trigger (again)

PTSD is just terrible.  I have spent the last two weeks just  completely triggered.  My hyper vigilance has muddled my thinking a lot so that it’s hard to think straight.  I can’t remember what I’ve thought or said.

It seems that continuity is a huge problem in my life.  Saying I’ll be somewhere and then not being able to cope and not going.  Or not remembering that I’ve promised something, and letting someone down.

 

I don’t mean to.  My memory isn’t mine any more.  And in the last two weeks I’ve learned more rotten things about me than I can even remember.  Actually I can’t remember.   I’ve gotten in touch with a very hurt 4-year old girl in side.  I’ve cradled her and held her, she’s inconsolable.  She doesn’t think she ever gets to play and that if we play we’ll get in trouble and they’ll get us.  So no breaks.  Everything is observed.

Even my art has far too many eyeballs than are appropriate in it.  I don’t understand the East Bay, and I think I’m glad we’re going to be moving away.  I have healed a lot,  but I also tend to pathologize myself here.  I don’t know if that’s good.

I just keep getting offered life lesson after life lesson and they are coming at a chest crushing speed.  I can’t keep up.  I can’t integrate the changes as fast as I need to.  I just have to try to remember to breathe.  And stop crying when I can.

Which isn’t very often right now.  Need some forgiveness for me, because I am feeling like a fuckup machine.

punishment

So, recently I’ve been thinking about aggression: verbal, emotional, physical and spiritual.

Verbal and physical seem easy to spot. Yelling and hitting. Those are no-brainers, you’d have to be stupid… oh what, that’s emotional aggression.

Several events have been weighing on my mind lately. One of the adults from the cult, can’t forgive themselves for the abuse they were forced to give. If the abuse wasn’t given there were consequences for the adults. She sounded tormented.

About the kids. What kind of emotional abuse has to occur for a sixteen year old girl to stand up and turn around, pull up her skirt to just under her butt and wait for the repeating sting of the PVC pipe? I was always disassociated and miles away. But I had to stay in my body long enough to remember to cry because Pastor wouldn’t stop until I had cried. After punishment, we would hug and pray. I think this is where my ambivalent attachment disorder really flourished.

But beyond the church, I see people punishing themselves and others, cruelly. We were constantly taught to love and expect persecution in this life, because it would steel us against the forces of evil. But, it resulted in this task based love. You are only as good as your last good deed. I remember so many times kids would do a hundred good things and it would be expected. They would have a slip up and people would say, “now I know what you are made of, this is your core.” What about all the good they did?

At least I get to cry when I’m upset. At least there’s nobody telling me to “man up” which is about the ugliest phrase ever. I’m sorry that our jacked up culture doesn’t let guys express their hurt. You can tell me if you want, I won’t make fun of you or emasculate you. Guys have to take whatever’s given and either turn it into repressed brooding or rage, perpetuating the abusive cycle. Gross gender generalizations, I know, please forgive me. It’s just so many men aren’t given a chance to have the space to feel and that breaks my heart.

Keeping score, tallying points, all of this can go to hell. It breaks your brain and causes barriers. The people who got out of this cultural phenomenon of Terebinth Fellowship have survived a lot. And there was an abusive system created to keep us all quiet “sheep”, they used that word proudly.

But it seems to me that of many that I’ve met and are still in contact with the punishment and self-loathing that they taught and beat into us is still in full effect. We don’t need them anymore since we can abuse ourselves. Reading about one of the conditions I have, my eating disorder and addictive tendencies make more sense because of the abuse going on during those formative years.

It’s really hard for me to know what’s what. Since I was disassociated (excommunicated) and disowned, I feel like I am always running. I forget that there were years after me. I just walked away (after making an elaborate plan). I am really angry right now, that I can’t just fix myself, get over it. There are parts of my brain that are wrong because my world wasn’t safe.

Today, I am angry. Because I feel like in some ways, I didn’t get a chance. Today, I am grateful because in someways, I’ve defied a lot of odds. And I haven’t let go when I wanted to. I had a really hard week. Brutal. And I was apologizing and berating myself for everything. E wasn’t blaming me for anything. I just feel that when things are going wrong I wish someone could hit me so that there would be catharsis and everyone would feel better and then it would be ok.

