Brain Spew in Lieu of Wit

You rubbed me raw with your expectations - a little girl to bear the burdens of your desire. You taught survival, not how to live. You rubbed me raw with your anticipations - a shiny new model made in your image, to replace a bird that you broke. You rubbed me raw with your control - independent enough to entertain, but never enough to flee. You rubbed me raw with childhood orgasms and lingering looks, lustful envy and ill-placed jests, cocktails and shame. I'm still raw, twenty years later - a broken woman, bolstered by achievements and knowledge and lies. I'm still raw, desperately seeking relief - picking at scabs and long-locked boxes, clawing for release from your bondage.

Rape and rape discourse are important causes to me. They never won't be. I have been talking about them for years. I have been working through my own recovery for a decade. So, why do I want to cry upon reading an account from someone who worked at a rape crisis center? Normally, I would be filled with righteous fury and talk about the issues presented and be all intellectual about it. Why is this account so...personal? Have I really not internalized what happened to me? Have I just let it sit in my brain, not allowing it to filter into my heart so that I can actually mourn? My dad is a ghost, now - caught between alive and dead, in my my mind. I know that he hasn't passed - that he's living in Texas and trying to build a new life for himself and that there are still people who see him. But all I have left are the spectres of what he left me. The pain. The love. The betrayal. The fear. The growth. The disgust. Part of me wants to confront him. To spit in his face, to hit hi

There are some things that I identify as integral parts of my personality: paganism, polyamory, bisexuality, intellectualism, and feminism. All of these elements started to be demonstrated at a very young age, but feminism was the most blatant of them and has proven to be the most evolving. I'll be taking the time here to explore how my experiences as a survivor of incest, as a pagan, and as a member of the fetish community have shaped my understanding of feminism. As a child (and no, I don't mean "as a teenager." I mean "as a six year old"), I was a militant feminist. If I had clung to the very rigid views and physical responses, I would today be called a FemiNazi, instead of my friends insisting that they view me as a "humanist." In my view at the time, girls were at least as good as boys, and anyone who didn't believe that should be beaten up. I had no patience for sexism, and I was always trying to find my next favorite heroine. My fir

I have, apparently, reached a point in my recovery where I don't feel the need to post everything as it happens. Thus, I have taken suggestions for topics that my friends would like to see me discuss here. Some of the things that I'm hoping to discuss in the coming months: how my experiences have shaped and colored my feminism over time; role-playing as therapy; fetishism and recovery; how I began to distinguish myself from my relationships; my obsession with fixing ALL THE THINGS; and coping mechanism & neurosis. There has also been a request for just...brain spew. SO, this blog will be the start of that. Semi-regularly, I will be posting stream of consciousness of the things going on in my life, my recovery, my feelings, and, well, brain spew. So, here goes! This past week has been particularly...eventful. The flavor of eventful has been both phenomenal and abysmal. Last weekend, two of the most amazing people that I know were married. The wedding was lovely and perfect

I suffer from depression, anxiety, and PTSD. As many of you know, each of these disorders comes with its own collection of cycles and often blend together to create fun-filled (/sarcasm) spirals. I'd like to take some time to explore each of these cycles and how they bond to create the mother of all spirals, leading to an oubliette from which it seems impossible to escape. I would also like to explore the tools that I have developed over the past....um...15(?) years to scale the wall back into a functioning being. These are tools that I have found on my own, and have been adjusted with commentary and concern from my friends when the tools became chains. *The Guilt Cycle This is the easiest cycle for me to enter, and often acts as the entrance into Spiral-land. Guilt is tremendously simple for me to feel, and I have only learned how to really recognize it after some time in therapy (see The Great Stockholm Syndrome Call Out of 2013). Guilt haunts me, and for a long time, I wor

***As the title indicates, this is a digital copy of the stream of consciousness that I wrote in my journal. I haven't editing anything, nor have I omitted anything. I'm trusting you to follow my journey in recovery, so try not to hate me for the things that come out of my skull.*** Stream of consciousness has never been easy for me, as if my unfiltered thoughts aren't good enough for the semi-permanent state of pen and paper, or even the semi-impermanence of the word processor. That's the crux of the problem, I presume -- I hate my flaws. No, I hate my perceived flaws. I always fear that I am not fast enough, strong enough, smart enough, interesting enough, worthy enough for all of the good things that happen to me. People describe me as unique, as fascinating, as brilliant, as giving, and yet...I can't accept it. Why can't I see myself the way that they see me? Because I see my every thought, my every selfish action, my every failing, my ever monstrous momen

