Brain Barf

May contain traces of nuts.

Sunday, May 30, 2010


Apparently most survivors of,  STUFF, want to change their name. Their identity. Their herstory.
Huh.  Wish I would have thought of that.
I was asked why I kept my maiden name. My..."fathers", when I got married.
Good question.
To which I have answers. 
  1. I never expected to stay married, it was a "try it out" thing.
  2. I didn't want to have a different last name than my girls.
  3. It felt TOO much like a property/title transfer, and I rejected being a piece of property when I ditched the Moron Church.
  4. I have some pretty awesome family members and history connected to my surname.
  5. Because I WIN.  That's the way it works.
Next question.  BRING IT ON.

I was asked what my worst fear was.
Not the standard spiders crap.  My avoidant self tried that answer.  PLUS I really hate spiders.
But the real fear.  The one that gives you sweaty tongue right before you barf and don't sleep for a couple weeks...OK years.
My worst fear is that my children will grow up to hate me as much as I hate my "parents".
I've never given them reason to, I've done the best that I can.
But we all fail in our own ways.
I have taught them, by example, not to have relationships with parents. 

First First Second First First worst fear of the holy shit moment:  I have to go to Utah.  I have to move my daughter to Utah where she is going to college.  My daughter, naive of my past (well mostly, she knows about the easy stuff, physical/verbal abuse) is going to live in Utah.  The place of my almost death...and I have to leave her there.  And drive away.  My baby.  My flesh.  It's hard enough, without all the STUFF.  OMG.  Pain.  Fear.  Hurt.  Scared.  Help.
~pause VOMIT pause.~
Tell me how to do that?
Seriously.  How?
Or better yet...tell me how to stop it.

I'm telling myself:
  • She inherited every bit of my strong/ornery/stubborn/WIN/++++.  She's the only person I know that is more stubborn than me.
  • She will have three of my awesome siblings for support, plus one aged tender Great Grandma.
  • Sickoid "father" dude has been threatened and will continue to be threatened, and lives very (not far enough) far south.
I'm so fucking scared.
I'm so fucking scared.
I'm scared.
Holy baby Buddha, I'm SO scared.

Please continue to fuck me over, and mess with my life, JUST KILL ME already....but don't even fucking think about my babies. 

P.S. How long is the waiting period/background check for a gun?


Friday, May 28, 2010


I think I've said this once before...or maybe 53 times.
I'm not going back.
This time I'm serious.
I won't go back and pay to FAIL anymore. 
Yes I have major verbal communication issues.  So the face to face thing really sucks for me.
Add in my personal space issues and SHA-ZAM!  It's like a set up to FAIL.

I know what's wrong with me.  I know why.  I remember.  I'm not exactly sure how to fix it, but I have stubborn and strong tools.  And Doctor Google.  And I'm being honest with myself for the first time ever.

And if I ever feel like saying anything again.  THEN I will make an appointment.  If they're not all dead.

And this route is not a FAIL.  I'm not quitting.  I'm just going about it in my strong stubborn WIN way.
Because that's what works.  That is what has ALWAYS worked.
I win.  That's how it goes.

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Thursday, May 27, 2010


I don't like owing anyone anything.  EVER.
I'm sure it's a control thing.

I am "fortunate" enough to have pretty decent health insurance.
All of my brain dissecting visits are 80% covered $20 co-pay, no deductible and they are unlimited.
I don't feel bad about this, because I never go to the doctor and have paid $400 plus a month for twelve years to this health insurance company.
I saw RCD from Jan. to May.  Four months.  Once a week.  16x$20=$320.
I repeatedly asked him about it.  I NEED the bill.
He said...oh, and the people that handle my billing and something vague, etc. and blah blah blah.
I still haven't gotten a bill.

I'm thinking that he is the "LDS social services guy".  The one that the lovely 10% gross tithes pay for.  Because I heard "brother and sister" a lot from people leaving.

My name is still on the rolls.  I get the monthly relief society newsletter and the birthday cards etc.  The missionaries show up frequently.

So I wonder.
If the bill was submitted in that way?
And I wonder how I feel about that?
On one hand:  No way you sick fucking cult.
On the other:  Sick fucking cult should pay somehow.
It contributed a very large portion of my screwed up-ness.

So I'm mailing a cashiers check.  Without a bill.
Because of: NO. And WIN.


Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Filter THIS

I'm so entirely sick and done with the, "you're not trying hard enough".

Because I AM.