Yup, it’s fucked up.

hell houses

Because I don’t think a loving god should have to scare the poo out of you to extract a conversion like torturers extract a confession.

from religousintolerence.org

Hell Houses:

A Hell House consists of a group of horrific scenes within a type of haunted house. The customer walks through a sequence of tableaus designed to create terror and revulsion. The last scene is different; it is typically a portrayal of heaven. The visitors are then asked to accept salvation by repenting of their sins and trusting Jesus as Lord and Savior.

Hell Houses are a relatively new evangelistic technique used by many hundreds of fundamentalist and other evangelical churches in North America. One intent is to proselytize the unsaved public. Another is to promote certain conservative Christian beliefs, such as: 

bullet That abortions kill human persons;
 
bullet That sexual orientation is a matter of choice, is changeable, and that God hates same-sex behavior;
 
bullet That everyone who is not saved will go to Hell when they die. They will then be eternally tortured without any hope of mercy or release;
 
bullet That underground Satanic cults engage in widespread sacrifice of humans

Some hell houses are disguised to resemble conventional secular haunted houses. The customer only realizes that they have a religious theme after they have bought their ticket and gone part of the way through the scenes.

Typical scenes are:

bullet A phoney reenactment  of the murder of Cassie Bernall, a teenager victim at the Columbine High School in 1999-APR. She was allegedly asked whether she believed in God, answered yes, and was murdered on the spot. The incident never happened. But the story has taken on a life of its own. She is frequently referred to in conservative Christian magazines, books, and radio programs as a Christian martyr.
 
bullet A person being sacrificed during a Satanic ritual. The Christian Broadcasting Network (CBN) web site warned of Wiccan rituals and stated “… evidence persists that some Satanists and voodoo groups offer sacrifices — usual animals, but, possibly, human babies” at this time. Satanic Ritual Abuse was a widespread hoax that was commonly believed during the 1980s and early 1990s. 1
bullet Women undergoing very bloody late-term abortions, complete with screaming, lots of blood, and particularly insensitive, uncaring health providers. Some of these scenes have been partly abandoned in recent years in favor of a portrayal of guilt and depression arising from Post Abortion Syndrome.
 
bullet Gays and lesbians being tortured in hell for all eternity because of their same-sex behavior while they were alive on earth.
 
bullet The dangers of “dabbling” in the occult and becoming demon possessed.
 
bullet Personal tragedies arising from pre-marital sex.
 
bullet Disastrous tragedies and loss of life resulting from drunk driving.
 
bullet A man having an argument with his wife and is later seduced by his secretary.
 
bullet Witches pressuring a depressed teen to murder his fellow students.
 
bullet A 9/11 ground zero scene.

History of Hell Houses:

The earliest hell house may have been created by Trinity Assembly of God in Dallas TX. It was popularized by Rev. Jerry Falwell in the late 1970′s. The concept was picked up in 1992 by Keenan Roberts. His first Hell House was in Roswell, NM. Since then, he has become a pastor of the Abundant Life Churchin Arvada, CO. He sells “Hell House Outreach” kits to other churches. Included is a 263 page manual which covers “everything from media publicity to casting and costume.2 A few excerpts from the The 1997 Hell House Outreach Manual are:

bullet “Pieces of meat placed in a glass bowl to look like pieces of a baby… purchase a meat product that closely resembles pieces of a baby.”
 
bullet “Theatrical Blood. Because a large amount of blood is used in this scene and in others, someone should be responsible for mixing a vat of it each evening…”
 
bullet “Chrissy [the woman having an abortion] starts crying. She is extremely distraught…the medical staff is cold, uncaring, abrupt, and completely insensitive…”

Included in the kit is a video of the previous year’s Arvida Hell House and a special effects CD. 3 According to Roberts’ literature, the CD includes “the voice of suicide, the voice of God, and the bone-chilling demon declaration of ‘HELL HOUSE’ in the opening scene…

The 1999 price of the kit was $199 U.S. It later went up to $208.80. He commented to National Public Radio: “We’re not doing this to win a popularity contest. We’re saying look, sin is hurting our nation and Jesus Christ is the answer to what you’re going through.

