Impossible Choices and a New Battlefield Plan
I did it. I started to write again and I’m not letting me
stop them this time. This is my story. This is my truth. It has nothing to do
with them.
Such brave steps, and I hear the uproarious laughter in the back of my mind. Laughing and laughter echoing and rebounding on the walls of my imprisoned head. Mocking me, daring me. They will try to take it away when they find out. They will smear me. They will sue me. They will try to “lock me up”. Except it is them that are crazy. I only live with the results of their crazy.
People have a right to tell their story, in their way, and in their words. You have a right to choose the place, the time, and the way you will do it. My family has different ideas about rights. Many families like mine are the same. They don’t want their shame revealed. It is not my problem. The shame they left with me, and make me carry, has resulted in my illness. The constant smears help keep me that way.
Today I am brave. I am also scared. It’s the laugher. Always the jeering, mocking laughter. Hahahahahahaha…. They sabotage, twist, distort, and attack until I disappear. I’ve been gone a very long time. Anything I excelled at, or do good at, or won award for, or accomplished, was decried, ridiculed, laughed at, and I was taunted and humiliated. So I hide. I am extremely talented. People tell me so. They wonder why I don’t use my gifts. So do I. But I do know. It’s fear. If I were to really succeed and let’s say I was written up or got some notoriety, the would go public, and either tell a humiliating experience of my 7 bad years of drinking, or even worse, make something up. It does not matter if it is true. What matters is what it does to you.
I carpet bowl and when I am in the middle of the storm, it is hard seeing people. Why? Because I am in super hyper-vigilance. I see and hear things you can’t imagine. Every twitch, the way words are spoken, the look when you say them, body language and things. There are some people there that I struggle with. You know the kind. They belong to every group dynamic. The ones that everyone tolerates. When you are super aroused, it is difficult to be around them.
It turned out to be a pretty good game and the team dynamic were not much of a threat. One lady on the other team came up to me after the game and told she was so relieved to see me smile. That my smile was so beautiful. She had been worried about me. Well that pretty much melted my heart. It sure doesn’t take much, but I invited her over to my disaster house, wearing the clothes that took me 6 hours to put on and weren’t what you would call “together”. I babbled and she tolerated me. I told her a bit about me, and how people don’t listen and just sort of throw out stuff like, “get over it”. Then I explained why it doesn’t just go away, or why not thinking about it happens. Well, she will be coming back. She said she likes me. And my head goes “We’ll see…..” I fear the judgment that invariably gets thrown my way. Eventually.
Later, Bingie comes over, and we just hang, talk, listen to music. She lets me be me. I let her be her. That is the way it works here. People can be who they are. I choose who I let in, so I feel safe that way. But sometimes I make mistakes and that is a story for another day. So I remain vigilant but not hyper, or super. Bingie’s main squeeze comes by later and we all chat and end a rather unremarkable but stable day. Except it took 6 hours to dress and I still wasn’t happy with it.
Such brave steps, and I hear the uproarious laughter in the back of my mind. Laughing and laughter echoing and rebounding on the walls of my imprisoned head. Mocking me, daring me. They will try to take it away when they find out. They will smear me. They will sue me. They will try to “lock me up”. Except it is them that are crazy. I only live with the results of their crazy.
People have a right to tell their story, in their way, and in their words. You have a right to choose the place, the time, and the way you will do it. My family has different ideas about rights. Many families like mine are the same. They don’t want their shame revealed. It is not my problem. The shame they left with me, and make me carry, has resulted in my illness. The constant smears help keep me that way.
Today I am brave. I am also scared. It’s the laugher. Always the jeering, mocking laughter. Hahahahahahaha…. They sabotage, twist, distort, and attack until I disappear. I’ve been gone a very long time. Anything I excelled at, or do good at, or won award for, or accomplished, was decried, ridiculed, laughed at, and I was taunted and humiliated. So I hide. I am extremely talented. People tell me so. They wonder why I don’t use my gifts. So do I. But I do know. It’s fear. If I were to really succeed and let’s say I was written up or got some notoriety, the would go public, and either tell a humiliating experience of my 7 bad years of drinking, or even worse, make something up. It does not matter if it is true. What matters is what it does to you.
I carpet bowl and when I am in the middle of the storm, it is hard seeing people. Why? Because I am in super hyper-vigilance. I see and hear things you can’t imagine. Every twitch, the way words are spoken, the look when you say them, body language and things. There are some people there that I struggle with. You know the kind. They belong to every group dynamic. The ones that everyone tolerates. When you are super aroused, it is difficult to be around them.
