…not really, but the title sounds good
…like a movie or something.
J of A
I needed some encouragement so what did I do? I took to the computer and did some painting. I then went to my art table and did some painting, came back to the PC and finished what I like to call “I Will Shine.”
You can also see her on the art site (Sundrip) in the Visionary Gallery. The art site showing has a short poem and description.
J of A
I realize I’m trembling. My teeth start to chatter. I cover my mouth with my sleeve. I just got snot on it. I hope that’s not too gross I think. I keep looking around the room at the mismatched art. He has Asian, Hispanic and Indian but nothing good. He has something so drab and stark it reminds me of myself. He says a name and I jump. I think to myself, “Why does he keep calling me that?” I can see him, almost but not clearly. I know where I am but I’m still afraid. He wants to know why I’m afraid but all I can do is cover my mouth and rock. I’m scared. I have to get grounded but I forgot my drawing pad. I can’t draw. I’ve got my little duck and I’ve got some candy. I need a cigarette. We have to turn the lights up higher, it’s too dark. I keep going away. I have to get myself under control, get grounded, at least enough to walk out of here and not let on that I crumbled at the mere mention of going to the doctor. It’s just that the sight of her is so close. I can feel her on my hands. I run but not far enough. Someone inside is calling, “Help me.” Someone else is whining “No” someone else is coming up so quickly that I can’t tell who it is. I’m watching myself rock. I can hear him call a name. I snap back. I forgot he was sitting there. I keep forgetting that he’s sitting there.
How strange to experience the past and present simultaneously. It’s like a movie, watching myself, watching him, looking at everything in the room and seeing and feeling my mother. It’s like a movie. I’m watching. Adam comes so fast I don’t even know he’s there until he’s gone. I must have looked so strange to be in that kind of condition then sitting up right breathing normally, not in a total panic. It doesn’t last long because that view is back. I can hear the crying. I can see everything and hear everything just like it was yesterday. I have to walk out of here like I’m okay. I hope he doesn’t touch me. God if he touches me I’ll lose my mind. He stands back really far and lets me past. I say “um” like it’s a complete sentence then “Yeah…um..um..yeah.” I walk away. We walk away. If we keep freaking out like this he’s going to quit. We can’t keep freaking out like this.
Tremble: Therapy Review -Tuesday, July 22, 2008-11:48PM EST
Why do I even try to be clean on the way to therapy? Why shower, put on clean, unwrinkled clothes, smell good, comb my hair, etc when I know full well I’m going to spill something? At this point I’m just ruining clothes. I again got attacked by my cup of coffee. It started off bad. I poured a cup of coffee and a fly got in it. Had it been a small fly I may have been able to dissociate the thought away, pretend that I didn’t pull a fruit fly out of a perfect cup of coffee but nope, this was a juicy one. When I pulled him out it was as if he had just gorged on something. I could not excuse that. I had to pour the very last of the coffee into my cup then run out to meet Cabby Negative. I did just that but not without consequences. See, I should have stopped and just let the coffee go but nope, I had to pour another cup. Inside the cab while he swerved and cursed I ended up spilling it. I asked if he had any napkins. The man actually tried to hand me a “white” washrag that he’d clearly used for unsanitary purposes. I know that thing had about 5 different diseases on it. I said, “Nah, that’s okay.” He said, “What’s wrong with the rag?” What’s wrong with the rag? I thought to myself…well, as you took your hand with the dirty long fingernails and brought that rag towards me I noticed the dirty sweat marks on it as well as hairs caught in the fibers of the rag…that’s what’s wrong with it. He offered me another rag. Again I turned it down.
Continue reading ‘Coffee Attack, Criminals and Gross Cab Drivers’
Beautiful Dreamer would like for everyone to know she’s working on getting her blog up and running properly again. She would be grateful for everyone’s patients. While we wait for the Dreamer to return let us continue to spread malicious lies about her. … No, I’m kidding.
It’s storming out this way and I’m not sure how long I’ll have power so I need to stop playing around and hit send. Beauty shall be back soon. When she is I’ll delete this post and she’ll never know I was willing to spread rumors behind her cyber back.
Austin
I have before sought out pain, gone looking for it like a drug, gone searching for it. It’s not that hard to find. A long time ago when I was majorly triggered and felt unsafe looking like a girl I decided to best way to defeminize myself was to shave my head and look like a boy. I always thought as a child it was safer to be a boy than a girl. Girls get hurt I thought, boys do too but for me being a girl seemed worse. So that day I shaved it, walked out of the apartment into a hallway full of people with the hope that someone would tell me how crazy I am. I was disappointed when a neighbor told me I was the only person she knew who could get away with “that look.” I was disappointed, left empty because I didn’t need confirmation or a compliment, I needed cruelty and hurtful words. I needed scars to accent the ones I already have. What was I looking for? I needed to remember my place, to remember that I should not try to act like I deserve anything but a slap in the face. I was looking for someone to remind me that I’m alive. I don’t feel alive sometimes. I don’t trust that when I have a piece of happiness that it belongs to me or that I deserve to have it. I believe it’ll be taken. I believe it’s a trick. I know I’m alive if I’m hurt. I may wish I were dead but I know I’m alive.