I'm rolling around in this putrid state.
It's completely covered me and I have to carry it around and breathe it, smell it 24/7.
The amount of effort it takes.  The pain, the panic the puke...just to get to the office.
But today in the third appointment:  don't come back unless you're willing to get real.

I don't have a nickname for the Psychologist yet...maybe...New Old Guy? 
I kinda dig it.
He's an asshole.
I think he does the asshole, because I respond to it. *&*#@!!
I think he does the "you're not trying" because it pisses me off, so I fight and WIN and lose/win/talk.  JUST TO PROVE THE MOTHERFUCKER WRONG.
Although, if I have to hear "45 years experience" one more help me baby Buddha.
Shut The Glorious Fuck Up Already.
I get it.
You've seen it all.
Heard it all.
And you're old.  HA!

But this is still my reality, my pain, my roadkill flesh. 
My herstory may not be unique or interesting, but it's MINE.
I fucking earned every survival second.
It HURTS, bleeds, crushes, mutilates, scars, suffers and scrapes raw.
So, NOG,  STFU and grow a compassion, or at least rent one for an hour a week.
Or don't, because that didn't work either.
Going there feels like being controlled and manipulated all over again.
And I fucking PAY for it.
Kick and scream.

Moving on.
I've lost my filter.
You know the filter that everyone has somewhere between their brain and their mouth?
My filter went from NEVER SAY ANYTHING to... today I told my boss to fuck off. 
Yesterday I told a co-worker to wax her stache because she looked like Hitler.
Last week I got in the face of a family member of a work resident.  He's a creepy creep creeper.  He likes to corner you and get in your space.  He tried to touch my "name tag".  I've dealt with him for three years.  Until last week when I told him that he made me uncomfortable, creeped me out...creeped ALL of the staff out and to KNOCK it the FUCK off. 
I basically got a round of applause for that one.

But I don't know how to fix it.
Or if want to.

Monday, May 24, 2010


The more I know about myself, the less I want to know about myself.
But I can't go back, it doesn't stop.  The forehead smackage continues.
It seem like at least one SMACKAGE every day.
94% is pure raw open pain.  And it oozes onto every aspect of my life.
6% is other stuff.  Even a few nice, to ruminate, stuff.

I'm all about brave, obnoxious, stubborn, strong, WIN.
I think it's how I survived, not totally broken.
It's how I survive every fucking day.
But once in a while lately, the BRAVEOBNIXIOUSSTUBBORNSTRONGWIN ditches me.
WTF?  Rude.  I've given you so much!
And it's terrifying and weak and small.
And we all know what happens to weak and small.
So, no.

I've seriously contemplated...if I knew what this marriage counseling thing would lead to...? 
Even now, with the awesome deep lovey shit DAVE.  That is so amazing and accepting and ridiculously selfish with the groovy oozy love place we're at. (I'll wait while you puke)
Would I trade it?  Do I wish we had never have gone?
I guess it depends on the day, and how bloody my forehead feels.

The reality is, I can't go back.  Even though I've tried REALLY hard to some days.
It's like an egg that is cracked open, and trying to shove all the yolky pleghmy oozy parts back into a broken shell.

So the latest bargaining attempt is:
I'm going to allow the vocal cords to produce noise, TALKSPEWBARF, and get fixed at the dreaded weekly appointments.
But I won't allow myself to feel anything, or make it mine.  It's just an anonymous story, by a pseudonym.
Remember and forget in one stage. 

I know.  I know!
But this is my bargaining process.
Let me just cling to this for a minute...

P.S. When someone asks you who your best friend you say the "right" answer or the fuzzy golden grey grandpa Moses answer?

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Sunday, May 23, 2010

Iron barred doors.

So here's a add to the "reasons I'm fucked up."

When I was twelve, the chick who decided that I was her best friend, told me I needed to go to the Bishop's office.  To tell him things.  To get help.  Because that was right, and it would help.
She saw a very narrow window of how bad things were in my "home", but it was enormous to her.

So I did.
She went with me for "support".
I only said vague and sort of.  Nothing really revealing.
But at twelve...I already had a reputation.
And my dad's reputation totally trumped my lousy one.
Rich, multiple business owner, full tithe payer, elder quorum pres. etc.  Plus having a penis is all you really need, plus a white face, in the Moron religion.

The Bishop dude was silent the entire time.
In the moment I felt a little better for "doing the right thing" and spewing some of the screwed up-ness.
At the end, after the silence....he said one thing:
2 Nephi 1:34.
I didn't know what it meant or what it said.
But SURELY it was acceptance! and answers! and help!
Because I, "did the right thing!"
And then I went home with a little hope island.
And looked it up.