Roberts has received international attention through an appearance on the Phil Donahue Show, and reports in the London Times, MS Magazine, New York Times, Newsweek, etc. He told the Denver Post that the exhibit was designed to “show young people that they can go to hell for abortion, adultery, homosexuality, drinking and other things unless they repent and end the behavior.4

In his first three years of business, Roberts sold 300 kits, and had 20,000 guests. His own Hell House reports about 7,000 or 35% Christian conversions (instances of personal salvation). Admission is $7.00 U.S. or $6.00 if you have brought canned goods for the needy. Bill Geerhart has recorded a somewhat unsympathetic blow-by-blow account of his passage through the Arvada Hell House. 5

Roberts will not have a display in 2004. He told the Associated Press: “It’s not gone away; we’re just taking a year off.” He said that his Hell House idea is now used by more than 500 churches in 14 countries.

–So back to me–

So it’s not exactly a news flash that people find ways to harm, scare and deceive people for a thrill and to make a buck.  But I was thinking that it would be really cool to give an upfront and honest, positive-experience dramatazation of what you believe that your faith has to offer.  I’m not suggesting some kind of after life trade show that would be weird.  (is this is insomnia talking???)

I used to live with this family who had this baby, and I lived with them from when she was 6 months until 2.5 years.  And this was shortly after leaving my family.  She is now 21 because I am now old.  I have always felt close to her, don’t know how she feels about me.  I used to baby sit a lot , even when I didn’t live with them and she was a great spiritual leader to me.  When she was about 8, she may have been younger.  I think a grandparent had died. 

She was fascinated with death. She asked me what happened when people died.  And I didn’t know what to say.  I said, “well if you are a sinner… “  And she didn’t know what the word sin meant.  I couldn’t fathom this.  Because the word sin was rolled and kneaded into the dough that made me.  I looked down at her, but not for too long cause I was driving and I didn’t really want to know what happened when we died.

She was very matter of fact, this person is very matter of fact.  “Well… all the good Christians go to heaven.  All the bad Christians go to hell.  And everyone else goes to Rose Flower and we have picnics and watch puppet shows.”

I looked at her and thought that sounded like an afterlife I could sign up for.  Especially sine she told me there were no bug bites or sun burns in Rose Flower.  So I think that is the Afterlife experience I would set up.

I am curious to see what positive parts of the afterlife that the followers of Baha’i, Buddhism, Christianity, Confucianism, Hinduism, Islam, Jainism, Judaism, Shinto, Sikhism, Taoism, Wicca, Zoroastrianism, and Druidism could come up with.  I think it would be a great party.

I’ll bring a casserole if you promise no abortions.

Other Side of Safe

The cult I was born in always had a perimeter around me.  When there are 80 adults “looking after you”  you can’t get very far or stray for long.  I didn’t get the chance to explore on a smaller scale how far my far is.  In my second marriage, one of the things she always did, was more than keep me safe.  She held a perimeter around me.  Especially when I was drinking.  I also noticed that many friends also held this perimeter, and I would bounce softly off of it.  I was fully in my group of friends the day I was excommunicated and disowned.  And I feel like I came to them as a busted up baby animal that they took such great care of.  But I still never had the experience of “on my own”.

I may have gotten bruised or embarrassed, but never really hurt.  Once I separated from this perimeter.  I found that I had no boundaries of my own.  Seriously, none.  Growing up where your heart, mind, body and soul are all in service to some external person and/or power isn’t a good thing.  Everything you have belongs to someone else.

So once there wasn’t a church or family or a husband or a wife or chosen tribe or social circle around, I saw in a lot of ways who I was when not sheltered.  I saw so many of my ex-partner’s fears for me realized.

I never thought I would go that far.  Growing up in a circle, and always being circled I felt invincible.  Like I could jump off of anything and a safety net would appear.  The last eighteen months have been a serious wake up call, and in many ways a wake up fall.