***Disclaimer! The Gift of My Time is not intended to be purely egocentric, though this is certainly written about me and my feelings. There are semi-specific examples to help explain the points, names omitted to protect the (not-so-)innocent. These are not intended to be jabs or dwelling or anything like that. Just examples.*** The Gift of My Time is the purest gift that I can offer. When I offer this Gift, I WANT to spend time with you. I'm willing to rearrange my schedule, perhaps even my budget, to see you. Whether it be taking a road trip, playing a game, watching a movie, attending a lecture, going to a club, having a conversation, or just hanging out - I chose that activity over many other options. Often, many other pressing options. No, I'm not saying this for guilt-sake, I'm saying it so that it is understood that the Gift of My Time is given freely and in faith that you, too, want to spend time with me, care what I have to say, value me. I'm sure that the

This entry has been particularly difficult to write. I keep rolling "safe" around in my mind and I sense an overriding fear. My hackles go up and I prepare for a fight. I should have been safe at home. Instead, I was terrified. I was terrified of what would happen when I went to bed. I was terrified of what insignificant thing would set my dad off. I was terrified that I would eat too much, leaving nothing for anyone else. I was terrified that I would eat too little, leaving those closest to me to deal with my blood sugar crashes. I was terrified that Mom would have another panic attack. I was terrified that I would actually kill myself. I was terrified of what was happening to my friends when they were where they, too, should be safe. I fear the comfort of safety, the tranquility, the vulnerability. I felt safe in his  arms, and several after him. They hurt me, until I decided that I would hurt them first. It wasn't conscious, and I pelted myself with guilt for it. But

 ***If my previous blog posts weren't warning enough, THIS POST MIGHT TRIGGER ABUSE RESPONSES. Here is where I examine the stuff that I couldn't talk about last Thursday. Of course, it might also help you heal. Healing is rarely comfortable. Or done at an appropriate pace, at least for me. Enjoy. Or skip. It's up to you, and you are loved either way you choose.*** I have been called out on having Stockholm Syndrome, thanks to my astoundingly astute, tough, and supportive therapist. After some preliminary research, and some serious soul-searching, this really isn't a huge surprise. My abysmal opinion of myself, combined with my self-delusion of "saving" everyone who I care about, and how terrible I am at actually taking any time for myself lead straight into this week's painful and freeing discoveries, originally written in my newly acquired Journal of All the Hard Things, which I hope to carry with me everywhere. I found little that I didn't know [

****WARNING: My family should consider very closely and very honestly whether they want to read this. There is truth here that could break your heart. Or start an honest conversation. The only one who may be immune to this warning is my sister, with whom I've shared so much**** Like every depressive ever, I have always believed that I Feel Too Much. It's probably true. I know that I reach levels of depression and anxiety that I can't possibly explain to people who do not have a foundation in feeling either of these things chronically. Often, I get from my beloved, "I'm sorry that you're having a rough time"....though, that is after several attempts to raise me from whatever depth that I've reached and has run out of ideas or things to say, and I can't blame him. I don't offer much help. I can't help him understand, except through this blog, I suppose. So, I'm writing this post on the hardest thing ever for me - feelings. Feelings ar

I'm terrible at journaling, so here's my solution. I guess. I just had my first therapy appointment. Well, my first *real* one, anyway. I went to the university counseling center ages ago, but that was with the specific goal of attaining an academic withdrawal. I went to a psychiatrist, but as much as my meds help, it's really not the same. This was...terrifying. I pride myself on being honest with myself and others. I am the person who looks at the dark corners of her soul and laughs in the face of it. Yeah, right. Anyway, I like to believe that I am someone who is constantly improving, growing, expanding beyond my past and my crazy and my self-loathing and self-destruction. And I was faced with the possibility that it's just self-delusion. I almost didn't go today. I almost let myself sleep far too late, and the insomnia was an excellent help for that. But I went. With the support of my wonderful boyfriend and my truly inspirational friends. And I'm still