2 Nephi 1:34:, Wo unto the liar, for he shall be thrust down to hell.

And then life got so substantially worse.  Because I was so bad and wrong.
And Bishops are only ir-regular dudes empowered by a fucked up cult.
White face?  Penis?  Have imaginary friends?  You can join! 
And my "dad" who was told.  Installed iron barred doors.  I got the message.  Loud and clear.

And then I stopped talking or feeling until...umm, about six months ago.


Saturday, May 22, 2010

Not prey or pray.

Go to the zoo, with  drippy, steaky, fleshy, stench smothered all over you. 
Stick it between your legs.
Have those yellow predator eyes stare at you like a tasty piece of meat.
Feel like prey, not feel BE the prey.
Then try to survive in the lions cage.
Because thats where you live.
With bars and no escape.

Then..then you stupid fuckwads, you may start to feel what it is like to be female.


Wednesday, May 19, 2010

I buy my own gold stars.

I must have been a pretty cool little kid.
I mean, to be as awesome as I am now, I must have had to have been.
That's not ostentatious, or humble.
It just is.
To survive what I survived and to come out mostly? Partially? intact is pretty fucking WOO! on my part.
I reward my own points and I buy my own gold stars.

All of the stubborn and obnoxious and strong and brave and ornery, is now working again.  But in good, different, full force ways.  Not survival ways anymore, fix and win it ways.

I dug up an old picture of that pretty cool little kid.
And looked at her face.  And her skin.  And her hands.  And her crooked feet.  And her tummy.  And her almost smile.  And her curly hair.  And her shoulders.  And the puppy on her lap.
I wish I could have known her.
I wish I could write her a different story.
I feel a physical need to grab that girl from the photo and rush her off to somewhere safe.

But she still isn't me.
I'm aware of her pain.
I can't feel it.
I can't feel her.
I don't know her.
And I really don't think I want to.
Because it isn't a grab bag.
I feel so sad for her.
Can't yet feel that for me, or connect her to me.
I know whats there and what that means.

I'd rather have my physical parts dissected, than my mental parts any further.
The mental just hurts so much worse.
If I could choose a couple body parts to be chopped off instead, I totally would.  Physical pain has an end and relief. 
This mental brain pain never stops.

I just need some peace.  For me.  For that cool little girl.

Monday, May 17, 2010

Random thoughts of violence.

I'm so &^%$#!.
It's to early for the PMS thing*.

*Note to self:  Get those parts ripped out soon.

Apparently you cannot block numbers on cell phones.  We both called Sprint and they said NO.

Because exactly what we expected to happen, happened.
Dave called "it" and said to not contact anyone in my family ever again and if you do we will go to the police.

Within a half hour, "it" was calling Miki.
Always need someone weaker to manipulate.
But she is eighteen.  I can't get a restraining order for her.  She doesn't and SHOULDN'T, know the story.  Only knows the "IT" that tried to dote on her.  Groom her. (Is he her "it"?)
Miki was sobbing.
Dave called "it" back.
And asked if there was a misunderstanding with potty words.

But, "It" will never stop.   Never.  I just hope he dies soon.  I wish I could do it.
"It" is like the ocean.  The ocean does whatever it wants.  You can kick, punch and scream at the waves, but they keep waving.  The ocean still eats away.  The ocean just is the ocean.
I wonder if I lived in Utard, if I would have bought the shotgun already.  Because I've seriously thought about it from Washington.

And Dave is SO angry.  As he should be.  He wants to call everyone and tell them everything.  But it doesn't work like that in this world.

It took messing with MY CHILD to make me angry.  And holyfuckingwow with the ANGERRAGEDESTROYKILL.
Fun times.  Progress is just a party.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Hiking barefoot.

No matter how far I've been gone GONE, I can always turn around. 
I can always choose a new trail. 
That's what I've been doing for the last five months. 
A new trail, a huge mountain, but still hiking. 
I HATE that mountain, but also...that mountain has made me who I am. 
And I'm am amazingly strong and powerful...and BRING IT ON FUCKERS.
Dear Mountain, SUCK MY ASS VOMIT.

Everything worth knowing leaves bruises.  But bruises eventually heal.  Don't they?  I don't know?  Sometimes maybe there is just too much damage?  Maybe sometimes the bruises are always there, but you learn to draw little flowers around them?  With snoopy bandages?  And a gold star?
And in the real world you have to wear shoes.  I never wore shoes as a child.  HATED THEM.  I received many bruises over shoes.  Because I had/have fucked up feet that never fit in and always hurt.
And when the demanded norm was long fundy hair and dresses, I chopped mine off and wore my brothers clothes.
Plus, with no hair, I couldn't be dragged around by it anymore.  And being female in my reality was NOT a good thing. 
More bruises.  But win.

