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Where Is My Voice?
At Wal-mart the other day I was paying for my items when a woman said to me, “I know you from somewhere.” I looked confused and said I wasn’t sure where from. She asked me my name. I gave her a name. She kept looking at me with this “I know you” look. I asked her name, playing along like I had no clue she’s a friend of my mother’s. I walked away having pulled off the best acting job I’ve ever done.
A different time at Wal-mart I figured I’d save some time and cash a check there instead of making a run to my bank. I figured I was already there so why not cash the check. I gave my ID and the man said there was a problem with me cashing the check. He asked me if I’d ever changed my name. He asked me what that name use to be. I said it didn’t matter what that name was because it no longer exists. I had proper ID, my SS# matches and that’s all the questions I was going to answer. That’s the first time since changing my name that anyone has ever asked me that. Of all places Wal-mart wanted to know if there was another me out there. I should have just gone to the bank. It was a friggin $50 check and not worth the hassle. I’ve banked with the same company, used the same phone company and everything else I had before I changed my name. They all got the paper work and there were no problems. Years later Wal-mart wants to know what that name use to be. Give me a break!
Mismatch Thoughts
I wish Barney hadn’t left a dowel rod on the kitchen counter for a week. I wish I’d said something about it a week ago. Why didn’t I ask him to move it?
I can’t give you another chance. I won’t give you another chance.
I have the money to go buy those red converse but I just can’t bring myself to go get them.
I liked giving you that gift but I didn’t do it out of kindness.
I won’t do too much panicking until the asshole moves in and gives me a specific reason to panic. I can’t believe he’s bringing his little dog. As anal as he is I’m sure he has a Shitzu.
The only colour in this house that’s bright is red.
When I go shopping if I don’t bring home something red I feel sad. It’s strange.
My house is girly. That’s not a complaint.
I don’t look my therapist in the eye when I talk to him.
I miss Maureen.
I’ve been jumpy lately.
You really know how to turn a small imposition into a catastrophe.
When I’m angry my language gets rough. I seem to curse like a sailor. It gets really bad. “Do you want a fuckin cookie? You want some motherfuckin’ milk with that shit?” It really gets bad, not quite that bad but bad enough. My language right now could use some soap.
When everything else seems out of control and unstable I grab onto whatever I feel I can control or keep stable. I just need one thing to stay the same and not change. I’ve eaten pizza daily for over two weeks now. This has to change because I’m lactose intolerant. I’m sure that sounds funny but I’m not happy about the change.
I’ve been painting pretty much non-stop for a few weeks now. There’s a large piece of paper on the door to the restroom, the door leading to Barney’s area as well as in the hallway. I also doodle and have 3 small paintings I’m working on. I need the feel and sound of brush against paper.
Joan
Mismatch Thoughts-Wednesday, May 14th, 2008-1:06AM EST
Tried It. Didn’t Like It!
I already knew when I walked in the door that therapy would be interesting. I had no idea one comment would lead to a headache of a session. I’m overwhelmed by the thought of a “few changes” that are taking place here at home but what Dr. D thinks about my views on parents and what he thinks I might deep down want are just dead wrong.
I told him that Princess Fife (Barney’s daughter) her husband and their 8 year old son will be moving in this house with us in a few short weeks. Of course there is much trepidation on my part because this means less privacy. I need my privacy. They won’t be living in my area at all but the fact still remains, I’ll share some space with 3 other people, one of which is a son of a bitch to the empth degree. I can handle Princess Fife and the boy but Prince Jackass is a bit much to take. He’s more OCD than I am he also has a very strong Obsessive Compulsive Personality. He needs everything and everyone around him to be perfect. Sorry, but that doesn’t work for me. So anyway, I told Dr. D that I understand why Barney won’t tell Princess Fife that she and her Slave Master can’t come here. I said, just like every little girl should, she’s got her father Barney wrapped tightly around her finger. It’s just the natural order of things. Every little girl should have her father wrapped around her little finger. Okay, so we went on to discuss the clear problems this whole situation presents but he got back to me and my father. I’m not sure why he can’t let go of the idea that there is a woman out here that has no longing for a father figure. I’m sorry but the idea of me having a father wrapped around my finger is totally different than what I think others should have. I can’t even think in those terms, of having a parental figure that I trust and depend upon or take for granted. Me and parental figures don’t mix. I’m sorry but I see parents as offenders. I look at Barney and his daughter and think “this is how it’s supposed to be” but I keep my personal experiences separate from them because if I don’t I’ll start looking for signs that she’s pretending to feel okay around him but in actuality he hurt her. If I do not put up a wall when watching normal interactions I’ll skew them with my own experiences which aren’t good ones.