Rebuilding has been painful.  Because I have had to see exactly how far far really is.  (I know there is a much farther, because I said a lot of no.  And stopped a lot of situations. I just want to make it clear that I’m not tempting fate by saying that I know how bad-bad can be.)  I had to know.  Now in a lot of ways I know and that is how I am starting to enforce some boundaries.  I feel like I walk through this world blinded-folded and shin-first sometimes.  I feel like I am learning a lot of these lessons late, but I am learning them how and when I learn them.

To quote the immortal loud and loving words of my brother, “WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO GET IT THROUGH YOUR THICK FU***NG SKULL THAT PEOPLE LOVE YOU, BUT YOU GOTTA FIGURE YOUR SHIT OUT!”

It’s getting through, and yup it’s thick and stubborn.  But I’ve done so much work to learn how to see where the ends of my perimeter are and to hold them on my own.

I’ve had some expectations that E would do this for me, since boundary work has been something I’ve always outsourced in the past.  But no.  He won’t.  He’ll love me and hold me in unconditional, positive regard while I flop around.  He’ll express the emotional effect my decisions have on him, but he won’t create rules or boundaries for me.  He and I are wired very similarly, once you tell us no, we’ve got a problem.

Thankfully, he’s got an ice pack for after I smash into something.

I wonder why

Why am I doing this blog?  Am I just whining?  Do I really need to air my laundry out publicly?  Sometimes I feel that when I deal with these shadow parts of me they get bigger.  That’s not good.  But some get smaller.  That is good.

I get so many emails from people who tell me they relate and that similar things happened to them.  But is talking about it good?  I feel so vulnerable.

But then I remember that silence is what greases the wheels of an abusive system.  Yesterday, I said something horrible to someone I love so deeply.  The abusive system lives in me.  Victims become perpetrators.  And that is in me too.  Maybe the perpetrator in me is telling me to shut up and stop whining to the internet about how things suck.

When I said what I said, I had no reason for it.  I was scared and my feelings were hurt.  It felt like I dug this black icky tar out of my core and struck back before the hurt could penetrate me.  But he wasn’t trying to hurt me, he was trying to talk.

Crap, it’s not pretty to look at the other side of my abuse.  The side that has and does hurt people.  The parts of me that shut down love, support and intimacy.  The parts that want everyone to go away because I may poison them.  Those parts revile softness and hiss back – how dare you love me?

Am I supposed to be at peace with this abusive side of me?  Verbal abuse is abuse.  But then how many abusers started out as victims?  I would venture to say most if not all.  How do you stop the cycle?  How many people actively dual with and deal with both sides of the cycle everyday?

I feel so gross and sad.  Shame and regret.  But I’m not going to be quiet about that either.  Because I have hurt him and me.  And if I shove down that pain and pretend it didn’t happen it will manifest it’s ugly head somewhere else.

I guess we've all got mosters to slay, huh Hercules?

Kinda like cutting off the head of a hydra.

So I see myself a little differently today, and I’m not loving it.  Looks like I’ve got more to work on…

Sadly,

Feisty

potentially scary night in Oakland…

The email from my apartment manager. 

Hi again, everyone…
A verdict in the trial has been reached and it will be announced within an hour or so. We are still hoping that everyone will remain peaceful in downtown Oakland but if you are still at work or are away from the building, please be very cautious about being in this area. We are only a few blocks away from where some of the main protests are planned (14th and Broadway is one). So, just in case…we have put up plywood to cover the glass on the front entrance area. You can still enter with your key, but please be extra careful not to let anyone else in who doesn’t know my first name. We don’t want people using any chaos as an excuse to vandalize the inside of our building either.

If things get crazy and you want to come by my place and talk, instead of being holed up in your apartments solo…come on by! If you are staying in your apartment though and your windows face the street, please be very cautious about the possibility of things being tossed at the glass.

Also, please call the emergency phone number, or the main phone line since I’ll be home, if anything does happen in your part of the building.

Thanks everyone…be safe!