And the "story" feels too big to tell.  BUT, I won't let it control me A.N.Y.M.O.R.E.
I win.
I win.
I win.
I will.
I do.
I am.
I win.

Saturday, May 15, 2010


It Is So be able to talk to Dave.
And not have any secrets.
It is ???? to be accepted even with the fucked upness.

That dude deserves a medal.

I have nothing to hide anymore.
Not that I was trying to hide before..
Just a whole lot of blankness.
It's just all out there now.  In the open.
And awake.
And he still loves me. 
Even more.
And I love him crazy intense amazing with a little side of scary.

It's empowering even though it hurts me, hurts him.  With a whole lot of SUCKage.

I'm so fucking lucky to have him...and that he stuck it out...he shouldn't have.
But now we have THIS!  An all encompassing THIS.
I would re-do everything, to have THIS.
I survived stuff to get THIS.
It's so fucking amazing.
Warm and fuzzy and goopy and deep and so fucking amazing.

And I don't believe in Karma or any other religious bull-shit, but I DO feel like I'm finally getting what I deserve.
I fought so hard for so looonnnggg.  Many years without even knowing it.
And STUFF was not...IS not my fault.
But now I have THIS.
And it was so worth it.

Friday, May 14, 2010

Not the Titanic.

I think there is a little acceptance going on.
And it sucks, but it's progress and that means I'm winning.

Dave is so amazingly supportive.
I feel like I'm sucking him dry and I might be a little better but he will be worse.
But also...he feels better when I am better.
And I love him more than I love myself.  I know, shut up.
I love the way he loves me.
I love him so intensely.
It feels like a real fleshy physical connection with pumping arteries and veins.
So strong.
And wonderful.
If I strip myself down to my bareness of self...the love for him there pulsing.  And so ALIVE.  And no numb. 

I'm terrified of my next appointment with the head shrinker.
He didn't let me get away with anything.
And what doors will open, and what monsters are waiting?
I feel like it's the 10% iceberg thing.
I remember 10%. 
But the other 90% is down there.  Cold.  Waiting to sink me.
Strong, Control and stubborn.
I will win.

I'm at least swimming around the iceberg now.  Totally with fluorescent orange arm floaties, but still swimming.
If I wasn't, Strong, Stubborn and control, I wouldn't be going to that office in the first place.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Obedience Challenged Disorder.

Not even the Dave knows.
But I made an appointment with a psychologist.
Because there was a whole lot of stagnant going on.
I kind of think RCD was sort of just earning a paycheck.
And the whole Mormon thing, was defiantly an issue with the talking.
No dis-respect. 
He smacked my forehead hard enough to wake me up.
But I controlled every single appointment.
My stubborn, ornery, STRONG way over powered him.

ANYway, the psychologist appt. was today.
He sounded nice, elderly and compassionate over the phone.
In person...he's done this for 45 years.
And didn't let me get away with jack shit.
He called my ornery and raised it with a Royal Flush.
I did not like it.
But sort of respected the ASSHOLENESS, because I'm an asshole too.
He black and white said: " I won't lose a second of sleep over you, if you're here to be fixed then do it, if not, get out.  Don't waste my time."
Not nice, not compassionate.  Still elderly, fuckhead. 
But THAT is what I'm totally wired for. 
I deal with assholes better than I deal with the nice.
It was a painful fucked up hour of no vague.
I said more in one hour than I've said in five months with the RCD.
I admitted to child hood sexual abuse by my biological father.  Yay!  Good times! 
I admitted to being an alcoholic.
I told him I was an Atheist.
Oh, and did you know I smoke pot?
Yup, I just started because the alcohol wasn't enough numb anymore.
A month + of 30mg Fluoxetine and 25mg of Atenellol wasn't enough.
Dear kidneys and liver, I'm trying to get better.  Where can I send the sympathy card? 

It is so crazy scary.  Dealing with someone who won't put up with my bullshit tactics.
I'm so used to getting away with shit.  With overpowering caustic sarcasm and bitter and funny.
But also...
For the first time, someone knows more than I do.
Don't like it.
And if I can stand it/him...I might be able to be a little better.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010


The whole problem with being awake/aware and those ummm...what do you call them?