Love Does Not Hurt
A second friend of mine is dealing with a domestic violence issue which to me is yet another indication that this form of abuse is ramped. For the last few days as her husband sits in jail, she’s proudly taken steps to get help. She is not trying to handle the criminal abuser on her own. She has reached out to the community, to legal agencies and to friends. What a show of strength and courage.
Because this is the second time in two weeks that a friend of mine has been in a domestic violence crisis I feel the need to get some links together for other Indiana women in this situation. I’m going to do a page on this journal with extensive information on shelters and resources in Indiana. This will not be a page that links to other links, that’s quite frustrating when a person is looking for help. I will link to specific pages that give names, numbers and locations as well as offer resources on how to sign up for free self defense classes or obtain a free restraining order in Indiana. I hope to have this page compiled within a few days. One very different thing I’ll do on the page, to benefit those out of state, is put up my search queries. All the survivor will need to do is change the name from Indiana to the state they live in or wish to reside in.
Please remember, rich and poor alike abuse and fall victim to abuse. Rich and poor alike have equal opportunities at the shelters that will be on the page. And, rich and poor alike need safety. This includes men. Resources for battered men will be included on the page.
If anyone has resources for battered men (men as victims of domestic violence) please leave a comment and I will include all appropriate information on the list. If anyone has domestic violence resources from any state (for male or female) please leave a comment and I will link to all appropriate information.
Sundrip has undergone a few changes as far as its template goes. The new template allows for drop down menus. Once the Domestic Violence Resource page has been completed it will be in the drop down menu under My Time To Heal.
Thank you
The Domestic Violence Resource page is coming very soon.
Love Does Not Hurt-Sunday, April 13, 2008-12:50AM EST
Slightly Irritated
I believe I may be slightly irritated at every living thing and pissed off by anything that might move the wrong way.
When it comes to stupidity this girl is an over achiever. Now, I’d never say that to her face cause that’s just down right cruel but you know, people push ya and you just want to scream. This is what happened on the 6th of April: Usually if my phone rings at 4am it means someone is having a hard time. I immediately grab a Pepsi and get ready for a nice long phone conversation. I figure anyone who has my phone number is welcome to use it 24/7. I’d rather get a 4am phone call from an anguished friend than the coroner. Well, this morning the phone call came in from the ex-girlfriend who wonders if we still have the connection we once had. I took a deep sigh as she tearfully explained that we once had such a strong connection that it was as if one of us could pick up the phone to call the other and go, “What’s the matter?” She said she could still feel my pain but that she was really having a hard time and she wondered if I could still feel hers. “What is this about?” I asked. I mean, really, why ask me this at 4am? I figured something else was going on. Come to find out she was having a hard time and was upset that I didn’t sense it.
Note to all: If there’s something you’re feeling please do use your voice to tell me. Don’t send me brain wave messages then complain because I didn’t get it okay?
Life With The Functionally Dysfunctional
I use to rent from an older lady, it was my first real home away from the mother. My bedroom was dreamlike with it’s soft yellow lace curtains in the bay window, an old fashioned vanity and a huge walk in closet. I had to climb three sets of stairs to get to my bedroom, which I absolutely loved. I had everything I could need in there. When I was home I didn’t spend much time downstairs with my landlord, I stayed out of the way in my room. Just when I thought things were going well she marched right up to me and said, “I might as well live alone. I thought you were going to be good company but all you do is stay in your room.” I was floored. I figured staying out of her way was what she wanted me to do. Although staying with her has bittersweet memories I have to say I learned a lot about life outside my mother’s home. What I thought was the norm wasn’t. I was simply unprepared to deal with functional people.
