threaaat: Careful or I'll do/say somethin nice to you
Went to see a massage therapist yesterday, she was very good, deceptively simple moves which shifted my body - especially my head neck and back - profoundly, had little sharp things - electrical impulses really - running out hither and yon, good things, and left me altered. I am so disconnected from my body. We were discussing how only very recently as a culture we are turning to the wisdom of the body, the memory bank, the autobiography that is our bodies. That we are all walking miracles and how most of us ignore our bodies or -I chimed in - forget we have them. Reminded me of my experiences of moving through this world as a ghost presence. I cried a steady stream, pure release. There are such gently kind, quietly helpful people with such capacity, it is astounding. She is one.
Went to a couple art openings on fri night, decided to go for it and wear a ton of colour - one of the shows was all about celebrating colour and I confess I have rather embraced the artists' penchant for black attire. Although a couple artist friends and me have considered the fun of using the opening nights as a palette for self-expression and we had made a quasi-pact about deliberately dressing edgy or - in my case - non-cool. So I went for it. Go big or go home as it were.
My go-to Pink skirt (ok fuchsia) with bright orange liner (consignment store!), a pink, brown green and white flowery spaghetti strap top (not as hideous as it could have been - Winners!), a bright green jacket, pale blue, green yellow and brown knee highs and brought it home with an awesome multi fabric/fibre scarf, bright orange feather-cuff gloves and black granny boots. Frickin' awesome! And the best part was the reactions of people around me! My friends were laughing - with, not at - strangers were a curious blend of interest, amusement, obvious discomfort and nausea.
So one of my pieces - this one - won an award (a certificate but who cares?), very very exciting for me and I got called up to the front of the crowd (one of the male presenters seemed quite taken aback, particularly with the orange gloves) and could not resist being the ham said thank you and also "I didn't want to wear black!" and that "I'm gonna call my mom!" the last 2 comments eliciting laughs, so a bit of fun and real pleasure for me to feel, nice. And artist friends genuinely happy for me. Extra nice.
Now from left field, I have decided to undertake the neuro-feedback portion of the evening and have set all of the wheels in motion for same. So with this and some more massage therapy (interestingly, she asked if I have ever sustained a head injury!?!?) I am clearly ramping up this whole healing adventure. And dressing up on fri was me throwing the gauntlet down. Take that Universe. Your mother was a hamster.
awake, let the dog out. I love the moon, so bright, there is a heavy frost, winter is clinging.dark dreams are clinging, leaving bad tastes in my brain.watching curiously from so far: what will happen next? where will my thoughts go? how about sleep??? I'll give it a whirl.
whirling dervish thoughts, colourful yes, but under that candy coating, dread. Flail the colour away, there remains only dread.
So instead of mindlessly playing game after game of spider, I thought I'd try writing instead, some stream of thought stuff, who knows what might happen? Put a call into Veteran's Affairs case worker, to see about the neurofeedback program, 2 days a week in Victoria for 5 or 10 weeks, not sure which. Essentially it looks like a shower cap gets put on my head with probes on it attached to my "Brain" (using the term loosely) and then to monitor my various emanations (hee hee) and see what happens as my various emotions alter, give rise, etc. Curious really, perhaps a cool art project will transpire. Who knows? Can't hurt, worst I can do is cry right?
Nothing like a little more shame and humiliation to put me in my place. See, I did some work for awhile with this particular clinic several years back, it's run by a former colleague, the one who did my initial assessments, who said that my IQ was 107 and that treated me "less than" (or at least it's how I felt, perhaps my imagination, d-uh, think so Kel?) because of what the test score said, guess I was no longer seen as a quasi-equal, guess I'm still pissed about that. Said IQ test consisted of one 2-sided paper. The 1st side was all definitions a la RD's "It pays to increase your word power", I sucked at this part. The 2nd side was all logic problems, like "what comes next in this series" and "peach is to apple as frog is to...". I got 2 of about 20 wrong. And upon seeming stymied by these confusing results (aka how could I suck at one and rock the other?) he dismissed my logic part as "good guesses" and pronounced me average. Oh well. I have a very large ego after all, probably could use some more down-to-earthiness reality checks. What being grounded really means. Ick.