FEELINGS.  I think?
Is that you feel things.
And I have a whole lot of things that hurt pretty fucking bad.
And numb is still better.
But numb doesn't keep the marriage process happening.
And I'm totally loving the trails Dave and I are hiking.  The sweat.  The blisters.  The pain.  The stench.  IS SO WORTH THIS.
I can't get enough.
Bring it!

Today I had to go to RCD's office.  But I had to pick up Dave from work first.  With a little down time between picking up Dave and The Torturous RCD's Office.
So instead of 1/2 hour of dread death destruction time driving to RCD's office...I was just picking up Dave.  Sweet.  No problema chica.
And then I was with Dave, and Dave is butter dipped in special sauce and deep fried.  Super sized.  And free.
And Dave can make me laugh, safer, LOVE, powerfuller (real word because I just said so) harder than any other person on the globe.


So instead of being completely maxed out, forks and lemon juice in eyeballs, by the time I got to RCD's office, I was my version of relaxed, laughing and feeling groovy.

But relaxed, laughing and feeling groovy isn't very conducive to the NO.
"No one makes me bleed my own blood!" 
I talked people...I talked.  And I'm going to swim with the fishes now.  But dude...I'm freaking swimming!  Totally with orange arm floaties, but SWIMMING!
And I think it totally threw RCD for a loop with the "relaxed, laughing, groovy" because he has only seen the NO kicking and screaming.
And it was so many levels of ahhh-some! RCD being speechless.  WIN!  Jiggy win dance!

But yes.  And good.  And WIN. 

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Piece of Peace

I used to write here once, twice maybe three times a month.  Since June 2004, 517 posts. 
Do the math. 
But lately...every night.  The other night the Internet was out because of sick of wind.  And I was all...AHHHHHHHHHHRggghhh!  Need to Brain Barf! 
This has really become a safe space to figure things out even though there is a WHOLE lot of NO going on still.  Rinse and repeat.
I also know that I won't ever print any of this out and bring it to the RCD's office.
It's mine. 
I've earned and struggled with every single letter.
It's safe because of the password, because of the delete button, and because I can say anything I want here.
Printing it out would make it useless to me any further.

I'm sure RCD is a cool person, and I'm grateful for the forehead smackage he's done...but it's just a conductant to recognizing the awesome I already have.

After a whole large bloated portion buffet of SUCK,  I feel a little peace for the first time since I woke up.

Dave knows. 
Dave knows.
Dave knows.

It's in his brain now and Dave still loves me.
Dave accepts and loves me. 
Not despite of my defectiveness.  He loves me more.  Because he understands the last 14 years better now.
He is one pretty kick ass dude.
It's scaryintensewonderful.
I LOVELOVELOVELOVE him so incredibly much.
And I finally accept it in return.

It came about in a total bass ackward way, but it came out.
I did the RUN. 
But I came back.
And it's OUT. 
And it's not OK, but it's OKer-ish.
A huge boulder has been shifted/lifted from my chest.
I'm so sad that it put some on his chest, but what can I do about that?
BELIEVE me...I've tried to make him stop loving me.
REALLY really tried.
But this is a part of it.  The whole attached to another human being thing.  Is sharing the load.  Even though my load is pretty fucking LOADED.

I always do the: STRONG, BRAVE, CONTROL thing.
It's my SOP.
But for the first time, I really feel it.

I can conquer anything with awesome DaveDude by my side...and it feels so good.
I FEEL it.  I accept it. I love it.
I get it.


Monday, May 10, 2010


I hate "Mothers Day" worse than any other day or Holiday.  Barf.
Can I please get a free pass already...Geez.

I didn't have to work, even though I volunteered to.  Because 80 hours of fixing other peoples problems, apparently isn't enough.

I woke up at 7:00am and worked in the garden/yard until 6:00pm.  My thighs and back, and hello skin cancer!  Hello!  Pain is good. 

My sweet little large boys love the OUTSIDE as much as I do, so they helped me a lot.  We completely tore up the side yard, and re-sodded.  Five huge containers re-planted.  Garden is GOOD.  Radishes and lettuce already!  Warm tomato's not soon enough.  Everything weeded, controlled and fixed.
Earth, dirt and soil is awesome.

Devon's fill in the blank Mothers day card:  What does my Mom need?  Us, Dogs, Garden, Money.  Spot on little large dude.

I didn't call the chick who gave birth to me.
I didn't call my awesome Mom sisters.
I didn't call my Grandma. (Should have).
I turned my cell phone off.  Left it off in the house.
Incredible freedom/power in shutting that damn needy thing off.
And then the ## missed calls, the ## missed texts, the ## emails.  Etc. Etc.
I seriously considered flushing it, except my plumbing is 62 years old, and contractual obligations.