It turned out to be a pretty good game and the team dynamic were not much of a threat. One lady on the other team came up to me after the game and told she was so relieved to see me smile. That my smile was so beautiful. She had been worried about me. Well that pretty much melted my heart. It sure doesn’t take much, but I invited her over to my disaster house, wearing the clothes that took me 6 hours to put on and weren’t what you would call “together”. I babbled and she tolerated me. I told her a bit about me, and how people don’t listen and just sort of throw out stuff like, “get over it”. Then I explained why it doesn’t just go away, or why not thinking about it happens. Well, she will be coming back. She said she likes me. And my head goes “We’ll see…..” I fear the judgment that invariably gets thrown my way. Eventually.
Later, Bingie comes over, and we just hang, talk, listen to music. She lets me be me. I let her be her. That is the way it works here. People can be who they are. I choose who I let in, so I feel safe that way. But sometimes I make mistakes and that is a story for another day. So I remain vigilant but not hyper, or super. Bingie’s main squeeze comes by later and we all chat and end a rather unremarkable but stable day. Except it took 6 hours to dress and I still wasn’t happy with it.
Clothes. They say you can tell a lot about folks with the
way or how they dress. I call them fools. They “think” they know. I’m sure that
can for a lot of people, but not everyone. When they wrote up the reports on me
as being unkempt, or dowdy, or doesn’t care about her appearance, the were merely
writing down observations. It did not tell them who I was, or why I was, or
what was going on, yet they put me down as this kid who didn’t care about their
appearance and used those ugly words.
They did not know that I had no choice as to what I was going to wear. Mama told me. I had two choices. You see, she always gave me an option. All good parents give kids options. My choice is simple. Wear it or go naked. Easy right. Given my options, I usually wore the dirtiest and the ugliest thing to school, and should the school call mama with questions about my appearance and attire, she would always tell the truth.
“I don’t know what to do with her. I never interfere with what she chooses to wear. She is free to choose what she wears to school.” She never tells the choices she gives. She is correct. She never interfered in my choice in what she offered.
One day I absolutely did not want to leave the house with what she had chosen. I can’t remember what it was, but it repulsed me to such an extent I refused. Let’s just say it was not good. I was forced out the door, in to the porch, with nothing on but what I was born in. The clothes had been ripped from my body, and the razor strap was whizzing through the air. She locked the door.
I am outside the house and naked. And cold. Humiliated and scared. I have no recollection of time, only of crying. I did not dare call to her or bang on the door again to be let in. I was shivering so hard. Eventually, I decided I had to do something, get help. Anything. I was about 14 or 15 years old. Out of sheer desperation and hope that someone would see and help and cover my shame and warm me up and take me to safety. It will only take a minute, they won’t look at me. They will help and take me away. The would be able to see the red ribbons the strap had left on me.
I opened the outside door to the porch and stepped outside to real world in the same way I had entered it. Naked. Mama had patience. Just like a cat watching something it is stalking. Yes indeed. She heard the door open, or she was waiting for it. I fell for her trap and down, down, down, I went.
I was humiliated again inside and shamed. Questions were like, “Have you no shame?”. “What would possess you to go out like that?” Then the names like slut. Accusations like I was probably going to make money by doing despicable things. Otherwise, why would I leave the house like that. I must be very proud of myself. All. Day. Long.
At the next session, my mom says there is something wrong with me. That I had left the house naked and she had to “rescue” me. I try to tell my side. And she looks so concerned. “She what I mean. She does something and gets caught and then makes up these crazy stories. She needs to be hospitalized and she needs therapy.” The doctor looks at me concerned.
Some days, it just appears that I can’t dress myself. Instead I am in a war and fighting a battle that rages non-stop 24/7. Some days I make advances. Even huge advances. Some days I lose ground. I’m in battle and I keep my eyes open for others on the battlefield. The ones who are sick like me, but present differently. These are my family. They have the same fears as I do and only respond differently. When in survival mode, your options are one of five F’s; flight, freeze, feign, figure, fight. Their fear makes them fight. They’ll get you before you get them. My fear makes me retreat or the other F word. Flight. I run and hide. Through my exaggerated vision I look for the enemy and I really need people who come sit with me a minute and say “I’m on your side. What’s happening.” What I need to do is make a battlefield decision. Do I wish to stay and fight this battle? Call a truce? End the war? Cede? Or just stop the fight. Walk away. Easy. Yes, easy to say, but how does one get there? I think I have, and we’ll find out together.