When the elderly lady approached me this way it reminded me of staying with my foster family in the 11th grade. I stayed in my room. I stayed out of the way. I spoke as little as possible. One day at the dinner table the foster father blurted out, “We can play this game too. We can be silent.” There I was caught off guard because all I was trying to do was not cause any trouble. I was trying to lay low, trying to not ruin that family like I thought I’d ruined my own. I just wanted the chance to stay there without messing it up so I was quite, reserved and evidently it seemed like I was playing games.
It has recently come to my attention that the gentleman I live with feels sometimes like he lives alone because I spend most of my time back in my own area doing my own thing. He’s not the type that does alone very well so when he comes home he likes to come home to someone, anyone. Staying back here all the time makes him feel like he lives alone. What a thought, someone actually wants my company. They don’t consider me a bother.
This is the third time I’ve come across this situation in my life and I’ll tell ya, I’m simply unprepared to live with another person without real concern that I’m going to become a bother. I can’t help but think the more a person gets to know me the more they’ll dislike me. They’ll find out just how jacked up I am. They think they want me to hang around, watch TV, eat dinner or just come out from time to time and chat but boy they don’t know what they’re getting into. They don’t know what they’re asking. And I don’t know how to do anything but hide. That is what I’m skilled in. I was not prepared for life with the half way normal nor was I ever given the opportunity to trust a family setting. This is new territory that I just don’t want to walk on. I’d rather leave things the way they are. Pay rent, clean up after myself and stay the heck out of the way. Doing so doesn’t allow for growth but it’s what I know how to do. I nearly have a PhD in staying out of the way hiding.
Life With The Functionally Dysfunctional-Friday, April 04, 2008-6:06AM EST
Your Shit’s On the Porch
My regular cab driver didn’t show but it let me have a conversation with a different cabby, a conversation I’m rather passionate about. He told me how his ex-wife was extremely jealous and that she would go through his pockets to see if he had a girl’s phone number. If she found a phone number she’d call the girl and give her grief. This is my thing, why call the girl? Why skip over the main problem, your partner, and go for the other woman? That makes no sense to me. I say put blame where it belongs. If your partner wasn’t a cheat you wouldn’t have to deal with phone numbers from Lynda or Sheila or Susie Q So-Special.
He said if he came home late she was at the door ready to tell him off. I told him that’s the difference between me and other people. If my partner decides she’s going to come home excessively late repeatedly I’m going to ask what’s going on but I’m not staying up to greet her at the door. Nope, I need my rest so I can skillfully tear her a new one. I can’t do that sleep deprived.
If she decides that she’s going to stay out late all the time and I have no real clue as to what she’s doing she can fully expect me to ask some questions but not as soon as she walks in the door. Where have you been? Who were you with? Were you drinking? Oh hell no, those questions I don’t even need to ask. I should be able to trust that she’s doing right. When her normal pattern of behavior changes we’ll discuss it but without the 3am feline pounce. To me that makes no sense. Why stay up all night losing sleep over someone whose a cheat? Heck, I’ll stay up to pack her shit and sit it on the doorstep but I’m not going to stay up mad, fuming, pacing the floors, cursing and ready to pounce when she walks through the door. Give me a break. Not going to happen. If there’s any pouncing to do I’ll need my rest. I may even go to bed early so I can pounce hard and fast but I’ll be damned if I stay up all night and I’ll be damned if I go looking through pockets to for numbers to “strays.” Even more unlikely is me going out to look for her or calling around to look for her. Not gonna happen. My theory has always been, I don’t beg and I don’t chase but most of all, I don’t take leftovers.
If you can’t stay true then please expect your shit to be on the porch when you drag your scraggly ass home.
Interesting is that I had this conversation BEFORE my therapy session on my submissive behaviors in relationships.
That’s all the rant/rave I have today.