I did take care of my filleted sister and the teenager with removed wisdom teeth.

I'm SO good at taking care of other people.
I'm so good at fixing everything except me.

And Dave. 
Dave. Dave. Dave.
Good, so intense.
He is so amazing.
I don't deserve him.
I really struggle with making him go away for his own benefit.

A co-worker of mine, mother died recently.
Sad and whatever that process demands.
But I feel least she had one. 
At least she felt that.
At least she has something to mourn.
I've been mourning something I never had for 35 years.
My "mother" is "living" and cares less than your dead one.
I don't feel anything but sorrow for her.
At least I know, understand and am confronting why I'm messed up.
She denies everything.
There is no productive place for her in my life.
But I understand it.

And here comes "Fathers Day".
But that's different.
I don't want that.
I reject every. single. second.
Rot in your made up Hell you sick sadistic prick.

But Dave. Dave. Dave.
Who CHOSE to be a father to our girls.
Who tries SO HARD every single day.
With so little in return.
Who should have given up years ago.
Who inspires me.
My person.  My rock.
Who shouldn't, but DOES love me.
Who deserves SO MUCH MORE.

Who is the reason...I go back to the office I LOATHE so much, to fix myself, to be better for HIM...and for our awesome children.

Sunday, May 09, 2010


I tend to do things back wards.
Big suprise there.

The grieving is pretty much done. 
The acceptance is not.

I grieved over not having parents years ago.
I grieved over my children not having grandparents.  Because my kids rock.
I don't want those "people" that "raised" me to be their grandparents.  NOWAYINHELL.
I just want them to have some.  They deserve so much more.

I think I knew or accepted that my sister was a Lesbian before she did.  It was never an issue with me.  It was an issue with HER.  But I love her unconditionally.  Not that I can tell her that, but whatever.
But I grieved over her pain and lack of self acceptance.  I grieved over the way she was treated.  Tent in the backyard.  Her total hysterectomy at 28 was GODS justice for being gay.  Or so said the "parents" and our fucked up sub-culture.
I felt the tremendous loss of her loss.
I felt a loss of future nieces and nephews.
Because she is an awesome "MOM" to my kids.

But me being me.  I want to detach myself from her.  Because she has very sad self destructive habits.
And I don't know how much longer her organs can deal with what she puts them through.
So, stop feeling now, so I don't have to feel later.

My Grandma will be 85 this year.  I didn't call her on "Mothers Day".  Because I want to detach.  I know what happens.  She lived with us and was a very safe place for me for many years.
But she is going to die.  So I'll detach now thank you very much and pass the butter.

I can handle all sorts of physical pain.  I can talk myself through it. 
But brain pain and emotional *&% is intolerable. 
But, HELLO, with the CONTROL issues.

I've been really fighting the NOT GOING BACK to RCD's office.
I hate it.
But I statistically have 40 more years.
And I am not going to live them like this.
I don't do stagnant.
So it's off to work I go.

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Saturday, May 08, 2010

Exhibit A:

This is why.
This is why I don't tell people things.
Because I'm RIGHT.  I'll tell you WHY with endless justifiable EXAMPLES.
And then run to your fake safe place and try to tell YOURSELF why I shouldn't.  Why you shouldn't.
I hate being right all the time.

Tell people things, and they fuck you over.
Let people in and they tap dance on your road kill flesh.
People are here to hurt other people. 
Crawl all over you until they are at the top...and feel better about themselves.
This is exactly why there is NO intelligent design.
This is exactly why I am an Atheist.
LOOK AT ME and then try to rectify "intelligent" design.

And if there ever were a "god" out there...FUCK YOU, YOU SADISTIC PRICK.

Keri OUT.

Friday, May 07, 2010

Help me baby Buddha.

It's only this space of night.  When the kids are safely tucked, and all of the responsibilities and demands are quieter, that I have space and time. 
I consistently stay up way too late for someone who has to wake up at 4:45 am.
One reason is because, it's the only down time I get.
The work, the dinner, the dishes, the homework, the laundry, the fix everything, is paused.
Another reason is because it's really difficult to shut the brain off.
The biggest reason is, lack of sleep is very much like being drunk. And I like that numb disconnected non-feeling.  On a good night, I get five hours.  So, I don't sleep, I spend the entire next day lack of sleep drunk.
So I just don't sleep and zombie my way through life.
Good idea Keri.