Home Sweet Home - All ready for a riot

Home Sweet Home - All ready for a riot

On a shop window

On a shop window on my block

Be Cool

Be Cool - The cry for peace, change and healing is really strong. Does the media care about that?

On a shop window

On a shop window next to the first one on my block

moving right along

I’m not packing.  We have a new apartment and will be moving on Monday, but I’m not packing-I’m writing.  It’s almost 11:30am but it feels like a quiet morning.  I have my coffee and laptop.  My sweetheart is still asleep.  I am alternately petting his cats and telling them to stop doing something that they shouldn’t be doing.

I have learned a lot about my process.  A lot of preparation.  All resources are lined up.  Everything is ready to go, I just have to pack now.  The work of it seems like such a detail.  And I am feeling far less anxiety about it than I used to.  The goal is to pack today.  We both used to live in houses and now all of our belongings fit in one bedroom of an apartment and a storage unit.  The storage unit is already packed and I think the bedroom will take us three hours of focused effort.  So knowing us, it will take 6.5 hours of unfocused effort with a nap in there somewhere.

Life is slower.  Life is sweeter.  We’re going to get from here to there and it’s going to be fine.  We will finish packing today (or not) and then spend tomorrow in San Francisco.  We may go to the gay pride parade and then we will go on a sailing trip.  If we need to pack more before or after that we will.  But I’m not going to cancel the fun like I used to.

I hired movers to move my personal stuff for the first time.  So muscley people with equipment and trucks will show up and the storage unit and apartment will be emptied out and put into our new super adorable place in 4 hours on a Monday morning.  Awesome.

It’s a big step, shacking up with my love.  Just us.   Well, just us and his cats.  I am noticing which parts of my past negative relationship habits are mine.  I am noticing which positive ones are mine too.  I was with someone for 11 years and she and I had a lot of good and bad times, good and bad communications.  It’s been so enlightening to see some of that come up for me again with another person.  To see in stark contrast, how my patterns contributed to our past environment.  My part of the good and the bad of my past relationship was huge.  And so was hers.  I definitely feel humbled knowing how much I contributed to the negative.  But I also can look at us through another light (thanks therapy!) and see how we both tried so hard and did the best we could do at that point.

I am excited to move into our new place.  I am excited about my new relationship.  And there’s still this part of me that wishes I could have been perfect for her.  And that wants to take care of her. This new transition has me feeling very introspective, sorting through past and present.  Really looking at everything.  Loving what is and what was.  Loving me.

hindsight

Sometimes things are not as they seem.  Something that seems sweet can turn sour fast.  I have been living with a pain in my heart, feeling something was completely my fault.  But it wasn’t.  I know that I share some of the responsibility and some of the burden.  But this is something that I have made life decisions based on a false assumption.

This has highlighted something in me.  It is so much easier to take the blame than to face the truth sometimes.  I also realized that I am more comfortable being at fault, because then I don’t feel like a victim.  And I hate feeling like a victim.  Taking the blame seems to be another control mechanism I have to ensure that I know what to expect.

The last weekend was a doozy and now I’ve got new lenses to see with.  A lot of good will come out of this, but there are some truths that I couldn’t see yet.  And now I have to look them in the eye.

Well, this is what I do.  Good news: its not all my fault.  Bad news: its not all my fault.  And I have to do more work.

image vs reality

I’m reading yet another book on healing spiritual abuse.  It’s called Healing Spiritual Abuse.  Author Ken Blue makes a point that when image is more important that reality, an abusive system can flourish.  This enforces the silence required to keep an abusive system alive.  For example, instead of problems being handled they are hushed.  A child fears they will destroy their “perfect” family if they talk about the abuse that happens behind closed doors.  The believer comes to the pastor with real problems, seeking council and comfort, and they are told if they straighten up and had more faith it would be different or that their problems exist because they are in rebellion.

Circumstances like these isolate the individual and teach them they aren’t enough.  They come to believe that they “are” the problem.  Or if they could be different everything would be ok.  If only I didn’t provoke this behavior.   The problem is internalized, guilt and shame flourish.