The mind protects us, it is so dedicated to keeping us moving and carrying on. As i walked today I was wondering who do i think about the most and the truth was of course, myself, sort of, all else is a fog, but it is very easy then to recall the names and stories of the others, the clarity and sadness which swiftly ensues.
I feel sickened by the ubiquitous presence of violence; willed violence, condoned, paid for, sought out celebrated, violence. Millions watch "Sports", modern bear baiting, want the fights to break out, cheer them on, deify the "tough" guys. Use words like heroic to describe a golf shot. Once again, I reiterate, we need new words, the good ones have had their meanings mined and depleted, all is surface, glitter, deflection, soulless. The onslaught of violent culture wearing down our defences, we create new, more complex ones.
My mind doesn't want me to think about the unthinkables. So it white washes, evens out, erases. All is illusory clean slate.
I stay in the fog, moving ever so slightly, testing the grounds, the waters, all directions become hazardous, all become one. It's safe in this haze, stay still I think. I am like a cat who sees nothing, therefore delude myself as safe. I cannot be seen, I want to be invisible, I dread not being seen, I want to be worthy, I fear being worthy. I feel a coward.
Others I have met, they keep going, why? I want to scream at them, why? I whisper, confounded. How can they? So hurt, so violated, so abused, how? why? But they do, they move. Does movement etch away the memories, does new skin form as the scars are worn away, washed away, by tears, by writing, by thinking, by fighting, by moving?
Am I just so enamoured of my heroic martyr-state? That I do not want to give it up? Have I found my fetid calling? Playing the mentally ill, celebrating it? Proud of it? Clinging to it? Is this the real truth of me? Clamouring for attention whilst hiding in my bed. All these apparently counter-intuitive cannot co-exist states are negated, trumped, by the stranger, stronger, older laws of the universe.
Thinking about dissociation (is that redundant??). How much more common it is, how much more beneficial it is, contrary to mainstream thought. I consider daydreaming a mild form of dissociation. A rest, a break; from reality and that the harsher the reality the longer the break, the more "intense" the dissociation, a proportional relationship. So I was discussing the two most "severe" dissociative states in which I have been witnessed and that since I at least could recall the therapeutic interventions under which the dissociation occurred, it followed, to me at least, that perhaps these were the sort of therapies I would be better to undertake more frequently. Not so, apparently, as in either case, there was no new information gleaned, I have no recollection of the trigger(s) or of anything else which occurred during the dissociation (indeed each constituted a complete memory blank), therefore, what is the benefit? Damnit. It was put to me that unless, and apparently until, I am able to process the "least" (all things being relative) traumatic, the more traumatic will remain safely blocked. Here is the issue for me, in order to put the "least" to rest - so to speak - I must render, emotionally and otherwise, more sharply the details of each. These "leasts" are not my stories, these are what I have heard, have witnessed on another's behalf. So I must needs process in such a way as to strike a balance between the therapeutic benefit (to me) and the maintain confidentiality/micro-minimise any identifying information necessity (protecting the client). I do not believe these are my stories to tell, that I have no right to feel traumatised by them, yet, the undoubted intense impact is there. I have a right to my feelings and in the many hundreds of witnessing I have felt horror, despair, helplessness, anger, anguish, shock, disbelief, shaken, afraid, sadness. I have been left questioning anything I previously ever thought true, that is whatever foundation lay beneath me has been forcibly removed. I know now, to my inner core, that anything and everything awful and evil is possible. That the potential and reality of a person's worst imaginings can come true.
I can see the people hanging from telephone poles, from the trees, I can see the ravages of a gunshot to a face, I can see the rescue gone fatally wrong, I can see the wild dogs mining the mass graves for a meal, I can see the trucks driving through - and over - the crowds.
What I also - to my marrow - know now is the resilience, the honour, of the human spirit, that the capacity for kindness, love, compassion can remain, can outweigh the thought of revenge. That people can still find a way to remain human and humane despite the horror around them, threatening to pave them over. But this is not me, I am instead mired in the horror. In the sadness. I am standing sentry over these stories, they are not mine, yet I will guard them.