RCD said, come prepared next week to talk about the exact things I don't want to talk about.
Holy shit.  No pressure.
  1. First choice: Never go back. But, FAIL.
  2. Stagnantly talk about Baseball. FAIL.  But YUM, baseball!
  3. Never go back. WIN!
  4. Actually talking about STUFF is the last option.
So in the vault of blank and numb, I'm supposed to come up with something or FAIL.
The biggest problem is...I DO NOT WANT TO.
Recognizing, makes it a part of me.  So, NO.

My sister just had surgery to remove some defective body parts that were seriously hurting her.  Large chunks of her flesh were cut out, and even after a few days with massive wounds, she is already so much better.

Why can't I get a surgeon to cut out the parts of me that hurt?  She gets a morphine drip and I get to have myself dissected without so much as a Tylenol, and I am still stuck with all of the defective parts.  And it's my fault because I'm not trying hard enough.  I am STUCK with my defective parts, and even IF I could talk about them, they would always still be there.  It wouldn't change the rotting.

So I anesthetize myself with lack of sleep, alcohol, and denial, and stubborn.
The walls are there for a reason.
They serve a purpose.
They weren't easily built and are harder to tear down.
Especially with the, NO.
And I am still being punished for things that were never? my fault Blame=Me.

So here we go.  I'll choose the least-est and twitch away.

There are no linear memories.
I have two memory fence posts. 
Before Baptism and after twelve. 
With mostly blank and numb in between.

I remember the pre-baptism interview.  I'm sure there is a Mormon label for it, but I don't remember it. 
I remember it was SCARY.
His name was Bishop Pulley.
I remember so looking forward to the slate being wiped clean.
It was my chance!
Because I was only seven/eight years old, and felt so much tremendous guilt and responsibility.
Because when STUFF happened, it was because I had done something wrong and deserved to  be punished.
It was SO my fault.

And when the "dad" said the words, and dunked me, in my polyester jumpsuit, I felt this overwhelming sense of? Grief?  Repentance?  Change?  Release?
Things were going to be different now.
I felt like it was my only chance.
Things were going to change. 
I was going to stop being bad.
My slate was wiped clean.

But then, nothing changed.
I was still bad.
And it was still my fault.
And there wasn't another slate wiping clean chance again.

Wednesday, May 05, 2010

Beyond HATE.

Every week I say, *&^%$#@?!!, that sucked.
Not going back.
Never never never never going back.
Because it sucks and I HATE it.
I hate the way the office smells. I hate the closet door.  I hate the suffocating smallness of the office.  I hate the personal space invasion feeling.  I hate the shut windows. I hate the comfortable legs stretched out while I'm screaming NO.  I hate the pen that writes things down (extra hate there). I hate the clock.  I hate the door.  I hate the shiny door knob that doesn't turn fast enough.
I HATE the script and the nodding, nodding at me, another fucked up statistic. 
I hate the understanding.

I get it, I KNOW why. 
But, still with the HATE.
Feelings trump logic and reason.

And every week, with the HATED appointment book.  At least it's written with a pencil, and not THE PEN.
Because NO.  I'm not going back.  So ERASE.
And every week, I kick and scream most of the way there, and all of the time while there.
Every week is worse than the previous week.
Every week (weak!?), I never never ever never intend on going back.

Last month, when Dave told me he made an appointment with "NAME", and I was, who what where?  Lo siento, no say?
I don't see "NAME" every week, I can only see anonymous RCD.
I can't tell a real person STUFF. 
Only recently, after MONTHS, could I have identified RCD's face in a line up.
It's easier to talk to an RCD object than a real NAME.

How can I tell the RCD stuff, when I can't tell myself stuff? 

So today, in RCD's office, he says come prepared next week to talk about herstory STUFF.
OK, sure, but I'm never coming back again anyway.  WIN.
I am less honest with myself than I am with Dave, RCD, Etc.
I lie to myself so well.
I can't tell a lie worth *&^% to anyone else. 
But I can hide, run, lie and convince the LOGIC and REASON and OBVIOUS out of my own brain.
I've never been a good liar, except when it comes to me.

I'm terrified, and scared FUBAR when it comes to STUFF.
And RCD sees HATE as progress.
Because at least I'm feeling something.
Not going back.

Tuesday, May 04, 2010

nil per os

"The wind is not stained by the dust it blows away."  Krishna-Mahabharata

Monday, May 03, 2010

Sarah Bell Ham and Amy G. Dala

Sometimes life just gets all up in yo grill.
It's been happening without my permission for a while now.