My thought process today is to think how my thoughts have changed. If I had a good day, I would tell myself I won the battle. Congrats. I’m winning the war pep talk, until I don’t. Hmmm…Today. This moment, I feel like “What the hell have I been doing? This isn’t even my friggin’ battle.” And I can walk away. I will not go beyond that. I am trying to stop the brain from thinking. If I start to wonder, I say it’s my decision and it involves only myself and my own safety, and peace of mind. It doesn’t involve them or their opinion. I don’t need to stress, the OCD variety, because it is MINE. All MINE. Not based on anybody else’s opinion and solely for love for me. I can be safe and tell me, “Sweetie, you don’t have to worry hon. You got this.”
They did not know that I had no choice as to what I was going to wear. Mama told me. I had two choices. You see, she always gave me an option. All good parents give kids options. My choice is simple. Wear it or go naked. Easy right. Given my options, I usually wore the dirtiest and the ugliest thing to school, and should the school call mama with questions about my appearance and attire, she would always tell the truth.
“I don’t know what to do with her. I never interfere with what she chooses to wear. She is free to choose what she wears to school.” She never tells the choices she gives. She is correct. She never interfered in my choice in what she offered.
One day I absolutely did not want to leave the house with what she had chosen. I can’t remember what it was, but it repulsed me to such an extent I refused. Let’s just say it was not good. I was forced out the door, in to the porch, with nothing on but what I was born in. The clothes had been ripped from my body, and the razor strap was whizzing through the air. She locked the door.
I am outside the house and naked. And cold. Humiliated and scared. I have no recollection of time, only of crying. I did not dare call to her or bang on the door again to be let in. I was shivering so hard. Eventually, I decided I had to do something, get help. Anything. I was about 14 or 15 years old. Out of sheer desperation and hope that someone would see and help and cover my shame and warm me up and take me to safety. It will only take a minute, they won’t look at me. They will help and take me away. The would be able to see the red ribbons the strap had left on me.
I opened the outside door to the porch and stepped outside to real world in the same way I had entered it. Naked. Mama had patience. Just like a cat watching something it is stalking. Yes indeed. She heard the door open, or she was waiting for it. I fell for her trap and down, down, down, I went.
I was humiliated again inside and shamed. Questions were like, “Have you no shame?”. “What would possess you to go out like that?” Then the names like slut. Accusations like I was probably going to make money by doing despicable things. Otherwise, why would I leave the house like that. I must be very proud of myself. All. Day. Long.
At the next session, my mom says there is something wrong with me. That I had left the house naked and she had to “rescue” me. I try to tell my side. And she looks so concerned. “She what I mean. She does something and gets caught and then makes up these crazy stories. She needs to be hospitalized and she needs therapy.” The doctor looks at me concerned.
Some days, it just appears that I can’t dress myself. Instead I am in a war and fighting a battle that rages non-stop 24/7. Some days I make advances. Even huge advances. Some days I lose ground. I’m in battle and I keep my eyes open for others on the battlefield. The ones who are sick like me, but present differently. These are my family. They have the same fears as I do and only respond differently. When in survival mode, your options are one of five F’s; flight, freeze, feign, figure, fight. Their fear makes them fight. They’ll get you before you get them. My fear makes me retreat or the other F word. Flight. I run and hide. Through my exaggerated vision I look for the enemy and I really need people who come sit with me a minute and say “I’m on your side. What’s happening.” What I need to do is make a battlefield decision. Do I wish to stay and fight this battle? Call a truce? End the war? Cede? Or just stop the fight. Walk away. Easy. Yes, easy to say, but how does one get there? I think I have, and we’ll find out together.
My thought process today is to think how my thoughts have changed. If I had a good day, I would tell myself I won the battle. Congrats. I’m winning the war pep talk, until I don’t. Hmmm…Today. This moment, I feel like “What the hell have I been doing? This isn’t even my friggin’ battle.” And I can walk away. I will not go beyond that. I am trying to stop the brain from thinking. If I start to wonder, I say it’s my decision and it involves only myself and my own safety, and peace of mind. It doesn’t involve them or their opinion. I don’t need to stress, the OCD variety, because it is MINE. All MINE. Not based on anybody else’s opinion and solely for love for me. I can be safe and tell me, “Sweetie, you don’t have to worry hon. You got this.”
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