Joan of Arc – rarely the alpha cat but sometimes the claws just have to come out
Your Shit’s On the Porch
Thursday, April 03, 2008-3:54PM EST
Home
I say home stands on a hill that runs into another hill, that touches one shade of green and smoothly transitions to another. It’s a quiet place carpeted with plush green grass and sprinkled with wild flowers. I say when I look at the ceiling of my house I can see the stars and smell the fresh air as clearly as the good meal cooking in my kitchen. Home is a fairy tale you see on TV where a family of cardinals nest outside the picture window and where purpose is as clear as the open blue sky and as mysterious and wondrous as the stars in their heavenly home. It’s a fairy tale but I want it, I told him. I want squirrels to dash up and down the trees, a dear to graze in the yard from time to time. Most of my annoyance should be someone’s milk cow that’s wondered into my yard. That to me is living. It’s a fairy tale kind of life, but I want it. No, there won’t be two and a half kids running around, just me on a nice piece of land.
He says he needs the city. He needs the lights, the noise, options is what he calls them. He likes seeing tons of people, going to ball games, golf tournaments, night clubs, dinner formals and anything else his big city offered. He says he can see green grass and hear crickets on television. As he held my arm and I shuffled along beside him in my too large robe and lips blue from low oxygen saturation I told him HDTV doesn’t give you the feeling I’m talking about. He insisted he’d take the city over country air any day. He was sure I’d never left this city. I didn’t say differently. All I know is, on every land my feet have ever come across the only time they walked comfortably was when that land was open, full of trees, full of life and mostly void of concrete.
I wanted to ask him why he’s here in this so called city. Anyone that travels from where he use to live is either running from something or to someone. He didn’t come here for educational opportunities. He didn’t come here for some huge job, after all, he was assisting me to the restroom. What are you doing here in small time USA?
Yes, eight hours of conversation, of likes and dislikes, ideas and beliefs can give you a feeling you’ve never quite felt before. I admitted in a different place, a different time, a totally different frame of mind we could have hung out. I hope you enjoyed your golf game, thanks for thinking about me at the driving range. I’ll be thinking of you as I listen to the crickets in my little home in this “little city.” That is a privilege sir because most guys I wouldn’t give a second thought.
Austin
Aussie Conversations: Down A Twisted Road
Three cups of coffee, two girls and a guy sitting in the living room having a perfectly nice time then one friend decides to take the conversation down a twisted road. I’m sipping my mocha coffee (that would be a tad bit of almond extract, chocolate syrup and vanilla extract) when this conversation ensued:
Male friend: It occurred to me the other day that my therapist is my bitch.
Aussie: (cleaning the coffee spit up on her shirt) What?
Male friend: Yeah, I pay him by the hour. He says what we do is up to me. That makes him my bitch. I’m his pimp.
Aussie: Oookayyyy…
Female friend: No, that makes you his John. The insurance company is his pimp.
Aussie: I know that’s the truth.
Male friend: Well he’s still my bitch.
Aussie: See, this is exactly why you have years upon years of healing left to do. You’re one sick puppy you know that?
Although we do have meaningful conversations during dinner or while having coffee sometimes theres a break in reality for things such as the above. Even so we all went back to sipping as if the man hadn’t just strayed off the path and went right down Strange Street, took a left on Twisted Road then parked on Out of His Mind Lane. I fear he may stay parked for awhile. LOL
Aussie Conversations: Down A Twisted Road
Monday, March 24, 2008-4:17PM EST
People Like Me
The follow up to Aussie Conversations: Down A Twisted Road has more to do with associating with survivors than it does with the strange happenings at my place. My therapist asked me if it’s helpful to associate with people like me. While I can look forward to off the wall outbursts with non-survivors and people not in the mental health system I don’t have the same connection and unspoken understanding that I have with survivors, people with DID and people with PTSD.
I told my therapist that yes it is helpful to be with people like me because I know when in the company of a person with PTSD certain things are a given. Being with others that have the same condition lets you relax a bit. No one is going to jump from behind anything for the sake of a quick scare prank. No one is going to come in the room wearing a mask of Frankenstein. We are careful because of our own issues not to simply walk up behind one another or stand behind one another. There are certain things that are simply a given that people with PTSD wouldn’t do to another person. It lets you relax.
When it comes to associating with others that have DID it can be very complicated but also rewarding.