NEVER think that things can't get worse because, HEEELLOOOO.
But sometimes there is a more gooder side of worsified. (The grammar police just crapped their pants.  I LOVE starting sentences with "AND".  And often, BUT or SO.)

Miki totaled the van.  With Kaiya and two friends in it.  In Pasco. 
The van is just a piece of metal.
My children are OK.
The hours getting to them, and knowing they were safe, seeing their breathing faces, was a large space of brain time.
Saline Leakage.

Wendy was filleted open.  Went into the OR at 8:30 am and out at 1:30 pm.  For a two hour surgery.
She had parts of her colon re-sectioned, she has a huge incision, with a daunting recovery ahead.
But she's OK.  It should have been so much worse.  Worse was expected.
The hours in the waiting room, the much longer surgery time, was a large space of brain time.
Saline Leakage.

But these are problems I can fix and solve.
They are tangible.
These problems have a map and a solution.
I'm SO good at solving other problems.

SO, AND, BUT...I've decided to continue. 
I owe it to the awesome people in my life to be better.
I ? owe it to myself?  Whatever.  EVERYTHING IS FINE.
It's not like I'm not going to be able to magically transform into Chatty Kathy at RCD's office.
But I will go. Oh Gawd, ~sigh~
But, I will do the best that I can.
And talk about baseball.

Sunday, May 02, 2010


I never attempted suicide.  Because, I wouldn't "attempt".
Like everything else, win or don't play.
I seriously contemplated a bottle of pills when I was fourteenish?, but thats it.
I'm just too damn ornery to let anyone or anything else win.


If there was a way I could kill parts of myself and leave the rest...
I'd be all over that shit.
I wish there were a Surgeon that would remove those defective parts.
How is it any different than a tumor that hurts, weakens and kills you?
This is just slower.

I had a few moments of clarity?
I'm NOT going to.
I won't.  Recognize it.
I. Am. Not. Going. To.
There is no fix.
It doesn't work.
No. No. And NO.

I have relationships.  I can maintain bonds.  I have friends.  I ROCK my job.  I'm a loving parent (with flaws), I can control my anxiety.
I'm OK.
I've already changed so much.
And I'm OK.
I climb the mountain and plant the flag every single day.
The 10% iceberg doesn't sink me.
I fight and I win.
And that's enough.  It is!
I choose to reject everything else.

It's SO hard to un-describe.
How it un-feels.
It's like sleeping wrong, and your arm/hand goes completely dead, and then it smacks you in the face when you get itchy.  
But it doesn't feel like your hand, you recognize it's familiarity, and understand how it's attached to the rest of you. 
But it's dead. 
And numb. 
It doesn't respond. 
There is no control. 
Spectator sport. 
And then you go back to sleep. 
And focus on not getting itchy.
And the numb is so much better.


Saturday, May 01, 2010


So much anger.
I don't know what to do with it.

I feel like hittingkickingpunchingscreamingtearinghurtingdestroying.

There is no outlet.
Because I only do baseline.
Because the people who deserve the anger, WILL NOT get the privilege and/or recognition.

But it's still there POUNDING, and getting louder and more insistent.
And my guard is sometimes so much stronger...but then sometimes NOW so much weaker.
And the stronger, isn't very much fun.
And the weaker...scares the shit out of me.  I need walls.  They are there for a reason.

I'm thinking about taking a leave from work.
  1. Because I'm not performing well.  I'm only OK with 110%.
  2. Because the crazy is hanging out everywhere and I can't tuck it back in anymore.
  3. Because my sister is getting her guts filleted from sternum to pubic bone and NEEDS me.
  4. I'm terrified about time alone with the brain pain.
  5. Because...this is the hardest thing I've ever done
  6. ...
My worry is...I fight so hard everyday.  I fight fight fight. 
If I take a leave, and don't have to FIGHT and put myself out there, and force myself eight hours everyday to CARE about other people...I might never leave the house again.

My personal space issues, wow.  Seriously?  Now this?  What's my prize for the new low?
I wouldn't let Grandpa Moses near me the other day.
I couldn't handle anything touching me, near me.
And animals and OUTSIDE is how I survived childhood.
I like animals, even cats (ew) more than I like people.
Next to Dave and Kids, Grandpa Moses is my besty.  Not even siblings rate.  (I've never said the "L" word to my siblings, and rarely, if ever?, hugged them.)

Putting on gloves the other day made me feel restricted and claustrophobic.

I have this personal space "bubble" which is pretty large normally?
Normal is such a fun word.
When someone pushes against the bubble it creates an intense pressure.

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