I’ve taken these lessons in and unfortunately brought it to other areas of my life and duplicated the abusive system internally, much to my own pain and detriment.  “If only I could get over this (core personality feature) then I would be ok.  I could be happy.  Everything for me has always had a moral value.  I’ve been punished for getting sunburns, because I had damaged god’s property.  Everything was always black and white.  For the last year, I’ve been living in the grey and that has been a huge challenge.

When image is more important that reality, you know what to do.  You do what you need to do to make the impression you need to make.  Reality doesn’t really matter.  Life is more complicated for me when reality is in the front.  I have to think more.  I definitely have to feel more.  The world is a lot brighter in it’s grey to me now that it was in the black and white of image.  But it is foggier too.  But the binary system of black and white is a hex (geek joke).  And when what I really need becomes more critical to me than what is expected of me, I have to rethink my motivations and actions from the ground up and the insides out.

Walking and dancing with the F word

Fair warning, if you are offended by cursing you oughtn’t read this frickin post.

Walking through the Mission District of San Francisco is never boring.  As I walked tonight, other people’s realities perforated my internal stirring.  I was just out of my dance therapy session.  And I was processing what had just happened. This is the first time that I stopped dancing and started feeling and it was hard.

I’ve had an interesting week and I updated her on my goings ons.  I am struggling with my weight and body image.  After so much weight loss the fact that I’ve put some back on is terrifying.  Some of my old binging behaviors are creeping back in.  And I fear I am looking over a cliff and about to plummet into a pit of uncontrollable gain.  She wants to know what it feels like before I eat, overeat or binge.  As I start to talk I disassociate.  She says, “Show me, can you dance it?”

“STAY WITH ME! THE LIGHT IS RED!!! The mom screams to the daughter who is more involved with her milkshake than the oncoming traffic.

I tell her I don’t know how to dance it.  She says that’s good.  I feel like an idiot.  I take a stab and start to move.  It’s not what I would call a dance.  It’s more of a pantomime of anxiety and secret behavior.  I feel all of a sudden angry and vulnerable.  I don’t know how to say what I had just moved.  “What was the big movement?”, she asks.  “My fuck-it moment.  I have a moment where I just don’t care and I am tired of resisting and I say ‘fuck it’ and eventually give up and do whatever.” 

“Dance ‘fuck it’ for me.” She says.

“This is hard.”

“Yeah”, she agrees.  My fuck it dance turns in to a fuck you dance and in the end I am sobbing.

“It’s ok man. It’s ok man. It’s ok man. It’s ok man. It’s ok man. It’s ok man.” He says to himself as he passes me in the intersection. I am startled.

“I feel like a child”, I say.  She says, “yeah.  What do you feel good about right now?  In the last six months you’ve quit drinking and smoking.  You are having problems with your food right now.  You have a big fuck you in you, and that’s good. When you were growing up fuck you saved you.  Fuck you got you out of the cult.  Fuck you still serves you in a lot of ways.  But it’s no longer serving you in your food.”

“Fuck you saved me…you’re right.”

“Hey girl, you probably married or something, ain’t you?”

“Or something” I reply, as I walk on by.

“How do you reward yourself?”

“I don’t know… through food, money”… I list more and I can’t think of one way that doesn’t involve consumption in one way or another.  “Praising myself was vanity. If I did something that was good it was because of god.  If I did something bad it was because of me.”  I can praise others all day long finding perfection in every bit of them.  But me?  That’s different.”

He does a move that is half waltz, and half balboa.  He staggers into the street and summons a juicy loogie from the depths of his soul.  “I’M A CYLON!!”, he screams toward me.  His glassy eyes don’t make any contact.  I keep walking.

She says she bets self-discipline is hard when discipline was so strict and externally imposed.  We were even coerced into confessing our thoughts.  Self-discipline is hard, acknowledging the progress I have made is unthinkable.  Every time I praise myself I rattle off business accomplishments and sound like some disassociated press release.  She had me dance my accomplishments cause I couldn’t make the words.  I tried.

The session ended with that last dance.

“24th and Mission towards Pittsbugh/Bay Point”  I get on the train.

I wonder how other people reward themselves.  How do you celebrate you?