Third Anniversary

“I want the whole world or nothing.”

― Charles Bukowski

How many times have I started a post with “wow, time has really flown” or something of that nature? Countless.

Well, it’s that time again. As of today, three years ago I called it quits. I decided to quit being the victim and do something about getting onto the road to recovery (not sure if recovery is the right word ).

I decided to take my life back. And I have, both in small and large ways. I decided to not let my abuse define me. My blog originally started off as a coping mechanism for my abuse and has evolved into a memoir with a collection of posts that cover a variety of topics, from my abuse to my minuscule talent as a poet.

I would like to thank all of you that have joined me on my journey to become the woman that I was always meant to be. Thank you!

And happy third anniversary to me!

If you’d like to take a look back in time at previous anniversaries to see how far we’ve come, I’ll post the links below.

2016: Two Years and Counting

2015: Anniversary

2014: Time


All New Low

“It is sometimes an appropriate response to reality to go insane.”
― Philip K. Dick

Be mindful of what you put into your body.

Be careful of what toxins you allow to pollute your mind.

I wrestle with my demons, we all do. But I usually wrestle them in private. The escalation of my mental issues seem to have been witnessed by all when my grandmother discovered me in the throws of a panic attack and called the ambulance.

I’d never been so frightened. I felt like a rabid animal that couldn’t quite catch it’s breath. When the ambulance came, I went wild. All I saw were hands reaching, unknown and unwanted hands that wanted to touch me and pry me from my grandmother’s grasp. It sent my panic into overdrive. They tried to calm me over the din of my own labored breathing. I tried to calm down. Suddenly, I could picture what would happen if I didn’t. I felt on the verge of a psychotic break. They’d carry me to the ambulance, strap me down, and transport me to the hospital. Only the hospital I imaged was an insane asylum. I didn’t want to go there. I forced myself to calm down. They all stood round and watched as I struggled to breathe and reign my panic in. I kept thinking about those hands. Hands that didn’t ask for permission and only took what it wanted, gave nothing back and stole more than a mere touch. Hands that appeared to have stolen a piece of my soul.

I felt ridiculous after my attack subsided and the ambulance left. But the panic those hands had incited lingered. Fight or flight. I was that frightened. I’d allowed him to steal my peace of mind, my breath, the very air I breathed didn’t even feel as if it belonged to me.

One of the EMT had a very calming presence. I felt like he was a godsend. He droned on and on about the medical terminology of why my chest hurt and why I felt out of breath, all while I brought myself under control. No rush. Patience. Useless words my mind didn’t catch on but somehow had a calming affect. I wanted him to talk forever.

When my grandmother first discovered me, she had pressed a cold cloth to my chest and held me against her bosom, like a child. I felt at peace, at home. Anchored. She calmed me, before they arrived with those hands. Grasping hands.

Do insane people choose insanity over sanity? That panic, that mindless panic, felt as if it had a draw and it was sucking me in. I was evading it’s grasp while I clung to my grandmother and then it came in rushing waves when the EMTs arrived. I wanted to give in to it. I wanted to go mad. How much easier the world would be if I were insane, looking at it through the barred windows of an insane asylum. While the walls felt as if they were closing in, I glanced at my grandmother and saw the fear on her face, hand clutched to her breast and grasping my arm in the other. That was what brought me back, the idea of never seeing her again, only watching her through barred windows.

I was so scared and not only that but I scared my grandmother. She had never seen me in such a state. She’s lost so much, two sons and a daughter. I hope she didn’t feel as if she was losing me too. After the EMT left and she asked me if I was okay, I told her yes. But sometimes, especially last night, I feel as if I’m losing my mind.


Counting Sheep

“If there is a book that you want to read but it hasn’t been written, yet, then you must write it.”

― Toni Morrison.

Ever had a story trapped inside you, clawing to get out but unsure of how to release it? Well, I do. To push myself to write more, to blog more, I’m going to try to write something every other day. I’m too easily distracted to do it daily. It’s an exercise that I want to try. Give myself a goal, a limit, a deadline. I will try to write “snippets” of the story bubbling inside me every two days. Maybe one day I’ll be able to fit them together into something coherent.

It’s about an hour past midnight. I got off from work about 3 hours ago. Until I cracked open my laptop, I didn’t recognize this for what it is. Insomnia. It kind of snuck up on me. Guerilla tactics. I had downed a Red Bull yesterday at work around 7 p.m. I made it home sometime around 10:30 p.m. Want to know when I fell asleep? 5 a.m. this morning. I blamed it on the energy drink. Except I’ve been feeling exhausted all day, haven’t had an energy drink, and somehow incapable of falling asleep despite running off maybe 4 hours of sleep.

I find that my insomnia doesn’t subside until I address whatever is unsubconsciously bothering me. This time I’m at a lost at what it could be. Batman and I have fallen into our usual trope of being in a relationship but denying that it is one. I have passed both of the summer courses that I was taking. My savings account is looking nice and I’m working and making enough to take care of my bills and not feel completely bereft after the fact.

Oh, well. My next post will be a “snippet” from my untitled and unfinished fictitious story.


Dream Journal

“It is a very painful thing, having to part company with what torments you. And how mute the world is!”

― Robert Walser

Lucid dreaming: dreams in which the dreamer is aware of dreaming. The Old English verb dremen meant “joy, mirth, noisy merriment” and  “play music”. But who cares, right?

Well, I kind of care. I’ve realized why my nightmares always seem so real and vivid. I’m not sure if it’s due to my PTSD but I seem to have stumbled into lucid dreaming, or more accurately, lucid nightmares (lucid nightmaring? No? Okay.)

Have any of you seen the movie IT as a child? I didn’t. I’ve seen snippets of it so I know it’s a horror movie about a clown. Seeing how I’m a horror bluff, it’s odd that I haven’t seen IT. I’ve never had a fear of clowns but a few nights ago I had a nightmare about a clown. Sort of. Do clowns wear tall top hats, like a circus ringmaster? Circuses and clowns, every kids’ favorite dream. I don’t remember much about the dream except this feeling in the pit of my stomach that something bad was about to happen and that I needed to wake up to avoid witnessing it. So I did. I forced my physical eyes open and for a few brief moments, I couldn’t discern the dream from reality and it appeared as if the clown was sitting in the chair across from my bed in my room, laughing. It had to be one of the single most scariest moments of my life. And it wasn’t even real.

I couldn’t go back to sleep after that. Cue the insomnia. Sometimes I feel like I’m loosing my mind and when your nightmares become present in your waking reality, who wouldn’t feel insane?