I am: just the girl next door
I think: I have too much time on my hands
I have: no mercy for myself.
I wish: today never happened.
I hate: and love sunflowers.
I miss: my sister
I fear: falling deeper into depression
I hear: life gets better
I smell: blood and urine, all the time
I crave: silence
I search: for a reason to get up each morning
I wonder: why I keep doing this.
I regret: having wasted so much time toiling
I love: and hate art
I ache: in my heart and in my bones
I am not: good (please do not respond to this part cause I don’t want to hear it.)
I believe: that I’m crazy
I dance: in the living room with candles
I sing: I don’t sing
I cry: but only when I feel like I’m out of options
I fight: tooth and nail to stay awake so I don’t dream
I win:
I lose:
I never: asked the question, “Who am I”
I always: Have coffee after dinner
I confuse: the feeling of soft with the feeling of wet
I listen: to music to drown out the people in my head
I am scared: all the time
I need: to be held and to matter
I am happy about: having a blog and blog friends but it doesn’t feel like enough to keep me going.
I imagine: being inside the painting Ladybird.
copied from Clinically Clueless .
J of A
Last night when I was in bed I rolled over and thought to myself, you know what? I’m done. It scared me. It scares me how easily I break anymore. When I thought it I realized I needed to try and put a safety plan in place, make sure I don’t get to the point where I screw up all I’ve worked for. After that thought went through my head it occurred to me that what I’m doing day in and day out is not enough to sustain me emotionally, physically or spiritually. I can’t feed this depression and expect to feel better. I am trying hard to get better and not simply give in.
I know a lot of the issue is Blossom but it’s also my dreams, flashbacks and other stuff I don’t even bother to blog about. I also don’t seem to handle physical pain well anymore. I stay at a 9 out of 10. It’s not as if I haven’t stayed this high before it’s that it’s getting old. I don’t handle the pain that well anymore. This stupid writs of mine can’t just be spraned. I think there’s something more wrong with it than that but going to the doctor to hold my hand out just isn’t something I can do without feeling a dowel rod come down on them. I can’t do it. The one thing I could never dissociate far enough from was dowel rods on the palms of my hands. I can not hold my hand out, palm up and not panic and come home safely. The wrist is a small drop in this bucket. I feel tapped and tired. Hopefully, more than likely it will pass. It seems harder each time though. I feel like I have less to fight with each time. I’m sorry to say that……sorry about that…
Joan of Arc (w/ Robert close by)
Dr. D just called and canceled. I’m so happy. I didn’t want to go anywhere at all today. The muscles in the back of my legs feel like they’re about to Charlie horse on me. I touch my back and I can pretty much feel toxins filling my back. I need to move around a bit more today and try to release some of this pressure behind my eyes and relax my muscles a bit. I wasn’t in any shape to go to therapy today.
I hope I didn’t sound too happy when he called to cancel. I certainly didn’t mean to but my “hell yeah” surely could have been taken wrong.
First off, I’m angry. I’m one second from rage, from throwing things and screaming. Slight annoyances spark an anger response that simply isn’t justified. I AM ANGRY. I’m angry about the whole Blossom situation. I can tell I’m not just angry but furious which means I need to watch my step closely so as not to go off on people who don’t deserve it. Even if they deserve it it doesn’t mean I should go off on them. I need to watch my step right now.
The dream was very similar to the other dream I had about slapping Captain. In this dream I was cooking dinner, baked chicken, cornbread stuffing, mac and cheese, green beans. The dog kept coming into the kitchen sniffing around which pissed me off. I kept telling him no and sending him to his bed. He kept coming back. As I began stirring the dressing I noticed the dressing was full of dog chow. I then looked down and Captain was at my feet hoping for a bite. I was furious because I’d told him ten times to go lay on his bed. Each time I told him to do so the kitchen got smaller and his bed and the bedroom itself got larger. This time instead of just telling him to go to his bed I smacked him on his butt. He started back at his bed but I kept following him complaining about his misbehavior. As I went on and on he then stood up and became my sister. He leaned against a tall white dresser, exposed his arm through a white T-shirt and smiled at me. I began slapping his arm in the very spot he/she exposed. The look on my sister’s face was, “You can do whatever you want to me, it won’t hurt.” I tried slapping him harder but got no real pain response. I then realized not only did it not hurt him but I didn’t wish to hurt him, that wasn’t the point. I just didn’t want him in the kitchen. I turned around and walked away.
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